Balmas

Breathless Dead

The first meal together after a battle is always somber. Too many seats that should have faces in them, but don't. And when it's a meal together with the people that, a few hours ago, were the reasons for some of those missing faces?

The interim leader of the Lanterns, Jaquelyn, has been a good host. Her Lanterns have shared their food, offered shelter. And now they cluster as far away from the troops of the Plousios as the imperial mess will allow them. The Alcedi cluster together with her, the Tides click and snikt amongst themselves, and only a rare few Coherents break ranks to wander amidst the tables.

And here she is, surrounded by Alcedi and completely alone.

She wonders, if she were to pluck the air, whether it would twang.

They won't talk to her, is the thing. She's the hero of the day--the one who destroyed herself to save the ship and all of their lives. They can't talk to her, are you crazy? Mere mortals, with her? What could they even have to talk about? Already, she can see the new myths forming. Remembers the stories the people of Molech whispered about her, when they thought she couldn't hear. Remembers the silence, spreading like blood whenever she drew near a no longer chatty bunch of soldiers. And you know, what?

Turns out, having people not talk to you because they admire you is worse than them not talking to you because they're afraid of you. Blow that, she's stopping this before it starts.

Conversation dies in the mess as she approaches a table, knees a chair out for herself, selects a victim, and blurts out, "By any chance, do you have a mother, or maybe a grandmother, named Ma'hti?"

***

The Alcedi have been relentless, but this might be her toughest challenge yet. She studies the warrior across the table--notes the definition of the muscles. The body of a sprinter. The beads woven in her feathers--awards for speed, precision. The familiar hooked beak. The fiery eyes. The plume, no doubt a crimson ribbon at speed.

Alexa nods, her decision made.

"Hoji! You were born of Hoji, the famous messenger, I'm sure of it!"

And more join to see the reason for the whoops.

***

"Oh, the stories I could tell you! You've never met a brigand faster at raiding or with a better eye for where the good stuff was than your great-uncle! I don't have the recipe written down--not here, anyway--but now that I have a tongue… Jaq, I hate to impose, but could I trouble you to show me where the cleaning supplies are kept?"

And a few more people are drawn in. Alcedi run off with Lanterns to fetch supplies. Coherents and Tides are dispatched to find something distillable. Nothing fancy, no barrels, nothing like the wine on Tellus or Barassidar, nothing you'd find sold in a shop. Only soldier's drinks, something that can ferment in your pack, something quick and easily concealed.

Private Polly's Paint Stripper is a rousing success. So is Colonel Shad's No. Nine, and Ma'hti's Bushwhacker. They even find some apples for the scumble.

***

There's a certain unique silence that happens when a hundred intently listening ears suction all sound out of a room at once.

Poor sap. She'd known the question was going to come up eventually--had been placing mental bets on whether it'd be Alcedi, Hermetic, or Lantern to pop the tension over the group. But as the young warrior fidgets, and does her best not to look around at the silently expanding ring of people clearing the blast zone around herself, Alexa can't help but feel a little sorry. You could hear a pin drop, and easily imagine a boot right behind it.

She sighs, and offers a wry smile. Set them at ease. Nobody's in trouble, we're all friends. You should never be afraid to ask a good question.

"Yes, Arth'na. I was the Pallas Rex."

It feels strange to be able to say that without wincing. To say it without a disclaimer, a layer of separation, a defined line between herself and the Pallas. For so long, she's done her best to distance herself from it. That was a different time. She was a different person. The person who carried out all those orders, hurt all those people, was dead, would never return.

But the thing about being dead is the dead don't learn.

"And that is exactly why I must convince you not to follow Father Molech.

"He would have you believe that he brought order, and peace. I say nay! Under his orders, I brought terror to the galaxy. I was his enforcer, his right hand, his pawn. I obeyed every order, killed at a word, slaughtered hundreds in battles. When a message needed to be delivered at the tip of a spear, I was the one holding the shaft.

