Pasha Adderey relishes in the triumph of violating the gathering’s tranquility as if finding them as a herd of animals in a secluded jungle clearing. They are like monkeys hunched over their fruits plucked from trees. They bark useless points into conversations, orders requiring years to fulfill, and plans that will never come to fruition.

“Decided to come this year?” they all say, plain as the Lone Soldier looking down on her—judging her.

“Decide come year?”

“Decicomeyear?”

“Demeyer?”

“…”

Wish I hadn’t, Pasha thinks, tuning out their questions and remarks that meld into an indistinguishable soup. It was a long ride coming to Vesh’Foktle for the meeting, but at least she had time to sleep.

Lieutenant General Herbert Gauss holds two thumbs to his uniform’s suspenders as he waddles in next to her, pulling away only some of the stares. “Awkward bunch, aren’t they?”

“The absolute worst.” Pasha takes a seat in one of the waiting room’s benches, well within everyone’s eyesight, just to anchor herself and show she’s not going anywhere. Across from her, outside the meeting hall’s double door, an adolescent sits and writes away on a notepad. Pasha points to her. “She is the lucky one.”

Gauss takes the seat beside Pasha. “How so?”

Pasha studies the adolescent girl to forget about the attention choking her. The girl must be approaching her twenties. Pasha will be there soon, too. Sooner than you think. “I envy her. Carefree. No responsibility.”

“Were you hoping for the same fate after you abolished the Decree?”

Pasha can’t deny she had hoped for some relief. “Maybe a lift would have been nice.” Yet, who is she kidding? The weight of the Decree’s responsibility had left to make room for more significant needs, even if the people gathering here now don’t believe it. Do they think she’s been sitting around all this time?

Those days return, and the events leading up to burning the Decree. “I haven’t forgiven you,” she tells Gauss.

“Why’s that?”

“I could argue that you made me burn the city.” She looks at him. “I’m tempted to take you up on that promise of slitting your throat, you know. Remember that?”

Gauss’s hands take a break from prattling his stomach. “I would be defenseless against you.” He spreads his palms open. “Cast me down anytime, Signature.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Signature?”

“Just, Pasha.”

“I don’t refer to ladies in such a manner, even if they’ve lived more than a century.”

Pasha looks down. “There has to be someone who eclipses me. Some sort of Olm-infused.”

“Maybe there’s one here among us.” Gauss leans in, hushes, and looks around. “You’ve talked to many of them in mycorrhizal once or twice. I don’t recall all their names, either, but I’m gonna guess.” He aims his flat nose across the room. “That must be…”

“Governor Gable Caddock of Bijigress.” Pasha has no trouble distinguishing the man’s sun-blasted skin from the crowd, the way it wrinkles and peels. She learned on the ride over that this foreigner rose through the political landscape and enforced ruthless policies that were not socially aware but were efficient and exactly what the city needed. “But who is that man with him?”

The subject of her fascination is a balding man, his dark shaded skin a stark contrast to the governor’s burnt complexion. On the other hand, this official looks well-fit to saunter around in Bijigress’s heat.

Gauss leans in and squints, perhaps to make it obvious he is watching. “I believe that is their Shipspinner Elder, Percival Traigus. Ah, yes. Definitely is.”

Pasha frowns. “Why bring a shipspinner to the Smatter?”

“Talking points?” Though Gauss sounds just as unsure.

She makes a game of the room, the goal to find the governors or representatives of the Smatter Council’s four cities. She’s seen two now, including herself. That Kaskit’s gone this long without a governor is a badge of pride.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Pasha imagines walking up to each of them and showing how much political red tape she circumvented when she finds the third target in her game. The woman smiles and waves as she converses with the men before her.

“Governess, then, of…” Pasha inspects a complicated array of instruments hanging from a strap that belongs to a larger haversack at the woman’s side. She looks like she just stepped out of a lab or is on the way to one. “Vesh’Foktle.”

The distinction isn’t difficult to make. Vesh’Foktle, one of the four primary cities in the Smatter and the one they’re in now, sits the furthest inland, with Bijigress to its east and Lapasia to its west. The protection of two cities on either side almost obligated Vesh’Foktle to pursue the path it takes today, not of military, but of arts and science. She has heard that it is not uncommon to find an academy in the city that quadruples the student body of Galt Alese.

Gauss nods. “Her husband, the late Governor Illfallow, died just after the meeting last year, and Helena was more than happy to take up the position.”

Husband. Pasha reminds herself that despite everything happening in the world, cities like Vesh’Foktle still adhere to old customs, no matter how inefficient. What’s the point of marriage anymore?

Pasha wonders if it’s a good thing to let the world’s scientists run the world. Since the Surgeon Elder James Anthem, she’s had trouble trusting anyone so progressed in their field.

