Bliss Carmichael

When Bliss came to after having helped me regain control of myself, she did so in the same field of maize that I had been summoned to just before the fall of The Atticus. It had been daytime, then, for me, but night had fallen here for her, and though there was a glimmer of moonlight, no such celestial objects were visible in the darkened skies above. Despite the fact that she had been broken down by my psykana in her most recent memories, she found herself completely intact now—even her gut wound from The Finality had gone.

Upon pushing herself to her feet, she found my visage standing ahead of her a short distance away, head hung low but hands pressing each fingertip together as though making a prayer of patience, though the palms of those hands did not touch. “Callant?” Bliss asked. “Where are we?”

“We are where we were last,” my visage replied in my voice. It then raised its head, revealing darkened eyes to my ally. “But I am not your plaything, as he is.”

“Cronos,” Bliss understood, and the daemon morphed my face into a grin as a cool wind whisked over the field. “He is more to me than that, and you know it.”

“I do. Which is why we’re here,” the daemon answered; where it had previously communicated to me in my voice without moving my mouth, it did so now, to Bliss, indeed now speaking audibly via my tongue and teeth. “We—”

“Where is he?” Bliss interrupted, looking around the scene searchingly, as one would for a misplaced item.

“Near, and yet for you, so very far,” it answered. “We have—” Cronos began again, but Bliss ignored the daemon further, and strode off into the tall maize to her right, vanishing into its darkened shadows. She reappeared ahead of Cronos again a moment later, entering the same clearing if from the requisite direction needed to face the daemon again. “We’re going to have this conversation, girl, one way or another.”

“I don’t have anything to say to you, other than to spit in your face and curse the ground you stride upon,” Bliss answered. To counter her contempt, Cronos moved my right—biological—hand away from my left augmetic—which I had lost to slay Ouranos—, and whisked a finger toward itself before returning my hands to their prayerful positions. Bliss was forced into the air, albeit slowly and clearly without any intention to harm her, and pulled over to Cronos’s position. There was no striding for the daemon just yet. Upon landing, she still contorted her face to try to spit upon the daemon, but with lightning speed my biological hand raced to Bliss’s head, its index finger driving into her mouth while its thumb kept her chin up and its last three fingers stretched over the left side of her face.

Bliss thrust both of her arms up to my one and tried to wrestle herself free of Cronos’s grasp, but for all her might, she could not even produce a quiver from my arm. Cronos’s grin widened. And then, spittle suppressed, it removed my index finger from her mouth but continued to grasp her face before forcing my lips upon hers. Bliss tried to escape the kiss, but found herself conflicted—they were the lips she so wanted to devour on each and every day, they tasted and moved as mine did. Yet the aggression and forcefulness which commanded them was very obviously not mine. Regardless, try as she might have to escape the kiss with the daemon, she could not until the daemon finally relented. And even then, it continued to hold on to her head in its right palm.

“You mortal creatures have such simplistic desires,” Cronos chided, shaking its head, as it licked its own saliva, as well as Bliss’s, from my lips. “You can say you act and live and die for your Emperor, but you don’t, none of you do. Not forever. Mortals cannot grasp what dedication to the immortal would require. Blackgar’s final words to Ouranos were that typical ‘For the Emperor!’ slop, but do you know what he wanted to say?” Cronos asked, looking back into Bliss’s terrified eyes as she squirmed within its grasp—within mine. That grasp then fell from her face to her neck, and choked her just enough to leave her able to breathe, but not more than that. “‘Go to hell.’ Oh, how he fights against himself to keep up the façade of purity his Inquisition requires. But you are not so strong, are you? You could have ended all this, ended him, me, but you chose not to. You chose your own selfish desires, and spared him. Because you need to play.”

“Frig…you,” Bliss whinnied out.

“What? Want only to play with him and not me? I thought you had agreed to contesting in my games, you and that savant and Scion, no?” Cronos suggested. “They’ll be easier to break, I imagine, than you. So we’ll have to savor this, you and I, and I so deeply desire to play with you. I think at least one of us will have some fun here, don’t you?” At that, Cronos finally let Bliss go with a push away from itself. Bliss stumbled a bit, but only for a single step, before righting herself in an instant and assuming a combative stance. “That’s more like it,” Cronos observed, smile widening enough to reveal two sets of white teeth among a shadowed face.

