To Marja Mentzer, the man, Betelgeuse Sakar, seemed a quiet, respectful and introverted sort of chap.

He never failed to address her as 'ma'am', in that old-fashioned, formal military style that to some extent discomfited her. She was not a military woman after all, just one of many Mentzer issues who had decided to find her own way amongst the stars.

He also had a tendency to sit and stare into space, and she could never tell from his expression if he was brooding upon some past aspect of their interaction (some slight, perhaps?) or merely indifferent as to the happenings about him.

In short, he was the best sort of person for the task—unassuming, private and discrete.

All important attributes to have, seeing as she did not have the necessary authorization to permit an outsider access to internal Mentzer family discussions, whether for the purposes of minute-taking or not. But she'd be damned if she were going to take notes herself—she, who had the power to bend spacetime to her will, she, the thirteenth heiress to the Mentzer Succession, she, the one-who-could-get-others-to-write-her-minutes.

More importantly, she needed Betelgeuse for that.

Of course, she'd apprised old man Jirani Mzeeka, her sometime mentor and the elder Docent of the Library of the Roc on their homeworld Abuna Yem'ata, of her plans. Both of them hailed from the frozen crags of Abuna Yem'ata, icy moon to Abuna Yem'ata Guh of star system B-Beta-Alpha-12. Such was the esteem Jirani commanded that her father had only permitted her to join the mission to Desert if Jirani accompanied her. It was necessary anyway, given the express nature of their journey, that the ship bound for Desert required both a spacetime navigator and a highly experienced manipulator of gravitational fields to be on board.

Only holders of Golden Incunabula whose Increment or relevant Etching related to the manipulation of spacetime could act as spacetime navigators; Marja herself had the ability to connect disparate points in spacetime together and, utilizing the coordinates information transmitted faster-than-light to her by Transportation Gates (by way of the quantum entanglement of particles, effected via Golden Incunabula holders with the power to (1) maintain the entanglement of particles across quantum measurements and (2) exactly determine (i.e., force a particular state outcome to manifest) the state of proximate quantum particles which had earlier been entangled with other quantum particles carried by a traveling ship (i.e., such as the Vespertilio)),* could daisy-chain wormholes from one coordinate to another in order to drastically reduce the time taken for interstellar travel.

However, wormholes were inherently unstable and prone to collapse under their own gravity, and hence the necessity for a Golden grade like Jirani who not only possessed a gravity-manipulation-type Increment, but also a relevant Etching borne of a constant sharpening of intentionality which allowed him to invert the positive mass of a particle (or group of particles) into negative mass. Combined with Polonium-utilizing Power-Magnifiers, those like Jirani could generate large amounts of negative mass with the corresponding negative energy required to counteract the gravity of a wormhole and sustain it through the duration of travel.

Needless to say this put a huge strain on gravitational manipulators, who had to sustain their intentionality through the whole duration of wormhole travel. A failure to do so (occasioned say by some distraction or other) would affect the consistent generation of negative mass and corresponding negative energy, and in extreme cases might result in a wormhole collapsing in on itself whilst a ship was still traveling through. When this occurred, all informational content within the wormhole would be instantly jumbled (including the unfortunate ship and everyone in it); the resulting detritus would subsequently be expelled at a corresponding point in spacetime.

Marja, seated midway through the oblong table's long edge, glanced at Betelgeuse and motioned for him to sit at the adjacent side, safely out of the video lens' field of vision. Under the thick canvas material of his overalls she could see that he was lean and wiry; he wore his messy black hair and penal brand with a fierceness that belied his affected nonchalance.

"Remember, no speaking. Try not to breathe too hard, in fact. We absolutely cannot let him know that you're here assisting me, understand?" Marja stressed, resting her forearms upon the wooden surface. She felt her cheeks tense with embarrassment—why did it feel like she was begging him to abet her misdeeds?

"Yes, ma'am, I understand," Betelgeuse replied, nodding. He took his seat and opened his notebook, flipping to an empty page. Then he locked eyes with her to signal that he was ready, flipping his pen around his right thumb.

Maybe I should ask him to teach me that.

With a rattle and a click the anonymity filter covering the lens' forward aperture disengaged. She reached into her uniform's vest pocket and retrieved a portable terminal upon which screen was projected a matrix of numbers; it was more out of habit than anything, for there were too many numbers for any one of them to be readable on the small screen, and in any case she had earlier committed all 125,000 numbers in the 50 by 50 by 50 matrix to memory. An easy feat for a mind practiced enough with the eidetic-feeder-neuroimplant all Mentzers were gifted in their first year of life. The most skilled Mentzers, Marja had heard, true virtuosos of the eidetic-feeder, could commit a billion times that to memory in the same span of time.

