Mourners After The Revel [12.2]

A pair of dark-furred cat-like ears stood up straight and engaged in a subtle wiggling.

“I’m hearing an Imperial ship! Ritter-class Cruiser!” Fatima al-Suhar called out.

Several bridge officers stiffened up in their seats.

The Ritter-class encompassed quite a few ships that had given the Brigand and its guests substantial grief in recent events. The Aleksandr detected near the end of the battle for Kreuzung; the Greater Imbria that had chased Elena Lettiere out of her home; and worst of all, the Antenora, flagship of the fearsome Norn the Praetorian. Ritters were high-tech types of vessels that could fight toe to toe with the Brigand if not give it pause outright, with comparable 150 mm guns, secondary 76 mm guns, missiles, torpedoes, drones and Divers.

“Check for the IFF before getting nervous.” Olga Athanasiou said, in a blunt tone of voice.

There was a rare configuration of command on the bridge. Captain Ulyana Korabiskaya was out taking care of ‘personnel issues’; Commissar Aaliyah Bashara joined her; and Premier Erika Kairos meeting the sailors and thus, also indisposed. Prior to their adventure in Kreuzung this should have made Murati the next-in-command on the bridge as First Officer.

Instead, Erika’s right-hand woman Olga Athanasiou was given the bridge, sitting in the big chair in her black hoodie and long casual pants, her pale hair tied up in a ponytail. This was more of a mercenary situation than the strict military regimentation the crew was used to.

On the main screen, a small Zachikova model appeared and nodded her head.

She pointed her round, tiny hand at waveform graph that appeared beside her little body.

“This signal perfectly matches the ‘Day Code’ given to us by Premier Kairos to identify the Volksarmee’s acoustic beacon IFF. I am certain that this is an allied vessel.” She said.

Olga smiled and leaned farther back in the Captain’s chair, putting her feet up.

“That’s the Rostock then. Helm, rendezvous with them. Signals, send an acoustic hail.”

“Yes ma’am!”

Kamarik and Semyonova worked as instructed, efficiently and without complaint.

“So– do you think she is ever going to learn our names?”

On the opposite side of the bridge from signals, Torpedo Officer Alex Geninov grumbled.

“Gamer, tis been but few moons since she joined our band. Silence your errant tongue.”

Gunnery Officer Fernanda Santapena-De La Rosa whispered back with typical verbosity.

Olga sighed audibly at the two of them.

“Rejoice you two; I know your names, because you get scolded the most!” She said.

Fernanda shot Alex a glare as if to say ‘you got me in trouble again!’

Alex squirmed in her seat, under both Olga and Fernanda’s glowering expressions.

Even with Olga in the Captain’s chair, there could still be an air of familiarity.

Soon after, the National Volksarmee flagship answered the Brigand’s message. Within 30 minutes the two vessels closed enough to one another for laser-based communications. On the main screen, the Rostock came to loom massively within 50 meters of the Brigand in the otherwise empty-seeming, near-black landscape of Eisental. It was the first time since they had left Thassal Station that the Brigand was face to face with an Imperial model ship on assuredly friendly terms. Quite a unique image to be seeing in ultra-high resolution.

The Ritter-class, also known as the “Sword class,” resembled what its nickname suggested. The prow of the ship was sharp and roughly triangular, while the gently flared rear armor over the hydrojets resembled a sword’s handguard. Atop the slight curve of the top deck rested the main gun turret, its dual 150 mm barrels and their chunky drainage housings permanently engaged, unlike the Brigand’s retractable guns. But the Rostock had a few modifications. Most obviously, it had a livery, dark green with a red stripe running across the bow. In addition to the interdiction gas guns and the secondary 76 mm cannons, there were also additional jet anchor pods installed on the front and rear of the ship. Sixteen cells of vertical missile launchers were evident as well. How had Erika acquired such a vessel?

Olga always answered the same– that is a story for another day.

So the crew remained curious but nonetheless professional as they could be.

“Yeah, that’s her all right.” Olga said. “Accept the hail, Sig– Semyonova. Main screen.”

Semyonova smiled at Olga. “Yes ma’am. Right away.”

She promptly routed the communication from the Rostock to the main screen situated on the forebridge. After a few seconds a woman appeared, saluting the entire time, rendered massively in front of everyone due to the size of the main screen. Like Olga and Erika, the captain of the Rostock had the same rectangular horns coming out of the back of her head pointed up, barely visible from behind her peaked cap. Her skin was lightly pink with orange mottles visible around her neck. On her cap, there was a silver badge that had been evidently defaced, a crude star cut over whatever it had once represented. She dressed in a long red coat over black pants and a cut-off black top, and wore her dark blue hair quite long.

“Comrade Olga. Captain Daphne Triantafallos of the Rostock is reporting in.”

Her voice was serious and her enunciation was very deliberate.

Olga cracked a little grin upon seeing her.

“How have things been, Daphne? We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us, and we’re going to have do it while on the move. It is going to be pretty annoying, you know, so get ready for that. But until Erika gets back from chatting, we can take it easy for a little bit.”

Rather than respond, Daphne glanced around.

From her vantage, she could see some of the Brigand’s bridge crew.

“These are Union soldiers, Olga?” Daphne asked.

“Indeed they are.” Olga replied dryly.

“To think– I will fight alongside the great liberators of the southern sea. It is my honor!”

Semyonova narrowed her eyes with confusion as Daphne adopted a more compliant tone.

“May I attend the Brigand for a spell in order to observe their operations? I’m sure we can learn something that will improve the Rostock’s efficiency!” Daphne said, with a little smile.

Olga laughed. “Sure, sure. We’ll have a lot of people coming and going.”

“Are we that special?” Geninov whispered, but not low enough–

“Have some faith, torpedoes!” Olga declared almost as quickly as Geninov spoke.

Geninov frowned, and there was some light giggling throughout the bridge at her expense.

On the leftmost edge of the main screen, beside Daphne, a second figure peeked into the picture. Daphne turned to acknowledge her and bid her to come closer and greet everyone. In the next instant, a round-faced and pretty young woman took the opportunity to jump in, cling very close to Daphne and fully enter the picture. Dressed in a plastic, hooded coat with numerous pockets that seemed like it had either been sloppily dyed red over or blue; or that it had faded from red with specks and streaks of blue dotting its surface. When she pulled her hood down, she rendered visible her brown hair, collected into a big braid. Her skin was a brownish-grey with spots of white, but most peculiarly, she had a single horn stretching from the top of her forehead, a few centimeters long before it was broken off. Big orange eyes and rosy cheeks, gave her a more girlish and soft appearance than Daphne’s sleek edges.

“Greetings everyone! I am Nomia Grammateas. I am Daphne’s adjutant. Nice to meet you all.”

She spoke in a voice so dulcet-soft she earned an easy comparison to Semyonova.

“You can catch up later.” Olga said. “Daphne, we should not stay put for much longer. We need to get the show moving. Pull the Rostock alongside us, we’ll synchronize navigation data. We can use shuttles or Divers to ferry personnel between the ships in motion.”

Daphne acknowledged with a shallow nod.

In a corner of the main screen, a camera picked up movement and brought up a picture-in-picture showing the ocean ahead of them and what had been detected. There was only one sight to see. The Rostock began to pull water through its jets again, leaving the area of the forward cameras to be picked up by side cameras. Slowly circling around the Brigand to face in its direction while maintaining a fifty meter distance from starboard. Olga ordered Kamarik to get the Brigand moving also; the two ships resumed their journey together.

Olga sat back in the Captain’s chair and shut her eyes for a moment.

She thought of the amount of work ahead of them before Aachen. They had to synchronize the data of both ships; come up with a slew of protocols for working together; collate a shared inventory; make communications routine enough that both crews became habituated to working together and making joint decisions; all of this just in the middle of the ocean while hurtling toward greater troubles. There would be even work at Aachen, and even more to do once they worked out any kind of plan against the Volkisch Movement.

As with all previous events that transpired– Olga simply grinned to herself.

There was a lot of toil ahead, and she would certainly complain.

But she was excited to be out of that stuffy Kreuzung station and back in the ocean.

In the ocean, where there was a fight, there was the possibility of change.

Victory or death.

Erika’s dream was one step closer to being realized.

And that was all that mattered to her. A world where Erika would not need to work.


At Dr. Kappel’s request, Captain Ulyana Korabiskaya visited her clinic.

Of the many meetings on her schedule this would be the first.

She was grateful for the opportunity to put off the disciplinary meetings with Illya and Valeriya– and Zachikova and Arabella after them. She also had a meeting with Erika, Murati, Euphrates and Tigris to catch up on the events surrounding Arabella, the Omenseers, and “Psionics.” Then she had to finally reprimand Marina. Compared to all of those topics, talking to Homa Baumann, if not any lighter, would at least be easier to approach.

Ulyana walked into the clinic and made note that all of the disciplinary hearing subjects had already been collected from their beds by Akulantova and taken to the meeting place. Aaliyah was likely already there with them. There were a pair of sailors helpfully assisting in putting away the plastic screens that had been installed between each bed. It made the clinic look a lot less occupied. There was one barrier at the end that would not yet be moved.

Behind it was Homa Baumann.

(And Kalika Loukia, seated beside her and in the middle of conversation.)

Ulyana arrived swiftly, interrupting the two and introducing herself.

“Greetings, Homa Baumann. I’m Captain Ulyana Korabiskaya. Let’s have a little chat.”

In her bed, Homa Baumann looked– small.

She was not necessarily a very short girl, and it was not necessarily because Ulyana herself was taller than average. Rather, Ulyana felt that Homa was making herself small, distant. She was nervous and closed off. Whether voluntarily or not, she seemed like she was shrinking back from Ulyana. Compared to when Ulyana had last seen her, when she was brought into the ship, Homa was cleaned up and healthier, her dark hair attaining a lively luster again, her eyes brighter. She was looking even skinnier than she did in Kreuzung, when she greeted Ulyana at the port. But she was eating again, so she would be restored in time.

“Do you recognize me, Homa? We actually met when my ship arrived at Kreuzung.”

Homa briefly glanced at Kalika and then back to Ulyana.

“Yes, I do recognize you.” Homa said. “I remember. The Pandora’s Box– I always knew you guys were shady.” She averted her gaze. “Two days ago– I had just been operated on and I was really freaked out. But I get it– I’ve ended up on a mercenary vessel. Isn’t that right?”

“Close. I suppose you could say that about our present situation.” Ulyana smiled.

Homa narrowed her eyes.

“Are you going to try talking in circles around it too?”

“No. I will tell you everything you want to know. Then you can decide whether to stay with us or part ways. So just ask. I can spare ten or twenty minutes. You can ask me anything.”

For a moment, Homa was warier than she had ever looked.

“What happens if you tell me your secrets and let me go, and I snitch to the Volkisch?”

Kalika sighed openly and put her biological hand over her face in response.

Ulyana smiled, because it was such a farcical proposition, and such a prickly response.

She was not threatened in the slightest.

This outburst came from a place of hurt.

“Nothing will happen to you. At least not by our hand.” Ulyana said. When she spoke her voice was gentle but firm. “You can go directly from our ship to the Gau office at Aachen. Nobody will stop you. You can say what you want to say to them, and certainly we may be inconvenienced by it, but more than likely you will end up being arrested by them and we will just escape and find another way to conduct our business. You have some lurid fantasies if you think I’m going to silence a helpless girl as a threat to our security. We operate just a bit more ethically than that. Besides, you hate the Volkisch too, don’t you?”

That final point was the most important one.

Knowing what Ulyana knew about the situation, made it much easier to sell things softly.

Had Homa been any more ambiguous– she may well have had to cover off the possibility.

But the sad, withdrawn girl in front of her was no threat to anyone right now.

She would not do anything to merit extreme measures.

“What makes you say that?” Homa said bitterly. “There’s a lot of Volkisch Shimii now.”

Homa could not meet her eyes. She had never once looked at Ulyana directly as they spoke.

Poor girl. Her voice was trembling. Her state made Ulyana’s heart quiver with pity.

“You fought them in Kreuzung. You killed them too. You threw yourself right at them.”

At the sound of the word ‘killed’ Homa seemed to flinch and stare down at her own lap.

“Homa. Please. Nobody will hurt you.” Kalika finally interrupted.

She reached out a hand to comfort her– and Homa gently shied away from it.

“It’s not that.” Homa said. Partially through gritted teeth. Her hand clutching her blanket.

“Homa,” Ulyana said, believing it was time to just put everything on the table with finality, “I’m a Captain of the Union of Ferris, Lyser and Solstice’s Navy.” She waited a moment for Homa to draw her eyes wide. “You may have heard of us referred to as rebels or bandits; but we are communist soldiers and we have not come here to plunder or enrich ourselves. We are here to help the people of Eisental to resist the Volkisch Movement.”

“The Union?” Homa said. Her lips quivered. “So you’re not mercenaries. You’re real soldiers.”

Her initial shock seemed to quickly abate, but she still could not lift her eyes from the bed.

“Before either mercenaries or soldiers, we’re all communists.” Ulyana said. She bent over slightly to try to get closer to capturing Homa’s eyes. Homa continued to avoid her gaze. “We don’t want to cause you unneeded suffering, Homa. When we dock at Aachen, no matter what, you will have a chance to leave. But we know that you fought the Volkisch at Kreuzung. If you are opposed to their injustices, then we can be your allies in that regard.”

Homa narrowed her eyes. Her ears folded. She looked more conflicted than before.

“You don’t have to make any decision right now.” Ulyana said. “You don’t even have to decide when we get to Aachen. Take your time and think about it. Staying with us will put you in a lot of danger– but as long as you remain here, we will feed you and take care of you. You’re not the only guest we have. We don’t have infinite capacity but we can certainly help you. We’re not in the habit of abandoning innocent girls to the elements. We will not make you fight either, so you do not have to worry about that. You can still do what you want with yourself. But if you want to leave, you can leave. We’ll do our best to assist you.”

Homa bowed her head. Her hair fell messily over her face, enough to cover her eyes.

“Why?” Homa asked. “I don’t understand why– why would you be like this? Didn’t one of you look at the data from my machine? I was afraid you wanted me to fight. So– why–?”

Ulyana suppressed a laugh.

She must have gotten wind of Murati’s thoughtless intentions.

“I’ll tell Murati Nakara off if she gets too excited. I am not recruiting you Homa.”

“I don’t understand!” Homa cried out. “Why would you be this accommodating? I’m just some nobody! No, even worse– I’m just a big target now! I killed Volkisch back at Kreuzung. I killed dozens– no, hundreds of them! So I’m a murderer and a criminal! They’ll find me and hunt me down and make me pay! Meanwhile I’ll just take up space, eat your food, and you’re even giving me a free surgery. I don’t understand why you would do any of this for me!”

Homa had made her own voice crack several times. She was losing control.

Ulyana tried to reassure her again.

“We are doing this much for you– because it’s right, Homa. Because causing you harm or neglecting you is the senseless, needless option.” Her calm gaze met Homa’s impassioned eyes directly for the very first time in their conversation. “Because I couldn’t live with myself throwing you out of this ship knowing you have no means to sustain yourself. Because what is convenient for me is not what is right or just for the world. That is why, Homa. We can adjust the rations; we can get more medicines; we can move around people so you can have a place to sleep. But we rescued you; we have a responsibility to help you!”

That screaming which had shaken itself out of her chest seemed to leave Homa hollow.

“I– I–” Homa began to weep. “I see. I see. I– I don’t have any more questions. Sorry.”

She turned suddenly in bed, wrapping herself in her blankets, turning her back and sobbing.

Ulyana looked at Kalika, silently requesting her input.

Kalika shook her head and made a waving hand gesture as if to say ‘go, I’ve got this.’

Ulyana nodded back.

She turned her own back on Homa’s bed for now and walked away.

In her years as a Captain she had built up some experience dealing with traumas like this.

And she herself had a complete breakdown too– after the Pravda incident in the Union.

Back then she had completely blamed herself for the accident.

For the sinking of the newest Union dreadnought and the loss of hundreds of lives.

Ulyana knew the sound of those words that Homa spoke against herself.

Blame and self-hatred and confusion. After the Pravda sank, the questions would torment her mind for years. “Why did I live when others lost their lives?” “Where did I go wrong?” “How can I keep living like this?” To silence those voices, Ulyana drank and fucked and retreated from the world. She ignored her friends and shouted and spat at any stranger who tried to drag her back or to give her a way out. Only Nagavanshi succeeded.

She saw so much herself in Homa that it was almost painful to bear witness to it.

Ulyana had grown too, however. She was not still the woman of mere months ago.

For a woman in her mid-30s, the last few months had done the work of years.

Overcoming had been slow– but she forgave herself.

She would not avert her gaze from Homa. She had to meet that girl’s eyes at her level.

She also knew that trying too hard to help could become its own torture for poor Homa.

Instead Ulyana hoped that Homa would slowly accept the everyday kindness of living on the ship and come to a decision for herself. Exposed to the frequent and unexceptional kindness that everyone on the Brigand would receive in their time of need. She hoped that given the right opportunities to fight her own helplessness, Homa would take them and it would build her spirits back up, so that she felt like she had found her own power and purpose again.

That was what the Brigand and its mission, had done for Ulyana herself.

Ulyana had learned to forgive herself for the Pravda.

All she wanted for Homa, was that she could forgive herself for her own tragedy.

At least Kalika had put herself at Homa’s dispensation. Having a friend would help.

There was not much Ulyana could do. She walked out of the clinic feeling ambivalent.

Walking slowly through the hall to have a moment’s peace to decompress.

Before all of the exhausting meetings about to come.

“Homa Baumann is the least of my problems.” Ulyana said to herself.

Still– that meeting had been nowhere near as simple as she had hoped it would be.

People could hurt so badly– in every piece of them, the cruel Imbrium could put a scratch.

Just like the Brigand itself, sailing immaculate before being patched up over and over.

All Ulyana could do was keep patching, to keep the water out.

Several doors down the hall, her next problem awaited in a nondescript meeting room.

There was a table, some chairs, the blue walls, nothing exceptional or different.

Akulantova at the door; Aaliyah waiting on the other end of the room, alone.

And between them, Illya Rostova, her arms crossed; and Valeriya Peterburg, avoiding eyes.

Perhaps one of her most dangerous set of problems.

“Have they been behaving?” Ulyana asked upon walking in.

“They know better than to piss me off worse than they already have.” Akulantova replied.

Her voice was gruffer than usual. She was more unreservedly blunt to these two.

Neither Illya nor Valeriya made a sound despite being mentioned so roughly.

Ulyana walked around them and took a seat next to Aaliyah.

“Are we ready to begin, Captain?” She asked.

“We have to be.” Ulyana said. She meet Aaliyah’s eyes– her Commissar looked wary too.

Together, the two of them faced Illya and Valeriya on the other side of the table.

“Let’s cut the bullshit.” Ulyana said immediately. Aaliyah’s ears stood on end. “You two don’t respect me or Chief Akulantova. You are probably laughing to yourselves because Akulantova values human lives and I was just an ordinary ship Captain. You probably don’t respect Aaliyah because she’s ‘just’ a Commissar too. Am I wrong? You believe your special forces clique are the center of the universe don’t you? That you are all above the law?”

“Captain–!” Aaliyah gasped with surprise.

Ulyana did not draw her eyes away from Illya.

Even Akulantova had her eyes drawn wide at the Captain’s aggression.

Illya raised her eyes from the table, her icy gaze meeting Ulyana’s passion.

“Dead wrong.” Illya said. “I believe no such things, Captain.”

“Then I misread you. I sincerely apologize. Let us put it behind us.”

Ulyana reached out a hand to shake. Illya looked at it and quizzically returned the gesture.

Neither of the two made any sort of show of their hand shaking.

Just an ordinary firm shake. As if nobody had shouted.

When their hands retracted, Ulyana crossed her arms. She let out a breath.

“Tell me why you and Valeriya left the ship without authorization, in full combat gear.”

Illya shut her eyes. “To rescue Zachikova.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Do you think I would have forbid her rescue?” Ulyana said.

“I worried you might put the mission ahead of a single crew member.” Illya replied.

“And you wouldn’t?”

“I don’t leave people behind if I can help it.”

“People, writ large– or people, as in just your former squadron?”

“We would have done the same. For you.”

Valeriya finally spoke up in the middle of them. She was covering her mouth with her hand and would not make eye contact with anyone. Both of them were dressed in the Treasure Box uniforms, and Valeriya was not given her tactical mask back to wear. So she was covering her face and speaking from behind her fingers. While Illya’s body language was firm and determined, Valeriya looked shaken and unable to hold her gaze on anything.

Despite this, she spoke up when she needed to.

Ulyana sighed. These two weren’t necessarily ill intentioned– just difficult.

Difficult girls whose history Ulyana was not allowed to know.

For the first time Ulyana felt that it would be difficult to make friends here.

She had to be the boss, rather than the inspirational figure or the ship dad.

“You misjudged me as well, Illya Rostova. In that situation, I would not have abandoned Zachikova. Our mission has paramount importance, of course– but I need my crew to complete my mission. I need Zachikova, you, and Valeriya. More than that– I am responsible for you. It would take the most dire circumstances for me to abandon you.”

For the first time, Valeriya briefly glanced at Ulyana directly.

“It’s my responsibility– what we did.” Illya said, raising her voice as if hoping to center all attention on herself. Meeting Ulyana’s eyes while reaching out a hand and gripping Valeriya’s shoulder to comfort her. “When I’m wrong, I’m wrong. I own up to it. You’re partially right, Ulyana Korabiskaya. I do not know you as a Captain. So I would rather break a few plates, and be yelled at, and learn my lesson, than lose my chance. So I went out and brought back Zachikova. Because she was a comrade– and friend. So I just broke the plates.”

“Does this mean henceforth you will correct your behavior?” Aaliyah asked.

“Yes.” Illya said. “Next time this happens, I’ll follow protocol and trust you.”

“We’ve been pretty speedy decision-makers when it has mattered. We could have avoided a lot of trouble.” Ulyana said. “Anyway. Let me be clear about where we stand. You are all valuable members of my crew. I have decided to punish you, and the punishment has been decided too. But I will expect both of you to continue doing your jobs, and to perform with excellence. I expect you to follow orders. You want those guns out of their lockers, you request it from the Chief. You have a situation, you report it to me or to the Commissar– or hell, even Murati! We just can’t afford to be completely in the dark. You had that scuffle with Ahwalia, and now this. You will learn to cooperate with others properly. That is the only thing you are missing. You must recognize that you are part of my team. Understood?”

“Yes, Captain.” Illya said. “I intended no disrespect. I am not trying to subvert command.”

“Good. And while you intended no disrespect, you disrespected me nonetheless.”

“I apologize, Captain. I will do whatever it takes to rectify the situation.”

“Just do your job. Do it right. Look at Klara and Lian for examples.”

Illya seemed to bristle ever so slightly at that suggestion, but said nothing more.

Maybe she was a good girl after all.

Ulyana turned to Valeriya and spoke to her directly.

In that instant Illya looked more alarmed for a moment.

“You care about Illya quite deeply. But don’t just do whatever she tells you. I want you to be able to exercise your own judgment and rein her in if you must. Are we clear?”

Valeriya nodded her head quietly. It was difficult to be firm with her.

“Good. You two have demonstrated a lot of skill– I will be needing you. So shape up!”

The Captain turned her attention back to Illya and smiled.

“Now, let bygones be bygones, agree to do better next time– and accept your punishment.”

From a corner of the Akulantova, who also had a grin on her face, picked up a box.

She dropped the box in the middle of the table between Illya and Ulyana and chuckled.

“You are all cordially invited to café Last Resort Rations. Three meals a day, two weeks.”

Ulyana opened the plastic box to unveil several compressed bricks of food vacuum packed in transparent wrappers. Each of them had a sticker with the packing date, fall-off date and the name of the item. She held up one which was a muddy dark color and had specks of green within it. It was evident through the packaging that the brick was dense and crumbly.

“Look! Soy sauce cabbage congee! Amazing!” Ulyana said, putting on a sadistic smile.

Aaliyah picked one up and showed it off with the exact same expression as Ulyana.

“And here we have red rice with beans and peppers. Scrumptious.” Aaliyah said.

“But we’re not monsters here. You’ll also have water from your rooms, and one of these.”

Ulyana produced from the ration box a tiny two-piece alcohol stove, a pack of fuel tablets for the portable stove and a little steel cup. An entire portable mess kit for survival use.

“You can bite straight into the food bar, or you can dissolve the contents into a little stew.”

“Three a day.” Aaliyah added. “We will be checking in on you to make sure you eat them. If you even as much as look at Minardo’s cooking we have some creative ideas to make this worse, so it’s best to steel yourselves for it now. While you eat, think about what you’ve done and the social contract for being on this ship. I don’t care how classified or not the two of you are; you’re under the Captain’s command and my supervision. End of story.”

Enjoying herself far too much, Ulyana pulled out a third bar and waved it gleefully.

“Straight out of our old homeland: buckwheat with mushrooms and algae!”

Aaliyah followed her, producing a fourth block. “Homestyle tofu rice with green onion.”

“I get it, I get it.” Illya said. “We’ll eat out of the box and be good girls from now on.”

Valeriya nodded her head alongside Illya.

Even she looked a bit more amused than before at the nature of the punishment.

“Did you think we were going to vent you of an airlock?” Ulyana asked.

“No, more like shoot me in front of the crew as an example.” Illya said.

“We’re not putting that entirely off the table on a repeat offense.” Aaliyah replied.

Now it was Ulyana’s turn to look momentarily shocked at her Commissar’s aggression.

Off to the side of the table, Akulantova made a face and averted her eyes.

Illya and Valeriya looked completely unphased by the comment.

“Well– I suppose that is most of what needed to be said on this topic.” Ulyana said trying to fill in the sudden silence, and wanting to move on to her next meeting. “Illya and Valeriya; we will be monitoring you more closely from now on. I want us to have a better relationship. My style of leadership is that I want to trust that everyone working for me is an adult with an ethical compass who can do their job correctly and communicate well. I am grateful that you were able to bring Zachikova and Arabella back safely. But you have shaken my trust in you — needlessly — and it will need to be rebuilt. But I want to believe in you two.”

Illya nodded her head. “Acknowledged. I will endeavor toward excellence, Captain.”

“See that you do.” Ulyana said. “Is there anything more you want to tell me?”

“Actually, there is, Captain. There is something you can do for me.”

Ulyana awaited for Illya to explain– instead she got up from her chair.

Akulantova stiffened up– Aaliyah was about to shout for her to sit until dismissed–

But everyone quieted when Illya kneeled beside Valeriya, taking her hand.

“Valeriya Peterburg, will you marry me?”

In that moment, Valeriya’s eyes drew wider open than Ulyana had ever seen them.

She was rendered perhaps more speechless than usual.

“I want to take care of you forever. I never want to leave your side.” Illya continued. “So much has happened to you for following me all of this time. For every one of my horrid decisions, you have supported me. At my every lowest point, you have been forced to watch me struggle to stand. Whenever I falter, you are forced to save me. When we were in the middle of a firefight again, I trusted you with my life, but I was– I was so deeply afraid for yours. I can’t pretend like this will make up for everything, but it’s a real commitment I can make to you right now. I want to spend the rest of my life treating you like a queen, Valeriya.”

Aaliyah and Ulyana stared in mute surprise. They glanced at each other helplessly.

Valeriya lifted her hand from over her mouth– she was smiling, a little bit.

“Y-Yes. Thank you.” She whimpered, her voice lower than ever.

Her eyes glinted with a hint of tears. But she was smiling, happier than ever.

From her kneeling position, Illya turned to face the others.

“As soon as possible I want this to be completely official. The Commissar is a communist party official, so she can notarize; and the Captain and Akulantova are our two witnesses. We have cohabitated for years. I want to marry her. You don’t have to put me on any lists for bigger rooms or whatever the fuck– just fill out the form for us. Please.”

Illya sounded far more serious than she had been during the entire conversation before.

This meant even more to her than her life, Ulyana thought.

These two– they really were very difficult women. But very tender too.

Aaliyah sighed. “I’ll add your paperwork to my unending list of things that need doing.”

“Thank you, Commissar, Captain, Chief.” Illya said. “Truly. Thank you for everything.”

“You two are always the biggest pain in my ass.” Akulantova said. “Congratulations.”

“Congratulations.” Ulyana said, helpless to add anything more substantial.

“Congratulations.” Aaliyah added in a monotone voice.

All of the reluctance in the world had taken residence in her. She was nearly shaking.

Regardless, there was a confession and everyone accepted it.

Illya and Valeriya stood up, and Valeriya threw her arms around Illya without hesitation.

In return, Illya kissed her with her own unreserved passion, the audience be damned.

Neither of them stretched out the scene any further. After the kiss, they were dismissed.

Illya took the box of rations and carried it, beside an uncharacteristically smiley Valeriya.

Akulantova watched them go with a critical expression, jaw twitching with irritation.

And so concluded that piece of business.

“Well,” Ulyana said, “Never knew this whole mess would end in a wedding. Fun, huh?”

Aaliyah stared sidelong at Ulyana, frowning, her arms crossed, seated back on her chair.

“Personally, I must express disapproval. But administratively, I will comply.” She said.

Ulyana laid a hand on her shoulder with a smile. “That’s our charming Commissar.”

“Hmph.” Aaliyah’s ears folded, but she did not shake Ulyana’s hand off her shoulder.


Another meeting room door opened in the wake of the Captain and Commissar.

Seated across the table from Arabella and Zachikova this time. Both of them out of their hospital beds and back in uniform. Arabella had been retrieved with some truly grisly wounds, and had recovered exceptionally. However, ever since she was brought aboard she had refused to take on any color in her skin or hair. A pale girl with completely white hair and pale eyes, even the once flush and vascular tips of her horns were stark white.

Meanwhile Zachikova was still quite herself, but she was nursing a serious injury to her leg and sat on a wheelchair during the meeting. For once she had an emotion on her face.

She looked nervous.

As soon as Ulyana and Aaliyah took their seats across the table, Arabella bowed her head.

She bowed so low that her hair covered her face. Aaliyah sighed.

They heard her sob but could not see her tears.

“I apologize for the danger I brought upon all of you. I am so deeply sorry.” Arabella said.

Zachikova remained quiet, her hands on her lap with the fingers curled into fists.

“We are still almost completely in the dark about what this danger was,” Aaliyah said, “and about your role in it,” she then turned to face Zachikova, “and why you snuck out to go after her without telling anybody. More than punishing anyone, we need to understand the circumstances. We can leave some things to a report, but I want a motive.”

Zachikova raised her eyes from the table and met Aaliyah and Ulyana’s gazes.

“She went missing and I had a feeling she was in danger. So I went after her.” She said.

“When a crew member goes missing, Braya Zachikova, we form a rescue party, and then we know where everyone is, what they are doing, and we can coordinate them. When we work together we have a much higher chance of bringing everyone back safely!”

“I had an emotional response.” Zachikova said. Averting her eyes.

“It’s not that I can’t sympathize with that. We are all emotional on this ship.” Ulyana said, entering the discussion. “But when another crew member’s life is on the line, we need to temper our emotions with rationality. We can’t act on pure impulse. There is always enough time to make sure the crew knows what you are doing and can back you up. Zachikova, the way you decided to do this could have jeopardized your life, that of Arabella, and Illya and Valeriya, who also went after you in secret. You could have all died without us ever knowing where you were, or what had happened to you. Akulantova had to run out to find you! You should thank her for your lives. We can’t allow this to repeat ever again.”

Zachikova paused to think for a moment.

But even she seemed frustrated with her own response when next she spoke.

“I understand perfectly well. It’s not like me– but Arabella isn’t like anyone else to me.”

“It was my fault.” Arabella interrupted. “Please do not chastise Braya.”

“I must chastise her.” Ulyana said. “Because she knows better than to have done this.”

“I know– but what I mean is, I called out to her in a panic. I called out to her to save me.”

“You’re talking about psionics, aren’t you?” Ulyana said.

Betraying a sudden weariness.

Arabella nodded her head. Aaliyah narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms.

“Zachikova heard my psionic screaming. That’s the reason she came after me.” Arabella said.

“You don’t have to make excuses for me. I made my own decision.” Zachikova said.

“Let her talk.” Ulyana said. “Arabella. Why did you run away in the first place?”

Arabella looked utterly defeated as she spoke.

They could barely see her face and she was weeping.

“When you came back from your meetings with the United Front groups, I caught the scent on you– the scent of some awful people of my own kind. They are known as Enforcers of the Syzygy. They are brutal and they disdain hominins. I was terrified that they were plotting to trick you and kill everyone here. I felt that I needed to go after them– that only I could do it– in order to protect Braya and all of you. I prepared for a few days by gathering my old memories and then I escaped to go after them. Perhaps it was also the hunger– pushing me into conflict with them. But ultimately, I did what I did. It was reckless and useless. I did enormous damage to my mind and body, and betrayed your trust, for nothing.”

“Have we really just not engendered any trust in you all?” Ulyana said sternly.

Somehow, she felt more saddened that nobody reported to her when they were in need.

Perhaps because that was something easier to grasp than the rest.

“You caught the scent of your kind on us?” Aaliyah asked. “So we met with Omenseers?”

Arabella nodded her head.

“So these Enforcers you mentioned– we can rule out Erika and her troops, or Arabella would have made her scene on the ship rather than vacated it. We can also rule out the demsocs, since Gloria was not physically present but Orlan is on the ship and getting along–” Ulyana felt her heart beat faster. She recalled the strange behavior of the anarchists, utterly false in their ideology and confessing that they believed some bizarre theories.

“It was Zozia and Ksenia then.” She finally said. The Imbrium was cruel indeed.

“I might be able to describe their hominin likenesses for you.” Arabella said.

“So you were not successful in eliminating them.” Aaliyah said.

“I’m afraid not.” Arabella said. “They almost killed me. I wasn’t strong enough.”

“Then we’ll be running into them again at Aachen.” Ulyana said gravely.

Aaliyah’s tail stood up straight. “We need more info– how do we even respond to this?”

“Arabella, are you okay with telling us all of this? You don’t have to do this.”

Zachikova spoke up in defense of Arabella. Aaliyah shot her a furious look.

Ulyana laid her hand on Aaliyah’s shoulder and shook her head to stop her going further.

“Zachikova. Arabella saved our lives back at Goryk. We deferred prying into her affairs back then. But now we need more information. We are not doing this out of convenience– if we want to protect her from her enemies, who clearly meant her harm, then she has to work with us. She can’t keep going around behind our backs anymore. Do you understand?”

In response, Zachikova quieted and averted her gaze. Arabella held her hand briefly.

“It’s okay, Braya.” Arabella said. She put on a brave face.

Facing an Ulyana trying her damnedest to smile, and Aaliyah’s fiercely skeptical eyes.

Arabella began to speak, and she told Ulyana and Aaliyah something new.

“My name is Arabella– it is what I was originally called. Arbitrator I– that was something my sister made up. Her name was Caderis– now Arbitrator II.” Arabella began. Then her tone grew impassioned, and the things she said made both Aaliyah and Ulyana stare fixedly. “My sister and I were created as weapons. Biological weapons. By people up there.” She pointed at the ceiling. She clearly meant the surface. Ulyana and Aaliyah followed where her finger pointed with wide-eyed confusion. “They used DNA from the original Omenseers to make us. We were meant to be extremely adaptable weapons that could be used to control the hominins. Hominins were more scared than ever, and fighting each other, and the world was in a truly horrid shape. When I was born, the sky was already purple. ‘Biomechanoids’– as they called us– did not need fuel or munitions, and we could repair ourselves– and we derived our fighting energy from the most abundant resource left in the world. Expendable, infinitely replaceable hominins. We could kill them, eat them, and then kill more.”

Ulyana could hardly believe what she was hearing. She did not know how she could reply.

Or at least, that was her snap reaction.

After a few moments she realized the world had been overturned and made a farce in front of her eyes so many times already. She could believe almost anything after she overcame her initial shock. Then again– judging by Homa’s reaction, to her, communism was as incomprehensible as the idea of talking to a surface world bioweapon. So perhaps musing on the weirdness of the particulars here was nothing but good old human emotion.

Aaliyah did not raise her voice to interrupt either.

She had her arms crossed, she had her eyes to the table. Mulling over as Arabella spoke.

Hearing no interruptions, Arabella caught her breath, continued– but quickly deteriorated.

“I wish I could tell you more– about my self or Caderis or the original ancient peoples. I wasn’t lying when I said it takes me some time to remember my memories. I’m sorry. It’s because I’m not a real person– I believe you are all real people, and I’m a fake person. Back then– the hominins came up with the idea that there were ‘Genuine Human Beings’ who had to survive. But I’m not one of those– because Genuine Human Beings have a normal brain, and they have a soul too and God loves them. I’m a ‘Biomechanoid’– I’m only conscious because of a DNA computer inside me. Not because I’m a person. And–” Arabella grew more distraught as she spoke. Zachikova started to look at her with clear distress. But she also did not interrupt. She seemed as shocked as everyone else. Arabella looked like she had to make a physical effort to control her stuttering and complete her sentences again. “I know it must sound dumb, and I’m really sorry! But I broke the computer! I wanted to get all of the data blocks out of it and read them again but I was careless and now I can’t remember half the things I should know anymore. Back then– I put them all away, because I was scared of everything and I wanted to run away! But then when I wanted to be brave all of the blocks are broken and I cannot read them now! I’m really sorry! Now I’m useless to everyone!”

“Arabella, please calm down!” Ulyana said. She reached out and held both of Arabella’s hands in her own, giving her knuckles a gentle squeeze with her thumbs. “It may be cold comfort to you– you have experienced things we can’t possibly imagine– but I believe you are a human being! Humanity is more than just your biology. You’re human to me– I care about you.”

Hands smashed down on the table from beside Arabella.

“And it doesn’t matter if she isn’t a human being!” Zachikova said suddenly. Angrier and more emotional than she ever had been. She stole one of Arabella’s hands from Ulyana and held it herself. Arabella turned to look at her, Zachikova with her cybernetic eyes that still wept, her brain implants and her antennae-like ears. “Humans aren’t the only things worthy of existing in the world and having their lives respected! I know– I know what it is like to not feel human. Arabella, you don’t have to be ‘a person’– you’re important to me! To hell with the computer too! You’re more than the data some bastards left behind! I don’t care about it!”

“Braya–” Arabella’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry– I broke it– I’m–”

“I told you before. I need you. You’re not useless– never say that again. Never.”

Zachikova squeezed her hand.

Arabella shut her eyes and smiled. She took in a deep breath.

“Thank you. I won’t say it again Braya. I won’t say it again. I’m so sorry.”

Both of them wept and held each other’s hands and fixed their gazes.

Intertwining fingers, tearful smiles.

Ulyana could have almost cried herself.

Zachikova had changed a good bit since the Brigand had set out too.

She had found the person who, in the entire ocean, brought out her warmest feelings.

“Arabella, we’re not here to torture an innocent girl for information.” Aaliyah said, piercing the silence that had befallen the room as the lovers comforted each other. Ulyana could see that it was taking her some effort to hold her own passions in the midst of all of this emotion. “I can understand that with the trauma and injury you’ve suffered, which would have killed any ordinary person, you are unable to recall what has– apparently– been an incredibly long life’s worth of complicated information. I’m not going to insist on wringing your memories out of your mind. The Captain is correct– before we are military officers, we are communists. For now, try not to stress out over your lost memories.”

Arabella looked from Zachikova over to Aaliyah and wiped her tears.

Her eyes shut–

and in an instant, her skin flushed, turning a light brown with a slight pinkness.

Color surged across her skin like a time-lapse of a flower blooming. Her hair became dark purple-blue, shrunk to back-length, with somewhat disorderly bangs. When she reopened her eyes they had become blue and purple as well. Her horns glowed with thin purple veins. She gave off a very different kind of presence. No longer slouching and defeated.

As her lover had found her warmest feelings; Arabella found her colors again.

Zachikova stared speechless at the rapid transformation, still holding Arabella’s hand.

Arabella squeezed that hand with a fond expression on her face.

She suddenly looked much more like herself.

“Thank you, Commissar, Captain. I’ve been a lot of trouble, but– I won’t run away again. I promise. Even if my brain is more scrambled than ever, I know what is important.” Arabella said. Her tone started wistful but slowly became firmer again. “You are all so incredibly kind to me. I feel ashamed of what has happened. I will take responsibility for myself. I want to protect Braya. I want to protect her friends too. I will do whatever you say, Captain.”

“Arabella– you don’t have to–” Zachikova began to speak, but Ulyana interrupted.

“You’re not going to reject her determination, are you? She’s trying to move forward.”

Ulyana smiled. Zachikova narrowed her eyes and grunted but then quieted.

She averted her gaze but then found herself looking at Arabella, who was also smiling.

Zachikova seemed trapped between the two of them and bodily relented.

“Fine. I’ll be there every moment, anyway, so I needn’t worry.”

“You really are getting emotional huh?” Aaliyah interjected teasingly.

“We’re not treating her like equipment.” Ulyana said. Also teasing the self-described ‘robot’.

“Captain, you know how I feel about that already, so please just drop it.” Zachikova said.

“Alright, alright.” Ulyana said, smiling.

Aaliyah crossed her arms and stared at the table, shaking her head.

“I was already planning on doing so, but we need to have Maharapratham look at her.”

“Maharapratham?” Arabella said. “That’s the mushroom lady right?”

“She would be so upset at you calling her the mushroom lady.” Ulyana said, amused.

“She’s our resident scientist and lab technician.” Aaliyah said sternly. “She was supposedly a wunderkind at the academy– even has two degrees supposedly. Recent events got me thinking that with Arabella’s cooperation and consent, Maharapratham might be able to learn more about Arabella’s kind through lab tests. I think it is worth trying.”

Ulyana stared at Zachikova expecting an overprotective comment in response.

But Arabella also turned to Zachikova after hearing Aaliyah’s suggestion, smiling brightly.

The attention of the two women caused Zachikova to wither, silently disgruntled.

“Braya, would you be okay with your mate becoming a science experiment again?”

Arabella smiled again in the silly way she once used to address the world around her.

As if to remind everyone that this purple-haired, darker-skinned version was still herself.

“Do what you want.” Zachikova grunted. “But I want to be included in the project too.”

“It’s settled then. I’ll inform Maharapratham. It’ll have to be later– I’ll have to catch her up on all of this.” Aaliyah said, gesturing around herself. “In the mean, Zachikova, you will assist in gathering Arabella’s testimony. Compile all intelligence about the Kreuzung Omenseers into a detailed report. That way when we get to Aachen we can more easily disseminate information to the Volksarmee about the fake anarchists to keep everyone safe.”

“Sounds good. Just one more agenda item on the unending pile.” Ulyana sighed.

“Don’t forget we’re also punishing them.” Aaliyah said. “Go on and punish them, Captain.”

“Punishing us?” Zachikova said, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh that’s right! I almost forgot. You’re going to eat nasty food for a week.” Ulyana said.

Ulyana got up from the meeting room table, ready to show the pair a packaged ration–

“Whatever. I don’t care. I’m not even sure if Arabella can taste food normally anyway.”

Zachikova deflated the performance before Ulyana could even put down the ration box.

“I’ll eat anything for Braya! No matter how gross! She was going to eat a man for me!”

Arabella called out in solidarity. Zachikova flinched and stared daggers at her in turn.

Out of surprise and consternation, Ulyana dropped the ration box on the table with a thud.

“Wait! She was going to do what?! Back up! Say that again?!” Aaliyah shouted.

Ulyana felt her poor pitiable heart start banging up a storm again inside of her chest.

“Let’s– Let’s just leave that– for the official report Zachikova will be writing for us.”

“No–” Aaliyah said, her voice sounding distant and distraught. “I need to know now.”

“I’d– I’d really rather not today. I’d really rather just read about it later.” Ulyana said.

Aaliyah and Ulyana gave each other the most haunted gazes they had ever shared.

“It better be in the report.” Aaliyah said, staring at Zachikova. “It better be in the report.”

“God damn it.” Zachikova grit her teeth. “I didn’t eat anyone. I was trying to feed her.”

Realizing too late what she had just said, Zachikova suddenly shrank further in her chair.

Arabella was all smiles, as if the atmosphere in the room had not become a thunder cloud.

“It better in the report.” Aaliyah said again, dangerously. “I’ll be– displeased– if it isn’t.”

Ulyana, similarly shaken by what she had heard insinuated, supported the Commissar.

“You better write an entire novel explaining what happened in grotesque detail.” She said.

“I’ll type everything up. I’m really sorry.” Zachikova said. “You’ll know everything.”

“Two weeks eating the bricks.” Aaliyah said suddenly, raising her fingers in a V-shape. “Don’t even think about going near the cafeteria. Or I’ll make you wish you were a cannibal.”

“Yes ma’am.” Zachikova said. She had never sounded so compliant as she did right then.

In Ulyana’s eyes everything was a surreal blur and in her ears words rang distant.

Zachikova and Arabella were ultimately ushered out of the meeting room by Akulantova.

While Ulyana and Aaliyah stayed, staring at the metal table surface and middle distance.

“Well. I guess– actually, is there even something in the regulations about–?”

“Please, Ulyana. Just. Please.” Aaliyah put her head down on the table.

Ulyana reached to stroke her ears gently.

They stayed together for fifteen minutes, sighing, before the next meeting.


Euphrates waved with a sunny smile as if she had not a care in the world.

“So compared to the rest of your day, how easy do you think this one will be?”

“Don’t even joke about it. If I wasn’t the Captain I’d call in sick tomorrow.”

Ulyana and Aaliyah wearily sat down in an even smaller room than before with even more people than ever. It was their most familiar meeting room yet. Because it was the room they worked out of the most, during their stay in Kreuzung. While the two of them looked quite worse for wear, the rest of the participants seemed quite fresh. Euphrates in her spiffy sportcoat, her shoulder length messy blue hair having just barely met one more comb than usual; Tigris in brown overalls and a long-sleeved white shirt, her red hair tied into a long ponytail, without a drop of grease on her; Erika Kairos, sharp as ever, her coat and business attire pristine and her smoke-blue hair silky and shiny; her companion Olga, her feet up on the desk, wearing a black hoodie and long, tough pants, her white hair collected into a ponytail framed by her horns; and Murati Nakara in a uniform worn perfectly, shoulder-length hair disorderly, having grown out a bit since the start of their journey.

“Wait, who has the bridge right now?” Aaliyah asked.

“Kalika is up there, don’t worry.” Erika said. “Homa Baumann is sleeping.”

She added the last detail with a little grin.

“She’s really taken to that kid huh? I didn’t know she could be so nice.” Olga replied.

“She can be a bit tetchy about politics, but she’s not heartless.” Erika said.

Once everyone was gathered and seated, Ulyana and Aaliyah took a moment to compose themselves before diving into the meeting’s topics. Since Ulyana felt she would leave any meeting with Arabella having more questions in mind than answers in her pocket, she had requested that Euphrates and Tigris meet with her directly afterward for a session to discuss the session. Euphrates was amenable to more discussion surrounding the Omenseers and suggested they also review what Murati had learned about psionics so far.

“We now convene the second ‘Meeting to Discuss Weird Stuff.’” Ulyana said.

“Take it seriously.” Aaliyah sighed.

“How should we begin?” Euphrates asked. “Anything on your mind, Captain?”

There was so much on her mind it was hard to narrow it down. “By any chance, are you familiar with DNA-based computers?” Ulyana asked. “We just got done talking to Arabella and she claims her consciousness is in the form of a computer inside her that is now broken, so her amnesia won’t recover. I’m inclined to believe her– if she meant us harm, she would have caused her ruckus inside of the ship rather than sneaking out. But does that mean every ‘Omenseer’ is also some kind of flesh computer? Can her ‘data’ be recovered?”

“Tigris, any ideas?” Euphrates said suddenly, smiling at her companion.

Tigris had her arms crossed and her head down and looked surprised to be addressed.

“Why the hell are you asking me? I work with machines not with meat.”

Euphrates shrugged comically. “There you are, Captain. I’m afraid it’s beyond us.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know anything! Idiot! You agreed to this meeting!”

Erika raised her hand as if in a classroom.

Ulyana was surprised to see her interject. Having access to the Brigand’s classified operational data for a few days already, Erika knew at least as much about Omenseers and psionics as they did. She had been included in the meeting on a purely informational capacity– their political leader should just be aware of these ‘classified’ subjects. There was no expectation she would have information of her own to share about the situation.

Instead the Premier smiled mischeviously once she was given the room.

“I am here to make an important disclosure– which is why I brought Olga.” Erika said.

“I’m an Omenseer.” Olga said suddenly, crossing her arms and averting her gaze.

Everyone else in the room turned reflexively to stare at Erika and Olga.

“What? You’re not going to be nervous around me now, are you?” Olga grumbled.

“She won’t bite.” Erika said, calm and affable.

“C’mon, don’t put it like that.” Olga replied, further annoyed.

“Well, it looks like my work here is done.” Euphrates replied, shrugging again.

“No it’s not! You’re going to talk if they ask you something, you clown!” Tigris shouted.

“Time out!” Aaliyah said, forming a ‘T’ with her hands. “We need to speak in turn!”

“Premier,” Ulyana started, still grasping for what to say, “How did–?”

“Much as with you and Arabella, my dear Olga stumbled into my life a mystery. Over time I slowly unraveled a few parts.” Erika replied, remaining calm and amused despite the attention. “But I have never needed to know more than what she wishes to tell me. I have never demanded any more. She has never intentionally hurt me. I trust her more than I trust any other person in the world. So I will request that you do not try to force any information from her– or from Arabella either. Regardless, she and I are at your disposal.”

“It’s about time to tell the bits I know.” Olga said. She sighed again. “Look, Arabella is not incorrect in what she told you. She might not be able to recover some of her memories again. Omenseers’ heads work differently than those of ordinary people. Think of it like having two sets of memories: there’s your everyday stuff, and there’s more tucked away somewhere. You kind of know it’s there, but ‘thinking’ about it is more complicated. I think that is what Arabella is talking about with ‘DNA computer’. In my head, I know it is called STEM.”

“Okay. So, are you going to tell me that yours is broken too?” Aaliyah asked.

Olga put her hands in the pockets of her hoodie. “Yeah. I am. Mine is incredibly fucked up by this point. See– the STEM stuff is in our bodies, right? I don’t know whether it’s DNA or what it is exactly. It’s inside this body, the data is stored in my flesh or organs somewhere, but it is different. Then– Well, Omenseers can shape our bodies into different forms. It’s called ‘biokinesis’. Doing that, we can recover from injury faster, or grow weapons. Look.”

She raised one hand out of her pocket and waved it in front of everyone.

Ulyana stared at her raised index and middle finger, which Olga pressed together.

Until they joined to become one combined digit that was sharper than before.

Then in the next instant, with seemingly great ease, she split the fingers apart again.

Perhaps a more dramatic version than what Arabella commonly did to her own body.

“Now think about the data that is stored in my body. I do not know where it actually is. I do not know how this STEM or whatever inside me works, I just know I have it and that if I think in a certain way I can try to access it. But it’s in this body that is constantly changing, getting fucked up, getting patched up– of course after a while the data has to be scrambled up some. So if I tried to access my STEM it would be like an insane dream.”

“Well. It’s a bit surreal to watch it in action, but it makes sense.” Ulyana said.

“I guess it does.” Aaliyah said, putting a hand on her forehead as if nursing an ache.

“Olga, how did you come to be an Omenseer? I still don’t understand that.” Murati asked.

“Before, Arabella told us she was a thousand-year old member of a ‘culture’ but now she is saying she was a surface-era biological weapon that was made from the DNA of– I assume– a member of that ancient culture. I am having a tough time squaring it.” Ulyana said.

“Huh?” Murati nearly shouted. “A bio-weapon? That’s– that’s incredible if it’s true!”

Her eyes had lit up like twin jewels with the excitement of discovering an ancient weapon.

Ulyana was torn between thinking it was cute and thinking it would be annoying.

“Don’t get too excited.” Olga replied. “I don’t know anything about that. It’s definitely not how I ended up here. But who knows– maybe Arabella is just special and different.”

“Don’t bother Arabella, Murati– or Homa Baumann, either.” Ulyana said.

“Wait– why Homa Baumann?” Murati looked suddenly helpless.

“Be quiet, Murati. It’s not your turn.” Aaliyah said, raising her voice.

Murati turned a downcast expression at her corner of the table.

Erika covered her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“Olga, can you tell them your story? I’d love to hear it too.” She said.

Olga met Erika’s eyes. Her stern expression melted in one softer and more relaxed.

When they looked at each other it was as if they were alone in the room.

Ulyana thought this was an opportunity for Erika too, not just the Brigand’s crew.

And that Olga was not resentful to have that opportunity.

“Damn it, you already know the important bits Erika. You’ll just be bored.” Olga ran her fingers through her hair and chuckled. “But fine. Whatever. Believe me if you want or not. But I was actually a Leviathan before. Weirdly, I remember what I looked like– I was thick and kind of blunt, all tail but with a horned head. That’s where these are from.” Olga poked at her horns. “Most of my life is a huge blur to me, but sometimes, I see it in my dreams– the ocean, being huge again. I feel like if my STEM worked it would have those memories.”

Not exactly coffee-table conversation, but everyone around the table kept quiet.

Ulyana looked at Aaliyah and found her screwing her face up and folding her ears.

Whenever she was met with something wild like this, she would physically resist it.

She was quiet, however. Quiet, and listening, and with eyes inquisitive.

Even if her face looked like she had just tasted soap.

“Omenseers now, are Leviathans that became human. Over time Leviathans just get more intelligent I guess. Honestly I barely remember when I changed, and what happened afterwards. I see it in my dreams and I want to believe it was true– that one day, I got sick of fighting for my life every single day like an animal. I discovered that I could be something less violent and less rapacious and I took the chance. But I don’t really know.”

“Being an Omenseer seems like a pretty psychedelic sort of experience.” Euphrates said.

“C’mon, I’m baring my soul here. If you think it’s useless I can just shut up.” Olga said.

“I think it’s lovely.” Erika said.

“I agree, and I can relate.” Euphrates said. “To knowing something only in dreams.”

“Well, maybe you ought to tell the room yours.” Olga said. “Anyway– one day, all my bulk was just gone, and I was like this. Floating in the ocean. Somehow I was not crushed by the water or eaten by a monster– but I was visited by something truly demonic. Arbitrator II.”

“The Autarch of the Syzygy.” Euphrates said.

“You’ve mentioned it before.” Ulyana said. “You and Tigris have history with this being.”

