Another return to a forum, another crazy idea. In this case, Take Two of 'Kantai Collection In...
A Sea of Stars (Kantai Collection)
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Book 1, Chapter 1: On Strange Shores
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Another return to a forum, another crazy idea. In this case, Take Two of 'Kantai Collection In Spess', after the previous concept sort of fizzled out...as so many ideas tend to do. I owe this post to not a few tireless test readers (you know who you are) who helped to sharpened what little skill and wit I had in putting this down - and also to the rest of you fellows out there who like and write about botes. Thanks for some way or another being an inspiration to me.
This is crossposted on SpaceBattles Forums under the name 'Xena_C', because this handle was taken. Oh well, what to do.
So without further ado, enjoy. Comments welcome! My skin can take it. I think.
=====
Kancolle: A Sea of Stars
Book 1: The Stars Awake
Chapter 1: On Strange Shores
31st July, 2542.
So I've bloody well gone and done it, it seems.
I believe it was the physicist Hououin who once attempted to prove that reality and time might be less akin to a single line, but rather to a veritable profusion of possibilities that could splinter off from the smallest choice of the least important actor.
In short, a terrible theory, but a fascinating thought nonetheless.
It may or may not also have to do with this deliciously reflexive case of schadenfreude I derive from pondering this morsel. That in an infinite number of other worlds running in parallel but differing by a thousand minutiae to ours, twenty five year old Ethel Lefkada Deschantes did not manage to be at the Warwick Convention Centre a week ago at 9.35am sharp for an interview with the Arc-Royal Geographic's representatives, land a place as a correspondent-in-training on the first try-
-and wind up on a shuttle bound for the border right this very moment, joining the growing number of media personnel on Watchpoint Calais!
Ah, Father will be furious.
He has made no secret with his displeasure with regards to the way I have spent my time outside of college classes: joining the Surrey-Vale's Writing Fraternity seems to have frustrated his military sensibilities very much. Strange, then, that he has never made anything but scorn of my desire to go to the border in any capacity at all, let alone this one.
There is little he can do, however. We had a deal. I gave my word: to forget his...excesses. To forget our disagreements about Mother. To study where and what he wished. And in return he gave his: my freedom to go as I will afterward. To write as I will, should I still wish to. Well, I do, and I leave it up to his honor to be gracious about his end of the deal.
I suspect he will leave it in the end, even if he might express his displeasure through a conspicuous lack of financing. Such is the happy fate of the social flag officer. Not that it matters to me, either - I am glad to be free of his leash. I recall that saying from so many centuries ago:
"Do you really want to spend your entire lives praying for longevity? We were born in order to die!"
Yes, a man may live three hundred years if he is fortunate. Four if he is rich. But this is the greatest conflict of our times. Shall we wait till it is over to start living? Surely not!
Even now that moment when my wait ends does not seem so long off anymore, though I can hardly believe that it has only been nine hours of faster than light travel from the time I stepped on board the New Avalon Orbital Elevator to take the shuttle. The windows are sealed -not there would be anything to see at such speeds- but the starmap indicates we are getting close to Tigris Sector's Eregion System, less than an hour away from the area surrounding Calais.
From there we will make landfall on Eridani Station, get briefed, and then move on to the Watchpoint itself: the eye of the storm.
One of many, truthfully, for the stars are too numerous for us to risk making a single place the biggest concentration of human military presence that has ever taken place. But we are close enough: in a few days, Calais will be the starting point of the largest military operation ever to have been undertaken. Forget D-Day, forget Balor Crater. The Retaking of Eregion System is the event of our times! And I will be there to see it in person. I, who have never even been this far from home, ever! What an adventure this shall be!
Now, I will admit it. That truth be told, I do not know if I am ready.
We have all heard the stories. About the struggle that our brave soldiers face on the border beyond the Watchpoints and their extraplanetary defense platforms. Of the horrors of facing a foe with numbers uncounted, of mustering against them to protect the edges of human space to bring us the light of victory. And what victories we have had! Fort Dreslov. Neo Cornwall. Ginaz, and most recently, a sweep of Rusalka System. Have we not all have seen the celebrations, reminiscent of nothing so much as a Roman triumph sans whispering slave?
For man is mortal, but humanity is eternal, and we are mighty amongst the stars. Or are we?
Even now I think to myself, how much of those very many tales were doctored, tailor-made for our consumption? To make us think that we are winning this battle far more than we really are? And if it were so, how much of what I or any other -no matter how eminent- will reach the ears of those I wish to reach?
These are petty fears in the grand scheme of things, I admit. Perhaps even selfish or foolish, and pointless to boot: what am I to do -what can be done- even if I am right?
I do not know the answer to that question. But one thing I do. That I have decided to go, just as I have desired.
To see if this Great Abyssal War is all they've chalked it up to be.
======
The silhouetted man snapped my diary shut with a sigh.
"A most dramatic tale. My condolences, Mr. Deschantes."
I cocked an eyebrow, ignoring the intensifying throbbing in my head, and the urge to make a grab for the tome. Too far away. Or was it? The shadows cast over the desk between us made it hard to tell.
"Condolences for what exactly? The invasion of my privacy? How I sound so very different in person?"
Or my incarceration in a room with a faceless fellow who seemed more interested in reading the last few paragraphs of my diary in an overdramatic voice than in me exactly?
"Come now. There is no need for hostility. I am complimenting you: I do believe you would have made a most eloquent correspondent. Though possibly never a particularly malleable one."
"Past tense. Very encouraging."
I got the distinct sense that he was smirking. And that I'd passed some unspoken test, somehow.
In fact, this guy definitely had some experience with making his body speak for him. He had to, after all - lest he waste the oh-so-intentional positioning of the lights in such a way that nary more than a hint of his features could show at any given time, while I by contrast bathed in molten white agony.
Bright lights and headaches. Simple connection, small courtesies, goddamn it. But maybe that was the point, just as surely as consideration was not the point.
The man nodded.
"Bold, too. Good. All the same, it was a concern that you might not be amenable to our terms."
Oh, so he had terms for me. Wonder what gave that away? The dim, four claustrophobia-inducing walls? The constant dramatic pauses to indicate doublespeak? Or maybe it was the whole 'we are now impressing upon you that we're very official and very important' set-up. Couldn't quite be sure.
"Is there even an opt-out?"
"Yes, there is." the man said. "But we will require you to come with us regardless of your decision."
"Even in a body bag?"
"Oh, no. Nothing of the sort. We would prefer, 'tragically lost in a cruel, senseless Abyssal attack on a civilian convoy'. I am afraid your relatives are not exempt from this necessary misinformation. For now."
There was silence as he regarded me.
"You seem upset, Mr. Deschantes."
"I am."
"Really? You will excuse me for prying, but the impression I got was quite the opposite."
"I said, I am."
I mean, give a man a break here. I saw more of his money and his orders than I did him. When we did meet, we argued. About...well, whatever. But he was still my dad. Ioannis Deschantes was my business, not the business of some suit.
"I see that I misjudged you."
Doubtful. Unless that was how they spelled 'trying to get a rise out of you' in Secret Agency-Speak. I totally fell for it, too.
"However," he continued, "let no one say that we are completely heartless. You will continue to have your rights and privileges should you accept this offer. It can be arranged, and more besides, until such time as your actual status may be divulged. For example, I can also provide answers to some of the burning questions you posed in your diary entry." He paused. "Only…"
"'Kiss me and I'll tell you'?"
"Yes. Among other things. So, what do you say?"
I considered my answer awhile longer than I would usually. I got the distinct sense that after all this time and effort, I must have done something for them to keep me alive, at least for the time being. Which was comforting, because the difference between that and the alternative didn't rise to the dignity of an choice.
"I'll bite. If I'm going to disappear for walking out on you, then better I be a well-informed ghost than not."
Again with that shadow-smirk of his. Yes, I was calling it that from now on if I ever saw it or him again.
"A reasonable decision," the man said, lacing his fingers together. Yeah, savor the victory over the fellow who never had a chance, why don't you. "In truth, before you begin, I have a question myself."
I shrugged. To tell the truth, I was never going to have the upper hand in this conversation. But if he was willing to pretending otherwise, might as well play along.
"Shoot."
"Do you believe in fate, Mr. Deschantes?"
"Not particularly."
"How about irony?"
"I see it at work here, yes."
Again, that sense of having jumped a hoop just about right. That, and the vaguest hint of amusement in his tone.
"An interesting set of beliefs. Well then. Ask away."
"So, first of all, what I asked before in my private notes. We've all heard the stories, but I don't want to hear that. Are we actually winning?"
"This war? No. No, we are not. But neither are we losing. The Abyssals have proved strategically clumsy in battle, and with some...notable exceptions we have thus far been able to outmaneuver them. Our major issue has been in locating the source of their seemingly infinite production lines and cutting them off before these unpleasant exceptions become the norm." He paused, letting that sink in. "We are making progress on that front. Rest assured therefore, that the public is not being lied to."
"Details are need-to-know?"
"Of course."
Come deeper down the rabbit hole and you'll find out, little Alice.
"Then why me? I'm not an soldier of any kind. Or even someone who would know anything about fighting the Abyssals. I'm a journalist-in-training. An intern. A year ago I was in college. Why would you need me?"
"That is quite a few questions at once. I will try to answer them adequately." He leaned forward just a little. "The 31st of July, a day ago. What can you tell me about that?"
"We were en route to Calais when we were hit. How were our losses?"
"Acceptable."
'Acceptable'. God-damned classic Agency Man. Just when I thought we were getting all genial and nice with one another, he had to remind me that he had more important concerns. Like measuring numbers against each other.
Damn him. Damn the war that made this kind of thinking okay.
Damn me for seeing his point at all.
"Your sacrifice will be remembered," he appended.
I tried not to eye him with great suspicion. Emphasis on tried. It was hard to tell when someone was pulling some invisible leash on you or not when their voice was barely distinguishable from tectonic movement.
"'Sacrifice'?" I asked.
Surprise. And a touch of disappointment.
"You do not remember?"
Testing. One, two. Ow.
Nope, headache still there, memory still missing.
"The whole part between then and now? Not at all."
"I see. I was informed that this might be the case. I suppose it falls to me to jog your memory where your own written words have failed." he said, leaning backward with his fingers still steepled. "Now, I admit that this news might be unpleasant, so let me ease you into this. You are an intelligent and sensible man: what do you make of the phrase 'progress thrives in times of conflict'?"
"Periods of warfare, strife and competition in general drives us to innovate and create, rethinking our own approaches and perspectives in the process. We learn from our foes. Sometimes steal from them. But how is this even related to why I'm needed?"
The man allowed the dust of silence to settle for a moment or two. Smugly, I imagined, because how people like him survived without that emotion the world would never know.
"You will see. Or perhaps not. No matter." he said, before a tapping noise came from under the table. "Come in."
A hidden door between the two of us slid open.
The figure who entered was small, and amid the room's size seemed all the tinier for it. A child perhaps, in the teens at most, and most certainly female, if the gait and the sailing double ponytails were to be trusted.
A single light shone down upon-
======
-he suppresses a shiver as the juking and jiving of the transport sends tremors running all across its frame. Any moment now it will break, he thinks, caught in the whipping winds that howl amid that swelling maelstrom of war that is their destination Watchpoint Calais, a perfect storm almost conjured out of thin air.
One moment there had been nothing. Then a thousand Abyssal ships wreathed in myriad-colored flames ethereal, flinging themselves out of the twisting ether of light-speed, had wedged themselves deep into the assembled lines of Terran Alliance ships, their dark tide pushing against the stalwart defenders in desperate ship-to-ship melee for control over the centrepiece and pride of their line.
Even now the attackers are relentless, each one heedless and fearless of the damage they take every side as they try to punch through, but the defenses hold, as they must. Their tiny transport, caught in the middle, cannot retreat now - they are so close now, so close to safe harbor.
Then it happens. A single ship emerges, the womb of eternal night writhing in agony in its wake. A titan, larger by half than the next largest ship on either side, a monstrosity of spasmodic black chitin with a maw as wide open as the gate to the netherworld. On it plows headlong and heedless through friend and foe alike, widening the breach its compatriots have punched through the defense by sheer girth alone as it plunges straight for Calais itself.
Too little and too late is fire redirected at the newcomer, and in a blazing moment of horrified clarity he knows its purpose. No conventional weapon known to man can bring down a Watchpoint by itself. But though it has them, this ship needs no conventional weapons.
It is the weapon, and the collision between the living missile and Calais reverberates even through the silence of space, consuming everything in a blazing sea of white-
-shattering fragments. Confusion. Pain. He rips the seat restraints away and leaps-
-he is floating free, hacking blood and precious stolen air. Every alert clamoring for attention he sees through spiderweb cracks in his helmet's crimson klaxons. Suit damaged, oxygen depleting, thirty five, thirty, twenty five percent. His vision swims in a sea of black fading in and out, in and out. But blissful sleep does not claim him. No, not when he can hear them. Amidst the scattered bones of once proud ships the dead and dying cry out, their screams, every final choking gurgling breath filling his eardrums even as he struggles to block them out.
He surges forward, harried all the way, to the nearest airlock and in a maddened desperate death-grip of bloodied arms he tears the emergency door off its hinges-
-to find nothing. Nothing of use but broken and burnt-out husks of man and machine. He keeps searching. Again he is foiled. And again. And again. And again and again-
-the explosion knocks him aside, smashing him against the wall. His lungs scream from every mere meager breath, but he barely feels it. The screams are closing in, they crush him alive in his suit. They hurt. They hurt. They are a fire. A fire in his arm, in his belly and chest, burning cankered and unquenchable, and through it he sees-
-A circle. Incomprehensible, incomprehensibly ancient; like the droning tongue he cannot name, echoing through space. Cruel; like the flash of unnumbered blades, a hunger to burn the stars. And boundless; drawing everything to itself and drinking them in.
Steel, blood, flesh and bone, but also voices, images, flashing before his eyes. The scent of the sun on the summer breeze. Twin babes wailing their first in unison. A hand in his wading through emerald fields. Lightless winter, wind-swept sands. The reek of alcohol on strobe-light starry walls of roaring guns aflame with sparkling brown eyes sneering defiantly into the frigid cold of space and into the horror of their so many so cold so many eyes gazing windows and mirrors we are as you are as-
-he reaches out and grasps a single spark, a lone light. Then two. Then ten. A hundred. A thousand. They circle and merge in his hands, and then into the quiet gloam of the stars comes a song whistling in on the solar winds: of gulls awakening the sun, of the jeweled sea sighing upon golden shores, of snow-white caps waved and thrown, of hearts swelling with a timeless, ageless pride.
Then without warning it escapes, wisp-fire rushing through the gaps between his fingers-
-and then he is flying, soaring on wings of steel. He no longer hears the slain, their cries drowned by the mighty roar of engines in his left ear, and the momentous crank of swivelling cannon to his right. He is the rising storm, he is one half of its alien pulsing heart as it pulses, his next words welling up within him to bursting-
======
The roaring in my ears was my own. Metal skittered across the ground. Then the voice that had torn forth cracked in my throat, and my face nearly fell forward into the table. Or would have if that desk was still whole, and not a thousands shards shimmering amid the light and the clamour of rushing, crunching footfalls-
"Psionic resonance falling-"
"-peak value one-zero-niner-eight-f-"
"-move to stabilize psionic feedback-"
My head throbbed. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Too many dancing splotches of black. Too much light piercing through the gaps. So bright. Why the hell was it so bright?
"Stabilizing."
Antiseptic mint-fresh stung my nose as many hands grabbed me. Then, the pin-prick of needle against arm. The pain subsided, and with it came silence, blessed silence. From the thoughts. From the light. Yes. That was good. Real good.
Huh. The man was still watching. Well, of course he would.
"H-hey there Mr. Sandman. Think I-" I could barely recognize that groaning, rasping hoarseness as me. "-think I had me a crazy dream back there."
"A jester to the last, I see," the man said. "But I suppose that was the point of having you meet your partner."
Partner? Who was-
Right. Her. Yes. That was it. She'd- what did-
-what was-
-ugh. Couldn't keep..thoughts...
Eyelids...heavy...
"You might need a moment to process your new insights."
Even as silence devoured sound and darkness, light, a last thought came to me.
So he had been bald, after all.
"In the meantime, welcome to Fleet Group Poseidon, Mr. Deschantes."
This is crossposted on SpaceBattles Forums under the name 'Xena_C', because this handle was taken. Oh well, what to do.
So without further ado, enjoy. Comments welcome! My skin can take it. I think.
=====
Kancolle: A Sea of Stars
Book 1: The Stars Awake
Chapter 1: On Strange Shores
31st July, 2542.
So I've bloody well gone and done it, it seems.
I believe it was the physicist Hououin who once attempted to prove that reality and time might be less akin to a single line, but rather to a veritable profusion of possibilities that could splinter off from the smallest choice of the least important actor.
In short, a terrible theory, but a fascinating thought nonetheless.
It may or may not also have to do with this deliciously reflexive case of schadenfreude I derive from pondering this morsel. That in an infinite number of other worlds running in parallel but differing by a thousand minutiae to ours, twenty five year old Ethel Lefkada Deschantes did not manage to be at the Warwick Convention Centre a week ago at 9.35am sharp for an interview with the Arc-Royal Geographic's representatives, land a place as a correspondent-in-training on the first try-
-and wind up on a shuttle bound for the border right this very moment, joining the growing number of media personnel on Watchpoint Calais!
Ah, Father will be furious.
He has made no secret with his displeasure with regards to the way I have spent my time outside of college classes: joining the Surrey-Vale's Writing Fraternity seems to have frustrated his military sensibilities very much. Strange, then, that he has never made anything but scorn of my desire to go to the border in any capacity at all, let alone this one.
There is little he can do, however. We had a deal. I gave my word: to forget his...excesses. To forget our disagreements about Mother. To study where and what he wished. And in return he gave his: my freedom to go as I will afterward. To write as I will, should I still wish to. Well, I do, and I leave it up to his honor to be gracious about his end of the deal.
I suspect he will leave it in the end, even if he might express his displeasure through a conspicuous lack of financing. Such is the happy fate of the social flag officer. Not that it matters to me, either - I am glad to be free of his leash. I recall that saying from so many centuries ago:
"Do you really want to spend your entire lives praying for longevity? We were born in order to die!"
Yes, a man may live three hundred years if he is fortunate. Four if he is rich. But this is the greatest conflict of our times. Shall we wait till it is over to start living? Surely not!
Even now that moment when my wait ends does not seem so long off anymore, though I can hardly believe that it has only been nine hours of faster than light travel from the time I stepped on board the New Avalon Orbital Elevator to take the shuttle. The windows are sealed -not there would be anything to see at such speeds- but the starmap indicates we are getting close to Tigris Sector's Eregion System, less than an hour away from the area surrounding Calais.
From there we will make landfall on Eridani Station, get briefed, and then move on to the Watchpoint itself: the eye of the storm.
One of many, truthfully, for the stars are too numerous for us to risk making a single place the biggest concentration of human military presence that has ever taken place. But we are close enough: in a few days, Calais will be the starting point of the largest military operation ever to have been undertaken. Forget D-Day, forget Balor Crater. The Retaking of Eregion System is the event of our times! And I will be there to see it in person. I, who have never even been this far from home, ever! What an adventure this shall be!
Now, I will admit it. That truth be told, I do not know if I am ready.
We have all heard the stories. About the struggle that our brave soldiers face on the border beyond the Watchpoints and their extraplanetary defense platforms. Of the horrors of facing a foe with numbers uncounted, of mustering against them to protect the edges of human space to bring us the light of victory. And what victories we have had! Fort Dreslov. Neo Cornwall. Ginaz, and most recently, a sweep of Rusalka System. Have we not all have seen the celebrations, reminiscent of nothing so much as a Roman triumph sans whispering slave?
For man is mortal, but humanity is eternal, and we are mighty amongst the stars. Or are we?
Even now I think to myself, how much of those very many tales were doctored, tailor-made for our consumption? To make us think that we are winning this battle far more than we really are? And if it were so, how much of what I or any other -no matter how eminent- will reach the ears of those I wish to reach?
These are petty fears in the grand scheme of things, I admit. Perhaps even selfish or foolish, and pointless to boot: what am I to do -what can be done- even if I am right?
I do not know the answer to that question. But one thing I do. That I have decided to go, just as I have desired.
To see if this Great Abyssal War is all they've chalked it up to be.
======
The silhouetted man snapped my diary shut with a sigh.
"A most dramatic tale. My condolences, Mr. Deschantes."
I cocked an eyebrow, ignoring the intensifying throbbing in my head, and the urge to make a grab for the tome. Too far away. Or was it? The shadows cast over the desk between us made it hard to tell.
"Condolences for what exactly? The invasion of my privacy? How I sound so very different in person?"
Or my incarceration in a room with a faceless fellow who seemed more interested in reading the last few paragraphs of my diary in an overdramatic voice than in me exactly?
"Come now. There is no need for hostility. I am complimenting you: I do believe you would have made a most eloquent correspondent. Though possibly never a particularly malleable one."
"Past tense. Very encouraging."
I got the distinct sense that he was smirking. And that I'd passed some unspoken test, somehow.
In fact, this guy definitely had some experience with making his body speak for him. He had to, after all - lest he waste the oh-so-intentional positioning of the lights in such a way that nary more than a hint of his features could show at any given time, while I by contrast bathed in molten white agony.
Bright lights and headaches. Simple connection, small courtesies, goddamn it. But maybe that was the point, just as surely as consideration was not the point.
The man nodded.
"Bold, too. Good. All the same, it was a concern that you might not be amenable to our terms."
Oh, so he had terms for me. Wonder what gave that away? The dim, four claustrophobia-inducing walls? The constant dramatic pauses to indicate doublespeak? Or maybe it was the whole 'we are now impressing upon you that we're very official and very important' set-up. Couldn't quite be sure.
"Is there even an opt-out?"
"Yes, there is." the man said. "But we will require you to come with us regardless of your decision."
"Even in a body bag?"
"Oh, no. Nothing of the sort. We would prefer, 'tragically lost in a cruel, senseless Abyssal attack on a civilian convoy'. I am afraid your relatives are not exempt from this necessary misinformation. For now."
There was silence as he regarded me.
"You seem upset, Mr. Deschantes."
"I am."
"Really? You will excuse me for prying, but the impression I got was quite the opposite."
"I said, I am."
I mean, give a man a break here. I saw more of his money and his orders than I did him. When we did meet, we argued. About...well, whatever. But he was still my dad. Ioannis Deschantes was my business, not the business of some suit.
"I see that I misjudged you."
Doubtful. Unless that was how they spelled 'trying to get a rise out of you' in Secret Agency-Speak. I totally fell for it, too.
"However," he continued, "let no one say that we are completely heartless. You will continue to have your rights and privileges should you accept this offer. It can be arranged, and more besides, until such time as your actual status may be divulged. For example, I can also provide answers to some of the burning questions you posed in your diary entry." He paused. "Only…"
"'Kiss me and I'll tell you'?"
"Yes. Among other things. So, what do you say?"
I considered my answer awhile longer than I would usually. I got the distinct sense that after all this time and effort, I must have done something for them to keep me alive, at least for the time being. Which was comforting, because the difference between that and the alternative didn't rise to the dignity of an choice.
"I'll bite. If I'm going to disappear for walking out on you, then better I be a well-informed ghost than not."
Again with that shadow-smirk of his. Yes, I was calling it that from now on if I ever saw it or him again.
"A reasonable decision," the man said, lacing his fingers together. Yeah, savor the victory over the fellow who never had a chance, why don't you. "In truth, before you begin, I have a question myself."
I shrugged. To tell the truth, I was never going to have the upper hand in this conversation. But if he was willing to pretending otherwise, might as well play along.
"Shoot."
"Do you believe in fate, Mr. Deschantes?"
"Not particularly."
"How about irony?"
"I see it at work here, yes."
Again, that sense of having jumped a hoop just about right. That, and the vaguest hint of amusement in his tone.
"An interesting set of beliefs. Well then. Ask away."
"So, first of all, what I asked before in my private notes. We've all heard the stories, but I don't want to hear that. Are we actually winning?"
"This war? No. No, we are not. But neither are we losing. The Abyssals have proved strategically clumsy in battle, and with some...notable exceptions we have thus far been able to outmaneuver them. Our major issue has been in locating the source of their seemingly infinite production lines and cutting them off before these unpleasant exceptions become the norm." He paused, letting that sink in. "We are making progress on that front. Rest assured therefore, that the public is not being lied to."
"Details are need-to-know?"
"Of course."
Come deeper down the rabbit hole and you'll find out, little Alice.
"Then why me? I'm not an soldier of any kind. Or even someone who would know anything about fighting the Abyssals. I'm a journalist-in-training. An intern. A year ago I was in college. Why would you need me?"
