《Manifold [An Interstellar Sci-Fi Progression Story with LitRPG Elements]》


 Chapter 1: Prologue - The Library at the Edge

    The sky was thundering heavily when he arrived. LSV-016 touched down on the landing pad with a dull thump, its skin daubed gray by the overcast day, the insignia emblazoned across its hull reflecting the oncoming light in bright swells of red and gold.


    Betelgeuse was already standing to attention within the vehicle when the clasps hissed sharp release. They were two lines, the Edomites. Standard operational procedures dictated his position at fourth from the front.


    The hull juddered open slowly on pneumatic hinges. During that interim he snuck a rightmost glance at the woman from Edom-Prime but was unable to detect any hint of emotion, for her face was set into a rigid mask. He could only hope he displayed the same equanimity. A pit of anxiety was growing within his gut and it was becoming more difficult to conceal it.


    "It''s time."


    He heard the whispered words caressing the nape of his neck. She was behind him, Chrysilla, the only other one to have come from Edom-Zeta. This was the tenth year of their acquaintanceship, he reckoned. In a village as small as E-Zeta, it was difficult not to fraternize with the other children.


    He didn''t have to turn around to know that her golden brows were furrowed and twitching. Wiggling toes, wiggling fingers. Her hands would be itching to fiddle with her hair. Her blonde locks flowed too long and perhaps a stray strand would breeze across her nostrils, forcing her to scrunch her button nose to hold in a sneeze.


    The hull doors slammed dully onto tarmac. Somewhere underneath his feet, metal plates shifted. Wan light streamed in to reveal particles shifting lazily across air.


    "Out, all of you, on the double!" barked the foreman.


    Moving two at once, the Light Strike Vehicle''s cargo disembarked. Air, cool but bloated with moisture and ozone, washed over Betelgeuse'' face; the firmament was grey and dark above him and the pregnant clouds looked full enough to overspill.


    He could see all the way to the horizon, where a sliver of orange met billowing hillocks of cloud.


    ''A once-in-a-lifetime sight,'' he thought, as the formation half-marched over a bridge of glass and the scraping sounds of boots over tarmac were substituted for dull whumping.


    He turned his attention downwards. The glass was clear and he could see below his feet; from his vantage point he espied, far below the bridge of tempered glass, the flat tops of skyscrapers and pyramidal structures adorned in millenia-old neon-bright styles; it was a strange feeling, to have these perennial overlords of the sky beneath one''s feet.


    To his chagrin a feeling of vertigo assailed him through his intestines, but he snapped his head upward and held his expression straight, willing himself to keep marching, one foot in front of the other.


    He had seen the city''s veins thriving with activity. So far and so close. How long would he take to reach it, if he jumped?


    Betelgeuse willed himself free of these thoughts. He glanced surreptitiously to his right, taking care to keep his feet moving in step; she was staring straight ahead, the E-Prime woman, with nary an emotion gracing those aquiline features.


    ''These guys are just sticklers, aren''t they?'' he couldn''t help thinking.


    "Hey, who''s she?" more whispering from behind. "Why do you keep looking at her?"


    Chrys, again. Betelgeuse rolled his eyes and ignored her.


    They were coming to grand double-doors, three-men tall, which opened slowly and mechanically in response to their increasing proximity. Above the widening fissure, through which filtered rays of warm and mellow light, towered the golden spires of this, their destination, like fountains of molten rock. The highest spire was a skyscraper to Betelgeuse, the skyscraper of skyscrapers, and it glimmered with a curious attraction.


    Beteulgeuse took the opportunity to admire the sharp double-tip of the spire-minaret. It shimmered even under the threat of the deluge and pierced the graying firmament with impunity.


    The Library at the Edge symbolized many things. It was symbol of humankind''s interstellar power, symbol of the Founding Families'' hegemony over the Democracy and symbol of the Hierarch''s commitment to extending humanity''s ultimate dominion over all land, for all time. It was all these and more.


    One thousand years ago, the then-Hierarch of the Democracy had promulgated a set of laws known as the Requisition Orders pursuant to which all children of the Democracy took their pilgrimage here at least once in their lifetime. They would do this in their eighteenth year to participate in the rite of passage known as the Analysis.


    It was only through the Analysis that the children of the Democracy obtained esoteric reality-altering artifacts known as Destiny Incunabula; by so doing they started their journey into legal adulthood and became empowered to contribute back to society.


    As humanity expanded beyond Earth, different libraries were built on other planets to service resident populations¡ªbut this, the Library at the Edge, had remained the grandest of all.


    For the better part of the last millennia, Destiny Incunabula have been the subject of inexhaustible academic discussion, from the ''essential increment'' that formed the backbone of each Incunabulum, to the rules governing their ''reality-altering'' characteristic.


    As was commonly known, each Incunabulum holds an ''essential increment'' which first manifests, at the time of the Analysis, as a participant is chosen by an Incunabulum. In short, the Increment was the first line of script to appear on the first page of an Incunabulum.


    This Increment held the special characteristic of being immutable, and in substance was no more than a description of a power or characteristic and its psychological origin. Such Increment would be approximately written in the script and arranged according to the language or dialect most familiar to the incunabulum holder.


    For example, holders of Primary Incunabulum might have as their ''essential increment'' the power to control fire. The Increment would look something like this: "Owing to an affinity for the warmth and glow of the village hearth, [so-and-so] controls steady fire."


    On the other hand, holders of White Incunabulum might have the power to fly, with the Increment looking something like this: "As [so-and-so] feels free-est in the company of birds, [she/he/they] obtains the power of avian flight."


    As for ''reality-altering'', the gist was that Incunabula possessed the ability to cause changes, to varying degrees of suddenness, in the physical (i.e. bodily makeup) and mental state of the holder, or in extreme cases even the basic fabric of reality within a certain range centered at the ''brain meridian'', an organ located just posterior to the thalamus. Not all of these ''reality-altering'' changes were pretty to watch.


    Stolen novel; please report.


    Suffice to say the literature on these artifacts was immense, as Betelgeuse knew well. All children of the Democracy has had, at one point or other, the displeasure of flipping through a volume of Cox''s Important Bibliographies. From the vast corpus of work and centuries of practical experience had emerged seven (non-exhaustive) divisions of Incunabula (from weakest to strongest): Ash, Hollow, White, Primary, Bronze, Silver and Golden Incunabula.


    Every child in the dominion had pretensions to the Golden grade, and Betelgeuse was no exception. He knew, of course, that this was no more than a puerile fantasy.


    Needless to say, holders of Golden Incunabula were a rare breed, each planet in the Democracy producing perhaps one a decade. Owing to the galactic importance of such Incunabula, Increments of the Golden grade were subject to the most extreme levels of secrecy. Only a single public record of a Golden Incunabulum''s Increment existed, that of the founding Hierarch Tozen:


    <blockquote>From the deepest point of his consciousness Tozen desires to invert the space between stars, so he may will it.</blockquote>


    Then again, complete and verified records of Increments were rare even in respect of Silver and Bronze Incunabula.


    Betelgeuse''s mind reached through his knowledge and retread the familiar ground quickly. It helped him to deal with the anxiety.


    The grand doors had closed behind them, after the final Edomite crossed the threshold. The inside of the Library at the Edge was a gargantuan hall hung with cerise-colored pennants and ostentatious silks of gold. At the far end was a raised platform like a chancel upon which stood sentinel an altar clothed in white.


    The hall was brimming with so many other young faces from myriad faraway lands and villages, all congregated, arranged in neat lines, across gray-spotted marble tessellated black and white. Betelgeuse estimated there must have been hundreds of them. Under a ceiling which felt higher than the sky, he was buffeted by the soft susurrations of adolescent whispers, thick with expectation and anxiety, their anxiety melding with his.


    He chose a face and stared at it¡ªa fresh-faced girl on the cusp of womanhood, her hair silken locks of red flame, her eyes twinkling beautifully, whispering secret things to her friends and acquaintances. Her beautiful features quietened his heart.


    Then another¡ªcallow features made mannish by the scar down the side of his carven chin, tan-black, dusky, indulging in extroverted conversation.


    These weren''t very like the Edomites, he felt, glancing again at E-Prime to his right. Nope, still quiet and severe as a cliff-face. And yet, was it wrong if he felt a connection with them, the ''non-Edomites'', because they were freer and less restrained? Maybe they had had different disciplines, growing up.


    Ah, tension in the air.


    The anxiety returned quickly, and Chrys'' shuffling behind him only serve to heighten it. His only recourse was to review, once, twice, three times, what he already knew of what was to come. He would acquire a Bronze Incunabula, nothing to it, and Chrys would obtain a Primary.


    Everybody knew one''s worthiness was genetic¡ªboth his parents being holders of Bronze Incunabula, the chances of him failing to acquire an Incunabulum of the same grade was inconceivable.


    And yet, what if he failed? What if even the Primary Incunabula avoided him? What if¡­ what if he were to fall afoul of the White or even Hollow grades? His parents, he could see their kind faces now¡ªwhat would they say, what would they feel, if not disappointment? The elders had never failed to teach the children the harsh truth of the universe, repeated ad nauseam, that the sins of parents will be revealed in them: Betelgeuse''s failure would reveal the sins of his blood memory.


    Enough.


    Nothing could change what has already been set. It was a question merely of genetics, and whatever men said about sins and divine retribution could bring him no peace. Superfluous things had to be discarded.


    Such anxiety did not become him¡ªwith the force of his will he banished all evil thoughts to the farthest reaches of his consciousness.


    If anybody had anything to worry about, it would be Chrysilla. Whilst her mother was a Primary, she had never known her father. Her mother who did bear her out of wedlock never could discover the provenance of her lover.


    Sure enough, Betelgeuse turned back to find her picking at her cuticles and mumbling some childhood mantra. She had always resorted to her cuticles when anxious. He put his hand on hers, whispering, "calm down."


    "Stop it. Hate it when you say that," she returned; but he could see her eyes twinkle and lighten.


    "It''s bad for your fingers."


    "Mmmokay dear," she drawled. She did not swat Betelgeuse'' hands away as she usually did.


    ''Her palms are soft and warm and nice,'' he thought.


    "Yerp, fuk'' wit'' tat'' la''er," he said the usual saying.


    "Yerp derp, la''er," she replied the usual reply.


    He removed his hand and she allowed hers to fall to her sides. She had the merest hint of a smile. She wore her tight-fitting leather-nylon cadet-suit quite well, he noted.


    Deciding that they had already embarrassed themselves enough in front of the other Edomites, he turned his attention back to the front.


    Just in time to witness the entrance of a man stalking heavy bootsteps from a small arched entrance behind the altar. Like the altar, the man was clothed in flowing white vestments. Around his waist was bound a parti-colored belt.


    It was so colorful, the belt, and Betelgeuse wondered about the effort it must have taken to create it.


    The man genuflected and mouthed silent prayers. It was Betelgeuse'' first time coming into contact with formal Democratic rituals, and he stared raptly; reading about it and seeing it in person were two very different things. But then he realized the curiosity was affecting the serenity of his heart, so he willed it away into another far corner.


    The murmurs quietened. The hall fell silent. The man''s bootsteps echoed up to the faraway ceiling and back, as he placed a tall holder at the center of the altar, then a silver helmet into the holder, then a gleaming golden scepter flat beside the holder. The scepter was studded with rocks¡ªno, gems¡ªspilling reds, purples and blues into the air.


    His task done, the man stepped to the side and clasped his hands together behind his back.


    Moments later, another man, this one older and sporting a white mane very like how the stories describe the saints, entered through the arched entrance. His garb was thick with purple, and veins of color striped in spiral fashion from collar to waist.


    This must be the Docent in charge of the Analysis.


    "Another batch is coming soon, so I apologize if we have to rush this," he began, his voice filtering through hidden speakers and filling the large space with a booming baritone.


    "But a quick word before we commence¡ªI cannot truly express how glad I am to see you all gathered here today; you, the new generation. From the ice-marshes of New Hope to the lava pits of Agni to the reclaimed crags off Arunachal Pradesh, we are, all of us, participants in the great story of the Democracy.


    "The young have always been cursed to carry the torch from the old; under these circumstances you must remember¡ªwhen times are tough, remember¡ªthat you will one day steer the Democracy to new heights and frontiers.


    "No matter how far-flung your home may be, Democracy has seeded civilization and goodness, has guided and sharpened you as it had guided and sharpened your forebears against the elements and the enemies of humankind.


    "In time to come, you will face challenges. But you are not alone¡ªremember that you stand on the shoulders of giants.


    "Let us begin. Come up when your name is called and Sexton Quine here," the Docent pointed toward the adjacent man, "will outfit you. Then, the Incunabula will choose."

 Chapter 2: Prologue - Heart of Man

    <blockquote>


    "The weakest and lowest grade of Incunabula are termed Ash Incunabula. These typically manifest as mud-brown or ashen-colored tomes with corroded and faded covers. The typical Increment associated with the Ash Incunabula have historically been mere descriptions of personalities. Volume 3 deals with the various myths associated with Ash Incunabula, and also discusses some of the historical roles holders of Ash Incunabula have played.


    The next grade are the Hollow Incunabula. These are sometimes but not often considered equal to White Incunabula, on account of the various drawbacks of the latter as more fully explicated in Volume 4. The Hollow Incunabula often appear translucent and fashioned of plastic and typically blessed its holders with improved dexterity. Any skill requiring speed and finesse benefits from the blessing of a Hollow Incunabulum.


    White Incunabula tend to appear bone-white and are associated with causing rapid mutations in holders. Such changes range widely in extent, with the most extreme metamorphoses being the stuff of horror. Indeed, some of the greatest literary tragedies to have emerged in the last century have centered around one or other White Incunabulum transformations. According to studies, the greatest and most gruesome changes stem from body obsessions¡ªshould one suffer such mutations, the least invasive way to reverse such changes would be to undergo intense psychological conditioning in an attempt to influence subsequent ''writings''/''rewritings'' in a remedial direction. Please refer to Volume 5 for more information.


    Next were the Primary Incunabula, the covers of which could be cerulean or crimson. Primary Incunabula related to chemical manipulations and corresponding physical changes within a holder''s body. Research into Primary Incunabula is particularly fertile, and therefore this most recent edition dedicates three full volumes (Volumes 6-8) to explicating the general contours of the Primary power. The roles of Primary Incunabula holders admit of truly infinite variation, and a lifetime''s dedication to scientific study is required to fully unlock its productive capacity.


    The first of the ''Metal Incunabula'', Bronze Incunabula (or sometimes, ''Copper Incunabula''), their covers gleaming copper-like, tend to bless its holders with ''mental'' changes. It had, in fact, been proven at one point or other that such ''mental'' changes followed on physical changes to the brain; as such, some academics still argue that Bronze Incunabula should merely be considered a better grade of Hollow Incunabula. Please refer to Volume 9 for more information on the classification. Refer to the last chapter of Volume 9 for a brief primer on the academic discourse surrounding the distinction between Bronze and Hollow Incunabula.


    The next Metal Incunabula is the Silver Incunabula (or, in certain other circles, ''Steel Incunabula''), powerful Incunabula the color of blue-tinted steel. The Silver Incunabula''s status as "second-best" is controversial because many considered Bronze Incunabula equal to, and in certain rare cases superior to, Silver Incunabula. The Silver grade conferred powers relating to ''coordination'', ''intelligence'' and/or ''management''; but really the debate is confused, given that those relevant Increments still in public circulation have been noted to be rather vague. Volume 10 discusses in general outline the key aspects of these powers.


    At the top reign the Golden Incunabula, with covers of gold, like their designation. Those chosen by the Golden Incunabula are considered inordinately blessed, for only they can manipulate time and space. The network that tied together the star systems within the Democracy''s dominion at the dawn of the Interstellar Age, for instance, was built and maintained by holders of the Golden Incunabula. To a certain extent, fundamental facets of the many-sided die called reality can be transmogrified¡ªwilled into or out of existence¡ªby these divine powers. Volume 11 deals with the history of these artifacts, while Volume 12 discusses the budding perspective that the powers conferred by the Golden Incunabula are based on established scientific principles. Please note that this edition, regretfully, removes all material pertaining to the heated and ongoing debate between the scientistic proponents of Psychosomaticism and the spiritually-minded intellectuals from the School of Theli, as result of anti-sedition regulations promulgated with Requisition Order No. 23."


    - A summary of the divisions of Incunabula excerpted from the first volume of Cox''s Important Bibliographies


    </blockquote>


    The first name was called. Echoes of shuffling feet upon marble, as the slightest crack appeared in the sea of humanity. Betelgeuse saw her as she ascended the platform, a girl who took womanhood seriously and filled it in with glowing black hair, squirrelly features and the lightest touch of freckles. Her mouth was set into a resolute line, like those who had gone before her.


    Solemnity was in Sexton Quine''s fingers when he placed the ceremonial helm upon her head. Then he took the scepter, raised it high, and surrendered it to her grasp. Upon the coronation the inlaid gems flashed and dazzled¡ªreds, purples and blues¡ªthen died.


    Curious sounds echoed throughout the space. Somewhere secret, ancient mechanisms cranked sullen vibrations. And there it was¡ªfrom on high, from an exit Betelgeuse could not see, an object descended. It was bright and gleaming¡­


    Bronze Incunabulum!


    Betelgeuse recognized it at once, having admired over countless hours his mother''s copper-skinned grimoire.


    His eyes widened. The hope he had kindled, the anticipation he had cultivated¡ªeverything centered on obtaining the Bronze Incunabulum.


    He recoiled. These feelings had grown big and strong over the course of years. He scoured his heart, groping across the contours of anticipation and hope, then suppressed them with as much will as he could muster. Superfluous feelings could be dangerous because they filled the heart with disturbance and made it difficult, thereafter, to bring one''s internal alchemy back to an even keel. The heart had its ebb and flow, but under the circumstances serenity had to be preserved.


    The tome fell half-open, pages flapping wildly, into her outstretched arms. She looked and gaped and mouthed and wept. Sexton Quine, who had retrieved the scepter, deftly removed the head-piece from the enraptured soul.


    Her face flitted across a million emotions. Betelgeuse saw this and empathized, because he could imagine how it must have felt, and because he too wished for the same satisfaction. It was the fulfillment of her deepest desires. It was the fulfillment of years of yearning and years of being weaned on the old myths.


    Crucially, acquiring a Bronze Incunabulum had conferred upon her the title of ''worthy''. Whilst only those blessed by a Silver Incunabulum could truly consider their trajectory boundless, Bronze grades were all but guaranteed a good future, for they formed the material and productive backbone of the Democracy. Its holders went on to become technicians, engineers, lawyers, craftsmen, doctors and more. Such holders were accordingly conferred status and financial stability.


    So it was that this newly minted Bronze-grade could now avail herself of the opportunity to pursue further development in any of Earth''s Polytekniks. From there, one could usually find well-remunerated positions in government or any of the Big Six¡ªi.e., Lebensraum, Romulus Systems, PiLiPaLa, Ayam Corp, Caturdhara Industries and taotie.com, the supermassive corporations run by certain of the Founding Families, namely the Mentzers, Baathors, Chens, Abelards, Choudurys and Lee-Pohs respectively.


    And from there¡­ who could say if she would not rise to hold a position of real power? From whence did power come, except through constant and unceasing application? Hard work paid off sometimes.


    The redhead closed the copper-colored tome reverently, then exited from the platform. As for the Increment that had been revealed to her, that was her secret to keep and share as she liked. The immutable first line in an Incunabulum, the so-called Increment, formed the basis of a holder''s power, and as such was kept under careful guard. In general, a holder only revealed his Increment to his family or spouse.


    Information regarding the Increment of members of large families could after all fetch a hefty price on the black market.


    Indeed, an interesting event had occurred the year before which Betelgeuse could not now help recollecting, his wandering mind seemingly bent on grasping at any distraction¡ªthe ''Lee Incident'', which had resulted in a piecemeal snippet of research pertaining to the Increment of the Lee Family''s scion Sarah Fu finding its way onto Pecorino, the Intraweb''s infamous black market. He remembered the price at which it had been sold. 800,000,000 credits. That was eight hundred million credits, an inconceivable amount of money. By way of comparison, his father earned a monthly salary of 5,000 credits working as the sole family lawyer of Edom-Zeta.


    At the time he had been trying his hand at arbitraging ''information asymmetries'' on Pecorino, making one or two or at best multiple tens of credits buying and selling snippets of Increment research (and by so doing, technically flouting the government''s prohibition on the transferal of such research). The snippets of research Betelgeuse had had the opportunity to browse ran up to 50 credits at the most.


    50 versus 800,000,000. It was a difference that boggled his mind.


    Betelgeuse attempted heroically to empty his head of distractions. Everything hinged on maintaining his heart''s serenity unto the crucial moment. It was well known that the outcome of the Analysis could be affected by the slightest wisp of incoherence.


    The next name was owned by a well-built and masculine figure. That the youth had trained his muscular body with specific intent was clear for all to see. Clean-shaven, sharp-jawed and barrel-chested, he approached the altar and closed his eyes. The helm went on; he grasped the scepter, biceps, brachialis and triceps straining against nothing in particular.


    A single tome the color of bleached bone descended. Betelgeuse narrowed his eyes. Sexton Quine hurriedly retrieved the head-piece and scepter.


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    The man opened his lids as the White Incunabula fell into his grasp. A curious sheen of mucoid energy arced from its billowing pages and fell upon his forehead, the power coalescing into a sort of glutinous and translucent membrane which sheathed his skin. Almost at once, he jerked his head upward, his dark pupils melting away into pure white.


    The audience stared raptly, their visages locked into expressions of horrified fascination. Cracking sounds started to emit from his body. Then he started screaming, sublimating pain into one long, ear-splitting screech that dragged out long seconds beneath its tines. The cracking sounds got louder; his tall frame lengthened, his arms warped then straightened, his fingers clawed spiderlike and inverted painfully. Every lilt in the scream was followed by further sounds of cracking bone, every sound of cracking bone presaging the engorgement, tearing and enlargement of flesh. No more a mere human, he was the loom upon which the beneficence of the White Incunabulum worked. Warp and weft, weft and warp.


    Then he stood, a giant of a creature, every feature¡ªpectorals, deltoids, obliques¡ªcarved to perfection. He was the perfection of the male musculature multiplied twice over.


    Betelgeuse permitted himself a breath. He had heard the stories regarding the worst White Incunabula transformations, which had naturally engendered some trepidation. It appeared, however, that the man had disciplined his mind to such an extent as to prevent the exaggerations caused by dysmorphia.


    The giant raised himself to his full height, rolling his wrist clockwise and then anticlockwise, his cadet-suit clearly stretching to its limit but somehow maintaining its integrity. His austere visage was devoid of emotion, but Betelgeuse looked closer and found within the man''s eyes a hint of grave disappointment.


    After all, this was a White Incunabula, placing him squarely on the lower rung of society. The man maintained an admirable equanimity as he stepped down from the platform. Now standing two heads taller than the average participant, he stood out even as he plunged immiscibly into the sea of humanity.


    The next few participants came and went. Hollow, Hollow, another White, this time with no discernible physical change. Then a crimson Primary¡ªanother "worthy" had been minted, thought Betelgeuse. Primary holders were just as important as the Bronzes to the well-oiled functioning of the Democracy; their future, while not so much as guaranteed, was considered bright.


    The Docent continued down the manifest, reaching, finally, the Edomites. First to be summoned was the woman at the back of Betelgeuse'' line, six places down from him. An "Edith".


    Under the glare of the sourceless saffron light her hair cast a shadow over her face. Her expression betrayed a sense of heavy uncertainty.


    Betelgeuse muttered a brief prayer under this breath. No matter which village they hailed from, they were all Edomites in the end.


    As she reached the platform, she stumbled, then caught herself. He furrowed his brows, imagining the wince on Chrys'' face. No one blinked.


    Red, purple, blue. This time, the hum was muted.


    High up and located near to the ceiling was a row of stained glass windows sporting striking shades of yellows, oranges and blues. Translucent whites glowed softly where the colors did not touch. A curious shade spidered over the glass, making it difficult to discern the image which had been so carefully curated.


    The light outside was dimming, he realized; then, a soft rattle tickled his eardrums, the kind of rattle coalesced from the drubbing a torrential downpour makes from the perspective of one ensconced within a large and padded room.


    The cover of the Incunabulum was gray, mottled and ashen. Her eyes enlarged wide as dinner plates. He heard, behind him, Chrys'' sharp intake of breath.


    The Ash Incunabulum, and with it, pariah status. Consignment to the lowest rung of society. The Ash grades were a hidden people. They were ignored because it was embarrassing to talk about them. And yet they were so common, engaged in ''dirty'' work like soldiering, sanitation, and certain aspects of raw materials extraction. Many Ash grade women eventually found themselves in the ''entertainment'' industry once they got on in years. Common, but not commonly seen.


    Sexton Quine was efficient as ever in retrieving the paraphernalia. The Ash Incunabulum fell into Edith''s grasp and she scurried away quickly. No one wanted to dwell on it, least of all her.


    Silence from the masses. These things were ignored.


    Betelgeuse followed her messy and tangled black hair as it bobbed down to ground level before disappearing. He began another prayer, muttering, then stopped himself halfway, willing all of it away, forcing all of it out of his mind.


    And yet, he could not really help stealing a glance backward. He wanted to see the emotions on her face. He wondered what was going through her mind. He hoped she was doing okay.


    Instead, Chrysilla''s rather vague and spiritless expression filled his vision. He would have to lean further out to see Edith, but he didn''t want to risk it.


    ''Stop it,'' he scolded himself. It was becoming harder to convince himself of the serenity of his heart.


    Another Edomite, then another. Hollow Incunabula. In both cases, disappointment reflected from downcast eyes.


    Next was E-Prime¡ªthe woman who had been quietly standing beside him. The Docent called out a name that seemed familiar.


    "A Tabitha!" Betelgeuse leaned back, whispering. Chrysilla had been looking dazed, perhaps a little frightened by the outcome of their fellow Edomites'' Analyses; her spirit flared back to life at the stimulation and she flashed him a wan smile.


    "Ah, Tabitha¡­" she sighed, remembering their warm yet soulful friend. Their Tabitha, blessed with a gregarious personality and three years older than them, was the holder of a Hollow Incunabulum.


    Although their Tabitha had never revealed her Increment to him, it was obvious to Betelgeuse that it related to music, she having been a rather accomplished fiddler.


    "Yes, I wonder how she''s doing," he whispered to himself. Tender memories, tender imaginations, secret even from Chrys, were resurfacing. His will-to-serenity was flagging.


    But he was not going down without a fight. If serenity did not work, then he would force a peace. Redoubling his efforts, he purged his internal space of all distraction. Let it all go. Nothing mattered so much as the Analysis.


    The mysterious hum recommenced somewhere beneath his feet, tickling his soles through the boot. The familiar sparkle and shine of the scepter stabbed him through the eyes.


    And then a shimmering object, resplendent, harboring a mythical quality much like how the stories had described the mithril of old.


    An audible gasp echoed through the hall.


    The fabled Silver Incunabulum!


    Boundless development, limitless potential!


    Tabitha''s features betrayed momentary shock, before melting away into its rigid template. The corners of the Sexton''s mouth curled upward, hinting at a smile. The Docent congratulated her, but otherwise retained his austere demeanor.


    She scanned the open page quickly and left the platform.


    Chrysilla Nightingale had already begun making her way up to the chancel, even as Tabitha disappeared between the rows of participants.


    The time was nigh.


    Betelgeuse prayed for her, as he had prayed for Edith and the other Edomites.


    It was so difficult, he realized, to keep his heart empty. He offered an apology to his father from the deep corners of his heart, for the chaos of his emotions. It was his father who had cautioned him to slow the beating of his heart, to only permit entry to the great serenity. He was guilty; acknowledging it only increased his feeling of guilt, and he proceeded to apologize to his mother, then Tabitha (the Tabitha back home, for having thought of her like that), then Elder Bennett¡ª


    The rain had let up, he suddenly registered. Ratchets and gears clanked noisy peals. Tendrils of eldritch power choked the air. Through the tinted glass on high streamed rays of golden sunlight.


    Betelgeuse could finally discern the image on the tinted glass: yonder was Hierarch Tozen¡ªyellow, orange and golden like the solar rays¡ªstabbing a horse-faced stare down upon his children, his expression severe; around him were small figures, in blues, purples and reds, his officers, the Magis, the Archimandrites, the Cardinals; to his left was Bishop Abelard plowing the ground into raised furrows, to his right was Bishop Mentzer, seeding the ground with grain.


    The object that revealed itself was a bright yellow-gold. It left a trail of glitterdust in its wake.


    Under the illuminating rays of the sun the shifting air swirled golden particles around in Brownian Motion. Random. Chaotic.


    Chrys caught the book with her left hand, her right still grasping the scepter. Pages flipped violently. She looked to the Sexton, confusion apparent upon her face.


    As if suddenly jolted out of his paralysis, Sexton Quine scrambled forward, retrieving the helm and scepter.


    "Incredible¡­" the Docent whispered.


    Whisper though it may have been, the speakers had transmitted it through the hall, circulating it beneath the buttressed ceiling. The word echoed between Doric columns and penetrated the skulls of the audience.


    "Incredible," breathed Betelgeuse.


    "Ms. Nightingale. This is a rare occurrence."


    Momentary awkwardness gave way to professionalism. The old faces before the altar conferred with looks and nods pregnant with implication.


    Then, the Docent turned back to Chrys, mouthing over a deactivated microphone.


    Chrys moved slowly forward, toward the place that the Sexton and Docent had come from, her gait uneven and unsure.


    Hold on, where is she going?


    He calmed himself. Of course they would take her aside. She was meant for great things¡ªno, she was already great! She was the holder of a Golden Incunabulum; wouldn''t it be stranger if they did not speak with her separately?


    She had reached the threshold. Why had the Docent not moved on to the next name? She turned her head. The Docent stood close behind, his face kindly and avuncular.


    Turning back, she scanned the audience. Everybody''s eyes were so wide.


    She was searching, searching¡­


    Their eyes locked.


    He knew that she was afraid. She knew that he was anxious.


    Will I see you again? She seemed to ask, sapphire eyes brimming with ambivalence.


    No doubt. Betelgeuse nodded.


    And she was gone.

 Chapter 3: Prologue - Ash Incunabula

    "¡­ a rare sight indeed, and one that will have widespread impact ¡­" the Docent commented, addressing the congregation of bewildered adolescents.


    "But in any case, your good fortune to witness something so compelling. A once-in-a-lifetime experience, to be sure!


    "It behooves me, however, to remind you that no matter the outcome today, all of you regardless of distinction have the latent ability to contribute something to the Democracy. Every life is precious, every ability is treasured.


    "But my words are grown stale; it is enough for you to see it and decide for yourselves what your contribution will be. We must continue.


    "Betelgeuse Sakar."


    He began moving before the Docent finished pronouncing his name. After Chrysilla''s showing, and the shock, elation and envy it had engendered, he had no more room in his heart for anxiety.


    Bronze¡­ no, Silver¡­


    For the final time, enough.


    The cut and thrust of the day had left him feeling drained, poking holes in his defenses through which all sorts of wild thoughts percolated. As his father had taught him, human beings had limited bandwidth. This was why it was so important to maintain a serene heart; it was a strategy to conserve bandwidth, so that one''s mental energy might be better spent on the people and things that were most important.


    If he underwent the Analysis now¡­


    There was no choice and no prospect for delay. With a final burst of mental energy, he mustered all of his fortitude and emptied his mind of all things.


    Who cared if it was Golden or Silver or Bronze, who cared if it was anything?


    Even Ash¡­


    His train of thought screeched to a halt. His body threatened to freeze mid-step.


    No stopping now.


    Even if he was an Ash grade, even then, he could handle it. Come what may.


    Serenity did not come to him naturally. It never had. But his affinity for it had been decided long before his birth. He was both Edomite and his father''s son. What else could a son want more than live up to the prideful picture his parents had painted of him?


    Rethink that. That seemed flawed. What will pride count for, at the end of all things?


    The pain of the heart was its curse to be free and unbound by God''s strictures. If unbound by God, from whence could Man hope to bridle it? Now without mooring it seeks past an infinity of images for one true thing, and yet will not be convinced by anything it calls true. Over the millennia had things come and gone enough times to learn that the imperative for existence was its disappearance.


    By the time the helm kissed his forehead, he had pushed away all immediate attachments.


    By the time the scepter graced his palm, he had girded his mind with a will to banish all thought and destroy all distraction¡ª


    The sun had faded. The air choked on its own radiance. He knew what was coming because he felt it in his heart, and long before he saw it, he was free.


    He hadn''t realized that his hands were free.


    The Incunabulum fell into his palms. It was lighter than expected, its spine fitting snugly between thumb and forefinger. It pulsated with a curious power and billowed vehemently under the stagnant gaze of the ancient Hierarch.


    There it was, the first page, and his Increment, which read:


    Will-to-Power.


    His first reaction was one of curiosity.


    And then, the dawning realization that what he held in his hand was an Ash Incunabulum, mud-brown in color and scaly to the touch.


    He widened his eyes.


    <hr>


    When he was twelve, Tabitha had told him that he was a very introverted boy. That must have been when he started becoming louder and more obnoxious. The pointless fulminations would ''prove his extroversion'' to all; but really it was more important to prove it to her.


    Which was why he did that stupid thing, what with trying to find the Red Ginseng.


    He''d first read about it at the Edom-Zeta library fourteen hours thereabouts after the start of a torrential rain. Two hours of holding the bear stance under cloud and mizzle and Elder Bennett''s lazy eye and he had had enough. He had gone to the Horn then come from the Horn with poached rice and sourmilk sitting in his stomach. He was full and somnolent and flipping through Sinic books because he had not outgrown the belief that he had Sinic in his blood.


    That was before he could read the language; but somewhere on that shelf, third from the left and fourth from the top, was a Sinic-to-Common dictionary. And there were the other books it helped him read; one book in particular he remembered: on page four-hundred-and-fifty-one, he found the entry for Red Ginseng. It was a symbol of virility, longevity, prosperity and love. It was an old tuber, and it grew on mountains.


    In Sinic, red equaled love and prosperity and many things besides. The things that had been lost in translation were buried in the same state of fitful creativity from which was birthed the Quest; the Red Ginseng, for Tabitha, and Tabitha herself would be just reward to compensate him for his labors.


    And when he left the library the rain had just stopped.


    He remembered that the road was arduous and long. He had cut his foot and gored his calf on a stump. He kept going, past the Park Territory and into the wild forest at the foot of the mountain they called Edom. Then it was up the crags, down the ravines, up the ridgelines and all around the circuitous undulations in the trail. Blood clotted, flesh stinging.


    Insects with painted eyebrows appeared in the night. He slept in stutters, under the cover of stars and blinking satellites. In his dreams they would be talking pompously, he and Tabitha; now came the cold with bitter afterthoughts breaking his sleep into furry, peristaltic things traversing the dyke his body made athwart the dirt. There was an earthy embrace he''d mistaken for hers, but in his consciousness he thought the yearning a strange tang.


    It was two days before he dared to imagine he had come very far. The road had plateaued, the wet had gone; the sun beat its cruel drum to the tune of the cicadas.


    He saw the great granite jut browning under the sun. Behind stretched the gay lushness of the wild forest and the symmetrical tessellations of the Park Territory. Beyond that was Edom-Zeta, stuck in the middle by the meaty protuberance of a stone pavilion.


    He could, from this vantage, see the main road running through Edom-Zeta and stretching all the way into the dark and sintered heart of the mines. At that hour, the roads were clogged and atherosclerotic, as brimming trucks rumbled coal onto the interstate.


    And that was his house, beside the electricity pylon. The eaves were curved like shucks and reflected the sunlight at an odd angle.


    There was the stem and leaves which looked very like the Sinic-captioned image, sticking out from a patch of soil at the end of the outcropping and wilting under the power of the sun.


    When he had reached the edge, he started climbing. Palm, foot, palm, foot.


    He was near to the top. The wind was running though his hair. He had laughed and made the mistake of looking down. Vertigo pierced his asshole and ran up through his colon. Needles pricked his soles. His grip tightened onto the ebon granite.


    He stayed there for a long time, daring neither to ascend nor descend. He was trapped. The coal trucks left their shadows behind them as the noontide approached.


    It must have been hours until the clouds turned dark. When the splotches of gray turned black he felt it a certainty that it was going to rain¡ªand then the rock was going to become slippery, and he would fall to his death.


    The promise of rain went unanswered.


    A sound like an earthquake split the heavens, and he remembered the underbelly of a vast armored Leviathan revealing itself. It was a machine wider than Edom-Zeta, broader than the Park Territory, larger perhaps than the coal mines which sustained all of the surrounding villages. The rocky outcropping juddered, as if Edom itself were shaking in fear.


    The Leviathan''s shadow yawned through the land. It passed over his head; and suddenly, in the middle of the afternoon, it was night. The dark clarified to his vision the orange under-bellied smog spiraling helix-like from yonder. The forge-fires the children called Earthy-Twinkle, now bright now dim, like fireflies breathing at twilight.


    All things come and go. The darkness passed away into a cloudless cerulean firmament.


    His Quest felt very small indeed, in the face of such a thing. With a heart plunged into silence he climbed up to the peak and dug the Red Ginseng from its patch of soil, silken strands and all.


    It was funny, the feeling. Nothing of triumph or elation. Nothing at all.


    And then he began the long trek home, prize in hand, sullenness in his chest; unto the gloaming, unto the night, unto the swollen buzzing of chitinous insects, unto the purple dewy dawn, he walked without stopping, brooding about nothing.


    He had come to the boundary line between wild forest and manicured purlieu when he saw her.


    Chrysilla''s face was dirty and swollen. She was hobbling pitifully along because she had twisted her foot. She hollered at him. She cursed. Something about parents and irresponsibility.


    Why did you come here and how did you know, he had asked.


    Everybody knows. The rangers are combing every inch of this place, right from the entrance. But maybe I''m the only one who knows you''re crazy enough to go into the forest, she had huffed.


    Here, take this, he said, stuffing into her hand the thing he had worked so hard to find.


    It means love or something like that.


    And she blushed the brightest shade of pink.


    But inside, he felt confused, as if he had fallen into a bottomless well of pitch that doused everything in streaks of gray.


    The Red Ginseng and Tabitha¡ªat that point, could he say without dissimulation that either of them really mattered?


    <hr>


    He couldn''t remember much of the rest of the Analysis. Everything after the Ash Incunabulum was mashed together into one indistinct lump.


    There were feelings and then there were feelings.


    The hall was emptying itself when Betelgeuse'' spirit returned to him. Edith, with the messy hair, was poking him in the shoulder.


    "What?" he snapped.


    She yelped and stepped back, clutching to her chest an ashen-colored tome.


    "The others are leaving. They told us to go outside," she managed.


    He turned around. Indeed, the last of the participants were sauntering through the grand double-doors. The Docent and the Sexton were nowhere to be seen.


    "They told us to gather outside, I mean, us Ash grades. The rest are going home."


    Us Ash grades.


    "What about us?" he asked listlessly, raising his Incunabulum to his face absentmindedly. He inspected its surface closely, running his eyes over the scaly texture. Bumps and micro-hillocks ran its length and breadth. Its color was a muted muddy brown.


    This was an Ash Incunabulum.


    Betelgeuse thought that he would have felt worse about it.


    "The Docent said we aren''t permitted to go home yet."


    Well.


    It was likely that Chrys was also going to stay for the foreseeable future, what with being the holder of a Golden Incunabulum.


    Hard not to wonder if she would be disappointed to know I''m an Ash grade. Not that it can be helped.


    "Okay, then lead the way!" Betelgeuse returned, bursting into a wide grin and simultaneously wondering why his reaction was such.


    "Okay¡­ I mean, it''s just outside¡­"


    "Lead the way anyhoo."


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    They exited into a lukewarm afternoon, the air a moist membrane which caressed Betelgeuse'' cheeks. A lazy drift of white cloud covered the sky as far as the eye could see.


    Betelgeuse could see streaks of water running slowly down the sides of the tempered glass bridge, draining straight onto the concrete platform before the Library. Darkened patches pooled outward from the interface between tempered glass and concrete, as the liquid absorbed into the porous surface.


    The first of the LSVs were leaving, Betelgeuse noted. This one had a lion emblazoned across its side. That one, an ourobouros curled around a saber. And another, an open book inscribed with the words: ''AUTEM SUPER OMNIA''.


    There, the symbol of Edom, the red triangle tipped with the golden finial. The Hereford symbol, Elder Bennett had called it. The Edomite symbol for eternal endurance.


    "It''s leaving," Edith said, and Betelgeuse detected sadness in her tone.


    "So it is," he replied, for no other reason than to say something.


    One by one, they lifted into the sky, their hums crescendoing; then they exploded with speed, piercing through the Troposphere into the Stratosphere, then through the Mesosphere and Thermosphere and into the Exosphere¡ªand then, nothingness.


    Betelgeuse turned his gaze to the despondent crowd, observing them yearn after their kinsmen. He estimated that there were about a hundred of them, all told.


    ''The Ash Incunabula are legion,'' he thought, chuckling to himself.


    Minutes passed.


    A severe man, tall and bunched with muscle, stalked into the midst of the Ash grades. He was dressed in black, his garb military, and a plated vest was strapped across his chest; he appeared suddenly, like a ghost, materializing out of an entrance that had surreptitiously appeared athwart a pillar.


    "Up, all of you!" he barked, the force of his aggression showering spittle in every direction. His tone was harsh and brooked no defiance.


    The Ash grades jostled to their feet, roused from their emotional stupor by the sudden surge of energy.


    "I," he intoned, "am Instructor Zephyr. Remember that name well¡ªcarve it into your chest, if you have to. It is my pleasure to serve as your superior for the short time we will know each other. Now, cadets! Attention! Three lines, at the double!"


    Three lines formed quickly under the draconian gaze of the Instructor. Betelgeuse himself waited until the lines were mostly formed before sauntering forward to join in with the others. Edith followed closely behind, stuck to his back like a piece of gum.


    "There!" the Instructor barked, pointing to the entrance of the pillar not more than a hundred paces away from the front-most man. "Incs in your left! March! In time!"


    One step. Two step.


    Plucked as they were from so many different locales, Betelgeuse thought it no surprise that their arm swings and footsteps tangled confusedly together. Edith smashed into his back, pushing Betelgeuse up and into the heel of the masculine figure before him, causing the latter to stumble and drop his Incunabulum. Somewhere down the line, someone fell, and the formation came apart at the seams.


    "Humiliating! Up, Ash-fucks! Get back there and go it again!" Instructor Zephyr roared.


    Everything became confused as the cadets stumbled over themselves to try and get back to their original position. Betelgeuse now found himself somewhere in the middle of the formation, with Edith right behind him.


    ''She really is sticking to me,'' he thought.


    "Move! Move! Hurry up! Quickly!"


    It took perhaps three more tries before they managed to reach the pillar as one, the first and second try mixing together so thoroughly with Instructor Zephyr''s concentrated apoplexy that no one could say for sure when the first ended and the second began. By now everyone, including Betelgeuse, was breathing heavily. Their cadet-suits were beginning to soak with sweat.


    The entrance carved into the side of the pillar opened into a large metal elevator. Instructor Zephyr shouted the Ash grades in, all one hundred-odd of them, and they squeezed against each other until all of them were packed in like sardines.


    Betelgeuse was scrunched up against Edith, who appeared to be sobbing softly. All around them were bodies, sweaty and pressed against them. It was difficult to breath.


    He took Edith''s Incunabulum and put it up against his own.


    "More comfortable," Betelgeuse whispered to her. She didn''t seem composed enough to reply.


    The edge of someone''s Incunabulum was digging uncomfortably into his back. Someone to his left pushed into him and the edge dug in deeper. More people were stuffed into the lift and it looked to Betelgeuse as if the Instructor was pushing them in with the sole of his boot.


    By this point, Betelgeuse and Edith were all but crushed into each other.


    Several aggressive kicks and pained yelps later, the pushing stopped.


    "We will meet downstairs! Remember¡ªthree lines! Anyone caught clowning around will be punished!" Instructor Zephyr barked.


    Then the lift-door closed. Silence, finally, and then the humming of a great machine.


    "I was wondering when he would shut up," a male voice offered. Chuckles all around.


    "He speaks only in capitals," agreed a squeaky female voice. A chorus of hear-hears.


    "Ye gods is it dank in here," the youth behind Betelgeuse grouched boyishly. Betelgeuse fought the urge to tell him to shift his goddamn Inc.


    "No gods, only Democracy!" returned someone at the far end of the lift.


    "Ooga-booga! Stop clowning around, Ash-fucks!" someone else aped.


    The banter died down, leaving the Ash grades alone with the odor of unwashed bodies.


    Betelgeuse felt his stomach turn, as if the lift was changing directions. The gravity was all off, he decided.


    "We''re not going straight down," he said out loud. Edith clutched at him.


    "Maybe¡­ maybe it''s dinner?" came a peculiarly mannish female voice.


    ''Unlikely,'' everyone thought.


    Then, silence again, as the heat and humidity climbed to fever pitch.


    It felt like hours before the steel cage ground to a halt. Or maybe minutes. It was impossible to tell¡ªthey had been stripped of their timepieces by the personnel stationed in the LSVs.


    The steel floor vibrated through Betelgeuse'' leg, causing it to shudder uncontrollably.


    Finally, the doors rumbled open. Cool air rushed into the space. All around him, people were raising their faces and gulping air in greedy gasps.


    "Ah¡­ thank God!"


    "No God, only Democracy!"


    Betelgeuse rolled his eyes.


    Slowly, steadily, the pressure lessened as the Ash grades stumbled outward, until he felt like he was in control of his own body once more. Steadying himself, Betelgeuse straightened his body and glanced downward at Edith. She looked ready to faint.


    "Quickly, let''s get out of here," he whispered, taking her wrist and almost dragging her out. Why did he even care? It was difficult to imagine that she was going to survive whatever else Instructor Zephyr had in mind for them.


    Maybe it was because she was a fellow Edomite.


    Betelgeuse stepped outward into a blanket of sourceless white light and let go of Edith''s wrist, letting her stumble onto the frigid, white floor. The climate-controlled air was cold and refreshing, washing some of the stink from his nostrils.


    "Hurry up! Get out!" someone yelled from deep inside the lift. Cadets were everywhere hyperventilating, stretching or whispering amongst themselves.


    Betelgeuse held himself upright, unwilling to succumb to his exhaustion. He took pains to purge his expression of all weakness. He glanced around, taking stock of their new environment.


    It was a large space, this, perhaps half the size of the hall of the Library. The place was spartan, cold and empty (save for the cadets). In the middle of the space was a rectangle outlined with broad, red tape. Some portals lay closed at the far end.


    Betelgeuse looked closer and realized that the ground within the rectangular outline was heavily scarred, as though having been gouged by some sort of sharp instrument.


    An entrance seemed to materialize at the far end of the space. Knowing what was about to come to pass, Betelgeuse turned and walked back to Edith, taking her wrist and raising her up to stand in front of him.


    "He''s here," Betelgeuse whispered, "look sharp."


    "Is this indiscipline I see, Ash-fucks? Mother of God, I''ve seen smarter earthworms than you lot! Three lines, I said, three lines! Where are my lines?!"


    Instructor Zephyr made his entrance in much the way Betelgeuse expected, his voice booming through the space like peals of thunder.


    "You!" Instructor Zephyr roared, suddenly beside Betelgeuse.


    He started. Edith let out a muffled scream.


    What? How did he get here so fast? He was more than a hundred paces awa¨C


    "All lined up, while your fellow Ash-fuck-friends are struggling? Are you a suck-up? Do you suck dick?"


    "I was merely following instructions," Betelgeuse managed, his nerves settling into calmness even before he could think to enforce his serenity.


    "You are, are you? Well color my shit-laced ass-crack brown, we have a real soldier here! Answer my question, soldier, do you suck dick?"


    "No," he replied simply.


    "Exquisite! Now put your tongue on the floor until the rest of these dumb-fucks get in line!"


    "I¡ª"


    "I said DOWN BOY!"


    "Sir, I¡ª"


    The next moment Betelgeuse'' world exploded into oranges and reds, as he doubled over coughing. He gripped his Incunabulum tightly. It was like he had been kicked in the gut. He glanced up, saliva threading from his lip¡ªInstructor Zephyr returned a cold stare.


    Like compound eyes.


    Betelgeuse realized that he hadn''t seen Zephyr move, not even a hair''s-breadth worth of movement. The Instructor carried with him an aura of supreme violence, making the outcome of further insubordination clear.


    Hate it though he may, now was not the time for pride. He was weak, and the weak deserved only to obey.


    He placed his Incunabulum beside him and lay himself down prone, opening his mouth wide and touching as much of the surface of his tongue to the ground as he could.


    Obedience for now. Zephyr obviously has some kind of physical-enhancement-type Incunabulum, maybe a White. It is also possible he is a Hollow. I must observe him closely.


    Instructor Zephyr had already found some other poor sod to pick on.


    "Why are you breathing so hard, cunt? Did you seriously get tired from a single fucking lift ride? Well fuck me stupid, you are one fat fuck!"


    From the periphery of his vision, Betelgeuse could just make out a masculine form lying supine four or five paces away.


    "Sorry¡­" the cadet was wheezing painfully, "¡­ just-need-a-moment¡ª"


    "Well here I was thinking you''d gone and decided all by yourself not to join my beautiful lines! What is your name, son?"


    "I¡­ it''s Gombrovich¡­" he barely managed, his words interspersed by tortured gasps.


    "Well let me tell you something interesting, son¡ªdid you know that pigs eat shit? Since you''re so fucking fat you could pass for a goddamn swine I''m guessing you eat shit too! Goddammit Shit-Eater. Get your ass in line, Shit-Eater!"


    More laborious wheezing, as Gombrovich forced out a "¡­ yes!"


    "That''s ''yes, sir'' to you, Shit-Eater! Am I clear!"


    "Yes sir!" Gombrovich rasped, struggling to his feet and stumbling out of the edge of Betelgeuse'' vision.


    The others hurried to their positions, intimidated by Instructor Zephyr''s unlimited capacity for abuse, perhaps also enthused by the example he had made of Betelgeuse.


    The ground was cold and bore the slightest hint of saltiness.


    Shuffling sounds. Betelgeuse could hear a tell-tale sniffle come from somewhere above him.


    Seconds later, all movement ceased.


    "Back on your feet, dog!" the Instructor barked.


    Thinking that there was no one else he could be referring to, Betelgeuse retrieved his Incunabulum with his left hand and raised himself upright, his movements deliberate and mechanical. He was weighing the likelihood that the Instructor was a Hollow against the possibility that he was a White.


    Zephyr was beside him again.


    ''Again with that blasted suddenness,'' he thought. This time however, the slightest rush of air caressed the top of his skin.


    He moves fast. That hit earlier was more movement and less physical strength. I''d guess he was a dexterity-type.


    Eyes unblinking and insectoid, Zephyr inspected him closely, running over his pores, groping for chinks in his armor, searching for any traces of insubordination. Betelgeuse thought that he could feel the Instructor''s turbid breath down the nape of his neck. A wispy strand of anxiety wormed its way into the interstice between his thoughts; pincering it with his mind, Betelgeuse purged it with extreme prejudice.


    "You have some balls on you, Dog Balls!"


    The pressure lifted. The Instructor turned his attention elsewhere. Betelgeuse permitted himself a swallow, saltiness and all.


    "Incs in both hands!"


    Betelgeuse raised his tome. It was difficult not to feel a little attached to it, for no other reason than that it was his.


    "Insert into front pouch!"


    All cadet-suits came equipped with a front-facing multi-purpose square pouch secured with velcro and typically used to hold a cadet''s Incunabulum. The cadets exploded into activity, fumbling and shuffling, stuffing their Incunabulum into the pouch sideways, rightway-up or upside-down.


    The fitful movement died down as fast as it had arisen.


    "Listen up! Because of the glut of clowns within your batch, we are running on badly."


    The Instructor walked down the row, eyeing the cadets closely.


    "Look there¡ª" the Instructor pointed to the rectangular area "¡ªthat is my arena. You are to read and absorb your Increment thoroughly, following which you will catwalk to my arena and show me what you''ve got."


    "And seeing as you little shits have no idea what you''re in for, let me do you one good and apprise you of the circumstances.


    "Take care that you place the first rule of loyalty within its proper context. Everything civilized and good in Man¨C"


    ''¨Chas come from a soil seeded by the Democracy,'' Betelgeuse finished silently, the morning mantra fresh as the day he first recited it a decade ago.


    "¨Cand the time has come, in this hour of your adulthood, to contribute what little you can to Man''s eternal expedition. It is right that you, having been given life by your forebears, should also lay down your life for all who will come after you. The Democracy gives, the Democracy taketh away. Your life was a privilege; this is your duty.


    "There is no injustice in having been chosen by the Ash Incunabula. It is now you, and you are now it. As Ash, you must protect this your greatest weapon against Man''s enemies. If it is damaged, then you will be crippled. If it is destroyed, so will you be destroyed with it.


    "The Democracy has found it imperative to familiarize you to the exigencies of combat, to increase your ability to function and survive on the battlefield. The objective of the arena is twofold: firstly, to teach battlesense, and secondly, to facilitate further Etchings."


    Reaching back into his memory, Betelgeuse consolidated all he knew about Etchings: colloquially termed ''writings'', it was common knowledge that Etchings could manifest in either one of two ways. Firstly, by process of spontaneous enlightenment, and secondly, in situations of heavy stress. Etchings were ancillary to the immutable Increment, and usually extended the power of an Incunabula holder (in rare instances, Etchings could manifest downgrades). The quality of an Etching depended on the immediate circumstances causing its manifestation: the stress experienced by a holder, her subconscious inclinations and/or the resolutions and intentions within her heart.


    "As cadets, you will have no sleep. You will fight and you will eat and then you will fight again. It is your good luck that, owing to certain circumstances, our little retreat has been shortened from three months to three days.


    "At the end of these three days your batch, designation 247-B, will be transported approximately 400 light years to star system P-Delta-Sigma-70 and stationed on carbon exoplanet 541-B, designation Desert, for the foreseeable future.


    It suddenly dawned on Betelgeuse that he wasn''t going home anytime soon.


    "There will be no questions. Your training starts now!"

 Chapter 4: Boot Camp Blues I

    There were a hundred and fourteen of them. Each of them, Instructor Zephyr commanded brusquely, would square up with a colleague of the same sex. Then they would beat each other into submission with their bare hands.


    Later sessions would see the introduction of blunt weapons, and Betelgeuse supposed this was targeted at ensuring the maintenance of an optimum level of pressure as the cadets became more exhausted.


    The authority to end a match resided only in the person of the Instructor. Bar his speaking the magic word to "HALT!", a match would go on, no matter if either or both fighters were maimed or killed.


    Rewards were clear-cut. Winners would receive more food at mealtimes and would enjoy further privileges aboard their ship to Desert. Losers would either receive less or go hungry, depending on the Instructor''s mood.


    ''Dog Balls'' Betelgeuse stood at the edge of the rectangular demarcation, his arms folded across his front pouch, his attention fully absorbed into the match.


    ''Shit-Eater'' Gombrovich faced ''Sino-Simian'' Guo Xun. Instructor Zephyr, fresh from his latest round of browbeating (and appellation-giving pursuant to that peculiar nomenclature), stood several paces adjacent to the combatants.


    Gombrovich may have been thick, but it was unlikely that a neutral observer would consider him weak. The man was built like a bear, noted Betelgeuse. He adopted the standard neutral wrestling stance of the Agni-chordate school, spine and knees bent, shoulders down, head up, eyes peeled.


    His opponent in contrast was compact and lean. Impressive cliffs of muscle rippled down Guo Xun''s bare forearms and bunched serrations protruded conspicuously from the man''s deltoids. Guo Xun remained upright, adopting a vaguely Sinic stance which Betelgeuse did not recognize.


    The command was given and the two circled each other once, then twice.


    Instructor Zephyr remained still, his entire attention absorbed by the movements of the combatants, his eyeballs gliding to-and-fro within their sockets.


    The first exchange of blows occurred without telegraph. Guo Xun initiated the attack, whipping his right fist out at Gombrovich''s head, only to be sidestepped. Gombrovich grabbed at the forearm of the offending fist, barely managing to grip ahold of the retreating wrist.


    Guo Xun brought his left fist to bear, smashing it into the side of Gombrovich''s chest and earning for his efforts a muffled groan. Gombrovich released his grip, and the two parted.


    ''He hit it too hard. It looked like Guo Xun winged the front pouch and hit Gombrovich''s Incunabulum instead. I bet his fist is smarting,'' thought Betelgeuse.


    He heard something like a retch come from his side. Edith again. Turning to regard her, he saw that she had turned away to the far side, as if attempting to shield her eyes.


    "Don''t be too obvious about it. The instruction was to observe," Betelgeuse whispered.


    It took Edith several seconds to regain her bearings.


    Seconds turned to minutes. The second and third exchanges of blows came and went in much the same fashion, with Guo Xun initiating and Gombrovich attempting and failing a counterattack.


    The fourth exchange came snapping on the heels of the third; noticing Gombrovich''s sagging guard, Guo Xun whipped out his left fist, aiming for his opponent''s jaw; with admirable reflexes Gombrovich snapped his head downwards and brought his forehead smashing into the oncoming fist. A sickening crack carried through the space, but Guo Xun barely showed any pain, his left shin already arcing a vicious roundhouse through the air and scoring a savage blow on Gombrovich''s left thigh. A second consecutive blow saw Guo Xun smashing his damaged left fist into the side of his opponent''s elbow joint. Another loud crack resounded and Gombrovich howled in pain, retreating backward. Guo Xun pressed the attack, his face now scrunched up in a rictus of fury as he let fly a flurry of strikes.


    He''s focusing on building up damage to Gombrovich''s left side.


    Gombrovich gritted his teeth and retreated. Betelgeuse could sense fear in the movement. Guo Xun bounded forward aggressively, and at the crucial moment released a wicked roundhouse from his right, smashing it into Gombrovich''s purple-swelling elbow, tearing another scream from the latter''s lungs. Gombrovich tumbled over backward.


    Guo Xun grunted in rage, bearing down on Gombrovich and raising his crumpled left fist, intent on hammering it into Gombrovich''s mangled elbow.


    It happened suddenly. At the last moment, as Guo Xun was advancing, the Shit-Eater whipped his foot up and smashed him in the chin with such force that he was sent nigh on flying backwards.


    Bits of discolored enamel littered the floor, a gift from Guo Xun''s ailing teeth. Audible gasps were extracted from the audience.


    But Guo Xun was not done. Snarling through bloody gums, he regained his footing and set upon Gombrovich like a wild animal.


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    ''The man''s bent on destroying his own hand,'' Betelgeuse chortled inwardly.


    Clearly, Guo Xun''s Increment had something to do with anger or aggression. Either the man was using this to his advantage, or he couldn''t control it.


    To Betelgeuse'' knowledge, personality changes were the norm in respect of Ash grades, and though wide-ranging physical mutations were the province of the White Incunabula, it was both plausible and highly likely that Ash Incunabula manifested physically.


    From another point of view (i.e., those who rejected mind-body duality), all personality changes were really physical changes, since the relevant alteration would have to occur within the brain and/or neural pathways to manifest as a personality change in the first place. Betelgeuse guessed there were a multitude of studies studying and proving the point, though he had no familiarity with any of these.


    In this case, it was plausible that Guo Xun''s bloodlust was related to such a personality change.


    If I were to guess, his Increment''s power clause should include some kind of outright reference to belligerence.


    This was his conclusion based on a passing familiarity with the (possibly obsolete) information he had gleaned from the E-Zeta library, buttressed by his experience arbitraging Ash grade research information on the black market. After all, the quality of the research information he had trafficked in was a crucial factor in determining the ultimate price-range he had to work within. To this end, he had spent many late nights poring through interminable academic and technical discussions on related subjects.


    But the fact was that his conclusion was nothing more than educated guesswork. There were glaring holes in his knowledge¡ªfor example, he did not know of any instances of single-word Increments. That is, except for his own.


    Will-to-Power.


    Betelgeuse was jolted from his thoughts by the pitiful sound of begging. He focused his attention back on the match and saw that Gombrovich was on his knees, left arm hanging uselessly, right arm covering a bloody nose.


    "Please¡­ I give up¡­ I give up!"


    Instructor Zephyr gave no indication that he was going to end the match. He watched on coldly, as if observing the outcome of an experiment.


    Guo Xun, gums bleeding through pursed lips, right fist raised, struggled internally with his own bloodlust. He looked askance at the Instructor, as if fishing for justification.


    "Please, I am done, I can''t take any¡ª" Gombrovich whimpered.


    "Continue," Instructor Zephyr interpolated.


    With a furious yell, Guo Xun charged Gombrovich, his expression one of wanton abandon. Betelgeuse snuck a surreptitious glance at Edith¡ªnow crouched in a fetal position, she had jammed her fingers in her ears and blood was streaming down her pale and slender forearms.


    Betelgeuse almost missed the crucial moment. Gombrovich had suddenly snapped his knees straight, aiming a powerful kick at Guo Xun''s ankle that swept his feet out from under him. Guo Xun, yelling incoherently and completely given in to the anger, was not in the state of mind to react.


    They were on the ground now and squirming violently. With incredible athleticism, Gombrovich sidled snake-like into position, using his damaged arm as leverage to whip himself around and with his other arm catching Guo Xun in a shoulder lock.


    The pain must be incredible.


    Then, he pressed with his right shoulder, and with a sickening pop wrenched Guo Xun''s right arm straight out of its socket. Guo Xun yelled in pain and struggled harder, but found that the principle of leverage was not so easily repudiated.


    ''Curious,'' thought Betelgeuse. ''I was sure Guo Xun had this. The value of a clear head cannot be gainsaid. ¡­ I can''t say for sure what kind of Increment Gombrovich was gifted¡ªanalytical enhancements, perhaps? No, that would border on Bronze grade. Calmness is more likely.''


    "HALT!" Instructor Zephyr barked.


    "He''s¡­ still struggling sir," Gombrovich returned meekly.


    With a swiftness that belied his size, Zephyr leaned down and pinched Guo Xun''s neck, the latter settling into quietude almost immediately.


    Betelgeuse blinked. It looked like Guo Xun had lost consciousness. ''Hollow is more like it! Zephyr pinched a vein, probably, with incredible speed. ''


    As Gombrovich rolled away and picked himself up, Betelgeuse thought he detected in that expression a touch of mirth. Nothing of the previous trepidation or pusillanimity had remained.


    "Come in, Medicae. Support for two personnel. Time allocation¡ªone hour," Zephyr spoke into his wrist transceiver, a watch-like object colored so dark it blended in with his garb.


    A fresh portal materialized at the far end of the space. Two lab-coated teams, each of them bearing a stretcher, rushed out to courier the combatants away.


    The teams had just loaded Guo Xun''s unconscious body onto a stretcher and indicated the other to Gombrovich, when the latter held his right hand out and smiled, telling them there was no need and that he preferred to walk.


    Betelgeuse looked at the scene thoughtfully. The injuries the combatants had suffered were far from minor. Even with advanced medical technology, it could take a whole day for ruptured flesh and damaged ligaments to heal. As for broken bones, that could take anywhere between three days to a month to heal, depending on severity. That they were only allocated one hour meant that any injuries sustained during combat would become a severe hindrance as the days wore on.


    It was crucial to minimize, then, as far as possible, the injuries sustained during this first exercise.


    "Sir!" a female voice deep with urgency interrupted his train of thought.


    "Identify yourself!" Instructor Zephyr whipped his body around. His face tended to stay strangely still, Betelgeuse had noticed, notwithstanding his rather belligerent manner. Like a mask.


    "Frederica Jaine, sir! I need to piss, sir!"


    "My god, a god damn dyke if I ever saw one! The ladies'' is behind the pillar¡ªdo not, for the love of god, tell me you piss out a dick!"


    "No sir!"


    But the Instructor had already turned away.

 Chapter 5: Boot Camp Blues II

    "What the fuck are you doing there? The hell you think this is some kind of summer school? What is your name, son!"


    "... Voke, sir!"


    Instructor Zephyr had already found a new target. With that ghostly speed he flitted over to the handsome but slight Voke, whom Betelgeuse had just moments ago witnessed whispering to a nubile redhead.


    The same Voke who had been behind him in the lift. The edge of his Incunabulum had been sharp indeed.


    "Voke? That sounds like coke! Drugs are bad for you, Voke. Well, are you feeling romantical?"


    "No sir!"


    "So why is Ms. Nympho here talking to you then? Could it really be that your cock is made of coke, Coke Cock?"


    "I¡­ I don''t know sir!"


    "And you!" Instructor Zephyr roared, turning his attention to the redhead, who by now was shaking violently. "Dearie me! Trembling in anticipation! Are you a nympho, dearest? Are you a little roast beef bitch?"


    "No sir!" she squeaked, her voice catching on a stutter.


    "Coke Cock, you''re next! Incelman, get over here and show Coke Cock what you''re made of!" Instructor Zephyr hollered, summoning another one of the poor sods he had minted in his own inimitable way.


    "As for you, Roast Beef, since you''re so excited you''ll be going right after. Best prepare yourself well, dearest!"


    The second combat between Michael ''the incel'' and ''Coke Cock'' Voke began in earnest. It took three exchanges for Betelgeuse to guess that Michael''s Increment had something to do with aggression and Voke''s had something to do with avoidance.


    ''There is a method to the madness. Fights would never start if both combatants were avoidant and might become too bloody if both were aggressive. A minimum balance must be struck, it appears, when attempting to catalyze Etchings. He has been reading our personalities from the start, this Zephyr,'' Betelgeuse thought. A modicum of respect for the Instructor''s observational prowess arose in his heart.


    But were these their real personalities, or artificial ones created by the Incunabula? Where did individual personality end and artificial personality begin?


    My own personality is likely to have changed drastically.


    By the time the fourth exchange had begun, both combatants were hyperventilating. A groove cut across Voke''s forehead spilled oodles of blood into his left eye, forcing it to close.


    Michael raised pallid fists to his chin, his exhaustion evidenced by the fact that his boxing guard failed to block his sunken cheeks from Betelgeuse'' vision.


    "Psst!"


    Chin to starboard. Betelgeuse raised an eyebrow at the redhead who had come slinking through the crowd of cadets.


    It was Roast Beef, clutching at her Incunabulum, its cover mud-brown like his.


    "Howdy there¡­ um¡­ name''s Norma," she whispered again.


    Betelgeuse returned to the match, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Norma wasn''t learning from experience.


    It did appear, however, that the match had absorbed every ounce of Zephyr''s attention. Betelgeuse wondered if the explanatory clause in Zephyr''s Increment might not refer to a fascination with violence.


    Voke feinted a strike at Michael''s midriff; Michael took the bait, dropping his guard as Voke slammed his palm into Michael''s temple with a resounding thwack, sending the latter stumbling ten paces to his right. Pitching precariously on a single foot, Michael barely avoided losing his balance.


    An effective hit! Betelgeuse took note of the wince which momentarily flashed across Voke''s features.


    What was that about? It doesn''t look like he hit Michael hard enough to hurt himself, and it was a palm strike besides¡­


    "I wanted to know if you could help me with something," Norma prodded, undeterred by his apathy.


    "What is it?" Betelgeuse returned softly, not deigning to shift his attention.


    "It''s my Increment. I was talking to Voke about it."


    "I saw. Roast Beef," Betelgeuse said, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. She blushed a dark shade of red, little nose twitching irritably.


    "... ahem¡­ well, Instructor Zephyr does have good naming sense, Dog''s Balls."


    "Har-de-har. What''s this about your Increment then?"


    Stolen novel; please report.


    "It''s just, I don''t quite know what to do with it."


    "... I don''t see how I can help, unless you show it to me¡ª"


    "Yeah, sure, here."


    She proffered the open page of her Incunabulum to Betelgeuse.


    <blockquote>


    Owing to a broad curiosity respecting different aspects of culture, Norma Myrmec is able to connect closely with others.


    </blockquote>


    Betelgeuse stared askance at her.


    "You''re just going around showing people that?"


    "Just showed it to Voke. You''re the second one. You got a real name anyhow?"


    To show her Increment to an absolute stranger¡ªinteresting indeed!


    "You must know that that''s hardly safe."


    "Pshaw! It''s my business. They''ll probably make us reveal it sooner or later anyway, put it in the system or something. So what, Dog Balls. Help?"


    "It''s Betelgeuse. Okay, I''ve seen it. Put it back before Zephyr comes to fuck us up."


    Norma fumbled with her pouch and attempted heroically to ease her front pouch''s velcro flap open as quietly as she could. All she managed to achieve was to drag out the jarring pop-pop-pop as loop parted from hook.


    The match between Michael and Voke had reached a standstill. Instructor Zephyr''s obsessive attention had not appeared to wane.


    Betelgeuse went over the basics in his mind.


    His first impression was that there wasn''t anything combat-useful in Norma''s Increment. Not directly. The fault did not lie with her: Increments were a sublimation of the first eighteen years of one''s life, and the fault could only be as large as one''s control over the shaping of one''s own consciousness from birth. The old adage which saw the sins of the parent visited upon the child bore a grain of truth after all.


    The environment shaped the raw material supplied by genetics.


    Betelgeuse experienced a sudden flash of insight: by the time a person, fully-formed, came to the Democratic altar, rarely could she help the artifacts of her subconscious, and it was only with great difficulty that she could suppress thoughts bubbling unbidden to the surface of the mind.


    Even the trained will is limited.


    Which left the Etchings. Despite the many hours of (admittedly profit-focused) self-study Betelgeuse had dedicated to it, he could not say with certainty that he understood the discourse, given that the literature was mostly couched in jargon and academic parochialism. That level of technicality could only be fully unlocked by a Polyteknik education, supposed Betelgeuse.


    Not that he would have opportunity to pursue anything in that direction for the foreseeable future.


    "Seems to me that there isn''t much you can do, in terms of combat," Betelgeuse began.


    Norma''s brown pupils dulled with disappointment and her small pink lips arched rigidly.


    "¡­ which is not to say there''s nothing you can do. It seems to me that there''s space to interpret this as an intelligence-type. I''m talking about the power clause saying ''connect closely with others''. And I''d point out that ''others'' doesn''t seem limited to human beings either, if the word ''culture'' in the explanatory clause can be extended to¡­" Betelgeuse trailed off, grasping about for an appropriate category as Norma inched closer and stared into his eyes expectantly.


    "¡­ animals, maybe? The possibilities are quite broad."


    Intelligence-type abilities which supported spying and information-gathering were amongst the most prized by the Big Six corporations, for obvious (i.e., corporate) reasons. Vulgar knowledge had it that Silver Incunabula holders, the bulk of which were the beneficiaries of Increments that supported intelligence-gathering, numbered amongst the most highly paid individuals in the Democracy.


