After Descent, Year 935

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She stopped halfway to the inner courtyard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then a thrum, sliding metal–

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

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

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

A sharp sound rang out as steel met steel.

For a moment the air stilled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her remaining hand was visibly shaking.

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

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

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

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

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

However– she had known that it was possible.

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

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

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

That grin that her face seemed to have frozen into.

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

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

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

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

“What– I see in them?” Norn asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was no danger.

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

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

Still taller than Norn but by nowhere near as much.

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

Clasping her hands in prayer.

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

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

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

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

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

Norn had no good humor toward this display of submission.

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

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

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

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

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

That felt impossible.

There was nothing she could say to them in return.

There was also no turning back.

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

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

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

Pulling it out completely clean.

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

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

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

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

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

Breaking out into both laughter and sobs.

---

After Descent, Year 979

Tick tock, tick tock, tick, tock–

Norn struck herself on the head–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Acknowledged. I’m sorry.”

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

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

However– the skinny little lady had her uses too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And perhaps live to fight another day after that.

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

Good luck with that.

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

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

Anyone in the way of her rescue effort would die.

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

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

Amur could do nothing about the mess found further below.

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

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

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

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

Got it. Hey– watch this!

Hunter III approached one of the walls near them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was not often that a situation made her nervous–

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

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

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

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

What does it look like ahead of me?

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

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

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

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

Finding nothing.

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

Then–

Another thud–!

Norn turned her gun on the direction of the sound.

She could not see anything.

Was she sure there was no optical stealth at play?

An idea formed in her mind.

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

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

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

Muffled cries in response.

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

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

Norn holstered her pistol briefly.

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

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

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

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

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

Using a heat knife, she cut through their restraints.

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

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

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

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

Only five or six? She expected twenty or thirty!

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

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

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

Their situation was especially hopeless against a certain mercenary band.

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

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

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

Norn sighed. She handed them the heat knife.

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

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

Norn left the mound of tied bodies and muffled cries.

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

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

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

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

Gotcha.

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

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

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

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

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

Wearing a familiar teal jacket–

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

And around them both—

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

Hunter III, do you see this?

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

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

Ye–

Norn did not await further confirmation.

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

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

Moving a quarter of the speed but– moving–!

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

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

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

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

when she heard the slowed click that presaged its attack,

and saw the glow within the barrel–

Sword swing quicker still, unburdened by the temporal control.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She hardly wanted to even entertain the notion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mouth dry, throat burning, chest painful and tight–

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

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

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

“Norn!”

That second cry was in her ear–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Astra– that creature with her name entered her mind–

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

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

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

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

It was a dim hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Much less acknowledge her embrace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, Norn stared down a closed bulkhead once again–

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

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

In its place, she withdrew her assault rifle.

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

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

Norn was capable of more than just Temporal Control.

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

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

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

When she heard it again–

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

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

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

---

After Descent, Year 978

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

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

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

“Enjoying your reading, milord?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She smiled fondly at Astra.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her tails curled around Astra for further comfort.

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

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

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

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

A power so almighty that it might even rule bloodlessly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mare Crisium was destined for upheaval.

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

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

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

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

---

After Descent, Year 979

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

Blood cascaded down the steps.

Gory offal rode all the way to the floor below.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How much resistance? Any casualties?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you moving down as well?”

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

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

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

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

In her ear was her counterpart, Decarch Inonu.

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

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

That meant Dellis had to do what she did best.

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

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

Two of them took cover and prepared for possible attack.

Four covered each cardinal direction.

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

a barricade.

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

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

Her cry alerted the rioters at the barricade.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her numeroi followed–

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

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

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

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

She lifted her fist–

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

Inviting attention from the enemy–

Before opening fire again in erratic sequences.

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

This erratic rhythm gave Dellis her opening.

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

Charging the barricade itself, clearing the remaining distance.

She ducked under its shadow while gunfire blazed around her.

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

Throwing them up and over the barricade.

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

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

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

Until she made enough fist signals to catch their attention.

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

At least it meant they remembered the tactics at all.

Looking out behind the barricade with her axe raised up–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she still maintained some of that quixotic Pythian character.

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It would have to be enough.

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

She grit her teeth.

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

No– rather than fail, it was betrayed.

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

“This will be the night that frees us.”

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

In the presence of the gunfire and the screams.

The passing shadows of foreign killers purging the uprising.

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

She remembered listening to the lectures.

How good it sounded–

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

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

All of her life had been lived under coercion–

Anarchism gave her a real definition of freedom.

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

The anarchist meetings were the wildest time.

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

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

It wasn’t long until the wild times ended–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then on that night in Hertha Park,

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

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

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

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

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

and forced to run away–

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

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

She thought she would never see another night like that.

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

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

Dead.

And yet– here was another night.

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

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

So she turned up to fight again.

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

She had skills– she remembered the wild times–

So she went up to the barricades and joined everyone.

