Balmas

Breathless Dead

"I can see it all happening again."

The Alcedi. Molech's hammers. Shock troopers, heavy on the awe. Skirmishers, taken to their logical extreme. They're the wind, given form and wings and ululating warcries. Only the relatively-tight confines of the ship prevent them from their true potential. They cannot soar over the battlefield and plunge, plunge, plunge into esoteric or engine. They must find the path, must turn from the walls of the phalanx, must zip and turn and howl through the ship, lightning blistering across wings and thrusting them along.

Were they always so terrifying? They can't have been. She remembers the comrades and friends she made--their faces, their habits. Sees them, even now, in the banshees. Hears the cries, and knows that they are of joy, of excitement, of fulfillment of purpose. Remembers when it felt so reassuring to know that they were coming, to turn and feel the ozone in the air.

Now…

"They fall before him. Bow before him, turn to his purposes. A ship now, but tomorrow?"

She shudders as she stares at them.

"I could tell you that I am doing this for other people. That I do not wish to harm them, do not wish to be a tool in the Emperor's hands in once more bringing the galaxy to it knees. And that would be true, I think.

"But it would also be a lie.

"I know that, if Emperor Molech emerges triumphant, I die."

It's blunt, factual, and she hates that she can't keep the tremble out of her voice.

"Maybe not today. Maybe not for a long time. Maybe something that looks like me keeps going, keeps commanding the troops, obeys orders. But I! I, who collect scraps and memories and hoard them. I, who would improve myself, and learn to cook, and share food with friends! I, who can love! I, Alexa, will be gone!"

Only here, in the howl of the chase, can she discuss this. Only here, where none can here, can she be sure that it will not get back to the Emperor. Only in the mechanical action of orders followed is there safety.

"I… It would also be a lie to say I do not want my father gone. But I do not want to want that, if that makes sense? If he could leave well enough alone, if I could plant him on a planet somewhere, and have done, I would. But ever has he sought to control, to own, to dictate. To form the world, to bind people, to his ways.

"And were it not for this seal, things should be so simple."

She is silent, for a while, or as silent as she can be while following her troops.

"Please, Thunderer. How did you first come to raise the sword against your father?"

Breathless Dead

Alexa follows Hera, doing her best to shake off the impression that the Plousios is a colossus turning in its sleep. Everywhere they go, the ship's cavernous steel halls ring and re-echo the sounds of a thousand lives preparing for war. They pass the Alcedi, and the staccato rattle of spear-on-spear kata turns the room to a rainstorm. They pass the engine, and the call-and-response of the engine crew's shanty bears witness to the effort of turning the engines for maneuvers. Painted battlecrab legs skitter and scuttle across tiles, snapping claws bashing spears against shield. And below all, the thrummm of the engine is less heard than felt, the star that powers the ship rumbling as it wakes to its master's call.

Frankly, it was less lonely when the ship was empty. Everywhere, creatures bend the knee, offer her respect--she is the Emperor's right hand, the Pallas Rex, she who will lead them in battle. She's surrounded by the loyal, the brave, the followers of Emperor Molech. And yet…

"I am not wrong to reject this," she insists. "To turn from the purpose for which I was designed. These people follow joyfully the call of War, of the Emperor Molech. That does not make it right.

"But what can I do?" She stares at a passing crew of Hermetics, hauling something bristling with crystals. "I cannot harm Emperor Molech. Cannot plot against him, cannot disobey him. And I cannot wait for a rescue that may not come."

Breathless Dead

Alexa sighs, lays a cloth over the bowl of dough, and starts meticulously putting things back in place.

"… He told me I should be a dutiful daughter."

By rights, the kitchen should be a mess. Each ingredient should have been decimated after its brethren had joined the bowl--the sack of flour rent in twain, the delicate jar of starter shattered against the wall, the salt bin splintered. The room should bear witness to her frustration, leave a lasting testimony of her anger.

But that's not a luxury she has. There should be no evidence she was here--nothing to tie her to this conversation, nothing to make the Emperor wonder what his chief agent was doing.

"I thought that would work, once upon a time. That by doing what he asked, when he asked, willingly and helpfully, I could unlock some secret that would let him love me."

It's simple work, but gratifying. The measuring cups get rinsed and scrubbed out and hung back up on their hooks. The sourdough starter gets a small helping of flour. The counters shine under her hands. Inch by inch, the room starts to sparkle.

And so long as her hands are busy with something else, she can talk without thinking too hard about what she's saying.