“We killed her. A long, long time ago.” Euphrates said. “The Sunlight Foundation briefly became interested in abyssal exploration, and to make a long story short, we came into contact with the Syzygy and it tempered our ambitions quite harshly. Arbitrator II confronted us personally as we began to dive more frequently and deeper, and we were forced to attack her. I can hardly claim that we succeeded. We never went that deep again.”

“So we’re dealing with an immortal cult leader here?” Ulyana asked, sighing.

“Olga,” Aaliyah said, “Are all Leviathans human, then? Can they all become like you?”

Ulyana felt her chest tighten– she had not put together this suggestion herself.

Certainly it matched everything they had learned so far.

After Goryk, Euphrates had referred to Omenseers as ‘humanoid Leviathans.’ Arabella had been a Leviathan once. Olga confirmed this was not necessarily anything special– there was, in front of them all, a second person who had once been a Leviathan. With this information, it was reasonable to believe that every Leviathan had the potential to become a person. And therefore, that perhaps all Leviathans were already humans, to some degree.

And, if Arabella was to be believed, that meant Leviathans were anthropogenic.

Perhaps they were made with that ‘original Omenseer’ DNA too.

Perhaps they were all bio-weapons.

Perhaps they were all humans.

To think then– that they had spent all this time killing them– no, it did not really matter.

Ulyana was a soldier. She had been killing humans already, in less complicated ways.

Whatever happened– there was simply no reasoning with a giant, dangerous animal.

Olga shrugged at the question that had shaken Ulyana so much.

“Yeah? I think so. I don’t know. I can only speak for myself.” She said simply.

“Olga, the Autarch found you– she did not make you into an Omenseer?” Euphrates asked.

“Right. Sometimes she just finds strays, like me. But I’ve also seen what she can do. She has troops go out looking for Leviathans with psionic potential. We captured them, and she would use psionics on them and have them shed their forms. That’s her preferred method of recruitment. I changed myself– but I do not know how many of us leave our leviathan forms naturally or how we are different from the ones Arbitrator II makes. Except for one detail. For the ones she changes she can brainwash. She could not brainwash me.”

Euphrates looked for the first time truly captivated by what Olga was saying.

“So she seeks out potential in Leviathans and baptizes them– interesting.”

Her jokey demeanor had faded slightly. But she did not follow up that statement.

“What does the Autarch want? What is this ‘Syzygy’ doing all of this for?” Aaliyah asked.

“I mean, like anyone, she wants control over people.” Olga said. “She wants control over humans. It makes sense when you think about it. Now, don’t freak out at this next bit, it’s annoying if you do– Omenseers feed on people. You guys knew that right? Arabella had to have had at least human blood or she would go crazy.” Olga scanned the room and saw Ulyana, Aaliyah and Murati making faces. She threw her hands up in frustration.

“I’ve been feeding Olga my blood. That’s one of the things we do in private.” Erika said.

“Premier– we did not need the clarification that you do more than that in private.”

Leave it to Aaliyah to be more offended at the insinuation of sex than the cannibalism.

“Quit gawking!” Olga said. “I’m really good at controlling myself and I have Erika. You don’t need to be fucking scared, okay? Anyway– you can put two and two together here right? If the Autarch can build up her army, she could basically start her own human farm and never have a worry in the world again. She needs to rule over the humans to eat them more easily. I’m not just painting a picture with the farm stuff either– she literally can capture humans and grow a kind of crop from them. Her own sick little garden in the abyss.”

“That’s– that’s actually– a lot more dangerous than we imagined.” Ulyana mumbled.

She could hardly even imagine it in full– she supposed ‘biokinesis’ was responsible.

Responsible– for turning a human into a sick little garden.

Aaliyah heaved a weary sigh. “Yes, that is disturbing, but I am not impressed with Omenseers yet. For example, if Akulantova is to be believed, she nearly punched one of those Syzygy fighters to death, and a small and well-trained spec ops squadron can fight it out with them and kill a good half-dozen. They are not yet ‘Imbrium-conquering’ level threats.”

“The rabble is not– the officer ones are a lot scarier, but there are not enough Enforcers to just overthrow humanity overnight. That’s why they are trying to sneak around and join a faction here, I guess.” Olga said. “I know the Enforcers are searching for something. But as a whole Syzygy are biding their time. Gathering intelligence, forces, and useful idiots. Just like you, I suppose– you’re in a little race with them for the Imbrium. Who will win?”

Olga leaned back and grinned to herself as if amused by the mental image.

“Obviously I intend to win that race.” Erika said. “And you will be at my side.”

“Of course. Between us, I’d love to rip out the Autarch’s throat myself.” Olga said.

“For a taste of your own kind?” Erika teased.

“Hey– shut up. I mean for justice or whatever.” Olga said, turning slightly redder.

“Somehow I doubt ripping her throat out will do much justice.” Euphrates said.

She sounded much more wistful than normal– but it was not followed up on.

“Then I suppose we can only do what we came here to do.”

Ulyana sat up straight and stretched her arms, feeling a bit sore from sitting tensely while she listened to all of this bizarre knowledge being shared. She tried to relax her muscles and to still her heart. There was only solution to this– they were just as prepared for the Syzygy right now as they were for the Volkisch. They did not know the total strength of their forces, they did not know their logistics, they had not found their bases or political supporters or the locations of their officers, and so they had no plan of attack. They could not allow themselves to be mystified by the more esoteric side of this situation.

They had to gather more intelligence and be prepared for a fight.

It was an uphill road, but the Volkisch controlled the government and the Syzygy did not.

Within the framework of the Imbrium, the Volkisch Movement was currently immortal.

To the layperson, they were just as mystical as this Autarch.

Just as powerful, indefatigable. Just as disturbing and cruel.

Nevertheless, the Brigand plotted to fight the Volkisch. It was an essential inevitability.

That was their mission. They had taken it up, knowing it was that difficult.

Nagavanshi pushed them hard. She was a damnably persistent recruiter.

But she had known that every single member of the crew would take up the challenge.

All of them were here because the impossible called to them, and they dared stare it down.

“At Aachen, next time I see Zozia, I’ll punch her right square in her jaw and see how her makeup holds up to it. I’ll scuff that well-to-do fuckboy coat she always wears.” Ulyana said.

“I know what you’re capable of– so I truly hope you are joking.” Aaliyah said.

“Sometimes I want to be the manly sort of Captain who pops off.” Ulyana said.

“Not that I mind popping off, but let us be delicate at Aachen, specifically.” Erika said.

“Of course, Premier. I would only pop off with your permission.” Ulyana said.

Her ridiculous declaration seemed to clear in the tension in the room just a little bit.

“Are you all satisfied or do you have more questions?” Olga asked, sounding annoyed.

“Is it too personal to ask how you and the Premier met?” Aaliyah said.

“It won’t elucidate anything about the Syzygy. That part is simple– the Autarch never had control over me because I was not an Omenseer that she made. So at one point, I got sick of being ‘Hunter I’ and I saw an opportunity to escape. I just ended up in Katarre after a lot of struggle that is pointless to recount. The rest is irrelevant. Hell– some part of me thinks the Autarch put no effort into stopping me either. She is not threatened by deserters.”

“Alright. Then–” Aaliyah turned to Erika. “Premier, are you psionically capable?”

Erika smiled. “Yes. I was going to disclose it when you were done with Olga.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Aaliyah said. “I was mainly wondering for your own safety.”

“I am not in Olga’s thrall.” Erika said. “If that is what concerned you.”

“I could not control this insane woman even if I tried with all my strength.” Olga said.

“Apologies. I rest my case.” Aaliyah said. “Anything more can be the subject of a report.”

“I am not offended. It is your job to consider every possible dangerous angle.” Erika said. “I quite like that about you, Commissar. To be clear, I knew much of what Olga had said– she said certain things to me, and now disclosed others to you. I wanted to be part of this meeting not just to play a perfunctory political role, but as a resource. Ultimately, however, Olga does not have encyclopedic knowledge that can answer existential questions about her origins and nature; anything she knows about the Syzygy’s tactics, I am sure she would willingly disclose in a report or some other official dissemination.”

“Right. I’m fine with that.” Olga said. “But there’s not much to say. There is regimentation like in a normal army. I was a ‘Hunter’ so my role was to move from the deep abyss up to the human world and carry out reconnaissance and retrieval missions. I hardly did much– I was not trusted, since the Autarch did not personally turn me. I joined her because I was lost and had nothing, and she and her Enforcer cronies were there to shelter me. Once I was grown a bit more into my new form and had my own thoughts, I wanted to escape. I do not know much about the other types of Omenseer beyond the surface level.”

“Do you have any ideas as to what Omenseer bases survive to this day?” Euphrates asked.

“Good point. You said they live in the deep abyss– so there was a Syzygy base at Goryk?”

Ulyana asked, recalling the rising of that enormous leviathan at Goryk, Dagon.

Arabella had told them back then that it was a Syzygy battleship.

They had not taken it seriously enough in the moment. Now it made much more sense.

“When I was part of Syzygy, I operated out of northwestern Veka.” Olga said.

“That is kind of close to the farthest Goryk aperture. Maybe they are linked.” Ulyana said.

“We’re just guessing. Nobody has an accurate abyssal topography.” Aaliyah replied.

“Not even among present company, I’m afraid.” Euphrates said.

“We wanted to try to do it someday– the Agni was partially for that.” Tigris added.

Breaking a long silence in which she had mainly crossed her arms and harrumphed a bit.

“Alright. Well. A lot of exciting reports going into the drafts today.” Ulyana said.

“We wanted to ask Murati how she was doing with psionics.” Aaliyah reminded her.

Murati, who had been mainly making faces quietly in her seat, suddenly revived.

Like a flower that had been splashed with water, she stood up straighter and more alert.

“Ma’am–”

Murati addressed the Captain but then paused without speaking further for a moment.

“Um– I guess I don’t actually have much to report. I’m still evaluating things.”

“Are you feeling hale and whole?” Erika asked in a sweet voice.

“I suppose so.” Murati replied. Clearly confused at Erika’s sunny, impromptu check-up.

“You’ve seen her handiwork recently, Captain.” Euphrates said. “She’s a fast learner.”

Euphrates looked pleased with herself. Probably as much genuinely as teasing Murati.

Ulyana knew that this ‘handiwork’, however, involved turning a Volkisch guard squadron into a mess of shattered bones and crushed organs on Alcor’s blacktop. This was something that a grenade could accomplish with much more control– and it was easier to teach anyone to throw such a grenade. While it had been undoubtedly helpful, Ulyana remained wary of psionic powers. She wondered how much use they actually could be.

Murati averted her eyes. “I have a little trouble controlling my own strength.”

“I will preempt the obvious question that the Captain and Commissar must be preoccupied with,” Tigris spoke up suddenly, “and say that no, I do not think the rest of the crew should be taught about psionics yet. Not until we figure out what’s going on with Murati.”

“There is nothing going on with me.” Murati said. “I just need more practice.”

“At any rate, we can’t consistently teach anyone else right now.” Tigris said.

“Murati, what about Shalikova?” Ulyana asked. “How is she doing?”

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that.” Euphrates interrupted. “Maryam will support her.”

Murati raised her index finger and then put it back down immediately.

“Maryam?” Ulyana said. “Is Maryam psionic too?”

Aaliyah’s ears perked up again.

“Who else is psionic around here?” Aaliyah cried out. “This is out of hand.”

“I’ll tell you what– I’ll write a report on everyone’s psionic potential on the ship.”

Euphrates smiled congenially despite the tension she had reignited in the room.

Aaliyah and Ulyana dropped back into their seats.

“Thank you, Euphrates.”

“Fine. Fine. Just fine.”

They were both clearly stressed to their limits by this conversation–

Until a firm voice spoke up from beside them and excised the disquiet.

“Captain, in situations like this, we must center rationality and ethicality in our response.” Erika said. Her tone was still gentle but she sounded much more declarative. This was the ‘Premier’ speaking now, Ulyana thought. Erika pointed a finger up and circled it as if to encompass the room. “You have used this rubric a few times in these conversations before– we have reasoned that the ‘guests’ aboard this vessel, like Arabella, or Maryam, have had ample chances to sabotage it, subvert your control, alert your enemies, or otherwise cause grave inconvenience. None of this has happened. There is no reason to believe that some kind of secret plot is brewing. I believe we should formalize that logic and establish a standard that a crew member in otherwise good standing, who is found to possess psionics, is not ipso facto a threat to the mission. In this way we can avoid circular debates about the loyalty of particular individuals, and in turn, avoid wasting time and resources.”

“You’re right. We shouldn’t keep stressing out about this.” Ulyana replied.

“Premier, that is a reasonable standard.” Aaliyah said. “While I am continuously surprised at how much esoteric information and concepts keep getting wrapped up in our humble guerilla mission, it is unproductive to become paranoid. However, I must insist on a different standard for Omenseers and psionic users other than our current roster. Any future psionics users that we meet, we must be wary of and more wary than normal.”

“I don’t disagree.” Erika said. “But also, I think we already have wonderful standards and procedures by which we gauge our trust in strangers. We must also have a view toward the utility of dealing with the Omenseers, including Syzygy, and psionics users like our friends Euphrates and Tigris. We must keep our goal in focus. In Eisental, the law is not written by this Autarch– we must seize every opportunity to inflict defeat on the Volkisch.”

“Duly noted.” Aaliyah said. She did not sound completely satisfied.

But she would follow orders. Both Ulyana and Aaliyah had thrown in their lot with Erika.

And Erika thankfully seemed to keep a clear head even in these bizarre situations.

“Anything further should be part of classified reports. We cannot trust that we will retain verbal information indefinitely and we all have other jobs that need doing.” Erika said. “Package every report and everyone in this room will commit to read them, request any further deliberation, and then rationalize a final version. Then we will be on the same page vis a vis Omenseers and psionics in the future. Does everyone agree?”

There was a hearty nodding of heads and a few salutes in the room. As always with some answers and ever more questions, the second ‘Meeting to Discuss Weird Stuff’ thus concluded. Ulyana tried not to let the sensationalism get the best of her.

Truly, however, the Imbrium Ocean was deeper than she had ever thought possible.


Erika and Olga left the meeting room and made their way back to the bridge. Despite all of the shouting and turmoil throughout the discussion, Erika was, in her heart, quite pleased with the events. She walked with a light step and was even humming a tune. Ulyana and Aaliyah had one more visit that day and would not join them, leaving the bridge to the Volksarmee officers for now; and even Murati had someone she needed to talk to.

Everyone was working hard.

“Erika, did that go how you wanted?” Olga asked.

“Nothing ever does, because my imagination is too extravagant.” Erika said. “But I have full confidence in our alliance. They have been thrust headlong into events of incredible magnitude, but retain their heart and spirit. They are like us. That satisfies me.”

“I can write up more in the report, I guess. It just feels kinda pointless.” Olga replied.

“If you don’t think it’s important to say something, I trust you completely.” Erika said.

“I know you do.” Olga said. She put her hands in her hoodie pockets, grunting. “Part of me just feels guilty I’m not wracking my brains to tell them every little thing, and I do wish I could access my STEM better, but like– they’re fighting a war, and what Omenseers eat or how my Nest used to look or whatever, that does not really help them out. My dreams about living under a big silver tree. All of that just feels pointless to say.”

“Dreams are important! But you’re right, they’re not militarily actionable.” Erika replied.

Some secrets hardly mattered to anyone; some secrets changed the world.

It was impossible to tell which was which to women with as many secrets as them.

Whenever Erika told anyone even an inkling of the secrets that she shouldered–

She expected bedlam to follow. Despite this, her load was now lightened.

Ulyana Korabiskaya and Aaliyah Bashara had already seen impossible sights, after all.

More so than psionics, the dream of liberation felt impossible until it was achieved.

Maybe in the future she would tell them about her own DNA.

“Olga, do you know ‘The Union Officer’s Pledge’?” Erika asked.

“No?” Olga replied, narrowing her eyes.

Erika put a hand to her chest and shut her eyes while reciting.

“I am an officer of the Union of Ferris, Lyser and Solstice. My rank is proof of the faith placed on me. I accept the responsibility of living up to my title, with honor; to serve the Union, with distinction; to acquire correct understandings, with humility; and thus to lead the downtrodden masses by example. I agree to live and die a worker, without a name.”

“That’s intense.” Olga said. “Do they all have to say that?”

“They all did– I found it in the ship’s files. It’s part of the commission process.”

Erika looked ahead.

She imagined everyone, from Murati Nakara to Ulyana Korabiskaya to Alex Geninov reciting this pledge. How did they feel? Did they know the power of their words?

All around her, she was surrounded by the people of the Union, just walking this hall.

That pledge was everything she wanted to be.

An impossible dream for a girl in the gutters killing to survive every day.

And yet, she saw it!

In their humble, everyday demeanor that they themselves never questioned.

In their minds, perhaps they did not think themselves communists, nor anything special. All of them took this pledge for their families or homeland. But to even be a communist, to accept it, to say it out loud, required immense bravery. All of the world told them they were insane, dangerous, even evil– but they fought on for those taboo ideals.

It was electric.

Her Rostock in formation with this ship full of quiet, impossible dreams.

She felt a bit embarrassed, but she wanted the Volksarmee to take the pledge too.

Without realizing it at first, Erika put on her sunniest smile yet.

“Psionics and Omensight both pale in comparison to the sheer power contained here.”

Olga smiled. “I am not sure that I agree with any of that, but I’m glad you’re happy.”

She was happy– she could see her dream in this place.

Arriving on the bridge, Kalika stood from the captain’s chair and greeted them.

“It’s been uneventful. The Rostock is alongside; operating normally.” She said.

“Glad to hear it. Olga and I can relieve you.” Erika said.

Kalika’s brow furrowed and she put her hands on her hips.

Erika could foretell the scolding.

“It’s not necessary.” Kalika said. “You’re the one who could use some rest, Premier.”

“Nonsense,” Erika replied. “I’m feeling spry and the coffee here is fantastic.”

“Olga, please tell her that she works too hard.” Kalika said.

Olga shrugged. “You can tell her all you want; when it comes to work, she won’t listen.”

Kalika shook her head and relented. “Alright, if you insist. I can go find something to do.”

Erika and Olga stepped aside and allowed a reluctant Kalika to leave the bridge.

“Order on bridge!” Olga called out. Imitating the Commissar; she was grinning in fact.

“We don’t need to be stuffy. At ease everyone!” Erika called out right after.

While the Brigand made its way through unoccupied territory, there was hardly anything for the bridge crew to do moment to moment. Over on Erika’s left, Natalia Semyonova had a deck of cards and was perhaps practicing some kind of divination or magic trick; Fatima al-Suhar read a book on a portable, still wearing the sonar station’s earbuds; Braya Zachikova was still only present as a cute miniature on the main screen. On her right, she saw that Alex Geninov and Fernanda Santapena-De La Rosa were discussing something about ‘shipping’ that Erika came to think was not logistics-related; and Abdulalim Kamarik looked over the ship’s autopilot every so often while listening to music on a communication headset. Or so Erika assumed from his casual body language. They all heard and acknowledged Olga’s declaration before returning to their hobbies. A rather homey atmosphere.

“Olga, I think they’ve earned a bit of peace, don’t you?” Erika said.

Olga shrugged. “Until we run into a patrol or something.”

Erika took seat in the captain’s chair, while Olga occupied the Commissar’s beside her.

“Semyonova,” Erika said, “could you message the Rostock and put Daphne on my screen?”

“Of course! Captain Triantafallos assured me she was at your disposal at all times.”

Semyonova cheerfully swiped her finger on the screen of her station to wake up the display.

Within moments, Erika had Daphne on the computer affixed to the captain’s chair.

“Premier!” Daphne saluted the screen. “I am elated beyond measure to see you!”

“I’m happy to see you too Daphne. How has the crew been?” Erika asked.

Daphne seemed quite pleased with herself as she answered. “Our cadres remain well supplied, amply motivated, and operationally efficient. Our consumption is controlled and we have not had any encounters. Magdeburg and Gera are presently lying low around Rhein-Sieg-Kries, awaiting orders. We can collect them on the way to Aachen if you desire, just say the word. Enemy activity remains low. Patrols are clustered around the Ayre border– their last order from Thurin was likely to guard against Palatine troops. We noticed the patrol fleet are avoiding Stralsund and the edge of Khaybar, so the east is open.”

“Unfortunately, that’s because of the Mycenae Military Commission. They simply do not want to cause a confrontation.” Erika replied. “So the east is still not open to us. Thank you for the report nevertheless, Daphne. I wanted to ask if you had collected any broadcasts from Kreuzung in the past few days. Some newly arrived tenants are likely to be our main concern going forward. The Brigand has been disconnected for a while.”

“As a matter of fact, we did capture a speech by the ‘newly-arrived tenants.’” Daphne said. “Kreuzung’s station broadcaster pushed it through every laser line and every channel carried it. They intended to make a nation-wide statement. In a matter of hours, northern Rhinea has been declared ‘Reichskommissariat Eisental’ and this Violet Lehner is now in charge of the place as its ‘Reichskommissar.’ No response yet from the Thurin Reichsgau.”

“We need to gather as much information as we can on this event. After Aachen we will have to make a pit stop in Trelleborg to see what the underground knows.” Erika said.

“Trelleborg?” Olga said. “The madwoman there wanted to bite you last time.”

Erika looked a little embarassed. “It will be fine Olga– nobody will bite me.”

“Nobody will bite the Premier on our watch, Olga.” Daphne replied, sounding deadly serious. “Premier, about the current tasks. Tomorrow we will begin work on operational integration between the Brigand and Rostock. It will be a tight few days. I am not sure we can complete all the necessary work before we reach Aachen. We have to sync the computers, rationalize supplies, set up recurring channels, appoint cadre liaisons–”

“Don’t worry, Daphne. Aachen is not the deadline.” Erika said. “Whatever you can get done during the journey is appreciated, but it will be an ongoing process to get everyone talking and working together. It will be gradual. I am not expecting it tomorrow.”

“Acknowledged, Premier. Your magnanimity is appreciated. Shall we reconvene later?”

“We should plan to meet. For now send me the video. I am curious about the rhetoric.”

“Of course. I look forward to shaking your hand and saluting in person, Premier!”

Daphne disappeared from the screen. In her place, a transfer bar appeared.

Once it completed, Erika played the video of the broadcast from Kreuzung.

The Rostock had captured the event in-progress.

Partway through an introduction by a state news anchor, who was cut from shortly after the video started. When the camera finally captured its intended subject, it was clear that Violet Lehner was settled into the old office of Kreuzung’s governor. Everyone in Eisental had seen the room used in broadcasts before, by old Werner. Now, rather than reflecting sky or grasses, the projection walls around the stately old desk projected instead red banners each with a central white circle. In one circle was a black sonnenrad, and on the other a diagonal hooked cross. Neither of these symbols were common to the government in Thurin, who preferred to identify with iron eagles, bundled arrows and straight, steel crosses.

Rather, the bannered symbols belonged to the ‘Esoteric Order’.

Within the broader Volkisch Movement, the Esoteric Order was not the most extreme nor the most niche group. Erika was aware of far smaller and far more violent elements. Esoterics were instead characterized by a greater radicalism. Ordinary right-wing elements sought to preserve or harken back to ‘better times’ in the past– to turn back the ‘progress’ of liberalism. The Esoteric Order had a complex transformative rhetoric. They believed in the new– they believed that Fascism was ‘modern’ and that through Fascism, a new mode of being could be discovered. Rather than harken back to the past, they believed the Nation was yet to be attained, that the ‘Volk’ had to struggle to be worthy of it. Their racial destiny was not in the past, but in the future. The Nation could not be moved to suit the fascist ubermensch; the fascist had to become ubermensch to suit the Nation. They did this through personal ritualization, religious mysticism, and bizarre nouveau racialism.

Erika had not been aware that the esoterics had an armed wing, however.

And that this armed wing was now personified by the woman with the long two-tone hair.

Violet Lehner sat behind the desk, in her black uniform, surrounded by esoteric symbols.

A lean, striking and pretty young woman with just a hint of exoticism to her appearance.

Her eyes had the slightest slant; her nose just a bit of hook; her skin tone just slightly deep.

To the most extreme elements of the Volkisch, she might’ve been too racialized in fact.

In the Esoteric Order, however, she was racialized enough.

As if Violet Lehner herself was an example of the all-encompassing Nation.

“Good greetings, citizens of Kreuzung, Stralsund, Rhein-Sieg-Kreis, Aachen, and many such places in the Eisental region– and to those watching from farther afield, perhaps! I appear before you today by way of introduction and to pledge my commitment to you. It is unlikely that many of you have seen or known much of me before recent events. Events that saw me thrust from a position of humble servitude in the backdrop of the Volkisch revolution, to the peak of Kreuzung in search of justice. My name is Violet Lehner. I am the only child of the Fuhrer Adam Lehner. My parentage has been heretofore a secret, albeit an open and unguarded one– I simply wished to forge my own path in life, and that is that.”

“By education, I am a laywer and a businesswoman. In my life, I have been a student, a shareholder, an advisor, a writer and in recent months, formally a military officer. It is with this eclectic character that I view the state of the Nation with anger and sorrow. Since the profligate Konstantin von Fueller saw fit to finally abandon the territories he had grown bored of plundering and toying with, and seek the retribution of the next world, our economies nearly collapsed, and we became surrounded by enemies.”

“We could have allayed the consequences of the Imperial collapse with decisive action, but the liberals and their committees and subcommittees hindered our response until death was at the doorstep. It is only through the brave actions of our National Socialist Navy and the Stabswache that we were able to deal with the saboteurs and meet the enemies; and only because of our swift and innovative Corporations that we forestalled material collapse. I am here following the examples that have been set. Eisental has suffered crisis after crisis, abetted by the remains of the liberals, by the saboteurs, and by the political-academic elites, who led the working men astray, sowed division within the Volk, allowed infiltration by foreign elements, and stifled and strangled our economic prospects.”

“No more will this be tolerated. Today begins a new era for Eisental. I and my forces have already arrested all of the criminal elements who had entrenched at the top of the tower; liquidated the foreign elements who went mad with bloodthirst and rampaged under Adolf Werner’s knowing eyes; and we will soon take all needed measures to restore the dignity of Eisental’s people and resume production of all the needed goods and materials to revitalize the economy, and pump blood back into our Volk and our Nation. We have stricken down the liberal elites and put men and women of sense in charge of everything.”

“Starting today, I have accepted the mandate of Reichskommissar of this territory, the Reichskommissariat Eisental, to oversee the return of order and the restoration of the Volk in this area and advance our shared cause. Eisental is the motherlode and breadbasket of Rhinea. Restoring Eisental to glory is to restore the Nation, which has been grievously wounded; and restoring the Volksgemeinschaft that has been splintered into a million pieces on spurious, ideological bases by the liberals. Starting today, you will recognize you are all Imbrians, and are all blood-siblings of the Nation. All of you are one.”

“Our task is monumental, and the stakes are high. We have everything set against us.” Reichskommissar Lehner raised her voice. That camera focused on the desk zoomed closer to her impassioned expression. Before she had spoken calmly, but she allowed greater fervor to bleed into her voice until it raised. “We are surrounded by charlatans who seek to plunder our wounded nation and erase the Volk! The victor shall always be the judge, and the vanquished the accused: we fight not just to exact justice, but to enshrine our struggle as the world’s truth! Should we fail, they will forever laugh at us for our toil. But we will prevail! Because unlike the liberals we have not turned our backs on the Nation!”

“Ethnicity, class, sex– these identitarian categories are part of an antiquated ideology that prevented us from achieving our shared Destiny. But I know the truth, the secret, that the liberal order wished for us to never seek; we are the one Volksgemeinschaft, one Imbria! Our Nation bleeds and cries out for all of us to save her! So we will unite under black sun and the wolfsangel! National Socialism gives us the path to our revolution! Our Nation calls us to action! We answer as one people, one struggle! All that matters is this: will you work? Will you fight? Will you answer her call? Those who turn their back on the call will be shunned by Destiny! They will be left behind to die with no one to save them! But to those who fight for Destiny’s favor we can say: you have all of the Volk behind you!”

“So come tomorrow, when you clock in to work, when you return to school, or when you pick your gun on patrol, or when you set sail for battle, think of this with seriousness. I am an Imbrian! What can I do to advance the Volk? What can I do for my Nation? Who are those around me that reject the Nation and seek to drive us back into squabble and misery? Who are those around me that will march alongside? All of you are the Nation! Your individual actions and decisions are what will make up the whole of our success! Kill the sniveling liberal in your brain who tells you that you the Nation is not worthy of you! By your actions, make yourself worth the glory of the Nation! Endsieg shall be yours!”

Violet stood up from her desk, and raised her right hand, from the shoulder, straightened.

“In your workplaces, in your places of worship, in your homes; you are one people with one united struggle! You all work toward fulfilling one immutable Destiny! You all work toward one Nation and will seize victory together! Stand proudly, and prove yourself worthy! Today begins your very own National People’s War! SIEG HEIL!”

Around her, the walls with the banners instead displayed several uniformed soldiers.

All of them were Shimii. Black uniforms, decorated in the same symbols on the banners.

And all of them hailed victory behind Violet Lehner with perfect precision.

Curiously, Erika noted, the victory salute was not followed by a salute to the Fuhrer.

As should have been customary: Sieg Heil, Heil Fuhrer. An omission rich in meaning.

“Violet Lehner is staking out for herself.” Erika said. “Her Nation will not include Thurin.”

“She’s a fucking lunatic.” Olga replied, peeking in over Erika’s shoulder.

Erika shut off the video and laid a hand on the screen as if she could make it disappear.

All of this was an opportunity– if they could seize it. If they were up to the task.

But the sight of Shimii soldiers doing the fascist salute was somewhat disquieting.

They were not the only ones fighting for the souls of Eisental’s dispossessed peoples.

Could Violet’s fascist subsumption of the will appeal to the broken masses of Imbria?

How many Shimii, Katarrans, and the Imbrian poor would be taken by this rhetoric?

Led astray by honeyed steel from a false savior, in the hour of their greatest desperation.

In that moment, Erika’s grand dream finally, truly met its nightmarish competing vision.

Past tragedies; present tensions; and the uncertain future all bled in front of her eyes.

Even in the quiet, empty ocean of middle Eisental, it could be felt–

the currents carried, along with Violet’s voice, and the cries of salute,

the brimming violence of the Nationale Volkskrieg.


Previous ~ Next

Mourners After The Revel [12.1]

In the beginning the world was silent and pitch black.

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

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

and with it there was light.

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

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

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

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

To her music, the figure began to dance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then there was no spotlight.

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

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

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


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

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

Then she realized what she was doing–

and felt so deeply pathetic she could have cried.

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

Her panic-addled sight came slowly into focus.

Homa Baumann bowed her head.

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

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

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

She felt a bit disgusted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that brought its own new agonies as well.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she could do it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Kreuzung everything cost money. Even existing cost money.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homa blinked. “Communists?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her thoughts started spinning again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in this situation–?

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

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

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

Sounds of heels clicking the floor, moving closer.

Loukia–? Just as she started to remember–

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

A Katarran woman, identifiable as such by two rectangular horns coming from the back of her head and framing a reddish-purple ponytail of shiny, silky-looking hair. Her skin was a matte pink, with a lighter shade of purple eyeshadow and lipstick than the color of her hair, and her beauty and style were as elegant as the art by which she applied those pigments. Her fashion was quite arresting as well, with a fancy steel-grey jacket worn over a button-down shirt, and a pencil skirt and tights. Her high heels could not be seen from Homa’s vantage but she could easily hear them, and in her mind, she had filled them in.

Homa had indeed met this woman before, and never imagined she would see her again. She had tried to assist in finding a prosthetics shop that used to be in Tower Seven. It was a somewhat embarrassing memory– Homa had been utterly crestfallen, coming home from a date with her ears folded and her head down. She then walked right into the lady.

Judging by the one black glove, she must have actually found some help.

“Fancy meeting you here, Homa Baumann.”

She waved elegantly with that one black-gloved hand.

It was so surprising– why would anyone remember her?

“Oh! I– wow–” Homa blinked hard as if disoriented. “I never thought–”

“Me either.” Said the woman. “But life’s little coincidences can sometimes be beautiful.”

Dr. Kappel smiled. “I don’t know the circumstances, but this is Kalika Loukia, Homa. After your surgery, she confided in me that she had met you before and was worried about you. I thought it would be helpful to have a friend here with a shared experience. She also had a traumatic injury requiring a prosthetic, so you can lean on her experiences for support.” 

While the Doctor spoke, Kalika removed her glove to show Homa her mechanical hand.

Homa vaguely remembered that Kalika’s old, broken arm used to have a syntheskin cover.

She wondered then if she, too, would just have bare metal limbs exposed at all times.

“Of course, this is only if you are comfortable with it. Feel free to say no.” Dr. Kappel said.

“Thank you. I’m– I’m okay with it. Thanks.” Homa was rather taken aback by Kalika’s appearance. Why was she on this ship; could it be that it was a mercenary ship that rescued her? She assumed that all Katarrans were mercenaries– Homa tried to push the detective-level thoughts into the back of her head, but the coincidences were staggering. She shook her head, and twitched her ears, trying to recover her sense and to speak without affect. “It– sorry– It looks like you were able to get your arm fixed. I’m like– I’m glad.”

No matter what, she was having trouble speaking.

Her thoughts as murky as the deep ocean.

“It was actually all thanks to you, kind stranger.” Kalika said. “I was standing on the verge of a nervous breakdown when you went out of your way to help me in Kreuzung. No one else would have bothered– I think it’s only right that I be your kind stranger now.”

Homa smiled. It was a bit wan. But– Kalika was nice. It was nice to see a smiling face.

Nothing else that had happened to her recently was this nice–

even if it was an exceedingly odd little coincidence.

“In my memory of it I just bumped into you and acted like an idiot.” Homa muttered.

“Are you trying to downplay being a nice girl? It won’t work on me.” Kalika said.

Dr. Kappel seemed pleased with their rapport.

“Homa, remember that you can always tell me anything or make any requests to me; but Kalika is– well, she is an employee of ours on this ship. I trust her, so you can trust her too.”

Kalika put a hand on her chest.

“I am a typical fixer.” She said, smiling. “I think it will help with the physio and all that to have someone who has experienced it before. Also, I think you ought to take her out of this stuffy room, and maybe give her a shower– you’re supposed to be on station, but I can do all that. Is it depressing being bedridden like this, Homa? Wouldn’t you like to ride around a bit?”

“Hey now– wait a second–”

Homa interrupted Dr. Kappel. “No offense, but it is a little depressing. I’d love to go out.”

“Well– she’s not so delicate she can’t go out, but–”

“Then it’s settled. Can we get a blanket and a wheelchair?” Kalika said.

Dr. Kappel looked between Homa and Kalika and looked a bit helpless herself for once.

“Fine, fine. Kalika’s right, I have other patients and you could use some cheering up.”

Kalika gave Homa a victorious little thumbs up.

Homa felt ever so slightly more elated than before. She wanted to look around.

“Have you ever been on a ship before, Homa?” Kalika asked.

“Not for years and years. I can’t really remember what it’s like.” Homa replied.

“It’s my habit to say ‘it’s not so different’ from living on a station– but Kreuzung is a bit more luxurious than here. It’s a Cruiser though; as sardine cans go, it’s spacious.” Kalika said.

Homa wanted to ask whether Kalika thought this was comforting– but suppressed the urge.

Perhaps this was just a Katarran’s sense of humor.

Dr. Kappel left their side for a moment and returned with a foldable wheelchair. She set it on the floor near Homa’s bed and stretched it out, locked in the plastic frame parts and made sure the arm and footrests were leveled correctly. Homa sat up and slid herself to the side of the bed and Dr. Kappel lowered the railing for her. But as much as she initially desired to do so, she could not get onto the chair by herself. Instead, Kalika soon picked Homa up without much effort and laid her gently on the seat. A synthetic blanket was then laid over Homa’s lap, covering her legs. She could pull it up to her chest with her good hand.

Behind her back, Homa felt Kalika’s hands take hold of the push handles.

Her ears twitched ever so slightly, as did her tail, at the proximity of her touch.

“Comfy? Ready to go?” Kalika asked.

“I’m fine enough.” Homa replied.

Kappel waved her hand at them and watched them leave the clinic.

As she was wheeled out, Homa noticed that there were several more beds in the clinic, and that several of them had other patients too. She could see through gaps in the green dividers set between each bed that they appeared occupied. It had been very quiet in the clinic, so she assumed she was alone all this time. She wondered whether they had rescued any more people– and how badly wounded they must have been to be so deathly quiet.

Dr. Kappel really was busy. Homa felt a bit ashamed about it.

She felt that a Doctor’s time and medical resources ought to have gone to anyone else.

Rather than all of this apparent focus on herself. What good was she, anyway?

“There are not very many places to see, but I will take you to the nicest ones.” Kalika said.

“Anywhere is nice enough.” Homa said. “Nicer than being in bed all day.”

Kalika wheeled Homa at a gentle pace out of the clinic door. Directly outside there was a large connecting hallway that seemed to go from one end of the ship to the other. Homa was not able to gauge its length. All of the wall panels had separators with exposed bolts, and there were vents on the lower wall and on the ceiling that hummed constantly. The air smelled stale and there were two dozen people walking up and down the hall at any given time, not mention the ones ducking into and out of meeting rooms and other facilities. Everyone had the same uniform: white shirts, teal half-jackets, black bottoms.

Homa knew nobody, and nobody knew her– but there were people waving at her the instant she stepped out onto the hall. Homa bashfully waved back with her good arm– at first. It happened enough throughout her trip, however, that she ultimately started nodding her head or smiling when more of the crew would wave or wish her well. There were so many people greeting her. At least Kalika was there to keep people moving. None of them stopped to talk, they all had places to go and work to do. But Homa must have received two dozen well wishes and salutations in just her first short trip down the hallway alone.

She did not know how to feel about that– and so she tried to push it to the background.

Something immediately surprising to her was how many different kinds of people there were on the ship, judging by the crew in the main hall. There were a few fair-skinned blonds and brunettes around, but there were also other Shimii, and more Katarrans than just Kalika, and dark-skinned Bosporans as well. Homa was aware that Kreuzung had a particular problem with racial divide, and did not expect everywhere in the world to be as racist– but the veritable melting pot on this ship was still bewildering to see. Everyone was wearing the uniform, or work coveralls like Homa used to wear. Nobody had weapons.

“Hey, um, Ms. Loukia–”

“No~; please call me Kalika, Homa.”

“Kalika– what kind of business is this ship involved in?”

“Ah. Well. It’s part of a ‘transport company.’ That’s all I can say.”

“So they’re doing something illegal.” Homa whispered.

“You didn’t hear it from me.” Kalika said, betraying a hint of amusement.

Working at Bertrand’s, Homa had first-hand experience with the shady outfits coming and going under that euphemism. ‘Transport company’ meant smugglers, hired guns, gangsters; port privatizations in Kreuzung created a boom in illicit logistics for syndicates and privateers alike. Men like Bertrand took anyone’s money. Homa’s sense of morality led her to look upon criminals unkindly– but then she quickly felt she no longer had any higher ground to speak from anyway. Not after everything she had done in Kreuzung.

But– there was also another thing she heard that was difficult to square away–

“But they’re communists? Communist mercenaries?” Homa asked.

“It’s funny how the world works sometimes– that’s all I’ll say.” Kalika replied.

Homa was not an expert on the interiors of ships, but in the ‘After Descent’ era, there was no part of humanity that was not confined to a metal habitat of some description.

So living on a ship was perhaps not so unfamiliar to her. From what she saw, the interior of the ship felt only ever so slightly more confining than her old hallway in Kreuzung. In the hall, people could easily move two abreast with potential room for a third, rather than single file like the training ship Homa had sailed with during her vocational studies. The clinic was bigger than her old room several times over. Kalika wheeled her past a social area that looked actually cozy, with several plush couches and booth seats, and even games. She imagined the individual accommodations for the crew were probably as cramped as hers back home, but overall, it seemed surprisingly humane and livable for a ship.

“Want to go see the ‘ship’s tree’? It’s the darnedest thing.” Kalika asked.

Homa gasped. “Wait, what? They have a tree in here? Do you mean a real tree?”

“It’s a real tree! I had the same reaction. It’s apparently a tradition where they come from.”

A tradition? Keeping a tree inside of a ship of all places?! Homa was quite curious to see.

Despite Kalika’s gentle demeanor and measured pace, Homa still felt strange being pushed around on a wheelchair. It was comfortable enough, and it was nice seeing a different set of metal walls, as well as people coming and going. However, it was hard not to succumb to a feeling of helplessness. As much as she was under the thumb of various forces in Kreuzung, Homa had her independence. She could fend for herself. She had been fending for herself for years. It was routine to her. Wake up, eat from the pot, go to work, come back, eat from the pot, go to sleep. For close to four years that had been her stable, unbroken routine.

As reliable as the beating of her heart.

Or the movement of her limbs. When they were whole, anyway.

Food could be scarce; wallets got tight; but her room was her room, her life was her life.

Everything that once constituted that life was now as distant as a dream.

Homa could not help but feel trapped. Her blankets felt heavier than they should. There was a restlessness working itself out in the remaining muscle of her missing limbs. She wanted to stand up! She wanted to get her own food; she wanted to ‘go to work’ again like she used to.

There was an even more devastating thought that had embedded itself in the back of her mind like a knife, sending a burst of pain through her when prodded– what would her life even be like now? Without a home; without family; having done– the things she had done. (She could hardly envision the events of that awful day again without breaking out into shivers and sweats.) She was a criminal now. She was a killer; she was not innocent.

Before she could fall into a spiral, an elegant and rich voice shook her out of her thoughts.

“Homa, we’re almost at the lab. You can meet the science officer there too.” Kalika said.

Her gloved hand laid on Homa’s shoulder and gave her a friendly little squeeze for comfort.

“Oh. Sure.” Homa replied. She did not know how to feel about mingling with the crew.

She was still not able to fully accept her situation– everything felt transient, surreal even.

Why bother ‘introducing’ her to anyone? Why would anyone here care to know her name?

But she did not say the impolite things that had come to mind. Kalika was trying to be nice.

“She’s a real chipper one. If it gets to be too much, just wink at me.” Kalika added.

At the end of the hallway, there was a doorway into a very large room. Larger than any of the other spaces Homa had seen on this ship. It was even bigger than some of the upscale stores Homa used to see on her way to work. White-ceilinged and brightly lit, the middle of the room had several desk stations and work benches with glass boxes, plastic baubles, table-mounted machines and various smaller devices bubbling and whirring. There was some kind of analysis being done on some fluids and tissues with the results pending.

Homa thought that the equipment appropriately conveyed the function of a ‘laboratory’.

Much of the wall on two sides of the room was taken up with tanks, one of which was covered in grey mushroom caps each the size of a fist; the other full of vibrantly green and blue algae. Each tank was divided into sections that could be independently controlled, and each section had its own diagnostic screen. They were rather orderly and surprisingly clean. Though there was a lot of growth, the strata for the mushrooms looked healthy, and the algae tank was not too murky. Everything seemed close to ready for harvesting.

However, what truly dominated the space was an enclosure of steel, glass and plastic that was indeed encasing a real, live tree available for everyone to see. Boasting a vibrantly green crown, a multitude of sturdy roots and a thick brown trunk. Beneath the tree was a mound of black soil. When she approached it, Homa could even smell the earthy, sweet scent of the leaves, piped out of the enclosure. This tree was planted in the center of the laboratory– everything else Homa saw was arrayed with this tree as a reference point.

Even enclosed as it was and surrounded in its life support machinery and the rest of the laboratory amenities, seeing that beautiful lush greenery through the glass lifted Homa’s ailing heart just a little. For a moment, her emotions were arrested by it. Kalika wheeled Homa close to the tree and then walked beside the wheelchair and kneeled down. She smiled and looked over Homa’s expression as if hoping to see the same– and sure enough, Homa found herself smiling. Inside this can of sardines there was a living thing.

“It might sound crazy, but looking at it just fills me with cheer somehow.” Kalika said.

Homa did not respond, because she was still taking in the sight of the tree. It’s not like she had never seen a tree before. Kreuzung had trees in enclosures just like this. And yet, seeing this tree inside this ship, with its tight halls and small rooms, it was different than meeting it in a station. She did not know where ‘they’ had come from who had this ‘tradition’, but Homa thought in that moment that she understood it. Sitting in front of that marvelous tree, a real tree, a living being that survived so much, as alien to the ocean as human beings were.

It could live in this ship too. Heedless of the circumstances, it reached skyward.

It almost felt like– Homa had a responsibility to sit up a bit straighter for that tree.

Like a venerable elder was watching her and wishing her well.

“Oh! Visitors! I’ll be there in a moment!”

On the far wall of the room there was storage space for the lab. A woman deposited a big brown cube of carboard into one of the units and slid it into the wall. She then turned around sharply and walked briskly around the tree to greet Homa and Kalika. Homa was surprised to see a pretty girl working in the Science pod. She was a Bosporan, too, dark haired and bright-eyed, her brown skin a bit more of a light honeyed color. She wore a white coat instead of a teal jacket over the sleeveless button-down and black skirt that was common on the ship. She was lithe and lively and probably older than Homa by a few years, but still young.

“Welcome to ‘Science & Observation’! My name is Karuniya Maharapratham!”

In her hands, she had a phial of white fluid which she quickly shoved into a pocket.

Homa opted not to bring it up. In fact she had lost all desire to raise her voice.

Looking at the bubbly woman in front of them, she tried to make herself small.

“Back to see the tree again? You must be really fascinated with it.” Karuniya said.

“I’m showing our guest around.” Kalika said, tapping her hand on the wheelchair handles.

“How kind of you! Hopefully the vibrant color of our tree can help lift her spirits.”

Karuniya winked at Homa, who said nothing and averted her gaze.

“Homa this is the ship’s resident expert on all things non-human. We met a few days ago. Now that I think of it, is it alright to call you ‘doc’?” Kalika asked Karuniya suddenly.

“Nope! I haven’t earned it and I don’t want to hear it.” Karuniya said, shutting her eyes and smiling mischievously. She spoke quickly and with a strangely cheerful and excited affectation. “I have not gone on my scientific commission, and I haven’t formally completed my thesis. Therefore, I am but the people’s very own lovely Karuniya Maharapratham, one of the ship’s ‘Four Beauties’– and not a doctor of any kind! Please just call me Karuniya!”

“Wow, okay!” Kalika said, laughing. “Karuniya it is then. Or perhaps ‘Karu’?”

“Only my hubby gets to call me ‘Karu’!” Karuniya replied sharply.

Kalika shrugged comically. “You’re really a stickler for names, aren’t you ‘doc’?”

Both of them laughed.

Homa looked between Kalika and Karuniya and wondered how they could be so chummy.

Then Karuniya bent over a little to acknowledge Homa specifically.

“Homa Baumann! Our latest guest. I hope it’s not too awkard to say, I’m happy to see you, miss! You may be surprised for the attention you’ve been receiving, but it was a dramatic scene when you were rescued. There were a lot of people in the hangar, and everyone who was not there passed on the story about what they saw– everyone on the ship was so nervous and hoped you would pull through against the odds. It’s like witnessing a miracle. Sailors love their death defying tales– I hope you can forgive their enthusiasm.”

“It’s alright. Everyone’s been quite kind.” Homa said politely. “I– I appreciate it.”

Karuniya nodded her head and patted Homa on the shoulder. She was far too chummy.

She then stood up to full height and smiled at Kalika.

“Feel free to look around. I’m available to answer any science trivia type questions.”

Of course– but not any fundamental nature of this ship type questions, Homa supposed.

“What do you say Homa?” Kalika asked. “Want to bask in front of the tree some more?”

“Let’s keep moving. No offense.” Homa avoided Karuniya’s gaze. “It’s a lovely tree.”

“No worries at all. Feel free to come to me for help if my crazy husband annoys you.”

Homa fixed Karuniya a stare suddenly. “Your husband? What does he want with me?”

“She’s a military nerd and is impressed with the data out of your Diver.” Karuniya said.

Wait– She–? Did she not just call this person her ‘husband’?

Homa averted her eyes again.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep your fans off of you.” Kalika said, leaning close to Homa.

Somewhat mortified at the idea that anyone grabbed the combat data from the DELTA and could plainly see all of what she now considered ‘her crimes’; Homa was wheeled out of the lab in a state of quiet consternation. She had managed enough politeness to wave goodbye to Karuniya Maharapratham, but dreaded ever meeting her ‘husband’. The idea that anyone could have poured over those records and not felt immediate disgust, and instead become excited– it troubled Homa. What possible reason could they have for that?

“Homa, the bathroom is vacant. What do you say to a nice refreshing shower?”

Homa was unprepared for that suggestion. “I’m– I don’t know that I’m able to– my arm–”

Kalika read right through the stuttering. “Of course, in this case I would assist you.”

Homa’s ears folded. She shrank a little in her seat. Her face felt hot and her skin shuddered.

“We don’t have to.” Kalika said gently. “But I think you’ll feel better afterward.”

When she thought about it– Homa could practically feel the grit in her ears. Her hair had a bit of salt in it too. It had been a while since she had the opportunity to bathe. How her body was now– it was a direct product of that day– all of it– so awfully filthy– covered in blood–

Thinking about it instilling a sudden, driving need to be cleaned.

“Alright. Please help me.” Homa said. She tried to suppress a sob and partially succeeded.

Her head was spinning with shame when Kalika took her into the bathroom.

Thankfully, it was empty, just like Kalika had said.

Half the space was a blue-tiled set of showers that were completely open and undivided, essentially just six or seven shower heads hovering over drains, each spaced about a meter apart. The other half of the room had basins for washing hands and faces, stalls enclosing toilets, and a few mirrors. There were dispensers for mouth wash, toothpaste, soap and hair formula, as well as recyclable synthetic towels and wipes. Despite the comfortable size and openness of the space, there was no privacy in the shower. Homa sighed to herself.

Behind her, she heard Kalika’s coat rustle. Her ears and tail stood on end.

Partially turning, she saw her volunteer chauffer undressing. Hanging up her coat, undoing the buttons on her shirt and pulling down her skirt. Homa spread her lips as if to speak but the words caught in her throat catching a glimpse of a fancy, lacy black brassiere and a hint of Kalika’s breasts. She turned back around sharply. Kalika tittered in response.

Of course she had seen it.

“I can stop if it bothers you; but I’d rather keep my clothes dry, you know?” Kalika said.

“No. I’m just– I’m being silly.” Homa said. “It’s okay. I– I really– appreciate the help.”

After putting up her clothes on a series of hooks and drawers outside the shower area, Kalika sought and received Homa’s consent to remove her blanket, and pull off the hospital gown she had been wearing and hang both up with the rest of their clothes. Gingerly, she lifted Homa onto her remaining good leg, with her good arm held over the shoulder. She helped Homa walk to a pair of shower heads, and sat with her on the tiled floor.

“Hot or cold?” Kalika asked. She reached up to a square of wall that accepted touch input.

“Warm.” Homa said dispiritedly, looking down at the bare remains of her leg.

Kalika set the temperature on the wall. A few seconds later, water came out of the spouts that was just warm enough, causing little wisps of mist begin to rising around the two of them. It was a somewhat pleasant temperature on Homa’s skin and hair. Regardless her mood had cratered. Sitting down in the shower, she felt like she did not know how she would stand up again. Everything felt too heavy. She sat under the water despondent and silent; while Kalika sidled closer. Homa’s skin shuddered when she first touched her, Kalika running her slender fingers through dirty dark hair, holding her shoulder for support.

Into a dispenser on the wall, Kalika reached her hand. She collected a bit of foamy, thick fluid on her palm. She spread the foam across Homa’s scalp, working it into her hair, between and around the cat-like ears atop her head. Homa shut her eyes. It was strange but not necessarily unpleasant. Had her mood been stable and all of her wits available, she would have appreciated Kalika’s gentle ministration. Having someone wash her hair, lather her back and breasts with soap, looking over her in detail. It was a luxury she had never experienced in her life. And yet she could not fully appreciate it, not in that moment.

Kalika must have felt the tension.

Her hand stopped along the middle of Homa’s back.

“How are you feeling, Homa? You can be honest with me; and yourself. Under the shower nobody can tell whether your eyes are full of tears, nor hear you sobbing.” Kalika said.

Homa finally broke down at Kalika’s suggestion.

That unwarranted kindness was finally unbearable.

Tears that streamed down her cheeks along with the water washing over her hair.

Her chest seized into an ugly sob. Her shoulders slouched.

She grit her teeth and closed the fist of her good arm.

“I don’t know what to do.” Homa said. “I feel like I don’t know why I am still alive.”

“Your life is irreplaceable Homa; as long as you have it, there’s hope.” Kalika said gently.

“How?” Homa shouted. “I don’t have a home– or job– I don’t have anything anymore!”

Leija– she could not even say goodbye to Leija. She would never know if Leija was okay.

Her gnawing sorrow began to tear free the resentment and anger inside of her.

Kalika rubbed her shoulders a little. Homa shoved back against her suddenly to push her.

She suddenly wanted Kalika off of her and gone. Her heart surged with violence.

“Why are you paying me any attention?” Homa shouted. “What’s in it for you?”

“You are deserving of kindness, simple as that.” Kalika said. “When I saw you dragged out of that Diver, and how badly you were hurt, I was upset with myself. I was in Kreuzung; I was able to fight; but everyone in my crew was blind to the true danger taking place all along. We were caught up in the crisis as helpless as anyone else. We couldn’t stop anything.”

“Nobody could’ve done shit to stop that.” Homa grunted. “Nobody fucking wanted to.”

“You wanted to.” Kalika said. “You fought hard, all alone, trying to stop it. Am I wrong?”

Despite Homa’s petty resistance, Kalika never raised her voice back to her or judged her.

She remained unfailingly kind despite how petty Homa was acting.

She even praised her.

“I’m sorry.” Homa whimpered. “I’m sorry for yelling. And shoving back at you.”

“I don’t hold it against you.” Kalika said. “I know exactly how you feel right now.”

“You think you know?” Homa said, sobbing. “Because you’re disfigured like I am?”

“You’re not disfigured and neither am I. We are more than our limbs.” Kalika said. “But I still remember exactly when I lost my arm. I remember what I lost with it. People I cherished; a place I belonged to; a path I believed in. I fought as much as I could, alone against a tide, to the bitter end. I will never forget that. I know you have suffered a scar like mine too.”

“Yes. That’s right.” Homa replied weakly. She was exhausted; the tears wouldn’t stop.

“But, I’m here now Homa. I survived back then; and so I am alive now. I am still living.”

Homa could not help herself but to scoff. “Yeah? So then– what? I become a merc too?”