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

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

Now–

A noise–

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

Hooded folks, no uniforms, no armor–

Those faces–

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

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

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

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

Katarrans– always on the wrong side.

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

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

Two figures rushed forward, examined the bodies–

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

Then someone barked orders. The two figures ran ahead.

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

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

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

Stopping for a moment to check the bodies.

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

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

Even laugh a little at the folly of it–

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

That was the moment where everything would be determined.

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

Like how things ended at Hertha Park.

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

Lighting the match, rearing up–

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

She threw– and the bottle soared–

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

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

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

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

Then the power armored figure turned to face the door.

Flames danced upon the metal striding undaunted toward her.

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

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

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

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

Could they even feel pain?!

The anarchist was paralyzed, stepping back from the door.

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

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

Looking down at her with that mocking grin–

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

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

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

a white grin untouched by the burning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Decarch Inonu! Decarch Inonu!”

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

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

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

Inonu looked down at the body.

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

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

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

Maybe she would have tenderly nursed her burns.

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

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

She had to report everything. Something was going on.

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

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

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

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

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

Mycenae’s charge slowed down ever just so.

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

And the life she had given up for anarchy.

---

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

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

There were at least three ahead and however many behind.

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

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

“Damn it, damn it,”

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

Loud sharp cracking sounds–

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

Paralyzing her again just as she was building her courage.

She began to weep.

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

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

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

Looking down at her belt for anything–

No grenades, nothing but a spare mag and–

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

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

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

she was gone.

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

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

Striking the decorative plaster smeared over the column.

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

Too much.

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

Until the Volkisch cleaned this place up!

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

Now her lot was exactly the same as the rioters.

Mere instants confirmed every horror story ever told about Katarrans.

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

If she could get to one.

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

She counted the shots as best as she could.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Successive bursts of gunfire pounded the column.

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

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

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

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

and threw both out one after the other.

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

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

Nothing but more gunfire in response.

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

And threw herself over the barrier.

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She surveyed the fall below.

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

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

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

“Madam, you’re not thinking of–?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Despite this she knew it was urgent to keep moving.

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

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

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

Too flimsy to stick to for long–

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

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

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

She heard shouting behind her–

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

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

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

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

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

Judging by the model that Murati Nakara had shared–

Still clear in her mind–

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

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

Hearing guns going off, close and specifically.

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

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

“Ra–z–”

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

“Stealth–”

She was warning her–

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

That was her chance–

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

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

Her sharp eyes picked up the visual anomalies.

Someone sneaking downstairs.

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

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

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

Beating the breath out of her own body–

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

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

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

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

Confirming the kill for the folks inside.

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

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

Catching her breath, scanning her surroundings.

No other visual anomalies.

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

Her communications were completely cut out at the doorway.

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

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

Someone was inside– someone she needed to bring back.

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

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

Provoking an immediate response–

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

A woman’s irascible voice–

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

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

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

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

Holding her hands up with her picks disengaged.

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

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

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

Breathing heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Eithnen. Eithnen Ni Faoláin.”

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

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

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

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

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

Raiza wondered how much worse it was behind her.

---

After Descent, Year 975

Artificial rain and wind had been scheduled over Nichori University.

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

It did little to allay the horrors unfolding.

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

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

Moving closer.

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

Then, silence.

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

Tied with a wire to keep it shut.

Between the wires, through the empty knob–

Bright yellow sunlamp light flashed in her eye–

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

Again the lights dimmed and cast the figure into shadow.

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

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

Pulling something massive across the floor with her.

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

Amid the sound of the rain, the buffeting wind–

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

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

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

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

There was nowhere to go–

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

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

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

Centimeters between her face and the ripping blade–

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

Eyes that she never shut as she–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To kick down her door so easily–

to slaughter however many people all the meat in the hallway

once constituted–

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

Her name was a tiny noise barely comprehensible to herself.

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

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

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

Rendering visible the hooked crosses symbolizing her allegiance.

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

She suddenly revved the diamond sabre with a smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The missing part of her head under her hat–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She saw Magdalena’s hand lift from her saw.

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

Any of a million ways it would move next–

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

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

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

Like a nightmare she had woken up from, except–

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

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

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

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

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

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

The only survivor– the keeper of this grim story.

---

After Descent, Year 979

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

Dibuqim with assault weapons held back for the moment.

Despite the dire nature of their predicament–

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

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

Absentmindedly Tiphereth lifted her index finger into her mouth.

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

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

Menahem suddenly turned an aggressive expression on her.

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

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

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

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

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

“Tiphereth. Your report.” Menahem pressed.

Tiphereth bowed her head slightly, stifling a laugh.

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

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

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

“And Stockheim?”

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

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

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

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

Menahem stared at her.

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

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

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

Menahem reached out and grabbed Tiphereth by her shirt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tamar did not think so.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Menahem locked eyes with Tiphereth again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tiphereth winked at Menahem in response to threat.

Menahem could not retaliate without compromising her emotions again.

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

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

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

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

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

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