Her mind went beyond the numbers, to its manipulable-image. It was not a visual representation that she interacted with now, but a tactile familiarity with space itself, a familiarity practiced according to a millennia old art inherited from the scions of the Old Empire. The art of spatial familiarity.

She flicked at the terminal, checking and rechecking the ship's speed and its trajectory-in-space relative to the point of entrance into the wormhole. Satisfied that both were constant, she flicked the terminal back to the matrix of numbers, zooming in, quickly updating her memory as regards the minor corrections that she already knew would have to be made.

She turned her attention to the screen before her counting down a timer in seconds, deciseconds, centiseconds, milliseconds. She'd memorized fifty of them, she thought to herself, fifty 50 by 50 slices-of-space. That ought to give her some leeway.

4… 3…

She knew where it was, roughly. The place which she had to connect back to realspace.

2… 1…

And it was here.

She didn't feel the judder under her feet because her mind had fashioned for itself an intentionality which pointed out there. She felt the place fall behind her and disappear entirely; somewhere on the Vespertilio Jirani heaved a sigh of relief and allowed his intentionality to scatter. The wormhole collapsed upon itself, unable to bear its own weight.

Realspace. Constant speed. The ship could now receive transmissions, couriered by quadrillions upon quadrillions of quantum entangled particles and processed into screen frames by the on-ship High-Frequency Interpreter.

Before her, the screen's static melted away to reveal an old but well-kept man reclining upon an arm-chair, the man's hair bone-white and short-cropped, his chin clean-shaven and sharp, his nose thin and regal. Under a brow furrowed with severity lay eyes studded with black, fathomless pools hiding innumerable secrets. The background of lacquered wainscoting was shadowed but dimly flickering with orange light, as if the man was seated before a fireplace.

Presbyter Karl Mentzer, formerly head of the Mentzer family, current Mentzer delegate to the Democratic Council. Marja's mouth suddenly felt dry.

"It is good to see you, Marja Mentzer. Report on your status," his Common was clipped and formal and old, the kind she intuitively matched with the elders of the Founding Families. She had always been intimidated by the Presbyter, even from afar, and today was no exception. It was everything she could do to keep her trembling knees from knocking against each other.

"Honored Presbyter, I thank you for taking out the time to join this call. We've just completed the seventeenth of thirty-five wormhole jumps and we're currently en route to the sector Gamma-65—that's checkpoint Blattodea—to commence the next jump. As things are going I estimate we will reach Desert within thirty peri–thirty days," she reported, quickly correcting herself at the end. She realized her palms had begun to sweat.

"You two are making good time. However, there is no need to rush. Remember that Jirani is old and needs his rest. Separately, I know that you have previously discussed the matter of Desert with your father, Frederick. The agreement, as it has been made known to me, is firstly that Jirani is to accompany you at all times during your appointment as Deputy Marshal of the Sylvan Protectorate's Saltilla, and secondly that on the elapse of two years from the date of your arrival you will return to Earth to take up a position at Lebensraum Tellus. Am I correct in this understanding?" the Presbyter inquired, getting straight to the point, his voice deep and unwavering.

"Yes, that is correct," Marja replied. She had by now gotten hold of herself, and her voice was thick with assurance. Two years and then… who could say what would happen? To become a Mentzer woman or to abscond toward the stars, that was the question.

"You must not forget the responsibility you owe to your family. It is not typical to afford such an allowance as has been afforded you, but out of respect for your father I will leave this between you and him. As an heiress, Marja Mentzer, you have duties which cannot be shirked. I trust you know how much recalibration and remediation your willfulness has cost."

"I… know, and I thank you for your understanding, Honored Presbyter, not to mention your patience with me," Marja returned. She gritted her teeth; this was how the Mentzers operated. Her entire life had been overshadowed by the family's arcane plans, every bit of her existence swallowed up by their hidden agendas and shadow politics. Her fear receded, replaced by a weary anger. And yet, there was nothing she could do.

Not yet at least. She was not without her own tricks. It was why she needed a witness, someone like Betelgeuse. She didn't really care about his ability to write shorthand—if she wanted to, she could learn it in an hour or less. No, his real value to her lay elsewhere.

"Honored Presbyter, forgive my impertinence, but I had also wanted to inquire about the heiress Ortrud. It was my understanding that she had also requested to join the mission to Desert, and If my recollection is accurate, the arrangements had been made with the TAF to appoint her as attaché."

