Bandits Amid The Festival [11.13]

Across the bridge, a bulkhead door opened from the main station.

From the barricade, the strikers could see multiple persons at the door, but only a solitary figure started the long walk from the core station’s side over to that of Tower Nine.

Tower Nine was exclusively leased to Rhineametalle, and the entire tower was an absolutely massive steel plant. The steelworkers at Kreuzung were particularly responsible for manufacturing armor plate in a variety of dimensions and compositions, which would go on to be assembled into ships and divers. They also produced some ancillary construction materials for ships and stations, like interior walls with touch-enabled surfaces.

Those same products largely constituted the barrier the striking workers had erected.

Because they did not have control of the bulkhead into their side of the station, they used their equipment and whatever materials they had to create their own defenses. Kreuzung had forced the door to remain open, and sent negotiators, teams of scabs, and even a few strike-breaking attacks from the K.P.S.D– but with their tools and materials, the striking workers had maintained their hold on the tower. Rhineametalle had spoken against any further attacks– so for a time, the workers had some semblance of peace.

Even the core separation, frightening as it was, had not shaken them from their spot.

Now, however, the workers felt a bit of concern.

There was something strange about a single woman in a black uniform approaching them.

She took off her hat partway through her casual, ambling walk to the barricade, revealing a head of messy blond hair partially tamed by being wrapped into a long ponytail. She was tall, too, particularly for an Imbrian woman, with sharp, angular shoulders, and a frame that was somewhat lacking curves. Her uniform was slightly poorly fitted, with the all-black coat out of her pants and a bit too long, as well as unbuttoned, revealing the button-down shirt beneath which itself was not wholly buttoned, nor tucked in.

On one arm she had three separate armbands: all red and white, but one had a sonnenrad symbol, another a sword, and the third had an iron eagle.

Her easy gait and strange little grin, were eerie and a bit disarming.

As she approached, she introduced herself.

“Gutentag! I’m a 7th Fleet Stabswache officer, Untersturmführer Skonieczny, and I am only here to deliver a letter. I mean no harm! Please forward this as soon as possible.”

Her casual demeanor was additionally bizarre to the men behind the barricade.

Anyone else would have gotten a bolt launched at them by a pneumatic gun by now.

They allowed this lady to approach, and all she did was tiptoe to hand them a letter.

She turned around and left immediately, seemingly without any worry of a sneak attack.

To their surprise, she really did hand them a letter, stone paper, handwritten.

Suddenly unsure of what may become of their strike action soon, they passed the letter on.


Situated at the very top level of Kreuzung’s core station was the A-block of modules that represented the highest-end housing accommodations in the city, as well as the seat of the Eisental regional government. A-block was expansive and beautiful. Unlike other blocks, which were often situated side by side and with modules haphazardly placed like stacking blocks, A-block was one continuous module, that dominated a significant portion of the tower’s vertical space. There was a single main thoroughfare that branched into the walkways to several walled villas of varying designs.

At the center of A-block stood the government palace, a massive building with sweeping semi-circular wings connecting to a central, circular edifice with a brilliant domed roof. In the upper distance, visible from almost anywhere in the block, there were also several thick glass berths for the private seaport available to the A-block residents and the civilian government. Within the illusion of the sky, at times made it seem like ships were flying overhead in the horizon, as they situated themselves in their places.

All of A-block seemed to lead to the government palace, to reside in its shadow.

Kreuzung’s governor stood atop this edifice, and everything spread before him.

Within the palace, the Governor of Kreuzung had a sparsely furnished office that was nevertheless the site of some arresting designs. Because the walls were at all times projecting camera feeds from throughout A-block. Capturing sights such as the park gazebos and the small artificial lakeside enjoyed by the upper crust, the beautiful tended lawns of the most well-developed villas, and the vastness of the sky. It would appear to anyone walking in for business that the Governor of Kreuzung was like a God surrounded by windows into his vast domain. Situated the middle of all of A-block and able to see every direction.

If Governor Adolf Werner was a God, then he stood watching his downfall to mortals.

Surrounded by scenes of black-liveried electric trucks and black-uniformed paramilitaries.

Storming the villas, trampling the gardens, crossing the beautiful streets.

He was surprised that most of the troops combing A-block appeared to be Shimii.

Perhaps there was something karmic to that.

In this very office for nearly twenty years the Governor of Kreuzung had kept the Shimii separated and strictly controlled, and even he, who had promised reforms and liberalization, was consumed by the pragmatic calculus behind that injustice. He had let it go, because it was easy, and the Shimii were lesser compared to the peace that the Imbrians had begun to enjoy. Now, the Shimii dragged his Imbrian financiers out of those same beautiful homes they were denied and beat them on the street, with official sanction of the fascists.

Reform, of some kind, was slowly encroaching in armored cars down the one road.

Leading, inevitably, to him– and he could do nothing to stop it now.

Behind him, a door opened.

In walked a young woman in a white suit jacket and skirt, with black leggings.

Carrying a portable computer with a brand insignia– Rhineametalle.

She had an impassive expression. Her red-brown hair was tied up in an efficient bun.

“Governor Werner.” She said. She did not introduce herself.

Werner, taller, older, hairless, severe in expression. He looked at her with utter disgust.

They could not have been any more contrasts of themselves and the eras of their legacies.

“I assume it is not dangerous for you to be here, because Rhineametalle is a part of this.”

He waved at the screens, at the scenes of villas being broken into and combed through.

She ignored his implied accusations. They did not even cause a twitch in her countenance.

“I am here to convey Rhineametalle’s wish for a peaceful transition.” Said the young woman, delivering her stoic lines without once stumbling. “As an Eisental-headquartered business we believe this is the best outcome for the region’s economic outlook. We cannot support any decision by the government that escalates this confrontation any further.”

“None of this is peaceful, but if you are worried I will fight back, rest assured I cannot.”

In the aftermath of the Core Separation, Werner acquiesced to demands from the Volkisch Gauleiter to terminate the mandate of the K.P.S.D. Not because the fascists demanded it. They could fuck themselves. Rather, the K.P.S.D. had worked up tension with the Volkisch to an unconscionable degree. To continue to support them meant joining what was essentially their mafioso war against Laurentius tower. Werner had paid the mercenaries their blood money for too long– he cut them off. Without official support, any resisting K.P.S.D fought for a lost cause. Most of them gave up right away. Any stragglers were just doomed.

Therefore, Werner now he had nobody to defend him, nobody to defend the men who had ruled over Kreuzung for so long. Nobody to defend the Gods atop the mountain who had squeezed so much out of the people beneath their gazes. It was only now, as he watched the black shirts dismantle everything around him in real time, that he realized how low he had fallen. Whatever happened to the Liberal ideal? Freedom, franchise and fraternity for all men? His liberalism had upheld only the old fiefdoms, and changed nothing.

And now, the change was climbing the steps to his abode with gun and sword.

Werner felt embittered staring into the eyes of the young woman and reminiscing.

If all of the graft in Kreuzung was but a star, then Rhineametalle was entire constellations.

She could appear here and berate him, waiting like a dog to greet her Volkisch masters.

Because she had infinitely more power than he did. This was their town.

There would always be Rhineametalle, while liberal reformers came and went throughout Rhinea having failed to accomplish anything. Rhineametalle was the Prime Evil of Eisental, its warped influence followed only by the likes of Volwitz Foods and Lanz Erzwerke. She stood before this black and silver wind as an immovable titan. The more he looked at her emotionless face the more violence he felt in his old heart. He grit his teeth.

Stepping back from her, he walked around to his desk with a new clarity of purpose.

From a drawer, he withdrew an old Dreys pistol and raised it to the woman.

“This will earn you nothing.” She said, unwavering even when faced with the gun.

It only made Werner angrier. He was so helpless. All of his emotions swelled out of control.

Nothing of his spirit as a liberal elder statesman remained unsullied in that moment.

He was willing to throw away everything if he could have killed this girl.

Consumed in a terrible range to destroy the foul embodiment of his defeat.

He could not shoot at Rhineametalle, and the bullet would not redeem his Kreuzung.

He could, however, shoot this woman and sweep away her scrutinizing expression–


–but before Adolf Werner could exit the stage a murdering God, he was cast down.

When the door opened suddenly amid the confrontation to invite a new actor–

Her black gloved hand wielding a sleek black semi-automatic that preempted his next lines.

Hammer sliding with a thunder that echoed through the room, and again.

Five shots, neck, shoulder, sternum, belly, pouring bloody over his fine suit. His own gun dropped from the failing grip of his fingers and vanished under his desk. The old God of Kreuzung dropped back onto his chair, his role completed. Standing across the desk, the Rhineametalle communications officer Maxine Kramer shut her eyes for a moment.

It was the first expression she had made during this entire divine encounter.

Then, the second– she turned and smiled at the woman walking in from stage right.

Grinning back, the woman in the ornate black uniform and cape approached the desk, stepped behind it, and dismissively shoved the corpse of the old governor off of it. She then sat on his chair, on which there was just a little bit of blood– and put up her feet, hands behind her head, relaxing. She took a deep breath, twirling the pistol on one finger and catching it with the rest. She holstered it and appeared to be quite pleased with herself.

It was in that instant that Violet Lehner took her place in the grand opera about to unfold.

She was a curious sight in the black uniform.

Her skin was just a little bit ruddy, her eyes dark; facial features somewhat indeterminate, with strong nose and eyes with a slight angle, and yet striking in their overall configuration. She could have perhaps been a model or an actress had she been allowed an altogether different stage. Her hair was flamboyantly dyed, obscuring whatever other racial clues the fascist onlooker may have been predisposed to see. Whether she was blond, whether she was raven-haired, impossible to say. Though long, silky and straight, it was colored light blue and partially pink in a pattern reminiscent of the flag pins which hung from her earrings.

Average in stature and figure, thin and light of frame, more angular than curved, her limbs and shoulders and back were slim, her fingers soft and unblemished, with little in the way of pronounced musculature on her limbs. Nevertheless, her impressive uniform evoked the martial spirit that her training regime may have lacked. Her uniform, a black jacket and pants with a black cape, was decorated with every conceivable symbol of the fascists. Golden wolf’s-hooks, a sonnenrad medal, a reichsadler on her peaked cap, eagles and arrows, a hooked cross lapel pin. Her armbands had similar symbols. Atop her cap there were two silver protrusions like metal cat’s ears, and she wore a tail-like tassel on her belt.

Ruling over the 7th Fleet of the Stabswache, known as the ‘Zabaniyah.’

Violet Lehner grinned with an ambition as easy, in her mind, as taking a life.

Soon, her role of murderer would elevate, to ‘Reichskommissar’ of the Eisental region.

In this opening act, she had stolen the gold ring from the abode of the Gods.

While the drumbeat of truncheon strikes and the melodic wailing of the purge played all throughout A-block, casting from the mount the Gods for whom the audience’s sympathy was meant, her shadow grew ever more titanic in the background of the stage. Smoke and fire and great screaming horns heralded. Violet as devil, as son of a false king–

as player on the stage of Destiny.


–but while the Gods bellowed for justice, the player in black experienced only silence.

“You were so collected, Maxine. You should leave the corporate world and join us.”

“I’m afraid I can only present the facade of strength knowing that rescue was on its way.”

Violet and Maxine smiled at each other like old friends, minding not the corpse.

“What’s the temperature at Rhineametalle? Did you show your bosses my proposals?”

“I walked them through everything. They are initially cautious, but not opposed.” Maxine said. “They’ve been party to fruitless ‘labor reform’ talks with the liberals.”

“They haven’t seen it like I plan to do it.” Violet said, a grin on her face and a winking eye. “Soon they’ll be hearing about this strike being over without a further drop of blood shed on their precious factory floors, and they will have cause for celebration. Then you can ask them again what they feel about Violet Lehner. Not to mention what will follow.”

“With regards to labor, their ceiling is ‘neutral’ at best.” Maxine said. “They will never be happy to talk ‘trade unions’. But I have prepared the way for you as best I can.”

Violet finally put her legs down from the table and sat up straight.

“They will. I’ve already handed them a victory. One of my subordinates arranged a meeting with the leader of the strikers. I was informed just before my arrival here that the meeting has been accepted and arranged. You can formally announce to your employers that the strikers are coming to the table. They can do whatever with that information.”

“It’s too early to announce anything. But I will do my best to make it a media coup, and you can share the glory of it when the time comes.” Maxine replied. “There has been a lot pessimism in the business community. Unfortunately, your father has not been–”

“Don’t call him that.” Violet snapped. Her voice had risen almost to a breaking point.

For the first time, Maxine looked a bit surprised. She bowed her head. “My apologies.”

Violet sighed. Anger was unproductive. She stood up, and walked past the corpse.

“It’s fine. I am full of optimism, Maxine. I’ve crawled up from the gutter, all the way here.”

Violet’s gaze met Maxine’s, standing side by side. She reached out and patted her shoulder.

“Destiny is on my side, and Endsieg is finally near to my grasp.”

Maxine nodded her head low in acknowledgement and deference.

“Of course, Reichskommissar. Rhineametalle looks forward to your success.”

With her cape flowing behind her and a stoic look on her face, Violet Lehner left the office of the Governor in its state of desecration, Maxine Kramer following dutifully behind her to their next stage. Speaking of the so-called Fuhrer of Rhinea, related so casually– it was unheard of to say within the 7th Stabswache. Because it angered Violet so–

the holes she had to crawl out of were dug by his hand.


Business was at an ebb at Madame Arabie’s Flowing Scarlet.

Her main clientele were either laying low, or catching a clubbing from the Volkisch.

Imbrians with money to blow on girls and dope had too much on their minds these days.

And wealthy local Shimii had hunkered indoors out of sight of a very bitterly critical public.

Kreuzung was not in a mood to drink and make merry. Their festival was over.

In the days following the Core Separation, the little people of the segregated Tower Seven began to look to their neighbors again. It was the mosques where people chose to congregate, rather than dance clubs and eateries. They gathered on the floor mats discussing the events, what the future might hold, or anything they could do as a community to prevent further tragedies. There was so much uncertainty looming over them. One especially concerning matter was that of missing persons. Several Shimii had tried to escape the tower, and in the chaos, people had been separated from each other, and there were already a few sadly missing. One shopkeeper named Hasim, rarely seen at the mosque otherwise, actually showed up to report a missing person, for example.

“There’s this girl– she came by my shop every day, one of my favorite customers–”

But nobody had seen the bob-tailed girl he described. Few people even remembered her.

There was an older woman who described another girl, who had assisted the crowd.

“Her name was Madiha. God guard her and preserve her. She was a brave one.”

Nothing. They could collect the names, and any descriptions or pictures, and report it–

–to whoever the authorities ended up being now.

That was all, and many people felt helpless and were frustrated at their situation.

And to those most embittered, the Scarlet, and Arabie, were particular points of frustration.

Weren’t those rich Shimii who owned everything supposed to be keeping them safe?

What good were they if they could never stand up to the Imbrians even to prevent deaths?

For now these thoughts remained private. The streets had emptied of crowds of people.

Outside the Flowing Scarlet, where it was once routine for crowds to gather in front, the street was empty. And for its emptiness, and the size of the building looming over that emptiness, it made the tower feel even more hollow. Guards had been posted out of Arabie’s paranoia for what may transpire– but there was no need. Not one person came to throw one stone, or any other petty delusion held by the woman in the higher stories.

But, just when Arabie’s mafiosi began to feel secure in themselves–

They heard the sound of wheels turning.

And stood in stunned silence as a black and silver liveried electric truck drove up.

Emblazoned on the side of the truck was a shield with the number 7 in thick font.

Surrounding the triangular shield there were two swords and three words–

Faith.

Fealty.

Fascism.

Inside the truck were a dozen uniforms. Hitting the false pavement like a ramp, the door to the truck bed creaked as the men and women, all Shimii, all dressed like Volkisch, and all armed, stepped off and formed up. For the mafiosi, this was an insurmountable enemy that instantly defeated them. Those black jackets could have been mythical wootz steel, for the protection they offered. Arabie’s gang could abuse the public, rough up journalists, turn away detectives, and maybe even disappear a K.P.S.D. who got too in their faces.

Madam Arabie was powerful and had good connections within Kreuzung.

Madam Arabie’s connections, her social and financial power, meant nothing to the fascists.

The Volkisch Movement For The National Awakening played by its own insane rules.

They were the fiendish leviathan immune to the spell woven by the witch of Tower Seven.

It was even stranger that they were all Shimii. It gave Arabie’s men even more of a fright.

There was no thought of even reaching for the revolvers and pistols hidden in their clothes.

All of Arabie’s guards stood dumbfounded, and nobody made a move.

Then, from the passenger seat of the truck itself, another Shimii woman stepped out.

From the outset, it was obvious that she was a cut above the rest of the Volkisch here.

Her jacket had brighter and more impressive patches and pins to denote her rank, and on her ample chest there were several medals. She brandished no weapon on the street, but had on her hip a sabre in a sheathe as well as a revolver in a holster. Those looking at her were taken by her. She was beautiful, yes, with golden hair and lightly tanned skin and steely green eyes and striking facial features– but it was not her beauty, but her presence that captivated the onlookers. Her every step was as if taken by a titan, her gaze threw the weight of a storm wind, and when she spoke, her voice was thunder. They were instantly gripped by her.

“Step aside or you will all be arrested! I am not here to deal with you. Where is Arabie?”

Of course, they divulged the location instantly. The bouncers even handed over their keys.

All of them could feel that the current flowing through Kreuzung favored the fascists.

There was no use dying uselessly, for the woman drinking herself stupid up above them.

Almost without effort Standartenführer Vesna Nasser gained access to the Flowing Scarlet.

Her troops remained outside to watch over the men and the street.

She had business with the woman supposedly in charge of this depressing tower.

Nasser found her in the middle of a richly furnished penthouse.

Despite her age she was just like Nasser remembered her.

Lavishly manicured to hide the toll time had taken on her face, dolled up in fine clothing and pigments, hiding in a room that smelled of myrrh. She had come upon her in a vulnerable moment, however. Arabie was half fallen from a plush sofa and her makeup was running around her weeping eyes. Sobbing, kicking her feet; cans strewn about the room and white powder arrayed in messy lines on the coffee table. Wearing a loose purple robe that was off her shoulder enough to unveil an olive-tan breast with a dark pink tip.

Even without taking any care to hide her steps, Nasser managed to surprise her.

It took the dazed Madame Arabie a few moments to register a figure approaching her.

“Huh? Who? Leave– leave you idiots, I said I was busy–! I’ll– I’ll fucking kill you–!”

She sat up on the sofa and stared with glassy, still-weeping eyes at Nasser.

The Standartenführer was able to watch as if a time lapse, as the danger dawned on Arabie.

Her eyes drew wide, her ears folded, and her lips partially opened and remained so.

Nasser said nothing. To comment at all, would have made her angry enough to strike.

Even when properly dressed, Madame Arabie was a fallen being destined for the fire.

A whore; a drug pusher; a drunk. She sold her soul, and didn’t even try to pray for it back.

Without her high class airs, it was only more evident how impious she had become.

But she was convenient; and she would be necessary.

Nasser had to temper her frustrations.

“Who are you? Did you steal that uniform? I can’t smuggle you out.” Madame Arabie said.

Her voice was so gone. She was in an utter stupor.

“You’ve very well met fascist Shimii already. I am a proper Volkisch Standartenführer, just like Imani Hadžić. I serve in the ‘Zabaniyah’, the 7th Fleet of the Stabswache, with many of our kin. You know me, Leija Kladuša. I am Vesna, a member of the Nasser clan.”

Leija narrowed her eyes. Her body began shaking as if from the effort of that empty gaze.

“I– I’ve never heard of a Vesna Nasser. I did not know– the Nassers had a daughter?”

She was even more lost than Nasser thought.

“You drank your brain to death. But fine. You have heard of Vahid Nasser, haven’t you?”

Across from her, the sinner’s bleary red eyes blinked and then squinted at Nasser.

She could not possibly have been seeing any of Vahid in the Vesna who stood before her.

But her addled brain nevertheless made the connection.

She recognized her– perhaps?

“You’re– then– you’re the same as Homa? You took the medicines– to become–?”

“Homa? Who are you comparing me to? Leija, you need to cut the crap and clean up–!”

Leija’s tears welled up in her eyes again. She lowered her face into her hands.

“My precious kadaif— she was taken from me so cruelly– oh Homa! Homa!”

Wailing that name, she fell back onto the couch, writhing as if her skin was being burnt.

Not wanting to stare at that pathetic display, Nasser lifted her gaze– and saw something.

In the end of the room, a shrine had been put up.

The myrrh incense vapor machines had been set on a shelf along with an old picture, of a very young girl. There were flowers, sticks of cinnamon, colored gems, a haphazard assortment of little things. Memorials like this were impermissible for Shimii, but so was drinking, and dealing, and whoring– it no more damned Leija’s soul than any of her other sins. However, the haphazard placement of it inspired something in Nasser. She found herself pitying Leija for her loss in that moment. Leija was actually mourning.

She was surprised that this vile woman could care about anyone other than herself.

Hearing that name wailed over and over, and looking at the photograph–

Homa–

Homa–?

My name is Homa Baumann. I’m from Kreuzung. Please don’t kill me.

Nasser remembered.

And then– her wrath, the coming to blows.

Hatefully screaming Nasser’s name in an ever-fading voice as she died.

Nasser exhibited a brief shock that Leija was, thankfully, in no condition to notice. She would not acknowledge to Leija that she knew where her “precious kadaif” had ultimately gone.

Seeing what she had done to this woman, before her eyes. Her heart briefly wavered.

Nasser closed her fists as hard as she could. She dispelled a long-held breath.

It did not matter.

Many more families would be separated, many more young people killed, before Nasser’s ambitions would be completed. By her own hand, perhaps less– but she was not so deluded as to think the blood shed by her subordinates did not reach her. To end the feuds, once and for all, and unite the ummah, it could only be done by shedding blood. It was inevitable that Homa Baumann had to be killed for it. It was inevitable that Leija Kladuša had to suffer.

Ever since old Al-Khaybari turned his blade on the elder Nasser during Mehmed’s Jihad.

Ever since then– no, even before– ultimately they were all slaves to their Destiny.

Nasser bent and grabbed Leija by the shoulders and forced her to sit and look at her.

“Leija! I understand your loss! Were the circumstances different I would give you all the time you need to mourn. But not this way! Do you think Homa would want to see you like this? We shoulder the dreams of all our lost kin! You need to get a hold of yourself! We need someone here whom the Shimii will listen to. Fall apart once your duty to me is completed!”

Shaking Leija like a doll in her hands, as if it would rattle her back to her senses.

For a brief moment, the glassy eyes of that broken-down woman sharpened once more.

“Ugh– dreams and duties– talking big while you’re just some blackshirt!” Leija snapped.

Her eyes were still hazy. She was completely out of it.

And yet her words were so defiant and incivisive. Stupid woman.

Nasser could not help but to grin in response. In the grand scheme of things, it was true. Even when it came from the drawling mouth of this drug-addled fool. To the Rashidun, events were already Qadar— a divine destiny that was already known to God.

Compared to this truth, Nasser was indeed very small.

Nothing but another black shirt– but one with a heavy burden to bear.


When she awakened, the room was as dark as when Emilia went to sleep.

“Huh? I set an alarm. What happened?”

She had awakened naturally– there was no sound.

And the lights didn’t come on either.

She reached out her arm and tried to touch the wall just over the pull-out drawer beside her bed. After a few seconds of futile reaching to the furthest her arm would stretch, she woke up enough to figure things out and turned in bed. She instead touched the wall directly beside her. However, this too had no effect. Incredulous she touched the wall a few more times, but there was no response no matter how much she pressed.

Nothing lit up, no computer windows opened. The wall touchscreens were not working.

There was something just a little vexing about it.

Emilia forced herself up from the bed.

She grabbed hold of her blanket and wrapped it around herself.

Her room was so cold– everything must have lost power for some ungodly reason.

All of that Core Separation business was in the past, wasn’t it?

Emilia stood up and went to the door.

She groped in the dark for the physical switch that opened the door. Finally, it slid open, surprising her. She almost fell through the doorway and out into the hall in nothing but her blanket, a tanktop and shorts– thankfully she caught herself in time. But she was all the more embittered when she peered out, groggy and with fogged eyes.

All of her hall was in the dark. Several people were peering out of their own doors.

There was an electric torch set up at the far end of the hall, and a pair of men had pulled out a panel in the far wall and were working with tools impossible to discern. Something must have happened to the hall’s power infrastructure. Maybe it was a knock-on effect of the Core Separation, Emilia thought. At least it was being fixed. She was about to just sigh and turn back and lie around in the dark– but then her eyes were temporarily blinded.

A torch-light shone right on her face for an instant, causing her to grimace.

“Oh! I’m so sorry–! Please wait, I need to talk to you!”

Said in the voice of a woman, accompanied by clacking heels on the metal floor.

Emilia shielded her eyes and squinted and tried to make out the woman approaching.

When her vision returned, the woman had stopped in front of the door.

“Unter–?” She began to speak, but was not allowed to say much–

In response, Emilia grabbed her wrist, disarmed her of her torch and turned around.

The woman was taken aback. “–Wait! Ma’am, I’m– You– I’m here to–”

“I’m borrowing this. Wait here a sec, okay?” She said, sighing deeply.

She pulled the door shut behind herself, leaving the uniformed woman outside.

With the woman’s torch she could see into her room again.

She put it up on the pull-out bedside drawer, the beam shining up at the ceiling. It was so strong– Emilia flicked the tab on its handle down two notches to reduce the brightness. Now she felt like she could finally see comfortably in its presence. Immediately, she caught sight of herself in the room mirror, which was part of the pull-out drawers.

Grumbling a little to herself, she gathered up a haphazard fistful of her blond hair and a hair tie she had left on top of the drawer. She tied a quick and messy ponytail, and brushed her bangs by running her own fingers through them. It was a little bit messy but probably not too unsightly. Across the room from her bed, she found the catch to open the panel into the bath stall. She washed her face, gargled some water, brushed her teeth.

Another mirror. She saw herself in it. Auburn eyes. Her lips were a bit dry. She did not think she was necessarily beautiful, but she was pretty, she had a young, girlish spark– right?

She queried herself. She did not hate how she looked. It was acceptable.

Back at her drawer, she applied some chapstick. She fluttered her eyelashes.

She sighed.

Running through her mental checklist.

She wouldn’t even bother with makeup– she was so bad at it anyway. She had showered last night. She had not eaten, but this was a temporary room with no cooking furnishings, so she would need to grab something on the way to the Gau office. Uniform was a given; but she recalled that she should take her pills. She couldn’t keep forgetting.

“Good morniiing~ Emiliaaa~ It’s Emilia’s pills time~ pills that make her dick soft~”

Singing in a silly voice. Her good mood was starting to return.

It helped thinking about that woman’s face when she disarmed her.

After swallowing all of her day’s medications at once, against the instructions printed on the bottles, Emilia opened another wall panel to extract her uniform jacket and pants, as well as a button-down shirt and a tie. Her armbands were hanging on hooks. Everything smelled dusty and a little bit sweaty. She had to pay money for the wardrobe to maintain her clothing, and the prices had become ridiculous the past few days. In prison they just had a synthestitcher pop out a cheap jumpsuit for her whenever warranted.

Her uniform consisted of a black peaked cap, black jacket and pants, all with silver trim.

On the collar of the jacket there was a tab with four wolf’s hooks denoting her rank.

Untersturmführer— in the old Rhinean Navy she would have been a ‘Leutnant’.

Leutnant was so much easier to say.

But she was not part of the old Rhinean Navy.

Her armbands were red with a white circle, and inside each circle resided a different symbol including: a sonnenrad, a black sun disc; the Handschar, a Shimii sword; and the Reichsadler of the Volkisch Movement for the National Awakening on the third armband.

She had to wear all three. One for the Esoteric Order of National Socialism; one for the 7th Stabswache Fleet; and the third to denote that she was a national socialist party member in good standing. That last one was perhaps the most personally amusing of the armbands– but it was annoying to wear all three. She felt their presence conspicuously.

Emilia buttoned down her shirt, pulled up her pants, threw on her jacket, and put on shoes.

She left the cap where it was, in her enthusiasm to finally meet the woman at the door.

“I am ready! Sorry for the wait– I had to get decent.” Emilia said.

Opening the door, she found herself face to face with a pouting young woman.

Pointing her own torch back at her causing her to avert her gaze a bit.

Emilia instantly thought– this one was a bombshell.

A sleek jaw, a straight nose, sharp blue eyes and lush lips, all with precise makeup the likes of which Emilia could not have hoped to imitate. Her hair looked so silky, and it had a sheen in the light of the torch, dark, deeply black as her jacket and garrison cap, cut straight at the shoulder with perfect symmetry. Her body was fantastic– the uniform flattered her. Same as Emilia’s, but with a skirt and black tights. Had Emilia not been a degenerate who was on the way to embarrassing herself, she would have definitely tried to make a pass.

Instead, she simply smiled and held out her hand for a shake.

“Untersturmführer Emilia Skonieczny.” She said.

For a moment the woman at the door eyed her, with a slight bit of contempt.

Then she shook her hand, firmly and without reservation.

“Hauptscharführer Christina Fink. I am here to assist you in command duties, ma’am.”

Her voice was strong. She had a very no-nonsense energy to her.

“Assist me?” Emilia was confused. “I thought you were going to escort me to the Gau?”

“To the Gau? What for?”

“You don’t know?!” Emilia was suddenly shocked. “You didn’t come here to take me?”

“No? I did not come to take you to before the Gauleiter. Is something wrong?”

Emilia felt like, if she could say nothing, and continue to look normal–

–no, it was hopeless. She wouldn’t fool this (beautiful) woman for long.

“Err– Ah, well, you’re about to find out anyway– See, I did some jail time, so that’s still stuck on me today. I am having those old charges officially commutated. So I have to show up at the Gau office. Technically, I’ll still be a federal offender– but I can have this commutation, to then work toward acquittal thanks to some– let’s say ‘friends in high places’.”

“May I ask what the offense was? Was it something spurious?”

“Ah, yeah, I mean, I sure think so. It was for Sodomy. See– that’s still a federal offense.”

“Well– that’s– I see. I am glad the Gau office is assisting you, Untersturmführer.”

No! Her respect for Emilia had hit rock bottom! It was clear on her face!

Ah well– such was the fate of a degenerate, no matter her rank, service and deeds.

“So– you were sent to assist me? Are you from the 7th Fleet too?” Emilia asked.

Christina shook her head. “I’ve been working in Kreuzung, as a Gleichschaltung officer. My job was once to analyze communications from A-block– but this is no longer necessary, so I am being seconded to the combat fleet now. I am to work as your adjutant.”

Emilia nodded her head in acknowledgment.

Gleichschaltung meant coordination— the Volkisch sure loved their High Imbrian.

In this case, it was the idea that the liberal institutions of Rhinea had to be forced to accept total Volkisch rule. In places like Kreuzung where it would be too costly or chaotic to go after the liberal government in a violent purge without cause, the Gleichschaltung process began with the establishment of a Gau office that acted as a Volkisch civil authority.

Working with the Gau office, analysts like Christina spied and scrutinized the liberals, opening opportunities for the Volkisch to attack officials and policies, demand the alteration of laws or issue their own legal proclamations. It was a slow political war of attrition.

But liberal Kreuzung had fallen. The Gau’s decrees were the law of the station now.

And soon, Violet Lehner would be law and order of the entire region.

Knowing all of that– Emilia smiled a bit more awkwardly.

Christina now looked like a very frightening woman behind that steely composure.

“So– if you will, I’m headed to the Gau office.”

“Yes.” Christina said. “I will follow you. You should get something to eat too.”

“Right.”

Christina then stepped forward and reached for Emilia’s chest.

Taking her tie in one brusque sleight of the hand– and tying it appropriately.

Then also buttoning her jacket correctly, her long fingers, one button after another–

Emilia became as stiff and dead as all the LED posts that didn’t work in the hallway.

She tucked her shirt in, buttoned her coat, did her tie. With stoic precision.

Then Christina finally retreated, with a final swipe at Emilia’s shoulder to pat off dust.

“I want to assume you do not care about your appearance for lack of time and energy with which to do so.” Christina said sternly. “So I will assist you in maintaining an appropriate standard. From now on, you need to maintain decorum as an officer. You do not represent solely yourself, but us, the unit, the fleet, the party, and the fatherland.”

Emilia felt like she was being called an embarassing pervert in code.

“Yes. You’re right– I’ve just been busy, and tired.” Emilia replied, averting her gaze.

All lies that they both saw through, but it was the lies Christina wanted to hear.

“Very well. Lead way, Untersturmführer.”

Christina was such a presence.

She was the armbands but hundreds of times heavier.

Since arriving at the station, a few days earlier, Emilia had been afforded a rather plain room in D-block while she waited for her transfer and the commutation. It was not ‘hers’ precisely and she would neither keep it nor miss it when it was gone. Especially since the hallway was having electrical problems now. However, it was convenient, with elevators going farther down or straight up, easily accessible by turning the corners. She and Christina made their way around the hall, and rode the elevator up to a street module in C-block.

There were shops, grocers, cafes, all in quaint little buildings connected by a false cobblestone road under a gentle, false blue sky. It was like a little town road.

Nervous glances shot their way from every direction after they stepped onto the street.

There was no hiding within a crowd wearing the black uniforms of the Volkisch.

Standing out was the point, as much as Emilia disliked it.

She tried to smile and wave at anyone who stared for too long, but it only scared them off.

It was foolish to think she was anything but an intruder in this place.

Emilia was fooling herself about a lot of things– but that one was far too glaring.

On one street corner, Emilia spotted another black-uniformed woman.

Tall and fair, with brown hair– and a pair of rounded cat-like ears atop her head, between which she wore her garrison cap. She had a simple submachine gun that resembled a grease gun, on a sling around her shoulder. It was unloaded, but she had visible magazines on her person and could have reached for one easily in response to a threat. Her bushy tail swung behind her as she stood, leaning back against the corner, looking bored.

Sturmmann!” Emilia called out the girl by rank. “All quiet on the front?”

The Shimii woman raised her eyes off the floor when addressed.

“Yes ma’am. Nothing to report.” She said. Her hands were completely off her gun.

“What is your name?” Emilia asked, quite curious.

At her side, Christina looked a bit annoyed with her, but she did not say anything.

“Sturmmann Ajna Jakupović.” The Shimii said. “Is this an inspection, Untersturmführer?”

“Not at all!” Emilia said. “I was just greeting you. I haven’t gotten out much, you see.”

“Well. There’s not much to see. Everything is quite normal, and the street is peaceful.”

“Hopefully we can scale down posts like this soon then? Don’t you think?”

“I could not say. I take up my post as I am ordered, and I will continue to do so.”

Quite a dour girl.

Emilia felt like she was surrounded by very tense people in the Volkisch.

Despite her insistence that everything was quite normal, in fact, she herself represented a change for the people of Kreuzung. Even if they had gotten used to a black uniform here or there; now all of the policing was done by black uniforms. No more K.P.S.D guards.

Armed black uniforms on every street corner. Must have been terrifying.

Not to mention the majority of them were Shimii, once a segregated people in Kreuzung.

When Emilia and Christina got to walking again, Christina cleared her throat.

“Untersturmführer, please do not trouble the patrol officers.” She said.

“It won’t matter anyway. I’m bound for the sea again soon.” Emilia replied jovially.

“Be that as it may.”

She did not follow up that remark and Emilia did not respond to it either.

They simply walked, amid the morning crowd that was going to work or preparing for it.

Partway through their trek to the Gau office, Christinia tapped on Emilia’s back.

They both stopped, and she led the Untersturmführer off the street and into a little café that was sharing space with a bar which was closed. Both halves of the venue could sit customers for the café, and the café was serving coffee out of the half that constituted the bar. But the coffee was a rather shocking price, for such a thing that just came in the fighting rations of Diver pilots like Emilia– instead, Christina bought the two of them cups of breakfast tea, along with breakfast potatoes, grilled with cheese and sausage.

“I take it Kreuzung hasn’t recovered from the recent shortages yet?” Emilia asked.

As she did, she stirred sugar cubes until they dissolved in her tea.

“You’re– rather curious, aren’t you, Untersturmführer?” Christina said.

“I see it as my duty to understand things, Hauptscharführer, not merely accept them.”

Christina let out a little sigh. “I rather meant, you’re different from other officers.”

“In that too, yes. Possibly for the best, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps. It’s too early to tell.”

Christina took a long sip of her tea as if to forego further conversation on this topic.

Emilia tucked into her potatoes. They were salty, fatty, almost unctuous.

Rhinea was known for potatoes. Potatoes, black bread, gritty sausage– all those foods that the Imbrium Empire exalted as traditional and cultural and staples of a hardy working class, they were grown in quantity in Rhinea. And these were the foods exalted by the Volkisch Movement as befitting the masculine and vital Volksgemeinschaft of the national socialist man. Probably soon, the Gau would start promoting these foods and politely criticizing restaurants and establishments that continued to drive up demand for luxuries.

Just like in her native station of Weimar, a few months ago, just before she left.

Before she was deployed to the front as penance for her degenerate bisexual ways.

 “You can call me by name.” Emilia said. “Can we chat for a little bit?”

Christina looked up for her plate. She ate quite slow and delicately.

“Alright. What about?”

“Anything really. I just haven’t had a human conversation with someone in so long.”

“From reading your file, it did seem like you have been shuffled around a lot of posts.”

“It’s because the ships kept sinking.” Emilia said. “But I kept surviving. I made no friends.”

“Reports spoke highly of your combat abilities. So– I expected a different sort of person.”

“I’m kind of flattered they did not mention the penal conscription and sodomy and all that.”

Emilia looked up from her food and smiled quite cheerfully at Christina.

The adjutant looked quite disarmed by the sudden look on her face.

She averted her gaze.

“Here I am. Not like the reports.” Emilia said. “Except that I’m good in a pinch, maybe.”

“Unter– Emilia,” Christina said, “might I ask– do you have any ambitions in the military?”

Perhaps a tricky question for someone who had been forced into this horrible situation.

But Emilia had thought about it well, and for a long time, having gotten this far.

“Since I’m here now, I would like to retire with decent benefits. I’m tired of struggling.”

Christina looked at her with further confusion. “I see. I suppose you didn’t have a choice.”

“I’m making the best of it. I’ve thought about everything– I had tons of time to plan it out. If I fail, I just die– that ends up solving all the problems anyway. But in the military I can get a pension, health benefits, lifetime housing, the works. For a wastrel like me, it’s great. Being conscripted was fine for my prospects. I’m too scandalous– not a lot of equal opportunity.”

“I see. You really have given it a lot of thought, Untersturmführer. It’s– a worthy goal.”

Emilia did not see it as particularly worthy– but it was attainable! That mattered the most.

“But what about you Hauptscharführer? What attracts a woman like you to the navy?”

Christina looked down at her tea. Her own perfectly applied makeup looked back at her.

“I suppose it is similar– maybe even the same. As you say– there is ‘equal opportunity.’”

“In times of hardship, the nation would rather allow homos and women to jump in front of the steel, than fall on its own sword purely out of pride. Suffering makes us all equal.”

Christina looked suddenly sad. “You have a certain way with words, Untersturmführer.”

Clearly she was uncomfortable with the rhetoric– but Emilia didn’t care.

She was hitting her stride. Her heart was soaring, even. God was in his heaven, to her.

All of the worst things that could be done to Emilia Skonieczny– they already had been.

So anything that happened from now on was acceptable. Things were truly looking up.

In fact, it was a thrilling puzzle. War. Surviving. Winning, even, the few times it happened.

All of it was a gamble where only something worthless was at stake– her own life.

And certainly gambling was one of Emilia’s vices, among many.

After eating, and having gotten to know each other– at least more than not at all– Emilia led Christina to the Gau office on the far end of the C-block street module from the cafes. The building was set against the wall of the module, with a roundabout road in front of it, such that it felt like the terminus of the C-block. All roads led to the Gau office. It was three stories tall, so it was taller than all the two-story shops and offices on the street.

A steel Reichsadler decoration in front looked over the passersby.

Through the door into the building, there was a lobby and waiting area with pull-out chairs.

Emilia and Christina sat down together until they were called.

Though they were entirely alone in the Gau office, it took almost fifteen minutes.

At a counter, behind bullet-proof glass, a very young receptionist confirmed their identity. She was thin and blond and small– at most she could have been an older teenager perhaps.

“Take the stairs, and it’s the third door. Thank you for visiting.” She said without emotion.

There was a buzzer, and one of the doors leading further into the building opened up.

Emilia and Christina walked inside.

For the building where the downfall of the liberal government of Kreuzung had been planned and underway for months now– there was nothing about it that was out of the ordinary. Thick plastic walls painted in a faux-brick style, stagnant air that smelled like the vents it passed. Gloomy halls lit by rows of centrally-installed white LEDs on the roof. It was rather eerie. It felt like a dentist’s office more than a nerve-cluster of fascism.

Third door, upstairs. Inside there was a small office, with a desk and two chairs.

A blond man who tried to smile bid them to sit down. One of his armbands had a symbol of a wrapped stack of arrows– this denoted support personnel and civilian service workers within the National Socialist Party of Rhinea. Unlike Emilia, this man’s battlefield was this desk, or any other desk he was given, but he still had his markers of service to the National Socialist Party. Emilia saw his eyes appraise her quickly, but he never stopped smiling falsely.

“Emil Skoniecszny, correct?” He said. He passed Emilia a portable computer.

There were documents about her loaded into the device. Many had glaring errors.

Surname frequently misspelled. Different names used. Wrong national ID numbers.

“I had it changed.” She replied. “Before I ended up in jail. A bunch of this is wrong.”

“Ah, yes, the government was not so efficient before as now. You would be aghast at how many of these documents we must amend.” Said the man, still trying to put up a smile. “How about this, officer. Tell me the correct ones, and I’ll see to it we fix them all. No need for paperwork or anything silly– everything has been authorized to the fullest extent.”

“That would be lovely.” Emilia said. “So then– I will get my commutation too, right?”

“Of course, of course.” Said the man. “The Reichkommissar’s signature guarantees it. You will no longer be considered to be serving a sentence through labor. Then we will process a formal acquittal after a brief review by all parties. You’ll be a free woman soon.”

All of the parties involved– Emilia knew they would be amenable.

After all– they had come to have need of the murderous skills she had exhibited.

While the man began editing the documents, Emilia found herself looking at the ceiling.

Somewhere, far up above, Violet Lehner was in the process of changing everything.


After only two days in Kreuzung, the vanguard of the 7th Fleet of the Stabswache had secured control of the station in its totality, facing little resistance. Already the first reforms were beginning to roll out of the new government in A-block. A purge of local administrators was underway, along with an expansion of the Gau government seat and the reorganization of Eisental as a Reichskommissariat, a Fascist-led regional administration that was the fiefdom of its Reichskommissar, in this case the self-appointed Violet Lehner.

No one had heard of Violet before, but the surname Lehner rendered them quiet.

Elections were suspended indefinitely. All appointments were by decree from the Gau or Reichskommissar, and served indefinitely until promotion, resignation or dismissal. More reforms were then planned– including a rumored desegregation of the towers. But it was not all bad. Prices had gone back to normal, particularly for Rhineametalle subsidiary goods along with Volwitz Foods products. It was a sign of esteem from the corporations.

Whoever Violet Lehner was, business seemed to approve of her accession.

Volkisch presence continued to grow exponentially in Kreuzung. At first the vanguard was composed of a dozen ships, but it would swell to over 200 vessels. Aside from the core of the 7th Stabswache, Volkisch militia were summoned in droves, along with a constellation of ancillary paramilitary organizations that had also rallied to Reichskommissariat Eisental.

Once bordering on the outskirts of the Volkisch power structure, groups appeared such as the Silver Wolf Brigade of once-oppressed Khedivate loup; and stranger Esoteric Order paramilitary fighters like the Black Sun Valkyries who were not the right kind of fascist for Adam Lehner’s neatly micromanaged central government. On the civilian front, all manner of new age polemicists, such as scientific atheists and technology supremacists, flocked to Kreuzung from places like Thuringia and Weimar, hoping for intellectual sympathy.

Adam Lehner had tried to paper over the bizarre, fractious nature of his coalition.

But Violet Lehner seemed to revel in the grand universe of niche fascists surrounding her.

And it was a universe which was daily accruing more twisted stars within its firmament.

Knowing all of this, Rhineametalle labor leader Josef Kohler decided to follow the letter which he had received from the barricades. He clutched it in his hands as he walked.

He knew he was accepting a poisoned chalice, but he was afraid at the daily appearance of more fascist military ships, and of the rapid collapse of the liberal Kreuzung government. It felt like this was his last and only chance to achieve something tangible for the shop floor. So he donned his suit, left the barricade with the signature of the new Reichskommissar in hand, and made his way cautiously to the heights of the core station.

He had been warned that there was chaos in A-block, but by the time he arrived, everything appeared to have long been sorted out. No arrests or beatings in progress. There was a single checkpoint staffed by Shimii in uniform, that he easily crossed. All of the villas and parks and the gorgeous lakeside, appeared untouched, just like in the pictures and television programs. There hung numerous banners with strange symbols now, but it was exactly as alien to Josef as the tastes of the previous owners, so it did not perturb him.

When he arrived at the government building, he showed the receptionist the letter.

It felt like all the hustle and bustle he expected to see in the street had been pushed into the government palace in A-block instead. There were hundreds of people coming and going, taking boxes of things out, bringing boxes in. Bringing in furnishings and taking them out. There was a metal painting in the process of being hung on magnets in the walls of the lobby. The painting depicted the Eisental region, but with subregional separations that Kohler had never seen before. He was ushered away before he could examine it.

“Please wait here. The Reichskommissar will see you shortly.” Said the receptionist.

“Wait, the Reichskommissar? I thought I would be meeting a negotiator or–”

Without listening to him, the receptionist simply left and closed the door behind her.

 Kohler stared speechless at the door. He then took a seat.

This was a small, ancillary office, nothing but a desk and some chairs, if it had been decorated to any further extent before then those decorations had been stripped, probably loaded into a box and taken out with the rest of the junk. There was nothing particularly intimidating about it, the place was extremely ordinary. It felt like he was visiting the tax office or the licensing bureau, except he was not waiting for some functionary.

Why would Violet Lehner come talk to him in person?

When the door opened next, it took all of Kohler’s power not to stare or make a gesture.

A woman walked right past him, her wildly colored hair clashing with her black uniform.

She was breezy and confident in her gait, casually taking her place behind the desk.

As if this was any other event for her, as if her presence was so natural.

“Mister Kohler, I am glad my letter reached you. Let’s talk about ending this strike.”

“I– Yes.”

Her voice was a little bit nasal– Kohler thought it was unusual for a woman.

In terms of stature, Kohler was taller, his limbs thicker, even in his suit, he was the working class man in the room. Across from him, Lehner was almost wispy in her figure, like a dark fairy who might vanish the moment he took his eyes off her. She had a strange but captivating beauty. He couldn’t keep himself from staring at the colors of her hair. It was almost ridiculous to him that this woman was now the master of the station and the region of Eisental at large. But clearly, if she achieved that– she was formidable.

And he thought, when she moved, when she spoke, that she had a certain presence.

Her every breath betrayed her belief in her own power and advantage, exuding confidence.

Kohler was dealing a girl much younger than he, a girl who looked almost unserious.

Yet he was immediately pressured and rendered cautious by her gaze and voice alone.

“I strongly believe that this meeting can be mutually beneficial to us. To start, I would like to hear from you the motivation behind the strike, and your demands in full.” Violet began.

“Yes.” Kohler said. “Months ago– after the elections–” He paused to gather his breath. He had found himself about to stammer and he had to project confidence. “Rhineametalle instituted productivity targets that demanded intolerable work hours on the shops in order to fulfill them. When some of the veterans complained, they fired all the old hats, and hired a bunch of younger guys and girls. But trying to train those kids, it was impossible to meet the targets. And then the targets were set to go up again, because of demands from the government. That’s when we’d had it. Even younger workers joined the strike. That was how bad it was, Reichskommissar. They were practically demanding we live in the shops.”

