Bandits Amid The Festival [11.11]

Throughout Kreuzung, the lights went out, and the festival commenced.

It began with the immediate panic of the K.P.S.D who were tasked with maintaining order in Kreuzung. In the suddenness of their surprise and the enormity of their failure, they exacerbated the nascent crisis by ignoring orders from the increasingly weakened central government of the station and taking matters into their own hands.

Forming their own patrols and roadblocks of both the upper and lower levels of the tower, expecting mobs and riots that, if they would not arise on their own, certainly would rise in response to random detention and profiling of civilians who were only afraid of the alarms and power outages and confused by the contradictory messaging. Nevertheless, they held the standard of policing: protecting the estate by beating the peasant.

Followed by the ineffectual response from A-block as the problem was clear as day and the solution as far as the sunlight. Kreuzung’s station government had long since subcontracted the work of maintaining Kreuzung’s core to a private entity beholden to Kreuzung’s own cabal of energy distributors. These companies who so bravely “took on the risk” of the “energy business” maintained the infrastructure in exchange for extorting rent on the piece of equipment which did the most to keep the entire population alive.

And so, the first course of action when a problem arose, even a problem so obviously out of proportion to anything the station had ever seen, was to first broadcast as much as possible that everything was actually fine– and then to make several audio and video calls.

While A-block conversed with a group of rentiers whose vested interest was to deny that anything was going on while asserting that they had everything under control, the station’s lowest bidder maintained infrastructure buckled and in several places, collapsed.

Core separation stressed the million heroic little circuits and thousands of tons of cables and all the computers and junctions and careful engineering that it took to balance and harmonize the running of humanity’s eden under the sea. There was immediately a civilian death toll. The vulnerable in hospitals with malfunctioning systems; people forgotten in areas with poor oxygen circulation; people abandoned in places with poor water control.

Without the God at the center of the tower, and its attendant angels in the walls, there was only the clamor of the frightened, the anger of the beaten, and they made the music of the festival and its dance of despair. Below strobing lights, amid sparking walls.

And the damage was disproportionately felt on the lower levels of the tower. C-block goers were trapped in elevators and trams and in hallways no one was meant to live in without oversight and stampeding to escape malls and shops and plazas to return to homes where nothing was any better; but it was even lower that the pain was most felt.

Near the baseplate, areas began to actually flood to what seemed an almost apocalyptic degree; systems that would be robust anywhere else like doors and ventilation suddenly malfunctioning, trapping, gassing and crushing a myriad forgotten innocents.

In this darkness, however, there was one growing light, shining on the coming restoration.

That light, stretching from Tower 12, was cast by the torchfire of National Socialism as practiced by the Volkisch Movement for the National Awakening. Crossing the bridges into the main station, the black uniforms and red armbands brought order and succor wherever they went. It was their time to crush the degenerate liberal structures that had Kreuzung under the sway and bring to heel both the enemy within and the wealthy hedonists above–

and everything between.


However, that grim light was yet distant; the festival had an altogether different character for the troops of the UNX-001 Brigand, awaiting the resolution of its retrofit in Alcor.

Above them, the false sky vanished, revealing the illusion machines, far simpler than those in B-block or A-block, that once made up the workman-like firmament. In their place was the intermittent red flashing of smaller alarm lights that were like eerie stars in a dark sky. Accompanying the alarms was the same message displayed hundreds of times across the walls of the module. WARNING: CORE SEPARATION. Diagrams of the station and its modules flashed by too quickly for anyone watching to process the information on them.

Warnings in High Imbrian and Low Imbrian with characters at poor resolutions for the wall passed incoherently. Sometimes the pictures on the display walls flickered and went out and briefly cast the entire module into even deeper darkness. Confusion reigned at first.

“What the HELL is going on?” Captain Ulyana Korabiskaya half-shouted, half-moaned.

She and Commissar Aaliyah Bashara rushed to a bridge full of grumpy, disheveled officers, with more on the way. Because they had been dismissed and given orders to rest, many of them were in varying states of undress, with officers like Semyonova wearing bath robes over nightwear, Kamarik in a pair of shorts and a tanktop– Santapena-De-La-Rosa and Geninov could have usually been counted on to be dressed, but they had been dismissed too, and came into the bridge in short nightwear dresses and shorts, covered only barely by their teal half-jackets. Commissar Bashara and the Captain were in no better state. The captain had laid down undressed, and had walked into the bridge hastily buttoning her uniform shirt without any underwear, wearing pants without a belt. Commissar Bashara had an actual set of pajamas, decorated with cats and moons, which would have been cute at any other time.

“Captain, apparently there’s a core separation underway.” Semyonova said in a tired voice.

“This wouldn’t happen unannounced.” Aaliyah said. “Something is not right, captain.”

“Well, it’s not our problem, is it?” Ulyana grumbled. “We’re not the K.P.S.D.”

From the helm, Kamarik raised his hand and yawned involuntarily.

“Captain, the Commissar is right, this whole thing is fishy.” He said. Ulyana paid him heed. The helmsman was fairly well versed with machines. Among the bridge officers, second only to the missing Zachikova. “They wouldn’t separate the core entirely for maintenance, you don’t need to disconnect it like that for routine stuff. Cores are the most solid builds humanity has ever devised. All of this makes zero sense.”

“We may have to consider this is an action taken against the station.” Aaliyah said.

“Maybe, but our interests and Kreuzung’s security don’t necessarily align.” Ulyana replied.

She cast a tired glance over to the Electronic Warfare console on the bridge.

“Where is Braya Zachikova?” She asked. “I would like her to monitor the network.”

Semyonova nodded and turned to her own console to check.

After a few minutes, she shook her head.

“Ma’am, she’s not responding to pings on her room, or to banners on the walls. Also, I can’t reach the surveillance team to patch me through to the cameras either.” She said.

Aaliyah’s ears folded. “Those three were in the special forces together.”

“I can’t imagine– no– they must just be out goofing off or drinking.” Ulyana sighed.

The more she thought about them being involved in something clandestine the more acute her quickly developing headache became. However, they would still need to be recalled to the ship lest they become involved in whatever panic might ensue from this mess. So something would have to be done. The captain thought for a moment about the best way to resolve the situation, when someone else ran into the bridge– she had a faint hope for it to be Zachikova but instead it was Marina McKennedy in her grey blazer.

“Captain, we need to start making final preparations for the Brigand to leave. Now.”

Ulyana turned and scanned McKennedy’s face through tired and irritated eyes.

The G.I.A. agent looked pale and shaky and unstable. It reminded her of some bad times.

“McKennedy.” Ulyana said in an unfriendly tone. “What happened? What do you know?”

“Can I please defer that to my report? Can you just trust me and get things moving?”

“I wish we could, but we clearly can’t.” Aaliyah interrupted. “I’m having bad flashbacks.”

Marina McKennedy raised her hands to her face. With everyone on the bridge staring.

“Look I said I’d help you with intel, didn’t I? I have intel that this place is about to become a battlefield and we need to get out now. All of that shit,” she pointed a hand at the main screen, which showed camera feeds from outside the Brigand. “Is the result of an– an enemy operation.” Her hesitation drew glares from the Captain and Commissar. Perhaps knowing she was in increasing amounts of trouble, McKennedy continued. “I’ll take responsibility and give you every single little detail later, but for now, can we please get things underway?”

Ulyana Korabiskaya and Aaliyah Bashara looked at each other, sighed, ran their hands over their own faces, and for a brief moment, quietly despaired together as if inwardly saying ‘AGAIN? THIS AGAIN?’ to themselves. Neither had to speak to know what the other was feeling. Marina McKennedy, unlike her proud and defiant conduct in previous deceptions, was reduced to begging, and quickly withered under their cold scrutiny.

It was an understatement to say this all sounded, looked and felt quite bad.

But there was no choice to ignore it. It made too much sense with the situation.

“What McKennedy said doesn’t leave this room until I say so.” Ulyana said.

Every officer nodded. Marina sighed in relief and covered her eyes with one hand.

“Captain, since Zachikova doesn’t seem to be around yet, I’m going to go see what I can dig up about the situation on the network. Do I have your permission?” Marina then asked.

“Good idea. Do that– but you’re not allowed to leave the meeting room.” Ulyana replied.

“Am I detained?” Marina asked.

“You are detained. We’ll talk later. Go do your job now.” Ulyana said stoically.

Sighing, Marina McKennedy nodded her head, accepting her fate without defiance.

As she shambled out of the bridge in low spirits, Ulyana turned back to her officers.

“Semyonova, raise alert Pyotr.” She said. “Have every single sailor and all of the managers and all of the pilots get up, get out there, and finish everything that needs finishing for the Brigand to leave. It doesn’t need to be perfect, it just needs to hold up to sailing. We’ll also need to contact Alcor about the elevator. Get Euphrates and Tigris to assist as well. In fact, call Euphrates up here so I can pick her brain. And call up Erika; call Erika first.”

It took some doing for Ulyana to get all her thoughts in order in this situation.

Once Semyonova was sure the captain wouldn’t ask for more, she began her work.

Alerting all of the sailors, summoning more of the officers, calling up the Premier.

–who was checked into her room, but took a few moments to respond to the audio call.

“Ahh– Captain, I apologize! I am presently indisposed I am afraid! My apologies!”

Olga Athanasiou was in the same room– they must have caught them at a bad time.

“I trust you’ll handle everything splendidly! I will be up there in twenty minutes!”

Semyonova turned a tired glance on Ulyana and shrugged her shoulders with a little smile.

Aaliyah meanwhile narrowed her eyes and threw an accusatory glare at the Captain as well.

“She’ll be here in twenty minutes.” Ulyana said in defeat.

“It’s fine. I am sure there was no way around it.” Aaliyah grunted.

Across Ulyana’s mind, there was the vaguest sense of shame at their shambolic state.

They had smartened up about their seafaring operations, then got complacent in a station.

There was nothing they could do but fight their best fight at this point, however.

Ana assefa!

Behind them, the bridge door slid open, and Ulyana once again wished dearly that she would just see Braya Zachikova walk through. Instead, it was Fatima al-Suhar, the Shimii operator for the sonar and various other ship sensors. Having had enough time to appear on bridge as the only officer who was fully dressed in uniform, she wore her long hair well-combed, even her cat-like ears getting a brush, and had even done some of her usual makeup. She saluted upon arriving on the bridge and then sat in her station besides Semyonova.

Al-Suhar then turned to the captain and clapped her hands together in a pleading gesture.

“Profuse apologies, Captain. I had imagined I had additional time to pray tonight and wanted to spend it in worship. I had to finish my prayers, so I figured I’d also clean up too.”

Ulyana shook her head, smiling. Fatima was a bit fragile and frequently apologetic.

“Don’t be sorry. You have religious freedoms. And it isn’t a big deal– for now.”

On the main screen, some of the hallway cameras now showed a stampede of activity.

Once the yellow strobing lights of alert Pyotr shone in every room and hallway outside the bridge, the crew got the hint very clearly about what they were expected to do. They began to scramble outside, gathering their tools as well as battery-powered light sources to help them work in the dark. Floodlights from the Brigand itself also shone to assist the workers, but these were designed to maximize visibility in the water, so they gave off an eerie color that could disorient anyone staring at them and were overpowered for land use.

Semyonova used only the top deck lights to add ambient illumination.

“Tell the pilots to pick up sidearms at the armory. Just in case they see anything outside.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“How much work is there left to do?” Aaliyah asked.

Semyonova checked. “All heavy duty assembly is complete, but the systems need to be calibrated, and some mechanical systems have to be stress tested and tuned up. Making sure the new missile bays open and shut properly, testing the strength of the new intake vacuum, that turret risers are working, that the water system is compliant, and so on.”

“How much is that in terms of time, which is what we don’t have?” Aaliyah asked.

Semyonova wilted a little bit. “I– I’m sure it won’t be too long, Commissar.”

At that point, the door to the bridge opened behind them once more.

Ulyana Korabiskaya was exceptionally ready for Braya Zachikova to finally appear.

Unfortunately, her worst fears were confirmed by the appearance of Evgenya Akulantova.

Dressed in riot gear, holding a ballistic shield, and with an uncharacteristic fire in her eyes.

“Captain. Permission to leave the ship and gather my team for departure.” She asked.

Akulantova normally had such a friendly tone of voice. She sounded so grim now.

The Commissar and Captain stared at her as if they did not know what to make of this.

“I’m afraid members of my team have been insubordinate and will require disciplining.” Akulantova continued. “To do so they must, of course, be gathered aboard, in the presence of the Captain. I request permission to bring them back aboard to face your judgment. We previously discussed optimal routes through the station in case of rescue situations on any of the modules. In addition, my nose is a mighty fine tracker too. I have the means and ability to bring back the stragglers, Captain. All I need is your permission to do it.”

Ulyana was still a bit stunned by the course of events. Her brain was turning to jelly.

“Yes, of course.” She said. “I authorize the mission. Be careful out there. And be fast.”

Akulantova nodded her head, and stormed out of the bridge as quickly as she stormed in.

For almost a minute, the Commissar and Captain were left staring at each other speechless.


“Can you carry her?”

“I have cybernetic enhancements just like you two do.”

“Can you carry her while moving quickly?”

“Hmph.”

Maybe it was the adrenaline; maybe it was the fact that she could have never left this woman behind, no matter the protest, no matter what it took, after having nearly eaten human flesh for her. But despite being a bit doubtful of her long-term ability to carry Arabella in her arms while running, Zachikova nevertheless took it upon herself to lift up the pale woman in the bloodsoaked robes into her own arms, and to carry her with her own strength.

She did not feel so heavy, not when she first lifted her up.

Not when they first began running down those puddle-strewn drainage tunnels between B-block and C-block, as if trying to outrun the alarms going off around them.

“You’re not in the security biz anymore,” Illya explained while they ran, “But Chief Shark and the rest of us went through dozens of meetings on the station’s internal layout. That fucking scary lawyer for Solarflare, Foss, she got us an entire wireframe data simulation of the station. We gamed out tons of scenarios for small unit rescue or assault on several modules.”

“From B-block,” Valeriya said, emotionlessly, “down this way. C-block, then home.”

‘Home’ being the Brigand’s position at Alcor.

B-block’s drainage infrastructure connected it to the lower C and D blocks, which in turn were connected in both formal and hidden ways to the E, F, G and H blocks. Illya and Valeriya seemed to believe the fastest way was to follow the B-block tunnels due east, to find a floodwater drainage junction that they could crack open, and then rappel down to a C-block module which was designated the emergency floodbreak point for B-block.

It was some kind of statue park according to the two. Nectaris Memorial Park.

From there, a public elevator, or another tunnel jaunt, would get them right into Alcor.

Zachikova believed them instantly.

Illya and Valeriya were geniuses at breaking into places they weren’t wanted.

Asking something snide like ‘are you sure this is the right way’ to them was wasting time and breath, even if they had spent minutes running through identical tunnels. This was known implicitly to all of them. Zachikova had been with them through enough operations to trust them without reservation that if it took ten minutes to run through some place, there was no faster way, perhaps not even if the walls could be punched through directly.

Even with the red lights bearing on them.

And even without the comfort of the station network.

Something that had alarmed Zachikova as they escaped was the state of the station network. She was so used to the ability to tap into the station securely to do things like extract maps and other data to make sure she never took a wrong turn and always reached her destination. She even used it to get trivia and make snide jokes. During the Core Separation, however, the station network was frequently offline or too slow for her to use.

Computing lag was exceedingly rare for Zachikova to experience.

It was impossible for her to get used to the current unreliability of the network.

She was used to working and directly interfacing with very high fidelity, high quality and durable devices that possessed the most sophisticated technology. In the Union, all of the infrastructure was built to be predictable, reliable and robust, even in civilian areas. In the Empire, in a place like Kreuzung, the hardware felt quirky but still slick and fast, and it remained rare for a computing system to take too long to give Zachikova a response when she connected. Now, feeling the lag of Kreuzung’s reeling and out of service computing systems was too offputting. Waiting for too-slow response to a query felt like holding her breath or perhaps staring too long at pitch black darkness in the corner of a room. It made her tense and uncomfortable. She disconnected quickly after such events.

A living machine, as she called herself, a robot; and yet, she was just another thin client.

Without a supercomputer that had all the data and actual power, she was useless.

Her head felt half empty without a computer that she could query with a single thought.

And yet, she wasn’t as distressed as she might have been if she had this experience on an ordinary day. Because she had Arabella in her arms. Because she saw how weak and still hurt her companion looked. Because they could lock eyes in the middle of those dark tunnels and thus exchange silent queries with one another that were full of greater meaning that any computer query. Arabella was still there, and still needed her.

Zachikova was fighting for someone other than herself, and it helped gird her loins.

Even ‘alone’ without the help of a computer– she could find a new source of strength.

Perhaps this was why Arabella felt so light for so long as they ran.

Then, Illya and Valeriya finally raised their hands, signaling for her to come to a stop.

And Arabella started to feel a little bit heavier when they started the climb down.

Illya and Valeriya together ripped the cap off a vent in the middle of a large room that branched out from the tunnels. Everything was pristine, as if a drop of water had never tarnished any of these walls and pipes. There was enough room to drop down one by one, even with their gear, and Zachikova could also drop with Arabella in her arms if positioned properly. This would be their escape down to C-block. They attached a cable to a valve handle out in the connecting tunnels that looked sturdy. Valeriya non-verbally insisted on going down first to make sure that it was safe, and Illya did not argue with her.

It was a fifty meter drop, and they would drop inside of a maintenance tunnel.

After Valeriya confirmed it was safe, Zachikova followed.

“Arabella, can you hold on to me? So I can hold you with one arm.”

“Yes. Don’t worry about me Braya. I can be strong for you.”

Zachikova saw her raise the remains of her tail. They could use it to assist the climb down.

Nodding her head, Zachikova held on to her cable, and Arabella propped her tail against the walls of the vent hole. With Valeriya below to try to catch them if they fell, and Illya following behind, they managed to slide all the way down to the bottom of the shaft. It was not possible to see much of anything in the tunnel, and there was not enough space for Valeriya, Zachikova and her companion, and Illya, to stand together.

Valeriya looked around with her hands for a panel to tear off so they could continue their trek, and found it on the opposite wall. Illya remained tethered.

“Braya, I guess it’s no use saying, ‘you should leave me behind if I’m slowing you down’.”

Arabella whispered in her ear.

Zachikova grunted and squeezed her body tighter while holding her up.

“I don’t want to hear that again. Ever again.” She said sternly.

Arabella rested her head against Zachikova’s shoulder, sighing.

“Alright. Braya– I’ll tell the Captain everything if we get back. I promise you.”

“We’ll have to. Don’t worry– the Captain is not the type of person to cast you out.”

“We’ll vouch for her compliance too.”

Illya spoke up from farther up in the shaft, still holding on to the climbing cable.

Zachikova looked up and grinned. “Thanks. I was honestly surprised you went out for me.”

She couldn’t see Illya’s face up in the shaft, but she thought Illya must have been smiling.

“No one gets left behind. Who will mess with enemy computers for us if you die?”

“Fair enough. You tech illiterate meatheads have your uses.”

“Such a conceited tone for a woman crying her head out and almost eating a corpse.”

“Please.”

From below all of them, Valeriya groaned.

While Illya and Zachikova shared a laugh at her response, she finally got a vent cover off.

Dim light streamed into the room. It was a very low vent, they would have to crawl.

“Arabella, do you think you can crawl through?” Zachikova asked.

Arabella nodded her head gently.

“Valeriya can go out first, then I will put you down and follow you out.”

As Valeriya crawled out, Zachikova put Arabella on the ground gingerly and helped her crawl through the vent hole, following close at her heels. Illya finally climbed down the shaft and followed the two of them out. They had finally made it back to a relatively open area.

“Let’s move. We’re close, and this place is too exposed.” Illya said, hefting her rifle up.

Their escape from B-block had led them to a module in C-block that was entirely taken up by a park over a hundred meters long. From the vent hole that Valeriya had ripped open, they exited out onto a landing at the top of a set of descending steps, where there was a large plaque dedicated to war casualties against ‘the bandits and criminals’– referring specifically to the Union, in this case. From the plaque and its surroundings, the stairs descended through a concrete archway into the bulk of the park; composed of a small plaza and two large statues surrounded by tiered gardens with tall grasses, small trees and wide shrubs on either side of the plaza and the statues. Another set of rising steps led to a second archway, mirroring the first, and then the elevator banks all the way across the park.

Due to the core separation, the park was cast into a gloomy red tinted dimness that at times strobed, at times died, and at times intensified as if they stood beneath a red moon on a black sky. Dim yellow warnings appearing and disappearing on the walls did the lighting no additional favor. Those grand structures built as centerpieces to the park cast deep shadows that cut eerily around the open lengths of the promenade and the tall steps.

There were no audio alarms, and so the only noise aside from their own breathing and boots was a light buzzing from the walls and ceiling. It was completely desolate.

Those shifting tides of dim visibility and silent, colorless darkness created a surreal sight.

Zachikova tore herself from it, crouched beside Arabella and picked her up again.

This time, her tail wrapped around Zachikova’s waist, and she hugged Zachikova closer.

“I’m steady. Run as fast and as hard as you need to Braya.” Arabella said.

“Got it. We’ll get through this.”

She was feeling quite heavy, even with Zachikova’s cybernetic enhancements.

Her limbs had biomechanical stabilizers implanted, which were not as extreme or high-tech as the biomechanical enhancements that Illya and Valeriya received. While they mainly assisted her in precision work, they did help her lift a bit more than she would otherwise have been able to. However, she was still a sedentary individual who, in her current roles, rarely exercised, and ate somewhat poorly, eroding her already barely average stamina. Not to mention how much harder maintaining that health was with Arabella’s needs. She could have done better, become stronger– but she only now recognized that there was any point to doing such things. And now, there was no time to prepare anything.

All she could do was run as far as she needed, and carry Arabella as much as she could.

“I’ll lead.” Valeriya said. Again there was no argument from the rest.

“Then I’ll take up the rear. Let’s go, Zachi.” Illya said.

“Got it.”

Valeriya raised her assault rifle to her chest and took off running down the steps.

Zachikova took a deep breath and ran after, following as closely as she could.

They charged down the steps, Zachikova trying to balance running quickly without losing her footing– suffering a few heart-pounding fumbles along the way that her leg stabilizers quietly assisted in recovering from. Behind her, Illya paused every so often to aim her gun in the direction of their flanks, looking through the sleek optic attached on its top rail. Valeriya led them into the archway, which was much larger up close than at the top of the steps, the path through it six meters deep and the walls three or fours meters thick.

They stacked at the other end of the archway for a quick breather.

Even in the dark, the sheer size and fidelity of the statues was arresting. Zachikova, out of pure habit, queried the network about the statue park, and in a brief burst of functionality, actually made a connection and received information in a split second. On the left, there was a statue of Konstantin von Fueller, the departed Emperor. Depicted in his late adulthood, with long hair and a full beard and a certain pity in his eyes, as if the statue had caught a glimpse of what might occur to the man in the future. Beside him was a statue of Norn von Fueller, the praetor, smiling with a glint in her eyes as if her presence here was itself a mischief. These were five or six meter tall statues, set on concrete pedestals a meter tall and two in diameter. They dominated the center of the park, white marbled walkways arranged to take the prospective visitor exclusively to and around them.

After a breather, Valeriya sprinted out to the statues. Zachikova and Illya followed.

Step by step, second by second, the statues which were about thirty meters from the first archway loomed closer and closer. There was a brief red and yellow flash as the alarm lights and wall warnings suddenly glitched again and became brighter than normal.

They buzzed louder than before, and then there was an eerie sound of several light clusters fizzling. Zachikova shut her eyes and kept running, her hands tightening around Arabella’s body. There was a disturbance in the air– but Zachikova failed to hear the first shot.

Something struck the floor just behind her foot. She hadn’t seen it nor heard it.

Zachikova was in a battle, but she was unaware for precious seconds.

Illya shouted from behind her, but it coincided with the final burst of ambient noise.

To Zachikova, rather than a warning it was just a guttural noise she heard the tail end of.

Then a bullet sailed past her antennae, and she finally felt the vibration.

“Duck! Zachi! Cover!”

Illya shouted again, Zachikova heard it, Valeriya stopped and turned and opened fire.

From the flanks, as she acknowledged the situation, two shots struck Zachikova in one leg.

Her feet lost all ability to hold her weight, even with the stabilizers.

“Braya!”

Arabella cried out as Zachikova fell forward, gritting her teeth.

She turned in mid-air, and her body hit the ground with all of Arabella’s weight on her.

All around her, rifle barrels whined in the distance, muzzles flashed near,

and chaos reigned.


Hunter VII let out an irritatingly wet and nasal little laugh that unsettled Wizard III.

“I’ve got ‘em. I know exactly where they’re goin’.” She said.

Her pale face stretched with her cheeky grin, little dark eyes narrowing into their dark bags, each labored cackle tossing the long white hair coming out in long wisps from beneath her grey hood. She was a very slight creature, long limbed and skinny, ghastly pale for an omenseer, a bit typical of her role and sphere, standing a head shorter than Wizard III.

“Where? Do you have personal experience with the area?” Wizard III asked.

“Yeppers! I’ve been in all these tunnels. They’re goin’ to the park, follow me.”

Wizard III was not keen on the Hunters and not too happy to have to rely on them.

The Third Sphere castes, which were the youngest and most specialized, had proven a bit bizarre psychologically and were difficult to incorporate into plans. Wizard III did not understand their dysfunction. Observers were lazy; Saboteurs too violent; Sentinels too stubborn. But Hunters– Wizard III would have classed them as abject failures. They had a myriad problems. Too greedy, cowardly and perverted. They were easily distracted because of their immense curiosity and intense desires. Too quick to pick up bad habits, they were each unique in what was wrong with them, depending on their initial assignments.

However, each of them had been uplifted for their prodigious clairvoyance.

More than any other Omenseer, Hunters were powerfully in tune with omens. Their senses, both physical and supernatural, were immensely keen. They could find any target after having seen it once, and the more information they were given, the more they could see in their otherwise dull brains. And if it was a person, they could easily eliminate them.

Hunter VII was even less disciplined than most Hunters, in Wizard III’s estimation.

But she was crucial to the mission, and to Wizard III’s squad, for her clairvoyance.

Having mastered the gift of the Oracle’s Voice, Hunter VII had near infallible foresight.

–that is, as long as she was given enough sensory information she could make use of.

In order to insure success Wizard III had offered her the thing Hunters loved most of all.

“Are we sure this pus-for-brains can actually find her?” Vanguard IX protested.

“I could never mistake that delicious scent for anything else!” Hunter VII shot back.

Her perverse smiling face and oddly good mood was all because of the taste she had gotten of a piece of Arbitrator I’s flesh, sheared off when the exalted Avaritia nearly devoured the heretic. And the promise that if she led the team and cut off the heretic’s escape, she would be given far more of the false Autarch’s flesh to enjoy. This both motivated her and asssisted her tracking. Wizard III could sense the sheer elation in Hunter VII’s aura.

More than her aura, however, her sadistic and bloodthirsty little mutterings made it evident.

“I can’t wait– Oooh I can’t wait– she was so delicious. So much more than any hominin.”

“Was it a good idea to give this fiend a taste of her own kind?” Vanguard IX moaned.

“It was strategically expedient. Just endure it.” Wizard III said, glaring at Hunter VII.

Wizard III’s squadron for the mission to eliminate the false Autarch consisted of two shooting sections of six Vanguards, a Sentinel, a Hunter, herself, and Vanguard IX, whom she had taken as an adjutant. That latter position was suggested by the Enforcers, and who was she to deny their repeated and irritating attempts to inflict hominin “culture” upon her? It was not her place to disobey them. Vanguard IX was motivated and competent.

With Hunter VII locked on to her target, Wizard III and the squadron followed her as fast as possible, down B-block, through C-block, to where the heretic would go.

All around them, the hominin were in a state of utter disarray.

Their station had some sort of malfunction– Wizard III was not too sure about what was happening to them. Even in the little picturesque town in B-block there were confused hominin on the street and armed forces at every corner. Thankfully, none of the armed hominin had any effective organization. All of the guards, at least in B-block, seemed to be running around like they had their heads severed and the rest of their bodies were just twitching this way and that. Because of their vulnerable emotional states, Wizard III could quite easily walk up to a group and manipulate them psionically to her advantage.

Thanks to her temporary thralls, the squadron was given a direct route to their destination through emergency transfer shafts normally reserved for staff. Then the guards were convinced they saw nothing, which was in their best interest to internalize. The Syzygy squadron arrived at the statue park in C-block well before their prey, and this allowed Wizard III to perfectly arrange her forces as she desired to maximize the chances of success.

It would be a simple and effective ambush from the flanks of the park.

In the tiered gardens, behind trees and bushes and grasses, she hid her Vanguards. Each vanguard had a spike rifle, ninety centimeters long, a living tool and covered in a smooth scar-like tissue shell that fired modified teeth as bullets. These composite bullets were expelled using strong pulses of bio-electromagnetism assisted by internal muscles. Varying in their rate of fire, the rifles kept their ammunition stored in a helical pattern in a lower gland. Wizard III believed these to be far superior to hominin automatic rifles, because they could be grown, and required less ores and foreign materials, being mainly composed of biomass. They were also quieter, since they did not require an explosion to shoot.

These weapons would be used to shoot at the heretic as she escaped through the park.

Hunter VII and Sentinel X would be positioned at the gate closest to the elevator banks.

At first they would be hidden, but could be moved to intercept or finish off the heretic.

Wizard III and Vanguard IX would hide atop the archway opposite the elevator banks.

They had the same role as Sentinel X and Hunter VII, as well as overseeing the mission.

Everything was in place. And if Hunter VII was to be believed, their quarry neared.

No wild tactics would be necessary. They just had to cover off escapes, and seal the trap.

Site the park center and await the appearance of the enemy. Enfilade on my command.

Wizard III could speak telepathically to her entire squadron at once.

Her ability to quickly convey complicated ideas via telepathy was one of the reasons that Enforcers I and III had chosen her for their retinue. She had practiced this skill diligently, knowing that it would serve her role well, and therefore serve the Syzygy well. Her range was limited; but her thoughts could span the length of the park without issue.

An intrusive, wet-feeling and irritating thought wormed its way into her mind soon after.

I can feel ‘em, I can smell ‘em, I can taste ‘em! Deliciousness is on the way!

Hunter VII’s disgusting telepathic reply. She could feel her nasally, horrid little voice.

Her slobbering mouth and the moistness of her general being–

Wizard III sent back a telepathic image of Hunter VII being beaten with a rifle butt, directly into her stupid little brain, in order to quiet her. Hunter VII made not one peep more.

To her Vanguards, she sent final warnings to set up and be prepared to fire.

Then she heard metal clang behind her. A vent cover hitting the floor.

Atop the archway, Wizard III urged Vanguard IX to crawl on her belly.

Both of them dropped low against the edge of the archway. Hiding from the hominin, letting them pass under. They would have sight on the middle of the park when the battle was joined. Until then, they just had to hide and let their senses tell them the story.

One after another– several figures left the vent that they had forced open.

Followed by hominin speech. Meaning unclear– but there was a small group of them–

“…Braya–”

Wizard III’s eyes widened as she confirmed the voice of the heretic.

So– she had the assistance of hominin.

There’s been a development. Shoot to kill the hominin in addition to the false autarch.

Footsteps. Three pairs. One hominin was carrying the false autarch.

Down the steps, beneath the archway. Stacking inside of it, facing the center of the park.

They had not noticed Wizard III’s perch. Her critical moment fast approached.

To the squadron, she quietly broadcast the thought of the hominin’s positions beneath the archway as she imagined them. She received two quick mental affirmations from the leaders of each three-gun section. When the hominin got to moving again, Wizard III stoically gave the order to unleash their barrage. As soon as she could physically see the hominin nearing the statues in the center of the park, she felt the breaking tension of her troops.

Their moment finally arrived.

Wizard III steeled her eyes as if her sight alone would kill the Hominin below her.

She watched them, the dawning realization that they had come under attack.

Small flashes of green bioluminescence from the vegetation, and a faint electric crackling.

Followed by the first bursts of long, thin and sharp black bullets converging–

Hurtling toward the hominin– soaring in their dozens– invisible lines grazing skin–

–scratching pits into the ground –as the hominin rushed to the cover of the statues.


“Throw smokes! Now!”

Her clothes dragged along the ground, she could feel it in the skin of her back.

Smelling smoke, taking deep horrid breaths of it that made her chest contract in protest.

Vision swimming. Bright flashes on the edges of her eyes. Everything was too dim.

Clicking noises of a myriad little objects falling around. Dust, chipped concrete, casings.

Along with the familiar bursting noise of Avtomat gunfire. Tremors right in her chest.

She became aware of an immense and burning pain, from lower down on her body.

And she could no longer feel the pressure and weight that had been upon her–

“Arabella!”

Zachikova shot up from the ground, only to feel a hand push her back down.

“She’s right here! Keep your head down god damn it! We’re under attack!”

They were huddled between the statues. There was smoke, bullets.

Illya was at her side–

Her heart jumped from a sudden burst of automatic fire. Her head snapped to the source.

Valeriya peered out from cover and fired two bursts into a tree fifty meters out.

And immediately ducked back into cover, avoiding fire from two different directions.

Impossible to see, but evident in the concrete dust that went flying all around them.

Zachikova shut her eyes hard, trying to clear the sting of her own tears and the smoke.

“Braya, I’m here. Don’t worry. Just stay safe.”

She felt a hand on her shoulder.

There was no describing the relief it brought. On her other side, Arabella, with her back to the statue pedestal. She was alive and safe. In the darkness she could see the faintest smile. Zachikova let out deeply-held breath. They had all made it to cover.

“Permission to arm GP-34.” Valeriya said calmly, just loud enough to be heard.

“You think you can get them?” Illya shouted, over the sound of bullets hitting rock.

Da.” Valeriya replied. Showing no emotion whatsoever even in the midst of this mess.

“Wait. Let me cover you. It will be more effective.” Zachikova said.

She quickly looked around herself.

Her gear had been on her back when she was carrying Arabella. Exerting herself, she felt pain shoot through her left leg, but she also felt the cold sting of wound gel like someone had shoved ice into the laceration. Knowing she was not bleeding, she could strain to move, searching in the dark with her hands and finding her carbine on the floor and her remaining magazines discarded near it. Her training coming to the fore again as the shocks began to wear off, she exchanged the spent magazine that was on her carbine for a fresh one.

Then she quickly stabbed herself with an injector of painkillers.

She grit her teeth from the pain, but only very briefly.

“I’ll shoot from farther back, around the statue’s legs. A different angle.” Zachikova said.

Even in the dark she knew Illya and Valeriya were exchanging glances. Valeriya did nothing without Illya’s approval. But Illya saw the value in this suggestion. She also trusted Zachikova to be able to do it. Even wounded, even in the dark, even years after their last operation.

“Good thinking. I’ll suppress the other flank first. Then Zachi can draw them out and Valeriya can put them down.” Illya said, hefting her assault rifle. “Zachi, Valeriya, on mark.”

“Acknowledged.” Zachikova said.

“Yes.” Valeriya added.

“Mark in five.”

As soon as Illya gave the word, the unit set about their tasks instantly.

In the dark, Zachikova could see the outline of Valeriya loading a 40 mm rifle grenade into the underbarrel GP-34 launcher attached to her assault rifle. Opposite her, Illya stacked at the edge of Norn’s pedestal, or as close as she could get to the edge. Zachikova crawled on her knees farther up the pedestal from where Valeriya had been shooting from, in order to draw a new angle. They had gotten lucky, or their enemy had been stupid with the positioning of their ambush. Between the statues of Norn and the Emperor, there was enough cover to keep them safe from both flanks of the ambush. If they were careful, they could still engage then quickly retreat to relative safety, as evidenced by all the useless, discarded projectiles that had begun to litter the ground just outside their stretch of cover, shimmering in the red of the alarm lights, muzzle flashes and bright tracers.

Zachikova had never seen these kinds of bullets. They were black and eerily organic.

Some part of her knew this was not the K.P.S.D., but she couldn’t connect any more dots.

Regardless of who it was–

She looked back at Arabella, briefly meeting her eyes during a flash of red lights.

For that strange and mysterious and solitary woman who had upended her life–

no matter the opponent, Zachikova would have killed anyone.

“Mark!”

There was no need to confirm that she was in position prior to Illya’s shout.

Of course Zachikova was in position– and of course her squad mates would do their parts.

Illya rose from behind the pedestal firing controlled bursts, sweeping across the left flank.

Zachikova rose with her and from the other side of the Emperor’s legs, she opened fire on the same trees and brushes on the right flank that Valeriya had been firing at all this time. She could not see her enemy’s movements in the dark, but from her line of sight, she knew her bullets were flying through the bushes and bypassing the trees.

There was no immediate return fire.

Three long, controlled bursts, and Zachikova ducked while Illya fired her final shots.

In the same instant as Zachikova’s gunfire abated, Valeriya angled her rifle up.

There was a chunky, popping noise as a 40 mm grenade sailed out of her launcher.

Arcing up into the air and crashing to the ground with a short flash and a burst of smoke.

Obliterating the bush and sending a chunk of the tree’s slender trunk flying in pieces.

Illya retreated to coincide with the explosion of the grenade.

There was no immediate retaliation– a long lull in the once incessant enemy gunfire.

“Even the left flank is shocked. These are fucking amateurs.” Illya said. “Valeriya, trade.”

“Yes.”

Valeriya and Illya retreated deeper into cover between the statues, and quickly switched places. Valeriya moved to Norn’s statue and Illya stacked against the statue of the Emperor. Moving the position of their grenade launcher, and enabling them to run the same tactic against the other flank. After moving, there was suddenly a renewed, but flagging salvo from both flanks, periodically sending bits of concrete flying over their heads.

Even Zachikova could tell that there were less bullets flying than there had been.

“Mark on five.” Illya called out, kicking away a dropped magazine and reloading.

“They’re encroaching.” Valeriya said. She loaded a new grenade into her launcher.

Zachikova could hear rustling and footsteps, but then they stopped and fire resumed.

“Mark on two.” Illya said. No use acknowledging.

It was their prerogative if they wanted to come closer and expose themselves.

“Mark!”

Illya rose and opened fire on the right flank.

Zachikova rose to cover the left around the legs of Norn’s statue instead of the Emperor’s.

Valeriya loosed another grenade.

On the right flank, the explosion of the grenade lit a flame, penetrating one of the garden plots. Whether it had set a bush on fire or caused an electrical fire, it was impossible to tell. But there was fire, and smoke, and with it, the darkness parted ever so slightly.

Around the pyre light, they could finally see the figures of the enemy scattering–

along with one figure struggling on the ground.

Illya grinned, shadows playing about her face from the flame. Her finger moved swiftly.

She put two quick shots into the downed enemy, causing it to thrash and rattle in death

and then she cried out as a bullet struck her in the sternum throwing her back–


“One down.” Vanguard IX said, licking her lips, rifle in hand atop the archway.

Beside her, Wizard III was shaking with a mixture of shock and frustration and fear.

Her mind registered the anguished cries of several injured Vanguards.

Those that remained had shaking hands on their rifles and their backs to cover.

Suppressed. Too afraid to shoot back, and growing increasingly more so.

In minutes, their ambush had been thrown back on them.

By three measly hominin?

What had happened? They had advantageous positions and an outnumbered enemy!

Even discounting the demonstrably poor aim and bad fire placement and tendency to clump together behind the same cover that her Vanguards had demonstrated– such conditions should not have even mattered, because the battle should have ended in seconds. Against mere hominin. How was the discrepancy this large? What had factored into it?

It should have worked– it simply–

She had given them a perfect plan!

She had demanded nothing from them but execution!

Wizard III’s mind was racing. She was ashamed, she was in shock, she was confused.

All of her theoretical knowledge, all of her theoretical advantages.

Why didn’t it matter? Why couldn’t she, a Wizard unit, manage a simple ambush?

Had the false Autarch done something to the senses of these hominin? Made them stronger?

No– It couldn’t have been– but it couldn’t be the hominin by themselves–?

“Permission to engage in close quarters, ma’am.”

Wizard III turned to face Vanguard IX. The shock shaking itself through her body.

Vanguard IX was a lithe and sleek young woman, with red and white hair, a conceited grin.

They had never locked eyes in such a deliberate way as they had then. She was– comely.

But what did she have to be so cocky about? Her caste was doing pitifully in this battle.

And yet– perhaps– maybe– she could be reliable– those eyes– that smile–

“Y-Yes. Yes. Go. Cut through them. I’ll– I’ll call in Hunter VII and Sentinel X as well.”

“Splendid! I shall bring you their heads, superior. Simply await my triumphant return.”

In a red flash of the alarm lights, Vanguard IX’s face appeared in stark relief.

Grinning wildly, keen on a fight. She patted Wizard III’s shoulder.

Then, leaving her rifle behind, she took something from her uniform pockets.

A silvery fruit brimming with stolen life.

While locking eyes with Wizard III, she deposited the morsel into her open mouth.

As if for Wizard III to see every bite.


Down on her knees, Zachikova waved her hands in every direction, struck the palms of her hands against the floor, scratched her fingers, scrabbling around for the rest of her gear in the dark. It had been kicked around everywhere in the panic. There was a lull in the gunfire, but that sniper that got Illya must have been repositioning, and they had to move. She found her flashlight, shone it upon the ground, and found her pouches and belt.

From it, she recovered and immediately threw a smoke grenade behind themselves.

As the smokescreen thickened to cover them from the sniper, Zachikova passed the flashlight to Arabella, sat beside her, who was surprised to be given it.

“I need your help! Gather up everything that was in my pack and pouches!”

Arabella nodded.

She took the flashlight, and quickly began to gather Zachikova’s gear together.

Zachikova took her assault rifle from the floor.

In the dark, she saw Valeriya on her knees in front of Illya, paralyzed.

Mumbling to herself.

“Valeriya! Move her back! Behind the pedestals!”

Whether or not Valeriya heeded her, Zachikova rose up on her bum leg and resumed shooting over the pedestal. Fire continued to spread on the right side of the park, and due to the core separation nothing was putting it out. That suited Zachikova fine.

In the light of the fire she could see a few enemies still scurrying about. Thin figures with long weapons, shadows from around raised concrete garden plots, enough to know where to direct her attacks. Forcing them to retreat and reposition, and preventing them from firing back. It bought them time, but it was not enough. She was not eliminating them.

“Arabella, did you sort out my gear?” Zachikova called out.

“Yes! I have everything laid out!” Arabella replied.

“Alright, take out any objects that have little metal pins, and hand them to me!”

“Yes Braya! I’m on it! I won’t let you down!”

Zachikova shifted positions, putting her back to Norn’s statue.

She drew a breath, reloaded her carbine and raised her barrel forward. Now aiming for the trees on the left flank of the park, she opened fire across the front of the Emperor’s statue instead. Without enemy shadows standing in contrast with the fire, it was hard to tell if anything was still there, but she could at least suppress the other half of the park–

Then Arabella darted up to a stand beside her, followed by a dozen strange noises.

In her hands, she had not just one of Braya’s grenades, nor even two–

All of Zachikova’s grenades hung on hands which now possessed a dozen fingers.

Enough fingers to lift them, pull out the pins in a chorus of clicking and clacking metal.

And enough dexterity to quickly toss them one after the other in every direction.

“Arabella!” Zachikova cried out, ducking and taking Arabella to the ground with her–


“I can smell it. I can smell it! That delicious meat!”

Hunter VII stuck her tongue out, slobbering and hyperventilating in anticipation.

She wrapped her arms around herself, and her knees were rubbing together–

“Shut up. Do you have no self-control? You were not ordered to be this disgusting.”

At her side, Sentinel X stood with her arms crossed, her back to the archway’s stone wall.

A living picture of stoicism.

Lean, well-muscled, fully in control of herself. Her face inexpressive, her pale hair cut short and without the colored streaks that brought many of the other casts such joy to dye into their hair to assert individuality. Her beret and uniform, both grey, each had a shield-shaped badge to denote her caste. Her uniform was pristine. Unlike Hunter VII, who was naked except for her hooded robe that looked to Sentinel X like she was dressed in a trash bag.

Because she was trash. Unlike the Sentinel caste, whom Sentinel X would make proud.

Her orders were to hold the position, and she would hold it with honor.

No deviation from Wizard III’s grand stratagem would be tolerated.

No enemy would escape.

Not without engaging Sentinel X herself in glorious combat.

Sentinel X was so honorable in fact that she would not leave her position for such trifles as hearing a string of explosions rocking the center of the park. Or seeing a fire begin spreading. Feeling the psionic fear and anguish of the Vanguards, whom, despite being older and higher ranked than Sentinel X, were quivering and buckling and hiding amid the carnage. Certainly they were locked in absolutely brutal battles the likes of which she could not even imagine. Certainly, such was the power of the false Autarch and her hominin escorts, to give her seniors such trouble. But Sentinel X knew her place. Wizard III was her commanding officer. And she respected her comrades. So she would follow her orders.

She would hold the position. Until commanded otherwise.

That was her solemn duty.

“Hey, the Vanguards are all screamin’ and cryin’ and pukin’– should we help?”

Hunter VII spoke up from beside Sentinel X. Sentinel glared at her.

“You will not move from this spot, unless you desire the justice of the battlefield.”

“Uh–!” Hunter VII bowed her head. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean t’cause offense!”

She waved her hands intensely, then stried to stand up straight and at attention.

Sentinel X smiled.

“Apology accepted. Little beast, in my heart, I understand that you crave blood and battle with what measly brains you possess. This is admirable, but honor binds us Third Sphere castes to the specific tasks for which we were born. Right now, you were born to stand here with me, and prevent the breaching of our encirclement. Hold firm your honor.”

“Ehh, I guess.” Hunter VII’s tongue rolled back into her mouth. “But I can’t eat honor.”

“Oh, but I thought Hunter caste ate anything. Have you tasted honor, little vermin?”

Hunter VII blinked. “Was– was that a joke? You can joke?”

Sentinel X grinned to herself and her arms still crossed over her chest, head still bowed.

In that moment, she felt something in the back of her mind.

Something that cut through the vague murmuring in her thoughts, representing the ambient terror of the Vanguards whom she was ignoring; and the bloodthirst of the Hunter beside her; all of that psionic noise quieted even further by a clear and authoritative voice.

Sentinel X stood in attention as if she was in the physical presence of her commander.

I have new orders for you! Turn and attack the hominin in the center of the park!

Wizard III’s voice, agitated and louder than she had ever heard it. Was she in danger?

“It shall be done, brilliant one. I must ask, however– what about this position?”

She saw in the back of her mind a clear image of Wizard III’s frustrated expression.

There’s nobody to defend it from! Unless someone attacks you right now, forget it!

Sentinel X dutifully stepped forward from the wall and got ready to cross the archway–

and stopped when she heard the sound of screeching metal from the elevator banks.

Something was forcing open the elevator doors.

Just as clearly as she heard the distress of her comrades, and the agitation of the officer in command, Sentinel X could feel the tension suddenly cutting across the aether. She could feel the colors shifting, the texture of the world turning, like the shifting direction of a nonexistent wind. Bristling in the back of her mind, brimming under her skin, shaking the tips of her fingers and toes. Just as the presence of meat aroused something inside Hunter VII; Sentinel X could now feel herself shaking in anticipation of the call to battle.

She tipped her head to look up, to where she had felt the clarion of challenge beseech her.

Heard the footfalls, heavy with strength and purpose, aggressive, consequential–

Then,

Atop the steps to the elevator banks, overlooking Sentinel X and Hunter VII–

Appeared a strong and tall figure, shield in one hand, a weapon in another,

eyes meeting under opposite banners amid the smoke of war,

aura tinged red and black with the determination,

 to stake it all on the battlefield.

“An opponent.” Sentinel X whispered to herself.

Near breathless, heart pounding. A grin on her face.

Every cell quivering with lust.

An opponent had finally appeared to challenge her in single combat.

With a wild smile on her face, Sentinel X adjusted her beret, and reached into her pocket.

For the fruit, grown from hominin, that would elevate her strength.


Tinnitus ringing in her ears for so very long.

Her entire body was shaking hard enough it was difficult to stand, as if the explosions were still circulating energy through the ground and into her. It was not fear. She was exhausted. She had been running at the farthest edge of breathing, on the thinnest line between impetus and inertia. Shaking to stand, struggling to breath the part-smoke air, hardly able to see in the dim dream-like reds that flashed distantly around her.

“Arabella.” Her voice shook itself out of her throat, a sputtering sound.

“I’m here Braya. I’m sorry. I made everything worse.”

Arabella was standing too. In front of Zachikova. She saw her when the lights flashed.

She laid a hand on her shoulder and urged her to move. Farther back, behind the statues.

“I’m doing better Braya, let me help you move instead.”

In the dark, she felt Arabella’s hands around her.

They lifted her easily, moved her swiftly.

“Valeriya, Illya? What is your status?”

Zachikova mumbled weakly. Half expecting not to receive a response.

What would even happen if Illya died? And if Valeriya was still alive?

It would be horrific.

She recalled her flashlight, and wondered if Arabella still had it on her person.

Then she realized she had another possible source of light.

While shambling around the statues, Zachikova removed one of her antennae.

Her audio sensors were still working, it was not the same as having “damaged” her ear, they were built to be detachable and to serve as semi-independent devices. On one end of the object, there were status lights. By flicking a switch, to physically cut off digital data flow to one of the ears, more of the status alert LEDs on it would turn on.

In the darkness, these were a dim flashlight that was nevertheless bright enough to use.

As Arabella helped her walk, she shone the lights forward.

Until they fell upon Valeriya, crouched and solemn.

Her hair falling over her face such that her expression was completely obscured. Her fingers, clutching her knees. All of her weapons and gear thrown at her sides, discarded. Zachikova felt her heart accelerating as she turned the light from Valeriya, to the rear surface of the pedestal. Against which, Valeriya had propped up the stricken down Illya.

“Is she alive?” Zachikova asked. Knowing she was tempting fate to say so.

Valeriya did not respond.

Zachikova tempted fate again by stepping forward from Arabella’s presence.

She crouched beside Illya.

Pausing every so often to glance at Valeriya.

Reaching out her hand tentatively.

Holding Illya’s face by the chin and lifting it.

No response from Valeriya.

Zachikova had not been hacked to pieces– yet.

She continued.

Lifting a finger to force one of her eyes open.

Feeling for vitals with her thumb.

There was a pulse–

“God damn it.”

Valeriya lifted her head a little.

Enough for Zachikova to see her eyes filled with tears.

Illya had grunted. She was awake.

“Let go of my face. I’m having trouble breathing.”

Zachikova glared at her. “Respond when I fucking ask if you’re alive.”

“Ugh. I’m spiraling in and out.” Illya mumbled. She raised a hand over her face.

On her chest, something that looked like a long, black fang, perhaps like that of a spider, shiny, but straight– it was the most bizarre projectile Zachikova had ever seen. It had pierced through Illya’s body armor. There was no question that this was the sniper’s bullet. It was long and thinner than an ordinary bullet, and even some time after being fired it remained warm, vibrating, and strangely enough, it was slightly moist. They had not designed the ballistic plates to fit the characteristics of this object, that was for certain.

Zachikova pulled out the projectile and pocketed it.

She shone her dim little lights into the orifice left in Illya’s armor.

There was blood, and ripped skin. Beneath it, however, was a second, thin layer.

Like a sheet of hexagon patterns just under Illya’s skin. Subdermal nanomail.

It had been penetrated. There would be bruising around it.

“You’ll live.” Zachikova said. She looked around herself. “But what the fuck is going on?”

Arabella approached and crouched beside Zachikova, joining the rest.

“This is my fault.” She said. “These are my people, chasing me. I’m sorry, Braya.”

“Doesn’t matter who the fuck they are.” Illya said. “We’re not letting them have you.”

She turned her face to Valeriya, who had remained dutifully at her side.

Reaching out a hand to caress Valeriya’s dirty cheek, gently pushing away her blond hair.

“Valeriya, I love you.” She said.

Valeriya nodded silently. Zachikova noticed that her mask was pulled down.

“I am sorry– you know I wouldn’t do this if I had no choice.” Illya said.

“No. Don’t be. Let me fight.” Valeriya said.

Illya nodded solemnly.

Zachikova averted her gaze. She grit her teeth, clenched her fists.

Valeriya and Illya’s gazes locked ever more deeply.

Illya held the cheek of her lover and partner in a gesture that, in any other circumstance would have been interpreted to lead into a kiss. However, they could only stare each other’s eyes with gentle and yet weak expressions. For a few seconds they held their gazes firmly before Valeriya lifted her own hand to touch Illya’s on her cheek.

Behind them, they heard footsteps encroaching in the dark on their position again.

Illya gently drew Valeriya closer to her.

Then, she clicked her tongue in Valeriya’s ear. Then, she spoke.

“Love is life; love hinders death.”

Valeriya opened her eyes wide, and the gentle smile she wore for Illya went away.

“Eliminate all hostile targets.” Illya then said.

With none of the love she put into speaking the trigger words.

Without expression, Valeriya stood to her full height, and seized a weapon.

Pulling off the hard plastic sleeve to expose the saw teeth of the diamond sword, its blade nearly a hundred centimeters long, the motor hidden in the square guard above the handle. As she walked, as if paying it little mind while doing so, she flicked the motor’s power switch with a finger and pulled the lever hidden on the blade’s guard to actuate it.

A metallic whining noise followed her from then on.

Zachikova felt a sudden and immense terror worming its way through her skin.

An otherworldly presence, an evil-feeling presence, seemed to exude from Valeriya.