"That is quite a few questions at once. I will try to answer them adequately." He leaned forward just a little. "The 31st of July, a day ago. What can you tell me about that?"
"We were en route to Calais when we were hit. How were our losses?"
"Acceptable."
'Acceptable'. God-damned classic Agency Man. Just when I thought we were getting all genial and nice with one another, he had to remind me that he had more important concerns. Like measuring numbers against each other.
Damn him. Damn the war that made this kind of thinking okay.
Damn me for seeing his point at all.
"Your sacrifice will be remembered," he appended.
I tried not to eye him with great suspicion. Emphasis on tried. It was hard to tell when someone was pulling some invisible leash on you or not when their voice was barely distinguishable from tectonic movement.
"'Sacrifice'?" I asked.
Surprise. And a touch of disappointment.
"You do not remember?"
Testing. One, two. Ow.
Nope, headache still there, memory still missing.
"The whole part between then and now? Not at all."
"I see. I was informed that this might be the case. I suppose it falls to me to jog your memory where your own written words have failed." he said, leaning backward with his fingers still steepled. "Now, I admit that this news might be unpleasant, so let me ease you into this. You are an intelligent and sensible man: what do you make of the phrase 'progress thrives in times of conflict'?"
"Periods of warfare, strife and competition in general drives us to innovate and create, rethinking our own approaches and perspectives in the process. We learn from our foes. Sometimes steal from them. But how is this even related to why I'm needed?"
The man allowed the dust of silence to settle for a moment or two. Smugly, I imagined, because how people like him survived without that emotion the world would never know.
"You will see. Or perhaps not. No matter." he said, before a tapping noise came from under the table. "Come in."
A hidden door between the two of us slid open.
The figure who entered was small, and amid the room's size seemed all the tinier for it. A child perhaps, in the teens at most, and most certainly female, if the gait and the sailing double ponytails were to be trusted.
A single light shone down upon-
======
-he suppresses a shiver as the juking and jiving of the transport sends tremors running all across its frame. Any moment now it will break, he thinks, caught in the whipping winds that howl amid that swelling maelstrom of war that is their destination Watchpoint Calais, a perfect storm almost conjured out of thin air.
One moment there had been nothing. Then a thousand Abyssal ships wreathed in myriad-colored flames ethereal, flinging themselves out of the twisting ether of light-speed, had wedged themselves deep into the assembled lines of Terran Alliance ships, their dark tide pushing against the stalwart defenders in desperate ship-to-ship melee for control over the centrepiece and pride of their line.
Even now the attackers are relentless, each one heedless and fearless of the damage they take every side as they try to punch through, but the defenses hold, as they must. Their tiny transport, caught in the middle, cannot retreat now - they are so close now, so close to safe harbor.
Then it happens. A single ship emerges, the womb of eternal night writhing in agony in its wake. A titan, larger by half than the next largest ship on either side, a monstrosity of spasmodic black chitin with a maw as wide open as the gate to the netherworld. On it plows headlong and heedless through friend and foe alike, widening the breach its compatriots have punched through the defense by sheer girth alone as it plunges straight for Calais itself.
Too little and too late is fire redirected at the newcomer, and in a blazing moment of horrified clarity he knows its purpose. No conventional weapon known to man can bring down a Watchpoint by itself. But though it has them, this ship needs no conventional weapons.
It is the weapon, and the collision between the living missile and Calais reverberates even through the silence of space, consuming everything in a blazing sea of white-
-shattering fragments. Confusion. Pain. He rips the seat restraints away and leaps-
-he is floating free, hacking blood and precious stolen air. Every alert clamoring for attention he sees through spiderweb cracks in his helmet's crimson klaxons. Suit damaged, oxygen depleting, thirty five, thirty, twenty five percent. His vision swims in a sea of black fading in and out, in and out. But blissful sleep does not claim him. No, not when he can hear them. Amidst the scattered bones of once proud ships the dead and dying cry out, their screams, every final choking gurgling breath filling his eardrums even as he struggles to block them out.
He surges forward, harried all the way, to the nearest airlock and in a maddened desperate death-grip of bloodied arms he tears the emergency door off its hinges-
-to find nothing. Nothing of use but broken and burnt-out husks of man and machine. He keeps searching. Again he is foiled. And again. And again. And again and again-
-the explosion knocks him aside, smashing him against the wall. His lungs scream from every mere meager breath, but he barely feels it. The screams are closing in, they crush him alive in his suit. They hurt. They hurt. They are a fire. A fire in his arm, in his belly and chest, burning cankered and unquenchable, and through it he sees-
-A circle. Incomprehensible, incomprehensibly ancient; like the droning tongue he cannot name, echoing through space. Cruel; like the flash of unnumbered blades, a hunger to burn the stars. And boundless; drawing everything to itself and drinking them in.
Steel, blood, flesh and bone, but also voices, images, flashing before his eyes. The scent of the sun on the summer breeze. Twin babes wailing their first in unison. A hand in his wading through emerald fields. Lightless winter, wind-swept sands. The reek of alcohol on strobe-light starry walls of roaring guns aflame with sparkling brown eyes sneering defiantly into the frigid cold of space and into the horror of their so many so cold so many eyes gazing windows and mirrors we are as you are as-
-he reaches out and grasps a single spark, a lone light. Then two. Then ten. A hundred. A thousand. They circle and merge in his hands, and then into the quiet gloam of the stars comes a song whistling in on the solar winds: of gulls awakening the sun, of the jeweled sea sighing upon golden shores, of snow-white caps waved and thrown, of hearts swelling with a timeless, ageless pride.
Then without warning it escapes, wisp-fire rushing through the gaps between his fingers-
-and then he is flying, soaring on wings of steel. He no longer hears the slain, their cries drowned by the mighty roar of engines in his left ear, and the momentous crank of swivelling cannon to his right. He is the rising storm, he is one half of its alien pulsing heart as it pulses, his next words welling up within him to bursting-
======
The roaring in my ears was my own. Metal skittered across the ground. Then the voice that had torn forth cracked in my throat, and my face nearly fell forward into the table. Or would have if that desk was still whole, and not a thousands shards shimmering amid the light and the clamour of rushing, crunching footfalls-
"Psionic resonance falling-"
"-peak value one-zero-niner-eight-f-"
"-move to stabilize psionic feedback-"
My head throbbed. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. Too many dancing splotches of black. Too much light piercing through the gaps. So bright. Why the hell was it so bright?
"Stabilizing."
Antiseptic mint-fresh stung my nose as many hands grabbed me. Then, the pin-prick of needle against arm. The pain subsided, and with it came silence, blessed silence. From the thoughts. From the light. Yes. That was good. Real good.
Huh. The man was still watching. Well, of course he would.
"H-hey there Mr. Sandman. Think I-" I could barely recognize that groaning, rasping hoarseness as me. "-think I had me a crazy dream back there."
"A jester to the last, I see," the man said. "But I suppose that was the point of having you meet your partner."
Partner? Who was-
Right. Her. Yes. That was it. She'd- what did-
-what was-
-ugh. Couldn't keep..thoughts...
Eyelids...heavy...
"You might need a moment to process your new insights."
Even as silence devoured sound and darkness, light, a last thought came to me.
So he had been bald, after all.
"In the meantime, welcome to Fleet Group Poseidon, Mr. Deschantes."
=== To be continued in Chapter 2: Inbound Flight ===
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- Location
- Philippines
This makes me feel nostalgic for the Michael Moorcock novels and other similar heady books -both science fiction and high fantasy- that I read during the years that I his in my school's library. Not to mention it offers tantalizing whiffs of KanColle IN SPACE ^^
Watched and liked!
Watched and liked!
- Location
- Little Red Dot
Ah, Moorcock. His Dorian Hawkmoon saga, and David Edding's Sparhawk (known also as The Elenium) were the stuff of my own hide-in-the-library days. The Twin Hawks, I used to call them. Come to think of it, doesn't KanColle have a pair of hawks too? Hmmmm...
KanColle IN SPACE is more work than I ever imagined it would be, but I believe it's been worth my time. Glad you think it's worth yours!
...and you won't have to wait long. I'm running some finishing touches on Chapter 2 as we speak. Some real life circumstances have led me to planning this one ahead, let us just say. XD
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Book 1, Chapter 2: Inbound Flight
- Location
- Little Red Dot
And here's Chapter 2. If anyone was wondering when the shipgirls would show up to justify this being called an AU...
Note that this release schedule does not reflect my actual writing speed. Due to some real-life circumstances I already had quite a few things written out, and as such it was just a matter of doing some continuity correction and editing. I will do my best to update regularly, though.
As always, I hope you enjoy the read. Feel free to tell me why or why not below as well - these things can only help me improve, after all.
======
A Sea of Stars
Book 1: The Stars, Awake
Chapter 2: Inbound Flight
"Ethel..."
Hello?
Yes, hello. You have reached Ethel's Mental Voice Mail. Unfortunately, he is busy resting right now. Please leave a message after the tone - as long as you're not a burglar, a stalker, or automated salesbot. Or an over-enthusiastic partner. Not that he has a specific one in mind, but you know, just a suggestion.
"Ethel!"
Well bugger me silly. People couldn't keep their hands to themselves these days, could they? For a moment I wondered who it was who first standardized the procedure of 'if at first they don't get up, shake, shake, and shake them again'. Because whoever they were, they deserved to hang for this indignity.
Hey, Ethel!
Those two words rang in my head with a force that mere sound could not match, shaking the last vestiges of sleep from it.
"Okay, I'm up, I'm up."
Now far be it from me to claim that a Catha-class military transport craft could be the poster girl for comfort over function. Hell, I'd be downright worried for our future if they were. But a horizontal position plus healthy amounts of legroom meant sleep. Good, sumptuous sleep that had just been cut off in its prime. Rest in peace. Your services shall be fondly remembered, faithful servant.
But first, a quick look around.
Yup. Still strapped snugly into Thirteen B, the ignominious middle seat of three in the next-to-last row of our cabin. It was also on the immediate right of Thirteen A, where a young lady in her mid-teens sat, two dark ponytails spilling over her shoulders as she beamed down at me through deep sea-blue eyes.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present my partner, Suzune 'Suzy' Onjouji. Or if I used the official designation -and believe me I was still a bit torn on using it- TNS Suzukaze, Shiratsuyu-class shipgirl.
Yes, I did just say 'shipgirls'. Ships who were also girls. Or girls who were also ships - not that either formulation helped me sleep better at night. Our timeless tradition of objectifying our material creations had never sat well with me, and this most droll of portmanteaus wasn't helping any.
But then again, had I really expected to be anything but betrayed for hoping against hope that Fleet Group Poseidon was not the nadir of our creativity, after which could only come the inevitable fall?
======
"I'll admit it," I said once I was sure we were again alone - physically speaking, at least. "I'm sort of wishing that injection did knock me out right now."
"Unfortunately," Secret Agent Man continued from the restored comfort of the shadows, "we are on a timetable here. And are we not past the point in history where relaxants necessarily double up as sedatives?"
"Well it's not that. It's not even about the news either."
"Oh?"
"I'm serious. I mean, look, so the apparitions of twentieth century ships that we've given a modern overhaul isn't exactly News at Eleven," I explained. "And the psychic-"
"The word is PSIonic, for Psionic Sensory Interface."
"-the psionic soldiers who help offset the spiritual weight that deploying them occupies on our plane in exchange for cool powers? Definitely worth a whole twelve-episode holonet series on the Geographic. Or a trilogy of films. It would make money, I guarantee it."
"Good to know. But get back on track, Mr. Deschantes."
"Oh. Right. Well, just look at it this way," I continued, "we're already in a war against an enemy of startling contrarieties. Advanced control over faster-than-light travel but simplistic movements, an overwhelming preference for swarm tactics punctuated by moments of strategic brilliance, disgustingly hard to find but prone to engage in headlong charges when discovered. It's not a huge leap from one level of incomprehensible reality to another. Next thing you'll be telling me the apparitions of famous cars have returned as dazzlingly handsome young men."
"...did you Earthbound History?"
"Yes."
"That would explain the specificity. Do go on."
"Yes, so, this isn't strange. None of this is: even our inconsistent naming sense."
If there was a feeling for being transfixed by a bug-eyed stare, this was it.
"Is that what you have beef with?"
"Yes! I mean, come on." I thrust out both arms. "'Shipgirls'. Really?"
"It is a functional name."
"Uh-huh."
"Unconvinced?"
Oh by Jove, this man's a genius.
"Absolutely. Our latest and greatest, the raison d'etre of Fleet Group Poseidon, our first official contact with preternatural abilities not seen in action since Uruk and Balor Crater - and that's what we're calling them?!"
"Would you like to know why?"
No. No, not at all. My nodding means absolutely nothing, good sir, no more than the simmering anger I can feel simmering in you. An insignificant detail really, nor should I expect any story to come of it.
He leaned forward.
"Make no mistake: you cannot know how close we were to choosing some other abomination for a name. I do not claim to speak for all," the man growled, his voice a faultline flatline even as that placid rage towered ever higher with every punctuated word, "but the vocal contest between such names as 'Voidstalkers' and 'The Black Armada', among others, was a most puerile and childish affair. No, Mr. Deschantes. 'Functionality' was our hard-won compromise, and I am grateful for it."
A good few seconds went by in silence.
"Does that answer your question, Mr. Deschantes?"
"Almost."
"Do tell."
"So we made the quantum leap from that to a recursive acronym. How?"
"You would be shocked at how much our collective intelligence rises the less we discuss which aspects of naval weaponry should be appropriate to fetishize, and how."
I take back everything I said about you, bald guy. Those were indeed some rather terrible names, and the people who came up with them should be ashamed.
It could have been worse though. Like, way worse.
I mean, at least no one had come up with 'Flying Dutchwives', right?
=======
And that, kids, was how Grandpa Ethel discovered that a thousand yard stare that you cannot see burns just the same.
Just remembering that made me laugh, almost enough to cause me to forget that I had just been rudely roused by the telepathic equivalent of a reveille loudhailer.
Come on, I asked, trying not to sound as grumpy as I felt, did you really have to shout at me?
Hmmm, no, she thought, but I really, really had something to show you, so I thought this'd be faster!
Suzy, I distinctly remember that we had an agreement about this.
A fine agreement by all accounts; one that took the still-awkward edge off the whole my-thoughts-to-your-thoughts thing, certainly.
'Talk normally, only think the important stuff', right?
Yes, I replied.
Whether we liked it or not, shipgirls and the alternative forms of communication unique to them were still rarities. The psionic one percent if you will. And what was the role of the privileged minority if not to humor our more numerous brethren?
Sure, some of them were making Suzy's dramatic attempts to awaken me the butt of some humor, which was non-ideal even at its most harmless. But better that than to be given a wide berth out of fear.
But this is important!
Suzy protested.
Really?
"So," I said, switching to speech, "what was it you wanted to show me?"
"Is, not was," my partner said with a shake of her head. "It hasn't happened yet."
"Well whatever it is, it better be good."
"Oh, it is! See, I thought I might introduce you to-"
-Suzy's eyes darted toward the windows, then flicked back to me, rank excitement written all them.
"There they are!" She gushed, pointing. "Look! It's Gradivus Base and the Graf Zeppelin!"
"Mmhmm," I noted without looking, knowing full well that it might be taken for boredom.
Which she did, if the disapproving quirk of her lip was anything to go by.
"Eh, what kind of response is that? There's going to be a whole gathering of us here, Ethel." Suzy's eyes were as bright and wide as I'd ever seen them. "Other ships and their partners! We'll live together, train together...just think about it! It'll be so much fun!"
I struggled to suppress a grin. The hope that my sleep hadn't been sacrificed at the altar of mere curiosity had been a naive one, yes, but Suzy almost made up for it by being as good at spreading her plague of cheer as she had been bad at leading me on.
"You do know that we weren't told who we'd be meeting, right?"
"Oh, don't be such a pessimist. Graf is a great start!" Suzy insisted. "Also, did you know she was one of-"
"Our first shipgirls? Yeah."
"Looks it too, doesn't she?"
"Uh-huh."
Let's just say insensate fangirling isn't my jam, girl. But you're free to choose your own way, and I respect that.
"Say, which part do you think looks the best? I reckon it's gotta be the sleek bowline, wouldn't you agree?"
What a man can't respect however is trying to get the unwilling to participate. And on such scandalous topics, too. For shame!
"No comment."
Nor was Ethel Deschantes particularly weak to mid-elevator pitch pouts. They were cute, yes, and certainly useful in a pinch, but those who would be manhandled by such manipulative maneuvers were more malleable souls than I.
"Of course you can't comment," Suzy protested, "you haven't even had a look yet!"
Behold, here lies the Obvious, belaboured to death by DD(SG)-23, TNS Suzukaze on this the 6th of August, 2542. But maintaining the high ground meant constant tilling and terraform, so I did have a look anyway, and my, was it quite the sight.
Graf Zeppelin cruised alongside the hulk of intertwined rock and steel that had once upon a time been the asteroid Gradivus, now turned into one of the Advanced Warfare Research Division's bases of operation. Her sloped lines gleamed in the light of a distant sun, harking back to a time when it was not the breathless night of space but the foaming azure main that opposed progress, her flying smokestacks and flat-top deck testaments to the embryonic days of modern warfare.
Yet it was not the ancient Archimedean propeller or billowing black boiler smoke, but the familiar glowing vents of modern faster-than-light drives nestled in their sterns that kept Graf Zeppelin moving apace.
And looking closely one could espy other spots where the archaic and modern met on uneasy terms: in thin veins of LED lights that reflected differently off steel and superalloy plate, in anti-air turrets flanked by concealed launch tubes, and down sleek bevels of assorted weapons embedded into a profile that knew not the touch of vacuum.
The two were not alone: around them floated a bevy of more modern vessels that had fallen into a loose zig-zag formation with them. In all I counted over two dozen ships, each looking like they had sprung from the pages of a copy of Jane's or from a Sentinels of the Night holoboard, fully armed and ready for war as Pallas Athene might have been.
Looking upon that sight, I began to understand the almost casual air in the Catha, something that had seemed just a little incongruous to me before.
Our recent reverse at Akkad was to be remembered, yes, but only as two one among many that had come before and were yet to come. Indeed I could feel a mere-ness encroaching upon that memory, replaced by the surety that we still possessed no lack of resources or options.
I was certainly not the only one. Most everyone near and even not particularly near a window was stacked up beside one, gawking, pointing and chattering amongst themselves. Well, not that such indirect peer pressure ever had any chance of getting to me, I thought as I turned back to an expectant looking Suzy, one serving of condensed disappointment firmly on the tip of my tongue.
"I correct myself. I meant to say that I won't comment."
"What? Why?"
"Because I have a tendency to say unfortunate things, which should you let them slip during girls' talk at some point shall make my life a masterclass in disproportionate suffering, a legend of agony, a myth to frighten children for generations to come."
"Come on, I would never do that!"
To her credit, Suzy looked genuinely hurt.
"'Never' isn't a word I'd trust you with."
Or anyone else, for that matter. It was just a matter of principle.
"Booooo," my partner jeered, before turning pointedly away from me to face the window. "You're no fun at all."
"Yes. It is I, Sir No-Fun the Joyless at your service, milady," I replied.
Well, that was that. Perhaps now I could catch a bit more shut-eye before-
"My, aren't we chatty?"
-yes, before another interruption. Fool that I am, what was I hoping for?
Not this fellow, certainly. Mr Seat Fourteen A was more toothy smile wearing a head and rough-hewn shoulders than the other way around as he leaned over the seats that separated us, green-field eyes burning bright against sun kissed freckles and matte red hair. He was also deeply tanned; probably from somewhere with sunlight enough to push back against planetary greenhousing. Ulmud came to mind. Miglon and Sharazad, too. Maybe even Venus.
I counted two chevrons on his chest. A corporal, then.
"And who might you-"
I started, only to realize he hadn't been looking at me. Indeed I might as well have been transparent, tangential in all ways to his starry-eyed gaze on my partner.
"Say, you're one of them shipgirls, aren't'cha?"
"'Course! The name's Suzukaze!" She beamed. "But you can call me Suzy, I don't mind."
"Leckie. Johann Leckie," he said, and if his smile had been broad before it was impossible now. "Corporal, 322nd Orbital Cavalry."
So I was to be the sideshow animal here. Very well, I thought, leaning back into my seat and closed my eyes. Never let it be said that Ethel Deschantes was governed by some prehistoric predisposition to jealous, possessive anger.
"So, Suzukaze...that's the tenth ship in the Shiratsuyu destroyer class, huh? Guess they weren't lying about y'all all being Earthbound ships..." Leckie trailed off. "So, you're here for the joint op?"
"Yup! You too?"
"Of course!"
"Just your unit?"
"Nah, there's still the three-twenty-sixth and two-forty-first coming in on other boats."
"Three hundred and twenty six, huh? That's a pretty big number."
Well, I suppose playing a game of 'state the obvious' was one way to start conversation. Not one I endorsed, but it was a way.
"It's kinda gotta be big. You'd need that at least many to fuel the dumbest idea the Navy's ever come up with."
Oh, now wasn't that a bold claim? It was a wide galaxy after all. What was it that OrbCav did again?
"Really?"
"Anything's more sensible than chucking a division of power-armored soldiers strapped inside metal boxes out of ships at terminal velocity."
Hmm. No argument there.
"Sounds like you've had some experience."
"Uh, 'course. Lots!" Leckie was a pretty poor liar, even without the wave of uncertainty that washed off him as he spoke. Suzy and I were having words later if she was fooled by that glossing over he gave his training.
Well. If there was something more awkward than waking up eighty three stories off the ground in half a fibreglass gondola, a sodden velvet pillow fort on your chest and a zoo stampede in your head, it would have to be the silence that followed an ill-told fib.
On that note, screw you, Nirsha Gievv Valt. I don't care how stoned you were, but breaking someone else's gondola in two was downright ungentlemanly. Why, your ancestors would be ashamed of you.
"Man, they didn't lie when they said the Graf was a beauty," In other news, there was Leckie with the recovery! A semi-solid four point five out of ten. "They just don't make sloped bows like those anymore."
"I know right? Just makes you wanna meet her in person!" Through nigh-closed eyelids I could see Suzy turning to me. "See, Ethel? Now here's someone who actually cares!"
Oh sorry, what? Busy napping over here. As to your comment, of course such people would exist. Far be it from me to know all the fetishes the modern individual might have, and further still be it for me to judge them. Time to get back to catching up on some overdue rest-
A finger tapped my shoulder.
"Psst."
Oh dearie me, no. Not the surprise conspiratorial whispers.
"Heeey."
Anything but that!
"I know you're listening. Don't nobody fall asleep in seconds with all this racket going on."
No rest for the wicked, I thought as I cracked one eye open, rotating my head to the right to face the snickering occupant of Fourteen B.
Yes, fellow abandoned sidekick, I whispered back, you have my attention now.
She recoiled, her smile frozen. To her credit, her thoughts still maintained a coherent gist - as far as a doomsday-loop of 'ohmahgawdhesinmahhead' was coherent anyway.
Really now, one would think you'd all been briefed about psionics before.
Confusion mixed with apprehension made up the bulk of the woman's still inchoate response, but there was a fair sprinkling of curiosity there that we could work with.
Don't worry, this is more me talking at your head, I said, and you being bad at hiding what you thought. Now, you could continue gawking at me from the Dunce Corner, or, I paused for effect, I could teach you to talk to me, instead of at me.
Call me the master motivator. Her thoughts were still garbled, but I could sense her sharpening them, allowing that curiosity to take shape and swell into a genuine interest that outstripped her earlier fear. Still quite a ways off from throwing comprehensive thoughts, but then again, she didn't have the advantage of knowing the basics just by existing, or having them drop into her lap through some knowledge-granting vision.
So the best analogy I can find for this kind of thing is 'a unicorn's horn'.
Confused acknowledgement.
I'll explain: it's similar to a mnemonic device that musicians -well, the ones that aren't completely digital nowadays- use. I want you to imagine a space, a small spot perched on the bridge of your nose, or 'right between the eyes' as you soldiers might say. Mild amusement greeted that jibe. Then imagine a word. Take the thoughts, the ideas that surround that word. Twist and shape them. Condense their meanings, file them down to a single point. The 'horn'.
I formed a finger-gun, placing it on the bridge of my nose.
Then you pick a target, and thrust that 'horn' at them with all you've got.
Curiosity.
Go on, give it a go.
At the same time, I noted that our little exchange had been drawing some odd looks from those done fussing over our drop out of FTL. Well, they could keep staring. I had a class of one to teach, one which was going quite well. In fact, I could probably expect results any time now-
Holy shit this is weird, she said at last.
How I wish I could deduct points for stating the painfully obvious. Or for doubting my teaching abilities. But I'll give you a passing grade.
