Mourners After The Revel [12.5]

Red lights flashed silent alarm across the UNX-001 Brigand, while a calm voice spoke through every implement from which sound could be heard. “Alert Semyon!” She said, careful not to shout or betray anxiety, while still speaking in a clear voice. Alert Semyon would only be raised verbally three times and then Fatima would go quiet on the audio system.

Everyone on the ship understood what this meant. Sailors hurried to their positions, crossing paths in the halls. Sailors who had been resting in their barracks rushed to their assignments upstairs; sailors eating in the cafeteria or taking a break in the social pod rushed downstairs to the hangar. They checked on the walls, were bearing monitors indicated current information of the threat and ETA until probable active combat.

Upstairs, the sailors assigned as rapid response had their tools handy. They would watch out for any malfunctions or damage and make spot repairs. They would sound the alarm if they thought circuitry or water system functions were threatened by the stresses of the battle. Several of them received a new assignment that had been worked out during training in Kreuzung: clearing out and locking down the social pod and cafeteria and other unnecessary facilities with anti-flood barriers, to prevent a repeat of the scare that resulted when the Antenora breached their sidepod in Goryk, almost destroying the social area.

Downstairs, the main focus of the sailors was in getting the Divers ready.

Batteries were checked twice a day and refilled if necessary, so there was not much charging that needed doing to top the Divers off. All repairs and maintenance had already been completed on the main combat units. Owing to the recovery of Homa’s “DELTA” as well as the stripping-down of one of the reserve Streloks, there was an area of the hangar that was quite messy and in disarray, but the mess was pushed to the far side. Deployment chutes were prepared to be opened into the hangar in case of mobilization. Weapons were loaded and equipment attached to the Divers based on the pilot’s stated desires.

Throughout the ship, people communicated in whispers, sign language and hand signals, or by writing on portables and showing the words to one another. Sailors were trained to walk quickly with soft footfalls and to work with precision and care so as to not bang on metal. This minimized the amount and intensity of identifiable noises that an enemy could potentially pick up prior to combat. It was very little, and the ship was not entirely stealth capable, but it could be very quiet if the distance and conditions were right. Once the cannons were firing, all bets were off, but until then, there was an eerie combination of haste and silence as the alert was sounded, and then executed upon.

Many of the upper pods were soundproofed, however, and the Bridge was no exception.

On the bridge, Captain Korabiskaya arrived and took her seat, followed by Commissar Bashara. At their side, Premier Erika Kairos also arrived along with her bodyguard and attendant Olga Athanasiou, both taking their places. Kalika Loukia had briefly held the bridge while the rest got ready to coordinate another day’s worth of rationalizing the inventories of the Brigand and Rostock and connecting the two ships and their crews– but that work would be put on hold. Fatima al-Suhar stood from her station, ready to give her report. She pointed at the main screen, where the simulated silhouette of a Republic “in-line-2” class Frigate appeared along with those of Imbrian Cutters and Frigates, as well as an old, very large and bulbous shaped cruiser, two generations old, a Serclaes-class.

“Captain! Our situation is as follows–”

One more time, the door to the bridge opened.

Scurrying inside and trying to appear as if they had not interrupted–

Murati Nakara, in the company of an unfamiliar face.

A young lady that had the same uniform as the rest but making her first appearance on the bridge. Cheerful-looking, her pretty face unbothered even as the red alarm lights cast an eerie color over her– the brown-haired Loup with the ponytail and makeup elicited a few curious glances. Murati wanted to say nothing upon entering the bridge, but practically everyone was looking at her directly, even Fatima, who was also waiting to speak.

“Sorry to interrupt– I was kept– taking care of something. Um. This is my new adjutant.”

Stumbling over her words, Murati at first gestured toward the woman beside her.

Almost immediately she underwent every conceivable human emotion in an instant.

What would anyone think if Aatto talked some nonsense? She nearly interrupted herself–

“My name is Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather. I will give everything to support your cause.”

She spoke politely and vowed her head and held her portable computer to her chest.

Wearing a demure and innocent smile.

Murati stared at her for a moment. She could not believe what she had heard.

And everyone else’s gazes shifted between Murati and Aatto with confusion.

“Okay, thank you, Aatto.” Commissar Bashara said, clearing her throat. “Fatima.”

Standing next to the sonar station, Fatima al-Suhar’s ears and tail stood on end.

“Oh! Yes. My deepest apologies. I was simply being polite. So, the situation–”

Ten minutes ago, Fatima first detected distant noises in the water that to her golden ears registered as explosions from middle caliber ship ordnance. Soon after the predictive computer parsed the same sounds as ordnance, and in addition, detected a wide-area active sonar pulse. Per protocol, Fatima responded to being picked up by active sonar with a return pulse scan from the Brigand, and the Rostock responded similarly.

They discovered the combatants several kilometers away in the northwestern direction. There was a Republic “in-line-2” class Frigate, so called for its two rows of guns in fixed positions integrated into the ship’s bow– chasing it was an Imperial Marder-class Frigate, a fairly ubiquitous class that everyone on the bridge was familiar with.

Complicating the situation, the Marder, having acquired a Republic Frigate and begun to chase, also reported the discovery to other nearby Imperial ships. Converging on the republicans were three additional Frigates from the North-Northwest as well as an old Serclaes-class Cruiser from the North. All of these ships were assumed with reason to have belonged to the Rhinea patrol fleet. If these patrol ships received the retrofit that other Volkisch Frigates did, then this entire force could be said to include 20-30 Divers in addition to the ships themselves, as each ship likely carried 4-8 Divers. Though she did not know the reaction her command would have to these discoveries, Fatima called for Alert Semyon just in case– they had been detected by sonar, so they had to be prepared.

“That was a quick and sound judgment Fatima. We commend you.” Ulyana said.

Fatima’s ears wiggled slightly and she smiled.

“Now we have to decide how to respond.” Aaliyah added.

“Right now, we have some cover for our actions, I believe,” Erika said, pointing at the screen, “As far as they know, what they have on sensors is a dumpy-looking hauler, no offense,” she smiled and waited a second as if to allow anyone to take offense if they would, but finding nobody disagreeing with her on the Brigand’s comeliness, she continued, “and an Imperial Ritter-class. Much of the time we have found that low level patrols will ignore the Rostock’s movements because they assume Ritter cruisers are led by big shots who they couldn’t hold accountable for anything if they tried. So we end up slipping by without effort.”

“In that case, all of those forces will converge on the Republicans.” Ulyana said.

“They won’t be able to survive it.” Murati said. “They will absolutely be overwhelmed.”

“Zachikova, get a graph of all enemy positions on the main screen.” Ulyana said.

“Yes ma’am.”

On the electronic warfare station, Zachikova got to work. Arabella peeked over the top of her desk curiously, having been sitting beside it the whole time. After a few seconds of typing, the predictor displayed for everyone in the room the surrounding area.

To think they were so close to Aachen’s hydrospace– but this situation was even closer. Murati took a few steps from the entrance to look more closely at the main screen. There were no landmarks to speak of. Any battle would take place in open ocean. So everything came down to the state of the combatant’s equipment, their tactics and formation, and whether they could gain any advantage in the information space. In terms of pure hardware on all sides, the Brigand and Rostock could be put at a disadvantage.

There was something of a plan forming in her mind, but she did not have enough data–

“Would it not be prudent to avoid this battle entirely?” Aaliyah asked.

Murati turned around and stared at her. Aaliyah seemed to notice but ignore her gaze.

“I’m positive if we decided to intervene, we could also still get away.” Erika said.

“Right, but– the Republicans in this area have all carried themselves awfully and they did not even want to join the United Front to begin with. They have caused us major inconveniences, they wasted significant manpower, and for what? Very nearly destroying a station full of innocent people. We could just leave them to their fate and speed on to Aachen.”

“That’s a bit cold.” Ulyana said. She smiled a bit nervously at Aaliyah’s words.

“But not unwarranted.” Aaliyah said. “Our intervention could cost us lives and equipment.”

“You are right.” Ulyana said. “Our most practical response is just leaving this be.”

“I will defer to your counsel in this matter.” Erika said, crossing her arms.

“They’re our allies! You’re going to hand out a death sentence to this one frigate crew?”

Murati raised her voice near to a shout, her hands curled up into fists.

Ulyana stared at her a bit in disbelief; Aaliyah rolled her eyes; Erika smiled suddenly.

“It’s true that the command of the Republic fleet in this area supported a heinous atrocity for very little strategic gain. It’s the truth that they went out on their own, foolishly. They could have never held Kreuzung. It was more likely they would destroy the core than successfully occupy it.” Murati said. “I am not denying that. But it’s horribly disproportionate to abandon these soldiers to die for that, when we could rescue and recruit them!”

“Then moralizing aside, our personnel could die carrying out this rescue.” Aaliyah said.

“That’s always a risk! It’s a risk of anything we do! That in itself is not an argument!”

“Now who is being cold toward other’s lives, Lieutenant?” Aaliyah spat back.

Having that statement turned on her gave Murati a brief pause to consider her words.

Her chest felt like it constricted and prevented her from making an angry response.

Was she being callous toward her comrades lives–?

Her head fogged from the sudden anxiety.

No– of course she was not– she was just trying to get them to see sense–

There was a loud clapping of two hands from the side of the bridge.

“Enough!” Erika said.

Firmly but not unkindly.

A sound that prompted Murati to take a deep breath and right herself.

Erika seemed more amused than aggravated about the argument. “Murati is correct. For the insurgent any action taken is done at the risk of their lives. If we wanted to preserve our equipment and lives we would bury them in a hole and do nothing, but that does not advance our objectives. So then the question is, how do we turn the cost and benefit of this situation to our advantage. In this, Aaliyah is not wrong to say, we have no idea what we are dealing with when we deal with the Republic here. We could be fighting for nothing and thus dying for nothing. So it is not so easy as to rush in and save the day at any cost either.”

For a brief moment, the room was silent– until one still-unfamiliar voice sounded.

“In that case, we just need to come up with a battle plan that will lower our risk.”

Stepping out from near the door and joining Murati’s side was Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather.

Murati looked almost surprised to have her support despite her supposed adjutant status.

“I strongly believe we can succeed if we entrust our strategy to my master!” Aatto said.

She gestured toward Murati as if framing her with her hands, smiling brightly.

Murati felt like her heart dropped lower into her chest.

Eyebrows furrowed and raised all across the bridge in confusion.

Ulyana stared at Aatto, speechless; Erika suppressed laughter; Aaliyah looked livid.

“What did she say? What did she call you? Is this your instruction, Murati?!”

“I– It really isn’t– she’s just–” Murati tugged on her own collar with growing anxiety.

“Now, now,” Ulyana spoke up suddenly, “it’s my turn to say not to indulge in silliness.”

She patted Aaliyah’s shoulders as if gently trying to prevent her jumping over the divider.

“Ms. Jarvi-Stormyweather is not wrong either!” Erika said. “I’ve read the files; this is Murati’s specialty, is it not? Her tactical plans have turned around some bad situations before! I do think having the Republicans in our debt might be advantageous in the future– and besides, the destruction of five patrol ships, including a Cruiser, can only be helpful to us.”

“I am not being silly.” Aaliyah said. She sat back in her chair. “I just want to clarify.”

“Don’t worry. We all understand you, Commissar.” Erika said, amused.

“It is my job to provide perspective. I am not mad and I am not being silly.” She said again.

“Yes, that’s very true. Thank you Commissar.” Ulyana said, also amused.

“Okay, okay, the first matter is concluded. We are intervening.” Olga said, sighing audibly.

Murati breathed a sigh of relief herself. She then made eye contact with Aatto.

Putting on such a furious gaze that she almost sent a psychic wave out to her.

Aatto seemed to notice and looked bashful for the very first time since they met.

You will ask permission to speak!! Murati shouted in her mind.

It was very rare that she spoke like this with anyone, so she was not sure it worked–

Yes, master!! A million apologies! No, a billion! I will accept any punishment!

Thankfully it seemed Aatto really did have some modicum of psionic experience.

Where she got it from and how far it extended was a question for another time.

For now, it was good enough that she did actually support Murati when it mattered.

As objectionable as some of her language and habits were– maybe she could actually help.

“Since we are intervening, we need a plan and we need it soon.” Erika said. “Tarrying too long will be effectively the same as abandoning this ship– they are taking fire as we speak.”

Murati knew this quite well. She turned back to the main screen.

At the moment, her thinking was that this reminded her of the Battle of Thassal.

That Republic frigate could hold out against that single Marder, if not in the long term then at least for the moment. In this scenario the real problem was the reinforcements. They were divided up and trying to converge on one target to overwhelm it. Murati was trying to think of a way to keep them from coming together and thereby disrupt their operation. She could not assume that each element of the patrol was moving closely and with coordination the way that the enemy fleet groups were in Thassal, however. Depending on the speed of each different element, the timing to defeat them in detail might be too tight.

One solution could be splitting their own forces. Should she recommend the Rostock engage the Marders while the Brigand commits to the rescue? That would depend on whether the enemy Marders were modified to carry more Divers, like she knew other Volkisch units had been. It was possible if they sent the Rostock alone it could be overwhelmed by that many Divers. The same might happen if the Brigand went alone. The more she thought about it, dividing their own forces was out of the question. She grunted. What was the answer?

“Aatto.” Murati said. “Is the Serclaes-class roughly as fast or faster than the Marders?”

Aatto smiled. “As a matter of fact master, it is actually slower than a Marder.”

“Really?” Murati asked. “Tell me more about it. I know it didn’t see front-line service.”

Behind them Aaliyah seemed to want to ask why Murati kept being called “master”–

Ulyana continued to work to calm her down, however–

“It’s true, the Serclaes class never saw service in the Grand Fleets.” Aatto said. “Because the class is heavily overburdened compared to thrust and while well-armed and armored, it was considered a crippled design due to its lack of speed. After all, a fleet is only as fast as its slowest element, and it is unacceptable for a Cruiser to be that slow. It was used in Imperial propaganda to emphasize its size and armament and was dubbed a ‘Heavy Cruiser’ but that was all it was, propaganda. Few were built and only used for interior defense.”

“Then out of this group, the Serclaes will surely arrive last.” Murati said.

“Significantly so, I predict.” Aatto replied.

A small smile crept across Murati’s features. Newly energized she turned left.

“Zachikova, can I get a more accurate depiction of the distance between the Marders?”

“I’ll try to get the computer to rerun it with greater fidelity. No promises.” Zachikova said.

On the main screen, the Marders were zoomed in on. A different became apparent.

In the broader picture of the scenario, the Marders looked like they were grouped together.

Upon zooming in on them, however, they were not arrayed in a standard arrow-head.

Two were coming in a line together and were not observing a shooting formation.

And the third was two kilometers behind the rest and moving as if to flank, not join them.

Murati pointed at the screen as if her finger would stab the frigates out of existence.

“I’ve got you!” Murati said excitedly. Her smile turned into a bloodthirsty grin.

Aatto wagged her tail and joined Murati in smiling– hers more admiring than violent.

“Captain, Commissar, Premier, I have a plan. But once we deploy, we have to be quick.”

Murati turned around to look her superiors in the eye. Determination swelling in her chest.

Even Aaliyah was not looking so skeptical as before. Ulyana looked a bit relieved.

“Go on, Murati. I’m ready to see your sorcery in action.” Erika replied.

For a moment, Murati was surprised to see it referred to as sorcery– but she liked it too.

At no time was she as conceited as when she figured out a problem like this.

“First, we need to converge all forces on the Republic In-Line-2 and rescue it. Then–”

Murati laid out her thoughts before anyone.

Though she felt her observations were not so revolutionary– people were impressed.

“Remind me to doubt you a bit less next time, Murati.” Ulyana said, as the plan unveiled.


Orders from the bridge relayed down to hangar engineering, and to the Rostock as well.

The Brigand and its new sister ship changed course, veering north-east together.

On the Brigand’s hangar, the pilots of the 114th rushed to their machines and suited up in black, thermal-padded pilot bodysuits. Murati Nakara ordered a quick huddle and advised on the overarching plan. For the pilots, it was not anything too complicated.

At first, the overall goal for everyone was to eliminate all targets and secure the Republic frigate from enemy fire. Then they would have to switch strategies. Dominika Rybolovskaya and Sameera al-Shahouh Raisanen-Morningsun, with their Strelkannon and Cossack, would be tasked with guarding the fleet from ordnance and Diver attacks. Khadija, Shalikova, Valya and Murati would intercept the incoming enemies and look for openings.

“We can’t be too reckless, but speed is of the essence. Unless we can break through each enemy in turn, it is possible that we may be outnumbered and encircled.” Murati said. “Rostock and the Brigand outgun the enemy ships significantly, so our focus needs to be the enemy Divers. If we allow the enemy Divers to act freely then we will be defeated.”

Around Murati, her fellow pilots nodded their heads in acknowledgment.

“Any questions?” Murati asked. She intended this to be about the plan, but–

“Yes. Who is that?” Khadija, smiling mischievously, pointed over Murati’s shoulder.

Behind Murati, a set of tall, brown-furred dog-like ears wiggled; a very fluffy tail wagged.

“That is my new adjutant, Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather.” Murati said, as if it was enough.

“Huh?! Isn’t that the woman who was threatening you in Kreuzung? Isn’t she a fascist?”

At Murati’s side, Tigris spoke up, her jumpsuit stained with accidentally spilled lubricants.

“She defected– we’re working on it– she’s– she’s a reform fascist.” Murati said nervously.

“What? What does that even mean? Are you okay, Murati?” Shalikova said, confused.

“I am not a fascist anymore. I am for the supreme power of the proletariat.” Aatto said.

“Do you mean the national proletariat?” Khadija said, suppressing laughter.

“The proletariat is the proletariat. It’s all the same isn’t it?” Aatto said, shrugging.

“She’s a reform fascist.” Murati said. “Stop asking me about my adjutant and move out!”

With a few laughs and stares, the pilots left Murati’s side and headed to the machines.

Tigris stayed behind for a moment. She pointed a wrench in her hands at the Agni.

“I’ve got some fancy ideas I haven’t gotten around to, but for now, it can hold a gun.”

“Thank you, that’s all the capability I really needed.” Murati said.

“I also removed some of the ‘hadal armor kit’ I developed. Since it won’t be going below 3000 meters deep or encountering Leviathans, probably– with the extra weight off, it’ll be faster. I recommend you do not try to play the hero. Hang back, and act as support for now.”

Tigris briefly explained the changes and then left Murati’s side to assist around the hangar.

All of the pilots were taking care of final personal and practical matters before deploying.

“Aatto,”

Murati turned to face her new adjutant. Her heart was a bit heavy.

Certainly she was sympathetic to Aatto or she would not have tolerated being a made to look foolish in front of people to cover up for her. She knew Aatto must have been dealing with trauma. And she was beginning to see first-hand what she hoped to get from Aatto– someone who had lived in the Empire, worked for them, had access to regional knowledge Murati lacked. In the best case, Aatto would not just take over some of Murati’s busywork, but she would help cover up her blind spots or gaps in her strategies. That was the role of an adjutant– like the Commissar and Captain, who had a productive rapport.

However, Aatto had a long way to go in terms of fitting in with the Brigand.

Murati could not help but feel, still to that moment, that this might all be a mistake.

“Yes, master?” Aatto said.

“Ugh.” Murati gave up on dissuading her from saying that. “What do you see in me?”

Aatto seemed to understand Murati wanted a serious answer.

She took a moment to think before speaking.

“I see power, intellect, determination and the will to sunder the petrified Imbrium Ocean.”

“I think you have me wrong. I’m not that big of a deal. I’m not vying for power here.”

“Perhaps not yet. But I see it in you. You want to topple the current order, don’t you?”

She recalled the things Aatto said in her cell. Some of them with great nervousness.

“I want to topple it because it hurts people. Not for my own sake– or because of Destiny.”

“That’s more than enough for me, master. I will assist you in this endeavor regardless.”

“You need to do more than that. You must realize there is a burden to being a defector.”

Murati took Aatto’s digital computer from her hands and showed her the files on it.

“There are books on Union politics. Read them. You’ll take the pledge too.”

Aatto nodded her head. She had a demure smile throughout. It reminded Murati of cafeteria workers. Service personnel had difficult jobs, and smiling was a part of the job. In the Union cafeteria workers were treated well, and they were respected, because they had been entrusted an important task. But it was strenuous labor that they would often perform regardless of how they were feeling. That smile was just a part of preparing and serving food. Murati felt that Aatto’s smile was for her, and so ‘part of the job’. It hid whatever Aatto was feeling inside. That was why she would not stop smiling for anyone on the ship, even after all she had been through. It troubled Murati that she felt this was the case.

But there was nothing she could do about it in that instant.

“I would say, ‘good luck, master’ but I have the utmost confidence in you.” Aatto said.

“And why is that?” Murati asked, meeting her eyes and trying to smile.

“Because I saw the look in your eyes when you realized your strategy. You don’t just want to carry out your duty solemnly for its own sake. You want to destroy this enemy.” Aatto said.

At first it was Murati’s snap reaction to deny to herself that this was the case–

However, it was entirely true.

Murati wanted to punish the imperials and bring justice to them since she was a child.

At Thassal she had gotten her first taste of their blood.

Standing amid Imperial ships exploding, thousands of their people dying, she thought,

All of you deserve this.

So she could not deny what Aatto was saying– but neither would she acknowledge it.

“What kind of plan would you have come up with, Chief Petty Officer?” Murati asked.

Aatto kept her answer succinct– after all, it was almost time to deploy.

“I would have just abandoned the Republicans. But– I like your way much better.”

“Well. Thank you. It’s your first day on the job, so do your best.”

“In service to you, I will never falter, master.”

Murati turned around and left Aatto’s side, heading for the Agni. Her heart remained heavy.

At the foot of the Agni, she found her fiancé Karuniya Maharapratham in her pilot suit. She had been tasked by Murati with overseeing the loading of the HELIOS drones into the shoulder binders on the Agni. Upon Murati’s arrival, she turned to face her, put her hands on her hips, smiled and leaned into Murati’s personal space. She had a strange look on her face.

In that moment, Murati feared for the worst.

“Soooo, I heard a weird woman is following you around and calling you ‘master’ now.”

All of Murati’s fears cascaded over her shoulders until she thought she would fall.

“Who told you that? It’s nothing. She’s– she’s just a little– odd in the head.” Murati said.

Karuniya continued to grin and stare at Murati. Chest out, hands on her hips, smug.

“Nothing untoward is happening! Why are you looking at me like that?” Murati whined.

“Oh nothing~– to be honest, I’m glad you made a friend. Maybe you can be besties.”

“Karuniya, I have friends.” Murati said suddenly. “I have no problems making friends.”

“None of the officers count. And I don’t count either– I’m your wife~” Karuniya teased.

“It’s not fair that you don’t count– okay, fine, let’s just drop it. We need to get moving.”

Similar scenes seemed to play out at some of the other gantries in the hangar.

At the foot of the Cheka, Sonya Shalikova held hands with Maryam Karahailos.

“Sonya, I believe in you! Score super awesome kills and become a Diver Ace!”

Shalikova blinked. “Maryam– that’s a bit macabre– it isn’t a game you know–”

“Oh, but I heard that for every kill you get to put a notch on your Diver, and at five–”

“That’s not untrue, some people do that– but it’s kinda weird when you just say it.”

Between the open cockpits of the Strelkannon and Cossack, their two pilots met.

The taller Sameera looking down at Dominika, who put on an aggrieved expression.

“I’m warning you to reign in your gallivanting attitude this time.”

“I will control myself if you promise me a reward when we get back.”

“Sameera–! You–!”

Meanwhile–

In front of the Strelok One~bis, a tall and pensive blond woman stood with her head bowed. Compared to the Shimii she was speaking to there was a visibly humorous contrast of their size difference and the level of deference of one to the other. Sieglinde von Castille was nearly bowing to Khadija al-Shajara, who looked none too amused by the body language and nervous stuttering. She waited for a moment for Sieglinde to struggle with speaking.

“Khadija, I– I’m here because– I just wanted to– for you–”

“Oh come on, hold your head up! Speak clearly! This is pathetic!”

Khadija reached out and with one index finger forced Sieglinde’s chin up.

Sieglinde looked briefly stunned by this level of physical approach.

For an instant she seemed to flinch as if she was expecting to be struck.

“I’m sorry.”

“Is that really what you wanted to say to me?”

“No.” Sieglinde sighed. “I wanted to wish you good fortune. On the sortie.”

Khadija put on a smug little smile, her tail waving behind me.

“Unlike you, dear, I don’t need good fortune. It’s all skill in this cockpit.”

With a teasing little wave, Khadija hopped onto the ramp and ducked into the open Strelok.

Sieglinde stood watching as the cockpit closed as if in disbelief of Khadija’s response.

And rushed out of the way when the gantries released the trundling mechas.


“UND-114-D ‘Cossack’! Sameera al-Shahouh, deploying!”

Mother’s surname again. Perhaps it just felt right for Eisental.

Under the feet of Sameera’s modified Strelok, the deployment chute piped in water and piped out any air until the chute equalized to the outside and then opened its hatch, releasing the machine into the ocean beneath the Brigand. Because the Brigand was moving at speed, Sameera had to immediately hit the pedals in her cockpit in order to begin generating thrust and avoid being left behind by the ship. Once she got to speed, she could keep up with the ship easily. Her feet on the pedals, her hands on the sticks, fingers ready to flick switches and press buttons installed by the stick housing or on the stick itself.

Sameera quickly checked her cameras.

She had a multi-sectioned screen in front of her that was technically split into 16 regions that could have different pictures. Most of the time, she split the picture only three ways. One main forward camera occupying half the real estate but directly in the center of the monitor; a rear camera on the left quarter; and a variable camera on the right quarter of the screen that she flipped between an upward and a downward camera, sometimes compulsively.

Below her camera monitors her communications equipment was installed. This box parsed communications data and piped it to her headset and monitor. Presently neither the Brigand nor a fellow pilot was in direct communication so the picture contained only her camera feeds. By default, communication was wireless data brought by laser, the most efficient means of data transmission underwater. Acoustic data transfer was the first fallback, because laser was incredibly range dependent, while acoustic wave decoding was less so. Imperial communicators, and old Union communicators, had a second fallback to radio, but radio equipment was not installed anymore on the latest Union designs as it was nearly useless underwater. They saved a bit of weight omitting traditional wi-fi and radio.

At the moment, there was nobody on the screen, and the communicator was silent.

That state of affairs would not last much longer, however.

From an adjacent chute, Dominika’s Strelkannon dropped out soon after.

Her machine was designed for heavy fire support.

For this mission, however, the heavier shoulders of the Strelkannon had been equipped with two pods each housing a double-barreled 20 mm ‘gas gun’, the same sort that ships equipped. With this equipment her role was ostensibly to fire light caliber munitions at dizzying rates hoping to intersect enemy munitions. Sameera, meanwhile, had to make sure she got to fulfill that role by killing anything that got too close to her.

Sameera quite fancied such a protective role.

She had set her sights on making Dominika her woman, after all.

“Dominika, how’s the water?” Sameera asked cheerfully.

“Dark like always.” Dominika replied, her disinterested voice coming out of the earphones.

At that moment Dominika’s expressionless face appeared on a corner of the screen.

“Unquestionably it is dark– but I don’t feel like it is ‘dark as always.’”

It was her first time out in it, and Sameera felt that the water in Eisental was much darker.

Fighting against Leviathans in Lyser, or against the imperialists in Serrano, there were still blues and greens to be seen in the water. Faint, but nevertheless apparent. In Eisental, an additional thousand meters down from those locations, her spotlights parted nothing but pitch black water. Not even with strained eyes could she see any green or blue.

“Sameera, I’m going to conserve ammo as much as I can. Can I count on you?”

“Got it. Don’t worry about a thing. They won’t get through me.”

“Also– I’m serious when I say this. Don’t run off like when we were escaping Serrano.”

“I won’t. I have someone who needs me now. I don’t need to impress anyone but her.”

For once, Dominika did not respond to that with sarcasm or a sour remark.

Soon after, the entire squadron formed up under the Brigand.

To the right of the communicator there was an LCD with sensor output. For most Divers the only capability of this device by itself was to display directional sound acquisition, and this was nearly useless in combat. However, in the presence of a ship, the Diver could sync with its higher-fidelity sensor data and acquire a sonar picture and even LADAR topography.

Once the 114th had formed up, this screen began to display a map with marked targets.

Updating in real time as the ship and the squadron approached their objective.

And even marking distant boxes on the camera feeds using overlays.

On the monitor corner, Dominika disappeared.

There was a priority shared feed to all pilots from the squad leader’s mecha, the Agni.

Karuniya Maharapratham in a pilot suit smiled and waved.

“Operator Maharapratham here! How is everyone? We will begin scattering the HELIOS drones shortly. Scanning and network propagation will follow after. It’ll take some time, but please wait warmly and look forward to all the data goodness coming soon!”

“Karuniya…”

Distantly in Karuniya’s audio, Murati could be heard saying something.

Sameera laughed to herself for a bit.

Between her comrades’ speech, she could hear distant sounds of ordnance.

Low volume booming that seemed to wash over her.

As they neared, the sound was accompanied by vibrations that stirred her machine.

On the map, the object marked “VIP” and the object marked “TARGET 1” approached.

“It’s time, disperse!” Murati ordered. “You know your roles! Begin the operation!”

“Yes ma’am!”

On Murati’s command, the Divers of the 114th launched out from under the Brigand, breaking up into loose sections of two units in mutually supporting range. Sameera led the way for Dominika, the Cossack and Strelkannon grouped closely together as they charged out into the black, empty expanse in front of them. There was neither seafloor beneath them nor sky above them and the Brigand grew distant in the marine fog.

Soon they knew of its existence only in the tracking data.

Similarly both VIP and enemy vessels were nothing but overlay elements and map blips.

Until they came into view.

First as brief flashes of ordnance in the water. Stronger vibrations accompanying each.

Then in the middle of the void of water appeared a long, rectangular silhouette.

Lines of gas gun fire burst from its midsection and aft, intercepting torpedoes and middle caliber rounds hurtling toward it every minute. Specks of light going off by the dozens followed by much larger explosions from the intercepted ordnance. The ship was fighting for its life, enduring explosive fire every minute. Though she could not yet see the Marder-class chasing after the frigate, she could track it, based on positional data which her computer would update in real time using logic given by the Brigand during the sync. In this way, she knew where her enemy was relative to the ship that they were trying to rescue.

“Captain Korabiskaya has made contact with the Republic ship.” Murati said to her pilots.

Regardless, they would have to be careful of its gas gun fire.

Having confirmed the position of the VIP ship, the 114th veered eastward away from it.

Moving towards the enemy instead.

“Avoid enemy ordnance, but intercept if you have a shot.” Murati said.

“I’ve got a hundred shots a minute, Lieutenant.” Dominika replied.

“Use them judiciously.” Murati instructed.

Dominika acknowledged, moving her Diver closer to Sameera but farther behind her.

“Acknowledged. I’ll take the lead.” Sameera said.

On her diver’s arm, she revved up the engine on her diamond spear in preparation.

Rotation was good and smooth. No motion lag– it had good heft when she moved the arm.

She grinned to herself, leaning forward just a little and flooring her pedals for more thrust.

Minutes after contact with the VIP, a second silhouette began to emerge from the dark.

Along with six figures disturbing the water, as they broke away from the “Marder” frigate.

Their first enemy had shown itself and the battle was joined.


Republic “In-Line-2” class Frigates resembled the Union Soyuz class in overall silhouette, but in the sum total could not have been more different. Integrated main guns on the bow meant that the Republic frigate had very stable shooting and twice as many barrels as the Union vessel, but could only bring its main guns to bear on targets it was directly facing.

This design was born out of the Republic’s obsession with breaking out from Ratha Flow and through the defenses at the Great Ayre Reach, reasoning that there was little opportunity to maneuver in that type of warfare and not caring what would happen in a prolonged campaign in Imbria. Everything else seemed designed to paper over this.

Beveled surfaces on the bow and aft gave a rounded and aesthetically pleasing appearance to the ship, unlike the boxy, completely rectangular Soyuz. Because of the guns in the prow it had a flat face that was not efficient in water-breaking. Integrated hydrojets in an armored stern gave the ship’s thrusters greater resilience, unlike the Imbrian-style exposed hydrojets that only had a flared skirt around them, but this also added weight. Despite the supposed higher efficiency of the Republic hydrojets, the added armor made the craft only slightly faster than a Marder or Soyuz. While viewed from the side the ship appeared to be a single rectangular block, the design actually possessed two broad sections. There was a very slight taper near the midsection to a thinner rear. It was there that the rear fins attached. They had a different design from Imbrian fins, slightly diagonal and strangely adjustable.

In total, this meant the In-Line-2 could never completely outrun a “Marder” or “Soyuz.” Whenever a Republic ship turned, it lost maneuver efficiency compared to Imbrian designs. On the maneuver this meant that despite higher top speed, the nimbler Imbrian frigates would catch up. All they had to do was keep shooting to force the Republic ship to snake.

Thankfully, the Republic ship in this particular chase had outside assistance.

As the 114th moved to engage the “Marder” chasing after it, the UNX-001 Brigand and the Volksarmee Rostock moved to cover it. The Brigand moved parallel to the Republic frigate while the Rostock sailed past and moved to engage the chasing Volkisch Marder-class along with the 114th Diver Squadron. Diver gunfire would soon begin trading.

Captain Korabiskaya sent an acoustic message to the Republic frigate along with the shared Union-Republic diplomatic cipher attached. This would inform the ship computer on the Republic side that it was allied traffic being received. Even if the Republic ship wanted to do anything drastic out of paranoia, it had to turn around to face and fire at them, so neither the Rostock’s Captain Daphne nor Ulyana on the Brigand felt threatened.

“Captain, the Republic ship answered.” Semyonova said, her fingers slowly brushing some of her blond hair behind her ears as she spoke. “They are identifying themselves as the ‘R.N.S. John Brown’ and the Captain is requesting a laser transmission to speak with you.”

“Right. Is HELIOS up? Can Daphne join the video meeting?” Ulyana asked.

“HELIOS coverage is at 43% but there are drones we can bounce to.” Zachikova replied.

“Semyonova, Zachikova, hail the John Brown and Rostock and connect us.” Ulyana said.

On the main screen, the picture displaying the LADAR topography and the sonar-based live target tracking was shrunk and pushed to one side. Still visible as needed but subordinate to an incoming laser call taking up most of the screen. In a picture-in-picture, there was a small square with Daphne, who was muted because she was soon to engage the enemy directly– but the larger picture unveiled the captain of the John Brown. Ulyana had not known what to expect, as she had met few Cogitans in her life and knew little about their demographics.

She was still somewhat surprised to see a woman around her age.

“Greetings, Captain Korabiskaya. I can’t thank you enough for your assistance. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Eithnen Ní Faoláin — in the Republic database this is rendered as Ethna Whelan to simplify. I, technically, am the Captain of this fighting vessel.”

She had given two slightly different pronounciations.

Ulyana was not sure her Volgian accent could handle either of them well.

The John Brown’s bridge was notably more cramped than the Brigand’s as there were several heads of hair visible around on the bottom edge of her main camera picture. Eithnen was a fair skinned and good-looking woman, the middle of her face full of freckles, her cheekbones high and slim, with brown eyes and a slightly long nose. Her hair was long and voluminous and shockingly red, so bright that any individual darker strand seemed to stand out, of which there were few. Parted more to one side with longer bangs on that side as well. She was dressed in a button-down shirt that was partially unbuttoned over sweat-slick skin, along with a blue military coat worn loosely, paired with a skirt and tights. There was a hat hanging on a guard-rail off to her side. Eithnen’s bridge seemed to be tight and concentric, with herself in a small central enclosure without much legroom and surrounded by her officers on a ring slightly below her. The door seemed to be directly behind her.

Certainly such a design was efficient, but Ulyana could not imagine fighting like that.

“Our nations stand united, and so do we, Captain.” Ulyana said. “What is your current status? More enemies are on the way from the north. We have a plan to attack each approaching enemy group to rescue your ship; but your support would maximize our success.”

“My crew is exhausted, Captain, but we have been exhausted for days. We will continue fighting to the best of our ability. To do otherwise would mean lying down to die.” Eithnen replied. Her expression did not change as she relayed her situation. She had a look of almost amused resignation in the face of this danger– bitterness, too. “We lack in almost every human need except ammunition for the ship’s guns. No medicine, eating a meal a day, and with nary the supplies to do more than keep the ship afloat if a bit leaky.”

“Those are desperate conditions. Should we prepare an evacuation?” Ulyana said.

“No, the ship can endure a bit more yet. I appreciate your concern.” Eithnen said.

“Then once the waters are calm again, we can at least make sure you can get to Aachen.”

“I do not relish returning there– but you are right, there is no other choice long-term.”

“It is admirable that you have maintained control of things in such a situation, Captain.”

“We have a new lease on life Captain– we can almost see the light at the end. While at first I and my crew consigned ourselves to death, we disabled the trap that was set to detonate our ship in case of our escape from our Republic Navy captors. Therefore I would greatly enjoy living at least a little bit longer– and in that, we do require your assistance.”

Ulyana narrowed her eyes in confusion. “What happened to all of you?”

Eithnen’s eyes drifted away from the screen, as if she was looking at her crew below.

She sat back in the little seat cushioning she was given in her tight bridge.

One hand running through her hair.

“Captain Korabiskaya, I hope you can be sympathetic even knowing this– but the John Brown is a penal ship. We are the 808th Penal Battalion.” Eithnen said. She spoke quickly as if she did not want Ulyana to have time to react before hearing her whole story. “We are all former prisoners and in fact former prisoners slated for execution. However, none of us here are violent offenders or sexual exploiters! All of us are victims of social and economic discrimination! That we are trapped here is a horrific injustice, Captain!”

“Captain Faoláin,” Ulyana smiled while troubling the pronunciation she had heard from Eithnen, “Regardless of your circumstances I would not just abandon you to be killed by the Volkisch Movement, having taken painful efforts to reach out to you. I have seen first-hand that the Republic can be quite unjust despite its promotion of ‘liberty.’”

Eithnen bowed her head to Ulyana, her hands clapped together in a gesture of submission.

“Thank you from the bottom of my heart, Captain. If I am the last Republic officer alive here that can be held to account for the Core Separation at Kreuzung then I will submit to any punishment. I understand I have participated in heinous actions and that my own survival is not an excuse. I only want the rest of the hundred innocent souls on this ship to be safe.”

“There is no justice in punishing you in place of those who coerced you.” Ulyana said.

“I agree with the distinguished Captain Korabiskaya as well.” Daphne said suddenly, her first shared opinion in the discussion. “Forgive my interruption, I am Daphne Triantafallos of the Katarran communist ship ‘Rostock.’ I will be leaving the call now– battle will soon be joined!”

Daphne looked strangely cheerful to be on a collision course with an enemy ship.

Her face disappeared from the picture in picture, and the square disappeared with her.

“Communist Katarran mercenaries?” Eithnen asked.

“Communist Katarran comrades. Much more reliable.” Ulyana said with a smile.

“I see. Captain, allow us to join your attack. We don’t want to sit helplessly.” Eithnen said.

“We’ll take every gun we can get. Do you have any Divers?” Ulyana asked.

Eithnen shook her head. “We were not trusted to serve as more than interdiction support.”

“So human shields essentially.” Ulyana said. “The Republic– I’ll hold my tongue for now.”

“Hah! Insult that rubbish country all you want. I’ll gladly join you there too.” Eithnen said.

Ulyana found herself full of compassion for the plight of that lone frigate. Judging by Eithnen’s expressions and hesitations, her story felt genuine. Increasingly she felt such a distaste for the Union’s ‘greatest ally’– but for now she had to settle the immediate account.


One by one the missile hatches atop the forward deck of the Marder-class sprang open.

Trails of bubbles floated up from each bay as its Sturmvolker diver launched, six in all.

These modified Volkers lost their round chassis for a body plan closer to a Strelok.

Looking more like the intimidating footsoldiers they were meant to be, armed with 20 mm Diver caliber submachine guns, the Sturmvolkers dispersed from the side of the Marder they were meant to be guarding, charging into an expected melee. None of them stayed together in units. In every direction a lone Sturmvolker went, hunting after the blips on their synced sonars. One particular unit shot straight up over the battlefield before pulling into a steep dive, employing gravity and its superior position to attempt to meet its enemy with an advantage in maneuver. It moved with great confidence as if it would surely score a kill.

In the middle of its dive, it crossed the path of Sameera’s Cossack as she darted forward.

Stopping, turning, raising its submachine gun to open fire believing it had taken her back.

And meeting a spinning drill that instantly bored through the thin chassis of its SMG.

Through arms that shredded to pieces–

Into the hull directly through the cockpit seams in the chest armor.

Water pressure doing bloody work.

Perforated, the Sturmvolker imploded suddenly.

Bursting pieces deflecting off the drill.

Nothing but a cloud of red foam and formless metal shreds gently falling down the water.

Sameera retracted her blood-flecked drill and accelerated away from the debris.

“Finally got to debut this Diamond Spear. Simple, yet delightfully brutal.”

Anyone in a mecha she was ordered to kill was no longer a person in Sameera’s mind.

Like Leviathans in Lyser, they were just things to be hunted.

For a moment, she had thought, “would it be more taxing to kill humans than Leviathans?”

Then, in battle with those humans it never crossed her mind. She had her orders.

On the hunt for humans doomed to the wrong side of her attentions.

Because there were as many enemies as the attacking mecha of the 114th, the battle was not immediately intense. Pops of confused gunfire from the Marder’s gas guns sounded the loudest and punctuated the chases transpiring around its hydrospace, but these fusilades were ineffective. The dispersed Sturmvolkers swam in directionless arcs, briefly firing their SMGs at the flitting shadows of the Union mecha darting all around them but failing to make contact with their targets. Shalikova and Khadija took to the chase, and went after a Sturmvolker each as soon as they saw one. Murati and her Agni hung back. Valya drew away one of the Sturmvolker from the reach of supporting units. Sameera scored first blood.

“HELIOS will be up momentarily!” Karuniya replied. “Zachikova, you can start!”

Sameera spotted Zachikova’s vaguely cetacean-shaped drone go swimming past.

Dragging behind it a crate on a hook that it was taking to the east.

“Moving to block the laser relay.” Zachikova informed the team.

“Sameera, Dominika, can you tie up the Marder’s guns?” Murati asked.

Sameera waited a second for Dominika to speak up first.

“Acknowledged!”

So she could then say: “I’ll do you one better than tying them up, Lieutenant!”

Though the battle had begun far enough from the Marder to only vaguely see its outline in the distance, the ship was only a hundred or so meters away– and closing. Flashes from its 20 mm defensive gas guns shone brighter and faster but began to dim anew. Owing to the 114th attacking, the Marder ceased to shoot at the John Brown and turned northward, away from the Rostock. Sameera wondered if they knew the Rostock was an enemy.

“Dominika, can you follow me as close as possible?” Sameera said.

“The gas gun pods aren’t as heavy as the cannons, I can keep up.” Dominika replied.

“Awesome. This is how we used to do it to bigger Leviathans in Lyser. Floor that pedal!”

Sameera began the attack run approaching the Marder-class from the starboard side. Gun pods on the Marder were divided into four bow, two aft, four keel and two each port and starboard. Hurtling toward the ship on final approach, Sameera was acquired by two of the bow guns and one of the starboard guns, turning and opening a flurry of gunfire. She approached high and threw herself into a diving turn to break through.

A dozen shells detonated in a long trail sweeping over her.

Flashing light briefly overcame her cameras.

Booming noises; tinnitus in her ears.

Heavy vibrations transferred into her cockpit, rattling over her back and under her fingers.

Explosion after explosion, bursting in the surroundings, blossoming fiery bubbles–

“Dominika!” She cried out.

“Still here! Focus!” She was relieved to hear a response.

Shrapnel bounced off her armor, pockmarked it, she could feel each impact–

Nevertheless she broke through the interdiction fire with minimal damage.

Sameera and Dominika swept across the broad side of the ship, too close to be fired on.

Close enough that the forward camera view was like a looming horizon of metal.

Within seconds the skirt of armor around the hydrojets came into view.

“Near the aft; up and on the deck!”

“Got it!”

The Streloks climbed suddenly, swept gracefully over the aft armor skirt.

Turned sharply, banking in a half-moon arc–

and began to cross the length of the deck, passing the conning fin,

completely under the firing arcs of the gas guns.