“I don’t disagree that in those conditions, the production targets were set carelessly.”

Violet agreeing with him, even mildly, came as a staggering surprise to Kohler.

“We either need wages to go up, and more guys and machines in the shops– or we need the targets to go back down and our work hours to normalize again in turn.” Kohler said. “They can throw out all the guys they want, and they can hire all the kids they want to replace them. Even if they replace all the guys with new machines that can shove the metal into themselves and stitch it all themselves perfectly and then shuttle it themselves out of the shop– they aren’t getting out a Dreadnought’s worth of plates every day.”

“I agree. And replacing you all with miracle-machines would take up space that we don’t have in those shops anyway. So the realistic option is to talk things out as humans.”

“Listen, Reichskommissar.” He had gotten so used to calling her by her title. But it felt too surreal to call her Miss Lehner or anything else. “I’m– I’m not political here. None of the guys and girls in the shops are being political about this. We all respect the government, we live here. We just need a fair shake for once. We’ll go back to work, as soon as we have a contract that makes sense. We’re not gonna work ourselves to death failing to meet targets that keep rising in desperation and getting punished for it– not for last year’s wages.”

“All of that sounds acceptable to me.” Violet said. She steepled her fingers and smiled. “Here’s my proposal, Mr. Kohler. I looked through the production totals for the Tower Nine plant going back two years. Productivity was steadily growing– until the start of the war, when production targets grew immensely. I want you to agree to work out a plan for a 4% increase in weekly productivity in ninety days, but based on last year’s production scheme, with a guarantee that hours and totals will revert to that scheme and will not rise haphazardly. This is incumbent on immediate resumption of deliveries.”

That was much better than Kohler expected. Only 4% was doable with what they had.

He felt confident to push a bit. Violet seemed amenable.

“Ma’am, I am almost positive that we could get you a 6% increase on last year– if you could agree to the reinstatement of some of my trade union boys that got fired before. We got some kids who joined the strike, and a lot that didn’t. But I got guys with families ma’am, good guys, who you could bring back, and we could do so much more. With only the greenhorn kids, I don’t know that I’ll get you 3%. What do you say to that?”

“Very well. But I have an additional condition to add as well.” Violet said.

“I’m listening.” Kohler said. He felt safe– he thought he was winning her over right now.

Across the desk, Violet put on a cheekier and even more conceited grin.

“I want all of your union members present and future to join the Eisental National Socialist Party, which I will soon chair, as our first National Socialist Trade Union. Through the Party, we will organize all future labor contracts. Before you balk at this, know that I won’t demand you attend any pointless political theater for the sake of the party. Those are simply my own numbers which I must meet, and you will help to meet them. In turn, you can have as many of your men back to work as the new hires who did not join the strike. Deal, then?”

Kohler was stunned. “Ma’am, all due respect– that is a bit of a pill to swallow.”

Violet leaned forward a little bit on her desk.

“Mr. Kohler, I am willing to cooperate with you on this endeavor, in a way that nobody else is going to do. Rhineametalle won’t; and Adam Lehner won’t. Before I arrived nobody was trying to help you. I am not your friend; everything is incumbent exclusively on your results. I am taking this risk, at great personal cost, because I have crunched the numbers and the numbers do not lie. I know you can make these numbers and I know it will benefit us both. Those numbers will be met, whether by you and your trade union buddies or by someone else. But I don’t want to replace you. Please make the rational choice, just like me.”

Violet slowly drew back and laid against her chair, looking relaxed.

While Kohler felt himself sweating just a bit.

“Think about it.” She said. Her voice sounded almost sultry. “Destiny awaits.”

Kohler found his expected poisoned chalice, but now golden and studded with gems.

It was so much more difficult to turn it down or to argue against it.

Because if he could survive the poison, he had the gold and gems right in his grasp.

He was not lying to Violet. Few if any of his workers viewed themselves as activists first.

They made their living in stitching and shaping and treating steel that was then to be used in weapons for the Empire. They were part of the war machine. Had they all been ideologues, they would have quit the job when Rhineametalle quietly continued making weapons for the National Socialists. Had any of them been commies or pacifists, they would have quit even before that. All that they wanted was to live comfortably with their families. Their jobs were rare in that they were in constant demand and paid well and had perks.

None of them wanted to end up as contractors.

But he would have to surrender the union to the Volkisch. Could he do that?

Kohler imagined himself in a black uniform, with a sun disk on his chest, an eagle armband.

Some part of him was repelled by it– but his pragmatic mind told him it didn’t matter.

Getting paid and continuing to live mattered more than keeping his conscience clean.

Was the Volkisch Movement any worse than the Emperor and all that, anyway?

And Violet Lehner seemed so reasonable. She actually believed in the workers.

“Reichskommissar, soon as I see that deal in an official stamped document, we’ll sign it.”

He reached across the desk. Violet took his hand and gave it a curt little shake.

“Fantastic. I will get my Reich Ministry to put it all into a contract for your review. I’ll expedite it– I of course expect you’ll continue to man your barricade in the meantime.” She said.

“I’ll stay here until it’s ready and take it back to them, if that’s what it takes.” Kohler said.

“Splendid. We’re planning big things here, Mr. Kohler. I’m happy you’ll be on board.”

Kohler tried not to think about how ominous any of this sounded, nor meet Violet’s gaze. He was a member of a National Socialist Trade Union now– but god damn it, he’d be a fed and clothed member of a National Socialist Trade Union. He’d have a job and benefits.

He wouldn’t be out on the street.

Or dead.

In his eyes, that was a victory for labor.


Violet Lehner could have had any of the villas in A-block as a home, having purged most of the local politicians and men of influence who had taken up residence in the shadow of the Kreuzung central government. Of the vacancies, she preferred one of the smaller and more out of the way plots. On the opposite side of the lake from the main road, there was a small white house. While it was two stories tall, it consisted of only a foyer, a dining room, kitchen and a bathroom and bedroom on the upper floor. No sweeping wings with dozens of bedrooms. It was a little square thing that was almost cute to look at.

After working until 2000 hours, Violet finally retired from the office to her new home.

Having spent all day in meetings about every conceivable aspect of Kreuzung, arranging new appointees, speaking with the corporatins, as well as looking through Kreuzung’s records with her own eyes and coming up with her own ideas of how it should be managed henceforth– she was exhausted. All of the shouting and speechifying was bouncing around in her skull. She wanted to eat, and to sleep, and to be alone with her thoughts.

She was quietly driven out of the government palace, around the lake, and left at her home. Two armed guards would take the night shift guarding her home. She welcomed them to have dinner, but they declined, having already eaten. They requested to be able to pray, instead. Violet agreed wholeheartedly, and she left them to do so on her porch.

Inside, the house was sparsely decorated. Unlike some of the other villas, this one had been unoccupied, it was up for sale, and Violet had purchased it. It was a drop in the bucket compared to the windfall that Kreuzung had repossessed in its sweeping purges of the liberal government and their ill-gotten gains. Violet hung up her cap, cape and jacket near the door, and undid the top buttons on her shirt, removing the tie. She ran her hands through her colorful hair and sighed deeply, making her way to the kitchen.

She had only two major kitchen appliances: a refrigerator, and a dehydrator. She had a pantry, a cupboard, and she had a mortar and pestle out on small island.

Violet wandered over to the dehydrator. A tall metal box with nine racks inside, designed to perfectly hold temperatures between 40 and 50 degrees centigrade. She opened the box, and there was already a rack where she had been warming up some nuts all day. She left them on the island while she gathered herbs and garlic from her refrigerator. From the pantry, she took a small bottle of olive oil. With everything assembled, she pulled up her sleeves a bit and got to pounding the ingredients in her granite mortar and pestle.

There was something therapeutic about the action.

Her mind practically emptied as she smashed the herbs, garlic and nuts along with a bit of flaky salt, periodically splashing oil into the mix until she had a loose paste.

Then, she withdrew some mushrooms with big caps from her pantry, the stems having already been cut off, and she spread the paste on the underside of each mushroom cap like pieces of buttered toast. She put four such mushrooms on a plate, paste-side up, and took her light dinner to the dining room table along with a glass of lemon water.

She sat down and took her first bite. She already knew it would taste good, but she was still surprised at how fresh and hearty it felt every time she had it. Vegetal and earthy, with a fresh, bright taste from the herbs, this was real food, living food. In her mind, something like a fried sausage was like eating cancer. It was a pity that they could not feed the soldiers a diet like the one she had. They did not understand its virtues, and it simply was not cheap– promoting raw vegan food was a longer term project for Violet. For now, she had to accept the political realities, but someday. Someday everyone would eat only like this.

It would be a better world, a healthier world, a corrected world.

A perfect, superior world.

A world of truly modern humans enlightened by a scientific yet mythopoetic political ideal.

That ideal was Fascism, in the particular expression Violet herself championed.

Halfway through her dinner, she heard the front door open.

It did not worry her.

Someone put up a coat in the foyer. There was the approaching clack of heeled shoes.

Around the corner appeared a familiar figure, smiling as she took her place at the table.

Vesna Nasser, loosening her own tie and undoing a few buttons on her shirt.

Violet smiled back at her.

Nasser was a sight. She was tall and beautiful, with a strong gaze and countenance. She had an amazing figure, like the treatments they both received had brought out three times as much of a woman from her body as from Violet’s. Her blond hair and golden ears and tail only added to Violet’s interest. Already predisposed to Shimii, Violet thought that Nasser was the most perfect example of the grace and wild beauty of her kin.

Everyone else was deeply afraid of her majesty.

“Want some?” Violet asked, pointing to the last mushroom cap on her plate.

“I already ate, but I appreciate it.” Nasser replied.

“You’re missing out.” Violet said, with a little grin.

She picked up the mushroom cap and took a bite. Some of the spread got on her lips.

Nasser reached out and smudged the paste over Violet’s lips, grinning back.

“I’m not a convert to your silly diet, you know.” She said.

“It’s not silly– it’s scientific. Someday we must all eat like this.”

“Tell me, how does a dehydrator not constitute cooking? I still don’t understand that.”

“Heating up food past around 47 C kills all the nutrients, but just warming it up will inhibit bacterial growth while expressing some of the living flavor compounds.” Violet said.

“If you say so.” Nasser’s ears twitched. Her smile spread even farther, and she chuckled.

Glaring at her, Violet ate the last of her mushroom in one big bite.

“How was your trip to Tower Seven? How are the people there?” Violet asked.

“Badly abused, but resilient.” Nasser said. “Leija was a disaster, so I could not get anything important done. I left a few people with her to force to her clean up. I need to make sure she is in command of the place, before we begin serving carrots and swinging sticks.”

“Good idea. Don’t feel too rushed. Every Shimii stronghold is worth the effort for us.”

“I will keep that in mind, Reichskommissar.” Nasser said playfully.

Violet narrowed her eyes at the tone with which she pronounced her title.

But she decided not to make anything of it. She would just get teased even more.

This house and their stay in it was not for productive conversations about work anyway.

“I’m tired, Vesna. I’m going upstairs.” Violet said.

“Mind if I join you? We haven’t had the privacy to just chat for some time.” Nasser said.

“Oh, of course I don’t mind. My home is your home, always.”

They made their way upstairs.

Up a quaint-looking set of steps in the little foyer, empty save for their coats hung near the door. Violet began undoing more of her shirt’s buttons with a mind as empty as the surroundings, with each step taken up to the second floor. She felt Nasser’s hands lay on her shoulders and rub them, and she thought idly about taking a bath before deciding to do so in the morning, before she headed off back to the palace to continue her work.

As soon as she crossed the door into her bedroom, she felt Nasser’s grip on her tighten.

In an instant, Violet found herself nearly hurled onto the bed, face-down.

Nasser was on top of her just as quickly.

One hand running through Violet’s hair and grabbing.

And the other hand forcefully pulling down her pants from over her ass.

Violet did not resist.

She was bleary with anticipation and the forcefulness of her partner.

Her shirt was falling off her shoulders purely from the brusqueness of how she was handled.

“Vesna–”

“Quiet.” Vesna said, gentle but authoratative.

Violet went silent.

Vesna leaned forward, putting her weight on Violet.

Her lips left sucking kisses on Violet’s neck, her back, her exposed shoulders.

Then a bite that felt deep enough to leave red.

Violet cried out in surprise.

She heard and felt Vesna pulling down her skirt, and it sliding off onto the bed.

Felt her pants finally come down.

A hand slid under her belly and urged her to lift her hips.

“I love you, Vesna.” Violet said, her voice fading in the midst of her lovestruck stupor.

Vesna’s voice in her ear. “I’ll imprint how I feel right into your skin, mein Schatzi.”


In one of the cleaned-out rooms in the government palace, a holoprojection-capable table was arrayed in the middle, and it became a tactical room and the embryonic nerve center of the Reichskommissariat’s fleet activities. Barely a few days into Eisental’s transformation, its architects gathered in the room and around the table to formally commence the next phase of their operation. Kreuzung was their stronghold, but all of Eisental had to be taken.

Projected between them was a map of Eisental’s regions, stations, and projections of ship traffic between them. Stations were displayed by size and type. Business traffic was simulated in real time as it was known and regulated. Around Kreuzung was the ever-growing fleet of “Player Black.” In the far northwest in Aachen, close to the continent and Ayre; in the east near Khaybar; in the northeast around Stralsund group of towers; appeared the theoretical fleets of “Player Red,” “Player Green,” and “Player Yellow.”

It was “Black’s” turn to move.

At the head of the table was Violet Lehner, flanked by her dutiful adjutant Vesna Nasser. On accession of Violet to Reichskommissar, Nasser was promoted to Oberführer.

Opposite her, stood a woman with very orderly dark-blue hair, holding her cap in her hands. Her tail was extremely bushy and a little bit messier than her hair, and her cat-like ears were rounded-off at the tips. She wore her jacket off her shoulders, with her arms out of the sleeves. This was Standartenführer Imani Hadžić, a wealthy and intelligent follower of Nasser’s ideals. On that night, she met no one’s eyes and had a distant expression.

Beside Imani Hadžić, an exceedingly stuffy-looking dark-haired woman glared at her.

Her eyes seemed to take particular umbrage with the way Imani wore her uniform.

Along with this woman was a bubbly blond smiling in a way Violet found stupid.

This was Untersturmführer Emilia Skonieczny, whose career was a peculiar interest.

Then the sides of the table. Violet looked to each, examining their countenances.

On one side was a serious-looking Loup woman, with a long mane of brown hair. Broad-shouldered, tall, and with large hands, a scar cutting across the bridge of her nose and another extending from the side of her mouth near to the peak of cheekbones. She looked the most like a warrior of anyone in the room, but her scars and ruggedness had a sort of romantic and tragic beauty to them, itself evident in the softness of her gaze.

This was the Loup warlord Sushila Hatta of the Khedivate Loup “Silver Wolf Legion.” She was given the rank of Obersturmbannführer and a corresponding uniform within the Eisental fascists, having left the backwaters of Southern Rhinea to join their cause.

Standing beside her was a woman who was also rustic, large and tough — though nowhere near Hatta’s level — with a great quantity of silky brown hair and an unfriendly expression on her pretty young face. Her girlish beauty was yet untouched by war. This was Heidelinde Sawyer, Sturmbannführer in charge of the Volkisch militias. As a kind of insult she was subordinated to Hatta temporarily– Violet did not trust her for a second. She would find a more permanent home for Adam Lehner’s personal attack dog soon enough.

Opposite them was the final member of this group of conspirators. She was a very pale woman, blond, so blond her hair was almost white. Her icy blue eyes and icy-blue lips were twisted in a euphoric expression. Around her neck she wore an enormous medallion with a hooked cross, and she was bedecked in jewels, gold and earrings besides. She was perhaps the oldest woman in the room, with crow’s feet and a lot of makeup. But she boasted a grand and refined beauty, like an actress still slaying the lead role in sensual romance films well into her 50s. Her busty, ample figure was flattered by the uniform.

She was the first one to speak while everyone else was getting settled.

“Aaah! Such powerful auras! I can feel the divine feminine coursing in this room! It is touched by the sign of Venus! It is a site of Ying energy! Here the sun falls and the moon shines in its magnificence! We are pregnant with the future and giving birth to power!”

Everyone stared at her in complete and utter confusion.

Violet narrowed her eyes at the pagan’s rambling, as the woman began to hug herself.

“Divine feminine? I would be very surprised to find any of that in this room.” She said.

Perhaps the strangest of Eisental’s military forces, this chirpy and unwell woman was Luciana Waldeck, head of the Black Sun Valkyries, an all-woman female-spiritualist paramilitary. Like Hatta, she had been given a rank in the Volkisch, but hers was only Sturmbannführer. Violet eyed her skeptically. Her family had once been ennobled, and she threw a lot of money at the Volkisch Movement over the years, and she was now eager to throw even more money and manpower at Eisental. Violet was not particularly fond of her, mainly because she just could not tell whether Luciana knew about Violet’s particular form of femininity–

but she wouldn’t bring it up. That conversation could only be annoying.

Let this idiot proselytize and throw money around, and let her deluded followers die for Violet’s schemes. That was perhaps the best place and the best end for such people.

“It appears that we’re all here.” Hatta said. “I await my orders, Reichskommissar.”

“Indeed, indeed! Let’s talk uniform-type business! I’m so excited!” Luciana added.

Hatta stared at her like she wanted to bite her.

“Very well. Nasser, disclose the situation and preliminary assignments.” Violet said.

“Yes, Reichskommissar.”

Nasser touched the table with her index finger and swiped across.

More information appeared overlayed on the initial map. A prepared set of regional colors.

“Prior to the declaration of the Reichskommisariat, the Eisental region was only loosely governed from Kreuzung. Despite this, most of the region has fallen in line to support our administrative reforms. One notable holdout is Aachen, an industrial station in the north. Over time, Aachen was allowed to grow into a powerful center of administration, commanding large amounts of resources from western Eisental. Aachen is the only other station with political power and economy on par with Kreuzung. Most Western stations are primarily engaged in the harvest of raw materials. Eastern Eisental is mainly Agrispheres with traditionally large Shimii populations. Kreuzung is the most important part of the southern portion of the region, and already under our control. Other than that, the South and Southwest contain many Rhineametalle facilities and a few luxury habitats.”

“Now that you know about the region you can guess what the problem is. We have communicated the changes in status to Aachen and requested acquiescence.” Violet said. “They claim they wish to confirm with the Reichsgau in Thurin before they recognize us. Of course, I don’t believe this is the case.” Violet touched the table as well, tapping on the red units that were located around Aachen. “I am almost positive Aachen is plotting some resistance and stalling for time. They have many reasons not to accept our rule.”

Nasser followed from Violet’s statements naturally. She pushed up her glasses.

“We have good intelligence from a Katarran mole with ties to Aachen, that a constellation of leftist protest movements and paramilitary groups are mustering in the north. This mole also assisted us in predicting the Core Separation– the Cogitans refused the so-called ‘United Front’ and launched their own failed attack which we were able to repulse. So we can trust their information. We can surmise that this United Front is disorganized and its many groups are ideologically divided, so their cohesion will likely be very poor even without the Cogitans. But they could nevertheless constitute a threat if they are allowed to go to ground. Eisental still has the potential to break down into a greater crisis if the leftists get organized.”

“Labor is a big issue. To bring temperatures down and weaken the labor movements, we will establish several centrally-governed National Socialist Trade Unions.” Violet said, following up easily from Nasser. “We will negotiate softly and cautiously cede demands, incumbent on continuation of work, and thus slowly calm the antagonistic animus that Eisental’s labor has toward the corporations. I want to get goods moving to the Rhinean heartland again– however, our goal is also to divert labor and materials preferentially to Rhineametalle. Rhineametalle will get first purchase on all materials, and will work more closely with the Trade Unions than any other corporation. They will then give Eisental preferential buyer status for weapons and technologies. Allowing us to build up our own power.”

“Outside of Trade Unionism, our next potential problem,” Nasser continued from Violet, “Is Eisental’s history with the Shimii people. Shimii are the largest non-Imbrian ethnic group in Eisental, and they have historically been segregated in station towers as well as forced out of industrial work and into the agriculture sector. This is a boiling pot that could explode at any time. However, as you can see all around Kreuzung, our 7th Fleet is a largely Shimii formation. We can court the Shimii into our Trade Unions, and recruit them as a source of manpower for the ‘Zabaniyah’, and equip them with newly-purchased Rhineametalle weapons. Then we’ll use them against our enemies to prevent any further spillage of chaos in Eisental.”

“However, this is all pointless if the leftist forces are allowed to overturn the pot, so to speak. We will send an advance party to suppress the dissidents in Aachen.” Violet said. She touched the table again. Some “Black” units began to move toward Aachen, overlapping the “Red” units. “This will be our first major military maneuver as a Reichskommissariat. Imani Hadžić will be in command, with her flag on the Mrudah. She will have the assistance of Sawyer’s militia, and will have Diver tactical command under Skonieczny. The Mrudah is a new type of vessel and Skonieczny is on the bleeding edge of Diver warfare. I have the utmost confidence that Hadžić can make the most of these assets to crush Aachen.”

Across the table, Imani looked up briefly at Violet before averting her gaze.

Her reticence was a bit confusing– but Nasser trusted her, and so Violet did too.

Sawyer continued to hold her hands behind her back and made no expression.

If Imani could get her killed somehow it would be so much the better.

Emilia Skonieczny put up an extremely forced-looking smile and a thumbs-up.

She looked like an idiot– but if her thesis was correct, Violet would profit mightily.

Aachen would be the proving ground for all of them. No more needed to be said.

“North, West and East Eisental will be divided into Wehrkreis until they are fully pacified, with defense responsibility split up among our forces. Appointments will be formalized after the Aachen adventure. Preliminarily, Hatta and Waldeck will move east and west respectively to begin setting up our new Gau and most importantly, to assert our new economy. Hatta’s Loup follow Rashidun Shimiism so they are the best choice for now to control the east. Waldeck can employ her family’s business acumen to get the west producing again.”

“I am honored to be entrusted this command.” Hatta said, partially bowing to Violet.

“I will miss the amenities here, but I will follow orders.” Waldeck replied snobbishly.

There was more to discuss, but that was the meat of things. Everything was now moving.

On the table, black pieces departed from Kreuzung to each and every station, and slowly, the black filter extended over all of Eisental. From Kreuzung, to Bad Weissee, to Stralsund; to the manufactories of Rhein-Sieg-Kries and the Agrispheres of Baden; to Aachen in the north. In weeks, they would have control of the entire region. In a month, their economy would be back on track. In less than a year, perhaps, Eisental would surpass the heartland in power.

All of it played out on the table, under the widely-grinning face of Violet Lehner.

Her Nationale Volkskrieg had begun– and Endsieg was finally visible in the distance.


Deep in the bowels of Kreuzung, another group of conspirators awaited their own time.

Overhead, a glass observation dome in the baseplate exposed the massive Imbrium ocean. Directly beneath it, with the light of a few LEDs casting her shadow over her subordinate, sat Enforcer I of the Syzygy, Avaritia, atop a small crate in the damp chamber. She loomed over, statuesque, laughing to herself. Fawning over her at her side, with her head on Avaritia’s lap like a very dressed-up kitten, was Enforcer III, Gula. Avaritia gently stroked Gula’s long hair while looking down at a woman kowtowing in front of her and copiously weeping.

“Please, Exalted, my troops did all that we could. I beg you– if you must punish anyone, punish me alone for my weakness. The Wizard class was supposed to have the blood and instincts of powerful tacticians, and I have disgraced it. Please– punish only me.”

Wizard III begged, crawling shamelessly in front of Avaritia’s feet.

“Wizard III– If I were to spare only a single one of your troops. Please name one.”

Avaritia spoke in a cruel, uncaring tone of voice.

Wizard III felt a jolt of terror directly into her heart. Her lips quivered, teeth chattered.

She felt almost insane to be responding to this awful question.

Insane to know her answer.

“Vanguard IX.” She said. “She fought most valiantly of all of us. Please spare her!”

Avaritia suddenly started laughing.

She bent down, reached for Wizard III’s head.

And softly and condescendingly patted her hair with a cheery grin on her face.

“My darling, did you hear that? Wasn’t it romantic? Wasn’t it so unlike Wizard III?”

Gula rubbed her cheek on Avaritia’s lap, giggling.

“Darling, it was exceedingly romantic!”

“Wizard III, you failed me, but I am proud of you nevertheless. I could feel it in that instant. That little bit of humanity in you– that little spark of greed. It was worth making this trip just to see that become a part of you.” Avaritia’s eyes formed their cross-hairs again and locked on to Wizard III. In turn, she withered at the attention of her exalted leader. She put her head low to the ground and continued to bow without daring to look up, terrified.

“Of course, we will reward such romance! Besides, we need the troops intact anyway.”

Gula said, before extending a very long tongue out to lick Avaritia’s hand.

Avaritia’s fingers absentmindedly toyed with the long, slender tongue like a little toy.

“Indeed, indeed. But, there is one action I must regrettably take, in response to all of this.”

Avaritia lifted the hand that was toying with Gula’s tongue. Casually, she reached down.

Then effortlessly ripped Wizard III’s arm out of its socket with a horrific wet crunch.

Wizard III gritted her teeth, groaned, struggling to hold her bow. Her entire body shaking.

“Please use this to assist Vanguard IX in recovering. She needs an arm more than you do.”

Through the dizzying pain, Wizard III continued to bow. “As you command, Exalted.”

She held that bow valiantly, never collapsing even as the blood flowed.

Avaritia toyed with the arm a bit and pondered.

In all likelihood they would be a little late to the conference in Aachen, but that was fine.

All of their plans had become longer-term than any of them wanted.

But what good was a Destiny devoid of romance? Their destination was set, so why hurry?

“I am curious what more the hominin are capable of– let us watch them for now.”

Avaritia smiled in the darkness, her cross-hair flashing.

And her shadow stretching across the room as a hundred-limbed, serpentine horror.


“I’m telling you, I’m fine now.”

Majida al-Khaybari cast a tired glance at Raaya al-Shahouh, who was fussing over her.

She stood at the side of Majida’s bed with her arms spread out, preventing her from rising.

“You need to stay in bed.” Raaya said. “Please. Just a few more days. For me.”

“Raaya. Please step aside.” Majida’s breathing was troubled. She broke into a sweat.

“What happened to me being your wife, Majida? Sometimes wives must do these things.”

“Not so loud.” Majida moaned. She dropped back into bed, defeated.

Had Raaya made any more of a fuss, Mawla Asma or someone else close to her could have heard, and then they would both have some very awkward explaining to do.

Unlike Majida, bedridden and ill, the Mawla had a rare and blessed streak of good health and was engaged in inspecting the various tunnels and modules of Khaybar. Though Majida was not the “ruler” of Khaybar, she still felt a strong sense of responsibility for the community and as she lay in bed, she only grew more nervous of what the Mawla might think. Majida had been accruing more and more military resources while making only humble improvements to the life support and food systems. The Mawla might disprove of her ambitions.

Seeing Majida drop back into bed, Raaya sighed and sat down at her side.

“Everything will be fine.” Raaya said. “You’ll get to terrorize the world again soon.”

“Funny.” Majida replied sarcastically. It did little to lighten the mood.

Around them the room was fairly dark. In a corner of the room there was an improvised lamp of LED bulbs wired into a battery, but it was rather dim. The entrance to Majida’s simple abode was a physical door with a lever-catch. She had no possessions except her bed, and a chest for her clothes. Anything else she needed was outside that door, with the ummah she cherished. Her only precious treasure in that room now was Raaya herself.

Majida turned her head and looked at the rock wall of their room.

Her mood took a dark turn as she imagined the Mawla making the rounds.

All of these people whom Majida had sworn to protect, to save; to uphold their justice.

She had promised the old warlord al-Khaybari that she would protect everyone.

Was it even possible to protect them? Living in this cave, with hunger and sickness?

Confined here eternally, and for what? For the sin of believing differently?

In a sense, was she any better for the ummah than that bastard Radu?

Was she really just an illusionist then? Another false hope for their beaten people?

Majida felt a rare swell of emotion.

She began to weep and she hated herself for it. She felt so weak and so helpless.

In her mind, she envisioned the man whose DNA she was cursed to bear.

“Raaya, was I born to bring misfortune? Was Mehmed truly so evil that I must suffer too? Can I do nothing? It feels as if I was destined to struggle fruitlessly. I am afraid for us.”

Raaya smiled gently. She reached for a bucket of cool water and dipped a towel in it.

“My father used to say that ‘to believe in Destiny is to disbelieve in justice’.” She said.

She laid the towel on Majida’s head. It provided some relief from the heat she was feeling.

Even more relieving was the gentle gaze and comforting touch of her companion.

“I like that.” Majida said softly. She smiled bitterly. “I want to believe in that.”

Raaya tenderly laid down at her side. “Majida, I truly believe you are living proof of it.”

Majida shut her eyes, comforted by Raaya’s presence.

She wanted so dearly to believe that, in spite of everything, God loved her.

That God loved her people too– and that they were not cursed to die in this place.

She had to recover soon. She needed to get out there again and fight for them.

If it was against such a cruel Destiny– Majida would curse and fight it with all her strength.


“Ha! Ha ha ha! Incredible! A Core Separation? How inventive! And they still lost?”

Laughter boomed through the room and out into the adjacent hallway.

“Such trick was only necessary for lack of martial prowess! A sign of weakness! Pathetic!”

Seated on an collection of colorful inflatable chairs, for one cushion along was not enough to hold her stature: Labrys Agamemnon. A “representative” of the Mycenae Military Commission of Southern Katarre, she had suddenly burst out laughing at some news.

She laughed at the thought of the terror Kreuzung must have gone through, and the folly of the Cogitans who still failed even after such an audacious gambit. Truly the Cogitans were the weakest race on the planet, reliant always on trickery. Only the Imbrians were truly war-like and mighty enough to rival the Katarran race in any way, she thought to herself.

Labrys lounged in a penthouse prepared for her in Stralsund, one of Eisental’s few luxury habitats. Unlike Kreuzung, which was a tower-type station, Stralsund was an arcology, with a domed structure and vast underground works. Stralsund’s upper level, under the dome, had free-form construction, with streets and discrete buildings, and it was a gorgeous and racuous pleasure resort. Standing at 3 meters tall, Labrys was not going to be comfortable anywhere but the upper level, where there was “sky” overhead, rather than a ceiling scraping against her horns. And only a VIP suite with a sliding glass ceiling would do for her pleasures. Seated on her cushioned throne, holding a bottle of fine wine by the neck, with a tray of charcuterie meat balanced on the flat and broad side of the axe-shaped tip of her tail.

“I thought the audacity of the method would appeal to you. Perhaps give you ideas.”

“Hah! You still don’t know me very well, Asan. If you’re trying to suck up, try harder!”

“I am simply concerned about our position.” Replied the annoyingly curt Shimii.

Labrys suddenly leaned forward, eye to eye with her inexpressive subordinate.

“Being concerned isn’t your job. But I could give you something to be concerned about.”

Asan did not waver in front of Labrys, despite the gargantuan difference in size. A slender, fair and almost cute Shimii woman, purple hair and a little lab coat, all made up in pigments; versus the Colossus of Sebbenytos, red and orange hair like flames, clad in golden armor, her muscled figure lacquered bronze, whose very tail was a deadly weapon. It would have made for a farcical scene had it not been for the sheer power and menace Labrys exuded.

In deference to that power, and the control it had over her life, Asan stepped back.

She dropped to one knee in deference to the warlord.

Labrys grinned and leaned back.

Raising her wine bottle and nearly downing it all in one gulp.

While Asan waited to be either dismissed or addressed once again.

She was lucky she was so useful– anyone else so out of line, Labrys would have beheaded.

Talking back to a superior was close enough to sin for a death sentence in Mycenae.

“Tell me, how is our little Warlord doing? You should be here to talk about your actual responsibility, rather than bringing me fucking news, don’t you think?” Labrys snapped.

“I apologize for my impudence. Her review is nearly complete. The troops respect her.”

Labrys smiled, bearing all of her many sharp teeth.

“Of course they respect her. She was created to rule. It is her inalienable genetic Destiny. Neither of us would be alive and here if she could not command basic respect.”

She reached out her enormous hand and prodded Asan with one large, sharp finger.

Again Asan locked eyes with Labrys without expression.

“But her creator is perfectly fallible. She could fail me yet. And I’d hate for that to happen.”

“Physiologically, Astra’s body is without flaw.” Asan said. “She has not shown any signs–”

“I’ve heard this once before.” Labrys said, moving her tail, plate and all, close to Asan.

Before Asan could offer a rebuttal, or shy away from the blade, a door opened behind them.

Both Labrys and Asan quieted, since the subject of their discussion had just appeared.

They quickly shed all hostility and tension and awaited acknowledgment from the girl.

Dressed in a uniform that was gold with black trim, festooned with medals.

Their new arrival was a short and slight woman with a confident gait, incredibly beautiful features, very fair and regal, with copious pale hair that almost touched the floor. In her hair there were several thin black antennae interspersed within it, with a few of these structures stiffly arranged in something like a four-pronged crown at the back of her head. Infrequently, a spark of electricity would crackle from that crown. Trailing behind her was a pair of spindly, eel-like tails that could be manipulated, but were currently just dragging.

As a Panthalassian, she had inherited features from the DNA of a– rare– donor animal.

Perhaps one of the rarest and most dangerous in the world.

It had to be that way– had she been born any lesser, Mycenae would have rejected her.

That superior DNA contained the oaths that kept Mycenae together.

When she looked upon her, Labrys could almost see Katarre reunited again too.

“Long live the Palaiologoi! For the Golden Age!” Labrys said, putting her fist to her chest.

That fist still clutching the nearly empty wine bottle, even in the presence of her lord.

At this scene, the Mycenean Warlord Astra Palaiologos II simply smiled.

She was young still, and forgave the excesses of her great and terrible mentor quite easily.

Or at the very least, she mostly ignored them.

Labrys loved to see that beautiful little smile on her face.

That naïve, malleable smile.

“Lord Agamemnon. I have completed my inspection of the troops. It is satisfactory.” Astra said softly. “Even those rambunctious mercenaries seemed to be falling in line for me. Spirits remain high too, even in the circumstances. Many seem excited for what may come.”

“Of course! It is in the blood of every Mycenean to see opportunity in chaos.”

Labrys reached out her enormous hand and patted Astra on the shoulder.

Asan averted her gaze as Astra looked eager in the presence of the dark Colossus.

“We stand to make a lot of money, my liege.” Labrys said. “Our time is soon to come. Just give the Eisental pot a few more degrees. It is bound to explode, and so will our profits.”

Astra nodded her head. She said nothing more. She was a quiet girl, often with her thoughts.

That part of her, Labrys wasn’t too keen on. But it did not matter.

Quiet was fine as long as she remained compliant.

Soon, this patch of the Imbrium, including that girl, would all be dancing on her palm.

Labrys knew for certain it was her Destiny to ascend to ever greater riches.

And maybe even power. Over Mycenae– over all of Katarre.

That was the unalienable truth inscribed into her DNA.


On an enormous television in the middle of a lavish pink room, a soft couch full of big, fluffy teddy bears watched scenes of carnage that played out in a distant place on a distant day. The Rhinea News Network had been playing the events of the Kreuzung Core Separation nonstop. Opinionated guests urged citizens to throw their full support behind the Volkisch Movement, and referred to the Core hijackers ominously as “the alternative” to the Volkisch law and order. Every day a new reason to fear arose. Weakness from the Liberals allowed crime or terrorism or extreme communist violence or another abstract demon to slip into Kreuzung’s core. And your home could be the next one attacked by the madness.

From the midst of the plushies, a slender and fair hand made a gesture in the air.

The television shut off with a quick command from a remote.

“It’s incoherent, but it will scare the oldsters who still watch RNN.”

Gloria Innocence Luxembourg spread her arms and yawned, leaning back on her couch.

All of this was quite sad– and she felt a touch of regret about it all too.

She had been watching days of this mess playing out in the media, while waiting for the delegates to the United Front to arrive at Aachen. It was not the media narrative itself that troubled her– the RNN’s right-wing slant was well known. Even the RNN’s accession to the premier media of the Rhinean government would not do much. Most of Rhinea was composed of apolitical liberal Imbrians who did not suddenly become fascists just from having one news network that was known to be toxic put in their faces.

What did haunt her– was the sheer enormity of the situation at hand.

Twelve ships of the Cogitan remnant fleet caused a monumental event to transpire. They very nearly destroyed an entire station, and could have killed hundreds of thousands. They attacked the core of an Imbrian station. Violated the taboo and nearly eliminated a human habitat. In her mind, that felt massive. It exerted its own gravity that felt crushing in its weight. Humanity could have been reduced. They could have lost Kreuzung as land.

Gloria was not just planning for hypothetical conflicts anymore.

It was actual war now. War that could become apocalyptic.

Soon, such decisions would be in Gloria’s own hands as well.

They would be her duty. Everyone would expect her to be decisive.

Everything on the television had felt so distant, once upon a time.

Other people’s problems. Outside the walls of her beautiful gardens.

Now, war and violence was hurtling toward Gloria, or Gloria herself hurtling toward it. Headlong, without pause. She had set into motion events that could not be taken back and written pages that could not be ripped. The “Red Player” on the board. The little rich Princess on a vast stage. Hundreds of lights would shine demanding upon her soon.

Her hand on the remote trembled.

She thought of words she heard Kremina Qote scream at the crew of the Brigand.

There is no United Front without Daksha Kansal.

Could Gloria Innocence Luxembourg give more to the world than Daksha Kansal?

Could she give more than Leda Lettiere– could she give her entire life for this?

Gloria remembered, so long ago, when her eyes met those of Leda Lettiere–

that power–

She hugged one of her plushies close. Hugged it extremely tight.

She smiled to herself. Whatever was she worriying about?

A few tears shed from her eyes. There was no turning back. It was done.

She was trapped in this and could do nothing but accept it.

No– she had been hurtling toward war for a long time now.

More than just the thought of Leda Lettiere and what she had meant– her school days were days of loss and transformation that revealed the world as too evil for her to endure.

Those days overturned ideas of power and nobility that she had long held.

Since then, she knew she had to claim the gold of the Gods for her own wicked self.

From the moment that Leda Lettiere met the gallows–

Gloria Innocence Luxembourg had received her inevitable Destiny.


At the top of the main building of the Rhinea News Network in Thurin station, the Fuhrer Adam Lehner had a private office, decorated to his liking, from which he ruled the country. At his back the wall was entirely glass, his window into all of Thurin below him. Furnished with a tall leather executive chair; a desk made of real wood; glass cases with models of ships on the walls. On that day, the model on his desk, which he had just recently assembled himself, was a Ritter-class Cruiser from Maximus Models’ “Highest Grade” line.

It was assembled without its various gun turrets, and partially painted blue.

Lehner stared at it for a few minutes while waiting for a visit from his officers.

He reached out an index finger and nudged it ever so slightly.

Enjoying the cooler angle that it had from his vantage, when poked a little to right.

Without the guns, it had such a sleek profile. And the guns were annoying to glue anyway.

Then an LED blinked on his desk to alert him to someone at his door.

Lehner cast a bored look at the door then returned his attention to the model.

Through the door walked two figures in black uniforms.

One was familiar, the Chief of Staff of the Rhinean Navy, Walther Weddel. A round-headed, very sweaty man with a rather wan and pathetic expression– Lehner felt almost disgusted to look at him sometimes. He was so disappointing. Lehner had told Weddel that he needed to put on some muscle, and if Weddel was even trying, it was impossible to see. However, the person next to him, despite being a woman, was the far more impressive one.

It was this woman that caused Lehner to lift his gaze from his sexy model ship.

All of the gallantry Walther lacked as a man, Hedwig von Treckow seemed to possess. She was taller than him, leaner, with sharper facial features, and particularly long and attractive legs. Her dark, shoulder-length hair had a fantastic sheen, long and wavy with a slight curl in the ends, and an ornamental braid on one side. Her makeup was perfect– Lehner paid particularly attention to her lips. Outside of the recent promotions Lehner had heaped on Violet and her freakish clique, von Treckow was one of the very few self-made female admiralty of the Volkisch Movement, with the rank of Brigadeführer. Female admiralty in the Volkisch movement wore a pants uniform rather than a skirt, and it only made Treckow look all the more comparable to Weddel, and again, absolutely not in his favor.

Lehner almost wanted to crack some kind of joke that Treckow should just become a man and replace Weddel in the high command for optics; but it made him think about Violet and all that assorted scandal and he did not want to promote further thinking along those lines. So instead he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms, bored and awaiting the two of them to report. He knew some of the points they were going to bring up already.

“We’ve got good news and bad news, don’t we? Start with the good news.”

“Heil, Fuhrer,” Treckow said, speaking before Weddel, “we have arranged a ninety day ceasefire with the Royal Alliance’s main force under the Brauchitsch admiralty. A few mercenaries and stray bannermen attempted to take parting shots, but were easily repelled without the main force of the nobles. The front is already quieting down as we speak.”

“Sorry doll, that’s bad news for me.” Lehner said. He groaned. “That’s news that makes us look weak. I didn’t say ‘no’ when this was proposed, and I could’ve, because I’m the guy, but I don’t have to like it. Put that under bad news and tell me something else. How are those royal bastards holding up? They can’t possibly still have parity with us, can they?”

“In the final accounting, we did just a bit more damage to them than they did to us.” Weddel said, taking over for Treckow. Lehner already wished Treckow had continued speaking. If Weddel wasn’t such a good manager, he would have demoted him to staff mailman just to avoid having to see and hear him. “And they have far less ability to recover long term. We have Rhineametalle and Skuld Armaments and all that– we have corporations with developed industrial pipelines. They only have whatever bits of Bruckwaldt Armorers that managed to flee to Yucatan with the clan. We will whittle them down long term.”

“Long term doesn’t matter!” Lehner said. “I wanted these puffed-up queers dead yesterday. We should’ve had all the metals and food they’re sitting on! If I did, then I wouldn’t have to lose sleep over Rhineametalle and those corporate bastards you trust so much!”

“Sir– I’m– Well–”

Weddel looked at a loss for words.

Treckow cleared her throat and interrupted his stuttering.

“Fuhrer, I have a proposal to turn the ceasefire to our advantage.” She said.

“Now that is what I like to hear.” Lehner said, his eyes suddenly interested in more than Treckow’s legs and chest. “See, Walther, that’s initiative. You’d do good to dig some up.”

Weddel frowned. He eyed Treckow as if to bid her to please continued speaking.

“Sir,” Treckow continued. “The internal situation of the Royal Alliance is deeply complicated. There are multiple competing interests within their stronghold in Yucatan. During a hot war, these factions do not have opportunity to seek their own advantages– issuing a ceasefire is necessary for their military wing to reorganize, but it will give their political factions the space to further feud. We can use the time to infiltrate, reconnoiter and exploit the political divisions of the Alliance to weaken it from the inside and make it easier to destroy.”

Lehner sat in silence for a bit, blinking, a vacant look on his face.

He then clapped his hands.

“Fantastic! Finally! Look, Weddel– a winning mentality! Please, Treckow, tell me more.”

He put on a smile and stared even more intently at Treckow.

She continued to fix his gaze without making any undue expressions.

Lehner had almost wanted her to blush or act girlish but it apparently just wasn’t her style.

“There are three main weak points which we can target to weaken the Alliance. We should begin to sneak in Sicherheitsdienst and Stabswache agents into the Yucatan to take advantage of this. I would like to plan to do so in the upcoming prisoner exchanges.”

“Draft a proposal, and Weddel, take everything she says very seriously.” Lehner said.

“Of course– I’m the one who brought here, I cosign everything–”

“Shut up and let her talk, Weddel.”

Treckow continued speaking as if Weddel and Lehner were not feuding.

She held up three black-gloved fingers.

“First point: recently the Sedlitz and Lothair families formalized a merger through marriage between their young scions, in order to provide the Alliance with a ‘king and queen’ and a ‘royal court’ to replace the Fuellers.” Treckow said. “Sethlitz and Lothair were the 3rd and 5th houses in the Imbrium Empire as the Fuellers led it– but of course, the lower houses are not all necessarily accepting that the Fueller status quo should be reproduced within the Alliance. We could potentially find and promote a competing royal couple from the lower houses to sow discord within the aristocrats. It would be especially useful if we could disrupt the 8th House too, Brauchitsch– they are responsible for training and strategy.”

“This one’s a tricky idea.” Weddel said. “We don’t necessarily have an in here–”

Lehner spoke up. “We have aristocrats right in this room.” He said. “Treckow, you are part of the Treckow family– or you used to be– correct? They were the 9th House, once upon a time. Surely we have more former aristocrats around who could infiltrate the Alliance.”

Treckow shut her eyes. “I will do as you command, for national socialism. Never has a Treckow officer abandoned her leader and duty– save for my disgraced clan–”

Weddel cringed.

“Please don’t send Treckow away, Fuhrer. It’s– It’s so hard to get good help–”

Lehner bared his teeth.

“I didn’t mean Treckow specifically! You dolt! Ugh. Treckow, what’s point two?”

“Yes, Fuhrer,” Treckow said, “Point two entails the preponderance of mercenaries in the Royal Alliance. Katarrans, Loup and certain Imbrian adventurers have been fighting as monarchist soldiers of fortune. These forces are smaller than the core of veterans that Brauchitsch has been leading for the Alliance, but they are significant enough. If we could turn them at a crucial moment, it could shift the tide of the war in our favor. Alternatively, we can at least pay them enough to look the other way at our initial infiltrations.”

“I’m not buying any mercenaries.” Lehner said. “If there’s anything the Royal Alliance has it’s money– all those fucking nobles are loaded with diamonds and gold and shit. I’m not gonna match whatever exorbitant price they are asking to fight for these losers. Not for what, 10 or 15% of their armed forces in total? It’s not a good deal, doll. I only take the best deals.”

“We should consider at least paying for smuggling and informants.” Weddel said.

“It’ll go out of your operational budget.” Lehner grumbled. “You have one, use it.”

“Very well, Fuhrer. Next point, Treckow?”

“My final point, and perhaps the most volatile: the native people of the Yucatan, the Campeche or ‘Campos’.” Treckow said. She launched into a history lesson that lost Lehner near immediately. “During the Empire’s expansion into the south, Imbria assimilated the Campos, who had created a militarily weak state. Yucatan remained largely dominated by the Campos since its location near the continent walls made it rich in minerals as well as growing materials for Agrispheres, so it was a region dominated by workers and corporate managers. The Alliance represents a massively extractive and domineering force over them.”

Lehner started gesticulating as if to say ‘get to the point’ but Treckow never picked up on the gesture until she was fully done speaking. Finally, the Fuhrer sighed and put his hands over his eyes. “What you’re saying is, we could try to instigate a native uprising? How? I don’t think the Escabeche people are going to be receptive to national socialism.” He finally said.

Treckow and Weddel ignored the flagrant mispronounciation.

“They might be. Nationalists exist everywhere.” Weddel said.

“And revolutionaries everywhere need a source of guns.” Treckow added.

“Guns? What’ll they do with guns?” Lehner asked, incredulous. “Brauchitsch has fleets.”

“We can sneak in Divers to them. Even Sturmvolkers, properly deployed, can make retaking any stations the Campos overturn painful for Brauchitsch.” Treckow explained.

“We don’t care about the ultimate success of the Campos, just the chaos they can sew.” Weddel said. “The Campos are the Alliance’s workforce, Sedlitz is cooked without them. And with all those conceited nobles around it will not take much to stir up a conflict.”

“I was on board at first, but the commercial went on too long.” Lehner said. He sighed. “Seriously, I don’t believe any of this will or can work– but it doesn’t feel like it costs me too much to take a gamble on it. It’s not like we’re in any condition to just break the ceasefire right away. But my priority is reorganizing the frontline– alongside all this spy nonsense, I want someone with brains like Treckow to plan a blitz ninety days from now.”