We, give out- well, so she was still bad at coming up with stuff without pre-prep. Still, extra credit for the effort. Fuckin' grades, now?
Of course we do, I scoffed. I expect a three hundred word reflection on your first psionic experience by noon tomorrow, whereupon I shall give you a paragraph of Forster's Maurice to read out loud in Thinkspeak, to be completed by- Hmm, today was Monday, was it not? -Wednesday.
"You're one crazy guy," she muttered out loud, shaking her head, "teaching someone this psychic mumbo-jumbo the first time you meet 'em."
"Crazy's a mild word."
"You couldn't even have known if it would work."
"Oh, I had faith. More than you kids seem to have nowadays," I quipped. "So, to whom do I owe the pleasure?"
"Corporal Margaret Angelos," said she with an extended hand, which I took firmly. "Scout Team Forza, 322nd Mechanized Orbital Cavalry. Homeworld's Ulmud. Fifth rock from Sange Solus, and don't you forget it, Mr. Deschantes."
"I won't. Planetary draft, or volunteers?"
"Most everyone here is the latter," she declared, slapping the unit patch on her shoulder with gusto. "Draft's for pussies."
Or desperate times.
"So, do I use the first or last name?"
"Just Marge," she replied, before pursing her lips in thought. "Also, uh, try not to mind the stares."
"The experience of being famous has been novel so far."
"Eh, trust me. I grew up with half the kids on this bird. I'd know when they're being weird. But you gotta understand." She shrugged. "Magic, summoning spirits, psychic powers - I miss anything?"
"Hopefully not."
"So yeah, that stuff feels like it came out of some game or story, you know? Takes people a while to adjust. Then some more to just waltz up to someone and ask them 'hey, can you read my mind?'"
"That's not stopping your friend over there," I pointed out.
"Well," Marge said, her lips spread out into a grin that rivaled Leckie's in its breadth, "he's one of those damn nerds."
Now I'd hate to break it to her, but in that and other things they are quite alike. Similar complexion, a little darker in her case. The same rough-chiseled cheeks, same sun-bleached hair, with her wiry copper sheen versus his red. The real difference-maker was the smiles. Leckie's was the enthusiastic masque of school's first hours, while Marge's was the friendly knife between the ribs, not so fond yet as to lack all enjoyment.
"Oh, they grow those a lot planetside?"
"Naw, only on Rich-And-Bored Boulevard," she laughed. "Rest of us folk have things to do out in the fields."
"You seem fond enough of him."
"I need to be. I'm his minder."
"Oi!" Leckie called. "I heard that!"
"So far, so few shits I give," Marge deadpanned.
Oh lady, you and I are gonna get along just fine.
"Pah," Leckie spat, "don't talk all smack-like. Bet'cher just jealous that you didn't get yourself introd-"
The ascending tones of a major triad played over the sound systems, and the green seat-belt signs lit up all through the hull.
[Listen up boys and girls, we're arriving at our destination soon,] our pilot drawled, her lazy tone lacking the expected military bearing. [See that sign? For those of you ponces who can't read, it means 'bums in seats'. Do just that, and this landing shouldn't be too bumpy. Probably.]
Laughter rippled across the rows of seats, along with a few calls of 'we'd better not crash!' and 'learn to fly, Challis!' Leckie took to this second one with a relish, his voice rising way above the rest of the din. Well, at least Suzy wasn't joining that tomfoolery, though I supposed a quick chat later about hanging with the wrong crowd couldn't hurt.
[And that means you, Corporal Leckie. Sit down, before I decide to make this very uncomfortable.]
Or someone else could do it for me, I thought as the young soldier sat down, his face a chastised shade or two redder than it had been before. Suzy for her part strained to contain her laughter as she slapped him on the back, earning her choking coughs and a grumbling aside of 'damn prissy arse - what's so great about officer school anyway?'
There was a story behind that, I supposed.
"Well, looks like this chat's gonna wrap up soon, Mr. Mind-Reader," Marge noted, the upward twist of her lips just a little more pronounced than before.
"I've told you, I'm not-" I cut myself off, rolling my eyes. "-eh, nevermind. You know what? I'm gonna have a bit of me-time before we land. Maybe even catch some shut-eye."
"As you like." Marge cocked her head, scratching her nose idly. "Actually…can I get one more thing?"
"Aye?"
"So, this might be a bit above my paygrade but, uh, this op was supposed to be a planetary rescue, right?"
Oh, good. One of the few things I did know.
"Yes."
"Well see, upstairs has been real cagey about giving us any more information. Now, not wanting to tell us shipgirls exist, that's acceptable. World-breaking crazy can stay need-to-know." Her lips scrunched up into a frown, her eyes sharpening slits of flint. "But someone should've reminded them that us Thunder Jumpers aren't so good when we don't know where we're jumping to."
Girl, I feel you. Really do. But the best I could do was put disappointment as diplomatically as possible.
"I'm afraid you may be barking up the wrong tree here."
"Eh? But I would've thought-"
"That we'd know better?" I sighed. "That might have been true if the two of us weren't two days shy of a full week in service."
Or a mile and a half short of proper shipgirl summoning procedure from what I'd read, but I suppose that was also above her paygrade.
"Five days..."
"Short notice, no? Frankly, I'm as puzzled as you are that we're here."
"Uh, that's not what I- I mean, it's been five days since-" A tiny smile crawled like newborn on all unsteady fours onto Marge's face. "You picked a strange time to join the fight."
"I know. I was there."
"...Dare I ask?"
"Best not to."
"Fair." Glancing up at nothing in particular, the soldier blew at a few unruly locks of hair, trying and failing to discipline them. "So we gotta wait and see, eh? Figures that it wouldn't be that easy."
"Is it ever?"
"Eh, never."
"Exactly."
"But I hope they'll spill soon. Don't wanna make this harder than it has to be."
"You and me both," I said, before turning back around to face forward, slipping both hands behind my neck as an impromptu cushion. "Well, time for a time out. See you soon, Corporal."
"'Soon', you say?" She teased. "I see I made a good first impression."
"The best - in a sample size of two."
"Whew. Real ray of sunshine, aren'tcha?"
"Like you wouldn't believe."
With that, I sank back into my seat. Suzy and Leckie had gone quiet on their end, presumably following goodbyes less abrupt than ours. The relative silence was good. Why, one could be forgiven for thinking that it might have become a forgotten concept despite all its virtues - such benefits as the opportunity to let drift and think about the near future a little.
Not that I was going to tax my own brain for that, faithful servant though it was.
Behold the OmniPad: the most recent manifestation of mankind's drive to have everything one might ever need in one tiny space. Like your retinal lens. Or the epidermis of your forearm. Or if you were as unadventurous as I, you could whip it out of your trouser pocket, swipe yourself through several security checks like the plebeian you were, and viola - all the data you were authorized to access, right at your fingertips.
For myself, that was just over halfway through Fleet Group Poseidon, Advanced Warfare Research Division, Key Personnel, at Entry Seventeen:
Commander (Dr.) Mraliz Vorkros, Senior Researcher (Xenobiology) and Acting Captain, TNS Graf Zeppelin.
Raw mischief stared back at me through two eyes dyed the hue of newborn sunset, and framed as they were by sloped lashes and dimpled grin I could almost hear some well-practiced joke bubbling forth to obfuscate the intellect that lay just beneath.
That was where the concept 'humanoid imitation' ended though, for the rest of Mraliz took the concept and ran it into blue-sky-thinking territory. Like, 'look at me twirl this fountain pen between my divisible tendril-fingers, and by the by did you notice that below the vaguely humanoid, white-coat-and-suit covered torso I don't so much walk as slither around on a quartet of black tentacles' hues of blue sky.
But such was the natural privilege of the shapeshifting Free Benthos of Europa, guaranteed by their membership in the Alliance. And even if no 'take-most-forms-you-will' clause was enshrined on 26th century stone tablets, body-shaming one's superior was still poor form.
Yes, 'superior': for Mraliz Vorkros was as of last week commander of the newly christened Strike Force Triton. She was also a psion, the first and only to be known to us so far. Proper paranoia, I supposed, for dealing with those who were still technically outsiders. A little irksome. But I'd have done the same, were I in power.
The Catha shuddered, losing all forward momentum to one of the many tractor fields in Gradivus Base's landing bay. A hubbub ran through the passenger cabin like static, people adjusting seat-belts, pushing bags under seats, doing some last minute grooming.
I flicked my OmniPad off.
Well then. Time to meet some new friends.
Note that this release schedule does not reflect my actual writing speed. Due to some real-life circumstances I already had quite a few things written out, and as such it was just a matter of doing some continuity correction and editing. I will do my best to update regularly, though.
As always, I hope you enjoy the read. Feel free to tell me why or why not below as well - these things can only help me improve, after all.
======
A Sea of Stars
Book 1: The Stars, Awake
Chapter 2: Inbound Flight
"Ethel..."
Hello?
Yes, hello. You have reached Ethel's Mental Voice Mail. Unfortunately, he is busy resting right now. Please leave a message after the tone - as long as you're not a burglar, a stalker, or automated salesbot. Or an over-enthusiastic partner. Not that he has a specific one in mind, but you know, just a suggestion.
"Ethel!"
Well bugger me silly. People couldn't keep their hands to themselves these days, could they? For a moment I wondered who it was who first standardized the procedure of 'if at first they don't get up, shake, shake, and shake them again'. Because whoever they were, they deserved to hang for this indignity.
Hey, Ethel!
Those two words rang in my head with a force that mere sound could not match, shaking the last vestiges of sleep from it.
"Okay, I'm up, I'm up."
Now far be it from me to claim that a Catha-class military transport craft could be the poster girl for comfort over function. Hell, I'd be downright worried for our future if they were. But a horizontal position plus healthy amounts of legroom meant sleep. Good, sumptuous sleep that had just been cut off in its prime. Rest in peace. Your services shall be fondly remembered, faithful servant.
But first, a quick look around.
Yup. Still strapped snugly into Thirteen B, the ignominious middle seat of three in the next-to-last row of our cabin. It was also on the immediate right of Thirteen A, where a young lady in her mid-teens sat, two dark ponytails spilling over her shoulders as she beamed down at me through deep sea-blue eyes.
Ladies and gentlemen, I present my partner, Suzune 'Suzy' Onjouji. Or if I used the official designation -and believe me I was still a bit torn on using it- TNS Suzukaze, Shiratsuyu-class shipgirl.
Yes, I did just say 'shipgirls'. Ships who were also girls. Or girls who were also ships - not that either formulation helped me sleep better at night. Our timeless tradition of objectifying our material creations had never sat well with me, and this most droll of portmanteaus wasn't helping any.
But then again, had I really expected to be anything but betrayed for hoping against hope that Fleet Group Poseidon was not the nadir of our creativity, after which could only come the inevitable fall?
======
"I'll admit it," I said once I was sure we were again alone - physically speaking, at least. "I'm sort of wishing that injection did knock me out right now."
"Unfortunately," Secret Agent Man continued from the restored comfort of the shadows, "we are on a timetable here. And are we not past the point in history where relaxants necessarily double up as sedatives?"
"Well it's not that. It's not even about the news either."
"Oh?"
"I'm serious. I mean, look, so the apparitions of twentieth century ships that we've given a modern overhaul isn't exactly News at Eleven," I explained. "And the psychic-"
"The word is PSIonic, for Psionic Sensory Interface."
"-the psionic soldiers who help offset the spiritual weight that deploying them occupies on our plane in exchange for cool powers? Definitely worth a whole twelve-episode holonet series on the Geographic. Or a trilogy of films. It would make money, I guarantee it."
"Good to know. But get back on track, Mr. Deschantes."
"Oh. Right. Well, just look at it this way," I continued, "we're already in a war against an enemy of startling contrarieties. Advanced control over faster-than-light travel but simplistic movements, an overwhelming preference for swarm tactics punctuated by moments of strategic brilliance, disgustingly hard to find but prone to engage in headlong charges when discovered. It's not a huge leap from one level of incomprehensible reality to another. Next thing you'll be telling me the apparitions of famous cars have returned as dazzlingly handsome young men."
"...did you Earthbound History?"
"Yes."
"That would explain the specificity. Do go on."
"Yes, so, this isn't strange. None of this is: even our inconsistent naming sense."
If there was a feeling for being transfixed by a bug-eyed stare, this was it.
"Is that what you have beef with?"
"Yes! I mean, come on." I thrust out both arms. "'Shipgirls'. Really?"
"It is a functional name."
"Uh-huh."
"Unconvinced?"
Oh by Jove, this man's a genius.
"Absolutely. Our latest and greatest, the raison d'etre of Fleet Group Poseidon, our first official contact with preternatural abilities not seen in action since Uruk and Balor Crater - and that's what we're calling them?!"
"Would you like to know why?"
No. No, not at all. My nodding means absolutely nothing, good sir, no more than the simmering anger I can feel simmering in you. An insignificant detail really, nor should I expect any story to come of it.
He leaned forward.
"Make no mistake: you cannot know how close we were to choosing some other abomination for a name. I do not claim to speak for all," the man growled, his voice a faultline flatline even as that placid rage towered ever higher with every punctuated word, "but the vocal contest between such names as 'Voidstalkers' and 'The Black Armada', among others, was a most puerile and childish affair. No, Mr. Deschantes. 'Functionality' was our hard-won compromise, and I am grateful for it."
A good few seconds went by in silence.
"Does that answer your question, Mr. Deschantes?"
"Almost."
"Do tell."
"So we made the quantum leap from that to a recursive acronym. How?"
"You would be shocked at how much our collective intelligence rises the less we discuss which aspects of naval weaponry should be appropriate to fetishize, and how."
I take back everything I said about you, bald guy. Those were indeed some rather terrible names, and the people who came up with them should be ashamed.
It could have been worse though. Like, way worse.
I mean, at least no one had come up with 'Flying Dutchwives', right?
=======
And that, kids, was how Grandpa Ethel discovered that a thousand yard stare that you cannot see burns just the same.
Just remembering that made me laugh, almost enough to cause me to forget that I had just been rudely roused by the telepathic equivalent of a reveille loudhailer.
Come on, I asked, trying not to sound as grumpy as I felt, did you really have to shout at me?
Hmmm, no, she thought, but I really, really had something to show you, so I thought this'd be faster!
Suzy, I distinctly remember that we had an agreement about this.
A fine agreement by all accounts; one that took the still-awkward edge off the whole my-thoughts-to-your-thoughts thing, certainly.
'Talk normally, only think the important stuff', right?
Yes, I replied.
Whether we liked it or not, shipgirls and the alternative forms of communication unique to them were still rarities. The psionic one percent if you will. And what was the role of the privileged minority if not to humor our more numerous brethren?
Sure, some of them were making Suzy's dramatic attempts to awaken me the butt of some humor, which was non-ideal even at its most harmless. But better that than to be given a wide berth out of fear.
But this is important!
Suzy protested.
Really?
"So," I said, switching to speech, "what was it you wanted to show me?"
"Is, not was," my partner said with a shake of her head. "It hasn't happened yet."
"Well whatever it is, it better be good."
"Oh, it is! See, I thought I might introduce you to-"
-Suzy's eyes darted toward the windows, then flicked back to me, rank excitement written all them.
"There they are!" She gushed, pointing. "Look! It's Gradivus Base and the Graf Zeppelin!"
"Mmhmm," I noted without looking, knowing full well that it might be taken for boredom.
Which she did, if the disapproving quirk of her lip was anything to go by.
"Eh, what kind of response is that? There's going to be a whole gathering of us here, Ethel." Suzy's eyes were as bright and wide as I'd ever seen them. "Other ships and their partners! We'll live together, train together...just think about it! It'll be so much fun!"
I struggled to suppress a grin. The hope that my sleep hadn't been sacrificed at the altar of mere curiosity had been a naive one, yes, but Suzy almost made up for it by being as good at spreading her plague of cheer as she had been bad at leading me on.
"You do know that we weren't told who we'd be meeting, right?"
"Oh, don't be such a pessimist. Graf is a great start!" Suzy insisted. "Also, did you know she was one of-"
"Our first shipgirls? Yeah."
"Looks it too, doesn't she?"
"Uh-huh."
Let's just say insensate fangirling isn't my jam, girl. But you're free to choose your own way, and I respect that.
"Say, which part do you think looks the best? I reckon it's gotta be the sleek bowline, wouldn't you agree?"
What a man can't respect however is trying to get the unwilling to participate. And on such scandalous topics, too. For shame!
"No comment."
Nor was Ethel Deschantes particularly weak to mid-elevator pitch pouts. They were cute, yes, and certainly useful in a pinch, but those who would be manhandled by such manipulative maneuvers were more malleable souls than I.
"Of course you can't comment," Suzy protested, "you haven't even had a look yet!"
Behold, here lies the Obvious, belaboured to death by DD(SG)-23, TNS Suzukaze on this the 6th of August, 2542. But maintaining the high ground meant constant tilling and terraform, so I did have a look anyway, and my, was it quite the sight.
Graf Zeppelin cruised alongside the hulk of intertwined rock and steel that had once upon a time been the asteroid Gradivus, now turned into one of the Advanced Warfare Research Division's bases of operation. Her sloped lines gleamed in the light of a distant sun, harking back to a time when it was not the breathless night of space but the foaming azure main that opposed progress, her flying smokestacks and flat-top deck testaments to the embryonic days of modern warfare.
Yet it was not the ancient Archimedean propeller or billowing black boiler smoke, but the familiar glowing vents of modern faster-than-light drives nestled in their sterns that kept Graf Zeppelin moving apace.
And looking closely one could espy other spots where the archaic and modern met on uneasy terms: in thin veins of LED lights that reflected differently off steel and superalloy plate, in anti-air turrets flanked by concealed launch tubes, and down sleek bevels of assorted weapons embedded into a profile that knew not the touch of vacuum.
The two were not alone: around them floated a bevy of more modern vessels that had fallen into a loose zig-zag formation with them. In all I counted over two dozen ships, each looking like they had sprung from the pages of a copy of Jane's or from a Sentinels of the Night holoboard, fully armed and ready for war as Pallas Athene might have been.
Looking upon that sight, I began to understand the almost casual air in the Catha, something that had seemed just a little incongruous to me before.
Our recent reverse at Akkad was to be remembered, yes, but only as two one among many that had come before and were yet to come. Indeed I could feel a mere-ness encroaching upon that memory, replaced by the surety that we still possessed no lack of resources or options.
I was certainly not the only one. Most everyone near and even not particularly near a window was stacked up beside one, gawking, pointing and chattering amongst themselves. Well, not that such indirect peer pressure ever had any chance of getting to me, I thought as I turned back to an expectant looking Suzy, one serving of condensed disappointment firmly on the tip of my tongue.
"I correct myself. I meant to say that I won't comment."
"What? Why?"
"Because I have a tendency to say unfortunate things, which should you let them slip during girls' talk at some point shall make my life a masterclass in disproportionate suffering, a legend of agony, a myth to frighten children for generations to come."
"Come on, I would never do that!"
To her credit, Suzy looked genuinely hurt.
"'Never' isn't a word I'd trust you with."
Or anyone else, for that matter. It was just a matter of principle.
"Booooo," my partner jeered, before turning pointedly away from me to face the window. "You're no fun at all."
"Yes. It is I, Sir No-Fun the Joyless at your service, milady," I replied.
Well, that was that. Perhaps now I could catch a bit more shut-eye before-
"My, aren't we chatty?"
-yes, before another interruption. Fool that I am, what was I hoping for?
Not this fellow, certainly. Mr Seat Fourteen A was more toothy smile wearing a head and rough-hewn shoulders than the other way around as he leaned over the seats that separated us, green-field eyes burning bright against sun kissed freckles and matte red hair. He was also deeply tanned; probably from somewhere with sunlight enough to push back against planetary greenhousing. Ulmud came to mind. Miglon and Sharazad, too. Maybe even Venus.
I counted two chevrons on his chest. A corporal, then.
"And who might you-"
I started, only to realize he hadn't been looking at me. Indeed I might as well have been transparent, tangential in all ways to his starry-eyed gaze on my partner.
"Say, you're one of them shipgirls, aren't'cha?"
"'Course! The name's Suzukaze!" She beamed. "But you can call me Suzy, I don't mind."
"Leckie. Johann Leckie," he said, and if his smile had been broad before it was impossible now. "Corporal, 322nd Orbital Cavalry."
So I was to be the sideshow animal here. Very well, I thought, leaning back into my seat and closed my eyes. Never let it be said that Ethel Deschantes was governed by some prehistoric predisposition to jealous, possessive anger.
"So, Suzukaze...that's the tenth ship in the Shiratsuyu destroyer class, huh? Guess they weren't lying about y'all all being Earthbound ships..." Leckie trailed off. "So, you're here for the joint op?"
"Yup! You too?"
"Of course!"
"Just your unit?"
"Nah, there's still the three-twenty-sixth and two-forty-first coming in on other boats."
"Three hundred and twenty six, huh? That's a pretty big number."
Well, I suppose playing a game of 'state the obvious' was one way to start conversation. Not one I endorsed, but it was a way.
"It's kinda gotta be big. You'd need that at least many to fuel the dumbest idea the Navy's ever come up with."
Oh, now wasn't that a bold claim? It was a wide galaxy after all. What was it that OrbCav did again?
"Really?"
"Anything's more sensible than chucking a division of power-armored soldiers strapped inside metal boxes out of ships at terminal velocity."
Hmm. No argument there.
"Sounds like you've had some experience."
"Uh, 'course. Lots!" Leckie was a pretty poor liar, even without the wave of uncertainty that washed off him as he spoke. Suzy and I were having words later if she was fooled by that glossing over he gave his training.
Well. If there was something more awkward than waking up eighty three stories off the ground in half a fibreglass gondola, a sodden velvet pillow fort on your chest and a zoo stampede in your head, it would have to be the silence that followed an ill-told fib.
On that note, screw you, Nirsha Gievv Valt. I don't care how stoned you were, but breaking someone else's gondola in two was downright ungentlemanly. Why, your ancestors would be ashamed of you.
"Man, they didn't lie when they said the Graf was a beauty," In other news, there was Leckie with the recovery! A semi-solid four point five out of ten. "They just don't make sloped bows like those anymore."
"I know right? Just makes you wanna meet her in person!" Through nigh-closed eyelids I could see Suzy turning to me. "See, Ethel? Now here's someone who actually cares!"
Oh sorry, what? Busy napping over here. As to your comment, of course such people would exist. Far be it from me to know all the fetishes the modern individual might have, and further still be it for me to judge them. Time to get back to catching up on some overdue rest-
A finger tapped my shoulder.
"Psst."
Oh dearie me, no. Not the surprise conspiratorial whispers.
"Heeey."
Anything but that!
"I know you're listening. Don't nobody fall asleep in seconds with all this racket going on."
No rest for the wicked, I thought as I cracked one eye open, rotating my head to the right to face the snickering occupant of Fourteen B.
Yes, fellow abandoned sidekick, I whispered back, you have my attention now.
She recoiled, her smile frozen. To her credit, her thoughts still maintained a coherent gist - as far as a doomsday-loop of 'ohmahgawdhesinmahhead' was coherent anyway.
Really now, one would think you'd all been briefed about psionics before.
Confusion mixed with apprehension made up the bulk of the woman's still inchoate response, but there was a fair sprinkling of curiosity there that we could work with.
Don't worry, this is more me talking at your head, I said, and you being bad at hiding what you thought. Now, you could continue gawking at me from the Dunce Corner, or, I paused for effect, I could teach you to talk to me, instead of at me.
Call me the master motivator. Her thoughts were still garbled, but I could sense her sharpening them, allowing that curiosity to take shape and swell into a genuine interest that outstripped her earlier fear. Still quite a ways off from throwing comprehensive thoughts, but then again, she didn't have the advantage of knowing the basics just by existing, or having them drop into her lap through some knowledge-granting vision.
So the best analogy I can find for this kind of thing is 'a unicorn's horn'.
Confused acknowledgement.
I'll explain: it's similar to a mnemonic device that musicians -well, the ones that aren't completely digital nowadays- use. I want you to imagine a space, a small spot perched on the bridge of your nose, or 'right between the eyes' as you soldiers might say. Mild amusement greeted that jibe. Then imagine a word. Take the thoughts, the ideas that surround that word. Twist and shape them. Condense their meanings, file them down to a single point. The 'horn'.
I formed a finger-gun, placing it on the bridge of my nose.
Then you pick a target, and thrust that 'horn' at them with all you've got.
Curiosity.
Go on, give it a go.
At the same time, I noted that our little exchange had been drawing some odd looks from those done fussing over our drop out of FTL. Well, they could keep staring. I had a class of one to teach, one which was going quite well. In fact, I could probably expect results any time now-
Holy shit this is weird, she said at last.