Arabella, too, stared warily at the woman, but calmly and without Zachikova’s terror.

Her eyes remained fixed on the entranced Valeriya as she walked, first, and then sprinted.

Back around the statues and immediately clashing with the approaching enemy.

In the dark, the clashing of metal of metal– Zachikova shook her head.

She affixed her antennae back in its place, and began to search Illya’s pockets for gear.

“I’ll support her– or at least keep you safe. I can do that much still.” Zachikova said.

“Don’t let your girlfriend have any more of our grenades.” Illya said, grinning.

“You’re in good humor.” Zachikova sighed. “If you die nobody will be able to control her.”

Illya shut her eyes and took a deep breath, her hand resting over her wound.

“I trust her completely. That will have to suffice for you. Administer some painkillers.”

Zachikova wanted to shout at her, but she held her breath. There was no use arguing.

Showing her displeasure instead by how brusquely she jabbed Illya with an injector.

Valeriya was not looking, so this petty vengeance would not result in her dismemberment.


“I’m only going to say this once. I do not want to hurt anyone. Get out of my way. I’ll take my subordinates and we can defer whatever grief you have for another day. Otherwise, my conscience is absolved of smearing all of you across the wall. Your choice.”

Her conscience was not absolved. But she had no choice.

That hand holding her truncheon was so close to shaking.

It took all her strength not to.

Evgenya Akulantova looked down from the top of the steps.

Standing over a pair of pale women, horned and clad strangely, a skinny one in a black hood and the other in a unique uniform, not matching the Volkisch Movement or any Imperial unit she had ever studied up on. Behind her an elevator shaft she had broken into, climbed up, and forced the door open. There was no turning back. Here was the enemy.

All she could hope for is for them to see reason and avoid violence.

That hope faded quickly. She saw the expression on the uniformed woman.

While the hooded woman was terrified, the one with the uniform looked absolutely elated.

She stepped forward, flexing her fingers, grinning all the while.

Akulantova clenched her jaw.

The flashlight on her visor clearly illuminated the face of a madwoman.

“What is your name, hominin? I must know, for when I take you into my body as a trophy.”

The hell did that mean–? “Akulantova. You?”

“Sentinel X.” She said. Ten– why was she numbered?

“Sentinel X. Step aside, now.” Growing concerned she absolutely would not.

“It is my duty to hold this position. And perhaps it will be my honor to hold it against you.”

Despite being seemingly unarmed, Sentinel X merely took a striking stance with her fists.

Akulantova could still smell Illya and Valeriya. They were out there, fighting. There was blood in the air, smoke and fire, the smell of tungsten fragments and lead casings. There were many strange smells too– eerily organic smells like the skin and spit of animals. She had tracked her subordinates to this park because she knew Illya and Valeriya would follow the plans that they had already drafted for Kreuzung station, because they were efficient.

But the scent told her they were here and alive. Her tracking nose had its purpose.

“I’d like to remain a pacifist for at least a few more years. Please step aside kid.”

“Then I will have to come up there myself! I can sense the ferocious beast inside you!”

Akulantova felt herself pulled in every direction.

There was limited time to escape this emergency before the station began a crackdown; her subordinates were actively in danger and in need of rescue and a way out; there was a strange enemy barring her way; but she did not want to fight! Hadn’t her hands been stained enough? Was her body just not destined for something other than violence?

True to her words, however, Sentinel X quickly took her choices from her.

In moments, she broke into a sprint unexpected even for her lithe and agile-looking body.

Hurtling up the stairs in long bounds to punch with a fist that turned suddenly hard and hot.

Steam hissed from glistening, armored skin as if her sweat or even flesh were dissolving.

Akulantova stepped back, raised her shield and barely had time to put it in the way–

And nearly found herself bowled over as Sentinel X crashed into her at full speed.

Scarring in a fist-sized dent with an eerie torsion, into the multi-layered composite plate.

“You’re strong Akulantova! You’re so strong! This will make for a GLORIOUS battle!”

Akulantova stepped back, shield up, truncheon ready to respond to a strike.

She could not help but notice Sentinel X’s fists, vibrating and giving off heat like weapons.

Covered in what looked almost like the hard shell of a lobster, or maybe a crab.

It brought to mind a word–

Omenseer– she had been briefed by the Captain on that, but never what it entailed.

Simply, it was the kind of person the “specialist navigator” Arabella was. It allowed her to do whatever a ‘specialist navigator’ did. Akulantova did not question it. It wasn’t her right to. She put it out of her mind, giving no more thought to Arabella than whether she was being safe while messing around in the halls and whether her hyperactive antics around the ship caused any trouble. Over time, Arabella had even calmed down a bit.

Seeing this woman in front of her with crab-like vibro-weapon fists–

Arabella had gone missing– and now, there was this inexplicable maniac in the way.

“Nobody to blame but myself.” Akulantova said in a low voice.

“Not going to counterattack? Afraid of me already?” Sentinel X taunted.

Waiting her turn? Completely knackered. Her brain must have been vibrating too.

“S’not my style.” Akulantova said. “Why don’t you give it another go?”

Akulantova got ready to turn away the next strike. Her opponent took the invitation.

Sentinel X stepped forward, throwing all of her momentum into a charge.

If Akulantova could bash her back, she might have opening.

Expecting to be rushed down, Akulantova pushed back with her shield–

Where she expected to meet flesh heavily, there was air, and Akulantova nearly tripped.

At the last moment, Sentinel X arrested her movement and stepped back.

Precisely enough to avoid Akulantova’s counter while remaining in reach of her shield.

And responding with a punch flying sudden and strong as a gunshot–!

Sending the top third of the shield flying past Akulantova’s head in pieces.

Layered composites and glass shards. One cut across her cheek.

She felt the wound throb.

Each throb a slow, agonizing pulse of a heart beating for reprisal, a clamor to violence.

Despite being nearly two heads taller and probably a third again wider in the chest and back as her assailant was, Akulantova still found herself suddenly pressured by Sentinel X. It wasn’t uncommon for a Katarran to see uncanny strength in the world. But rarely was she on the other end of what her body and presence inspired in a fight.

Akulantova was a big girl. She had always been. Even as a larva.

Two meters tall, with a broad back, a big chest even discounting her bust, quite wide hips. Quite solid arms and legs and an effortlessly strong core. But people in the Union told her that she had a very pretty face too. She worked hard for that pretty face, her maidenly smile and soft features, for her silky, well-kept hair, for her easy, polite voice. Those things were difficult. She found it easy to build muscle. She found it easy to scream, to fight.

She found it easy to put people into the floor, alive or dead.

That ferocity began pouring back into her, began sizzling between her fingers.

She imagined herself crushing Sentinel X’s head like a grape and feeling the fluid drip between her hands. Like she was nothing but meat to be pulverized, and Akulantova the grinder. Like her body was a key to the lock that was Sentinel X, to make her undone and break her open. Casting her aside completely like she had been born to do.

And she hated it. Every second of it was torture.

She wanted so badly to defy that vision.

Her body had a destiny etched into it. Made to fight and kill and wreak ruin on the world. But she had made herself a body to love instead. Painstakingly. With all the world’s effort. She didn’t hate her body. Because she had etched out that evil destiny and inscribed her own.

And she didn’t want to use it to fight Sentinel X. To kill her and succumb to that fate.

But– god damn it all– without a shield, there was nothing to weigh down her arm.

And she couldn’t just punch back–

“Am I going to have to revise my estimation? Are you perhaps actually quite weak?”

Sentinel X bounded closer throwing another fast punch from the shoulder.

Clanging; the metallic sound of a truncheon falling to the ground.

Akulantova’s bare, closed fist met the Sentinel’s strike, blood drawing from the knuckles.

While a loose hand struck at her chest with enough force to drive her staggering back.

Sentinel X coughed, surprised, she had let her guard down. But smiling all the same.

Akulantova held a stance with a closed fist and a hand half-open.

Blood dripped down from sliced knuckles. Her own blood collecting on the floor.

It hurt like hell. Her wounds felt white-hot.

Despite this, a hint of a smile crept on Akulantova’s face. She had found a way out.

Her mind drifted back to her training in Union self-defense.

Maybe it was as simple as opening her fist. And knowing when to close it.


“Oh good. Two hominin down. After you, that means just one more.”

Vanguard IX grinned upon seeing the lone blond-haired hominin coming out from the fading smoke. Her body coursed with the possibilities provided by the marrow fruit, unlocking all of her innate potential. Abilities which once required much concentration came to her as easily as breathing now. She hoped Wizard III was paying attention to her deeds.

She wanted to impress her, to draw her attention.

From the back of her wrist, her flesh opened and extended. Using sinew and bone and the metals which she had ingested, as well as her own hard tissues and the enzymes from the fruit, Vanguard IX quickly grew a vibrating black blade as she walked, with nothing but a thought. Outwardly solid as any sword but composed microscopically of tight bundles of carbon and steel nanofiber the likes of which no hominin machine could manufacture. Her grown weapon ejected from her arm and hung on muscular sinews attached to the handle allowing her to control the electric vibrations and the heat that lent it killing power.

She wielded it as easily as flexing her own fingers.

Adjusting her eyes to see better in the dark, she felt she had every advantage on her prey.

Approaching, weapon in hand, full of confidence. She had killed the other hominin easily.

“Too bad for you! But as the exalted ones say: it ended romantically!”

Vanguard IX broke into a charge at the blond hominin and swung the blade in her hand–

Black edge meeting the silver teeth of the diamond sabre and grinding against it.

Vanguard IX put her weight into the clash, attempting to push the hominin back.

First a stalemate, and then, her efforts were actively thrown back, forcing her to retreat.

Her blade healing the deep gash left into its surface, sucking minerals from Vanguard IX.

Now closer and in the presence of the hominin, Vanguard IX felt an oppressive sense of bloodlust and her eyes flashed red, instinctually peering at the hominin’s aura.

She was astonished.

The blond hominin was completely wreathed in a black cloud that when examined closely had the impression of ghostly hands, mournful clawing and desperate. Some of her aura looked like it was trying to tear at her, other parts like they were pushing her forward, and the synesthesia Vanguard IX felt upon seeing it caused her to taste blood.

And yet, her mind was so poorly guarded. Vanguard IX could peer right inside–

Valeriya Peterburg, ‘Union special forces B.E.A.S.T.’

Images bubbling up through the surface of her mind so easily seen–

slashing, crushing, tearing, eviscerating, disemboweling, beheading,

shooting heads spilling brains, chests bursting hearts, belly guts flying spirals,

armbar head twisting slitting throats stabbing ribs ripping throats bare teeth

saw-sword swing cleaving corpses horizontal peak to groin

amid the vortex of violence Vanguard IX always the victim–

Screaming, she tore herself away from the psionic visions of that vicious mind–

It was no wonder it was unguarded!

There was nothing going through it but sheer brutality!

Shaking, having never seen a monster like this in her life, Vanguard IX put up her guard.

In the instant into which she had peered into this Valeriya Peterburg’s mind, the woman hefted her sword as if testing its weight, with her dead eyes permanently locked on Vanguard IX with a soulless, vehement expression. Vanguard IX felt her skin chill and the air grew hard to breathe as if the black tinge from that woman’s aura was growing to encompass everything. She could feel her mind succumbing, her own aura turning black at the edges with the fear of death just from staying near this hominin.

Was this the experience of being stricken by a King’s Gaze? But it couldn’t be!

Vanguard IX’s hands began to shake as the woman lifted her sword and broke into a run.

Valeriya swung from the right and Vanguard IX moved to block.

Holding her sword by both handle and the upper the section of the blade for added leverage, she batted away Valeriya’s attack with her flat. The clash threw Valeriya off balance, and Vanguard IX quickly seized the opening and stabbed the tip of her sword into Valeriya’s shoulder. Her thrust went through skin but she could go no deeper than flesh; Valeriya retaliated, the blade crossing mere centimeters in front of Vanguard IX’s face. Forcing Vanguard IX back, but giving her time to prepare her guard again.

Guard and counterattack– it could perhaps continue to be effective.

Her confidence was beginning to rebuild.

Valeriya was powerful, but a ravening beast.

Swinging vehemently, but how much more strength could she put behind it?

Blood drew from the wound she had left, middle of the shoulder, close to the neck.

Precise, in a place where there was nothing but that thick grey fibrous bodysuit.

There was no change in her expression. Valeriya hardly acknowledged the wound.

Exactly as before, she lunged for Vanguard IX and swung her sword.

Vanguard IX responded again with the same cover.

Holding her weapon by the handle and blade and connecting her flat with Valeriya’s diamond sabre to try to turn it away. However, she had executed much more clumsily, or perhaps, Valeriya was much more aware of it– her fingers were suddenly exposed close to the sawing teeth, and Vanguard IX had to throw herself back with a psionic thrust.

Creating a psionic pressure between herself and Valeriya in both directions.

Hoping to escape and perhaps to throw her off-balance.

She felt the moment of the blast that it had succeeded in moving her, but Vanguard IX could also suddenly see her kinetic thrust smothered in the roiling black aura around Valeriya. And rather than leaping back as she had planned, her thrust barely pushed her a few steps, and seemed to move Valeriya not at all from her position. They were still too close!

Vanguard IX felt herself shaking again and took up her guard.

Valeriya shifted her weapon from one hand, to the other– and then gripped with both.

She stepped forward, she drew her sword back in preparation, black aura crawling over it.

Swinging from the shoulder, darkness exploding behind her like a flame fed of shadows.

Suddenly panicking in the split second instant between blow and clash–

Vanguard IX fell back on the same guard that had proven effective.

Hand on blade, hand on grip, and meet the enemy’s edge to deflect it–

Flat met blade, the sawing teeth grinded for an instant,

cut through like fluid,

severed the shoulder,

cast the arm down,

sword and all leaving a hissing red mess of stringy flesh,

It had been so sudden that Vanguard IX could not even find the space to scream.

Before her Valeriya loomed ever larger,

she saw her no longer as a woman but as a titan with a black cloak and crown made of corpses, crawling over her body braying for her to kill or mourning their own deaths. Towering over her with inconceivable brutality and strength. She would join those bodies and have no future but to scream and scratch into the brain-dead ear of this gargantuan berserker when she smeared her next victim on the floor of this dying Empire.

Vanguard IX stumbled back, Valeriya recovered from the first swing,

swung again, sure to kill,

felt those horrid evil saw teeth kiss her ribs–

and gasped as a bright white light interposed itself.

Saint’s Skin: Anoint!

A brilliant white sword turned away that bloodthirsty black blade from further harm.

Valeriya was hardly unbalanced by the parry, but it was enough to spare Vanguard IX.

The Omenseer’s wavering vision and fading sense of touch registered her falling into the arms of someone holding her tightly. Someone strong, whose touch was comforting, who could hold her in her arms like she was but a doll, and whose voice she heard inside of her brain. I’ll protect you. I’m sorry. All of the fear of death and the weakness of mind had left her, and she felt a sudden ecstasy. Her eyes filled with tears of joy and relief.

Before passing out in her arms, Vanguard IX smiled fondly at Wizard III.

Wishing that, despite her failure, she could still become hers.


Sentinel X and Akulantova circled each other, locking eyes.

When one stepped forward, the other back.

Jabs flew past and retracted just as quickly, probing attacks, sizing each other up.

Even those jabs, whether deflected or allowed to hit softly, left an impression.

Sentinel X was monstrously strong.

Akulantova had always relied on her size and superior strength in a fight.

This had always posed a problem for her– because she was so big and so strong.

It was easy to hurt someone in training; she never got to hone a lot of techniques.

She had to admit however–

some of her fear had left her, because Sentinel X was so strong.

“Starting to enjoy yourself, hominin? I hope to see you die smiling. A duel’s pleasure!”

Sentinel X seemed to have gotten enough of probing.

One bound of those long, strong legs carried her far and quick in a second.

Entering Akulantova’s reach, she threw a right punch into Akulantova’s waiting guard.

Akulantova shifted her body to the side, so that her closed fist grazed Sentinel X’s fist without completely absorbing the blow. Just enough contact to shift the direction of the attack. Even glancing it this way it felt someone had smashed her knuckles with a hammer. She moved to strike herself, but in the next instant, she felt a shockwave push her.

Shifting immediately from the strike, Sentinel X suddenly bounded over Akulantova.

Clearing the floor, with what strength and what leverage she could not tell.

That leap saw her land briefly on Akulantova’s shoulder–

and kicking off it with unbelievable force.

Akulantova shoved forward, gasping with surprise, the wind beaten out of her back.

Sentinel X’s second leap took her right behind Akulantova.

In any normal situation Akulantova might have feared a grab, but she was well aware of how much this insane bitch loved strikes, and how her hands could harden or sharpen on command. She could tell in an instant that Sentinel X was bounding back toward her to strike again from behind. She was determined to keep punching until one of them died.

Knowing that, Akulantova also knew she would not just be knocked out with a head blow.

Bracing herself in the split second she had, she sucked in a breath and stepped forward.

It was now or never.

There was no escaping it. Sentinel X’s fist fell hard on her middle back.

Enduring the pain, Akulantova managed to stumble forward from the attack–

Recovered her footing, and turned around just outside Sentinel X’s second punch.

“You’re mine.”

Akulantova threw herself forward and with all of her strength, she grabbed Sentinel X.

Ensnaring her in her arms, lifting her, fingers intertwined behind her back and pushing in.

Sentinel X bent slightly back, gasping, her arms captive inside Akulantova’s grapple.

Their faces, their eyes, barely millimeters away. Sentinel X’s bewildered expression.

Akulantova’s toothy, satisfied grin.

Grappling– it was a way for Akulantova to use her prodigious strength without killing.

She felt Sentinel X’s knees, but her captive had no leverage to kick.

Even with her mighty strikes and bewildering agility.

“Stop moving already! I’m being merciful here!”

Gripping even harder behind Sentinel X’s back, Akulantova reared her head.

Shutting her eyes, she smashed forehead to forehead with all of her strength.

Shattering the glass and band on her visor, sending her cap and the enemy’s beret flying.

Breaking open Sentinel X’s forehead, drawing blood that fell over her pale features in rivulets. Akulantova could physically feel Sentinel X’s struggle weakening, though not ceasing, within her grasp. Dazed from the headbutt, crushed in Akulantova’s arms, she was finally helpless enough to be put down without having to murder her.

“I don’t know who you’re supposed to be, and I won’t learn. But whatever brain cells you have left, use them well: my closed fist would have beheaded you. I hit you with my open hand and with my glass shield for your benefit. So learn your FUCKING place.”

Then, she bent her knees, bore the entire weight of her captive, and leaped back.

Akulantova took her entire body with her, drew her back, and slammed her into the floor.

There was not a scratch on the metal tiles under them, but Sentinel X landed splayed on the ground, her limbs limp, blood rushing down from her forehead over her face, dyeing the tips of her white hair a dark crimson. Her chest was still rising and falling.

She was gasping for breath.

Alive.

Thankfully built of stern stuff.

Meanwhile, a shaken Akulantova rose back to her feet.

She collected the remains of her shield, and her truncheon.

She collected her hat.

Placing it on top of her head and adjusting it.

All the while, keeping alert for Sentinel X’s weird little partner.

But that coward had not moved a muscle the entire time.

She stood on the periphery, hugging herself, eyes darting, licking her lips every so often.

“Grab your partner and get out of my sight.” Akulantova said. “With you, it won’t start as a spar. I’m sick to death of this situation. I might even be sick enough of it to kill someone.”

In response, the hooded woman nodded her head rapidly and stepped forward–

“N-No. Hunter VII. We’re– holding–”

Akulantova sighed. Sentinel X rose unsteadily to her feet.

One of her eyes was red, injured. Her forehead continued to bleed profusely.

All of the scales or chitin on her fists had begun to peel away revealing shattered digits.

Despite her grievous state, she forced herself to stand to full height.

“Hunter– VII–” Sentinel X gasped for breath. “Kill– h-her– attack–”

Akulantova turned a forceful glare on Hunter VII and nearly caused her to jump.

But the choice was taken from the spindly, pallid woman soon enough.

Whether she had begun to move to grab her partner or in order to fight–

–a burst of several rounds of gunfire intercepted her path.

Hunter VII just barely avoided walking into the line of green tracers.

Automatic pistol fire– it had come from the elevator banks!

Akulantova turned around and spotted someone walking confidently toward her.

Shoulder-length brown hair, orange-brown skin with mottles on her neck. Small, sharp fins coming from where her ears would have been, from under her hair. A stern expression on a face with a round jaw and bright eyes. Her light frame and confident gait, and the careful hold her hand had on the machine pistol, all were quite familiar to Akulantova.

Syracuse Chernova.

Security team medic– Former special forces– Akulantova’s ex-wife–

Just as the distracted Akulantova turned her head to look, Hunter VII suddenly leaped.

From under her hood, a long and muscular tail like a reptile’s suddenly lashed out.

Wrapping around Sentinel X and lifting her from the floor despite her protests.

“Hunter VII! Stand and fight!”

“It’s not worth dyin’ over! You’ll never taste meat– I mean– you’ll never fight again!”

“I don’t care! Drop me! I can still fight!”

“We’re retreating! That’s an order! You just heard it!”

With incredibly agility, Hunter VII leaped back from the steps with Sentinel X in tow.

Hitting the ground on all fours, she scurried away like an animal into the raised gardens on the edge of the park, nimbly disappearing from view. Akulantova watched them go, speechless, all of that brutality she had experienced simply dissipating from the world like a flash of thunder. Who had told them to retreat, and how? Impossible for her to know.

There was something much more pressing at hand however.

Akulantova turned around,

so surprised to be meeting Syracuse’s eyes in the middle of a battlefield,

but expecting nothing–

“I’m not here to talk to you.” Syrah said pointedly. “I’m assisting my team. Let’s go.”

–and getting nothing as she expected. Of course.

She should have known.

“Right. I know you don’t care, but I am really grateful for the assist.”

“You’re right, I don’t care.”

Syracuse reached into her pocket, stood on her tiptoes, and smacked a sticky bandage on Akulantova’s forehead, where she had opened a bleeding wound from headbutting Sentinel X. Akulantova stood stupefied for a moment while Syracuse nonchalantly walked away.

“Stupid as it was for you to keep holding back; I suppose I can’t fault it.” She said.

Said without even turning to see her, and yet, it managed to lift Akulantova’s spirits.

Before she could get too far ahead, Akulantova collected herself and followed.

She looked down at the park, taking a whiff of the air. Smoke, fire, blood, grinding metal, spent lead and the scents of those two maniacs who needed their help. Valeriya and Illya were still alive. They were as tough as Akulantova had hoped. It was no wonder that they came so highly recommended from Commissar-General Nagavanshi herself.

But they were completely out of line now.

“They were attacked by a bunch of freaks. I can’t say how many.” Akulantova said.

Syrah quietly lifted her machine pistol as if it was the only answer she needed to give.

“Judging by the last one I pummeled within an inch of her life, I dunno about that.”

“I’ll double tap. If you’re so concerned, then lead the way, Chief.”

Akulantova hurried her pace, and overtook Syrah, with the remains of her shield up.

Syrah audibly sighed, but followed close behind.

Thankfully for the both of them, the park, though heavily damaged, had found peace anew.

As they walked down the steps at a moderate and wary pace, and approached the statues in the center of the park, unbeknownst to them, Wizard III had already beat a retreat.

Akulantova would not see Sentinel X and Hunter VII waiting for her around a corner, and the shooters who had dumped so much alien ammunition into the center of the park were nowhere to be found. And with them, their ringleader would not be found also.

Without further incident, they found Illya, Zachikova, Arabella and Valeriya.

Wounded in all manner of ways; Valeriya was sitting in a corner shaking, nursed by Illya.

But alive; and ready to return.

Akulantova produced a portable encrypted communicator.

“Captain, this is the Chief.” She spoke into it. Sighing in relief. “We’re heading home.”

Giving the wounded Illya a stern glare, before bending down to lift her to safety.


Retreat! Leave no bodies behind! Rendesvouz in the B-block underground!

Wizard III issued her telepathic proclamation and fled from the park.

In her hands, she held the wavering life of Vanguard IX.

Vanguard IX was smiling– despite everything she had been through.

Wizard III felt an unfamiliar emotion as she escaped with all her power.

She was so much more concerned with Vanguard IX living than with the failure of the mission. She could take responsibility and punishment from the Enforcers, but some part of her simply hated the idea that Vanguard IX could die in her arms due to her stupidity. That Vanguard IX fought so hard and brave for her, and was failed by her command. This feeling grew in her heart, ever more desperate. When she realized the hominin were not giving chase, and had chosen to retreat as well, she had nothing else to occupy her thoughts.

Sneaking into a maintenance shaft, she adjusted her eyes to better see in the dark.

Wizard III laid Vanguard IX against a wall.

Her arm had been completely severed. She had a horrific wound, enough of her had been torn away to reveal the sides of the upper ribs. Her collarbone was shattered where her arm had been sliced off. There was so much blood and stringy mutilated flesh and strips of skin and broken bones peering out of the mess. Wizard III searched through the pouches of her uniform for a marrow fruit and chewed it briefly before swallowing it.

Inside her own body, Wizard III synthesized a fluid form of healing biomass.

It traveled up her arm, through her sinews.

Her palm opened into a toothless mouth and the gel ejected from it.

Pale-colored secretions covered Vanguard IX’s wounds.

A primordial soup of benign cells slowly growing into a covering.

Using her psionic power of biokinesis, amplified by the marrow fruit, Wizard III could carefully alter the biological material to become skin, to become sinew, to allow blood to route through. She could never replace all of the mass that was lost as the entire arm was cut off, but she could accelerate natural healing of what remained to end the body’s crisis.

Without a thought spared to the condition of the other Vanguards, or whether Hunter VII and Sentinel X had gotten away. All of her mind focused on caring for Vanguard IX’s wounds as tenderly as she could. To restoring her body, avoiding necrosis and shock. As she worked, she telepathically induced comfort and calm on Vanguard IX’s vulnerable mind.

Her chest was still rising and falling, her heart beating. She was alive.

When her wounds were finally closed, and she was as safe as she could be, Wizard III realized she was looming over her body obsessively, sweating profusely, her eyes weeping and hot and her mind ragged from having performed so much advanced and precise psionics. She laid back on the opposite side of the maintenance shaft, gathering her breath.

She shut off her night-vision in order to conserve her mental strength.

But she continued to stare at Vanguard IX, now resting soundly rather than– dying.

It filled her with emotion that she could have never conceived of having.

They had never been in any danger on this scale. It had been nerve-wracking.

Her hands were still shaking. She could still see that monstrous hominin in her mind.

It was not supposed to be like this. None of it. All of it was terrifying.

Despite this– for whatever reason– the idea that Vanguard IX was still alive–

–it was a pathetic little comfort for Wizard III. It shouldn’t have been– but it was.

“I hate you.” Wizard III said, without truly meaning it. She wished she truly hated her.

“You’ve made me– not normal anymore. Now what will I do? I am defective too.”

Wizard III raised her hands to cover her face, gritting her teeth.

Reclaiming Aer should have been as simple as wiping out all the hominin.

No culture, no deviations, nothing but the directives given to her.

All that she learned and practiced in the Agartha was to fight for the Autarch’s orders. Even their homes in the Agartha had been nothing but temporary, there should have been no attachment to anything but the mission. Command and tactics; equipment; hunting and killing enemies; what supplies they needed and how to acquire them; hominin basics.

Wizard III had never learned what to do with the feeling that she wanted to take care of Vanguard IX. She did not know how it would feel if Vanguard IX was killed.

It was a terrifying notion.

Because it made her tasks so much more complicated.

And her future so much less predictable.

Perhaps the culture the Enforcers spoke of was a curse they had laid upon her.

Perhaps that curse was what made her heart quake.


Preparations for the Brigand’s departure were underway. In Alcor, where the artificial sky was malfunctioning and there seemed to be not one single reliable source of station lighting, the ground and sky and the surface of the Brigand’s armor was cut across by a dozen mobile floodlight units worked by sailors. While a lot of the remaining work was internal, there was one major problem the crew had to tackle in order to escape.

To solve it would require a lot of manpower to make up for time.

“Well, unfortunately, we’ve confirmed the conveyor out of here is out of commission. We should still be able to force the elevators manually but without the conveyor, we can’t move the Brigand through the tunnel.” Tigris said solemnly, speaking into one of the Brigand’s exterior cameras so the bridge crew could see her. “Luckily I came up with an ad-hoc solution out here. We’re going to modify Alcor’s mobile berth to actually be self-propelled. It already has caterpillar tracks and drive gear, but it needs an independent power source and a motor. We can cobble together both. It’s not going to be pretty, but it just needs to hold together until it gets the ship to water, which I’m almost certain that it can get that far.”

At the bottom of the hydraulic elevated platform that Tigris was using to stand before the camera, Murati stood operating the controls. She thought Tigris looked just a little too happy to have something to tinker with on the spot, especially in the dire situation they were in, but if anyone could do it, it was Tigris. Murati certainly did not have a better plan, so as the officer in charge outside of the ship, she would support Tigris–

“Captain, I would like to say I highly disagree with this course of action!”

From beside the platform, Gunther Cohen, one of the engineer leads, shouted up at the camera that Tigris was standing near. He had a disgruntled expression on his face. From atop the platform, Tigris looked down at him and stuck out her tongue. This did not endear her to the man one bit. Murati turned to Gunther and waved him off from making any more gestures at Tigris. In turn she urged Tigris to continue her report.

“Cohen, do you have a better idea for moving the ship out of here?” Murati said.

Gunther sighed.

“No, I don’t. But, Lieutenant, you have to understand that this is extremely risky. If that woman’s contraption breaks while we’re in that tunnel, we’re trapped. Not only that, but we’ll be stuck where it’s clear we had intent to escape, when the station announced the closure of its ports due to the emergency. It will look extremely suspicious.”

Murati crossed her arms, and shut her eyes. “I will support Tigris’ plan. We can’t stay here. We’ll deal with the rest when it comes. But Tigris is pretty good at what she does.”

“And I’m not, Lieutenant?” Gunther replied. He was taking some kind of offense.

Gunther and Murati had their problems with each other in the past.

Murati had gone against his wishes several times in using the dangerous prototype systems on the Cheka, a Diver that he knew much more intimately than her. She had also gone against his advice again by piloting the Agni, an even more obscure and experimental piece of equipment that had not passed formal Union vetting. Gunther was a good worker and stuck to the regulations to promote everyone’s safety– Murati did understand that.

He disliked Tigris, who had come out of nowhere and never followed regulations.

She understood that too. Cohen was very safety-minded. That was certainly valid.

But she also knew that under the circumstances, they couldn’t afford to be safe.

And that, under the circumstances, Tigris simply outshone him in her capabilities.

Ultimately, Murati was not an engineer with safety regulations. She was a soldier.

To complete her mission and defeat her enemy, a soldier accepted risks.

In that way, they would never see eye to eye. As much as it hurt to admit.

“Cohen, I’m not answering that question. Dismissed.” Murati said brusquely.

Gunther remained for a moment glaring at Murati before leaving her side.

She noted that he did not return to work, but losing one set of hands was no issue.

A few minutes later, Tigris signaled to be brought down from the platform. Murati flipped a switch to retract it. Tigris hopped off and waved at Murati with a little grin. She had her grey work coveralls on and the slick sheen of grease already covered her gloves. Some of it had even gotten on her otherwise bright red ponytail. She had an earpiece so she could talk to the Captain, but the Captain could only see her through the Brigand’s cameras.

“The Captain has cleared us to start working, if you agree.” Tigris said.

“Absolutely. I will defer to the Captain’s judgment.” Murati said.

Tigris smiled. “I heard you arguing with Cohen too. Thanks for believing in me.”

“All I ask is that your actions don’t lead me to regret my words.” Murati said, sighing.

“You watch! That ugly hunk of metal will be flying out of here!” Tigris cheered raucously.

Time was of the essence, so Murati was about to usher Tigris to work–

Until she heard heavy footfalls that were nearing from the direction of Alcor.

Murati did not know whether Alcor had any substantial contact with the Captain yet. 

In her heart, however, she knew what she would soon see.

She reacted, before she heard the call from an authoritative voice to desist–

“Stay back!”

“Huh?”

Murati at first withdrew her sidearm, but then she hid it behind her back.

She stood in front of Tigris, in time to meet the approaching group first.

Several flashlights shone upon her. It was hard to see at first, but there was no doubt.

Black uniforms, silver eagle insignias, red armbands with a black sun-disk icon.

The fascist troops of the Volkisch Movement.

“Stop! We told you to desist!”

Four of the men had their sidearms out, and one of them had a small submachine gun.

Murati kept one hand behind her back with her sidearm.

She felt Tigris tug on the back of her shirt. As if to say she was there in support.

“What is the meaning of this?” Murati asked. Maintaining a façade but saying little.

All of the men kept their weapons pointed at her– but parted to allow another through.

“An interesting hustle and bustle here. This is an emergency situation, you know?”

From behind the men appeared a young woman, about Murati’s age, perhaps just a little older. Surprisingly, she was a Loup, with long, brown dog-like ears atop her head of neatly arranged brown hair. Her uniform was black, the same as the rest, but unlike the troops with her, the collar of her coat had a red patch with a vertical, black symbol, the wolf’s-hook.

Murati knew the presence of that single hook meant an officer rank.

And the confidently smiling woman meeting her eyes confirmed it herself.

“Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather.” She said. “Rottenführer in the Sicherheitsdienst.”

Volkisch intelligence. Murati tried to steady herself. The worst was coming to pass…


Previous ~ Next

Bandits Amid the Festival [11.10]

Recall the First Memory…

Her body felt like it was spiraling without end down a blue and green tunnel. Lights from ‘outside’ shone in the same patterns around her, impossible to make sense of. She could not move and had only the faintest impression that her eyes were ‘seeing’ or receiving any stimuli. What she was most aware of was the inexplicable and inexact and yet inextricable conditions of a living being– aware of ‘breath’, aware of ‘body’, aware of ‘space.’

Sometimes, she was made aware of ‘pain’ and through pain, aware of her frailty.

Over time she arrived at additional awareness; and was forced to experience even more. She realized she was cold or hot, and that her surroundings were fluid, and that there were structures keeping her in a specific position, and that if those structures wanted to they could position her differently, changing the lights in front of her eyes. Lights which must have been coming from a place farther than herself, a place beyond her own.

This suspension was indefinite and without beginning– but it did reach an end.

At a time and place impossible to situate, all of the fluid drained from around her.

Her body dropped onto cold, hard ground, her limbs impossible to move under her weight.

And she saw the lights, the eyes, the walls, for what they were, without understanding.

Glassy eyes watching

hands thundering together in a chorus

beneath the symbol and purple glow, in worship,

it had begun–

STEMLINK EXCEPTION OCCURRED UNRECOVERABLE BLOCK

FREE STEMCHAIN ASSOCIATION PROCESS EXECUTING

LINKING TO KNOWN CONTEMPORARY BLOCK–

Recall the Second Memory…

“Hold your hand out to me, like this– very good Arabella!”

In front of her eyes there was the smiling face of a young woman.

“Now, can you say my name? It’s Margery, mɑːdʒəri, Balyaeva

She had raised her hand, palm forward, and spread her fingers.

Arabella had mimicked her. Palm to palm, fingers to fingers.

“Margery.” She said, slowly, mimicking the pronunciation.

Margery was warm and bright.

Everything around Arabella was cold and colorless. Every wall was grey and the floors were white and the lights were white as well. But the lights around Margery were bright, and her brown hair was rich, and her eyes were shiny. She always smiled around her too.

“Very good! You’re learning well!”

Arabella’s body was almost as big as Margery’s, but she couldn’t understand a lot of what Margery told her, not initially. Gradually, however, her mind and its capabilities expanded. She repeated the things Margery told her, and mimicked Margery’s actions, but she slowly started to understand them more. If she did what she was told, she was a good girl– action and consequence. Then from there, she began to understand the nuances. Margery wanted her to be able to speak the words she was told because she wanted her to learn to say things herself– so Arabella made sounds and not just the ones Margery taught her.

Those sounds, over time, became Arabella’s own words.

Words had meaning, and together, they allowed the two to communicate.

“Very good!” was positive. It meant Margery approved of her and was happy.

“Margery Balyaeva,” was a name, it was given to Margery to make her unique and special.

“You’re learning well!” was positive. Arabella was doing what Margery wanted her to.

Then as Arabella’s words continued expanding, Margery said even more things.

“Have you seen the Colonel lately?” Margery wanted to know about the Others.

“How do you feel today?” Margery wanted to know if the Others had hurt Arabella.

“I’m sorry.” Margery wanted her to know she wasn’t bad like the Others.

“I’ll talk to them.” Margery couldn’t stop the Others from being bad to Arabella.

“Caderis…”

Arabella’s sister–

whom the others were bad to the most–

“I’ll keep them away–”

she couldn’t

so

they kept hurting

but why–

INCOMPLETE BLOCK IN DNA SEQUENCE

FREE STEMCHAIN ASSOCIATION PROCESS EXECUTING

REFORMING BLOCK SEQUENCE–

Recall the Third Memory…

Arabella was seated on a bench in a very small room.

There was a glass window across from her and she understood that there were humans, the Others, who were hiding behind it. She understood that Margery was the only human, in this room, who was allowed to be on their side of the glass. There were other rooms, where the rules were very different. In this room, Margery spoke with them while the Others watched behind the glass. They could see her, but she could not see them.

In this room, Arabella sat next to her sister Caderis.

Arabella was named because ‘AB’ and Caderis was named because ‘CD’.

Arabella was One and Caderis was Two.

Margery had told her that one time.

Arabella had not told that to Caderis though.

Unlike Arabella, Caderis was bothered when she tried learning things.

So Arabella did not try to teach her things even though Caderis got in trouble for it.

In fact on that day Caderis had a bruise because the Others had hit her for not learning.

Arabella had not been hit. She did not have a bruise.

Caderis and her were different in other ways too.

Both of them were very pale with red and white hair, and Margery had told them that they were both ‘girls’, like Margery. They had bodies that were similar to her, in height, the length of their arms and legs, the way their chest was. But both of them were very pale while Margery was more ‘pink’. Margery had eyes that were white with a color, and Arabella and Caderis both had eyes that were black with a color. Arabella had small horns on her forehead that parted her hair. Caderis had one bigger horn on the side of her head because the Others had broken her other horn one day. Caderis’ hair was also much more red too.

Both of them had long white dresses with long sleeves. Sometimes they would have no clothes and it would be even colder than usual. But most of the time they had the white dresses. When they got bloody or dirty they would throw one out and get another.

Margery did not have one of those dresses. She always wore a white coat instead.

Arabella liked to remind herself of those details.

If she ever forgot– it would be awful not just for her but for Caderis too.

Arabella had to continue to be good at her words for Caderis’ sake.

Margery addressed the window.

“Their language development and critical thinking is now at about the level of an older child. They are compliant with experiments and their resource needs are generally stable. Physical development is stable; no issues stemming from the use of exotic aDNA. Both have demonstrated the ability to accelerate and manipulate the growth of their cells, but both have agreed with me to maintain stable forms– we don’t know what it might do to their implanted STEM systems if they underwent dramatic biological changes. Because of their increasing mental and emotional abilities, I have a request for the commission.”

“What is your request?” the window asked back.

Upon hearing the Others reply from the glass, Caderis briefly shook beside Arabella.

Arabella sidled closer to her, trying to comfort her with her body heat.

“I need to be able to vet the personnel who will handle Arabella and particularly Caderis. We have had frequent turnover at the base, leading to the use of untrained lower rank personnel unsuitable to care for the subjects; as well as incidents with higher ranking officers who do not understand the complex needs of the subjects nor the unique psychological characteristics of the subjects. It is counter to our mission and progress to allow unsuitable personnel to– influence, the subjects, negatively.”

Margery had wanted to say a word like ‘abuse’. Arabella read this from her colors.

“We’re unable to grant that request, Dr. Balyaeva. We understand that this is not a clean environment– but we are only able to support the scientific endeavor of the mission because of its potential application to military development. Success here would create a revolution in autonomous biomechanics. We know you are referencing incidents with Colonel Greim and Subject Two– these are unfortunate, but the Colonel’s participation is necessary.”

Arabella felt Caderis shake when ‘Colonel Greim’ was said.

In front of the two pale, shaking girls, Margery closed her fists at her sides.

“I cannot guarantee continuing positive results in these tainted conditions.” She said.

“Your results have been very acceptable, Dr. Balyaeva. We are very pleased. Continue to work as you have, and the commission will notify you when we deem it ready to begin the next phase of the mission. We are almost prepared to test the subjects in their capacity as control operatives. We suggest you begin to prepare them for this eventuality.”

When the Others fell silent, the glass window darkened to signify their departure.

Immediately, Caderis bowed her head.

“They’re going to keep hurting me.” She mumbled.

Arabella was surprised.

She hadn’t gotten the same understanding from what the Others had said.

“No, Caderis, Margery is doing a good job. So everything will be okay, right?”

Arabella turned to Margery with a hopeful smile.

But Margery had her head bowed low, with her fists still closed.

She approached Caderis and kneeled down in front of her.

“I’m so sorry.”

and– the walls began to shake– to break down–

Caderis became shrouded in fog–

Margery said more– but she couldn’t–

see,

UNABLE TO VERIFY BLOCK VALIDITY

FREE BLOCK RECONSTRUCTION FAILED TO FILL NEXT NEAREST LINKS

STEMLINK SAFE-FAILING TO NEXT BLOCK IN SEQUENCE

Recall– the fIfTh■? Memory–?

Caderis’ eyes glinted from inside the pitch-black lockup cell.

Arabella’s eyes wanted to fill in the space where her grinning mouth would be.

She could tell Caderis was happy and pleased and it scared her a little bit.

“Will things be okay?” Arabella asked Margery.

Margery and Arabella were outside the cell. Margery had some red on her coat.

But her colors were strangely peaceful.

“They won’t send Caderis away.” She reassured Arabella. “She’s special and important now.” Arabella’s eyes widened. She just wasn’t understanding the explanation very well.

“She hurt the Colonel. Does that make her special and important?” Arabella asked.

“Yes. It makes her much more special and important than before.” Margery said.

There was a grim tone to her voice. Her colors were peaceful– but her voice was sad.

Maybe Margery was glad the Colonel would not be hitting Caderis anymore.

But Arabella thought, she wasn’t happy with how Caderis became special and important.

She did not look like she had when Arabella wrote her homework really well.

That was a good job worth a big smile and gold stars.

“I am the most special and important!” Caderis declared from inside the lockup.

“Will I ever see her again outside the box?” Arabella asked.

Margery nodded. “She’s just in the box for a little while.”

Arabella nodded back.

“But– Arabella, things are going to change a little for her.” Margery said.

She explained how but– her voice was getting distant again– her colors–

STEM– EXITING TO META LAYER–

BLOCK HEURISTIC DECOHERED– FREE REPAIR ENGAGED–

56% OF STEMCHAIN DNA COMPROMISED– BLOCK INTEGRITY DECAYING DUE TO FREE BLOCK ASSOCIATION AND DECRYPTION ALGORITHMS ON CHEMICAL STRUCTURE–

RECOMMENDED TO RETURN BAD BLOCKS TO COLD STORAGE–

RETURN CHAIN TO LAST KNOWN GOOD BLOCK SPACE AND EXIT STEM–?

No.

I must see the rest.

No matter how it hurts and no matter what it does.

DIRECT DNA EDITING IN FREE BLOCK ASSOCIATION AND DECRYPTION IS DIRECTLY COMPROMISING CELL HEALTH, CHEMICAL STRUCTURE AND DNA COHERENCE. ACCESS TO KNOWN BAD BLOCKS IS NOT ADVISED. PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE TO CONTINUE.

I am– I am not a hominin.

This body will recover.

Continue to deploy free association and decryption algorithms.

STEMCHAIN REBOOTING TO NEXT KNOWN BLOCK–

HEARTH LABS IS NOT LIABLE FOR ANY SIDE EFFECTS THAT MAY ARISE.

The– ■■■■■■■ Mem– ry–

Arabella was in the lockup too now. It was used for punishment and to scare them.

Sometimes they were there for days without light.

Sometimes they were there for days and there was an open little window at back so they would be buffeted by cold rain and scared by the purple lightning. Sometimes they wouldn’t be fed, but it didn’t matter, because the food was bad and it was not very filling and often, Arabella just ate because it was a good thing to do that was acknowledged.

It was a ‘good job’ to eat.

They had locked Arabella up too because she had been bad too.

Less bad than Caderis, but still bad.

But there was one day at the lockup that was the most different day Arabella experienced.

Because Margery visited them at the lockup now. She called out her presence.

They could only see her from inside through a small slot at the level of their eyes.

Arabella was glad that Margery had come to visit.

“Margery, Caderis is being scary.” Arabella said.

At her side, Caderis had begun to scratch horrible things on the floor every day. Her fingers were bloody because the lockup was made of metal and it was hard to scratch. Despite this, she scratched and scratched. Arabella could barely read it. She said it was her plan. She said she would be Two and Arabella would be One but it was different. It was different than how Margery or the Others said it. The way she said it scared Arabella.

It implied things, horrible, violent things.

But Arabella said nothing because she did not want to hurt Caderis any further.

So she thought Margery would stop her, but–

“It’s fine, Arabella.” Margery said.

Arabella saw Margery’s hand through the slot. She had something in it.

A moment later, the door to the lockup opened completely.

Caderis looked up from the floor in shock, as light entered her side of the room.

On one hand Margery had the key, but on the other– she had a black, L-shaped thing.

Arabella knew it was the object all of the ‘Officers’ carried that made them powerful.

“Caderis,” Margery called out.

Caderis’ eyes darted from Margery’s hands to Margery’s face.

Arabella stood stock still on the bench, staring between Caderis and Margery.

“Caderis, I will leave the door open. I have left many doors open for you.” Margery said.

“Margery, that is against the rules, isn’t it?” Arabella asked.

“Please be quiet, Arabella.” Margery said, frowning.

Despite being acknowledged by Margery, Caderis remained quiet. Her fingers shaking.

Margery bent down to the floor, where Caderis was.

She reached out a hand and stroked Caderis’ cheek. Caderis drew back, grimacing.

“I’m sorry. I will deal with– the Others. You can leave and take Arabella with you.”

Caderis’ eyes narrowed. She stopped fearing Margery. But her colors turned redder.

“I don’t forgive you.” Caderis said. “I don’t forgive you. I’ll never forgive you.”

Margery’s eyes looked back. Almost– hollow. “I know. Please take care.”

“Arabella, we’re leaving. We’re leaving.” Caderis said, snapping her head to her side.

She reached out a hand to grab hold of Arabella’s own. She pulled her softly, at first.

Despite everything, Arabella remained seated on the bench with her hands on her lap.

She knew this was against the rules, and it was wrong and it wasn’t a ‘good job’.

They would get in the worst trouble that they had ever gotten in their lives.

And Margery would get in trouble too.

Arabella didn’t even know what they did to Margery when she got in trouble. It must have been even worse than what they did to Arabella and Caderis because Margery was always following the rules and always doing her very best. She would not have worked so much and been so strict if she wasn’t going to be in even worse trouble.

“Arabella!” Caderis shouted. “She’s letting us go! We can go! We can go outside!”

Margery got up from where she had crouched.

That hollow-eyed, inexpressive face laid on Arabella.

Arabella looked up at that expression seeking acknowledgment.

“Arabella,” Margery said, “Listen to your sister or I will hate you. I will dislike you a lot.”

It was hard to believe what she was hearing. The words rumbled through her heart.

She knew what ‘hate’ was, she could not have ever remained ignorant of such a thing.

Now that she heard that word, she knew what was wrong with Margery.

It was hate, in her too.

That was the black color that suffused her and drove out all her brightness.

And it was the red specks that stained her shoes.

And the grip on the dark thing in her hand.

“Arabella, I know I did a bad thing. Sometimes you have to do bad things.” She said.

“Arabella, Margery is letting us leave. Please listen to Margery.” Caderis said.

There was nothing she could do or say. Everything was so wrong that it hurt.

“Okay.” Arabella said. Without facing anyone. She was feeling that hollowness too.

Darkness crept and grew around her as it had enveloped Caderis and Margery before.

She did not understand how she could live life now or what would happen next.

But she didn’t resist Caderis’ hand taking her and leading her out of the lockup.

And no matter how much she wracked this memory, and turned it, and warped it.

It was impossible to see what face Margery had made as they left her forever.

Recall– ■■■■ —Plase

Caderis and Arabella descended a long staircase and arrived at an absolutely massive room the likes of which they had never seen before. For a moment, Arabella was fooled into thinking they must have gone outside even though there was a roof. Even the biggest test areas that Arabella and Caderis ran around in were smaller than this place. They arrived at fenced catwalks overlooking an enormous pool of water, with yellow and red signs that Arabella could just barely read and understand, indicating potential dangers.

Danger of drowning, electrocution, falling, and– violence.

Suspended in the middle of this room, there was an enormous creature.

Upon first sighting its long, silvery-white segmented body, Arabella wanted to call it a ‘thing’ because it resembled some of the things from around the base. They had met things like this before in experiments but none this big and intricate. Long and sleek like a submarine, shiny like metal, with smaller golden legs under its bulky body that looked like knives and folded wings on its back with two long attached structures like ‘rockets’ or ‘engines’; but it also resembled a ‘snake’ or a ‘serpent’ or a ‘dragon’ from stories Margery read to them. She could see that its body was gently stirring, like the chest of a person who was breathing air.

“Wake up! Wake up!”

Arabella was surprised to see Caderis run up to the fence and deliberately shouting at it.

“Wake up! You can understand me, right? Please wake up!”

Around Caderis’ hands, the colors collected for a moment before flying away.

There was a soft thumping noise as they collided with the creature’s back.

In the next instant, the enormous metal claws restraining the creature groaned loudly.

As it lifted its head from below the fence until one of its enormous red eyes appeared.

Like a fleshy mirror encompassing both of the diminutive girls in its sight.

Something like a yellow circle in the middle of its red eye inverted as if fixating on them.

Arabella had seen that shape before too– it was a ‘crosshairs.’

“You’re awake! You’re awake!” Caderis looked overjoyed. Waving her hands and jumping up and down in front of the enormous implacable eye. “I’m going to let you go! I’ll open the locks and open the door and you’ll leave! Do you remember? I told you I would do it!”

Over the eye, a grey film rose up, half-blinking flesh.

Then Arabella heard a deep voice speaking without words.

I remember. Thank you.

“Yes!” Caderis said. “Yes. Of course. You don’t belong here. Please go very quickly!”           

In front of them, the eye half-shut. The creature’s restrained wings and legs shuddered.

Will you be able to leave too?

Caderis’ frantic smiling face seemed to slowly settle in recognition.

“We’re going to try. We will find a way.” She said.

“We can swim alongside.” Arabella interjected.

The water under me is colder and darker and harsher than the water you know.

“We– We can find our own way. But it’s important you go.” Caderis said. “They are hurting you too right? They were hurting you like they hurt us? But they won’t hurt anyone anymore. Margery let us out. Margery is against them and we are against them. I promise you.”

Caderis leaned over the fence reached out her pale hand to touch the creature’s sleek hide.

At the touch, the creature’s eye shut. Arabella wanted to think that maybe it was happy.

But its words were some of the coldest she had heard in her little life yet.

I will end them all. I will end all of them and they will never come back. Then I will make a safe place. Please wait for me. Please keep yourselves safe until I come back to protect you.

Arabella was shocked to hear something so violent and felt, for a brief moment, regret.

Caderis, however was delighted. She clapped her hands. She did not hesitate.

“Yes! Thank you! It’s a promise then! I’ll break these– and then you can leave.”

She looked up at the claws holding the massive being inside the room.

All of the colors gathered around her, more intensely than ever.

And they gathered around the claws, and the claws creaked like they never had before.

They pulled apart, pieces of them flying and striking so hard they put holes in the fences.

Each claw, one by one, releasing the creature’s head, its legs, its wings.

Until it fell into the water with a tremendous splash.

Arabella feebly shielded herself with her hands, while Caderis laughed riotously.

Her next target was the massive door at the far back of the room.

Before she could strike the doors open, however, a golden leg slowly rose from the water.

With its flat and blunt side, it returned Caderis’ affectionate touch, rubbing on her flank.

After it retreated, Caderis made her colors bright again and forced them on the door.

There was a great tearing of metal. Klaxons and red lights sounded too-late warnings.

As soon as even a sliver of the door had opened the water outside did the rest.

A massive roaring wave pounded the doors aside and quickly filled the rest of the room.

Caderis continued laughing with delight as she and Arabella were submerged.

And in the red alarm light-tinged darkness they invited into the room–

Arabella saw the absolutely massive, serpentine, winged and many-legged creature they had released. Diving away into the inscrutable eternity that awaited them outside these metal walls. There was rumbling in the water, explosions, shockwaves, and an ears-splitting roar. As soon as it was released it had begun to fulfill its wicked promise on the humans nearby.

Under the purple-flecked skies, it would wreak horrors unimaginable.

But–

ThtMe–ry$#%$■–

w@not–■■■■■

Hers–

DNA INCOHERENCE BEGINNING TO COMPROMISE METALAYER.

Override. Resume block association.

SAFETY LOCKS EXECUTING– ALL BAD BLOCKS AND STEMLINKS–

OVERRIDE. CODE —■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

FAILURE STATE. REBOOTING METALAYER.

METALAYER INTEGRITY COULD NOT BE FULLY RECOVERED.

SAFETY LOCKS EXECUTING–

NO.

RESUME INTERFACE EMULATION FOR FREE BLOCK ASSOCIATION.