Swallowing her fear, Bliss shot forth with a roundhouse kick aimed at my skull, and would have undoubtedly decapitated me in an instant were this the real. But I was not her target; her target was something far, far more horrifying than I could ever be, and I had been the scourge of thousands of heretics. Bliss had engaged Cronos believing that the daemon could only make use of my biological appendages, as it had not evidenced otherwise thus far. But while Bliss moved in a blur of unbridled ferocity, Cronos responded at such a pace as to appear unmoving even to her eyes. It was far beyond transhumanism; Bliss outright could not see my augmetic break through her leg at its knee and cleave her lower leg off in blunt brutality.

Bliss began to collapse forward in pain, carried toward Cronos by her own momentum, but never fell entirely before Cronos then raced my biological hand into her face, two fingers borrowing through her eyes. Before she could cry out from that or from the sudden loss of her leg, Cronos ripped half her skull apart, and let the severely mangled Bliss Carmichael fall flat to its feet, where she bled out in a horrible death.

Then she was where she had been initially, coming to on her front in the clearing of the maize. Blood stained the clearing near Cronos, but her corpse had vanished. The pain of her death, however, had not, and Bliss clawed at her face and her leg, still feeling the torment of having lost them both. “Shall we play again?” Cronos called. “We do still have an audience of one, after all. Even if you are to be my plaything, it’s best we not keep yours waiting,” it suggested, and at last broke into one of my own laughs. Further insult to injury.

“Callant sees this?” Bliss hissed, still recovering from her death moments ago.

“He sees all of it,” Cronos confirmed. “I do not allow him to close his eyes to these truths. Everything I do to you with his hands is a memory in his mind. To him, I’m not torturing you, he is,” the daemon elaborated, and broke into another of my laughs.

“He’s smart enough to know that he would never,” Bliss insisted, uneasily rising to her feet once more. “He knows the tricks your kind employ.”

“Does he? Does the man who is not spared a moment to grieve the loss of the life he knew have a shred of logical faculties remaining, or is he not trapped within an emotional hellhole of his own creation?” Cronos asked. “Are you not trapped in his prison likewise, to be ripped apart again and again until I finally cleave my way out of your would-be lover? Or, until, the other thing.”

“The other thing?”

Another teeth-showing grin took hold on my face. “I had said I would break you. Breaking isn’t killing—something Blackgar has learned the hard way, and that you’re about to learn likewise. What do you want more than anything, to serve your Emperor or to be with him?” Cronos asked. Bliss said nothing, though doubt did find purchase in her mind. “I will break you by making you want nothing to do with Blackgar ever again. You will look upon his face with the fear and disgust you show to mine. You will recoil at his touch, remembering every violation of your existence I commit to you. You desire him now, but I will break you by making that desire devour itself until only disdain remains. Then, and only then, I will free you from this torment, little one,” the daemon explained. “Now then, my plaything: Let us play again.”

To awake from Bliss’s nightmare was to return to mine. I found myself in a medicae unit, as often I had, unable to move much at all, but I was not the one to receive much attention then. Instead, a crowd of attendants flurried around Bliss’s medicae unit, which rested next to mine. Bliss’s body was sleeping soundly in a physical sense, yet sensor readouts reported a sudden and inexplicable burst of pain from within my Agent’s psyche. Castecael noted that Bliss’s physical injuries, apparently mostly healed by then, should not have been capable of inflicting such trauma upon her even at their worst. She ordered for an increased dosage of opiates, but even that seemed to have little effect.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

I tried calling out to Castecael audibly, but found I could not. No part of my body could move; I could only just barely blink and breathe. I could not even move my eyes in their sockets to look around the room. I was trapped within my own flesh. Thankfully, my mind was free—though that was likely a double-edged blade. I scanned the room, and found Zha nearby, watching over the seen. +Trantos!+ I messaged her, and she turned to me, eyebrows raised. +Get her out of here!+

“Callant?” Zha said quietly, as though uncertain she had heard my mind’s voice at all. She nevertheless stepped nearer. “Get who out of where?”

+Get Bliss away from me! Put her somewhere it can’t find her! Off this ship and surrounded by Pariahs if you must. Do it, now!+

“It?” Zha wondered, but needed only a moment to understand. In a heartbeat, she flung herself toward Castecael. “Discharge her, now!” Zha commanded of my medicae and her staff.

“What, are you crazy? Can’t you see her suffer—” Castecael protested.

“I can, and I know. Do her physical injuries demand any of this medicae equipment be applied to her?” Zha queried.

