Tag: web novel

Fallibilis (48.1)

52nd of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Tambwe Dominance, City of Rangda — 8th Division Base, HQ

For reasons unknown to the troops a high alert alarm and a quick deployment order were issued to the 1st Motor Rifles, and deep into the night the soldiers found themselves suiting and dressing up, gathering their rifles, machine guns and explosives. They stood in attention at their barracks, at the training field, and across the road to the depots. Rangda’s official gate guards for the base were disarmed and detained for security reasons, and replaced with reliable Gendarmes attached to the Regiment.

Hobgoblin tanks began to patrol the base. Anti-aircraft guns and spotlights were trained skyward against possible bombardment. Chimeras, Giants and the Regiment’s organic towed artillery prepared themselves for the possibility of enemy indirect fires that would need to be spotted, tracked and countered. Trucks lined up in case a strike was ordered — or an evacuation. Thousands of troops undertook the deployment they had been training for days now to swiftly perform, under the circumstances they feared the most.

And though they had expected to hear the voice of the Colonel delivering this fateful order and perhaps offering words of encouragement, it was instead a hasty command from Chief Warrant Officer Parinita Maharani, whose voice nearly cracked during the address.

Little did they know the stress she was going through and the dire reasons behind it.

“She hasn’t reported back at all!”

Unlike the rising troops, the 1st Regiment Headquarters was wracked by a lack of doctrine and planning. They knew what to do in any situation but the one they were currently experiencing. Padmaja and Bhishma sleepily monitored the radio and looked out the window for any signs of friendly troops come to deliver messages — or arriving undesirables bringing ordnance. There was no paucity of movement. Minardo paced the room behind Parinita, who was stomping back and forth in circles so often she seemed to be cutting a line on the floor. Her face and eyes were turning redder by the second.

It was well past midnight. Madiha had not yet returned.

Were they to engage in hostilities the 1st Regiment would do so effectively leaderless.

Parinita spent most of her words on self-flagellation and few to give orders.

“I knew this was a bad idea!” Parinita shouted. She twirled a lock of her hair around her index finger and bit into the tip of another finger. “I should have never agreed to it. I should have told her to send a letter to that monstrous trollop telling her off! I should have been pushy and jealous, I shouldn’t have been so quick to be the good one here–”

Minardo reached out a hand to Parinita’s shoulder and stopped her.

Parinita looked over her shoulder, nearly weeping.

“You’ll be ill-positioned to help her if you panic now.” Minardo said.

Her hand was shaking on Parinita’s shoulder. She was worried too. They all were.

“Madiha swore Chakrani wasn’t up to anything. But look at all this!” Parinita said.

She pointed out the window. Minardo did not seem to know what to look at.

“The Colonel can take care of herself. I doubt she will have gone down easily.” Minardo replied, trying to calm the situation. “I’d wager if anyone tried to catch her she would run into the city. She has the most strategic mind I’ve ever known. Trust her, Maharani.”

“With the city coming under lock-down how can we even find out?” Parinita shouted.

Minardo shook her head.

Parinita thrust her fists up into the air and resumed her feverish pacing.

Scratch scratch.

There was a noise at the door.

Every pair of eyes turned immediately to face it.

Padmaja rushed out from behind her table and threw open the front.

From behind the door, Kali pranced into the room with her head held up high.

In her mouth, she had a rat.

Once the momentary suspense faded, everyone resumed their rising panic.

Kali glanced across the room.

She dropped the rat on the floor and pushed on it with her head.

Nobody seemed to pay her any attention. Everyone was too busy fretting.

Recognition dawned upon her eyes. She seemed to realize who was missing.

In the next instant Kali leaped onto Padmaja’s table and charged toward the window.

She thrust through the frame like a rocket, smashing the glass and tearing apart the wood and concrete and flying out into the night sky. In seconds she had become a distant blur that no human eye could track. Under the moonless sky she disappeared.

Parinita and Minardo stood at the smashed window, perplexed.

“We just had this repaired!” Padmaja cried out.

Nobody quite knew what to do but to pray. The 1st Regiment was in many ways an extension of its commander. Only she could decide how they would fight right now. They were like an infant without a parent. Perhaps with the skill to walk; but no direction to go.

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Coup De Cœur (47.1)

This scene contains mild sexual content and social coercion.

51st of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Tambwe Dominance, City of Rangda — Council Building

At the turn of midnight the Rangdan Council building was abuzz with activity.

The Governor’s Office was particularly busy. There were civil servants elbow to elbow on the carpet and along the walls, and so much chatter that no one voice seemed to rise over the rest. There were drinks on hand, and many toasts called to seemingly nothing in particular. Arthur Mansa presided over the extravagant gathering, seated as if on a throne, behind the governor’s desk that should have belonged to his then-missing son.

Despite the chatter, the thrust of this spirited discussion felt impossible to follow.

As far as Chakrani Walters knew she was in a meeting to decide a course of action following the flagrant abuses of military power exhibited by the 1st Regiment during the events of the preceding days. It was very late at night, but Chakrani was not tired. She was accustomed to the night life, and indeed night was when she was most active. As a hostess, as a dedicated party-goer and as a lover, she was at her most vivid and alert in the night.

And yet, the tone of the conversation in Mansa’s office was inscrutable to her.

She felt drowsy trying to read the mood and to follow the discussion. There was nothing concrete being said. Mansa was laughing, drinking and carrying himself as if hosting a party. His closest officials were acting more like room decor. These men gained life only when prompted and only for the barest hint of agreement, a nodding of the head, a quick clap of the hands. There was no mention of Madiha or Solstice for the longest time.

Not that Chakrani was especially keen to think about Madiha these days, but it was necessary to put aside grudges for the good of the people, and she had to be ready.

Whether anyone else even cared about her feelings was another story entirely.

The scene reminded Chakrani of exoticized portraits of the old Imperial court. Had Mansa’s fingers been covered in golden rings and a crown been set upon his scalp, he could have been a king surrounded by smiling courtiers immortalized in acrylics.

Chakrani felt isolated. She sat on a padded chair, one in a line of several extending along a corner of the room parallel to Mansa’s desk, at once too near and too apart from his court. Everyone was dressed too well for the occasion, she thought. Though she had her ringlets done as pretty as ever, her attire was a drab skirt suit, her only good one, which had received quite a workout over the week. Meanwhile there were men in tuxes and fine coats and shiny shoes, and the occasional lady in a bright dress come to bring drinks.

Every other tongue was flapping, but she did not speak, for she knew not what she could say. Though she had prepared some notes, they felt irrelevant in the current climate. Nobody here seemed interested in the summary from her discussion with a trio of Adjar’s remaining Council members — three only because the rest had given up their posts. It did not seem like the time or place to talk about refugees, about food and work assistance.

“Ms. Walters.”

She heard Mansa’s commanding voice and turned on her chair to address him.

“Yes sir?”

“How do you like your wine? Red, white– palm, perhaps?”

Several sets of eyes turned at once to face her.

Chakrani contained a scoff. What a ridiculous question to be asked! She was not much of a wine drinker. She preferred mixed local drinks with a fleeting edge of hard liquor to them. Ayvarta was not a country of grapes. And what did it have to do with anything?

“I drink palm wine, but not often.” Chakrani wearily replied.

Mansa smiled, and beckoned someone close.

Through the doorway, a woman in a bright, elegant dress approached. She was tall and dark and very pretty, with a swinging figure and a heaving bosom and a large bottle of palm wine. She approached with a grin on her face and performed an almost lascivious curtsy for Chakrani, exposing some chest. Pulling up a chair, the woman sat beside her and poured her a drink. She remained at her side, laying a too-playful hand over Chakrani’s lap. Her body gave off a strong scent of mixed sweat and perfume and a hint of booze.

Once the drink was served Mansa gave Chakrani a smirk that sent her shivering.

He was as smugly satisfied as if he had done her a favor. She felt insulted.

Soon as he had brought her company, Mansa turned his attention elsewhere.

Perhaps she had been too quick to judge, but she had thought him a serious and committed person when they had met on and off the past week. Chakrani was aware of his strong track record in Solstice politics, thought of as an eternal incumbent with an invulnerable base of support and a grand diplomatic air. Not only that, but she knew him distantly through his father — the two of them had spoken and met and done business before the dire time of Akjer. She had thought of him as a man of leadership and scruples. Was this evening characteristic of how he carried out his vaunted diplomacy?

As the night went the strange procession continued. At her side the woman tried to make polite conversation. Mansa turned to her several times and asked about her days as a hostess, about her family life and upbringing; and each time he cut her off with his own tales of days past. He talked to her about his days as a patron of business. He talked about old Rangda, and he talked about the old Regional Court. It was stifling. She almost wanted to weep. She barely got a word in except to the lady he had provided for her company, who nodded and laughed and cooed at her, perhaps drunkenly.

Gradually Chakrani noticed the courtiers peeling off from the crowd and the room starting to thin out. Mansa grew more reserved; at her side, the woman in the dress, whose name Chakrani had not been able to coax out at all, clung closer to her and drank the remaining wine out of Chakrani’s glass. Chakrani thought this was her own cue to leave. But when she stood, the woman threw her arms around her and Mansa raised his hand.

“No, Ms. Walters, as a serious woman of politics, I expect you to stay.” He said.

Another ridiculous notion!

Chakrani blinked and settled back down on her chair. She peeled the drunk woman’s arms away from her waist, trying to get her to sort herself out in her own damned chair–

And doing so, she spotted a small handgun clipped to her suddenly exposed upper thigh.

She tried to show no incongruous changes in expression, but it was difficult.

Chakrani had only ever seen a gun up-close once when she took off Madiha’s belt.

She was clearly unused to the particular world of politics that she had stepped into.

“Ah, good, good!”

Preoccupied as she was with whether the woman at her side was fictionally drunk or factually capable of operating a firearm, Chakrani did not immediately notice a new set of men coming discreetly through the door. Mansa clapped his hands once for the arrivals, and this caused Chakrani to turn her head. He in turn acknowledged her once more.

“Chakrani, meet the loyal men of Rangda’s own 8th Ram Rifle Division. They will help us take care of our little Nakar problem, as well as help your people regain their strength.”

Chakrani went along with it. Mansa said something else, about confronting Madiha, about how these men would protect her from Madiha; she nodded affirmatively at his every word and said her ‘yes’es and ‘thank you’s. She was not paying him the proper attention, examining the army men and beginning to fear for her own position in this discussion.

There were several ordinary men of some rank or other; but there was one man who drew her attention the most. He was fairly tall, athletic and slim, with a rugged, handsome appearance, tanned, with a hooked nose, and a hint of slick blond hair under his cap.

His chest was decorated with many medals. He had more decorations than she had ever seen, though her only point of comparison was Madiha’s chest, years ago.

When he spoke his name at Mansa’s command, Chakrani stifled a gasp.

Brigadier General Gaul Von Drachen.

She was immediately sure no such person truly existed in Rangda’s armed forces.

And the looks of anxiety on the faces of the rest of the men seemed to confirm this.

Though they would not say it, these men were being dragged into something.

She, too, was being dragged into something.

Mansa, however, was delighted to have the man here. He welcomed him jovially.

