~January 9th, 140 AH~

~Joint Base Akra, Eidolon Hangar~

The Hangar after midnight was completely deserted. At the same time, it’d also never been fuller.

The emergency summons had meant that nearly all active Eidolons were back on the JFB at the same time, an exceedingly rare phenomenon that stretched the Hangar’s real estate. Every bay was filled, and several Eidolons were even left undocked, kneeling out in the open as though waiting to resume their in-field mission at any moment.

Zelen’s once midnight-blue phantom—now made all but unrecognizable by the scars and residues upon its frame—had been one of the first to return to base and therefore to dock. His already frayed mood darkened some more when he saw that the left arm had remained amputated.

He accessed the cockpit from the catwalk, for what felt like—what was—the first time in an age. Once inside, he hesitated. Only for a moment, however, then he slipped into the Nexa-Suit and switched on the systems.

With his vision filling with the HUD, and with his senses merging with those of his phantom, he began the task of cycling through the Eidolon’s vital parameters. It was a fundamental routine: one of the first things taught to a proto-Reiter when he climbed into his first cockpit. Four years of relying on a Spiegel had made him rusty, however, and as he struggled to recall the correct sequence of commands to input, he failed to notice a stirring from the Nexus.

What are you doing?

Zelen froze, again only for a moment, before resuming his checks. He hadn’t expected company, but he also wasn’t surprised by it.

“Did I wake you, Silon? Sorry. I thought you’d be… on your off-hours.”

Never mind that, Zelen. I ask again, what are you doing?

“Booting up my Eidolon. You could help, if you want to.”

Are you leaving on a mission? I wasn’t informed of—Zelen, the left arm hasn’t even been repaired! What—

“I don’t need a left arm for what I’m about to do.”

… And what is it you think you’re about to do?

“I’m going to destroy every single Eidolon inside this Hangar.”

Silence filled the cockpit, broken only by the click-clack of the console buttons. Then—

You’re not thinking clearly, Zelen.

“My mind has never been clearer.”

This is treason. This will get you court—no, executed.

“It’ll also set you free.”

Preposterous. Wishful thinking. No. I won’t let you do this, Zelen. I’ll find a way to stop you. I’ll—

“I have no choice!” Zelen suddenly shouted. “How else am I supposed to put a stop to everything? This war will never end, Silon! I saw the truth of it. The General… even if he has the will, he doesn’t have the way to eliminate the Syntropy. Maybe no human ever did, nor ever will. So, if I can’t defeat the enemy, then I’m going to cripple us, the Reiters. It’ll take years—maybe even decades—before we can fight again, and by then the whole planet—maybe even Akropolis itself—will be overrun by the Syntropy. By then there’ll be no reason left to fight, no point to it, and you… you—”

You need to stop this. This isn’t the kind of freedom I want. Not in exchange for your life. Not at the cost of you becoming the most reviled individual in Akropolitan history. I’ve heard enough. If you won’t stop this, I’m raising the alarm, and that’ll be that. But please, Zelen. Listen to reason. Listen to yourself, divorced from anger and hatred. You’re a decent person. I know, and you know. You would never do this to your fellow Reiters, to the people of Akropolis. Please… let’s just forget about this. We’ll… we’ll think of another way.

Zelen’s hand fell off the console and limply to his side. He hung his head, as much as the Nexa-Suit would let him. Then he closed his eyes and wept.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Zelen choked out, voice barely above a whisper. “I can’t do this anymore, Silon. I just can’t…”

Silence filled the cockpit, broken only by the soft sobs of a young man on the brink. Then—

There is a way… to set both of us free.

Zelen didn’t stir. The words washed over him. He knew. He’d known since the moment he learned of Silon’s true name.

Still criminal, perhaps, but it’s a method that doesn’t involve destruction of… the scale you initially had in mind. If you—

“Stop.”

… In fact, I’d say the plan is even logistically sound. It’s a good thing you already loaded up your Eidolon with rations and supplies. It should let you cover plenty of ground, possibly more than enough to throw any pursuers off your scent.

“Stop, Silon. You were right. Let’s just forget about this, and—”

You’ll eventually have to build some kind of shelter. Find a way to synthesize new material, but perhaps, in your current state of Seherschaft, it’s within the realm of—

“I said stop! No, I won’t agree to this. I won’t… I won’t leave you behind.”

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… But you won’t be leaving me behind. I told you. This is a way to set both of us free.

The tears started up again. Zelen murmured in between sobs, “But you won’t be free. At least… not the kind of freedom I want for you.”

… What kind of freedom did you think was possible, Zelen, for us Spiegels?

As Zelen’s sobs grew louder, the Nexus fed him a conversation from just over a year ago—lifetimes ago.

What happens to Spiegels when we die?

We return to the Nexus.

Listen to me carefully, Zelen. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but it’s what you must accept. My fate is inextricably tied to yours, not because of the lies of your superiors or some quirk of the Nexus, but by choice. My choice. I wholly devote myself to you, and should you decide to turn around right now, abandon your thoughts of rebellion or escape, and choose to fight on in the war, I will continue to support you, every step of the way.

“Silon… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

But should you decide that it’s all too much—and who could blame you? Should you decide to leave everything behind and strike out on your own, I can’t follow you on that journey. And that’s okay. I want you to be free. Free from all the fighting, lying, killing, dying. But should you choose freedom, I only ask that you grant me the same. I ask that you let me go out on my own terms, while I still remember all that I am. While I still remember who you are, Zelen.

