The D-Scythe is heavier than it looks. While she’ll be able to go at a slow walk (necessary, to be gentle on the splint), it’ll still be one titanic workout for her. That’s good. She likes workouts.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t tell the Captain first?” She turns the bleakly heavy weapon over. This thing scares her a little bit, the longer she holds it. Like it’s judging her, handling her, deciding whether she will be an acceptable wielder or whether it will decide to slip and take her apart piece by piece. She holds it firmly. Show no fear. Be Imperial.
“Because once I begin the work,” she adds, thoughtfully, “I don’t think it will want for me to stop. I mean, beyond the problem of having to go back and reweld everything.”
Dolce scooted respectfully to the edge of the bed. Facing Hera, even sitting apart from her, he felt the gentlest sunbeams brush his face with warmth. A memory of pleasant, homey spices he could not hope to identify filled the air. He did not touch her - it would be rude to approach first - but her presence still seemed to wrap him up in a soothing hug. Be at ease, little one. Lay the troubles of your heart bare. What danger would dare intrude here?
Yet, when he spoke, it was to his hands, lying open in his lap. To speak of such heavy shame, he could not lift his eyes any higher.
“All you say is true, but...I’m just a chef who learned a little swordplay. I’m not strong like Alexa.” The only callus he had was from the flat of the knife. The only scars, from peelers and mistakes. “I’m not clever like the Princess.” His palms were spotless, without a hint of grease or smoke. “I can’t command like my wife.” He bit at his lip with concentration, but still his hands trembled. “There’s so few of us, you see, and the journey is so long. Eventually, a time will come when it will all depend on me. When we face disaster, and I’ll be the only one who can try to stop it, and, and...” Please, wise Hera. Kind Hera. Do not make him say it aloud. Not tonight. Not here. Let this wish be enough.
“How can I carry their darkness when I can’t even carry them?”
"Telling the Captain would make things too," Iskarot buzzed, "organized. Ares has offered his favour as we are, his approval to your independent thought. Perhaps you have never seen him in this aspect before. He says, be bold! Be spontaneous! Though there may be chaos it shall be blessed chaos, and much can be done in those conditions."
He unravels himself into a standing posture, triskellion legs bringing him to his hunched-but-towering height, clicking across the metal deck.
"Now, the lesson begins and begins with safety. The D-Scythe is a way to focus the Engine into a single point. This implies enormous stress placed upon the device. As you hold it you will feel it vibrate under your fingers with increasing ferocity, until the point you can hear a sound like chiming glass. This is the focusing crystals impacting on each other and means the metal is beginning to warp. It is a bad sound and implies immanent detonation, immediately detether the device using this release catch and retreat twenty paces if you hear it. Following this all the crystals must be checked for fractures and replaced. Next, whenever the device is not in use remove it from the wall tether for strain is placed upon it even when not in use. The vibrations of the scythe can make it unsteady to hold, great strength must be applied to prevent it from shaking out of your hands - dropping a still-active D-Scythe is a perilous endeavour. Do not attempt to catch it if this happens, instead strike with your ELF against it as swiftly as possible which will momentarily interrupt the power flow. While the device is rebellious it is also simple and tends to struggle and fail in predictable ways. Steady authority will be required. Come, show me how you make this first cut - we will sever the internal structural bonds, then seal the floors above and below with omnifoam before cutting the exterior hull..."
Tell us, Redana, of how you come to grips with this strange device.
Dolce!
"Redana is blind to her strength," said Hera, "and Alexa is afraid of hers. Vasilia cannot command her own heart. Their curses are as real as yours. As real as everyone's. It is why Hades has not yet found a crew who can succeed at his foolish quest..."
She looks over at the window where the hulking wreckage of a broken ship drifts amidst red and violet nebulae-dust, like blood spreading in a pool.
"You must hope that they heal you even as you try to heal them."
Alexa!
"Ah!" Isty takes the spear with surprise and reverence. "Mother had these all destroyed..." she murmurs, tracing it with her fingers. "It feels like I know how to use this already..."
A wolf needs no instructor to teach it how to bite. Instincts of war are hard-coded into Ceronian biology. Medical tyrants throughout the ages have done their utmost to design the ultimate super-soldier - and many of their most brilliant innovations wound their way into the human genome over the ages - but no servitor species has ever dislodged the Ceronians. They aren't perfect soldiers, they aren't born Codexia, but they are optimized like no other war species, from everything from their omnivorous digestion to their ability to operate for weeks without sleep. You could make a better warrior than a Ceronian but no one has yet made a better army.
She doesn't do anything as formal as take a stance. She just reflexively falls into a resting stance that happens to present her with a deadly array of offensive options. The fundamentals of excellence are all there inherently, strength and speed and instinct. All she lacks is strategy.
Bella!
No chains nor scripture cage the Oratus. This is no aesthetic and no beast. The chambers are lit with steady flame and steady luxury, tasteful and restrained, and centred around a table heavy with maps. The only hint that you have not simply arrived in the quarters of a king is the soft roar of air in the distance, the steady breeze that runs through the room and the overwhelming scent of jasmine. No elaborate mechanisms of security need to be maintained when the assassin can be neutralized by mere air.
She rises to meet you with a brilliant smile and immediately bows with humble respect. She's beautiful. The most well groomed and elegantly appointed of the Ceronians. It's impossible not to like her, not to take an involuntary and reflexive step forwards - into Mynx's outstretched and warning hand. There's a current running underneath the perfume and it itches your nose just barely...
"The Oratus," Mynx said, "possesses a weaponized mutation of Ceronian formation instinct. The Cerons communicate complex information at a distance using a combination of their enhanced sense of smell and pheromone glands in their necks. An Oratus doesn't emanate just scents, but a viral agent that triggers something similar to formation instinct in any species. It's not mind control but it... makes people think that they're a small part of a larger entity."
"Which is not inaccurate, Praetor," demurred the Oratus politely. "I do not merely issue commands this way, but I can receive information in turn. Of course, my influence can be resisted - providing the subjects have reason to resist."
