Kingfisher did remain silent as he stalked the darkened corridors of the mock Mothership. As he moved, the red dot on the radar moved with him, repositioning for its eventual ambush.
Inside the cockpit, Kingfisher smiled. Relished the thrill of the hunt. This was the good kind of not-nothing. The kind that made him want to stay in the moment, rather than leave everything behind.
“I’m going to be fully honest with you, Zelen. I’m contacting you now in the hopes of giving you a choice. To stay and keep fighting in an endless war. Or to desert the Joint Forces and strike out on a new path. An attempt to break the cycle.”
Before long, Kingfisher and the red dot aligned themselves across a darkened wall. He knew what was coming. Had seen it a thousand times (had he though? If he had, he couldn’t remember any of it). A whirlwind of metal, smoke, and someone else’s blackness.
“The General and every leader before him have been perpetuating a lie. Most likely, they themselves had been deceived, generation after generation, to the point where they wholly and sincerely believe in the lie. It’s a lie that goes back farther than Old Earth. Farther than the 140 years since Akropolis’s founding…”
An obsidian phantom—or at least its mock-up—burst out of the wall. Svelte muscular limbs in the twisted imitation of an Eidolon. Even now, its right arm shot toward Kingfisher with a red [MISERICORDE]. The Reiter parried this easily with a swing of LA [GLADIUS], followed by a shot from RA [BLUNDERBUSS] at point blank range.
The HUD exploded into confused pixels, with the simulation system unable to faithfully replicate the ensuing clash of blue-on-red. The Vendetta had blocked Kingfisher’s shot with a red LS [SCUTUM]. Inside the cockpit, the Reiter smiled again.
“I know it’s hard to believe. It was hard for me also… until I experienced it for myself. But… I believe that you, Zelen, are not entirely without a point of reference. Can you remember the Mothership? Dark recursive corridors like the one you’re simulating now? Can you remember the conversation you had with your Spiegel? With Silon?”
Silon. The abyss roiled within someone else’s chest. Focus on the hunt. Focus on the kill.
The Vendetta thrust away, farther down the darkened corridor. Kingfisher gave chase, harried it with RS [MISSILE LAUNCHER]. Funnelled it back toward himself. The Vendetta obliged, realigning itself with the Eidolon before thrusting forward and deploying RS and LA armaments at once: [BOMBARDIER] and [GATLING].
“I know it’s painful. I know it might be impossible. But try to remember. Try to remember Silon and what she meant to you. Remember the truths you and she discovered, shared, fought for together. Remember them, and try to move forward.”
Focus on the hunt. Focus on the kill. Kingfisher quickthrust to dodge [BOMBARDIER], opted to eat the chip damage from [GATLING], and waited. Delayed, hesitated—just for an instant, enough to bait the cornered prey into a false sense of victory.
The Vendetta obliged, zooming toward him with right arm poised, [MISERICORDE] back off cooldown. Kingfisher met this charge with a sudden burst of his own, leaning LS [SCUTUM]-first until he crashed and drove his entire momentum into the mock Syntropy. A shoulder tackle, back down the corridor and into the wall. The prey was immobilized. At his mercy.
First, LA [GLADIUS] came back online. With a swift shift in weight and a decisive upward swing, Kingfisher drove the blue blade across the Vendetta’s central chassis and into its neck. Next, RA [BLUNDERBUSS], which he aimed with a raised arm and emptied its charge into the Vendetta’s swivelling SPU.
The hunt was over. And with it, calm—nothing—descended once again. The whirlwind waned into the unseen distance. The abyss settled back into the depth of someone else’s chest. All was right with the world. A Reiter and the carcass of his enemy sliding onto his feet.
Inside the cockpit, Zelen Athelstan’s smile faded into nothingness.
“We don’t have much time, Zelen. I apologize for the roughness, but I don’t know any other way. I’m going to [EVOKE] again, share with you a memory that I hope can—”
“There’s no need.”
“… Zelen, don’t speak! The General can’t hear me, but you’re still—”
“I agree with everything you ask of me. You’re my family. Who else would I fight for if not my family?”