“Our greatest asset arrives! Well, Let us speak discretely for now, General Drachen–”

“Von Drachen, my good man. You see, Drachen alone, does not convey–”

“General Von Drachen,” Mansa correct himself, cutting off the Brigadier, “I take it that your preparations are complete and you will be ready to assist me by the agreed date.”

“It should take my gruppen no later than the 54th to arrive. My jagers are here with me.”

Chakrani felt her face go white at the sound of Nochtish words, confirming her fears.

Mansa’s expression briefly darkened. “I believe I was clear that the date was the 53rd.”

“We could potentially make the 53rd, but I am being realistic. You never know what will happen in the field of battle, especially where deception is concerned. I believe in leaving some leg-room available when making predictions.” Von Drachen replied.

“You talk much to say very little, General.” Mansa replied.

“You could stand to talk a little more, Sir.” Von Drachen said, smiling.

For a moment the two men appraised each other in silence.

Mansa steepled his fingers and proceeded with the conversation. “I believe some of us in the room share a mutual acquaintance who is noticeably absent from this discussion.”

“Hmm?” Von Drachen made a noise and stared blankly.

“Ms. Walters, I should very much like for our misguided friend Madiha Nakar to come and sit with us soon. Would it be possible for you to fetch her for us?” Mansa said.

Chakrani felt her insides constrict with dread. All throughout she had been feeling like a hostage trapped in a dangerous situation, and she had been right. This Von Drachen was a man from Nocht and Mansa was plotting something. This was what they wanted her for; they just wanted to get to Madiha and she was the way that they settled on. Her eyes glanced over to the woman at her side, who was still clinging sleepily to her.

Would acknowledging any of this put her in undue danger? Chakrani was not some soldier or spy. She was a young woman under the stars who liked to drink and carouse and make love to women. That she put together these clues was no great feat, she thought. Anyone in this situation would have thought the same. But her sense of self-preservation, more developed than that of a reckless hero, screamed for her to quiet.

In this situation her blood chilled and her heart slowed. She helplessly complied.

“I could certainly try, sir. But would not an official missive be more appropriate?”

She thought the more respectful she acted, the safer she would be.

Mansa smiled. “I’m afraid she has become too unstable for official contact. At this pivotal time in our diplomacy, we cannot afford to let her run rampant. Surely you understand. You know her, after all; she has hurt you before. She cannot be swayed by the law.”

Chakrani felt her tongue grow heavy. Just hearing others speaking about that woman set off a chain reaction of conflicting emotions in Chakrani’s head and heart that she buckled under almost as badly as she did under the anxiety she felt at this predicament.

“Madiha Nakar is difficult sir, but I think if you take a peaceable solution–”

Across the room General Von Drachen’s face lit up with child-like glee.

“Councilman, do you mean to say Sergeant Nakar of Bada Aso fame, is here?” He said.

“Colonel; but yes. She leads the 1st. Regiment her in Rangda. Though I tried to integrate her into our affairs I have found she leans too far from us to be of assistance, as she is now. But I desire to convince her; I’m sure that I can, given time and opportunity.” Mansa said. His voice was taking on a hint of disdain for the General he had so seemingly prized moments ago.

“I’m afraid convincing is out of the question.” Von Drachen clapped his hands. “If you are a man who wishes to neutralize the threat of her, I’m afraid only murder will suffice.”

Chakrani sat up tighter against the backrest of her seat in shock.

Mansa sighed. “We’re not going to murder her.”

“Oh, but you must! She will dismantle any well-laid plans you have with ruthless alacrity unless you let me dislodge her brains into a nearby wall post-haste, my good man!”

Mansa brought his hands up against his face.

“Councilman, what is he talking about?” Chakrani shouted. Some part of her brain simply could not suppress all of the scandal in this room enough to pretend that everything was still fine. In such a complicated situation even her desire to lay low and leave the room unscathed and out of bondage was overwhelmed by her sense of right.

Madiha Nakar was a killer, she had killed before, and she told herself her killing was right; that was the image Chakrani fought to hold in her mind. There were other images, some less grave, some distressingly fond, all of which battled in her mind and rendered her final perception volatile and erratic; but this unified picture was the one she thought she wanted to see. Madiha Nakar was a killer, her father’s killer. And yet, Chakrani would never agree to simply shoot her like an animal behind a shed. In any civilized world she could have been challenged and defeated and tried for her injustice.

That was what Chakrani wanted. She wanted justice! She wanted to be heard!

She wanted to have her suffering redressed! She wanted relief!

She did not want to have Madiha killed!

Every conviction she held screamed now that she had to oppose this meeting.

And yet she was the least of the powers in the room.

Her body remained frozen as the men continued to stare each other down.

Mansa remained speechless. Chakrani almost hoped he was not fully corrupted.

Meanwhile the gleeful Nochtish man seemed confident in his position.

Von Drachen ignored Chakrani’s outburst. “I will tell it to you plainly, Councilman.”

“I do not want to hear it!” Mansa shouted, standing up from his desk.

“You brought me here for a reason–”

“Yes, we have a deal and part of that deal is you listen to me, Cissean!”

Mansa was growing irate; while Von Drachen’s smirking expression never changed.

“We can do nothing about this ‘1st Regiment’ if Madiha Nakar is leading it. You brought me here to help check their power in your city, did you not? You want to remain capable of independent operation? You want to maneuver to power? Well you cannot do any of that effectively unless something is swiftly done about Madiha Nakar’s command.”

“Something will be done!” Mansa replied. “At my discretion, with my methods!”

Chakrani channeled her anxiety into a final surge of bravery. She shouted desperately.

“I have no connection to Madiha Nakar anymore, Councilman! I cannot help you!”

She stood up from her seat and started toward the door.

Click.

Chakrani felt the gun at the nape of her neck and raised her hands.

Behind her, the woman in the dress seemed almost disappointed to have to hold her up.

She was not drunk, nor sleepy; her sexualized act was replaced by cold stoicism.

Chakrani was sure that this woman would shoot. She froze completely.

Mansa sighed ever more deeply. He rubbed his hands over his face again.

“I am so upset right now. I expected all of this to transpire so much more cleanly. Mark my words, Cissean, your superiors will know my displeasure.” He calmly said.

Von Drachen shrugged childishly in response.

“It seems I am doomed never to be listened to.” He cryptically said.

After addressing the General, Mansa turned a stoic eye on Chakrani.

“Child, you will pen a missive and meet Madiha Nakar at a specified location. One of our agents will then persuade her to meet with our Council and make a peace. We will not harm either of you. I am merely answering her obstinacy with my own. A diplomat needs an opportunity to speak. I am merely seizing an opportunity to speak: with Madiha, with Rangda, and ultimately, with Solstice, and with Nocht. I am making my stage here. While the rest of the world devolves to madness, I will make Rangda a pillar of order. Alone, or not.”

Chakrani started to weep. She could not believe that she would come away unharmed from a request made at gunpoint. She had foolishly walked into something awful now. Not even Mansa’s calm and stoic words could assuage her. In fact, the calm with which he spoke made his words even more frightening. He was the most dangerous one here.

What kind of peace would he make with Madiha, when he was already preparing military force against her? What kind of peace could be made with Nocht other than giving up this city to their mercy? He might not kill anyone; but there would be blood nonetheless.

But she was helpless, and could say nothing more than “yes sir,” in a choked voice.

Mansa nodded his head, and raised his hand.

At Chakrani’s back, the woman laid down her weapon.

Mansa’s sweet, almost fatherly demeanor returned as he sat back down.

“I knew you would understand, Ms. Walters. Madiha will listen to you. I’m sure of it. Bring her here, and I will speak a truth to her that will change her outlook.” He said, smiling.

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Salva’s Taboo Exchanges XI

42nd of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E, Morning

Kingdom of Lubon, Province of Palladi — Arsia Wood

Soft-pink skies high along the forest horizon preceded the dawning of the sun over the Arsia. As the morning light started to climb the weathered walls of the Agnelli Estate, its doors quietly opened onto the vastness of the forest. Under the gloom of the ancient trees a pair of stout horses soon set out through the underbrush and dirt, ferrying a pair of young women. They crossed a low wooden gate and immersed themselves in the wood.

Within the forest the breezing air was crisp and cool, and it blew the rider’s hair gently as they marched deeper in. The Arsia was a feast for the senses. Light played through the gaps in the canopy, across the dew-strewn bush and over the puddles on the forest floor, illuminating flowers and fruit and leaves with brilliant color. There were smells sensuously sweet from every corner. And as the riders navigated the brush they heard the peaceful sounds of the forest between each strike of the hooves and rattling of their packs. Chirping insects, singing birds, dripping dew and whistling winds sang for the sun.

Passing paths of stones stamped into the earth, and through natural gardens of berries and mushrooms, beneath trees filled with wild fruit, the riders entered a clearing.

Golden sunlight shone across a field of short green grasses slashed across by extravagant streaks of blood-red poppies. On all sides the field was enclosed by thick-trunked and tall trees. As the horses strode into the clearing swarms of insects peeled off the underbrush and paraded skyward. There were butterflies and bees and green katydids, brilliantly colored beetles, and gaudy purple dragonflies. It was as if a living rainbow rose out of the ground to herald their every step. Birds joined the procession, and beneath them ermines and foxes fled into the wood or into holes in the earth. At once the clearing quieted.

Byanca Geta took a deep breath of the fresh morning air and sighed contentedly.

“Shall we put the blankets down here?”

Behind her, Rosalia gracefully dismounted her horse without waiting for an answer. Byanca smiled. Her lover was clad in a wonderful silk sundress, sleeveless, soft yellow with thin straps and baring an exquisite bit of skin around the shoulders and upper chest. She had her hair up in a braided bun with a stag-horn ornament. Dressed in such a way, Byanca could see the lines along her skin hinting at wiry muscle on her slim arms and shoulders.

She was a stunningly elegant and a rugged woman all at once, a natural beauty.

For her part, Byanca was dressed in a traditional long shepherd’s woolen shirt and dark pants with long suspenders. Rosalia’s clothes did not fit her build too well, which was a little wider and denser in key places. Her departed brother’s clothing on the other hand fit better, albeit still a little tight in places due to the differences in a woman’s figure. Rosalia seemed to enjoy the sight. Her eyes lingered mischievously on Byanca as the centurion dismounted her own horse and took charge of unpacking their intricate picnic assortment.

“My, my,” she said, covering her mouth to stifle bouts of giggling.

“Judging by your reaction, at least I know I’m not too plain in these.” Byanca said.

“Your arse looks amazing in those trousers.” Rosalia finally said, giggling some more.

“Well then. In that case, let me flex my muscles for your viewing pleasure.”

Rosalia stepped aside. Byanca lifted a few rolls of blankets off the horses, followed by baskets of food, and a parasol large enough for two. She unfurled and then set the blankets over the grass, overlapping at their edges to give them ample room to lay their spread. From the baskets she withdrew bread and preserves, fresh fruits and honey, slices of meat wrapped in paper, containers of cheese and vegetables suspended in dressing and a bottle of wine with two rustic old cups. Byanca laid out all of the food, bending down to her knees.