How I wish I could deduct points for stating the painfully obvious. Or for doubting my teaching abilities. But I'll give you a passing grade.
We, give out- well, so she was still bad at coming up with stuff without pre-prep. Still, extra credit for the effort. Fuckin' grades, now?
Of course we do, I scoffed. I expect a three hundred word reflection on your first psionic experience by noon tomorrow, whereupon I shall give you a paragraph of Forster's Maurice to read out loud in Thinkspeak, to be completed by- Hmm, today was Monday, was it not? -Wednesday.
"You're one crazy guy," she muttered out loud, shaking her head, "teaching someone this psychic mumbo-jumbo the first time you meet 'em."
"Crazy's a mild word."
"You couldn't even have known if it would work."
"Oh, I had faith. More than you kids seem to have nowadays," I quipped. "So, to whom do I owe the pleasure?"
"Corporal Margaret Angelos," said she with an extended hand, which I took firmly. "Scout Team Forza, 322nd Mechanized Orbital Cavalry. Homeworld's Ulmud. Fifth rock from Sange Solus, and don't you forget it, Mr. Deschantes."
"I won't. Planetary draft, or volunteers?"
"Most everyone here is the latter," she declared, slapping the unit patch on her shoulder with gusto. "Draft's for pussies."
Or desperate times.
"So, do I use the first or last name?"
"Just Marge," she replied, before pursing her lips in thought. "Also, uh, try not to mind the stares."
"The experience of being famous has been novel so far."
"Eh, trust me. I grew up with half the kids on this bird. I'd know when they're being weird. But you gotta understand." She shrugged. "Magic, summoning spirits, psychic powers - I miss anything?"
"Hopefully not."
"So yeah, that stuff feels like it came out of some game or story, you know? Takes people a while to adjust. Then some more to just waltz up to someone and ask them 'hey, can you read my mind?'"
"That's not stopping your friend over there," I pointed out.
"Well," Marge said, her lips spread out into a grin that rivaled Leckie's in its breadth, "he's one of those damn nerds."
Now I'd hate to break it to her, but in that and other things they are quite alike. Similar complexion, a little darker in her case. The same rough-chiseled cheeks, same sun-bleached hair, with her wiry copper sheen versus his red. The real difference-maker was the smiles. Leckie's was the enthusiastic masque of school's first hours, while Marge's was the friendly knife between the ribs, not so fond yet as to lack all enjoyment.
"Oh, they grow those a lot planetside?"
"Naw, only on Rich-And-Bored Boulevard," she laughed. "Rest of us folk have things to do out in the fields."
"You seem fond enough of him."
"I need to be. I'm his minder."
"Oi!" Leckie called. "I heard that!"
"So far, so few shits I give," Marge deadpanned.
Oh lady, you and I are gonna get along just fine.
"Pah," Leckie spat, "don't talk all smack-like. Bet'cher just jealous that you didn't get yourself introd-"
The ascending tones of a major triad played over the sound systems, and the green seat-belt signs lit up all through the hull.
[Listen up boys and girls, we're arriving at our destination soon,] our pilot drawled, her lazy tone lacking the expected military bearing. [See that sign? For those of you ponces who can't read, it means 'bums in seats'. Do just that, and this landing shouldn't be too bumpy. Probably.]
Laughter rippled across the rows of seats, along with a few calls of 'we'd better not crash!' and 'learn to fly, Challis!' Leckie took to this second one with a relish, his voice rising way above the rest of the din. Well, at least Suzy wasn't joining that tomfoolery, though I supposed a quick chat later about hanging with the wrong crowd couldn't hurt.
[And that means you, Corporal Leckie. Sit down, before I decide to make this very uncomfortable.]
Or someone else could do it for me, I thought as the young soldier sat down, his face a chastised shade or two redder than it had been before. Suzy for her part strained to contain her laughter as she slapped him on the back, earning her choking coughs and a grumbling aside of 'damn prissy arse - what's so great about officer school anyway?'
There was a story behind that, I supposed.
"Well, looks like this chat's gonna wrap up soon, Mr. Mind-Reader," Marge noted, the upward twist of her lips just a little more pronounced than before.
"I've told you, I'm not-" I cut myself off, rolling my eyes. "-eh, nevermind. You know what? I'm gonna have a bit of me-time before we land. Maybe even catch some shut-eye."
"As you like." Marge cocked her head, scratching her nose idly. "Actually…can I get one more thing?"
"Aye?"
"So, this might be a bit above my paygrade but, uh, this op was supposed to be a planetary rescue, right?"
Oh, good. One of the few things I did know.
"Yes."
"Well see, upstairs has been real cagey about giving us any more information. Now, not wanting to tell us shipgirls exist, that's acceptable. World-breaking crazy can stay need-to-know." Her lips scrunched up into a frown, her eyes sharpening slits of flint. "But someone should've reminded them that us Thunder Jumpers aren't so good when we don't know where we're jumping to."
Girl, I feel you. Really do. But the best I could do was put disappointment as diplomatically as possible.
"I'm afraid you may be barking up the wrong tree here."
"Eh? But I would've thought-"
"That we'd know better?" I sighed. "That might have been true if the two of us weren't two days shy of a full week in service."
Or a mile and a half short of proper shipgirl summoning procedure from what I'd read, but I suppose that was also above her paygrade.
"Five days..."
"Short notice, no? Frankly, I'm as puzzled as you are that we're here."
"Uh, that's not what I- I mean, it's been five days since-" A tiny smile crawled like newborn on all unsteady fours onto Marge's face. "You picked a strange time to join the fight."
"I know. I was there."
"...Dare I ask?"
"Best not to."
"Fair." Glancing up at nothing in particular, the soldier blew at a few unruly locks of hair, trying and failing to discipline them. "So we gotta wait and see, eh? Figures that it wouldn't be that easy."
"Is it ever?"
"Eh, never."
"Exactly."
"But I hope they'll spill soon. Don't wanna make this harder than it has to be."
"You and me both," I said, before turning back around to face forward, slipping both hands behind my neck as an impromptu cushion. "Well, time for a time out. See you soon, Corporal."
"'Soon', you say?" She teased. "I see I made a good first impression."
"The best - in a sample size of two."
"Whew. Real ray of sunshine, aren'tcha?"
"Like you wouldn't believe."
With that, I sank back into my seat. Suzy and Leckie had gone quiet on their end, presumably following goodbyes less abrupt than ours. The relative silence was good. Why, one could be forgiven for thinking that it might have become a forgotten concept despite all its virtues - such benefits as the opportunity to let drift and think about the near future a little.
Not that I was going to tax my own brain for that, faithful servant though it was.
Behold the OmniPad: the most recent manifestation of mankind's drive to have everything one might ever need in one tiny space. Like your retinal lens. Or the epidermis of your forearm. Or if you were as unadventurous as I, you could whip it out of your trouser pocket, swipe yourself through several security checks like the plebeian you were, and viola - all the data you were authorized to access, right at your fingertips.
For myself, that was just over halfway through Fleet Group Poseidon, Advanced Warfare Research Division, Key Personnel, at Entry Seventeen:
Commander (Dr.) Mraliz Vorkros, Senior Researcher (Xenobiology) and Acting Captain, TNS Graf Zeppelin.
Raw mischief stared back at me through two eyes dyed the hue of newborn sunset, and framed as they were by sloped lashes and dimpled grin I could almost hear some well-practiced joke bubbling forth to obfuscate the intellect that lay just beneath.
That was where the concept 'humanoid imitation' ended though, for the rest of Mraliz took the concept and ran it into blue-sky-thinking territory. Like, 'look at me twirl this fountain pen between my divisible tendril-fingers, and by the by did you notice that below the vaguely humanoid, white-coat-and-suit covered torso I don't so much walk as slither around on a quartet of black tentacles' hues of blue sky.
But such was the natural privilege of the shapeshifting Free Benthos of Europa, guaranteed by their membership in the Alliance. And even if no 'take-most-forms-you-will' clause was enshrined on 26th century stone tablets, body-shaming one's superior was still poor form.
Yes, 'superior': for Mraliz Vorkros was as of last week commander of the newly christened Strike Force Triton. She was also a psion, the first and only to be known to us so far. Proper paranoia, I supposed, for dealing with those who were still technically outsiders. A little irksome. But I'd have done the same, were I in power.
The Catha shuddered, losing all forward momentum to one of the many tractor fields in Gradivus Base's landing bay. A hubbub ran through the passenger cabin like static, people adjusting seat-belts, pushing bags under seats, doing some last minute grooming.
I flicked my OmniPad off.
Well then. Time to meet some new friends.
=== To be continued in Chapter 3: First Day at the Office ===
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- Location
- Philippines
Yes! An update!
Suzukaze a cute. She rarely gets the limelight, be it in canon or doujinshi works, so I'm glad to see her being Ethel's partner in PSI shenanigans and being the cheerful Yang to his snarky Yin. Go poke him more, Suzy.
It highly amuses me that in the GRIMDARK future, humankind will still start flamewars over their favorite 'boats' at the drop of the hat. Never change in the face of the apocalypse...
Moorcock is in a class of his own. Sadly I only got to read Sparhawk when I was an adult. I do remember seeing a copy of The Shining Ones in my alma mater's library, and I finally completed the series years ago. Good reads.
Drunkbote and her sister are falcons. Different BURD haha XD
The more work you put into something, the more rewarding it is for you at the end, or so I hope XD
Suzukaze a cute. She rarely gets the limelight, be it in canon or doujinshi works, so I'm glad to see her being Ethel's partner in PSI shenanigans and being the cheerful Yang to his snarky Yin. Go poke him more, Suzy.
It highly amuses me that in the GRIMDARK future, humankind will still start flamewars over their favorite 'boats' at the drop of the hat. Never change in the face of the apocalypse...
Moorcock is in a class of his own. Sadly I only got to read Sparhawk when I was an adult. I do remember seeing a copy of The Shining Ones in my alma mater's library, and I finally completed the series years ago. Good reads.
Come to think of it, doesn't KanColle have a pair of hawks too? Hmmmm...
Drunkbote and her sister are falcons. Different BURD haha XD
The more work you put into something, the more rewarding it is for you at the end, or so I hope XD
AWACS Sky Eye
....
- Location
- Everywhere
Oh..... Neat. Shipgirls on spess again? Let's see and hope this is better than the last one.
- Location
- Little Red Dot
Waifuwars still happen; people still get stoned out of their minds; all is right with humanity. Also, I did think long and hard about the choice of ship. I decided to start small, and decided that I liked Suzy's personality best.
She's just the right sort of intolerable for the sort of person I created Ethel to be.
Au contraire, good sir. It seems we're...both wrong, actually! Oh dear!
Hiyou is 飛鷹 - which means the 'Flying/Soaring Hawk'; Jun'you is 隼鷹, she's the Peregrine Falcon between the two. So they're not both hawks or falcons. They're one of each.
Such is the hope of all who live to see such times.
Damn straight it will be.
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Whiskey Golf
Being of Editing & Technical Assistance
- Location
- Chained to my desk
Needs more Fubuki!
/me is beaten
Good writing tho, i rather like it.
/me is beaten
Good writing tho, i rather like it.
- Location
- Little Red Dot
This fellow says he wants more of Fubuki,
'Come author, I must have my waifu';
To that I say, 'wait and see, O Good Sir-
-and watch as I ruin your laifu.'
And thank you, good man, for you are quite kind
To praise this poor jester such
So take in return this low verse from my mind;
I hope that it tickles you much.
白雪や
残った思い
思ひけるかな
Shirayuki ya
Nokotta omoi
Omohikeru kana
Like the hoar white snow
My lingering desire
Will I remember it still?
残った思い
思ひけるかな
Shirayuki ya
Nokotta omoi
Omohikeru kana
Like the hoar white snow
My lingering desire
Will I remember it still?
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RazorBlaxe
Just another transient being
- Location
- Earth
Did you what? Read? Watch? There seems to be missing a word.
Also can I say this read and flows far better compared to the earlier version? I like what you done with it. And I am greatly enjoying the sass from our MC "abandoned sidekick number two", pfft.
Now to do my civic duty for the day and ask a dumb question: "Where's the Whiskey expy and what gender will the expy be?"
V:
- Location
- Little Red Dot
Did you what? Read? Watch? There seems to be missing a word.
Also can I say this read and flows far better compared to the earlier version? I like what you done with it. And I am greatly enjoying the sass from our MC "abandoned sidekick number two", pfft.
Now to do my civic duty for the day and ask a dumb question: "Where's the Whiskey expy and what gender will the expy be?"
V:
Ugh yes, getting the ideas together to write this was much harder than I would usually give anything credit for. But it's here, so I guess I should consider that a win! And yes, Ethel's sass is very much his defining way of dealing with the world.
As for the @Whiskey Golf expy...it will be coming, uh, soon!
And its gender does no matter. Know only that it will definitely love itself some Fubooty regardless.
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Whiskey Golf
Being of Editing & Technical Assistance
- Location
- Chained to my desk
Fubooty is best DD fite me
Glitchrr36
Slick's Short Company, CEO
- Location
- The Wastes
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Interesting so far, this is a concept I expected to see more of (especially since that's what got me into kancolle in the first place)
- Location
- Little Red Dot
I must say it's actually slightly trickier than one thinks it might be.
An overwhelming fraction of Kantai Collection's appeal is, despite its (admittedly barebones) attempts to dislocate itself in time, derived from its characters as ships of the Second World War, and thus to the fact that WW2 is -even to the layman- relatable history. Embedded in this is the act of anthropomorphism itself, or as Ethel put it in Chapter 2:
This practice of course is far older than anime, and has been a part of popular culture at least several times in human history before this, but with nowhere near the crosscultural global reach anime has achieved. It seems much simpler on the whole (if you check) for people to cross over the concept of ship-become-girl to some other franchise and just roll with it. Without saying too much, this likely has something to do with the aforementioned cultural undercurrent that underpins the insert something here-musume genre.
That, and also my personal need to come up with a coherent in-universe reason as to why we would have WW2-era ships as opposed to anything else, and if this should exclusively be the case.
I have thought of a solution at this point, but will leave that for...another time, let us say. I hope you enjoy the answer when it is revealed. Or better yet, try guessing!
Book 1, Chapter 3: First Day at the Office
- Location
- Little Red Dot
Phew! Sorry this took a little longer than the last despite already having been written. Schoolwork and the vagaries of my own obsession with editing everything I see. But I guess at some point you do need to stop and just let have some faith in the thought you've put into your work (or the lack thereof).
Thanks for all the comments so far, and I hope you guys enjoy the chapter!
=======
A Sea of Stars
Book 1: The Stars, Awake
Chapter 3: First Day at The Office
Life can be described as a hallway full of doors in every build and make, shape and size, each opening unto more, and those too unto others.
Some remain open for a time, others close to us once we have stepped through. Some we ourselves shut, for better and worse alike. But not a single one opens or closes the same. One may be thrown wide open with singular purpose, others creak and founder with indecision, and upon each we carve emotions, purpose, and meaning, perhaps for ourselves to revisit; or for others to stumble upon. Thus every life lived is unique, a constant novelty from life's first cry to final breath.
How misfortunate, then, that this day had taken a left turn off the sunny side of the street into that part of town where the earthy scents of wood and stone were replaced with stark, relentless steel and glass, where anger had corporeal form and rage spanned the entire visual spectrum.
Indeed it could not be more abundantly clear that behind this pair of blast doors and its embossed silver nameplate M. Vorkros, CO Gradivus Base was having a beautiful day, one that nobody had any business interrupting, especially not in such a vulgar fashion as either I, or the shipgirl beside me might. Yet needs must when the devil drives. So, whose would that dishonor be?
"Hey, Suzy-"
"No."
"What?"
The blue-haired girl didn't even look at me, choosing instead to steadfastly eyeball the floor next to the office entrance.
"No. No matter what your question is, my answer is no."
Well, hello there, Our Lady of Perpetual Perception. In all truth, I hadn't expected this to be easy. Which was precisely why it would be fun.
"Now that's hardly fair of you," I protested.
"Nope. Don't care."
"See, if you'd just let me-"
"Nuh-uh-nopedy-no."
"I'll pay for dinner."
"Eh, it's free at the cantina."
"Supper, then."
Ah, there we go. The silence of doubt at last. Now, striking at the ravenous inclinations of a shipgirl was a bit low, even for me. But in desperate times...
"I'll manage."
...anything was fair game.
"Pudding at the mess. A whole week's worth."
Yes, dinner will be served soon, I thought to myself. In the meantime, please feel free to leave your jaws on the welcome mat. One of our friendly staff will assist you in picking them up when you leave.
But the taste of victory was as fleeting as it was sweet, as Suzy struggled mightily, but at last shoved the offending anatomical section back into place with an audible clack.
"B-bribing military personnel is a punishable offense," she spluttered, looking most displeased to be in the right. "You should be ashamed of yourself."
"Oh, but how can I, when you seem to like the idea so much?" I shrugged. "But see, I don't blame you. It is pudding after all-"
"Ha! You guys are a riot!"
That burst of laughter, throaty with an aged whiff of menthol smoke, reminded me that we were not alone. For on each side of the door stood a soldier in dark grey fatigues and armor, 'MP' woven in white on black armbands wrapped round their left shoulder armor.
One was clean shaven, the other five-o'clock-shadowed. Both were as broad and imposing as military police ought to be. Both were also standing as far clear of either side of the office entrance as humanly possible. A whole meter away, in fact.
Most encouraging.
"But the girl's right, you know." Clean Jean said, waggling a finger at me. "Careless talk costs lives."
"And court-martials," Stubby Hubby added. "Never know when someone might be listening in."
"Why thank you, Big Brother," I retorted. "But if you're going to risk going in there first, be my guest."
Tweedle-dee at least did me the courtesy of considering the option.
"Tempting," said he, stroking his pristine chin. "but nah. We're happy right where we are."
Tweedle-dum didn't even bother. The first twirl of his wrist unholstered the telescopic baton at his side. The second extended it, and the third greeted the intercom panel next to the door with a two swift strokes of police brutality: one to slide the panel open, the other for the buzzer.
It rang. Then we waited. And waited. And then we waited some more. Oh yes, dear me Mrs. Robinson, what a dreadfully hot day this is-
"Seaman Eli?"
Eli-the-Newly-Named cleared his throat.
"Lieutenants Deschantes and Onjouji to see you, ma'am."
"One moment."
It was a curt send-off playing at pleasantry - at best. But it did have its perks. The air ceased its attempts to strangle me without the aid of my tie, a freedom that our two stooges enjoyed a fair bit, lacking as they did the requisite wardrobe of laryngeal discomfort. Well, at least someone felt better in their own skin.
The additional wait on the other hand was quite subpar. Not enough to rot flesh off bone, mind you. Not quite that bad. But I trust you too would find a minute experiencing several -admittedly decreasing- degrees of 'not quite choking to death on the very air you breathe' to be just a tad uncomfortable.
Hmmm. Yes. Uncomfortable. No other phrase rolled off the tongue quite so well, were I to describe my week. And it was a feeling that only intensified as the seconds ticked down to when the door must surely slide open.
See, here's the thing. The natural empathic rating of the average human stands just a hair above that of the average rock. Sometimes that outlook even seems rosy.
But we've all that moment where we could see beyond the ken of mere sight. Like when you're browsing some clandestine material, and then you turn as the hairs of your back stand on end, only to see that your glowering professor has been waiting to lay the law down on your Gommorite bum for the last dozen seconds or so.
Being a psion means that these rare flashes of clarity become a near constant instead. But it also gives you the tools to prevent death by metasensory overload. You could shut off. Deaden the noise before it became cacophony. Or at least I could. It was also only fair that our Brothers Trimm over here should be allowed to speak for themselves.
Another psion, though, now that changed the game. We could project our emotions a certain distance almost instinctively. Quite prominently too, so it seemed. Which raised questions. Many, in fact. But most immediately, given the palpable heat I had felt earlier, might it be possible to project 'Piss Off My Lawn!' hard enough to flash-fry someone on demand?
The door opened, hissing my reply: 'Hush boy, you have other things to think about now.'
Other things, such as dealing with the alien presently grinning in the entryway.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," Commander Mraliz Vorkros said, the trilling distinctive to a Benthos' natural vocal apparatus setting her voice pleasantly aflutter. Nonetheless there was a dangerous glimmer in her eyes as she sized us both up. "You seem a little stiff. Did the flight not sit well with you?"
Then without warning she shot forward, till she was so close I could feel the chill rolling off the translucent environ suit that members of her race were wont to wear when not in anything short of eyeball-freezing temperatures.
"Or is our highest recorded psionic resonance peak not just for show after all, I wonder?"
What. How?
It wasn't till the doctor's smile had taken on the manner of a shark that I realized my mistake. My simple, fatal mistake. How could one forget? Just as it was not above one of our foremost experts in shipgirl phenomena to know more than I about them, it was certainly not below them to test that which they did not yet understand on poor unwitting soul.
And to Mraliz, I certainly counted as one such potential victim.
"Seems you're still quite green, boy," she teased, sparkling amber eyes confirming my suspicions. "Ah, ah, no. Don't spill the beans just yet. That can wait."
With that, she slid over to the left, gesturing towards the open doorway.
"Do come in," she said, "and welcome to Gradivus Base."
======
Mraliz Vorkros' office was a spartan affair, containing only the bare minimum that one could expect of an officer of her station. Two guest seats were arranged before a non-existent desk, both unneeded by a sentient that stood well over seven feet on tentacular haunches. Wall mounted displays showed schematics of both Gradivus and the Graf Zeppelin, albeit a similar foot above average eye level. Less expected, however, was the wall-mounted coffee machine. An antique of the pre-mass fabricator era, it was...
...well, let's just say that for some, pawning house, wives and children to get and maintain one was a fair price to pay.
Thus it had been with some trepidation that I had watched our host practically glide across the room, limbs flitting back and forth as they snagged cups from vacuum racks, poured beans, and pushed buttons, her lips spinning a tale of slanted modes and careless lilting quartertones.
But patience and trust were rewarded, and it was not long before each of us held in our hands a cup of lovely, dark mahogany magic, one whose aroma brought back to mind the best and worst hours in college life. Ah, nostalgia.
Next to me, Suzy peered into the depths of her own drink, her expression pensive. A pleasant surprise. Now if only she wasn't also allowing her cup to tilt further and further forward towards near-boiling doom. Any second now, and-
-our good host could show how having multiple limbs was a very convenient proposition. Yes, that worked too. Bonus points for causing Suzy to go a deep crimson shade.
"S-sorry! I was-"
"Distracted, I know." Mraliz chuckled, retracting the appendage with a chitinous rattle. "But do be careful from here on. My wallet is still hurting from having this shipped directly from Piaf two months back."
Huh. Two months, eh?
"I'm surprised you had the time to attend the Heritage Art Expo," I noted.
"I didn't," the doctor admitted. "I just read Royal Geo's 8-page pre-event coverage; placed an online order afterwards. The, uh," and here she paused, fingering her cup absently-
"Arita-yaki," Suzukaze piped up.
"-thank you. Yes, the Arita was much too fine to pass on," Mraliz finished.
I examined the specimen of the art in my hands. It was like black marble; but only if marble should be as scaled as dragonhide yet remain no less than pristine to the touch. Tracing its rim, I could feel the places where by craftsman's fiat the clay must have been made to give way. More here, less there. Without thought for such trivialities as perfection, that no two works should become twins.
"It is indeed exquisite."
"Aye, and I hope you enjoy the experience." Her smile thinned out a bit. "Goodness knows there's been too much unpleasantness about lately."
I cocked an eyebrow. I could imagine. In fact, I could even guess.
"Infuriating conversations, for example?"
"Like you wouldn't believe." Mraliz rolled her eyes as she took a generous swig of caffeinated Elysium. "But none of this talk about Akkad or other kerfuffles. I'm sure you two have been left with a lot of questions...but not while I'm having my coffee. Or until Graf gets here, at least. I can't guarantee that I could talk about it solo without blowing half a dozen gaskets."
So that display earlier was considered mild? Well, shit-la-merde.
Mraliz leaned back on her tentacular haunches.
"So yes, enough about misery me. How have our dashing Ghosts of Akkad been doing? Eager to strike another decisive blow against our enemies, I expect?"
"Just a question, Doc."
"Just Liz. Titles are so anti-fun." Well, right back at you, Liz. "But yes, ask away."
"Who thought of this 'Ghosts' nonsense, anyway?"
"Why, our mutual friend of course."
"Who? No, don't tell me. Let me guess," I said, hand held up. "Bald, shady, with a voice as smooth as ground asphalt?"
Suzy snickered. Thank you, thank you. For my next trick, I'll make it disappear.
On the other hand, it seemed a complaint about her esteemed colleague was worth but one sip of drink to Mraliz. We only needed a special print copy of the morning paper, and the age-old picture of banal nonchalance would be complete.