"And do you know what I found when I was done?

"No honor. No glory. Only a pile of bodies and Emperor Molech, unhappy that the pile was not large enough."

"And lest I am not clear: the bodies were our own. Ridenki, turned to ash. Barassidar, a graveyard of the abandoned and destroyed. Emperor Molech ruled through fear, first and last. The Pallas was his sword, waiting always to decimate the weak, the failures.

"Do not, my friends, make my mistake! There is no future for anyone following Emperor Molech but that of an expendable corpse! Father Molech created us, yes--created us to serve, created us to die, to be used up in his plans! He will not care for you, will not reward you, will not know your name!

"And even if he did… Even if he did, you should not follow him. We will never be more to him than what he made us.

"Friends… there's so much more. You can be so much more. The life you make for yourself will always mean more to you than the life somebody else picks.

"I will not stand in your way. But please... make a better decision than I could. Learn what, for so long, I did not."

Sunshards

[ignore this, wrong thread]

Breathless Dead

There is an eye in the storm, eventually. No sense can scream forever.

Anguished nerves that sent panicked signals--Cried! Shrieked! Threw up every alarm possible! Warned her this isn't safe, this can't last, she can't last--first drop to moans, then whimpers, and then blessed silence. Pain has worn itself out, given its all, and now must rest.

She takes a step. Pushes forwards. It's just her, the floor, and the Weight.

Muscles that burned and threatened to seize have long ceased their protest. There's nothing to spare. Everything has been pushing in the same way for so long that the very idea of something that is not that is unthinkable.

Sight was useless even before she made contact. Her eyes screw shut against the light, but she's almost certain that even if she opened them, she'd see the same thing. She'd still see nothing but the orange and green afterimages of eyes too burnt out to see anything else. It's unimportant. She doesn't need sight to push.

She takes a step. Pushes forward. It's just her, the floor, and the Weight.

Even touch is meaningless. She knows her feet touch the floor, because that is how she is pushing the Weight. She knows that she must be touching the Weight, because there is still resistance to push against. But her hands long ago ran molten, coursed down her side, puddled on the floor, and she's pushing with parts that were never meant to see day.

… The Weight has stopped. She redoubles her efforts. It can't stop, she won't let it stop, because everyone is counting on her. Feet grind and shriek against metal floor, piercing the silence. She throws herself against the side of the molten block, and new nerves cry out at the sudden impact. She has no hands, no arms, and so she kicks, finds new muscles to exercise, new joints to take the impact. Steps back, squints away the specks of light still painting her vision, and realizes there is a vision to see.

The Weight still burns with heat, pulses with light. But it's subdued, dull. Constrained. It sits flush with its containment, happy, glowing with energy, but no longer threatening to tear itself apart.

Well, that's good, then.

She takes a step, falls forward, and then it's just her, the floor, and the wait.

Breathless Dead

Isty's alive.

A little knot of tension unclenches, ever so slightly. She's alive! She's alive, and winning, and oh god she's so beautiful Alexa might cry.

(Note to self. Tear ducts. If they survive this, invest in tear ducts.)

She's winning. Alexa can still see the knife--that impossible dagger--sticking from the Nemean's chest. Had seen it happen even when she was there, when she was ready and guarding, when the Nemean was there armored with the power of the gods. Wondered whether she'd find another impossible dagger buried in another chest when she wasn't there--

But no! Every thrust, parried and riposted. Every dodge performed with the speed and grace of a gymnast. Movements and techniques that Alexa had taught, but taken, blended, shifted, adapted for a scythe, made Isty's own and done at a speed to boggle the mind. There's a selfish little part of her that wants to just watch. To sit back and marvel and hold her at the end, coax her back and tell her just how incredibly proud of her she is!

But there are two stars in the engine room.

The Kaeri have been thorough in their trap. All plovers have been taken, cannibalized, used in the battle. There isn't any heavy machinery to be used, and judging by the way the core sizzles and hisses, there's not nearly enough time to go back to the main hall and retrieve one.