“Now cause some havoc!”

Taking the neck of the ship, its Divers too distracted to come to its rescue.

Sameera reared up her drill as she charged, and landed on the deck with a thrown punch.

Thrusting her diamond spear through a gas gun pod and gouging its magazine from inside.

Meanwhile Dominika planted herself in the middle of the three remaining deck guns.

From the Strelkannon’s shoulders, quick, controlled bursts of gunfire hammered the pods.

Perforating the housing and detonating each gun into a bubble of gas and debris.

“Rostock, the deck guns are out!” Sameera called out.

The Rostock’s Katarran operator picked up the message immediately.

“Got it! Torpedo incoming!”

Having created an opening, Sameera and Dominika thrust up with all of their power.

Within seconds the enormous sword-shape of the Rostock penetrated the shadows.

Filling the hole in the Marder’s defenses with fire.

Sameera noticed the brief flash of the explosion on her underside camera.

Faster than she could see in the darkness, the torpedo hurtled toward the starboard side of the Marder’s deck detonated just short of a direct hit, but it was enough. Enormous shearing forces caused by the detonation, expanding and contracting as the air bubble “stuck” to the ship’s side. Such was its fury that it tore a gash separating parts of the deck from the starboard plate. Water rushed in. Atop the ship, the main gun turret was paralyzed.

Though the watertight interior was not penetrated, the Marder listed.

Tilting just enough to expose the upper deck directly to the Rostock’s 150 mm guns.

From behind and under Sameera the guns thundered.

Twin massive flashes lit up the deck of the Rostock for a brief instant.

Lancing across the water splitting the sea, the munitions put two massive holes in the deck.

Penetrations too violent and too near for the anti-flooding measures to prevent.

In moments the Marder began to unravel beneath Sameera, bulging apart with successive compartment implosions until it was split open like a ration box. Everything transpired with devasting speed. Debris and blood, foaming clouds of shredded humans and ripped steel and crushed objects, lines of ripped-up cabling. From the top of the disemboweled hulk that was once a ship teeming with life, everything that had constituted its strength now bled out into a homogenous cloud. Its remains slowly descended to the sea floor.

For a moment Sameera floated amid that macabre geyser with a neutral expression.

Another hundred or so human souls cast into the water never again to return.

“No– it isn’t as hard as killing a Leviathan.” She said to herself.

Too low for the communicator to pick up and transmit.

When she took a Leviathan’s neck and drove her weapons into it, wrung its life out herself.

She had to see the face of a dead creature before her and meet its lightless eyes.

Something she saw moving with vigor and purpose just seconds ago, became extinguished.

With humans, in their ships and Divers– there was too much metal between all of them.

That was quite lucky. She wouldn’t be much use to anyone if she could not kill people.

“Sameera, are you alright? Don’t just suddenly go silent on me!”

Through the communicator, Dominika’s voice. Her lag-distorted face on the screen.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve been through much worse.” She said, smiling at the screen.

Once again engaging her controls, Sameera’s Cossack rejoined Dominika’s Strelkannon.

Diving back down to where the sinking Marder once was, and now the Rostock settled.

“Marder down! No danger of agarthic detonation!” the Katarran operator called out.

Murati’s voice sounded next.

Sameera realized the fidelity of her sensor package had now improved. HELIOS’ high-bandwidth information network was established and she could see the surroundings much more clearly both on her map and even on her cameras due to the predictive overlays. It was as if there was actually some light and air down here in the depths of the Imbrium.

“All enemies down. Good work! But it’s only the first phase of the operation.” Murati said.

“Distress signals from the Marder to the relay were successfully intercepted by the net.”

Zachikova’s voice. In the distance Sameera could see an unfolded, massive sail-like object.

An X-shaped rigging between which there were enormous sectioned aluminum nets.

The Marder had been slain, and due to the laser-blocking net, its communications with the nearby laser relays were blocked, preventing its allies from knowing the details of its final fate. Nevertheless, despite the flawless execution of the first phase, the enemy, to whom the plan was unknown, continued making their own adjustments to alter the situation.


“W-what’s going on? Is there fighting? They’re fighting the Volkisch?”

At first Homa could hardly believe any of this was happening.

Soon she felt that the truth was washing over her like ice-cold water.

She was going to die.

From her hospital bed, Homa watched the bearing monitors on the wall. Hands shaking, teeth chattering. She felt suddenly cold because of how much she was sweating, and her chest quaked with the rushing of her heart. She felt that if she took her eyes off the monitors that would be the moment where her life suddenly ended. On every wall there was an update on the battle– the enemy ships, cycling topographic maps.

Along with a message, also cycled every so often–

Steel yourself and keep fighting! These monitors were meant for the sailor’s edification.

This propagandistic affirmation did nothing for Homa, however.

In her mind, this felt like the same hopeless folly she had engaged in back at Kreuzung.

The steel colossus of the Volkisch, immense and immovable, was coming for them.

Homa was not safe. She felt this in every centimeter of her skin.

She was going to die. She was going to die. She was going to die. She was going to–

“Homa! I’m so sorry, I was setting up the aid stations. Are you okay?”

“I’m– of course– I’m not–”

Homa struggled to breathe and speak. Alarmed, Dr. Kappel rushed to her side.

Dr. Kappel held her by the shoulder and laid a hand on her forehead.

“Your temperature feels normal. I thought you might be having a rejection symptom–”

“How can it be normal?!” Homa cried out.

For an instant the doctor looked surprised by her shouting. She was not angered, however.

“I’ll get you a serotonin inhibitor– it’ll help you calm down.” Dr. Kappel said gently.

“How are you so calm?!” Homa shouted. “They’re going to kill us all!”

Dr. Kappel sat beside Homa’s bed, still smiling gently.

She reached out and carefully held Homa’s hands in her own.

“I understand your fear. But I’ve seen them do miraculous things before.” Dr. Kappel said.

Homa’s eyes filled with tears. She could not stop shaking. She looked down at her hands.

“Is– Is Kalika out there too? Where– where is she–?” Homa stammered heavily.

“Kalika is not fighting. She is helping in the hangar. She’ll be fine. I’m here for you.”

Dr. Kappel stayed at Homa’s side in the infirmary. Stroking her hands and comforting her.


“HELIOS is at full propagation! Please enjoy the scenery and thank your gracious host!”

Karuniya Maharapratham’s cheerful voice rang throughout the Brigand’s bridge.

On the main screen the prediction overlay on the camera feeds became clearer and slightly brighter. They could almost see the seafloor and the undersea mounts in the distance became outlined as if in fog. It was impressive, but even a miracle technology like HELIOS could not perfectly part the sea in such a dark and deep place as Eisental. It was comparatively far less rich in visual quality than it was in Goryk, when they first used it. They would not be able to navigate exclusively by sight even with the HELIOS network.

However, they were not using it for the visual overlay effects.

High-fidelity real time positional tracking and seamless laser communication with all of the pilots and ships in the fleet was the actual boon– and that was still working quite well, even over 2000 meters deep. On the Brigand’s bridge, the faces of their six pilots appeared on the main screen. Everyone had come out unscathed after the last sortie, but this was only the halfway mark. After a quick evaluation of the battlefield, the 114th returned to the Brigand as the Rostock and John Brown also formed back up around it. In an arrowhead formation, they headed for the next set of Marder-class. They had about twenty minutes before the next sortie, so the divers stayed in their deployment chutes.

Sailors passed charging cables and additional ammunition to them.

There was light damage on the Cossack and Valya’s Strelok that was assessed to not to be compromising for the machines. Shalikova and Khadija had each scored two enemy kills and received light shrapnel damage from close-range SMG munition bursts, while Sameera had taken out one enemy diver and Valya another. Murati’s Agni was the least worn and torn of the divers, as she had done no combat maneuvering and only focused on giving orders and covering for the HELIOS drones. While Ulyana ribbed Murati on her passivity in the last sortie, Tigris actually spoke up to agree with her decision to stay back.

“I’m recommending the Agni not engage in intense combat if possible.” She said.

“So when is Murati going to be required to do any work again?” Ulyana teased.

“Why is everyone suddenly acting like I’m lazy? This isn’t funny!” Murati shouted.

“She can go crazy once I’ve finished up the ‘Tigris Pack 1’ for the Agni.” Tigris said.

“Very well, I can accept that for now.” Ulyana replied.

“Why are you ignoring me now?!” Murati cried out, to a few laughs from the pilots.

On the video feed, they could see Karuniya’s hand reaching down to squeeze her shoulder.

Beside Ulyana, Aaliyah shook her head with a sigh, and turned to Zachikova.

“Can we get an updated picture of the incoming frigates? Has their course altered at all?”

Zachikova nodded her head and did as she was told, prompting the main screen to update.

In place of the pilots, the tracking map with predicted movements of the enemy returned.

Showing the two Frigates still in a line as they approached– and the third now closing in.

“It appears that their formation is tightening relative to what was calculated before.” Zachikova said. “We will meet them all together. No more than a minute apart.”

For a moment, Murati seemed to freeze up.

There was an unexpected change in the enemy’s composition.

And it was the most dangerous group too– those Marders and all their Divers.

Regardless, if Murati was afraid she was not showing it.

“We will adapt then.” Murati spoke up. “Captain, are we willing to use our missiles?”

“They’re difficult to replenish so I hoped to save them for a worse situation.” Ulyana said.

“Well, this situation is worsening. I think this a good idea from the Lieutenant.” Aaliyah said, gesturing to the main screen, where Murati’s face once was. “With the Rostock also shooting, we could drop sixteen missiles right into the core of their formation and cause a lot of chaos if not an outright rout. Patrolmen might not retain cohesion after that.”

“I’d gladly spend some missiles to seize the day. The Rostock will assist.” Erika said.

“Very well. We’ll prepare the missiles to fire.” Ulyana said. “But what about the timing?”

“Good point. Fatima, have we detected any more active sonar?” Murati asked.

“No, not since they sent us into alarm.” Fatima said. “They’re likely going quiet now.”

“Zachikova blocked the final communications from the other Marder. Jamming started before the Rostock attacked the Marder. It’s likely the enemy is missing some critical details about that battle.” Murati said. “They will know there was fighting and they will know something of our composition depending on what the Marder reported. But do they all know that the Rostock was also their enemy? We could use the situation against them by constructing a false narrative to have them take up a predictable formation.”

“How can we manipulate them in this situation? They’ll be on alert.” Aaliyah asked.

“Does the Rostock still have its original Imperial communications equipment, Premier?”

Erika smiled. “I think I see what you’re getting at Murati. Yes, we do have it.”

Zachikova altered the main screen picture so Murati’s face could be seen over the map.

“You said that regional patrol crews assume the Rostock is an imperial vessel with a higher command authorization than themselves. That means they are not aware of each specific ship in the inventory and they are not doing due dilligence and demanding authentication.” Murati said. “Zachikova could use the Rostock to send an Imperial-encrypted acoustic communication to the Marders informing them to predeploy their divers in a boxed defensive position. We will pretend we are chasing the Rostock toward them.”

“Clever.” Erika said. “I quite like the idea. Let’s contact Daphne to set things up quickly.”

“Zachikova, do you think you can do it? And do it quickly?” Murati asked.

Zachikova stared at the picture of Murati in her cockpit with clear irritation.

“Who do you think I am? This is technically really easy to do. But will they believe it?”

“Is it underestimating the enemy’s intelligence if we all agree they’re not too bright?”

Murati smiled confidently on the screen. Zachikova sighed once more and got to work.

The Rostock pulled out ahead, deliberately being missed by a small amount of gunfire.


Alerted to enemy activity but not exactly what kind, three Marder-class did their best to pull tightly together before making their final approach to the expected battlefield. Hatches opened on all three, their missile bays releasing sixteen Sturmvolker divers divided into sections of four, each occupying a cardinal direction as to guard their intended ships.

As far as the patrol knew their mission had changed. From capturing a Republic vessel that had somehow penetrated Eisental’s defenses, to stopping a large-scale enemy operation that was even threatening a Ritter-class Cruiser responding to the nearby battle. Since their local heavy support, a Serclaes, was lagging behind as usual, the brunt of the response was their responsibility. They were just patrol– they would not question orders.

Approaching to within a kilometer range was the Ritter-class that had sent the orders.

Trailing behind it as expected were a pair of enemy vessels launching ineffective attacks.

Aside from the Imperial cipher the ship had attached no relevant authentication.

Nevertheless, the patrol crews could come up with their own excuses for that.

When a brand new Cruiser like that gave an order they simply complied for their own sake.

The Marders in their defensive box sailed confidently. With a Ritter, they had the numbers.

Then, within 750 meters, the Marders spotted a series of successive flashes.

From behind the Ritter– and from the Ritter’s own missile bays.

Over a dozen lines cut across the water. Supercavitating missiles had been launched.

Both Imperial Taurus class missiles and Union Biryuza class hurtled toward the flotilla.

At this range the Marders had roughly 7 seconds to respond to being fired upon by missiles.

In that time gas guns could engage and fire a few rounds in haphazard directions.

Divers could be issued and execute single-word orders.

It was not enough.

“INCOMING!” was all that went out across the patrol flotilla.

Explosions blossomed violent gas bubbles across the top of flotilla’s hydrospace.

Gas gunners and divers struck some of the missiles, but even those intercepted munitions traveled too close to the fleet. Such turbulent detonations inflicted shockwaves that shook the frigates and sent Divers flying out of place. Cavitation bubbles formed by the explosion expanded and collapsed, pulsating violently. The walls of these bubbles “stuck” to steel when expanding and inflicted shearing force on the same metal when collapsing. Unlucky Divers caught in their wake imploded, torn open; ships within the radius of the explosion had armor and gun turrets and sensor bundles torn off their hulls and cast out into the sea.

Each missile warhead caused an explosion large enough to engulf two divers.

Tightly packed and not expecting such an attack, the flotilla quaked from the blasts.

No direct hits were scored, but significant damage was inflicted to turrets, fins, towers.

In an instant, combat capability had dropped from near-overwhelming to nil.

A predictable formation and a well-chosen attack made the difference.

Ephemeral flames and streams of bubbles and clouds of hot vaporized water spread a fog throughout the formation that the flotilla’s ships and divers struggled to escape. Once certain that they had survived, the individual ships lost cohesion, realizing it was a trap, and began to flee outside of mutually supporting range. In the confusion their divers floated helplessly, gathering their wits and tentatively fleeing in random directions.

Little did they know that while focused on the death raining down from above,

their keels had been taken.

Beneath the enemy flotilla, several divers shot up and attacked from the sea floor.

Khadija al-Shajara was at the head of the group and rushed at heedless speeds, her targeting computer putting a yellow box around a nearby Sturmvolker that had been spotted on her path. She reared back one of her swords as she climbed, sweeping up and just over the Sturmvolker suddenly. Twisting her Strelok’s body, engaging the jet on her diamond blade and cleaving diagonally through the center armor around the cockpit.

Saw-teeth chewed-metal disintegrating in front of her as her target imploded.

“One more for me, little Shali-Shali~!” Khadija said sweetly.

“It’s not a contest! Focus up!” Shalikova shouted back.

One blade in each hand; Khadija engaged both saws and rushed to the next target.

She was unaware of how many enemies had survived, she was not looking at her sensors.

Her mind had a honed instinct for moving quickly and attacking without hesitation.

Above them, there was a Frigate trying to climb away–

From the distance, a thundering cannonade. Three blasts perforated the side of the ship.

The Rostock, Brigand and John Brown were bringing firepower to bear on the flotilla.

Thanks to HELIOS, they did not have to worry much about hitting their own divers.

Metal rained down from heavens. Khadija navigated the debris of the dead and dying ships.

Pieces of the ships deflected off her armor as she charged.

Snaking toward a Sturmvolker overwhelmed by the chaos.

Within the rain of blood and iron it sprayed its SMG haphazardly.

She could almost hear the pilot screaming and shaking within the cascade of death.

Bursts of ineffective gunfire grazed her shoulderplates and hurtled past her hip armor.

Not once did she slow down; not once did she lose confidence in her approach.

Khadija crashed into the enemy with her swords in front of her and tore across.

Ripping two massive gashes in the metal, severing an arm, engulfed in skin-color foam.

Barely recognizing a kill before engaging her vernier thrusters and kicking off the carcass.

Her computer had already identified the next enemy within the storm.

She reveled in it.

“Looks like I’ll be the one carving a notch on my cockpit today, Shali-Shali~!”

By the time Serclaes-class Cruiser arrived, it was to the scene of a slaughter.

Heavy and roughly spearpoint-shaped, the Serclaes bristled with 76 mm guns on its angled surfaces, as well as a single 150 mm gun turret with one barrel designed for precision fire. It would avail itself of none of these accoutrements. Arriving blind, having received only a few panicked transmissions from the Marder-group and nothing more, and now unable itself to reach the nearby laser relay to communicate with the rest of the patrol, it saw an enormous field of mutilated debris spread out before it– and two enemy Cruisers banking away.

Drawn to the enemy it could see, the Serclaes moved to bring its guns to bear on them.

Unaware of a third enemy, the original target of the chase, that had been laid in wait.

Coming in quickly from the opposite flank just as the Serclaes committed to turn.

Four resounding blasts from the 100 mm guns on the John Brown impacted the Serclaes.

Tightly grouped, the shots punched deep into the armor in quick succession causing the ship’s interiors to disgorge from the wounds like a bag turned inside-out. Water violently filled the ship and disgorged each compartment in turn. Once the remains of the ship began to list, it seemed a beast wounded, red frothing humanity and steel innards copiously bleeding from the perforations as its body gracefully arced toward the sea floor.

Demonstrating the inflexible but brutal firepower that characterized the “In-Line-2” class.

“They called us cowards. But here we are.” Captain Eithnen Ní Faoláin solemnly declared.

Not even a murmur got out about this engagement. The Serclaes died quietly.

In the distance, an aluminum sail folded back into its rigging and ceased blocking the relay.

Within the cockpits of several divers, pilots broke out into laughter, tears, or sighs.

Inside each ship, the officers and sailors stood briefly speechless at the circumstances.

Before breaking out into celebration.

Five ships, twenty-four divers, over 500 enemy lives. No casualties of their own.

Mere minutes decided whom would pay the balance with their dead.

An advantage that would have seemed overwhelming swung from one side to another.

Quick decisions; lucky guesses; irreparable mistakes, parceled out between combatants.

Incomparable levels of experience played a part; but so did the plan and its execution.

So did quick thinking and the determination to do battle in the first place.

For the Volksarmee it was an unlikely victory against the type of enemies they would have once run away from. Fighting the patrol in open water– it signaled a change in the era.

“All of you really have me believing in miracles here.” Erika Kairos said. “Good work.”

In each pilot’s cockpits and throughout the Brigand and Rostock, her voice broadcast.

Even after all they had been through, it proved that their survival had not just been a fluke.

Somehow, almost before they even knew it, they fought and won the Battle of Haaren Hills.

Opening the way to Aachen, testing their cooperation, rescuing a stray Republic ship–

And catching the attention of several different forces, once word of the event spread.


“We’re recovering the Agni! Get the crane here! C’mon, don’t leave our hero waiting!”

Chief Galina Lebedova shouted amicably at the surrounding sailors in the hangar.

Everyone had a smile on their face as they got the mobile crane over to the deployment chute and hooked the chain to Agni, pulling it up and onto the floor of the hangar. When the cockpit door opened, Murati stepped out into a wave of hands, patting her back, shaking her shoulder, clapping. They called her a hero and a genius. They saluted and cheered.

Ulyana had credited her with the battle plan.

Murati wilted under all the attention. She barely knew how to take a step forward.

So many people were smiling and laughing that she could not help but laugh awkwardly.

And she had some experience speaking in front of people, so it was not stage fright.

Rather, the sheer size of the group in the hangar led her to realize–

how many lives were at stake

in her conceited decisions,

recalling the Comissar chastised her

was all of this what she put at stake–?

“Hey, hey, don’t crowd us like this, I have a migraine! We need to rest!”

Karuniya stepped down from the rear seat of the Agni, gently pushing Murati forward.

Murati silently thanked Karuniya for being there with her.

Urged by Karuniya, Murati stepped off the cockpit ramp.

All of the sailors made way for them to go through to the elevator. Partway through they started clapping. Murati did not know why but the clapping bothered her a lot in that moment. It sounded much louder in her ears than it should and it rattled through her chest. Booming, thundering, vibrations transferring from metal through to her– no not from metal she was out of the metal. It couldn’t have been so loud as to move through the floor. She could barely meet the eyes of the sailors– they became an indistinct mass around her. Did Karuniya see all of this? Murati thought that she might stumble and fall–

“Please allow the Lieutenant through! She must attend her post-combat checkup!”

At the entrance to the elevator the crowd cleared away from a shouting Aatto.

She helped Karuniya to usher Murati through the elevator door.

Once the doors shut, all of the sounds shut out with them.

It was like a pair of hands had clapped in Murati’s ears and awakened her from a dream.

“Murati, are you okay?” Karuniya asked. “You look so pale– and you’re shaking!”

“I’m fine.” Murati said. “Really. I haven’t eaten today, I must be hungry.”

“Jeez. I should have had you eat a survival bar or something.” Karuniya said.

Karuniya turned from Murati to the Loup woman who had entered the elevator with them.

“You must be Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather! It’s our first time meeting isn’t it?”

“I believe so! I was only officially elevated to this role this morning.”

Aatto reached out a hand across Murati’s chest to shake with Karuniya on the other side.

Karuniya shook her hand with a strangely cheerful expression.

“I’m Murati’s wife, Karuniya Maharapratham. Pleased to meet you.”

She emphasized the word. Was she angry? Aatto had no reaction to this.

Between the two of them Murati felt like she had been trapped in a cage.

Everything was happening across the length of her like she had been made an object.

A firm hand shake. Smiling faces. An almost mock-saccharine atmosphere.

Aatto’s fingers then slipped from Karuniya’s grasp, to hold her hand by the tips instead.

She leaned forward in front of Murati and kissed Karuniya’s hand.

Karuniya went red. Murati drew her eyes wide.

“The Queen herself!” Aatto said. “I can already see it– a worthy partner to a king!”

Murati almost wanted to scream at her–

But the two of them were chirping too much for her to get a sound in edgewise.

“Oh my! She’s such a charmer!” Karuniya laughed.

Now it was Aatto’s turn to smile in a strangely cheerful fashion.

“I studied the roster. A formidable scholar is a perfect match for a consummate soldier.”

“Oh ho~! Murati, I already like her. You’ve got a keeper here.”

“I am flattered you think so. I simply wish to support unique talents in this world.”

“Thank you Aatto. My hubby can be difficult, so please be patient with her.”

“Of course, of course–”

“I’m the one who is being monumentally patient here.” Murati spoke up, fists tightening.

Aatto and Karuniya both giggled at the same time and in a frighteningly similar fashion.

Murati wondered if she might break their camaraderie by reminding Karuniya that Aatto had been a non-commissioned officer of the Volkisch Movement, but she decided against it. She did not want to hurt Aatto’s feelings when she could just be the bigger woman and endure her wife joking as she always did. It might even do Karuniya some good, Murati thought, if she made a friend. For as much as Karuniya joked about this, the same rules of friendship that she used to say Murati was friendless applied just as much to her.

At least the two of them were not fighting.

Karuniya could have easily decided to be offended by Aatto rather than amused.

After the door opened to the upper tier, it revealed Erika Kairos standing in the hall.

Murati saluted to her. Erika waved for her to put her hand down.

“Ah, Murati. May I accompany you for a moment? I wanted to talk.” Erika said.

“Of course.” Murati said. She turned to look at Karuniya and Aatto.

Karuniya waved her fingers as if to tell Murati to go on ahead, staying with Aatto.

Erika started down the hall with Murati following at her side.

“How are you feeling? Triumphant?” Erika asked.

“Not really. A little shaky I guess.” Murati said. “I haven’t eaten today.”

She was beginning to suspect it was more than food and maybe her nerves were shot.

But she did not want to admit that nor seek support for it.

Preferably, it really was just hunger affecting her.

“Does it feel surreal, to come out the other end of a successful plan?” Erika asked.

“A little bit. I don’t know whether to feel like we clawed out a victory, or won too handily.”

“When a battle starts, there are no even odds between the combatants. Nothing is fair and nobody is keeping score. There is just, always someone who will triumph, and someone who will die. You know– I felt that you are someone who would not appreciate being called a ‘genius’, so I called you something whimsical on the bridge, a ‘sorcerer.’”

“Even that feels unearned.” Murati said. “I’m not special for just making observations.”

“Perhaps not, but you are the one who spoke up. You had the courage of conviction.” Erika said. She smiled a bit more than she was before. Shutting her eyes and grinning with satisfaction. “Murati, what I find special about you is not how much you know about military matters– it’s what’s in here.” Erika reached out and suddenly tapped her fingers just above Murati’s breasts. “Before you chastised us, we were going to leave those people on the John Brown to die. I was leaning that way too. It was your words that saved their lives. It was your determination to abhor injustice even if looking the other way was the easier path.”

Murati had honestly never given her ‘attitude’ such as it was, that elevated sort of merit.

In her mind, what mattered was all the time she spent thinking about war, studying history, trying to determine correct understandings. Her heart, was just that of a communist, she thought. Anyone could have made that judgment; anyone with her knowledge could have made that plan. Everyone in the world should have had her convictions.

“I’m of the opinion you could use a bit more malice.” Erika said. “But I also just like you.”

Erika met her eyes with such a fond and gentle gaze.

Murati felt a bit embarrassed suddenly.

She felt like she needed to justify herself better to someone like Erika.

“I wouldn’t have made the suggestions I did, if I did not believe we could win.”

“And when the situation changed? You know– we could have run away at many points!”

“I still believed we could rout them. And I believed it was the best action long-term.”

“Keep believing wholeheartedly. Speak when you must, and then argue with whoever you need to, including myself. If needed, I’ll put my foot down as the malice that you lack.”

Erika reached her hand out again and patted Murati on the back.

Murati smiled at her and felt her head clearing just a bit more than before.

Her heart just a little bit less heavy than it had been. She felt just a bit less burdened.

She was not singularly responsible for everyone’s lives, not today, and not ever.

They had not done all of this just because Murati said so, but because they believed her.

Someday, if she was wrong, if they thought she was wrong–

There were many people with their own judgments around her who would guide her.

Murati was stubborn, she knew she would argue her own way no matter what.

But everyone was responsible together. Erika was right.

She needed to have confidence.

Sometimes the most callous thing toward life was to stand by saying nothing.

“I appreciate it, Premier. But I am not afraid to deploy the little malice I have.”

“Then I won’t underestimate you again. How do you feel now?”

“Better.” Murati said. “Could you tell I was troubled?”

For an instant, Erika flashed the red rings around her eyes that indicated psionics.

Then she crossed her arms over her breasts, shut her eyes, and looked a bit smug.

“You could say it was a mix of my own judgment as a leader; and a little diagnostic.”

“I see. Nevertheless– thank you, Premier.”

“My pleasure. Ask me someday to tell you the story of how I stole the Rostock.”

“Was it a plan comparable to what we pulled off today?”

“It was so much better. Intrigue, death-defying risk, with Katarran soul. Pure noir.”

“I thought noir stories are supposed to have bad endings?”

Erika remained quiet to that question but continued smiling to herself.

Eventually she ducked into another meeting room and bid Murati goodbye for the moment.

Murati thought that perhaps the story of the Rostock did have a bad ending.

And that there could be ‘bad endings’ where Erika still lived to tell that story anyway.

Whatever else she intended to communicate, Murati was simply glad for the reassurances. When she arrived at the infirmary some of the cheer she lost the past few days had returned.


After the sinking of the patrol fleet’s Serclaes-class Cruiser, the Brigand, Rostock and John Brown quickly fled the scene of the battle. Though each fleet had been prevented from transmitting to the relay during battle and therefore to the rest of the patrol, it must have already been common knowledge that the flotilla was moving to engage a Republic ship in the first place. If that specific operation took too long and suddenly went out of contact, then more of the patrol would immediately be sent to the area to investigate.

Ulyana gave the order to depart as close to combat speed as possible without raising further suspicion from any arriving patrol fleet vessels. An object moving too fast underwater would stick out too much– commercial vessels and off-duty military ships all traveled at restricted speeds either due to hardware, legal or doctrinal limitations. The Volksarmee had to get to Aachen as soon as they could, but without raising too much dust in the process.

“According to Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather, the patrol fleet in Eisental was stripped pretty bare so most their newer ships could be assigned to the Volkisch navy and their war in the south. However, we must retain a sense of urgency. Even a dozen Cutters can be a problem. Furthermore, we have to assume that Violet Lehner’s forces will be moving north to secure personal control over the region. They will likely be far more formidable.”

That was Erika’s assumption but Ulyana supported it, having watched video of her speech.

Violet Lehner’s “Zabaniyah” would be their eventual biggest problem.

For the moment, however, the state of the John Brown was the immediate concern.

To that end, Ulyana contacted Eithnen Ní Faoláin.

In the hangar, the Brigand’s shuttle was prepared.

Over the past week they had gotten some good practice with shuttling people and supplies while on the move between the Brigand and Rostock. This time the shuttle would be loaded with a large crate of tightly packed dehydrated ration bricks, making up a week’s worth of meals for 150 people eating three bricks a day. Part of the Brigand’s survival stash– but it would last the John Brown a bit, and provide needed calories efficiently.

Along with the crates, Ulyana Korabiskaya and Aaliyah Bashara would hitch a ride.

The Brigand’s shuttle was a wide, semi-cylindrical craft. It exited the ship via a moonpool that essentially acted as a much bigger deployment chute near the back of the hangar. Its cargo bay could hold one Strelok lying on its back, but was most useful in ferrying people and cargo crates to and from ships and stations without docking. Just like the Brigand, the shuttle had undergone an upgrade too. Its cargo bay and crew pod pressurized separately, so it was possible to actually dump out a Strelok somewhere as a neat trick.

Ulyana had no idea when they would make use of that, but Murati had suggested it.

So she would defer to that wunderkind’s judgment on such matters.

Aaliyah and Ulyana boarded the crew pod, containing the pilot and co-pilot’s seats and compartments where they could store emergency equipment and personal effects for their own use, and behind them, one long seat that could hold six passengers. Additional passengers could ride with the cargo. The seats were slightly stiff but comfortable enough for a quick shuttle trip. With just the two of them, the ride was not too cramped.

For this trip, their pilot and co-pilot would be Zhu Lian and Klara Van Der Smidse.

The two young stars of the Brigand’s security team, frequently seen patrolling together.

Over their security team armored bodysuits they wore work coveralls with grey hats.

Both of them had tied up their hair into buns. Klara was all smiles and amused with herself.

Zhu Lian retained a professional demeanor, while occasionally cracking a grin at Klara.

“The Captain should not visit another ship without an escort.” Lian said as they stepped in.

“I understand, but,” Aaliyah spread her jacket to reveal her revolver on a holster.

“Chief Akulantova insists.” Lian said, opening a compartment to reveal a submachine gun.

Klara showed that there was a grenade launcher under her chair in addition.

“I don’t think we’ll need any of these things, actually! Please calm down!” Ulyana said.

Zhu Lian and Van Der Smidse engaged the electric power of the shuttle and locked down the compartments. Much like every other vessel, the shuttle was completely windowless. Cameras were used for navigation instead, and like a Diver, the shuttle could sync to the Brigand’s sensors as long as it was within laser or acoustic data range, receiving sonar and LADAR updates from it to navigate more accurately. For the passengers, a “window” was projected on the walls at their sides. Pilot and co-pilot had a multi-section display that could be divided among the shuttle’s cameras. Zhu Lian and Van Der Smidse were not dedicated pilots, but every marine trained enough to be a capable shuttle pilot.

Below them, the moonpool filled, and the shuttle descended.

Once the hatch above them was closed, the hatch below opened to let them into the sea.

Hydrojets propelled the shuttle, quick enough to keep up with the ships in the fleet.

Their journey would only take a few minutes, but Ulyana still laid back against her seat.

She had not been on a small craft for a very long time.

Looking out the projected window and at the ocean next to her. On the bridge, the main screen picture made the ocean look so much smaller and easier to understand. While the view she had in the shuttle was no more authentic than that which she had on the bridge, it still felt closer, and the water outside felt darker and more vast. At the head of a ship, there were so many people and so much equipment working to give Ulyana a sense of what was out in the water with them. She never had to contemplate it herself for an instant.

In this shuttle, there was only her eyes and the unvarnished feed of a camera.

And the endless, teeming darkness of the Imbrium yearning to swallow her whole.

It unsettled her, momentarily. It made her feel weaker than she otherwise thought she was.

None of their pretensions mattered to the crushing, overwhelming fury of that water.

“What do you see out there, Captain?” Aaliyah asked.

“A lot of nothing.” Ulyana replied, covering up her brief bout of introspection.

“Truly? You looked like you would say something poignant about it.” Aaliyah smiled.

Ulyana looked amused. “Our pilots go out there all the time; none have come back poets.”

Aaliyah had a friendly laugh at the remark, sitting back along with the Captain.

Maneuvering with ease through the waters disturbed by the passing of the ships, the shuttle approached the underside of the John Brown. A hatch opened and a cable anchor helped guide the shuttle up into the ship. The hatch under them closed, and the top hatch opened. Three cranes lifted the shuttle from the water and the hangar hatch closed beneath them, setting the shuttle back down. Zhu Lian and Klara checked to make sure the atmospheric pressures inside the Brigand and John Brown matched, which they did– then shut off the motor and opened the side doors, putting down a step-ladder using a crank.

“You two will unload the cargo.” Ulyana said.

Zhu Lian and Van Der Smidse both stared at her.

“Unload the cargo and stay here. We’re not going to have any trouble, I assure you.”

However, regardless of what Akulantova said to do, the Captain’s orders were absolute.

So they remained behind, watching like a pair of predatory birds while unhooking the crate.

Outside, Ulyana and Aaliyah stepped out onto a comparably very small hangar.

For whatever reason, everything was painted some shade of an odd and unwelcoming set of greens. Compared to the Brigand’s hangar it was narrow and the ceiling was low, which Ulyana expected, but the degree to which it was both of these things still took her by surprise. It was tighter than a Soyuz’s insides. There was only barely enough space for the shuttle in the back. The John Brown perhaps had the space for a Diver or two on the other half of the hangar, but there was only a single deployment chute, and no gantries. There was no workshop. The John Brown did not have stitcher machines of any kind.

If they kept any equipment here, it would be tough to maintain it.

Perhaps owing to the lack of space there were very few sailors in the hangar. All of them wore blue jumpsuits, and they were sitting and lying, overturned in various corners. Blankets and pillows had been given to them, as if the hangar had been converted into an infirmary. Someone who looked like they might be a nurse was tending to them, but had no supplies on hand. Several men looked only partially conscious. Simple hunger was not the only cause of this. Ulyana recalled that Eithnen told her they were without medicine also.

These sailors were ill, and going without treatment.

“You can see plainly our situation here, Captain. Thank you again for your support.”

An elevator opened near the shuttle bay and Eithnen Ní Faoláin stepped out to greet them.

She was accompanied by a shorter, comely woman with a thinner figure, properly wearing the blue Republic military skirt uniform that Eithnen wore only loosely. She had very dark skin, and black hair that was tied back into a braided tail. A pair of sleek glasses perched on her nose. Atop her head, she had a beret. Because the uniform was blue it reminded Ulyana of the cadets of the Union’s Academy in Mt. Raja. However, she recognized her uniform from her diplomat training. Eithnen’s companion must have been part of Republic military intelligence as an attaché. Not every ship in the Republic navy had an officer like that.

“Let me introduce you to my indispensable adjutant, Tahira Agyie.” Eithnen said.

“Pleased to meet you. On behalf of the crew, thank you, Ulyana Korabiskaya, and you as well, Commissar Bashara. We could scarcely hope for any relief. We were prepared to die.”

Tahira shook hands with Ulyana and then Aaliyah in turn. Hers was a quick, efficient shake.

She wore at all times a measured expression on her pretty face, betraying no emotion.

Ulyana did not judge her for this. It was not easy to smile in their circumstances.

Eithnen on the other hand was very affable, so it was an interesting contrast.

“We come bearing some gifts. Enough food for the journey.” Ulyana said.

She gestured to the back of the shuttle, where Zhu Lian and Van Der Smidse were working on getting the ramp down using cranks to conserve battery. Once the ramp was down they hooked the heavy crate to a winch and gently slid it down to the ramp and onto the floor of the hangar, before unhooking the crate and leaving it. While they were doing this, the Captain, Commissar and their counterparts continued their conversation off to the side.

“We can shuttle in medicine next.” Aaliyah said, glancing at the lethargic sailors.

“I can’t thank you enough. Some of these men, we have known about their deteriorating conditions for weeks now. Some have chronic illnesses, others just picked things up in Aachen. Most got worn down over time from lack of food, but kept working to keep us afloat.” Eithnen said. “Before the fleet was dashed to pieces in Kreuzung, our ‘commanders’ treated us like dirt. We were afforded nothing and kept locked up inside this ship.”

“That is horrific.” Ulyana said. “We’ll do what we can to assist your crew.”

“Thank you again, Captain.” Eithnen said. “Let us move to a meeting room in order to talk more comfortably. They’re also pretty cramped, but at least we can sit down there.”

“Of course. We can discuss the situation in-depth.” Ulyana said.

“This way.” Tahira gestured to the elevator.

Before leaving, Aaliyah turned around and shouted for Klara and Lian.

“You two put on some masks, get the first-aid kits and help out where you can!” She said.

Aaliyah pointed at the shuttle and then at the medical staff looking over the sick men.

Klara and Lian, sitting on the crate, looked helpless for a moment before moving to comply.

They were not medical staff, but Union marines received basic aid training too.

At least it gave them a different context for interacting with foreign sailors than suspicion.

“You’re all frankly amazing to me. I haven’t died and gone above, have I?” Eithnen said.

“We’re communists, it’d be a sad sight if we just sat around while people suffered.” Aaliyah said. “Trust us that you’re quite alive; we just have a different spirit than the Republic.”

Tahira stared at Ulyana and Aaliyah wordlessly for a moment before averting her gaze.

Eithnen put on a big, cheerful grin. “Well then! God bless the commie spirit!”


Aboard the Brigand, the door to the medbay slid open and closed quickly.

Hurried clacking steps from a pair of heels.

“Homa, are you okay? We’re out of danger now. I’m sorry I couldn’t support you.”

“It’s whatever.”

Homa recognized the horns and ponytail first, at the edge of her vision.

Kalika had come to visit.

Homa was lying sideways in bed, clutching her blankets as Kalika took a seat beside her. Even though she had her prosthetics installed, she was under observation until she had a few days’ worth of therapy. Her gait was still clumsy, though she was making progress.

More than that, she did not want to leave the infirmary during the commotion–

Because her heart had been gripped by an ice cold fear.

A shameful, chilling, awful fear.

Even now, lucid and medicated, she felt like she had been dowsed in ice water.

“Thanks to the crew, we were able to pull through.” Kalika said. “You’re safe now.”

Homa grumbled. She was ashamed. Ashamed of how frightened she had gotten.

“Did you go out and fight?” Homa asked, her lips trembling.

“All I fought were a few leaking pipes near the infirmary and the cafeteria. And some of the anti-flooding shutters.” Kalika said. “I was just doing this and that, trying to help out.”

“Why did they go pick a fight with the Volkisch?” Homa asked. “It’s just crazy.”

“They were rescuing some poor folks.” Kalika said. “It’s just the way they operate.”

“It’s useless– trying to be big dumb fucking heroes like that– they’ll just get killed–!”

Kalika did not respond. Homa snatched a look at her face. She was just silently smiling.

For some reason Kalika never judged Homa, never called her an asshole or a coward.

Sometimes it infuriated her. She wished someone would just slap her across the face.

Someone should just tell her already that she was worthless and lower than dirt.

They should just leave her crippled husk behind! Just launch her into the sea!

There it went again– she was crying. Crying and blubbering and shaking.

It was all she could do. Unlike Kalika, she could do nothing. She was utterly broken.

“Kalika,” Homa whimpered, “Can you– can you get me that necklace– on the table–”

Kalika nodded her head. She picked up Homa’s necklace from the bedside table.

Kneeling close to Homa’s bed, she put the necklace in her fingers directly.

“Rest up Homa. When you’re feeling up to it, we’ll resume your therapy.”

Homa did not respond to that. Once she had her necklace she hid under the blankets.

She clutched the necklace tight against her chest with her biological hand, crying openly.

Wishing she could hear the stupid little voice calling her ‘brave’ and ‘courageous’ again.


Previous ~ Next

Mourners After The Revel [12.4]

Through the Osmium shutters, a hair’s-width of purple rays still bled through.

Dim purple sliced the shadows of the upper wall of the reactor engineering pod– leaving the steel thankfully intact. Just a hint of purple touched down upon the tea table set down incongruously below the raised reactor structure in the back of the pod.

Enclosed within enormous osmium and titanium structures flanking the main reactor were steam generators, circuits, converters, backup batteries, and turbines, that captured and converted and stored and transmitted as much energy that reactor had to give as possible. The heat of the agarthic reaction, the motion of the core array suspended in water, the erratic flashes of agarthic radiation that were characteristic of the lower grade agarthicite used in ship cores compared to station cores. All of it was the life-giving gift the sovereign mineral gave to its After Descent subjects. None of it could be wasted.

God lifted and encased upon its throne of carefully alloyed minerals.

At the back of every ship, this was the face that He showed to his subjects.

And within this temple, a few officers infrequently held tea parties.

Captain Ulyana Korabiskaya and Commissar Aaliyah Bashara were both in attendance, on the opposite end of the table. Between the table and the reactor there was a protective shield of lead and osmium for the occupants. Aside from thin, stray rays of agarthic light, the only illumination was a wax candle that had a musky, mineral-like scent. Compared to an electric torch, this knickknack was a waste of resources– but the woman who requested it received any such thing she wanted. She had a supply of such charms for the journey.

“Thank you for once again indulging me, Captain, Commissar.”

“Of course. Compared to everything else, this is an oasis of calm.”

“Strange, isn’t it? I have to consider the end of my life every second of every day that I reside here, but even so, every day is so peaceful. I could not ask for a better place to spend my final days. Even when the ship is shaking, and battle raging– I just have to tend to the temperatures and monitor output. If the worst happens– I’ll be painlessly erased.”

“Ah– no need to be gloomy, Chief! I’m sure you’ll have many long years ahead!”

“Oh, don’t worry. It has no bearing on my mood. I’m simply being realistic.”

Across from the ship’s leadership cadre was the least often seen of its officers.

Chief Core Engineer, and Hero of Socialist Labor, Iessenia Kurchatova.

Iessenia was a few years older than Ulyana but her actual age was not too evident. She was a pale and petite woman, pretty and vibrant, with girlish features and very long hair that had been dyed green to cover the drain of their color over time. Long locks fell over her shoulders, reached down her back, and she had fluffy bangs swept to either side. She wore a touch of lipstick, a bit of eyeshadow– but a lot of blush, coloring the middle of her face. She wore the Treasure Box button-down shirt and tie with a black mini-skirt and tights, with a white coat over it. On her wrists were steel cuffs attached to collapsible mobility aids that, in their resting position, stretched partway down the length of her arm.

More noticeable than these basic facts of her appearance were the vestiges of her vocation.

In several places in her body there were hexagonal burns, colored purple-black like bruises. There was a stretch of these burns across the upper left corner of her face, having claimed one eye which was replaced with a cybernetic implant. Her eyelid and eyebrow were reconstructed such that when she smiled and shut her eyes it looked pretty natural. Bits of less severe patches of burns could be seen on her neck and creeping over her right breast, slightly visible due to a few undone buttons. In the dim illumination in which Iessenia kept the room, there was a dim purple glow from the sinews on her neck and arms.

Ulyana knew this was owed to the level of agarthic salts in her bloodstream.

On her remaining biological eye, the color had been slightly altered as well. Purple was creeping in from the lower right quadrant of the eye. Close inspection revealed that the purple was actually made up of tiny hexagons, as if the visible pixelation on a low quality video monitor. Iessenia disclosed to Dr. Kappel that her circulatory system was largely colonized by Agarthicite in its microscopic “salt” form. Eventually enough agarthic salt inside her would react, causing an annihilation that would maim her internally.

It was likely that she would die from this– and not painlessly as she hoped.

