TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

Blue fire burns a hole in the air. A hundred soldiers burst forth from nothing in a wave of perfect military discipline. A being of plastics and light, with thunder for blood and a mind of metal, steps out of history and joins them for tea.

All this, and the most amazing sight of all is: Movement. A speck shifts against a static backdrop.

The shuttle dock of the Slitted is on the other side. And there are no shuttles due to launch or land at this time.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Dolce inclines his head, perfectly polite. Dolce folds his hands, perfectly still. “But does that ever work?”

Into the ensuing silence, he forges ahead. “You have much more experience and perspective than I do, of course. It may merely be centuries of experience speaking to someone fresh to this sort of thing. But if I were on a clandestine mission of sabotage and murder, and someone asked me if I was an Assassin, surely somebody in all my time of training would have told me to lie about it, yes?”

All the soldiers in the room are watching him. The Royal Architect is watching him. 20022, he hopes he is watching. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the window.

“Biomancy is even less my field of expertise, but being what it is, I can’t imagine it would be that difficult to manufacture a creature with blood capable of camouflaging its hosts’ actual biology. Or perhaps a reserve of fake blood, to be extracted when need be? Those seem like reasonable countermeasures, and for such a high-investment asset on such an important mission, it would be an astonishing oversight if they could be foiled by a simple prick of the finger.”

If this is a hope. If this is a hope, and that hope is to last, then he must be even more amazing than a miracle.

“If you will pardon my curiosity, sir, is that truly loyalty? Simply saying you are who you say you are, and having the right sort of blood on hand?” He takes a dainty little sip of tea. “20022 has been gracious enough to tutor me in the ways of the Service, and it would be a most instructive honor to hear your thoughts on the matter.”

Breathless Dead

20022 may as well have delivered the news to an expertly-carved stone. No nerves draw his frown tighter across his face. No spark ignites behind his distant eyes at the praise of a superior. He stares into his tea, unmoving.

A change in setup could not cause his plans to unravel, because he had no plan in the first place. What he has are a stockpile of useful options, nothing more. The lack of plan is itself a considered defense. A hair less than intentional, a happy accident, a realization after he’d already begun to move, and considered what might happen next. The only setback he has suffered is that those options are a hair less reliable than they were when he started out. It was, in fact, a mistake to have told him that at all, because now he knows that - whatever may come - he should not place all his faith in a single tug.

“I’m not quite sure how to describe it.” He’d picked up his cup with the intention of taking a sip. It hovers in limbo as he considers the question. “Heavy? Terrifying? But at the same time, small. Horribly small.” His gaze slips to the planet below. “The Crystal Knight outmaneuvered us, once, and this is the result.”

The chink of cup meeting saucer fills the room, in spite of the chanting of overseers, in spite of the creak of cable, in spite of the work that must be going on and on. He needs both his hands to hold his head up. The danger of discovery, the maneuvers of his partner, service, diligence, anticipation, invisibility. All this happens in the background. He needs both his hands to keep from staring at Bitemark below. Vasilia hadn’t been there on the shuttle off-world, to keep him from looking out the viewport. He still sees it now.

Snap.

Spark.

Fall.

Snap.

Spark.

Again.

His breath hitches. But he does not make a sound. Not yet. Not here. Not because 20022 might hear. It’s worse, that 20022 is here. The room chills with the wind from a distant mountaintop, and all around the stars looks so familiar, yet different when viewed from a higher perch. Him being here means spending thoughts he cannot spare, when none of this is for him. None of this should be for him. Yet part of him wants 20022 to step over from the other side of the table and sit with him, and the other wants him to stay over there, because he will not come to this side to mourn.

He does not cry. Not drinking tea and eating cookies in a cozy, comfortable room. He hasn’t got the right to.

Snap.

Spark.

Again.

Breathless Dead

“Maiden of the Hunt.” He sees without looking. He addresses without moving. “Thrice have I locked the attache’ case before moving my documents. Twice have I reviewed every form my pen has touched. Not once have I wielded the ink before seeing in whole the form of the stroke. I would not disrespect your forest with anything less.”

“But it is curious.” Seconds pass. His voice neither lingers nor rushes. Breath fills him like the tide. Slips past a throat pressed to choking. “For the privilege of power, I must give over the overwhelming share to the Royal Architect, the Crystal Knight, and 20022. What is left to me is fourteen minutes spare. On a good day. What is left to me can do nothing, on its own, to change the rest.”

His hand drifts to the pen by the shortest line. His fingers meet its cold surface as one, and as one, they squeeze. One by one, he flips the blank papers in front of him, pulling out one page, and then the next. One he places before him. The other sits to the side, where ink will not run. Thrice he consults the maps of Beri. Twice he reviews his selection of fields. Not once does he wield the ink before seeing in whole his next stroke.

