TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

His awe is silent, by necessity.

When you see a peculiar ship, you still know what a ship is. Somewhere, a pilot has to sit, or stand, or be strapped in. Something makes it go in one of many directions. Maybe there are things for battle? Or not, that says a lot too. Esoterics, now, those are strange by nature. But they are still held, or wielded, or manipulated by expert hands. While the workings may be strange, you can tilt your head just so, and think of a craftsman with a particularly complicated tool.

What is he looking at? What are these lights for? Why is it painted in so many colors? Is that paint, or a natural color? What holds it in place, if it is held in place at all? Does it move? Can it move? None of these questions come to mind, because all of them might be wrong, and he can't begin to know what the right ones are. He is filled with wonder and silence. He beholds something alien, for the first time in his humble life.

And yet.

In strange lasers passing through him. In rituals lasting hours. In the careful hop from ship to ship to ship. These are the presence of the Architect. These are the instruments of its will. Its hands and feet. And in these motions, he sees fear. Fear just as the robot limping alongside them felt. They are the same. They are different bodies. Some of their mind is the same. He watches the robot curiously out of the corner of his eye as it is helped along by a changing guard of soldiers.

A chef from Beri is here to see the Royal Architect. As impossible and improper and unthinkable as such a thing might be.

Breathless Dead

There’s always more rubble. Six times over with the handkerchief, and he’s still picking out bits of rubble from deep within the curly depths of his wool. He will need to do a seventh. He ought to use a clean handkerchief. This one is quite filthy. He feels the stray bits between the folds of smooth cloth, pressing into his clenching fingers.

“You know-” Does he? Ought he? Why bother with preamble? He works his jaw stiffly. “I. Had thought,” what, exactly? What, exactly? Only he’s opened his mouth too early. Observe. 20022 is waiting. Think. And all he’s got is bitter on his tongue and hot flushing through his face. Observe. And anything he says will be wrong. Think. He is better than this. Observe. He’s already failed him once today.

Think.

With an effort, Dolce shuts his mouth, and swallows his heart back down. “I…have already given my answer.” His voice is quiet. His voice is tight. “Nothing’s changed that would make the prospect more appealing. I’m sorry.” His bow is slight. His bow is perfect.

It will not make a difference. It didn’t at the Manor. He has no fellows here either, as it turns out.

Still, he bows.

Breathless Dead

The plush, imperial finery resents their presence. Who are they, that they should pass through these ruined corridors with heads unbowed? Is it not enough that the Skies should suffer this indignity, but that they should walk free while this holy palace lies in ruin? One pillar in one hall is greater than all twenty three of them put together. The least they could do is go down with the ship.

And yet, they press on. And yet, they might survive, together.

They might survive the shifts in gravity. The soldiers are trained to feel them, but Synnefo wool, light and airy, is always the first thing to move. Dolce must keep his eyes on his patient. He must direct the soldiers where to grab. 20022 must pause his instructions to make way for Dolce’s sudden shouts. The Architect must be secure. Then, he must direct the head of the column forward. This is as fast as they can go. They press on.

They might survive the explosions. Every hallway has bulkheads worked into the coiling architecture in case of catastrophic munition failure. Dolce must watch the rear. 20022 must watch the front. Whoever takes the call first, 20022 must take charge. He must direct the Skies’ finest to hurl their bodies on the mechanisms and haul them into place. Dolce must cradle the Architect’s delicate head with his whole body. He must pad it with his wool. He must nod to each of his soldiers in turn, surrendering them to the task as needed. They press on.

They might survive the simple collapse. Forget not the peril of falling rocks. 20022 must order shields up. They must be silent until it is quiet enough, but cannot wait too long. If they are trapped, they call out to the other. If one is free, they must dig a path to the other. If neither is free, they must find each other. If they cannot find each other, then they must dig free without delay, and then they must find each other. They press on.

They might survive the goodbyes. The Architect must be securely strapped into the shuttle, for his own safety. Dolce must see to this. He must not question how many soldiers 20022 sees fit to leave him with. 20022 must prepare the offerings for Zeus. Before they leave, they must reconvene, ensure all is well, and that nothing more is required of them. They must be swift in their departure. There is no time for anything more.

But instead, Dolce looks to his friend.

“You said, when we met, that you had to take a more authoritarian tack than you were comfortable with.”

And he must finally ask the question on his heart.

“Was that because you felt sorry for the people of Bitemark? Or because it was inefficient and unsightly?”