She then felt a light slap on her rear and heard laughing from Rosalia behind her.

After the kind of night they had, it was a wonder that she settled for such tame flirting.

Certainly she had become very well acquainted with Byanca’s arse already.

She felt like she would carry the whip-marks on there for a week at least.

Rosalia pushed open the parasol by its handle and set it down on a wooden stand. Beneath the shade, they prepared the food, spreading preserves and honey on bread and cheese and smoky slices of prosciutto, mixing salads of fruit, cheese and veggies with the dressing in which they had been canned, and pouring wine into their glasses.

“A toast, to more than friendship!” Rosalia said.

They tapped their glasses together and took a sip. Byanca’s sip drained her glass.

“That was good. More please,” she said.

“You will have to learn to pace yourself.” Rosalia replied, withholding the bottle.

Byanca smiled innocently and tried to keep that in mind as she ate.

Everything was fresh and delicious. There was such a world of difference from the dry rations she had consumed for years. It was enough to give pause to her habit of eating everything as fast as possible, a habit picked up owing to a need to swallow bland food very quickly to energize herself for training that was only minutes away from lunch. She had to stop to taste the tart, salty cheese and the sharp, tangy dressing on the vegetables, the sweet, deep flavor of the preserves and the dense texture of the bread.

“Is it sour?” Rosalia asked.

“No! It is wonderful.” Byanca replied.

“Your eyes kept closing, and you kept wrinkling your face.”

“I was overwhelmed! I’m not used to strong tastes. Army food is very bland.”

“You should consider retiring to the countryside once all of this is over.”

Byanca blinked with surprise. She thought Rosalia averse to commitment, but this did not feel like a joking invitation. Though, she did have an impish little grin saying it.

“I’ll think about it.” Byanca said, flashing her own little grin.

Once enough of the food had been made to disappear, they set aside the rest, plated and under paper towels to keep the bugs away, and laid down beneath the shade of the parasol together, hand-in-hand. As they watched the clouds pass by over the horizon, their bodies grew closer, until they laid as they had in bed, Rosalia nestled against Byanca’s chest, and Byanca’s strong arms wrapped around her. It was warm; they started to sweat.

Both enjoyed spooning so much that they did not move despite this.

“Are you afraid, Rosalia?” Byanca asked.

“Not especially. Should I be?”

“Nobles are being targeted, you know?”

“I know. But I am not being targeted.”

Byanca held her a little closer in response.

She felt guilty again; she felt like she was using Rosalia to comfort herself. There was somebody else whom she wanted to hold too. She thought her feelings for that person, or even for the idea of being with that person, were much stronger. She had a fantasy. She was treating Rosalia like a proxy, or consolation. It wasn’t fair. And yet she couldn’t stop. Whenever she hurt, she knew this was the only realistic place to come heal.

She knew that Rosalia didn’t mind. In fact she knew Rosalia felt comfortable with this arrangement because she could not agree to any more. That was her nature too.

And yet it was not fair to her, nonetheless. Byanca felt she could have offered her more.

“Whoever chooses to attack me must attack this forest as well.” Rosalia said.

“I suppose so.”

“And besides, the Agnelli family has lived through many regimes without impediment. We do not care whether the guardian of the tree rises or falls. We do not own the Arsia; it cannot be taken from us. It is our real caregiver, our real king and queen.” Rosalia replied.

She shifted her back, perhaps relishing in pressing herself against Byanca’s breasts.

“These anarchists are different. They’re specifically here to attack the aristocracy.”

“Queen Vittoria did plenty of that as well. She overlooked us. They always do.”

“Rosalia, if you need anything, if you feel any kind of discomfort or distress, I want to know that you would put aside your pride and tell me. Can you promise me that?”

Byanca felt Rosalia shifting again, and she opened her eyes, and found herself staring deep into Rosalia’s own contented face. Their hands lay between each other’s chests, the fingers clasped together. Rosalia tipped forward, and laid a kiss on Byanca’s lips.

“Were I ever to commit to someone, it could only be you, Byanca.” She said cryptically.

Byanca blinked. Those were not words she thought she would hear out of Rosalia.

The Lady Agnelli did not allow her time to contemplate. After the kiss she stood up, and returned to her own horse, and from another bag hanging at its side, she withdrew paints, brushes, a hand-held palette, a slender easel, and a slice of canvas stretched on a thin board. She set up her easel outside the parasol, in the sun, and stood behind it.

“Byanca, could you sit down in the sun for a little while? I want to paint you.” She said.

“I’m honored to be your subject!” Byanca replied. She felt her face turning red-hot.

She stood from under the parasol and sat in a patch of poppies. Rosalia instructed her on her posture — she should sit like a princess, with her hands on her lap, her legs together and turned to the side, and her back straight. It was an arduous position, especially under the sun. Rosalia was dissatisfied with Byanca’s ponytail, and she pulled off the woman’s band and redid her dirty-blond hair with the tail starting further up her head.

Finally Rosalia returned to her easel, took up a thick pencil and made a quick drawing. After that she picked up her palette and brushes and laid the pencil aside to paint.

Her painting was the gentlest and most thoughtful series of physical actions Byanca had ever seen a human being perform. Whenever she saw a hand raised Byanca connected this to a strike; but Rosalia’s hands never slashed down or thrust forward, and instead hovered, and fluttered over the canvas, and back to the palette. She looked over her colors, mixed them, and painted. She re-examined Byanca from afar several times. It was as if the painting was a child that she was doting heavily upon; petted, clad and fed by hand.

After what seemed like almost an hour under the sun, a very rosy-cheeked Byanca was finally called to see behind the easel. She was astonished by the quality of the painting. It certainly looked like her, and it was very softly colored. Her contours were gently captured. Thin layers of color gave everything a very soft and subdued texture so that it almost seemed like a colored drawing on paper or a photo more than a painting for a wall.

“It was hasty, and I did not have my best materials.” Rosalia said.

“It is beautiful, Rosalia! And I never thought I would say that about myself!”

“Oh, but you are beautiful, Byanca. This painting captures a fraction of your beauty.”

Byanca smiled and rubbed the back of her own head.

Rosalia turned to the painting with a mildly wistful expression.

“Are you sure you cannot stay another night?”

“I’ve got some pressing business.” Byanca said sadly.

“Will you be back?” Rosalia asked, still staring at the painting as it dried.

“Of course I will! I will visit right after the matter is settled.”

“I don’t mean to sound selfish but– I’d like it if you visited more regularly.”

Byanca smiled at her again. She felt a mixture of hurt and joy in her heart.

“I won’t go to Borelia again or anything like that. I’ll be here if you need me.” She said.

Rosalia nodded her head. “I’m so very relieved to hear that.”

Hand in hand once more, the odd noblewoman of the wood and her failed knight returned to their picnic. They ate the remainder of the food, emptied the bottle of wine, picked flowers, frolicked under the sun, examined the Agnelli dogs, and all the while until the carriage came around those fingers did not separate. Even after she left, Byanca continued to feel her touch. It was an eerie sensation, welcome but hard to place.

For a time, she suppressed the guilt and sadness that she felt for the majestic antler-woman of the wood who simply could not be the princess of her childish dreams.

She wanted to feel happiness, for the unique connection they shared — for their love.

Despite everything, however she could not deny that she felt drawn back to Salvatrice.

No matter what the mind told the heart, she continued to nurture that strange and empowering childhood fantasy of being the knight whom the Princess elevates above all. For a girl who felt little value toward herself, this was the height of comforting fantasy.

Kingdom of Lubon — Pallas Messianic Academy

“Announce yourself before you’re set to arrive, Ms. Geta!”

Canelle screamed and waved a gun at the doorway, nearly in tears.

Salvatrice pressed her hand against her chest, trying to control her breathing.

Though she was almost ready to welcome her Centurion back with open arms, as usual something quickly interrupted to turn Salvatrice’s affection, almost alchemy-like, into disdain for the Blackshirt. Byanca Geta had arrived later than expected and completely unannounced, and so she scared everyone in the apartment witless once more with her brutish knocking on the door. Canelle retreated from the doorway looking quite flustered.

To add insult to this fresh injury, Byanca arrived with some unusual company.

“This is the gift you come bearing?” Salvatrice snapped with indignation.

Salvatrice glared at the doorway, a look of disgust starting to twist her features the instant Byanca passed through, nonchalantly pulling a dog on a red leash and allowing the beast into the apartment. Her princely and princessly heart skipped a beat with every step of the monster’s paws. Though the creature was as comely as a dog could be, clean and cinnamon-smelling and covered in shiny, brushed golden-brown fur; and though it had an elegant, streamlined profile with a slender body, a long snout and small, intelligent eyes; Salvatrice could still not help but withdraw from its presence. It was still, despite all of this, a dog.

“Good to see you too, princess.” Byanca said, a small smile on her face.

Her expression was almost enough to make Salvatrice feel guilty at her own response.

And yet, not quite, owing to the presence of a dog.

Especially as the Centurion closed in to within a meter of her couch.

“What compelled you to bring this thing here?” Salvatrice said.

Salvatrice started shooing the dog away before it could even get a look at the food that was set on the tea table. There was a spread of cheeses and tomatoes, cured ham and baguettes, and a large pitcher of lemonade comprising the ladies’ light lunch. Surely it attracted the monster’s nose and insatiable appetite, even if it had no immediate response.

Byanca raised her hand to her face and sighed deeply into it.

“That is not an adequate response, Centurion! When did I ever permit such a thing?”

Laying lazily down on the carpet, the dog put on an apathetic expression.

Sensing movement from the beast, the Princess grew ever more alert.

“You don’t have to react so bluntly to it.” Byanca said.

“This is my apartment, and I decide how to react to intrusion!” Salvatrice shouted.

Cannelle drew back from the dog herself, drawing out a little gasp. She turned to face the princess with growing concern. “Salvatrice, you’re not allergic to dogs, are you?”

On its face the dog had what seemed an almost dismissive expression now.

“No!” Salvatrice replied. “But a Lady’s domicile is not the place for a dog!”

“Funny, because I got this dog from a Lady. It’s been very well trained.”

Byanca gave an amicable glance at the dog and patted its long, slim head.

An unfriendly, toothy frown warped the creature’s snout. Byanca drew her hand back.

“Well-trained or no! Dogs are too pushy and messy!” Salvatrice replied.

“Maybe some of them, but this one is of good breeding!” Byanca insisted.

“It can be the most quiet and sagacious dog on Aer, and it will still be a dog the way that the most quiet and gentle gun in the world is still a gun that shoots!” Salvatrice shrieked.

She realized it was not a fashionable look for her. After all, dog was “man’s best friend” supposedly, but she could not help it. Dogs mortified her; she found them disgustingly greedy creatures. Everywhere she went the aristocracy harbored these beasts, that pushed and prodded and forced their presences into every particle of the world around them, that slobbered and smelled and soiled the ground wherever they traveled. On more than one occasion she shared a dinner table with a horrid dog! It was madness!

Dogs and dog culture got her hackles up in a visceral way. She couldn’t help it.

“Princess, that is not fair!” Byanca replied. “Look at Terry, she’s not doing anything.”