    Despite this, an Ash grade could not aspire to any more than minor or trivial intelligence-type skills. Regardless of Etching, Ash grades were bound by the narrow scope of their Increments which, in the lay understanding, were generally restricted to personality changes.


    "You''re saying the best I can hope for is an Etching that will interpret my ability to connect closely with others as an intelligence-gathering-type. But I don''t even know where to start!"


    "Nothing to do with hope. Etchings are a sublimation of complex processes of subconscious development, reflection¨C"


    "Ugh, yes, ''meditation, intellection, applied learning'' etcetera etcetera. Let''s not go into that, please," Norma interpolated. " I just can''t visualize exactly how all this is going to go down. What exactly am I supposed to be reaching toward? I get that I need to want it hard enough to manifest, but the issue is that I don''t even know what it is!"


    "Please keep your voice down. Look, the simple fact is that we''re Ash grades with limited options. Way I see it, I''d place emphasis on ''connect'' and try to intuit some connection with your opponent. Try to empathize. Try to predict the next hit. Maybe try to assume some conclusions about the opponent, based on her physiognomy, skin color, body type. It''s parsing concentrated discrimination into practical sense. That''s the best way I can describe what I''m thinking, but it''s not something easily put into words¡ªit''s meant to be slippery."


    Norma sighed. Her red hair seemed to droop lifelessly.


    "In any case, we''ll probably know the results soon: considering the stress Zephyr intends to put us through, it''s likely our first Etching will manifest over the next few days," Betelgeuse finished.


    "... You''re an Edomite aren''t you?"


    "What, it''s written on my face?"


    "I know someone who shifted over to Agni, a White with hair so long she could wrap herself in it to keep warm through winter. She was my neighbor. The same sort of pedant, as I recall. She also had a habit of standing out in the rain to do taichi."


    ''It''s not t¨¤ij¨ªqu¨¢n. It''s the Edom-ursi stance,'' Betelguese thought to himself, chortling silently.


    She seemed to have accepted Betelgeuse'' assessment of the situation. He shot a surreptitious glance at Norma, running his eyes up and down her body, noting that she was lithe and muscled. If she succeeded in manifesting an Etching which allowed her to intuit attacks, she could combine that with her physical fitness to great effect. Amongst other things.


    "Look sharp. They''re done," Betelgeuse indicated. Michael, the sides of his cheek bruised dark purple, had finally managed to catch the slippery Voke in a clumsy ankle lock. Voke, his forehead wound spitting blood incessantly, had started screaming wildly and tweaking out in fear, when Instructor Zephyr called an end to the match.


    "So there''s a chance you won''t need to kill your opponent," Betelgeuse commented.


    "I''m the one in danger here," Norma sighed again. "I sure hope she doesn''t aim for the face."

 Chapter 6: Will-to-Power

    The match tested Betelgeuse'' capacity to withstand boredom; and its close cousin, the drowse, could not but come knocking. ''Roast Beef'' Norma had gone in bent on avoiding every strike thrown by Frederica ''the Dyke''.


    It took nearly five exchanges before Norma threw a single punch. To her credit, it connected with Frederica''s oblique, causing the latter to stumble backward and double over in pain.


    But the vicious kidney shot only served to incense Frederica, who redoubled her efforts to catch Norma with one of her brutally powerful hooks. The woman was probably half a head taller than Betelgeuse and had a corresponding reach to boot; though she was slow, she knew how to throw punches that took full advantage of her God-given sweep.


    The longer the match dragged, the harder Frederica pushed herself, until her breaths came in big heaving gasps and her heart threatened to leap into her mouth. Sweat poured from Frederica''s glands, covering her forehead with a glistening sheen and soaking her cadet-suit through.


    Norma''s strategy was clear¡ªoutlast Frederica.


    Pity, then, that on the eighth exchange Frederica caught Norma''s jaw with a sweep of her forearm, chipping the latter''s teeth and knocking her clean out.


    "HALT! And the Dyke has it, fuckin'' surprise!" signaled the end of the match; and there, as Frederica stood panting over Norma''s motionless, supine body, her eyes boring holes into the Instructor''s back, Betelgeuse could not miss the flash of hateful anger that possessed her straight, viraginous features.


    All successive combats blurred together into one long slog, with the sole exception of the match between ''Rabid'' Rolf and Dmitri ''Pyotr Pan'' Petrovich. The match had commenced around the time Gombrovich, his left arm secured to a splint, returned with a sullen Guo Xun trailing behind.


    Rolf was a man without method, scratching, biting and headbutting like an animal. But he was more than an animal; he was sadistic, taking quite an apparent pleasure in torturing his opponent.


    The only instance that Petrovich obtained the upper hand occurred during the fourth exchange. Amidst the exhausting grapple, Petrovich had just about managed to catch Rolf''s ankle in an almost-lock when the latter dug his index finger into Petrovich''s balls, pincered it and then twisted. Petrovich, screaming, had released his grip on Rolf when the latter caught his flailing forearm and bit off a chunk of flesh.


    Instructor Zephyr had wasted no time in calling an end to the match. Betelgeuse clearly remembered Rolf''s defiant stare, his clear unwillingness to relinquish his grasp on the quivering and pleading Petrovich.


    But Instructor Zephyr had brought his face down close to Rolf, suppressing the latter with his heavy aura. The substance of their silent exchange was clear: in terms of violence, Zephyr would win.


    The brutality was by no means confined to Rolf. One out of every two matches resulting in broken bones or dislocated shoulders.


    Seeing this, Betelgeuse, could not help but wonder of the environments his peers must have been brought up in, for them to commit so readily to the Instructor''s program. For one, their habits contrasted sharply with the serenity-emphasizing Edomites; it wasn''t so much their familiarity with violence as much as their willingness to inflict it in the name of Zephyr''s game. Even he, numbering amongst the most obstreperous of E-Zeta children, found the arrangement uncanny.


    And yet, in the indignant stares of his peers, in the expressions replete with bile, in the secret whispers bubbled over from seething pits of resentment, Betelgeuse saw something brewing.


    Once or twice, combatants would refuse to fight each other. The Instructor would cuss at them, his face strangely unemotional (''He really is like a sort of locust,'' thought Betelgeuse), then switch one of the combatants out for another. In this way the Instructor preserved the integrity of the arena.


    By the end of the twentieth match the arena floor was slick with gore. In his inimitably crude way Instructor Zephyr commanded four cadets to wipe the arena floor, threatening them with tonguing the entire length and breath of the room if even a spot of blood remained.


    Though outwardly silent and attentive, Betelgeuse'' mind brooded incessantly on the events of that interminable day. The fear had been there, yes, the neurotic apprehension, but in truth he had never expected to have been chosen by the Ash Incunabulum. He cursed himself for not having had the foresight to prepare; now he was to bear the karmic consequences of his mockery of Elder Bennett''s aphorism:


    Prepare for the worst.


    Who did not come to wish in their time of tribulation that they had prepared more? That they had consolidated their foundation or laid the groundwork with more enthusiasm? Hours into the life of a newly-minted pariah, he was just beginning to realize the magnitude of the challenge that lay ahead.


    In such situations it was imperative to take things from the top. Make something usable with what he had been given.


    <blockquote>


    Will-to-Power.


    </blockquote>


    He had had very little knowledge of Increments which lacked explanatory clauses, though he knew of their existence. Theory had it that explanatory clauses provided crucial context to the interpretation of power clauses, buttressing the development of such power clauses over subsequent Etchings and rewritings. As for how it worked in practice, that was the purview of an abstruse bit of theory he had heretofore not yet deciphered.


    Furthermore, he had no knowledge at all of Increments which did not mention the subject''s name.


    Start from the beginning. To acquire something useful, you must fix the markers of your intention.


    The first step is to parse the Increment.


    There was one compound word comprising three hyphenated components.


    The second step is to consider the meaning of each component separately.


    Will had many meanings, not all of which he was familiar with. It could be a noun or a verb. As a verb, it was transitive (meaning it took a direct object). The verb will expressed tense, facticity, likelihood, expectation, probability, and inevitability, amongst others.


    As a noun, it could refer to, amongst others, the faculty by which an individual took action, a fixed and specific intention, or some archaic document related to probate matters as practiced under the ancient (and obsolete) common law.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    To was a preposition. It situated the words in its proper relational context. Beyond its verb-tense modifying properties, it expressed, amongst others, a motion towards, an approach toward a specified limit. It identified relationships in time, space, location or even in the social context.


    Power was another word which could be either a noun or a verb. As a verb, power was transitive. It expressed a supply of something or other (not merely energy), or a movement with great speed or force.


    As a noun, the word had technical meanings used in physics (i.e., work done divided by time) and mathematics (i.e., being idiomatically related to the exponent of a number or expression (say x), which is the number of times that x is to be multiplied by itself). Beyond this, power meant the capacity or ability to do something or change something or influence the course of something, and it could also mean physical force or energy (electrical, mechanical or otherwise), amongst others.


    The third step is to consider the emergent whole.


    Will-to-Power was Will in relation to Power. From two fixed points and a relationship can a whole universe be made.


    To fix his intentions in respect of Will and Power, Betelgeuse considered that these had to be nouns.


    The easiest Will to direct was his specific intention at any one point in time. After all, faculties were immanent and generally did not admit of conscious direction.


    His Power was his capacity to change the status thrust upon him by the suffocating superstructure of the Democracy. As for the specific capacity, there was no better choice to work toward than endurance.


    Endurance. The very word conjured an image of the crimson triangle tipped with the golden finial. The Hereford symbol, representing Edom''s eternal endurance.


    Finally, the fourth step is to consider the whole in the context of its history, if possible.


    Half remembered things drifted into his mind; images of Elder Bennett beheld through bleary eyes. Increments were never random¡ªthe Will-to-Power was a concept he had been introduced to before. It was the brainchild of several of the philosophers who had lived before the age of the Old Empire. Its provenance was quasi-mystical. The concept itself was vague and bore, to Betelgeuse'' mind, an expansionistic quality. It was life-preserving and system defying and negentropic.


    That was all he could recall.


    Still a little vague, but at least I have a plan.


    I''m only working with three components, and hampered by the restrictions on an Ash Incunabulum besides. This means no crazy powers¡ªall mutations resulting from the Etchings will be internal and mental for the most part.


    <hr>


    It had been six or more hours since the first match had commenced, and the adolescents were becoming restless under the glare of sourceless white light. The place was stagnant; no effervescence to the air, no movement, no life. Grumbling bellies bred angry combatants. The anger was concentrated on the person of the Instructor, but suppressed by his threat of overwhelming violence.


    ''Dog Balls'' Betelgeuse squared-off against ''Downie'' Douglas.


    Betelgeuse kept his open palms up and before his face, hunching his neck but keeping his eyes on Douglas. His knees were bent and his legs splayed, right foot behind left. The standard Edom-ursi stance, drilled incessantly into the subconscious of all Edomite children from the moment they took their first step. Countless hours, countless days spent inhaling tar-black smog gifted by the coal mines; occasional wind, occasional rain cleared the air; but always they would be outside, and always they would be holding the stance of the bear.


    Endurance, the Edomite wisdom went, could be learned.


    Above all else the Edomite prized peace over violence, serenity over fitfulness.


    Exposed to the elements, children cried, begged to be released, tried to wheedle their way out of training. Parents would weep, but the training would go on.


    When children got sick or hurt, they convalesced until fully recovered. Then they returned to train, exposed to the rain again, exposed to the heat of the sun.


    Only once Edomites had spent a total of fifty full days, a total of one thousand and two hundred hours, holding their stance out in the training field could they graduate to running. They would run, and then they would run some more.


    Striking, blocking and grappling came last.


    By this tedious effort the principle of endurance was carved into the bones of all Edomites, though to some deleterious physical effect. The years spent training under the shadow of the mines'' cruel haze meant nearly all Edomites suffered from some kind of respiratory illness.


    Health in return for philosophy, health in return for principle, the elders had sermonized.


    ''Years of training, just to be able to fight a fool?'' Betelgeuse thought bitterly.


    The command was given and the combatants stalked each other crabwise. Douglas'' strabismus made it difficult for Betelgeuse to pinpoint the focus of his opponents'' attention.


    The fight was joined when Douglas let whip a kick toward Betelgeuse'' jaw and the latter dodged away to the right. A follow-up strike low-feinted the fist aimed at Betelgeuse'' temples. Betelgeuse dodged again, backward, then held his ground as he saw Douglas come in fast with a headbutt.


    Impact, as Betelgeuse'' forearms absorbed the hit and stung; he stepped into the overhead strike by Douglas, catching it mid swing and denuding it of power. But Douglas'' next blow was already in motion and Betelgeuse raised his elbow straight, jamming the point of its bone into the middle of the oncoming fist, snapping the fist-curled fingers inward.


    A groan from Douglas, his left hand falling to the side, fingers askew; but he kept coming, strabismic eyes juddering in their socket, right fist seeking a concussion.


    Aggressive-type. Doesn''t seem to be feeling pain. Good burst power but let''s see how long he can keep this up.


    Betelgeuse ducked and Douglas swung with his bad hand, the effort pitching him off-balance; a strike by Betelgeuse into Douglas'' kidney sent him tumbling onto the floor, and Betelgeuse lunged after him, unwilling to relinquish the advantage.


    A stray flail caught Betelgeuse in his temple, causing him to stumble back, cursing. His heart was pounding; he could feel phlegm build up in his lungs.


    Douglas had just regained his footing when Betelgeuse stomped his boot onto his opponent''s and threw an uppercut that took some teeth with it. Douglas lurched but did not fall, hammering his forehead into Betelgeuse'' nose, smashing it and exploding his vision into reds and grays.


    Betelgeuse fought through the haze and lunged at Douglas, taking him to the ground. Blood oodled from his gushing nose into his mouth, where he collected and then spit into his adversary''s eyes, covering it in a film of ichor.


    Seconds of flailing dragged on into minutes. They were still on the ground, grappling unto their exhaustion. Betelgeuse'' heart felt like it would pop out of his mouth.


    Bereft of the ability to strike, Douglas lurched wildly, trying to bring his knees to bear. Betelgeuse gripped as hard as he could and did not let go.


    The minutes dragged on¡­


    Betelgeuse could feel his blood coagulate on his face. Douglas was hyperventilating, his flails becoming weaker and less violent.


    With a sudden burst of energy, Betelgeuse snaked around the slippery ground and flipped Douglas supine, catching his left arm and jamming the ruined fist into the floor, then twisting it around straight and simultaneously worming his own arm around Douglas'' to complete the straight arm bar.


    Douglas struggled heroically, but Betelgeuse'' body pressed onto him, keeping him from gaining any momentum; then, he applied pressure, confirming the lock.


    "I''m done, I''m done!" Douglas yelled.


    Betelgeuse glanced up at Instructor Zephyr.


    He pressed, feeling ligament and bone sunder under his strength.

 Chapter 7: The War

    The others complained that the ceaseless light made it impossible to distinguish day from night.


    As the hours dragged on, the threshold at which all further pain became dulled by exhaustion was reached and exceeded. In the same breath, cadets would sweat and exasperate about the cold.


    Their whispers became louder and more insolent; loose talk implying desertion became commonplace even under the nose of Instructor Zephyr, and though they scraped and debased themselves whenever he wielded the blunt rod of abuse, their lids could not completely conceal the defiance that flamed within.


    Past a secret door was an elevator that crushed its inhabitants into each other and which screeched as it moved. They endured the discomfort in silence, all wit expended. With a judder and hump, they reached a canteen suffocating with grease and steaming broth, and the cadets streamed out, gasping and grumbling.


    There were more Ash grades here, damaged and bleeding like them. Batch 247-B fraternized with the others out of necessity, because combat had seeded a hotbed of growing enmities within. That the batches were so miscible spoke to their common experience.


    Here, as before, white light, fitful activity, minute after minute, hour after hour. Frigid cubicles stacked high with buckets fashioned of crystallized polyethylene terephthalate bearing flesh-food or grain or both; the blast of heat from story-high ovens blazing hecatombs of sustenance ripe; lines shuffling, enshadowed by servo-arms whirring to-and-fro doling out unequal portions according to a precise calculus. A whole world, trapped in the miasma of exhaustion; even winners had no appetite.


    It came to Betelgeuse'' attention that the gist of their deployment to the edge of the universe, the Frontier as it had come to be known in the parlance, was far from secret. To those who had come from Ash genetics and who were steeped in Ash sensibilities, the standing Requisition Order this last three years was old news: all cadets chosen by the Ash Incunabula were to be mustered for the war against the Chimerae. Only their specific destination had been kept hidden until now.


    Betelgeuse smiled wryly, sitting there in the canteen before Shinzosuke of Naga. How much things had changed since the last time his head interacted with a pillow. He had still nursed so much blind hope then.


    ''Lily-livered'' Edith sat to Betelgeuse'' right, head bowed, stirring a coagulate of soup in lazy arcs and inspecting the surface lacework of yellow oil fissure into tiny droplets. The bowl was her only ration. She kept her bandaged left hand under the brown plastic tabletop, but further evidence of her trouncing by Bellevue ''Bong-Water'' was plastered onto the sides of her lip. Patches of discolored gauze had been stuffed into her ear, light dressing for the wounds she had scratched into her ear canal.


    She had ignored Betelgeuse'' questions regarding her Increment, ignored pretty much all his attempts at communication, but kept close by anyway.


    Shinzosuke from batch designation 246-D was an Ash of four generations hailing from Naga, a city located in the Naga Valley delta. His batch was bound for Opalia, as he explained, moon to the gas-giant Ops which orbited the binary star Arcturus. There, the Chimerae incursion was threatening to destroy the Democracy''s only Gate within the star system P-Delta-Sigma-73, thereby cutting off the Democracy''s access to one of the three uranium-rich planets currently under its control, Caria.


    Over five centuries, the Chimerae had staged small-scale incursions into the Democracy''s territory, and each time the legions of Ash would be there, the first bulwark against the enemy. This, the latest inter-star-system incursion by the Chimerae, was the reason for the Requisition Order. That their training period had been reduced to a mere three days meant the war was coming to a climax.


    Three days? 72 hours? It feels we''ve been here far longer than that.


    Shinzosuke had learnt the cunning ways of the Chimerae from his parents and their parents and their parents before that. Intelligent and versed in the ways of scientific war, the scythed Chimerae''s method comprised two key aspects: guerilla and tank warfare. The Chimerae wielded Blitzkrieg, sabotage and harassment tactics to great effect, and wherever possible prioritized the targeting of civilian areas and supply depots. If Shinzosuke were to be believed, the Chimerae were by nature cowardly and would generally avoid skirmishes unless they outnumbered their enemy three to one.


    ''That''s called being tactical,'' mused Betelgeuse.


    "How far is it from P-Delta-Sigma-70?" Betelgeuse asked, spooning a greasy piece of pasta into his mouth. A piece of gauze was plastered onto the middle of his face, spanning cheek to cheek and covering his smarting nose, making it irritating to eat.


    "No clue," Shinzosuke shrugged, wiping the sweat from his forehead and brushing back a cliff of spiky-black hair to reveal oily skin and a receding hairline.


    "Heard about carbon exoplanet Desert before?"


    "Nope."


    "Well, I''m headed there. Any idea how long it''ll take?"


    "The furthest Frontier star system is Castro, which takes about a year of direct Gate-to-Gate travel and eighty days if there''s a Goldie daisy-chaining between Gates. They''ll send a Goldie if things are this urgent, so Sixty to seventy days thereabouts should be a safe bet."


    Betelgeuse masticated his food slowly, as if deep in thought.


    "It''s closer to fifty," Edith began meekly.


    Betelgeuse glanced at her. She had pushed the bowl away uneaten and raised her head so the light reflected off her pupils. Her eyes were soft and deep. Assailed by the canteen''s smells, her small and upturned nose twitched delicately. Dark bags hung under her lashes.


    "¡­ You see, some of my aunts and uncles fought in the last incursion. One of the uncles had been deployed to Desert too. He''s told me about it before¡ªsaid that it''s rocky and very dry and very red and very gray. They''d been sent to garrison Sylvan Protectorate cities¡­"


    "That incursion was fifteen years ago¡­ I was three then," Shinzosuke interpolated. "My brother died in that war."


    "I''m sorry," Edith murmured, bowing her head to inspect the tabletop.


    "Don''t be. It was a long time ago. My parents have told me so much about him I feel I had known him personally. See¡­" fiddling with his pantpocket velcro he retrieved a thin rectangular case and flicked the plastic flap open. He proffered the open side to Betelgeuse and Edith, fingering within the slight smile of a man caught off-guard and frozen in time. It was a picture of his brother, sharp-jawed, keen featured, no older than Shinzosuke and not much different in complexion and frame. In the background the colors of the sky and cliffs had washed out and looked almost watercolor. Shinzosuke''s brother was wearing a white shirt darkened by sweat that mixed in with the splotches upon the surface of the photograph. He was sitting on an ALICE pack full to bursting and relaxing near a cliff edge; in the distance the ground picked up in an escarpment that ran all the way to watercolor land.


    "What was his name?" Edith asked, her eyes brimming.


    "Shoei," Shinzosuke said, flipping the case closed. Betelgeuse nodded for no reason.


    "I feel like I''m walking in his footsteps."


    "Not completely, I hope," Betelgeuse remarked. "Better to survive and come back. Have you seen the cost of manufacturing new eggs? I doubt your parents can afford another child."


    "Haha!" Shinzosuke burst into bright peals of laughter, attracting the attention of ghoulish faces. "Too true, but who can really say for sure? It''s life ain''t it? It''s Heisenberg uncertainty, by nature. You might very well be looking at the last Harada."


    Betelgeuse was about to retort when someone called out to them.


    He turned in the direction of the voice to see Norma, gauze plastering up the side of her jaw. She didn''t appear to be carrying any food.


    "¡ªI was just on the other side by myself¡­ mind if I join?"


    Betelgeuse locked eyes with Shinzosuke.


    "Yeah, sure, sure¡­ be my guest. More''s the merrier," Shinzosuke waved his hand nonchalantly.


    Smiling prettily, Norma sidled in to the seat beside Shinzosuke.


    "Let me introduce Shinzosuke, from batch 246¡­ was it ''C''?"


    "Yes yes, 246-D," he stressed. "Hi, hello."


    "And I''m Norma! What were you guys talking about?" she returned, looking Shinzosuke in his eyes. A warm and attentive expression adorned a face that jutted close to Shinzosuke''s face. She smiled, but kept her lips pursed.


    Betelgeuse noted that she didn''t ask for Edith''s name, nor did she appear to care.


    "About where we are stationed," Shinzosuke offered. "We were just talking about Desert¡ª"


    This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.


    "What a coincidence, you''re stationed there too?" Norma interrupted.


    "No, no, as I was telling Betel here, I''m bound for Opalia. Star system P-D-S-73," Shinzosuke corrected.


    "I see, well¡­ "Norma began, then trailed off, retreating to a more normal distance. She glanced at Betelgeuse, her expression warm as ever. "I really do hope you have a comfortable time. What''s the news on Desert anyhow?"


    "That it''s red, gray and waterless," Betelgeuse began.


    "Aw shucks," Norma sighed.


    "Courtesy of Edith," finished Betelgeuse.


    The table fell silent as Norma glanced at her nails and Shinzosuke resumed sibilantly slurping noodles of pasta.


    "Ah, hello, hello!" Norma exclaimed, suddenly standing up and putting her hand out, soliciting for a handshake. "I''m Norma!"


    "E-Edith," Edith managed, placing a limp palm in Norma''s hands. She endured the brief contact and then retracted her hand bashfully.


    "So, ''red, gray and waterless''... which sounds about right considering it''s a carbon planet. The rivers are poison gas, you know," Norma submitted sagely, nodding to herself.


    "I''m more worried about the Chimerae," Betelgeuse mused. "Shinzo was just mentioning how the slippery bastards make a habit of targeting civilians."


    "Oh, not only that, they know how to torture. They do it all: flaying, frying, boiling, mangling etcetera etcetera. They''re particularly into targeting human genitalia. Seeing how their biology is totally different¡ªI mean, I doubt they''re sexually attracted to us, but deviants in every society amirite? I''m convinced they''re doing some serious anthropological research to come up with all of this. Anyway, just like us humans they''ve learnt to stick very large and very hot things where they''re not supposed to go," Shinzosuke jabbered. Betelgeuse stared at Shinzosuke''s plate of half-finished pasta, wondering if it would be polite to ask if he could have any.


    "H-how do you know all that," Norma queried, her face drained of color. Edith was back to playing with her soup coagulates, her eyes shaded by a tangle of hair.


    "Parents, who else?" Shinzo returned.


    A series of notes blasted through the speakers, signaling the end to lunch or dinner or whatever the meal was. They glanced at each other with heavy expressions.


    "Hey, Shinzo, if we don''t see each other again," Betelgeuse added, his voice nigh on drowned out by a sudden profusion of activity, a thousand guttural echoes layering one atop another as metal legs dragged across tile, "godspeed."


    <hr>


    Mealtimes proved small respite from the relentless gauntlet of waiting, dozing off, coming to, enduring the Instructor''s abuse, fighting, getting patched up, waiting, dozing off, coming to in a fit of sweat, so on and so forth.


    By the third cycle, the world was a blur. Betelguese had got through the second cycle relatively unscathed, but nursed a swelling left elbow where Knievel ''the Quack'' had struck him no less than four times over the course of his third match.


    The trip to the cramped cubicle they called an ''infirmary'' had managed to reduce the swelling somewhat (courtesy of aspirin and the use of the aptly named ''Rejuvenator'' which the emotionless Medicae had afforded), but his mobility was impaired enough that continued use of his left arm would be less than ideal.


    By the fourth cycle, Betelgeuse had hardly enough bandwidth to follow the puppet dance repeating ad nauseam before him.


    While he was able, he ran through the math in his mind:


    A hundred and fourteen people makes fifty-seven matches per cycle; assuming 10 minutes a match, each cycle might run as long as 570 minutes, or 9 hours and 30 minutes. And that''s not accounting for matches like Norma''s¡­


    Betelgeuse shot a glance at Instructor Zephyr, his vision wavering under the pressure of exhaustion. The man kept a close watch on the combatants, his composure unruffled, not an ounce of tiredness apparent on his face. Earlier, a drunken swing from Robbie ''Cromagnon'' Birch looked likely to clip Zephyr in his jaw (who knew if it had been done on purpose?), but the man leaned back unconcernedly, letting the fist pass mere centimeters from his lip.


    How the hell does he do it? Some kind of immunity? No, that''s nonsense. He''s a dexterity-type. A Hollow.


    Betelguese endured heroically the urge to collapse on that cold, gray concrete, as the overhead light beat upon his consciousness the constant and unceasing drumbeat of somnolence.


    While the actions of the combatants had slowed considerably owing to exhaustion, Instructor Zephyr had introduced the use of weapons: cadets could choose between long bos five feet long and one inch in diameter, and batons two feet long and one point five inches in diameter, in so doing substantially increasing the chances of injury. The training weapons were fashioned of a hard and rough-surfaced plastic that Betelgeuse found surprisingly weighty.


    Betelgeuse had selected the baton he now held between his folded arms. The choice of a one-handed weapon was obvious, given his elbow injury.


    Those who had injured both arms were out of luck¡ªas far as Betelgeuse could tell, Instructor Zephyr''s method for matching combatants tended not to take prior injuries into consideration.


    The match that had been playing out in slow-motion ended and a new command rapped against his skull.


    He would be going up against Gombrovich.


    Moving to the center of the arena seemed an artifact of the subconscious; he blinked and when he opened his eyes he found himself there, groping around his exhaustion. Spent adrenal glands got to work, doing what they could to sharpen his senses. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.


    The flow of time regained some of its normalcy.


    Shit-Eater''s left elbow still swelled a mottled purple. He had ripped off the bandage, revealing its oddly bent countenance to Dog Balls.


    They circled crabwise by convention, Betelgeuse'' Edom-ursi facing Gombrovich''s Agni-chordate.


    A minute passed without a single exchange. Betelgeuse'' heartbeat started to slow.


    Gombrovich lunged violently, aiming the tip of his baton at his opponent''s solar plexus. Betelgeuse, ready for him, caught the baton on the underside with his own, smashing it askew; but Gombrovich, now close enough to smell the odor wafting from Betelgeuse'' unwashed body, swung his left fist into Betelgeuse'' jaw, causing him to stumble and fall.


    Betelgeuse regained his footing even as the world swam, swinging his baton wildly in an attempt to deter a follow-up attack. When his vision cleared, he saw Gombrovich stalking him carefully. The man''s face was sallow, but his eyes were focused.


    Again, an interminable circling. Betelgeuse suppressed the urge to commit. He would wait as long as it took for his opponent to initiate the attack.


    Gombrovich advanced hard and fast, raising his baton and bringing it down overhead as if aiming for the white gauze over Betelgeuse'' face; Betelgeuse sidestepped to the right, but Gombrovich was ready, carrying his momentum over to his shoulder and barreling into Betelgeuse.


    Sneaky sonuva¡ª


    Catching Gombrovich''s shoulder and moving with him so as to dissipate the momentum, Betelgeuse twisted around and lurched into the air.


    The combatants tumbled in a mess of flailing limbs. Batons clacked onto the floor and rolled in opposite directions.


    Clumsy armlocks were attempted then thwarted. Betelgeuse tried to regain his footing, but Gombrovich, his face uncomfortably plastered to his opponent''s back, hugged his arms around Betelgeuse'' waist.


    Agni-chordate''s got an advantage in this situation. Got to open enough space to strike.


    Betelgeuse whipped his torso around violently and struck Gombrovich''s temple with a vicious back elbow, stunning him and twisting out at the moment Gombrovich''s grip slackened. Betelgeuse regained a crouching position and, at the next instant, leapt forward onto Gombrovich, straddling him between powerful thighs.


    Ground and pound.


    Betelgeuse, his lungs close to bursting from the strain, let loose a flurry of hammer fists; Gombrovich raised his forearms over his face, and the moment he did so Betelgeuse brought his forehead down hard into his opponent''s stomach.


    Gombrovich retched, vomiting all over himself and the floor, a portion of the spillage dribbling over Betelgeuse'' hair.


    Betelgeuse refused to let up. Snaking around, he caught Gombrovich in an ankle lock, ready to end the fight.


    "Stop, stop! I''m done, I can''t go on any longer!" Gombrovich breathed.


    Betelgeuse, hyperventilating, glanced at Instructor Zephyr, just as he did in the fight with Douglas. He found in that mask nothing that could pass for guidance.


    "Don''t break it, please! I beg of you!" Gombrovich whimpered. "Instructor, please!"


    Betelgeuse could hear the audience murmuring. He wasn''t about to throw the match, but hurting an opponent that was already defeated struck him as unnecessary.


    The Edomite should not pursue the destruction of his opponent at the cost of his honor. So saith the time-honored principles as instilled by the Edomite Bishopric. Should the calculus be so simple?


    Caught between the principles of the Elders and his own doubts, Betelgeuse wavered.


    The air seemed to harden into gelid crystals, as a dark and suffocating aura suffused the surroundings. Minute vibrations transmitted from Gombrovich''s flesh to Betelgeuse'' arm, gradually increasing in intensity until a painful resonance was achieved.


    What is this?


    Betelgeuse'' hesitation proved adequate opportunity for Gombrovich. With incredible speed the latter whipped his foot from Betelgeuse'' slackening grip and coiled about the floor like a serpent, catching his opponent by the scruff of his cadet suit. Gombrovich regained his footing; bearlike strength mixed with feline agility as he dragged a canal through his own vomitus then flipped Betelgeuse violently up and over his back. Betelgeuse smashed down onto the hard floor with a resounding whump.


    ''An Etching! No doubt about it!'', he thought, teeth clattering from the force of the impact.


    Gombrovich advanced tirelessly. Winded, caught in a fog of pain, heart pounding in his ears, Betelgeuse kicked wildly, managing a lucky strike to Gombrovich''s knee. The latter pitched, then slipped on a mixture of puke and blood.


    There, the baton. Just out of reach.


    Lunging, Betelgeuse gripped the baton, then tottered back drunkenly toward an unarmed Gombrovich.


    The world was spinning so much that Betelgeuse could not tell up from down. In the confusion a blazing sense of indignation rose within his chest, the shadow of his former self come to haunt him with a visage roiling with nightmarish visions of rage.


    The anger was his. Why did he have to serve a system whose only relation to him was one of exploitation? The system was a creature of the Elders'' teachings, parsed through the medium of his parents.


    If all of it were mere deception¡­


    Squeezing every last ounce of strength from his aching bones, Betelgeuse swung the baton at Gombrovich''s wrist, snapping it through.


    A sickening crack like he had rarely heard before echoed through the space, and the command was given to halt.

 Chapter 8: When Will I See You Again?

    "Norma tells me you''d given her some pointers," Edith mumbled. Tremulous quarter-closed eyes that tunneled into swelling bruises had focused on him, and he found the attention painful.


    Threads of a kindness he''d done, not as a kindness but as compensation for the revelation of something secret and precious and upfront payment for a possible reciprocation in the uncertain future. Might he be lying if he said he wasn''t influenced by a sensuous and easy nature?


    Betelgeuse nodded but refrained from answering. He was trying to conserve the energy necessary to survive unto the end of their training. Grunts of exertion issuing from the strained and straining combatants already thigh-deep in lactic acidosis as the match climaxed in a tumble of bruised limbs and battered faces.


    Somewhere between match forty and fifty Norma had manifested her first Etching. That victory was hers after an eternity of careful avoidance, a tiring and soporific display of attrition-based combat, and Betelgeuse didn''t know if it was the well-placed liver shot or the exhaustion that did her opponent in.


    She''d shown it to him right after, evidently pleased with the results, slurring her way through some facetious flattery and smiling wide enough to reveal her chipped teeth, and all the while Betelgeuse wondering why she didn''t hide it behind those pursed lips tinctured with rose, her teeth, and if this were a concerted effort to achieve some sort of exploitative intimacy by way of appealing to his love of authenticity.


    <blockquote>


    Norma Myrmec''s close observation of a counterparty manifests as a keen intuition regarding such counterparty''s actions.


    </blockquote>


    The line was set across the binding from the Increment, the words serifed and scrawled in a peculiar blend of calligraphy and print typography across pages that were rough and thick as rawhide. His absentminded inspection of the little details of her Incunabulum, there under the persistent glare of their white-lighted sun and under threat of suppression by the system''s belligerent pawn, suddenly made him feel as though the things were very strange indeed, and he wondered why he''d persisted all these years in his ignorance of the immanent characteristics of these the most foundational things in their society.


    Perhaps, he thought, so much familiarity with the idea of Incunabula had erased from his mind the need to understand the things in themselves¡ªwhat were they made of, where had they come from, how did they come to capture the whole Democracy within their grasp?


    "Maybe¡­ um¡­ maybe you could look at mine too?" Edith inquired over his scattering thoughts.


    Sleep deprivation had such a way of pressuring the senses. Every movement felt sluggish; the mind turned in on itself and emotions became dulled. But the thing could not be mistaken for calmness. It was a condition of confusion and incomplete thought and danger because one''s capacity for critical thinking was compromised and taken down fantastical and drunken roads.


    Betelgeuse nodded.


    With furtive steps she closed the distance between them and cracked open the ashen covers, revealing to his vision a page the color of pumice and calligraphy that was scratchy and unpolished. The absent mind wandered further and wondered if there were not some relationship between the material manifestation that was the Incunabulum and a person''s inner world; then the Will appeared, an eroded thing, phosphorescent against a dark and dimming awareness, to steer the spirit back down familiar roads, familiar paths.


    <blockquote>


    Because Edith Pavlov''s early years were eclipsed by a constant fear borne of incessant abuse, she is extremely sensitive to threats of violence regardless of form.


    </blockquote>


    "Okay. Keep it. Quickly."


    Fear.


    She knows it well.


    How it must have felt, how it must have been like.


    Betelgeuse furrowed his brows.


    Similar approach to Norma''s. Try for detection. But it''s going to be difficult to sharpen an intention in the right direction. Because of exhaustion.


    The Instructor''s trying to meet a KPI. Couldn''t care less about the quality of the Etching we get, as long as we get it.


    "... Am I out of luck?"


    "Luck has nothing to do with it."


    And he fell silent, thoughts meandering through beaches of white sand pierced with half-buried bones lapped bleached and eroded by the pacing tide. He''d have wanted to see the sea again, if he could, if he knew that he was bound for a sea-less world. If on the new world there could be experienced the beauty of a yellow sun and sunrise and sunset and a blanket of constellations to which one could tether dreams, then perhaps he would be content.


    Edith''s eyes, wide and bloodshot, were darting from side to side. Frizzed hair bunched up in an eccentric coiffure that reminded him of cotton balls and static electricity. She was gnashing her teeth, looking away but always returning her hyperactive eyes to him, wondering, he was sure, if he would not help her.


    "''Sensitive'' is the starting point."


    "I-I''m not being sensitive."


    Betelgeuse clicked his tongue in annoyance. "No, the Increment. You''re ''sensitive'' to whatever. I doubt I have to tell you to focus on it, so the important part''s going to be intentionality. Obvious to me your mind is running itself out; you need to slow it down, reduce the arc of scatter."


    She blinked. "You mean sharpen the intentionality to a point. I know I need a specific intention, I just want some pointers on what I could be specific about," she mumbled.


    Betelgeuse'' attention was absorbed by the rise and fall of the hammerfist as Aminata ''the Darkskin'' tried to beat his opponent''s brains out.


    "... This sensitivity to violence, I suppose you''ll suggest I focus on the opponent''s strikes, try to make a telegraph out of what I''m sensitive to."


    "That''s one obvious way¡­ but, thinking through your Increment, and especially the last phrase¡ªwhat was it again?"


    "Regardless of form¡­ ah, I see," her eyes narrowed as her paranoid hyperactivity was subsumed under meaningful thought.


    "Yes. The words that comprise the Increment are markers of intentionality. It''s up to you to supply the meaning but always within the limits of the Ash Incunabulum. I seem to recall a paper studying how human beings have through millennia evolved sophisticated but subconscious means of interpreting physiognomies. That''s something to think about here, say for example recognizing threats based on expression or body language. Your Etchings might go down similar to Norma''s."


    "I-I see. She didn''t tell me about hers¡­" she trailed off, and Betelgeuse sensed the palpitations of nervous energy gradually start to recede from her body.


    "In fact," she piped up again, "talking with you¡­"


    Dried skin stretched taut over cheekbones and cartilage makes soup from essences of fat and flesh from whence the discomfort is gotten be none other than strictures of time immemorial run on to modern day by the mediums of superstructures which control and create hierarchy but also harbor within the seeds of self-destruction which considering must concede a cannibalistic streak thwarted only by sublimating will to an order-making overlord of eternal fidelity by which slavish impulses to sin might be given over to the prudential wisdom of one construct sentient or no but without flesh-fat that might cross the edge of mortal knowledge into noumena thus transubstantiating the desire to halt the ineluctable progress of entropy¡ª


    "¡­ it makes me think ''violence'' can be a key word also," Edith breathed, the shapes behind her pupils turning a violet shade silhouetting painful memories that had made her and broken her and gifted such desire that things had not come to be, "''violence'' can be many things, right? There are forty-three muscles in the human face according to the Medical Authority and potentially more ways for it to shift than all the grains of sand on Earth. A whispered word, a pretense to love, deception. I think¡­ I can work with it."


    "I¡­ if you take it that far¡­ to my mind the further you take it, the harder it''s going to be to crystallize a clear definition to serve as an appropriate marker of intentionality. You''ll be seeing violence in things I wouldn''t describe as such."


    Her eyes looked brighter to Betelguese than it had heretofore been. Something approaching a smile had settled at the corners where bruises met parched lips.


    "But I know. The words are markers of my intentionality, aren''t they? I''ve been mistaken before, seen ghosts where there were none. But the violence I recognize is specific enough that I can be sure of it when I see it."


    Betelgeuse opened his mouth, about to reply, then closed it. Perplexity gradually turned to understanding.


    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Interesting.


    "I can see how that would work," Betelgeuse gaped, then nodded, impressed. Some of his exhaustion had dissipated under the exigencies of grappling with the problem Edith had posed.


    After all, there was a kind of multifarious tension involved in the use and navigation of language.


    On the one hand a society could technically define the meaning of a word however it wanted, but whatever this definition was, a dictionary could only ever provide half of the story, given the empirical fact that such artifacts of language were in constant flux.


    On the other hand, groups of all kinds and sizes (and differing political power) might enlist language to specialized uses and meanings, over time creating an idiomatic use which promulgated according to the fortunes of such group. The new meaning might eventually become recognized as the ''correct'' meaning, or it would disappear into obscurity, or the word itself might fall into disuse and then disappear into obscurity, amongst others.


    Betelgeuse half-remembered the story of the word ''nice'', which he must have gleaned from the obscure tomes collecting dust in the basement of the E-Zeta library. Though possibly apocryphal, those books had taught how ''nice'' had been a historically flexible word which had at various points pre-Old Empire took on new habits and sometimes habits of inverted color. Some of the most ancient definitions of ''nice'', for example, referred (of a person or action) to ''foolish'', ''silly'', ''simple'' or ignorant'', or (of conduct and/or behavior), ''characterized by or encouraging wantonness or lasciviousness'', or even ''faint-hearted'', ''timorous'', ''cowardly'', ''unmanly''. Over time, ''nice'' variously came to mean ''strange'', ''rare'', ''extraordinary'', ''shy'', ''coy'', ''reserved'', ''slender'', ''thin'' and/or ''insubstantial'', not all of those meanings being in play at the same place or at the same time.


    To his knowledge the meaning of ''nice'' had only crystallized around the dawning of the age of the Old Empire, at the time meaning roughly ''agreeable'', ''pleasant'' and/or ''satisfactory'', or sometimes ''attractive''.


    Now, in the world that the Incunabula had created, every person could speak to themselves and make power with that alone, by virtue of the catalysts that were the Increments and Etchings born out of an individual''s infinite recursion into herself. Her language had become a kind of asexually reproduced product which recognized as its parents only the individual and the individual''s conception of her past participation in community.


    "Betelgeuse," an unfamiliar voice called out to him, just as his internal monologue started to flag for lack of further energy. Edith jerked her head in its direction and, momentarily nonplussed, bowed her head and wilted into the background, clutching her hands to her front pouch.


    Voke.


    He was a meek little man and effeminate, this Voke, but handsome as a chrysanthemum is handsome.


    Betelgeuse expelled air through his smarting nose in a bad substitute for a sigh. Some of his peers had too much energy.


    "Voke Thatcher," he introduced himself, raising a hand that never found mooring.


    When it became clear Betelgeuse wasn''t going to take the handshake, he folded his wrist back into his armpit and continued in a soft mumble that was barely discernible from self-talk at first, but which gradually stabilized at an audible level "...re thinking of staging an escape. The way Michael and the others¡­ the way they see it, this is all a load of bull. If we start then the others are going to follow no doubt about it¡­"


    Betelguese, arms folded across his chest, left hand grasping a baton and right hand idling at his left tricep, raised his right palm. Voke''s voice caught.


    ''Escape?'' Betelguese mouthed, his right eyebrow arching.


    "Yes," Voke whispered.


    "Stupid," Betelguese concluded.


    "... um¡­ now wait here a minute. First of all, there''s a hundred and fourteen of us and one of him."


    "The lack of sleep''s getting to you," Betelgeuse exasperated. "There''s a hundred or more of him in other rooms, doing much the same, Voke. It''s goddamn stupid is what it is."


    Betelgeuse neglected to mention they had all flown here in LSVs, and he sure didn''t see any LSV lying around waiting to be commandeered; he didn''t care enough to raise the obvious, nor did he feel like hearing out the harebrained scheme they had cooked up to address this glaring hole.


    "Look, Michael''s thought the whole thing out¡­" Voke entreated, his expression becoming strained.


    "You really got on good terms with him after the trouncing he gave you."


    Sighing deeply, Voke stepped away, making for the other end of the arena.


    <hr>


    They were in the canteen but his appetite had all but disappeared.


    He sat and stared at his steaming pile of pasta, tailbone pulsing deeply with pain where it had impacted upon concrete.


    Edith was with him again, poking incessantly at a clot of soup that seemed to share the same ethnicity as the curdles that had previously so absorbed her.


    "Stop that," Betelgeuse muttered. Edith glanced at him and then twiddled with her thumbs. Softening his gaze, he added, "you can eat mine if you want. I''ve got no appetite."


    Betelgeuse scanned the space, passing his eyes over the ovens, the row of mechanized arms, the queue of shuffling zomboid creatures, the gender-segregated washrooms (where a line of female cadets had spilled over onto the auburn tiles), the tables over which other dark-eyed cadets were brooding¡­


    He did not see Shinzo nor any of batch designation 246-D.


    The reverie of a quarter-hour passed with him drifting into and out of unconsciousness, when a tap on his shoulder jolted him to attention. It was a staff dressed in a doctor''s coat and cyan facemask, looking down at him, calling his name, pronouncing it tortuously and incorrectly.


    He stared at the stranger through bleary eyes.


    The stranger narrowed his eyes impatiently and asked again and Betelgeuse answered. He was to follow this person quickly; whatever it was, it was urgent.


    He threw a quick and questioning glance at Edith, and then he was trailing behind billowing coat flaps, the man''s broad shoulders leading Betelgeuse down the line and past whirring machinery; then it was into the kitchens, where jabbering human cooks grappled with cadaverous machinery and checked this gauge or that portion size, this manifest or that specification.


    Beyond the kitchens were rows of storage rooms, musty like the ancient armories back at E-Zeta, the gray concrete flooring unlacquered and splotched and grease-darkened by generations past.


    They passed personnel dressed in the purple-gray uniform of the military, whose boots clacked smartly along the breezy halls and up the stairwell, unto white-painted double doors hung with a silvered name plate.


    Conference Room 12.


    Cracking the door open halfway, he ushered Betegeuse in, but did not follow.


    Seeing the man''s furtiveness, the swirl of confusion that had entangled Betelgeuse over the duration of the short excursion gave way to anticipation and curiosity. He slipped in sideways through the portal, into the warm glow and onto the garish paisley carpeting, when someone familiar caught the corner of his eye.


    "¡­ Betelguese¡­ is that you? Gods¡­ what happened?"


    It was the furthest thing from what he had expected. Chrysilla lurched from the chair, coming close to him and then hugging him gently, her side pouch patting his thigh softly as it danced on nylon straps.


    "I am astonished."


    "Oh, shut up. You smell terrible," she sniffled.


    "I feel terrible."


    "You jest," she breathed, and then squeezed hard enough to hurt his bruised ribs. He forced himself not to flinch.


    "What happened to you?" Chrysilla asked, raising her face to look at the piece of discolored gauze clinging to his face, concern evident in her expression. "And what happened here?"


    "Broke my nose. They make us fight ''cause they''re trying to force Etchings," Betelgeuse monotoned. "Why am I here?"


    "I¡­ I asked the Docent if I could return to E-Zeta to see you. He told me you were still in the facility because¡­"


    "Because I''m an Ash grade?"


    "B.T. ¡­ who the hell cares? I badgered the old man until he let me meet you. See if I don''t complain to the Docent¡ª"


    "It''s not going to work. They''re sending us to the Frontier, some place called Desert. P-D-S 70. Quickly, what day is it? What time?"


    "Wednesday, eleven in the night. What the heck do you mean? They''re not going to let you go home?"


    A rap on the door and a muffled voice. Two minutes, no more.


    "Look, listen to me, listen to me" Betelguese stressed, grasping her upper arms with his hands, her eyelids fluttering above sapphire pupils. "There''s a standing Requisition Order that we''re to be sent to Desert¡ªno way you or I can do anything about it. Tell Mom and Dad I''m fine, if you see them. Tell them I''m an Ash¡ªthey deserve to know. But see here it''s very likely tomorrow''s the embarkation¡­"


    "What!? We''ve got to get you out¡ª"


    "Stop wasting time. Gold or not, it''s a Requisition Order we''re talking about. Chrysilla," he entreated, "can you do something for me?"


    "Anything," she breathed.


    "I need information on the Chimerae. Anything you''re able to find. As much as the messenger loads will handle¡ªget it over to P-D-S 70, Desert; remember, P-D-S 70, Desert. I can''t recall the designation, but it''s Desert, the planet''s name. I''ve a batch designation, 2-4-7-B. I don''t know how convenient it will be to access the messenger relay, but I will try, so this means you''ll have to use a cipher. I don''t want them thinking I''m trying to bypass the Firewall or circumvent the goddamn propaganda."


    "Like when we were kids?"


    "Yes, like when we were kids. As for the key¡­ we''ll use yours."


    "Nighti¡ª"


    "Yes, yes, no need to say."


    Another spiccato rap of knucklebone upon plastic.


    "Okay, okay¡ª" Betelgeuse managed, glancing at the door and releasing his grip on Chrysilla.


    "Wait! B.T., I wanted to show it to you," Chrysilla clutched at his smelly sleeve, her left hand producing the Golden Incunabulum from her side pouch. The first page lay open, and on it, he saw:


    <blockquote>


    Because the truest wish of Chrysilla Nightingale''s consciousness is to hold things close together, hers is the power to influence gravity as she sees fit.


    </blockquote>


    "Fits you," Betelgeuse smiled.


    "When will I see you again?" she asked, eyes shining.


    The words rolled off his tongue, subconscious artifact of something someone had said to him recently.


    "It''s Heisenberg uncertainty."

 Chapter 9: The Plan Was Doomed From the Start

    Through the mind''s gloaming haze, he saw them approach.


    It''s obvious, we saw you snooping about the canteen, talking to one of the staff. You''re trying to leave¡ªyou can''t tell us you don''t want to leave, he said.


    Michael Thane. He had very pale skin, which only made the purple splotches stand out more. Where the skin folded at the joints of his elbow Betelgeuse observed rough and sallow patches, like sod or mold had rooted itself therein. Voke stood to the side with a complicated expression, his hands clasped behind his back like a butler or a priest giving a homily. An oily, tangled shock of hair quivered above eyes darting and furtive.


    Betelgeuse took pains to articulate that he was not interested. The plan was stupid from beginning to end. They would do the Instructor in then leave and run around like headless chickens. Somehow they''d stumble across an LSV or two just waiting to be seized by a bunch of adolescents; by then they''d have the keys and the skills and the piloting expertise to fly the machines out from under the noses of the Stewards of the Library at the Edge, which counted among their ranks a legion or more Primary and Bronze grades.


    Quite a tall order.


    We''re coming to you because we know you''re like us, we can see it, someone who has his head in the right place, Michael wheedled, looking at Voke to back him up.


    Indeed, like us, Voke parroted.


    Who else is with you, Betelgeuse asked. They didn''t even try to address any of Betelgeuse'' points. It would be an exercise in futility; more than that, it would be dangerous. They were right, of course¡ªhe wanted nothing more than to leave. But there was somebody important to him he wanted to take home, somebody who had already been committed to the advancement of the Democracy; he was trapped, for now.


    We have ten or more. Good fighters. We have Petrovich and the Darkskin and Douglas McKay. Once we start, everyone will follow, you know. They won''t stand for this sort of treatment much longer. This place is a powder keg; you''ll know what I mean if you know where to look.


    In the arena there were two sluggish forms playing around in the mud, lumbering, heavy-footed, ponderable. They were swinging around sticks in a pantomime of the old stories, where there might have been feudal warlords struggling for territory or samurai fighting for succession or knights in armor saving damsels in distress. These were the human stories he had grown up with, and all of it featured fights to grab the attention of children. Now that he was older, he was still watching the same fights, the same pretense to glory and the ''general good''.


    It won''t work, Betelgeuse said. It''s just a story you made up.


    It isn''t. I''ve talked with the others, Michael insisted. Everybody''s tired, everybody hates him. Everybody wants to go home. Don''t you want to go home, like the other grades? Why should we be treated worse than them?


    I know why you''re asking me. It''s because Rolf''s too crazy to talk to, and Gombrovich''s too smart to get dragged into this, Betelgeuse asserted. I don''t think you appreciate the circumstances we find ourselves in.


    Michael wasn''t very happy at this. There was much gritting and gnashing of teeth, as he ran through every expression that might plausibly repudiate Betelgeuse'' pronouncement.


    Yes, it is not wise to do this, someone whispered from behind, and Betelgeuse turned his head to see Edith. She had crept closer, as if summoned by their activity.


    Michael was staring at Betelgeuse and Voke was staring at Edith and Betelgeuse was staring at the thespians playing to the script of the Instructor, just one step removed from puppets.


    And then Betelgeuse ran his gaze over the other one hundred and eight people in the room. Their expressions were even more ragged than he imagined, with eyes that bored hatefully into the person of their master. Time dilated, as uncertainties and hypotheticals coalesced into the present inevitability. His intuition flared its warning.


    One of them was prowling forward, a man, his cheeks tensed, his jaw a sleek cliff of muscle streaked and dripping with blood. The blood was seeping through his lips and his eyes were wide and unseeing, mad with anger, brimming with a monstrous intent.


    Don''t do it. It''s the lack of sleep, Betelgeuse whispered. It''s stupidity.


    Guo Xun had no plan and no desire to act according to one when he brought the bo down upon the arc of Zephyr''s parietal bone.


    The puppets stopped and turned, suddenly bereft of strings.


    Zephyr, the back of his head dented and bleeding, had whipped around with impressive speed and managed to grasp the offending weapon. His expression, so still over the previous days, seemed to have cracked down the middle.


    But Michael had seen the opportunity and hollered something. What it was, Betelgeuse could not say. A gaggle of ragged cadets ambled into action, their weapons held before them. Michael had told the truth after all, when he said they had ten or more.


    There was Petrovich and Aminata, Zachariah Greenberg and Lawrence Gomez-Evans. There was walleyed Douglas, his orbs oscillating wildly. There was Frederica Jaine and Liam King and more besides, all of whom pounced on the Instructor, possessed by a sort of frenzy.


    Rolf stood on the sidelines, watching with interest. Gombrovich had slunk away to the edge of the room, where Norma was, crossing his arms to cup at his pectorals and grinning silently. Those that were not involved had begun to make their way thereto.


    Betelgeuse'' mind, though dulled, intuited that this was a very bad situation and that he might not want to remain in close proximity. Through the brainfog he sensed that Edith remained beside him. He stared, however, rapt. It was like something he''d seen before, in a dream or a nightmare, and who could say he was not dreaming right now?


    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    Guo Xun had fallen to the floor, choking and grabbing on to his throat; Petrovich managed a good hit with his baton, and the Instructor''s head spilled a curtain of blood down his face. A Logan H. Dulles had attached himself to Zephyr''s leg, stabbing into it with the splintered edge of his weapon, the wound streaming liquid that mingled with the clotting streaks upon the cold concrete. Frederica, who had swung her bo but missed and knocked someone''s teeth out, redoubled her efforts and aimed for the nape.


    The next moment, Logan found two of Zephyr''s fingers within his cheek, the digits having punched through the outside of his face up to the knuckle; Guo Xun had regained his feet and, still sputtering froth from purple lips, set upon Zephyr with his bo, managing to get it over Zephyr''s head and under his neck, choking him from the rear. Frederica had swerved around to the front and swung her weapon down onto Zephyr''s face, breaking his nose in.


    Half gasping for air and half howling, Zephyr bucked and kicked like an animal; Guo Xun held on resolutely, an experienced bullrider intent on outlasting his bull.


    Seeing that Zephyr was flagging, some of the other cadets joined the fray. They were baying for blood now, and they were going to tear him apart.


    The sound of lurching metal assailed Betelgeuse'' ears, as the portals at the far end opened all at one.


    A riot troop armored in black plate, streaming into the space and brandishing stun batons crackling with electricity. Helmeted in navy thermoplastic and anonymized by opaque visors, they advanced with inhuman speed, moving almost as fast as Zephyr himself.


    Betelgeuse cursed, finally jolted out of his stupor, realizing that he, and Edith crouched a quarter-step behind his calf, stood mere paces away from the carnage.


    He didn''t have time to wonder what the hell she was doing. Grasping Edith by her arm, Betelgeuse wrenched her up and around and planted a foot into her glute, sending her stumbling violently away and onto the ground.


    Betelgeuse didn''t even see them arrive. They were before him and then he felt his body go numb as it juddered uncontrollably, then limp as he fell to the floor. He saw the boot come up above his face before it introduced him to the sweet embrace of darkness.


    <hr>


    Through the mind''s gloaming haze, he saw them approach.


    Frigid water was thrown into his face to purge the stupor from his mind; and suddenly he became aware of the shackles which bound him to the immovable steel chair.


    The room was uncomfortably bright. More unrelenting white light than he could handle. He groaned and then jerked as more freezing water was thrown onto him, soaking his cadet-suit through.


    Before him was a wizened man with a bulbous head and sharp features, seated across a table fashioned of gray steel. Flat upon the table lay a tome, brown as brick under the white glare, an Incunabulum of Ash grade. His Incunabulum.


    The man''s cheeks were gaunt and the skin around his lips bunched and folded like gills; a desiccated man, made brittle and sinewy by age. The top of his head was bald and shiny; long, wispy strands of dirty gray completed the tonsure. Behind him stood a silent sentinel suited from head to toe in heavy-duty combat armor, his features obscured by a polarized visor.


    They caught you for mutiny, the wizened man said. His voice was raspy and indistinct.


    Mutiny and the attempted murder of a non-commissioned officer of the Tellus Armed Forces, he clarified. It is a serious charge.


    Betelgeuse coughed.


    There are no mitigating factors, the man declared.


    Check the cameras, Betelgeuse managed. I didn''t participate. I didn''t do anything. I merely watched.


    There are no cameras, he returned. The victim confirmed you had participated.


    Nonsense, all nonsense, Betelgeuse spat.


    Do you have anything further to say in your defense, he asked.


    I didn''t participate, I did nothing, Betelgeuse insisted.


    On the evidence available, I have to make a decision between yours and the victim''s conflicting statements. I find it probable that you are lying and the victim is telling the truth, he said.


    Ask the others, the others that were there. They saw everything. They can testify to my innocence, Betelgeuse said.


    The proceedings of this military tribunal are secret and in the circumstances the demands of justice do not outweigh the demands of confidentiality. It will not be possible to arrange for an interview with your peers, Mr. Sakar, nor will it be possible to admit any of their statements by way of affidavit, the man returned.


    Betelgeuse stared daggers at the wizened man, knowing that the decision had already been made. The whole thing had been pointless.


    I ask you again, Mr. Sakar, do you have anything further to say in your defense, the man inquired.


    Betelgeuse did not answer.


    Then, it is my responsibility to inform you that, for the crime of mutiny and and the attempted murder of a non-commissioned officer of the Tellus Armed Forces, abbreviated T-A-F, I sentence you to branding and ten years'' service in the 67th Penal Legion stationed on carbon exoplanet 541-B, designation Desert, the man pronounced. Pursuant to the TAF Handbook I will mete out the corporal punishment summarily.


    The visored guard beside bent down and produced from within an adjacent cabinet a ceramic bucket the color of brick. It was filled with hot coals that steamed flakes of ash which danced chaotically under the hanging OLED. A long handle insulated with what looked like black thermoplastic stuck out the top and leaned upon the coal-streaked rim.


    The wizened man grasped the haft and revealed the red-hot branding iron fastened to the business end. It was shaped as an ''X'', the letter ''M'' grooved into a boss protruding in the middle where the strokes crossed.


    Be glad you have not been tried for treason, the man intoned, his expression gray and colorless.


    Betelgeuse gritted his teeth.


    The next moment, the brand was forced onto his forehead, and his skin exploded with searing pain.


    The sound of sizzling and frying flesh skipped against his eardrums, the smell vaguely reminding him of the annual roast pig they enjoyed back in Edom-Zeta.


    He bit into his lip until it bled; against the onslaught of lacerating pain, he willed himself silent.


    His eyes stared deep and red into nothing in particular.

 Chapter 10: Aboard the Ship to Perdition

    Static noise issued from the overhead terminal as the on-ship receiver was shorn from dimensional proximality. No transmitter could reach them in this quiet interstice between spaces.


    The Vespertilio. Schooner-class transport ship. Carrying capacity: 500,000 deadweight tonnage (under 1g gravity conditions). Their ticket to Desert.


    They were ensconced deep within the hull of the ship, inside a room just high and wide enough for ten double-decker bunk beds to be squeezed in while still allowing for a single person to fit sideways into the apertures between.


    The ''Cage'', the inhabitants called it, because the space was windowless and too cramped for twenty people to live inside comfortably, and because their movement outside it was severely restricted.


    There were no days and nights onboard the Vespertilio. Every ''period'' lasted twenty-four hours and counted for remuneration purposes as a workday which began at 0530h and ended at 2100h. For the denizens of the Cage, however, remuneration was capped at a maximum of 50 credits per month on account of their status as members of the Penal Legion. They could exchange their credits for extra food in the mess; the going rate was 0.5 credits per extra serving of carbohydrates, 1 credit per extra serving of protein and 1.5 credits per extra meal.


    It was 2130h and the lights buzzing blue-white overhead had sixty minutes of existence left this period. The air was claustrophobic with sweet and sour scents birthed from the miscegenation of unwashed bodies and chemical freshener; every breath tasted like mold besides, as if spores from long-forgotten species of fungi had taken root in the ancient vents and suffused into the recycled currents circulated by sputtering mechanical conditioners.


    "Froot bar?"


    "Woah!"


    "Holy shit, how''d you manage it?"


    "Quack slipped it to me earlier at the mess, that''s how¡­"


    "How did he sneak it past? They said they got checked ''afore they scanned their Incs into the Manifold system right?"


    "Pilfed it from the canteen back on Earth, then stuck it into his underwear¡ª"


    Disgusted yells¡ªa retch or two¡ªfilled the room


    "Fuckin'' wretched¡ª"


    "¡ªgoddamn ape¡ª"


    "¡ªJit''s crazy, man¡ª"


    Betelgeuse lay sideways on his bed, his back turned to the group of prattlers, his head depressed uncomfortably far into his foam pillow. Artificial gravity was set at 1.3gs, they said, to acclimatize them, they said.


    He shifted his head further to the side, his face now up so close to the aluminum-composite sidings the Cage called walls that every labored breath blew moisture onto its surface. The breathlessness lay cold and icy in his lungs, but if he concentrated hard enough he found that he could banish it temporarily. Any measure of control was welcome.


    He inspected the surface before him and found it gray and smooth and blindingly reflective. Their source of light was a tempered-glass OLED, he decided, passing his vision across the coruscating swells of white-upon-gray even as he fingered the smooth ridges of keloid that had been pressed into his forehead. It had healed and no longer hurt much, but it was a mark that would not go away.


    "... Well, do you have grape?"


    "Three grapes, five oranges is all."


    "I asked first, I''m taking grape¡­"


    "...What about Dog Balls over there?" someone asked, and Betelgeuse recognized in its unaffected gentleness the voice of Voke.


    "Dunno, hasn''t talked all trip. Think he''s getting all weird," came the reply in tones deep but female.


    And they descended again into arguing about nothing and about who had gotten in the most hits upon the ''moid'' Instructor and perhaps who had the biggest balls when it came to standing their ground against the great black wave of cronies it took to put them down.


    A bugle call screamed across the PA, its strains synthetic and tinny, signaling the end of shower time for the rest of the crew. Now it was their turn, whilst the others made their preparations for tomorrow''s reveille.


    Betelgeuse stayed where he was, eyeing dark figures hinge, fold, recede and then disappear from the bulbous globes of reflected light. Sounds of scuffling, gibes and muffled expletives faded away into the corridor, as the other Penal Legion Personnel (abbrev. PLPs) rushed to cleanse themselves of the period''s dirt.


    Someone poked him in the shoulder and he whipped his head around. Voke, holding out a fruitbar. A tangled mess of knotty hair obscured from view the brand Betelgeuse knew he shared with the rest of the Cage.


    "I got one for you, in case you were wanting any."


    "... There were enough to go around?"


    "Nup. Dis'' my share."


    Betelgeuse turned and sat up so that his legs dangled off the bed frame and touched the floor. He took the plastic packet into his palm and inspected the crinkled surface closely; upon it had been printed a picture of a thick, swarthy and barbate man dressed in a plaid shirt and denim jeans and hugging a rather oversized orange that he could not completely encircle with his hairy forearms. The man in the picture seemed to be emitting a faint odor of ammonia.


    "Not showering?" Voke inquired, his eyes dark and tentative.


    "Didn''t sweat much today," Betelgeuse returned, his attention still utterly focused on the composition of the rustic image. The man''s features were broad and rather bovine, and his eyes were inked too far apart. His wide smile revealed perfectly aligned bleached-white teeth that split his face horizontally. The orange he held was an imperfect sphere of spotty beiges textured roughly. He''d heard that oranges really did grow that big in Naga Valley, though he never saw one in his life.


    "I mean, I know we only had chores and weapons introduction today, and that Chimerae documentary, but¡­ you know¡­ the others are gonna complain¡­"


    "You know, maybe you should go and shower yourself," Betelgeuse proposed, shifting the full weight of his attention to Voke.


    "Yes, of course, I was going to," Voke said, rubbing at the nape of his neck and grinning sheepishly. A gut reaction to confrontation, Betelgeuse realized. "But I just wanted to talk and ¡­ uh¡­"


    "I''ll get to the showers shortly, don''t worry. And thanks for the bar."


    "My pleasure," Voke grinned again, and then rolled his eyes to the side to look at the spotless wall and then down to inspect the grout between the floor tiles. Betelgeuse wondered if he were somehow related to Edith.


    "What is it?"


    "I''m just wondering if¡­ y''know¡­ if you''re feeling okay?"


    "What''s that supposed to mean?"


    "I¡­ because we got you caught up in all the mess back on Earth, and you''re not really supposed to be here, I think. The TAF made a mistake, was what I thought."


    "You and I both. What''s done is done, though. It''s too much to ask of institutions to do the right thing, when it really matters. We''re not a part of the system they protect."


    Voke raised a quizzical eyebrow.


    "Oh. You''re referring to the Ash thing," Voke returned, his expression suddenly thoughtful. "They just made a mistake, didn''t they?"


    "If so it''s a systematic mistake, borne of congenital blindness. Ash grades aren''t really anything but fodder to them. They''re sending us to fight and die for a system that''s cut us out from any way to benefit."


    "I don''t really see it that way¨Cour parents live on the largesse of the Democracy, do they not? Even though they''re Ash grades like us. There''s a social contract built on mutual contribution and reciprocity, I don''t think it''ll have worked out any other way."


    The hiss and suck and sputter of the air vents made the interpolating silence very quiet. A minute passed like this, as Betelgeuse weighed his words carefully. The plastic-wrapped fruitbar still lay in his palm, crinkling softly.


    "That''s a way of putting it which I doubt can sound really wrong. Which if you think about it, is the whole problem in the first place. Maybe it''s not correct for me to say there''s no way we can benefit. What I am saying is that they have made a cosmos of this God-given right to rule, this suzerain-like authority to say that we should fight and die for the sake of their power and have it be true. The mark of human hands is quite apparent somewhere between ''sacrifice for the greater good'' and ''truth'', and those are the hands that have meant death for your ancestors and that will mean death for all of us, eventually."


    "What''s true is true and what''s not is not true," Voke asserted, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his discomfort apparent in his expression. "In the end, what can we really do? If it were true, and I don''t believe it is, but if it were true that the Instructor and the TAF and¡­ and the Council of Cardinals and the Bishopric all the way up the line to Hierarch Mundivaga herself, and the innumerable guilds scattered across the Democracy besides, if it were true that they were only in it for themselves then the thing could never exist. And we''d be like animals living a tortuous existence and daily closer to death anyway."


    Their eyes had locked and Betelgeuse could see a deep distress welling up from behind his dark pupils.


    "Humanity''s grand project is fueled by the efforts and lives of a trillion trillion souls," Voke continued, breaking eye contact and turning his shoulders as far as the thin space between the bunkbeds permitted him, "and in it every soul gives up the greater part so that the smaller part might live immortal. My words fail me and I don''t think anyone here would believe me, maybe, not Michael and certainly not Douglas. But this is why I think, in the end, mutineer or not, every human soul and every life and death is inextricably bound to the Democracy."


    Betelgeuse released a breath.


    "In the first place life never had any value to it except by way of the medium we chose to express it," Betelgeuse said, his stare unwavering. "Who can say that meaningful life as such can only be obtained under the Democracy, or can only be expressed by way of the mediums approved by the Democracy? Can''t you see that you are appropriating to yourself the same kind of power to decide truth which the Hierarch and the Founding Families do? I''m not talking about the kind of truth which says the square is a quadrilateral and two add two is four; rather, they''ve appropriated for themselves the role of arbiter over the kind of truth which makes a society and puts Golden on top and Ash below! I don''t know about human souls, but even if a man''s soul is not his own, it surely is not God''s or the Democracy''s! I''ll not submit myself to the power of any of them¡­"


    Voke''s eyes shifted to his feet, and then the entrance. He didn''t want to listen anymore.


    The ire was rising within Betelgeuse'' gut as his words passed his lips, when a kind of chill seeped into his body and gripped his heart with fear. His muscles began to twitch, slowly at first, and then increasing in intensity until he could hardly keep his flesh from vibrating upon the bed. He sensed a presence behind him, almost as if it was his self, the disembodied self looking at him through mirrored eyes. He whipped his head around and saw only the foam pillow, below which he had stowed his Incunabulum.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    The chill lifted and a queer invigoration seemed to suffuse his bones. Then, exhaustion interposed, canceling out completely the shards of anger that still inflamed his spleen with surplus to spare.


    "There''s someone I met down there in the TAF canteen who had had a brother who died in the previous incursion. He must have loved him very much. I knew he''d consigned his brother''s soul to the Democracy," Betelgeuse said softly. "Just because they die for a cause doesn''t mean you associate everything that person was, his entire existence, with the cause. You keep his memory with you and your use of critical thinking. You think deeply about the cause and, if it''s wrong, you bear the burden of it, and his share too. Why do they make the dead bear their burdens? The living should bear the burdens of the dead. It''s fuckin'' unethical use of dead labour, that''s what."


    Voke returned his attention to Betelgeuse, his face scrunched up in a frown. Betelgeuse wondered what the ''X'' looked like under all that hair.


    "I have uncles and aunts who died too, in the last incursion. Fifteen years and we still honor them every year. Human beings weren''t made to bear the burden of their dead. It''s too difficult and I''ve yet to know someone who can keep sane for all that."


    Betelgeuse simply sighed and raised his hand, pointing at the digital clock blinking yellow above the doorhead.


    <hr>


    Life aboard the Vespertilio ran according to a strict schedule.


    Reveille, 0530h. The PLPs would be shunted to the mess kitchens to assist the cooks to prepare breakfast, while the rest of the personnel performed their ablutions. Purple onions, white and red radishes, cloves of garlic, pinch of asafoetida, cinnamon bark and assorted ground chilis; powdered cardamom, cloves, cumin, fennelseeds and yellow onion; rice shavings left over from the process of rice polishing; and more, ancient foods all which had sustained the human race for millennia, sourced from the great vathouses of Ch¨¨x¨©ch¨¦ng and then flash-frozen at negative sixty degrees Celsius to kill any of the lethally poisonous Carragon parasites, so ubiquitous to the Sinic continent, which might have found their way into the food.