Well. It’s one thing for a chef in a cafe to say there’s nothing he can do about the way things are. It’s no use saying as such when a shot in Artemis’ forest falls in your lap.

The Corvii formations have sufficient forces. Surplus squads are sent to guard out-of-the-way positions against runaways and deserters. They will have the honor of faithfully guarding a mountain pass of wide open fields, many hours away by even the swiftest messenger. It is a reasonable position to place them. After all, it was roughly even odds whether refugees might go here or the pass a few miles south, where they would have to wind through dense forests to safety. A perfectly reasonable allocation of spare forces.

Supply depots are positioned along well-trodden roads. It is their own country, and they face no armed resistance. There is no need to be coy with their movements, and miss the convenience and speed of well-maintained highways. This particular location will suit the quartermaster he’s placing in charge of their supplies. He’s an ambitious one, and will make good use of the roads to move his position forward to keep pace with the lines. It’s a bold tactic, one that does carry some small vulnerability to overextension and ambush, but the front line troops will appreciate the shorter supply lines.

There are, technically, a few stations capable of dealing with the orbital minefield. His choice will get them cleared in time. If only just. They are notorious for how they loathe to put aside work until it is properly finished, and they are currently wrapping up a set of constellation charts for Triden. They will get to the minefield when that’s done. And if there is a need for them to drop everything, well! It’s a good thing this station is so close to the monastery. A message fired off in the morning with the maximum priority will reach them before lunch.

Such orders find their way into his stack at the end of each day. Any given task may have any number of forms associated with it. There is variance, an expectation of independent discretion in the Service. A quick glance through his papers will find roughly the correct volume of paperwork. A leafing-through of documents will find everything reasonably sorted, in all meanings of the word. A thorough check of his work may find some curious judgments. A full audit of all his doings might - might! - unearth a worrying collection of strings strewn loosely throughout the workings of the administration. And while the tangle may appear benign, a sharp tug on any thread could cause these perfect plans to crack.

20022 works overtime to ensure this operation proceeds as scheduled. There is no time for a full audit.

By diligence and care, by clear eyes and sharp instinct, Dolce reaches through a storm of jaws and plucks out *opportunity.* Potential. Options. For what, he does not know. Perhaps when his work is done, it will all go as 20022 said it would, and he will watch those who remain of eighty thousand collapse on newly-carved shores as their homes sink into the sea.

But then again, perhaps he could be waking up every day to cook a meal that would never be tasted.

It’s no good to pray for rain, and never once tend to the fields.

Breathless Dead

There is much work to be done. It will be some time before sleeves are allowed anywhere near the wrist again. His training is not postponed, per se, but altered. On-the-job training, where it can be found. An assistant, to take up what tasks he can, to keep 20022’s plate even a little more clear that he might take up even more vital work. No longer can they afford the luxury of two Synnefo in a room together. He is free to make his own way. He is free to act, to carry out his tasks, as best as he sees fit.

What does he see, then?

He sees days of tea and light refreshments brought before an ever-gracious Princess who always has time to chat with a soft, friendly face. Their talks wind through the halls and gardens of the Triden’s mountaintop monastary. Always somewhere beautiful. Always somewhere separate, from host and teacher. He sees every storeroom twice a day, and when he looks at a careful little list in his pocket, he sees the household down to the last scrap of paper and drop of ink. He sees hallways in active construction, active renovation, active re-beautification. Every road between him and his next destination, a place where no Azura would care to linger. He sees his primary job carries two responsibilities: Manage the busywork. Stay out of trouble.

He sees more of Bitemark than he ever has from a distance he could have only dreamed of. There are tallies of every soul in every village in the peninsula and surrounding countryside, numbering into the tens of thousands. He sees the official records of species, past service, current occupation, imagined purpose, fitness for work. Quotas appear for each village, and grand estimates are devised and stacked against the crumbs of details from the Sector Governor. He sees complex mathematics spill across pages, arguing convincingly that ten frail bodies might equal a healthy one, in the right conditions. So many hours of rest might cancel out infirmity and age. The quotas rise higher.

He sees the careful weaving of correspondence to the Architect’s representative, informing them of the particulars of Bitemark’s atmosphere at this time of the year, and all will be well just two days after the date in their last message. The end result is a masterwork; one would never have imagined it was written amidst a full-scale mobilization. He sees a handful of Corvii pulled from their swelling ranks to affix a mounted collection of tiny skulls to a place of prominence in the house. Another gift from the Crystal Knight in case the previous ones were lost. When they finish, they return to their drills. March street by street. Keep to the timing of the drum. Wash over the village and herd the unwilling before them.