Terry and the Princess briefly locked eyes and averted their glances almost at once.

Salvatrice petulantly crossed her arms. “I will not suffer such indecent company!”

“Did a dog bite you as a kid?” Byanca asked, looking at her with concern, like Canelle.

“Whether a dog bit me or not is none of your business! I just don’t like them!”

Again Byanca sighed, but not with defeat. She remained rooted in place with the dog.

“Princess, I’m sorry, but the dog is a tactical asset. I need her for security reasons.”

“I can’t believe you! Next you’ll bring a gorilla out of the zoo as a ‘tactical asset’!”

Byanca turned a sad expression on the princess. “You hate gorillas too?”

“Listen to me for one second!” Salvatrice said, feeling a tightness in her head from holding the same indignant expression for so long. “I do not hate these creatures! I do not deign to hate them! There is no value in hating them! But I do not associate with gorillas, or with magpies, or with drakes, or with dogs. I do not want them in my home!”

“Is there an animal you don’t hate?” Byanca asked, crossing her own arms.

She turned a pitying expression on the princess that Salvatrice deeply resented.

Salvatrice was too invested in this childish tussle to see her own petulance anymore.

“I told you I don’t hate them! But fine: cats! Cats are a most noble creature!”

“You know that cats just manipulate you to get food, right?” Byanca said.

Salvatrice’s eyes drew wide. “Take that back! You barbarian! Cats have more than love for us, they have respect! They respect our time and our space and our property!”

Byanca put on a sour expression and seemed to be getting invested in the argument.

“Princess, dogs actually go up to you and show their affection! Cats don’t care at all!”

“I don’t want a filthy dog’s ignorant invasions against my person! Cats know their place!”

“Dogs can track things and hunt and protect you! Cats are just lazy and selfish!”

“Dogs just destroy your furniture! Cats get rid of vermin, and they clean themselves!”

“Name one other animal you like beside cats!” Byanca childishly challenged her.

“Fish! I love Fish! So as you can see I am an animal lover!” Salvatrice shouted back.

“Princess you’re just lazy! You don’t want any animals that take any effort to care for!”.

Behind them a series of sharp little noises diffused the ridiculous tension that had built.

“What’s so funny?” Salvatrice asked, whipping around.

She found Canelle holding her own mouth shut, giggling and snorting in recurring fits.

“Oh, Princess, I’m so sorry! But after all this cat-and-dog fighting, I’ve just imagined miss Geta as a big dopey pooch, and you as a prissy little puss! And it just fits too well!”

Canelle burst out into fresh laughter the second she finished the thought.

Salvatrice made a skeptical, perhaps feline expression that prompted further laughter.

Byanca stifled a laugh herself.

“Alright, Princess, you win.” the Centurion said, a light-hearted smile on her face.

With regal disdain, Salvatrice regarded the dog and turned the other cheek.

Terry seemed to turn almost the exact expression back on her.

Canelle covered her mouth once more, her cheeks puffing up with subdued laughter.

There was an eerie silence in the room for over a minute.

Salvatrice glanced around the corner of her eye at Byanca, who stood pitifully still.

She was waiting for a reaction, perhaps anxiously.

Suddenly the atmosphere in the room made Salva feel a little foolish.

The Princess made a few discontented noises before turning back around.

“Fine. Fine! You can keep the dog, and it can stay, today.” Salvatrice said. “Henceforth, that dog is your responsibility, Byanca, since you love it so much. It lives with you, it eats with you, and it bathes with you, and it stays out of my apartment. I warn you that anything it soils, you will pay for, and everything in this apartment is very expensive!”

Byanca smiled and bowed her head in deference. “Thank you, your highness.”

Salvatrice turned again and hissed. “Hmph! It’s not like I wanted to placate you or anything.”

Soon the episode was forgiven and forgotten by all parties, perhaps except Canelle, who continued to laugh at her imagined adventures of Salva-Cat and Geta-Dog throughout the hour. Salvatrice elegantly partook of her tomatoes and cheese, drank her sweet lemonade and tried to ignore the presence of the dog sitting calmly at Byanca’s side, likely waiting for scraps. However, she was soon drawn again into acknowledging the beast.

“Don’t feed it people food.” Salvatrice preemptively said.

“I won’t. It’d spoil her. Her tongue’s been dyed.” Byanca said.

“What does that mean?” the Princess asked.

“It’s an indelicate tradition.” Byanca turned suddenly nervous.

“Do I look like I have a fainting couch in here? Don’t treat me like a child.”

Byanca sighed.

“Fine. Terry primarily hunts and kills for food and eats in cold blood, and she has tasted human blood in a controlled environment. It’s a traditional way to rear hunting dogs.”

Salvatrice stared at the dog and found it with its mouth open and its tongue lolling.

For a moment she actually did feel rather faint in the little monster’s presence.

Even Canelle was staring at it with incredulous eyes. Her good humor swiftly subsided.

“It won’t hurt you or anyone here!” Byanca quickly said. “I promise! Terry’s a good dog!”

As if prompted, Terry jumped up on the couch, laid down and stared at them all sideways.

“I am going to make an effort to forget all of this.” Salvatrice said, rubbing her forehead.

That night was not to be one made for forgetting.

After tea-time, Byanca withdrew with her new pet back to her room, and Salvatrice went about her day. She read her books on socialism, ate another light meal, took her hormones and helped Canelle fold clothes. Overhead the sun traveled across the sky only to wind back down into the horizon and disappear from view. Everything was soon dark. Canelle turned off all the lamps, served a little booster shot of warm honey-lemon tea to help everyone ward off the seasonal cold, and retreated to her own room after kissing Salva on the cheek.

“Good night, Princess! I will see you on the ‘morrow, whenever that may be.”

She winked her eye.

Salvatrice smiled back at her as the doors to her room shut.

Turning sharply around she set about enacting her plan.

She seized a bundle from under her bed, and pulled off and discarded her night-gown.

In its place, she donned the short pants, button-down shirt and large cap of a newsboy.

Owing to light pollution, Salvatrice could not see stars in the sky when she snuck out.

From her balcony all she could see were the myriad lights of the academy.

And far in the distance, the town of Palladi, where her love was waiting.

Last Chapter |~| Next Chapter

Conspiracy City (46.1)

50th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Tambwe Dominance, City of Rangda — 8th Division Base, HQ

“Let them in.”

At the Colonel’s exasperated command, the machine gunners guarding entry into the headquarters stood aside. Kajari and Chadgura stepped away from the interior doorway and held their rifles with their bayonets and barrels staring at the ceiling. Outside, the guards inspected the arriving car while its occupants cross the threshold into the HQ.

Parinita Maharani recognized the escort, but she was more surprised at the woman.

“Please identify yourselves.” Madiha said. It was a formality. She knew both of them too.

Haughtily, the woman with the ringlets and skirt suit crossed her arms and grumbled.

“Chakrani Walters, representative of the Adjar Civil Council.” She said.

Madiha nodded her head. “Padmaja, have her sign in, please.”

“Yes ma’am.”

From a corner, Feng Padmaja quietly and meekly procured a ring-bound book and presented a page and a pen to Chakrani. Normally the junior staffer was chirpy and energetic, but the gravity in the room seemed to have tripled for her, and she moved very slowly and deliberately. Chakrani stared at her with disdain as she approached, and begrudgingly signed the book before shoving the pen brusquely back into Padmaja’s hands. Stunned by the outburst, Padmaja stowed the pen between the locks of hair at the edge of one of her covered double buns, and walked sadly and stiffly back to her table.

“Can we talk now?” Chakrani asked. Her tone was turning downright bratty.

Madiha quietly nodded her head toward the man at Chakrani’s side.

“Identify yourself.” She demanded.

“I don’t feel like it.” He said.

“I will not ask again.”

Parinita averted her gaze. She felt the tension in the room constricting her chest.

Despite their previous liaison, Chakrani did not seem touched in any way by Madiha’s visible injuries. She seemed quite ready to treat Madiha as just somebody that had to be spoken to. Her posture was intimidating — Parinita thought Chakrani looked like a cat poised to lunge. Her crossed arms shook very slightly with pent-up energy. Her tapping feet hit the ground sharply and with a quick rhythm. Her gaze was cutting as her eyes slowly looked over the room, settling on every face she found. Her smoldering stare shook Bhishma and Padmaja.

She was such a contrast to Madiha; opposites truly did attract sometimes.

Madiha’s face was void of emotion. Parinita met her eyes from across the room, trying her best to silently communicate her support in this obviously painful situation. In response the Colonel’s expression and stance were neutral. Her voice, when she first spoke, sounded tired and vulnerable. But when she questioned the arrivals, she took a sterner tone. While Chakrani had come before them with fire in her chest, Madiha just seemed hollow.

“Just do it already.” Chakrani said, elbowing her escort.

At her side, the young curly-haired man in the disheveled uniform stared at the wall.

“Private Jota, mobility support.” He said. His tone was dismissive.

“I need your full name and unit. You can sign it in.” Madiha calmly ordered.

Padmaja stood up from the floor and approached cautiously with the ring-bound book.

Jota spat on the floor in front of her. “Nah. Find it out yourself, Colonel.”

Padmaja shrank away.

“Kajari, remove him.” Madiha said.

From the doorway, Corporal Kajari approached with her rifle in her hands.

Jota, visibly taller than her, half-turned and raised his hands.

“You don’t want to do that.” He said dangerously.

Kajari turned the bayonet on his neck and left a scratch.

“You can leave by yourself or in a bag, your choice.” Kajari said.

Chadgura stepped forward as well.

Jota sighed deeply. He turned carefully and left the room, rubbing his neck.

All throughout Chakrani stared with a mix of horror and rage.

“You’re on a power trip, Colonel! He is my official escort!” She shouted.

Madiha was unmoved.

“Anyone who enters this building and shows even a shred of antagonism,” She said, her tone suddenly dangerous and deliberate, “is a threat to myself, to my staff, and to the security of highly sensitive materials in this base. I am not playing a game here.”

Parinita shuddered a little at the response, but she knew Madiha was right.

Especially in the condition she was in, and after recent events.

One’s outlook on security changes when one is nearly beaten to death in a “safe place.”

“I’m absolutely sick to death of you! Your actions from the moment you received a command have been nothing short of savage!” Chakrani shouted. “I’m filing a complaint!”

“Is this the Adjar Government-In-Exile talking still, or just you?” Madiha asked.

At the sound of the Colonel’s words, Chakrani stood suddenly quiet and still, and seemed cowed with shame. Chakrani then quickly composed herself, standing straight and to full height, taking a deep breath and clearly making an effort to calm her voice. Her hands were still shaking and Parinita thought she could see some moistness in her eyes.

“Colonel Nakar, let us cut the acrimony short — I’ll talk, and you’ll listen. Alright?”

“That is amenable. You have the floor, Councilor.”

Parinita wondered what was going in Madiha’s mind and heart at the moment too. She knew Madiha was skilled in compartmentalizing her emotions and pushing through difficult situations. She had already been put on this spot with Chakrani before in Bada Aso, and she was under greater pressure then and did not buckle. But she must have felt something, to be seeing Chakrani again, and in this kind of position and situation.