    The vegetables would be thawed, processed, and then cooked in oil extracted from the Helianthus trietericus, and then the spices would go in. The soup-curry would then be assembled in a vat and brought to a boil; a package of carcasses, which the kindly cook Joseph explained were a kind of rodent originating from the Rocky Mesa prairieland, would be thawed and processed into bite-sized chunks of meat, then seared and added (together with fond and deglazing alcohol) into the burbling vat.


    Breakfast would be served by 0630h and by 0730h the PLPs and cooks would have their repast and then commence the post-breakfast wash-up.


    By 0900h, the PLPs would be attached to a contingent of Grade 1 Personnel comprising Hollows and Whites and marched to a lecture hall to endure one and a half hours of documentaries and/or lectures on Desert. This covered a variety of topics including its topography, material make-up, natural hazards and formations, flora and fauna and its history; it explicated the relationship of suzerainty between the Democracy and the internally autonomous Sylvan Protectorate, the thorny political compromise which had brokered the fifty-year ceasefire between the Protectorate and several belligerent rebel groups, the material importance of Desert as a rich source of Bismuth and thus Polonium, and the strategic importance of the Protectorate fortress-city of Saltilla as the location of a Transportation Gate (and thus the importance of Desert to the whole Frontier), among other things.


    1030h would see the PLPs gathered at the on-board Infirmary for some time with the mobile Rejuvenator unit, to heal the fractures and internal injuries sustained during their short sojourn at the TAF training facility. It was the only sliver of time available to the PLPs, the rest of the period''s slots having been taken up by the main body of Ash cadets and higher grade personnel, all of whom enjoyed precedence over the PLPs.


    Rejuvenator units comprised three components: a helmet, a corded insulated wire and a pulse-patch which went over the approximate area of the body affected and which was connected to the helmet by way of the wire. There were three Rejuvenator units aboard the Vespertilio, all of which suffered from some sort of mechanical quirk. Unit number 94000012, for example, didn''t seem to be able to heal internal lacerations unless someone applied constant pressure on the corded wire to push it into the recessed interface upon the Rejuvenator head-piece. Unit number 94000415, in contrast, had to be fiddled with¡ªthe wires twisted clockwise or anticlockwise, the helmet slapped upside the ribbed spine that ran across its top, the flexible pulse-patch folded and then unfolded¡ªuntil a kind of fragile balance was achieved; once it was made to work, the slightest jog would cause the unit to shut down. Unit number 94000002 was perhaps the most enigmatic one of all: the Medicae informed them that, by virtue of some malfunction or other, it could only really work on patients whose pulse ran 120 beats or more per minute, and recommended that prospective users perform some moderate exercise throughout the Rejuvenator session.


    By the third of these sessions Lawrence ''the Limp'' Gomez-Evans was whingeing about the stupidity of his fellow PLPs, cursing the fact that none of them knew how to fix "the goddamn things". Aminata wondered aloud how much of a pity it was that Lawrence had been born a retard with a small peen, and perhaps if he had a normal functioning brain and semi-average penis-size he might have been chosen by the Bronze Incunabula and been able to fix "the goddamn things" himself. Frederica had chortled more loudly than usual.


    These equipment surely lived up to the designation ''military grade'', Michael Thane had commented drily. Those who heard him couldn''t help but nod sagely.


    By 1100h the PA would announce the opening of the entertainment lounges and gym for the period, whilst the PLPs would enter the kitchen again to help with lunch.


    1300h, time enough for the PLPs to shove meatballs or battered fish down their gullets and reach the exercise hall by no later than 1315h for their mandatory accimatization regimen. They would endure the gauntlet of running, tabata, resistance training and combat training under the watchful eye of Instructor Parsiphal, who rarely ended training before someone or other emptied the contents of their stomach all over the ragged, sweaty mats.


    Desert, Instructor Parsiphal was wont to stress, was no joke. Being larger and denser than Earth, it boasted 1.3gs of gravitational force, and hence the Vespertilio''s artificial gravity wells were set to mimic this. They had to get used to running and fighting under these conditions, he said. Given the short duration of the trip, they wouldn''t be able to completely acclimatize themselves by planetfall; which meant they had to work doubly hard, if only to increase their survivability on their first foray out into enemy territory.


    Though he took pains not to show it, these sessions tended to push Betelgeuse to the very limit. He could feel the phlegm in his lungs, the icy shortness of breath. Never had he felt so inclined to curse the training of his early years, the same training that had exposed him to the coal dust that permeated the atmosphere around Edom.


    Depending on the time which the PLPs would complete their regimen, they would either enjoy a small sliver of respite or whine pitifully as they made their way down the layers of the Vespertilio. In any case they would reach the hold by no later than 1430h and split into two details. One detail had been tasked with inspecting the Vespertilio''s immense cargohold of Armored Battle Cruisers (abbrev. ABCs), LSVs, Wargrides, cranes, forklifts, and other assorted vehicles; the other detail, a voluminous arsenal comprising, amongst others, plasma boltrifles, Zenith Weaponry Elentracorp (abbrev. ZWEN) Mark-567 railguns, soundburst grenades, fragmentary grenades and assorted depleted-uranium-shrapnel (abbrev. DUS) weaponry comprising frangible bullets, grenades and claymores.


    The PLPs were allocated a total of forty days to submit a fully cross-checked manifest to second officer Garvy. Whilst it was the responsibility of the Vespertilio''s Captain Faulkner to ensure the accuracy of the cargo manifest at the point where the equipment was handed over to the Sylvan Protectorate''s officers, the actual checking had been delegated to the PLPs, "to add another layer of eyes to the checking process in order to ensure the manifest conclusively accurate".


    As far as Betelgeuse knew, theirs was the only layer of eyes to ever touched the scoured metal surfaces of the military cargo.


    At 1730h the PA would announce the closure of the entertainment lounges and gym for the period. For the PLPs, it would be back to the kitchens to help prepare a dinner of borscht and 50% ryechaff pumpernickel.


    Post-dinner, the PLPs would be seated in the lecture hall by 1930h. Sometimes a group of Grade 1 Personnel might join them in learning about the characteristics and attributes of the scythe-handed, mantis-like Chimerae, a few rudimentary facts and/or points respecting their language and system of semaphoric communication, their level of technology and method of warfare; most times they would be alone, a lonely island of twenty overseen by an irascible Parsiphal.


    This last activity would end between 2030h and 2115h, and then it was back to their bunk to rest and await their turn in the showers.


    The lights went out at 2230h, and they would do it all over again tomorrow.


    <hr>


    The PLPs were kept separate from the main body of batch designation 247-B, a kind of safeguard against the spread of ''dangerous ideology'', Betelgeuse reckoned. The Democracy was nigh on hypochondriacal, when it came to informational hygiene.


    This was the sort of practice which carried over to other areas of military life; there was no information other than what was fed through ''the proper channels''. The Vespertilio did not have a library, or if it did, the PLPs had no access to it¡ªunder these circumstances, Betelgeuse reverted to first principles: if a piece of information was combat-essential, it was likely to be true, if not, it had to be carefully analyzed and parsed of propaganda.


    On that day, which must have been their twentieth or twenty-first day aboard the Vespertilio, a young woman who could not have been much older than them joined them at the lecture hall some thirty minutes after the relevant infomentary had begun. Unlike the others, Betelgeuse had not turned back to look and did not so much as acknowledge her presence when the sound of the opening door echoed through the hall.


    He continued taking notes in efficient shorthand, his penstrokes scratching diligently across his military-issued notebook. Every piece of information was assiduously captured, to be carefully categorized later. Chimerae utilised two main types of vehicles: tanks with tracked treads to traverse the sandmarshes, and bipedals to traverse mountainous areas as well as the rocky topographies of the Jagged Fields and the Strata Basin. Chimerae ranged-weaponry included vehicle-mounted lasercannons with the capability of superheating air into plasma, and various forms of projectile weaponry roughly equivalent to certain human counterparts.


    In terms of physical makeup, Chimerae had a retractable blade attached to the dorsum of each of their prehensile appendages, which they could use to devastating effect in close combat. Chimerae were cowardly and treasonous, and commonly ingested their own fecal matter for sustenance. Chimerae social intelligence was limited to a dominance-based hierarchy¡ªi.e., the biggest and physically most intimidating Chimera in a group became its leader.


    So on and so forth. Some of it was repeated information, some of it new, some of it superfluous. All of it, he took down.


    By the end of the infomentary he had filled up about a third of his notebook; Instructor Parsiphal, who would usually have vanished by that time, revealed an unusually diligent side to himself when he descended the edgewise staircase to the front of the hall and summarized the lecture before dismissing the PLPs.


    With sighs of relief the PLPs began to saunter out of the hall; Betelgeuse had just risen from his chair when the woman called out to Parsiphal.


    "Instructor, I wish to speak with this one alone," she said, her voice so polite and refined it tickled Betelgeuse'' ears. Betelgeuse saw that her hair was smooth and straight and dark brown; above full lips colored the lightest pink sat upturned a flat-tipped nose which bridge was lightly freckled; her young, nigh on childish features were completed by large eyes centered with black pupils. She was dressed in formal navy-blue military attire, not the drab overalls afforded the PLPs, and upon her shoulders he observed epaulets marked across with a single horizontal bar of gold, signifying her rank as Subaltern, an officer commissioned by the Democratic Council.


    Parsiphal smiled obsequiously. Oh, of course, of course, please go ahead, he said.


    Betelgeuse remained where he stood and when Parsiphal was gone she motioned for him to come closer.


    He acquiesced but not without some hesitation, suddenly self-conscious of the brand emblazoned across his forehead.


    "You take notes quickly," she said.


    "It is a skill I learnt from my hometown, ma''am."


    "Let me see?"


    Inwardly giving thanks that he had not written anything private and/or potentially seditious, Betelgeuse proffered his notebook.


    She flipped through several pages and scrunched up her face, asking, "what is this?"


    "What?"


    "As in, the script."


    "Shorthand, ma''am."


    "I can''t make sense of it. You can read this?"


    "Yes. That says ''the fetlocked legs of the Chimerae contribute to their physical ability to run enormous distances¡­ even though unmodified human beings may rank as one of the top terrestrial mammals in terms of endurance, the best human runners, even having received the blessing of a White Incunabulum with related Increment, can only just keep up with the average Chimera''."


    "It is a good skill to have."


    "Most people from my village can do this, ma''am."


    "Well, I certainly can''t, at least not yet. My name is Marja Mentzer. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?"


    The politeness with which she regarded him caught him left-footed. He blinked, unsure of how to reply. ''Marja Mentzer,'' he thought, ''could it be?'' He didn''t know if it was a coincidence that she shared her last name with the famous Mentzers, only the most powerful of the Founding Families and which ran the interstellar megacorporation Lebensraum.


    Eventually he decided that simple was best and settled for a "Betelgeuse Sakar."


    "En. Mr. Sakar, may I inquire as to whether you would be interested in assisting me with some minute-taking?"


    "Ma''am, I''m not too sure if that''s possible."


    "Marja is fine. And don''t worry about the red tape¡ªI''ve been assigned as attach¨¦ to this TAF contingent en route to Desert, so they''ve afforded me certain powers, even in respect of PLPs like yourself. I''d like to know if you''re willing, though, and if not I can find someone else. If you will help me, you''ll be relieved of half or more of a days''¡ªI mean, half or more of a period''s duties, during those periods on which I will need your assistance. You''ll be accompanying me to take notes at some of these administrative meetings I have. Just note-taking, that''s all."


    "Ma''am," Betelgeuse began, ignoring Marja''s suggestion to use her first name, "I don''t have any issue with that."


    "Heads up that timings can sometimes be flexible, though, and meetings may be scheduled at the wee hours of the day¡­ sorry, period."


    "That''s fine, ma''am, happy to help," Betelgeuse returned, his face straight and emotionless. "But you''ll have to speak with Instructor Parsiphal about this, I reckon."


    "Again, feel free to call me Marja," she articulated, her lips curled upwards in either mirth or embarrassment. "I''ll have the conversation with Mr. Lorenz shortly, and I take it you can start tomorrow?"


    "Yes, ma''am," Betelgeuse replied.


    Marja, sighing to herself, dismissed Betelgeuse from the lecture hall.

 Chapter 11: Planetfall

    To Marja Mentzer, the man, Betelgeuse Sakar, seemed a quiet, respectful and introverted sort of chap.


    He never failed to address her as ''ma''am'', in that old-fashioned, formal military style that to some extent discomfited her. She was not a military woman after all, just one of many Mentzer issues who had decided to find her own way amongst the stars.


    He also had a tendency to sit and stare into space, and she could never tell from his expression if he was brooding upon some past aspect of their interaction (some slight, perhaps?) or merely indifferent as to the happenings about him.


    In short, he was the best sort of person for the task¡ªunassuming, private and discrete.


    All important attributes to have, seeing as she did not have the necessary authorization to permit an outsider access to internal Mentzer family discussions, whether for the purposes of minute-taking or not. But she''d be damned if she were going to take notes herself¡ªshe, who had the power to bend spacetime to her will, she, the thirteenth heiress to the Mentzer Succession, she, the one-who-could-get-others-to-write-her-minutes.


    More importantly, she needed Betelgeuse for that.


    Of course, she''d apprised old man Jirani Mzeeka, her sometime mentor and the elder Docent of the Library of the Roc on their homeworld Abuna Yem''ata, of her plans. Both of them hailed from the frozen crags of Abuna Yem''ata, icy moon to Abuna Yem''ata Guh of star system B-Beta-Alpha-12. Such was the esteem Jirani commanded that her father had only permitted her to join the mission to Desert if Jirani accompanied her. It was necessary anyway, given the express nature of their journey, that the ship bound for Desert required both a spacetime navigator and a highly experienced manipulator of gravitational fields to be on board.


    Only holders of Golden Incunabula whose Increment or relevant Etching related to the manipulation of spacetime could act as spacetime navigators; Marja herself had the ability to connect disparate points in spacetime together and, utilizing the coordinates information transmitted faster-than-light to her by Transportation Gates (by way of the quantum entanglement of particles, effected via Golden Incunabula holders with the power to (1) maintain the entanglement of particles across quantum measurements and (2) exactly determine (i.e., force a particular state outcome to manifest) the state of proximate quantum particles which had earlier been entangled with other quantum particles carried by a traveling ship (i.e., such as the Vespertilio)),* could daisy-chain wormholes from one coordinate to another in order to drastically reduce the time taken for interstellar travel.


    However, wormholes were inherently unstable and prone to collapse under their own gravity, and hence the necessity for a Golden grade like Jirani who not only possessed a gravity-manipulation-type Increment, but also a relevant Etching borne of a constant sharpening of intentionality which allowed him to invert the positive mass of a particle (or group of particles) into negative mass. Combined with Polonium-utilizing Power-Magnifiers, those like Jirani could generate large amounts of negative mass with the corresponding negative energy required to counteract the gravity of a wormhole and sustain it through the duration of travel.


    Needless to say this put a huge strain on gravitational manipulators, who had to sustain their intentionality through the whole duration of wormhole travel. A failure to do so (occasioned say by some distraction or other) would affect the consistent generation of negative mass and corresponding negative energy, and in extreme cases might result in a wormhole collapsing in on itself whilst a ship was still traveling through. When this occurred, all informational content within the wormhole would be instantly jumbled (including the unfortunate ship and everyone in it); the resulting detritus would subsequently be expelled at a corresponding point in spacetime.


    Marja, seated midway through the oblong table''s long edge, glanced at Betelgeuse and motioned for him to sit at the adjacent side, safely out of the video lens'' field of vision. Under the thick canvas material of his overalls she could see that he was lean and wiry; he wore his messy black hair and penal brand with a fierceness that belied his affected nonchalance.


    "Remember, no speaking. Try not to breathe too hard, in fact. We absolutely cannot let him know that you''re here assisting me, understand?" Marja stressed, resting her forearms upon the wooden surface. She felt her cheeks tense with embarrassment¡ªwhy did it feel like she was begging him to abet her misdeeds?


    "Yes, ma''am, I understand," Betelgeuse replied, nodding. He took his seat and opened his notebook, flipping to an empty page. Then he locked eyes with her to signal that he was ready, flipping his pen around his right thumb.


    Maybe I should ask him to teach me that.


    With a rattle and a click the anonymity filter covering the lens'' forward aperture disengaged. She reached into her uniform''s vest pocket and retrieved a portable terminal upon which screen was projected a matrix of numbers; it was more out of habit than anything, for there were too many numbers for any one of them to be readable on the small screen, and in any case she had earlier committed all 125,000 numbers in the 50 by 50 by 50 matrix to memory. An easy feat for a mind practiced enough with the eidetic-feeder-neuroimplant all Mentzers were gifted in their first year of life. The most skilled Mentzers, Marja had heard, true virtuosos of the eidetic-feeder, could commit a billion times that to memory in the same span of time.


    Her mind went beyond the numbers, to its manipulable-image. It was not a visual representation that she interacted with now, but a tactile familiarity with space itself, a familiarity practiced according to a millennia old art inherited from the scions of the Old Empire. The art of spatial familiarity.


    She flicked at the terminal, checking and rechecking the ship''s speed and its trajectory-in-space relative to the point of entrance into the wormhole. Satisfied that both were constant, she flicked the terminal back to the matrix of numbers, zooming in, quickly updating her memory as regards the minor corrections that she already knew would have to be made.


    She turned her attention to the screen before her counting down a timer in seconds, deciseconds, centiseconds, milliseconds. She''d memorized fifty of them, she thought to herself, fifty 50 by 50 slices-of-space. That ought to give her some leeway.


    4¡­ 3¡­


    She knew where it was, roughly. The place which she had to connect back to realspace.


    2¡­ 1¡­


    And it was here.


    She didn''t feel the judder under her feet because her mind had fashioned for itself an intentionality which pointed out there. She felt the place fall behind her and disappear entirely; somewhere on the Vespertilio Jirani heaved a sigh of relief and allowed his intentionality to scatter. The wormhole collapsed upon itself, unable to bear its own weight.


    Realspace. Constant speed. The ship could now receive transmissions, couriered by quadrillions upon quadrillions of quantum entangled particles and processed into screen frames by the on-ship High-Frequency Interpreter.


    Before her, the screen''s static melted away to reveal an old but well-kept man reclining upon an arm-chair, the man''s hair bone-white and short-cropped, his chin clean-shaven and sharp, his nose thin and regal. Under a brow furrowed with severity lay eyes studded with black, fathomless pools hiding innumerable secrets. The background of lacquered wainscoting was shadowed but dimly flickering with orange light, as if the man was seated before a fireplace.


    Presbyter Karl Mentzer, formerly head of the Mentzer family, current Mentzer delegate to the Democratic Council. Marja''s mouth suddenly felt dry.


    "It is good to see you, Marja Mentzer. Report on your status," his Common was clipped and formal and old, the kind she intuitively matched with the elders of the Founding Families. She had always been intimidated by the Presbyter, even from afar, and today was no exception. It was everything she could do to keep her trembling knees from knocking against each other.


    "Honored Presbyter, I thank you for taking out the time to join this call. We''ve just completed the seventeenth of thirty-five wormhole jumps and we''re currently en route to the sector Gamma-65¡ªthat''s checkpoint Blattodea¡ªto commence the next jump. As things are going I estimate we will reach Desert within thirty peri¨Cthirty days," she reported, quickly correcting herself at the end. She realized her palms had begun to sweat.


    "You two are making good time. However, there is no need to rush. Remember that Jirani is old and needs his rest. Separately, I know that you have previously discussed the matter of Desert with your father, Frederick. The agreement, as it has been made known to me, is firstly that Jirani is to accompany you at all times during your appointment as Deputy Marshal of the Sylvan Protectorate''s Saltilla, and secondly that on the elapse of two years from the date of your arrival you will return to Earth to take up a position at Lebensraum Tellus. Am I correct in this understanding?" the Presbyter inquired, getting straight to the point, his voice deep and unwavering.


    "Yes, that is correct," Marja replied. She had by now gotten hold of herself, and her voice was thick with assurance. Two years and then¡­ who could say what would happen? To become a Mentzer woman or to abscond toward the stars, that was the question.


    "You must not forget the responsibility you owe to your family. It is not typical to afford such an allowance as has been afforded you, but out of respect for your father I will leave this between you and him. As an heiress, Marja Mentzer, you have duties which cannot be shirked. I trust you know how much recalibration and remediation your willfulness has cost."


    "I¡­ know, and I thank you for your understanding, Honored Presbyter, not to mention your patience with me," Marja returned. She gritted her teeth; this was how the Mentzers operated. Her entire life had been overshadowed by the family''s arcane plans, every bit of her existence swallowed up by their hidden agendas and shadow politics. Her fear receded, replaced by a weary anger. And yet, there was nothing she could do.


    Not yet at least. She was not without her own tricks. It was why she needed a witness, someone like Betelgeuse. She didn''t really care about his ability to write shorthand¡ªif she wanted to, she could learn it in an hour or less. No, his real value to her lay elsewhere.


    "Honored Presbyter, forgive my impertinence, but I had also wanted to inquire about the heiress Ortrud. It was my understanding that she had also requested to join the mission to Desert, and If my recollection is accurate, the arrangements had been made with the TAF to appoint her as attach¨¦."


    Presbyter Karl sat and stared a long time, his face a rigid mask betraying nothing. As the seconds ticked away, Marja could feel her pulse rising. In her nervousness she almost glanced leftwise at Betelgeuse, but caught herself in the nick of time. There was no way he wouldn''t notice.


    When he started speaking again, his voice felt emotionless and cold, the keen edge of his intentionality slicing through her flesh even across light years of space. "Ortrud Mentzer has her own unique situation, which she prefers to keep private. You should respect this desire for privacy."


    Like her, Ortrud had prevailed upon her father to permit her a stint in the TAF. But unlike her, Ortrud was third in line to the Mentzer Succession, her father, Konrad Mentzer, being the younger brother to the current head of the Mentzer family and Chief Director of Lebensraum, His Excellency the Bishop Cristoph Mentzer.


    But Ortrud and her were cut from the same cloth. They were friends, to Marja''s heart perhaps the closest of friends, just like their fathers had been the closest of friends. Having been brought up together on Abuna Yem''ata under the rather sporadic tutelage of Docent Jirani, they had separated four years ago when Ortrud was sent back to Earth after her sixteenth birthday, in answer to the summons of the then newly-appointed Bishop Cristoph Mentzer. As the third heiress and by virtue of her proximity to the Mentzer Succession, Ortrud was to be thoroughly prepared for her Analysis, which would take place on Earth¡ªunder the vaulted ceiling of an isolated atrium at the Library at the Edge.


    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    It had been two years since their last video contact on the eve of Ortrud''s Analysis. Since then, Marja had only been able to communicate with Ortrud through her close associates and, most often, their cousin Noah Ostermann, an ''outside issue'' borne of his father''s romance with a non-Mentzer.


    In fact, it was through Noah that Marja came to know of Ortrud''s being blessed with a Golden Incunabulum, although it was hardly a surprise given both her parents were Golden grades¡ªafter all, only offspring of two Golden grades could achieve the Golden grade themselves. It was a closely held secret by the Founding Families, but it was the truth.


    Noah had been their closest confidante and had played middleman to their relationship these last two years. It was, ultimately, Noah who had brokered their joint promise to reunite by means of the Democracy''s ongoing conflict with the Chimerae.


    But, as it appeared, the Mentzer strictures were not so easily gainsaid.


    Marja could feel her chest tightening. If she had testicles, she thought, they would be shriveling up just about now. It was a long shot, but she had to catch the Presbyter in a bind. She had to make him commit to a position, and it had to be clear enough that he was putting the needs of the Mentzer family above the Democracy.


    "... Honored Presbyter, I sincerely apologize for my rudeness; but my inquiry had been made with the ongoing conflict in mind. As you know, the war has approached a rather difficult stage after some rapid developments on the Frontier worlds, especially over the past few months. It is my understanding, further, that the relevant Requisition Order has been recently supplemented so as to prioritize speed of deployment and tactical efficiency over pure survivability. These circumstances appear to suggest manpower scarcity, and I had been sure a willing volunteer like Ortrud would prove a great help to the ongoing efforts of the Democracy."


    A flash of something approaching uncertainty and incomprehension momentarily graced the Presbyter''s austere features. It was so quick, so hidden, that, even with the perceptual augmentations afforded by the eidetic-feeder, Marja almost missed it.


    "A willing volunteer¡­" the Presbyter repeated.


    A volunteer from the Mentzer family, who would put the needs of the Democracy above that of the family. Marja could feel it bore into her soul, the accusation, even as she struggled to maintain eye contact. It felt to her as if the Presbyter had some difficulty with the nub of the concept. Self-interest, individualism; these the Presbyter could understand and accept and perhaps work around. But to put the needs of some other group, even if that group happened to be the Democracy¡­ to put the needs of another group above that of the Mentzers and to appear do so sincerely¡ªeither such an aberration was a flimsy front for self-interest, or it was treason, no other way about it.


    And he would be right, of course.


    "The Mentzer family has always fulfilled its duty of loyalty to the Democracy, and it will, so far as I am concerned, continue to do so. We serve the people with pride and honor; our sending you, esteemed heiress, is enough evidence of that," he intoned.


    ''Esteemed heiress,'' Marja scoffed internally. ''As if the thirteenth heiress is worthy of such esteem!''


    "My point is¡­ Honored Presbyter, the point I had in mind related to the fact that it had already been represented to the TAF around the time of my secondment to the Tellus Training Institute that Ortrud would be attached to the Desert mission. It was a representation by Lebensraum Tellus, my understanding was, and it would not reflect well if we were to renege."


    "Our contributions are not limited to the battlefield. A war is made of many parts, and Lebensraum is forever committed to the overall good of the Democracy. In particular, Ortrud''s special skills are necessary to Lebensraum''s continued advancements in augmentation technology, a technology which the TAF heavily relies on to sustain its operational readiness."


    Marja clenched her teeth behind pursed lips. The man was in control. She had lost the initiative.


    "I understand, Honored Presbyter. The war effort would indeed be greatly hampered without Lebensraum''s support," she nodded, her voice low.


    "Marja Mentzer," the Presbyter began, then fell silent, letting the name hang in the air like an allegation unconsummated. Tense moments passed shadowed by a miasma of uncertainty.


    "¡­ These decisions are generally to be left to the discretion of the Mentzer family. Remember your responsibility," the Presbyter finally articulated. His tone had barely changed, but the slightest inflection seemed to lend it a harsh and biting aspect.


    Then, silence again. The seconds yawned an uncanny gash in her consciousness. Etiquette dictated that Marja was not to initiate the disconnection.


    "You are not utilising an AI-subsentient for the purpose of transcription?" the Presbyter suddenly asked.


    Did he¡­ suspect?


    "... No, si¨CHonored Presbyter."


    "You are taking your own notes then."


    What? He could see her hands, which she had conspicuously placed upon the table to head off any such suspicions.


    "That is not the case, Honored Presbyter."


    ''The meeting is not recorded,'' she was about to add, before catching herself at the last moment. She did not want the blatant lie on record, if she could help it.


    Another long silence interpolated.


    "... Then I will take my leave."


    And the screen shut off.


    Once she made sure the call had disengaged, Marja released a breath she didn''t know she had been holding. She folded her hand across her lap, brooding silently.


    "... Ma''am?"


    Her head shot up. Yes, someone else had been in this room. The man, Betelgeuse Sakar.


    "Ma''am, am I to transcribe this into legible script?" he asked, seemingly unfazed by her sudden reaction.


    "Go ahead," she managed.


    Without a second look at Betelgeuse she rushed out of the room in search of Jirani.


    <hr>


    To those trapped within the windowless Cage there was little respite and less opportunity to think and plan ahead.


    The constant bustle of ship life made them forget about the passage of time. By the inexorable elapse of periods their memory of the time before the Incunabula grew more distant, and the anticipation and fear regarding their life to come intensified with every passing hour.


    In the dark of the Cage, digital numerals glowing atop the jamb flipped from yellow to dark-blue.


    0000h


    Now the light he could see was wan and ghostly by the hum of the Verspitilio''s engine, and Betelgeuse breathed and brooded according to the soft percussive clank that caused the heart of the machine and its layers of metal to shudder underneath him.


    Snores and muttered somniloquys stammered through the cobalt hues. Sleep would not come, and he lay supine and hyperaware on a foam bed too soft to be comfortable. He had long ago lost track of the date, his life run according to an inflexible schedule that prized activity over all else, and, when his aid was necessary, according to the exigencies of Marja''s ''administrative'' meetings with the members of her family.


    The Mentzer family.


    A whole world had opened up to him¡ªnot in all his previous life would he have imagined being so close, perhaps some hundreds of light years close but close nonetheless, to true power.


    And amongst Marja''s relatives, all stoic men and women with countenances like ice, one had stood out for his sheer presence. The ''Honored Presbyter'', whom he had not learned the name of, and the counterparty at the first meeting he had attended. A strange thing was brewing between Marja and he, as if they were arrayed against each other in a conflict the outlines of which Betelgeuse could only dimly perceive.


    The crux of the matter had something to do with the holder of a Golden Incunabulum, the one Marja had called Ortrud. It was a name that had been raised in every meeting, and in every meeting her mention had been met with subtle tergiversation. At the end of the last one, a short but tortured conversation with an ''Uncle Konrad'', perhaps the least stony Mentzer of all (which wasn''t really saying much), Marja seemed a slab of dejection.


    Betelgeuse hadn''t heard from Marja for the last seven periods. It was difficult not to wonder if anything drastic had possibly occurred. Did any of her relatives, or perhaps the Presbyter himself, somehow discover his presence?


    No use thinking about it. That was the kind of power that he could neither fight with nor hide from with any great success.


    0008h


    Only eight minutes since he last looked at the clock. His eyes were wide and unblinking. Shapes shivered into his perception across the canted squares of shadow projected upon the abovehead sheets turned darkened indigo. ''Canker'' Caleb Reyes shifted upon the bunkbed above him.


    The shadows made words upon the fabric of his consciousness.


    <blockquote>


    Betelgeuse Sakar''s will to revolt against his destiny manifests as the power to endure all attempts at control.


    </blockquote>


    His first Etching, awakened some tens of periods ago. He recalled the exact moment it must have happened, during the conversation with Voke. He remembered how it felt: a terrifying openness in his soul, as though pierced and gashed by a metaphysical awl, into which flowed a hideous new morality. The penetration of something not quite human, the sullying of something sacred, the mingling of an external malevolence with his self.


    He hugged his arms with his hands and scratched, then clawed. The skin of his shoulder, at first raw, then torn to bleeding. He stopped. The sheets were wet under his shoulders. Serenity in his heart.


    Whilst not very useful in combat, his Etching appeared an excellent tool against the politicized messaging of official TAF media. Perhaps it was the influence of his Etching, but every statement now seemed to him political, to a greater or lesser degree of abstraction; no piece of information was devoid of it.


    Was it so long ago that a Docent had dressed his words with such a sweet and obvious coating of politics? When that Docent had waxed inclusive, pronouncing to all and sundry that every life was precious, every ability, treasured? Betelgeuse smiled wryly.


    But beyond that¡ªhe could see that a universe lay beyond that; the scientific fact maintained the politics of science against non-science, pseudo-science and/or fantasy; the wise wielded the politics of wisdom, maturity, prudence and sober-mindedness against the immature, the puerile, the juvenile and the short-termist; the true brandished the politics of truth-value, integrity, certainty (even if this was the certainty of uncertainty), order and more besides against lies, falsity, charlatanism, uncertainty (even if this was the uncertainty of certainty) and chaos, amongst others; and as with the politics of power, an adversarial relationship did not preclude politically expedient alliances, for the scientific may enlist pseudo-scientific cults against non-science, and truth-lovers often enlisted liars against other liars.


    Betelgeuse'' analyzed his Etching carefully, repeating it once, twice, ten times over in his mind. Taking a page from Edith''s book, ''control'' could admit of a very wide definition, so long as he was able to adequately sharpen his intentionality in respect of such definition.


    0015h


    He felt that the time of their arrival at Desert was fast approaching. The cross-checked cargo-manifest had already been submitted to officer Garvy; Instructor Parsiphal had informed them that, starting tomorrow, they would continue to more advanced weapon handling drills, to take place at the 1430h-1730h slot formerly set aside for cargo inspection and the 1930h-2115h slot formerly set aside for the post-dinner infomentaries.


    Welcome news to Betelgeuse'' ears, given that the infomentaries had become exhausted of all useful information. Over the last two or three periods the sessions had focused with rather absurd solemnity on the existential tragedies that all Chimerae must necessarily experience by virtue of being part of a morally degenerate, socially regressive and biologically maladapted race. It was very crude watching.


    He forced his eyes shut, thinking to himself that he ought to get some sleep.


    <hr>


    He''d blinked and when he opened his eyes he was there on the capacious deck flooded with light, a multitude of men and women around him congregated in serried ranks to witness the denouement.


    The planet, Desert.


    Before a front panel made of myriad blinking terminals it floated, suspended in the blackness of space, a sphere gouged with seas of black and sprinkled with rust-colored grains tinged at their tips with gray-white scum. In the southern hemisphere an oval thing subtly roiled crimson¡ªa storm that had persisted for more than two years, so the infomentaries taught.


    Four hours to planetfall.


    Betelgeuse stood shoulder to shoulder with the other PLPs, their contingent located at the backmost row of the sea of soldiers all standing to attention in neat rectangular formations. As was customary, the highest ranking soldiers stood at the forefront of the parade, right before the Vespertilio''s front panel.


    About-turn on the front deck, the front-most row wheeling on their heels to face them.


    Captain Faulkner was there, the visor of his dusk-black peaked cap shading his eyes, a cliff of black hair gelled down above his ears. He regarded them now, the soldiers of the Democracy, with a solemn mug made of crow''s feet and leather.


    Now a bugle call came warbling, the synthetic strains crescendoing against the silence and interspersed with the reverberations of the metal frame underfoot. It was by no means a mournful tune, yet it impressed upon Betelgeuse an odd melancholy. Captain Faulkner clasped his palms together, his fingers intertwined, and bowed his head and prayed in silent thanks to God and the Democracy now that the journey was ended safely, a ceremonial thanks as was the time-honored practice of the TAF Navy.


    All heads were bowed, except his.


    Betelgeuse saw Marja standing beside the Captain, her silken brown tresses falling over her face and obscuring her features. And he saw the heads of the other Ash grades canted forward and thought perhaps that he recognized the messy tangle that was Edith''s not five meters away.


    A quiet whisper, so quiet it was barely audible to him. Betelgeuse'' eyes rolled to his right. It was Voke, mumbling some fervent orison, so tense his head trembled.


    The prayers were done, the bugle silenced, and all heads were raised.


    The image of Desert was suffused with a tranquil beauty, he thought, even pierced by the multitude of berets and side caps.


    Upon its surface, perhaps, he would discover his fate.

 Chapter 12: Just Deserts

    Below the red star Corydon sat a fortress of monstrous size, its facade a sheer cliff face of granite-gray concrete set against a background of rusty soil and monolithic protuberances towering half-obscured by scarves of dust and sand. Where the face of the fortress plateaued were flying buttresses scoured the color of corroded metal and supporting tall watchtowers built from ecru-colored stone.


    Toward the fortress they moved, in file, through paths of mortared rock that wound between hillocks of jagged sediment. The land here was barren and coal-black and waterless; above them the red sun was waning with the dying of the day, and a pall was coming across the land bringing frigid temperatures that they knew would penetrate their suits'' insulation.


    The meanders ran long and far and then cut a deep ravine, before gradually straightening; then it sloped upwards, giving way to basaltic surfaces curiously smooth and polygonal. The path broadened until it was a shelf of synclinal rock and there they found the gravity compounding the difficulty of traversing the incline''s rising steepness.


    They reached the plateau first, he and the rest of the forward-scouting reconnaissance team. He doubled over and rested his hands on his knees because his heart was hammering so wildly he thought it might burst out his chest. Ragged breaths dredged phlegm from his lungs and scratched at his own eardrums.


    The fullbody exosuit was a claustrophobic thing ribbed with plastic. He scratched at the visor of tempered glass keeping his breath in, gulping lungfuls of recycled air. The flat of his slingstrap lost its purchase on his shoulder; the weight shifted and clattered and he saw that it was the long blacksteel muzzle of his ZWEN Mark-567 railgun, having scratched a shallow groove of white onto the hard ground below.


    A wave of nausea hit him straight in the gut, but he willed it down and it eventually dispersed.


    Finally, the weight pressing against his chest started to lighten. His breaths gradually reverted to his control and he was able to stand upright. He returned the sling to its proper position atop his deltoid, hoping the alignment of his weapon hadn''t been affected by the bump.


    The sky was a cloudless hue of red; under the deep cerise twilight Betelgeuse saw the contingent stretching far back into the narrow and winding pass overhung with protruding spikes of girthy stone. The line of figures suited in white, blimpy exosuits became rough and uneven about the steepest portion of the slope. He hadn''t been the only one to have trouble with the incline.


    And then he observed behind him in the distant southeast the walls of the fortress-city refulgent in this the thirty-second hour of the thirty-six-hour Desertian day. Now that it was so close it loomed over him like a daydreamt Leviathan whose spanless wings merged with pillars of sand and coal-colored cliffs already in the dusk.


    From his vantage point he could see the broad plateau subtly decline and then drop away into an igneous fen enshadowed by a forest of stone formations rising stalagmite-like from a hidden floor below. They''d have to traverse this before reaching the tongue of red sand leading straight to the gates of the city, their destination.


    "Saltilla ahead approximately 12.2 kilometers as the crow flies," a voice transmitted in dead monotone.


    "Gods Almighty, why couldn''t we have taken the goddamn LSVs? It''s goddamn stupid," whined someone who could only have been Lawrence Gomez-Evans. Betelgeuse recognized his fellow PLP''s callsign, ''LIMP'', printed in jetblack majuscule across the chest of white plastic; Lawrence, ensconced within, was crawling pitifully up the slant, and when he had reached the plateau, flopped onto his back, ''LIMP'' chestpiece inflating and deflating with his tortured breaths.


    "Ash-fuck couldn''t be any righter," a mature female voice agreed.


    "So right he''s homophobic," a man joshed.


    "It''s the Garvy guy. See, I told you he had cack for brains. Would rather have us die en route than indent a couple''a vehicles. I accosted him you know but he said we''d get shot down and then it''ll be his problem. So what the things would just sit underground collecting dust and you know what he told me? That if that''s what the Protectorate wanted then that''s what would happen," sighed another.


    "Silence. The transceiver''s only for mission-important information, Jove. Maintain comms discipline," intoned the colorless voice again, which Betelgeuse finally recognized as Instructor Parsiphal''s. He turned to-and-fro until he saw Parsiphal, the man standing before a stud of raised sediment, his suit sporting the red chevrons of a Master Sergeant emblazoned across the side of its helmet.


    If the infomentaries could be trusted, they''d be safe as long as they maintained their formation, given that the Chimerae tended to attack isolated targets and rarely engaged in a full frontal assault of a large body of troops. Betelgeuse could tell they were playing with fire by allowing the movement column to spread out so far. Stragglers were easy targets under the circumstances.


    "PLP Sakar transmitting. I recommend a tactical halt¨Cthe end of the line''s at least three kilometers back. We''re vulnerable to attack," Betelgeuse returned, making sure his channel frequency had been properly set to the reconnaissance group comms. The forward-scouts comprised the PLPs and several other Hollows and Whites selected from the ranks of the Grade 1 Personnel. Their objectives were to secure and mark out the path to Saltilla ahead of the main body.


    "Not a bad call, but temperature''s at twelve degrees C already and still dropping," Instructor Parsiphal replied, his tone stubbornly flat. Betelgeuse could see Parsiphal facing the forest of stone separating them from Saltilla. "I''ve no clue what Subaltern Mentzer''s doing, letting the line get all fucked up like that. Set up all-round defense and await link-up with Subaltern Mentzer, Bob. Jove, take Sakar, Gomez, Jaine and McKay and check out what''s down there. Just do a shallow penetration and muster back up here in two hours latest."


    "That''s what she sa¨C"


    "Oh shut the fuck up Bob. Master Lorenz, why I gotta go?"


    "You gotta go because I say you gotta go. Now get to it, Jove. I need the report in so we can decide whether to hole up till tomorrow or keep going."


    Grumbling loudly across the comms, Jove stalked across the rockslab plateau and tapped Betelgeuse'' shoulder, motioning to form up separately. The reconnaissance squad was now high-kneeling in circle-formation about the slight upraised boss which was the highest point on the plateau. Every soldier comprising the circle-formation faced outwards, railguns held tactically ready, allowing the full range of 360 degrees to be covered by their arc-of-fire.


    Betelgeuse sighed and trudged southeasterly across the plateau. That would teach him to try and be helpful.


    "Okay, listen up," Sergeant Jove grouched at them over subgroup comms. Now overlooking the descent into darkness, Betelgeuse thought the basin very ominous. Jove stuck himself before them and through his transparent visor Betelgeuse observed gaunt features half-red by the setting sun and half-shadowed by a sharp-tipped nose.


    "We ain''t gotta do nothing fancy. We go down, look around, then get the hell out of there. Some key things to take note of: vision''s going to be obscured by the pillar formations. We maintain the egg-shape; Sakar with me in front, Jaine and McKay watch the flanks and Gomez you watch the rear. One-arm''s length between yourself and the next guy at all times. Any questions?"


    A chorus of ''no, sir''s transmitted through the subgroup channel and they were off, trudging down the bulge of rock toward the edge of the rock forest and into the cold envelopment of shadow.


    <hr>


    The firmament beyond the upraised pillars was a blanket of darkness accoutered with blinking baubles.


    Far below the canopy of spears the team of five inched across a closed and foreboding landscape, helmet-attached OLEDs piercing beams of white through strange gassy flows and unknown particles suspended in air.


    The rock forest was still as a graveyard, the silence interspersed only by their arrhythmic footfalls upon brittle slate-like gravel. Although the suit''s padding was cool against his skin, Betelgeuse felt a bead of sweat forming upon his brow, the uncomfortable tension heightening with every step. He checked his exosuit''s reading; the air composition here was different, the largest component by far being carbon monoxide. In comparison, the most abundant gas at the top of the plateau was helium.


    A shapeless blob could be seen some tens of meters away, secreted between the monolithic basaltic protrusions. Betelgeuse turned his head, aiming his headlamp thereabouts. Shards of light reflected from what looked like artificially-shaped metal.


    Sergeant Jove motioned for them to move in the direction.


    They soon emerged in a clearing. A cavernous entrance yawned some tens of meters before them, appearing to lead underground. Upon its lintel was hung a profusion of thick copper wiring splayed spaghetti-like this way and that, the mass of threads taut and threaded to breaking, all linked to what appeared to have been a tall pylon nearby now fallen to pieces. An upraised concrete platform upon which a meter or so of vertical metal framing stood was all that was left of the pylon. Scorch marks littered the ground and the frame''s blacksteel piping looked to have been sheared off halfway by some force.


    A steel cart lay on its side near them, tarnishing amongst the rubble and cairns of variously-shaped lumps. Nothing moved in the vicinity.


    Betelgeuse knew what this was¡ªa mine of some kind. He''d snuck into one before, the forge-mine he once knew as Earthy-Twinkle back on Edom. Coal ore had been its main produce. As for this particular mine, the ore wasn''t something he recognized visually, but he supposed it could have been either iron or silver.


    Sergeant Jove advanced, the PLPs sticking close, and knelt when he reached the cart. He brushed a band of dust off its surface, the particles puffing up in clouds under their headlamps. Revealed upon the steel surface was an embossed ''N'', which Betelgeuse recognized with some effort as the brand-insignia of the Ninsei Zaibatsu. He knew this only because it had been included in the list of enforcement-sponsors of every Provincial Regulation promulgated in the Edom province. As far as he knew, delegates from the Ninsei Zaibatsu sat not only on the Edom Provincial Council but also on a multitude of other governmental bodies throughout the continent.


    "It''s human," Frederica breathed tremulously.


    "Ye thunk? Surely not God or Chimerae," Douglas replied rather facetiously.


    After spending several moments carefully inspecting the environment, Sergeant Jove raised himself upright and began punching at the analog buttons of his wrist-tranceiver, inputting his authentication key and then fiddling with the transceiver''s frequency knob.


    "The cave''s radio-quiet," Sergeant Jove said, finally.


    "Something''s not right here. Really not right. See that dust? It''s everywhere. Too difficult to say if this happened recently or not, basically. Reckon we call it and get the hell out of here?" Lawrence Gomez-Evans asked, his tone deeply anxious, yet hopeful. Betelgeuse narrowed his eyes. Lawrence appeared awfully afraid.


    "I reckon we could. But I can''t get through to Master Lorenz cos'' something''s blocking the signal. Even our close-range comms is acting up. Let''s retrace our steps¡ªI remember there was a small clearing a bit behind the Y-shaped spike," Sergeant Jove replied, his furrowing brow just discernible under the blue-gray bounce of their headlamps.


    They had barely started moving when the environment exploded into chaos. Projectile gunfire drowned out Betelgeuse'' heartbeat, as a hail of bullets poured out of the depths of the rock forest and sparked off ore and metal, raising large tufts of dust.


    "Into the cave!" roared Sergeant Jove, his voice a mess of static, as he crouched down behind the fallen steel cart and then suddenly, before Betelgeuse'' eyes, exploded across the air with preternatural swiftness, tracing a blurry arc into the dark of the cave. Moments later, even his headlamp had disappeared from Betelgeuse'' view.


    "Shit, he''s fast!" Douglas exclaimed.


    Ignoring Sergeant Jove''s command, Betelgeuse shouted across the subgroup comms, "Lights off, prone down!"


    "What the fuck! He''s left us behind!" yelled Lawrence, already flat to the ground.


    "Frag out!" Frederica shouted, lobbing over their prone forms. Betelgeuse pressed his head to the ground. A resounding explosion followed and the ground trembled beneath his chest.


    He raised his head. The space was obscured with a dust so thick he could barely see a meter out in front of him.


    "There, at the base of the pylon. I''ll give covering fire, go!" returned Betelgeuse. As one, Frederica, Douglas and Lawrence regained their footing and sprinted to the upraised concrete base of the fallen pylon; raising himself to a high-kneel position Betelgeuse unstrapped his ZWEN Mark-567 railgun and initiated the acceleration-supporting-solenoid, hearing the high-pitched whine and feeling the weapon hum in his hands. Then he aimed into the dusty blackness and, placing the butt against his shoulder, gunned the trigger.


    With a high-pitched scream his railgun jumped in his arms once, twice, three times. Projectiles traced molten arcs through the air, disappearing into the dust and impacting upon stone surfaces with sharp reports.


    "Dog Ba¨Cs! Get o¨Ch¨Ce!" Frederica shouted over comms. Even at that short distance, her words broke up into incoherent strands of static.


    Betelgeuse was already sprinting for the pylon. His fellows sent a smattering of railgun fire overhead, covering his movement.


    He slammed backfirst into the concrete siding, beside Frederica, seeing that it was just tall enough that they could remain completely covered whilst crouching, and long enough to accommodate all four of them pressed together shoulder to shoulder.


    The chaos had its intermission and a pall of silence descended.


    "What d''you reckon they are? Chimerae?" Lawrence chittered.


    "Cudn''t see nuthin'' in all the dust." Douglas returned.


    "What now?" Frederica breathed. Through her dusty visor Betelgeuse could just make out a sheen of sweat which sheathed her slight, upturned nose; he saw, under close-cropped hair, the ragged keloid scar adorning her pale forehead. He realized then that the moon was out.


    He raised his head. Larua, the blood moon, watched him balefully.


    He craned his neck over the concrete siding. All he could see was a frontage of swirling blackness tinged just the lightest pink.


    "We need to get out of here. Think we should link up with Jove inside the cave?" Betelgeuse asked, retracting his head.


    Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    "Fucker left us to save himself! I say fuck ''im!" Lawrence fumed.


    "Not so fast Limp. I reckon Dog Balls is asking ''cos there''s four of us and an unknown number of them," Douglas said, eyeballs wobbling emphatically within their sockets.


    "And we''re Ash," Frederica added, "and PLPs. How''re we going to explain losing Jove to Parsiphal when¡ªif we get back?"


    "Of course, there''s also a possibility all of us get trapped in the cave instead," Betelgeuse mused out loud. "If we¡ª"


    Their confused discussion was cut abruptly short when something fell onto the ground beside them, bounced, then erupted into a flash of light. Before Betelgeuse had enough time to regain his bearings, the concrete siding behind Frederica exploded into a million fragments, splaying the woman face-first across the ground.


    "Into the cave!" Betelgeuse roared, rolling forward and grabbing onto Frederica''s armpit and dragging that struggling form upright.


    Then he heard a curious noise like a wailing kettle emit from somewhere behind him. Turning, he saw a line of light materialize out of thin air then erupt violently into a purple gash that thundered loud enough to burst his eardrums. The portion of wall he had earlier been crouching behind was obliterated, those bits that remained glowing red-hot like molten slag.


    Breathing heavily and momentarily deaf, he turned and rushed headlong into the murky depths of the cave, chasing after the receding forms of Lawrence and Douglas and half-dragging a stunned Frederica behind him.


    <hr>


    In the pitch black darkness they had no choice but to have recourse to their headlamps, to avoid tripping on the track rails and ties running through the middle of the path. The path ran straight and declined gently and the four of them forged onward without looking back.


    They had been tearing down the descent for about ten minutes when they reached the first bend. As he rounded it, Betelgeuse couldn''t help but slump against the wall and slide down onto his rump, hyperventilating.


    Lawrence had already started down the broadening path when he saw that the light beams which had been shining through his legs shift away. Turning, he saw Frederica and Douglas standing against the wall by the bend, their headlamps canted downward and focusing on a winded Betelgeuse.


    "You guys¡­ thinking¡­ it''s safe here?" Lawrence asked through heavy breaths, retracing his steps in the direction of the bend.


    "... Switch¡­ switch off¡­ lights," Betelguese croaked, wheezing into the comms.


    Moments later, the environment was plunged into darkness.


    "He can''t keep up," Frederica managed between her own breaths.


    "It''s as good a place as we can manage for now, I guess," Douglas sighed. "My suit''s picking up a heavy concentration of carbon monoxide in here, though, so if any of your suits are damaged even a little then it''s bye-bye."


    "I''m good¡­ oxygen stores are good too. What are we going to do with the fucks outside though? What if they come in?" Lawrence queried anxiously, fingering his railgun''s trigger.


    "At least¡­ we have vantage here," Betelgeuse said, his heartbeat stabilizing. His lungs were uncomfortable, as if there were a pool of gelatinous phlegm drowning the alveoli within.


    "Okay, I think we ought to explore the place perhaps, maybe see if we can find another exit¡­" Frederica trailed off.


    "It was sloping downward though, the path¡­ who knows if it won''t go down forever?" Douglas inquired.


    "Mines¡­ usually have two or more escapeways. That''s the standard way they''re built, for safety reasons I imagine," Betelgeuse explained. "It can''t be too far away."


    "How would you know? We don''t have unlimited oxygen hey?" Douglas pressed.


    "There was a mine near my village. I''m not guaranteeing there''s another exit, I''m saying that''s just the way mines are built, so far as I know," Betelgeuse grunted, regaining his feet.


    "He''s¡­ probably right. It can''t hurt to have a look around," Frederica agreed.


    They groped around in the darkness, tripping over objects and cones and raising a screeching clangor, and when shortly it became clear there were multiple paths branching away from the vestibule-like space they found themselves in, they settled on turning on one of their headlamps, just long enough to gain a passing familiarity with the contours of the place.


    The light revealed a high ceiling and a ground littered with slag-bits and ore-spikes and dustmounds of tailings; flush against the uneven walls were spindly arms of metal, gauges with dials measuring abstruse things under yellowed bezel covers, octagonal cabinets set on wheels long ago rusted rigid, and other dead creatures of mechanical wizardry all dusted iron-gray. At the far end were four separate paths, a track rail running through each of them, branching out from the semicircular space.


    When Douglas'' headlamp turned dark again, Betelgeuse made it a point to consult Lawrence as regards which path he considered the most likely to lead to the emergency exit.


    He hadn''t a clue, Lawrence admitted, but he''d much rather avoid paths two to four. "Call it intuition," he had stressed.


    So, on Betelgeuse'' urging (and despite Douglas'' incredulity), they chose the leftmost path and followed it through the undulating swells and past the point where the track rails ended.


    It must have been hours of walking, stumbling, and groping about before they started to notice the path rising again¡ªimperceptibly at first, then becoming more pronounced.


    They were walking quickly now, excited about the prospect of leaving the darkness behind. Betelgeuse'' eyes were now adjusting slowly, he being able to perceive the dim outlines of his fellows before him. There was the anxious, bobbing gait of Lawrence, the slightly hunched saunter of Douglas and the tall and broad-shouldered silhouette of Frederica. He supposed the presence of light meant that they must be getting closer to an exit.


    Their comms crackled to life without warning. Betelgeuse saw the figure that might have been Lawrence jump.


    "...eant Jove transmitting, do you read? I repeat, Sergeant Jove transmitting, do you read me?"


    "Holy fucking shit, it''s Jove!" Lawrence exclaimed.


    Betelgeuse sighed. Lawrence had utilized the subgroup comms. Now Jove knew they were close by.


    "So y¡ªguys made it¡ªto th¡ªcave," Sergeant Jove''s voice filtered through the static.


    "No thanks to you!" Lawrence yelled, clearly incensed.


    A wispy figure suddenly appeared before them. It looked to Betelgeuse that the dimly outlined thing had dropped from the ceiling, but he couldn''t be sure.


    The figure turned its headlamp on, and a bright beam sliced through the darkness,rendering them blind.


    "Aagh!" Douglas exclaimed, flailing his arms wildly.


    "Ack!" Frederica and Lawrence replied, their hands raised in apparent imitation.


    Although Betelgeuse had raised a forearm to shade his eyes, he still found his vision erupting into bright spots of white and yellow. Be that as it may, his other arm had reflexively grabbed onto his weapon and pointed it toward the figure, finger poised and ready to depress the trigger.


    "Halt! Don''t shoot! It''s Sergeant Jove," the figure sputtered.


    "It is, isn''t it?" Betelgeuse returned, his voice flat.


    "Yes it is. I''m glad to see you''re all unhurt," Sergeant Jove deadpanned.


    "You didn''t seem very concerned when you were running away with your tail between your legs," remarked Douglas, taking several steps forward and sticking his finger into Jove''s face.


    "Mind your tongue, McKay! No one knows for sure what will happen on the battlefield, and I had by far the greatest chance of getting the information regarding the Chimerae presence back to Master Lorenz. I acted quickly and made the best possible decision under the circumstances."


    Lawrence snorted. "Who are you kidding? You weren''t thinking about the mission. You weren''t thinking about us. You were thinking about yourself."


    "Now see here you god damn Ash-fuck¨C" Sergeant Jove began.


    "Don''t you dare raise your voice at us you sorry sack of shit!" Frederica interrupted, erupting with brutal suddenness into white-hot fury, her voice taking on a ferocious edge.


    Sergeant Jove became silent as a tomb, his face setting into a rigid mask. He stood before the three figures, unmoving. Lawrence had just launched into a tirade when a strange feeling rose in Betelgeuse'' chest and then grasped his heart. The air inside his suit became stuffy and thick with something foul; he tightened his grip over his railgun''s handle, not quite sure what was happening, or if anything was happening at all.


    At Jove''s command tendrils of something black and domineering and invisible emerged from the darkness, penetrating the Ash grades'' suits and worming their way to the Incunabulum secreted within their chest-pouches. A tingling sensation blossomed around Betelgeuse'' temples, then matured into a searing pain that blurred his vision. He bit his lip, tasting iron, unwilling to succumb to the urge to scream. Were the others feeling the same?


    The pain gradually subsided and his heartbeat slowed. Everything became still and tranquil again.


    "Okay. Let''s continue. Lawrence, take point. The rest, behind him. I will bring up the rear," Sergeant Jove transmitted, his voice raspy and unemotional.


    A strange compulsion came over Betelgeuse, making him want to obey Sergeant Jove. His hand left the railgun and his feet moved by itself, shuffling in the direction of freedom. It was the thing he wanted to do anyway, travel in the direction of freedom and openness¡­ why should he disobey? Why should he even want to?


    Lawrence, Frederica and Douglas, the last of whom which had just moments before been close to assaulting Sergeant Jove, now obediently formed themselves up in the way he had commanded. Lawrence in front, Frederica and Douglas behind.


    Betelgeuse joined them silently, falling into lockstep with Frederica and Douglas. It was just such a natural state to be in, that he could not think of disobeying Sergeant Jove''s directive.


    The situation persisted until they stood before a ghostly patch of crimson moonlight. This was freedom, the thing that they had wanted. Fresh from the subterranean darkness, the Larua''s gift of light seemed to him brighter than Corydon''s blaze, and it filled him with such a pleasant happiness that he''d reached here, and that he''d done so by obeying, that the principle of obedience could not but seem to his eyes a dazzling truth.


    But within every truth there hides a politics, and within every politics a bent to exploitation.


    He knew he trusted Sergeant Jove, but something about that didn''t sit right with him. Why should he trust the Sergeant so much when he didn''t even trust himself, didn''t even trust God, didn''t even trust the Democracy to the same extent?


    They''d gone out into the clearing by now. And then back into the heavy shadows of the rock forest.


    "Sergeant Jove transmitting. We''re heading northwest. Do you read me? Sergeant Jove transmitting¡­ curses, we''re still being jammed¡­" Sergeant Jove''s growled.


    Gunfire. The sharp report of projectiles ricocheting off a shelf of ancient feldspar. His body took over and he fell to the ground prone, then low-crawled to a protruding pillar for cover. Once he reached he regained a crouching position and readied his railgun, whipping his head leftwise to check if his teammates had managed to make it to safety.


    He saw the other three jammed behind an adjacent pillar, and Sergeant Jove crouching behind a shorter and girthier column behind them.


    "All of you, covering fire!" Sergeant Jove roared, and they brought their weapons to bear.


    Their projectiles carved paths of orange-yellow into the profusion of reddish dust. Echoes of impact resounded through the space like ice calving off a glacier.


    Betelgeuse turned again, then furrowed his brow when he saw Sergeant Jove had bounded away to a pillar some meters away.


    He''s using us as bait. He''s escaping.


    "Again!" Sergeant Jove''s voice transmitted.


    But Betelgeuse had had enough even before Jove''s voice dropped. His mind recoiled, fighting against the compulsion. His brain seemed to catch afire, exploding with pain enough to make him vomit. But he held it in, and he bit his lip again to gain some small measure of respite. He would endure until this compulsion was overcome.


    <blockquote>


    ¡­ to endure all attempts at control.


    </blockquote>


    His fellows fired their weapons into the darkness again. Sergeant Jove loped with incredible speed, clearing a distance of many meters for every stride.


    I still have a clear line of sight.


    Betelgeuse raised his weapon, found the back of Jove''s bobbing plastic helmet within his scopesight, and fired. A hunk of metal lanced across the air, hitting Sergeant Jove in his calf and severing the bottom half of his left leg clean off. The man, who had been tracing an arc mid-air, fell to the ground, raising a cloud of dust where he impacted.


    Damn, the zeroing''s off.


    A tortured screaming like keening white noise flooded the subgroup comms.


    Turning, Jove met his eyes, and knew.


    "He''s going to kill me! Kill him! He''s turned traitor!"


    Betelgeuse fired again; but this time, Lawrence, leaping with self-sacrificial intent, had got in the way. The glowing bolt pierced through his chest and left a smoking hole in its wake; Lawrence fell, twitching, face-first into the gravel.


    This power that Jove has over us¡­ he''s obviously a White, but this kind of power is¡­ some kind of Silver grade bullshit I haven''t heard the likes of before.


    Frederica and Douglas were making a beeline for him, Frederica transmitting her rage through the comms. Everything was chaos in his ears as he was accused of treason by Frederica, of being a satanist by Douglas¡­


    Betelgeuse stabbed the muzzle of his rifle into Frederica''s visor, causing cracks to spider across the tempered glass and sending her sprawling backward. Then he crouched to dodge the swing of Douglas'' riflebutt, pumping his thighs and barreling forward straight into Douglas'' shins, sending the latter tumbling over Betelgeuse'' back.


    He straightened and saw that Jove had already sealed the hole in his exosuit''s leg, the spent cartridge of expanding plastic sprayfoam lying upon the ground, its curved surface glinting in the moonlight. Despite his monoleggedness, Jove was limping away faster than Betelgeuse could hope to match.


    They''ll be on me immediately. I have to be quick. One last chance.


    Betelgeuse found a receding Jove once more within his scopesight, the egg-shaped surface of his head-piece bobbing into and out of the cover of intervening stone pillars. There, Jove had reached the moonlit clearing, redpainted chevrons atop his helmet mixing with Larua''s crimson pour. Angling up and to the right, just above the topside glint reflected from the thermoplastic dome, he fired.


    The bolt hit Jove square in the back, burrowing a hole through between his clavicles. He saw, through his scopesight, that figure drop face-first onto the ground, motionless.


    "You''re killing us all!" Douglas babbled, now on his feet. But Frederica was there and holding Douglas back, speaking in stutters so strange they seemed to Betelgeuse an alien tongue.


    Betelgeuse crouchcrawled over to Lawrence and flipped him over. The pool of blood and ichor collected on the inside of Lawrence''s visor drew coagulating spokes as it ran down sidewise the inner curve. The projectile had punched through the dead man''s chestpiece and half-cauterized the wound. Betelgeuse looked through the ''O'' of ''LIOP'' and saw gravel drizzled with a dressing of blood curd.


    His first two kills: one an ally, one an enemy. Both humans.


    "He''s dead," Betelgeuse managed, cutting through the confusion of his fellows. "Jove was able to control him¡ªcontrol us¡ªsomehow."


    "¡ªit was, wasn''t it? Some kind of mind control that turned us on Betel and made Lawrence¡­" Frederica jabbered.


    "¡ªmind control? Sounding like fools trying to pull one over¡ª"


    "Don''t you remember? We were in the cave, we''d almost come to blows with Jove, and all of a sudden we were just okay with him and¡­ and¡­ now¡­ he''s dead¡­ they''re dead¡­" Frederica trailed off.


    They had just fallen into a contemplative silence when a white beam shot through the space above their heads. Instinctively knowing what was to come, Betelgeuse barely had enough time to jump to the side when the sliver of light gushed purple and then erupted like a thunderous flashbang.


    Damn lasercannon. I see what they mean when they said the Chimerae were cowards.


    Betelgeuse regained his feet before his ears stopped ringing, lunging over to Lawrence''s body and inspecting the exosuit''s inner thigh.


    There¡ªemergency release.


    The exosuit snapped open with a hiss. The visor flipped upward to reveal Lawrence''s face, now dipped in blood and garbled in death, his eyes staring walleyed like Douglas''. He retrieved the corpse''s Incunabulum from its front chest-pouch¡ªit had a sizable hole in it, the Incunabulum, where the projectile had shot through.


    TAF regulations dictate that we are to retrieve our fallen fellows'' Incunabula whenever possible, for the purposes of their funeral ceremony. I''m more interested in finding out what was in their Incunabulum¡ªespecially Jove''s!


    "I''m gonna get Jove''s, then we gotta split!" yelled Betelgeuse into the subgroup comms. "I don''t know how many Chimerae are out there, but they don''t seem to be advancing. We need to leave while we still can."


    "Okay, okay¡­" Douglas grumbled, coming to his senses and scrabbling across the ground to cover. "I''m beginning to think Limp was the lucky one."

 Chapter 13: Good Morning, Saltilla!

    "PLP Sakar transmitting. Return if received. I repeat, PLP Sakar transmitting¡­"


    He received in reply only static and the tranquil hum of his rebreather systems cycling air through his suit.


    The forest was gray and lifeless and so still Betelgeuse thought he could hear his blood shimmy through his veins.


    "We gotta move up further, maybe past the¡­ uh¡­ the slanted one there," Douglas whispered.


    "Every one of them''s slanted, Downie," Frederica returned, also whispering.


    "I''m talking about the slanted pillar okay? Get off my case Dyke," Douglas hissed.


    "They''re all pillars, goddammit," Frederica muttered.


    "No gods¡ª"


    "Jammer''s probably mobile. No choice but to go down northeasterly till we find a hole in the net," Betelgeuse deadpanned.


    He squinted, trying to discern shapes and outlines¡ªanything that would give him a clue as to what lay out there¡ªfrom the depths of the stone forest. The dust from the earlier skirmish may have settled, but there was nothing that he could divine from the gloom.


    "Keep your headlamps off. We''re going stealth," Betelgeuse directed, tightening his right-handed grip on his weapon and holding its muzzle to the star-studded firmament, Lawrence''s Incunabulum tucked flush under his left armpit.


    "As if we weren''t going to do that," Douglas grumbled under his breath.


    But Betelgeuse had already bounded out from cover, darting to an adjacent pillar.


    He slammed back-first into the outcropping, then turned to his fellows, gesticulating with his left hand. Frederica made the crossing next, cupping Jove''s Incunabulum between her left forearm and bicep, then Douglas, brandishing his railgun and aiming haphazardly at nothing.


    They continued like this, daisy-chaining across the stone forest slowly, carefully, laboriously, their breaths tense against their tympanums.


    It was at the tenth crossing that Betelgeuse thought he saw something move out the corner of his eye.


    "Something''s there," he whispered, squinting again.


    "... What? ¡­," Frederica, cramped beside him, managed tremulously. Betelgeuse imagined Douglas'' eyes were just beginning to quiver.


    Betelgeuse peeked out the side.


    Nothing but rocky juts and undefined shapes standing silent witness to their surreptitious progress.


    "Hey gimme some commentary here¡­ what''re you looking at?" Douglas urged.


    "Not sure what it was. There''s not supposed to be any life on Desert right?" Betelgeuse returned.


    "... There are extremophiles in the volcanoes and desert areas¡­ if I''m remembering the infoments correctly¡­" Frederica remarked.


    "I''m going to the next one," Betelgeuse said.


    He alighted at the next pillar without incident. Almost immediately, he felt his fellows thump into cover behind him, their bodies jogging him forward roughly.


    "Easy there," he grunted.


    "Dog Balls¡­ um¡­ behind you?" Frederica quavered.


    A chill went up his spine like the fervent skittering of a gigas millipede, raising upon his forearms a rash of goosepimples. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind in all directions, none of them finding their berth, and he felt before he concluded that perhaps it was something mysterious behind him after all.


    Betelgeuse whipped around anti-clockwise, blacksteel muzzle crashing violently into the undefined thing, his mind mute and committed to action. He felt Lawrence''s Incunabulum fall from his armpit.


    A muffled tchik-tchik-tchik issued from it, as it slammed into the side of the pillar then started to shift about.


    "Chimerae!"


    He stabbed again with his muzzle, catching it in its midriff and causing the thing to fall over backward into the intervening space between pillars, its body rustling a perfervid tchik-tchik-tchik that raised in volume and became more garbled.


    He flicked his headlamp on reflexively; and Betelgeuse beheld, mere centimeters away, a humanoid thing fallen supine upon the ground and attempting to regain its fetlocked feet. It was encased from pastern to rhomboid head in a silvery-blue plate, with long and spindly double-jointed arm-appendages extending from a thin torso. It took him half a second to realise that the gash of black glass running vertically down the flattish front-facing surface of the thing''s head was, in fact, a feature of its helmet and not an organic feature of its face¡ªthat the thing wore a head-piece of some kind.


    With unflinching ferocity Betelgeuse set upon the Chimera, swinging the butt of his railgun in a vicious roundhouse instinctively aimed at its head, his headlamp flinging beams of light in a chaotic dazzle. He felt the dull thunk through his suit''s padded glove and knew he scored the hit when the Chimera, barely winded, took his head with a capoeira-like kick that knocked him sidewise into the gravel, the fall breaking his headlamp and plunging the surroundings into darkness.


    "I can''t get a clean hit!" Douglas screamed, itching to turn on his headlamp yet vacillating, afraid it would make him an easy target for the Chimerae still lurking in the shadows.


    "Shove it! I''m going in!" Frederica hollered, leaping into the fray and, grabbing onto the muzzle of her railgun with both hands, bringing her weapon''s butt crashing down like a club on what she supposed was the Chimera''s head.


    Betelgeuse had already regained his feet and refocused his attention on the Chimera, only to realize they were laboring under an unfortunate dearth of light. The Chimera''s form seem to meld together indistinctly with Frederica''s, their mortal struggle a heavy dance of violence and exhaustion. Frederica''s voice filtered over the subgroup comms in a smattering of grunts and clipped yells.


    "Need some fuckin'' light, Downie!" Betelgeuse roared.


    "Argh, you better make this count!"


    In a moment the battle was once more revealed to him, and Betelgeuse leaped at the creature, smashing into it muzzle-first and ripping it away from Frederica, tipping it to the ground.


    With a garbled tcharg the Chimera tumbled and then flipped itself onto its haunches. Before Betelgeuse could react it launched itself at him, simultaneously elongating its arms into wicked blades that glinted under the light of the headlamp.


    Raising his arms instinctively, he caught one of the blades in his left palm and the other with his right forearm, the latter blade lodging between his forearm''s radius and ulna. Betelgeuse felt the sharp pain of flesh parting.


    He realized with a start that the creature''s arms hadn''t become blades. They had instead extended out of the middle section of its arms, leaving the prehensile hands free to grasp his elbows. With the tensing of its arm''s second joint, his elbows were forced closer together so that its blades sheared slowly through his flesh and bone.


    Pain. He screamed wordlessly as his hand and forearm were bisected, roared in anger as he faced the spidered crack of its helmet.


    With a resounding echo the top of the Chimera''s head vomited out in a clump of gore, the alien twitching and then falling lifeless to the ground to reveal walleyed Douglas, the muzzle of his weapon smoking.


    Betelgeuse blinked and bit his tongue.


    "Shit this isn''t pretty," Douglas remarked, running his eyes over to where the Chimera''s blade was still attached to Betelgeuse. "Almost as nasty as when you broke my arm, remember? Snapped it like a twig, you did."


    "¡­ So it''s like you''re saying you believe in karma, eh? I thought you were godless?" Betelgeuse croaked. A slow and incessant beep sounded in his ears, the exosuit''s warning that it was rapidly losing oxygen.


    "Fuck''s sake Ballsman your suit''s pierced through!" Frederica exclaimed, rifling through her exosuit''s thigh pouch and retrieving several cartridges. "We need to spray it ASAP!"