“No, Zha, her physical injuries are fine, but this—” Castecael insisted.

“Then discharge her! Galen!” Zha ordered, and her knight in blackened armor appeared from around the corner of the entrance to the medicae room. “Help me wheel Bliss out of here, to the launch bay.”

“As you command, Inquisitor,” Galen nodded, and glanced to me—and must have seen my eye open and staring at the ceiling—before moving to Bliss’s side.

“Launch bay? Zha, what are you talking about?” Castecael continued to protest, but obeyed the Inquisitor’s orders all the same.

“Trust me when I say you’re better off not knowing,” Zha answered, and then turned around, facing a gathering crowd. “Clear the way, the lot of you!”

+thank you, zha,+ I messaged her, but found my capacity to enter her mind dwindling.

I’m so sorry, Callant. I’ll figure this all out—I must.

***

Massino Varnus

I did not then know where Zha intended to bring Bliss, nor did I wish to know. But I do know that when next I slept, my dreams were nonexistent, which was a great mercy. Never again did I bear witness to Bliss’s torment, and I do not imagine Cronos would have wasted the effort on such a thing if I could not see it. I could only hope that Bliss had escaped the daemon’s clutches with her sanity intact. ‘Wellbeing’ was already far removed from the question.

I had many visitors over the following days. Many platitudes and kindnesses were paid to me generously. I could not respond to any of them. Castecael diagnosed me with chronic catatonia, with said-diagnosis involving effects on my psykana as well. She of course was unaware of the monster that lurked just under the surface of my skin. And even those that did know of the beast barely knew the shape of its horrors; only Bliss had borne witness to those.

In any event, in time, the crowds faded, which I was thankful for. It was not that I did not appreciate the presence of my dearest friends, many of whom I loved like family, but it was from that love that I was grateful their visits were uneventful. Cronos never reached out and harmed any of them again. Things became eerily quiet, yet tension remained, like the calm before an oncoming storm.

One night, as I laid alone after my medicae attendants had departed, I spied an ominous green glow from beyond the room, revealed through the tinted glass of the room’s double doors. It grew closer, and at first I thought the ship as haunted as I was, but when the doors opened my fears assuaged as Varnus revealed himself. As he approached me, I had the thought to ask him to turn the lights on, but his head was always more difficult for me to enter normally; I knew I had no chance of the task then.

Once standing next to me, Varnus scanned me up and down for a few moments. I laid in motionless silence, letting him have free reign to study me like a coroner would a corpse. Eventually, Varnus stated, in as flat a tone as ever, “You can hear me.”

It was not a question, so I knew I did not need to reply. Still, some vague social construct had me try to say ‘yes.’ As ever thus far, I failed to speak as such, or otherwise give any other signs of life.

In the absence of my answer, Varnus retracted his arms into the confines of his red cloak, rummaging about until one hand reappeared, holding—or transformed—into a medicae injector. I assumed, at first, it was meant for me. But, instead, Varnus turned the injector upon himself, plugging it into a port on his opposite arm and fueling himself with whatever fluids were within the contraption. “Adrenaline,” he said plainly then, and I understood, though still could not communicate as such. “You have seen of me as I am about to be only once before. I believe I owe it to you to speak in your own tongue.”

No response.

“Inquisitor Callant Blackgar,” Varnus said, a tinge of emotion peeking out from his voice now. He spoke my name with a hint of reverence, yet also in suppressed rage. “The last thing I suspect you need is for me to tell you how great you are. And, yet, you must know that you are. I failed you aboard that dreadful vessel. You spared me, despite that failure. Thank you. But that is not why I am here,” he shook his head, and left it looking away from me, toward the doors, when his head-shake stopped.

“Centuries ago, you slew Holicar Espirov. I subsequently agreed to destroy the Heretek’s allies with you. And we have. By your hand, mostly—again, with my gratitude. We have killed and killed…,” he began, and then looked back to me. “And been brought here. I wish I knew how to help you, Inquisitor, I really do. But repairing your flesh is a task for Ms. Rock, your expert medicae, and repairing your mind…I neither know how, nor who is suited to the task. I am sorry.”