Though the thought felt childish and self-centered, Parinita wondered if Madiha felt strengthened by their affection, by their moonlit and dawnlit oaths. She wondered if the image of Parinita at her side helped to support her and drown away Chakrani’s voice.

Chakrani’s inner war was visible and plain. Madiha’s seemed completely suppressed.

Nevertheless, Chakrani took the role of Councilwoman Walters and delivered a speech so thorough that it seemed as though read out of paper on an invisible podium. Judging by her own expressions before, this dry, official language did not seem to be her words.

“Colonel Nakar, the Council of the occupied Adjar Dominance is deeply concerned about your continued independent usage of arms, armor and personnel taken from the Adjar Battlegroup Ox without any attempt at communication or information-sharing with either the Tambwe Civil Council or the Adjar Government-In-Exile here in Rangda.”

Madiha interrupted briefly. “My isolation was not wholly of my own design.”

“Information given to the Adjar Government-In-Exile says otherwise.”

Her continued insistence on referring to this “Adjar Government-In-Exile” was confusing. Parinita had not once heard of such an entity existing within Rangda, and she did her best to keep up with the political goings-on despite their limited resources. She knew the Adjar Council had evacuated to Tambwe; Madiha had ordered the move and executed it just hours after first meeting with them in Bada Aso. It made sense that they would end up in Rangda, as it was Tambwe’s most important city that was also relatively farthest from the fighting at the time. However, the concept of a continuing Adjar government baffled her.

“Let me guess: Mansa put you people up to this today.” Madiha calmly said.

“Councilman Mansa helped us organize here and informed us that you have been acting independently, including recently detaining prisoners and withholding information.”

Chakrani was starting to verge on anger again. She had a frustrated expression.

Madiha drummed her good fingers on her desk throughout Chakrani’s explanations. She spoke up in a stronger tone of voice afterward. “I am acting independently because the Adjar Dominance does not exist, and you have no authority over anything anymore.”

“I beg to differ.” Chakrani replied. “Currently we are working with local authorities to help relocate 50,000 refugees from the Adjar Dominance. We are getting them houses and food and union jobs instead of sending them to the desert. What have you done lately?”

That was it then, Parinita knew; Chakrani’s loyalty came in exchange for Mansa’s help in integrating some of her people back into normal lives. There were millions of Adjar refugees, but any number of people resettled and happy was a good number. However, most refugees were heading farther out to Solstice because Dbagbo and Tambwe were already embroiled in combat themselves. Parinita did not dare say it out loud, but in her rush to accept Tambwe’s help for these people, Chakrani was likely only endangering them.

Madiha stared at her without expression and then delivered her own quick speech.

“What we have done is destroy multiple elite corps of the invading army, delay their assault on Tambwe and their march into North Solstice by weeks instead of days, so that you can come here and berate us in the stead of your nonexistent government instead of being dragged into a camp and shot by Nocht as a ‘terrorist leader.'” She said.

On the receiving end, Chakrani grew more furious with every word spoken.

“You can be as dismissive as you like once you’re back under the stead of the government to which you belong! Listen to me before you open your trap again Colonel: rehousing refugees is not our only project. We’re aware that this country is tenuous too. So we have plans to raise a force of people from Adjar to help protect our new home in Tambwe and rebuild Ox’s strength. We need you to cooperate for everyone’s good.” Chakrani said.

“Ox has been disbanded and I do not need it to return. It is useless to everyone.”

Chakrani charged headlong into her next point, ignoring Madiha’s response.

“We’re talking past each other then so I’ll get to my main point. We’ve given to believe you have a prisoner from Nocht in your hands and are restricting access to them. You can ignore our other requests if you like; but we demand to be able to speak to them. They are not under your jurisdiction. We wish to see what information they can give us about the occupation, so we might adequately prepare for our resistance. Can you spare at least that?”

“No.” Madiha said immediately. “I have already gotten as much relevant information as can be expected from the foreigners. They are under the protection of the KVW now.”

“You can easily correct your wide overreach of your authority by simply letting us talk to the prisoner, or by sharing any information you got from them.” Chakrani said. Her tone of voice and the construction of her words sounded threatening, as if she was ready to indict them.

Parinita turned her head from the scene, and stepped closer to the desk with the original Generalplan Suden files. She should have realized that was their objective all along.

“None of it is easy or simple. Further harassment of our guests is not productive and could be downright dangerous. So no, you will not be allowed to speak with them.”

“Your unwillingness to submit to lawful authority is what’s dangerous here!”

“Lawful authority? You mean Mansa’s crooked council, and the eternally lame duck council that are using you as their puppet to retain some form of political relevance?”

“Whether you like it or not, Tambwe and Adjar have legitimate governments that–”

Madiha raised her good hand, and stood up from her desk, stopping the Councilwoman.

“I am not here for Tambwe or for Adjar, Chakrani. I am here for the Socialist Dominances of Solstice. I am here for the Ayvartan people. I am here for what will be a long war. It is disturbing to me how you stridently you fail to see the bigger picture here.”

Chakrani’s face turned chalk-white and her expression contorted with disgust.

She shouted back louder than any voice heard during the entire discussion.

“Don’t you fucking dare say my name again! I will not suffer you for a second longer you animal! Everything you do, everything you touch– You cannot save a single thing, you miserable wraith! Mark my words! I hope I never see your despicable face again, Colonel, but you will hear from Adjar again. We will do whatever it takes to save our nation.”

She turned sharply around and stomped her way out of the building, pushing Kajari and Chadgura away from the door as she went. Everyone inside and outside the building seemed to have heard the outburst, and there were heads turning everywhere. Even the Hobgoblin turned its turret as if judging her. Chakrani Walters, as quickly and suddenly as she came, returned to the car with Jota and the pair sped off back out of the base.

Parinita breathed a loud sigh of relief. Everyone else was silent and still for a moment.

“She really does not like the Colonel.” Padmaja meekly said, cutting the silence.

“She has reason not to.” Madiha said, her head sinking against her desk.

Parinita shook her head. She supposed that was the answer to her previous fears.

Read The Previous Part || Read The Next Part

Salva’s Taboo Exchanges X

This chapter contains mild sexual content.

39th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Princess,

Consider this a formal written request for leave on the 41st. I am traveling to meet a friend in the countryside for a night, and may even return bearing gifts! After insuring security is as it should be, I will be gone for the afternoon and evening of the 41st, to return on the afternoon of the 42nd. I would encourage you to confine yourself then for added security.

-Centurion Geta

39th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Byanca,

Enjoy your time off.

I do not plan to go anywhere the next few days.

–Salva

40th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Kingdom of Lubon, Province of Palladi — Pallas Messianic Academy

Rhythmic gunfire sounded from a rotting booth at the far end of the old shooting range. Every shot echoed seemingly dozens of times, the only sound audible in the wood. Repeated muzzle flashes very briefly cast a tall, slender shadow against the decaying structures, right as the bullet flew across the fifty meters to the targets. It was too early; the dawn light hardly penetrated over the hills and trees that ringed the abandoned camp.

There were not even birds to wake. It was a lonesome place, forgotten.

Much like him.

There were few targets standing, and they were far out of date. Rather than the modern, shadowy black targets showing faces and necks and torsos with the appropriate shapes and sizes, this range boasted only crude round wooden targets from the age of the musket or the repeater. It felt almost like darts would be a more appropriate projectile against them.

Sylvano D’Amore had instead brought a Nochtish zwitcherer pistol, a popular gun the world over. It was easy to acquire, especially for a young man in a good vest and pants. Had, say, a Salvatrice Vittoria gone to purchase a weapon, she might have at best been given a target plinking little rifle for afternoons on the field. Likely they would have told her that such things were barbarous for a delicate, pretty girl. Sylvano found no such barrier.

In this desolate place, he joined the ghosts of colonial soldiers who would not come back from the conquest of Borelia, and he shot at the targets that ill represented the humans they would be fighting. A week ago he could barely hold the pistol. He went to the library, studied hunting manuals from decades long past, and found the right ways. He held his weapon in two hands, settled into the correct posture, and he used his sights.

He pressed the trigger, and felt the power his fingers could barely contain.

After a quick flash the bullet released and his body relaxed anew.

Now he was hitting the targets. Sometimes he hit near the center, sometimes he hit the outer edges. It was still luck; he still couldn’t really aim predictably. He could not account for the forces that would take hold of his shot once it was released. Sometimes he tried aiming higher or lower or off to the side, but powers he barely understood still held sway.

It was enough to kill a man up close, he told himself.

Through the dawn and into the morning, he put round after round through a pistol.

At his feet, there were small boxes of ammunition, all branded with the Nochtish eagle.

Unlike military issue pistols nowadays, the zwitcherer fed through clips, not magazines. This was a boon for practice. Rather than having to spend time filling ten or twenty magazines, Sylvano could push stripper clips by the dozens through the weapon with little pause. His fingers had turned a little red and raw from the effort, but it was fine.

In this way Sylvano wound down the mortal clock that he felt ticking for him.

His arms were growing tired, his muscles ached, and he felt hungry.

But he did not want to stop. He reached down for another clip, and kept firing.

He put rounds through the gun as though they would fly from the booth into his enemies.

For the first time in his life he felt that it was dangerous to be Salvatrice Vittoria.

Beforehand, it was inconvenient and difficult. It was bittersweet, to hold Carmilla’s hands and go to grand balls and wear beautiful dresses while the world at large ignored or scorned her presence. She felt tense and embarrassed in the presence of nobles who knew enough of her to treat her like a falsity in their midst, and felt disgusted with the idle flattery of those who thought they might improve their rotten luck by her hand.

Now Salvatrice Vittoria felt a sense of mortal peril out in public.

She felt that every eye that settled on her back could be aiming a gun or a knife.

She felt watched and vulnerable and aware of her weakness in a way she never was.

But she also felt a renewed sense of power with a gun in her hands.

She only wished that she could be Salvatrice while shooting here.

“Back here again? You better not be procrastinatin’ on the princess’ errands!”

Sylvano leaned out of the booth. Approaching from the other end of the abandoned training camp was older man in a hat, sharp-faced, with a gray mustache and slicked-back silver hair. He was tall and long-limbed, his skin baked from the sun, his black pants held over his shoulders by suspenders, and his blue-gray shirt tucked in and buttoned all the way to the neck. This was Giovanni, Salvatrice’s go-to gentleman.

“I’m not procrastinating! She’s given me nothing today. Good morning.” Sylvano said.

“It’s nearly afternoon, my boy.” Giovanni replied.

“Oh, well. Time certainly flies when you’re occupied.”

“Maybe too occupied.”

Giovanni walked slowly to the booth, minding a slight limp in his left leg.

He peered inside the old wooden walls and shook his head at the preponderance of spent shell casings and fresh ammunition clips that were laying everywhere inside.

“Fixin’ to fight a war?” Giovanni asked.

“I want to learn to shoot, and fast.” Sylvano said.

“Then I reckon you’re meaning to fight a duel, perhaps?”

Giovanni rubbed his chin. Sylvano smiled awkwardly.

“It’s just for sport.” He said.

“Oh, you’re really growing out your hair too.”