“You can do whatever you want to. Nobody here will coerce you, I promise you that.”

In that moment Homa was too resistant to empathy. Too bitter and angry still.

She was collected enough not to snap or shove or be too awful to Kalika.

But she did not want to listen to sense. Not right now.

She just wanted to feel the water washing over her head and back, and nothing else.

All around her the warm water fell in a steady stream of fast, heavy droplets.

She wished it would dissolve her and pull her down the drain.

Homa remained quiet. Trying not to think of anything or have any sensations.

Kalika respected her silence for a few minutes. Then, the water shut off.

All of the warm mist began to fade.

And at least– Homa felt just a bit less filthy.

“Here, I can dry you off. It’s really okay.” Kalika said.

She retrieved a towel, and rubbed it over Homa’s hair and shoulders.

Homa complied.

“Thank you.” Homa mumbled. She turned to look Kalika in the eyes.

“It’s nothing.” Kalika replied. She smiled. “I’m just a fellow survivor.”

“No,” Homa whimpered, “I really mean it. Thank you. For everything. Kalika.”

Kalika pulled the towel from over Homa’s hair. “You’ll be okay, Homa.”


“…for too long, military planning has concerned itself exclusively with the political, social and economic basis of the military endeavor, with only pale reflections of thought spared to the actual military conduct, as in the movement of the weapons and the combat aims of the forces. There is a widespread belief in the Imbrium that as long as sufficient ships are built, and the crews of these ships have enough biscuit, and the people’s unrest against war is sufficiently nullified, then the carrying-out of combat is a secondary concern. Admirals of the Imbrium Empire, during the Revolution, performed maneuvers like rigid chess strategies based purely on intuition without thought to the Union’s intentions. They had become used to equally languid Republic forces that emerged from Ratha Flow in specific formations with limited operational thinking, then clashed over the Great Ayre Reach, a flat and shallow domain with limited possibility. They expected that their larger resource base and greater quality of arms presupposed victory, and they lost many battles and ultimately retreated in shame because they had no operational theory by which to adapt to the new conditions the Union imposed on them through hit-and-run warfare and new improvised weapons, like the use of Divers hidden in benthic rifts to create unexpected marine ambushes.”

“However, the Union, having won their right to exist, also entered a languid period in which the operational art was given very little thought. The Kansal administration believed that the building-up of the productive forces of the state was a sufficient military endeavor, and the Ahwalia regime then tried to abandon military build-up altogether. Even in the current Jayasankar administration, in which the military is the primary receiver of the state’s resources, military thinking is subordinated to production of arms, to building up rations, and conditioning the people militarily. There is great concern about having ‘only’ built a fleet numbering the low thousand of ships, supported by several thousands more Divers and scores of logistical objects and even bigger thousands of supporting personnel otherwise. While there are theorists among the military high command, the development of an operational art is nascent, and Academy graduates are still mainly taught the basic handling of weapons, and for the officers, the basics of managing people socially and politically. Thinking about the battlefield is still at a nascent, improvisational stage, where it is subordinated to thinking about shipyards, agrispheres and councils. It is not my aim with these writings to say such things should not be seen as military concerns. But focusing on these concerns exclusively, leaving the battlefield itself to happenstance, is just as foolish.”

“It is incomplete thinking to view, solely, the deployment of economic, social and political forces as the means to render the foe suppressed; and to respond, if the foe has greater such forces, by surrendering that our own must surpass them to succeed or all else is lost. Logistics remains the mother concern, without which there can be no war– but it is in the operational art that the appropriate usage of the arms must be found, and theory developed to employ the arms and personnel that we possess in a way which maximizes a strategic aim. The Union did not secure its freedom because it had more arms than the empire, nor because its economy was stronger, and not because its social conditions were more stable. Rather, the Union operationally employed its forces to maximize their strength, exploit weaknesses, and shape the conflict itself. This is not solely because the Union has developed the most correct political system. It is not solely because of war communism as a productive model, or because the proletariat are better conditioned for war. It is my intention in this thesis to fully detail the lessons we should have learnt from past conflicts, and draw solid and sensical conclusions from them in order to extrapolate how to properly conduct war in the terms of employing arms, interacting with the enemy, and shaping the battlefield–”

Murati Nakara heard the door to her room open behind herself.

She adjusted her reading glasses and turned around from her desk, expecting Karuniya to have barged in– but finding someone else in her place. A salmon-pink haired, soft-faced young Diver pilot with a curvy figure and a reserved body language– the unassuming Valya Lebedova had appeared at the door. Dressed in black-spotted coveralls and work goggles, they resembled a bit more their formidable aunt, the mechanic chief Galina Lebedova. Except Valya was a bit rounder where Galina was much more well-muscled.

“I apologize for just walking in Lieutenant! I wanted to talk to you.” They said.

“It’s not a problem. I would have locked the door if I wanted privacy.” Murati replied.

“I also apologize if I smell a bit oily. I was lubricating all the Diver’s joints.” Valya said.

“That’s nice of you– but shouldn’t Cohen be in charge of that type of thing?” Murati asked.

“Engineering is busy with the machine we picked up.” Valya said. “And, um, if I’m allowed to speak freely ma’am–” Murati nodded and Valya continued. “I feel that Gunther’s work has been noticeably bad lately. I don’t know I trust him much with my machine anymore. And if I have time, nowadays I also tune up the squad’s machines myself too. It’s fun anyway.”

“What do you figure is wrong with Cohen? Have you heard anything?” Murati asked.

Valya loved to do little optimizations to the machines, so they were the pilot who was most often around the engineers. Murati knew she could trust them when it came to hangar chatter. Valya was a bit bashful, but they never withheld anything from Murati.

“It’s because of Tigris.” Valya said. “I think Gunther feels like Tigris has disrupted things.”

“I’d call her disruptive too.” Murati sighed. “But probably not in the way Cohen means.”

“He seems less motivated since Tigris has unofficially become our technology chief.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that.” Murati said. “Tigris is an incredible resource for us.”

“I agree.” Valya said. Then their voice picked up and they looked even more excited while they spoke. “I’d love to learn from her, to be honest. And she’s not just loud– she works hard! She’s not afraid to get her hands dirty and she’s the first one who lines up for repairs– we’ve already seen her suit up and go repair the ship while it’s in the water and in motion a few times already. She’s not just a ‘hangar queen’ like some big-headed engineers can be. That’s why the crew as a whole really likes her, I think. Cohen is a rules type of guy, not a fast action type of guy. I think Tigris makes him look bad, so he sulks and tries to throw the book at her.”

Murati smiled. “I appreciate your candor, Valya. I’ll try to be in the hangar a bit more and see the situation for myself. Then I might bring it up to the Captain– I do trust you, but I don’t want to use your own experiences as evidence, otherwise you would be dragged in.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I don’t like ‘office politics’ either– but it is what it is.” They said.

“I believe I interrupted you though. You did not come here to talk about Cohen, I presume.”

“No, I did not.” Valya said. “On a break from tuning stuff up, I looked at that combat data.”

“What did you think? How would you rate Homa Baumann’s piloting skill?” Murati asked.

Back in the Union, Valya participated in the Diver training programs for the Academy. Because they had mechanical engineering and piloting skills, they helped the Academy to update their Diver simulations. Valya themself was the opponent that the current crop of Academy pilots would test themselves against. The new simulations also made use of new material models for movement, weight, response, and other such properties that Valya helped to implement. Because of this, Murati sought a second opinion from Valya on the data recovered from the Delta, the diver the injured Homa Baumann had piloted.

They had the machine down in the hangar and were working to restore it, and to make the necessary changes so it could wield Imbrian and Union weapons rather than its stock Republic kit. Murati was curious about Homa Baumann’s predicament. Had she used the machine to try to escape from danger, or had she been deployed to do battle against the Volkisch? She found her answer in the combat data of the “SEAL Delta.” It was an impressive machine, but Murati found Homa’s piloting of it quite remarkable. Before she made any decisions that the officers might typify as rash, however, she wanted a second opinion from someone whom nobody would be so quick to dismiss as reckless or impassioned.

“Well, we lack some context. We don’t know her background.” Valya said. “But just from the data we can read off the Dive computer’s logging, I feel that she has strong fundamentals. In my view, she has definitely piloted before, and I think she piloted regularly. She has certain habits; you can see patterns in the hardware inputs that were recorded. I think that she mastered moving efficiently in a Diver, trying to cover distances quickly. Her use of weapons is not meticulous though. I don’t think she had problems killing, which is a normal hurdle for a rookie in a combat situation. Her computer recorded several kills, including a scout ship. She used all available weapons; but she was reckless with her ammunition usage.”

“From what you saw, do you think she is a republic soldier?” Murati asked.

Valya shook their head. “The machine was activated using an external hardware ID and did not log a pilot ID, so I cannot be certain that it was intended for her. The Delta’s depth logging began tracking the water table just above the baseplate, while the Republic ships came from above to attack Kreuzung below. If I were to extrapolate, I think Homa Baumann somehow got her hands on the Delta, activated the Delta from a lower port, and then fought her way up. She fought exclusively Imbrian model hardware, so she must have been trying to help the Republicans against the Volkisch. We can only speculate about her origins.”

“Thank you. Your insight is invaluable. I knew I could count on you.” Murati said.

“My pleasure!” Valya said in a chipper voice. “Let me know if you want a typed-up report.”

“Valya, I think I want to try to recruit Homa Baumann to our cause.” Murati replied.

“That explains your interest.” Valya said. “Well, I’m not opposed to it. She can definitely pilot that machine, and there are not a lot of other convenient options for it. Maybe if she joins the squad I can retire from piloting and focus on tuning up. Give me Cohen’s job.”

They grinned with a little bit of mischief.

“You’re going to have to slow down a bit on that one.” Murati said, in good humor.

Valya laughed. “Well, that’s my report Lieutenant. I should get back to the hangar.”

“Indeed. Good luck, future engineering chief.” Murati said, with a little laugh.

With a final salute, Valya left the room, the door shutting automatically behind them.

Though the question of Homa Baumann would have to wait for some time, Murati felt that she had the answers she needed. There were more pressing concerns needing her attention.

Murati turned back around. On her desk there was a portable and a digital keyboard.

She had begun writing her own book.

Untitled as of yet; but a military treatise in nature.

After she talked to Premier Erika Kairos, Murati had gotten the idea to write a book in her spare time. At first she considered writing a political thesis, but she realized there were enough spirited defenders of Mordecism and Jayansakarist thought in the world already.

However, when she sat down and thought about the state of Union scholarship, what she realized was missing was a central military thesis. A collection of techniques that actually fit the conditions of current warfare, and not the past. The Academy taught a lot of military history, and combat training taught weapons handling as well as piecemeal “tactics.” But many officers followed a script, and lacked complicated critical thinking about warfare.

If Murati had to describe the current state of the Union’s military doctrine, and as far as she knew the Imbrium as a whole, she would have likened it to handing officers a hand of playing cards to use. “Flanking” was a good tactic, you should try to do it, the card has a pretty symbol and a high number in the corner; direct assault was a tough card to play, not one you want in your hand; the teaching of officers was trapped at that level of thinking. Specific maneuvers that should be used based on their desirability rather than the situation.

Murati had already experienced several cases of this simplistic mentality.

For example, The Third Battle of Thassal, where Admiral Gottwald presupposed that dividing his forces to attack from two sides would be advantageous and so he split the fleet as soon as possible, long before the battle had started. Murati predicted they would meet one element far sooner than the other and thankfully her superior officers listened to her. The Union concentrated their forces and completely nullified the advantage of the pincer by destroying one half of the flanking attack before the other half could join battle.

However, prior to the intervention of Murati, the Union was planning to divide its forces too and meet both sides of the flanking attack. That was the entrenched, simplistic thinking.

Even outside of conventional situations the same tactics saw overuse.

Gertrude Lichtenberg, during the chase out of Serrano, seemingly believed her superior armaments would force the surrender of the Brigand and engaged in a direct chase of her target vessel. She gathered a fleet combat section with force protection, big guns and superior scouting capability. She had every advantage in a conventional scenario– but she did not realize that her chosen tactics contradicted her unique operational goal!

To retrieve Elena Lettiere alive, she could not risk heavily damaging the Brigand. Showing her hand and attempting to attack them directly was foolish. Murati saw an opportunity to fight back despite being outnumbered and outgunned, exposing the contradiction between Lichtenberg’s tactics and objective and ruining her plans. A more sophisticated approach could have allowed Lichtenberg to track the Brigand until it was vulnerable to boarding or could be surrounded or sabotaged for capture. Lichtenberg was too blunt and too desperate to achieve her goal and so she employed her considerable assets to complete failure.

Certainly, many officers in the Imbrium and the Union could exceed that level of thinking and become distinguished in battle. Murati did not think she was special. Any officer could potentially read their enemy and respond in an effective way to achieve success. But those who simply followed their script could be condemned to failure at the cost of many lives. Murati found it intolerable to accept this as the baseline for training. Officers could not be programmed like little machines with binary responses to complex situations.

But they had been; and it would cost them.

It was inevitable. One of many poor admirals would make a mistake someday.

She had seen many pathetic officers in her time in the Union. They were not rare.

And she knew this was not an individual but systemic issue. No one had fought with the Academy for better training more than Murati. Ever since she was a kid, in fact.

She could do nothing about this now. But she could do something for the future.

Murati wanted to teach prospective officers to read the battlefield, know their weapons, synthesize multiple types of information and consider the day to day employment of various technologies in developing plans that supported a comprehensive strategy. Best practices that could elevate an ordinary officer and empower already talented officers to shine even brighter and think even more radically. So if Murati returned alive from this journey, what she wanted to bring back to the people of the Union, was her first-hand accounts of real military combat, as well as her theories collected into a complete military doctrine.

Since she began to write, it had taken up many hours. It would be worth it.

In thinking about her book, Murati caught sight of the chronicle device at the end of the desk. Euphrates had given her parents’ records to her. They remained in arms reach.

And Murati had not dared yet to open them.

She knew some things about her parents. Her mother had been a Solceanos sister for a time and gotten an education that way, before leaving the convent with her father. Her father had been part of a long line of academics whose fates were tied to Bosporus’ chaotic world of scholarship. Until that lineage ended with Murati, who would never be a professor at a Bosporan college. And yet, she was afraid of some things she did not know.

There would probably be a disappointing answer as to why the General Strike failed to materialize; there would probably be some liberal ideas about war and violence; there might be some wishy-washy naïve hopes for some utopian future. Murati, who had once admired the idea of her parents greatly, now feared more disappointment in their reality.

Rather than worry about their legacy; perhaps she wanted to focus on her own instead.

So whenever she caught sight of that chronicle in the corner she felt compelled to write.

It was good inspiration; but perhaps not a healthy response.


After the shower, with permission, Kalika helped Homa to dress and got her back onto her chair. She then nonchalantly stepped in front of Homa and began to dress herself up seemingly without paying her any mind. Seeing this caused Homa to realize how close and how naked their bodies had been the whole time, and it made her run a bit hotter.

Kalika was laissez-faire about the whole thing, a confident nudist, to the point Homa wondered if this was what ship life habituated in people. That and the lack of privacy.

Homa tried not to act too childish about the situation.

She wasn’t a kid, and Kalika had already gone over all of her body in the shower; she tried to avoid acting embarrassing. It helped her a bit when she realized that Kalika was also transgender and had not made any untoward comments about Homa in the shower. She wondered what kind of hormones Kalika was on to get that kind of figure though– unless it was a Katarran thing. Maybe it was– Katarrans were custom made in tubes–

–or so Homa had heard. She had no first-hand knowledge of such things and,

then her wondering, largely brainless gaze descended to somewhere sensitive,

“Checkin’ me out?” Kalika said, a sly smile on her face. “It’s okay, I’m flattered~”

Homa’s gaze darted back up to Kalika’s face and then sideways to avoid her eyes.

She was remarkably pretty even with all of her makeup washed off. And her dick was–

AAAAAAAHHHHHH

“Uh, no, not at all. I mean– no offense or anything– I just wasn’t–” Homa mumbled.

Kalika giggled. “It’s okay. I think I know what you must be thinking, actually.”

Her eyes wandered down between Homa’s legs, causing her to twitch–

“I’m afraid while they might look similar, yours definitely works– while mine does not.”

Then with a fox-like grin, she pointed at Homa’s– and then at herself– and winked–

THIS WOMAN–!

–as usual Homa found only misfortune when it came to the world of “gender stuff.”

Thankfully that was it for Kalika’s teasing. She must have seen how red Homa had gone.

So she put her remaining clothes on with her back turned and allowed Homa to cool down.

After that episode, they were all set to go. Kalika seemed excited to continue their trip.

Homa was not so eager however. She put a sudden stop to the festivities.

“Sorry. I’m feeling more tired than I thought I would be.” She said.

“I understand. I’ll come visit again, or you can call me any time you want.” Kalika said.

“Thanks. I really– I had fun.” Homa said. It was even true– partially– a little bit–

Kalika dutifully wheeled Homa back to the clinic and helped her back onto her bed.

She then left to collect the Doctor herself and inform her that Homa had been returned.

Homa sighed deeply when Kalika left. She both welcomed the silence but felt lonely too.

Like all of her feelings, it was a paradoxical spiral that she could not get control over.

Nevertheless– she was in bed, she had her blanket up to the shoulder and a comfortable pillow behind her. Her skin was soft and felt moist and pliable. Her hair smelled minty like the shampoo. She felt so clean! There was nothing like the feeling of a warm blanket over freshly-showered skin. It was the best Homa had felt, physically at least, in days. Overcome with warm and tender feelings, She shut her eyes and emptied her thoughts.

She managed to rest a bit.

Hours later, her breathing was troubled, her heavy lidded eyes between sleep and wake–

“Homa? Homa, are you okay?”

Her folded ears stood up straight. Homa recognized the world around her again.

At her side, Doctor Kappel had been shaking her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, doctor.” Homa said, reflexively.

“Nothing to be sorry for. How do you feel? Your breathing sounded troubled.”

“I’m okay. I’m breathing fine, I think.” She couldn’t remember anything from her sleep. Maybe she had a nightmare. It wouldn’t surprise her. Her mind felt like pieces barely held together.

The doctor put her hand to Homa’s chest and wrist and seemed satisfied she was okay.

“If something is bothering you, please know that you can speak freely.” Dr. Kappel said, bending so she was eye-level with Homa on the bed. “I’ll do everything I can for you.”

“Thank you, doctor. I think I’ll be okay. Just a little hungry.” Homa said.

Dr. Kappel nodded her acknowledgment. “I’ll go get you a plate. Dinner should be out.”

Out the doctor went; and in a few moments she returned with a cheerful demeanor.

“Minardo had Khadija as a volunteer tonight, so they actually made some Shimii food!”

She brought a multi-sectioned tray of food, a vitamin pill, pain medication and a cup of citrus water clearly flavored by a powder. For the main course, there was a mound of fluffy yellow rice topped with roughly chopped cashews, raisins and carrot strips. There was a small mound of light brown spread flecked with chickpeas that Homa suspected was just itself mashed, seasoned chickpea. On the side, a fresh biscuit, still warm and soft, and a salad of pickled, chopped up onion, cucumber and tomato glistening with a fresh dressing.

Homa looked over the plate. Pulao rice, an attempt at humus, shiraz salad. Everything was fragrant with the vegetal smell of pickles and the earthy scent of the spiced rice almost feeling like home. Homa rubbed the fingers of her remaining hand gently over the surface of the plastic spork that came with the tray. She forked through the rice meticulously. Turning it over, mixing up the nuts and raisins, but staring at it as if searching for something.

After a few moments, she sighed and worked up the courage to ask what had been bothering her as she mixed the items on the tray. It felt embarrassingly selfish.

“Doctor– I am really grateful for the food– but is it okay if I have some meat?” She asked.

Dr. Kappel suddenly put on a helpless expression, perhaps involuntarily.

“I used to start every day with a pot of beef. I would make it myself– I had a little pot back home.” Homa said. She had called Kreuzung home and it tore at the glass cracks in her little soul. But she tried not to cry about it. “I would put cabbage and beef in the pot and flavor it with zlatla and top off with water. It was really simple, but I kind of miss it right now.”

She put on a little smile. Already, she sort of knew the answer.

Just from the Doctor’s face.

Dr. Kappel shut her eyes and shook her head gently.

“I’m sorry, Homa.”

“Can you tell me why not? Is it my condition, or–?”

“No. We just don’t keep meat aboard. It’s– well, it’s not part of our culture.”

“I see.”

Homa shed a tear, but she prevented herself from crying further.

She took a sporkful of the colorful rice and tasted it.

Her cheeks tingled suddenly– it was really quite flavorful.

There was the earthiness of the spice mix in the rice, the savory notes of the stock, the sweetness of the raisins, the crunch of the nuts. Strong notes of umami and a certain creaminess to the dish, an unctuous mouthfeel. While the humus was just okay on its own, it made a good companion with the warm, fluffy biscuit that melted in Homa’s mouth. Meanwhile, she was surprised at the subtle vinegary tang of the Shirazi. She expected the pickles to come in too strong and mushy, but they had bite and were dressed well.

Compliments to that certain ‘Miss Minardo’ in the galley, and her Shimii helper tonight.

Everything was delicious. Almost as good as Madame Arabie’s restaurant dishes.

It just did not have any meat– and Homa dearly wished for some.

She wished she had her pot from back home.

She wished that she was back in Kreuzung and none of this had happened.

“Doctor. What will become of me?” Homa asked.

Her little wan smile enduring bravely.

Even as the tears started to flood from her eyes that she could no longer stop.

“Whatever you decide, Homa.” Dr. Kappel said. “Our officers are good people, they would not force you to stay here. We are headed to Aachen– we can set you down there, with your new prosthetics, and with some money. We could help you find a place to stay. We have a few connections we can pull to get you a job, perhaps. Or you can stay with us.”

“I don’t know who any of you really are.” Homa said, her tearful eyes meeting the Doctor’s.

“I’m so sorry Homa.” Dr. Kappel said. She laid a hand on Homa’s shoulder and held her hand as well, trying to comfort her. “We are not trying to hide anything from you. Things are busy and I would just like you to focus on recovery. I can try to get our Captain to come talk to you as soon as possible. I understand you have many questions and need more information before making a decision. But right now, you don’t have to trouble yourself. We are a week out or so from Aachen. You can just relax and recover until your surgery.”

“Why are you all doing this for me? I don’t understand it! Am I worth all of this?”

Homa raised her voice.

Dr. Kappel spoke with a gentler tone in return.

“You are absolutely worth it. Your life is precious to me, Homa. I want you to recover.”

“What about your crew? What do they want with me? Why would they care?”

“They rescued someone from a horrible situation. They just want her to get better too.”

Homa knew she was just being difficult. But she could not help but be cynical.

“I’m supposed to believe you’re, what? A bunch of wandering heroes?” She said bitterly.

“I’m not asking you to believe anything.” Dr. Kappel said. “As your doctor, the only thing that I am asking is that you take your meals, take your medicine, and rest up. Right now, your life does not need to move at 90 knots, Homa. I don’t know what your life was like before; and I do not need to know. Whatever you believe; whoever you are; I just want to treat you.”

“A communist doctor; for some transport company. Whatever then.”

Homa stopped talking and doggedly polished off the rest of her meal.

She then turned her shoulder on Dr. Kappel, wrapping herself up in her blankets.

Staring at the wall. Not wanting to see the doctor or anything else.

“Let me know if you’re having nightmares, or a hard time sleeping.” Dr. Kappel said. “There are a few medications we can try to reduce your stress or to help you sleep better.”

“Fine.” Homa said.

“Good night, Homa.” Dr. Kappel said.

Still gentle with her. Still without cause.

Homa heard her walking away, and closing the green shutters around Homa’s bed.

She grumbled and turned and tossed in bed, feeling restless and angry. A directionless, amorphous anger, like barbed wire writhing in her chest. At first it was directed at this ship and its crew. Soon it turned inward. She felt so stupid. Ungrateful, childish, even evil.

But she would not call back the doctor. She wanted to rot in her wicked futility.


Later in the night, Homa rolled over in bed, groggy, and froze up at the sound of voices.

Across the barrier from her own bed, the doctor and a patient conversed.

Everything was dark save for a dim white LED cluster across the plastic barrier. It cast the shadows of the doctor and patient onto the wall. Nobody had noticed that she had awakened so they spoke candidly. Homa could hear everything as they spoke.

She made herself small and still in bed; deeply curious.

“–I don’t have the materials or expertise to repair this sub-dermal nanomail you have. I’ve never seen anything like it. I know you and her are under Nagavanshi’s curtain of silence. But as a doctor, I’m going to request a detailed specification of your body modifications.”

Doctor Kappel.

“You’re not getting one. But it’s fine. Don’t worry. What did you do to the wound?”

That was the patient then.

“I secured it with a sterile mesh-plate. I am hoping that promotes recovery.”

“That’ll be fine then.”  

“Don’t get shot in the sternum again.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“No strenuous exercise for a few days. We need the wound sealant to incorporate. That’s only for the flesh wounds. I’ve no idea how your body will respond to other treatments.”

“I’ll be fine with just the mesh. How is Valeriya doing?”

“Better than you. Nothing wound sealant and stitches could not fix.”

“That’s great. I was more worried about her than anything.”

“You should worry about yourself some more!” Dr. Kappel sighed.

“I only worry about the things I have no control over.”

“Illya. Valeriya is highly dependent on you. That’s why you need to care for yourself!”

For once, the patient, Illya, was quiet in the face of the doctor’s scolding.

Homa thought she saw the shadow of the patient on the wall turning.

“I’ll avoid strenuous activity for as long as I can. It’ll heal up right. Don’t worry.”

Dr. Kappel shook her head.

“I’ll tell the Captain you’ll both be walking out of here tomorrow then.”

“Wouldn’t it be funny if she had me executed after you did all of this work?”

“No, it truly would not be. Go to sleep. If not for my sake then for your poor partner.”

Homa heard Dr. Kappel stand up and start walking away.

That one little LED cluster went dark. Casting the entire room into darkness.

Tired but with her mind abuzz, Homa thought about what she had heard.

On the next bed from hers, was someone who had been shot in the chest.

And she would recover from that injury, and leave as early as tomorrow?

Homa was dead certain now that they were mercenaries, but she also realized they must have been formidable. They had tough chicks with body mods so scary-advanced a medical doctor had never seen them. They had a Captain who had the power of death over them. Dr. Kappel treated gunshot wounds and amputated limbs every day because of all the combat they saw. They had Katarrans with them! A Katarran like Kalika, wandering the halls being a tart at a random girl they picked up. And that science lab was growing so much food, and had its own tree– were they rich? But then what did it mean for them to be communists?

Could there really be rich communists?

The more she pored over the details the more Homa just gave herself a headache.

Would she really be alright?

She was helpless to do anything about it.

Turbulent images turned over in her head. Homa shut her eyes, trying to sleep again.

“Hey, kid, trouble sleeping over there?”

Homa’s eyes drew wide and she curled up tighter under her blankets.

“I know you’re awake.”

It was the patient in the next bed over– Illya. Were her blankets rustling that loudly?

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, I guess. Homa, right? You don’t have to be scared. I saw when they brought you in, so I know you’ve been through some shit. It will pass. Hell, if you’re like me, you might even like the bionic shit better. Anyway: they don’t let me ‘bother’ you, so I’ll just say this. If anyone gives you shit and I haven’t been executed for treason, you can tell me.” Illya laughed a bit, seemingly amused at the idea.

Homa swallowed a lump and kept quiet.

“I have a– let’s call her a ‘kid sister’. Around your age.”

“Where is she now?” Homa felt compelled to raise her voice after a moment of silence.

Illya laughed again.

“She’s on this ship actually. Maybe you’ll get along? She pilots Divers too.” Illya said.

“Maybe. I’ll keep that in mind.” Homa said.

“Good. Now go to sleep. Pretend you didn’t hear anything, and that we didn’t speak.”

At Illya’s prompting, Homa shut her eyes again– and somehow, she did manage to sleep.

She did not recall any dreams and nobody tried to wake her up hours later.

When she next opened her eyes, she did so slowly and naturally. Her blurring vision of the room slowly came into focus, and she lifted her head from her pillow and pulled the blankets from over her hair. She looked around with a bleary expression. There was gentle yellow light from the sunlamp clusters overhead, but the white LEDs that made up most of the illumination had not yet been turned on. On one side of her bed, diagnostic equipment which had been absent yesterday was now there, perhaps ready for her surgery.

On the other side– Kalika was sitting in a chair.

Homa looked at her, slightly dumbfounded.

Kalika noticed, smiled back and waved.

“Good morning, Homa.” She said.

There was a thick beige portable computer in her hands just like the Doctor’s model.

“Good morning.” Homa said. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

“I only got here a little bit ago.” Kalika said. “I don’t have much to do.”

“So I’m entertaining you?” Homa said. More bluntly than she intended at first.

“It’s not like that.” Kalika said.

Homa laid back down, adjusting her position in bed and staring up at the ceiling.

“Sorry.” She mumbled.

“It’s fine. I get it. But look, I actually brought something for your entertainment.”

Kalika stood from her chair, closer to Homa, and showed her the portable.

Looking at it up close, and being able to hold it with her hand, it was a little bit heavier and chunkier than the types of devices like this sold in Kreuzung. The screen was 200 mm by 140 mm or so, not counting the bezel around it, and it was about 9 or 10 mm thick on the whole. There were buttons on the front bezel as well as the sides. Kalika also demonstrated that part of the top bezel slid out, and within it there were a pair of small earbuds that were permanently affixed to the machine with thin wires. Homa had never seen a device quite like this, and it did not have any corporate brand logos that she could recognize.

Kalika helped stretch the earbud cord and put the buds comfortably in Homa’s ear fluff.

With a few taps of her finger, she summoned a woman’s voice; a pop music track.

Just as easily, she put on a video from one of the ship’s underside cameras, with full audio.

Mostly marine fog. There was the odd shadow rushing past that could have been a fish.

Then, Kalika tabbed through the interface and opened up a small book of poetry and puns.

“There’s a lot of stuff you can do with it. And, even better for your current situation,”

Kalika demonstrated that a pair of bracing legs could be pulled from the back of the device.

In this way, it could sit on Homa’s lap, so she would not need to hold it all the time.

“Um, wow. Thank you. It’s– it’s nice.” She was at a momentary loss for words.

Homa felt touched. She was not necessarily a fan of any of the pieces of media that Kalika had so excitedly shown her on the device. But there was something so warm about it that it made her want to cry. When Kalika slid out the device’s little legs, and she could look at it sitting stupidly on her lap, this thing which initially read as a chunky beige piece of crap that was uglier and heavier and less glitzy than the devices she knew– it now felt like something that was made for her. Perhaps even something that was made for humanity— something that was made for people rather than money. It even had little earbuds attached with a design, and long enough cord, for use with Shimii ears as well as other types of ears. That would have been a separate device worth fifteen or twenty marks in Kreuzung.

She almost wanted to ask again, who even are all of you?

Where does this all come from?

But she knew– communist mercenaries or whatever– no point in asking Kalika again.

Seeing the little device, its screen filled with a page of childish puns, made Homa laugh, a bit bitterly but also, a bit fulfilled. Her heavy heart was beating, her skin was warm.

Despite everything– she really was alive.

“Thank you. Now that I think about it, I haven’t listened to a lot of music.” Homa said.

“How did you pass the time before?” Kalika asked.

“I watched TV I guess. I read books sometimes. Mostly I worked.” Homa said. She let out a sigh and laid back in bed. “I used to work morning to night. Then I ate and I slept with the TV on. When I had a day off– ah, I can’t even remember. I guess, I haven’t thought about what I wanted to do with myself for a really long time. I wanted to make money to pay my bills.”

“Well, one positive about being a mercenary is having decent free time.” Kalika said.

“How about a positive of being a communist?” Homa asked bluntly.

Kalika grinned. “Having a decent amount of free time too. Also, being in the right.”

“Being in the right, huh.”

Homa brushed the top of the device with one of her fingers.

“I can’t promise promise anything, but I will try.” She whispered, smiling a little at Kalika.

Whether Kalika had heard her or not, she simply smiled back.

Homa started to play with the touchscreen controls again right when a new visitor appeared.

Having walked all the way past the other beds to stop at the end of Homa’s medbay bed.

Homa lifted her eyes from the screen to see a familiar fair and long-haired blonde woman.

Long-legged, busty, tall and fit, a bit of makeup; a mature beauty in mercenary uniform.

Along with a peaked cap that had a gold-bordered red star displayed front and center.

“Greetings, Homa Baumann. I’m Captain Ulyana Korabiskaya. Let’s have a little chat.”


After the Core Separation crisis, the Brigand finally escaped from Kreuzung Station.

Now they traveled across the rocky and deep terrain of Eisental, close to 2000 meters deep.

Rendezvousing with the rest of the Rotfront, before heading north-northwest to Aachen.

Between them and the destination was almost the entire length of Eisental.

And all of its many features. Barely recognizable in the pitch darkness and marine fog.

Low-lying underwater peaks, rising and falling mounts, rocky stretches of flat ground; smooth silt valleys and plains where dust and sand sometimes streamed across as if carried on a wind; mineral-rich continental rifts and underwater caves. Abutted to the west by the continent wall and to the east by Jabal Khaybar. Eisental teemed with humanity in its stations, substations and ships, along with aphotic creatures languidly exploring the deep with their bioluminescent bodies. At times, an abstract tunnel of fast-moving water could be observed to snake around the darkness, spiraling here and there and into the distance, part of the treacherous Rhinean jet-streams that could have shaken to pieces a smaller ship.

Commonly seen were small columns of gas wafting up from small pockets of geothermal activity throughout the region. Perhaps during the travel one’s sensors might pick up a particularly consistent outgassing in the distance while navigating the rocky terrain. In the northern and north-western Imbrium, like Rhinea and the Palatine, there were several areas that were home to notably livid rifts, seen to shine red with hot magma or even to crackle purple with massive, exposed clusters of high-grade Agarthicite too reactive to safely mine. These rift areas bore the prefix ‘Bad’ in their names, such as the site where Mehmed’s ambition met its end, Bad Ischl. In these names ‘Bad’ meant ‘Bath’ or ‘Hot Spring’.

As far as humans were concerned, Eisental was a producing region.

Vast mining projects cut deep into the rock to extract a king’s ransom of minerals. Clusters of Agri-Spheres in the calm silt valleys harvested seabed soil, pearlite and geothermal deposit to use in meticulous and vital agroponic works. These produced multiple millions of tons of food– much of it sold unprocessed, requiring extensive logistics to deliver it to upscale grocers and restauranteurs in good condition. Hydrocarbon rigs collected petroleum and natural gas necessary for plastics, an absolutely vital component of deep ocean living. Factory complexes turned these and many more millions of tons of raw materials into products for numerous brands that had become aspirational parts of Rhinean life.

Yet, the ocean was vast and dark, and each of these necessary parts of Imbrian living could no better see one another than the blind creatures of the abyss saw their next meal. Between all of these stations and substations were vast stretches of lonely ocean, within which it still felt as if humanity had ceased to exist and never rebuilt their world under the waves. So as the Brigand navigated the waters, the crew saw darkness, marine fog, and more silt and rock. Stray animals; and perhaps the distant blip of merchant vessels on sonar.

 “Onward to destiny I guess.” Olga Athanasiou said sarcastically at the empty screen.

On the bridge of the UNX-001 Brigand, Erika Kairos, who had sat beside her, stood up.

“Not for destiny!” Erika said. “To defy Destiny and those who would confine us to it!”

With a dramatic flourish and a self-assured grin, she pointed her index finger at the dark.

And so resumed the journey of the revolutionary ship from the communist Union.


Previous ~ Next

Knight in the Ruins of the End [S1.7]

This chapter contains themes of suicidal ideation and child abuse.

“I won’t let them touch you, master.” Azazil said.

Azazil’s baton collided with the mask of the blue-robed aberration with a loud–

–nothing.

Blue color wafting from the entity met the deep purple color from Azazil’s silhouette, as solid a collision as the physical blow. Gertrude’s mind wanted there to be noise, the sound of an impact, so she heard the thud that should have been there, saw the crack it should have inflicted on the mask, saw the figure driven back by the attack in a natural response to pain. In a microsecond of thought, she envisaged what should have been.

Deep down, she was unsure if it happened.

It was an insane, split-second anxiety of reaching for a grounded reality.

It was not untrue that she saw that; but she also saw the creature simply dissipate into blue particles. One second there; one second gone as if it had never existed.

Which was the truth?

Soundless; formless; without a trace in the world.

Except a sparse instant of dancing color. Was that really what happened?

Gertrude stood shock still, drawn-wide eyes witnessing Azazil’s glowing purple baton crack into the shadows one after the other in swift retaliation for their advance.

They continued to twitch her way in jerky movements like badly-edited stop-motion. Their limbs would be retracted one instant and suddenly reaching the next. Trying to strike Azazil with their claws, trying to get their wafting blue clouds upon her, kept at bay by the purple color that was wrapped around her like a billowing cloak or a localized gust of wind.

Another enemy neared, its languid face briefly lighting up–

Azazil took a solid step forward for momentum before swinging.

Her eyes narrowed, her lips inexpressive, her face briefly lit up by the flash of an entity bursting under her attack. This time Gertrude could have sworn her baton went through the entity entirely, even before it had burst and dissipated. Azazil brought the baton back in front of her chest, her eyes keenly following the approaching entities, matching and checking each creature’s moves. She was agile and flexible and undaunted.

Gertrude observed everything happening, but it was as if her head was caught in a fog.

She felt sleepy. She was so exhausted, so drained.

She felt like she couldn’t take another step.

Her eyes became heavy. Her head pounded from the effort to stay awake.

As her vision wavered, the blue color of the entities seemed to grow in intensity.

Then she felt Azazil’s elbow strike her in the rib suddenly.

Not hard, but enough to startle her. Her vision focused again– but only briefly.

“Master, don’t fall asleep. That is their objective.” Azazil said.

“I–” Gertrude couldn’t speak. Her words sank back into her throat.

Sounds felt heavier than the strength of her vocal chords to lift them.

She was so tired that it was almost hopeless to try to do anything.

It was as if her body was slowly forgetting how to move, everything was so sapped from her, thinking was fast becoming an impossibility. Her body hurt, as if her muscles could no longer lift her weight and had begun to collapse from the effort of standing. Unfathomable sights that should have evoked apoplectic terror instead put a cloud before her eyes, as if she was too enervated to scream, too weary to break down into tears. She wanted so badly, more than anything, to lay down and fall asleep and ignore everything in front of her.

Her skepticism, her need for a material grounding to the world, her desire to make sense of the madness in front of her; all of it becoming as dull as her muscles felt supporting her weight. There was no rationality. She was like an animal. She was aware only of her body and the sheer agonizing need that was slowly making itself more and more real to her.

It was hopeless.

The world was so heavy. Her limbs started to shake with the weight.

And so, ever grew the fog. Turning intensely blue before her eyes.

“I’m sorry– I can’t– I can’t go on–”

Gertrude’s knees began to buckle. Her chest could not stay upright.

Azazil half-turned to look back on her, eyes widening with concern.

“Master!”

Gertrude mumbled to herself in lament.

“I was useless the whole time. I was helpless. There’s nothing I could do.”

“Master– no–!”

Blue color began to overtake the surroundings, crawling across the walls, rippling on the ceiling. Rock and metal and the pale moon of Azazil’s face all began to dissipate in the blue. With the blue there was not peace, however, only weight, sluggishness, burden. Blue like the crushing weight of the ocean, strength-sapping blue that slowed the world, thick enough to give light pause. She was being pushed down against the floor and even past it.

Gertrude began to tumble backward.

Her body fell and fell and did not hit the ground.

Nor the ocean around her.

Succumbing to the aberrant blue aether, Gertrude left the material world entirely.

It was not sleep, but a stillness that had deteriorated even the passage of time.


Gertrude fell and fell and she knew she was falling, but the lack of weight was a relief.

Despite the falling, she was at peace.

It was blissful, even, to descend into the eternal blue where nothing changed.

She felt that she was unburdened of the task of being, the effort of maintaining her own existence. There was no effort, there was simply the perfect stillness. To drift was automatic, to fall was just enough inertia to feel alive without the violence that was inherent in deliberate movement. In front of her foggy eyes there was a constellation of lights that were, all of them, blue. None of them shone brightly enough for feeling. There was no warmth, but unchanging surroundings left her with a comforting sense of stillness.

Was there a fall if there was no destination?

Here, there was no pain–

No thought, no worries, nothing external to consume her.

She drifted peacefully as if cradled on a breeze.

But there was in the midst of the fall an introduction of something else–

Passion.

It was like a painful spark that jabbed through her chest.

Spreading to her limbs, beckoning her to struggle.

Gertrude suddenly remembered all the currents that had come to intersect her own.

At first there was a sense of relief– but it was different than the blue nothingness.

It was mixed with her emotions– with them came regrets, frustrations–

She would not have to carry the burden of being High Inquisitor anymore.

No longer would she need to find a place in the world after failing to be Elena’s knight.

There was no need to reconcile her lust toward Ingrid with the lust she felt for other women.

Nile’s secrets could simply remain her own.

Victoria and her would not have to navigate the messy rekindling of their relationship.

Azazil would remain something like a bad dream that disappeared with the morning alarm.

Monika–

Suddenly none of these things felt comforting anymore, none of them felt weightless.

She could not let them come and go. They were hers, she claimed them!

Her heart began to feel hot, and the world began to feel heavy again–

Gertrude opened her eyes and immediately her throat filled with water.

She was surrounded in blue because she was submerged completely in water and it was terrifying to her. Her eyes burned from it, her throat and nose hurt immensely from being filled with it, her lungs struggled. She started thrashing limbs, kicking and paddling in a panic, trying to force herself out of the water with no sense of direction.

Being out in the water was death; every cell of her body screamed for escape.

In a panic she exerted so much force, that she felt as if she had overturned something.

She tumbled, arse over head, and then she hit something solid and flattened out.

Gasping for breaths she could finally take; her entire body in intense pain.

Somehow she had escaped the water and hit a hard floor. Her eyes still burned.

But when she opened them, she began to see blue again. But it was solid blue this time.

Not water, not lights, not those masked things and their blue spores and clouds.

Gertrude found herself laid flat on a tiled floor, its light blue cubic pattern extending all around her. It was on the floor, on the walls, it covered the roof without any change or deviation. Her hand reached out, and it touched water again– she whipped it back as if she had touched a burning chemical, but it was only a panic response.

She forced herself to sit up against a wall.

There was no explaining the transition in her surroundings,

from the station, from the cave, to this place.

In the small room she found herself in, there was a small pool. Not deep enough for her to have been fully submerged and drowning in it. It, too, was tiled the same as every other surface. There was dim light coming as if from under the water, projecting a swirling pattern over some of the roof. She could see out of this room, that there were even more pools connected by a short adjacent hallway. None of these pools followed a logical configuration– there were shallow and deep pools, some only one meter by one meter wide and long, others several cubic meters deep, arranged throughout the space at seemingly random. They reminded Gertrude of hot baths, in their seeming uniformity. But some were too deep, and others were shallower than a shower’s basin. They were connected by tiled walkways.

Forcing herself to a stand, her entire body aching, Gertrude walked to the next room over.

From it, she could see pathways snaking on all sides.

As far as she could see, every hall, every doorway, all led to even more pools.

These seemed to become even more bizarre the farther in she walked.

She began to see pools on the walls, retaining their water despite their position.

Pools on the roof, in places, with their water as still as if they were flat on the ground.

Gertrude walked for several minutes in stunned silence.

Everything was whisper quiet, and there were only more tunnels to follow, more pools.

It was as if she had fallen into some kind of maze.

“Azazil!” Gertrude screamed.

Somehow, her voice did not echo through the corridors and pool rooms.

Nothing in this place made any sense.

She was screaming for Azazil because that was the last person she had been stuck with. But she truly knew next to nothing about Azazil, or the old station in which they had become trapped. For all she knew, it was Azazil who was responsible for all of this, and trying to protect her from the creatures was entirely a façade. Gertrude wondered if someone had drugged her, or if she had been taken away to some bizarre place. Maybe there was equipment fucking with her senses– Azazil had mentioned being enthralled to a computer, maybe that was also the case here? No– that was because of STEM– it made no sense.

As far as Gertrude knew, she did not have a STEM, so that could not apply to her.

Gertrude’s mind was hurtling in every possible direction for answers.

What was the last ordinary thing she remembered?

She and Nile and Victoria had found those boxes marked with a surface era political logo.

Then Gertrude had heard Azazil cry for help– gotten separated– found Azazil–

Learned about Norn–

And then the creatures attacked them.

“I can’t even trust that I didn’t just go insane at some point during that.”

Did insane people realize they were insane? No– they were unaware of it, right?

Could she really have been seeing these pools in the flesh right now?

It was so frustrating.

She walked through the identical corridors unfolding into more bizarre pool rooms.

Finding nothing else anywhere around her. Unable to even tell if she was going in circles.

“My body hurts, so I can’t be dreaming. And I’m wracking my brain, so I can’t be crazy.”

At least she had water– and there was a vac-sealed dry ration bar in her suit too.

So she could endure at least a few more hours of walking.

But to what end?

If she wasn’t so terrified of just sitting down and dying, and if her mind was not so occupied with the bizarre images around her, she would have begun to fear a likely demise within this place. Walking kept her sane within the blue purgatory in which she found herself– if she could even be sane, while traversing such an inexplicable landscape as this. But was there any possibility of escape? Everywhere she had walked looked exactly the same.

Gertrude withdrew her sidearm. She made note of a wall and shot into it.

Tiles cracked and fell from the stricken site, jingling on the floor.

Leaving a little scar, unveiling plain baby blue concrete wall behind the tiles.

She could use this to make sure she was not walking in circles.

Continuing her journey, she put a hand on the left-hand wall and followed it.

Walking past several more pools, through several more hallways.

And never again seeing the hole she had put into the wall.

“I’m making progress, I guess.” Gertrude to herself. Her teeth chattered.

She was growing a bit cold. Though the air was very still in the pool rooms, she was wet.

Hand on the wall, she continued her journey.

After some time, Gertrude found herself in a distinctly larger room.

This in itself did not arouse her attention. But to follow the wall, she had to skirt around the edges of many more pools than before, and those edges were thin and tight. In the dim blue light and the shimmering ripples of water on the ceiling it was difficult to keep focus. She could have lost her footing entirely and fallen into a pool quite easily, which in her mind would not have done anything but annoy her– but then she considered she did not actually know whether what was in the pools was water– or whether that liquid would actually behave normally, nothing else about the situation was normal.

Nevertheless, she followed the wall with continuing frustration.

Then she chanced a look at her reflection in the still and clear water of the adjacent pool.

And the shock she felt almost did cause her to fall into it.

She drew back against the wall, kicking her feet.

Initially in the fear of some figure without description that she thought might jump at her.

But then with the stunned realization that she was seeing herself.

Herself– in a black uniform festooned with symbols of esoteric fascism.

She could even hear her own voice as if surrounded by the figure in the water–

“Standartenführer Gertrude Lichtenberg, reporting for duty. Mein schatzi.”

Smiling, even in that despicable uniform, and saying the last in such a sweet voice–

and a woman’s hand reaching from afar to lift her chin as if owning her–

Gertrude caught the briefest glimpse of the ‘little treasure’ of her other self.

Elena with blue and pink hair, in the same uniform, covered in hooked crosses and sun discs–

Tearing herself away from the sight, Gertrude charged across the thin strip of tiled floor separating one pool to another, and dropped, almost falling, hoping to see her reflection as it should have been. But the adjacent pool had a separate vision, both from reality as Gertrude knew it and from the last pool she had seen. Instead of a Volkisch officer, this Gertrude had clerical robes and wore her hair long and half-covered in a loose habit.

She silently entered a dark room filled with paintings and symbols of Solceanic belief.

“Apologies, holy pontiff. I needed to check up on you.” She said.

In the center of the room, a thin and bedraggled looking Elena gave her a tired look.

Now she was dressed in the papal garb and hat–

“Of course.”

“Another failed experiment?”

“Let’s not speak of it. Tend to my ablutions. I’m feeling– stiff.”

And the nun Gertrude smiled and bowed reverently, and the pontiff shed her robes,

exchanging glances full of– lust–

Gertrude tore herself from the pool and crawled pathetically to a third within reach.

Then she found herself in such an intersection of pools that she could see many of herself at a time, reflected in the waters. Then she was reflected in the ceiling and the walls, surrounded in herself as if carried on a mist that blended the light into apparitions. They walked past her, beside her and through her like ghosts but always playing their own scenes with their own aims as if these histories were currents washing over the unseen woman observing them from the pools. So many Gertrude Lichtenberg overwhelming her.

She saw one Gertrude who was a Katarran in the Pythian Black Legion, carrying out the ancient prophecy of an annihilating battle of the fittest, under the orders of the warlord, Elena; a Gertrude who was an officer in the Hanwan Konoe Shidan, and having been promoted following the crushing of a rebellion against the Empire as well as meritorious service in the conquest and subjugation of the Yu states, reverently sought even the briefest glimpse of Empress Elena; G.I.A. agent Gertrude McLyndon proudly holding a pile of compromising documents and photographs sure to discredit and tear apart the progressivist coalition challenging President Elena’s reelection; Gertrude as the Political Commissar of Captain Elena in a Union Cruiser on an important communist mission; and Gertrude the Praetorian, holding the power of life and death over Fueller Empress Elena–

“No– No– Stop it– I’m not– I can’t–”

Breathless, unable to escape from the figures and shadows, Gertrude shut her eyes.

Unable to make it all go away, unable to bear it–

So badly, she wanted to give in to the worst of herself and be one of those images.

To do anything, destroy anything, compromise anything, to hold the whole world back.

In exchange for her– but no– not these horrid facsimiles–

There was such a thing as a price too high to bear! Gertrude told herself this.

That if Elena had been anyone but herself, Gertrude may well have not followed her.

“Elena was none of those kinds of people. That’s why I love her–”

Gertrude grit her teeth. Of course, Elena was not the monster. Never Elena.

She was the monster. And it was her love for Elena which had made her a monster.

“No– that’s not true– I could have done things right– it was all my mistakes–!”

Some part of her realized that the thoughts she was having and voices she was hearing–

They were all mixing in her brain until she could not sort out what was real.

Unable to escape, to sort out her thoughts or bear any further visions–

Gertrude slid herself to one of the pools and pushed herself into it.

Immediately, she sank deeper and deeper than was possible.

Water filled her throat and nose with incredible rapidity.

Instantly, she was drowning again.

Panicking, thrashing, choking, in immense pain until her consciousness was obliterated.


Blue.

Even as her tear-stained eyes struggled to open, she still found herself surrounded in blue. Now the tiles were an even darker blue than before and their sectioning was much less obvious. She instantly felt ever more enclosed. The light, too, was dimmer, but it still seemed to come up from within the pools, of which there was one nearby.

Her hand had dipped inside it.

Gertrude laid on her back.

Soon as she recognized that she was herself, and awake, and saw her surroundings, she felt the biting cold again and resumed shivering. She retracted her hand from a pool and hugged herself, curling her legs up closer to her body. On the ceiling, the water, lit from under, cast shimmering white waves over the dark blue tiles. She stared at it, helpless and cold,

following the waves–

Until she noticed the shadow cutting across the center of the light show.

In a panic, Gertrude pushed herself up onto her feet and to a thundering step,

sliding over smooth slick tiles

falling hard on her shoulder and coming to lie

staring

into a pool much larger deeper darker like a blue hole in the world

occupied

“You’ve done more harm to yourself than I mean to you already.”

With her back to the wall, shivering with cold and fear, Gertrude stared in the center of the gaping blue maw that had become of the pool. There was a figure there, floating gently atop the surface. Slender with a long torso and limbs, and almost nymph-like, not simply in her beauty but in the pallid softness that her features seemed to take. Her hair was long and red and flowed over the water around her like a spreading bloodstain. She was dressed in a long robe which had been entirely soaked through, and clung to her hips and her small breasts in a way that, even in this situation, made Gertrude run a bit hotter than before.

Curiously, she had one single black horn and an over-long white tail, its end splitting like that of a whale or dolphin, almost as long as her body and somewhat thick.

When their eyes met– Gertrude could have sworn they were black with a yellow slit.

Then imperceptibly fast, so that it made her previous perception appear a mirage–

Those eyes changed color, becoming blue and green.

“I remember you.” Gertrude said, her lips trembling. “You– you attacked me–”

In her dreams, she had seen the trees, and seen a woman giving a speech, and seen a vast and horrible machine processing something ungodly and inhuman. Visions as if of other worlds, impossible places that felt terrifyingly familiar. In those places, this woman appeared. At times callous; at times barring the way; at times, tearing Gertrude apart.

Those memories of the pain inflicted by this woman caused Gertrude to wince.

And push herself further back against the wall–

There was nowhere to go.

When Gertrude pushed back, the edge of the pool became, suddenly, closer.

Her legs were in the water, she now sat on only enough tile to sit in at all.

Just as that edge had come closer, the woman now lounged right beside her.

Head and arms out of the water, her long and voluminous red hair on Gertrude’s lap.

One slender white finger traced the front of Gertrude from her sternum to her belly.

Spreading warmth wherever it touched. Giving off a hazy wisp of those strange colors.

In Gertrude’s pocket, the object Nile had given her was buzzing uncontrollably.

“You needn’t fear me. Like you, I am given into my passions. Sometimes I can no better control myself than if my right half and left half were different people. It’s hard to explain; but I’m in a good mood. I wanted to follow after you again. You have stumbled upon an interesting place. You have an uncanny ability to stumble in this way. Because you have a passionate, chaotic heart that is tearing through the world for a purpose. Just like mine.”

Gertrude felt her tensions dissipate, her muscles loosen up, and the cold fading.

The touch of this woman was perhaps the most soothing sensation she had ever felt.

Enough that Gertrude almost gasped when the woman simply lifted her fingers from her.

“Can you help me?” Gertrude asked. “You said I wandered here– well, I’m trapped now.”

At her side, the woman smiled. “You’re so bold– going right past names to favors.”

“You know who I am, don’t you?”

“But you don’t know who I am. And you won’t, without a proper introduction, Hominin.”

“Hominin? Well– I am Gertrude Lichtenberg.” Gertrude said, submitting to the demand.

“Gertrude Lichtenberg. Alright then– can you call me Eris?” Asked the red-haired woman.

Gertrude smiled a little. She started to feel safe. “As you wish. Thank you, Eris.”