    With a grunt of pain Betelgeuse pulled his arms free of the Chimera''s blades, wincing as he did so. With steady hands Frederica foamed his gushing wounds with her coagulator, then sealed the breach in his exosuit with plastic sprayfoam. He could feel that the inside of his suit was bloodslick and greasy.


    "Gonna be microplasticked to bits¡­ but thanks," Betelgeuse mumbled, feeling pain travel up his arm in waves.


    "No thanks needed," she replied, putting the finishing touches on the forearm of his exosuit. He couldn''t see her face in the darkness because Douglas had moved elsewhere, but he imagined they were fierce and focused.


    "Hey, I found Lawrence''s thing¡ª" Douglas began, when a hailstorm of bullets flashed from the depths of the stone forest, cutting him off. They dove into the ground as one and scrambled to cover, bullets pinging off rock and gravel.


    "Get that light off!" Betelgeuse barked, willing away his pain and fatigue. "We break for it in three¡­"


    They plunged once more into the darkness, aiming themselves northeast, praying they wouldn''t meet another.


    <hr>


    The dusky chill of night gave way to eastern rays beamed through distant sawtooth peaks, and the heat rose in the day to reach about fifty degrees Celsius as Corydon blazed past the noon meridian. Their exosuits whirred and hummed, conditioners worked to near breakage under the cruel barrage of the red star.


    "I thought you died. I think I was quite sure by the fifth hour," Marja chatted, her voice annoyingly shrill across the private comms, "that you died, I mean. We waited through the night, you know. It was quite chilly."


    They forged a path of bootsteps across the ridge of rustred sand, the snaking contingent stretching far into the dust and behind the dunes they had left far behind. Subaltern Marja trudged her own deep trough beside Betelgeuse, her body encased in a blacksteel exoskeleton which bore her weight across the leagues and miles from craggy crest to gravel road to desert trail.


    "That''s very comforting to hear," Betelgeuse mumbled. His exosuit was throwing up a warning cautioning him that his oxygen supplies were low. He didn''t care¡ªhe was too tired to care and his arms were wracked with constant dull pains¡ªand anyway they were supposed to be coming up to Saltilla soon. Mayhaps he could get his suit patched up; mayhaps his body too, if he was lucky.


    "Two dead and you got only one of the bastards?" Marja half-inquired, half-sighed.


    "They caught us in an ambush, ma''am. They were set up at the Ninsei mine and had a jammer with them. We don''t even know how many of them there were. We''re lucky any of us came back alive."


    "Well, a part of me is glad you aren''t dead yet. It''s risky to have to find new people to¡­ y''know¡­"


    "I know," Betelgeuse articulated. He added Marja Mentzer''s family problems to the list of things he couldn''t care less about at that moment.


    "And when Mr. Lorenz went all ''Report, PLP Sakar! Leave nothing out. I want everything'', I must admit I was expecting more than a cursory explanation of your sojourn at the mine and the ensuing combat¡­"


    "Ma''am, we had radio-ed in about a quarter-hour prior, apprised Master Lorenz of Sergeant Jove''s and PLP Gomez''s sacrifice. I''ve nothing to add beyond what I''ve already said. They were loyal to the last breath¡ªtrue soldiers of the Democracy," Betelgeuse said, his tone grave. He observed out of the corner of his eye Douglas and Frederica near the tip of the formation. A wide-shouldered figure who could only be Michael Thane stalked the sand to Douglas'' left; sticking close to Frederica''s right was a short and rather lithe-suited form whom Betelgeuse supposed was Alisha Ruiz, the only other female PLP. All no doubt engaged in their own uniquely permuted, clandestine conversations.


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    "I wasn''t second-guessing you. Just pointing out that Parsiphal didn''t seem mighty pleased for all that. And the fact you''d brought back only Lawrence''s Incunabulum¡­"


    So we did.


    Upon that jagged slope lay the Incunabulum, ash-gray, perforated, a memento of the dead which recorded in cursive an epigraph to the man: Lawrence Gomez-Evans.


    <blockquote>


    As Lawrence Gomez-Evans had spent most of his childhood exposed to various forms of danger, he is prone to intuiting its presence.


    Lawrence Gomez-Evans'' sensitivity to such predicaments as he is unable to extricate himself from manifests as a deep and cloying sense of frustration.


    </blockquote>


    But as for the reasons, the logic, the soul behind the heart¡­ all of that was lost forevermore.


    "Strionis Jove murdered Limp. He was a traitor to the Democracy. Even dead he remains a traitor to all we stand for. Wherever his spirit is, it doesn''t deserve the benefit of his Incunabulum," Frederica had said, her words laced with venom and anger.


    Another dead man''s artifact lay upon the spartan crags, the colossal dolmen overhead just catching the dawnlight. I had spent time with its bleached-bone cover between my hands and knew that upon the first page the Increment read:


    <blockquote>


    Given Strionis Jove''s preoccupation with the loups of The Irradiated Thing, his musculature, bones and ligaments manifest a superior quality allowing him to bound across large distances.


    </blockquote>


    The Irradiated Thing. A well-loved character made a myth in children''s minds.


    And again, his Etchings, revealed:


    <blockquote>


    Strionis Jove''s circulatory system is strengthened to maintain the quality of his activity.


    Additional musculature connected to his pelvic floor muscles improve Stronis'' Jove''s performance in matters of his preoccupation.


    Strionis Jove''s preoccupations when taken to extremes manifest a severe dread.


    </blockquote>


    Frederica stood before Strionis Jove''s Incunabulum and us behind her; I remember her expression then, a visage carved from stone, and as she raised her weapon and took aim at it, I wondered how she could be so sure about what she had said.


    Douglas caught my eye. We saw foreheads anointed with the mark and I think perhaps we wondered about the logic of it. We had been branded mutineers because we had gone against the Democracy ourselves.


    Didn''t that make us traitors, too?


    "... He should be pleased enough we came back at all bearing news of the Chimerae presence in the pillar basin. The casualties could''ve been very large, ma''am. It was hard won information, and Sergeant Jove and PLP Lawrence died for it," returned Betelgeuse.


    "... and of course we have you to thank for this multi-day detour¡­" Marja muttered, then, as if suddenly remembering he could hear her, turned to regard him apologetically. "... uh¡­ I mean¡­ I meant that I hear you¡­ and am grateful for their sacrifice. Terrible to think what could have happened if we''d just traipsed in unprepared¡­"


    Betelgeuse didn''t deign to reply, his mind already consumed by other things.


    Indeed, his ability to control us had nothing to do with any of it¡­ with any of the Etchings¡­


    <hr>


    Betelgeuse remained a tomb and Marja wondered if she had gone too far. She berated herself for her insensitivity and walked there for a long time beside him in silence, until Corydon had touched the peaky caps of Saltilla''s watchtowers in the distance and then started to set behind it and beyond the Amate range to the west.


    The air was dimming as the sand became soil and they came to a gravel road lined with pitched and crumbling rubble walls. Yonder came Saltilla''s searchlight tracing a lazy arc across the barren land until it came to rest upon them as they reached an immense viaduct.


    As they stepped upon that span Marja looked over the side and saw that they were traversing the space between hills, the faces of the hills flat and sheer on either side as if some giant mason had chiseled them parallel. Far below them was a slow-moving stream of discolored liquid burbling in various shades of green and brown, frothing where the foul detritus had set up into clumps of curd.


    They were halfway over when Parsiphal called her to the front of the contingent to discuss the administrative details of their arrival at Saltilla. It was decided that the body of combat troops comprising the Grade 0 Personnel (i.e., Ash grades), Grade 1 Personnel (i.e., Hollow and White grades) and Penal Legion Personnel would be housed at the barracks with specific space allocations to be decided later.


    On the other hand, the handful of Grade 2 Personnel (comprising Primary, Bronze and Silver grades) and one other Grade 3 Personnel (i.e., Colonel Jirani Mzeeka, the other Grade 3 personnel being Subaltern Mentzer herself), who they had brought with them aboard the Vespertilio and who were slated to arrive by LSV within the next couple of days, were to be housed at the Diplomatic Chambers, just opposite from the Government House.


    There wasn''t anything Marja felt strongly enough about to disagree with.


    They walked a long time along the concrete walls of the fortress-city, and while they walked Corydon set fully and a gibbous Larua took its place. The walls were so long Marja thought it might take a week or more to traverse the whole front-facing side from end to end.


    When finally they came to the gate it loomed silent, dark and brooding. As the reconnaissance team waited under the jutting arch to be let in, Marja cast a glance back, running her eyes over the alien landscape, over the spiked basin of stone pillars they had avoided, over the area murky by the pale glow of Larua that must have been the edge of the desert they traversed, over the mammoth escarpment curving tortuously to the southeast, and over the stretch of rudimentary road that led straight here, to Saltilla.


    She raised her head and admired the constellations woven into the endless void overhead. ''So clear and so distinct,'' she thought, so different from even the clearest nights on Earth or Abuna Yem''ata. Never had she felt so close to the cosmic immensity as here, on cloudless Desert, where the inky blackness of space seemed just an arm''s length away. There was a pulse to the stars she could sense with what old Jirani had called her ''emergent consciousness'', that successor to the ''third eye'' which let her feel the interminable expansion of spacetime into the endless nothing beyond nothing.


    Although she felt a great smallness, she knew she possessed the threads of spacetime that laced her body in place of the peripheral nervous system that all other lessers of her species had to suffice with. And thus, she could believe in the promise that had sustained her bloodline through generations of rising and falling, a promise that had nothing to do with comfort or material goods or sinecure positions or political power; she hated the Mentzers because she was the most Mentzer of all: for this the promise of transcending flesh and mortality¡ªthe greatest of all promises¡ªshe could give up all other false hopes.


    In the face of such latent magnificence, the significance of two deaths suddenly seemed very small. Here, on Desert, she would find her own way, beyond the Mentzers, beyond the Democracy, and beyond the Chimerae.


    A man by the name of Harold Simmons eventually interrupted her introspection. He explained that he was the Protectorate duty officer, ranked Checkpoint Inspector, in charge of processing the TAF contingent''s ingress. CI Simmons escorted Marja and Parsiphal in through a side gate, through an airlock, and into a decontamination chamber. Then it was up a winding corridor and into a broad hall designated Immigrations and suffused with blinding white light.


    A man who introduced himself as "Superintendent Lewis" received them there. He wasted no time in informing them that the Mayor of Saltilla and a Marshal of the Sylvan Protectorate had been awaiting their arrival, and that they were to convene at the Government House with the greatest possible haste.


    "Leave the immigrations with CI Simmons," he said, eyes squinting with fatigue. With a hint of mirth, he added, "You may take off your helmets too, if you''re so inclined."


    And so barely ten minutes had passed before they were ushered out again into a dark and sleeping city overcast with a blanket of ghostly purple light. Behind her lay the towering edifice that was the Saltilla wall, before her was a vast area flat like a plain, and beyond, past indistinct silhouettes and a lacework of lamp-lighted roads, rose great and shadowy sentinels slitted with ten million or more lights.


    Saltilla looked more like a gargantuan cave than a city, the entirety of it being enclosed in a concrete sheathe. One did not see stars here when they looked up, just a bland tapestry of black studded with globy purple hues.


    They traversed its streets in a small buggy driven drunkenly by the Superintendent, its chassis tipping and pitching at every bend, and Marja looking worriedly at him to divine if they were perhaps going to die so ignominiously.


    Parsiphal was chuckling now and the Superintendent was laughing. Marja thought the buggy was going much too fast. Before its headlights was a long road split down the middle by a white line, the line whizzing past directly under the chassis with hardly any deviation.


    "Why is it so empty?" Marja managed to ask, after her terror at the Superintendent''s reckless driving had abated. Funny how she could navigate a ship across hundreds of light years and yet still feel her legs turn to jelly traveling a mere 180 kilometers per hour.


    "It''s curfew. Saltilla is under martial law," the Superintendent explained. "You might have noticed the roads leading into Saltilla were empty¡­ but there was a time, not so long ago, when Immigrations was packed to bursting and the city would never sleep.


    "We run a twenty-four-hour day now, to coordinate our timings with the TAF. On the other hand, the educational institutions still keep to the thirty-six-hour sidereal calendar¡ªthere, the State University''s the first column on the right, and there''s the through-train high school on the left¡ªbut in times like this everybody understands military matters must take priority, so the city itself functions according to the twenty-four-hour TAF cycle."


    Marja raised her head as they reached the edge of the colossal pillar, bigger now that it was so close, and found, even traveling at the speed they were, the size of the structure truly breathtaking.


    The pillar reached up from the ground and connected to the ceiling, like a stalagnate of staggering proportions, and its surface was studded with a patternless weave of windows lit and dark.


    "That''s a school?" Marja gaped. She was no stranger to megastructures, the Mentzer family having owned most of the livable land on Abuna Yem''ata¡ªbut this was a whole other level.


    "It''s some sight," Parsiphal agreed.


    "To be fair, that particular column houses one of the Protectorate''s nuclear and spacetime laboratories. It has, furthermore, every amenity a person could need, from residential dormitories to affordable eateries to luxury shopping malls. The staff and students never have to leave its premises¡ªit''s a microcosm of Saltilla," the Superintendent explained.


    "What does a university need with such an advanced laboratory?" Parsiphal inquired.


    "To study subjects related to nuclear and spacetime, I suppose," the Superintendent answered judiciously, and Marja rolled her eyes.


    The buggy penetrated deeper into the heart of the city, racing past the occasional idling vehicle until finally they came to a road lined with silent bipedal mechanical monstrosities. The columnar structures here were thinner and all of them were shrouded in shadows.


    The roads became broader and the machines were left behind until at last they arrived at a lighted square brimming with uniformed personnel and war machines of every kind. At the far end of the square sat the widest building in Saltilla by far; a long, well-lighted path extended from the end of the square and pierced straight into its shadowed heart. While not as tall as the surrounding columns, the building reached almost halfway to the ceiling; nevertheless, details of its facade were difficult to make out in the darkness, as only its ground floor appeared to be lighted.


    "There''s the outration canteen. There are usually leftovers if you''re hungry," said the Superintendent, pointing to a segmented tentage to their left.


    "And there," he turned to the wide building, "is the Government House, with the Diplomatic Chambers by the side. I better get you inside before they get too antsy¡­"


    <hr>


    "Good morning, Saltilla!" the PA chirped.


    Consciousness returned to Betelgeuse, and with it, pain.


    He forced his eyes open. It took him a moment before he realized he no longer had his exosuit on and that he was staring at the concrete ceiling of the Saltilla Barracks, at any one of the ten or so cracks splintering across its surface.


    Barracks Block 50, to be specific, located almost three kilometers from the mustering point.


    "It is now zero-five-three-zero hours military time; two-nine-three-zero hours Desert time. All rise for the anthem¡­"


    It figured he only had about three hours of sleep. He remained in bed and raised his left palm, then his right forearm, scrutinizing where the wicked wounds foamed blue by the coagulator had scabbed over wetly. He would have to find an infirmary and get himself checked. Hopefully they had Rejuvenators here.


    As the solemn strains of a synth-trumpet filtered through the PA and then faded away, he registered that someone beside him was still snoring. He turned his head, seeing Voke on the adjacent bed.


    "... it''s a chipper twenty-four degrees Celsius in Saltilla today. If you''re free and fancy a spin at the latest fitness fashion files, do come by downtown sometime after lunch¨Can event is happening at MetroTown Calgary that will blow your socks away! To all those masters of style, fighting fashionistas and gods of groove, we are happy to present the latest in recycled paraphernalia¡­"


    Betelgeuse rose to his feet and tottered unsteadily, placing a hand onto the bed frame to steady himself and wincing at the onset of further pain; he turned to look at Voke again, seeing a curious beam of light fall upon the crown of that man''s head, its mellow glow so reminiscent of Earth¡­


    Betelgeuse found the window with his eyes and stared out the dirty pane. Beyond lay a vast land of cropfields fractured into rectangular plots by tar roads stretching out into the background of distant columns¡ªmegaliths of metal and stone extending from ground to ceiling.


    "... and for the intrepid consumer looking to replace one or more pieces of their cookware post-donation drive, look no further than the Bangsar Pasar, where some of the best deals to be seen this year are slated to make their appearance no later than tonight¡­"


    Saltilla was a city encased in concrete. Above them hung an uneven clay-colored ceiling splotched with unknown black substances and which reached so high up Betelgeuse found himself wondering if clouds would form up there. The Saltilla morning was like afternoon on Earth; the Sun streamed golden from a multitude or more of floodlights affixed to the Saltilla sky, and the resplendent world here was so unlike the raw redness of Desert as begotten by Corydon.


    "... so if you see any of our friends from the Democracy, recognizable for their black uniform jackets colored blue at the lapels, don''t hesitate to shake their hands and greet them. To the Democracy and their fearless officers¡ªwe thank you, from the bottom of our hearts¡­"


    Myriad vehicles hummed and sputtered and clanked. Betelgeuse caught the faint smell of food wafting through the air. A multitude of voices carried over from the toilets at the far end of the dormitory¡ªhis fellow PLPs clowning around amidst their ablutions.


    "... It is most important, in this time of need, to remind ourselves daily of the sacrifices made by our brave soldiers. And your sacrifice at home, to scrimp, save and ration, multiplied by five million Saltillans and combined with the efforts of the other eight-hundred-and-ninety million Sylvans¡ªyour sacrifice matters.


    "Have a magnificent day ahead, citizens! Glory to the Protectorate and, as always, good morning, Saltilla!"

 Chapter 14: The Soul of a Place

    "Someone might ask, what are things made of, in reality?"


    Some of the children muttered, some of them yawned, but none of them looked particularly engaged.


    "Our fundamental understanding is¡ªsmaller and smaller things. All of humanity''s greatest technologies are just that: complexes of isolable things. But first, we had to isolate the material we worked with¡­"


    Betelgeuse shifted his side pouch over to his lap and reclined upon the bench of carven porphyry, watching with mute interest the youthful teacher sitting by the edge of the spitting fountain. His wounds had yet to heal fully and his left hand throbbed painfully from the effort of holding up a cinnamon-flavored sweetmeat.


    About the teacher were bored-faced children who could not be older than nine years of age, jabbering, thumb-sucking, engaging in horseplay and juvenile crooning and generally doing everything they could not to pay attention to their broad-nosed, dusky-skinned tutor.


    "... so down we went the rabbit hole, discovering things like molecules, atoms, then sub-atomic particles like protons and neutrons and electrons, then quarks of the major and minor distinctions, the major quarks comprising up quarks and down quarks, the minor quarks comprising charm, strange, top and bottom quarks, and then we found a whole new universe revealed writ in the quantum language¡ª"


    "Mr. Gervase, Abby hit me!"


    "Did not! It was Daniel who started it, Daniel bit me first!"


    "Well, you''re stupid, Abby!"


    "At least I''m human-stupid! You''re dumber than a cow!"


    The young teacher squinted like an old man. The children had started shifting around restlessly and murmuring canards to each other, mumbling and jostling and even accusing Daniel or Abby or possibly Ira or Everett of "sexual defiancy".


    Betelgeuse raised an eyebrow. The children were getting loud and boisterous and fabricating scandals that would make a politician sweat. Saltilla''s elementary students were clearly exposed to a fraught media, he mused.


    Mr. Gervase had begun to mediate between his charges'' antinomic assertions in a gentle tone when Betelgeuse started to wonder where Voke had gone. Voke was the reason why he was here in the first place¡ªhe''d returned to the barracks after his session at the infirmary, the dormitory empty save for riffle-haired Voke, when Voke had asked if he could "tag along".


    He wasn''t thinking of going anywhere, he had said, and Voke, decidedly aghast, had decided himself that they should check out some of Saltilla''s "communal spaces" on their "first day off in two months". So off they went in search of the shuttle bus that would courier them to the shopping district, a single street made large, Betelgeuse realized, by the towering columns ringed with moats of artificial talus.


    Betelgeuse eyed his wrist-transceiver. Fifteen minutes. It shouldn''t have taken that long to find a toilet. He didn''t feel like moving¡ªno choice but to take in the sights a third time.


    He tipped his cap''s visor upward.


    It was a plaza bathed in afternoon light and centered with a fountain spewing droplets of water suspended mid-air, a visual illusion that clearly appealed to the idling onlookers loafing athwart the encircling granite benches. The fountain looked to have been fashioned out of marble or a material very like marble. The fountainhead and its stem had been precision-carved into writhing figures both human and animalian, the gaping faces appearing to strain against alabaster sheets. They looked like they were suffocating.


    Below his feet was a pavement tessellated with isosceles tiles and lined with white grouting, the tiles colored white and indigo, the contours of the indigo mingling and then splaying through the fountain and across the circular plaza. As he followed the contours of color with his eyes, he found it looked very much like a tree denuded of leaves. Its brittle branches were pointing down the plaza''s exit to the shopping district.


    The thick base of the tree-symbol pointed at the entrance opposite, the pavement of which terminated at the bend of a tar road that hooked sharply and led down an extended straightaway. At the end of this road squatted a building of singular breadth, its shape reminiscent of either a Sinic palace or a toad resting on its haunches.


    An incessant flow of Saltillans, short and thick and bedecked in clothes splashed with primary colors, passed through the entrance and streamed across the plaza toward the shopping district.


    Now Mr. Gervase was moving, leading the clamoring children toward the street, his sable palms holding onto the little hands of Daniel and Abby. Soon they disappeared amongst the sea of humanity and were no more, vanishing like ripples expended of the will-to-individuality.


    Betelgeuse had visited a city only once before, when he was fourteen years of age. His mother had brought him there to see a psychiatrist. He supposed she had been concerned about his rapidly budding truculence. That Earthen megacity, Jochi, was larger than Saltilla by land area, but lacked any landmark that could compare in size and magnificence to the columnar obelisks of Saltilla.


    Betelgeuse had just gotten to counting the number of women in sheer blouses revealing upside-down-heart-shaped patches of skin at their backs, when a fair-complexioned middle-aged man, compact like the majority of his fellow Desertians and dressed in wool finery, approached him.


    "The blue lapels¡­ are you come from the TAF?" he asked, his expression full of amiability.


    "... Yes."


    The man raised both hands open-palmed as if in offering and, when Betelgeuse proffered his own hand instinctively, clasped them together over Betelgeuse'' outstretched appendage.


    Betelgeuse winced, pain lancing up his arm.


    The man''s words were effusive and filled with a thanks Betelgeuse found quite unnecessary. He nevertheless kept his opinions to himself and managed a smile, until at length the man settled onto the bench beside him and struck up a friendly conversation.


    "Where did you live before?"


    The man''s accent was thick but easy to understand. His features were sharp and he spoke well, with a deep voice.


    "I come from Earth," Betelgeuse returned politely.


    "Ah, the capital of the universe. I am native of Desert, but this is not my city. I am from Jegorich, the capital of the Protectorate, but perhaps not such a capital as your capital," he chuckled loudly, laughing at his own joke.


    There was a silence interspersed by the tinkle of water hitting water.


    "How do you feel, really, about a foreign force taking up here?"


    An upraised eyebrow was the first answer he received.


    "What? Maybe I am not understanding you, but TAF is no foreign force, yes? It is come from our protector, the protector of the Protectorate. Democracy."


    ''There is sense to that,'' mused Betelgeuse. The Democracy was, after all, suzerain over the Sylvan Protectorate.


    "It is a time of need after all," he nodded.


    "And we are forever grateful! The Democracy, sending such young as yourself to defend us¡­ you know there was another war not fifteen or sixteen years ago, when the alien came down upon us. I was young as you then, but because my body does not work as it should, I could only be at the factory, making munitions. It is what I am good for, anyway, with my Tzevtao¡­ my Incunabula. Helping the war, I only hope I helped kill many of the alien." The man rubbed his eyes, as if clearing it of the brimming memories. "But I think I am suddenly understanding where you are coming from. The Saltilla Ombudsman, we know, is very anti-Democracy, and has often raised much the same concern as you on the evening debates. Anyway, it is his job to do so¨CI do not think he is really like this in his private life."


    "¡­ I have heard of that incursion and about those who fought. We remember and honor their sacrifice on Earth," Betelgeuse said. Then, turning to meet the man''s eyes, he added, whilst absentmindedly fingering his side pouch, "I am curious, though¡ªearlier, you mentioned your Incunabulum. I did not know the same rite of passage existed in the Protectorate."


    "Ah¡­ it is already a very old practice. We learn in school that the Democracy gifted these powers nearly three hundred TAF-years ago. There is a history to this¡ªit is said we on Ayish, which you call Desert, were descended from the explorers of the Old Empire. After its collapse, the connection between us and the great Tellus was broken, until the Democracy rediscovered us some five hundred TAF-years ago. It took two hundred years for us to accept the suzerainty of the Democracy, because, we are taught, of the obstructionism of some misguided autochthony-practitioners. But once we were welcome into the fold the Democracy built a Library in Jegorich for our benefit. The best decision our government, corrupt as they are, has and will ever make!"


    Throughout his ramble the man slowly increased his volume, and by the end of his speech Betelgeuse could see some passersby shoot them dirty looks. The man, it seemed, was attracting some outright hostile stares. It occurred to Betelgeuse that the corruption of the Protectorate government was by no means an opinion widely held.


    As if noticing this, the man sidled closer to Betelgeuse, and dropped his voice to a near whisper, "I heard rumors, you know, that the alien had infested the Ninsei mine, the one in the Pit. They are having to bring down soldiers from Jegorich to guard the Saltilla underground entrance to the mine and push back the alien from the Pit¡­"


    "Saltilla is physically connected to the mine?" Betelgeuse blurted. ''Insane,'' he thought, bewildered at the sheer speed by which the ''rumors'' had spread. Was TAF confidentiality really that flimsy?


    "Why yes, it is common knowledge! For Saltillans, that is. I am anyway hearing everyday that things are not looking good, that the vathouses are being destroyed and supplies are running low. I am meaning to ask you if you know whether this is true?"


    "... I''m sorry. We''ve just arrived and our higher-ups are still stuck in their own administrative processes."


    "Aiyai¡­ it is impossible to run away from bureaucracy, eh?"


    The artificial solar rays beating down upon the city seemed to be getting brighter. The information supplied by the man fomented a peculiar restlessness in Betelgeuse. He squinted into the distance, realizing that the plaza and the surrounding columns had been built on a raised and flat surface, like a mesa. From his vantage, he could make out the outlines of certain buildings in the Saltilla Barracks between the columnar structures in the middle distance. One particularly wide column blocked his line of sight to where he supposed Barracks Block 50 lay.


    "What''s that one?" Betelgeuse pointed.


    "Oho! My school, my, how do you call it, my alma mater, the State University. It is a beauty, yes? So large! And it is not only the university; they have everything inside¡ªgood food, good shopping, good virtual fantasy. You must visit there! Also, you see where it reaches the ceiling? Above that, on top of the Dome, is the Transportation Gate."


    "I see, so it''s like a hub? I wanted to find a messenger relay, and I was wondering if it might not be in there."


    "Yes, yes, it is only logical that the relay is there, see, because as I said the Transportation Gate is just on top!" the man chortled.


    Out of the periphery of his eyes he sensed someone familiar, and Betelgeuse turned to see a slight-figured, pale-skinned Voke come rushing through the crowd, his path taking him against the large and growing moil of people traveling into the shopping district, a lone eddy defying the relentless currents.


    Voke, his eyes partially shaded by a blue cap, his expression endlessly apologetic, brought an arm up in a half-wave. His side-pouch slapped arrhythmically into his thigh.


    "There is my companion! It was good talking to you sir, but I must be going," Betelgeuse smiled, holding out a hand.


    The man sandwiched Betelgeuse hand between his own rough palms, his farewell much like his greeting, none of his effusiveness having abated.


    "And it was good talking to you too! Good luck, young one! As they say, godspeed!"


    <hr>


    "Who was that guy?" Voke asked, raising an eyebrow.


    "An indigenous of Desert, but apparently not of Saltilla. Lover of the Democracy," Betelgeuse returned, his voice low.


    "Aren''t we all," chirped Voke, his mouth widening into a grin.


    Betelgeuse turned to regard his companion, opening his mouth, then closing it again. He remembered their conversation back aboard the Vespertilio and knew they were two souls of antithetical philosophies. There would be no point.


    All about them were people walking, jostling, shoving, squeezing through and moving with single-minded determination, their minds set on disparate destinations, their individual energies small and private yet combining with all the rest into this interminable, indefatigable stream of humanity.


    They had joined this movement of bodies, Betelgeuse leading and Voke following, into the yawning shadows cast by the overweening columns of Saltilla towering above-head.


    As they eked a path through the claustrophobic press, a sudden and strange nervousness gripped Betelgeuse. He withdrew inside himself, following the thin thread of anxiety to its source.


    The man had said the Protectorate wanted to oust the Chimerae from the ''Pit'', as he had called it, and for that purpose had transferred a party of soldiers from their capital to Saltilla. Yes, he was concerned about the possibility of a party being sent into the Pit and discovering that the deaths of Lawrence Gomez-Evans and Strionis Jove had, in fact, been caused by a ZWEN Mark-567 railgun. In other words, there was a non-zero probability of the deaths being traced back to Betelguese himself.


    A detail from the infomentaries rose half-remembered in his mind. The Chimerae, savages that they were, were known to favour the use of fire against their human enemies, and routinely razed human settlements and their living populations to the ground. They were also known for cremating the bodies of any human being they came across. Betelgeuse found himself hoping that the Chimerae cleaved to their reported pyromania¡ªat least in the case of his dead colleagues.


    No use worrying about that now. Nothing I can do about it anyway.


    "So¡­ uh¡­ what was he saying? He promise his daughter to you or something?" Voke poked, jogging Betelgeuse from his thoughts.


    Betelgeuse snorted and did not deign to reply.


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    They took the first exit to the right and followed that narrow capillary down several bends and a steep decline. The downward slope ended in another broad street, this one less crowded, and the duo trod across its slate tiles to find themselves before the massive automatic doors of the State University. Upon that lintel hung a steel plate embossed with the emblem of the University¡ªan outstretched palm held vertically, fingers pointing skyward, the middle of the palm marked with an empty circle.


    The first floor of the University building was capacious and flooded in warm yellows emanating from a legion of pendant lights. The demographic was young, not much older than Betelgeuse, and mostly bespectacled.


    On Betelgeuse'' approach and inquiry as to where the message relay station was located, a helpful officer at the information counter pointed them to "floor three of eighty"; then she added, unsolicited, that he "should throw that" in the rainbow-colored container that absolutely-did-not-look-like-a-trash-bin by the elevator at the end of the hall. "No outside food and trash beyond level one," she explained, staring wide-eyed for emphasis at the crumpled bag of butcherpaper clutched in Betelgeuse'' hand.


    ''It wasn''t very good anyway,'' he thought, absentmindedly squeezing the bag and the half-eaten bun within.


    The elevator spit them out into another spacious hallway illuminated in soft whites and obnoxious blues and lined with various DIY and miscellaneous-equipment shops. The ground was covered in reflective tile and the walls between the panes of tempered glass were painted in an eclectic blend of styles, from pointillism to cubism to whole sections draped in dalmatian-print. A panel-projection of the floor map informed Betelgeuse that this was one of the four hallways comprising ''floor three of eighty''. The hallways were arranged at right angles to each other, forming a rectangular shape that left the middle section hollow; the message relay station was located past a bend, at the northeastern corner of the floor.


    They passed the rebreather-repair stations and the exosuit-upkeep outlets, the reseller of terminal parts and the ''Partner of taotie.com'' advertising the latest models of superlonglasting high-cobalt solid-state batteries. They turned the bend.


    The message relay station occupied a large L-shaped recess at the end of the hallway, and bustled with so much frenetic activity that the chaos spilled out into the adjoining walkway. The space within was split into two, one-half jammed with whirring mechanical arms spinning and transcribing and sorting at breakneck speeds the human eye could not follow, the other half crammed with sweaty workers moving so fast they seemed a mess of human limbs. A long line of Saltillans, discernible because of their trademark short stature, snaked from the station counter, reaching almost a third of the way down the hallway.


    "So this is where you wanted to go¡­ wait¡­ you''re joining the line? It''s going to take forever!" Voke exclaimed.


    "Yeah, well, I have something to check," returned Betelgeuse.


    "Brother mine, what could you possibly have received? We weren''t even allowed to contact our family before the embarkation," Voke sighed.


    Betelgeuse shrugged.


    "Okay, I''m going to explore around then. I''ll be back! Wait for me once you''re done¡ªmaybe send me a message on the transceiver?"


    "Transceiver''s only for official business," Betelgeuse monotoned. "Non-adherence equals a week of latrine duty."


    "For someone with such a rebellious philosophy you sure tend to be a stickler about these sorts of things," Voke muttered.


    Betelgeuse shrugged again, then added silently to himself, ''I just don''t feel like it.''


    "I''ll be back anyhow. You be sure to wait for me," and Voke was gone.


    It would take thirty minutes at least to reach the counter, he thought. The line moved slowly, slow enough for Betelgeuse to become consumed by a directionless brooding. His thoughts soon shifted to the circumstances surrounding Strionis Jove''s ability to usurp his intentionality. A sort of mind control effected, he was almost certain, through the medium of his Incunabulum. But if it did not manifest as an Etching or Increment, then that must mean it was a latent ability.


    Betelgeuse scrunched his brows together, reaching back into fading memories. Nothing of his experience trafficking low-value research on the black market Pecorino seemed directly applicable¡­ he had, however, come across some throwaway references to a ''compulsion matrix''. All he knew was that the efficacy of the ''compulsion matrix'' could be affected by an Ash grade''s Increment and/or Etchings. Certain Ash grades could to some extent be incompatible with the ''compulsion matrix''.


    At the time, he hadn''t had any clue what a ''compulsion matrix'' was or what it did. Not much had changed on that front, but the name of the thing seemed to fit very closely to what he had experienced. Compulsion. If Strionis Jove had ''used'' the ''compulsion matrix'' on him, and he had broken free, then might he not count among the so-called incompatibles?


    His estimate of thirty minutes was extended to forty because the geriatric Saltillan queuing in front of him couldn''t remember his name. They went back and forth a long time about nothing, the old man and the attendant, until finally he tottered away, his mind confused and in tatters, his eyes hazed by cataracts and unseeing, his departure colored by an incessant mumbling: "the sky is falling, the sky is falling".


    Now he was up in front, facing the female attendant and observing, behind her, the troop of workers coordinating with impressive speed an operation to log with their hand-held scanners the relevant details of non-standard items.


    "Have you been allocated a Firewall code, sir?" she asked, her voice tinted mellow by a faint accent. Her bored expression had been replaced by some semblance of liveliness, perhaps occasioned by his uniform, its lapels identifying him as a member of the TAF.


    "No. I just arrived yesterday¡­ early this morning."


    "We''ll allocate one to you right away, sir. Could we have an ID?"


    "I''ll scan it in with my transceiver," Betelgeuse replied, holding his wrist out, his wounds throbbing faintly.


    "Give us a moment¡­ here you go."


    She slipped him a piece of paper, upon which was penciled in neat, blocky letters: "17102996".


    "It''s your account number, for your reference. In future," she continued, "you''ll need to use this to access your relay account in any of the Ayish cities. There''ll be biometric at the terminals, of course, as an additional layer of security mandated by our treaty with the Democracy. Do bear in mind that if you lose your account number or if someone else is caught utilizing your account number, your relay account will be locked and you''ll have to apply to the embassy to verify your identity, in line with the treaty provisions. For your information, this means an in-person Information Sanitation check¨Conly once you have the physical certificate confirming your identity will the Protectorate be authorized to reveal your account number to you."


    "Thanks," he replied, pocketing the piece of paper.


    "The terminals here are in the back. You can proceed there to check if you have any private messages," the attendant said, pointing at a door which lay beyond the turmoil of her coworkers.


    "Actually, I''m wondering if you have a public relay?" he inquired.


    "Yes, of course. May I check who the message is addressed to?"


    "Uh¡­ Desert?"


    "... Sir," she began slowly, "we''ve received seventy billion messages addressed to ''Desert'' since the start of the month. It''s unlikely any of them will ever find their intended recipient."


    "Okay, then how about P-D-S 70?"


    "I''m sorry, that''s not much better, sir."


    "Can you try 2-4-7-B, no spaces. Just see if that works, and if not, try permuting 2-4-7-B with P-D-S 70. The numbers should be expressed as Arabic numerals, please."


    The attendant fiddled with her terminal; craning his head slightly, Betelgeuse peeked over the counter and surreptitiously observed her attempting the AI-permutation and fuzzymatch, to no avail. He retracted his head.


    Turning to him, she said: "No matches, sir. I''m sorry."


    "That''s fine. Is there a way to send messages back to Earth?"


    "I apologize, sir. As of three years ago, the Democracy had promulgated Requisition Order number twenty-five restricting data egress. Messages can come in, but no messages can go out except through the authorized channels. You may want to speak with your embassy¡ª"


    "That''s fine, that''s fine. No need to apologize. That''s all I need," he interpolated, smiling.


    Departing from the counter, he looked around. Voke had yet to return. He decided to make a round, see what else ''floor three of eighty'' had to offer.


    Nothing much, apparently. Floor three didn''t seem to attract many visitors. He passed stalls hawking virtual wares and shop-fronts covered in analog keys, and had just reached the corner of a Spelunking Essentials outlet when Voke came running down the hallway, huffing and puffing, the light of excitement in his eyes.


    "There you are, there you are! I found something real cool-like¡ªheh¡ªI think you might like it!" he jabbered.


    "What is it?"


    "Come with me¡ªthey''re having free drinks for TAF guys, and I met someone who''ll get us into the Dromedary¡ª"


    "What is this, another one of your harebrained¡ª"


    <hr>


    It was hard to believe that it was the same building. They''d gone up two floors to reach the fifth, and then down eighteen to some dark, subterranean tunnelway. A man with coal-black skin was there to receive them; he and Voke talked and then they were let through velveteen drapery into a club replete with hedonists.


    Wisps of smoke with orange-underbellies snaked to a high-ceiling, lighted by a smattering of parti-colored beams shot haphazardly from floodlights housed upon see-sawing pulleys. A huge congregation bounced in supplication to the music, their nerves twanging synthetic.


    In this dark space, everywhere was bacchanal chaos, every body an instrument for mass delectation.


    Betelgeuse hadn''t been to a place like this before. It was stimulating. It was strange and exciting. They''d started at the edge, he and Voke, and slowly traversed the murk; the music heard from the middle was incredible and loud, and the words sung in that foreign tongue held an exhilaration all by itself.


    Now surrounded by bodies moving to the whirlwind beat, every thought sublimated to physical movement, he felt a kind of freedom. Blood suffused with clangor steamed away the anxiety, he thought. Possible way to forget, probable method to allay.


    It was empty pleasure, but perhaps that was the point.


    It took fifteen songs for him to retreat into the bar, behind the loud and obnoxious space where humans felt free by giving themselves up. He''d lost track of time and now he saw that it was hours later. Voke was still somewhere inside freeing himself.


    Free-flow alcohol, the nubile bartender advertised, her long and luscious hair spilling blood-red over her shoulders, her smooth forearms pale-purple by the underglow and resting on the surface of black marble.


    Something that won''t kill me, he asked.


    What the hell you think we sell, she scoffed.


    The liquor shot burned as it went down his gullet. It was stronger than he expected, but he willed himself not to cough. The bartender gave him a refill; another shot went down his throat.


    Alcohol was as common as water back in Edom-Zeta. So were its ill effects. He knew enough about it from his parents not to indulge.


    A third and a fourth shot. He was starting to feel better. His wounds no longer hurt so much. The pounding beat receded into the background, and he began to think of returning to the dance floor.


    Where do you come from, she asked.


    Earth, he said.


    Earth, she breathed. Must be an amazing place.


    This place is pretty amazing by itself, he said.


    It''s a small place. It''s cramped and everyone recognizes you. I hate that.


    Believe you me, I know what that''s like.


    But you''re from Earth.


    I''m from a small village right smack in the middle of a landlocked province. The air is thick with smog a solid third of the time. We have elders that look over our shoulders every hour of the day and sermonize every infraction into a learning point. Tell me I don''t know cramped.


    Ha! You''re a funny man, Taffy.


    He didn''t feel like taking the fifth shot. His vision was beginning to swim, and he was sure he''d stumble if he stood up too quickly.


    I''ve heard about this thing called ''paternalism'' on the Common channels. The Ombudsman talks about it. I think that''s what we have, she said.


    I can see how a setup like this can turn out that way, he said. You''re all trapped here. There''s no way to leave, unless you can suddenly breathe outside without dying.


    I mean, back when I just started working here, we used to be able to run this place through the night. Now we have curfew. I understand we need to make sacrifices¡ªtimes like this and all that¡ªbut really¡­ what are we, children?


    We''re all children, probably.


    Ha ha! I appreciate a Taffy with some humor¡­ My name''s Nayly, by the way.


    The fifth shot went down less than smoothly. He didn''t introduce himself.


    It''s my first time in a place like this, he admitted.


    And how do you like it, she inquired.


    I like it very much. But I don''t think I''m coming back.


    How come? Could use a wit like you around here.


    Someone brought me in here, said there were free drinks. But I think I don''t deal with alcohol well.


    Doesn''t seem like that to me. You''ve been downing those things like crazy. People only do one or two of them, even the other Taffies.


    Then why did you give them to me?


    Ha ha ha! Just wanted to have some fun, I guess.


    Her hands were on his now, and he was looking in her eyes. They were a pale-gray, her eyes¡ªcontacts, maybe. Her face was small and well-shaped and sharp around the chin. Her snub-nose was upturned in the most alluring way. Their faces were close and he wondered if she did not have other customers to serve, but he didn''t feel like removing her hand.


    What say we get out of here, before the other Taffies come, she said, her lips curving upward. Can''t really be fucked to wait for some action.


    He saw her supple, lithesome form and felt a stirring within himself. He knew it well¡ªall men did.


    No, he said.


    And she frowned, her palms tightening over his.


    A hand came from nowhere to hit him on the back of his skull, sweeping the cap from his head.


    Betelgeuse turned. It was a man, shorter than him, hissing vitriol in a tongue he did not understand. The bartender had removed her hand now, and was shouting, screaming at the man.


    Who are you, Betelgeuse asked, standing, his voice so low it was almost drowned out by the sound.


    I''m her boyfriend, you fuck, he yelled, and then continued to spew invectives alien to Betelgeuse''s ear.


    A hand reached out from the shadows and came to rest on the man''s shoulder. It looked like one of his friends, whispering to him and pointing to the brand upon Betelgeuse'' forehead.


    Penal, Betegeuse heard, over and over again. His vision was swimming but he willed himself steady.


    You want to fight, Betelgeuse said. It was a statement, not a question.


    The bartender''s boyfriend was starting to look unsure of himself. But something changed within his eyes and he waved his friend away, squaring up before Betelgeuse. The bartender was yelling angrily and flailing her arms like a chicken.


    You don''t want this, the man said. In your language, you call me Primary.


    Betelgeuse unslung his side pouch and secreted it within his uniform jacket. Uncomfortable, but it''d have to do.


    You don''t want this, the men stressed.


    Betelgeuse pumped his thighs, putting all his strength into a leap that took him into the man and both of them to the ground. Good, he thought, playing the striking game while inebriated can be troublesome.


    The world was spinning and spinning and Betelgeuse had the man under him. He balled his hands into fists, squeezing, allowing the pain of his half-healed wounds to cut through the haze. And he was smashing his fists down, and the man''s blood was being spilled.


    He felt his skin sizzle. More pain that he used to his advantage. He looked at his knuckles. They were stained with blood and pale ichor, the ichor burning through his skin to reveal bone.


    Primary indeed.


    The man had taken advantage of the brief lull to catch Betelgeuse neck with his left hand. A runny liquid was seeping from the man''s palm, and it was burning painfully, melting through his skin.


    Betelgeuse roared and swatted the man''s hand away. He brought his head down into the man''s nose, smashing it in. More sizzling. His scalp felt like it was roasting atop a fire. His hands were smoking, and still he brought them down, pounding the man''s skull to the beat of the music.


    The next thing he remembered was Voke pulling him off the unresponsive body and shouting in his face. The man''s friend was pointing at them, yelling something. A second man wearing a shirt printed over with purple flowers had come rushing over, brandishing a metal bat and swinging it wildly.


    Voke pulled Betelgeuse back, taking the hit on his shoulder. The bat lifted and came down again, catching the music''s beat on time.


    Voke winced. Let''s fucking go, man. Run¡­ you can run?


    Let''s go, Betelgeuse croaked.


    He pushed Voke to the side as the bat came down for the third time. It missed, passing through space and impacting dully on the ground; the regular beat, made syncopated. Betelgeuse barreled into the purple flowers and pushed, feeling the form fall to the ground.


    Now, he hollered, turning to Voke.


    And they ran.

 Chapter 15: Urgent Missive

    When he first saw her, he thought she resembled a tiger. There was a latent fierceness to her that painted her soul in vivid oranges and blacks, and a domineering aura about her that was enhanced by the wicked gash that ran canted from her branded forehead through an empty left socket and down to her lip.


    Then he gave Thete Jutson his best study and saw in that charcoal pupil of hers a painful and unresolved thing that she carried with her and that burdened her. And suddenly she didn''t seem so fierce to him anymore.


    Her features had a rough-hewn beauty to them¡ªof the kind that other boys liked to tease about, but which he secretly fancied. Her cheeks had a slight puffiness to them, and her nose was wide and flat and slightly upturned so that he could see her nostrils when she raised her head to talk to him.


    Later on she would fit a Caturdhara prosthesis into that ophthalmic cave, and he would ask her about why she didn''t just leave it in. She would respond that the thing was ''military grade'' and as such so shitty that the thing leaked electricity and made her eye hole itchy. Betelgeuse supposed also that she had first appeared before them without the prosthesis to seem more fearsome than she actually was.


    But at their first meeting there was a healthy dose of yelling and now Betelgeuse was scrubbing the toilet down with a rag that looked positively infused with the detritus he was cleaning up. Voke, secreted between the browned sides of a cubicle, was wrangling with a mop whose plastic shaft was bent about the halfway mark. Watercloset, toilet bowl, washbasin, tile grouting¡ªall of it was under their purview and their instructions were that all of it had to be made sparkling clean.


    This was their punishment for ''disturbing the peace'', meted out by Sergeant Thete Jutson, a Desertian woman who hailed from Jegorich and whose loyalties lay with the TAF. More recently, she had been one of the five team leaders appointed from the incoming Jegorich contingent to lead the PLP sections; Sergeant Jutson would take the section comprising Betelgeuse, Frederica, Douglas and Voke.


    ''Bet Parsiphal had a hand in the team allocations,'' he thought absentmindedly, bringing his thumbnail down on the blackened rag and scraping off through that threadbare material a thing clotted upon the floor. ''¡­ I do wonder how she got that brand. For that matter, I wonder how she came to work for the TAF.''


    "... Remember how you were telling me that the ''transceiver''s only for official business''?" Voke quipped, dipping the scraggly mophead into a blacksteel bucket brimming with suds and discolored brown water. "Turns out brutalizing the locals also counts as official, eh?"


    "Come off it, Voke. I think I was drunk."


    "I didn''t know it was official business to get drunk and flirt with the sexy bartender."


    Betelgeuse sighed. There was no doubt it was his fault they were in this mess, though he wouldn''t so much as admit it to Voke.


    "I don''t think that Thete should''ve given us a whole month. She didn''t even ask about the circumstances. It was clear provocation, yeah? I wasn''t even flirting with the woman. She came on to me," Betelgeuse said.


    "If it were me I don''t think I would''ve given me a day of this shit," Voke chortled. "You, on the other hand, can take the whole month."


    A curious thought occurred to Betelgeuse. Maybe Voke was suffering from bad karma, a kind of cosmic retribution for dragging him into the mess of that nonstarter of a mutiny. Now Voke had been drawn into his mess.


    He laughed silently and put the idea out of his mind. Despite everything, Voke had been good to him. If there were such a thing as karma, its effect should sooner be felt by that pale man Michael Thane.


    "I think this area is done," Betelgeuse announced. Now the scratches and gouges in the brick-red tiling stood orange-white under an ancient pendant OLED, clean even unto where the floor had suffered and been riven by some unknown piece of weight dropped thereon.


    Voke was just about to call Betelgeuse over to help with the cubicles when the door to the toilet creaked open upon ill-fitting hinges. They''d left another bucket by the doorway and when the door''s semicircular trajectory was halted a boot and a slender leg stepped sideways through the crack.


    Subaltern Mentzer, calling for Betelgeuse. Voke peeked out of a cubicle. She had come alone, as though the agent of some clandestine operation, bedecked in the stiffly starched uniform of a TAF officer and hung with myriad badges and pins the provenance of which escaped the erstwhile janitors; and Betelgeuse, bent over and inspecting the floor in a set of grimy vest and slacks, his form heavily bandaged all across his neck and arms, looked an unlikely thrall to that punctilious woman.


    "Come with me. I''ve already informed Sergeant Jutson and Master Sergeant Lorenz," she requested, her tone decidedly un-officer-like. The contrast with Sergeant Jutson was stark. "Change first, though¡ªyou''ll need to be in official uniform."


    And they were gone in less than thirty seconds, Betegeuse straightening silently and staring at the woman, then leaving the rag upon the rim of the doorstopper bucket and apologizing insincerely to his fellow penitent.


    Voke stared at the door, catching a draft as it swept through the space, wondering, as he often did aboard the Vespertilio, how Betelgeuse managed to avail himself of so many convenient excuses.


    <hr>


    The ride from the Barracks to the Government House was long and silent. The Protectorate-arranged chauffeur, a whiskered and middle-aged driver-of-buggies who answered to the name Hawley, swerved expertly from lane to lane, overtaking two-wheeled, three-wheeled, four-wheeled and no-wheeled vehicles of various sizes and configurations. Along the way they passed motorcycles, holocycles, armored trucks, buses and contingents of clanking bipedal machines traveling toward the Saltilla gate.


    The whole city seemed caught in the throes of some wild emotion.


    The artificial lights blazed high noon for the sixth hour. As their buggy sped past clouds of commuters and darted under the yawning shadows of the Saltilla columns, Marja''s thoughts turned to Ortrud and brooded on their frustrated ambitions.


    In their childhood they had said they would carve out a portion of the stars together, rule their own dominion far away from the clutches of ''the Family''; childhood dreams made possible, she thought, by the war against the aliens; childhood dreams foiled by the long and cunning arm of the Presbyter.


    How she must be feeling now, caged like a bird, her soul and intentionality grafted onto the unfeeling superstructure of the Family. Every thought had as its ultimate purpose the expansion of some long dead ancestor''s will. It was no way to live.


    Marja knew Ortrud. She knew that, despite Noah Ostermann''s words to the contrary, Ortrud was suffocating in that environment. She was prevented from expressing it, perhaps, gagged by the familial policies that enslaved her. But true friendship needed no express pronouncement.


    Powerful though the Mentzers may be¡ªsome said, the most powerful family in the Democracy¡ªMarja did not believe they were invincible, especially not to someone like her. They derived their interstellar power from the Democracy''s reach, and therefore the Democracy could be used to check their absolutist pretensions.


    The Presbyter, Bishop Mentzer, even her own father¡ªtheir fatal mistake lay in thinking her merely spoiled, impudent and unenthusiastic about ''Contributing To The Family''. It was why, for all that, she had been dispatched to Desert to take on the mantle of Deputy Marshal Allied Forces, courtesy of a shadow deal negotiated between the Mentzers and the President of the Protectorate Sylas Hallstead. An expedient solution to her youthful malaise, in the eyes of the leadership: her wanderlust could be made to secure Desert against the encroachment of the Choudurys, whose subsidiaries were starting to consolidate control over key Saltillan industries like mining, smelting and prosthesis manufacturing. And, as they said, whosoever controlled Saltilla controlled the economy of the Protectorate.


    By the time the Government House hove into view, Marja knew what decision she would make.


    Betelgeuse and Marja were admitted through the imposing doors and quickly ushered into an opulent room awash in golden light. Here, the ceilings were affixed with hanging chandeliers and the gold-plated wainscoting sported keenly detailed bas-reliefs of mythical creatures, stormy seas and curving gouges that resembled lacework embroidery. The carpeting was crimson damask-weave filled to brimming with floral sprigs, earthy and lively and reminiscent of old religions. It was as if some passionate interior designer had combined myriad Earthen styles derived from the tastes of the wealthy and powerful of old, then spilled this eclectic Second Empire-esque creation onto the walls and furniture.


    They were seated at a large oval table which appeared to Marja fashioned of lacquered Earthen mahogany, and they waited in the silence for some time, Betelgeuse leaning backward and taking in the details of the room, Marja straight-backed and running key discussion points through her mind.


    ''Jirani isn''t here yet¡­'' she thought.


    Two men, one old to graying and lightly hunched, the other young and gaunt and limping slightly, entered from a door at the far end, and Marja rose to her feet to welcome them. Observing this, Betelgeuse followed suit.


    "Ms. Mentzer," the older man acknowledged. "I see Mr. Lorenz has not joined us today¡ªah, but you have brought a friend."


    He passed his eyes over the brand upon Betelgeuse'' forehead, but betrayed no reaction.


    "Mayor Grimmersby, Marshal Grimmersby. This is PLP Sakar, whom I have brought with me for an important purpose I wish to discuss today," Marja saluted.


    "At ease, Subaltern Mentzer," Marshal Phyllis Grimmersby nodded, eyes narrowing. The younger man was stiff as his dark brown uniform and his lips looked like they rarely assumed a position other than a hard line. "Please do not salute me in informal situations. I should inform you that we received your identity verification certificate from the embassy earlier. As of today, you have been appointed Deputy Marshal of the Allied Forces in Desert."


    "Deputy Marshal Mentzer, is it necessary for Mr. Sakar to remain here?" Mayor Richard Grimmersby inquired, his expression smiling and avuncular atop a coal-black western suit filled to bursting. Confidential matters will be discussed, his eyes seemed to say.


    "I can leave if needed," Betelgeuse offered, meeting the Mayor''s eyes, his voice barely disguising its hard edge.


    Marja shot a glance at him.


    "PLP Sakar is my minute-taker and the second I referred to briefly during our last exchange, sir¡ªcan I suggest he stay until we have discussed certain important topics?"


    "Well¡ª" the Mayor began.


    "That is fine. Uncle, let''s get on with it. An urgent matter has come up that absolutely cannot be delayed, and I suggest we get to our discussion without further ado." Marshal Grimmersby motioned to the mahogany table and the four quickly settled into the seats on the near side. "Is anybody else supposed to be here?"


    "Colonel Mzeeka, acting Commander of the TAF contingent to Desert, should be arriving shortly. But we can start first and I will fill him in," Marja returned. Seated beside her, Betelgeuse had laid his notebook upon the table and started scrawling quickly across the page.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    "Let''s get to the most important thing first," Marshal Grimmersby leaned back, resting his elbows on the armrests and splaying his fingers against each other in a steeple before his face. "I''m not sure if you''ve heard, but fifteen minutes ago we received word from TAF Supreme Commander Wallace that we are to stage a strike against a key Chimerae base within the next seventy-two hours. He means to use us as a diversion to cover the TAF push on Konrad, Castro and the uranium moon Opalia, and I believe the forces at those locations are moving as we speak. Our timing is synchronized to the allied forces on Consus and Eritrus¡ªwe must match the timing of our strike to theirs."


    "We were waiting for this. My understanding is that the Jegorich contingent had arrived in Saltilla last night," Marja nodded. "Following our last meeting and based on the manifest updated this morning, we have in garrison ten thousand Saltillan infantry, three thousand infantry from Jegorich and eight thousand infantry from Polyaria, which I understand arrived in Saltilla last week. There are six thousand TAF troops, including the thousand that arrived by way of the Vespertilio. In all, we have twenty-seven thousand soldiers ready to be mustered. In addition, two hundred bipeds and one thousand Armored Personnel Carriers have been set aside for this operation."


    "I had my aide inform the general staff to prepare the muster orders. The orders will go down to the troops by sixteen hundred hours," Marshal Grimmersby added.


    "Then the target of attack has been decided? So quickly?" Marja raised her eyebrow.


    "Yes, the decision has been made," Marshal Grimmersby confirmed, glancing at the Mayor.


    "Yes, yes, it''s obvious the target should be Liberation''s Reach. It is west of here, beyond the Amate Range," the Mayor said, pointing a finger to his right as though that were westward. "This was the decision taken by the Grand Marshal with the general staff in attendance."


    ''¡­ They must have been waiting for it¡ªthe decision comes too quickly. I am almost certain the Choudurys are behind this, given how much control their company''s partner Ninsei has over Saltillan production,'' Marja thought. ''No doubt about it. Ninsei and the Choudurys have the Grimmersbys in their pocket.''


    Several seconds passed in silence. Marja bowed her head, her mind racing, her heartbeat quickening.


    At that moment, the door Betelgeuse and Marja had entered through opened¡ªthe arrival of "Colonel Jirani Mzeeka" was announced by the attendant.


    Marja and the Grimmersbys turned their heads. Betelgeuse abstained and did not raise his head from the pages before him.


    Jirani was a man half bald by reason of a severely receding hairline; what hair he had was bone-white and thinning. His uniform was the jet black of the Tellus Armed Forces, and covering his narrow chest was a multitude of medals granted him for honor won in wars past. That veteran of the battlefield entered the room dabbing with a silk cloth at the sweat beading around his nosebridge and temples; he stepped into their midst and gave them all, including Betelgeuse, quick nods, and then took his seat swiftly. Betelgeuse glanced at him once he had settled into his chair.


    Marja quickly filled him in, and in the circumstances it appeared that Jirani had already received the urgent missive straight from the TAF general staff.


    "¡­ which leaves us approximately three thousand short of the standard TAF recommendation pursuant to the TAF Green Book, if the intention is to sortie against Liberation''s Reach," Jirani stressed, his voice a deep baritone. His words were articulated with a rare precision and undergirded by wisdom borne of experience. "I managed to scan the brief on Liberation''s Reach. There was information on the surrounding topography and defensive capabilities. The standard recommendation remains at thirty thousand men plus armor plus air support plus requisite supplies for a siege-type battle as contemplated¡­"


    "Commander, you must understand we had actually previously requested from President Sylas and Mayor Detlev some further support from Jegorich," Mayor Grimmersby interjected, his expression scrunching up in an expression of affected pain. "But they''d replied citing concerns over their own defense, amongst others. I don''t expect any more troops from them. Polyaria can''t spare any more¡ªthey''re basically a militia garrison now¡ªand the cities further away won''t be able to supply troops fast enough¡­"


    Picking up where the Mayor left off, Marshal Grimmersby added: "Which means we have no choice. We''re stuck with the timing. If I may be so bold, Commander, I recommend we go ahead with our plans, despite the ostensibly sub-optimal circumstances."


    "The TAF Green Book is clear on this matter. If we do not meet the recommended specifications for a sortie against a fortified position of this size, I will have to withhold the TAF forces," Jirani articulated firmly. His expression was cast in iron.


    At this Marshal Grimmersby leaned forward and as he spoke his volume rose: "This is unconscionable, sir, the lives of so many men and women are at stake. Can you in good faith¡ª"


    The Mayor, raising his hands, palms outstretched before himself in an expansive manner, interrupted the Marshal: "What the good Marshal means is that, there are times which call for a less bureaucratic interpretation of the norms as applied to warfare. Commander sir, the battlefield is endlessly unpredictable¡ªwho can say for sure what is the correct number of troops in the circumstances? There is a balance to be struck amongst the different factors, including timing, terrain, supplies and other constraints. In other words, we have to play the hand we are given, sir, and it''s clear to me that twenty-seven thousand stands us much better odds for success than twenty-one."


    "That is my prerogative to decide, as Commander of the TAF contingent. The rules of the Green Book were formulated by men far more experienced than you or I in the vagaries of warfare, Mr. Mayor. And I should add that I seem to have heard over the voxcast, as I was commuting here, your President Sylas dispute the decision to attack Liberation''s Reach. He is suggesting to target Arroyo, which lies east of us and equidistant between Jegorich and Saltilla, and I believe your Saltilla Ombudsman agrees. If the troops garrisoned at Jegorich are combined with the TAF contingent in an attack on Arroyo, my sense is that the requirements of the Green Book will be satisfied. The odds of success will be even better if the whole garrison in Saltilla is mobilized. In short: what do you say to a pincer attack on Arroyo?"


    "Look here¡ª" Marshal Grimmersby began, his face flushed, a vein pulsing across his temples.


    The Mayor silenced him with a hand, and the Marshal settled back uncomfortably.


    "I think I see what you mean. Sometimes our federal system can throw up hiccups, as in the present case, much unlike your well-oiled government-by-council. I would stress that the Grand Marshal Darwin McConnell had already agreed to the strike on Liberation''s Reach, but I think you already knew that." A curious twinkle began to dance within the Mayor''s pupils, and his lips curled upward amiably. "Instead, perhaps there is something other than Arroyo that is of pressing importance to the good Commander?"


    Jirani flashed Marja a look pregnant with implication.


    "There is something," Marja began, and the Mayor immediately sat up straighter. "I understand there had been a formal Request for Assistance put up by the Protectorate some months ago for three Golden grades to be allocated to the Desert Frontier."


    "¡­ Yes, it was signed off by President Sylas and Grand Marshal Darwin," the Mayor nodded, his brow furrowing.


    "The Desert Request, as you know, was filled by Lebensraum, and there had originally been three names submitted in the manifest: Colonel Mzeeka, myself, and one Ortrud Mentzer. The Request manifest was later updated to strike out Ortrud''s name, am I right?"


    "I believe so, though I will have to verify the name on my side," the Mayor replied, discomfort flashing visibly across his face.


    "In not so many words, I think that a formal complaint against Lebensraum can be raised with the Tellus Arbitration Court. It seems right that the request for remedy should include a reallocation of Ortrud Mentzer to the Desert Frontier."


    A silence descended over the meeting. The sound of pen on paper, ubiquitous throughout the conversation, suddenly halted, and its absence was salient indeed. The Marshal''s eyes were shaded by a cliff of hair and Jirani sat unmoving, implacable as ever. The Mayor''s expressions shifted slowly but perceptibly from discomfort to discomfort, as he puzzled out a million implications in his mind.


    "... It seems a drastic measure¡­" he managed.


    "The needs of the Democracy are beyond the interests of any corporation. It would be the just thing to do," stated Marja emphatically.


    "You were¡­ appointed Deputy Marshal by virtue of the President''s¡­ um¡­ negotiations with Lebensraum," the Mayor pointed out.


    "As I said, the needs of the Democracy are paramount. It is an implacable foe we face in the Chimerae. We need the power to exterminate them."


    "The¡­ ah¡­ President is unlikely to sanction such a complaint," the Mayor returned. He was grasping about at straws, wondering exactly what it was he was dealing with.


    "The complaint can be signed by yourself in your capacity as Mayor, and Grand Marshal Darwin as well. I trust you will have no issue soliciting for his support. Marshal Grimmersby and any one else you can find should be appended as signatories," Marja said.


    "... We would need an affidavit, as supporting evidence. The affidavit must be witnessed by a second, present in person¡­" the Mayor''s eyes widened, as a sudden understanding dawned on him.


    Marja didn''t reply. It was crucial in such circumstances to let the counterparty work the import out for themselves.


    "You have a transcript?" the Mayor asked finally.


    Marja retrieved from her uniform a ream of papers and proffered it to the Mayor. "Witnessed by myself and PLP Sakar, my second. All we need to do is get it notarized."


    The Mayor leafed through the photocopied transcript silently, his brow furrowing into deep troughs. Once done, he placed the papers carefully upon the table and stared at Betelgeuse, then Jirani. His eyes came to rest on Marja.


    A long while later, he said: "I assume you have the original."


    Marja nodded.


    "It is a dangerous business, making an enemy out of your kinsmen."


    "That''s my business, sir. I understand you''ve bet against them yourself," Marja returned sharply. The Mayor looked into her eyes and saw that she knew, or at the very least suspected.


    A sudden sliver of doubt intruded upon her thoughts: ''Is it? Are Ninsei and the Choudurys really behind him?''


    "We don''t have time to think about it too much," Marshal Grimmersby interjected, leaning forward again. This time his voice was cool and measured. "Uncle, we have no choice but to guarantee as far as we can the extirpation of the Chimerae at Liberation''s Reach."


    The Mayor took up the ream of papers again, folded it, then put it away in his inner pocket.


    <hr>


    Decorative eaves flew high above their heads, an elegant ornament by some accounts but to Marja so very out of place. They stood there covered in shadows and watched the lights dim over Saltilla to a gloaming purple and remain there, the whole city blanketed in a dusky haze that would last longer than Earth''s twilight ever did.


    Jirani had instructed Betelgeuse to find his own way back to the Barracks, and the two, Marja and Jirani, watched after that receding back as it passed from shadow to streetlamp to shadow again. It was a long way back, Marja thought, and she hoped for his sake that the buses were still running.


    "Once they submit the complaint, there will be no turning back," Jirani said. Then, turning to Marja, he added, "so you managed to pull something together in the end?"


    "The transcript, you mean? Difficult to say¡ªI didn''t manage to get anything absolutely conclusive and there were no lawyers to look through it besides, so I figured we''d get the Grimmersbys'' support just in case," Marja explained. "The Arbitration Court cannot ignore this sort of thing if they want to maintain cohesion amongst the Founding Families."


    "He''ll wait until we return, see if your second survives the operation before he commits. It''s not too late to change your mind," Jirani said.


    "It''s what I''ve wanted. It is what I''ve decided. I doubt it''s kosher to go back on it now that it''s made, the decision. Would it be presuming too much to say it''s what she would want?" Marja returned. "What did you need to talk with me about, anyway? It''s not very fair forcing him to walk back halfway through the city¡­"


    "Just¡­" Jirani trailed off. He seemed more reticent than usual. Older. Marja scrutinized his face and saw lines where there had been no lines before. His bone-white hair drooped with a flaccidity she had never associated with her mentor. The warmth within him had faded away and been replaced by a vague sense of unease.


    "... If Ortrud makes it here, and she isn''t who she seems she is¡­"


    "... What do you mean to say?"


    "I want you to remember how you both were when you were young. As long as you stick together, as long as you trust... Something big is coming, Marja. The Democracy isn''t on as solid a ground as we''d like to think. A message came by the encrypted channel. It was the Library on Abuye. A little over two months ago they found a Golden grade who has a Primary mother. The first recorded instance."


    "That''s a tall tale¡ª" Marja didn''t know whether to chuckle at the absurdity¡ªit may have been a closely held secret, but a Golden grade could only be achieved by the offspring of two Golden grades¡ªwhen Jirani cut her off.


    "No, this isn''t a joke. They verified it¡ªthey took the mother and her Incunabulum. They dissected her, scrutinized her brain and her eggs then ripped apart her genome to rule her out as the one. They''ve verified it as many times as it takes to establish an incontrovertible truth. This girl, her daughter, is the first Golden Incunabulum holder in whom the gene which expresses the Golden grade is dominant. Do you know what it means? Her offspring, regardless of the genomic makeup of her mate, will also be the holder of a Golden Incunabulum."

 Chapter 16: Dregs in the City, Over the Hills and Into the Setting of Corydon

    Saltilla''s night was cool and breezy. Activity in the Barracks had grown to fever pitch, as a legion or more of men and women in vest and slacks so sweated in they became dark purple under the blaze of the Barracks floodlights prepared their stores, inspected their weapons, checked their vehicles and packed extra changes of underwear.


    The ground was a maze of empty exosuits, jerry cans, duffel bags, and groundsheets upon which were spread out grenades of different types, flannelette rolls, borehole scrubbers, hypergolic claymores, and, stripped into their individual components, plasma boltrifles and railguns.


    "Hey D.B., guess who I spoke with yesterday?"


    It was Douglas, goggle-eyed, traipsing between the groundsheets toward Betelgeuse.


    Sitting cross-legged upon his own groundsheet, Betelgeuse stared up at Douglas. He remained silent, railgun''s helix-rail in hand. A magazine of Ninsei-manufactured armature-rounds lay by his side, fully loaded and ready to be fired. He had inspected the coils of the acceleration-supporting-solenoid and checked the helix rails for any warping, and was then in the midst of reassembling the railgun.


    "It was Norma¡­ turns out the Grade Zeros'' off-day coincided," Douglas yakked.


    Betelgeuse continued connecting the components of the railgun together, ensuring each part clicked satisfactorily into place. Then, he ran his finger across each interface to check its integrity, fingers alert to any sort of warping or damage along the barrel-chassis.


    "Not even a little interested in what we talked about?" Douglas poked, craning his head over Betelgeuse'' shoulder.


    "What was it?" Betelgeuse inquired, his tone flat.


    "So, I spoke with Norma today, and she told me you''re actually pretty knowledgeable regarding the Incunabula," Douglas began.


    "Get to the point, please. We''re moving out in two and a half hours and I want to sneak in some shut-eye."


    "C''mon, you know what I mean¡­"


    It was clear as day to Betelgeuse that Douglas was curious about the ''mind-control'' Strionis Jove had exercised over them. But discussing it out in the open felt like an exercise in stupidity.


    "... There is a time and place for everything."


    "Come on, man, we''re about to go into battle. Don''t you think this is going to be important? What if they¡ª"


    Douglas had been leaning down over Betelgeuse'' shoulder and at this point the latter sibilated and grabbed Douglas by the collar of his salt-spotted vest, dragging his face down close.


    "Yer a goddamn fool. I know no way to prevent it so keep your mouth shut."


    "But you were the first¡ªyou broke the thing first!"


    "Where the hell did you learn to whisper? I''m not sure what happened, McKay, but this is not the place. We''re in the same team, okay? So we''ll eventually have our opportunity, if you just remain patient. Got it?" Betelgeuse hissed. Douglas nodded mutely and glanced surreptitiously to the side, and Betelgeuse released him.


    The Grade 1 Personnel beside were all engaged in inspecting their own stores, none of them bothering to give so much as a second glance to them. Beyond the Grade 1 ranks idled a fleet of hulking armored personnel carriers with tracked treads, humming loudly and releasing thin wisps of dark-purple smog into the air. Betelgeuse knew that further down the line would be the bipedal warsuits, and then the Grade 0s, and so on.


    The PA abovehead crackled to life, and the fitful activity in the Barracks square ground to a sudden halt.


    "Plan-Modification number one. Grade One Personnel and Penal Legion Personnel comprising right pincer-movement: set-off timing nineteen hundred hours; Grade Zero Personnel, Grade Two Personnel and Grade Three Personnel comprising left pincer-movement: set-off timing twenty hundred hours. Command line: set-off timing twenty-thirty hundred hours."


    Betelgeuse could hear the activity pick up again with a vengeance, the energy taking on a hard and frenzied edge. They had brought forward the timing by two hours¡ª1900h was a mere twenty-five minutes away.