“Yes sir.” Treckow said. For the first time, her tone sounded just a little crestfallen.

“Weddel– keep on doing what you’re doing. Dismissed. Send me all the plans you make.”

Lehner waved his hands dismissively, as if shooing two dogs out of his office.

Treckow and Weddel hailed victory and left the room.

Once they were gone, he reached into a drawer for a pack of cigarettes and lit one.

Not some electric vapor pipe thing– real cigarettes.

Hundred marks a pack. The good stuff.

“Honestly. I get behind all this ubermensch shit and not one of them is superior to fucking anything.” He took a long drag and ran his fingers across the surface of the cigarette. A concrete, vital object, not some necrotic facsimile. That’s what he wanted the Volkisch to be– but at every turn, he conceded living vitality to further erosion.

“All of this is a goddamn fucking nightmare.”

He was distracted by the red LED lighting up on his desk again.

“Come in, but it better be good! You didn’t schedule this!” Lehner shouted.

When the door opened, a sheepish Volkisch communications officer walked in.

Her beret was practically falling off her head with how much she was shaking.

“What’s the matter now?” Lehner asked, exasperated. “You can speak up!”

“Fuhrer,” said the girl, “We have a report of recent events in Kreuzung. It contains some– irregularities. We believed you should be consulted on the situation before it was officially disseminated to other analysts. I have the papers in this portable computer, sir.”

She approached the desk and deposited the computer on it.

Lehner looked down at it skeptically, for merely a second.

“Just tell me what it is!” Lehner said. He was getting fed up with his subordinates.

“Sir!” said the girl, straightening up as stiff as she could go. “It appears Kreuzung ended the Rhineametalle workers strike. They have struck a deal– details forthcoming– but apparently the deal was struck by Vladimir Lehner of the 7th Stabswache, acting as Reichsk–”

“Violet Lehner.” Lehner said suddenly. His reaction even surprised himself for a moment. However, he was too elated for introspection. “Finally, someone around here has displayed a shred of competence. So what’s the irregularity? You just got her name wrong?”

“Um.” The communications girl paused for a moment. “Well, sir, that was– one–”

“So what’s the rest then? Am I going to have to read all of this? Really?”

He picked up the portable computer and let it drop from his hand back on his desk.

The thudding sound caused the communications girl to shake. She finally continued.

“Sir, Kreuzung has declared itself the seat of a political unit called Reichskommissariat Eisental. It has also declared that Vlad– Violet Lehner is its Reichskommissar. Sir, it was the understanding of the Sicherheitsdienst that these proposed land divisions and governing positions were only to extend to future conquests, not to Rhinean regions.”

Lehner blinked, hard. His cigarette hung in his fingers untouched for seconds.

He brought it to his lips and took a long drag. Then he smashed it against his desk.

“Send for your boss. I want Haus right here, now. Bring every communication and report from Kreuzung for the past month. And get me a meeting with this Reichskommissar.”

Violet– his scandalous offspring was doing too fucking good a job right now.

And it had just then begun to deeply concern him what she might be capable of doing.

Maybe he was worrying for nothing– he was her father, surely she would not–

But–

But maybe she had the ambitious bastardry of a Vladimir rather than a sweet Violet.

Or worse– a born and bred Lehner.


“No– No, don’t leave me here– please take me away–”

Violet mumbled in her sleep. Nightmares. It was an almost nightly occurrence.

There was nothing she could do to protect her ward in the warped realm of her mind.

Nasser held tightly onto Violet, who felt so thin and small in her grasp just then.

She grit her teeth, overcome with dread as the players began the fated performance.

They had been playing house in Kreuzung for a bit– but those days would soon be over.

Sometimes she wanted to take Violet and run away for good.

But there was no use to that. There was too much at stake for both of them.

Normal lives were not meant for them.

It was impossible to outrun it, ever since they first laid eyes on one another.

Nasser, nothing but a wicked mercenary tasked with handling some forlorn girl.

Violet, a seed of hatred and scandal who nevertheless could not be allowed to die.

Ever since then, they danced upon the cruel, immense, and inescapable stage of Destiny.

For the future of Imbria.

For the future of the Shimii.

For their own futures.

Without their politics, and their blood, and the power they conferred, there was nothing.

There were a lot of people Nasser could curse. But there was nothing she could do.

Mehmed’s rebellion was crushed by the predecessors of the Volkisch in Rhinea’s navy.

Al-Khaybari’s people were confined to his mountain, to die with him.

Nasser the Elder died cursing the Mahdists for a hundred generations despite his “victory.”

Mogliv Omarov exiled to foreign lands to die. Radu the Marzban but a shadow of himself.

Who would be the next Hero whose ambition would overturn these lands?

Who would be the next one to fail and to be buried, leaving behind only grudges?

Nasser could not afford to fail as they had.

In order to have a future, she, too, had to realize Endsieg.

“I’ll be strong for you.” Vesna Nasser said. “I have to be strong. I have to be.”

For the Heroes whose feud she had to continue.

For the Order that she needed to construct.

And for the woman that she saved, and used, and now painfully, that she loved.

Vesna Nasser had to become a king worth the favor of Destiny.


Previous ~ Next

Bandits Amid The Festival [11.12]

While the festival’s most passionate attractions played out within the habitats of the station, Kreuzung’s interstice was not untouched by the music; in that venue, the melody and drumbeat had its own unique pace. When the core separation’s began to spread through Kreuzung, a number of humble maintenance personnel and disgruntled security staff were cast into complete darkness within the station’s numerous maintenance shafts, floodbreaks, and internal cargo elevators and conveyors. Those dark crevices became their venue.

As in the habitats, some of the principal revelers were the men and women (though mainly men) of the Kreuzung Public Security Department. Kreuzung’s police began as a private security force slowly replacing the retainers of the nobility in guarding the ports and villas, primarily in the payroll of the noveau rich. Legitimated by liberalization brought on by the purses of the capitalists, it became a formality to renew their contract, and they were renamed– they were organized as a Department of the Kreuzung government.

More than mercenaries, they became the law, as the station’s inhabitats suffered it.

The K.P.S.D had a lot riding on the proper conclusion of the festivities.

Despite the fervent denials from the corporations in charge of Kreuzung’s utilities and core power, it was immediately clear to the K.P.S.D. that foul play was involved in the core separation and its ensuing festival of carnage. When the government issued a station lock-down, the K.P.S.D was already rushing to enforce one. Not in Kreuzung’s main seaport, where millions of marks worth of lucrative business relations and K.P.S.D. racketeering could be jeopardized: instead, the effort was concentrated on securing the interstice and the private ports. Part of the hope was that from the lockdown areas, they could find ways to get around the hostage situation within the core shaft.

In Kreuzung’s largest tunnels, the K.P.S.D had room to deploy some of their heavier equipment, budgeted for but hardly ever used outside of drills. Several checkpoints were established, where mobile barricades mounted on armored trucks blocked access and served as platforms for grenade launchers and heavy machine guns. Shoulder-fired explosive missiles were stocked in piles behind each barricade. Each checkpoint had at least a platoon’s worth of men, and all of them felt quite proud in their riot armor and heavy weapons.

For some of the men, this presented a chance to show-up the Volkisch’s forces in Kreuzung, particularly the Sicherheitsdienst, Landwehr militia and the advance forces of the Stabswache, all of which rivaled the K.P.S.D. in recent months. Not necessarily to protect their patrons in the A-block government; but to continue to enjoy the privileges of being Kreuzung’s premier security force. Turning out in force, in excessive force, would show the fancy-uniformed fascists in their little offices and barracks who ruled Kreuzung’s streets, who pocketed Kreuzung’s cash; they were not going to allow a repeat of the election night skirmishes.

It would show Kreuzung itself– you need the K.P.S.D.

You need to pass new and bigger K.P.S.D. budgets. You need to raise K.P.S.D. recruitment, and relax K.P.S.D. regulations, raise a K.P.S.D. fleet. You need to tolerate K.P.S.D. rackets. The Volkisch Movement might do the job for free, but they won’t do it right. They let the core separation happen; and after saving the station, it would be the moment where the K.P.S.D. advertised themselves as an utterly essential product. They would be the ones taking away the strongbox at the end of the festival, and divvying up the donated coins alone.

“Oh! So that is what the hominins are doing. Tristitia understands now.”

Hundreds of slim, pale tentacles exited from as many orifices on an armor-wearing corpse, dropping the ragged mass of mutilated flesh into onto the wet floor of a maintenance shaft. Before it even hit the ground, a soft, jelly-like body began to glide over the shallow water and around the tunnels with a speed and adroitness alien to its messy body plan, as if floating in an invisible ocean. Its surface brimmed with color like a living oil slick.

Her mission continued.

Armed with information, though not necessarily understanding.

“Tristitia will just use these hominin! The hominin will stop the heretic for Tristitia.”


“Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather. Rottenführer in the Sicherheitsdienst.

“Murati Nakara. I’m a cargo operations manager for Treasure Box Transports.”

She could let this woman know her name. She was not intending to let her walk away.

Whether or not Aatto knew her name was the least of her potential problems.

For the Brigand to escape, it was necessary to disable her and her men.

And do it quickly.

Murati felt the chill of cold sweat tracing a line down her back, and between her breasts.

In the midst of the Core Separation, Alcor’s module reminded her of when she used to live in Thassal. Her housing block’s power would be knocked out by faulty power conduits or junction boxes every so often. It was cold, the lights would be blinking, and it made her mindful of her breathing, as if it was actually possible to ration breath and thus breathe for longer. She was in the same situation– cold, sweaty, minding her breathing with an annoyingly deliberate mental effort. She was quite far from Thassal station, however.

Standing in front of what purported to be the station authority in Kreuzung.

But they were not coming to save her or assist her. Far from it.

She had to think about the situation carefully.

Opposite Murati stood Aatto Jarvi Stormyweather, a member of the Volkisch’s national intelligence service, the Sicherheitsdienst or Security Service. Her rank, Rottenführer, was roughly equivalent to the Union’s ‘Chief Petty Officer.’ This rank sat below that of an officer, but for a sailor, and in this case, for a technical expert or support servicewoman, this was a high rank, the next step being a commission. Murati had some awareness that within the Sicherheitsdienst this rank fulfilled important analytical work with security clearances.

It also clearly entailed some field command, with Aatto at the head of a squadron.

Murati tried to get a read on her opponent, in the moments of their mutual introductions. Aatto was– she looked like– an exceedingly lovely-looking woman. Murati had cultivated an anti-materialist and naïve idea (she began berating herself mentally)– that the fascists would all be foul of countenance as they were of heart, enormous pig-like men and warped-looking women like cartoon characters. She felt embarassed– Aatto had a perfectly comely face, her bangs were very neat, her hair was lustrous and wavy, and she wore a discrete and tasteful amount of makeup. Her eyes and expression were terribly conceited. She looked awfully amused with herself, as if going through life with an air of casual dismissal.

Her distasteful uniform was undoubtedly clean, and worn with fastidious tidiness.

She carried no sidearm. She must not have expected any resistance tonight.

Already, Murati was thinking to herself. There might be a way out of this confrontation.

Formed of both ethereal things, like Aatto’s appearance; and her concrete position.

She just needed the space to create an opportunity.

“Rottenführer, is it standard procedure to point guns at legitimate businesspersons?”

Murati asked. She thought it was a good tack to take.

Behind her, Tigris remained quiet.

Aatto responded to the inquiry calmly.

Peering briefly at Tigris and then at Murati again.

Her way of enunciating was clear and confident without pauses or slips of the tongue.

“There was an order to shelter in place, as well as orders not to leave the station.”

“I apologize for what must seem like a disorderly scene, Rottenführer, but I am afraid that we are on a tight schedule. We are completing maintenance on our ship. We have a contract and are part of a tight operation– any further delay will be catastrophic to our company.”

“Be that as it may, this much activity during a shelter-in-place is impermissible.”

“Can an exception be made? We will lose our contract if we are not ready in time.”

“That is none of my concern. I was sent here to inspect, and I found an irregularity.”

Aatto did not look to be in a hurry to push Murati aside. She continued talking to her.

“Rottenführer, I must object. There is a dearth of information about what is happening.”

Murati nodded her head toward the walls.

With how erratic and garbled the screens were, none of the warnings displayed correctly.

She did not want to risk gesturing with her arms too aggressively.

In fact it took all her willpower to speak without gesticulating.

Her eyes shifted their focus subtly between Aatto and the troops at her sides.

Thankfully, they did not seem to have itchy trigger fingers. They were all self-composed.

As Aatto spoke, they had their weapons trained, but they did not appear to be tense or shaky. None made threatening gestures, all kept neutral expressions on their faces during the discussion. Perhaps Murati could trust them to hold their peace for a bit, and not immediately shoot at her without being given orders. She could take advantage of that.

“We had no idea there was a shelter in place or any concrete orders and furthermore, we have always had a schedule to meet and were always planning to work tonight. There must be someone who can authorize us to continue working, knowing our circumstances.”

Aatto’s quite fluffy tail, which had been swaying gently, began to stand on end.

“I humored you for long enough, Murati Nakara. On the authority of the National Socialist Gauleiter of Kreuzung station, you will both, stop all of the work at this site, and, submit yourself to inspection. Failure to comply in this, an emergency situation, will result in far harsher punishment. Let us not complicate the proceedings any further.”

Murati found Aatto’s response to be very strangely worded and measured.

The Volkisch Movement had unquestioned power in this situation. They had utter political control over the former Duchy of Rhinea, and with it, they had the control over this particular station as well. They had weapons trained and a cornered opponent. It did not seem above them to arrest or kill Murati. They could get away with it. It was, like Aatto kept saying, an emergency situation. But despite being pushed, Aatto simply continued to request compliance and assert herself under the law. A curious legal display from a fascist.

For Murati, this was the first time she had ever met a fascist official face to face.

Murati knew fascism academically. Right-wing anti-monarchism and nationalist reform theories had existed for decades, even before the Empire’s loss of its southern colonies. From what Murati learned about the Volkisch, the loss to the “slaves and bandits” only intensified the growth of the national socialist ideology, into one which excoriated the Imperial system for its weakness and inefficiency. In its Rhinean expression, the Empire was, at the same time, decaying from outdated institutions and laws, while also being crippled by the promotion of weak untermenschen over vital ubermenschen who could renew it.

And yet, Aatto should have been one such untermenschen despised by this system.

As a Loup, she was a part of the perverse old order that failed to put Imbrians first.

But here she was, speaking of Gauleiters and the legalistic strata of Volkisch rule.

Murati, whose mind wanted to analyze things thoroughly, found this all quite perplexing.

Perhaps there was more to these nationalists– it would need to be investigated.

However, the contradiction also told her much-needed information about her situation.

Aatto was hesitant to order violence, but the men were professionally ready to deliver it.

She developed a good read on Aatto and no longer needed to look her in the eye.

Instead, her attention focused past the Rottenführer, on the men and their deadly weapons.

Without holding her gaze, Murati reached out a hand to Aatto, offering a shake.

“I am deeply, deeply sorry. I will make sure everyone cooperates, Rottenführer.”

Her eyes were on the men, whose faces briefly registered Murati’s hand moving.

Fingers tightened on pistols, and the submachine gunner tested the weight of his firearm.

Nobody shot at her, not out of response to that. They held firm to Aatto’s command.

“Very well. I am glad you saw sense. I will make note of your compliance in my report.”

She reached out her hand, delicate fingers entwining with Murati’s more rugged digits.

Murati gave Aatto a firm shake, testing the pressure on her fingers on Aatto’s soft hand.

At first she must have just seemed like the kind of idiot who puts effort into a handshake.

Until she suddenly jerked Aatto toward her by that same hand and arm–

And simultaneously pushed on the armed men with hands which only she could see.

While her eyes were off Aatto she had tried to acquire a mental picture of the surroundings. Of the men and their positions, they ways each held their weapon, the weapons they were holding, whether or not they wore a hat or the markings on their uniforms. Like a predictive imager that used input to generate a view of reality, Murati concentrated on seeing the image in her mind, of moving in that space, acting upon that reality– and in turn, acting simultaneously on the physical. In her mind, all of the targets were locked on.

All of her focus and desire, all of the weight of what she wanted to bring into being, she poured into the power. There was no controlling it; Murati had not learned to control the degree of force that resulted from her telekinesis. In that instant, when she quit holding herself back and pushed out the vector she had prepared, it was an utterly blunt instrument. A massive wedge of kinetic force that emanated from hopefully just behind Aatto and expanded outward from there. That was as much of a vector as Murati was able to create, despite Tigris and Euphrates’ instruction and her attempts to train further.

Murati’s eyes blinked red and turned hot enough to vaporize her tears.

For an instant she feared her eyeballs would liquify. All of the world swam.

In her mind, she had pulled the trigger.

Soon as it was released, Aatto’s coat billowed up, and she nearly fell into Murati’s chest.

While her men were blown back as if a piston had smashed them all in the chest.

Guns went flying from hands that bent and shattered . Air rushed out of the space, storming so loud that it almost masked the crunching of bone as force impacted bodies. Limbs twisted in unnatural directions and deformed. Eyes went up into heads, gazes snuffed out. Spittle mixed with blood burst out of the mouths and noses of the men. Murati saw their auras shift dramatically one after another before the corpses had even hit the ground.

It was not the first time she had killed someone.

It was not even the first time she had seen a person die in front of her, without the barrier of a diver between herself and the reality of what she had done to them. However, it was the first time that, with her new sight and the new dimension of the world, she witnesses the final moments of a life ended in violence. That primordial scream as their soul exploded from their bodies, a wave of black and white overtaking the familiar colors for an instant before the aether dulled and drifted from the body, lingering only in the surroundings.

Her head immediately erupted with the sheer agony of what she had done.

Murati felt like a razor blade had traced a deep line down the center of her skull.

Knees nearly buckling, feet shifting unsteadily, she almost fell forward.

Involuntarily, she screamed, into the back of Aatto’s coat.

But she still had the presence to seize hold of her captive.

Hooking one arm around the Rottenführer’s neck, pulling her into a choke.

Lifting, with a heavily shaking hand, her pistol to the fascist’s temple.

Breathing heavily into Aatto’s ear. In front of the eerily stricken bodies of her men.


Aatto Jarvi Stormyweather felt her mind empty with shock.

It all happened in mere seconds.

When Murati Nakara pulled on her arm with such vehemence she thought that it would be ripped from its socket. While behind her back, an immensity of power crushed her subordinates from the outside-in like dolls being smashed into walls. Something she only realized when she saw the preponderance of color around Murati as she exercised her power– and when Murati turned her around and seized her neck. Aatto’s body felt light and helpless against that power, so much so that all thought of resistance faded immediately. When she felt Murati’s head against her shoulder– she understood nothing of the situation, as if all of the signifiers of the world had lost their rooted contexts before her.

So she stood motionless, struggling to breathe from the forceful pressure around her neck.

Her hands raised reflexively to Murati’s elbow but could not even tug.

And the collection of limbs and torsos which had become of her men lost all concreteness.

She felt the cold barrel of Murati’s pistol press against her head and froze up.

While the woman’s warm breathing tickled the nape of her neck.

“Tell me–” Murati struggled to recover her breath. “What is really happening? Tell me–”

Her grip lessened, allowing Aatto to breath and speak, but still controlling her movement.

Aatto was barely all there in her own head when she responded. “Core separation–”

“It’s not– it’s not maintenance, is it? It’s not– It’s something out of– out of your control.”

Her voice slowly regained its forcefulness. Aatto felt sweat travel down her own forehead.

“Cogitans.” She said. “Cogitans took over the core. To take down the station’s defenses.”

There was silence for a second. Aatto felt Murati’s breathing slowly steady itself.

“A severe but interesting strategy.” Murati mumbled, reflexively, as if only to herself.

Those words went through Aatto’s brain with as much force as the still-chambered bullet.

In that instant, Aatto’s body shook with a mixture of thrill and terror she had never felt before. Her tail wagged, her ears folded, and her breathing became labored. Murati’s strength upon her neck, upon her body, felt ever heavier and more oppressive. Aatto felt like mere debris inexorably swallowed and crushed by the gravity of a mightily shining star.

Murati’s light and power, of which she could comprehend only a fraction, seemed then to destroy all former possibilities and rearrange the future before Aatto’s eyes. No one in the Volkisch or from the Liberals, neither the highest admirals nor the bloodiest lieutenants, had ever instilled in her as much fear and admiration as this out of place woman had.

This was a woman who could shatter the taboos– who could challenge Destiny

“You’re coming with me. Don’t try to resist. I won’t hesitate to shoot.” Murati threatened.

Aatto smiled, and tears filled her eyes. To everyone else she must have seemed insane.

But she was thrilled, inspired. She was Murati’s captive; and she wouldn’t escape.

My king, her spiraling mind clamored, I have found my king.


At first, the prospects of escape seemed daunting.

Slowly, the project began to come together nevertheless.

After the incident with the Volkisch, Tigris gave Murati an earful but quickly reassembled her team and got back to work. Nobody had the time to dwell on anything that happened. Murati had taken the strangely compliant Aatto to the brig as a captive, and the bodies of her men were taken to be disposed of in the ocean– uniforms, gear and identifications were collected and stored. Murati was committed to sickbay against her wishes, having been found to be demonstrably unsteady on her feet and bleeding from her nose.

There was a brief chaos as the bridge tried to confirm exactly what had happened.

And headaches grew into pounding migraines very quickly when they learned.

“This is a nightmare.” Captain Ulyana Korabiskaya remarked.

“At the very least, Murati acted quickly. She has bought us time to take further action.” Commissar Aaliyah Bashara replied. “I’ll post Zhu and Van Der Smidse outside in case of further intrusions. We’ll just have to prepare to fight our way out of here if necessary.”

Ulyana grunted, aggravated. She rubbed her fingers on her forehead.

“We’re quickly running out of competent people to post outside with guns.” She grumbled.

“About that, Captain!”

Semyonova turned around from her station, and waved a hand toward the main screen.

One of the cameras, paired with a floodlight, shone on an approaching group.

“Semyonova, send the doctor and some sailors out with stretchers!” Ulyana shouted.

From the direction of C-block, Evgenya Akulantova and Syracuse Chernova had recovered their stragglers and returned. Illya Rostova and Valeriya Peterburg, along with Braya Zachikova and the ‘guest navigator’ Arabella or Arbitrator I. Ulyana, who was unaware of exactly why they went missing in the first place, was shocked speechless at the sight of them. Everyone but Syracuse was wounded with even the rugged Akulantova suffering blows and looking quite worse for wear. Illya, Valeriya, Braya and Arabella were covered in blood and grime and dirty wounds and they carried the smell of smoke and lead with them.

All were quite mum upon being brought aboard, and as much as she wanted to scream in their faces, Ulyana did not have the time to waste doing so. Everyone but Akulantova and Syracuse ended up committed to sickbay, and formally detained and disarmed.

“Captain, we should prioritize their care for now. I will take responsibility.” Syracuse said.

“Alright. I just don’t have time to grill them– please write up a report.” Ulyana sighed.

“I will endeavor to ask what animal mauled all of them.” Dr. Kappel sighed as well.

Ulyana turned to Akulantova. Her hands heavily bruised, her forehead patched bloody.

“I am overjoyed to see everyone returned safely. Thank you, Chief. I will be needing all of this properly reported.” Ulyana said. Her voice then turned gentle. “Evgenya, we could use you in action– Lian and Klara are stretched thin right now. But if your condition does not permit it–”

In response, Akulantova simply adjusted her cap and smiled brightly at the Captain.

“Captain, I returned as quickly as I could precisely because I am still on duty.” She said.

From the side of the sickbeds, Syracuse rolled her eyes and turned her back.

It was agreed for Akulantova to resume her position, and Ulyana returned to the bridge.

Now that the entire crew was present and accounted for, they could leave whenever ready.

All eyes were now focused squarely on the task of moving the Brigand out of the station.

Down in the hangar, a dozen sailors rolled out an enormous power cable through one of the deployment chutes. Normally this particular cable was connected to a power distributor that served the battery charging apparatus on the Diver gantries. It had a direct, high-power line to the Brigand’s agarthic reactor. Taken outside the ship, the cable was stretched out to attach to a quickly-rigged power supply for use by Alcor’s mobile berth, while Tigris and two dozen other sailors worked on the motor that would ultimately draw upon that power.

Euphrates was dispatched from the bridge to check on the progress of the work.

Tigris immediately became distracted by her appearance.

“What’s with that face?” Tigris called out.

Euphrates smiled. “I am just admiring your work, and how attractively sweaty you look.”

“You ought to quit gawking and get sweaty too!” Tigris said.

“I would only slow you down.” Euphrates said, turning her cheek with a little grin.

“You’re useless!”

While the red-haired woman bickered with her blue-haired counterpart, the work continued.

Tigris’ plan involved ‘borrowing’ a pair of electric hydroturbines from Alcor’s warehouse and modifying them along with attaching rudimentary shafts to the track gears on Alcor’s mobile berth. Normally, this berth was just a trailer unit and needed either a winch cable, a crane or a truck to pull it. With power provided by the Brigand’s own core through the hangar cable, it would work as a self-propelled prime mover on its own massive caterpillar tracks, hopefully providing enough torque for the Brigand to slide down the dead conveyor belts.

Then they could take the ship to a floodgate and escape out into the ocean, leaving the tractor behind. Tigris was sure there would be no issue in moving the Brigand to begin with– longevity was the actual question. The system of welded rods attaching the turbine to the drive gear would be workmanlike at best, and the cooling solution for the improvised motor could not be trusted to work for long. None of the most important parts of this system were ever intended to run in completely dry and hot conditions like those inside Kreuzung.

Owing to the time pressure, and the many hands, the standard of quality would dip further.

There were dozens of sailors on hand working tirelessly on every part of this messy project.

Tigris rejoined them as soon as she had shouted Euphrates’ ear off.

To no one’s surprise, she was working as hard as anyone else.

Drenched in sweat, her red ponytail coming undone, taking a few bruises.

Everyone was pushing their limits.

However, the work was coming together quickly before their eyes.

It wouldn’t be long.

“Did you by any chance contact Alcor about using their parts?” Euphrates asked suddenly.

Tigris peered at her from around the enormous home-made engine box.

“What? No? Why would I?”

And so, the next interruption presented itself soon enough.

Euphrates and Tigris grimaced together when they saw a party approach from Alcor’s HQ.

“Captain, I believe your presence will be required.” Euphrates said, tapping an earpiece.

One dark-blond woman approached the ship, while several men waited farther away from it.

Their primary visitor was Amelia Winn, their favorite executive from Alcor Steelworks.

Even at this hour and in this situation, she was well-attired and perfectly manicured.

Ulyana Korabiskaya left the bridge to meet her.

The most she did to hide her dishevelment was to wear her teal jacket and put on a tie, her blond hair still quite tossed about compared to Amelia’s, and without any makeup. They met off to the side of the ship on the Alcor blacktop while in the background of their conversation, the sailors and the two ladies from Solarflare continued working, and even farther down the road, Amelia’s companions looked at the whole scene with confusion.

Standing half a meter from each other, under the surreal light show of the confused sky.

“Miss Winn, I take it you’re here because–”

“No, I’m not here to investigate, Korabiskaya.” Amelia said, smiling at her. “I promised to uphold your confidentiality, right? It would be for the best that we don’t discuss what has happened in detail.” She glanced over at the ship. “It does seem that I may soon be losing some equipment– but that’s alright. I will be reimbursed healthily, when this blows over.”

“Well– I appreciate it.” Ulyana was a bit surprised. “I didn’t know what to expect.”

“I am only here to insure our continued cooperation. You’ve become something of my golden goose, Captain. Thanks to all of you, I’m set to be leaping ahead in my career. Your money was a very good deal– but I never expected you had such lucrative connections.”

“I see. I am happy it was mutually beneficial.”

Euphrates must have actually struck that deal she was talking about with Amelia.

Whatever the details were was none of Ulyana’s business. At least it was convenient now.

“So, may I ask then, since it seems your affairs are in order– why are we speaking?”

Amelia’s eyes looked to her sides briefly. She put on a bubbly little look.

“For appearances’ sake, we should leave on bad terms. You robbed me, threatened me, and in my fear of reprisal, I failed to report to the Volkisch. It will buy you some time and allow me to claim victimhood. I am here in person just so you can rough me up a bit.” She said. “However, I can’t help with the K.P.S.D. They have set up a roadblock in the tunnels.”

Ulyana silently approached Amelia and grabbed hold of the collar of her coat and shirt.

Amelia raised her hands up as if to surrender to this aggression.

“I appreciate the gesture.” Ulyana said softly, while shaking Amelia roughly.

“It’s just business.” Amelia said, shutting her eyes and gritting her teeth as Ulyana throttled her with such force that her head shook. When Ulyana paused in her abuse, Amelia recovered her breath and continued briefly. “I hope that we will see each other again. For a nepo-baby like myself, having adventurous clients is exciting. Especially ones with good grip.”

Ulyana couldn’t help but crack a grin. Such an absolutely ridiculous situation.

“We’ll be back someday. Amelia, brace yourself now.”

After her warning, Ulyana threw Amelia to the floor with all her strength.

It was quite convincing– Ulyana felt a little catharsis beating up the bubbly executive.

She could not say that they didn’t get a good value out of Amelia.

But the two of them wouldn’t be bosom friends. Ulyana wanted nothing to do with her.

“Klara!” Ulyana called out. She made a hand gesture, toward the road to Alcor’s HQ.

From under the ship, Klara Van Der Smidse of the security team rushed out to meet them.

She went down to one knee and unfolded the stock on her 40mm grenade launcher.

Aiming for the road where Amelia Winn’s other lackeys had been waiting.

Amelia struggled to get up, her footing troubled in a way which was not all empty drama.

With one final look back at them, and one final shove from Ulyana, she limped away.

Even with everything agreed to between them, the scene was quite tense.

Amelia’s party looked very aggravated when she arrived in pain back at their side.

They chatted animatedly for a few minutes, everyone throwing frequent glares at Ulyana.

However, Amelia finally managed to convince her subordinates to retreat to Alcor’s HQ.

Watching them go, Ulyana heaved a sigh. Her chest was pounding from the stress.

She recalled how safe she had felt about their arrangement with Alcor just hours ago.

But she had no choice.

“Good work.” She patted Klara Van Der Smidse on the shoulder.

“Um. Thanks Captain. Are we sure about letting them go?” Klara asked.

Ulyana smiled. “Yes, it was all theater. Just keep your eyes on the road for now.”

For the remainder of the work on the Brigand, she remained outside, standing off to the edge of the workers, her weary countenance visible only intermittently under the chaotic lights. While the work continued, she was briefly lost in her own thoughts.


“Moment of truth time! Everyone cross your fingers!”

In the Brigand’s hangar, Tigris stood on the edge of a deployment chute, surrounded by sailors. She had in her hands a portable computer with a long, long cable connecting it to the wall and another long, long cable that had been duct-taped to the power supply snaking out from under the ship. Despite all of her previous bluster, she was visibly shaking when she took up the portable. At her side, Euphrates tried to get a look at the software.

On its screen was a simple user interface that was clearly drawn by hand.

“What happened to all your confidence?” Euphrates asked.

Tigris grumbled. “It’s not about the motor. It’s stage fright. If it fails, I’ll look ridiculous.”

“But it won’t fail, right? You said it had a 99.99% chance of successfully starting.”

“Please shut up. Just shut up. I’m going to push the button.”

Tigris flicked her finger across the screen.

There was no immediately discernible effect that the crew inside the ship could detect. The electric turbine motor simply was not so noisy, even with the rushed craftsmanship. Any vibrations were very minimal as well. Nobody seemed affected by the ‘pressing of the button’ in the slightest. However, Tigris started to smile, and she held the tablet up and pointed its screen at a camera on the wall nearby, while pointing at it happily.

From inside the bridge, the officers of the Brigand could see that, on the very simple and hand drawn interface of Tigris’ hastily-written control program, there were various signs that the motor was running and ready to move. With the camera still focused on her, Tigris held her finger on an arrow, and it was then that the Brigand began to lightly stir– because it was now moving. She moved it just enough for everyone to realize it was possible.

Ulyana and Aaliyah sat back in their chairs together, holding their hands to their faces.

“There’s no going back. At least the tractor works.” Ulyana said.

“If I were religious, I’d start praying for that motor to endure.” Aaliyah groaned.

“Ha, ha, ha! Gaze upon its majesty! I call it the ‘Tigris Mover’ I!” Tigris shouted.

She was celebrating in the hangar. Nobody was communicating directly to her.

But she knew they could see her little cheering and dancing and shouting in the cameras.

“Get her off the main screen.” Ulyana said. “Semyonova, focus the central prow forward camera, but keep all other cameras in the periphery using picture-in-pictures. Be ready to swap to them when needed. And get Tigris to turn over control of the prime mover.”

“Captain, to which station should we send the program? The Helm?” Semyonova asked.

Kamarik protested. “Captain, I’ve danced with a few ships, but I don’t know tractor tango!”

“Captain, please send the program to Electronic Warfare.”

Hearing that voice, Ulyana turned to the doorway, but that was not where it came from.

“I am at my station, Captain. Braya Zachikova is reporting for duty.”

There was a scratchy, mechanical-sounding corruption because the voice was coming from the low fidelity speakers on Zachikova’s station, and not from a human mouth. But there was no denying that it was Zachikova’s voice. When Ulyana stood from her chair to inspect the once vacant Electronic Warfare station, she found a cutesy little face resembling that of Braya Zachikova, drawn like a pixelated animation on the station’s LCD. She possessed a triangular, unfriendly-looking little mouth, lines for eyes, a simple oval head, her antennae, as well as Zachikova’s bangs and spiral ponytail rendered enough to be identifiable.

“You’re supposed to be detained in sickbay.” Ulyana said sternly.

“My body remains detained, Captain. But I can still work remotely.” Zachikova said.

“You’re testing my patience.”

She felt a little ridiculous talking to the screen. It was different than a video call.

Somehow, she felt like Zachikova was in her presence, even though she was not.

It was perhaps a psychological effect from knowing how Zachikova’s implants worked.

Zachikova’s little face on the screen shut her eyes in comical contrition.

“Captain, I know that I caused us problems. But I do take my work seriously, and as a professional I do not want to be a failure point in the system. I request to be allowed to make up for my previous disruptions to the mission by resuming my duties as fully as possible.”

Ulyana crossed her arms.

“Ensign Braya Zachikova. We can discuss the matter of your escapades later– my real concern is for your health! You are badly wounded! Is the Doctor even aware of what you are doing right now? Or does she think you are asleep? It could affect your condition!”

It didn’t matter whether or not she snuck out of the ship. That could be settled long-term.

What Ulyana actually feared the most was Zachikova dying because of this!

On the monitor, the little face put on a softer expression. As if reacting emotionally.

“I– I appreciate your concern for my health. But my brain can handle this much.”

“Can your body?” Ulyana asked pointedly. Zachikova’s little face nodded energetically.

“Yes. It can! Please, Captain. It will contribute to our success if I am allowed to assist.”

“Ugh. I can’t believe this. Fine. At this point, I can use all the help I can get.” Ulyana said.

Semyonova, watching wide-eyed the drama unfolding near her, handed control over ‘Tigris Mover I’ to Zachikova’s station. Much of the bridge crew had their eyes on the empty chair where Zachikova once sat, all with confusion and unease. Minutes after the transfer, there was movement registering on the main screen. The ship pulled back out of the Alcor blacktop, and then began to trundle toward the elevator platform under its own power.

A collective sigh of relief ensued.

Alexandra and Fernanda slumped over in their chairs. Kamarik clapped his hands gently on the side of his station as if congratulating the Brigand on her newfound powers of locomotion. Semyonova and Fatima continued to stare at the little Zachikova face on the Electronic Warfare station adjacent to their own. They exchanged brief glances, shrugged and returned to their work as if Zachikova was actually there with them.

Ulyana sat back down, gripping the armrests on her chair like she wanted to dig into them.

At her side, Aaliyah reached out and patted her on the shoulder and back in support.

That simple touch was enough to partially heal what felt like hours of stress.

“Captain, I appreciate how you treat your officers. You clearly care strongly about them.”

On Ulyana’s other side in the restructured upper bridge, Premier Erika Kairos now had her own chair, along with a smaller pull-out seat that Olga Athanisou could occupy at her side. The two of them had remained mostly quiet during the proceedings. The Premier had requested to be off to the side near a wall, so as to not take up the Captain’s spot in the middle of the upper bridge. She had been observing with minimal input.

“We can contact the Rostock once we’re in the water, and it can assist us.” Erika said.

Ulyana felt like responding to Erika’s cheerful confidence– but she held her tongue.

Slowly but surely the Brigand completely left its little lot in the Alcor work area and stationed itself atop the platform into the station interstice and the ship elevator. With Zachikova in control, they had instant access to full diagnostics of the ‘Tigris Mover I’, including its power draw and the speed at which they were moving. Rudimentary sensors in the improvised engine helped them in monitoring heat, cooling, and other vital statistics, though the fidelity of this data was dubious. The motion of the ‘Tigris Mover I’ was surprisingly controllable. Zachikova seemed to have no problem guiding it.

“Captain, I’ve accessed the elevator controls via a short-distance connection. We will begin descent into the interstice.” Zachikova said. “It will be several minutes before we are able to move again, and very dark. Semyonova, Al-Suhar and I will remain vigilant.”

“Good. Keep us posted. And take a– breather, if you can find the time.” Ulyana said.

Within moments, the Brigand shook as the enormous elevator platform slowly lowered them down into the cavernous maw of the station’s depths. It was even darker within the elevator and tunnels now than it was in the Alcor module, utterly lightless rather than intermittently lit by the alarm LEDs. But it gave the bridge crew a decent respite while the elevator brought them slowly down several levels of the station. They could chat again a bit.

“Zachi– did you ascend to a state of pure energy, surpassing the material form of life?!”

Semyonova seemed to have been working up the courage to ask this question to the station.

On the LCD of the Electronic Warfare desk, mini-Zachikova put on a disgusted expression.

“You’re ridiculous. Please add some nonfiction to your media diet for once in your life.”

On the opposite side of the bridge, Fernanda and Alex quietly chirped in their ways.

“–this is exactly like stage 10 of ‘After The Fall: Kannonkaiser’ in Kaiser difficulty.”

“–our situation uncannily reflects the remarkable climax of ‘The Adjutant’s Last Will’.”

Ulyana tried to tune everything out and leaned back on her chair, letting herself breathe.

Until she felt a gentle tug on her coat, which could only have come from one person.

“Captain, unfortunately, the two us can’t simply take a nap at this time. We need to plan.”

Ulyana opened one eye again to meet her Commissar’s determined but gentle gaze.

“I know. We have one more problem ahead. Can I at least take five before we discuss it?”

Aaliyah then gave her a stern glare. There was no rejecting whatever that gaze desired.

As the Brigand descended, there was one final obstacle between themselves and the water. Amelia had mentioned that the K.P.S.D. was setting up roadblocks in the tunnels. Nobody on the Brigand was aware of the extent of the defenses nor their exact location, but they could make an educated guess based on the station layout: at the bottom of the elevator shaft, there was one long and wide stretch of conveyor belt that lead into a second transfer elevator and to a floodgate. Defending the length of it with man-portable weapons and mobile or stationary barricades was possible, and it made sense as the site of a checkpoint.

“Our grand operation upon the vessel has left the nature of its forward complement largely unperturbed. We are possessed of two 76 mm guns each in their own individualized turrets, and the main turret boasting two barrels of 150 mm guns, the ship’s pride,” advised Fernanda Santapena-De La Rosa in her capacity as gunnery officer. “These weapons work synergistically with the frigid depths of the sea– the heavy casemates proof them against water and ward the components. Cooling succor is meant to come from the sea herself.”

Erika blinked. She whispered to the Captain. “Does she always talk like that?”

“Uh huh.” Ulyana said dryly.

“So I take it the guns will immediately overheat when fired.” Aaliyah replied.

“Fate may will otherwise. However, my keen foresight tells me so.”

“What about the gas guns?” Ulyana asked.

Fernanda shrugged. Those guns were not controlled by her particular station much of the time. Rather, the non-commissioned officers in the lowest tier of the bridge controlled the gas guns, a series of small caliber double-barreled autocannons meant to stop missiles, torpedoes and ward off the approach of Divers into close range with the ship.

Owing to their responsibilities, gas gunners were crucial but unremarked upon. They had their own area, and a manager who looked after them. Aside from the Captain, nobody was supposed to talk to them or bother them during operations– it was simply too important that they remained entirely focused on interdicting munitions to protect the ship.

“Perhaps owing to their diminutive caliber they may prove capable of sustaining fire.”

“I’ve seen Imbrian style mobile barricades, Captain.” Erika said. “They may be able to withstand enough 20 mm fire for the gas guns to overheat trying to clear them.”

Ulyana also knew they could not just run over the barricades with their tracks.

Any unsuppressed enemies at close range could easily damage the Tigris Mover I.

They would be crushed and killed in the attempt and the barricades could still be toppled over after all was said and done. But it might also leave the Brigand stuck in the tunnels without backup. They had to use their limited ability to fire, with care. And there was not even any point in asking Alexandra about the torpedoes, which were equipped with hydrojets or propellers and would go nowhere in dry combat. Similarly, their new ballistic missiles installed in the middle of the upper deck had no room to crest and fly indoors.

“We’ll just have to see what’s down there and how things develop moment to moment.”

“Worse comes to worse Captain, Kalika, Olga and I are no strangers to close combat.”

Erika spoke up in reassurance, but the Captain immediately shook her head and denied it.

“We’re not going to risk your life like that, Premier. We’ll handle this.”

Ulyana turned partially to face the communications station.

“Semyonova, raise alert Semyon. We need every crew member available at a moment’s notice. Have Klara and Lian suit up in our powered-armor, and release explosive munitions for their grenade launchers to them. They will be on standby. Have Evgenya prepare submachine guns for twelve sailors, led by Galina– but do not release those arms quite yet. We just want to be ready. Finally, prepare the Cheka and the High-Mobility Strelok.”

“Yes ma’am. Should I contact Shalikova and al-Shajara as well?” Semyonova asked.

“Tell them to be ready– we just want to have options open.” Ulyana said.

Inside the Brigand’s halls, the silent, gently red alarm lights of alert state “Semyon” got the sailors moving again after their short break from the intense work they had undertaken outside and throughout the ship. None of them had the full picture of what was transpiring, with the Bridge being the main actor in this battle– but they did not need to know.

A small task force had dressed up in osmium mesh hazard suits and opened the core containment area in order to drag in wheeled tanks and pumps just in case they had to dump more coolant into the core to maintain stable temperatures. Several others were monitoring electrical systems. In the hangar, a dozen engineers got the Divers checked and ready. Akulantova brought wheeled weapon rack out to the hangar, but kept it locked.

“In a minute, the tunnel will be visible in the forward cameras, Captain.” Zachikova said.

“Thank you, Ensign.” Ulyana said. She took a deep breath.

In front of her eyes, the black chasm that was the elevator wall in front of them finally broke to slowly reveal the long tunnel ahead of them. The conveyor was close to seventy meters wide and tall to fit ships of their size, but no larger than it had to be. In the darkness brought on by the core separation, LED lights on the walls and ceilings flashed on and off in frantic sequences across the tunnel, but there were a few steady sources of illumination.

Floodlights, strategically placed by the K.P.S.D forces.

Before them lay a K.P.S.D. defensive line. One mobile barricade mounted on an armored vehicle barred the way some hundred meters ahead. Behind it there were assemblages of infantry in riot gear, and a few nests of deployable bullet-proof shields affixed to the ground on heavy bases. At the far back, Ulyana could almost see the floodgate, barred by one final barricade. Their objective was to get close enough to the floodgate to force it open, and activate the anti-flooding gates behind themselves. Then they could sail away.

“Captain– the K.P.S.D. is requesting communication– and ordering us to desist.”

Semyonova’s voice carried the nervous tension of the moment.

Ulyana tried to smile a little.

Here they went again– into the fray once more.

After the ignorant peace of the shore, the chaos of the sea invited them forward.

“Forget it!” Ulyana called out. “Zachikova, forward! Fernanda, ready guns!”

“Aye!”

All of the upper bridge crew called out simultaneously, even those not ordered specifically.

They knew they were all entering battle now.

“Gas gunners, forward barrage! Try to suppress the infantry behind the barricades!”

“Aye!”

All of the gas gunners in the lower tier got to work.

Trundling forward on the caterpillar tracks of the ‘Tigris Mover I’, the Brigand began its sluggish but inexorable advance toward the first K.P.S.D. barricade. To the men on the opposing end of the conveyor it must have seemed like a gigantic piston was slowly moving to crush them against the walls. Small bursts from the Brigand’s six forward 20 mm ‘gas gun’ turrets peppered the barricade and its surroundings, red and green tracer trails slicing long lines into the dark distance, ending in blasts of fire and smoke leaving black spots on the barricade armor. Minor damage, no penetrations. Those shots which sailed over the barricade crashed between the enemy groups. Infantrymen dispersed closer to each barricade for protection while assembling arms with which to counterattack.

In moments, the first flashes of return fire began to appear from the enemy formation.

Shoulder-launched missiles from the barricade smashed into the prow of the Brigand.

While the cameras shook lightly with each hit, the bridge crew felt no vibrations.

“God damn it! We just repaired this thing!” Ulyana lamented.

“Missile impacts are not causing damage, Captain!” Kamarik said. “She’s a tough one!”

“They are shoulder-fired 60 mm missiles, Captain. Useless against ships.” Erika added.

“I’m afraid an actual threat is assembling, however.” Zachikova said.

On the main screen, the miniature, pixelated Zachikova from the station appeared and pointed at a location behind the barricade, which the predictive imager then highlighted as well. Several men were setting up a tripod mount and had affixed a large tube on top. Two other men were gathering much larger rockets than the shoulder-fired ones–

–munitions to be fed into a gun.

That is a 152 mm Panzerfaust-IV turret.” Erika said, in a much graver tone of voice.

“Gas gunners! Hold fire! Concentrate on interdiction!” Ulyana called out.

Within seconds, a bright orange flash and exhaust heralded the incoming missile.

“Captain! Guns red! Guns red!” came a cry from bellow, the manager of the gas gunners.

Overheating warnings.

“Brace for major impact!” Ulyana cried out.

Then, on the main screen a few more red tracers suddenly soared out of an overheated gun.

An enormous explosion boomed directly in front of them.

All of the smoke from it crossed their cameras as the Brigand trundled forward.

As yet unscathed–

“One of the guns managed to fire! Thank everything!” the manager called out.

Ulyana knew the gas gunners would not get much more time to celebrate.

“Fernanda, aim a 76 mm and vaporize that thing!” She called out.

“Captain, I have an idea!” Erika interrupted suddenly. “Aim low at the barricade vehicle!”

Fern snapped her head to face the Captain and Premier.

There was not even a second more for Ulyana to think, but–

If the gas guns had already overheated, the 76 mm would overheat from firing one shot.

They only had two of those they could use– if Erika was wrong that was–

“Fern, listen to Erika! Now!”

Ulyana had to trust it. They had pledged themselves to her.

But if she was wrong–

“Firing 76 mm high-explosive!”

Fernanda called out and in the next instant, the green tracer sailed out over the tunnel.

The K.P.S.D. gunners had already extracted one enormous munition and loaded the next.

This Panzerfaust-IV could seriously wound them, its armament was Cruiser-caliber.

Ulyana was not a praying sort, but in the instant that 76 mm shot went out.

She truly thought she wanted to pray. In a snap decision, she had trusted Erika.

Was it the right call–?

Before she could doubt any more, the 76 mm munition struck low at the mobile barricade.

An immediate high-explosive detonation ensued–

fire and pressure spread under the lip between barricade and floor–

and the force of it flipped the vehicle right off its wheels and onto its side.