Sylvano pulled absentmindedly on his own growing ponytail, sighing a little.

Salvatrice’s hair was starting to get rather long. It was closing in on her shoulders. But she couldn’t cut it in a style to better suit Sylvano. She very much liked how it looked on the pretty princess — splitting the difference between her two personas was growing difficult. She thought a ponytail would work well enough for Sylvano’s pretty-boy image.

“So, she a nice girl?” Giovanni asked.

“Excuse me?”

“You can’t hide it from me, young man. I was your age once. You’re trying to impress a young lady. No rich boy ever picked up a gun and grew out his hair just for nothin’.”

“You caught me.” Sylvano replied, playing along. He chuckled and raised his hands in defense, one still holding the gun. Giovanni looked at him quite seriously in the eyes.

“Now,” Giovanni poked a finger in the air, “if you’re meaning to be after the princess, I’m afraid I’ll have to dissuade you from that. And if you’re meaning to be after the princess’ lady friend, then for your own benefit I’m going to have to turn you around right this second. But if it’s a nice college girl with no attachments, I can give you some advice.”

“It’s a nice college girl with no attachments.” Sylvano replied nervously.

He almost wanted to laugh. It was nice to see Giovanni cared so much.

“Here’s my advice then. Put that gun back in the box. No marriage oath was ever sealed at a range. Especially not this range. Then get her some flowers, and chocolates, and talk to her, and listen to what she says, and do this enough, then tell her your intentions.”

Sylvano smiled. “Thanks, Giovanni. But I do want to learn to shoot nonetheless.”

Giovanni nodded his head. “Here’s my advice for that. There ain’t never been a fight in the streets of Palladi that got solved by marksmanship. Here’s what you should be learning instead.” In the next instant, Giovanni made as if to straighten out his jacket, and instead, in a flash, drew a small revolver, presumably from one of the pockets.

Reflexively Sylvano raised his own hands high and quivered at the sight.

Raising the barrel to the air, Giovanni then stowed his gun back in his pocket.

“Sylvano, if someone’s really after you, and they’re good at it, you ain’t going to see them until they want you to. You’ll only have a few seconds, and you can’t hesitate. It won’t be about aiming. It’ll be about whether you can shoot first, or at all.” He said grimly. “And it’ll be about whether you’ve got some mates to back you up too. Remember that.”

Bowing his head and tipping his hat, Giovanni turned around and deposited an envelope on the bench inside the shooting booth. There was a kiss mark on it and a wax seal.

“Lady Carmela gives her regards.”

Quiet and serious, he walked away from the camp, lighting a cigarette along the way.

Sylvano stood wondering whether and how much Giovanni really knew.

Not just about himself and herself, but about this rotten country and rotten life.

39th of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Gracious Salva,

I was informed by your man of confidence that you would not be able to answer my letters for a time, but I have decided to continue sending them, so that perhaps you will be overwhelmed by warm sentiment. I long to see you again, Salvatrice. Our world is becoming a very scary place. Have you heard the news of Ayvartan and Svechthan submarines around our waters? Or of the mysterious Nochtish defeat in the south?

I feel as though I can see chaos looming, chaos that will rip you from me.

I want us to be brave for each other, even if these are circumstances that we cannot change. As things grow foggier, I fear the distance between us more and more. I want to do something for you, to give you strength, to protect you from evil. Were I able to have it my way, why I would trample your mother and her army to take you away from all of this. We could go to Helvetia or Occiden and start anew. We could become like the mysterious spinsters, who live together unwed where nobody can suspect their love!

When you can reply to this letter, please, tell me whether you desire to meet. I will move heaven and land to make it possible. I will spend any amount of money to take any level of precautions so that you can come to me. Just one day is all I ask of you. Breakfast, tea, supper, and evening out in the garden, and a night in your arms. I feel so desperate, and it is unbecoming, and it is selfish, I know! But I fear so much that I might lose you!

There is no other woman in the world who I can love even if I love women! There is no other man in the world who can I love even if I love men! I did not know love until you helped me to feel love, Salvatrice. Without you my heart will grow cold, and I know it.

Please, let me feel that warmth even if it is only one final time. I want to cherish it!

Your worshipful beloved,

Carmela Sabaddin

41st of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Kingdom of Lubon, Province of Palladi — Agnelli Estate

At the edge of the Arsia woods there stood a humble estate, an ivy-covered manor, its colors weathered. There was a peaked central building with an unassuming facade. Two small wings noticeably squatter than the main house sprouted from its sides. Wooden shutters closed off every window, and the massive front doors stood like sentinels barring entry. Unremarkable by itself, the estate took much of its character from the surrounding woodland that straddled it like a cloak, stretching for several kilometers from the shoulders of the manse. High wooden fences encircled the back of the property. Broad, empty fields rose and fell gently before the manor, dotted with the remnants of an entry plaza.

It had all seen better days.

A flat dirt road stretched between the unwatched gates, through the field, and toward the manor, winding around an empty fountain carrying a statue of a woman with the horns of a ram, scandalously naked, boasting large, erect breasts that immediately drew attention. Its inviting pose contradicted its purpose. In this now messianic land, the presence of a female, quasi-pagan symbol stood forbidding toward the closed-minded new god.

Such things befit the forest country, and, Byanca knew, befit the ruler of this place too.

In the rush of the present events, she had almost forgotten this place, and the place that she had here, behind these sinful walls. She had been blinded to it, by the name Grazia, by the name Salvatrice, by those old promises; much like she had been blinded to it before by the rush to prove herself in Borelia. Now she was back on the surface of Aer, fallen temporarily from her fantasies; and again this place was here to pick up her pieces.

Already she felt a growing guilt in her heart as she approached the manor.

At the door, there was no immediate recognition of her presence. No maids or grounds keepers kept a watch. When she knocked the embedded hammer against the wood of the door, she was making a sound for the Lady herself, scion of the Agnelli family. This was almost unheard of among the nobility, but the Agnelli family was itself almost unheard of.

She spent a few minutes, knocking intermittently, until finally, the door opened.

Through a tiny crack, a brilliant hazel eye looked her over.

“Good evening. You are a bit late to hunt ermines.” the Lady casually said.

“I desire only one. It will be brief.” Byanca said, bowing her head.

“Can you describe this specific ermine?” said the lady.

Byanca smiled. “She’s golden-haired, a bit delicate, with a nice firm tail.”

An impish grin formed on the lady’s pretty lips. “Intriguing. Do come in.”

She left the door, and Byanca pulled it open, walked in and closed it behind her.

Past the threshold the Agnelli estate seemed better suited as a hunting lodge than the manor of a lord or lady. On the walls and ceiling, across the floors and every surface, the dominant color was a varnished, bloody brown like old flesh. Aside from the merest suggestion of the lady’s delicate shoulders beneath her fox-fur coat, there was not a curve or rounded surface in sight, everything was corners and sharp edges in wood or steel. Where there was pottery, it was placed only to store machetes and arrows and javelins. Where there were cases and pedestals, they displayed guns and grizzly trophies.

Even the racks had a hint of the bestial, holding hats and coats on horns and claws.

Though there was art befitting a lordly estate, nearly all of it depicted the local game in their unkilled forms, and it felt more macabre than majestic considering the rest of the decoration. There was one intimidating portrait of a man, on a wall beside the entryway. He was sharp-nosed, with gaunt cheeks and a serious, heavy-lidded, strong-browed expression. His suit and ascot and toupee seemed almost forced on him — the old lord Agnelli looked like he would be more at home skinning a wolf than standing in his sunday blazer.

From the foyer, a rigid staircase led to the second story hallways, the landing overlooked at all times by the preserved head of a stag so massive it could have butted heads with a battle tank. No carpet covered the unpainted wooden floors save for strategically placed furs and leathers, some quite clearly ripped from bears and boars with half the head still attached.

“Just as I remember it.” Byanca said.

“Seasons change, but the Agnelli remain the same.”

The Lady recited the house motto with a smile on her face. She pointed a riding crop that she tended to carry with her, and patted Byanca on the shoulder with it like a knighting sword from a princess. Then, with a flighty twirl, she walked deeper into the halls.

Following the lady Agnelli around the stairs and through a gloomy connecting hallway, Byanca entered a torch-lit room, the light and shadow playing about the walls, dancing with the flame. It was a square room, the walls a mess of hunting trophies, between which there were plush couches covered in a pattern like the stripes of big cats.

“Please, make yourself comfortable.” said the Lady.

Byanca dipped her head in a little nod, and took a spot on one of the couches.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I will return with refreshments.”

Another quick spin put the Lady’s back to Byanca, and she disappeared from the room. Any other woman of her stature would have certainly clapped her hands and summoned a veritable fleet of servants to tend to her. In her absence, the room was dead silent, almost eerie. Byanca could hear the shutters creaking in the wind. Minutes later the Lady returned with a porcelain plate of jerky, dried apricots and cheese, along with glasses and a clear pitcher full of some kind of fruit juice. She set the plate down on a chair in front of them and pulled it close, and gently filled each glass full of the warm pink-orange juice.

“Help yourself to whatever you desire, Byanca. It must have been a long trip.”

The Lady then sat next to her and laid her free hand on her thigh, patting her softly.

Hyper-aware of this attention, Byanca stiffly reached out and shoved two strips of jerky whole into her mouth, washing them down with juice after an intense bit of chewing. All of the flavors mingled in her mouth, sweet and spicy and salty in equal measure.

“Still quite a savage eater!” the Lady said, smiling broadly.

“I’ve eaten under fire, you know! It’s hard to take it slow after that.” Byanca replied.

“My, my,”

The Lady’s second hand left her own lap and pinched Byanca’s belly.

She looked surprised at what she found. “Oh! It’s like a sheet of lead there!”

Byanca bit into a hunk of salty goat cheese. “It’s all the sit-ups, I guess.” She mumbled.

“I see!” the Lady covered her mouth, stifling a delicate laugh.

Raising her gaze from the food, Byanca smiled and laughed with her lovely hostess.

Rosalia Agnelli, scion of the Agnelli family; she was at first appearances a dainty-looking, regal girl, with high cheekbones, a sharp nose, long ears, bright hazel eyes and delicate olive skin. Her golden hair was gathered into a partially braided bun behind her head, framed with two antler-shape ornaments that joined in a band atop her head. Bright red pigment colored her lips and surrounded her eyes. Beneath her fur coat she wore a figure-hugging white under-dress that dragged on the floor. This was one’s first inkling into the other side of the Agnelli scion — an impression of her streamlined, wiry, athletic figure beneath the filmy silk.

In her own way, she was quite a savage eater herself.

Periodically, after gentle pat on her thigh Byanca felt a firm, hungry grip and pinch.

“When I woke today I never would have imagined we would be reunited.” Rosalia said. “I thought you would be stuck in Borelia for much longer. When did you get back?”

Byanca felt distractingly conscious of the Lady’s touch and her presence. Rosalia smelled strongly of linseed oil paints, barely covered by a touch of cinnamon scent. Her firm fingers and bright face caused the Centurion’s blood to simmer just under her cheeks. Had it not been for the circumstances, Byanca would have probably come to this place much sooner.