And here, and now, even at the entrance to the room, the heat is blinding. She eyes the core, and gingerly runs a finger across the lingering burnt umber patch down one side of her body. She can still feel the sensation of up becoming down, the lurch of down getting faster, the quiet acceptance of the burning glow above her.

Is it surprising to find that she doesn't want to die? In that classroom, facing Molech, hearing him intone the new shape of her life, she thought for sure that that must be the only way this could end. Die quick in battle, or die slowly. And good gravy, this must be the quickest way possible to break herself.

Cut her siblings out from him….

She could do it, you know. Virtually all of Molech's forces are here. The Tides, the Coherents, select Hermetics, the Alcedi… all on a freshly repaired albeit battle-beaten and presently exploding ship of the Armada. And Molech doesn't have the seal to summon her to his side. Repair the core and she becomes the leader who saved the day. Pick a direction, any direction, and that's most of Molech's forces gone. She doesn't know he's captured or dead or lost. That's time that she can talk to them, get to know them, convince them that Molech doesn't care for them. Convince them that life is better when you decide what it's for.

None of that makes it any easier, though. She knows the pain waiting for her, and her feet don't want to cooperate--they hold, leaden, to the floor, struggle desperately to stay rooted. The closer she gets, the more her eyes squeeze shut against the light, until she's navigating more by hot and cold than by sight. Even before she makes contact, she can feel old wounds opening as brass starts to melt and run.

Think of why you're doing this. Think of meals shared with friends. Think of finally being able to appreciate Dolce's delicate oolong. Think of understanding smiles from Ramses. Isty's laughter. Think of old camaraderie with the Alcedi of old. Vasilia's face as she waves a drink mid story. Redana's quiet understanding

More than that though, think of you! Think of all the things you've wanted to do, to be! Think of what you couldn't be before! Think of a life with no command seals to summon you, no irresistable commands forcing you into a box! Think of the relationships you couldn't have, how you agonized over inflicting yourself on anybody not strong enough to defend themselves! Think of defining yourself, of deciding, of learning who you are!

Take that feeling! Bind it, knot it to your center, make your insides burn as bright as the core outside!

Contact. A shrieking of nerves.

And push!

Breathless Dead

"Children of Molech."

She can feel the tremor in her voice, and hates how little effort it takes to raise it above the silence of moans and quiet drips. Can feel the hollow gulf in her chest robbing every word of the strength she wishes she had.

"… tend to the wounded."

She doesn't want to count how many are left. Doesn't want to watch the Coherents triage and sort, the Tides carry and stack. She's very firm on pushing the Alcedi to treat the Laterns, and hopes the leader does the same in kind--it's difficult to see someone as an enemy when you're wrapping their wounds, talking to them, hearing pained chuckles.

And worse, she can't stay. The engines are overloading still. She needs to save the ship and…

And then, afterwards, she can hope she still has a girlfriend.

Breathless Dead

The difficult thing, really, is how to get everyone's attention in a way that won't immediately be seen as hostile.

She surveys the mass below them, makes a mental note, and adjusts the ELF on her belt. Even braced for it, even with eyes screwed shut, the TZOTTT of it earthing into the walls is thunderous, leaves spots in the vision. She takes special care to make as much noise as possible, be the loudest person, make it impossible to not see and hear. Raises her voice above the noise, speak not just to the Alcedi, but the mice around them. Make it impossible to miss the silvery arc of the spear landing point first at the feet of the Lantern's leader

"Truce!

"All those who follow me: Lay down your weapons! Throw them down! I am not one for speeches, but we can not fight! The Kaeri have traded their lives for ours, and it serves only their interests if we continue to slaughter each other while the engine goes critical. Lanterns! We have Hermetics who can undo the damage, save all our lives, but only if we work together! Open the doors, show us the servant's passages to your engine, and perhaps we may all see tomorrow!"