    His breath caught in his lungs cold and icy. His hands moved at a fevered pace, slapping the disparate parts of his weapon together and performing a cursory check of the integrity of his DUS* and fragmentation grenades.


    Douglas cut a hasty retreat, rushing back to his place beside Frederica''s sporadically locomoting form, and in the process leaving dusty boot prints on the groundsheets of Zachariah, Aminata and Dmitri, triggering from Zachariah and Aminata a spew of vulgarities and from Dmitri a semi-loud grumble.


    Thete was at the head of the bustling PLP contingent, the other four team leaders beside, sweaty and disquieted and yelling for her team to "assemble ASAP!" whilst wrangling with the clasps on her exosuit. The ground was grumbling below them like the stomach of a hungry beast as the fleet of warmachines juddered and crunched over rock and pavement and made for Saltilla''s main thoroughfare; all around was a bedlam of movement and shouts and clanking equipment and lost screws and the heavy pall of war.


    Twenty minutes to set-off.


    Betelguese folded his groundsheet over personal effects like extra changes of clothing and a few chocolate bars and stuffed it into the designated crate. The logistics contingent would courier it to the resupply vehicles, which would join the command line column en route to Liberation''s Reach.


    Then he came before his empty exosuit, working down the serried pouches dangling from its chest, lower torso and belt. Grenades, extra armature-rounds, flares, an extra set of lithium anode batteries, coagulator, expanding plastic sprayfoam and extra oxygen canisters. He scrutinized the gashes in the suit where the Chimera had cut through, checking the integrity of the areas which he had earlier welded shut by dragging a soldering iron across; then he checked the connections on the rebreather and water-recycling systems, verified the exosuit''s current battery levels, inspected the emergency release button on the inner thigh, ensured the ''Excretory Aperture'' (or ''poophole'') could open, and, finally, took his Incunabulum and slotted it into the front-facing torso pouch inside the exosuit, behind the protective blacksteel plating.


    Fifteen minutes to set-off.


    The PLPs and G1Ps were struggling into their inner-suits now, stripping down to their undergarments regardless of gender. Then it was the exosuits, and a chorus of cursing and panting and sweaty grunts filled the space as the soldiers chafed against the hard shells and struggled with the uncooperative clasps.


    Ten minutes to set-off.


    Betelgeuse'' section assembled before the diminutive Sergeant Jutson, helmets held between the crook of their right arm and their torsos, all of them breathing heavily.


    "We''re slated for APC-119. To the main road¡ªdouble time!" Sergeant Jutson yelled. Betelgeuse thought her voice rather squeaky between breaths. Her prosthetic eye was swiveling about and Betelgeuse supposed she hadn''t had the time to calibrate it properly.


    They split from the other PLPs and started jogging in lockstep, clumping past the sign which read Barracks Block 50, turning a bend, and joining the sea of humanity making for the main road further up ahead. He could hear a cacophony of shouts and cheers coming from that direction, and as they came up the steep incline separating the southeastern-most Barracks (being the Barracks closest to the main road) from Saltilla''s main highway, his senses were assailed by a kaleidoscope of colors shooting neon from particolored banners and OLED signage.


    The lights made a day of the night, all by themselves.


    The main road itself was wide as two tanks set side-by-side lengthwise. On one end, it stretched far out past the cropfields and hydroponics factories into the heart of Saltilla, and on the other end, to the imposing gates separating Saltilla from Desert''s barren clime.


    To one side of the road idled a column of tanks, bipedals and APCs. All around were soldiers of various colors and sizes running about in various colors and types of exosuits. The operation was not limited to the TAF, Betelgeuse realized with a start. He saw there men and women of such strange features: skin with scales, eyeballs with slitted pupils, ears which looked more like bubblegum than any other ears he''d ever seen.


    And it felt like a significant proportion of Saltilla had turned out to bid them farewell. Perhaps they counted kin amongst the swarm of soldiers¡ªSaltillans like themselves¡ªor perhaps they were merely patriotic. The crowd pulsed under the yellow Saltillan afternoon, filling to the brim that interstice between tar road and cropfield. Betelgeuse felt trapped in the middle of a mighty and edgeless vortex made of human souls.


    The team of five, comprising Sergeant Jutson and the PLPs Betelgeuse, Federica, Douglas and Voke, came shortly to APC¨C119, a ponderous mass of vibrating black metal already loaded with other personnel. Sergeant Jutson called inside the open hull for the platoon''s commander and a fair-complexioned officer stepped out into the open. Betelgeuse noted a horizontal gash cut across his upper lip like some vicious moustache, marring the man''s otherwise fine-boned features.


    "Sir¡ªProtectorate Armed Forces, Jegorich Second Division, First Brigade, Second Battalion, Third Company, First Platoon, Subaltern Cacliocos?"


    "Yes. You are TAF PLP Sergeant Jutson, I presume¡­"


    Betelgeuse watched the crowd push against the fencing, saw their faces hung with rapt and celebratory expressions, and wondered if that fine-clothed man was hidden somewhere amongst that sea of faces. The air pressed electric against his skin.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    There was a person there at the front row of the crowd who was being crushed against the thin rails. Betelgeuse looked at him and thought him familiar, but found on closer inspection that he was not the man who had sat and conversed with him in that square.


    It was a small old man with a vague and faraway look on his face. His mouth was pressed between the rails so that it was stretched over his yellowed, malocclusive teeth. Saliva stringed downward from his splayed lips, and he mouthed, over and over again:


    "The sky is falling, the sky is falling."


    <hr>


    Then there was a long silence whose time was marked only by his own breaths. As specified by the relevant TAF standard operational procedures, all personnel docked in APCs on low- or no-oxygen worlds were required to seal their exosuits during transport. The stated rationale was to lower the casualty rate which might be occasioned by enemy interception of transport column(s).


    The inside of the APC was cramped and crepuscular. The only light in the space was a dim compound-bulb affixed to the ceiling, and it cast everything in hues so purple it made Betelgeuse dizzy. He could not discern the features of his fellow soldiers beneath their bulbous visors¡ªcould not tell if they were anxious or excited or expressionless¡ªbecause that interplay of light and shadow molded every face into a grim mask.


    His rump ached from the right-angled APC chair, thinking how the thing seemed to have been designed with discomfort in mind. He shifted, trying to crick his back without jostling the persons next to him, to no avail. His hands spasmed occasionally, an artifact of the prior injuries he had suffered.


    He looked about for the fifth or sixth time. The inside of the APC was outfitted with two parallel columns of seats facing each other. His PLP section was located furthest from the front, right beside the back-facing hull entrance. He counted maybe twenty people crammed like sardines into the place not including the driver and vehicle commander, and then thought with no great mirth how the Vespertilio''s Cage and the elevator rides on Earth had prepared him well for the setting.


    "Private comms. PLP section five, do you copy?"


    It was Sergeant Jutson''s voice, thin and muffled. She was seated to his left at the hindmost part of their column of seats, and was squeezed up against his arm. To his right sat a stout fellow he supposed hailed from the Jegorich forces.


    A chorus of "Yes"s from Frederica, Voke and Douglas, in that order. Betelgeuse went last.


    "The plan as briefed before our prep hasn''t changed much. These guys you''re sitting beside, they''re from a PAF Jegorich division. We''re attached to them as auxiliaries."


    "Canonfodder?" Douglas asked, his tone genuine.


    "Shut the hell up Downie," Frederica chuckled.


    "If that''s what you want," Thete said, to Betelgeuse'' silent surprise.


    "Damn, all that time with Zephyr just to¡ª" Douglas vocalized, before being interrupted by Thete''s authoritative voice.


    "Settle down. Earlier I had outlined the main phases of the plan¡ªright now we''re in the movement phase. It should take us maybe five or six hours¡ª"


    "Six hours!"


    "Goddammit Douglas, can you let me finish? So it''s five or six hours to the Amate mountain range, and then we''ll set up a forward relay for the command line to rig their generators and Power Magnifiers, once they come through. Then we''ll maybe have some rest before we continue on foot westward and then southward to the set-up point," Thete recapped.


    Betelgeuse could see, opposite him, Frederica elbowing Douglas. The length of her legs meant that her knees were scissored between Betelgeuse'' in that cramped space.


    "And the set-up point is where we''ll consolidate?" Voke inquired. "Before we launch the attack?"


    "Yes, and it''s our final restpoint. Once we''re there, Subaltern Cacliocos and myself will link-up with the Company''s commanding officer for information on overall Battalion strength and movement. Once we firm up the final logistical details, we''ll move off to engage."


    "Understood," Voke returned.


    "Okay. I think, for your benefit, it''ll be better to mention what Subaltern Cacliocos had learned from the muster orders. He explained to me that the overall operation comprises a consecutive pincer-movement centered on LR, and we''ll be part of the right pincer-movement. We''re following the Jegorich brigade as the first ones into the fray, and the idea is to divert enemy attention to ourselves down the southern flank. Following which the left pincer-movement will take the enemy from the side and backside¡ªi.e., the eastern and the northern flank."


    "Will we have armor and air support?" Betelgeuse asked.


    "Armor will be nominal¡ªa handful of automated bipedals and tanks to draw their anti-armor down to the south. The main bulk of armor will be with the left pincer-movement. Most of the bipedals will probably come down at the northern flank considering how rocky that terrain is. As for air¡­ well, it''s a good point to raise¡ªI''m not privy to the comms so I''ll have to check in with Subaltern Cacliocos later, though I don''t expect it''ll make a big difference in terms of coordination, if they haven''t already told us."


    "Cannonfodder indeedydo," Douglas muttered.


    "What I''m hearing leaves the western flank of LR free. Perhaps they''re keeping the air support back to cover that route should any of the enemy break in that direction," Betelgeuse remarked. "They''re probably monitoring the area of operations via satellite, after all, so they''ll know when it happens."


    "Hmm, that does make sense¡­" Voke commented.


    "Probably doesn''t matter for now," Thete reiterated.


    Then, after a moment''s pause, she added, "so¡­ how are we all feeling?"


    "... What?" Douglas asked, nonplussed.


    "If you have any thoughts, general or otherwise, feel free to share them. Even if it has nothing to do with the battle. I am meaning that we have the time."


    The vehicle lurched under them, and Betelgeuse felt, momentarily, like he was falling. Then the APC hit the ground, jostling them into each other semi-violently, and settled once more into its tireless trek.


    It looked like Thete''s offer would remain unanswered.


    "I''ve seen your profiles, of course¡ªDouglas, Frederica and¡­ Be-tel-geez, I saw that you guys managed to take down a Chimera," Thete continued, a trace of awkwardness in her voice.


    "Beh-tell-juhz," corrected Betelgeuse. It hadn''t been the first time Thete mangled his name.


    "Betelgeuse. And Voke, your buddy, it''s his first time coming face-to-face with the Chimera. How do you feel about that?"


    "... Nothing much," came Voke''s response.


    It appeared from the fervid shudders of the APC chassis that their transport had come to rougher ground, and its hum crescendoed to a droning whine that attempted to drown out all thinking.


    "How did you come by that scar, Sergeant Jutson? The one over your eye." The voice was Frederica''s.


    Betelgeuse raised an eyebrow. Turned out she had been nursing much the same question as he.


    A thin susurration could be heard seeping through the comms, sharp and abrasive. An intake of breath.


    "¡­ I hurt it in a battle with the Chimerae. I was much more immature then, though not much younger."


    Dull tinkling emanated from the metal plating below their feet, as if a sandblaster were scouring the underside of their transport smooth. The chronic judder reasserted itself.


    "¡­ Thank you. Thank you for answering," and Betelgeuse could just make out Frederica''s head nodding through the shroud of canted shadows. Silent communication, implicit understanding.


    "If you''ll allow me another intrusive question," she continued, "what did you do to get sent here? To the PLP I mean. You have our dossier, so it''s only fair you share."


    ''Well played,'' Betelgeuse thought, smiling to himself. Frederica could word her questions well when she wanted.


    "Can''t argue with that. Well, that was a long time ago¡­" Thete began, and Betelgeuse thought he detected a hint of wistfulness in her tone. "¡­ let us just be saying that my politics had once been much more involved. I came to Jegorich¡ªthe capital of the Protectorate for those of you who don''t know¡ªwhen I had already come of age. It was after the Analysis and the Incunabulum, when I got caught up in the whole wave¡ªit was so exciting, the movement¡­ and there were people I fell in with who didn''t always agree with the way the government was handling the Secessionists, as they had been known those years ago. If some day you get to know more Desertians, you''ll find as a whole we are a quarrelsome people. Cutting the long story short, I did some things that were seen as redounding to the benefit of the Secessionists, which is how I ended up in this position.


    "I would share more, but bear in mind all comms activity is recorded."


    On hearing this last, Betelgeuse perked up, coughing and straightening in his seat.


    "Hrnh. It''s an interesting story. More interesting than ours," Frederica said, her voice sounded higher than usual. Betelgeuse exhaled through his nose.


    "It is very interesting. I wanted to ask¡­ The recording, Sergeant, when do they take it from our suits?" Betelgeuse inquired, taking care to keep his voice calm.


    "Recording? I meant that I can''t really share more about my circumstances. There are legal implications, you know¡ªit was a specific condition of my parole. That and the whole PLP business. End of the month they''ll make us bring in our exosuits for servicing and when they retrieve the blackbox I''m going to be screwed. So that''s that."


    The blackbox.


    Another length of silence interspersed. Douglas shifted uncomfortably in his seat.


    "Listen. We''ve not known each other for very long, but when push comes to shove, you need to know you can trust the person next to you. If you can trust each other, and listen to my commands when it counts, we just might make it home alive," Thete urged. "Don''t hesitate when your fellows'' lives hang in the balance."


    "You speak very good Common," Betelgeuse remarked, even as the familiar chill of breathlessness gripped his lungs.


    "I grew up speaking it to my parents. You could say I''m a native speaker," Thete chortled.


    Betelgeuse looked to his left and found that he could discern Thete''s features in the darkness, given her proximity. She met his staid gaze and returned it with what she thought was a rakish smile.


    <hr>


    They sat there for a while yet, and then the APC halted, and they sat some more, and bantered occasionally amongst themselves until they were exhausted and then shut off their comms to meditate or take what sleep they could straight-backed and uncomfortable.


    It seemed far longer than six hours before they reached the Amate Range, and when they did Betelgeuse thought he might kiss the steaming red sandstone ground they alighted upon. The Jegorich First Brigade and their rumbling mechanical transports were slanted upon the skew of the shortest mountain of the range¡ªthe one Thete said the locals called Stin¡ªlike a throng of ticks clinging to the hump of a dromedary.


    With practiced efficiency and thundering powerdrills, the thousands set to digging out vast quantities of soil. In less than an hour an immense space designated Command-HQ had been hollowed out in the mountain, with a thick dyke of iron-rich gravel laid a kilometer or more in length to either side of it. An aperture just wide enough to allow the APCs to travel through was positioned to the right of the Command-HQ to facilitate ingress and egress to the area of operations.


    Already above Betelgeuse the heavens had thrown up a stellar constellation and the red day was waning with the setting of Corydon beyond the Amate. Shuttles of light splayed onto the craggy and undulating terrain which rolled out into a plain of stunted stone shapes centered by Saltilla and its Pit. Some distance away he could see the pale dust of the left pincer edge closer, slowed by a legion or more of shambling bipedal machines.


    The Jegorich First Brigade would have a few hours to rest while their support corps took over the grueling work of dredging out four or five other cuboid spaces from the mountain.


    The moment their brother contingent arrived, they were slated to traverse the hump of the Amate by rounding the blunted peak of the Stin.

 Chapter 17: Battle for Liberations Reach I

    The ground was a relatively smooth face of rock and they took the long trudge over the bulbous rise and into the rightwise gap between the squat caldera-like Stin and its kin beside; above their heads a jungle of sedimentary vines laced from cliff-face to cliff-face, as if by the elapse of untold eons the Stin had been pushed up into its fellow mountain and pulled away, and then pushed and pulled away again, so that evidence of their dalliances still hung writ in stone.


    The Jegorich First Brigade trekked the craggy undulating pass for an indeterminate amount of time, until at length Betelgeuse, panting laboriously and positioned with his section near the front of the contingent, finally exited that claustrophobic corridor; and he saw in the distant gloom and within the chrome walls of Liberation''s Reach an immense inferno rising toward a blood-red moon and the butte of flame so solid it seemed geomorphological. The firestorm was a blinding kaleidoscope of colors, with bright yellows and washed out purples, and ghostly like the borealis of Earth.


    Fires on Desert do not burn like fires on Earth.


    Under the cover of night they went, and the Chimerae''s inferno burned and plumes of smog tainted brown to black fresheted over the dark horizon. They forded viscous streams of octane flowing tar-like into distant abysses and descended steep slopes and tumbled over knee-high protuberances and wound round pits ringed by spikes of pyrite shimmering gold under their dimmed headlamps. Someone from the Second Company of the Second Battalion pierced his suit whilst falling into a colorless boiling spring of hydrogen cyanide, and though he was quickly pulled up the unfortunate quickly coated the inside of his visor with vomit and then died. They left the body where it lay, recording the AOP* grid coordinates for pickup by the resup* & casevac* crew.


    The hours saw the moon Larua reach its zenith, lobe-shaped and hanging high and full over the incoordinate wastes, revealing a plain of crimson crags warped and twisted into odd shapes. The contingent inched across that harsh topography, their shadows mingling with reefs of phantom shapes and making of that marriage a myriad blasted things dreamt up by poorly calibrated artificial intelligence.


    By the end of the night''s traversal the Jegorich First Brigade took up a position mere kilometers away from a still-burning Liberation''s Reach, sheltering behind two successive natural rock-wall formations.


    The front wall was a vertical parapet of rock no taller than an average Desertian man and sporting a kerf at its lower-third. Together with the First and Second Companies of the Second Battalion, the Third Company (which included Subaltern Cacliocos'' First Platoon) took up a position behind this wall, with Cacliocos'' platoon and the Thete''s section taking up at the leftmost vantage of the entire Battalion.


    The back wall was a cliff of vertical rock approximately half-a-meter thick and about the height of two Desertian men. This wall of rock was slitted with apertures just wide enough for the troops to pass through single-file. The rest of the Brigade, comprising the First, Third and Fourth Battalions together with the other auxiliary PLPs, took up behind this wall.


    They arrived in a thunder of breaths and tersely barked commands. It took Betelgeuse several moments to realize this was the set-up point¡ªtheir last rest point before engaging the enemy at Liberation''s Reach¡ªhim being so beside himself with fatigue.


    Before he managed to catch his breath Cacliocos'' platoon was already a hive of activity, skittering like ants across the jagged ground and slapping together the disparate blacksteel components they had so painstakingly hauled across the Desert landscape. In moments a Ninsei-manufactured EM-HR-HKET* Railgun (or Schwerer Gun for the less acronym-minded) was assembled, its lengthy helix barrel lying flat on the ground and blushing dully under the moonlight. Some distance away lay a crate of compact treaded wheels, to be affixed to the Schwerer''s frame shortly before engagement.


    "B.T., there, that landform is the Morconis Inselberg, at a westerly four-six-nine-zero mils.* It suggests we are in-position hard south between three-one-five-zero and three-two-five-zero mils of the Target," Thete reported, scanning the frontage with her bino then passing it over to Betelgeuse, who had dragged himself up left of her.


    Betelgeuse, still panting, brought the bino up to his visor while Douglas to his left started glibly soliciting for "more commentary".


    "Agree?" Thete asked, turning to Betelgeuse so that her rounded face and gently curving chin were perceptible to him. Her snub-nose twitched and he wondered if the slight wince which flashed across her face had been occasioned by her ongoing problem with her prosthetic orb.


    "Agreed, Sergeant Jutson," Betelgeuse replied, finally getting his breath under control. He scanned over Liberation''s Reach with the bino and then returned the device to Thete, seeing as he did so Voke and Frederica crouched to Thete''s right, their bodies half-turned so that their callsigns COKE and DYKE respectively could be observed emblazoned across their torsos. They had just returned from assisting Cacliocos'' platoon with the Schwerer Gun''s assembly.


    "It''s Thete, B.T. Shorter designations facilitate more efficient communication."


    "Thete," he corrected himself. "I''m assuming each platoon has a turreted railgun?"


    "No, only one platoon per company carries it. The First Brigade comprises four Battalions, making ten combat Companies at three Companies per Battalion minus two support Companies. So, ten railguns total," Thete explained. "I''ll link-up with Subaltern Cacliocos shortly to go over the map and check on command line''s progress with the Power Magnifiers, and confirm if there are any further plan modifications; but the current orders has our engagement starting approximately twenty-nine hours from now with a bombardment by the Schwerers."


    "The Target''s walls¡ªthey aren''t like Saltilla''s at all," Betelgeuse remarked, thinking aloud. "It''s just a steel siding rigged with ladders. Do we know the thickness?"


    "Thicker than a meter. It''ll take a couple blasts to get through it, at this distance," Thete said.


    "I should''ve asked earlier, but why do they need Power Magnifiers?" Voke interpolated.


    Frederica was the one who replied: "It was in the briefing you and D.B.¡ªsorry, B.T.¡ªmissed; Goldies and Silvers need the Power Magnifiers so that they can project their abilities over the AOP."*


    "Well, that and they have their own Green Book SOPs.* I''m not privy to the details, but generally the Golds use it to deal with long-distance artillery and the Silvers use it for greater visibility over the battlefield," Thete added. "Okay, that counts as our set-up review. You guys prepare the shell scrapes and get some rest first. Do up a night-watch detail and let me know my timing. I''m going to find Cacliocos."


    Then she sped past the resting Schwerer and disappeared into the turmoil of shifting soldiers, leaving her section to their devices.


    ''Hrnh. Hollow, probably,'' Betelgeuse thought.


    <hr>


    1632h


    That would be 0432h in sidereal time.


    He looked at his wrist-transceiver for the tenth time, then let his arm fall back down beside him to raise a cloud of dust. The sides of the shell scrape came up barely three-quarters the thickness of his supine form so that his body did not lie beneath the level of the surrounding ground, in breach of the dimensional requirements for a defensive shell scrape pursuant to SOP. He couldn''t be bothered¡ªthe ground was too damn hard.


    In any case the terrain''s rocky formations provided adequate cover from the front. To Betelgeuse'' mind the shell scrape would only really be useful if the Chimerae flanked them.


    He turned his head, seeing Frederica to his right, her exosuit''s torso rising and falling to sleep''s rhythmic beat. Most of her body lay on level ground, her entrenching tool having snapped on the tenth or twelfth hit amidst a shower of sparks. For her, the shell scrape was a nonstarter. Beyond her form loomed a massy shelf of rock that was the first line of defense relied upon by Second Battalion.


    He stared up into the nocturnal gloom, wondering if he would be blessed with any more rest. He had taken the second night-watch shift and found it impossible to return to sleep thereafter.


    Above him Larua had nearly completed its traversal across the surface of that dark and fathomless ocean, and the constellations were now almost invisible. In maybe two or three hours Corydon would once again reveal itself.


    Sighing deeply, Betelgeuse regained his feet and saw at the night-watch position Thete flush against the rock wall, her railgun held at the ready. The inside gouge of the rock wall''s kerf spanned from her midriff to her feet.


    Thete''s shift was the second-to-last. Ten or twenty meters away to her right crouched another shadowy and indistinct form¡ªone of the Jegorich platoon''s night-watch detail.


    Sensing movement, Thete turned to see Betelgeuse retrieve his railgun and make his way around the silently sleeping forms, then stared at him mutely as he plopped down into a half-crouch beside her. She was short enough that even in that position he kept the same height as her.


    They remained like that for some minutes, neither of them saying anything. Then a dull beep sounded through his comms, indicating that a private channel had been established.


    "... Can''t sleep?" she asked.


    "Yes. You can go back to rest if you need to," Betelgeuse offered. "I''ll take over night-watch and handover to Voke."


    "Hrnh. Believe you me once you do a couple of these you''ll start to treasure every bit of rest you can get. I''ve slept more than soundly in some wretched places."


    "Izzat so? How many of these have you ''done''?" Betelgeuse raised his eyebrow.


    A bout of silence interspersed.


    "... Three."


    "And already section leader. A function of our survivability rate, then," Betelgeuse said, his voice low. "Doesn''t bode well."


    "Shuddup. Don''t fucking jinx it."


    "I''m not really bothered. It is what it is, yeah, and we still got those Schwerers."


    "¡­ Hey Betelgeuse¡­" Thete began, her voice tentative, "is it really your first time?"


    Betelgeuse shot Thete a quizzical look: "You got our dossier right?"


    "That''s not what I''m talking about. It''s very normal to feel anxious or scared before a battle, I think most people experience that. Most people I''ve fought beside, anyway. Sometimes it''s important to be truthful about it, to express it so all those feelings don''t stay suppressed and super-pressurized, if only to prevent the anxieties from bubbling up when you can least afford to deal with them."


    "¡­ That''s good to know. But sometimes the effect of the Incunabulum manifests in unique and unexpected ways."


    Thete shifted closer even though there was no need to do so, in the process dragging her suit across the scratchy surface of the rock wall. Their voices were already being piped straight into each other''s suits. "You''re saying that this is the Incunabulum talking. I''ve seen your Manifold record; I might not read Common very well, but it''s hard to believe a single-word Increment like that could change your personality so drastically. I''ve known Ash grades who barely changed after the Analysis."


    "There''s an Earthen-Sinic saying that goes: º£ÄÉ°Ù´¨£¬ÓÐÈÝÄË´ó. The oceans can accommodate a hundred rivers, it says, and we ought to match its breadth in regarding or tolerating differences across people or happenings. It bears an ancient wisdom," Betelgeuse said.


    He raised his head, staring straight into the inky blackness of space. There really were no clouds up there. He found in those depths the knowledge of loneliness, and he thought to himself, ''what did it really matter?''


    "¡­ I know well enough how much variety the Incunabula admit of," Thete returned. "And I couldn''t help but notice you didn''t awaken any Etching, is that right? That only leaves the Increment."


    "¡­ Yes." Betelgeuse looked her straight in her biological eye.


    "I confess myself to have been quite the close observer of Incunabula, especially when I was a student; and to my mind it''s inaccurate to say these things change us, you know? They are a manifestation of us, one way or another. They are instruments of our cathexes," Thete remarked.


    "That''s assuming there was ever any ''us'' to begin with. It''s a big assumption," Betelgeuse was still looking up into space and now he couldn''t keep himself from chuckling softly.


    "What?" Thete looked at him incredulously. "What do you mean? We''re us."


    "I mean, where is ''us''? The ''us'' that does, the ''us'' that is active and that lives, not the ''us'' that is acted upon. These days I can''t seem to find that active ''us'' anymore, the active ''I''¡ª"


    "Betelgeuse, what the hell are you talking about?"


    "¡ªwe hardly make the Incunabulum. They''re foisted upon us by the Analysis, and then we make do. We shit out an Etching or two. You might as well tell me we''re nothing but instruments of our Incunabulum''s cathexes. You can tell me all about ''us'' but then I''d point to the Incunabulum, I''d point to the mind, the personality, the body¡ªand in the end nothing really has an ''us'' capable of doing anything¡­ you know what it''s really like, it''s like we''re the canvas upon which some cruel god is painting its surrealist art."


    ''And they can compel us¡ªcontrol us in ways I never thought possible,'' Betelgeuse thought, but he left that part out.


    There were lights blinking in the sky, lights that might''ve been stars or artificial satellites. Already to the east a hazy lucence was stealing over the peaks of the Amate, turning the horizon just the lightest shade pink.


    "Look, that''s just a tad bit too philosophical for what we''re facing," Betelgeuse heard Thete say, but by then he had already become absorbed in inspecting something that caught his eye.


    It was small, but he could see directly above him a peculiar speck flare with eerie brightness, then blossom into a multi-pointed star, then adumbrate an unnatural shape that gradually faded away from vision.


    "What is that?" Betelgeuse whispered.


    "Betelgeuse, I don''t think I experience the same¡ª"


    "No. Look there," he pointed upward.


    "It''s¡ªhold on, Cacliocos is calling¡­"


    As Thete shifted channels, Betelgeuse continued to inspect the strange phenomenon in the sky. The blossom had gone, taking with it the speck of light. Something began to well up within him, a strange and superstitious feeling which manifested as a sort of vertigo.


    "WAKE UP! WAKE UP!" Thete''s voice suddenly exploded through the section comms-link.


    "Huh, what?" Douglas slurred sleepily.


    "Chimerae!" Voke roared, and Betelgeuse could see him leap upward from his shell scrape like a corpse suddenly risen from the dead. A meter down, Frederica was flailing around soundlessly at her spot.


    "Command line instruction: Ready for engagement! Quickly, get over here and cover the frontage," Thete instructed. "Enfilade fire once you have sight!"


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Betelgeuse unslung his railgun and set it flat atop the rock wall, his every sense sharpened to hypervigilance. To his right and behind him the entire Brigade had been roused to fitful movement, and they shouted and hollered and came sprinting to the front wall. He could hear his heart pound in his ears and his blood pump like cresting waves breaking upon a promontory. Before him stretched for four or five kilometers a land of indistinct shapes enshrouded in a thousand confusions, and beyond that loomed the charred steel walls of Liberation''s Reach, incessantly refulgent.


    "Cacliocos is telling me¡­ he''s¡­ uh¡­ hold on, sir, slow down, I can''t catch what you''re saying¡­ he''s telling me the automated triangulation for the Schwerers are down. The satellite''s destroyed," Thete transmitted, her voice tremulous.


    So that''s what it was.


    "Eyes peeled. Support companies to manually calibrate the Schwerers. Be ready for attacks," Thete added tersely.


    Then everything was silent except for the low whine of acceleration-supporting-solenoids initiating and the rumble and clatter of uncooperative Schwerers being jacked upward somewhere.


    Seconds turned to minutes, and Betelgeuse squinted into the darkness. Somebody was breathing hard into the comms, and he wondered if it were Douglas.


    "Shut off your comms, Doug," Thete instructed.


    Douglas did so without replying.


    There might be something moving there¡­ yes, something''s definitely moving.


    "Unidentified, five hundred!"* Betelgeuse yelled.


    "Fire!" Thete ordered, after a moment''s hesitation.


    He gunned his trigger, ejecting molten arcs into the darkness. In the distance an armature-round smashed into something, causing an explosion that blossomed orange-yellow.


    The entire line lit up and he could see the frontage streak with stripes of bright yellow. Shots came hard and fast, engulfing Betelgeuse in a soundscape filled with the relentless hum and twang of small-arms railgun fire. The shadowy figures closed in, and in death they exploded and gave off thick plumes of orange-underbellied smog.


    "Attention First Platoon plus Section Five," Betelgeuse'' comms crackled to life, "S.A. Cacliocos speaking. Enemy drones carrying payload of hypergolic explosives. Prevent from reaching Schwerers."


    "Fire at will!" Thete yelled.


    Betelgeuse jammed the trigger repeatedly, and his weapon jumped incessantly against the torso of his exosuit. He could feel his railgun''s grip heat up even through the padded gloves of his exosuit.


    One of the strange bulbous creatures detonated violently not twenty meters away from him. Warning bells sounded within his head, as he realized that the enemy was far closer than he imagined.


    A whirring, compact thing suddenly appeared from out of the thick billows of smoke, shooting through the air toward Betelgeuse with preternatural speed; in that instant he barely registered it as a piece of lopsided metal gum centered by a glowing, baleful eye.


    His senses screamed at him to dodge and he flung himself sidewise, bouncing off Douglas into the side of the rock wall and inadvertently losing his balance. His railgun clattered into the inside of the rock wall''s kerf as he struggled to regain his balance.


    The drone shot past him and impacted the cliff behind, detonating into a brilliant sparkle of flame which melted through a portion of the wall and caused it to judder and fall away and then crash with a mighty cacophony into the ground and break up into rubble.


    Betelgeuse scrambled into the cramped kerf to retrieve his railgun; looking up and the through the space between Thete''s legs, he saw the Schwerer close by erupt with its floundering crew into fire, the whole mass crumpling into molten slag.


    "We need to fall back to the back line," Betelgeuse said, squeezing himself out beside Thete.


    "Our orders are to protect¡ª"


    "Better vantage. These other three in front are gone. We secure that defilade and protect the remaining six guns with more firepower," he explained, interrupting Thete.


    Thete turned to him and hesitated a moment, then nodded.


    "... Cacliocos, suggest fallback to backline¡­" Thete transmitted, not bothering to shut off the section comms-link.


    "Okay, go!" She said after a moment''s silence, and they dashed madly across the jagged ground. Betelgeuse glanced down his flank and saw the rest of Cacliocos'' platoon doing the same. Further down, the rest of the Brigade appeared not to have gotten the memo. They remained at their positions firing haphazardly, heroically holding the line against the mass of explosive drones surging forward relentlessly.


    Thete''s section shortly reached the rock-wall behind and clambered over the rubble-strewn ground where a portion of the wall had collapsed. Then they traced a path sideways toward an aperture further down the line.


    "Doug, Voke, face opposite. Any mozzies come over the rubble, they''re yours. B.T., Freddy, we concentrate fire through here," Thete instructed, strafing across the narrow aperture then pointing her barrel through.


    ''Lungs acting up again,'' Betelgeuse thought, wheezing, his grip tightening on his railgun as he fought to keep flush with the covering wall. He could feel someone who was either Voke or Frederica jostling against him from behind.


    A harsh crackle issued from his comms: "S.A. Cacliocos speaking to Brigade! Covering fire! Battalion Commander has given the order to fall back!"


    Betelgeuse inched forward and peeked around the slit and saw the front line of men trapped in a moil of confusion. Rounds were being fired in all directions, risking fratricide. Several drone explosions claimed the lives of writhing bodies screaming soundlessly into the void.


    That''s the issue with these fucking things. Chain of command''s liable to confuse and kill you if you''re not careful.


    "Battalion Commander? What the hell''s the Brigade Commander doing?" Voke exclaimed.


    Ignoring Voke, Betelgeuse aimed his barrel down the aperture and took a chunk out of a swerving drone, causing it to careen into the ground and erupt into a magnificent blaze.


    "What the hell''s happening, who''s our Battalion Commander?" Douglas exasperated.


    "The First Battalion Commander dumba¡ª" Frederica began.


    "Quiet! We''re under Second Battalion Commander Lieutenant-Colonel Brexar and Third Company Commander Major Storr. But we take orders from our direct superior, First Platoon Commander Subaltern Cacliocos. Clear enough?" Thete cut through the chatter, punctuating her words with a barrage of shots.


    "Sorry," Frederica mumbled.


    "Keep your head in the game and keep shooting!" Thete yelled, letting loose another volley of armature-rounds through the natural embrasure. Betelgeuse followed suit, and watched with some satisfaction the resulting explosions which issued from the ruined carcasses of the enemy.


    A flash of pain. An unidentified thing hurtled through the gap, clipping Betelgeuse'' upper arm and tearing a gash through his exosuit. He grunted and flipped backward into cover, looking down to see blood weltering through the hole. Shrapnel.


    Before Betelgeuse could yell out that he was hit, Frederica, who had been next to him, squeezed close and started foaming her coagulator over his wound, then proceeded to seal up the breach in his exosuit with a cartridge of expanding plastic sprayfoam. Then she tapped him tightly on his shoulder and he was back to shooting.


    "S.A. Caclioco¡ªInitial¡ªnd fire¡ªwerers!" came the comms'' static spew.


    By now the rest of the Brigade appeared to have successfully pulled back to the back line, abandoning the front row of Schwerers. The swarm of buzzing drones was starting to thin, as concentrated volleys of small-arms railgun fire lanced out from the gaps in the sheer cliff wall and destroyed large swathes of the enemy. A multitude of drones were ramming straight into the rock cover and cratering the ground between the first and second walls, causing the earth to tremble and thunder under their relentless barrage.


    The environment had become suffused in a thick smog which drastically reduced the range of visibility.


    Within the smog a dark patch appeared and broadened and then molted its smokeskin as it rushed out at them; Betelgeuse barely had time to swing his railgun around when the figure came close enough that a nearby explosion illuminated its features through its visor.


    "Reyes?" Betelgeuse managed, recognising the ''X'' branded across a thin forehead slick with sweat. The callsign ''CANK'' was printed across his torso.


    The figure tripped and tumbled forward into the ground. Muffled cries issued from the prone figure, and it took Betelgeuse a moment to realize they didn''t have direct comms.


    "Double-damn, it''s Caleb Reyes! Got tired of Alisha?" Douglas babbled, putting down a drone which had strafed past the rubble and whipping around as he rifled through his magazine pouch to face a Caleb trying to regain his feet .


    "What unit you with, Cank!" Voke transmitted.


    "He can''t hear us. Thete, can you establish comms?" Betelgeuse inquired, spotting a drone which had skirted the wall overhead and sending a trail of orange-yellow straight through its leering red eye.


    "I don''t have authorization! Get him into cover!" Thete managed, sending off her own well-placed shots through the aperture and toward a bevy of drones. Betelgeuse followed suit but his shots fell wide.


    "Roger, roger!" Frederica returned, dashing out from beside Betelgeuse to grab Caleb''s upper arm and then drag him toward the wall.


    "It''s me!" came Caleb''s muffled voice. Betelgeuse barely caught what he said through the exosuit and the raucous din.


    "Unit!" he screamed, hoping Caleb would be able to hear.


    "Third Company, Fourth plat¡ª"


    "Battalion!" Betelgeuse roared. A drone spiraled uncontrollably over the wall abovehead and traced a steep trajectory into a protrusion of rock opposite, consuming a portion of it in a superheated conflagration.


    "Fourth Battalion!" Caleb returned, digging into his grenade pouches. He had lost his railgun somewhere in the confusion.


    "Fourth Battalion, Third Company, Fourth Platoon," Betelgeuse transmitted.


    "They have a Schwerer. Ask him how far!" Thete returned.


    Betelgeuse leaned close to Caleb and saw eyebrows matted with moisture arching steeply above large and soulful eyes.


    "Distance!"


    "One-fifty!"


    "One hundred fifty meters," Betelgeuse transmitted.


    "Okay, on my mark," Thete said, pointing into the roiling smog. Then, she pointed straight down and made a fist with her thumb pointed sideways and then canted it upward. The hand-signal for grenade.


    "Ready!"


    The section wrangled their grenades from their pouches.


    "Pins out! Go, go!" Thete barked, yanking the safety-pin from her grenade while maintaining pressure on the safety lever. She lunged with exceptional grace into the smog. Caleb, watching her, followed her lead.


    Hearing Thete''s command the others ripped the pins from their grenades and sprinted over the rough gravel after Thete.


    "Ah shit my lever''s up!" Douglas transmitted frantically.


    "Holy fuck¨C"


    "Nades out!" Thete stormed, interrupting Frederica and flinging her own grenade in the direction from which they had come. Her section did likewise, to a thundering chorus of explosions. Seconds later, an immense crash resounded behind them.


    They burst out from the haze approximately twenty meters from a chaotic scene. A clump of soldiers were shooting up into the air, trying desperately to protect a Schwerer from the stream of drones making it over the wall. The wall itself was a curtain of smoking and melted-through perforations, and it didn''t seem to Betelgeuse like it would hold up to the assault much longer.


    The barrel of the Schwerer was half-raised and made an acute angle with the ground. A trio was straining against its weight, attempting without success to drag its wheel-less frame across the gravel and toward a nearby aperture.


    So much for the wheels.


    "Cover that gun!" Betelgeuse snapped, dropping to one knee and snapping off several shots from a high kneeling position. Thete and the rest did likewise, proning or crouching and concentrating fire on the deadly, expanding cloud of drones above the Schwerer.


    Someone came up behind Betelgeuse and tapped his shoulder. He turned to see Caleb, and observed that he was still holding onto his grenade, the safety level still depressed.


    Voke, seeing the same, ripped the device from Caleb''s hand and threw it backward through the smog, then resumed firing his weapon.


    When Betelgeuse refocused his attention on the Schwerer, he saw that the trio had halted their non-progress and were focused on thinning out the drones abovehead.


    At that instant a drone came plummeting from nowhere and threatened to catch the three exposed; but one of them¡ªmoving far faster than humanly possible¡ªwhipped around in a blur of motion and struck the machine, causing it to careen straight into a wall where it exploded in a brilliant cascade of light.


    The section continued pouring rounds into the enemy, steadily reducing their numbers.


    A colossal brute of a man came sprinting down from the opposite side of the Schwerer, the man so disproportionately formed that Betelgeuse found it difficult to believe he was not some exotic animal. He was unnaturally tall and stood on two massive stumps for legs; and yet his arms were girthier and longer still¡ªthick, cylindrical appendages that dragged upon the ground like some half-sapient silverback.


    "What is that?" Frederica exclaimed, looking wide-eyed at the giant. No one could answer her.


    The giant grasped the side-rail of the Schwerer with massive palms, and, straining mightily, singlehandedly began to pull the multi-ton thing sidewise toward one of the apertures. Another drone which had skirted over the top of the wall to hover above the giant received one missed shot from Betelgeuse and one well-aimed shot from Frederica.


    It spiraled away into the ground, erupting on impact.


    Betelgeuse pressed his trigger again but nothing happened. He felt the hum of his railgun weaken.


    ''I''m out,'' he thought, slinging his weapon over his shoulder. Ahead of him, the base of the Schwerer seemed to have caught on a gnarled protrusion, and the giant began to drag it, painfully, in a different direction.


    "Cover me. I gotta help him," Betelgeuse transmitted.


    "Covering," returned Thete.


    He charged across that blasted terrain and came to the front side of the Schwerer, pushing with his entire body against the siderail in an attempt to maneuver it around the protrusion. The giant glanced at him then redoubled his efforts, and slowly but surely the Schwerer began to turn. Once the protrusion had been skirted, Betelgeuse took up at the adjacent side, pushing at the flank of the massive gun.


    He felt the movement accelerate. Turning his head, he saw Caleb straining at the butt of the Schwerer. He nodded to himself.


    The seconds dragged on. The persistent rumble of dying drones synchronized with his heartbeat.


    Betelgeuse hyperventilated. Every muscle in his body screamed, as the build-up of lactic acid reached new and critical levels. Someone was shouting something through the comms, and he couldn''t make out what it was. He continued pushing, feeling himself become faint. He wondered if Thete and the others would not run out of ammunition soon and leave him to die in fire.


    There, just a bit more.


    With a titanic effort the helix barrel of the Schwerer Gun was shifted around and finally made to aim through the aperture. The giant lobbed a grenade forward, taking down a section of the front wall to clear the frontage and ensure an unbroken line of sight to the walls of Liberation''s Reach.


    Betelgeuse could see the flames rising in the distance. It was now much dimmed, and above it the sky had started to take on the pinkish hue of the Desertian dawn.


    The onslaught of drones had thinned to a trickle, and a handful of remaining soldiers consolidated around the Schwerer, firing at the flying enemy. A bolt clipped one of the drones, sending it screaming downward and over the Schwerer, barely missing the barrel. Betelgeuse ducked as a massive gout of flame flashed violently and momentarily consumed his vision. A wave of heat so intense he could feel it through his exosuit passed over him.


    He regained his bearing to see, at the butt of the Schwerer, the charred and flaming remains of Caleb Reyes, the twig-like limbs of the body tracing a slow movement through the air as if it were engaged in yogic exercise. Caleb''s melted jaw was gaping and attempting to close out of reflex, and his eyeballs appeared to have melted and dribbled out of his empty sockets.


    More comms chatter he couldn''t discern through the confusion. Rushing forward, Betelgeuse kicked the corpse away and checked the bearing of the Schwerer.


    Too low.


    He bent to his left to see the giant brandishing his railgun, and made a series of hand motions as if he were spreading the limbs of a compass tool.


    The giant saw this and understood. He crouched down and worked at the jack, and the barrel slowly canted upward.


    ''That''s enough height,'' Betelgeuse thought, putting his hand up to indicate that the giant should halt, then waving his arm to indicate ''stand clear''.


    "¡ªfire it, B.T.¡ª" crackled the comms. The soldiers around him scattered.


    Moving back to the butt of the Schwerer, Betelgeuse verified through the periscope-sight that the Target was sighted and the barrel properly aligned. He inspected the firing panel, but found that the plastic buttons had all melted into messy bits of pudding. Luckily, the button-designations stenciled into the metal had kept their integrity.


    Initialize solenoid.


    A low whine climbed in pitch, crescendoing to a deafening screech, then receded into the background. An immense current flowed through the acceleration-supporting coils of the Schwerer Gun, creating electromagnets so powerful they caused an intense wave of dizziness and vertigo to sweep over Betelgeuse, threatening him with spontaneous emesis. He fought to keep his balance as his vest and railgun suddenly pulled away from him toward the Schwerer.


    Magnetic shielding''s gone all wonk. At least the circuitry and battery are still working.


    Another drone zipped overhead and strayed too close to the Schwerer''s potent magnetic fields. It sketched a downward trajectory and collided with the ground, lapsing in a bright fulmination.


    Current, check.


    Armature-round, check.


    The red dawn had broken, and the helix barrel protruding like some rigid elephantine phallus caught the first shine and shone murkily through the drizzle of dust.


    Fire.


    With a monstrous resonance the barrel hummed, then erupted in a strident, brassy blare. The shockwave enveloped Betelgeuse in sound and the earth seemed to pulse and a mist of gravel hung suspended about him.


    The projectile tore through the air with a supersonic shriek and traced staccato bursts into the distance.

 Chapter 18: Battle for Liberations Reach II

    Current, check.


    Armature-round, check.


    whyhow


    Maybe it''s payback. Goddamn cowards don''t even have the courtesy to risk their own skin.


    Corydon


    So, another one survived,


    bawls.


    D.B.


    But he wasn''t my friend.


    ResupBattalion-Com''s


    subalternAyish-Zhabo PDF


    Too-tchey


    Ah-ha.


    Gehen


    carry him no more into vague tomorrows, O Lord, and keep him in Your arms; into the certainty of Paradise will he walk and amongst Thine footprints will he give thanks¡­


    ... and if ever You have found fault in his speaking things he did not understand, of things too wonderful for him to know, and of his thereby obscuring Your counsel without knowledge, we beseech You, O Lord, forgive him and give his spirit a chance to listen, so that like us he may learn to give thanks to the Power and the Glory¡­


    ... for his failures are the failures of all Humankind and his arrogance is our arrogance; and if ever we should forget, the day will come that is the Last Day when the pride will be torn from our breast with that same fury that had struck the evils of yore, and churned and cast the greatest men down like mites¡­


    and the mountain burned with fire unto the midst of heaven, with darkness, clouds, and thick darkness¡­


    <hr>


    Polyaria First NinthSaltillaJegorich First


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Cricket-rations. I''ve heard so much about you, sir, and now we finally we meet.


    C-O


    Corydon


    Charlie Mikefirst try


    Coke


    we don''t have a choice


    <hr>


    APC''sIt must be a nightmare,


    crouch starboard


    Everything


    I guess the ladies don''t gotta care then,


    Two magazines left

 Chapter 19: Battle for Liberations Reach III

    He tumbled in the air and Frederica with him, and somehow they were still connected to each other, suspended in space.


    Overhead a curtain of plasma bolts poured from the battlements of Liberation''s Reach, as the Chimerae rallied and began their concerted defense.


    He blinked. There was time enough to admire the sky and to trace the raised seams of the enemy''s armor now shed of its darkness and glossy by the daylight. They were so close to the Target , perhaps one or two hundred meters away.


    They sketched a steep trajectory and peaked higher than the adjacent horst and the buzzing ellipsoids of plasmafire shimmied past them, Betelgeuse and Frederica, and as their momentum caused him to invert, the magnificent explosion which had obliterated the center section of the forward-transport was finally revealed to him. A brilliant combustion of blue and orange and beige consumed a broad radius and spouted a jagged flametongue ten meters high; bits of metal and disembodied limbs tracing blood were spit from that maelstrom, traveling farther and faster than Betelgeuse could track.


    ''Mines,'' he thought, bracing himself for the reassertion of gravity.


    They slammed hard into the red gravel, Betelgeuse first and then Frederica on top of him. He pushed her off to the side and regained a crouching position, before almost keeling over in pain. He endured it, bit his lip until he tasted iron, and glanced over Frederica''s exosuit in a cursory inspection for any breaches.


    ''None. Just blunt force,'' he thought, coming to her face and seeing it scrunched up in pain.


    Next, he did a quick visual inspection of his railgun, running his eyes down from tip to butt. Everything seemed to be in place, although he couldn''t be sure that the internal components were still functioning.


    His ears pricked. Static and the cries of the doomed. Plasma fire was descending upon the erstwhile besiegers, and when he turned he saw before him the men of Jegorich dying on that plain¡ªburning, cooking, melting where they flailed and shivered their last.


    "B.T.," Frederica coughed, struggling to get to her feet.


    "Keep low. We need to get to the wall, under their line of sight."


    They sprinted down the last stretch, traversing a low parapet and sliding down a slight depression to the wall of Liberation''s Reach. The depression appeared to run around the perimeter of the settlement, like a trench that had once been utilized as a moat long ago dried up under the red sun''s harsh glare. Now up close, Betelgeuse could see that its surface was dull, turbid and charred black in strips. There was nothing of the refulgence it had promised to him as he descended the Amate.


    Betelgeuse looked straight up. The plasma bolts continued to cut a broad angle overhead, bearing down toward the First Brigade stranded upon the plain. It didn''t appear that they had been noticed. No one was looking over or trying to dump anything dangerous onto them.


    Glancing to the right, Betelgeuse estimated that they were about three or four hundred meters to the Schwerer-made boreholes.


    "The¡­ others¡­" Frederica managed, leaning against the surface to try to catch her breath. Betelgeuse could see blood thread from her lips and wondered¨Cworried, perhaps¨Chow bad she had been hurt.


    Betelgeuse crouch-crawled to the edge of the depression and, squinting over the low-parapet, widened his eyes in amazement as the tattered remnants of Third Company rallied and returned fire. Their movements were sluggish, heedless of the severe casualties they were suffering.


    "What are you doing! Run!" he roared, raising his arm and swinging it above his head madly, trying to signal to them to advance. He received only static in reply.


    A feeling rose in his gut, strange but not unfamiliar. Betelgeuse saw a masculine figure near the head of that troop, hunched and limping slowly across the ferric earth, making, as he had, for the wall. The man''s head was bowed and atop his helmet was emblazoned a circle and within the circle a tree denuded of leaves¡ªthe symbol of the Sylvan Protectorate, identifying the man''s rank as Major.


    Around the Major was clustered a dwindling group which included Thete, recognizable because she was noticeably shorter than even the other Desertians. No doubt the troop included Voke and Douglas, if they had survived the blast. All of them were huddled in the open and firing at the Chimerae atop the wall without regard for their own safety, and as they trod in time to the Major''s labored gait they left dark and steaming half-human lumps clotting upon the gravel and leaking gouts of vapor into the Desert air.


    ''It''s the compulsion-matrix!'' Betelgeuse gritted his teeth, fighting against the foul tendrils that were attempting to coil itself around his mind. The strength of it was many times that which the late Strionis Jove could muster, and it bore down upon him with the weight and ferocity of a great white shark and attacked him and left his intentionality nowhere to retreat even within his own mind.


    Enforce serenity.


    He concentrated his will and hurled his ego-stuff against that eldritch manifestation of control, purging it as far as he could from his mind and forcing down the urge to join his fellows in their doomed project.


    Regardless, it is a control I am made to endure.


    The Major was some sixty or seventy meters away now and his meatshield was being lacerated by superheated rounds. Those men and women of Jegorich were missing arms or hopping on single legs, intent, for as long as they could maintain consciousness, to keep the Major safe and firing their weapons with as many hands as they still possessed. The earth was crusted with the detritus of limbs and twitching rhombuses of perforated torso and strips of jerky twisted into louring statuettes of plastic and meat.


    "We must go¡­ Major Storr is in danger!" Frederica hissed, coming up beside him and making ready to dash out of cover. When he turned to regard her he saw within her brown eyes a mad conviction to sacrifice herself.


    For what? For the Major? For the Protectorate? For the Democracy?


    Betelgeuse exploded into action, barreling into Frederica and bowling her over, then sitting on her chest and pinning her body to the ground.


    "Fool! It''s the mind-control!" Betelgeuse seethed, raising his weapon and initializing the acceleration-supporting-solenoids. The railgun chassis sputtered but shortly began to whine and Betelgeuse knew it was good enough to kill.


    But then what? They will know I killed him, and they may very well kill me too. Think about it carefully. Remember how it was with Frederica and Douglas¡ªthe compulsion appears to hijack intentionality itself; it will take some convincing to bring home the point that they were compelled to sacrifice themselves.


    And it is by no means guaranteed that they will be convinced. Not everyone will be so easy to bring around as PLPs and ex-''mutineers''.


    Observe. It appears that the compulsion-matrix works on lower-grade Incunabulum, except for incompatibles like myself. I assume that the higher one''s grade, the stronger the compulsion. The Major must be above Hollow grade, to be able to control Thete. If I assume further that there''s a White in there somewhere, the Major is perhaps Primary or Bronze.


    Once the Major goes down, nothing will stop any of them from attempting the compulsion-matrix upon me. I can assume that it will be more difficult to resist control from multiple fronts. The overall risks of killing the Major outweigh the benefits.


    Frederica blinked, nonplussed. She looked up at Betelgeuse, felt his weight upon her, and saw him brace his weapon then sit silently for many seconds.


    As if suddenly intuiting he had murder on his mind, Frederica began to struggle wildly, whipping her arm across and catching Betelgeuse in his oblique. He grunted and fell off to the side, and Frederica jumped up to a crouching position.


    Betelgeuse, barely winded, bounded upward at the same time and swung his weapon on its sling to clip Frederica''s helmet with the railgun''s butt. She tumbled, ears ringing, and he pounced atop her, slamming the back of her helmet into the gravel and bringing himself face to face with her.


    "Snap out of it!" he roared, slamming his visor into hers, the force of the impact rattling his brain within his skull.


    The temperature dropped. The blood in his veins turned to ice. His Incunabulum, pressed against his chest, pulsed like a living heart. His muscles twitched uncontrollably to a harrowing resonance and his bones vibrated with such energy he felt he might come apart¡ªall the signs of having manifested another Etching.


    Frederica''s eyes cleared and she hyperventilated, then began speaking in tongues.


    "What? What are you saying?" Betelgeuse snapped.


    "Ewa? Ah! The Major! He will die!" Frederica sputtered, but Betelgeuse saw that she had ceased struggling.


    "Still mind-controlled!" Betelgeuse exclaimed, his brows furrowing. He stared deeply into her eyes but could find no further trace of the compulsion.


    "... No¡­" Frederica managed after a moment''s hesitation, looking unsure.


    Observing that the strange conviction had dissipated from her eyes, Betelgeuse nodded and was surer than Frederica that the spell was broken.


    An explosion cratered the ground nearby and shocked him half out of his skin. Gravel pelted him from above and he felt Frederica clutch wildly at him from below.


    ''A stray grenade,'' he confirmed, lifting himself up off Frederica and confirming that there were no punctures. ''Can''t let my guard down for even a moment.''


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    He brought himself back up to crouching position and saw over the edge of the depression that the Major had made it much closer¡ªbut the circle of soldiers was much reduced. They were near enough that Betelgeuse could see Thete''s face through her visor. He scanned the faces beside her and recognized Voke and Douglas, observing that Douglas had lost his left arm all the way up to the cauterized, steaming bicep.


    He squinted. Douglas'' countenance was cast in beatific tones, as if by means of his monohanded discharge of armature-rounds he had achieved a rare ecstasy, or perhaps some kind of heroic sublimation. As far as he could tell, Douglas was the only one who harbored so lurid an expression.


    A streak blazed faster than the speed of thought across that whole expanse of land and smashed into the wall behind with a terrific sound, burrowing into the metal and sending out from that great ingress thick billets of smoke.


    Betelgeuse gritted his teeth and slammed himself back into the gravel, bringing his arm up around Frederica.


    A drizzle of metal dust tinkled against their exosuits. Betelgeuse glanced upward, then grabbed Frederica and strafed to the side. Bodies of Chimerae creatures, their segmented arms flailing, sprinkled the ground en masse, thrown upward by the sudden and savage warping of the structure they had been defending.


    Another Schwerer round came screaming by, drilling into the wall and biting a partial-circle out of its top portion. Bits of flailing Chimerae-parts were thrown up and tainted the air pink with gore.


    The Schwerers'' thundering strikes were coming hard and fast. Fueled by pure adrenaline, Betelgeuse and Frederica tore down the side of the shuddering wall when a Chimera fell directly in front of them; with a deft motion Betelgeuse grabbed the barrel of his railgun and jammed its muzzle into the Chimera''s neck, then found the trigger and fired. The force of the armature-round pushed him back a half-step and the neck was vaporized, tearing off that geometrical head and sending it rolling away still-helmeted like some oddly-shaped football.


    They were coming to the low-lying holes which had been made by the Schwerers'' first firing, when the ground began to rumble and shift under their feet. Behind them the Major had finally made it to cover and the Jegorichians began to swarm wildly across that flensed strip of land, descending upon the dying Chimerae with their own singed half-forms and killing the Chimera with fevered intensity.


    In moments, the slaughter had become general. Betelgeuse couldn''t help but turn, curious as Lot''s wife to witness that frenzied melee where blood ran freely and bodies torqued into queer shapes in death.


    ''He''s sending them all in a suicide-rush,'' Betelgeuse thought, the sweat starting to bead on his forehead.


    And the frenzy of Jegorichians brandishing wicked bowie knives shot past Betelgeuse and Frederica, moving far faster than humanly possible, all of them delirious, hysterical and caught in the throes of some murderous lunacy. Betelgeuse slammed backward into the wall, stunned, feeling the compulsion in them as he had felt it in Frederica, and though he tried to fight against that tenebrous manifestation of oppression his efforts came to naught. Frederica followed suit, remaining flush with his body, and Betelgeuse thought he saw Cacliocos himself stumble forth from the fog of war and brush past them into Liberation''s Reach.


    From out of the comms'' static came half-formed jabbers and perfervid yodels, and somewhere in that chaotic diarrhea of words he caught Thete''s voice screaming some stuttery Desertian dialect.


    "Sergeant Jutson!" Betelgeuse roared in as commanding a voice as he could manage. No sooner had he said this when a figure came bolting toward him faster than a leopard, backtracking, it appeared from further up ahead.


    Thete.


    "Get off your ass, Sakar! We''re going in!" She yelled. Her charcoal pupil bore an insane self-sacrificial conviction, crazed in its absolute certainty.


    Betelgeuse'' arms shot out, grabbing onto her shoulders and slamming her sidewise into the wall, yelling to Frederica: "grab her!"


    Frederica did so and trapped her in a bear hug, and all through that deafening pound of death-beam after death-beam Betelgeuse searched for the nub of the compulsion and, finding it somewhere through her biological eye, purged it with some formless manifestation of his intentionality that he could neither feel nor properly steer.


    The last remnants of the Company had passed out of the range permitted by the Chimerae''s jammer and Betelgeuse'' comms settled into the consistent drone of white noise. He saw, through the haze of exhaustion, Thete''s eye clear, even as she grasped Frederica''s arms and bucked, flinging with superhuman strength that woman''s muscular bulk into the gravel slant opposite. Frederica crashed into the red earth with a loud whump, and a maroon mist ballooned where she landed.


    Betelgeuse transmitted frantically through comms-link: "You''ve been mind-controlled, Sergeant Jutson! Thete! Listen to me, you were under the Major''s control¡ª"


    "... Control?" Thete blinked haltingly, her arms held outward, her hands clawlike and locked in a combat stance reminiscent of a praying mantis.


    "Yes. There, see Douglas and Voke. There''s no time for bullshit. We need to deal with the Major or everyone''s going to die," Betelgeuse asserted.


    Frederica regained her feet, wincing with pain. "We got to seal up Doug''s suit!" she said.


    "Compulsion," Thete breathed, the understanding dawning as violent as the impact of the Schwerer rounds overhead.


    About thirty meters away and gaining quickly, Douglas and Voke were running full tilt down the corpse-strewn length of the wall-trench. Further down was the Major, alone, sitting upright against the wall and engaged in foaming up the breaches in his suit. To Betelgeuse'' left, and across the last stretch of jagged plain, the next company was no further than a hundred meters away and getting closer every second. The low parapet was just high enough that the Major appeared out of the line of sight of the advancing troop.


    "Get them, Freddy!" Thete transmitted, swinging around and making toward Douglas and Voke.


    ''It''s now or never,'' Betelgeuse thought, and a cheerless smile graced his features.


    The idea, laid to rest, flashed anew across the surface of his mind, modified to reduce the chance of it being traced back to him.


    Behold, the inhuman instrument.


    Betelgeuse dashed out several meters toward the low parapet, grabbed what he supposed was a plasma boltrifle clutched within the prehensile grip of a dead Chimera, and brought it up to a ready position. The weapon chassis was fashioned of curved chrome bands which traced outward from the butt a bulbous middle portion likely housing the weapon''s firing mechanism. The bands thinned toward the weapon''s end and a cylindrical barrel pointed outward from the beanpod-shaped chassis, the whole thing blunt as a carbine.


    "Goddammit, where''s the trigger?" Betelgeuse cursed aloud.


    "Your other hand! Their fingers are longer than¡ª" Thete began, then was cut off by static.


    Thete was already halfway to Voke and Douglas. She leaped as she reached them and crashed straight into Douglas, the two collapsing onto the ground in a tangle of limbs. Frederica behind her was tracing a collision course with Voke.


    Betelgeuse found the long slab-like trigger and sucked in his breath. The Schwerers had gone silent, and an eerie stillness descended upon the battlefield. Not finding any aiming sights atop the weapon''s chassis, he aligned the muzzle with the Major as best as he could, felt his mouth run dry and his mind empty its thoughts, and gunned the trigger.


    Three incandescent bolts shot through the air, the sound of their firing swallowed by the incessant blasts of the Jegorich artillery. Betelgeuse saw the man raise his arm in surprise even as he became engulfed in flame; the arm was pointing at him, accusatory, or it could have been pointing at the waxing sun; that limb, straight and engorged, fell rigid from his melting form to rest upon the ancient dust.


    Betelgeuse threw the weapon on the ground, then, thinking better of it, picked it back up and returned it to the hand of its former owner. He wasted no time in rushing over to his wrestling section-mates, yelling: "Stop struggling, Voke! Douglas¡ªit was the mind-control."


    "Aw, hell," he heard Douglas pant. Thete was straddling Douglas'' torso with her arms poised as hammerfists just inches from his visor, evidently having arrested her attack just in time.


    "Yer lucky you broke out of it when you did," Thete said. "Your arm¡ªit looks burnt shut but we need to seal your exosuit ASAP. Oxygen percentage?"


    "Eighteen point five percent," Douglas returned, now hyperventilating."Must''ve taken in quite some C-O. Starting to feel wonk."


    Voke, pinned to the ground by Frederica, was still struggling.


    "What have you done¡ª"


    "Shut it," Betelgeuse interrupted Voke brusquely, then continued with the commanding tone he had so easily appropriated, "once Doug''s sealed we must get into Target. The further away from here the better."


    Thete wasted no time in foaming up Douglas'' arm-stump, and as Betelgeuse edged closer to the supinated Douglas and observed his strabismic eyes wobble within their sockets, he noted how the man showed no visible signs of pain otherwise.


    "... You''re holding up well," Frederica commented, shifting her weight off Voke.


    "What can I say? I eat pain for breakfast," Douglas chortled thinly.


    "You knew," Thete mumbled half to herself as she bandaged Douglas'' stump for good order. "You knew about the compulsion. Your dossiers didn''t record that you were shown the infomentaries. How?"


    "T''was practical experience," Betelgeuse laughed, his voice unnaturally loud and grating. "And it looks to me like it''s quite often abused. But we gotta go, yeah? ASAP."


    "Someone will explain this to me the moment we have the chance," Voke demanded as he scrabbled upright, and Douglas could barely keep a lid on his raucous guffaw.


    Betelgeuse observed that the next company was reaching the low parapet, and recognized near the head of that group the familiar silhouette of the giant Entuban. They no doubt knew that Major Storr had utilized the compulsion matrix, and difficult questions would be raised if Section Five were seen so close to his corpse.


    The defending Chimera had already been thoroughly annihilated by the Schwerers, and no more plasma fire served to impede the advance of the Jegorich First Brigade.


    "Hurry up, they''re coming," Betelgeuse urged, placing a hand on Thete''s shoulder.


    "I''m done, man," Thete returned, shrugging off his hand with a rough wag of her shoulder.


    She regained her feet and, motioning toward the entrance-holes, bolted forward along the trench, flitting like a ghost across the bodies of humans and Chimerae alike. Frederica, Voke and Douglas followed hot on her heels, doing everything they could to keep up.


    For the barest sliver of an instant, Betelgeuse felt beneath his feet an ominous trembling. The smog had risen and there was no sound save for the windlike rush of static. Across the plain a forest of rock-bristles flexed skyward upon the hump-backed land, hiding from view those terrifying weapons that command was willing to fire into the midst of its own forces.


    He frowned briefly before chasing after his section.

 Chapter 20: Battle for Liberations Reach IV

    Section Five forded the Schwerer-perforations and crossed into an apocalyptic land dotted with rubble-mounds, overshadowed by teetering concrete structures, and carpeted with cracked gray pavement and gravel earth charred black. Scarecrow monuments fashioned of blacksteel rebar towered lonely and twisted as if plucked from an artist''s avant-garde dreamscape. Above them the open sky was heavily obscured by thick rivers of smog textured with reptilian geometries.


    "Hey, don''t I get assigned to support now?" Douglas joked, waving around his left arm-stump. Thete had bandaged it tightly to reinforce the integrity of the exosuit''s foam-seal and the tied ends of the bandage''s fabric fluttered in the air as he raced down the street.


    "Yeah, first, you gotta survive this. Second, they''ll throw you right back to us after some one-on-one with that shitty personality," Voke returned, paying careful attention to the rubble-strewn ground and picking his steps carefully through that treacherous path. "And I''m still waiting on that explanation."


    "Comms discipline please," stressed Thete, bounding forward and then falling back upon her haunches behind a chunk of rubble. Voke and Douglas came huffing and puffing seconds later, flushing against that concrete face and nodding toward her.


    "Wait up guys¡­ B.T.''s falling behind," Frederica transmitted, halting her step several meters behind the cover position and turning where she stood. Section Five had turned left on entering Liberation''s Reach and was in the midst of traversing the curved road bounding the garrison barracks. The Schwerers had punched voluminous holes into the barracks structures abutting the wall, and above the glint of Frederica''s helmet lucent streams of sunlight penetrated the patchwork ruptures, shuttling through swirling clouds of dust-particles and sketching imperfect shapes upon the cluttered ground.


    The Schwerer rounds had lanced through not only the wall and barracks, but also the adjoining structures, spilling onto the street a mess of concrete vomitus which made of it a doglegged maze of rubble and curved metal sheeting sharp as sabers.


    "Get into cover!" Thete snapped, the sharpness of her tone causing Frederica to drop quickly into a crouch. "I need some more awareness here!"


    "... Sorry," Frederica returned, making for Thete''s position and infusing her movement with the appropriate sense of urgency.


    "Trust Ballsman to lag¡­ he should really work on his fitness," Douglas sniggered, lowering himself to a sitting position and taking the opportunity to inspect the chassis of his railgun for any damage. "Even missing an arm I''m faster than him any day."


    "¡ªha¡ªhah¡ªha¡ª" the sound of labored panting filtered tinnily through the section comms-link. A form which bobbed unsteadily made its appearance around the curve two hundred meters from their vantage.


    Frederica thought to herself that Betelgeuse had a unique gait, that he picked his steps carefully, and that this was very in keeping with his observant nature.


    By the time Betelgeuse reached the cover-point, Thete had already begun rattling off a series of tactical observations.


    "Looks deserted but we can''t assume. We continue sticking to the left¡ªplenty of rubble cover. After the pounding the garrison took, it''s more than likely the left block was evacuated. Residential block to the right probably has Tangos. I don''t trust those windows. We go straight and maybe we can find someplace between the southern and eastern walls. Maybe get with the left pincer, if and when they come through."


    "Thete, ma''am... what is our objective?" Voke inquired, turning his head to the left to regard Thete. The plastic ribs at the side of his helmet welled with gravel, and dark pupils stared morosely through a shock of hair. His gaunt cheeks were too devoid of fat to be healthy.


    "After what just happened?" Thete shot a glance at Betelgeuse who by now was crouching and catching his breath beside Frederica, and both of them flush with the far end of the piece of rubble they called cover. "Get far enough and then hole up somewhere safe till reinforcements come. We need some space to think next steps."


    An uncomfortable silence descended. Many unspoken things hung in the air: the Major''s death, the compulsion-matrix¡­ the blackbox. Voke continued staring vacantly at her, expressionless save for the slight twitch at the right edge of his mouth.


    "It''s the smart thing to do," Thete added, finding the lack of response discomfiting.


    There was no more talk. Section Five picked through that semi-shaded place, the tense quiet interspersed with the distant roar of mega-caliber artillery and the more proximate echoes of small-arms fire. A smattering of crashing sounds carried over the smoggy firmament, and the ground reverberated sporadically, as if subterranean whales were plying for plankton nearby.


    The path meandered, then became narrower. The ground cleared up and Betelgeuse found that keeping his balance no longer seemed so treacherous. Section Five shortly came to a square littered by a sea of smoking bodies so mutilated it was difficult to distinguish the human parts from the Chimerae.


    The square was bounded to the left by a partially decapitated watchtower, and to the right by a stack of suggestively empty balconies jutting out from residential apartments. They observed at the mouth of the square the charred chassis of a forty-seater holo-bus sitting on its horizontal air-lift pads now flensed and twisted beyond repair. The chassis had been dragged athwart the square''s entrance to act as makeshift cover for the doomed combatants, as the troughs which had been gouged into the paved ground seemed to evidence.


    There was no movement.


    Thete dashed across the crumbling pavement with inhuman speed and took cover by the carcass of the holo-bus. The rest of Section Five followed, panting. She peeked out the side abutting the damaged watchtower and scanned the square with her prosthetic eye.


    "Looks like someone''s alive. Human," she intoned, and the section moved out cautiously in egg-formation, with Thete and Betelgeuse taking the front, Frederica and Douglas securing the flanks, and Voke bringing up the rear.


    It was Cacliocos, sitting with his back against the side of a vertical concrete pillar, his legs splayed out and his hands fallen limply to his sides, his knuckles face-down and bleeding into the dust a dark and expanding patch. The scar above his lip glistened darkly.


    Seeing this, Frederica bolted forward; and she took his forearm in her hands, gasping: "Exosuit''s breached! His fists¡­"


    "Freddy, what the hell!" Thete exclaimed, exasperated at her willingness to so easily break formation. Ignoring Thete, Frederica had already retrieved her coagulator and plastic sprayfoam and was engaged in treating Cacliocos.