Thankfully, that did not seem to bother the smiling woman who offered the Captain tea.

Unlike all the coffee-drinkers in the ship, she had this special dispensation as well.

Much like her scented soy-wax candles.

All for the comfort of the Union’s Agarthicite genius, awaiting her untimely demise.

Iessenia, like most core engineers, was the sacrifice at the altar of God.

For the sake of Humanity– so anything could be spared for her happiness and comfort.

“Today’s tea is my favorite. Masala chai. Black tea with sweetened milk and spices.”

Iessenia stared at her teacup quietly for almost a minute before taking an indulgent sip.

Ulyana lifted her cup to her own lips. Sweet and creamy and with a complex flavor from the aromatic spices. It was the richest cup of tea Ulyana had ever tasted. Like almost everyone on the ship she had a strict coffee habit to keep herself going during the long hours– but she could appreciate the delicate craft of preparing a nice cup of tea.

Minardo was a quiet genius with tea.

At Ulyana’s side, Aaliyah took a delicate sip.

For a moment, her stony demeanor melted, her ears folding, smiling with pleasure.

“Magnificent, isn’t it? I try to limit myself to one good cup of tea a day– I don’t want to be greedy, you know?” Iessenia said. “Minardo always makes an exactingly beautiful cup.”

“It is pretty good.” Aaliyah said, as if downplaying her earlier reaction.

Behind them, there was a sudden racket from sliding metal.

Double locks on the door into the pod automatically undid themselves to allow access.

Another young woman, also rarely seen among the ship’s population, joined the tea party.

Dressed in the treasure box uniform with a pair of black pants, she was younger than Ulyana and Iessenia and maybe even younger than Aaliyah too. Characterized by short dark hair that was a little bit curly, and light brown skin and a serious face that made small movements in its expression. Her figure was slightly fuller than Iessenia’s but not by much. Her body had not yet incurred any agarthic damage common to her chosen vocation. She was in as good health and spirits, or better, than the typical crew member.

In her hands she had a tray of snacks from Minardo.

Biscuits with a mayonnaise spread flecked with finely chopped pickles; and simple doughnuts filled with an equally simple jelly and cream. There were not a lot of provisions on the ship for fancy cafe desserts, but something could always be baked, and with sweeteners, preserved fruit and powdered milk a lot could be done. The new arrival set the tray in the middle of the table and took seat beside Iessenia with a small smile.

“Thank you for fetching the snacks, Petty Officer.” Ulyana said.

“It’s no trouble at all,” replied the young woman in a quiet and serious voice.

She was once Iessenia’s intern and student. Now closest companion on the voyage.

Petty Officer and Assistant Core Engineer, Nina Srivastavi.

“I’m thankful to you for helping our Hero of Socialist Labor over here.” Ulyana teased.

Aaliyah’s ears twitched slightly as if she picked up something in her tone of voice.

“It’s truly nothing major.” Nina said.

“She has been utterly indispensable to me.” Iessenia added, laying a hand over Nina’s own.

Aaliyah’s eyes darted down to the hands. She sipped her tea as if in lieu of speaking.

Ulyana noticed Aaliyah’s growing concern and steered things back around to business.

“We had a concern we wanted to share with you, Iessenia.” Ulyana said.

“Not about my social life I hope?” Iessenia smiled.

Aaliyah averted her gaze, still sipping tea.

Ulyana laughed it off without a direct response. “It’s about the shield we installed.”

“Oh yes!” Iessenia said. She raised her hand and gestured behind her as if waving to the reactor. “Clever little piece of tech! I am glad we got it to work in the end. I was aware that the ship had channeled paneling installed during its construction– such things have been theoretically possible for a very long time, but a bit useless in a fleet context, so it was not seriously pursued except by the Ahwalia administration. Ahwalia’s people wanted to have a very small, very high tech and elite navy– Jayasankar promoted a doctrine closer to that of the Imbrian Empire. Lots of ships, lots of fleets, lots of shortcuts. In a contest between dozens of ships, a shield on one or two just doesn’t matter to the end result.”

“In our context, it could be incredibly useful.” Ulyana said. “If it could work.”

“Indeed! It sucked a lot of power at Kreuzung, even threatened to blow a few circuits!”

“Initially we believed it was because we were running it out of the water.” Aaliyah said, finally entering the conversation. “But looking back at the maintenance logs, it seems like even with proper cooling we might not be able to sustain the shield for long. What do you think?”

“As far as the reactor is concerned, we certainly have enough capacity for it.” Iessenia said.

“Our problem is the ancillary parts, I think. I recall there being issues there.” Nina said.

Iessennia raised her index finger to her lips. She took a moment to think about it.

“I think the issue is with the converters. Reactor behaviors have to be converted to usable energy. We need to look at the steam capture, heat transfer and electric transformers. That is the bottleneck– the reactor’s effective power is as high as the converters can actually introduce to the rest of the system. So the converters– and then perhaps higher-tolerance cabling from converters to boards. That should enhance energy transmission.”

“Thank you both.” Ulyana said. “It’s a start– I can float the idea by Euphrates and Tigris.”

“My pleasure.” Iessenia said. “Say, can you arrange a meeting between us?”

“You and Euphrates and Tigris?” Ulyana asked.

“Yes! We have only met on brief business during the refit– I’d love to sit down with them as a social occasion and pick their brains. There are not many people in the world who are aware of systems like agarthicite shields– these are high-end theoretical pseudophysics with very little practical use or development. I want to know what else they worked on. I want to talk about stuff that only comes out of dreaming big, like Project Red Star.”

“We’ll see what we can do.” Aaliyah said. Her tone was a little bit more brusque.

Iessenia spoke more fondly about the scientific developments of the Ahwalia regime than anyone else on the ship. Project Red Star was like a bad joke to the Jayasankar regime– Iessenia had been right there in the middle of it, however. Given heaps of resources to “dream big” despite practicality and giving her all to advance science. None of the rank and file on the ship knew enough to begrudge her participation with Ahwalia’s biggest policy failure– but Ulyana thought it might have been the reason Nagavanshi consigned her to this dangerous journey, rather than keeping her working in the labs in Solstice.

“They’re busy, but I’m sure we can arrange something.” Ulyana said.

Her voice was gentler as if trying to smooth out what Aaliyah had roughened.

Iessenia did not look like she minded at all. She continued smiling.

“Thank you, Captain. If you have any other questions, I am at your full dispensation.”

She took another delicate drink of her tea. Her hands slowly began shaking.

“Ma’am, I think it’s time for your Neurotin.” Nina said.

“Oh, true. Can you be a dear and fetch it please?” Iessenia asked, putting down her cup.

Nodding, Nina stood from the table.

She crossed a door on the side of the room, entering a small shielded living space in which she and Iessenia slept and cleaned up and stored their things. She searched for the medicine.

Back at the table, however, the tea party simply continued.

“Silly hands.” Iessenia said, ever smiling. “But that’s just part of doing what you love.”

Perhaps in reactor engineering, the mood was always a tea party.

For those fighting aboard ships in this fallen era, perhaps life had to be like a party.


“Homa? Can you hear me? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Hovering over Homa’s eyes was a hand, with only the middle and index fingers raised. On each finger, the nails had pink and blue colors beautifully patterned. To acknowledge the owner of that hand, Homa slowly raised her own hand with two fingers up, the “peace sign.” Only, she found that the arm which she had raised, and the fingers which were at its end, were completely black and had a sheen to them. She stared at the fingers, flexing them in front of confused eyes. She had not known what to expect– they were just limbs.

Each digit was visibly articulated, as if exposed bone. She could see the jointed metal bones turn as she flexed. Her fingers were slightly thicker than she was used to, but only slightly. They had tips that seemed soft, like plastic padding, but– Homa could not feel that they were soft. There were some sensations that terminated at her shoulder. Though she was moving something, there was a missing bit of feedback from her new limbs.

“I– I can’t feel it–” Homa mumbled. Talking mainly to herself, as if alone in the room.

“I’m sorry Homa, for military prosthetics, we do not carry nerve stimulators. We had to make some concessions between comfort and utility. It is certainly possible to reinstall the prosthetics with stimulators in the future, once the– current troubles– are in the past and we have the benefit of safety and better supplies. But these prosthetics are very durable and responsive. You will be able to live independently again in no time, I assure you.”

Through a mind fog, Homa vaguely recognized the voice of Dr. Kappel.

She followed the fingers that were adorned with pretty nails, up the arm, and to the face, with its blue makeup and multi-shade blue hair. Dr. Kappel smiled at her, and wrapped her fingers around Homa’s prosthetic hand. Homa could not feel the touch. Right in front of her eyes, she could see contact between skin and the prosthetic, but it lacked the warmth she expected to feel. This made the gesture just a little bit frustrating to receive.

Nevertheless, Dr. Kappel smiled brightly at the result.

“Good. Looks like the basics are in order. All the kinetics parts are working, the plastic sleeves are flush. Don’t make dramatic movements yet. Between the anesthesia and getting used to the neural interface, your arm may not exhibit the fine control you are used to– yet. I can assure you with time, your standard of living will be exactly as it was.”

“Except for the beef pot– I’m afraid we can’t do anything about that for now.”

“Ms. Loukia– please.”

Homa weakly turned her head and saw Kalika sitting on a chair beside the operating table.

She smiled a little.

Kalika smiled back, and playfully waved the fingers of her prosthetic hand.

Rather than the medbay, the operation had taken place in Dr. Kappel’s office, on a table that was set between the door out of the office and the door into the medicine vault. The table was pulled out of the floor and folded out, and would be folded and pushed into the floor when Homa left it. Anesthesia had been administered in the medbay, so Homa was only then getting her first look at the new surroundings. Her head was swimming.

“If it helps, I do not use nerve stimulators.” Kalika said. “I’ve become accustomed to swinging an unfeeling arm. It allows you to push it to its limits. Makes a handy shield too.”

“It will be a little more troublesome to have a leg that you cannot completely feel under you.” Dr. Kappel said. “But only a little. Most of the focus of our physical therapy will be to get you walking, Homa. With confidence and a good balance. We can begin soon. For now, rest as long as you need. You’re almost at the finish line, so no sense in rushing.”

Homa nodded her head. Despite the anesthesia wearing off, she was extremely tired.

There was a small part of her that was a bit sad and a bit bitter.

She had hoped that the surgery would dramatically change how she had been feeling the past few days. That she would wake up on the operating table like nothing bad had happened to her. Feeling whole again– not just functionally but in spirit. There was a part of her that felt that an arm was not simply a tool for grasping, but that she had been afflicted with a condition in which she lacked possession of an arm. She lacked a completeness of self. With that arm many things had been torn from her. Her future, the people she knew, her home. That arm had a spirit– it was touch, it was warmth, it was a sense of tenderness that flowed from her heart, through her veins, into the flesh. That arm was the things it had done just as much as it was the things that it did. That arm was an interlocking part of the puzzle of Homa Baumann’s life. With the prosthetic this was simply just not so.

Perhaps she would feel differently once she was off the table and active again.

But she could not help but to feel disappointed with the result.

Functionally, she could have the things which an arm did returned to her.

However, she still felt anxious at the idea that she would never be whole in her parts again.

Those anxieties festered into self-criticism of her own ungratefulness to the communists.

That ungratefulness, however, finally led her to think–

I never asked to be rescued. I could have been left for dead.

What do I have to be grateful for?

It was so presumptuous of them– my life should have just been over.

I have nothing– no home– no reason to live–

–not even all of my own body.

How am I supposed to live like this? How do any of you live with all of this?!

In the throes of a growing distress, she started to fall asleep once again.

Before she could find the energy to shout or be frustrated she dozed off completely.

Her head, fogged by bewilderment and confusion and pain, emptied completely.

Flexing in her sleep the fingers of the metal thing that had taken the place of her.


“Illya, I’m coming in.”

Shalikova stood in front of the door to Illya’s room for a moment, enough that she should have been acknowledged. When she heard nothing and realized the door was completely unlocked she delivered her intention and walked right through the door. Inside, Illya was surprisingly missing. There was only Valeriya, in a corner of the room, standing near a pull-out desk surface on the far wall. If Valeriya was there, Illya must have been fine.

“Oh, sorry for barging in, Valeriya. I just wanted to see whether you two were okay.”

Valeriya nodded her head silently.

There were a few curious details about the scene that drew Shalikova’s attention. Valeriya was dressed in an atypical fashion– she had a pair of underwear shorts and a flimsy little tanktop but her thin and fair figure was mostly covered up by what looked like a synthestitched plastic apron. On the apron there was a design of a teddy bear with a chef’s hat. It reminded Shalikova of one of her rejected designs for Comrade Fuzzy. Valeriya’s long, blond hair was tied up into a ponytail, and she had thick plastic gloves.

Hanging from her neck, and sitting atop her breasts, was her tactical mask.

She did not look in a hurry to wear it, even though Shalikova had walked in on her.

On the desk in front of her, a small metal frame had been set up. A recyclable canister of alcohol fuel had been set beneath the frame. To Shalikova’s surprise this canister produced a clean flame that was heating up a small metal cup-pot with something bubbling in it.

Shalikova dimly recalled these items.

Her Diver had a survival kit with food and a petroleum-derived ethylene fuel burner just like this. It was mainly a placebo– Shalikova could not imagine a scenario in which she would need to heat up food to survive inside her diver, where she was not already doomed.

“What are you up to? Is that a last resort ration?” Shalikova asked.

Valeriya nodded her head.

“You are cooking a last resort ration?” Shalikova asked again.

“I am a wife now.” Valeriya mumbled. “So I am cooking.”

Shalikova stared. “Not sure I understand. You’re a wife now?”

Valeriya nodded her head.

It began to dawn on Shalikova what that must have meant.

“Wait. You’re serious? Did Illya– did she really–?”

Valeriya nodded her head again.

Shalikova whistled with surprise and a bit of sudden cheer.

“Wow. I thought you would just shack up forever. Congratulations!”

Valeriya smiled.

A small smile, but for her, it was brighter than the sun.

Even a reserved girl like Shalikova could not help but feel a swell of joy for Valeriya.

For all the time that she had known her, Valeriya had been Illya’s shadow. As teenagers they were always together, and even when Zasha was around, it was clear who Valeriya had a crush on. They went to school together; they went into the Academy together; they went to war together. Even in the special forces, as far as Shalikova knew, they were inseparable. And now, on the Brigand’s historic mission, Valeriya continued to follow Illya without pause. Shalikova knew that Illya reciprocated Valeriya’s feelings romantically, but she also had a low estimation of Illya’s ability to commit– she figured Illya would have sex with Valeriya all her life without even saying the word ‘girlfriend’ to her much less ‘wife.’

In Shalikova’s mind, Valeriya deserved this marriage proposal.

“It’s vinaigrette with beans.” Valeriya said suddenly.

She pointed at the cup-pot, beginning to come to a boil over the alcohol-burning element. Normally in the Union ‘vinaigrette’ referred to a salad of chopped boiled root vegetables pressed together and dressed with vinegar and fat. Usually beets, carrots, potato, onion, and to add protein, red or white beans. Normally all the vegetables used would be pickled, or canned in salted water. Valeriya was cooking from a last resort block, so all the items were vacuum-pressed and dehydrated. She had brought water to a boil, to create essentially a mushy last resort vegetable stew. Judging by the flecks of fat in the water and the smell of vinegar, the vegetables were dressed before dehydration and compression.

Valeriya looked a little proud of herself as she stared at the bubbling little pot.

“Well, I hope you enjoy your meal.” Shalikova said. “Will there be a ceremony?”

“Not now.” Valeriya whispered. “We’re being punished.”

“Oh! Right– I had wanted to ask what happened at the disciplinary hearing.”

Valeriya pointed at the cup. As if to silently say that was the punishment.

“I see. Well– I don’t know whether to say ‘you got off light’ or to wish you luck enduring the torture.” Shalikova said, crossing her arms. “I guess it can’t be that bad when cooked.”

Using a steel spork, Valeriya mixed the stew up as it cooked.

Shalikova realized then that throughout all this talk, Valeriya had never raised her mask.

“You can pull your mask up if you want to. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I want to talk to you.” Valeriya said. Her voice was still quite whispery.

“I see– just don’t push yourself just to be nice to me.”

Valeriya quietly nodded her head again.

Quickly stirring the little stew, breaking up pieces. She looked dedicated to the work.

“Sonya– how do you feel about Illya? Do you still admire her?” Valeriya asked.

Without meeting eyes, she asked the question, still stirring the stew.

And what a question it was– it caught Shalikova by surprise.

What kind of answer did she have to that? What DID she feel about Illya?

Shalikova stuck her hands in her pants pockets.

“That’s– I mean, I’m not a kid anymore, you know? So it’s kinda complicated now.” She took a moment to consider the question. For Valeriya, she tried to be honest. Sometimes Shalikova was quick to be difficult to Illya, but she tried to be kinder to Valeriya. “I don’t idolize her or anything– but like, I got on hormones because she did. I wanted to be a cool soldier like her and Zasha. Illya always encouraged me, even against Zasha’s wishes. So like– Illya is family to me. I care about whether she’s okay or not. I ask her for advice. But we’re both soldiers now and I am an officer too. I can’t ‘look up to her’ anymore like a kid does.”

“She would want you to respect her more than admire her.” Valeriya said suddenly.

Still not looking her way, just messing with her stew.

This was perhaps the most words Valeriya and Shalikova had exchanged in years.

“I guess that’s what I do. I am trying to take her seriously when she says I need to stick up for myself and make my own arguments. That’s something I’m trying to do with her too.”

“That’s good. Thank you for answering.”

“Alright?”

“I love Illya– more than anything in the world. And she cares about you.”

“So in the transitive property of doing the exact same stuff as Illya, you care about me too.”

“Yes.”

“C’mon– don’t just say ‘yes’ to that– I was teasing you–”

Shalikova felt instantly ashamed at her own mean-spirited humor.

Valeriya simply smiled and worked on the stew.

Behind them the door opened once more.

Illya walked in through the door, absentminded.

She had begun partially unzipping her security uniform bodysuit. She must have been working. She zipped it back up when she noticed Shalikova was in the room. Valeriya removed the cup-shaped pot from the spent alcohol burner and laid it down on a separate pull-out desk surface as if to set the table for dinner. She then waved at Illya.

“Sonya, what a pleasant surprise. Came to see whether I was still alive?” Illya asked.

She cracked a grin that Shalikova did not return.

“Uh huh. Looks like you’re good though, so I’ll leave you two alone.”

“Not staying for lunch?” Illya’s continuing sarcasm. Shalikova did not play along.

“Maryam is waiting for me.” Shalikova said. “But– Illya, you better treat her right.”

Illya stared at Shalikova. “Hey, where do you get off on telling me that?”

She was not mad– she looked more amused by the rebuke than anything.

No one knew better than Illya herself all that had happened with her and Valeriya.

“Sonya.” Valeriya mumbled, shaking her head gently.

“Nah, it’s okay. She cares about you.” Illya said. “Trust me, we’ll be fine.”

Shalikova sighed but she had essentially said what she had come in to say.

“Maybe I’ll have a bite, just out of curiosity.” She said.

From the floor, Valeriya pulled up a pair of metal seats around the pull-out desk. There was nowhere for Shalikova to sit, but she did not intend to stay long. Illya sat across from Valeriya, each with their own metal spork, and the reheated and boiled vinaigrette mush between them. Valeriya took a sporkful of the stuff, which was tinged red from the beets, and blew on it– then she gestured for Shalikova to taste it from that spork.

In order to satisfy her curiosity, Shalikova leaned in.

“It’s just like when you were a little beet yourself.” Illya said.

Shalikova felt immediately more embarrassed about it, but still ate from Valeriya’s spork.

She did not know what she expected from it. It was a bit– challenging.

There was some flavor. A bit of tang from the vinegar, some savory notes from MSG.

Owing to all the root vegetables, it was very starchy, and a little bit sweet.

However, the foremost characteristic of the meal was its lack of texture. It was impossible to discern an individual bit of carrot or beet despite the sizeable bite that Valeriya had gathered. All of its elements had become homogeneous mush. Even baby food was more of an eating experience. It was not so bad as to make her spit it out, but anyone with even the slightest sensitivity to the mouthfeel of their food might have felt disgusted by it.

With an untroubled expression on her face, Illya began to eat.

Valeriya retracted her spork and waited with a smile as if for Shalikova’s response.

What did she want her to say? She cooked a last resort ration, so her cooking was gross.

Still– it was impossible to be mean to Valeriya. Even about this culinary misfortune.

“Um. It was lovely. Thank you. You’ll– you’ll make a fine wife, ‘Riya.” Shalikova said.

Valeriya nodded quietly, looking pleased with herself. Just like Illya, she began to eat.

Neither of them looked troubled by the meal. They ate almost mindlessly.

For a moment Shalikova just stared at them. What a husband and wife they would make.

In the back of her mind she wondered whether Maryam knew how to cook anything.


“Aww, I hate to see those bright little cheeks of yours frowning. What’s on your mind?”

“Ugh. I’m feeling worried. There’s nothing I can do– Marina really stepped in it this time.”

“Oh dear. I would characterize what she did as much more than just step in it.”

“Agh, sorry– I don’t mean to reduce what she did, she really sucks– I’m just– blegh.”

“My, oh my. A lot of undignified noises coming out of the princess today~”

“I’m not a princess! Proletarians have the freedom to make noises.”

“Anyway, is it even your problem whatever happens to Marina? You’re your own person.”

“I mean– I don’t want her to be hurt. She was my mom’s– uhh– bestie.”

“You don’t say?”

On the Brigand’s cafeteria, a young woman laid over a table, making faces.

She was seated close to the front serving counter, with her head and arms on top of the table. Sometimes her arms would hang, while at others she would hide her head in them. She was easily identifiable to the crew by now: long purple hair, unblemished and heavenly-soft looking skin, a girlish and simple prettiness to her face. Were it not for the partial elfin ears which she had — and the perhaps exotic color of her hair, which was natural — it would have been easy to call her the perfect picture of the Imbrian woman.

Teasing that young elf woman was the ship’s cook, Logia Minardo.

Seated on the opposite side of the same table, taking a break. She pulled off her cap and set it down on the table, loosening up her sweat-slick, wavy black hair. Minardo was a formidable lady, with a big chest and wide hips and thick legs, lean muscled arms and shoulders. Atop that shapely figure was a soft face with a bright smile, eyes like jewels, red lips and gentle eyeshadow. Elena had begun to think, maybe she appraised older women differently from younger women. Maybe, just maybe, she had something of a thing for them– but even besides that, Minardo could only have been seen as staggeringly beautiful.

She must have been seen as such by anyone else too.

Thinking about that, Elena averted her gaze.

“Should I not be at this table? I can let you sulk if that’s what you want.” Minardo said.

Gentle, with just a bit of her ordinary teasing tone of voice.

“No, it’s fine. I should stop. There’s nothing I can do.” Elena mumbled. “Even if I could do anything I think Marina deserves to be punished. She’s been so– awful.”

They were talking around it, but Marina’s participation in the Core Separation Crisis was a deed of such disgusting callousness toward innocent lives that it was hard to quantify it. The Captain and Commissar had spoken briefly with Elena about it and seemed more concerned with the breaches of trust, or at least that was what they told her– but maybe that was just processing the horror that lay in the moral dimension of the transgression. Marina nearly abetted the deaths of potentially thousands. Millions? Elena hardly knew the scale.

In her own mind, it was such a crime she could only sulk about it.

She could not possibly process the actual scale of what had happened.

It was simply too big, and she, too small in its shadow.

“Cheer up, she’s just locked up. She’ll be out again.” Minardo said. “You know– I put in a word with the Captain, alongside Dr. Kappel, that I hope Marina will not be mistreated beyond what is necessary to instill discipline. She is a– troubled person– and I sympathize.”

Elena looked up at Minardo’s hesitating tone voice. She narrowed her eyes a bit.

“You’re friends with Marina too? I’ve never seen you together.” She said.

It sounded more accusatory than she wanted it to– but she did not take back the words.

Minardo looked more amused by this response than anything before.

She smiled and laughed and laid her head on her hands while staring down at Elena.

“You’re not her shadow! She can move when you aren’t around.” She said.

Knowing the kind of woman Marina was Elena could imagine she made passes at Minardo.

Something about that annoyed her but she did not interrogate this feeling any further.

Elena remained collapsed against the table and hardly moved except to turn her head away.

“Well– whatever then. I’ll stop worrying.” Elena said.

“Why are you so pouty all of a sudden?” Minardo asked, poking Elena’s cheek.

“Oh, looks like someone is a bit jealous?”

From seemingly out of nowhere, a second attractive older woman swooped in.

Elena let out a groan as Khadija Al-Shajara sat on her side of the table.

“Can you two go easy on me?” Elena moaned. She was practically surrounded.

“I just showed up, and already my character is under question?!” Khadija said.

Her wine-colored lips turned in a little grin; winking a heavily wine-purple shadowed eye.

“She knows what you are.” Minardo said. “Don’t worry Elena, I’ll protect you.”

“Uggghhhh.” Elena put her arms around her head.

Khadija made a cutesy shrug.

Those two played together far, far too well, Elena thought.

“I’m just here to have some lunch. I don’t know what anyone is talking about.”

“Ah, but where’s your new lady friend, Khadija?” Minardo teased.

Khadija averted her gaze with a suddenly sour expression.

“We’re not friends. She’s helping move crates around for the inventory and shuttling.”

Minardo laughed. “She is such a big lady. Glad to see she’s helping out around here.”

“Checking her out?” Khadija accused.

“What? No. But there’s no way to look at her without thinking she is big.”

“Well. You ought to help too. Those guns of yours could use some action again.”

Khadija reached over Elena to poke Minardo’s bicep.

“I do plenty.” Minardo replied. Like Khadija was finally getting under her skin.

“You both are doing plenty right now.” Elena mumbled childishly.

“Elena, did you know? Minardo was an absolute combat monster once upon a time.”

Khadija looked pleased with herself at how annoyed Minardo was getting with her.

“What was it they called you?” She acted dumb for a moment, letting the question hang.

“That was a long time ago.” Minardo grumbled, as if to signal Khadija to drop it.

“You’re not proud of it? Elena, our esteemed cook once earned the title of ‘The Human Stronghold’. Can I tell the story?” Khadija stared at Minardo with her tail swishing merrily behind her. Elena slowly sat up and looked at the two of them with a dull expression. Minardo sighed and shrugged and waved as if to say ‘fuck it, just go’. Khadija took exactly that meaning from it. “Elena, Minardo was part of a landing party in the revolution– all by herself, she held a narrow passage into the Sevastopol port structure, keeping a way open for close to an hour. She killed 26 imperials, turning back their assaults and protecting our beachhead in the port. Then she joined the arriving assault sappers and charged deeper into Sevastopol, and killed 26 more imperials in close quarters.” Khadija punctuated the numbers in her speech each time. “Those station battles were absolutely brutal. It was necessary for us to get foot-holds inside stations to evict the current, disagreeable occupants. And the defender always has the advantage inside of a station’s confines.”

Elena blinked, staring at Minardo for a moment before catching herself.

In turn, Minardo grunted and sighed and looked a bit helpless for just a moment.

“Those Imperials were pansies. It wasn’t much more to say you killed 26 or 52 than to kill two or four, when it came to close quarters battle.” She finally said, grudgingly acknowledging Khadija and her story. “By the time of the revolution I had already been doing like ten years of hard labor. The slave colonies were like a vacation for imperial nepo babies. I was slaughtering stupid kids, not even the guys who clapped the chains.”

“Well, they all deserved to die, and I’m glad they’re burning in hell.”

“Khadija.”

“But yes, it’s that brutal energy now kneading bread and stirring soup.” Khadija said.

“From an old friend to another, please drop it already, kitty-cat.” Minardo said.

“Of course, I’ll win the round graciously.” Khadija replied, winking and pawing.

Elena looked between the two of them with an appraising expression.

She was impressed by Minardo’s strength–

but seeing that it bothered her, she buried her reaction.

She did not want to hurt her feelings.

“Are you actually friends or do you hate each other? I can’t tell.” Elena mumbled.

Minardo and Khadija both looked at her pouting and snickered to themselves.

“Khadija is like this with almost anyone who gives her an opportunity. It’s fine.”

“Minardo needs my labor in the kitchen far too much to ever be rid of me.”

Elena stared at them with the same narrow-eyed look she once gave Minardo.

Minardo reached out and pinched Elena’s cheek suddenly.

“Are you jealous?” Minardo said. “Elena, we’re not romantic at all. You’re so silly!”

“I’m not jealous. I do not care!” Elena whined, pulling Minardo’s hand off.

“Minardo is not my type. You, on the other hand, have a chance, little Elena.”

Khadija winked again, leaning closer, chest on the table.

Elena averted her gaze again.

“Why do I keep trying to come here to relax, when you two don’t let me live in peace.”

“It’s because the practiced teasing of a mature woman wipes away all troubles.”

Elena suddenly broke out into a laugh. She could not stifle it that time.

Khadija was completely right– Elena felt much less troubled than when she first sat down.

Though she would not admit as such with the two of them waiting for a reaction.

She appreciated what they were both trying to do and felt– cared for.

There were other troubles she had in mind that she just could not tell Khadija and Minardo about. Things they would not understand. But coming here and getting fussed over did instill the feeling that these two women cared about her well-being in their own way. They wanted to see her smile and laugh, they wanted her to feel special and receive some attention. Attention that she took for granted when it was easy to come by– Bethany would not have approved of her being so needy and bratty, but it was nice to have that freedom.

“So– what’s for lunch today?” Elena asked. She raised herself back to a proper sit.

“Oh, good idea! You’ll love this, I’m certain. We’ve got gazpacho, eggplant fries, and a little sandwich with pulled soy, brown sauce and tomato pickle.” Minardo said proudly.

“Sounds delicious.” Elena said. She smiled at her companions as brightly as she once did.

For just a little bit she would allow herself to luxuriate in Minardo and Khadija’s attention.

Maybe having someone to fuss over was something those two appreciated as well.


“Braya.”

“Hmm? What’s up?”

“Do you think I should be nervous about my check-up with Ms. Maharapratham?”

“No.”

“What do you know about her? Can you tell me more?”

Braya Zachikova briefly put down her computer and looked over her shoulder.

Their shared accommodation was completely dark except for the light from the portable computer, and a bit of bioluminescence produced by strands interspersed in her partner’s blue hair. Behind her, Arabella smiled, her hands hovering just around Zachikova’s waist, squeezing and loosening in turns. They were sitting together on one bed, as they often did since meeting, Arabella’s back to the wall and Zachikova’s back to her.

Zachikova leaned back against Arabella, her head resting on Arabella’s breasts.

Arabella raised one of her hands and toyed with the end of Zachikova’s spiral ponytail.

“Back when you were a Leviathan, in order to keep you safe, I had to partner up with Karuniya Maharapratham and make you a subject of study.” Zachikova said. It was almost surreal to think back to that time, just weeks ago, when she knew nothing. “During the work we did tracking you and studying video of you– I thought that Maharapratham seemed very compassionate towards you. She cares about animals. I’ve seen how other sickos in the Union think about Leviathans, like it’s free target practice until they fuck up and get eaten. She really cared, and she wanted to prevent unneeded harm. You’ll be fine.”

“I see, so you entrust me to her. I feel relieved then.” Arabella said, smiling.

“You make it sound way too dramatic. She’s just going to take your blood or whatever.”

“Braya, do you think any differently about me now? After all that’s happened?”

“Yeah. You’ve ruined me for life and I can’t get away from you.”

“Hmm? I’m sorry– I’m just nervous is all.”

“I’m joking.” Zachikova sighed.

She tried to think of how to word what she wanted to say.

Even as she spoke, it felt like it did not convey the fullness of what she felt about Arabella. She still tried with every new word and did not relent even as she let her passions slip. “I don’t think any differently about you. If anything I feel closer to you than ever. I’m also someone whose head got fucked with– not as maliciously as with you, but I’m still not normal. Like– I’m just a nobody. Before the surgeries, and going into the Academy and then the spec ops, I was just some orphan of slave parents who died. I was nothing. When I think back, I’m still kinda nothing– I didn’t have friends, I didn’t fuck around with other girls in my school or win a video game championship or whatever. I can remember all the nothing I did but when you think about it, I effectively have no fucking memories anyway.”

“I see. In that sense– I guess our situations are more similar than I realized.”

“Memories don’t make you Arabella to me. You’re Arabella right now.”

Zachikova reached down and intertwined her fingers with Arabella’s own.

Arabella started to wiggle happily behind her back.

“Braya! Thank you so much. I really appreciate it.” She said.

“It’s fine. I know you’re scared and that a lot of horrific shit has happened to you. But I’ll help you– and there’s good people on this ship too. I think it’s insane how much you’re taking on your shoulders. It’s not your responsibility, to make up for your sister, or the fucks who created you, or anyone else– but I’m still here for you anyway. Whatever you want to do, I support it. God knows it’s not like I have my own ambitions anyway.”

“We’ll find you an ambition while we search for my memories too.”

Arabella leaned down on Zachikova’s shoulder, rubbing her cheeks against it.

She was so warm.

A few weeks ago Zachikova might have pushed back.

Now, she was still a little annoyed– but she wanted to feel Arabella through her skin.

Until she felt a bit of a sting–

“Hey.”

Arabella nibbled on her childishly.

“If you need blood, just say it. Don’t just bite me out of nowhere.”

“Oh, I’m fine for blood. I ate a lot of human meat back there–”

“Don’t remind me–”

“–I’m biting you out of love Braya.” Arabella’s voice turned suddenly coquettish.

“That can wait until after hours. I’m working right now.”

Zachikova picked her computer up and stared down at the screen while Arabella’s head remained firmly on her shoulder. She felt another little nip from her lover, a deep nuzzle, and even the warm slickness of her tongue sliding over Zachikova’s neck, her fingers prodding her belly. She did not allow it to distract her. She was setting up a digital co-working space for the Nationale Volksarmee and Brigand to communicate together– essentially a glorified self-hosted BBS. It was a simple program. Much of the code was “in-strata” from similar programs and the predictor computer generated a decent user interface for it after a few proddings for it to do so. But she had to put it all together in a day or two, while her leg still hurt, and then also make sure it was not horrifically insecure or buggy.

On the Brigand, anyone who wanted to talk to someone could go and find them and talk to them in person. And in a fleet context, the only thing that mattered was following orders and the battle plan. Inventory comparisons only mattered to the logistics officers in the fleet command. One ship was not shuttling junk to another ship unannounced. Two ships did not randomly send engineers to each other to share ferristitcher blueprints or coordinate dangerous underway repairs. Fleet coordination was just totally different.

But the Volksarmee and Brigand were not two Union ships in a Union fleet with a grand battleplan drafted by a dozen Rear Admirals and a Fleet HQ with responsibility for all logistics. There was no huge staff to plan things. They had to exchange a lot of information between two ships on almost impromptu basis. Their work was like an ongoing conversation between new friends, and it needed a place to happen. Engineers did not have standard protocols for cooperating with each other, and there could be miscommunications. When the Captain approached Zachikova for a solution, she felt that a BBS was a more permanent and simple avenue than staging hundreds of video calls between the ships.

Such a piece of software was not in demand in the fleets, and was only used by civilians.

Sailors could use it to goof off; it could also engender bad information management habits.

Nevertheless for the specific use case of the Volksarmee and Brigand, it made sense to her.

It would likely be okay since the first version was deliberately extremely boring.

Nobody would be sharing nude pictures or lewd audio logs ZaChat.

It could not do so.

Or so she hoped. Computer programming in Zachikova’s era was a bit…odd.

Still, ZaChat was a predictable and simple thing.

Eventually she would upgrade it– but by then there would be better access controls too.

Her work was nearly complete.

She had released the beta version of ZaChat to a control group of officers and engineers. She monitored usage closely. Making sure every message was encrypted in transit between the ships, that chat logs were being retained on both the Brigand and the Rostock, and that data and access credentials were not coming or going anywhere they should not. So far everything seemed to go smoothly, for a thing Zachikova simply threw together.

“What are you working on?” Arabella asked, staring over Zachikova’s shoulder.

“It’s a program for people to message each other across ships.” Zachikova said.

“Can’t they reach each other and talk on the computer screens?” Arabella said.

“We want to keep Semyonova from going insane with hundreds of inter-ship calls.”

“Oh, true. You’re so considerate Braya. What are they saying on the program now?”

Zachikova looked at the board.

So far, the top posters were Erika Kairos and Murati Nakara, by orders of magnitude.

Largely talking to each other. Zachikova sighed audibly.

Utterly hopeless dorks talking about history and music in their own little thread.

In a few other threads on ZaChat, Katarran engineers from the Rostock were thankfully having productive discussion with Brigand crew like Chief Galina Lebedova and her nibling Valya Lebedova. They were hashing out work and equipment transfer schedules that worked for both crews as well as discussing events candidly in open chat threads. The atmosphere seemed jovial and there was actual verifiable progress being made.

Judging by that alone, Zachikova felt she could declare ZaChat a success.

Soon she could talk to the Captain about opening it up to more users.

Hopefully the sailors would not be too rambunctious–

It dawned upon Zachikova at that point she may have to moderate ZaChat–

She shut her computer off after a wave of stress.

“Arabella.” Zachikova said, sighing. “I’m taking a break. Bite as much as you want.”

Behind her there was a contented little noise.

Arabella drew her closer, pressing their bodies tight.

Once Zachikova felt the teeth start to dig,

and Arabella’s hands snaking down her belly, under her pants, between her legs,

she felt far more relaxed– until the first tight, warm contraction shook her skin.


“Ahh! That’s the end of the day for me– well. Until the fucking night shift anyway.”

“Indeed, gamer– do not so easily forfeit the call that beckon us to the dance of shadows.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Whatever.”

It was late in the afternoon and the weapons officers on the Brigand’s bridge were taking their leave for the “day.” They would be back in six hours to attend the “night shift” that was their main assignment during noncombat duty. Until then they had unstructured time to do with as they pleased. Alexandra Geninov and Fernanda Santapena-De La Rosa were meant to use some of this time to catch up on sleep so they could be ready when needed.

However, Alexandra, at least had other plans for today.

She kept them to herself– for now.

“So I got to the part where Ythyria starts looking at the prince– I thought this story was supposed to be lesbian? Like what’s going on there.” Alex asked Fernanda.

“Gamer, oh Gamer– how easily you lose faith upon any confrontation with intricacy! As with any endeavor, tribulation and torment enrich the quintessence of experience!”

Fernanda laughed openly while Alex stared at her as they walked down the halls.

Alexandra Geninov, self-described “sexy biracial chick,” with her light brown skin and messy brown hair tied back in a messy bun; Fernanda Santapena De La Rosa, with her fairer skin and straight blond hair with purple streaks. Blue and brown mismatched eyes alongside bright pink-red irises, the work of lenses; tall and short;  pants uniform and skirt uniform. Their animated chatter filled the halls, Alex’s deeper voice and Fernanda’s nasally tone.

Despite their contrasts, they seemed to always arrive anywhere as a set of two.

Arriving at their shared room, they dropped onto their individual beds and sighed audibly.

“Hey, Fernanda. Before nodding off, can I show you something?” Alex said.

“Is it about video games?” Fernanda said, briefly dropping her pretentious diction.

“Yes. But– before you stop me. It’s a kind of video game you would like.”

“I’ve told you already, that I have played games before– it’s not like I hate them.”

Two sentences without any thee’s or thou’s? A rare undressed Fernanda indeed.

“Okay, then you won’t object will you? For me? Just this once.” Alex said.

“I’m well aware it won’t be ‘just this once’– but sure. I have nothing to do.”

Fernanda sat up in bed. Smiling and laughing, Alex crouched next to her own bed.

From the set of drawers under the frame, Alex pulled out something wrapped in plastic.

She ripped apart the taped-up plastic wrap and unveiled a little beige plastic box.

“What? How did you get a Dendy?” Fernanda asked, staring incredulously at it.

Alex grinned, rubbing a finger over the slightly rough textured plastic on the case.

For now she would not comment on Fernanda being able to spot a Dendy instantly.

“A Dendy II, actually. One of our new allies uncovered this for me.” Alex said.

One of the Volksarmee officers, Chloe Kouri, loved video games and she apparently had something of a knack for infiltrating even crowded Imbrian places and going mostly unnoticed. After discovering this one morning in the Brigand’s cafeteria, Alex got the scheme in mind to see if Chloe could return to the street market and search for a video game console. Through sheer luck the console in question happened to be a Dendy II–

even Chloe did not realize it as she picked it up and brought it back.

Alex did not tell this story out loud– not wanting to try Fernanda’s patience.

It was enough to say that her scheming had paid off, in the familiar beige box in her hands.

Fernanda blinked. “So there was a Dendy in Kreuzung? And you bought it?”

“I also got a few classic Union storytelling games that run on it.” Alex said.

“I am a bit speechless. What the hell was a Dendy doing in Kreuzung?”

“I’m sure there are Imbrian enthusiasts curious about Union gaming.”

“But how would they get access to it? The Union does not have trade with Imbria.”

“Smuggling or something? Who cares– let’s play!”

Alex pulled out a serial cable that was rolled up in a little shelf in the back of the Dendy and found a serial port on the wall to plug it into. She flicked the switch, and in moments, the wall monitor created a window near the pull-out desk in the back of the room. Alex stuck one of the game cards into a slot on the side of the box and pressed a button to lock it. From the front of the Dendy, Alex pulled out two little controllers, with a cross-shaped directional pad and three buttons. She handed one to Fernanda and kept the first one herself.

At first the screen appeared completely black, and then appeared a block-font DENDY logo.

Then, a message from the Union Commissariat of Entertainment stressing that eyes strain, repetitive strain on the hands, headaches, and addiction might result from playing video games too much. The player had to tab through many screens of guidance and informational health material required by the Commissariat of Entertainment specifically for video games. Once this was done, another Commissariat of Entertainment screen urged the player to set an amount of session time, after which the Dendy would automatically save the game progress to battery memory and shut down. Alex set the session time for four hours, which was as long as the Commissariat would allow a single session to stretch.

“We are not playing this for four hours.” Fernanda warned.

“I knooooow.” Alex said. “Relax.”

Fernanda stared at her, sighed and picked up her controller.

They sat on the pull-out chairs near the pull-out desk and watched the screen.

Watching the little crab dig down and down as the game was prepared.

It was the kind of screen that, to a citizen of the sea, screamed– video games!

Perhaps incongruous– perhaps deeply mysterious.

Displayed on the screen, was a true miracle of underwater entertainment, recently arisen.

Each pixel in itself represented the combined efforts of hundreds of years of computing.

Of course, Alex knew all about how video gaming came about.

In order to truly understand “Dendy”, as Alex did–

one had to first understand the “Strata Crab” seen digging so industriously on screen.

Overwhelmingly, small devices in the Imbrium civilizations were thin clients, deferring some or even all of their computing to a vastly powerful supercomputer in their range, either part of a station mainframe or a ship supercomputer. These larger computers were referred to as “Predictive Computers.” True to their name, their primary design function was to assist in underwater navigation, identification and communication through analyzing data and “predicting” environments, trajectories and other partially known conditions with a degree of accuracy. Predictive computers were designed to take many sources of information, acoustic, visual, thermal, electric, and allow ships and stations to see and speak underwater– two things that were far more troubled by the deep than on the surface.

Predictive Computers performed these functions as part of their advanced and highly stable Base Code. This Base Code ran flawlessly in less than seconds and performed incredible computational feats in its specialized functions. Beyond prediction, the Base Code was imbued with a few other useful features. It could store information in databases, accept human language requests for data or analysis, decode acoustic text messages, and compare any number of like things with each other– byproducts of its function to guide humans on their underwater odyssey. However, there was one problem that the Imbrium civilization and, presumably, every other underwater post-surface society stumbled into. They did not understand how the Base Code worked. It was something of a black box.

Presumably, the Base Code had been worked out as a highly advanced form of machine learning, at some point. Predictors were often updated with new data for ordnance and vessels so they could properly identify them. But what the computer did behind the scenes with the data was a mystery– this design remained largely inscrutable to Imbrians.

It was impossible for a human to read the Base Code because there was far too much of it and none of it was legible in Low Imbrian or even High Imbrian– it was inherited from the surface world and went into widespread reproduction after the Age of Strife with the founding of the Nocht Dynasty. Even the scientists and engineers that had survived the Age of Strife had no idea how to actually read Base Code– seemingly, everyone just accepted the Base Code as an immutable part of computing that was inherited from the past.