"… Why is it my task to love him? To be loyal to him? He does not love me--does not even think of me as a person. He stole my childhood, hurt my friends, and now he seeks to steal my future."

She stares at the bread dough, before finally meeting Hestia's gaze. "How did you do it?"

Breathless Dead

Alexa smiles in wonderment as she studies the crabs with new appreciation--notes, past the rippling silk and glistening jewels, the notches and cutouts in the armored shells. Of course! If you know you're facing airborne troops, you need to be able to reach and face in different directions! And the bulk of the armored legs is much thicker--all the better to absorb the thunderblow of a divebombing Alcedi! Troops, purpose-built to counter her own!

Wonderful! Oh, this makes things so much easier!

She leans across the desk conspiratorially. "I feel it only appropriate to let you know that I have standing orders to immediately murder anybody plotting against Emperor Molech. I take no pleasure in this! But I must warn you to mind carefully the words you speak--if you set off the geas, you will probably win the battle, but we all lose.

"So with that in mind: Molech wants you working for him. You want me working for you. Consider me intrigued. Do fill me in on your meaning."

Breathless Dead

This is not a negotiation, to be clear; this is a demand, a show of force, a demonstration. There is to be no neutrality for the creatures of Poseidon, no chance of a sudden attack from within. The high walls bristle with Alcedi warriors, waiting to drop like hail. The very air thrums and pulsates with the force of wings flapped in unison. Know your place, fit where you're told, and you can serve with us. Fail to join or, gods forbid, oppose Molech?

Alexa clutches her spear, and wishes they'd just hold still for one second. Let the thunder of wings die away, and give her a chance to think. Or! Better and better! Leave entirely! Let her face the court alone!

Quietly, she proffers the spear to one of the more intricatedly-carved battlecrabs.

The noise above her grows louder as the murmur of angry, dissatisified soldiers joins the beating of wings.

"For all it matters," she says, taking a seat across from the Assistant Secretary, "I hate this as much as you. But surely you can see that neither of us are able to stand against this? Better to work together than shed each others' blood to no end?"

Breathless Dead

Alexa presses the bundle of sheets against her face, and does her best not to cry.

Which makes no damn sense. There's nothing special about them. They aren't a treasured gift from a friend or the loot of a dangerous battle. There're bedsheets like them in every cabin in the Plousios, and gods know she's got more important things to cry about.

But they're her bedsheets. Redana had given her the cabin and everything in it. Showed her how the sheets could be ordered to change color, pattern, even plushness.

"How would you like me to set it up?"

"You decide!"

Just like that? No, uh, no pattern in mind? No preference for, say, an emblem or a flag?

Nothing?

Just. The idea that the sheets, the cabin, everything in it. All for her. For her to do with as she pleased. A private space. Somewhere she could decorate without anybody else's input.

The pile on the bed is almost accusatory in its size. You let yourself trust, Alexa. Now look at what you've done. Now you have all these memories, and every one of them needs a resolution before Molech uses them to learn who to hurt.

And yet, she wishes it were larger. That she hadn't been so hesitant to accumulate them. That she'd spent more time with others in the ship, picked up more memories.

Rusty's bed, at least, is easy. Molech knows about Rusty already, so there's no reason to hide it.

Unless… Maybe it's better Rusty spends time with the Coherents? Murvle certainly spends a lot of time petting her whenever he goes out at poker night, and it would at least put a layer of separation between them…

The recipe notebook is next. Easy enough--she already knows all the drinks recipes from long campaigns' worth of memorization, so in theory, those pages could go. But if she rips out those pages, it'll make the newer pages--battlecrab in sweet potato mash, a delicate tea recipe, and so on--stand out like a freshly-polished diamond in a pile of coal.

Does Molech know about Ramses? Has he been paying that enough attention? She has to assume he doesn't know, has to treat it like a threat. She can't destroy half of it…

The kitchens! Of course! That's how you hide something--put it where it won't be noticed. Who'd notice a little scrap notebook of recipes amongst dozens of others?

And… Well, if things go poorly, at least Vasilia will have a chance to try out some more of Colonel Shad's old mixups.

All too soon, the pile is sorted. A reddish lock of hair. A fragment of battlecrab shell. A sketchily put-together plaque. All tied to friends, all representative of possible victims. All selfishly put in a pile to save, or to hide, or to give away. None destroyed, or set alight, or put somewhere forever out of reach.