    "Get him into our section comms," Betelgeuse transmitted, stepping forward and scanning the surroundings, railgun held at the ready. The fallen pillar against which Cacliocos was sitting was slanted enough that it provided good cover against the residential block opposite, but it exposed them to the damaged watchtower behind and the building on their left upon whose facade was carved strange runes from top to bottom. On second glance, the pillar appeared to have been one of four which supported the flared roof of that runed building.


    "I got it. Stop telling me what to do," Thete hissed, fiddling with her wrist transceiver. Betelgeuse glanced at her, his expression unchanging, then crouched beside Frederica.


    Cacliocos made a sound. From that wretched voice came some wordless gasping wail like an acknowledgment of the dead, and Betelgeuse glanced at Cacliocos again to see a thread of saliva stretching from the man''s lip to a translucent and lightly foamed puddle pooling at the base of his visor.


    "He''s lost it," whispered Douglas, bringing his visor close enough to Cacliocos'' that he could see the man''s pores and the salt streaking his skin besides.


    "Stop it, Douglas. Leave the man alone," Voke said, coming beside Cacliocos and putting a hand on his shoulder.


    "Sir, can you hear me? Sir?" Thete said, crouching.


    "They''re dead!" Cacliocos roared, ripping up to his feet, the puddle of spittle staining the inside of his helmet in a rorschach blot. Frederica, who had foamed his suit shut and was engaged in bandaging his hands, tumbled over onto her back with a surprised yelp, and Douglas started backward several steps. Voke stared, nonplussed.


    "Sir! Listen to me!" Thete said, and with that unnatural speed she was there beside Cacliocos with both her hands grasping his right arm. Seeing this, Voke came forward and grabbed his other arm, arresting any rash follow-up.


    But the outburst was done and Cacliocos turned his head to Thete, wheezing perceptibly through the comms, his expression flaccid.


    Betelgeuse, who had, out of reflex, raised his weapon and pointed it at Cacliocos, let his muzzle drop. He watched Cacliocos carefully, observing through the eyes a soul that had been blasted to hell and back, and recognized the spark of something angry and violent.


    "Unhand me, fools! The Chimerae are in there," Cacliocos seethed, trying but unable to point.


    "The Chimerae are in that building?" Betelgeuse said, pointing his muzzle at the structure which had lost the pillar and which was adjacent to the watchtower.


    "Yes, we must kill them! It is our duty." Cacliocos gritted his teeth, ripping his hands from Voke and Thete and advancing several steps past Betelgeuse.


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    Betelgeuse sensed Douglas creeping up beside, but kept his gaze fixated on the back of Cacliocos'' head.


    "How many?" Betelgeuse inquired.


    "... No more than four or five. PFC Shekar got the rest," Cacliocos intoned, his back turned to them, pointing a trembling finger at a gibbet of charred meat several meters away, its skin glistening dully under what sunlight had managed to penetrate the smog. Betelgeuse could see Douglas three steps away from Cacliocos, his railgun slung over his back, his good hand grasping the hilt of the combat knife sheathed just above his thigh. Voke, a sense of alarm flashing across his face, stepped forward involuntarily, and looked as if he might put himself between Douglas and Cacliocos.


    "Douglas," Thete snapped, shaking her head from side to side. No, don''t do it.


    Douglas halted his step, glancing to Betelgeuse and then pointing through Voke to Cacliocos. Do I?


    Everything hung by an uncertain thread.


    "... We''ll get the bastards, sir," Betelgeuse said, shaking his head after a moment''s thought. We let him live for now.


    Cacliocos wheeled about, letting his eyes run from Voke to Thete and finally to Douglas. And when he saw Douglas and the missing limb his expression softened imperceptibly. "Looks like they got you as well. We''ll avenge that arm of yours, son. Sergeant Jutson¡­ tactical formation."


    "Are you certain, sir?" Thete managed, her voice tremulous. She was staring at Betelgeuse with a strange expression and her lids had narrowed. Within her prosthetic eye a luminous pupil of pure crimson flashed.


    "Do not worry, Sergeant Jutson, I have mastered myself. We will kill them, and we will live to tell the tale," Cacliocos returned, his tone full of conviction, his expression set into a grim mask.


    "Hurry up¡ªwe must stop standing around like fops in the open," he added, pointing to the structure with the runes carved into its facade. "Into the Labcent."


    The Labcent was a broad structure which stood perhaps five stories high and was topped by a roof which slanted upward. As one went from back to front the high roof flared higher still, far beyond the blocky facade of the building, until it appeared to peek out above the walls of Liberation''s Reach. Under that facade lay floor-to-ceiling windows of tempered glass within which there was only darkness.


    Of the four original pillars supporting that flared roof some ten meters from the building''s facade, two had collapsed almost perpendicular to the building, and the leftmost one of these had served as Cacliocos'' support; between the pillars which remained standing, rows of transomed windows stared out silently from the second to fifth floors, dark and foreboding and spidered with cracks.


    A shadowed entrance gouged into the first floor''s facade of tempered glass, and Cacliocos was the first to melt into that shrouded place. Thete followed him, hugging close to his heels.


    Voke nudged Betelgeuse with his elbow. Their eyes met, and questions passed between their searching gazes that could not be easily answered. A shaft of dappled light passed over the crown of Voke''s head, the ray penetrating into the clear visor and illuminating, suggestively, those knotty locks that obscured the mark of the mutineer. Framed by rock and gloom, Betelgeuse watched with lynx''s eyes that veil of light melt away again into nothingness, his face scarved by the twilight murk and his penal brand inflamed upon his broad forehead and passing into sepsis.


    Cacliocos and Thete had gone on without them and had disappeared into the deep darkness. Douglas and Frederica flanked Betelgeuse and tapped gently the clavicle carapace of his exosuit, glancing at each other and then glancing at Betelgeuse, their expressions fraught.


    Finally, Betelgeuse motioned with his chin toward the Labcent, and as Voke traced a cautious path toward that place Betelgeuse did not let his eyes leave the nape of that neck even as it, too, became one with the shadow.


    <hr>


    They groped their way through that vestibular lobby and into a narrow corridor that debouched to a capacious stairwell. They paused there a moment, discussing tactics in hushed tones, and Cacliocos ultimately decided to ascend the staircase with the aid of his headlamp set to the dimmest setting.


    "Lead headlamp only," Cacliocos instructed tersely and took the lead himself, in so doing making himself the first and easiest target.


    Betelgeuse observed this and saw a commander very unlike the ones he had become familiar with. Cacliocos led from the front and maintained a tight control of Section Five''s movement, ensuring all directions were covered.


    They had come to the second floor when the ground vibrated roughly, almost causing Douglas to lose his balance.


    "The fu¡ª"


    Douglas was cut-off mid-expletive by Cacliocos, who urged, in clipped tones, the section to maintain comms discipline.


    Up the staircase they went in gloom and silent tension. They reached the third floor and somewhere across the corridor the sound of chairlegs dragging across tile reverberated softly, and they knew then that at least one of the enemy lay in that direction.


    The light was shut off and Cacliocos stepped into that windowless corridor with mincing steps, followed by the rest of Section Five.


    Betelgeuse'' eyes adjusted quickly and he realized that an emergency light shone a dim blue in the far corner of the ceiling. Doors lined the corridor, all of them open, all of them brimming with half-shapes flayed and horrible. Every room was piled full of things that might have been flesh-puppets hanging motionless and souled with demons of the indigo dark.


    Thete made a sound that was quick and throaty and Betelgeuse wondered if something had been revealed to her prosthetic eye.


    They came to the end of the straight corridor and found the steel door there closed and locked.


    "Anyone still have grenades?" Cacliocos whispered.


    "Yes, sir," responded Thete immediately. Betelgeuse thought her voice higher than usual.


    "Breach in five. Room-clearing drill¡ªleft-side men, pay careful attention: LR rooms tend to be lopsided, with more space on the left," Cacliocos explained. "I''ll take point on left. Who''s with me?"


    "B.T., Freddy, you both go left. Voke, you''ll take right with me. Doug, straight down the middle," Thete quickly rattled off allocations.


    "Okay," Cacliocos nodded, retrieving the grenade from Thete and kneeling down to place it carefully where the door interfaced with the jamb. Then he fiddled with his wrist transceiver, manually overriding the grenade''s digital sequencer so that the fuse would be set to a five-second timer.


    "Get back now," Cacliocos intoned, and Section Five stepped back several feet and took cover by the jamb of the nearest rooms¡ªBetelgeuse and Frederica on the left, and Thete, Voke and Douglas on the right.


    "What is this," hissed Douglas, squinting into the darkness of the room he was taking cover in.


    "Quiet! In five," Cacliocos snapped, pulling the pin and rushing back to take cover with Betelgeuse and Frederica, simultaneously switching his headlamp to high beam.


    Four.


    "Lights on!" Thete commanded.


    Three.


    The cold steel of the door was suddenly awash in white light. The rooms shone dimly by the reflection of those scything beams.


    Two.


    Betelgeuse couldn''t help looking, and where the white beam passed he saw a multitude of dead things misshapen and burnt into slaglike forms.


    One.


    The door ripped outward in a ragged tear, and Cacliocos bolted forward through the dust, Frederica and Betelgeuse close behind.


    "Right clear!" Thete transmitted.


    "Left clear!" Cacliocos transmitted.


    "Middle clear!" Douglas transmitted, slurring.


    They had penetrated into an empty room, dark like all the rest and bounded with crushed tables and tumbled stacks of chairs, centered with a raised platform like a catafalque upon which was lying a grotesque thing chained by its limbs.


    A naked and dead thing that had been once female and human. Its breasts were engorged and veined with purple lacework and its stomach was an empty red pustule burst violently into a spew of organs and blood dried black and streaking from the platform and into the cracks of the concrete floor.


    Its face was lean and womanly and somehow lightly mustached for all that, and her naked lips were bright red by the light of their buzzing headlamps. Her eyes, open and nigh popping out of their sockets, were glazed rheumy and stained red where the capillaries had broken up. Cacliocos inspected the woman''s nails and reported that the woman had died from carbon monoxide poisoning. She had been alive through her disembowelment, he said.


    Somewhere beside that garish disgorgement Betelgeuse saw a lumpen thing like a piece of melted ore. He came beside it and scrutinized the streaks of black and found it very like burnt plastic and thought that in its vaguely cuboid shape it bore a resemblance to something quite familiar to him.


    And he felt that this must be her Incunabulum, and he silently wondered if she did not immediately die after the Incunabulum had been destroyed, and wondered further what would happen to him if his own Incunabulum were to suffer the same.


    "What is this?" Douglas asked aloud, his voice cutting through the soft static stutter, finally unable to keep himself silent.


    Thete turned, and the full glare of her headlamp was on Douglas'' face as Douglas'' was on hers, and Betelgeuse saw his eyes squint and begin their tidal drift and her prosthetic dilate and narrow its crimson pupil. Betelgeuse noted that Douglas'' lips were the pale blue of cyanosis¡ªmost likely the effect of the earlier breach in his suit¡ªand wondered about his ability to maintain a semblance of alertness even given his missing arm.


    Nobody answered Douglas, as Cacliocos focused his attention on that body and continued tracing his eyes down the vicious cavity, from the ribs snapped outwards to the pulped diaphragm and squashed stomach, toward the pelvis where the uterus looked like it had erupted outward by the action of an alien force, as if a baby had been conceived and so impatiently brought to term that the only avenue for birth was a savage explosion outward into the world.


    A pounding sound echoed from somewhere distant.


    They whipped around, bracing their railguns. The rest of the room was devoid of life. Their headlamps converged upon the steel door at the far end of the room, this one dented inward from some great force.


    It was slightly open. Douglas had neglected to report this, and the rest of them had missed it in their exhaustion and tunnel-vision. ''Then again, he did lose an arm,'' mused Betelgeuse.


    "Middle clear?" Thete sounded, her mumbles laced with frustration.


    "Comms!" warned Cacliocos, enforcing the silence.


    All was quiet save for static and the low whine of their weapons. Betelgeuse saw that deep gouges had been cut into the concrete floor near that steel portal. The adjacent walls were decorated with chaotic splotches of pinkish blood, like a cubist-surrealist wallpaper dreamt up by a painter in the throes of LSD.


    Then, they heard a dim crash from beyond the door and the report of a Chimerae weapon being discharged, and their heartbeats quickened as one.


    With a magnificent crash, the door came flying off its hinges and towards them.

 Chapter 21: The Monster and the Earthborer

    The hunk of metal crashed into Cacliocos, sending him sliding across the floor and thunking into the far wall. Atop that dented sheet Betelgeuse could see a quivering and vaguely non-human body lying half-splattered and burbling with the egress of its internal fluids.


    Before he could look closer, a keening wail drew his attention to the entrance.


    A humanoid beast, bald, thin, cadaverous and pale, slavering from an upper jaw bunched with concentric gums and malocclusive teeth, the tongue and lower jaw shriveled and blackened like the smoking char that had been made of it''s left side, its right arm a forked mess of keratinoid blades out of which extended a single double-jointed arm ending in a myriad-fingered hand of dubious functionality.


    It stretched taller than the ceiling and, even hunched as it was, dwarfed Frederica. It gave out a croaking wail as its multipupiled eyeballs swiveled in milky sockets and cried rivulets of beigey tears.


    "Fuck! Shoot i¡ª"


    Where before there was silence now there was chaos. Orange arcs bored into the torso of that creature and then impacted in a profusion of sound onto the concrete wall beside a crusted patch of blood shaped like bison. Thete was yelling and Douglas was screaming and Betelgeuse heard someone cursing over the comms and saw Voke wrangling with the chassis of his railgun out of the periphery of his vision.


    He''d barely managed to snap off two shots when his trigger clicked empty. The beast was bleeding oodles of fluid from the grievous wounds perforating its torso, the blood thick and bluish under their jerking headlamps. With a shuddering suddenness the beast limped forward and swiped with its bladed arm; Douglas lurched backwards, barely managing to dodge, and the blades cleaved into his railgun with a shower of sparks.


    Betelgeuse had retreated several steps and felt into his magazine pouch for a fresh magazine. His perceptions muddied, and there was nothing, not even fear, save for the hyperalertness borne of combat.


    ''Only one left,'' he thought grimly, sliding the magazine into the feeder and feeling it click into place.


    But before he could fire again the monster was in their midst and wailing some mad lamentation from dreams no man was privy to. Thete''s yell was transformed into a clipped yelp as the thing bucked and kicked with impossible swiftness, catching her in the thigh; even with her formidable reflexes she had barely managed to raise her leg so that the force of the kick failed to snap her limb the wrong way, and in the circumstances the sheer strength of the beast sent her somersaulting front over back through the remains of a table and into the wall.


    The thing turned. Its scrunched and grinning face was mere meters from Betelgeuse. There was no time to think; he plucked a grenade from his pouch and pulled the pin, then dropped to his haunches. The beast was jerking madly and Voke''s shot flew wide, boring through the ceiling and showering them in concrete dust. Frederica was swinging her railgun buttfirst like a club and managed a good hit on its leg; Betelgeuse saw it stumble and leapt toward the beast, but the thing was faster by far, twisting around and stepping into his trajectory and ramming into him full-force.


    The world exploded into fragments of perception and a sharp pain blossomed outwards from his chest. Somewhere in that reckless lurch he lost his grip on the grenade and he couldn''t tell where it was or where he''d dropped it.


    "Grenade!" he managed to scream, and he looked up just fast enough to see Frederica swing at it with the butt of her railgun like a golf club, sending it careening toward the ceiling ten or so meters away where it erupted in a flash of concrete dust.


    The thing was chittering in some pantomime of pain and swinging dazedly from side to side. Betelgeuse saw Thete coming up behind it, her headlamps dark, probably damaged, circling it from the left as the railgun-club-wielding Frederica and the one-armed knife-brandishing Douglas stalked it from the right.


    Metal screeched on metal as Cacliocos pushed himself free of the piece of door, and the creature, hearing this, wailed thinly and made to pounce. Thete was there before it could act, smashing her right forearm into its damaged side with so much force it looked like she snapped her own bone, and the beast stumbled drunkenly in the direction of Frederica and Douglas.


    The thing attempted to straighten but hit its head on the ceiling; Voke shot at it, this time managing to catch it in its good leg, and as it fell keening Douglas strafed out of its way.


    It was on the ground and scrabbling with inhuman ferocity, and Betelgeuse thought he saw it catch Frederica with its bladed arm; an inexplicable anxiety gripped him, and he shot from his position, ignoring the pain radiating out from his solar plexus, bracing his railgun and charging into that confusion of dust. His headlamp shunted the darkness and he almost collided with its back. That cliff of flesh was criss-crossed with welts and blasted apart at portions and wriggling on the floor like some oversized centipede; with as much force as he could muster, he stabbed his muzzle into the nape of that elongated neck and fired, almost splitting the head from the torso.


    And the beast yawned and shivered and then was finally still.


    Betelgeuse slung his railgun and picked forward, and when saw the bouquet of blades thrust into Frederica''s stomach, a strange feeling bunched in his throat. He rushed forward. He couldn''t help himself. He found a welter of viscera, and under his headlamps puffs of steam rolled off her streaming blood as it decanted and pooled and mixed with that foul beast''s blue ichor. He fumbled his medkit open and brought out his coagulator and all of a sudden he was at a loss for what to do, so cruel did that wound look.


    Enforce serenity.


    And yet his mind was blank and his hand must have trembled when he traced the contours of that spilling sac he supposed must have been her stomach, and he looked into her eyes to see they were fluttering and grasping at him, her brown eyes lilting in the stuffiness of that place. Blood was streaming out of her mouth in great quantities, greater even than when they had fallen outside the walls of Liberation''s Reach, and his deep-set fears suddenly felt close to fruition.


    Her mouth was gaping wordlessly, and by now Thete and Cacliocos had come up and was saying something about removing her from the beast''s claws and then sealing up the stomach with the coagulator before fixing the breach.


    Betelgeuse shoved his way past Voke and Douglas, skirting that ghastly tableau and coming behind Frederica to hold on to her squirming armpits; Thete placed her hand beside his and they pulled, and he could feel her body shuddering so viscerally he wished he could bear a little of that pain for her.


    She was off the dead thing''s appendage and laid on her side and they worked through the torrential spill of blood, Betelgeuse in front and trying to close up her stomach and Thete behind and spraying coagulator cartridge after coagulator cartridge into that hole.


    "B.T.," Frederica coughed, staring at him through dim eyes, the blood now threading from her nose across her sallow skin.


    "We can get her to Medicae if we leave now," Betelgeuse said, the tremor in his voice barely perceptible, having stuck the flaps of her stomach back together as best he could; and Voke and Douglas was beside him pooling together their coagulator cartridges and going at it with gobs upon gobs of foam as Betelgeuse held the parts of her skin pressed together into each other.


    "... Hu-man ¡­"


    The voice was like a rasp hailing from realms neither human nor real, and it scythed through the stress and fatigue and made all of them, save for Frederica, stand and brace. Alarm flooded through their veins from adrenal glands exhausted two times over.


    "That¡ª" Douglas breathed tremulously.


    "Chimera," whispered Cacliocos, moving toward the still-living patch upon the door-piece he had been trapped under.


    The Chimera was still alive and it was sputtering softly and blowing bubbles where it breathed, its arms bent and flared like origami folds. A dark bead stared out from the crack in its opaque visor, and in it sat a ghostly lantern.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    "... Virus will¡­ be the end¡­. but it is curious¡­" it wheezed softly, its Common accent unplaceable.


    "What are you saying? What are you¡­" Cacliocos muttered, trodding toward it and knowing all the while it could not hear.


    "... for so intelligent to become¡­ virus¡­ and I want¡­ to know¡­ if it is your own machination¡­ hu-man¡­" the Chimera heaved and sighed, clinging on to something in its last moments.


    Cacliocos was standing over it and looking down, sheathing that broken thing in a halo of light. Something in that alien eye caught Betelgeuse'' imagination, and he wondered about its words.


    "You¡­ not talk? ¡­ Not say? What has made you virus?"


    Betelgeuse saw Voke move up beside Cacliocos and stare through obscured eyes, and he shook his head from side to side as if he owed it a response.


    And its eye, disappointed, glazed over in death.


    <hr>


    He slung her arm over his shoulder and supported her through the dark corridor and down the dim staircase, and as such he could tell that she was becoming weaker with every step that they took.


    By the time Betelgeuse stepped out with Frederica into that dim and corpse-strewn square, the comms static had cleared. Mountains of sound surged in the distance, a conglomeration of rumbling warmachines, sputtery echoes of machine gun fire, and the sporadic collapse of structures concrete and metal.


    The left pincer had breached the walls and destroyed the Chimerae''s jamming facilities, Cacliocos informed them, and command line had instructed them to assemble at the northern wall for the final push past the mouth of the central in-settlement mine and into the southwestern quadrant of Liberation''s Reach.


    The sky over the square was now completely obscured with a thick smog, and very little direct sunlight made it through. Everything looked washed out, dim and pink. Betelgeuse set Frederica against the same pillar they had first found Cacliocos, and the rest of that beaten pack took up behind that cover, crouching low.


    And Betelgeuse heard Frederica''s breath catch over the comms as he lowered himself near to her, and when he inspected her face he found her lips pale and flecked with blood. He knelt next to her, not knowing what, if anything, he could do.


    "Can''t we do a¡­ tactical retreat?" Douglas urged, crouching and laying his hand on Frederica''s shoulder. "She don''t look so good. And if you didn''t notice I lost myself an arm."


    "... That would be the wise thing to do," Cacliocos agreed. "But¡­ I can''t seem to get Major Storr on comms."


    "That makes you Third Company''s acting Company Commander, sir," Thete said, nursing her broken arm, following with her vision an unidentifiable spark, the jagged quarrel bright and orange and shooting through the blanket of smog abovehead.


    "We''re all that''s left of Third Company," Voke pointed out, his face haggard, scanning the square and regarding the asymmetric blobs of viscera that littered it.


    "... I''d rather not appropriate Major Storr''s authority, but you make a good point," Cacliocos admitted, taking a seat beside Betelgeuse and Frederica and laying his head back upon that pillar. Lines more at home on old men''s faces streaked down his cheeks and bracketed his mouth. "And in any case I will not let good soldiers die, if I can help it. Let me try to get command line."


    But Cacliocos'' words had no sooner dropped when the rumbling beneath the earth took on an urgent and frantic aspect. Betelgeuse, placing a hand on Frederica''s shoulder to steady her body, noted that the quaking had taken on a life of its own separate from the general bedlam.


    "What in the¡ª"


    The rest of Douglas'' expletive was swallowed by the disturbance as the ground vibrated with an increasing amplitude that took it from tremor to earthquake.


    The ground cracked and crumbled and fissured with the heaving convulsions; Betelgeuse noted at the mouth of the square a troop of soldiers dashing in their direction then breaking up helter-skelter as the cleft in the earth fractured toward them like a heat-seeking torpedo; that group saw Section Five and began gesticulating indecipherably this way and that.


    The comms crackled and Betelgeuse supposed Cacliocos had said something, but everything was lost to the noise when a monstrous machine rose in the middle of the square like a submarine parting the waters. He gripped onto Frederica''s suit as tight as he could, felt her hands clutch at him in return as he muttered words of vague meaning.


    In the chaos he somehow noticed Entuban up there upon the roof of the quavering residential block opposite, his form dwarfing the sooty figures scrambling about him. With an immense crash that building keeled over backward and Entuban''s destiny was lost to smoke and rubble.


    The contraption was a giant thing of sleek curvature and pointed tip that protruded out of the middle of the square. It canted upward toward the smoggy sky and then a screen on its side shuttered open and a legion of Chimerae came pouring out silent and wraithlike and all of them clad in hard, lustreless matte surfaces and visors of absolute black under the aegis of that smokesky.


    Thete barely permitted their astonishment two seconds to settle before she began yelling for them to "throw nades", and those of them that could began lobbing all of their remaining grenades into their enemies'' midst whilst Cacliocos was roaring into his comms for command line and reciting numbers at breakneck pace; and Betelgeuse saw, as a DUS grenade left his hand, a Chimera whose size rivaled Entuban''s ensconced in the middle of that alien troop, its cloak of dark and shifting colors billowing in the wind. It was almost twice as tall as the other Chimerae, and when it whipped around Betelgeuse observed the deep maroon opacity of its visor striated with luminescent runes and then it and all the others became obscured by dust and tufts of gravel thrown up by the detonating explosives. They threw anything they could find¡ªflares, flashbangs, DUS-nades and frags¡ªand a chorus of explosions ripped up the frontage. Every kind of fog obscured Betelgeuse'' vision, as his range of visibility dropped to four meters at max.


    Armature-rounds traced streams of gold into the fog, shot from secret covers further up the street. There were two or three combat sections aiding them, Betelgeuse estimated.


    "¡ªrepeat, gridmap three, approximately seven-nine-seven, six-six-two; we''re right next to the Labcent, give it some leeway¡ª" Cacliocos transmitted, his frantic appeal cut off halfway by the appearance of the Chimerae.


    The enemy was already upon them; Betelgeuse blasted the head off the first one that emerged upon the abutting column, and the thing twitched and fell back into the fog, and as he dragged Frederica from the column two more took its place.


    Thete swiped at their feet with her good arm and they fell over forward. She twisted and jammed that arm downward, slamming her palm into the back of a Chimera''s head, bashing it into the concrete pavement and bursting the top of its skull outward in a lurid spew of pink fluid and gray-white matter. Voke rammed the butt into the nape of the other, snapping its neck and then pounding its neckbones into gruel with repeated strikes like putting pestle to mortar.


    Betelgeuse felt something wrong in the air. A disturbance in his incunabulum very similar to when his superiors had attempted to impose their control upon him. Cacliocos was yelling something like "retreat, now! Toward the Labcent!", his voice''s rising pitch a mix of alarm and hysteria, and they tore down the empty space, Frederica supported by Betelgeuse'' arm, retreating all the way back toward that quivering structure and taking refuge behind the leftmost of its still-standing pillars. When Betelgeuse peeked out the side the smoke had started to clear, and he saw twenty or more Chimerae, their wiry arms bracing their plasma bolters toward Section Five''s cover and several of their muzzles already smoking.


    The smell of death was thick in his nostrils and his mind was almost overborne by the peculiar warping of perception which only mortality occasions. His heart was a welter of bitterness and indignation, and as he saw the rest of his fellows empty their cartridges he let loose the last of his armature-rounds and gave out an apoplectic squall for good measure, screaming himself hoarse.


    The feeling of wrongness had become a heavy pall. That towering Chimera, their superior officer by all accounts, had skirted the fallen column they had retreated from and was brandishing a massive weapon shaped like a minigun, its nozzle pointed at them.


    The feeling in Betelgeuse'' gut dropped like a rock and vertigo took over. He heard Frederica grunting in pain and space itself started to billow violently. He clenched his glutes and every cell of his body raged against him, threatening to tear him apart in myriad directions.


    Space itself shifted before his eyes, and it was a sight which words failed to explain¡ªin its purely technical sense, ineffable. The impressively phallic jut of the Chimerae Earthborer seemed to buckle and invert into a donut, then disappear entirely from his vision, as if the fabric of realspace had been manipulated.


    One moment there was smog, and the next moment there was none. The sky seemed to clear without telegraph. Rays of crimson sunlight suddenly shone bright and blinding as the Desertian high noon, and the whole square had become a crater during the elapse of that interstice between thought and perception. In microseconds, all that detritus of death had gone, and the Chimera themselves were no more; but now the day had shifted again and it was dark as the deepest night, as if Corydon had convulsed and snuffed itself out.


    No, there was some light, and Betelgeuse realized that the night was merely an artifice of the titanic mound of gravel and rock above him. The floor fell away under his feet and he could hear Thete screaming and Cacliocos calling for backup and Voke hiccupping and Douglas asking God knows who "what is this? What is this?", and all throughout that steep descent into the abyss Betelgeuse could not find it within himself to let go of Frederica, and he held her close and felt her do the same and imagined that he could feel her heartbeat even through the padding and plating of their exosuits pressed tightly together.

 Chapter 22: Caterwaul for the Dead

    There was only partial light in the space they found themselves in because their headlamps were all damaged save for Cacliocos'' and Voke''s. But all of them were there together, and alive, for now.


    Command line''s efforts had consigned them to a space perhaps two hundred meters wide. The ceiling had been just high enough for Betelgeuse to stand fully upright, but some hours into their vivisepulture the uneven face of rock above them rumbled and shifted several inches downward, and for one terrifying moment it looked as if it would all be over.


    But though they cringed and gritted their teeth in mortal fear, death did not come.


    They had no more rounds, and no more explosives on hand save for Cacliocos'' hypergolic claymores which, as it occurred, were missing their detonation trip-wires. When Thete asked how this had happened, Cacliocos explained that he had stuffed the wires in his magazine pouches, and that they must have fallen out in all the confusion of battle.


    And as they argued at the far end over the possible means of detonating the claymore, the twin shafts of dust-swirled light crossing and recrossing each other, Betelgeuse sat in the darkness beside Frederica''s supine form, the two of them shifting every few minutes to share brief looks the exact meanings of which were lost to the darkness.


    Betelgeuse was dimly aware that Cacliocos had divulged his Increment, and that as a Primary grade he had the means of producing nitroglycerin in small quantities; but in the circumstances there was much uncertainty as to whether the makeshift use of nitroglycerin to detonate the claymores would enable their escape or collapse the entire ceiling upon them.


    Cacliocos ultimately decided to do it anyway, for by the elapse of hours they were running low on oxygen canisters and every second closer to certain death. He would produce a portion of nitroglycerin that they would pack into an expended canister which they would then throw toward the row of claymores compacted into the earth at the far end of the space; the kinetic shock of the impact would be enough to set off the nitroglycerin canister, which would, in turn, detonate the thin layer of secondary C4 which served as the barrier separating the reactive components of the claymore''s hypergolic mixture.


    Frederica seemed to be breathing harder now and her grip on Betelgeuse'' hand was getting stronger, and though he couldn''t see her face properly he felt that something was changing.


    She called his name through the comms and the arguments stopped. Section Five gathered around her and under the intense glare of the headlamps her pupils started to dilate, and despite that she did not shift her gaze from Betelgeuse'' face. Under the silver light the penal brand looked dark and ragged upon her sweat-sheened forehead.


    I wonder¡­ what all this would''ve been without having been chosen by the Ash Incunabula, Frederica croaked, and her eyes looked as if they were welling with liquid.


    We wouldn''t have met each other, Douglas sighed, and many other things wouldn''t have happened, yeah?


    It is not something to be denigrated. You have served better than most, madam, Cacliocos said softly.


    Why call her that, Douglas asked, as if the honorific sounded absurd to him.


    Respect. It''s respect, Voke said solemnly, and then fell silent.


    Shoulda respected us in other ways, Douglas muttered, his tone bordering on glib, but Thete raised her good arm and placed it softly on his shoulder, and her eyelid draped over her prosthesis so that its red pupil was shone dimly through the layer of skin.


    The Democracy has its practices. The Protectorate has its practices. None of that impinges upon your bearing. That is what I think, Cacliocos declared. He was so sure of himself that what he said seemed almost a truism.


    And I know that sir''s opinion is true, Thete managed, her voice already trembling.


    An echo like that of distant thunder reverberated through the ceiling. When their heads turned upward Betelgeuse saw the shadow consume Frederica''s face. The light came back and he saw her cheeks and found himself thinking that they had become far gaunter than when he had first seen her, those few months ago, when he had first become aware of her existence as Norma''s adversary. How things had changed. How much things could change.


    Why call it Ash anyway, she asked, and it felt like she was directing the question to Betelgeuse.


    He felt he knew this answer. Elder Bennett might have mentioned it, or perhaps he had read it in a book.


    He dredged up old memories of Edom-Zeta, but kept his silence.


    ¡­ What is it¡­ with the name? Frederica was panting as if she was out of breath.


    It''s a myth, Cacliocos began to explain, it comes from the Old Empire. It is the order of the universe that there should be lesser and greater, and once things are returned to ashes they are considered lesser. But this assessment of worth says nothing of the honor of the men and women made to bear its burden.


    Might it not be God''s creation? When Voke said this Betelgeuse supposed he was just as much asking as asserting.


    Or it''s academic drivel, Douglas muttered. What''s the point of asking about it though, he wanted to say, but he held his tongue.


    I think you should save your breath, Thete said sullenly.


    ¡­ Betelgeuse, what do you think? She squeezed his hand and pulled him closer.


    ¡­ It may come from stories which lived before the Old Empire. And maybe it''s older than that, because everything that ever happens is a recursion, Betelgeuse said.


    But¡­ where do you think it comes from? She stared at him, her eyes unblinking, parsing him for prevarication.


    Some say it''s a myth. But I read that it''s a trope from a game, Betelgeuse said. A trope that says the greatest are amongst the underdogs. I don''t know the truth either way.


    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    A what, Douglas asked.


    A game, like a video game. From the time before the Intraweb and the ROs, Voke suggested, his voice unsure.


    Is that the truth? I want to know, Betelgeuse, Frederica gasped. For sure.


    So do we all, Betelgeuse thought to himself, but Thete glanced toward him as if she were trying to tell him something, and he said, barely loud enough that Frederica could hear, that it was.


    It sounded like she was hyperventilating. Betelgeuse thought he could feel her blood shimmy thickly through her veins, even though flesh, skin and exosuit separated their nerves.


    Her nostrils and mouth was crusted with dried blood, and her eyeballs glazed momentarily as she called another name out, an Alan or Alain or Allen or Aleun.


    The fit passed and her eyes cleared. And he was reflected in those brown pupils again, and he saw her sadness pass away into something approaching peace.


    Quickly, we gotta go, we gotta try to get the thing open, Douglas rambled. We go, now, we try it. We try it.


    But when the rest of Section Five left to make their preparations, Frederica would not let Betelgeuse go; seeing this, Thete nodded at him and they left Betelgeuse in the darkness to keep Frederica company.


    She released his hand slowly and raised her finger to her own helmet. Alarmed, his arm shot out and grabbed hers.


    But her fingers wriggled below the release and he got the gist of what she intended to do. Her eyes were pearly beads in the deep shadows, and his imagination made of them staring and accusatory things.


    Comms jabber was everywhere in his ears, a thick film of tactics, methods and means of escaping their predicament. Her breaths came hard and fast, coming in time then syncopated then slowly drifting out of time.


    They had somehow got the canister filled with nitroglycerin inside Cacliocos'' suit. They were ready to throw, even as Frederica came to her most confused moment. In Betelgeuse'' memories he found his father and certain wisdoms regarding life and death. He didn''t know if they were superstitions, but he did know they ran counter to the Elders'' sermons.


    The explosives detonated with an immense sound and the shockwave washed over them, amplified by that enclosed space. The ceiling juddered but did not fall.


    Then silence. The darkness was unchanged. Silence.


    He loosened his grip and heard the hiss of the emergency release and saw her lift her helmet over her head. Her features were difficult to make out but he felt that if he concentrated hard enough he could trace the contours of her cheeks by the photons which strayed from the headlamps now shaking haphazardly at the other hand of the cave.


    She must have said something because he saw her mouth move, but Betelguese couldn''t hear it through his helmet.


    Douglas was jabbering when Betelgeuse lifted the visor over his head. The air tasted stale and dusty and smelled faintly of rotten eggs.


    She shifted. What are you doing?


    Keeping you company. He held on to her hand again, by his own volition.


    Unintelligible noise spiked from their helmets, placed side by side upon the earth.


    Why? She felt the need to ask.


    So I can hear what you''re saying.


    ¡­ I didn''t say anything important.


    Betelgeuse brought himself closer so that the sound of her shallow breaths scratched at his eardrums. Her eyes were wet jewels and he wondered if she could see the stars through their cage of feldspar and sandstone.


    Where do you think Lawrence has gone? To heaven, at the end of the galaxy? They say there''s bliss, no matter what grade we are, so long as we''re loyal to God¡ªher breath caught and she coughed and the cough interrupted her feverish, whispered rambling.


    ¡­ Can a woman be disloyal one time, and be loyal the next? She wheezed and her words were mixed with phlegmy whistles issuing from her larynx.


    Enough, Frederica. Save your breath. You have nothing to answer for.


    That''s advice that should come from a place of knowledge¡­ Her sighs came ragged and forced and tickled Betelgeuse on his chin.


    I know few so dedicated to resisting oppression. There''s a tendency in all of us to make a master of ourselves, even in our petty rebellions, and maybe only one of us has mastered that tendency, he said.


    ¡­ Betelgeuse¡­ Betelgeuse, where will I go? Where is freedom from here?


    I don''t know. But I will take your Incunabulum. I will keep it safe.


    Frederica''s breath caught in her throat again, and she choked and then spit a dark globule into the ground beside her.


    You¡­ can read it. I want you to read it. But keep it from the others, promise me you''ll keep it from the others. It''s only for you to read, she said.


    Is it so important?


    It''s embarrassing, is all. And it tells of a previous me. The me now, together with you¡­ I don''t think my heart is partial anymore, she said. And take the chocolate bar, please. It''s in my inner suit.


    Your inner suit?


    Yes. I didn''t want it to fall out.


    She was calmer now, no longer hyperventilating, and his face had long ago come close enough to feel the warmth of her breaths.


    I will take it, Betelgeuse said.


    And there was the blackbox. Destroy it. Destroy it, Frederica said.


    Put it out of your mind¡ªIt''s not important. And about your Incunabulum, I don''t think there''s anything to be embarrassed about. We shouldn''t be ashamed of things out of our control. Mine says Will-to-Power and that''s all it says.


    What does it mean?


    Change, I think.


    Is it why you''re able to withstand the compulsion?


    I suppose so. But that''s really not important right now.


    Betelgeuse, you need to put your helmet¡ª


    I said it''s not what''s important. I''m glad to share this moment with you. Life doesn''t wait for important moments, and we should cherish it when we have the chance.


    ¡­ It''s getting dark¡­ why is it so dark?


    It''s a dark cave, Frederica. It''s why I am holding your hand. Darkness first. My father says, go towards the light, when you see it.


    What¡­ what¡­ what do you¡­ mean?


    I mean that this may¡­ I mean, this is just the beginning of a different journey.


    Can''t hear¡­ ¡­ journey?


    The beginning. Of a journey.


    I think¡­ I wish¡­ I had met you earlier¡­ Then you could have¡­ been a part of my story, she mumbled.


    Frederica. Frederica Jaine. We live life as stories begotten in stories, he said, whispering into her ear, taking her unwashed scent into his lungs, and you will be a part of my story forever.


    His statement, however, never found its reply.

 Chapter 23: The Hecatomb

    <blockquote>


    The scourge of a broken heart manifests in Frederica Jaine a vexatious depression.


    Frederica Jaine''s multifaceted depressions manifest as a psychosomatic sensitivity towards others'' emotions.


    - Incunabulum Manifold Tag #3078-2701-00000569


    </blockquote>


    First Battalion, First Companyspacetime inversion


    Military Auxiliary (abbrev. MA)


    Green Book Risk Assessment Formhigh


    Regardless, the work began in earnest and proceeded patiently according to the MA Xau''s instructions, completing in four hours and fifty minutes rather than the originally estimated five hours.


    29,308th time in the 30,294-day sidereal year.


    It was not fifteen minutes from the completion of the rescue operation that a barrage of missiles fell like the hammer of God through that veil of smog which lidded Liberation''s Reach, screaming banshee-like and erupting into a monolithic curtain of fire at the distant reaches of the settlement. The impacts shook the surroundings violently, causing the much-feared subsidence and burying the space which the rescuees had not so long ago been trapped within.


    Never been so close to Super-Katyusha impactsIt is not much. Just Katyushas but more super.


    The second barrage of missiles had just begun in earnest when a dull tone informed Cacliocos that a private comms channel had been established. He raised himself to his feet and poked his head absentmindedly around the holobus chassis he had been leaning against.


    coycom


    "Yes, sir, Subaltern Cacliocos speaking," Cacliocos replied. The sound of distant gunfire, though cloaked by the rumble of artillery, had not abated, and his eyes sensed movement where the remainder of Section Five were convalescing near a rubble outcropping stabbing out where a residential block once stood.


    It was Betelgeuse, expressionless, eking a winding path across the street toward the immense concavity which had been substituted for the square. The area had been reported as secured, but it was still a breach of tactical discipline pursuant to Green Book regulations to move around without crouching. Not that Cacliocos had any intention of taking him to task.


    "Report strength," Lieutenant-Colonel Brexar transmitted.


    Third Company, RAF


    He traced Betelgeuse'' slow walk back toward the caved-in entrance, saw that pale face pass from shadow to shadow, and then watched him halt and stare solemnly into space.


    Betelgeuse had been the one to communicate Frederica''s last wish to Cacliocos. She wanted to be buried underground, he said, and this had been confirmed by Thete and Douglas, as if by some tacit understanding Betelgeuse was made the keeper of Federica''s legacy.


    "Sir, there''s something else. We saw something in the Labcent, some kind of spliced creature we had to kill."


    spliced


    "Like a hybrid¡­ like a human-Chimera splice, is the best I can describe it. I could only assess it for rudimentary intelligence in the circumstances, but it had keen combat awareness."


    "We''ll get the cleaners up there. Remember to submit all relevant blackboxes once the operation is done," Brexar sounded. A sense of uneasiness had crept into his tone.


    fertilize


    Cacliocos heard some shuffling on the other side of the line, and perhaps some crinkling of paper.


    anyoneManifold DMSsecret


    Clearance level secretdirect


    confidentialsecret


    "Of course, sir."


    "... Oh yes, one more thing. I know you''d transmitted this already via Staff Sergeant Entuban, but Brigade-Com asked for another confirmation of the survivors'' names. Said the request came from command. Can you enumerate?" Brexar requested. The distinct sound of rapidfire mouse clicks filtered through the comms.


    "PLP Sergeant Thete Jutson, PLP Voke Thatcher, PLP Betegeuse Sakar, PLP Douglas McKay. And myself, Subaltern Tenzhian Cacliocos."


    you went over my head, yes, but it was a sound tactical decisionYou''re a good soldier.


    "Thank you, sir. ... Second Company secured the northwestern quadrant?"


    "Yes. Heavy casualties, but not as heavy as Third Company''s. Your brother''s alive. I confirmed it with his commanding officer."


    thank you


    "It''s what I should do," Brexar sighed, and Cacliocos detected in all that weary resignation the hidden edge of bitterness and indignation.


    "I should ask sir¡­ has¡­ Major Storr been located?"


    "He was counted amongst the first casualties. Tenzhian, I''ll not skirt the fact that his mistake was very grave. You can be sure I''ll lodge a formal complaint."


    "Sir, it''s a breach of the Green¡ª"


    mustTAF Green Book doesn''t care one whit about the guys on the ground.PDF


    Cacliocos opened his mouth, then closed it again. He scanned his surroundings. By now Betelgeuse had returned to his section. Why was Thete giving him such a strange look?


    "Anyway, I got to wrap this up," Brexar sounded. "What''s the unit closest to you right now? The one with Staff Entuban?"


    Tzevtao-retrieval


    "Yes, yes. Captain Kelokrill''s¡­ a right pity to lose him. I''d heard he was good. Tenzhian, you will take command of First Battalion, First Company and assemble at the entrance to the in-settlement mine, SB¡­ what was it, ah¡­"


    SB-two-nine-sixHigh urgency


    LTCsecret


    "Just one, sir. Does First Battalion, First Company have any other surviving officers?"


    "No."


    An uncomfortable silence interspersed.


    "... I see. That''s all, then," Cacliocos nodded to nobody in particular,


    "Okay. LTC Pilix will fill you in on the Company''s schedule and relevant Plan Modifications. I don''t expect any further Charlie Mike, but don''t take me at my word, okay?"


    "Yes, sir."


    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    "¡­ I probably shouldn''t say this, but something strange is happening between command and the Brigade-coms," Brexar was muttering, half to himself and half to Cacliocos, "they made the Jegorich Second and Third Brigade head the left pincer''s offensive, and I heard casualties there were unaccountably high as well¡­


    "¡­ Sir?" Cacliocos sounded, not knowing what to say.


    "Ah, dammit. Tenzhian, please remember to get support to scrub your blackbox. Anyway, passing you over now¡­"


    <hr>


    presto


    The most recent barrage had just melted away into pollen clouds of spangling phosphorus blooms when Cacliocos and Entuban called for the muster, and that band of thirty or less, beaten and tired, went through the dead streets like dead things themselves. Mounds of rubble flanked them, residential blocks turned to sordid cairns overlooking their cautious progress.


    The pounding resumed, and when Betelgeuse raised his head he saw flashes of orange fade to beige under the curtain of fog and realized that the artillery fire had begun triangulating further away. Cacliocos transmitted that they were passing into the manufacturing district, and First Company stepped into a cloud of smog and then out of it, and before them was a flattish field of concrete rubble centered by an enormous ziggurat pluming smoke into the sky.


    A special dread gripped Betelgeuse'' heart. His steps faltered. His right hand found its way to his chestpiece and pressed, and he felt digging into his pectorals the edges of what he knew was Frederica''s Incunabulum stacked below his own. Somebody nudged him from behind and he turned to see Douglas motioning forward with his elbow., his expression uncharacteristically grim.


    faces


    They must have been naked when they died. A mountain of corpses set afire.


    The Chimerae were an intelligent race, perhaps. What reason, if any, did they have to kill on such a scale?


    "Staff Entuban, you don''t need to check it?" Cacliocos transmitted through the comms, looking up at that towering cake of charred flesh when they were almost close enough to touch.


    Second Company


    "Good. Wouldn''t fancy doing it myself," Cacliocos said, bowing his head momentarily to the dead. "We turn right then along the commissary street west."


    And so that procession made a hard right and passed, at the end of that field, between two imposing stone promontories that were enshadowed and tortured and like Scylla and Charybdis; and as they passed through into the dimly-lit beyond Betelgeuse'' eyes could not help but widen, as flesh-mound after flesh-mound was revealed to them in all their lurid glory.


    God¡­


    The voice was female and unfamiliar to Betelgeuse. One of Entuban''s entourage. But its sentiment was shared amongst all, because few could be unmoved by the scale of death. The street was flanked on both sides by buildings flattened into the ground, and atop the rubble thereof were mountains of corpses all smoking. The human roasts followed the road all the way through that cauterized desolation. Death upon death, a stairway to hell.


    And there was no escaping the sight, for the flesh-mounds had each been tipped by a bulbous lamp shining whitely and left behind by the Allied Forces'' Incunabula-retrieval parties.


    Passing by the first mound, Betelgeuse thought he saw a gnome-like figure at the apex, small as a cherub but flayed by the heat into a vertical crust, the bulbous lamp hanging by a long and curved metal handle over the crown of that toddler''s head. The sockets of that child were gaping and its jaw was hungry and open and the lamp looked to have been positioned so that bulb hung like an oversized, glowing testicle


    This is what passes for humor.


    They trekked down the street, some averting their eyes by looking at their fellows'' feet, some uncannily fascinated by the ritualistic pyres winding down and up, the lights drawing a grim path overland toward a rockface materializing in the distance. The whole population of Liberation''s Reach looked as if they had been jam-packed into that one place and then processed by the Chimerae into dead flesh.


    "The guys here sure keep the commissary stocked," someone said, breaking a full fifteen minutes of silence.


    Sergeant Belekov,


    They resumed their march and the route eventually took them past the last flesh-mound and through an undulating path and then straight into the side of an embankment peaking three stories high. The wall of the embankment ran on both sides into the darkness further than they could see, perhaps all the way to the tattered walls of Liberation''s Reach, and several hundred meters to their right a billowing gout of smoke rose darkly, its source obscured by the night.


    Where the road ended perpendicularly to that rustred cliff of rock was an immense steel door bent and scorched in places, and beside it wound a cylindrical jut so that the panel-face tipping the end of that metallic snake aimed at any would-be entrant.


    No sooner had Cacliocos gone up close when that panel-face flashed to life, projecting a rectangular wall of light which passed over his form from sole to head.


    tableaux


    Good Evening, T-A-F Officer. Please input your Ninsei Ingress security code to Mining Settlement L-R, Subterranean Borehole Number two-nine-six¡ª


    "Let me, sir. LTC Pilix is saying to use First Battalion, First Company''s code," Entuban raised his arm, motioning at Cacliocos.


    "Okay, go ahead," Cacliocos nodded, taking several steps sideways to make space for that man''s inhuman width.


    "Hrnh. Fingers too big," Entuban frowned. Indeed, the tips of his fingers were so wide that they bound three digital keys at once.


    Snickering through the comms.


    Betelgeuse turned back, and saw, behind Thete and her crimson pupil, behind gray, leather-faced soldiers, the twin rows of flesh-mounds stretching into the darkness. There must have been a breeze, for the globy lights were swaying lazily.


    "I type, you say," Cacliocos sighed, taking over.


    No sooner had the code been keyed in when the doors juddered and started cranking themselves open in fits, knocking off loose bits of gravel from the sedimentary material abovehead.


    Welcome, <Emergency> personnel, have a¡ªhave¡ª*krrshk*


    They entered into dark, metal hallways devoid of light save for red fisheyes staring out the corners of the ceiling, turned one bend, two, then found the exit¡ªanother set of doors, these ones shimmying open smoothly.


    An open space awash in light and frenetic activity, its contours evocative of something circular, greeted their eyes. To their left, far to the edge of that large space, idled rows of walkers huge and gray and spewing exhaust into the air. Legions of exosuited soldiers, so many people that Betelgeuse suffered momentary disorientation, were scuttling about like ants, loading crates by the wagon-full into columns of tanks crusted with sediment and scoured matte-black and droning sepulchrally into the night air.


    And in the middle of the space was a terrace of slopes descending into a hole wide enough to swallow Saltilla''s megalithic State University whole, a chasm which dwarfed even the teeming might of the Allied Forces in Desert.


    To right of that chasm sat the largest flesh-mound they had encountered yet, still smoldering, still raging faintly. Whole companies of soldiers were dismantling that terrifying sculpture under the aegis of a floodlight, and bereft of its habit of shadows that hecatomb rose misshapen and lopsided like some twisted aiguille.


    "Lieutenant-Colonel Brexar said the Medicae tent''s at the SB-296 entrance," Cacliocos transmitted.


    shack


    HrnhAMMUNITION


    "Ya think I can get my hands on a fresh ZWEN?" Douglas croaked, transmitting via Section Five comms-link, his eyes following the jump of the resup trucks, his arm stump wagging sporadically from an uncomfortable dose of phantom itch.


    "We''ll all get a chance to resup," responded Thete, her voice uncharacteristically soft. When Betelgeuse turned to regard her, he thought he detected in her lineaments a tacit glumness, but then wondered if by some unknown operation of his mind he had projected a subconscious artifact upon her face.


    "Maybe they can resup my arm," Douglas said, turning, and corners of his lips curled in a strange mix of pain and mirth.


    "Douglas, once we get to the Medicae unit you will have priority," Thete sighed. The troop had begun moving again, and one of the Jegorichians, abnormally short even by Desertian standards, had raised one of his unusually long arms and deigned to slap Douglas'' on his back where the exosuit''s clavicle carapace fused to the plastic articulations around neck.


    "Don''t mind if I do¡­"


    <hr>


    As they came closer to the ''shack'' the lie of its smallness was revealed and its charred eaves came to loom over them and the churning moil of soldiers all about them. They became entangled in the infectious headiness of that mix and jostle, and somehow Cacliocos managed to navigate through those whirlpools of incessant human activity and lead them before that quonset structure of metal and glass.


    Ninsei Factotum


    They were asked to remove their helmets, and Betelgeuse tasted dust and mold anew. He was led with the others between rows upon rows of beds upon which half-men and limbless women convalesced, oily-skinned and smelling of iodoform and being waited on by harried field surgeons brandishing gore-stained bonesaws and crusted cauterizers. They were halfway through that field hospital, having passed a portable room divider hung with red curtains and then another room divider with yellow curtains, when the lean and large-eared Support Company personnel leading them pointed forward to curtains colored deep orange.


    Less Urgent


    Urgents


    "What? We hadn''t received any manifest¡ª"


    plastic-poisoning


    "... O¨Cokay," the man stuttered, a host of expressions flashing across his face as Cacliocos exerted more pressure upon his shoulder. "I''ll take him to the surgeons¡­"


    "Not only him," Entuban rumbled, jostling past Betelgeuse and then seven or eight Jegorichians to come up beside Cacliocos. "We are needing oxygen for the three C-O poisonings. Eight splints. Maybe give us ten. We have broken bones."


    Cacliocos released his hand, leaving a dark, grimy imprint upon that man''s overalls. "The medical manifest should have come through. LTC Brexar? LTC Pilix?"


    Colonel Bincollan


    LTC Pilix


    redeployed


    "That''s enough. Get him some attention," Cacliocos commanded, gesturing with his chin back toward the yellow curtains. The man gave a sheepish smile and made to scratch the nape of his neck, before he arrested himself, brought his arm back down, scowled, and then scurried away with Douglas in tow.


    "I do not like this," Entuban muttered loudly, his wide face twitching.


    Cacliocos'' fine, dark eyebrows scrunched together. His upper lip curled over his scar. Once Douglas and the Support Company man disappeared from his view, he turned, stalking wordlessly down toward the orange curtains.

 Chapter 24: Into the Deeps

    <blockquote>


    Will-to-Power.


    Betelgeuse Sakar''s will to revolt against his destiny manifests as the power to endure all attempts at control.


    Betelgeuse Sakar''s will to purge control over his companions manifests as the power to disrupt the power to compel.


    - Incunabulum Manifold Tag #3079-1710-00002398


    </blockquote>


    It was fifteen minutes after they had taken to their allocated beds when Betelgeuse first realized that the members of the Saltilla Third Brigade were shooting them hostile stares. They murmured and whispered and laughed amongst themselves as did all comrades-in-arms, but always when the Jegorichians crossed the aisle abutting the Saltillans'' beds did the latter fall into a sullen and suspicious silence.


    And now that he could compare them side by side, Betelgeuse found the Jegorichians generally fairer-skinned than the Saltillans, and there appeared to be several other crucial physiognomic differences besides. The Saltillans, for one, had flatter noses and broader faces borne of peculiarly flared cheekbones, whilst the Jegorichians had thinner, more aquiline noses paired with higher cheekbones.


    ''However, both Saltillans and Jegorichians are short compared to Earthlings,'' he mused, canting his head sideways. He sat at the edge of his bed and kept his exosuit close beside his foot, his fingers fiddling with the crinkled wrapper of a melted chocolate bar. The overhead lights beat down relentlessly and, occasionally, tortured moans would travel to him from those dire places hidden behind the orange curtain.


    Voke had been allocated the bed beside him, with Thete taking the bed across the aisle. She was sitting on her bed too, Thete, wincing as she pulled a bandage tight over her splinted right forearm. A Rejuvenator helmet sat upon her head, and now and again she would look over, causing Betelgeuse'' left temple to burn where he supposed she was staring at him. She had taken an uncommon interest in him ever since he had broken Major Storr''s compulsion over her, an interest which bordered on hostility.


    The man who had taken the bed to his other side, PDF PFC Gelam Shentor, proved that low morale made for loose tongues. He''d begun muttering bitterly to himself in a foreign language, and when Betelgeuse, his face half-obscured by a translucent non-rebreather mask, asked him "whatever''s the matter" he resumed his breathy execrations in Common, cursing "Pilix" and "Cock-tain Kelokrill" and "that slimy Sylas that fucking us Jegorich-rajul in asshole like monkey".


    "Whozzat?" Voke asked, creeping up to the foot of Betelgeuse'' bed and taking his seat there.


    "The President, yeah?" Gelam scoffed, curling his whiskered lip back so that his unbrushed teeth were exhibited to all and sundry. "I hear he is Saltillan man, and he wants nothing more than for us to die. It is why they make Jegorich First the decoy, yes? And they make other Jegorich Brigades front the other force! Such a man they make President, is any surprise that this is outcome?"


    "What''s that really about?" Betelgeuse breathed, sucking in another lungful of concentrated oxygen. "Seems you and the Saltillans over there have it out for each other."


    "You Taffy and Earth-ian do not understand. How will you understand the many many years of problems those Satillans give us? They are low-born and greedy. They take everything, even old names. They take many things from us and they keep taking."


    "It''s evident there''s bad blood," Voke remarked drily. "But then it''s almost in the nature of Man to have bad blood with his neighbor."


    "Yawa? Wallahi?" Gelam had a puzzled expression and was clearly baffled by Voke''s pronouncement.


    "So you hate them and they hate you," Betelgeuse summarized. A memory rose unbidden to his mind and he remembered the man who had talked to him in the Saltilla square, the man in the woolen jacket who said he hailed from Jegorich. Did he harbor the same cathexes as Gelam?


    He shook his head to clear it of cobwebs. He was getting sleepy.


    "Hah! They do not know hate like we rajul do. And we have much to hate¡­" Gelam hissed, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.


    "There are some very wise and learned men of Earth that tell us it is not so healthy to hate," Voke said. "The way of God is the way of forgiveness, you see¡­ I think there are many things much better to spend time on than hate."


    "You are preaching to me?" Gelam raised an eyebrow, incredulous. "You are yet to know the ways of Desert. Saltillans are descended of the Ayish-Bejana, whose practices are alien to the code of Earth and enemy to the ways of Ahman. You will see that hate is the only response that is natural and wise."


    Voke shot a glance at Betelgeuse. Even through the translucence of his non-rebreather mask the latter had a downcast expression and seemed to have drifted far away from the conversation.


    Gelam suddenly took to his feet, pulling up his loose-fitting inner pants up so that the waistband wound across his bellybutton. He looked at them out the corner of his eye with an expression pregnant with implication, and then sauntered away lazily in the direction of the beds across the aisle where the Jegorichians appeared to be congregating, leaving his exosuit on the floor before Betelgeuse.


    "So¡­" Voke began, once Gelam was safely out of earshot. But he trailed off, for want of a topic of conversation.


    A yawning silence interspersed, because Betelgeuse did not seem to feel like talking, and because Voke did not know what to say. Voke could see half of Betelgeuse'' penal brand and it looked reddish and not altogether healthy.


    Then he saw Betelgeuse lean down and secrete a shiny piece of foil like a wrapper into his magazine pouch, the one hanging below the exosuit chest-piece. When Betelgeuse raised his head again there was much there that Voke did not fully understand, and much besides which reminded him of sadness.


    After several more moments, Betelgeuse'' bloodshot eyes swiveled to regard Voke. One of his hands was adjusting the non-rebreather mask over his nose and mouth while the other held aloft an oxygen canister such that Voke could see clearly the reading on the dial by the nozzle.


    86% concentration.


    Voke took this to mean that Betelgeuse wanted to hear what he had to say, although he couldn''t be sure.


    "... I''ll just come out and say it. What is the compulsion? How are you able to withstand it? And¡­" and then Voke trailed off, unsure whether to touch on what Cacliocos had warned was ''secret''.


    Betelgeuse was no longer looking at Voke. His head was bowed and his eyes were closed.


    "It''s what happened with Strionis, wasn''t it? I heard from Alisha back then, that Strionis took you, Lawrence, Frederica and Douglas into the Pit. It must have been then. And somehow you broke free of whatever the hell that was," Voke pushed.


    Silence.


    "B.T. ¡­"


    "Come off it Voke. It''s as simple as higher-grade Incs controlling lower-grade Incs," Betelgeuse muttered.


    "It doesn''t make sense. That''s exactly what doesn''t make sense. The grading has always been artificial, B.T., artificially created by Man to order what are rightfully God''s creations. It is Theli''s to order, not Man''s. I don''t believe it could be so simple."


    "Doesn''t matter what you think. And last I remember the School of Theli agrees with the supremacy of Golden above all else. ¡­ Anyway, it''s a practical reality we all have to live with," Betelgeuse returned, his eyes still closed. He had placed the oxygen canister back down on the bed beside him.


    But Voke had a point, he thought to himself, because he had himself always considered the ordering to be controversial in certain respects and not definitively set in stone. If the ordering of Incunabula was not always clear, didn''t it make the mechanism by which the compulsion was imposed all the more nebulous?


    "It''s something else. It can''t be the Incunabula. And you. How have you managed to combat the compulsion?" Voke continued pressing.


    Betelgeuse opened an eye and tilted his face slightly toward Voke. He observed, beyond him, Thete''s intense glower. The woman was thinking something.


    A crash echoed somewhere far away and its reverberations were deep and bassoon-like. The ground trembled. Nobody paid it any heed.


    "You know why," Betelgeuse blinked.


    "Betelgeuse¡­" Voke squinted, then scrunched his face up thoughtfully. "Unless, of course, you manifested¡ª"


    "I much rather think about how we can get the blackbox out of our suits," Betelgeuse interrupted him. "We need to find out where and what it is."


    "We''re all in it together. Including," he gestured toward Thete with his chin, "Sergeant Jutson over there."


    Seeing Betelgeuse'' gesture, Thete lowered her gaze.


    There was a sudden commotion at the front of the section and Betelgeuse and Voke turned to see Entuban emerge from the pleated orange folds and march down the aisle, a large bucket grasped in each of his thick palms. An emotionless Cacliocos stalked silently beside Entuban. Betelgeuse scrutinized the lineaments of the young company commander and realized that his features appeared to be a blend of both Saltillan and Jegorichian.


    And some moments later a ruddy Douglas came traipsing through the curtains behind Entuban, a battered and charred railgun held in his hand, totally oblivious to the strange stares which the Saltillans cast in his direction.


    "Resup here!" Entuban boomed as he came into the midst of the Jegorich First Brigade. Betelgeuse saw the Jegorichians who had been huddling at the opposite aisle perk up and direct their attention toward their company''s Sergeant Major.


    Entuban came to a complete stop beside Betelgeuse'' bed and beckoned toward the men and women of First Battalion, First Company. Calcliocos, by contrast, continued walking down the aisle past the Jegorichians'' allotted beds, eventually disappearing behind the white curtains at the far end of the section.


    "Grab your magazines and refill medicals here," Entuban instructed, placing the buckets on the floor. "Ah, Sergeant Jutson, you can grab the caffeine pills and Proxyamine stims for your guys. Two each per person."


    "... Unless Don''t Blink here needs no pick-me-up," he chortled deeply, turning to Betelgeuse and attempting a wink that didn''t quite land the way he hoped. To Entuban''s other side, Thete removed the Rejuvenator helmet and walked up silently toward the aisle, her expression vacant.


    "Don''t mind if I take some, Staff," Betelgeuse responded, his voice muffled.


    "You guys have fought hard already. It is a pity we will see more before this long day is over," Entuban sighed. "And I go by ''Entuban''. So please."


    Betelgeuse bowed his head, affecting a smile beneath his mask. He stepped forward and mixed in beside a thin-browed woman and a man with a tonsure, scooping up pills and stim-syrettes from the bucket, taking his, Voke''s, and Douglas'' share and making back towards his bed, ignoring Thete.


    "Thank you, Entuban," Thete said, coming up beside that massive man so that the difference in their heights became that much more salient. "Is it confirmed that we''re going to be redeployed?"


    "Yes, in the Ninsei mine-shaft. We''ll join the rest of First Battalion downstairs, then we push out with a TAF Brigade. They give us tanks and APCs so it is not so bad." Entuban turned to Thete, in the process inadvertently jostling with his thick shoulders the woman with thin brows. "Oh, yehna, Misha," he apologized, grabbing instinctively at her upper arm to steady her and keep her from falling. She put up her other hand and rolled her eyes, clearly used to Entuban''s clumsiness.


    As she did so, Betelgeuse stared at the scar that ran the length of that woman''s forearm, wondering if the cause had been a Chimera arm-scythe, and as he thought this he found his own forearm scar itching.


    "Take one caffeine pill. Save the other for later," Entuban instructed, addressing the Jegorichians.


    Caffeine. An interesting and expensive drug.


    He lifted the non-rebreather mask over his face and brought the caffeine pill close to his eyes. The thing was white and ellipsoidal and smelled rather stale. Its surface was smooth save for the characters ''RMS-N-117'' embossed across its side.


    Around him he observed the Jegorichians popping the pills. Deciding that nothing more could be gained from further scrutiny, he followed suit, feeling almost immediately the exhaustion and drowsiness slough off his bones¡­


    <hr>


    Their siesta lasted no longer than fifty minutes, and once Cacliocos returned they suited up and began moving again, past the white curtain and the sections of the Factotum that still wallowed in carpets of dust perhaps centuries thick. The building ran longer than a kilometer in length, and First Company eventually passed into unlit sections flanked by pallets of broken crates and towers of boxes made of cardboard or plastic and stamped with faded ink. They followed the straight path down the middle, tracing the imprints of a million boots that had tread and retread that length into dimness and then darkness.


    The light picked up again at the end of the Factotum, where a buzzing generator chugged petroleum and spewed a thick exhaust staining the walls a fungal brown. The generator was hooked up to a lift which looked large enough for forty, and First Company stuffed themselves into it with that characteristic love-hate relationship with tight spaces all soldiers shared.


    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    The elevator was a cage of transparent tempered glass fitted with translucent plastic doors, and when it shivered downward out of the opaque band of aluminum they were suddenly plunged into a vast darkness spotted with minuscule motes of light, the light tracing a path which snaked out into an unknown and unknowable topography.


    Betelgeuse, finding himself next to one of the elevator''s sides, brought his face closer to that clear surface until his visor bumped against it and drank in the colossal scale of the mining-tunnelway that had usurped the horizon.


    ''It''s larger than the Stin itself,'' was all the coherence he could muster in the face of that gargantuan volume.


    A circle of pink and rose, large and dim, shone upon the floor of that man-made shaft many leagues down, and as they descended Betelgeuse saw tessellations of centipedes upon the ground begin to resolve into long canvas tentages that seemed themselves to melt into rock, the tentages discernible only because of the lanterns hung at their edges.


    And now he could see people, thousands of them, many of their headlamps blazing pale tunnels of light, all of them gathered in formation or running around hectically or tending to their sputtering machines, termites shoring up the edges of the termite kingdom.


    They were falling faster and the sides of the cage were clacking anxiously against the sides of the shaft. The darkness looming before them was larger and emptier than he thought, and he wondered briefly where all the excavated material had gone¡ªso much earth had been moved, and it must have been an immense place to be able to contain all of it.


    It was perhaps hundreds of meters from the ground when it occurred to Betelgeuse that the touchdown was likely to be rough. They were going too fast.


    "Brace," uttered Entuban, and in the span of a few short moments all bodies were connected to each other by arms lacing into the crooks of other arms and hands fastening themselves onto the plastic rib atop their shoulder pads.


    They hit the ground violently and Betelgeuse felt his knees buckle. The whole mat of soldiers crushed into the ground. The floor reverberated and a crack spidered down the middle of that pane of tempered glass. The dim ceiling-light flickered and went out. Someone was yelling or moaning loudly in the darkness and it took Betelgeuse a moment to realize that the sound was muffled because it wasn''t coming through the comms. The arm-brace loosened and Betelgeuse raised himself back to his feet.


    "Venna broke her leg," Entuban reported tersely, and Betelgeuse could see the hulking figure raise himself to his full height and switch his headlamp to maximum brightness. The rest of First Company followed suit and visibility was restored.


    "Venna?" Cacliocos croaked, and Betelgeuse heard his labored breathing filter through the company comms-link.


    "Corporal Tajiran," Entuban transmitted. "I carry her myself. We casevac to the FUP and see if Medicae take her."


    "Shit, man, they can''t even make the lifts work properly," came an exasperated complaint.


    "Sergeant Belekov, you seem to possess a wealth of knowledge you can''t wait to share," Cacliocos transmitted. "From now, the company comms shall only be used to communicate tactical information. Am I clear?"


    "... Yes, sir," Belekov drawled in return.


    "Section Five, any injuries?" The voice was Thete''s, transmitting through the section comms-link. A chorus of no''s, from Voke, Douglas and then Betelgeuse.


    "I second the Sarge, actually," Douglas added, snickering. Betelgeuse rolled his eyes.


    "Absolutely incorrigible," Voke sighed, and Thete snorted in response.


    First Company extricated themselves from that damaged cage of plastic and glass, and when Betelgeuse stumbled out onto a rough and dark shelf of granite he thought he had landed on a different planet entirely. Larua couldn''t be seen from out the colossal hole in the subterranean sky, though its light .


    ''Curious case of thalassophobia,'' he thought, remembering the first and only time he had ridden Earth''s cross-continent maglev, remembering the nights he had spent staring into the dark waters of the Pacific. The waves had been sheened with glowing bands, and the light caught on those scallops of oil very much like the way the light had caught on Frederica''s forehead. When the waters burbled he imagined sailors drowning and skeletal hands reaching from out of the darkness and monsters like titanic plesiosaurs biding and breeding in unknown depths.


    ''Or maybe, speluncaphobia?'' He found his mouth dry as he squinted uselessly into the dark maw of the cave looming over them.


    "Strength accounted for," Entuban reported, brushing past Betelgeuse. Venna was cradled in one of Entuban''s thick arms, and her form was so small in comparison to Entuban''s that it looked like the giant was holding a pomeranian.


    "Move out," instructed Cacliocos, once Entuban had made it to the backside of the contingent.


    Cacliocos took the lead at the head of First Company, and they passed into dimness, darkness and then into brightness once more. Betelgeuse could feel his soles warming up, as though below the cave ran the ancient capillaries of a hypocaust. His suit''s conditioners hummed loudly, and he wondered if it might be reaching its limit.


    "Hotter?" he remarked, picking his steps carefully across the uneven ground.


    "Lava tubes run below," explained Thete, turning to Betelgeuse and interacting with him for perhaps the first time since Frederica, "they dug down and when it didn''t make financial sense to continue downward they went sideways."


    "It''s massive¡­ how far does it go?" Voke asked, raising his head and shining his headlamp ineffectually at the fathomless cave.


    "It''s a web of tunnels that branches chaotically, and it stretches very, very far. But I don''t know the true extent," admitted Thete. "It''s a hot topic back in my hometown, because the subterranean mines are now so extensive that even slight tremors cause large portions of the upper crust to collapse."


    "It wasn''t in the infomentaries," Betelgeuse pointed out, skirting a small whinstone protrusion.


    "They don''t tell us anything important," grumbled Douglas, his railgun slung over his back and clattering noisily against the shell of his exosuit''s battery pack.


    "Supposed to be restricted information, but it''s an open secret as far as Desertians are concerned. The Chimes are also into it, and last I was hearing they''d dug out a massive hole in the southern hemisphere," Thete said, raising her head at the gradually intensifying sounds of human activity. They were nearing the Allied Forces'' FUP and a mass of soldiers could be seen scurrying about.


    They returned to the sea of humanity and the darkness dissipated with the endless streams of shunting light. The soldiers here had more distinctly Earth-like features¡ªshorter foreheads, smaller eyes, longer limbs¡ªand were generally far taller than the soldiers of First Company (save for Betelgeuse, Douglas, Voke and, of course, Entuban).