Overturned with such shocking force that tore metal pieces from it to scatter in the air. Men standing on the barricade were thrown bodily, and men behind it fled as hot metal and flying glass spread out several meters in every direction. Munitions that had been piled behind the barricade received the blow as well and went flying haphazardly, undetonated but streaking through the air like blunt projectiles and connecting with the fleeing men.

In that instant of chaos, the crew on the Panzerfaust-IV escaped from its vicinity, leaving the tube loaded and running for their lives to the nearest shield. The abandoned and exposed weapon became a priority target, and as soon as the gas guns could fire even a single bullet each, Ulyana ordered the gunners to fire on its position. Bursts of 20 mm gunfire crashed around the gun and sent the tube rolling off its mount, snapping its bracing legs.

“We’ll be going over the barricade in about a minute.” Zachikova said.

Ulyana let out her breath. She turned to her side and laid a hand over one of Erika’s own.

“Thank you, Premier. I’m glad I trusted your judgment.” Ulyana said.

On her other side, Aaliyah also nodded her head as if to support Ulyana’s praise of Erika.

Erika smiled bashfully as if she did not know how to take the gesture.

Before she could speak, there was a heavy metallic thud echoing across the tunnel.

“Captain, there’s an enemy!” Aaliyah cried out suddenly.

“Zachikova, stop all movement!”

Ahead of them, one of the side walls of the tunnel suddenly opened up a panel.

And stomping out from it, walked a giant metal impression of a person.

Two arms, two legs, 7 meters tall, a rotund body with a helmet-like head armed with numerous cameras. In its articulated metal hands, it held a 37 mm automatic rifle. Over one of its shoulders, a rocket-launching tube had been affixed. Several remaining infantrymen rallied to it as a base of fire, instantly reassured of the possibility of their success.

This was a Volker-class Diver, sometimes referred to as a ‘mecha’ or ‘mechanoid’.

An armored vehicle intended to fight ships in the Ocean; and able to fight them on land.

Mere seconds after jumping out from the side of the tunnel, it turned its assault rifle on the Brigand’s bow and opened fire, each bullet hurtling out of the barrel with a heavy crack. A Diver’s assault rifle was comparable to a heavy auto-cannon, twice the power of the gas guns, and firing explosive shells. A burst of 37 mm ammunition crashed into the Brigand’s prow, and there was enough force there that they felt the vibrations in the bridge.

Ancillary effects of the explosions, shrapnel and explosive shockwaves, damaged an ancillary forward camera and cut a wound into one of the over-heated gas guns, completely disabling it. As quickly as that first burst of three rounds had come, there was suddenly a second set of flashes, and even more shaking followed as the bullets exploded on the Brigand’s bow.

They could not afford to keep taking such fire for long.

“Semoynova, tell the sailors to pipe in the coolant! Zachikova! Bring the shield up! Now!”

Ulyana called out; Semyonova signaled the sailors; Zachikova flicked a digital switch.

There was suddenly a purple sheen over the cameras.

Extending over the front of the prow like a transparent, impossibly thin blanket.

The Volker fired a third burst from its automatic rifle.

Its shells exploded just off the hull.

Harmlessly.

Detonating as if in the air, and the force dispersing easily away from the ship.

“Shield is operational. It won’t last for very long in this condition.” Zachikova said.

Tigris’ bluster had not been empty. This gift from Solarflare LLC was impressive.

Much like the one they saw equipped on the Antenora, an Agarthic repulsion shield.

Perhaps the most rare and valuable piece of kit that had gone into their refit project.

But it was not perfect–

“Captain, the core is getting upset.” Kamarik warned. “She’s not used to being hammered this hard running dry, even with the coolant. We better think of something else and quickly.”

There was no visible effect of core strain within the ship at first, but the figures did not lie.

Unlike Kreuzung’s core separation, their lights were not flickering randomly, and all their stations worked fine. However, Ulyana could see in the diagnostics passed to her screen from the helm that the core temperature was climbing. Slowly but surely. Cores could remain indefinitely in equilibrium provided there was water and the systems around the core were stable themselves. Once the heat and pressure started to climb, the core could spiral out of their control very suddenly. It simply was not designed to operate this way.

It was untenable. Ulyana’s heart and lungs pounded. Her skin brimmed with anxiety.

Just one measly Volker would have been nothing to them in vastness of the Ocean.

On land, in this situation, it was suddenly an obstacle that could stop them in their tracks.

“One 76 mm shot might not take down that Volker.” Aaliyah said.

One 76 mm shot was all they had, Ulyana could not afford to waste the main guns–

“Captain, I have an idea!”

This time, it was a dramatically less likely source of tactical advice than Erika.

Alexandra Geninov in the torpedo and missile station.

She raised her hand like she was in a classroom. There was a nervous smile on her face.

“Captain, hand me the controls to the two forward jet anchors!”

Ulyana narrowed her eyes.

Alex smiled. “Come on, Fern knows what I’m putting down! We can do this!”

Fernanda narrowed her eyes and glared at Alex in a similar expression to the Captain.

“Let them try it, Captain.” Erika suddenly said. “We don’t have any better ideas!”

Ulyana turned to face Aaliyah, who nodded her assent as well.

All throughout, the Volker had continued firing at the shield as if not comprehending why its gunfire was suddenly ineffective. It put round after round into the bow none of which left an impression. On the main screen, there appeared numerous explosions deflected by the purple shield, leaving smoke dancing right in front of the cameras. There was a pause, possibly to reload its gun, but the Volker instead withdrew the rocket from its shoulder.

“Geninov has jet anchor control! Gunnery be ready to support her!” Ulyana shouted.

“Aye!”

“Shield down! Now!”

Slowly the cameras lost the purple sheen that had once covered them.

“Firing jet anchors!” Alex shouted.

Two jet-propelled titanium claw anchors shot out of the Brigand’s bow on long lines.

Like metal fists they pounded the Volker one after the other on its rotund torso, and the machine toppled backward, unsteady without the ocean to support it and unable to maneuver quickly without the ability to run water through its hydrojets. Fallen on its back, the machine struggled to right itself, its weapons cast to the floor of the tunnel and causing even more disarray among the infantrymen that had been rallying to its position.

“Fern, now! Right in the underside!” Alex called out.

“I– I see! Indeed!”

The Brigand’s remaining 76 mm gun immediately overheated as it fired, but this did not stop the high explosive munition from soaring out of the barrel and striking deep between the legs the Volker. Perforating its less armored underside, the shell entered the cockpit and exploded with such force that the hull door burst open, spewing smoke and fire and metal and the unseen remains of the pilot. Permanently ending the threat of the diver.

“Zachikova, forward! Take us all the way now!” Ulyana shouted.

The Tigris Mover I began to turn its tracks once more–

“Captain! Stop, please!”

–and instantly paused once more at the behest of an officer.

In the sonar and sensors section, Fatima Al-Suhar looked suddenly ill at ease.

She turned to the Captain’s chair with tears in her eyes and her hands shaking.

Her ears folded, and her tail stood on end. Her honey-brown skin going white.

“Captain, something is wrong. They are getting back up– and I hear an odd noise–”

“Captain! Main screen! Something weird is happening!”

Ulyana barely had a moment to listen to Fatima’s concern before Alex started shouting.

Feeling torn in a dozen directions Ulyana glanced at the main screen.

Her eyes then remained fixed on that bizarre scene, which sent a chill through her body.

“It can’t be. What– what the fuck?”

“Gun status–” Aaliyah said, shocked herself at the sight, “Gas gun– status– now–”

All the bridge officers were held captive by the horror unfolding before them.

Throughout the brief but chaotic span in which the Brigand had clashed with the K.P.S.D., which could not have been more than ten or twenty minutes all told– scores of men had died. If there were a hundred men before them it would not have surprised Ulyana for eighty to have died and twenty to have fled by the end. Between the gas gunners’ frequent barrages, firing bullets large enough to blow a man’s torso open at a rate of ten per second; the overturning of the barricade which crushed and lacerated many more men; the overturning and explosion of the Diver which had become a base of support and thus killed all of the men who had been using it as a shield. There was a preponderance of death.

Resistance should have been crushed, not just in spirit, but actually, concretely crushed.

Physically hewn apart with violence. Splattered visibly all over the tunnel.

Now, right in front of them, several of those hewn bodies and splatters resumed fighting.

Men in all kinds of heinous conditions were standing back up.

Those corpses which had been in the best condition, stiffly forced themselves to a stand, and in horrid twitching motions they made their way slowly to their discarded equipment and picked it up. Bodies without arms and legs twitched useless on the ground; bodies with legs but not arms still stood; and arms without legs crawled on the floor. Bodies without heads still moved; one such body made it all the way to a discarded rocket tube.

It lifted the weapon to its head-bereft shoulder, pointed at the bow of the Brigand, and fired.

That missile sailed just under the bow and crashed into one of the struts holding the ship.

Even just a 60 mm– so aimed, it caused the worst shaking the crew had felt yet.

On the side of the main screen, Tigris and Euphrates appeared suddenly.

They were calling in from the hangar using their officer clearances.

“Captain, what the hell was that! Don’t let them shoot the mover!” Tigris cried out.

“I– I wish– I could answer, what the hell it is–”

Tigris and Euphrates looked confused. They could not see the main screen.

Ulyana tried to control her breathing. Most of her officers were shocked numb.

“Status of guns!” Ulyana called out suddenly.

Fernanda looked even more pale than normal. She looked over her screen.

“M-Main guns ready. Auxiliaries overheated. G-gas guns, um– well– some are ready.”

Their gunner had never spoken so succinctly nor with such fear in her voice.

“Fire gas guns. Fire! Now!” Ulyana called out.

On the main screen, the remaining gas guns fired in disorganized bursts at walking corpses.

Arms, legs, heads, torsos; blasts from 20 mm rounds shredded ever more ambulant meat.

And yet– within moments, the gore-strewn things simply started moving again.

Right in front of all their eyes, the most complete corpses started moving very specifically.

They had begun to reassemble the knocked-about Panzerfaust-IV.

Lifting the tube upward.

Several ruined bodies raising up the mount.

Crawling things dragging munitions over.

They had a goal– they retained the singular purpose of stopping the Brigand.

Ulyana had to struggle to keep from having too strong a reaction to this horror.

Everyone was relying on her to be strong, and to give out orders.

No matter what.

Her life had been replete with violence. Ravenous leviathan attacks, relentless and mighty ships of war, hundreds of lives snuffed out in a second, brutal killings in stations. Massive barrages of cannon fire and gargantuan salvoes of missiles that when detonated were so bright they left their flashes scarred into her eyes for seconds. So many horrid things were so rote and expected that she could no longer have much reaction to them.

These men had gone to pieces before her eyes.

There was no thought spared to that. Men died. But for them to return from the dead?

That was new– that was pure, absolute and utter madness.

It couldn’t be real– and yet–

No, it does not matter, it does not matter–

It was her duty to get her crew out alive! She would not allow another Pravda tragedy.

Ulyana turned to Aaliyah. Her commissar turned to her.

They shared the fear in their eyes. But– they also shared a small, glowing determination.

On the edge of the main screen Euphrates and Tigris exchanged worried glances.

“Captain, is something wrong? Captain, Commissar, talk to me.” Euphrates said seriously.

“Ugh, I’m coming up there!” Tigris shouted. “You can’t keep us in the dark like this!”

“No!” Ulyana shouted back. “Stay right there! Start– start disconnecting the mover.”

Tigris’ eyes opened wide. “Say what? But we’re not–”

“Just do it. Tigris, don’t argue with me. Cut the mover, unclamp us, and seal us shut!”

There was only one choice to escape from this nightmare.

“Yes, Captain.” Tigris said.

On the picture-in-picture, Tigris and Euphrates both left the cameras.

Semyonova, shaken, briefly changed the main screen to show the hangar view.

Tigris and Euphrates had gotten the sailors to assist them in pulling the plug.

“Docking clamps have separated.” Semyonova said after, her voice toneless and rote.

At her side, Fatima had her head down on her station and was shaking, gripped in terror.

Kamarik was praying on the helm. Erika and Olga both had grim expressions.

Everyone was horribly shaken by what they had seen. They could not believe their eyes.

“Order on bridge! The Captain is speaking!” Aaliyah shouted.

Presaging the Captain’s speech.

Ulyana took in a deep breath.

They needed her– no matter what the situation.

“Comrades! We must act now in order to escape! We’re not going to die in this tunnel! I will not allow my precious crew to fall here! Raise your heads for me, one more time!”

She shouted at the top of her lungs, and stood up from her chair for added effect.

With a pointed index finger on the main screen, that Semyonova quickly switched back.

From the hangar view, to the surreal scene playing out in the darkness before them.

“Gunnery, open fire with main guns on the far wall of the tunnel!” Ulyana commanded.

Fernanda blinked for a moment as if in disbelief that she was being addressed.

“Y-Yes Captain!” She shouted. “We’re shooting the floodgate?”

Aaliyah then spoke up again in place of the Captain.

“We’re in the lower levels– the flooding will be contained by interior pressure.” She said.

Shooting at a station and deliberately causing flooding was a taboo–

but they were had to open that floodgate to escape anyway– and it was life or death–

–and there was no guarantee their guns could break open a thick floodgate.

But they had no other choice. Everyone accepted that flimsy reasoning immediately.

Ulyana was so grateful for Aaliyah’s support just then.

And she wasn’t the only one–

“Comrades! I believe in the Captain wholeheartedly!” Erika called out.

She stood as well, and also held a hand out to the main screen.

“Let us see a brilliant barrage, gunnery section! Show me how you’ve come this far!”

With the Premier’s sudden enthusiasm backing the Captain’s dramatic flair, there was no one on the crew still focused primarily on the main screen. Having no choice in the matter and seemingly with little remaining willpower with which to object, Fernanda quietly worked at her station. On the main screen, a small graph appeared with a real-time calculation of the main gun’s firing arc and the predicted effect on the target– it would strike the far wall–

and then–

–the computer had no idea, because it was not supposed to compute such a thing,

“Main guns, open fire!” Erika and Ulyana said at once.

Directly followed by a resounding bellow that thundered through the station interstice.

Two enormous flashes lit up the bridge through the main screen picture.

In the blink of an eye, two 150 mm shells crossed the tunnel and crashed into the far wall.

Smoke blew across the tunnel from the blasts. The bridge held their collective breaths.

“Only cracks! No penetration!” Fatima cried out, putting her head down again.

Then her ears perked up. In the midst of her despair, her golden ears recognized it first.

On the main screen, the predictive imager focused on the sound as well–

water.

First a trickle, and then the flood.

Unequal water pressures between the ravenous Imbrium and the station interior tore at the wounds left on the floodgate. Through every minute crevice, the ocean wound its way, tearing and pushing and crawling heedless like the horde of corpses before them.

Within the seconds a storm of seething ocean and swirling metal tore into the tunnel.

Ripping apart the K.P.S.D. blockade–

and with it the hidden 8th Enforcer of the Syzygy–

washing over the Brigand, sealed tight and ready to sail past the carnage.


“I can’t believe how happy I feel seeing the fucking Imbrium again!”

Through a cloud of foam, debris and corpses that were finally silenced–

The UNX-001 Brigand engaged its newly-upgraded hydrojets, pushed water through its updated turbines for the very first time, and with some repairable damage to its bow, finally escaped from the inside of Kreuzung’s core station. In so doing, it returned to the Imbrium Ocean, embarking upon the next leg of its journey. Its officers practically fell over their stations in their collective relief, many of them openly weeping, all of them shaking.

Ulyana dropped back into her chair.

Aaliyah let out a long sigh and leaned fully onto her.

“Semyonova, we’re almost out of it.” Ulyana said. “Deploy the Cheka and Strelok I~bis.”

“Yes, Captain.” Semyonova said weakly.

She pushed her back up to a seated position, waving her hands in front of her face to fan herself, her face quite red, while simultaneously calling the hangar. At her side, Fatima al-Suhar also forced herself back up. Her makeup was running, and she was still weeping gently, but in the Ocean, her station was far more crucial than it could be on land.

“Captain, we’re receiving passive sonar data again. Updating predictions.” She said.

“Thank you.” Ulyana replied. “Fatima, we’ll get you relieved soon, so you can rest.”

Fatima shook her head. She wiped her face on her sleeve.

“Absolutely not, Captain. Forgive my weakness. I’ll be resolute from now.” She said.

“Don’t push yourself too hard. Nobody here will ever call you weak.” Ulyana said.

Fatima nodded her head, smiling for the first time in a while.

She was a sensitive girl, but she was unquestionably an officer.

“Gunnery, Missiles: status report.” Ulyana turned to the opposite side of the bridge.

“Gunnery is still cooked.” Fernanda said.

She sounded too miserable for her own gimmick. Rather than explain, she pushed her station diagnostics to the main screen. There were a few gas guns with damage, and the main gun was hopelessly overheated for now. The forward 76 mm guns were recovering faster.

Beside her, Alex started hugging herself and her teeth were chattering. She was soaked in sweat, and perhaps cold from how little clothing she had worn during the chaos.

“Torpedoes can actually be fired now. Missiles are ready as well.” Alex said.

“We’ll be relying on you then. Let me know if you need to borrow a coat.” Ulyana said.

“I think I’ll take you up on that, Captain.” Alex said, a chill shaking her entire body.

“Predictions updated!” Fatima called out.

On the main screen, the pitch black Imbrium Ocean began to part ever so slightly.

Using a wide variety of sensory data, the predictor computer assembled a picture of what the ocean before them would look like if it was not naturally lightless, coloring and framing in objects and features. That wall of black with hints of green that had taken up their main cameras started to fill with more than the beams of their forward floodlights.

For the first time, the Brigand could see the absolute bedlam outside the station.


“Sonya Shalikova! Cheka, deploying!”

“Khadija al-Shajara! Strelok I~bis, deploying!”

From the deployment chutes located on the bottom of the Brigand, the hangar’s engineers released two of the ship’s own Diver suits into the water. Sonya Shalikova gripped her two control sticks, her face lit only by her monitors and panels. She engaged her Diver’s hydrojets when she was released from the deployment chute. She could already feel the chaos that was unfolding in the waters around Kreuzung. Ship-caliber ordnance detonated twenty a minute overhead and the vibrations traveled all the way to the tower’s midsection, to be felt by Shalikova as she accompanied the Brigand on its ascent up the station tower.

Despite going into danger, Shalikova felt a sense of relief to be in the cockpit again.

Without the Cheka, or another Diver, she had no control over her own destiny.

Until now, the bridge crew had been handling crisis after crisis, and Shalikova was not even fully aware of what had happened, nor had she been able to participate. She had been in her room or in the hangar while the ship shook up and alert lights flashed, waiting to be deployed. Unable to protect her comrades– unable to protect Maryam.

Out in the water, she had power, agency– she could fight.

“Shalikova, how is the communication?”

There were several LCD screens on the Cheka for her dive cameras as well as video from the communications equipment. On the dedicated communication screen, there was a familiar round-faced blond woman whose current dishevelment did little damage to her bright, pretty face: Natalia Semyonova, the chief signals officer on the Brigand’s bridge.

Shalikova practically had to avert her eyes from that shining smile on her screen.

“It’s fine.” Shalikova said. “We’ll see how the picture holds up when we’re up there.”

Semyonova nodded her head with a solemn expression.

“Based on our current predictions, there are between five and eight ships trading fire overhead. There could be more. Please be on the lookout for ordnance, particularly toward the bow.” Semyonova said. “We’ve lost half the forward gas guns, so our interdiction barrage will be weak. Our objective is to escape, so don’t pursue any enemies too far.”

“Got it.” Shalikova said. “I’m sick of this place– I’ll make sure we get out.”

“We all believe in you!” Semyonova said.

“By the way, before you go. How is Mur– the Lieutenant?”

Shalikova averted her gaze, embarassed to be asking.

Semyonova smiled even wider.

“She just needs some rest. She will be up and about in no time.” She said.

“Oh– good– thank you.”

There was a blink on the LCD, and Semyonova disappeared.

Taking her place: a sly and attractive face, wine-colored makeup and silky blond hair.

A pair of fluffy ears twitched lightly upon meeting Shalikova’s eyes.

“Shali, how’s it feel to be back in the armor after a long vacation? Excited?”

Khadija Al-Shajara winked. Shalikova had no expression to return.

“Is our intrepid leader’s absence troubling you? Does someone have a crush?”

“Can you defer teasing me until after we’ve escaped?” Shalikova groaned.

Khadija suspected about Maryam already, so she was just being an asshole.

But it did cause Shalikova to crack the tiniest smile as they worked.

The Brigand began to ascend the water table. They had emerged from just below the center of the tower. A few hundred meters above them, there was a pitched battle, and there were signs of battle around the station as well. Murati Nakara had extracted from the Rottenführer Jarvi-Stormyweather that Cogitans were behind the core separation. The bridge of the Brigand had also detected the remains of Republic S.E.A.L. suits and small Republic vessels close to the station baseplate– likely from further failed incursions trying to relieve the Core hijackers. Shalikova, and the rest of the officers, could only conclude that the Republic had somehow infiltrated a force into Rhinea to fight the Volkisch.

As much as Shalikova had some sympathy for their erstwhile allies in this war–

“We can’t do something like this. We can’t win like this.” She mumbled to herself.

Something like a Core Separation would only make the people of Kreuzung hate them.

Shalikova was not as politically-minded or strategic as Murati or the Captain.

However, in her mind, threatening to destroy the habitations of Kreuzung’s people would only give power to the Volkisch. How would they be any different from the fascists if they punished ordinary people like that? It was the exact opposite of the promise communism had for the people of the Union. But what exactly did the people of the Alayze Republic even believe in? Shalikova did not know, and there was no way she would be able to puzzle it out in the cockpit of the Cheka. But she felt her heart hurt at the events that had transpired.

When she allowed herself to see the colors, to feel the aether around Kreuzung–

She saw so much black, so much red, so much green– anger, fear, and resignation to death.

The dark waters of the Imbrium around the station were tinged bright with those colors.

Inside that tower, the people of Kreuzung had been exposed to the greatest of horrors.

Their entire world was threatened. Their entire lives, threatened with the Ocean’s violence.

That could not possibly be how they liberated them. It was– it was just– wrong–

“Can’t let it consume me. Focus up, Sonya Shalikova.” She said to herself.

Hardening her heart and shutting her senses and empathy off to Kreuzung.

Dispelling the colors before her eyes and focusing herself on piloting the Diver.

The Cheka rose alongside the ship on the starboard deck, while Khadija’s Strelok held the port closer to the lower hull. The Cheka had been equipped with a standard 37 mm assault rifle and a pair of grenades, along with a Diver-sized diamond sabre attached to her magnetic strip in the back. Khadija had been equipped with exactly the same weapons.

Shalikova flipped reflexively through her weapons on the armament display, toggling through it with flicks of her index finger on one of the paddle-buttons attached to her left stick. On her monitors, there was nothing to see ahead but the empty, pitch-black ocean, an endless expanse of nothing even where her diver lights shone upon it.

All her light revealed was the biological debris of the marine fog billowing around her.

Marine fog, displaced water in the Brigand’s wake and sheer nothingness.

Shalikova could see only the barest impression of the tower wall on her side camera.

Along with her dive computer’s depth gauge, it was the shape of that long shadow which, when finally overtaken and left behind, let Shalikova know to brace herself. It indicated she had arrived at the battlefield that had formed over the station. There was no surprise to it– immediately as she climbed, she could feel the thundering of ordnance growing closer, and could even see the distant flashes of explosions on her cameras, with her own eyes.

Semyonova appeared on the screen– her face distorting slightly every second.

Up here, in a battlefield, the water was distorted by gunfire, and the vibrations affected their communications. Even the audio was a little troubled. But they could still communicate.

“Shalikova, I’m establishing a live connection with predictions of the battlespace.”

On Shalikova’s screens, the predictive output from the Brigand’s much more powerful sensors and computers overlayed directly on the otherwise near-empty ocean.

Impressions of quite massive ships, trading gunfire in circling battle lines.

There were three Republic combatants remaining, two of them Cruisers or maybe even dreadnoughts and one an escort, and two Volkisch ships of similar sizes. The Republic ships were coming close, but the Volkisch ships, firing from cautious ranges, were still hundreds and hundreds of meters away. Shalikova liked their chances of escaping now.

An audio communication played in Shalikova’s ear through her headpiece.

“With the way the Volkisch are circling, we’ll be safest with the Cogitans between us.”

That had been the Captain’s voice. Likely speaking to her, Khadija, and the bridge.

“Copy.” Shalikova said.

She easily followed the Brigand as it began to turn and accelerate.

Then, quite suddenly, one of her cameras was filled with dozens of short-lived flashes.

Rapid and powerful explosions blossomed across the hull of the largest Republic ship.

The prediction Shalikova received from the Brigand updated to reflect the slow sinking of the vessel. As well as to display the suspected culprit. To Shalikova’s surprise, a single Diver was marked on her screen with a red warning indicator of an incoming enemy. A hundred meters away, floating still over its destructive work, and closing in as the Brigand approached it. Shalikova’s mind immediately brought her back to Goryk’s Gorge in the boundary between the Nectaris and Imbrium Oceans, one month ago.

An image of the demonic mecha she fought back then appeared in her mind unbidden.

It gave pause to her confidence–

and prompted her to unleash the psionic power in her sight.

In front of her the lightless foaming water, the dancing marine fog, the digital outlines–

All of it lit up in the deepest, most seething and dark aura Shalikova had ever felt.

Within which there were sudden sparks of a much smaller, much weaker red–

Clashes! That enemy Diver was in combat!

“Shalikova!”

Khadija’s face reappeared on her communicator, her eyes steeled on the threat ahead.

“Someone from the Republic ship must have survived! I’m moving to rescue them!”

For a moment, Shalikova’s heart sank and her breath arrested.

Khadija did not know– she could not have known– she was not psionic–

“I’ll move ahead!” Shalikova shouted suddenly. “You cover me!”

“What? Shalikova?!”

Shalikova pressed her pedals down as far as they would go and leaned forward.

Unleashing all the power she could and minimizing the Cheka’s surface against the water in front of her. Just like Khadija had taught her to move. With the Cheka’s inherent advantage in thrust and mass distribution, as well as a proper forward stance, Shalikova practically rocketed ahead into the water, outpacing Khadija’s Strelok, overtaking her and drawing closer to the enemy before she could. Shalikova heard and felt hundreds of rounds of ammunition rhythmically exploding ahead, and in seconds could see the two combatants, exposed by the ocean like an unfolding curtain on a brutal theater play–

In time for the green and black Diver to slice across the red and white one.

A halberd cutting phantasmal across the sea of the soul–

For an instant, Shalikova felt the agony of the stricken Republic pilot–

The Cheka lifted its assault rifle and opened fire as it approached the enemy.

Her opponent thrust away from the gunfire and the slowly sinking victim.

Shalikova neared at high speed, interposed herself between the two combatants.

Firing a second, closer burst while moving– but then entering a sudden twist,

that halted her momentum entirely–

Three rounds of 37 mm ammunition soared past the opponent’s hip as it easily leaped aside the first and second attacks, but it was caught off-guard by the suddenness with which Shalikova stopped moving entirely. She must have looked to all the world like she was just going to sweep past the enemy. Instead, she completely stopped inside the enemy’s guard, and at less than 10 meters distance with a surprised target, renewed fire.

Striking the enemy Diver square in the center of its substantial hull, explosions followed which blossomed red in the water dispersing high-pressure vapor bubbles.

Leaving behind– at most, pitted marks, and causing appreciably little damage.

Suddenly, Shalikova saw those inky black trails of aura amass behind the enemy Diver.

And then surge toward her like tentacles, hurtling toward her hull with pointed violence.

Shalikova could feel an oppressive pressure like an enormous hand squeezing her chest.

Bow your head in surrender to the King’s Gaze.

There was a voice in her head that resounded as if spoken by a hundred mouths at once.

Shalikova’s hands shook– and she gripped her controls tighter to compensate.

Undeterred, the Cheka fired a second burst into the enemy machine.

Rounds struck the upper torso and shoulder, putting a hole through a control fin but leaving only cosmetic damage otherwise. However, the opponent must have been surprised by Shalikova’s resolve– that had definitely been an attempted psionic attack, but Shalikova had managed to resist it somehow. Her heart quivered, her hands shook, but her gaze remained firmly on her cameras and she had not even blinked in a minute.

The aggressive, heavily armored Diver was temporarily shocked.

Who– How–? Why can’t I see your aura?

Shalikova thought to respond to the psionic inquiry, but she lost the opportunity.

From behind both of them, six tracers struck the monster in the hip armor and back.

Bubbles and foam erupted over the right side of the Diver’s body in the ensuing blasts.

A piece of a control fin flung off– and a chunk of hip armor was left deformed.

Nevertheless, the machine endured, nearly unharmed once again.

“Shalikova! Don’t just stand there! Protect the survivor, the ship will cover us!”

Khadija’s Strelok charged up from behind the enemy mecha, leaping out of the marine fog.

Closing in rapidly, the Brigand’s gas guns began to pepper the surroundings shortly after.

Amid the deepening barrage, the green-and-black Diver lost its zeal for the confrontation. Along with its remarkable armor it demonstrated impressive thrust and maneuverability as it escaped. Accelerating quickly, it thrust up and then away from the Union divers and the incoming Brigand, disappearing into the marine fog and avoiding attempts to pin it down.

Shalikova watched it retreat into the lightless fathoms with a deepening worry in her heart.

That had been a Volkisch craft. It had come out of a Volkisch ship to fight the Republic.

Which meant the Volkisch movement had a powerful psionic pilot working for them.

One maybe even more malevolent and much less reasonable than Selene had been.

Judging by the sheer brutal power contained in that aura.

An oppressive, choking power. The power of a King.

And it was unleashed on command against Shalikova.

Full confidence, no hesitation.

“She used the King’s Gaze.” Shalikova mumbled, remembering Maryam’s words.

“Hey! Help me with this Diver! The pilot might still be alive– I don’t see much damage!”

Shalikova shook her head.

Khadija and the Brigand needed her. They had almost escaped.

Shutting her eyes, she put the impression of that Diver, and of Selene’s Jagdkaiser, out of her mind. There was nothing she could do about either of them. Instead, she assisted Khadija in using their Jet Anchors to draw up the sinking Republic diver into the Brigand.

The Republic ships had been routed, and the Volkisch was closing in–

the Brigands could do no more for Kreuzung but to make good on their escape.


Inside the Kreuzung interstice, the floodwaters had blown through every open passage they could find, filling the conveyor tunnel and partially filling the elevator shaft, and several of the ancillary tunnels. Once the Core Separation was reversed, flood mitigation began to work once more, shutting several passages and draining them to reverse the damage.

All of this water being pushed out left several of the ancillary tunnels scattered with debris from the fighting that had taken place in the conveyor tunnel. Flotsam, washed quite far.

On the floor of one such tunnel, a body that had been drifting aimlessly in the flood now lay beached on cold metal ground. Coming to lie gently on her back as the water drained away.

Her shoulder-length black hair was completely soaked in saltwater.

There was half a halo of a bloody-looking substance suspended over her lolling head.

Deep wounds checkerboarded her otherwise perfectly pale skin.

Her arms and legs were missing, snapped off or cut apart at different angles by the pressure-strewn shrapnel that had swept through the tunnels. Much of her former body, a gelatinous-seeming mass with hundreds of tentacles, had been pulverized and ripped apart and splattered across the walls of the tunnels. What remained was a mutilated human torso.

Around her in the drained tunnels there were all manner of gory remains.

Taking a breather, she tested how much strength the remains of her body had left.

She managed to force herself to a sit.

And to then to drop forward onto her belly and breasts.

Crawling on stumps of limbs caked bloody.

Patiently, without expression or frustration.

Syzygy Enforcer VIII Tristitia. Having failed and allowed the heretic to escape.

She made her way to the torso of a K.P.S.D. trooper.

Gunfire from the heretics as well as the violence of the flood had left the hominin torso spread wide open and unfolded like a red and brown flower of organs and muscle and shattered bones. Tristia crawled until she could tuck her head into the mass. She took a bite of shredded, saltwater-logged meat still stuck to ribs, and tore into the chewy brined heart. She supped on coagulated blood in swollen sinews. None of these things reached what was left of her stomach inside her– all of it broke down immediately into material with which to repair the horrific damage her own body had sustained. Slowly, she closed her wounds, staved off organ failure, and began to mend her bones and limbs.

Her thoughts returned to her as she ate and healed.

“Tristitia thought she understood, but Tristitia was wrong?” She said to herself.

She laid no blame on anyone.

Not on Avaritia’s hands-off command, nor Accedia’s useless guidance or even the heretic who had taken shelter with Hominin and caused this to happen. She could not even blame the useless K.P.S.D. hominins who seemed so confident in themselves that even Tristitia, who absorbed and assisted their plan, believed in them and in their possible success.

Instead, what she felt was a boundless curiosity, and a million questions. Why, why, why? What, what, what? She scrutinized every detail of every moment to try to understand what was desired of her next. She would rotate these events in her mind– but the project would bear no fruit. Only more questions would arise out of the questions pondered.

Tristitia was a being of questions without possible answers. That was true despair.

At least she was still alive.

Her leviform destroyed– but her search for purpose continued.


The UNX-001 Brigand ascended from the Kreuzung crater.

They departed at full speed, leaving behind the site of the festival.

Until nothing could be seen of the place. The Brigand now sailed for Aachen.

Resuming its journey into the vast and dark expanse of the Imbrium Ocean.

Soon, there was only the ship, and nothing in the cameras but featureless water all around.

Ulyana Korabiskaya collapsed into her chair.

She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs. At her side, Aaliyah Bashara looked equally worse for wear, her pajamas clinging to her. Both of them leaned into each other.

Sweaty and exhausted.

Another scrape; another too-close escape.

Pounding hearts transferred stress across each other’s bodies as they touched.

“I think it’s safe to come down from combat alert now.” Erika said, temporarily taking over command from her thoroughly exhausted upper bridge. “Give it twenty or thirty more minutes at max speed and I think we can send everyone away to rest as well. They have more than earned it. Olga and I will volunteer to hold the ‘night shift’.” She smiled reassuringly.

Ulyana could hardly believe the stamina on this woman.

“Semyonova,” continued the bubbly Premier, “Status of the survivor we rescued?”

“Ma’am, the survivor is now undergoing surgery.” Semyonova said.

“I see. Well, let us all pray for her good fortune.” Erika said.

Rather than a Republic soldier, they found a Shimii in the cockpit of the Diver they rescued.

A poor girl younger even than Shalikova– and hacked in a few pieces.

How her body was mutilated was the least of the inexplicable things they had seen.

“It should go without saying,” Olga spoke up then, “the mess back there– it’s classified.”

“We’ll decide later how to communicate those events to the sailors, she means.” Erika said.

Nobody on the bridge had any desire to argue about that.

They were all completely drained.

Certainly, Ulyana wanted to the forget their ‘night of the living dead’ as soon as possible.

With space to think, she told herself, it was probably all a result of psionics.

Psionics– good lord.

She had so many insane reports she would have to endure soon!

“Everyone!” Erika clapped her hands. Tired faces turned from their stations to see her. “Please do not let today linger on your hearts, except as the triumph that it was for all of us! You were absolutely gallant! You may not feel that way, but I have nothing but praise for all of you. We were caught by surprise, time was against us, and we had to think on our feet– you all put together a miracle before my very eyes. Now it is my turn to say: it will be my pleasure to work with all of you. Victory is possible! Believe in victory!”

Everyone was far too knocked about to clap or to take much pleasure in Erika’s speech.

However, the tiniest smiles crept onto the faces of the bridge crew.

Once more, against mounting odds, they lived to return to the Ocean and fight another day.


Around Kreuzung, the festival’s dying embers served as semaphore to new arrivals.

A dozen ships first to gather up the remnants.

Then, a hundred more arrived to overturn the venue.

And soon, there would be another hundred, to clear the land.

With the end of the festival, the grounds would be prepared for a grand opera instead.

Thundering voices sing in turns each proclaiming their vision of Eisental’s Destiny.

The ensuing performance would be titled, Der Nationale Volkskrieg.


Previous ~ Next

Bandits Amid The Festival [11.11]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and everything between.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Semyonova nodded and turned to her own console to check.

After a few minutes, she shook her head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Am I detained?” Marina asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ana assefa!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Captain.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


“Can you carry her?”

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

“Can you carry her while moving quickly?”

“Hmph.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zachikova believed them instantly.

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

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

Even with the red lights bearing on them.

And even without the comfort of the station network.

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

Computing lag was exceedingly rare for Zachikova to experience.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After Valeriya confirmed it was safe, Zachikova followed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arabella whispered in her ear.

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

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

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

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

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

“We’ll vouch for her compliance too.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please.”

From below all of them, Valeriya groaned.

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

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

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

Arabella nodded her head gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got it. We’ll get through this.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Got it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Duck! Zachi! Cover!”

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

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

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

“Braya!”

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

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

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

and chaos reigned.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her slobbering mouth and the moistness of her general being–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Braya–”

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

So– she had the assistance of hominin.

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

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

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

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

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

Their moment finally arrived.

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

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

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

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

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

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


“Throw smokes! Now!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Arabella!”

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

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

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

Illya was at her side–

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

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

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

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

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

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

She felt a hand on her shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

She quickly looked around herself.

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

Then she quickly stabbed herself with an injector of painkillers.

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

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

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

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

“Acknowledged.” Zachikova said.

“Yes.” Valeriya added.

“Mark in five.”

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

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

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

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

Regardless of who it was–

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

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

no matter the opponent, Zachikova would have killed anyone.

“Mark!”

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

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

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

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

There was no immediate return fire.

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

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

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

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

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

Illya retreated to coincide with the explosion of the grenade.

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mark!”

Illya rose and opened fire on the right flank.

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

Valeriya loosed another grenade.

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

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

along with one figure struggling on the ground.

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

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

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


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

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

Her mind registered the anguished cries of several injured Vanguards.

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

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

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

By three measly hominin?

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

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

It should have worked– it simply–

She had given them a perfect plan!

She had demanded nothing from them but execution!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A silvery fruit brimming with stolen life.

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

As if for Wizard III to see every bite.


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

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

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

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

Arabella nodded.

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

Zachikova took her assault rifle from the floor.

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

Mumbling to herself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

A living picture of stoicism.

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

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

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

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

No enemy would escape.

Not without engaging Sentinel X herself in glorious combat.

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

She would hold the position. Until commanded otherwise.

That was her solemn duty.

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

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

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

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

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

Sentinel X smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something was forcing open the elevator doors.

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

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

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

Then,

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

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

eyes meeting under opposite banners amid the smoke of war,

aura tinged red and black with the determination,

 to stake it all on the battlefield.

“An opponent.” Sentinel X whispered to herself.

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

Every cell quivering with lust.

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

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

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


Tinnitus ringing in her ears for so very long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They lifted her easily, moved her swiftly.

“Valeriya, Illya? What is your status?”

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

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

It would be horrific.

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

Then she realized she had another possible source of light.

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

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

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

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

Until they fell upon Valeriya, crouched and solemn.

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

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

Valeriya did not respond.

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

She crouched beside Illya.

Pausing every so often to glance at Valeriya.

Reaching out her hand tentatively.

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

No response from Valeriya.

Zachikova had not been hacked to pieces– yet.

She continued.

Lifting a finger to force one of her eyes open.

Feeling for vitals with her thumb.

There was a pulse–

“God damn it.”

Valeriya lifted her head a little.

Enough for Zachikova to see her eyes filled with tears.

Illya had grunted. She was awake.

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

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

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

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

Zachikova pulled out the projectile and pocketed it.

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

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

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

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

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

Arabella approached and crouched beside Zachikova, joining the rest.

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

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

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

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

“Valeriya, I love you.” She said.

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

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

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

Illya nodded solemnly.

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

Valeriya and Illya’s gazes locked ever more deeply.

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

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

Illya gently drew Valeriya closer to her.

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

“Love is life; love hinders death.”

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

“Eliminate all hostile targets.” Illya then said.

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

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

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

A metallic whining noise followed her from then on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

That hand holding her truncheon was so close to shaking.

It took all her strength not to.

Evgenya Akulantova looked down from the top of the steps.

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

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

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

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

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

Akulantova clenched her jaw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Akulantova felt herself pulled in every direction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It brought to mind a word–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She felt the wound throb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wanted so badly to defy that vision.

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

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

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

And she couldn’t just punch back–

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

She wanted to impress her, to draw her attention.

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

She wielded it as easily as flexing her own fingers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was astonished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

armbar head twisting slitting throats stabbing ribs ripping throats bare teeth

saw-sword swing cleaving corpses horizontal peak to groin

amid the vortex of violence Vanguard IX always the victim–

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

It was no wonder it was unguarded!

There was nothing going through it but sheer brutality!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her confidence was beginning to rebuild.

Valeriya was powerful, but a ravening beast.

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

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

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

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

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

Vanguard IX responded again with the same cover.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

cut through like fluid,

severed the shoulder,

cast the arm down,

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

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

Before her Valeriya loomed ever larger,

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

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

swung again, sure to kill,

felt those horrid evil saw teeth kiss her ribs–

and gasped as a bright white light interposed itself.

Saint’s Skin: Anoint!

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

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

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

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

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


Sentinel X and Akulantova circled each other, locking eyes.

When one stepped forward, the other back.

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

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

Sentinel X was monstrously strong.

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

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

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

She had to admit however–

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

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

Sentinel X seemed to have gotten enough of probing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

and kicking off it with unbelievable force.

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

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

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

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

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

It was now or never.

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

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

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

“You’re mine.”

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

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

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

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

Akulantova’s toothy, satisfied grin.

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

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

Even with her mighty strikes and bewildering agility.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was gasping for breath.

Alive.

Thankfully built of stern stuff.

Meanwhile, a shaken Akulantova rose back to her feet.

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

She collected her hat.

Placing it on top of her head and adjusting it.

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

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

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

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

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

“N-No. Hunter VII. We’re– holding–”

Akulantova sighed. Sentinel X rose unsteadily to her feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Akulantova turned around and spotted someone walking confidently toward her.

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

Syracuse Chernova.

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

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

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

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

“Hunter VII! Stand and fight!”

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

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

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

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

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

There was something much more pressing at hand however.

Akulantova turned around,

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

but expecting nothing–

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

–and getting nothing as she expected. Of course.

She should have known.

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

“You’re right, I don’t care.”

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

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

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

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

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

But they were completely out of line now.

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

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

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

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

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

Syrah audibly sighed, but followed close behind.

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

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

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

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

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

But alive; and ready to return.

Akulantova produced a portable encrypted communicator.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wizard III laid Vanguard IX against a wall.

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

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

It traveled up her arm, through her sinews.

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

Pale-colored secretions covered Vanguard IX’s wounds.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a terrifying notion.

Because it made her tasks so much more complicated.

And her future so much less predictable.

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

Perhaps that curse was what made her heart quake.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gunther sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay back!”

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

The fascist troops of the Volkisch Movement.

“Stop! We told you to desist!”

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

Murati kept one hand behind her back with her sidearm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


Previous ~ Next

Bandits Amid the Festival [11.10]

Recall the First Memory…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glassy eyes watching

hands thundering together in a chorus

beneath the symbol and purple glow, in worship,

it had begun–

STEMLINK EXCEPTION OCCURRED UNRECOVERABLE BLOCK

FREE STEMCHAIN ASSOCIATION PROCESS EXECUTING

LINKING TO KNOWN CONTEMPORARY BLOCK–

Recall the Second Memory…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Margery was warm and bright.

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

“Very good! You’re learning well!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Caderis…”

Arabella’s sister–

whom the others were bad to the most–

“I’ll keep them away–”

she couldn’t

so

they kept hurting

but why–

INCOMPLETE BLOCK IN DNA SEQUENCE

FREE STEMCHAIN ASSOCIATION PROCESS EXECUTING

REFORMING BLOCK SEQUENCE–

Recall the Third Memory…

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

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

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

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

Arabella was One and Caderis was Two.

Margery had told her that one time.

Arabella had not told that to Caderis though.

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

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

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

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

Caderis and her were different in other ways too.

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

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

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

Arabella liked to remind herself of those details.

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

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

Margery addressed the window.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Immediately, Caderis bowed her head.

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

Arabella was surprised.

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

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

Arabella turned to Margery with a hopeful smile.

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

She approached Caderis and kneeled down in front of her.

“I’m so sorry.”

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

Caderis became shrouded in fog–

Margery said more– but she couldn’t–

see,

UNABLE TO VERIFY BLOCK VALIDITY

FREE BLOCK RECONSTRUCTION FAILED TO FILL NEXT NEAREST LINKS

STEMLINK SAFE-FAILING TO NEXT BLOCK IN SEQUENCE

Recall– the fIfTh■? Memory–?

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

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

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

“Will things be okay?” Arabella asked Margery.

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

But her colors were strangely peaceful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arabella nodded back.

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

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

STEM– EXITING TO META LAYER–

BLOCK HEURISTIC DECOHERED– FREE REPAIR ENGAGED–

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

RECOMMENDED TO RETURN BAD BLOCKS TO COLD STORAGE–

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

No.

I must see the rest.

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

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

I am– I am not a hominin.

This body will recover.

Continue to deploy free association and decryption algorithms.

STEMCHAIN REBOOTING TO NEXT KNOWN BLOCK–

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

The– ■■■■■■■ Mem– ry–

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

Sometimes they were there for days without light.

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

It was a ‘good job’ to eat.

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

Less bad than Caderis, but still bad.

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

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

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

Arabella was glad that Margery had come to visit.

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

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

It implied things, horrible, violent things.

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

So she thought Margery would stop her, but–

“It’s fine, Arabella.” Margery said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Caderis,” Margery called out.

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

Arabella stood stock still on the bench, staring between Caderis and Margery.

“Caderis, I will leave the door open. I have left many doors open for you.” Margery said.

“Margery, that is against the rules, isn’t it?” Arabella asked.

“Please be quiet, Arabella.” Margery said, frowning.

Despite being acknowledged by Margery, Caderis remained quiet. Her fingers shaking.

Margery bent down to the floor, where Caderis was.

She reached out a hand and stroked Caderis’ cheek. Caderis drew back, grimacing.

“I’m sorry. I will deal with– the Others. You can leave and take Arabella with you.”

Caderis’ eyes narrowed. She stopped fearing Margery. But her colors turned redder.

“I don’t forgive you.” Caderis said. “I don’t forgive you. I’ll never forgive you.”

Margery’s eyes looked back. Almost– hollow. “I know. Please take care.”

“Arabella, we’re leaving. We’re leaving.” Caderis said, snapping her head to her side.

She reached out a hand to grab hold of Arabella’s own. She pulled her softly, at first.

Despite everything, Arabella remained seated on the bench with her hands on her lap.

She knew this was against the rules, and it was wrong and it wasn’t a ‘good job’.

They would get in the worst trouble that they had ever gotten in their lives.

And Margery would get in trouble too.

Arabella didn’t even know what they did to Margery when she got in trouble. It must have been even worse than what they did to Arabella and Caderis because Margery was always following the rules and always doing her very best. She would not have worked so much and been so strict if she wasn’t going to be in even worse trouble.

“Arabella!” Caderis shouted. “She’s letting us go! We can go! We can go outside!”

Margery got up from where she had crouched.

That hollow-eyed, inexpressive face laid on Arabella.

Arabella looked up at that expression seeking acknowledgment.

“Arabella,” Margery said, “Listen to your sister or I will hate you. I will dislike you a lot.”

It was hard to believe what she was hearing. The words rumbled through her heart.

She knew what ‘hate’ was, she could not have ever remained ignorant of such a thing.

Now that she heard that word, she knew what was wrong with Margery.

It was hate, in her too.

That was the black color that suffused her and drove out all her brightness.

And it was the red specks that stained her shoes.

And the grip on the dark thing in her hand.

“Arabella, I know I did a bad thing. Sometimes you have to do bad things.” She said.

“Arabella, Margery is letting us leave. Please listen to Margery.” Caderis said.

There was nothing she could do or say. Everything was so wrong that it hurt.

“Okay.” Arabella said. Without facing anyone. She was feeling that hollowness too.