Presbyter Karl sat and stared a long time, his face a rigid mask betraying nothing. As the seconds ticked away, Marja could feel her pulse rising. In her nervousness she almost glanced leftwise at Betelgeuse, but caught herself in the nick of time. There was no way he wouldn't notice.

When he started speaking again, his voice felt emotionless and cold, the keen edge of his intentionality slicing through her flesh even across light years of space. "Ortrud Mentzer has her own unique situation, which she prefers to keep private. You should respect this desire for privacy."

Like her, Ortrud had prevailed upon her father to permit her a stint in the TAF. But unlike her, Ortrud was third in line to the Mentzer Succession, her father, Konrad Mentzer, being the younger brother to the current head of the Mentzer family and Chief Director of Lebensraum, His Excellency the Bishop Cristoph Mentzer.

But Ortrud and her were cut from the same cloth. They were friends, to Marja's heart perhaps the closest of friends, just like their fathers had been the closest of friends. Having been brought up together on Abuna Yem'ata under the rather sporadic tutelage of Docent Jirani, they had separated four years ago when Ortrud was sent back to Earth after her sixteenth birthday, in answer to the summons of the then newly-appointed Bishop Cristoph Mentzer. As the third heiress and by virtue of her proximity to the Mentzer Succession, Ortrud was to be thoroughly prepared for her Analysis, which would take place on Earth—under the vaulted ceiling of an isolated atrium at the Library at the Edge.

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It had been two years since their last video contact on the eve of Ortrud's Analysis. Since then, Marja had only been able to communicate with Ortrud through her close associates and, most often, their cousin Noah Ostermann, an 'outside issue' borne of his father's romance with a non-Mentzer.

Noah had been their closest confidante and middleman to their relationship these last two years. It was through Noah that Marja came to know of Ortrud's being blessed with a Golden Incunabulum, although it was hardly a surprise given her parents were both holders; and it was Noah who had brokered their joint promise to reunite by means of the Democracy's ongoing conflict with the Chimerae.

But, as it appeared, the Mentzer strictures were not so easily gainsaid.

Marja could feel her chest tightening. If she had testicles, she thought, they would be shriveling up just about now. It was a long shot, but she had to catch the Presbyter in a bind. She had to make him commit to a position, and it had to be clear enough that he was putting the needs of the Mentzer family above the Democracy.

"... Honored Presbyter, I sincerely apologize for my rudeness; but my inquiry had been made with the ongoing conflict in mind. As you know, the war has approached a rather difficult stage after some rapid developments on the Frontier worlds, especially over the past few months. It is my understanding, further, that the relevant Requisition Order has been recently supplemented so as to prioritize speed of deployment and tactical efficiency over pure survivability. These circumstances appear to suggest manpower scarcity, and I had been sure a willing volunteer like Ortrud would prove a great help to the ongoing efforts of the Democracy."

A flash of something approaching uncertainty and incomprehension momentarily graced the Presbyter's austere features. It was so quick, so hidden, that, even with the perceptual augmentations afforded by the eidetic-feeder, Marja almost missed it.

"A willing volunteer…" the Presbyter repeated.

A volunteer from the Mentzer family, who would put the needs of the Democracy above that of the family. Marja could feel it bore into her soul, the accusation, even as she struggled to maintain eye contact. It felt to her as if the Presbyter had some difficulty with the nub of the concept. Self-interest, individualism; these the Presbyter could understand and accept and perhaps work around. But to put the needs of some other group, even if that group happened to be the Democracy… to put the needs of another group above that of the Mentzers and to appear do so sincerely—either such an aberration was a flimsy front for self-interest, or it was treason, no other way about it.

And he would be right, of course.

"The Mentzer family has always fulfilled its duty of loyalty to the Democracy, and it will, so far as I am concerned, continue to do so. We serve the people with pride and honor; our sending you, esteemed heiress, is enough evidence of that," he intoned.

'Esteemed heiress,' Marja scoffed internally. 'As if the thirteenth heiress is worthy of such esteem!'

"My point is… Honored Presbyter, the point I had in mind related to the fact that it had already been represented to the TAF around the time of my secondment to the Tellus Training Institute that Ortrud would be attached to the Desert mission. It was a representation by Lebensraum Tellus, my understanding was, and it would not reflect well if we were to renege."

"Our contributions are not limited to the battlefield. A war is made of many parts, and Lebensraum is forever committed to the overall good of the Democracy. In particular, Ortrud's special skills are necessary to Lebensraum's continued advancements in augmentation technology, a technology which the TAF heavily relies on to sustain its operational readiness."