OVERRIDE ACCEPTED. FORCE EXECUTING NEXT NEAREST BLOCK LINK–

    

Recall– ■■■■■–

–■■■call– ■■■

■■Recall– ■■■■

R■■all– ■■–■■■

all– ■■–■■■Re

Re–■■Erer■■–

■■■–call■■■–Er

call–■■all■■■■

———————-

■■■■■■■■■■■■

⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡

Real■-

At the foot of the great tree and between its enormous roots, the figure knelt in prayer.

Their body covered in rags of animals. Their hair was long, and they were shaking.

There, the figure laid a gift for the elder. A sacrifice of fruit and meat from their forage.

Neatly arranged within a circle of stones. After bowing their head, they looked up.

Up as far as their eyes could possibly travel, and still not seeing the canopy.

In the presence of the silver elders, they felt a great warmth and happiness.

Whenever the breeze blew between their trunks it carried their audible sentiments.

Thank you. We love you dearly. We hope you will thrive. Our everything is yours too.

Upon hearing that soft voice in this cruel world, the figure felt immense emotion.

But they were not allowed to shed tears at the foot of the tree for very long.

“How dare you? You will leave this place, whole or in pieces! Voiceless insect!”

All of those words appeared in the mind of the figure instantly.

There was the barest flash of pale skin, dark eyes and black, hot claws upon them–

–the figure immediately fled, lucky that the Tree People caught only their rags this time.

Recall,

The gentle face of a smiling woman looking upon a massive graph of helixes.

Sequences of aDNA from the Great Tiankeng Sinkhole.

I didn’t know the responsibility I took on. All I wanted was to learn about you.

Human DNA helixes intertwine with the ADNA. Do they match?

I learned too late that my work is not in a separate world from the one outside the lab.

A warm and sad smile. Tears down her eyes. A shaking hand covers the helixes.

I’m sorry for bringing you into this twisted existence.

All of the graphs around her fill with the same inscrutable multi-six-sided symbols.

And I will never make up for it.

EXCORIUM HUMANITAS.

But this isn’t what I wanted to recall–

Aer Federation Vivit Aeternum.

This isn’t– this isn’t–

Protegat In Aeternum Ille Imago Dei.

This won’t help me– I need– the information that will help me–

The dead stay dead. The world is of the living and for the living.

Live in the living world.

And leave behind the dead one.

“Here we are; you asked for this, so you can’t complain about it now.”

Arbitrator I smiled girlishly with her hands behind her back.

“Braya, wherever you want to take me, I know it will be special!”

She had wanted to go out on a date with Braya; everyone else was planning dates.

Her gloomy computer girl did not take her to a sweet shop or a restaurant, however. Instead, she offered to take her on a ‘picnic’ to someplace ‘special.’ That was how they ended up sneaking through an access panel in one of the walls of the Alcor Steelworks module and descending into a dark and somewhat tight but very tall room, accessible by ladder. Surrounded on all sides by rows and rows of fiber optic and steel cables, switchboxes, hundreds of glowing diagnostic LEDs and other mechanics for the tower.

At the bottom of the maintenance shaft, the two of them sat down on the cold metal floor, with barely enough room to stretch their legs fully. Arbitrator I had to tuck the tail she had been growing around her side. Braya unzipped a small bag she had brought that had their picnic items inside it. A thermos full of hot broth with two cups, two small hard plastic bottles filled with cold water, two individual sachets of ration energy drink powder, and a pair of sandwiches. Hard brown bread, mayonnaise, tomato pickle, canned cheese, put together, warmed up and wrapped in foil. They were still warm to touch.

Such food did not satiate Arbitrator I’s inner beast, but it still provided calories.

Arbitrator I would not turn down hominin food when offered.

Especially not when her Braya had gone through the effort to make them herself.

“Here.” Braya gave her the sandwich and her own cup and bottle of water. “Empty the powder into the water and shake it up.” She instructed. She filled Arbitrator I’s cup with broth, and then set about mixing her own energy drink. Arbitrator I ripped her sachet and got a whiff of a sweet scent. Mixed in and shaken up it made the water a deep purple color.

“Oh lucky you. The purple flavor tastes nothing like grapes, but it’s comforting.”

Braya shook her own bottle and found the water turning a bright orange yellow.

“Well, could’ve been worse. Could’ve been the green flavor.” Braya said.

“Would you like to trade, Braya? Every flavor is just a flavor to me.” Arbitrator I said.

“No, you keep it. Just tell me how the sandwiches are.”

Arbitrator I smiled. She unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite.

Savory, gooey cheese, sweet and tangy pickle, with the fatty mayo to keep it in balance.

And the earthy, nutty flavor of the hard brown bread, plus the additional texture.

Hominin could always make some decent food. It was one of their many virtues.

If only she could subsist solely upon it, without her– unique– concerns.

“This is quite pleasurable to consume.” Arbitrator I said.

Braya cracked a grin.

“I didn’t think food tasted like anything to you. You usually just vacuum it down.”

“I can taste your food, but I don’t usually have any reason to take pleasure in eating it.”

“Really? A reason, huh? So you are taking pleasure in eating now?”

“Of course! Braya made these sandwiches, so I am savoring every scrap.”

“You’re so weird.”

Braya laughed. She scanned Arbitrator I’s face briefly before looking up the shaft.

“I’m not being weird! I love you Braya. You make me happy.” Arbitrator I said.

“Yeah, you keep saying that.” Braya grinned.

“I truly mean it!”

Braya laughed again. She sat with her legs tucked up to her skinny trunk.

“I can accept that you do love me. I mean, fuck, we’ve had sex. You drink my blood to live. I guess you do love me– but it’s still difficult to come to grips with the whole thing.” Zachikova said. “I never thought I could love anyone, or anyone could love me. So it’s still weird.”

“I love you a lot. In fact, we are soulmates! Your soul called out to me.” Arbitrator I said.

She put on a proud expression upon saying that.

Soulmates? That probably sounded even weirder than before.

But it had come from the heart.

“Was that when I first saw you in the water?” Braya asked.

Arbitrator I nodded her head. She too started looking up at the ceiling, like Braya.

“Your soul feels so similar to my own.” She said. “I felt that you could understand me.”

“You even got that through the shell of the drone?” Braya asked.

“Yes. Your self was inside it! You had such beautiful and resplendent colors.”

Arbitrator I turned to Braya and leaned into her side.

“Now it’s your turn to tell me how special I am to you.” She said.

“C’mon. Do I let anyone else drink my blood? Don’t be so needy.” Braya whined.

“Braya, I want to know, why did you feel so curious about my leviform?”

She could see Braya tense up. Perhaps caught by surprise, she averted her gaze.

“I always identified with machines and engineering more than people. People being scared of Leviathans and violent toward them just made me curious to study one, I guess.”

On the antennae that took the place of her ears, the LEDs began to blink faster.

“I mean, you were just– you were a remarkable sight! Your body plan was amazing, you maneuvered so easily– I thought of you as ‘the Dancer’ because of how unique your movement was. I had never seen a Leviathan that graceful and curious. I just thought you were– really cool. I had never seen beauty like that in this world. Happy now?”

With every word she spoke Braya seemed to go redder in the face.

Arbitrator I laughed. “How is my body plan now? Is it still amazing?”

“Hey. You know what I mean.” Braya grunted.

Satisfied, Arbitrator I beamed bright and let herself lean against the devices behind her.

“I am flattered. I could return to that form for you if you would like?”

“What the hell? No? Look– I’m not good at this sappy stuff. But I’m not mad that you’re here or anything or if I would have sent you away. It’s actually– it’s kind of nice to have someone around when I’m reading logs or adjusting some stupid packet filtering program or whatever. I’ve always been alone or with a bunch of boneheads. You’re– special. And I keep harping on this, but you should be pretty fucking satisfied you get to drink my blood.”

“I am satisfied!” Arbitrator I replied. “I am thrilled to have come this far alongside you.”

“Fantastic, does that mean you’ve given up on ‘breeding’ me now?” Braya said.

“One step at a time.”

“Don’t get your hopes up too high.”

Still, despite saying that, Braya looked quite amused by the whole thing.

“Braya.”

Arbitrator I’s hand grasped Braya’s own, and they looked into each other’s eyes.

“If there is anything you want to know about me now. I’m willing to answer.”

She said this with all the seriousness in the world, after being so frequently teasing in tone.

She had dug up the information about herself now– if Braya wanted to know anything–

No matter how painful or strange, Arbitrator I would tell her.

Braya held her gaze for a moment. Her little smile from before never fading from her face.

“Let me do my best Murati impression. ‘Will you give your all in defense of communism’?”

Arbitrator I blinked several times in rapid succession.

“I mean it Braya. I know– I haven’t been forthcoming about my history, and my gifts–”

“You can write all of that in a report later.” Braya said suddenly. She shook her head and looked at the ceiling again, leaning back and relaxing. They held a deep silence for minutes before she spoke again. “To me you’re Arabella, the friendly leviathan who miraculously became my lover. You’ve been at my side when I’ve coded some truly inane scripts for my tech illiterate crew; given me the deepest, reddest love bites of my life; you’re always being weird and annoying and I– I guess I love you. I trust you– I don’t need your RAP sheet.”

Arbitrator I was speechless. For a moment, she did not know how to feel about this.

Her eyes, involuntarily, started tearing up. She thought Braya would demand everything.

It had never once crossed her mind that despite the world of information she withheld–

–she had given Braya enough to actually be loved and trusted back. To be seen as a person.

“Thank you, Braya.” Arbitrator I said. “I– I ill deserve your kindness. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say shit like that– Hey, come on, don’t cry. It’s really fine. It’s not a big deal.”

It was a big deal, and while Braya struggled to comfort her, Arbitrator I had a cry about it.


Kreuzung core station’s B-block was the second most open, spacious and luxurious area of the tower, right after A-block, and situated directly below it. B-block resembled a diorama of surface era concrete streets with two-story townhouses dominating its upscale residential area, outside of which there were market streets with restaurants and amenities in brightly neon-lit strip buildings that appeared like a mirage brought about by a trance.

Overhead, there was a blue sky complete with simulated clouds that could project a day-night cycle good enough for its residents to live by without complaints. However, the residents could not have been said to trend toward being imaginative sorts. Their conception of a sky was far different from that of the dreams of the baseplate residents. B-block’s residents were the well-to-do ownership and managerial class of the many businesses in the lower blocks, as well as the middle management and executive class of those few enterprises headquartered in the orbit of the government center in the middle of A-block.

Rents were high, but there was the space to display wealth and enjoy it.

There were a sparse few electric cars on the streets and roads, real plants growing in plots along the sidewalks without bubbles or other tending devices. They had parks where they could walk with their children sans any ‘riff-raff’ who could concern them. There was a K-12 school for the residents so their children could only ever have the most proper friends. The KPSD had a platoon of fifty men devoted solely to patrolling the residential sector and its surroundings, answering the residents with politeness and deference, and handling any misplaced individuals with the brutality their trespass deserved.

B-Block was the height of the dream of upward mobility in Kreuzung.

To soar higher than B-block, and live in the manses of A-block, required more than work or skill could ever grant. Therefore the residents of B-block, who so well knew their place, kept the status quo and who so readily policed those below them, never looked at their sky with longing. They looked around themselves with pride and paid no heed to the idea of the world farther overhead. Even in a Rhinea that had supposedly abolished the aristocracy through National Socialism and uplifted the National Proletariat and the Imbrian Master Race; there was no point acknowledging that the sky of B-block was nothing but the bottom of A-block, because only the barons and countesses of the world could reside there.

But to the infiltrators, this connection was absolutely crucial and convenient.

By reaching the sky of B-block, they could move silently between the two enclaves.

In the middle of the simulated sky, there was actually a small building on the very roof.

Surrounded by a myriad of colors, waving and turning and bleeding into each other. That was what the beautiful simulation looked like from inside its focal point. In this maintenance suite, the illusion of the sky was projected downward. It was out of sight and out of mind for the majority of the population, controlled remotely and only accessed when something broke or needed physical adjustment. To the infiltrators, it was a broad and comfortable space sparsely littered with tools where nobody could bother them–

–and nobody could hear the screams and sobbing of their victims.

“Wizard III please quiet that one already, it doesn’t need to be alive for entrails divination.”

In the middle of the mostly empty metal room, surrounded by junction boxes, LED lights, the open windows with their intense swirling color, and scattered tools– was a bound hominin.

Around the sobbing, thrashing, lamenting body, was Avaritia’s band of Omenseers.

Avaritia sat on top of a crate of spare parts, legs spread, leaning back and yawning.

In the far corners of the room, there were a few Vanguard units standing guard.

They watched Wizard III with varying expressions, disinterest, aversion, excitement.

Wizard III approached the hominin and with a disgruntled look on her face, as if she had been assigned an annoying chore, seized the person by the head and bent it at a horrid angle. Neck broken, the body’s head was seated back in an unsteady fashion on its shoulders. Wizard III stood at attention beside the body, her hands behind her back, her chin up, chest forward. She saluted, looking ever the soldier in her uniform and beret.

“Fantastic.” Avaritia replied. “But not very romantic at all.”

Behind Avaritia, as if being guarded, Gula sat against a rear corner of the room.

Her mouth was opened about as far as a normal person’s mouth could be, and she looked alarmingly like she was choking. However, through her gently painted slips, one could spy the bloodless blue-pale skin of a human limb, in the process of being swallowed whole. Sometimes the digits would even twitch. Gurgling and gagging noises, high pitched and sultry soft as every other sound that came out of Gula, accompanied the act.

She turned her head briefly, shortly after Avaritia said the word ‘romantic’.

Giving the impression that she would have supported Avaritia if she could speak.

“Ma’am. I am simply not a very– ‘romantic’, sort of entity.” Wizard III said.

“You’re a product of your environment. You simply don’t have much culture.” Avaritia said. “But you can reverse this! You prowl the realms of the hominin. Their only worthwhile contribution to the world is culture. Though they ruin the romance of the world with their inane materialistic pursuits, they are still worthwhile examples of dress and speech. You’ve seen a few Hominin now. Did any of them attract you? You could emulate them.”

Wizard III grimaced. “Ma’am, all of them died in pretty ignominious ways. I am not very interested in mimicking them. Maybe I should look for a Hominin to observe another time.”

“There’ll be opportunities I suppose.” Avaritia said with a note of disappointment.

“Not all of us are meant for greatness, my love. Our intellect is a burden.” Gula said.

Avaritia looked over her shoulder with a smile. Gula stood up and dusted herself off.

Behind herself, a long tail had begun to grow. Storing the biomass she had consumed.

“For someone like Wizard III, she merely wishes to uphold her duty.” Gula added.

“That’s– That’s correct ma’am.” Wizard III said, frowning. “I am doing what I must.”

Staid, stoic and servile, with her own eyes darting nervously, withering under the gaze of her betters. Wizard III had once been little more than a beast, and after being uplifted by the Autarch, she had done no more than what was required of her to ‘restore their people.’

Combat leadership, infiltration plans, the growing of tools, she had a lot of knowledge.

Culture, though– not so much.

Unlike the Hunters, she was neither well exposed to Hominin nor curious about them.

No one had taught her culture or asked for culture from her. It wasn’t required for her role.

Except now– her new masters. The Enforcers who were more ‘cultured’ than anyone else.

Avaritia scoffed.

“It is true, my love, but it need not be that way. Our mission must include the development of our people as cultured beings. There is no triumph in restoring our civilization and reclaiming the world from the rapacious Hominin, if we all just end up as soulless automata!”

“Indeed, my love.” Gula said, clapping her small hands. “You are true as always, and your heart abounds with passion that sets me alight! Wizard III, I will bestow upon you a boon so that you may understand true romance! You have my permission to make use of Vanguard IX in whichever way you desire once you learn of the depths of passion from this!”

In the back of the room, Vanguard IX raised her head, suddenly alert.

She had been staring with excitement at the dead body as if it was a novel thing.

Seemingly the mention of her name was all it took to excite her even further.

“Um. Yes. Ma’am.” Wizard III said, grimacing as Gula approached her.

Gula’s dress partially unfolded like wings or flower petals as soon as she reached under it to retrieve the desired object from some unknown pocket within. They returned to their prior, diaphanous texture and light shape soon after, and in Gula’s hands, there was a Hominin pocket device containing digitally readable texts. Wizard III looked at its screen.

One book was up-front and featured. From what Wizard III gathered, it was a lengthy one.

Grand Guignol, ‘a collection of human sins.’ On the cover was a dripping, maimed body.

“We shall see if Wizard III comes to appreciate it.” Avaritia said, grinning.

Gula grinned along with her, exposing her rows of sharp, vibrating teeth.

“Of course, I will cherish your instruction.” Wizard III said. Withering under the attention.

She looked over her shoulder at her partner in the endeavor, Vanguard IX, who looked absolutely smitten with the idea of being used for cultural enrichment.

It all seemed like so much trouble for poor Wizard III, but thankfully, her bullying came to an end shortly thereafter. She took up her usual post in the back of the room with the vanguards, and the appointed hour came for the entrail divination.

Now the eyes of her superiors were off her and laid on the dead body instead.

Gula clapped her hands together and drew in a deep breath.

Around her, the colors of her aura intensified, blending and bleaching slowly until they became pure white, and spread to cover the body. Blending with the remains of the hominin’s aura that had started to slowly change and began to peel off the body.

Saint’s Skin: Vestment.

Within the Enforcers, Gula was particularly renowned for her control of her aura.

Her mastery and wit in its use led her to be ranked third among her peers.

As her aura suffused the dead body, Avaritia approached it from the front.

Fingers on one of her hands melded together into a black, hot, vibrating blade.

Lining herself up with the body, and she made a chopping motion across the front of it.

Splitting open its neck, torso, belly and groin.

Fluids sprayed from the cut and spilled on the floor around them in a triangle shape.

Curiously, however, the indescribably mangled viscera stayed in place despite its exposure.

White shimmering light began to spread over the gaping wound.

Omensight: Entrail Divination.

It had taken some time to find the right Hominin.

Steps could only be retraced if they were previously taken. But the places a Hominin had been to never truly left them, unless they made a concerted effort to wipe the slate clean. This Hominin yearned for what they had once seen– perhaps they had even perished with the cathedral spires in their mind, with the sound of the church bells.

Now, the trail of this Hominin’s life would help bridge the gap to their comrades.

“Gula, Superbia should be in the Eastern Imbrium. North of the place now called Veka.”

Avaritia gave her orders, and Gula complied with a smile.

“Indeed, my prince. I can see her. She will appear in the entrails shortly.”

In the next moment, the body jerked suddenly, and rose up and completely off its own feet.

Its skin and tissue split further, the wound that split it horizontally filling with light.

Until it acted as a makeshift screen, which, with Superbia’s consent, worked both ways.

Superbia would have felt the mental outreach and acceded to it naturally.

Slowly, she began to appear, her form black and white, the picture like a fogged mirror.

“Avaritia, and Gula too I presume. How may I assist? I was busy, you know?”

While they couldn’t see her surroundings, they were well acquainted with the woman on the screen. Greeted by a calm face with a hint of a smile, easily holding Avaritia’s gaze with dark slit pupils. Conceited, above-it-all. She wore the body of a long-limbed, slender, elegant and well-endowed woman. Hair cut to the level of the neck and swept over one eye, two small horns rising from just in front of her ears. Like Avaritia, she had a taste for hominin fashion, dressed in an off-shoulder black jacket over a white shirt, tight pants and long, heeled black boots. She wore several accessories. Her ears pierced multiple times; her split tongue pierced twice; various studs and chains and rings adorning her jacket, gloves and boots.

Enforcer IV: The Pride. Known to them by the ancient name of her sin, Superbia.

“Since you are so busy, I will keep it short.” Avaritia said. Her tone of voice was much drier when speaking to Superbia. None of the affection she had for Gula, nor even the teasing tone she took with Wizard III. “I have infiltrated a political faction in the Imbrium. I need more troops. I am not sure how many mature bioforms you have access to, but I require one additional large ship and at least two hundred troops. You will procure them.”

Superbia crooked one slim, manicured brow. “What do you have to gain from this?”

“So you’re not too busy to talk then?” Avaritia grinned.

“I’m just curious. You don’t have to say anything.” Superbia shrugged.

“Eisental is a battleground between the hominin. Here I can see beautiful and terrible new sides of the hominin and I can explore the depths of their wild emotions. I can watch them closely for the moment when their auras burn or deteriorate or grow aberrant.”

“I see.” Superbia said. “And do you think you can draw out the elders this way?”

“It is the only way I know to find the coordinates, unless you have any better ideas?”

“Fair enough. You two are the most metaphysically gifted of us. I’ll defer to you.”

“Great. Glad to see you coming to understand the pecking order. So, about my troops?”

Superbia shrugged again, but this time smiling in a self-assured way.

“I cannot spare anything. I’m in the middle of an operation, and you vastly overestimate our logistical ability at this point. You don’t know what it’s like to lead this army of blind idiots.” Superbia acted very put upon, speaking in a grave and offended tone. “I am only fortunate that the hominin here as a culture have been lobotomized of all psionic potential.”

Avaritia grunted. “Stop venting at me. What does that mean for me, concretely?”

“You will have to make do with the troops and supplies you have, for now.”

“The entire point of this division of labor was for you to create a base to supply me as I moved about the Imbrium.” Avaritia scolded Superbia. “If you can’t figure out how to do that, why don’t you and I trade places? I’ll herd the hominin around and you can put your precious neck on the line to secure our objectives. Maybe that will prove more effective?”

“Now, now, now,” Superbia sighed, “It is taking longer than I envisioned, but once everything is secured, it will be my first and utmost priority, beyond seeing the Autarch is fed and homed, that you and Gula get the troops and support you need. Good enough for you?”

“I will accept it for now, but not forever. How is the Autarch?” Avaritia said.

“Going through a spell.” Superbia said. “It’s been useful, but unpredictable.”

Avaritia’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell do you mean? What are her colors right now?”

“Yellow is burning; Blue is aberrant; the rest are deteriorated.” Superbia said dismissively.

“She’s in a liminal state. And you aren’t alarmed?”

What am I supposed to do about it?”

“Superbia. Keep her safe. Or I will go to the ends of Aer to devour you.” Avaritia grunted.

This threat shook across the room, with Wizard III and the Vanguards averting their gazes.

Superbia shrugged. “Vanagloria attends to the Autarch at all hours. Look, you can’t blame me for this. Our Autarch is as whimsical as she is powerful, but she largely retains her faculties.”

Avaritia was not satisfied, but Superbia was right that they could do nothing about it.

Their Autarch, whose gifts of aether were the strongest of all, could resonate with the wild and massive emotions of the Imbrium’s hominin. In the Agartha, among only her hidden subjects, recovering from her last death, she was never exposed to such things. There was no predicting how far this phenomenon would go or how it might affect her surroundings.

“Blame lies with the Hominins, ultimately. So exploit them for all you can.” Avaritia said.

This was the most diplomatic way of capping off her displeasure with Superbia.

Superbia responded with a curt little bow.

“They shall be spent efficiently. I will see to that. Focus on your affairs. I promise you I will build a wonderful kingdom for our goddess, and I shall manage it expertly.”

In the next instant, the light vanished, and the hominin body fell to the ground.

Bereft of power it was just a mound of viscera and skin.

Superbia had cut off the connection. Avaritia gritted her teeth.

“We have to proceed with what we’ve got.” Avaritia said. “And hope the Autarch does not cause too much chaos. I expected a far more romantic outcome– ah, well.” Avaritia placed a hand on her forehead. Behind her, Gula massaged her back to comfort her. Upon noticing the touch, Avaritia smiled. “Ahh! My love, what would I do without you?”

“Relax, my love. I do not doubt our abilities and those of our subjects.” Gula said.

Wizard III spoke up. “Exalted, if I could offer a suggestion?”

Avaritia met her eyes with a grin that unsettled Wizard III. “Go ahead, of course.

“Yes ma’am.” Wizard III shut her eyes. “Accedia and Tristitia can be brought into line to support us. They have been doing nothing but accumulating biomass and raving like lunatics. By force of your will, Exalted, command them to carry out rational objectives. We should–”

At that moment, Avaritia smiled and looked about to praise Wizard III for her decisiveness.

Until the door to the room suddenly burst open, and brought forth a great disarray–


–one thrust was all it took to topple the door off its hinges into the room itself.

Dust seemed to fly off every surface where it had collected as the impact of the door traveled across the floor and up the walls. From within the thin cloud, a figure walked calmly into the room, garbed in a long robe. Her silky hair, part red and part white, trailed down her back and over her shoulders, parted in the middle of her forehead by her thin, fleshy horns. A pale, beautiful face with yellow over black eyes cast a calm, stern expression into the room.

“Autarch?” Wizard III gibbered, from the floor beside the fallen door.

“No, Wizard III. Please be quiet if you are so easily fooled.” Avaritia grunted.

Arbitrator I glanced briefly at Wizard III, causing her to crawl back on the floor in terror.

She then turned to face the true villains in the room.

The dust receded to reveal a corridor where a dozen Syzygy troops had fallen into a stupor, hugging themselves, cradling their own heads, or knocked unconscious. In their ill fitting uniforms with their rifles cast about. Even the weapons were skittering and writhing in confusion. They looked like quite a pathetic lot. But Arbitrator I had not expected much from them. Very few of the unfortunate troops had any worthy command over their abilities.

In front of her, however, Avaritia and Gula positively glowed with an enormity of power.

Their auras bore the suggestion that they were indescribable monstrosities in human guise.

Extending far around them like the shadow once cast upon hominin by their evil forms.

“I’m quite surprised. The prodigal daughter returns?” Avaritia said mockingly.

Arbitrator I felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

Her vision began to swim, and she felt the urge inside her, an urge that she hated.

She wanted to devour Avaritia.

Avaritia had to be stopped, had to be killed, for justice to be served–

Not like this–

No, not because of this evil curse that had been forced upon her.

She had to fight that instinct!

She was a rational person with a sense of justice. She was not some braying animal.

“Are you going to say anything or just stare at me?” Avaritia said mockingly.

Arbitrator I grit her teeth.

How unjust it was, that the vilest character of them all was the most in control of herself.

“She has gone too long without flesh.” Gula said. “She wants to devour us, darling.”

“I have come to cast you two into the sea for good.” Arbitrator I said.

Arbitrator I briefly shut her eyes and called to the power inside her.

From her arms, a pair of long, black, hardened and vibrating blades began to emerge. Parting her pale skin as if it was a fluid membrane through which they were being given birth. Once the blades were fully constituted and had separated from her arms, they hung on a pair of umbilical cords attached to her shoulders that resonated with biological power, extending as if from additional limbs and moving freely. Her original arms were left thinner and weaker.

Gula’s eyes flashed with recognition of danger, but Avaritia extended an arm to block her.

“The Autarch’s mercy was wasted on you. Throwing your life away for those overpopulated insects.” Avaritia grinned. “I won’t let you live if you challenge me. I will actually devour you and put an end to you, and the Autarch isn’t here to intercede for you. But if you disappear from my face this instant and stop crushing Vanguard L I might look the other way.”

From under the door, a wan little groan bubbled out.

“Mercy, you say? What she inflicted on me was mercy?” Arbitrator I said.

There was no turning back now from the destiny she had given herself.

Deep within her very cells, there was no denying the memories and what they meant.

“My mercy is by far the greater.” Arbitrator I grinned back. “And it will save the Hominin.”

Her eyes glimmered, purple hexagons glowing around the irises.

“You will either serve me and the cause of peace; or it is you who will be devoured.”

It was a bluff– her STEM was too corrupted and stressed now to be useful like this–

However– if she could seed the doubt in their minds–

No such luck.

Avaritia’s eyes glowed with the exact same hexagonal mark in response.

Making the gesture much less effective.

Arbitrator I tried to hide her surprise. She should have realized Avaritia was also–

“You won’t control me or Gula, however much you try.” Avaritia interrupted.

“Darling, please allow me to take care of this intruder in your place.” Gula said.

Her voice trembled. Her hands shook. She had been sufficiently rattled by the display.

“Don’t be scared for me, my love.” Avaritia said firmly. Behind her, Gula shook, and held onto her coat. “Must I prove myself worthy of being your protector again? A gentleman can’t have her lady worrying about her– it’s simply not romantic for a princess to be so troubled.”

“My prince– I– I simply can’t bear–”

“Enough theater.”

Arbitrator I had one small chance, and it was a chance because of Gula’s condition.

Fear, anxiety, unbridled rage; loss of control was a weakness in a mind’s psionic defense.

Gula was the weak link and without her support, Avaritia could be overpowered.

From the outset, Arbitrator I had no plan of attack, only her self-imposed crusade.

Syzygy’s Enforcers had to be her prey. Nobody else could protect the hominin from them.

She knew the truth now. She was a superior being to them. It was all locked in her body.

Memories locked up in the corrupted blocks of data within the DNA storage of her STEM, an ancient biomechanical computing system. Accessed out of fear for the safety of her hominin love, it represented the responsibilities she had shirked for too long. She was a weapon, created by sages from a bygone era. She was the first of her kind, biological power incarnate. These foul simulacra concocted by her misled sister existed beneath her.

So it was her responsibility, as soon as she caught whiff of their schemes, to crush them.

King’s Gaze.”

Tendrils of enormous power extended from the colors of Arbitrator I’s aura.

Like gargantuan hands they rose and fell with a thunderous clap upon the Enforcers.

Smashing upon them and inundating the room in a many-colored explosion that resembled the waves of illusory colored lights blending outside the windows of the maintenance room. Gusts of force erupted that sent flying every untethered object. The Syzygy troops smashed into walls, tools and supplies flew free from every crate and then rained down upon the floor in a drumbeat of chaos, junction boxes and circuit panels blew open and disgorged metal.

All of the LED lights in the room shut off, blinked on.

Seconds passed and the wake of the blast was still traveling.

Arbitrator I watched the chaos unfold, savored victory for an instant–

until she heard a crack, a drip, a chewing sound,

and stepped back in time to avoid the swing of five vibrating sword-sharp claws.

Avaritia pounced, surging forward, eyes afire, hands made bloody and sharp and hard, transformed into gold knives. Speechless at the near-spotless condition of her enemy, Arbitrator I met the attack with her biokinetic weapons. She threw her shoulder into Avaritia’s reach, swinging her tethered bio-swords in tandem with it. A brutal sweep dispersing the air around it like the flight of a bullet, such was its strength.

With a sound like a single, massive pound on a drum, her swords suddenly deflected.

Two concussive blasts having materialized in the air between Avaritia and the blades.

Stunned by the rapidity of the counter, and how easily Avaritia moved forward from it–

Arbitrator I threw herself back from her enemy, putting two body-lengths between.

Barely avoiding those knife-like claws again. Taunting her, Avaritia spread open her lips.

Upon her tongue, was a pulpy, chewed up grey membrane.

Avaritia proceeded to swallow its remains and smile dangerously.

“Barbaric.” Arbitrator I hissed. It was the fruit from a Garden of Marrow.

“Hominin are better put to use this way, than how they are carrying on now.” Avaritia said.

In the next blink of her eyes, Avaritia’s legs were consumed in gold-and-white carapace.

Thin and long with multiple strong joints, so she could easily and quickly coil back,

launch forward,

and meet Arbitrator I in her own space in an almost instant.

Arbitrator I’s eyes shone as two buzzing claws thrust within a hair’s width of her face.

A dozen telekinetic blasts pummeled Avaritia from every direction.

Her claws scratched Arbitrator I’s cheek instead of mutilating her nose and eyes.

Evading, Arbitrator I leaped aside, her muscular tail stabilizing and assisting her speed.

Not a single hair on Avaritia’s head was out of place.

But the hand she attacked with was crushed, the carapace covered in bloody cracks.

Behind her, with time to examine her surroundings again, Arbitrator I noticed Gula was only shaken up. Her aura was strong. Wizard III had begun to stand from where she had been thrown to, and the other vanguards inside the room, many injured, also stood.

None of them reached for any weapons nor moved to assist.

Arbitrator I collected her breath and tried to steel herself to fight.

But there was a doubt whispering in the depths of her mind.

Was she not stronger than Avaritia and Gula? Had the truth not been in her DNA?

Why were they able to match her? Had something happened in her absence?

Would she– never see Braya again–?

Avaritia gave her no more time to collect herself.

Once more she threw herself to Arbitrator I with savage abandon, crosshair eyes shining.

Her broken hand swung like a club, while her good hand was swift and sharp as a blade, unrelentingly raining blows in dexterous sequences. Colliding in the air with Arbitrator I’s bio-swords, sparks flew as the edges met and the flats pounded. Swing after brutal swing blocked, parried, returned; thundering telekinetic thrusts matched perfectly; roaring discharges of aura failing to penetrate each other’s wavering defenses.

Arbitrator I could almost see the aether-trail of Avaritia’s blows coming before they could be launched, but the Enforcer’s mental defenses were too sturdy to penetrate completely.

With just a bit of luck, she would have been able to find an opportunity in the middle of the barrage. She weighed her options quickly while turning aside another grazing blow– she could try to create space psionically– try to throw herself into a dangerous grapple with Avaritia for a chance– attempt to feint and see if she was faster in reflexes–

Then– in her mind’s eye, an overhand blow–

But Avaritia’s arms were swinging from below the shoulder–

In a split second, Arbitrator I realized that her psychic sense of Avaritia’s attack had finally overtaken the actual physical movement. She suddenly knew exactly what Avaritia would do seconds away. Deflecting a sudden thrust, Arbitrator I anticipated an overhand chop–

and stepped into the Enforcer’s guard.

Blocking the overhead with one blade, and Avaritia’s claw arm with the second.

While her free arms grew their own black claws and sank into Avaritia’s ribcage.

Closed,

ripped into,

and tore out,

Disgorging viscera and bile as her fingers crushed Avaritia’s lungs and ribs,

Viciously digging out handfuls of chunks of soft, dead,

cold,

meat that

should have been warm,

alive,

bones old shattered, skin once sheared,

dry, crumbly sinew caked in,

coagulation,

Arbitrator I’s eyes drew wide with recognition.

In the air in front of her hung the eviscerated remains of an unknown Hominin.

And behind her was the wildly grinning face of the real, untouched, Avaritia.

“When– when did I–” Arbitrator I felt the world turn over.

Her mind raced, the dispelled illusion coinciding with an explosion of pain.

Her blade cords ripped out of her shoulders, and her back nearly broken with a kick.

Limbs turned to jelly, her smashed spine struggling to reconstitute through biokinesis.

Arbitrator I fell face first onto metal with such force all the air went out of her.

Mind blank, head swimming in agony, blood disgorging from fresh wounds.

Avaritia cast aside the eviscerated blades and planted her boot on Arbitrator I’s tail.

Before Arbitrator I could yell or react, she was picked up like a doll from the floor.

And bitten where her neck met the shoulder, tearing out sinew, splitting her collarbone.

Bite after brutal bite ripping into her body– she was being devoured.

Involuntary screaming ripped itself out of her throat, her eyes went glassy.

From the depths of her mind, sounded a primal warning as Avaritia’s jaws shredded her flesh.

Instinct took over her body, the driving need to escape a predator, to save her life.

In her fear and in the fog of her fading vision Arbitrator I her eyes fell upon the windows.

Using all of the power that remained in her mind and body, she launched herself.

Avaritia was thrown back by the force, and in the next instant the window shattered.

Out from a cage of metal, and into an open expanse without a foothold.

Arbitrator I’s body fell through the false colors that made up the B-block’s sky.

Her robes fluttered in the wind, her hair whipped about her, and yet she felt heavy.

She felt the sheer of weight of her foolishness, so heavy it might have accelerated the fall.

“Braya– I’m so sorry– I couldn’t do it alone–”

Before her eyes, the world warped and bent between times and locations.

Kreuzung’s false sky; the purple clouds above Porto Platino in Atlantea;

inside the hull of the Brigand; cavorting about the depths of the oceans without a care;

holding Braya’s hand and wanting so badly to make amends, to be able to live with her;

and beneath an enormous tree of squirming flesh, holding her sister’s hands instead;

I am doing all this for you! I did it to save you! And you want me to FORGIVE THEM?

Caderis– her eyes flashing with hatred and betrayal–

“I’m sorry–”

Hex shaped scars upon her fading vision, the corruption of the data in her sundered flesh.

As her thoughts became muddled, a weak plea. “Braya– please– I want to see you–”


“Avaritia!”

Gula screamed and rushed to her lover’s side.

Avaritia had no time to feel triumphant after Arbitrator I’s escape.

She doubled over, disgorging blood and acid from her mouth.

Holding her trunk, her chest and stomach pounding and heaving with the contractions that were forcing more and more of her destroyed insides out of her body. First blood, then chunks of pulverized meat, all ejecting as her body purged and self-repaired. Her vision swam, dozens of tiny hexagonal rips and digits that she hardly ever had cause to see. Her biomechanical makeup was letting her know the extent of the damage in error codes she never had opportunity to learn but knew instinctively nonetheless.

Damn it– that creature still had this much strength– even without partaking of flesh–!

Even having eaten a Hominin recently–

Avaritia just barely had the biomass and aether to overpower the Autarch’s traitorous kin.

She remained, doubled over, fists and head to the floor, gasping for breath.

Her lover’s comforting arms the only kindness as her body struggled to reconstitute itself.

Avaritia’s voice croaked and wheezed, but she managed to string together a sentence.

“I was too boastful. But it was romantic. Wasn’t it, my love?”

Gula embraced her tightly. “It was absolutely dashing, my prince.”

They had to act quickly now. There was an opportunity to correct this mistake.

“Wizard III.”

Upon hearing her name spoken, the Omenseer stiffened up.

“Wizard III.” Avaritia said between gasping breaths. “Form a squadron. Go after her.”

“Acknowledged! Is my objective to confirm her death?” Wizard III asked, saluting, tense.

Avaritia struggled to respond while regaining her breath. “She’ll be alive. Crawling somewhere safe– to repair. Kill her. Devour her– if you must. She’s in awful condition. I have irreparably– damaged her. Because of the bites. She will be diminished. She can’t escape.”

“What if she alerts the hominin? She will have fallen into their habitat.” Gula asked.

Avaritia grinned. “Kill them too. Kill whoever you must. Wizard III. I’ll deal with the rest.”

“It shall be done, exalted flesh!” Wizard III shouted, as if priming herself for the task.

Nothing was going according to plan, and nothing accorded with their grand vision.

However, Avaritia found herself feeling exhilarated and almost without complaint.

After all, for “Arabella” to return so suddenly– it was a terribly romantic turn of events.


And thus, to the unfolding tragedy–

Zachikova threw herself out from behind cover and into the middle of a tunnel partially fileld with water and much more filled with heavily armed KPSD tactical troops. Her fingers rapped the trigger, struggling to achieve some semblance of control over her shots as she fell. She had the element of surprise, but if the men did not all die in one stroke she was completely exposed, and her rescue mission to the depths of B-block would end immediately.

In mid-jump she unleashed her salvo–

Three round bursts of depleted agarthicite in 7.62×39 mm Krasnov.

Bullets sailed between herself and the remaining enemies.

One man poised to retaliate took two shots into the groin and hip and collapsed.

A second man squeezed a few rounds that sailed over Zachikova’s flank.

Her shoulder hit the shallow water and the metal beneath hard.

She adjusted her aim quickly, fired another burst–

–past the shoulder of a man poised to instantly retaliate against her.

There was nowhere to crawl to, nowhere to roll to, nowhere to back out to.

There was no time to shoot again. She was suspended an instant before death.

She was so close to the hole into the alcove where Arabella had crawled to–

No! I don’t want to lose her!

Staring down the barrel of the remaining man as his finger began to close on the trigger.

“Fucking kill her–!”

A dozen lights of overwhelming color and an accompanying cacophony.

Zachikova would have shut her eyes to her own end had she any time to react.

Instead she looked the man in the eyes as his intentions culminated–

In that self-same instant of the trigger-pull, dozens of green and red tracers pummeled him.

His weapon dropped from shock-flailing fingers, his mouth hung.

Blood and shreds of armor and wisps of smoke and vapor blew from his falling body.

Dead in the same instant in which he had meant to kill her. All of it in less than a second.

To Zachikova, it felt like the world had turned on that instant. She couldn’t believe it.

“Kill confirmed.”

“Good kills, good kills.”

Familiar voices. Zachikova turned over her shoulder from the ground.

An inexpressive young woman walked past, long-limbed and skinny with long blond hair, wearing a nanomail bodysuit covered in strategically placed ballistic plates. She stopped over each of the KPSD men and put a round in their neck and head precisely, without even blinking as she made sure they were dead. “Kill confirmed.” She said, after each.

Her voice devoid of emotion.

Her weapon of choice was an AK-72, full length assault rifle.

And then, standing over Zachikova and reaching an arm down to help her stand.

Zachikova took her hand, and looked up at the taller woman to meet her eyes.

A young woman with silvery hair and eyes shining with the gold digits and colored outline of a cybernetic enhancement, quite visible in the dimness of the tunnel. Uniformed and armed exactly like her partner, with a slightly burlier appearance in her shoulders and limbs.

She smiled.

Valeriya Peterburg and Illya Rostova, Union B.E.A.S.T. special forces.

“How–?” Zachikova had barely begun her breathless question before Illya interrupted.

“There was an AKS missing from the rack.” Illya said. “You’re the only one of us that had any affection for the short length AK. So we knew you went somewhere. As for how we found you, we have a precaution from Nagavanshi in case you decided to do anything silly.”

At Illya’s prompting, Valeriya first covered her mouth with a tactical mask, and then pulled from a pouch a little device with a blinking light and numbers running on a tiny screen. It was the size of a vapor-cigar– it must have been a tracker. When it was out of Valeriya’s pouch, Zachikova could feel a tiny tingling in one ear, in sync with the blinking of the light.

Zachikova had no time to feel embittered about that– in fact, she was thankful.

Before Illya could ask her any questions, she dropped her rifle and whipped around.

Running to the open grate in the wall and sliding into the alcove behind it.

Inside, lit only by a flashlight attached to Zachikova’s tactical visor, was Arabella.

She averted her eyes upon being seen, perhaps ashamed.

She didn’t reach out to Zachikova.

Arabella was a mess. Her robes were brown and black with caked blood, one of her horns was broken and bloody, she was covered in bruises. Propped up against the wall, eyes glassy, all of her vitality and energy completely spent. All of the red and white hair covering one of her shoulders was particularly caked in blood and this prompted an alarmed Zachikova to bend beside her and pull the hair away. Her heart raced at the wound she found.

Flesh ripped to the muscle, to the exposed bone.

There was so much blood.

She had never seen anything so savage in her life.

And Zachikova had been witness to a lot of savagery in her time.

A sudden sense of helplessness came over her, hands on that horrifying injury.

“Arabella? Arabella? Talk to me.” Zachikova said.

Arabella lifted her head slightly. Her eyes struggled to meet Zachikova’s.

She could not help but notice they were black on yellow again. Like when they met.

Between then and now she had been wearing green on white eyes.

“Braya. I’m happy to see you. I’m sorry.” Arabella said weakly.

“Why did you go alone?” Zachikova asked. “I could have helped you!”

“I’m sorry.”

There was no use getting angry about Arabella leaving in the first place.

Zachikova did not know everything there was to know about her. Arabella was still hiding anything to do with her species, the mysterious ‘omenseers’– but Zachikova did not care about that. What she was most upset about was that, if Arabella had something she needed to do, that was this dangerous, why did she not ask for Zachikova’s help?

Why did she go out alone and–

–get herself killed.

“You’ll be okay, right? You can change your body. You can close this wound right?”

“I’m sorry Braya. I’m very tired.”

“Tired how? Arabella– tired how? This isn’t a problem for you right?”

Her eyes began to tear up.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that. God damn it stop saying that.”

Zachikova ripped open one of the pouches she had brought and took a cloth from it.

She pressed it on Arabella’s wound. Immediately it soaked through entirely with blood.

“This might hurt, okay?”

“Braya. Please.”

Zachikova pressed the cloth on the wound. It was doing nothing. It only covered a bit of it.

Illya and Valeriya never carried any medical supplies– that was always her beat.

She had brought cloths, tourniquets. Coagulant gel spray– but the size of the wound–

Arabella tugged weakly on Zachikova’s shirt.

Her lips curled into a little smile as their eyes met again.

“Braya. I love you very much. I’m happy to see you again.”

“No, no, no, no– NO! Don’t make that face! Holy shit don’t make that face!”

“I love you, Braya.”

“You’re teasing me.” Zachikova grimaced. “You’re just fucking with me.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“You– You can’t– you can’t–”

Zachikova reached into another pocket and pulled out the coagulant gel.

She tore the cloth from the wound and saw the depth and enormity of it again.

It felt like Arabella had almost had her chest cleaved in half through the shoulder.

That was how red and how bloody and how broken and how bad it looked.

Her fingers shook on the switch atop the bottle of coagulant gel.

They shook hard enough that she dropped the bottle.

Those hands which had been holding her useless medical supplies–

One grabbed hold of Arabella’s own hand, still warm. Its grip was so weak.

Another gingerly took Arabella’s good shoulder.

“I never cared about anything!” Zachikova whimpered. “Until you! You swept into my life and changed everything! Ever since I saw you that night! I didn’t even know I could give a shit about a stray animal let alone a human being! Let alone the most annoying and loud and kind and beautiful woman– I love you so much Arabella! Don’t leave me! Please!”

“Braya.”

Arabella began to cry as well.

“Will you forgive me?” She asked.

“No! No! We aren’t fucking doing this. We aren’t–”

Zachikova’s eyes drew wide. Her heart began to pound and her skin brimmed with horror.

Her mind wildly racing for anything that could stop this from happening–

She pulled away from Arabella and threw herself to the entrance of the shaft.

Pulling in one of the dead men from outside.

From her belt, she withdrew her diamond knife, pressed the button to run the motor.

Arabella behind her flinched as Zachikova drove her saw-knife into one of the corpses.

Peeling off armor and nanomail and sawing out a square of flesh rapidly losing warmth.

With eyes afire, and feeling like she had gone completely insane, Zachikova returned to Arabella’s side. Arabella own tired eyes had enough life in them for surprise. She averted her gaze slightly, as if ashamed to stare at the piece of meat cut so viciously.

Zachikova showed her the chunk of meat.

“You needed my blood right? But what you really needed was this, wasn’t it?”

“Braya, please stop.” Arabella whimpered.

“No. You have to eat it.” Zachikova grunted.

She was lucky Illya and Valeriya didn’t have the personality types to care about this.

They would report it to the captain, certainly. They would ask questions.

But for a peer in the dark world of the special forces, they had no judgment to bring.

Zachikova briefly peered back and saw their legs near the vent. No responses.

She turned back to Arabella who was still resisting.

“I’ll chew it up.” Zachikova said suddenly. “I’ll chew it up and put it in your mouth.”

“Braya, I don’t want to eat hominins. I swore– I swore I wouldn’t–”

“Swearing doesn’t matter if you die!” Zachikova shouted in her face. Panicking, her shaking hand splashing blood from the chunk of meat on her palm. “Is anyone out there going to be inspired by your fucking principled martyrdom? You told me, when you first drank my blood, that you wanted to make peace between whatever the hell you are, and humans! Nobody is going to do that for you if you die! I can’t do that! I can’t do it alone! I need you!”

“Braya.” Arabella whimpered, sobbing.

“I need you. I won’t let you die.”

Zachikova lifted the chunk of meat to her own mouth.

She really was going to chew a chunk of some disgusting slob’s chest.

Her whole body trembled with fear and disgust.

She just had to masticate without tasting and spit it into Arabella’s mouth, that was it.

Stop smelling, don’t taste anything, don’t look at it, just do it.

Eyes shut–

mouth open wide–

and then up and down the jaw–

“Braya, stop. Stop. Don’t do it. I’ll eat it. You can’t.”

Zachikova stopped just late enough to still get a bit of sickening iron taste in her mouth.

Her stomach kicked inside of her belly, but she kept from puking when she heard Arabella.

She offered the meat of the KPSD soldier to Arabella again.

Who opened her mouth and allowed Zachikova to stuff the chunk between her lips.

Arabella chewed, weeping fresh tears throughout.

Her hands rose slowly and held the item steady. Then they pulled it from Zachikova’s grasp.

Zachikova saw the movement of Arabella’s hands, when she seized the meat from her.

Her heart soared– she seemed more energetic. Was she recovering?

Rushing back to the corpse, Zachikova sawed out additional pieces of the body.

When she brought them to Arabella, they were snatched quickly from her hands as well.

The Omenseer tucked into the raw filets of the dead soldier like a beast.

Something about it just fascinated Zachikova. She found herself smiling with relief.

An insane relief born of a demented and horrifying situation. Something in her had twisted.

By the time all of the pieces of meat were devoured, Arabella’s wounds had begun healing.

When Zachikova shone her flashlight on the wound, it looked nowhere near as deep.

Her racing heart and pounding lungs could finally rest. Zachikova nearly fell over.

“You’re right. Braya.” Arabella mumbled. “I have to live. To take responsibility.”

“Good. Yeah.” Zachikova said. “You can’t do anything while dead. And– I’ll help you.”

Feeling her own energy leaving her, Zachikova sat beside Arabella for a moment.

“I– I’m sorry. I got a little bit. Crazy. Back there.” Zachikova mumbled.

All of the events of the past few minutes bowled her over like a tidal wave.

Her throat was raw from all the shouting. And she still tasted a bit of blood.

Just one more insane thing she would have to tell the doctor.

Arabella quietly leaned into Zachikova’s shoulder. Gripping her shirt with a bloody hand.

After a few moments of quiet, she heard Illya’s voice from outside the alcove.

“I’m glad we won’t be needing a body bag.” She said. “We’re leaving in five.”

“Thanks for giving me some time to rest, at least.” Zachikova said.

There was nothing in the network to indicate the KSPD had been alerted to anything.

Zachikova had isolated all the men they had killed from the broader network.

With network access, they could find ways to sneak back to Alcor Steelworks.

This was just going to end up being an unfortunate but short episode of insubordination.

Two minutes into her five minute reprieve, however, Zachikova saw dim red lights go on.

Outside, in the tunnel proper, those lights were flashing even brighter.

“Zachikova!” Illya cried. “What the hell is going on? What are these alarms?”

Bolting upright, Zachikova concentrated on the network and quickly found the cause–

She sat speechless for a moment as the alert blared in her own mind as it blared those lights.

WARNING: CORE SEPARATION.


Eerie red alarm lights dominated the sky at Alcor Steelworks, its guests awakening to crisis.

In the security team room aboard the UNX-001 Brigand, the armory racks had been left exposed and unlocked. A carbine and two assault rifles were missing along with a variety of swappable armored plates, nanomail, and tactical gear. It was normal for the two miscreants favored by Nagavanshi to have their rifles on them– but the rest constituted a problem.

Security Chief Evgenya Akulantova ran her fingers over an assault rifle with a grim look on her face. Those two were a menace, but Zachikova too? Something had gone very wrong.

She pressed the button beside the armory racks to have them fold back into the wall.

Her hands rose to her head and combed back through her hair, retying her ponytail to make it tighter and tidier. She then set her blue and black Union security cap over her scalp, making sure it was firm and correctly positioned. From the corner of the wall near the rack, she picked up a ballistic shield, and from a nearby table, collected her trusty truncheon.

A deep sigh escaped from her lips. That maidenly face which was set on her big body reflected back to her on the perfectly clean wall encompassing the now-hidden rack. Long white hair and blue-grey skin and dark, tired eyes. A sharp nose and soft cheeks. She grit her teeth in frustration, and caught a rare sight of what it looked like when her smooth and soft facial features became as intimidating as her broad chest and thick limbs. Her chest and limbs, now wrapped in nanomail and ballistic plates much like those which were stolen.

She turned from the wall, and in the middle of the alarms, made her way to the bridge.

In her eyes, a smoldering determination, even as her heart quavered with worry.

She had to inform Captain Korabiskaya, as was proper and necessary.

And then she had to depart to uphold her responsibility.

“I’ll teach those two to respect me– but for that, they have to be back here in one piece.”

Her grip tightened on her truncheon, enough to begin to wear grooves into the handle.

She couldn’t lose a squadron again. Not like this. She wouldn’t allow it.

Even if she had to break her vows and become something she despised.


Previous ~ Next

Bandits Amid The Festival [11.9]

This chapter contains graphic sexual content.

In one of the few meeting rooms on the Brigand not yet torn into by sailors, an automatic kettle filled with coffee had been set on a table, along with creamer, sweeteners, and some sweet-glazed biscuits. Only two people occupied this meeting room today. On one side of the table, Lieutenant Murati Nakara sat with her back up straight, her hands on her lap, and a somewhat tense and serious look on her face. Her eyes wandered frequently.

Across the table, Premier Erika Kairos sat casually back, sipping coffee from a plastic mug.

“I’m glad I was able to catch you today, Lieutenant. You’ve been quite busy!”

“My apologies! There’s been a lot of work to do. I was planning an outing too.”

“Ah! Then I won’t keep you long, don’t worry.”

“No! It’s perfectly fine. I have a lot of time still– and I’d make more time for you!”

Erika put her cup of coffee down for a moment and leaned forward with a friendly smile.

“I’ve been informed of your indefatigable work ethic, but this is not that sort of meeting.”

“Oh! I thought you wanted to go over procedures and such, maybe talk about the pilots–”

“Not today! Right now, I just want to get to know you personally, Murati Nakara.”

Murati felt her heart accelerate in her chest.