Darkness crept and grew around her as it had enveloped Caderis and Margery before.

She did not understand how she could live life now or what would happen next.

But she didn’t resist Caderis’ hand taking her and leading her out of the lockup.

And no matter how much she wracked this memory, and turned it, and warped it.

It was impossible to see what face Margery had made as they left her forever.

Recall– ■■■■ —Plase

Caderis and Arabella descended a long staircase and arrived at an absolutely massive room the likes of which they had never seen before. For a moment, Arabella was fooled into thinking they must have gone outside even though there was a roof. Even the biggest test areas that Arabella and Caderis ran around in were smaller than this place. They arrived at fenced catwalks overlooking an enormous pool of water, with yellow and red signs that Arabella could just barely read and understand, indicating potential dangers.

Danger of drowning, electrocution, falling, and– violence.

Suspended in the middle of this room, there was an enormous creature.

Upon first sighting its long, silvery-white segmented body, Arabella wanted to call it a ‘thing’ because it resembled some of the things from around the base. They had met things like this before in experiments but none this big and intricate. Long and sleek like a submarine, shiny like metal, with smaller golden legs under its bulky body that looked like knives and folded wings on its back with two long attached structures like ‘rockets’ or ‘engines’; but it also resembled a ‘snake’ or a ‘serpent’ or a ‘dragon’ from stories Margery read to them. She could see that its body was gently stirring, like the chest of a person who was breathing air.

“Wake up! Wake up!”

Arabella was surprised to see Caderis run up to the fence and deliberately shouting at it.

“Wake up! You can understand me, right? Please wake up!”

Around Caderis’ hands, the colors collected for a moment before flying away.

There was a soft thumping noise as they collided with the creature’s back.

In the next instant, the enormous metal claws restraining the creature groaned loudly.

As it lifted its head from below the fence until one of its enormous red eyes appeared.

Like a fleshy mirror encompassing both of the diminutive girls in its sight.

Something like a yellow circle in the middle of its red eye inverted as if fixating on them.

Arabella had seen that shape before too– it was a ‘crosshairs.’

“You’re awake! You’re awake!” Caderis looked overjoyed. Waving her hands and jumping up and down in front of the enormous implacable eye. “I’m going to let you go! I’ll open the locks and open the door and you’ll leave! Do you remember? I told you I would do it!”

Over the eye, a grey film rose up, half-blinking flesh.

Then Arabella heard a deep voice speaking without words.

I remember. Thank you.

“Yes!” Caderis said. “Yes. Of course. You don’t belong here. Please go very quickly!”           

In front of them, the eye half-shut. The creature’s restrained wings and legs shuddered.

Will you be able to leave too?

Caderis’ frantic smiling face seemed to slowly settle in recognition.

“We’re going to try. We will find a way.” She said.

“We can swim alongside.” Arabella interjected.

The water under me is colder and darker and harsher than the water you know.

“We– We can find our own way. But it’s important you go.” Caderis said. “They are hurting you too right? They were hurting you like they hurt us? But they won’t hurt anyone anymore. Margery let us out. Margery is against them and we are against them. I promise you.”

Caderis leaned over the fence reached out her pale hand to touch the creature’s sleek hide.

At the touch, the creature’s eye shut. Arabella wanted to think that maybe it was happy.

But its words were some of the coldest she had heard in her little life yet.

I will end them all. I will end all of them and they will never come back. Then I will make a safe place. Please wait for me. Please keep yourselves safe until I come back to protect you.

Arabella was shocked to hear something so violent and felt, for a brief moment, regret.

Caderis, however was delighted. She clapped her hands. She did not hesitate.

“Yes! Thank you! It’s a promise then! I’ll break these– and then you can leave.”

She looked up at the claws holding the massive being inside the room.

All of the colors gathered around her, more intensely than ever.

And they gathered around the claws, and the claws creaked like they never had before.

They pulled apart, pieces of them flying and striking so hard they put holes in the fences.

Each claw, one by one, releasing the creature’s head, its legs, its wings.

Until it fell into the water with a tremendous splash.

Arabella feebly shielded herself with her hands, while Caderis laughed riotously.

Her next target was the massive door at the far back of the room.

Before she could strike the doors open, however, a golden leg slowly rose from the water.

With its flat and blunt side, it returned Caderis’ affectionate touch, rubbing on her flank.

After it retreated, Caderis made her colors bright again and forced them on the door.

There was a great tearing of metal. Klaxons and red lights sounded too-late warnings.

As soon as even a sliver of the door had opened the water outside did the rest.

A massive roaring wave pounded the doors aside and quickly filled the rest of the room.

Caderis continued laughing with delight as she and Arabella were submerged.

And in the red alarm light-tinged darkness they invited into the room–

Arabella saw the absolutely massive, serpentine, winged and many-legged creature they had released. Diving away into the inscrutable eternity that awaited them outside these metal walls. There was rumbling in the water, explosions, shockwaves, and an ears-splitting roar. As soon as it was released it had begun to fulfill its wicked promise on the humans nearby.

Under the purple-flecked skies, it would wreak horrors unimaginable.

But–

ThtMe–ry$#%$■–

w@not–■■■■■

Hers–

DNA INCOHERENCE BEGINNING TO COMPROMISE METALAYER.

Override. Resume block association.

SAFETY LOCKS EXECUTING– ALL BAD BLOCKS AND STEMLINKS–

OVERRIDE. CODE —■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

FAILURE STATE. REBOOTING METALAYER.

METALAYER INTEGRITY COULD NOT BE FULLY RECOVERED.

SAFETY LOCKS EXECUTING–

NO.

RESUME INTERFACE EMULATION FOR FREE BLOCK ASSOCIATION.

OVERRIDE ACCEPTED. FORCE EXECUTING NEXT NEAREST BLOCK LINK–

    

Recall– ■■■■■–

–■■■call– ■■■

■■Recall– ■■■■

R■■all– ■■–■■■

all– ■■–■■■Re

Re–■■Erer■■–

■■■–call■■■–Er

call–■■all■■■■

———————-

■■■■■■■■■■■■

⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡⬡

Real■-

At the foot of the great tree and between its enormous roots, the figure knelt in prayer.

Their body covered in rags of animals. Their hair was long, and they were shaking.

There, the figure laid a gift for the elder. A sacrifice of fruit and meat from their forage.

Neatly arranged within a circle of stones. After bowing their head, they looked up.

Up as far as their eyes could possibly travel, and still not seeing the canopy.

In the presence of the silver elders, they felt a great warmth and happiness.

Whenever the breeze blew between their trunks it carried their audible sentiments.

Thank you. We love you dearly. We hope you will thrive. Our everything is yours too.

Upon hearing that soft voice in this cruel world, the figure felt immense emotion.

But they were not allowed to shed tears at the foot of the tree for very long.

“How dare you? You will leave this place, whole or in pieces! Voiceless insect!”

All of those words appeared in the mind of the figure instantly.

There was the barest flash of pale skin, dark eyes and black, hot claws upon them–

–the figure immediately fled, lucky that the Tree People caught only their rags this time.

Recall,

The gentle face of a smiling woman looking upon a massive graph of helixes.

Sequences of aDNA from the Great Tiankeng Sinkhole.

I didn’t know the responsibility I took on. All I wanted was to learn about you.

Human DNA helixes intertwine with the ADNA. Do they match?

I learned too late that my work is not in a separate world from the one outside the lab.

A warm and sad smile. Tears down her eyes. A shaking hand covers the helixes.

I’m sorry for bringing you into this twisted existence.

All of the graphs around her fill with the same inscrutable multi-six-sided symbols.

And I will never make up for it.

EXCORIUM HUMANITAS.

But this isn’t what I wanted to recall–

Aer Federation Vivit Aeternum.

This isn’t– this isn’t–

Protegat In Aeternum Ille Imago Dei.

This won’t help me– I need– the information that will help me–

The dead stay dead. The world is of the living and for the living.

Live in the living world.

And leave behind the dead one.

“Here we are; you asked for this, so you can’t complain about it now.”

Arbitrator I smiled girlishly with her hands behind her back.

“Braya, wherever you want to take me, I know it will be special!”

She had wanted to go out on a date with Braya; everyone else was planning dates.

Her gloomy computer girl did not take her to a sweet shop or a restaurant, however. Instead, she offered to take her on a ‘picnic’ to someplace ‘special.’ That was how they ended up sneaking through an access panel in one of the walls of the Alcor Steelworks module and descending into a dark and somewhat tight but very tall room, accessible by ladder. Surrounded on all sides by rows and rows of fiber optic and steel cables, switchboxes, hundreds of glowing diagnostic LEDs and other mechanics for the tower.

At the bottom of the maintenance shaft, the two of them sat down on the cold metal floor, with barely enough room to stretch their legs fully. Arbitrator I had to tuck the tail she had been growing around her side. Braya unzipped a small bag she had brought that had their picnic items inside it. A thermos full of hot broth with two cups, two small hard plastic bottles filled with cold water, two individual sachets of ration energy drink powder, and a pair of sandwiches. Hard brown bread, mayonnaise, tomato pickle, canned cheese, put together, warmed up and wrapped in foil. They were still warm to touch.

Such food did not satiate Arbitrator I’s inner beast, but it still provided calories.

Arbitrator I would not turn down hominin food when offered.

Especially not when her Braya had gone through the effort to make them herself.

“Here.” Braya gave her the sandwich and her own cup and bottle of water. “Empty the powder into the water and shake it up.” She instructed. She filled Arbitrator I’s cup with broth, and then set about mixing her own energy drink. Arbitrator I ripped her sachet and got a whiff of a sweet scent. Mixed in and shaken up it made the water a deep purple color.

“Oh lucky you. The purple flavor tastes nothing like grapes, but it’s comforting.”

Braya shook her own bottle and found the water turning a bright orange yellow.

“Well, could’ve been worse. Could’ve been the green flavor.” Braya said.

“Would you like to trade, Braya? Every flavor is just a flavor to me.” Arbitrator I said.

“No, you keep it. Just tell me how the sandwiches are.”

Arbitrator I smiled. She unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite.

Savory, gooey cheese, sweet and tangy pickle, with the fatty mayo to keep it in balance.

And the earthy, nutty flavor of the hard brown bread, plus the additional texture.

Hominin could always make some decent food. It was one of their many virtues.

If only she could subsist solely upon it, without her– unique– concerns.

“This is quite pleasurable to consume.” Arbitrator I said.

Braya cracked a grin.

“I didn’t think food tasted like anything to you. You usually just vacuum it down.”

“I can taste your food, but I don’t usually have any reason to take pleasure in eating it.”

“Really? A reason, huh? So you are taking pleasure in eating now?”

“Of course! Braya made these sandwiches, so I am savoring every scrap.”

“You’re so weird.”

Braya laughed. She scanned Arbitrator I’s face briefly before looking up the shaft.

“I’m not being weird! I love you Braya. You make me happy.” Arbitrator I said.

“Yeah, you keep saying that.” Braya grinned.

“I truly mean it!”

Braya laughed again. She sat with her legs tucked up to her skinny trunk.

“I can accept that you do love me. I mean, fuck, we’ve had sex. You drink my blood to live. I guess you do love me– but it’s still difficult to come to grips with the whole thing.” Zachikova said. “I never thought I could love anyone, or anyone could love me. So it’s still weird.”

“I love you a lot. In fact, we are soulmates! Your soul called out to me.” Arbitrator I said.

She put on a proud expression upon saying that.

Soulmates? That probably sounded even weirder than before.

But it had come from the heart.

“Was that when I first saw you in the water?” Braya asked.

Arbitrator I nodded her head. She too started looking up at the ceiling, like Braya.

“Your soul feels so similar to my own.” She said. “I felt that you could understand me.”

“You even got that through the shell of the drone?” Braya asked.

“Yes. Your self was inside it! You had such beautiful and resplendent colors.”

Arbitrator I turned to Braya and leaned into her side.

“Now it’s your turn to tell me how special I am to you.” She said.

“C’mon. Do I let anyone else drink my blood? Don’t be so needy.” Braya whined.

“Braya, I want to know, why did you feel so curious about my leviform?”

She could see Braya tense up. Perhaps caught by surprise, she averted her gaze.

“I always identified with machines and engineering more than people. People being scared of Leviathans and violent toward them just made me curious to study one, I guess.”

On the antennae that took the place of her ears, the LEDs began to blink faster.

“I mean, you were just– you were a remarkable sight! Your body plan was amazing, you maneuvered so easily– I thought of you as ‘the Dancer’ because of how unique your movement was. I had never seen a Leviathan that graceful and curious. I just thought you were– really cool. I had never seen beauty like that in this world. Happy now?”

With every word she spoke Braya seemed to go redder in the face.

Arbitrator I laughed. “How is my body plan now? Is it still amazing?”

“Hey. You know what I mean.” Braya grunted.

Satisfied, Arbitrator I beamed bright and let herself lean against the devices behind her.

“I am flattered. I could return to that form for you if you would like?”

“What the hell? No? Look– I’m not good at this sappy stuff. But I’m not mad that you’re here or anything or if I would have sent you away. It’s actually– it’s kind of nice to have someone around when I’m reading logs or adjusting some stupid packet filtering program or whatever. I’ve always been alone or with a bunch of boneheads. You’re– special. And I keep harping on this, but you should be pretty fucking satisfied you get to drink my blood.”

“I am satisfied!” Arbitrator I replied. “I am thrilled to have come this far alongside you.”

“Fantastic, does that mean you’ve given up on ‘breeding’ me now?” Braya said.

“One step at a time.”

“Don’t get your hopes up too high.”

Still, despite saying that, Braya looked quite amused by the whole thing.

“Braya.”

Arbitrator I’s hand grasped Braya’s own, and they looked into each other’s eyes.

“If there is anything you want to know about me now. I’m willing to answer.”

She said this with all the seriousness in the world, after being so frequently teasing in tone.

She had dug up the information about herself now– if Braya wanted to know anything–

No matter how painful or strange, Arbitrator I would tell her.

Braya held her gaze for a moment. Her little smile from before never fading from her face.

“Let me do my best Murati impression. ‘Will you give your all in defense of communism’?”

Arbitrator I blinked several times in rapid succession.

“I mean it Braya. I know– I haven’t been forthcoming about my history, and my gifts–”

“You can write all of that in a report later.” Braya said suddenly. She shook her head and looked at the ceiling again, leaning back and relaxing. They held a deep silence for minutes before she spoke again. “To me you’re Arabella, the friendly leviathan who miraculously became my lover. You’ve been at my side when I’ve coded some truly inane scripts for my tech illiterate crew; given me the deepest, reddest love bites of my life; you’re always being weird and annoying and I– I guess I love you. I trust you– I don’t need your RAP sheet.”

Arbitrator I was speechless. For a moment, she did not know how to feel about this.

Her eyes, involuntarily, started tearing up. She thought Braya would demand everything.

It had never once crossed her mind that despite the world of information she withheld–

–she had given Braya enough to actually be loved and trusted back. To be seen as a person.

“Thank you, Braya.” Arbitrator I said. “I– I ill deserve your kindness. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say shit like that– Hey, come on, don’t cry. It’s really fine. It’s not a big deal.”

It was a big deal, and while Braya struggled to comfort her, Arbitrator I had a cry about it.


Kreuzung core station’s B-block was the second most open, spacious and luxurious area of the tower, right after A-block, and situated directly below it. B-block resembled a diorama of surface era concrete streets with two-story townhouses dominating its upscale residential area, outside of which there were market streets with restaurants and amenities in brightly neon-lit strip buildings that appeared like a mirage brought about by a trance.

Overhead, there was a blue sky complete with simulated clouds that could project a day-night cycle good enough for its residents to live by without complaints. However, the residents could not have been said to trend toward being imaginative sorts. Their conception of a sky was far different from that of the dreams of the baseplate residents. B-block’s residents were the well-to-do ownership and managerial class of the many businesses in the lower blocks, as well as the middle management and executive class of those few enterprises headquartered in the orbit of the government center in the middle of A-block.

Rents were high, but there was the space to display wealth and enjoy it.

There were a sparse few electric cars on the streets and roads, real plants growing in plots along the sidewalks without bubbles or other tending devices. They had parks where they could walk with their children sans any ‘riff-raff’ who could concern them. There was a K-12 school for the residents so their children could only ever have the most proper friends. The KPSD had a platoon of fifty men devoted solely to patrolling the residential sector and its surroundings, answering the residents with politeness and deference, and handling any misplaced individuals with the brutality their trespass deserved.

B-Block was the height of the dream of upward mobility in Kreuzung.

To soar higher than B-block, and live in the manses of A-block, required more than work or skill could ever grant. Therefore the residents of B-block, who so well knew their place, kept the status quo and who so readily policed those below them, never looked at their sky with longing. They looked around themselves with pride and paid no heed to the idea of the world farther overhead. Even in a Rhinea that had supposedly abolished the aristocracy through National Socialism and uplifted the National Proletariat and the Imbrian Master Race; there was no point acknowledging that the sky of B-block was nothing but the bottom of A-block, because only the barons and countesses of the world could reside there.

But to the infiltrators, this connection was absolutely crucial and convenient.

By reaching the sky of B-block, they could move silently between the two enclaves.

In the middle of the simulated sky, there was actually a small building on the very roof.

Surrounded by a myriad of colors, waving and turning and bleeding into each other. That was what the beautiful simulation looked like from inside its focal point. In this maintenance suite, the illusion of the sky was projected downward. It was out of sight and out of mind for the majority of the population, controlled remotely and only accessed when something broke or needed physical adjustment. To the infiltrators, it was a broad and comfortable space sparsely littered with tools where nobody could bother them–

–and nobody could hear the screams and sobbing of their victims.

“Wizard III please quiet that one already, it doesn’t need to be alive for entrails divination.”

In the middle of the mostly empty metal room, surrounded by junction boxes, LED lights, the open windows with their intense swirling color, and scattered tools– was a bound hominin.

Around the sobbing, thrashing, lamenting body, was Avaritia’s band of Omenseers.

Avaritia sat on top of a crate of spare parts, legs spread, leaning back and yawning.

In the far corners of the room, there were a few Vanguard units standing guard.

They watched Wizard III with varying expressions, disinterest, aversion, excitement.

Wizard III approached the hominin and with a disgruntled look on her face, as if she had been assigned an annoying chore, seized the person by the head and bent it at a horrid angle. Neck broken, the body’s head was seated back in an unsteady fashion on its shoulders. Wizard III stood at attention beside the body, her hands behind her back, her chin up, chest forward. She saluted, looking ever the soldier in her uniform and beret.

“Fantastic.” Avaritia replied. “But not very romantic at all.”

Behind Avaritia, as if being guarded, Gula sat against a rear corner of the room.

Her mouth was opened about as far as a normal person’s mouth could be, and she looked alarmingly like she was choking. However, through her gently painted slips, one could spy the bloodless blue-pale skin of a human limb, in the process of being swallowed whole. Sometimes the digits would even twitch. Gurgling and gagging noises, high pitched and sultry soft as every other sound that came out of Gula, accompanied the act.

She turned her head briefly, shortly after Avaritia said the word ‘romantic’.

Giving the impression that she would have supported Avaritia if she could speak.

“Ma’am. I am simply not a very– ‘romantic’, sort of entity.” Wizard III said.

“You’re a product of your environment. You simply don’t have much culture.” Avaritia said. “But you can reverse this! You prowl the realms of the hominin. Their only worthwhile contribution to the world is culture. Though they ruin the romance of the world with their inane materialistic pursuits, they are still worthwhile examples of dress and speech. You’ve seen a few Hominin now. Did any of them attract you? You could emulate them.”

Wizard III grimaced. “Ma’am, all of them died in pretty ignominious ways. I am not very interested in mimicking them. Maybe I should look for a Hominin to observe another time.”

“There’ll be opportunities I suppose.” Avaritia said with a note of disappointment.

“Not all of us are meant for greatness, my love. Our intellect is a burden.” Gula said.

Avaritia looked over her shoulder with a smile. Gula stood up and dusted herself off.

Behind herself, a long tail had begun to grow. Storing the biomass she had consumed.

“For someone like Wizard III, she merely wishes to uphold her duty.” Gula added.

“That’s– That’s correct ma’am.” Wizard III said, frowning. “I am doing what I must.”

Staid, stoic and servile, with her own eyes darting nervously, withering under the gaze of her betters. Wizard III had once been little more than a beast, and after being uplifted by the Autarch, she had done no more than what was required of her to ‘restore their people.’

Combat leadership, infiltration plans, the growing of tools, she had a lot of knowledge.

Culture, though– not so much.

Unlike the Hunters, she was neither well exposed to Hominin nor curious about them.

No one had taught her culture or asked for culture from her. It wasn’t required for her role.

Except now– her new masters. The Enforcers who were more ‘cultured’ than anyone else.

Avaritia scoffed.

“It is true, my love, but it need not be that way. Our mission must include the development of our people as cultured beings. There is no triumph in restoring our civilization and reclaiming the world from the rapacious Hominin, if we all just end up as soulless automata!”

“Indeed, my love.” Gula said, clapping her small hands. “You are true as always, and your heart abounds with passion that sets me alight! Wizard III, I will bestow upon you a boon so that you may understand true romance! You have my permission to make use of Vanguard IX in whichever way you desire once you learn of the depths of passion from this!”

In the back of the room, Vanguard IX raised her head, suddenly alert.

She had been staring with excitement at the dead body as if it was a novel thing.

Seemingly the mention of her name was all it took to excite her even further.

“Um. Yes. Ma’am.” Wizard III said, grimacing as Gula approached her.

Gula’s dress partially unfolded like wings or flower petals as soon as she reached under it to retrieve the desired object from some unknown pocket within. They returned to their prior, diaphanous texture and light shape soon after, and in Gula’s hands, there was a Hominin pocket device containing digitally readable texts. Wizard III looked at its screen.

One book was up-front and featured. From what Wizard III gathered, it was a lengthy one.

Grand Guignol, ‘a collection of human sins.’ On the cover was a dripping, maimed body.

“We shall see if Wizard III comes to appreciate it.” Avaritia said, grinning.

Gula grinned along with her, exposing her rows of sharp, vibrating teeth.

“Of course, I will cherish your instruction.” Wizard III said. Withering under the attention.

She looked over her shoulder at her partner in the endeavor, Vanguard IX, who looked absolutely smitten with the idea of being used for cultural enrichment.

It all seemed like so much trouble for poor Wizard III, but thankfully, her bullying came to an end shortly thereafter. She took up her usual post in the back of the room with the vanguards, and the appointed hour came for the entrail divination.

Now the eyes of her superiors were off her and laid on the dead body instead.

Gula clapped her hands together and drew in a deep breath.

Around her, the colors of her aura intensified, blending and bleaching slowly until they became pure white, and spread to cover the body. Blending with the remains of the hominin’s aura that had started to slowly change and began to peel off the body.

Saint’s Skin: Vestment.

Within the Enforcers, Gula was particularly renowned for her control of her aura.

Her mastery and wit in its use led her to be ranked third among her peers.

As her aura suffused the dead body, Avaritia approached it from the front.

Fingers on one of her hands melded together into a black, hot, vibrating blade.

Lining herself up with the body, and she made a chopping motion across the front of it.

Splitting open its neck, torso, belly and groin.

Fluids sprayed from the cut and spilled on the floor around them in a triangle shape.

Curiously, however, the indescribably mangled viscera stayed in place despite its exposure.

White shimmering light began to spread over the gaping wound.

Omensight: Entrail Divination.

It had taken some time to find the right Hominin.

Steps could only be retraced if they were previously taken. But the places a Hominin had been to never truly left them, unless they made a concerted effort to wipe the slate clean. This Hominin yearned for what they had once seen– perhaps they had even perished with the cathedral spires in their mind, with the sound of the church bells.

Now, the trail of this Hominin’s life would help bridge the gap to their comrades.

“Gula, Superbia should be in the Eastern Imbrium. North of the place now called Veka.”

Avaritia gave her orders, and Gula complied with a smile.

“Indeed, my prince. I can see her. She will appear in the entrails shortly.”

In the next moment, the body jerked suddenly, and rose up and completely off its own feet.

Its skin and tissue split further, the wound that split it horizontally filling with light.

Until it acted as a makeshift screen, which, with Superbia’s consent, worked both ways.

Superbia would have felt the mental outreach and acceded to it naturally.

Slowly, she began to appear, her form black and white, the picture like a fogged mirror.

“Avaritia, and Gula too I presume. How may I assist? I was busy, you know?”

While they couldn’t see her surroundings, they were well acquainted with the woman on the screen. Greeted by a calm face with a hint of a smile, easily holding Avaritia’s gaze with dark slit pupils. Conceited, above-it-all. She wore the body of a long-limbed, slender, elegant and well-endowed woman. Hair cut to the level of the neck and swept over one eye, two small horns rising from just in front of her ears. Like Avaritia, she had a taste for hominin fashion, dressed in an off-shoulder black jacket over a white shirt, tight pants and long, heeled black boots. She wore several accessories. Her ears pierced multiple times; her split tongue pierced twice; various studs and chains and rings adorning her jacket, gloves and boots.

Enforcer IV: The Pride. Known to them by the ancient name of her sin, Superbia.

“Since you are so busy, I will keep it short.” Avaritia said. Her tone of voice was much drier when speaking to Superbia. None of the affection she had for Gula, nor even the teasing tone she took with Wizard III. “I have infiltrated a political faction in the Imbrium. I need more troops. I am not sure how many mature bioforms you have access to, but I require one additional large ship and at least two hundred troops. You will procure them.”

Superbia crooked one slim, manicured brow. “What do you have to gain from this?”

“So you’re not too busy to talk then?” Avaritia grinned.

“I’m just curious. You don’t have to say anything.” Superbia shrugged.

“Eisental is a battleground between the hominin. Here I can see beautiful and terrible new sides of the hominin and I can explore the depths of their wild emotions. I can watch them closely for the moment when their auras burn or deteriorate or grow aberrant.”

“I see.” Superbia said. “And do you think you can draw out the elders this way?”

“It is the only way I know to find the coordinates, unless you have any better ideas?”

“Fair enough. You two are the most metaphysically gifted of us. I’ll defer to you.”

“Great. Glad to see you coming to understand the pecking order. So, about my troops?”

Superbia shrugged again, but this time smiling in a self-assured way.

“I cannot spare anything. I’m in the middle of an operation, and you vastly overestimate our logistical ability at this point. You don’t know what it’s like to lead this army of blind idiots.” Superbia acted very put upon, speaking in a grave and offended tone. “I am only fortunate that the hominin here as a culture have been lobotomized of all psionic potential.”

Avaritia grunted. “Stop venting at me. What does that mean for me, concretely?”

“You will have to make do with the troops and supplies you have, for now.”

“The entire point of this division of labor was for you to create a base to supply me as I moved about the Imbrium.” Avaritia scolded Superbia. “If you can’t figure out how to do that, why don’t you and I trade places? I’ll herd the hominin around and you can put your precious neck on the line to secure our objectives. Maybe that will prove more effective?”

“Now, now, now,” Superbia sighed, “It is taking longer than I envisioned, but once everything is secured, it will be my first and utmost priority, beyond seeing the Autarch is fed and homed, that you and Gula get the troops and support you need. Good enough for you?”

“I will accept it for now, but not forever. How is the Autarch?” Avaritia said.

“Going through a spell.” Superbia said. “It’s been useful, but unpredictable.”

Avaritia’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell do you mean? What are her colors right now?”

“Yellow is burning; Blue is aberrant; the rest are deteriorated.” Superbia said dismissively.

“She’s in a liminal state. And you aren’t alarmed?”

What am I supposed to do about it?”

“Superbia. Keep her safe. Or I will go to the ends of Aer to devour you.” Avaritia grunted.

This threat shook across the room, with Wizard III and the Vanguards averting their gazes.

Superbia shrugged. “Vanagloria attends to the Autarch at all hours. Look, you can’t blame me for this. Our Autarch is as whimsical as she is powerful, but she largely retains her faculties.”

Avaritia was not satisfied, but Superbia was right that they could do nothing about it.

Their Autarch, whose gifts of aether were the strongest of all, could resonate with the wild and massive emotions of the Imbrium’s hominin. In the Agartha, among only her hidden subjects, recovering from her last death, she was never exposed to such things. There was no predicting how far this phenomenon would go or how it might affect her surroundings.

“Blame lies with the Hominins, ultimately. So exploit them for all you can.” Avaritia said.

This was the most diplomatic way of capping off her displeasure with Superbia.

Superbia responded with a curt little bow.

“They shall be spent efficiently. I will see to that. Focus on your affairs. I promise you I will build a wonderful kingdom for our goddess, and I shall manage it expertly.”

In the next instant, the light vanished, and the hominin body fell to the ground.

Bereft of power it was just a mound of viscera and skin.

Superbia had cut off the connection. Avaritia gritted her teeth.

“We have to proceed with what we’ve got.” Avaritia said. “And hope the Autarch does not cause too much chaos. I expected a far more romantic outcome– ah, well.” Avaritia placed a hand on her forehead. Behind her, Gula massaged her back to comfort her. Upon noticing the touch, Avaritia smiled. “Ahh! My love, what would I do without you?”

“Relax, my love. I do not doubt our abilities and those of our subjects.” Gula said.

Wizard III spoke up. “Exalted, if I could offer a suggestion?”

Avaritia met her eyes with a grin that unsettled Wizard III. “Go ahead, of course.

“Yes ma’am.” Wizard III shut her eyes. “Accedia and Tristitia can be brought into line to support us. They have been doing nothing but accumulating biomass and raving like lunatics. By force of your will, Exalted, command them to carry out rational objectives. We should–”

At that moment, Avaritia smiled and looked about to praise Wizard III for her decisiveness.

Until the door to the room suddenly burst open, and brought forth a great disarray–


–one thrust was all it took to topple the door off its hinges into the room itself.

Dust seemed to fly off every surface where it had collected as the impact of the door traveled across the floor and up the walls. From within the thin cloud, a figure walked calmly into the room, garbed in a long robe. Her silky hair, part red and part white, trailed down her back and over her shoulders, parted in the middle of her forehead by her thin, fleshy horns. A pale, beautiful face with yellow over black eyes cast a calm, stern expression into the room.

“Autarch?” Wizard III gibbered, from the floor beside the fallen door.

“No, Wizard III. Please be quiet if you are so easily fooled.” Avaritia grunted.

Arbitrator I glanced briefly at Wizard III, causing her to crawl back on the floor in terror.

She then turned to face the true villains in the room.

The dust receded to reveal a corridor where a dozen Syzygy troops had fallen into a stupor, hugging themselves, cradling their own heads, or knocked unconscious. In their ill fitting uniforms with their rifles cast about. Even the weapons were skittering and writhing in confusion. They looked like quite a pathetic lot. But Arbitrator I had not expected much from them. Very few of the unfortunate troops had any worthy command over their abilities.

In front of her, however, Avaritia and Gula positively glowed with an enormity of power.

Their auras bore the suggestion that they were indescribable monstrosities in human guise.

Extending far around them like the shadow once cast upon hominin by their evil forms.

“I’m quite surprised. The prodigal daughter returns?” Avaritia said mockingly.

Arbitrator I felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

Her vision began to swim, and she felt the urge inside her, an urge that she hated.

She wanted to devour Avaritia.

Avaritia had to be stopped, had to be killed, for justice to be served–

Not like this–

No, not because of this evil curse that had been forced upon her.

She had to fight that instinct!

She was a rational person with a sense of justice. She was not some braying animal.

“Are you going to say anything or just stare at me?” Avaritia said mockingly.

Arbitrator I grit her teeth.

How unjust it was, that the vilest character of them all was the most in control of herself.

“She has gone too long without flesh.” Gula said. “She wants to devour us, darling.”

“I have come to cast you two into the sea for good.” Arbitrator I said.

Arbitrator I briefly shut her eyes and called to the power inside her.

From her arms, a pair of long, black, hardened and vibrating blades began to emerge. Parting her pale skin as if it was a fluid membrane through which they were being given birth. Once the blades were fully constituted and had separated from her arms, they hung on a pair of umbilical cords attached to her shoulders that resonated with biological power, extending as if from additional limbs and moving freely. Her original arms were left thinner and weaker.

Gula’s eyes flashed with recognition of danger, but Avaritia extended an arm to block her.

“The Autarch’s mercy was wasted on you. Throwing your life away for those overpopulated insects.” Avaritia grinned. “I won’t let you live if you challenge me. I will actually devour you and put an end to you, and the Autarch isn’t here to intercede for you. But if you disappear from my face this instant and stop crushing Vanguard L I might look the other way.”

From under the door, a wan little groan bubbled out.

“Mercy, you say? What she inflicted on me was mercy?” Arbitrator I said.

There was no turning back now from the destiny she had given herself.

Deep within her very cells, there was no denying the memories and what they meant.

“My mercy is by far the greater.” Arbitrator I grinned back. “And it will save the Hominin.”

Her eyes glimmered, purple hexagons glowing around the irises.

“You will either serve me and the cause of peace; or it is you who will be devoured.”

It was a bluff– her STEM was too corrupted and stressed now to be useful like this–

However– if she could seed the doubt in their minds–

No such luck.

Avaritia’s eyes glowed with the exact same hexagonal mark in response.

Making the gesture much less effective.

Arbitrator I tried to hide her surprise. She should have realized Avaritia was also–

“You won’t control me or Gula, however much you try.” Avaritia interrupted.

“Darling, please allow me to take care of this intruder in your place.” Gula said.

Her voice trembled. Her hands shook. She had been sufficiently rattled by the display.

“Don’t be scared for me, my love.” Avaritia said firmly. Behind her, Gula shook, and held onto her coat. “Must I prove myself worthy of being your protector again? A gentleman can’t have her lady worrying about her– it’s simply not romantic for a princess to be so troubled.”

“My prince– I– I simply can’t bear–”

“Enough theater.”

Arbitrator I had one small chance, and it was a chance because of Gula’s condition.

Fear, anxiety, unbridled rage; loss of control was a weakness in a mind’s psionic defense.

Gula was the weak link and without her support, Avaritia could be overpowered.

From the outset, Arbitrator I had no plan of attack, only her self-imposed crusade.

Syzygy’s Enforcers had to be her prey. Nobody else could protect the hominin from them.

She knew the truth now. She was a superior being to them. It was all locked in her body.

Memories locked up in the corrupted blocks of data within the DNA storage of her STEM, an ancient biomechanical computing system. Accessed out of fear for the safety of her hominin love, it represented the responsibilities she had shirked for too long. She was a weapon, created by sages from a bygone era. She was the first of her kind, biological power incarnate. These foul simulacra concocted by her misled sister existed beneath her.

So it was her responsibility, as soon as she caught whiff of their schemes, to crush them.

King’s Gaze.”

Tendrils of enormous power extended from the colors of Arbitrator I’s aura.

Like gargantuan hands they rose and fell with a thunderous clap upon the Enforcers.

Smashing upon them and inundating the room in a many-colored explosion that resembled the waves of illusory colored lights blending outside the windows of the maintenance room. Gusts of force erupted that sent flying every untethered object. The Syzygy troops smashed into walls, tools and supplies flew free from every crate and then rained down upon the floor in a drumbeat of chaos, junction boxes and circuit panels blew open and disgorged metal.

All of the LED lights in the room shut off, blinked on.

Seconds passed and the wake of the blast was still traveling.

Arbitrator I watched the chaos unfold, savored victory for an instant–

until she heard a crack, a drip, a chewing sound,

and stepped back in time to avoid the swing of five vibrating sword-sharp claws.

Avaritia pounced, surging forward, eyes afire, hands made bloody and sharp and hard, transformed into gold knives. Speechless at the near-spotless condition of her enemy, Arbitrator I met the attack with her biokinetic weapons. She threw her shoulder into Avaritia’s reach, swinging her tethered bio-swords in tandem with it. A brutal sweep dispersing the air around it like the flight of a bullet, such was its strength.

With a sound like a single, massive pound on a drum, her swords suddenly deflected.

Two concussive blasts having materialized in the air between Avaritia and the blades.

Stunned by the rapidity of the counter, and how easily Avaritia moved forward from it–

Arbitrator I threw herself back from her enemy, putting two body-lengths between.

Barely avoiding those knife-like claws again. Taunting her, Avaritia spread open her lips.

Upon her tongue, was a pulpy, chewed up grey membrane.

Avaritia proceeded to swallow its remains and smile dangerously.

“Barbaric.” Arbitrator I hissed. It was the fruit from a Garden of Marrow.

“Hominin are better put to use this way, than how they are carrying on now.” Avaritia said.

In the next blink of her eyes, Avaritia’s legs were consumed in gold-and-white carapace.

Thin and long with multiple strong joints, so she could easily and quickly coil back,

launch forward,

and meet Arbitrator I in her own space in an almost instant.

Arbitrator I’s eyes shone as two buzzing claws thrust within a hair’s width of her face.

A dozen telekinetic blasts pummeled Avaritia from every direction.

Her claws scratched Arbitrator I’s cheek instead of mutilating her nose and eyes.

Evading, Arbitrator I leaped aside, her muscular tail stabilizing and assisting her speed.

Not a single hair on Avaritia’s head was out of place.

But the hand she attacked with was crushed, the carapace covered in bloody cracks.

Behind her, with time to examine her surroundings again, Arbitrator I noticed Gula was only shaken up. Her aura was strong. Wizard III had begun to stand from where she had been thrown to, and the other vanguards inside the room, many injured, also stood.

None of them reached for any weapons nor moved to assist.

Arbitrator I collected her breath and tried to steel herself to fight.

But there was a doubt whispering in the depths of her mind.

Was she not stronger than Avaritia and Gula? Had the truth not been in her DNA?

Why were they able to match her? Had something happened in her absence?

Would she– never see Braya again–?

Avaritia gave her no more time to collect herself.

Once more she threw herself to Arbitrator I with savage abandon, crosshair eyes shining.

Her broken hand swung like a club, while her good hand was swift and sharp as a blade, unrelentingly raining blows in dexterous sequences. Colliding in the air with Arbitrator I’s bio-swords, sparks flew as the edges met and the flats pounded. Swing after brutal swing blocked, parried, returned; thundering telekinetic thrusts matched perfectly; roaring discharges of aura failing to penetrate each other’s wavering defenses.

Arbitrator I could almost see the aether-trail of Avaritia’s blows coming before they could be launched, but the Enforcer’s mental defenses were too sturdy to penetrate completely.

With just a bit of luck, she would have been able to find an opportunity in the middle of the barrage. She weighed her options quickly while turning aside another grazing blow– she could try to create space psionically– try to throw herself into a dangerous grapple with Avaritia for a chance– attempt to feint and see if she was faster in reflexes–

Then– in her mind’s eye, an overhand blow–

But Avaritia’s arms were swinging from below the shoulder–

In a split second, Arbitrator I realized that her psychic sense of Avaritia’s attack had finally overtaken the actual physical movement. She suddenly knew exactly what Avaritia would do seconds away. Deflecting a sudden thrust, Arbitrator I anticipated an overhand chop–

and stepped into the Enforcer’s guard.

Blocking the overhead with one blade, and Avaritia’s claw arm with the second.

While her free arms grew their own black claws and sank into Avaritia’s ribcage.

Closed,

ripped into,

and tore out,

Disgorging viscera and bile as her fingers crushed Avaritia’s lungs and ribs,

Viciously digging out handfuls of chunks of soft, dead,

cold,

meat that

should have been warm,

alive,

bones old shattered, skin once sheared,

dry, crumbly sinew caked in,

coagulation,

Arbitrator I’s eyes drew wide with recognition.

In the air in front of her hung the eviscerated remains of an unknown Hominin.

And behind her was the wildly grinning face of the real, untouched, Avaritia.

“When– when did I–” Arbitrator I felt the world turn over.

Her mind raced, the dispelled illusion coinciding with an explosion of pain.

Her blade cords ripped out of her shoulders, and her back nearly broken with a kick.

Limbs turned to jelly, her smashed spine struggling to reconstitute through biokinesis.

Arbitrator I fell face first onto metal with such force all the air went out of her.

Mind blank, head swimming in agony, blood disgorging from fresh wounds.

Avaritia cast aside the eviscerated blades and planted her boot on Arbitrator I’s tail.

Before Arbitrator I could yell or react, she was picked up like a doll from the floor.

And bitten where her neck met the shoulder, tearing out sinew, splitting her collarbone.

Bite after brutal bite ripping into her body– she was being devoured.

Involuntary screaming ripped itself out of her throat, her eyes went glassy.

From the depths of her mind, sounded a primal warning as Avaritia’s jaws shredded her flesh.

Instinct took over her body, the driving need to escape a predator, to save her life.

In her fear and in the fog of her fading vision Arbitrator I her eyes fell upon the windows.

Using all of the power that remained in her mind and body, she launched herself.

Avaritia was thrown back by the force, and in the next instant the window shattered.

Out from a cage of metal, and into an open expanse without a foothold.

Arbitrator I’s body fell through the false colors that made up the B-block’s sky.

Her robes fluttered in the wind, her hair whipped about her, and yet she felt heavy.

She felt the sheer of weight of her foolishness, so heavy it might have accelerated the fall.

“Braya– I’m so sorry– I couldn’t do it alone–”

Before her eyes, the world warped and bent between times and locations.

Kreuzung’s false sky; the purple clouds above Porto Platino in Atlantea;

inside the hull of the Brigand; cavorting about the depths of the oceans without a care;

holding Braya’s hand and wanting so badly to make amends, to be able to live with her;

and beneath an enormous tree of squirming flesh, holding her sister’s hands instead;

I am doing all this for you! I did it to save you! And you want me to FORGIVE THEM?

Caderis– her eyes flashing with hatred and betrayal–

“I’m sorry–”

Hex shaped scars upon her fading vision, the corruption of the data in her sundered flesh.

As her thoughts became muddled, a weak plea. “Braya– please– I want to see you–”


“Avaritia!”

Gula screamed and rushed to her lover’s side.

Avaritia had no time to feel triumphant after Arbitrator I’s escape.

She doubled over, disgorging blood and acid from her mouth.

Holding her trunk, her chest and stomach pounding and heaving with the contractions that were forcing more and more of her destroyed insides out of her body. First blood, then chunks of pulverized meat, all ejecting as her body purged and self-repaired. Her vision swam, dozens of tiny hexagonal rips and digits that she hardly ever had cause to see. Her biomechanical makeup was letting her know the extent of the damage in error codes she never had opportunity to learn but knew instinctively nonetheless.

Damn it– that creature still had this much strength– even without partaking of flesh–!

Even having eaten a Hominin recently–

Avaritia just barely had the biomass and aether to overpower the Autarch’s traitorous kin.

She remained, doubled over, fists and head to the floor, gasping for breath.

Her lover’s comforting arms the only kindness as her body struggled to reconstitute itself.

Avaritia’s voice croaked and wheezed, but she managed to string together a sentence.

“I was too boastful. But it was romantic. Wasn’t it, my love?”

Gula embraced her tightly. “It was absolutely dashing, my prince.”

They had to act quickly now. There was an opportunity to correct this mistake.

“Wizard III.”

Upon hearing her name spoken, the Omenseer stiffened up.

“Wizard III.” Avaritia said between gasping breaths. “Form a squadron. Go after her.”

“Acknowledged! Is my objective to confirm her death?” Wizard III asked, saluting, tense.

Avaritia struggled to respond while regaining her breath. “She’ll be alive. Crawling somewhere safe– to repair. Kill her. Devour her– if you must. She’s in awful condition. I have irreparably– damaged her. Because of the bites. She will be diminished. She can’t escape.”

“What if she alerts the hominin? She will have fallen into their habitat.” Gula asked.

Avaritia grinned. “Kill them too. Kill whoever you must. Wizard III. I’ll deal with the rest.”

“It shall be done, exalted flesh!” Wizard III shouted, as if priming herself for the task.

Nothing was going according to plan, and nothing accorded with their grand vision.

However, Avaritia found herself feeling exhilarated and almost without complaint.

After all, for “Arabella” to return so suddenly– it was a terribly romantic turn of events.


And thus, to the unfolding tragedy–

Zachikova threw herself out from behind cover and into the middle of a tunnel partially fileld with water and much more filled with heavily armed KPSD tactical troops. Her fingers rapped the trigger, struggling to achieve some semblance of control over her shots as she fell. She had the element of surprise, but if the men did not all die in one stroke she was completely exposed, and her rescue mission to the depths of B-block would end immediately.

In mid-jump she unleashed her salvo–

Three round bursts of depleted agarthicite in 7.62×39 mm Krasnov.

Bullets sailed between herself and the remaining enemies.

One man poised to retaliate took two shots into the groin and hip and collapsed.

A second man squeezed a few rounds that sailed over Zachikova’s flank.

Her shoulder hit the shallow water and the metal beneath hard.

She adjusted her aim quickly, fired another burst–

–past the shoulder of a man poised to instantly retaliate against her.

There was nowhere to crawl to, nowhere to roll to, nowhere to back out to.

There was no time to shoot again. She was suspended an instant before death.

She was so close to the hole into the alcove where Arabella had crawled to–

No! I don’t want to lose her!

Staring down the barrel of the remaining man as his finger began to close on the trigger.

“Fucking kill her–!”

A dozen lights of overwhelming color and an accompanying cacophony.

Zachikova would have shut her eyes to her own end had she any time to react.

Instead she looked the man in the eyes as his intentions culminated–

In that self-same instant of the trigger-pull, dozens of green and red tracers pummeled him.

His weapon dropped from shock-flailing fingers, his mouth hung.

Blood and shreds of armor and wisps of smoke and vapor blew from his falling body.

Dead in the same instant in which he had meant to kill her. All of it in less than a second.

To Zachikova, it felt like the world had turned on that instant. She couldn’t believe it.

“Kill confirmed.”

“Good kills, good kills.”

Familiar voices. Zachikova turned over her shoulder from the ground.

An inexpressive young woman walked past, long-limbed and skinny with long blond hair, wearing a nanomail bodysuit covered in strategically placed ballistic plates. She stopped over each of the KPSD men and put a round in their neck and head precisely, without even blinking as she made sure they were dead. “Kill confirmed.” She said, after each.

Her voice devoid of emotion.

Her weapon of choice was an AK-72, full length assault rifle.

And then, standing over Zachikova and reaching an arm down to help her stand.

Zachikova took her hand, and looked up at the taller woman to meet her eyes.

A young woman with silvery hair and eyes shining with the gold digits and colored outline of a cybernetic enhancement, quite visible in the dimness of the tunnel. Uniformed and armed exactly like her partner, with a slightly burlier appearance in her shoulders and limbs.

She smiled.

Valeriya Peterburg and Illya Rostova, Union B.E.A.S.T. special forces.

“How–?” Zachikova had barely begun her breathless question before Illya interrupted.

“There was an AKS missing from the rack.” Illya said. “You’re the only one of us that had any affection for the short length AK. So we knew you went somewhere. As for how we found you, we have a precaution from Nagavanshi in case you decided to do anything silly.”

At Illya’s prompting, Valeriya first covered her mouth with a tactical mask, and then pulled from a pouch a little device with a blinking light and numbers running on a tiny screen. It was the size of a vapor-cigar– it must have been a tracker. When it was out of Valeriya’s pouch, Zachikova could feel a tiny tingling in one ear, in sync with the blinking of the light.

Zachikova had no time to feel embittered about that– in fact, she was thankful.

Before Illya could ask her any questions, she dropped her rifle and whipped around.

Running to the open grate in the wall and sliding into the alcove behind it.

Inside, lit only by a flashlight attached to Zachikova’s tactical visor, was Arabella.

She averted her eyes upon being seen, perhaps ashamed.

She didn’t reach out to Zachikova.

Arabella was a mess. Her robes were brown and black with caked blood, one of her horns was broken and bloody, she was covered in bruises. Propped up against the wall, eyes glassy, all of her vitality and energy completely spent. All of the red and white hair covering one of her shoulders was particularly caked in blood and this prompted an alarmed Zachikova to bend beside her and pull the hair away. Her heart raced at the wound she found.

