TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

In the long, building whistle of a falling shell is the promise of an explosion. The silence is far more perilous. It took seconds to create. It will last as long as it lasts. Anything could happen in its wake.

Does anyone notice Contribution give a twitch? Not likely. The silence is too suffocating. And however it smothers Dolce there will always be a department dutifully working at questions of sightlines. No one here sees him grip Contribution’s arm. Firmly. From wool to carapace, a command. A plea. Stay here. Stay put. Stay by my side. If you are standing here, you are doing your job. You are doing enough.

You are safe.

Breathless Dead

It’s worse that he’s safe.

Dolce fusses over the straightness of his vest, and no one who’s not a sheep can hear above the noise of a healthy debate culture, but his breathing is hardly professional. Might even be construed as a little huffy. At what? Of whom? No one will question him. Tonight he will be provided with ample quarters, a decent meal, and the respect of the Endless Azure Skies.

He is supposed to say something here. How did it go? A little veiled injoke, wisecrack, something for the benefit of the audience? To communicate what wavelength he is on? Some of the Summerkind here, in the command center, do look rather advanced in days. If they don’t hear him now, then, they may hear him soon, because Liquid Bronze will surely give him more opportunities to speak his mind.

He grips the fabric tightly, clutching an inside pocket where a letter goes.

A distant explosion shakes the ground beneath his hoofs.

He nods, just slightly, to 20022. And he can say nothing.

It’s worse that he’s safe.

Breathless Dead

Dolce smiles. Dolce listens. Dolce makes noises, appreciative or understanding, when called for. He does this for like forty five minutes and change, which is a long time to listen politely. That’s long enough for blinding, deafening screams to cool into discernable thoughts. That’s long enough for deep, steady breathing to convince the rest of the body that it’s not about to be in terrible danger.

The only thing Liquid Bronze can do effectively is the basic craft of Biomancy. Everything else, he has bumbled his way blindly into efficacy. None of what he has done here has been on purpose, but he is here, on purpose. By design. Because everything in the Skies is there by design, even the people who can’t do things by design. What he can do is make hordes of Summerkind to throw at problems until all of the above are dead, and this is enough to make him Regional Commander. Somewhere, there is a desk, with a drawer to only be opened in case of dire emergency, and Dolce has a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach that the name Liquid Bronze was in that drawer.

He wants to scream. He wants to explode. He wants to leave. He has to leave. But standing in the seat of Liquid Bronze’s power, the air suffused with the favor of Aphrodite, a thought takes root:

If. If he could leave. Would a warning to the people of Bitemark even be enough?

The song of Mosaic springs to mind at once. For a moment, he’s back home, giving her a fresh loaf packed with savory crab and hearty vegetables as she passes, and he won’t see her act but he’ll hear the stories over dinner tonight. Then he’s coughing on cigar smoke, begging the pardon of his host, and the problem seems rather too large for a good lunch to help. Perhaps he can’t imagine her losing, but neither could he figure out how she was to win.

No. No, he’s got to do something. He’s got to do something. But what?

…come to think of it, what was he expected to do here in the first place? There’d been so much happening, he’d almost missed it, but 20022 hasn’t made a sound the entire time they’ve been here. Casting his mind back half an hour ago, he’d only spoken up because nobody else had. That…that had to have been deliberate, didn’t it? 20022 held back, to see what he would say, given the chance. And when Liquid Bronze finally got around to stopping, he would probably do it again, yes?

So. Perhaps he ought to solve that problem first, and work out the rest…later. Breathe. Listen. Don’t be a spy. Don’t explode. Whatever you do, don’t explode. And think.

20022 can’t expect him to behave. Of everything he could do, 20022 can’t expect him to willingly go along with the murder of his family and friends and meekly submit to the job he’s picked out for him. In fact, it might be so surprising, it’d catch him completely off guard. He’d spend hours pouring over his work, looking for mistakes and sabotage that wasn’t actually there. Not a horrible idea. Except that he’d then have to hide his movements, when they came, so invisibly as to be undetectable, or else they’d stick out like a sore thumb. That was no good. And as he learned on Bitemark, any obvious deviations from protocol will be swiftly corrected, as many as could be caught and fixed. If he were to behave truly outrageously, then he would probably be locked in a small room until the operation was complete.

He needed to at least appear helpful. He needed to show enough opinion to not be labeled a spy. He needed to act without being countered. He wished he’d taken the Starsong’s offer to sign on with them, but it’s a little too late to regret a road not taken.