Much like Agarthicite reactors, the form of the thing could be replicated, but it was not fully understood. Rather it was painstakingly observed to deduce workable interactions.

Base Code was simply copied onto new computers from old ones, making new predictive computers that all had the same functions. Base Code limitations and uses became readily apparent upon observation. It was possible, at times, to get a predictive computer to spit out a breakdown of a base code function through direct querying, but the predictive computer’s own understanding of base code functions was found to be utterly false.

Direct querying became a technical process of its own. Predictive Computers could be asked in various ways to attempt to do things outside of their known stated functions. Results would vary widely. Predictive Computers processed human language querying in bizarre ways, only answering consistently to known functions of the Base Code. A bad query would simply return false information or pretend to be doing something while doing absolutely nothing. This led to the widespread belief in the unreliability and inaccuracy of predictive computing. However, one miraculous function that was discovered was the ability to run subordinate instructions. This allowed the “Base Code” to be expanded through grueling trial and error with the foundations of civilian computing, “Strata Code.” Strata Code was, as its name suggested, piled atop Base Code in a variety of troubled ways.

When Braya Zachikova coded, or Alex Geninov played video games, or Homa Baumann read books on a portable computer, they were interacting primarily with features of Strata Code– these were the Programs most legible and understood to them, built on top of “Strata Functions” that were discovered to work through the expansion function of Base Code. Code that was not itself Base Code but was understood by the Predictor Computer. Knowledge of working Strata had been uncovered throughout the run of the A.D. years.

Therefore one arrived at the venerable “Strata Crab.”

There was a popular illustration of how computers worked in the Imbrium, known as the “Strata Crab.” The Crab was a program that wanted to do something, and its intended functionality was a tasty worm hiding somewhere beneath the sand. However many layers of sand, and the trajectory of the crab, illustrated the layered execution of Strata Code. There were several layers of cruft the Crab had to dig through to find its meal. A Program hit all of the working strata code in the right succession– dug through the layers correctly– to ultimately execute correctly. Of course, this was a simplification that also obscured the fact that a program, or crab, could also itself dump more sand on top– new Strata Code.

Or that most modern Strata Code was executed by flavors of “Silt Code” written in different, simpler programming languages developed over time that varied quite widely.

And so, on screens everywhere, the crab could be seen to dig, loading complex programs.

For those still following along with the history, the worm was in sight– video games.

One of the things Base Code could do was generate graphics. One of the things it did poorly was generate new graphics on command, rather than synthesizing environment graphics from natural sources. Strata Code was eventually invented to provide a graphical display layer for more things than just dataset text or predictive imaging graphics from sonar or LADAR data. However, this code ran devastatingly poorly at first. In addition it was difficult to eke out more performance from supercomputer hardware without impacting its ability to perform Base Code. Owing to a variety of economic, political and social reasons, the Imbrium did not put any of its engineering prowess behind the development of accessible computing or code execution for a very long time. But ultimately, enterprising generations of Imbrium engineers embarked on the creation of ancillary hardware, such as the various thin clients, which were in some ways more sophisticated units than the supercomputers– because they assisted in the running of feature-rich Strata Code.

Thus, the stage of history led inexorably to the video game console.

An ancillary piece of hardware specialized in innovative video game code and associated strata functions, to a degree previously thought impossible. Creating new, rich content experiences for civilians. Not simulations of military hardware, nor the realistic machine graphics used by films, but a brand new form of entertainment all its own. Beautiful, state of the art sprite characters easily generated by small devices, which could be moved on command by the players using various inputs. This allowed the setting of challenges for the player to overcome, the creation of stories for the player to experience and highly stylized characters some might have even considered more beautiful than life.

And it all began, with the hopelessly inscrutable Base Code, and the humble Strata Crab.

As for the Dendy itself– it was a somewhat sloppily reverse-engineered form of an Imbrian video game device that Alex Geninov played as a teenager in the Union during the Ahwalia years, where civilian entertainment products had a boom. That it ended up back in the Imbrium ocean where Imbrian video game enthusiasts became fascinated with this strange foreign device and its games, perhaps said something profound about society.

Or perhaps about Katarran smuggling predilections.

“I already have a headache.” Fernanda groaned.

“Huh? We haven’t even gotten to the title screen.” Alex said.

“I feel like just turning this thing on is radiating tedium.” Fernanda replied.

“I don’t get you. Just hush, you’ll love it when it actually starts.” Alex said.

On the screen, several progress bars appeared, and a graphic of a little crab digging.

Building pixel stores– compiling silt codes– pre-organizing post-routines–

Finally the title screen appeared: “The Solstice War.”

There was a young woman in a military uniform, looking through the glass of a digital porthole at a sphere of annihilation going off in the distance from a destroyed imperial ship. Everything was rendered in gorgeous 12-bit color 2D graphics. Sophisticated and stylized designs lent a certain beauty and attractiveness to the characters and made excellent aesthetic use of the color restrictions. Such was its style that gamers throughout the Union had fallen in love with the brooding, handsome, and charmingly autistic protagonist of the game, whose default name “Madiha” was used to represent her in various fanfictions and fanarts, erotic fancomics and even in small tribute fangames continuing her story.

Alex renamed the character upon starting a new game, to, of course, “Alex.”

“Why am I even here, gamer?” Fernanda grumbled.

“You haven’t played this one? I thought I’d get you to admit you had.”

“I have only read the erotic comics and fanfictions of it.”

“There’s a second player. You can name her after yourself.”

Alex pressed one of the buttons to move to the next screen.

Fernanda turned a bit red. She must have known what this entailed.

That second player had the default name “Parinita”– “Madiha’s” love interest.

Nevertheless, she did as she was instructed, renaming her to “Færn.”

Alex stared at the odd spelling. “Wait– is that like your–”

“Just get on with the game.” Fernanda warned.

At first blush, “The Solstice War” seemed like any standard “dungeon” game.

There was a protagonist and a supporting party member, they had parameters that determined the success and failure of certain challenges, they had items to collect. Maps of locations were presented to the player with “nodes” to which they could travel– these would then expand into “screens” of the dungeon that players could interact with in greater detail. There were battles, talking to NPCs, and puzzles to solve, either with logic, collected tools, or keys or other knickknacks uncovered along the way. Both Player 1 and Player 2 were asked to make decisions and could even separate, splitting the screen in half.

But “the Solstice War” was not known as a “dungeon” game, but a “storytelling” game.

Many challenges could be skipped with a careful eye to the character’s personalities and predilections. Charisma was the most powerful parameter, and a keen understanding of the magic spells, called “tactics” due to the game’s militaristic flavor, could enable the player to sidestep many difficulties. There were hundreds of thousands of lines of text to enrich the story and characters. Developing the love story between Player 1 and Player 2 was one of the game’s joys. Players 1 and 2 were sometimes asked to talk about each other.

Combat was there for those who desired it, but it was not strictly necessary.

This was all quite unlike “dungeon” games, known for their violence and treasure.

A collaborative storytelling experience about a romantic story.

Even across just the first hour of the game, Fernanda seemed to arrive at a burgeoning understanding of what made it special and unique among video games. Alex, who had played the game before, led Fernanda down a path that was richer in stories. She was gripped from the first scene, where “Alex” executed the corrupt military commander who had been verbally abusing “Færn” and blaming her for the many inefficiencies of the outpost. Just as “Færn” was stricken at first sight by the melancholy beauty of “Alex”, Fernanda herself realized they were written as tragic lovers and her face began to light up.

In the next scenes, the two navigated an attack by an Imperial force that outgunned and outnumbered the characters’ and the outpost’s forces. But through their bond, and timely decision-making, as well as “Alex” uncovering her hidden powers, they turned back the tide and bought the Union precious time. There would be more tribulations to come.

So began a story of war, conspiracy, betrayal, and sapphic love.

“Gamer. I hardly knew you had it in you, to appreciate culture like this.”

Alex grinned. “So what do you think of video games, huh? They’re an artform aren’t they?”

Fernanda grumbled. “Hmph! I never said I hated all video games! Don’t act so smug.”

It was not all rosy– some systems and solutions were a bit inscrutable.

Dialog was sometimes very convoluted. Fernanda loved this, Alex not so much.

And the audio was not great– especially on an old, well-traveled Dendy like this.

Room computers and wall-windows were not the best interfaces either.

Without a dedicated “gaming monitor” the fullest beauty of the graphics was lost.

However, by the second hour, the two were practically leaning against each other.

Unaware of their proximity due to how engrossed they had become in their roles.

Talking like one was Madiha and the other Parinita, working through the various challenges– and Alex pretending not to know the solutions, gleefully roleplaying along and letting Fernanda take the lead on what objects to interact with, who to talk to, what conversation strategies to use, what fights to pick and how to succeed. Though they would eventually have to go to sleep to get ready for their shift, Alex felt quite elated.

By the time they shut off the Dendy, Fernanda had Alex promise they would play again.


“Ah! I haven’t had such a good workout in forever! It’s nice to be back to the routine!”

“Hm. I guess it’s nice when the gym is kind of empty too. Though– it could be emptier.”

“Hey. You wound me. I spotted for you and everything.”

“Yeah you were a great help, and you had an amazing vantage point on my tits I bet.”

“Again, your sarcasm wounds me. Ascribing such impure motives.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I don’t actually care anyway. Take a gander as long as you like.”

Aside from the two figures in conversation, the Brigand’s gym was completely empty.

Just past the social area of the Brigand, also nearly empty at peak working hours, was the gym, a vital part of the operation. Everyone got a chance to use it if they liked, and everyone was encouraged to. Physical activity was important to keep a healthy body and mind on the ship and to pass the time healthily. To that end there was something for everyone. Running machines, staircase machines, and stationary bikes were popular. There were of course weights of all sizes, and racks for climbing and pull-ups; punching bags, a small sparring arena with a padded floor; and even a ten meter long range with adjustable targets for archery or air-guns. A dispenser for electrolyte-rich bottled drinks in two different flavors, stationed near the door, reminded everyone to keep hydrated as they worked.

Standing near the exercise machines, pilots Sameera Al-Shahouh Raisanen-Morningsun and Dominika Rybolovskaya stretched their arms and legs on top of padded plastic mats. They had just gotten done with their daily workouts. Not all pilots took exercise as seriously as they did, so they were often seen together at the gym even when it was nearly empty otherwise. This happened enough Sameera had begun to notice Dominika’s preferences– she was drawn to the archery range, the stair climb and the weights. Sameera in turn loved to push the exercise bike hard, and then she took out a lot of steam on the punching bag. She thought that perhaps Dominika was just more meticulous than her.

Lately, she thought a lot of things about Dominika.

Under the glow of the yellow sunlamps and the white LEDs, Dominika’s pink skin glistened with sweat as she stood to full height from stretching her legs. She went still for a moment, catching her breath, staring down at the floor in her shorts and sports bra. So lightly dressed, more of the chromatophores on her body were exposed, small bumps on her skin that glowed gently. They ran down her chest, on her hips, her back. Interspersed within her long red and brown hair were black-striped, fleshy strands dimly glowing.

And her eyes– bright pink with a blue limbal ring. Absolutely captivating.

They met, Sameera’s admiring gaze and Dominika’s narrow-eyed look of disdain.

Rather than scold her, Dominika sighed and turned around.

“You’re catching a shower too, aren’t you? Come on.” Dominika said.

Sameera was quite sweaty herself. Even the fur on her ears and tail was moist.

She smiled and followed behind Dominika.

To their shared surprise, the Brigand’s shower room was also pretty empty.

Dominika quickly threw off her sports bra and pulled down her shorts. She started walking toward the showers without acknowledging Sameera. Behind her, Sameera disrobed a bit slower. Dominika was so thin and lean and her figure almost nymph-like that she could not help but watch as she left her side. That she was a head taller than Dominika was a fact that buzzed around in her brain infrequently, and always ended up somewhere else.

After a truly laborious removal of her own sports bra and shorts, Sameera followed her to the showers. She sat next to her, set the temperature and dispersion of the showerhead, and relaxed as cool water crashed over her head. Two backs to the wall, smiling with relief as the sweat washed off them. Sameera undid her ponytail, and her long, wild brown hair fell over the sides of her and down her back. Her tail splashed on the water. There were no sounds but the running water and no smell but the shampoo and soap dispensers.

“Nika.”

“Sameera.”

Sameera laughed. “I heard there’s some kind of social function going on tonight.”

“You want to take me out on a date.” Dominika said. She shrugged. “We’re just on the ship it’s not like it’s anything special. So whatever– I’ll go with you. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic.” Sameera wagged her tail excitedly.

“What’s with you?” Dominika asked with evident, narrow-eyed disdain and skepticism.

“What are you asking?” Sameera replied, acting dumb.

“I mean–” Dominika reached behind herself and switched the water from falling in a mostly uniform stream to widely dispersed pattern. “I had fun on our date in Kreuzung, but if you think I’ve fallen in love with you or something– I’m not so easily impressed. You can’t just act like it’s a given I’m letting you have me. You’re not so charming that you can just–”

“Oh? You want to be pursued more aggressively then?”

Sameera practically sprang. Cornering Dominika under her showerhead.

One arm on the wall, another on the floor, their faces centimeters from each other.

Eye to eye, nearly nose to nose. Dominika lying back against the wall. Sameera atop.

Locked eyes, a bigger body, a hunger in her eyes and mischief on her face.

Sameera inched forward and took Dominika’s lips into a kiss.

Tasting her briefly, feeling her out, tentative but energetic–

At no point did Dominika struggled or kick her off.

Encouraged, Sameera slipped her tongue past Dominika’s teeth.

Raising a hand to hold Dominika’s cheek, closing her eyes, kissing her with ardor.

She had demonstrated her intent.

Approached, played, savored– and stepped back.

Smiling with the width of a finger between herself and Dominika.

“Was that more impressive?” Sameera asked.

Dominika averted her gaze, keeping a neutral expression.

“Only– a little– playboy.” She said, struggling to catch her breathe.

Never had such critical words made Sameera so contented.

She winked and got off of Dominika and sat next to her again, laughing.

“At least I know the right direction to take!” Sameera laughed.

Dominika grunted, but smiled just a little.

As much as Sameera liked when Dominika played hard to get, reciprocity was far sweeter.

In the shower, Sameera’s hand laid over Dominika’s hand and was not refused.


Having sailed for months by now, the Brigand’s crew was used to the rhythm of daily activity and they had gained some confidence in their response times should an alarm sound. Union ships valued a balance of readiness and morale. Because the crew had been through so much recently, Captain Korabiskaya had the idea to stage a screening of a film so everyone could get together, relax and have some communal fun for a few hours after work.

She left the decision of what film to show–

To First Officer Murati Nakara. Whose eyes drew quite wide upon hearing the news.

“I– this is– this is a bit sudden.” Murati said.

“Just look at the ship library and see what interests you, Murati!” Ulyana said cheerfully.

“You need to get used to making command decisions again.” Aaliyah said bluntly.

Murati blinked. “I’ve– I’ve been making decisions– I’ve been working hard–”

Even she knew this was not exactly the case. Certainly, Murati had not been doing nothing this whole time. She had been in important meetings. She had delegated a few tasks to her own subordinates. She had gone over Diver combat data working with Valya, and wrangled Aatto– but she had also been writing her book an awful lot handn’t she?

And mostly posting a lot on ZaChat the past day–

Neither of her superiors would have it– Murati had a command decision delegated to her.

“Just pick something, Murati. We’ll show it tonight. It’ll be fine, pick anything.”

“No, Captain! Murati, don’t just pick anything. Pick something that will improve morale.”

Two pats on the back was all she got after that. Murati was left to make the decision.

A few minutes later, she had made her way further to the back of the ship.

Walking stiffly and with a clearly troubled expression.

Crossing the door into her wife’s laboratory.

“Hubby! You’ve come to visit! I haven’t seen you in days!”

Karuniya Maharapratham called out in a sweet voice and clapped her hands together.

“You see me every day.” Murati mumbled this so as to be just barely audible.

“So what has dragged you away from your book, to see your boring old ball and chain?”

“Karu– please– I’m not that bad to you am I–?”

Eventually Karuniya stopped teasing Murati and invited her to a desk around the back of the tree. They sat together and Murati confided her predicament to her wife. It was not necessarily that Murati did not know any films. She had seen films, played video games– she had experienced entertainment. However, none of those things were her first choice for distractions. She was much more of a reader. What movies did sailors enjoy?

Weren’t they rowdy and rambunctious? She had always been cloistered among officers.

“I’m so glad you confided in me, Murati.” Karuniya said. “Your salvation is here.”

She raised an index finger pointedly and winked at Murati.

“Are you a film fan Karu? I really had no idea. We always went to restaurants or concerts.”

Karuniya crossed her arms, and smiled with great confidence.

“I am not an expert. But I can make trivial decisions without thinking about them so much.”

Murati raised a hand over her face. “Karu– Come on– This is serious here–”

“I don’t understand why you are soooo anxious, Murati.” Karuniya said, giggling.

“This is a command decision Karuniya! Captain Korabiskaya and Commissar Aaliyah must be wondering if I can handle the burdens of a commissioned officer and judging whether I can be promoted. I let my guard down and kept working on my book and testing Zachikova’s program, and now this. This can’t be something trivial– they are testing me.”

Karuniya stared at her for a moment, laid a hand over her mouth and stifled a laugh.

“Murati, you really are so cute. I’m so glad I have you wrapped around my finger.”

In turn, her hubby met her eyes with a helpless expression.

That was what it took for her to realize she was being just a bit ridiculous.

“I’m glad you think so, though I object to this characterization.” Murati said, sighing.

Karuniya reached out and squeezed Murati’s hand for comfort.

“I’ll look at the media library with you, and we will pick a movie together.”

“I’ve only got a few hours to pick something. It’s going on tonight. It’s just so sudden.”

“It’ll be fun! Just don’t take it so seriously. Between the two of us, we’ll find something.”

Silently, Murati thanked Karuniya so much for deflating all the tension in her chest.

Taking up a chair next to Murati, Karuniya brought a portable computer for both to use. She accessed the Brigand’s onboard media library, which served the books, music, comics, art collections, programs and films that were approved by the Union Navy. With a few taps of Karu’s slender fingers, she brought up the library of films. There were hundreds of films to choose from. A few independent or classic Imbrian films with “appropriate ideological content” were canonized as part of the Union’s “film history.” But the Union also had a film culture that had produced a few hundred films in the nation’s twenty year existence. There was movie-making going on even during the Revolution.

As soon as there had been a Union, there had also been Union film-making.

Everything from comedies to dramas, romances, morality plays, action stories, and propaganda pieces. They could sort the media library based on a lot of criteria, like the year and the genre, but they looked through everything just to see what was on offer. Karuniya arrived at a good suggestion as they scrolled through. She figured that sailors would appreciate a good comedy. Everyone could use a laugh, and even the cheapest jokes could draw one out, but not all people had a taste for romantic films or dramas.

“That is a very good point. Narrows it down, but it’s still so much.” Murati said.

Karuniya tipped her head closer to Murati, leaning into her while showing her the films.

“Oh, look at this one. A comedy about a ne’er-do-well father-in-law ending up being cared for by his son and the son’s newlywed bride. Sounds like universally-beloved shenanigans!”

“I don’t know that I want to sit and think about these particular themes for an entire night.”

“Huh? But your taste shouldn’t matter– well, look here! There’s a raunchy sex comedy!”

“The Commissar would absolutely object to this! I don’t even know how that got in there.”

“It’s there because we’re all adults who fuck, Murati. Jeez– okay, how about this?”

“A comedy about an Imperial falling into a coma and waking up in the Union during the early years of the Jayasankar regime, experiencing culture shock–? I don’t know. I think we have enough culture shock right now. We want them to take their minds off things right?”

“How is it you’re being this sensitive? They’re sailors–! Oh! Look at this one!”

Karuniya pointed her finger at a movie called “Supply Ship Groza.”

Physical comedy taking place in an inter-station supply ship. It seemed light-hearted.

“Karu, I think this might be the one!” Murati smiled.

Suddenly, she put an arm around Karuniya, pulled her close and kissed her on the cheek.

“Thank you! This is perfect. I’ll send this to Semyonova. She’ll help set up the projection.”

Karuniya rubbed up against Murati with a placid little smile.

“You’re welcome. But I require a reward for my services.” She said mischievously.

“Oh?”

“First, you’re going to take me to the movie tonight.”

Then, Karuniya raised a hand to Murati’s cheek and drew her in for a deeper kiss.

It was a quick embrace– but her tongue crossed Murati’s lips in its span.

When Karuniya drew back she looked Murati in the eyes.

“Second, you’re going to do more than kiss me after the movie.”

That coquettish grin on her face said it all.

Murati felt the tensions of mere minutes ago wholly leave her body.

To be replaced by other, more electric sensations.

“You know I can’t ever say no to that face. I’m all yours, Karu.”


Semyonova announced the movie night on every screen in the Brigand, so everyone was instantly made aware of it. It came as a pleasant surprise with immediate effect. There was a burst of excitement from all corners, slightly deflated when a clarifying announcement was issued that there would not be liquor rations. Still, the mood was electric, with everyone in the halls wondering what movie would be shown and looking forward to it.

Homa Baumann was not planning to go watch the movie.

She had woken up in the afternoon and had her wholly vegetarian dinner and felt off.

From the operating table in Dr. Kappel’s office, she was back in the infirmary.

Waiting.

“Sorry Homa! I got pulled aside to take care of the bridge for a bit!”

Through the door into the infirmary, Kalika Loukia reappeared with a bag in hand.

Homa stared at her with an unfriendly expression.

“Was I gone that long?” Kalika asked.

Homa sighed. “Whatever. I don’t care.” She raised her voice, almost without meaning to.

Kalika smiled. “I hoped the prosthetics would cheer you up a bit– I understand though.”

She unzipped the bag and laid some clothes on the bed where Homa was seated.

There was a sleeveless white button-down shirt, a teal half-length jacket with long sleeves, a pair of pants and a skirt both of which were black, a set of white underwear, a green tie, and a pair of shoes. This was the uniform she had seen most people on the ship wearing. Everything was cheaply synthestitched, and the shoes especially looked a bit formless and unappealing. Homa would have to ask if they could give her work boots back.

“I’m not wearing a tie. Can they synthestitch me some casual clothes?” Homa grumbled.

“No~” Kalika bent down a bit and flicked Homa’s nose gently.

For a moment, that little teasing brush felt almost scandalous. Could she do that?

It was the momentary outrage that gave Homa some perspective on her own behavior.

Still– she was not able to fully control herself. Her tone of voice remained a bit elevated.

“Ugh. I get it– I’m being a brat. I’ll just– I’ll just shut up then!” Homa said.

Kalika remained bent forward in front of Homa and leaned even closer.

Speaking almost nose to nose with Homa’s face. A small smile on her red lips.

“I’ve told you, I understand you’re frustrated. I’m not going to ask you to pretend everything is fine. But I also am not giving carte blanche for you to yell at me all day. Let’s cool it a bit. Take a deep breath.” Kalika looked at Homa expectantly. “Deep breath, Homa.”

With Kalika right in front of her face, she could not refuse.

Homa drew in a deep breath.

Then she let it out.

There was nowhere for it to go so she practically blew right into Kalika’s face.

Kalika did not look bothered by it. She looked more content than before.

“Feel any better?”

“No?”

Her head and chest felt a bit less tight and knotted after she let the air out.

But she did not want Kalika to be right.

So she denied anything changed.

“Alright.” Kalika drew back from Homa and gestured to the clothes. “Pants or skirt?”

“That’s actually a really hard decision for me.” Homa said.

“It’s not a final decision, though. You can always wear one or the other.” Kalika said.

“I don’t know, Kalika. Do I look like I should be wearing a skirt?”

“You would look lovely in a skirt. Take it from a real fashionista.”

Homa’s ears folded against her head. She averted her gaze.

“No offense– I’ll just take the pants for now.”

“None taken. Would you like to dress yourself, or would you like my help?”

“I’ll do it.”

Kalika turned her back to Homa. “I can whip right back whenever you want me to.”

They had already seen each other completely naked before, but Homa appreciated Kalika having discretion nevertheless. If she struggled with dressing herself, Homa did not want someone staring at her and trying to gauge whether to jump in to save her or not. That would have made her furious. It made her a lot less self-conscious about relying on Kalika to assist if she could choose at any time when to cut her out or let her in.

Homa reached the end of her hospital gown.

Her biological fingers, and the fingers of her mechanical hand, closed around the hem.

She pulled it up and off of her body. As natural as breathing.

Nothing odd happened.

So far the prosthetic was responding fine.

Homa grabbed the synthetic brassiere, put her arms through.

Reached behind her back.

Her mechanical fingers dropped the clips a few times. It was a tiny bit frustrating.

Nevertheless, with time, her quite modest breasts were quite modestly covered up.

Similar to the brassier clips, it was a bit of a challenge to button up the shirt. Holding really small things in her hands and manipulating them precisely was strange. Her fingers on the prosthetics would drop and slip over the buttons, and even if she tried to switch the hand she was using, it was tough to hold the fabric around the button-hole open. Her hand was just so much clumsier than she was used to, and she could not feel it, no touch, no smoothness of synthcloth nor the roughness of the hard button.

Just as with the brassiere, however, the shirt was buttoned up in due time.

Homa clenched her jaw and let out a low hiss.

With the shirt on, she put on the panties and the black pants she had been given.

No problems with those. Everything fit fine and the efforts to put them on were simple.

Finally, she slipped the shoes right on. Cheap shoes like these just fit like a thick sock.

“I’m done.” Homa said.

Kalika turned around. She clapped her hands. “Look at this handsome young lady!”

“C’mon.”

“You really were serious about the tie huh? Don’t you want to look really professional?”

“Not interested.”

“Fair enough.” Kalika held out her hands.

Homa looked at them for a moment before raising her own arms and taking them.

Entwining her fingers and Kalika’s own. Kalika gently urged Homa stand.

To get her legs off the bed, Homa turned sideways.

She set her prosthetic leg on the floor first. Shifted her weight on it, tested its strength.

Everything seemed firm but–

For a moment, as she made the effort to stand, she could feel the flesh weighing on metal.

There was an uncomfortably cold sensation because of this.

Alarming as it was at first, Homa choked the feelings down, and made to stand straight.

Kalika held her hands tightly, supporting her.

“Do you want to try taking a step?”

Homa nodded her head. She lifted her prosthetic leg, inched forward, set it down.

Again she felt that cold sensation where the metal met flesh, but it was not as bad as before.

However, as soon as she set her foot down, she felt her weight slide a bit.

Kalika steadied her as she stepped back herself.

She cooed to Homa as they walked. One solid step; one clumsy step; one solid step.

“Good, good. Take it easy, one step at a time.”

“Okay.”

“Everything in the world worth doing can be done one step at a time.”

“I don’t need your amateur therapy during all this.”

“One step at a time, and you’ll be less grouchy in no time.”

Kalika laughed a little. Homa grumbled.

She held that hand tight however, felt Kalika’s own steel fingers with her own flesh.

Mirrored her steps, relied on her guidance, leaned into her when near falling.

For a moment, holding Kalika’s hands and walking step by step, almost with grace–

It almost felt like dancing, which Homa had never really done. But she had read about it.

Seen it in films; fantasized about it, maybe, once or twice. Dancing with someone nice.

Homa was not some hero, she chastised herself.

Kalika was not her storybook princess.

But–

it made it easier, and feel better, to think of the infirmary as a grand ballroom.

Her fingers closed tighter around Kalika’s hand.

She met her eyes more closely than before.

Step, by step.

Their little clumsy storybook dance down the aisle across from the beds.

It made Homa feel a little bit more whole than she was before.

Her steel walls and the plastic smell, took on color, took on a floral scent, took on grandeur.

“See? You’re doing great. Soon you won’t need to hold anyone’s hand.”

A chill ran down Homa’s back that she would not admit.

Because she immediately thought–

“I still want to hold your hand.”

She did not say this out loud. She did not want to admit it. She felt ashamed of it.

Such feelings were useless to hold for someone who only pitied her.

And Homa had already been hurt a few times by allowing herself such vulnerability.

Nevertheless. Nevertheless. Nevertheless.


“Sonya’s taking me out to a movie! I could turn gold with happiness!”

“What ‘taking you out’? It takes minutes to walk down from my room–”

“Sonya’s taking me out~ Sonya’s taking me out~”

Shalikova looked at Maryam bobbing her head happily and simply smiled.

They walked down the hall holding hands, toward the social area.

Game tables, couches and other furniture were moved or folded into the floor. Chairs were set up for the movie watchers; there was not enough space for everyone so a similar arrangement was made in the middle of the hangar so more would get a chance to join a movie-watching party. Dispensers for pickles, bread, broth and watered-down juice were moved from the cafeteria to the social pod and hangar to give everyone easier access to snacks. On the stage a black rectangle appeared on the wall to demonstrate where the film would be displayed from. As Shalikova and Maryam approached and took a seat at the back row of chairs, there were already dozens of people seated and chatting lively.

There was a lot of curiosity, since the film to be shown was kept secret.

“Sonya, I bet you’ve seen so many movies.” Maryam said.

“Not a lot actually.” Shalikova said. “I preferred the arcade when I was bored.”

“Oh right! You did say you were the ‘terror of the tables’!” Maryam said.

“Not so loud.” Shalikova whispered. “But yes I played a lot of table games back when I was in school. Pool, and table hockey and tennis and all that. All the student lounges had a bunch. Solstice had nice arcades too. I liked going around town looking for them. You could wander off in any direction and find lounges and games. Theaters were a bit less prevalent.”

“I haven’t seen very many movies.” Maryam said. “Do you not like them, Sonya?”

She must have noticed Shalikova’s sour expression as she waited for the movie to start.

“No, it’s just– theaters are really crowded. With pool or whatever it was just a few guys.”

And just like a theater, the social pod was now quite crowded.

Shalikova endured it for Maryam’s sake, however.

It was very difficult to infect Shalikova with enthusiasm, but Maryam was so happy that she could not help herself but to crack a little smile. Watching her on the edge of her seat, hands on her lap, staring at the screen with stars in her w-shaped eyes. Bobbing her head with enthusiasm and waiting for the scenes to fill with color. Maryam had been through so much– and she was on this damn ship now going through even more tribulations.

She deserved a moment of excitement and levity.

To be taken care of and made to smile.

Everyone on the ship deserved it, really. These were the moments they worked hard for.

So when the lights dimmed, and the screen lit up with the film and everyone clapped–

Shalikova reached out and squeezed Maryam’s hand in the dark, for her own happiness.


Movie night came and went, with applause, laughs and a brief respite.

“Supply Ship Groza” became a new favorite among the sailors. Around the halls and hangar they could be heard quoting the jokes at each other, and calling each other Mykolas, after the clumsy protagonist. Having a social function was good change of pace. For everyone, they spent some cherished time shoulder to shoulder, but the work, as always, continued. It was a new day, the Brigand and Rostock were ever closer to Aachen.

It was busy again, and might soon get even busier.

Officers led a different life, however.

On that morning, Murati stood outside of the brig.

She was quite happy with last night. But the task in front of her was a daunting one.

Once the door opened– out walked the task. In full Treasure Box Transports uniform.

Bushy brown tail swinging behind her, now coming out of black uniform pants. Her brown hair tied into a very professional ponytail, a garrison cap between her tall ears. Shirt buttoned up completely this time, a brand new jacket in freshly synthestitched teal. Afforded a ration of makeup she had used to doll herself up quite presentably.

An almost comically saccharine smile on her face upon seeing Murati.

“Chief Petty Officer Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather! Reporting for adjutant duties!”

Murati could hardly believe these were words she had to hear.

“How do I look master? It’s such a cute uniform. A very clever disguise.”

“I told you not to call me ‘Master’. How many times do I have to say it?”

“But it befits your great stature and the profound respect I have for you!”

In fact, Aatto had made out like a bandit.

Normally, defectors were viewed as something of a burden to their new country. They probably had a limited amount of intelligence, and limited military utility. Under normal circumstances, unless it was a Katarran mercenary with a crew, a defector was unlikely to be allowed to keep their military rank, or join the host nation’s military. Defectors were usually just a small influx of specific intelligence, and a moral victory for the host.

Because of the Brigand’s unique situation, however, Aatto was getting golden treatment. The Brigand had to be open to defectors as a way to acquire manpower. She had actually been advanced a rank– in the Volkisch, she would now be a Scharführer instead of a Rottenführer. Special assignment adjutants to commissioned officers could not be entry-level Petty Officers. Delegating work to someone with minimal clearance who lacked the rank even to organize the specialists was a waste of everyone’s time, so Aatto had to have a senior non-commission rank. If it worked out with Aatto, raising the Brigand’s practical skeleton crew of officers by one was a significant boon to acquire.

Of course, it might not work out with Aatto. She was a former Volkisch after all.

“We are not going to have a big fight about this. It’s decided. She’s your responsibility, Murati.” The Commissar had said. “I believe you when you say she wants to turn over a new leaf. The Captain and I had this conversation prior– we can’t refuse even Volkisch defectors at this point, and you could use somebody to assist you. But you can consider this a test of your judgment. We are trusting you, not just her; and if she burns us, it’s on you.”

Murati could be putting everyone at risk, and even moreso, her chances for a promotion.

With a sigh, she turned over a portable computer to Aatto.

She then set her shoulders, took a deep breath and fixed her gaze on the Loup.

Taking one step into her personal space and standing taller than her counterpart.

“This is yours because it is crucial to your work. It’s disconnected from the network and contains all the data your clearance allows plus some educational products. For now, you will work off this device and if you need anything not on it, you will request it through me. Prove to me that you are reliable and trustworthy and you can get access to the network. Just know and understand this, with great specificity, Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather: if you scheme against or betray us, I’ll follow you to the ends of Aer to tear you limb from limb!”

Murati jabbed her finger into Aatto’s chest, frustration clearly spilling out of her.

She had hoped to sound commanding and intimidating, but lost control to her passions.

Her speech had an effect, however.

Aatto’s eyes drew wider, her grin more twisted, smoldering with a bizarre euphoria.

She clutched the portable computer to her chest, her entire body shaking.

“There it is! That grand and dominating power dormant within you–! Such radiance–!”

“I’m being serious!” Murati shouted back at her.

“Of course– of course–” Aatto’s breathing became briefly troubled. “I live only to support you and witness your deeds! I will absolutely, without a doubt, employ every part of this body in most excellent service! Master, what ordeals will you subject me to today?”

Why did she sound so happy to be subjected to ordeals?!

Just as Murati struggled to think of a reprimand Aatto would not somehow enjoy–

There was a voice, low but with an undertone of distress, coming from all directions.

Accompanied by flashing red lights from high on every wall.

It hardly had to be said– before she understood the voice Murati felt she already knew.

“Alert Semyon! Alert Semyon! All personnel shift immediately to duty Semyon!”

Fatima al-Suhar was sounding an alert from the sonar station on the bridge.

One that they had heard a few times already– alert Semyon meant combat stations.

“Master, is this a combat alert?” Aatto asked with vivid excitement in her voice.

There was no time to try to correct her bizarre fascinations.

Once again the currents were sending sharp steel the Brigand’s way.

Murati and the rest of the crew would have to hurry to meet it, for all they held dear.


Previous ~ Next

Mourners After The Revel [12.3]

Gefreiter— what is the fate of the Loup? Tell me– what you’ve forsaken.”

In the shadow of the Patriarch, standing raised upon the church stage, a great gold sun disc hanging on the wall at his back– there was a girl in her blue sailor uniform, ears folded, tail held straight and alert. Around them the church was like a suffocating cage of hard-edged shadows cut only by candles and torches on the stage. A red gleam exposed the severe expression of the Patriarch from around his long hair and thick beard.

“Answer me, Gefreiter— what is the fate of the Loup? Do you know better than God?”

She knew the answer she would not speak.

Just as he knew her name and would not use it.

Loup were born into servitude.

Servitude to God, through worship; Servitude to the state, through following of the rightful authorities; Servitude to the Family, and to the Father above all. God, the King, the Father of his House, they were all tiered delineations of the same principal figure of absolute power and respect. Loup valued order, authority, and were born to defend both.

“Salvation is a grueling process.” Said the Patriarch. “It begins, it continues, it never ends, until the Sun finally shines upon you and takes you into the firmament. Salvation requires baptism, its beginning; then it requires supplication and worship, to sustain it. Loup, Gefreiter, are a people of great humility and supplication. Our virtue is to toil in life so we can smile in heaven. But look at you; an apostate under my roof. You wear the uniform of a state you betrayed; given life by a God you swear against; and so you wear the skin of a people you reject! You spit on everything that we are. You humiliated us; humiliated me. ”

“She was my mother.” The Gefreiter finally spoke. “She was your wife!”

Tears formed in her eyes. She cast a helpless, wavering gaze up at the looming Patriarch.

“You were supposed to protect her! You speak of my betrayal; you betrayed her!”

From the stage a swift kick struck the girl in the neck and knocked her on her back.

“Silence! You are truly her child! You hellspawn! I ought to split your skull open!”

“That’s enough Gregor. Or you will meet the same fate to which you consigned your wife.”

White light cut across the center of the red streaked darkness of the church.

Casting the Patriarch into the long shadow of another man much like him, approaching.

Dressed in a black and gold uniform, a tall hat. On his ears and tail, the fur deeply grayed.

At his side was a younger woman in a similar attire, swarthy-skinned and dark-haired.

The two Inquisitors approached the church stage to shield the girl from the Patriarch.

When the girl reached the side of the Gefreiter she made to assist her–

“No, Gertrude. Not yet.” Warned the older man. He turned to face the Patriarch.

“Samoylovych. The southern heretic.” Said the Patriarch, disdain ample in his voice.

“Gregor.” High Inquisitor Samoylovych replied. “I’ve come to reclaim Imbrian property. That’s how you see us, isn’t it? I am appalled with you. I cannot stop the Council of Officers from enabling zealots like you; but Aatto is completely innocent. She was not in league with anyone, nor plotting anything; she is just a scared girl witnessing the destruction of her family. You cannot charge her with capital crime as you see fit. Even in the Host.”

Never once did the Patriarch cede from his position. His tail swayed gently behind him.

He was not rattled by the words of the High Inquisitor. In his eyes there was only zeal.

“I have done nothing in my life out of convenience.” The Patriarch said. “I have only ever done what was required of me by God or country. To have brought a child into the world with a liberal and a blasphemer and traitor, is a shame to me, a shame to my country and a shame to the Church; and I have done my duty in setting it right. I was tested; I stood with God.”

“And what? You will murder your daughter for God? Is that in the Revealed Truths?”

“Salvation is a grueling process.” The Patriarch said. “None of us can escape the Destiny that God sees in the instant of our birth, Samoylovych. That is why we must submit to the church and the Revealed Truth and set aside our hubris. Leniency nurtured vipers in my home. You ask what I will do? I will repent until my death; and remain devoted to the rightful order.”

The Patriarch turned his back on the Inquisitors and disappeared into the back of the church.

High Inquisitor Samoylovych grunted. He stomped his foot on the floor.

Putting a crack in the tiles. He let out a wheezing cough from the exertion.

“Inquisitor Samoylovych,” Gertrude Lichtenberg asked, “what will we do with the girl?”

“We’ll take her, of course. She can still serve in Rhinea or Veka.” Samoylovych sighed.

On the floor, Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather looked up at the gold sun on the wall of the church with terror in her face. As if staring at the candle-lit face of God itself, a horrifying God of blood-letting that longed to devour her. That sign of the collective immiseration of the Loup in the pursuit of further submission to the will of the Divine. That Sun and the God it represented and the teachings that were associated with it had destroyed more human lives than anything in the world; they had destroyed all of Aatto’s life as she had lived it and everything she cherished. In an instant, it had blinked, and the force of its shutting eyes ended her long-held stability. Submission to what family? Submission to what state? Submission to what God? She had nothing and was helpless to do anything!

Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather’s life as she had known it ended without warning.

“None of us can escape Destiny.” She mumbled to herself. Weeping profusely.

“He’s wrong.” Samoylovych said. “The power to defy Destiny exists. But those who wield it have turned their backs on the Loup and on the atrocity of the Host. That is the truth.”

Aatto would ponder those words for years. Perhaps far longer than Samolovych intended.


Since they left Kreuzung, the Brigand resumed a feverish level of activity.

In the halls, sailors and technicians and engineers, of which the Brigand had well over a hundred, went from repair jobs to meetings, from the hangar to the cafeteria, from work to bed, having but a lunch and three twenty minute breaks throughout the day with which to decompress. It was busier than it had been during their expeditions in Goryk.

Chief among the reasons for this heightened activity was the depth. In Thassal, Cascabel and Serrano, the average depth of human activity was between 900 to 1500 meters deep. It was in these depths that the Brigand had been built and though it was tested at up to 2500 meters in the Nectaris Continental Rift, it was not ran for weeks and months in such depths. Eisental’s floor was on average 1800 to 2800 meters deep, just narrowly avoiding Hadal or Deep Abyss depths. The Brigand would be at this depth for an indeterminate period.

As such, the Brigand was subject to close to twice as much strain from the depths, since the deeper the water, the greater the pressure on all systems of the ship. There was no fear that the Brigand would suddenly spring a leak and explode completely– if that were the case all of humanity would have gone extinct already. Pressure hulls were very sturdy, and advanced forms of flood mitigation, as well as the presence of sealant gel in the centers of plate structures and between the armor and pressure hulls, meant that strikes from ordnance were actually survivable for the internal modules. It was very rare for a ship to implode from mishandling. It had to be considered as a possibility, but it was still rare.

However, the actual routine problem was with small parts. Particularly, the water system and electrical infrastructure. Water for the hydrojets was sucked in through intakes using powerful turbines and pumps– from there, some water was diverted into internal tanks, the crew water system, and reactor cooling. Then the water would go back out eventually, either directly through the hydrojets or fed out of waste chutes or reactor control pipeline.

Pipes inside the pressure hull were prone to leaks, and because the water system had to work harder and under more stress, it demanded more electricity, stressing the electric systems and possibly stressing the reactor core array as well. Sailors and technicians’ time at these depths was spent monitoring for leaks, actively monitoring power, swapping any electrical and electromechanical parts that were stressed or failing, and most importantly, tightly planning maintenance, replacement and recycling of such crucial parts.

Almost anything on the Brigand could fed into the ferricycler to be turned into mineral mush that would then be fed into stitcher machines to make new usable parts to cycle back in. But at some point, new, unrecycled parts had to be introduced back into the system– there were unavoidable diminishing returns involved in recycling parts continuously.

Other things that broke with some regularity included doors, kitchen appliances, the games in the social area, and most of all, the Divers. Divers had to be considered “broke” the instant they left the ship, because their anti-corrosion coatings would start wearing off, joints would take a beating, and small instruments like the sensors would certainly receive some abuse. This was before the sailors considered any battle damage the Divers took on top of that unavoidable wear. As such the hangar saw frequent spikes in activity.

On mission, the sailors kept pretty busy. There was always something to do.

Therefore, the Brigand’s halls and hangar always saw at least some people moving through.

Sonya Shalikova, meanwhile, had precious little to do on any ordinary day.

As an officer and a pilot, she had the privilege of relaxation.

In exchange, she braved the ocean in defense of the ship, risking her life every sortie.

Not everyone was cut out for that.

There were some people who had panic attacks just seeing the empty black ocean all around them, their spotlights unveiling only the endlessly falling rain of biological matter known as the marine fog. Others became greatly sick from the way the Diver moved out in the water, as the Strelok or even the Cheka cockpit was poorly stabilized. Still more refused to have anything to do with the endeavor, as unlike a ship, it was quite easy for a Diver to receive any sort of damage and fail catastrophically, since their hulls were much thinner.

For Sonya Shalikova, throwing her life into this maelstrom was all she knew how to do.

It had never been a question of whether or not to pilot a Diver.

Piloting was all she had to give to the world. Or so she thought.

Lately, at least, she had experienced a few positive additions to her worldview.

She had forgiven herself for the death of her sister Zasha.

Rather than throwing away her life because she felt useless and listless doing otherwise–

Shalikova now wanted to fight to protect her crew and many precious persons aboard.

To uphold Zasha’s memory and the wishes she had for Shalikova.

Fighting to enjoy her moments of happiness; rather than fighting out of a sense of misery.

So now, as she wandered the halls full of sailors, with nothing to do herself,

rather than think,

I’m so useless– all of these people are the real heroes,

she instead reminded herself,

I need to relax more– no use being high-strung then flaming out when it matters.