Due to the circumstances, she had not yet been able to have a one-on-one meeting with the Brigand’s new political leader, Erika Kairos of the Nationale Volksarmee. Of course, she was well informed of the situation, she was there to listen to Erika’s speech. But they had not gotten to actually talk to one another. Murati’s duties as first officer intensified recently due to the messiness with the Brigand’s refit, and the Captain’s participation in United Front discussions. While the Captain and Commissar were occupied, Murati had tapped into that ‘indefatigable work ethic’ to cover every second that they were gone. She had signed off on workgroup tasks, rejected dozens of foolish inquiries and requests from the sailors with an iron fist demanding strict adherence to code, and maintained operational security.

Then, Murati was swamped with additional shore leave preparations.

So she had been denied the time to meet Erika again and again. Even as Erika made the rounds and visited the engineers, sailors and other pilots, Murati had been absent.

While she was busy, she hadn’t thought about it as much, but in her presence–

Murati felt almost desperate across from this woman. She was completely struck by her.

That speech– it had shaken through Murati and filled with her burning determination!

Erika’s words bore the weight of history; every sentence swept through Murati like a hurricane. She was left wondering if this is what the original revolutionaries felt listening to Daksha Kansal declare the Union upon the First United Front’s liberation of Mount Raja. Ever since hearing that speech, in the back of her mind, she thought about what she would say, what she would ask, how she would make a first impression on Erika–

“Lieutenant, you haven’t touched your coffee. Is everything okay?” Erika asked.

“Yes! Ma’am! May I ask something about you?” Murati said.

“Of course! This is a conversation. No need to be so stiff, Murati!”

“Ma’am–” Murati’s eyes brightened. “May I ask about– your bibliography!”

Erika blinked her eyes, in the middle of lifting her cup for a drink of her coffee.

“My bibliography?” Erika asked, cracking a little grin.

“Yes! I mean– I want to know about your theoretical grounding! I’m– I’m not questioning you of course. I am someone who greatly admires the Katarran people and sympathizes with their history and plight; and to see a scholar such as yourself who is fighting for their dignity and that of others, it gives me such wild hope for the future! In so few and yet carefully chosen words you demonstrated such a vast and strong grounding in the status of internal nationalities in the social order of the Imbrian Empire, but not just in theory, but with concrete experiences gleaned from local insight! Through your speech, I glimpsed the rich history of the Shimii in Eisental and the economic advantage Imbrians glean from the direct exploitation of Katarrans even as they try to drive them to the margins of society! My eyes were opened– I am deeply, poorly read on the specifics of regional cultures in the Imbrium. I must update my theories too! I would read any number of books that you suggested!”

Murati’s wild hand gestures and sudden eagerness seemed to surprise Erika.

Who still had her cup of coffee hovering near her face while she stared at Murati.

“I’m afraid I don’t have an exact book list.” She said gently. “I’ve read the elemental works, like Mordecai, von Haar, Kansal’s early work, Jayasankar’s treatises on inter-ethnic alliances in the Union’s struggle, such things. I’m afraid there’s not really anything that’s written with a critical eye about Eisental’s history. I was actually thinking of writing about it once–”

Upon the mere suggestion that Erika might write a book, Murati’s entire soul quaked.

“Ma’am if you wrote a book, I’d love to read your manuscript! Maybe I could help edit! It would be my honor to do anything I can to bring your insights into the broader academic discussion on communist governance and nationalities policy! You are definitely worthier of being read in Union scholarship than some of the doggerel that passes for socialist education at the Academy!!”

Murati spoke breathlessly and had started to lean closer across the table.

Erika blinked and finally sipped her coffee again after several minutes.

“My, my– it looks like it’s not just your work ethic that is impressive!”

She started giggling. Murati started to wonder if she had misspoken somehow.

“I am flattered Murati.” Erika continued. “Perhaps in the future, we can do so.”

“Yes, of course.” Murati said. She thought she inferred the Premier’s intent.

Right now wasn’t the time to be thinking about theory-craft.

Erika looked upon Murati with a fondness and softness in her eyes.

“Captain Korabiskaya spoke glowingly of you. She told me you are not only skilled in combat and in tactical planning, but are also exactingly responsible towards your duties, and the most ardent communist of the crew’s officers. Even in this short span of time, I can already feel your– unique– passion and energy, Murati. I may just concur with the Captain.”

She set down her coffee on the table and reached a hand across.

Murati reflexively saluted, realized she had done so, and immediately reached out herself.

They shook hands, with casual courtesy.

“I am not much older than you; I am hoping that both of us can have bright and long futures ahead. For now, Murati, let us do this. You live your theory with that passion you possess and speak your mind candidly to advise me and our course of action. And I in turn will live my theory and impart on you what I’ve learned from my years here in Eisental. I think this will be more instructive to both of us for now than writing my seminal work of theory.”

“Yes, of course, Premier. Thank you kindly.” Murati replied.

When Erika spoke seriously, she had a decided charm Murati could not avoid.

She had an easy, unremarked charisma; something Murati felt she herself must have lacked.

Maybe if it was Erika, all her petitions for captainship would have borne fruit.

But when they talked just like this, she also seemed approachable and easygoing too.

It made Murati feel a bit less mature than she once believed herself to be.

Erika was someone, like the Captain, who had demonstrated enormous merit in the field.

Murati hoped she would have an opportunity to prove her own convictions as well.

“But like I said,” Erika continued, “I wanted to talk about you personally.”

“Of course! You can ask me anything, ma’am!”

She hoped her enthusiasm wasn’t too annoying– but Erika was just so cool.

Almost like speaking to a real Katarran warlord– but a communist!

“What are your ambitions for the future, Murati?” Erika asked. “One thing I’ve always been curious about, is what children of a real socialist nation grow up wanting to become. Here in the Imbrium, no Katarran child can dream of anything; and the Imbrians are pushed to think of themselves as money earning machines who need waged labor. If I might be allowed an assumption, it seems like you are on track to be a wonderful scholar. Am I wrong?”

Murati smiled. “Actually, ma’am, I want to be Captain of a ship in the Union Navy. Of course, you can’t do that forever– someday I may become a Kommandant and perhaps even a Rear Admiral, I’m sure. But I feel that a Captainship is a reasonable goal within a few years.”

Erika looked surprised for a few moments and then smiled again.

“A career soldier? How interesting. I shall evaluate your merits over time then.”

“Ma’am!” Murati stiffened again. “I would welcome any criticism you have!”

“Oh dear, I’ve made her go solid as steel again.” Erika said, giggling.

“Ma’am?”

“Nothing, nothing~ Murati, please don’t be so formal.”

“Alright.”

Murati let out a long-held breath and tried to loosen up at least a little bit.

She finally reached for her coffee and took a sip.

It was still warm, thanks to the design of the mug. She hoped dearly she was not looking like a fool in front of Erika– she was committed to impressing her new ally. Erika was not only a Katarran, whom Murati was fascinated by; nor just a successful leader of insurgents; she was a communist, excellently read, eloquent, and with easy confidence. It felt like Erika had achieved so much of what Murati strove for, and Murati wished to earn her respect as a peer.

But she couldn’t hurry to that goal. She just had to do her best, over the course of things–

–those things, being, war. Murati then felt the totality of her foolishness hit all at once.

Probably, she looked like a monumental idiot being so excited about going to war.

“How has life been for you aboard the ship?” Erika asked. “Do you have any hobbies?”

Murati blinked. Erika’s casual inquiry brought her out of her dark, spiraling mindset.

“Um. It’s been more than acceptable. The Brigand is very comfortable and full featured. As for hobbies, I– I like music. Electronic music. And I like to read of course. I have been reading about local establishments– I have my fiancée aboard and I am planning a date.”

“She is quite a lucky woman! I hope you have a fantastic evening.”

Erika sipped her coffee again and Murati tried to think of what else to say.

“Um– yes– hobbies– let’s see–”

Hobbies were not a particular strong suit of Murati’s– being asked that question by Erika made her realize how much her work and her ambition had become her entire life. Having to furnish an answer to someone she wanted to respect and desired esteem from made her wrack her brain and realize she didn’t do much ‘for fun’ around here, or even back at Thassal. She had always been doing work for Naval HQ or fighting them about getting more work or a Captainship, and she only ever went out to have fun if it was with Karuniya. In her room, she mainly read history books and treatises on war, logistics reports, strategic reviews of forces. She rarely watched films, and was only familiar with video games through her advocacy for combat simulators. In fact, she only really liked music because it could provide ambiance while she was reading or working– she didn’t have any hands-on sort of hobbies.

“We could listen to some music sometime. I could show you my favorites.” Murati said.

“That would be lovely. We shall make a time of it at the next opportunity.” Erika said.

“Ma’am– Should I have a real hobby?” Murati felt compelled to ask all of a sudden.

Mainly out of reaching a peak of nervousness about whether she looked too foolish.

Erika gave her a gentle smile, reached across the table, and patted Murati’s hands.

“No, Murati; you should be yourself, and I think you are very good at that.” She said softly.

Murati smiled back. She felt a shot in the arm of confidence.

For the rest of their conversation, her wild gesticulation and verbal energy fully returned.


“My girlfriend is the absolute coolest! She’s the coolest of the cool!”

Maryam clung closer to Shalikova’s arm, rubbing her cheek up against the shoulder.

“Ah– Thanks– Maryam–”

“I told you! You look amazing on the street like this! I’m so happy you wore the outfit!”

“Yeah–? Well– As long as you like it–”

They’re the worst. They’re the worst. Those two– they’ll be the death of me–!

Everyone was staring.

Literally everyone on the street was staring directly at the two of them. Right? They must have been. Shalikova was almost scared to try to catch the direction of anyone’s gaze in the crowd. Maybe they weren’t looking– but she felt so exposed. She was so red. Not just her face, but her suit was so red and gaudy– and the sunglasses— it was insane to be wearing it, she felt like an ambulant semaphore. No– she was more like a living Yule decoration!

It was insane. And it was all their fault.

“It’s been a long walk, but I’m really looking forward to the carnival!”

“Ah– yeah, definitely–”

“We’re gonna eat junk food and play games all day! The perfect station date!”

“Oh– totally–”

“And we look like such a power couple, don’t we? It’s everything I dreamed of!”

“Uh huh? Well– I’m happy if you are–”

THEY’RE THE WORST!

Several hours before she set out on her date with Maryam, Shalikova had gone to Illya and Valeriya’s room. They had insinuated they had something to give her, and she wanted to get whatever filial nonsense they thought they had to do for her sake, over with as soon as possible and then get on with forgetting it. She figured it was some ill-considered thing relating to her date, like cologne or erection pills. She paused in front of their door, wondering if she might be able to make out a sound. Neither one of them had told Shalikova what their schedule was like, so she looked for them as soon as she woke up.

She thought that she could hear a vague whiny noise through the door.

“Ugh. What if I walk in on them? Damn it.”

Shalikova stood frozen in front of their door for three or four minutes before knocking.

“Forget it, it’s not my fault if I inconvenience them–”

“Come in.”

Mere seconds after Shalikova’s fist raised off the steel door, it unceremoniously slid open.

Though Shalikova immediately feared a dramatic unveiling, Illya and Valeriya’s room was nothing out of the ordinary. Two bunks, a pull-out desk, bare metal walls and floor, like the rest. Unlike most of the officers, who lived alone until circumstances starting shrinking the number of available accommodations, Illya and Valeriya were roomed together. Valeriya was lying in bed, whether sleeping or not, Shalikova did not know. From the glimpse of a pale shoulder, she was naked in bed, her back turned, barely wrapped in blankets.

Illya was seated in the middle of the back wall, with a portable computer laid on the pull-out desk surface. She was wearing a tanktop and shorts and looked bored scrolling through pages. It seemed the two of them had their fun before Shalikova stood at their door.

She felt a sense of relief lifting the tension in her chest.

“Sonya.” Illya said, by way of greeting. “Anything I can help with?”

“You wanted me to come get something.” Shalikova said, barely above a whisper.

“You can raise your voice. She’s awake. She just doesn’t want to look at you.” Illya said.

From the bed, Valeriya raised a hand, waved half-heartedly, and then put it back down.

Shalikova noticed as her hand came down, she gestured like lifting a mask over her face.

Which she was not wearing to bed– Valeriya was really a prisoner of her habits.

“Fine.” Shalikova said. “Look, you said you had something for me if my date got approved. Well, you saw it from your monitors, I did give the form to Murati, and she did approve it.”

“Ah, yeah. I have something that’ll upgrade you from ‘our little sonya’ to a real playboy.”

“Yeah? I don’t want to do anything like that. But I’ll take it just so you’ll shut up.”

“You’re so cold to me. But you’ll be hot as fire if you wear this to your date.”

From under the room’s second bunk, Illya withdrew two plastic gift boxes.

“Back before we learned about this mission, we got you a gift and tried to make plans to see you again. We thought bringing you something fancy might break the ice after a long time apart– but you know, circumstances conspired against us, and we broke the ice in much shittier ways, on this boat, instead of in the Union. Regardless, it’s yours. We got you an outfit and some accesories. Mount Raja chic stuff– not the easiest shit to get without the sort of connections we have. You can wear it or not, but you really ought to.”

She deposited the boxes on Shalikova’s awaiting arms with a self-assured grin.

Shalikova was not even going to bother to open the boxes much less wear the contents.

Maryam was just going to wear a uniform, and so was she.

“Thanks. Are you and Valeriya doing anything special?” She asked out of courtesy.

Illya cracked a grin and cracked her knuckles too. “Every night is special for us.”

Shalikova crooked an eyebrow. “Okay. Well. Whatever. Have fun I guess.”

She turned sharply around and marched back to her room and put all of that behind herself.

Back in her room, she threw the box on her bed and stripped her clothes.

On the opposite side of the room, a strobing purple marshmallow indicated that her girlfriend was still solidly asleep and Shalikova had no intention to wake her. She had an idea of how she wanted everything to go. She would go catch a shower, come back, dress up, and if Maryam was still asleep, she would go pick up food for the both of them.

They would eat in their room, and then set off together.

Maryam slept like a boulder most of the time, so she didn’t have to fear waking her.

She left the room in her vinyl bathrobe, marched to the bathroom, ignored Geninov and Santapena-De La Rosa being there together while washing up, marched out of the bathroom. With her hair wet and dressed only in her vinyl robe, Shalikova still felt, for once, bold enough to go to grab a breakfast box from the under-reconstruction cafeteria.

Appearances be damned– this was her big day.

Raising her head, straightening her back, smiling to herself like she owned the ship.

Even if it was a little cold to be out and about like that, the fire in her heart was enough.

Shalikova grabbed some breakfast and took it back to her room.

In her mind, she would stride through the door to the adoring eyes of her girlfriend.

Looking oh-so considerate, responsible, and put together, for bringing her breakfast in bed.

She stood at the door. In her mind– it was going to be a perfect start to a perfect day.

Reality punched her square in the sternum just a moment later.

“Sonya! Take a look at this! It’s so cool!”

“Huh?”

Shalikova found Maryam was awake and sitting on her bed instead; holding up some bright red thing at her with an enormous beaming smile like a little girl with a birthday gift. Illya’s boxes and their wrappings lay discarded behind her. Maryam had helped herself to whatever Illya had gotten for Shalikova– which was mortifying enough to think about.

But the actual contents–

“I bet you would look really cool in this! And now I can wear my nice dress too!”

–inspired even greater fear.

Unable to bear the disappointment it might cause her girlfriend, she went along with it.

And now, they were walking down the street, in public– and Shalikova looked–

“Who gave you that dress anyway?” She said, trying to deflect.

“It was McKennedy! She said she wanted to make up for ‘the inconveniences.’”

“She must have realized how racist she sounded with you.”

“Well, it’s quite cuttlevenient for me, whatever the intention.” Maryam smiled proudly.

Illya’s gift for Shalikova was a set of track clothes.

There was a bright red zip-up jacket with gold stripes, emblazoned with the word “ACE” on the back in gold-bordered black, which Shalikova wore half-unzipped over a plain white tanktop and sports bra for lack of anything else to pair with that. Along with the jacket she received matching red pants with a gold stripe. They were exceptionally tight in the back– a place where Shalikova was a bit lean anyway. She got new black and white sneakers too, with actual laces and layered material that must have been a boutique synthestitch job.

And then, she had the sunglasses.

Big light-blue lenses that perched heavily on her nose and barely concealed her eyes, on a thin frame from translucent blue and black materials. These were typically known as “pilot” style glasses despite the fact that Diver pilots didn’t wear things like this— or at least Shalikova did not. They were extremely showy and so they went with the rest of the showy outfit, which made Shalikova feel like she must have come off monumentally insecure.

Does Illya think I’m a delinquent?! Is she just fucking with me?!

There was a bright side, keeping the situation from being completely intolerable.

While Shalikova looked, in her mind, ridiculous, at her side, Maryam was jaw-droppingly, stunningly beautiful. McKennedy, as rude as she was, definitely had an eye for fashion.

Maryam had been gifted a long-sleeved dark blue dress that flattered her figure, with a high collar and white seams and accents. The sleeves flared into little ruffled cones at the wrist, and the skirt had a similar ornate, ruffled design. White leggings and black shoes added a bit of contrast. By far the cutest touch, however, was a floppy beret perched atop her head.

“You look stunning too, Maryam. Forget about me– you’re incredible. You’re beautiful.”

“Ah! Sonya, thank you so much! But don’t sell yourself short! You don’t let me talk down about myself, so I’m not going to let you either! You’re my super cool girlfriend, so chin up!”

“You’re right. I’ll try– but you really are very beautiful Maryam. I wanted to say that.”

There was one small note of sadness in Shalikova’s heart– because Maryam was not her entire self that day. Her skin was a creamier color, and her hair was still long and silky and dark– but it was not purple. And her eyes were no longer the cute little W’s that Shalikova had come to love either. Maryam was hiding her identity as a Katarran.

Her tentacles and fins shrank and hid within her hair, she wore lenses provided by Cecilia Foss that covered up the shape of her irises. She was pretending to be a black-haired, fair-skinned, blue eyed Imbrian. Of course, no matter what Maryam looked like, Shalikova would still love her– but she wished that Maryam could have been the crayon-pink skinned, purple haired, W-eyed, tentacled and finned purple marshmallow that she knew.

Regardless, she was beautiful, and she was right. This was her special, promised day.

Shalikova had bowed to make it perfect. Illya’s stupid tracksuit was now just part of that.

If Maryam thought she looked cool, Shalikova could try to silence her anxiety for now.

Arm in arm, the lovers strolled through one of C-block’s lower modules.

Ordinarily the purpose of this module was commercial space. Sans accoutrements it was essentially a box wider and taller than a typical “indoors” module in Kreuzung. It played host to conventions and exhibitions, athletic events, and festivals and fairgrounds. For the lovers’ visit, it had become the latter. Now playing host to various rides and mechanisms that had been erected for the festivities, surrounded by a deep cluster of kiosks, tents and plastic buildings, easy to put up and take down. Fairy lights strung up around every structure and overhead pulsed with itinerant colors. There was a sizeable but not overwhelming crowd. And the walls and ceiling of the module had taken on a wine-red and orange-pink color and lighting that stirred something in the most ancient recesses of Shalikova’s brain.

Dreams of the sunsets that their world now only saw in fiction, briefly crossed her mind.

She pulled Maryam in closer, her soft face lit in those dark and evocative colors.

“Whatever you want to do. I’m all yours. Just like I promised.” Shalikova said.

Maryam laughed.

“Back then, did you think we would be this close when I received my reward?”

They had agreed to go on a station date weeks ago, after Shalikova lost a game to Maryam.

Back then, Shalikova heard the word ‘station date’ and imagined several romantic cliches.

Now– they had different cliches entirely. But they were better ones, by far.

“Some part of me was hoping for it.” Shalikova said, with a bashful smile.

Maryam beamed back at her, and pushed herself onto Shalikova, rubbing cheeks with her.

“Let’s go play some carnival games! Then we’ll get some food and get on the rides!”

“Maybe we shouldn’t ride anything with full stomachs–”

Shalikova often forgot about Maryam’s monstrous strength, so she was taken completely by surprise when her pouty girlfriend easily silenced her protests by pulling her helpless along by the arm to wherever she wanted to go. It became funnier than it was distressing very quickly; the two of them entered the crowd winding its way through the festivities.

The clamor of dozens of chatting festival-goers drowning out the chords and brasses of the streetside bands; the smell of frying oil and sweet caramel and cheese predominant among the snack shops; the colored lights playing about their faces and bodies from the shopfronts around them and the struts above them; soon, Shalikova could hardly tell she was wearing her gaudy red tracksuit amid all of the gaudiness and cheer around them.

There was so much energy around her that Shalikova started to feel more comfortable.

Nobody could possibly look at her in the middle of all this–

Except the girl whose eyes she did want.

“Sonya, look over there! You can win me a prize!”

Maryam pointed at a tent playing host to a shooting gallery.

On the front counter, there were a few air guns, carbine-length with a simple stock. Behind the counter, there were several targets of different sizes and at different ranges.

Some targets were platters, others were small cylinders, and the very smallest target was the width of a finger standing on a pedestal. Targets had scores depending on how close or far they were and what size they were, and there was a wall of prizes you could pick if you had the corresponding amount of points. Among the valuable items there was a neon techwear cap, a set of cat-eared headphones, and a large plush cuttlefish.

As they approached the tent, the operator clapped his hands.

“Step right up! Ten marks for three shots! It’s easier than it looks!”

Slightly nervous as the man began appraising her, Shalikova reached into the wrong pocket. She had put her money in her jacket pocket to have it closer in reach and to make it harder for anyone to see the bundle; but she actually reached into her pants pocket out of habit, because the TBT uniform half-jackets usually had no pockets on them.

Her fingers mindlessly closed around something round that was wrapped in a plastic foil.

Briefly speechless, she retracted her hand and took the money from her jacket.

Was that a condom?! Illya?!

“I’ll try it. I want the plush.” Shalikova said, hiding her surprise.

“Well, if you get the points little lady.” Replied the man behind the counter.

He handed her a rifle and stepped aside to allow her to shoot.

At her side, Maryam smiled wide, her shining eyes awaiting Shalikova’s next move.

Shalikova hefted the rifle, feeling the weight. She looked down the sights.

Feeling around the body of the rifle. No safety. Semi-automatic. A small box magazine on the underside. Probably packed with pellets. Had to be more than the three she was allowed to shoot per round. Like Union training guns, it used an electric gear to fire– she realized the man in the tent was staring at her as she examined the gun, and she might have looked briefly suspicious for having insepcted the gun before shooting it.

Without further delay, Shalikova aimed the rifle at the smallest target.

She fired her first shot, falling short.

Fired a second, going wide.

And quickly let loose the third, overshooting the tiny ceramic target.

“Hey, you missed, pal.” Said the operator, a tad bit too cheerful.

Shalikova put another ten marks bill on the counter and looked at him.

There was fiery determination in her eyes which put him to pause.

Perhaps, he was deliberating on whether to allow her another go at all.

From what he saw before, he might have suspected she was familiar with weapons.

At her side, everything had happened so fast, Maryam was still processing.

She looked between the targets, all still standing; and the confident Shalikova, cracking a grin, rifle still in hand, money on the table. Shalikova was sure of herself now. This booth was a scam for civilians, but she knew the exact errant behavior of her rifle now.

Staring down the operator, with the rifle still in hand, finally caused him to relent, take her money and allow her to shoot again with the same rifle. This was his mistake.

Had he made her swap, he would have gotten another ten marks for free.

Wordlessly, Shalikova lined up the small target in her sights.

Under the watchful eyes of the operator, she shifted her aim a few degrees up and left.

He knew immediately, and she heard a low groan escape him.

Trigger pull; the fwip noise of a shot.

Immediately, the shattering crack of the finger’s-width plate worth the most points.

Knocked off its distant pedestal and smashed to pieces on the floor of the tent.

“Alright miss. You wanted the cuttlefish plush right? You earned it.”

From behind the counter, the operator picked up the round, fat fluffy cuttlefish toy.

He put it in a bag, and with a nervous smile, reached the bag out to Shalikova.

As if to say, ‘put the gun down and leave with this.’

Shalikova grinned even wider and cockier than before.

With the rifle she had in hand, she could have taken every high points target.

That would have given her more winnings than the plush– but the operator had to cut her off to cut his losses. He was trying to weasel out of the rest of the shots Shalikova had already paid for, which was rather dirty of him. Shalikova had thought about demanding to play the rest of her round, with its two remaining shots. But Maryam was watching with stunned elation, and they didn’t want to rock the boat anyway.

Graciously, she put down the gun to accept the plushie.

“Sonya! You’re the absolute coolest! A stone cold killer!” Maryam cheered.

“Thanks, but uh,” she started to whisper, “tone it down a little!”

Shalikova pulled Maryam away from the tent and back into the path.

“Look Sonya, it’s me!”

Maryam half-unbagged the cuttlefish plushie. She pointed at it, and back at herself.

Shalikova looked at the plush. It bore little resemblance, due to the Imbrian disguise.

It was basically a blue blob with a suggestion of tentacles, but it had the silly little head fins.

“I can see it.” Shalikova replied.

Maryam smiled.

“Thank you Sonya! This is already the best day ever!”

“I’m glad.”

“I told you, you’re so strong. You’re like a Katarran warlord!”

“Let’s– let’s not push it– okay?”

“No! We’re gonna push it! Let’s play more games!”

“Okay– That’s not what I–?”

Maryam grabbed Shalikova again and rushed to the next attraction that caught her eye.

There was another tent game nearby that had a long board that sloped against a backing board. On the peak of the board there were several holes that were worth points. Along the length of it, there were obstacles that served to funnel a ball thrown by the player toward the backing board. Each of the obstacles and holes was marked with the points, with the objective being to slide the ball into the center-most of the holes for the most points.

Just like before, there were prizes up on a wall. There were novelty glasses with swirly colored lenses, a very intricate toy Marder-class, a replica vibrocutlass, and a bag of novelty game dice, with a twenty-sided dice out of the bag to demonstrate the contents.

Judging by the prizes, this game was for a younger set than the last one they played.

“Maryam, do you really want any of this stuff?” Sonya asked.

“I want the game dice!” Maryam said. “Good dice are invaluable, Sonya!”

“These don’t look good to me, but I’m not an expert.” Shalikova said.

“You can run all kinds of scams with dice, they’re an amazing survival tool.”

Shalikova blinked. “Um. But you don’t need to run scams anymore. You know?”

“Oh. I suppose that’s true! But I still want them!”

She puffed up her cheeks just a little– couldn’t do it too much without attracting attention.

At Maryam’s petulant insistence, Shalikova walked up to the operator–

“Oh no Sonya! You misunderstood! I want to play this one! I just need some money.”

Shalikova reached into her jacket for the spending money the Captain had given them.

Then she had a sudden and worrying thought.

This game did not look particularly sturdy. It was a bunch of plastic boards and small parts slotted together. For the average carnival-goer that wouldn’t be a problem, but she began to think of what would happen when Maryam’s abnormal strength acted on that ball. Could she just punch through the backing board? Would she send all the obstacles flying?

She stood for a second with her hand picking through a bundle of bills.

Staring at Maryam’s smiling face the entire time without an expression to match.

“Maryam, I think– I should play–”

“Sonya, you shouldn’t get to have all the fun you know.” Maryam said gently.

This is her special day. You just have to deal with the broken plates Sonya Shalikova.

With a sense of looming dread, a defeated Shalikova handed the bills over to Maryam.

Cheering, the not-so-purple marshmallow danced over to the ball game with great vigor.

“How much for a game?”

She put a bill on the counter, and the operator handed her three balls.

Maryam’s face lit up.

Shalikova’s face darkened.

She partially averted her eyes.

“Here I go! Cuttle-shoot!”

From the shadow at the edge of her eyes, Shalikova could tell Maryam had reared up to throw the ball– but the motion that resulted was much less aggressive-sounding than she imagined. In place of the raucous crash she was expecting, Shalikova heard rubber sliding on textured plastic. There was a soft thud and a chunky noise–

–and then the game board made a happy, chirpy noise.

Shalikova turned to look and saw nothing had been destroyed.

Maryam had simply put a ball into the center-most hole on her first try.

“Lucky girl eh? Pick a prize and give me those back.”

Like the other proprietor, the vendor for this game moved to quickly cut Maryam off.

He quickly handed her the bag of dice she wanted with an awkward grimace.

Maryam pocketed them with a smile and prompted Shalikova to walk away with her.

“Sonya, I can already spot my next target!” She declared happily.

Across the bend from the ball-throwing booth there was a test of strength game set up on a cleared patch of festival ground. It constituted a gaudily decorated pressure plate attached to an LED tower that would light up when the player struck the plate with a mallet in order to measure the strength of the player. Shalikova had little to fear with this one.

Everything was digital, the mallet head looked like rubber rather than metal, the pressure plate was a thick and pretty solid-looking object, and there did not seem to be any moving parts. It seemed unlikely Maryam’s strength could physically destroy the equipment.

Next to the play space, there was a set of plastic shelves with prizes.

Maryam quickly honed in on a pair of sunglasses with big blue lenses and a sleek frame.

“After I win those, we’ll match, Sonya!” She declared happily.

Shalikova stepped aside, simply relieved that there wasn’t an obvious problem for now.

Seemingly amused at a slight-looking girl trying her luck with the game, the proprietor took Maryam’s money and watched attentively from the side, chuckling as Maryam bent down, picked up the mallet and raised it. He must have thought it would be easy money.

Then the magic that was Maryam came into play. Shalikova felt the air rush as Maryam threw everything she had into a titanic swing, smashing the pressure plate such that it made a sound like a gong, and sent a vibration into the earth that stirred up Shalikova’s feet. The proprietor must have felt it too because he reacted like he wanted to jump away.

On the LED tower, the display lit up with a red NaN at the very top.

From Shalikova’s vantage, there was a hairline crack on the side of the pressure plate.

Thankfully, the proprietor was standing opposite them, so he didn’t see it at first.

Having borne witness to Maryam’s brutal power, he rushed to get the prize she wanted.

“Take it and go.” He said sternly.

Shalikova urged Maryam not to complain.

She put the sunglasses on Maryam’s nose and pushed her away into the crowd.

Putting as much walking distance between herself and that proprietor as she could.

Meanwhile, Maryam’s cheeks puffed up to a somewhat reasonable extent for an Imbrian.

Wearing the sunglasses, her consternation looked even more silly.

“Hmph! Hmph! Sonya, it’s not fair! We could have won a lot more prizes!” She whined.

“Maryam, that’s the point.” Shalikova sighed. “We weren’t supposed to win anything.”

“But that’s unfair!” Maryam cried out, crossing her arms as she walked.

“Uh huh. All the games are rigged Maryam. We won because we’re not normal. Normal people just pay to lose. By the way, weren’t you just saying you were a scammer too?”

“Hmph! I’m different from them. I won money with games of chance. It’s– it’s totally different if you get scammed by that. Games of skill are supposed to be fair. It’s not the same!”

“I’m sympathetic because you’re my girlfriend, but the rational part of me is yelling.”

“Sonya–”

Maryam stopped Shalikova in the middle of the street.

Her eyes narrowed, her gaze hard.

“Sonya. What if the food is also a scam?” She said, in a grim tone of voice.

“I don’t know how it could be.” Shalikova said. “It’s not like you can rig food.”

Soon the two of them would discover how it was possible to scam people with food.

Their eyes widening and their faces paling at the tremendous prices on display.

Across a long aisle full of different vendors, there was nothing worth less than 10 marks.

One sausage? 10 marks. A carton of popped corn? 10 marks. One cheese bread? 10 marks.

Aside from the limited selection that Shalikova could eat, the prices were out of control.

“Sonya. Let me handle this.” Maryam said. A mischievous little grin on her face.

“Um.”

Over Shalikova’s monosyllabic and nebulous objection, Maryam skipped toward the little kiosk selling cheese bread for ten marks a piece. With an enormous smile she waited for her turn in a small line of people. The vendor was already prepared with a piece of cheese bread in a wrapper when Maryam’s turn came up, and was already holding their hand out to collect the ten marks. Maryam, however, had her hands behind her back. Casting glances about herself. There was no one behind her in line except for Shalikova who had followed her.

“How about you give a discount for Kreuzung station’s biggest cutie?” Maryam asked.

Shalikova felt a shiver running down her back and across the lengths of her limbs.

In an instant, her eyes glowed with the power of psionics.

She heard a voice whisper in her mind; or perhaps, she just knew something was happening.

Molecular Control.

From Maryam, a colored cloud seemed to waft toward the vendor, like a visible breeze.

Green and blue in equal amounts, at first, but the blue quickly overwhelmed.

And the vendor’s own blue, green and slightly yellow aura completely shifted as well.

Maryam and the vendor held gazes for a few seconds, before the vendor’s apathetic expression became a smile almost as comically pleasant as Maryam’s. They leaned over to hand Maryam the cheese bread they were already holding and retracted the hand with which they meant to collect payment. Instead, they reached for a second cheese bread in the oven in which they were cooked. With seemingly great pleasure, they wrapped the bread, and handed it to Maryam as well. All the while, their aura looked shiny and serene.

“Of course, miss! Cute couples gets free bread around here! Have a wonderful outing!”

Shalikova blinked with confusion as the vendor reached out to hand her a cheese bread.

Maryam made a cutesy gesture, making a V with her fingers, and turned around.

“Alright Sonya! Let’s eat and go somewhere!” Maryam cheered.

Shalikova glanced at the vendor and back at Maryam.

“Right.” She said. “Maryam. Follow me.”

“Oh– Okay Sonya.”

Her voice trembled. She definitely noticed the shift in Shalikova’s attitude.

But she wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t helpful to be angry about it. Shalikova felt something else.

On the edges of the module space, red plastic fences had been set up to prevent anyone from accessing the wall panels, which were projecting the same colorful horizon and sky as the rest of the module and looked like invisible walls surrounding the carnival space. There were no vendors here, just plain floor with false turf, and there were a few perfunctory tables stood up so people leaving the crowd could sit around in the empty space.

There were a few people there, but it was the emptiest place in the module nonetheless. Shalikova took Maryam there and stood a few dozen meters from the nearest visitors. They had eaten their ill-gotten cheese breads on the way. Shalikova’s heart pounded.

“Maryam.”

Shalikova reached out and grabbed hold of Maryam’s two hands.

Maryam’s face turned slowly redder. She averted her gaze a little.

“Sonya–?”

Shalikova bent forward and put her forehead gently on Maryam’s own.

Truly hoping Maryam would understand her. She could not hold back her words any longer.

“You don’t have to do that kind of stuff anymore.” She said, whispering close to Maryam, brow to brow and nose to nose. “You don’t have to use your powers or the skills you picked up on the street to steal from people. Even if they’re being unreasonable– it doesn’t matter. Please rely on me, Maryam. Don’t take advantage of people anymore like you did to that vendor. I don’t like it– and you don’t need to do it. I don’t blame you– but please stop.”

“Sonya– I– I’m sorry– I thought you must have hated me now.” Maryam whimpered.

“I don’t hate you.” Shalikova said. “I’d never hate you at the drop of a hat like that.”

Maryam sniffled. “I’m sorry. I’ve been hiding things from you– like that power–”

Shalikova could feel the contrition in Maryam’s voice, but it was not contrition she sought.

“Maryam, I don’t need to know everything. People can’t know everything about each other. I am not asking you to come clean with anything or to explain everything. I trust you, I want to trust your judgment. I trust that you will understand me now and understand what I want. Please don’t use your powers to manipulate innocent people. You have a support network now– and you have me. You have me, and you have your dreams. I will help you realize your dream, Maryam, but as part of that, you have to stop abusing your gifts.”

She lifted her forehead from Maryam’s and looked her in the eyes.

Not with sternness or conviction, but gently, with love. She loved Maryam so much.

Maryam was a sweet girl who had a hurt in her that had yet to heal. She wanted to help her.

She squeezed Maryam’s hands more firmly. “No more ‘scams’ okay? Promise?”

Maryam smiled, weeping, and nodded her head. “Yes, Sonya. Thank you.”

Shalikova leaned forward again, and lifted one hand from Maryam’s.

With those fingers, she tipped Maryam’s chin up just a bit. She kissed her.

Gently but without hesitation. Communicating her feelings and convictions.

“I love you, Maryam!” Shalikova said, raising her voice right in Maryam’s face, much to the latter’s surprise. “I know we’ve only been together for a bit now, but I’m really serious!”

“Sonya– you don’t have to shout.” Maryam said, chuckling at Shalikova’s passion.

“I know! But I feel like if I don’t say it loud enough, it’ll sound unserious!”

“Oh trust me, Sonya, it’s very obvious when you are being serious!” Maryam said.

Shalikova started to feel a little silly again. But Maryam’s laughter was worth it.

The two of them stood off to the side of the carnival for a bit, holding hands and hovering in each other’s space. Leaning their heads into each other, sighing together. It was just a little bit awkward, but Shalikova could feel the warmth of Maryam’s gentle affection throughout. Maryam was scared Shalikova would hate her; but Shalikova was also scared Maryam would react badly to being essentially scolded by her girlfriend.

Their love weathered the stiff breeze, however.

“I guess you do have that ‘King’s Gaze’ gift after all, don’t you?” Shalikova said.

“No, I actually don’t. What you saw is a special trick.” Maryam said.

“Maybe I’ll ask you to teach it to me someday. I need to get stronger.” Shalikova said.

“Ah– that one can’t be taught. But I’ll teach you everything else– I promise!”

“Yeah. I’ll need it if I’m going to help you reveal the truth of psionics to the world.”

Shalikova said it off-handedly, but the words made Maryam cling even closer to her.

“Thank you, Sonya. I’m lucky to have you.” Maryam said.

“I’ve never been so lucky with my life as when I met you.” Shalikova replied.

It felt corny to say, but it was also how she felt, and there would be no better time to say it.

Hand in loving hand, they made their way back to the carnival.

Because of that love, Shalikova would not stand letting Maryam’s special day end so early.

“We can do anything you want. Play more games, eat more food. I’ve got the marks.”

Maryam smiled and squeezed Shalikova’s hand.

“It’s already been a perfect day, because I’ve been with you, Sonya.” Maryam said.

Shalikova smiled and averted her gaze, just a bit embarrassed.

“But– There is something I’d like to do. Let’s ride those spinny cups!”

With a bright and innocent smile, she pointed at a ride at the end of the street.

Cup-shaped couples’ vehicles attached to a broad spinning base, with each cup also spun on its own axis, for twice as much intimidatingly kinetic spinning action on its occupants.

It was a stunning chimeric blur of a machine.

Shalikova felt her stomach churn.

“Of course, Maryam. Anything for you.”

Though she would come to regret the consequences, today, everything was for Maryam.


Commence Operation “Bottled Ship.”

Murati grinned a little to herself with unflagging confidence.

Meticulous plans had been laid; now it was time to pay them off with flawless execution.

“After you, madam.” Murati said, holding a door open for her vibrantly-dressed companion.

“Oh ho! Look at you– in full hubby mode tonight. I’m a lucky gal!”

“You’ll see just how lucky, Karuniya.”

Everything had been accounted for. Everything was in her total operational control.

Karuniya would dance upon the tips of Murati’s fingers until she was sick of the pleasure.

For this date, the most crucial factor to begin was to choose the venue.

In this case, Murati had searched high and low to find something to Karuniya’s taste.

Her face lit up with a radiant smile as she realized where she was.

“Oh! It’s an aquarium? I’m so surprised– I had no idea this station had one!”

Walking through the doors, they found themselves in the middle of an atrium connecting many seemingly massive containment chambers to a series of a walkways astride thick glass, by which visitors could behold the exhibits. Vast recreated ocean vistas teemed with life well-lit enough for the visitors to enjoy, with carefully considered biomes and species pairings. However those exhibits themselves were quite special– certainly, Kreuzung itself did not have the space to host all of the entities in these grand spaces by itself.

Murati led Karuniya straight ahead and demonstrated the illusion on the glass.

When her hand touched it, the exhibit was revealed to be an LCD display, and a menu appeared that allowed for the perspective of the glass to be shifted in a small window just for her and Karuniya– so that it would not disturb the broader view that all of the guests received. Upon seeing the trick play out, Karuniya laughed to herself.

“Of course they wouldn’t have the animals here, there’s no space. This is pretty clever though. But where are they broadcasting these animals from?” She asked.

“Thuringia Research Complex.” Murati said. “It’s apparently a big deal.”

“Well, let us judge the scope of their collection then.” Karuniya said.

“Anything you want to see first?” Murati asked.

“As a matter of fact, I’d love to see what kinds of jellyfish they have.” Karuniya replied.

“Jellyfish, huh? Well, you’ll be pleased by the variety, judging by the ads I saw.”

Murati reached out her arm, so that Karuniya could hook around it.

“My, my, you’re so gentlemanly today.” Karuniya said, taking ‘hubby’s’ arm with a grin.

“Just for tonight, I’m making every possible effort.” Murati said, grinning herself.

Both of them had donned their best set of clothes for the date.

It was the same pair of outfits they had worn once before; their ‘date’ back in Thassal. Owing to events best left unremembered, the two of them had not gotten to debut these outfits in public back then– though they had certainly made an impression on each other.

Now, however, they lit up the halls of the digital aquarium.

Murati wore a slick button-down shirt with bronze cuffs and a fit so flattering to Murati’s lean body it must have looked as if it was tailored for her, and not picked out of a rack at a station plaza in the Union. She wore it just how Karuniya had once advised her, tucked in and with a few of the top buttons undone. Because the shirt was white, there was a tantalizing impression of Murati’s black brassiere beneath. Besides the shirt, she had put on a tight pair of pants that had also once caught Karuniya’s eye, along with black shoes. To finish her look she took an extra effort in grooming herself, washing and styling her short, dark hair and applying a hint of borrowed lip gloss and skin toner to make her face look more special.

Karuniya had once called her tall, dark and handsome when she first tried out this look.

That affirmation accounted for a significant boost to Murati’s confidence on this date.

Another force multiplier, however, was the absolute desire Karuniya’s look inspired in her.

With a woman like this on her arm, Murati could have never let herself fall short.

Under the bright white lights of the aquarium’s atrium and in the connecting halls of the exhibits, Karuniya was like a techwear runway model. Most striking was the off-shoulder crop top with translucent sleeves, effectively bearing Karuniya’s shoulders and some of her neck and collarbone, because the leotard she wore beneath cut at the upper chest.

High-leg stockings and a short skirt with intricate hip cutouts and leg slits, of the same material as the top, finished off the look, showing off several spots of Karuniya’s perfect, honey-colored skin. Both the top and skirt clung to her figure perfectly, highlighting the smooth and plentiful curve of her hips and chest. Her hair was collected into a ponytail and had a glittery sheen like tiny constellations playing about the rich dark strands.

Her face was always beautiful– but with a touch of glossy, dark red lipstick and eyeshadow she looked remarkably glamorous and mature. Both her and Karuniya had their selves they wore around the ship, playing around and hurling good-natured teases at one another– one hurling far more than the other. But arm in arm like this, they looked like the married power couple they had not yet been able to be, serious, sexy and clearly into each other.

Seeing her like this made Murati’s heart soar, but she had grown just enough over the few months of their relationship, to be able to wear a conceited grin on her face and play it cool.

No longer would her mind ask the question, ‘do I deserve her’? ‘Can’t she do better’?

Murati didn’t just deserve Karuniya; she desired her with all the little greed she had.

And she would more than make up for the interruptions and miscalculations of the past.

“Have I ever told you your ass looks amazing in those pants?” Karuniya winked.

“I could stand to hear it more often.” Murati said, playing coy.

In silent response, Karuniya grabbed a handful of her hubby’s rear.

Holding hands and clinging close, the pair stopped in front of the screen for the jellyfish exhibit. Unlike some of the other halls, the lights were very dim, only bright enough to keep the visitors from bumping into a few benches laid opposite the screen. In the dark, the only light was provided by the screen and by the wide variety of colored jellies. Hundreds of deep-sea jellyfish streaked across the screen like a storm, their bioluminescence exaggerated by a post-processing effect just enough so that they would provide alternating colors across the faces of the visitors gazing at the great swarm arrayed before them.

“Pop quiz Murati, are jellyfish community organisms or single organisms?”

Karuniya looked at Murati after delivering the question and smiled one of her characteristic little grins. The way the lights played about her face, cast her glossy lips and slightly glittery cheeks in contrast– it was arresting enough to delay Murati’s answer for a moment.

“Single organisms.” Murati said.

“Correct. I thought I could trick you. For your basic biology knowledge, you win a prize.”

Karuniya began to tiptoe and planted a quick little kiss on Murati’s lips.

“Now though, tell me this: how do Jellyfish mate?”

She leaned forward again with a self-satisfied cutesy little look, hands behind her back.

“Sorry Karu, I can’t even imagine them having genitals.” Murati replied with a laugh.

Her fiance’s lips curled into a perverse little expression, and she waved one index finger from side to side in a teasing fashion. “Male jellyfish release clouds of sperm and females release unfertilized eggs, and babies happen from the mess– but in some kinkier species, the sperm will actually travel directly inside the female through her mouth to fertilize her.”

Karuniya licked her lips after delivering her explanation, locking eyes with Murati.

“So, had I gotten it right, would I have won more than a kiss?” Murati asked.

“May~be~” Karuniya replied, in a little sing-song voice.

She gave Murati a smoldering gaze before turning and walking away down the hall.

“I can barely keep up with her sometimes.” Murati muttered to herself, smiling.

From the jellyfish exhibit, Murati imagined Karuniya might want to see some of the more grandiose animals of the collection. She had looked at the catalog and memorized the locations of the exhibits and was ready at a moment’s notice to make suggestions– but Karuniya continued to surprise her with what she was interested in.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise, due to Karuniya’s character and what interested her about the sea in her own profession– but Murati couldn’t help but feel a bit blindsided to be holding her fiance’s hand while looking at manicured algae through a fancy LCD.

Painstakingly recreated in a controlled environment, the “marine forest” exhibition hosted a vast forest of tall yellow-green macro-algae and an underbrush of moss overgrown on the rocky artificial seafloor. Animals lurked the vegetation, like shrimps and small fish.

“Look at that. So much primary production!” Karuniya declared cheerfully.

“Primary production?” Murati asked.

“Algaea are able to capture chemical energy from the environment.” Karuniya replied. “In essence, they create the prerequisites for a food chain. All they need is whatever amount of sunlight can penetrate the surface of the water, and the right chemical balance. But smaller animals can feed on them, and those animals feed larger predators, and so on.”

She spread out her arms as if she wanted to embrace the algae in the tanks.

“You’re looking at life itself, Murati! An environment that has primary production is one that is still sustaining life. Our world is not so dead after all, is it? Maybe it’s not in the best shape for us to live in, but as long as algae grows in the photic zone, life will go on.”

Rather than say something sarcastic or contrarian in return, Murati simply looked at the algae and tried to quietly imagine that chain of living. Algaea begot as if from nothing, feeding the bottom dwellers that would be eaten by free floating fish. Fish eaten by whales, sharks, and even leviathans. Insuring that something with a nervous system continued to roam the world, even as humans killed each other hundreds of meters farther below.

She smiled at Karuniya’s girlish enthusiasm and her optimism.

Even if she didn’t quite share it– to Murati, there was no point if humans didn’t live too.

To Murati, humans were life. However wrong it may have been– she put humans first.

“Did I successfully troll you by placing animal life over human life?” Karuniya asked.

“Complete failure. Not mad at all.” Murati said, smiling placidly.

“Darn. You’ve actually bettered as a person. That sucks.”

“Actually, you were just so cute delivering your speech.”

Both of them laughed in unison before moving on from the macroalgal forest.

“Alright, you must be going nuts from all this oceanography crap, let’s see a big shark!”

“I’ll never get tired of your ‘oceanography crap’ Karu, I mean it.”

“Ah hah, then let’s go see some dolphins! They’re awful little guys!”

“Unfortunately, there is no dolphin exhibit.”

“Aww. That’s too bad! I could’ve told you all kinds of horror stories.”

“Really? Horror stories about dolphins?”

“Oh ho! You have no idea!”

Karuniya raised a hand to cover her laughing mouth, narrowing her eyes in a sly expression.

Murati remained ignorant of whatever Karuniya was mugging at, however.

Despite Karuniya’s disappointment at the lack of dolphins, she was enthusiastic during their visits to several other exhibits. Thuringia had built quite a collection of habitats, including an abyssal exhibit in a fully dark hall where eerie bioluminescent fish roamed, a bit too close to home; a school of colorful tropical fish in a well-lit habitat without predators; a tank that was home to a vast blue whale, though Karuniya noted it was cruel for the whale to be alone, even if it was for the scientific observation of humans; and a tank of various crustaceans with gleaming shells; and a small sunken vessel overgrown with barnacles and other creatures.

“Crustaceans are like nature’s Diver mecha.” Karuniya declared confidently.

“What? Really?” Murati asked, swayed and drawn in by her tone. “How so?”

Karuniya cracked her same grin once again.

“I was just jerking your chain. Totally meaningless and random thing.”

“Maybe I could stand to be more frigid to you.”

“But I love this Murati who is trying sooooo hard!”

Karuniya squeezed close against Murati’s chest as if trying to nuzzle her.

Murati averted her gaze, slightly embarrassed. Was it that obvious?

But she really wanted to succeed.

Throughout, Murati carefully studied Karuniya’s responses and expressions.

Everything seemed to be going well. Her fiancé was still seemingly engaged and happy.

Murati neared the end of the first phase of the operation.

“Let me lead the way now. There’s something I want to show you.” Murati said.

“Oh? Exciting~ is it your favorite fish, Murati?”

“You’ll see.”

It was only tangentially related to fish, but Murati was counting on the spectacle of it.

And also on Karu having built up some appetite over the course of the night.

Rather than a food court or vending machines or any other sort of cheap and quick meal, the Kreuzung Aquarium had a bespoke high concept restaurant inside its premises and offered a ‘dining experience’ for two. During planning, Murati had feared that finding a nice place to take Karuniya to eat would be difficult because of their diet, but the Aquarium was a step ahead. They offered a ‘special nature-friendly set’ for that did not have meat or seafood and instead promised a plant-based four course menu.

It had been a bit pricey, but Murati managed to scratch together the additional budget needed in Imperial marks because Valya Lebedova was disinterested in going out and spending their shore leave funds; and because Aiden Ahwalia was serving a punishment and would not be allowed to spend his own.

With Valya’s blessing, Murati made reservations.

“After you, madam.” Murati said, leading Karuniya into the dining venue.

There was a very small lobby, only large enough for a front desk, that led into a hallway full of doors. Everything was dimly lit. At the desk, a hostess confirmed their names and reservation and led them into a room in the hall. Inside the room there was a small table and two chairs, surrounded by undecorated walls that were very close and a rather low ceiling– everything was exceptionally tight. Karuniya looked amused by the whole thing, it must have seemed ridiculous to her. When they sat down, her eyes began to scan around the room for any sign of what the gimmick was. She did not seem to find it at first glance.

“Since you ordered a set dinner menu, we will bring you the courses, starting with aperitifs. What kind of environment would you like to enjoy today?” asked the hostess.

“Whichever you think would suit the evening.” Murati replied.

Smiling, the hostess left the room, and the door shut.

Karuniya chuckled again. “Is this a joke? A reservation for eating in a dim metal box?”

“Just wait.” Murati said.

Outside, the hostess must have been inputting something for the room.

About a minute after she left, the walls of the room slowly brightened.

First they took on a variety of dark blues and greens.

Streams of bubbles played about the walls and ceiling. As if rising out of the depths, the projections on the floor, ceiling and roof all began to lighten. Beneath the couple, a bank of sand came into view. Above them, rays of sunlight penetrated the bright blue foaming surface of the water. Around them, on the walls, schools of fish in all colors and sizes flitted from wall to wall like a storm of bodies. Karuniya smiled and covered her mouth, as if embarrassed at how surprised and delighted she was by the illusion of the room.

Their table was now suspended in the middle of a simulated ocean.

Certainly no camera could safely capture a near-shore sandbank and all the shallow water life that existed there, but something like a predictive imager could be programmed to display a complex illusion like this one. Every fish had its own organic and variable routine, and because the graphics were not being rendered in real time from acoustic data, there was not the sort of dramatic visual noise one would get from a ship’s predictive view. Everything was rendered convincingly enough for the perspective of the diners. Seagrass and kelp dotted the landscape, there were little crabs in the sand below, and larger animals occasionally swept through the landscape as well, disturbing the many schools of fish.

“Murati I was skeptical, but this is so amazing! I don’t even know what to focus on!”

“Right? The hostess really picked an amazing environment for us.”

“It’s almost like being in a Diver, but you know, in much nicer waters.”

“And with far better cameras.” Murati added, laughing a little at the idea.

Murati knew what she was focusing her eyes on.

Not on any fish, but the woman across from her, face glowing gently as the light alternated across her features, smiling ear to ear, a girlish joy overtaking her as her eyes tracked the simulated fish and scanned the blue near-shore horizon. She was staggeringly beautiful. Being with her– more than anything, it gave Murati hope for life.

If the world really was dying, she could have withstood the end of it at this woman’s side.

But it made her fight for the remainder of the world they had, with all of her strength.

For a world where Karuniya’s dreams and ambitions could be realized.

Murati reached across the table and took one of Karuniya’s hands in both of hers.

Karuniya looked down from the fish she had been tracking.

“Murati, thank you. You didn’t have to go to these lengths, but I truly appreciate it.”

She lifted her other hand from the table and stroked Murati’s hands as well.

“You deserve to indulge every so often. We don’t know when we’ll get a chance again.”

“This reminds me of our first date.” Karuniya said. “That restaurant, back home.”

She spoke euphemistically, she couldn’t say ‘Mt. Raja’ but Murati remembered perfectly.

“That’s precisely why I wanted to have a bougie dinner date.” Murati replied.

She lifted the hand she had taken closer and kissed the back of it.