Silence. Zelen didn’t like silence. Because silence let the whispers in. Tempted and agitated the not-nothings. He wished Asena would fill the silence with directions. Affirmations. Anything.
“Zelen, do you know what you’re saying? I said I wanted to give you a choice, but do you understand what this choice means? What it means to desert… to become Akropolis’s enemy?”
“As long as you’re on my side, I’ll be anyone’s enemy. I’ll fight anything you want me to.”
Silence. Zelen didn’t like silence.
“You said yourself that we don’t have time. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
~February 25th, 140 AH~
~Joint Base Akra, Eidolon Hangar~
For as long as he could remember, Fenix Duodecim had been obsessed with one thing and one thing alone: purpose.
As the oldest child among his generation of Duodecims, a sense of purpose was drilled into him from an early age. Set an example for his younger siblings. Lead a new generation of Tetrarchs toward prosperity and victory. Then he Ascended, differentiated into the first Reiter among his generation of Duodecims, and his purpose became ever more refined, ever more singular.
Nothing was clearer than the imperative of battle. There was a thing trying to kill him. He needed to kill it first. To this day, he’d never experienced anything purer, more edifying, more fulfilling than the knife’s edge of a deadly battle. To this day, he missed the battlefield with an intensity he could barely keep under lid.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
But age caught up to all men—even a man like Fenix Duodecim. As his prowess waned, so too did his purpose shift. From killing back to leading. The sense of purpose ingrained in him as a child now sparked anew with rejuvenated focus. If he couldn’t keep killing, he’d teach other men to kill in his stead. Impart in the younger generations the same sense of purpose that defined him—that had laid the foundations of Akropolis itself.
To him, the War was sacred. The War was all. He couldn’t imagine life without it, and he couldn’t understand the vagaries of feebler minds who’d reject the notion, would seek to find meaning elsewhere in life. He couldn’t understand these lesser beings, but he loved them all the same. For in the end, all of Akropolis’s children served the War, in ways large and small. They were all brethren born to a common purpose.
When, as part of the handover from the previous General, he learned of the true nature of the Spiegel Program, his first reaction was envy. Followed by awe. Followed by endless admiration.
To dedicate one’s entire consciousness to serving the War, to elevating its Warriors, free of all the impurities and extraneities that could only distract from their mission—their purpose. He knew of no nobler Akropolitans than the Spiegels. He thanked them, cherished them, was inspired by them to do more. Be the leader the Spiegels and their Reiter partners deserved.
When, as part of an emergency meeting called by his brightest and most promising Reiter, he learned of the return of the Mothership—far sooner than anyone had anticipated, than had been predicted by historical trends—his first reaction was relief. Followed by gratitude. Followed by raging battle-lust.
The War hadn’t ended after all. His enemy proved as resilient—as worthy—as ever. There was more to come. More killing. More leading. More fulfillment of purpose, to be spearheaded by his magnum opus: Kingfisher, the most effective killing machine he’d ever nurtured.
And when that brightest and most promising of Reiters had self-combusted—had shown himself to be as feeble-minded as the lesser beings that comprised far too much of Akropolis—Fenix met this news with disappointment and sorrow. Disappointment at his own failure—failure to guide and maximize Zelen Athelstan’s potential. And sorrow at the senseless waste of a perfectly good Warrior.
But no more. The universe had deemed fit to grant him a second chance. This time, he wouldn’t let impurities and extraneities lead Kingfisher astray. This time, he would be the model and guidance the boy needed, in his quest to fulfill the purpose ordained him by the Nexus. Starting with…
Presently, Fenix stood beside his human boulder of a nephew, watching the data that streamed into the external monitor.
Absent visual or auditory aid, he nevertheless saw Kingfisher’s simulated fight unfold as though he was inside the cockpit himself. His own muscles tensed with every thrust, every armament activation. And when Kingfisher killed the agile enemy with a masterful pin-down technique, Fenix’s own heart soared with elation.
The boy had faced down his worst nightmare: an obsidian phantom that lurked within a darkened corridor. And not only did his Reserves remain stable throughout the fight, he’d showcased the precision and efficiency of a seasoned Warrior at the height of his prowess—the brightest and most promising of his Reiters.