Taking care of herself and her body and mind was part of her responsibilities as a pilot.

Her free time, that privilege, was also part of the needs of the job.

But–

Ever since the escape from Kreuzung’s core station, something had been bothering her.

They had an encounter outside Kreuzung. Shalikova recalled not only the psionic powers of the enemy pilot and her fearsome aura, but also the sturdiness of a new type of Diver she had been piloting. It had withstood several close bursts from the Cheka’s AK-96 assault rifle. Firing from a distance at a moving target would have severely diminished the effectiveness of the rifle’s 37 mm supercavitating rounds. These weapons had an effectiveness that sharply declined beyond 50 meters or so. In the water, if you could see something to shoot it, it was only then that it was in the effective range of a Diver assault rifle.

However, Shalikova had fired from close range on a stationary enemy, several times.

Everyone else seemed to overlook this freakish durability, but Shalikova could not.

Murati might say that with appropriate tactics, they could still defeat this new model.

Shalikova, who experienced it first-hand, began to believe they needed stronger weapons.

She was not savvy enough to determine what they could do with their current resources.

So she ultimately decided to take the concern to someone who could research it better.

“Valya, do you have a moment?”

“Oh! Shalikova and Maryam! Just a sec!”

These days Shalikova never went anywhere without her brightly smiling marshmallow.

So even as she walked the halls, Maryam was always following along.

Valya could most easily be found in the hangar, where they had increasingly taken on the role of the squad mechanic for the 114th, the Brigand’s assigned Diver unit. In the center of the hangar, along the walls, there were several gantries, each of which held a Diver aloft. Metal arms assisted the Diver so it would not need to stand under its own power while recharging and while undergoing repairs. They also held the machines in place as the ship maneuvered. Shalikova met Valya in the shadow of a Strelok, still the most common mecha in the hangar despite several recent acquisitions. It was the mainstay of the Union soldier.

Like all Divers it was roughly person-shaped, with an oblong cockpit encased in explosive-resistant armor plates that met precisely on the center of the chest, where they could open to allow entry. A hip section attached a pair of legs slightly offset of the cockpit, while a pair of shoulder sections affixed the arms. Atop this stocky body plan was a rectangular, roughly square head. Two cheek plates held together an array of cameras and sensors hidden behind bullet-proof glass, the “eyes” of the machine. Behind the machine were the main thrusters, fed by water from the shoulder and hip intakes. Mounted on a multi-sectioned “backpack,” the jets could rotate as two independent sets for greater maneuverability.

Shalikova whistled when she saw the state of the machine. This Strelok was receiving some specific attention. The unpainted steel plates on its legs having been taken off along with the cap on the hydrojet intakes set into the Diver’s knee that fed its legs jets. In addition, the support thruster for that leg had been removed and set aside. Known commonly as a “vernier” or “solid fuel” thruster– the latter moniker had come to refer to the fact the thruster was not electric, and in truth the fuel used by the Union was usually cheap liquid, though staged-burn solid compounds were higher quality. Under the armor, additional structural plates had their bolts removed and were peeled off, exposing flexible pipe, wires and the inner workings of the Strelok’s knee, such as the mechanical joints.

Inside the exposed metal there was a layer of black-brown grime that had accumulated.

“Coming down!”

Climbing down from a ladder, Valya removed their goggles, leaving a streak of grime on their own cheek. They smiled at Shalikova and Maryam with a refreshingly sunny demeanor. Dressed in a black sports bra beneath a half open gray jumpsuit, soaked in sweat and smelling of grease and metal. Some grime had even streaked over Valya’s salmon-pink hair, which they had not put a cap over while working. With a heavy tool in one hand, and the other waving jovially, Shalikova thought Valya was truly in their element.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you! It looks like a lot of work.” Shalikova said.

“Well, I’m already down! So it’s fine. There’s plenty of time to get back at it!”

Shalikova had thought of Valya as a reserved person, but they seemed to light up more when they were able to work on the machines. Despite the clear grueling effort they were going through, they never seemed to shine as brightly and talk as confidently as when they were covered in grime with a tool in their hands and safety goggles pushed up over their hair.

“Is something wrong with the Diver?” Maryam asked.

One of her tentacles flicked toward the Strelok’s bared knee.

Valya followed the tentacle with their eyes, then laughed.

“Just a routine checkup. It’s filthy inside, isn’t it? This is the Strelok that Ahwalia trashed back in Goryk, and then it got fixed up and returned to the reserve. Recently a sailor piloted it to go out and check how the missile launch bay covers were holding up in the water. When the sailor was on his way back, the leg jet started getting sticky. I think it had microfractures this whole time in the leg so the jet was losing a tiny bit of water into the plates.”

“Wouldn’t it explode or something?” Maryam asked.

“Nope, the leg interiors are not pressurized, but it is still a problem.”

“I see, I see.”

Shalikova patted Maryam on the shoulder, silently asking her to defer questions for now.

Maryam noticed and nodded her head.

“Valya,” Shalikova turned to the salmon-pink haired pilot, “I need to talk to you.”

“Ah, they’re in high demand today I see.”

Valya and Shalikova both turned to meet the owner of a familiar voice.

Elegant, enunciated in a sultry and playful fashion.

From behind them approached a familiar Shimii with long, blond hair and a strikingly glamorous affectation. Her sophisticated radiance was undeniable and it was hard to turn away when she was taking up attention. Heavy wine-purple eyeshadow and well-applied blush, glossy lipstick adorning a confident grin. A hint of wrinkles around the eyes and neck seemed as though an artful exposure of her maturity. On her, the standard uniform shirt and skirt seemed to flatter her curves, black tights accentuating the contours of shapely legs. Her ears and tail were perfectly manicured and had an almost divine appearance of fluffiness, while her tail was exceptionally brushed and strikingly silky and clean.

Her every movement oozed the easy confidence earned with age.

Shalikova averted her eyes before Khadija al-Shajara teased her for staring.

“Aww, I saw you turn away Shali-Shali.” Khadija said. “Don’t hurt a lady’s pride now.”

“It’s not that at all.” Shalikova said, turning a little red.

Teased anyway; there was truly no escaping from Khadija!

At her side, a cheerful Maryam waved to Khadija with both her tentacles and hands.

“Greetings to the lovely V.I.P. as well!” Khadija said. “You two arrived first, so you should conclude your business with Valya first before I steal them away.”

“That’ll have to wait Khadija– I still have to finish this one too.” Valya said.

“Oh, but I need my Strelok to be ready for standby.” Khadija said, leaning closer to Valya.

She put on an expression that was both pouty and somehow still flirty.

“You’ve got a point. I guess I can just leave this here.” Valya said, leaning back a little.

“Why is Valya doing all this work around here anyway?” Shalikova asked.

Valya shook their head. “Too much to get into– but I can handle it, so don’t worry.”

Khadija crossed her arms and leaned back on the leg of the Strelok, waiting her turn.

Her ears were clearly piqued to try to catch some gossip, however.

Shalikova sighed and laid out her request.

“Valya, did you get a chance to look at any data from the Cheka? Or Khadija’s data?”

“Uh huh, I’ve looked at everything with Murati.”

“I’m worried about the model of Diver we fought around Kreuzung.” Shalikova said.

Valya nodded. “That was Rhineametalle’s Panzer model. We actually have data on it from R&D leaks that were turned over to Union spies– but that was two years ago. We didn’t even load that stuff into the dive computers because we never expected to run into it.”

“I nearly emptied my magazine into it and it did nothing.” Shalikova said.

“You’re exaggerating, dame Shalikova.” Khadija interrupted. “You managed to fend it off and we are unsure of how much damage we did to it. Combat damage is more than just dramatic armor penetrations. For all we know it was limping away without life support.”

Shalikova felt mildly irritated at Khadija’s condescension– but it was pointless to pursue.

“Had the Brigand not been close I’m almost sure it would have kept fighting.” She said.

Khadija did not respond, preferring to continue leaning with arms crossed and eyes shut.

“I can try to comb over the data more thoroughly.” Valya said. “I’ll talk to Murati about it too– if she thinks the 37 mm guns seem ineffective against that Panzer we can explore solutions. I think I know what she’ll say though. One encounter is not a lot of data.”

“We don’t even know if they have mass produced the thing.” Khadija replied.

“I just think we need to keep it in mind.” Shalikova said. “That’s all I’m saying.”

Khadija winked. “You need to have more confidence in yourself, lady prince.”

“It’s not about self-confidence! One of us could lose our lives if we underestimate that thing in the middle of a fight! It’s senseless not to prepare every possible advantage!”

“Good answer.” Khadija said. “You do make a finer leader than me, Shalikova.”

Shalikova had raised her voice to Khadija, who seemed far too satisfied with the result.

“Hey, c’mon, relax you two. Khadija, you can stop teasing her.” Valya said.

“I’m relaxed. I said what I wanted to say. Come on Maryam.”

Over Valya’s scolding of Khadija, Shalikova turned around and left the hangar.

Trying to work out the frustration that she knew she felt, and hated feeling.

Despite her anger she had grown up just a bit, enough to have more perspective.

In her heart she understood what Khadija was doing.

It was the same thing Illya had told her in Kreuzung. She had to speak up her convictions, even against her experienced seniors. If she was wrong, she was wrong, like Illya said– if she was right then she had to be ready to meet the confrontation and prove herself right. That was part of being in the military alongside war heroes like Khadija and confident theoreticians like Murati. Shalikova had a fearful conjecture and Khadija challenged it with her own knowledge and experience– they didn’t know if there would be more Panzers and they didn’t even really know what effect they had on Nasser’s Panzer. Khadija probably wanted her to stand up for herself and her ideas instead of turning cheek.

Shalikova just was not used to having arguments and resolving confrontations.

When she was assigned to the Thassal fleet she just did whatever she was ordered.

She never would have thought she would have the ability to influence a mission long-term.

Some part of her hated the idea of ‘being a leader’ more than anything.

It was annoying! It exposed her to stupid contradictions! It meant talking to people!

But another part felt that it was necessary. Especially in this case, she couldn’t keep quiet.

“Sonya, are you okay?” Maryam asked. “Are you mad at Khadija?”

They got on the elevator to ride back up to the Brigand’s upper tier.

“I’m annoyed. I felt like Khadija was treating me like a kid.” Shalikova said.

“I think she respects you a lot! I’m positive she just wanted to help!” Maryam said.

“You’re too nice, Maryam.” Shalikova sighed. Her softie marshmallow at it again.

“It’s okay Sonya. I think everyone on the ship thinks highly of you!” Maryam said.

“It’s not that– whatever.” Shalikova simply let things lie at that point.

Once the elevator doors opened, Shalikova led the ever-cheerful Maryam back to their room. As soon as she was through the doors, Shalikova threw herself on her bed and hugged her hand-sewn teddy bear plush, Comrade Fuzzy, tightly against her chest. It was cathartic to hold something tightly. She needed a few minutes to decompress and she wished for silence– and Maryam had seen this enough by now to know. Shalikova heard her girlfriend sit on her own bed, and then no other sounds of cuttlefish activity. She felt grateful for the silence, and even more grateful that at least Maryam truly understood her.

“Maryam, just give me a minute. I’m sorry I haven’t been great company today.”

“It’s okay Sonya! You take all the time you need. I completely understand!”

Shalikova could see Maryam smiling in her mind’s eye and it warmed her heart.

Another thing she never thought she would find herself doing, back at Thassal.

In just a few months, she had changed a lot, hadn’t she? It all felt so– silly.

She hugged Comrade Fuzzy less tightly and a bit more tenderly instead.

Tension was slowly leaving her body. The voices in her ears began to quiet.

I’ve grown a lot I guess– but damn it if I don’t still have a lot of work to do.

Shalikova sighed to herself.

Nothing could ever be easy– not for every long.

Not for soldiers out fighting at sea.

After a short rest, Shalikova turned around in bed, still cuddling with Comrade Fuzzy against her chest. She faced Maryam’s bed and found Maryam seated cross-legged on top, with her eyes shut and her arms crossed over her chest. Her top fins wiggled gently and her tentacles swayed within her hair. She breathed in and out with a deliberate timing. Her soft facial features were slightly screwed close, furrowed brow and cheeks pulling up.

“Trying to concentrate?” Shalikova asked.

“Oh! Sonya! No, I was just relaxing.” Maryam said.

She opened her eyes and smiled. Shalikova’s face sank into Comrade Fuzzy.

“Maryam, don’t keep things from me. You’re no good at it.”

“Ah– well, alright. Since you caught me.”

Maryam shut her eyes, crossed her arms and put on a confident little expression.

“Sonya– I have been finking about our royal cuttlenundrum.”

Maryam grinned.

Shalikova groaned.

“Did you think about it beyond what fish puns to make?” She said.

In response Maryam turned red and puffed up her cheeks, prompting Shalikova to be quiet.

“Okay, sorry–! I was just making fun! Go ahead.”

Maryam shut her eyes, lifted an index finger and looked deep in thought for a moment.

Shalikova stared at her while she puffed herself up for whatever she was about to say.

“Sonya–”

Lifting her pink hands and putting one fist on the other palm like a gavel.

“–it’s time to ask Euphrates, because I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Yeah I kinda figured we would arrive there eventually.”

Shalikova laid a hand on her own forehead, lifting up her bangs and sighing.

“After I confessed I was psionic to Murati she told me Euphrates and Tigris were helping her– so I guess it’s okay. As long as Murati does not become involved.” She said.

“Sonya, why are you so against the Lieutenant? She seems nice.” Maryam asked.

For a moment Shalikova imagined Murati fussing over her and Maryam and grimaced.

“Because she’s annoying. Let’s leave it that.”

Maryam gave Shalikova a scrutinizing look before dropping the matter herself.

Shalikova hid fully behind Comrade Fuzzy again.

While the two of them were staring from across the room, something lit up on the door.

In the middle of it a picture appeared in a square computer window.

Short blue hair, wavy and messy, on a youthful, fair-skinned face.

Euphrates was right outside the door, politely requesting access to enter the door.

Shalikova stared at the door with mild surprise.

She half-expected anyone looking for her to be like Illya and just bang and shout on it.

“Speak of the devil. Come in!” Shalikova called out.

Across the room, Maryam had a conflicted expression for a moment and averted her gaze.

Shalikova let go of Comrade Fuzzy and sat up, tossing her hair.

“Good afternoon, Maryam, Sonya Shalikova.”

Euphrates and Tigris crossed the threshold and closed the door behind themselves.

It was the first time Shalikova had a meeting in private with the ship’s “technical partners.”

Shalikova waved quietly in response. Maryam continued averting her gaze.

“I’m surprised she hasn’t turned tomato-colored yet.” Euphrates said.

In response, Maryam puffed up and went red and continued quietly refusing to respond.

“We just came to check up on you.” Tigris said. “On both of you.”

“In fact we just got done covering up for you.” Euphrates said.

“What?” Shalikova stood up straighter in bed. “What does that mean?”

Euphrates put her hands in her coat pockets and smiled.

“Your ability to use psionics came up in conversation– the Captain and Commissar were a bit alarmed to hear that Maryam was psionic as well. I knew she had to be responsible for the Ensign’s psionics.” Euphrates said. For a moment Shalikova went wide-eyed with burgeoning panic. Euphrates must have noticed, as she took her hands out of her pockets to make a comforting gesture. “No, no, no, don’t be afraid. We vouched for Maryam’s trustworthiness and made ourselves responsible for preventing such surprises in the future.”

Shalikova sighed. Maryam continued to give Euphrates and Tigris the silent treatment.

“I figured Murati would have to tell them eventually.” Shalikova said.

“Don’t blame Murati, she has been incredibly discreet.” Euphrates replied.

“Fine. So then– what are the two of you checking up on us for?” Shalikova asked.

“We’re supposed to–” Euphrates began–

“Slow down with the we,” Tigris interrupted. “You volunteered to compile everyone’s psionic potential on the ship. I’m a mechanical engineer, I have things to do. So you have fun covering up all the staring you’re going to do at people on this ship. I am not helping.”

“Can you help me just this once? I really need your assistance.” Euphrates said.

Tigris averted her gaze in the same direction as Maryam. She crossed her arms.

“Whatever. Whatever! I’ll stick around this once.” She said.

“Thank you. Now, take a look at Ms. Shalikova here– you’ll see the problem.”

Shalikova narrowed her eyes, meeting Euphrates and Tigris’ gaze with quiet consternation.

She saw red rings appear on their eyes. Tigris in particular scrutinized Shalikova for longer.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Tigris said. “I can’t see anything, no matter what I try. What the hell?”

“Indeed.” Euphrates said. “Ensign, are you employing psionics at the moment?”

“No, I’m not.” Shalikova said. “This is something Maryam said too. My aura is weird.”

Tigris took a deep breath and looked at Shalikova again with renewed intensity.

Shalikova heard Tigris’ speaking in the back of her mind–

Oracle’s Voice: Epexegesis.”

Shalikova instinctively responded with her own psionics having detected Tigris invoking a power. She then saw several thread-width lines of colored light, connecting the fringes of Tigris’ aura to her own– or perhaps to where her own aura should have been. Except, the threads stopped just short of Shalikova and hung in mid-air utterly disconnected from anything. She knew right away that whatever Tigris had attempted to do failed.

“Now you can see why I wanted you to try.” Euphrates said.

“Yeah? But I still can’t understand anything even with Epexegesis.” Tigris sighed.

“What are you two up to?” Shalikova asked. “Why are you trying to read my aura?”

Despite the sudden intrusion and strange behavior of their guests Shalikova was not fearful. This was because Maryam, on the other side of the room, was still pouting and staying out of it as if it was just any other casual occurrence. Maryam would have definitely rushed to defend Shalikova from anything violent or harmful. In addition, Shalikova almost felt like she had her own voice in her mind which was telling her that it was harmless, or perhaps more accurately, it was making that knowledge implicit to her understanding.

Shalikova felt like she had always known, somehow, what this power was meant to do.

It was meant to read auras more deeply than was possible by simply looking.

“Aura reading is something common to psychics. It should not offend you.” Euphrates said.

“She has a right to be offended.” Maryam said. “It’s not up to you.”

“Finally, my dear former pupil deigns to speak with me.” Euphrates smiled.

Maryam stuck out her tongue at her.

“I’m trying to read the aura to get a feel for your psionics, but it’s impossible.” Tigris said.

“And we’ve never seen anything like it.” Euphrates added. “So it’s quite novel.”

“Okay? I have no idea what means for me.” Shalikova said.

“Neither do we.” Euphrates said. “But you don’t look unhealthy, at least.”

“She’s fine.” Maryam said. “Sonya is special! She will use her powers for good.”

“Right. And she’s particularly special to you, isn’t she?” Euphrates said.

She reached out and poked one of Maryam’s head fins, causing Maryam to flinch.

“Ugh! Don’t treat me like a kid.” Maryam said. “I’m not the same as I was!”

“No, you are not. You’ve traveled, found a purpose and people to care about. I think that is lovely, and it was never our intention to bar you from it.” Euphrates said. “You can disagree as vehemently as you want with our ethics as you see them. But to me, you will always be a special pupil whom I had a wonderful time teaching. I’m glad you’re safe.”

“Hmph. No thanks. All you taught me was to do the opposite of you.” Maryam said.

“She’s become such a cuttletrarian.” Euphrates said.

“Ugh. I’m leaving.” Tigris mumbled.

“Wait.” Shalikova said, raising her hand. “We need your help with something.”

She turned to face Maryam. “Maryam, tell them. You yourself said we needed them.”

Maryam’s colors went dull for a moment. Her fins and tentacles deflated a little.

“Maryam, please.” Shalikova said. “We promised to help, remember?”

“We did promise.” Maryam had an uncharacteristically disagreeable expression.

With her eyes narrow and an unfriendly glower, she explained their predicament.

Recalling how Elena Lettiere told them that Norn prevented her from using her psionics.

Euphrates and Tigris were quiet as Maryam explained Elena Lettiere’s predicament.

At various points in the story they glanced at each other from the corners of their eyes.

Shalikova noticed it– Maryam might have not, or not cared.

After the conclusion of the story, Tigris looked conflicted and Euphrates unmoved.

“So– I dunno, you tell me. How do we exorcise a psionic effect from someone?”

Maryam asked with some of her quiet innocence returning to her mannerisms.

“Maryam– tell me this. How do you define what is real?” Euphrates asked back.

She smiled as if she had just said something very profound.

Maryam’s face instantly turned tomato-red and her eyes went suddenly wide with fury.

“I knew it! I’ve had it up to here with you! Goodbye! I’m not dealing with this again!”

In an instant Maryam stood to leave–

but just as fast Shalikova stepped forward and grabbed her by the jacket.

They stood in the center of the room, with Maryam frowning as she was ensnared.

“Maryam, c’mon, have some patience! For me!” Shalikova pleaded.

Arms crossed, face boiling red, cheeks puffed up, Maryam sat back down on the bed.

This time Shalikova sat beside her to comfort her while Euphrates and Tigris stood.

“I know how you feel– but try to endure it. I get what she’s saying.” Tigris sighed.

“I’m not that annoying, am I?” Euphrate asked. “It’s actually important to consider for this scenario, Maryam. You heard Elena Lettiere describe her experience and drew a conclusion, but think about it: what makes an experience ‘real’? Is there an objective quality, extrinsic to humanity, that makes information, experience, or sight, concretely ‘real’?”

Maryam stared at Shalikova and gestured toward Euphrates with exasperation.

“I’ll answer.” Shalikova said, before Maryam could say something rude or irascible. “I’m not the biggest brain around here, but I’ll try my best to answer earnestly. In the Union, we are taught to be materialists. We believe that the world and its laws are knowable– thinking comes from material conditions. So I guess that, whatever someone experiences, comes from a condition of their material existence. So– whatever you think, it is rooted in something which is real. So Elena must have a reason for what she saw.”

“That’s a good answer– but, do you think you fully verified Elena’s ‘experience’ here?”

“We took her at her word. She told us what she felt.” Shalikova said.

“But people can misinterpret fraught subjects such as these. Especially naïve people.”

Even Shalikova was starting to get agitated. “Look, I’m not a philosopher.”

“Alright, let us set aside the frameworks.” Euphrates said. “Let me clarify what I mean as much as I can. Maryam has presupposed that Elena is ‘under some kind of curse’ that ‘Norn put on her using King’s Gaze’ which then ‘prevents her from performing psionics.’” Euphrates held out fingers for each of these conditions in her argument. “However, how do we confirm this is the case? These are some big leaps of logics. I actually have a counterexample: it is also possible that Elena simply believes she is incapable of performing psionics due to Norn’s influence, without the existence of an actual ‘curse’ at all. You said you read Elena’s aura, but that aura is primarily borne of her own emotions. Even if you think you can feel a trace of Norn there, you do not know why or how. It could all still be ‘in Elena’s head’.”

“That’s what she means by whether something can be objectively real.” Tigris said. “How can we be sure of what happened to Elena? It’s actually easier to believe that Norn influenced Elena’s behavior like, on a traumatic level perhaps, without it having anything to do with ‘curses.’ It could be Elena’s got some learned helplessness to deal with. Or she’s been in Norn’s shadow enough to have internalized a fear of her retribution.”

“Why does any of this matter?” Maryam said. “You’re just philosophizing not helping!”

“I never said I wouldn’t help.” Euphrates said. “But you have to understand, where psionics is concerned, we have to be really careful to consider the variability of the human psyche and of human emotions. My answer from experience is that there is only observable reality– therefore we must be careful what we make others believe to be real. Maryam, if you had tried to ‘remove a curse’ from Elena without understanding what is truly happening, you could have irreparably influenced her mind and damaged her sanity. Imagine if by tinkering around with Elena’s mind within this rhetorical framework of ‘removing Norn’s curse’, you caused her to irrevocably believe Norn is her enemy? You have to be careful.”

Shalikova nodded along. She was a bit fascinated by Euphrates’ logic.

She supposed human minds were still highly complicated, even to experienced psychics.

Henceforth she would have to be careful when she encouraged Maryam to use psionics.

She had not realized she could so much harm to a mind.

“Human minds are conceptual spaces. To their owner, the information that their mind can process is the only thing they can confirm to be ‘reality’. The information and ideology they acquire throughout their life is a function of their material circumstances, that is very true. But what you see, hear, and even smell or taste can still be altered by the condition of the mind. There are people who see things that are not real, and staunchly believe in things they cannot substantiate.” Euphrates said. “Knowing this to be true, you have to be wary of executing a ‘conceptual attack’– using psionics in a way you think is helpful, but that could alter their reality in a way you might not have intended. Not only will the effort be very taxing on your psionics, the end result could be horribly disruptive to your patient.”

“Norn doesn’t even need to use her King’s Gaze to affect Elena.” Tigris added. “For example, if she got to Elena as a kid, when her mind was the most pliable and vulnerable, she can make her believe anything. She could have already been under conceptual attack– we don’t know.”

“It may even be simpler than that, far simpler. At least, simpler in comparison to a decades long conspiracy.” Euphrates said. “Before we do anything, Maryam, I need to talk to Elena Lettiere myself. I want to ask her about Norn and their relationship and then see how she feels. To take it for a given that she is under attack by Norn, and try to tinker with her mind to change that– it could be a horrible mistake. You can’t do such things lightly.”

“Fine, fine, fine,” Maryam said, averting her gaze, crossing her arms and pouting.

“It’ll also have to be another day. We’re kinda busy, you know?” Tigris said.

“I understand.” Shalikova said. She turned to Maryam and touched her shoulder for support and affection. “Maryam, I know you wanted to be the big hero, but they’re right. Elena should not just go along with our conjectures. Even if we have the best intentions we need to be careful. Let’s get everyone together and try to figure out more, okay?”

“Sheesh.” Maryam snorted. “Fine, fine, fine. I never said I wanted to force her or anything.”

“Of course. You just got a little over-enthusiastic. It’s part of your charm.” Euphrates said.

“Hmph. I’ve not forgiven you two.” Maryam said. Pointed glaring at the two women.

“Forgiven us for what? We haven’t ever done anything to you.” Tigris said, exasperated.

“For being bad and selfish people!” Maryam said, raising her voice.

“Huh?” Tigris cried out, taken aback by her tone and forcefulness.

“Hmph!” Maryam averted her eyes and puffed her cheeks up.

“Tigris is extremely altruistic. You can be pointed and say it’s my fault.” Euphrates said.

“Hmph!!” Maryam puffed her cheeks up to an even greater degree.

“I won’t disagree with you either.” Euphrates said. “I am– amending– my ethics a bit.”

For the first time her words sounded just a bit hesitant and unsure.

Maryam opened one curious eye to stare sidelong at Euphrates.

Even Tigris started staring at her too.

Euphrates held her hands together in a plaintive gesture, still smiling.

“Inaction and indecision– played more of a part in my thinking than I’d like. I admit it. I allowed events to spiral out of control. I lost perspective.” Euphrates said. “Being on this ship has made me feel that time is moving again for me. And that I must move with it. I can’t remove myself from culpability. I am looking to set things right. Norn, Mehmed, Ganges, Yangtze– any pain they caused is my shared responsibility. I accept it now.”

“Great. Could’ve fooled me.” Tigris replied, glaring at Euphrates again.

“I am not asking for forgiveness, Maryam. But I’d love to have your help in the future.”

Euphrates adjusted her coat, and bid farewell, with Tigris following close behind.

Still arguing about what Euphrates meant and whether she was serious.

That conversation was not for the two left behind, however.

When the door shut, Maryam let out a breath that must have been held long.

She then leaned heavily on Shalikova, squishing her cheeks up against Shalikova’s chest.

“Sonyaaaaa that was super annoying! You have to be really nice to me now, okay?”

“Sure, Sure. Come here. You’re still a big hero to me. A big, squishy softie of a hero.”

Shalikova held Maryam close, stroking the fins on her head and laughing a bit.

Thinking about Maryam and Euphrates, she felt a bit silly about her feelings toward Murati.


After what she considered a somewhat embarrassing appearance at the ‘Meeting to Discuss Weird Stuff’, Murati made for the brig. Hardly knowing what to make of it that the enemy officer whom she had captured had requested an audience with her specifically. She had no investment in whether or not she would be effective in extracting any information from the captive, so it made no difference to her and she was not exactly anxious.

But she was perplexed and a little bit annoyed.

What would she even say to a fascist, face to face?

Murati had argued with fascists in her head for years.

Anyone who studied theory would likely have had similar moments– putting together a worldview and acquiring a set of convictions required challenging their competing notions in her own head. In Murati’s mind, she had argued with the Imbrian Empire, and lately she had argued with the Volkisch Movement as she learned more of their ideology while continuously refining her own. Why was she not a Fascist? Why was she against Imperialism? Answering these questions was necessary to arrive at the truth of communism.

But she had never thought about what she would say to a living fascist in a discussion.

She had at most thought about what she would say if she had to execute a fascist.

“The People make up a Nation; you’ll never build a Nation without lifting them up.”

Then she would pull the trigger and turn around without even looking at the gore.

Maybe it could use some refinement–

At any rate– on the walk over, Murati wandered what she would say.

To Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather, sitting in the brig, requesting to speak with her alone.

Without much progress made in refining a concept of this encounter in her own mind, Murati stood at the door to the brig and gathered her breath. When the door slid open, Murati saw Dr. Kappel jotting something down on her portable clipboard computer. The doctor noticed Murati at the door and gestured for her to wait before coming in. She then stepped outside the brig and shut the door and bid Murati follow her a few steps away, so they would be farther from the brig when speaking. Murati figured she had been evaluating Aatto, and caught a glimpse of a photo of Aatto taken with the computer camera for her file.

“Murati, I completed a preliminary evaluation of Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather.” Dr. Kappel said. She clicked the switch to shut off her computer. “This evaluation was performed for the sake of her health, as one of my new patients– and I will not disclose any specific physical health conditions, or anything she specifically confided in me. But I thought that it might help you to speak with her more effectively if I gave you my basic assessment of her first.”

Murati bristled a little bit. “So the fascist also has medical rights on this ship?”

“Murati, everyone has rights on this ship. As long as I am the ship’s Doctor, we will not deny captives basic treatment. It would be senselessly cruel.” Dr. Kappel sternly said.

“Fair enough.” Murati replied. She felt a little embarrassed in her response.

However, she was also too stubborn to apologize, and still felt she was justified too.

“At any rate. I am not a psychotherapist, but I am trained enough to serve as a counsel for the ship, and I performed some initial assessments of Aatto’s mental health. Are you interested in hearing them, or would you prefer to form your own?” Dr. Kappel asked Murati.

“I’m interested. How coherent is she? Is she holding up well in the brig?” Murati asked.

“She’s quite coherent.” Dr. Kappel replied. “She is willing to talk and is in fact affable in conversation. She answers questions and does not appear distressed by her current predicament. She has realistic expectations about her captivity, but has not expressed any anger, frustration or anxiety about being imprisoned. Her physical health is adequate. However, despite her attitude– I would say her mental health could be at risk.”

“How so?” Murati asked.

“I believe she might be a suicide risk.” Dr. Kappel said. “And my true motive for speaking with you is that, during your interrogation, please be wary of Aatto and if needed, stop her from hurting herself. She has expressed that she holds her life in low regard, and made a few morbid jokes without prompting during our discussion that trouble me. Coupled with the certainty and confidence she projects, I fear she may decide to– escape, in that way.”

Murati was a little bit shocked. She was briefly unable to speak as she processed.

More shocked about her own reaction than anything– she felt a bit of a pang of nerves.

Why would she care if the fascist does anything to herself? They were lower than dirt.

And yet– she didn’t want to be party to someone trying to hang or stab themselves either.

Not in this sort of environment. There was no battle raging in here.

“I won’t bring in anything into her cell, and I’ll watch her carefully.” Murati said.

“Thank you. I don’t expect you to treat her kindly– but remember we have standards.”

“I know.” Murati said. Internally, bristling at the idea that Aatto deserved anything.

Dr. Kappel nodded her head in acknowledgment and turned to leave.

“Wait, Doctor.” Murati said. Dr. Kappel paused to hear her out. “Do you know why Aatto wants to talk with me? Did she tell you anything about that? The Captain and Commissar have not had time to properly interrogate her just yet– but they wanted me to acquiesce to her request. I do not know what benefit she gets out of talking to me.”

“My fear aside, I think it may be a matter of pride or respect for her.” Dr. Kappel said.

“That makes sense. She confronted me directly and I made a fool of her.” Murati said.

“Right. She may want to look into the eyes of the person who captured her, to hear her voice, to be processed by you, as a form of accepting and coping with her failure. I will keep to myself exactly what she said, and like I said, I won’t ask you to moderate your voice.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I will do my best to try to handle things– humanely.” Murati replied.

“That’s all I ask. She may be unworthy of our respect, but she’s still our responsibility.”

Dr. Kappel reached out a hand and Murati shook with her, leaving on better terms.

Now, however, Murati was actually troubled by the idea of meeting Aatto.

Her situation became more complicated than ‘yelling at the fascist.’

Nevertheless, Murati returned to the brig with her hands closed into fists.

Farthest from the door were the few barred cells on the ship. On the right-hand side were the solitary confinement cells, all of which were now unoccupied. Just past the door, standing between the landing and barred cells, Zhu Lian stood guard. Murati found her in the midst of untying her long, dark hair and retying it into a ponytail. She dressed in the same nanomail bodysuit she usually wore, with thicker plates of separated armor on her chest, gloves, waist and leg guards. She had a collapsible baton hooked to her belt and no other weapons. Murati waited for her to be done with her hair before speaking.

“Greetings, comrade. How’s the prisoner doing?” Murati asked.

Zhu opened one eye and let go of her ponytail. “Oh! Hello Lieutenant. She’s behaving.”

“I’ll be stepping in to talk to her.” Murati said.

“Yeah, I heard from the Commissar. She’s all yours. Where should I wait?”

“You can stay here for now. Has she said anything?”

“She said she was excited to meet you. Weird, huh? Like I said, she’s quite well-behaved. I expected her to be more aggro but she has been remarkably quiet and polite.”

Murati nodded her head, walked past Zhu Lian and stepped up to the bars of the cell.

As soon as her shadow crossed the bars, Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather’s gaze lifted to follow her every move. Aatto was seated on the fold-out bed provided in the cell, her hands crossed on her lap with eyes cast downcard. She smiled and raised her head upon seeing Murati approach. Aatto had been stripped of much of her uniform. Her coat was gone, her boots were gone, her hat, all of her pins and collar patches and armbands. Aatto was only allowed to keep her button-down shirt, sans tie, as well as her pants, sans belt.

Even her brassiere had been taken– exceptionally evident with her shirt halfway open.

Dark blue eyes meet auburn; Murati stood across the bars.

Aatto stood in turn to meet her.

“Thank you for granting my request. I’ve been dying to meet you.” Aatto said.

“I am just following orders. I’m only curious to know what you want.” Murati replied.

Aatto smiled, a little too happy for Murati’s taste.

She was shorter than Murati, though she would not have called Aatto short overall. She was a well-proportioned young woman, busty, average in figure, decently fit. Fair skinned, dark-eyed, with sleek cheekbones and a small nose with a tight bridge and slightly rounded end– she certainly could have been described as attractive. Her long, brown hair was well-kept, silky and shiny even with minimal hygiene the past few days. Blunt bangs covered her forehead, while the rest of her hair was long and straight. Her tall, sharp ears had abundant fluff while her tail was bushy and bristly, widening with fur across its length.

Her body language was confident and quick. Her hands moved a bit as she spoke.

Unlike her stern commands in Kreuzung, her voice in captivity turned somewhat sweet.

“I would like to throw myself upon your mercy, and under your power.” Aatto said.

She bowed her head, at first– then dipped into a stage bow, with one arm out.

“No mercy is necessary. As far as I know, nobody intends you harm.” Murati said.

“It’s more than that. It’s about my purpose.” Aatto said. She stood back up to full height.

Her voice reverberated through Murati’s chest like a shockwave.

Those dark-blue eyes flashed a strange gaze at Murati’s own.

In that instant, Murati pulled her internal trigger in reaction.

Red rings glowed around her eyes which met their counterparts in Aatto’s own.

They were reading each other’s auras– Aatto had some psionic ability.

Not only that– Murati could see in her aura the bizarre euphoria slowly becoming evident in her expression as they stared each other down. Aatto’s tail began to wag so strongly it started striking the bed repeatedly. A cheek-to-cheek smile flashing white teeth; embroiled in a white and blue flame of an aura, impassioned, exuberant, sublime–

With a texture like a waterfall, like rushing silk, an unbroken current–

There was no denying what was going through her mind.

“Murati Nakara, please take me as your own instrument! Let me be of use to you!”

Murati was stunned to silence. Those words completely shattered her composure.

There was not a hint of aggression or hesitation in Aatto’s aura or her body language.

She was sincere; utterly sincere. Her every emotion was sharply focused on Murati.

“I want nothing more than to serve you! I wish I had been born a part of your body rather than all of mine. I want to see your power! Let me defect and I will show you how useful I can be! This body– you can do anything you want with it! All of my life has led me to this moment. Take me, or strike me down, whatever you wish! But I know that in life, I can be a great asset to you! I will tell you anything you want about the Volkisch! And I’m not just an informant; I’m a great analyst and organizer! Let me be your personal adjutant!”

Aatto’s speech continued to rise in volume and her expression grew wilder.

As if by continuing to speak she was making herself more and more excited.

When she finally finished, there was an enormous void where her shouting had been.

Readily filled anew– by the roaring indignation within the object of her admiration.

“Are you insane?” Murati shouted back. “You want to defect because of me?”

“Yes! Please take me under your command! I will do anything!” Aatto said.

“Absolutely not! Absolutely not! I would never–! You insane fascist!”

“I’m not a fascist! I’ll be whatever you need! Please let me join you!”

“Do you even hear yourself? Have you any shame? How can I possibly trust you?”

“Give me a chance and I will absolutely prove myself worthy of trust!”

Murati and Aatto shouted back and forth at each other, as if neither was listening.

Nothing could have prepared Murati, this situation was in none of her plans.

None of the possible conversations she imagined with this woman led to this outcome.

Aatto did not seem suicidal, at least– but she was certifiably, completely insane!

It shook Murati– the kinds of words she had never heard in her life.

Murati had never been so admired, no one had ever thrown themselves on her.

And all of this desire was coming from the imprisoned fascist?

Some part of her was susceptible to the flattery– but she categorically rejected it!

“Why me?” Murati asked, sounding like a mortified girl. “What’s wrong with you?!”

“Of course it has to be you!” Aatto said. “You demonstrated true power to me, Murati!”

“Power– right! You’re also– no, shut up, one moment–!”

Murati turned around suddenly. Near the door, Zhu Lian stood with her mouth covered.

She saw Murati turn to face her, and silently realized the reason for her doing so.

Zhu Lian, nearly laughing, left the room instantly. Hopefully she would be discreet.

Murati turned back to Aatto to find her holding the bars with her face against them.

That demented smile as if a permanent feature of her expression.

In her mind, Murati superimposed the black uniform full of fascist symbols over her body.

She shook her head, balled up her fists with frustration. Her head filling with violence.

Stepping up to the bars herself to lock eyes with Aatto, so close she could feel her breath.

“Be completely serious. Nobody is listening. Tell the truth. Now.” Murati said.

“You know I am telling the truth. You can see it. I am not lying to you.” Aatto said.

She was not lying to Murati. She was completely earnest, completely certain, and peaceful.

That smile on her face that seemed like it would never wipe off was utterly sincere.

But none of it made any sense!

“Who are you? Who are you really, Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather?” Murati asked.

“I was but a living corpse until the sight of you made me want to live again.” Aatto said.

“Ugh! That’s insane! That’s nonsense! Stop making shit up! I won’t fall for your tricks!”

Murati knew Aatto was not tricking her. Murati knew that Aatto was telling the truth.

However, in the landscape of what should have been true, her answer was impermissible.

“Tell me the truth! The actual, whole truth, Aatto! What are you trying to do?”

“Murati Nakara, the Loup are a warrior culture of the Imbrium Empire. We are born to follow the orders of unworthy masters. I was nothing but a soldier, but hardly any good at direct combat– in Rhinea, they made me into an intelligence analyst and then a field agent. I did this task for the Imperial Navy and then the Volkisch inherited me like an old coat left in a closet. But I was never loyal to the Volkisch– in fact, I actually saved many Liberals from persecution! I falsified information, rerouted patrols! I betrayed the Volkisch!”

“Like I believe that.” She was telling the truth. Still telling the truth. Her aura was bright and untroubled and unmistakably clear. “Do you have any proof?” (She was telling the truth.)

“Ask the social-democrats in Aachen about Illaria Howell and Heimdall.” Aatto said.

“I suppose I will.” Murati said. Her resistance remained firm. “But why would you spy on or turn against the Volkisch? Why help the Liberals? What was in it for you? I know you possess powers yourself. You just showed them to me– I’m sure you meant to do so as well.”

“Yes, I meant to show you– though my power is far weaker than yours. I can only see.”

“Fine. Answer the question. You had personal power and standing– why risk yourself?”

Aatto’s smile wore steadily away as she answered.

“I helped the Liberals because I thought that they would take up arms and fight against the Volkisch. It all came at me like a flash. Several most-wanted persons cases fell onto my lap. In the course of my typical work, I had the opportunity to fix papers and assist in the escape of Illaria Howell, a big liberal politician, before she was purged by the Sicherheitsdienst. We met briefly in the course of events, and she vowed that she would form a resistance network, and I agreed to help save more liberals in order to help her do so. My heart fluttered– I wanted to see the Liberals destroy the Volkisch and reassert their place in the world– I wanted to see if they could overturn what seemed like their wretched Destiny.” Aatto said. Murati noted her darkening demeanor. “But all they wanted was to escape with their lives. Illaria had lied, none of them resisted. They simply wanted to go into hiding and avoid any danger. Their cowardice sickened me– I endangered myself for nothing. So– I resigned myself to return to the Volkisch, to what seemed like my own fate. Then I was captured by you.”

She raised her head again to look at Murati. Some of her bright cheer slowly returned.

That way she looked at Murati– with such fondness and tenderness– it was frightening.

“You rescued me from them, Murati! From my indenture to those weaklings!”

“Stop calling me by name, I don’t know you!” Murati grumbled.

“Oh! Of course. Of course! Forgive my impudence. You are someone who is worthy of the utmost, strictest respect. What is your rank– or should I just call you my Master?”

“What?! No! People will misunderstand! Don’t call me Master! I’m nobody’s Master!”

Murati stepped away from the bars while Aatto kept a thoroughly fixed gaze on her.

“Of course. Whatever you say.” Aatto replied. “You are my King.”

“Absolutely not! I’m nobody’s King!”

Exasperated, Murati turned her back on Aatto to avoid her eyes.

Behind herself, she heard a sharp intake of breath as she took steps toward the door.

“Please don’t go! I’m sorry! Please! I’m truly serious! I am defecting! Please!”

Murati fully intended to leave and did not immediately pause when she heard the cries.

“Please don’t abandon me! I truly can get better! Please! I want to change my fate!”

Close to the door, Murati fully stopped. She sighed to herself. She laid a hand on her face.

Aatto was openly crying and screaming and begging like she had been beaten.

I want to change my fate.

At no point had Aatto been lying to Murati. She knew that well.

Maybe even without psionics, she would have felt Aatto’s bizarre sincerity as well.

Her demeanor had changed entirely like she had swapped one identity for another.

It was shocking– but it was also hard to trust anything she said.

However–

“What the hell do you mean by that?” Murati asked, still not turning around.

She felt a pang of a truly wretched sympathy.

“My father once said– the world is a barrel-organ that God turns. We are just spectators to a song already recorded on the drum.” Aatto said, breaking out into outright sobbing and weeping. Her voice cracked– Murati thought she heard a banging on the bars and recalled Dr. Kappel’s words. She turned around immediately and found Aatto thankfully unharmed but drooping against the bars with all of her brightness and strength sapped. “I was born to be a servant– to unworthy rulers– but I don’t want the fate of the Loup– I don’t want the fate of the Loup–! Please, don’t abandon me– don’t– when I found hope–”

“Be quiet!” Murati said. “Just for a moment– be quiet. Please. I won’t leave yet.”

Aatto seemed to have spent all of her exuberance. But she dutifully quieted down.

Hanging against the bars as if holding them was all she could do to stay up.

Her eyes running red, tears down her cheeks, lips quivering with sobs.