"Which is harder than it sounds," said Mynx. "This is dangerous stuff, Bel- Praetor. She's a hive-mind who can expand to fill any environment not designed to contain her, and she can control dozens or even hundreds simultaneously this way."
"Not with any finesse, mind you," said the Oratus. "My name is Beljani, Praetor. And fear not. The toxin secreted by my colleague's fangs entirely negates my influence and I am certain she has been very thorough in ensuring all relevant personnel have access to it."
“Chaos, right! Right, chaos, yes. I can do chaos,” Redana says, like a liar. She might be spontaneous, but her approach to the secrets of the machines tends to be largely straightforward; it is the direction of her path that is usually unexpected, not the steps she takes while traversing it.
Still, the gods have spoken. Or one god has spoken. The really scary one. Ares, fearful and bloody-handed, has approved of the way she thinks. This is not concerning in the slightest.
She takes up the D-Scythe, closes her eyes and breathes, and feels the incredible power flowing through it. She holds the power of unmaking in her hands. One cut, one blow, and two things that were one will come undone.
Without conscious intention, she slips easily into Epistia’s battle stance: daughter of Ares, scythe-wielder. The tethering cable will keep her from doing the spins and flourishes, but when she steps forward and makes one clean, steady blow, it is as if Epistia was guiding her hands through the stroke.
***
”And it’s cheer up, my lads / Let your hearts never fail / The bonny ship the Diamond / Goes a-fishing for the whale...”
This is the only part of the song that Redana can remember. It is stuck in her head, so it is going to be the only thing she is capable of singing while she works for the foreseeable future. She’ll be cutting and letting the Hermetic follow behind with the omnifoam, and then she’ll break out into the same lines cheerily, absently, as her mind slumbers beneath the simple work.
”And it’s cheer up, my lads / Let your hearts never fail / The bonny ship the Diamond—”
There it is. The sound of the scythe has become something like the clink of wine glasses at a feast. She stops, untethers it, sets it down gingerly, and hops back on a leg and a half. There’s a tense moment as she and Iskarot stare at the ominous device.
“Well, that’s not so—“
And that’s when one of the focusing crystals implodes, and Redana dives for the deck with a shrill scream, bearing Iskarot down with her.
It turns out that twisting so that you cushion the fall of a Hermetic is not, in fact, a Smart Idea[1].
“I’m okay,” comes a faint squeak from underneath the saffron robes as the D-Scythe cools and hisses.
***
“Be careful,” Iskarot buzzes. Sweat trickles down Redana’s forehead; she blinks it away from her eyes. She has her knife out, held flush against her forearm, her muscles coiled and ready to strike. Even her throbbing leg is bearing up underneath her right now; she has little choice. If she falters, if she looks away, if she fails, she is dead. She’ll have time to lie face-down on the floor and wish her leg could be quietly and conveniently removed later.
This is one of the greatest challenges of her ability that she has ever faced. Even the Olympics were only preparation for this moment. The world narrows until it’s just the three of them.
Then the giant crab swings the D-Scythe straight into a load-bearing wall.
***
[1]: It is, in fact, much like attempting to cradle an engine block as it falls so that you can cushion it with your soft, fragile body.
Dolce’s whole body stiffened. His hands clutched the sheets until his knuckles turned whiter, and if his grip had slackened for a moment they would’ve flown to cover his mouth.
Hera!!!
You can’t just say those things!
Or...maybe Hera could say those things. Hera was allowed to say those things, but, but, you couldn’t possibly expect him to agree with you! Vasilia was sleeping right there! What if she was to hear?!
He followed her gaze out the window. Silently stargazing, as his thoughts hurried themselves back in order. His eyes flitted over the wreck, idly sizing it up. Incomplete, yes, it must have been enormous when it was whole. Comparable to their own, even. They had a decent view of the inside; the hull had been peeled back in great, jagged sheets. There’d have been no hope of sealing that damage. Not fast enough to matter.
His nose wrinkled, and he bowed his head. Shut his eyes from the sight. As much as he’d learned, he never knew how to pray for the shipwrecked. Only that he couldn’t bear to be silent. Whatever had happened to the crew...there was no god or goddess who could step back in time and grant them a more merciful end. He’d still set out an offering for Poseidon, just in case there’d been any survivors. But it was too late for anything else.
If you wanted to help a shipwreck, you ought to pray while the ship’s still whole.
“There’s all sorts of ways for a ship to fall apart, isn’t there?” He wondered quietly.
Alexa is so busy goggling over the thrown training spear that she nearly gets beaned by the follow-up shield. But can you blame her? It's her first spear! She's finally allowed to train for real! She's seen the soldiers with them before, in between the furious lessons and books, but up until now she's been forced to learn things like strategy and theory and logistics and eugh.
It's just a spear like any of the dozens in the barracks, probably mass-produced by a factory somewhere. But it lodges in her hand like it's a part of her that she didn't know was missing. It feels right, feels natural, and almost without thinking the spear leads her through the drills she's seen the soldiers perform. This... this is what she's for!
"Wrong."
She winces, and shoots a tentative grin at the sergeant. He's one of the nicer soldiers, she thinks--one of the officers that pretends he doesn't see her, so long as she doesn't force his hand by being too obvious about it.
The sergeant doesn't return the smile, but there's a twinkle in the corner of his eyes that keeps Alexa from giving up too quickly. He strides across and quickly adjusts her stance--kicks her ankles into being further apart, shoves the speartip further up, straightens her back, shoves the shield into place.
"You've got the right motions," he grudgingly admits. "Or at least, a not hopeless start at 'em. But you haven't got the right mindset. Now listen close."
***
Even now, picking up a spear feels like the most correct thing in the world.
She closes her eyes and lets the warmth of the spear radiate out through her. Lets it center her, complete her, carry her through the motions of the drill. Allows the words--long buried, but not forgotten--to rise up in memory.
"This is as close as it is possible to come to a perfect war."