“By god,” Fenix murmured, more to himself than to his nephew, “he hasn’t lost a single step. We could send him out today and he’d instantly become our best killer once again.”
Beside him, however, Collima frowned at the screen, one hand pressing against his headset as if straining to hear.
“Something isn’t right, sir,” the younger Duodecim muttered. “The Spiegels… they just went silent. I don’t think the Tethering took.”
Fenix’s smile twitched, ever so slightly. That couldn’t be right. He saw the signals from the beginning of the simulation. The Spiegels had descended upon Kingfisher as children flocked to candy. More confirmation that the boy’s once feeble mind had healed and reinvented itself enough to—
“Hang on, I’m getting something,” Collima said, then his frown deepened. “But… this isn’t right either. Who the hell is he talking to?”
Fenix’s smile all but faded completely. He leaned closer to his nephew.
“Speak up, son. Intervene if you have to.”
“This is Hawkbit. Additional briefing incoming. Kingfisher, acknowledge? Kingfisher?”
Silence. The data on the monitor had also stopped moving, with the cursor stuck on the last line that described the manner of the Vendetta’s elimination.
“No response,” Collima reported as his free hand typed furiously on the console. Beads of sweat formed on his brow beneath the rim of his headset. “Sir, I think… I think someone might be jamming the radio.”
Fenix didn’t get a chance to respond. For it was at that moment that Kingfisher’s midnight-blue Eidolon launched itself out of the docking bay.
The General momentarily reeled from the force and heat of the thrusters. Eyes blinded by the flash of blue light and face stinging from the burn, he nevertheless bent down and dragged his nephew back onto his feet.
“How many Reiters are standing by on base?” he shouted to hear himself over the ringing in his ears.
“Wh—what?”
Fenix shook Collima bodily, willing his feeble-minded nephew to rise to the occasion.
“I asked you a simple question, son. How many of our Reiter boys are here on base, ready to deploy at short notice?”
“Twelve—no, thirteen?”
“Spindrift one of them?”
“No, sir. He’s on an escort mission with the scout drones.”
“Then we’ll make do without him. Send out an alarm. Code fucking Red. All available Reiters on deck, to deploy immediately and pursue Kingfisher. Capture him alive if possible. But if not… put him out of his misery.”
“… Ye—yes, sir!”
Fenix stood back and watched as his nephew fumbled with and babbled into his headset. He watched as the entire hangar filled with activity. Sprinting Reiters. Flustered Jaegers. Shouting Panzers. Feeble minds that needed the guidance of an iron fist.
He watched as his boys—the killing machines he’d nurtured toward a singular collective purpose—clambered into their metallic giants. He watched as these giants roared to life—anointed by the ghostly blue of the Nexus.
Then he watched as—one by one, Eidolon by Eidolon—the blue light faded.
For one eerie moment, complete silence ruled the crowded hangar. Wide eyes everywhere darted and met, searching for an answer—an explanation for the impossibility that unfolded before them.
Beside Fenix, his nephew was the first to break the silence. “I don’t… I don’t understand, sir. Complete shutdown. All of them. To a one, the Reiters’ Psychic Reserves have been depleted. They’re… they’re incapacitated. Undeployable.”
Collima threw down his headset and stood, his fightened eyes boring into Fenix with a desperate question: how?
Fenix himself didn’t know the how. But he could guess at the why and the who. Answers and speculations that didn’t bear sharing with his nephew. At least not now, when the only person capable of salvaging this situation was himself.
In the end, for all his leadership and guidance, his children had failed him. Kingfisher threw away his second chance. The Reiter Regiment, as a whole, failed to rise to the occasion. Perhaps the worst betrayal of all—certainly the most hurtful—was that of the Spiegels. He’d cherished them. Had even looked up to them. But in the end, even the purest noblest servants of the War had given into their lesser natures.
“Send a runner to fetch my old jumpsuit,” he spoke softly, giving his final orders as a retired killer, “and load up one of them model ES-Fs, one that’s not connected to the Spiegel network. Guess it’s up to this old-timer to show you youngsters how it’s done.”