Karuniya looked, for once, to have a bit of a girlish blush on her cheeks.

After the spectacle, the food began to come in.

It was no longer the highlight of the evening having been shown up quite thoroughly by the ingenuity of the venue, but it was still pleasant. Cucumber and seaweed salad with puffed rice “coral” crackers, wheat gluten “scallops” in a savory butter sauce, heart of palm and chickpea “crab cakes,” and a “sea foam” ice cream dessert. It was all quite cute, the portions were decent, and the tastes were well considered. It helped that there was a bottle of red wine with the dinner set that complimented the meal and the evening well.

Eating their imitation seafood courses in the middle of imitation sea life.

“To simulation!” Karuniya cheered, wine glass in hand.

Murati laughed and lifted her glass to Karuniya’s own.

And with that, the merry-making portion of the operation was fulfilled.

Just as they had entered the Aquarium arm in arm, with Murati dutifully opening the doors for her fiancé, they finished their dinner course, saw all they desired to see, and as it was getting late in the evening, bid farewell, with Murati now holding the doors for a tired Karuniya. Arm in arm again, they left the Atrium and waited at the elevator bank for a ride back to their floor. It was time to retire back to the ship until their next journey.

“I had a fantastic time, Murati.” Karuniya said, settling against her hubby on a bench.

“Ah, but there’s still evening to go, mademoiselle.” Murati said, putting on airs.

“Yes, but I could use a good lie-down.” Karuniya said gently.

You’ll lie down, don’t worry. Murati laughed internally. It was time for the finale.

Some might have thought it uncharacteristic of her– but Murati could be rather lascivious.

Like any woman, she had desires, fantasies; she could be aggressive. She liked to top!

When the mood was just right, when she had Karuniya right where she wanted her–

Well.

Tonight, she had expertly crafted the mood; and Karuniya was clearly asking for it.

They made their way quietly back to Alcor Steelworks.

That night, Kreuzung was just a bit chilly, for reasons known only to the temperature control authority, but it made Karuniya cling closer to Murati as they walked. Murati hooked an arm around her and smiled. She led her fiancé, who though not drunk was clearly a little bit drowsy from the food and drink, up into the Brigand. Off to one side of the hangar, Murati could see the pair of security officers Zhu Lian and Klara Van Der Smidse playing cards to pass the time. They cast a glance at the couple climbing a ladder through the deployment chutes, and then returned to their game. Murati led Karuniya to the lifts.

At the door to their room, Karuniya yawned. She opened the door and stepped in.

Murati glanced about herself.

The hallway down the officer’s quarters was completely empty.

Every door was shut, and nobody was making a sound. Only the hum of the ventilation.

Recalling how the night of their first date had gone, Murati stepped in behind Karuniya.

She walked close to her fiancé, who was about to sit down on the bed–

And struck the wall with her palm, her arm crossing over Karuniya’s shoulder.

Murati leaning into her with a grin on her face and savoring her fiancé’s surprise.

“Oh! You startled–” Karuniya’s eyes met Murati’s own. Realization dawned on her face.

“I told you the night wasn’t over yet, didn’t I?” Murati said, with a grin.

“Ah ha, I see. You’re feeling frisky. Did you manage to hold an erection?” Karuniya whispered.

She raised a hand to stroke Murati’s cheek.

Murati took it into her own and pulled it down gently.

“Let me show you.” Murati said.

Her words came out of her lips almost like a demand.

“Yes. I’m in your hands.” Karuniya said, sounding a little surprised.

Without another word–

Murati suddenly and brusquely pushed herself onto the bed on top of Karuniya.

Never once breaking eye contact as she pushed her down with one hand to the shoulder.

While the other lifted Karuniya’s skirt–

“Murati–!”

A delectably surprised little expression appeared on Karuniya’s face.

With expert precision, Murati pulled her in by the hips until she was closer to her crotch.

Looming over with Karuniya’s legs spread around her, Murati lowered her head and blew a warm breath directly behind Karuniya’s ear that made her flinch. She was sensitive here. Murati bit on Karuniya’s ear lobe, kissed the side of her neck, nuzzled her shoulder. All the while pulling up her dress and sliding her fingers beneath the leotard she had worn under it. Those fingers lingered on her skin but did not try to slip off her clothes, not yet.

As if to demonstrate; this is what will become of you.

Murati did not even pull down her own pants yet.

She wanted her fiancé to squirm a bit first. For all the teasing she always did.

“You’re already so–!”

An excited little murmur escaped Karuniya’s quivering lips.

“Keep your peace until there’s a reason to yell.” Murati whispered in her ear.

Her fingers traced the soft, pliable skin just below Karuniya’s belly and above her groin, kneading and grazing, gliding further down, peering between her thighs and back up close to her belly. Sliding under the sides and the front of her thin bodysuit and easily lifting the fabric wherever needed. Crucially, never approaching where Karuniya’s needy clit would get an ounce of satisfaction. It was not time for that yet. Murati savored the shuddering flesh, the gentle reactive pushback of Karu subtly pressing her hips back as Murati teased her soft spots, all her favorite places gleaned from past experiences. She could see Karuniya’s flushed expression, her shut eyes; she could feel her little fits and starts of breath.

“Don’t lose your head yet, Karu. I’m not even inside you.”

Soon as a finger glided over her pussy, her body immediately quivered, head to curled toes.

Her hands which had lain at her sides now squeezed the bed. Her chest lifted involuntarily.

Transferring her emotions like a wave into Murati’s own body, pressed atop hers.

Murati’s fingers toying with her like a device. Flick the switch and feel the heat build.

Being in control was intoxicating for Murati.

Her head rushed with the feeling of Karuniya seized in pleasure, being only hers.

She felt it from the tips of her fingers to the stirring length of her dick.

That catharsis which only came with a successful encirclement, with a grand plan.

They had already negotiated before, already explored, already stumbled.

Theirs was a matured love now; and Murati savored the ripe fruit.

They weren’t in Mt. Raja, they weren’t in Thassal; they had come a ways now.

“I’ll give you what you need. I know you inside and out now.”

For a few moments, Murati lifted the hand that was moving between Karuniya’s legs.

Her reach and position emphasized her taller size.

All of her fiancé’s body lay within her lustful grasp. Tracing the leotard, across Karuniya’s belly and up to her ample, perfectly shaped breasts, squeezed beneath her crop top. Hooking her fingers between fabric and flesh, pulling down the leotard slowly to reveal more of her chest, outlined by glistening sweat in the room’s dim light.

Karuniya lifted her back just a bit to assist as Murati pulled the leotard off her hips and down her legs. Finally the underwear came off, lovingly peeled and then carelessly discarded.

“Now, the rest.” Murati ordered.

With a blissful look on her face, Karuniya lifted her top off and cast to the floor beside the bed. She hooked a finger between her skirt and hip and Murati helped her pull it off the rest of the way. Joining her crop top and underwear on the floor. A glistening honey-amber jewel, a treasure of flesh, Karuniya laid sweaty, flushed, quivering gently under the press of Murati’s clothed body. Every fold, every rise and fall in the contours of her– all laid bare.

“Are you ready?” She whispered.

Karuniya shut her eyes and held a little smile, lips quivering with the rest of her.

Murati raised herself just enough to behold her fiancé’s body in its lusty majesty.

Quickly, hungrily, she descended on her once more.

Murati’s lips moved from Karuniya’s ear, neck and jaw, down to her chest.

Feeling Karuniya’s heartbeat through the teeth gently biting down on one supple breast–

“Murati! Oh! Jeez–!”

–while her free hand pushed a trimmed fingertip over a soaked, throbbing clit.

“O-o-ohh–!”

Her tone of voice changed completely– she sounded like she was melting.

Eyes shut, legs trying to tighten and failing with Murati in the way, kicking aimlessly.

Hands ripping into the bedsheets. Chest pounding amid the heat.

Murati’s lips kneaded the tips of her breasts; her fingers glided between her legs.

“Mmm–! Ugh–!”

She was so noisy, and her squirming ever more violent, but under control.

Using her weight and position, Murati kept her pinned and she loved every second.

Karuniya was a screamer, a kicker, bucking hips and jerking arms and Murati loved it.

Her intensity increased to match. Strumming Karu’s clit, sucking on her neck, pushing her.

When Karu threw her hips up at Murati, she felt it directly on her bulging dick.

“Murati–! Mura–! Mu–!”

An explosion of wimpering and moaning, a feast for the ears.

Then–

A sudden, surprising calm before the expected climax.

Karuniya opened her eyes slowly, lifted her head to look, eyes clearly hazy.

Breathing heavy, sweating hard. Barely able to move with intention.

Murati slowly pulled back, until her body was half off the bed.

There was a sly smile on her face as she met her fiancé’s confused expression.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

Stopping every so often to kiss Karuniya’s body, on her breasts, on her navel–

–working her way down, laying a sucking nip of a bite on her mons to presage.

Spreading her legs, holding her by one hip and leg, kissing the inner thigh.

Waiting to be acknowledged–

“Murati– don’t– don’t make me wait–” Karuniya mumbled, trembling where she lay.

“Of course. Anything for you.”

With eyes full of lust that Karuniya could no longer see, Murati fulfilled her wish.

Done with the teasing, she lifted her lips off Karuniya’s thighs and kissed between her legs.

Lips closing, spreading, her tongue pressing–

Karuniya started thrashing the second Murati’s tongue slowly and gently worked her clit.

Maintaining a precise rhythm, keeping control of Karuniya’s hips and legs.

Karuniya bucked against her face, and Murati pressed further as if in challenge.

In her throes Karuniya raised up against the wall and Murati followed her back to bed.

“Ahh– ohh–”

Murati closed her lips again, and Karuniya’s hips bucked gentler, her voice dying.

Her fingers curled and stretched in rhythm, and her breathing began to steady.

Murati could feel the shift, and slowly withdrew her tongue from Karuniya’s pussy.

She lifted herself up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“You’re– so cocky–” Karuniya said, smiling, clearly wiped out.

“I think I have good reason to be.” Murati said, with a confident little shrug.

“Ugh. Fuck. You’re awful. You’ve gotten so good.” Karuniya replied, her breath returning.

Murati bent down nearer to Karuniya again and kissed her, holding her shoulders at first.

Karuniya kissed back with vigor, her tongue drawing out Murati’s own.

She still had a bit of fire in her– good.

In the middle of this passion, Murati started to unzip her pants.

For her, it was difficult to work up to an erection naturally. She wouldn’t let it go to waste.

While they kissed, she pulled her pants down, and started to push Karuniya down again.

“Another go?” Karuniya asked, her barely recovered breath leaving her again.

“You wanted me to have fun also, right?” Murati said.

“I do. Condom?”

“I told you, I prepared everything.”

Murati flashed the little packet from the pockets of her pants before she discarded them.

‘How– should I be facing–”

Without another word, Murati took Karuniya by the hips and guided her around.

Karuniya clumsily followed along, Murati savoring every brush of her throbbing dick on Karuniya’s sweaty, silken skin as they maneuvered around each other. In seconds she had her fiancé face down on the bed. One hand holding her lower belly, just above her still shivering clit; and the other on her hip, gripping tight, by which she again pulled her closer, her ass farther up to Murati’s waist, her head and back just barely straight.

“I don’t know how long I can hold this.” Karuniya replied, weakly supporting herself.

“The pillow princess doth protest too much.” Murati said, adjusting how she held Karuniya.

“Gah– You’re really getting me back for all my cheek, huh?”

“I’m just having fun.”

“Me too.” Karuniya said, with an exasperated little gasp.

Murati lifted Karuniya again, pulled her even closer, and clicked her tongue.

Pushing in, shifting her weight and position so that she could thrust into her.

“Ahh–” Karuniya put her head down against the pillow, her hands scrabbling on the sheets.

Clumsy at first, Murati finally felt like she had the balance, and began to thrust with rhythm.

Delighting in the look of Karu’s hair getting messy, her sweaty back, the way each thrust caused her rear to shake. The way Murati could hold her body so easily and use her so thoroughly, bending over her and lifting up her hips and pulling her in deeper.

Her own vision grew hazy with pleasure, and she could feel the rushing in her groin, the thrill shaking her muscles. She restrained a cry, her heart pounding, bent against Karuniya’s back. Almost falling on top of her, losing her rhythm to short, desperate, hungry strokes.

Murati barely lasted, but by the end, Karuniya looked like she could take no more.

As her dick softened and the wet rubber started to slip off, Murati felt euphoric, satisfied.

“Karu– I love you–”

“I love you– Murati–”

Out of breath, spent, and smiling.

Murati curled up behind Karuniya, crammed side to side in bed, and held her close.

Gently kissing her shoulder and the nape of her neck while they fell asleep together.

Having reached a new peak in their journey together.


Winfreda Kappel had struggled mightily against having her clinic torn up by the sailors in their frenzy to unnecessarily reimagine everything in the ship.

One thing that Alcor Steelworks could not promise them was confidential medical work– because they didn’t even have that for their own employees on their executive campus. She was finally able to impress upon the Captain the need to take care of “Treasure Box Transports’” “employees” in the “Pandora’s Box” and that to do otherwise was to potentially compromise operational security. Her clinic remained open.

She had even seen a few sailors and treated injuries incurred in the process of their frenzied renovations, which she felt vindicated her resistance. However, as usual, she did not see a lot of traffic to the medbay and to her clinic. Syracuse, the security team medic, took it upon herself to deliver medication allotments, in order to have something to do every so often.

A ship was not a place that usually saw frequent health problems.

Soldiering was dangerous work, but it was the chance of death that made it dangerous. Pilots, officers, and sailors were more likely to be killed outright by anything that could routinely injure them in a dangerous situation; or would otherwise go uninjured.

That meant Winfreda had more time to kick back and savor the ship’s ‘medical brandy.’

The Brigand’s doctor may have looked at first glance atypical for her station.

A vibrant woman in the midst of a second bloom; the edges of her eyes and lips just scarcely beginning to attain the majesty of age; with brightly dyed hair in three shades of alternating blue, precise with her makeup; a healthy figure beneath conservative dress, sweater and coat and long skirt and tights. Neither the tidiness and discipline associated with soldiery, nor the warm matronly stereotypes of women in medicine suited her at all.

Upon winning her rights in the Union’s revolution, she immediately underwent hormone therapy, dyed her hair, put on loud music and prescribed liberation every day.

Somehow, she drew the eyes of Parvati Nagavanshi one fateful day.

“My mission needs a doctor who has been through hell and back, and still looks in the mirror and wants to live her life each day. It is too easy for someone in your profession to be ground down, broken to merely fulfilling their duties. Such people will collapse under what I am asking. But I know you won’t. Because you lived the Revolution; and now look at you.”

She still remembered Nagavanshi’s conceited, cruel grin in that dreadful black uniform.

Winfreda couldn’t deny any of that. Begrudgingly.

One curious thing about Nagavanshi is it always felt like she assessed the people around her even better than those people assessed themselves, or maybe even could assess themselves. That made her deadly effective at her job, frightening to hear from, and odious to speak to.

Despite that, Winfreda was not exactly thrilled and tried to assert her right not to–

“Let it be noted I tried, and wanted, to be nice. I can be difficult.” Nagavanshi had said.

It was resoundingly unfair, but ultimately, to avoid the resurfacing of certain problems that Winfreda had made for herself in her youthful, liberated social life in the young Union, she took Nagavanshi’s offer. Now she was sailing the high seas, was frequently endangered, and had to double as counselor to a bunch of hot-shots and fools nearly half her age.

At least she enjoyed running a clinic again.

Maybe when she came back– she would actually be ready to settle down. Big maybe.

“My, my, everyone’s going to be having fun, huh?” Winfreda said, grinning to herself.

She noticed one of the “No Judgment Dispensers” she had set up so the crew could self-serve condoms, had gone from full to nearly empty almost overnight. She realized a ton of shore leave dates must have been approved by the Captain. Dutifully, she refilled the dispenser when nobody was paying attention to it.

She saluted in spirit all the folks soon to be getting lucky.

“Hmm. I wonder if Minardo or Lebedova might be down.” Winfreda said, giggling.

Her, Lebedova and Minardo, and sometimes Marina, were called “the elder stateswomen” of the Brigand by a cadre of chirpy girls who also somehow concocted the idea that Shalikova, Nakara, Geninov and Al-Shahouh Raisanen-Morningsun were the “Four Princes.” Korabiskaya was spared the gossip largely because the girls were afraid of a reprimand; and Winfreda believed the only thing keeping al-Shajara from the gossip was that her flamboyance precluded any mystery. She was simply too well-known a flirt for those girls’ imagination.

But there was some truth to it in Minardo and Lebedova’s case, in Winfreda’s opinion.

Those two were both quite suited to her taste and seemed like they would be mature about casual sex. Certainly more so than any younger women. They were both flirty and passionate about their work, and had great bodies– she could see why the sailor girls wanted some of that. As for herself, of course, she needed no explanation. Despite her many charms, however, it had been a while since Winfreda had gotten to have sex herself. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to ask and see if her fellow “stateswomen” were equally pent up as she. At worst they would say no, and at best, maybe she could rope the both of them at once.

Now that would be quite a sight and a sound indeed.

However, where the little faction intersected with Marina–

She was still turning that one over in her head.

Mind filling with a slew of colorful delusions, Winfreda cheerfully ambled back to her clinic to find someone waiting for her in the middle of the room.

A patient; and a most uncommon visitor as well. She was a squirrely one even for regular health checkups. Her figure and stature on the petite side; a completely deadpan expression on a pretty young face; tawny brown hair spun into a distinctive spiraling ponytail; and her characteristic antennae, the size of a human hand and installed where her ears should be, grey and solid with a series of LEDs to indicate statuses.

Braya Zachikova.

“Oh, Zachikova! Have you finally decided to stop running away from a blood draw?”

“Funny you mention blood. Mine’s getting a bit thin. I want a scrip for blood pills.”

“Huh?”

Winfreda stared at Zachikova, who made no expression in response.

“Your blood is thin? How did you come to this conclusion? What are your symptoms?”

“I’m tired and grumpy. If you’ll just hand me some pills real quick I’ll be on my way.”

Winfreda put her hands on her hips and stood her ground.

Putting on a surly face, Zachikova averted her eyes.

“Zachikova, I’m sorry, but this isn’t a dispensary. I won’t give you any drugs without first knowing what effect they may have on you! If you’re feeling ill, I insist on running tests. You’ve ducked out of having even a single health checkup, and I’ve been worried this would be the result. We will get you help, the proper help, I promise– once we can pinpoint your actual condition.”

“Isn’t this supposed to be an informed consent clinic?” Zachikova grumbled.

Winfreda sighed loudly.

“Informed consent doesn’t mean you can come here asking for erythropoietin or any other thing entirely on your own whim. Some medicines can be harmful and must be administered after testing. I don’t understand why you are so against it. If you don’t want me to do it, I can get Syracuse to run the tests if it would be more comfortable– hey!”

In the middle of her talking, Zachikova simply turned around and left the room.

“What am I going to do with you?” Winfreda cried out.

She had limited avenues for problems like this.

If it got too serious she would have to tell the Commissar, but that just wasn’t her style. Winfreda hoped that any patient who was reticent about treatment could be sat down and talked to and reasoned with, in the privacy of the clinic, with no one the wiser. But Zachikova was the first time a patient was so vehement about avoiding any formal diagnostic tests, and who was aggressively against any discussion of the matter.

“I hate to say it, but it’ll have to be the Commissar then. I’ll write it down.”

Commissar Aaliyah and Captain Korabiskaya had been busier than ever, and always busy together, but it wasn’t like they were joined at the hip.

She just had to pull the Commissar aside.

While jotting down a note on her digital clipboard, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in! Seat’s open!” Winfreda said.

“Ah, not actually here for my health doc, but thanks.”

Once the door slid open, Winfreda smiled at the sight of Marina McKennedy.

“You know, I was just thinking about you.” Winfreda said, smiling.

“Me too.” Marina replied. She showed a bottle that she was carrying.

“I see where this is going. Are you sure you’re okay with it?” Winfreda asked.

“I’m positive. Aren’t you annoying seeing all the kids running off?”

“Hmm. Ah well– you only live once. That stuff better be nicer than my brandy.”

Marina winked, with a handsome smile. With a fond little sigh, the doctor locked the door.

Perhaps unfortunately, Marina was a woman quite to Winfreda’s taste also.


“Well, ultimately, it wasn’t a lot of trouble huh?”

“There were some low points, but nobody has shot at us, so I consider it a win.”

Captain Korabiskaya and Commissar Bashara glanced at each other, smiled and laughed.

Since their arrival at Kreuzung, the Brigand had been moored at Alcor Steelworks, subject to an extensive and necessary repair and maintenance program (along with the installation of a few new ‘toys’.) In a week and change, the project was essentially completed, thanks to the gargantuan efforts of the sailors, the Brigand’s friends at Solarflare LLC, and Amelia Winn’s under-the-table assistance in macro-stitching entire sections and systems using military blueprints. Most of the exterior was brand new plate, the interior was fully repaired, maintained, and rewired, and they even added a new chair for Erika in the bridge.

“They even made the armor a nicer shade of beige than before!” Ulyana cheered.

“I’d even say it’s more of an olive than a beige now.” Aaliyah replied.

Both of them stood proudly about fifty meters from the work site, beholding the ship.

In a little over three months, this idiosyncratic rustbucket had been through a lot.

Now it awaited its next adventure.

A sword and shield in the duel for the heart of Imbria. Surely it would have months, maybe even years of beatings ahead of it, but it had never been as prepared for them as it was now. Ulyana almost wanted to shed a tear for what it had come to represent for herself. She felt like it was only yesterday when they were still a motley assortment who barely knew each other’s names. Her crew had come together, pulled through when needed, and the Brigand was now not only their redoubt, their weapon– it had also become their home.

“Ah, Captain, Adjutant. I see you are taking in the sight of a job well done?”

Behind Ulyana and Aaliyah approached Euphrates, dressed as always in her blue blazer, waistcoat and pants, her short and messy blue hair combed back like always; at her side, always to be found, was Tigris, in red overalls and a white button-down shirt, her red hair in a ponytail. These were not her lab clothes nor her business clothes– and farther back, Ulyana spotted two containers being hauled by truck from the freight elevator.

“Euphemia?” Ulyana said. They were outside, so she observed Protocol Tokarev.

“Ah, yes.” Euphrates said, waving. “Our business in Kreuzung is also concluded.”

“We’ll be hitching a ride again if that’s okay.” Tigris said. “As payment, I have a bunch of spare parts and additional equipment for the Agni. Murati will love the stuff, I’m sure.”

“You are always welcome aboard.” Aaliyah said. “Your assistance has been crucial.”

“Likewise. We may well have been dead or abducted without you.” Euphrates replied.

“Yeah, the feeling’s mutual. I’ve been missing that bucket of bolts over there anyway.”

Tigris pointed at the Brigand with a grin on her face. Ulyana smiled back.

“Is your destination the same as ours, then?” Ulyana asked.

Euphrates nodded. “Aachen. Just like you, I need to talk to Ganges, about many things.”

“She’s going to be pretty in demand.” Ulyana said.

“For better or worse, Ganges’ ambitions led her to many places.” Euphrates said. “Far be it for me to criticize her for this, I’ll leave that up to you. I’d just like to get a sense of where she intends to go, and whether she has anything to do with our wayward Sovereign. And whether she might assist me in putting things right in one of the places she abandoned.”

“There’s no point speculating.” Tigris said. “We just need to storm into the same room with her and wring her neck for being too cavalier with the people she was responsible for.”

“Nobody is wringing anybody’s neck.” Euphrates declared. “We are just going to talk.”

“After Qote’s disgraceful circus, I almost want to wring Kansal’s neck.” Aaliyah said.

Despite Euphrates’ misgivings, Tigris and Ulyana were prompted to laugh.

For a moment, Tigris and Euphrates joined them in taking in the sight of the Brigand.

“Time feels like it’s moving again.” Euphrates said gently.

Ulyana did not really understand the remark’s significance, nor did Aaliyah.

They simply allowed everyone their own quiet contemplation.

Once they were back on the ship, there was work again in every direction.

Some sailors were lobbying to have a ‘goodbye Kreuzung’ shore leave party, which Ulyana argued against because she didn’t want to have to drag sailors back at the eleventh hour, and because Kreuzung was a racist hellhole not worth remembering whatsoever. There were arguments over where to put Tigris’ spare parts, since the supply pod was meticulously arranged to maximize storage and SF-type cargo crates like Tigris’ did not fit. Ulyana heard all the arguments and then decided to just leave it in a corner of the hangar, secured by magnetic anchors, since the Agni needed access to it. On the bridge, Erika Kairos wanted to talk about meeting with the Rostock and Olga Athanasiou wanted to talk about Divers.

It was not easy being in charge of this home away from home.

But finally, the evening was starting to fall, and they had only hours left of their visit.

Final checks and preparations could wait until the next morning.

Ulyana ordered everyone to rest, no night shifts.

She joined Aaliyah back at their quarters and they had a little celebration of their own.

“This time, exactly and only one drink.” Aaliyah said softly.

“Right.” She recalled the last time, with fondness, but also embarrassment.

Nevertheless, Ulyana poured out their glasses, and they toasted and cheered to each other.

Exchanging gentle gazes. Knowing hearts aware that their own next adventure grew near.

Little did they know that Kreuzung was about to stage a grand festival for them soon.


Arbitrator I turned and looked over her shoulder.

Framed in the dim white light of the Brigand’s corridors through the threshold of the door.

Slender and white-skinned, small horns on her forehead parting her long, white-and-red hair.

Rather than her uniform, she wore her robe of leviathan skin once again.

Behind her, Braya sat on the bed, working on something on her computer.

“Braya, I’m going for a stroll.” Arbitrator I said.

“Okay. Bring me back a coffee from the machine whenever you’re done.” Braya said.

She trusted her enough to let her leave unsupervised.

Assuming perhaps that she would only be confined to the halls of the ship.

This was not a new development– ever since she had taken Braya’s blood, and told her of her ambitions and desires, the surly computer girl she was so fond of had grown to trust her. They were intimate now. Arbitrator I could have hardly imagined it when she first saw Braya’s emotions reverberating within the metal shell she had used to contact her. When she herself was cavorting about the ocean as a beautiful and ignorant Leviathan, running away.

Despite her outward appearance, that aura bore the truth of a scared, hurt, desperate girl.

Yearning to be touched.

Now, Arbitrator I was going to hurt her again, wasn’t she?

“Of course. I’ll even make you my special coffee.” Arbitrator I teased.

“Absolutely no. Just go get a normal coffee from the machine.” Braya grumbled.

With a girlish giggle, Arbitrator I left the room.

As soon as the door closed behind her, that smiling expression on her face darkened.

Melting away into inexpression, with the weight of what she had to do.

Through the nearly empty halls of the Brigand, she walked down to the hangar.

Troubled– until she met another soul, and then she smiled, however briefly.

“Fancying a stroll?”

As always, the Chief of Security was patrolling the halls. Evgenya Akulantova lifted her hat to Arbitrator I, and the Omenseer performed a little curtsy in response. Thankfully, the chief was on her way quickly. She, too, had come to trust their new navigator.

Everyone had come to trust her– and she was about to betray all of their trust.

But it had to be done– or else Braya would not be safe.

None of them would be safe unless she took matters into her own hands.

Her and only her alone. It was her responsibility.

Down in the hangar, Arbitrator I found a vent that she had been spying.

Low to the ground, it allowed water that collected on the hangar to be drained out.

And in this case, it allowed Arbitrator I to soften her body and ooze through.

Like the soft things of jelly that once dwelled deep, deep underground–

Falling from one of the Brigand’s exhausts out onto the concrete floor of Alcor Steelworks.

Recovering her form on the ground, and breaking into a run.

She rushed out from under the ship, and looked straight up into the dark, false sky.

Far, far up above them, she knew she would find Enforcer I and Enforcer III of the Syzygy.

Her eyes turned briefly feral with the thought of them– and then softened.

Filled with tears.

Ripping her eyes from the ship and from the image of Braya in her mind.

She flexed fingers that became black and sharp like knives. Setting off on her grim duty.

For everything she was responsible for; for everything she did not do.

Her kin’s ravenous vengeance could not be allowed to continue.

“For the hominin to be safe– I must kill these monsters. I’m sorry Braya– goodbye.”

Her eyes became lit not with red rings but lined by a purple hexagon.

Feeling the weight of everything she wished she could have kept–

She ascended.

For everything she buried and recovered and could not deny any longer.


Previous ~ Next

Arc 3 Intermissions [III.1]

“The Eclipse Heresy”

Faction: Holy Empire of Solsea

Within the dark blue fog and marine snow, a miraculous cocoon suspended in the water.

Many-colored, silk-spun and hardened as concrete, a perfect teardrop shape.

Inside that cocoon was the most beautiful and perfect nymph.

Pale as foam, so soft and smooth. Her thin body curled up in sleep. Arms resting over her breasts, legs drawn in to her belly. Her red hair gently falling over sloping shoulders.

She was growing. Her wings would burst out of the cocoon someday.

Like twin rainbows rising from the shell. On those wings she would fly away forever.

Leaving behind this dead world.

All she needed was the shelter of her cocoon, and the peace with which to grow.

But one day, greedy hands began to search the exterior of her cocoon for a weakness.

Slipping between the colorful layers of the shell an intruder nestled behind the nymph.

Shadow where she was light; monochrome where she was color; a changeling slender and smoke-grey and long-haired, its body a corrupted mirror of her own, pressing upon her.

Cold fingers laid bloody red scratches on her easily-giving skin. She shivered and grimaced in her sleep. It was as if her shadow had begun to embrace and engulf her. She felt the piercing of teeth on her shoulder tearing her flesh open, and her back arched involuntarily from the pain. Felt the harsh grip of arms around her body, gasping for breath, her slender neck in a vicegrip, her legs unable to kick at her attacker, and a bloodcurdling whisper at her nape–

You can’t escape me now.

Inside the cocoon the nymph screamed, trapped in the violent embrace of the intruder.

No matter how much she struggled, the creature tearing at her could not be shaken.

Held down and tortured as she was, she would never get to spread her wings.


Aubrey Jurgen was lucky to live in the Holy Empire.

This is what she told herself every morning, as she left her room in the lowest tier of the station and took an elevator up three floors to a seafood restaurant in the commercial circle of the Torun station complex. She would put on her apron, try to hold her gut in place by sheer force of will, and braved the backroom of the restaurant to prepare fish.

Hers wasn’t a highly sought after skill. It wasn’t a career. She worked with fish, washed plates, set up stitcher machines and burners and ovens. She washed salt off preserved salted fish, cleaned brine out of pickled fish, and she gutted and cleaned frozen fish.

She did this every day. It was work.

There was always fish. That meant, there was always pay. That meant, there was life.

She had to be happy to be getting paid; had to be.

In the Holy Empire, like everywhere in the Empire, this Aubrey and any Aubrey would be working five or six days on, broken up by sabbath or the occasional holiday. She was working for Imbrian Marks, still used by the Holy See, five hundred of which she earned every two weeks, seven hundred of which went to paying her room, and the rest to food and upkeep.

Aside from the occasional alms, the Holy Empire still expected its lambs to pay the merchant men their due for bread, meat, greens, and the very fish she gutted every day. They still expected the landlords to be paid for rooms. But she was lucky to live in the Holy Empire. Because the Holy Empire wasn’t like everywhere else, she had been told, and she told herself as well, because she had to believe it to live: the Holy Empire was a godly place. It was a righteous and correct place. Rhinea, the Palatine, Buren and Veka, these were godless places of the devil where the soul was forfeit, the body was excoriated, and the mind was depraved.

Working at the seafood restaurant did not forfeit Aubrey’s soul or excoriate her body or deprave her mind; because she lived in the Holy Empire, and so she was one of God’s lambs.

And that God was Solceanos, the great sun that warmly awaited humanity beyond the water.

Solceanos and Solcea ever looking down upon her from above. She was lucky; lucky that God was watching her gut fish. She was lucky to leave in the evening with 40 marks in the pocket.

Out there, she would have been nobody. In The Holy Empire of Solcea, she was God’s lamb.

God’s lambs earned their 40 marks a day and liked it.

Troubled by these thoughts as she stared down another day in the briny, fishy backroom, holding the gutting knife in her hand. She stared at the knife, stared at the fish, stared at her hand, thought deeply dark thoughts, and made the decision to stop doing so. Her body made the decision to put the knife in the fish. One more blessed second in God’s holy kingdom.

But when she stuck the knife in the fish this time, she immediately sensed something wrong.

Soon as it crossed the barrier of the fish’s scaly skin, the blade drew a squirting spray of foul smelling red brine. Foul enough to stand out in a room that permanently smelled like fish and their innards. Aubrey lifted her free arm to her face, covering her mouth with her elbow. Her chest heaved with the immediate desire to spill her own guts. She turned away, but she heard the liquid dribbling onto the ground from the edge of the table. How much was inside?

Overcome with sickness, Aubrey uncharacteristically dropped her tools and sprinted, nearly tripping over her own feet on the wet floor of the dim, cluttered backroom. She ran to the back office, where her manager had been working behind a computer desk. As soon as she crossed the door, the smell on her prompted him to stand up, exclaim, and back away.

Thankfully, they had a strong deodorizer spray in the equipment storage.

“It’s Katov mass.” said the manager, staring at the fish on the board and the mess on the floor. “Good god and all that is holy– it smells horrible. But it’s nothing too unusual.”

He was thankfully not angry at her. Aubrey sighed deeply.

On the board, the fish had completely deflated and flattened out.

As if it had been nothing but a bubble of katov mass wrapped in the skin of a fish.

“If its Schechter salinity value is low enough, it’s not really dangerous to humans.” the manager said. For a brief, terrifying moment, Aubrey thought he might be asking her to feed this to a customer. But he continued, “This one smells too bad though. Throw it out. If you find any like that, you know what to do. Use your best judgment, okay? I trust you with it.”

He patted her on the back and walked away nonchalantly.

Aubrey pushed the nasty Katov fish into the same trash can she used for the guts.

She sprayed down the board, and the floor.

Then she reached into the rack full of fish from which she drew the objects of her work.

Putting down another dead fish on the table, staring at it.

However, the excoriation of poor Aubrey’s senses would not end there.

As she cut one–

-after another

and a third,

fourth,

until she began to wish again to gut herself instead, to be freed of the smell of Katov mass.

And also began to wonder whether she had run afoul of God.


“Bow your heads in supplication! Do you pray every day? You had better start! The Eclipse is soon to fall upon us! When the shadows extend out over the Holy See, the dark angels will slay the wicked! Only those who open themselves to be saved and who resist the greed of the tempters and temptresses will survive! Where will you hide from God’s judgment?”

People stood around the figure, clad in a covering black robe and cloak, surprised not just by the intensity of their voice and the bizarre message– but the very fact of a doomsayer was very rare and strange. The Empire of Solcea was a theocracy where the church had become the primary political organ. Local functionaries like station mayors and regional governors had been replaced by Bishops and Patriarchs, and the church managed all appointments to public office. Those who watched as the doomsayer in the park proclaimed the end of days could only help but wonder if this carried some political meaning against the church.

Solceanos’ teachings did not contain these lines. Solceanity was supposed to be a religion of humility, supplication, alms (and donatives.) It was about living with the world as it was, knowing one’s place, and exalting the God who made it possible for life to continue. In the secular world, a doomsayer was just a doomsayer, but in Solcea, what did it mean?

And what did it mean when the Securitas police approached the doomsayer with batons drawn? What did mean, the onlookers wondered, when they beat him quiet and dragged him away? Somehow, the message stuck in all of their minds. There was a sense of disquiet.

Especially when, the very next day, in the very same park– there were more.

Preaching repentance before the coming of the great Eclipse.

Unfailingly polite as more curious people approached them with questions, or jeers.

Unflinchingly stalwart as the police beat them too.

Soon, the sight became more common. And the confusion began to clear up.

More people saw clearly the coming darkness. And more people sought forgiveness.

Beneath the notice of the closed eyes of the Holy See, a wound had been opened.

And in its spilled blood, there was a spreading contaminant.


The Holy Empire of Solcea had spent the months since its founding in a state of confusing dysfunction. The secular state of Skarsgaard and the Holy See of the Solceanos Church had been in a cold war for much of their living memory, and the church had dreams of what its victory looked like. At its highest echelons, the ascendant Church hierarchy dreamed of a nation that would strictly follow Solceanist creed and subjugate the population with piety.

In reality, the dream of Solcea was a material nightmare replete with very secular problems.

Skarsgaard had already been a state subject to great neglect. Even before his abdication to seek scandal in the court of Prince von Fueller, the former duke Carthus had been uninvolved in the day to day running, and had set no policy agenda for the state. Perhaps in his mind, his late father had set a foundation that could simply be allowed to run, like clockwork– but it was hardly the case. Skarsgaard had become underdeveloped and dependent.

A nation of corrupt bureaucrats captive to regional interests, Skarsgaard was headed for turbulent waters without Rescholdt-Koldt in the north and Khosvgol in the south to fill its markets with goods. The Imbrians had never invested much in the competitiveness of the native industry inherited from the old Gallic Kingdoms. Looking only at the numbers, Skarsgaard had a stable and functional economy. But it was a highly dependent one, that got by on being permissive and deferential to the juggernaut firms of its neighboring states.

Pontiff Millennia had some idea that the nation was troubled. Having been a former heiress to the state, she knew some of her family’s unambitious running of its institutions, and knew that appointments to high office were far from meritocratic; and as Pontiff, she had seen first-hand the people who ran the government, in their dealings with the church. Craven and self-interested, easily swayed by bribes and favors. During the breakup of the ducal states, Pontiff Millennia discovered first-hand how weak the state apparatus of Skarsgaard had become, as businessmen and political lackeys panicked and fled every which way, local branches of exterior enterprises attempted to uproot all their infrastructure back to their home states, and the remainder of the government was utterly paralyzed by the chaos.

Solcea was also militarily weaker than the Vekan Empire, who held a qualitative and quantitative advantage in troops– as well as the Bureni nationalists, whose militias were battle-hardened and experienced in open warfare. Outside of Pontiff Millennia’s closest units, the performance of most of the Solcean military in a war was held suspect. This meant that any ambition of taking the fight to her neighbors right away and simply stealing their vast stocks of resources was a pure fantasy. She would have to walk the middle road.

As a state, Solcea was born brain-dead and bleeding out, but it still clung to its life.

Upon assumption of the newly-declared throne of the Solcean Empire, Millennia used the Papal Guard and remaining Skarsgaard Navy to violently put down capital flight, sicced the police, now renamed Magistratus Securitas, on both the population and on fleeing merchants, and successfully shut the porous borders to Veka and Buren. She appointed administrators from the church to oversee the transition and bureaucratic renewal. Her new state was led by learned men and women who gained experience managing people, projects and funds under the auspice of the church– but not spectacularly qualified for governing.

Still, it was good enough to staunch the bleeding.

But the wound was not closed. It had scabbed over, but the pain of the cut lingered.

Solcea’s economy continued to be a mess, and it became incumbent on a state that still nominally believed in capitalism to insert itself into business to keep goods flowing. Subsidizing agriculture, offering credit to buoy ailing industries, encouraging alms to rally the poor around the churches, offering as much debt relief as a finance industry livid at the state of things would allow. Discussions with Veka and Buren allowed for the reopening of perhaps 30% of their former business in the state, overcoming a cacophonous distrust.

The Holy Empire of Solcea had talked a big game in naming itself and establishing its independence, but now played exclusively soft power. The Holy See supported Solceanos worship and the lambs of God everywhere they resided. They did not wish war on their neighbors and were simply taking the role of protecting the Church and its holy sites, and the Pontiff wished for peace and normalization of relationships with the warring factions.

Because Pontiff Millennia could do nothing else with what she had.

Particularly because, ultimately, like her sibling, she was uninterested in the state.

Millennia quietly began to retreat over the weeks and entrust more of the state’s running to subordinates. As things became difficult and distracting, she more and more saw her mind drift elsewhere. She just needed Solcea and its infrastructure to survive and provide shelter and sustenance. The rest of her journey as a ruler was purely spiritual. If her beliefs bore out, the material consequence of the state would no longer matter. This was merely the cocoon to a beautiful butterfly struggling to be born, to stretch its wings, and leave it all behind.

All the rabble needed to do was cling on for as long as possible.

And that was what they were doing with great difficulty–

until the shadow of something older than the Imbrium itself began to creep into Solcea.


“I can almost see it. I can almost see it. If I could just touch it. Just for a second.”

She mumbled to herself, prostrated in front of a mechanism set upon an altar.

Around her, what was once a room for stocking religious relics, had become home to the purple glow of an eerie machine. An industrial-looking thing, half as tall as the room, glass panels unveiling complex innards. Powerful magnetic fields kept in place a cube of dimly glowing Agarthicite, which, reacting to the field, turned in random intervals to random angles within the containment chamber. Parts of the mechanism containing the fist-size piece of Agarthicite released beads of carbon into the enclosure. These would be stricken by bright purple bolts that lit up the room– and the face of Millennia von Skarsgaard.

She clapped her hands together and stared into the annihilating purple glow.

Had her will been any less, she may have felt dizzy or had her eyesight shot by it.

But her mind was sharpened to a steel edge even as her flesh protested.

Around her gathered bright colors of aura, but these quickly coalesced into a soft, smoke-white aura that thrummed nervously around Millennia’s figure. From this cloak, a single finger of aura stretched between the kneeling Millennia, and as if suspending the instant of destruction, the aura passed through the enclosure to touch the carbon as it annihilated.

In that instant, the world before her eyes flashed.

For a second or two, she had left the dimly lit room in the depths of her palace.

Before her eyes she saw a blue sky as far as she could see. Sparse white clouds hovered over a vast stretch of grassland that rose and fell. Far downhill of her, there was a walled city, and the sea beyond. Smokestacks indicated industry. Millennia could feel the surroundings; humid, green, smelling of the earth. There was life. Insects, birds, small mammals.

This was the paradise that the ocean had not claimed. Its people had not fallen.

A world of hope flitted before her eyes.

She could see it, smell it, feel it, almost touch it–

But she could not stay.

In the instant after fleetingly experiencing this world, she felt as if her head split open.

Her burning, weeping eyes blinked and returned to the old relic chamber.

Her bright, sun-lit world and its blue sky became metal walls and dim purple light.

Pontiff Millennia screamed at the top of her lungs, dug her fingers into her head.

Blood dribbled down her nose until she could taste it on her lips.

She fell on her side and kicked and screamed, not just from the pain but from frustration.

She was there! She had been to another world! Why couldn’t she stay?

Why couldn’t she escape the hopeless prison of this dead planet?

For minutes she struggled until the pain receded and she had shouted herself hoarse.

Then her body went limp with hopelessness for several minutes more.

Until, wordlessly, almost mechanically, she pushed herself back up to her knees.

Clapped her hands back together as if in prayer.

And stared up at the demonic purple ore in the mechanism, her pleading renewed.

Divination was exceedingly difficult. Salvatrice’s visions acted in her dreams, but that wasn’t good enough. Millennia needed to understand the mechanism of it, and she had been studying it, deliberately working to induce visions and control them, for weeks now.

Using the “Gift” known as Oracle’s View, an expression of the Oracle’s Voice, allowed her to render visible the paths of the aether around her, and to experience the aether’s changes; it became clear to her that aether was a map of human activity past, present and future.

Theoretically, she believed a powerful enough psychic could force into existence a trace of a future farther and farther distant, or extract traces of a past farther and farther back.

Aether was not simply raw emotion either.

Oracle’s View allowed her to see a semblance of the actions that would disturb the aether in addition to their emotional character which was evident in their color. A strong red line of an incoming punch; the doomed black miasma of a human headed to death. These did not just carry their emotion as information in the color, but carried evidence of the activity itself within the texture, within the trace– all of this could be exposed by the Oracle’s View.

Theoretically, this was what she observed when she first started experimenting.

Premonitions; visions of the past. Her own past and future; those of objects; Salvatrice’s.

And then, during her experimentation, Millennia realized that she had been correct about an earlier assumption. Her visions were not contained to the past and future of Aer. Because she could disturb the future enough to change it, and then change what she saw each time in those controlled conditions– it meant she and the Aether were not acting in straight lines.

Like a Diver pilot learning to fight in three dimensions, Millennia stepped aside.

That paradigm shift, that confirmation of her greatest hope, allowed her to rattle her cage.

Rather than the past or future, forward and back, she was sidestepping, climbing, descending.

With this realization, she became able to trace Aether that left this world altogether.

To leave the world, however, the Aether needed to be affected by a massive force.

Millennia nearly died attempting to send her Aether out of Aer by herself.

Then she found herself leaning upon that most reliable and old ally of humanity.

An Agarthic annihilation released enormous amounts of short-lived power.

Using an agarthic centrifuge, she could annihilate carbon and release that power.

Within the purple glow of the agarthicite she finally found the glimpse of what she wanted.

On command, she could see another world.

However, she could only observe seconds of these worlds at most.

Even with her prodigious study, constant practice, and natural talent– any further stretched than this and her body would start to deteriorate from the feedback. She had hoped that the “Gifts” which Salvatrice had uncovered in her dreams could be used to sidestep such requirements, but there was no such luck. Manipulating aether was less taxing than directly manipulating human minds, but it had its limits too and she could not defeat them.

She had quickly mastered the Oracle’s Voice and Saint’s Skin— and yet she still fell short.

Especially when taken into account that simply viewing another world was not her ultimate goal. She had to escape– she had to be able to completely escape from this dead world–

“We can see worlds that are not dead like this one. Therefore– aether must be capable of traveling– and therefore, if the aether is not bound to this Aer, then I– I could go–“

Not just between the latticework of humanity as it existed on Aer– but beyond Aer itself.

Even if it destroyed the worthless body she had in this doomed and worthless planet, it would not matter as long as she could start over in a thriving world. However, she had to be sure, she had to be completely sure that she could exist corporeally on the other side.

Theoretically, it had to be possible– it had to be.

There was no room in her mind for Millennia to consider she might be crippling herself over nothing. To live in a fallen and degenerate world with a fallen and degenerate body– no. Transcendence had to be possible. It was the only outcome. Any sacrifice was worth that end.

And all throughout, her efforts were watched on every side by portraits and iconography of Solcea, the god that she had foisted like a veil over the wretched people of this world.

Solceanos and Solcea, together the one divinity representing the sun. Sun as father who watched and judged and disciplined; Sun as mother who nurtured, warmed, and fed. She knew that, long, long ago, this father/mother God was much more metaphorically the sun, far less concrete– but ultimately there was no difference whether the God was literally the Sun or some Pater figure that was more concretely human. These Gods represented control, discipline, subordination and self-denial. Instruments of worldly power. Ten commandments; birth and resurrection; feast and famine. These were ultimately tools of social manipulation.

And yet–

sometimes, their monuments and artworks instilled in her the fear of an ignorant believer.

As if they knew somehow that the Church had perverted their intentions.

Nothing in the scripture spoke of tithes, papal guard levies, church hierarchy and lines of succession. It spoke of alms that were not given; it spoke of a heaven that was denied.

When she spoke, it was to organize believers and exploit them to the Church’s advantage.

By enforcing the discipline of Solceanos, did they spread His intention for humanity?

“It doesn’t matter– none of this matters– Solcea won’t follow me beyond here.”

Solcea must have also been a prisoner of this dead world.

Her hands were shaking. She wasn’t eating or drinking well. It didn’t matter–

She dropped to her knees in the divination chamber, clasped her hands together in prayer.

Drew her eyes wide open and summoned the power again.

Oracle’s Voice.

White aura blew out of her and spread across the relic chamber.

Around her the aether became visible again, its movements palpable, readable, predictable

Saint’s Skin: Vestment.

Her own aether flared and she focused all of her mental efforts on prayer, sublimity–

Stark white aether began to overtake most of her aura, but a band of yellow and black.

Rising up from her into the core centrifuge was a band of muddy white aether.

Soon as she released it, her mind split into the twin focuses, of tracking it, and offering it up.

Immediate pain, but manageable, just a twist of a razor scraping the surface of her brain.

Oracle’s View.

Her gaze became singularly focused again upon the aether being offered up.

Then the mechanism was fed beads of carbon that it would immediately destroy.

Her aura was affected by the annihilating purple glow.

And the pain intensifying in her head.

Digging, micrometer by micrometer through her brain, but she could endure it, she could clench her shaking hands harder and grind her quivering teeth tighter together. She could endure the pain and continue to trail the aether into the agarthic centrifuge, into the bolts of annihilating energy. Through the prism of destruction left in the wake of that purple glow, for the briefest instant. Paradise had to lie beyond it; it simply had to.

Her aether crossed the threshold through the purple glow.

Then, Millennia saw something she had never seen before.

She had been expecting the lush grasslands and industrial cities she had seen before.

But what she witnessed seemed even closer to paradise than ever.

When the dim metal walls of her world dissolved again, she found herself standing on a place with dusty grey soil dotted with small puddles of water. She found herself dwarfed by absolutely vast, gargantuan, silver structures, that she likened to tree trunks because they had complex systems of roots digging into the surrounding soil, and massive webs of branches that blotted out the sky above. Between these trees, all manner of colors danced in long ribbons and loops that were simultaneously like lights and like rivulets of fluid.

In the midst of these titans, her soul felt at ease.

For a moment, as she watched the colors dance and the wind singing between the densely packed forest, as the dew trickled down the great silver trunks. Her body felt light; there was no longer pain; and she felt so free. All of her burdens lightened amid the kind trees.

Millennia took a step forward, and the world did not disappear.

She took a second and a third. She was beside herself.

Her haggard face, the deep black bags under her eyes, the filthy bloody trails down her cheeks, all of it stretched and lit up with a hopeful smile. Was she– had she made it–?

Then, as she continued to take her first steps into what she thought was another world–

A figure appeared in front of her, impeding her way, entering her space.

Touching her body. Face to face.

A thin woman with an eerie presence suddenly grabbed her.

Long red hair, a pale face, a single horn, a white robe that looked like animal skin.

Her face was almost as sallow, sickly pale as Millennia’s own.

Yellow on black eyes with bags as deep and dark as her own fixed her with a sadistic gaze.

A smile played across the creature’s lips as she stared deep into Millennia’s eyes.

“I know where you are now.”

From her silhouette spread a wave of yellow aura that was choking and sickening.

In the next instant, a renewed pain overwhelmed Millennia–

She collapsed back onto the floor of the relic chamber, screaming like never before.


The door to the relic room swung open. A woman in a dark blue nun’s habit walked into the room, her short pink hair disorderly, as if she had just dressed, and her gait quick and agitated, clearly in a hurry. She flipped on all of the lights in the room and let out a gasp.

Salvatrice Vittoria found the Pontiff in the midst of her agony.

She knelt down next to her and held her close while she screamed and wept incoherently.

“Millennia. Please return to your senses. Something is happening.”

Salvatrice, officially something like a majordomo, had no political power whatsoever.

Despite having a terrifying insight into what was to come.

She held the holy woman in her hands for several minutes, until her glassy, tearful eyes finally displayed a hint of recognition. Millennia’s gaze began to scan the room again, and fell upon Salvatrice. She shut her eyes, breathed in and out. Wherever she had been, Millennia von Skarsgaard had finally returned to the world that she so adamantly despised.

“I don’t need you to coddle me.” Millennia said. “I am doing just fine without intervention.”

Millennia looked far from fine. Her skin was discolored, and she had deep black bags under her eyes. Her hands were shaking, and she struggled to stand without assistance. She looked smaller than ever in her overwrought papal garb that she hadn’t changed in days. Over the past few weeks she had lost weight, eating irregularly and in poor amounts while she obsessed over her experiments. Her red hair’s luster was starting to dim– there were strands of lost hair scattered throughout as she walked around the little room she had colonized.

“I’ll forego comment on whether or not you look ‘fine’.” Salvatrice began. “But the world outside this room requires your attention again, Millennia von Skarsgaard. I fear that we are starting to lose control of events again, and I am unable to take command myself.”

“Losing control of events?” Millennia mumbled. She turned suddenly. “Did you see–?”

“No! I did not have a vision. Millennia, the material world is giving us enough omens.”

“Fine! I will leave the room! Just tell me what happened!

Millennia pressed her for details, and Salvatrice began to tell the dire tale.

The Patriarchate of Sandomierz was a region with four stations just west of the capital at Amaryllis. Every station had its own native industries and commerce, but the region was not exactly known for anything. It was simply a home to its people. After the transition to Solcean rule, Sandomierz’s regional government was replaced with rule by the local Patriarch, Andrezj Buzun. Sandomierz was a particularly troubled region during the transition, because of its lacking resources and largely lower class population.

Buzun had become particularly sensitive to criticism due to the circumstances. He had been particularly called out during the transition by a local bishop, Mikolaj Szymanski. He blamed Buzun for hiding in church property with ample supplies while people went hungry. Buzun had interpreted the criticism as social climbing on Szymanski’s part, and was wary of his actions post-transition, obsessively clinging to his Patriarchate and paranoid of rivals.

Things seemed to stabilize in the following weeks post-transition, but recently, word began to spread in Sandomierz of a heresy from Zazisce Station. Misinformation about an incoming solar eclipse, and with it the ascendance of “angels from the eclipse’s shadow,” led to street worship, marches, unsanctioned gatherings, and other strange outpourings of passion.

Theologically this was completely against anything Solceanos’ church taught. Solceanos was the eternal sun, their angels were angels of bright light, not shadow, and there was no one in Solcea monitoring the “secular” sun for upcoming eclipses anyway. Such silliness would normally come and go on its own in a secular government, but Buzun was touchy.