Step. Swish. Crack. The impact of spear on spear rattles down to her fingertips and, without opening her eyes, Alexa smiles. Isty has some good instincts.
"Two champions, alone in an arena, with no intention to kill or harm."
Faster now. Test her reflexes. See how far instinct takes her. Hold back for now. You've hurt people without meaning to before. Let her get warmed up.
"I wish that all wars could be so fought."
In practice, of course, that just means that whichever side fields the strongest champion has free reign to do as they like until someone comes to dethrone them. Was that Molech's plan? Make the strongest warrior ever to rule eternally? Was she the backup or--
Alexa grunts as the distraction earns her a thrust in the gut.
"Are you--"
"Fine. I am fine."
And yet, she's smiling. It's been a while since she could simply relax into this. Could trust someone else not to get hurt. But Isty managed a touch on her! That's incredible! Can you imagine what she could be with proper training?
But, she has a point to make. And here, she admits she's paraphrasing on Sergeant Ridder's shpiel. Isty, wars are not fought alone.
Isty's spearthrust is poorly aimed, but Alexa steps into it, catches it on a forearm. It lets her thrust past Isty, into the space to her left. An imaginary phalanx member gurgles, clutching a gash in her neck, which gives the imaginary
It's an imperfect illustration, she knows. And somehow, Isty doesn't get it. Doesn't understand why Alexa is making these boneheaded mistakes, one after another, and stabbing at nothing. But if she doesn't take the blows, then who will? The people behind her, of course. She is their shield, their protector, and shields don't complain about scratches.
She wishes shields could complain about not making their point clearly.
It is a hundred times worse than being in the Admiral's dining hall. It isn't any less overwhelmingly potent than her memories of that place, but instead of the swirling cocktail of information and despair, this is like trying to breathe in a one-note bomb. No... not one-note. Bella wrinkles her nose and pulls her lips up over her teeth. There's a... spice sneaking underneath the floral miasma, like inhaling sparks from a fire.
It itches. It burns. It swallows the rest of the room, the feeling of her clothes and the breeze, even the expression on Beljani's face. It's like having a wad of cotton rolled onto her tongue, like a permanent shiver stuck in her back, like a... like a... a hole that's swallowing her up and trapping her inside a world she can't master with a thousand years of trying. No antivenoms for her. Why should she get the protections Mynx has apparently been handing out to every other last member of the ship. Stupid bitch, she probably did this on purpose. Just to see. Just, to... just...
Only one sensation that manages to rise above the noise. She feels it rising up from her stomach in an unmistakable surge of panic (Not panic. It's not panic. She is not afraid). The wine tastes just as oily and soft coming back into her mouth as it did going down. Bella blinks in surprise and clenches her teeth to keep the precious gift from spilling out between her lips. She swallows it back down with delicate politeness. That wine is the embrace of the Empress; she will not waste a drop.
As it slips back down her throat, she can feel it start to drag her down with it. There, at last: it squeezes at her muscles, it rolls inside her stomach, it wraps around her with the warmth of a favorite blanket that weighs her body down with that comfortable and familiar sensation of pressure. She unwinds over the course of several long, deep breaths. Uncoils, really. Her ears droop and her tail sways stupidly behind her, every little swish pulling her down, down, down, draining her until she's empty of everything.
Then it fills her up again with desire. To stumble back to her room and not leave her bed. To be touched. To lean her weight on something that can bear it and feel the relief that comes with support. Her eyes flicker lazily at Mynx.
It takes the effort of an olympic champion to get her to flick her ears until they stand at attention, ready to listen for all the little cues she needs to hold on. It's even harder for her to keep her feet underneath her, to make her arms fold underneath her chest instead of flopping uselessly at her sides. She twists her lips into a confident and sharp-fanged smile, which takes greater will by far than everything else combined.
"Izzat right?" she slurs as she squeezes her claws into her elbows, "You know, talking to you I almost wouldn't believe you're one of them. So eloquent! Such... mm, good breeding. And yet, here you are, stuck in your corner in front of a perfumed fan. So out with it already. I'm really curious! How exactly do I break you, pretty bomb?"
"It is a miracle we survived," said Iskarot. He is not speaking in generalities - he is acknowledging the Bloody Handed God's influence. "Imagine how much worse this would have been if we had made the mistake of planning this."
Standing shivering in the void[1], watching the severed upper half of your space-ship drift away into the rainbow darkness, the zenlike nature of this statement is difficult to understand. Perhaps it is one of the more advanced mysteries of the Hermetic Cult. Perhaps you should ask Bella to take notes.
"Come," buzzed the Hermetician, making his way back into the ship's interior. "It is cold outside."
[1] It may be questioned by the inexperienced or the alien how such a lackadaisical approach is taken to the void of space. This is no magic of Imperial blood or Hermetic technology; this is a simple truth of this galaxy. All life is so miraculously bio-engineered that stepping out into the void of space without a suit is equivalent to going outside during a blizzard without a coat - unpleasant and potentially bad for you if sustained, but by no means immediately lethal. As to the Hermetic's ability to communicate in a vacuum, this is a product of him signalling the Princess' auspex eye.
*
"It is important to remember when performing feats of engineering in the void that you stand a great chance of angering the Prismatic Lord," Iskarot said as you hauled the massive grav-plates down the corridor. Behind you came the ocean, following you as obediently as the moon flees from Artemis. "Humans are not the only creatures that pray, and Great Poseidon has many children who he cares for. Even if you are directly favoured by him he is fickle and you must be ready for his moods. Having the assistance of Ares Spearbreaker is the greatest guarantor during times of catastrophe. I prefer to pray for the strength to survive the storm rather than pray that the storm never comes."
The engine chamber begins to flood as the grav-plates are set in place, water lapping once again at rusted and coral-scarred walls and pipes. The Hermetician took a moment to rest, and for the first time since you've met him he seems an elderly man instead of a piece of machinery wrapped in robes.
His talk of Ares is alien to you. Though not forbidden in the same way as he was during the era of Molech, the War God is disfavoured in the martial traditions of the Empire. Certainly of your many religious responsibilities as an Imperial Princess vanishingly few had to do with Ares.