She felt a hint of guilt over choosing to be trampled by the princess instead.

“I’ve been here a week or two. I’ve been so busy, I only just now found an opening.”

“I’m so pleased that you found the time to come.” Rosalia said.

“I needed a place to relax. Everything’s been chaos lately.”

“Refugees have always called the Arsia home. I’d love to have you.”

Byanca felt a surge of giddiness. Here she was, staying with Rosalia again.

“How have you been? It’s been years; I’m so surprised! Everything is still standing the way it was when I left. It’s almost like the house was preserved in a jar.” Byanca said.

Rosalia smiled. “I’ve whiled away my days the same as I usually do. Trophy hunting, painting wildlife, preparing furs. Seasons change, but the Agnelli manor does not.”

“It looks like you’re running out of wall space for it all.” Byanca said with a grin.

“I’ve been slowly replacing my father’s trophies with my own.” Rosalia said.

“Ah, I see. So that’s why the Agnelli manor never changes.”

All of them were bears and stags and wolves; Byanca could not tell new trophies from the old. She knew Rosalia to be an avid hunter. She could take her at her word on this.

“Enough of my hobbies.” Rosalia said. She raised her hand from Byanca’s thigh and put both on her shoulders instead. Byanca felt the crop at her back, hanging by a loop from the tips of Rosalia’s finger. It made her shiver a little. Rosalia’s empty hand squeezed her shoulder, feeling the muscle. “You’ve gotten so much tougher! How was Borelia?”

“Um. Sandy?” Byanca awkward replied, wilting a little under the Lady’s attentions.

“I hear the place is rather arid. It boggles the mind; an arid island?” Rosalia said.

“Well, the northern parts are nice. It’s the southern parts that are desert-like.”

“It must have been awful, but look at you, a chiseled legionnaire! Those are handsome shoulders, and I feel your back has broadened some too. And your arms; my, oh my!” Rosalia traced her fingers down from Byanca’s shoulder, and pressed at various points along the Centurion’s arm. Her crop hand felt various places along Byanca’s scapula and spine. Certainly Byanca had achieved some definition, but she thought the Lady exaggerated the gains. She tried to talk and deflect the sensations being brought to the fore.

“I did a lot of exercising in the barracks. There wasn’t much else to do. And if you did all your push-ups the C.O. would let you mess around during training time.” Byanca said. Her voice quivered here and there, whenever Rosalia pressed somewhere sensitive.

“Did you meet anyone interesting? Had any adventures?” Rosalia asked.

“Nobody notable. I scarce remember a soul.” Byanca said.

Rosalia seemed to finish her inspection of Byanca’s body, and drew back expectantly.

Byanca offered no reply; she was not inclined to tell war stories, even to her.

There was a stretch of silence.

Without a voice in the room the halls felt larger and emptier than ever.

“I can’t help but notice how quiet this place has gotten, Rosalia.” Byanca finally said.

Rosalia nodded gently. “I’ve grown used to isolation. But I still get my fair share of visitors, some more engaging than others. You needn’t worry about me, Byanca.”

“I feel like it is the nature of our relationship for me to be designated worrier. What happened to the maids and the groundskeepers and all? I remember more hands around.”

She turned the conversation around, away from Borelia. She hoped it stuck.

“After you left for Borelia, I dismissed them all. I couldn’t trust them anymore, and I did not want to take any more chances. Save for some discrete acquaintances, I wanted to withdraw from public life. Clearly I just was not meant to be a social butterfly.” Rosalia replied.

Her voice gave no hint of bitterness. This was just the way things were.

Byanca felt ever more guilty. Perhaps lingering on Borelia would’ve made for nicer talk.

Especially because she knew she returned here only for selfish reasons.

“How do you keep the place running alone?” She asked.

“I hire people to clean and work on a contract basis. Then they leave.”

“Sounds more expensive than retaining a few.”

“It is, but I make do. I’ve learned to do much by myself.”

“Forgive my forwardness here, but what are you doing for money, Rosalia?” Byanca said. It felt like a ridiculous question — she was talking to a landed noble after all. Rosalia’s estate was incredibly valuable. And yet, her apparent isolation and idleness, and the visible decay of the manor’s exterior, gave Byanca some cause to worry for her old friend.

Back when they first met, years ago, the Agnelli family estate was much more lively, in various ways. There were servants and there were intrigues — such intrigues were what brought the two women together at first. Byanca was meant to investigate Rosalia. When it came to nobles and the wealthy, it was part of their privilege that the Queen’s blackshirt legion settled their disputes away from the public eyes and records of the police.

For a few weeks, Byanca spent time around the estate, gathering clues.

There were charges against her from a jilted suitor of minor wealth, who had sought marital alliance with her. Accusations of sodomy and paganism and drug trafficking and all kinds of things — many of which were true to a point. But Byanca quickly found she had no desire to prosecute Rosalia. She dismissed the charges. It was a simple thing that even Legatus Marcel agreed with. All one had to do was weigh the wealth to see who won.

Now, however, that wealth seemed visibly reduced. Such a feat might not be reproduced. She supposed Rosalia herself knew this; it must have been part of why she chose to remove herself from the high life she once tried to lead. Even with Byanca’s aid, she was vulnerable.

And in these tough times, land alone was not all it used to be.

Thankfully Rosalia did not appear offended by the probe and responded conversationally.

“I will admit, my purse had been a little pinched after your departure. My fortunes have been swinging back of late. I have insinuated myself in the fashion of furs. Fashionable ladies are in love with ermine lately. To think, I once viewed them as amusing rats. I have also sold wildlife paintings under a pseudonym, and I brew for local distribution.”

“Oh! What kind of brew?” Byanca said, suddenly hoping for a sample.

Satisfied now, she tried to steer the proceedings away from all this doom and gloom.

Rosalia flashed a cheeky grin. “All manner of things. Allow me to treat you.”

Byanca followed the lady from the sitting room to a rustic and well-equipped kitchen. There was a large charcoal oven, old and blackened, alongside a newer gas oven and a sink, pantry and an ice box. There were no electric appliances in the kitchen, though the house got some power through the use of ground-wires, Byanca knew. From the kitchen windows, Byanca could see a stretch of cleared yard behind the house, fenced off and surrounded by forest. A pair of small stables housed several resting horses there.

A door on one end of the kitchen led to a dry, warm storage room, and this was where Rosalia led Byanca. There were shelves inside lined with hundreds of bottles of various sizes. Rosalia plucked a bottle near the ground that possessed a short handle and a stout body. She walked Byanca back out into the kitchen. Standing beside a counter, she filled two glasses with an orange-yellow beverage that smelled like fruit and flowers.

“This is my own recipe for honey-wine. Let me know what you think.” Rosalia said.

She tapped her glass against Byanca’s and took a confident sip.

Byanca’s own sip was much less delicate. She drank practically half the glass in one sitting — she was far too used to eating quickly in cramped canteens, and anything one put in her hands she almost reflexively made disappear. Despite practically slamming the glass into her mouth she still quite appreciated the beverage. She tasted notes of apple, tea, and of course, the sweetness of honey. It was nothing like the simple beers that Byanca usually drank. It was almost like drinking a slightly alcoholic honey candy.

“It is very sweet, I’m surprised.” She said. “Lot of flavors too. Is it selling?”

“It is popular among women. Perhaps not so much with big, strong legionnaires.”

Rosalia eyed Byanca up and down, her eyes rolling over every seam of the uniform.

“No, no! I’m definitely enjoying it.” Byanca said. “It’s not what I usually drink.”

“I chose mead because I was intrigued by its aphrodisiac properties.”

Rosalia put on a coquettish little smile. Byanca choked up a little.

“Wow, um, I’m not sure you needed something like that!” She said.

“Oh ho ho!” Rosalia covered her mouth and grinned. “Perhaps not.”

“What’s in the smaller bottles you’ve got in storage?” Byanca asked.

“Tinctures and other elixirs. There’s a honey shop in town that sells them.”

“Do you get all your own honey or do you buy it in town?” Byanca asked.

“I rented some of my land to establish a honey farm. It satisfies my needs. And the bees are incredibly useful. All of my fruits and flowers are pollinated by honeybees.”

“Huh. Wow. And I thought you said the Agnellis never change.” Byanca said.

“Are you that surprised that I am not merely idle?”

“Well, you looked idle a lot. I was just a little worried, is all.”

Rosalia looked around the kitchen, a playful smile on her lips.

“You came at an inopportune time. I’m not much of a night hostess anymore.”

“I’m surprised to hear that.” Byanca chuckled.

The Lady then started to lead her on, her nakedly wry expressions giving her away.

“Perhaps a tour of the mansion, before you go?”

“Oh, we can have the tour tomorrow.” Byanca replied.

“Ah, I see! So then you intend to stay the night, you rascal?”

Rosalia smacked the end of her riding crop against her open hand with a devilish grin.

Byanca felt a shudder down her spine. “Only if you’ll have me around.”

“I wonder; I wonder. I could just kick you out unceremoniously.”

“Never, your punishments are much more elaborate than that.”

“Hmmph. You still know me well, Centurion.”

“Well, your motto is quite literally that you never change.”

“Oh ho ho! Indeed!”

Rosalia approached, swinging her hips, a wry grin on her face.

She circled around Byanca, raising the crop to her and tracing around her neck with it.

Once around her, she stood back to back with the Centurion.

Rosalia’s body rested against hers; the riding crop pressed against her thigh.

Her other hand then curled around Byanca’s own and squeezed it tightly.

Neither could see the other, but the connection was still strongly felt.

“Emotions have always been tricky for me; but I am happy to see you, Byanca.”

“I can’t help but feel like the distance to Borelia is still between us.” Byanca said.

There was a foreboding silence between them as they pondered the question.

Rosalia raised her head. Byanca felt it against her back. It was a bittersweet touch.

“It is because I cannot be the lady a Knight desires or deserves.” Rosalia said.

“Well, I’m not much of a Knight. But I’m still out chasing fantasies.” Byanca replied.

Both of them sighed wistfully. There was a brief agony in remembering their positions.

Rosalia squeezed her hand. “We can still enjoy each other’s company, of course.”

“I want that.” Byanca said softly, unable to raise her voice, but hoping to be heard.

Almost in tandem, the two turned and locked eyes.

Two broken storybook heroines, Byanca thought, neither able to fully reach out to the other, but intermittently united in the pursuit of dreams and fantasies their world disdained.

She felt a great guilt; maybe in another world, Rosalia could have been her Lady.

Maybe they would have both been better off this way.

But Byanca failed to be a Knight; and Rosalia could not live the life of a Lady.

All they had left was the fantasies.

Slowly their hands unwound, but there was still a thread tied between them in the air.

Byanca took comfort in that she still had that. She always would.

“Aside from catching up, I have a favor to ask too.” Byanca said.

Rosalia lit up with a beaming smile.

“Well then.” Rosalia said. “Let us first take care of what the Agnelli family can do for you. Perhaps after, we can take care of what I, personally, can do for you. Follow me.”

Her soft countenance became once more regal and austere, but with a hint of mischief.

