“For fuck’s sake, Acidalia. I leave you alone for two minutes and you’ve already got half the galaxy convinced you’re a god.”
“For the record, I didn’t convince them of anything. The ambassador brought up the topic herself."
“Still, Jesus Christ. What a power move.” Andromeda didn’t know if she was entirely comfortable with the Mira thinking Acidalia and Alestra were both magical god-queens, but it was definitely pretty funny. “How does she even know anything about Katerina? Or you, or the Cipher eyes, for that matter?”
“She mentioned a brother,” Acidalia said, “an Eleutherian prisoner of war who calls himself Rune. She claims he was a child soldier, and they were both adopted.”
A brother? Andromeda was immediately suspicious. “I thought the Mira didn’t take POWs.”
“He was supposedly only eight years old at the time of his capture; they were likely uncomfortable with murdering a child. It’s not impossible—trainees are sometimes sent out to the battlefield to learn from the combatants, and if their ship accidentally veered into enemy territory…”
“And this child grew up believing all the propaganda he was told?” Andromeda asked, incredulous. “And passing it on?! I’m no soldier, but even when I was a kid, everyone knew it was bullshit. You’d be laughed out of the room if you tried to convince anyone that the lies Alestra spread about herself were true. Yet this kid somehow fell for all of it, and he passed it on to his sister, who is also gullible enough to think it’s true even though she didn’t even grow up here?”
Acidalia nodded. “That differs from caste to caste—lower-ranking people tend to get away with more; heaven knows Alestra underestimates them—and if this man happens to come from a high-ranking military family or noble house, I could see that being the case. I can check the data and see if any important centuria lost men his age about a decade ago. But still, I agree it sounds shady. Part of me wants to chalk it up to the ambassador herself. It’s not that she isn’t smart—she has to be reasonably intelligent, if her position is an elected one; based on how people treat her, I doubt she comes from a very powerful family—but I get the impression that she isn’t very well-educated in the sciences. She’d never heard of mitochondria, proteins, or antibiotics.”
“Seriously?” Andromeda had never once taken a biology class, but mitochondria being the powerhouse of the cell was ingrained in her mind anyway. “So clearly they’re not sending their best people.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that. Their issues with science don’t exactly seem confined to Raeilya,” Acidalia said. “Apparently there’s a massive pandemic on her home planet right now and they’ve never even bothered to try to treat it with antibiotics. I offered her penicillin, and she nearly cried.”
“Penicillin? Like, the mold drug?” Andromeda almost laughed. “God, how backwards are they? For someone who has wormholes and space travel, you’d think they’d have penicillin. Didn’t they have that in the Silicon Age?”
“Older than that, actually. I believe it was discovered in the Plastic Age. But don’t think too hard about how they managed wormholes without creating vaccines; they didn’t build the wormholes themselves, either, apparently.” Acidalia rubbed her forehead. “Their legendary knowledge of astrophysics seems entirely made-up. None of them know anything about physics at all. They’re using the tech built by their predecessors, and they believe Katerina was among those predecessors—or, at least, her father was. They have incredible technology with no understanding of how any of it works, and they’d rather start a war over the remains of decaying wormholes than do any kind of research on repairing them themselves.”
Something clicked in Andromeda’s mind. “That’s why they need us. And that’s why they isolated us.”
“They were waiting for us to discover faster-than-light travel, apparently. How they thought we’d do that without realizing that the rest of the galaxy exists is beyond me. I doubt any of them have any idea what we’re capable of.”
“So they wanted us to just create wormholes and drop them in their laps? And they thought we’d just stop researching things if they gave us their fancy Precursor technology?” Andromeda asked. “God, that’s stupid.”
“I know. But it’s a kind of stupid that benefits us.”
“True.”
Andromeda considered the possibilities for a second. Their enemy—or enemy-turned-ally, whatever the hell they were now, she hadn’t bothered to think about them because the current civil war seemed like a bigger issue—didn’t even have half of what Eleutheria had. No vaccines, no antibiotics, no knowledge of anything whatsoever. They had their mysterious alien wormholes and their legends about their ancestors, but they didn’t have any idea how to fix broken tech or their own sick people. That made them easy to beat.