The Eclipse Heresy came to be viewed by the Patriarchate in Sandomierz as a protest against theocratic rule. Buzun believed the inverted theology was demonic in nature, and corrupting the youth; his more secular bureaucratic cohort believed that the Heresy could have been a code language for covering up anti-government organizing. Even more pressing to Buzun was the fact that the heresy began in Zazisce, the bishopric of Mikolaj Szymanski.

Whatever the heresy truly meant to anyone, Buzun interpreted it as “Szymanski’s move.”

And so, Buzun made his own hard move against it.

He deployed the Magistratus Securitas against Zazisce, raiding Szymanski’s churches for evidence of planning. Observers of the heresy intervened, blocking access to roads and to the churches themselves in the corridors of Zazisce. This prompted the Securitas to crack heads indiscriminately. The situation devolved entirely out of control from there. Szymanski was killed without cause as he showed support to the civilians being beaten, and he died never once acknowledging the heresy. Civilians fought back in whatever way they could, and then the station’s civil administration collapsed in a wave of defections and resignations– allowing the protestors access to the station controls and to better equipment. Now they could control access and surveillance, and began to beat back the rampaging Securitas.

“Good lord.” Millennia grumbled. She did not care about the civilians, she had no sympathy for them, but she would not have reacted with such wanton violence had she been in Buzun’s place. That the civilians were being violent tit for tat with the police was quite shocking to her, but there was a clear cause and effect there would not have been if that man had shown tact. With a situation this aggravated, bringing things back under control would be difficult.

“What is the situation now?” Millennia asked.

“Zazisce is in a state of anarchy, and Sandomierz station is experiencing the effects. Buzun was found dead in his own bedchambers. There are signs that it was a murder. Local and regional government is paralyzed. Nobody wants to take responsibility now.” Salvatrice said.

“Buzun died? How the hell? Do we have camera footage, anything?” Millennia asked.

“The Securitas is investigating.” Salvatrice said.

“Civilian rioters can’t have done that. They must have organization behind them. You can’t convince me that a bunch of lowlifes from Zazisce can suddenly assassinate the Patriarch.”

“I agree. But you need to give the orders as to what to do next.”

“Right. Yes.” Millennia ran a hand over her face. “I need– makeup. Clean clothes. Food.”

“Of course. I’ll help you clean up and marshal your strength.” Salvatrice said.

“We need to capture some of these rioters. We can drag information out of them.”

Millennia started forming a plan in her mind.

The Papal Guard could cordon off the station, and start dragging people into ships, where they would await psionic evisceration at Millennia’s hands. She would get to the bottom of this– it might even be a good test of her psionic abilities. Flexing the muscles on living, resisting targets. Perhaps that’s what she needed to achieve transcendence.

A challenge; there was no time to waste then.

“Call the ministries for me while I eat too. I want a video broadcast ready to every Solcean station as soon as I am looking presentable enough for it.” Millennia said.

“Absolutely, your holiness. I am overjoyed to see you finally coming out of this room.” Salvatrice said. “I only wish your emergence was under more pleasant circumstances.”

Millennia looked at Salvatrice with sad, tired eyes.

“I wish I could have known you under more pleasant circumstances.” She said.

Salvatrice’s own gaze softened. “Indeed, your holiness.”

That woman constituted perhaps the only thing Millennia would miss of this dead world.

Even so, she knew she had to escape. To leave this chaos behind for good.

For now, she had to think of a way to quell the chaos at least temporarily, however.


In a televised address broadcast across Solcea, Pontiff Millennia von Skarsgaard condemned the violence in the streets and churches of Zazisce. She criticized the escalation by the local authorities, but much more strongly demanded that civilians desist in their resistance and assemble peaceably. She decreed that there would be investigations into the security response as well as any violent offenses by civilians. Whether this had any effect, she wouldn’t know– right after the broadcast, she was already preparing to depart Amaryllis.

Millennia summoned a small vessel and a contingent of Papal Guard. Not wanting to be seen making a disproportionate show of force, she left the Irmingard-class Annointed One in Amaryllis along with her Paladin-General Rosemont. Instead she sailed out in a Marder-class Frigate along with a retinue of fifty decent men and women, twenty-five in power armor. The Papal Guard had no special forces, no troops dedicated to intelligence or reconnaissance, and limited experience in combat, but she could at least trust them to be disciplined.

From Amaryllis to Sandomierz and Zazisce was two day’s sail at max speed.

During that time, Millennia remained in her private chambers with her stomach churning.

Quietly but obsessively gathering information about what had transpired during her retreat.

And every so often, thinking back to her final vision.

That forest of massive silver trees; and the fiend that confronted her in their midst.

The way that creature had seized upon her body and looked into her eyes.

It unsettled her; but the world was calling her away from her dreams.

There was no place where order was as upset as it was in Zazisce, but the Empire of Solcea was not sustainable. She had not intended for it to be: her designs did not lie with this world. It simply needed to satisfy her material needs until her escape– but it couldn’t even do that.

Even with trade from Veka and Buren, prices of food and materials were slowly rising. Wages were depressed, and unemployment remained high as industry failed to recover. Her church was failing in its task of governing as well: alms-giving had fallen, government projects lay neglected, funds were mismanaged, and public officials bickered and vied for influence.

All of this in three months since the transition. It beggared belief.

She knew her church wasn’t spotless, and that many of her lackeys were corrupt and vain people; but she never imagined they would be so ineffective when given power. They had run decently tight ships when it came to their religious duties, so what happened to them? Was it really only their fear of her authority that had kept them in line all these years?

Was the Imbrium simply cursed to be unable to exist without a dictator?

They needed her to rule them; after her retreat, Solcea was all too easily falling apart.

Millennia thought bitterly about the retreat and death of the Emperor Fueller.

How could she possibly escape from this world if she had to manage it so closely?

Thinking about it all made her cling tighter than ever to Salvatrice in bed.

She never wanted to let go.

But Salvatrice’s ministrations could only do so much. By the time they arrived in the waters of Zazisce, Millennia was almost back to looking as haggard as she had been in the relic room. Her ambitions were crumbling all around her; all of her dreams looked ever more and more distant. She felt her skin pressing tighter on her flesh than ever, felt the weight of her bones and body fat like never before. Aer, this dead world, tightened its grasp on her.

“We have to settle this episode quickly.” Millennia told Salvatrice.

Barely disguising the note of desperation in her voice.

“We will arrange a meeting with representatives of the rioters, to lure them out.”

“And what then?”

Millennia flashed the red rings around her irises. It was enough of an implication.

“You must assist me as well.” She said.

Salvatrice bowed her head in deference. “Of course.”

If she was lucky, she could potentially end the confrontation bloodlessly.

Had it been feasible she would have wrung the entrails out of every one of those peasants for their insane defiance, but she needed Solcea to withstand this crisis. Being able to say she ended the bloodshed would hopefully have a stabilizing effect throughout the duchy. It would likely result in more of the incompetent bureaucracy relying on her–

–but one problem at a time.

The Marder-class Frigate Exigo approached Zazisce and received permission to dock from the occupiers. Zazisce was an interior station with larger surrounding stations in its region, so unlike larger stations, it had no military defenses. So even the darkly cunning rioters that had hijacked the station controls could do nothing against approaching vessels. Thankfully.

Millennia had a brief discussion with the port control staff about her visit.

“I do not desire to invade the interior station and cause tension. I would like to meet with representatives of the protester’s agenda and hold a discussion in the port. My aim here is to deescalate. I have already instructed the remaining Securitas to hold position. That’s my gesture of good will, and all I ask is to receive this measure of good will in return.”

“Of course, Pontiff. You are always welcome in Zazisce. I will relay your wishes.”

Millennia did not think much of the answer from station control, but the Exigo docked into Zazisce regardless. Millennia entered the station with a retinue of ten of her powered armor troops and Salvatrice at her side. They stepped off the boarding chutes and entered the station terminal, waiting in an open area where seating and refreshments were available. Flanked by the long, empty bench seats beneath the arched ceiling, Millennia kept her eyes peeled on the large hallway on the opposite side of the room, from which her greeting party would soon be coming. As the minutes went by, she grew anxious of the situation.

“Would they try to kill me?” She asked Salvatrice. “Does their grievance extend so far?”

“To be honest exalted one, I am not sure how the general population views you.”

Mostly, they hadn’t– aside from her slew of decrees upon the founding of the Solcean regime, and her recent address, she had not appeared among ‘her flock’ in months now. Since then, her government had been represented exclusively by failures like Buzun who had tormented the commoners incessantly. Was her inaction to blame for all of this mess?

Her mind again drifted to the late Emperor Fueller.

She still understood nothing of his actions; and yet she was proving no better than he.

She didn’t want to surpass him; she didn’t want to be alive in this wretched place!

But there was so much pressure upon her not to repeat his mistakes.

Such a bitter pill; and Millennia’s throat was so dry.

“Ma’am, I don’t like this.” said one of the power-armored men at her side.

He was the Sergeant in charge of these marines.

As if in answer to his complaint, the striking sound of footsteps started to close in on them.

“Running?” Millennia said.

Shadows painted on the far wall in the center of the corridor presaged the arrival.

“Ma’am, it’s an attack.”

Troops stepped forward around Millennia and positioned themselves–

“Hold fire!” Millennia cried out.

And held fire they did– as the opposite hallway filled with people charging into the terminal.

Millennia could hardly believe what she was seeing.

Some had pilfered riot weapons and armor from the Securitas, others had just the shirts on their backs and whatever piece of metal fit in their hands, some had tools and mining gear, it was a mess of people and whatever they had access to do violence with. Across their faces were expressions of rage that felt almost animalistic. None of them said a word or made a sound, simply rushing forward out of the corridor as fast as their feet could carry them.

She felt her heart stop and her eyes cloud over.

In an imperceptible instant, red rings flashed around her irises.

And she saw the blanket of white aura wafting from the horde of rioters.

This is inhuman. This is–

“Don’t shoot!” Millennia demanded of her troops.

She stepped forward through the protest of her retinue, and stood defiantly in front of the stampeding mass just a second from ripping her apart. She met their blank, furious faces and their swinging weapons, planted her feet, and pulled deep from her own will.

King’s Gaze.

From her body, a small beacon amid a rushing ocean of violence, poured a bright wave.

Colors surged across the crowd in the hall and dispersed the uncanny white auras.

Tinging them a deep blue with bands of black and green.

In the next instant, overwhelmed minds led to dropping bodies.

By the dozens the rioters tripped and fell over themselves like stricken dominoes.

Smitten unconscious by Millennia’s uniquely powerful will.

They fell at her feet one after another, barely making it into the terminal.

“Be still. By God’s grace.” She muttered. Trying to put on an act.

From her nose a trickle of blood began to trail, to her lips, until she could taste it.

She felt a sudden weakness, but stood her ground mightily.

Her troops would have applauded the miracle their Pontiff had brought–

But amid the pile of subdued bodies there was still one standing.

A single individual in a black hood had withstood Millennia’s aetheric attack.

All that was visible of them was a flash of a pale face, pale hands and long, bare, pale legs.

“That is the perpetrator! Capture them!” Salvatrice shouted.

Clearly thinking on her feet while Millennia struggled with the backlash of her psionics.

From around Millennia, the guards armed with nonlethal weapons stepped forward.

Realizing they had been compromised, the hooded figure turned to flee.

Fierce barrages of dozens of rubber bullets, beanbags, and gas bullets struck across the figure’s back and legs and knocked them to the ground. Despite the intensity of fire, they almost got back up again to escape, and were only further compromised by the terrain of unconscious bodies around them. Soldiers charged forward, stomping over the bodies to seize hold of the agitator, beating them with vibrobatons while struggling to drag them back. Somehow the attempted escapee, kicking and thrashing, withstood the strength of two men until a third finally applied a shock prod to their gut and knocked them cold.

Millennia and Salvatrice could barely parse the farcical scene of violence.

“Don’t kill them! I need to interrogate them!” Millennia cried out.

Fearing more human waves, and the potential of a bloodier outcome, Millennia ordered a retreat back into the Exigo. They took the agitator and a random smattering of the attacking civilians with them, locking the civilians in the brig. They would be interrogated using ordinary means later on. Meanwhile Millennia had the agitator taken to a private room in the upper deck and bound their arms and legs to a metal chair. She had to deal with this one.

“Leave us.” Millennia said. She waved away her security detail, save for Salvatrice.

Salvatrice retained a vibrosaber affixed to a magnetic belt she wore with her nun’s habit.

She waited at Millennia’s side with wary eyes on the captive.

Once they were alone with the hooded figure, Millennia approached and partially unzipped the figure’s garment, unveiling a pair of small, extremely pale breasts and allowing the once tightly closed hood to be thrown back from their head. She was immediately puzzled by their appearance– a youth of unimpressive stature, seemingly female judging by their chest.

Pale, extremely pale, like a freshly molted insect’s nymph, with long white hair. Skinny, too, with the impression of ribs visible on their thin trunk. Their limbs were long and thin, and they were barefoot. In fact they had no accessories nor possessions except for the hood they were wearing, which was only long enough to cover their body to the upper thighs. It was no design Millennia had ever seen– it almost looked like it was made of one sheet of a leather-like material, and the zipper was made of plastic. It had no brands, no logos, no tags.

“Salvatrice, I’m going to wake them up. Hold your nerves.” Millennia said.

“Of course.”

In reality, Millennia was probably more nervous than Salvatrice.

On the table opposite the captive’s chair, Millennia had several injectors already prepared with various drugs. There was also a small unassuming grey case that was full of tools. Scalpels, scissors, tweezers, clamps, an electric battery that could affix an electronic branding iron or small shock prods, thin sheets of abrasive and saline material that could go over wounds like bandages that intensified pain. These alone could not be trusted to extract information from a captive. But the torment would weaken their mind’s psionic defenses.

Millennia took a syringe from the table and injected it into the captive’s hand.

In a few moments, their body started to shake, their mouth hung and salivated.

Slowly their eyes began to open. Black sclera with yellow irises.

“What in the world– do you see their eyes?” Salvatrice mumbled.

Just like the monster in her vision–

Millennia concentrated on the being’s aura– blue, green and yellow. Expected of an ordinary person. However, as the captive began to wake further, the density of their aura began to thicken and the colors compacted against their body. They grew to a depth and density that Millennia had never seen in ordinary people. When their eyes fully opened, and they seemed to recognize their surroundings had changed, Millennia finally had her confirmation–

Glowing red rings around those yellow irises, indicating the use of psionics.

This was a supernatural being.

Don’t struggle, or we’ll strike you dead on the spot.

Before their captive could take action, Millennia sent them a psionic warning.

Salvatrice withdrew her vibrosaber, and held it at her side.

Recognition dawned upon the blank white face of their captive.

Their lips curled into a grin.

“You are the hominin’s False Autarch.” They said, in legible Low Imbrian.

You can kill me but you will never be free from Her. You belong to Her.

A telepathic response just as easily sent as her own.

Millennia’s chest tightened upon hearing those words, slick with contempt.

“I am Pontiff Millennia von Skarsgaard. I am your superior. You will cooperate with me or die. And an equally grisly fate will await all of your co-conspirators, until I find one that talks.”

She withdrew a knife from the toolbox and held the blade between the captive’s breasts.

At no point did they even flinch in response to her threats.

“What does one talk to cattle about? You Hominin will soon learn your place.”

Millennia pressed the knife against the skin.

“Maybe you will start making sense after screaming for a bit.” She taunted.

She expected soft flesh to yield to her torment, and was shocked to see no blood drawing.

Her blade almost slid against the suddenly stiffened flesh.

“No, Hominin, you will scream.”

Suddenly, the captive’s tongue sprang forward from their mouth mid-speech.

At the tip there was a glistening, jet black blade with an edge that glowed with colors.

Millennia froze in the instant of the spearpoint blow aimed for her chest–

“Saint’s skin!”

Salvatrice’s gleaming green blade flashed and sent the tongue rolling to the floor.

That fleshy black razor-tip cutting nothing but a small gash in Millennia’s robe.

Then in an instant of panic, Salvatrice turned the blade on the captive in a brutal swing that sliced its sizzling edge across the chest and face of the creature. Splitting open skin and bone and spilling out gore and throwing back the chair to which the beast had been shackled.

Millennia’s back struck the desk in shock, sending her tools crashing to the floor.

Staring at the disfigured abomination split open in front of her.

Its exposed throat still laughing through the clanging of the metal instruments.

Pieces of its ribs shaking like fingers; gushing organs hissing like snake heads.

Severed jaws and boiling eyes still piecing together an expression of glib humor.

“Iä! Iä! Iä!” cheered the writhing flesh thing as if in the midst of euphoria.

What happens to me is irrelevant! Fill this body with pain! I will ascend to join my Autarch!

Psionic screeches filled Millennia’s and Salvatrice’s minds.

Her habit covered in foul-smelling blood, Salvatrice screamed back as she threw her blade against the creature hacking at the flesh in the grip of her own madness. As if taking a pick to a stone she reared back and drew forward, two-handed grip with all of her fear-crazed strength, sending a limb to the floor, pieces of the head flying, sawed ribs spraying fragments of bone. Screaming between each blow until she was out of breath, covered head to toe in gushing filfth, and so bereft of strength her blade simply fell out of her grasp.

Millennia surged forward and wrapped her arms around Salvatrice’s chest.

“Stop.” Millennia mumbled. “Please stop.”

Salvatrice froze, her hands hovering in front of her as if in the midst of another blow.

Even though her enemy had been reduced to a mound of hacked apart meat.

And her blade was halfway across the room.

“Millennia. I– I– You– That–“

Salvatrice’s shaking body settled against Millennia’s chest.

Together, they slowly knelt down on the floor at the foot of the dead thing.

Weeping, screaming, in each other’s arms, until the guards finally rushed in for them.


The Exigo returned to Amaryllis days later.

For now, military response to Zazisce remained off the table.

Millennia embarked on a propaganda campaign, hoping to turn the public against the heresy.

She made several media addresses and wrote pamphlets and scripts for churches to run.

Trying to buy time and gauge the spread of the unrest before making another move.

There was good and bad news on that front, as always.

“What has been the response to my latest address?”

“From what we can actually quantify with data, people are scared and trying to hunker down, but nobody is reacting as badly as what happened in Zazisce. I am not sure that faith in the administration is high, but at the very least, the remaining Patriarchates are continuing to run as usual. We are not seeing signs of rebellion there. But the people are depressed.”

“That’s outside Sandomierz, right.”

“I’m afraid Sandomierz has had a different reaction, yes.”

Salvatrice turned over a portable computer to Millennia with the latest reports.

While most of Solcea simply watched with bated breath, the wound festered.

Zazisce remained out of control and it was the epicenter of a violence that was slow to spread, but was nonetheless spreading within its region. Days after Millennia von Skarsgaard left the station, neighboring Sandomierz, seat of the Sandomierz Patriarchate and still bereft of a Patriarch, began to see the signs of the decline. Doomsayers had begun to appear in public parks and in front of churches in Sandomierz. Many were beaten and arrested, but the public displays of violence seemed to embolden more of them to take up the creed of the “Eclipse” and resist the government. Heedless of the consequences, like a virus of the mind, the doomsayers steadily grew into demonstrations with dozens of people at a time.

“Restrict all travel to and from Sandomierz until further notice. Ships will only go to the Patriarchate of Sandomierz with Imperial sanction and a Papal Guard escort. Ships already in place over there will not be leaving Sandomierz. Quarantine effectively immediately.”

“Of course, Pontiff.”

It wasn’t enough. Sandomierz was teetering just like Zazisce.

Soon, those dozens of dissenters might become hundreds. How soon– nobody could know.

Wherever her so-called flock heard of this ‘coming Eclipse’ they seemed to go mad.

It couldn’t have been that they accepted this creed and truly believed in it.

Millennia wasn’t even so delusional as to believe most people believed in Solceanity itself.

If there was discontent it should have been of the secular kind. Leftists and progressives.

Why would thousands of people begin agitating via this same insane liturgy?

“This isn’t organic. It’s psionics.” Millennia said grimly. “A psionic cabal of some kind.”

Millennia had no way to wrest Zazisce from heretic control; with its government collapsed and its people in thrall, there was no reasonable way to negotiate its return to her authority. Violent reprisals were not off the table, but she had to be careful not to turn manufactured dissent into a real grievance. Getting rid of the station’s population would be a last resort.

Her mysterious enemy might even be counting on the violence.

A panicking public with its government in disarray was easier to manipulate.

Weakened minds, shriveling souls and frail bodies could not resist psionics.

After carefully purging every psychic she had perceived within the church, other than her ally and companion Salvatrice, Millennia never envisioned she would have to fight a psychic threat. She felt both vindicated in taking action before, but also foolish for not somehow finding a way to combat psionics directly, or retain more psionic potential in her employ.

Some part of her found itself wishing she could recapture Maryam Karahailos.

She would be called a madwoman if she went to the public with a confession that she was capable of mind control and that an enemy capable of mind control was subverting the government and fomenting violence. And even if she tipped her hand, the knowledge would do the average civilian no good. If there were multiple psionic infiltrators, and it was likely that there were, Millennia and Salvatrice alone could not uproot them. It would take inducting more psychics to fight back, which could spiral out of control if they betrayed her.

Not only that– these were not ordinary psychics. It was possible they weren’t even human.

It felt like there were no winning moves. Millennia was paralyzed as to how to respond.

Part of her wanted to lock herself up in her room and redouble her efforts to escape to another world. In the new world, none of this would matter. As long as she escaped before the violence reached her person, she would be free. But she had no guarantee she would make it out in time. She had no guarantee– that it was even possible to begin with.

Part of her contemplated giving up, too. Giving up in every conceivable way.

“Salvatrice, are we in hell? Is that what I am witnessing?” Millennia asked.

Her voice was haggard.

Salvatrice narrowed her eyes at her from across the desk they were working out of.

“Don’t talk that way.” Salvatrice replied. “Please.”

“Fine. But– I don’t know what to do, Salva. I really don’t.” Millennia said.

Salvatrice reached out her hand and took Millennia’s own.

But she offered no words of comfort nor a plan of action. Only the comfort of a touch.

Their despair grew when the Securitas began bringing them more incongruous sightings.

Security cameras began to capture eerie scenes around Sandomierz, and soon a third station to which the contagion of this ‘Eclipse heresy’ had spread, Torun. Securitas suppressed the strangest footage that was collected by the station’s cameras and brought it directly to the Pontiff’s office for review. It truly felt like she was watching a scene from a grand metaphor on retribution from God. Shadows with glowing eyes. Acting heedless of the cameras.

Sometimes just staring straight into them as if in challenge.

Every piece of video was a sighting of the same sickly pale, white haired beings like the one she had confronted in Zazisce. There were at least two dozen such sightings throughout Sandomierz and Torun. They were haphazard in their targets; breaking into food warehouses, attacking Securitas police boxes, breaking into schools, churches, random small businesses. There was no sense to it. It was as if they were after anything they could grab.

One particularly disturbing video was recovered body cam footage.

Affixed to chest of a Securitas patrolman, the camera shone upon what looked like a small child, lost in the back alleys of a cattle complex in Torun. He approached, calling out to her.

“Hey urchin, you must be really lost. Come here, let’s get you off private property alright?”

He reached out his hand, and the child turned her head over her shoulder.

Her eyes drew wide, and from under her clothes, an appendage suddenly lashed out.

The officer fell over, the camera was knocked off. There were sounds of struggle.

In the darkness, a pool of blood spread to the camera.

“Pontiff, our men have no idea what they’re up against,” said the police surveillance officer, part of a new task force assigned to gather intelligence. “Telling them to watch out for pale freaks in hoods is going to sound ridiculous at best, but it’s all we have. I would like permission to communicate to station commissioners what the situation has become.”

“Granted.” Millennia said. “But keep the web of information as tight as possible.”

It was too little too late; she was organizing task forces, trying to promote decent officers, trying to boost cooperation and share information between stations and branches, but this was all being done at the eleventh hour. She was aghast at how poorly her forces were developed, how much they lacked in support capacities and coordination. As she watched the so-called surveillance officers leave the room, she felt a deepening frustration.

“We have to do something about Zazisce. We have to investigate; gather more info. Our only option is to take action. We can’t just watch from afar, but we can’t burn the whole thing down.” Millennia grit her teeth. She closed her fists. She could do nothing with her current forces– but there was a way to bolster them. An odious way– but becoming necessary.

She cast a glance at her faithful companion once more. Salvatrice held her gaze.

“Salvatrice. Go through the records and see if there any former special forces or Inquisitors among our prisoners. Check if any of them have organized crime backgrounds with ties to Katarrans. Don’t talk to any yet. Just– bring me the files and I’ll decide what to do about it.”

Salvatrice’s expression briefly turned grim before she then bowed her head.

“Right away, Pontiff.”

She turned her back and walked out of the office, leaving Millennia to her thoughts.

This was the first odious, desperate plot of many to come.

Millennia looked down at her own shadow, cast upon the desk.

Her hand felt compelled to go up to her neck, her shoulder, to massage herself.

She felt a strange, sharp pain that she could not place.


The Holy of Empire of Solcea was a lie built upon lies, taking advantage of Humanity’s longing for the Sun to give shelter to its false prophet. Unrest creeps through the fabricated empire, a syndrome born of a growing parasite sucking the blood out of the old faith.

Millennia von Skarsgaard’s cocoon of miracles has become her living hell.


Previous ~ Next

Bandits Amid The Festival [11.8]

“Now, listen up, and listen well. I’m only doing this to give you a chance to repay me.”

“Of course. I have no illusions otherwise, my fair lady.”

“Okay. I am going to take your arm now. Don’t mistake it for anything serious.”

“Absolutely. I am all yours– in a non-serious, purely transactional way of course.”

“Hmph.”

Dominika clung close to Sameera’s arm while they walked.

“And I’ll have you know, I truly won’t accept being taken somewhere corny.”

“What about somewhere trendy?”

“Trendy is acceptable.”

“Phew! I almost had to turn us right back around.”

“That’s– don’t be silly. I’m just saying– after all the trouble, I expect to be treated nicely.”

Sameera al-Shahouh Raisanen-Morningsun was all smiles, while her date Dominika Rybolovskaya had a mix of disgruntled expression and needy body language that must have confused onlookers. In fact, to everyone else, they must have looked like a strange couple.

Sameera was tall and gallant with dexterous limbs, a solid trunk and an ample bosom, a pretty face with sharp eyes and a sleek jaw, long silky brown hair tied into a ponytail; but she was difficult to place, always ambiguous. Clearly a woman, but with a style and swagger that seemed more solidly masculine; her ears and tail marking her as a Shimii or perhaps a Loup– yet never more than ‘perhaps’ either; with a city-girl style and yet a rural easiness.

Meanwhile, Dominika was clearly a Katarran, and yet shorter and more waifish than her companion. Her long, voluminous red hair had brown streaks, both colors dyed, and interspersed inside it were black-striped red strands that were actually long, thin fins coming down the sides and back of her head, rather than hair. Her skin was a flat pink color, and visible on exposed parts of her body were bumps that looked slightly inflamed — but which were actually photophores, bioluminescent structures on her skin. Her eyes were also quite striking, bright pink irises with a blue limbal ring, falling sharply upon any target of her gaze.

A Katarran was an uncommon sight, but a Katarran being so openly Katarran?

Clinging to a Shimii/Loup of some kind like lovers?

“So, what’s the big surprise?” Dominika asked.

“You’ll see soon.” Sameera said, smiling gently. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing extravagant.”

“It wouldn’t make a difference. We’ll stick out like albino fish in the school regardless.”

“Well then. I promise it won’t be corny.”

“Oh enough. I’m just trying to make you aware. I’m not so easily pleased.”

“I know that for a fact, milady. And yet, I can’t run away from a challenge.”

Both of them were wearing clothes they had brought in from the Union.

Their fits were not especially fancy and were generic enough to betray nothing of their origin, while still communicating their styles. Sameera wore a simple black tanktop that exposed a bit of her well-defined midriff, along with workout pants and a green jacket. Dominika wore a backless, sleeveless dark red dress that was rendered a bit less revealing by a long blue jacket. Her jacket had diamond cutouts on the sides and sleeves that unveiled several photophores on her skin. It was too bright in C-block for them to glow, however.

“I can almost feel the staring. If any of them linger for too long and cause a problem–”

“It’s fine. We have our IDs– and you look stunning. Anyone would look.” Sameera said.

“You’re a bit more of a showoff than I took you for.” Dominika said. “Proud of your abs?”

“What’s the point in working so hard if I can’t show off every once in a while?”

Sameera winked, and Dominika averted her gaze, a bit redder in the face than before.

“You look– worthy of my company.” She said. “I’m not embarrassed to be seen with you.”

Sameera wagged her tail and acknowledged the compliment silently.

She was a bit surprised that her invitation wasn’t turned down entirely.

An invitation to a date at a mystery location, so that the crux of the afternoon would be a pleasant surprise. To find herself with Dominika clinging to her arm and playing the needy femme, walking together flanked by two-story plastic buildings along a fake cobblestone road, under the sunlamps and grey steel sky of Kreuzung. It had been a longshot.

Thankfully, Dominika accepted the framing that it was a gift, to repay her for all the worry.

Sameera was elated. She really wanted to go out with Dominika; the hard-to-get act only made her more curious and excited about the soft underbelly of her squadmate.

Some part of her suspected, however, that Dominika really wanted to be spoiled a bit.

So she had the perfect idea of where to take the acerbic Katarran on a date.

“What do you think of this district? Oddly quaint isn’t it?” Sameera asked.

“It’s all too fake. I see the defects too clearly to appreciate the effort.” Dominika replied.

Sameera was trying to immerse herself in the little fantasy of the place– but she guessed Dominika was simply less of a romantic than she was. Not that she would ever begrudge her the difficulty. Those plastic buildings all around them were gussied up with fake brick textures and false slanted ceilings of curved tiles, the cobblestone beneath them too smooth to be real, the sky above too unconvincing with its flat and even LED cluster placements. It was trying to cultivate an old-world appeal, but the artifice was too evident.

She wondered if perhaps, a version of this that was closer to the truth existed in a more affluent place. After all, this was still only C-block, the second-largest block in the core station in terms of space, but still a middling place in terms of wealth and exclusivity. Perhaps up in A-block there was real brick, real cobblestone, a real blue sky– maybe even a captive sun, performing an ancient dance in the sky for the rich inhabitants. Who knew?

Someone like her was born inexorably barred from such sights.

“Hey, prince charming? You okay? What’s got you grimacing?”

Sameera looked down at Dominika clinging even tighter to her side. She smiled.

“Ah, I was just thinking that I prefer the kitschy fakeness of all of this.”

“Really?”

Sameera glanced up at briefly at the ceiling, shading her eyes.

Up above them, far above, was the affluent A-block of Kreuzung. She nodded towards it.      

“I think it’d be too absurd to see the real thing. I’d question why it’s even there.” She said.

Dominika blinked, in her eyes a gently dawning realization. “Huh. You’ve got a point.”

“But hey. Less socially conscious talk. We’re greedy mercs after all.”

“I’m not a greedy merc.” Dominika said. “I’m a ravishing young beauty out on the town.”

Sameera got a sense of whiplash from how quickly Dominika’s moods seemed to shift.

But that only excited her even more.

“Then I will play the part of your gentleman without fail.”

After twenty or thirty minutes of walking from the elevator that dropped them off on the block, Sameera and Dominika rounded a corner into a circular street in which there were several shops with colorful signs. All the fake old world brick gave away to trendy, minimalist storefronts with geometric color patterns and simple facades. Unlike the sparsely populated outer street, these cafes and shops were well-traveled, with their outdoor tables beginning to fill up with brunch guests as the pair arrived. While some of the pedestrians were casually dressed like Sameera and Dominika, most of the guests wore uniforms of various sorts, either the grey business suits that constituted the corporate uniform, or the coats of police, nurses, the fireproof jackets of guild unionized maintenance workers, and so forth.

Teeming with middle class clientele, the street cast a stronger contrast against them.

“Here we are, what shop do you want to go to? I was thinking the Patisserie there.”

For a moment, Dominika looked taken aback by all the people, and the cutesy vibes.

“Wow. Can we afford this? I thought we were going to a park or something.”

“I checked the prices, everything is reasonably within my Marks stipend.”

“Hmm. Well, if it’s your treat, let’s start with the Patisserie then.” Dominika said.

“Anything that my ravishing young beauty desires.” Sameera cooed.

“Hmph.”

All of the little café tables with their green umbrellas were taken up, so the young couple navigated past them and into the shop itself to take up a booth seat, turning heads all throughout. Whether it was their beauty or their ethnicities, Sameera wasn’t about to question. As long as their attention remained confined to gazing from afar, Sameera could enjoy the obvious curiosity of the Imbrians around them. They sat amid the simple and warm salmon pink interior of the shop, their booth across from several long counters with ritzy gold and glass displays filled with a rainbow of sweets, cakes, cookies and breads.

Sameera thought they would sit across from each other, but Dominika surprised her yet again by following her into the same half of the booth. She continued to cling close to her, a piece of arm candy more delectable than any of the sweets the shop had on display.

Inside the windowless shop, the lights were dimmer than outside. Pressed together in their booth seat, Sameera could see the little charming bumps on Dominika’s body glowing a gentle green. The design of her dress played well with these features, her halter plunging into a deep vee that exposed a humble bit of cleavage, and a line of evenly spaced photophores like a little arrow between her collarbones and breasts. Her jacket was starting to fall from her shoulders and did very little now to cover her bioluminescence.

Or the captivating softness of her round shoulders; the striking curve of her collarbones–

“What are you so keen on, Miss Gentleman?” Dominika met Sameera’s wandering eyes.

Her voice was a tiny bit teasing, but her expression was as surly as ever.

What kind of signals are you sending to me, milady? Much to consider, there…

Sameera laughed it off. “I’ve just never seen you glow like this. It’s appealing.”

Dominika averted her gaze, not with a sharp huff, but slowly, with a little grin.

Was she softening up, or just a different kind of harsh? Either way, it was titillating.

On their table, there were little pink and gold plastic booklets that had the menu items with pictures, and ordering was done on a touchscreen through a very spartan graphical interface that conflicted with the cheery pink aura of the shop. There were several dozen menu items.

Up front and with the largest picture in the booklet, was the shop’s special Baumkuchen, a cake composed of three circular, stacked layers of dough completely drowned in chocolate that was then allowed to set. Various colorful syrup drizzles could be ordered, and patterns could be designed around the cake to make it showier and more picturesque. There was also an entire section of the menu devoted to Bossches, large dough balls covered in chocolate that had different sweet, creamy fillings. On the simpler side, they had baked or fried dough items like Franzbrots, which were simply dusted with powdered sugar or cinnamon.

Ultimately, what caught Sameera’s attention the most was a section titled Exotic Delights.

In this section, the booklet had a layout with colorful geometric patterns that Sameera thought she recognized as Shimii in origin, or at least inspired by the Shimii’s art. She thought she saw similar patterns on the colors of the shop buildings too. At the top of a two-page spread a note let the reader know these were featured in a trendy Imbrian TV show.

Central within the spread was a multicolored array of flavored Halwas, a soft dessert with a base of sesame paste, mixed with sweeteners, fruits, other nuts and set. Rashidun halwas were often simple shapes, like crumbly squares that were topped simply. However, the shop’s centerpiece halwa, bright orange, looser in consistency, heavily garnished and spread in the shape of a crescent, was much more Mahdist in nature. There were also numerous Sahlab on offer, a creamy pudding that could also be colorfully decorated. It seemed that the colors and decorations were part of the draw of these Shimii-inspired desserts.

And part of the business plan.

These exotic desserts carried the highest prices on the menu by far.

Dubbed “Parsa’s Delight” by the shop, the Mahdist Halwa was 30 marks a serving.

Her fingers gripped the booklet tighter as she ran down the offerings and their prices.

She grit her teeth and her muscles tensed up. Her heartbeat hammered in her chest.

“So we’re not wanted here, but our food is a trendy treat.”

Looking at them made Sameera furious. She shot a nasty sidelong glance at the counter.

“Hmm? Are you looking? What are you thinking of getting?”

From her side, Sameera noticed Dominika looking at her again.

Her expression was soft and nonchalant. She looked a bit less standoffish than before.

Sameera’s muscles loosened up, her fists unclenched.

She restrained her tone of voice.

This is her day. Don’t fuck it up, gentleman.

“Still looking.” Sameera said. “They have a lot of weird little variations of fried dough.”

It was pointless to get too angry. She wanted Dominika to make some good memories.

Eyes on the prize. Let the revolutionary fervor out some other day.

“Honestly, I’m tempted to be boring and just get a coffee.” Dominika said.

“Ah, yeah, they do beverages too, don’t they?” Sameera replied.

“Coffee, milkshakes with syrups– they have these pudding things in mugs too.”

“Hmm. That alters the calculus a little bit.”

“The calculus?”

“It makes the dryer desserts more appealing if you can get a nice beverage.”

“How strategic. I thought you were a meathead that just rushed into things?”

Dominika cracked a little grin. Sameera laughed.

“You’re right! What was I thinking? Baumkuchen it is.”

“That’s a lot of cake! I’m not going to help you eat it, you know.”

“Oh you’re eating the cake, milady.”

“Huh?”

“You need to treat yourself! I demand to spoil you! We’re getting two Baumkuchens!”

“Sameera!”

“Two Baumkuchens with all kinds of syrup, and I’m spoon-feeding you too.”

“Don’t push your luck!”

“I’m going to push a slice of delicious cake past your pouty lips until you smile.”

“Hmph!”

In the end, after Sameera had satisfied herself making sport of Dominika, to the point that Dominika even ended up giggling just a tiny bit herself from the absurdity of it all.

Together, they decided on smaller but more indulgent patisserie orders than getting a giant chocolate cake. Dominika had been correct that Sameera preferred the straightforward solutions, and so she got something easy from the very first page: a simple Bismarcken donut ball filled half with chocolate and half with cream, along with a hot mug of cinnamon milk.

Dominika meanwhile ordered a bright plate of macarons in a variety of flavors, arrayed in rainbow-hued little pyramid that almost rivaled the color combinations of the booklet’s halwa spreads. Along with the macarons, she did get her coffee, and she got it Vienna-style, covered in whipped cream and with the espresso mixed with a bit of whipped cream as well.

“Here. Have a taste. There’s too many.”

Dominika lifted a little pink and red macaron from the plate and raised it to Sameera’s face.

Sameera briefly stared at the macaron before realizing it was she who was being fed.

Then, without warning, she took the entire dessert into her mouth in one bite.

Her lips briefly brushed the tips of Dominika’s fingers, who then jerked them back.

“Tasty. Really cute colors too. Almost like taking a bite out of you.”

“Hey–”

Sameera could complete the intended ‘don’t push your luck’ left in Dominika’s lips.

Accompanied by the low background noise of romantic Imbrian soft rock coming from the shop’s audio system, the two of them slowly enjoyed their treats. Sameera’s donut was soft and chewy and sweet, and because of the two-tone filling it was quite moist, even without the creamy milk. Every so often she pilfered a macaron from Dominika’s plate, which her Katarran beauty did not dispute. They were quiet at first, but gradually got to talking.

Surprisingly, Dominika brought opened conversation first.

“Sameera– you said you were a Leviathan hunter.”

Dominika leaned much closer than before and whispered.

“Where were you stationed?”

Sameera enjoyed the brief brush of their bodies together.

She whispered back. “Haryana.”

Haryana was an agri-complex in Lyser. Not a name that should be said aloud in the Empire.

“How many did you see?” Dominika asked.

She was neither whispering nor speaking aloud.

That private tone would continue throughout the rest of their conversation.

“I killed a few, but nothing that impressive.”

“But was it dangerous? I have no idea how often is too often with Leviathan sightings.”

“It wasn’t like we saw Leviathans every day. It’s just that Agrispheres are really important so they get their own hunter guard. Nothing gets left up to chance and no expense is spared to keep them safe. So most of the time I would just sortie for patrols or for training, or if a buoy picked up some life signs. I was really eager to prove myself, so I’d take like, every mission.”

“Did you get to cook your own fresh food in a big plaza surrounded by trees?”

Dominika referenced a quite old Union propaganda poster about Agri-sphere living.

“Nope. My accommodations were decidedly military.” Sameera said with a chuckle.

“Did you meet a lot of bright-eyed young farmer’s girls looking innocent of the world?”

Another old propaganda poster about Lyser. Promoting starting a family in an Agri-sphere.

Sameera responded a bit awkwardly. “That’s classified information.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Dominika grinned a little, as if satisfied at successfully poking at Sameera.

“Okay, my turn to ask about you. What was the ice frontier like?” Sameera asked.

“Cold.” Dominika said dismissively.

“Milady.” Sameera smiled dangerously. “I’m going to steal your macarons.”

“Hey! Stop! I was just kidding. Anyway. I mainly have bad memories of it, honestly.” Dominika shut her eyes and shuddered, perhaps remembering what it was like. “We were always doing maintenance and repairs, everyone was on edge, food shipments got delayed all the time so our rations kept changing. Climate control could barely keep up with the cold–”

“Ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dig up bad memories.” Sameera interrupted.

“It’s fine. Nobody ever asks me about it. There’s a lot I could say, I guess.”

“If I can poke you for one more thing– why did you decide to go to the ice frontier?”

“Why did you decide to become a Leviathan Hunter?” Dominika shot back.

She sounded suddenly annoyed. That was the last thing Sameera wanted.

Sameera replied in a gentle, patient voice.

“I just kinda wanted to get out in the world and fill up an unwanted job. Do the dirty work nobody else did. I wanted to feel like I was important somewhere.” She said.

Dominika looked contrite about the turn in her attitude.

Perhaps Sameera’s honesty and earnestness had gotten through to her.

She averted her gaze, but she responded.

“I wanted to be alone. Nobody wants to work on the ice frontier. So I thought I would have a lot of space to myself, and be more self-directed. I was right; but I regretted it pretty fast.”

“Well. If you ever need a friend. You’re not alone anymore.”

From observing Dominika, Sameera thought she might draw a rebuke if she volunteered.

But she got the gist of what she wanted to say across. It was implied.

“Thanks.” Dominika whispered simply.

She reached out for a macaron and shoved it whole into her mouth.

Sameera lifted her cup of milk to her lips. That was the end of that conversation.

She liked the small talk, but it was also nice just to be able to sit beside Dominika.

Back when she had first seen her in the hangar– She was cute, and she was a little withdrawn– maybe she could use a friend? Maybe she was up for some fun? Katarrans were always less stuck up than others, or so Sameera had thought at the time. It was silly to admit it to herself, but she had a crush. If Dominika ended up hating her, at least she wanted to have some fun along the way. She was even cuter when she was all flustered. Maybe Sameera had a chance? For all her swagger– it felt like she always ended up cast aside.

Always outside the worlds of others.

But maybe this time– maybe she wouldn’t be overlooked–

maybe she would be needed

“Sameera. I have something to tell you. It’s important.”

Dominika spoke up after a long silence, and her lupine, feline prince glanced to her side.

“I’m all ears.” Sameera said. She playfully folded then raised her ears.

She was so curious. What would Dominika say?

Dominika gathered her breath after a brief pause. Shutting her eyes.

“Look–”

“Yeah?”

Dominika withered under Sameera’s gaze. She looked like she would break a sweat.

“I– I wouldn’t be here without you. I don’t know– I don’t get what compelled you to risk your life for me. It’s hard to accept that you decided to take such risks for my sake. I think– it was reckless, and stupid of you. But– I’m alive now. I’m here, thanks to you. I can’t deny that– Ugh. God damn it. I’ve been trying to think of what to say for weeks. So there you go.”

She stared down at the plate of macarons in front of her, hands balled into fists at her sides.

Elated to hear those anxious words, her prince responded with a rapturous smile.           

Sameera leaned a bit closer to Dominika and quickly laid an indulgent kiss on her cheek.

Dominika’s entire body quivered, her hair fins standing suddenly up and shining brighter.

“That’s all I needed in return. Non-seriously and transactionally, of course.”

Dominika’s hand absently reached up to rub her own cheek, her photophores strobing.

Once she regained her composure, she sighed and stuffed her mouth with another macaron.

Sameera, meanwhile, tried to hide her giddy, girlish exuberance and finish her donut.

That taste of Dominika’s cheek had been sweeter even than the offerings of the Patisserie.

“I need to tell you one more thing.” Dominika said, still rubbing her cheek.

“Always listening, milady.” Sameera replied.

“This is serious. Back then, when you collapsed in the hangar, and then when we were almost attacked by that demonic Diver, I was terrified for you. I– I really don’t want you to be so reckless again. I mean it. You can’t just– I don’t want– you to throw your life away.”

However she worded it, all Sameera heard, was that Dominika cared about her living.

For once she felt like she did not have perfectly recited words to say in response.

Her heart was hot and pounding hard in response.

“I’ll try. I guess I’ve never been too good at taking care of myself.” Sameera said.

“Well–” Dominika looked down at her plate, searching for the words–

She then leaned again, laying her head on Sameera’s shoulder. “You’re not alone either.”


In a part of C-block a few streets away from Dominika and Sameera’s sweet shop, the road curved around a small park, and there was a library building and a public school. In the park, library, school and the streets connecting them, a variety of kiosks, tents and other pop-up shops had gone up overnight. It was the seasonal market, a one-week open air festival of small batch textiles and handcrafts; rare collectibles like real, bound books; and fresh food made right on-site; and much more. It was a truly a focal point of station culture.

“Ahead lies our destiny, gamer–! I mean, Alex! Feast your eyes upon the sum of human endeavor! Treasures heretofore unseen arrayed for us to covet, and if our coin prove sufficient, we may yet lay claim to a king’s ransom of rare finery and culture goods–”

“–Thanks for calling me Alex every once in a while.”

Alexandra Geninov couldn’t help but feel blessed by this turn of events, however.

Her companion, Fernanda Santapena-De-La-Rosa, looked so excited to be here.

Even if she wasn’t necessarily excited to be with Alex, she hadn’t refused the offer.

This was clear sign of progress. Alex only wished she could make a save file.

Out on the town, the two perennial night-shifters of the Pandora’s Box had dressed up in their best, and only, personal outfits for shore leave. Their styles clashed quite sharply.

Fernanda had dolled herself up, the shiny purple streaks going through her long, blond hair even more pronounced than before, and the purple lipstick and eyeshadow on her delicate face sparkling with a hint of glitter. Her light figure was wrapped in a black and dark purple synthetic dress, skin-tight from the neck to its long sleeves and filigreed bodice. Diamond-shaped sheer sections on the upper chest and belly whose tips met just under the breasts, added a tasteful amount of risqué flair. Those sheer sections composed of two diamonds of tight mesh fabric, meeting end to end, were also mirrored on Fernanda’s back, on her arms, as well as in the leggings that went with the dress. On the sections of the dress that were not partially see-through, silver faux-occult patterns had been laid over the fabric. These were also present in the dress’ short, flared skirt, worn over as a bottom piece.

Simply put– she was so fucking hot that it was driving Alex low-key insane.

Alex was nowhere near the level of Fernanda’s gothic chic. Nevertheless, as she walked the streets, she started to put on a bit of swagger. She liked to think she must have looked handsome, with her tall and gallant figure, wide-shouldered, long-limbed, slender; easily a head over Fernanda; as well as her mysteriously, exotically mixed race skin tone and silky brown hair, messily stuck up in the back of her head with a single claw hair clip.

Her fashion was near completely thrown together– just things that felt comfortable if she ever had to wear something other than a uniform. She had a pair of tight blue pants with a few rips on the knees and thighs, and a blue zip-up hoodie with a little 16-bit pixel art model of a ship on the back. She wore her hoodie half-unzipped and well off-shoulder; showing off some cleavage in addition by wearing an over-size, deeply plunging white v-neck underneath the hoodie, also falling off her nice shoulders and exposing tantalizing black bra straps.

“Is there anything specific you’d like to see?”

“I shall strategize once I have laid closer look to the goods. What about thine own interest?”

“Just browsing. But honestly, I just thought you’d like a place like this.”

“Oh ho! Perhaps a dew-drop of high culture has fallen upon the brows of this gamer?”

Fernanda made a smug little face and a dramatic little gesture with her hands.

At first Alex was a little repelled by Fern. She wasn’t going to lie to herself and think she always liked her. When she first saw her she thought she was a weirdo, and their first few shifts were tense. But the more she got to know her, working those long nights on the bridge, she started to think, Fern is kinda cute. Then, they started to live together, saw more of each other outside the bridge, and Alex thought, Fern is kinda hot.

Truly, Alex’s imagination had been very limited those few weeks ago.

Fernanda, as she stood on this day, was like, geothermal event levels hot.

Alex was hitting herself for fantasizing about everyone but her!

On the way to the market, in addition to trying to work up a bit of confidence in her own body language, Alex’s eyes examined the way Fern’s dress clung to her every contour and she felt like she had to say something. Everyone loved compliments, right?

And damn– Fernada was earning every second of Alex’s lascivious gaze.

As far as Alex was concerned, today her life was not a shoot-em-up or simulator, it was a storytelling game– clearly, she was locked into the “Fern” route. This event was her chance to make some moves and score some points with the roomie to turn things romantic.

She had to nut up and take the initiative. No coward strats— big dick moves only.

“Hey, Fern,”

“Uh huh?”

“You look h– I like your dress.”

Afraid of the commit, Alex cancelled into a much safer move, like a huge coward.

Fernanda looked her up and down with a neutral but appraising expression on her face.

Was it just Alex’s imagination or did Fern’s eyes just linger on her tits?

“Much appreciated– you have–” Fernanda paused. “You possess a rather easy presence.”

With twice as many words she said about as much of a compliment as Alex had.

Not much of one at all. They averted their gazes and got to walking.

Despite the awkwardness, the two of them headed into the market with smiling faces.

Fake stone paths dotted with a few synthetic trees made up the park, the turf grass easily exposed by the lack of quality lighting to maintain the illusions. None of the architecture was very impressive, despite its attempts to put on airs. False stucco on the library façade and the false colonnades fading into the walls of the school building, it all failed to impress.

It was the streets around these landmarks that now brimmed with life.

Hundreds of sellers had arrayed themselves in every open spot along the streets. Some had large tents filled with goods, others were selling out of the trunks of small electric vehicles, yet more had carts or simple plastic table-stands with their goods on offer.

There were all kinds of people selling, young and old, men and women.

All of them were Imbrian though– nobody had even as much skin tone on them as Alex.

“Gamer– I mean, Alex, prithee, accompany me first to the purveyors of textiles.”

“None of these strike me as erotic novel type stuff.” Alex said teasingly.

“I shall prove your insolence wrong in due time! But I wish to see everything on offer!”

Rather than ignore Alex’s lagging behind, Fernanda grabbed her suddenly by the arm and pulled her toward several stands and tents were shirts, carpets, sheets, and other such goods were on sale. Alex wasn’t just being surly for the sake of it: she had noticed common themes among the textiles on sale that clashed heavily with both her own sense of fashion and quite definitely with Fernanda’s fashion. It seemed the order of the day was geometric patterns, like diamond-shaped waves and squares within circles, or even fractal patterns.

All of which had either bright flat colors, or psychedelic arrays of many colors at once.

Upon looking at these tie-dye explosions up close, Fernanda barely restrained a grimace.

“Looking for a new welcome mat to lighten up your hallway? Or maybe a cute scarf or a drape to add flair to a new look?” A seller called out to them. “Our textiles all have super chic Shimii-inspired patterns! Teen girls love these nowadays! You would be on the cutting edge of the hip new styles no matter how old you are now! C’mon, take a closer look for yourself!”

Alex wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Shimii textiles with such garish colors before.

Fernanda and her both ignored the seller and continued walking.

“Dunno about you, but I’m not that interested in what teens are doing here.” Alex said.

“Concurred.” Fernanda said with a small sigh.

There was a decent amount of foot traffic along the streets and into and out of the school and library; a variety of food vendors around the street market were taking advantage of this. Alex kept an eye out for them, as she had begun to feel slightly peckish.

However, almost all of them were selling some kind of processed meat.

Hamburg steaks, chicken wings, candied bacon; there was meat to eat everywhere she turned, but nothing like Minardo’s cooking. Strictly speaking, they weren’t forbidden from eating meat, but they had been raised to find it wasteful, so it felt odd to do so.

Both of them stopped in front of a cart with a few things for sale they had never heard of.

“Pray tell, what form of comestible is ceg kofta?” Fernanda asked.

From behind the cart, the young woman scooped up a mass of red paste flecked with white and green bits and showed it to the two of them. It smelled strong and herbal, but upon seeing it, there was no denying that it was just meat. “This is raw lamb mashed with onion, garlic, green leek and spices. It’s a Shimii specialty, it’s becoming super popular. Ten marks per, want some? I’ll throw in some rose petal lemonade on the side for free!”

“Huh? It’s raw?” Alex frowned. “Won’t that just make us sick?”

The young kofta seller narrowed her eyes. “Of course not! Shimii eat this every day!”

“Then it shall be left with them, or your impression of them. Let’s depart, gam– Alex.”

Fernanda tugged Alex’s arm and led her away from the cart quickly.

She had a grossed-out look on her face.

Alex was beginning to fear the date venue had been a miscalculation on their part, but it started to turn around when she pointed out the jewelry vendors to Fernanda. Her eyes finally twinkled with delight. There were finally goods that came in purple and black and were much more her style. Hairpins shaped like raven’s feathers, necklaces with star-shaped purple gemstones of both ferristitched and slightly more authentic varieties, brooches and wristlets and earrings in sharp and wicked shapes and designs.

It was a bit more romantic than rainbow scarves and raw meat.

Fernanda drifted from seller to seller, smiling exuberantly at the pieces on display.