At the least, when at long last Liquid Bronze asks for him again, he’s had ample time to prepare his response. At once he replies, “A great number of servitors broke free from their work camps, soundly defeated the local governor, and took off in an ancient Imperial warship to parts unknown. Incredibly, the Crystal Knight has completely failed to handle the situation, and now we must seek additional aid.” He heaves a sigh. “And she seemed so strong too…”

It is the truth, plain and simple. Presented in such a way as to invite another half-hour - at least - lecture on the Crystal Knight’s inherent deficiencies compared to present company. But the rest. Not an “insurrection.” An escape. A defiance. A story of hope still alive, for now. And as Liquid Bronze talks, Dolce minds the audience.

How do they react? Who is hanging off of Liquid Bronze’s every word? Who reacts in disgust, who clucks their tongue at the shame of it all, who is busy working out how they would, ah, deal with these servitors if it were their job?

Who here likes the story? Who here is disheartened to hear of what fate awaits those who defied the Skies? Who here wishes that they could fly away on a spaceship?

Where is the sheep from the kitchens, wishing for something he can’t put words to yet?

[Rolling to Look Closely: 6 + 1 + 2 = 9. Who here might become a friend?]

Breathless Dead

The air tastes familiar. It is the first clean breath he’s taken in his life.

Why is that? Why does he know the chair in the breakroom is bolted to the floor without stepping a hoof past the threshold? Why can he sense the organizational web of the cubicle farm as if the walls were color-coded by team? How is it that he can automatically and completely ignore the messages on the PA after only hearing the first syllable?

“But if you're looking for it, change is everywhere in the Skies.”

There is no change here.

The Summerkind are all replaced in a month. New wings burst out of the facility haphazardly. The front line shifts. Liquid Bronze will, in time, move onto other things, and he will take command in a different command post, or research facility, or ship, and Dolce knows in his bones it will be precisely the same as it is right now. A stagnant, stable world, built for the sole purpose of serving one man, intended to run forever.

He remembers the Starsong were excellent guests. Polite, full of good cheer, praising the hospitality of their hosts at every turn, abiding by every rule and request of the Manor for the full duration of their stay. He’d first seen them when they toured the kitchens, the Majordomo’s proud, clipped voice echoing through the nearly-silent room. They smiled. They listened. They made appreciative noises, when called for.

Had they also been surprised at the calm in their own voices?

“I am so sorry to hear of your difficulties, Commander.” His smile was warm and soft as a toasted marshmallow. His folded hands as still as a coiled snake. “How much more do you suppose it will take before you are finished here?”

[Rolling to Look Closely: 6 + 6 + 2 = 14, How incompetent is Liquid Bronze, really?]

Breathless Dead

The room is too clean.

What a funny thought to have. What a funny problem to have. But there you have it. The room’s too clean. The, colors, and the layout, the, you can’t hear anything in here. He can hardly hear Contribution breathing, and he’s right next to him. There ought to be more here. It’s all wrong. It can’t be this clean. It shouldn’t.

He’s got to keep moving. That’s important. He’s not to be still. Nothing good comes of staying still. How far is it to the floor? He feels around blindly with his dangling hoof, and sooner or later he finds solid ground. Sooner or later, he’s standing, and he’s clinging to Contribution’s thin arm. One hoof up. One hoof down. In front of the other. Keep moving. That’s important.

He feels a gentle tug. He stops. He’s still holding Contribution’s arm. Contribution isn’t moving. He tugs, on purpose this time. “Come,” somebody says, and it might be him. “You ought to get cleaned up too.”

There are enough showers. There’s an open one, right next to his. One hoof in front of the other, he walks Contribution to it. And the Summerkind keeps moving, all the way into the stall. All the way until the door is closed behind him. And Dolce keeps moving, all the way into his stall. Until the door closes. Until the water runs down his face, and he realizes he might’ve ought to have taken off his clothes.

Here, at least, there’s the sound of water. There’s the feel of steam. There’s the muffled rush of water from Contribution’s shower next door. There’s something here. It’s not too clean here.

He breathes. In. Feel the water running down his face. Feel the warmth clouding all around him. Out. Hear the patter of water on his horns. Hear the faint shudder of his own breath. And repeat. He remembers, it’s important to keep breathing, slow and steady, after…after.