Carina had mentioned, before, how Acidalia’s DNA-modifying skills had multiple uses. Andromeda had never considered them very important beyond simple weaponry, but now… well, Acidalia could cook up some horrible bioweapon in minutes. One lethal virus would devastate the galaxy. Hell, even more traditional weapons would work. Eleutherians wouldn’t have to worry about shooting to kill—all they had to do was create gaping wounds. If the rest of the galaxy didn’t have antibiotics, they sure as hell didn’t have synthskin or osteoknits, either, and that meant that they wouldn’t be able to survive injuries Eleutherians considered trivial, and they wouldn’t be able to prevent themselves from getting deadly infections.
It seemed so easy it was almost unfair. Eleutheria and the rest of the Via Lactea were so unevenly matched that it felt like the whole galaxy had brought a knife to Terra’s gun fight. It was laser pistols and science versus sticks and spears.
“So what are we gonna do?” Andromeda asked. “We don’t have to be their ally, you know.”
“I wouldn’t say that, not yet.” Acidalia’s face turned pensive. “I don’t know if they’re telling the truth about whatever enemy they’re facing in this great Galactic war, but if they are, we can’t very well stay neutral. We’re either with them or with the enemy, in their eyes, and I’m not willing to take the gamble of having nobody on our side.”
“Yeah, but so what if their enemy really is murderous and hellbent on killing us all?” Andromeda snickered. “What are they gonna do, come at us with slingshots and men on horses? We have giant starships and too many smaller craft to count, the universe’s best propaganda, and me. Even my own men say I’m like the reincarnation of Hannibal. I’m willing to bet the whole Cipher fortune that I’m the greatest military strategist in the whole galaxy and beyond.” It sounded arrogant, but her ego was well-earned. The feats she’d already accomplished were numerous, and she didn’t plan on slowing down.
“Yes,” Acidalia said, “but you’re mortal, too. What if you become a casualty?”
“Then you just shoot them with one of your GM super-plagues and boom! They all die. It’s not hard.” Andromeda found herself annoyed at Acidalia’s pessimism. It all seemed so simple.
“Okay, first of all, no. I am not using biological weapons on a large scale,” Acidalia began, “and I would like to avoid using them at all, for that matter.”
Not for the first time, Andromeda wished Acidalia had a less powerful moral compass, but she decided not to say anything. It didn’t matter. If it came down to it, she’d simply force her to splice together some sort of weapon. Andromeda would hold her at gunpoint if she had to. What would Acidalia do, rise up against her? She may be a good orator and a popular princess, but compared to Andromeda, she was about as strong as a rag doll.
Well, maybe that was a little harsh. Acidalia was decently fit—she could do something like 50 push-ups. But Andromeda’s personal record was 283, half of her body was pure steel, and shed taken down multiple all-star gladiatrices during her lifetime, so it was moot. Besides, physical strength didn’t matter so much as mental strength, and Acidalia was a complete weakling when it came to killing. She had good aim, sure, but if she was facing Andromeda with a loaded gun, she may as well be unarmed. She’d never have the strength to pull the trigger.
Andromeda didn’t even know why she bothered to ask Acidalia about any of this in the first place. At the end of the day, Andromeda’s decisions were the only ones that mattered. She was the Praetor, but more than that, she was a strategic genius; the whole revolution would fall apart if she left. In comparison, Acidalia’s presence meant nothing. The rest of the Revolution acted like she was of importance, but now that she had been permanently ousted from the court, she couldn’t supply them with intel and gossip anymore. But Acidalia liked to feel powerful, and she liked to think that Andromeda was her friend, so sitting here and playing this game with her certainly wasn’t hurting anyone. It was kind of like having a tea party with a little girl who thought of herself as a queen; you know none of her decisions actually matter and it’s all just a child’s stupid fantasy, but you humor her anyway.
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Really, that’s all Acidalia was—a child with delusions of grandeur. Incredibly idealistic, unwilling to get her hands dirty, too focused on right and wrong to get anything done efficiently. But one day she’d realize that an enlightened despot can’t compare to a dictator, and she’d find herself devoid of power, wishing she’d had the nerve to seize the opportunity when she saw it.
Not that Acidalia really wanted power—she just enjoyed playing with it. “Absolute power corrupts absolutely,” she’d told Andromeda darkly, just before her coronation. She didn’t like the thought of being an empress any more than she liked the thought of her mother on the throne. So, when the time came, she might even yield to Andromeda willingly.