She looked so exceptionally beautiful when she was happy.

Alex had a corny, stupid, gay thought– she wanted to make Fern happier more often.

Maybe it’d do everyone some good to see that smile on the regular.

If I could save right here and just come back to this moment whenever I wanted.

It was time– Alex had been too passive. She needed to make a gamer move.

There was an opportunity, and she wasn’t about to let it pass unanswered.

“Hey, Fern, come look. I found something; try this on. I think it’ll suit you.”

Working up her courage, Alex picked up a little something from the table of a compliant vendor– a choker, with a lacy, partially see-through black band and a purple decoration in front that was the shape of a broken heart. As soon as she saw the piece, Alex knew she had to grab it. When Fernanda turned to look, she paused and stared, transfixed, at the object.

Alex thought she saw a bit of a blush on Fernanda’s cheek, and quietly undid the clip in the back of the choker, and presented it, as if to say, ‘want me to put it on you?’

“I’m surprised,” Fernanda said, after some hesitation. “You– You get it, gamer.”

“Hmm? I get it?” Alex grinned.

“I– I mean to suggest, you have demonstrated a refinement in taste hitherto unseen.”

A few moments’ hesitation, and she lifted her blond hair, shut her eyes and moved closer.

Alex’s heart began to thrash.

She had never seen Fernanda make herself so– vulnerable?

Basking in the unforeseen triumph, Alex neared, leaned forward, and slowly and gently wound the choker around Fernanda’s slim neck with the utmost care and tenderness and respect. She clipped the choker on the back and adjusted it. Her hands brushed against the soft skin of Fern’s shoulders and neck, felt the silky texture of her hair, and she was close enough to smell the darkly sensuous perfume that her witch had applied for the occasion.

She could have pounced on her– oh god. Dangerous thoughts. Reel them back in.

“Oh yeah. I’m buying it.” Alex said to the vendor. She handed them a few bills.

Fernanda looked she was going to scoff out of habit at this unasked for favor–

–but she caught sight of herself in the vendor’s mirror and paused to take it in.

“It– it does look– it flatters my countenance to an acceptable degree. I will wear it.”

“It’s amazing on you. You’re amazing, Fern.”

Without thinking, she had found herself saying something far more blatant than before.

For a moment Alex expected Fern to flinch and kick her shin in disgust, or something.

“Hah. Never was it in doubt. My nymph-like beauty is without equal among mortals.”

Instead, Fernanda turned a conceited smile on Alex and walked away with a haughty air.

There was a second where Alex felt kind of stupid. Like she had been tricked somehow.

Then her heart felt lighter. She was happy; she was satisfied.

She loved seeing Fern like this. It wasn’t a contest– it wasn’t a competitive game.

Fernanda was smiling. She was smiling too. It was nice– it wasn’t perfect, but it was nice.

They were having a good time, all things considered.

Three months ago, this would have been unthinkable. But they had been through a lot.

And now, Alex really felt like– she wanted Fernanda to like her– she felt that–

there was no one else she wanted to take those night shifts with than Fernanda.

Even if all they did was argue about dumb, pointless stuff. It was fine; if it was with her.

But does she like me back? She’s been acting pretty flirty if I think about it.

Maybe Alex just had to be the sexy biracial gamer chick of her dreams!

Maybe it was that easy!

Alex waved goodbye to the vendor out of sheer personal exuberance and followed along behind Fernanda with a renewed energy. She had never felt this way about anyone, and she thought she liked it. Whatever status ailment she had been inflicted with, she hoped it wouldn’t go away soon. Everything felt so easy now, and she was no longer so anxious about displeasing Fernanda. She thought a successful date was essentially already locked in.

“Do you think they have any video games here?” Alex asked, with a big, cheery smile.

Fernanda glanced over her shoulder at her. “Mayhaps you’ll find the rare handicrafted memory card of a departed old matron, boasting bespoke digital entertainments heretofore unseen, lovingly stitched pixel by pixel over a centenary of teacups and porridge bowls.”

Her voice was thick with sarcasm, and Alex loved it too. Berate me more, princess!

And what was that she saw? Was that a little smile playing on Fernada’s purple lips?

There you go! You’re winning, Alexandra Geninov! You’re finally winning!

Closer to the school and library, there were bigger tents with exactly what Fernanda was looking for. Shelves upon shelves of books– of course, none of them were real hardcover books. Instead, they had very thin screens within a smooth plastic shell containing a microcomputer wafer smaller than an ID card and similar in weight.

All it could do was display the book in its attached memory card. Single purpose reader devices were uncommon in the Union; almost all books in the Union were just library files that the station computer served to portables or room computers. In the Imbrium, however, books were bought and sold as limited, physical goods, hence the hardware.

Alex and Fernanda walked into a big tent, big enough to have a dozen shelves inside.

Each shelf was marked with the genre of books it contained, and in no time, Fernanda had shuffled over to the “Dark Romance” shelf. Because the books were so thin, there were hundreds and hundreds of them in each shelf. They were poorly labeled on the shelf itself, most of them unmarked, requiring that the book be picked up and booted up with the tiny buttons on the case, to determine what it was. Fernanda began looking through them.

“So, any steamy lesbian sex?” Alex asked, peering over Fernanda’s shoulder.

No immediate response.

And there she went– Fernanda’s eyes scanned across the lines of text one after another.

Her slender fingers swiped across the screen, turning page after page.

After a few moments, a slightly hoarse laugh escaped her lips.

Alex smiled and stood by, eventually picking up a random book herself.

Perhaps seeing her disengaging, Fernanda’s gaze lifted from her book for a brief moment.

“Gamer– Alex. You cannot reduce this literary juggernaut to such simplicity. Dark romance works are obsessed with the sadomasochistic relationships that can develop between the same sex. They are characterized by brooding protagonists, dark acts of sexuality, and bitter endings. Indeed, there is the unveiling of the sapphic flesh, but this is hardly the only appeal of these works. In the Union, these works are still largely the domain of enthusiast writing, but they appear to have been broadcast more widely in the Empire.” Fernanda said.

Indeed, after a few pages into the book Alex had picked up, there was already lesbian sex. A special agent who was infiltrating a Solceanos convent into order to sneak out the woman that she loved, who had been forced to hide there due to her political rivals; and she just couldn’t help but pause and get knuckle deep inside her girl before their escape–

Fernanda peered at Alex’s book, shut off her own reader and picked up a second sheet.

“You have come into possession of a future volume of ‘The Death of The Umbran Lilly’.” Fernanda said. “If you desire to assist me, help me collect the rest. I desire to obtain as many volumes as they have available. You’ll be pleased to hear I will allow you to carry them.”

“Uh huh. Or I guess I should say ‘as thou wisheth, o dark mistress’.”

“Hmph.”

Alex shut off the reader in her hands and started flipping through others.

Due to the lack of good labeling the two of them kept taking and putting back volumes as they looked. It was easy for Alex to think of this as some kind of mission and put her whole head into it. From what Fernanda gathered there were fifteen volumes.

“So lesbians aside, what kind of stuff do you look for in a series? Why this one?”

“Hah! To ask such a simplistic question of me. Of course, what else could I desire but to peer into the deepest depths of human desire and community? To explore the darkest and most enshadowed recesses of the spirit and expose the most turbulent angst contained therein?”

“I’m sorry but all that still sounds like you just want lesbians in it.”

“Hmph. Pray tell, what do you seek from your little video games, gamer?”

“Well, first priority is good gamefeel, like slick controls and mechanics.”

“Pah! Gamefeel. And you pretend my words mean nothing?”

Fernanda broke out into laughter. For a second Alex felt rebuked again.

But Fernanda seemed to be smiling still.

Alex started to become invested in finding all twenty-something volumes of ‘The Death of the Umbran Lilly’ in order to appease Fernanda, and quickly became absorbed in the task.

She would only tear her eyes from a book or shelf if she found one.

To the point that she did not notice a third individual making their way into the shelf.

And while being particularly dramatic with snatching a book from the shelf, elbowed them somewhere, and knocked the book they were reading right out of their hands. It felt like the noise of that book hitting ground was louder than any other sound in the entire station, overwhelmingly loud, drowning out Alex’s breathing, heartbeat, thoughts. She was immediately, completely embarrassed to have hit someone else, and crouched to pick up the book without a second to spare. Thankfully, the portable readers had padded corners.

“Agh! Oh, I’m such an oaf, I’ll get it for you–”

Crouching on the ground, picking up the portable that had fallen–

In front of a pair of thick, black boots, out of which long black tights emerged.

Alex’s eyes followed the tights up a pair of long and well-defined legs.

To black skirt and coat, worn over a black shirt. Long sleeves with red armbands.

One emblazoned with a stylized black sun, another with an eagle-like dragon.

Dark brown eyes looked down at her on the floor.

A bushy tail swung leisurely behind the figure.

Peeking out from around a beret were two tall, furry ears.

“Ah. Thank you. I was surprised too.”

She reached down a hand. Black gloves with a cuff bearing that same strange sun motif.

Alex recognized the symbols. The Commissar had made sure everyone knew them.

The Sonnenrad, a symbol of esoteric fascism; and the Reichsadler, imperial heraldry.

Judging by the armband, this woman–

–was an officer of the Volkisch Movement!

Alex had stricken a fascist officer!

I fucked up! I fucked everything up! You did it again you fucking loser Alex Geninov!

Shocked stupid, not knowing what to do, Alex took her gloved hand.

That woman easily pulled Alex back up to a stand, her grip confident and strong.

She was a Loup, Alex thought– shorter than her, with long, brown hair with neat, blunt bangs, fluffy ears and a bushy, bristly tail that wagged easily behind her. Her eyes were a dark, deep blue. She had an affable expression, but her gaze was so intense–

“I’m– I’m really sorry about all this! Really! It won’t happen again!” Alex said.

She stared straight into that cutting gaze, feeling eviscerated by its depth.

This woman, whose hand she was holding, could finish everything Alex cared about.

Her life; the mission; and– the love of her life–

“Please forgive us.” Alex mumbled.

At her side, Fernanda froze up, staring wide-eyed with her hands clutching a book.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Fellow enthusiasts of taboo literature, right?”

The Volkisch officer smiled and reached out a hand again, this time for a shake.

Alex, still dumbstruck and anxious, shook it, perhaps a bit too vigorously.

“Um. Alex.” She said, by way of introduction.

“My name is Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Alex handed her back the book that had been dropped.

It visibly shook in her nervous grip.

Aatto caught on and wagged a finger.

“Oh I’m so sorry. I understand– please don’t worry. I’m just a paper pusher, I’m not here for the ‘zeal and glory of the National Proletariat.’” She said the slogan in a deeper, mocking voice. “Just pretend like I’m anyone else here. You’ve got a bunch of ‘Umbran Lilly’ right? I can recommend it. Though I prefer stories that have kingdom-building elements.”

She reached across from Alex and picked up another book from the shelf.

It was the last volume they were looking for.

Aatto handed it to a demure Fernanda.

“Of course, there’s not much to spoil, the name of the series says it all. Nevertheless, it is a truly intriguing little tale.” Aatto says. “I think the imagination on display can excite both dabbler and connoisseur alike with its audacity. Even though our heroine must die for the sake of the morality laws– her journey takes some incredible turns. I only wish that women such as these were allowed to live out their conquests to the fullest. Anyway. Enjoy it.”

Alex and Fernanda speechlessly took the books.

Aatto meanwhile turned back to the shelf and picked up a different book to peruse.

While periodically staring at Aatto as if she would pounce if they ignored her for too long, they grabbed one of the bags left in the aisles for prospective customers, put all their books in it, and bid silent leave from the Volkisch officer. The entire time Alex was around her, she waited for the other shoe to drop. Would there be someone in one of the shelves closer to the front of the tent, ready to tackle them to the ground? Would there be a tactical team outside that would immediately fill them with lead for buying perverted books?

Outside the tent, the pair found themselves unmolested in the middle of the street.

Except by the amount of money it cost to buy 20 volumes of lesbian erotica.

They both looked back over their shoulders into the tent, to see if Aatto was watching.

Nothing. She must have still been perusing the dirty books in the back.

Fernanda and Alex heaved a sigh of relief, leaning into each other.

“We should seize the march.” Fernanda said. “Before we bequeath opportunities to fate.”

She thrust the bag of books into Alex’s chest, urging her to carry it.

They left the open air market, Alex’s breathing still troubled by the fright in the book tent. After stealing away into the wide open streets of C-block, putting several corners between them and the open-air market, the two of them slowly began to take lighter steps.

There were no snipers or barricades or armored cars.

Alex was the first one to laugh, but Fernanda soon joined her.

“She was just a paper pusher– dressed like that? What kind of department has a ‘judge, jury and executioner’ style dress code?” Alex said. “And she’s into gay porn? I can’t deal with it.”

“Envision joining a sapphic reading group only to find that in your meetings.” Fern said.

Both of them guffawed openly on the street for a moment.

“God. I’m starving. We should find a place we can actually eat at.” Alex finally said.

“I’m afraid I must concur. Without replenishment, you’ll soon have to carry me too.”

Fernanda glanced at Alex as if looking for a response– and smiled when Alex laughed.

Farther down the street, they found about the only place where they were guaranteed to get something vegetarian– a fruit bar, serving a variety of smoothies and drinks. Rather than actual fresh fruit, which would have been prohibitively expensive, the venue was dominated by several rows displaying different cartridges of stitcher material to mix together.

Fruits were processed toward the creation of flavor bases, syrups, creams, and fibers, contained in small transparent cylinders that would be fed into the smoothie machine. Guests could choose any combination, for different flavors, colors and textures.

This was a shop after Alex’s own heart.

In the Union, fresh fruit was exceedingly hard to get. Fresh food was so precious it was the main perk of farming– getting to have any fresh fruit and veggies at all was a highly desirable perk. Every unit of food grown in the Union that was bound for cafeterias, schools, workplaces and community pantries, was immediately processed into a product that would last longer and be transportable. Everything was dried, milled, pulped or pickled; only a few whole fruits were frozen for consumption in near-original form, and these were rare goods often bound for the navy or as some kind of prize or bonus for outstanding citizens.

Alex was quite used to eating stuff like this– smoothies made by stitcher machines.

It was easy to eat, pretty tasty, and it conferred a hit of sugar for a late night gaming boost.

There were some unfamiliar fruits on offer, however. One of the perks of Empire.

“What are you getting?” Alex asked Fern.

Fern grinned to herself. “I aspire to compose a drink that evokes the midnight shadow.”

“You’re getting purple stuff. Got it.”

“Hmph.”

Alex was throwing stones from a glass house, as her drink was essentially “green stuff.”

Because of all the shelves, there was no indoor seating in the fruit bar, but the establishment had put up a few tables and chairs in an adjacent alleyway for customers to leave the street. The pair sat down under a white umbrella and sipped their smoothies in disposable plastic mugs, taking in the somewhat stale air of the district and catching their breath.

Fern’s drink did look surprisingly tempting with its deep purple hue and swirl of a brighter purple syrup. Alex’s was monotonously green and somewhat fibrous, but the strongest flavor was a sweet berry syrup that had been run through the drink along with cream.

Fernanda extended her hand toward Alex, the smoothie cup in her thin fingers.

“Perchance a sip, gamer? You’ve been eyeing it constantly.”

Alex leaned forward and took a sip from the plastic straw.

This prompted an explosion of sweetness onto her tongue she was not really prepared for.

She could vaguely taste something starchy, maybe beet? And something like grapes?

“Wow.” She said. “It’s really purple.” She cocked a grin.

Fernanda retracted her hand. She looked down at her drink.

There was a brief moment of hesitation before she put her lips on the straw and continued to drink as she had been. Alex thought nothing whatsoever of this moment.

She did think, seated across from Fernanda, that they hadn’t really gotten a chance to really sit down and talk about things that were not work related. She felt really curious–

she knew all these things that Fernanda liked and did–

–but how much did she know about Fernanda herself?

“Hey, Fern, where are you from?” Alex asked. “I don’t think you’ve ever said.”

Fernanda narrowed her eyes at Alex and sipped more from her drink.

“Is it security stuff? You can answer a bit quiet can’t you? No one’s listening.” Alex said.

“It’s not that.” Fernanda put down her drink. “It is simply neither pertinent nor interesting.”

“I’m interested.” Alex said. “I mean, if you wanna talk boring, I’m just from Mt. Raja.”

Fernanda’s eyes drifted away from Alex. Her body language noticeably softened.

“Sevastopol.” She said simply. “I was raised in Sevastopol. Then I joined the navy.”

“Couldn’t find a way to make that sound fancy?” Alex said in jest.

“My life simply wasn’t fancy.” Fernanda replied seriously.

Alex noticed the shift in her behavior and tone and felt slightly alarmed by it.

It was uncharacteristic– she felt like she was fumbling the run at the last second and needed to recover to post a good score. Like before, she thought she needed to appease Fern again.

“Oh. Sorry. I mean– I don’t think you need to be self-conscious. I’m just a huge loser, you know? I wasn’t the smartest kid, my parents didn’t like me, like– if we compare childhoods, I’m probably way more embarrassing. But– I think anything you say is probably really interesting! So you don’t have to worry! I’m just a gamer after all, I won’t judge you!”

She smiled and shrugged and tried to look like she was sounding funny when she wasn’t.

She was just motor mouthing without aim and sounding pathetic. And yet she continued.

“Sevastopol is a big shipbuilding station isn’t it? Did that make you want to go Navy?”

Fernanda’s averted gaze slowly drifted back toward Alex– and softened slightly.

“I just wanted an adventure.” Fernanda said. “Sevastopol was too straightforward.”

“Yeah. I kinda wanted that too.” Alex said. “I guess more like. An escape, maybe.”

“Yes. Life could use more adventure, don’t you think? More romance; more mystery.”

“Oh, for sure, for sure. You know, you got that mysterious girl stuff down real good.”

“You think so? Well– I’m not displeased to hear it, I suppose.”

Fernanda averted her gaze again, resting her chin on the back of her hand.

Alex started drinking from her smoothie again to keep herself from talking any more.

Shit did I fumble everything like this? At the finish line?!

Both of them were silent for several minutes while their cups started to drain.

“Alex. Um.”

Fernanda broke the silence. Twiddling her fingers. Eyes avoiding contact.

She cleared her throat.

When she began speaking again, she had returned to her previous tone of voice. “You were a most amusing traveling companion on this excursion. It would not trouble me if, perhaps, were we to trod upon a new shore– if we could reprise this kind of event.”

Alex couldn’t help but beam brilliantly in response. “Of course, my mistress of the dark.”

“However, I must insist upon one oath from you.” She said.

“Um, sure,” Alex blinked, confused.

Fernanda put down her cup and looked at Alex in the eyes.

“Self-effacing ill becomes you. Making sport of you is my exclusive domain.” She said.

Alex stared, momentarily dumbfounded.

Once she understood the meaning of Fernanda’s words– she almost wanted to cry.

“Ah, yeah.” She replied, feeling bashful and stupid and elated. Everything was mixed up.

I’m being such an idiot, but– God she’s so fucking cute.

Alex thought, there was no sugar-coating it anymore.

She really was in love with Fernanda, huh?

No changing routes now, gamer– she really was seeing this one through to the end.

As anxiety-inducing and weird and kinda cringey as everything felt to her–

–it also felt amazing.


“We’re going to drink. They have plenty of beers here. Order some. I’ll cover it.”

Khadija explained the situation serious and unsmiling in their private booth.

Sieglinde Castille stared at her from across the table. She blinked several times.

“Miss– Ma’am–”

“It’s Khadija. Don’t ma’am me. And don’t dare call me the Lion of Cascabel.”

“I wasn’t going to–”

“I’m not drinking alone. I’ve drank alone enough. If I’m drinking, you’re drinking.”

“We were just going to play Mahjong?”

Khadija leaned in closer, a smile playing across her glossy, fuchsia-colored lips.

“It’s a game bar. We’re playing a game, and drinking. Order up.”

Her diction was slow and threatening, her expression belabored in spelling each word.

“One of us should remain sober.” Sieglinde said. Her voice trembled.

“I’m not letting you be more sober than me.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous. Everything about you is ridiculous. You want to talk to me? Drink.”

“Isn’t it against your religion?”

“I’m good over here. I won’t be having wine. Neither will you. Now pick a drink.”

“I’ve– I’ve been trying to remain sober.” Sieglinde said. She averted her eyes.

Khadija put on a sadistic smile. “Whatever streak you had going, it’s broken. Drink.”

Sieglinde Castille looked finally defeated.

How could she object?

How dare she even think, ‘What have I done to deserve this?’

She knew full well what she had done to deserve it. In her own mind, Khadija was sure she could heap any kind of abuse upon Sieglinde and it would be justified in the final calculus of their lives. Making her drink didn’t even rank among the punishments Khadija thought to subject the former Red Baron to for the terrors she had caused. Condemning her to be less morose for one night? Giving her a bit of liquid courage to help her discuss her sins? Hell– God forbid, maybe they might even get so fucked up as to have some fun.

Woe be upon her– she could endure this much.

“Fine. Fine.” Sieglinde sighed. “I’ll have a Katzbalger. Or– a few, I suppose.”

“What a proletarian choice! I think I’ll start with some rum punch.” Khadija said.

Ever since Sieglinde’s defection, Khadija had not known what to do with herself.

There was something deeply perverse about her old enemy switching sides.

She didn’t blame captain Korabiskaya for being merciful. If Khadija had wanted Sieglinde dead, she had her chance, and she did not take it. In the middle of battle, Khadija had decided that she did not deserve to die. On some level, that had to mean burying her grudge, but she was not able to do so. She continued to nurse an animosity toward her.

It was easy to keep carrying on as she had been.

Things that were easy to carry on doing weren’t always right, however.

There was no avoiding it forever. She wasn’t a little kid with a playground rivalry. There was no teacher who was going to sit them down and make them hash things out. Khadija needed to confront what kind of woman Sieglinde Castille had become in A.D. 979. Not twenty years ago, but now, when they were both old and Khadija had settled their affair. Sieglinde had defected, and even given opportunity, she was not using it as a pretext to escape.

She was demure and compliant. She was abundantly courteous. She seemed sincere.

Khadija had won their brawl out at sea, and she was being graceful in victory.

She would give Sieglinde something of a chance. To determine how they would live.

So– what better way to break the ice than to have a drink and play some Mahjong?

Whether in the Empire or Union, it was not hard to find bars like the one they were in.

As soon as they walked through the door, it was a long hall with individual rooms, and somewhere in the back there was a kitchen. Each room had plush booth seats and a convertible table. This particular bar encouraged guests to play games while they drank and ate light snacks– but it also probably didn’t mind them doing other things too. An inexorable part of living in a station was that most people had a very small amount of personal space, and it was difficult to be private with someone without inviting them into that personal space. Venues where two persons could be private without necessarily being personal were a necessary middle place for people like Khadija. Access to alcohol didn’t hurt either.

Aside from the red upholstery of the seats, the room was pretty spartan and sparsely decorated. Grey walls, white lights, a table with multiple folding ends. There was a touchpad on the wall that could change the color of the lights, the climate of the room, and play music. Khadija chose to play a channel of gentle acoustic guitar tracks, though every so often the computer threw in some other similar music unasked for. Under the booth seats, there were boxes that contained cards and game pieces for a variety of games.

Khadija withdrew the boxed set of pieces for mahjong, a rather deep game of colorful tiles.

“How much do you know about mahjong?” Khadija said.

“I’ve played it before. It’s from the Far East, isn’t it?” Sieglinde replied.

“Right. In the Imbrium, the game made its way to us from Hanwa, after the border wars.” Khadija said. She showed Sieglinde the pieces, which, in this Imbrian set, all had alphanumeric characters, rather than High Hanwan. “It’s an old game with many variants. Hanwa may have got it when they conquered Yu. It’s something that has been transferred, regrettably, through the violence of conquest, assimilation, and rivalry between empires.”

An uncanny prop for their dispute– but Khadija only chose it because she was bored of cards.

Khadija began to look through the tiles, checking to see if the set was actually complete.

“I learned about it in the army. I guess that figures.” Sieglinde said in a glum voice.

“Are you good at it?” Khadija asked.

Sieglinde shook her head. “Not at all.”

“Hah! Well. Of myself, I would say, I’m good enough for how I like to play.”

Low stakes gambling among drunk acquaintances, was the piece left unspoken.

While Khadija was going through the tiles, someone rapped on the door.

Through a slot, they had brought the first round of drinks. Sieglinde’s Katzbalger was a lightly decorated can of cheap beer with a cartoon of a dead cat on it, advertised as a low brow drink for salt of the earth Imbrian men. Khadija had been a little surprised that Sieglinde would order it. Meanwhile, her own can of rum punch was as bright and fruity as the contents were, garishly blue with a smiling, possibly drunk strawberry mascot.

Neither of them had dressed up for the occasion. They both wore the same teal half-jacket, and sleeveless button-down white shirt that characterized Treasure Box Transports. Sieglinde wore the uniform pants, while Khadija had a skirt and black tights. Wearing the same thing heightened the contrasts between them. Sieglinde was taller, broad-shouldered, her long mane of golden hair falling over her shoulders and back, almost down below the waist. Her sleek cheekbones and soft, slightly rounded nose gave her a slightly more traditional beauty. Khadija meanwhile was smaller, leaner, wiry, and her facial features were slightly sharper. She was perfectly manicured, lips wine-red, eyes perfectly shadowed the same color, lashes done, toner on her skin, where Sieglinde was unadorned. Khadija’s long hair was a shade of gold as well, but still different in texture and darker in tone.

And of course, Khadija’s fluffy ears, as perfectly manicured as the rest of her appearance.

Her bushy tail gently waved behind her, a sign of how calm she was.

“Here, this sheet has all the scoring rules and the hands on it.” Khadija said.

She set the sheet down off to the side of their play area, where both could reference it.

Then, she cracked open her can of rum punch, and stared expectantly at Sieglinde.

Looking glumly down at her can, Sieglinde popped the top as well. She took it in hand.

“A toast?” She proposed.

Khadija grinned. “Oh? I’d love to! You read my mind!”

They tapped their cans together, and then sipped from them.

Sieglinde took a much longer drink than Khadija, surprising the older Shimii.

When she put down her can again, the former noblewoman shut her eyes and groaned.

“What did we toast to?” Khadija asked.

Sieglinde lifted her can from the table again. “To peace.”

“Bah, childish and wishy-washy.” Khadija lifted her own can. “To struggle!”

She leaned across the table and tapped her can against Sieglinde’s a second time.

Then she downed the rest, as if to show Sieglinde how to really crush a can of liquor.

Meeting the silent challenge, the ex-baron downed the rest of her can on her next draught.

“There we go! That’s the spirit! Khoroshego!” Khadija laughed, raising her empty can.

Soon, the second round arrived, but this one was not so immediately thrown down.

“I thought Shimii were all very reserved and sober. Especially the women.” Sieglinde said.

“I’m a communist and communists can drink.” Khadija said. She watched Sieglinde’s dumbfounded expression and laughed out loud. “Look, there are many things I am supposed to avoid. But I’m not an ascetic. I’m a soldier with my vices. I still pray, I still fast. I do the things I grew up doing. And I fight like hell for others– if my soul ends up in the abyss for some drinking, I hope the many more souls I saved can live less broken lives than I.”

“I apologize for my impudent questioning. Yours a noble outlook.” Sieglinde said.

“No it isn’t. It’s not about ‘being noble.’ I’m fighting for my convictions.” Khadija said.

She felt immediately annoyed at Sieglinde’s reaction and started to shuffle tiles.

“To say you are ‘good’ or you are ‘noble’,” Khadija began, “it’s facile. You aren’t fighting for your soul. Your soul doesn’t matter to the world. Identify your enemy, call them for what they are, and fight what they do. Fascists, imperialists, they take the homes of people, starve them, and enrich themselves off their endless toil. I don’t fight them because it is ‘noble.’”

Sieglinde averted her gaze as if scolded and took another long sip of beer.

Khadija turned away from her again and started arranging the tile walls to begin.

“I don’t know what to say.” Sieglinde said. “I know what I did was evil.”

“You can start by not moralizing it.” Khadija grunted. “I don’t think you’re ‘evil’. Don’t make me stand up for you, for fuck’s sake.” She knew more than she let on. She had spied on Sieglinde weeping in the brig and knew exactly why she had been forced to fight in the war. But she couldn’t say that. “You were not evil, you were probably just young and ignorant.”

“I can’t excuse it anymore by saying I was just young and ignorant.” Sieglinde said. “I want to be better than that, Khadija. There were many times where I thought of running away, of refusing to serve, of doing anything– I never took them. I can’t see that as anything but evil. I willfully inflicted pain and furthered injustice, because it was easier than rebelling.”

“You want to be better? Why?” Khadija asked. “To save your immortal soul?”

“No!” Sieglinde cried out. “I just– I know I was doing wrong. I can’t carry on like that.”

“So it’s that simple? You realized you were ‘doing wrong,’ so now you must ‘do right’?”

“No. It’s– It’s more than that.” Sieglinde looked helpless to put it into words, however.

Khadija sighed, trying to reel back her own frustration. She was being too aggressive.

“Forget it. I’m done setting up the game. Take a sip and draw. Snacks will be here soon.”

Along with their drinks, a tray with a spartan assortment of snacks slid into the room through the same slot on the door. There was tough black bread, mixed pickled veggies and some hard cheeses. A final section had a dollop of coarse mustard and a dollop of sour cream, along with some empty space where perhaps sausages or other meat was supposed to be.

Khadija drew her hand of tiles. There was very little to work with. She was unlucky.

A mishmash of stuff. Maybe I get lucky and make a few sequences.

Neither of them spoke much as the game progressed.

Both of them were keeping dutifully closed hands, and discarding many tiles.

Khadija looked at Sieglinde between every play, but Sieglinde seemed to avoid her gaze.

Almost without interacting with each other, they came close to finishing their first hands.

“Taking it really seriously aren’t you? Relax. We haven’t even put down any bets.”

Sieglinde nodded her head with a wan expression. “Alright.”

“Poor start.” Khadija replied.

The former noblewoman reached for her latest beer and took a long drink.

She then set the can on the table with a bit of a strike.

“Khadija, what do you want from me? What can I do?” Sieglinde said, raising her voice.

“Play out this round.” Khadija replied simply, looking down at her concealed tiles.

Grunting, Sieglinde picked up her final tile and laid down her hand.

She had collected an entire hand of oak tree suit tiles, numbering one through nine.

Khadija revealed her own hand: still a mishmash of tiles that didn’t come together.

“You let me win?” Sieglinde asked.

“No. Don’t be so full of yourself. I got unlucky. It happens.” Khadija said.

Sieglinde Castille was a stupid and earnest girl with a lot of hurt in her heart. Khadija knew that already and it was evident to see, right in front of her tired old eyes. She knew Sieglinde was a 36 year old woman who had been shackled by a cruel and corrupting duty, in an evil place that never allowed her to learn otherwise, or to feel like she could possibly rebel.

But now she recognized it. There was no point in brutalizing her or punishing her.

Nothing Khadija did to Sieglinde would bring back the people she killed.

And she was already being crushed by that exact same idea herself.

In their fated clash at Goryk’s Gorge, Khadija killed Sieglinde von Castille, the Red Baron. Sieglinde Castille, the gloomy woman in front of her, was a shadow of that grand villain. She had the fight snuffed out of her, and now belonged to nowhere in the world, lost, broken and isolated. Maybe she didn’t know what she wanted; she certainly didn’t know what to do.

Khadija picked up the fifth bottle of rum punch and took a short sip.

She set it down on the table as hard as Sieglinde had set down her beer before.

“You want to know what I want from you? I’ll tell you then, but only this once! I want you to actually think about the kind of woman you want to be from now on! Not about whether you are ‘good’ or ‘evil’, whether you are doing ‘right’ or ‘wrong’! Think, concretely, about what you will do, what actions you will take, what kind of world you believe in. Believe in something and work towards that!” Khadija’s voice rose to a shout. “Stop living in the past! Neither of us can turn back the pages of what we’ve done! Start writing your story from today! If you become someone I detest, I promise I’ll strike you stone dead! But if you become someone worthy of praise, I will equally yield to it! That is what I want from you!”

Sieglinde’s eyes drew wide in front of Khadija, struck dumb by her shouted words.

Tears started to collect in those sad eyes.

Khadija grunted.

Stupid woman; act your age for once.

That was the cruel thought in her head because it was too odious to accept her simpering demands that Khadija lead her by the nose to redemption. Absolutely not, no way; make something of yourself first and impress those around you with those deeds. Impress me— that’s what Khadija wanted. Show me, how you have changed, show me that you can create a new legend for yourself. As someone who will fight rather than protect the oppressor.

Khadija wanted so strongly to believe that was possible.

She wanted to believe she had killed that Red Baron and freed Sieglinde from her.

But the directionless woman in front of her, begging for salvation– was not promising.

After a minute of silence, Khadija lifted her can of rum punch to her lips and emptied it.

She then started to shuffle the tiles again.

“Ya allah! Collect yourself. I won’t stand you winning one round and then leaving.”

Her gut was starting to burn from the booze, but she did not want things to stop just yet.

Sieglinde nodded her head and started to help with the shuffling.

“Are there any other games you know? Backgammon? Go? Poker?”

“I know a little bit of each. I’m not very good at any.” Sieglinde whimpered in reply.

“Ugh. You’re so boring. We must endeavor to change that.” Khadija replied, smiling a bit.

A shy little smile worked its way to Sieglinde’s face too.


“You’ve been scaring my customers all day. Got any good news to make up for it?”

“Heh. Yes. That last package has come and gone without incident. Off the grid.”

“Okay. Thank heavens. Past few months have been brutal. I’m glad she’s okay.”

In that same tent that Alex and Fernanda purchased a queen’s ransom of erotic lesbian literature, the nondescript older man who owned the same tent made to look at his remaining stock at the end of the first day of the market. In the back shelves, away from prying eyes, awaited Aatto Jarvi Stormyweather, a Rottenfuhrer of the Sicherheitsdienst, Volkisch Intelligence. Odd was the Loup that sat behind a desk, and did not fight on the frontlines, but odd also was the Loup that did not flee to the Royal Alliance instead of remaining with Rhinea. Aatto was willing to remain behind that desk in a new uniform.

And so, Aatto stayed behind the same desk as when she was a part of the liberal Rhinean Navy, and nobody had yet to dispute this. The Volkisch needed all the specialists they could get to keep the state running, whether or not they were part of the Imbrian privileged class.

“What do the Liberals plan to do now?” Aatto asked. “Are they gearing up to fight?”

“You don’t need to know that. Thank you for your work, but– you don’t need to know.”

Even this man was terrified of her.

An informant who had helped smuggle out liberal politicians in danger of being purged by the Volkisch, and whom Aatto had assisted greatly in this endeavor. She had forged documents, faked dispatches, leaked communiques and staff orders, contacted mercenaries and faked ship inspections– but she was still despised for the uniform of a Rottenfuhrer.

She didn’t care one whit about that. She didn’t care what anyone thought of her.

But she needed to know. Was someone finally going to challenge the Volkisch?

Was the fated battle to resolve the contradictions of Rhinea finally at hand?

“If they will fight, I will gladly assist. In any capacity. Please let me know.” Aatto said.

All she wanted to know was whether the Liberals could light the Flame of History.

Whether they were strong enough to fully seize power on the pyre of their enemy’s bodies.

For a moment the man stared at her quizzically. He then turned his entire head away.

“Are you crazy? No. They can’t challenge the Volkisch. They’re just gonna lay low.”

Aatto’s eyes narrowed, her tail straightened, her ears folded, with great displeasure.

It was as if a trance, a delusion she had been under, suddenly shattered in front of her.

As if the entire weight of reality was forcing itself back through her head.

Unworthy. All of them are unworthy. The liberals, the Volkisch, the Imbrian Empire. All of them will recede into the shadow of history with nary a cry. Disgusting. Worthless. Pathetic. Where is the grand trial in which we will finally determine the course of history? Must we continue to limp along in fruitless detente? Feckless cowards watching the clock freeze from afar–

The shopkeeper caught a glimpse of the sheer hatred on her face from the side of his eyes–

But clearly, when he turned to look, she had the same little grin that she always did.

Utterly collected and calm, her expression betraying little emotion.

“Then I’m afraid that will be the end of my services. I see no point in risking my life for others any further if the opportunity will lead to nothing. We must part ways now.” She said.

“What? I mean– fine. I can’t begrudge you that. Thank you. You saved many lives, Aatto.”

Aatto grunted and shoved past him and out of the tent, gritting her teeth.

Saving lives? I couldn’t care less. I thought all of you had some god damn spine.

Where was it now? Her grand spark, her glorious conflagration? Her end of history?

Where can I find someone with the potential to create a new world?

Or even– someone who could even see the possibility of a new world before their eyes.

Her true and worthy King to set the world on its rightful course.

Would the currents lead her to the one she desired to serve?


Previous ~ Next

Bandits Amid The Festival [11.7]

Kreuzung’s Tower Two was an enormous supplemental seaport.

It was one of Kreuzung’s oldest support towers.

Even from the exterior one could tell apart the numerous seams for the closed steel doors to its berths. Originally it had been designed to accommodate a dozen cargo super-haulers that had become the Empire’s workhorse transport ships during the colonization period. Each of these vessels was almost the size of a station tier, so an entire tower was needed to accept them, unload their cargo, repair and maintain them, and send them back on their way.

Gradually, super-haulers began to disappear from the oceans around Kreuzung.

Not only because of the recent turmoil– since the Fueller dynasty took power, the Newtype Tower V station, much smaller and humbler than its predecessors, had become the leading form of architecture in the Imbrium. Any new station was a macro-stitched Newtype Tower V with an adjacent Nautilus II Separated Seaport block attached to the tower by tube trams. Sometimes a few small towers were linked to the seaport block, expanding capacity and creating a station complex. Each of these towers was roughly 2/3 the size of one of Kreuzung’s supporting towers, but depending on the interior configuration, they could squeeze almost as many people in poorer accommodations that were cheaper to maintain.

Huge stations like Kreuzung would never be built again. Perhaps in time only the rich would afford living in them, with all the poor segregated to smaller towers. At any rate: massive ships with the capacity to carry mind-boggling quantities of materials to a remote worksite were largely unneeded. This shift then led most current high-capacity seaports to convert many of their enormous berths to support the docking of multiple smaller vessels, increasing capacity for cheap to achieve greater profit on space they already had. While this came at the expense of the quality of service and safety at those berths, there was no turning back. Tower Two still hosted much of the Kreuzung Complex’s freight processing, but it was now also the most accessible seaport for private yachts and luxury cruise ships, ambulant resorts, and other kinds of pleasure vessels unwilling to deal with security in the Core Station.

On the tower’s northeastern side, a berth opened to allow a simple cylindrical vessel to exit the seaport and begin its journey. It was a workhorse private transport craft about fifty meters long and thirty wide, built for endurance and safety over looks, like a metallic-blue crate with hydrojets leaving streams of bubbles and distorted water in its wake. It climbed out of the Kreuzung crater and maintained a stable course close to the ground, over the rocky, sandy surface of the surrounding seafloor. It navigated away, bound north-west.

On its side, there was a stylized logo, depicted as if long beams and bolts of blue could be seen shining at acute angles across the cursive lettering that read: Raylight Beauty.

“Once we’re out of Kreuzung’s jurisdiction, set up an encrypted line to Aachen.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Use the Gladbach relay, not Kreuzung’s. Monitor the connection closely.”

“Understood.”

Kremina Qote left the crew behind and retired to her VIP quarters in the middle of the ship. Like the ship itself, it was not anything too extravagant. But it was private; she had her own bed, a door she could lock, her own desk, her own monitor to work with. She could be reasonably certain that nobody would interfere with her affairs, and she could shut out the world outside. Nobody would hear her. There were no adjacent accommodations.

She sat down on her bed and looked down at her own shoes.

Her jaw tense. Fist opening and closing.

By all rights, she had completed the mission that she had been given.

She had been sent to Kreuzung to meet with Solarflare LLC, but upon discovering the presence of Nagavanshi’s little guerilla mission, she was instructed to send them to Aachen, to join the United Front against the Volkisch. Redirecting them away from their suicide mission to Buren was necessary and useful, and their mission profile already included helping any resistance movements they found along the way. After all, that originally had been Daksha’s desire which Nagavanshi just twisted out of shape under clauses and subclauses, as she always did. No one could judge Kremina derelict on the basic facts of her mission. Not Gloria; not Daksha herself. Kremina had secured their assistance as instructed.

However, she had failed in her own personal goal.

As soon as she heard of the Brigand, she both feared and coveted their assistance.

She was of two minds approaching them, and she tried her best to navigate it– but–

Kremina did not account for the stubborn desire of the Brigand’s officers to remain free of Daksha’s command at any cost. Then she was completely blindsided by the nature of their alliance with that upstart Erika Kairos. She was not satisfied with simply putting them on course to Aachen. Kremina had wanted to either control them or sideline them politically. After they made their intentions not to join Kansal clear, diverting them to the Rotfront should have been the end of all her problems. But now Kremina was not sure about the rigor of her previous logic anymore. The Rotfrot was perhaps more ascendant than she thought possible. They had managed not just to ally with the Brigand, but to completely annex them.

Ulyana Korabiskaya could introduce new possibilities into the ecosystem at Aachen.

Erika Kairos could become more than a junior partner in the United Front.

Daksha Kansal’s influence could be explicitly upset by the Brigand’s actions.

And in fact– it could even be Ulyana Korabiskaya’s aim to overthrow her entirely.

“Daksha– what are you thinking–?”

When Daksha left the Union in the hands of that insipid idealist Ahwalia and that utilitarian brute Jayasankar, Kremina had followed dutifully because she believed in her. She owed her life and allegiance to Daksha Kansal. Only Daksha Kansal had the correct line– only she had the vision to save these troubled seas from themselves. Leaving the Sunlight Foundation had been the right move. Leaving the Union could have been a smart play as well.

Now though– Kremina was not so sure what Daksha was trying to do anymore.

That doubt, which she was so unfamiliar with, scared her utterly.

It scared her so much, that it made Ulyana Korabiskaya’s words feel like a threat.

A threat to an edifice that should have been impregnable, indestructible.

“Kremina? I’m glad you called. I’ve been worried about you. Gloria’s been saying things.”

At the appropriate time, the crew connected their vessel via laser to the Gladbach relay. Rhinea had the most developed inter-station network in all of the duchies. In addition to direct connection to the relays, there were many relay buoys that could be used to develop stable connections to the inter-station network even while in transit. Therefore, the ship could continue to travel at a relatively breezy speed, while the picture of Daksha Kansal, speaking in real time, hardly ever shifted in quality on Kremina’s screen.

She was beautiful– the most beautiful woman Kremina had ever seen.

Her long brown hair, even as it began gently fading to white; the sharpness of her eyes, even as the crow’s feet began to form in the corners; her easy smile, the warm color of her skin, even as the wrinkles had begun to appear; the figure of an adventurer, broad-shouldered, long-limbed, yet looking professor-like in her mock turtleneck and synthetic jacket. These days she wore bell-bottomed vinyl pants and heeled shoes, perhaps the influence of the fashionista now under her wing. These weren’t visible on the call, but Kremina knew.

Daksha was always visible in her mind, and in her mind she was always perfect.

She was beautiful– but she was also aging. Another thing Kremina did not understand.

Kremina never achieved immortality. She only delayed her own aging by a feeble amount through the use of exotic chemicals she no longer had access to. She was growing old too.

Daksha Kansal did not have to grow old, like her.

Daksha Kansal was one of the Immortals, and yet, she threw it all away too.

“How are you? Gloria is not upset with you, but I’m not happy about what she’s told me.”

Kremina’s eyes snapped out of the dream-like reverie of seeing her old master once more.

“I am not here because I value Luxembourg’s esteem.” Kremina replied. “Look, Daksha, I did what you asked. Nagavanshi’s pawns are now on their course to Aachen. Whatever else– was a product of their choices. All I did was give them information and set up contacts for them.”

Daksha smiled. “You can’t pretend as if that last episode with them didn’t happen.”

“I lost my temper. It’s irrelevant. They were never going to join us anyway.”

“I was never concerned about whether or not they would join us.” Daksha said. “I’m happy if it’s just you and me and then our allies. Now I’m afraid they might have the wrong idea and think that we set out to antagonize them. That might lead to unnecessary friction later.”

“Daksha, they should join you! You should throw your weight around more!”

Kremina was in a mood– so she let slip a little more than she usually would.

“Ah. I think I see what’s going on.” Daksha said. “Kremina–”

She felt like she had been scolded and it embittered her. “I know– I know–”

“Clearly you don’t.” Daksha said. She was not mad. She was giving Kremina a fond look, like long distance lovers catching each other’s gaze. Despite this, her words were firm. “Kremina. I deeply treasure you. This is why you’re the only person who is indispensable to me and the only person I trust to represent me. But this time, you went out of line– it is my fault, for not giving you a clearer vision of my goals. But the fact remains. You cannot conquer the Ocean for Daksha Kansal by yourself, in my stead– I don’t want you to do anything like that.”

Despite the soft delivery, Kremina still felt so stung. She couldn’t understand it!

“Daksha,” she was almost tearing up, “Why– why are you choosing to die?”

Any foolish or vain action on Daksha’s part was excusable if she was immortal.

That she was aging, that her time in the world was limited, made everything more urgent.

Kremina’s conversations with Ulyana Korabiskaya finally laid bare feelings of grief and anxiety that she had been burying for so long. Ulyana dared to say she could challenge Daksha Kansal. Because Daksha was no longer as powerful and invincible as she once was.

That open wound the audacious Captain unknowingly ripped open, now bled profusely.

Onto that room on the UNX Brigand, onto this ship and onto the screen.

“So that’s what this is about then.” Daksha said.

“Of course it is. Nothing makes sense because of that.” Kremina replied.

Daksha smiled again and took the tone of a professor delivering a lecture.

Kremina was left so speechless by the sudden turn in their discussion, she did not interrupt.

“Do you really know about the Immortals, Kremina? You never were allowed to be part of the inner circle, even though you were so devoted to me. You don’t know how each of them found their own immortality. Yangtze, Euphrates, Tigris, Nile, Potomac, Hudson and myself, formerly, Ganges. All of us are esteemed as geniuses who defeated death, but that is entirely empty techno-utopianist rhetoric. You don’t know the truths; I’ll tell you.”

When she spoke of them, Daksha betrayed a certain fondness as if telling old war stories.

“Yangtze cheated death by combining biomechanics with the Pelagis Process, allowing her to grow backup bodies in vats which receive a digitized education in the form of her memories, implanted into the biomechanoid brain of the new body. When I saw the results, as much as I wanted to work with her– seeing a new Yangtze born– it horrified me so much.”

She averted her gaze. “Meanwhile Potomac keeps herself eternally youthful and alive through her discoveries in pluripotent stem cell therapy and surgery. She grows and discards organs as needed. I can’t fault her for it– but it did make me question things. Same with Hudson. Hudson doesn’t purge her body of unwanted organs with new ones; rather, she has replaced her entire body with immortal cybernetics. And yet, she still longs for even more.”

Kremina continued to listen, her heart shaken and reeling with the weight of those words.

“Nile is infected with a cocktail of horrific and rare diseases. She did not choose to be infected with them, but the end result has kept her body alive for over a hundred years and counting; but if they are not controlled, she is a living apocalypse waiting to happen. Being infected with one of the diseases and not all would result in excruciating death, not immortality. She knows this and is ready– to take steps– should it ever be required.”

A dire and clumsily put insinuation.

“As for Euphrates herself,” upon mentioning her, Daksha sighed openly, “Euphrates is the only really Immortal person out of all of us. But she didn’t ask to be that way, Kremina. She was never so power-hungry. She was just born with some kind of condition. People, when she was born, where she grew up– they didn’t understand it. She was a medical guinea pig. It took the collapse of the surface world for her exploitation to end. That’s the only time I’ve ever seen her really vulnerable– I saw it when she baptized me with aether– an insinuation of the things they did to her.” Daksha kept pausing every so often and kept hanging on her words. Kremina knew this was all difficult for her to say. She sat astonished by it.

“Because of what I saw, I never asked her about the surface and I never will. Meanwhile, Tigris, she was a miracle for Euphrates. She imperfectly inherited Euphrates’ disorder through a spinal fluid transfusion. Her regeneration was enough to save her life. It was also the only time I have seen Euphrates so quickly disavow her own ethics. She must have really been madly in love. I thought, back then, we needed Immortality to safeguard our goals.”

Daksha shut her eyes. “So finally, there is me. You’ve extended your life a little bit, Kremina, but never found immortality. You don’t have Potomac or Yangtze’s technology, so all you could do is make yourself a little healthier. I don’t judge you for that– we influenced you after all. I influenced you. I was an Immortal. I found a way to prolong my life.”

Kremina hung on every word, eyes drawn wide, lips shut tightly together.

“Kremina, pay attention to the wages of my sin, and my greatest shame.”

She watched Daksha Kansal raise her hand in front of the screen, palm up.

King’s Chalice.

With trained precision, Kremina reacted, faster than thought.

Oracle’s Voice.

Red rings around both their eyes, as Kremina began to see in terms of auras, vectors, and other psionic phenomena in response to Daksha’s invocation. Kremina had never achieved the second and third gifts, but she knew about psionics and knew enough to protect herself as best as she could and dissect attempts to influence her. She could see that Daksha’s palm was not barren as it would be to the eye of an untrained person.

Instead, there was a flame dancing on her palm.

White and black flame that flickered with an eerie warmth.

From multiple directions as if drawn out of the walls, the little flame coalesced in her hand.

It had a soft texture, to Kremina’s eyes, and it gave her an almost nostalgic feeling, as if it was a pitiable little thing that deserved coddling. For Daksha to hold it, she had to focus black and white aura in halves over her own palm. Manipulating these types of aura was a skill that required a lot of emotional control. Black aura was the aura of death, the despair of mortality or the desire to kill, and trying to deliberately channel it could cause the user to lose control or succumb to perverse intentions. Meanwhile, White aura was often associated with the sublime, or the eldritch, or even with pure insanity. It was a sight beyond human that very few could actually experience. Daksha was unequaled when it came to Aetherics.

As Kremina observed the little flame, she also thought that she heard–

–voices, voices that sang of memories, and a glow in which Kremina could see figures,

and Daksha’s skin, illuminated by the ghosts,

lightening, hair brightening, crow’s feet softening, appearing as herself of yesteryear

beautiful, angelic until

her palm closed snuffing out the little life

aging and weakening again before shock-wide eyes–

Kremina teared up, her voice trembled. “Daksha. That is– is that–”

“It’s human life, Kremina. I used Aetherics to steal life from others for myself.”

When Daksha’s psionics dispelled, Kremina watched as the little flame of humanity she had gathered, presumably from people outside the room she was in, from people in the halls, maybe even from Gloria somewhere in the distance– all of it dissipated and began to trail back to where it was taken. Daksha had refused to absorb it into her own aura, and therefore she aged again, and again lost the gift of immortality, those black and white traces of life.

“Do you understand now, Kremina? Do you understand my change of heart, why I had to let go of the Union, of my power? Do you understand why, for my convictions, for the things I want others to believe, it is necessary that I became mortal? That I stop pursuing the same path that Yangtze and Potomac are on? That I age and die? It is important to me, Kremina, to be humble now. To lower my head to others. I became mortal because I must die. Clinging to the world has had perverse effects on my life. I have to let go in order to let others rise up.”

Kremina laid a hand over her mouth and shut her eyes, weeping.

“I know that this is galling to you. I’m sorry that I can’t be all-powerful for you.”

“No, Daksha.”

She stared into the eyes of her mentor, her lover, the colossal figure of all she believed in.

“I’m sorry.” She said. She didn’t try to equivocate it. She didn’t say anything more.

She was sorry. She understood. She had been wrong. She had been completely wrong.

All this time Daksha had carried such a horrendous burden, and Kremina never knew.

“We’ll talk more when you come back.” Daksha said. “I esteem you greatly, Kremina.”

Kremina nodded silently. She felt unbearably foolish and short-sighted.

“I’ll smooth things over with Ulyana Korabiskaya and her crew, and with the Rotfront. Don’t worry about that now. Please think about what I told you and reflect.” Daksha said.

“I will. Thank you. Please take care, Daksha.”

“Of course. I will be here for you.”

Daksha disappeared from Kremina’s screen, leaving a void reflecting Kremina’s face.

She stared into her own darkened eyes, feeling like a storm had swept by her.

Daksha–

More than ever, she needed Kremina’s protection, even if she didn’t realize it.

She needed Kremina to be smarter; to be craftier; and to fight harder than ever before.

Daksha Kansal was mortal and vulnerable. She could never be an Immortal again.

In her finite time in the world, it was her work that had to become immortal.

Kremina had to do everything in her power for Daksha’s revolution to succeed and spread.

For now, that meant that Gloria Luxembourg’s social-democrats had to either control the United Front or be the ultimate survivors of its near-inevitable breakdown.

Those upstarts with the Rotfront and their Jayasankarist allies could not be allowed to derail everything. Daksha would disapprove of this line of thinking, but Kremina was not going to openly act against anybody. Yet. For now she would be well behaved and demure.

She just had to control her temper; bide her time; and await the opportunity to intervene.


“Oh my! Such a fantastic cup of coffee. This is starting to feel like a vacation!”

Erika Kairos raised her plastic mug and cheered. The mug was full of plain, black coffee.

“Might a lovely maiden dream of a sweetener? Perhaps even creamer?” She asked.