It’d helped the Privateers to hear that. When they came back. Those who came back. He never knew how to say it, exactly. Every way sounded wrong. He did his best. He’s doing his best. He’s breathing, and that’s important, and. Even if no one would notice the extra moisture in this downpour. He has to keep moving.

So he sets his clothes aside. So he picks out the shrapnel. So he makes a lather, and washes one arm, the other, then his face, like he does every morning. Today. Today he’ll skip the conditioner. One day won’t harm much. Wool is durable stuff. So long as he keeps moving. He has to keep moving.

His ears flick. He still hears Contribution’s shower running.

He can stay a few minutes longer. He can rinse off a little more thoroughly.

Breathless Dead

Dolce is listening. He is in friendless territory without a map. It would be extremely unwise to take an honest, helpful suggestion, and throw it straight into the rubbish without giving it due consideration. So he gives the idea its due consideration. The rubbish bin will still be there. Waiting.

So: Utilize careful language and plausibly deniable turns of phrase to…snipe at your boss? To tear them down where they can’t notice you? To take the sting you feel and turn it on someone else? Sounds like quite the pleasant place to work. Ruled over by a miserable boss, and spending your days cursing them where you won’t be noticed, stewing bitterly in the pain they’ve caused you. What good does that do anyone? What good does that do you?

…and on the subject of ideal worlds, would the Crystal Knight have her position if this was one? Would 20022?

Fair point. All the wishful thinking in the world would not change his position, or who he was to be working with. All the subtle digs in the world wouldn’t do it either. It stung to even consider. For whatever else he could say about the Crystal Knight, he never actually wanted to hurt her. Not for spite. Not for what she’d done to him. But if anything he’d rather say to her was just wishful thinking, then, well, he’s got to say and be something. Spy vibes! To be avoided!

Was this all part of the expected job? Did everyone here expect him to use his words so dishonestly? Signaling. Communication. Collaborating without speaking. Searching for allies without asking. It’s, urgh, unnatural.

“Hat in hand.”

Or. Was it?

Did it have to be hurtful?

“Isn’t that rather difficult? It’s easier to joke and be clever when you’re feeling happy and among friends. You know-” An explosion shook the entire shuttle. “Safe. But when you’re angry and hurt, it’s harder to steer because you’re against the tide, not with it. How do you keep your head?”

Breathless Dead

Dolce doesn’t panic. This, too, is obedience and observation. He knows the ways of listening to a houseguest, and discerning the ways they like to be treated that differ from the usual manners.

Haven’t had to do it in a long time. Slightly difficult circumstances to do it in. Dolce doesn’t panic.

“Oh. Dear. That’s not the impression I was looking to give at all.” He replies in a low, strained whisper that 20022 has no hope of spotting. Which may make the spy accusations yet more credible. Hrm. “My apologies, I may have over-prepared a tad for this assignment.”

It made sense, in a way. Whether in the Manor or the Service, the work was the same; take care of the busywork necessary for others to live and work comfortably. Only, an Empire was quite a bit larger than a Manor. An Empire needed its inhabitants to, well, do things on occasion. Which required a degree less invisibility.

…which meant a workforce, created, to do difficult and thankless tasks, to be fought and scorned as they did those tasks, and to live in a constant state of exasperation and irritation at the ones they were meant to be helping.

“I.” A practiced tension stole over him, smothering and absorbing the very emotion he needed. And still he felt relief at hearing no tremor in his voice. “I don’t suppose you have any tips for being…’lowkey mad’, do you?”

Breathless Dead

He has had two days to prepare for this moment.

He spent those days sick.

No room in the shuttle was spared. Everywhere he went, he could hear them. Every viewport he passed, he closed. It never ceased. It never stayed the same. One, continuous riot, composed of a thousand boiling horrors. A crushing wall of violence, and his ears could pick out the bumps in the mortar. Remarkably akin to working with a fresh bird. He washes his hands, again.

He has had two days to prepare for this moment.

Ask 20022 what to expect when the airlock opens, and 20022 will stir his tea, sniff it gingerly, and add just a splash more honey to the brew. Request a briefing on 20022’s mission, and the protocols of first contact with Biomancer General Liquid Bronze, and 20022 will smile, and 20022 will fetch the slides.

20022 answers every useful question asked of him, to the fullest. 20022 did not say it would be two days. Maybe members of the Service are to ask wisely. Maybe 20022 is still angry. How does he focus on the sheep inside the shuttle and ignore the death outside the shuttle? Dolce does not ask him.

He had only two days to prepare for this moment.