An awkward silence followed, broken up only by the occasional buzz and whirr of mechatronics beneath Varnus’s cloak. Eventually, he spoke up again, “Not only am I unable to assist in your recovery, Inquisitor, I also cannot quantify the extent of your wounds. The vagaries of the human mind escape me, as mine is riddled with the language of logic. From that logic, then, is borne an idea: I must leave. I owe myself to the Omnissiah, and must continue my work for the Blessed Machine. Our work together is completed, yet I must continue on, unable to estimate the span of your requisite recovery as I am. I shall pray that if and when you do make a recovery, you and I shall cross paths yet again, and that we might employ ourselves to our tasks to a worthier end than this,” he explained, and then turned away from me once more and took a single step away.

After that step, he turned back to me. “I have left designs for a final augmetic for you in my quarters. May it keep you safe in troubled times. Inquisitor, friendship is not a thing that can be programmed. Yet it is built over time all the same. I relish that which we have crafted together, and hold you in such a regard; I pray my current self-dismissal from your side will not wound our alliance, but will understand if you decide it so. You are a remarkable man, Callant Blackgar, and I am so sorry for this loss—your loss. Do find me again, if you want me, and I will be happy to cull evil from this plane by your side once more. Until such a time, may the Emperor protect you eternal. Goodbye.”

And with that, I never saw Massino Varnus again. If nothing else, he had escaped the daemon’s clutches, at least.

Is that how you see it? Contextualizing the flight of your allies in terms of me? That’s how I want you to see it, at least.

I chose not to reply to Cronos, rather than being unable to.

***

Castecael Rock

“How is he?” Castecael asked some days later as she entered the medicae room.

“Stable, but nonresponsive, as he has been,” an attending nurse replied.

“Give me the room,” Castecael ordered, and the nurse obliged, taking some servitors with him. When they had gone, she moved across the room, away from me, to fetch a chair, which she then lifted into the air—so as not to make it screech along the floor—and put next to my unit. Once seated next to me, Castecael wrapped her right arm around mine, holding me along the length of my forearm. Despite the action, she said nothing at first.

In time, tears began to form in her eyes, and as they began to slide down her face, she wiped her cheeks on her free hand, along the base of its thumb. After a sniffle, she said, “Cal, I’m…I’ve thought long and hard about this, so please spare yourself any responsibility for what I’m about to say.” She then reached over me and gently tilted my head to face her, which I appreciated.

“You’ve been so kind to me over the years, from taking me in in the first place to putting up with Mirena and me. You’ve always been considerate and patient, even if…ha, even if not the best patient,” she suggested, laughing at the double meaning of the word. “But you are my patient, now. And I want what’s best for you. So, following in that techpriest’s footsteps, I am hereby resigning from your service,” she said, and then choked down the words she had said, raising her head toward the ceiling as tears returned to falling from her eyes. “Mirena…loves you. And you love her. And she can’t bear the thought of you like this, heartbroken, alone. I’ve slept with her these past few nights but I have not been with her. This is far from the first time she’s slept with thoughts of you while sleeping with me, but now it is the most consistent. And you…we both know it is not medicine which you require,” Castecael offered, and reached over me again to put a hand to my chest.

“It’s not all about you of course. I am my own woman and I have the right to my own life. Which is why I am going to enlist in the Sororitas, in Lucene’s memory. I am no combatant, of course, but Lucene oft told me stories of the Orders Hospitaller. I aspire to that, then,” Castecael admitted. “This is my decision, and I of course do not make it lightly. Mirena…I have loved her for longer than you have Lucene. And it was a fantastic kind of love. Yet from its early days until now, it was a love that was never whole or complete. Ever have you been able to provide for Mirena in ways I could not. Ever has she sought you out in place of me. She’ll be angry with me for leaving her, of course, and she’ll be right to be. But you need her, and I do not think I could convince her to help you in the ways you need while I’m here. And if I cannot act to help my own Inquisitor, what kind of an Acolyte of the Inquisition am I?” Castecael suggested.

She then reached to me again, to my face, and wiped a tear that had fallen from my own eye. “It’s alright, Cal. This is what I want to do. For you, for her, and for me. It’s cruel to her, it is, and life has been cruel to you and she alike for some time now. I have no cure for cruelty. But I do have the power to make a decision such as this, and I have,” she declared, and then let go of me and rose from her seat. She paused a moment, and then leaned over me before kissing me, briefly, on my lips. “Take care of her, Cal,” she whispered afterward. “But more importantly, let her take care of you. It’s what she wants, as I want for her.” She then turned to leave.

+don’t go.+

Castecael turned around to face me one last time and smiled. “Goodbye, Cal. Thank you for everything.”