If this was all acting– it was terribly convincing.

(And could her aura even lie about such clear and open intentions?)

Murati was torn in half by opposing instincts.

There was a part of her that reveled in the power to cause Aatto suffering.

That voice said,

“this fascist should die screaming with the agony the Volkisch inflicted on the world.”

There was a part of her that softened to the plight that had reduced Aatto to begging.

That voice said,

“this girl should be able to overcome the ideology that has had her captive for life.”

How was it that a person lived ‘inherited like an old coat’ by an evil military regime?

But then again– Murati did not know that much about Imperial Loup culture either.

What was the fate of the Loup? What would Murati be consigning Aatto to suffer?

What had Aatto suffered already that led her to this place? To her present mania?

Murati walked back to the cell and stood opposite Aatto once again.

Aatto raised her head and stared at Murati. Not smiling anymore– broken down.

It was tough to look at her now, having seen her previously carefree smile shatter to this.

Knowing that all she did was turn her back once to cause this to happen.

“Do you believe in the racial superiority of a class of ubermenschen?”

Murati’s question momentarily perplexed Aatto. But Murati did not follow up.

She did not even meet Aatto’s gaze until the captive provided an answer.

“Of course not. I’m a Loup. I wouldn’t be considered as such.” Aatto whimpered.

“Do you believe there’s an untermenschen class unfit to have agency in their lives?”

There was a heavy note of bitterness in the next answer.

“I believe the Imbrian people are largely a smooth-brained rabble.” Aatto replied.

Murati’s eyes narrowed.

“Do you believe there is ‘life unworthy of life’ such as social parasites and degenerates?”

Aatto paused for a moment, catching her breath. “Well– It depends–”

Murati frowned. “Do you believe that all Imbrians form a ‘Volksgemeinschaft’ that must carry out their unique racial destiny through the conquest of enemy racial communities?”

“I guess my definition of Imbrian is pretty broad, if I were to submit it–”

“Do you think there is a conspiracy of enemy races against the ‘Volksgemeinschaft’?”

Aatto put on a small carefree grin again.

“Well– I think, if you look at the evidence, the Cogitans and Hanwans recently–”

Murati slammed her hands on the bars in exasperation. She failed every question!

Aatto drew her eyes wide with surprise at the striking on the bars.

“You think exactly the same as a fascist! You’re still a fascist with fluffy ears and a tail!”

“Please forgive me! All I’ve ever known is the Northern Host and the Volkisch Movement! I can change if you help me! Show me your books! Teach me what you believe!” Aatto said.

“Damn it, you’re just saying whatever I want to hear?! You manipulative bitch!”

“No! It’s the truth, you know it’s the truth! You can see it! Please– I’m begging you.”

Aatto lifted her hands from the bars and clapped them together, shaking.

As if in prayer or reverence, a supplicating gesture. Her ears folding, tail dropping.

Murati was utterly exasperated and out of sorts with this whole charade, but–

No matter how much she wanted to harden herself and cast this woman into the fire.

It may well have been cruel and inhumane to simply walk away and ignore Aatto.

She could feel what she believed to be truth in her heart and it weakened her front.

There was no equivocating that Aatto was an Imperial officer and had worked for the Volkisch. Wearing that uniform was an atrocity. She tried to do some good in her position, maybe– but she had warped reasons for doing so. Even if she was perhaps not an ordinary fascist she was certainly an elitist and a mystic. That idea of hers– trying to find someone who would fight the Volkisch to “overturn Destiny,” it was clearly a gigantic delusion. Aatto could have easily just been fishing for the winning side to save her own skin.

But– it felt more difficult to condemn her after seeing her break down.

Murati started to retrace the path of her own current convictions, searching her heart.

Child to labor organizers who were punished with slavery, and who died in the service of communism. A nun and a traveler who became scientists, who became communists, who became fighters willing to kill for their beliefs. They had changed over time. Like all citizens of the Empire they had not been born communists. They had arrived at that conviction.

Murati became a communist in the nation her parents helped to found, and now she could judge Aatto for what she thought with a lifetime worth of living and studying under communism. Her material conditions led her to her present state. It could have all gone quite wrong somewhere in the middle. Even in the Union, there were still nonbelievers in communism and even people who still held on to nationalistic or liberal ideas.

Murati had an opportunity that was explicitly denied to someone like Aatto.

Aatto had been brought up to an entirely different set of circumstances. She could have been said to have been a slave herself. Loup were a racial minority in the Empire, raised and valued as military manpower. That much Murati knew, even if she did not know the exacting cultural specifics of the Loup Hosts. She did not know much about their religion or traditions or family lives, and had only superficial knowledge that the Northern and Southern Hosts differed culturally. She did know that Imbrians could put Loup in torpedoes and shoot them at enemy ships to try to board them. She did know that the royal family once upon a time had a tradition of keeping a royal guard brigade half-composed of Loup kidnapped from their homes as children and raised as soldiers entirely within the captivity of Heitzing.

Even if that tradition had been overturned by the Fuellers– it still spoke to something.

Imbrians saw the Loup as inferiors. They were not equals in society. Far from it.

They were all objects; instruments of war that could only thrive in the military.

Despite this, there were plenty of Loup still fighting for imperialism and the Volkisch.

There were many Loup who still internalized fighting for this status quo as a virtue.

But there was one Loup, in front of her, begging for a chance to do otherwise.

Perhaps a Loup could not be a fascist in the way an Imbrian could. It was more complex. Perhaps that was only an excuse Murati was making for herself, for this Loup. For this fascist— specifically. Because she could see her hurt right in front of her eyes. Even despite her convictions. Even despite everything she had come to believe. Her rationality told her that it was too convenient to view Aatto as a special case among the fascists.

Aatto had not been without choices. Her condition could not be entirely given onto fate. She could not be seen as entirely helpless. Even if she seemed to believe that she had been led to this by the nose, she always had choices. All humans did, even if those choices were grim and hopeless at times. To wear that uniform and work as a fascist, was a horrific choice– but she had also made the choice to rebel. More than once. And perhaps given a chance, Aatto could rebel enough to make amends for whatever circumstances led her to Volkisch service.

To condemn Aatto to “the fate of the Loup” as she put it– Murati did not have the steel in her chest to do that. As much as she felt like she was betraying her own convictions for not hating Aatto with every fiber of her being, for not stepping past those bars and beating her into a pulp the second she tried to beg for forgiveness. None of that would actually be justice. None of that would overturn the yoke the Volkisch had on anyone else. It would just be petty, senseless vengeance, in effigy, for the same monsters that probably tormented Aatto greatly herself. Murati grit her teeth at her own soft-heartedness.

Defectors existed in all causes to all causes– by that rubric, Aatto was not hopeless.

For everything else, Murati could only have faith and hope she would not regret her choice.

“I will talk to the Captain and Commissar about your defection.” Murati said.

She tried to keep a stoic tone and would not meet Aatto’s eyes any longer.

Aatto stared at her and smiled through her tears. Her face instantly brightened.

“Thank you! I won’t let you down! Your magnanimity is radiant! You are a true saint!”

“I’m not guaranteeing you anything!” Murati said sharply. “But I will talk to them.”

“Of course. I know you don’t have absolute power– though you deserve it–”

“Ugh. Don’t make me regret this.” Murati said. “You better be serious about it.”

“I am serious! I will be more than an adjutant! I will bear your scepter! I’ll be your knight!”

Murati could not have balled up her fists any tighter hearing all of that nonsense.

What kind of a mess am I getting myself into with this woman?

She tried to focus on material things. There was too much idealism in the atmosphere.

A Volkisch defector could be a great asset!

Aatto had been part of the Volkisch intelligence, the Sicherheitsdienst. If she truly had the kind of access to divert prisoners, fool patrols, and falsify documents, then Aatto could be a trove of information on the Volkisch and their operations and processes. Even taken with a grain of salt, it could help. And if she was telling the truth, she was crafty enough not to be caught, and she had connections with the liberals. They could use Aatto to help them find more Volkisch willing to turn and talk, or act as spies, perhaps. Even if she also insisted on being Murati’s adjutant– well, Murati could always use the help. She had been incredibly busy lately. But Aatto’s slavering displays of devotion were incredibly vexing.

It would be terribly embarrassing if she spent all her time trying to lick Murati’s boots.

But– Murati had given her word now. She had set her mind to being responsible for this.

Having Aatto locked up until she lost her mind and hurt herself was not a solution.

Maybe accepting her defection was not a perfect solution. But it was comparatively better.

So, Murati could say, in a unforeseen and surreal way, this was a productive outcome.

She could say that to herself repeatedly like a mantra until she shouted down her anxiety.

Still– Aatto’s behavior was unnerving. Something had to be done.

Something had to be said.

She turned her back again and found the words to voice her worry.

“I’m leaving. By the way, I have a wife. So– if you’re after me for– baser reasons, you had better not get your hopes up.” Murati said. She felt insane for feeling like she needed to clarify such a thing. But Aatto’s behavior had to be corrected somehow.

“I see! Well, that’s not a problem for me.” Aatto casually responded.

Murati was not facing Aatto but could practically see her expression in her mind’s eye.

Her mind was briefly overcome in a storm of emotions.

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY THAT? WHAT–?!

Murati vocalized nothing of the screams and expletives going off in her mind.

She simply and silently put one foot in front of the other and vacated the brig.

Her head throbbing and pounding– but her heart lighter and less aggrieved.


“Marina, we’re back here again. Again! After all the times you withheld information from us that ended so well.” Ulyana said sternly. “What do you have to say for yourself now?”

“At this point I am not sure I’d ever trust another word out of your mouth.” Aaliyah added.

“I have nothing to say in my defense. I apologize profusely.” Marina mumbled.

“You apologize– and yet keep choosing to lie to us every time anyway!” Ulyana shouted.

For their final disciplinary meeting of the day, Ulyana and Aaliyah saved the worst.

Marina McKennedy in her suit and button-down shirt, with her hands cuffed behind her back. Seated on a table across from Aaliyah and Ulyana, with Klara van Der Smidse looking over her. Out of everyone on the ship who had taken some misguided action, Marina was the only one being treated as actively dangerous. Ulyana felt like she had ample reason to think so. Marina was the only one who had consistently been in a situation like this and simply never reformed herself. In every situation since they allowed her aboard Marina had deceived them. And now Marina was also the one who had caused actual, verifiable harm.

For Illya or Zachikova, their last escapade was the first time they disobeyed orders.

Both of them at least had a noble reason– saving their comrades.

Marina, meanwhile, had aided and abetted in the Kreuzung Core Separation Crisis.

She confessed to everything with hardly any prompting.

“I was looking for information on an old partner of mine– a scientist named Asan. In the course of that, I ran into Kitty McRoosevelt, a GIA agent who was behind the Core Separation plot. I knew what Kitty was up to, she told me up front. I tried to dissuade her from it; but then I assisted her. I helped her secure mercenaries and refined her plan. I knew if I didn’t do anything, she would just get herself killed. I could see it in her eyes that she was ready to die. I thought if she succeeded it might create an opportunity for you and that it might save her life. I was wrong. I knew I was the moment I saw those lights start flickering.”

“You’re damn right that you were wrong!” Ulyana shouted. She could not help but feel incensed at the unfeeling delivery of this excuse, for the degree of evil that had been committed. “Marina, potentially torching an entire station is not worth an opportunity! You assisted this madwoman in attacking a reactor! You could have compromised the entire structure! Citizens of a station have nowhere to run to or hide from that! If you destroy the tower they will die crushed within it! Without hope of escape! Anyone who could escape would be the rich or the Volkisch! Is this truly how the G.I.A. operates?”

Unlike in past confrontations, Marina did not try to excuse herself.

She did not meet Ulyana’s shouting with her own, nor did she continue equivocating.

Instead she looked down at the table, her hands tied behind her back.

Unable to meet the eyes of her now captors.

“An apology is worth nothing to us Marina. The scale of your deceit here is intolerable. You almost certainly have the blood of innocents on your hands for this.” Aaliyah said.

“I’ve always had the blood of innocents on my hands.” Marina mumbled.

“Don’t even try it.” Ulyana said. “You’ll find no sympathy from us with that excuse.”

While the Republic of Alayze and the Union of Ferris, Lyser and Solstice were strategic allies against the Imbrian Empire, Ulyana would not tolerate Marina’s lazy and callous defense. The G.I.A. could lie, cheat and steal all it wanted, but all was not fair in the course of war– there were things which were beyond the pale for even special forces or spy agencies to do. There had to be a level at which brutality was not worth success– and there was one.

On a material level, attacking stations was difficult for any combatant under the ocean, because a station was an enormous prize that was easy to destroy, and thereby condemning and annihilating everyone inside it– but useless in such a state. Capturing stations was the most difficult part of any armed conflict, more difficult than fighting fleets. There were ways to do it. Compromising the electricity or blowing it up was not on the table.

It was taboo– because it was foreclosing the possibility of human life itself.

Such wanton brutality did nobody favors. It moved humanity closer to total extinction.

Even the greediest and most sadistic madmen of history had avoided the cardinal sin.

There was nothing but water out there– the human world was inside the stations.

Whether to plunder, whether to build power, or set people free– the stations had to stand.

To attack a station with the intent of destruction was to attack human life in itself.

Nobody would gain anything from it. All of humanity would simply, permanently lose.

“What can I even say to this anymore?” Ulyana said. She had shouted herself out of breath.

There was nothing more to say. Marina had gone too far. They could hardly fathom it.

It was hard to speak of punishments for something like this.

Somehow anything they said or did felt like it was not possibly enough.

Still, they had to reach beyond the emotional and assert a realistic response.

“I advise we strip Marina of the rank and credentials we afforded her.” Aaliyah said.

“I’m still on your side. I still want to help.” Marina said. Still staring down at the table.

“You have gone too far this time Marina. I am not able to excuse what you did, to myself, in any fucking way.” Ulyana said. “You’re damn lucky. We are not about to have an execution carried out on this ship. Your words are meaningless; but your actions may yet redeem you. For now what you’ve earned yourself is two weeks of solitary confinement, and the loss of your rank aboard the ship. Once you come back out, you’re a civilian to us.”

“An untrustworthy civilian who will be monitored stringently.” Aaliyah added.

Marina smiled bitterly. “You’re right. I’ve been lucky one too many times haven’t I?”

“Sit in the brig and think about what you did. It’s you who has to live with that.”

Marina grit her teeth. She still could not lift her gaze to meet theirs.

“Damn it. You’re both soldiers too. Where the fuck do you two get off on judging me?! Commie bastards. How many people wouldn’t you kill for a victory?”

From across the table, Ulyana suddenly raised her arm and slapped Marina across the face.

With such vehemence she knocked Marina sideways out of her chair.

Aaliyah had no admonishment for this act of impulse.

She quietly stood up from her chair and with Klara’s help got Marina up from the floor.

Marina weakly struggled in Klara’s grip, but could not escape the security girl.

From her expression it was evident she knew she was completely out of hand.

“Take her away.” Ulyana said sternly. Klara nodded and led Marina out of the room.

The last Ulyana saw of Marina that day, was the glint of tears in her eyes.

When the door shut, Ulyana broke out into tears too.

The Captain’s whole body was shaking from the anger and shame bound up inside her.

How could all of this mess have happened, under their watch?

Were they that useless and helpless?

“Captain, we trusted her and had that trust violated. It wasn’t our fault.” Aaliyah said.

“I know.” Ulyana wiped her eyes in vain. “It’s just– god damn it. It’s so senseless.”

Aaliyah returned to the Captain’s side and rubbed her shoulder for support.

“There’s always going to be a horrid, bloodstained line between the need to take action and the need to take the right action.” Aaliyah said. She was not weeping, but had a tender expression. “We can’t hold ourselves up too high– we can be as ethical as the situation allows us; we can try to avoid unnecessary, senseless violence. But our actions against the Empire will have consequences like this– or worse. We have to be ready.”

“I know.” Ulyana said. She lifted a hand to her face to cover her weeping eyes.

Deep down what hurt the most is that only a very thin line separated them from Kitty McRoosevelt. Would they ever become as desperate as she had been?

Ulyana could not deny it– not decisively. That was the worst feeling of all.

“You have a good heart Captain.” Aaliyah said. “You don’t have to bear Marina’s burden.”

“Thank you.” Ulyana said. “I just feel responsible. She admitted to it so callously.”

“Can I be frank with you, Captain?” Aaliyah said.

“Always.”

“Don’t let this become another Pravda for you.”

Ulyana locked eyes with Aaliyah for a moment. She swallowed the shock.

Despite a brief surprise she quickly recognized Aaliyah’s support for what it was.

“Thank you for your candor. I won’t break down. I just need time to process.”

“Thank you. I understand. It has been a heavy few days for you.”

“For us, Aaliyah. You are invaluable to me. I’d go insane without you.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t. I believe you’re stronger than that.”

Aaliyah smiled at Ulyana. Despite her tears, Ulyana smiled back.

They remained together in the room for a few moments, decompressing.

Then, the meeting room door blinked, a bright computer window opening on its surface.

Murati Nakara was requesting access to the room.

Unexpected but not a problem.

Ulyana wiped her tears.

Aaliyah sat beside her and verbally commanded the door to open.

“Greetings. Captain. Commissar. I spoke with the prisoner– it’s funny, actually–”

Murati walked into the room and sat on Marina’s chair– she had on a strange expression.

They had never seen her so apparently nervous, and yet almost laughing.

Ulyana and Aaliyah followed her with their eyes. Murati had a manic sort of energy.

When she spoke, she started gesticulating with her hands in a rather dramatic fashion.

“Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather– is defecting to become my personal adjutant. There are a few things we can confirm to be sure of her sincerity, but I will take responsibility for her.”

Ulyana and Aaliyah blinked at her silently for several heavy heartbeats.

In both their heads a calculation of the circumstances seemed to play out.

Their facial expressions went through several increasingly darkening shifts.

“I guess we need to discuss what to do about her rank right? I have some ideas.”

Murati added this while nervously picking at her own tie and collar.

Speechless, Captain and Commissar both laid their heads against the table.

As if a wave of exhaustion had suddenly claimed their ability to stand.

Instantly, the room went silent, save for Murati laughing a bit, nervously still.

For several minutes the Captain and Commissar simply groaned in response.


Previous ~ Next

Mourners After The Revel [12.1]

In the beginning the world was silent and pitch black.

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

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

and with it there was light.

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

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

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

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

To her music, the figure began to dance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then there was no spotlight.

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

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

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


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

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

Then she realized what she was doing–

and felt so deeply pathetic she could have cried.

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

Her panic-addled sight came slowly into focus.

Homa Baumann bowed her head.

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

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

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

She felt a bit disgusted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that brought its own new agonies as well.

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But she could do it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In Kreuzung everything cost money. Even existing cost money.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Homa blinked. “Communists?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her thoughts started spinning again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And in this situation–?

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

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

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

Sounds of heels clicking the floor, moving closer.

Loukia–? Just as she started to remember–

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

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

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

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

“Fancy meeting you here, Homa Baumann.”

She waved elegantly with that one black-gloved hand.

It was so surprising– why would anyone remember her?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No matter what, she was having trouble speaking.

Her thoughts as murky as the deep ocean.

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

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

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

even if it was an exceedingly odd little coincidence.

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

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

Dr. Kappel seemed pleased with their rapport.

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

Kalika put a hand on her chest.

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

“Hey now– wait a second–”

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

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

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

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

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

Kalika gave Homa a victorious little thumbs up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Comfy? Ready to go?” Kalika asked.

“I’m fine enough.” Homa replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey, um, Ms. Loukia–”

“No~; please call me Kalika, Homa.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As reliable as the beating of her heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why bother ‘introducing’ her to anyone? Why would anyone here care to know her name?

But she did not say the impolite things that had come to mind. Kalika was trying to be nice.

“She’s a real chipper one. If it gets to be too much, just wink at me.” Kalika added.

At the end of the hallway, there was a doorway into a very large room. Larger than any of the other spaces Homa had seen on this ship. It was even bigger than some of the upscale stores Homa used to see on her way to work. White-ceilinged and brightly lit, the middle of the room had several desk stations and work benches with glass boxes, plastic baubles, table-mounted machines and various smaller devices bubbling and whirring. There was some kind of analysis being done on some fluids and tissues with the results pending.

Homa thought that the equipment appropriately conveyed the function of a ‘laboratory’.

Much of the wall on two sides of the room was taken up with tanks, one of which was covered in grey mushroom caps each the size of a fist; the other full of vibrantly green and blue algae. Each tank was divided into sections that could be independently controlled, and each section had its own diagnostic screen. They were rather orderly and surprisingly clean. Though there was a lot of growth, the strata for the mushrooms looked healthy, and the algae tank was not too murky. Everything seemed close to ready for harvesting.

However, what truly dominated the space was an enclosure of steel, glass and plastic that was indeed encasing a real, live tree available for everyone to see. Boasting a vibrantly green crown, a multitude of sturdy roots and a thick brown trunk. Beneath the tree was a mound of black soil. When she approached it, Homa could even smell the earthy, sweet scent of the leaves, piped out of the enclosure. This tree was planted in the center of the laboratory– everything else Homa saw was arrayed with this tree as a reference point.

Even enclosed as it was and surrounded in its life support machinery and the rest of the laboratory amenities, seeing that beautiful lush greenery through the glass lifted Homa’s ailing heart just a little. For a moment, her emotions were arrested by it. Kalika wheeled Homa close to the tree and then walked beside the wheelchair and kneeled down. She smiled and looked over Homa’s expression as if hoping to see the same– and sure enough, Homa found herself smiling. Inside this can of sardines there was a living thing.

“It might sound crazy, but looking at it just fills me with cheer somehow.” Kalika said.

Homa did not respond, because she was still taking in the sight of the tree. It’s not like she had never seen a tree before. Kreuzung had trees in enclosures just like this. And yet, seeing this tree inside this ship, with its tight halls and small rooms, it was different than meeting it in a station. She did not know where ‘they’ had come from who had this ‘tradition’, but Homa thought in that moment that she understood it. Sitting in front of that marvelous tree, a real tree, a living being that survived so much, as alien to the ocean as human beings were.

It could live in this ship too. Heedless of the circumstances, it reached skyward.

It almost felt like– Homa had a responsibility to sit up a bit straighter for that tree.

Like a venerable elder was watching her and wishing her well.

“Oh! Visitors! I’ll be there in a moment!”

On the far wall of the room there was storage space for the lab. A woman deposited a big brown cube of carboard into one of the units and slid it into the wall. She then turned around sharply and walked briskly around the tree to greet Homa and Kalika. Homa was surprised to see a pretty girl working in the Science pod. She was a Bosporan, too, dark haired and bright-eyed, her brown skin a bit more of a light honeyed color. She wore a white coat instead of a teal jacket over the sleeveless button-down and black skirt that was common on the ship. She was lithe and lively and probably older than Homa by a few years, but still young.

“Welcome to ‘Science & Observation’! My name is Karuniya Maharapratham!”

In her hands, she had a phial of white fluid which she quickly shoved into a pocket.

Homa opted not to bring it up. In fact she had lost all desire to raise her voice.

Looking at the bubbly woman in front of them, she tried to make herself small.

“Back to see the tree again? You must be really fascinated with it.” Karuniya said.

“I’m showing our guest around.” Kalika said, tapping her hand on the wheelchair handles.

“How kind of you! Hopefully the vibrant color of our tree can help lift her spirits.”

Karuniya winked at Homa, who said nothing and averted her gaze.

“Homa this is the ship’s resident expert on all things non-human. We met a few days ago. Now that I think of it, is it alright to call you ‘doc’?” Kalika asked Karuniya suddenly.

“Nope! I haven’t earned it and I don’t want to hear it.” Karuniya said, shutting her eyes and smiling mischievously. She spoke quickly and with a strangely cheerful and excited affectation. “I have not gone on my scientific commission, and I haven’t formally completed my thesis. Therefore, I am but the people’s very own lovely Karuniya Maharapratham, one of the ship’s ‘Four Beauties’– and not a doctor of any kind! Please just call me Karuniya!”

“Wow, okay!” Kalika said, laughing. “Karuniya it is then. Or perhaps ‘Karu’?”

“Only my hubby gets to call me ‘Karu’!” Karuniya replied sharply.

Kalika shrugged comically. “You’re really a stickler for names, aren’t you ‘doc’?”

Both of them laughed.

Homa looked between Kalika and Karuniya and wondered how they could be so chummy.

Then Karuniya bent over a little to acknowledge Homa specifically.

“Homa Baumann! Our latest guest. I hope it’s not too awkard to say, I’m happy to see you, miss! You may be surprised for the attention you’ve been receiving, but it was a dramatic scene when you were rescued. There were a lot of people in the hangar, and everyone who was not there passed on the story about what they saw– everyone on the ship was so nervous and hoped you would pull through against the odds. It’s like witnessing a miracle. Sailors love their death defying tales– I hope you can forgive their enthusiasm.”

“It’s alright. Everyone’s been quite kind.” Homa said politely. “I– I appreciate it.”

Karuniya nodded her head and patted Homa on the shoulder. She was far too chummy.

She then stood up to full height and smiled at Kalika.

“Feel free to look around. I’m available to answer any science trivia type questions.”

Of course– but not any fundamental nature of this ship type questions, Homa supposed.

“What do you say Homa?” Kalika asked. “Want to bask in front of the tree some more?”

“Let’s keep moving. No offense.” Homa avoided Karuniya’s gaze. “It’s a lovely tree.”

“No worries at all. Feel free to come to me for help if my crazy husband annoys you.”

Homa fixed Karuniya a stare suddenly. “Your husband? What does he want with me?”

“She’s a military nerd and is impressed with the data out of your Diver.” Karuniya said.

Wait– She–? Did she not just call this person her ‘husband’?

Homa averted her eyes again.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep your fans off of you.” Kalika said, leaning close to Homa.

Somewhat mortified at the idea that anyone grabbed the combat data from the DELTA and could plainly see all of what she now considered ‘her crimes’; Homa was wheeled out of the lab in a state of quiet consternation. She had managed enough politeness to wave goodbye to Karuniya Maharapratham, but dreaded ever meeting her ‘husband’. The idea that anyone could have poured over those records and not felt immediate disgust, and instead become excited– it troubled Homa. What possible reason could they have for that?

“Homa, the bathroom is vacant. What do you say to a nice refreshing shower?”

Homa was unprepared for that suggestion. “I’m– I don’t know that I’m able to– my arm–”

Kalika read right through the stuttering. “Of course, in this case I would assist you.”

Homa’s ears folded. She shrank a little in her seat. Her face felt hot and her skin shuddered.

“We don’t have to.” Kalika said gently. “But I think you’ll feel better afterward.”

When she thought about it– Homa could practically feel the grit in her ears. Her hair had a bit of salt in it too. It had been a while since she had the opportunity to bathe. How her body was now– it was a direct product of that day– all of it– so awfully filthy– covered in blood–

Thinking about it instilling a sudden, driving need to be cleaned.

“Alright. Please help me.” Homa said. She tried to suppress a sob and partially succeeded.

Her head was spinning with shame when Kalika took her into the bathroom.

Thankfully, it was empty, just like Kalika had said.

Half the space was a blue-tiled set of showers that were completely open and undivided, essentially just six or seven shower heads hovering over drains, each spaced about a meter apart. The other half of the room had basins for washing hands and faces, stalls enclosing toilets, and a few mirrors. There were dispensers for mouth wash, toothpaste, soap and hair formula, as well as recyclable synthetic towels and wipes. Despite the comfortable size and openness of the space, there was no privacy in the shower. Homa sighed to herself.

Behind her, she heard Kalika’s coat rustle. Her ears and tail stood on end.

Partially turning, she saw her volunteer chauffer undressing. Hanging up her coat, undoing the buttons on her shirt and pulling down her skirt. Homa spread her lips as if to speak but the words caught in her throat catching a glimpse of a fancy, lacy black brassiere and a hint of Kalika’s breasts. She turned back around sharply. Kalika tittered in response.

Of course she had seen it.

“I can stop if it bothers you; but I’d rather keep my clothes dry, you know?” Kalika said.

“No. I’m just– I’m being silly.” Homa said. “It’s okay. I– I really– appreciate the help.”

After putting up her clothes on a series of hooks and drawers outside the shower area, Kalika sought and received Homa’s consent to remove her blanket, and pull off the hospital gown she had been wearing and hang both up with the rest of their clothes. Gingerly, she lifted Homa onto her remaining good leg, with her good arm held over the shoulder. She helped Homa walk to a pair of shower heads, and sat with her on the tiled floor.

“Hot or cold?” Kalika asked. She reached up to a square of wall that accepted touch input.

“Warm.” Homa said dispiritedly, looking down at the bare remains of her leg.

Kalika set the temperature on the wall. A few seconds later, water came out of the spouts that was just warm enough, causing little wisps of mist begin to rising around the two of them. It was a somewhat pleasant temperature on Homa’s skin and hair. Regardless her mood had cratered. Sitting down in the shower, she felt like she did not know how she would stand up again. Everything felt too heavy. She sat under the water despondent and silent; while Kalika sidled closer. Homa’s skin shuddered when she first touched her, Kalika running her slender fingers through dirty dark hair, holding her shoulder for support.

Into a dispenser on the wall, Kalika reached her hand. She collected a bit of foamy, thick fluid on her palm. She spread the foam across Homa’s scalp, working it into her hair, between and around the cat-like ears atop her head. Homa shut her eyes. It was strange but not necessarily unpleasant. Had her mood been stable and all of her wits available, she would have appreciated Kalika’s gentle ministration. Having someone wash her hair, lather her back and breasts with soap, looking over her in detail. It was a luxury she had never experienced in her life. And yet she could not fully appreciate it, not in that moment.

Kalika must have felt the tension.

Her hand stopped along the middle of Homa’s back.

“How are you feeling, Homa? You can be honest with me; and yourself. Under the shower nobody can tell whether your eyes are full of tears, nor hear you sobbing.” Kalika said.

Homa finally broke down at Kalika’s suggestion.

That unwarranted kindness was finally unbearable.

Tears that streamed down her cheeks along with the water washing over her hair.

Her chest seized into an ugly sob. Her shoulders slouched.

She grit her teeth and closed the fist of her good arm.

“I don’t know what to do.” Homa said. “I feel like I don’t know why I am still alive.”

“Your life is irreplaceable Homa; as long as you have it, there’s hope.” Kalika said gently.

“How?” Homa shouted. “I don’t have a home– or job– I don’t have anything anymore!”

Leija– she could not even say goodbye to Leija. She would never know if Leija was okay.

Her gnawing sorrow began to tear free the resentment and anger inside of her.

Kalika rubbed her shoulders a little. Homa shoved back against her suddenly to push her.

She suddenly wanted Kalika off of her and gone. Her heart surged with violence.

“Why are you paying me any attention?” Homa shouted. “What’s in it for you?”

“You are deserving of kindness, simple as that.” Kalika said. “When I saw you dragged out of that Diver, and how badly you were hurt, I was upset with myself. I was in Kreuzung; I was able to fight; but everyone in my crew was blind to the true danger taking place all along. We were caught up in the crisis as helpless as anyone else. We couldn’t stop anything.”

“Nobody could’ve done shit to stop that.” Homa grunted. “Nobody fucking wanted to.”

“You wanted to.” Kalika said. “You fought hard, all alone, trying to stop it. Am I wrong?”

Despite Homa’s petty resistance, Kalika never raised her voice back to her or judged her.

She remained unfailingly kind despite how petty Homa was acting.

She even praised her.

“I’m sorry.” Homa whimpered. “I’m sorry for yelling. And shoving back at you.”

“I don’t hold it against you.” Kalika said. “I know exactly how you feel right now.”

“You think you know?” Homa said, sobbing. “Because you’re disfigured like I am?”

“You’re not disfigured and neither am I. We are more than our limbs.” Kalika said. “But I still remember exactly when I lost my arm. I remember what I lost with it. People I cherished; a place I belonged to; a path I believed in. I fought as much as I could, alone against a tide, to the bitter end. I will never forget that. I know you have suffered a scar like mine too.”

“Yes. That’s right.” Homa replied weakly. She was exhausted; the tears wouldn’t stop.

“But, I’m here now Homa. I survived back then; and so I am alive now. I am still living.”

Homa could not help herself but to scoff. “Yeah? So then– what? I become a merc too?”

“You can do whatever you want to. Nobody here will coerce you, I promise you that.”

In that moment Homa was too resistant to empathy. Too bitter and angry still.

She was collected enough not to snap or shove or be too awful to Kalika.

But she did not want to listen to sense. Not right now.

She just wanted to feel the water washing over her head and back, and nothing else.

All around her the warm water fell in a steady stream of fast, heavy droplets.

She wished it would dissolve her and pull her down the drain.

Homa remained quiet. Trying not to think of anything or have any sensations.

Kalika respected her silence for a few minutes. Then, the water shut off.

All of the warm mist began to fade.

And at least– Homa felt just a bit less filthy.

“Here, I can dry you off. It’s really okay.” Kalika said.

She retrieved a towel, and rubbed it over Homa’s hair and shoulders.

Homa complied.

“Thank you.” Homa mumbled. She turned to look Kalika in the eyes.

“It’s nothing.” Kalika replied. She smiled. “I’m just a fellow survivor.”

“No,” Homa whimpered, “I really mean it. Thank you. For everything. Kalika.”

Kalika pulled the towel from over Homa’s hair. “You’ll be okay, Homa.”


“…for too long, military planning has concerned itself exclusively with the political, social and economic basis of the military endeavor, with only pale reflections of thought spared to the actual military conduct, as in the movement of the weapons and the combat aims of the forces. There is a widespread belief in the Imbrium that as long as sufficient ships are built, and the crews of these ships have enough biscuit, and the people’s unrest against war is sufficiently nullified, then the carrying-out of combat is a secondary concern. Admirals of the Imbrium Empire, during the Revolution, performed maneuvers like rigid chess strategies based purely on intuition without thought to the Union’s intentions. They had become used to equally languid Republic forces that emerged from Ratha Flow in specific formations with limited operational thinking, then clashed over the Great Ayre Reach, a flat and shallow domain with limited possibility. They expected that their larger resource base and greater quality of arms presupposed victory, and they lost many battles and ultimately retreated in shame because they had no operational theory by which to adapt to the new conditions the Union imposed on them through hit-and-run warfare and new improvised weapons, like the use of Divers hidden in benthic rifts to create unexpected marine ambushes.”

“However, the Union, having won their right to exist, also entered a languid period in which the operational art was given very little thought. The Kansal administration believed that the building-up of the productive forces of the state was a sufficient military endeavor, and the Ahwalia regime then tried to abandon military build-up altogether. Even in the current Jayasankar administration, in which the military is the primary receiver of the state’s resources, military thinking is subordinated to production of arms, to building up rations, and conditioning the people militarily. There is great concern about having ‘only’ built a fleet numbering the low thousand of ships, supported by several thousands more Divers and scores of logistical objects and even bigger thousands of supporting personnel otherwise. While there are theorists among the military high command, the development of an operational art is nascent, and Academy graduates are still mainly taught the basic handling of weapons, and for the officers, the basics of managing people socially and politically. Thinking about the battlefield is still at a nascent, improvisational stage, where it is subordinated to thinking about shipyards, agrispheres and councils. It is not my aim with these writings to say such things should not be seen as military concerns. But focusing on these concerns exclusively, leaving the battlefield itself to happenstance, is just as foolish.”

“It is incomplete thinking to view, solely, the deployment of economic, social and political forces as the means to render the foe suppressed; and to respond, if the foe has greater such forces, by surrendering that our own must surpass them to succeed or all else is lost. Logistics remains the mother concern, without which there can be no war– but it is in the operational art that the appropriate usage of the arms must be found, and theory developed to employ the arms and personnel that we possess in a way which maximizes a strategic aim. The Union did not secure its freedom because it had more arms than the empire, nor because its economy was stronger, and not because its social conditions were more stable. Rather, the Union operationally employed its forces to maximize their strength, exploit weaknesses, and shape the conflict itself. This is not solely because the Union has developed the most correct political system. It is not solely because of war communism as a productive model, or because the proletariat are better conditioned for war. It is my intention in this thesis to fully detail the lessons we should have learnt from past conflicts, and draw solid and sensical conclusions from them in order to extrapolate how to properly conduct war in the terms of employing arms, interacting with the enemy, and shaping the battlefield–”

Murati Nakara heard the door to her room open behind herself.

She adjusted her reading glasses and turned around from her desk, expecting Karuniya to have barged in– but finding someone else in her place. A salmon-pink haired, soft-faced young Diver pilot with a curvy figure and a reserved body language– the unassuming Valya Lebedova had appeared at the door. Dressed in black-spotted coveralls and work goggles, they resembled a bit more their formidable aunt, the mechanic chief Galina Lebedova. Except Valya was a bit rounder where Galina was much more well-muscled.

“I apologize for just walking in Lieutenant! I wanted to talk to you.” They said.

“It’s not a problem. I would have locked the door if I wanted privacy.” Murati replied.

“I also apologize if I smell a bit oily. I was lubricating all the Diver’s joints.” Valya said.

“That’s nice of you– but shouldn’t Cohen be in charge of that type of thing?” Murati asked.

“Engineering is busy with the machine we picked up.” Valya said. “And, um, if I’m allowed to speak freely ma’am–” Murati nodded and Valya continued. “I feel that Gunther’s work has been noticeably bad lately. I don’t know I trust him much with my machine anymore. And if I have time, nowadays I also tune up the squad’s machines myself too. It’s fun anyway.”

“What do you figure is wrong with Cohen? Have you heard anything?” Murati asked.

Valya loved to do little optimizations to the machines, so they were the pilot who was most often around the engineers. Murati knew she could trust them when it came to hangar chatter. Valya was a bit bashful, but they never withheld anything from Murati.

“It’s because of Tigris.” Valya said. “I think Gunther feels like Tigris has disrupted things.”

“I’d call her disruptive too.” Murati sighed. “But probably not in the way Cohen means.”

“He seems less motivated since Tigris has unofficially become our technology chief.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that.” Murati said. “Tigris is an incredible resource for us.”

“I agree.” Valya said. Then their voice picked up and they looked even more excited while they spoke. “I’d love to learn from her, to be honest. And she’s not just loud– she works hard! She’s not afraid to get her hands dirty and she’s the first one who lines up for repairs– we’ve already seen her suit up and go repair the ship while it’s in the water and in motion a few times already. She’s not just a ‘hangar queen’ like some big-headed engineers can be. That’s why the crew as a whole really likes her, I think. Cohen is a rules type of guy, not a fast action type of guy. I think Tigris makes him look bad, so he sulks and tries to throw the book at her.”

Murati smiled. “I appreciate your candor, Valya. I’ll try to be in the hangar a bit more and see the situation for myself. Then I might bring it up to the Captain– I do trust you, but I don’t want to use your own experiences as evidence, otherwise you would be dragged in.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. I don’t like ‘office politics’ either– but it is what it is.” They said.

“I believe I interrupted you though. You did not come here to talk about Cohen, I presume.”

“No, I did not.” Valya said. “On a break from tuning stuff up, I looked at that combat data.”

“What did you think? How would you rate Homa Baumann’s piloting skill?” Murati asked.

Back in the Union, Valya participated in the Diver training programs for the Academy. Because they had mechanical engineering and piloting skills, they helped the Academy to update their Diver simulations. Valya themself was the opponent that the current crop of Academy pilots would test themselves against. The new simulations also made use of new material models for movement, weight, response, and other such properties that Valya helped to implement. Because of this, Murati sought a second opinion from Valya on the data recovered from the Delta, the diver the injured Homa Baumann had piloted.

They had the machine down in the hangar and were working to restore it, and to make the necessary changes so it could wield Imbrian and Union weapons rather than its stock Republic kit. Murati was curious about Homa Baumann’s predicament. Had she used the machine to try to escape from danger, or had she been deployed to do battle against the Volkisch? She found her answer in the combat data of the “SEAL Delta.” It was an impressive machine, but Murati found Homa’s piloting of it quite remarkable. Before she made any decisions that the officers might typify as rash, however, she wanted a second opinion from someone whom nobody would be so quick to dismiss as reckless or impassioned.

“Well, we lack some context. We don’t know her background.” Valya said. “But just from the data we can read off the Dive computer’s logging, I feel that she has strong fundamentals. In my view, she has definitely piloted before, and I think she piloted regularly. She has certain habits; you can see patterns in the hardware inputs that were recorded. I think that she mastered moving efficiently in a Diver, trying to cover distances quickly. Her use of weapons is not meticulous though. I don’t think she had problems killing, which is a normal hurdle for a rookie in a combat situation. Her computer recorded several kills, including a scout ship. She used all available weapons; but she was reckless with her ammunition usage.”

“From what you saw, do you think she is a republic soldier?” Murati asked.

Valya shook their head. “The machine was activated using an external hardware ID and did not log a pilot ID, so I cannot be certain that it was intended for her. The Delta’s depth logging began tracking the water table just above the baseplate, while the Republic ships came from above to attack Kreuzung below. If I were to extrapolate, I think Homa Baumann somehow got her hands on the Delta, activated the Delta from a lower port, and then fought her way up. She fought exclusively Imbrian model hardware, so she must have been trying to help the Republicans against the Volkisch. We can only speculate about her origins.”

“Thank you. Your insight is invaluable. I knew I could count on you.” Murati said.

“My pleasure!” Valya said in a chipper voice. “Let me know if you want a typed-up report.”

“Valya, I think I want to try to recruit Homa Baumann to our cause.” Murati replied.

“That explains your interest.” Valya said. “Well, I’m not opposed to it. She can definitely pilot that machine, and there are not a lot of other convenient options for it. Maybe if she joins the squad I can retire from piloting and focus on tuning up. Give me Cohen’s job.”

They grinned with a little bit of mischief.

“You’re going to have to slow down a bit on that one.” Murati said, in good humor.

Valya laughed. “Well, that’s my report Lieutenant. I should get back to the hangar.”

“Indeed. Good luck, future engineering chief.” Murati said, with a little laugh.

With a final salute, Valya left the room, the door shutting automatically behind them.

Though the question of Homa Baumann would have to wait for some time, Murati felt that she had the answers she needed. There were more pressing concerns needing her attention.

Murati turned back around. On her desk there was a portable and a digital keyboard.

She had begun writing her own book.

Untitled as of yet; but a military treatise in nature.

After she talked to Premier Erika Kairos, Murati had gotten the idea to write a book in her spare time. At first she considered writing a political thesis, but she realized there were enough spirited defenders of Mordecism and Jayansakarist thought in the world already.

However, when she sat down and thought about the state of Union scholarship, what she realized was missing was a central military thesis. A collection of techniques that actually fit the conditions of current warfare, and not the past. The Academy taught a lot of military history, and combat training taught weapons handling as well as piecemeal “tactics.” But many officers followed a script, and lacked complicated critical thinking about warfare.

If Murati had to describe the current state of the Union’s military doctrine, and as far as she knew the Imbrium as a whole, she would have likened it to handing officers a hand of playing cards to use. “Flanking” was a good tactic, you should try to do it, the card has a pretty symbol and a high number in the corner; direct assault was a tough card to play, not one you want in your hand; the teaching of officers was trapped at that level of thinking. Specific maneuvers that should be used based on their desirability rather than the situation.

Murati had already experienced several cases of this simplistic mentality.

For example, The Third Battle of Thassal, where Admiral Gottwald presupposed that dividing his forces to attack from two sides would be advantageous and so he split the fleet as soon as possible, long before the battle had started. Murati predicted they would meet one element far sooner than the other and thankfully her superior officers listened to her. The Union concentrated their forces and completely nullified the advantage of the pincer by destroying one half of the flanking attack before the other half could join battle.

However, prior to the intervention of Murati, the Union was planning to divide its forces too and meet both sides of the flanking attack. That was the entrenched, simplistic thinking.

Even outside of conventional situations the same tactics saw overuse.

Gertrude Lichtenberg, during the chase out of Serrano, seemingly believed her superior armaments would force the surrender of the Brigand and engaged in a direct chase of her target vessel. She gathered a fleet combat section with force protection, big guns and superior scouting capability. She had every advantage in a conventional scenario– but she did not realize that her chosen tactics contradicted her unique operational goal!