It is the first time he remembers waking. Previously, awake and asleep sounded the same. Now, there is only silence. Now, the only sounds are the ones he remembers. Within the hour, he is expected by 20022’s side, and he is not to be violently ill. Two days. It is time.

The Summerkind find a sheep of a different hue behind and beside their guest. He is dressed in what clothes have been provided him; simple formalwear, not as nice as 20022’s uniform, by a few noticeable degrees. He observes them. He observes his superior. His gaze is attentive, but dull. Docile. Obedient.

They do not see the lioness standing behind him. He does not see the lioness standing behind him, because his eyes are set forward, always. But he hears her. He hears the soft whisper, the dampening of her voice that somehow leaves all its warmth and power intact. His ears tingle, waiting for the breath to steal over them that must be coming as she reminds him. “Go along. Be obedient. Observe. There is too much wrong here. You cannot help them right now. Survive this; there is nothing more you can do.”

He inclines his head deferentially, that not a speck of undeserved praise may fall on him. “My apologies for the confusion; I am a new hire, studying under and assisting 20022. I have yet to earn a number. My name is Dolce.”

When he looks up, all he can see are bloodied knuckles.

”Be obedient. Observe. Nothing more.”

Breathless Dead

To the Royal Architect,

I will tell you everything I have learned, everything I have done, and what I now plan to do since I have left your home, by the name of Zeus whose hospitality you invoked.

Please do read this entire letter first.

I was able to converse with the Assassin, after much difficulty. Her wish was that even some small part of her could live, without the curse written into her bones. Which is why her severed head is currently living in my spare closet. She could not give a clear timeframe as to when it would regenerate a new body. Apparently this sort of thing hasn’t come up before. I fear her makers would have built a countermeasure if it had.

Now comes the bad news. The only way she could speak with me, the only way this process could work, was if her mission was not disrupted by it. She could bend the rules of her curse so far, but no further. Afterwards, I was to launch the coffin back to you. I have enclosed with this letter my best approximation of our position and time when I did so. After the warp you kindly gave us, I imagine she will have a long, long, long journey.

Which brings me to the discovery: She has no name upon her bones. Only a title. I suspect that many of the Assassins sent after you are made in the same fashion.

I have until she completes her journey back to you. In that time, I will search for a place where you can continue your mission, with something better than polite knives from those around you. If I can manage this, then when she wakes at last, she will be of no danger to you. No Assassin that has been born will be of danger to you. And your colleagues may find other, more relevant friends to send their gifts to.

I think, should we find such a place, that your work would be all the better for it.

I won’t ask you to not defend yourself, should it come to it. I ask only for patience. We have time, and I will be making offerings for her safety, but also for a long voyage. I wish both of you to live. This is the only way I know how to make it so. All I ask is the chance to try.

If you discern any changes to the coffin, please let me know. I will keep you updated on my search.

Faithfully,

Dolce, formerly of Beri

**********************************************

Vasilly,

I am okay. I am unharmed. I am in no imminent peril.

I am sorry I could not write you any sooner. I am sorry for quite a bit more besides.

I left Beri, thinking only of taking a short trip, just a few days, with the other sheep who is often with Mayor Kaspar. 20022 is his name, by the way. He had told me of some opportunities in the civil service, and, you remember our talks? About the Skies? I was wondering…well, I was wondering quite a bit, but mainly, I wanted to know if I could help Beri beyond running our little cafe. I wanted to know if I could help everyone on Bitemark.

We met the Crystal Knight.

(Here, there is an uncharacteristic scribble. Words written, then taken back, but too much had been said already to start anew.)

The Royal Architect was coming to mine the planet. We were to get everyone out of the way, to safety. She wanted the ship in the sea. The Royal Architect was not going to wait for everyone to get clear of the peninsula.

I thought there must be something I could do. I thought I could get 20022 to see how…monstrous a thing this was.

I couldn’t do anything.

What little I thought to do was seen, and overridden. And most of my days were spent

I was so happy to hear that everyone got out safely. There is a prayer, apparently, of Mars, that tells you that sort of thing. We saw another ship come down, and then nothing after that. But you all got out. You all got out, in the end.

I am sorry. Please. Tell Mosaic I am sorry. For everything.

I was onboard the Slitted, at the time. Something happened, and the ship was damaged. 20022 and I were busy with the escape, and neither of us could do a thing. I couldn’t slip away, and we both left on one of the escape pods. We were gone, I think, before your ship took off.