“Not as happy as you think.” Governess Illfallow’s voice travels across the room, carving through the conversation like a knife through the neck. As she steps forward, Pasha places her as the tallest woman in the room and perhaps the entire city. Whatever discussion her entourage had been privy to ceases, and they follow Helena Illfallow. She beckons them to wait and squats to be seen at Pasha’s eye level. “How are you, Signature?”

The question takes Pasha off guard. She blinks, and her eyes become murky. When was the last time anyone asked her how she was doing? No one in Bijigress, certainly. Since stepping off the gondola, it seems she’s had to justify her existence. No, she thinks. That urge to justify started once you burned your city. “I am… well, Governess.”

“Call me Helena, Signature. Please.”

“And call me Pasha.”

The woman shakes her head, nodding with Gauss. Then, she takes Pasha’s clammy hands in her own, which are equally as moist. “I see the stares they’re throwing you here, Signature. I’m not blind, and you’re not either. They’re military types. They’re on edge. Whenever you have your head down the iron sights, you start to forget that there are people in this world. You forget that these are not just warm bodies you’re protecting, but souls.” She smiles. “Come to my labs. They’re not far from here. I’ll show you what we’ve been working on.” She reveals pristine white teeth that could have been stranded there. “Marvelous things. Things I think you’ll appreciate very much.”

Pasha doesn’t know what to say at first. This hospitality is more than anything she ever expected to receive. With all the room’s eyes on the two women, this could be a ploy from the governess to gain rapport or notoriety—to be admired even by the unadmirable. Still, her words seem plain and infused with care.

“Thank you.” Pasha swallows. “I will try.”

Illfallow’s eyes relax behind her massive spectacles. “Frankly,” she goes on, “I think most of them showed up because of you. This is a full house. Some of them didn’t even think you were real until today. Can you believe that?” She releases Pasha’s hands. “Presley believed it, though.”

Gauss rescues them from the following silence. “A very bold and assertive man, Presley was.”

“Tenacious with his knowledge, though,” says the governess. “As we all are sometimes.” She shares a look with Pasha and a flicker of potential ricochets between them. How much does this governess know? “My advisers are too busy having fun in their labs,” Illfallow continues, rising, “so my balcony in the council will be mostly unoccupied today. If you need a seat, I can share some space.”

“I would very-”

“The seating arrangements are defined, councilwomen.” The man who speaks points his chin to the ceiling as if he’s a harpoon gun ready to fire. His long hair reaches past his waist and is the shade of a toxic mixture. “I would appreciate it if you kept the arrangements the same.” His tone leaves no other option.

Illfallow steps back.

“Council Bearer Estensheer,” Pasha says, smirking. “Happy to see me?”

“I’m certainly happy when people do as they’re expected, Ms. Adderey.”

There we go. Title-less—not Signature or Guardianship or anything else. Just another pedestrian joining the world’s citizenry. She is okay with letting those nice to her and close to her address her by name, but not this lout.

“Will you be joining us?” asks Marito Val Estensheer. “Or do you have an excuse for not attending this time?”

Pasha presses back the question with a shrug. “I’m here now.”

“Right now, yes, but what about the other years? You’ve been alive since 30 AB. It is now 128 AB.” He huffs as if Pasha is mud under his shoe. “My grandfather voiced his frustrations about you, you know that?”

Pasha doesn’t give a shit about the council bearer’s grandfather. She stands, and the whole room sees it. “I was holding humanity down, Council Bearer. What were you doing? Herding cats?” She peers to Illfallow, hoping to spare the woman from the outburst, but the governess doesn’t seem to mind.

“From what?” asks Estensheer. “This Inciter strand I’ve been hearing about? You actually believe that?”

Even this remark throws Gauss over the figurative fence. He joins Pasha’s side. “That’s not a path you want to walk down, Council Bearer.”

“No?” Marito looks at the anteroom like some dog wanting to bite at something. Anything. “Certainly, we will walk it later, and even more. Regardless, it’s nice to see you’ve got your right hand with you, Ms. Adderey.” Marito sneers at Gauss. “What about your governor? Where is he?”

“Where else? Governor Drinnam is coordinating the rebuilding. You know it takes a great deal of time doing that—time that’s best spent not talking about it.”

Before Marito can voice his discontent with the meeting’s imperfect attendance, a bell rings. Others would find the sound soft and inviting, but Pasha’s heart skips as if they are aboard a transport gondola pulling into the Abscess.

Marito shakes hands with a pair of dignitaries lining up at the door. He finds Pasha again. “I would wish you well, Ms. Adderey, but I don’t think it will help.”

She indulges the council bearer. “And why’s that?”

“Because they’re going to eat you alive.”