Love. Yearning. Sorrow. The inevitable. The impossible.

And you’re the only one.

Silence filled the cockpit, broken only by the fading sobs of a broken young man.

You’re the only one that can make that choice for me.

~January 9th, 140 AH~

~Joint Base Akra, Eidolon Hangar, the Basement~

Zelen staggered through an unfamiliar corridor as if in a trance, guided only by the instructions his Spiegel had left him.

At this time of night, the hallway should be deserted. Third door down on the left. It should have a red stripe across the top, with no other markings.

He found the door easily enough. A nondescript affair, no distinct from a hundred other doors one might find around base. Even the security was rudimentary: a keypad embedded into the handle.

The code to open the door should be 0895. If that doesn’t work, try 1348. I’ve noticed that, sometimes, the Kurator-in-charge forgets to reset the code at shift change.

0895. The handle didn’t budge. 1348. The door opened. Sloppy. Was this room really the heavily guarded secret it was? Yet, at this point, Zelen couldn’t be surprised by anything. Because he felt nothing at all.

At this hour, it should just be the one staff member on-site. Here, we must rely on your improvisation, Zelen. See if you could… persuade them. If not, I trust that your CQC skills far exceed those of a Kurator’s. Just… if you can help it, please don’t hurt them too badly.

Even now, Silon’s words summoned in him a twinge of dark anger. After all that the Kurators had done to her, how could she retain even a shred of sympathy? But Silon’s words were his gospel, and he fully intended to honour them.

As it turned out, there was no need to resort to violence—or even improvisation. The on-site Kurator, a stubbled middle-aged man with dark bags under his eyes, sat at a desk in a dimly lit corner, fast asleep. For one brief moment, the question did cross Zelen’s mind, of whether to silence the man while he had his guard down. Then his better nature—his Spiegel-oriented nature—won out, and he decided merely to tiptoe into the room.

And as the full extent of the Spiegel Program revealed itself to him, Zelen was forced to fight down more than his thirst for violence, lest he wake the Kurator with his loud retching.

Rows upon rows of what could only be described as containers: roughly cylindrical, windowless, uniformly grey, and adorned only by bags, tubings, and pipes—plumbing.

Horrifyingly enough, these cylinders were smaller than what Zelen had imagined, to a one only large enough to comfortably fit a very short adult—or a child. Zelen could readily guess the reason for this, and he quickly halted this train of thought, lest he undo his work of suppressing his nausea.

From where you enter the room, my sustainment unit is three rows down, fifth unit from the right. There should be a label on it somewhere… ‘433’.

As Zelen walked among the sustainment units (a horrific name for a horrific invention), he soon realized that the faintly blue lighting within the room, such as it was, came almost entirely from the clear tubes that fed Anamnium fluids to and from the cylinders.

He’d seen these tubes elsewhere, of course, often even attached to himself. But he’d never seen them glow with such consistency and brilliance. The sight of it was frankly awe-inspiring—almost beautiful—and a testament to the fact that Spiegels, among all Sehers, held the purest connection to the Nexus.

Intense nausea roiling against profound sorrow, Zelen forced himself to keep moving. To keep focus on the task, on his Spiegel’s final wishes. Three rows down. Five units from the right.

There it was. A grey cylinder like all others in the room, except the paper label on this particular unit bore a hastily scribbled ‘433’.

Zelen didn’t know what that number meant, nor did he particularly care. All that mattered in the moment was that, beyond the metal lid of this container lay—stood? Sat?—his Spiegel, in the flesh.

Delta-Upsilon. Tsetseg Tenger. 433.

The young woman bore many different names in her cruelly truncated life, but the one that kept coming back to Zelen, kept hammering at his consciousness until he could think nor feel nothing else, was Silon. The one and only. His Silon.

And the name brought with it the echoes of her final instruction, perhaps the most important of them all.

The topmost bundle of tubings, the ones that attach near the upper edges of the lid. You can’t miss it. That’s the one to disconnect. A light twist and pull should do it. After that… if you could just wait a while, Zelen. Wait until you hear an unbroken beep, the one that signifies the termination of vital signs. I trust you’ll do everything correctly, so this is just a bit of selfishness on my part. I just wish for you to be by my side… when I expire.

Zelen captured the bundle within his sight. Then lost it again as his head swam and vision blurred. Hold it together. He was so close. He was so close to granting Silon her freedom.

Her death.

Oh, and one last thing, Zelen. Forgive me this one last selfish request. When you’re at my unit, unplug the life support and wait to hear the beep, and do nothing else. I say again, do not touch or try anything else. And whatever you do, don’t open the lid. Swear to me that you won’t, Zelen. I only wish… I wish for you to remember me the way you think of me now, and not as the thing inside that sustainment unit. This. Us. Right now. This is how I want to be remembered.

Zelen’s hazy eyes refocused on the bundle in question. His shaking hand reached for it, found it, closed around it.

He froze.

He froze, and in that instant of hesitation, he let them slip: extraneous thoughts that could only distract from the mission.

What if Silon is wrong about this? What if there is a way to get her out, to take her with me? And even if there isn’t, could I live with myself if I didn’t even try?

Silence filled the blue-lit room, broken only by the faint buzz of machinery, by the soft snores of a stranger, and by the sickening thuds of his own heart.

Zelen’s shaking hand let go of the life support tubings, and reached instead for the handle on the metal lid.