"I see Old Bailey made his usual impression."
Have I ever told anyone how much I respect people who codename themselves after courts? Because I really do. Really.
"Truth be told though," the doctor added, "I think he likes you two."
Calling Suzy 'unconvinced' was an understatement. Upright she sat, her earlier reticence long fled before the frown she now wore.
"You're not serious," she groaned.
"Perfectly so. What's wrong?"
"Three hundred and eighty seven." Suzy's right eyebrow began to twitch. "That's how many pages there are in The Project Poseidon Primer. And I had to read that. In five days." Smugness tugged at her lips. "I did it in four, though."
Correction, milady, if I may. We did it in four. A crowning achievement in amateur education if I should say so myself.
"Then today I meet someone on our transport who said that is the pre-101. Not even the beginning. If that's what Baldy does to people he likes, I'd hate to see what he does to those he doesn't."
"Well, that's-" Mraliz paused momentarily. "Uh-"
"-Unfortunate, but necessary."
The new voice was like still water. Calm. Quiet, almost, and yet it drowned the serpent-call of the doors with ease even before its owner entered the office.
To think that I would have reckoned this strange only days earlier. The sea of sound, bowing before its rightful ruler, its queen. But Commander Amanda Reiner, she whom history knew better as Graf Zeppelin, certainly looked the part.
Ramrod straight, she was clad in hoar-frost white down to the waist and from there in svelte black, and though her eyes were a familiar shale blue there was a vise-grip steel in the Commander's gaze as she sized us up. And no offense, but not even in my most fevered visions of our first battle together could Suzy hope to match that magnetic, relentless intensity.
The next time anyone moved, her right hand had been extended towards me for the last few seconds or so. Maybe more.
"Hmm," she mused. "I must confess, I expected-"
"Taller. Broader. A bit quicker with the rejoinders," I muttered as I stood to shake her hand. Man, it was hard to get back in the flow of things. "or maybe you'd prefer me without my glorious black sideburns?"
"Perhaps," Amanda nodded. "It does seem a little unbecoming of a hero to look so unruly. But that is a task best left to the media men."
Breaking off, she turned to Mraliz.
"So I take it you have been on the line with-"
"A minute, please."
The shipgirl transfixed her partner with a familiar look. One that reminded me of Dad, when he was being Ioannis 'I'm not saying I disapprove, but I disapprove' Deschantes.
"I believe you said-"
"To meet at sixteen-thirty hours shipboard time. I know. I just-" Mraliz sighed, rolling both eyes over to regard the ceiling. "-I just need a minute to finish my coffee. Alright?"
Amanda seemed to consider that.
"Hmm. One thing, if I may," she said.
"What is it?"
"Did Marshal Kowalcski say 'no'?"
"Yes. But-"
"Perfect. Then we can proceed."
Mraliz blinked.
"What?"
Wow, the nerve of people nowadays. I mean look, it's jaws we're talking about here. A part of one's sacred form, and not a thing cheaply replaced with modern science by any means - unlike, say, children you misplace at the mall district.
"Exactly what I said," Amanda replied, her voice slick with what had to be two hundred proof Bordeaux-de-Merdenon.
"And really, you shouldn't make me worry like that," the shipgirl continued, striding over to the screens that adorned the office walls. "Suddenly having to include non-Division assets into our plans would have been rather…"
Then the carrier turned back, a wan smile ghosting across her face.
"...inconvenient."
Mraliz just stared mutely at her partner for a moment or two. Then she did the only thing one did in such circumstances.
Sticking a palm out, she brought her face down duly to meet it.
"You know what, I don't care enough right now," she groaned, the cloud of simmering anger all but having disappeared in the meantime. "We'll do this your way."
"Good."
"Yes. 'Good'. That's all she has to say. O Responsible Reiner, O Marvelous Mandy, she of the masterful management and wondrous work ethic, I bow to your Teutonic superiority."
"The correct word is 'efficiency'."
"Whatever."
Amanda shook her head, tapping the OmniPad in her left hand.
"Sometimes I wonder if it is I," the shipgirl half-sighed, "and not you who commands this task force."
"It should have been, were that mine to give."
Woah. Was it just me, or was that at least a few strikes for idealism? Well, just another day in a bad season then. On that note, I stole a look at Suzy. In the good news, enough of that exchange had flown over her head you could form contrails out of the conjured question marks. In bad news-
"So, uh, I have a question, Gr- err, Amanda."
The blonde turned back to face us.
"Yes?"
"Who's 'they'?"
Well, I suppose my expectations could be surpassed from time to time. Not that I minded. Always thought they were a little low anyway.
"Good question, Suzukaze," came the pointed reply, "and well taken. So, I hear you've read the Primer, have you?"
"Memorized it," my partner declared, thumping a hand to her chest.
"Impressive."
So saying, Amanda turned back to face the screens, each of them glowing in turn as she ran a free hand across them. With a tightened fist, all their lights shrunk and were snuffed out.
Then, with an outward thrust of a reopened hand outwards she brought both ceiling and floor to life, covering the office in a burst of light that coalesced rapidly into a three-dimensional star-map of Indus Sector: our present location, and the furthest galactic coreward reach of the Alliance.
A room-wide holodeck, no expenses spared. Impressive.
"But I will be the judge of that. What do you know of the Indus Tributaries?"
Suzy tapped her chin.
Come on, girl. Don't fail me now.
"I guess this goes to the time when we weren't called the Alliance of Terra Novum yet. So the year is 2165, and some of our most important people sat down to talked about that very thing for a whole two weeks. And like most meetings where everyone is way important, they couldn't agree on all sorts of things and got really fed up!"
Ah, the sweet, sweet reverence for history - music to my ears. If not for my duty to hear this paragon tale out to the end, I could shed a tear right now.
"It was so bad that when both the Terra Novum Charter and the Mars-Yggdrasil Protocol were finally decided on, some people just decided this whole Alliance thing wasn't for them and left." Suzy shrugged. "Dunno why. I would've thought that making peace with aliens and developing more advanced computers was a good thing."
"So one should think. But stranger things have been done, Ja?"
"Guess so."
"Well then. Go on."
"So the last we hear of these people is three centuries and a half ago, when they begin their journey towards the core of the Milky Way." Suzy paused. "Ethel doesn't believe that though."
Mraliz shot me a wry smirk.
"Budding conspiracy theorist, are we?"
"As a wise woman once said, stranger things have been done," I replied.
"Either way, that all changed about eight years ago." Suzy interrupted. She then stood, indicating the center of the room. "May I?"
Amanda nodded.
"You still have the floor."
Reaching out, she tweaked the map with three fingers, first hesitantly, then with more confidence. I fought the urge to whistle as she punched up the zoom on the coremost section of the Indus. That resolution was some Asimov's World Fair material right there and no mistake, even for modern standards. Nothing but the best for our best, I supposed.
"The Indus Sector. Cielo System, Cielo Four, May 6th, 2534," Suzy said, holding the sand-swept planet in her hand. "FTL-band distress calls on an old Earth Confederacy frequency originating from this planet, and are picked up by a border fleet. But upon arrival they are caught in a running battle between Confederacy splinter elements and the lifeforms we now call the Abyssals."
A swipe of her hand painted the Indus Corridor a pulsing gold, all the better to contrast with the large splotches of Alliance blue that ran across its breadth.
"By the time the dust settles, it's August 2535. Over the next two and a half years, the Indus Corridor is secured with the help of Fleet Groups Upandla and Olomouc." The gold expanded accordingly, becoming the coreward bulwark every self-respecting student was made to learn in history class. "Searches for Abyssal home planets achieve next to nothing. But we do get a lull; that is, until Hive World Akkad literally explodes into being in the Eregion System on 9th November 2540."
She paused.
"But I digress. In accepting our help, eight systems strong and growing of Confederacy space has been made to accept partial Alliance governance. But they don't do it willingly, and grow more belligerent by the day concerning our operations in their territory." An odd smile slipped onto her face. "...and I guess I answered my own question plus interest, didn't I?"
"I believe that was the point of the exercise." Amanda nodded approvingly. "Well done, Lieutenant Onjouji."
"Unusual presentation of our founding history notwithstanding," Mraliz added with a quirk of her brow.
Now, woman, don't look at me like that. Surely I could not have been the sole mastermind for this historical heresy.
"I-uh," Suzy said sheepishly as she sat back down again, "thanks?"
"So. Yes, it is as you suggest." Taking the stage once more, Amanda shifted the map further coreward. "This is where the Gradivus, myself and our escorts are: on the orbital rim of the ninth Indus system, Sancaid. On paper, Fleet Group Olomouc -under command of Fleet Marshal Petr Kowalcski- holds the system. In reality, control is tenuous. Crawling with Abyssal raiders who use heavy hit and run strikes on approaching ships, ships Olomouc cannot spare."
"Ships they could spare," Mraliz corrected. "That is, if they didn't insist on playing white knights to half the Corridor."
"True," Amanda admitted. "Nonetheless, our business here is not to debate the Fleet Marshal's decisionmaking."
She began to pace the room, green dots lighting up in her wake.
"For this reason, Olomouc's garrison in Sancaid is more like an early warning system. Glorified listening posts in function, though still heavily armed and protected." The incarnate carrier gestured apropos the crest of emerald stars overhead, two fingers closing around the largest of them. "The nerve center is here, Sancaid Prime."
With a flick of her wrist, the planet lay before us in full color. Spiralling green strokes flocked to small masses of slate grey rock, together conspiring to shatter the blue monotony of ocean, while above the wind drove chariots of wild white horses across the sky in thin, numerous ranks.
"Beautiful, is it not?" Mraliz sighed, her till now constant irritation dissipating somewhat. "Very...what's the word you anthropocentrists love to use?"
"Earthlike?" Suzy asked.
"Yes. That. Which Sancaid Prime is, if you exclude the over one-hundred-percent urbanization and replace it with chest-high swamp, zero visibility rainstorms all year round, and unpredictable drafts trying to blast anything short of a heavy cruiser off course."
"Which we will watch out for, yes," Amanda noted, "in addition to a more recent environmental hazard."
Now I could count the number of times I found slapping a coat of fresh dark violet paint on a picture more frightening than funny. But Alliance maps did not use that color willy-nilly. No, they saved it for what one might call the Abyssal anvil, if their fleet of black horrors were the hammer.
"A Ginaz Storm," Suzy breathed.
"Good. You've done your homework on that front too. That saves us time." Amanda tucked both arms behind her back. "Three days ago, all contact with our planetside outpost at Fortuna's Reach, which houses both a FTL Comms Relay, a harbour and a complement of light ships, was lost in a Ginaz Storm outbreak.
A single gold point lit up where the sparse highlands met the ocean, surrounded -planet and all- by a thick, suffocating purple haze.
"Initial scans indicated that the FTL Interdiction Space generated by the Storm is large enough to rule out a high exospheric insertion, and it grows in size even as we speak. These signs of more permanent Abyssal commitment, combined with more pressing defensive concerns elsewhere, is more than adequate grounds for the refusals of aid from Olomouc or the Indus until sizable forces can be brought to bear."
"And you said this was a good thing," I interjected.
"I did."
"Liz disagreed."
"She has since come around."
That got a chuckle out of Mraliz, though from one oft-vanquished to another I knew the notes played to resign an unwinnable battle. A timely reminder. I was beginning to forget that Suzy and I weren't the only ones capable of a little tete-a-tete to settle things between ourselves.
"Allow me to explain further. Before Akkad, did you ever hear hide or hair of shipgirls? Of Project Poseidon? Or even of the Advanced Warfare Research Division, for that matter?"
"No."
"Which is as it should be," Amanda replied. "We mean to avoid such custody battles over 'the truth' as we seem ever so fond of every few decades or so. Now, we would win these battles eventually. But 'eventually' suggests that it would take time and effort, effort that it is best we not risk expending at all. Worse still if you deal in such secrets as we do."
So saying, she touched the gold marker that was Fortuna's Reach.
"Like so."
A strange sight greeted my eyes: line after line of silver-white glyphs crawled down the screens before us, each symbol a series of twists and turns that together formed a contorting, writhing tapestry of color and shape. They were words. Mere words, perhaps not even that, and not one of them meant a whit to me. Yet the image burned its way into my eyes.
Ancient. Alien. Beautiful and captivating, but at the same time wrong. Missing. Incomplete.
Incomplete. Incomplete-
"See anything?"
No, Doc. I stare at an object for god knows how long, break out into a cold sweat, and get jump-startled by the first thing that you said to me - yup, nothing here but us space chickens.
"I suppose." The words came out slow. Halting. "This mission... isn't really a rescue. It's a retrieval. We're heading over to pick up the rest of this...this thing, that they've managed to find somehow."
Man, trying to maintain coherence when your collar was doing its utmost to adhere to your neck, while the weight sitting atop that neck was trying to hammer itself into oblivion was frustration itself.
"Somehow? Oh no. We at the Division have been quite intentional about this discovery. And mind you, standing orders for contested territory mandates at least an attempt at personnel recovery. Best to get your facts straight," Mraliz corrected me. " But an astute observation otherwise. Pity we've lacked the alacrity to explore these less tangible aspects of psionics so far. Who knows what else we might have gleaned otherwise."
"Mira…" Amanda hissed.
"Eh, they should hear it." Mraliz dismissed with six harrumphing shoulders. "I've been saying this from the very start, that psionic resonance values aren't simply arbitrary measurements. That some good would come of taking time to understand it. Maybe find ways to apply and improve it. But did anyone listen? Nope. Always in such a hurry to arm our girls, always rushing to get them 'operationally ready.' No time to waste 'faffing about with your pet projects, Dr. Vorkros.'"
"To be fair, operational readiness is a critical and time-consuming objective-"
"Dammit Graf-frickin-Zeppelin; if I needed your opinion I'd read a voice procedure manual." Mraliz sighed. "Yeesh. Anyhoo, I've been letting this one dog lie, waiting for something like right now: On the brink of our first major psionics-related discovery since forming Poseidon, with shipgirls, psions and time aplenty. You have no idea how honest-to-goodness pumped I am to-"
"-wait until we have the whole artifact and everyone present before continuing your experiments instead of overstepping your authority again," Amanda cut in. "Most prudent. I approve."
Mraliz pouted, though one could only wonder: how much of it was the putdown, and how much was the Arita mug that had mysteriously left her hand only to reappear in her partner's.
"I was going to say that," the doctor protested.
"You were not."
"I was - before you interrupted me!"
"That is a common excuse, yes." The shipgirl took a tentative sip. Her face scrunched up. "And as the beverage, so the- yes, Lieutenant Onjouji?"
I glanced at my partner. Guess some things from school don't change at all. Raise your hand if you want to speak, wait your turn, and try not to ask silly questions if you want that gold star.
"Um, you mentioned other shipgirls, right?"
"So we did."
Suzy nearly shot out of her seat.
"Can we meet them?"
Amanda's smile was win.
"Unfortunately, that will be impossible at present. You will recall that I referred to our plans in the past tense." Her tone was not unkind, but not far short of businesslike. "I meant it: our plan is not a 'to-be'. It is already in motion."
Thanks for all the comments so far, and I hope you guys enjoy the chapter!
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A Sea of Stars
Book 1: The Stars, Awake
Chapter 3: First Day at The Office
Life can be described as a hallway full of doors in every build and make, shape and size, each opening unto more, and those too unto others.
Some remain open for a time, others close to us once we have stepped through. Some we ourselves shut, for better and worse alike. But not a single one opens or closes the same. One may be thrown wide open with singular purpose, others creak and founder with indecision, and upon each we carve emotions, purpose, and meaning, perhaps for ourselves to revisit; or for others to stumble upon. Thus every life lived is unique, a constant novelty from life's first cry to final breath.
How misfortunate, then, that this day had taken a left turn off the sunny side of the street into that part of town where the earthy scents of wood and stone were replaced with stark, relentless steel and glass, where anger had corporeal form and rage spanned the entire visual spectrum.
Indeed it could not be more abundantly clear that behind this pair of blast doors and its embossed silver nameplate M. Vorkros, CO Gradivus Base was having a beautiful day, one that nobody had any business interrupting, especially not in such a vulgar fashion as either I, or the shipgirl beside me might. Yet needs must when the devil drives. So, whose would that dishonor be?
"Hey, Suzy-"
"No."
"What?"
The blue-haired girl didn't even look at me, choosing instead to steadfastly eyeball the floor next to the office entrance.
"No. No matter what your question is, my answer is no."
Well, hello there, Our Lady of Perpetual Perception. In all truth, I hadn't expected this to be easy. Which was precisely why it would be fun.
"Now that's hardly fair of you," I protested.
"Nope. Don't care."
"See, if you'd just let me-"
"Nuh-uh-nopedy-no."
"I'll pay for dinner."
"Eh, it's free at the cantina."
"Supper, then."
Ah, there we go. The silence of doubt at last. Now, striking at the ravenous inclinations of a shipgirl was a bit low, even for me. But in desperate times...
"I'll manage."
...anything was fair game.
"Pudding at the mess. A whole week's worth."
Yes, dinner will be served soon, I thought to myself. In the meantime, please feel free to leave your jaws on the welcome mat. One of our friendly staff will assist you in picking them up when you leave.
But the taste of victory was as fleeting as it was sweet, as Suzy struggled mightily, but at last shoved the offending anatomical section back into place with an audible clack.
"B-bribing military personnel is a punishable offense," she spluttered, looking most displeased to be in the right. "You should be ashamed of yourself."
"Oh, but how can I, when you seem to like the idea so much?" I shrugged. "But see, I don't blame you. It is pudding after all-"
"Ha! You guys are a riot!"
That burst of laughter, throaty with an aged whiff of menthol smoke, reminded me that we were not alone. For on each side of the door stood a soldier in dark grey fatigues and armor, 'MP' woven in white on black armbands wrapped round their left shoulder armor.
One was clean shaven, the other five-o'clock-shadowed. Both were as broad and imposing as military police ought to be. Both were also standing as far clear of either side of the office entrance as humanly possible. A whole meter away, in fact.
Most encouraging.
"But the girl's right, you know." Clean Jean said, waggling a finger at me. "Careless talk costs lives."
"And court-martials," Stubby Hubby added. "Never know when someone might be listening in."
"Why thank you, Big Brother," I retorted. "But if you're going to risk going in there first, be my guest."
Tweedle-dee at least did me the courtesy of considering the option.
"Tempting," said he, stroking his pristine chin. "but nah. We're happy right where we are."
Tweedle-dum didn't even bother. The first twirl of his wrist unholstered the telescopic baton at his side. The second extended it, and the third greeted the intercom panel next to the door with a two swift strokes of police brutality: one to slide the panel open, the other for the buzzer.
It rang. Then we waited. And waited. And then we waited some more. Oh yes, dear me Mrs. Robinson, what a dreadfully hot day this is-
"Seaman Eli?"
Eli-the-Newly-Named cleared his throat.
"Lieutenants Deschantes and Onjouji to see you, ma'am."
"One moment."
It was a curt send-off playing at pleasantry - at best. But it did have its perks. The air ceased its attempts to strangle me without the aid of my tie, a freedom that our two stooges enjoyed a fair bit, lacking as they did the requisite wardrobe of laryngeal discomfort. Well, at least someone felt better in their own skin.
The additional wait on the other hand was quite subpar. Not enough to rot flesh off bone, mind you. Not quite that bad. But I trust you too would find a minute experiencing several -admittedly decreasing- degrees of 'not quite choking to death on the very air you breathe' to be just a tad uncomfortable.
Hmmm. Yes. Uncomfortable. No other phrase rolled off the tongue quite so well, were I to describe my week. And it was a feeling that only intensified as the seconds ticked down to when the door must surely slide open.
See, here's the thing. The natural empathic rating of the average human stands just a hair above that of the average rock. Sometimes that outlook even seems rosy.
But we've all that moment where we could see beyond the ken of mere sight. Like when you're browsing some clandestine material, and then you turn as the hairs of your back stand on end, only to see that your glowering professor has been waiting to lay the law down on your Gommorite bum for the last dozen seconds or so.
Being a psion means that these rare flashes of clarity become a near constant instead. But it also gives you the tools to prevent death by metasensory overload. You could shut off. Deaden the noise before it became cacophony. Or at least I could. It was also only fair that our Brothers Trimm over here should be allowed to speak for themselves.
Another psion, though, now that changed the game. We could project our emotions a certain distance almost instinctively. Quite prominently too, so it seemed. Which raised questions. Many, in fact. But most immediately, given the palpable heat I had felt earlier, might it be possible to project 'Piss Off My Lawn!' hard enough to flash-fry someone on demand?
The door opened, hissing my reply: 'Hush boy, you have other things to think about now.'
Other things, such as dealing with the alien presently grinning in the entryway.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," Commander Mraliz Vorkros said, the trilling distinctive to a Benthos' natural vocal apparatus setting her voice pleasantly aflutter. Nonetheless there was a dangerous glimmer in her eyes as she sized us both up. "You seem a little stiff. Did the flight not sit well with you?"
Then without warning she shot forward, till she was so close I could feel the chill rolling off the translucent environ suit that members of her race were wont to wear when not in anything short of eyeball-freezing temperatures.
"Or is our highest recorded psionic resonance peak not just for show after all, I wonder?"
What. How?
It wasn't till the doctor's smile had taken on the manner of a shark that I realized my mistake. My simple, fatal mistake. How could one forget? Just as it was not above one of our foremost experts in shipgirl phenomena to know more than I about them, it was certainly not below them to test that which they did not yet understand on poor unwitting soul.
And to Mraliz, I certainly counted as one such potential victim.
"Seems you're still quite green, boy," she teased, sparkling amber eyes confirming my suspicions. "Ah, ah, no. Don't spill the beans just yet. That can wait."
With that, she slid over to the left, gesturing towards the open doorway.
"Do come in," she said, "and welcome to Gradivus Base."
======
Mraliz Vorkros' office was a spartan affair, containing only the bare minimum that one could expect of an officer of her station. Two guest seats were arranged before a non-existent desk, both unneeded by a sentient that stood well over seven feet on tentacular haunches. Wall mounted displays showed schematics of both Gradivus and the Graf Zeppelin, albeit a similar foot above average eye level. Less expected, however, was the wall-mounted coffee machine. An antique of the pre-mass fabricator era, it was...
...well, let's just say that for some, pawning house, wives and children to get and maintain one was a fair price to pay.
Thus it had been with some trepidation that I had watched our host practically glide across the room, limbs flitting back and forth as they snagged cups from vacuum racks, poured beans, and pushed buttons, her lips spinning a tale of slanted modes and careless lilting quartertones.
But patience and trust were rewarded, and it was not long before each of us held in our hands a cup of lovely, dark mahogany magic, one whose aroma brought back to mind the best and worst hours in college life. Ah, nostalgia.
Next to me, Suzy peered into the depths of her own drink, her expression pensive. A pleasant surprise. Now if only she wasn't also allowing her cup to tilt further and further forward towards near-boiling doom. Any second now, and-
-our good host could show how having multiple limbs was a very convenient proposition. Yes, that worked too. Bonus points for causing Suzy to go a deep crimson shade.
"S-sorry! I was-"
"Distracted, I know." Mraliz chuckled, retracting the appendage with a chitinous rattle. "But do be careful from here on. My wallet is still hurting from having this shipped directly from Piaf two months back."
Huh. Two months, eh?
"I'm surprised you had the time to attend the Heritage Art Expo," I noted.
"I didn't," the doctor admitted. "I just read Royal Geo's 8-page pre-event coverage; placed an online order afterwards. The, uh," and here she paused, fingering her cup absently-
"Arita-yaki," Suzukaze piped up.
"-thank you. Yes, the Arita was much too fine to pass on," Mraliz finished.
I examined the specimen of the art in my hands. It was like black marble; but only if marble should be as scaled as dragonhide yet remain no less than pristine to the touch. Tracing its rim, I could feel the places where by craftsman's fiat the clay must have been made to give way. More here, less there. Without thought for such trivialities as perfection, that no two works should become twins.
"It is indeed exquisite."
"Aye, and I hope you enjoy the experience." Her smile thinned out a bit. "Goodness knows there's been too much unpleasantness about lately."
I cocked an eyebrow. I could imagine. In fact, I could even guess.
"Infuriating conversations, for example?"
"Like you wouldn't believe." Mraliz rolled her eyes as she took a generous swig of caffeinated Elysium. "But none of this talk about Akkad or other kerfuffles. I'm sure you two have been left with a lot of questions...but not while I'm having my coffee. Or until Graf gets here, at least. I can't guarantee that I could talk about it solo without blowing half a dozen gaskets."
So that display earlier was considered mild? Well, shit-la-merde.
Mraliz leaned back on her tentacular haunches.
"So yes, enough about misery me. How have our dashing Ghosts of Akkad been doing? Eager to strike another decisive blow against our enemies, I expect?"