To retrieve Elena Lettiere alive, she could not risk heavily damaging the Brigand. Showing her hand and attempting to attack them directly was foolish. Murati saw an opportunity to fight back despite being outnumbered and outgunned, exposing the contradiction between Lichtenberg’s tactics and objective and ruining her plans. A more sophisticated approach could have allowed Lichtenberg to track the Brigand until it was vulnerable to boarding or could be surrounded or sabotaged for capture. Lichtenberg was too blunt and too desperate to achieve her goal and so she employed her considerable assets to complete failure.

Certainly, many officers in the Imbrium and the Union could exceed that level of thinking and become distinguished in battle. Murati did not think she was special. Any officer could potentially read their enemy and respond in an effective way to achieve success. But those who simply followed their script could be condemned to failure at the cost of many lives. Murati found it intolerable to accept this as the baseline for training. Officers could not be programmed like little machines with binary responses to complex situations.

But they had been; and it would cost them.

It was inevitable. One of many poor admirals would make a mistake someday.

She had seen many pathetic officers in her time in the Union. They were not rare.

And she knew this was not an individual but systemic issue. No one had fought with the Academy for better training more than Murati. Ever since she was a kid, in fact.

She could do nothing about this now. But she could do something for the future.

Murati wanted to teach prospective officers to read the battlefield, know their weapons, synthesize multiple types of information and consider the day to day employment of various technologies in developing plans that supported a comprehensive strategy. Best practices that could elevate an ordinary officer and empower already talented officers to shine even brighter and think even more radically. So if Murati returned alive from this journey, what she wanted to bring back to the people of the Union, was her first-hand accounts of real military combat, as well as her theories collected into a complete military doctrine.

Since she began to write, it had taken up many hours. It would be worth it.

In thinking about her book, Murati caught sight of the chronicle device at the end of the desk. Euphrates had given her parents’ records to her. They remained in arms reach.

And Murati had not dared yet to open them.

She knew some things about her parents. Her mother had been a Solceanos sister for a time and gotten an education that way, before leaving the convent with her father. Her father had been part of a long line of academics whose fates were tied to Bosporus’ chaotic world of scholarship. Until that lineage ended with Murati, who would never be a professor at a Bosporan college. And yet, she was afraid of some things she did not know.

There would probably be a disappointing answer as to why the General Strike failed to materialize; there would probably be some liberal ideas about war and violence; there might be some wishy-washy naïve hopes for some utopian future. Murati, who had once admired the idea of her parents greatly, now feared more disappointment in their reality.

Rather than worry about their legacy; perhaps she wanted to focus on her own instead.

So whenever she caught sight of that chronicle in the corner she felt compelled to write.

It was good inspiration; but perhaps not a healthy response.


After the shower, with permission, Kalika helped Homa to dress and got her back onto her chair. She then nonchalantly stepped in front of Homa and began to dress herself up seemingly without paying her any mind. Seeing this caused Homa to realize how close and how naked their bodies had been the whole time, and it made her run a bit hotter.

Kalika was laissez-faire about the whole thing, a confident nudist, to the point Homa wondered if this was what ship life habituated in people. That and the lack of privacy.

Homa tried not to act too childish about the situation.

She wasn’t a kid, and Kalika had already gone over all of her body in the shower; she tried to avoid acting embarrassing. It helped her a bit when she realized that Kalika was also transgender and had not made any untoward comments about Homa in the shower. She wondered what kind of hormones Kalika was on to get that kind of figure though– unless it was a Katarran thing. Maybe it was– Katarrans were custom made in tubes–

–or so Homa had heard. She had no first-hand knowledge of such things and,

then her wondering, largely brainless gaze descended to somewhere sensitive,

“Checkin’ me out?” Kalika said, a sly smile on her face. “It’s okay, I’m flattered~”

Homa’s gaze darted back up to Kalika’s face and then sideways to avoid her eyes.

She was remarkably pretty even with all of her makeup washed off. And her dick was–

AAAAAAAHHHHHH

“Uh, no, not at all. I mean– no offense or anything– I just wasn’t–” Homa mumbled.

Kalika giggled. “It’s okay. I think I know what you must be thinking, actually.”

Her eyes wandered down between Homa’s legs, causing her to twitch–

“I’m afraid while they might look similar, yours definitely works– while mine does not.”

Then with a fox-like grin, she pointed at Homa’s– and then at herself– and winked–

THIS WOMAN–!

–as usual Homa found only misfortune when it came to the world of “gender stuff.”

Thankfully that was it for Kalika’s teasing. She must have seen how red Homa had gone.

So she put her remaining clothes on with her back turned and allowed Homa to cool down.

After that episode, they were all set to go. Kalika seemed excited to continue their trip.

Homa was not so eager however. She put a sudden stop to the festivities.

“Sorry. I’m feeling more tired than I thought I would be.” She said.

“I understand. I’ll come visit again, or you can call me any time you want.” Kalika said.

“Thanks. I really– I had fun.” Homa said. It was even true– partially– a little bit–

Kalika dutifully wheeled Homa back to the clinic and helped her back onto her bed.

She then left to collect the Doctor herself and inform her that Homa had been returned.

Homa sighed deeply when Kalika left. She both welcomed the silence but felt lonely too.

Like all of her feelings, it was a paradoxical spiral that she could not get control over.

Nevertheless– she was in bed, she had her blanket up to the shoulder and a comfortable pillow behind her. Her skin was soft and felt moist and pliable. Her hair smelled minty like the shampoo. She felt so clean! There was nothing like the feeling of a warm blanket over freshly-showered skin. It was the best Homa had felt, physically at least, in days. Overcome with warm and tender feelings, She shut her eyes and emptied her thoughts.

She managed to rest a bit.

Hours later, her breathing was troubled, her heavy lidded eyes between sleep and wake–

“Homa? Homa, are you okay?”

Her folded ears stood up straight. Homa recognized the world around her again.

At her side, Doctor Kappel had been shaking her shoulder.

“I’m sorry, doctor.” Homa said, reflexively.

“Nothing to be sorry for. How do you feel? Your breathing sounded troubled.”

“I’m okay. I’m breathing fine, I think.” She couldn’t remember anything from her sleep. Maybe she had a nightmare. It wouldn’t surprise her. Her mind felt like pieces barely held together.

The doctor put her hand to Homa’s chest and wrist and seemed satisfied she was okay.

“If something is bothering you, please know that you can speak freely.” Dr. Kappel said, bending so she was eye-level with Homa on the bed. “I’ll do everything I can for you.”

“Thank you, doctor. I think I’ll be okay. Just a little hungry.” Homa said.

Dr. Kappel nodded her acknowledgment. “I’ll go get you a plate. Dinner should be out.”

Out the doctor went; and in a few moments she returned with a cheerful demeanor.

“Minardo had Khadija as a volunteer tonight, so they actually made some Shimii food!”

She brought a multi-sectioned tray of food, a vitamin pill, pain medication and a cup of citrus water clearly flavored by a powder. For the main course, there was a mound of fluffy yellow rice topped with roughly chopped cashews, raisins and carrot strips. There was a small mound of light brown spread flecked with chickpeas that Homa suspected was just itself mashed, seasoned chickpea. On the side, a fresh biscuit, still warm and soft, and a salad of pickled, chopped up onion, cucumber and tomato glistening with a fresh dressing.

Homa looked over the plate. Pulao rice, an attempt at humus, shiraz salad. Everything was fragrant with the vegetal smell of pickles and the earthy scent of the spiced rice almost feeling like home. Homa rubbed the fingers of her remaining hand gently over the surface of the plastic spork that came with the tray. She forked through the rice meticulously. Turning it over, mixing up the nuts and raisins, but staring at it as if searching for something.

After a few moments, she sighed and worked up the courage to ask what had been bothering her as she mixed the items on the tray. It felt embarrassingly selfish.

“Doctor– I am really grateful for the food– but is it okay if I have some meat?” She asked.

Dr. Kappel suddenly put on a helpless expression, perhaps involuntarily.

“I used to start every day with a pot of beef. I would make it myself– I had a little pot back home.” Homa said. She had called Kreuzung home and it tore at the glass cracks in her little soul. But she tried not to cry about it. “I would put cabbage and beef in the pot and flavor it with zlatla and top off with water. It was really simple, but I kind of miss it right now.”

She put on a little smile. Already, she sort of knew the answer.

Just from the Doctor’s face.

Dr. Kappel shut her eyes and shook her head gently.

“I’m sorry, Homa.”

“Can you tell me why not? Is it my condition, or–?”

“No. We just don’t keep meat aboard. It’s– well, it’s not part of our culture.”

“I see.”

Homa shed a tear, but she prevented herself from crying further.

She took a sporkful of the colorful rice and tasted it.

Her cheeks tingled suddenly– it was really quite flavorful.

There was the earthiness of the spice mix in the rice, the savory notes of the stock, the sweetness of the raisins, the crunch of the nuts. Strong notes of umami and a certain creaminess to the dish, an unctuous mouthfeel. While the humus was just okay on its own, it made a good companion with the warm, fluffy biscuit that melted in Homa’s mouth. Meanwhile, she was surprised at the subtle vinegary tang of the Shirazi. She expected the pickles to come in too strong and mushy, but they had bite and were dressed well.

Compliments to that certain ‘Miss Minardo’ in the galley, and her Shimii helper tonight.

Everything was delicious. Almost as good as Madame Arabie’s restaurant dishes.

It just did not have any meat– and Homa dearly wished for some.

She wished she had her pot from back home.

She wished that she was back in Kreuzung and none of this had happened.

“Doctor. What will become of me?” Homa asked.

Her little wan smile enduring bravely.

Even as the tears started to flood from her eyes that she could no longer stop.

“Whatever you decide, Homa.” Dr. Kappel said. “Our officers are good people, they would not force you to stay here. We are headed to Aachen– we can set you down there, with your new prosthetics, and with some money. We could help you find a place to stay. We have a few connections we can pull to get you a job, perhaps. Or you can stay with us.”

“I don’t know who any of you really are.” Homa said, her tearful eyes meeting the Doctor’s.

“I’m so sorry Homa.” Dr. Kappel said. She laid a hand on Homa’s shoulder and held her hand as well, trying to comfort her. “We are not trying to hide anything from you. Things are busy and I would just like you to focus on recovery. I can try to get our Captain to come talk to you as soon as possible. I understand you have many questions and need more information before making a decision. But right now, you don’t have to trouble yourself. We are a week out or so from Aachen. You can just relax and recover until your surgery.”

“Why are you all doing this for me? I don’t understand it! Am I worth all of this?”

Homa raised her voice.

Dr. Kappel spoke with a gentler tone in return.

“You are absolutely worth it. Your life is precious to me, Homa. I want you to recover.”

“What about your crew? What do they want with me? Why would they care?”

“They rescued someone from a horrible situation. They just want her to get better too.”

Homa knew she was just being difficult. But she could not help but be cynical.

“I’m supposed to believe you’re, what? A bunch of wandering heroes?” She said bitterly.

“I’m not asking you to believe anything.” Dr. Kappel said. “As your doctor, the only thing that I am asking is that you take your meals, take your medicine, and rest up. Right now, your life does not need to move at 90 knots, Homa. I don’t know what your life was like before; and I do not need to know. Whatever you believe; whoever you are; I just want to treat you.”

“A communist doctor; for some transport company. Whatever then.”

Homa stopped talking and doggedly polished off the rest of her meal.

She then turned her shoulder on Dr. Kappel, wrapping herself up in her blankets.

Staring at the wall. Not wanting to see the doctor or anything else.

“Let me know if you’re having nightmares, or a hard time sleeping.” Dr. Kappel said. “There are a few medications we can try to reduce your stress or to help you sleep better.”

“Fine.” Homa said.

“Good night, Homa.” Dr. Kappel said.

Still gentle with her. Still without cause.

Homa heard her walking away, and closing the green shutters around Homa’s bed.

She grumbled and turned and tossed in bed, feeling restless and angry. A directionless, amorphous anger, like barbed wire writhing in her chest. At first it was directed at this ship and its crew. Soon it turned inward. She felt so stupid. Ungrateful, childish, even evil.

But she would not call back the doctor. She wanted to rot in her wicked futility.


Later in the night, Homa rolled over in bed, groggy, and froze up at the sound of voices.

Across the barrier from her own bed, the doctor and a patient conversed.

Everything was dark save for a dim white LED cluster across the plastic barrier. It cast the shadows of the doctor and patient onto the wall. Nobody had noticed that she had awakened so they spoke candidly. Homa could hear everything as they spoke.

She made herself small and still in bed; deeply curious.

“–I don’t have the materials or expertise to repair this sub-dermal nanomail you have. I’ve never seen anything like it. I know you and her are under Nagavanshi’s curtain of silence. But as a doctor, I’m going to request a detailed specification of your body modifications.”

Doctor Kappel.

“You’re not getting one. But it’s fine. Don’t worry. What did you do to the wound?”

That was the patient then.

“I secured it with a sterile mesh-plate. I am hoping that promotes recovery.”

“That’ll be fine then.”  

“Don’t get shot in the sternum again.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“No strenuous exercise for a few days. We need the wound sealant to incorporate. That’s only for the flesh wounds. I’ve no idea how your body will respond to other treatments.”

“I’ll be fine with just the mesh. How is Valeriya doing?”

“Better than you. Nothing wound sealant and stitches could not fix.”

“That’s great. I was more worried about her than anything.”

“You should worry about yourself some more!” Dr. Kappel sighed.

“I only worry about the things I have no control over.”

“Illya. Valeriya is highly dependent on you. That’s why you need to care for yourself!”

For once, the patient, Illya, was quiet in the face of the doctor’s scolding.

Homa thought she saw the shadow of the patient on the wall turning.

“I’ll avoid strenuous activity for as long as I can. It’ll heal up right. Don’t worry.”

Dr. Kappel shook her head.

“I’ll tell the Captain you’ll both be walking out of here tomorrow then.”

“Wouldn’t it be funny if she had me executed after you did all of this work?”

“No, it truly would not be. Go to sleep. If not for my sake then for your poor partner.”

Homa heard Dr. Kappel stand up and start walking away.

That one little LED cluster went dark. Casting the entire room into darkness.

Tired but with her mind abuzz, Homa thought about what she had heard.

On the next bed from hers, was someone who had been shot in the chest.

And she would recover from that injury, and leave as early as tomorrow?

Homa was dead certain now that they were mercenaries, but she also realized they must have been formidable. They had tough chicks with body mods so scary-advanced a medical doctor had never seen them. They had a Captain who had the power of death over them. Dr. Kappel treated gunshot wounds and amputated limbs every day because of all the combat they saw. They had Katarrans with them! A Katarran like Kalika, wandering the halls being a tart at a random girl they picked up. And that science lab was growing so much food, and had its own tree– were they rich? But then what did it mean for them to be communists?

Could there really be rich communists?

The more she pored over the details the more Homa just gave herself a headache.

Would she really be alright?

She was helpless to do anything about it.

Turbulent images turned over in her head. Homa shut her eyes, trying to sleep again.

“Hey, kid, trouble sleeping over there?”

Homa’s eyes drew wide and she curled up tighter under her blankets.

“I know you’re awake.”

It was the patient in the next bed over– Illya. Were her blankets rustling that loudly?

“You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to, I guess. Homa, right? You don’t have to be scared. I saw when they brought you in, so I know you’ve been through some shit. It will pass. Hell, if you’re like me, you might even like the bionic shit better. Anyway: they don’t let me ‘bother’ you, so I’ll just say this. If anyone gives you shit and I haven’t been executed for treason, you can tell me.” Illya laughed a bit, seemingly amused at the idea.

Homa swallowed a lump and kept quiet.

“I have a– let’s call her a ‘kid sister’. Around your age.”

“Where is she now?” Homa felt compelled to raise her voice after a moment of silence.

Illya laughed again.

“She’s on this ship actually. Maybe you’ll get along? She pilots Divers too.” Illya said.

“Maybe. I’ll keep that in mind.” Homa said.

“Good. Now go to sleep. Pretend you didn’t hear anything, and that we didn’t speak.”

At Illya’s prompting, Homa shut her eyes again– and somehow, she did manage to sleep.

She did not recall any dreams and nobody tried to wake her up hours later.

When she next opened her eyes, she did so slowly and naturally. Her blurring vision of the room slowly came into focus, and she lifted her head from her pillow and pulled the blankets from over her hair. She looked around with a bleary expression. There was gentle yellow light from the sunlamp clusters overhead, but the white LEDs that made up most of the illumination had not yet been turned on. On one side of her bed, diagnostic equipment which had been absent yesterday was now there, perhaps ready for her surgery.

On the other side– Kalika was sitting in a chair.

Homa looked at her, slightly dumbfounded.

Kalika noticed, smiled back and waved.

“Good morning, Homa.” She said.

There was a thick beige portable computer in her hands just like the Doctor’s model.

“Good morning.” Homa said. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

“I only got here a little bit ago.” Kalika said. “I don’t have much to do.”

“So I’m entertaining you?” Homa said. More bluntly than she intended at first.

“It’s not like that.” Kalika said.

Homa laid back down, adjusting her position in bed and staring up at the ceiling.

“Sorry.” She mumbled.

“It’s fine. I get it. But look, I actually brought something for your entertainment.”

Kalika stood from her chair, closer to Homa, and showed her the portable.

Looking at it up close, and being able to hold it with her hand, it was a little bit heavier and chunkier than the types of devices like this sold in Kreuzung. The screen was 200 mm by 140 mm or so, not counting the bezel around it, and it was about 9 or 10 mm thick on the whole. There were buttons on the front bezel as well as the sides. Kalika also demonstrated that part of the top bezel slid out, and within it there were a pair of small earbuds that were permanently affixed to the machine with thin wires. Homa had never seen a device quite like this, and it did not have any corporate brand logos that she could recognize.

Kalika helped stretch the earbud cord and put the buds comfortably in Homa’s ear fluff.

With a few taps of her finger, she summoned a woman’s voice; a pop music track.

Just as easily, she put on a video from one of the ship’s underside cameras, with full audio.

Mostly marine fog. There was the odd shadow rushing past that could have been a fish.

Then, Kalika tabbed through the interface and opened up a small book of poetry and puns.

“There’s a lot of stuff you can do with it. And, even better for your current situation,”

Kalika demonstrated that a pair of bracing legs could be pulled from the back of the device.

In this way, it could sit on Homa’s lap, so she would not need to hold it all the time.

“Um, wow. Thank you. It’s– it’s nice.” She was at a momentary loss for words.

Homa felt touched. She was not necessarily a fan of any of the pieces of media that Kalika had so excitedly shown her on the device. But there was something so warm about it that it made her want to cry. When Kalika slid out the device’s little legs, and she could look at it sitting stupidly on her lap, this thing which initially read as a chunky beige piece of crap that was uglier and heavier and less glitzy than the devices she knew– it now felt like something that was made for her. Perhaps even something that was made for humanity— something that was made for people rather than money. It even had little earbuds attached with a design, and long enough cord, for use with Shimii ears as well as other types of ears. That would have been a separate device worth fifteen or twenty marks in Kreuzung.

She almost wanted to ask again, who even are all of you?

Where does this all come from?

But she knew– communist mercenaries or whatever– no point in asking Kalika again.

Seeing the little device, its screen filled with a page of childish puns, made Homa laugh, a bit bitterly but also, a bit fulfilled. Her heavy heart was beating, her skin was warm.

Despite everything– she really was alive.

“Thank you. Now that I think about it, I haven’t listened to a lot of music.” Homa said.

“How did you pass the time before?” Kalika asked.

“I watched TV I guess. I read books sometimes. Mostly I worked.” Homa said. She let out a sigh and laid back in bed. “I used to work morning to night. Then I ate and I slept with the TV on. When I had a day off– ah, I can’t even remember. I guess, I haven’t thought about what I wanted to do with myself for a really long time. I wanted to make money to pay my bills.”

“Well, one positive about being a mercenary is having decent free time.” Kalika said.

“How about a positive of being a communist?” Homa asked bluntly.

Kalika grinned. “Having a decent amount of free time too. Also, being in the right.”

“Being in the right, huh.”

Homa brushed the top of the device with one of her fingers.

“I can’t promise promise anything, but I will try.” She whispered, smiling a little at Kalika.

Whether Kalika had heard her or not, she simply smiled back.

Homa started to play with the touchscreen controls again right when a new visitor appeared.

Having walked all the way past the other beds to stop at the end of Homa’s medbay bed.

Homa lifted her eyes from the screen to see a familiar fair and long-haired blonde woman.

Long-legged, busty, tall and fit, a bit of makeup; a mature beauty in mercenary uniform.

Along with a peaked cap that had a gold-bordered red star displayed front and center.

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


After the Core Separation crisis, the Brigand finally escaped from Kreuzung Station.

Now they traveled across the rocky and deep terrain of Eisental, close to 2000 meters deep.

Rendezvousing with the rest of the Rotfront, before heading north-northwest to Aachen.

Between them and the destination was almost the entire length of Eisental.

And all of its many features. Barely recognizable in the pitch darkness and marine fog.

Low-lying underwater peaks, rising and falling mounts, rocky stretches of flat ground; smooth silt valleys and plains where dust and sand sometimes streamed across as if carried on a wind; mineral-rich continental rifts and underwater caves. Abutted to the west by the continent wall and to the east by Jabal Khaybar. Eisental teemed with humanity in its stations, substations and ships, along with aphotic creatures languidly exploring the deep with their bioluminescent bodies. At times, an abstract tunnel of fast-moving water could be observed to snake around the darkness, spiraling here and there and into the distance, part of the treacherous Rhinean jet-streams that could have shaken to pieces a smaller ship.

Commonly seen were small columns of gas wafting up from small pockets of geothermal activity throughout the region. Perhaps during the travel one’s sensors might pick up a particularly consistent outgassing in the distance while navigating the rocky terrain. In the northern and north-western Imbrium, like Rhinea and the Palatine, there were several areas that were home to notably livid rifts, seen to shine red with hot magma or even to crackle purple with massive, exposed clusters of high-grade Agarthicite too reactive to safely mine. These rift areas bore the prefix ‘Bad’ in their names, such as the site where Mehmed’s ambition met its end, Bad Ischl. In these names ‘Bad’ meant ‘Bath’ or ‘Hot Spring’.

As far as humans were concerned, Eisental was a producing region.

Vast mining projects cut deep into the rock to extract a king’s ransom of minerals. Clusters of Agri-Spheres in the calm silt valleys harvested seabed soil, pearlite and geothermal deposit to use in meticulous and vital agroponic works. These produced multiple millions of tons of food– much of it sold unprocessed, requiring extensive logistics to deliver it to upscale grocers and restauranteurs in good condition. Hydrocarbon rigs collected petroleum and natural gas necessary for plastics, an absolutely vital component of deep ocean living. Factory complexes turned these and many more millions of tons of raw materials into products for numerous brands that had become aspirational parts of Rhinean life.

Yet, the ocean was vast and dark, and each of these necessary parts of Imbrian living could no better see one another than the blind creatures of the abyss saw their next meal. Between all of these stations and substations were vast stretches of lonely ocean, within which it still felt as if humanity had ceased to exist and never rebuilt their world under the waves. So as the Brigand navigated the waters, the crew saw darkness, marine fog, and more silt and rock. Stray animals; and perhaps the distant blip of merchant vessels on sonar.

 “Onward to destiny I guess.” Olga Athanasiou said sarcastically at the empty screen.

On the bridge of the UNX-001 Brigand, Erika Kairos, who had sat beside her, stood up.

“Not for destiny!” Erika said. “To defy Destiny and those who would confine us to it!”

With a dramatic flourish and a self-assured grin, she pointed her index finger at the dark.

And so resumed the journey of the revolutionary ship from the communist Union.


Previous ~ Next

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

Bandits Amid The Festival [11.8]

“Now, listen up, and listen well. I’m only doing this to give you a chance to repay me.”

“Of course. I have no illusions otherwise, my fair lady.”

“Okay. I am going to take your arm now. Don’t mistake it for anything serious.”

“Absolutely. I am all yours– in a non-serious, purely transactional way of course.”

“Hmph.”

Dominika clung close to Sameera’s arm while they walked.

“And I’ll have you know, I truly won’t accept being taken somewhere corny.”

“What about somewhere trendy?”

“Trendy is acceptable.”

“Phew! I almost had to turn us right back around.”

“That’s– don’t be silly. I’m just saying– after all the trouble, I expect to be treated nicely.”

Sameera al-Shahouh Raisanen-Morningsun was all smiles, while her date Dominika Rybolovskaya had a mix of disgruntled expression and needy body language that must have confused onlookers. In fact, to everyone else, they must have looked like a strange couple.

Sameera was tall and gallant with dexterous limbs, a solid trunk and an ample bosom, a pretty face with sharp eyes and a sleek jaw, long silky brown hair tied into a ponytail; but she was difficult to place, always ambiguous. Clearly a woman, but with a style and swagger that seemed more solidly masculine; her ears and tail marking her as a Shimii or perhaps a Loup– yet never more than ‘perhaps’ either; with a city-girl style and yet a rural easiness.

Meanwhile, Dominika was clearly a Katarran, and yet shorter and more waifish than her companion. Her long, voluminous red hair had brown streaks, both colors dyed, and interspersed inside it were black-striped red strands that were actually long, thin fins coming down the sides and back of her head, rather than hair. Her skin was a flat pink color, and visible on exposed parts of her body were bumps that looked slightly inflamed — but which were actually photophores, bioluminescent structures on her skin. Her eyes were also quite striking, bright pink irises with a blue limbal ring, falling sharply upon any target of her gaze.

A Katarran was an uncommon sight, but a Katarran being so openly Katarran?

Clinging to a Shimii/Loup of some kind like lovers?

“So, what’s the big surprise?” Dominika asked.

“You’ll see soon.” Sameera said, smiling gently. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing extravagant.”

“It wouldn’t make a difference. We’ll stick out like albino fish in the school regardless.”

“Well then. I promise it won’t be corny.”

“Oh enough. I’m just trying to make you aware. I’m not so easily pleased.”

“I know that for a fact, milady. And yet, I can’t run away from a challenge.”

Both of them were wearing clothes they had brought in from the Union.

Their fits were not especially fancy and were generic enough to betray nothing of their origin, while still communicating their styles. Sameera wore a simple black tanktop that exposed a bit of her well-defined midriff, along with workout pants and a green jacket. Dominika wore a backless, sleeveless dark red dress that was rendered a bit less revealing by a long blue jacket. Her jacket had diamond cutouts on the sides and sleeves that unveiled several photophores on her skin. It was too bright in C-block for them to glow, however.

“I can almost feel the staring. If any of them linger for too long and cause a problem–”

“It’s fine. We have our IDs– and you look stunning. Anyone would look.” Sameera said.

“You’re a bit more of a showoff than I took you for.” Dominika said. “Proud of your abs?”

“What’s the point in working so hard if I can’t show off every once in a while?”

Sameera winked, and Dominika averted her gaze, a bit redder in the face than before.

“You look– worthy of my company.” She said. “I’m not embarrassed to be seen with you.”

Sameera wagged her tail and acknowledged the compliment silently.

She was a bit surprised that her invitation wasn’t turned down entirely.

An invitation to a date at a mystery location, so that the crux of the afternoon would be a pleasant surprise. To find herself with Dominika clinging to her arm and playing the needy femme, walking together flanked by two-story plastic buildings along a fake cobblestone road, under the sunlamps and grey steel sky of Kreuzung. It had been a longshot.

Thankfully, Dominika accepted the framing that it was a gift, to repay her for all the worry.

Sameera was elated. She really wanted to go out with Dominika; the hard-to-get act only made her more curious and excited about the soft underbelly of her squadmate.

Some part of her suspected, however, that Dominika really wanted to be spoiled a bit.

So she had the perfect idea of where to take the acerbic Katarran on a date.

“What do you think of this district? Oddly quaint isn’t it?” Sameera asked.

“It’s all too fake. I see the defects too clearly to appreciate the effort.” Dominika replied.

Sameera was trying to immerse herself in the little fantasy of the place– but she guessed Dominika was simply less of a romantic than she was. Not that she would ever begrudge her the difficulty. Those plastic buildings all around them were gussied up with fake brick textures and false slanted ceilings of curved tiles, the cobblestone beneath them too smooth to be real, the sky above too unconvincing with its flat and even LED cluster placements. It was trying to cultivate an old-world appeal, but the artifice was too evident.

She wondered if perhaps, a version of this that was closer to the truth existed in a more affluent place. After all, this was still only C-block, the second-largest block in the core station in terms of space, but still a middling place in terms of wealth and exclusivity. Perhaps up in A-block there was real brick, real cobblestone, a real blue sky– maybe even a captive sun, performing an ancient dance in the sky for the rich inhabitants. Who knew?

Someone like her was born inexorably barred from such sights.

“Hey, prince charming? You okay? What’s got you grimacing?”

Sameera looked down at Dominika clinging even tighter to her side. She smiled.

“Ah, I was just thinking that I prefer the kitschy fakeness of all of this.”

“Really?”

Sameera glanced up at briefly at the ceiling, shading her eyes.

Up above them, far above, was the affluent A-block of Kreuzung. She nodded towards it.      

“I think it’d be too absurd to see the real thing. I’d question why it’s even there.” She said.

Dominika blinked, in her eyes a gently dawning realization. “Huh. You’ve got a point.”

“But hey. Less socially conscious talk. We’re greedy mercs after all.”

“I’m not a greedy merc.” Dominika said. “I’m a ravishing young beauty out on the town.”

Sameera got a sense of whiplash from how quickly Dominika’s moods seemed to shift.

But that only excited her even more.

“Then I will play the part of your gentleman without fail.”

After twenty or thirty minutes of walking from the elevator that dropped them off on the block, Sameera and Dominika rounded a corner into a circular street in which there were several shops with colorful signs. All the fake old world brick gave away to trendy, minimalist storefronts with geometric color patterns and simple facades. Unlike the sparsely populated outer street, these cafes and shops were well-traveled, with their outdoor tables beginning to fill up with brunch guests as the pair arrived. While some of the pedestrians were casually dressed like Sameera and Dominika, most of the guests wore uniforms of various sorts, either the grey business suits that constituted the corporate uniform, or the coats of police, nurses, the fireproof jackets of guild unionized maintenance workers, and so forth.

Teeming with middle class clientele, the street cast a stronger contrast against them.

“Here we are, what shop do you want to go to? I was thinking the Patisserie there.”

For a moment, Dominika looked taken aback by all the people, and the cutesy vibes.

“Wow. Can we afford this? I thought we were going to a park or something.”

“I checked the prices, everything is reasonably within my Marks stipend.”

“Hmm. Well, if it’s your treat, let’s start with the Patisserie then.” Dominika said.

“Anything that my ravishing young beauty desires.” Sameera cooed.

“Hmph.”

All of the little café tables with their green umbrellas were taken up, so the young couple navigated past them and into the shop itself to take up a booth seat, turning heads all throughout. Whether it was their beauty or their ethnicities, Sameera wasn’t about to question. As long as their attention remained confined to gazing from afar, Sameera could enjoy the obvious curiosity of the Imbrians around them. They sat amid the simple and warm salmon pink interior of the shop, their booth across from several long counters with ritzy gold and glass displays filled with a rainbow of sweets, cakes, cookies and breads.

Sameera thought they would sit across from each other, but Dominika surprised her yet again by following her into the same half of the booth. She continued to cling close to her, a piece of arm candy more delectable than any of the sweets the shop had on display.

Inside the windowless shop, the lights were dimmer than outside. Pressed together in their booth seat, Sameera could see the little charming bumps on Dominika’s body glowing a gentle green. The design of her dress played well with these features, her halter plunging into a deep vee that exposed a humble bit of cleavage, and a line of evenly spaced photophores like a little arrow between her collarbones and breasts. Her jacket was starting to fall from her shoulders and did very little now to cover her bioluminescence.

Or the captivating softness of her round shoulders; the striking curve of her collarbones–

“What are you so keen on, Miss Gentleman?” Dominika met Sameera’s wandering eyes.

Her voice was a tiny bit teasing, but her expression was as surly as ever.

What kind of signals are you sending to me, milady? Much to consider, there…

Sameera laughed it off. “I’ve just never seen you glow like this. It’s appealing.”

Dominika averted her gaze, not with a sharp huff, but slowly, with a little grin.

Was she softening up, or just a different kind of harsh? Either way, it was titillating.

On their table, there were little pink and gold plastic booklets that had the menu items with pictures, and ordering was done on a touchscreen through a very spartan graphical interface that conflicted with the cheery pink aura of the shop. There were several dozen menu items.

Up front and with the largest picture in the booklet, was the shop’s special Baumkuchen, a cake composed of three circular, stacked layers of dough completely drowned in chocolate that was then allowed to set. Various colorful syrup drizzles could be ordered, and patterns could be designed around the cake to make it showier and more picturesque. There was also an entire section of the menu devoted to Bossches, large dough balls covered in chocolate that had different sweet, creamy fillings. On the simpler side, they had baked or fried dough items like Franzbrots, which were simply dusted with powdered sugar or cinnamon.

Ultimately, what caught Sameera’s attention the most was a section titled Exotic Delights.

In this section, the booklet had a layout with colorful geometric patterns that Sameera thought she recognized as Shimii in origin, or at least inspired by the Shimii’s art. She thought she saw similar patterns on the colors of the shop buildings too. At the top of a two-page spread a note let the reader know these were featured in a trendy Imbrian TV show.

Central within the spread was a multicolored array of flavored Halwas, a soft dessert with a base of sesame paste, mixed with sweeteners, fruits, other nuts and set. Rashidun halwas were often simple shapes, like crumbly squares that were topped simply. However, the shop’s centerpiece halwa, bright orange, looser in consistency, heavily garnished and spread in the shape of a crescent, was much more Mahdist in nature. There were also numerous Sahlab on offer, a creamy pudding that could also be colorfully decorated. It seemed that the colors and decorations were part of the draw of these Shimii-inspired desserts.

And part of the business plan.

These exotic desserts carried the highest prices on the menu by far.

Dubbed “Parsa’s Delight” by the shop, the Mahdist Halwa was 30 marks a serving.

Her fingers gripped the booklet tighter as she ran down the offerings and their prices.

She grit her teeth and her muscles tensed up. Her heartbeat hammered in her chest.

“So we’re not wanted here, but our food is a trendy treat.”

Looking at them made Sameera furious. She shot a nasty sidelong glance at the counter.

“Hmm? Are you looking? What are you thinking of getting?”

From her side, Sameera noticed Dominika looking at her again.

Her expression was soft and nonchalant. She looked a bit less standoffish than before.

Sameera’s muscles loosened up, her fists unclenched.

She restrained her tone of voice.

This is her day. Don’t fuck it up, gentleman.

“Still looking.” Sameera said. “They have a lot of weird little variations of fried dough.”

It was pointless to get too angry. She wanted Dominika to make some good memories.

Eyes on the prize. Let the revolutionary fervor out some other day.

“Honestly, I’m tempted to be boring and just get a coffee.” Dominika said.

“Ah, yeah, they do beverages too, don’t they?” Sameera replied.

“Coffee, milkshakes with syrups– they have these pudding things in mugs too.”

“Hmm. That alters the calculus a little bit.”

“The calculus?”

“It makes the dryer desserts more appealing if you can get a nice beverage.”

“How strategic. I thought you were a meathead that just rushed into things?”

Dominika cracked a little grin. Sameera laughed.

“You’re right! What was I thinking? Baumkuchen it is.”

“That’s a lot of cake! I’m not going to help you eat it, you know.”

“Oh you’re eating the cake, milady.”

“Huh?”

“You need to treat yourself! I demand to spoil you! We’re getting two Baumkuchens!”

“Sameera!”

“Two Baumkuchens with all kinds of syrup, and I’m spoon-feeding you too.”

“Don’t push your luck!”

“I’m going to push a slice of delicious cake past your pouty lips until you smile.”

“Hmph!”

In the end, after Sameera had satisfied herself making sport of Dominika, to the point that Dominika even ended up giggling just a tiny bit herself from the absurdity of it all.

Together, they decided on smaller but more indulgent patisserie orders than getting a giant chocolate cake. Dominika had been correct that Sameera preferred the straightforward solutions, and so she got something easy from the very first page: a simple Bismarcken donut ball filled half with chocolate and half with cream, along with a hot mug of cinnamon milk.

Dominika meanwhile ordered a bright plate of macarons in a variety of flavors, arrayed in rainbow-hued little pyramid that almost rivaled the color combinations of the booklet’s halwa spreads. Along with the macarons, she did get her coffee, and she got it Vienna-style, covered in whipped cream and with the espresso mixed with a bit of whipped cream as well.

“Here. Have a taste. There’s too many.”

Dominika lifted a little pink and red macaron from the plate and raised it to Sameera’s face.

Sameera briefly stared at the macaron before realizing it was she who was being fed.

Then, without warning, she took the entire dessert into her mouth in one bite.

Her lips briefly brushed the tips of Dominika’s fingers, who then jerked them back.

“Tasty. Really cute colors too. Almost like taking a bite out of you.”

“Hey–”

Sameera could complete the intended ‘don’t push your luck’ left in Dominika’s lips.

Accompanied by the low background noise of romantic Imbrian soft rock coming from the shop’s audio system, the two of them slowly enjoyed their treats. Sameera’s donut was soft and chewy and sweet, and because of the two-tone filling it was quite moist, even without the creamy milk. Every so often she pilfered a macaron from Dominika’s plate, which her Katarran beauty did not dispute. They were quiet at first, but gradually got to talking.

Surprisingly, Dominika brought opened conversation first.

“Sameera– you said you were a Leviathan hunter.”

Dominika leaned much closer than before and whispered.

“Where were you stationed?”

Sameera enjoyed the brief brush of their bodies together.

She whispered back. “Haryana.”

Haryana was an agri-complex in Lyser. Not a name that should be said aloud in the Empire.

“How many did you see?” Dominika asked.

She was neither whispering nor speaking aloud.

That private tone would continue throughout the rest of their conversation.

“I killed a few, but nothing that impressive.”

“But was it dangerous? I have no idea how often is too often with Leviathan sightings.”

“It wasn’t like we saw Leviathans every day. It’s just that Agrispheres are really important so they get their own hunter guard. Nothing gets left up to chance and no expense is spared to keep them safe. So most of the time I would just sortie for patrols or for training, or if a buoy picked up some life signs. I was really eager to prove myself, so I’d take like, every mission.”

“Did you get to cook your own fresh food in a big plaza surrounded by trees?”

Dominika referenced a quite old Union propaganda poster about Agri-sphere living.

“Nope. My accommodations were decidedly military.” Sameera said with a chuckle.

“Did you meet a lot of bright-eyed young farmer’s girls looking innocent of the world?”

Another old propaganda poster about Lyser. Promoting starting a family in an Agri-sphere.

Sameera responded a bit awkwardly. “That’s classified information.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Dominika grinned a little, as if satisfied at successfully poking at Sameera.

“Okay, my turn to ask about you. What was the ice frontier like?” Sameera asked.

“Cold.” Dominika said dismissively.

“Milady.” Sameera smiled dangerously. “I’m going to steal your macarons.”

“Hey! Stop! I was just kidding. Anyway. I mainly have bad memories of it, honestly.” Dominika shut her eyes and shuddered, perhaps remembering what it was like. “We were always doing maintenance and repairs, everyone was on edge, food shipments got delayed all the time so our rations kept changing. Climate control could barely keep up with the cold–”

“Ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dig up bad memories.” Sameera interrupted.

“It’s fine. Nobody ever asks me about it. There’s a lot I could say, I guess.”

“If I can poke you for one more thing– why did you decide to go to the ice frontier?”

“Why did you decide to become a Leviathan Hunter?” Dominika shot back.

She sounded suddenly annoyed. That was the last thing Sameera wanted.

Sameera replied in a gentle, patient voice.

“I just kinda wanted to get out in the world and fill up an unwanted job. Do the dirty work nobody else did. I wanted to feel like I was important somewhere.” She said.

Dominika looked contrite about the turn in her attitude.

Perhaps Sameera’s honesty and earnestness had gotten through to her.

She averted her gaze, but she responded.

“I wanted to be alone. Nobody wants to work on the ice frontier. So I thought I would have a lot of space to myself, and be more self-directed. I was right; but I regretted it pretty fast.”

“Well. If you ever need a friend. You’re not alone anymore.”

From observing Dominika, Sameera thought she might draw a rebuke if she volunteered.

But she got the gist of what she wanted to say across. It was implied.

“Thanks.” Dominika whispered simply.

She reached out for a macaron and shoved it whole into her mouth.

Sameera lifted her cup of milk to her lips. That was the end of that conversation.

She liked the small talk, but it was also nice just to be able to sit beside Dominika.

Back when she had first seen her in the hangar– She was cute, and she was a little withdrawn– maybe she could use a friend? Maybe she was up for some fun? Katarrans were always less stuck up than others, or so Sameera had thought at the time. It was silly to admit it to herself, but she had a crush. If Dominika ended up hating her, at least she wanted to have some fun along the way. She was even cuter when she was all flustered. Maybe Sameera had a chance? For all her swagger– it felt like she always ended up cast aside.

Always outside the worlds of others.

But maybe this time– maybe she wouldn’t be overlooked–

maybe she would be needed

“Sameera. I have something to tell you. It’s important.”

Dominika spoke up after a long silence, and her lupine, feline prince glanced to her side.

“I’m all ears.” Sameera said. She playfully folded then raised her ears.

She was so curious. What would Dominika say?

Dominika gathered her breath after a brief pause. Shutting her eyes.

“Look–”

“Yeah?”

Dominika withered under Sameera’s gaze. She looked like she would break a sweat.

“I– I wouldn’t be here without you. I don’t know– I don’t get what compelled you to risk your life for me. It’s hard to accept that you decided to take such risks for my sake. I think– it was reckless, and stupid of you. But– I’m alive now. I’m here, thanks to you. I can’t deny that– Ugh. God damn it. I’ve been trying to think of what to say for weeks. So there you go.”

She stared down at the plate of macarons in front of her, hands balled into fists at her sides.

Elated to hear those anxious words, her prince responded with a rapturous smile.           

Sameera leaned a bit closer to Dominika and quickly laid an indulgent kiss on her cheek.

Dominika’s entire body quivered, her hair fins standing suddenly up and shining brighter.

“That’s all I needed in return. Non-seriously and transactionally, of course.”

Dominika’s hand absently reached up to rub her own cheek, her photophores strobing.

Once she regained her composure, she sighed and stuffed her mouth with another macaron.

Sameera, meanwhile, tried to hide her giddy, girlish exuberance and finish her donut.

That taste of Dominika’s cheek had been sweeter even than the offerings of the Patisserie.

“I need to tell you one more thing.” Dominika said, still rubbing her cheek.

“Always listening, milady.” Sameera replied.

“This is serious. Back then, when you collapsed in the hangar, and then when we were almost attacked by that demonic Diver, I was terrified for you. I– I really don’t want you to be so reckless again. I mean it. You can’t just– I don’t want– you to throw your life away.”

However she worded it, all Sameera heard, was that Dominika cared about her living.

For once she felt like she did not have perfectly recited words to say in response.

Her heart was hot and pounding hard in response.

“I’ll try. I guess I’ve never been too good at taking care of myself.” Sameera said.

“Well–” Dominika looked down at her plate, searching for the words–

She then leaned again, laying her head on Sameera’s shoulder. “You’re not alone either.”


In a part of C-block a few streets away from Dominika and Sameera’s sweet shop, the road curved around a small park, and there was a library building and a public school. In the park, library, school and the streets connecting them, a variety of kiosks, tents and other pop-up shops had gone up overnight. It was the seasonal market, a one-week open air festival of small batch textiles and handcrafts; rare collectibles like real, bound books; and fresh food made right on-site; and much more. It was a truly a focal point of station culture.

“Ahead lies our destiny, gamer–! I mean, Alex! Feast your eyes upon the sum of human endeavor! Treasures heretofore unseen arrayed for us to covet, and if our coin prove sufficient, we may yet lay claim to a king’s ransom of rare finery and culture goods–”

“–Thanks for calling me Alex every once in a while.”

Alexandra Geninov couldn’t help but feel blessed by this turn of events, however.

Her companion, Fernanda Santapena-De-La-Rosa, looked so excited to be here.

Even if she wasn’t necessarily excited to be with Alex, she hadn’t refused the offer.

This was clear sign of progress. Alex only wished she could make a save file.

Out on the town, the two perennial night-shifters of the Pandora’s Box had dressed up in their best, and only, personal outfits for shore leave. Their styles clashed quite sharply.