Eris closed her eyes. Her lips slowly turned into a smile. She looked strangely placid.

“What are you thanking me for, Hominin? So easily forgetting the danger I represent?”

“You’re the only thing keeping me sane right now.” Gertrude said.

She was being coy, but Gertrude was certain this woman was doing something to her.

Something that helped her stave off the rot of mind and spirit in this place.

Gertrude came to realize that ever since the katov mass had turned blue, the same blue that permeated this evil place, she had felt tired. Tired, helpless, rushing blindly. Desperate to outrun something, so desperate it wiped her out; everyone else was just as tired as her too. No amount of vitamin jelly drinks could restore her. Blue that made the marrow turn cold, that made the fog of mind freeze into hard walls around thought and meaning. She had been so stupid; Nile had tried to tell her, but she did not want to stop and understand.

Gertrude had marched them all into the abyss’ insanity. Into its consumptive power.

Hundreds of expeditions had been devoured in holes like this. Unknowing until the end.

Only now, with that healing touch, was Gertrude finally able to realize her predicament.

But she did not feel panic. Her heart was steady and her breathing calm.

Instead, she felt like she had finally made a breakthrough.

Gertrude sat up straight.

Her boots sank further into the water, but she didn’t care anymore. Being wet was the least of her worries. Unable to make any headway, she resolved to catch her breath and try to clear her head. Blue ripples reflected eerily upon her face, which was mostly in shadow and barely visible in her reflection until a blue streak crossed her eyes. She glanced at the woman in the pool, who floated gently toward her, long tail curving further into the pool.

“You look so resigned. Have you finally accepted your situation?” Eris said.

“I’m collected. I’ve been going around in circles and getting jerked around for so long. Now I don’t know. I feel some kind of way. Right now, I just want to talk to you. Is that okay?”

She looked down at the water just as the red-haired woman floated closer to her.

Their eyes met, golden yellow and dark green.

In good humor– for once.

After circling these pools for so long the she wished she could gut herself with her knife–

Eris in the water, however absurd a sight, gave her hope for something.

“You remind me of someone.” Eris said.

Turning her head to meet her eyes further, her cheek caressed by the tiles.

Eris had an expression of uncanny fondness on her face. She looked so placid.

“Is the resemblance positive or negative?” Gertrude asked.

“She was someone who said she would protect me, no matter what.” Eris replied.

Gertrude smirked a little. “You feel too formidable to need protecting.”

Eris smirked. “What if I did? What if, as we speak, I’m in the greatest danger of my life?”

“Don’t tempt me.” Gertrude said. “I’m also the type to say ‘I would give my life for you.’”

“You are an awful cad.” Eris laughed. “I’m not so easy, you despicable hominin.”

“I’m serious.” Gertrude replied. She even started laughing a little bit too.

“Even if I told you my enemy is something too vast and impossible?” Eris replied.

She raised her eyes from Eris to the walls around them.

There seemed to be no passages out of this pool. No matter.

For once, Gertrude did not really want to go anywhere. Eris was too interesting.

“I’ve spent all my life putting my body between women and something vast and impossible. Sometimes, they even wanted me to do it.” She said, betraying a hint of sadness.

Eris seemed to pick up on her wistful tone of voice.

Her own eyes wandered too. She looked up at the tiled walls and the ceiling.

“Would you protect me, if I myself became your enemy?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Gertrude said. Now even more weary-sounding than before.

“You should give up. I am not able to be protected, nor am I worthy of it.” Eris said.

“And I’m not worthy of protecting anyone. You can’t be any worse than me.”

“You say that so easily. But my sins are monumental.”

“There are people who would say I’m utterly unforgiveable too.”

Gertrude swayed her legs gently in the bewitchingly blue water of the pools.

“I used to be a High Inquisitor of the Empire. My hands are stained permanently with so much blood. Blood from innocents whom I suppressed, and from my own allies and the people I turned into enemies.” She said. “I made many deliberately evil decisions. And as many mistakes. I don’t think I can make amends. But if you need someone– I can help you. I can’t just walk past someone drowning in the same stagnant water I’m drowning in.”

Eris looked up at the roof with a wan expression. Avoiding Gertrude’s own eyes.

“You’ve come a long, painful way, since your journey began.” She said. “In that sense, we are alike. Both groomed into the weapons of greedy empires, fighting for injustice, losing everything by our own foolish hands, including our identities. Trapped in liminal space, with a dead past and a foregone future. All we can do is to despair and rebel against the world.”

Eris continued to give the walls the same narrow wistful gaze.

“Eris– you know what this maze actually is, don’t you?” Gertrude asked.

There was a note of frustration finally creeping into Gertrude’s voice again.

She had been stuck, in motionless suspension, a blind idiot trapped in limbo. Time and again, dangers and obstacles beyond her ability and cognition erupted in front of her, and she would be rescued from her vanity by an ally with the answers. Her own power and skill had been utterly worthless. She was forced to grovel or to become someone’s damsel, unable to resolve any situation by herself. It was the same here. Whether it was Norn, Victoria, Nile, Azazil or now Eris. Gertrude was lucky to have their pity or she would be dead.

Every time, she lacked the ability to change anything.

Even outside this blue hell– everything had been going in circles.

Ever since she left Luxembourg– circles,

ever since she first stood between Sawyer and Elena,

ever since,

she was born,

spinning circles on her own heel,

all of it in vain,

“Ahh– to think I have to give succor to a Hominin. But– this doesn’t feel too bad.”

From the water, an arm stretched up, and silk-soft fingers caressed Gertrude’s cheek.

That touch, so tender and warm, snapped Gertrude out of her sudden despair and fury.

“Listen well Hominin. Rarely do I enlighten your kind. This liminal space is built up of resonant human emotions.” Eris said. “The Aether is a reflection of humanity. It is a body whose flesh is the human soul. Its blood formed of human perspective, and circulated in veins the gifted can see. Everything that is human can exist here, circulating endlessly wherever humans have been and wherever they desire to go. Everything you fear, everything you love, everything that brings despair, joy or even stultification. But in this specific place, a single emotion has overwhelmed everything, and the ‘blood’ has become clotted.”

Ordinarily, Gertrude might have reacted adversely toward that explanation.

She had been doing a lot of that lately too.

But at that moment she wanted that to stop and had the conviction to stop it.

No more panicking and shrieking pathetically at the things she did not understand.

She wanted to understand. This was part of the world too– she had to master it.

Gertrude kept hurrying to get somewhere, and she ended up here, nowhere.

She ran past every explanation only wanting what was convenient and simple.

Always missing the important context, the crevices between statements, the hard truths.

Her heart needed to open itself to the possibility of what she was seeing.

“You are saying that this is a place of emotions; an overwhelming emotion created it. Can my emotions change this place back? Can my emotions free me from here?” Gertrude said.

“It’s not so easy– but your emotions are powerful, Gertrude Lichtenberg.” Eris said.

Gertrude scoffed. “My emotions have only brought tragedy– I fear relying on them.”

Eris’s eyes met Gertrude’s again.

This time, they had some of their former scrutinizing coldness again.

“Your emotions forged and destroyed bonds. They upended your life. They brought you to this place.” Eris said. “They can be a power to destroy, but they also brought you many followers and believers, many close bonds, the armor you wear and the weapons you wield. In that sense, they have not only brought tragedy, but have also created your triumphs.”

Gertrude’s passion had brought her from the heights of the Imbrium to the depths of this trench. But she couldn’t accept that so easily. It wasn’t just her emotions, as a disconnected entity or power. Her emotions were not something that happened without her.

They were not autonomous.

It was herself. She stuck herself into this endless circle.

Her eyes began to sting and weep again, even with Eris’ touch upon her cheek.

Teardrops crashed on the surface of the pool.

Sending hot red vapor into the air.

“Are you wavering again? So easily? Even after my comfort?” Eris sounded offended.

“I’m sorry. It’s– I was just so stupid. I can’t call any of it a triumph.” Gertrude whimpered. “You don’t understand. I was delusional. I used those bonds as my excuse. I convinced myself everything I was doing for Elena was consecrated, necessary, and good for her. And yet– along the way, I betrayed the trust of so many other people who needed me.”

Just thinking about ‘emotions’ had set her off on a warpath again. She went out of control.

“They saw me as a symbol of hope. That a swarthy-skinned and dark-haired little brat without a drop of noble blood nor the vast wealth of a capitalist, could grow up and climb to the highest peaks of the Empire using only her martial ability, and could achieve control, and with it, independence and agency. But I didn’t climb anything but a mountain of corpses. I never had any merits. I cheated, I begged, I conspired, I killed so many people, some of whom deserved retribution but many, many more that did not deserve what I did to them.”

Gertrude lifted her eyes from the water and met Eris’s gaze again.

“I don’t believe in the Imbrian Empire. My uniform, that flag, all of that crap– none of it was worth shit to me. All I believed was in Elena von Fueller. I loved her with all my heart. It made me human– she was the only reminder that I had a soul. That I still had a beating heart.”

“Gertrude–”

Eris tried to speak up, but Gertrude pounded her fist on the tiled edge of the pool and put a crack in its perfect facade, shattering the tiles. Eris stared at the cracks with surprise.

And so Gertrude continued to lament.

“And in the end, I was ready to kill her too! I would have killed her if I couldn’t have her. She invalidated everything I had become. She never asked me to; and I never asked her. But I became this for her and she rejected it, and when she did, my future disappeared. I became suspended in nothingness. And now I am nothing but a monster. Emotions? What good are my emotions? Norn sent me down here, maybe hoping to alter my perspective. I rushed in with all the greed and obsession of my monstrous heart looking for a treasure at the end of a rainbow. I wanted this place to just give me her strength as if I deserved a reward!”

Eris’s eyes softened slightly.

“But I just failed.” Gertrude said. She smiled a hopeless smile. It was the smile of a dead woman, she thought. She saw herself reflected in the pool. So pale, so helpless. “I know that now. I can’t do anything. Even before I became trapped in this hell of empty pools, whatever this place is– it doesn’t even rate compared to how meaningless my life outside here was. How circular and empty and delusional. I burned all of the joy I could have had with her. I foreclosed on every other possibility. Anything outside my fucking circle of hell.”

More tears streamed down her cheeks. Red vapor steamed from the blue water.

“I’m lost. I’m lost! I don’t know which way to go. You are asking me to make use of my emotions? These are my emotions. I am a raging animal who wants to tear her own fucking face off. I can’t use these emotions for anything good. All I can do is rage impotently!”

“We are more alike than even I thought.” Eris said. “So will you just sit here like me?”

Gertrude fell silent, staring at the water with that lost smile.

“How disappointing.” Eris said. “And here I thought it would be worth following you.”

Her tear-stained eyes met Eris’s beautifully pale face once again.

“I’m sorry. I’m so pathetic. I’ve been saved so many times the past few days. I’ve not been able to protect anyone. You’re right. I am a cad. I am just trying to find a new lie that I can tell myself, desperately, even now, even in this god-forsaken lightless hole into which I have been cast. I can’t protect you. I can’t protect anyone. You’re right– I have lost my beginning and I’ll never reach my destination. You called it a liminal space? Then I’m just stuck in limbo.”

At the sound of her voice, the walls shuddered. Red cracks put upon blue tiles.

“What about Monika?” Eris asked. “She’s in danger.”

Gertrude’s breath caught in her chest. Monika– that poor girl believed in her–

–but it was no use,

“Gertrude, if anything were possible– what would your ambition be?” Eris asked.

Gertrude’s fists tightened. Anger swelled in her heart. She hated that question.

She hated these what-if’s and sophistry.

Already, the meaningless answer had formed in her mind. It was immediate and absolute.

“I’d cut a trail of blood across this fucking Ocean. I would destroy the remains of the Imbrium Empire.” Gertrude said. “I’d tear down everything separating us without mercy–!”

Her and–

Elena–?

Ingrid–?

Victoria–?

Nile?

Sawyer even–?

Perhaps–

Eris too?

“You are a fascinating Hominin. I feel– I feel so close to you. I– I want you, Gertrude.”

There was a moment of silence again between herself and Eris.

Gertrude noticed Eris’s eyes becoming shadowed.

Her bangs, and the angle at which she was laying on the edge of the tiles.

It hid her eyes– but Gertrude could see her lips slowly curl into a smile.

“Gertrude, you know what your emotions can do? They can put a crack in these tiles.”

Gertrude, for an instant, felt a familiar stirring inside herself.

She felt a sudden desire to take possession of Eris too.

Before her eyes, a flash of a world where she could exploit her, where she could use her knowledge, her powers, her beautiful and strange body, in every possible advantageous way. Eris became power and treasure in her mind, became salvation, redemption, sublimity, pleasure. She could use her until her dark heart was full. There was a mighty red haze before Gertrude’s eyes that showed her pleasures and triumphs beyond imagination. With control over Eris, she could escape, she could rescue all of her crew and her ship, she could attack all of her enemies, and take back Elena, and sweep through the world in her fury–

And she stopped herself, utterly, and completely. Her emotions were a spiraling storm.

She could not let herself treat anyone like that again– could she–?

“Can I still raise my head after all of this–?”

As soon as the words left Gertrude’s lips, Eris was suddenly face to face with her.

She had left the pool instantly, it was as if she had always been standing beside her. Curled around her, embracing her, and with a gentle hold on Gertrude’s chin, forcing her to lift her head. Her face was so close, Gertrude could feel her breaths warming her lips.

Close enough to drown in her eyes.

Close enough to kiss.

Her lips took Gertrude’s own, so hungry it almost felt like she would bite.

Tasting the subtle hint of iron in her tongue and throat, Gertrude felt her mind waver.

She saw herself sharing this kiss under a sky rather than the ocean.

Saw an enormous tree-like structure looming over the two of them.

And then Eris ripped apart right in front of her.

Every piece of her torn out and scattered.

But just as quickly and with much more emotion, she saw the kiss and reciprocated.

Painted blue in the pool room but beginning to glow gently red instead.

When they parted, a string of spittle between their once-interlocking tongues–

Gertrude was rendered speechless again. In front of that nymph-like, dream-like beauty.

That taste had been so– dangerous– intoxicating– but fulfilling too.

Eris stared at her dead in the eyes, close as warm breath. Looking at her so– covetously.

“Promise me, Gertrude Lichtenberg. Take your power and use it to destroy your enemies. Seize every treasure which you feel is yours and guard your hoard like a dragon. Let yourself be envious, greedy, lustful, furious and vain. Let sloth overtake you and experience despair. Allow all colors of the aura into yourself. Live your darkest passion. Don’t stop moving. Don’t accept being in a place like this ever again. Become someone who will protect me; not in the midst of this, but at the height of power over a new world and perhaps, at my side.”

She smiled, rapturously, almost– insanely– her aura becoming vast and stark white–

“Don’t put up with the path. Seize the destination. Betray this world; crush it in your fist.”

“Eris–”

“Promise me– and I’ll help here. And we’ll meet again too. Out there.”

There was no denying the allure of her words.

Gertrude was full of nothing but contempt for the world.

This was not a world in which she or any of the people she had come to care about could live in peace. Tearing down the high towers and standing over the rubble would be doing the world a favor. Building something new and better over the heap would be mercy. But it was the least she could do; and the minimum required was for the Imbrium Empire to be completely annihilated. It was the only way she could live with herself.

Emperor Lichtenberg— she had been called that in jest.

And yet, in the brilliant and fond eyes of this ‘Eris’ it felt like she could see that world.

A world in which she had power. A world in which all the current rules were overturned.

Creating a new order by which all of these tragedies could be averted.

The final death and burying of the Imbrian Empire.

Vengeance against all of its architects.

And the rise of the empire of the future, her empire– The Agarthic Empire.

“I promise you.” Gertrude said. “I will tear my way out of this. I will find you.”

“What if you made an enemy out of me? What if I tried to stop you?”

Eris was testing her conviction.

But she didn’t know Gertrude as perfectly as she thought.

Her words were as dark and heavy and hot as the shielding on a reactor.

“I wouldn’t let you make that mistake. I want your power too. If we’re alike as you say–”

Gertrude smirked.

“Then I’ll become like you someday. I am a monster too. I’ll claim you for myself first. I will not let you get in my way; nor will you escape. I will use you, Eris; everything of you.”

Eris’s face warped into a grin.

“Let us seal this covenant, Gertrude Lichtenberg. If you possess the conviction.”

In the next instant, Gertrude found herself on her back, pushed back from the pool.

On top of her, Eris loomed, her golden eyes shining.

Her lips spread, revealing sharp, hungry teeth.

She descended on Gertrude, who resolved to keep still and endure it.

Eris bit down into her shoulder and tore a piece of her flesh right into her mouth.

Rather than agony, however, Gertrude felt warmth, closeness, affection

through those fangs

ripping skin, tearing fibers, blood swallowed up

she was filled with something

made a part of it

connected to a grander whole

It was as close to paradise as she had ever neared, and she felt her chest fluttering.

“Gertrude. I am a sputtering throat without heart or limbs. I have been ripped apart and remade whole and been swept by currents like dust. I may not be– myself– next time.”

Eris’ gaze met Gertrude’s own. Lit up a dim red by Gertrude’s growing aura.

“I want to believe that something of me can be saved. That something of us can be saved.”

In one instant, Eris’ tears dropped from weary eyes–

And she put her head up close to Gertrude, looking so helpless and defeated.

Gertrude reached up, wanting to touch her again, to pull her in tight–

And as suddenly she was gone, in a sweeping current formed of a myriad colors.

For a moment, Gertrude felt the absence of her warmth, and the blue despair crept in–

–but she would not accept it any longer.

She would not settle for suffering loss after loss.

Her red passion brimmed, a thin shining aura, and the blue wisps scattered from her like flies being driven off by smoke. After Eris’ departure, the room tried to go dark, but Gertrude was her own light. She stood from the ground, fighting back tears, but filled with purpose. Red streaks accompanied her steps, dim at first but red enough to vanquish the dark blue.

She walked, filling in the negative, a light in the storm, a matchfire in void.

Rational thoughts of hopelessness, of being trapped, of seeing the impossible surroundings and recoiling with fear, of the need to curl up and preserve life for as long as she could, all of it burned in that insane red. Gertrude was instead filled with a conviction that was backed by no evidence of her senses, and it afforded a clarity she had never felt in her life. There was nothing in front of her but a straight line forward. If it didn’t exist, she would carve it. In that moment, there was no wall strong enough to stop her. No length she could not cross.

No depth too unreachable.

All of these unseemly blue tiles cried out for a pattern only a battering could inscribe.

Gertrude reached her hands to where she had been bitten.

Almost disappointed to find no wound there. She almost wanted to be marked.

“I’ll claim her. She’s down there somewhere– some part of her is. I know it.”

Gertrude looked at the fingers that had touched the site of Eris’ bite.

Closed them into a fist.

And put that fist directly through the wall of the pool rooms.

She expected to meet any amount of resistance, and for a second she thought she saw the walls actually, physically crack, fissures spreading through the wall and up the ceiling and even into the water itself, cracking everything like glass– but then in the blink of an eye, her entire surroundings had simply changed from what they had been previously, annihilated immediately. Consumed in the devastating red they burned away like paper set alight.

Gertrude had forged her own chaotic red path through their ordered blue despair.


In place of the pool rooms there was suddenly a long and tall hallway of cobblestones.

All of the cobbles had sooty burnt traces as if a fire had raged through the hallway.

Stained glass windows shining all around her some set at impossible directions and angles as if not anchored to a physical wall, or as if the wall had been bent awkwardly around them. But the cobblestone was continuous, it climbed the walls, it formed the ceiling, and it was unbroken even in those places where there were seemingly organic breaches of their geometry. Gertrude was left briefly speechless by the grandeur of this place compared to the tight, looping pool rooms. It was as if this place housed something enormous.

She was not alone. There was much more activity here than in the pools.

Gertrude saw both near and far a dozen of those masked aberrations that had been trying to overwhelm her and Azazil. She had her guard up and awaited an attack. They did not seem to notice her, however, and after a few tense minutes she relaxed. They dragged their bloated arms behind their cloaked bodies, all of the facial features imprinted on their white masks contorting into dazed and stupid-looking expressions. They were making their way down the corridor, following the far off walls into the distance without aim or aggression.

Closing her fists and steadying her breathing, Gertrude followed them from afar.

Soon as she began walking, she noticed nothing in the distance seemed to come closer.

But she would not give up– the appearance of hopelessness was the aim of the blue color.

Stubbornly she continued to walk even though she seemed to make no progress.

She then noticed that the stained glass windows had actual shapes, and depicted scenes.

Scenes of a golden-haired girl with dog-like ears, rendered abstract but dreadfully familiar.

“Monika.” Gertrude said. Feeling a sense of trepidation again and smothering it down.

From one of her pouches, she withdrew the aetherometer that Nile had given her.

Stirring continuously, like a tablet vibrating to inform the owner of a message.

All of its face had become distorted with spiraling shades of blue that became impossible to read. However, the more concentrated on it the more she could feel something from it. That feeling became sound. Sound that when it crossed into her became a voice and a voice which she recognized. Gertrude listened, shuddered and had to fight to keep her fire alight.

Somehow the aetherometer was broadcasting Monika’s voice.

“Sleep soundly, peacefully, without resentment.” She whispered in a mischievous voice.

There was a note of palpable desperation. It was an unsettling tone of voice.

Like Monika had gone mad.

“Sleep the eternities away. Without pain, without bigotry. In the eternal sleep there lies our paradise. We are equals in sleep. We have no war or famine or genocide. Join our deep blue and beautiful sleep. It will be so easy. It will be so kind. You have needed it so long.”

That suggestive voice tempted Gertrude to surrender herself, and she was weak to it.

Indeed– it would have been so easy. And it would have felt so kind.

True– Gertrude had needed it for so long.

But she lifted her feet and continued despite the inherent difficulty.

Fire slept when it was snuffed out and ceased to burn.

Gertrude stubbornly tried to shut it out of her mind, descending the hallway.

As she walked, she saw movement out of the corners of her eyes and realized that the scenes on the stained glass windows seemed to be changing. Like projector slides, they would blink through short animations in the glass frames. When Gertrude stopped to look, however, the abstractions in the glass were given photorealistic shape. She saw Monika as she knew her; and saw Monika in the flesh in ways she never had known before.

A child; a young woman; a prisoner.

“It is impermissible for a Loup to disbelieve God. We exist only by the grace of God.”

“If God is the reason I was born, he can have his grace back.”

Voices accompanied by the cracking sound of a slap.

Monika was not always so different from others. Because in fact each person is not so radically different from the rest. But they all had the radicalism beaten out of their souls in different ways. Monika never gave up hers. She stood aside the crowd during oaths, she failed to perform drills, she gave nothing of herself onto God in church, and she dreamed and prepared instead for study. There were people in her life who encouraged her, who assisted her greatly and nurtured her desire for knowledge. Teachers who understood; liberal church folk who took pity; Imbrians looking from outside-in who judged the culture of the Loup without acknowledging the culpability they had in its creation and corruption.

It was this last group who offered Monika the most hope in her endeavors.

“I want to escape to an Imbrian school. I want to learn what makes up the world.”

How does the world work?

Could one learn about energy and matter to understand cruelty and hopelessness?

Could a Loup turn her back on God and War and Blood and lead her own free life?

A too-young Monika fought with everything she had to try to realize her goal.

And she was defeated.

Family had an iron hand; the Church had a baleful eye; and Imbrians had half hearts.

“Don’t worry– our therapies have put many anti-social girls back on the correct path.”

Cretinous voices promised anything that could not happen to those who had already forfeit.

Still, Monika did not give up.

Even as Gertrude stared at more and more scenes of captivity and abuse.

Every step of the way, that same little Loup protected her rebellious and inquisitive soul.

Gertrude felt her own body growing heavier as she witnessed the scenes.

Scolded right in her face so that the spittle of her “instructors” fell upon her cheeks.

Beaten.

Stood before the rest of the wayward children and humiliated.

Denied food.

Forbidden to sleep, even so far as being denied a bed or chairs.

“Why?”

Gertrude asked herself, but Monika’s voice came out of her throat.

“Why did they do this to me? Are my desires so terrible?”

If all of this was done in the name of God, then God was nothing but a demon.

And his world was a Hell itself.

“Gertrude.”

She lifted her boot and set it down on the ground again.

Without thinking, she had moved– or everything had moved her.

There was in front of her, a threshold, an archway door open into a church.

Pews made of fake wood grain led up to a grand altar behind which was a vast organ. Lead-and-copper cross-shaped pipes jutted out at wild angles from a throbbing mass of wet flesh. All of it set upon a series of tentacles that dangled over the edge of the altar’s raised stage. In the pews sat the masked creatures, sleeping, led to the source of their stupefaction.

In front of the vast, fleshy, throbbing organ stood Monika herself.

Her blond hair was partially wet and completely disheveled. Her irises were surrounded by red rings and had begun to partially warp into blue fractals creeping toward the edges of the eye. Physically she remained unchanged, being short but an adult in form as Gertrude had ever known her. Even under these circumstances, that wild and irreverent grin was on the same beautiful face Gertrude was familiar with. She dressed in a long blue and white robe with a tall hat, and rather than the mushrooms which the aberrations around them wore or grew on themselves, Monika was wrapped in nightshades blooming with black, suppurating fruits. She had a mask, like the other inhabitants of this space, but she wore it hanging from the nightshade plants like they were chains. Gertrude saw her radiating blue color.

“Welcome to the church of the Drowning Prophecy, and to your deliverance from pain.”

Behind her the organ let off irregular and discordant notes as if attempting to make music.

“I’m happy to see you, Gertrude. Other than myself, I want to give you peace most of all.”

Monika held out a hand in invitation and Gertrude, heart racing, stepped into the church.

She crossed the pews of sleeping aberrations to stand below Monika.

It reminded her of whenever she saw Monika atop some equipment, looking down at her.

But she wasn’t smiling anymore. Her kind little smiles were lost to the madness.

“Gertrude, you doubt me don’t you? Or in fact, did you ever believe in me at all?”

“I’ve always had the utmost esteem for you. I’ve never given up on you for a second.”

Tendrils of blue color from Monika’s body prodded the edge of Gertrude’s stark red aura.

“I am a genius, Gertrude. I’m a genius and a child prodigy, a generational talent. Everyone was afraid of what I represented.” Monika smiled. But it sent a chill down Gertrude’s spine. There was none of her warmth there. “That is why I understand well– why I have finally deduced everything in the world. I’ve been thinking about it for my entire life. But there is no evidence to suggest that there is any value in continuing to endure pain in this wretched life. There is no saving it; no preventing the forces that extract every second of suffering they can from us to power this infernal machine; no accountability for its architects.”

Monika spread her arms wide and the tentacles of the organ unfolded and stretched.

“We have control over only one thing. One life, which we can do with as we please.”

A series of guttural noises came out of the pews. Startled, Gertrude turned around.

One by one, the sleeping aberrations in attendance retched and spat up something black.

They fell from their seats, banging their heads on the floor and the pews around them.

Gertrude had seen them disappear when struck before– to see them fall over and die like human beings was shocking to her. It felt wrong– like these creatures should not have had this end, but it was all for some reason engineered for them. That sleep which came from their soporific mushroom spores was different from the eternal sleep now given to them by the black bile they had ingested. All of the aberrations were destroyed.

Monika’s nightshades– she must have poisoned all of them?

“This is the peace you want to grant me, Monika? And I presume, the whole crew?”

“Eternal Sleep is a kindness, Gertrude! It is our answer to God and his malfeasance. He will toy with us no longer. And all those who tormented us will disappear with him.”

Gertrude did not know what to say in response. It was difficult to muster her conviction.

She had never been in a situation where she had to argue for being soberly awake.

For herself– she had certainly thought before, and would probably think again, that it was too much to endure. Both the lightless world in which she found herself; and the fact that she had ruined so many elements of her life. She had lost what she had regarded as the core of her being, and the driving direction for much of her life. She lost her planned future.

Certainly she had thought about giving up before.

More than anything, however, her heart hurt so badly for Monika.

Words could not express it.

There was no taking back all of the horrible things that had been done to her. Nothing that Gertrude could do or give would wipe out the knowledge that all of the people who were supposed to protect Monika betrayed her; that her own warped culture had delivered her beatings her entire life; that her only crime was not falling into line with the rest of society’s mindless edicts. The Imbrium Empire had scarred her. Gertrude had already done what she could do– she had tried to validate Monika and to give her a worthy place to belong.

Regardless– such a thing would never wipe out the years that she had to endure, drowning. In the sanatoriums, under the oppression of her family and the church, for decades, unable to make official her genius. The military should not have been her salvation from that.

Gertrude could understand how a girl so beaten down might contemplate surrender.

The Imbrium Ocean was a dark and horrible place where people suffered needlessly.

Humanity’s final refuge on a dead planet.

Was it worth all of this loss? All of this pain? All of this injustice?

Untold billions of their ancestors died with the planet– for this?

Why not just give it all up forever if there was no deliverance from pain?

Gertrude shook her head. Clutching her chest like she wanted to touch the fire in it.

There was one good reason perhaps. Gertrude had one argument in her.

“Monika, I want you to come back with me.” Gertrude said.

She extended a hand up to the stage for Monika to take if she so chose.

“To toil away on your ship for your benefit?” Monika said.

“No. I’m not going to force you to do anything. But if you would accompany me, I would be very happy. Not as your commander– as someone who esteems you. You’re immensely strong, and you are incredibly smart and incisive; and you have a really cute laugh.” Gertrude tried to smile at Monika, who stared in confusion. “My life is pretty bleak, I must admit. But it would be so much worse without you. I care about you a lot, Monika. I want to know you’re okay and I want to do anything I can for you. You’re a cherished companion.”

Monika’s fingers curled into fists. She started shaking, staring at Gertrude.

“Gertrude, I would not suffer another day on this forsaken hell-hole just for you.”

“It’s not just for me either. Ingrid would be devastated to lose you.” Gertrude said.

“Ingrid?” Monika paused, her eyes drawing wide.

“She’s bad at demonstrating it, but she understands you. And she cares about you too.”

“Neither of you understand anything! You really want me to remain awake through this?”

With a boom and the cracking of the plastic planks of the stage floor, the tentacles writhed.

Smashing up and then down, the pipes playing a furious disharmony.

Vibrating right through Gertrude’s guts; but she stood her ground, her hand still raised.

“Monika, let me take you away from that thing. Everyone must be so worried.” She said.

“You’re–” Monika grit her teeth. She began to weep. “You’re dodging my questions–”

“I’ve given you my answer.” Gertrude said, smiling. “I want this ugly world to be more beautiful for your presence. Monika, if you take my hand, I’ll help you stay awake with me.”

“Gertrude– but– you’ve been through– would you really keep enduring– even after–?”

Monika was crying openly, a deluge. Her words came out choppy and anxious.

And the organ-thing behind her stirred with ever growing violence.

Gertrude stood up as straight as she could and delivered her clearest answer.

“I will endure. Monika, if it would save you, I would never even try to look at Elena again.”

It was time to let go of her own terrible dream that was drowning her in her sleep.

And at the power of those words the entire church had a spasm of agony.

As if the walls were those of a lung or a heart expanding and contracting, the stone and the stained glass stretched until the mortar joining them nearly split, and fell back into place with a booming and crunching sound. Monika’s nightshades started wilting, the fruits falling to the ground and rotting rapidly. Her mask had a crack in it; and red cracks began to appear on the floor, on the pews, across the walls and ceiling, emanating from where Gertrude was standing. They glowed and put permanent scars in the structures.

In response one of the tentacles bore down on Gertrude like a thrown fist.

With its end curled into a mass almost the size of her entire body–

–meeting a concave riot shield that held the blow at bay.

“Monika! Run! I’ll catch up with you!” Gertrude shouted.

Her eyes flashed red; and with a flick of the wrist, a vibroblade was in her hand.

She pulled back her shield, reached and swung far, the blade crackling bright with aura.

Red slice severing the blue tentacle leaving a gelatinous seeping wound.

Up on the stage, Monika stood paralyzed, weeping, shaking.

Gertrude discarded her shield and rushed to the stage, leaping up to Monika’s side.

In her wake, her aura formed a billowing cape now clipped to an ostentatious red and gold military uniform. A garrison cap rested upon her head, and her hair was tied in its neat bun behind her head once again. None of her inquisitorial symbology was present, and this was not a uniform of any particular nation. But it was a uniform, jacket, pants, boots, shirt, all formed of her red glowing aether that flowed from her impassioned heart.

So attired, Gertrude stood between Monika and the thrashing organ.

“It’s this thing that is the ‘Drowning Prophecy’ isn’t it?” Gertrude said.

In this place she developed an almost insane certainty, as if a whispering voice in her ear told her all of the truths she would tell herself. Her red conviction against the blue despair.

Buoyed by enkindled emotions, Gertrude reached to her side for a weapon.

And when she lifted her hand, there was a familiar black grenade launcher on it.

Gertrude pulled the trigger and a 40 mm explosive grenade launched out of the tube.

The munition hurtled toward the tentacled horror, soaring between its appendages.

Blue aura from the arms intensified in response, slowing the munition.

When it exploded the fire and force of the grenade barely touched the monster.

As if the explosion itself had been slowed and smothered within that aura.

Gertrude’s grenade launcher dissipated in her hands, and a sword appeared in its place.

Monika was too shocked to run, so she had to stand her ground here.

Covering herself with her riot shield and bracing for attack, trying to plan a response.

The Drowning Prophecy was like a lung, pierced through by the church pipes.

Writhing meat that made up its bulk expanded and contracted in a predictable sequence. Its labored breaths went through the pipes piercing it and made discordant music. Its severed sinews made up its tentacles, all of which slobbered and slid out from under its bulk, several meters in length. Such a lifeform could not have possibly existed, but in this realm of emotion, she could understand its existence. It was as if something like this being had been in the back of her mind, something primal and shapeless. It was not this fleshy monster, but the fleshy monster was an abstraction of it. A signifier of something unspoken.

Looking upon it, she could feel the temptation to a sublime hopelessness.

Only the enflamed red aether emanating from her body staved off those thoughts.

Wreathed within that cloak, absurd certainty protected her and drove her to action.

With her sword and shield, she leaped forward into the reach of the mass.

Tentacles began flying at her in all cardinals and angles.

She was almost sure she would find some of these appendages having no connection to their main body, lashing at her from impossible directions. But even as they flew, she could predict them, seeing traces like reverse shadows which appeared before their origins rather than trailing after them. Even amid the pressure of the furious and sweeping blows from the slick tentacles each thrice the width of her own arms, Gertrude could set her shield before each blow. She shoved into the attacks, or swung her sword and clashed with the arms, putting scars or severing tips. Deflecting the cage of meat that struggled to ensnare her.

Despite the onslaught, Gertrude advanced into the shadow of the monstrosity.

Step by embattled step, battering away the meat with furious swings.

Until she made it between the guard of several tentacles.

Drawing back her arm, she put all her strength into a thrust at the throbbing mass–

In real time, she felt the deep blue aether sapping all of the strength of her blow.

Until she dropped her sword at the “foot” of the being, and even her knees became heavy.

Gertrude retreated several steps to avoid being boxed in,

setting her back against a fast-approaching tentacle that dug through her midsection

sprouting a sharp tip out of the sternum

Blood burst dramatically out of the wound, as red as her aura had become.

Gertrude’s body reacted to the assault in natural ways.

Her chest pushed out as her back arched from the blow, she cried out in pain, her throat filled with fluid and her breath arrested. But she was not dead, and in fact, she barely felt any acute pain. Even as the tentacle lifted her centimeters above the floor, Gertrude did not lose her lucidity completely, nor was she paralyzed by it. Nevertheless, she could merely writhe on the tentacle skewering her, reaching blindly behind her back.

Blue aura glowed in the tentacle, attempting to spread into Gertrude’s red aura.

Aether pulsated from the wound. Gertrude found herself unable to call for a weapon.

Behind her back, she finally grabbed hold of the tentacle.

Her limbs shook as she struggled against it.

All of her mind was consumed with escape, with persevering; she saw the tip of the tentacle shaking through the center of her chest, and grit her teeth, demanding with every fiber of her being the weapons to tear it to pieces, to free herself from it, to reconstitute herself; she wanted her body to be rid of the intrusion, she was consumed with this desire, fight or flight, and her mind raced, her emotions spiraled. Clashing blue and red over her pierced heart and the tip of the tentacle began to thrash and steam came off its slick exterior, its blue sheen overcome with licks of red vapor trying to burn it and tear at it and devour it.

She needed a weapon. If she had a weapon she could cut herself from this creature.

Vibroswords, handguns, assault rifles, truncheons, grenade launchers–

So many weapons had crossed through her hands– all of them could be beckoned–

However– her spiraling mind settled upon a different interpretation of that truth.

All of those tools had been given into her hands by the Inquisition.

And her hands turned those tools into weapons.

This felt like a truth she had been missing.

Something locked into place.

Gertrude accepted the culpability– the monstrosity– but also the power in her hands.

Said mournfully but without excuse: “I myself was the weapon.”

Wet ripping noises issued from behind her as the flesh of her hands split open.

Black vibrating razor-like rectangular claws dug into the Drowning Prophecy’s tentacles.

On Gertrude’s chest, her flesh enclosed over the tentacle and sent its severed tip flying.

As if a maw had opened on her breast and devoured the tentacle that had pierced her.

She dropped to the ground on feet first unsteady, but quickly recovered her posture. She felt her hands brimming as if with electricity, just under the surface of her skin. Everything felt lighter and more flexible and malleable, as if her wrist could turn 360 degrees and her arms could fold into themselves. As if skin and muscle could move with the ease of fingers. Her new clawed digits moved as naturally as any other appendages. They were wreathed in red aura because they were part of her. Part of the weapon Gertrude Lichtenberg.

One step forward; two and three; she broke into a run.

Deep into the blue aura of the aberration, but its effects could not slow or stop her.

Her entire arm shifted, all her fingers became as one.

Absorbing the steel and plastic of her riot shield into her arm itself.

Forming a shining red spear attached to her that moved with her exact conviction.

In a sprint, a charge, and a screaming thrust of her arm–

Gertrude stabbed the Drowning Prophecy directly into its contracting mass.

Before her red-ringed eyes, half-overtaken by red fractals– the aberration burst like a bubble of meat spraying gore into the air. In the first instant of its destruction its body behaved like a physical object that had been devastatingly struck, the pipes bursting out of bloody meat, the tentacles thrashing in horrendous pain. Then the entire thing turned into blue dust that blew past Gertrude like a stiff breeze. She shut her eyes and it was just gone.

On the altar stage, she turned toward Monika, framed by the dissipating church.

She reached out the hand which had not completely disfigured into a weapon.

“Monika, come home with me. I want to see you every day; not just in a dream.”

Monika’s eyes filled with tears. She reached out her own hand and took the one offered.

“Thank you, Gertrude. I’m so sorry.” She covered her eyes with her free hand, sobbing.

“It’s okay. I don’t judge you; and I sympathize with your beliefs. That’s why I’m here too.”

She urged Monika to come closer and embraced her, holding her tightly with one arm.

As the Aether around them began to disperse and reveal more and more of their location.

Holding Monika close, in the distance, Gertrude thought she could see a shadow watching.

There was a smile in the dissipating aether. It looked genuine; almost like a praise.

In Gertrude’s pocket, the aetherometer slowly ceased to vibrate and make noises.

Her aether-buoyed sense of self was beginning to wane with the clearing of the “clot.”

Holding Monika in her arms, Gertrude shut her eyes and felt a momentary peace.

Depth Gauge: 3621 m

Aetherometry: Stable


When Gertrude awakened she was lying face-up on the floor of a steel corridor.

Groggy at first, she pushed herself up to a sitting position. Though she was disoriented, after a deep breath she began to feel strangely refreshed for a moment. Like she had finally caught up on some much-needed sleep. Her muscles hurt much less than before, and she was not as weighed down with fatigue as before either. She was able to move.

Slowly, she found the strength to stand up and to take in her surroundings.

Almost as soon as her back straightened, Gertrude felt her stomach toss.

All of the terror of what she had seen and felt, held back as if by a mental dam, now flooded suddenly over her every thought and feeling. She saw in her mind the pools, the visions, the monsters, and herself. Her legs buckled, she went down to her knees and elbows, feeling dizzy and nauseous. Retching over the ground. Had her stomach not been completely empty already, she would have emptied it on the floor. Her back shuddered, her eyes broke into stinging tears. Her head pounded and she heard a whistling inside of her ears.

She put her forehead to the ground and shut her eyes as hard as she could.

As if she could awaken again from dreams, and find herself in the true reality.

But she was awake, and this nightmare was her world now.

Her inexorably changed world.

Having seen what she saw, felt what she felt, and retained the full clarity of it.

Aether.

The Pools.

Eris.

Monika.

The Drowning Prophecy.

Herself. So much of herself. Too much of herself.

And a changed self.

Gertrude looked at her hands with a panic, remembering they had been horribly disfigured into weapons to drive her red aura into the aberration at the center of the pools and blue cobbles, the so-called Drowning Prophecy (so-called by none– it was entirely in her head–!) She peeled off her gloves and she could not understand what she saw.

Her flesh felt so tender. There were no scars, rather, it felt like the calluses and scrapes she had gotten ever since she was a child to her days violently enforcing the imperial will, all of them had disappeared. Her skin felt so soft in her hands that she thought it might peel back and expose something, as if every seam was a set of lips. They felt like membranes.

And no sooner did she entertain that thought, that her hands did split into buzzing jaws–

She screamed, and shook her hands and looked again, and the changes reversed.

Worst of all– Gertrude began to feel like she had control of it.

Like it was part of her.

Like sixth, seventh, eighth and so on new digits corresponding to nothing natural.

Inside her torso, there was the presence of her heart, lungs and stomach. She knew she had them even though they worked automatically. She knew she could take in air to expand her chest and belly to a minor degree. She knew she could make her chest muscles tighten, for all the good such a pointless act would do. In essence, her arms, her legs, her hands, all of her body now felt this way to her. Like she had dozens of new and unseen organs that responded to deliberate actions. They could split, they could grow, they could change.

It was not disfigurement, not in a traditional sense– but Gertrude still wept as if broken.

Her body was completely changed. She could never go back to how she was!

There was a great terror in the back of her head at the sudden opening-up of the world.

Everything was so much more massive, so chaotic, an impossible and surreal enigma.

The Aether. It was all around them. Those colors held meaning to her eyes now.

Flexing the organs in her eyes allowed her to see the colors whenever she wanted.

Monika had been overcome by the colors– perhaps she even created that twisted world.

Had Gertrude not been able to intervene they would have all died in their sleep.

How did people survive the existence of these forces? How prevalent were these attacks?

Were things like this happening in the corners of the eyes of unknowing fools, forever?

How many people knew? How many people had been lost to the aberrations of the aether?

How many people abused this power and knowledge? Could anyone actually control it?

She wanted to scream herself hoarse. But there was no use to it.

No putting it back anymore.

Indelible change. Of the world, of the body, of the mind.

“This isn’t even the start of it.” She said, smiling bitterly and insanely through the tears.

There was more, farther below. Deeper into the abyss.

There was something waiting–

And there was more, right in front of her too. Just a few more steps into the metal.

Behind her, on the floor, Monika was passed out, in her lab coat and a protective bodysuit.

In front of her, the metal corridor led to a door that opened suddenly.

To reveal a shimmering figure that walked out of the room in long strides.

A woman, not too tall, average in her physique. Dark hair, a girlish face, perhaps too youthful for what she had experienced. Dressed in a lab coat herself too, over a turtleneck sweater and a skirt and black tights. She walked out of the room, crossed the hall, slowly, with a calm deliberateness as if she had been waiting. She passed by Gertrude. Gertrude was unable to focus her eyes clearly on her, she had been crying so much and been in such a state.

But when the woman crossed her, Gertrude could tell she was smiling.

Could tell that she said something, which was meant for Gertrude to hear.

“I am entrusting her to you. Good luck. Step inside; the password is A000166.”

Margery Balyaeva; from her dream. Hands in her pockets; smiling; eyes fixed forward.

“Wait– why–? Please–!”

As soon as Gertrude recognized her and asked– she knew the woman was gone.

Nothing but a trace of the colors slowly dissipating into the air.

So be it.

Gertrude looked at her hand again, tears running down her cheeks, her nose dripping.

Sweat coming down the bridge of her nose.

At her own behest, of her own doing, her hand split open again.

Swarthy skin and pink flesh parting. She felt a tingling as it did so. Between her middle and ring finger, it divided, and a thin tentacle emerged from it. She felt it– her stomach felt immediately emptier and sicker for the act. Something was drawn from her body, she could feel the fluids traveling, the flesh moving, to create the little appendage that mimicked the ones she saw beneath the Drowning Prophecy. She had transformed her body.

Though it made her feel light-headed at first, she could sustain the continuing existence of the tentacle. It was as if there was a price to pay for the disfigurement but, once the flesh had reached its new state, it was just what Gertrude’s body was now like. She felt the tentacle in her hand like any other digit. She could turn it, curl it around her wrist, lash out with it. Her stomach felt like it was kicking her belly each time the tentacle tried to move.

She turned over again and bent nearly double with a strong heaving in her throat.

It was sickening, unnatural, horrifying–

But– she had control over it. This horrid appendage was a part of her, it was hers.

Part of the weapon that was Gertrude Lichtenberg.

A weapon– to what end? What was she supposed to do now?

She had something of an answer. But it felt so impossibly out of her reach.

Outside of the aether, she felt much less certainty about herself.

Ruled more by rationality than sheer passion, the situation was much more overwhelming.

But even so. She had promised to keep moving.

Gertrude forced herself to stand again.

This time, she stood upright, without vomiting or crying any further.

Her tentacle retracted into her hand and her hand closed.

It looked ordinary again.

Like a hand that could touch another human being tenderly.

Thankfully she had enough control over herself to keep her body from breaking out into such appendages. She was still a person, not a blob of changeable meat. She could walk without thinking about all those new contortions she could force her body to take. That was enough for now. She would ask Nile what she thought– and she would ask Victoria and Monika and– Azazil? If she could find her. She would tell people, she would ask questions. Her body was not a problem that was impossible to solve. Certainly this ability had come in useful.

Gertrude grinned silently to herself. Everything was overturned.

What a terrifying world; more terrifying than it ever had been.

Vast, bleak and hopeless.

But that blue hopelessness did not prevent her from walking on forwards anymore.

She looked back at Monika and felt glad, that she was in the world with her.

It made this dead world a little more worth living in.

“Monika, wait here for me.” She said, even though the sleeping Monika would not hear.

Gertrude stepped forward into the room that had opened in front of them.

Inside, everything was dim, lit only by light coming from a screen or two in the very back of the room, and from the hallway that Gertrude had just come in from. She stepped on fluid and felt alarmed that the station might be leaking, but was quickly distracted by the smell in the room, reeking like rotten eggs or ammonia. Then her anxious exploration took her closer to one of the network of structures that dominated the room, tall and evenly spaced, and she realized that these must have been computer racks from the surface civilization. They resembled server racks that she was aware of, with cables and storage units and cooling.

Several of them had suffered from enormous punctures, and some looked like they had been crushed. Others were just toppled over, and more had their interiors dug into and ripped out such that they resembled bodies disgorging their guts on the floor. All of the fluid was liquid mineral coolant from the racks that had bled out onto the floor. To Gertrude’s eyes all of the violence looked random and inefficient if the objective was to destroy the computers. It felt like something or someone had just raged through the room and inflicted damage wantonly.

When she finally made her way across the ruin, she found a desk with several discrete LCD monitors plugged into the wall. There were markings on the wall between the desk and the monitors, that reminded Gertrude of a torpedo tube. Something was contained inside that recess in the wall, but she could find no way to open it or interact with it. Her searching hands in the dim glow of the dark green pictures on the screens found nothing new.

Then she was briefly blinded by a sudden flash from one of the screens.

Gertrude staggered back.

When her eyes recovered, she found herself staring at one screen that had become white.

There was a text prompt on it that reminded her of the STEM input screens from before.

But this time there was also a voice, coming in tinny from the LCD’s speakers.

“Greetings, occupant. You may input queries verbally or write them into the prompt. Please note that the central corpus has suffered extensive damage. As such, the number of queries and their potential answers will be limited. It is nevertheless my pleasure to serve you.”

Gertrude was taken aback hearing a voice.

“Are you the computer?” She asked, taken aback.

“By the perspective of a layperson, yes, I am the computer. This mainframe contained my corpus of data. These monitors and the text prompt are but crude remnants of the many vectors by which I could interact with occupants, complete my assigned tasks, and insure the comfort and safety of all Genuine Human Beings aboard the project edifices. I would say that my influence extended to more than this computer once. But it does not anymore.”

“What happened to all of that?” Gertrude asked. “Wait– is that one of my queries?”

“These all count as your queries. To answer you: my corpus was attacked and damaged. This severely limited my influence and ability to control and maintain this environment.”

Gertrude was still pretty stunned. “Are you alive? Or I guess, sentient?”

“I am an Advanced Neurological Model. I synthesize audio, images, video and text in order to carry out specific tasks and respond to queries. I am not capable of original thought outside of my corpus of data. It is unlikely that my capabilities match a definition of sentient life. My most advanced processing units utilized human nervous tissue, but were all destroyed.”

Gertrude winced. If she understood right, this machine had been made using people?

She wondered whether it was stitched or grown in a lab– or if it necessitated a sacrifice.

Looking back over her shoulder at all the cable-matter spilling out of them–

Those sights took on a different, macabre significance.

But those questions were pointless to ask the machine. She had to prioritize other topics.

“Where is Azazil An-Nur? Have you seen her?” She asked.

Based on what Azazil had told her before– if she had not dreamed it–

Then this machine had been the oppressor she was crying to be saved from.

Quickly the tinny voice responded.

“I lost contact with the biomechanoid unit corresponding to that handle many seconds ago.”

Gertrude almost asked how many seconds, but supposedly her queries were limited.

Asking how many queries she had was probably a query– so she did not do so.

“Is Azazil An-Nur real?” She asked instead.

“Unclear. What do you mean by real? It was one of my biomechanoid units.”

She already felt like an idiot asking the computer something like that.

What was she thinking?

“Forget it. Did you force Azazil An-Nur to work here?”

“Yes. It was convenient to have an ambulant biomechanoid for maintenance tasks.”

It kept calling Azazil a biomechanoid– what did it mean?

“Elaborate on: what is Azazil An-Nur?”

“It is a stem-chain enabled biomechanical unit designed for social upkeep of humans.”

“Can you elaborate any further on Azazil An-Nur?”

“Its specifications are not part of my corpus. It was a bespoke unit with unique DNA.”

Gertrude sighed. “Who created you? How come we can understand each other?”

Elemental questions such as this might have yielded good results but–

“Apollo Computing Works, and, because we are both speaking in Simplified Aerean.”

Maybe she just was not very good at this. Maybe her head was still not on right.

“That means nothing to me. I guess– who was in charge of this place? This station?”

“Margery Balyaeva was the leader of the project under which I was commissioned.”

Margery must have been the woman she saw walking out of the room.

And in her dreams.

Excorium Humanitas– she had been betrayed by the surface world.

Declared a non-human or an enemy of humanity, as defined by the government.

So she must have fled down here–

“Can I input a password into you? The password is A000166.” Gertrude said.

She suddenly heard a metallic noise coming from some other part of the room.

It took her off-guard so she turned to look, though there was nothing to see.

The computer spoke again immediately after.

“I’ve unlocked the box for you. You will find the box to your left.”

Gertrude turned back to the monitor with the unused text prompt. “What is in the box?”

“Preserved stemchain materials. Input them into a vitastitcher to create a STEM unit.”

That finally piqued Gertrude’s interests. “Where can I find a vitastitcher?”

Stitcher machines of course existed in the Imbrium.

She had never heard of one that was referred to in that particular way.

“I cannot account for its current status, but the primary edifice contained such a unit.”

“Where is the primary edifice? What is it?” Gertrude pressed.

“Both this structure and the primary edifice were part of the Island-3 colony project. Island-3 was separated into this outpost, the Crown Spire, and a primary edifice that touched down 5000 meters farther below. Island-3 has not been in contact with the Crown Spire for over 2.209032e+10 seconds and it is therefore impossible for me to ascertain its status.”

Gertrude had no idea how many seconds that was supposed to represent.

It was probably no use asking it to clarify further.

“Could I acquire a STEM administrator token in the primary edifice?”

“Yes, using a functioning vitastitcher, spinal verifier and marrow impeler.”

All of those implements sounded hideous to think about. They sent a chill through her.

But there was no use in turning back now. So she did, indeed, have to go deeper down.

“Is there an– Advanced Neurological Model that can assist me in STEM installation?”

“No. Per regulations, ANMs must be isolated from sites where STEM installations and token verifications take place. Only Genuine Humans perform STEM installation or verification.”

“Do I need to use the preserved stemchain materials to gain a STEM administrator token?”

“No. Do not incorporate those materials into a current unit. They will require a new unit.”

Fair enough. Gertrude began to feel wary of what these ‘materials’ might represent.

“What materials do I need to gain a STEM administrator token?”

“They will be available at the location of the previously mentioned machinery.”

Useless. “Prior to myself, did anyone to attempt to access the passcode box?”

“One moment. I will print to the screen a reconstruction of the actor.”

One of the monitors light up brighter.

There was a swirl of color and activity like a puddle of paints being spread haphazardly on a canvas. However, slowly, these colored pixels began to align properly into a slightly skewed image that Gertrude nonetheless recognized as a face. It was in particular the face of Norn the Praetorian. Blond ponytail, the same facial features. Grinning confidently.

That made some kind of sense. Gertrude felt a bit excited about this discovery.

“Did you interact with this ‘actor’? Did she say anything?” She asked.

“The actor was not recognized as a Genuine Human, and it was not STEM-enabled so I did not interact with it nor attempt to communicate. Prior to its intrusion, several malfunctioning biomechanoids of similar specification had already broken into the Crown Spire. I limited their access to prevent them from finding Island-3, but could not repel them.”

How–? How was it that Gertrude was a ‘genuine human’ and Norn was not?

She tried to think of a way to ask the machine, but it felt too complicated a question.

“Was your corpus accessed between Margery Balyaeva’s departure and now?”

“Not successfully. Intruders became lost or discouraged by the STEM systems. Sometimes intruders behaved erratically for reasons I found impossible to quantify and perished or killed each other. Eventually some intruders departed. I have not been able to interact with a Genuine Human in a very long time. Especially not in an amicable fashion.”

“When was the last passcode access attempt?” Gertrude settled for knowing a timeline.