Flesh ripped to the muscle, to the exposed bone.

There was so much blood.

She had never seen anything so savage in her life.

And Zachikova had been witness to a lot of savagery in her time.

A sudden sense of helplessness came over her, hands on that horrifying injury.

“Arabella? Arabella? Talk to me.” Zachikova said.

Arabella lifted her head slightly. Her eyes struggled to meet Zachikova’s.

She could not help but notice they were black on yellow again. Like when they met.

Between then and now she had been wearing green on white eyes.

“Braya. I’m happy to see you. I’m sorry.” Arabella said weakly.

“Why did you go alone?” Zachikova asked. “I could have helped you!”

“I’m sorry.”

There was no use getting angry about Arabella leaving in the first place.

Zachikova did not know everything there was to know about her. Arabella was still hiding anything to do with her species, the mysterious ‘omenseers’– but Zachikova did not care about that. What she was most upset about was that, if Arabella had something she needed to do, that was this dangerous, why did she not ask for Zachikova’s help?

Why did she go out alone and–

–get herself killed.

“You’ll be okay, right? You can change your body. You can close this wound right?”

“I’m sorry Braya. I’m very tired.”

“Tired how? Arabella– tired how? This isn’t a problem for you right?”

Her eyes began to tear up.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that. God damn it stop saying that.”

Zachikova ripped open one of the pouches she had brought and took a cloth from it.

She pressed it on Arabella’s wound. Immediately it soaked through entirely with blood.

“This might hurt, okay?”

“Braya. Please.”

Zachikova pressed the cloth on the wound. It was doing nothing. It only covered a bit of it.

Illya and Valeriya never carried any medical supplies– that was always her beat.

She had brought cloths, tourniquets. Coagulant gel spray– but the size of the wound–

Arabella tugged weakly on Zachikova’s shirt.

Her lips curled into a little smile as their eyes met again.

“Braya. I love you very much. I’m happy to see you again.”

“No, no, no, no– NO! Don’t make that face! Holy shit don’t make that face!”

“I love you, Braya.”

“You’re teasing me.” Zachikova grimaced. “You’re just fucking with me.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“You– You can’t– you can’t–”

Zachikova reached into another pocket and pulled out the coagulant gel.

She tore the cloth from the wound and saw the depth and enormity of it again.

It felt like Arabella had almost had her chest cleaved in half through the shoulder.

That was how red and how bloody and how broken and how bad it looked.

Her fingers shook on the switch atop the bottle of coagulant gel.

They shook hard enough that she dropped the bottle.

Those hands which had been holding her useless medical supplies–

One grabbed hold of Arabella’s own hand, still warm. Its grip was so weak.

Another gingerly took Arabella’s good shoulder.

“I never cared about anything!” Zachikova whimpered. “Until you! You swept into my life and changed everything! Ever since I saw you that night! I didn’t even know I could give a shit about a stray animal let alone a human being! Let alone the most annoying and loud and kind and beautiful woman– I love you so much Arabella! Don’t leave me! Please!”

“Braya.”

Arabella began to cry as well.

“Will you forgive me?” She asked.

“No! No! We aren’t fucking doing this. We aren’t–”

Zachikova’s eyes drew wide. Her heart began to pound and her skin brimmed with horror.

Her mind wildly racing for anything that could stop this from happening–

She pulled away from Arabella and threw herself to the entrance of the shaft.

Pulling in one of the dead men from outside.

From her belt, she withdrew her diamond knife, pressed the button to run the motor.

Arabella behind her flinched as Zachikova drove her saw-knife into one of the corpses.

Peeling off armor and nanomail and sawing out a square of flesh rapidly losing warmth.

With eyes afire, and feeling like she had gone completely insane, Zachikova returned to Arabella’s side. Arabella own tired eyes had enough life in them for surprise. She averted her gaze slightly, as if ashamed to stare at the piece of meat cut so viciously.

Zachikova showed her the chunk of meat.

“You needed my blood right? But what you really needed was this, wasn’t it?”

“Braya, please stop.” Arabella whimpered.

“No. You have to eat it.” Zachikova grunted.

She was lucky Illya and Valeriya didn’t have the personality types to care about this.

They would report it to the captain, certainly. They would ask questions.

But for a peer in the dark world of the special forces, they had no judgment to bring.

Zachikova briefly peered back and saw their legs near the vent. No responses.

She turned back to Arabella who was still resisting.

“I’ll chew it up.” Zachikova said suddenly. “I’ll chew it up and put it in your mouth.”

“Braya, I don’t want to eat hominins. I swore– I swore I wouldn’t–”

“Swearing doesn’t matter if you die!” Zachikova shouted in her face. Panicking, her shaking hand splashing blood from the chunk of meat on her palm. “Is anyone out there going to be inspired by your fucking principled martyrdom? You told me, when you first drank my blood, that you wanted to make peace between whatever the hell you are, and humans! Nobody is going to do that for you if you die! I can’t do that! I can’t do it alone! I need you!”

“Braya.” Arabella whimpered, sobbing.

“I need you. I won’t let you die.”

Zachikova lifted the chunk of meat to her own mouth.

She really was going to chew a chunk of some disgusting slob’s chest.

Her whole body trembled with fear and disgust.

She just had to masticate without tasting and spit it into Arabella’s mouth, that was it.

Stop smelling, don’t taste anything, don’t look at it, just do it.

Eyes shut–

mouth open wide–

and then up and down the jaw–

“Braya, stop. Stop. Don’t do it. I’ll eat it. You can’t.”

Zachikova stopped just late enough to still get a bit of sickening iron taste in her mouth.

Her stomach kicked inside of her belly, but she kept from puking when she heard Arabella.

She offered the meat of the KPSD soldier to Arabella again.

Who opened her mouth and allowed Zachikova to stuff the chunk between her lips.

Arabella chewed, weeping fresh tears throughout.

Her hands rose slowly and held the item steady. Then they pulled it from Zachikova’s grasp.

Zachikova saw the movement of Arabella’s hands, when she seized the meat from her.

Her heart soared– she seemed more energetic. Was she recovering?

Rushing back to the corpse, Zachikova sawed out additional pieces of the body.

When she brought them to Arabella, they were snatched quickly from her hands as well.

The Omenseer tucked into the raw filets of the dead soldier like a beast.

Something about it just fascinated Zachikova. She found herself smiling with relief.

An insane relief born of a demented and horrifying situation. Something in her had twisted.

By the time all of the pieces of meat were devoured, Arabella’s wounds had begun healing.

When Zachikova shone her flashlight on the wound, it looked nowhere near as deep.

Her racing heart and pounding lungs could finally rest. Zachikova nearly fell over.

“You’re right. Braya.” Arabella mumbled. “I have to live. To take responsibility.”

“Good. Yeah.” Zachikova said. “You can’t do anything while dead. And– I’ll help you.”

Feeling her own energy leaving her, Zachikova sat beside Arabella for a moment.

“I– I’m sorry. I got a little bit. Crazy. Back there.” Zachikova mumbled.

All of the events of the past few minutes bowled her over like a tidal wave.

Her throat was raw from all the shouting. And she still tasted a bit of blood.

Just one more insane thing she would have to tell the doctor.

Arabella quietly leaned into Zachikova’s shoulder. Gripping her shirt with a bloody hand.

After a few moments of quiet, she heard Illya’s voice from outside the alcove.

“I’m glad we won’t be needing a body bag.” She said. “We’re leaving in five.”

“Thanks for giving me some time to rest, at least.” Zachikova said.

There was nothing in the network to indicate the KSPD had been alerted to anything.

Zachikova had isolated all the men they had killed from the broader network.

With network access, they could find ways to sneak back to Alcor Steelworks.

This was just going to end up being an unfortunate but short episode of insubordination.

Two minutes into her five minute reprieve, however, Zachikova saw dim red lights go on.

Outside, in the tunnel proper, those lights were flashing even brighter.

“Zachikova!” Illya cried. “What the hell is going on? What are these alarms?”

Bolting upright, Zachikova concentrated on the network and quickly found the cause–

She sat speechless for a moment as the alert blared in her own mind as it blared those lights.

WARNING: CORE SEPARATION.


Eerie red alarm lights dominated the sky at Alcor Steelworks, its guests awakening to crisis.

In the security team room aboard the UNX-001 Brigand, the armory racks had been left exposed and unlocked. A carbine and two assault rifles were missing along with a variety of swappable armored plates, nanomail, and tactical gear. It was normal for the two miscreants favored by Nagavanshi to have their rifles on them– but the rest constituted a problem.

Security Chief Evgenya Akulantova ran her fingers over an assault rifle with a grim look on her face. Those two were a menace, but Zachikova too? Something had gone very wrong.

She pressed the button beside the armory racks to have them fold back into the wall.

Her hands rose to her head and combed back through her hair, retying her ponytail to make it tighter and tidier. She then set her blue and black Union security cap over her scalp, making sure it was firm and correctly positioned. From the corner of the wall near the rack, she picked up a ballistic shield, and from a nearby table, collected her trusty truncheon.

A deep sigh escaped from her lips. That maidenly face which was set on her big body reflected back to her on the perfectly clean wall encompassing the now-hidden rack. Long white hair and blue-grey skin and dark, tired eyes. A sharp nose and soft cheeks. She grit her teeth in frustration, and caught a rare sight of what it looked like when her smooth and soft facial features became as intimidating as her broad chest and thick limbs. Her chest and limbs, now wrapped in nanomail and ballistic plates much like those which were stolen.

She turned from the wall, and in the middle of the alarms, made her way to the bridge.

In her eyes, a smoldering determination, even as her heart quavered with worry.

She had to inform Captain Korabiskaya, as was proper and necessary.

And then she had to depart to uphold her responsibility.

“I’ll teach those two to respect me– but for that, they have to be back here in one piece.”

Her grip tightened on her truncheon, enough to begin to wear grooves into the handle.

She couldn’t lose a squadron again. Not like this. She wouldn’t allow it.

Even if she had to break her vows and become something she despised.


Previous ~ Next

Bandits Amid The Festival [11.9]

This chapter contains graphic sexual content.

In one of the few meeting rooms on the Brigand not yet torn into by sailors, an automatic kettle filled with coffee had been set on a table, along with creamer, sweeteners, and some sweet-glazed biscuits. Only two people occupied this meeting room today. On one side of the table, Lieutenant Murati Nakara sat with her back up straight, her hands on her lap, and a somewhat tense and serious look on her face. Her eyes wandered frequently.

Across the table, Premier Erika Kairos sat casually back, sipping coffee from a plastic mug.

“I’m glad I was able to catch you today, Lieutenant. You’ve been quite busy!”

“My apologies! There’s been a lot of work to do. I was planning an outing too.”

“Ah! Then I won’t keep you long, don’t worry.”

“No! It’s perfectly fine. I have a lot of time still– and I’d make more time for you!”

Erika put her cup of coffee down for a moment and leaned forward with a friendly smile.

“I’ve been informed of your indefatigable work ethic, but this is not that sort of meeting.”

“Oh! I thought you wanted to go over procedures and such, maybe talk about the pilots–”

“Not today! Right now, I just want to get to know you personally, Murati Nakara.”

Murati felt her heart accelerate in her chest.

Due to the circumstances, she had not yet been able to have a one-on-one meeting with the Brigand’s new political leader, Erika Kairos of the Nationale Volksarmee. Of course, she was well informed of the situation, she was there to listen to Erika’s speech. But they had not gotten to actually talk to one another. Murati’s duties as first officer intensified recently due to the messiness with the Brigand’s refit, and the Captain’s participation in United Front discussions. While the Captain and Commissar were occupied, Murati had tapped into that ‘indefatigable work ethic’ to cover every second that they were gone. She had signed off on workgroup tasks, rejected dozens of foolish inquiries and requests from the sailors with an iron fist demanding strict adherence to code, and maintained operational security.

Then, Murati was swamped with additional shore leave preparations.

So she had been denied the time to meet Erika again and again. Even as Erika made the rounds and visited the engineers, sailors and other pilots, Murati had been absent.

While she was busy, she hadn’t thought about it as much, but in her presence–

Murati felt almost desperate across from this woman. She was completely struck by her.

That speech– it had shaken through Murati and filled with her burning determination!

Erika’s words bore the weight of history; every sentence swept through Murati like a hurricane. She was left wondering if this is what the original revolutionaries felt listening to Daksha Kansal declare the Union upon the First United Front’s liberation of Mount Raja. Ever since hearing that speech, in the back of her mind, she thought about what she would say, what she would ask, how she would make a first impression on Erika–

“Lieutenant, you haven’t touched your coffee. Is everything okay?” Erika asked.

“Yes! Ma’am! May I ask something about you?” Murati said.

“Of course! This is a conversation. No need to be so stiff, Murati!”

“Ma’am–” Murati’s eyes brightened. “May I ask about– your bibliography!”

Erika blinked her eyes, in the middle of lifting her cup for a drink of her coffee.

“My bibliography?” Erika asked, cracking a little grin.

“Yes! I mean– I want to know about your theoretical grounding! I’m– I’m not questioning you of course. I am someone who greatly admires the Katarran people and sympathizes with their history and plight; and to see a scholar such as yourself who is fighting for their dignity and that of others, it gives me such wild hope for the future! In so few and yet carefully chosen words you demonstrated such a vast and strong grounding in the status of internal nationalities in the social order of the Imbrian Empire, but not just in theory, but with concrete experiences gleaned from local insight! Through your speech, I glimpsed the rich history of the Shimii in Eisental and the economic advantage Imbrians glean from the direct exploitation of Katarrans even as they try to drive them to the margins of society! My eyes were opened– I am deeply, poorly read on the specifics of regional cultures in the Imbrium. I must update my theories too! I would read any number of books that you suggested!”

Murati’s wild hand gestures and sudden eagerness seemed to surprise Erika.

Who still had her cup of coffee hovering near her face while she stared at Murati.

“I’m afraid I don’t have an exact book list.” She said gently. “I’ve read the elemental works, like Mordecai, von Haar, Kansal’s early work, Jayasankar’s treatises on inter-ethnic alliances in the Union’s struggle, such things. I’m afraid there’s not really anything that’s written with a critical eye about Eisental’s history. I was actually thinking of writing about it once–”

Upon the mere suggestion that Erika might write a book, Murati’s entire soul quaked.

“Ma’am if you wrote a book, I’d love to read your manuscript! Maybe I could help edit! It would be my honor to do anything I can to bring your insights into the broader academic discussion on communist governance and nationalities policy! You are definitely worthier of being read in Union scholarship than some of the doggerel that passes for socialist education at the Academy!!”

Murati spoke breathlessly and had started to lean closer across the table.

Erika blinked and finally sipped her coffee again after several minutes.

“My, my– it looks like it’s not just your work ethic that is impressive!”

She started giggling. Murati started to wonder if she had misspoken somehow.

“I am flattered Murati.” Erika continued. “Perhaps in the future, we can do so.”

“Yes, of course.” Murati said. She thought she inferred the Premier’s intent.

Right now wasn’t the time to be thinking about theory-craft.

Erika looked upon Murati with a fondness and softness in her eyes.

“Captain Korabiskaya spoke glowingly of you. She told me you are not only skilled in combat and in tactical planning, but are also exactingly responsible towards your duties, and the most ardent communist of the crew’s officers. Even in this short span of time, I can already feel your– unique– passion and energy, Murati. I may just concur with the Captain.”

She set down her coffee on the table and reached a hand across.

Murati reflexively saluted, realized she had done so, and immediately reached out herself.

They shook hands, with casual courtesy.

“I am not much older than you; I am hoping that both of us can have bright and long futures ahead. For now, Murati, let us do this. You live your theory with that passion you possess and speak your mind candidly to advise me and our course of action. And I in turn will live my theory and impart on you what I’ve learned from my years here in Eisental. I think this will be more instructive to both of us for now than writing my seminal work of theory.”

“Yes, of course, Premier. Thank you kindly.” Murati replied.

When Erika spoke seriously, she had a decided charm Murati could not avoid.

She had an easy, unremarked charisma; something Murati felt she herself must have lacked.

Maybe if it was Erika, all her petitions for captainship would have borne fruit.

But when they talked just like this, she also seemed approachable and easygoing too.

It made Murati feel a bit less mature than she once believed herself to be.

Erika was someone, like the Captain, who had demonstrated enormous merit in the field.

Murati hoped she would have an opportunity to prove her own convictions as well.

“But like I said,” Erika continued, “I wanted to talk about you personally.”

“Of course! You can ask me anything, ma’am!”

She hoped her enthusiasm wasn’t too annoying– but Erika was just so cool.

Almost like speaking to a real Katarran warlord– but a communist!

“What are your ambitions for the future, Murati?” Erika asked. “One thing I’ve always been curious about, is what children of a real socialist nation grow up wanting to become. Here in the Imbrium, no Katarran child can dream of anything; and the Imbrians are pushed to think of themselves as money earning machines who need waged labor. If I might be allowed an assumption, it seems like you are on track to be a wonderful scholar. Am I wrong?”

Murati smiled. “Actually, ma’am, I want to be Captain of a ship in the Union Navy. Of course, you can’t do that forever– someday I may become a Kommandant and perhaps even a Rear Admiral, I’m sure. But I feel that a Captainship is a reasonable goal within a few years.”

Erika looked surprised for a few moments and then smiled again.

“A career soldier? How interesting. I shall evaluate your merits over time then.”

“Ma’am!” Murati stiffened again. “I would welcome any criticism you have!”

“Oh dear, I’ve made her go solid as steel again.” Erika said, giggling.

“Ma’am?”

“Nothing, nothing~ Murati, please don’t be so formal.”

“Alright.”

Murati let out a long-held breath and tried to loosen up at least a little bit.

She finally reached for her coffee and took a sip.

It was still warm, thanks to the design of the mug. She hoped dearly she was not looking like a fool in front of Erika– she was committed to impressing her new ally. Erika was not only a Katarran, whom Murati was fascinated by; nor just a successful leader of insurgents; she was a communist, excellently read, eloquent, and with easy confidence. It felt like Erika had achieved so much of what Murati strove for, and Murati wished to earn her respect as a peer.

But she couldn’t hurry to that goal. She just had to do her best, over the course of things–

–those things, being, war. Murati then felt the totality of her foolishness hit all at once.

Probably, she looked like a monumental idiot being so excited about going to war.

“How has life been for you aboard the ship?” Erika asked. “Do you have any hobbies?”

Murati blinked. Erika’s casual inquiry brought her out of her dark, spiraling mindset.

“Um. It’s been more than acceptable. The Brigand is very comfortable and full featured. As for hobbies, I– I like music. Electronic music. And I like to read of course. I have been reading about local establishments– I have my fiancée aboard and I am planning a date.”

“She is quite a lucky woman! I hope you have a fantastic evening.”

Erika sipped her coffee again and Murati tried to think of what else to say.

“Um– yes– hobbies– let’s see–”

Hobbies were not a particular strong suit of Murati’s– being asked that question by Erika made her realize how much her work and her ambition had become her entire life. Having to furnish an answer to someone she wanted to respect and desired esteem from made her wrack her brain and realize she didn’t do much ‘for fun’ around here, or even back at Thassal. She had always been doing work for Naval HQ or fighting them about getting more work or a Captainship, and she only ever went out to have fun if it was with Karuniya. In her room, she mainly read history books and treatises on war, logistics reports, strategic reviews of forces. She rarely watched films, and was only familiar with video games through her advocacy for combat simulators. In fact, she only really liked music because it could provide ambiance while she was reading or working– she didn’t have any hands-on sort of hobbies.

“We could listen to some music sometime. I could show you my favorites.” Murati said.

“That would be lovely. We shall make a time of it at the next opportunity.” Erika said.

“Ma’am– Should I have a real hobby?” Murati felt compelled to ask all of a sudden.

Mainly out of reaching a peak of nervousness about whether she looked too foolish.

Erika gave her a gentle smile, reached across the table, and patted Murati’s hands.

“No, Murati; you should be yourself, and I think you are very good at that.” She said softly.

Murati smiled back. She felt a shot in the arm of confidence.

For the rest of their conversation, her wild gesticulation and verbal energy fully returned.


“My girlfriend is the absolute coolest! She’s the coolest of the cool!”

Maryam clung closer to Shalikova’s arm, rubbing her cheek up against the shoulder.

“Ah– Thanks– Maryam–”

“I told you! You look amazing on the street like this! I’m so happy you wore the outfit!”

“Yeah–? Well– As long as you like it–”

They’re the worst. They’re the worst. Those two– they’ll be the death of me–!

Everyone was staring.

Literally everyone on the street was staring directly at the two of them. Right? They must have been. Shalikova was almost scared to try to catch the direction of anyone’s gaze in the crowd. Maybe they weren’t looking– but she felt so exposed. She was so red. Not just her face, but her suit was so red and gaudy– and the sunglasses— it was insane to be wearing it, she felt like an ambulant semaphore. No– she was more like a living Yule decoration!

It was insane. And it was all their fault.

“It’s been a long walk, but I’m really looking forward to the carnival!”

“Ah– yeah, definitely–”

“We’re gonna eat junk food and play games all day! The perfect station date!”

“Oh– totally–”

“And we look like such a power couple, don’t we? It’s everything I dreamed of!”

“Uh huh? Well– I’m happy if you are–”

THEY’RE THE WORST!

Several hours before she set out on her date with Maryam, Shalikova had gone to Illya and Valeriya’s room. They had insinuated they had something to give her, and she wanted to get whatever filial nonsense they thought they had to do for her sake, over with as soon as possible and then get on with forgetting it. She figured it was some ill-considered thing relating to her date, like cologne or erection pills. She paused in front of their door, wondering if she might be able to make out a sound. Neither one of them had told Shalikova what their schedule was like, so she looked for them as soon as she woke up.

She thought that she could hear a vague whiny noise through the door.

“Ugh. What if I walk in on them? Damn it.”

Shalikova stood frozen in front of their door for three or four minutes before knocking.

“Forget it, it’s not my fault if I inconvenience them–”

“Come in.”

Mere seconds after Shalikova’s fist raised off the steel door, it unceremoniously slid open.

Though Shalikova immediately feared a dramatic unveiling, Illya and Valeriya’s room was nothing out of the ordinary. Two bunks, a pull-out desk, bare metal walls and floor, like the rest. Unlike most of the officers, who lived alone until circumstances starting shrinking the number of available accommodations, Illya and Valeriya were roomed together. Valeriya was lying in bed, whether sleeping or not, Shalikova did not know. From the glimpse of a pale shoulder, she was naked in bed, her back turned, barely wrapped in blankets.

Illya was seated in the middle of the back wall, with a portable computer laid on the pull-out desk surface. She was wearing a tanktop and shorts and looked bored scrolling through pages. It seemed the two of them had their fun before Shalikova stood at their door.

She felt a sense of relief lifting the tension in her chest.

“Sonya.” Illya said, by way of greeting. “Anything I can help with?”

“You wanted me to come get something.” Shalikova said, barely above a whisper.

“You can raise your voice. She’s awake. She just doesn’t want to look at you.” Illya said.

From the bed, Valeriya raised a hand, waved half-heartedly, and then put it back down.

Shalikova noticed as her hand came down, she gestured like lifting a mask over her face.

Which she was not wearing to bed– Valeriya was really a prisoner of her habits.

“Fine.” Shalikova said. “Look, you said you had something for me if my date got approved. Well, you saw it from your monitors, I did give the form to Murati, and she did approve it.”

“Ah, yeah. I have something that’ll upgrade you from ‘our little sonya’ to a real playboy.”

“Yeah? I don’t want to do anything like that. But I’ll take it just so you’ll shut up.”

“You’re so cold to me. But you’ll be hot as fire if you wear this to your date.”

From under the room’s second bunk, Illya withdrew two plastic gift boxes.

“Back before we learned about this mission, we got you a gift and tried to make plans to see you again. We thought bringing you something fancy might break the ice after a long time apart– but you know, circumstances conspired against us, and we broke the ice in much shittier ways, on this boat, instead of in the Union. Regardless, it’s yours. We got you an outfit and some accesories. Mount Raja chic stuff– not the easiest shit to get without the sort of connections we have. You can wear it or not, but you really ought to.”

She deposited the boxes on Shalikova’s awaiting arms with a self-assured grin.

Shalikova was not even going to bother to open the boxes much less wear the contents.

Maryam was just going to wear a uniform, and so was she.

“Thanks. Are you and Valeriya doing anything special?” She asked out of courtesy.

Illya cracked a grin and cracked her knuckles too. “Every night is special for us.”

Shalikova crooked an eyebrow. “Okay. Well. Whatever. Have fun I guess.”

She turned sharply around and marched back to her room and put all of that behind herself.

Back in her room, she threw the box on her bed and stripped her clothes.

On the opposite side of the room, a strobing purple marshmallow indicated that her girlfriend was still solidly asleep and Shalikova had no intention to wake her. She had an idea of how she wanted everything to go. She would go catch a shower, come back, dress up, and if Maryam was still asleep, she would go pick up food for the both of them.

They would eat in their room, and then set off together.

Maryam slept like a boulder most of the time, so she didn’t have to fear waking her.

She left the room in her vinyl bathrobe, marched to the bathroom, ignored Geninov and Santapena-De La Rosa being there together while washing up, marched out of the bathroom. With her hair wet and dressed only in her vinyl robe, Shalikova still felt, for once, bold enough to go to grab a breakfast box from the under-reconstruction cafeteria.

Appearances be damned– this was her big day.

Raising her head, straightening her back, smiling to herself like she owned the ship.

Even if it was a little cold to be out and about like that, the fire in her heart was enough.

Shalikova grabbed some breakfast and took it back to her room.

In her mind, she would stride through the door to the adoring eyes of her girlfriend.

Looking oh-so considerate, responsible, and put together, for bringing her breakfast in bed.

She stood at the door. In her mind– it was going to be a perfect start to a perfect day.

Reality punched her square in the sternum just a moment later.

“Sonya! Take a look at this! It’s so cool!”

“Huh?”

Shalikova found Maryam was awake and sitting on her bed instead; holding up some bright red thing at her with an enormous beaming smile like a little girl with a birthday gift. Illya’s boxes and their wrappings lay discarded behind her. Maryam had helped herself to whatever Illya had gotten for Shalikova– which was mortifying enough to think about.

But the actual contents–

“I bet you would look really cool in this! And now I can wear my nice dress too!”

–inspired even greater fear.

Unable to bear the disappointment it might cause her girlfriend, she went along with it.

And now, they were walking down the street, in public– and Shalikova looked–

“Who gave you that dress anyway?” She said, trying to deflect.

“It was McKennedy! She said she wanted to make up for ‘the inconveniences.’”

“She must have realized how racist she sounded with you.”

“Well, it’s quite cuttlevenient for me, whatever the intention.” Maryam smiled proudly.

Illya’s gift for Shalikova was a set of track clothes.

There was a bright red zip-up jacket with gold stripes, emblazoned with the word “ACE” on the back in gold-bordered black, which Shalikova wore half-unzipped over a plain white tanktop and sports bra for lack of anything else to pair with that. Along with the jacket she received matching red pants with a gold stripe. They were exceptionally tight in the back– a place where Shalikova was a bit lean anyway. She got new black and white sneakers too, with actual laces and layered material that must have been a boutique synthestitch job.

And then, she had the sunglasses.

Big light-blue lenses that perched heavily on her nose and barely concealed her eyes, on a thin frame from translucent blue and black materials. These were typically known as “pilot” style glasses despite the fact that Diver pilots didn’t wear things like this— or at least Shalikova did not. They were extremely showy and so they went with the rest of the showy outfit, which made Shalikova feel like she must have come off monumentally insecure.

Does Illya think I’m a delinquent?! Is she just fucking with me?!

There was a bright side, keeping the situation from being completely intolerable.

While Shalikova looked, in her mind, ridiculous, at her side, Maryam was jaw-droppingly, stunningly beautiful. McKennedy, as rude as she was, definitely had an eye for fashion.

Maryam had been gifted a long-sleeved dark blue dress that flattered her figure, with a high collar and white seams and accents. The sleeves flared into little ruffled cones at the wrist, and the skirt had a similar ornate, ruffled design. White leggings and black shoes added a bit of contrast. By far the cutest touch, however, was a floppy beret perched atop her head.

“You look stunning too, Maryam. Forget about me– you’re incredible. You’re beautiful.”

“Ah! Sonya, thank you so much! But don’t sell yourself short! You don’t let me talk down about myself, so I’m not going to let you either! You’re my super cool girlfriend, so chin up!”

“You’re right. I’ll try– but you really are very beautiful Maryam. I wanted to say that.”

There was one small note of sadness in Shalikova’s heart– because Maryam was not her entire self that day. Her skin was a creamier color, and her hair was still long and silky and dark– but it was not purple. And her eyes were no longer the cute little W’s that Shalikova had come to love either. Maryam was hiding her identity as a Katarran.

Her tentacles and fins shrank and hid within her hair, she wore lenses provided by Cecilia Foss that covered up the shape of her irises. She was pretending to be a black-haired, fair-skinned, blue eyed Imbrian. Of course, no matter what Maryam looked like, Shalikova would still love her– but she wished that Maryam could have been the crayon-pink skinned, purple haired, W-eyed, tentacled and finned purple marshmallow that she knew.

Regardless, she was beautiful, and she was right. This was her special, promised day.

Shalikova had bowed to make it perfect. Illya’s stupid tracksuit was now just part of that.

If Maryam thought she looked cool, Shalikova could try to silence her anxiety for now.

Arm in arm, the lovers strolled through one of C-block’s lower modules.

Ordinarily the purpose of this module was commercial space. Sans accoutrements it was essentially a box wider and taller than a typical “indoors” module in Kreuzung. It played host to conventions and exhibitions, athletic events, and festivals and fairgrounds. For the lovers’ visit, it had become the latter. Now playing host to various rides and mechanisms that had been erected for the festivities, surrounded by a deep cluster of kiosks, tents and plastic buildings, easy to put up and take down. Fairy lights strung up around every structure and overhead pulsed with itinerant colors. There was a sizeable but not overwhelming crowd. And the walls and ceiling of the module had taken on a wine-red and orange-pink color and lighting that stirred something in the most ancient recesses of Shalikova’s brain.

Dreams of the sunsets that their world now only saw in fiction, briefly crossed her mind.

She pulled Maryam in closer, her soft face lit in those dark and evocative colors.

“Whatever you want to do. I’m all yours. Just like I promised.” Shalikova said.

Maryam laughed.

“Back then, did you think we would be this close when I received my reward?”

They had agreed to go on a station date weeks ago, after Shalikova lost a game to Maryam.

Back then, Shalikova heard the word ‘station date’ and imagined several romantic cliches.

Now– they had different cliches entirely. But they were better ones, by far.

“Some part of me was hoping for it.” Shalikova said, with a bashful smile.

Maryam beamed back at her, and pushed herself onto Shalikova, rubbing cheeks with her.

“Let’s go play some carnival games! Then we’ll get some food and get on the rides!”

“Maybe we shouldn’t ride anything with full stomachs–”

Shalikova often forgot about Maryam’s monstrous strength, so she was taken completely by surprise when her pouty girlfriend easily silenced her protests by pulling her helpless along by the arm to wherever she wanted to go. It became funnier than it was distressing very quickly; the two of them entered the crowd winding its way through the festivities.

The clamor of dozens of chatting festival-goers drowning out the chords and brasses of the streetside bands; the smell of frying oil and sweet caramel and cheese predominant among the snack shops; the colored lights playing about their faces and bodies from the shopfronts around them and the struts above them; soon, Shalikova could hardly tell she was wearing her gaudy red tracksuit amid all of the gaudiness and cheer around them.

There was so much energy around her that Shalikova started to feel more comfortable.

Nobody could possibly look at her in the middle of all this–

Except the girl whose eyes she did want.

“Sonya, look over there! You can win me a prize!”

Maryam pointed at a tent playing host to a shooting gallery.

On the front counter, there were a few air guns, carbine-length with a simple stock. Behind the counter, there were several targets of different sizes and at different ranges.

Some targets were platters, others were small cylinders, and the very smallest target was the width of a finger standing on a pedestal. Targets had scores depending on how close or far they were and what size they were, and there was a wall of prizes you could pick if you had the corresponding amount of points. Among the valuable items there was a neon techwear cap, a set of cat-eared headphones, and a large plush cuttlefish.

As they approached the tent, the operator clapped his hands.

“Step right up! Ten marks for three shots! It’s easier than it looks!”

Slightly nervous as the man began appraising her, Shalikova reached into the wrong pocket. She had put her money in her jacket pocket to have it closer in reach and to make it harder for anyone to see the bundle; but she actually reached into her pants pocket out of habit, because the TBT uniform half-jackets usually had no pockets on them.

Her fingers mindlessly closed around something round that was wrapped in a plastic foil.

Briefly speechless, she retracted her hand and took the money from her jacket.

Was that a condom?! Illya?!

“I’ll try it. I want the plush.” Shalikova said, hiding her surprise.

“Well, if you get the points little lady.” Replied the man behind the counter.

He handed her a rifle and stepped aside to allow her to shoot.

At her side, Maryam smiled wide, her shining eyes awaiting Shalikova’s next move.

Shalikova hefted the rifle, feeling the weight. She looked down the sights.

Feeling around the body of the rifle. No safety. Semi-automatic. A small box magazine on the underside. Probably packed with pellets. Had to be more than the three she was allowed to shoot per round. Like Union training guns, it used an electric gear to fire– she realized the man in the tent was staring at her as she examined the gun, and she might have looked briefly suspicious for having insepcted the gun before shooting it.

Without further delay, Shalikova aimed the rifle at the smallest target.

She fired her first shot, falling short.

Fired a second, going wide.

And quickly let loose the third, overshooting the tiny ceramic target.

“Hey, you missed, pal.” Said the operator, a tad bit too cheerful.

Shalikova put another ten marks bill on the counter and looked at him.

There was fiery determination in her eyes which put him to pause.

Perhaps, he was deliberating on whether to allow her another go at all.

From what he saw before, he might have suspected she was familiar with weapons.

At her side, everything had happened so fast, Maryam was still processing.

She looked between the targets, all still standing; and the confident Shalikova, cracking a grin, rifle still in hand, money on the table. Shalikova was sure of herself now. This booth was a scam for civilians, but she knew the exact errant behavior of her rifle now.

Staring down the operator, with the rifle still in hand, finally caused him to relent, take her money and allow her to shoot again with the same rifle. This was his mistake.

Had he made her swap, he would have gotten another ten marks for free.

Wordlessly, Shalikova lined up the small target in her sights.

Under the watchful eyes of the operator, she shifted her aim a few degrees up and left.

He knew immediately, and she heard a low groan escape him.

Trigger pull; the fwip noise of a shot.

Immediately, the shattering crack of the finger’s-width plate worth the most points.

Knocked off its distant pedestal and smashed to pieces on the floor of the tent.

“Alright miss. You wanted the cuttlefish plush right? You earned it.”

From behind the counter, the operator picked up the round, fat fluffy cuttlefish toy.

He put it in a bag, and with a nervous smile, reached the bag out to Shalikova.

As if to say, ‘put the gun down and leave with this.’

Shalikova grinned even wider and cockier than before.

With the rifle she had in hand, she could have taken every high points target.

That would have given her more winnings than the plush– but the operator had to cut her off to cut his losses. He was trying to weasel out of the rest of the shots Shalikova had already paid for, which was rather dirty of him. Shalikova had thought about demanding to play the rest of her round, with its two remaining shots. But Maryam was watching with stunned elation, and they didn’t want to rock the boat anyway.

Graciously, she put down the gun to accept the plushie.

“Sonya! You’re the absolute coolest! A stone cold killer!” Maryam cheered.

“Thanks, but uh,” she started to whisper, “tone it down a little!”

Shalikova pulled Maryam away from the tent and back into the path.

“Look Sonya, it’s me!”

Maryam half-unbagged the cuttlefish plushie. She pointed at it, and back at herself.

Shalikova looked at the plush. It bore little resemblance, due to the Imbrian disguise.

It was basically a blue blob with a suggestion of tentacles, but it had the silly little head fins.

“I can see it.” Shalikova replied.

Maryam smiled.

“Thank you Sonya! This is already the best day ever!”

“I’m glad.”

“I told you, you’re so strong. You’re like a Katarran warlord!”

“Let’s– let’s not push it– okay?”

“No! We’re gonna push it! Let’s play more games!”

“Okay– That’s not what I–?”

Maryam grabbed Shalikova again and rushed to the next attraction that caught her eye.

There was another tent game nearby that had a long board that sloped against a backing board. On the peak of the board there were several holes that were worth points. Along the length of it, there were obstacles that served to funnel a ball thrown by the player toward the backing board. Each of the obstacles and holes was marked with the points, with the objective being to slide the ball into the center-most of the holes for the most points.

Just like before, there were prizes up on a wall. There were novelty glasses with swirly colored lenses, a very intricate toy Marder-class, a replica vibrocutlass, and a bag of novelty game dice, with a twenty-sided dice out of the bag to demonstrate the contents.

Judging by the prizes, this game was for a younger set than the last one they played.

“Maryam, do you really want any of this stuff?” Sonya asked.

“I want the game dice!” Maryam said. “Good dice are invaluable, Sonya!”

“These don’t look good to me, but I’m not an expert.” Shalikova said.

“You can run all kinds of scams with dice, they’re an amazing survival tool.”

Shalikova blinked. “Um. But you don’t need to run scams anymore. You know?”

“Oh. I suppose that’s true! But I still want them!”

She puffed up her cheeks just a little– couldn’t do it too much without attracting attention.

At Maryam’s petulant insistence, Shalikova walked up to the operator–

“Oh no Sonya! You misunderstood! I want to play this one! I just need some money.”

Shalikova reached into her jacket for the spending money the Captain had given them.

Then she had a sudden and worrying thought.

This game did not look particularly sturdy. It was a bunch of plastic boards and small parts slotted together. For the average carnival-goer that wouldn’t be a problem, but she began to think of what would happen when Maryam’s abnormal strength acted on that ball. Could she just punch through the backing board? Would she send all the obstacles flying?

She stood for a second with her hand picking through a bundle of bills.

Staring at Maryam’s smiling face the entire time without an expression to match.

“Maryam, I think– I should play–”

“Sonya, you shouldn’t get to have all the fun you know.” Maryam said gently.

This is her special day. You just have to deal with the broken plates Sonya Shalikova.

With a sense of looming dread, a defeated Shalikova handed the bills over to Maryam.

Cheering, the not-so-purple marshmallow danced over to the ball game with great vigor.

“How much for a game?”

She put a bill on the counter, and the operator handed her three balls.

Maryam’s face lit up.

Shalikova’s face darkened.

She partially averted her eyes.

“Here I go! Cuttle-shoot!”

From the shadow at the edge of her eyes, Shalikova could tell Maryam had reared up to throw the ball– but the motion that resulted was much less aggressive-sounding than she imagined. In place of the raucous crash she was expecting, Shalikova heard rubber sliding on textured plastic. There was a soft thud and a chunky noise–

–and then the game board made a happy, chirpy noise.

Shalikova turned to look and saw nothing had been destroyed.

Maryam had simply put a ball into the center-most hole on her first try.

“Lucky girl eh? Pick a prize and give me those back.”

Like the other proprietor, the vendor for this game moved to quickly cut Maryam off.

He quickly handed her the bag of dice she wanted with an awkward grimace.

Maryam pocketed them with a smile and prompted Shalikova to walk away with her.

“Sonya, I can already spot my next target!” She declared happily.

Across the bend from the ball-throwing booth there was a test of strength game set up on a cleared patch of festival ground. It constituted a gaudily decorated pressure plate attached to an LED tower that would light up when the player struck the plate with a mallet in order to measure the strength of the player. Shalikova had little to fear with this one.

Everything was digital, the mallet head looked like rubber rather than metal, the pressure plate was a thick and pretty solid-looking object, and there did not seem to be any moving parts. It seemed unlikely Maryam’s strength could physically destroy the equipment.

Next to the play space, there was a set of plastic shelves with prizes.

Maryam quickly honed in on a pair of sunglasses with big blue lenses and a sleek frame.

“After I win those, we’ll match, Sonya!” She declared happily.

Shalikova stepped aside, simply relieved that there wasn’t an obvious problem for now.

Seemingly amused at a slight-looking girl trying her luck with the game, the proprietor took Maryam’s money and watched attentively from the side, chuckling as Maryam bent down, picked up the mallet and raised it. He must have thought it would be easy money.

Then the magic that was Maryam came into play. Shalikova felt the air rush as Maryam threw everything she had into a titanic swing, smashing the pressure plate such that it made a sound like a gong, and sent a vibration into the earth that stirred up Shalikova’s feet. The proprietor must have felt it too because he reacted like he wanted to jump away.

On the LED tower, the display lit up with a red NaN at the very top.

From Shalikova’s vantage, there was a hairline crack on the side of the pressure plate.

Thankfully, the proprietor was standing opposite them, so he didn’t see it at first.

Having borne witness to Maryam’s brutal power, he rushed to get the prize she wanted.

“Take it and go.” He said sternly.

Shalikova urged Maryam not to complain.

She put the sunglasses on Maryam’s nose and pushed her away into the crowd.

Putting as much walking distance between herself and that proprietor as she could.

Meanwhile, Maryam’s cheeks puffed up to a somewhat reasonable extent for an Imbrian.

Wearing the sunglasses, her consternation looked even more silly.

“Hmph! Hmph! Sonya, it’s not fair! We could have won a lot more prizes!” She whined.

“Maryam, that’s the point.” Shalikova sighed. “We weren’t supposed to win anything.”

“But that’s unfair!” Maryam cried out, crossing her arms as she walked.

“Uh huh. All the games are rigged Maryam. We won because we’re not normal. Normal people just pay to lose. By the way, weren’t you just saying you were a scammer too?”

“Hmph! I’m different from them. I won money with games of chance. It’s– it’s totally different if you get scammed by that. Games of skill are supposed to be fair. It’s not the same!”

“I’m sympathetic because you’re my girlfriend, but the rational part of me is yelling.”

“Sonya–”

Maryam stopped Shalikova in the middle of the street.

Her eyes narrowed, her gaze hard.

“Sonya. What if the food is also a scam?” She said, in a grim tone of voice.

“I don’t know how it could be.” Shalikova said. “It’s not like you can rig food.”

Soon the two of them would discover how it was possible to scam people with food.

Their eyes widening and their faces paling at the tremendous prices on display.

Across a long aisle full of different vendors, there was nothing worth less than 10 marks.

One sausage? 10 marks. A carton of popped corn? 10 marks. One cheese bread? 10 marks.

Aside from the limited selection that Shalikova could eat, the prices were out of control.

“Sonya. Let me handle this.” Maryam said. A mischievous little grin on her face.

“Um.”

Over Shalikova’s monosyllabic and nebulous objection, Maryam skipped toward the little kiosk selling cheese bread for ten marks a piece. With an enormous smile she waited for her turn in a small line of people. The vendor was already prepared with a piece of cheese bread in a wrapper when Maryam’s turn came up, and was already holding their hand out to collect the ten marks. Maryam, however, had her hands behind her back. Casting glances about herself. There was no one behind her in line except for Shalikova who had followed her.

“How about you give a discount for Kreuzung station’s biggest cutie?” Maryam asked.

Shalikova felt a shiver running down her back and across the lengths of her limbs.

In an instant, her eyes glowed with the power of psionics.

She heard a voice whisper in her mind; or perhaps, she just knew something was happening.

Molecular Control.

From Maryam, a colored cloud seemed to waft toward the vendor, like a visible breeze.

Green and blue in equal amounts, at first, but the blue quickly overwhelmed.

And the vendor’s own blue, green and slightly yellow aura completely shifted as well.

Maryam and the vendor held gazes for a few seconds, before the vendor’s apathetic expression became a smile almost as comically pleasant as Maryam’s. They leaned over to hand Maryam the cheese bread they were already holding and retracted the hand with which they meant to collect payment. Instead, they reached for a second cheese bread in the oven in which they were cooked. With seemingly great pleasure, they wrapped the bread, and handed it to Maryam as well. All the while, their aura looked shiny and serene.

“Of course, miss! Cute couples gets free bread around here! Have a wonderful outing!”

Shalikova blinked with confusion as the vendor reached out to hand her a cheese bread.

Maryam made a cutesy gesture, making a V with her fingers, and turned around.

“Alright Sonya! Let’s eat and go somewhere!” Maryam cheered.

Shalikova glanced at the vendor and back at Maryam.

“Right.” She said. “Maryam. Follow me.”

“Oh– Okay Sonya.”

Her voice trembled. She definitely noticed the shift in Shalikova’s attitude.

But she wasn’t angry.

It wasn’t helpful to be angry about it. Shalikova felt something else.

On the edges of the module space, red plastic fences had been set up to prevent anyone from accessing the wall panels, which were projecting the same colorful horizon and sky as the rest of the module and looked like invisible walls surrounding the carnival space. There were no vendors here, just plain floor with false turf, and there were a few perfunctory tables stood up so people leaving the crowd could sit around in the empty space.

There were a few people there, but it was the emptiest place in the module nonetheless. Shalikova took Maryam there and stood a few dozen meters from the nearest visitors. They had eaten their ill-gotten cheese breads on the way. Shalikova’s heart pounded.

“Maryam.”

Shalikova reached out and grabbed hold of Maryam’s two hands.

Maryam’s face turned slowly redder. She averted her gaze a little.

“Sonya–?”

Shalikova bent forward and put her forehead gently on Maryam’s own.

Truly hoping Maryam would understand her. She could not hold back her words any longer.

“You don’t have to do that kind of stuff anymore.” She said, whispering close to Maryam, brow to brow and nose to nose. “You don’t have to use your powers or the skills you picked up on the street to steal from people. Even if they’re being unreasonable– it doesn’t matter. Please rely on me, Maryam. Don’t take advantage of people anymore like you did to that vendor. I don’t like it– and you don’t need to do it. I don’t blame you– but please stop.”

“Sonya– I– I’m sorry– I thought you must have hated me now.” Maryam whimpered.

“I don’t hate you.” Shalikova said. “I’d never hate you at the drop of a hat like that.”

Maryam sniffled. “I’m sorry. I’ve been hiding things from you– like that power–”

Shalikova could feel the contrition in Maryam’s voice, but it was not contrition she sought.

“Maryam, I don’t need to know everything. People can’t know everything about each other. I am not asking you to come clean with anything or to explain everything. I trust you, I want to trust your judgment. I trust that you will understand me now and understand what I want. Please don’t use your powers to manipulate innocent people. You have a support network now– and you have me. You have me, and you have your dreams. I will help you realize your dream, Maryam, but as part of that, you have to stop abusing your gifts.”

She lifted her forehead from Maryam’s and looked her in the eyes.

Not with sternness or conviction, but gently, with love. She loved Maryam so much.

Maryam was a sweet girl who had a hurt in her that had yet to heal. She wanted to help her.

She squeezed Maryam’s hands more firmly. “No more ‘scams’ okay? Promise?”

Maryam smiled, weeping, and nodded her head. “Yes, Sonya. Thank you.”

Shalikova leaned forward again, and lifted one hand from Maryam’s.

With those fingers, she tipped Maryam’s chin up just a bit. She kissed her.

Gently but without hesitation. Communicating her feelings and convictions.

“I love you, Maryam!” Shalikova said, raising her voice right in Maryam’s face, much to the latter’s surprise. “I know we’ve only been together for a bit now, but I’m really serious!”

“Sonya– you don’t have to shout.” Maryam said, chuckling at Shalikova’s passion.

“I know! But I feel like if I don’t say it loud enough, it’ll sound unserious!”

“Oh trust me, Sonya, it’s very obvious when you are being serious!” Maryam said.

Shalikova started to feel a little silly again. But Maryam’s laughter was worth it.

The two of them stood off to the side of the carnival for a bit, holding hands and hovering in each other’s space. Leaning their heads into each other, sighing together. It was just a little bit awkward, but Shalikova could feel the warmth of Maryam’s gentle affection throughout. Maryam was scared Shalikova would hate her; but Shalikova was also scared Maryam would react badly to being essentially scolded by her girlfriend.

