Found him.
???
----------------------------------------
Three weeks later…
"And there it is," Skipper declared, pointing his metal finger up at the hologram. "Elysian Fields. Pretty nifty, huh?"
Dragan took in the floating facsimile of the planet before him. They'd been hiding out aboard the ELIZA ever since the battle on the Deus Nobiscum, recovering from their injuries and fatigue, but Skipper had clearly been itching to move again. It seemed today he'd hit his limit: he'd pushed the crew into this Paradisas briefing room and begun this little presentation without much preamble at all.
Elysian Fields, huh?
The planet wasn't too much of a spectacle to look at. From the readings being displayed alongside it, it was mostly covered with grassland and forests, mountain ranges separating more flat plains. Apparently, there were Gene Tyrant ruins somewhere on the planet, but they weren't quite visible from space.
In short, he was looking at a big ball of green.
Ruth leaned over the table, angling her head this way and that to get a better look at the planet. "This is where we're headed, then? Doesn't look like much."
Skipper grinned. "It's where we take out the Supreme, yeah. Don't worry about how it looks: it's got something real special waiting for us."
Bruno was looking at a copy of the information on his script, scrolling up and down the planet's environmental conditions. He glanced up at Skipper and spoke.
"You mean the weapon, right?"
Dragan swallowed.
Skipper's smile widened. "Not a weapon, nah. It's… more of a device, I'd say. Something that will force the Supremacy to engage us on our terms. Strip away their strengths, open up their weaknesses. Gives us the best conditions possible, yeah?"
"What kind of device?" Dragan spoke up.
His arms were crossed, his face pale. Even as he spoke, he could feel his heart hammering in his chest, shaking the words that came out of his mouth.
It was only natural. The day that had seemed perpetually in the future was now imminent. Choices had to be made. He'd decided a long while ago that, when the time came, he'd make a run for it if he didn't think there was a chance of victory.
So… did he think that?
Skipper clicked his tongue. "This whole ship is basically one big listening device, kid, so I can't go into specifics."
"You never can, can you?" Dragan rolled his eyes.
"But," Skipper continued. "There's a few tidbits that I don't mind leaking. For one, this is a Gene Tyrant device. The Tyrant that owned this planet was assassinated before he could make it to his little fortress here, so it's gone untouched since the Revolutions."
Dragan put a hand to his chin as he circled the hologram, its green light washing over the room. "Gene Tyrant?" he mused. "So… I'm guessing this device isn't some kind of normal machine, then? It’s something they made, grew?"
"You got it," Skipper nodded. "Like I said, no specifics until we get there, but it's a weird one -- it winds underneath the surface of the whole planet."
Bruno's analytical frown opened up into Serena's sudden horror, her mouth a perfect 'o'. "But Mr. Skipper!" she exclaimed. "If we're here, what's stopping someone from going there and messing with it?!"
If the notion disturbed Skipper, he didn't show it. He just snapped his prosthetic fingers -- dispelling the hologram -- before grinning.
"Don't you worry, Serena," he said. "We've got allies looking after Elysian Fields for us. There's no risk of anyone beating us there."
"Allies?" Dragan raised an eyebrow. "Who?"
"Old friends," Skipper waved a dismissive hand. "Don't you worry, either. These are people I trust one-hundred percent. They hate the Supremacy more than anyone."
"And that makes them trustworthy?" Bruno asked.
Skipper's smile dropped. "Sure does, pal. They're good folks -- you'll like 'em." As quickly as it had vanished, though, the grin returned. "So… let's get packing, yeah? It’s a long way to Supremacy space."
As the lights flicked back on, bathing the room in white, Dragan just stood there. As the room filed out, heading off to make their preparations, Dragan just stood there. As the doors slid back shut, plunging him into darkness, Dragan just stood there.
Thinking about the decision to be made.
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Marcus woke with a start, nearly falling out of his seat from the neural feedback.
Immediately, his vision flicked into full clarity, down to the background radiation hanging in the air. His conscious mind joined his subconscious, linking into the network of security cameras that kept watch over this minor hangar. His two eyes became nearly one-hundred, his thoughts partitioning to handle the increased input.
Most of the staff aboard the ELIZA occupied automatic bodies, but legally they had to employ some organic staff, and so Marcus found himself guarding this low-security, low-priority hangar for miscellaneous cargo. He was wired up to the gills, sure, but his brain was still mostly made of meat.