[Talk Sense with Wisdom: 6]

Breathless Dead

Alexa stares at the crimson rent in the sky and tells herself that there's no time. That if the choice wasn't sitting in front of her, if the Kaeri weren't counterboarding right now, she'd run to Isty's side and… fight with her? Draw her away? Tell her not to be a fool?

Alexa tells herself that this strength and impulsivity is what drew her to Isty in the first place. She's a warrior, capable of taking care of herself. Alexa's hesitation and reservedness are balanced by Isty's push to try everything, do everything. Above all else, Alexa doesn't have to fret and worry that something's going to happen while she's away. Isty can take it. She's safe.

She tells herself she couldn't stop Isty if she tried. Might not have been able to even at her peak, and certainly can't stop a champion lit with the fires of Ares now. She's feltthat power. The joy, the freedom! Felt how it fills your veins like a drumbeat, your limbs like lightning, pushes you forward and faster until there's nothing in the world but the yourself and the person you're aimed at.

None of that makes it feel like any less of a betrayal when she nods and turns to lead the Alcedi back to the ship.

Breathless Dead

That bastard.

She understands the plan in an instant. Sees the formations arrayed before her as neatly as the diagrams in The Masteries of Battle. The Kaeri hate the Alcedi, want to see them destroyed and laid on their altar, would hound them to the end of space if given the chance. And that's the point. You couldn't paint a more effective target if you tried.

It's as simple as it is cruel. So long as the Alcedi are on the field, the Kaeri are neutralized. Sacrifice the Alcedi, feed them into a meatgrinder of troops who are prepared and motivated to destroy them, and the day is yours. Why wouldn't you do that? Yes, it's regrettable that he must lose a third of his forces to win this battle, but it's not like there isn't a planet full of more of them. It's not like they're important. Dying is what they're for.

And all she had to do in this plan was care. She's damned if she does, and damned if she doesn't. If she leads them to victory, she keeps them alive and gives Father Molech exactly what he wants. And if she denies him his victory, they all die. Isn't that just like him?

She could push them forward, yes. Could take up her spear, become the leader they want. Face Lorventi, give the Tide and the Coherents the opening they need. Give the Emperor the victory he craves. Become the hero of the day.

But it won't be enough.

It will never be enough.

Let's say she does find a way to pull a miracle out of her ass. Appeals to Ares. Saves the day. Rallies the troops. Survives against Lorventi. Becomes a beacon of hope. Returns with a crown of laurels and the Plousios singing her praises.

What then?

Then Emperor Molech will be free to throw them into more battles. More days to save. More insurmountable odds to fight against. More chances for the Alcedi to throw themselves into the meatgrinder for a father who never cared.

Never even thought of them as people.

"Gather the wounded!" she bellows. "We retreat to the Plousios!"

[Get Away: 6]

It's messy.

She's shouting to make herself heard. The Coherents and the Tides are still surging towards the engine. The Alcedi almost are refusing to believe it. And worst of all, they're cut off. They've advanced so far into the ship, the mice have cut them off from behind, and now….

And now the phalanxes are advancing, while Lorventi's form cuts through the ship like the fin of a shark.

Breathless Dead

You know, the first time that Mynx brought her one of Redana's Azura romance novels, Alexa told herself she was just looking for information? The Azura! The one empire Molech never conquered, but must have spent time with, because that had to be where he originally got the seal from! Surely, there might be valuable ideas in there.

A few hours later, Mynx had had the good grace to act shocked when Alexa asked for the next in the series.

Daring rooftop chases! Duels for each others' love! Swords, smirkingly placed against lifted chins! Harems! Dungeons! Djinn!

By book three, she'd quite forgotten about command seals.