He sees the same lines bubble up through his thoughts, burning and steaming and red-hot and unignorable. Today it is skulls. Later this evening it will be chains. Tomorrow it will be prayer. He has put each of them to bed a hundred times over. He will relitigate them a hundred times more. Sleep is a luxury harder and harder to come by. The full body of his work spans the entirety of that day several times over, to a level of detail that could count the breaths between words. The premiere work on the subject, and he its studied author.

He sees 20022 at least once a day. Their conversations are brief. There is too much to do in too little time. They share their progress. They take comfort in sharing a heavy load. Dolce receives his orders. They part amicably.

He sees what had been a steady refrain in his thinking become manifest; all this was, after all, just the view of one sheep.

Breathless Dead

“So. If I have this right…”

“The Skies employ a…digital intelligence, yes? A digital intelligence who will render tens of thousands homeless for the sake of a mineral deposit, and whose representative will not stop to check if those persons have gotten out of the way of their mining lasers before firing. And anyone taking issue with their work must progress through the entire government of the Skies, right up to the Saoshyant.”

“Meanwhile. The Crystal Knight has ordered all of those persons into forced labor, where if they do not complete the work in time, or you object to her decision and the matter gets tied up in official review, the Royal Architect’s representative will kill them all. For the minerals. She knows this, and is using it as leverage to get what she wants.”

“Is that correct? These are the…actions in accordance with the virtuous ends of the government's highest vision? There is no individual’s pleasures and will that need overriding?”

Breathless Dead

Who would be pleased

We do not exist for

I am not their

Hera answered

They lost

“I.” Dolce blinks. “Do not love the Crystal Knight. Just to be clear.”

He takes a long sip of his tea. A long. Slow. Sip of his tea.

He continues.

“But, I’m sorry, there’s still some context I may be missing. What exactly was supposed to happen with the Royal Architect and…all of Beri, and its surrounds? Why was the Crystal Knight able to force everyone into hard labor instead? And how was…” Adjectives. Words. Many to choose from. Few that feel right. Few that can be said. Little overlap. “How did the Crystal Knight…encounter, the Dredge?”

Breathless Dead

He didn’t realize the house was so cold. Not even layers of wool keep him warm like they ought to. 20022 presses close to his side, or, rather, he presses heavy into 20022 as he’s helped from the room. Even when they step into a smaller office, cozily appointed. Even when there’s a cup of hot tea pushed into his hands. Cold.

He didn’t realize the house was so far from home. The plush chair welcomes this woolen lump like an old friend, the leather invitingly soft and textured beneath him. The tea is delicious. Refreshing. Sweet. A delightful herbal blend. He hugs his cup with one hand. 20022 holds his other, gently stroking with a steady rhythm. Two days separate him from two windows. Two days separate him from the world of her arms.

“What. Was that?”

The words come out tight. Strained.

He didn’t realize he was shaking.

Breathless Dead

It takes him some time to answer. Because he has no foundation to stand upon. Because energy spent speaking is not energy spent on thinking of what to say. Because her clever tail will slip from his throat to his mouth and he cannot stop trying to speak or else the momentum may crush him before she does. So he sounds the words against and again into her scales until she grants him a voice again, one he hardly recognizes.

She no longer needs her eyes to tease the truth from him. The truth is all he has left.

“Mmphhh…don’t know what is best. I haven’t, haven’t found it, yet. I onlyyyy-”

“Mm?” Her hands knead lazy circles through his wool. Her fingers are strong, and insistent. “What was that?”

“I. Only see its absence. All my life. I started a, a, a cafe? I thought I could make it myself. Feel more c-c-complete…h-ha…”

She glides across his bound form, coils parting just enough to let her nails trace over him. Neck. Chin. The sound of the fine collar on his shirt tearing, thread by agonizing thread.

“It wasn’t - ghhh - enough. To have a little place of my own. And just. Watch. The world. From behind my windows. A little right here. Ev. Every other, where, not. Everywhere the same. And all of it coulddddd, be. Be swept…away….”

“You’ll have to speak up, Dolce.” She breathes into his ear. The perfect hush. The perfect hiss. Tingling shivers race down his spine. “E-nun-ci-ate.~”

“Thhhe, problem’s bigger than one house. And I, couldn’t ignore, that. I need a wider view. I have to see more. I have to join the Service. A-as an official. Not as a…as a-”

“As a what?” Her tongue flicks at his ear. His head rests on her chest. She tightens around each limb in turn, building slowly, inevitably, to the moment when she closes in around his middle. “As a what, Dolce?”