Usually, his twelve-hour shift mainly consisted of lying back and keeping himself on sleep mode, but every now and then he'd get some stray rodent tripping off the sensors.
Marcus got out of his seat, reaching underneath his desk and retrieving the plasma rifle stored there. As he unlocked the door out of the security booth, he ran a quick search for the specific source of the disturbance.
The response to that gave him pause.
This time, it wasn't a rodent. It was a human figure, walking calmly through the middle of the vacant hangar, their features concealed by the black cloak that hung off their frame. More bizarrely… where had they come from? There were no ships docked in the hangar, and they were heading in the direction of the entrance.
Before taking this assignment, Marcus had been part of civilian security. He'd seen his share of danger, and the instincts you got from those situations didn't just disappear. He could feel them shouting at him now: adding caution to his step, an anxious hollowness to his breath.
He hesitated.
Before heading out, Marcus consulted the secondary sensors for more information on the figure: body temperature normal, heartbeat highly accelerated but somehow muffled -- like they were wearing some kind of body armour interfering with the scan. Tertiary sensors ran a check for weapons, but found no plasma signature in the hangar save for the one coming from Marcus' own rifle.
So all he had to worry about were bladed weapons… and Aether. His endoskeletal enhancements would deal with the former, but the latter…
He'd taken this assignment to get away from the battlefield, because he'd seen the horrors Aether-users were capable of inflicting. Even so, he couldn't allow the fear of there maybe being an Aether-user stop him from doing his job.
If it came down to it, after all, he was the one with the gun.
He waited until the intruder had stepped past the security booth before exiting, slamming the door open and pointing his readied rifle at their back. Safety off, plasma loaded. Just the slightest increase of pressure on his finger required to end a life.
"Hands above your head,” he said.
The regulators in his throat kept his voice steady, suppressing the tremor there to near-nothing. Slowly, the figure complied, the black fabric billowing around them as they raised their hands up and placed them atop their head.
"Got anything on you?" Marcus demanded. "Anything that's going to poke me, cut me?"
Still facing away from him, the figure shook their head.
"Okay now," Marcus continued. "I'm going to remove your cloak and conduct a search. I'd advise you not to make any sudden movements. You understand?"
This time, a silent nod. Marcus circled his prisoner cautiously, rifle still pointed at them, finger still curled around the trigger. As soon as he was facing them directly, he reached out -- carefully -- and pulled the hood over their head free.
It took him half a second to register the 'face' under the hood. It took another half a second for the facial recognition database to find a match. It took him just a fraction of a second to realize the threat, and even less than that to pull the trigger.
Unfortunately, it took the intruder only 0.01 seconds to murder Marcus.
His head popped like a balloon, fragments of brain and bone raining down around the surrounding area. His neural implants dropped to the floor like a drained jellyfish, sparks still leaping from their abandoned tendrils. The plasma rifle slipped from his dead fingers, clattering to the floor.
The figure had already pulled their hood back up and continued walking by the time Marcus' body hit the ground.
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"A moment alone, if you please," murmured the Chorister. The nurse acquiesced, bowing deeply before scurrying out of the bedchambers.
He looked down at the girl in the bed.
All in all, it was something of a miracle that Isabelle Pi Testament had escaped physically intact from the chaos of the fighting aboard the Deus Nobiscum. She'd been even more fortunate in that she'd fallen into his hands, rather than one of the old Apexbishop's supporters. Some of those rats were still scurrying around.
The Chorister went to sit down on empty air, and an automatic chair scurried to accommodate him.
This place was like a palace, with decor and facilities that even the richest would be jealous of, and yet Isabelle was fundamentally incapable of appreciating it. Her eyes were open, her breathing was steady, and yet there was simply no mind present to drive her forward. More than anything, she was like a living doll. The doctors were hopeful that her mind would eventually reconstruct itself, or that a new consciousness would develop to fill the void… but was that really the best outcome?
It had only been two weeks since the Chorister had been named interim Apexbishop, and that was an interim he fully intended to make indefinite. As the last known survivor of the Testament Project, Isabelle was a figure that his enemies could rally behind, could prop up as his opposition. If she ever woke up, she could be a dangerous weapon against him.
The smart thing to do… the practical thing to do… would be to kill her right now.