"Just a question, Doc."
"Just Liz. Titles are so anti-fun." Well, right back at you, Liz. "But yes, ask away."
"Who thought of this 'Ghosts' nonsense, anyway?"
"Why, our mutual friend of course."
"Who? No, don't tell me. Let me guess," I said, hand held up. "Bald, shady, with a voice as smooth as ground asphalt?"
Suzy snickered. Thank you, thank you. For my next trick, I'll make it disappear.
On the other hand, it seemed a complaint about her esteemed colleague was worth but one sip of drink to Mraliz. We only needed a special print copy of the morning paper, and the age-old picture of banal nonchalance would be complete.
"I see Old Bailey made his usual impression."
Have I ever told anyone how much I respect people who codename themselves after courts? Because I really do. Really.
"Truth be told though," the doctor added, "I think he likes you two."
Calling Suzy 'unconvinced' was an understatement. Upright she sat, her earlier reticence long fled before the frown she now wore.
"You're not serious," she groaned.
"Perfectly so. What's wrong?"
"Three hundred and eighty seven." Suzy's right eyebrow began to twitch. "That's how many pages there are in The Project Poseidon Primer. And I had to read that. In five days." Smugness tugged at her lips. "I did it in four, though."
Correction, milady, if I may. We did it in four. A crowning achievement in amateur education if I should say so myself.
"Then today I meet someone on our transport who said that is the pre-101. Not even the beginning. If that's what Baldy does to people he likes, I'd hate to see what he does to those he doesn't."
"Well, that's-" Mraliz paused momentarily. "Uh-"
"-Unfortunate, but necessary."
The new voice was like still water. Calm. Quiet, almost, and yet it drowned the serpent-call of the doors with ease even before its owner entered the office.
To think that I would have reckoned this strange only days earlier. The sea of sound, bowing before its rightful ruler, its queen. But Commander Amanda Reiner, she whom history knew better as Graf Zeppelin, certainly looked the part.
Ramrod straight, she was clad in hoar-frost white down to the waist and from there in svelte black, and though her eyes were a familiar shale blue there was a vise-grip steel in the Commander's gaze as she sized us up. And no offense, but not even in my most fevered visions of our first battle together could Suzy hope to match that magnetic, relentless intensity.
The next time anyone moved, her right hand had been extended towards me for the last few seconds or so. Maybe more.
"Hmm," she mused. "I must confess, I expected-"
"Taller. Broader. A bit quicker with the rejoinders," I muttered as I stood to shake her hand. Man, it was hard to get back in the flow of things. "or maybe you'd prefer me without my glorious black sideburns?"
"Perhaps," Amanda nodded. "It does seem a little unbecoming of a hero to look so unruly. But that is a task best left to the media men."
Breaking off, she turned to Mraliz.
"So I take it you have been on the line with-"
"A minute, please."
The shipgirl transfixed her partner with a familiar look. One that reminded me of Dad, when he was being Ioannis 'I'm not saying I disapprove, but I disapprove' Deschantes.
"I believe you said-"
"To meet at sixteen-thirty hours shipboard time. I know. I just-" Mraliz sighed, rolling both eyes over to regard the ceiling. "-I just need a minute to finish my coffee. Alright?"
Amanda seemed to consider that.
"Hmm. One thing, if I may," she said.
"What is it?"
"Did Marshal Kowalcski say 'no'?"
"Yes. But-"
"Perfect. Then we can proceed."
Mraliz blinked.
"What?"
Wow, the nerve of people nowadays. I mean look, it's jaws we're talking about here. A part of one's sacred form, and not a thing cheaply replaced with modern science by any means - unlike, say, children you misplace at the mall district.
"Exactly what I said," Amanda replied, her voice slick with what had to be two hundred proof Bordeaux-de-Merdenon.
"And really, you shouldn't make me worry like that," the shipgirl continued, striding over to the screens that adorned the office walls. "Suddenly having to include non-Division assets into our plans would have been rather…"
Then the carrier turned back, a wan smile ghosting across her face.
"...inconvenient."
Mraliz just stared mutely at her partner for a moment or two. Then she did the only thing one did in such circumstances.
Sticking a palm out, she brought her face down duly to meet it.
"You know what, I don't care enough right now," she groaned, the cloud of simmering anger all but having disappeared in the meantime. "We'll do this your way."
"Good."
"Yes. 'Good'. That's all she has to say. O Responsible Reiner, O Marvelous Mandy, she of the masterful management and wondrous work ethic, I bow to your Teutonic superiority."
"The correct word is 'efficiency'."
"Whatever."
Amanda shook her head, tapping the OmniPad in her left hand.
"Sometimes I wonder if it is I," the shipgirl half-sighed, "and not you who commands this task force."
"It should have been, were that mine to give."
Woah. Was it just me, or was that at least a few strikes for idealism? Well, just another day in a bad season then. On that note, I stole a look at Suzy. In the good news, enough of that exchange had flown over her head you could form contrails out of the conjured question marks. In bad news-
"So, uh, I have a question, Gr- err, Amanda."
The blonde turned back to face us.
"Yes?"
"Who's 'they'?"
Well, I suppose my expectations could be surpassed from time to time. Not that I minded. Always thought they were a little low anyway.
"Good question, Suzukaze," came the pointed reply, "and well taken. So, I hear you've read the Primer, have you?"
"Memorized it," my partner declared, thumping a hand to her chest.
"Impressive."
So saying, Amanda turned back to face the screens, each of them glowing in turn as she ran a free hand across them. With a tightened fist, all their lights shrunk and were snuffed out.
Then, with an outward thrust of a reopened hand outwards she brought both ceiling and floor to life, covering the office in a burst of light that coalesced rapidly into a three-dimensional star-map of Indus Sector: our present location, and the furthest galactic coreward reach of the Alliance.
A room-wide holodeck, no expenses spared. Impressive.
"But I will be the judge of that. What do you know of the Indus Tributaries?"
Suzy tapped her chin.
Come on, girl. Don't fail me now.
"I guess this goes to the time when we weren't called the Alliance of Terra Novum yet. So the year is 2165, and some of our most important people sat down to talked about that very thing for a whole two weeks. And like most meetings where everyone is way important, they couldn't agree on all sorts of things and got really fed up!"
Ah, the sweet, sweet reverence for history - music to my ears. If not for my duty to hear this paragon tale out to the end, I could shed a tear right now.
"It was so bad that when both the Terra Novum Charter and the Mars-Yggdrasil Protocol were finally decided on, some people just decided this whole Alliance thing wasn't for them and left." Suzy shrugged. "Dunno why. I would've thought that making peace with aliens and developing more advanced computers was a good thing."
"So one should think. But stranger things have been done, Ja?"
"Guess so."
"Well then. Go on."
"So the last we hear of these people is three centuries and a half ago, when they begin their journey towards the core of the Milky Way." Suzy paused. "Ethel doesn't believe that though."
Mraliz shot me a wry smirk.
"Budding conspiracy theorist, are we?"
"As a wise woman once said, stranger things have been done," I replied.
"Either way, that all changed about eight years ago." Suzy interrupted. She then stood, indicating the center of the room. "May I?"
Amanda nodded.
"You still have the floor."
Reaching out, she tweaked the map with three fingers, first hesitantly, then with more confidence. I fought the urge to whistle as she punched up the zoom on the coremost section of the Indus. That resolution was some Asimov's World Fair material right there and no mistake, even for modern standards. Nothing but the best for our best, I supposed.
"The Indus Sector. Cielo System, Cielo Four, May 6th, 2534," Suzy said, holding the sand-swept planet in her hand. "FTL-band distress calls on an old Earth Confederacy frequency originating from this planet, and are picked up by a border fleet. But upon arrival they are caught in a running battle between Confederacy splinter elements and the lifeforms we now call the Abyssals."
A swipe of her hand painted the Indus Corridor a pulsing gold, all the better to contrast with the large splotches of Alliance blue that ran across its breadth.
"By the time the dust settles, it's August 2535. Over the next two and a half years, the Indus Corridor is secured with the help of Fleet Groups Upandla and Olomouc." The gold expanded accordingly, becoming the coreward bulwark every self-respecting student was made to learn in history class. "Searches for Abyssal home planets achieve next to nothing. But we do get a lull; that is, until Hive World Akkad literally explodes into being in the Eregion System on 9th November 2540."
She paused.
"But I digress. In accepting our help, eight systems strong and growing of Confederacy space has been made to accept partial Alliance governance. But they don't do it willingly, and grow more belligerent by the day concerning our operations in their territory." An odd smile slipped onto her face. "...and I guess I answered my own question plus interest, didn't I?"
"I believe that was the point of the exercise." Amanda nodded approvingly. "Well done, Lieutenant Onjouji."
"Unusual presentation of our founding history notwithstanding," Mraliz added with a quirk of her brow.
Now, woman, don't look at me like that. Surely I could not have been the sole mastermind for this historical heresy.
"I-uh," Suzy said sheepishly as she sat back down again, "thanks?"
"So. Yes, it is as you suggest." Taking the stage once more, Amanda shifted the map further coreward. "This is where the Gradivus, myself and our escorts are: on the orbital rim of the ninth Indus system, Sancaid. On paper, Fleet Group Olomouc -under command of Fleet Marshal Petr Kowalcski- holds the system. In reality, control is tenuous. Crawling with Abyssal raiders who use heavy hit and run strikes on approaching ships, ships Olomouc cannot spare."
"Ships they could spare," Mraliz corrected. "That is, if they didn't insist on playing white knights to half the Corridor."
"True," Amanda admitted. "Nonetheless, our business here is not to debate the Fleet Marshal's decisionmaking."
She began to pace the room, green dots lighting up in her wake.
"For this reason, Olomouc's garrison in Sancaid is more like an early warning system. Glorified listening posts in function, though still heavily armed and protected." The incarnate carrier gestured apropos the crest of emerald stars overhead, two fingers closing around the largest of them. "The nerve center is here, Sancaid Prime."
With a flick of her wrist, the planet lay before us in full color. Spiralling green strokes flocked to small masses of slate grey rock, together conspiring to shatter the blue monotony of ocean, while above the wind drove chariots of wild white horses across the sky in thin, numerous ranks.
"Beautiful, is it not?" Mraliz sighed, her till now constant irritation dissipating somewhat. "Very...what's the word you anthropocentrists love to use?"
"Earthlike?" Suzy asked.
"Yes. That. Which Sancaid Prime is, if you exclude the over one-hundred-percent urbanization and replace it with chest-high swamp, zero visibility rainstorms all year round, and unpredictable drafts trying to blast anything short of a heavy cruiser off course."
"Which we will watch out for, yes," Amanda noted, "in addition to a more recent environmental hazard."
Now I could count the number of times I found slapping a coat of fresh dark violet paint on a picture more frightening than funny. But Alliance maps did not use that color willy-nilly. No, they saved it for what one might call the Abyssal anvil, if their fleet of black horrors were the hammer.
"A Ginaz Storm," Suzy breathed.
"Good. You've done your homework on that front too. That saves us time." Amanda tucked both arms behind her back. "Three days ago, all contact with our planetside outpost at Fortuna's Reach, which houses both a FTL Comms Relay, a harbour and a complement of light ships, was lost in a Ginaz Storm outbreak.
A single gold point lit up where the sparse highlands met the ocean, surrounded -planet and all- by a thick, suffocating purple haze.
"Initial scans indicated that the FTL Interdiction Space generated by the Storm is large enough to rule out a high exospheric insertion, and it grows in size even as we speak. These signs of more permanent Abyssal commitment, combined with more pressing defensive concerns elsewhere, is more than adequate grounds for the refusals of aid from Olomouc or the Indus until sizable forces can be brought to bear."
"And you said this was a good thing," I interjected.
"I did."
"Liz disagreed."
"She has since come around."
That got a chuckle out of Mraliz, though from one oft-vanquished to another I knew the notes played to resign an unwinnable battle. A timely reminder. I was beginning to forget that Suzy and I weren't the only ones capable of a little tete-a-tete to settle things between ourselves.
"Allow me to explain further. Before Akkad, did you ever hear hide or hair of shipgirls? Of Project Poseidon? Or even of the Advanced Warfare Research Division, for that matter?"
"No."
"Which is as it should be," Amanda replied. "We mean to avoid such custody battles over 'the truth' as we seem ever so fond of every few decades or so. Now, we would win these battles eventually. But 'eventually' suggests that it would take time and effort, effort that it is best we not risk expending at all. Worse still if you deal in such secrets as we do."
So saying, she touched the gold marker that was Fortuna's Reach.
"Like so."
A strange sight greeted my eyes: line after line of silver-white glyphs crawled down the screens before us, each symbol a series of twists and turns that together formed a contorting, writhing tapestry of color and shape. They were words. Mere words, perhaps not even that, and not one of them meant a whit to me. Yet the image burned its way into my eyes.
Ancient. Alien. Beautiful and captivating, but at the same time wrong. Missing. Incomplete.
Incomplete. Incomplete-
"See anything?"
No, Doc. I stare at an object for god knows how long, break out into a cold sweat, and get jump-startled by the first thing that you said to me - yup, nothing here but us space chickens.
"I suppose." The words came out slow. Halting. "This mission... isn't really a rescue. It's a retrieval. We're heading over to pick up the rest of this...this thing, that they've managed to find somehow."
Man, trying to maintain coherence when your collar was doing its utmost to adhere to your neck, while the weight sitting atop that neck was trying to hammer itself into oblivion was frustration itself.
"Somehow? Oh no. We at the Division have been quite intentional about this discovery. And mind you, standing orders for contested territory mandates at least an attempt at personnel recovery. Best to get your facts straight," Mraliz corrected me. " But an astute observation otherwise. Pity we've lacked the alacrity to explore these less tangible aspects of psionics so far. Who knows what else we might have gleaned otherwise."
"Mira…" Amanda hissed.
"Eh, they should hear it." Mraliz dismissed with six harrumphing shoulders. "I've been saying this from the very start, that psionic resonance values aren't simply arbitrary measurements. That some good would come of taking time to understand it. Maybe find ways to apply and improve it. But did anyone listen? Nope. Always in such a hurry to arm our girls, always rushing to get them 'operationally ready.' No time to waste 'faffing about with your pet projects, Dr. Vorkros.'"
"To be fair, operational readiness is a critical and time-consuming objective-"
"Dammit Graf-frickin-Zeppelin; if I needed your opinion I'd read a voice procedure manual." Mraliz sighed. "Yeesh. Anyhoo, I've been letting this one dog lie, waiting for something like right now: On the brink of our first major psionics-related discovery since forming Poseidon, with shipgirls, psions and time aplenty. You have no idea how honest-to-goodness pumped I am to-"
"-wait until we have the whole artifact and everyone present before continuing your experiments instead of overstepping your authority again," Amanda cut in. "Most prudent. I approve."
Mraliz pouted, though one could only wonder: how much of it was the putdown, and how much was the Arita mug that had mysteriously left her hand only to reappear in her partner's.
"I was going to say that," the doctor protested.
"You were not."
"I was - before you interrupted me!"
"That is a common excuse, yes." The shipgirl took a tentative sip. Her face scrunched up. "And as the beverage, so the- yes, Lieutenant Onjouji?"
I glanced at my partner. Guess some things from school don't change at all. Raise your hand if you want to speak, wait your turn, and try not to ask silly questions if you want that gold star.
"Um, you mentioned other shipgirls, right?"
"So we did."
Suzy nearly shot out of her seat.
"Can we meet them?"
Amanda's smile was win.
"Unfortunately, that will be impossible at present. You will recall that I referred to our plans in the past tense." Her tone was not unkind, but not far short of businesslike. "I meant it: our plan is not a 'to-be'. It is already in motion."
=== To be continued in Chapter 4: Storm Front ===
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AWACS Sky Eye
....
- Location
- Everywhere
Oh you. You make me remember that old nonsensical project. Still, a good chapter, as always.
- Location
- Little Red Dot
Thanks!
I'd hesitate to call projects 'useless' or 'nonsensical'. I mean, sure they may not all bear fruit. But this project too was birthed from something else that died halfway stillborn. So I guess there is value in learning even from things that never take off.
You never know when they might surprise you again...
Dirtnap
Kanmusu Affecionado
REE CLIFFHANGERS GET OUT.
Seriously, you don't have to end a chapter on them. I'm not exactly sure why so many writers do this, especially for an incomplete work. I get the whole trying to add tension and drama etc, but damned if it isn't annoying when most of the stories I read on the net (that aren't complete) seem to resort to this. Bah.
- Location
- Little Red Dot
On further reflection, you're absolutely right.
While cliffhangers are an tantalizing tool in the hands of an author, it's also a dick (and admittedly staid) move for what is essentially a serialized story.
To be honest, Chapter 3's ending is more of a holdover from an earlier version where it and Chapter 4 were one and the same. And also ridiculously long as one entity. I guess I just continued to mentally perceive them as that one single entity even long after I'd separated them, without thinking too hard about it.
I'll mull potentially less aggravating alternatives over, and update when changes have been made.
UPDATE: And changes were made.
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DezoPenguin
Text Wall
- Location
- USA
Personally, I think "ending chapters on a cliffhanger" is a stupid move for stories that aren't serialized. In a serial, you get that sense of tension and anticipation as you wait for the next installment to come out. When the story isn't serialized, that tension is...if the reader arbitrarily decides to stop there? Has to stick the bookmark in the book and get back to cooking dinner right then? Their bus is timed to arrive right when the chapter ends? Otherwise, you just go read the next page and see what happens (and in a print book, well, you already bought the book, so there's no need to "hook" you on the next chapter).
In a serial, cliffhangers are perfectly fine. Sure, "ack; cliffhanger!" is a common response, and doing it every single time gets old fast, but when there's a genuine delay between chapters, it makes sense.
- Location
- Little Red Dot
Ah, the conflict when both sides do indeed have a point. And the slight embarrassment with which I realize I leaped into saying something a few degrees more severe than I meant. Oh well. Mistakes were made.
It does bear mention though, that when we say 'serialized' in this discussion there's an underlying assumption that we mean serialization of the relatively consistent stripe. Say, a monthly or a weekly publication as with comics and manga. Fanfiction on the other hand may not be so consistent, and -as I'm sure we've all experienced to some degree- being left indefinitely hanging on the eponymous cliff may have soured some on the technique.
In this case it came down to me deciding that the 'link' between Chapter 3 and 4 was obsolete in their present form.
I mean, it's not as though my theoretically stopping this project at Chapter 3 would have been made better regardless of what sort of ending I chose.
...Rest assured though, that won't happen - I work on Chapter 4 (slowly and in distant second place to college papers) as we speak.
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Book 1, Chapter 4: Storm Front
- Location
- Little Red Dot
And here's Chapter 4! It's a day or so later than it should have come out, because emergency cinema-going is a thing. But it has arrived, and that's the important thing...right?
As always, enjoy the chapter. All comments and other thoughts appreciated!
=======
A Sea of Stars
Book 1: The Stars, Awake
Chapter 4: Storm Front
"Well," I sighed out loud to no one in particular, "isn't this bothersome."
Not that anyone in particular could hear me, of course. A lone man in a long food queue was but one well of sighs amongst so many others in Cantina Four, which was in its turn only one amongst half dozen others that dotted the decks of Gradivus Base. All of them bloated, swaying and groaning even as this one did under burdens that any four walls would struggle to contain.
Rushing foot-falls. The jostling of bodies in between crowded benches and tables. Orders of food being hollered over the din. And then there were the conversations, heated, focused, laidback, meandering between all and sundry
range yesterday was such a pain in the ass
that Janoor better remember he owes me that twelve cred
But most centered around the now, as exemplified by the holodeck in the center of the canteen.
There, Sancaid Prime turned on its silent axis, a peaceful eye amid a raging storm that reached out to encroach upon the blackness of empty space. Even in miniature, the violet miasma surrounding the planet was
man that thing is somefuck ugly
is it growing yeah it's growing
it's written right there you blind or something
remember that monster from The Spawning, y'know, the amorphous spider thing with like a million eyes or some sh
it is much less red than we were told to expect
they're doing pretty good, our girls-
I frowned.
Suzy, you're doing it again.
At at once, the voices were hushed. In their place was a strange void, an almost embarrassed silence, one that Suzy broke with the mental -and perhaps not merely so- equivalent of biting her lip.
Sorry. I'm just-
Still feeling bummed out?
I immediately regretted cutting in. It was always better to let a person finish.
Uh huh.
A neutral enough response. Neutral was good. Or at least not catastrophic, and thus not in need of damage control just yet. On second thought, perhaps I'd do some anyway.
Now I'll admit, I can't say 'I know how you feel' in good faith.
Because telepathy is cheating?
A bit, I confessed. Also, I don't have...uh, you know.
Silence.
You don't remember, Suzy?
Hmmm. No, I don't.
Damn. And I thought I'd dodged a bullet there. O little shipboard log of the TNS Suzukaze, how you disappoint me.
I'm an only child, remember?
...Oh. Man, just call me the one-man awkwardness upgrade service. I mean, I just wish the holodeck wasn't in the middle of the cantina. Now I couldn't forget about it if I wanted to.
Which was probably the point, I noted.
Yeah. But- ugh, you know!
Sorry, know what again?
Ah, I could see Suzy folding her arms in frustration now.
Now you're being dense on purpose.
Guilty. Still, a therapist once told me that it helps to spell out your trauma.
You went to a therapist - and listened?
Such humility comes out of left field, that is true, I reflected. Oh look, the queue was moving again. Feet, shuffle forward if you please. But the point stands.
Ugh. I know. I know. It just...feels like shit.
And so you're binging.
I'm not bingeing!
I struggled not to roll my eyes as I took my place near the very front of the queue. Second in line in fact. That was fast.
"What might I get you today?"
The AI vendor asked the man in front of me.
'He' was poetry in a billion pixels as he stood behind a virtual storefront, from the twinkling obsidian eyes set into a weathered face to the Rorschachian oil stains on his girthy apron, and had a voice to match the size, booming forth from speakers that lined the fabricator machine.
"A bowl of Thai-style wanton noodles, please," came the reply.
I smirked.
Hear that, Suzy? One big-ass bowl of wanton noodles.
To most people, that's a meal. Not just one thing topping off a list of 'dishes someone else orders for you' which in your case includes -and correct me if I'm wrong- fish slice porridge, a supersize Queles Burger, miso steak and yoghurt on breaded asparagus, pork sausage rosti...and whole broiled Mbarian wildgame with ixberry stew.
Now tell me, in what world does this list not constitute a binge?
The response was a muffled mental 'urk!' followed by silence.
Go on, I pressed, trying not to sound too amused. I'm waiting.
I-it's called an emergency resupply session! Suzy protested.
Which, if nothing else, she continued more quietly, I have legitimate reasons for having.
I glanced at the holodeck, to a distant debris field right smack in the path of the incoming Ginaz Storm.
So you do, girl. So you do.
There, five blue arrows lay in wait. DD(SG)s twenty through twenty-two -Amatsukaze, Yuudachi, and Fubuki- , CA(SG)-7 Agano, and the Hanuman-class Stealth Battlespace Observer Iramabel. Advance guards. Scouts.
Bait.
Despite the name, Stealth Battlespace Observers weren't invisible. Optical stealth, even having left infancy for a century or so, meant nothing inside a Ginaz Storm, and certainly not with sensor arrays fully deployed in order to provide our fleet with the information we needed on Abyssal positions.
The moment the violet tide reached them, they would be as a nimbus of light in utter darkness. Or more accurately, as bloodied meat in a shark pool. The Abyssals would surely pounce. And when they did, so would we. As plans went this one was simple, and as sound as it was bold.
My eyes lingered over the Yuudachi, on the tiny formation's far left. Ah, Commander Reiner, for all your skill, I must confess to be a little disappointed. In your boundless wisdom, could you not have spared my partner a little consideration? Or, you know, at least not dangle her sister by blood just out of reach and drive her stir crazy in the process-
"-purchase anything?"
"Sorry?"
The vendor's thin smile told me in no uncertain terms that were the skillet in his meaty arm real I would be feeling it right this instant. Message duly received, good sir.
"I asked if you would like to purchase anything."
"Yes." Alright. Quick. The order, what was it again? "Yes. Sorry. I was distracted."
"Good. I thought we'd lost you there."
"How long?"
"About half a minute."
"Then I'll pay back in kind," I replied. "Two plates each of char siew wanton noodles and another two of sauteed vegetables on the side."
"Why, consider me mollified, sir. You will, however, find your fellow patrons less charitable."
Well, what do you know. Inchoate miasmas of roiling impatience could spontaneously materialize enough for visual detection after all. Perhaps someday, in a situation very much like this one, you too could be stopped by a mass of sentient indignance and be given a red card for time-wasting.