Setting aside the bottle of honey-wine, the pair turned around back to the foyer and climbed the steps, walking under the gigantic stag head on the wall and reconvening inside a sparsely furnished, windowless room on the second floor. There was a large, crude wooden rack on one end of the room, perhaps once for hanging hides; a stack of furs near a burning fireplace seemed like it would have made a bed for an ancient cavern dweller. On one end of the room there was a tea table and a pair of lounge chairs. There was no other furniture.

“Remember this room?” Rosalia asked.

“It’s coming back.” Byanca grinned, eyeing the rack.

They sat on opposing lounge chairs. Rosalia poured lukewarm tea from a set laid on the table into a pair of small wooden cups, and handed one to Byanca. In one gulp, the Centurion emptied the cup. It tasted stale; perhaps it had been sitting out a while already.

“Have you actually come for some ermines?” Rosalia joked.

“I need something a little bigger.” Byanca replied.

“Oh? I’m listening.”

“I’m not going to mince words. I need a war dog, and one that has tasted blood.”

Any other dog breeder would have found it dire indeed to receive such a request from a blackshirt legionnaire. Private raising of war dogs was illegal in Lubon; and dyeing a dog’s tongue red was a tradition left to the barbarous pagans, ill fitting messianic society. Only here in the forgotten Arsia could such traditions still be found. And only here, in the presence of the Lady Agnelli, could such a request be spoken without a question asked.

“You know I can furnish such creatures, but you also know my stock is limited.”

“Anything you got, I’ll take.”

“Well, what kind of dog do you most desire?”

Rosalia crossed her arms and appeared to be in thought. Byanca continued.

“It needs to be smart, but discrete. I don’t want a mastiff or something that looks like a fighting dog. I know you have some long-faced herder dogs that fit this description.”

“Ah, I see; so you want Terry. You should have just said so instead of being so circumspect. I’m not opposed to lending her. I knew she left an impression on you!”

“An impression, and some soiled shoes.”

“She’s a difficult one, indeed.”

“Well, I was hoping maybe Terry had a litter that has grown.”

“I’m afraid not. And even if she had one, they wouldn’t know blood yet.”

Byanca suppressed a disappointed sigh. Terry was a temperamental old dog.

“I’ll borrow Terry if necessary. At least she knows me.” Byanca said.

“She will do her job if I command it, even if she does not respect you.”

Again Byanca was rather thankful for Rosalia. She did not ask what kind of job needed doing. She was always very discrete and private. More than that, she was trusting, and in turn trustworthy. In no other woman’s presence did Byanca feel so free of judgment. For her, Rosalia would easily part with anything, save her own independence, without interrogation.

“Is that all the business you had?” Rosalia asked.

Byanca nodded. “Have you heard anything about anarchists?”

“Only what is on the papers and radio. Useless prattle.”

“Should it become necessary to hide someone, could I come here?”

“You are always welcome here, for any reason. I would be displeased if any anarchists came to knock on my door, but that would be their fault, not yours for coming.”

Byanca nodded again. “Then that’s all the business.”

“Oh, good.”

Rosalia stood from her own chair and sat down beside Byanca.

“Just so we’re clear: you’re staying the night?” She asked.

“I am.” Byanca said simply.

“In the usual fashion?” Rosalia said.

“Please.” Byanca said.

“Our watch word is Trophy — you’ll remember it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh good; then that should be yes, mistress.” Rosalia cooed.

Byanca felt the riding crop discreetly strike, and shuddered with elation.

“Yes, mistress.”

41st of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E

Beloved Carmela,

I would be the luckiest princess under the heavens to be able to see you.

Make your preparations. Whatever the time and circumstances; I will come to you.

I must tell you in person what would have otherwise been in this letter.

Forever your prince and princess,

— Salva

Last Chapter |~| Next Chapter

Operation Monsoon (0.0)

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This scene and much of the story as a whole, contains scenes of violence and death, as well as descriptions of weapons and their effects. Please be advised when reading.

Under a brutal northern snowfall the old Federation capital of Junzien was alive with the fire of history. It was a day when every thread of Nocht’s timeline would tragically collide.

Cheering crowds gathered along the streets as the Presidential motorcade departed the Hotel Reich and made its way toward the Foundation Stone at the site of the former capitol building. Alongside the motorcade the crowd marched as a procession, throwing roses and lighting snapping sticks, hoping to catch a glimpse when the President finally lit the ceremonial fireworks that symbolized the old fortress cannons, their heavy shells striking down the approaching monarchist enemy in the name of independence.

Clad in their thickest winter coats the citizens braved the cold drift to celebrate the 200th anniversary of the Federation of Northern States. To the northern people, it was still better known as the Nocht Federation, for the man who first lit the matches that sounded the fateful cannons. But that ancient name was not the one sung on this triumphant day.

President Achim Lehner leaned back in his seat, arms behind his head, listening to the crowd as they chanted his name and recited several of his campaign slogans. He cast a sly smile toward his radiant wife, dolled up in pigments and shiny hair, mink and silk, sitting with one limousine seat between them, hoping she would join the festivities. She coldly and immediately shrugged off his attentions, staring out the window with her head held up on a closed fist. He could see her half-closed, bored eyes reflected in the tinted glass.

No matter; he was riding too high to care. Whatever embittered her this time would soon pass. Chuckling to himself, he leaned forward from his seat, rubbing his hands.

Across from him, his lovely secretary leaned to meet him, and handed him papers.

“Revised copies of the speech, as requested.” She said.

“Cecilia, doll, you never cease to impress.” He replied.

Scanning the lines, he was elated to find his most recent successes were all featured on the pages. He could reveal to the world, even before the press, the capitulation of the Cissean rebellion, and the establishment of Nocht’s newest ally in the global south. He had finally put that war to bed as he had promised. He was almost assured an eight-year term now.

And where were the pundits now? Lehner laughed aloud. This was too good.

Turning out of the hotel avenue, the motorcade drove deep into the urban heart of Junzien, through roads flanked with buildings wedged one between the other, gray, gloomy cement and glass monuments to the city’s endurance. Lehner much preferred the new capital further up Rhinea, a larger, more modern place, sleek and efficient and artful, but Junzien was his people’s heart. So he begrudgingly made space for it in his own.

“We have to start moving quick after this. Build Cissea up.” Lehner said.

“Unfortunately, the island campaigns have sapped the strength of the Bundesmarine.” Cecilia quickly replied. “Our capacity to ship to Cissea is currently very limited.”

“Work on that, darlin’. It’s nothin’ that can’t be be fixed. You gotta find the problems and the solutions and you move heaven and earth — that’s what all of you are here for.”

“We can start on it; but in this case we need to move an ocean.” Cecilia said.

Lehner burst out laughing, slapping his knees. “God. I keep remembering why I hired you. And I just think to myself ‘damn, Lehner, good move, my man, good move.'”

Cecilia pushed up her glasses, her face reflecting his own impish grin.

At Lehner’s side, his wife’s expression soured ever so slightly more.

Outside the snowfall thickened, but the people struggled all the more to keep up. Everyone was used to the conditions of this venerable celebration. It had been this cold on that fateful day, and yet the rebel soldiers fought on nonetheless. Lehner waved through the tinted glass at the marchers, men, women, and children, cheering and running. They were separated from the motorcade by marching policemen in dress uniform.

Slowly the motorcade was poised to escape the tightest confines of Junzien.

Lehner picked a glass of wine from the side of his limousine seat.

There was a flash and a crack from up ahead.

At once the limousine came to a stop sudden enough to shake President Lehner.

Red wine spilled on his shirt and coat.

Lehner threw his hands up in anger. “Fuck! What the hell–”

Red blood sprayed on the window beside him, and there was a thud on the glass as one of the police escorts hit the limousine, falling dead with shells through his chest.

Muzzles flashed skyward, and gunfire rang out from inside the crowd.

Police drew their pistols in a split-second response and fired into the streets.

Panicked marchers ran every which way to escape the carnage.

Grenades flew out from the throngs and detonated among the motorcade.

Glass windshields shattered on police cars and motorcycles. Fuel tanks went up in columns of flame, sending shards of metal screaming through the crowd and roasting special agents and foot police inside their vehicles. Policemen fighting on the streets were grazed or clipped by metal shards and many fell. Amid the massacre the limousine stood unharmed, explosive fragments bouncing off its sloped, disguised armor plating.

From the rapidly thinning crowd, an assailant in a covering trenchcoat and hat opened fire into the window of the limousine. Twin wounds marred the glass, each composed of dozens of concentric circles with a cap lodged between. His gun failed to penetrate.

Agatha Lehner nevertheless screamed and ducked against her husband in fear.

President Lehner grit his teeth.

“Cecilia.” He said, more aggravated than anxious.

Shaking with nervousness, Cecilia slammed her heeled shoe on the floor, and dug out from under a sliding panel a sleek, fully automatic Norgler machine gun, top of the line.

She clumsily pulled up the cover on the feed tray, slid the ammunition belt into it, locked it in place, and pulled back the charging handle to ready the weapon. It fed with a satisfying click, just like they had practiced. She held the gun aloft, her shoulders shaking.

Outside the assailants concentrated their gunfire on the limousine.

Bulletproof glass absorbed a dozen rounds of punishment.

It was getting hard to see the fight.

Lehner nodded his head with determination and Cecilia nodded back. She dropped between the rows of seats in the back of the limousine, sidling close to the door with the Norgler in hand. She pushed it up to the door. Lehner leaned down, holding his wife close, both their heads down under the level of the windows for safety. He pulled a catch.

On the door a panel just large enough for the Norgler opened.

Cecilia pushed the gun through the slot and slipped a slender finger over the trigger.

Swinging the weapon from side to side she opened fire indiscriminately.

At once a noise like an automatic saw overwhelmed the sounds of battle.

Casings dropped to the floor of the limousine by the dozens every second as Cecilia held down the trigger on the Norgler, barely controlling its overwhelming fire. She closed her eyes and held on to the weapon as bursts of automatic fire swept from the side of the limousine. Lehner peered over the window and watched as best as he could through the marred glass as the weapon rained lead on the streets. He strained his eyes and saw the trenchcoat men as they were brutally cut down with barely a struggle.

Another sharp click and the Norgler ejected its last casing.

Once the noise of the automatic fire died down, the street was empty and silent.

Lehner waited in the limousine, stroking his wife’s shoulders and pulling her head to his chest, her tears soaking into the wine-stained coat and shirt. He sighed deeply.

Cecilia stood up from the floor, sweating, breathing heavily.

“It’s a hell of a gun.” She said, her voice trembling.

After several minutes, a surviving police officer knocked on the window.

President Lehner stepped out of his battered limousine and inspected the carnage.

His weary eyes rolled over the blood and viscera, the bodies of innocents, of officers, of assailants alike, the burning wrecks, the bullet casings littered all over the ground, all of the madness that had unfolded on his streets in mere moments on this historic day.

Only one detail burned in his mind at that instant.

All of the weapons he saw gripped in the death-frozen fingers of the soon-to-be infamous Federation Day Terrorists, were of Ayvartan make. Their grenades, their firearms, all of their arsenal had been manufactured in the Socialist Dominances of Solstice.

“That’s damning.” He told himself under a cold breath. “And useful.”

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