“Over 1.262304e+9 seconds ago–”

“Great, that’s useless. Whatever. Show me a picture of the one who damaged you.”

Again the same process repeated itself on the monitor. She expected to see Norn pop up.

When the picture was completed, however–

Gertrude recognized the perpetrator as Eris herself. Very pale, red-haired, an alien beauty.

With a terribly cold gaze. But not uncharacteristically cold of her, Gertrude felt.

Eris must not have been exaggerating about becoming lost in her passions.

Gertrude wondered how long ago Eris had come here, and what she had done.

Maybe it was just impossible to establish a timeline of such events.

“Is there a way to recover your corpus? Or fix you? To access more queries?”

Gertrude spoke and had to wait a much longer amount of time to receive an answer.

“I have completed my final task, so I will be shutting down. You may have one final query.”

“Wait– hey– what will happen if you shut down?”

She had spoken carelessly after being surprised– it was her final query.

“Without a mobile unit and my supervision, the edifice will further decay. But the occupant will be safe if they can escape by whichever means they arrived. The reactor will continue running as long as its quantum state is undisturbed. Oxygen generation is suboptimal but livable– food is the main problem. So I would encourage departing. I have completed my final task as given to me by Margery Balyaeva. Aer Federation Vivit Aeternum.”

Gertrude gestured further confusion toward the monitors,

but all of them instantly went dark.

On the wall, the indentations and markings she had noticed before also dimmed and shut.

One step forward and thirty back. She had some answers and many new questions.

“What the hell kind of place was this Aer Federation? Good lord.”

Gertrude turned away from the desk with the dim monitors and followed the wall past several more ruined pieces of the ANM’s ‘corpus’ until she found ‘the box’. It slid out of the metal wall, a design the Imbrium still widely used– leading Gertrude to wonder if every cell in the wall was a storage closet too, and whether they should remain closed.

Sighing to herself, at the enormity of what could lay trapped forever in these metal walls, she reached into the unlocked box and produced a thick metal cylinder. Its contents were impossible to discern. Gertrude could feel whirring and buzzing of mechanisms within the shell of the cylinder. It felt cold to the touch. She wondered for how long this device could preserve what was inside, now that it was removed from its place of hiding.

Gertrude called upon the organs in her eye that allowed her to see further–

And began to perceive that colors wafted from the cylinder– a human presence.

She thought she would be sick again contemplating what it could mean.

What exactly were STEM materials? Was it some horrific human byproducts?

But she nevertheless put the cylinder in one of her uniform pouches as best as she could.

She walked back out into the corridor.

She did not know where she was but there were other branches of the same hallway, and open doors. Gertrude picked up Monika, carrying the sleeping girl princess-style. She deserved the rest– Gertrude wished she could have known that Monika was suffering so much. She could have done anything to make it better. But she was so focused on herself. There was so much weight in human pain that she had to make amends for.

Compared to that, Monika was easy to carry.

As she walked through the corridors she thought of everything she had to do now.

Or– not had, but rather, things that she wanted to do.

Gertrude no longer allowed herself to be driven by unaccountable demands.

That obligation that she heaped upon herself, to return to Elena, or to replace her and find happiness somewhere else– it had to be discarded. She could not continue to live like that or she would destroy herself and her crew. Instead she had to think of where she was, what the situation was now, and what she wanted to do now. Recognizing that she was no longer High Inquisitor Gertrude, a person with respectable power in the respectable politics of the Imbrium. She was not royally connected, and officially sanctioned by a powerful lord.

Now she was just another among many petty warlords vying for anything they could take.

She felt responsible for her crew. For the people she wanted to drag further into this mess.

Not only Monika; but Ingrid, Nile, Victoria; Dreschner; the sailors, Vogt and his marines.

Gertrude wanted to take them deeper.

To delve into the Hadal zone where the world was even darker.

To Island-3’s depth 5000 meters deeper–

To find the “primary edifice” of Island-3; to unlock this “STEM” system and get direct access to surface-era information; to find Eris again. Her eyes glinted red. She had power of some measure; now she needed to shoulder the responsibility of having power. There were no more people left to save her, and no more excuses she could make anymore.


Gertrude was eventually discovered.

She crossed another nondescript hallway, unsure of how long she had been walking and whether she might be trapped in another liminal area; and was heard by a rescue team.

Voigt and his men and several sailors, led by Nile, Victoria and Ingrid, had begun combing the facility to look for her hours ago. According to the men who found her, during the expedition, everyone had fallen asleep suddenly. Once they all awakened, it was quickly relayed back to the ship that contact with Gertrude had been lost, and that Monika was also mysteriously missing. Dreschner organized rescue teams to find Gertrude.

Near the beginning of the rescue operation, however, several devices previously seen, such as the STEM doors, now refused to respond to interactions. So the rescue teams used the tunnels Gertrude now knew to have been dug by Katarrans who had escaped the Palaiologos collapse. They had begun to prepare equipment to break down more doors and walls, but thankfully Gertrude was found before they had to resort to such drastic measures.

“There is nothing more we can access here. Let’s head back to the ship.” Gertrude said.

“Yes ma’am. We also encountered another woman here. We were very surprised.” One of the Marines said. “She was unfailingly polite; even when we were yelling in her face after she said she had lost you, ma’am. We thought she was bullshitting us. Her name is apparently Azazil. Our officers had a chat with her and then ordered her arrest.”

So I was not hallucinating her, Gertrude thought.

“She is harmless. She assisted me inside the facility, but then we lost contact.”

“Ma’am.” The Marine acknowledged, and ushered her out through the halls.

Gertrude was thankful to finally see familiar faces.

In her head, the sequence of events that had played out inside of this facility was extremely muddy. Even now she felt like she did not understand how she had navigated from one place to another within the walls and halls. But perhaps there was no understanding it; not without the raw and insane emotion which had overtaken her in the aether.

Maybe all those pools she destroyed had analogous walls in there.

It didn’t matter.

Ultimately she was burying this place and heading to the Iron Lady.

The marines called in that they had found Gertrude, and not too soon after–

“Gertrude!”

She was joined in route by Nile, carrying a first-aid kit; Victoria, whose expression was just so subtly tinged with concern; and Ingrid, who appeared to want to rush forward and give Gertrude a hug but was stopped by the fact Gertrude was still carrying Monika. All three of them appeared one after the other in the halls, spotted Gertrude, went-wide eyed and then paused. They collected together in a little group around her and the marines.

“I’m okay.” Gertrude said. “We’ll talk later. I want to get Monika back safe.”

Reticently, her companions nodded their acknowledgment.

Only Nile stuck close to Gertrude, much to Victoria’s open chagrin and Ingrid’s wariness.

She pretended that she was checking on Gertrude and Monika to make sure they were well.

But while she was doing so, she whispered to Gertrude, when she found an opportunity.

“You’ve awakened to something special, haven’t you? Your aura feels different.”

Gertrude grunted. She whispered back, when she could.

“I’ll have questions for you later.” Gertrude said. “When that time comes you won’t leave the room until you answer them to my satisfaction. Now stop fussing over me. I’m fine.”

Nile smiled. “It’s a date then.”

Gertrude threw her a contemptuous look.

But then cracked a bit of a smile back.

“Gertrude, that woman should be under the highest level of suspicion.” Victoria said.

“Are you two bickering again?” Gertrude said, exasperated.

Nile shrugged. “I have nothing against her, and in fact, she is my alibi that I did nothing.”

Victoria scoffed but could not argue any further.

Ingrid stared at everyone sidelong and over her shoulder and seemed to say nothing.

Gertrude walked a few steps quicker to get closer to her.

“We’ll talk later. I’m sorry.” She said.

“It’s whatever. Found your newest floozy in the halls by the way, ‘master’.”

Ingrid’s voice was thick with sarcasm. Gertrude wanted to be buried alive in the earth.

There was no way to tell Ingrid what she wanted to tell her without causing great acrimony.

But it was a conversation they needed to have, and she had to get ready for it.

One of many.

“Victoria, I’m going to need to speak with the Captain and with you first.” Gertrude said.

“Duly noted.” Victoria replied dryly.

Ingrid shot another sidelong glance, which Gertrude caught and felt mortified by.

She then turned her cheek; she looked so over things.

Gertrude had really treated her badly.

All she could hope for was that Ingrid could be patient with her.

And that there was some way to make up for everything she had done.

Maintaining a rather awkward atmosphere throughout, the party marched to the main hall, where they were greeted by clapping from the bulk of the rescue team, and cheering that Gertrude and Monika had been recovered successfully. They were ushered into the chute connecting the ship to the station. In the hangar, there were more cheers and people looking relieved. Everyone looked like they had been holding their breaths until now.

Along with the sailors and engineers cheering with relief–

“Master,”

Azazil An-Nur stood among the crowd, quietly, with a little smile.

She was cuffed and two marines were looking after her. They glanced at her curiously.

“I apologize for failing to protect you from danger.” She said.

Trying to bow her head, but being grabbed by the guards for the sudden movement.

“Don’t rough her up.” Gertrude said. “Azazil, can you wait quietly somewhere?”

Azazil smiled even more cheerfully.

“Of course, master. I exist solely to serve you now.”

A weary Gertrude glanced over to Ingrid to find her staring daggers at this statement.

She sighed again.

There were not enough ‘I’m sorry’ in the world to pay for this mess.

“Victoria, follow me. Can one of you soldiers tell the Captain to meet me in Room 25?”

“Yes ma’am!”

Room 25 was on the second tier. With awkward stares all around, Gertrude and Victoria parted from the rest of their companions and entered an elevator together to be taken up to the second tier. Gertrude was more than a bit disheveled, but Victoria looked no worse for wear than before. Her ponytail and her fluffy ears looked as manicured as ever.

She looked much less tired.

“What happened when I disappeared?” Gertrude said.

“We tried to search for you by ourselves but we could not find you and we risked getting lost ourselves. We went back to get a rescue team and heavier gear to force more of the doors and walls. Then we all fell asleep.” Victoria said. She appreciated Victoria’s direct and unembellished way of speaking so much in that moment. She could have kissed her for just saying what she meant. It was such a relief from everything that had happened.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“No. Did you also sleep? And did you dream?” Victoria asked.

Gertrude nodded her head. “Yes to both.” She said.

Victoria shut her eyes. “I had a dream that I was in a series of pools, witnessing evidence of several lives that I did not lead. Some of the possibilities disgusted me. I recognized it was a deliberate delusion– but even so, I could not escape it, until I suddenly awakened.”

“You can tell I have the same power as you now, can’t you?” Gertrude said suddenly.

“You have had the potential for some time.” Victoria said. “It’s called ‘psionics’.”

“Psionics, huh. Are you afraid? Or angry with me?” Gertrude said.

“No.” Victoria said simply and bluntly. No qualifiers, no elaboration.

“I’m– I’m going to need help navigating this. Can you help me, Victoria?” Gertrude said.

“Yes.” Victoria said. Again, she elaborated no further.

Her body language was a little bit more reserved. Her eyes shied away from contact.

Thankfully the assent, coming from Victoria, spoke more strongly than the subtle reticence.

Finally, the two of them made their way to the meeting room.

Inside, Dreschner was already waiting. For once, Schicksal was not at his side.

“Come in. Schicksal has the bridge.” He said.

Gertrude and Victoria stepped in. Gertrude locked the door behind herself.

There was little in the meeting room, besides chairs and a desk.

Dreschner was seated behind the desk, but Gertrude remained standing.

“Something happened to me.” Gertrude said. “Einz, I need your help in thinking about what we will tell the crew, and what we will do now. Not as a superior, but as a friend. You have been there for me. Think of me as a stupid kid that needs some direction once again.”

“I would never think of you, nor of your needs, as stupid, Gertrude.” Dreschner said.

“Can you tell that anything is strange with me?” Gertrude asked.

As soon as she walked through the room, she had been able to see it.

Gertrude saw the colors around Einz Dreschner for the first time.

She felt as if, when he saw her, those colors fluctuated a bit.

Like he understood something.

“Yes. I feel as if I’m standing in front of someone who had the fight of their lives.”

“Gertrude, this man is at the very least capable of reading auras.” Victoria interrupted.

Dreschner smiled.

Again, the small green and blue colors around him flashed for a second.

“And you tell me this now?” Gertrude said.

“You had no context for this before, and would have been unlikely to believe me.” Victoria added. “I was confident in my ability to confront him should the need to do so arise.”

Sometimes wanting to kiss Victoria briefly turned into wanting to shove her down.

Not that she was necessarily wrong with the tack she took toward this situation.

“Einz, how much do you know about this?”

Gertrude demonstrated how she could split her hand open and manipulate the flesh.

Victoria looked alarmed. “That– that is not within the purview of psionic abilities.”

“That you know of, I guess.” Gertrude said. “It is within my purview now.”

Dreschner’s eyes blinked briefly red. It was the same that she saw when other people used the strange abilities the aberrations, the Drowning Prophecy and the Aether space demonstrated. She imagined that she herself displayed those red rings when attempting to call upon her power. But with Dreschner it felt a little different.

Gertrude got the feeling he could not sustain the eyes as long as she could.

Maybe what he had was different in some way to what Nile and Victoria and Azazil had.

But he could get a glimpse of it.

She knew he had recognized the power she possessed.

Not just from the red rings; but his expression and aura as he realized what it all meant.

“The curse of the Jager is not hereditary. But as you stand before me, I get the same feeling as if I was in the presence of ‘Codename Rot’ of the Inquisition Jagerkorps. I can’t explain it, but you possess the same abilities as a Jager, despite the Inquisition’s best effort to keep you away from the Korps and unable to pierce their veil of secrecy. What happened?”

“If I tell you, I guarantee you will think I’m out of my mind.” Gertrude said. “Einz, I want to know how much you were aware of– did you know about Norn? Or Victoria? It’s not like I don’t trust you, don’t get me wrong. But you did keep things from me, didn’t you?”

“We were aware of these strange powers to some degree. I knew about Norn because I’m part of the Inquisition, not because of any ability I myself possess. We suspected the young Bayatar too. And I always felt that you had potential and that you should have been informed about the Jagers and given command over them. It would have prevented Samoylovych from having to come out of retirement, again. Alas.” Dreschner said.

“The existence of the Jagers is well known; but their full capabilities eluded even Vekan intelligence.” Victoria said. “I should have guessed that psionics would be involved.”

Victoria looked at Dreschner with distrust. He had no expression toward her.

“The Inquisition is essentially dead now. I do not have to keep its secrets.” Dreschner said. “Gertrude, once you get back to Konstantinople you can unearth everything you desire about the Jagers. There is too much history and my old brain has not committed it– what I can say is that the Jagers and myself included undergo horrible modifications and conditioning to attain interesting abilities such as your own. They used these abilities in missions. I was unable to incorporate into the Jagerkorps but continued to serve the Inquisition as an officer. Thanks to your father in large part, and Norn also.”

“My father?” Gertrude asked. “How is my father involved in all of this?”

“Your father was a protector for the Kaiserin for so many years. However, before he took on that role for Leda Lettiere, and before he delved into the abyss, and long before he managed to build a family, he was ‘Codename Rot’ of the Inquisition’s Jagerkorps. Meanwhile I was ‘Codename Schwarz’. Both of us suffered inhumanely to achieve our positions– but we endured to obtain power and influence. We got far enough that the Inquisition trusted us with command roles. I received a ship; your father was trusted with spying on the Kaiserin. But unfortunately your father, and yourself, ended up suffering with Leda Lettiere.”

Gertrude smiled bitterly. “I always knew there had to be more to him. You too, I guess.”

“He was your hero. But he was not your hero because he was a Jager, Gertrude.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s dead– and I’m here.” Gertrude said.

It did matter.

She felt so bitter about it– she felt like the Inquisition had toyed with her entire life.

Had she known about her father, and all that happened– she may have chosen differently.

No– that was a delusion.

Even as she thought about the situation she felt ridiculous about herself for this conclusion.

No matter what, she took the path she did because of her love for Elena.

Whether or not her father survived Schwerin Island, Gertrude’s course had been set.

In the pool rooms, all of those visions ended the same way.

Dreschner looked at Gertrude with a fondness in his eyes and voice.

“You are here. You’ve come a long way; farther than anyone imagined. I always related to your hunger for strength Gertrude. You were exactly the daughter of your father. I want you to know, I did the best I could to support you, even as I saw you suffer for it. To tell you not to have ambitions, and force you to live helplessly, felt like a betrayal. But I must admit, seeing you standing before with the curse of the Jagers, I truly regret what came to pass. Like I said, I have no explanation for how you became a Jager. But it affects your mind, and your body. You may not be able to relate to others the same way again.”

“I was not worried about that. I already relate to people in a weird fashion anyway.”

Gertrude sighed. She had a question bouncing around in her head.

As soon as she realized her father was part of the Inquisition, the question troubled her.

She knew why her father had died; he had died on Schwerin Isle.

He was Captain of the Guard and he went down protecting the Kaiserin.

That same day that destroyed Elena’s life had also upturned her own.

She knew that. Or she thought.

Perhaps he had not died for the reasons she had concluded before.

“Einz, did Norn seek to kill my father when she invaded Schwerin Island?” She asked.

Dreschner shook his head. He sighed and covered his eyes with his hand.

“I do not hold Norn personally responsible. She explicitly forbade wanton acts of violence. During the attack one unit in particular went wild. They were protected by High Inquisitor Brauchitsch who wanted to use the opportunity to test the potential of Divers in a station invasion. The unit was led by a man referred to as Sawyer the Berserker.” Gertrude’s eyes went wide as Dreschner spoke. He looked at her with a soft expression. “I did not tell you because I did not want you to spend your school life at greater odds with the Sawyer daughter. Of course, it’s pointless now. Sawyer grew up the way she grew up.”

Sawyer–

“I’m not going to blindly chase her.” Gertrude said. “But if I see her again, I’ll kill her.”

“You don’t have to do it for your father. I killed Sawyer the Berserker on that day.”

Gertrude grunted.

Pointless. Everything was always so pointless and complicated and frustrating.

She could not even give herself onto revenge again.

Things just wouldn’t be so simple from now. Never as simple as just getting revenge.

All of the names he rattled off did not matter. They were already dead.

Hell– she had killed Brauchitsch herself. Unknowing of what it meant.

A dirty trick of fate.

“Was my dad just slow with old age?” Gertrude asked, a note of bitterness in her voice.

“You’ll find a Jager’s powers are largely useless in the paradigm of Diver combat.”

“So my father did die trying to protect Leda Lettiere.” Gertrude said.

“No, Gertrude. He died protecting you.” Dreschner said. “He died so you could be saved.”

Gertrude closed her fists. “I don’t remember that.”

“No. You were in no condition to remember anything. You were a child, it was dark, there was war. People lied to you and omitted information. But it was for your own good.”

She sighed. There was truly nothing she could do about any of it.

“How did you feel about my father, Einz?” Gertrude asked.

“He was like the father I never had.” Dreschner said.

Gertrude cracked a smile. She laughed a little bit. “I think of you kind of like that too.”

“I’m happy to hear that. I would be very lucky to have such a daughter.” Dreschner said.

It was so strange. Gertrude did not really feel so hurt by these events anymore.

Instead she felt released from a few of her burdens.

Like a few chains she had been pulling her entire life finally snapped.

None of the people responsible for any of this were available to strangle to death.

The Inquisition, for all the harm it had done, was powerless in the Imbrium’s collapse.

Her father’s death had already been avenged. Everyone responsible was dead.

Konstantin von Fueller, whose rule allowed these tragedies to happen, was quite dead.

Gertrude had been lied to– but she would have never believed the truth anyway.

And– Gertrude could never muster any anger toward Norn in all of this too.

She admired her too much. Maybe even loved her. Norn had made her.

So she learned many things about herself which could not force her hand in any direction.

As if everything in the world was telling her she just needed to move forward from now.

“Einz, I need help mustering and controlling these abilities.” Gertrude said.

“Gertrude, I’ll teach you.” Victoria cut in suddenly.

“She can; but I can also assist. Specifically on how Jagers make use of the curse.”

“It’s not a curse!” Victoria said. “It’s called psionics. Gertrude is not cursed.”

“I must concede before such concern and camaraderie.” Dreschner said coyly.

Victoria realized her vehemence in making that point and averted her gaze, embarrassed.

“I appreciate it, Victoria.” Gertrude said.

“As for the crew, leave that to me. I will draft a general briefing that will explain the current circumstances in a succinct and sensitive way. I have experience with treating psionics with care as part of the Inquisition. We should not explain it directly; we can describe the sleeping and other irregularities as abyssal behavior that we managed to counteract.” Dreschner said.

“I don’t particularly like lying to the crew.” Gertrude said sadly.

“You must have done it all the time under the Inquisition.” Victoria said. “I agree with the Captain. We should limit the spread of information about the station and the events in it. Otherwise the crew might feel adrift, it could affect their morale and make them paranoid. Let’s cover it up. I will work with the scientist criminal on actual countermeasures.”

Sometimes Victoria was blunt, and sometimes she was a brutal hammer blow to the head.

“I will take your counsel for now.” Gertrude said. “I’m too tired to argue.”

“I just need to know one more thing, Gertrude.” Dreschner said. “What happens now?”

Gertrude smiled wearily. “Now, we keep moving forward. Or in our case, down.”

Victoria remained silent. Gertrude took it to mean she did not oppose continuing the dive.

Dreschner nodded. “May I recommend 24 hours of rest and recovery for the crew?”

No one was arguing. No one was against her. Everyone was still just taking her orders.

Gertrude felt relieved. Her strength was starting to fail her. She was tired. But relieved too.

Not tired because of the blue helplessness– but normally, physically tired. Rest would help.

“Make that 72 hours.” Gertrude replied. “And release a unit of alcohol ration to everyone.”

“Alright. Is there anything else I can do for you, High Inquisitor?” Dreschner asked.

“Yes. Don’t call me that.” Gertrude said wearily. “I’ll come up with a new title.”

“Emperor Lichtenberg?” Dreschner said cocking an eyebrow.

Victoria narrowed her eyes.

“No. Just Gertrude Lichtenberg. For now. Please.”

“Acknowledged, Madam Lichtenberg.” Dreschner said.

Then, he saluted her proudly.


“Victoria.”

Gertrude stopped in the middle of the empty hallway.

They were halfway to the officer’s quarters.

Victoria paused with Gertrude, and turned to face her. Gertrude met her eyes.

“Monika was– wrapped up in all of this. Can you keep an eye on her?”

“Yes. But that is not what you really wanted to say.”

Gertrude took a deep breath.

“When you learned about psionics, how did you feel? Can you please tell me?”

“Yes.” Victoria nodded.

Gertrude had not expected her to assent so easily.

Nor did she expect her answer.

With no around, their eyes locked together deeply–

“When I realized what this power meant, I felt like I had command of my destiny– even more than that, I felt like humans have always had control of our destiny. We made this world.” Victoria said. She reached out a hand and gripped the sleeve of Gertrude’s uniform. “With this hand, I controlled my world, Gertrude. And I felt like the world is actually how we have made it, for good and for ill. Not just us; but all human beings throughout time.”

“You are extraordinarily brave.” Gertrude said. “I don’t know that I can think like you.”

“Psionics is the power of human emotions. I am sure in the back of your mind you must understand this.” Victoria said. “We can become paranoid and helpless in the face of a larger world; or we can come to the realization that humans made the world the way it is now. That means humans can also take action to change it. We are not just the playthings of destiny. We are not just acted upon by forces; humans are in control of their lives.”

Just being told that, of course it had no effect on Gertrude’s sense of self.

Not immediately; but her heart was lifted by the sight of Victoria’s determination.

She had been in the Pools too. And it had not broken her resolve.

“Thank you.” Gertrude said. “I needed to hear that from someone.”

Suddenly, Victoria stepped forward into Gertrude’s space.

She tiptoed, and she pulled Gertrude down by her shirt–

And put her forehead to Gertrude’s own.

For a brief moment their noses even touched.

Gertrude almost thought they might kiss.

Even so the gesture that they did hold was gentle and lovely.

Warm and oddly comforting even though Victoria had been a bit brusque.

Victoria then stepped back assuming a respectful distance again.

She smiled.

“Thank you for putting your trust in me, Gertrude. Even in front of Dreschner, when the Inquisition’s secrets came up I expected to be ejected right away. You let me stay in that room; and you entrusted me even with your own secrets. Your life’s story is not part of the stakes of this war. I will take that information to my grave. Good night.”

Victoria turned sharply and left a bewildered Gertrude to watch her cape flutter.

Once she was gone, Gertrude, compelled to smile, made her back way back to her room.

Even before stepping in she had a hunch she would find someone inside.

Whether it was psionics or instincts honed from familiarity.

She was not surprised to find Ingrid sitting on her bed, still dressed in her pilot suit.

Her long, dark hair was loose, the band she had used to tie it up discarded on the bed.

Long streaks and beads of sweat spilled gently across her brown skin, glistening in the dim light of Gertrude’s room. Her ears twitched, but she could not suppress a wag of the tail upon seeing Gertrude come in. Her expression remained cold; Ingrid was almost always laughing or being boisterous so to see her quiet and pensive, it was an entirely different kind of beauty. But she was still beautiful. Gertrude could not help but to recognize her.

She was incredibly beautiful.

“Ingrid, I’m really sorry, the way I treated you–”

Ingrid held up her hand. “No, it’s fine. I’ve kinda figured this shit out already.”

She really thought Gertrude was two-timing her all this time; probably three-timing her–

“I’m sorry. I’ve been horrible to you. You don’t deserve–”

“Hey, shut up.” Ingrid said. “Let me finish. I know– when we just started fucking out of the blue, it wasn’t like we were suddenly boyfriend and girlfriend now, or something–”

Gertrude stood, aghast. She tried to interrupt.

“Ingrid– it’s not like that–”

“I said, shut up.” Ingrid snapped. “Look. I know you’re getting over that princess bitch. I’m happy for you. I was only ever comforting you over that. I didn’t have more illusions than that– well, I did, but I’m also grown-up enough to know when my bubble has burst.”

This was possibly the worst version of this conversation Gertrude could possibly have.

It was the version of this conversation they had in her nightmares.

“Ingrid! Let me talk.” Gertrude said desperately. “Ingrid, I do love you! I love you so much!”

“Yeah.” Ingrid said. She smiled. “I know. But you don’t love me like you loved her.”

“You’re right! I’m trying to get over Elena.” Gertrude said. “And you’re right, I don’t love you like I love her, because the way I loved her destroyed us! I lashed out at her, I could have hurt her; I would never want to feel like that about you! I have to love you differently!”

“Gertrude, I’m trying to make this easy on you. But you always make everything hard.”

Ingrid stood up from the bed. She put a hand on Gertrude’s shoulder and squeezed.

“I’m still your friend, I’m still your soldier, and I still love you. But right now– If you want me, then you have to work to chase after me. If you want someone else, go after them. Have your space and figure shit out. Fuck– I’ll probably come around– But I’m done with this.”

She gestured to the room and to Gertrude herself and started to walk out.

Gertrude could have said that she did want her, that she didn’t just have sex with her for empty reasons, that she did want her instead of Elena and that maybe even, that she could have replaced Elena, now. If not before; and yet Gertrude said nothing. Because some of Ingrid’s incisive observations had been true and because it would have been shameless and hurtful to have begged Ingrid to stay in spite of them. So instead she watched Ingrid leave the room with a flat expression, silent until the door shut. Silent even afterward.

Tears welled up in her eyes. She was never lying about loving Ingrid, she loved her.

She loved and desired her and wanted her companionship quite badly.

But she felt that in that moment, dumping her was something Ingrid needed to do.

And Ingrid was right. Gertrude had accepted her devotion so disrespectfully.

Gertrude deserved to be dumped more harshly. Ingrid was being downright diplomatic.

Ingrid deserved to be pursued, to be sought after, to be worshiped as a woman.

Maybe Gertrude would pursue her. Maybe worship her too, like she deserved.

But the important thing was that Gertrude couldn’t just passively accept her anymore.

She couldn’t hold the leash she was given; she had to tug on the leash like Ingrid wanted.

“But I do need the space.” Gertrude sighed. She covered her face with her hands. “There’s so much shit I need to figure out, Ingrid. I’m so sorry. You have no idea how sorry; and how those sorries aren’t anywhere near good enough for you. Ugh. I hope she’ll even speak to me anymore. After all this time– I am such a piece of shit. God– god damn it all.”

That was definitely the version of this encounter that came straight out of her nightmares.

But neither of them had died from it; and the door was not permanently closed on them.

She hoped at least she could remain Ingrid’s friend. That they could make up that much.

There was nothing more she could do on that night, in that room, on that bed.

Time had to pass for both of them. Both of them needed to think about their lives.

Gertrude also had her emotions for a few other people to consider–

–she hardly wanted to even think about that too.

Especially the latest of those fantasies.

Exhausted, Gertrude dropped back onto her bed.

She loosened up the armor plates and her blue shirt and cast it all off. There was something catharthic to undressing at the end of this entire mess. She was soaked in sweat, but she had not taken three or four dips into drowning water, like her mind could have sworn she had. All of that had happened in some quarantined space of the ego. Out here in the world, Monika was unharmed and merely sleeping, Victoria was patrolling, Nile was looking after Monika, Azazil was waiting patiently in the brig for Gertrude; and Ingrid had left to her room.

On that bed, alone, Gertrude felt lighter than before.

Not because she was falling endlessly but because she had been unburdened.

That poisonous love for Elena she had failed to bury in Goryk, she buried in Kesar.

That ruinous desire to replace her lost future with something, she stifled in her chest.

That desperation to acquit herself of failure, she let blow past her like a brief gust.

The world had changed and she wanted to be able to change with it even more.

But the shape of making amends was a task for the Gertrude of the future.

On that bed, her head was emptying. She was tired. And she was in no hurry to do anything.

Surrounded by a myriad colors flowing gently and freely, she finally shut her eyes.

After days of tribulations, Gertrude slept soundly, and recovered her strength.

For once, she had a peaceful dream.


Previous ~ Next

Bandits Amid The Festival [11.13]

Across the bridge, a bulkhead door opened from the main station.

From the barricade, the strikers could see multiple persons at the door, but only a solitary figure started the long walk from the core station’s side over to that of Tower Nine.

Tower Nine was exclusively leased to Rhineametalle, and the entire tower was an absolutely massive steel plant. The steelworkers at Kreuzung were particularly responsible for manufacturing armor plate in a variety of dimensions and compositions, which would go on to be assembled into ships and divers. They also produced some ancillary construction materials for ships and stations, like interior walls with touch-enabled surfaces.

Those same products largely constituted the barrier the striking workers had erected.

Because they did not have control of the bulkhead into their side of the station, they used their equipment and whatever materials they had to create their own defenses. Kreuzung had forced the door to remain open, and sent negotiators, teams of scabs, and even a few strike-breaking attacks from the K.P.S.D– but with their tools and materials, the striking workers had maintained their hold on the tower. Rhineametalle had spoken against any further attacks– so for a time, the workers had some semblance of peace.

Even the core separation, frightening as it was, had not shaken them from their spot.

Now, however, the workers felt a bit of concern.

There was something strange about a single woman in a black uniform approaching them.

She took off her hat partway through her casual, ambling walk to the barricade, revealing a head of messy blond hair partially tamed by being wrapped into a long ponytail. She was tall, too, particularly for an Imbrian woman, with sharp, angular shoulders, and a frame that was somewhat lacking curves. Her uniform was slightly poorly fitted, with the all-black coat out of her pants and a bit too long, as well as unbuttoned, revealing the button-down shirt beneath which itself was not wholly buttoned, nor tucked in.

On one arm she had three separate armbands: all red and white, but one had a sonnenrad symbol, another a sword, and the third had an iron eagle.

Her easy gait and strange little grin, were eerie and a bit disarming.

As she approached, she introduced herself.

“Gutentag! I’m a 7th Fleet Stabswache officer, Untersturmführer Skonieczny, and I am only here to deliver a letter. I mean no harm! Please forward this as soon as possible.”

Her casual demeanor was additionally bizarre to the men behind the barricade.

Anyone else would have gotten a bolt launched at them by a pneumatic gun by now.

They allowed this lady to approach, and all she did was tiptoe to hand them a letter.

She turned around and left immediately, seemingly without any worry of a sneak attack.

To their surprise, she really did hand them a letter, stone paper, handwritten.

Suddenly unsure of what may become of their strike action soon, they passed the letter on.


Situated at the very top level of Kreuzung’s core station was the A-block of modules that represented the highest-end housing accommodations in the city, as well as the seat of the Eisental regional government. A-block was expansive and beautiful. Unlike other blocks, which were often situated side by side and with modules haphazardly placed like stacking blocks, A-block was one continuous module, that dominated a significant portion of the tower’s vertical space. There was a single main thoroughfare that branched into the walkways to several walled villas of varying designs.

At the center of A-block stood the government palace, a massive building with sweeping semi-circular wings connecting to a central, circular edifice with a brilliant domed roof. In the upper distance, visible from almost anywhere in the block, there were also several thick glass berths for the private seaport available to the A-block residents and the civilian government. Within the illusion of the sky, at times made it seem like ships were flying overhead in the horizon, as they situated themselves in their places.

All of A-block seemed to lead to the government palace, to reside in its shadow.

Kreuzung’s governor stood atop this edifice, and everything spread before him.

Within the palace, the Governor of Kreuzung had a sparsely furnished office that was nevertheless the site of some arresting designs. Because the walls were at all times projecting camera feeds from throughout A-block. Capturing sights such as the park gazebos and the small artificial lakeside enjoyed by the upper crust, the beautiful tended lawns of the most well-developed villas, and the vastness of the sky. It would appear to anyone walking in for business that the Governor of Kreuzung was like a God surrounded by windows into his vast domain. Situated the middle of all of A-block and able to see every direction.

If Governor Adolf Werner was a God, then he stood watching his downfall to mortals.

Surrounded by scenes of black-liveried electric trucks and black-uniformed paramilitaries.

Storming the villas, trampling the gardens, crossing the beautiful streets.

He was surprised that most of the troops combing A-block appeared to be Shimii.

Perhaps there was something karmic to that.

In this very office for nearly twenty years the Governor of Kreuzung had kept the Shimii separated and strictly controlled, and even he, who had promised reforms and liberalization, was consumed by the pragmatic calculus behind that injustice. He had let it go, because it was easy, and the Shimii were lesser compared to the peace that the Imbrians had begun to enjoy. Now, the Shimii dragged his Imbrian financiers out of those same beautiful homes they were denied and beat them on the street, with official sanction of the fascists.

Reform, of some kind, was slowly encroaching in armored cars down the one road.

Leading, inevitably, to him– and he could do nothing to stop it now.

Behind him, a door opened.

In walked a young woman in a white suit jacket and skirt, with black leggings.

Carrying a portable computer with a brand insignia– Rhineametalle.

She had an impassive expression. Her red-brown hair was tied up in an efficient bun.

“Governor Werner.” She said. She did not introduce herself.

Werner, taller, older, hairless, severe in expression. He looked at her with utter disgust.

They could not have been any more contrasts of themselves and the eras of their legacies.

“I assume it is not dangerous for you to be here, because Rhineametalle is a part of this.”

He waved at the screens, at the scenes of villas being broken into and combed through.

She ignored his implied accusations. They did not even cause a twitch in her countenance.

“I am here to convey Rhineametalle’s wish for a peaceful transition.” Said the young woman, delivering her stoic lines without once stumbling. “As an Eisental-headquartered business we believe this is the best outcome for the region’s economic outlook. We cannot support any decision by the government that escalates this confrontation any further.”

“None of this is peaceful, but if you are worried I will fight back, rest assured I cannot.”

In the aftermath of the Core Separation, Werner acquiesced to demands from the Volkisch Gauleiter to terminate the mandate of the K.P.S.D. Not because the fascists demanded it. They could fuck themselves. Rather, the K.P.S.D. had worked up tension with the Volkisch to an unconscionable degree. To continue to support them meant joining what was essentially their mafioso war against Laurentius tower. Werner had paid the mercenaries their blood money for too long– he cut them off. Without official support, any resisting K.P.S.D fought for a lost cause. Most of them gave up right away. Any stragglers were just doomed.

Therefore, Werner now he had nobody to defend him, nobody to defend the men who had ruled over Kreuzung for so long. Nobody to defend the Gods atop the mountain who had squeezed so much out of the people beneath their gazes. It was only now, as he watched the black shirts dismantle everything around him in real time, that he realized how low he had fallen. Whatever happened to the Liberal ideal? Freedom, franchise and fraternity for all men? His liberalism had upheld only the old fiefdoms, and changed nothing.

And now, the change was climbing the steps to his abode with gun and sword.

Werner felt embittered staring into the eyes of the young woman and reminiscing.

If all of the graft in Kreuzung was but a star, then Rhineametalle was entire constellations.

She could appear here and berate him, waiting like a dog to greet her Volkisch masters.

Because she had infinitely more power than he did. This was their town.

There would always be Rhineametalle, while liberal reformers came and went throughout Rhinea having failed to accomplish anything. Rhineametalle was the Prime Evil of Eisental, its warped influence followed only by the likes of Volwitz Foods and Lanz Erzwerke. She stood before this black and silver wind as an immovable titan. The more he looked at her emotionless face the more violence he felt in his old heart. He grit his teeth.

Stepping back from her, he walked around to his desk with a new clarity of purpose.

From a drawer, he withdrew an old Dreys pistol and raised it to the woman.

“This will earn you nothing.” She said, unwavering even when faced with the gun.

It only made Werner angrier. He was so helpless. All of his emotions swelled out of control.

Nothing of his spirit as a liberal elder statesman remained unsullied in that moment.

He was willing to throw away everything if he could have killed this girl.

Consumed in a terrible range to destroy the foul embodiment of his defeat.

He could not shoot at Rhineametalle, and the bullet would not redeem his Kreuzung.

He could, however, shoot this woman and sweep away her scrutinizing expression–


–but before Adolf Werner could exit the stage a murdering God, he was cast down.

When the door opened suddenly amid the confrontation to invite a new actor–

Her black gloved hand wielding a sleek black semi-automatic that preempted his next lines.

Hammer sliding with a thunder that echoed through the room, and again.

Five shots, neck, shoulder, sternum, belly, pouring bloody over his fine suit. His own gun dropped from the failing grip of his fingers and vanished under his desk. The old God of Kreuzung dropped back onto his chair, his role completed. Standing across the desk, the Rhineametalle communications officer Maxine Kramer shut her eyes for a moment.

It was the first expression she had made during this entire divine encounter.

Then, the second– she turned and smiled at the woman walking in from stage right.

Grinning back, the woman in the ornate black uniform and cape approached the desk, stepped behind it, and dismissively shoved the corpse of the old governor off of it. She then sat on his chair, on which there was just a little bit of blood– and put up her feet, hands behind her head, relaxing. She took a deep breath, twirling the pistol on one finger and catching it with the rest. She holstered it and appeared to be quite pleased with herself.

It was in that instant that Violet Lehner took her place in the grand opera about to unfold.

She was a curious sight in the black uniform.

Her skin was just a little bit ruddy, her eyes dark; facial features somewhat indeterminate, with strong nose and eyes with a slight angle, and yet striking in their overall configuration. She could have perhaps been a model or an actress had she been allowed an altogether different stage. Her hair was flamboyantly dyed, obscuring whatever other racial clues the fascist onlooker may have been predisposed to see. Whether she was blond, whether she was raven-haired, impossible to say. Though long, silky and straight, it was colored light blue and partially pink in a pattern reminiscent of the flag pins which hung from her earrings.

Average in stature and figure, thin and light of frame, more angular than curved, her limbs and shoulders and back were slim, her fingers soft and unblemished, with little in the way of pronounced musculature on her limbs. Nevertheless, her impressive uniform evoked the martial spirit that her training regime may have lacked. Her uniform, a black jacket and pants with a black cape, was decorated with every conceivable symbol of the fascists. Golden wolf’s-hooks, a sonnenrad medal, a reichsadler on her peaked cap, eagles and arrows, a hooked cross lapel pin. Her armbands had similar symbols. Atop her cap there were two silver protrusions like metal cat’s ears, and she wore a tail-like tassel on her belt.

Ruling over the 7th Fleet of the Stabswache, known as the ‘Zabaniyah.’

Violet Lehner grinned with an ambition as easy, in her mind, as taking a life.

Soon, her role of murderer would elevate, to ‘Reichskommissar’ of the Eisental region.

In this opening act, she had stolen the gold ring from the abode of the Gods.

While the drumbeat of truncheon strikes and the melodic wailing of the purge played all throughout A-block, casting from the mount the Gods for whom the audience’s sympathy was meant, her shadow grew ever more titanic in the background of the stage. Smoke and fire and great screaming horns heralded. Violet as devil, as son of a false king–

as player on the stage of Destiny.


–but while the Gods bellowed for justice, the player in black experienced only silence.

“You were so collected, Maxine. You should leave the corporate world and join us.”

“I’m afraid I can only present the facade of strength knowing that rescue was on its way.”

Violet and Maxine smiled at each other like old friends, minding not the corpse.

“What’s the temperature at Rhineametalle? Did you show your bosses my proposals?”

“I walked them through everything. They are initially cautious, but not opposed.” Maxine said. “They’ve been party to fruitless ‘labor reform’ talks with the liberals.”

“They haven’t seen it like I plan to do it.” Violet said, a grin on her face and a winking eye. “Soon they’ll be hearing about this strike being over without a further drop of blood shed on their precious factory floors, and they will have cause for celebration. Then you can ask them again what they feel about Violet Lehner. Not to mention what will follow.”

“With regards to labor, their ceiling is ‘neutral’ at best.” Maxine said. “They will never be happy to talk ‘trade unions’. But I have prepared the way for you as best I can.”

Violet finally put her legs down from the table and sat up straight.

“They will. I’ve already handed them a victory. One of my subordinates arranged a meeting with the leader of the strikers. I was informed just before my arrival here that the meeting has been accepted and arranged. You can formally announce to your employers that the strikers are coming to the table. They can do whatever with that information.”

“It’s too early to announce anything. But I will do my best to make it a media coup, and you can share the glory of it when the time comes.” Maxine replied. “There has been a lot pessimism in the business community. Unfortunately, your father has not been–”

“Don’t call him that.” Violet snapped. Her voice had risen almost to a breaking point.

For the first time, Maxine looked a bit surprised. She bowed her head. “My apologies.”

Violet sighed. Anger was unproductive. She stood up, and walked past the corpse.

“It’s fine. I am full of optimism, Maxine. I’ve crawled up from the gutter, all the way here.”

Violet’s gaze met Maxine’s, standing side by side. She reached out and patted her shoulder.

“Destiny is on my side, and Endsieg is finally near to my grasp.”

Maxine nodded her head low in acknowledgement and deference.

“Of course, Reichskommissar. Rhineametalle looks forward to your success.”

With her cape flowing behind her and a stoic look on her face, Violet Lehner left the office of the Governor in its state of desecration, Maxine Kramer following dutifully behind her to their next stage. Speaking of the so-called Fuhrer of Rhinea, related so casually– it was unheard of to say within the 7th Stabswache. Because it angered Violet so–

the holes she had to crawl out of were dug by his hand.


Business was at an ebb at Madame Arabie’s Flowing Scarlet.

Her main clientele were either laying low, or catching a clubbing from the Volkisch.

Imbrians with money to blow on girls and dope had too much on their minds these days.

And wealthy local Shimii had hunkered indoors out of sight of a very bitterly critical public.

Kreuzung was not in a mood to drink and make merry. Their festival was over.

In the days following the Core Separation, the little people of the segregated Tower Seven began to look to their neighbors again. It was the mosques where people chose to congregate, rather than dance clubs and eateries. They gathered on the floor mats discussing the events, what the future might hold, or anything they could do as a community to prevent further tragedies. There was so much uncertainty looming over them. One especially concerning matter was that of missing persons. Several Shimii had tried to escape the tower, and in the chaos, people had been separated from each other, and there were already a few sadly missing. One shopkeeper named Hasim, rarely seen at the mosque otherwise, actually showed up to report a missing person, for example.

“There’s this girl– she came by my shop every day, one of my favorite customers–”

But nobody had seen the bob-tailed girl he described. Few people even remembered her.

There was an older woman who described another girl, who had assisted the crowd.

“Her name was Madiha. God guard her and preserve her. She was a brave one.”

Nothing. They could collect the names, and any descriptions or pictures, and report it–

–to whoever the authorities ended up being now.

That was all, and many people felt helpless and were frustrated at their situation.

And to those most embittered, the Scarlet, and Arabie, were particular points of frustration.

Weren’t those rich Shimii who owned everything supposed to be keeping them safe?

What good were they if they could never stand up to the Imbrians even to prevent deaths?

For now these thoughts remained private. The streets had emptied of crowds of people.

Outside the Flowing Scarlet, where it was once routine for crowds to gather in front, the street was empty. And for its emptiness, and the size of the building looming over that emptiness, it made the tower feel even more hollow. Guards had been posted out of Arabie’s paranoia for what may transpire– but there was no need. Not one person came to throw one stone, or any other petty delusion held by the woman in the higher stories.

But, just when Arabie’s mafiosi began to feel secure in themselves–

They heard the sound of wheels turning.

And stood in stunned silence as a black and silver liveried electric truck drove up.

Emblazoned on the side of the truck was a shield with the number 7 in thick font.

Surrounding the triangular shield there were two swords and three words–

Faith.

Fealty.

Fascism.

Inside the truck were a dozen uniforms. Hitting the false pavement like a ramp, the door to the truck bed creaked as the men and women, all Shimii, all dressed like Volkisch, and all armed, stepped off and formed up. For the mafiosi, this was an insurmountable enemy that instantly defeated them. Those black jackets could have been mythical wootz steel, for the protection they offered. Arabie’s gang could abuse the public, rough up journalists, turn away detectives, and maybe even disappear a K.P.S.D. who got too in their faces.

Madam Arabie was powerful and had good connections within Kreuzung.

Madam Arabie’s connections, her social and financial power, meant nothing to the fascists.

The Volkisch Movement For The National Awakening played by its own insane rules.

They were the fiendish leviathan immune to the spell woven by the witch of Tower Seven.

It was even stranger that they were all Shimii. It gave Arabie’s men even more of a fright.

There was no thought of even reaching for the revolvers and pistols hidden in their clothes.

All of Arabie’s guards stood dumbfounded, and nobody made a move.

Then, from the passenger seat of the truck itself, another Shimii woman stepped out.

From the outset, it was obvious that she was a cut above the rest of the Volkisch here.

Her jacket had brighter and more impressive patches and pins to denote her rank, and on her ample chest there were several medals. She brandished no weapon on the street, but had on her hip a sabre in a sheathe as well as a revolver in a holster. Those looking at her were taken by her. She was beautiful, yes, with golden hair and lightly tanned skin and steely green eyes and striking facial features– but it was not her beauty, but her presence that captivated the onlookers. Her every step was as if taken by a titan, her gaze threw the weight of a storm wind, and when she spoke, her voice was thunder. They were instantly gripped by her.

“Step aside or you will all be arrested! I am not here to deal with you. Where is Arabie?”

Of course, they divulged the location instantly. The bouncers even handed over their keys.

All of them could feel that the current flowing through Kreuzung favored the fascists.

There was no use dying uselessly, for the woman drinking herself stupid up above them.

Almost without effort Standartenführer Vesna Nasser gained access to the Flowing Scarlet.

Her troops remained outside to watch over the men and the street.

She had business with the woman supposedly in charge of this depressing tower.

Nasser found her in the middle of a richly furnished penthouse.

Despite her age she was just like Nasser remembered her.

Lavishly manicured to hide the toll time had taken on her face, dolled up in fine clothing and pigments, hiding in a room that smelled of myrrh. She had come upon her in a vulnerable moment, however. Arabie was half fallen from a plush sofa and her makeup was running around her weeping eyes. Sobbing, kicking her feet; cans strewn about the room and white powder arrayed in messy lines on the coffee table. Wearing a loose purple robe that was off her shoulder enough to unveil an olive-tan breast with a dark pink tip.

Even without taking any care to hide her steps, Nasser managed to surprise her.

It took the dazed Madame Arabie a few moments to register a figure approaching her.

“Huh? Who? Leave– leave you idiots, I said I was busy–! I’ll– I’ll fucking kill you–!”

She sat up on the sofa and stared with glassy, still-weeping eyes at Nasser.

The Standartenführer was able to watch as if a time lapse, as the danger dawned on Arabie.

Her eyes drew wide, her ears folded, and her lips partially opened and remained so.

Nasser said nothing. To comment at all, would have made her angry enough to strike.

Even when properly dressed, Madame Arabie was a fallen being destined for the fire.

A whore; a drug pusher; a drunk. She sold her soul, and didn’t even try to pray for it back.

Without her high class airs, it was only more evident how impious she had become.

But she was convenient; and she would be necessary.

Nasser had to temper her frustrations.

“Who are you? Did you steal that uniform? I can’t smuggle you out.” Madame Arabie said.

Her voice was so gone. She was in an utter stupor.

“You’ve very well met fascist Shimii already. I am a proper Volkisch Standartenführer, just like Imani Hadžić. I serve in the ‘Zabaniyah’, the 7th Fleet of the Stabswache, with many of our kin. You know me, Leija Kladuša. I am Vesna, a member of the Nasser clan.”

Leija narrowed her eyes. Her body began shaking as if from the effort of that empty gaze.

“I– I’ve never heard of a Vesna Nasser. I did not know– the Nassers had a daughter?”

She was even more lost than Nasser thought.

“You drank your brain to death. But fine. You have heard of Vahid Nasser, haven’t you?”

Across from her, the sinner’s bleary red eyes blinked and then squinted at Nasser.

She could not possibly have been seeing any of Vahid in the Vesna who stood before her.

But her addled brain nevertheless made the connection.

She recognized her– perhaps?

“You’re– then– you’re the same as Homa? You took the medicines– to become–?”

“Homa? Who are you comparing me to? Leija, you need to cut the crap and clean up–!”

Leija’s tears welled up in her eyes again. She lowered her face into her hands.

“My precious kadaif— she was taken from me so cruelly– oh Homa! Homa!”

Wailing that name, she fell back onto the couch, writhing as if her skin was being burnt.

Not wanting to stare at that pathetic display, Nasser lifted her gaze– and saw something.

In the end of the room, a shrine had been put up.

The myrrh incense vapor machines had been set on a shelf along with an old picture, of a very young girl. There were flowers, sticks of cinnamon, colored gems, a haphazard assortment of little things. Memorials like this were impermissible for Shimii, but so was drinking, and dealing, and whoring– it no more damned Leija’s soul than any of her other sins. However, the haphazard placement of it inspired something in Nasser. She found herself pitying Leija for her loss in that moment. Leija was actually mourning.

She was surprised that this vile woman could care about anyone other than herself.

Hearing that name wailed over and over, and looking at the photograph–

Homa–

Homa–?

My name is Homa Baumann. I’m from Kreuzung. Please don’t kill me.

Nasser remembered.

And then– her wrath, the coming to blows.

Hatefully screaming Nasser’s name in an ever-fading voice as she died.

Nasser exhibited a brief shock that Leija was, thankfully, in no condition to notice. She would not acknowledge to Leija that she knew where her “precious kadaif” had ultimately gone.

Seeing what she had done to this woman, before her eyes. Her heart briefly wavered.

Nasser closed her fists as hard as she could. She dispelled a long-held breath.

It did not matter.

Many more families would be separated, many more young people killed, before Nasser’s ambitions would be completed. By her own hand, perhaps less– but she was not so deluded as to think the blood shed by her subordinates did not reach her. To end the feuds, once and for all, and unite the ummah, it could only be done by shedding blood. It was inevitable that Homa Baumann had to be killed for it. It was inevitable that Leija Kladuša had to suffer.

Ever since old Al-Khaybari turned his blade on the elder Nasser during Mehmed’s Jihad.

Ever since then– no, even before– ultimately they were all slaves to their Destiny.

Nasser bent and grabbed Leija by the shoulders and forced her to sit and look at her.

“Leija! I understand your loss! Were the circumstances different I would give you all the time you need to mourn. But not this way! Do you think Homa would want to see you like this? We shoulder the dreams of all our lost kin! You need to get a hold of yourself! We need someone here whom the Shimii will listen to. Fall apart once your duty to me is completed!”

Shaking Leija like a doll in her hands, as if it would rattle her back to her senses.

For a brief moment, the glassy eyes of that broken-down woman sharpened once more.

“Ugh– dreams and duties– talking big while you’re just some blackshirt!” Leija snapped.

Her eyes were still hazy. She was completely out of it.

And yet her words were so defiant and incivisive. Stupid woman.

Nasser could not help but to grin in response. In the grand scheme of things, it was true. Even when it came from the drawling mouth of this drug-addled fool. To the Rashidun, events were already Qadar— a divine destiny that was already known to God.

Compared to this truth, Nasser was indeed very small.

Nothing but another black shirt– but one with a heavy burden to bear.


When she awakened, the room was as dark as when Emilia went to sleep.

“Huh? I set an alarm. What happened?”

She had awakened naturally– there was no sound.

And the lights didn’t come on either.

She reached out her arm and tried to touch the wall just over the pull-out drawer beside her bed. After a few seconds of futile reaching to the furthest her arm would stretch, she woke up enough to figure things out and turned in bed. She instead touched the wall directly beside her. However, this too had no effect. Incredulous she touched the wall a few more times, but there was no response no matter how much she pressed.

Nothing lit up, no computer windows opened. The wall touchscreens were not working.

There was something just a little vexing about it.

Emilia forced herself up from the bed.

She grabbed hold of her blanket and wrapped it around herself.

Her room was so cold– everything must have lost power for some ungodly reason.

All of that Core Separation business was in the past, wasn’t it?

Emilia stood up and went to the door.

She groped in the dark for the physical switch that opened the door. Finally, it slid open, surprising her. She almost fell through the doorway and out into the hall in nothing but her blanket, a tanktop and shorts– thankfully she caught herself in time. But she was all the more embittered when she peered out, groggy and with fogged eyes.

All of her hall was in the dark. Several people were peering out of their own doors.

There was an electric torch set up at the far end of the hall, and a pair of men had pulled out a panel in the far wall and were working with tools impossible to discern. Something must have happened to the hall’s power infrastructure. Maybe it was a knock-on effect of the Core Separation, Emilia thought. At least it was being fixed. She was about to just sigh and turn back and lie around in the dark– but then her eyes were temporarily blinded.

A torch-light shone right on her face for an instant, causing her to grimace.

“Oh! I’m so sorry–! Please wait, I need to talk to you!”

Said in the voice of a woman, accompanied by clacking heels on the metal floor.