    A multitude of TAF platoons doglegged through the maze of shifting bodies and cut across Betelgeuse'' path, jostling the Jegorichians and splitting the line comprising First Company into several sections. In their arms were hugged fuel cells, jerry cans of petroleum and ammunition crates. They were all in a hurry and, as they passed, Betelgeuse glanced into their visors and tried, unsuccessfully, to commit to memory every anxious face.


    "Listen up. Our line is breaking up. Make for the tentage second from the end," Cacliocos transmitted flatly. Betelgeuse turned. Entuban''s shoulders seemed far away behind them and when he returned his gaze to the front Betelgeuse could no longer see the forward-most section of First Company.


    "Keep moving," Thete instructed, nudging Betelgeuse in his back.


    It was many minutes of shoving and squeezing before Section Five arrived at the tentage near to the edge of the FUP and close to where an incredibly long column of idling APCs ended.


    Beyond the FUP a reconnaissance team had marked out a path with sticks hung with LED lanterns, and the route wound and snaked through the ominous darkness and over a flattish terrain before turning a bend many kilometers out into the massive cave and disappearing from Betelgeuse'' view.


    Cacliocos was already there, standing under the canvas shelter and half-illuminated with light. It looked like he was exchanging heated words with a pale-skinned man whose bushy eyebrows, full, graying beard, and noble aquiline nose made him look rather imperious. Three horizontal bars were stamped over the top of his helmet, identifying his rank as Captain.


    Soon, the entire First Company had reached, and all of them waited patiently in section-level formation before that voluminous tentage. The lanterns hung at the edge of the tentages, leaving the insides dim and indistinct.


    Betelgeuse squinted, making out from the darkness a multitude of brown-plastic Standard-Issue tables and columns of comms equipment and rows upon rows of exosuited personnel hunched over computer terminals and clacking away at mechanical keyboards, the terminal screens flashing blue across their dead and emotionless lineaments. Their expressions were so vacant that Betelgeuse wondered if all of them had been subjected to the compulsion matrix.


    A long screen had been hooked to a horizontal beam, and upon it was projected in red: "CM TTR¡ª12:39".


    12:38¡­


    12:37¡­


    The Captain and Cacliocos appeared to have finished their powwow, and the Captain stepped out into the light before First Company. Behind him another man bearing a Sergeant''s chevrons emerged from the depths of the tent and took his place on the Captain''s left. Two dull tones sounded through the company comms-link.


    Cacliocos stood by the Captain''s right, his expression paler than usual.


    "Jegorich First Brigade, First Battalion, First Company. I am TAF Captain Josiah Crowley, commander of the Allied Forces for this chasedown operation. It''s come to my attention that you lot are late. To be exact," the Captain turned to face the inside of the tentage, and the top of his helmet glinted, "seven minutes and forty seconds behind time. The rest of the Jegorich First have already left."


    Entuban bowed his head in an expression of deference that, for some reason or other, made Betelgeuse want to laugh. He resisted the urge. Entuban had set Corporal Venna Tajiran down beside himself, and the Corporal was leaning against Entuban and raising her broken leg off the ground.


    "I''ll have to mark this as a failure, understand? Fifty demerit points." Captain Crowley ran his eyes over the troops at attention.


    "Sir, we were on Tzevtao-retrieval¡ª" Entuban began, making to provide some excuse, when he was brusquely interrupted.


    "Tzevtao?" Captain Crowley sounded loudly, raising an eyebrow and turning to regard the giant man as if intuiting that it was he who had spoken.


    "Aluaa for Incunabulum, sir" the Sergeant to Crowley''s right explained deferentially, canting his head slightly as he did so.


    "Unauthorized use of foreign language in an operational context. Clear breach of the Green Book. Seventy demerit points," Captain Crowley declared, his expression barely changing. Betelgeuse heard Thete coughing over the comms. "Who is company sergeant major?"


    "... I am, sir. PDF Staff Sergeant Entuban Kanos," Entuban bowed his head even further.


    "So it was you?" Captain Crowley looked at the giant and his face started cracking up and seemed to elongate like a horse. Soon he was laughing great and grating peals.


    "Unauthorized use of language at best affects operational readiness, and at worse facilitates insubordination; you agree, Sergeant Major?" Captain Crowley questioned, once he had mastered his laughter.


    "Sir, if you will allow¡ª" Cacliocos began, turning to Captain Crowley.


    "Yes, sir," Entuban said, responding to Captain Crowley and in the circumstances interrupting Cacliocos. His face was almost parallel to the ground by now, but Betelgeuse could observe the man''s cheeks tensing. Was that blood running down his chin?


    "Interrupting your commanding officer now?" Captain Crowley furrowed his brows. "It does seem even more insubordinate, does it not?"


    "Sir, it is normal in the PDF. This is how we communicate," Cacliocos quickly interjected, bowing his head slightly. "The honorable Grand Marshal himself has championed the chutzpah of airing one''s thoughts freely and openly."


    "Is that so? Interesting interpretation of a Democratic concept. And I suppose it''s why that woman is out-of-formation and leaning against your Sergeant Major? A peculiar form of fraternization if ever I saw one," Captain Crowley remarked, narrowing his eyes at Corporal Venna Tajiran.


    "Sir," Cacliocos managed, imbuing the honorific with the appropriate amount of deference. "Corporal Tajiran''s broken her leg, sir. She needs medical attention."


    "I thought you just came from the Medicae?" Captain Crowley made a show of twisting around one-hundred and eighty degrees to look at the hanging screen within the tentage. When he turned back his lips were pursed. "Look, this is all getting very complicated. Corporal Tajiran will have to follow the deployment. Sergeant Major, you will allocate the seventy demerit points amongst the members of First Company currently present. If anyone dies, their estate will bear the relevant cost. Am I clear?"


    "Yes, sir." Entuban''s and Cacliocos'' voice overlapped as they transmitted over the comms, causing a screeching feedback loop that was quickly dampened by the exosuits'' automatic volume control.


    "Subaltern Cacliocos, First Company''s tardiness has meant missing the rest of Jegorich First''s moveout timing. As such, you lot will be attached to the TAF First Brigade. Specifically, let me get this right here¡­" Captain Crowley turned and walked several steps into the tentage to retrieve a dogeared stack of papers which had been stapled together, and, as he returned to his position, flipping through hurriedly. "There. TAF First Brigade, Second Battalion, Third Company¡­ Platoon Two."


    Raising his head, Captain Crowley continued: "Subaltern Cacliocos, you will report directly to TAF Sergeant Metterrich Khvalynsky here, and you will address him as sir." The man beside Captain Crowley nodded toward Cacliocos.


    "Yes, sir," Cacliocos bowed his head again. The shadows covered his eyes so that Betelgeuse could not discern his expression.


    "Your platoon commander will be¡­ TAF Subaltern Aldo Franklin," Captain Crowley said, referring back toward the manifest and fingering the paper with his thumb.


    "Yes, sir," Cacliocos repeated.


    "First Company is allocated APC numbers 2089 and 2090. Be on your way. TTR in one point five minutes," Captain Crowley stressed, turning his head and squinting at the hanging screen for the third time.


    Sergeant Khvalynsky stepped forward, a clean-shaven youngish man with close-cropped hair, serious eyes and slavic features.


    "First Company!" he bellowed. First Company stood at attention, save for Venna, who remained holding on to Entuban. "Follow me, double-time!"


    And Sergeant Khvalynsky burst from his position, skirting the tentage and making for the column of APCs with a speed so incredible it rivaled Thete at her fastest.


    First Company exploded into activity, with Entuban scooping up Venna and the whole group sprinting in formation toward the armor column.


    "What''s a demerit point?" Douglas inquired, falling in beside Betelgeuse and placing his palm onto the small of the latter''s back, exerting enough force that Betelgeuse was able to keep up with the contingent.


    "100 credits will be docked from your pay for every demerit point you accrue," Thete answered simply.


    "The fuck¡ª" Douglas began, his head whipping around.


    "Stationary bandits," Betelgeuse managed, and his lungs started to fill up wetly as they stepped into the glare of the APC headlights.


    "¡ªI barely get paid 50 credits a month! Aren''t there like thirty of us?"


    "They''re being punitive," Voke sighed.


    "Indeed," Thete returned. "Look sharp. Entuban comms-ed to say we''re loading up number 2090."


    The engines were roaring now, enveloping all their thoughts and perceptions in a furious rush of sound. The Plasma Leopard tanks behind had already started moving, their treads grinding loose rock into splinters and their barrels primed and glowing hotly.


    In that cacophonous trundle there was nothing for Betelgeuse to hold onto but Douglas'' steady hand pressing into his spine and guiding him toward the clanking machinery of the Allied Forces.

 Chapter 25: Subterranean Combat

    Purple light makes me dizzy. It''s cramped as hell, and there''s no space to stretch my legs.


    The APC rocked and Thete crushed into Betelgeuse'' left, and then it lurched and Entuban, who took up two whole spaces to his right, pressed into him and forced his body against Thete''s.


    "Thete, you still have that splint?" Entuban rumbled, transmitting through the Section Five comms-link and looking down to Venna on his right.


    "Yeah. Hold on, let me get it out," Thete replied, removing her left arm from her sleeve and then maneuvering it underneath her exosuit chestpiece to her right arm and finessing the plastic splint from its binding, in the process digging her elbow into Betelgeuse'' side. Betelgeuse shifted and pushed back irritably at her arm; ignoring him, Thete unzipped her exosuit''s ventilation pocket and passed the rigid piece of plastic out, reaching over Betelgeuse and turning it over to Entuban. "Here. Don''t think it''s going to do much for the pain, though."


    Entuban accepted the splint and, raising two fingers in thanks, turned away to Venna on his opposite side. From his vantage Betelgeuse could see Entuban''s cheek flexing in silent conversation; and he watched the man''s thick fingers support Venna''s broken leg with surprising gentleness and observed the dexterous dance of hands he had supposed cumbersome lashing the splint to the woman''s pant-leg.


    Betelgeuse leaned forward so that he could see over Entuban''s extreme girth. Venna''s skin was fair like the other Jegorichians, but darkly purple by the only light in that space. He observed behind her visor large eyes darting to and fro, and her twitching nose was wide and fine and terribly feminine in construction.


    He leaned back. No sooner had he put his head to the wall than the APC jumped, causing his helmet to bounce off the metal sheet with a sharp retort.


    A soft chuckle breezed through the comms. Betelgeuse raised his eyes and saw Douglas watching him from the opposite row, his features a caricature of smirking violet shadows.


    "Thanks," Entuban transmitted, turning toward Thete. "Can your arm survive without splint?"


    Fixitshe


    "Hey, doesn''t that sound familiar?" Douglas chimed in facetiously, earning a clipped chuckle from the giant.


    "I am finding myself in agreement. We got a bad one in the Captain, yes?" Entuban shifted, and Betelgeuse felt himself being pushed into Thete for the umpteenth time.


    "It would seem so," Thete closed her eyes, purposely ignoring Betelgeuse'' unintentional intrusion. The crimson glow of her prosthetic eye shone lidless through her eyelid.


    "I don''t know¡­ what they''re doing don''t seem so sustainable to me," Douglas offered.


    "You know, somehow I doubt they care," Voke said, and Betelgeuse saw him bow his head and hug the railgun set butt-down, muzzle-up between his knees.


    "It gets more common over the past year," Entuban murmured, clasping his large hands over his own railgun before him so that barely any of it could be seen. "I have fought this Chimerae incursion since it started, and the more PDF officers it is claiming, the more TAF officers they send who treat us like cattle. No offense, okay?"


    "None taken," Thete mumbled back, her skin bunching up cabbage-like between her eyebrows. The long scar which cut down across her prosthesis was a heavy blot in that dimness. "I don''t work for them by choice."


    They brand you as such


    "You got that right," Douglas chortled.


    take care


    oh


    Thete had opened her eyes by now. Betelgeuse saw Douglas and Voke before him straighten their backs.


    "Yes, it was what I was getting at," Betelgeuse nodded vacantly.


    "You are catching good, D.B.! First time we have gotten auxiliary PLPs, no wonder we have not had this problem¡­ But it is no issue, I will put in a request that your suits be serviced by our Jegorich Support. None of sneaky fucking Saltillan bullshit yeah? They will sell their mothers to TAF. Once we get back, we will take care of you."


    Not ifEntuban has high hopes for our survival.


    "Ah, Venna?" Entuban whipped his head around. He started speaking in his flowing language, neglecting to close the section comms-link, and Betelgeuse supposed Venna was talking to him. Some of the Jegorich men sitting opposite Betelgeuse seemed to be shifting in their seat and casting concerned glances at the woman. The man to Douglas'' left, the skin of his face smooth and innocent, raised Venna''s leg gingerly and placed it straight upon his knee. Betelgeuse could see her leg seize up, shy away and falter with pain.


    Yehna


    Wouldn''t be pretty, even with the chinguard.


    Hrnh


    "Pretty strong stuff," Betelgeuse remarked, observing with interest.


    "Yes, very. You will not be surprised if I tell you there is Proxy epidemic raging in Jegorich," Entuban returned. "Many of them veterans."


    shaddup


    <hr>


    It couldn''t have been longer than three hours before the APC came to a stop. For several minutes everything was quiet save for the vehicle''s hypnotic palpitations, and the dull drone began to smooth over Betelgeuse'' nerves and lull him almost to drowsiness.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    "Staff Entuban, is your APC halted?" Cacliocos'' voice filtered in through the company comms-link. Betelgeuse'' sat up, his mind instantaneously roused to alertness.


    "Yes, sir."


    "Standby for disembarkation. Whole convoy has stopped and Sergeant Khvalynsky is checking in with Subaltern Franklin," Cacliocos instructed. "Corporal Tajiran''s status?"


    Before Betelgeuse all the rest of the Jegorichians buzzed and shifted in their seats, their eyes sharp with latent anxiety.


    "We got a splint on her. Gave her one shot of Proxy, sir, and she seems to be holding up," Entuban responded.


    "Okay, she''ll sit out the engagement, if any," Cacliocos said.


    ninehvagant


    pleaseYou''re bankrupting us,


    sorry


    "Noted. Standby."


    The long minutes stretched interminably. Betelgeuse could hear his breath in his ears, and he found himself wondering if the caffeine pills included substances other than caffeine.


    Thunder boomed faintly in the distance. The APC chassis trembled.


    Explosives¡­?


    "Enemy engaged," Cacliocos intoned. "Our APCs are parked right next to each other, Staff, approximately one hundred and seventy meters from the tankline and two hundred meters from the frontline. TAF First has deployed south-facing barricades demarcating the frontline. Disembark and wheel south. Keep headlamps off. Get the company toward the frontline ASAP."


    "Roger, roger," Entuban transmitted. The hull doors were cranking open even as he spoke. "Second Platoon!"


    "Second Platoon!" Sergeant Belekov echoed. The doors clanked and slammed into the ground. Betelgeuse could see, beyond the tuft of dust, darkness and flashing light and little else besides. The distinctive twang of railgun fire carried over from distant places.


    "Second Platoon move out!"


    Eleven left out of the platoon,


    Second Platoon disembarked and crouched and fanned out quickly. Section Five was next and Betelgeuse stuck close to Thete as Voke and Douglas stuck to Betelgeuse, stepping out into a world of shadow and blue plasmafire and roving traces of armature-rounds whistling overhead.


    The environment was a forest of sound. Second Platoon was already tens of meters away and Betelgeuse pumped his legs madly, attempting as far as he could to keep up with Thete. He glanced at his wrist-tranceiver, confirming that they were moving southward.


    It was less than a minute before they passed near to the loosely-arranged row of tanks, and Betelgeuse saw in front of him a Plasma Leopard, its long barrel red-hot and humming loudly. As Section Five reached it, the tank bucked sonorously and its barrel spit out a glowing bolt of plasma that stuttered fitfully across space.


    The frontage was briefly illuminated in blue. A surface of melted and writhing shapes. Then the plasma bolt erupted in a flash of intense fire and a collection of dark figures, including a massive mechanism several stories high, were backlit briefly and then everything was sucked away into blackness.


    Section Five shot past the Plasma Leopard and was already amongst the waist-high barricades. The battlefield was strobing with plasmafire and the other Plasma Leopards¡ªperhaps a hundred of them¡ªwere loosing thick curtains of superheated globules toward the enemy.


    Betelgeuse slammed back-first into the surface of the barricade, the impact forcing the air out of his lungs. To his left was Thete, already rattling off shots into the darkness, and beyond her Belekov and his platoon-mates had set up a constant stream of fire. A panting Voke, his visor smudged with moisture, brought up Betelgeuse'' right, while an expressionless Douglas positioned himself right of Voke, his exceptional stamina carrying him weightless over the uneven crags.


    Entuban came thundering down mere seconds later and had to lower himself into a prone position between Thete''s Section Five and Belekov''s Platoon Two, to ensure his body was properly covered by the barricade. Under the flaring bolts of the Plasma Leopards Betelgeuse could see the barricades stretch kilometers on both sides and soldiers scuttling like lunatic creatures and firing their railguns vaguely in the direction of the enemy.


    "Sir, our Platoon Two plus PLPs are some hundred meters left of TAF First''s Second Battalion, Third Company," Entuban was saying. "Zero visibility on enemy, I repeat, zero visibility on enemy!"


    "We''re to your right, between you and TAF First''s Second Battalion, Third Company," Cacliocos clarified.


    Betelgeuse'' ears filled with the sound of wailing and a stream of light twinkled into existence, shooting across the frontage from the Chimerae''s line. He whipped his head around and saw that stream of light touch the edge of the Plasma Leopard.


    "Down!" Betelgeuse roared, and Thete lurched to the opposite side. He pulled Voke down with him and lost sight of Douglas and braced himself.


    A bright purple wound erupted and the tank burst outward like a pimple, spitting sparks and fire into the air. The ground rumbled violently and bits of rock and metal tinkled onto his helmet.


    His senses returned to him and he felt himself breathing. Still alive. Nothing seems to be missing. Letting instinct take over, he regained a crouching position and, aiming blindly, snapped off several shots which flew off into distant polygonal shadows.


    lancecannons


    Betelgeuse snapped his head to his left and right. Partial lights and short-lived dazzles. Soldiers in turbulence. A chaos of sound.


    Something strange was happening, and alarm bells sounded in Betelgeuse'' mind. The bodies of faraway soldiers¡ªthose that he could see¡ªwere moving violently and reacting to some external disturbance, and all of a sudden some of their headlamps turned on and jerked around in savage arcs and then blinked out just as quickly.


    A horde of strange shapes were upon them and bounding over the barricade in twos and threes, and the melee was joined, faster than they could react. One of the figures traveled over Betelgeuse''s head and landed before him; he flinched as he fired, the armature-round flying wide, and the unmistakable articulations of pitch-black Chimerae plating was briefly revealed in the orange flare.


    clack


    A force struck him from behind and he fell forward. He turned before he hit the ground and saw another Chimera up close, its wicked arm-blades extended and glinting purplish under the aegis of plasmafire, its fetlocked legs splayed.


    And then a massive palm grabbed its uppermost arm-joint and twisted and snapped its bones like toothpicks, and another palm grasped onto its neck, picking it up and holding it suspended in the air. Entuban held it there for the merest moment, reveling in its tortured gasps, before pulling it in opposing directions, tearing it raggedly into two, spewing blood and viscera over a wide radius.


    A blade lanced out through Entuban''s thigh and twisted, causing the giant to stumble and freezing his expression somewhere between frenzy and pain. Betelgeuse regained his feet and bounded away from the barricade, falling back some tens of meters toward the splayed metal of the Plasma Leopard''s flaming chassis; by the time he turned he saw that the Chimera which had stabbed Entuban was already dead, Douglas having gored its skull through with his combat knife.


    Douglas pulled the twitching alien body backward, removing its blade from Entuban''s thigh, and Voke was by the Staff Sergeant''s side fumbling with his medical pouch and spilling cartridges everywhere.


    To the left of Entuban''s half-kneeling form Betelgeuse saw Thete engaged in close quarters with a Chimera, and further to the right another Chimera had emerged from the newly-raised smog with a bleeding human leg grasped in its left hand by the booted ankle, its left arm-blade looking bent and crumpled out of shape, its right arm missing at the shoulder-joint. In less than a second it had come up behind Douglas, and it swung the leg viciously, smashing it into the side of his head. Douglas flopped to the ground.


    Betelgeuse raised his railgun, took aim, and fired, blasting a hole into the side of that creature''s head. It was just in the midst of swinging the leg around again, and as it died it lost its hold on that human appendage half-swing, causing the limb to catapult into the fog, spinning end over end and disappearing from his sight.


    "Sir, they''re swamping us!" Thete yelled through company comms-link. She had dispatched her alien opponent and was already beside Betelgeuse, adding her small-arms fire to his. They were about thirty meters from the barricade, where Entuban, Voke and the rest of Belekov''s Platoon Two were engaged in fighting the Chimerae at close quarters.


    After a momentary reprieve Entuban had rejoined the fight again and got his palm over the head of another Chimera. He pressed, folding that form into two and snapping its spine backward. Voke was stumbling behind him and trying desperately to foam up the new tear in his back which was piddling blood in two directions.


    Factotum


    A sharpshooter... like those men before,

 Chapter 26: Renegade Intentions

    "Fall back behind the tankline! Sergeant Khvalynsky, Sergeant¡ª" The muffled voice was Cacliocos'', stabbing through the thick chaos of battle and a hailstorm of static newly raised.


    A new tone sounded within Betelgeuse'' helmet, signaling that a new connection had been established. His ears pricked. A Chimera plasmabolt arced from somewhere down the frontline and whizzed too close to his head, and he jolted backward, flipping around and slamming into the side of the flaming husk of metal he called cover. Warmth seeped into the small of his back, and he crouched away from the metal for fear that his exosuit''s battery pack might be damaged by the heat.


    "TAF Sergeant Hrodwulf Granger to all combatants. Blueprinter Xau has advised the portside wall of this tunnel-way is structurally unsound. All combatants to concentrate explosives fire on the portside wall."


    "When will these clowns start making sense?" Douglas ventilated, gurgling and stumbling past Betelgeuse and then slumping into cover.


    "The siding is hot. Be careful it doesn''t melt through your suit," Betelgeuse said, turning and giving a cursory inspection of his colleague''s exosuit. Douglas'' pupil right pupil trained upon him, or maybe it was an artifact of the man''s severe and progressive strabismus. Finding no breaches, Betelgeuse returned to taking potshots at the Chimera-looking shadows scuttling about in the murk.


    "Yeah, yeah. I eat hot for breakfast."


    The surviving Plasma Leopards had already begun shifting their focus, drawing steep trajectories with their plasma bolts toward the dark and immense cliff-face that was the left-side wall, honeycombing it with myriad glowing pockmarks.


    Voke, Entuban, and the rest of Belekov''s Second Platoon, seemingly reduced in numbers, had by now fallen back to take cover behind the burning husk of metal. Betelgeuse couldn''t help but notice Entuban''s limp as the giant lumbered past him. The Staff Sergeant''s exosuit was covered in dendrite splotches of gore and mucoid polyps shining wetly by the flicker of orange flame.


    "We need the fast runners to get our hypergolics over to portside. Thete, Belekov, Karella, you''re up," Entuban transmitted over company comms-link.


    "Staff," Belekov, Thete and Karella acknowledged, and Second Platoon began to congregate around Entuban''s bloodied form.


    Entuban instructed the PDF soldiers to pass forward their Standard Issued claymores, arranging them carefully in a Mylar blanket he''d retrieved from his medical kit. Then he scrunched the blanket up like a dumpling and secured it with a flannelette strip.


    "Here is one. Payload is yours, Thete. Go ahead."


    Thete hefted it wordlessly, felt the weight of the seven claymores settle in her arms, then sped down the line of Plasma Leopards. Betelgeuse watched her form melt away into the darkness, then shift into an uncertain quantum existence¡ªnow revealed by the flash of plasmafire, now consumed by shadow¡ªuntil the distance made of her a blip mingling with other roiling blips and the thread of his attention could no longer sustain charting her progress.


    "Hurry up, another blanket."


    Betelgeuse dug into his kit and retrieved his Mylar. When folded it was no larger than the palm of his hand. He passed this quickly to Entuban.


    Belekov was up next, a sharp-chinned man with a nose that was upturned and so blunted it lent his face a skull-like aspect. The payload of claymores was prepared and Belekov was gone in even less time than Thete.


    Finally, Karella of the sharply tapered eyes, his features obscured by a dark piece of cloth pulled up over his nose. "Karella," Entuban nodded, and as Karella sped away, added, "and get that damn thing off your face. No need more demerits than we are already having."


    They were gone and the rest of them looked at each other for want of something to do. Betelgeuse was poking his head out of cover but could find no more Chimera to kill.


    Static flexed different amplitudes in his ears. A voice cut through the pattering disturbance, and it was Cacliocos, speaking through a veil of chaos and movement: "Staff, we''re covering behind the tank. Starboard. I''ve told the v-com to join up with your position."


    Betelgeuse turned and squinted. The next Plasma Leopard over was indeed moving. Toward them.


    "Roger, roger. Covering fire!" Entuban commanded, and they flared out to both sides of their burning cover and snapped off several shots as a matter of rote, the armature-rounds shuttling brightly into the nothingness. They aimed at nothing, for a peculiar stillness had descended over the battlefield.


    "Staff, you in Section Five comms?" Betelgeuse sounded, his trigger clicking empty. He returned to cover and glanced at his wrist-transceiver, noting that five blips blinked dully under the Section Five comms-designation.


    "D.B.?"


    "The Chimerae. They''re all gone," Betelgeuse remarked, frowning. The other Plasma Leopard treaded near and Cacliocos together with the other First Company platoons were inching up on the tank''s leeside.


    "I noticed," Entuban returned, canting his head toward Betelgeuse, the inside of his visor smeared with blood-colored streaks. The giant was squatting and gripping his railgun by the barrel, the weapon toy-sized in comparison to him. Betelgeuse could see that the trigger guard had been modified to fit Entuban''s fingers. A female Jegorichian, her face streaked with moisture, her forehead large and smooth and bulbous, had picked up where Voke left off and was engaged in sealing the breaches in the Staff Sergeant''s exosuit, and it took a moment for Betelgeuse to recognize the face behind the visor.


    Private Misha Kern.


    "They had the upper hand, and now they''ve retreated. They can see what we''re doing," Betelgeuse pressed.


    "What the hell you wanting me to do about?" Entuban growled, uncharacteristically brusque. His cheeks were a blushing cerise by the tint of life-giving fluids and half-illuminated by the straight and jagged Desertian fires spitting ceiling-ward from the chassis they were covering behind.


    "See if sir can''t convince Sergeant Khvalynsky to bring it up with our TAF officer-commanding Subaltern Aldo. I expect we should execute a tactical retreat in case they¡ª"


    The section comms-link abruptly cut, and Betelgeuse was interrupted mid-sentence by Cacliocos on the company comms-link: "Staff, Julla got his foot cut off. He''s lost too much blood¡ªwe need someone to casevac him back to support line."


    "Nano, get Julla to support. You must remember to put him together with Mizzarin and Venna," Entuban gestured with his chin, the severity of his tone leaving Betelgeuse with the distinct impression that failing to do so would cost them more demerits.


    The other Plasma Leopard bumped dully into the blasted hunk of metal, and First Company was made whole again. Twenty or more, all huddling behind the shields of blacksteel.


    Is that all that''s left?


    "Ahman be praised for them tankmen," someone muttered over company comms, and Betelgeuse recognized a Sergeant Von Fenak rapping his knuckles upon the vibrating blacksteel chassis in a gesture of thanks. That man stayed silent as a matter of course, and it was perhaps the first time Betelgeuse had heard him speak.


    Cacliocos stepped into their midst, the man, Julla, draped over his shoulder and hyperventilating. Julla was transferred over onto the broad-shoulders of the one who was called Nano, who wasted no time in making toward the back support line.


    No sooner had Nano melted away from view than a stream of light appeared overhead, targeting the functioning Plasma Leopard''s swiveling turret.


    Betelgeuse knew that its inhabitants were already dead.


    "Lancecannon! Hit the ground!" Cacliocos yelled, lurching forward into a prone position. Instinct took over and the entire company bucked and dove away from cover, flaring like a flock of birds. Betelgeuse'' helmet crunched into broken slate and the world erupted into dramatic sounds and sprinkling gravel and a kaleidoscope of damaged thoughts.


    When he regained his feet he found the Plasma Leopard a shattered ruin, First Company''s mobile cover reduced to just another piece of battlefield detritus. Betelgeuse saw at the far end of the stirring company a wide-eyed Sergeant Fenak looking rather shaken, his body hunched and primed with feline anxiety.


    "Injury report!" Cacliocos transmitted. The man was already on his feet and taking stock of the situation.


    "No injuries. ... Sir, you jump into Section Five comms," Entuban intoned, crunching upright and drizzling dust onto the ground, the giant a picture of level-headedness. "The PLP is having a suggestion."


    A dull tone sounded through the comms.


    "Go ahead, D.B," Entuban sounded.


    If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    "Sir, the Chimerae retreated very quickly and are most likely baiting a reaction. I am suggesting to confirm with Sergeant Khvalynsky and the TAF superiors if the Allied Forces should not execute a tactical retreat," Betelgeuse explained quickly. He cleaved with the rest of First Company back to their makeshift cover, now doubled-up with flaming matter. He shifted sideways to peek around the side and saw nothing but dead shapes and suspicious silence.


    Everything''s rather quiet. Even the Chimerae''s plasmafire had died down, though with what just happened with the lancecannon nobody could afford to be too sure. Stuttering blasts continued to stream from distant Plasma Leopards, and the occasional twang of railgun fire carried over from the shadows.


    "This is PLP Betelgeuse Sakar speaking?" Cacliocos inquired, coming up beside him and tapping him on the shoulder.


    "Yes sir," Betelgeuse nodded, almost surprised that the officer recognized his voice.


    "I have not had the opportunity to study your dossier. I will not ask you to reveal your Increment, PLP Sakar, but for our sake¡ªis it in any way related to subject-matter-specific considerations?"


    "... No, I would not say that, sir."


    An immense crash echoed in the distance, followed by an ominous sound like cracking lumber. Then, more explosions, chained like a million firecrackers and surging angrily through that immense place.


    Cacliocos turned and studied the farway wall, his expression hung with a dreadful uncertainty. He wasn''t sure.


    "Sergeant Jutson, do you read?" he sounded into the comms, scanning the frontage as if he could penetrate the thick gloom. The Hollow runners were taking their time.


    No answer. Static.


    "Thete, Karella, Belekov?" Cacliocos sounded again, his intonation unnaturally flat. "Status report!"


    From his vantage Betelgeuse could observe worry creep into Entuban''s features.


    The firecrackers kept sputtering. Then, the static waxed and waned. A voice, recognizable as Belekov''s, filtered through: "Thete is with us. We can hear you fine. There was some interfere¡ª*krrshk*"


    Belekov was cut-off mid-sentence and the static reasserted itself with a vengeance.


    "Kak!" Cacliocos cursed, turning back to Betelgeuse, his eyes bloodshot and his brow furrowed deeply. There was insurmountable evidence that they were being jammed. "What is your basis, Sakar?"


    "They came and fought close quarters for an unidentifiable reason, then retreated just as quickly. And they''ve jammed comms as well. They want us here for some reason, sir," Betelgeuse asserted, meeting Cacliocos'' gaze.


    In those dark eyes Cacliocos observed self-assurance and the glint of something sharp. He''d always associated calm confidence with the meeting of straight lines over the horizon. And he found within Betelgeuse'' fathomless pupils parallel lines that met in some un-mathematical universe where perception shaded into thought.


    "¡ªSir, I am not able to get through to Khvalynsky. We are being jammed," Entuban interjected, shifting his girth toward Cacliocos.


    "You must have missed what PLP Sakar was just saying," Cacliocos remarked drily.


    Seconds passed. A deluge of explosive sounds was being thrown from the direction of the portside wall, bouncing chartlessly about the tunnel-way and synchronizing with the ground''s temperamental trembling.


    A sudden quake drubbed against the soles of their feet. Those of the company that were standing dropped to their haunches. Eyes snapped wide open and pupils dilated.


    "*krrshk*¡ªsir! Do you read?" Belekov''s yells cut through the static.


    "Belekov, status report!" Cacliocos snapped.


    "Three of three. Reaching you shortly." Indeed, no sooner had Belekov''s voice dropped than three figures materialized around the edge of the oddly canted Plasma Leopard some hundred meters away.


    Cacliocos was watching them with shaded eyes, and sweat was streaming in rivulets down the sides of his face. His lips pressed into a hard line. Betelgeuse could see Entuban''s mouth moving silently as he clocked another attempt to reach the TAF officers, to no avail.


    "... Sir," Betelgeuse pressed again, pushing closer toward Cacliocos'' crouched form. "I would advise a tactical retreat."


    But a hand placed itself upon his shoulder, arresting his tentative advance, and he twisted his head to see Gelam staring into him with a vaguely hostile intentions. Betelgeuse wagged his shoulder and shrugged off Gelam''s palm.


    Belekov and Thete arrived in a tumble of dust, panting with exhaustion. Karella came last, his face free of its cloth veil, and Betelgeuse contemplated within that visor hard breaths, close-cropped hair and feminine cheekbones which stretched that smooth and fair skin taut.


    It was exceptional performance, considering that the left-side wall was more than a kilometer away. The distant sounds of explosions were starting to peter out, to be replaced by an incredible rumbling that was slowly increasing in intensity.


    "Sir, the Taffy, Sergeant Granger, was there," Belekov breathed, as Karella secreted himself into that silent mass of wide-eyed soldiers, and Thete came to rest on her haunches beside Betelgeuse. "They''re planning on overloading one of the tanks'' plasma reactors at the base to collapse the whole thing."


    There was a strong and sourceless bitterness to Belekov''s expression that Betelgeuse could not place.


    "Did he give any instructions?" Cacliocos inspected his wrist-transceiver.


    "¡ªSir, Sergeant Khvalyn¡ª" Entuban suddenly began.


    "Shut up a moment. Sergeant Belekov, quickly!" Cacliocos snapped, cutting off Entuban mid-sentence.


    "No, no, I don''t think¡ª" Belekov was waving his hand in front of his face, prevaricating, thought Betelgeuse.


    "What did he say, exactly?"


    Belekov bit his lip.


    "Belekov, I do not have time for this," Cacliocos said, raising his eyes.


    "Said to hold our ground," Belekov admitted. The edges of his eyes twisted and his pig snout quivered by the firelight.


    "Staff, what is it you wanted to say?" Cacliocos continued, returning his eyes to his wrist transceiver.


    "I got ''im. Sergeant Khvalynsky is sending a runner¡­ there, there he is," Entuban pointed vaguely in the direction of the starboard wall. A figure had just then materialized out of the foggy shadows, and it bore the face of a young man whose skin was rouged in sepia. "I''ll patch him into company comms, sir."


    "Hold on¡­" Cacliocos sounded, raising his arm and narrowing his eyes. "He is TAF?"


    "... I suppose so, sir," Entuban responded.


    "Okay. Let him in," Cacliocos said.


    ''He can''t be older than me,'' Betelgeuse thought. He squinted and espied a single chevron painted upon that man''s helmet, red by the receding flames of the blasted tanks behind them. His rank was Private. He realized, as his eyes retread that tanned, ephebic face, that those were Saltillan features.


    ''A Saltillan working for the TAF,'' Betelgeuse mused. He glanced toward the left-facing wall, noting that the Allied Forces'' barrage had died down. The underground tremors were flexing and receding and reaching peaks violent enough to shift his weight.


    ''Got to come up with some kind of plan for if it''s what I think it is¡ªstaying here may well prove to be a death sentence. But there''s no way I can communicate to Thete, Voke and Douglas, seeing as Entuban and Cacliocos are plugged into the Section Five comms-link,'' Betelgeuse mused.


    The tanned-skin Private reached First Company in a flurry of bootsteps, eyeing Cacliocos with a haughty expression.


    "Subaltern Cacliocos," he transmitted, and there was no other way to describe his tone but arrogant. "Message from Sergeant Khvalynsky. First Company is to hold the line here."


    Betelgeuse nudged Douglas in his oblique and pointed his chin in the direction of support line. Douglas'' upper lip curled, and then he slapped the calves of Thete and Voke.


    "Tell me, Private¡­" Cacliocos began, then trailed off.


    "Private Joy," the Private said, staring Cacliocos straight in the eye.


    "Private Joy. Tell me, is TAF First''s comms still jammed?"


    Private Joy snorted. "Of course." He obviously didn''t think very highly of Cacliocos.


    "Sergeant Khvalynsky''s just the next position over, is that right?" Cacliocos inquired, edging closer to Private Joy, his expression grim as death.


    "Yes. I don''t appreciate these questions, sir," and the honorific sounded like an insult.


    "I wish you learnt how important it is to be careful. You are too young." So much was going through Cacliocos eyes and the ground''s shaking felt like it must cause his heart to spill out of his mouth.


    "¡­ If you will excuse me, I must be making my way back," Private Joy declared huffily, somewhat nonplussed by Cacliocos'' strange words.


    "You should be thinking about your parents, Joy. The important people in life are what make it worth living."


    "What¡ª"


    Betelgeuse and Thete had just started a conversation with their eyes and were at the stage of debating the morality of running, when a strange scream reverberated through the comms and then promptly ceased. The spark of disturbance rose so suddenly and so quickly that Betelgeuse'' hand shot reflexively to his chest; but before he could formulate any specific thought, the grasp of compulsion had already faded away and Betelgeuse, feeling Frederica''s Incunabulum snug against his pectorals, was left wondering if he had been imagining it.


    Then he saw Thete''s biological eye widen and heard Entuban yelping in surprise, and he wheeled, railgun in hand, and before them Cacliocos looked to be holding Private Joy''s chin in a queer and intimate manner, their visors pressed, kissing, into each other.


    A fountain of red was erupting from the top of Private Joy''s head and the man''s eyeballs were splaying to both sides, and Cacliocos stepped away to allow his erstwhile companion to slump twitching to the ground. The black handle of Cacliocos'' combat knife stuck out from under Private Joy''s jaw, and the blade had gored through the still-palpitating tongue and through the roof of the young man''s mouth into his brain and then out through his fontanel.


    Blood welled up within the visor and the corpse regurgitated and in seconds it was no longer possible to discern the once-handsome face through the burbling muck.


    "Cacliocos!" Entuban managed, his momentary spell of incoherence past.


    "Get me a Chimera plasma bolter quickly," Cacliocos said, his tone flat and emotionless. "We burn him."


    He had drawn himself to his full height, his suit smeared with a tar-like mixture of blood and dust. The ground was determined to shake itself to pieces, and behind Betelgeuse the dead tanks were still burning turquoise and vermilion, the wan light making a deathmask of Cacliocos'' grime-streaked visor. His unblinking eyes shone like gemstones, staring out from an expression of steel and passing over a gaggle of shocked faces and regarding them with legendary composure.


    "Then we execute movement to support line," he concluded, as his wandering gaze was arrested by Betelgeuse'' adamantine glare.

 Chapter 27: Hrodwulf the Rabid

    They clattered across the distance whilst entangled in a fugue disturbance. The ground was solid as reality, but the air and movement had made a strange and viscous harmony which suffused those fleeting moments of existence with something surreal.


    It was halfway to the support line, where the surroundings were darkest, when a light that was purple, blue and white washed over the cramped horizon and made a temporary sun. Twilight to high noon in seconds, and then the vertiginous descent into darkness.


    They had just reached the first vehicles of the APC column when a cloud of dust rose in the distance and the earth resumed its violent quaking; a many-edged plane of stone broke off from the left-side wall and toppled into the churning earth, and their eardrums were blasted to oblivion by the resonant blast of the ensuing destruction.


    It seemed that that was the end of it. They forged onward, keeping the dark line of APCs to their left, and eventually they saw the line dogleg across their path, so that the APC-line cut perpendicular to their direction of movement.


    The quaking restarted. The ground shook with such violence that Betelgeuse nigh lost his balance. He turned reflexively in the direction of sound and saw, out there where they had come from¡ªout there about the front line¡ªa curious orange brightness materializing and growing with terrible speed.


    The whole space started to fill with light as the rock face beneath their feet flexed and heaved and trembled itself to pieces. Steam and smog were ejected into the air and the line of Plasma Leopards, briefly backlit against fire and brightness, was swallowed by the encroaching wall of light.


    The men and women of First Company took to their heels. The ground was collapsing underneath its own weight and behind them several APCs started to buck and turn and crash into each other and then fall into the river of molten lava that was accelerating toward them and consuming everything in its path.


    The endless crack of breaking stone had struck a sudden increase in decibels. Betelgeuse was sprinting full tilt, and his lungs, as usual, were beginning to fail him when Douglas was there beside him and locking his remaining elbow around his arm. Voke took his other arm and together they probed the limits of Betelgeuse'' physical stamina, just barely managing to keep up with the rest of First Company; and finally, as they reached the line of idling APCs, they fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs and, turning, saw the lucent river of broiling lava arrest its expansion a mere fifty meters away.


    Above Pyriphlegethon a cosmos of swirling gas coiled snakelike into mythical shapes plucked from the deepest pits of Man''s subconscious.


    look at that


    "Does he have an intuition for these things or is he secretly a goddamn Silver?" Voke scoffed, reaching a hand out to a coughing Betelgeuse still struggling to catch his breath.


    hundreds


    Massive boulders were falling a great height from the ceiling, slamming into the lava a kilometer or more away from the support line and making splendorous light shows of the steaming droplets. The colossal rain of boulders came hard and fast, shaking the earth savagely and damming up the moat of lava and preventing any further traversal of the tunnel-way.


    The lives of thousands of soldiers, snuffed out in mere minutes. The immensity of that revelation was dawning and Betelgeuse could hear Voke muttering silent prayers to God; but because all of the bodies had been consumed by fire and stone, and because he could see none of the death actually occur, Betelgeuse found that all of it hardly affected him at all.


    ''Was that really it?'' he asked himself, but no clear answer was forthcoming.


    "Subaltern Cacliocos. I see your company managed to make it," a powerful voice cut through the company comms-link, stabbing through their exhaustion and fatigue.


    RABID


    TAF


    "... Subaltern Cacliocos," Cacliocos nodded emotionlessly.


    look at him


    Douglas


    247-B


    Rolf,


    "I took the decision myself. We received no orders that the line should be held," Cacliocos declared, meeting Sergeant Granger''s gaze. Betelgeuse could see out of the corner of his eye Entuban shifting uneasily from foot to foot.


    She must have heard Douglas'' outburst.


    NYMPHOCHROMIEQUACKSHIT


    They sent the Ash brigade down with the Jegorichians,SISSYEdith


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    ''INCELBLACKZIT


    MONKEY


    Sirthose PLPs


    "And you would be right," Hrodwulf returned, grinning, casting his own surreptitious glances at Betelgeuse, Voke and Douglas.


    "... If I may be permitted, what is your basis for subsuming them under your command, sir?"


    authority."


    "According to the Green Book, of course," he added as an afterthought, his young features becoming thoughtful.


    in fear? No, that didn''t sound very like Cacliocos¡­


    that


    three battalions


    gnarly-looking casualties


    myself


    He''s trying to bait Hrodwulf into saying something obviously beyond the scope of his powers and trap him with blackbox evidence,


    "Norma?" Hrodwulf called, and a dull tone sounded through the company comms-link.


    "TAF Corporal First Class Norma Myrmec speaking. Sir," She addressed Cacliocos, "Sergeant Khvalynsky and Subaltern Franklin are MIA. We don''t hold out any hope that any of them survived. As for Sergeant Grangers decision to commandeer the PLPs, it was an emergency, and as you know we currently have no means of contacting command line, given that the enemy''s jammers are still operational and effective. It is Sergeant Hrodwulf''s assessment that the emergency situation persists."


    "It is, indeed," Hrodwulf confirmed, his eyes neither moving nor blinking.


    "LTC Pilix? He followed the support line, didn''t he? Where is he?" Cacliocos growled. Betelgeuse could sense frustration growing in the officer''s tone.


    en route


    LTC Pilixyou


    "Well, not in so many words. But it is the effect of his actions, yes?" Hrodwulf countered gruffly. "I have half a mind to commandeer your unit as well, Cacliocos, if you do not arrest this line of questioning right this moment. But I much rather you cooperate with me. We have more important things to worry about."


    "Why, I will see you try¡ª"


    Silence


    Cacliocos fell silent and remained like this for a long while and the remnants of the TAF First Brigade shifted silently where they stood, some of them lowering themselves to sitting positions. None of them appeared higher in rank than Sergeant Granger, noted Betelgeuse.


    The perennial issue of war. Good officers die with their men, and only the cunning survive. And of us survivorswhether Jegorichian or Ash grade none were considered very valuable by command line, it appears,None of us were valuable enough to save.


    "Sir," Betelgeuse rasped through section comms-link, his voice hoarse from the long day''s myriad exertions. He addressed Cacliocos, who had yet to drop from the comms-link, "Sergeant Granger is talking about resources. It is the most immediate concern. We don''t know how much oxygen, fuel and food Captain Crowley left us."


    "Don''t Blink. He has good point." Betelgeuse saw Entuban''s head nodding toward him, funneling his private aside through the same comms-link.


    Cacliocos gave no indication that he heard, did not so much as change his expression in any discernible way.


    But seconds later he nodded and raised his bloodstained palm and the temporary alliance was sealed with another firm handshake. Hrodwulf''s grin split his face in two and the sharpness of his canines were showing, and Douglas was looking at Betelgeuse with an expression that communicated a keen discomfort.


    "Excellent," Hrodwulf sounded. "Come into the tentages. We must do a stock-take immediately. Oxygen stores have priority. We need to know how much of it we have."


    "Entuban, we need all this sorted out ASAP," Cacliocos instructed, stepping with Hrodwulf into shadow and then passing between the idling APCs and disappearing into the sudden movement of soldiers back to support line.


    In the commotion, Thete had slipped away from the forward group and came before Section Five.


    What do you think?


    nothing good can come of this


    No choice.


    When he started moving, Douglas, Voke and Thete came with him, and he walked toward a motionless figure who looked as if she were languishing crouched under an APC wheel. Atop her helmet was stamped the single chevron of a Private, and her gaze was locked to Betelgeuse, and he saw that it was indeed Edith. As he closed the distance he found her face lined with exhaustion and premature age. Her button-nose twitched reflexively and her eyes were filled with a grimness that had not been there before. She hadn''t kept particularly well, Betelgeuse thought.


    He passed her and she rose and fell into lockstep with Voke, and then all of them stepped through into support line.


    square


    "So, uh, when can I start blinking again?" Douglas sounded, and Betelgeuse supposed he had the Chimerae to thank for Entuban being too far away to receive the transmission.

 Chapter 28: No Way Out

    Although it became clear quite early on that their stores of oxygen would last no more than twenty-four hours, it wasn''t until a quick survey of the original route they had traversed revealed catastrophic levels of subsidence and welling tributaries of molten rock that panic truly set in.


    The way back is blocked


    NCOs


    The military drivers were mustered, all of them Saltillans, all of them Ash grades, and the question was put to them as to whether they would be able to find a different path back to Liberation''s Reach.


    They could try, was the answer, but the chances of success were low. There were so very many ancient capillaries lacing the subterranean systems of Desert , and not all of them traversable. Built up from hundreds of years of concerted industrial exploitation, the system of tunnel-ways ran in all directions and meandered for thousands of kilometers at a time. Absent a Bronze grade Blueprinter, choosing the wrong path meant, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, death by privation.


    Which is where the issue of limited oxygen hit hardest. The absconding officers had, in their avidity to ensure their own survival, apparently taken with them the lion''s share of oxygen.


    How can this be happen? fucking salt-sodsIt will not be tolerated of Sergeant Allih Belekov and it will not be tolerated of anyone else,


    That appeared to be the end of the budding inter-ethnic conflict.


    Their current position was a mere three to four hours from Liberation''s Reach, if they took the same route back. But when Thete, Karella and Belekov, the Jegorichians'' fastest runners¡ªindeed the fastest runners in the whole contingent given that the remnants of the TAF First appeared to Betelgeuse to comprise only Ash grades¡ªreturned from their scouting mission, they reported that subsidence had rendered the entire width of the tunnel compromised past five kilometers, even though the lava streams welling behind them were, visibly, more than twenty kilometers away.


    As far as they could tell, their comms was jammed across the whole traversable length and breadth of the tunnel. The sheer range of the enemy''s jamming system evidenced Chimerae technology none of them had heretofore encountered.


    Finally and most crucially, only two other sub-tunnel-ways, both branching off in a southeasterly direction, were currently accessible. However, continuing subsidence was resulting in the steady encroachment of the volatile lava currents veining this portion of Desert''s mantle, and this meant the window of opportunity for escape was closing fast. According to Belekov''s best study, the sub-tunnel-ways would be inaccessible before the hour was up.


    It was quickly decided by the acting command line that they would take the closer sub-tunnel-way.


    There was little time to lose. Ten APCs¡ªcomprising one APC for casualties (i.e., injured personnel), one for support personnel, and eight for combat-ready personnel¡ªand the only two surviving Plasma Leopards were prepared with full tanks of fuel, with the remaining APCs siphoned of their hypergolic fuel and scuttled for their stores of oxygen and other valuable resources.


    Of the thousands who had embarked on the Allied Forces'' chasedown operation, no more than 250 were attempting the uncertain journey back.


    <hr>


    "How far do their jammers reach?" Douglas asked about an hour into their droning trundle. A constant stream of white noise issued from the APC speakers. His wavy strands bobbed wig-like with every jump of the APC, and in his remaining hand he held a cricket-ration half-eaten and spilling crumbs onto the knee of Thete squeezed on his left against the troop compartment''s front siding.


    carbon-dioxide-scrubbers


    Air tastes rather stale,


    Thete was brooding to herself rather silently. Much had changed between Betelgeuse and Thete since the first APC ride they had shared. He could tell that something in the way he had acted¡ªsomething in the way he was currently acting¡ªchafed with Thete. On that front, he was no closer to discerning the specificities of Thete''s hangups.


    A simple case of competitive jealousy? Or, in the alternative, she fears my power.


    To Betelgeuse'' left was someone who was neither a Jegorichian nor a PLP. He glanced toward her, an old face from a different time, and he found her features reminiscent of a homeland already fading in his memories. He must have been on Desert for about an Earth-week, and already it felt like he had lived several lifetimes.


    Edith Pavlov was reticent as ever; her hair was as messy and tangled as Voke''s. She had followed him silently toward the Jegorichians'' APC as they were loading up, and no one thought to question the arrangement save for Entuban. "She''s a friend," Betelgeuse had declared to the Staff Sergeant, "and she will tell us about Sergeant Granger." He supposed he''d garnered enough clout by then that Entuban let them through without interrogation.


    Her eyeballs swiveled, as if sensing someone''s eyes on her, and their gazes met. He found exhaustion and other difficult things in her expression, and because she would not relinquish the connection he had to be the one to bring his eyes down from hers and pass his vision over the lines of exhaustion pressed into her skin and her little twitching button-nose.


    "It is very concerning. Their standard range is seven or eight hundred meters, but this is beyond anything we are recording since the start of the incursion," Entuban grumbled at the far end of the shuddering APC chassis, his form forced into kyphosis by the low ceiling.


    whole section


    "Cool off, Sarge," PFC Gelam interjected, raising a hand and placing it flat on Belekov''s exosuit.


    Cacliocos


    Belekov was growling and breathing heavily through gritted teeth. Entuban, secreted at the far end of the APC, had purposefully turned his head toward the hull doors. He wasn''t going to intervene.


    A hand was placed on Betelgeuse'' arm. "There is violence on his mind," Edith whispered, the first substantial words he had heard from her in a long time. "It has been burning for awhile."


    Cacliocos turned and regarded Belekov with an expression composed entirely of ice, his pupils glinting dangerously. "You may be right, Belekov, but you are only wasting oxygen. Calm yourself before I am forced to calm you down."


    "What are you saying, now?" Belekov growled, "you think I am your lackey that I must grovel before you? You and your officer friends are parasites and traitors, sucking where the Democracy tells you to suck. We walk into this shitshow because of people like you¡ª"


    insubordinate


    "Why you fucking mongrel shit¡ª" Belekov roared, his pigsnout reddening even under the purple glare of the ceiling light. He reached down to his railgun in a single fitful movement and, raising it forcefully, inadvertently struck Gelam''s forehead with its muzzle.


    The troop compartment erupted into chaos, and everyone started screaming or shouting or exclaiming confusedly at once. Gelam yelped and clasped a hand over his forehead, falling backward and thumping the back of his head against the metal siding. Entuban, surprised at the suddenness of the escalation, took to his feet and slammed his skull into the ceiling, the impact disorienting him and causing him to shift forward toward Private Misha Kern and Sergeant Von Fenak and Corporal Karella Jollow before him.


    The youngish Private Mizzarin Asaghar who was seated beside Entuban thought that the giant was about to fall into and crush the unfortunates opposite; he scrunched up his features and reached forward and attempted valiantly to arrest Entuban''s uncontrolled and uncontrollable stumble, but in so doing fell forward himself because the APC suddenly lurched, toppling facefirst into broad-shouldered Private Nano.


    It had just so happened that Private Nano was in the midst of regaining his feet, his eyes blazing with the intent of disarming Sergeant Belekov, when Private Asaghar''s uncontrolled advance brought their heads crashing painfully into each other, causing them to slump wordlessly against an alarmed Karella beside them.


    A second later, Karella, Von and Misha were squashed, cursing, into the chassis siding by Entuban''s bear-like form.


    WoahSmit


    Thete, flung backwards by the force of Douglas'' head-butt, was jabbering meaninglessly and flailing her arms and banging her elbows percussively into the metal partition behind her, sending reverberations through the floor and toward Betelgeuse'' feet and, in the circumstances, leaving shallow dents in the blacksteel sheeting.


    Edith was cringing soundlessly, her hands shooting reflexively toward her grenade pouches and her face starting to drain itself of all color. Voke was sitting to her left and, in the circumstances, managing to maintain an impressively composed expression, but had nevertheless raised his palm toward Belekov and was yelling his own ineffective attempts at defusing the situation.


    v-com


    Betelgeuse put his hand over Edith''s and shook his head, smoothing over her reflexive quailing. She loosened her grip on her grenade pouches, and he returned his attention to the standoff between Belekov and Cacliocos. Familiar and unmistakable emanations were projecting from Cacliocos'' person, causing Betelgeuse to brace himself. His other hand moved impulsively to the hilt of his combat knife.


    The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Cacliocos bellowed. Power flowed. That stentorian command blasted from his chest and arrested the myriad motions of the denizens of that cramped space. A dark compulsion came over Belekov, and he slumped into his seat, his railgun clattering to the floor, his eyes glazing over.


    The scent of the compulsion matrix had become all too familiar to Betelgeuse. But this time the coercion came and went quickly like a singular pulse rippling across space.


    The troop compartment filled with heavy breaths. It took several seconds for the energy to retreat from its peak, and when calm finally reasserted itself Privates Nano and Asaghar led the injured in grunting painfully.


    "Belekov, do you hear me?" Cacliocos called. He had not moved a single step throughout all that commotion.


    Belekov blinked vacantly, then his expression enlivened and resumed its apoplexy. It was clear, however, that he would not pick up his weapon again; that time had passed.


    "You have turned your compulsion on us!" Belekov shouted, irate. "And you still pretend to be kinsman?"


    "It is a tool to be used if and when necessary. Or you would rather I let you blast a hole in the wall and kill us all?" Cacliocos inquired, raising an eyebrow.


    a damn good pointkinsmenSecond Battalion, Third Company


    "It is not something Captain Kelokrill would have done," asserted Belekov impudently.


    I


    You


    Cacliocos looked at him with dark eyes, observing him, scrutinizing his mannerisms. Belekov was squinting at him, nonplussed. Several seconds passed like this in silence.


    Seeing that no one was arguing against his intervention, Betelgeuse continued: "Sergeant Belekov, there was something obviously very wrong with this chasedown operation, everyone can see that. But in the first place your outburst endangers all of us here. That''s why I''m speaking¡ªnot because I am your kinsman, but because I have a vested interest in our shared survival."


    Belekov grunted, keeping his eyes narrowed.


    "Whatever you may think about our commander''s use of the compulsion, he has the onus to do whatever he can to preserve our lives. You can see that, no?"


    "You Taffy surely cannot understand the contempt which we rajul hold for the compulsion," Belekov rasped, but Betelgeuse could see that the wind had been taken out of his sails.


    "Okay, sure. Get this though¡ªwe PLPs," Betelgeuse pointed at Thete, Voke and Douglas in turn, "had originally been attached to Cacliocos'' platoon. And we are all that''s left of it. Do you know why?"


    Silence. The APC trundled over uneven terrain.


    "That man Major Storr made meatshields out of the entire Jegorichian company. Men and women like all of you. Rajul like you, I am sure. All dead because of the compulsion exercised by Jegorichians over other Jegorichians."


    "¡­ The officers and their ilk wear similar shirts."


    "But before you were saying that it was not something Captain Kelokrill would have done?"


    Belekov opened his mouth, then closed it again.


    "Nobody can argue with the fact that Subaltern Cacliocos needed to do what he did to defuse the situation. Our lives hang by a thread here, Sergeant, and you must get it in your skull that we are all in the same boat. Subaltern Cacliocos is not the same as Lieutenant-Colonel Pilix for the very fact that the former marches with us into battle and the latter does not."


    Belekov looked away. Nano, to his right, placed a hand softly on the Sergeant''s shoulder, and this physical connection appeared to be tacitly accepted. To his other side Gelam was sporting an ugly welt on his forehead, and Gelam''s face was canted toward Private Callagessa, Smit and Douglas and hung with an expression that could only be described as bashful indignation.


    "Also," Betelgeuse added, "you should really check on Gelam there. Think you hit him pretty hard."


    For a long time after that the silence hung over them like a heavy pall, broken only by Entuban''s comms-traffic with the casualties APC to check on the conditions of Corporal Venna Tajiran and Private Julla Albouztani.


    Then whispers intruded upon the stubborn tension and smoothed it over and forced it into the background.


    <hr>


    "The others," Edith whispered, several hours after the commotion, "none of them¡­ I mean, are you all that''s left of the¡­"


    She trailed off and never reached her noun.


    "¡­ As far as I know," Betelgeuse said, shifting his head in her direction. He could see Voke beside her nodding off and dribbling a lazily threading trail out the side of his lip.


    "All of them¡­ Dmitri, Logan¡­ even Caleb?" Her lips were twitching wetly.


    "Caleb. You mean Caleb Reyes?"


    "... Yea. He''d talked to me back on Earth. He treated me well and talked to me properly. Like you did," Edith said. Betelgeuse thought her eyes rather large for an Edomite. But then Chrysilla had large eyes too. Maybe it was a woman thing. Maybe they practiced. Frederica hadn''t been like that at all.


    "Caleb passed earlier, during the first skirmish. It just so happened that I was beside him when he died."


    He died for the Democracy. He died for something pointless.


    Edith looked away. Her eyes looked like they were welling, but it appeared she had gotten a better handle on herself since the first time they had met. But then, Earth had been a long time ago.


    "So many have died already," Edith said. It was a statement as much aimed at describing a state of mind as it expressed a fact, and Betelgeuse thought about the experiences she must have had over the past two days.


    "The PLPs were attached to the Jegorich First. They died with their units," Betelgeuse said, returning his gaze to the ceiling and finding in the expanse of dull and purple-lighted metal a temporary peace.


    "Betelgeuse," Edith mumbled.


    He raised an eyebrow at the light. His vision was starting to spot with globy whites. As the silence yawned, he returned his attention to Edith.


    "I spent a long time thinking about the PLPs," she said. She was scrutinizing the area just above his eyes, and he supposed she was close enough to see the little ''M'' embossed in keloid and centering his penal brand.


    "I''m glad you''re still here," she finished, turning away suddenly.


    That Michael Thane has a cockroach sense, after all.


    "... Alisha as well. She was in Michael''s section," Edith added. An image rose unbidden to Betelgeuse'' mind, and in it he saw Frederica walking across a ridgeline of ironred sand, her back turned to him. Beside her was the diminutive Alisha Ruiz, traipsing after her like a child trails its mother. They were walking and talking, the two. Betelgeuse found that he couldn''t quite place the memory¡ªhe was getting sleepy, and his eyelids were starting to droop.


    "¡­ So she survived. I didn''t see her," Betelgeuse muttered.


    "Alisha was the first to come to Rolf, you know?"


    His eyes snapped open. "What do you mean?¡­ She just up and went over to your unit? How dozzat even work?"


    "It''s¡­ I¡­ I don''t know all the details," Edith managed, flustered by his sudden increase in interest.


    "Edith, how did you all end up at support line?" Betelgeuse pressed. He brought his face close to Edith again, and his bloodshot eyes held hers in thrall. A strong and sour scent was rolling off Edith''s body and swatting him in the face.


    But she shook her head slightly, and he understood that she couldn''t say. Not in front of the others. When he leaned back against the uncomfortably perpendicular wall of the troop compartment, he caught Cacliocos glancing at them.


    "Broad strokes?" he said, leaning down sideways and bringing his ear closer to Edith.


    "There was a¡­ some kind of argument between Rolf and our platoon commander," Edith whispered. She paused, and Betelgeuse nodded slightly. "It escalated from something, I don''t know what, but I think it was because Subaltern Detlev wasn''t too happy with Rolf''s elevation. Because¡­ because Rolf was put in for a battlefield promotion after the Chimerae nuked our whole frontline with drones. We got caught out in the open and lost pretty much all our Sergeants and officers save for Subaltern Detlev."


    "And after the argument this Detlev was somehow no longer in the picture, and Rolf was left in charge of the impromptu plan to collapse the side of the mine-shaft onto the Chimerae?" Betelgeuse whispered back.


    "... Pretty much," Edith sniffled, squeezing her eyes shut. "The orders had been piped down by the chasedown op''s commanders to destroy the portside wall, and all of the other units were sending claymores our way¡­"


    Military Auxiliary


    "... It wasn''t Rolf. It was Aminata. He warned us."


    The Darkskin. A PLP. One of Michael''s guys. Maybe he has a related Increment.


    "So by then Michael''s side had already gotten with Rolf. Maybe Michael sent Alisha to Rolf, and they must have been in close proximity, perhaps the next unit over," Betelgeuse suggested quietly. "And Rolf commandeered them. Maybe against the will of their officer."


    Edith blinked, pressed her lips together, then nodded. "Yes¡­ and at that point Rolf delegated control over the demolition op to¡­ one of the other units'' Sergeants¡­ one of the Sergeants that had come over with the claymores. Rolf told him we were to be redeployed toward the middle."


    But he made for support line instead,


    "How about Guo Xun? How did he come to be under Rolf?"


    "I¡­ don''t know."


    Edith and Betelgeuse settled into silence.


    Betelgeuse would raise the subject of compulsion some minutes later, but then retract his question on seeing Edith''s quizzical expression. There was nothing else to talk about and Edith eventually hunched over and gave herself up to an uncomfortable sleep.


    <hr>


    When the APC shuddered to a stop approximately half an hour later, most of the troop compartment had been lulled to sleep by the constant crackle of static. The Chimerae jammers had not let up in the least.


    Hrodwulf''s voice cut through the white noise, calling Cacliocos to the APC comms; the haggard Subaltern pulled back the aperture-shutter and leaned over into the front compartment, beckoning Betelgeuse over.


    "I am here, Sergeant Granger," Cacliocos responded. As he uttered those words Betelgeuse thought the officer looked almost wasted.


    *krrshk**krrshk*


    quarter


    "Repeat your message, Sergeant Granger, you''re breaking up. Short-range comms-quality is still low," Cacliocos returned.


    *krrshk*


    "Corporal Jackson," Cacliocos addressed the Saltillan, "see if you can bring it up on the screen. Check the sensors."


    Corporal Jackson had already pulled the hanging screen down over the dashboard and was tapping his way through various screens, nodding and mumbling to himself in choppy dialect.


    They were shortly brought to a screen with a running pulse-wave whose amplitude appeared synchronized to the shuddering of the APC chassis.


    "Sir, the engine is affecting the reading," Corporal Jackson said, indicating the spikes in the reading.


    "Turn it off," Cacliocos snapped.


    The APC powered down with a dull whine, and the graph reading jumped wildly before settling into a low-amplitude jitter.


    "It''s small, but there''s definitely disturbance¡­ almost like¡­" the driver, Private Reese, said, squinting over at the terminal.


    "Someone''s drilling," finished Cacliocos. Over the long hours his appearance had deteriorated beyond grimness to depression, as if something was eating him from the inside; but on seeing this his countenance transformed into something truly wretched, and Betelgeuse'' soul shivered in wonder at the aspect of self-annihilation that had come over that crumbling man.


    "Sergeant Granger, based on the information available I would advise that these are signs of Bejana."

 Chapter 29: Ayish-Bejana

    "Project it onto the screen back there," Cacliocos commanded, stabbing a thumb over his shoulder; Corporal Jackson''s fingers danced furiously across the smooth surface, flicking forward and backtracking through a multitude of menus faster than Betelgeuse'' could catch. It was about ten seconds of wrangling with the software''s byzantine architecture before the Corporal''s agile movements ceased, following which he turned and looked expectantly at Cacliocos.


    But the officer had already wheeled around to face the troop compartment; he called Entuban''s attention to the front, indicating the other terminal screen fitted into the metal siding right of the aperture, the screen directly adjacent to where Betelgeuse had been sitting.


    "Staff, you see this?" Cacliocos said, pointing over Betelgeuse to the seismogram charting pinprick jitters across time. The rest of the troop appeared to be stirring from their brief slumber, and Betelgeuse watched Voke jolt himself awake, in so doing inadvertently jostling Edith with his shoulder; Edith jerked upward with a loud blubber, drawing as she did so the attention of most of the Jegorichians, her face turning red as a tomato.


    Skull-faced Belekov, who hadn''t so much as said a single word since the standoff with Cacliocos, narrowed his eyes at the blushing Edith, a latent hostility rolling off of his person. Gelam, it appeared, had swapped places with the long-armed Smit sometime over the course of the past few hours, and was now sitting to Douglas'' right. Smit sat to Belekov''s left, and to Belekov''s other side a rather morose expression was pasted onto the face of broad-shouldered Nano.


    There were tensions here that Betelgeuse felt unequal to.


    "What are we looking for, sir?" Entuban inquired, twisting his own neck and causing a popping sound that was concerning in its loudness. He wagged his shoulders in an effort to relieve a building tension borne of the cramped confines of the troop compartment, to no evident avail.


    "Mining activity. I''m given to think that¡ª"


    The APC comms crackled to life, interrupting Cacliocos, and Hrodwulf''s voice could be heard soliciting for acknowledgment.


    "Lower the volume on that," Cacliocos instructed the v-com, before turning back to regard Entuban. "See these plateauing sections? They''re separated from the ambient seismic activity. I am thinking that it''s drilling or some kind of excavation op."


    Entuban squinted, his brows furrowing deeply. "¡­ It may be that it is subsidence or subsidence-causing activity. Maybe leftovers from the Chime''s fuck-shit back in main tunnel. There will not be any mining crews, sir¡ªthis zone is prohibited to randos. Requisition Orders are not allowing anyone but Ninsei to mine, and the muster orders were clear that the whole AOP was evacuated by the Ninsei crews. That is meaning nobody but us Allied Forces and Chimes anywhere near LR."


    "Yes, perhaps," Cacliocos nodded, his eyes glinting with a terrible sharpness. "But think where we are. We cut from the main tunnels to the capillaries and followed that TAF Granger down southeast. After that we navigated hard south because of that cave-ins Point APC reported. Jackson, bring up the AOP, gridmap one."


    The terminal flashed and the seismogram was substituted for a particolored map. The gridmap, Betelgeuse quickly realized, appeared to encapsulate the whole chunk of land spanning Saltilla, Liberation''s Reach, and another settlement labelled ''Arroyo''. He followed with his eyes a dotted splash of blue labeled ''MVMT'' which cut across the Amate Range and connected Saltilla to Liberation''s Reach.


    "Zoom into the gridsquares between seven-zero and eight-zero easting, and five-zero to seven-zero northing," Cacliocos instructed, and the map was magnified about the designated topography south of Liberation''s Reach.


    "We don''t have subterranean blueprints, so I''ve been stuck tracing our movement on the overland map. Our last transmitted position was here," Cacliocos jabbed at the screen, indicating a small, blue semicircle more than a hundred kilometers south of Liberation''s Reach. "This was before the jammers cut satellite and comms, shortly after disembarkation in the main-tunnel-way. That is, after the Chimerae had been engaged."


    "We never got any signal after that?" Entuban asked, flexing his fingers.


    "No. So, we were here in the main tunnel-way, then capillary southeast, then cave-in here, forcing us into the capillary hard-south," Cacliocos said, punctuating his explication of each phase of the movement with precise jabs of his finger. "We only managed to find a southeasterly tunnel hereabouts an hour back. Look at the general area. Look where we are."


    "That''s¡­" Entuban was squinting.


    "It''s Elluhada, the Strata Basin," Thete folded her arms, prosthetic eye oscillating in place. "See, Saltilla is approximately east of us. If sir is right, we''ve gone too far south. The Strata Basin lies above us¡­ which means we''re close to their settlements."


    "Bejana," Belekov spat an unwelcome interjection, folding his arms across a chest pushed out in a peacock-jut.


    "Hey, I remember that name from the Infoments!" Douglas piped up. "Aren''t they the indigenous guys?"


    "You know nothing," Belekov hissed, staring daggers at the grinning mono-armed man.


    "Yeah, yeah, try me, brah," Douglas chortled, meeting Belekov''s glare with a cheeky grin which only served to inflame the latter further.


    "Fool, you are more like those half-intelligent morlocks than you think," Belekov rasped.


    "Stop it. That is enough of that, Belekov," Entuban scoffed, his eyes twinkling with less reproach than mirth. "My geography is bad, but if it is indeed the Strata Basin, and if there is indeed drilling, then it is very likely Bejana¡ªone of their mobile mining settlements."


    Cacliocos'' lips were set in a straight line. They are like thieves, Betelgeuse heard Gelam whisper over-loud to an attentive Douglas, they love to steal and doubly-love to be filthy. It is their nature to be evil, incestuous, godless¡ªyou will never meet more untrustworthy creatures.


    "Sir, we have very little oxygen left," Entuban continued, talking over Gelam''s failure of an attempt at discretion. "No more than half a day left. I think our choice is made for us."


    Cacliocos gave no indication that he heard. The rest of the Jegorichians were shifting around uncomfortably, hyper-aware of that Sword of Damocles looming abovehead.


    "Sir?" Corporal Jackson called from the front. "Sergeant Granger needs you on the line urgently. He''s sent someone¡­ to wave at us from outside."