Aether danced through the Chorister's fingers as he considered his course of action. The best way to do this would be to have Meli expose a weak point in her lungs or heart, so as to cause a seemingly natural death. It wouldn't be the first time the Chorister had used such a tactic.
And yet… when he considered doing it now, he couldn't help but feel a distinct distaste. It was thanks to this woman that Giovanni's madness had been exposed to the public, and it was thanks to that that the Chorister had become Apexbishop. Would he really repay that assistance, if unintentional, with the betrayal of one who could not comprehend it?
Once, he had left the Church and the Quiet Choir both, seeking out what fulfillment the outside world could give him. He'd come back dissatisfied. This world of ruthlessness and wickedness and hungry knives had been all he'd known since then. For a long time, that had been all he'd been, as well. He'd thought he had no other choice, if he wished to thrive.
Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
Perhaps, just this once, he would be impractical. He let out a heavy sigh, and the Aether in his hands died away.
Well, he thought wearily. So begins another long vigil.
----------------------------------------
What?
Ruristelio paused his flight down the hallway, a rare moment of confusion spoiling his tranquility. He had been occupying this spherical automatic body during a logistics meeting with some organic practitioners, but something was stopping him from cutting the connection.
Something blocking the upload to the Garden completely? Was there some kind of malfunction going on? Ruristelio went to send a message to the central network, to query what was happening -- but his consciousness winked out before he could.
He'd never know it, but at that moment his metal body was torn cleanly in two by a sharp blade of invisible force. Repulsors deactivated, the two halves of his body thudded to the ground, internal fluids spilling out of the gaps.
The cloaked figure Ruristelio had never seen calmly walked past his carcass, their gait unbreaking.
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The silver stator danced between his fingers and rolled over his knuckles before trickling up onto the top of his thumb and spinning in place. He left it there for five seconds or so before flicking it up into the air -- then he caught it before it struck the ground.
Coin tricks really were amusing. Zeroth had taken a liking to them.
He was aboard the Menagerie, in the central complex, sitting in a waiting room. The furniture was eclectic yet comfortable, different styles and materials making up the selection of chairs and tables. On the wall opposite him hung countless paintings, from historical depictions to abstract pieces. Zeroth's gaze was focused on a print of Death's Elegy, an epic reproduction of the fall of the Arcana automatics.
Where had they gotten this, he wondered? Something donated by a new convertee, or had it passed through the hands of thieves before reaching this place?
A whole society made from the refuse of the past. A fascinating notion, but Zeroth had to wonder how practical it really was. All the same, he'd do his best to keep it going into the future. Continuity was important when it came to an organization like this. It charted the way. After all, he too was something recycled.
The doors slid open, and Alejandro walked in, a script clutched to his chest. He was slight of frame, his long dark hair tied behind his back, but in his red eyes was the passion of a true believer. The young man had become something like Zeroth's assistant during his time on the streets of the Menagerie, and so it was only natural that he would accompany him here.
"Grand Inspector Murphy just got here, Mr. Patch," he said hurriedly. "They're all waiting for you!"
Since he'd escaped this complex the first time, Zeroth had spent his time debating others on the city streets. It had been intended as a means of honing his mind, but somewhere along the line his dialogues had turned into preaching. That preaching had gathered a following -- and that following had brought him back here.
It seemed that the more prominent members of the Humilist faith were keen on meeting this popular new preacher, now that their old leader was dead.
Zeroth rose from the chair, towering over his assistant, and strode towards the doors. If they wished for him to speak, then he would speak -- he would speak until his throat ran dry and Y regretted giving him a tongue. He spared only a final glance at the paintings behind him.
A collection of traditions and values, bound by mutual hope, carried in the minds of those wishing for answers. Yes. That was the shape a faith should take.
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The control room dripped with blood.
Andreigh heard it before anything else. He looked up to see what the source of the sound was -- and his head exploded.
Rory ran for the weapons locker, panic pushing his body further than it had ever gone before -- and his head exploded.
Luisa whipped her personal pistol out of its holster, flicking the safety off and pulling the trigger in one smooth motion -- and her head exploded.
Henry did perhaps the best thing he could under the circumstances. He leapt under his desk, hands on his head, making himself as small as possible, hoping that the devil would overlook him… and his head exploded.
The cloaked figure that had invaded this space checked the screens for a moment before continuing on their way.