Fernanda had dolled herself up, the shiny purple streaks going through her long, blond hair even more pronounced than before, and the purple lipstick and eyeshadow on her delicate face sparkling with a hint of glitter. Her light figure was wrapped in a black and dark purple synthetic dress, skin-tight from the neck to its long sleeves and filigreed bodice. Diamond-shaped sheer sections on the upper chest and belly whose tips met just under the breasts, added a tasteful amount of risqué flair. Those sheer sections composed of two diamonds of tight mesh fabric, meeting end to end, were also mirrored on Fernanda’s back, on her arms, as well as in the leggings that went with the dress. On the sections of the dress that were not partially see-through, silver faux-occult patterns had been laid over the fabric. These were also present in the dress’ short, flared skirt, worn over as a bottom piece.

Simply put– she was so fucking hot that it was driving Alex low-key insane.

Alex was nowhere near the level of Fernanda’s gothic chic. Nevertheless, as she walked the streets, she started to put on a bit of swagger. She liked to think she must have looked handsome, with her tall and gallant figure, wide-shouldered, long-limbed, slender; easily a head over Fernanda; as well as her mysteriously, exotically mixed race skin tone and silky brown hair, messily stuck up in the back of her head with a single claw hair clip.

Her fashion was near completely thrown together– just things that felt comfortable if she ever had to wear something other than a uniform. She had a pair of tight blue pants with a few rips on the knees and thighs, and a blue zip-up hoodie with a little 16-bit pixel art model of a ship on the back. She wore her hoodie half-unzipped and well off-shoulder; showing off some cleavage in addition by wearing an over-size, deeply plunging white v-neck underneath the hoodie, also falling off her nice shoulders and exposing tantalizing black bra straps.

“Is there anything specific you’d like to see?”

“I shall strategize once I have laid closer look to the goods. What about thine own interest?”

“Just browsing. But honestly, I just thought you’d like a place like this.”

“Oh ho! Perhaps a dew-drop of high culture has fallen upon the brows of this gamer?”

Fernanda made a smug little face and a dramatic little gesture with her hands.

At first Alex was a little repelled by Fern. She wasn’t going to lie to herself and think she always liked her. When she first saw her she thought she was a weirdo, and their first few shifts were tense. But the more she got to know her, working those long nights on the bridge, she started to think, Fern is kinda cute. Then, they started to live together, saw more of each other outside the bridge, and Alex thought, Fern is kinda hot.

Truly, Alex’s imagination had been very limited those few weeks ago.

Fernanda, as she stood on this day, was like, geothermal event levels hot.

Alex was hitting herself for fantasizing about everyone but her!

On the way to the market, in addition to trying to work up a bit of confidence in her own body language, Alex’s eyes examined the way Fern’s dress clung to her every contour and she felt like she had to say something. Everyone loved compliments, right?

And damn– Fernada was earning every second of Alex’s lascivious gaze.

As far as Alex was concerned, today her life was not a shoot-em-up or simulator, it was a storytelling game– clearly, she was locked into the “Fern” route. This event was her chance to make some moves and score some points with the roomie to turn things romantic.

She had to nut up and take the initiative. No coward strats— big dick moves only.

“Hey, Fern,”

“Uh huh?”

“You look h– I like your dress.”

Afraid of the commit, Alex cancelled into a much safer move, like a huge coward.

Fernanda looked her up and down with a neutral but appraising expression on her face.

Was it just Alex’s imagination or did Fern’s eyes just linger on her tits?

“Much appreciated– you have–” Fernanda paused. “You possess a rather easy presence.”

With twice as many words she said about as much of a compliment as Alex had.

Not much of one at all. They averted their gazes and got to walking.

Despite the awkwardness, the two of them headed into the market with smiling faces.

Fake stone paths dotted with a few synthetic trees made up the park, the turf grass easily exposed by the lack of quality lighting to maintain the illusions. None of the architecture was very impressive, despite its attempts to put on airs. False stucco on the library façade and the false colonnades fading into the walls of the school building, it all failed to impress.

It was the streets around these landmarks that now brimmed with life.

Hundreds of sellers had arrayed themselves in every open spot along the streets. Some had large tents filled with goods, others were selling out of the trunks of small electric vehicles, yet more had carts or simple plastic table-stands with their goods on offer.

There were all kinds of people selling, young and old, men and women.

All of them were Imbrian though– nobody had even as much skin tone on them as Alex.

“Gamer– I mean, Alex, prithee, accompany me first to the purveyors of textiles.”

“None of these strike me as erotic novel type stuff.” Alex said teasingly.

“I shall prove your insolence wrong in due time! But I wish to see everything on offer!”

Rather than ignore Alex’s lagging behind, Fernanda grabbed her suddenly by the arm and pulled her toward several stands and tents were shirts, carpets, sheets, and other such goods were on sale. Alex wasn’t just being surly for the sake of it: she had noticed common themes among the textiles on sale that clashed heavily with both her own sense of fashion and quite definitely with Fernanda’s fashion. It seemed the order of the day was geometric patterns, like diamond-shaped waves and squares within circles, or even fractal patterns.

All of which had either bright flat colors, or psychedelic arrays of many colors at once.

Upon looking at these tie-dye explosions up close, Fernanda barely restrained a grimace.

“Looking for a new welcome mat to lighten up your hallway? Or maybe a cute scarf or a drape to add flair to a new look?” A seller called out to them. “Our textiles all have super chic Shimii-inspired patterns! Teen girls love these nowadays! You would be on the cutting edge of the hip new styles no matter how old you are now! C’mon, take a closer look for yourself!”

Alex wasn’t sure she’d ever seen Shimii textiles with such garish colors before.

Fernanda and her both ignored the seller and continued walking.

“Dunno about you, but I’m not that interested in what teens are doing here.” Alex said.

“Concurred.” Fernanda said with a small sigh.

There was a decent amount of foot traffic along the streets and into and out of the school and library; a variety of food vendors around the street market were taking advantage of this. Alex kept an eye out for them, as she had begun to feel slightly peckish.

However, almost all of them were selling some kind of processed meat.

Hamburg steaks, chicken wings, candied bacon; there was meat to eat everywhere she turned, but nothing like Minardo’s cooking. Strictly speaking, they weren’t forbidden from eating meat, but they had been raised to find it wasteful, so it felt odd to do so.

Both of them stopped in front of a cart with a few things for sale they had never heard of.

“Pray tell, what form of comestible is ceg kofta?” Fernanda asked.

From behind the cart, the young woman scooped up a mass of red paste flecked with white and green bits and showed it to the two of them. It smelled strong and herbal, but upon seeing it, there was no denying that it was just meat. “This is raw lamb mashed with onion, garlic, green leek and spices. It’s a Shimii specialty, it’s becoming super popular. Ten marks per, want some? I’ll throw in some rose petal lemonade on the side for free!”

“Huh? It’s raw?” Alex frowned. “Won’t that just make us sick?”

The young kofta seller narrowed her eyes. “Of course not! Shimii eat this every day!”

“Then it shall be left with them, or your impression of them. Let’s depart, gam– Alex.”

Fernanda tugged Alex’s arm and led her away from the cart quickly.

She had a grossed-out look on her face.

Alex was beginning to fear the date venue had been a miscalculation on their part, but it started to turn around when she pointed out the jewelry vendors to Fernanda. Her eyes finally twinkled with delight. There were finally goods that came in purple and black and were much more her style. Hairpins shaped like raven’s feathers, necklaces with star-shaped purple gemstones of both ferristitched and slightly more authentic varieties, brooches and wristlets and earrings in sharp and wicked shapes and designs.

It was a bit more romantic than rainbow scarves and raw meat.

Fernanda drifted from seller to seller, smiling exuberantly at the pieces on display.

She looked so exceptionally beautiful when she was happy.

Alex had a corny, stupid, gay thought– she wanted to make Fern happier more often.

Maybe it’d do everyone some good to see that smile on the regular.

If I could save right here and just come back to this moment whenever I wanted.

It was time– Alex had been too passive. She needed to make a gamer move.

There was an opportunity, and she wasn’t about to let it pass unanswered.

“Hey, Fern, come look. I found something; try this on. I think it’ll suit you.”

Working up her courage, Alex picked up a little something from the table of a compliant vendor– a choker, with a lacy, partially see-through black band and a purple decoration in front that was the shape of a broken heart. As soon as she saw the piece, Alex knew she had to grab it. When Fernanda turned to look, she paused and stared, transfixed, at the object.

Alex thought she saw a bit of a blush on Fernanda’s cheek, and quietly undid the clip in the back of the choker, and presented it, as if to say, ‘want me to put it on you?’

“I’m surprised,” Fernanda said, after some hesitation. “You– You get it, gamer.”

“Hmm? I get it?” Alex grinned.

“I– I mean to suggest, you have demonstrated a refinement in taste hitherto unseen.”

A few moments’ hesitation, and she lifted her blond hair, shut her eyes and moved closer.

Alex’s heart began to thrash.

She had never seen Fernanda make herself so– vulnerable?

Basking in the unforeseen triumph, Alex neared, leaned forward, and slowly and gently wound the choker around Fernanda’s slim neck with the utmost care and tenderness and respect. She clipped the choker on the back and adjusted it. Her hands brushed against the soft skin of Fern’s shoulders and neck, felt the silky texture of her hair, and she was close enough to smell the darkly sensuous perfume that her witch had applied for the occasion.

She could have pounced on her– oh god. Dangerous thoughts. Reel them back in.

“Oh yeah. I’m buying it.” Alex said to the vendor. She handed them a few bills.

Fernanda looked she was going to scoff out of habit at this unasked for favor–

–but she caught sight of herself in the vendor’s mirror and paused to take it in.

“It– it does look– it flatters my countenance to an acceptable degree. I will wear it.”

“It’s amazing on you. You’re amazing, Fern.”

Without thinking, she had found herself saying something far more blatant than before.

For a moment Alex expected Fern to flinch and kick her shin in disgust, or something.

“Hah. Never was it in doubt. My nymph-like beauty is without equal among mortals.”

Instead, Fernanda turned a conceited smile on Alex and walked away with a haughty air.

There was a second where Alex felt kind of stupid. Like she had been tricked somehow.

Then her heart felt lighter. She was happy; she was satisfied.

She loved seeing Fern like this. It wasn’t a contest– it wasn’t a competitive game.

Fernanda was smiling. She was smiling too. It was nice– it wasn’t perfect, but it was nice.

They were having a good time, all things considered.

Three months ago, this would have been unthinkable. But they had been through a lot.

And now, Alex really felt like– she wanted Fernanda to like her– she felt that–

there was no one else she wanted to take those night shifts with than Fernanda.

Even if all they did was argue about dumb, pointless stuff. It was fine; if it was with her.

But does she like me back? She’s been acting pretty flirty if I think about it.

Maybe Alex just had to be the sexy biracial gamer chick of her dreams!

Maybe it was that easy!

Alex waved goodbye to the vendor out of sheer personal exuberance and followed along behind Fernanda with a renewed energy. She had never felt this way about anyone, and she thought she liked it. Whatever status ailment she had been inflicted with, she hoped it wouldn’t go away soon. Everything felt so easy now, and she was no longer so anxious about displeasing Fernanda. She thought a successful date was essentially already locked in.

“Do you think they have any video games here?” Alex asked, with a big, cheery smile.

Fernanda glanced over her shoulder at her. “Mayhaps you’ll find the rare handicrafted memory card of a departed old matron, boasting bespoke digital entertainments heretofore unseen, lovingly stitched pixel by pixel over a centenary of teacups and porridge bowls.”

Her voice was thick with sarcasm, and Alex loved it too. Berate me more, princess!

And what was that she saw? Was that a little smile playing on Fernada’s purple lips?

There you go! You’re winning, Alexandra Geninov! You’re finally winning!

Closer to the school and library, there were bigger tents with exactly what Fernanda was looking for. Shelves upon shelves of books– of course, none of them were real hardcover books. Instead, they had very thin screens within a smooth plastic shell containing a microcomputer wafer smaller than an ID card and similar in weight.

All it could do was display the book in its attached memory card. Single purpose reader devices were uncommon in the Union; almost all books in the Union were just library files that the station computer served to portables or room computers. In the Imbrium, however, books were bought and sold as limited, physical goods, hence the hardware.

Alex and Fernanda walked into a big tent, big enough to have a dozen shelves inside.

Each shelf was marked with the genre of books it contained, and in no time, Fernanda had shuffled over to the “Dark Romance” shelf. Because the books were so thin, there were hundreds and hundreds of them in each shelf. They were poorly labeled on the shelf itself, most of them unmarked, requiring that the book be picked up and booted up with the tiny buttons on the case, to determine what it was. Fernanda began looking through them.

“So, any steamy lesbian sex?” Alex asked, peering over Fernanda’s shoulder.

No immediate response.

And there she went– Fernanda’s eyes scanned across the lines of text one after another.

Her slender fingers swiped across the screen, turning page after page.

After a few moments, a slightly hoarse laugh escaped her lips.

Alex smiled and stood by, eventually picking up a random book herself.

Perhaps seeing her disengaging, Fernanda’s gaze lifted from her book for a brief moment.

“Gamer– Alex. You cannot reduce this literary juggernaut to such simplicity. Dark romance works are obsessed with the sadomasochistic relationships that can develop between the same sex. They are characterized by brooding protagonists, dark acts of sexuality, and bitter endings. Indeed, there is the unveiling of the sapphic flesh, but this is hardly the only appeal of these works. In the Union, these works are still largely the domain of enthusiast writing, but they appear to have been broadcast more widely in the Empire.” Fernanda said.

Indeed, after a few pages into the book Alex had picked up, there was already lesbian sex. A special agent who was infiltrating a Solceanos convent into order to sneak out the woman that she loved, who had been forced to hide there due to her political rivals; and she just couldn’t help but pause and get knuckle deep inside her girl before their escape–

Fernanda peered at Alex’s book, shut off her own reader and picked up a second sheet.

“You have come into possession of a future volume of ‘The Death of The Umbran Lilly’.” Fernanda said. “If you desire to assist me, help me collect the rest. I desire to obtain as many volumes as they have available. You’ll be pleased to hear I will allow you to carry them.”

“Uh huh. Or I guess I should say ‘as thou wisheth, o dark mistress’.”

“Hmph.”

Alex shut off the reader in her hands and started flipping through others.

Due to the lack of good labeling the two of them kept taking and putting back volumes as they looked. It was easy for Alex to think of this as some kind of mission and put her whole head into it. From what Fernanda gathered there were fifteen volumes.

“So lesbians aside, what kind of stuff do you look for in a series? Why this one?”

“Hah! To ask such a simplistic question of me. Of course, what else could I desire but to peer into the deepest depths of human desire and community? To explore the darkest and most enshadowed recesses of the spirit and expose the most turbulent angst contained therein?”

“I’m sorry but all that still sounds like you just want lesbians in it.”

“Hmph. Pray tell, what do you seek from your little video games, gamer?”

“Well, first priority is good gamefeel, like slick controls and mechanics.”

“Pah! Gamefeel. And you pretend my words mean nothing?”

Fernanda broke out into laughter. For a second Alex felt rebuked again.

But Fernanda seemed to be smiling still.

Alex started to become invested in finding all twenty-something volumes of ‘The Death of the Umbran Lilly’ in order to appease Fernanda, and quickly became absorbed in the task.

She would only tear her eyes from a book or shelf if she found one.

To the point that she did not notice a third individual making their way into the shelf.

And while being particularly dramatic with snatching a book from the shelf, elbowed them somewhere, and knocked the book they were reading right out of their hands. It felt like the noise of that book hitting ground was louder than any other sound in the entire station, overwhelmingly loud, drowning out Alex’s breathing, heartbeat, thoughts. She was immediately, completely embarrassed to have hit someone else, and crouched to pick up the book without a second to spare. Thankfully, the portable readers had padded corners.

“Agh! Oh, I’m such an oaf, I’ll get it for you–”

Crouching on the ground, picking up the portable that had fallen–

In front of a pair of thick, black boots, out of which long black tights emerged.

Alex’s eyes followed the tights up a pair of long and well-defined legs.

To black skirt and coat, worn over a black shirt. Long sleeves with red armbands.

One emblazoned with a stylized black sun, another with an eagle-like dragon.

Dark brown eyes looked down at her on the floor.

A bushy tail swung leisurely behind the figure.

Peeking out from around a beret were two tall, furry ears.

“Ah. Thank you. I was surprised too.”

She reached down a hand. Black gloves with a cuff bearing that same strange sun motif.

Alex recognized the symbols. The Commissar had made sure everyone knew them.

The Sonnenrad, a symbol of esoteric fascism; and the Reichsadler, imperial heraldry.

Judging by the armband, this woman–

–was an officer of the Volkisch Movement!

Alex had stricken a fascist officer!

I fucked up! I fucked everything up! You did it again you fucking loser Alex Geninov!

Shocked stupid, not knowing what to do, Alex took her gloved hand.

That woman easily pulled Alex back up to a stand, her grip confident and strong.

She was a Loup, Alex thought– shorter than her, with long, brown hair with neat, blunt bangs, fluffy ears and a bushy, bristly tail that wagged easily behind her. Her eyes were a dark, deep blue. She had an affable expression, but her gaze was so intense–

“I’m– I’m really sorry about all this! Really! It won’t happen again!” Alex said.

She stared straight into that cutting gaze, feeling eviscerated by its depth.

This woman, whose hand she was holding, could finish everything Alex cared about.

Her life; the mission; and– the love of her life–

“Please forgive us.” Alex mumbled.

At her side, Fernanda froze up, staring wide-eyed with her hands clutching a book.

“Oh, it’s nothing. Fellow enthusiasts of taboo literature, right?”

The Volkisch officer smiled and reached out a hand again, this time for a shake.

Alex, still dumbstruck and anxious, shook it, perhaps a bit too vigorously.

“Um. Alex.” She said, by way of introduction.

“My name is Aatto Jarvi-Stormyweather. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Alex handed her back the book that had been dropped.

It visibly shook in her nervous grip.

Aatto caught on and wagged a finger.

“Oh I’m so sorry. I understand– please don’t worry. I’m just a paper pusher, I’m not here for the ‘zeal and glory of the National Proletariat.’” She said the slogan in a deeper, mocking voice. “Just pretend like I’m anyone else here. You’ve got a bunch of ‘Umbran Lilly’ right? I can recommend it. Though I prefer stories that have kingdom-building elements.”

She reached across from Alex and picked up another book from the shelf.

It was the last volume they were looking for.

Aatto handed it to a demure Fernanda.

“Of course, there’s not much to spoil, the name of the series says it all. Nevertheless, it is a truly intriguing little tale.” Aatto says. “I think the imagination on display can excite both dabbler and connoisseur alike with its audacity. Even though our heroine must die for the sake of the morality laws– her journey takes some incredible turns. I only wish that women such as these were allowed to live out their conquests to the fullest. Anyway. Enjoy it.”

Alex and Fernanda speechlessly took the books.

Aatto meanwhile turned back to the shelf and picked up a different book to peruse.

While periodically staring at Aatto as if she would pounce if they ignored her for too long, they grabbed one of the bags left in the aisles for prospective customers, put all their books in it, and bid silent leave from the Volkisch officer. The entire time Alex was around her, she waited for the other shoe to drop. Would there be someone in one of the shelves closer to the front of the tent, ready to tackle them to the ground? Would there be a tactical team outside that would immediately fill them with lead for buying perverted books?

Outside the tent, the pair found themselves unmolested in the middle of the street.

Except by the amount of money it cost to buy 20 volumes of lesbian erotica.

They both looked back over their shoulders into the tent, to see if Aatto was watching.

Nothing. She must have still been perusing the dirty books in the back.

Fernanda and Alex heaved a sigh of relief, leaning into each other.

“We should seize the march.” Fernanda said. “Before we bequeath opportunities to fate.”

She thrust the bag of books into Alex’s chest, urging her to carry it.

They left the open air market, Alex’s breathing still troubled by the fright in the book tent. After stealing away into the wide open streets of C-block, putting several corners between them and the open-air market, the two of them slowly began to take lighter steps.

There were no snipers or barricades or armored cars.

Alex was the first one to laugh, but Fernanda soon joined her.

“She was just a paper pusher– dressed like that? What kind of department has a ‘judge, jury and executioner’ style dress code?” Alex said. “And she’s into gay porn? I can’t deal with it.”

“Envision joining a sapphic reading group only to find that in your meetings.” Fern said.

Both of them guffawed openly on the street for a moment.

“God. I’m starving. We should find a place we can actually eat at.” Alex finally said.

“I’m afraid I must concur. Without replenishment, you’ll soon have to carry me too.”

Fernanda glanced at Alex as if looking for a response– and smiled when Alex laughed.

Farther down the street, they found about the only place where they were guaranteed to get something vegetarian– a fruit bar, serving a variety of smoothies and drinks. Rather than actual fresh fruit, which would have been prohibitively expensive, the venue was dominated by several rows displaying different cartridges of stitcher material to mix together.

Fruits were processed toward the creation of flavor bases, syrups, creams, and fibers, contained in small transparent cylinders that would be fed into the smoothie machine. Guests could choose any combination, for different flavors, colors and textures.

This was a shop after Alex’s own heart.

In the Union, fresh fruit was exceedingly hard to get. Fresh food was so precious it was the main perk of farming– getting to have any fresh fruit and veggies at all was a highly desirable perk. Every unit of food grown in the Union that was bound for cafeterias, schools, workplaces and community pantries, was immediately processed into a product that would last longer and be transportable. Everything was dried, milled, pulped or pickled; only a few whole fruits were frozen for consumption in near-original form, and these were rare goods often bound for the navy or as some kind of prize or bonus for outstanding citizens.

Alex was quite used to eating stuff like this– smoothies made by stitcher machines.

It was easy to eat, pretty tasty, and it conferred a hit of sugar for a late night gaming boost.

There were some unfamiliar fruits on offer, however. One of the perks of Empire.

“What are you getting?” Alex asked Fern.

Fern grinned to herself. “I aspire to compose a drink that evokes the midnight shadow.”

“You’re getting purple stuff. Got it.”

“Hmph.”

Alex was throwing stones from a glass house, as her drink was essentially “green stuff.”

Because of all the shelves, there was no indoor seating in the fruit bar, but the establishment had put up a few tables and chairs in an adjacent alleyway for customers to leave the street. The pair sat down under a white umbrella and sipped their smoothies in disposable plastic mugs, taking in the somewhat stale air of the district and catching their breath.

Fern’s drink did look surprisingly tempting with its deep purple hue and swirl of a brighter purple syrup. Alex’s was monotonously green and somewhat fibrous, but the strongest flavor was a sweet berry syrup that had been run through the drink along with cream.

Fernanda extended her hand toward Alex, the smoothie cup in her thin fingers.

“Perchance a sip, gamer? You’ve been eyeing it constantly.”

Alex leaned forward and took a sip from the plastic straw.

This prompted an explosion of sweetness onto her tongue she was not really prepared for.

She could vaguely taste something starchy, maybe beet? And something like grapes?

“Wow.” She said. “It’s really purple.” She cocked a grin.

Fernanda retracted her hand. She looked down at her drink.

There was a brief moment of hesitation before she put her lips on the straw and continued to drink as she had been. Alex thought nothing whatsoever of this moment.

She did think, seated across from Fernanda, that they hadn’t really gotten a chance to really sit down and talk about things that were not work related. She felt really curious–

she knew all these things that Fernanda liked and did–

–but how much did she know about Fernanda herself?

“Hey, Fern, where are you from?” Alex asked. “I don’t think you’ve ever said.”

Fernanda narrowed her eyes at Alex and sipped more from her drink.

“Is it security stuff? You can answer a bit quiet can’t you? No one’s listening.” Alex said.

“It’s not that.” Fernanda put down her drink. “It is simply neither pertinent nor interesting.”

“I’m interested.” Alex said. “I mean, if you wanna talk boring, I’m just from Mt. Raja.”

Fernanda’s eyes drifted away from Alex. Her body language noticeably softened.

“Sevastopol.” She said simply. “I was raised in Sevastopol. Then I joined the navy.”

“Couldn’t find a way to make that sound fancy?” Alex said in jest.

“My life simply wasn’t fancy.” Fernanda replied seriously.

Alex noticed the shift in her behavior and tone and felt slightly alarmed by it.

It was uncharacteristic– she felt like she was fumbling the run at the last second and needed to recover to post a good score. Like before, she thought she needed to appease Fern again.

“Oh. Sorry. I mean– I don’t think you need to be self-conscious. I’m just a huge loser, you know? I wasn’t the smartest kid, my parents didn’t like me, like– if we compare childhoods, I’m probably way more embarrassing. But– I think anything you say is probably really interesting! So you don’t have to worry! I’m just a gamer after all, I won’t judge you!”

She smiled and shrugged and tried to look like she was sounding funny when she wasn’t.

She was just motor mouthing without aim and sounding pathetic. And yet she continued.

“Sevastopol is a big shipbuilding station isn’t it? Did that make you want to go Navy?”

Fernanda’s averted gaze slowly drifted back toward Alex– and softened slightly.

“I just wanted an adventure.” Fernanda said. “Sevastopol was too straightforward.”

“Yeah. I kinda wanted that too.” Alex said. “I guess more like. An escape, maybe.”

“Yes. Life could use more adventure, don’t you think? More romance; more mystery.”

“Oh, for sure, for sure. You know, you got that mysterious girl stuff down real good.”

“You think so? Well– I’m not displeased to hear it, I suppose.”

Fernanda averted her gaze again, resting her chin on the back of her hand.

Alex started drinking from her smoothie again to keep herself from talking any more.

Shit did I fumble everything like this? At the finish line?!

Both of them were silent for several minutes while their cups started to drain.

“Alex. Um.”

Fernanda broke the silence. Twiddling her fingers. Eyes avoiding contact.

She cleared her throat.

When she began speaking again, she had returned to her previous tone of voice. “You were a most amusing traveling companion on this excursion. It would not trouble me if, perhaps, were we to trod upon a new shore– if we could reprise this kind of event.”

Alex couldn’t help but beam brilliantly in response. “Of course, my mistress of the dark.”

“However, I must insist upon one oath from you.” She said.

“Um, sure,” Alex blinked, confused.

Fernanda put down her cup and looked at Alex in the eyes.

“Self-effacing ill becomes you. Making sport of you is my exclusive domain.” She said.

Alex stared, momentarily dumbfounded.

Once she understood the meaning of Fernanda’s words– she almost wanted to cry.

“Ah, yeah.” She replied, feeling bashful and stupid and elated. Everything was mixed up.

I’m being such an idiot, but– God she’s so fucking cute.

Alex thought, there was no sugar-coating it anymore.

She really was in love with Fernanda, huh?

No changing routes now, gamer– she really was seeing this one through to the end.

As anxiety-inducing and weird and kinda cringey as everything felt to her–

–it also felt amazing.


“We’re going to drink. They have plenty of beers here. Order some. I’ll cover it.”

Khadija explained the situation serious and unsmiling in their private booth.

Sieglinde Castille stared at her from across the table. She blinked several times.

“Miss– Ma’am–”

“It’s Khadija. Don’t ma’am me. And don’t dare call me the Lion of Cascabel.”

“I wasn’t going to–”

“I’m not drinking alone. I’ve drank alone enough. If I’m drinking, you’re drinking.”

“We were just going to play Mahjong?”

Khadija leaned in closer, a smile playing across her glossy, fuchsia-colored lips.

“It’s a game bar. We’re playing a game, and drinking. Order up.”

Her diction was slow and threatening, her expression belabored in spelling each word.

“One of us should remain sober.” Sieglinde said. Her voice trembled.

“I’m not letting you be more sober than me.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous. Everything about you is ridiculous. You want to talk to me? Drink.”

“Isn’t it against your religion?”

“I’m good over here. I won’t be having wine. Neither will you. Now pick a drink.”

“I’ve– I’ve been trying to remain sober.” Sieglinde said. She averted her eyes.

Khadija put on a sadistic smile. “Whatever streak you had going, it’s broken. Drink.”

Sieglinde Castille looked finally defeated.

How could she object?

How dare she even think, ‘What have I done to deserve this?’

She knew full well what she had done to deserve it. In her own mind, Khadija was sure she could heap any kind of abuse upon Sieglinde and it would be justified in the final calculus of their lives. Making her drink didn’t even rank among the punishments Khadija thought to subject the former Red Baron to for the terrors she had caused. Condemning her to be less morose for one night? Giving her a bit of liquid courage to help her discuss her sins? Hell– God forbid, maybe they might even get so fucked up as to have some fun.

Woe be upon her– she could endure this much.

“Fine. Fine.” Sieglinde sighed. “I’ll have a Katzbalger. Or– a few, I suppose.”

“What a proletarian choice! I think I’ll start with some rum punch.” Khadija said.

Ever since Sieglinde’s defection, Khadija had not known what to do with herself.

There was something deeply perverse about her old enemy switching sides.

She didn’t blame captain Korabiskaya for being merciful. If Khadija had wanted Sieglinde dead, she had her chance, and she did not take it. In the middle of battle, Khadija had decided that she did not deserve to die. On some level, that had to mean burying her grudge, but she was not able to do so. She continued to nurse an animosity toward her.

It was easy to keep carrying on as she had been.

Things that were easy to carry on doing weren’t always right, however.

There was no avoiding it forever. She wasn’t a little kid with a playground rivalry. There was no teacher who was going to sit them down and make them hash things out. Khadija needed to confront what kind of woman Sieglinde Castille had become in A.D. 979. Not twenty years ago, but now, when they were both old and Khadija had settled their affair. Sieglinde had defected, and even given opportunity, she was not using it as a pretext to escape.

She was demure and compliant. She was abundantly courteous. She seemed sincere.

Khadija had won their brawl out at sea, and she was being graceful in victory.

She would give Sieglinde something of a chance. To determine how they would live.

So– what better way to break the ice than to have a drink and play some Mahjong?

Whether in the Empire or Union, it was not hard to find bars like the one they were in.

As soon as they walked through the door, it was a long hall with individual rooms, and somewhere in the back there was a kitchen. Each room had plush booth seats and a convertible table. This particular bar encouraged guests to play games while they drank and ate light snacks– but it also probably didn’t mind them doing other things too. An inexorable part of living in a station was that most people had a very small amount of personal space, and it was difficult to be private with someone without inviting them into that personal space. Venues where two persons could be private without necessarily being personal were a necessary middle place for people like Khadija. Access to alcohol didn’t hurt either.

Aside from the red upholstery of the seats, the room was pretty spartan and sparsely decorated. Grey walls, white lights, a table with multiple folding ends. There was a touchpad on the wall that could change the color of the lights, the climate of the room, and play music. Khadija chose to play a channel of gentle acoustic guitar tracks, though every so often the computer threw in some other similar music unasked for. Under the booth seats, there were boxes that contained cards and game pieces for a variety of games.

Khadija withdrew the boxed set of pieces for mahjong, a rather deep game of colorful tiles.

“How much do you know about mahjong?” Khadija said.

“I’ve played it before. It’s from the Far East, isn’t it?” Sieglinde replied.

“Right. In the Imbrium, the game made its way to us from Hanwa, after the border wars.” Khadija said. She showed Sieglinde the pieces, which, in this Imbrian set, all had alphanumeric characters, rather than High Hanwan. “It’s an old game with many variants. Hanwa may have got it when they conquered Yu. It’s something that has been transferred, regrettably, through the violence of conquest, assimilation, and rivalry between empires.”

An uncanny prop for their dispute– but Khadija only chose it because she was bored of cards.

Khadija began to look through the tiles, checking to see if the set was actually complete.

“I learned about it in the army. I guess that figures.” Sieglinde said in a glum voice.

“Are you good at it?” Khadija asked.

Sieglinde shook her head. “Not at all.”

“Hah! Well. Of myself, I would say, I’m good enough for how I like to play.”

Low stakes gambling among drunk acquaintances, was the piece left unspoken.

While Khadija was going through the tiles, someone rapped on the door.

Through a slot, they had brought the first round of drinks. Sieglinde’s Katzbalger was a lightly decorated can of cheap beer with a cartoon of a dead cat on it, advertised as a low brow drink for salt of the earth Imbrian men. Khadija had been a little surprised that Sieglinde would order it. Meanwhile, her own can of rum punch was as bright and fruity as the contents were, garishly blue with a smiling, possibly drunk strawberry mascot.

Neither of them had dressed up for the occasion. They both wore the same teal half-jacket, and sleeveless button-down white shirt that characterized Treasure Box Transports. Sieglinde wore the uniform pants, while Khadija had a skirt and black tights. Wearing the same thing heightened the contrasts between them. Sieglinde was taller, broad-shouldered, her long mane of golden hair falling over her shoulders and back, almost down below the waist. Her sleek cheekbones and soft, slightly rounded nose gave her a slightly more traditional beauty. Khadija meanwhile was smaller, leaner, wiry, and her facial features were slightly sharper. She was perfectly manicured, lips wine-red, eyes perfectly shadowed the same color, lashes done, toner on her skin, where Sieglinde was unadorned. Khadija’s long hair was a shade of gold as well, but still different in texture and darker in tone.

And of course, Khadija’s fluffy ears, as perfectly manicured as the rest of her appearance.

Her bushy tail gently waved behind her, a sign of how calm she was.

“Here, this sheet has all the scoring rules and the hands on it.” Khadija said.

She set the sheet down off to the side of their play area, where both could reference it.

Then, she cracked open her can of rum punch, and stared expectantly at Sieglinde.

Looking glumly down at her can, Sieglinde popped the top as well. She took it in hand.

“A toast?” She proposed.

Khadija grinned. “Oh? I’d love to! You read my mind!”

They tapped their cans together, and then sipped from them.

Sieglinde took a much longer drink than Khadija, surprising the older Shimii.

When she put down her can again, the former noblewoman shut her eyes and groaned.

“What did we toast to?” Khadija asked.

Sieglinde lifted her can from the table again. “To peace.”

“Bah, childish and wishy-washy.” Khadija lifted her own can. “To struggle!”

She leaned across the table and tapped her can against Sieglinde’s a second time.

Then she downed the rest, as if to show Sieglinde how to really crush a can of liquor.

Meeting the silent challenge, the ex-baron downed the rest of her can on her next draught.

“There we go! That’s the spirit! Khoroshego!” Khadija laughed, raising her empty can.

Soon, the second round arrived, but this one was not so immediately thrown down.

“I thought Shimii were all very reserved and sober. Especially the women.” Sieglinde said.

“I’m a communist and communists can drink.” Khadija said. She watched Sieglinde’s dumbfounded expression and laughed out loud. “Look, there are many things I am supposed to avoid. But I’m not an ascetic. I’m a soldier with my vices. I still pray, I still fast. I do the things I grew up doing. And I fight like hell for others– if my soul ends up in the abyss for some drinking, I hope the many more souls I saved can live less broken lives than I.”

“I apologize for my impudent questioning. Yours a noble outlook.” Sieglinde said.

“No it isn’t. It’s not about ‘being noble.’ I’m fighting for my convictions.” Khadija said.

She felt immediately annoyed at Sieglinde’s reaction and started to shuffle tiles.

“To say you are ‘good’ or you are ‘noble’,” Khadija began, “it’s facile. You aren’t fighting for your soul. Your soul doesn’t matter to the world. Identify your enemy, call them for what they are, and fight what they do. Fascists, imperialists, they take the homes of people, starve them, and enrich themselves off their endless toil. I don’t fight them because it is ‘noble.’”

Sieglinde averted her gaze as if scolded and took another long sip of beer.

Khadija turned away from her again and started arranging the tile walls to begin.

“I don’t know what to say.” Sieglinde said. “I know what I did was evil.”

“You can start by not moralizing it.” Khadija grunted. “I don’t think you’re ‘evil’. Don’t make me stand up for you, for fuck’s sake.” She knew more than she let on. She had spied on Sieglinde weeping in the brig and knew exactly why she had been forced to fight in the war. But she couldn’t say that. “You were not evil, you were probably just young and ignorant.”

“I can’t excuse it anymore by saying I was just young and ignorant.” Sieglinde said. “I want to be better than that, Khadija. There were many times where I thought of running away, of refusing to serve, of doing anything– I never took them. I can’t see that as anything but evil. I willfully inflicted pain and furthered injustice, because it was easier than rebelling.”

“You want to be better? Why?” Khadija asked. “To save your immortal soul?”

“No!” Sieglinde cried out. “I just– I know I was doing wrong. I can’t carry on like that.”

“So it’s that simple? You realized you were ‘doing wrong,’ so now you must ‘do right’?”

“No. It’s– It’s more than that.” Sieglinde looked helpless to put it into words, however.

Khadija sighed, trying to reel back her own frustration. She was being too aggressive.

“Forget it. I’m done setting up the game. Take a sip and draw. Snacks will be here soon.”

Along with their drinks, a tray with a spartan assortment of snacks slid into the room through the same slot on the door. There was tough black bread, mixed pickled veggies and some hard cheeses. A final section had a dollop of coarse mustard and a dollop of sour cream, along with some empty space where perhaps sausages or other meat was supposed to be.

Khadija drew her hand of tiles. There was very little to work with. She was unlucky.

A mishmash of stuff. Maybe I get lucky and make a few sequences.

Neither of them spoke much as the game progressed.

Both of them were keeping dutifully closed hands, and discarding many tiles.

Khadija looked at Sieglinde between every play, but Sieglinde seemed to avoid her gaze.

Almost without interacting with each other, they came close to finishing their first hands.

“Taking it really seriously aren’t you? Relax. We haven’t even put down any bets.”

Sieglinde nodded her head with a wan expression. “Alright.”

“Poor start.” Khadija replied.

The former noblewoman reached for her latest beer and took a long drink.

She then set the can on the table with a bit of a strike.

“Khadija, what do you want from me? What can I do?” Sieglinde said, raising her voice.

“Play out this round.” Khadija replied simply, looking down at her concealed tiles.

Grunting, Sieglinde picked up her final tile and laid down her hand.

She had collected an entire hand of oak tree suit tiles, numbering one through nine.

Khadija revealed her own hand: still a mishmash of tiles that didn’t come together.

“You let me win?” Sieglinde asked.

“No. Don’t be so full of yourself. I got unlucky. It happens.” Khadija said.

Sieglinde Castille was a stupid and earnest girl with a lot of hurt in her heart. Khadija knew that already and it was evident to see, right in front of her tired old eyes. She knew Sieglinde was a 36 year old woman who had been shackled by a cruel and corrupting duty, in an evil place that never allowed her to learn otherwise, or to feel like she could possibly rebel.

But now she recognized it. There was no point in brutalizing her or punishing her.

Nothing Khadija did to Sieglinde would bring back the people she killed.

And she was already being crushed by that exact same idea herself.

In their fated clash at Goryk’s Gorge, Khadija killed Sieglinde von Castille, the Red Baron. Sieglinde Castille, the gloomy woman in front of her, was a shadow of that grand villain. She had the fight snuffed out of her, and now belonged to nowhere in the world, lost, broken and isolated. Maybe she didn’t know what she wanted; she certainly didn’t know what to do.

Khadija picked up the fifth bottle of rum punch and took a short sip.

She set it down on the table as hard as Sieglinde had set down her beer before.

“You want to know what I want from you? I’ll tell you then, but only this once! I want you to actually think about the kind of woman you want to be from now on! Not about whether you are ‘good’ or ‘evil’, whether you are doing ‘right’ or ‘wrong’! Think, concretely, about what you will do, what actions you will take, what kind of world you believe in. Believe in something and work towards that!” Khadija’s voice rose to a shout. “Stop living in the past! Neither of us can turn back the pages of what we’ve done! Start writing your story from today! If you become someone I detest, I promise I’ll strike you stone dead! But if you become someone worthy of praise, I will equally yield to it! That is what I want from you!”

Sieglinde’s eyes drew wide in front of Khadija, struck dumb by her shouted words.

Tears started to collect in those sad eyes.

Khadija grunted.

Stupid woman; act your age for once.

That was the cruel thought in her head because it was too odious to accept her simpering demands that Khadija lead her by the nose to redemption. Absolutely not, no way; make something of yourself first and impress those around you with those deeds. Impress me— that’s what Khadija wanted. Show me, how you have changed, show me that you can create a new legend for yourself. As someone who will fight rather than protect the oppressor.

Khadija wanted so strongly to believe that was possible.

She wanted to believe she had killed that Red Baron and freed Sieglinde from her.

But the directionless woman in front of her, begging for salvation– was not promising.

After a minute of silence, Khadija lifted her can of rum punch to her lips and emptied it.

She then started to shuffle the tiles again.

“Ya allah! Collect yourself. I won’t stand you winning one round and then leaving.”

Her gut was starting to burn from the booze, but she did not want things to stop just yet.

Sieglinde nodded her head and started to help with the shuffling.

“Are there any other games you know? Backgammon? Go? Poker?”

“I know a little bit of each. I’m not very good at any.” Sieglinde whimpered in reply.

“Ugh. You’re so boring. We must endeavor to change that.” Khadija replied, smiling a bit.

A shy little smile worked its way to Sieglinde’s face too.


“You’ve been scaring my customers all day. Got any good news to make up for it?”

“Heh. Yes. That last package has come and gone without incident. Off the grid.”

“Okay. Thank heavens. Past few months have been brutal. I’m glad she’s okay.”

In that same tent that Alex and Fernanda purchased a queen’s ransom of erotic lesbian literature, the nondescript older man who owned the same tent made to look at his remaining stock at the end of the first day of the market. In the back shelves, away from prying eyes, awaited Aatto Jarvi Stormyweather, a Rottenfuhrer of the Sicherheitsdienst, Volkisch Intelligence. Odd was the Loup that sat behind a desk, and did not fight on the frontlines, but odd also was the Loup that did not flee to the Royal Alliance instead of remaining with Rhinea. Aatto was willing to remain behind that desk in a new uniform.

And so, Aatto stayed behind the same desk as when she was a part of the liberal Rhinean Navy, and nobody had yet to dispute this. The Volkisch needed all the specialists they could get to keep the state running, whether or not they were part of the Imbrian privileged class.

“What do the Liberals plan to do now?” Aatto asked. “Are they gearing up to fight?”

“You don’t need to know that. Thank you for your work, but– you don’t need to know.”

Even this man was terrified of her.

An informant who had helped smuggle out liberal politicians in danger of being purged by the Volkisch, and whom Aatto had assisted greatly in this endeavor. She had forged documents, faked dispatches, leaked communiques and staff orders, contacted mercenaries and faked ship inspections– but she was still despised for the uniform of a Rottenfuhrer.

She didn’t care one whit about that. She didn’t care what anyone thought of her.

But she needed to know. Was someone finally going to challenge the Volkisch?

Was the fated battle to resolve the contradictions of Rhinea finally at hand?

“If they will fight, I will gladly assist. In any capacity. Please let me know.” Aatto said.

All she wanted to know was whether the Liberals could light the Flame of History.

Whether they were strong enough to fully seize power on the pyre of their enemy’s bodies.

For a moment the man stared at her quizzically. He then turned his entire head away.

“Are you crazy? No. They can’t challenge the Volkisch. They’re just gonna lay low.”

Aatto’s eyes narrowed, her tail straightened, her ears folded, with great displeasure.

It was as if a trance, a delusion she had been under, suddenly shattered in front of her.

As if the entire weight of reality was forcing itself back through her head.

Unworthy. All of them are unworthy. The liberals, the Volkisch, the Imbrian Empire. All of them will recede into the shadow of history with nary a cry. Disgusting. Worthless. Pathetic. Where is the grand trial in which we will finally determine the course of history? Must we continue to limp along in fruitless detente? Feckless cowards watching the clock freeze from afar–

The shopkeeper caught a glimpse of the sheer hatred on her face from the side of his eyes–

But clearly, when he turned to look, she had the same little grin that she always did.

Utterly collected and calm, her expression betraying little emotion.

“Then I’m afraid that will be the end of my services. I see no point in risking my life for others any further if the opportunity will lead to nothing. We must part ways now.” She said.

“What? I mean– fine. I can’t begrudge you that. Thank you. You saved many lives, Aatto.”

Aatto grunted and shoved past him and out of the tent, gritting her teeth.

Saving lives? I couldn’t care less. I thought all of you had some god damn spine.

Where was it now? Her grand spark, her glorious conflagration? Her end of history?

Where can I find someone with the potential to create a new world?

Or even– someone who could even see the possibility of a new world before their eyes.

Her true and worthy King to set the world on its rightful course.

Would the currents lead her to the one she desired to serve?


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