    Cacliocos and Betelgeuse turned and looked out the windshield, finding a dark-haired, sharp-nosed man bearing the rank of Private and waving his hands at them from the outside. The word ''DUMB'' was stamped across his chest.


    "Robbie Birch," Betelgeuse sounded, recognizing another one of his batchmates.


    "What? Cromagnon Bob?" Douglas called, scrambling up from his seat and extricating himself from Gelam''s avid, attentive and overly-descriptive vituperation against the Bejana. "Fucker''s alive!" he exclaimed, staring over Betelgeuse'' shoulder and raising his arm and giving the only middle finger he had.


    "The glass is tinted, Douglas," Voke called from his seat, sighing but also cocking a half-grin at Douglas'' antics. Douglas laughed and took Betelgeuse'' seat beside a squinting Edith, smirking as he did so and as Thete rolled her eyes at him.


    "Turn up the comms, Jackson," Cacliocos said, and the static grew in volume until it sounded like heavy rain.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    "Sergeant Granger, Subaltern Cacliocos speaking. Call your guy off."


    "¡ªCacliocos, I rogered your speculation that these were Bejana. Did you not hear my follow-up?" Hrodwulf questioned, his voice taking on a hard edge.


    "I was having an internal conferral, Sergeant. But we are agreed that these are likely Bejana. It is also likely that we have come across a mobile mining settlement."


    Outside the windshield Robert lowered his arms and rolled his eyes, then turned and stalked out of the cone of light and melted away into the darkness.


    "A settlement? If that''s true¡­ then it is excellent news." Chattering swelled and died on the other side.


    "I am also advising that we should make an offer," Cacliocos continued. "We have enough fuel to trade."


    Whispers that were loud enough to be heard though not audible enough to be comprehended filtered through the comms.


    "... That will depend on how many people they have," Hrodwulf said, after several seconds of silence.


    A vein pulsed at Cacliocos'' temple. "Sergeant Granger, I must stress the importance of avoiding combat. It will risk our already depleted oxygen stores. The Bejana''s unique physiology allow them to withstand long periods of naked breathing without deleterious effect. Firstly, this puts us at a clear disadvantage in any combat situation, and secondly, the Bejana may not carry adequate stores of oxygen to justify our expropriation."


    "You might be forgetting that oxygen is not our only concern, Cacliocos. We need water and we hardly have any rations left. Well, in any case we will proceed apace and attempt to make contact¡ª"


    "Hold on, Sergeant Granger," Cacliocos called.


    Silence.


    "Sergeant Granger!"


    He received in response only silence and the sound of soldiers shifting restlessly in place.


    <hr>


    They resumed their trundling trek and shortly came to a fork in the tunnel-way. Ensconced in the APC leading the movement column, Hrodwulf decided, unilaterally, to take the left fork eastward, toward the source of the seismic disturbances.


    Betelgeuse stayed by Cacliocos side and kept a silent watch out the APC windshield. The outer dark was pitch-black and faceless as an abyss. There was nothing to do but read and re-read the license plate of the next APC in the column¡ª9P2071PDF¡ªand Betelgeuse sounded this collection of letters and numbers to himself a million times for want of a better thing to do.


    It was less than a half-hour since their conferral with Hrodwulf, when Betelgeuse found, to his mute amazement, that the darkness of the tunnel-way was receding. Where once was shadow, now a soft, greenish hue intruded upon the horizon; and as they traveled the wan glows mixed together with blues and reds and glittering diamond-whites, until the tunnel-way was made a universe of shimmering stars fashioned of fluorescent lichens.


    The world was revealed, and Betelegeuse could see all the way to the ceiling and the sides of the tunnel. It was a smaller space, nothing like the broad scale of the main tunnel-way they had previously done battle in. The ceiling stretched perhaps ten or eleven stories, and he estimated the sides of the tunnel no more than four hundred meters to either side of the APC.


    And he saw, as they forged deeper, a single structure hove into view somewhere near the ceiling. It stuck out like a mushroom from the sheer rock face, and as they neared it started to look distinctly man-made, with smooth and angular sides that seemed to vibrate in place. The tunnel was starting to widen, and monolithic ovoos of rock were deposited all over the floor of that space.


    More of the mushroom-structures blossomed high above them, shivering mechanically athwart their direction of travel¡ªone to three to twenty to a hundred¡ªclustered so close together they looked like clumps of engorged ticks, and all vibrating with a pounding, staccato loudness.


    They drove on and the wall of mushroom-structures stretched before them, continuing until they reached a bustling place flooded with intense light and heaving humanoid figures.


    The pounding sound was loudest here, where they halted their advance, but as the minutes passed the cacophony gradually softened and then faded away to dull muttering.


    "*krrshk*¡ªCacliocos, do you read?"


    "I read you, Sergeant Granger."


    "Some of these Bejana are congregating in front of the movement column. There''s someone in front of them, an old guy. He''s biting into one of those old-style re-breathers, it looks like. None of them have exosuits¡ªthey''re all exposed."


    "It''s the foreman," Cacliocos explained. "I said before that the Bejana have a unique physiology. They can survive the Desert air very well, because their segmented lungs sieve out most all of the C-O."


    "Noted. Please advise on the role of the foreman."


    "It is a Bejana mining-settlement. The foreman leads the resource extraction and has a say in the terms of trade."


    "Trade?"


    "They trade the materials they extract."


    "With whom?"


    Cacliocos remained silent.


    "Tell him," growled Belekov, and Cacliocos ignored him. Betelgeuse turned in time to see the normally stoic Sergeant Von Fenak shoot Belekov a glare that was equal parts frustration and resignation.


    "Belekov," Entuban intoned, "you''ve said your piece already. You best keep yourself¡ª"


    "We cannot afford this now," Betelgeuse snapped suddenly, causing several of the Jegorichians to whip their heads around and focus their attentions upon him. He saw, out of the periphery of his vision, Edith flinch and then shrink into herself. Douglas was eating again, munching on cricket-ration number two. Entuban met his gaze, frowned, and turned his head away silently.


    "Sir," Betelgeuse said, turning back to the brooding Cacliocos. "It is imperative that we collaborate with Sergeant Granger, for the simple fact that he commands the larger force and controls most of the resources. But if you are adamant about avoiding combat, one way we can play this is to request that we be included in the contact group. As someone with subject-matter expertise, you can mediate between the Allied Forces and the Bejana."


    Cacliocos grunted and nodded, accepting the point.


    Betelgeuse let the silence ferment for several seconds longer, before raising a finger to point through the aperture toward the APC comms.


    If this heads south, survival is going to be tricky.


    But defecting to Rolf''s side has its risks as well. There''s a high likelihood that his men comprise mostly Ash grades, given how many of them hail from batch 247-B. In other words, he may have the larger force, but not necessarily a stronger one.


    Of course, Cacliocos might not know this, and it''s likely Thete doesn''t know as well.


    On the other hand, Rolf appears unaware that Cacliocos commands mostly Hollows and Whites and that Cacliocos is a Primary himself. If push comes to shove, he may too readily seek violent confrontation.


    Finally, I can surmise, following my conversation with Edith, that the other Ash grades are ignorant of the compulsion matrix. I cannot however assume Rolf''s ignorance, given his rank.


    I know nothing of compulsion matrices being used in opposition to each other, but my working assumption based on comparing Strionis and Major Storr''s usage of compulsion is that the higher one''s Incunabulum grade, the stronger one''s capacity to utilize the compulsion matrix. According to this assumption, Cacliocos'' ability to impose the compulsion would be higher than Rolf''s. This is another point against defecting.


    Betelgeuse pursed his lips and lowered his arm, seeing that Voke and Douglas were watching him attentively. Cacliocos had yet to make his move.


    The comms crackled and this time a female voice filtered tinnily through. Betelgeuse recognized, in its mellifluous tone, Norma: "CFC Myrmec speaking. Please advise, Subaltern Cacliocos. We''d like to know who trades with the Bejana."


    "¡­ The Bejana have maintained trade relations with the Chimerae for a long time," Cacliocos transmitted. "They trade with pirates and freelancers as well, but I understand the Chimerae are their main trading partners."


    "That point is well noted, sir," Norma returned.


    "Sergeant Granger, I advise that we must make direct contact with this settlement''s foreman," Cacliocos continued. "The Bejana have their own dialect, but most converse fluently in Aluaa. It would make sense for the Jegorich Brigade to take the lead on this."


    "Standby, Cacliocos," Hrodwulf transmitted. "There is no need for you to¡ª"


    "Hrodwulf, you seem to forget we have equal authority. Regardless, we will exit the vehicle and make contact shortly."


    Another long silence interspersed.


    Then, the comms crackled to life: "Understood. All units save for comms-personnel and casualties to disembark."


    Cacliocos turned, regarding the piecemeal remnants of the Jegorich First. His eyes sat deeply within his sockets, and the scar above his lip lent his otherwise fine countenance something savage and ugly.


    "Make ready. We disembark in two minutes."


    Here we go again.


    The onset of fatigue was starting to weigh heavily on Betelgeuse. Without thinking twice, he popped the second of his caffeine pills, closing his eyes to savor the effect which so completely cleansed his mind of its somnolence.

 Chapter 30: Manifest Destiny I

    eyestwo


    Michael''s act was treated like the disrespect that it was, and the elder foreman started pointing at the ground and jabbering with soft anxiousness. Massy islands of men and women milled soundlessly behind him, glancing apprehensively amongst themselves and staring out of wide and disquieted eyes. And behind them protruded a colony of structures like wigwams, the huts fashioned of canvas pulled over metal skeletons. Above them hummed a thousand chrome-colored mushroom-structures eating away at the rainbow-hued lichen-covered rock-face; the automated drills had been turned down to a low stutter, and the maze of conveyor-channels shuttled a thin stream of ore toward a pit of unknown depth that had been dug out of the ground beside the Bejana habitation.


    Arrayed against the Bejana was the entire railgun-toting combat troop that could be mustered from the remnants of the Allied Forces, their exosuits sooted black in streaks and looking the worse for wear and having been sealed up multiple times over with large, discolored execrescences so that the blimpy things all seemed rather lopsided and unnatural.


    At the head of the ragged troop were those that comprised the acting command line plus entourage. From the remnants of the TAF First Brigade: Sergeant Hrodwulf Granger, CFCs Norma Myrmec and Szymon Gombrovich, the veteran CFCs Messanal Carrera, Fenian McCloskey, Palir Durant and Chenna Punnar, and the PLPs, Michael Thane, Zachariah Greenberg, Aminata Waggon and Alisha Ruiz. PLP Deng was, Betelgeuse noted, nowhere to be seen.


    From the remnants of the PDF Jegorich First Brigade: Subaltern Tenzhian Cacliocos, Staff Sergeant Entuban Kanos, Sergeants Von Fenak and Allih Belekov, and the PLPs Thete Jutson (Sergeant), Voke Thatcher, Douglas McKay and Betelgeuse Sakar. A Private Edith Pavlov had secreted herself between Betelgeuse and Douglas, but she had been discrete enough that this fact was not commented upon by anyone.


    By some curious turn of events, the PLP Michael Thane had been, for unfathomable reasons, tasked by Hrodwulf to lead the TAF force in this first contact with the Bejana.


    "What is he saying?" Michael snapped harshly, his skin white as an albino under the glare of the Bejana floodlights, his beady eyes boring holes into the Jegorichian officer some meters to his left. Not an ounce of respect passed between him and Subaltern Cacliocos.


    "He''s speaking in dialect," Cacliocos said simply, checking his wrist-transceiver to ensure that he was transmitting over the custom joint-force comms-link rigged up by the comms personnel. Folding his arms across his chest, he added: "I don''t understand him myself."


    comical


    "I am knowing several words, sir," Entuban interjected, stepping up and addressing himself to Cacliocos. "But I cannot hear what he is saying because of this suit."


    why not get the hell over here


    "Michael, you have to stop that," Norma sounded, her voice soft with affected sensuousness. She sidled up beside Michael, her plump cheeks bunching, and Betelgeuse found that her red lashes were longer than he remembered. "He''s scared. You need to cool it with all the extra movement."


    "Best be careful Mikey. We don''t know what they''re capable of. Fear leads to rash decisions. Your fear, their fear," Hrodwulf remarked, raising his left forearm noncommittally. He stood several meters behind and to the right of Michael, ensconced within a grim-faced entourage that kept their hands on their railguns and oozed hypervigilance.


    Norma was scanning the faces of the Jegorichians, eyeing the backline, squinting at the PLPs and perhaps frowning as she saw Edith; and when Betelgeuse'' eyes met hers, nothing, not even recognition, passed between them. She pressed her lips tightly together, returning her attention to the elder foreman.


    "Sergeant Granger, they do not have any weapons," Cacliocos said, stressing his words with keen vigor. "They are non-combatants. It is not necessary to resort to violence."


    Belekov cleared his throat obnoxiously, and Betelgeuse supposed it had been wise not to permit him speaking privileges over the joint-force comms-link.


    "Okay, well, this isn''t going anywhere without the fucking ability to communicate."


    But Michael''s grousing had no sooner dropped than Norma had closed the gap with the elder foreman, one arm holding out an oxygen canister, and the tension rose perceptibly with the suddenness of her action.


    what are you doing


    chill the fuck outdrastic


    This place is a goddamn powder-keg,


    Although¡­ I wouldn''t be surprised if she manages to get somewhere,Increment


    <blockquote>


    Owing to a broad curiosity respecting different aspects of culture, Norma Myrmec is able to connect closely with others.


    </blockquote>


    "Sir, I think CFC Myrmec has the right idea. Shall we have Staff Entuban see if he can''t help out with some simple communication?" Betelgeuse suggested, addressing Cacliocos. He was transmitting over the joint-forces comms-link, courtesy of Cacliocos'' specially conferred transmission privileges.


    "Go ahead," Cacliocos nodded, his facial muscles twitching at the TAF contingent''s nervousness.


    The giant lumbered forward, purposely shouldering past a glaring Michael and making for the elder foreman who by now was recoiling in barely disguised fear. But the old Bejana did not shirk his position, holding his ground valiantly against Entuban''s advancing girth.


    It is bravery against a greater force,


    berkabarkaburka


    The elder foreman was shortly joined by a young and handsome Bejana youth whose skin glinted with an oily sheen. The younger man adjusted his rebreather and, kneeling to take a closer look at the jerry can, raised his head to regard Entuban with a rather confused shrug.


    Thinking that the Bejana couldn''t hear him through his exosuit, Entuban yelled the word louder, then conjugated it, then added a smattering of other foreign sounds whose syntax sounded clumsy in Entuban''s mouth. The expressions never shed their confusion. Frustrated, he yelled so loud the automated voice dampeners kicked in and then all Betelgeuse could hear was a dull, unintelligible mutter.


    "maintaining separate lines of communications for operational purposes"


    "That''s rather new, you thinking," Voke jibed. "Don''t know if we can trust what comes out of Downie''s brain."


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    don''tup


    "Douglas, would it kill you to keep quiet?" Thete sounded, her exasperation overspilling into her expression. "Not everything needs to be commented upon."


    "But hey it''s just damn stupid, ain''t it?" Douglas chortled. "I''m thinking maybe the Democucks are getting too poor to be fighting this war properly, y''know?"


    "By now you should know how the system treats flows of information," Betelgeuse responded, his voice thick with insouciance.


    "Whut dat mean?" the one-armed man inquired.


    "It means," Thete translated, and some meters away her prosthetic eye was staring with as much irritation as a non-biological eye could muster, "that they''re making it hard to communicate along unofficial channels, for God''s sake."


    brother


    Nogodonlydemocracy


    The attempted trade with the Bejana had reached a critical juncture. By the force of his words (and a rather edifying masterclass in communicating meaning by gestures) Entuban had impressed upon the elder and younger Bejana the Allied Forces'' intent to exchange hypergolic fuel for oxygen.


    what are they doing? Where are they going?


    no


    envy human


    gravity


    "They don''t have Incunabula," Betelgeuse commented suddenly, frowning, feeling like this was a detail he should have noticed earlier.


    "Of course," Thete returned matter-of-factly, stepping forward beside Douglas as she did so. "The Bejana have never accepted the Democracy''s claim over Desert and never accepted their gifts. They may not be a homogenous people, being comprised of various tribe, but in this rejection of Democratic gifts they are quite united."


    is


    Voke hiccuped, and Betelgeuse glanced back out of reflex to find his expression stuck somewhere between surprise and consternation. Something about the revelation that the Bejana had no Incunabula fundamentally disturbed Voke.


    Betelgeuse returned his attention to the developing scene. He saw the Bejana men stream up between the canvas tentages and then enter into one of the larger structure; when they exited they had with them several massive trolleys stacked full of oxygen tanks¡ªlarge, 1200-litre cylinders that resembled torpedoes¡ªand they returned post-haste to the area of exchange, the trolleys trundling violently over the gravel-strewn ground.


    Now before Entuban and Norma again, they unloaded the wagon and arranged the tanks in a neat pile before the remnants of the Allied Forces.


    It was all about amounts now. The negotiation began in earnest, if it could be called a negotiation. The remnant force had ten or so jerry cans of hypergolic fuel that they were willing to part with and in exchange the Bejana had originally been willing to provide enough oxygen to last the whole force 48 hours¡ªapproximately 125 tanks.


    Hrodwulf wanted more. The Bejana provided 200 tanks. Then 250.


    Hrodwulf wanted more, still more.


    Cacliocos stood by silently, and Betelgeuse could see, through the man''s blood-streaked visor, the usual vein start to pulse across his temple. The Bejana were starting to stir. There were maybe a thousand of them, and their expressions and alien eyes were turning fraught. Edith prodded Betelgeuse in his side and indicated something important with her eyes, but even without her mediation Betelgeuse could understand the gist of what the Bejana were whispering to each other.


    Cacliocos had had enough. The arrangement had long ago ceased to be a trade.


    "Sergeant Granger, we''ll not be able to carry all of it. No way we have enough space," he said


    "We''ll pump it into the APCs'' tanks and pressurize it. The regulators can handle multiple times the atmospheric pressure of these tanks, I''m sure."


    "We have enough to last us," Cacliocos pressed.


    "And how would you know? Forgive my lack of faith, considering what you told me about the Bejana speaking Aluaa," Hrodwulf faced Cacliocos, blue eyes glinting like shards of steel.


    "The Bejana are not a single people, and do not have a single language. Every settlement, every tribe is different. We cannot take any more¡ªlook at how many of them there are," Cacliocos replied. And he saw fit to add: "There are many, many children."


    "We best cap their population growth then," Hrodwulf said, his tone edged with immovable intent.


    "What the hell are you saying? This is a trade. Do you understand what that means?" Cacliocos kept his voice level and flat, as Betelgeuse knew the Subaltern tended to do whenever he was fuming.


    "You sure have a knack for unconstructive feedback," Hrodwulf said. "I doubt you have any cause to criticize me even if this all does shade into expropriation. You forget the Green Book permits us this optionNorma, what does it say, exactly?"


    "It¡­ save when the counterparty has allegiance to the Sylvan Protectorate, all expropriative measures for operational purposes are permitted," Norma responded. She and Entuban were by now dwarfed by the pile of oxygen tanks. Betelgeuse couldn''t help but notice her standing with her hands clasped in front of her like a schoolgirl receiving punishment and looking a little sick in the stomach.


    "You¡­ you would¡­ to what end?" Cacliocos took several steps forward, barely managing to sound coherent.


    "Sergeant Granger," Betelgeuse, seeing that Cacliocos was starting to exhibit signs of being emotionally overborne, stepped forward to interject, "if you push these people any further, the prospect of conflict will become unavoidable. You must consider if the benefits of this course of action outweighs the risk."


    Betelgeuse Sakar


    "Look¡ªthere is PLP Thane beside you. I am certain my rank is equal to his. Maybe you''ve forgotten having tasked him with leading the negotiations?" Betelgeuse returned calmly, his own glare latching onto Hrodwulf.


    "Insubordinate little shit¡ª"


    Hrodwulf''s insult was cut short by a sudden commotion in the distance. All eyes turned: an exosuited figure was running between the tentages, holding in its right hand a weapon that appeared to be a shotgun but which Betelgeuse was sure did not form a part of the Standard Issue package. In its left hand was held by its neck a dead thing. A child, a Bejana girl, her neck broken and her head canted at an odd angle.


    Four or five Bejana men were chasing the fleeing figure and firing their projectile weapons at it, and as the whole group came closer it was clear that the exosuited figure was limping because it had been hit in its leg.


    MONKEY


    "... Is that¡­"


    Douglas'' words were the last thing Betelgeuse heard before chaos erupted and the Bejana whipped around in a moil and started shouting and raging in every direction.


    crossbow boltthunk


    Hrodwulf was already moving, screaming for the oxygen stores to be barricaded and raising his railgun and blasting the elder foreman point-blank in his abdomen, separating that old body into two halves about its thin waist.


    The bedlam was raised and bodies flew around in all directions like haggard spirits finding their escape from temporal chaos. There were screams, yells and all the paraphernalia of nightmare confusion as armature rounds traced deadly arcs into the shuddering tumult.


    Appendages were amputated steaming from twisting bodies, mists red and mortal had conquered the frontage, and, as death came reaping with impunity the people whose skin was the color of deep things, the ground cascaded with raw and sanguineous flows that caught the light in bulbous and engorged shapes.


    The TAF had begun the general slaughter and the Jegorichians, caught by surprise, were just starting to overcome the inertia when Cacliocos ran across their arc of fire and waved his arms frantically.


    stop them


    "Cacliocos! Have you gone mad?" Hrodwulf roared, wheeling towards the Jegorichians, his entire form soaked in the old Bejana''s gore. In his right hand he grasped the younger Bejana''s silken ponytail, the man''s decapitated head hanging and turning lazily and revealing a young face swollen in death. Blood was still spurting in violent and parabolic gouts from the headless body twitching in the wet gravel.


    "They are non-combatants, you fool!" Cacliocos returned, pointing at Belekov who had raised his weapon and seemed primed to joined the killing, catching the Sergeant''s eyes in a gaze so savage the he was forced to lower his weapon.


    They were combatants the moment they turned their weapons upon us!rodwulf


    Norma nodded, her face white as bone, and given her expression it was quite unclear with whom or what she was agreeing with.


    Norma nodded, her face white as bone. Beside her was hollering an Entuban who was engaged in trying to intimidate Hrodwulf and his entourage, his exosuit chestpiece smoking from several bullet-holes courtesy of the Bejana he was trying to protect.


    Ahman

 Chapter 31: Manifest Destiny II

    The terrible massacre did not pause until the ground was littered with corpses and the still-living Bejana had retreated in paroxysmal fits of terror toward their flimsy canvas homes. The streets that snaked between the makeshift homes were streaming with dead and dying things, detritus from the fleeing mass, all of it revealed in Apollo''s divine clarity by a relentless floodlight-white.


    Above them the latticework of rusted ladders set against the rock-face and leading up into the mushroom-structures were crawling with desperate figures. The TAF were shooting at them and bodies were falling like tears to their demise upon the hard ground.


    Cacliocos'' adamant protests were shading into vitriol, and as harsh invectives spewed continually from his mouth the Jegorichians stood by dazedly, their weapons half-raised and their minds unready to join in the killing. Entuban had fallen back amidst the chaos and his form was contorting itself in myriad gestures as he sought to convey his anger or outrage or general confusion at the TAF and their willingness to commit atrocity.


    Stop themthey have overstepped all bounds,Von


    A semblance of stillness descended over that small slice of space, as the TAF and the Jegorichians eyed each other with hostile and fearful eyes. treason


    You know as well as I


    proportional force to achieve limited military objectives


    Some tens of meters from Carrera''s contingent, a Bejana boy who could not have been older than thirteen was running down from the wall of mushroom-structures, snot-nosed and clutching a massive object clothed in velveteen. From the distance Betelgeuse could not tell what the thing was, but it was clear to him at least that the boy was making straight for Carrera and his contingent.


    "It''s a bomb, Chromie, kill him!" Hrodwulf commanded, his rasp resounding through every exosuit.


    "Don''t you dare¡ª" Cacliocos began, and the Bejana youth reached a Messanal caught, hesitating, between the conflicting instructions of his superior officers.


    Time slowed and Betelgeuse, though too far away to discern the expression upon the boy''s face, observed that darkish figure twist and jump and soar through the air down the slope, clutching against his body, as he fell, the object imperfectly wrapped. As he traced a smooth trajectory through the air the velveteen cloth billowed and inverted over the boy''s body, revealing in his arms a spheroid shape which looked very like an oxygen tank.


    Messanal, the veteran CFC leading the troop, had already overcome his knee-jerk response to conflicting instructions. He depressed the trigger of his railgun, sending several shots lancing into the thing hurtling toward him, punching holes that threw up a dark mist into the air, the mist splaying out and becoming momentarily suspended like a grim shroud over that blood-soaked place.


    Then, light.


    An immense conflagration was raised and the ground reverberated with the explosion. Betelgeuse'' teeth clattered painfully together and his vision filled with light. Bits of gravel tinkled against his visor, and the shockwave was so powerful his thoughts were blasted to the back of his mind.


    When the light died down, phantom streaks were imprinted into his vision, and a crater had been created where Messanal and his troop once were. Around its edges and strewn upon the scorched and smoking gravel were a multitude of flensed shapes imitating limbs and half-bodies curled into alien positions.


    Kill them!kill the fucking traitors¡ª


    Retreat they did, under heavy fire. Sound and static was in Betelgeuse'' ears and someone fell beside him. He turned. The boyish-faced Private Mizzarin Asaghar had stumbled and fallen to the floor, and Betelgeuse reached out with his hand, intent on helping Mizzarin back to his feet; there was barely enough time for the man''s tender eyebrows to rise, grateful, when his chest was punched through by an armature-round, causing him to shudder violently as his innards and Incunabulum were perforated and punched out in great chunks.


    Then, his head was disintegrated by a rush of air and metal. Blood and detritus flung from that exposed cranium, spattering Betelgeuse gray-white and red.


    Someone gripped onto his arm and pulled, dragging him violently toward the idling APC-line. He snapped his head around and found Thete Jutson, her teeth gritted and her prosthetic eye flashing. Every muscle in her body was focused on getting the fuck away.


    Betelgeuse pumped his legs in concert with hers, gripping onto her shoulder and blazing across the white-lighted landscape faster than he could ever dream of running. They bucked and tumbled behind an APC as a volley of shots snapped past their heels. Death, barely avoided.


    A second later Entuban limped across them, his right arm shot through and half-separated from the rest of that massive appendage about the forearm.


    "Entuban!" Thete yelled in alarm. Betelgeuse, struggling to regulate his breathing, raised his head to see Douglas, Voke and a pale-faced Edith already covering behind the same APC, all of them winded.


    "Don''t be worrying. We''re strung out here. Need to be getting out," Entuban rumbled through blood-flecked lips, barely fazed by the vicious injury.


    7Q2069PDF


    "Sir, Venna and Julla, they''re still in the support-coy casevac vehicles!" Entuban returned. Voke and Thete were frantically foaming up Entuban''s brutal wound, to limited success. Betelgeuse peeked around the end of the APC and saw that the TAF soldiers had split into two separate contingents, one covering behind the oxygen pile''s barricades, the other in the midst of traversing the frontage and making for cover at a rock pile by the closest of the Bejana tentages.


    With measured breaths Betelgeuse took aim and fired, blasting the head from the shoulders of one of the TAF making across that craggy land.


    That could''ve been someone I knew,


    "Venna, Julla, do you read?" Cacliocos sounded. Static.


    Cacliocos again: "Entuban, not sure if you could receive their transmission, but they said they''re in the last vehicle. I will get them. If we lose comms¡ªyou focus on getting the rest to the APC. Remember, third from the back. If you get there before me, load up and sit tight."


    Kak,


    "Roger that, Staff," Thete replied, nodding. She turned to glance at Edith and indicated that scared expression to Betelgeuse. "Your friend''s not rigged for company comms-link, is she, B.T.?"


    "No, but she will understand," Betelgeuse said, tapping Edith on her visor and motioning over to the other APC. She nodded.


    Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    "Okay, ready on three, two, one¡ª"


    Entuban twisted and snapped off one, two, three shots. Section Five plus Edith hurtled across the space at breakneck speed.


    "Listen to me, Belekov, Von¡­ Thete, Douglas, Voke," he transmitted, grabbing onto Edith as he did so, finding her eyes focused on something distant. She was struggling against him in sporadic bursts, and he kept a firm grasp on her arms.


    informational contentproximity


    Then he turned and saw Entuban no further than ten meters away, making to walk out into the open. As quickly as he could muster he sought for the hold the compulsion had over Entuban and, calling out "Entuban!" to get his attention, ripped it apart.


    all of you


    The impact of Belekov''s chest-piece against his shoulder-pad was swift and savage and more powerful than any strike he had experienced from another human being. Ignoring the pain lancing up his side, Betelgeuse slammed his visor straight into Belekov''s and rammed the Sergeant back several steps. "Snap out of it, you stinking piece of offal! It was the compulsion!"


    The compulsion had already been broken,but his intentionality aligns with Rolf''s. That''s why it took him longer to break out of the lingering effect.


    "What was that?" Cacliocos transmitted, his voice showing a hint of emotion, and as his voice dropped the comms-link filled with a smattering of surprised mutters and loud comments from Entuban and Von.


    Douglas contented himself with slapping Betelgeuse in the back and winking knowingly as their gazes met.


    "Just listen to him. Hate to admit it but he knows what he''s doing," Thete grumbled, glaring warily at the sullen-faced Belekov and digging through her pouches.


    The pins were pulled and they left their grenades resting against the immense tires. The group made for the next APC down the line and as they did so they heard behind them multiple explosions resolving into low rumbles.


    lifted


    "Betelgeuse," Cacliocos voice cut through the static once again, "note the compulsion''s power is affected by proximity."


    "I already know that, sir," Betelgeuse responded, crouching in the shadow of the tilted APC. Voke was before him and gesticulating wildly to Edith.


    "It''s also affected by the user''s affinity and level of mastery. The more targets it has, the weaker it is. If somebody''s caught¡ªyou need to beat those guys over the head."


    "I have a better way, sir," Betelgeuse said, signaling to the others that they should make for the next cover, a rock pile several meters away which Karella and Misha had taken refuge behind, "but it is limited. Anything you can do?"


    "My use of the matrix can keep your intentionalities aligned, effectively countering Hrodwulf. But the problem is visibility and proximity. Keep out of Hrodwulf''s sight as far as possible. Make it difficult to target you."


    pull


    "In three, two, one..."


    twang


    "We''re six o''clock of your APC, sir," Betelgeuse sounded as they reached the rock pile and linked up with Karella and Misha.


    Private Reese, we need to reverse


    Entuban slumped to the ground, spent, his face looking rather blue and unhealthy. The grievous wound to his arm was taking its toll. He managed, despite all that, a raspy, "roger, roger."


    DUS


    As he flitted back into cover a hailstorm of armature-rounds scoured a shallow crater where he had stood. They waited for the enemy fire to die down, and once it did Douglas, Voke and Karella returned their own volley of bullets.


    APC 7Q2069PDF was twenty meters away now and closing in upon them fast. Its whinging engine was loud and rough and Betelgeuse could see Cacliocos within the open back of the troop compartment, staring and motioning at them. He recognized Venna, Julla, Gelam and Smit, all of them beside Cacliocos and flush against the partition-wall separating the driver seat from the troop compartment. Armature-rounds poured from the TAF forces, several glancing off of the front-plating.


    thunk,


    "Hurry up, dammit!" Cacliocos yelled.


    Edith jabbed her elbow into Betelgeuse'' side and, straining under Entuban''s weight, jutted her chin at the rock pile beside them, her eyes filling with fear.


    Danger?Incunabulum-gifted sensitivity to violence


    get up, quickly!


    7Q2069PDF accelerate, accelerate


    Betelgeuse righted himself and struggled valiantly to climb over the tangle of bodies, making toward the front-aperture and Cacliocos; through the windshield he could see the light dim and pass into hues that were green and blue, and then disappear entirely.

 Chapter 32: From Darkness to Darkness, From Guilt to Guilt, Into the City of Dreams

    There was no other choice. Oxygen had to be rationed.


    Some hours into their chartless journey Cacliocos had ordered the purple compartment light to be turned off, to conserve fuel. The decision was made to set the APC''s oxygen regulators to 19% oxygen concentration, and given this it was suggested of the survivors of Jegorich First that they should sleep in order to reduce oxygen consumption.


    So exhausted were they that the entire troop were consigned to dreamland not ten minutes after the suggestion was made (some like Douglas in fact falling asleep the moment the lights went out). The contingent''s helmets were lined up into two neat rows down the middle of the troop compartment, and before long the space was filled with snores.


    In the end only Cacliocos and Betelgeuse and Corporal Jackson, who had taken over driving duties from the now-snoozing Private Reese, remained awake.


    No, it appeared that the woman, Misha Kern, was also awake. Betelgeuse observed her from the front end of the APC and found that she was sobbing soundlessly, her body sheathed in a strange and otherworldly aura.


    Betelgeuse shook his head. Nothing but sorrow and phantom reminiscences. Misha''s face was in her hands, and her form was shuddering. There was nothing else to it. The mind makes of life every special thing.


    "I don''t know if we can make it," whispered Cacliocos.


    "We have about nine hours. Ten if we really push it," Betelgeuse said. They were flying blind without comms. It was a calculated gamble, attempting to traverse the north-northeast tunnels. But then it was either do something or die. No use in worrying too much about it, was his view.


    "In the end, nothing mattered," Cacliocos said, and his dark eyes sat wide open within their sockets, their pupils reflecting numbness and emptiness and every little regret he had. Betelgeuse hadn''t seen him blink for a long time, as if his eyelids had been glued to his brows.


    "You say that like our deaths are predetermined," Betelgeuse returned. "Hrodwulf and the rest of them haven''t bothered to come after us. That gives us a better chance."


    "It''s pointless."


    "It gives us a better chance of survival. We need to look on the bright side."


    "I said it''s pointless. Maybe he knows we''re already dead. Maybe it doesn''t really matter," Cacliocos said. He stared staunchly out the windshield at nothing, deliberately avoiding Betelgeuse'' gaze. His lineaments were split into penumbras and shaded from gray to black and haunted by things unsaid and unsayable.


    "Sir," Betelgeuse said, placing a hand on Cacliocos'' shoulder. Seeing that the officer did not refuse the connection, indeed did not so much as show any reaction, he continued, "we''ve cast the die. We can''t jump to conclusions before it''s finished rolling."


    "Is that what passes for a truism on Earth?"


    "For a good number of people, probably. I guess I''m just looking at the kind of mindset that''s most likely to see us through this."


    "Very disingenuous," Cacliocos returned, tensing his jaw muscles.


    "It''s called being pragmatic."


    "It''s calledbeing calculative. There''s something about Earthians that makes everything about outcomes. I know how you people work, and I confess I hate everything about it."


    "Hrnh. You seem to think we''re all the same¡­ but you will be surprised at how different we can be. Just like Desert, there are many peoples, many tribes. You mentioned outcomes¡ªwell, most children of Earth learn that before the Old Empire, before humans had splintered across the galaxy¡­ they learn that duty and obligations were as important as outcomes, sometimes more important, and in any case no decision was made unassailable by virtue of its outcomes or purported outcomes alone. How to say it¡­ they''re just another factor we take into account."


    Confusion. Talking over each other. It''s what he''s thinking. I can''t help it.


    "... What¡­ It''s not what I''m talking about. I''m not like you. I think there is good and evil. I will not kill indiscriminately if I can help it." Shades heavy with bitterness and indignation were encroaching upon Cacliocos'' expression, and as he turned to regard Betelgeuse his eyes were brimming with wetness and deep sorrow.


    "Sir, if you believe that¡­" Betelgeuse said, wondering where to begin. The accusation leveled by Cacliocos felt to him misguided to an almost repugnant degree, and Betelgeuse wondered briefly if he should bring up for debate the instances of Jegorichians betraying Jegorichians he had personally experiencedover the span of the last forty-eight hours. Major Storr and LTC Pilix proved Jegorichians were not so different from Earthlings as Cacliocos would like to think. But the man was venting. It was understandable.


    "... You see Voke there," Betelgeuse pointed. Voke was breathing lightly and leaning on Thete''s snoring form to his left. "Voke Thatcher probably believes in the notion to a far greater extent than anyone I have ever known. And he knows the idea of good and evil is complex, and that it is mediated by survival. Outcomes are baked into good and evil. Voke is a true believer in God and his good and evil¡ªdo you know how rare that is?"


    ''Do not draw unjustified and invidious distinctions between us,'' was what one said and the other understood.


    Cacliocos remained silent. Neither of them were willing to break the connection, their eyes finding in each other an intimacy that both had rarely before felt.


    "It is true¡­" Cacliocos managed after several seconds, "... how rare it is to find someone believing in Ahman, believing with sincerity, in this day in age. But I do not know Voke Thatcher." Some of the fire had receded from Cacliocos'' eyes, and what remained was a mortal sadness.


    "I know him. As his¡­"¡ªWhat is he to me, really?¡ª"... as his friend, I can vouch for his never contemplating, as you describe, indiscriminate killing. I doubt any of us in Section Five have."


    Another window of silence interspersed, and phantom shapes assailed Betelgeuse. ''Is he really a friend?'' he second-guessed himself, suddenly thinking how much Voke resembled Frederica. Something about their characters felt cut from the same cloth.


    Cacliocos leaned forward through the front aperture to exchange several muttered words with Corporal Jackson, before pulling the aperture-shutters closed with a dull thud, plunging the troop compartment into pitch-black darkness.


    They spent several moments like this, bathed in the snores of their compatriots, when Cacliocos whispered again, his voice faltering. The sound of the man''s rare outpouring of expressivity felt closer to Betelgeuse than he would have thought.


    "So many things have happened. I am not sure I am equal to it. The enormity of what I have done."


    "... What is it you think you have done?"


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    "I murdered that Private. Private Joy, he said his name was. We needed to retreat, but I had to ensure there was no chance they could pin the breach of a direct order on us. We couldn''t afford more demerits."


    "It was a decision you had to make. What if Sergeant Khvalynsky had survived?"


    "He didn''t. There was no point. They all died anyway. I betrayed him. He thought we were on the same side and I murdered him for nothing."


    Betelgeuse blinked against the darkness, finding it had coalesced into massy protuberances that inflamed his imagination.


    "We make decisions that manage our risk. It is in the nature of risk to do so."


    "... I failed to prevent the killing of the Bejana. And¡­ I caused the deaths of¡­ I don''t know what to call them anymore. The TAF. Allies. Enemies. By extension I caused also the death of Asaghar. The deaths of Nano and Callagessa. The deaths of everyone here, it is becoming clearer by the second. All my efforts came to nothing."


    "Perhaps," Betelgeuse said, curling his lip. What was the point in talking further about it? Their frameworks were different, as far apart as certainty and risk.


    And yet they were very close, Betelgeuse and Cacliocos.


    "Their deaths weigh heavy on me. But¡­ it is right? It is right, maybe. For me to bear the burdens of my conscience."


    Betelgeuse imagined there was guilt hidden in those eyes, but it was too dark for him to be sure. Cacliocos'' words were dripping with it. Guilt.


    Betelgeuse didn''t feel guilty much. It was a faraway concept with little bearing on his actions. Should he feel guilty, perhaps, for having killed Strionis? Lawrence? Storr?


    ''Guilt is the luxury of those lineages for whom survival has been easy,'' his father once said, and Betelgeuse always wondered about the particular experiences his father had codified in that aphorism. So it was that Betelgeuse had always held guilt in contempt. But after everything that happened¡­ somehow Betelgeuse couldn''t believe that people really thought as if they were lineages. They thought as individuals, even buffeted as they were by geologic shifts in cultural thought. This survivor''s guilt that was overbearing Cacliocos, then¡ªwas it something to disparage?


    "It depends on what you can live with," Betelgeuse said.


    "What I can live with?" Cacliocos echoed vacantly, his figure turning in the darkness, and Betelgeuse thought he had perhaps turned to face Misha, the woman having by now retired into stillness. "I could live with it, if all of us made it back alive. I did it because I couldn''t live with their deaths. Danya. Eayn. Bader. My¡­ my brother," Cacliocos'' voice cracked at this, and he broke off, hyperventilating for barely two seconds before he was able to arrest the violent egress of breaths. "... My brother. Maknon. He would have known what to do. Eternal rest grant untold Maknon Cacliocos, great Ahman, and let your perpetual light shine upon him¡­" Cacliocos trailed off, as if unsure how to continue.


    The elapse of seconds was punctuated by bumps and lurches. Betelgeuse felt that a universe of things was happening within Cacliocos'' mind.


    When he began speaking again his words were hoarse and raspy: "... All of them, all sacrificed¡­ for whatexactly I do not know. I couldn''t have it happen again. But somehow¡­"


    But somehow it did, was his meaning.


    "¡­ Cacliocos sir, I know very little of your life outside all of this," Betelgeuse managed, raising his hand and turning his open palm clockwise as if trying to encapsulate whatthis was, even though he knew the darkness obscured his meaning. "But I do know you have commanded us with integrity, and I think that''s all you can ask for. It''s too much to think we should all be able to go home. It''s too greedy to think we all have a right to live."


    "It tells me nothing of what should have happened and of what is going to happen."


    "What, do you really think you have control? You know most of us are still alive since you''ve taken command. Not a small feat considering what we''ve been through. We''re already ahead of ninety percent of those that that were dispatched on this failed operation, just by being alive. Forgive my language, but you really have to stop fucking around¡ªwe still have nine hours left to live."


    Somebody, probably Entuban, shifted in the darkness and bumped into the side of the APC chassis, causing the space to reverberate dully. Someone else''s breath hitched, then smoothed over and melted away into the undercurrent of snores.


    "I didn''t want anyone to die," Cacliocos was saying, his voice getting lower and softer and somehow more wracked by grief. "I don''t want anyone to die."


    Betelgeuse sensed bodies shifting in the darkness, and he pressed his lips into a hard line, wondering if any of the others were eavesdropping.


    <hr>


    They continued through that abyssal wasteland, crossing over carpets of crags and passing between shadowy promontories and fording shallow lakes of octane.


    The other Saltillan, Private Reese, had taken over driving duty, his deepset eyes never moving far from a singular point somewhere far into the claustrophobic darkness. Cacliocos had told Betelgeuse they would take turns looking over the shoulder of the driver, for what purpose Betelgeuse could only guess at; so there Betelgeuse was, scrutinizing the driver''s faint reflection as if it were a grim aspect of his own mortality, Cacliocos slumped over himself less than a meter away.


    Tap. Tap.


    Private Reese was indicating with his finger the oxygen percentage reading on the terminal.


    18.9%


    The regulators are unable to efficiently maintain 19% oxygen concentration.


    Betelgeuse nodded but remained silent. Over the past few hours the condition of his lungs had deteriorated to the point where his breaths would hitch every few seconds; it was everything he could do to maintain a veneer of self-possession.


    Private Reese glanced at him, his lineaments carved with exhaustion, his eyes simmering with a bitterness older than he. Corporal Jackson was awake now, too, and he joined the conversation of fraught looks.


    A dire thing must have passed between Cacliocos and the Saltillans, Betelgeuse realized, and there under the pressure of death old enmities were ready to trade, regardless of threat.


    But the day had gone on long enough. Their chance of surviving was diminishing quickly; if they lived, they would live by the skin of their teeth. There was no way they could afford any disturbance.


    The APC bumped and Private Reese returned his attention to the endless road of rock framed by tenebrous gloom. Corporal Jackson remained unnaturally still, staring with mysterious intent at Betelgeuse. If Edith were awake he imagined she would tell him that violence was on Corporal Jackson''s mind.


    Betelgeuse placed his hands on their shoulders, Corporal Jackson to his left, Private Reese to his right, and he lowered his eyes, telling them softly that he was no Jegorichian.


    Corporal Jackson muttered his invectives, and Betelgeuse repeated that he was no Jegorichian, that he hailed from Earth, and that they would reach safety soon, if only they would keep driving.


    Time is running out. We''re all going to die, Corporal Jackson said, the resentment palpable in his voice and demeanor.


    Time hasn''t run out yet. Our chances are lower if you don''t believe it''s possible. That it''s possible we survive. What do you have to lose? Betelgeuse kept his hands on their shoulders, and he squeezed gently, hoping that it would be interpreted as an act of friendship.


    It''s that Cacos'' fault¡ªhow do we know he''s not the traitor? Private Reese scoffed.


    Cacliocos is no traitor. I can personally vouch for it, Betelgeuse said; but in the circumstances he saw expressions ranging from indignation to anger flash across Corporal Jackson''s face, and a sense that he was losing control of the situation dawned with the curious experience of the sharpness of Jackson''s intentionality pricking at his brain.


    You''re nothing more than his lackey. Damned choolie shit-rimmer, Corporal Jackson was growling, becoming violent. I''ll not let you pull the hood over my eyes.


    Betelgeuse found it interesting that he could feel it. He could feel Jackson''s emotions through his fingertips. Or maybe it was an artifact of his brain; but he could feel it almost like any other emotion he felt. Jackson¡ªthe man an agglomeration of fear and anger and hate all bundled up in a thick exhaustion¡ªwas separated from him by an abstract membrane which allowed information to flow one way only: from Jackson to Betelgeuse.


    And with this realization came the intent to control. Jackson was shifting and looked to be grabbing something by his side, and Reese kept himself locked into the world beyond the windshield, his face stern and emotionless as the terrain he was guiding the APC across.


    No. I am not anyone''s lackey. I want to survive, and you will survive with me. Everyone here will survive. That is all that we can hope to do.


    The Incunabula secreted into the inner chest-pouch of his exosuit and pressed against his chest hummed. They hummed with a power that exhilarated and cleansed his shell-shocked mind, his war-blasted perceptions. There were two of them, one his and one Frederica''s, and both of them reacted to his intentionality with a keen vibration. The bodies of Reese and Jackson were vibrating as well, their forms buzzing under the palms of his hand, and the dark resonance was conjoined to his intentionality and then made to warp according to his will. There was a relationship of control, imperfectly established.


    Silence. The silence of the grave.


    I¡­ I don''t know what came over me, Corporal Jackson breathed, the fire in his eyes supplanted by confusion. You¡­ forgive me, forgive me. We will survive this together. Sir.


    No. Not sir. You will call me Betelgeuse.


    Yes¡­ Yes, Betelgeuse.

 Chapter 33: The Writing on the Wall was Daubed in Neon

    By the time they returned to Saltilla the claustrophobia gripping Marja Mentzer''s heart had already built to an unbearable degree. Be that as it may, she gave it several kilometers after their command-humvee left Vehicle-Decontamination before instructing that the topside hatch be opened; and she climbed the hatch-ladder and closed her eyes and thrust her head out into the warm and equatorial afternoon, feeling artificial winds caress the skin of her cheeks and making of it enough relief to arrest the involuntary trembling in her hands.


    She opened her eyes and found herself in the midst of a permanent summer. The squeak and clangor of the vehicle chassis trundling down the thoroughfare made a jarring bassline to her shallow breaths.


    The main road ahead was cordoned off in sections by barricades striped red and white and thronging with beefy policemen decked out in riot gear. They were all of them brandishing angular stun-guns, the policemen, and their weapons emitted droning buzzes which overlapped in an ominous soundscape that reminded her of swarms of swelling, chittering, hornet-like things. The sounds of apocalypse, according to the passing knowledge of Theli''s eschatology bequeathed her by Mother.


    She squinted her eyes under the yellow glare, scrutinizing the ranks of police deployed before the movement column and finding that they were plated in heavy-duty blacksteel and thick kevlar padding, their armor chitinous and vaguely reflective of the Saltillan sun, as if they were cockroaches the size of men. She''d heard such things actually existed, man-cockroaches, and that they thrived on those farflung planets the Democracy had designated nuclear armaments testing-sites.


    Marja permitted her brows to knit, wondering about the need for such a heavy police presence. She closed her eyes again. Behind her were chugging and clanking and rumbling the machines of war newly returned from battle, their treads crunching crispily into the asphalt beside the buzzing cockroach sentinels.


    The noises coalesced into one and seemed to calm and disconcert her at the same time.


    "You okay there?"


    Jirani''s voice filtered up from the v-com seat, and she looked down through the hatch and nodded, affording those furrowing sable brows a wan smile. The skin of his scalp by the front, bald portion of his head was several shades lighter than the rest of his face, and Marja found it glinting sallowly at her from the crepuscular interior of the vehicle. The white hair growing out of a semicircular patch on the back half of his scalp stuck out in messy tufts, as it always did after a bad night of sleep.


    "They have the police out in force today," Marja remarked.


    "Most likely for civilian control, although this wasn''t included in the morning brief," Jirani said, pressing his lips tightly together.


    "You''d think they would turn down the lights¡­" Marja said, trailing off, raising her head to squint at the sun. Maybe if she let enough light stream into her brain through her eyeballs the cobwebs in there might clear.


    slow down here


    The humvee slowed to a walking pace, and as they passed a group of policemen, Jirani cranked the side-window down with jerky, pseudo-circular movements and rested his bare elbow upon the sill just below his cotton sleeve. Marja, her exosuited torso still extended halfway out of the topside hatch, leaned forward to position her own padded elbows upon the roof of the humvee and then her face upon her gloved hands.


    "Walk with me, officer, I need to ask you something," he motioned toward the closest of the stun-gun-toting contingent.


    The tannish face behind the visor scrunched up in surprise, then hardened into impassivity within the second, his eyes passing over Jirani''s shoulder-epaulet where three scepters were laced in gold-thread and recognizing that this was a TAF-Colonel he was speaking with.


    Quite disciplined,theyOh well, if we can''t even do this¡­


    "How can I help, sir?" the man said, canted nostrils flaring. A broad and flattish nose centered his strong features, and the skin of his cheeks was brown by the Saltillan afternoon. His gait was measured and feline beside the plodding crunch of their humvee.


    "Why so many of you out here today?" Jirani asked, pointing forward for emphasis.


    "Executive order by Home Affairs, sir, promulgated early this morning."


    "An executive order?" Jirani echoed, glancing at Marja who was just in the midst of shambling down the hatch-ladder. "City-state-level or federal-level?"


    "It was¡­ ah¡­" the man stammered, suddenly looking unsure of himself. "Hold on, let me check with my Sergeant."


    "Yes, please do so," Jirani said, turning back to the road. They were almost upon the first row of barricades, and as they came before it a team of policemen dragged the masses of colored impact-resistant steel-reinforced polyethylene aside to make way.


    Yes, it''s a TAF-Colonel, Sarge, asking whether it''s city-state-level or federal-level. Understood. Understood, sir,


    "Commander," the man addressed Jirani, greater deference evident in his tone, "the order is Saltilla-specific. It was signed off by Mayor Grimmersby."


    "City-state-level, then," volunteered Marja, throwing her voice from the passenger seat behind.


    "But the order originated from Home Affairs, you said? If I remember correctly, it''s under that Apparatchik. Apparatchik Kroder," Jirani clarified.


    Bilal Kradir


    "Ah, yes."


    "¡ªThat''s at the federal level. This particular order is specific to Saltilla, and comes under the purview of Underapparatchik Tenton Jorges-Ross. He leads the Saltillan Department of Home Affairs."


    "Noted. That is quite clear," Jirani nodded, waving his hand with affected nonchalance. "And the stated rationale of this executive order?"


    Gimma Ashby


    "Why?" Jirani pressed.


    "I''m not privy to that, commander¡­" the man said, bowing his head deeply so that his apology seemed sincere.


    "That''s fine. As you were."


    Jirani cranked the tinted windows up again, and once it thumped shut the dim silence reasserted itself. The humvee''s engines vibrated as the vehicle accelerated slowly. Ahead of them groups of policemen were heaving with exertion and hauling away more of the barricades at speed.


    cells FafasAbuna Yem''ataFafasbreathing through the tip of your nosecirculating air in a circlemaintaining a slow and constant rate of flow of airFafasFafas


    Impressive stamina,


    The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Jirani instructed the driver to slow down, and the man slowed to a comfortable trot. Jirani cranked the window down again.


    The man was speaking even before the window had fully retracted: "¡ªI''m sorry, commander, comms from Marshal Grimmersby. There''s an urgent meeting currently underway, and he''s requesting that you and Deputy Marshal Mentzer attend¡ªhe says to take the tunnel into the Underground. A military train will convey you toward the Vines."


    "The hell izzat? Why not the Government House?" Jirani snapped, narrowing his eyes. Seeing the man cringe reflexively and lower his head, Jirani added, in a gentler tone of voice: "Where is this Vines?"


    "It''s i-in Saltilla''s southern quadrant, commander. I''m not privy to the specific reason for the venue," the man managed, stammering slightly, his tone apologetic in the extreme, "but I was told it is a more secure location."


    "Then the rest of the contingent?" Jirani questioned, thumbing behind him toward the trundling column. "The Marshal knows we''re supposed to take strength and manage the post-op, I hope."


    "Instructions are that the Allied Forces will proceed toward the Barracks for admin, and that one Captain Crowley will take over¡ª"


    "No way that is happening. The damn fool wouldn''t know if half the contingent was MIA. Private Kiristiaan," Jirani addressed the driver beside him, indicating to the comms-panel fitted into the dashboard, "you get the good Marshal on the line right now."


    "Yes, commander."


    It was several seconds of fiddling with the humvee-comms and authenticating his identity, before the comms personnel on the other side let Private Kiristiaan through. The policeman continued walking beside them, unsure whether he had been dismissed, but unwilling to move away in the absence of any indication to the contrary.


    Private Kristiaan motioned toward the dashboard, nodding to emphasize that the comms-link had been established. Digging a finger into his right ear to stem the irritating scratch of static against his tympanum, Jirani called out: "Colonel Jirani Mzeeka speaking. I have Marshal Grimmersby on the line?"


    "Commander. It is good to hear you. Yes, it is Marshal Phyllis Grimmersby¡ªI trust you have been apprised of the meeting?"


    "Marshal. Captain Crowley cannot be the one to manage post-op admin. I must request you dispatch one of your generals to take strength at the Barracks. Someone that can be trusted," Jirani said, wasting no time with the pleasantries.


    "... I am happy to do so, commander¡­ I will send Major-General Goggins. He''s better than most."


    "Goggins? You have a War Apparatchik, Saul Goggins, I had been briefed," Jirani stated, scrunching his cheeks so that his crow''s feet ran like deep troughs and so far they intruded upon his temples. There were things written into his wrinkles, Marja thought, sitting there diagonally from Jirani and watching him converse with the Saltillans, strange and slanted wisdoms that were never straightforward to parse.


    "They are related, commander," Marshal Grimmersby said.


    "More than obvious," Marja muttered, and Jirani shot her a sly smile.


    "Well, send Major-General Goggins down. I want the muster report sent to me by twelve hundred hours tomorrow."


    "Understood, commander. Will you be attending the meeting?"


    "Yes, yes. I must ask, why not at the Government House, like before?"


    Gimma Ashby


    Gimma Ashby.


    "Anything else I can clarify?" Marshal Grimmersby transmitted, and Marja sensed in his tone a poorly concealed irritation. ''Perhaps he hated playing butler to the Democracy,'' she thought.


    "No."


    "We''ll see you soon, commander."


    The comms-link was cut. Jirani turned his head to find the policeman still trodding steadily beside them, his breathing smooth and not the least bit off-kilter. They had gone some way at a mere six kilometers per hour, and looked to be reaching the exit to the Barracks up ahead. Looming above them in the distance were the darkish Saltillan columns, overlapping like strip curtains and wavering in the artificial heat.


    "Still here?" Jirani inquired.


    "I''m sorry, commander¡ªthe maintenance shaft run-off will be made accessible on the left and you can proceed down to the Underground," the policeman bowed his head yet again.


    Jirani waved the man away with a flick of his wrist.


    <hr>


    They took the left turn into what looked like a cul-de-sac that was no longer than two hundred meters. Beyond that was Saltilla''s Cropland, acres upon acres of cornfields dotted with low-rise greenhouses placed equidistant to each other, the transparent panes catching the gleam of the Saltillan sunshine and reflecting bright spangles into Marja''s eyes. Ears of corn sprouting, it appeared, from darkened soil and taller than the maize stalks themselves. Ears of corn with small silks and swollen with golden-red seeds peeking out from scanty husks. Fields teeming with them, food to feed millions upon millions of souls. ''Food to feed lives brimming with untold potentialities,'' and Marja pondered whether it was right that all of it was to be swallowed by the Democracy.


    One moment they were rumbling overland and looking as if they were about to crush into the forest of corn, and the next the road descended, and they were flung, shuddering, into a tunnel of pitch-black darkness.


    And Marja groped with her eyes for purchase in the darkness, strained herself to see, until she felt that she could discern the smooth tessellations of the wall-tiling, see the glossy textures brighten steadily until that curvature reflected a warm glow that suffused the closed, spiral space.


    She could feel the gravity pull them downwards, the rough trill of the humvee engine whining diminuendo and crescendo in alternating pattern until the respective undulations became lost in soft burbling and indistinct by the brightening environment.


    They were traversing a flat section of the tunnel when shortly they found themselves looking at what appeared to be a dead-end.


    No, it was a shutter of solid steel outlined in stripes of yellow and black, and as they came into proximity it juddered open in fits, scraping against a rusted portion of pulley straining somewhere in the bowels of that place.


    Harsh, piercing streams of white canted into the mellow dimness from beyond the shutter, and then they crossed through the glaring curtain of light and found themselves there, trundling across an underground square dotted with policemen and a few ranging individuals, the uttermost geometries of which could not properly be discerned through the serried rows of limbed, mechanical devices. It was an army of headless and vaguely humanoid robota, and it inflamed her imagination.


    See there Autonomous Augmentation Suits


    But¡­ the Jegorich First Brigade¡­ gone, just like that. All of them dead. Colonel Bincollan, LTC Brexar¡ªtheir anger is understandable.


    They went on, humming their way into another stretch of claustrophobic tunnel.


    The phantoms renewed their attack, and Marja could not help thinking and brooding. Wide-ranging abuse of the compulsion matrix was common, and heavy casualties had been sustained, it appeared, from ''internal complications''¡ªalmost as many as had been killed outright by the enemy. There were raging inter-ethnic politics, myriad reports of insubordination amongst the Saltillan Division, and whole brigades gone to dust chasing nothing but a few rogue officers¡¯ attempts at self-aggrandizement and credit-exchangeable merit.


    less than nothing¡ª


    Too much tendency to be affected by others¡¯ appraisal of your worth,


    The width of the tunnel started to widen and before long Marja found the vehicle halted before a wide and flaring flight of stairs leading up to the entrance of ''Hydrax Station''¡ªthe sign emblazoned across a stone lintel and so garishly lit it resembled the neon signs on ancient Earth. They exited the humvee, leaving their weapons behind as per SOP and exited the humvee with instructions to Private Kiristiaan to return to Barracks and join the strength-taking.


    Jirani climbed the flight of stairs two steps at a time, his agility belying his age. Flushing her troubles to the back of her mind, Marja followed on his heels, scampering through a cavernous and deserted vestibule awash with more of that horrendous white light and passing into a place bounded at the opposite end by a short and a long side.


    About the short side leaned a section of Saltillan policemen against a steel-colored ledge, their jabbers and chortles echoing across the vaulted ceiling of craggy stone that pressed down upon them in bulbous swells. They straightened as they saw Jirani''s form stalk sternly before them, raising their stun-guns to ready position, and as he passed under a beam of light Marja saw their eyes widen in recognition of his rank. They tilted their wrists so that the underside of their weapons faced toward Jirani, keeping in the universal salute-with-arms position until Jirani had snapped off a return salute. They did not salute Marja because by then the two had passed far beyond their vicinity.


    At the long-side of the space the train with two carriages was already waiting. It was a sleek construct of curving chrome, and the doors to one of its carriages lay open and flanked by two corporals dressed in green PDF uniform.


    They saluted crisply as Jirani passed, and the old Colonel snapped off the return salute without looking in their direction. Then they saluted Marja.


    She fumbled the return salute and felt her cheeks redden in embarrassment, and suddenly the pounding echoes of her exosuit boots seemed very loud in her ears, bouncing from shuttered storefront to shuttered storefront and ricocheting through the empty station.


    Marja tried not to look at the corporals as she stepped into the mellow-lighted train carriage¡ªlittle more than a metal box¡ªfitted haphazardly with canvas chairs.


    To one end of the carriage stood four armed PDF personnel, railguns slung over their shoulders. A man entirely dressed in khaki was sitting in one of the canvas chairs and he took to his feet on Jirani''s entrance, extending his hand and proffering a handshake.


    "Koval Moore. Director, Intelligence."

 Chapter 34: Damned if you Do, Damned if you Dont

    "Koval Moore. Director, Intelligence Bureau."


    The man had sharp features, his skin tanned to Saltillan standards. He was dressed from head to toe in yellowish khaki and heeled in rugged brown moccasins and balding in a wide and conspicuous strip starting from the crown down the middle of his head.


    "Well met," Jirani said, accepting the extended hand with his own powerful grip and affording a grim smile.


    "Well met¡­ to you too, Commander Mzeeka," Koval nodded emotionlessly. His face looked frozen into ennui, and when his mouth moved none of the other muscles in his face moved with it, and the look was uncanny and unnatural enough for Marja to wonder if Koval suffered from some paralysis of the maxillofacial muscles.


    The spymasterLebensraum His ace doesn''t fit anyone I know,


    "And to you, Deputy Marshall ma''am," Koval said, taking her limp hand in his.


    "The pleasure is all mine," she said, pressing her lips together. Handshakes had never been her strong suit.


    "Please," Koval motioned for them to take their seats, and even before their weight could settle completely into the canvas chairs the carriage doors closed with a resounding boom and a high-powered hum crescendoed and then melted away into the background.


    s the balance of one or two of the corporals was suddenly compromised


    yes, sir!


    "I am meant to courier you to the Vines up in the southern quadrant," Koval said, turning back to regard Jirani beside him once the carriage door had closed. As he said this he looked straight into Jirani''s eyes and never once wavered in his intonation, and there was such a regular canter to his speech that Marja wondered if the earphone he wore was relaying the tick of a metronome.


    person


    Marja glanced at Jirani, making sure to keep her expression straight but all the while worrying if Jirani was perhaps not committing a social gaffe by being so forward.


    But Koval seemed not to have taken offense (not that it was possible to discern anything from the man''s barren countenance), instead suggesting that "you can make your thanks known to the host of the meeting you will be attending shortly. Such secure measures are necessary anyway. You will by now have heard of the terrorist group."


    Gimma Ashby¡ª


    "That is not surprising. They have been a small group until some of their recent posts gained traction on the Protectorate-Intraweb, so I will doubt if there has been adequate time to prepare a comprehensive Infomentary; but I will say that their terroristic quality is quite evident," Koval said, leaning forward so that he could lock down Marja''s gaze with his own.


    "How so?" Marja inquired, matching Koval staredown for staredown.


    Gimma Ashby


    "You''ve made your point," Jirani returned, shifting his weight. Marja stared out the small windowpane, thinking suddenly that the train ride felt smooth as butter¡ªshe supposed it utilized maglev technology.


    "But are they popular at all? Every society has its fringe group," Marja remarked, unwilling to break eye contact. "Even in population-centers like Saltilla which rely heavily on mass-compulsion-matrices to smooth out tensions¡­ that has been the experience, that such fringe groups exist, but I imagine such groups are cut off from any real uptake."


    Why do you have to do this?


    precisely


    "Director Moore couldn''t be more right," Jirani felt it necessary to add, taking on the tone of a teacher, a tone of voice she recognized from her youth. Marja rolled her eyes.


    "You''d do well to listen, Marja. I should add that, in a place as filled with tension as Saltilla¡ªwhat with the conflict between Jegorich and Saltilla and the internal unhappiness surrounding the ''wealth gap'' between rich and poor Saltillans¡ªthe liberal use of mass-compulsion-matrices are unavoidable. Saltilla is between a rock and a hard place," Jirani explained. "Can''t live without a ton of compulsion, can''t live with too much of it."


    Koval turned to look at Jirani, finally breaking eye contact with Marja, and she took the opportunity to blink. She had won the staredown, but suddenly she felt how foolish it was to make a competition out of such trifling things.


    Gimma Ashby


    "What is that, the Agave?" Marja asked, shooting a glance at Jirani. That old man scrunched up his fatless cheeks like he had just stifled a yawn and seemed to be melting lazily into his chair, and otherwise continued staring blankly into the windowed dark before them.


    The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    "It is what we call our shopping district. The Agave protests took us by surprise and you can be sure it made some waves. We''ve had to use plainclothes Jegorichians to monitor that place ever since, since we couldn''t confirm the mental profiles of the Saltillan Police''s troopers within the appropriate margin of error."


    "That''s fine then. It''s clear they are a problem," Marja nodded, unsure of how to continue. Koval stared at her but otherwise did not reply.


    She observed Jirani''s slump and, though his expression betrayed nothing, knew he was already barely listening. She thought of raising the issue of high rates of insubordination amongst the Saltillan Division, but, finding that it would amount to airing her grievances in an inappropriate forum, thought better of it.


    As such, she settled on staring out the front window, watching the occasional light shoot by on the outside and hearing the rush of wind cut against their transport from out of dark nothings. And she was glad that Koval remained silent and sphinx-like through all that, even as he made a point of watching her closely throughout that journey.


    <hr>


    They alighted and once they bid a terse farewell to Director Koval Moore they were led by a tiny, uniformed man through a lobby whose only similarity with Hydrax Station was the fact that it was deserted. Terumpet Station was expansive and garishly colored for all that, and its lobby space was hung with parti-colored pennants and carpeted in navy and beige finery. And as they funneled into a long tunnel-like chamber, they found every inch of the place covered in advertisements¡ªnot the dry, facetious touts which took up wallspace in the shopping district, but tasteful advertisements that stood out for artistry and effort and luxury and eye-catching opulence.


    SESCaturdharaperfect feelings, perfect formsaltered-consciousness-on-demand


    LLE''sreflectingCheetra AI-TableauxCheetrais the companion to tide you over bad times and to share in your good times. A True Friend, a True Companion, a Lover for You. Special.


    Along the portside wall leading up to the entrance was a wood-colored bas-relief depicting a snippet of harmonious Saltillan life shuttered between its glorious obelisks: thickly muscled babushkas with smiles on their face, helmeted with hardhats bearing the ''N'' of Ninsei and pushing trolleys brimming with Ninsei survival paraphernalia; lines of women, young because they were lithe, their heads bound in kerchiefs and their sleeves rolled up suggestively and their hands bearing knives and other artifacts of war, their lineaments scrunching together N-like; young men with turgid faces frozen mid-mirth and armed with biceps of incredible size, the ranks of men overlapping and straining agains their clothes amidst cross-sections of Ninsei munitions factories; Saltillan men of war leaving the warmth of the city and fording out into the Desert darkness in sleeveless vests, their striated forearms tangled up in straps and slings of weapons hidden behind their girthy forms.


    Exquisite make. There are stylistic details to make a master weep.


    The bas-relief was protected behind a panel of tempered glass and, as Marja tramped past¡ªscrutinizing it, admiring it¡ªshe found the material reminiscent of fine oak. As she ran her eyes across its lacquered surface she found discoloration where she supposed a knot had been and speculated absentmindedly at the prohibitive cost of importing such a marvelous piece of wood across half the galaxy.


    They reached the end of the bas-relief where the soldiers were leaving the gate, and there Marja found a copper-colored attribution panel fitted into the wall. On it was stamped the following words: ''NINSEI DESERT INDUSTRIES LLE'', as if it weren''t clear enough who the sponsor of the piece was. And under it a separate line read: ''Hand-carved by Basset Morning-Hughes''.


    As the three of them¡ªJirani, Marja, and their diminutive guide¡ªpushed out Terumpet Station''s revolving door, they saw in that tunnel-space, furnished with holograms and suffused by warm, orange light, orderly rows of well-heeled citizens bedecked in fine clothes and idling on their floating holo-scooters, the affluents mumbling amongst themselves and casting side-long glances at them.


    ... South loop shuttle services will resume shortly. The train bound for Noon Quadrangle will arrive in three minutes. The train bound for Shukrich Airport will arrive in two minutes. We apologize for any inconvenience caused. ¡­


    At the foot of the staircase they turned rightwise into a solid face of rock, a rectangular portion of which outlined and then opened with a swipe of the guide''s matte-black access card across a hidden terminal; then it was down a long and meandering hallway beaten down by white OLEDs hanging two meters above their heads, the hallway bending left and right and ending in a circular lift lobby.


    beauty


    "That is being the Underground Bazaar," was what the guide told them, pointing with two fingers at the scene, explaining that it usually wasn''t so crowded before the dinner hour, speculating airily that the temporary suspension of the south loop train service had, most likely, contributed to this flash of premature consumption.


    "Isn''t there a war happening?" Marja asked out loud, her brows squeezing together and her tone implying disparagement. She brought her face close to the elevator''s transparent siding to better continue her voyeuristic expedition.


    "It is not the place," Jirani interjected, clasping his hands behind him and cutting short the conversation. Fighting the urge to let fly a snarky comment, Marja settled back coolly onto her heels.


    They watched in silence as the lift accelerated upward, and Marja felt her quadriceps tense against her body''s inertia. Then the Underground Bazaar fell away and disappeared underneath a sheet of rock and layer upon layer of sediment flitting past in a blur of gray and brown.


    And suddenly they were aboveground and gaining height so quickly a single blink was all it took for them to traverse ten stories. The blanket of artificial light making the Saltillan day had become orange-yellow in the late afternoon and their vision was mostly obscured by the other Saltillan columns. Below them were more people, faceless people, moving, jostling, moiling about in microcosms of confusion that aggregated to make macrocosmic purpose.


    The Market. Human competition. Grand purpose.


    It was a full minute of travel before the elevator came to a complete stop, its deceleration calibrated to barely be noticeable to its occupants. The doors slid open smoothly and without sound.


    More people,many kilometers away.


    "This is being the second highest level of the Vines," their guide explained, pointing with two fingers toward the end of the hall. "The apartment is at the end there."


    The long hallway that they were in led to a vestibular space where a chandelier was hung by a crystalline stalactite affixed to the high ceiling. Their feet found the cerise carpeting give way to marble, and before them was a single set of large double-doors perched atop a flight of stairs consisting of four steps, the steps themselves carved out of a slab of marble protruding from the floor. A titanium plate hung by the lintel with the letters ''A.G.'' embossed into it.


    Marja breathed in deep, and detected in the air faint notes of cardamom and lemon.


    The soft and padded silence had been substituted for discordant sounds in her ear. There was music. Ysa?e Sonata No. 4, she recognized, a great favorite of the Hollow violinists she had so loved to associate with in her childhood. Double-stops, triple-stops, masterful legato. It had been almost forgotten¡­