“A-as…as..a…mghhh…”

“I can’t understand you unless you speak clearly.~”

“Ggghhghhhhh…nghhh…”

“Mmm, poor thing. So exhausted from the trip here, is that it?” Her tail cups his cheeks fondly as she seals away his mouth. “You don’t have to do allllllllll this hard work yourself, you know.” Her voice flows from somewhere behind him, always moving, like her coils, like her hands. Winding him up until his vision blurs and he fights a hopeless fight to wiggle just a little bit until wave after wave of pressure squeezes the tension out of him anew. And she can wind him up all over again.

He is exhausted. How long has it been? Where are they? He has to keep talking. Don’t stop. The other shoe. It might. He has to say something. It could. She’s waiting. Shoe. Which was, any, could.

Where is the princess? Where is 20022?

“Shall I finish it for you? You tell me when I’ve got it right. ♥”

Where…where………?

Breathless Dead

The shoe might still drop.

He repeats the thought like a mantra. As fast as his gasping breath. As slow as the lazy shifting of her coils. The shoe might still drop. The shoe might. Mi. Miiiiiii. Ght. Htt. Shoe, might. The shoe might. Still drop. The shoe might still drop. That much is true. The shoe might still drop.

What other bit of solid ground has he to cling to? This is no hello. There is intent. There are glowing eyes piercing him through and if he could shut his own then he’d surely see them in the dark. His leg twitches. The motion is swallowed whole, absorbed into her thick, powerful muscles and nothing remains. He is held still. He is held tight. Her tongue flicks his nose. Her hands run across his cheeks. Her words wrap tight around his ears, such a pleasant, soft voice. She lingers, she hums, she purrs. The shoe might still drop. His senses are simultaneously overwhelmed and smothered. He can hardly think. He cannot observe. But even as his heart thrills she tightens in a steady, squeezing rhythm that he is forced to follow, and the shoe might still drop, and in the room there is a child’s skull missing a tiny chip of bone. There is Too Much. There is Nothing.

Crushing pressures on all sides, and he hangs, weightless.

“Dol…” He can still breathe. He is out of breath. “Dol. It’s, ha, it’s…ddd…Dol…ce…”

“Mmmmmmmmmmm. Dolce.” She purrs, and he feels it from every side. “Such a delicious name~. “

“Is this -ngh- really an appropriate working relationship?” He grits his teeth, groaning with the effort to remain coherent. “I had thoughtttt.” Panting. Hazy. “I had thought, as, representative, I might…be treated as a man…and an official.” His cheeks twitch, and from the depths of her grasp, this innocent, inexperienced morsel novice gives the Lord Governor an earnest little smile. “Wouldn’t that be best?”

[Rolling to Speak Softly: 6 + 4 + 3 = 13 Dolce forges a Bond with the Crystal Knight, and asks a question: Can she, an Azura, see Dolce - a sheep, a Synnefo, a Servitor - as a person like her?]

Breathless Dead

If he braces too much, then when the shoe loudly drops, all the tension will leap out through whatever path of least resistance it finds. He will jump, or yelp, or some other such disastrous display. If he does not brace enough, then shock will seize the wheel before he can stop himself. There is a sweet spot. A rhythm of breath, a flow of anxious energy, a bow held at a draw he could find in his sleep. There is him. There is her. The knowledge is in him. He can find the draw.

Except.

Thick coils flex around his legs. Up and down. Up and down. He isn’t wiggling. He isn’t fighting her, why would he fight her? (This could just be how they say hello, after all) No flicker of realization disturbs her deep, brilliant eyes as she thoroughly envelopes his lower half. How does she know the secrets of his muscles, his body? It may simply be that her coils are opposed to stiffness and tension on principle, and they are powerful enough to make their will reality. Up and down. Up and down. Coils thicker than both his legs put together gradually squeeze tight, then loosen. The pressure ripples from one to the next, working with surgical precision, irresistibly pushing.

He grasps for the draw. He is not permitted the luxury. He knows he should be ready. The tension slowly leaks from him, and his thoughts find no fuel for their signal fires. There is him. There is her. There is a question. There is an answer.

“Of course, Lord Governor.” He bows his head, but cannot break her gaze. “I am just a chef from Beri, right now. But 20022 has shown me the world is much wider than my cafe and town. I rather would like to see more, but there is only so much he can teach me. “

The words flow out from the swirling clouds of his heart, a steady stream of honesty. ”If I am to know where I stand and what I can do, I need to see much more of you, Lord Governor. I hope you will not mind my presence overmuch.”