“Let’s not get too greedy!” Ulyana Korabiskaya replied, smiling. Erika’s eyes drew wide from behind the steam coming from her mug. “I’m joking! Of course we can get you some.”

Olga took a sip of the coffee herself and nodded her head in approval.

“It’s a sight better than the cheap stuff in our rations. The grounds were not adulterated.”

Aaliyah looked down at her own mug, the coffee having been brewed by a very standard Union Soyuzkofe machine in the cafeteria. Her furry ears twitched slightly, and she took a sip.

“I knew living in the Empire was harsh; but I’m surprised in the ways that manifests.”

Erika smiled. “Well, we have to take what we can get, you know? When it comes to food, we usually have to either steal it, or go to smugglers whose products are usually low quality, or go to cottage industries that don’t have the means to make quality products.”

“Turning over an Imperial cargo ship is practically a holiday feast for us.” Olga added.

Ulyana and Aaliyah laughed gently with Olga and Erika.

On that morning, the meeting room Ulyana and Aaliyah were working out of lately, had instead become a little conference room for their first command meeting with Erika Kairos. They had formally agreed to become part of Erika’s Nationale Volksarmee, and swore to follow her political command as their new Premier. This was something of a shield against other political influences on the crew– but it was not a game to anyone in that room. It was a serious endeavor, and it required the establishment of a solid working relationship in all of its various particulars. They weren’t playing pretend– they wanted Erika to lead them.

Ulyana thought well of Erika and envisioned they would have a good relationship, but nevertheless, they needed to lay out how both sides typically operated. How Erika hoped to rule them; what the capabilities of each side were and how they could work together when combined; and other such things. For her part, Erika was treating the whole thing very casually and breezily. Ulyana imagined it would be so. She had not met all that many Katarran mercenaries, but she felt they must have operated a few steps below military standard in formalities, in order to work at all. But at least she knew Erika took theory very seriously.

As she requested, Erika soon received a little tray with cubes of creamer and sweetener.

These had been powdered and compressed for ease of storage.

She picked up a few of each cube and dropped them into her coffee, stirred, and drank. She smiled from ear to ear, flushing, even her horns looked a little brighter than before.

C’est magnifique!” She said, giggling a bit.

She quietly passed the coffee condiments tray forward. Ulyana and Aaliyah both partook.

Olga smiled and looked at the Premier fondly; but continued to have her coffee black.

“Alright. I greatly value the hospitality. But, back to business!” Erika said cheerfully. “I am planning to transfer my flag from the Rostock to the Brigand. I think that will help smooth out the early stages of our cooperation. Daphne, my captain on the Rostock, is well-respected and settled on that vessel, so I have no worries that she can handle everything there while I am away. I hope I can settle in here, and observe operations first-hand.”

“Understood. I have no objections. That will simplify our operational coordination a lot, actually.” Ulyana said. “I’ll have the lads stitch you a chair while they turn over the Bridge.”

“That would be lovely. Though, worse comes to worse, I can stand.” Erika said.

“Can you provide us information on your fleet and its operations?” Aaliyah asked.

“I could do so verbally, but I did not come prepared for a detailed onboarding.” Erika said. “I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting to gain a new ship. However, as soon as we get out to sea, we can connect to the Rostock and you can sync all of its data over at your convenience.”

“That sounds more efficient. We’ll talk about fleet integration at that point.” Aaliyah said.

“That can also be when you give us some of your data in return.” Olga said.

Aaliyah bristled a little, but Erika quickly dispelled those suddenly risen fears.

“We’re not after any classified information from the Union.” Erika said.

Olga crossed her arms. “We could at least use your stitcher blueprints though. Our lives would be so much easier if we didn’t have to free-stitch small parts to repair our stuff. It’s like rolling dice every time something breaks. You can help our capabilities long term.”

“Aaliyah, I want to be open with them. Do you have any specific qualms?” Ulyana said.

She looked at her Commissar, sitting beside her, compassionately but firmly.

In turn, Aaliyah briefly avoided her gaze. She composed herself quickly.

“Old habits die hard. You’re right, there isn’t really any reason not to share our data.”

“Thank you.” Erika said. “I understand, security backgrounds require caution above all.”

“We appreciate your cooperation, and we will follow all of your data security protocols. Access will be limited; we have all the hardware controls needed to insure that.” Olga said.

Aaliyah nodded her head in acquiescence.

Ulyana was glad everything was going smoothly. Olga and Erika were professionals.

“We don’t want to overturn your existing structure. I believe we can learn a lot from each other and slowly improve our doctrine together.” Erika said. “We should do the bare minimum we need to have cohesion between the existing Volksarmee forces and your own. I want to preserve the chain of command aboard the Brigand as much as possible, but only with myself at the top. I also respect that this is probably a contentious decision for you because of your extended chain of command to the Union. I do not want to imperil your relationship to your home country. So if there’s anything you need from me, please tell me.”

“I’m sure Nagavanshi will understand when she reads my report however many months or years from now after all of this is over.” Ulyana said, with a smile. “If we live that long.”

Erika laughed. “I fully intend to live that long, Captain. But of course, I understand.”

Aaliyah finally smiled a little too. “I’m quite happy with your proposal, Premier.”

“In terms of Volksarmee personnel aboard the Brigand, Olga and I require private lodging.” Erika said. Olga’s eyes popped for a moment. “I will be up front: we are lovers. It has never been a problem, and in fact has been a psychological aid for both of us. If the Brigand has an exceptionally strict rule against fraternizing, it will have to be waived for me.”

“Um, ma’am–” Olga began, but a sharp look from Erika cut her off and silenced her.

“As you can see, I still retain authority over her.” Erika smiled with forced innocence.

Ulyana grinned a little. Aaliyah glanced askance at Ulyana.

“Oh there’s probably tons of sex going on in this ship.” Ulyana said. “I won’t stop you.”

Aaliyah narrowed her eyes. She raised her voice above the room–

“Strictly speaking– to the regulation– ugh, whatever.” She shrugged and gave up instantly.

Olga averted her eyes, a little bit embarrassed.

One more smiling glance from Erika got her to sigh and recompose herself.

“I’m not used to her being so forward about it, especially like this.” Olga admitted. “But like– yes, when we can die at any moment, and we’re crammed in these metal cans. You really can’t expect ship crews not to get each other off a bit, every once in a while.”

“It’s maybe more common among Katarrans than in the broader world.” Erika said.

“We’ll get you a room.” Aaliyah said. “Let’s move the conversation past this please.”

Ulyana noticed the insides of her ears had flushed a very bright red.

She tried not to smile. It would have definitely upset her charmingly uptight Commissar.

Erika was not troubled at all by the atmosphere in the room.

She had an uncanny ability to look cheerful or at least centered in any situation.

Even when Kremina had been berating her openly, she was still smiling just like this.

After Aaliyah’s request, the conversation returned to matters of organization.

“Besides Olga and I, Kalika Loukia will also remain aboard. She has many skills and is someone I know I can depend on to do almost anything. I think she is all the direct support I will need on the ship aside from Olga, and you will benefit from her as well.” Erika said. “There are a few other officers of mine whom I’m used to having at my disposal, but I think they can operate from the Rostock, maybe switching in and out as needed.”

“Alright. Kalika already helped us out quite a bit. We’ll be glad to have her.” Ulyana said.

“I believe next on the agenda we wanted to lay some groundwork on logistics.” Olga said.

“We were planning to restock at Aachen.” Aaliyah said. “Are you not also?”

“I’m afraid we can’t make use of the traditional markets for ship supply.” Erika said. “Victualing and replenishment markets are off-limits. We are forced to make use of smugglers or secondary markets, as I said. We also buy raw materials and stitch needed goods ourselves. But don’t worry about us– we want to know about your supplies.”

Aaliyah and Ulyana exchanged glances, worried.

“Can you tell us more about the situation in Aachen?” Ulyana said.

“We were under the impression it would at least be neutral ground for you.” Aaliyah said.

“Aachen is quite a bit nicer to non-Imbrian persons than Kreuzung.” Erika said. “However, there are still prejudices they must abide by. There are legal prohibitions against the replenishment of ‘cartels’, ‘bandits’ or ‘privateers’. Katarrans are targeted by these laws pseudonymously. And there isn’t a Katarran ship Captain alive who can fight a legal case arguing for her innocence. Aachen follows these laws, and we’re no exception.”

“Wait– they’re following Imperial law?” Ulyana asked, rhetorically. She was baffled by this.

She had thought Aachen was open to rebellion since the United Front was convening there.

“What is Aachen’s relationship to the Volkisch movement right now?” Aaliyah asked.

“Aachen, the city, is just trying to maintain a status quo.” Erika said. “It is governed by liberals and resists the Volkisch only insofar as to maintain the liberal line. Kreuzung itself makes that sort of argument about its own rule of law– it is a purely bureaucratic argument. So you can’t take for granted that Aachen will be completely safe or revolutionary. However, Aachen’s people have a strong organized laborer movement, and it is among them that the United Front’s insurrectionists have found a sanctuary. It is a complex situation.”

“What if we purchased the goods for you? We don’t care about the law.” Aaliyah said.

Erika smiled, this time a lot brighter than before. She seemed touched by the gesture.

“I appreciate your generosity greatly, my comrades. But I must decline. The Rostock is stocked up, and the rest of our fleet is in good order as well. We shouldn’t draw suspicion at Aachen. There will be time for us to teach you the Katarran way of getting goods.” Erika said. “For now, focus on procuring your own needs. After the meeting of the United Front, we may get access to Gloria Luxembourg’s purchasing power which would solve our problems.”

“Acknowledged. I have to say, though, I’m now a bit nervous about Aachen.” Aaliyah said.

“It’s easier to lay low in Aachen than here.” Erika replied. “Right now, all of us are violating the law here in Kreuzung. If we can take measures to protect ourselves in here, by comparison Aachen is a picnic. The United Front is assembling there with confidence.”

“If you say so. I will trust your judgment, Premier.” Aaliyah said.

Ulyana could still see a shadow of her worries on her expression. She knew her too well.

“It’s not on the agenda, but since we’re on a similar subject, I want to ask about you yourself. We were not aware of an ‘Erika Kairos’ prior to our arrival here, though that is for the best overall. Can you give us more details about you?” Ulyana said, as cordially as possible.

“I’m open to it.” Erika said. She drew in a deep breath and straightend her chest. “My name is Erika Kairos, I’m 33 years old, I have heterochromia, my three sizes are 120 cm bust–”

“Premier, you can skip the ‘vital statistics’.” Aaliyah sighed.

“I suppose my request was a bit vague.” Ulyana said, smiling.

Her eyes slightly drifting to the new Premier’s chest and having to be wrung back.

“Oh! Okay. Well– I am a voracious reader! I like philosophy, and science, but I also like to read storybooks, and comics; I like films too! My favorite genre is actually hard-boiled detective mysteries! My favorite food is spanakopita. My likes and dislikes are communism and–”

“Thanks, Premier.” Ulyana said. This was so cute she almost didn’t want her to stop.

“Was that really what you were asking about, Captain?” Aaliyah replied, exasperated.

Erika looked a little bit flustered. “Huh? Is there anything you want to know specifically?”

“I guess I was more concerned with whether you’ve made any enemies?” Ulyana asked.

Olga answered in Erika’s place. “Everyone hates her. She’s an avowed communist.”

She sounded a bit frustrated by the question, as if everyone should have known this.

“Everyone?” Aaliyah asked. Erika looked flustered again.

“Saying everyone is a bit–” Erika began, and almost stuttered–

Olga sighed.

“Katarran mercs don’t like philosophers. They like to pretend they have no beliefs and will do anything for money. So they end up falling into a really conservative outlook and that’s what I mean. Mercenaries know about Erika and the majority of them dislike her for it.”

“They’ll still take my money when it’s on offer.” Erika said. She grumbled a little bit.

“As long as that holds true, I think we can accept the situation for now.” Aaliyah said.

“So no rivals or blood oaths or anything like that?” Ulyana asked, in a jovial tone of voice.

Erika crossed her arms.

“No names you would recognize. Yes, among the mercenaries in Eisental, I’ve crossed a few paths in my life. But nobody that is going to go out of their way to excoriate or attack me. Anyone with that level of animosity has already been killed by their own predilections.”

Ulyana whistled. “Has your vibrosword aided anyone’s predilections in the act?”

“We’ve had some episodes.” Olga laughing a bit. “There’s nothing to worry about there.”

“I can take care of myself and my debts, Captain. And I have.” Erika grinned.

“Fair enough. I understand. Thank you, Premier.” Ulyana said.

Erika nodded her head.

Her eyes wandered a bit– she seemed to quiet and think for a moment.

“How much do you know about the present situation in Eisental?” Erika asked.

“We’ve been keeping up with events as much as we can.” Aaliyah said. “We know there is a worker strike in one of the towers here, which is owned by the Rhineametalle corporation. The Volkisch are afraid of it spreading, so they’re manipulating the markets in Kreuzung to turn people against the strikers by blaming them for price hikes and erratic supply.”

“We thought of helping out the workers here, but when we learned of the United Front, we felt our focus could be best served there.” Ulyana said. “It’s horrible to have to pick and choose who to fight alongside, but we don’t know how the workers here would respond to communist assistance. We know the United Front is like-minded, and they’re also armed.”

“I agree with your choice.” Erika said. “You don’t have to justify it to me.” She settled back into her chair and began to explain the situation in greater detail. She sounded confident and spoke clearly and precisely. “You see, the workers in Tower Nine are trying to toe the line. They are part of the liberal current and they do not want to be seen as too radical. They fear the reprisals that the Volkisch are capable of; but they can’t bear the working conditions that have been imposed on them because of the civil war. They are trying to do something, but they can’t be seen as doing too much to a vulnerable Rhinea, so they went on strike.”

She continued promptly, never losing her pace. “But Rhineametalle has gotten a new hand of cards to play because of this situation. They don’t want the strike to be broken up too quickly. Rhineametalle is facing down the possibility of the Volkisch forcing them to produce more gear and sell it for less money to support the failing war efforts in the south. The Volkisch believe Rhineametalle’s profiteering is sabotaging their war effort. With the strike, Rhineametalle can just watch the Volkisch squirm, and remind them of who needs who. Lehner, their so-called Fuhrer, doesn’t have the ability to crack down on the workers any more than he is, without risking his influence over his own war industry if Rhineametalle reacts adversely to his actions, or the collapse of his front from diverting more troops.”

“So they’re all at a standstill right now.” Ulyana said, after a moment contemplating the Premier’s description. “Something has to give eventually, doesn’t it? The strikers do not have infinite supplies, so they won’t be able to physically hold on to their barricades forever. And with enough time, Lehner will find the troops he needs somewhere; or maybe even an innovative Volkisch commander in Kreuzung will find a weakness or undertake some daring raid that breaks through. It’s unlikely that Rhineametalle will fold to their demands too.”

“You’re right, Captain. There is only one thing that can save them, but it’s ancient history they dare not speak about. They should have prepared a ‘General Strike.’” Erika said. Ulyana nodded solemnly. That phrase meant something for someone who had been young during the mass deportations and enslavement that presaged the Revolution.

“Ironically, it’s the ghost of the ‘General Strike’ panicking the Volkisch now, isn’t it?”

“Right again Captain. It’s one powerful reason for the Volkisch to make soft moves.”

Everyone in that room knew the history. Prior to the Revolution, the most critical moment in the reign of the Fueller dynasty was the attempt, begun by Bosparan and Volgian activists, to stage a ‘General Strike’ across all productive industry in the Empire. Connections across the Empire, established by activists like the Nakaras, Daksha Kansal, Elias Ahwalia and Bhavani Jayasankar, threatened to link together and coordinate devastating work stoppages that would have ground the vulnerable machinery of the Empire to a halt at a critical juncture. Imbrian industry was overstretched in development of the colonial machine, overly dependent on slave labor conditions to make up the massive expenses that had been incurred moving civilization ever southward to the extreme ends of the hemisphere. With the incorporation of Veka being largely seen as a financial failure across the Empire, the Nectaris colonies had to be absolutely successful, ruthlessly efficient, maximally extractive.

But the General Strike never came to pass. Its actors were suppressed, one by one.

Enslavement in the colonies should have been a fate worse than death for them.

However, the failure of the General Strike led to the success of the Revolution.

And thus, ultimately, to the creation of the Union of Ferris, Lyser and Solstice.

Ulyana could almost understand not wanting to casually speak those words, which were so dense with violent history. She believed Erika Kairos was correct in her assessment. The Volkisch must have been terrified of the possibility of the strikes spreading, so they had to play propaganda and not respond too brutally and too soon to the strikers. But the strikers were not planning to spread the strikes; ultimately, the Volkisch would win the standoff.

“There’s more too.” Erika said. “Eisental is a powder keg for other reasons. It’s the most productive region of Rhinea, with most of its mining, and production of primary parts and products for Rhinea’s corporations. It has a significant agricultural belt too. It is primarily a site of extraction. That also means it’s the most proletarian of Rhinea’s provinces. It has the most disenfranchised people, and the most poverty, but it has the smallest Volkisch presence. The Volkisch’s Stabswache political troops have been largely deployed to the interior and south of Rhinea to secure their power over the middle and affluent classes and to purge the intellectual and political liberals. That’s where their immediate priorities lay.”

“Interesting. I was wondering why we didn’t see more Volkisch day to day.” Aaliyah said. “They overestimated the value that the Volkisch’s ideological message would have among the poor in the industrial north. Popular opinion has not swelled massively in their favor.”

“Certainly they have their supporters in the so-called ‘National Proletariat’.” Erika said. “But Rhinea’s last election had a very low voter turnout– and this election was cast as being apocalyptic for burgeoning Rhinean democracy. Most people don’t trust in the government and are just keeping their heads down one way or another. The Volkisch miscalculated the level of local fervor in the north, so Eisental remains in tenuous liberal control.”

“That also means we will absolutely see a Volkisch military response here.” Ulyana said.

They had to be coming, and soon. Eisental wouldn’t remain an idyllic valley for long.

“I predict we will see quickly raised, ill equipped and poorly trained Volkisch militias from the south, at least at first.” Erika said. “I am hopeful we won’t see a Stabswache fleet. That would be the worst case scenario. The Stabswache are elite political troops, you see; but six of those fleets are already heavily committed, and the seventh is far from ready to mobilize.”

“Anything they raise will have to travel here too. We will have time.” Ulyana said.

“Right. And if these militias are anything like patrol fleets we can best them.” Aaliyah said.

“Volkisch militias are even less organized.” Erika said. “I sense an early advantage for us!”

“We shouldn’t toot our own horns too much.” Olga said. “Any enemy is a dangerous one.”

“But we musn’t be too careful either.” Erika said. “We can’t lose the opportunity they’re giving us to muster before their real strength can respond. It’s why the United Front has elected this time to get together and to begin our activities. It may allow us to push Eisental over the edge in a way that will destabilize all of Rhinea, before the big guns see the field.”

Aaliyah nodded her head. She seemed impressed with Erika’s casual ease with big topics.

Ulyana, meanwhile, couldn’t help but compare Olga and Erika to herself and Aaliyah.

They had a similar conversation themselves before ever setting foot in Eisental.

That thought warmed her heart– but she could not linger on those little fantasies too long.

“There is one more thing I need to touch on about Eisental– and myself.” Erika said.

Aaliyah and Ulyana nodded along in acknowledgment, interests piqued.

Erika took in and dispelled a breath. “There are two other factions in Eisental who could become involved. I’m sure you must be aware of Khaybar– a so-called mountain range so tall and winding that it splits the Imbrium. Eisental abuts Khaybar to the east. It is not well known to the public at large, but I have heard stories that there is an ancient Shimii abode within Khaybar. There have been sightings of pirate activity in the area as well. According to the mercenaries here, the pirates learned to employ the heavy Katov mass events in the area to intercept and loot Imperial cargo and convoys. The Fueller dynasty silently buried any official reports about the pirates, while also decreeing Khaybar off-limits to all commercial traffic. They hoped to starve the pirates of loot and bury them; but it didn’t work.”

“Of course it wouldn’t work. If you can cross the pass, it takes you half the time to get to Bosporus or Veka, than going around it.” Ulyana said. “Those pirates may not have as many victims, but they may still see a good business. It’s just too tempting to make that run.”

“Precisely.” Erika said. “Khaybar continues to see unregulated traffic to this day. I believe there are still fighters operating out of that mountain. I would like to reach out to Khaybar, and I think we can start by developing contacts with the Shimii communities in Eisental.”

“How do you figure the two sides are affiliated? Do they have exchange?” Aaliyah asked.

Erika smiled knowingly.

“I can’t say that conclusively, Commissar. But people that the Imbrium Empire has deemed outlaws are not always motivated by greed. This applies to you too, doesn’t it? Think about it: there are no lavish creature comforts the pirates could possibly be cultivating within their grim little mountain hideout– they are there because they are desperate, because the Empire gave them no choice. I have a hunch the ‘pirates’ are probably a Mahdist remnant. It squares with the legends people tell about Khaybar. And Mahdist Shimii are known to have very tight and lasting communal and familial bonds. Isn’t that right, Commissar?”

“I am not a Mahdist. I’m a secular Shimii. But I can see your logic now.” Aaliyah said.

“Was your family Rashidun?” Ulyana asked, suddenly curious.

“My family was secular.” Aaliyah replied sharply. Clearly this was a touchy subject.

Ulyana felt like she was leaning her foot over an industrial grinder and decided to back up.

“I apologize for my assumption.” Erika said, looking worried.

Aaliyah moderated her tone again.

“No offense taken. If I’m following your logic right, you think there must still be some Shimii out here who have contact with the Shimii in Khaybar. And it would be safer to make those contacts through them than trying to barge into Khaybar and causing a scene.”

Erika was clearly relieved to hear that ‘no offense taken.’

“Precisely. It’s nice to work with professionals. I feel afraid sometimes that I’m not being properly understood when I speak, but all of you seem to have no problem with my rhetoric.”

“We’ve had a lot of practice with rhetoric lately.” Aaliyah sighed deeply.

Ulyana smiled nervously. “So, we have Khaybar– what is the remaining faction?”

When the conversation started, Erika had led off by saying there were two factions left.

Erika’s tone turned a little more serious as she acknowledged Ulyana’s question.

“The Mycenae Military Commission.” She said. Her expression darkening.

“Wait, a Katarran warlord faction is operating in Eisental?” Aaliyah asked suddenly.

“I’m afraid so.” Erika said, solemnly. “We have Tagmata sipping tea in Stralsund.”

Ulyana felt, for the first time in the conversation, a sense of alarm.

“How did that happen? This is the first we’re hearing of this.” Ulyana said.

“The Volkisch have stopped publicizing anything about it.” Olga said.

“They were invited six months ago and arrived before the Volkisch takeover.” Erika said. “By blessing of the liberal parliament and as guests of the Rhineametalle corporation.”

“A Katarran warlord is openly purchasing Imperial arms?” Aaliyah said, scandalized.

“It’s Rhineametalle’s newest growth market.” Erika said. “Katarrans in our homeland mainly use either Republican weapons or smuggled Union weapons to fight in the warlord conflicts, but the Empire would be easier to buy from, if they started selling. Since the fall of the Palaiologoi, the Empire feared having anything to do with Katarre. But Rhinea liberalized; the all-mighty mark bill superseded the failing authority of the Fueller dynasty. With the retreat of the Emperor from politics it was only a matter of time before the Imbrians intervened.”

“There is a gargantuan amount of ocean between Mycenae and Rhinea.” Aaliyah said. “You’re telling me that all this time, the Emperor’s authority has been so weak as to allow this?”

Erika smiled. “It’s more like, the economic incentive, and Rhineametalle’s financial pull, was just that strong. Obeying the Emperor makes you zero profit, but looking the other way or assisting Rhineametalle and Myceanae directly, that confers money and favors.”

“But why invite them into Rhinea itself? It makes no sense to me.” Aaliyah asked.

Publicity, Commissar. Rhineametalle gets to show off all their high-end gear in the hands of a foreign client, legitimating their clout as the largest corporate power and a player in the broader world. Mycenae gets legitimacy.” Erika said. “Mycenae gets to be the only warlord power ever formally invited into the Empire, and invited into their trendy, rising financial center to make big money deals for advanced weapons. It makes them out to be the only warlord state that is actually functioning as a state on a national, political scale.”

“How strong is the Mycenae Military Commission here?” Ulyana asked.

“Something like a Union fleet combat group: a few big ships and their escorts.” Erika said.

“Their few big ships are Mycenaean dreadnoughts though.” Olga said with a grim tone.

Ulyana’s heart was rushing a bit.

Aaliyah was doing most of the talking– but even she looked nervous.

The Union was well aware of the status of Katarre.

They didn’t have all the details, but the Republic, who were deeply involved in Katarre, shared a lot of their information as a sign of goodwill. Out of all the Katarran factions, the Mycenae Military Commission was one of the most fearsome. Their regulars, the Tagmata, combined the ferociousness Katarrans were known for with sound military training and even a burgeoning research and development capacity for new weapons, not just war profiteer stock. It was possible that they had even developed a second generation Diver already, to match the Empire’s own R&D pace. Ideologically, they were retrograde nationalists, calling for the revival of the old Katarran kingdom– a message that inspired not faith in any of the flash in the pan warlord states, but in Katarran reunification— a nightmare for the Republic.

Mycenae’s presence was a massive and volatile factor they had to account for now.

“How likely is it that the Tagmata will intervene if we start taking action?” Ulyana asked.

“Completely unknown.” Erika said. “I have very little intelligence on their intentions.”

“We know the Volkisch are committed racists. Diplomacy between them and Mycenae will be complicated.” Aaliyah said. “We might have an opportunity– except, I assume that Mycenae will try to contact the Katarran mercenaries in this region. So they might learn about Erika; and if the mercenaries don’t like Erika’s program, I’m sure the Tagmata like it much less.”

Olga averted her gaze.

Erika breathed out a heavy sigh.

“It does feel like a confrontation with the Tagmata is unavoidable for me.” Erika said.

For once, she looked somber and downcast.

That shift in her cheerfulness made Ulyana want to support her– to protect her feelings.

“Nothing is unavoidable.” Ulyana said. “We’ll be smart and keep our eyes out. We’ll gather intelligence and examine the situation we’re in at each juncture. If we have to fight, we’ll fight; if we have to run, we’ll run; but if there’s a chance, we make peace. That’s all we can do, but Premier, the Brigand will support you. Aaliyah and I will be here to protect you.”

Ulyana extended her hand. Erika reached out her own and gave her a soft, girlish shake.

As a Katarran, she probably had to keep her strength in check for Ulyana’s sake.

“I had high expectations, and they have been thoroughly met.” Erika said. “I can see how the Union won its revolution, if there are more officers as sharp as you in their waters.”

“I’ve come away quite pleased with your character as well, Premier.” Ulyana said.

After they shook, Erika extended her arm again, to Aaliyah, who shook it as well.

“I already said as much, but I am impressed with the Premier’s assessments. I’m sure we’ll have our disagreements in due time, but if having the Tagmata on our backs is the price we pay for your stewardship, I would fight through a thousand Katarrans for it, Erika Kairos.”

“Thank you, Commissar! Those are such high praises. I will endeavor to sustain them.”

Erika looked to be almost glowing under all of the praise she was receiving.

She looked so young; smiling with a shining light of hope and idealism.

Ulyana had been too young and too hurt in the Revolution to pay attention to people’s characters too closely. She had been surrounded by all of the titans of communism in the Imbrium, once upon a time. And she wondered whether Bhavani Jayasankar had once smiled like this. Whether Daksha Kansal had ever looked this young. Before the falling outs, the splits, the backstabbings and blood. She hoped that Erika would be able to continue smiling, with a stout but gentle heart, even as the waters around Eisental turned murkier.

Erika had the right ideas. She had a sober outlook, and she was thinking ahead.

However, that look in her eyes, when she appeared so defeated at the prospect of having to fight the Tagmata, suggested that for all her clandestine maneuvering, she had yet to be tested in the hellish nightmare of outright war. She was daunted by a powerful enemy.

Ulyana would be at her side; she hoped she wouldn’t bear witness to a tragedy.


“Illya, I need you to sign this. It’s nothing bad. Just do it, okay?”

Shalikova laid a piece of synthestitched stone paper and a scratcher on the table.

Illya Rostova looked away from a surveillance monitor with a skeptical look on her face.

She glanced down at the paper, and back up at Shalikova, who stood stiffly opposite her.

“Huh?” Illya turned fully around, looked at the paper and the scratcher with which to write.

Shalikova’s keen indigo eyes wandered, briefly breaking her disinterested façade.

The Surveillance Room was close to the Bridge, and constituted one half of the security room, with its own door. It was also where they kept the locker for the security division’s guns, but Illya and Valeriya hardly ever respected the lockup process. In the middle of the room, a three section desk surrounded two chairs, with a tiny gap allowing the occupants to exit. On each wall faced by a section of the desk, there was a large multi-section monitor with a camera feed. Valeriya and Illya, of course, sat side to side or back to back in the middle of those desks, their faces lit up in blue in the dim room by the monitors.

On Valeriya’s desk section there was a partially stripped AK assault rifle.

Every so often, between watching the monitors, twiddling her fingers, and playing with locks of Illya’s hair, Valeriya would strip or put the rifle back together, expertly reassembling the firing mechanism, affixing the barrel, pushing the receiver cover into place. Union assault rifles used a small amount of pieces to be easier to manufacture, and Valeriya’s hands looked almost mesmerizing in their quick work. She had clearly done this a million times.

When she noticed Shalikova watching, Valeriya lifted her mask over her face and stopped playing with the rifle, or Illya’s hair. She just sat sadly behind Illya with her gaze averted.

Illya, meanwhile, also had her own assault rifle out of the locker and laid on the desk.

“Nope.” Illya said. “I am not signing this for you, sorry kid.”

Shalikova rolled her eyes, grunting.

“C’mon, it took you that long to read it, and you’re saying no?”

Illya turned the paper around for her to see it, pointing at the bar code near the top.

“Form 56A, Request Authority For Shore Leave, Location Approval.” Illya said. “This form has to be signed by your direct superior. I can’t believe you’re still trying to avoid the Lieutenant. I’m not going to lie to cover up for your cowardice. By the way, the Captain will also look at this, so you know, even if I could sign this for you it isn’t a done deal by any means.”

Shalikova felt both mildly embarrassed but still wanted to resist Illya nonetheless.

“I’m an Ensign! You’re a Lieutenant-Commander! You– you outrank Murati!” She cried.

Direct superior.” Valeriya mumbled from behind Illya.

“She’s right. Besides, I’m a Marine and you’re a Pilot, our ranks are different.” Illya said.

Annoyed, Shalikova snatched the form from Illya’s hands and looked it over again herself.

“I’m rated Chief Petty Officer.” Valeriya mumbled. “Illya is a Master Petty Officer.”

“Right. We have ratings in the ship’s chain of command, our Marine ranks don’t matter.”

In the fog of her newfound distress, Shalikova was barely listening.

Form 56whatever–

Shalikova had only filled it because she wanted to take Maryam out on a date.

She had overheard some gossipy sailor girls that people were planning dates to the next nearest blocks in the Tower. This gave Shalikova the idea to try to do the same, and she asked the sailors about the proper procedure for doing so– which entailed stitching out this form or filling it digitally. Almost all of the time the latter was preferable– but Shalikova did not want a paper trail to get to Murati, so she thought of having Illya sign a physical form on the sly. Clearly that had not worked– and her carnival date with Maryam seemed impossible now.

“Quit moping around and go talk to Lieutenant Nakara already.” Illya said.

Behind Illya, Valeriya nodded her head lightly as if to back up what she was saying.

Shalikova shut her eyes and grit her teeth.

She was paralyzed with frustration and indecision.

Maryam deserved to get out of the ship and have a good time.

Shalikova really wanted to do something for her, after everything they had been through.

But– there was just something–

–something in the way of talking to Murati– it felt so difficult–

“Listen, Sonya.” Illya said. “You have to learn to confront your officers if something is wrong and you want it right. You also need to have the courage to get scolded if you are wrong and they are right. But you have to hash it out. What you’re doing right now, I called it cowardly, and I stand by it. You’ll have to talk to this woman, it is unavoidable. So go do it on your terms, or you’re going to get it done to you and you’ll have no control and no leverage.”

Shalikova’s hand closed into a fist. She still felt stubborn about the situation with Murati.

“I know. I know.” She mumbled. A shudder ran its way through her body.

Illya looked at her for a moment, bowed her head and let out a low grunt.

“I’ll go with you. Okay? Stop moping. If Murati gets out of hand I’ll deal with her.”

Valeriya stared at Illya quizzically, playing with her mask as if trying to stay out of this.

Shalikova stood bolt upright. “No, no, no. That’s– that’s the last thing I want.”

“Okay, what’s really going on?” Illya said brusquely. “Do I need to go talk to Murati?”

A disaster, an unmitigated and complete disaster! Shalikova’s eyes couldn’t meet Illya’s!

Oh my GOD I’ve made everything so much worse! So much worse!

She had really done it– she had triggered this insane woman’s motherly instincts.

“It’s really nothing. I just don’t like talking to my boss.” Shalikova said in a shaky voice.

“What is that guilty face you’ve got on?” Illya said. “Sonya, talk to me.”

“You’re projecting! Look, you’re not my mom, you don’t need–”

“I told Zasha I’d look out for you. Did Murati do something to you?” Illya asked.

Shalikova couldn’t help but notice Illya’s fingers seemed to subconsciously play over the sleek, black carbon-fiber body of the AK rifle as she was speaking. Zasha had once likened Illya to a wolf in order to describe her to Shalikova, who had been learning about animals in school and was going to meet Zasha’s dear friends for the first time.

Illya was tall and gallant and very loyal and protective, Zasha said. By then, Illya was already a star student when it came to not just civics and basic sciences, but particularly in combat. Best shooter in her class, best hand to hand fighter. She, Valeriya and Zasha, as young adults, participated in exercises with older people and defeated them. They became Nagavanshi’s own hunting hounds– and Illya led the pack. Shalikova knew this as soon as she saw Illya’s steel eyes and silver hair, the confident little smirk she always had–

–and now, the restrained bloodthirst, the territorial barking, the alertness in her body.

It wasn’t as if Shalikova didn’t love her– but she didn’t love this, this way that she acted–

“Illya, what the hell are you thinking? Stop imagining whatever gross thing you’ve got in your head!” Shalikova shouted back in Illya’s face. “You need to trust me. Zasha is gone! I’m in my twenties, I’m grown! I’m a soldier! You don’t have to threaten anyone on my behalf! If you do anything to Murati for no reason– I’m going to hate you forever!”

Illya suddenly smirked at Shalikova. All of her dark presence washed away instantly.

“Good. Then go have a nice chat with Murati yourself and have fun on your date.”

She poked the monitor next to her on the desk–

her finger covering the head of a woman using a portable computer in the social area.

“I’ll know if you didn’t.” She added. This seemed to amuse her greatly.

Shalikova had been expecting the worst, so to see Illya bring herself back down so easily, perhaps she had misjudged this woman. Maybe it was not only Shalikova who had grown but Illya, too, had matured. Hell– maybe Shalikova was still just a stupid child and Illya was really the only adult in the room. She let out a breath that had been held in her chest for so long she thought it would turn into a stone. In front of her, Illya was completely calm again.

Talking to Murati did not seem so scary after all of this nonsense.

“Fine. Fine! You’re the absolute worst.” Shalikova said.

“Uh huh. If your date gets approved, come to our quarters. I’ve got something for you.”

“Huh? Why don’t you just give it to me–?”

Illya made a ‘shoo’ motion with her hands, dismissing Shalikova without another word.

She returned her attention to the monitors with something of a little sigh.

Behind her, Valeriya started to absentmindedly strip her own AK rifle one more time.

Exasperated with them, Shalikova stormed out of the security room and slammed the door.

“BLYAT! How did Zasha put up with these bitches!” Shalikova grumbled.

It was uncharacteristic of her to swear aloud, so in order to recompose herself she waited in the other half of the security room for a few minutes so nobody would see her so annoyed in public. Thankfully, the security team medic Syracuse had been drawn away from her usual spot near the security team armor lockup. Shalikova could be alone for a few minutes.

Certainly, talking to Murati felt just a little more possible after this fiasco.

Thanks, Illya, Valeriya, Shalikova thought sarcastically.

And perhaps also– a bit sincerely, too.

Shalikova found Murati sitting down in a booth seat on the left-hand wall of the social area by herself, like she had seen in Illya’s monitor. Murati had a portable computer and looked to be flipping through pages on the touchscreen. She was quite engrossed in the activity and did not notice Shalikova approaching. Shalikova scanned her aura– green and blue.

For a few moments, Shalikova stood ghost-like at Murati’s side. She observed that the lieutenant was searching on Kreuzung’s internet for things like ‘breath-taking places for an adult date,’ ‘most romantic destinations to bring your fiancé,’ ‘popular date ideas among young women.’ None of those really felt like they would be effective search terms. For one, she was not even specifying Kreuzung and so the search kept showing her other stations like Bremen and Thuringia and even the Imperial Capital of Heitzing. Her queries were also extremely literally written which Shalikova attributed to the Lieutenant having an–

extremely stupid and literal brain

“Lieutenant, please just search something like ‘Kreuzung date spots’.” Shalikova hissed.

Murati raised her head sharply from the portable computer’s screen.

As soon as her eyes met Shalikova’s a pair of red rings reflexively appeared around her irises.

Shalikova, in turn, also activated her psionics and nearly jumped as well from the shock.

“Oh! Ensign Shalikova! I’m sorry, you startled me!” Murati said.

“It’s fine! It’s fine!” Shalikova cried out. “Just be quiet and shove off to the side.”

For a moment people were staring.

There weren’t that many sailors, because most of them were working, but there were a handful, enough to constitute a scene– and Alex Geninov was at the pinball table with a smirk on her face, which was absolutely mortifying to witness. Thankfully, Murati slid deeper into the booth and allowed Shalikova to sit next to her, mostly out of sight.

Shalikova took in a deep breath. Murati looked completely taken by surprise.

“What the hell happened with your eyes, Lieutenant? How can I trust you now?”

Her tone came out extremely accusatory. So much so that Murati looked startled anew.

This was truly the best that Shalikova could think to say in order to breach the topic.

She thought of Illya’s demeanor on the way to talking to Murati and felt inspired.

Instead of confessing to anything, it was time to act like she was not guilty of anything.

For all she knew, Murati could have been going rogue and nobody else would know!

(Given Murati’s character, such a thing was outright impossible, but she could pretend.)

“Ensign! It’s not what you think!” Murati said. She held her hands up. “Captain Korabiskaya knows about it and trusts me. And I want to say, we both trust you too! I’m not even going to ask where you got the same ability. Really– all I want is to help and support you.”

Shalikova felt that kind of guilt she always felt talking to Murati.

Like she was being a burden to her stupidly earnest and overtly concerned Lieutenant.

“Why are you always like this? I don’t need your support.” Shalikova mumbled.

“It’s fine if you don’t. But you shouldn’t have to navigate all this alone.” Murati said.

“What’s all this? We don’t even have the same vocabulary to talk about this, do we?”

“Um,” Murati said, “Do you call it psionic powers? Or maybe omenseeing?”

“Omenseeing? Are you just making stuff up now? I don’t call it anything like that.”

It would help if she could successfully pretend she had always had psionic abilities.

And that the shock of seeing Murati had been exclusively from seeing another psionic.

Murati blinked.

“I’m sorry– I had no idea you were dealing with something like this. Look, I received this power from– Euphemia and Teresa. But you musn’t tell anyone else. Right now, its existence is on a need-to-know basis, until we can understand it better. I volunteered to be given the power, to see if we could trust Euphemia and Teresa. Once I know more about it, whether it is safe, how difficult it is to learn, how dangerous it is, I’ll debrief the other officers.”

Shalikova almost felt bad about lying to Murati. She really trusted her so fully and easily.

She had thought this conversation would be way worse. In her mind, Murati was yelling.

A version of Murati existed in her head who was so far from reality that it was shameful.

It made her feel guilty. But at least the current situation was not so volatile at all.

“What will you do with me then, Lieutenant?” Shalikova said, meeting Murati’s gaze.

She tried her best to make a pathetic sort of expression, like a cat that got kicked in the ribs.

Though she was very poorly versed in manipulating anyone, Murati was an easy mark.

Her own expression responded to Shalikova’s with an upswell of pity and reassurance.

“Ensign, it’s not just my job to correct your behavior, but also to make sure that you are okay, and that you can meet the demands of the mission.” Murati said. She reached out and patted Shalikova on the shoulder. Shalikova allowed it. “I never wanted to antagonize and drive you away. I apologize for that. I’m still new to commanding and I haven’t risen to the challenges yet, but I’m trying. I know I’ve been misreading you. I want to reassure you; you won’t have to answer to anyone. I’ll take responsibility. I’m not going to force you to do anything. I just want information on psionics– on our powers– to stay as contained as possible.”

Murati, you’re making this painful in such a different way than I thought it would be.

Shalikova would not crack and tell Murati the whole truth.

Not yet.

But her heart was bleeding– she really wanted to confess to her stupid, earnest Lieutenant.

I’m in the wrong here. But at least, for now, it’s a harmless lie, for Maryam’s sake.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. Are there any specific conditions I should abide by?”

Murati smiled brightly. Shalikova was taken aback by her sudden and open cheer.

“All I ask Ensign, is that you continue to use all of your abilities in defense of communism.”

Shalikova’s eyes drew wide, and her brain filled with a cyclone of shapeless debris.

Idiot! You corny idiot! Don’t smile saying something so dumb! I hate you so much! UGH!

It took all of the strength in her body to lift up the corners of her lips in response to that.

“Acknowledged.” Shalikova smiled. In her mind’s eye, her smile was demented as Illya’s.

Murati continued to smile back. She looked so bright, so charmed and happy– UGH!

She let out a breath and put her hands over her heart. “I’m so glad we could fix things.”

“Uh huh. Anyway– I have stuff to do. Here, sign this for me and give it to the Captain.”

Shalikova deposited the crumpled-up Form 56A on the table and stormed off.

“Huh? Ensign? What happened to this form? Where are you going so suddenly?”

Leaving Murati behind by herself to uncrumple the paper as best she could and read it.

Murati didn’t have a writing implement but that was her problem to figure out now.

Shalikova’s face and ears were turning as tomato red as Maryam’s became sometimes.


Several hours after their meeting with Erika Kairos, Ulyana and Aaliyah found themselves burning the midnight oil in the exact same meeting room they had been so frequently occupying. They were metaphorically buried in paperwork, even though on the desk there were only two portable computers and a small stack of actual physical stone-paper forms.

“Everyone is asking for shore leave outside the block.” Ulyana said with concern.

“Maybe there is a problem on this ship.” Aaliyah said sharply.

“You know what Nagavanshi once told me about military relationships?”

Aaliyah returned a skeptical gaze. The insides of her ears were flushed again.

Ulyana smiled. She found her Commissar’s uptight attitude to be very cute.

“She told me the story of a Katarran brigade called the ‘Sacred Band’. They were organized in pairs of homosexual lovers. Their sexual and emotional bond was a prize for them, something worth protecting and fighting for. Something more than the glory and profit of the warlord who hired or enslaved them. They were apparently very effective fighters.”

Aaliyah’s eyes narrowed further.

“So you’re telling me we should encourage this behavior because codependency might increase morale. Is that seriously what you are suggesting, Captain?”

“I am not suggesting anything.” Ulyana shrugged with a delighted expression, eager and happy to be teasing her cute Commissar. “I was just telling you a story Nagavanshi told me about these sorts of situations. But think of this, if the now Commissar-General, back then, didn’t really care about enforcing this rule, then why should we go out of our way?”

“For the sake of order? To avoid unnecessary problems down the line?” Aaliyah said.

“Did you know– I’ve always suspected Nagavanshi is Premier Jayasankar’s lover.”

“What?” Aaliyah turned fiercely red. “What do you mean? How do you figure?”

Ulyana continued to smile, and a baffled Aaliyah stared at her and seemed to take the hint.

Aaliyah would have been six or seven years old during the Revolution, but Ulyana had fought alongside all of these characters and was part of their circles for some time. She would have known better than her who Nagavanshi was fucking and what attitude she had towards it. Their potential HR-level problems with sailors in love did not nearly reach the level of a problem that Nagavanshi and Jayasankar’s relationship would constitute if it was true.

But also– Nagavanshi wielded massive power with the full confidence of the Premier.

That type of loyalty perhaps arose– because perhaps she loved her, maybe even physically.

“We’re not rubberstamping these, Ulyana Korabiskaya.” Aaliyah said, pulling out the full name with a venomous tone. “I refuse to approve dozens of potential sexual excursions based on your uncritical ideas. If we’re allowing this, we’re taking full responsibility for every one. We’re going to research every location, every time frame; evaluating each of the people involved, whether we trust their judgment; and approve or reject them case-by-case.”

A grim shadow settled over Ulyana’s once placid smile. “Well– It’s only right, I suppose.”

“Furthermore– I refuse to be anyone’s relationship counselor!” Aaliyah whined.

“I– I was never planning on that. Commissar, they’re adults, they can make decisions–”

“They better be able to! If their love problems interfere with their work, I’ll be quite cross!”

Ulyana stared at the almost childish consternation on display, and she wondered if there was some projection happening. Of course, she said nothing of the sort for fear of taking a hundred steps back in her own love problems with her dear Commissar. She simply kept smiling and promising to support her just as she had loyally supported her throughout.

On that night, they each grabbed a portable computer and set to work.

First they used the cameras on the back of the portables to digitize the paper forms.

Then the real work of going through each of the forms began.

“Look at this, Captain! The nerve of some of these sailors! These two want to go A-block? Imagine the Volkisch staring at two gigantic men holding hands in the middle of the most affluent district in the city! We would be all be crucified! These people have no sense!”

Ulyana could disagree with Aaliyah’s tone but not her intentions.

Looking through the forms, the sailors in particularly had very fanciful ideas of where they could be allowed to roam. Each form had a location, time frame for the leave, as well as guests that the requester would be responsible for. Because the sailors and officers did not know anyone but each other, each requester usually had one other member of the Brigand’s crew as a ‘guest’ on the forms– easily construed as their ‘date.’ Several people wanted to see the gardens at A-block, which were reserved for the affluent families that lived there.

Ulyana would never support the social hierarchy of Kreuzung, but the fact remained she had to abide by it to avoid suspicion and safeguard the mission. All requests to go to A-block were discarded outright, with messages prepared to inform the requesters they would be approved to go to the Alcor campus or Solarflare LLC and nowhere else. These were easiest requests to work through. By far the most complex were the ones that seemed reasonable.

“Alexandra Geninov wants to go to a seasonal street market on C-block.” Ulyana said.

Aaliyah looked up the venue and event online. “Seems reasonable. It’s not that far.”

“Alex is annoying sometimes, but I think she can behave herself in public.” Ulyana said.

“Fernanda Santapena-De-La-Rosa is going to the same place.” Aaliyah said with a sigh.

“So they filed separately, but are going to the same place at the same time?” Ulyana asked.

“Yes. It’s very like them, isn’t it.” Aaliyah said. “Have they matured even a little lately?”

“Well, they’ve been living together for a few weeks without incident.” Ulyana said.

“Alright. We’ll approve them, and hopefully they won’t cause a public disturbance.”

For everyone, the forms required two signatures. First was the direct superior’s signature and then the captain’s signature for final approval. For Bridge crew, Aaliyah acted as direct superior, and the Captain then signed. For sailors, it depended on their section, but so far, it seemed that Lebedova and Cohen had signed everything without really looking at it– or maybe they were as lacking in sense as some of the requests Ulyana was seeing.

Murati was the superior officer for requests from the pilots.

“Murati commented every single form submitted by a pilot.” Aaliyah said, impressed with the work ethic. “It looks like she already took a look at the places her people were requesting. She suspects Khadija just wants to go drink alcohol even though she’s technically not supposed to; and she is afraid Aiden is requesting leave so he can run away somewhere.”

“Murati’s such a treasure.” Ulyana said, looking at the digitized version of the form for Sonya Shalikova’s leave request. It had been heavily crumpled up, but Murati had pressed it flat again. Comments on the form urged the approval of Shalikova’s request as a gesture of good will and reward for ‘coming forward about her problems.’ “I’m going to approve this one.”

About halfway through the endeavor, they began to see more complicated requests.

People with the audacity to request to stay in hotel rooms, and who wanted multi-day time frames with multiple locations involved, who requested additional Imbrian funds than their shore leave stipend for expensive requests, or other such things that warranted even closer and more involved research than previous requests. Aaliyah’s ears folded against her head with exhaustion and Ulyana had begun to yawn with increasing frequency.

Soon Ulyana was seeing double and had to put down her portable.

“We need to take a break, Commissar.” She said.

“No complaints here.” Aaliyah replied with a groan.

“Care for a drink? Alcor gifted me a bottle of liquor on my last visit there.”

“How will that make us any less sleepy?”

“It won’t, but it will be fun. I think we could use a little bit of fun.”

“I’d be lying if I said I disagree. Fine. Bring out the booze.”

Ulyana and Aaliyah exchanged sympathetic gazes, and Ulyana opened a small box that she had set on a chair in a corner of the room. Inside was a bottle of beet-sugar rum, Tuzemak, called Struh in the Imbrium. She had two drinking glasses as well, though both were made of plastic. Setting them down on the table, she poured the clear reddish liquor into the glasses. She pushed one toward Aaliyah, who took it in hand. They tipped their glasses together, cheered for health and the safety of the mission, and downed a shot at the same time.

Aaliyah’s ears wiggled rapidly, and she shut her eyes briefly. It was a strong spirit.

Ulyana was untroubled. She considered herself a champ when it came to liquor.

“I’m still surprised at how sweet it is for liquor.” Aaliyah said.

“Completely trounces the potato stuff doesn’t it? Want another shot?”

“Hmm. Oh– whatever. Sure. Hit me. We’re already breaking all kinds of rules anyway.”

Two more shots; down the hatch. Aaliyah’s tail stood up briefly stiff and straight.

Ulyana sat back down with the bottle on the table.

“It’s so good. Fuck. I’m having another.” She said.

“Hit me too.” Aaliyah said.

Third shot; and there it went. Ulyana and Aaliyah laughed and relaxed on their chairs.

Smiling placidly, the Captain turned her slightly wavering vision on her Commissar.

Aaliyah was such an appealing girl. Her medium skin tone, her shiny dark hair, the natural pinkness and suppleness of her thin lips. Her jewel-like eyes and the elegant curve in the shape of her cat-like ears. Her slender tail, and the slenderness of her body too. Ulyana could not help in that moment but to think of the height gap between them too– she could have bent forward and loomed a little bit– her body would have fit so perfectly nestled with her back to Ulyana in bed– she would have been so warm and soft, such a sweet little morsel–

A sharp sound– a drinking glass striking the table.

“Ulyana, another shot. I want to feel the fire in me.” Aaliyah said suddenly.

Her eyes were looking a bit cloudy, and her cheeks were beginning to redden.

Ulyana, with a little laugh, filled Aaliyah’s glass again, as well as her own.

The Captain downed another shot; her Commissar was slowly sipping hers, however.

“It’s unfair.” Aaliyah mumbled. One of her ears was upright, but the other had folded.

“What’s unfair?” Ulyana said, her voice starting to drawl just a bit.

Without prompting, she refilled the Commissar’s glass, and they both drank again.

Fifth round!

“We have to do all this work, and they can go out to play.” Aaliyah said.

“True, true. They don’t know how much we sacrifice for them.”

“They don’t! We just endure silently, there is no one to take care of us.”

“Right. It’s fucked. Commissar, if it weren’t for you, I would go insane.”

“Indeed, indeed, Captain. We are the only ones for each other.”

“To hell with the sailors!” Ulyana cheered, taking another shot and topping up Aaliyah.

Sixth round!

“To hell with the sailors!” Aaliyah paused, drank. “I’m gonna– I’m gonna deny, deny, deny!”

With each ‘deny’ Aaliyah tapped her glass on the table like a gavel.

“Hell yeah! That’s the spirit! That’s that Ashura brutality we all love!” Ulyana cheered.

She refilled their glasses. Aaliyah tucked the shot in quickly this time, shutting her eyes.

They broke out into laughter together, tapping their quickly glasses on the table.

Then, topping up once more–

Seventh round!

“We deserve a vacation too. Captain– I’m– I’m taking you out!” Aaliyah declared.

“That’s dangerous talk soldier! You really ready to ‘take out’ the Captain?” Ulyana said.

Both of them cracked up amid the slurred words.

Eighth round– Ninth Round– Tenth–

floating velvet colors– soft giggling in a gently swaying room– paradise–

“Don’t believe me? I’ll show you– Captain–”

Aaliyah stood suddenly, and made her way around the table–

However, she stumbled over one of the chairs on the table’s side and tripped.

This led her to fall on Ulyana, who had been sitting quite back on her chair. Both of them fell backwards together and ended up entangled on the floor. Ulyana had hit her flank and Aaliyah her gut, but between the shocked gasping for air after falling, they began to giggle airily at one another, embraced. They brought their faces close and rubbed noses together.

Ulyana stroked Aaliyah’s hair.

Even their legs had entwined as they laid on the floor, staring into each other’s eyes intensely with drunken euphoria. Ulyana had been right. Aaliyah was so soft– so warm–

Unfortunately for the two of them, those gazes wavered far too quickly for their intimacy.

And the most that happened was that they fell asleep in each other’s arms on the floor.

Lips just millimeters short of a kiss, sleeping gazes still held tightly together.

Overlooking them on the floor, a metaphorical pile of work on the table still undone.

All of the officers, at least, had had their forms looked through and approved.


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