----------------------------------------
Skipper smiled thinly to himself as his eyes scanned the script, looking over the message he'd received from Elysian Fields. Satisfied, he glanced back up at Asmagius' automatic body, the mechanical lion glaring back at him.
"RED just confirmed receipt of the Hanged Man and the ArrayKnights," Skipper said. "Have to give you credit, pal -- you're an automatic of your word."
Artificial eyelids narrowed. "RED? Dangerous allies. With that, then, our business is concluded?"
"My new ship's waiting for me?"
"That it is. As well-equipped as we could manage given the smaller size of the vessel. Your new ‘Slipstream’ came at great expense. But such was the extent of your blackmail."
The Slipstream, huh…? To be perfectly honest, Skipper had forgotten what number ship they were on now. Maybe they should move onto weird letters instead. The Slipstream AE had a nice ring to it.
"Well, thanks anyway," Skipper offered a thumbs-up. "I appreciate it. Don't be too sore, yeah?"
The voice of the metal lion was calm and mercilessly precise. "You threatened our very way of life, Esmeralda. The existence of Paradisas. I will be as 'sore' as I like."
Skipper's smile dropped at the mention of his old name, and he shrugged. "It is what it is. Like you said, our business is done, then. Thanks for the helping hand."
He turned to leave Asmagius' personal quarters, the holographic banners lining the walls waving in an imaginary wind. Just as he reached the door, however, he heard a voice from behind him.
His own voice.
It was a recording, from when he'd eliminated the Sponsor of War after the events on Taldan. Specifically, it was the conversation he'd had with the old fart right before ending his life.
"Lemme tell you, my bovine buddy," his old voice sighed. "I want to change the shape of this world. That's my dream. When I'm done -- and that's a when, not an if, yeah? -- there won't be room for people like you at the top anymore. If I make that dream come true with your help, I won't be changing the shape of this world, will I? I'll just be throwing a fresh coat of paint over it. Not really what I'm looking for. Sorry."
"Is this how you intend to change the shape of this world, Skipper?" Asmagius asked quietly. "Through manipulation and blackmail? Is that what you meant back then?"
Skipper faced away, his shoulders raised high, but his voice was dead and distant.
"That?" he muttered, listening to the past. "That stuff was just lip service. You can forget about it."
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How pitiful.
With that, he walked out of the room. Asmagius was tempted to call out after him in righteous anger, but somehow he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. After all…
…something about the man seemed so terribly sad.
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The doors to Dragan's quarters slid open, and Skipper strode in, hands on his hips. A wide grin was plastered on his face as usual, and it only widened as he ran his eyes over Dragan's packed case.
"Everything ready?" he asked. "Man, you take your time, huh? Ruth and the twins are already waiting on the Slipstream AE."
Dragan raised an eyebrow, rattling the suitcase to make sure it wouldn't just burst open and vomit his possessions all over the floor. "AE?"
"We got to the end of numbers, so I figured it was time to move onto weird letters."
The door slid shut behind Skipper.
Dragan scoffed, lifting his suitcase off the bed and slinging it over his back. Seemed structural integrity was fine. "I'm pretty sure we had plenty of numbers left. Like… trillions. And what's a weird letter?"
Skipper frowned. "A letter that's weird. You need more explanation?"
"But AE is two letters. It's not a weird letter, it's just two normal ones. I don't get it."
"You're a Cogitant and you don't get it?"
"Yeah. I'm a Cogitant and I don't get it. You should be concerned about your brave new concept."
"Well, it's like… AE but you say them together. Ae. Like that. You get it?"
Dragan blinked. "Sure. I get it."
"You don't sound like you get it. You sound like you're telling me what I wanna hear, yeah? Come on, man. We gotta make sure we're on the same page here."
"Weren't we in a hurry?"
"Oh, right, yeah," Skipper said quickly, turning back towards the door. "Now that you mention it, we are kind of in a hurry. Let's walk and talk -- I'll explain the weird letter system to you on the way."
"Actually…" Dragan swallowed, his voice serious. "There's something else I wanted to talk to you about. Something important."
The smile dropped from Skipper's face, and he nodded. "Sure," he said. "Like I said… walk and talk, yeah?"