Soon, all that's left is the letter.

And… well, Molech's known about her for centuries.

She never does end up changing the bedsheets back to default.

Breathless Dead

The architects built this hallway too damn wide.

It's more crowded than even the market. Azura in every shade of blue mingle with servitors and supplicants. Everywhere, the susurrus of softened speech and hushed voices. Prayer, study, books, people further than the eye can see.

And around each one, there's space. Ample room to pass without disturbing anyone. Not a single opportunity to bump against someone, or dance between passing students, or apologize profusely for knocking someone down and sending the jar careening down the hall.

As if she could do anything but cradle the jar like a baby.

Finally, she spots an open room, and darts for it like it's salvation. She slams the door behind her, lowers the jar gently onto a desk, and scans the room. The chair seems like it'd splinter well--some kind of antique wood, high-backed, overly stuffed and plush. Perfect.

The spear whistles as it comes down--and stops, twitching, an inch from the velvet padding.

Or my property. Damn. Damn!

She wills the spear to drop that last inch, and, after a futile few seconds, sags into the chair.

"I thought for sure that she would kill you," she spits. "That is what you taught me, after all. An enemy who will not be turned to usefulness? Who has fought you for years? Surely, you would have not have permitted her to live if your positions were reversed. I could not strike the blow myself, but if I delivered you into her hands, gift-wrapped, she could not help but solidify her reign.

"And then, on Barassidar, again I thought myself rid of you! A head in a jar! What could be more harmless? A threat to no-one! No mobility, no divination, no empire, no friends! A kinslayer I, cursed of the gods, and happy to be so if it meant you were gone!"

She seethes, and finally meets his gaze. "How many times, Liu Ban? How many times must you die before I can finally be free?"

Breathless Dead

"Unfortunately, I am quite nearly useless."

She sits in the chair, hands pressed against the desk as if it only her force of will can keep it from lifting off the floor. Already, her palms ache and her fingers have started to tingle, but that's good! It means her hands are carefully staying still, and not clenching and unclenching in her lap, or itching to take up the spear neatly leaned against one corner of the office. Still is good. Still isn't threatening. Still has a chance of convincing him she can't be turned to violence.

Pace, damn you. Fiddle with a pen. Walk back and forth in front of your wall of books--run scaly fingers across the layer of dust across their tops, pick through the titles. Do something other than stare at her, something except examine her like a butterfly on a pin.

"Certainly useless as a weapon," she bites out, "considering my bodyguard track record."

She hasn't been down to that part of the ship since Barassidar, and she still refuses to look at the jar.

"I will admit to being curious what possible use you could have for us. A failed dictator and the guard who betrayed him? You must have a reason to seek out a couple of has-beens like ourselves."

Breathless Dead

She won't go back!

She writhes in the coils that bind her, heedless of the fangs against her neck. Feels them binding, tightening, threatening to crack stone and part brass as she kicks, wriggles, claws, anything to get away! Throws her head back in hopes of breaking a nose, throws it forward and bites scales with all her might, anything to get the tail binding her to drop her!

Won't go back! Won't be that thing again!

There's no language in the scream. It's terror and fury, animal and primal, ragged and raw, and it takes her a second to realize that it's coming from her. She wails and cries and screams, eyes on the dreadful, damned seal that's going to take her away.

Won't go back won't go back won'tgobackwon'tgobackwon'tgoback!--

Breathless Dead

Alexa's vision is full of fist.

She has just enough time to note FURY picked out across the knuckles, and then her head is ringing like a bell. She staggers back, one arm clutching her face and another raised to catch the incoming swing of the whip staff. A quick yank knocks Thug #2 off balance and buys her a second to look around.

Skotos is gone. Taken? Ran away? Gods, let her have run away. Rusty's gone too. Good sign, they're unlikely to have captured a dog quietly.

A whistling noise reminds her that she's fighting, and she raises the Aegis just in time to turn Knuckle's haymaker into a wrist-stinging blow.

But... Her eyes scan the square for escape routes. She doesn't need to fight them, doesn't want to fight them, not even with her mother scowling at her. There! An alleyway, dark enough and cramped enough for her to monkey her way up the walls, up and out and over across the rooftops.

It probably would have worked, too, in any other world. A lash out with the butt of the spear to crack against Knuckle's wrists, a twist of the whip to send it into Eyebrow's face, and a quick dash to the safety of the roof.

In any other world, the thugs couldn't fly.

[6 on Get Away.]