Marja clenched her teeth behind pursed lips. The man was in control. She had lost the initiative.

"I understand, Honored Presbyter. The war effort would indeed be greatly hampered without Lebensraum's support," she nodded, her voice low.

"Marja Mentzer," the Presbyter began, then fell silent, letting the name hang in the air like an allegation unconsummated. Tense moments passed shadowed by a miasma of uncertainty.

"… These decisions are generally to be left to the discretion of the Mentzer family. Remember your responsibility," the Presbyter finally articulated. His tone had barely changed, but the slightest inflection seemed to lend it a harsh and biting aspect.

Then, silence again. The seconds yawned an uncanny gash in her consciousness. Etiquette dictated that Marja was not to initiate the disconnection.

"You are not utilising an AI-subsentient for the purpose of transcription?" the Presbyter suddenly asked.

Did he… suspect?

"... No, si–Honored Presbyter."

"You are taking your own notes then."

What? He could see her hands, which she had conspicuously placed upon the table to head off any such suspicions.

"That is not the case, Honored Presbyter."

'The meeting is not recorded,' she was about to add, before catching herself at the last moment. She did not want the blatant lie on record, if she could help it.

Another long silence interpolated.

"... Then I will take my leave."

And the screen shut off.

Once she made sure the call had disengaged, Marja released a breath she didn't know she had been holding. She folded her hand across her lap, brooding silently.

"... Ma'am?"

Her head shot up. Yes, someone else had been in this room. The man, Betelgeuse Sakar.

"Ma'am, am I to transcribe this into legible script?" he asked, seemingly unfazed by her sudden reaction.

"Go ahead," she managed.

Without a second look at Betelgeuse she rushed out of the room in search of Jirani.

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To those trapped within the windowless Cage there was little respite and less opportunity to think and plan ahead.

The constant bustle of ship life made them forget about the passage of time. By the inexorable elapse of periods their memory of the time before the Incunabula grew more distant, and the anticipation and fear regarding their life to come intensified with every passing hour.

In the dark of the Cage, digital numerals glowing atop the jamb flipped from yellow to dark-blue.

0000h

Now the light he could see was wan and ghostly by the hum of the Verspitilio's engine, and Betelgeuse breathed and brooded according to the soft percussive clank that caused the heart of the machine and its layers of metal to shudder underneath him.

Snores and muttered somniloquys stammered through the cobalt hues. Sleep would not come, and he lay supine and hyperaware on a foam bed too soft to be comfortable. He had long ago lost track of the date, his life run according to an inflexible schedule that prized activity over all else, and, when his aid was necessary, according to the exigencies of Marja's 'administrative' meetings with the members of her family.

The Mentzer family.

A whole world had opened up to him—not in all his previous life would he have imagined being so close, perhaps some hundreds of light years close but close nonetheless, to true power.

And amongst Marja's relatives, all stoic men and women with countenances like ice, one had stood out for his sheer presence. The 'Honored Presbyter', whom he had not learned the name of, and the counterparty at the first meeting he had attended. A strange thing was brewing between Marja and he, as if they were arrayed against each other in a conflict the outlines of which Betelgeuse could only dimly perceive.

The crux of the matter had something to do with the holder of a Golden Incunabulum, the one Marja had called Ortrud. It was a name that had been raised in every meeting, and in every meeting her mention had been met with subtle tergiversation. At the end of the last one, a short but tortured conversation with an 'Uncle Konrad', perhaps the least stony Mentzer of all (which wasn't really saying much), Marja seemed a slab of dejection.

Betelgeuse hadn't heard from Marja for the last seven periods. It was difficult not to wonder if anything drastic had possibly occurred. Did any of her relatives, or perhaps the Presbyter himself, somehow discover his presence?

No use thinking about it. That was the kind of power that he could neither fight with nor hide from with any great success.

0008h

Only eight minutes since he last looked at the clock. His eyes were wide and unblinking. Shapes shivered into his perception across the canted squares of shadow projected upon the abovehead sheets turned darkened indigo. 'Canker' Caleb Reyes shifted upon the bunkbed above him.

The shadows made words upon the fabric of his consciousness.

> Betelgeuse Sakar's will to revolt against his destiny manifests as the power to endure all attempts at control.

His first Etching, awakened some tens of periods ago. He recalled the exact moment it must have happened, during the conversation with Voke. He remembered how it felt: a terrifying openness in his soul, as though pierced and gashed by a metaphysical awl, into which flowed a hideous new morality. The penetration of something not quite human, the sullying of something sacred, the mingling of an external malevolence with his self.

