> The office of the Star is not a simple one, for all its luxuries. I imagine many a person bemoans their station and feels vaguely ridiculous while doing so; I find myself no exception in that regard. My life is comfortable, my every need seen to, my opinions respected and my wishes obeyed.
>
> There is some deprivation, yes, but it does not bother me as much as most imagine. The real price of my soul, and I expect of any sufficiently-strong soul, is that I am not adequate for it. My will is not sufficient to constrain it, my mind not capable of grasping its fullness despite long years of experience.
>
> And in the choice to use it, my deficiency is laid bare to its utmost. I may indulge its power and unleash destruction, consoling myself that it is the scalpel rather than the sword that draws blood today - or I may withhold its use and wonder forevermore if whatever outcome follows might have been bettered by my action.
>
> I take great pains to act with deliberation and care, the habit of which seems to defray some of the concern surrounding my outsize power. It is all I can do, inadequate though it may be. The idea of my care relieving others’ concerns has always seemed odd to me, however; I perpetually imagine a child with a pistol reassuring onlookers that they are being quite careful indeed.
- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 685.
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Be bloodless.
Michael stood with his hand extended, his palm resting gently against the prisoner’s cheek. The man stared back into his eyes, unmoving; reality was frozen, sharp-edged and cold around them. There was a world within the man’s eyes, opaque to Michael. A childhood had happened there, a first love. It lurked behind the glassy surface, unknown.
That man was now dead, and Michael would never know who he had killed.
Wither dry. The man’s face grew sallow, skin pulling dark and tight over cheekbones. It happened slowly, so slowly. The eyes stayed whole. They looked into Michael’s own without expression or judgment. Perhaps such a thing was there, and he lacked familiarity with the prisoner’s expressions. Maybe in time - but, no.
That man was now dead, after all.
End as I unmake you. Michael’s attention had wandered amid the anguish of his thoughts, which seemed impolite. Surely the least he could do was look at a man while he killed him? It seemed an unforgivable sin to do such a thing and allow it to pass unremembered, unmarked. He forced his eyes back onto the dying face and found that it was Luc’s, instead.
Panic leapt in his chest, but he could not withdraw his hand; it was frozen with the surety of the already-transpired. He saw the life slowly bleed from Luc’s face, his eyes blank and uncomprehending. Michael felt the pain of his betrayal, though - that was within him, and required no other to feel.
Die. The last vestiges of life trailed from the face, the ineffable stuff of humanity leaching away to oblivion. A person was lost, destroyed irrevocably. Still, the eyes lingered to stare at Michael’s own - Sera’s eyes, dull and glassy. The adrenaline coursing through him spiked into horror, disbelief. No, no - his mind rebelled against those eyes, but could do nothing to dispel them from his sight.
The slow knowledge that he had killed her took root in the core of Michael’s being, melding with the truth of Luc’s death. There was no going back; his life was now one and the same with that truth. He could feel his heart pounding as he rebelled against it, cast his mind furiously against the iron trap of reality. Somehow it shifted, left him standing over Sera’s corpse as she lay on his bed, hand hanging lifeless from its edge.
A few lingering drops of blood flowed down her withered fingers, falling into the crimson ocean on the floor. The blood swelled and frothed, surging until it poured down his throat with reckless glee. Michael fell to his knees and let the blood pour in, feeling all of humanity pass in a torrent down his throat-
His eyes snapped open into the dim half-light of his bunk, clothes and sheets tangled about him in a sweat-soaked chains. He twisted against them, tentatively at first - then with all of his strength, animal panic gripping his sleep-fogged mind as the constraint proved unyielding. He felt his soul flex; the sheets frayed and fell to threadbare scraps. Michael sat bolt-upright in his cot, breathing hard.
He let his fingers curl around the solid metal of the bedframe, using its cold and unyielding surface to ground himself in the present. He had not killed Luc; he had not killed Sera. They were alive and well. He had only killed one man, the Safid prisoner. Not his Luc or Sera - but perhaps someone else’s. Someone else’s Charles, their Vernon or Emil. The dream had been true enough, in parts.