"Observe," said the Hermetic. "I will set the reactor to a main sequence transition. This is a technique that can provide an emergency burst of power but makes the engine deck uninhabitable due to the heat bleed. The real art is ensuring that the sequence fails and burns itself out rather than resulting in a Starbreach, observe my actions carefully..."
Dolce!
"There are," Hera agreed. "This ship has known more than a few already."
She tapped the wall. From her expression she probably wasn't thinking of the time last week Redana cut the whole damn thing in half without telling anyone, leaving you spiraling without power in the void for hours. It would be hard not for that to be one of the first few things that comes to your mind.
"Why not take a walk?" she suggests. "The Princess has cleared the lower decks, and there are so many stories and lessons these walls conceal."
Alexa!
Isty's blows start to shift as she fights. She begins with excellent, if generic, thrust work. Warfare to be proud of. A spear is a weapon for concentrating power into a single tiny point, a precision device - a weapon of organized co-operative warfare, as you demonstrate again, and again, and again. You're better at this style of battle than her, able to disassemble the Ceronian's invisible phalanx while still holding the princess at bay.
Then she swings the weapon at you like an enormous club.
It's terrible, atrocious form - a snapped reaction of frustration and confusion. And would that warfare were fair, the frustrated and confused and hot-headedly blunderous side should be at a disadvantage. But that is not how it goes, and you are forced defensive, parrying with the haft through hammering blows bang, bang, bang until at last crack.
It is her spear not yours that has shattered in half but that does not even slow the princess whose crimson hair swirls like the bloody handprint of Ares. She fights you now with a broken half-spear in either hand, whirling like a dervish, clattering against your defenses and pushing you back. She seeks to drag this battle down into a state of anarchy and raw physicality, to get inside your guard where weapons are useless and pull you down with raw muscle.
Does she? Can she? Or are you yet able to bend this wolf to your will?
Bella!
"Oh, trivial to accomplish," Beljani said smoothly, charmingly, helpfully. No hesitation or fear as she discussed her own extinction. "Remove from me my comforts. Torment me, abuse me, treat me like an animal. Or just issue me an impossible mission and leave me in the field alone for long enough. Soon enough I'll stop identifying myself with my body and start identifying myself with the virus. When that happens there are no limits to what I might accomplish for you, Praetor."
"Praetor," said Mynx, trying to keep her voice professional, but there was a waver in it. It had been there when discussing the Rampancy of the other assassins, but it was particularly pronounced here. "Be careful. This is like a drug for her - for them. The Oratus Temple has been destroyed before for letting it get out of hand."
"Dear Mynx is just being protective," said Beljani with so much warmth in her voice that you envy Mynx that affection. "We trained together you know, before our Ascendancies? She was always prepared to do anything for the people she loved, it's what made the Grandmaster choose her as bodyguard to begin with."
Beljani, Oratus Adept A voice as sweet as opium Voice of the Divine: An Oratus can convert any individual or group of people into a Threat under her command. Self Sacrifice: While this stat is undamaged, anyone within reach of the Oratus or any of her subjects cannot bring themselves to harm the Oratus directly. Rampancy: When a Temple Assassin has reached the stage of Rampancy, it becomes a Threat to the World. It also has the ability to instantly destroy any other threats contained within the Environment.
The smile falls off her face faster than she can hold on to it as she stares straight into Beljani's eyes. Her own burn with dark jealousy. No more hesitation. No more uncertain flickers in Mynx's direction. Her muscles ripple with unsteady, awkward power as her every thought and instinct bends further toward the Oratus. Claws flex atop her sleeves. Her tail finds it purpose again, lashing behind her with powerful strokes that give no consideration to how often or how hard they rain down on Mynx's back and legs.
"I don't care," she says again, in that perfect space between laziness and the absolute focus of keeping her words from slurring, "You're a weapon. I need stories about your past like I need an ethics lesson from Redana. And if I have to sit through another one of those I'm just going to tear my ears off, so..."
Anger fills her chest with sparks and fire. Jealousy squeezes her with python-like tenacity until she she can hardly breathe. Fear draws her feet too close together, and wine holds them stupidly in place. Her posture is a rigid mess of emotions that are tearing her to pieces even as they build her into something primal and invincible. When she finally uncrosses her arms, the dizzying speed almost manages to hide how clumsy the gesture is. Her fingers find Mynx's shoulder before her eyes can. She squeezes until she can feel the bone beneath the tendons.
Bella's eyes are growing blurry. She squeezes them shut, rattles her head in a way that sets her leash to jangling, but when she opens them again it's even worse. She scowls. She has to force herself not to spit; she can't risk her drink coming up after it. She sways with uncontrollable and bizarre grace that is only prevented from dancing her straight to the floor by the support of the one person on the entire ship who would dare to try in the first place.
"I've heard enough. I've made my decision. Your talents are less than useless to me right now. You'll stay on standby until... no. You'll stay on standby forever. I won't fail. I... nngh. Come on Mynx, we have more important work to do.
Bella seizes the shapeshifter by the arm, using entirely too much claw for her work. She means for every step away to be powerful, sure, and straight. But each one takes greater thought and effort until, by the time her silhouette is disappearing into the murk, they loom larger in her mind than she has space to hold them. Her breathing turns to coughing. Somewhere in the motion, she's slammed Mynx into a wall, action without memory, without context. She pins her there, pushing her face uncomfortably close, until there's nothing in the world but the shapes of their eyes meeting each other and the steam and stench of Bella's wine-soaked breath, which drips heavily across the galaxy.
"You..." there's a command here, somewhere. An order. Bella's sense of strength wars with her feelings of powerlessness, and in the midst of that fight she finds herself shoved to the very bottom of everything. There's a sense of, of, of of of, of pressure, a haze, a... a... white. And in the white she has no more power to talk.