Skipper stepped over to the door, and it slid open -- but not at his command. Someone was already standing on the other side. Someone clad in a black cloak -- a black cloak that slipped off their frame and pooled onto the floor. It revealed itself.
An opaque visor sculpted into the vaguest human face. A black cape, the inside purple, whipping in a strange wind. A suit of dark armour, making the body seem like a hole in space.
Dragan Hadrien had never met this man, but he knew him by reputation. A chill ran down his spine.
"There you are," said Avaman the Announcer, the First Contender of the Supremacy. "Whirlwind Greatsword."
Skipper did not hesitate. "Heartbeat Landmine!" he screamed, throwing his hands out.
The two attacks met -- and the room exploded.
It was like a bomb had gone off. Skipper fired off a Shotgun from his back to keep himself fixed in place, but Dragan was not so fortunate. He was thrown back by the impact of sound and wind colliding, his suitcase slamming into his face as it opened. Clothes whipped through the room, like debris sent flying by a tornado.
Skipper slowly slid back across the floor as the wind buffeted against him, his glaring eyes fixed on the Contender before him.
"Gonna have to do… better than that…" he said through gritted teeth, the sustained Landmine serving as a rudimentary shield against the gust.
Even among the maelstrom, Avaman remained completely still, his expressionless mask staring right at Skipper.
"Oh, I intend to…" His voice was distorted by something inside the mask, but was somehow still… eerily familiar. "Whirlwind Crossbow."
He raised his hand into the shape of a finger-gun, but it wasn't pointing at Skipper. No, it was pointing behind and to the left of him, right at --
Dragan!
The kid was slumped against the wall, clearly knocked unconscious by the first attack, completely helpless. He'd be blown to pieces just from the crossfire, nevermind a direct hit!
Bang.
A bolt of wind burst out of Avaman's finger, surfing across the room and right towards Dragan's head. Skipper had no choice. He canceled his Heartbeat Landmine and pointed his finger towards Dragan as well -- blasting the projectile out of the air with a Heartbeat Shotgun of his own.
He'd known it was a mistake the moment he did it.
The second bolt slammed into his stomach with the force of a car, forcing the air out of his lungs. He doubled over, blood spilling over his lips, his Aether flaring defensively around him. Avaman had fired two projectiles at the same time -- one at Dragan, and another to circle around and strike Skipper when he moved to intercept.
He went to take a breath, to regain some strength -- but the breath never came. He opened his mouth, but nothing happened. No rejuvenating oxygen entered his body. His vision began to waver.
Air.
The ability was clear enough. Avaman the Announcer controlled air. He could fire it off as a projectile, slam it into things as a melee attack… or keep it out of the lungs of his enemies, so as to quickly drain them of strength.
"Whirlwind Hangman," Avaman sneered. He still hadn't moved from his original position. "I thought you'd be better than this."
His gloved hand lashed out and seized Skipper by the collar, pulling him close. His vision was growing dark, his body rebelling against the lack of oxygen. That inhuman visage was only inches away.
He would have given him a witty retort, if he had the air to make one. Instead, all Skipper could manage was a little bit of spite. Aether coursing around his skull, he slammed forward and headbutted Avaman right in the mask.
It cracked like glass, shards of it falling to the floor -- and through the gaps, Skipper could see shaggy black hair and…
…and…
…and right there, his mind ground to a halt.
Through the broken mask, he could see his own face, decades younger -- a face glaring down at him with utter vile contempt.
"Did you think you were the only one they brought back?" his own voice spat.
Everything went black.
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Everything went white.
Dragan groaned as he was jerked awake, his eyes struggling to adjust to the light as they fluttered open.
"What…?" he mumbled. "Huh…?"
He was shook again, and as he looked at the source of the motion he saw Ruth, her hand gripping his shoulder. Her brow was knitted into utmost concern, and behind her he could see Bruno investigating the scene of the ruined room.
"Dragan," she said seriously, looking into his eyes. "What happened?"
The overstuffed door of memory was flung right open. Everything came back to him in a flood. Skipper. Avaman. The attack. He sat up, eyes wide, heart dropping.
"They took him," he whispered. "They took him."
"What?" Ruth said -- but the horror spreading over her face suggested she understood perfectly well.
No time for panic. No time for terror. Dragan cast those things from his mind, as far as he could throw them.
The only one that decides what happens to me is me.
"We need to get to the ship," he ordered.
End of Arc 9