Not that there'd been a lot of good information on them in those books, anyway. They'd served mostly as plot elements, changing and shifting to fit the needs of the plot. Our daring heroine has received a beautiful but impudent djinn as part of an inheritance--the command seal means the djinn can't harm her, but can she win the djinn's loyalty, and maybe her heart? Or maybe our heroine has been, herself, captured by a stunningly powerful djinn, and bound with a seal. Can she find a way to escape? Does she even want to? By the end, is the seal even needed for her to do what her lover asks?

Not something you can use to break centuries of programming, is the point.

Then again… the command seal isn't perfect, is it? Even the twisting fiction of Azura romance novels agree that it mainly forces surface-level obedience. The djinn in the story can't disobey a direct order, no. But they subvert it all the time--twist it, interpret it to their own ends.

How large is her prison?

If she could get around the command to obey, then everything else would fall. That's the linchpin, the rule holding every other command up. But it's also the trickiest, the least open to manipulation or misunderstanding. What's there to misinterpret about "obey my commands?"

At least the next two are more open. Oh, she'd despaired when he'd given those orders. Kill herself if he dies, and return to him if ever he's captured or lost? Together, those two ruled out so many of the options for how to get rid of him!

But… if she can turn the Alcedi, he doesn't have to die. And he won't be lost if he's enshrined in a place. Captured is trickier to figure out, but that's also a definition that's very subject to interpretation. She'll work on that, she has ideas.

Hmm. She's playing a dangerous game here. She's only going to get one shot per loophole she finds. Use it, and then Molech will close it. But… Maybe that's also a good thing. The more rules he issues to her, the more commands she has to follow, the less useful she becomes. She doesn't want to think in these terms, but… She's already broken, isn't she? She's going to have to break herself more to fit through the cracks that are left.

For now, though, there are lives to save. People--her family, her brothers and sisters--are hurting and dying. She clambers and scales the wall, trying to get above it, make sense of the chaos. For this to work, she needs the Alcedi on side. Needs to know their morale, how the battlefield is going. Needs to know whether she can pull out this win, or whether it's time to retreat.

[Look Closely: 8. Tell me about the Alcedi. What are they doing? What will they do next? Specifically, I'm looking for stuff about morale--are they holding? Do they look eager for the fight? Are they turning to run? What percent of them look like they actually want to be here? How many wounded? Etcetera.]

Breathless Dead

Seeming to smile.

Seeming to smile.

The words lodge in her mind like a thunderbolt, sizzling and electrifying everything around it, turning mental pathways blindingly bright.

How often had she seemed to obey? Sat with comrades who seemed to smile? All eying each other, each terrified in their own way that the other was a spy? That one wrong word would leak and filter and climb to the Emperor's ears? Always, on opening up, on showing trust, that explosion of relief? Of "oh thank the gods, we can talk?"

Oh gods, what must they think of her? A figure of myth, standing ever behind Molech, and quick to obey his orders? Always obedient, always fierce, always waiting for the command to kill? Who, on looking on her, would think of her as anything but seeming to smile?

Brothers and sisters, wheeling and fighting and dying above her.

How many of them actually want this? Who among them are simply following orders? Swept along, inexorably, by the will of Molech? Going along with things, as have the floods of Poseidon and the Hermetics, because the cost of resistance is too high?

She swallows hard, and tries to line up the words in the right order. How do you explain that for days, you've done your best to make sure you wouldn't be hurt if they died? Done your level best to avoid names, ignore markings, see them as nothing but tools so that if you're called on to murder them, it won't sting? That her primary concern was not to help them or know them, but to figure out how they might get in the way?

Slowly, she joins Zeus in staring out the window.

"I… I have brought shame on myself, Thunderer. I was so focused on myself, I blinded myself to how my family was hurting. If I can turn them from him--help them realize how he harms them--then that robs him of his power. And with no Father Molech telling them what to be, they can discover what they want themselves to be."

The lump in her throat is making it a bit hard to talk.

"But how can I lead them where I have not gone? How can I ask them to turn from Molech when he bids me slaughter all who oppose him? Even if they all turn from him, he will yet have one soldier."