The lower decks! An entire half of the ship he’d not explored yet, recently occupied by an empire of space crabs! There’d been so many fires to put out after the incident with the Princess last week, he’d only been down there for to accompany Vasilia for a brief, entirely professional inspection. To walk those halls with Hera herself-!
The bed shifted beneath him. He thrust out a hand to steady himself, slowing it at the last minute before he slapped the bedspread noisily. The mound of quilts shifted restlessly, to and fro. Vasilia’s eyes screwed shut, wincing tighter under some invisible torment. Her breathing accelerated, and each exhalation was a pained prayer beyond any mortal tongue.
Hush, dear Lady, hush. You are not alone this long night. Feel the whisper-softness of your Dolce against your cheek. Can you hear him? Can you hear him humming a lullaby, all for you? He’s holding you close. You will not slip loose into those dark dreams again. Breathe. Breathe easy. He is here. He is by your side. All is well, and all will be well. Sleep, and be at peace…
Only when many silent minutes had passed, did Dolce dare speak again. “I would love to walk the lower decks with you, Hera. But, Vasilia, she…” He smoothed away an errant hair from her now-still face. “...she dearly needs her rest. Could you keep her sleep peaceful, until we return?”
Alexa casts the spear aside without a second thought.
Molech didn't want her to learn wrestling, did you know that? It's not proper. It's not the way he taught her to fight. It's not intimidating, it's not glorious, it's not beautiful. More importantly, it's not lethal--you see a threat to the throne, you put it down then and there, and let the drips off the spearhead inform the rest of that meeting. Wrestling is a peon's game, Alexa, and not fit for she who is created of War.
There's a pang that Isty didn't throw herself into this of her own volition. Then again, it's not like Alexa invited her here for wrestling, right?
Right. Right.
She throws herself into the blows, two arms covering her head and the other two vice-gripping themselves around Isty's waist in a steamroller bullrush. It's awkward, and the blows rain down in the approach, but that's the goal--let her vent her fury, her frustration, in a way that won't get either of them hurt.
She's wondered, before, how to make Ares happy. It cannot be enjoyable to be trapped inside your own head, even if your own head is temporarily somebody else's. Does he destroy because he enjoys it? Because chaos is what he is? Or is there another reason?
The slam against the steel box knocks the breath out of both of them, but more importantly it knocks the butt of the spear from Isty's grasp. Alexa kicks it away before the Ceronian can grab it again, and devotes two of her arms to controlling the other end. At this range, neither can bring it to bear effectively, but that doesn't keep Isty from trying.
She would never call it a tantrum out loud. Calling it anything out loud is a good way to attract undue attention. Besides, tantrum doesn't really fit, does it? To call Ares' destruction a tantrum is like calling the core of the ship a bit hot, but more than that, "Tantrum" arrogantly declares that the issue is childish, unimportant. "Protest" might be a better fit.
Alexa spots her chance, and brings her forehead down in a sledgehammer headbutt. It's not enough to hurt either of them, really--they're both built for war--but the disorientation grants her precious seconds. She flips the princess against the wall, wraps her in a headlock, brings her legs up to lock them around Isty's thighs, and lets gravity pull them backwards.
And now, it's just a matter of riding it out. Let Isty scream, let her howl, let her reach backwards and claw at whatever she can reach. Alexa is tough. She can take it. She can endure. She can protect until the fury is spent, until the chaos is tired, and Ares allows his chosen a brief peace.
She doesn't even realize she's buried her face in Isty's hair or started murmuring until a bit of hair slips into her mouth. She pauses, but decides to keep up the steady stream of--not quite whispering or even talking, but a constant murmur of sound. Just letting her know that when she comes back, Alexa will be there.
It is vital that each and every member of the Pantheon receives their due from the Empress-to-be; one careless slight might bring disaster down upon everyone’s heads. So Redana has a checklist. Every morning. Without fail.
Each shrine receives its own careful attention. Zeus, depicted in victory over the leviathans of the deep, gets fresh cubes of frankincense in her brazier. Before Apollo’s shrine she kneels in the lotus and recites the Thyssian Koans. She pours salt water from a horse-head jug over the icon of Poseidon and sings the tuneless Apophic Hymn, dreaming of seeing the crash and swell of nebulas as her tone rises and falls. She clears the rotting, spoiled fruit from Hera’s shrine and relentlessly replaces them with farm-fresh produce. The freshly-minted Binaric obol will be gone before she leaves the room, for Hermes comes and goes as he pleases, slipping freely between the seconds. Blindfolded, she sits in front of the jagged bismuth altar of Dionysus and listens to the holy madness of the Maenadarium record with her hands pressed firmly against her lap, refusing to give into panic.
But lastly there is the shrine to Athena. It is pure and mystically clean, flawless and cold. The bust of the goddess is in an old Atlas style, made of high sloping rectangles melded into her profile, sharp and ominous. And here she kneels and refers to Athena, and Athena only. Here she reads from the Principles of War and the blood chills in her hands as she feels the eyes of Olympus upon her.
And here, she never experiences the second face of the goddess.
***
There are things that Redana could (and wants to) say. She wants to ask about Ares, and if Iskarot knows a version of Athena Devouring Her Brother that she does not[1].
But this is important. This is important. Iskarot wants her to remember this. But it’s not philosophy, or history, or strategy, or legal studies; it’s engineering. It’s reverence and a series of steps to placate something vast and dangerous that could destroy her without a thought. Redana has been dealing with those her whole life.
So she stares, and doesn’t say a word, and makes a checklist in her head, step by step. And while she might not understand the why, she can understand the do...
***
[1]: Redana very much wants to know if there is a version of this story that doesn’t make her existentially terrified if she thinks about it too long[2].
[2]: Cannibalism is forbidden even the gods[3], but Athena swallowed her brother’s bones and flesh. She is a walking paradox, an inflection point in the way the world works[4]. Some of Redana’s first nightmares were about Athena swallowing her whole[5].