"Well if they require a levy they're free to name it. What's your price?"
"I find eight credits reasonable."
"It isn't extortion, no," I agreed, signing off on the bill with a flick of my OmniPad.
"Thank you for your patronage!"
And the fabricator hummed to life. The whirling symphony of the kitchen was a familiar one: the whirring and chopping, the slicing and stirring a soothing music to my ears.
Excuse me, milady, I called, but I was occupied otherwise.
I gathered.
Oh, 'I gathered', was it? How dismissive.
But there was no time for navel-gazing on the reason for Suzy's curtness; a ding put paid to such thoughts as the fabricator's 'mouth' slid open, bearing my orders froth from its metal innards on a tray.
"Your extras, sir," the vendor announced. "Enjoy your meal."
"So I will."
Tray in hand, I wheeled around and made to leave the queue, the aroma of the meal my shield against the fiery darts my former queue-mates rained down upon me with narrowed eyes and muffled grumbling, with such a fury that should reduce a lesser man to groveling, penitent, shamefaced- sorry, where was I?
Ah yes, the food. Stalled conversation with Suzy, and thoughts thereof. But first, the food. Fried pork lard, budu and oyster sauce; a match made in heaven. Why, it was so heavenly that a man might not begrudge the resultant shortening of his life expectancy; for what was life if un-enjoyed, and what was enjoyment if unshared?
Especially when there were so many to share it with, I thought as our table came into sight.
Company was a constant friend of the moody soul, and here it took the form of our newest friends, Corporals Ginger Meggs, Flavius Dweebius, and two others they'd brought along. Yes, 'friends', not 'acquaintances.' An arguably premature upgrade, but a favor done was a favor won, and sitting down to help cheer my partner up in my absence was no small favor.
As on the Catha previously, so here: it was Margaret 'Marge' Angelos who spotted me first.
"Hey!" She called, waving.
Suzy raised her eyebrows in greeting. Which was as much as a person could do with both hands and mouth full with a supersize Queles burger, so I gave that a passing grade.
Kaiser Nerdhelm on the other hand merely stopped his constant jabbering at my partner, but otherwise seemed as determined now as back then to impress upon me the meaning of sonder. Thank you, Seedy Gonzalez; this whole 'befriending' business had been going so well too.
It was the two unfamiliar faces, however, that held my attention.
"...so this here lad's the partner, then, Margie?"
The fellow who spoke first cut a curious figure, his otherwise shorn and noticeably less tanned appearance from his tablemates broken both by a rich brown goatee, plus a chakram-shaped tattoo that served as a fashionable disguise for the extensive cyber augments that crowded his left temple.
He also hadn't recognized me immediately, which was comforting. It was nice to have people buy you drinks, but drinking just to rid oneself of the cringe an insufferable nickname brought ruined all the fun.
Marge nodded.
"That he is, Chief. Mr-, huh, no. It's Lieutenant now isn't it? Lieutenant Deschantes, in the flesh."
Man, that once-over burned, and it wasn't just the red LED glow in the center of the man's left eye.
"What the hell," the older man muttered at last. "Doesn't look like the briefing profile at all. Whatever did they do to your face, lad?"
"It's my gigawatt smile," I supplied. Half-heartedly perhaps, but navigating the circumference of the table in this crowd without making obese dying elephants look graceful by comparison was hard when you were as encumbered as I. "Couldn't wear it during the photo-taking. They said it ruined the flash."
The other stranger pushed back some short black dreadlocks and brought a large palm to rest on on one tan cheek, while her other hand twirled a fork between two fingers.
"They let you wear that lip too, sir?"
"No camera can catch that, I'm afraid," I said as I sat down.
Suzy took another crunching, squelching bite of her burger.
"I apologize in advance for him."
Hush, girl. I have just returned from running a gauntlet of stall queues to get you food, plus sides. Plus your voices in my head on intermittent annoyance duty. The Association of Unnecessary Apologies just called, they want to rescind your provisional membership.
"Eh, no need," The woman laughed up to her twinkling brown eyes as I sat down. "Reckon I like you, sir."
"I'd prefer 'Ethel'. I don't wear ranks I don't earn."
"Honesty!"
I know, right? What the heck was a 'Simulated Lieutenant', anyway?
"Your loss, Edith." my partner noted.
Knuckles cracked in response.
"Think I can take one of those."
The woman's outstretched hand was calloused and corded with muscle up to where the ultramarine navy sleeves covered it up, with a grip to match: a crushing experience in every sense of the term.
"Petty Officer First Class, Edith Butler. 2IC of Scout Team Forza, 322nd OrbCav." At this, she jerked a thumb at the tattooed man, bright golden eyes twinkling. "I'm next in line if the old guy over there kicks it. Feel free to tell me when he does."
"Nope, hasn't happened yet; and hell if these old bones know why," the elder scout retorted, taking on a roguish twist of lip and cheek that was unexpected but not unwelcome. "Now, these idiots call me Boss, Chief, Geezer and other assorted claptrap. But not you, boy. You shall call me Master Chief Orfan Uruz. Petty Officer optional, that's too long."
Well, quiver my woodstocks.
Gradivus' crew complement was way too huge for a man to easily go through, to say nothing of the entire Task Force's, but I'd actually heard of this guy before - what were the odds? He was a seasoned soldier, with service preceding the Abyssal War, if recall served. Had a pretty famous stint in…
In...well, actually, I couldn't remember for the life of me - on to the customary handshake then.
Orfan's grip was light and supple, something I'd have expected from a man half his size, and while it was warm as any flesh it lacked a certain there-ness to it that modern military augments tended to leave intact. Pre-fourth gen cybernetics? Odd. He could be anywhere between a century or two old by the looks of it, but I was pretty sure his service didn't predate the Nanoculture Insurance Act. That had been what, 2285?
Nevermind. Not a question for first encounters.
"Always pleased to learn from experience," I said.
"Good, good." Orfan laughed. "I'll give you one free then: Never buy food for someone whose idea of a meal is a localized extinction event."
Too late for that, bub. Girl's been building a monument to our anemic appetites for the last fifteen minutes now, and it didn't look like she was stopping any time soon. But just as I thought that, Suzy did indeed stop, if only to give Orfan the stink eye.
"Hey, it's called Underway Resupply," she protested.
"Call it what you like, girlie sunshine," the Chief replied with an easy grin, "but these old bones wager we'll need a whole other ship or three someday soon, just t'keep you lasses topped off."
Leckie snorted.
"Bet you all a hundred that some big time bean counter is already planning that."
"Not a bet I'll take," Edith said between vicious spear-fuls of pudding. "Fully functional ships for a fraction of the standard maintenance cost? It's any data monkey's wet dream come to life- uh, no offense, Onjouji."
"We're cool."
A somewhat comfortable hush fell over the table. Edith continued rationing out what little was left of her dessert. Leckie flicked at his arm-mounted OmniPad idly. Marge watched Suzy eat with an expression caught between reverence and horror, while Orfan seemed content to just stand -or rather, sit- aloof for now.
Which narrowed my list of conversation partners down quite a bit. Just as well.
"Y'know, Chief-"
The klaxon was short and shrill, slicing through the din as if it were but a void.
[H-hour imminent. All hands prepare for jump,] the voice of Mraliz Vorkros boomed over the sound system. [Say again, H-hour imminent. All hands prepare for jump.]
It was like a starter gun had gone off. Food vanished down gullets as spoons became shovels and forks industrial plows. Officers and senior non-coms leaped onto tables, running feet answering their crisply barked orders. The directionless fog of human awareness in Cantina Four was now a wall of steel, ringing cold and bright in unison with every sure yet nimble step.
It was a human exodus of the highest order: well organized, high spirited, and immensely disappointing.
Sure, expecting anyone to share my heartbeat of holy shit it's happening it's actually happening was to assume a nadir of empathy too radiant for mortal realms. But misery loves company, and this whole 'rah-rah oom-pah-pah, we march, we fight for Sweet Terra' business was awful in that regard at best.
"Well damn that's a lot of 'em…"
But there we go. The Club Sans Enthousiasme could not stay empty forever, and how fitting that His Eminence, Johann Leckie -Le Vicomte de Braggalotte himself!- should be our first patron.
Make that two patrons: Marge was silent, her expression darkening as she too looked at the sphere, and at the sea of red that crept ever closer to the point of no return: a single line that marked where any further transmissions from our scouts would break stealth.
That was our fellow newbies covered. What abou-
Edith Butler was a blur of flying dreadlocks, swinging around the table to where her two subordinates sat at the edge of their seats. Goddamn military-grade augs. No one had any right being that fast while that large. Or that strong: I could feel the backslaps she was giving out with mine own scapulae.
And again. Ow, just ow.
"Chin up, greenhorns." Edith declared. "See now, playtime wouldn't be worth jack-shit if it came free!"
"Girl speaks truth!" Orfan barked heartily, slapping the table. "That's the way of the world: eat, drink and merry, because tomorrow you fight to do it all over again!"
A few shouts of 'hear hear!' could be heard in response.
Then he turned back to me, the intensity in his gaze only just offset by a wry grin.
"Not going to talk to your little miss?"
Ah. Yes, of course. The elephant in the room.
If everyone else had given the hologlobe at least a fourth look on account of that siren wail, Suzy must have had her eyes bolted to it by capital ship grade grav-tractors. She was also utterly quiet, so much so that those around her, even those passing by, could not but fall silent.
"Sure you've got to time to be pissing about here?"
"We're third rotation. The backup backup plan." Orfan jerked a thumb behind him to where a small minority of staff remained seated, though their plates too were either conspicuously empty or well on the way to being so. "If we have to be out there today, things have gone to double-triple fuck with plenty to spare."
"Also," he added pointedly, "I asked first."
I shrugged. Your concession, your loss.
"I'm considering how not to mess it up."
"So you do need help."
Cool those translight jets, Old, Bold and Sardonically Winking. I said I was taking time out to ponder future actions. A most wise course of action if I should say so myself, especially when the chattier half of this psionic bridge is presently doing her best Tower of Babel impression - a fews miles high, eloquent as stone, and locked in futile rebellion against reality.
But if he was up for some brainstorming, I wouldn't refuse him.
"Her older sister's with the scouting party," I confessed.
"The Yuudachi, I take it?" Now eyes, be brave. Do not make me look like a moron- oh how you betray me; our foe is grinning, smirking death's own rictus'd visage at our bewilderment. "What, weren't you listening to me earlier? We have briefings. So do you: the same ones, I'd wager. They tell us things, and very occasionally those things happen to be important."
Fair point.
"Right. So, yeah. A sister. Right in the line of fire. It's, well..."
Dammit, now I was the one plying the face of the holodeck for the words I needed. But alas, there was nothing there, neither mene, tekel nor upharsin. Only a crimson swarm to stand in for the finger of the divine, for our reckoning with-
-the collision reverberates through the silence of space, consuming everything in a blazing sea of white-
"Kid?"
Ugh. Come on, Ethel. There is a season for everything: a time to be silent, and a time to speak, and a time to engage in excessive navel-gazing vis-a-vis your most recent memories of the enemy. That is to say, not right now.
"It's a difficult idea for me to relate to," I finished.
Orfan hummed thoughtfully.
"No family or friends out there on the fronts?" That was rather straight to the point. He seemed to realize it too, though his shrug was less backpedal, more teasing mollification. "Just asking, kiddo. People tend to after a while."
"You could say that I've gotten used to it."
I let that hang for a few moments.
"Well then," the Master Chief huffed, folding his arms. "I won't pry. But if you aren't gonna make a move, mind if this old man gives it a swing?"
Oh good sir, you are truly too kind.
Now. To tell him or not to tell him…
Eh, whatever. If a man chanped so at the bit to charge, who was I to dismay him? And it was always nice to learn more about where we stood on the information-divvying ladder.
"Your funeral," I replied, gesturing towards where Suzy sat.
No more words were wasted. Striding over to where my partner sat in silence, Orfan pulled a chair over from a recently vacated table, and sat down right next to her.
"So, girl," the Master Chief began, "something on your mind?"
No reaction. Nay, nary a twitch.
This was a problem. Albeit in the sense that only thing worse than a 'forward the light brigade' approach to potential emotional minefields was the conspicuous lack of response from said minefield, but still a problem. Perhaps this was the right moment for a quick psionic mic check. A little blunt-edged as solutions went, but sometimes old fashioned was best.
I reached forward slowly, steadily towards the wall that Suzy had thrown up about herself, tracing each raw throbbing singularity in the coherent yet utterly alien whole. It was...different. And very impressive: nothing she'd done before came anywhere close.
Psionic Race (Innate), boys and girls. Yet our practice sessions -and what limited Poseidon records existed on the matter- yielded no decisive differences between them and us psions-by-induction. Only the patience, the persistence to find the chinks that must surely exist in any armor, and use that as our point of
intrusion
I froze, just barely managing to not 'jump' out of my own skin at that. One interminable second passed. Two.
Then Suzy's eyes snapped back into focus.
"Uh." She began with a flair that would have honored Demosthenes, red-faced and stuttering as she faced her grinning audience of one, realization dawning. "Um-"
She plunged low into a full bow.
"Sorry, Chief! I-"
"Relax, sunshine, we're cool-"
"-I'm really, really sorry!"
I watched them from the corner of my eye, all the while fighting the urge to add throttling whoever had written the section of the primer on Psionic Resonance to my bucket list of things to do before this war got me killed. Or to laugh out loud at Orfan's futile attempts to stop the litany of apologies my partner was pouring out upon him.
'Inexact science', my arse. But it was worth it.
"Alright, alright," the Master Chief said at last, looking every bit the beleaguered survivor of Space Storm Sumanai, "So zoning out isn't a pattern with you usually, I get that."
"Y-yeah." Suzy stammered. "It's just that..."
"Mmhmm?"
Several emotions whirled past my partner's features as she calmed herself down, before settling into a frown.
"...he told you."
"What?"
"Ethel told you." An accusatory glance flicked my way. "About Yuu-n- the Yuudachi."
Orfan raised both eyebrows.
"Oh, no, not at all." He chuckled softly, reaching for his breast pocket. "In fact, you'd be surprised-"
"Don't!" Suzy hissed, only to recoil at her own vehemence. "Don't," she murmured, her voice shrinking. "You'll get in trouble. We're not cleared for this, not yet."
Orfan did not remove his hand.
"And you're alright with that?"
Well, that was only the most blatant bait I'd seen in a year. But from the grinding of teeth I could hear from between Suzy's limits, it was working.
"Of course not!" She snapped. "She's my sister. We should be fighting together, not separated by a light-year of space and a buttload of waiting - her out on the frontline, me in some hidey hole! All these years, and now...I haven't even met her yet, let alone spoken a word to her. I don't even know what she looks like! And I never might! Do you even know-"
"Yeah, I do."
Were this me, Suzy's face would have scrunched up, and the 'no you don't' would have been swift in coming. But the conviction in Orfan Uruz's voice was a different beast before which she froze, face seizing in wide-eyed surprise at the sudden flame in his countenance.
So it was that the Master Chief retrieved the contents of his breast pocket unmolested, and next thing I knew a small object was spinning towards my partner's fumbling hands.
It was a photo. Not a holo-plate or some mini OmniPad like the one I used; an honest to goodness color print, sealed in plastic and looking only a tad worse for wear for it.
"My old Scout Team from Callidus Academy, Batch of Summer 2515, during my senior instructor term." He jerked a thumb over to where Edith had pulled Marge and Leckie aside. "Tell you what, these bumbling bozos hadn't even been born then."
"Get over that statistic," Edith called back. "It was only two weeks!"
Ignoring her, Orfan tapped the figure furthest left in the photo. "That's your's truly of course," he said, tapping his tattooed temple, "well, before I got these here fancy digs."
Then finger became fingers, one for each of the two person next in line.
"Yag Shal and Nora Troie, nee Meyer-Ohle."
The latter was a just under five foot three Terran, even counting the tilt from having a hand on one hip and the stray strands of rose-gold that poked up above a blazing curtain of hair. The former was arms akimbo and all frowns, as if an armored bipedal reptilian twice his companion's size with a scar over one fiery eye needed anything more in the intimidation department.
The tiniest grin played across Suzy's face, her first clean break from visible anxiety since we'd arrived at the cantina.
"They look happy together."
"Aye," Orfan agreed. "Love can bloom n'all. Even between the biggest pair of idiots I've ever seen. Still together too, the crazy bastards."
The Master Chief's eyes grew distant as he came to the last person in the picture. It reminded me a lot of Dad, on the rare days where we could meet and talk: minus the arguments, and the drinks needed to keep us civil.
"And that's my third grand-niece Rajelle," he said, idly tracing the side of the picture that framed the slightly taller, raven-haired young woman at the rightmost. "Funny thing, coincidences. Bounce her on your knee, read her her first stories, hold her wee hands in the kiddie pool...teach her how to hold a gun."
"How is she?"
"Presumed missing." The words were two shades away from inaudible. "FTL accident near Point Orestes."
Orfan leaned down, his eyes iron as they met Suzy.
"Point is, you ain't alone. Everyone's got someone. Living, dead. We fight for some. Others fight for us," he said, putting a hand on the shipgirl's shoulder. "But either way, we don't do jack for them by sitting around and feeling sorry for ourselves. We help them by doing what we can, by doing our job - and a soldier's job is pretty simple, no?"
Suzy bit her lip.
"That's the problem."
"What is?"
Her gaze flickered to mine, a motion that Orfan mirrored. But though the questions in their eyes were different, they could be answered the same way - with a simple shrug. I helped you make your bed, Chief, now you lie in it.
"Well, we-"
"-were given clear orders to stay put."
I did not need to turn to know who was behind us. Not all voices were created equal, and Commander Amanda Reiner's smoky black, on the rocks, no sugar blend was certainly on the memorable end of the spectrum, the sounds of salutes snapping into place a weak signifier of her presence by comparison.
"As you all were," she said with a wave.
Suzy frowned.
"Permi-"
"Your desire to charge headlong into danger is noted, Lieutenant," Amanda continued undeterred. "As is your intention to appeal that she be allowed to do it, Master Chief."
Speaking of inequality, someone needed to phone Hotline Heaven and check if this ability to interrupt conversations at fortuitous moments could be acquired, because heck if I didn't want me some of that.
Suzy worked her jaw, looking like she might protest the overly assessment, but Orfan held out a restraining hand in front of her.
"Thank you, ma'am."
"However, consider this: Lieutenants Onjouji and Deschantes have logged a mere seventy-six hours in augmented reality simulation courses in the past week, and all of fifteen minutes in actual combat." Amanda paused, affixing Orfan with slightly narrowed eyes. "You would throw the Marshal of the Navy herself out of Callidus if she suggested fielding recruits with twice that amount of training."
"Without an ounce of regret, ma'am."
"But you would bargain with me for the opposite purpose."
Man, this guy had balls: all the casually baleful presence Graf Zeppelin's avatar could exert, and it was just making his grin wider by the second.
"No, ma'am, I wouldn't."
"Oh?"
"The way I understand it, ma'am," Orfan replied, "this whole 'coming back from the dead thing' has been treated as a resumption of duty. Shipgirl training scores so far tell me that they think so, anyway, whatever changes we've made to naval warfare notwithstanding." He swept a hand out across the tables. "To sum the long story, less than a handful of people in this room have more operational experience than the seven years Suzy has, and I'm confident she'll show that out there today."
The Master Chief shrugged, a roguish light in his eyes.
"If given the chance, that is."
On any other person, the mottle of emotions that Amanda Reiner's face hurried to rid itself of would have registered as mere surprise. But annoyance, actual anger, then a wry smile? On everyone's favorite stoic? Someone speed-dial the Character Breakage Helpdesk.
Also, what do you know: the smile actually stayed on.
"You pick your fights well, Master Chief," Amanda admitted.
"You will too, ma'am, when you get as old as I am."
"And as for Lieutenant Deschantes?"
"Pah, girl can carry his candy ass," Orfan scoffed.
Amanda turned to Suzy.
"Can you, Onjouji?"
My partner blinked, as if shocked that the spotlight was now on her.
Well. Ten dollars on her bowing sometime soon. It was the Japanese thing to do, in any case. No, I never imagined I would ever have cause to think that. Life goals, Ethel, in three, two, one-
-there we go.
"I'll do my best, ma'am!"
Why, that was the most spirited I'd seen her all day. Fitting then, that the display should in turn render Amanda the most torn between faint smile and frown as I'd seen her yet.
"Then you should be pleased to know that against all better judgement-" 'my better judgement', her face all but said, "-your previous orders have been countermanded. DD(SG)-23 Suzukaze will report to Battle Line Alpha by nineteen-thirty shipboard time, left echelon of fleet carrier Graf Zeppelin and ready to jump."
Edith exchanged a look with Orfan before raising her hand, lips splitting into a grin that one could only call predatory.
"Regulation says shipgirls need a skeleton crew onboard, ma'am."
"And thank you for volunteering, Petty Officer Butler," Amanda replied. "322nd OrbCav's Scout Company will be stationed aboard your ship as a boarding/landing element. Master of Scouts Orfan Uruz will serve as your interim executive officer for the duration of this battle, pending review."
Suzy turned to Marge and Leckie, her eyes exultant. The two of them barely managed to grimace back. Guess 'understanding' superiors were a bitch. I mean, I could relate.
"You look like you have something to say," Amanda said, turning her gaze onto me.
"Well, I gotta admit, this is quite the exception we're making, ma'am."
"You will find such things par for course here - unfortunately." The shipgirl's default frown returned in full force, no doubt at the memory of a certain someone. "But worry not: from what I hear you are in able and experienced hands..."
"...As am I, in truth," she continued softly.
Then she turned on her heel.
"I look forward to our performance, Lieutenant Deschantes."
As always, enjoy the chapter. All comments and other thoughts appreciated!
=======
A Sea of Stars
Book 1: The Stars, Awake
Chapter 4: Storm Front
"Well," I sighed out loud to no one in particular, "isn't this bothersome."
Not that anyone in particular could hear me, of course. A lone man in a long food queue was but one well of sighs amongst so many others in Cantina Four, which was in its turn only one amongst half dozen others that dotted the decks of Gradivus Base. All of them bloated, swaying and groaning even as this one did under burdens that any four walls would struggle to contain.
Rushing foot-falls. The jostling of bodies in between crowded benches and tables. Orders of food being hollered over the din. And then there were the conversations, heated, focused, laidback, meandering between all and sundry
range yesterday was such a pain in the ass
that Janoor better remember he owes me that twelve cred
But most centered around the now, as exemplified by the holodeck in the center of the canteen.
There, Sancaid Prime turned on its silent axis, a peaceful eye amid a raging storm that reached out to encroach upon the blackness of empty space. Even in miniature, the violet miasma surrounding the planet was
man that thing is somefuck ugly
is it growing yeah it's growing
it's written right there you blind or something
remember that monster from The Spawning, y'know, the amorphous spider thing with like a million eyes or some sh
it is much less red than we were told to expect
they're doing pretty good, our girls-
I frowned.
Suzy, you're doing it again.
At at once, the voices were hushed. In their place was a strange void, an almost embarrassed silence, one that Suzy broke with the mental -and perhaps not merely so- equivalent of biting her lip.
Sorry. I'm just-
Still feeling bummed out?
I immediately regretted cutting in. It was always better to let a person finish.
Uh huh.
A neutral enough response. Neutral was good. Or at least not catastrophic, and thus not in need of damage control just yet. On second thought, perhaps I'd do some anyway.
Now I'll admit, I can't say 'I know how you feel' in good faith.
Because telepathy is cheating?
A bit, I confessed. Also, I don't have...uh, you know.
Silence.
You don't remember, Suzy?
Hmmm. No, I don't.
Damn. And I thought I'd dodged a bullet there. O little shipboard log of the TNS Suzukaze, how you disappoint me.
I'm an only child, remember?
...Oh. Man, just call me the one-man awkwardness upgrade service. I mean, I just wish the holodeck wasn't in the middle of the cantina. Now I couldn't forget about it if I wanted to.
Which was probably the point, I noted.
Yeah. But- ugh, you know!
Sorry, know what again?
Ah, I could see Suzy folding her arms in frustration now.
Now you're being dense on purpose.
Guilty. Still, a therapist once told me that it helps to spell out your trauma.
You went to a therapist - and listened?
Such humility comes out of left field, that is true, I reflected. Oh look, the queue was moving again. Feet, shuffle forward if you please. But the point stands.
Ugh. I know. I know. It just...feels like shit.
And so you're binging.
I'm not bingeing!
I struggled not to roll my eyes as I took my place near the very front of the queue. Second in line in fact. That was fast.
"What might I get you today?"
The AI vendor asked the man in front of me.
'He' was poetry in a billion pixels as he stood behind a virtual storefront, from the twinkling obsidian eyes set into a weathered face to the Rorschachian oil stains on his girthy apron, and had a voice to match the size, booming forth from speakers that lined the fabricator machine.