He hugged his arms with his hands and scratched, then clawed. The skin of his shoulder, at first raw, then torn to bleeding. He stopped. The sheets were wet under his shoulders. Serenity in his heart.

Whilst not very useful in combat, his Etching appeared an excellent tool against the politicized messaging of official TAF media. Perhaps it was the influence of his Etching, but every statement now seemed to him political, to a greater or lesser degree of abstraction; no piece of information was devoid of it.

Was it so long ago that a Docent had dressed his words with such a sweet and obvious coating of politics? When that Docent had waxed inclusive, pronouncing to all and sundry that every life was precious, every ability, treasured? Betelgeuse smiled wryly.

But beyond that—he could see that a universe lay beyond that; the scientific fact maintained the politics of science against non-science, pseudo-science and/or fantasy; the wise wielded the politics of wisdom, maturity, prudence and sober-mindedness against the immature, the puerile, the juvenile and the short-termist; the true brandished the politics of truth-value, integrity, certainty (even if this was the certainty of uncertainty), order and more besides against lies, falsity, charlatanism, uncertainty (even if this was the uncertainty of certainty) and chaos, amongst others; and as with the politics of power, an adversarial relationship did not preclude politically expedient alliances, for the scientific may enlist pseudo-scientific cults against non-science, and truth-lovers often enlisted liars against other liars.

Betelgeuse' analyzed his Etching carefully, repeating it once, twice, ten times over in his mind. Taking a page from Edith's book, 'control' could admit of a very wide definition, so long as he was able to adequately sharpen his intentionality in respect of such definition.

0015h

He felt that the time of their arrival at Desert was fast approaching. The cross-checked cargo-manifest had already been submitted to officer Garvy; Instructor Parsiphal had informed them that, starting tomorrow, they would continue to more advanced weapon handling drills, to take place at the 1430h-1730h slot formerly set aside for cargo inspection and the 1930h-2115h slot formerly set aside for the post-dinner infomentaries.

Welcome news to Betelgeuse' ears, given that the infomentaries had become exhausted of all useful information. Over the last two or three periods the sessions had focused with rather absurd solemnity on the existential tragedies that all Chimerae must necessarily experience by virtue of being part of a morally degenerate, socially regressive and biologically maladapted race. It was very crude watching.

He forced his eyes shut, thinking to himself that he ought to get some sleep.

----------------------------------------

He'd blinked and when he opened his eyes he was there on the capacious deck flooded with light, a multitude of men and women around him congregated to witness the denouement.

The planet, Desert.

Before a front panel made of myriad blinking terminals it floated, suspended in the blackness of space, a sphere gouged with seas of black and sprinkled with rust-colored grains tinged at their tips with gray-white scum. In the southern hemisphere an oval thing subtly roiled crimson—a storm that had persisted for more than two years, so the infomentaries taught.

Four hours to planetfall.

Betelgeuse stood shoulder to shoulder with the other PLPs, their contingent located at the backmost row of the sea of soldiers all standing to attention in neat rectangular formations. As was customary, the highest ranking soldiers stood at the forefront of the parade, right before the Vespertilio's front panel.

About-turn on the front deck, the front-most row wheeling on their heels to face them.

Captain Faulkner was there, the visor of his dusk-black peaked cap shading his eyes, a cliff of black hair gelled down above his ears. He regarded them now, the soldiers of the Democracy, with a solemn mug made of crow's feet and leather.

Now a bugle call came warbling, the synthetic strains crescendoing against the silence and interspersed with the reverberations of the metal frame underfoot. It was by no means a mournful tune, yet it impressed upon Betelgeuse an odd melancholy. Captain Faulkner clasped his palms together, his fingers intertwined, and bowed his head and prayed in silent thanks to God and the Democracy now that the journey was ended safely, a ceremonial thanks as was the time-honored practice of the TAF Navy.

All heads were bowed, except his.

Betelgeuse saw Marja standing beside the Captain, her silken brown tresses falling over her face and obscuring her features. And he saw the heads of the other Ash grades canted forward and thought perhaps that he recognized the messy tangle that was Edith's not five meters away.

A quiet whisper, so quiet it was barely audible to him. Betelgeuse' eyes rolled to his right. It was Voke, mumbling some fervent orison, so tense his head trembled.

The prayers were done, the bugle silenced, and all heads were raised.

The image of Desert was suffused with a tranquil beauty, he thought, even pierced by the multitude of berets and side caps.

Upon its surface, perhaps, he would discover his fate.