[3]: ”The virtue of Zeus is not that she is able to eat of the Shameful Feast and remain pure; the virtue of Zeus is that she possesses the insight to be in all things within the laws that bind even Olympus. The rebuke of King T——— is for his hubris; that he would dare attempt to trick Zeus Panopticus into consuming the flesh of the murdered dead is proof enough of his folly. Yet, surely also, his consignment to Tartarus reflects the severity of the crime he attempted to pander Zeus into committing, and the weight of judgment that would fall on her in turn...” — Aspcleon of Tarrat, The Joviad.
[4]: ”And for such crime was Cronos of the Bloodied Sickle overthrown. O Chiefest Calamity! O King of Utopia! The black seed of his act choked that mythic age, the days before the gods themselves. So was paradise darkened, and all manner of thing brought to ruin; and you think yourself his better? It would be better for a man to throw his aged parents out into the wilderness than to reenact the first and gravest sin...” — Anonymous, A Condemnation of that Detestable Perversion, V-X-R-E
You work the flow of the star. You allow it to roar a little stronger, a little brighter - a trivial matter compared to what it is capable of but this celestial rounding error is the difference between life and death for everything aboard. You've had power all of your life, Redana, but it's never been so immediate as this. The flow of fire that runs through these cables is life and death. The rising roar of the engine is creation and annihilation. Thin bands of rubber and polyalloy separate you from the primordial forces. The changes you make are immediate. The world you want to build comes into being exactly so. This isn't a dance of politics and shadows and hearts, this is immediate and visceral and percussive and you understand why your mother still spends so much time working with machinery.
You work it correctly. The Hermetician clicks his approval.
"The transition will take an hour, so we must withdraw above decks and wait," he said. "You did well, princess. The lesson is concluded. You may ask any questions you want of me, and I shall do my best to answer." Something about the way he says that implies that this is a valuable treasure he is offering, and is almost hesitant in doing so.
Dolce!
"As you do, so shall I do," said Hera, accepting the bargain and wiping away all stress and fear from Vasilia's brow.
The Plousios is vast. All ships are. A shuttle may be able to make trips from orbit into space, or even within a system, with a stockpile of solid fuel but the power needed to sail the void at speeds fast enough to matter requires the infinite willpower of a true Engine. Unparalleled amidst all the sciences of humanity, Engines are shrunken and bound stars roaring out with enough energy to warm a world and with lifespans in the millions of years. It's a miracle that they're possible at all, and it's a miracle that they can be shrunken so much. But eventually miracles run out and the smallest possible size for an Engine is still enormous.
And when you're already building something as enormous and complex as an Engine adding a ship the size of a small city to it is a rounding error in the budget.
You pass through gardens, Dolce - plants still steady, still gently dripping cherry blossoms despite the barnacles and coral encrusted on their trunks. You walk down a corridor surfaced with the pearls and dusting shells of clams, feeling the soft stones gently crumble beneath your hooves. You find a swiftly running river that courses through its square-cut and grassy canal banks, maintained despite the chaos by the arcane secrets of the ship. On the far bank is a structure, perhaps marble, perhaps plastic, with an open door that wildflowers in orange and pink spill from. Hop, hop, hop, across the stepping stones you go as you wander deeper and deeper.
Alexa!
The fire does not stop dreaming of apocalypse just because it is contained within the hearth. It burns and burns even though there is nowhere to go, burns and burns in the hope one spark might spread, burns and burns because it still has fuel and will not stop so long as it can. It burns and burns promising the death of cities and the end of empires but instead all it provides is warmth. It does not become tame, but in time it does burn low. You can feel tendons slowly relax and fierce muscles soften and for a moment you think the storm has passed and she is done.
And then she slips her tail inside your shirt and uses it to tickle your sides and this is a mockery of the sacred sport of wrestling, Isty.
Bella!
You dream of lava. Heat, heat, heat. Melting, melting, melting. The boundaries between yourself and the surrounding world indistinct, the water of your body extending out like Beljani's virus and saturating everything around you while still being as sharply connected to your nerves as your missing whiskers. You are so hot that you have to spread as thin as butter across the bread of a bad girl just so you have enough nerves to feel every molten drip of it. You can feel a breath on your outermost layer and it feels like a blizzard. You can smell jasmine and it forces your brain up from the molten void of non-existence to experience it. You should be boiling but you can't, you should be scalded but you aren't, you're trapped at ninety-nine, suspended on the intersection of liquid, gas and solid.
When you finally wake you're ice cold.
Your sweat has soaked into the blankets so totally it's like lying on a leaky waterbed, and it has since faded from molten hot to ice cold. The light is dim but still conjures sparks. You're so dry that you've downed two of the glasses of water laid out by your bed before you've fully processed their presence - processed the plurality of them. Half a dozen cups of different shapes and sizes, pillaged indiscriminately and filled with water waiting for you. This isn't your bed either, it's not small, it's not hard... it's all softness and blankets and fluff.
And you're there. By the door, in the maid's place, waiting while your mistress sleeps - no. That's not you, that's Mynx, waiting with all the patience and discipline she learned from watching you tending to Redana's illnesses.
Muscles spring and the wolf sails across the room like a tossed doll.
Shit. Shit! Alexa's on her feet in a second and moving. Careless! Stupid!
Epistia is already slowly climbing to her feet by the time Alexa arrives, and the look in Epistia's eyes freezes her cold. Of course she's not allowed to have this. Of course she's ruined her chances before they even began. And of course, Epistia's in good with Redana, and now she's doubly screwed. One word to the wise and she's history.
Epistia dusts herself off, rigorously checking herself for injuries before fixing Alexa with another cool, evaluating stare. Of course. That's her right. What was Alexa thinking, she could have been hurt, could have been--
And Epistia gives a single, slow, deliberate wag of her tail.
Mental gears grind abruptly. She can't-- That's not-- Is that allowed? She can just--
Epistia turns, tail swiishing, and walks slowly towards one of the training blocks. But just before she turns the corner, she turns to meet Alexa's eyes.
It takes a few seconds for the thoughts to process, but Alexa hesitantly smiles. Because she knows what that look means. It means mischief, it speaks of hope, and right now? It says, "well, aren't you gonna come get me?"