Emilia shielded her eyes and squinted and tried to make out the woman approaching.

When her vision returned, the woman had stopped in front of the door.

“Unter–?” She began to speak, but was not allowed to say much–

In response, Emilia grabbed her wrist, disarmed her of her torch and turned around.

The woman was taken aback. “–Wait! Ma’am, I’m– You– I’m here to–”

“I’m borrowing this. Wait here a sec, okay?” She said, sighing deeply.

She pulled the door shut behind herself, leaving the uniformed woman outside.

With the woman’s torch she could see into her room again.

She put it up on the pull-out bedside drawer, the beam shining up at the ceiling. It was so strong– Emilia flicked the tab on its handle down two notches to reduce the brightness. Now she felt like she could finally see comfortably in its presence. Immediately, she caught sight of herself in the room mirror, which was part of the pull-out drawers.

Grumbling a little to herself, she gathered up a haphazard fistful of her blond hair and a hair tie she had left on top of the drawer. She tied a quick and messy ponytail, and brushed her bangs by running her own fingers through them. It was a little bit messy but probably not too unsightly. Across the room from her bed, she found the catch to open the panel into the bath stall. She washed her face, gargled some water, brushed her teeth.

Another mirror. She saw herself in it. Auburn eyes. Her lips were a bit dry. She did not think she was necessarily beautiful, but she was pretty, she had a young, girlish spark– right?

She queried herself. She did not hate how she looked. It was acceptable.

Back at her drawer, she applied some chapstick. She fluttered her eyelashes.

She sighed.

Running through her mental checklist.

She wouldn’t even bother with makeup– she was so bad at it anyway. She had showered last night. She had not eaten, but this was a temporary room with no cooking furnishings, so she would need to grab something on the way to the Gau office. Uniform was a given; but she recalled that she should take her pills. She couldn’t keep forgetting.

“Good morniiing~ Emiliaaa~ It’s Emilia’s pills time~ pills that make her dick soft~”

Singing in a silly voice. Her good mood was starting to return.

It helped thinking about that woman’s face when she disarmed her.

After swallowing all of her day’s medications at once, against the instructions printed on the bottles, Emilia opened another wall panel to extract her uniform jacket and pants, as well as a button-down shirt and a tie. Her armbands were hanging on hooks. Everything smelled dusty and a little bit sweaty. She had to pay money for the wardrobe to maintain her clothing, and the prices had become ridiculous the past few days. In prison they just had a synthestitcher pop out a cheap jumpsuit for her whenever warranted.

Her uniform consisted of a black peaked cap, black jacket and pants, all with silver trim.

On the collar of the jacket there was a tab with four wolf’s hooks denoting her rank.

Untersturmführer— in the old Rhinean Navy she would have been a ‘Leutnant’.

Leutnant was so much easier to say.

But she was not part of the old Rhinean Navy.

Her armbands were red with a white circle, and inside each circle resided a different symbol including: a sonnenrad, a black sun disc; the Handschar, a Shimii sword; and the Reichsadler of the Volkisch Movement for the National Awakening on the third armband.

She had to wear all three. One for the Esoteric Order of National Socialism; one for the 7th Stabswache Fleet; and the third to denote that she was a national socialist party member in good standing. That last one was perhaps the most personally amusing of the armbands– but it was annoying to wear all three. She felt their presence conspicuously.

Emilia buttoned down her shirt, pulled up her pants, threw on her jacket, and put on shoes.

She left the cap where it was, in her enthusiasm to finally meet the woman at the door.

“I am ready! Sorry for the wait– I had to get decent.” Emilia said.

Opening the door, she found herself face to face with a pouting young woman.

Pointing her own torch back at her causing her to avert her gaze a bit.

Emilia instantly thought– this one was a bombshell.

A sleek jaw, a straight nose, sharp blue eyes and lush lips, all with precise makeup the likes of which Emilia could not have hoped to imitate. Her hair looked so silky, and it had a sheen in the light of the torch, dark, deeply black as her jacket and garrison cap, cut straight at the shoulder with perfect symmetry. Her body was fantastic– the uniform flattered her. Same as Emilia’s, but with a skirt and black tights. Had Emilia not been a degenerate who was on the way to embarrassing herself, she would have definitely tried to make a pass.

Instead, she simply smiled and held out her hand for a shake.

“Untersturmführer Emilia Skonieczny.” She said.

For a moment the woman at the door eyed her, with a slight bit of contempt.

Then she shook her hand, firmly and without reservation.

“Hauptscharführer Christina Fink. I am here to assist you in command duties, ma’am.”

Her voice was strong. She had a very no-nonsense energy to her.

“Assist me?” Emilia was confused. “I thought you were going to escort me to the Gau?”

“To the Gau? What for?”

“You don’t know?!” Emilia was suddenly shocked. “You didn’t come here to take me?”

“No? I did not come to take you to before the Gauleiter. Is something wrong?”

Emilia felt like, if she could say nothing, and continue to look normal–

–no, it was hopeless. She wouldn’t fool this (beautiful) woman for long.

“Err– Ah, well, you’re about to find out anyway– See, I did some jail time, so that’s still stuck on me today. I am having those old charges officially commutated. So I have to show up at the Gau office. Technically, I’ll still be a federal offender– but I can have this commutation, to then work toward acquittal thanks to some– let’s say ‘friends in high places’.”

“May I ask what the offense was? Was it something spurious?”

“Ah, yeah, I mean, I sure think so. It was for Sodomy. See– that’s still a federal offense.”

“Well– that’s– I see. I am glad the Gau office is assisting you, Untersturmführer.”

No! Her respect for Emilia had hit rock bottom! It was clear on her face!

Ah well– such was the fate of a degenerate, no matter her rank, service and deeds.

“So– you were sent to assist me? Are you from the 7th Fleet too?” Emilia asked.

Christina shook her head. “I’ve been working in Kreuzung, as a Gleichschaltung officer. My job was once to analyze communications from A-block– but this is no longer necessary, so I am being seconded to the combat fleet now. I am to work as your adjutant.”

Emilia nodded her head in acknowledgment.

Gleichschaltung meant coordination— the Volkisch sure loved their High Imbrian.

In this case, it was the idea that the liberal institutions of Rhinea had to be forced to accept total Volkisch rule. In places like Kreuzung where it would be too costly or chaotic to go after the liberal government in a violent purge without cause, the Gleichschaltung process began with the establishment of a Gau office that acted as a Volkisch civil authority.

Working with the Gau office, analysts like Christina spied and scrutinized the liberals, opening opportunities for the Volkisch to attack officials and policies, demand the alteration of laws or issue their own legal proclamations. It was a slow political war of attrition.

But liberal Kreuzung had fallen. The Gau’s decrees were the law of the station now.

And soon, Violet Lehner would be law and order of the entire region.

Knowing all of that– Emilia smiled a bit more awkwardly.

Christina now looked like a very frightening woman behind that steely composure.

“So– if you will, I’m headed to the Gau office.”

“Yes.” Christina said. “I will follow you. You should get something to eat too.”

“Right.”

Christina then stepped forward and reached for Emilia’s chest.

Taking her tie in one brusque sleight of the hand– and tying it appropriately.

Then also buttoning her jacket correctly, her long fingers, one button after another–

Emilia became as stiff and dead as all the LED posts that didn’t work in the hallway.

She tucked her shirt in, buttoned her coat, did her tie. With stoic precision.

Then Christina finally retreated, with a final swipe at Emilia’s shoulder to pat off dust.

“I want to assume you do not care about your appearance for lack of time and energy with which to do so.” Christina said sternly. “So I will assist you in maintaining an appropriate standard. From now on, you need to maintain decorum as an officer. You do not represent solely yourself, but us, the unit, the fleet, the party, and the fatherland.”

Emilia felt like she was being called an embarassing pervert in code.

“Yes. You’re right– I’ve just been busy, and tired.” Emilia replied, averting her gaze.

All lies that they both saw through, but it was the lies Christina wanted to hear.

“Very well. Lead way, Untersturmführer.”

Christina was such a presence.

She was the armbands but hundreds of times heavier.

Since arriving at the station, a few days earlier, Emilia had been afforded a rather plain room in D-block while she waited for her transfer and the commutation. It was not ‘hers’ precisely and she would neither keep it nor miss it when it was gone. Especially since the hallway was having electrical problems now. However, it was convenient, with elevators going farther down or straight up, easily accessible by turning the corners. She and Christina made their way around the hall, and rode the elevator up to a street module in C-block.

There were shops, grocers, cafes, all in quaint little buildings connected by a false cobblestone road under a gentle, false blue sky. It was like a little town road.

Nervous glances shot their way from every direction after they stepped onto the street.

There was no hiding within a crowd wearing the black uniforms of the Volkisch.

Standing out was the point, as much as Emilia disliked it.

She tried to smile and wave at anyone who stared for too long, but it only scared them off.

It was foolish to think she was anything but an intruder in this place.

Emilia was fooling herself about a lot of things– but that one was far too glaring.

On one street corner, Emilia spotted another black-uniformed woman.

Tall and fair, with brown hair– and a pair of rounded cat-like ears atop her head, between which she wore her garrison cap. She had a simple submachine gun that resembled a grease gun, on a sling around her shoulder. It was unloaded, but she had visible magazines on her person and could have reached for one easily in response to a threat. Her bushy tail swung behind her as she stood, leaning back against the corner, looking bored.

Sturmmann!” Emilia called out the girl by rank. “All quiet on the front?”

The Shimii woman raised her eyes off the floor when addressed.

“Yes ma’am. Nothing to report.” She said. Her hands were completely off her gun.

“What is your name?” Emilia asked, quite curious.

At her side, Christina looked a bit annoyed with her, but she did not say anything.

“Sturmmann Ajna Jakupović.” The Shimii said. “Is this an inspection, Untersturmführer?”

“Not at all!” Emilia said. “I was just greeting you. I haven’t gotten out much, you see.”

“Well. There’s not much to see. Everything is quite normal, and the street is peaceful.”

“Hopefully we can scale down posts like this soon then? Don’t you think?”

“I could not say. I take up my post as I am ordered, and I will continue to do so.”

Quite a dour girl.

Emilia felt like she was surrounded by very tense people in the Volkisch.

Despite her insistence that everything was quite normal, in fact, she herself represented a change for the people of Kreuzung. Even if they had gotten used to a black uniform here or there; now all of the policing was done by black uniforms. No more K.P.S.D guards.

Armed black uniforms on every street corner. Must have been terrifying.

Not to mention the majority of them were Shimii, once a segregated people in Kreuzung.

When Emilia and Christina got to walking again, Christina cleared her throat.

“Untersturmführer, please do not trouble the patrol officers.” She said.

“It won’t matter anyway. I’m bound for the sea again soon.” Emilia replied jovially.

“Be that as it may.”

She did not follow up that remark and Emilia did not respond to it either.

They simply walked, amid the morning crowd that was going to work or preparing for it.

Partway through their trek to the Gau office, Christinia tapped on Emilia’s back.

They both stopped, and she led the Untersturmführer off the street and into a little café that was sharing space with a bar which was closed. Both halves of the venue could sit customers for the café, and the café was serving coffee out of the half that constituted the bar. But the coffee was a rather shocking price, for such a thing that just came in the fighting rations of Diver pilots like Emilia– instead, Christina bought the two of them cups of breakfast tea, along with breakfast potatoes, grilled with cheese and sausage.

“I take it Kreuzung hasn’t recovered from the recent shortages yet?” Emilia asked.

As she did, she stirred sugar cubes until they dissolved in her tea.

“You’re– rather curious, aren’t you, Untersturmführer?” Christina said.

“I see it as my duty to understand things, Hauptscharführer, not merely accept them.”

Christina let out a little sigh. “I rather meant, you’re different from other officers.”

“In that too, yes. Possibly for the best, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps. It’s too early to tell.”

Christina took a long sip of her tea as if to forego further conversation on this topic.

Emilia tucked into her potatoes. They were salty, fatty, almost unctuous.

Rhinea was known for potatoes. Potatoes, black bread, gritty sausage– all those foods that the Imbrium Empire exalted as traditional and cultural and staples of a hardy working class, they were grown in quantity in Rhinea. And these were the foods exalted by the Volkisch Movement as befitting the masculine and vital Volksgemeinschaft of the national socialist man. Probably soon, the Gau would start promoting these foods and politely criticizing restaurants and establishments that continued to drive up demand for luxuries.

Just like in her native station of Weimar, a few months ago, just before she left.

Before she was deployed to the front as penance for her degenerate bisexual ways.

 “You can call me by name.” Emilia said. “Can we chat for a little bit?”

Christina looked up for her plate. She ate quite slow and delicately.

“Alright. What about?”

“Anything really. I just haven’t had a human conversation with someone in so long.”

“From reading your file, it did seem like you have been shuffled around a lot of posts.”

“It’s because the ships kept sinking.” Emilia said. “But I kept surviving. I made no friends.”

“Reports spoke highly of your combat abilities. So– I expected a different sort of person.”

“I’m kind of flattered they did not mention the penal conscription and sodomy and all that.”

Emilia looked up from her food and smiled quite cheerfully at Christina.

The adjutant looked quite disarmed by the sudden look on her face.

She averted her gaze.

“Here I am. Not like the reports.” Emilia said. “Except that I’m good in a pinch, maybe.”

“Unter– Emilia,” Christina said, “might I ask– do you have any ambitions in the military?”

Perhaps a tricky question for someone who had been forced into this horrible situation.

But Emilia had thought about it well, and for a long time, having gotten this far.

“Since I’m here now, I would like to retire with decent benefits. I’m tired of struggling.”

Christina looked at her with further confusion. “I see. I suppose you didn’t have a choice.”

“I’m making the best of it. I’ve thought about everything– I had tons of time to plan it out. If I fail, I just die– that ends up solving all the problems anyway. But in the military I can get a pension, health benefits, lifetime housing, the works. For a wastrel like me, it’s great. Being conscripted was fine for my prospects. I’m too scandalous– not a lot of equal opportunity.”

“I see. You really have given it a lot of thought, Untersturmführer. It’s– a worthy goal.”

Emilia did not see it as particularly worthy– but it was attainable! That mattered the most.

“But what about you Hauptscharführer? What attracts a woman like you to the navy?”

Christina looked down at her tea. Her own perfectly applied makeup looked back at her.

“I suppose it is similar– maybe even the same. As you say– there is ‘equal opportunity.’”

“In times of hardship, the nation would rather allow homos and women to jump in front of the steel, than fall on its own sword purely out of pride. Suffering makes us all equal.”

Christina looked suddenly sad. “You have a certain way with words, Untersturmführer.”

Clearly she was uncomfortable with the rhetoric– but Emilia didn’t care.

She was hitting her stride. Her heart was soaring, even. God was in his heaven, to her.

All of the worst things that could be done to Emilia Skonieczny– they already had been.

So anything that happened from now on was acceptable. Things were truly looking up.

In fact, it was a thrilling puzzle. War. Surviving. Winning, even, the few times it happened.

All of it was a gamble where only something worthless was at stake– her own life.

And certainly gambling was one of Emilia’s vices, among many.

After eating, and having gotten to know each other– at least more than not at all– Emilia led Christina to the Gau office on the far end of the C-block street module from the cafes. The building was set against the wall of the module, with a roundabout road in front of it, such that it felt like the terminus of the C-block. All roads led to the Gau office. It was three stories tall, so it was taller than all the two-story shops and offices on the street.

A steel Reichsadler decoration in front looked over the passersby.

Through the door into the building, there was a lobby and waiting area with pull-out chairs.

Emilia and Christina sat down together until they were called.

Though they were entirely alone in the Gau office, it took almost fifteen minutes.

At a counter, behind bullet-proof glass, a very young receptionist confirmed their identity. She was thin and blond and small– at most she could have been an older teenager perhaps.

“Take the stairs, and it’s the third door. Thank you for visiting.” She said without emotion.

There was a buzzer, and one of the doors leading further into the building opened up.

Emilia and Christina walked inside.

For the building where the downfall of the liberal government of Kreuzung had been planned and underway for months now– there was nothing about it that was out of the ordinary. Thick plastic walls painted in a faux-brick style, stagnant air that smelled like the vents it passed. Gloomy halls lit by rows of centrally-installed white LEDs on the roof. It was rather eerie. It felt like a dentist’s office more than a nerve-cluster of fascism.

Third door, upstairs. Inside there was a small office, with a desk and two chairs.

A blond man who tried to smile bid them to sit down. One of his armbands had a symbol of a wrapped stack of arrows– this denoted support personnel and civilian service workers within the National Socialist Party of Rhinea. Unlike Emilia, this man’s battlefield was this desk, or any other desk he was given, but he still had his markers of service to the National Socialist Party. Emilia saw his eyes appraise her quickly, but he never stopped smiling falsely.

“Emil Skoniecszny, correct?” He said. He passed Emilia a portable computer.

There were documents about her loaded into the device. Many had glaring errors.

Surname frequently misspelled. Different names used. Wrong national ID numbers.

“I had it changed.” She replied. “Before I ended up in jail. A bunch of this is wrong.”

“Ah, yes, the government was not so efficient before as now. You would be aghast at how many of these documents we must amend.” Said the man, still trying to put up a smile. “How about this, officer. Tell me the correct ones, and I’ll see to it we fix them all. No need for paperwork or anything silly– everything has been authorized to the fullest extent.”

“That would be lovely.” Emilia said. “So then– I will get my commutation too, right?”

“Of course, of course.” Said the man. “The Reichkommissar’s signature guarantees it. You will no longer be considered to be serving a sentence through labor. Then we will process a formal acquittal after a brief review by all parties. You’ll be a free woman soon.”

All of the parties involved– Emilia knew they would be amenable.

After all– they had come to have need of the murderous skills she had exhibited.

While the man began editing the documents, Emilia found herself looking at the ceiling.

Somewhere, far up above, Violet Lehner was in the process of changing everything.


After only two days in Kreuzung, the vanguard of the 7th Fleet of the Stabswache had secured control of the station in its totality, facing little resistance. Already the first reforms were beginning to roll out of the new government in A-block. A purge of local administrators was underway, along with an expansion of the Gau government seat and the reorganization of Eisental as a Reichskommissariat, a Fascist-led regional administration that was the fiefdom of its Reichskommissar, in this case the self-appointed Violet Lehner.

No one had heard of Violet before, but the surname Lehner rendered them quiet.

Elections were suspended indefinitely. All appointments were by decree from the Gau or Reichskommissar, and served indefinitely until promotion, resignation or dismissal. More reforms were then planned– including a rumored desegregation of the towers. But it was not all bad. Prices had gone back to normal, particularly for Rhineametalle subsidiary goods along with Volwitz Foods products. It was a sign of esteem from the corporations.

Whoever Violet Lehner was, business seemed to approve of her accession.

Volkisch presence continued to grow exponentially in Kreuzung. At first the vanguard was composed of a dozen ships, but it would swell to over 200 vessels. Aside from the core of the 7th Stabswache, Volkisch militia were summoned in droves, along with a constellation of ancillary paramilitary organizations that had also rallied to Reichskommissariat Eisental.

Once bordering on the outskirts of the Volkisch power structure, groups appeared such as the Silver Wolf Brigade of once-oppressed Khedivate loup; and stranger Esoteric Order paramilitary fighters like the Black Sun Valkyries who were not the right kind of fascist for Adam Lehner’s neatly micromanaged central government. On the civilian front, all manner of new age polemicists, such as scientific atheists and technology supremacists, flocked to Kreuzung from places like Thuringia and Weimar, hoping for intellectual sympathy.

Adam Lehner had tried to paper over the bizarre, fractious nature of his coalition.

But Violet Lehner seemed to revel in the grand universe of niche fascists surrounding her.

And it was a universe which was daily accruing more twisted stars within its firmament.

Knowing all of this, Rhineametalle labor leader Josef Kohler decided to follow the letter which he had received from the barricades. He clutched it in his hands as he walked.

He knew he was accepting a poisoned chalice, but he was afraid at the daily appearance of more fascist military ships, and of the rapid collapse of the liberal Kreuzung government. It felt like this was his last and only chance to achieve something tangible for the shop floor. So he donned his suit, left the barricade with the signature of the new Reichskommissar in hand, and made his way cautiously to the heights of the core station.

He had been warned that there was chaos in A-block, but by the time he arrived, everything appeared to have long been sorted out. No arrests or beatings in progress. There was a single checkpoint staffed by Shimii in uniform, that he easily crossed. All of the villas and parks and the gorgeous lakeside, appeared untouched, just like in the pictures and television programs. There hung numerous banners with strange symbols now, but it was exactly as alien to Josef as the tastes of the previous owners, so it did not perturb him.

When he arrived at the government building, he showed the receptionist the letter.

It felt like all the hustle and bustle he expected to see in the street had been pushed into the government palace in A-block instead. There were hundreds of people coming and going, taking boxes of things out, bringing boxes in. Bringing in furnishings and taking them out. There was a metal painting in the process of being hung on magnets in the walls of the lobby. The painting depicted the Eisental region, but with subregional separations that Kohler had never seen before. He was ushered away before he could examine it.

“Please wait here. The Reichskommissar will see you shortly.” Said the receptionist.

“Wait, the Reichskommissar? I thought I would be meeting a negotiator or–”

Without listening to him, the receptionist simply left and closed the door behind her.

 Kohler stared speechless at the door. He then took a seat.

This was a small, ancillary office, nothing but a desk and some chairs, if it had been decorated to any further extent before then those decorations had been stripped, probably loaded into a box and taken out with the rest of the junk. There was nothing particularly intimidating about it, the place was extremely ordinary. It felt like he was visiting the tax office or the licensing bureau, except he was not waiting for some functionary.

Why would Violet Lehner come talk to him in person?

When the door opened next, it took all of Kohler’s power not to stare or make a gesture.

A woman walked right past him, her wildly colored hair clashing with her black uniform.

She was breezy and confident in her gait, casually taking her place behind the desk.

As if this was any other event for her, as if her presence was so natural.

“Mister Kohler, I am glad my letter reached you. Let’s talk about ending this strike.”

“I– Yes.”

Her voice was a little bit nasal– Kohler thought it was unusual for a woman.

In terms of stature, Kohler was taller, his limbs thicker, even in his suit, he was the working class man in the room. Across from him, Lehner was almost wispy in her figure, like a dark fairy who might vanish the moment he took his eyes off her. She had a strange but captivating beauty. He couldn’t keep himself from staring at the colors of her hair. It was almost ridiculous to him that this woman was now the master of the station and the region of Eisental at large. But clearly, if she achieved that– she was formidable.

And he thought, when she moved, when she spoke, that she had a certain presence.

Her every breath betrayed her belief in her own power and advantage, exuding confidence.

Kohler was dealing a girl much younger than he, a girl who looked almost unserious.

Yet he was immediately pressured and rendered cautious by her gaze and voice alone.

“I strongly believe that this meeting can be mutually beneficial to us. To start, I would like to hear from you the motivation behind the strike, and your demands in full.” Violet began.

“Yes.” Kohler said. “Months ago– after the elections–” He paused to gather his breath. He had found himself about to stammer and he had to project confidence. “Rhineametalle instituted productivity targets that demanded intolerable work hours on the shops in order to fulfill them. When some of the veterans complained, they fired all the old hats, and hired a bunch of younger guys and girls. But trying to train those kids, it was impossible to meet the targets. And then the targets were set to go up again, because of demands from the government. That’s when we’d had it. Even younger workers joined the strike. That was how bad it was, Reichskommissar. They were practically demanding we live in the shops.”

“I don’t disagree that in those conditions, the production targets were set carelessly.”

Violet agreeing with him, even mildly, came as a staggering surprise to Kohler.

“We either need wages to go up, and more guys and machines in the shops– or we need the targets to go back down and our work hours to normalize again in turn.” Kohler said. “They can throw out all the guys they want, and they can hire all the kids they want to replace them. Even if they replace all the guys with new machines that can shove the metal into themselves and stitch it all themselves perfectly and then shuttle it themselves out of the shop– they aren’t getting out a Dreadnought’s worth of plates every day.”

“I agree. And replacing you all with miracle-machines would take up space that we don’t have in those shops anyway. So the realistic option is to talk things out as humans.”

“Listen, Reichskommissar.” He had gotten so used to calling her by her title. But it felt too surreal to call her Miss Lehner or anything else. “I’m– I’m not political here. None of the guys and girls in the shops are being political about this. We all respect the government, we live here. We just need a fair shake for once. We’ll go back to work, as soon as we have a contract that makes sense. We’re not gonna work ourselves to death failing to meet targets that keep rising in desperation and getting punished for it– not for last year’s wages.”

“All of that sounds acceptable to me.” Violet said. She steepled her fingers and smiled. “Here’s my proposal, Mr. Kohler. I looked through the production totals for the Tower Nine plant going back two years. Productivity was steadily growing– until the start of the war, when production targets grew immensely. I want you to agree to work out a plan for a 4% increase in weekly productivity in ninety days, but based on last year’s production scheme, with a guarantee that hours and totals will revert to that scheme and will not rise haphazardly. This is incumbent on immediate resumption of deliveries.”

That was much better than Kohler expected. Only 4% was doable with what they had.

He felt confident to push a bit. Violet seemed amenable.

“Ma’am, I am almost positive that we could get you a 6% increase on last year– if you could agree to the reinstatement of some of my trade union boys that got fired before. We got some kids who joined the strike, and a lot that didn’t. But I got guys with families ma’am, good guys, who you could bring back, and we could do so much more. With only the greenhorn kids, I don’t know that I’ll get you 3%. What do you say to that?”

“Very well. But I have an additional condition to add as well.” Violet said.

“I’m listening.” Kohler said. He felt safe– he thought he was winning her over right now.

Across the desk, Violet put on a cheekier and even more conceited grin.

“I want all of your union members present and future to join the Eisental National Socialist Party, which I will soon chair, as our first National Socialist Trade Union. Through the Party, we will organize all future labor contracts. Before you balk at this, know that I won’t demand you attend any pointless political theater for the sake of the party. Those are simply my own numbers which I must meet, and you will help to meet them. In turn, you can have as many of your men back to work as the new hires who did not join the strike. Deal, then?”

Kohler was stunned. “Ma’am, all due respect– that is a bit of a pill to swallow.”

Violet leaned forward a little bit on her desk.

“Mr. Kohler, I am willing to cooperate with you on this endeavor, in a way that nobody else is going to do. Rhineametalle won’t; and Adam Lehner won’t. Before I arrived nobody was trying to help you. I am not your friend; everything is incumbent exclusively on your results. I am taking this risk, at great personal cost, because I have crunched the numbers and the numbers do not lie. I know you can make these numbers and I know it will benefit us both. Those numbers will be met, whether by you and your trade union buddies or by someone else. But I don’t want to replace you. Please make the rational choice, just like me.”

Violet slowly drew back and laid against her chair, looking relaxed.

While Kohler felt himself sweating just a bit.

“Think about it.” She said. Her voice sounded almost sultry. “Destiny awaits.”

Kohler found his expected poisoned chalice, but now golden and studded with gems.

It was so much more difficult to turn it down or to argue against it.

Because if he could survive the poison, he had the gold and gems right in his grasp.

He was not lying to Violet. Few if any of his workers viewed themselves as activists first.

They made their living in stitching and shaping and treating steel that was then to be used in weapons for the Empire. They were part of the war machine. Had they all been ideologues, they would have quit the job when Rhineametalle quietly continued making weapons for the National Socialists. Had any of them been commies or pacifists, they would have quit even before that. All that they wanted was to live comfortably with their families. Their jobs were rare in that they were in constant demand and paid well and had perks.

None of them wanted to end up as contractors.

But he would have to surrender the union to the Volkisch. Could he do that?

Kohler imagined himself in a black uniform, with a sun disk on his chest, an eagle armband.

Some part of him was repelled by it– but his pragmatic mind told him it didn’t matter.

Getting paid and continuing to live mattered more than keeping his conscience clean.

Was the Volkisch Movement any worse than the Emperor and all that, anyway?

And Violet Lehner seemed so reasonable. She actually believed in the workers.

“Reichskommissar, soon as I see that deal in an official stamped document, we’ll sign it.”

He reached across the desk. Violet took his hand and gave it a curt little shake.

“Fantastic. I will get my Reich Ministry to put it all into a contract for your review. I’ll expedite it– I of course expect you’ll continue to man your barricade in the meantime.” She said.

“I’ll stay here until it’s ready and take it back to them, if that’s what it takes.” Kohler said.

“Splendid. We’re planning big things here, Mr. Kohler. I’m happy you’ll be on board.”

Kohler tried not to think about how ominous any of this sounded, nor meet Violet’s gaze. He was a member of a National Socialist Trade Union now– but god damn it, he’d be a fed and clothed member of a National Socialist Trade Union. He’d have a job and benefits.

He wouldn’t be out on the street.

Or dead.

In his eyes, that was a victory for labor.


Violet Lehner could have had any of the villas in A-block as a home, having purged most of the local politicians and men of influence who had taken up residence in the shadow of the Kreuzung central government. Of the vacancies, she preferred one of the smaller and more out of the way plots. On the opposite side of the lake from the main road, there was a small white house. While it was two stories tall, it consisted of only a foyer, a dining room, kitchen and a bathroom and bedroom on the upper floor. No sweeping wings with dozens of bedrooms. It was a little square thing that was almost cute to look at.

After working until 2000 hours, Violet finally retired from the office to her new home.

Having spent all day in meetings about every conceivable aspect of Kreuzung, arranging new appointees, speaking with the corporatins, as well as looking through Kreuzung’s records with her own eyes and coming up with her own ideas of how it should be managed henceforth– she was exhausted. All of the shouting and speechifying was bouncing around in her skull. She wanted to eat, and to sleep, and to be alone with her thoughts.

She was quietly driven out of the government palace, around the lake, and left at her home. Two armed guards would take the night shift guarding her home. She welcomed them to have dinner, but they declined, having already eaten. They requested to be able to pray, instead. Violet agreed wholeheartedly, and she left them to do so on her porch.

Inside, the house was sparsely decorated. Unlike some of the other villas, this one had been unoccupied, it was up for sale, and Violet had purchased it. It was a drop in the bucket compared to the windfall that Kreuzung had repossessed in its sweeping purges of the liberal government and their ill-gotten gains. Violet hung up her cap, cape and jacket near the door, and undid the top buttons on her shirt, removing the tie. She ran her hands through her colorful hair and sighed deeply, making her way to the kitchen.

She had only two major kitchen appliances: a refrigerator, and a dehydrator. She had a pantry, a cupboard, and she had a mortar and pestle out on small island.

Violet wandered over to the dehydrator. A tall metal box with nine racks inside, designed to perfectly hold temperatures between 40 and 50 degrees centigrade. She opened the box, and there was already a rack where she had been warming up some nuts all day. She left them on the island while she gathered herbs and garlic from her refrigerator. From the pantry, she took a small bottle of olive oil. With everything assembled, she pulled up her sleeves a bit and got to pounding the ingredients in her granite mortar and pestle.

There was something therapeutic about the action.

Her mind practically emptied as she smashed the herbs, garlic and nuts along with a bit of flaky salt, periodically splashing oil into the mix until she had a loose paste.

Then, she withdrew some mushrooms with big caps from her pantry, the stems having already been cut off, and she spread the paste on the underside of each mushroom cap like pieces of buttered toast. She put four such mushrooms on a plate, paste-side up, and took her light dinner to the dining room table along with a glass of lemon water.

She sat down and took her first bite. She already knew it would taste good, but she was still surprised at how fresh and hearty it felt every time she had it. Vegetal and earthy, with a fresh, bright taste from the herbs, this was real food, living food. In her mind, something like a fried sausage was like eating cancer. It was a pity that they could not feed the soldiers a diet like the one she had. They did not understand its virtues, and it simply was not cheap– promoting raw vegan food was a longer term project for Violet. For now, she had to accept the political realities, but someday. Someday everyone would eat only like this.

It would be a better world, a healthier world, a corrected world.

A perfect, superior world.

A world of truly modern humans enlightened by a scientific yet mythopoetic political ideal.

That ideal was Fascism, in the particular expression Violet herself championed.

Halfway through her dinner, she heard the front door open.

It did not worry her.

Someone put up a coat in the foyer. There was the approaching clack of heeled shoes.

Around the corner appeared a familiar figure, smiling as she took her place at the table.

Vesna Nasser, loosening her own tie and undoing a few buttons on her shirt.

Violet smiled back at her.

Nasser was a sight. She was tall and beautiful, with a strong gaze and countenance. She had an amazing figure, like the treatments they both received had brought out three times as much of a woman from her body as from Violet’s. Her blond hair and golden ears and tail only added to Violet’s interest. Already predisposed to Shimii, Violet thought that Nasser was the most perfect example of the grace and wild beauty of her kin.

Everyone else was deeply afraid of her majesty.

“Want some?” Violet asked, pointing to the last mushroom cap on her plate.

“I already ate, but I appreciate it.” Nasser replied.

“You’re missing out.” Violet said, with a little grin.

She picked up the mushroom cap and took a bite. Some of the spread got on her lips.

Nasser reached out and smudged the paste over Violet’s lips, grinning back.

“I’m not a convert to your silly diet, you know.” She said.

“It’s not silly– it’s scientific. Someday we must all eat like this.”

“Tell me, how does a dehydrator not constitute cooking? I still don’t understand that.”

“Heating up food past around 47 C kills all the nutrients, but just warming it up will inhibit bacterial growth while expressing some of the living flavor compounds.” Violet said.

“If you say so.” Nasser’s ears twitched. Her smile spread even farther, and she chuckled.

Glaring at her, Violet ate the last of her mushroom in one big bite.

“How was your trip to Tower Seven? How are the people there?” Violet asked.

“Badly abused, but resilient.” Nasser said. “Leija was a disaster, so I could not get anything important done. I left a few people with her to force to her clean up. I need to make sure she is in command of the place, before we begin serving carrots and swinging sticks.”

“Good idea. Don’t feel too rushed. Every Shimii stronghold is worth the effort for us.”

“I will keep that in mind, Reichskommissar.” Nasser said playfully.

Violet narrowed her eyes at the tone with which she pronounced her title.

But she decided not to make anything of it. She would just get teased even more.

This house and their stay in it was not for productive conversations about work anyway.

“I’m tired, Vesna. I’m going upstairs.” Violet said.

“Mind if I join you? We haven’t had the privacy to just chat for some time.” Nasser said.

“Oh, of course I don’t mind. My home is your home, always.”

They made their way upstairs.

Up a quaint-looking set of steps in the little foyer, empty save for their coats hung near the door. Violet began undoing more of her shirt’s buttons with a mind as empty as the surroundings, with each step taken up to the second floor. She felt Nasser’s hands lay on her shoulders and rub them, and she thought idly about taking a bath before deciding to do so in the morning, before she headed off back to the palace to continue her work.

As soon as she crossed the door into her bedroom, she felt Nasser’s grip on her tighten.

In an instant, Violet found herself nearly hurled onto the bed, face-down.

Nasser was on top of her just as quickly.

One hand running through Violet’s hair and grabbing.

And the other hand forcefully pulling down her pants from over her ass.

Violet did not resist.

She was bleary with anticipation and the forcefulness of her partner.

Her shirt was falling off her shoulders purely from the brusqueness of how she was handled.

“Vesna–”

“Quiet.” Vesna said, gentle but authoratative.

Violet went silent.

Vesna leaned forward, putting her weight on Violet.

Her lips left sucking kisses on Violet’s neck, her back, her exposed shoulders.

Then a bite that felt deep enough to leave red.

Violet cried out in surprise.

She heard and felt Vesna pulling down her skirt, and it sliding off onto the bed.

Felt her pants finally come down.

A hand slid under her belly and urged her to lift her hips.

“I love you, Vesna.” Violet said, her voice fading in the midst of her lovestruck stupor.

Vesna’s voice in her ear. “I’ll imprint how I feel right into your skin, mein Schatzi.”


In one of the cleaned-out rooms in the government palace, a holoprojection-capable table was arrayed in the middle, and it became a tactical room and the embryonic nerve center of the Reichskommissariat’s fleet activities. Barely a few days into Eisental’s transformation, its architects gathered in the room and around the table to formally commence the next phase of their operation. Kreuzung was their stronghold, but all of Eisental had to be taken.

Projected between them was a map of Eisental’s regions, stations, and projections of ship traffic between them. Stations were displayed by size and type. Business traffic was simulated in real time as it was known and regulated. Around Kreuzung was the ever-growing fleet of “Player Black.” In the far northwest in Aachen, close to the continent and Ayre; in the east near Khaybar; in the northeast around Stralsund group of towers; appeared the theoretical fleets of “Player Red,” “Player Green,” and “Player Yellow.”

It was “Black’s” turn to move.

At the head of the table was Violet Lehner, flanked by her dutiful adjutant Vesna Nasser. On accession of Violet to Reichskommissar, Nasser was promoted to Oberführer.

Opposite her, stood a woman with very orderly dark-blue hair, holding her cap in her hands. Her tail was extremely bushy and a little bit messier than her hair, and her cat-like ears were rounded-off at the tips. She wore her jacket off her shoulders, with her arms out of the sleeves. This was Standartenführer Imani Hadžić, a wealthy and intelligent follower of Nasser’s ideals. On that night, she met no one’s eyes and had a distant expression.

Beside Imani Hadžić, an exceedingly stuffy-looking dark-haired woman glared at her.

Her eyes seemed to take particular umbrage with the way Imani wore her uniform.

Along with this woman was a bubbly blond smiling in a way Violet found stupid.

This was Untersturmführer Emilia Skonieczny, whose career was a peculiar interest.

Then the sides of the table. Violet looked to each, examining their countenances.

On one side was a serious-looking Loup woman, with a long mane of brown hair. Broad-shouldered, tall, and with large hands, a scar cutting across the bridge of her nose and another extending from the side of her mouth near to the peak of cheekbones. She looked the most like a warrior of anyone in the room, but her scars and ruggedness had a sort of romantic and tragic beauty to them, itself evident in the softness of her gaze.

This was the Loup warlord Sushila Hatta of the Khedivate Loup “Silver Wolf Legion.” She was given the rank of Obersturmbannführer and a corresponding uniform within the Eisental fascists, having left the backwaters of Southern Rhinea to join their cause.

Standing beside her was a woman who was also rustic, large and tough — though nowhere near Hatta’s level — with a great quantity of silky brown hair and an unfriendly expression on her pretty young face. Her girlish beauty was yet untouched by war. This was Heidelinde Sawyer, Sturmbannführer in charge of the Volkisch militias. As a kind of insult she was subordinated to Hatta temporarily– Violet did not trust her for a second. She would find a more permanent home for Adam Lehner’s personal attack dog soon enough.

Opposite them was the final member of this group of conspirators. She was a very pale woman, blond, so blond her hair was almost white. Her icy blue eyes and icy-blue lips were twisted in a euphoric expression. Around her neck she wore an enormous medallion with a hooked cross, and she was bedecked in jewels, gold and earrings besides. She was perhaps the oldest woman in the room, with crow’s feet and a lot of makeup. But she boasted a grand and refined beauty, like an actress still slaying the lead role in sensual romance films well into her 50s. Her busty, ample figure was flattered by the uniform.

She was the first one to speak while everyone else was getting settled.

“Aaah! Such powerful auras! I can feel the divine feminine coursing in this room! It is touched by the sign of Venus! It is a site of Ying energy! Here the sun falls and the moon shines in its magnificence! We are pregnant with the future and giving birth to power!”

Everyone stared at her in complete and utter confusion.

Violet narrowed her eyes at the pagan’s rambling, as the woman began to hug herself.

“Divine feminine? I would be very surprised to find any of that in this room.” She said.

Perhaps the strangest of Eisental’s military forces, this chirpy and unwell woman was Luciana Waldeck, head of the Black Sun Valkyries, an all-woman female-spiritualist paramilitary. Like Hatta, she had been given a rank in the Volkisch, but hers was only Sturmbannführer. Violet eyed her skeptically. Her family had once been ennobled, and she threw a lot of money at the Volkisch Movement over the years, and she was now eager to throw even more money and manpower at Eisental. Violet was not particularly fond of her, mainly because she just could not tell whether Luciana knew about Violet’s particular form of femininity–

but she wouldn’t bring it up. That conversation could only be annoying.

Let this idiot proselytize and throw money around, and let her deluded followers die for Violet’s schemes. That was perhaps the best place and the best end for such people.

“It appears that we’re all here.” Hatta said. “I await my orders, Reichskommissar.”

“Indeed, indeed! Let’s talk uniform-type business! I’m so excited!” Luciana added.

Hatta stared at her like she wanted to bite her.

“Very well. Nasser, disclose the situation and preliminary assignments.” Violet said.

“Yes, Reichskommissar.”

Nasser touched the table with her index finger and swiped across.

More information appeared overlayed on the initial map. A prepared set of regional colors.

“Prior to the declaration of the Reichskommisariat, the Eisental region was only loosely governed from Kreuzung. Despite this, most of the region has fallen in line to support our administrative reforms. One notable holdout is Aachen, an industrial station in the north. Over time, Aachen was allowed to grow into a powerful center of administration, commanding large amounts of resources from western Eisental. Aachen is the only other station with political power and economy on par with Kreuzung. Most Western stations are primarily engaged in the harvest of raw materials. Eastern Eisental is mainly Agrispheres with traditionally large Shimii populations. Kreuzung is the most important part of the southern portion of the region, and already under our control. Other than that, the South and Southwest contain many Rhineametalle facilities and a few luxury habitats.”

“Now that you know about the region you can guess what the problem is. We have communicated the changes in status to Aachen and requested acquiescence.” Violet said. “They claim they wish to confirm with the Reichsgau in Thurin before they recognize us. Of course, I don’t believe this is the case.” Violet touched the table as well, tapping on the red units that were located around Aachen. “I am almost positive Aachen is plotting some resistance and stalling for time. They have many reasons not to accept our rule.”

Nasser followed from Violet’s statements naturally. She pushed up her glasses.

“We have good intelligence from a Katarran mole with ties to Aachen, that a constellation of leftist protest movements and paramilitary groups are mustering in the north. This mole also assisted us in predicting the Core Separation– the Cogitans refused the so-called ‘United Front’ and launched their own failed attack which we were able to repulse. So we can trust their information. We can surmise that this United Front is disorganized and its many groups are ideologically divided, so their cohesion will likely be very poor even without the Cogitans. But they could nevertheless constitute a threat if they are allowed to go to ground. Eisental still has the potential to break down into a greater crisis if the leftists get organized.”

“Labor is a big issue. To bring temperatures down and weaken the labor movements, we will establish several centrally-governed National Socialist Trade Unions.” Violet said, following up easily from Nasser. “We will negotiate softly and cautiously cede demands, incumbent on continuation of work, and thus slowly calm the antagonistic animus that Eisental’s labor has toward the corporations. I want to get goods moving to the Rhinean heartland again– however, our goal is also to divert labor and materials preferentially to Rhineametalle. Rhineametalle will get first purchase on all materials, and will work more closely with the Trade Unions than any other corporation. They will then give Eisental preferential buyer status for weapons and technologies. Allowing us to build up our own power.”

“Outside of Trade Unionism, our next potential problem,” Nasser continued from Violet, “Is Eisental’s history with the Shimii people. Shimii are the largest non-Imbrian ethnic group in Eisental, and they have historically been segregated in station towers as well as forced out of industrial work and into the agriculture sector. This is a boiling pot that could explode at any time. However, as you can see all around Kreuzung, our 7th Fleet is a largely Shimii formation. We can court the Shimii into our Trade Unions, and recruit them as a source of manpower for the ‘Zabaniyah’, and equip them with newly-purchased Rhineametalle weapons. Then we’ll use them against our enemies to prevent any further spillage of chaos in Eisental.”

“However, this is all pointless if the leftist forces are allowed to overturn the pot, so to speak. We will send an advance party to suppress the dissidents in Aachen.” Violet said. She touched the table again. Some “Black” units began to move toward Aachen, overlapping the “Red” units. “This will be our first major military maneuver as a Reichskommissariat. Imani Hadžić will be in command, with her flag on the Mrudah. She will have the assistance of Sawyer’s militia, and will have Diver tactical command under Skonieczny. The Mrudah is a new type of vessel and Skonieczny is on the bleeding edge of Diver warfare. I have the utmost confidence that Hadžić can make the most of these assets to crush Aachen.”

Across the table, Imani looked up briefly at Violet before averting her gaze.

Her reticence was a bit confusing– but Nasser trusted her, and so Violet did too.

Sawyer continued to hold her hands behind her back and made no expression.

If Imani could get her killed somehow it would be so much the better.

Emilia Skonieczny put up an extremely forced-looking smile and a thumbs-up.

She looked like an idiot– but if her thesis was correct, Violet would profit mightily.

Aachen would be the proving ground for all of them. No more needed to be said.

“North, West and East Eisental will be divided into Wehrkreis until they are fully pacified, with defense responsibility split up among our forces. Appointments will be formalized after the Aachen adventure. Preliminarily, Hatta and Waldeck will move east and west respectively to begin setting up our new Gau and most importantly, to assert our new economy. Hatta’s Loup follow Rashidun Shimiism so they are the best choice for now to control the east. Waldeck can employ her family’s business acumen to get the west producing again.”

“I am honored to be entrusted this command.” Hatta said, partially bowing to Violet.

“I will miss the amenities here, but I will follow orders.” Waldeck replied snobbishly.

There was more to discuss, but that was the meat of things. Everything was now moving.

On the table, black pieces departed from Kreuzung to each and every station, and slowly, the black filter extended over all of Eisental. From Kreuzung, to Bad Weissee, to Stralsund; to the manufactories of Rhein-Sieg-Kries and the Agrispheres of Baden; to Aachen in the north. In weeks, they would have control of the entire region. In a month, their economy would be back on track. In less than a year, perhaps, Eisental would surpass the heartland in power.

All of it played out on the table, under the widely-grinning face of Violet Lehner.

Her Nationale Volkskrieg had begun– and Endsieg was finally visible in the distance.


Deep in the bowels of Kreuzung, another group of conspirators awaited their own time.

Overhead, a glass observation dome in the baseplate exposed the massive Imbrium ocean. Directly beneath it, with the light of a few LEDs casting her shadow over her subordinate, sat Enforcer I of the Syzygy, Avaritia, atop a small crate in the damp chamber. She loomed over, statuesque, laughing to herself. Fawning over her at her side, with her head on Avaritia’s lap like a very dressed-up kitten, was Enforcer III, Gula. Avaritia gently stroked Gula’s long hair while looking down at a woman kowtowing in front of her and copiously weeping.

“Please, Exalted, my troops did all that we could. I beg you– if you must punish anyone, punish me alone for my weakness. The Wizard class was supposed to have the blood and instincts of powerful tacticians, and I have disgraced it. Please– punish only me.”

Wizard III begged, crawling shamelessly in front of Avaritia’s feet.

“Wizard III– If I were to spare only a single one of your troops. Please name one.”

Avaritia spoke in a cruel, uncaring tone of voice.

Wizard III felt a jolt of terror directly into her heart. Her lips quivered, teeth chattered.

She felt almost insane to be responding to this awful question.

Insane to know her answer.

“Vanguard IX.” She said. “She fought most valiantly of all of us. Please spare her!”

Avaritia suddenly started laughing.

She bent down, reached for Wizard III’s head.

And softly and condescendingly patted her hair with a cheery grin on her face.

“My darling, did you hear that? Wasn’t it romantic? Wasn’t it so unlike Wizard III?”

Gula rubbed her cheek on Avaritia’s lap, giggling.

“Darling, it was exceedingly romantic!”

“Wizard III, you failed me, but I am proud of you nevertheless. I could feel it in that instant. That little bit of humanity in you– that little spark of greed. It was worth making this trip just to see that become a part of you.” Avaritia’s eyes formed their cross-hairs again and locked on to Wizard III. In turn, she withered at the attention of her exalted leader. She put her head low to the ground and continued to bow without daring to look up, terrified.

“Of course, we will reward such romance! Besides, we need the troops intact anyway.”

Gula said, before extending a very long tongue out to lick Avaritia’s hand.

Avaritia’s fingers absentmindedly toyed with the long, slender tongue like a little toy.

“Indeed, indeed. But, there is one action I must regrettably take, in response to all of this.”

Avaritia lifted the hand that was toying with Gula’s tongue. Casually, she reached down.

Then effortlessly ripped Wizard III’s arm out of its socket with a horrific wet crunch.

Wizard III gritted her teeth, groaned, struggling to hold her bow. Her entire body shaking.

“Please use this to assist Vanguard IX in recovering. She needs an arm more than you do.”

Through the dizzying pain, Wizard III continued to bow. “As you command, Exalted.”

She held that bow valiantly, never collapsing even as the blood flowed.

Avaritia toyed with the arm a bit and pondered.

In all likelihood they would be a little late to the conference in Aachen, but that was fine.

All of their plans had become longer-term than any of them wanted.

But what good was a Destiny devoid of romance? Their destination was set, so why hurry?

“I am curious what more the hominin are capable of– let us watch them for now.”

Avaritia smiled in the darkness, her cross-hair flashing.

And her shadow stretching across the room as a hundred-limbed, serpentine horror.


“I’m telling you, I’m fine now.”

Majida al-Khaybari cast a tired glance at Raaya al-Shahouh, who was fussing over her.

She stood at the side of Majida’s bed with her arms spread out, preventing her from rising.

“You need to stay in bed.” Raaya said. “Please. Just a few more days. For me.”

“Raaya. Please step aside.” Majida’s breathing was troubled. She broke into a sweat.

“What happened to me being your wife, Majida? Sometimes wives must do these things.”

“Not so loud.” Majida moaned. She dropped back into bed, defeated.

Had Raaya made any more of a fuss, Mawla Asma or someone else close to her could have heard, and then they would both have some very awkward explaining to do.

Unlike Majida, bedridden and ill, the Mawla had a rare and blessed streak of good health and was engaged in inspecting the various tunnels and modules of Khaybar. Though Majida was not the “ruler” of Khaybar, she still felt a strong sense of responsibility for the community and as she lay in bed, she only grew more nervous of what the Mawla might think. Majida had been accruing more and more military resources while making only humble improvements to the life support and food systems. The Mawla might disprove of her ambitions.

Seeing Majida drop back into bed, Raaya sighed and sat down at her side.

“Everything will be fine.” Raaya said. “You’ll get to terrorize the world again soon.”

“Funny.” Majida replied sarcastically. It did little to lighten the mood.

Around them the room was fairly dark. In a corner of the room there was an improvised lamp of LED bulbs wired into a battery, but it was rather dim. The entrance to Majida’s simple abode was a physical door with a lever-catch. She had no possessions except her bed, and a chest for her clothes. Anything else she needed was outside that door, with the ummah she cherished. Her only precious treasure in that room now was Raaya herself.

Majida turned her head and looked at the rock wall of their room.

Her mood took a dark turn as she imagined the Mawla making the rounds.

All of these people whom Majida had sworn to protect, to save; to uphold their justice.

She had promised the old warlord al-Khaybari that she would protect everyone.

Was it even possible to protect them? Living in this cave, with hunger and sickness?

Confined here eternally, and for what? For the sin of believing differently?

In a sense, was she any better for the ummah than that bastard Radu?

Was she really just an illusionist then? Another false hope for their beaten people?

Majida felt a rare swell of emotion.

She began to weep and she hated herself for it. She felt so weak and so helpless.

In her mind, she envisioned the man whose DNA she was cursed to bear.

“Raaya, was I born to bring misfortune? Was Mehmed truly so evil that I must suffer too? Can I do nothing? It feels as if I was destined to struggle fruitlessly. I am afraid for us.”

Raaya smiled gently. She reached for a bucket of cool water and dipped a towel in it.

“My father used to say that ‘to believe in Destiny is to disbelieve in justice’.” She said.

She laid the towel on Majida’s head. It provided some relief from the heat she was feeling.

Even more relieving was the gentle gaze and comforting touch of her companion.

“I like that.” Majida said softly. She smiled bitterly. “I want to believe in that.”

Raaya tenderly laid down at her side. “Majida, I truly believe you are living proof of it.”

Majida shut her eyes, comforted by Raaya’s presence.

She wanted so dearly to believe that, in spite of everything, God loved her.

That God loved her people too– and that they were not cursed to die in this place.

She had to recover soon. She needed to get out there again and fight for them.

If it was against such a cruel Destiny– Majida would curse and fight it with all her strength.


“Ha! Ha ha ha! Incredible! A Core Separation? How inventive! And they still lost?”

Laughter boomed through the room and out into the adjacent hallway.

“Such trick was only necessary for lack of martial prowess! A sign of weakness! Pathetic!”

Seated on an collection of colorful inflatable chairs, for one cushion along was not enough to hold her stature: Labrys Agamemnon. A “representative” of the Mycenae Military Commission of Southern Katarre, she had suddenly burst out laughing at some news.

She laughed at the thought of the terror Kreuzung must have gone through, and the folly of the Cogitans who still failed even after such an audacious gambit. Truly the Cogitans were the weakest race on the planet, reliant always on trickery. Only the Imbrians were truly war-like and mighty enough to rival the Katarran race in any way, she thought to herself.

Labrys lounged in a penthouse prepared for her in Stralsund, one of Eisental’s few luxury habitats. Unlike Kreuzung, which was a tower-type station, Stralsund was an arcology, with a domed structure and vast underground works. Stralsund’s upper level, under the dome, had free-form construction, with streets and discrete buildings, and it was a gorgeous and racuous pleasure resort. Standing at 3 meters tall, Labrys was not going to be comfortable anywhere but the upper level, where there was “sky” overhead, rather than a ceiling scraping against her horns. And only a VIP suite with a sliding glass ceiling would do for her pleasures. Seated on her cushioned throne, holding a bottle of fine wine by the neck, with a tray of charcuterie meat balanced on the flat and broad side of the axe-shaped tip of her tail.

“I thought the audacity of the method would appeal to you. Perhaps give you ideas.”

“Hah! You still don’t know me very well, Asan. If you’re trying to suck up, try harder!”

“I am simply concerned about our position.” Replied the annoyingly curt Shimii.

Labrys suddenly leaned forward, eye to eye with her inexpressive subordinate.

“Being concerned isn’t your job. But I could give you something to be concerned about.”

Asan did not waver in front of Labrys, despite the gargantuan difference in size. A slender, fair and almost cute Shimii woman, purple hair and a little lab coat, all made up in pigments; versus the Colossus of Sebbenytos, red and orange hair like flames, clad in golden armor, her muscled figure lacquered bronze, whose very tail was a deadly weapon. It would have made for a farcical scene had it not been for the sheer power and menace Labrys exuded.