But that time wouldn’t arrive for a while yet, and it might be delayed even longer if the Revolution was off fighting someone else’s low-tech war.
“I’m thinking we just shouldn’t ally with them at all,” Andromeda said. “They can’t exactly fight us.”
“That’s a little too optimistic. They do have faster-than-light travel, even though none of them comprehend the science behind it.”
“Then we break the FTL travel,” Andromeda shrugged. “It’s not like they can fix it.”
“And dismantle their whole society, killing thousands of people in the process? When you break a wormhole, it collapses into black holes. There’s no way of knowing that it’s broken until you start noticing that the people who go in aren’t coming out again. We’d kill so many civilians.”
“So?”
“Did you really just ask me what the problem is with murdering civilians?”
Andromeda shrugged. “All’s fair in love and war.”
“Andy, stop.” Acidalia looked exasperated, and Andromeda suddenly felt very patronized.
“‘Andy stop’ what? Listen, if their nation decides to go to war with the most powerful planet in the galaxy, they have it coming,” she argued. “Soldier or not, it’s their home that’s attacking ours, and that makes them fair game. Besides, war is messy and bloody by nature. There’s nothing I can do to fix that. For some people, life is brutal and short. That’s just how it is.”
“That’s a defeatist stance.”
“Listen, I grew up in a world where addressing someone the wrong way could get you murdered. What else do you want me to say?” Of course Acidalia wouldn’t have that attitude; she grew up in a palace. Andromeda was no lady—she’d been raised in the streets of Appalachia. She had no reason to believe that these types of things could be helped.
“I just—let’s not argue about this right now.” Acidalia shook her head, cutting off the conversation. “It doesn’t matter what we say about whether murdering civilians is a bad thing. What we need to do right now is discuss how we’re going to respond to a war in a galaxy we’ve never truly been a part of.”
“Well,” Andromeda said, “is there any way for us to get more context for anything? It’s kind of difficult to strategize when you have no idea what or who you’re fighting against.”
“The ambassador mentioned some type of ceremonial gathering called an Awakening, or at least something similar to that, but I’m questioning whether I should even try to attend it. These wormholes don’t seem very reliable, and I’d hate to die in the middle of—“
“Go,” Andromeda said, without even waiting for Acidalia to finish her sentence. “Go, and see what the hell it’s all about. I’ll take care of things in the meantime—or, at least, me and Artemis and Atlas and the rest will.” With Acidalia gone, she could start all the campaigns she’d been dreaming of in her mind since the beginning, and there would be no Moral Guardian there to antagonize her about mortality and civility, no lady of the court to harass her about making sure even this civil war was elegant and pretty.
Acidalia raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Alone?”
“You can hack it,” Andromeda dismissed. “Please. You just took on a battalion of men on your own a few days ago, and you escaped virtually unscathed.”
“There was a casualty.” She didn’t say my brother died outright, but Andromeda knew what she was referring to. War demanded complete detachment, so it wasn’t uncommon for such a tragedy to be framed like something meaningless.
“A casualty,” Andromeda pointed out. “Just one. There’s always a price to be paid, and you paid a relatively small one. You got off virtually scot-free.”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
Andromeda rolled her eyes. “You’ll get over it like the rest of us—you’re not the only one who’s lost a sibling. We’ll have a nice little memorial and carve his number into a wall or something. My point is that you escaped. If you can fight off half a damn army and smash Cassiopeia’s skull hard enough to practically kill her, you can take care of yourself.” In truth, she knew damn well that even Acidalia’s skill with a laser pistol would be useless if, for whatever reason, the rest of the galaxy decided to turn on her, but that didn’t matter. The death of the Imperatrix wouldn’t mean much outside of throwing a nasty wrench in Andromeda’s plans if she ever decided to cook up a bioweapon. (Even then, it wouldn’t be too difficult to get some wayward Scientia to hand over some dangerous pathogen, and when the enemy was as primitive as she assumed the rest of the galaxy was, it wouldn’t take much.) Now that Acidalia had already targeted the Nova, they expected her. She was no longer a secret weapon, and that made her functionally useless against them.