Alexa takes a step, and that's all Isty needs to bolt.
"You little brat, get back here!" And for a time, the room is full of nothing but whooping, laughter, and the sounds of two idiots chasing each other.
Bella is trapped inside a prison shaped like herself. All of her senses have boiled away to just two sensations: dry, and pain. The first is the feeling of her tongue, her mouth, her eyes, her throat. And there are, there are, there are words hanging just underneath the dry, but they're impossible to hold onto through the dry. The cracking. The feeling that something wrung her out while she was lying on this strange bed and drained her until she was empty.
She is not aware of the glass in her hand, a bulky and unshapely bit of faux-crystal that would weigh too much if it weighed anything at all. It touches her lips and disappears into the dry with a series of gulps that ring like thunderclaps. Her ears press flat against her skull (and in so doing, she discovers that she has ears), but the sound is deep inside her. Inescapable. Needed, because it washes away some of the sensation of being cracked and yearning like some sort of servitor-shaped desert.
The other feeling is pain. Bella blinks and her eyelids shudder with the effort. She turns her head and her neck cracks like it's trying to snap itself in half. She looks at the lights, dim as they are, and her eyes are forced shut as they scream in spark-filled agony. The rushing of her blood is a snake squeezing her skin and it hurts and her breath is an icy gale that stabs her lungs with needles and it hurts and her muscles won't stop twitching and it hurts and the glass is in her hands and it hurts and the water goes down her throat and it hurts, and it hurts it hurts it hurts!
Bella is dimly aware that she has curled up tight into the soaked sheets again. So... soft. And so drenched, more storm cloud than blanket. Uncomfortable. She tosses them aside again, and in the space of that motion she realizes the problem is herself. Her fur is damp and matted. Her skin glistens like diamonds. And Hera help her, she's freezing. She shiver starts in her neck and spreads across her body in goosebump-ridden waves that spill the next glass of water on the bed, the floor, her lap, and everywhere it isn't wanted. She lifts her hand.
"I..."
But her order melts into a sigh; Mynx is already at her side with a warm towel and a fresh blanket, just as soft and quiet as she used to be with Redana. She closes her eyes as the feeling of skilled fingers press through warm fabric to pat and rub her dry. When she opens them again, she notices her clothes sitting neatly folded on a chair on the far side of the room. She forcefully swallows the purr threatening to boil up out of her, but when the towel is pulled away and replaced by the blanket, she throws herself backwards into the arms holding it. The surprised squeak that meets her ears draws a fresh flinch, but Mynx doesn't draw away.
Bella is warm. Bella is held. She lets her eyes flutter half-closed, still watching the room but taking in nothing. And as they sit there in silence, over untold minutes where neither of them move except to breath or feel the beating of each others' hearts, she ceases to be a desert, ceases to be a prison, ceases to be a temple to pain, ceases even to be a Praetor, and for a moment becomes simply Bella again.
"...Miss her." she rasps.
"Hm?"
"Princess. I miss Redana. My Redana. I just want... why did it happen? Why doesn't she miss me too? Why doesn't she want me anymore?"
She tilts her head back to look at Mynx, and see what kind of face looks back at her.
It had been ages since Dolce had a good cherry blossom.
They didn’t taste like cherries, you see. No, they were far milder. A speck of sweetness, a fancy of the flower’s scent, yet it did not hurry away from you. A single petal could stay on the tongue for minutes. A whole pile of them? Well! For that many, you’d better have a comfortable place to sit, a nice tree to lie against, and a friendly river to listen to.
He was in good company; a particularly fluffy barnacle among his peers. They weren’t sure where all the water’d gone, and they weren’t inclined to believe his wild tales of a sythe made of sunlight and a Princess out for a stroll. What were they to expect? Soft and silly all the way through with this one. Though, he seemed to know something of proper patience. Perhaps his wasn’t a completely lost cause. Some time, some quiet, maybe he’d amount to something yet.
To their deep satisfaction - though they’d never admit it out loud - Dolce heeded the wisdom of his elders. He had time, quiet, and quite the pile to work through. He let the world come to him, drifting in a steady, uninterrupted current. Trimmed riverbanks, yet unharmed barnacles. A winding path, yet squared banks. Flowers! Fresh flowers. Bright and colorful and wonderful. Wouldn’t Vasilia like a bouquet when she awoke? Wouldn’t she love a picnic here? Beautiful, purposefully beautiful. Maintained meticulously, within limits.
Redana considers carefully. A good question has to demonstrate not only comprehension of the material but the vision to build upon it and make connections to previously learned material, because that is what is expected of an empress. But what can she say? Most of what she has known about ships up to this point is on how to deploy them, how to manage construction requests and delays, and practical knowledge stolen from planetary romances and contraband codices.
“Is the Engine a sun?” It sounds so stupid even as she asks. “I mean... are they sacred to Apollo? I’ve always wondered, but nobody ever thought I needed to know that. If they are, did he teach us how to make them, or did Hermes, or did Haephestus?” The words tumble out faster, as if getting squeezed from a press. “And how do the engines harness its power for propulsion? I haven’t had the chance to look at them yet, but Vasila said it was too dangerous to meddle with them without good reason and the blessing of as many gods as would listen...”
The Hermetician steeples his fingers, dragged down by thought. The question you have asked seems to be more complex than you first imagined.
"We..." he said it like it was a confession, "do not make Engines."
That was a surprise.
"The Order of Hermes does not understand the process. We... claim to. We do not, not truly. We recover them. We dare Poseidon's wrath to pull them from the deep. We..." he buzzed in a flustered, awkward way, and then backtracked abruptly. "We understand the mechanics! Every gear, screw, and bolt! Every secret of containment and enhancement! We have built entirely functional Engines that to this day bring divine light to the great Caravels. But... we do not understand the spark. We cannot ignite them once they have gone dark. We can transfer a burning star from a damaged engine into a new one we have made but we cannot bring a new one to life. Not since the Great War."