Their love weathered the stiff breeze, however.

“I guess you do have that ‘King’s Gaze’ gift after all, don’t you?” Shalikova said.

“No, I actually don’t. What you saw is a special trick.” Maryam said.

“Maybe I’ll ask you to teach it to me someday. I need to get stronger.” Shalikova said.

“Ah– that one can’t be taught. But I’ll teach you everything else– I promise!”

“Yeah. I’ll need it if I’m going to help you reveal the truth of psionics to the world.”

Shalikova said it off-handedly, but the words made Maryam cling even closer to her.

“Thank you, Sonya. I’m lucky to have you.” Maryam said.

“I’ve never been so lucky with my life as when I met you.” Shalikova replied.

It felt corny to say, but it was also how she felt, and there would be no better time to say it.

Hand in loving hand, they made their way back to the carnival.

Because of that love, Shalikova would not stand letting Maryam’s special day end so early.

“We can do anything you want. Play more games, eat more food. I’ve got the marks.”

Maryam smiled and squeezed Shalikova’s hand.

“It’s already been a perfect day, because I’ve been with you, Sonya.” Maryam said.

Shalikova smiled and averted her gaze, just a bit embarrassed.

“But– There is something I’d like to do. Let’s ride those spinny cups!”

With a bright and innocent smile, she pointed at a ride at the end of the street.

Cup-shaped couples’ vehicles attached to a broad spinning base, with each cup also spun on its own axis, for twice as much intimidatingly kinetic spinning action on its occupants.

It was a stunning chimeric blur of a machine.

Shalikova felt her stomach churn.

“Of course, Maryam. Anything for you.”

Though she would come to regret the consequences, today, everything was for Maryam.


Commence Operation “Bottled Ship.”

Murati grinned a little to herself with unflagging confidence.

Meticulous plans had been laid; now it was time to pay them off with flawless execution.

“After you, madam.” Murati said, holding a door open for her vibrantly-dressed companion.

“Oh ho! Look at you– in full hubby mode tonight. I’m a lucky gal!”

“You’ll see just how lucky, Karuniya.”

Everything had been accounted for. Everything was in her total operational control.

Karuniya would dance upon the tips of Murati’s fingers until she was sick of the pleasure.

For this date, the most crucial factor to begin was to choose the venue.

In this case, Murati had searched high and low to find something to Karuniya’s taste.

Her face lit up with a radiant smile as she realized where she was.

“Oh! It’s an aquarium? I’m so surprised– I had no idea this station had one!”

Walking through the doors, they found themselves in the middle of an atrium connecting many seemingly massive containment chambers to a series of a walkways astride thick glass, by which visitors could behold the exhibits. Vast recreated ocean vistas teemed with life well-lit enough for the visitors to enjoy, with carefully considered biomes and species pairings. However those exhibits themselves were quite special– certainly, Kreuzung itself did not have the space to host all of the entities in these grand spaces by itself.

Murati led Karuniya straight ahead and demonstrated the illusion on the glass.

When her hand touched it, the exhibit was revealed to be an LCD display, and a menu appeared that allowed for the perspective of the glass to be shifted in a small window just for her and Karuniya– so that it would not disturb the broader view that all of the guests received. Upon seeing the trick play out, Karuniya laughed to herself.

“Of course they wouldn’t have the animals here, there’s no space. This is pretty clever though. But where are they broadcasting these animals from?” She asked.

“Thuringia Research Complex.” Murati said. “It’s apparently a big deal.”

“Well, let us judge the scope of their collection then.” Karuniya said.

“Anything you want to see first?” Murati asked.

“As a matter of fact, I’d love to see what kinds of jellyfish they have.” Karuniya replied.

“Jellyfish, huh? Well, you’ll be pleased by the variety, judging by the ads I saw.”

Murati reached out her arm, so that Karuniya could hook around it.

“My, my, you’re so gentlemanly today.” Karuniya said, taking ‘hubby’s’ arm with a grin.

“Just for tonight, I’m making every possible effort.” Murati said, grinning herself.

Both of them had donned their best set of clothes for the date.

It was the same pair of outfits they had worn once before; their ‘date’ back in Thassal. Owing to events best left unremembered, the two of them had not gotten to debut these outfits in public back then– though they had certainly made an impression on each other.

Now, however, they lit up the halls of the digital aquarium.

Murati wore a slick button-down shirt with bronze cuffs and a fit so flattering to Murati’s lean body it must have looked as if it was tailored for her, and not picked out of a rack at a station plaza in the Union. She wore it just how Karuniya had once advised her, tucked in and with a few of the top buttons undone. Because the shirt was white, there was a tantalizing impression of Murati’s black brassiere beneath. Besides the shirt, she had put on a tight pair of pants that had also once caught Karuniya’s eye, along with black shoes. To finish her look she took an extra effort in grooming herself, washing and styling her short, dark hair and applying a hint of borrowed lip gloss and skin toner to make her face look more special.

Karuniya had once called her tall, dark and handsome when she first tried out this look.

That affirmation accounted for a significant boost to Murati’s confidence on this date.

Another force multiplier, however, was the absolute desire Karuniya’s look inspired in her.

With a woman like this on her arm, Murati could have never let herself fall short.

Under the bright white lights of the aquarium’s atrium and in the connecting halls of the exhibits, Karuniya was like a techwear runway model. Most striking was the off-shoulder crop top with translucent sleeves, effectively bearing Karuniya’s shoulders and some of her neck and collarbone, because the leotard she wore beneath cut at the upper chest.

High-leg stockings and a short skirt with intricate hip cutouts and leg slits, of the same material as the top, finished off the look, showing off several spots of Karuniya’s perfect, honey-colored skin. Both the top and skirt clung to her figure perfectly, highlighting the smooth and plentiful curve of her hips and chest. Her hair was collected into a ponytail and had a glittery sheen like tiny constellations playing about the rich dark strands.

Her face was always beautiful– but with a touch of glossy, dark red lipstick and eyeshadow she looked remarkably glamorous and mature. Both her and Karuniya had their selves they wore around the ship, playing around and hurling good-natured teases at one another– one hurling far more than the other. But arm in arm like this, they looked like the married power couple they had not yet been able to be, serious, sexy and clearly into each other.

Seeing her like this made Murati’s heart soar, but she had grown just enough over the few months of their relationship, to be able to wear a conceited grin on her face and play it cool.

No longer would her mind ask the question, ‘do I deserve her’? ‘Can’t she do better’?

Murati didn’t just deserve Karuniya; she desired her with all the little greed she had.

And she would more than make up for the interruptions and miscalculations of the past.

“Have I ever told you your ass looks amazing in those pants?” Karuniya winked.

“I could stand to hear it more often.” Murati said, playing coy.

In silent response, Karuniya grabbed a handful of her hubby’s rear.

Holding hands and clinging close, the pair stopped in front of the screen for the jellyfish exhibit. Unlike some of the other halls, the lights were very dim, only bright enough to keep the visitors from bumping into a few benches laid opposite the screen. In the dark, the only light was provided by the screen and by the wide variety of colored jellies. Hundreds of deep-sea jellyfish streaked across the screen like a storm, their bioluminescence exaggerated by a post-processing effect just enough so that they would provide alternating colors across the faces of the visitors gazing at the great swarm arrayed before them.

“Pop quiz Murati, are jellyfish community organisms or single organisms?”

Karuniya looked at Murati after delivering the question and smiled one of her characteristic little grins. The way the lights played about her face, cast her glossy lips and slightly glittery cheeks in contrast– it was arresting enough to delay Murati’s answer for a moment.

“Single organisms.” Murati said.

“Correct. I thought I could trick you. For your basic biology knowledge, you win a prize.”

Karuniya began to tiptoe and planted a quick little kiss on Murati’s lips.

“Now though, tell me this: how do Jellyfish mate?”

She leaned forward again with a self-satisfied cutesy little look, hands behind her back.

“Sorry Karu, I can’t even imagine them having genitals.” Murati replied with a laugh.

Her fiance’s lips curled into a perverse little expression, and she waved one index finger from side to side in a teasing fashion. “Male jellyfish release clouds of sperm and females release unfertilized eggs, and babies happen from the mess– but in some kinkier species, the sperm will actually travel directly inside the female through her mouth to fertilize her.”

Karuniya licked her lips after delivering her explanation, locking eyes with Murati.

“So, had I gotten it right, would I have won more than a kiss?” Murati asked.

“May~be~” Karuniya replied, in a little sing-song voice.

She gave Murati a smoldering gaze before turning and walking away down the hall.

“I can barely keep up with her sometimes.” Murati muttered to herself, smiling.

From the jellyfish exhibit, Murati imagined Karuniya might want to see some of the more grandiose animals of the collection. She had looked at the catalog and memorized the locations of the exhibits and was ready at a moment’s notice to make suggestions– but Karuniya continued to surprise her with what she was interested in.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise, due to Karuniya’s character and what interested her about the sea in her own profession– but Murati couldn’t help but feel a bit blindsided to be holding her fiance’s hand while looking at manicured algae through a fancy LCD.

Painstakingly recreated in a controlled environment, the “marine forest” exhibition hosted a vast forest of tall yellow-green macro-algae and an underbrush of moss overgrown on the rocky artificial seafloor. Animals lurked the vegetation, like shrimps and small fish.

“Look at that. So much primary production!” Karuniya declared cheerfully.

“Primary production?” Murati asked.

“Algaea are able to capture chemical energy from the environment.” Karuniya replied. “In essence, they create the prerequisites for a food chain. All they need is whatever amount of sunlight can penetrate the surface of the water, and the right chemical balance. But smaller animals can feed on them, and those animals feed larger predators, and so on.”

She spread out her arms as if she wanted to embrace the algae in the tanks.

“You’re looking at life itself, Murati! An environment that has primary production is one that is still sustaining life. Our world is not so dead after all, is it? Maybe it’s not in the best shape for us to live in, but as long as algae grows in the photic zone, life will go on.”

Rather than say something sarcastic or contrarian in return, Murati simply looked at the algae and tried to quietly imagine that chain of living. Algaea begot as if from nothing, feeding the bottom dwellers that would be eaten by free floating fish. Fish eaten by whales, sharks, and even leviathans. Insuring that something with a nervous system continued to roam the world, even as humans killed each other hundreds of meters farther below.

She smiled at Karuniya’s girlish enthusiasm and her optimism.

Even if she didn’t quite share it– to Murati, there was no point if humans didn’t live too.

To Murati, humans were life. However wrong it may have been– she put humans first.

“Did I successfully troll you by placing animal life over human life?” Karuniya asked.

“Complete failure. Not mad at all.” Murati said, smiling placidly.

“Darn. You’ve actually bettered as a person. That sucks.”

“Actually, you were just so cute delivering your speech.”

Both of them laughed in unison before moving on from the macroalgal forest.

“Alright, you must be going nuts from all this oceanography crap, let’s see a big shark!”

“I’ll never get tired of your ‘oceanography crap’ Karu, I mean it.”

“Ah hah, then let’s go see some dolphins! They’re awful little guys!”

“Unfortunately, there is no dolphin exhibit.”

“Aww. That’s too bad! I could’ve told you all kinds of horror stories.”

“Really? Horror stories about dolphins?”

“Oh ho! You have no idea!”

Karuniya raised a hand to cover her laughing mouth, narrowing her eyes in a sly expression.

Murati remained ignorant of whatever Karuniya was mugging at, however.

Despite Karuniya’s disappointment at the lack of dolphins, she was enthusiastic during their visits to several other exhibits. Thuringia had built quite a collection of habitats, including an abyssal exhibit in a fully dark hall where eerie bioluminescent fish roamed, a bit too close to home; a school of colorful tropical fish in a well-lit habitat without predators; a tank that was home to a vast blue whale, though Karuniya noted it was cruel for the whale to be alone, even if it was for the scientific observation of humans; and a tank of various crustaceans with gleaming shells; and a small sunken vessel overgrown with barnacles and other creatures.

“Crustaceans are like nature’s Diver mecha.” Karuniya declared confidently.

“What? Really?” Murati asked, swayed and drawn in by her tone. “How so?”

Karuniya cracked her same grin once again.

“I was just jerking your chain. Totally meaningless and random thing.”

“Maybe I could stand to be more frigid to you.”

“But I love this Murati who is trying sooooo hard!”

Karuniya squeezed close against Murati’s chest as if trying to nuzzle her.

Murati averted her gaze, slightly embarrassed. Was it that obvious?

But she really wanted to succeed.

Throughout, Murati carefully studied Karuniya’s responses and expressions.

Everything seemed to be going well. Her fiancé was still seemingly engaged and happy.

Murati neared the end of the first phase of the operation.

“Let me lead the way now. There’s something I want to show you.” Murati said.

“Oh? Exciting~ is it your favorite fish, Murati?”

“You’ll see.”

It was only tangentially related to fish, but Murati was counting on the spectacle of it.

And also on Karu having built up some appetite over the course of the night.

Rather than a food court or vending machines or any other sort of cheap and quick meal, the Kreuzung Aquarium had a bespoke high concept restaurant inside its premises and offered a ‘dining experience’ for two. During planning, Murati had feared that finding a nice place to take Karuniya to eat would be difficult because of their diet, but the Aquarium was a step ahead. They offered a ‘special nature-friendly set’ for that did not have meat or seafood and instead promised a plant-based four course menu.

It had been a bit pricey, but Murati managed to scratch together the additional budget needed in Imperial marks because Valya Lebedova was disinterested in going out and spending their shore leave funds; and because Aiden Ahwalia was serving a punishment and would not be allowed to spend his own.

With Valya’s blessing, Murati made reservations.

“After you, madam.” Murati said, leading Karuniya into the dining venue.

There was a very small lobby, only large enough for a front desk, that led into a hallway full of doors. Everything was dimly lit. At the desk, a hostess confirmed their names and reservation and led them into a room in the hall. Inside the room there was a small table and two chairs, surrounded by undecorated walls that were very close and a rather low ceiling– everything was exceptionally tight. Karuniya looked amused by the whole thing, it must have seemed ridiculous to her. When they sat down, her eyes began to scan around the room for any sign of what the gimmick was. She did not seem to find it at first glance.

“Since you ordered a set dinner menu, we will bring you the courses, starting with aperitifs. What kind of environment would you like to enjoy today?” asked the hostess.

“Whichever you think would suit the evening.” Murati replied.

Smiling, the hostess left the room, and the door shut.

Karuniya chuckled again. “Is this a joke? A reservation for eating in a dim metal box?”

“Just wait.” Murati said.

Outside, the hostess must have been inputting something for the room.

About a minute after she left, the walls of the room slowly brightened.

First they took on a variety of dark blues and greens.

Streams of bubbles played about the walls and ceiling. As if rising out of the depths, the projections on the floor, ceiling and roof all began to lighten. Beneath the couple, a bank of sand came into view. Above them, rays of sunlight penetrated the bright blue foaming surface of the water. Around them, on the walls, schools of fish in all colors and sizes flitted from wall to wall like a storm of bodies. Karuniya smiled and covered her mouth, as if embarrassed at how surprised and delighted she was by the illusion of the room.

Their table was now suspended in the middle of a simulated ocean.

Certainly no camera could safely capture a near-shore sandbank and all the shallow water life that existed there, but something like a predictive imager could be programmed to display a complex illusion like this one. Every fish had its own organic and variable routine, and because the graphics were not being rendered in real time from acoustic data, there was not the sort of dramatic visual noise one would get from a ship’s predictive view. Everything was rendered convincingly enough for the perspective of the diners. Seagrass and kelp dotted the landscape, there were little crabs in the sand below, and larger animals occasionally swept through the landscape as well, disturbing the many schools of fish.

“Murati I was skeptical, but this is so amazing! I don’t even know what to focus on!”

“Right? The hostess really picked an amazing environment for us.”

“It’s almost like being in a Diver, but you know, in much nicer waters.”

“And with far better cameras.” Murati added, laughing a little at the idea.

Murati knew what she was focusing her eyes on.

Not on any fish, but the woman across from her, face glowing gently as the light alternated across her features, smiling ear to ear, a girlish joy overtaking her as her eyes tracked the simulated fish and scanned the blue near-shore horizon. She was staggeringly beautiful. Being with her– more than anything, it gave Murati hope for life.

If the world really was dying, she could have withstood the end of it at this woman’s side.

But it made her fight for the remainder of the world they had, with all of her strength.

For a world where Karuniya’s dreams and ambitions could be realized.

Murati reached across the table and took one of Karuniya’s hands in both of hers.

Karuniya looked down from the fish she had been tracking.

“Murati, thank you. You didn’t have to go to these lengths, but I truly appreciate it.”

She lifted her other hand from the table and stroked Murati’s hands as well.

“You deserve to indulge every so often. We don’t know when we’ll get a chance again.”

“This reminds me of our first date.” Karuniya said. “That restaurant, back home.”

She spoke euphemistically, she couldn’t say ‘Mt. Raja’ but Murati remembered perfectly.

“That’s precisely why I wanted to have a bougie dinner date.” Murati replied.

She lifted the hand she had taken closer and kissed the back of it.

Karuniya looked, for once, to have a bit of a girlish blush on her cheeks.

After the spectacle, the food began to come in.

It was no longer the highlight of the evening having been shown up quite thoroughly by the ingenuity of the venue, but it was still pleasant. Cucumber and seaweed salad with puffed rice “coral” crackers, wheat gluten “scallops” in a savory butter sauce, heart of palm and chickpea “crab cakes,” and a “sea foam” ice cream dessert. It was all quite cute, the portions were decent, and the tastes were well considered. It helped that there was a bottle of red wine with the dinner set that complimented the meal and the evening well.

Eating their imitation seafood courses in the middle of imitation sea life.

“To simulation!” Karuniya cheered, wine glass in hand.

Murati laughed and lifted her glass to Karuniya’s own.

And with that, the merry-making portion of the operation was fulfilled.

Just as they had entered the Aquarium arm in arm, with Murati dutifully opening the doors for her fiancé, they finished their dinner course, saw all they desired to see, and as it was getting late in the evening, bid farewell, with Murati now holding the doors for a tired Karuniya. Arm in arm again, they left the Atrium and waited at the elevator bank for a ride back to their floor. It was time to retire back to the ship until their next journey.

“I had a fantastic time, Murati.” Karuniya said, settling against her hubby on a bench.

“Ah, but there’s still evening to go, mademoiselle.” Murati said, putting on airs.

“Yes, but I could use a good lie-down.” Karuniya said gently.

You’ll lie down, don’t worry. Murati laughed internally. It was time for the finale.

Some might have thought it uncharacteristic of her– but Murati could be rather lascivious.

Like any woman, she had desires, fantasies; she could be aggressive. She liked to top!

When the mood was just right, when she had Karuniya right where she wanted her–

Well.

Tonight, she had expertly crafted the mood; and Karuniya was clearly asking for it.

They made their way quietly back to Alcor Steelworks.

That night, Kreuzung was just a bit chilly, for reasons known only to the temperature control authority, but it made Karuniya cling closer to Murati as they walked. Murati hooked an arm around her and smiled. She led her fiancé, who though not drunk was clearly a little bit drowsy from the food and drink, up into the Brigand. Off to one side of the hangar, Murati could see the pair of security officers Zhu Lian and Klara Van Der Smidse playing cards to pass the time. They cast a glance at the couple climbing a ladder through the deployment chutes, and then returned to their game. Murati led Karuniya to the lifts.

At the door to their room, Karuniya yawned. She opened the door and stepped in.

Murati glanced about herself.

The hallway down the officer’s quarters was completely empty.

Every door was shut, and nobody was making a sound. Only the hum of the ventilation.

Recalling how the night of their first date had gone, Murati stepped in behind Karuniya.

She walked close to her fiancé, who was about to sit down on the bed–

And struck the wall with her palm, her arm crossing over Karuniya’s shoulder.

Murati leaning into her with a grin on her face and savoring her fiancé’s surprise.

“Oh! You startled–” Karuniya’s eyes met Murati’s own. Realization dawned on her face.

“I told you the night wasn’t over yet, didn’t I?” Murati said, with a grin.

“Ah ha, I see. You’re feeling frisky. Did you manage to hold an erection?” Karuniya whispered.

She raised a hand to stroke Murati’s cheek.

Murati took it into her own and pulled it down gently.

“Let me show you.” Murati said.

Her words came out of her lips almost like a demand.

“Yes. I’m in your hands.” Karuniya said, sounding a little surprised.

Without another word–

Murati suddenly and brusquely pushed herself onto the bed on top of Karuniya.

Never once breaking eye contact as she pushed her down with one hand to the shoulder.

While the other lifted Karuniya’s skirt–

“Murati–!”

A delectably surprised little expression appeared on Karuniya’s face.

With expert precision, Murati pulled her in by the hips until she was closer to her crotch.

Looming over with Karuniya’s legs spread around her, Murati lowered her head and blew a warm breath directly behind Karuniya’s ear that made her flinch. She was sensitive here. Murati bit on Karuniya’s ear lobe, kissed the side of her neck, nuzzled her shoulder. All the while pulling up her dress and sliding her fingers beneath the leotard she had worn under it. Those fingers lingered on her skin but did not try to slip off her clothes, not yet.

As if to demonstrate; this is what will become of you.

Murati did not even pull down her own pants yet.

She wanted her fiancé to squirm a bit first. For all the teasing she always did.

“You’re already so–!”

An excited little murmur escaped Karuniya’s quivering lips.

“Keep your peace until there’s a reason to yell.” Murati whispered in her ear.

Her fingers traced the soft, pliable skin just below Karuniya’s belly and above her groin, kneading and grazing, gliding further down, peering between her thighs and back up close to her belly. Sliding under the sides and the front of her thin bodysuit and easily lifting the fabric wherever needed. Crucially, never approaching where Karuniya’s needy clit would get an ounce of satisfaction. It was not time for that yet. Murati savored the shuddering flesh, the gentle reactive pushback of Karu subtly pressing her hips back as Murati teased her soft spots, all her favorite places gleaned from past experiences. She could see Karuniya’s flushed expression, her shut eyes; she could feel her little fits and starts of breath.

“Don’t lose your head yet, Karu. I’m not even inside you.”

Soon as a finger glided over her pussy, her body immediately quivered, head to curled toes.

Her hands which had lain at her sides now squeezed the bed. Her chest lifted involuntarily.

Transferring her emotions like a wave into Murati’s own body, pressed atop hers.

Murati’s fingers toying with her like a device. Flick the switch and feel the heat build.

Being in control was intoxicating for Murati.

Her head rushed with the feeling of Karuniya seized in pleasure, being only hers.

She felt it from the tips of her fingers to the stirring length of her dick.

That catharsis which only came with a successful encirclement, with a grand plan.

They had already negotiated before, already explored, already stumbled.

Theirs was a matured love now; and Murati savored the ripe fruit.

They weren’t in Mt. Raja, they weren’t in Thassal; they had come a ways now.

“I’ll give you what you need. I know you inside and out now.”

For a few moments, Murati lifted the hand that was moving between Karuniya’s legs.

Her reach and position emphasized her taller size.

All of her fiancé’s body lay within her lustful grasp. Tracing the leotard, across Karuniya’s belly and up to her ample, perfectly shaped breasts, squeezed beneath her crop top. Hooking her fingers between fabric and flesh, pulling down the leotard slowly to reveal more of her chest, outlined by glistening sweat in the room’s dim light.

Karuniya lifted her back just a bit to assist as Murati pulled the leotard off her hips and down her legs. Finally the underwear came off, lovingly peeled and then carelessly discarded.

“Now, the rest.” Murati ordered.

With a blissful look on her face, Karuniya lifted her top off and cast to the floor beside the bed. She hooked a finger between her skirt and hip and Murati helped her pull it off the rest of the way. Joining her crop top and underwear on the floor. A glistening honey-amber jewel, a treasure of flesh, Karuniya laid sweaty, flushed, quivering gently under the press of Murati’s clothed body. Every fold, every rise and fall in the contours of her– all laid bare.

“Are you ready?” She whispered.

Karuniya shut her eyes and held a little smile, lips quivering with the rest of her.

Murati raised herself just enough to behold her fiancé’s body in its lusty majesty.

Quickly, hungrily, she descended on her once more.

Murati’s lips moved from Karuniya’s ear, neck and jaw, down to her chest.

Feeling Karuniya’s heartbeat through the teeth gently biting down on one supple breast–

“Murati! Oh! Jeez–!”

–while her free hand pushed a trimmed fingertip over a soaked, throbbing clit.

“O-o-ohh–!”

Her tone of voice changed completely– she sounded like she was melting.

Eyes shut, legs trying to tighten and failing with Murati in the way, kicking aimlessly.

Hands ripping into the bedsheets. Chest pounding amid the heat.

Murati’s lips kneaded the tips of her breasts; her fingers glided between her legs.

“Mmm–! Ugh–!”

She was so noisy, and her squirming ever more violent, but under control.

Using her weight and position, Murati kept her pinned and she loved every second.

Karuniya was a screamer, a kicker, bucking hips and jerking arms and Murati loved it.

Her intensity increased to match. Strumming Karu’s clit, sucking on her neck, pushing her.

When Karu threw her hips up at Murati, she felt it directly on her bulging dick.

“Murati–! Mura–! Mu–!”

An explosion of wimpering and moaning, a feast for the ears.

Then–

A sudden, surprising calm before the expected climax.

Karuniya opened her eyes slowly, lifted her head to look, eyes clearly hazy.

Breathing heavy, sweating hard. Barely able to move with intention.

Murati slowly pulled back, until her body was half off the bed.

There was a sly smile on her face as she met her fiancé’s confused expression.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

Stopping every so often to kiss Karuniya’s body, on her breasts, on her navel–

–working her way down, laying a sucking nip of a bite on her mons to presage.

Spreading her legs, holding her by one hip and leg, kissing the inner thigh.

Waiting to be acknowledged–

“Murati– don’t– don’t make me wait–” Karuniya mumbled, trembling where she lay.

“Of course. Anything for you.”

With eyes full of lust that Karuniya could no longer see, Murati fulfilled her wish.

Done with the teasing, she lifted her lips off Karuniya’s thighs and kissed between her legs.

Lips closing, spreading, her tongue pressing–

Karuniya started thrashing the second Murati’s tongue slowly and gently worked her clit.

Maintaining a precise rhythm, keeping control of Karuniya’s hips and legs.

Karuniya bucked against her face, and Murati pressed further as if in challenge.

In her throes Karuniya raised up against the wall and Murati followed her back to bed.

“Ahh– ohh–”

Murati closed her lips again, and Karuniya’s hips bucked gentler, her voice dying.

Her fingers curled and stretched in rhythm, and her breathing began to steady.

Murati could feel the shift, and slowly withdrew her tongue from Karuniya’s pussy.

She lifted herself up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“You’re– so cocky–” Karuniya said, smiling, clearly wiped out.

“I think I have good reason to be.” Murati said, with a confident little shrug.

“Ugh. Fuck. You’re awful. You’ve gotten so good.” Karuniya replied, her breath returning.

Murati bent down nearer to Karuniya again and kissed her, holding her shoulders at first.

Karuniya kissed back with vigor, her tongue drawing out Murati’s own.

She still had a bit of fire in her– good.

In the middle of this passion, Murati started to unzip her pants.

For her, it was difficult to work up to an erection naturally. She wouldn’t let it go to waste.

While they kissed, she pulled her pants down, and started to push Karuniya down again.

“Another go?” Karuniya asked, her barely recovered breath leaving her again.

“You wanted me to have fun also, right?” Murati said.

“I do. Condom?”

“I told you, I prepared everything.”

Murati flashed the little packet from the pockets of her pants before she discarded them.

‘How– should I be facing–”

Without another word, Murati took Karuniya by the hips and guided her around.

Karuniya clumsily followed along, Murati savoring every brush of her throbbing dick on Karuniya’s sweaty, silken skin as they maneuvered around each other. In seconds she had her fiancé face down on the bed. One hand holding her lower belly, just above her still shivering clit; and the other on her hip, gripping tight, by which she again pulled her closer, her ass farther up to Murati’s waist, her head and back just barely straight.

“I don’t know how long I can hold this.” Karuniya replied, weakly supporting herself.

“The pillow princess doth protest too much.” Murati said, adjusting how she held Karuniya.

“Gah– You’re really getting me back for all my cheek, huh?”

“I’m just having fun.”

“Me too.” Karuniya said, with an exasperated little gasp.

Murati lifted Karuniya again, pulled her even closer, and clicked her tongue.

Pushing in, shifting her weight and position so that she could thrust into her.

“Ahh–” Karuniya put her head down against the pillow, her hands scrabbling on the sheets.

Clumsy at first, Murati finally felt like she had the balance, and began to thrust with rhythm.

Delighting in the look of Karu’s hair getting messy, her sweaty back, the way each thrust caused her rear to shake. The way Murati could hold her body so easily and use her so thoroughly, bending over her and lifting up her hips and pulling her in deeper.

Her own vision grew hazy with pleasure, and she could feel the rushing in her groin, the thrill shaking her muscles. She restrained a cry, her heart pounding, bent against Karuniya’s back. Almost falling on top of her, losing her rhythm to short, desperate, hungry strokes.

Murati barely lasted, but by the end, Karuniya looked like she could take no more.

As her dick softened and the wet rubber started to slip off, Murati felt euphoric, satisfied.

“Karu– I love you–”

“I love you– Murati–”

Out of breath, spent, and smiling.

Murati curled up behind Karuniya, crammed side to side in bed, and held her close.

Gently kissing her shoulder and the nape of her neck while they fell asleep together.

Having reached a new peak in their journey together.


Winfreda Kappel had struggled mightily against having her clinic torn up by the sailors in their frenzy to unnecessarily reimagine everything in the ship.

One thing that Alcor Steelworks could not promise them was confidential medical work– because they didn’t even have that for their own employees on their executive campus. She was finally able to impress upon the Captain the need to take care of “Treasure Box Transports’” “employees” in the “Pandora’s Box” and that to do otherwise was to potentially compromise operational security. Her clinic remained open.

She had even seen a few sailors and treated injuries incurred in the process of their frenzied renovations, which she felt vindicated her resistance. However, as usual, she did not see a lot of traffic to the medbay and to her clinic. Syracuse, the security team medic, took it upon herself to deliver medication allotments, in order to have something to do every so often.

A ship was not a place that usually saw frequent health problems.

Soldiering was dangerous work, but it was the chance of death that made it dangerous. Pilots, officers, and sailors were more likely to be killed outright by anything that could routinely injure them in a dangerous situation; or would otherwise go uninjured.

That meant Winfreda had more time to kick back and savor the ship’s ‘medical brandy.’

The Brigand’s doctor may have looked at first glance atypical for her station.

A vibrant woman in the midst of a second bloom; the edges of her eyes and lips just scarcely beginning to attain the majesty of age; with brightly dyed hair in three shades of alternating blue, precise with her makeup; a healthy figure beneath conservative dress, sweater and coat and long skirt and tights. Neither the tidiness and discipline associated with soldiery, nor the warm matronly stereotypes of women in medicine suited her at all.

Upon winning her rights in the Union’s revolution, she immediately underwent hormone therapy, dyed her hair, put on loud music and prescribed liberation every day.

Somehow, she drew the eyes of Parvati Nagavanshi one fateful day.

“My mission needs a doctor who has been through hell and back, and still looks in the mirror and wants to live her life each day. It is too easy for someone in your profession to be ground down, broken to merely fulfilling their duties. Such people will collapse under what I am asking. But I know you won’t. Because you lived the Revolution; and now look at you.”

She still remembered Nagavanshi’s conceited, cruel grin in that dreadful black uniform.

Winfreda couldn’t deny any of that. Begrudgingly.

One curious thing about Nagavanshi is it always felt like she assessed the people around her even better than those people assessed themselves, or maybe even could assess themselves. That made her deadly effective at her job, frightening to hear from, and odious to speak to.

Despite that, Winfreda was not exactly thrilled and tried to assert her right not to–

“Let it be noted I tried, and wanted, to be nice. I can be difficult.” Nagavanshi had said.

It was resoundingly unfair, but ultimately, to avoid the resurfacing of certain problems that Winfreda had made for herself in her youthful, liberated social life in the young Union, she took Nagavanshi’s offer. Now she was sailing the high seas, was frequently endangered, and had to double as counselor to a bunch of hot-shots and fools nearly half her age.

At least she enjoyed running a clinic again.

Maybe when she came back– she would actually be ready to settle down. Big maybe.

“My, my, everyone’s going to be having fun, huh?” Winfreda said, grinning to herself.

She noticed one of the “No Judgment Dispensers” she had set up so the crew could self-serve condoms, had gone from full to nearly empty almost overnight. She realized a ton of shore leave dates must have been approved by the Captain. Dutifully, she refilled the dispenser when nobody was paying attention to it.

She saluted in spirit all the folks soon to be getting lucky.

“Hmm. I wonder if Minardo or Lebedova might be down.” Winfreda said, giggling.

Her, Lebedova and Minardo, and sometimes Marina, were called “the elder stateswomen” of the Brigand by a cadre of chirpy girls who also somehow concocted the idea that Shalikova, Nakara, Geninov and Al-Shahouh Raisanen-Morningsun were the “Four Princes.” Korabiskaya was spared the gossip largely because the girls were afraid of a reprimand; and Winfreda believed the only thing keeping al-Shajara from the gossip was that her flamboyance precluded any mystery. She was simply too well-known a flirt for those girls’ imagination.

But there was some truth to it in Minardo and Lebedova’s case, in Winfreda’s opinion.

Those two were both quite suited to her taste and seemed like they would be mature about casual sex. Certainly more so than any younger women. They were both flirty and passionate about their work, and had great bodies– she could see why the sailor girls wanted some of that. As for herself, of course, she needed no explanation. Despite her many charms, however, it had been a while since Winfreda had gotten to have sex herself. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to ask and see if her fellow “stateswomen” were equally pent up as she. At worst they would say no, and at best, maybe she could rope the both of them at once.

Now that would be quite a sight and a sound indeed.

However, where the little faction intersected with Marina–

She was still turning that one over in her head.

Mind filling with a slew of colorful delusions, Winfreda cheerfully ambled back to her clinic to find someone waiting for her in the middle of the room.

A patient; and a most uncommon visitor as well. She was a squirrely one even for regular health checkups. Her figure and stature on the petite side; a completely deadpan expression on a pretty young face; tawny brown hair spun into a distinctive spiraling ponytail; and her characteristic antennae, the size of a human hand and installed where her ears should be, grey and solid with a series of LEDs to indicate statuses.

Braya Zachikova.

“Oh, Zachikova! Have you finally decided to stop running away from a blood draw?”

“Funny you mention blood. Mine’s getting a bit thin. I want a scrip for blood pills.”

“Huh?”

Winfreda stared at Zachikova, who made no expression in response.

“Your blood is thin? How did you come to this conclusion? What are your symptoms?”

“I’m tired and grumpy. If you’ll just hand me some pills real quick I’ll be on my way.”

Winfreda put her hands on her hips and stood her ground.

Putting on a surly face, Zachikova averted her eyes.

“Zachikova, I’m sorry, but this isn’t a dispensary. I won’t give you any drugs without first knowing what effect they may have on you! If you’re feeling ill, I insist on running tests. You’ve ducked out of having even a single health checkup, and I’ve been worried this would be the result. We will get you help, the proper help, I promise– once we can pinpoint your actual condition.”

“Isn’t this supposed to be an informed consent clinic?” Zachikova grumbled.

Winfreda sighed loudly.

“Informed consent doesn’t mean you can come here asking for erythropoietin or any other thing entirely on your own whim. Some medicines can be harmful and must be administered after testing. I don’t understand why you are so against it. If you don’t want me to do it, I can get Syracuse to run the tests if it would be more comfortable– hey!”

In the middle of her talking, Zachikova simply turned around and left the room.

“What am I going to do with you?” Winfreda cried out.

She had limited avenues for problems like this.

If it got too serious she would have to tell the Commissar, but that just wasn’t her style. Winfreda hoped that any patient who was reticent about treatment could be sat down and talked to and reasoned with, in the privacy of the clinic, with no one the wiser. But Zachikova was the first time a patient was so vehement about avoiding any formal diagnostic tests, and who was aggressively against any discussion of the matter.

“I hate to say it, but it’ll have to be the Commissar then. I’ll write it down.”

Commissar Aaliyah and Captain Korabiskaya had been busier than ever, and always busy together, but it wasn’t like they were joined at the hip.

She just had to pull the Commissar aside.

While jotting down a note on her digital clipboard, there was a knock on the door.

“Come in! Seat’s open!” Winfreda said.

“Ah, not actually here for my health doc, but thanks.”

Once the door slid open, Winfreda smiled at the sight of Marina McKennedy.

“You know, I was just thinking about you.” Winfreda said, smiling.

“Me too.” Marina replied. She showed a bottle that she was carrying.

“I see where this is going. Are you sure you’re okay with it?” Winfreda asked.

“I’m positive. Aren’t you annoying seeing all the kids running off?”

“Hmm. Ah well– you only live once. That stuff better be nicer than my brandy.”

Marina winked, with a handsome smile. With a fond little sigh, the doctor locked the door.

Perhaps unfortunately, Marina was a woman quite to Winfreda’s taste also.


“Well, ultimately, it wasn’t a lot of trouble huh?”

“There were some low points, but nobody has shot at us, so I consider it a win.”

Captain Korabiskaya and Commissar Bashara glanced at each other, smiled and laughed.

Since their arrival at Kreuzung, the Brigand had been moored at Alcor Steelworks, subject to an extensive and necessary repair and maintenance program (along with the installation of a few new ‘toys’.) In a week and change, the project was essentially completed, thanks to the gargantuan efforts of the sailors, the Brigand’s friends at Solarflare LLC, and Amelia Winn’s under-the-table assistance in macro-stitching entire sections and systems using military blueprints. Most of the exterior was brand new plate, the interior was fully repaired, maintained, and rewired, and they even added a new chair for Erika in the bridge.

“They even made the armor a nicer shade of beige than before!” Ulyana cheered.

“I’d even say it’s more of an olive than a beige now.” Aaliyah replied.

Both of them stood proudly about fifty meters from the work site, beholding the ship.

In a little over three months, this idiosyncratic rustbucket had been through a lot.

Now it awaited its next adventure.

A sword and shield in the duel for the heart of Imbria. Surely it would have months, maybe even years of beatings ahead of it, but it had never been as prepared for them as it was now. Ulyana almost wanted to shed a tear for what it had come to represent for herself. She felt like it was only yesterday when they were still a motley assortment who barely knew each other’s names. Her crew had come together, pulled through when needed, and the Brigand was now not only their redoubt, their weapon– it had also become their home.

“Ah, Captain, Adjutant. I see you are taking in the sight of a job well done?”

Behind Ulyana and Aaliyah approached Euphrates, dressed as always in her blue blazer, waistcoat and pants, her short and messy blue hair combed back like always; at her side, always to be found, was Tigris, in red overalls and a white button-down shirt, her red hair in a ponytail. These were not her lab clothes nor her business clothes– and farther back, Ulyana spotted two containers being hauled by truck from the freight elevator.

“Euphemia?” Ulyana said. They were outside, so she observed Protocol Tokarev.

“Ah, yes.” Euphrates said, waving. “Our business in Kreuzung is also concluded.”

“We’ll be hitching a ride again if that’s okay.” Tigris said. “As payment, I have a bunch of spare parts and additional equipment for the Agni. Murati will love the stuff, I’m sure.”

“You are always welcome aboard.” Aaliyah said. “Your assistance has been crucial.”

“Likewise. We may well have been dead or abducted without you.” Euphrates replied.

“Yeah, the feeling’s mutual. I’ve been missing that bucket of bolts over there anyway.”

Tigris pointed at the Brigand with a grin on her face. Ulyana smiled back.

“Is your destination the same as ours, then?” Ulyana asked.

Euphrates nodded. “Aachen. Just like you, I need to talk to Ganges, about many things.”

“She’s going to be pretty in demand.” Ulyana said.

“For better or worse, Ganges’ ambitions led her to many places.” Euphrates said. “Far be it for me to criticize her for this, I’ll leave that up to you. I’d just like to get a sense of where she intends to go, and whether she has anything to do with our wayward Sovereign. And whether she might assist me in putting things right in one of the places she abandoned.”

“There’s no point speculating.” Tigris said. “We just need to storm into the same room with her and wring her neck for being too cavalier with the people she was responsible for.”

“Nobody is wringing anybody’s neck.” Euphrates declared. “We are just going to talk.”

“After Qote’s disgraceful circus, I almost want to wring Kansal’s neck.” Aaliyah said.

Despite Euphrates’ misgivings, Tigris and Ulyana were prompted to laugh.

For a moment, Tigris and Euphrates joined them in taking in the sight of the Brigand.

“Time feels like it’s moving again.” Euphrates said gently.

Ulyana did not really understand the remark’s significance, nor did Aaliyah.

They simply allowed everyone their own quiet contemplation.

Once they were back on the ship, there was work again in every direction.

Some sailors were lobbying to have a ‘goodbye Kreuzung’ shore leave party, which Ulyana argued against because she didn’t want to have to drag sailors back at the eleventh hour, and because Kreuzung was a racist hellhole not worth remembering whatsoever. There were arguments over where to put Tigris’ spare parts, since the supply pod was meticulously arranged to maximize storage and SF-type cargo crates like Tigris’ did not fit. Ulyana heard all the arguments and then decided to just leave it in a corner of the hangar, secured by magnetic anchors, since the Agni needed access to it. On the bridge, Erika Kairos wanted to talk about meeting with the Rostock and Olga Athanasiou wanted to talk about Divers.

It was not easy being in charge of this home away from home.

But finally, the evening was starting to fall, and they had only hours left of their visit.

Final checks and preparations could wait until the next morning.

Ulyana ordered everyone to rest, no night shifts.

She joined Aaliyah back at their quarters and they had a little celebration of their own.

“This time, exactly and only one drink.” Aaliyah said softly.

“Right.” She recalled the last time, with fondness, but also embarrassment.

Nevertheless, Ulyana poured out their glasses, and they toasted and cheered to each other.

Exchanging gentle gazes. Knowing hearts aware that their own next adventure grew near.

Little did they know that Kreuzung was about to stage a grand festival for them soon.


Arbitrator I turned and looked over her shoulder.

Framed in the dim white light of the Brigand’s corridors through the threshold of the door.

Slender and white-skinned, small horns on her forehead parting her long, white-and-red hair.

Rather than her uniform, she wore her robe of leviathan skin once again.

Behind her, Braya sat on the bed, working on something on her computer.

“Braya, I’m going for a stroll.” Arbitrator I said.

“Okay. Bring me back a coffee from the machine whenever you’re done.” Braya said.

She trusted her enough to let her leave unsupervised.

Assuming perhaps that she would only be confined to the halls of the ship.

This was not a new development– ever since she had taken Braya’s blood, and told her of her ambitions and desires, the surly computer girl she was so fond of had grown to trust her. They were intimate now. Arbitrator I could have hardly imagined it when she first saw Braya’s emotions reverberating within the metal shell she had used to contact her. When she herself was cavorting about the ocean as a beautiful and ignorant Leviathan, running away.

Despite her outward appearance, that aura bore the truth of a scared, hurt, desperate girl.

Yearning to be touched.

Now, Arbitrator I was going to hurt her again, wasn’t she?

“Of course. I’ll even make you my special coffee.” Arbitrator I teased.

“Absolutely no. Just go get a normal coffee from the machine.” Braya grumbled.

With a girlish giggle, Arbitrator I left the room.

As soon as the door closed behind her, that smiling expression on her face darkened.

Melting away into inexpression, with the weight of what she had to do.

Through the nearly empty halls of the Brigand, she walked down to the hangar.

Troubled– until she met another soul, and then she smiled, however briefly.

“Fancying a stroll?”

As always, the Chief of Security was patrolling the halls. Evgenya Akulantova lifted her hat to Arbitrator I, and the Omenseer performed a little curtsy in response. Thankfully, the chief was on her way quickly. She, too, had come to trust their new navigator.

Everyone had come to trust her– and she was about to betray all of their trust.

But it had to be done– or else Braya would not be safe.

None of them would be safe unless she took matters into her own hands.

Her and only her alone. It was her responsibility.

Down in the hangar, Arbitrator I found a vent that she had been spying.

Low to the ground, it allowed water that collected on the hangar to be drained out.

And in this case, it allowed Arbitrator I to soften her body and ooze through.

Like the soft things of jelly that once dwelled deep, deep underground–

Falling from one of the Brigand’s exhausts out onto the concrete floor of Alcor Steelworks.

Recovering her form on the ground, and breaking into a run.

She rushed out from under the ship, and looked straight up into the dark, false sky.

Far, far up above them, she knew she would find Enforcer I and Enforcer III of the Syzygy.

Her eyes turned briefly feral with the thought of them– and then softened.

Filled with tears.

Ripping her eyes from the ship and from the image of Braya in her mind.

She flexed fingers that became black and sharp like knives. Setting off on her grim duty.

For everything she was responsible for; for everything she did not do.

Her kin’s ravenous vengeance could not be allowed to continue.

“For the hominin to be safe– I must kill these monsters. I’m sorry Braya– goodbye.”

Her eyes became lit not with red rings but lined by a purple hexagon.

Feeling the weight of everything she wished she could have kept–

She ascended.

For everything she buried and recovered and could not deny any longer.


Previous ~ Next

Arc 3 Intermissions [III.1]

“The Eclipse Heresy”

Faction: Holy Empire of Solsea

Within the dark blue fog and marine snow, a miraculous cocoon suspended in the water.

Many-colored, silk-spun and hardened as concrete, a perfect teardrop shape.

Inside that cocoon was the most beautiful and perfect nymph.

Pale as foam, so soft and smooth. Her thin body curled up in sleep. Arms resting over her breasts, legs drawn in to her belly. Her red hair gently falling over sloping shoulders.

She was growing. Her wings would burst out of the cocoon someday.

Like twin rainbows rising from the shell. On those wings she would fly away forever.

Leaving behind this dead world.

All she needed was the shelter of her cocoon, and the peace with which to grow.

But one day, greedy hands began to search the exterior of her cocoon for a weakness.

Slipping between the colorful layers of the shell an intruder nestled behind the nymph.

Shadow where she was light; monochrome where she was color; a changeling slender and smoke-grey and long-haired, its body a corrupted mirror of her own, pressing upon her.

Cold fingers laid bloody red scratches on her easily-giving skin. She shivered and grimaced in her sleep. It was as if her shadow had begun to embrace and engulf her. She felt the piercing of teeth on her shoulder tearing her flesh open, and her back arched involuntarily from the pain. Felt the harsh grip of arms around her body, gasping for breath, her slender neck in a vicegrip, her legs unable to kick at her attacker, and a bloodcurdling whisper at her nape–

You can’t escape me now.

Inside the cocoon the nymph screamed, trapped in the violent embrace of the intruder.

No matter how much she struggled, the creature tearing at her could not be shaken.

Held down and tortured as she was, she would never get to spread her wings.


Aubrey Jurgen was lucky to live in the Holy Empire.

This is what she told herself every morning, as she left her room in the lowest tier of the station and took an elevator up three floors to a seafood restaurant in the commercial circle of the Torun station complex. She would put on her apron, try to hold her gut in place by sheer force of will, and braved the backroom of the restaurant to prepare fish.

Hers wasn’t a highly sought after skill. It wasn’t a career. She worked with fish, washed plates, set up stitcher machines and burners and ovens. She washed salt off preserved salted fish, cleaned brine out of pickled fish, and she gutted and cleaned frozen fish.

She did this every day. It was work.

There was always fish. That meant, there was always pay. That meant, there was life.

She had to be happy to be getting paid; had to be.

In the Holy Empire, like everywhere in the Empire, this Aubrey and any Aubrey would be working five or six days on, broken up by sabbath or the occasional holiday. She was working for Imbrian Marks, still used by the Holy See, five hundred of which she earned every two weeks, seven hundred of which went to paying her room, and the rest to food and upkeep.