[Rolling to Speak Softly. 6 + 3 + 3 = 12. Spending a Bond, 20022 has to answer the question.]

Breathless Dead

Two soldiers catch the body of the Architect before he hits the window falling below them. A third scoops up Dolce, but only for a moment. With a solid foothold he scrambles upright, hooves finding purchase on the slightest nubs of metal.

“Is now really the best time to test that theory?” From this peak, his shout carries above the chaos, up, up to the departing 20022. “When a guest of the Crystal Knight lays dying at her hand? A guest who was your charge?”

The world beneath them vanishes. Prize and miracle and battle alike are swallowed in an explosion of roiling indigo. The room bathes in its splendor. The walls shudder at its arrival. Dolce stands silhouetted, the first herald of thunderheads, shadowed and eclipsed save for eyes reflecting lightning.

Then again, the signs of Zeus had already been blooming above Bitemark. Coincidence, careful timing, whatever the case may be, 20022 has no time for misguided pedantry. And he may well have said so, were he not interrupted by the tiniest chink of metal. A small sound. The first of many. The soldier to his left has broken her stance, ever so slightly, to shift a half-step away from him. He is too skilled not to realize the shaky grounds he now occupies.

The price to leave this room and see to the battle at hand is not a cold shoulder to a misguided apprentice. He must convince seventeen soldiers of the Skies - who know only that Zeus will punish those who break hospitality - to join him on the battlefield alongside the Crystal Knight. Both of whom may stand under a curse within the hour.

Dolce presses onward. Twenty-one ears bend to him. ”I can take him out of here, but I don’t know if I can save him. If you start as soon you reach the shuttle, you may be able to make your case to the Thunderer. Tell him you did not give the order, tell him the Crystal Knight could not have foreseen this possibility, give whatever you can to plead for mercy. But please, you must hurry!” And he must apply his full attention to the task. No soldier would risk Zeus’ wrath to let him waste even a second on hastily-scribbled orders. ”I will get him out of danger. And I’ll do what I can for the battle below. By the time the Architect comes in force, the way will be clear. I promise you.”

With gravity tumbling to pieces, in a ship falling sideways, in the arms of an unlucky and scared soldier, 20022 thinks. Considers, carefully, how blameless he would be should the Crystal Knight fail, and the worthy credit he would claim should she succeed. “Perhaps.” Calm. Diplomatic. Unhurried. “But don’t you have your own propitiation to make? Was it not your charge as much as mine? Why do you think you would be spared Zeus’ wrath?”

Dolce bows his head. When he rises, there is no lightning left in those eyes. When he speaks, shame breaks a voice that fear and adrenaline could not.

”Because you are a member of the Service, aid to the Sector Governor, and I have been your humble guest.”

[Rolling to Talk Sense, with Wisdom: 6 + 3 + 3 = 12]

Breathless Dead

The Royal Architect twitches, and his plastic body whines like a wounded dog.

Soldiers lower their weapons from menacing an empty chair. Dolce gets his arms under the robot’s head, his sleeves rolled to the shoulder, and lifts with all his might. Dead weight would have been easier. The Architect writhes and squirms, unconsciously fighting to escape the grasp of his rescuer. Dolce gives another heave, but it is as useless as the first. “Come on!” He looks to 20022, pleading. “Three less soldiers won’t make a difference, but they could get him to the heart of the station in time. We can’t-”

The Architect spasms in a violent burst of motion and light. He shakes and sparks in Dolce’s arms. A hand catches him square on the chin. He does not cry out. He does not loosen his grip. And when the storm passes, his hand gently pats the smooth, artificial frame. Through the stars swimming in his vision, through the ache in his jaw, he meets the eyes of his friend.

“Please. We can’t just leave him to die like this.”

Breathless Dead

“I have learned, firsthand, the necessity of preventing the galaxy from splintering into pockets of incomplete machinery and self-sustaining suffering. I’ve also learned that, if you want to hold the galaxy together, you have to have an alternative in place. You have to save the galaxy to something, for something.”

“Sir, what are you making?”

“How is it going to overcome the curse of war and destruction?”

“And. For all your centuries of work, who are you building it for?”

It is a small speech, thrown together in the heat of the moment, but forged earnestly. To all the wishes of this day, he adds one more: That it be sharp enough to draw name or dream from the Royal Architect, and not vague, impersonal theory.

What manner of heart beats in his chest?

[Keep Them Busy: 1 + 4 + 0 = 5]

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.