"A bowl of Thai-style wanton noodles, please," came the reply.
I smirked.
Hear that, Suzy? One big-ass bowl of wanton noodles.
To most people, that's a meal. Not just one thing topping off a list of 'dishes someone else orders for you' which in your case includes -and correct me if I'm wrong- fish slice porridge, a supersize Queles Burger, miso steak and yoghurt on breaded asparagus, pork sausage rosti...and whole broiled Mbarian wildgame with ixberry stew.
Now tell me, in what world does this list not constitute a binge?
The response was a muffled mental 'urk!' followed by silence.
Go on, I pressed, trying not to sound too amused. I'm waiting.
I-it's called an emergency resupply session! Suzy protested.
Which, if nothing else, she continued more quietly, I have legitimate reasons for having.
I glanced at the holodeck, to a distant debris field right smack in the path of the incoming Ginaz Storm.
So you do, girl. So you do.
There, five blue arrows lay in wait. DD(SG)s twenty through twenty-two -Amatsukaze, Yuudachi, and Fubuki- , CA(SG)-7 Agano, and the Hanuman-class Stealth Battlespace Observer Iramabel. Advance guards. Scouts.
Bait.
Despite the name, Stealth Battlespace Observers weren't invisible. Optical stealth, even having left infancy for a century or so, meant nothing inside a Ginaz Storm, and certainly not with sensor arrays fully deployed in order to provide our fleet with the information we needed on Abyssal positions.
The moment the violet tide reached them, they would be as a nimbus of light in utter darkness. Or more accurately, as bloodied meat in a shark pool. The Abyssals would surely pounce. And when they did, so would we. As plans went this one was simple, and as sound as it was bold.
My eyes lingered over the Yuudachi, on the tiny formation's far left. Ah, Commander Reiner, for all your skill, I must confess to be a little disappointed. In your boundless wisdom, could you not have spared my partner a little consideration? Or, you know, at least not dangle her sister by blood just out of reach and drive her stir crazy in the process-
"-purchase anything?"
"Sorry?"
The vendor's thin smile told me in no uncertain terms that were the skillet in his meaty arm real I would be feeling it right this instant. Message duly received, good sir.
"I asked if you would like to purchase anything."
"Yes." Alright. Quick. The order, what was it again? "Yes. Sorry. I was distracted."
"Good. I thought we'd lost you there."
"How long?"
"About half a minute."
"Then I'll pay back in kind," I replied. "Two plates each of char siew wanton noodles and another two of sauteed vegetables on the side."
"Why, consider me mollified, sir. You will, however, find your fellow patrons less charitable."
Well, what do you know. Inchoate miasmas of roiling impatience could spontaneously materialize enough for visual detection after all. Perhaps someday, in a situation very much like this one, you too could be stopped by a mass of sentient indignance and be given a red card for time-wasting.
"Well if they require a levy they're free to name it. What's your price?"
"I find eight credits reasonable."
"It isn't extortion, no," I agreed, signing off on the bill with a flick of my OmniPad.
"Thank you for your patronage!"
And the fabricator hummed to life. The whirling symphony of the kitchen was a familiar one: the whirring and chopping, the slicing and stirring a soothing music to my ears.
Excuse me, milady, I called, but I was occupied otherwise.
I gathered.
Oh, 'I gathered', was it? How dismissive.
But there was no time for navel-gazing on the reason for Suzy's curtness; a ding put paid to such thoughts as the fabricator's 'mouth' slid open, bearing my orders froth from its metal innards on a tray.
"Your extras, sir," the vendor announced. "Enjoy your meal."
"So I will."
Tray in hand, I wheeled around and made to leave the queue, the aroma of the meal my shield against the fiery darts my former queue-mates rained down upon me with narrowed eyes and muffled grumbling, with such a fury that should reduce a lesser man to groveling, penitent, shamefaced- sorry, where was I?
Ah yes, the food. Stalled conversation with Suzy, and thoughts thereof. But first, the food. Fried pork lard, budu and oyster sauce; a match made in heaven. Why, it was so heavenly that a man might not begrudge the resultant shortening of his life expectancy; for what was life if un-enjoyed, and what was enjoyment if unshared?
Especially when there were so many to share it with, I thought as our table came into sight.
Company was a constant friend of the moody soul, and here it took the form of our newest friends, Corporals Ginger Meggs, Flavius Dweebius, and two others they'd brought along. Yes, 'friends', not 'acquaintances.' An arguably premature upgrade, but a favor done was a favor won, and sitting down to help cheer my partner up in my absence was no small favor.
As on the Catha previously, so here: it was Margaret 'Marge' Angelos who spotted me first.
"Hey!" She called, waving.
Suzy raised her eyebrows in greeting. Which was as much as a person could do with both hands and mouth full with a supersize Queles burger, so I gave that a passing grade.
Kaiser Nerdhelm on the other hand merely stopped his constant jabbering at my partner, but otherwise seemed as determined now as back then to impress upon me the meaning of sonder. Thank you, Seedy Gonzalez; this whole 'befriending' business had been going so well too.
It was the two unfamiliar faces, however, that held my attention.
"...so this here lad's the partner, then, Margie?"
The fellow who spoke first cut a curious figure, his otherwise shorn and noticeably less tanned appearance from his tablemates broken both by a rich brown goatee, plus a chakram-shaped tattoo that served as a fashionable disguise for the extensive cyber augments that crowded his left temple.
He also hadn't recognized me immediately, which was comforting. It was nice to have people buy you drinks, but drinking just to rid oneself of the cringe an insufferable nickname brought ruined all the fun.
Marge nodded.
"That he is, Chief. Mr-, huh, no. It's Lieutenant now isn't it? Lieutenant Deschantes, in the flesh."
Man, that once-over burned, and it wasn't just the red LED glow in the center of the man's left eye.
"What the hell," the older man muttered at last. "Doesn't look like the briefing profile at all. Whatever did they do to your face, lad?"
"It's my gigawatt smile," I supplied. Half-heartedly perhaps, but navigating the circumference of the table in this crowd without making obese dying elephants look graceful by comparison was hard when you were as encumbered as I. "Couldn't wear it during the photo-taking. They said it ruined the flash."
The other stranger pushed back some short black dreadlocks and brought a large palm to rest on on one tan cheek, while her other hand twirled a fork between two fingers.
"They let you wear that lip too, sir?"
"No camera can catch that, I'm afraid," I said as I sat down.
Suzy took another crunching, squelching bite of her burger.
"I apologize in advance for him."
Hush, girl. I have just returned from running a gauntlet of stall queues to get you food, plus sides. Plus your voices in my head on intermittent annoyance duty. The Association of Unnecessary Apologies just called, they want to rescind your provisional membership.
"Eh, no need," The woman laughed up to her twinkling brown eyes as I sat down. "Reckon I like you, sir."
"I'd prefer 'Ethel'. I don't wear ranks I don't earn."
"Honesty!"
I know, right? What the heck was a 'Simulated Lieutenant', anyway?
"Your loss, Edith." my partner noted.
Knuckles cracked in response.
"Think I can take one of those."
The woman's outstretched hand was calloused and corded with muscle up to where the ultramarine navy sleeves covered it up, with a grip to match: a crushing experience in every sense of the term.
"Petty Officer First Class, Edith Butler. 2IC of Scout Team Forza, 322nd OrbCav." At this, she jerked a thumb at the tattooed man, bright golden eyes twinkling. "I'm next in line if the old guy over there kicks it. Feel free to tell me when he does."
"Nope, hasn't happened yet; and hell if these old bones know why," the elder scout retorted, taking on a roguish twist of lip and cheek that was unexpected but not unwelcome. "Now, these idiots call me Boss, Chief, Geezer and other assorted claptrap. But not you, boy. You shall call me Master Chief Orfan Uruz. Petty Officer optional, that's too long."
Well, quiver my woodstocks.
Gradivus' crew complement was way too huge for a man to easily go through, to say nothing of the entire Task Force's, but I'd actually heard of this guy before - what were the odds? He was a seasoned soldier, with service preceding the Abyssal War, if recall served. Had a pretty famous stint in…
In...well, actually, I couldn't remember for the life of me - on to the customary handshake then.
Orfan's grip was light and supple, something I'd have expected from a man half his size, and while it was warm as any flesh it lacked a certain there-ness to it that modern military augments tended to leave intact. Pre-fourth gen cybernetics? Odd. He could be anywhere between a century or two old by the looks of it, but I was pretty sure his service didn't predate the Nanoculture Insurance Act. That had been what, 2285?
Nevermind. Not a question for first encounters.
"Always pleased to learn from experience," I said.
"Good, good." Orfan laughed. "I'll give you one free then: Never buy food for someone whose idea of a meal is a localized extinction event."
Too late for that, bub. Girl's been building a monument to our anemic appetites for the last fifteen minutes now, and it didn't look like she was stopping any time soon. But just as I thought that, Suzy did indeed stop, if only to give Orfan the stink eye.
"Hey, it's called Underway Resupply," she protested.
"Call it what you like, girlie sunshine," the Chief replied with an easy grin, "but these old bones wager we'll need a whole other ship or three someday soon, just t'keep you lasses topped off."
Leckie snorted.
"Bet you all a hundred that some big time bean counter is already planning that."
"Not a bet I'll take," Edith said between vicious spear-fuls of pudding. "Fully functional ships for a fraction of the standard maintenance cost? It's any data monkey's wet dream come to life- uh, no offense, Onjouji."
"We're cool."
A somewhat comfortable hush fell over the table. Edith continued rationing out what little was left of her dessert. Leckie flicked at his arm-mounted OmniPad idly. Marge watched Suzy eat with an expression caught between reverence and horror, while Orfan seemed content to just stand -or rather, sit- aloof for now.
Which narrowed my list of conversation partners down quite a bit. Just as well.
"Y'know, Chief-"
The klaxon was short and shrill, slicing through the din as if it were but a void.
[H-hour imminent. All hands prepare for jump,] the voice of Mraliz Vorkros boomed over the sound system. [Say again, H-hour imminent. All hands prepare for jump.]
It was like a starter gun had gone off. Food vanished down gullets as spoons became shovels and forks industrial plows. Officers and senior non-coms leaped onto tables, running feet answering their crisply barked orders. The directionless fog of human awareness in Cantina Four was now a wall of steel, ringing cold and bright in unison with every sure yet nimble step.
It was a human exodus of the highest order: well organized, high spirited, and immensely disappointing.
Sure, expecting anyone to share my heartbeat of holy shit it's happening it's actually happening was to assume a nadir of empathy too radiant for mortal realms. But misery loves company, and this whole 'rah-rah oom-pah-pah, we march, we fight for Sweet Terra' business was awful in that regard at best.
"Well damn that's a lot of 'em…"
But there we go. The Club Sans Enthousiasme could not stay empty forever, and how fitting that His Eminence, Johann Leckie -Le Vicomte de Braggalotte himself!- should be our first patron.
Make that two patrons: Marge was silent, her expression darkening as she too looked at the sphere, and at the sea of red that crept ever closer to the point of no return: a single line that marked where any further transmissions from our scouts would break stealth.
That was our fellow newbies covered. What abou-
Edith Butler was a blur of flying dreadlocks, swinging around the table to where her two subordinates sat at the edge of their seats. Goddamn military-grade augs. No one had any right being that fast while that large. Or that strong: I could feel the backslaps she was giving out with mine own scapulae.
And again. Ow, just ow.
"Chin up, greenhorns." Edith declared. "See now, playtime wouldn't be worth jack-shit if it came free!"
"Girl speaks truth!" Orfan barked heartily, slapping the table. "That's the way of the world: eat, drink and merry, because tomorrow you fight to do it all over again!"
A few shouts of 'hear hear!' could be heard in response.
Then he turned back to me, the intensity in his gaze only just offset by a wry grin.
"Not going to talk to your little miss?"
Ah. Yes, of course. The elephant in the room.
If everyone else had given the hologlobe at least a fourth look on account of that siren wail, Suzy must have had her eyes bolted to it by capital ship grade grav-tractors. She was also utterly quiet, so much so that those around her, even those passing by, could not but fall silent.
"Sure you've got to time to be pissing about here?"
"We're third rotation. The backup backup plan." Orfan jerked a thumb behind him to where a small minority of staff remained seated, though their plates too were either conspicuously empty or well on the way to being so. "If we have to be out there today, things have gone to double-triple fuck with plenty to spare."
"Also," he added pointedly, "I asked first."
I shrugged. Your concession, your loss.
"I'm considering how not to mess it up."
"So you do need help."
Cool those translight jets, Old, Bold and Sardonically Winking. I said I was taking time out to ponder future actions. A most wise course of action if I should say so myself, especially when the chattier half of this psionic bridge is presently doing her best Tower of Babel impression - a fews miles high, eloquent as stone, and locked in futile rebellion against reality.
But if he was up for some brainstorming, I wouldn't refuse him.
"Her older sister's with the scouting party," I confessed.
"The Yuudachi, I take it?" Now eyes, be brave. Do not make me look like a moron- oh how you betray me; our foe is grinning, smirking death's own rictus'd visage at our bewilderment. "What, weren't you listening to me earlier? We have briefings. So do you: the same ones, I'd wager. They tell us things, and very occasionally those things happen to be important."
Fair point.
"Right. So, yeah. A sister. Right in the line of fire. It's, well..."
Dammit, now I was the one plying the face of the holodeck for the words I needed. But alas, there was nothing there, neither mene, tekel nor upharsin. Only a crimson swarm to stand in for the finger of the divine, for our reckoning with-
-the collision reverberates through the silence of space, consuming everything in a blazing sea of white-
"Kid?"
Ugh. Come on, Ethel. There is a season for everything: a time to be silent, and a time to speak, and a time to engage in excessive navel-gazing vis-a-vis your most recent memories of the enemy. That is to say, not right now.
"It's a difficult idea for me to relate to," I finished.
Orfan hummed thoughtfully.
"No family or friends out there on the fronts?" That was rather straight to the point. He seemed to realize it too, though his shrug was less backpedal, more teasing mollification. "Just asking, kiddo. People tend to after a while."
"You could say that I've gotten used to it."
I let that hang for a few moments.
"Well then," the Master Chief huffed, folding his arms. "I won't pry. But if you aren't gonna make a move, mind if this old man gives it a swing?"
Oh good sir, you are truly too kind.
Now. To tell him or not to tell him…
Eh, whatever. If a man chanped so at the bit to charge, who was I to dismay him? And it was always nice to learn more about where we stood on the information-divvying ladder.
"Your funeral," I replied, gesturing towards where Suzy sat.
No more words were wasted. Striding over to where my partner sat in silence, Orfan pulled a chair over from a recently vacated table, and sat down right next to her.
"So, girl," the Master Chief began, "something on your mind?"
No reaction. Nay, nary a twitch.
This was a problem. Albeit in the sense that only thing worse than a 'forward the light brigade' approach to potential emotional minefields was the conspicuous lack of response from said minefield, but still a problem. Perhaps this was the right moment for a quick psionic mic check. A little blunt-edged as solutions went, but sometimes old fashioned was best.
I reached forward slowly, steadily towards the wall that Suzy had thrown up about herself, tracing each raw throbbing singularity in the coherent yet utterly alien whole. It was...different. And very impressive: nothing she'd done before came anywhere close.
Psionic Race (Innate), boys and girls. Yet our practice sessions -and what limited Poseidon records existed on the matter- yielded no decisive differences between them and us psions-by-induction. Only the patience, the persistence to find the chinks that must surely exist in any armor, and use that as our point of
intrusion
I froze, just barely managing to not 'jump' out of my own skin at that. One interminable second passed. Two.
Then Suzy's eyes snapped back into focus.
"Uh." She began with a flair that would have honored Demosthenes, red-faced and stuttering as she faced her grinning audience of one, realization dawning. "Um-"
She plunged low into a full bow.
"Sorry, Chief! I-"
"Relax, sunshine, we're cool-"
"-I'm really, really sorry!"
I watched them from the corner of my eye, all the while fighting the urge to add throttling whoever had written the section of the primer on Psionic Resonance to my bucket list of things to do before this war got me killed. Or to laugh out loud at Orfan's futile attempts to stop the litany of apologies my partner was pouring out upon him.
'Inexact science', my arse. But it was worth it.
"Alright, alright," the Master Chief said at last, looking every bit the beleaguered survivor of Space Storm Sumanai, "So zoning out isn't a pattern with you usually, I get that."
"Y-yeah." Suzy stammered. "It's just that..."
"Mmhmm?"
Several emotions whirled past my partner's features as she calmed herself down, before settling into a frown.
"...he told you."
"What?"
"Ethel told you." An accusatory glance flicked my way. "About Yuu-n- the Yuudachi."
Orfan raised both eyebrows.
"Oh, no, not at all." He chuckled softly, reaching for his breast pocket. "In fact, you'd be surprised-"
"Don't!" Suzy hissed, only to recoil at her own vehemence. "Don't," she murmured, her voice shrinking. "You'll get in trouble. We're not cleared for this, not yet."
Orfan did not remove his hand.
"And you're alright with that?"
Well, that was only the most blatant bait I'd seen in a year. But from the grinding of teeth I could hear from between Suzy's limits, it was working.
"Of course not!" She snapped. "She's my sister. We should be fighting together, not separated by a light-year of space and a buttload of waiting - her out on the frontline, me in some hidey hole! All these years, and now...I haven't even met her yet, let alone spoken a word to her. I don't even know what she looks like! And I never might! Do you even know-"
"Yeah, I do."
Were this me, Suzy's face would have scrunched up, and the 'no you don't' would have been swift in coming. But the conviction in Orfan Uruz's voice was a different beast before which she froze, face seizing in wide-eyed surprise at the sudden flame in his countenance.
So it was that the Master Chief retrieved the contents of his breast pocket unmolested, and next thing I knew a small object was spinning towards my partner's fumbling hands.
It was a photo. Not a holo-plate or some mini OmniPad like the one I used; an honest to goodness color print, sealed in plastic and looking only a tad worse for wear for it.
"My old Scout Team from Callidus Academy, Batch of Summer 2515, during my senior instructor term." He jerked a thumb over to where Edith had pulled Marge and Leckie aside. "Tell you what, these bumbling bozos hadn't even been born then."
"Get over that statistic," Edith called back. "It was only two weeks!"
Ignoring her, Orfan tapped the figure furthest left in the photo. "That's your's truly of course," he said, tapping his tattooed temple, "well, before I got these here fancy digs."
Then finger became fingers, one for each of the two person next in line.
"Yag Shal and Nora Troie, nee Meyer-Ohle."
The latter was a just under five foot three Terran, even counting the tilt from having a hand on one hip and the stray strands of rose-gold that poked up above a blazing curtain of hair. The former was arms akimbo and all frowns, as if an armored bipedal reptilian twice his companion's size with a scar over one fiery eye needed anything more in the intimidation department.
The tiniest grin played across Suzy's face, her first clean break from visible anxiety since we'd arrived at the cantina.
"They look happy together."
"Aye," Orfan agreed. "Love can bloom n'all. Even between the biggest pair of idiots I've ever seen. Still together too, the crazy bastards."
The Master Chief's eyes grew distant as he came to the last person in the picture. It reminded me a lot of Dad, on the rare days where we could meet and talk: minus the arguments, and the drinks needed to keep us civil.
"And that's my third grand-niece Rajelle," he said, idly tracing the side of the picture that framed the slightly taller, raven-haired young woman at the rightmost. "Funny thing, coincidences. Bounce her on your knee, read her her first stories, hold her wee hands in the kiddie pool...teach her how to hold a gun."
"How is she?"
"Presumed missing." The words were two shades away from inaudible. "FTL accident near Point Orestes."
Orfan leaned down, his eyes iron as they met Suzy.
"Point is, you ain't alone. Everyone's got someone. Living, dead. We fight for some. Others fight for us," he said, putting a hand on the shipgirl's shoulder. "But either way, we don't do jack for them by sitting around and feeling sorry for ourselves. We help them by doing what we can, by doing our job - and a soldier's job is pretty simple, no?"
Suzy bit her lip.
"That's the problem."
"What is?"
Her gaze flickered to mine, a motion that Orfan mirrored. But though the questions in their eyes were different, they could be answered the same way - with a simple shrug. I helped you make your bed, Chief, now you lie in it.
"Well, we-"
"-were given clear orders to stay put."
I did not need to turn to know who was behind us. Not all voices were created equal, and Commander Amanda Reiner's smoky black, on the rocks, no sugar blend was certainly on the memorable end of the spectrum, the sounds of salutes snapping into place a weak signifier of her presence by comparison.
"As you all were," she said with a wave.
Suzy frowned.
"Permi-"
"Your desire to charge headlong into danger is noted, Lieutenant," Amanda continued undeterred. "As is your intention to appeal that she be allowed to do it, Master Chief."
Speaking of inequality, someone needed to phone Hotline Heaven and check if this ability to interrupt conversations at fortuitous moments could be acquired, because heck if I didn't want me some of that.
Suzy worked her jaw, looking like she might protest the overly assessment, but Orfan held out a restraining hand in front of her.
"Thank you, ma'am."
"However, consider this: Lieutenants Onjouji and Deschantes have logged a mere seventy-six hours in augmented reality simulation courses in the past week, and all of fifteen minutes in actual combat." Amanda paused, affixing Orfan with slightly narrowed eyes. "You would throw the Marshal of the Navy herself out of Callidus if she suggested fielding recruits with twice that amount of training."
"Without an ounce of regret, ma'am."
"But you would bargain with me for the opposite purpose."
Man, this guy had balls: all the casually baleful presence Graf Zeppelin's avatar could exert, and it was just making his grin wider by the second.
"No, ma'am, I wouldn't."
"Oh?"
"The way I understand it, ma'am," Orfan replied, "this whole 'coming back from the dead thing' has been treated as a resumption of duty. Shipgirl training scores so far tell me that they think so, anyway, whatever changes we've made to naval warfare notwithstanding." He swept a hand out across the tables. "To sum the long story, less than a handful of people in this room have more operational experience than the seven years Suzy has, and I'm confident she'll show that out there today."
The Master Chief shrugged, a roguish light in his eyes.
"If given the chance, that is."
On any other person, the mottle of emotions that Amanda Reiner's face hurried to rid itself of would have registered as mere surprise. But annoyance, actual anger, then a wry smile? On everyone's favorite stoic? Someone speed-dial the Character Breakage Helpdesk.
Also, what do you know: the smile actually stayed on.
"You pick your fights well, Master Chief," Amanda admitted.
"You will too, ma'am, when you get as old as I am."
"And as for Lieutenant Deschantes?"
"Pah, girl can carry his candy ass," Orfan scoffed.
Amanda turned to Suzy.
"Can you, Onjouji?"
My partner blinked, as if shocked that the spotlight was now on her.
Well. Ten dollars on her bowing sometime soon. It was the Japanese thing to do, in any case. No, I never imagined I would ever have cause to think that. Life goals, Ethel, in three, two, one-
-there we go.
"I'll do my best, ma'am!"
Why, that was the most spirited I'd seen her all day. Fitting then, that the display should in turn render Amanda the most torn between faint smile and frown as I'd seen her yet.
"Then you should be pleased to know that against all better judgement-" 'my better judgement', her face all but said, "-your previous orders have been countermanded. DD(SG)-23 Suzukaze will report to Battle Line Alpha by nineteen-thirty shipboard time, left echelon of fleet carrier Graf Zeppelin and ready to jump."
Edith exchanged a look with Orfan before raising her hand, lips splitting into a grin that one could only call predatory.
"Regulation says shipgirls need a skeleton crew onboard, ma'am."
"And thank you for volunteering, Petty Officer Butler," Amanda replied. "322nd OrbCav's Scout Company will be stationed aboard your ship as a boarding/landing element. Master of Scouts Orfan Uruz will serve as your interim executive officer for the duration of this battle, pending review."
Suzy turned to Marge and Leckie, her eyes exultant. The two of them barely managed to grimace back. Guess 'understanding' superiors were a bitch. I mean, I could relate.
"You look like you have something to say," Amanda said, turning her gaze onto me.
"Well, I gotta admit, this is quite the exception we're making, ma'am."
"You will find such things par for course here - unfortunately." The shipgirl's default frown returned in full force, no doubt at the memory of a certain someone. "But worry not: from what I hear you are in able and experienced hands..."
"...As am I, in truth," she continued softly.
Then she turned on her heel.
"I look forward to our performance, Lieutenant Deschantes."
=== To be continued in Chapter 5: Take the Plunge ===
- Location
- Little Red Dot
Oh yes. Finding out what the alien swarm from space hell can do - always such a fun prospect. Leave the coins at the desk, and maybe an arm or two! Nothing personal, just the exposition tax~