Michael’s breath came shuddering out, and he let his face come down into his cupped hands. After some time, he rose to peel off his shirt and trousers, taking a fresh pair from the trunk Unai had given him. The old clothes went on his bed, amid the shredded ruin of his sheets. He looked back at them and saw the hazy afterimage of Sera’s hand hanging from the bunk, blood dripping down from her fingers - then closed his eyes and turned away, opening the door to the hallway before his mind could conjure more horrors.
The full light of the corridor was a relief, as was the presence of the few Mendiko crewmen he passed. Most made no acknowledgement, or muttered a peremptory greeting. There were those among them who brimmed with emotions that belied their words, however - those who edged a half-step further from him in the hall or let their eyes linger overlong on his face. There was fear, respect, trepidation - awe, every mote of it a reminder that he had taken a life yesterday.
He arrived at the ship’s mess in a dour mood, queuing for his plate of food - today was a mild porridge with thin slices of sausage and some assorted dried fruit, which he took automatically, without really looking. He sat down and absentmindedly took a spoonful of the porridge, his thoughts wandering back to his dream. The details were fading, thankfully, blurring into an unpleasant nebulous mass. Michael shook his head and ate another spoonful of the porridge, blinking as it hit his tongue; it was cold. How long had he been sitting here, staring at the wall?
He forced himself to relax, breathing out. Carefully, he loosened his grip on Vincent’s soul; the light around him blurred for a moment before returning to normalcy, faint wisps of steam appearing over his porridge. He took another spoonful, allowing himself a smile, then reached for a slice of sausage. The oily, dark skin of it touched his fingers, dry and unyielding. He shuddered and dropped it. The dried meat and fruit loomed from the plate, their scent suddenly turning his stomach.
Vernon sat down across from him as he pushed the plate away, carrying two mugs of coffee; the auditor slid one over to Michael before lifting his own. “You look like shit,” he said.
Michael grunted his assent and took a sip of the coffee, finding it much more to his liking. He let the warm lip of the mug rest against his chin, then took another, longer sip. “Didn’t sleep well,” he said. “Dreams.”
“Mm,” Vernon replied. He took a sip of his own drink.
The two men sat in silence, nursing their coffee. When his was half-gone, Michael looked up. “I assume you heard what happened yesterday,” he said.
Vernon smiled at the half-pun. “Someone may have mentioned it,” he said. “Was it bad?”
Michael paused, then shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, it just - it was what it was.”
“Sometimes life doesn’t have a proper sense of timing,” Vernon said. “A moment is a moment long no matter what’s happening.” He set his mug down. “From what I’ve heard, it sounds like the grand marshal set you up.”
“Yes and no,” Michael said, waggling his hand. “We’ve all set each other up, in a sense.” He drained the last of his coffee in a large gulp, wincing. “Ah. We’re all using each other to - see if we are what we’ve claimed to be. The Mendiko claimed to be powerful, but never wanted to test it for fear of what would happen. Antolin just-” He shrugged and gestured.
Vernon nodded. “What’s good for Gharon is good for Ghar,” he said. “Fair enough. It sounds like you don’t resent him for it, so I won’t presume to get angry on your behalf.”
Michael looked up, half-startled. “You were angry?” he asked.
“I was thinking about it,” Vernon shrugged. “The boss was, for sure. I’m still not sure that she hasn’t appeared in Antolin’s quarters to give him a lashing.”
A smile managed its way onto Michael’s lips. “I should probably talk to her at some point. I just - didn’t feel much like talking yesterday.”
“That was the consensus opinion,” Vernon said. “Charles wanted to get you drunk, and then when the boss threatened to stab him he wanted to get Luc drunk. I think he ended up polishing off a bottle with some of the Mendiko tank mechanics.”
An unpleasant tightness spread in Michael’s chest. “How is Luc?” he asked. “He was right there in the thick of it. I should have visited him yesterday, but I just - couldn’t.”
Vernon made a noncommittal noise, jerking his head back towards the quarters. “About normal,” he said. “By which I mean he’s not doing well, but he’ll get better. You weren’t the only one who noticed; Unai has been keeping an eye on him. I imagine he’ll figure out something appropriate.”
Michael nodded, feeling some of the tightness flow away. “Thanks,” he sighed. “There’s just so much happening so quickly, after all this time preparing.” He stared into the bottom of his mug, then looked up to Vernon. “How are you doing?”