Aside from the occasional alms, the Holy Empire still expected its lambs to pay the merchant men their due for bread, meat, greens, and the very fish she gutted every day. They still expected the landlords to be paid for rooms. But she was lucky to live in the Holy Empire. Because the Holy Empire wasn’t like everywhere else, she had been told, and she told herself as well, because she had to believe it to live: the Holy Empire was a godly place. It was a righteous and correct place. Rhinea, the Palatine, Buren and Veka, these were godless places of the devil where the soul was forfeit, the body was excoriated, and the mind was depraved.

Working at the seafood restaurant did not forfeit Aubrey’s soul or excoriate her body or deprave her mind; because she lived in the Holy Empire, and so she was one of God’s lambs.

And that God was Solceanos, the great sun that warmly awaited humanity beyond the water.

Solceanos and Solcea ever looking down upon her from above. She was lucky; lucky that God was watching her gut fish. She was lucky to leave in the evening with 40 marks in the pocket.

Out there, she would have been nobody. In The Holy Empire of Solcea, she was God’s lamb.

God’s lambs earned their 40 marks a day and liked it.

Troubled by these thoughts as she stared down another day in the briny, fishy backroom, holding the gutting knife in her hand. She stared at the knife, stared at the fish, stared at her hand, thought deeply dark thoughts, and made the decision to stop doing so. Her body made the decision to put the knife in the fish. One more blessed second in God’s holy kingdom.

But when she stuck the knife in the fish this time, she immediately sensed something wrong.

Soon as it crossed the barrier of the fish’s scaly skin, the blade drew a squirting spray of foul smelling red brine. Foul enough to stand out in a room that permanently smelled like fish and their innards. Aubrey lifted her free arm to her face, covering her mouth with her elbow. Her chest heaved with the immediate desire to spill her own guts. She turned away, but she heard the liquid dribbling onto the ground from the edge of the table. How much was inside?

Overcome with sickness, Aubrey uncharacteristically dropped her tools and sprinted, nearly tripping over her own feet on the wet floor of the dim, cluttered backroom. She ran to the back office, where her manager had been working behind a computer desk. As soon as she crossed the door, the smell on her prompted him to stand up, exclaim, and back away.

Thankfully, they had a strong deodorizer spray in the equipment storage.

“It’s Katov mass.” said the manager, staring at the fish on the board and the mess on the floor. “Good god and all that is holy– it smells horrible. But it’s nothing too unusual.”

He was thankfully not angry at her. Aubrey sighed deeply.

On the board, the fish had completely deflated and flattened out.

As if it had been nothing but a bubble of katov mass wrapped in the skin of a fish.

“If its Schechter salinity value is low enough, it’s not really dangerous to humans.” the manager said. For a brief, terrifying moment, Aubrey thought he might be asking her to feed this to a customer. But he continued, “This one smells too bad though. Throw it out. If you find any like that, you know what to do. Use your best judgment, okay? I trust you with it.”

He patted her on the back and walked away nonchalantly.

Aubrey pushed the nasty Katov fish into the same trash can she used for the guts.

She sprayed down the board, and the floor.

Then she reached into the rack full of fish from which she drew the objects of her work.

Putting down another dead fish on the table, staring at it.

However, the excoriation of poor Aubrey’s senses would not end there.

As she cut one–

-after another

and a third,

fourth,

until she began to wish again to gut herself instead, to be freed of the smell of Katov mass.

And also began to wonder whether she had run afoul of God.


“Bow your heads in supplication! Do you pray every day? You had better start! The Eclipse is soon to fall upon us! When the shadows extend out over the Holy See, the dark angels will slay the wicked! Only those who open themselves to be saved and who resist the greed of the tempters and temptresses will survive! Where will you hide from God’s judgment?”

People stood around the figure, clad in a covering black robe and cloak, surprised not just by the intensity of their voice and the bizarre message– but the very fact of a doomsayer was very rare and strange. The Empire of Solcea was a theocracy where the church had become the primary political organ. Local functionaries like station mayors and regional governors had been replaced by Bishops and Patriarchs, and the church managed all appointments to public office. Those who watched as the doomsayer in the park proclaimed the end of days could only help but wonder if this carried some political meaning against the church.

Solceanos’ teachings did not contain these lines. Solceanity was supposed to be a religion of humility, supplication, alms (and donatives.) It was about living with the world as it was, knowing one’s place, and exalting the God who made it possible for life to continue. In the secular world, a doomsayer was just a doomsayer, but in Solcea, what did it mean?

And what did it mean when the Securitas police approached the doomsayer with batons drawn? What did mean, the onlookers wondered, when they beat him quiet and dragged him away? Somehow, the message stuck in all of their minds. There was a sense of disquiet.

Especially when, the very next day, in the very same park– there were more.

Preaching repentance before the coming of the great Eclipse.

Unfailingly polite as more curious people approached them with questions, or jeers.

Unflinchingly stalwart as the police beat them too.

Soon, the sight became more common. And the confusion began to clear up.

More people saw clearly the coming darkness. And more people sought forgiveness.

Beneath the notice of the closed eyes of the Holy See, a wound had been opened.

And in its spilled blood, there was a spreading contaminant.


The Holy Empire of Solcea had spent the months since its founding in a state of confusing dysfunction. The secular state of Skarsgaard and the Holy See of the Solceanos Church had been in a cold war for much of their living memory, and the church had dreams of what its victory looked like. At its highest echelons, the ascendant Church hierarchy dreamed of a nation that would strictly follow Solceanist creed and subjugate the population with piety.

In reality, the dream of Solcea was a material nightmare replete with very secular problems.

Skarsgaard had already been a state subject to great neglect. Even before his abdication to seek scandal in the court of Prince von Fueller, the former duke Carthus had been uninvolved in the day to day running, and had set no policy agenda for the state. Perhaps in his mind, his late father had set a foundation that could simply be allowed to run, like clockwork– but it was hardly the case. Skarsgaard had become underdeveloped and dependent.

A nation of corrupt bureaucrats captive to regional interests, Skarsgaard was headed for turbulent waters without Rescholdt-Koldt in the north and Khosvgol in the south to fill its markets with goods. The Imbrians had never invested much in the competitiveness of the native industry inherited from the old Gallic Kingdoms. Looking only at the numbers, Skarsgaard had a stable and functional economy. But it was a highly dependent one, that got by on being permissive and deferential to the juggernaut firms of its neighboring states.

Pontiff Millennia had some idea that the nation was troubled. Having been a former heiress to the state, she knew some of her family’s unambitious running of its institutions, and knew that appointments to high office were far from meritocratic; and as Pontiff, she had seen first-hand the people who ran the government, in their dealings with the church. Craven and self-interested, easily swayed by bribes and favors. During the breakup of the ducal states, Pontiff Millennia discovered first-hand how weak the state apparatus of Skarsgaard had become, as businessmen and political lackeys panicked and fled every which way, local branches of exterior enterprises attempted to uproot all their infrastructure back to their home states, and the remainder of the government was utterly paralyzed by the chaos.

Solcea was also militarily weaker than the Vekan Empire, who held a qualitative and quantitative advantage in troops– as well as the Bureni nationalists, whose militias were battle-hardened and experienced in open warfare. Outside of Pontiff Millennia’s closest units, the performance of most of the Solcean military in a war was held suspect. This meant that any ambition of taking the fight to her neighbors right away and simply stealing their vast stocks of resources was a pure fantasy. She would have to walk the middle road.

As a state, Solcea was born brain-dead and bleeding out, but it still clung to its life.

Upon assumption of the newly-declared throne of the Solcean Empire, Millennia used the Papal Guard and remaining Skarsgaard Navy to violently put down capital flight, sicced the police, now renamed Magistratus Securitas, on both the population and on fleeing merchants, and successfully shut the porous borders to Veka and Buren. She appointed administrators from the church to oversee the transition and bureaucratic renewal. Her new state was led by learned men and women who gained experience managing people, projects and funds under the auspice of the church– but not spectacularly qualified for governing.

Still, it was good enough to staunch the bleeding.

But the wound was not closed. It had scabbed over, but the pain of the cut lingered.

Solcea’s economy continued to be a mess, and it became incumbent on a state that still nominally believed in capitalism to insert itself into business to keep goods flowing. Subsidizing agriculture, offering credit to buoy ailing industries, encouraging alms to rally the poor around the churches, offering as much debt relief as a finance industry livid at the state of things would allow. Discussions with Veka and Buren allowed for the reopening of perhaps 30% of their former business in the state, overcoming a cacophonous distrust.

The Holy Empire of Solcea had talked a big game in naming itself and establishing its independence, but now played exclusively soft power. The Holy See supported Solceanos worship and the lambs of God everywhere they resided. They did not wish war on their neighbors and were simply taking the role of protecting the Church and its holy sites, and the Pontiff wished for peace and normalization of relationships with the warring factions.

Because Pontiff Millennia could do nothing else with what she had.

Particularly because, ultimately, like her sibling, she was uninterested in the state.

Millennia quietly began to retreat over the weeks and entrust more of the state’s running to subordinates. As things became difficult and distracting, she more and more saw her mind drift elsewhere. She just needed Solcea and its infrastructure to survive and provide shelter and sustenance. The rest of her journey as a ruler was purely spiritual. If her beliefs bore out, the material consequence of the state would no longer matter. This was merely the cocoon to a beautiful butterfly struggling to be born, to stretch its wings, and leave it all behind.

All the rabble needed to do was cling on for as long as possible.

And that was what they were doing with great difficulty–

until the shadow of something older than the Imbrium itself began to creep into Solcea.


“I can almost see it. I can almost see it. If I could just touch it. Just for a second.”

She mumbled to herself, prostrated in front of a mechanism set upon an altar.

Around her, what was once a room for stocking religious relics, had become home to the purple glow of an eerie machine. An industrial-looking thing, half as tall as the room, glass panels unveiling complex innards. Powerful magnetic fields kept in place a cube of dimly glowing Agarthicite, which, reacting to the field, turned in random intervals to random angles within the containment chamber. Parts of the mechanism containing the fist-size piece of Agarthicite released beads of carbon into the enclosure. These would be stricken by bright purple bolts that lit up the room– and the face of Millennia von Skarsgaard.

She clapped her hands together and stared into the annihilating purple glow.

Had her will been any less, she may have felt dizzy or had her eyesight shot by it.

But her mind was sharpened to a steel edge even as her flesh protested.

Around her gathered bright colors of aura, but these quickly coalesced into a soft, smoke-white aura that thrummed nervously around Millennia’s figure. From this cloak, a single finger of aura stretched between the kneeling Millennia, and as if suspending the instant of destruction, the aura passed through the enclosure to touch the carbon as it annihilated.

In that instant, the world before her eyes flashed.

For a second or two, she had left the dimly lit room in the depths of her palace.

Before her eyes she saw a blue sky as far as she could see. Sparse white clouds hovered over a vast stretch of grassland that rose and fell. Far downhill of her, there was a walled city, and the sea beyond. Smokestacks indicated industry. Millennia could feel the surroundings; humid, green, smelling of the earth. There was life. Insects, birds, small mammals.

This was the paradise that the ocean had not claimed. Its people had not fallen.

A world of hope flitted before her eyes.

She could see it, smell it, feel it, almost touch it–

But she could not stay.

In the instant after fleetingly experiencing this world, she felt as if her head split open.

Her burning, weeping eyes blinked and returned to the old relic chamber.

Her bright, sun-lit world and its blue sky became metal walls and dim purple light.

Pontiff Millennia screamed at the top of her lungs, dug her fingers into her head.

Blood dribbled down her nose until she could taste it on her lips.

She fell on her side and kicked and screamed, not just from the pain but from frustration.

She was there! She had been to another world! Why couldn’t she stay?

Why couldn’t she escape the hopeless prison of this dead planet?

For minutes she struggled until the pain receded and she had shouted herself hoarse.

Then her body went limp with hopelessness for several minutes more.

Until, wordlessly, almost mechanically, she pushed herself back up to her knees.

Clapped her hands back together as if in prayer.

And stared up at the demonic purple ore in the mechanism, her pleading renewed.

Divination was exceedingly difficult. Salvatrice’s visions acted in her dreams, but that wasn’t good enough. Millennia needed to understand the mechanism of it, and she had been studying it, deliberately working to induce visions and control them, for weeks now.

Using the “Gift” known as Oracle’s View, an expression of the Oracle’s Voice, allowed her to render visible the paths of the aether around her, and to experience the aether’s changes; it became clear to her that aether was a map of human activity past, present and future.

Theoretically, she believed a powerful enough psychic could force into existence a trace of a future farther and farther distant, or extract traces of a past farther and farther back.

Aether was not simply raw emotion either.

Oracle’s View allowed her to see a semblance of the actions that would disturb the aether in addition to their emotional character which was evident in their color. A strong red line of an incoming punch; the doomed black miasma of a human headed to death. These did not just carry their emotion as information in the color, but carried evidence of the activity itself within the texture, within the trace– all of this could be exposed by the Oracle’s View.

Theoretically, this was what she observed when she first started experimenting.

Premonitions; visions of the past. Her own past and future; those of objects; Salvatrice’s.

And then, during her experimentation, Millennia realized that she had been correct about an earlier assumption. Her visions were not contained to the past and future of Aer. Because she could disturb the future enough to change it, and then change what she saw each time in those controlled conditions– it meant she and the Aether were not acting in straight lines.

Like a Diver pilot learning to fight in three dimensions, Millennia stepped aside.

That paradigm shift, that confirmation of her greatest hope, allowed her to rattle her cage.

Rather than the past or future, forward and back, she was sidestepping, climbing, descending.

With this realization, she became able to trace Aether that left this world altogether.

To leave the world, however, the Aether needed to be affected by a massive force.

Millennia nearly died attempting to send her Aether out of Aer by herself.

Then she found herself leaning upon that most reliable and old ally of humanity.

An Agarthic annihilation released enormous amounts of short-lived power.

Using an agarthic centrifuge, she could annihilate carbon and release that power.

Within the purple glow of the agarthicite she finally found the glimpse of what she wanted.

On command, she could see another world.

However, she could only observe seconds of these worlds at most.

Even with her prodigious study, constant practice, and natural talent– any further stretched than this and her body would start to deteriorate from the feedback. She had hoped that the “Gifts” which Salvatrice had uncovered in her dreams could be used to sidestep such requirements, but there was no such luck. Manipulating aether was less taxing than directly manipulating human minds, but it had its limits too and she could not defeat them.

She had quickly mastered the Oracle’s Voice and Saint’s Skin— and yet she still fell short.

Especially when taken into account that simply viewing another world was not her ultimate goal. She had to escape– she had to be able to completely escape from this dead world–

“We can see worlds that are not dead like this one. Therefore– aether must be capable of traveling– and therefore, if the aether is not bound to this Aer, then I– I could go–“

Not just between the latticework of humanity as it existed on Aer– but beyond Aer itself.

Even if it destroyed the worthless body she had in this doomed and worthless planet, it would not matter as long as she could start over in a thriving world. However, she had to be sure, she had to be completely sure that she could exist corporeally on the other side.

Theoretically, it had to be possible– it had to be.

There was no room in her mind for Millennia to consider she might be crippling herself over nothing. To live in a fallen and degenerate world with a fallen and degenerate body– no. Transcendence had to be possible. It was the only outcome. Any sacrifice was worth that end.

And all throughout, her efforts were watched on every side by portraits and iconography of Solcea, the god that she had foisted like a veil over the wretched people of this world.

Solceanos and Solcea, together the one divinity representing the sun. Sun as father who watched and judged and disciplined; Sun as mother who nurtured, warmed, and fed. She knew that, long, long ago, this father/mother God was much more metaphorically the sun, far less concrete– but ultimately there was no difference whether the God was literally the Sun or some Pater figure that was more concretely human. These Gods represented control, discipline, subordination and self-denial. Instruments of worldly power. Ten commandments; birth and resurrection; feast and famine. These were ultimately tools of social manipulation.

And yet–

sometimes, their monuments and artworks instilled in her the fear of an ignorant believer.

As if they knew somehow that the Church had perverted their intentions.

Nothing in the scripture spoke of tithes, papal guard levies, church hierarchy and lines of succession. It spoke of alms that were not given; it spoke of a heaven that was denied.

When she spoke, it was to organize believers and exploit them to the Church’s advantage.

By enforcing the discipline of Solceanos, did they spread His intention for humanity?

“It doesn’t matter– none of this matters– Solcea won’t follow me beyond here.”

Solcea must have also been a prisoner of this dead world.

Her hands were shaking. She wasn’t eating or drinking well. It didn’t matter–

She dropped to her knees in the divination chamber, clasped her hands together in prayer.

Drew her eyes wide open and summoned the power again.

Oracle’s Voice.

White aura blew out of her and spread across the relic chamber.

Around her the aether became visible again, its movements palpable, readable, predictable

Saint’s Skin: Vestment.

Her own aether flared and she focused all of her mental efforts on prayer, sublimity–

Stark white aether began to overtake most of her aura, but a band of yellow and black.

Rising up from her into the core centrifuge was a band of muddy white aether.

Soon as she released it, her mind split into the twin focuses, of tracking it, and offering it up.

Immediate pain, but manageable, just a twist of a razor scraping the surface of her brain.

Oracle’s View.

Her gaze became singularly focused again upon the aether being offered up.

Then the mechanism was fed beads of carbon that it would immediately destroy.

Her aura was affected by the annihilating purple glow.

And the pain intensifying in her head.

Digging, micrometer by micrometer through her brain, but she could endure it, she could clench her shaking hands harder and grind her quivering teeth tighter together. She could endure the pain and continue to trail the aether into the agarthic centrifuge, into the bolts of annihilating energy. Through the prism of destruction left in the wake of that purple glow, for the briefest instant. Paradise had to lie beyond it; it simply had to.

Her aether crossed the threshold through the purple glow.

Then, Millennia saw something she had never seen before.

She had been expecting the lush grasslands and industrial cities she had seen before.

But what she witnessed seemed even closer to paradise than ever.

When the dim metal walls of her world dissolved again, she found herself standing on a place with dusty grey soil dotted with small puddles of water. She found herself dwarfed by absolutely vast, gargantuan, silver structures, that she likened to tree trunks because they had complex systems of roots digging into the surrounding soil, and massive webs of branches that blotted out the sky above. Between these trees, all manner of colors danced in long ribbons and loops that were simultaneously like lights and like rivulets of fluid.

In the midst of these titans, her soul felt at ease.

For a moment, as she watched the colors dance and the wind singing between the densely packed forest, as the dew trickled down the great silver trunks. Her body felt light; there was no longer pain; and she felt so free. All of her burdens lightened amid the kind trees.

Millennia took a step forward, and the world did not disappear.

She took a second and a third. She was beside herself.

Her haggard face, the deep black bags under her eyes, the filthy bloody trails down her cheeks, all of it stretched and lit up with a hopeful smile. Was she– had she made it–?

Then, as she continued to take her first steps into what she thought was another world–

A figure appeared in front of her, impeding her way, entering her space.

Touching her body. Face to face.

A thin woman with an eerie presence suddenly grabbed her.

Long red hair, a pale face, a single horn, a white robe that looked like animal skin.

Her face was almost as sallow, sickly pale as Millennia’s own.

Yellow on black eyes with bags as deep and dark as her own fixed her with a sadistic gaze.

A smile played across the creature’s lips as she stared deep into Millennia’s eyes.

“I know where you are now.”

From her silhouette spread a wave of yellow aura that was choking and sickening.

In the next instant, a renewed pain overwhelmed Millennia–

She collapsed back onto the floor of the relic chamber, screaming like never before.


The door to the relic room swung open. A woman in a dark blue nun’s habit walked into the room, her short pink hair disorderly, as if she had just dressed, and her gait quick and agitated, clearly in a hurry. She flipped on all of the lights in the room and let out a gasp.

Salvatrice Vittoria found the Pontiff in the midst of her agony.

She knelt down next to her and held her close while she screamed and wept incoherently.

“Millennia. Please return to your senses. Something is happening.”

Salvatrice, officially something like a majordomo, had no political power whatsoever.

Despite having a terrifying insight into what was to come.

She held the holy woman in her hands for several minutes, until her glassy, tearful eyes finally displayed a hint of recognition. Millennia’s gaze began to scan the room again, and fell upon Salvatrice. She shut her eyes, breathed in and out. Wherever she had been, Millennia von Skarsgaard had finally returned to the world that she so adamantly despised.

“I don’t need you to coddle me.” Millennia said. “I am doing just fine without intervention.”

Millennia looked far from fine. Her skin was discolored, and she had deep black bags under her eyes. Her hands were shaking, and she struggled to stand without assistance. She looked smaller than ever in her overwrought papal garb that she hadn’t changed in days. Over the past few weeks she had lost weight, eating irregularly and in poor amounts while she obsessed over her experiments. Her red hair’s luster was starting to dim– there were strands of lost hair scattered throughout as she walked around the little room she had colonized.

“I’ll forego comment on whether or not you look ‘fine’.” Salvatrice began. “But the world outside this room requires your attention again, Millennia von Skarsgaard. I fear that we are starting to lose control of events again, and I am unable to take command myself.”

“Losing control of events?” Millennia mumbled. She turned suddenly. “Did you see–?”

“No! I did not have a vision. Millennia, the material world is giving us enough omens.”

“Fine! I will leave the room! Just tell me what happened!

Millennia pressed her for details, and Salvatrice began to tell the dire tale.

The Patriarchate of Sandomierz was a region with four stations just west of the capital at Amaryllis. Every station had its own native industries and commerce, but the region was not exactly known for anything. It was simply a home to its people. After the transition to Solcean rule, Sandomierz’s regional government was replaced with rule by the local Patriarch, Andrezj Buzun. Sandomierz was a particularly troubled region during the transition, because of its lacking resources and largely lower class population.

Buzun had become particularly sensitive to criticism due to the circumstances. He had been particularly called out during the transition by a local bishop, Mikolaj Szymanski. He blamed Buzun for hiding in church property with ample supplies while people went hungry. Buzun had interpreted the criticism as social climbing on Szymanski’s part, and was wary of his actions post-transition, obsessively clinging to his Patriarchate and paranoid of rivals.

Things seemed to stabilize in the following weeks post-transition, but recently, word began to spread in Sandomierz of a heresy from Zazisce Station. Misinformation about an incoming solar eclipse, and with it the ascendance of “angels from the eclipse’s shadow,” led to street worship, marches, unsanctioned gatherings, and other strange outpourings of passion.

Theologically this was completely against anything Solceanos’ church taught. Solceanos was the eternal sun, their angels were angels of bright light, not shadow, and there was no one in Solcea monitoring the “secular” sun for upcoming eclipses anyway. Such silliness would normally come and go on its own in a secular government, but Buzun was touchy.

The Eclipse Heresy came to be viewed by the Patriarchate in Sandomierz as a protest against theocratic rule. Buzun believed the inverted theology was demonic in nature, and corrupting the youth; his more secular bureaucratic cohort believed that the Heresy could have been a code language for covering up anti-government organizing. Even more pressing to Buzun was the fact that the heresy began in Zazisce, the bishopric of Mikolaj Szymanski.

Whatever the heresy truly meant to anyone, Buzun interpreted it as “Szymanski’s move.”

And so, Buzun made his own hard move against it.

He deployed the Magistratus Securitas against Zazisce, raiding Szymanski’s churches for evidence of planning. Observers of the heresy intervened, blocking access to roads and to the churches themselves in the corridors of Zazisce. This prompted the Securitas to crack heads indiscriminately. The situation devolved entirely out of control from there. Szymanski was killed without cause as he showed support to the civilians being beaten, and he died never once acknowledging the heresy. Civilians fought back in whatever way they could, and then the station’s civil administration collapsed in a wave of defections and resignations– allowing the protestors access to the station controls and to better equipment. Now they could control access and surveillance, and began to beat back the rampaging Securitas.

“Good lord.” Millennia grumbled. She did not care about the civilians, she had no sympathy for them, but she would not have reacted with such wanton violence had she been in Buzun’s place. That the civilians were being violent tit for tat with the police was quite shocking to her, but there was a clear cause and effect there would not have been if that man had shown tact. With a situation this aggravated, bringing things back under control would be difficult.

“What is the situation now?” Millennia asked.

“Zazisce is in a state of anarchy, and Sandomierz station is experiencing the effects. Buzun was found dead in his own bedchambers. There are signs that it was a murder. Local and regional government is paralyzed. Nobody wants to take responsibility now.” Salvatrice said.

“Buzun died? How the hell? Do we have camera footage, anything?” Millennia asked.

“The Securitas is investigating.” Salvatrice said.

“Civilian rioters can’t have done that. They must have organization behind them. You can’t convince me that a bunch of lowlifes from Zazisce can suddenly assassinate the Patriarch.”

“I agree. But you need to give the orders as to what to do next.”

“Right. Yes.” Millennia ran a hand over her face. “I need– makeup. Clean clothes. Food.”

“Of course. I’ll help you clean up and marshal your strength.” Salvatrice said.

“We need to capture some of these rioters. We can drag information out of them.”

Millennia started forming a plan in her mind.

The Papal Guard could cordon off the station, and start dragging people into ships, where they would await psionic evisceration at Millennia’s hands. She would get to the bottom of this– it might even be a good test of her psionic abilities. Flexing the muscles on living, resisting targets. Perhaps that’s what she needed to achieve transcendence.

A challenge; there was no time to waste then.

“Call the ministries for me while I eat too. I want a video broadcast ready to every Solcean station as soon as I am looking presentable enough for it.” Millennia said.

“Absolutely, your holiness. I am overjoyed to see you finally coming out of this room.” Salvatrice said. “I only wish your emergence was under more pleasant circumstances.”

Millennia looked at Salvatrice with sad, tired eyes.

“I wish I could have known you under more pleasant circumstances.” She said.

Salvatrice’s own gaze softened. “Indeed, your holiness.”

That woman constituted perhaps the only thing Millennia would miss of this dead world.

Even so, she knew she had to escape. To leave this chaos behind for good.

For now, she had to think of a way to quell the chaos at least temporarily, however.


In a televised address broadcast across Solcea, Pontiff Millennia von Skarsgaard condemned the violence in the streets and churches of Zazisce. She criticized the escalation by the local authorities, but much more strongly demanded that civilians desist in their resistance and assemble peaceably. She decreed that there would be investigations into the security response as well as any violent offenses by civilians. Whether this had any effect, she wouldn’t know– right after the broadcast, she was already preparing to depart Amaryllis.

Millennia summoned a small vessel and a contingent of Papal Guard. Not wanting to be seen making a disproportionate show of force, she left the Irmingard-class Annointed One in Amaryllis along with her Paladin-General Rosemont. Instead she sailed out in a Marder-class Frigate along with a retinue of fifty decent men and women, twenty-five in power armor. The Papal Guard had no special forces, no troops dedicated to intelligence or reconnaissance, and limited experience in combat, but she could at least trust them to be disciplined.

From Amaryllis to Sandomierz and Zazisce was two day’s sail at max speed.

During that time, Millennia remained in her private chambers with her stomach churning.

Quietly but obsessively gathering information about what had transpired during her retreat.

And every so often, thinking back to her final vision.

That forest of massive silver trees; and the fiend that confronted her in their midst.

The way that creature had seized upon her body and looked into her eyes.

It unsettled her; but the world was calling her away from her dreams.

There was no place where order was as upset as it was in Zazisce, but the Empire of Solcea was not sustainable. She had not intended for it to be: her designs did not lie with this world. It simply needed to satisfy her material needs until her escape– but it couldn’t even do that.

Even with trade from Veka and Buren, prices of food and materials were slowly rising. Wages were depressed, and unemployment remained high as industry failed to recover. Her church was failing in its task of governing as well: alms-giving had fallen, government projects lay neglected, funds were mismanaged, and public officials bickered and vied for influence.

All of this in three months since the transition. It beggared belief.

She knew her church wasn’t spotless, and that many of her lackeys were corrupt and vain people; but she never imagined they would be so ineffective when given power. They had run decently tight ships when it came to their religious duties, so what happened to them? Was it really only their fear of her authority that had kept them in line all these years?

Was the Imbrium simply cursed to be unable to exist without a dictator?

They needed her to rule them; after her retreat, Solcea was all too easily falling apart.

Millennia thought bitterly about the retreat and death of the Emperor Fueller.

How could she possibly escape from this world if she had to manage it so closely?

Thinking about it all made her cling tighter than ever to Salvatrice in bed.

She never wanted to let go.

But Salvatrice’s ministrations could only do so much. By the time they arrived in the waters of Zazisce, Millennia was almost back to looking as haggard as she had been in the relic room. Her ambitions were crumbling all around her; all of her dreams looked ever more and more distant. She felt her skin pressing tighter on her flesh than ever, felt the weight of her bones and body fat like never before. Aer, this dead world, tightened its grasp on her.

“We have to settle this episode quickly.” Millennia told Salvatrice.

Barely disguising the note of desperation in her voice.

“We will arrange a meeting with representatives of the rioters, to lure them out.”

“And what then?”

Millennia flashed the red rings around her irises. It was enough of an implication.

“You must assist me as well.” She said.

Salvatrice bowed her head in deference. “Of course.”

If she was lucky, she could potentially end the confrontation bloodlessly.

Had it been feasible she would have wrung the entrails out of every one of those peasants for their insane defiance, but she needed Solcea to withstand this crisis. Being able to say she ended the bloodshed would hopefully have a stabilizing effect throughout the duchy. It would likely result in more of the incompetent bureaucracy relying on her–

–but one problem at a time.

The Marder-class Frigate Exigo approached Zazisce and received permission to dock from the occupiers. Zazisce was an interior station with larger surrounding stations in its region, so unlike larger stations, it had no military defenses. So even the darkly cunning rioters that had hijacked the station controls could do nothing against approaching vessels. Thankfully.

Millennia had a brief discussion with the port control staff about her visit.

“I do not desire to invade the interior station and cause tension. I would like to meet with representatives of the protester’s agenda and hold a discussion in the port. My aim here is to deescalate. I have already instructed the remaining Securitas to hold position. That’s my gesture of good will, and all I ask is to receive this measure of good will in return.”

“Of course, Pontiff. You are always welcome in Zazisce. I will relay your wishes.”

Millennia did not think much of the answer from station control, but the Exigo docked into Zazisce regardless. Millennia entered the station with a retinue of ten of her powered armor troops and Salvatrice at her side. They stepped off the boarding chutes and entered the station terminal, waiting in an open area where seating and refreshments were available. Flanked by the long, empty bench seats beneath the arched ceiling, Millennia kept her eyes peeled on the large hallway on the opposite side of the room, from which her greeting party would soon be coming. As the minutes went by, she grew anxious of the situation.

“Would they try to kill me?” She asked Salvatrice. “Does their grievance extend so far?”

“To be honest exalted one, I am not sure how the general population views you.”

Mostly, they hadn’t– aside from her slew of decrees upon the founding of the Solcean regime, and her recent address, she had not appeared among ‘her flock’ in months now. Since then, her government had been represented exclusively by failures like Buzun who had tormented the commoners incessantly. Was her inaction to blame for all of this mess?

Her mind again drifted to the late Emperor Fueller.

She still understood nothing of his actions; and yet she was proving no better than he.

She didn’t want to surpass him; she didn’t want to be alive in this wretched place!

But there was so much pressure upon her not to repeat his mistakes.

Such a bitter pill; and Millennia’s throat was so dry.

“Ma’am, I don’t like this.” said one of the power-armored men at her side.

He was the Sergeant in charge of these marines.

As if in answer to his complaint, the striking sound of footsteps started to close in on them.

“Running?” Millennia said.

Shadows painted on the far wall in the center of the corridor presaged the arrival.

“Ma’am, it’s an attack.”

Troops stepped forward around Millennia and positioned themselves–

“Hold fire!” Millennia cried out.

And held fire they did– as the opposite hallway filled with people charging into the terminal.

Millennia could hardly believe what she was seeing.

Some had pilfered riot weapons and armor from the Securitas, others had just the shirts on their backs and whatever piece of metal fit in their hands, some had tools and mining gear, it was a mess of people and whatever they had access to do violence with. Across their faces were expressions of rage that felt almost animalistic. None of them said a word or made a sound, simply rushing forward out of the corridor as fast as their feet could carry them.

She felt her heart stop and her eyes cloud over.

In an imperceptible instant, red rings flashed around her irises.

And she saw the blanket of white aura wafting from the horde of rioters.

This is inhuman. This is–

“Don’t shoot!” Millennia demanded of her troops.

She stepped forward through the protest of her retinue, and stood defiantly in front of the stampeding mass just a second from ripping her apart. She met their blank, furious faces and their swinging weapons, planted her feet, and pulled deep from her own will.

King’s Gaze.

From her body, a small beacon amid a rushing ocean of violence, poured a bright wave.

Colors surged across the crowd in the hall and dispersed the uncanny white auras.

Tinging them a deep blue with bands of black and green.

In the next instant, overwhelmed minds led to dropping bodies.

By the dozens the rioters tripped and fell over themselves like stricken dominoes.

Smitten unconscious by Millennia’s uniquely powerful will.

They fell at her feet one after another, barely making it into the terminal.

“Be still. By God’s grace.” She muttered. Trying to put on an act.

From her nose a trickle of blood began to trail, to her lips, until she could taste it.

She felt a sudden weakness, but stood her ground mightily.

Her troops would have applauded the miracle their Pontiff had brought–

But amid the pile of subdued bodies there was still one standing.

A single individual in a black hood had withstood Millennia’s aetheric attack.

All that was visible of them was a flash of a pale face, pale hands and long, bare, pale legs.

“That is the perpetrator! Capture them!” Salvatrice shouted.

Clearly thinking on her feet while Millennia struggled with the backlash of her psionics.

From around Millennia, the guards armed with nonlethal weapons stepped forward.

Realizing they had been compromised, the hooded figure turned to flee.

Fierce barrages of dozens of rubber bullets, beanbags, and gas bullets struck across the figure’s back and legs and knocked them to the ground. Despite the intensity of fire, they almost got back up again to escape, and were only further compromised by the terrain of unconscious bodies around them. Soldiers charged forward, stomping over the bodies to seize hold of the agitator, beating them with vibrobatons while struggling to drag them back. Somehow the attempted escapee, kicking and thrashing, withstood the strength of two men until a third finally applied a shock prod to their gut and knocked them cold.

Millennia and Salvatrice could barely parse the farcical scene of violence.

“Don’t kill them! I need to interrogate them!” Millennia cried out.

Fearing more human waves, and the potential of a bloodier outcome, Millennia ordered a retreat back into the Exigo. They took the agitator and a random smattering of the attacking civilians with them, locking the civilians in the brig. They would be interrogated using ordinary means later on. Meanwhile Millennia had the agitator taken to a private room in the upper deck and bound their arms and legs to a metal chair. She had to deal with this one.

“Leave us.” Millennia said. She waved away her security detail, save for Salvatrice.

Salvatrice retained a vibrosaber affixed to a magnetic belt she wore with her nun’s habit.

She waited at Millennia’s side with wary eyes on the captive.

Once they were alone with the hooded figure, Millennia approached and partially unzipped the figure’s garment, unveiling a pair of small, extremely pale breasts and allowing the once tightly closed hood to be thrown back from their head. She was immediately puzzled by their appearance– a youth of unimpressive stature, seemingly female judging by their chest.

Pale, extremely pale, like a freshly molted insect’s nymph, with long white hair. Skinny, too, with the impression of ribs visible on their thin trunk. Their limbs were long and thin, and they were barefoot. In fact they had no accessories nor possessions except for the hood they were wearing, which was only long enough to cover their body to the upper thighs. It was no design Millennia had ever seen– it almost looked like it was made of one sheet of a leather-like material, and the zipper was made of plastic. It had no brands, no logos, no tags.

“Salvatrice, I’m going to wake them up. Hold your nerves.” Millennia said.

“Of course.”

In reality, Millennia was probably more nervous than Salvatrice.

On the table opposite the captive’s chair, Millennia had several injectors already prepared with various drugs. There was also a small unassuming grey case that was full of tools. Scalpels, scissors, tweezers, clamps, an electric battery that could affix an electronic branding iron or small shock prods, thin sheets of abrasive and saline material that could go over wounds like bandages that intensified pain. These alone could not be trusted to extract information from a captive. But the torment would weaken their mind’s psionic defenses.

Millennia took a syringe from the table and injected it into the captive’s hand.

In a few moments, their body started to shake, their mouth hung and salivated.

Slowly their eyes began to open. Black sclera with yellow irises.

“What in the world– do you see their eyes?” Salvatrice mumbled.

Just like the monster in her vision–

Millennia concentrated on the being’s aura– blue, green and yellow. Expected of an ordinary person. However, as the captive began to wake further, the density of their aura began to thicken and the colors compacted against their body. They grew to a depth and density that Millennia had never seen in ordinary people. When their eyes fully opened, and they seemed to recognize their surroundings had changed, Millennia finally had her confirmation–

Glowing red rings around those yellow irises, indicating the use of psionics.

This was a supernatural being.

Don’t struggle, or we’ll strike you dead on the spot.

Before their captive could take action, Millennia sent them a psionic warning.

Salvatrice withdrew her vibrosaber, and held it at her side.

Recognition dawned upon the blank white face of their captive.

Their lips curled into a grin.

“You are the hominin’s False Autarch.” They said, in legible Low Imbrian.

You can kill me but you will never be free from Her. You belong to Her.

A telepathic response just as easily sent as her own.

Millennia’s chest tightened upon hearing those words, slick with contempt.

“I am Pontiff Millennia von Skarsgaard. I am your superior. You will cooperate with me or die. And an equally grisly fate will await all of your co-conspirators, until I find one that talks.”

She withdrew a knife from the toolbox and held the blade between the captive’s breasts.

At no point did they even flinch in response to her threats.

“What does one talk to cattle about? You Hominin will soon learn your place.”

Millennia pressed the knife against the skin.

“Maybe you will start making sense after screaming for a bit.” She taunted.

She expected soft flesh to yield to her torment, and was shocked to see no blood drawing.

Her blade almost slid against the suddenly stiffened flesh.

“No, Hominin, you will scream.”

Suddenly, the captive’s tongue sprang forward from their mouth mid-speech.

At the tip there was a glistening, jet black blade with an edge that glowed with colors.

Millennia froze in the instant of the spearpoint blow aimed for her chest–

“Saint’s skin!”

Salvatrice’s gleaming green blade flashed and sent the tongue rolling to the floor.

That fleshy black razor-tip cutting nothing but a small gash in Millennia’s robe.

Then in an instant of panic, Salvatrice turned the blade on the captive in a brutal swing that sliced its sizzling edge across the chest and face of the creature. Splitting open skin and bone and spilling out gore and throwing back the chair to which the beast had been shackled.

Millennia’s back struck the desk in shock, sending her tools crashing to the floor.

Staring at the disfigured abomination split open in front of her.

Its exposed throat still laughing through the clanging of the metal instruments.

Pieces of its ribs shaking like fingers; gushing organs hissing like snake heads.

Severed jaws and boiling eyes still piecing together an expression of glib humor.

“Iä! Iä! Iä!” cheered the writhing flesh thing as if in the midst of euphoria.

What happens to me is irrelevant! Fill this body with pain! I will ascend to join my Autarch!

Psionic screeches filled Millennia’s and Salvatrice’s minds.

Her habit covered in foul-smelling blood, Salvatrice screamed back as she threw her blade against the creature hacking at the flesh in the grip of her own madness. As if taking a pick to a stone she reared back and drew forward, two-handed grip with all of her fear-crazed strength, sending a limb to the floor, pieces of the head flying, sawed ribs spraying fragments of bone. Screaming between each blow until she was out of breath, covered head to toe in gushing filfth, and so bereft of strength her blade simply fell out of her grasp.

Millennia surged forward and wrapped her arms around Salvatrice’s chest.

“Stop.” Millennia mumbled. “Please stop.”

Salvatrice froze, her hands hovering in front of her as if in the midst of another blow.

Even though her enemy had been reduced to a mound of hacked apart meat.

And her blade was halfway across the room.

“Millennia. I– I– You– That–“

Salvatrice’s shaking body settled against Millennia’s chest.

Together, they slowly knelt down on the floor at the foot of the dead thing.

Weeping, screaming, in each other’s arms, until the guards finally rushed in for them.


The Exigo returned to Amaryllis days later.

For now, military response to Zazisce remained off the table.

Millennia embarked on a propaganda campaign, hoping to turn the public against the heresy.

She made several media addresses and wrote pamphlets and scripts for churches to run.

Trying to buy time and gauge the spread of the unrest before making another move.

There was good and bad news on that front, as always.

“What has been the response to my latest address?”

“From what we can actually quantify with data, people are scared and trying to hunker down, but nobody is reacting as badly as what happened in Zazisce. I am not sure that faith in the administration is high, but at the very least, the remaining Patriarchates are continuing to run as usual. We are not seeing signs of rebellion there. But the people are depressed.”

“That’s outside Sandomierz, right.”

“I’m afraid Sandomierz has had a different reaction, yes.”

Salvatrice turned over a portable computer to Millennia with the latest reports.

While most of Solcea simply watched with bated breath, the wound festered.

Zazisce remained out of control and it was the epicenter of a violence that was slow to spread, but was nonetheless spreading within its region. Days after Millennia von Skarsgaard left the station, neighboring Sandomierz, seat of the Sandomierz Patriarchate and still bereft of a Patriarch, began to see the signs of the decline. Doomsayers had begun to appear in public parks and in front of churches in Sandomierz. Many were beaten and arrested, but the public displays of violence seemed to embolden more of them to take up the creed of the “Eclipse” and resist the government. Heedless of the consequences, like a virus of the mind, the doomsayers steadily grew into demonstrations with dozens of people at a time.

“Restrict all travel to and from Sandomierz until further notice. Ships will only go to the Patriarchate of Sandomierz with Imperial sanction and a Papal Guard escort. Ships already in place over there will not be leaving Sandomierz. Quarantine effectively immediately.”

“Of course, Pontiff.”

It wasn’t enough. Sandomierz was teetering just like Zazisce.

Soon, those dozens of dissenters might become hundreds. How soon– nobody could know.

Wherever her so-called flock heard of this ‘coming Eclipse’ they seemed to go mad.

It couldn’t have been that they accepted this creed and truly believed in it.

Millennia wasn’t even so delusional as to believe most people believed in Solceanity itself.

If there was discontent it should have been of the secular kind. Leftists and progressives.

Why would thousands of people begin agitating via this same insane liturgy?

“This isn’t organic. It’s psionics.” Millennia said grimly. “A psionic cabal of some kind.”

Millennia had no way to wrest Zazisce from heretic control; with its government collapsed and its people in thrall, there was no reasonable way to negotiate its return to her authority. Violent reprisals were not off the table, but she had to be careful not to turn manufactured dissent into a real grievance. Getting rid of the station’s population would be a last resort.

Her mysterious enemy might even be counting on the violence.

A panicking public with its government in disarray was easier to manipulate.

Weakened minds, shriveling souls and frail bodies could not resist psionics.

After carefully purging every psychic she had perceived within the church, other than her ally and companion Salvatrice, Millennia never envisioned she would have to fight a psychic threat. She felt both vindicated in taking action before, but also foolish for not somehow finding a way to combat psionics directly, or retain more psionic potential in her employ.

Some part of her found itself wishing she could recapture Maryam Karahailos.

She would be called a madwoman if she went to the public with a confession that she was capable of mind control and that an enemy capable of mind control was subverting the government and fomenting violence. And even if she tipped her hand, the knowledge would do the average civilian no good. If there were multiple psionic infiltrators, and it was likely that there were, Millennia and Salvatrice alone could not uproot them. It would take inducting more psychics to fight back, which could spiral out of control if they betrayed her.

Not only that– these were not ordinary psychics. It was possible they weren’t even human.

It felt like there were no winning moves. Millennia was paralyzed as to how to respond.

Part of her wanted to lock herself up in her room and redouble her efforts to escape to another world. In the new world, none of this would matter. As long as she escaped before the violence reached her person, she would be free. But she had no guarantee she would make it out in time. She had no guarantee– that it was even possible to begin with.

Part of her contemplated giving up, too. Giving up in every conceivable way.

“Salvatrice, are we in hell? Is that what I am witnessing?” Millennia asked.

Her voice was haggard.

Salvatrice narrowed her eyes at her from across the desk they were working out of.

“Don’t talk that way.” Salvatrice replied. “Please.”

“Fine. But– I don’t know what to do, Salva. I really don’t.” Millennia said.

Salvatrice reached out her hand and took Millennia’s own.

But she offered no words of comfort nor a plan of action. Only the comfort of a touch.

Their despair grew when the Securitas began bringing them more incongruous sightings.

Security cameras began to capture eerie scenes around Sandomierz, and soon a third station to which the contagion of this ‘Eclipse heresy’ had spread, Torun. Securitas suppressed the strangest footage that was collected by the station’s cameras and brought it directly to the Pontiff’s office for review. It truly felt like she was watching a scene from a grand metaphor on retribution from God. Shadows with glowing eyes. Acting heedless of the cameras.

Sometimes just staring straight into them as if in challenge.

Every piece of video was a sighting of the same sickly pale, white haired beings like the one she had confronted in Zazisce. There were at least two dozen such sightings throughout Sandomierz and Torun. They were haphazard in their targets; breaking into food warehouses, attacking Securitas police boxes, breaking into schools, churches, random small businesses. There was no sense to it. It was as if they were after anything they could grab.

One particularly disturbing video was recovered body cam footage.

Affixed to chest of a Securitas patrolman, the camera shone upon what looked like a small child, lost in the back alleys of a cattle complex in Torun. He approached, calling out to her.

“Hey urchin, you must be really lost. Come here, let’s get you off private property alright?”

He reached out his hand, and the child turned her head over her shoulder.

Her eyes drew wide, and from under her clothes, an appendage suddenly lashed out.

The officer fell over, the camera was knocked off. There were sounds of struggle.

In the darkness, a pool of blood spread to the camera.

“Pontiff, our men have no idea what they’re up against,” said the police surveillance officer, part of a new task force assigned to gather intelligence. “Telling them to watch out for pale freaks in hoods is going to sound ridiculous at best, but it’s all we have. I would like permission to communicate to station commissioners what the situation has become.”

“Granted.” Millennia said. “But keep the web of information as tight as possible.”

It was too little too late; she was organizing task forces, trying to promote decent officers, trying to boost cooperation and share information between stations and branches, but this was all being done at the eleventh hour. She was aghast at how poorly her forces were developed, how much they lacked in support capacities and coordination. As she watched the so-called surveillance officers leave the room, she felt a deepening frustration.

“We have to do something about Zazisce. We have to investigate; gather more info. Our only option is to take action. We can’t just watch from afar, but we can’t burn the whole thing down.” Millennia grit her teeth. She closed her fists. She could do nothing with her current forces– but there was a way to bolster them. An odious way– but becoming necessary.

She cast a glance at her faithful companion once more. Salvatrice held her gaze.

“Salvatrice. Go through the records and see if there any former special forces or Inquisitors among our prisoners. Check if any of them have organized crime backgrounds with ties to Katarrans. Don’t talk to any yet. Just– bring me the files and I’ll decide what to do about it.”

Salvatrice’s expression briefly turned grim before she then bowed her head.

“Right away, Pontiff.”

She turned her back and walked out of the office, leaving Millennia to her thoughts.

This was the first odious, desperate plot of many to come.

Millennia looked down at her own shadow, cast upon the desk.

Her hand felt compelled to go up to her neck, her shoulder, to massage herself.

She felt a strange, sharp pain that she could not place.


The Holy of Empire of Solcea was a lie built upon lies, taking advantage of Humanity’s longing for the Sun to give shelter to its false prophet. Unrest creeps through the fabricated empire, a syndrome born of a growing parasite sucking the blood out of the old faith.

Millennia von Skarsgaard’s cocoon of miracles has become her living hell.


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