Acidalia frowned. “I’d rather not go at it alone—don’t give me that look, you wouldn’t either. It’s not even a safety issue. It’ll look very strange if I don’t show up with an entourage, and that will make others aware that we have a problem here. I don’t want to appear weak. If we are to meet the rest of the Via Lactea—or Awaken, if you feel like being theatrical—our armor must not have any chinks.”
She did have a point. “All right, so take a few soldiers,” Andromeda shrugged. “And if you want ladies in waiting, why not take the Cantator?”
“Lyra?”
“Who else? She’s an effective propaganda tool—she saved our asses down there—and she has a tragic backstory that makes people sympathetic. Plus, she has the hair of an anime protagonist. She’s practically destined to be a main character.” And nobody would care if she got herself killed, Andromeda added silently.
Acidalia looked like she didn’t quite get the reference, which was to be expected. Naturally, the Imperatrix Ceasarina wouldn’t stoop to the level of watching anime for entertainment. Her entire media library consisted of snobby literature and educational documentaries.
“That isn’t a bad idea,” Acidalia said finally, “and, if any Eleutherians have been talking about how terrible our planet is, bringing a Cantator with us will show them that we, as a movement, are much more progressive and forward-thinking than they expected. And, besides, Lyra is very sweet—I certainly wouldn’t mind being around her for a good few days, and I think she’d be happy to join me, too. I could also bring David along, I suppose, to represent Mars. It’s not like President Tycho can abandon his planet now, with Alestra probably on the verge of invading it.”
Andromeda snorted. “Invade Mars? More like burn it to the ground. She’d sooner see every last person on that planet die than afford them an ounce of mercy.”
“That’s exactly my point. This is not the time for a president to be going on space trips to strange worlds. If Tycho dies, the presidency will go to his VP, who is…” She trailed off. “Micah Colten, I believe. And he’s a complete dolt.”
Micah Colten was a complete dolt, and an asshole to boot. The only memory Andromeda had of him was when he and Tycho had flown out to meet with the Revolution for some reason or another—Mars was sympathetic to their cause, but they hadn’t taken the plunge and formally made an alliance yet—and Colten had acted like a self-important jerk with an overinflated ego. Nothing was to his tastes, everything offended him, and he acted like every woman was his personal eye candy. Tycho had to eventually shoe him out of the room, and then he sat in the hallway stewing until the President came back to collect him again. Andromeda shuddered to think what would happen to Mars if he got the presidency. He’d probably be too busy ogling Alestra to notice the blitzkrieg she’d inevitably assault him with.
“You know, I’m not the biggest fan of Seren, but he’d make a much better ambassador than Tycho and Colten, so that’s fine.” Andromeda thought for a second. “That would mean his daughter would have to come with you, and I guess you can make her one of your ladies-in-waiting or something. She’d eat that right up—it’ll help her social points or whatever ridiculous meritocratic ranking Mars has.”
“True. And then I suppose I could also bring Carina. The Ambassadors have already seen her, so they’ve likely already assumed she’s someone important. I’d say Athena could come as well, but I’m sure she’d kill me if I tried to make her wear another dress.”
“Oh, Carina’ll love that.” She would probably trip over herself to lick dirt from Acidalia’s shoes. But if sending Carina to the other side of the Via Lactea meant Andromeda didn’t have to put up with her excessive skittishness and royal worship, it was fine with her. “And, as far as the whole you’re-an-alien-goddess thing, play that angle up. People will fear you more if you think you can make or break their faction.”
“I was thinking the same thing. It almost seems cruel to make them believe I’m some type of Messiah, but what can I do? I’m taking every advantage I possibly can. We need to seize this opportunity before Alestra does.”
“Agreed.” Andromeda stood. “You go talk with Seren. I’ll convene with Atlas and the others. We’ll keep in contact with you.”
Acidalia nodded in agreement, and something in her eyes said that she trusted Andromeda entirely. Her naiveté was almost endearing—or at least, it would be if she wasn’t supposedly one of the Revolution’s best leaders. If Acidalia Cipher was the greatest woman in the whole movement, then the movement was doomed. Truth be told, Andromeda had no idea how she would handle herself out there in uncharted territory. Acidalia had politesse and eloquence, but that was about it.
Oh, well. If Acidalia survived, the Revolution could potentially gain a new alliance. And if she died, she’d be a martyr. There was no way to lose this gambit—not for Andromeda, at least.