“Me?” Vernon asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m fine. I take my shifts on perimeter guard when they ask, then I relax in the airship when they don’t. I’ve long imagined the day the resistance would take up arms, but I never anticipated that it would come with hot breakfast.” He toasted Michael with the last of his coffee, then drained it. “So thank you. With Mendian involved, this insanity might actually work.”
“You’re welcome,” Michael sighed. “Though I’m still not sure I’ve done anything praiseworthy here.”
Vernon shrugged and stood, collecting both mugs. “Might be hard to see from your perspective,” he said. “This War stood at a stalemate for years before you came along. Now things are shifting for the better. To you it might seem like it’s worse, because the moment is worse - violence, panic, destruction. But it’s change from what was, and with change comes hope.”
Stolen novel; please report.
The auditor smiled, gesturing towards Michael with a mug. “You did that,” he said. “No more boot on our neck. So cheer up - or go talk to the boss, she’ll set you straight.” Vernon hummed tunelessly and wandered away towards the mess kitchen, a faint smile on his face.
Michael watched him go, then absently took another spoonful of his porridge. He made a face as the cold glop touched his tongue - then sighed, and reheated it once more.
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“I don’t like it,” Antolin grumbled, running one finger along the line of his jaw. “The first engagement was a probe, the rest have fallen back well before we arrived.”
“He may not have the strength to engage us,” one of the other officers present said, walking around to peer at the map of Daressa from a different angle. The other command staff shifted in response; Michael watched from the side, feeling very much out of his element.
“This was the secondary front against the Ardans,” Antolin countered. “He had strength enough for an attempt, certainly. No, he’s drawing it back on purpose, forcing us to extend our supply line between his forces in Rul and the Ardans. He knows we can’t secure another beachhead easily.”
There were mutters of agreement from the others present. “Dangerous,” another officer observed. “He can collect his forces far back while we stretch our neck out, then bring the Rulian troops down anywhere along the road. We can smash whatever he’s got waiting, and we can protect our supply line - but if he draws us out to the central highlands before he gives us a fight, we won’t be able to do both.”
The first officer who had spoken made a face. “The third option, then, is to open a front with the Ardans. I doubt they’ll offer much resistance through to Leik, with their forces tied up in Imes, but we’ll pay for it in naval engagements and give the Safid free run of the country to boot. Without the Ardans to hold their advance, Taskin can collect his entire force to face us.”
“He has to know he can’t win,” the second protested. “The bulk of his force is unsouled, and what cadres of ensouled he has won’t be enough to stand against our combined arms.”
Antolin nodded his head slowly. “Don’t fight the war like you would,” he said, arching an eyebrow at the second officer. “Fight it like Taskin.” He paused, then looked to Michael. “What do you say?” he asked. “Will he stand and fight, or try to bleed us as he retreats?”
Michael looked up, surprised to be addressed - then back down at the map, though it served only to buy him a moment to collect his words. After a few seconds of thought, he raised his head. “He won’t retreat, not really. He’ll want to fight you, but he’ll want it to be - perfect.”
“Perfect,” Antolin mused. “Explain your thought.”
“He and Amira both helped us - earnestly. They wanted us to be better when we next met as enemies, so that we could properly test them.” He straightened up and walked over to the map, looking at the narrow strip of Safid-controlled Daressan land that ran between Ardan territory and the entrenched positions in Pashaluk Rul.
He pointed to the corridor. “What you said about removing the Ardans and letting the Safid regroup rings true. He’ll want there to be a single, decisive confrontation, and he’ll want to play the leading role in it. All of your forces against all of his, both at their best.”
“What of testing himself against the Ardans?” the first officer asked. “I agree with your read on Taskin, from what I’ve seen, but that same profile would also make him loath to let us win the Ardan front for him.”
Michael frowned. “Amira said that there was little at that front that interested her aside from Friedrich - and Galen, his subordinate. If he’s still recovering-” He paused, then winced. “You know, I may have fouled that up somewhat. In her eyes, I bested Friedrich in combat. She seemed very disappointed that I didn’t kill him, and said that we would be tied together until I finished the job. They’ll have no interest in facing Friedrich now that he’s been-” He gestured futilely. “Spoiled.”
“Deflowered?” another of the officers suggested, raising a round of quiet laughter. “That has the right shine to it. He wants to force us into sweeping his path clear, so that he might move on to more interesting foes.”