Once this shame had left him, fiery energy exploded through him and he slammed a parchment scroll hidden somewhere within his robes onto the floor in a passion. "And it is not as though we have not investigated the principle! We have done heroic research into this topic! We have diagrams, instructions and even rediscovered the ancient Tauyk Drive Yards where thousands of Engines were once made! We have petitioned the gods with our questions! And yet, no matter how faithfully we follow the rituals of ignition no new sparks burn!"
A skeletal metal hand emerged from the robes cupped the technomancer's chin. "It is not our knowledge that is flawed. It is the galaxy that is wrong. Something has happened, the natural laws have changed, some mighty god has decided to deny the universe new Engines. At first we thought it was Lord Apollo, who was indeed deeply involved in the process of ignition - the old rituals involve a great deal of purity of heart - but the Brilliant Lord has indicated that he does not hold us in disfavour. Perhaps he does, but if so he is keeping it a deep secret, and applying this same judgement to other groups that attempt the same thing. It seems unlikely. We do not know."
Dolce!
A blue light within the doorway. A single spark like a star.
You wish Hades wielded the supernatural in this moment. You wish he was a titan of smoke and charcoal skin and twisted beard. You wish he spoke to you in the voice of the divine. You wish he wasn't just a tall, spindly man in a suit vest who was striding towards you with a mouth locked in a line of restrained fury. If he appeared as a god rather than a man it would be easier to imagine that he wasn't about to murder you.
"What," hissed the Lord of the Dead, "do you think you are doing here?"
Soft hands rest upon your shoulder even as you stagger backwards into the arms of Hera. "I sent him," said she behind you, voice as soft as a silk noose.
"How dare you?" said Hades, and his voice became even softer as his fury built. "How dare you!? In my domain? On my ship? You would tempt them to contravene my laws?"
You can feel Hera's fingers tighten around your shoulder a moment. There's nothing of it in her voice but you're suddenly aware that she's worried. Like she might have miscalculated. But there's not even a whisper of it in what she says next. "Of course I would never dream of contravening your laws, brother Hades. I am your guest here. I am not here to investigate your secrets. I have merely bought a servant."
"A servant?" said Hades, eyes like burning oceans.
"Yes," said Hera smoothly. "Quite apart from everything else, you simply have a mess back there. Little Dolce here is a good and diligent servant, quite capable of keeping his mouth shut. He's merely here to tidy up."
The Lord of the Dead stared into your eyes. His expression has still not cracked. You fear it might never. "Fine," he said. "Clean. Organize. And do not let his mind wander, sister Hera. I can find another crew if I must."
The gods passed away from the world like shadows cast by birds, and again you are left before that open doorway spilled with flowers.
Alexa!
A chase like this can hardly be contained. It erupts from the training room and into the corridors, and it goes, and it goes and it goes, feet pounding and hearts as the thrill of acceleration overpowers everything else...
And then your feet leave the ground.
You've run directly into one of the corridors that the Princess and the Hermetic previously stripped of grav-plating and haven't gotten around to replacing yet. And so you tumble together weightlessly down a seemingly infinite corridor carried by all the momentum of your earlier sprint and it feels like you've run so fast you've started flying.
Oh, is this what space is, Alexa? Is this what could have been if people didn't drag their gravity up with them into the void? You know how to fight aboard ships but never before have you swum in the sea, and you drift together at once timelessly and at the speed of thunder. On your left are endless windows that open up on an aching vista everlasting, on your right are all those same stars caught in amber-eyed reflection.
Bella!
You'd never expected to see strength in Mynx's eyes. Mynx who would discard her whole identity to avoid a problem, Mynx who'd stab you in the back so she could outrageously flirt with Redana, Mynx who had all the consistency and sticky sweetness of strawberry jam. How was she capable of looking kind and wise enough to understand your feelings, how could she be someone strong and stable enough to hold you up in this moment?
(She wasn't really. This was an act, surely. She'd just never had a serious role to play before now...)
"I don't think," Mynx spoke slowly, and there was something in that cadence that reminded you of Redana - that this wasn't a guess, it was the considered opinion of someone who specialized in impersonating Redana, "Redana has space for more than one thing in her head at any point in time. It's what gives her that presence - if you've got her focus you're the only thing that matters. It's wonderful when you have it..." she trailed off a bit. "I don't think she stopped caring about you, Bella. I think she just doesn't remember right now. There's some other thought burning in her head. We just need to remind her."
“Maybe there’s lost context,” Redana says, because she’s surely expected to say something. A princess does not sit like a lump and refuse to engage with her lessons! “The archivists are always complaining about that. That in previous ages, there are things that don’t get recorded because they’re obvious, or were, back then. Like where Xiban was! We have records of trading fleets and descriptions of their royal court, but nobody wrote down where it was because that was obvious, everyone knew Xiban, until we didn’t. So maybe everybody used to know what made engines ignite, until they didn’t, because there was disruption and tumult and cultural collapse. Or, or maybe that part was an oral tradition, because those are very prone to disruption, if everyone that knows what’s supposed to be passed on dies.”
That’s not a cheerful thought. Lots of serious, devoted technomancers, passing on the great big secret, from the old to the new, and then something happens all at once: Poseidon drowns them all, or the Drive Yards burn with fire and light, or a mad king orders the dissolution of the turbulent priests that ail him...
“It’s okay that you don’t know,” she adds. “I’m not mad. Thank you for telling me what you do know. I really appreciate it. Can I keep asking questions? Or is there a limit? Oh no, have I run out already? Why do I keep asking? I’m sorry!”
This is not the first time that Zeus's majesty strikes the words from Alexa's mouth.
There's just... so much to it. The sky is never the same twice, and each time it's a new delight to behold, full of crimsons, teals, and every other color, playing in a never-ending cosmic chase. It's enough to make a statue feel very small.
Alexa floats, caught in a swirl of color, and wonders.
She wonders so hard, in fact, that she doesn't see the pounce until it's too late and a cold nose is buried in the small of her back.