In deference to that power, and the control it had over her life, Asan stepped back.

She dropped to one knee in deference to the warlord.

Labrys grinned and leaned back.

Raising her wine bottle and nearly downing it all in one gulp.

While Asan waited to be either dismissed or addressed once again.

She was lucky she was so useful– anyone else so out of line, Labrys would have beheaded.

Talking back to a superior was close enough to sin for a death sentence in Mycenae.

“Tell me, how is our little Warlord doing? You should be here to talk about your actual responsibility, rather than bringing me fucking news, don’t you think?” Labrys snapped.

“I apologize for my impudence. Her review is nearly complete. The troops respect her.”

Labrys smiled, bearing all of her many sharp teeth.

“Of course they respect her. She was created to rule. It is her inalienable genetic Destiny. Neither of us would be alive and here if she could not command basic respect.”

She reached out her enormous hand and prodded Asan with one large, sharp finger.

Again Asan locked eyes with Labrys without expression.

“But her creator is perfectly fallible. She could fail me yet. And I’d hate for that to happen.”

“Physiologically, Astra’s body is without flaw.” Asan said. “She has not shown any signs–”

“I’ve heard this once before.” Labrys said, moving her tail, plate and all, close to Asan.

Before Asan could offer a rebuttal, or shy away from the blade, a door opened behind them.

Both Labrys and Asan quieted, since the subject of their discussion had just appeared.

They quickly shed all hostility and tension and awaited acknowledgment from the girl.

Dressed in a uniform that was gold with black trim, festooned with medals.

Their new arrival was a short and slight woman with a confident gait, incredibly beautiful features, very fair and regal, with copious pale hair that almost touched the floor. In her hair there were several thin black antennae interspersed within it, with a few of these structures stiffly arranged in something like a four-pronged crown at the back of her head. Infrequently, a spark of electricity would crackle from that crown. Trailing behind her was a pair of spindly, eel-like tails that could be manipulated, but were currently just dragging.

As a Panthalassian, she had inherited features from the DNA of a– rare– donor animal.

Perhaps one of the rarest and most dangerous in the world.

It had to be that way– had she been born any lesser, Mycenae would have rejected her.

That superior DNA contained the oaths that kept Mycenae together.

When she looked upon her, Labrys could almost see Katarre reunited again too.

“Long live the Palaiologoi! For the Golden Age!” Labrys said, putting her fist to her chest.

That fist still clutching the nearly empty wine bottle, even in the presence of her lord.

At this scene, the Mycenean Warlord Astra Palaiologos II simply smiled.

She was young still, and forgave the excesses of her great and terrible mentor quite easily.

Or at the very least, she mostly ignored them.

Labrys loved to see that beautiful little smile on her face.

That naïve, malleable smile.

“Lord Agamemnon. I have completed my inspection of the troops. It is satisfactory.” Astra said softly. “Even those rambunctious mercenaries seemed to be falling in line for me. Spirits remain high too, even in the circumstances. Many seem excited for what may come.”

“Of course! It is in the blood of every Mycenean to see opportunity in chaos.”

Labrys reached out her enormous hand and patted Astra on the shoulder.

Asan averted her gaze as Astra looked eager in the presence of the dark Colossus.

“We stand to make a lot of money, my liege.” Labrys said. “Our time is soon to come. Just give the Eisental pot a few more degrees. It is bound to explode, and so will our profits.”

Astra nodded her head. She said nothing more. She was a quiet girl, often with her thoughts.

That part of her, Labrys wasn’t too keen on. But it did not matter.

Quiet was fine as long as she remained compliant.

Soon, this patch of the Imbrium, including that girl, would all be dancing on her palm.

Labrys knew for certain it was her Destiny to ascend to ever greater riches.

And maybe even power. Over Mycenae– over all of Katarre.

That was the unalienable truth inscribed into her DNA.


On an enormous television in the middle of a lavish pink room, a soft couch full of big, fluffy teddy bears watched scenes of carnage that played out in a distant place on a distant day. The Rhinea News Network had been playing the events of the Kreuzung Core Separation nonstop. Opinionated guests urged citizens to throw their full support behind the Volkisch Movement, and referred to the Core hijackers ominously as “the alternative” to the Volkisch law and order. Every day a new reason to fear arose. Weakness from the Liberals allowed crime or terrorism or extreme communist violence or another abstract demon to slip into Kreuzung’s core. And your home could be the next one attacked by the madness.

From the midst of the plushies, a slender and fair hand made a gesture in the air.

The television shut off with a quick command from a remote.

“It’s incoherent, but it will scare the oldsters who still watch RNN.”

Gloria Innocence Luxembourg spread her arms and yawned, leaning back on her couch.

All of this was quite sad– and she felt a touch of regret about it all too.

She had been watching days of this mess playing out in the media, while waiting for the delegates to the United Front to arrive at Aachen. It was not the media narrative itself that troubled her– the RNN’s right-wing slant was well known. Even the RNN’s accession to the premier media of the Rhinean government would not do much. Most of Rhinea was composed of apolitical liberal Imbrians who did not suddenly become fascists just from having one news network that was known to be toxic put in their faces.

What did haunt her– was the sheer enormity of the situation at hand.

Twelve ships of the Cogitan remnant fleet caused a monumental event to transpire. They very nearly destroyed an entire station, and could have killed hundreds of thousands. They attacked the core of an Imbrian station. Violated the taboo and nearly eliminated a human habitat. In her mind, that felt massive. It exerted its own gravity that felt crushing in its weight. Humanity could have been reduced. They could have lost Kreuzung as land.

Gloria was not just planning for hypothetical conflicts anymore.

It was actual war now. War that could become apocalyptic.

Soon, such decisions would be in Gloria’s own hands as well.

They would be her duty. Everyone would expect her to be decisive.

Everything on the television had felt so distant, once upon a time.

Other people’s problems. Outside the walls of her beautiful gardens.

Now, war and violence was hurtling toward Gloria, or Gloria herself hurtling toward it. Headlong, without pause. She had set into motion events that could not be taken back and written pages that could not be ripped. The “Red Player” on the board. The little rich Princess on a vast stage. Hundreds of lights would shine demanding upon her soon.

Her hand on the remote trembled.

She thought of words she heard Kremina Qote scream at the crew of the Brigand.

There is no United Front without Daksha Kansal.

Could Gloria Innocence Luxembourg give more to the world than Daksha Kansal?

Could she give more than Leda Lettiere– could she give her entire life for this?

Gloria remembered, so long ago, when her eyes met those of Leda Lettiere–

that power–

She hugged one of her plushies close. Hugged it extremely tight.

She smiled to herself. Whatever was she worriying about?

A few tears shed from her eyes. There was no turning back. It was done.

She was trapped in this and could do nothing but accept it.

No– she had been hurtling toward war for a long time now.

More than just the thought of Leda Lettiere and what she had meant– her school days were days of loss and transformation that revealed the world as too evil for her to endure.

Those days overturned ideas of power and nobility that she had long held.

Since then, she knew she had to claim the gold of the Gods for her own wicked self.

From the moment that Leda Lettiere met the gallows–

Gloria Innocence Luxembourg had received her inevitable Destiny.


At the top of the main building of the Rhinea News Network in Thurin station, the Fuhrer Adam Lehner had a private office, decorated to his liking, from which he ruled the country. At his back the wall was entirely glass, his window into all of Thurin below him. Furnished with a tall leather executive chair; a desk made of real wood; glass cases with models of ships on the walls. On that day, the model on his desk, which he had just recently assembled himself, was a Ritter-class Cruiser from Maximus Models’ “Highest Grade” line.

It was assembled without its various gun turrets, and partially painted blue.

Lehner stared at it for a few minutes while waiting for a visit from his officers.

He reached out an index finger and nudged it ever so slightly.

Enjoying the cooler angle that it had from his vantage, when poked a little to right.

Without the guns, it had such a sleek profile. And the guns were annoying to glue anyway.

Then an LED blinked on his desk to alert him to someone at his door.

Lehner cast a bored look at the door then returned his attention to the model.

Through the door walked two figures in black uniforms.

One was familiar, the Chief of Staff of the Rhinean Navy, Walther Weddel. A round-headed, very sweaty man with a rather wan and pathetic expression– Lehner felt almost disgusted to look at him sometimes. He was so disappointing. Lehner had told Weddel that he needed to put on some muscle, and if Weddel was even trying, it was impossible to see. However, the person next to him, despite being a woman, was the far more impressive one.

It was this woman that caused Lehner to lift his gaze from his sexy model ship.

All of the gallantry Walther lacked as a man, Hedwig von Treckow seemed to possess. She was taller than him, leaner, with sharper facial features, and particularly long and attractive legs. Her dark, shoulder-length hair had a fantastic sheen, long and wavy with a slight curl in the ends, and an ornamental braid on one side. Her makeup was perfect– Lehner paid particularly attention to her lips. Outside of the recent promotions Lehner had heaped on Violet and her freakish clique, von Treckow was one of the very few self-made female admiralty of the Volkisch Movement, with the rank of Brigadeführer. Female admiralty in the Volkisch movement wore a pants uniform rather than a skirt, and it only made Treckow look all the more comparable to Weddel, and again, absolutely not in his favor.

Lehner almost wanted to crack some kind of joke that Treckow should just become a man and replace Weddel in the high command for optics; but it made him think about Violet and all that assorted scandal and he did not want to promote further thinking along those lines. So instead he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, bored and awaiting the two of them to report. He knew some of the points they were going to bring up already.

“We’ve got good news and bad news, don’t we? Start with the good news.”

“Heil, Fuhrer,” Treckow said, speaking before Weddel, “we have arranged a ninety day ceasefire with the Royal Alliance’s main force under the Brauchitsch admiralty. A few mercenaries and stray bannermen attempted to take parting shots, but were easily repelled without the main force of the nobles. The front is already quieting down as we speak.”

“Sorry doll, that’s bad news for me.” Lehner said. He groaned. “That’s news that makes us look weak. I didn’t say ‘no’ when this was proposed, and I could’ve, because I’m the guy, but I don’t have to like it. Put that under bad news and tell me something else. How are those royal bastards holding up? They can’t possibly still have parity with us, can they?”

“In the final accounting, we did just a bit more damage to them than they did to us.” Weddel said, taking over for Treckow. Lehner already wished Treckow had continued speaking. If Weddel wasn’t such a good manager, he would have demoted him to staff mailman just to avoid having to see and hear him. “And they have far less ability to recover long term. We have Rhineametalle and Skuld Armaments and all that– we have corporations with developed industrial pipelines. They only have whatever bits of Bruckwaldt Armorers that managed to flee to Yucatan with the clan. We will whittle them down long term.”

“Long term doesn’t matter!” Lehner said. “I wanted these puffed-up queers dead yesterday. We should’ve had all the metals and food they’re sitting on! If I did, then I wouldn’t have to lose sleep over Rhineametalle and those corporate bastards you trust so much!”

“Sir– I’m– Well–”

Weddel looked at a loss for words.

Treckow cleared her throat and interrupted his stuttering.

“Fuhrer, I have a proposal to turn the ceasefire to our advantage.” She said.

“Now that is what I like to hear.” Lehner said, his eyes suddenly interested in more than Treckow’s legs and chest. “See, Walther, that’s initiative. You’d do good to dig some up.”

Weddel frowned. He eyed Treckow as if to bid her to please continued speaking.

“Sir,” Treckow continued. “The internal situation of the Royal Alliance is deeply complicated. There are multiple competing interests within their stronghold in Yucatan. During a hot war, these factions do not have opportunity to seek their own advantages– issuing a ceasefire is necessary for their military wing to reorganize, but it will give their political factions the space to further feud. We can use the time to infiltrate, reconnoiter and exploit the political divisions of the Alliance to weaken it from the inside and make it easier to destroy.”

Lehner sat in silence for a bit, blinking, a vacant look on his face.

He then clapped his hands.

“Fantastic! Finally! Look, Weddel– a winning mentality! Please, Treckow, tell me more.”

He put on a smile and stared even more intently at Treckow.

She continued to fix his gaze without making any undue expressions.

Lehner had almost wanted her to blush or act girlish but it apparently just wasn’t her style.

“There are three main weak points which we can target to weaken the Alliance. We should begin to sneak in Sicherheitsdienst and Stabswache agents into the Yucatan to take advantage of this. I would like to plan to do so in the upcoming prisoner exchanges.”

“Draft a proposal, and Weddel, take everything she says very seriously.” Lehner said.

“Of course– I’m the one who brought here, I cosign everything–”

“Shut up and let her talk, Weddel.”

Treckow continued speaking as if Weddel and Lehner were not feuding.

She held up three black-gloved fingers.

“First point: recently the Sedlitz and Lothair families formalized a merger through marriage between their young scions, in order to provide the Alliance with a ‘king and queen’ and a ‘royal court’ to replace the Fuellers.” Treckow said. “Sethlitz and Lothair were the 3rd and 5th houses in the Imbrium Empire as the Fuellers led it– but of course, the lower houses are not all necessarily accepting that the Fueller status quo should be reproduced within the Alliance. We could potentially find and promote a competing royal couple from the lower houses to sow discord within the aristocrats. It would be especially useful if we could disrupt the 8th House too, Brauchitsch– they are responsible for training and strategy.”

“This one’s a tricky idea.” Weddel said. “We don’t necessarily have an in here–”

Lehner spoke up. “We have aristocrats right in this room.” He said. “Treckow, you are part of the Treckow family– or you used to be– correct? They were the 9th House, once upon a time. Surely we have more former aristocrats around who could infiltrate the Alliance.”

Treckow shut her eyes. “I will do as you command, for national socialism. Never has a Treckow officer abandoned her leader and duty– save for my disgraced clan–”

Weddel cringed.

“Please don’t send Treckow away, Fuhrer. It’s– It’s so hard to get good help–”

Lehner bared his teeth.

“I didn’t mean Treckow specifically! You dolt! Ugh. Treckow, what’s point two?”

“Yes, Fuhrer,” Treckow said, “Point two entails the preponderance of mercenaries in the Royal Alliance. Katarrans, Loup and certain Imbrian adventurers have been fighting as monarchist soldiers of fortune. These forces are smaller than the core of veterans that Brauchitsch has been leading for the Alliance, but they are significant enough. If we could turn them at a crucial moment, it could shift the tide of the war in our favor. Alternatively, we can at least pay them enough to look the other way at our initial infiltrations.”

“I’m not buying any mercenaries.” Lehner said. “If there’s anything the Royal Alliance has it’s money– all those fucking nobles are loaded with diamonds and gold and shit. I’m not gonna match whatever exorbitant price they are asking to fight for these losers. Not for what, 10 or 15% of their armed forces in total? It’s not a good deal, doll. I only take the best deals.”

“We should consider at least paying for smuggling and informants.” Weddel said.

“It’ll go out of your operational budget.” Lehner grumbled. “You have one, use it.”

“Very well, Fuhrer. Next point, Treckow?”

“My final point, and perhaps the most volatile: the native people of the Yucatan, the Campeche or ‘Campos’.” Treckow said. She launched into a history lesson that lost Lehner near immediately. “During the Empire’s expansion into the south, Imbria assimilated the Campos, who had created a militarily weak state. Yucatan remained largely dominated by the Campos since its location near the continent walls made it rich in minerals as well as growing materials for Agrispheres, so it was a region dominated by workers and corporate managers. The Alliance represents a massively extractive and domineering force over them.”

Lehner started gesticulating as if to say ‘get to the point’ but Treckow never picked up on the gesture until she was fully done speaking. Finally, the Fuhrer sighed and put his hands over his eyes. “What you’re saying is, we could try to instigate a native uprising? How? I don’t think the Escabeche people are going to be receptive to national socialism.” He finally said.

Treckow and Weddel ignored the flagrant mispronounciation.

“They might be. Nationalists exist everywhere.” Weddel said.

“And revolutionaries everywhere need a source of guns.” Treckow added.

“Guns? What’ll they do with guns?” Lehner asked, incredulous. “Brauchitsch has fleets.”

“We can sneak in Divers to them. Even Sturmvolkers, properly deployed, can make retaking any stations the Campos overturn painful for Brauchitsch.” Treckow explained.

“We don’t care about the ultimate success of the Campos, just the chaos they can sew.” Weddel said. “The Campos are the Alliance’s workforce, Sedlitz is cooked without them. And with all those conceited nobles around it will not take much to stir up a conflict.”

“I was on board at first, but the commercial went on too long.” Lehner said. He sighed. “Seriously, I don’t believe any of this will or can work– but it doesn’t feel like it costs me too much to take a gamble on it. It’s not like we’re in any condition to just break the ceasefire right away. But my priority is reorganizing the frontline– alongside all this spy nonsense, I want someone with brains like Treckow to plan a blitz ninety days from now.”

“Yes sir.” Treckow said. For the first time, her tone sounded just a little crestfallen.

“Weddel– keep on doing what you’re doing. Dismissed. Send me all the plans you make.”

Lehner waved his hands dismissively, as if shooing two dogs out of his office.

Treckow and Weddel hailed victory and left the room.

Once they were gone, he reached into a drawer for a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

Not some electric vapor pipe thing– real cigarettes.

Hundred marks a pack. The good stuff.

“Honestly. I get behind all this ubermensch shit and not one of them is superior to fucking anything.” He took a long drag and ran his fingers across the surface of the cigarette. A concrete, vital object, not some necrotic facsimile. That’s what he wanted the Volkisch to be– but at every turn, he conceded living vitality to further erosion.

“All of this is a goddamn fucking nightmare.”

He was distracted by the red LED lighting up on his desk again.

“Come in, but it better be good! You didn’t schedule this!” Lehner shouted.

When the door opened, a sheepish Volkisch communications officer walked in.

Her beret was practically falling off her head with how much she was shaking.

“What’s the matter now?” Lehner asked, exasperated. “You can speak up!”

“Fuhrer,” said the girl, “We have a report of recent events in Kreuzung. It contains some– irregularities. We believed you should be consulted on the situation before it was officially disseminated to other analysts. I have the papers in this portable computer, sir.”

She approached the desk and deposited the computer on it.

Lehner looked down at it skeptically, for merely a second.

“Just tell me what it is!” Lehner said. He was getting fed up with his subordinates.

“Sir!” said the girl, straightening up as stiff as she could go. “It appears Kreuzung ended the Rhineametalle workers strike. They have struck a deal– details forthcoming– but apparently the deal was struck by Vladimir Lehner of the 7th Stabswache, acting as Reichsk–”

“Violet Lehner.” Lehner said suddenly. His reaction even surprised himself for a moment. However, he was too elated for introspection. “Finally, someone around here has displayed a shred of competence. So what’s the irregularity? You just got her name wrong?”

“Um.” The communications girl paused for a moment. “Well, sir, that was– one–”

“So what’s the rest then? Am I going to have to read all of this? Really?”

He picked up the portable computer and let it drop from his hand back on his desk.

The thudding sound caused the communications girl to shake. She finally continued.

“Sir, Kreuzung has declared itself the seat of a political unit called Reichskommissariat Eisental. It has also declared that Vlad– Violet Lehner is its Reichskommissar. Sir, it was the understanding of the Sicherheitsdienst that these proposed land divisions and governing positions were only to extend to future conquests, not to Rhinean regions.”

Lehner blinked, hard. His cigarette hung in his fingers untouched for seconds.

He brought it to his lips and took a long drag. Then he smashed it against his desk.

“Send for your boss. I want Haus right here, now. Bring every communication and report from Kreuzung for the past month. And get me a meeting with this Reichskommissar.”

Violet– his scandalous offspring was doing too fucking good a job right now.

And it had just then begun to deeply concern him what she might be capable of doing.

Maybe he was worrying for nothing– he was her father, surely she would not–

But–

But maybe she had the ambitious bastardry of a Vladimir rather than a sweet Violet.

Or worse– a born and bred Lehner.


“No– No, don’t leave me here– please take me away–”

Violet mumbled in her sleep. Nightmares. It was an almost nightly occurrence.

There was nothing she could do to protect her ward in the warped realm of her mind.

Nasser held tightly onto Violet, who felt so thin and small in her grasp just then.

She grit her teeth, overcome with dread as the players began the fated performance.

They had been playing house in Kreuzung for a bit– but those days would soon be over.

Sometimes she wanted to take Violet and run away for good.

But there was no use to that. There was too much at stake for both of them.

Normal lives were not meant for them.

It was impossible to outrun it, ever since they first laid eyes on one another.

Nasser, nothing but a wicked mercenary tasked with handling some forlorn girl.

Violet, a seed of hatred and scandal who nevertheless could not be allowed to die.

Ever since then, they danced upon the cruel, immense, and inescapable stage of Destiny.

For the future of Imbria.

For the future of the Shimii.

For their own futures.

Without their politics, and their blood, and the power they conferred, there was nothing.

There were a lot of people Nasser could curse. But there was nothing she could do.

Mehmed’s rebellion was crushed by the predecessors of the Volkisch in Rhinea’s navy.

Al-Khaybari’s people were confined to his mountain, to die with him.

Nasser the Elder died cursing the Mahdists for a hundred generations despite his “victory.”

Mogliv Omarov exiled to foreign lands to die. Radu the Marzban but a shadow of himself.

Who would be the next Hero whose ambition would overturn these lands?

Who would be the next one to fail and to be buried, leaving behind only grudges?

Nasser could not afford to fail as they had.

In order to have a future, she, too, had to realize Endsieg.

“I’ll be strong for you.” Vesna Nasser said. “I have to be strong. I have to be.”

For the Heroes whose feud she had to continue.

For the Order that she needed to construct.

And for the woman that she saved, and used, and now painfully, that she loved.

Vesna Nasser had to become a king worth the favor of Destiny.


Previous ~ Next

Bandits Amid The Festival [11.12]

While the festival’s most passionate attractions played out within the habitats of the station, Kreuzung’s interstice was not untouched by the music; in that venue, the melody and drumbeat had its own unique pace. When the core separation’s began to spread through Kreuzung, a number of humble maintenance personnel and disgruntled security staff were cast into complete darkness within the station’s numerous maintenance shafts, floodbreaks, and internal cargo elevators and conveyors. Those dark crevices became their venue.

As in the habitats, some of the principal revelers were the men and women (though mainly men) of the Kreuzung Public Security Department. Kreuzung’s police began as a private security force slowly replacing the retainers of the nobility in guarding the ports and villas, primarily in the payroll of the noveau rich. Legitimated by liberalization brought on by the purses of the capitalists, it became a formality to renew their contract, and they were renamed– they were organized as a Department of the Kreuzung government.

More than mercenaries, they became the law, as the station’s inhabitats suffered it.

The K.P.S.D had a lot riding on the proper conclusion of the festivities.

Despite the fervent denials from the corporations in charge of Kreuzung’s utilities and core power, it was immediately clear to the K.P.S.D. that foul play was involved in the core separation and its ensuing festival of carnage. When the government issued a station lock-down, the K.P.S.D was already rushing to enforce one. Not in Kreuzung’s main seaport, where millions of marks worth of lucrative business relations and K.P.S.D. racketeering could be jeopardized: instead, the effort was concentrated on securing the interstice and the private ports. Part of the hope was that from the lockdown areas, they could find ways to get around the hostage situation within the core shaft.

In Kreuzung’s largest tunnels, the K.P.S.D had room to deploy some of their heavier equipment, budgeted for but hardly ever used outside of drills. Several checkpoints were established, where mobile barricades mounted on armored trucks blocked access and served as platforms for grenade launchers and heavy machine guns. Shoulder-fired explosive missiles were stocked in piles behind each barricade. Each checkpoint had at least a platoon’s worth of men, and all of them felt quite proud in their riot armor and heavy weapons.

For some of the men, this presented a chance to show-up the Volkisch’s forces in Kreuzung, particularly the Sicherheitsdienst, Landwehr militia and the advance forces of the Stabswache, all of which rivaled the K.P.S.D. in recent months. Not necessarily to protect their patrons in the A-block government; but to continue to enjoy the privileges of being Kreuzung’s premier security force. Turning out in force, in excessive force, would show the fancy-uniformed fascists in their little offices and barracks who ruled Kreuzung’s streets, who pocketed Kreuzung’s cash; they were not going to allow a repeat of the election night skirmishes.

It would show Kreuzung itself– you need the K.P.S.D.

You need to pass new and bigger K.P.S.D. budgets. You need to raise K.P.S.D. recruitment, and relax K.P.S.D. regulations, raise a K.P.S.D. fleet. You need to tolerate K.P.S.D. rackets. The Volkisch Movement might do the job for free, but they won’t do it right. They let the core separation happen; and after saving the station, it would be the moment where the K.P.S.D. advertised themselves as an utterly essential product. They would be the ones taking away the strongbox at the end of the festival, and divvying up the donated coins alone.

“Oh! So that is what the hominins are doing. Tristitia understands now.”

Hundreds of slim, pale tentacles exited from as many orifices on an armor-wearing corpse, dropping the ragged mass of mutilated flesh into onto the wet floor of a maintenance shaft. Before it even hit the ground, a soft, jelly-like body began to glide over the shallow water and around the tunnels with a speed and adroitness alien to its messy body plan, as if floating in an invisible ocean. Its surface brimmed with color like a living oil slick.

Her mission continued.

Armed with information, though not necessarily understanding.

“Tristitia will just use these hominin! The hominin will stop the heretic for Tristitia.”


“Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather. Rottenführer in the Sicherheitsdienst.

“Murati Nakara. I’m a cargo operations manager for Treasure Box Transports.”

She could let this woman know her name. She was not intending to let her walk away.

Whether or not Aatto knew her name was the least of her potential problems.

For the Brigand to escape, it was necessary to disable her and her men.

And do it quickly.

Murati felt the chill of cold sweat tracing a line down her back, and between her breasts.

In the midst of the Core Separation, Alcor’s module reminded her of when she used to live in Thassal. Her housing block’s power would be knocked out by faulty power conduits or junction boxes every so often. It was cold, the lights would be blinking, and it made her mindful of her breathing, as if it was actually possible to ration breath and thus breathe for longer. She was in the same situation– cold, sweaty, minding her breathing with an annoyingly deliberate mental effort. She was quite far from Thassal station, however.

Standing in front of what purported to be the station authority in Kreuzung.

But they were not coming to save her or assist her. Far from it.

She had to think about the situation carefully.

Opposite Murati stood Aatto Jarvi Stormyweather, a member of the Volkisch’s national intelligence service, the Sicherheitsdienst or Security Service. Her rank, Rottenführer, was roughly equivalent to the Union’s ‘Chief Petty Officer.’ This rank sat below that of an officer, but for a sailor, and in this case, for a technical expert or support servicewoman, this was a high rank, the next step being a commission. Murati had some awareness that within the Sicherheitsdienst this rank fulfilled important analytical work with security clearances.

It also clearly entailed some field command, with Aatto at the head of a squadron.

Murati tried to get a read on her opponent, in the moments of their mutual introductions. Aatto was– she looked like– an exceedingly lovely-looking woman. Murati had cultivated an anti-materialist and naïve idea (she began berating herself mentally)– that the fascists would all be foul of countenance as they were of heart, enormous pig-like men and warped-looking women like cartoon characters. She felt embarassed– Aatto had a perfectly comely face, her bangs were very neat, her hair was lustrous and wavy, and she wore a discrete and tasteful amount of makeup. Her eyes and expression were terribly conceited. She looked awfully amused with herself, as if going through life with an air of casual dismissal.

Her distasteful uniform was undoubtedly clean, and worn with fastidious tidiness.

She carried no sidearm. She must not have expected any resistance tonight.

Already, Murati was thinking to herself. There might be a way out of this confrontation.

Formed of both ethereal things, like Aatto’s appearance; and her concrete position.

She just needed the space to create an opportunity.

“Rottenführer, is it standard procedure to point guns at legitimate businesspersons?”

Murati asked. She thought it was a good tack to take.

Behind her, Tigris remained quiet.

Aatto responded to the inquiry calmly.

Peering briefly at Tigris and then at Murati again.

Her way of enunciating was clear and confident without pauses or slips of the tongue.

“There was an order to shelter in place, as well as orders not to leave the station.”

“I apologize for what must seem like a disorderly scene, Rottenführer, but I am afraid that we are on a tight schedule. We are completing maintenance on our ship. We have a contract and are part of a tight operation– any further delay will be catastrophic to our company.”

“Be that as it may, this much activity during a shelter-in-place is impermissible.”

“Can an exception be made? We will lose our contract if we are not ready in time.”

“That is none of my concern. I was sent here to inspect, and I found an irregularity.”

Aatto did not look to be in a hurry to push Murati aside. She continued talking to her.

“Rottenführer, I must object. There is a dearth of information about what is happening.”

Murati nodded her head toward the walls.

With how erratic and garbled the screens were, none of the warnings displayed correctly.

She did not want to risk gesturing with her arms too aggressively.

In fact it took all her willpower to speak without gesticulating.

Her eyes shifted their focus subtly between Aatto and the troops at her sides.

Thankfully, they did not seem to have itchy trigger fingers. They were all self-composed.

As Aatto spoke, they had their weapons trained, but they did not appear to be tense or shaky. None made threatening gestures, all kept neutral expressions on their faces during the discussion. Perhaps Murati could trust them to hold their peace for a bit, and not immediately shoot at her without being given orders. She could take advantage of that.

“We had no idea there was a shelter in place or any concrete orders and furthermore, we have always had a schedule to meet and were always planning to work tonight. There must be someone who can authorize us to continue working, knowing our circumstances.”

Aatto’s quite fluffy tail, which had been swaying gently, began to stand on end.

“I humored you for long enough, Murati Nakara. On the authority of the National Socialist Gauleiter of Kreuzung station, you will both, stop all of the work at this site, and, submit yourself to inspection. Failure to comply in this, an emergency situation, will result in far harsher punishment. Let us not complicate the proceedings any further.”

Murati found Aatto’s response to be very strangely worded and measured.

The Volkisch Movement had unquestioned power in this situation. They had utter political control over the former Duchy of Rhinea, and with it, they had the control over this particular station as well. They had weapons trained and a cornered opponent. It did not seem above them to arrest or kill Murati. They could get away with it. It was, like Aatto kept saying, an emergency situation. But despite being pushed, Aatto simply continued to request compliance and assert herself under the law. A curious legal display from a fascist.

For Murati, this was the first time she had ever met a fascist official face to face.

Murati knew fascism academically. Right-wing anti-monarchism and nationalist reform theories had existed for decades, even before the Empire’s loss of its southern colonies. From what Murati learned about the Volkisch, the loss to the “slaves and bandits” only intensified the growth of the national socialist ideology, into one which excoriated the Imperial system for its weakness and inefficiency. In its Rhinean expression, the Empire was, at the same time, decaying from outdated institutions and laws, while also being crippled by the promotion of weak untermenschen over vital ubermenschen who could renew it.

And yet, Aatto should have been one such untermenschen despised by this system.

As a Loup, she was a part of the perverse old order that failed to put Imbrians first.

But here she was, speaking of Gauleiters and the legalistic strata of Volkisch rule.

Murati, whose mind wanted to analyze things thoroughly, found this all quite perplexing.

Perhaps there was more to these nationalists– it would need to be investigated.

However, the contradiction also told her much-needed information about her situation.

Aatto was hesitant to order violence, but the men were professionally ready to deliver it.

She developed a good read on Aatto and no longer needed to look her in the eye.

Instead, her attention focused past the Rottenführer, on the men and their deadly weapons.

Without holding her gaze, Murati reached out a hand to Aatto, offering a shake.

“I am deeply, deeply sorry. I will make sure everyone cooperates, Rottenführer.”

Her eyes were on the men, whose faces briefly registered Murati’s hand moving.

Fingers tightened on pistols, and the submachine gunner tested the weight of his firearm.

Nobody shot at her, not out of response to that. They held firm to Aatto’s command.

“Very well. I am glad you saw sense. I will make note of your compliance in my report.”

She reached out her hand, delicate fingers entwining with Murati’s more rugged digits.

Murati gave Aatto a firm shake, testing the pressure on her fingers on Aatto’s soft hand.

At first she must have just seemed like the kind of idiot who puts effort into a handshake.

Until she suddenly jerked Aatto toward her by that same hand and arm–

And simultaneously pushed on the armed men with hands which only she could see.

While her eyes were off Aatto she had tried to acquire a mental picture of the surroundings. Of the men and their positions, they ways each held their weapon, the weapons they were holding, whether or not they wore a hat or the markings on their uniforms. Like a predictive imager that used input to generate a view of reality, Murati concentrated on seeing the image in her mind, of moving in that space, acting upon that reality– and in turn, acting simultaneously on the physical. In her mind, all of the targets were locked on.

All of her focus and desire, all of the weight of what she wanted to bring into being, she poured into the power. There was no controlling it; Murati had not learned to control the degree of force that resulted from her telekinesis. In that instant, when she quit holding herself back and pushed out the vector she had prepared, it was an utterly blunt instrument. A massive wedge of kinetic force that emanated from hopefully just behind Aatto and expanded outward from there. That was as much of a vector as Murati was able to create, despite Tigris and Euphrates’ instruction and her attempts to train further.

Murati’s eyes blinked red and turned hot enough to vaporize her tears.

For an instant she feared her eyeballs would liquify. All of the world swam.

In her mind, she had pulled the trigger.

Soon as it was released, Aatto’s coat billowed up, and she nearly fell into Murati’s chest.

While her men were blown back as if a piston had smashed them all in the chest.

Guns went flying from hands that bent and shattered . Air rushed out of the space, storming so loud that it almost masked the crunching of bone as force impacted bodies. Limbs twisted in unnatural directions and deformed. Eyes went up into heads, gazes snuffed out. Spittle mixed with blood burst out of the mouths and noses of the men. Murati saw their auras shift dramatically one after another before the corpses had even hit the ground.

It was not the first time she had killed someone.

It was not even the first time she had seen a person die in front of her, without the barrier of a diver between herself and the reality of what she had done to them. However, it was the first time that, with her new sight and the new dimension of the world, she witnesses the final moments of a life ended in violence. That primordial scream as their soul exploded from their bodies, a wave of black and white overtaking the familiar colors for an instant before the aether dulled and drifted from the body, lingering only in the surroundings.

Her head immediately erupted with the sheer agony of what she had done.

Murati felt like a razor blade had traced a deep line down the center of her skull.

Knees nearly buckling, feet shifting unsteadily, she almost fell forward.

Involuntarily, she screamed, into the back of Aatto’s coat.

But she still had the presence to seize hold of her captive.

Hooking one arm around the Rottenführer’s neck, pulling her into a choke.

Lifting, with a heavily shaking hand, her pistol to the fascist’s temple.

Breathing heavily into Aatto’s ear. In front of the eerily stricken bodies of her men.


Aatto Jarvi Stormyweather felt her mind empty with shock.

It all happened in mere seconds.

When Murati Nakara pulled on her arm with such vehemence she thought that it would be ripped from its socket. While behind her back, an immensity of power crushed her subordinates from the outside-in like dolls being smashed into walls. Something she only realized when she saw the preponderance of color around Murati as she exercised her power– and when Murati turned her around and seized her neck. Aatto’s body felt light and helpless against that power, so much so that all thought of resistance faded immediately. When she felt Murati’s head against her shoulder– she understood nothing of the situation, as if all of the signifiers of the world had lost their rooted contexts before her.

So she stood motionless, struggling to breathe from the forceful pressure around her neck.

Her hands raised reflexively to Murati’s elbow but could not even tug.

And the collection of limbs and torsos which had become of her men lost all concreteness.

She felt the cold barrel of Murati’s pistol press against her head and froze up.

While the woman’s warm breathing tickled the nape of her neck.

“Tell me–” Murati struggled to recover her breath. “What is really happening? Tell me–”

Her grip lessened, allowing Aatto to breath and speak, but still controlling her movement.

Aatto was barely all there in her own head when she responded. “Core separation–”

“It’s not– it’s not maintenance, is it? It’s not– It’s something out of– out of your control.”

Her voice slowly regained its forcefulness. Aatto felt sweat travel down her own forehead.

“Cogitans.” She said. “Cogitans took over the core. To take down the station’s defenses.”

There was silence for a second. Aatto felt Murati’s breathing slowly steady itself.

“A severe but interesting strategy.” Murati mumbled, reflexively, as if only to herself.

Those words went through Aatto’s brain with as much force as the still-chambered bullet.

In that instant, Aatto’s body shook with a mixture of thrill and terror she had never felt before. Her tail wagged, her ears folded, and her breathing became labored. Murati’s strength upon her neck, upon her body, felt ever heavier and more oppressive. Aatto felt like mere debris inexorably swallowed and crushed by the gravity of a mightily shining star.

Murati’s light and power, of which she could comprehend only a fraction, seemed then to destroy all former possibilities and rearrange the future before Aatto’s eyes. No one in the Volkisch or from the Liberals, neither the highest admirals nor the bloodiest lieutenants, had ever instilled in her as much fear and admiration as this out of place woman had.

This was a woman who could shatter the taboos– who could challenge Destiny

“You’re coming with me. Don’t try to resist. I won’t hesitate to shoot.” Murati threatened.

Aatto smiled, and tears filled her eyes. To everyone else she must have seemed insane.

But she was thrilled, inspired. She was Murati’s captive; and she wouldn’t escape.

My king, her spiraling mind clamored, I have found my king.


At first, the prospects of escape seemed daunting.

Slowly, the project began to come together nevertheless.

After the incident with the Volkisch, Tigris gave Murati an earful but quickly reassembled her team and got back to work. Nobody had the time to dwell on anything that happened. Murati had taken the strangely compliant Aatto to the brig as a captive, and the bodies of her men were taken to be disposed of in the ocean– uniforms, gear and identifications were collected and stored. Murati was committed to sickbay against her wishes, having been found to be demonstrably unsteady on her feet and bleeding from her nose.

There was a brief chaos as the bridge tried to confirm exactly what had happened.

And headaches grew into pounding migraines very quickly when they learned.

“This is a nightmare.” Captain Ulyana Korabiskaya remarked.

“At the very least, Murati acted quickly. She has bought us time to take further action.” Commissar Aaliyah Bashara replied. “I’ll post Zhu and Van Der Smidse outside in case of further intrusions. We’ll just have to prepare to fight our way out of here if necessary.”

Ulyana grunted, aggravated. She rubbed her fingers on her forehead.

“We’re quickly running out of competent people to post outside with guns.” She grumbled.

“About that, Captain!”

Semyonova turned around from her station, and waved a hand toward the main screen.

One of the cameras, paired with a floodlight, shone on an approaching group.

“Semyonova, send the doctor and some sailors out with stretchers!” Ulyana shouted.

From the direction of C-block, Evgenya Akulantova and Syracuse Chernova had recovered their stragglers and returned. Illya Rostova and Valeriya Peterburg, along with Braya Zachikova and the ‘guest navigator’ Arabella or Arbitrator I. Ulyana, who was unaware of exactly why they went missing in the first place, was shocked speechless at the sight of them. Everyone but Syracuse was wounded with even the rugged Akulantova suffering blows and looking quite worse for wear. Illya, Valeriya, Braya and Arabella were covered in blood and grime and dirty wounds and they carried the smell of smoke and lead with them.

All were quite mum upon being brought aboard, and as much as she wanted to scream in their faces, Ulyana did not have the time to waste doing so. Everyone but Akulantova and Syracuse ended up committed to sickbay, and formally detained and disarmed.

“Captain, we should prioritize their care for now. I will take responsibility.” Syracuse said.

“Alright. I just don’t have time to grill them– please write up a report.” Ulyana sighed.

“I will endeavor to ask what animal mauled all of them.” Dr. Kappel sighed as well.

Ulyana turned to Akulantova. Her hands heavily bruised, her forehead patched bloody.

“I am overjoyed to see everyone returned safely. Thank you, Chief. I will be needing all of this properly reported.” Ulyana said. Her voice then turned gentle. “Evgenya, we could use you in action– Lian and Klara are stretched thin right now. But if your condition does not permit it–”

In response, Akulantova simply adjusted her cap and smiled brightly at the Captain.

“Captain, I returned as quickly as I could precisely because I am still on duty.” She said.

From the side of the sickbeds, Syracuse rolled her eyes and turned her back.

It was agreed for Akulantova to resume her position, and Ulyana returned to the bridge.

Now that the entire crew was present and accounted for, they could leave whenever ready.

All eyes were now focused squarely on the task of moving the Brigand out of the station.

Down in the hangar, a dozen sailors rolled out an enormous power cable through one of the deployment chutes. Normally this particular cable was connected to a power distributor that served the battery charging apparatus on the Diver gantries. It had a direct, high-power line to the Brigand’s agarthic reactor. Taken outside the ship, the cable was stretched out to attach to a quickly-rigged power supply for use by Alcor’s mobile berth, while Tigris and two dozen other sailors worked on the motor that would ultimately draw upon that power.

Euphrates was dispatched from the bridge to check on the progress of the work.

Tigris immediately became distracted by her appearance.

“What’s with that face?” Tigris called out.

Euphrates smiled. “I am just admiring your work, and how attractively sweaty you look.”

“You ought to quit gawking and get sweaty too!” Tigris said.

“I would only slow you down.” Euphrates said, turning her cheek with a little grin.

“You’re useless!”

While the red-haired woman bickered with her blue-haired counterpart, the work continued.

Tigris’ plan involved ‘borrowing’ a pair of electric hydroturbines from Alcor’s warehouse and modifying them along with attaching rudimentary shafts to the track gears on Alcor’s mobile berth. Normally, this berth was just a trailer unit and needed either a winch cable, a crane or a truck to pull it. With power provided by the Brigand’s own core through the hangar cable, it would work as a self-propelled prime mover on its own massive caterpillar tracks, hopefully providing enough torque for the Brigand to slide down the dead conveyor belts.

Then they could take the ship to a floodgate and escape out into the ocean, leaving the tractor behind. Tigris was sure there would be no issue in moving the Brigand to begin with– longevity was the actual question. The system of welded rods attaching the turbine to the drive gear would be workmanlike at best, and the cooling solution for the improvised motor could not be trusted to work for long. None of the most important parts of this system were ever intended to run in completely dry and hot conditions like those inside Kreuzung.

Owing to the time pressure, and the many hands, the standard of quality would dip further.

There were dozens of sailors on hand working tirelessly on every part of this messy project.

Tigris rejoined them as soon as she had shouted Euphrates’ ear off.

To no one’s surprise, she was working as hard as anyone else.

Drenched in sweat, her red ponytail coming undone, taking a few bruises.

Everyone was pushing their limits.

However, the work was coming together quickly before their eyes.

It wouldn’t be long.

“Did you by any chance contact Alcor about using their parts?” Euphrates asked suddenly.

Tigris peered at her from around the enormous home-made engine box.

“What? No? Why would I?”

And so, the next interruption presented itself soon enough.

Euphrates and Tigris grimaced together when they saw a party approach from Alcor’s HQ.

“Captain, I believe your presence will be required.” Euphrates said, tapping an earpiece.

One dark-blond woman approached the ship, while several men waited farther away from it.

Their primary visitor was Amelia Winn, their favorite executive from Alcor Steelworks.

Even at this hour and in this situation, she was well-attired and perfectly manicured.

Ulyana Korabiskaya left the bridge to meet her.

The most she did to hide her dishevelment was to wear her teal jacket and put on a tie, her blond hair still quite tossed about compared to Amelia’s, and without any makeup. They met off to the side of the ship on the Alcor blacktop while in the background of their conversation, the sailors and the two ladies from Solarflare continued working, and even farther down the road, Amelia’s companions looked at the whole scene with confusion.

Standing half a meter from each other, under the surreal light show of the confused sky.

“Miss Winn, I take it you’re here because–”

“No, I’m not here to investigate, Korabiskaya.” Amelia said, smiling at her. “I promised to uphold your confidentiality, right? It would be for the best that we don’t discuss what has happened in detail.” She glanced over at the ship. “It does seem that I may soon be losing some equipment– but that’s alright. I will be reimbursed healthily, when this blows over.”

“Well– I appreciate it.” Ulyana was a bit surprised. “I didn’t know what to expect.”

“I am only here to insure our continued cooperation. You’ve become something of my golden goose, Captain. Thanks to all of you, I’m set to be leaping ahead in my career. Your money was a very good deal– but I never expected you had such lucrative connections.”

“I see. I am happy it was mutually beneficial.”

Euphrates must have actually struck that deal she was talking about with Amelia.

Whatever the details were was none of Ulyana’s business. At least it was convenient now.

“So, may I ask then, since it seems your affairs are in order– why are we speaking?”

Amelia’s eyes looked to her sides briefly. She put on a bubbly little look.

“For appearances’ sake, we should leave on bad terms. You robbed me, threatened me, and in my fear of reprisal, I failed to report to the Volkisch. It will buy you some time and allow me to claim victimhood. I am here in person just so you can rough me up a bit.” She said. “However, I can’t help with the K.P.S.D. They have set up a roadblock in the tunnels.”

Ulyana silently approached Amelia and grabbed hold of the collar of her coat and shirt.

Amelia raised her hands up as if to surrender to this aggression.

“I appreciate the gesture.” Ulyana said softly, while shaking Amelia roughly.

“It’s just business.” Amelia said, shutting her eyes and gritting her teeth as Ulyana throttled her with such force that her head shook. When Ulyana paused in her abuse, Amelia recovered her breath and continued briefly. “I hope that we will see each other again. For a nepo-baby like myself, having adventurous clients is exciting. Especially ones with good grip.”

Ulyana couldn’t help but crack a grin. Such an absolutely ridiculous situation.

“We’ll be back someday. Amelia, brace yourself now.”

After her warning, Ulyana threw Amelia to the floor with all her strength.

It was quite convincing– Ulyana felt a little catharsis beating up the bubbly executive.

She could not say that they didn’t get a good value out of Amelia.

But the two of them wouldn’t be bosom friends. Ulyana wanted nothing to do with her.

“Klara!” Ulyana called out. She made a hand gesture, toward the road to Alcor’s HQ.

From under the ship, Klara Van Der Smidse of the security team rushed out to meet them.

She went down to one knee and unfolded the stock on her 40mm grenade launcher.

Aiming for the road where Amelia Winn’s other lackeys had been waiting.

Amelia struggled to get up, her footing troubled in a way which was not all empty drama.

With one final look back at them, and one final shove from Ulyana, she limped away.

Even with everything agreed to between them, the scene was quite tense.

Amelia’s party looked very aggravated when she arrived in pain back at their side.

They chatted animatedly for a few minutes, everyone throwing frequent glares at Ulyana.

However, Amelia finally managed to convince her subordinates to retreat to Alcor’s HQ.

Watching them go, Ulyana heaved a sigh. Her chest was pounding from the stress.

She recalled how safe she had felt about their arrangement with Alcor just hours ago.

But she had no choice.

“Good work.” She patted Klara Van Der Smidse on the shoulder.

“Um. Thanks Captain. Are we sure about letting them go?” Klara asked.

Ulyana smiled. “Yes, it was all theater. Just keep your eyes on the road for now.”

For the remainder of the work on the Brigand, she remained outside, standing off to the edge of the workers, her weary countenance visible only intermittently under the chaotic lights. While the work continued, she was briefly lost in her own thoughts.


“Moment of truth time! Everyone cross your fingers!”

In the Brigand’s hangar, Tigris stood on the edge of a deployment chute, surrounded by sailors. She had in her hands a portable computer with a long, long cable connecting it to the wall and another long, long cable that had been duct-taped to the power supply snaking out from under the ship. Despite all of her previous bluster, she was visibly shaking when she took up the portable. At her side, Euphrates tried to get a look at the software.

On its screen was a simple user interface that was clearly drawn by hand.

“What happened to all your confidence?” Euphrates asked.

Tigris grumbled. “It’s not about the motor. It’s stage fright. If it fails, I’ll look ridiculous.”

“But it won’t fail, right? You said it had a 99.99% chance of successfully starting.”

“Please shut up. Just shut up. I’m going to push the button.”

Tigris flicked her finger across the screen.

There was no immediately discernible effect that the crew inside the ship could detect. The electric turbine motor simply was not so noisy, even with the rushed craftsmanship. Any vibrations were very minimal as well. Nobody seemed affected by the ‘pressing of the button’ in the slightest. However, Tigris started to smile, and she held the tablet up and pointed its screen at a camera on the wall nearby, while pointing at it happily.

From inside the bridge, the officers of the Brigand could see that, on the very simple and hand drawn interface of Tigris’ hastily-written control program, there were various signs that the motor was running and ready to move. With the camera still focused on her, Tigris held her finger on an arrow, and it was then that the Brigand began to lightly stir– because it was now moving. She moved it just enough for everyone to realize it was possible.

Ulyana and Aaliyah sat back in their chairs together, holding their hands to their faces.

“There’s no going back. At least the tractor works.” Ulyana said.

“If I were religious, I’d start praying for that motor to endure.” Aaliyah groaned.

“Ha, ha, ha! Gaze upon its majesty! I call it the ‘Tigris Mover’ I!” Tigris shouted.

She was celebrating in the hangar. Nobody was communicating directly to her.

But she knew they could see her little cheering and dancing and shouting in the cameras.

“Get her off the main screen.” Ulyana said. “Semyonova, focus the central prow forward camera, but keep all other cameras in the periphery using picture-in-pictures. Be ready to swap to them when needed. And get Tigris to turn over control of the prime mover.”

“Captain, to which station should we send the program? The Helm?” Semyonova asked.

Kamarik protested. “Captain, I’ve danced with a few ships, but I don’t know tractor tango!”

“Captain, please send the program to Electronic Warfare.”

Hearing that voice, Ulyana turned to the doorway, but that was not where it came from.

“I am at my station, Captain. Braya Zachikova is reporting for duty.”

There was a scratchy, mechanical-sounding corruption because the voice was coming from the low fidelity speakers on Zachikova’s station, and not from a human mouth. But there was no denying that it was Zachikova’s voice. When Ulyana stood from her chair to inspect the once vacant Electronic Warfare station, she found a cutesy little face resembling that of Braya Zachikova, drawn like a pixelated animation on the station’s LCD. She possessed a triangular, unfriendly-looking little mouth, lines for eyes, a simple oval head, her antennae, as well as Zachikova’s bangs and spiral ponytail rendered enough to be identifiable.

“You’re supposed to be detained in sickbay.” Ulyana said sternly.

“My body remains detained, Captain. But I can still work remotely.” Zachikova said.

“You’re testing my patience.”

She felt a little ridiculous talking to the screen. It was different than a video call.

Somehow, she felt like Zachikova was in her presence, even though she was not.

It was perhaps a psychological effect from knowing how Zachikova’s implants worked.

Zachikova’s little face on the screen shut her eyes in comical contrition.

“Captain, I know that I caused us problems. But I do take my work seriously, and as a professional I do not want to be a failure point in the system. I request to be allowed to make up for my previous disruptions to the mission by resuming my duties as fully as possible.”

Ulyana crossed her arms.

“Ensign Braya Zachikova. We can discuss the matter of your escapades later– my real concern is for your health! You are badly wounded! Is the Doctor even aware of what you are doing right now? Or does she think you are asleep? It could affect your condition!”

It didn’t matter whether or not she snuck out of the ship. That could be settled long-term.

What Ulyana actually feared the most was Zachikova dying because of this!

On the monitor, the little face put on a softer expression. As if reacting emotionally.

“I– I appreciate your concern for my health. But my brain can handle this much.”

“Can your body?” Ulyana asked pointedly. Zachikova’s little face nodded energetically.

“Yes. It can! Please, Captain. It will contribute to our success if I am allowed to assist.”

“Ugh. I can’t believe this. Fine. At this point, I can use all the help I can get.” Ulyana said.

Semyonova, watching wide-eyed the drama unfolding near her, handed control over ‘Tigris Mover I’ to Zachikova’s station. Much of the bridge crew had their eyes on the empty chair where Zachikova once sat, all with confusion and unease. Minutes after the transfer, there was movement registering on the main screen. The ship pulled back out of the Alcor blacktop, and then began to trundle toward the elevator platform under its own power.

A collective sigh of relief ensued.

Alexandra and Fernanda slumped over in their chairs. Kamarik clapped his hands gently on the side of his station as if congratulating the Brigand on her newfound powers of locomotion. Semyonova and Fatima continued to stare at the little Zachikova face on the Electronic Warfare station adjacent to their own. They exchanged brief glances, shrugged and returned to their work as if Zachikova was actually there with them.

Ulyana sat back down, gripping the armrests on her chair like she wanted to dig into them.

At her side, Aaliyah reached out and patted her on the shoulder and back in support.

That simple touch was enough to partially heal what felt like hours of stress.

“Captain, I appreciate how you treat your officers. You clearly care strongly about them.”

On Ulyana’s other side in the restructured upper bridge, Premier Erika Kairos now had her own chair, along with a smaller pull-out seat that Olga Athanisou could occupy at her side. The two of them had remained mostly quiet during the proceedings. The Premier had requested to be off to the side near a wall, so as to not take up the Captain’s spot in the middle of the upper bridge. She had been observing with minimal input.

“We can contact the Rostock once we’re in the water, and it can assist us.” Erika said.

Ulyana felt like responding to Erika’s cheerful confidence– but she held her tongue.

Slowly but surely the Brigand completely left its little lot in the Alcor work area and stationed itself atop the platform into the station interstice and the ship elevator. With Zachikova in control, they had instant access to full diagnostics of the ‘Tigris Mover I’, including its power draw and the speed at which they were moving. Rudimentary sensors in the improvised engine helped them in monitoring heat, cooling, and other vital statistics, though the fidelity of this data was dubious. The motion of the ‘Tigris Mover I’ was surprisingly controllable. Zachikova seemed to have no problem guiding it.

“Captain, I’ve accessed the elevator controls via a short-distance connection. We will begin descent into the interstice.” Zachikova said. “It will be several minutes before we are able to move again, and very dark. Semyonova, Al-Suhar and I will remain vigilant.”

“Good. Keep us posted. And take a– breather, if you can find the time.” Ulyana said.

Within moments, the Brigand shook as the enormous elevator platform slowly lowered them down into the cavernous maw of the station’s depths. It was even darker within the elevator and tunnels now than it was in the Alcor module, utterly lightless rather than intermittently lit by the alarm LEDs. But it gave the bridge crew a decent respite while the elevator brought them slowly down several levels of the station. They could chat again a bit.

“Zachi– did you ascend to a state of pure energy, surpassing the material form of life?!”

Semyonova seemed to have been working up the courage to ask this question to the station.

On the LCD of the Electronic Warfare desk, mini-Zachikova put on a disgusted expression.

“You’re ridiculous. Please add some nonfiction to your media diet for once in your life.”