Antolin grunted. “Unfortunately, I think he can do it,” he said, drawing his finger along the Rulian border. “Even if the Ardans don’t object, he can harass our resupply with his Rulian forces. We’ll lose men and morale, and the advance will become a stalemate. We need a closer port, and the only viable candidate is Leik.” He looked dourly at the map, then up at Michael. “How would the Ardans react to an attack?”
“I’d guess they wouldn’t be thrilled,” Michael ventured, provoking another round of mirth. “I may be Ardan, but I have little experience with our military aside from briefly being branded a deserter.”
“Let me rephrase,” Antolin said. “The Committee of War in the Ardan Assembly would be the body tasked with responding to a Mendiko incursion into Ardan-held territory on the continent. Such a move would likely empower the interventionist faction within the Committee to act freely, and the man that faction looks to for guidance is Karl Baumgart.”
Michael pressed his lips together, feeling his heart quicken. “Ah,” he said. “You’re asking how my father would react.”
“We would likely sweep down through the highlands from the north,” Antolin said. “According to Sobriquet’s sources, there are no significant Ardan forces in the Daressan interior; most of those in the east are supply battalions or reserves. When we take them out and seize Leik, Baumgart will be left with two options: to salvage what forces he can from Imes before their supplies fail, or to deny them rescue and spend them in a last, desperate action.”
There was a grim certainty in Antolin’s last few words, and Michael found himself nodding along. “It’s as you say. The men don’t mean anything to him, if he can find a way to turn their death into a useful tool at home then he will.”
“I had guessed as much,” Antolin sighed. “Ergelkeria. I imagine he’ll be inclined to pursue naval engagements afterward, to notch a victory for the papers at home.”
Michael scratched his chin, remembering his father seething quietly over perceived slights - anger that vanished as soon as Karl left the grounds of their estate, to simmer unseen. “I don’t think he’d risk another loss,” he said. “If he could strike without consequence, he would, but he wouldn’t act in anger. He’ll wait until he sees an opportunity.”
“We can work with that,” one of the command staff said. “A show of naval force in the area, and we can base a few anti-ship wings near Leik when we fortify the city.” The man frowned. “Assuming there’s adequate land for an airstrip.”
“There is,” Sobriquet buzzed, materializing just behind him; the officer made an undignified noise and jumped aside. Some of his fellows grinned, while Antolin rubbed his brow wearily.
“There’s a farm or two close in to the city, northeast, with good roads into the port,” she said. “It should be usable for aircraft, with a little bit of artifex labor.”
“Thank you,” Antolin said. “You were listening in?”
The glimmering avatar drew itself upright. “I am Sobriquet,” she answered, leaning in ominously close. “I hear everything you say.”
Antolin sighed, unperturbed. “Of course. Since you’re gracing us with your presence, would you mind collecting details of Leik’s current garrison and defenses? If there’s a way to urge civilian populations away from military targets in advance of our incursion that would be ideal as well.”
The avatar tilted its head for a moment, holding Antolin in an eyeless glare - then she nodded, extending her hand to conjure a miniature model of Leik in midair; the officers leaned in close, their eyes alight with interest. Michael looked at it for a moment but found the words gliding past his ears without registering. After a few moments he excused himself and began to walk slowly back towards his bunk.
The talk of his father had spurred a melancholy in him that he found hard to shake, memories of his childhood surfacing with unpleasant clarity. He heard the snarl of his father’s voice, felt the whisper-quiet sharpness of his soul pressing tight.
Lost in his head, he nearly ran Luc over as the other man was emerging from his own bunk; Michael startled and stepped sideways against the corridor wall.
“Sorry,” Luc muttered, turning away. “Didn’t see you.”
“No, it was my fault,” Michael insisted, stepping closer. “I’ve been - distracted, today.”
Luc turned to face him, his eyes briefly flitting up to Michael’s face before straying back down to the floor. He flared with a confusing jumble of emotion - anger, pain and betrayal raced through him, bright notes in a surging sea of fear.
“Luc, I’m sorry,” Michael said. “Ghar’s ashes, I didn’t want that any more than you did. It was just - necessary. There was no other good path out.”
“He couldn’t have hurt you,” Luc said, his fists clenching. “I’ve seen you move. You could have waited, let the soldiers catch him.”