Much has happened since then. We visited the Royal Architect. He gave us a shuttle, and he warped us rather far across the galaxy, somehow. He sent with us a slightly damaged machine intelligence, and an Assassin frozen in a coffin. He didn’t want either of them anymore, and they didn’t seem particularly happy to stay with him. There’s too much to write for one letter, so expect a second one shortly.

But 20022. I have told him I want nothing to do with a Service that allows such things to happen. He refuses to listen to me. Despite what we’ve been through together, he acts as though he hasn’t heard me at all. He wishes me to stay. He wishes me to join the Service, and if I were to give him a firmer rejection, then he will leave me behind the next chance he gets. At first I thought he was upset because I kept him from doing anything when the Slitted was attacked. Now, I am not so sure. I don’t understand him. I don’t know how he can pretend this is good.

We are headed, I think, to try and stop you. But that means we are getting closer to you, and that is better than any planet he could leave me on, so I suppose it is working out alright.

I will write more. And I will wait for your letters. I will keep them close to me, always. Maybe I will sew a little pocket in my vest? They do those in the stories, sometimes. It seems a sensible idea. I will keep your letters close by, and whenever I want to hear your voice, I will read them.

And I promise I will do a better job of things than I did on Bitemark. I promise.

All of my love, and always yours,

Dolce

Breathless Dead

To not help with the beheading is to make her drive a knife through her own flesh without another soul to help carry that weight. So he offers to man the controls. The sound is remarkably akin to working with a fresh bird. He will remember that.

To not help with the paperwork is to demand she perfectly execute the bureaucratic maneuver that will decide her fate while her own blood dries on her sleeves. So he offers his eyes to her cause. The forms are exacting, yet fewer than he would have expected. This is what it takes to end a life. He will remember that.

She did not ask for his help. She is one of the galaxy’s deadliest warriors, brilliant in her thinking, confident in her bearing, and willing to do whatever it takes to live. No part of this would have been too much for her, or else she would have asked. But Dolce has seen far too many people suffering, people whose names and voices he knew, and he could not even offer his presence. Just sympathies, thrown from a distance. If there’s opportunity and means to lend to a hand, he will take that opportunity, as those do not happen as often as you might think or like.

To not say goodbye is unthinkable.

“Take care.” He offers his hand, without hesitation, hiding the exhaustion creeping through him “I will make offerings for a safe flight.”

Her smile as she clasps his hand is answer enough. She knows what she will wake to. She knows not if she would rather be the severed head. She is grateful, perhaps, that she has no choice in the matter.

Does she know the choice he will face, when her coffin drifts into the distance? He hopes she does. It would feel like a trick, otherwise. As it stands, he sends an Assassin back from whence she came, to her unfinished business and a target who ought not to die like this. He cannot sit back and pretend that what happens to the Royal Architect is none of-

Grief seizes a thought, and flings it to the fore.

“...the name on your bones is the Royal Architect, yes?” He pauses, still holding her hand. “That was the name on all of the forms we signed. There was never an actual name. Just a title. So, is that what’s written on your bones as well?”

Something in his voice gives her pause. She closes her eyes, concentrates, and nods. “I have never seen the full nature of my curse. But as far as I can tell, yes, that is the name.”

Of course. Of course it was. “I though it was strange that Artemis would permit a contract with no name. But a title is good enough here. There is no one else who can do the Royal Architect’s job. He is the only one that title can apply to, because he is irreplaceable. The contract will never target anyone else, so it’s as good as a name, and much easier to come by, I imagine.”

“Indeed. Much, much easier. But why should it matter what name I bear?”

“Please, correct me if I am wrong…” It was an idea so foolish, it had no business being said. But was it really the most foolish thing he’d done all day? “But if the Royal Architect were to abdicate his position and leave the Skies entirely by the time you wake, would that not nullify the contract?”

The only sound in the hangar was the faint crackling of crystal energy. Not even breath stirred the air. “You realize,” she says, gently. “That such a thing would be tantamount to the fall of the Skies themselves? That such a contingency was not accounted for, because it would mean far grander disasters were at hand?” She is one of the galaxy’s deadliest warriors, brilliant in her thinking, confident in her bearing, and desperate, desperate to live.

Does she see the thin thread of hope he clings to?

“Yes. Yes, I don’t know exactly how it would happen. But,” he lays his other hand gently over hers, and squeezes lightly. “I would really rather no one else get killed.”