On the opposite side of the bridge, Fernanda and Alex quietly chirped in their ways.

“–this is exactly like stage 10 of ‘After The Fall: Kannonkaiser’ in Kaiser difficulty.”

“–our situation uncannily reflects the remarkable climax of ‘The Adjutant’s Last Will’.”

Ulyana tried to tune everything out and leaned back on her chair, letting herself breathe.

Until she felt a gentle tug on her coat, which could only have come from one person.

“Captain, unfortunately, the two us can’t simply take a nap at this time. We need to plan.”

Ulyana opened one eye again to meet her Commissar’s determined but gentle gaze.

“I know. We have one more problem ahead. Can I at least take five before we discuss it?”

Aaliyah then gave her a stern glare. There was no rejecting whatever that gaze desired.

As the Brigand descended, there was one final obstacle between themselves and the water. Amelia had mentioned that the K.P.S.D. was setting up roadblocks in the tunnels. Nobody on the Brigand was aware of the extent of the defenses nor their exact location, but they could make an educated guess based on the station layout: at the bottom of the elevator shaft, there was one long and wide stretch of conveyor belt that lead into a second transfer elevator and to a floodgate. Defending the length of it with man-portable weapons and mobile or stationary barricades was possible, and it made sense as the site of a checkpoint.

“Our grand operation upon the vessel has left the nature of its forward complement largely unperturbed. We are possessed of two 76 mm guns each in their own individualized turrets, and the main turret boasting two barrels of 150 mm guns, the ship’s pride,” advised Fernanda Santapena-De La Rosa in her capacity as gunnery officer. “These weapons work synergistically with the frigid depths of the sea– the heavy casemates proof them against water and ward the components. Cooling succor is meant to come from the sea herself.”

Erika blinked. She whispered to the Captain. “Does she always talk like that?”

“Uh huh.” Ulyana said dryly.

“So I take it the guns will immediately overheat when fired.” Aaliyah replied.

“Fate may will otherwise. However, my keen foresight tells me so.”

“What about the gas guns?” Ulyana asked.

Fernanda shrugged. Those guns were not controlled by her particular station much of the time. Rather, the non-commissioned officers in the lowest tier of the bridge controlled the gas guns, a series of small caliber double-barreled autocannons meant to stop missiles, torpedoes and ward off the approach of Divers into close range with the ship.

Owing to their responsibilities, gas gunners were crucial but unremarked upon. They had their own area, and a manager who looked after them. Aside from the Captain, nobody was supposed to talk to them or bother them during operations– it was simply too important that they remained entirely focused on interdicting munitions to protect the ship.

“Perhaps owing to their diminutive caliber they may prove capable of sustaining fire.”

“I’ve seen Imbrian style mobile barricades, Captain.” Erika said. “They may be able to withstand enough 20 mm fire for the gas guns to overheat trying to clear them.”

Ulyana also knew they could not just run over the barricades with their tracks.

Any unsuppressed enemies at close range could easily damage the Tigris Mover I.

They would be crushed and killed in the attempt and the barricades could still be toppled over after all was said and done. But it might also leave the Brigand stuck in the tunnels without backup. They had to use their limited ability to fire, with care. And there was not even any point in asking Alexandra about the torpedoes, which were equipped with hydrojets or propellers and would go nowhere in dry combat. Similarly, their new ballistic missiles installed in the middle of the upper deck had no room to crest and fly indoors.

“We’ll just have to see what’s down there and how things develop moment to moment.”

“Worse comes to worse Captain, Kalika, Olga and I are no strangers to close combat.”

Erika spoke up in reassurance, but the Captain immediately shook her head and denied it.

“We’re not going to risk your life like that, Premier. We’ll handle this.”

Ulyana turned partially to face the communications station.

“Semyonova, raise alert Semyon. We need every crew member available at a moment’s notice. Have Klara and Lian suit up in our powered-armor, and release explosive munitions for their grenade launchers to them. They will be on standby. Have Evgenya prepare submachine guns for twelve sailors, led by Galina– but do not release those arms quite yet. We just want to be ready. Finally, prepare the Cheka and the High-Mobility Strelok.”

“Yes ma’am. Should I contact Shalikova and al-Shajara as well?” Semyonova asked.

“Tell them to be ready– we just want to have options open.” Ulyana said.

Inside the Brigand’s halls, the silent, gently red alarm lights of alert state “Semyon” got the sailors moving again after their short break from the intense work they had undertaken outside and throughout the ship. None of them had the full picture of what was transpiring, with the Bridge being the main actor in this battle– but they did not need to know.

A small task force had dressed up in osmium mesh hazard suits and opened the core containment area in order to drag in wheeled tanks and pumps just in case they had to dump more coolant into the core to maintain stable temperatures. Several others were monitoring electrical systems. In the hangar, a dozen engineers got the Divers checked and ready. Akulantova brought wheeled weapon rack out to the hangar, but kept it locked.

“In a minute, the tunnel will be visible in the forward cameras, Captain.” Zachikova said.

“Thank you, Ensign.” Ulyana said. She took a deep breath.

In front of her eyes, the black chasm that was the elevator wall in front of them finally broke to slowly reveal the long tunnel ahead of them. The conveyor was close to seventy meters wide and tall to fit ships of their size, but no larger than it had to be. In the darkness brought on by the core separation, LED lights on the walls and ceilings flashed on and off in frantic sequences across the tunnel, but there were a few steady sources of illumination.

Floodlights, strategically placed by the K.P.S.D forces.

Before them lay a K.P.S.D. defensive line. One mobile barricade mounted on an armored vehicle barred the way some hundred meters ahead. Behind it there were assemblages of infantry in riot gear, and a few nests of deployable bullet-proof shields affixed to the ground on heavy bases. At the far back, Ulyana could almost see the floodgate, barred by one final barricade. Their objective was to get close enough to the floodgate to force it open, and activate the anti-flooding gates behind themselves. Then they could sail away.

“Captain– the K.P.S.D. is requesting communication– and ordering us to desist.”

Semyonova’s voice carried the nervous tension of the moment.

Ulyana tried to smile a little.

Here they went again– into the fray once more.

After the ignorant peace of the shore, the chaos of the sea invited them forward.

“Forget it!” Ulyana called out. “Zachikova, forward! Fernanda, ready guns!”

“Aye!”

All of the upper bridge crew called out simultaneously, even those not ordered specifically.

They knew they were all entering battle now.

“Gas gunners, forward barrage! Try to suppress the infantry behind the barricades!”

“Aye!”

All of the gas gunners in the lower tier got to work.

Trundling forward on the caterpillar tracks of the ‘Tigris Mover I’, the Brigand began its sluggish but inexorable advance toward the first K.P.S.D. barricade. To the men on the opposing end of the conveyor it must have seemed like a gigantic piston was slowly moving to crush them against the walls. Small bursts from the Brigand’s six forward 20 mm ‘gas gun’ turrets peppered the barricade and its surroundings, red and green tracer trails slicing long lines into the dark distance, ending in blasts of fire and smoke leaving black spots on the barricade armor. Minor damage, no penetrations. Those shots which sailed over the barricade crashed between the enemy groups. Infantrymen dispersed closer to each barricade for protection while assembling arms with which to counterattack.

In moments, the first flashes of return fire began to appear from the enemy formation.

Shoulder-launched missiles from the barricade smashed into the prow of the Brigand.

While the cameras shook lightly with each hit, the bridge crew felt no vibrations.

“God damn it! We just repaired this thing!” Ulyana lamented.

“Missile impacts are not causing damage, Captain!” Kamarik said. “She’s a tough one!”

“They are shoulder-fired 60 mm missiles, Captain. Useless against ships.” Erika added.

“I’m afraid an actual threat is assembling, however.” Zachikova said.

On the main screen, the miniature, pixelated Zachikova from the station appeared and pointed at a location behind the barricade, which the predictive imager then highlighted as well. Several men were setting up a tripod mount and had affixed a large tube on top. Two other men were gathering much larger rockets than the shoulder-fired ones–

–munitions to be fed into a gun.

That is a 152 mm Panzerfaust-IV turret.” Erika said, in a much graver tone of voice.

“Gas gunners! Hold fire! Concentrate on interdiction!” Ulyana called out.

Within seconds, a bright orange flash and exhaust heralded the incoming missile.

“Captain! Guns red! Guns red!” came a cry from bellow, the manager of the gas gunners.

Overheating warnings.

“Brace for major impact!” Ulyana cried out.

Then, on the main screen a few more red tracers suddenly soared out of an overheated gun.

An enormous explosion boomed directly in front of them.

All of the smoke from it crossed their cameras as the Brigand trundled forward.

As yet unscathed–

“One of the guns managed to fire! Thank everything!” the manager called out.

Ulyana knew the gas gunners would not get much more time to celebrate.

“Fernanda, aim a 76 mm and vaporize that thing!” She called out.

“Captain, I have an idea!” Erika interrupted suddenly. “Aim low at the barricade vehicle!”

Fern snapped her head to face the Captain and Premier.

There was not even a second more for Ulyana to think, but–

If the gas guns had already overheated, the 76 mm would overheat from firing one shot.

They only had two of those they could use– if Erika was wrong that was–

“Fern, listen to Erika! Now!”

Ulyana had to trust it. They had pledged themselves to her.

But if she was wrong–

“Firing 76 mm high-explosive!”

Fernanda called out and in the next instant, the green tracer sailed out over the tunnel.

The K.P.S.D. gunners had already extracted one enormous munition and loaded the next.

This Panzerfaust-IV could seriously wound them, its armament was Cruiser-caliber.

Ulyana was not a praying sort, but in the instant that 76 mm shot went out.

She truly thought she wanted to pray. In a snap decision, she had trusted Erika.

Was it the right call–?

Before she could doubt any more, the 76 mm munition struck low at the mobile barricade.

An immediate high-explosive detonation ensued–

fire and pressure spread under the lip between barricade and floor–

and the force of it flipped the vehicle right off its wheels and onto its side.

Overturned with such shocking force that tore metal pieces from it to scatter in the air. Men standing on the barricade were thrown bodily, and men behind it fled as hot metal and flying glass spread out several meters in every direction. Munitions that had been piled behind the barricade received the blow as well and went flying haphazardly, undetonated but streaking through the air like blunt projectiles and connecting with the fleeing men.

In that instant of chaos, the crew on the Panzerfaust-IV escaped from its vicinity, leaving the tube loaded and running for their lives to the nearest shield. The abandoned and exposed weapon became a priority target, and as soon as the gas guns could fire even a single bullet each, Ulyana ordered the gunners to fire on its position. Bursts of 20 mm gunfire crashed around the gun and sent the tube rolling off its mount, snapping its bracing legs.

“We’ll be going over the barricade in about a minute.” Zachikova said.

Ulyana let out her breath. She turned to her side and laid a hand over one of Erika’s own.

“Thank you, Premier. I’m glad I trusted your judgment.” Ulyana said.

On her other side, Aaliyah also nodded her head as if to support Ulyana’s praise of Erika.

Erika smiled bashfully as if she did not know how to take the gesture.

Before she could speak, there was a heavy metallic thud echoing across the tunnel.

“Captain, there’s an enemy!” Aaliyah cried out suddenly.

“Zachikova, stop all movement!”

Ahead of them, one of the side walls of the tunnel suddenly opened up a panel.

And stomping out from it, walked a giant metal impression of a person.

Two arms, two legs, 7 meters tall, a rotund body with a helmet-like head armed with numerous cameras. In its articulated metal hands, it held a 37 mm automatic rifle. Over one of its shoulders, a rocket-launching tube had been affixed. Several remaining infantrymen rallied to it as a base of fire, instantly reassured of the possibility of their success.

This was a Volker-class Diver, sometimes referred to as a ‘mecha’ or ‘mechanoid’.

An armored vehicle intended to fight ships in the Ocean; and able to fight them on land.

Mere seconds after jumping out from the side of the tunnel, it turned its assault rifle on the Brigand’s bow and opened fire, each bullet hurtling out of the barrel with a heavy crack. A Diver’s assault rifle was comparable to a heavy auto-cannon, twice the power of the gas guns, and firing explosive shells. A burst of 37 mm ammunition crashed into the Brigand’s prow, and there was enough force there that they felt the vibrations in the bridge.

Ancillary effects of the explosions, shrapnel and explosive shockwaves, damaged an ancillary forward camera and cut a wound into one of the over-heated gas guns, completely disabling it. As quickly as that first burst of three rounds had come, there was suddenly a second set of flashes, and even more shaking followed as the bullets exploded on the Brigand’s bow.

They could not afford to keep taking such fire for long.

“Semoynova, tell the sailors to pipe in the coolant! Zachikova! Bring the shield up! Now!”

Ulyana called out; Semyonova signaled the sailors; Zachikova flicked a digital switch.

There was suddenly a purple sheen over the cameras.

Extending over the front of the prow like a transparent, impossibly thin blanket.

The Volker fired a third burst from its automatic rifle.

Its shells exploded just off the hull.

Harmlessly.

Detonating as if in the air, and the force dispersing easily away from the ship.

“Shield is operational. It won’t last for very long in this condition.” Zachikova said.

Tigris’ bluster had not been empty. This gift from Solarflare LLC was impressive.

Much like the one they saw equipped on the Antenora, an Agarthic repulsion shield.

Perhaps the most rare and valuable piece of kit that had gone into their refit project.

But it was not perfect–

“Captain, the core is getting upset.” Kamarik warned. “She’s not used to being hammered this hard running dry, even with the coolant. We better think of something else and quickly.”

There was no visible effect of core strain within the ship at first, but the figures did not lie.

Unlike Kreuzung’s core separation, their lights were not flickering randomly, and all their stations worked fine. However, Ulyana could see in the diagnostics passed to her screen from the helm that the core temperature was climbing. Slowly but surely. Cores could remain indefinitely in equilibrium provided there was water and the systems around the core were stable themselves. Once the heat and pressure started to climb, the core could spiral out of their control very suddenly. It simply was not designed to operate this way.

It was untenable. Ulyana’s heart and lungs pounded. Her skin brimmed with anxiety.

Just one measly Volker would have been nothing to them in vastness of the Ocean.

On land, in this situation, it was suddenly an obstacle that could stop them in their tracks.

“One 76 mm shot might not take down that Volker.” Aaliyah said.

One 76 mm shot was all they had, Ulyana could not afford to waste the main guns–

“Captain, I have an idea!”

This time, it was a dramatically less likely source of tactical advice than Erika.

Alexandra Geninov in the torpedo and missile station.

She raised her hand like she was in a classroom. There was a nervous smile on her face.

“Captain, hand me the controls to the two forward jet anchors!”

Ulyana narrowed her eyes.

Alex smiled. “Come on, Fern knows what I’m putting down! We can do this!”

Fernanda narrowed her eyes and glared at Alex in a similar expression to the Captain.

“Let them try it, Captain.” Erika suddenly said. “We don’t have any better ideas!”

Ulyana turned to face Aaliyah, who nodded her assent as well.

All throughout, the Volker had continued firing at the shield as if not comprehending why its gunfire was suddenly ineffective. It put round after round into the bow none of which left an impression. On the main screen, there appeared numerous explosions deflected by the purple shield, leaving smoke dancing right in front of the cameras. There was a pause, possibly to reload its gun, but the Volker instead withdrew the rocket from its shoulder.

“Geninov has jet anchor control! Gunnery be ready to support her!” Ulyana shouted.

“Aye!”

“Shield down! Now!”

Slowly the cameras lost the purple sheen that had once covered them.

“Firing jet anchors!” Alex shouted.

Two jet-propelled titanium claw anchors shot out of the Brigand’s bow on long lines.

Like metal fists they pounded the Volker one after the other on its rotund torso, and the machine toppled backward, unsteady without the ocean to support it and unable to maneuver quickly without the ability to run water through its hydrojets. Fallen on its back, the machine struggled to right itself, its weapons cast to the floor of the tunnel and causing even more disarray among the infantrymen that had been rallying to its position.

“Fern, now! Right in the underside!” Alex called out.

“I– I see! Indeed!”

The Brigand’s remaining 76 mm gun immediately overheated as it fired, but this did not stop the high explosive munition from soaring out of the barrel and striking deep between the legs the Volker. Perforating its less armored underside, the shell entered the cockpit and exploded with such force that the hull door burst open, spewing smoke and fire and metal and the unseen remains of the pilot. Permanently ending the threat of the diver.

“Zachikova, forward! Take us all the way now!” Ulyana shouted.

The Tigris Mover I began to turn its tracks once more–

“Captain! Stop, please!”

–and instantly paused once more at the behest of an officer.

In the sonar and sensors section, Fatima Al-Suhar looked suddenly ill at ease.

She turned to the Captain’s chair with tears in her eyes and her hands shaking.

Her ears folded, and her tail stood on end. Her honey-brown skin going white.

“Captain, something is wrong. They are getting back up– and I hear an odd noise–”

“Captain! Main screen! Something weird is happening!”

Ulyana barely had a moment to listen to Fatima’s concern before Alex started shouting.

Feeling torn in a dozen directions Ulyana glanced at the main screen.

Her eyes then remained fixed on that bizarre scene, which sent a chill through her body.

“It can’t be. What– what the fuck?”

“Gun status–” Aaliyah said, shocked herself at the sight, “Gas gun– status– now–”

All the bridge officers were held captive by the horror unfolding before them.

Throughout the brief but chaotic span in which the Brigand had clashed with the K.P.S.D., which could not have been more than ten or twenty minutes all told– scores of men had died. If there were a hundred men before them it would not have surprised Ulyana for eighty to have died and twenty to have fled by the end. Between the gas gunners’ frequent barrages, firing bullets large enough to blow a man’s torso open at a rate of ten per second; the overturning of the barricade which crushed and lacerated many more men; the overturning and explosion of the Diver which had become a base of support and thus killed all of the men who had been using it as a shield. There was a preponderance of death.

Resistance should have been crushed, not just in spirit, but actually, concretely crushed.

Physically hewn apart with violence. Splattered visibly all over the tunnel.

Now, right in front of them, several of those hewn bodies and splatters resumed fighting.

Men in all kinds of heinous conditions were standing back up.

Those corpses which had been in the best condition, stiffly forced themselves to a stand, and in horrid twitching motions they made their way slowly to their discarded equipment and picked it up. Bodies without arms and legs twitched useless on the ground; bodies with legs but not arms still stood; and arms without legs crawled on the floor. Bodies without heads still moved; one such body made it all the way to a discarded rocket tube.

It lifted the weapon to its head-bereft shoulder, pointed at the bow of the Brigand, and fired.

That missile sailed just under the bow and crashed into one of the struts holding the ship.

Even just a 60 mm– so aimed, it caused the worst shaking the crew had felt yet.

On the side of the main screen, Tigris and Euphrates appeared suddenly.

They were calling in from the hangar using their officer clearances.

“Captain, what the hell was that! Don’t let them shoot the mover!” Tigris cried out.

“I– I wish– I could answer, what the hell it is–”

Tigris and Euphrates looked confused. They could not see the main screen.

Ulyana tried to control her breathing. Most of her officers were shocked numb.

“Status of guns!” Ulyana called out suddenly.

Fernanda looked even more pale than normal. She looked over her screen.

“M-Main guns ready. Auxiliaries overheated. G-gas guns, um– well– some are ready.”

Their gunner had never spoken so succinctly nor with such fear in her voice.

“Fire gas guns. Fire! Now!” Ulyana called out.

On the main screen, the remaining gas guns fired in disorganized bursts at walking corpses.

Arms, legs, heads, torsos; blasts from 20 mm rounds shredded ever more ambulant meat.

And yet– within moments, the gore-strewn things simply started moving again.

Right in front of all their eyes, the most complete corpses started moving very specifically.

They had begun to reassemble the knocked-about Panzerfaust-IV.

Lifting the tube upward.

Several ruined bodies raising up the mount.

Crawling things dragging munitions over.

They had a goal– they retained the singular purpose of stopping the Brigand.

Ulyana had to struggle to keep from having too strong a reaction to this horror.

Everyone was relying on her to be strong, and to give out orders.

No matter what.

Her life had been replete with violence. Ravenous leviathan attacks, relentless and mighty ships of war, hundreds of lives snuffed out in a second, brutal killings in stations. Massive barrages of cannon fire and gargantuan salvoes of missiles that when detonated were so bright they left their flashes scarred into her eyes for seconds. So many horrid things were so rote and expected that she could no longer have much reaction to them.

These men had gone to pieces before her eyes.

There was no thought spared to that. Men died. But for them to return from the dead?

That was new– that was pure, absolute and utter madness.

It couldn’t be real– and yet–

No, it does not matter, it does not matter–

It was her duty to get her crew out alive! She would not allow another Pravda tragedy.

Ulyana turned to Aaliyah. Her commissar turned to her.

They shared the fear in their eyes. But– they also shared a small, glowing determination.

On the edge of the main screen Euphrates and Tigris exchanged worried glances.

“Captain, is something wrong? Captain, Commissar, talk to me.” Euphrates said seriously.

“Ugh, I’m coming up there!” Tigris shouted. “You can’t keep us in the dark like this!”

“No!” Ulyana shouted back. “Stay right there! Start– start disconnecting the mover.”

Tigris’ eyes opened wide. “Say what? But we’re not–”

“Just do it. Tigris, don’t argue with me. Cut the mover, unclamp us, and seal us shut!”

There was only one choice to escape from this nightmare.

“Yes, Captain.” Tigris said.

On the picture-in-picture, Tigris and Euphrates both left the cameras.

Semyonova, shaken, briefly changed the main screen to show the hangar view.

Tigris and Euphrates had gotten the sailors to assist them in pulling the plug.

“Docking clamps have separated.” Semyonova said after, her voice toneless and rote.

At her side, Fatima had her head down on her station and was shaking, gripped in terror.

Kamarik was praying on the helm. Erika and Olga both had grim expressions.

Everyone was horribly shaken by what they had seen. They could not believe their eyes.

“Order on bridge! The Captain is speaking!” Aaliyah shouted.

Presaging the Captain’s speech.

Ulyana took in a deep breath.

They needed her– no matter what the situation.

“Comrades! We must act now in order to escape! We’re not going to die in this tunnel! I will not allow my precious crew to fall here! Raise your heads for me, one more time!”

She shouted at the top of her lungs, and stood up from her chair for added effect.

With a pointed index finger on the main screen, that Semyonova quickly switched back.

From the hangar view, to the surreal scene playing out in the darkness before them.

“Gunnery, open fire with main guns on the far wall of the tunnel!” Ulyana commanded.

Fernanda blinked for a moment as if in disbelief that she was being addressed.

“Y-Yes Captain!” She shouted. “We’re shooting the floodgate?”

Aaliyah then spoke up again in place of the Captain.

“We’re in the lower levels– the flooding will be contained by interior pressure.” She said.

Shooting at a station and deliberately causing flooding was a taboo–

but they were had to open that floodgate to escape anyway– and it was life or death–

–and there was no guarantee their guns could break open a thick floodgate.

But they had no other choice. Everyone accepted that flimsy reasoning immediately.

Ulyana was so grateful for Aaliyah’s support just then.

And she wasn’t the only one–

“Comrades! I believe in the Captain wholeheartedly!” Erika called out.

She stood as well, and also held a hand out to the main screen.

“Let us see a brilliant barrage, gunnery section! Show me how you’ve come this far!”

With the Premier’s sudden enthusiasm backing the Captain’s dramatic flair, there was no one on the crew still focused primarily on the main screen. Having no choice in the matter and seemingly with little remaining willpower with which to object, Fernanda quietly worked at her station. On the main screen, a small graph appeared with a real-time calculation of the main gun’s firing arc and the predicted effect on the target– it would strike the far wall–

and then–

–the computer had no idea, because it was not supposed to compute such a thing,

“Main guns, open fire!” Erika and Ulyana said at once.

Directly followed by a resounding bellow that thundered through the station interstice.

Two enormous flashes lit up the bridge through the main screen picture.

In the blink of an eye, two 150 mm shells crossed the tunnel and crashed into the far wall.

Smoke blew across the tunnel from the blasts. The bridge held their collective breaths.

“Only cracks! No penetration!” Fatima cried out, putting her head down again.

Then her ears perked up. In the midst of her despair, her golden ears recognized it first.

On the main screen, the predictive imager focused on the sound as well–

water.

First a trickle, and then the flood.

Unequal water pressures between the ravenous Imbrium and the station interior tore at the wounds left on the floodgate. Through every minute crevice, the ocean wound its way, tearing and pushing and crawling heedless like the horde of corpses before them.

Within the seconds a storm of seething ocean and swirling metal tore into the tunnel.

Ripping apart the K.P.S.D. blockade–

and with it the hidden 8th Enforcer of the Syzygy–

washing over the Brigand, sealed tight and ready to sail past the carnage.


“I can’t believe how happy I feel seeing the fucking Imbrium again!”

Through a cloud of foam, debris and corpses that were finally silenced–

The UNX-001 Brigand engaged its newly-upgraded hydrojets, pushed water through its updated turbines for the very first time, and with some repairable damage to its bow, finally escaped from the inside of Kreuzung’s core station. In so doing, it returned to the Imbrium Ocean, embarking upon the next leg of its journey. Its officers practically fell over their stations in their collective relief, many of them openly weeping, all of them shaking.

Ulyana dropped back into her chair.

Aaliyah let out a long sigh and leaned fully onto her.

“Semyonova, we’re almost out of it.” Ulyana said. “Deploy the Cheka and Strelok I~bis.”

“Yes, Captain.” Semyonova said weakly.

She pushed her back up to a seated position, waving her hands in front of her face to fan herself, her face quite red, while simultaneously calling the hangar. At her side, Fatima al-Suhar also forced herself back up. Her makeup was running, and she was still weeping gently, but in the Ocean, her station was far more crucial than it could be on land.

“Captain, we’re receiving passive sonar data again. Updating predictions.” She said.

“Thank you.” Ulyana replied. “Fatima, we’ll get you relieved soon, so you can rest.”

Fatima shook her head. She wiped her face on her sleeve.

“Absolutely not, Captain. Forgive my weakness. I’ll be resolute from now.” She said.

“Don’t push yourself too hard. Nobody here will ever call you weak.” Ulyana said.

Fatima nodded her head, smiling for the first time in a while.

She was a sensitive girl, but she was unquestionably an officer.

“Gunnery, Missiles: status report.” Ulyana turned to the opposite side of the bridge.

“Gunnery is still cooked.” Fernanda said.

She sounded too miserable for her own gimmick. Rather than explain, she pushed her station diagnostics to the main screen. There were a few gas guns with damage, and the main gun was hopelessly overheated for now. The forward 76 mm guns were recovering faster.

Beside her, Alex started hugging herself and her teeth were chattering. She was soaked in sweat, and perhaps cold from how little clothing she had worn during the chaos.

“Torpedoes can actually be fired now. Missiles are ready as well.” Alex said.

“We’ll be relying on you then. Let me know if you need to borrow a coat.” Ulyana said.

“I think I’ll take you up on that, Captain.” Alex said, a chill shaking her entire body.

“Predictions updated!” Fatima called out.

On the main screen, the pitch black Imbrium Ocean began to part ever so slightly.

Using a wide variety of sensory data, the predictor computer assembled a picture of what the ocean before them would look like if it was not naturally lightless, coloring and framing in objects and features. That wall of black with hints of green that had taken up their main cameras started to fill with more than the beams of their forward floodlights.

For the first time, the Brigand could see the absolute bedlam outside the station.


“Sonya Shalikova! Cheka, deploying!”

“Khadija al-Shajara! Strelok I~bis, deploying!”

From the deployment chutes located on the bottom of the Brigand, the hangar’s engineers released two of the ship’s own Diver suits into the water. Sonya Shalikova gripped her two control sticks, her face lit only by her monitors and panels. She engaged her Diver’s hydrojets when she was released from the deployment chute. She could already feel the chaos that was unfolding in the waters around Kreuzung. Ship-caliber ordnance detonated twenty a minute overhead and the vibrations traveled all the way to the tower’s midsection, to be felt by Shalikova as she accompanied the Brigand on its ascent up the station tower.

Despite going into danger, Shalikova felt a sense of relief to be in the cockpit again.

Without the Cheka, or another Diver, she had no control over her own destiny.

Until now, the bridge crew had been handling crisis after crisis, and Shalikova was not even fully aware of what had happened, nor had she been able to participate. She had been in her room or in the hangar while the ship shook up and alert lights flashed, waiting to be deployed. Unable to protect her comrades– unable to protect Maryam.

Out in the water, she had power, agency– she could fight.

“Shalikova, how is the communication?”

There were several LCD screens on the Cheka for her dive cameras as well as video from the communications equipment. On the dedicated communication screen, there was a familiar round-faced blond woman whose current dishevelment did little damage to her bright, pretty face: Natalia Semyonova, the chief signals officer on the Brigand’s bridge.

Shalikova practically had to avert her eyes from that shining smile on her screen.

“It’s fine.” Shalikova said. “We’ll see how the picture holds up when we’re up there.”

Semyonova nodded her head with a solemn expression.

“Based on our current predictions, there are between five and eight ships trading fire overhead. There could be more. Please be on the lookout for ordnance, particularly toward the bow.” Semyonova said. “We’ve lost half the forward gas guns, so our interdiction barrage will be weak. Our objective is to escape, so don’t pursue any enemies too far.”

“Got it.” Shalikova said. “I’m sick of this place– I’ll make sure we get out.”

“We all believe in you!” Semyonova said.

“By the way, before you go. How is Mur– the Lieutenant?”

Shalikova averted her gaze, embarassed to be asking.

Semyonova smiled even wider.

“She just needs some rest. She will be up and about in no time.” She said.

“Oh– good– thank you.”

There was a blink on the LCD, and Semyonova disappeared.

Taking her place: a sly and attractive face, wine-colored makeup and silky blond hair.

A pair of fluffy ears twitched lightly upon meeting Shalikova’s eyes.

“Shali, how’s it feel to be back in the armor after a long vacation? Excited?”

Khadija Al-Shajara winked. Shalikova had no expression to return.

“Is our intrepid leader’s absence troubling you? Does someone have a crush?”

“Can you defer teasing me until after we’ve escaped?” Shalikova groaned.

Khadija suspected about Maryam already, so she was just being an asshole.

But it did cause Shalikova to crack the tiniest smile as they worked.

The Brigand began to ascend the water table. They had emerged from just below the center of the tower. A few hundred meters above them, there was a pitched battle, and there were signs of battle around the station as well. Murati Nakara had extracted from the Rottenführer Jarvi-Stormyweather that Cogitans were behind the core separation. The bridge of the Brigand had also detected the remains of Republic S.E.A.L. suits and small Republic vessels close to the station baseplate– likely from further failed incursions trying to relieve the Core hijackers. Shalikova, and the rest of the officers, could only conclude that the Republic had somehow infiltrated a force into Rhinea to fight the Volkisch.

As much as Shalikova had some sympathy for their erstwhile allies in this war–

“We can’t do something like this. We can’t win like this.” She mumbled to herself.

Something like a Core Separation would only make the people of Kreuzung hate them.

Shalikova was not as politically-minded or strategic as Murati or the Captain.

However, in her mind, threatening to destroy the habitations of Kreuzung’s people would only give power to the Volkisch. How would they be any different from the fascists if they punished ordinary people like that? It was the exact opposite of the promise communism had for the people of the Union. But what exactly did the people of the Alayze Republic even believe in? Shalikova did not know, and there was no way she would be able to puzzle it out in the cockpit of the Cheka. But she felt her heart hurt at the events that had transpired.

When she allowed herself to see the colors, to feel the aether around Kreuzung–

She saw so much black, so much red, so much green– anger, fear, and resignation to death.

The dark waters of the Imbrium around the station were tinged bright with those colors.

Inside that tower, the people of Kreuzung had been exposed to the greatest of horrors.

Their entire world was threatened. Their entire lives, threatened with the Ocean’s violence.

That could not possibly be how they liberated them. It was– it was just– wrong–

“Can’t let it consume me. Focus up, Sonya Shalikova.” She said to herself.

Hardening her heart and shutting her senses and empathy off to Kreuzung.

Dispelling the colors before her eyes and focusing herself on piloting the Diver.

The Cheka rose alongside the ship on the starboard deck, while Khadija’s Strelok held the port closer to the lower hull. The Cheka had been equipped with a standard 37 mm assault rifle and a pair of grenades, along with a Diver-sized diamond sabre attached to her magnetic strip in the back. Khadija had been equipped with exactly the same weapons.

Shalikova flipped reflexively through her weapons on the armament display, toggling through it with flicks of her index finger on one of the paddle-buttons attached to her left stick. On her monitors, there was nothing to see ahead but the empty, pitch-black ocean, an endless expanse of nothing even where her diver lights shone upon it.

All her light revealed was the biological debris of the marine fog billowing around her.

Marine fog, displaced water in the Brigand’s wake and sheer nothingness.

Shalikova could see only the barest impression of the tower wall on her side camera.

Along with her dive computer’s depth gauge, it was the shape of that long shadow which, when finally overtaken and left behind, let Shalikova know to brace herself. It indicated she had arrived at the battlefield that had formed over the station. There was no surprise to it– immediately as she climbed, she could feel the thundering of ordnance growing closer, and could even see the distant flashes of explosions on her cameras, with her own eyes.

Semyonova appeared on the screen– her face distorting slightly every second.

Up here, in a battlefield, the water was distorted by gunfire, and the vibrations affected their communications. Even the audio was a little troubled. But they could still communicate.

“Shalikova, I’m establishing a live connection with predictions of the battlespace.”

On Shalikova’s screens, the predictive output from the Brigand’s much more powerful sensors and computers overlayed directly on the otherwise near-empty ocean.

Impressions of quite massive ships, trading gunfire in circling battle lines.

There were three Republic combatants remaining, two of them Cruisers or maybe even dreadnoughts and one an escort, and two Volkisch ships of similar sizes. The Republic ships were coming close, but the Volkisch ships, firing from cautious ranges, were still hundreds and hundreds of meters away. Shalikova liked their chances of escaping now.

An audio communication played in Shalikova’s ear through her headpiece.

“With the way the Volkisch are circling, we’ll be safest with the Cogitans between us.”

That had been the Captain’s voice. Likely speaking to her, Khadija, and the bridge.

“Copy.” Shalikova said.

She easily followed the Brigand as it began to turn and accelerate.

Then, quite suddenly, one of her cameras was filled with dozens of short-lived flashes.

Rapid and powerful explosions blossomed across the hull of the largest Republic ship.

The prediction Shalikova received from the Brigand updated to reflect the slow sinking of the vessel. As well as to display the suspected culprit. To Shalikova’s surprise, a single Diver was marked on her screen with a red warning indicator of an incoming enemy. A hundred meters away, floating still over its destructive work, and closing in as the Brigand approached it. Shalikova’s mind immediately brought her back to Goryk’s Gorge in the boundary between the Nectaris and Imbrium Oceans, one month ago.

An image of the demonic mecha she fought back then appeared in her mind unbidden.

It gave pause to her confidence–

and prompted her to unleash the psionic power in her sight.

In front of her the lightless foaming water, the dancing marine fog, the digital outlines–

All of it lit up in the deepest, most seething and dark aura Shalikova had ever felt.

Within which there were sudden sparks of a much smaller, much weaker red–

Clashes! That enemy Diver was in combat!

“Shalikova!”

Khadija’s face reappeared on her communicator, her eyes steeled on the threat ahead.

“Someone from the Republic ship must have survived! I’m moving to rescue them!”

For a moment, Shalikova’s heart sank and her breath arrested.

Khadija did not know– she could not have known– she was not psionic–

“I’ll move ahead!” Shalikova shouted suddenly. “You cover me!”

“What? Shalikova?!”

Shalikova pressed her pedals down as far as they would go and leaned forward.

Unleashing all the power she could and minimizing the Cheka’s surface against the water in front of her. Just like Khadija had taught her to move. With the Cheka’s inherent advantage in thrust and mass distribution, as well as a proper forward stance, Shalikova practically rocketed ahead into the water, outpacing Khadija’s Strelok, overtaking her and drawing closer to the enemy before she could. Shalikova heard and felt hundreds of rounds of ammunition rhythmically exploding ahead, and in seconds could see the two combatants, exposed by the ocean like an unfolding curtain on a brutal theater play–

In time for the green and black Diver to slice across the red and white one.

A halberd cutting phantasmal across the sea of the soul–

For an instant, Shalikova felt the agony of the stricken Republic pilot–

The Cheka lifted its assault rifle and opened fire as it approached the enemy.

Her opponent thrust away from the gunfire and the slowly sinking victim.

Shalikova neared at high speed, interposed herself between the two combatants.

Firing a second, closer burst while moving– but then entering a sudden twist,

that halted her momentum entirely–

Three rounds of 37 mm ammunition soared past the opponent’s hip as it easily leaped aside the first and second attacks, but it was caught off-guard by the suddenness with which Shalikova stopped moving entirely. She must have looked to all the world like she was just going to sweep past the enemy. Instead, she completely stopped inside the enemy’s guard, and at less than 10 meters distance with a surprised target, renewed fire.

Striking the enemy Diver square in the center of its substantial hull, explosions followed which blossomed red in the water dispersing high-pressure vapor bubbles.

Leaving behind– at most, pitted marks, and causing appreciably little damage.

Suddenly, Shalikova saw those inky black trails of aura amass behind the enemy Diver.

And then surge toward her like tentacles, hurtling toward her hull with pointed violence.

Shalikova could feel an oppressive pressure like an enormous hand squeezing her chest.

Bow your head in surrender to the King’s Gaze.

There was a voice in her head that resounded as if spoken by a hundred mouths at once.

Shalikova’s hands shook– and she gripped her controls tighter to compensate.

Undeterred, the Cheka fired a second burst into the enemy machine.

Rounds struck the upper torso and shoulder, putting a hole through a control fin but leaving only cosmetic damage otherwise. However, the opponent must have been surprised by Shalikova’s resolve– that had definitely been an attempted psionic attack, but Shalikova had managed to resist it somehow. Her heart quivered, her hands shook, but her gaze remained firmly on her cameras and she had not even blinked in a minute.

The aggressive, heavily armored Diver was temporarily shocked.

Who– How–? Why can’t I see your aura?

Shalikova thought to respond to the psionic inquiry, but she lost the opportunity.

From behind both of them, six tracers struck the monster in the hip armor and back.

Bubbles and foam erupted over the right side of the Diver’s body in the ensuing blasts.

A piece of a control fin flung off– and a chunk of hip armor was left deformed.

Nevertheless, the machine endured, nearly unharmed once again.

“Shalikova! Don’t just stand there! Protect the survivor, the ship will cover us!”

Khadija’s Strelok charged up from behind the enemy mecha, leaping out of the marine fog.

Closing in rapidly, the Brigand’s gas guns began to pepper the surroundings shortly after.

Amid the deepening barrage, the green-and-black Diver lost its zeal for the confrontation. Along with its remarkable armor it demonstrated impressive thrust and maneuverability as it escaped. Accelerating quickly, it thrust up and then away from the Union divers and the incoming Brigand, disappearing into the marine fog and avoiding attempts to pin it down.

Shalikova watched it retreat into the lightless fathoms with a deepening worry in her heart.

That had been a Volkisch craft. It had come out of a Volkisch ship to fight the Republic.

Which meant the Volkisch movement had a powerful psionic pilot working for them.

One maybe even more malevolent and much less reasonable than Selene had been.

Judging by the sheer brutal power contained in that aura.

An oppressive, choking power. The power of a King.

And it was unleashed on command against Shalikova.

Full confidence, no hesitation.

“She used the King’s Gaze.” Shalikova mumbled, remembering Maryam’s words.

“Hey! Help me with this Diver! The pilot might still be alive– I don’t see much damage!”

Shalikova shook her head.

Khadija and the Brigand needed her. They had almost escaped.

Shutting her eyes, she put the impression of that Diver, and of Selene’s Jagdkaiser, out of her mind. There was nothing she could do about either of them. Instead, she assisted Khadija in using their Jet Anchors to draw up the sinking Republic diver into the Brigand.

The Republic ships had been routed, and the Volkisch was closing in–

the Brigands could do no more for Kreuzung but to make good on their escape.


Inside the Kreuzung interstice, the floodwaters had blown through every open passage they could find, filling the conveyor tunnel and partially filling the elevator shaft, and several of the ancillary tunnels. Once the Core Separation was reversed, flood mitigation began to work once more, shutting several passages and draining them to reverse the damage.

All of this water being pushed out left several of the ancillary tunnels scattered with debris from the fighting that had taken place in the conveyor tunnel. Flotsam, washed quite far.

On the floor of one such tunnel, a body that had been drifting aimlessly in the flood now lay beached on cold metal ground. Coming to lie gently on her back as the water drained away.

Her shoulder-length black hair was completely soaked in saltwater.

There was half a halo of a bloody-looking substance suspended over her lolling head.

Deep wounds checkerboarded her otherwise perfectly pale skin.

Her arms and legs were missing, snapped off or cut apart at different angles by the pressure-strewn shrapnel that had swept through the tunnels. Much of her former body, a gelatinous-seeming mass with hundreds of tentacles, had been pulverized and ripped apart and splattered across the walls of the tunnels. What remained was a mutilated human torso.

Around her in the drained tunnels there were all manner of gory remains.

Taking a breather, she tested how much strength the remains of her body had left.

She managed to force herself to a sit.

And to then to drop forward onto her belly and breasts.

Crawling on stumps of limbs caked bloody.

Patiently, without expression or frustration.

Syzygy Enforcer VIII Tristitia. Having failed and allowed the heretic to escape.

She made her way to the torso of a K.P.S.D. trooper.

Gunfire from the heretics as well as the violence of the flood had left the hominin torso spread wide open and unfolded like a red and brown flower of organs and muscle and shattered bones. Tristia crawled until she could tuck her head into the mass. She took a bite of shredded, saltwater-logged meat still stuck to ribs, and tore into the chewy brined heart. She supped on coagulated blood in swollen sinews. None of these things reached what was left of her stomach inside her– all of it broke down immediately into material with which to repair the horrific damage her own body had sustained. Slowly, she closed her wounds, staved off organ failure, and began to mend her bones and limbs.

Her thoughts returned to her as she ate and healed.

“Tristitia thought she understood, but Tristitia was wrong?” She said to herself.

She laid no blame on anyone.

Not on Avaritia’s hands-off command, nor Accedia’s useless guidance or even the heretic who had taken shelter with Hominin and caused this to happen. She could not even blame the useless K.P.S.D. hominins who seemed so confident in themselves that even Tristitia, who absorbed and assisted their plan, believed in them and in their possible success.

Instead, what she felt was a boundless curiosity, and a million questions. Why, why, why? What, what, what? She scrutinized every detail of every moment to try to understand what was desired of her next. She would rotate these events in her mind– but the project would bear no fruit. Only more questions would arise out of the questions pondered.

Tristitia was a being of questions without possible answers. That was true despair.

At least she was still alive.

Her leviform destroyed– but her search for purpose continued.


The UNX-001 Brigand ascended from the Kreuzung crater.

They departed at full speed, leaving behind the site of the festival.

Until nothing could be seen of the place. The Brigand now sailed for Aachen.

Resuming its journey into the vast and dark expanse of the Imbrium Ocean.

Soon, there was only the ship, and nothing in the cameras but featureless water all around.

Ulyana Korabiskaya collapsed into her chair.

She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs. At her side, Aaliyah Bashara looked equally worse for wear, her pajamas clinging to her. Both of them leaned into each other.

Sweaty and exhausted.

Another scrape; another too-close escape.

Pounding hearts transferred stress across each other’s bodies as they touched.

“I think it’s safe to come down from combat alert now.” Erika said, temporarily taking over command from her thoroughly exhausted upper bridge. “Give it twenty or thirty more minutes at max speed and I think we can send everyone away to rest as well. They have more than earned it. Olga and I will volunteer to hold the ‘night shift’.” She smiled reassuringly.

Ulyana could hardly believe the stamina on this woman.

“Semyonova,” continued the bubbly Premier, “Status of the survivor we rescued?”

“Ma’am, the survivor is now undergoing surgery.” Semyonova said.

“I see. Well, let us all pray for her good fortune.” Erika said.

Rather than a Republic soldier, they found a Shimii in the cockpit of the Diver they rescued.

A poor girl younger even than Shalikova– and hacked in a few pieces.

How her body was mutilated was the least of the inexplicable things they had seen.

“It should go without saying,” Olga spoke up then, “the mess back there– it’s classified.”

“We’ll decide later how to communicate those events to the sailors, she means.” Erika said.

Nobody on the bridge had any desire to argue about that.

They were all completely drained.

Certainly, Ulyana wanted to the forget their ‘night of the living dead’ as soon as possible.

With space to think, she told herself, it was probably all a result of psionics.

Psionics– good lord.

She had so many insane reports she would have to endure soon!

“Everyone!” Erika clapped her hands. Tired faces turned from their stations to see her. “Please do not let today linger on your hearts, except as the triumph that it was for all of us! You were absolutely gallant! You may not feel that way, but I have nothing but praise for all of you. We were caught by surprise, time was against us, and we had to think on our feet– you all put together a miracle before my very eyes. Now it is my turn to say: it will be my pleasure to work with all of you. Victory is possible! Believe in victory!”

Everyone was far too knocked about to clap or to take much pleasure in Erika’s speech.

However, the tiniest smiles crept onto the faces of the bridge crew.

Once more, against mounting odds, they lived to return to the Ocean and fight another day.


Around Kreuzung, the festival’s dying embers served as semaphore to new arrivals.

A dozen ships first to gather up the remnants.

Then, a hundred more arrived to overturn the venue.

And soon, there would be another hundred, to clear the land.

With the end of the festival, the grounds would be prepared for a grand opera instead.

Thundering voices sing in turns each proclaiming their vision of Eisental’s Destiny.

The ensuing performance would be titled, Der Nationale Volkskrieg.


Previous ~ Next

Bandits Amid The Festival [11.11]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and everything between.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Semyonova nodded and turned to her own console to check.

After a few minutes, she shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Am I detained?” Marina asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ana assefa!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Captain.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


“Can you carry her?”

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

“Can you carry her while moving quickly?”

“Hmph.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zachikova believed them instantly.

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

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

Even with the red lights bearing on them.

And even without the comfort of the station network.

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

Computing lag was exceedingly rare for Zachikova to experience.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After Valeriya confirmed it was safe, Zachikova followed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arabella whispered in her ear.

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

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

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

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

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

“We’ll vouch for her compliance too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please.”

From below all of them, Valeriya groaned.

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

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

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

Arabella nodded her head gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got it. We’ll get through this.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Duck! Zachi! Cover!”

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

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

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

“Braya!”

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

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

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

and chaos reigned.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her slobbering mouth and the moistness of her general being–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Braya–”

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

So– she had the assistance of hominin.

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

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

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

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

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

Their moment finally arrived.

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

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

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

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

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

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


“Throw smokes! Now!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Arabella!”

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

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

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

Illya was at her side–

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

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

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

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

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

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

She felt a hand on her shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

She quickly looked around herself.

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

Then she quickly stabbed herself with an injector of painkillers.

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

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

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

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

“Acknowledged.” Zachikova said.

“Yes.” Valeriya added.

“Mark in five.”

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

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

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

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

Regardless of who it was–

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

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

no matter the opponent, Zachikova would have killed anyone.

“Mark!”

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

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

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

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

There was no immediate return fire.

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

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

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

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

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

Illya retreated to coincide with the explosion of the grenade.

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mark!”

Illya rose and opened fire on the right flank.

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

Valeriya loosed another grenade.

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

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

along with one figure struggling on the ground.

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

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

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


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

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

Her mind registered the anguished cries of several injured Vanguards.

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

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

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

By three measly hominin?

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

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

It should have worked– it simply–

She had given them a perfect plan!

She had demanded nothing from them but execution!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A silvery fruit brimming with stolen life.

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

As if for Wizard III to see every bite.


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

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

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

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

Arabella nodded.

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

Zachikova took her assault rifle from the floor.

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

Mumbling to herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

A living picture of stoicism.

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

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

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

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

No enemy would escape.

Not without engaging Sentinel X herself in glorious combat.

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

She would hold the position. Until commanded otherwise.

That was her solemn duty.

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

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

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

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

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

Sentinel X smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something was forcing open the elevator doors.

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

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

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

Then,

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

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

eyes meeting under opposite banners amid the smoke of war,

aura tinged red and black with the determination,

 to stake it all on the battlefield.

“An opponent.” Sentinel X whispered to herself.

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

Every cell quivering with lust.

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

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

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


Tinnitus ringing in her ears for so very long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They lifted her easily, moved her swiftly.

“Valeriya, Illya? What is your status?”

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

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

It would be horrific.

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

Then she realized she had another possible source of light.

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

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

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

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

Until they fell upon Valeriya, crouched and solemn.

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

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

Valeriya did not respond.

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

She crouched beside Illya.

Pausing every so often to glance at Valeriya.

Reaching out her hand tentatively.

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

No response from Valeriya.

Zachikova had not been hacked to pieces– yet.

She continued.

Lifting a finger to force one of her eyes open.

Feeling for vitals with her thumb.

There was a pulse–

“God damn it.”

Valeriya lifted her head a little.

Enough for Zachikova to see her eyes filled with tears.

Illya had grunted. She was awake.

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

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

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

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

Zachikova pulled out the projectile and pocketed it.

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

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

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

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

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

Arabella approached and crouched beside Zachikova, joining the rest.

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

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

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

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

“Valeriya, I love you.” She said.

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

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

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

Illya nodded solemnly.

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

Valeriya and Illya’s gazes locked ever more deeply.

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

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

Illya gently drew Valeriya closer to her.

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

“Love is life; love hinders death.”

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

“Eliminate all hostile targets.” Illya then said.

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

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

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

A metallic whining noise followed her from then on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

That hand holding her truncheon was so close to shaking.

It took all her strength not to.

Evgenya Akulantova looked down from the top of the steps.

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

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

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

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

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

Akulantova clenched her jaw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Akulantova felt herself pulled in every direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It brought to mind a word–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She felt the wound throb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wanted so badly to defy that vision.

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

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

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

And she couldn’t just punch back–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

She wanted to impress her, to draw her attention.

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

She wielded it as easily as flexing her own fingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was astonished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

armbar head twisting slitting throats stabbing ribs ripping throats bare teeth

saw-sword swing cleaving corpses horizontal peak to groin

amid the vortex of violence Vanguard IX always the victim–

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

It was no wonder it was unguarded!

There was nothing going through it but sheer brutality!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her confidence was beginning to rebuild.

Valeriya was powerful, but a ravening beast.

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

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

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

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

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

Vanguard IX responded again with the same cover.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

cut through like fluid,

severed the shoulder,

cast the arm down,

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

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

Before her Valeriya loomed ever larger,

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

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

swung again, sure to kill,

felt those horrid evil saw teeth kiss her ribs–

and gasped as a bright white light interposed itself.

Saint’s Skin: Anoint!

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

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

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

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

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


Sentinel X and Akulantova circled each other, locking eyes.

When one stepped forward, the other back.

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

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

Sentinel X was monstrously strong.

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

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

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

She had to admit however–

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

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

Sentinel X seemed to have gotten enough of probing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

and kicking off it with unbelievable force.

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

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

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

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

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

It was now or never.

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

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

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

“You’re mine.”

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

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

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

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

Akulantova’s toothy, satisfied grin.

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

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

Even with her mighty strikes and bewildering agility.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was gasping for breath.

Alive.

Thankfully built of stern stuff.

Meanwhile, a shaken Akulantova rose back to her feet.

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

She collected her hat.

Placing it on top of her head and adjusting it.

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

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

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

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

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

“N-No. Hunter VII. We’re– holding–”

Akulantova sighed. Sentinel X rose unsteadily to her feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Akulantova turned around and spotted someone walking confidently toward her.

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

Syracuse Chernova.

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

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

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

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

“Hunter VII! Stand and fight!”

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

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

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

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

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

There was something much more pressing at hand however.

Akulantova turned around,

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

but expecting nothing–

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

–and getting nothing as she expected. Of course.

She should have known.

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

“You’re right, I don’t care.”

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

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

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

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

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

But they were completely out of line now.

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

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

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

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

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

Syrah audibly sighed, but followed close behind.

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

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

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

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

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

But alive; and ready to return.

Akulantova produced a portable encrypted communicator.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wizard III laid Vanguard IX against a wall.

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

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

It traveled up her arm, through her sinews.

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

Pale-colored secretions covered Vanguard IX’s wounds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a terrifying notion.

Because it made her tasks so much more complicated.

And her future so much less predictable.

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

Perhaps that curse was what made her heart quake.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gunther sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Absolutely. I will defer to the Captain’s judgment.” Murati said.

Tigris smiled. “I heard you arguing with Cohen too. Thanks for believing in me.”

“All I ask is that your actions don’t lead me to regret my words.” Murati said, sighing.

“You watch! That ugly hunk of metal will be flying out of here!” Tigris cheered raucously.

Time was of the essence, so Murati was about to usher Tigris to work–

Until she heard heavy footfalls that were nearing from the direction of Alcor.

Murati did not know whether Alcor had any substantial contact with the Captain yet. 

In her heart, however, she knew what she would soon see.

She reacted, before she heard the call from an authoritative voice to desist–

“Stay back!”

“Huh?”

Murati at first withdrew her sidearm, but then she hid it behind her back.

She stood in front of Tigris, in time to meet the approaching group first.

Several flashlights shone upon her. It was hard to see at first, but there was no doubt.

Black uniforms, silver eagle insignias, red armbands with a black sun-disk icon.

The fascist troops of the Volkisch Movement.

“Stop! We told you to desist!”

Four of the men had their sidearms out, and one of them had a small submachine gun.

Murati kept one hand behind her back with her sidearm.

She felt Tigris tug on the back of her shirt. As if to say she was there in support.

“What is the meaning of this?” Murati asked. Maintaining a façade but saying little.

All of the men kept their weapons pointed at her– but parted to allow another through.

“An interesting hustle and bustle here. This is an emergency situation, you know?”

From behind the men appeared a young woman, about Murati’s age, perhaps just a little older. Surprisingly, she was a Loup, with long, brown dog-like ears atop her head of neatly arranged brown hair. Her uniform was black, the same as the rest, but unlike the troops with her, the collar of her coat had a red patch with a vertical, black symbol, the wolf’s-hook.

Murati knew the presence of that single hook meant an officer rank.

And the confidently smiling woman meeting her eyes confirmed it herself.

“Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather.” She said. “Rottenführer in the Sicherheitsdienst.”

Volkisch intelligence. Murati tried to steady herself. The worst was coming to pass…


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