Michael shook his head, his mind racing to distill the ephemeral realizations from that moment into words. “They would have killed him too,” he said. “I can’t let others-”
“They would have only shot him, or stabbed him,” Luc protested, his eyes coming up to Michael’s with a sullen intensity. “We healed the others who tried to fight. We could have healed him, or at least tried. The way you did it - you made sure he was dead.”
“I-” Michael frowned, his words jumbling before they reached his tongue. The explanation of his decision rang hollow in his mind, the words not doing justice to what he had seen. That Antolin would have continued to interfere, that the Safid had built themselves irrevocably around the pillar of conflict, that sparing him would have changed nothing. The concepts loomed larger in his mind, tied to truths that resisted being dragged forth in plain language.
Eventually he sighed and shook his head. “I judged it necessary,” Michael said. “Every alternative I could see in that moment would have been worse, would have led to greater death or pain later.” He saw Luc’s mutinous expression and spread his arms. “If I saw any way to spare him-”
“You could have stayed on the airship,” Luc muttered.
Michael blinked. “Antolin asked me to come down,” he said.
“You can’t say no to Antolin?” Luc rasped. “Would he punish you for refusing?”
“No,” Michael admitted, “but I trusted that he had a reason for asking me down, and he did.”
Luc burst with bitter incredulity. “He wants to make you fight! To use your soul, yes? He wants conflict, as does Leire, and they’re using you to get it.”
“Not all conflict is evil,” Michael retorted. “Sometimes it’s necessary! You met Saleh, the same as I did - you met Amira! Do you think they’re better than Leire and Antolin? Do you think it would be a kinder world with them in power?”
“The power is the problem,” Luc said. “The soul is the problem. Everyone who has it wants to use it. You say souls can’t be evil, but what has yours led you to?” He raised his fists, then cast them down in frustration, tears welling in his eyes.
“It takes and takes, and becomes so terribly strong that everyone rushes to your side screaming for you to use that power.” Luc’s anger crested, then faltered as he sagged against the bulkhead, wiping at his eyes. “I don’t - you’re not evil. Antolin and Leire, they’re not evil. I believe they want good and work for it as best they can.”
He straightened back up, his eyes hardening. “But so did the doctor, yes? He thought he was doing good work. He wanted to make life better for everyone, like many people do - but he was given Spark’s soul. It made a wide, easy path to the goal he wanted, and he took it.”
“I don’t think his soul was the only factor,” Michael said. “He placed no value on human life.”
Luc frowned, then sighed. “I never met him before he gained his soul,” he said. “So I couldn’t say. But he was friends with your Jeorg, yes? And with Leire? He was perhaps not a good person even then, but he was at least not such a monster that others couldn’t bear to live by him.” Luc tapped two fingers lightly against his chest. “But he listened to his soul. Used it for years.”
“So did Jeorg,” Michael said. “And Leire. They never turned into the same sort of monster that Spark became.”
Luc laughed, sharp and sad. “I would wager that out of those three, it isn’t the doctor who has killed the most,” he said. “It’s not just the killing that is evil, though, it’s the - imposition, the command. The knowledge that you can reach out and reshape the world to fix it - but every time you do, the world fights back all the more. It balances conflict with conflict. The only clear path is never to feed that violence, and work to better the world in smaller ways.”
The change becomes violence. Jeorg’s voice echoed in Michael’s head, wry and certain. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Luc,” he said. “I think you’re right. I think you’re right in a lot of ways, but - what is the alternative to fighting Saleh? If he has his way, the War will sweep the world. If Leire has hers, we can bring power to the world that doesn’t derive from souls, balance the scales. Neither path is pleasant, but one end seems much better to me than the other.”
Luc pressed his lips together, looking away. “I know,” he said. “I don’t have any answers, I just-” His voice broke, and he slouched against the wall. “His name was Raed. He had hurt his leg, and I could fix it, and I did. All the rest, though, I can’t fix.”
The name shivered into Michael’s consciousness, hanging prominent in his thoughts. “Raed,” he said, his mouth dry. “Did you have a chance to talk with him much?”
“Only a few words,” Luc said quietly. “But you get a sense of a person, with a few words.”
Michael nodded, then leaned against the wall beside Luc. “Would you tell me?” he asked.
Luc looked up, meeting Michael’s eyes for a moment before nodding.