Balmas

Breathless Dead

Isty's alive.

A little knot of tension unclenches, ever so slightly. She's alive! She's alive, and winning, and oh god she's so beautiful Alexa might cry.

(Note to self. Tear ducts. If they survive this, invest in tear ducts.)

She's winning. Alexa can still see the knife--that impossible dagger--sticking from the Nemean's chest. Had seen it happen even when she was there, when she was ready and guarding, when the Nemean was there armored with the power of the gods. Wondered whether she'd find another impossible dagger buried in another chest when she wasn't there--

But no! Every thrust, parried and riposted. Every dodge performed with the speed and grace of a gymnast. Movements and techniques that Alexa had taught, but taken, blended, shifted, adapted for a scythe, made Isty's own and done at a speed to boggle the mind. There's a selfish little part of her that wants to just watch. To sit back and marvel and hold her at the end, coax her back and tell her just how incredibly proud of her she is!

But there are two stars in the engine room.

The Kaeri have been thorough in their trap. All plovers have been taken, cannibalized, used in the battle. There isn't any heavy machinery to be used, and judging by the way the core sizzles and hisses, there's not nearly enough time to go back to the main hall and retrieve one.

And here, and now, even at the entrance to the room, the heat is blinding. She eyes the core, and gingerly runs a finger across the lingering burnt umber patch down one side of her body. She can still feel the sensation of up becoming down, the lurch of down getting faster, the quiet acceptance of the burning glow above her.

Is it surprising to find that she doesn't want to die? In that classroom, facing Molech, hearing him intone the new shape of her life, she thought for sure that that must be the only way this could end. Die quick in battle, or die slowly. And good gravy, this must be the quickest way possible to break herself.

Cut her siblings out from him….

She could do it, you know. Virtually all of Molech's forces are here. The Tides, the Coherents, select Hermetics, the Alcedi… all on a freshly repaired albeit battle-beaten and presently exploding ship of the Armada. And Molech doesn't have the seal to summon her to his side. Repair the core and she becomes the leader who saved the day. Pick a direction, any direction, and that's most of Molech's forces gone. She doesn't know he's captured or dead or lost. That's time that she can talk to them, get to know them, convince them that Molech doesn't care for them. Convince them that life is better when you decide what it's for.

None of that makes it any easier, though. She knows the pain waiting for her, and her feet don't want to cooperate--they hold, leaden, to the floor, struggle desperately to stay rooted. The closer she gets, the more her eyes squeeze shut against the light, until she's navigating more by hot and cold than by sight. Even before she makes contact, she can feel old wounds opening as brass starts to melt and run.

Think of why you're doing this. Think of meals shared with friends. Think of finally being able to appreciate Dolce's delicate oolong. Think of understanding smiles from Ramses. Isty's laughter. Think of old camaraderie with the Alcedi of old. Vasilia's face as she waves a drink mid story. Redana's quiet understanding

More than that though, think of you! Think of all the things you've wanted to do, to be! Think of what you couldn't be before! Think of a life with no command seals to summon you, no irresistable commands forcing you into a box! Think of the relationships you couldn't have, how you agonized over inflicting yourself on anybody not strong enough to defend themselves! Think of defining yourself, of deciding, of learning who you are!

Take that feeling! Bind it, knot it to your center, make your insides burn as bright as the core outside!

Contact. A shrieking of nerves.

And push!

Breathless Dead

"Children of Molech."

She can feel the tremor in her voice, and hates how little effort it takes to raise it above the silence of moans and quiet drips. Can feel the hollow gulf in her chest robbing every word of the strength she wishes she had.

"… tend to the wounded."

She doesn't want to count how many are left. Doesn't want to watch the Coherents triage and sort, the Tides carry and stack. She's very firm on pushing the Alcedi to treat the Laterns, and hopes the leader does the same in kind--it's difficult to see someone as an enemy when you're wrapping their wounds, talking to them, hearing pained chuckles.

And worse, she can't stay. The engines are overloading still. She needs to save the ship and…

And then, afterwards, she can hope she still has a girlfriend.

Breathless Dead

The difficult thing, really, is how to get everyone's attention in a way that won't immediately be seen as hostile.

She surveys the mass below them, makes a mental note, and adjusts the ELF on her belt. Even braced for it, even with eyes screwed shut, the TZOTTT of it earthing into the walls is thunderous, leaves spots in the vision. She takes special care to make as much noise as possible, be the loudest person, make it impossible to not see and hear. Raises her voice above the noise, speak not just to the Alcedi, but the mice around them. Make it impossible to miss the silvery arc of the spear landing point first at the feet of the Lantern's leader

"Truce!

"All those who follow me: Lay down your weapons! Throw them down! I am not one for speeches, but we can not fight! The Kaeri have traded their lives for ours, and it serves only their interests if we continue to slaughter each other while the engine goes critical. Lanterns! We have Hermetics who can undo the damage, save all our lives, but only if we work together! Open the doors, show us the servant's passages to your engine, and perhaps we may all see tomorrow!"

[Talk Sense with Wisdom: 6]

Breathless Dead

Alexa stares at the crimson rent in the sky and tells herself that there's no time. That if the choice wasn't sitting in front of her, if the Kaeri weren't counterboarding right now, she'd run to Isty's side and… fight with her? Draw her away? Tell her not to be a fool?

Alexa tells herself that this strength and impulsivity is what drew her to Isty in the first place. She's a warrior, capable of taking care of herself. Alexa's hesitation and reservedness are balanced by Isty's push to try everything, do everything. Above all else, Alexa doesn't have to fret and worry that something's going to happen while she's away. Isty can take it. She's safe.

She tells herself she couldn't stop Isty if she tried. Might not have been able to even at her peak, and certainly can't stop a champion lit with the fires of Ares now. She's feltthat power. The joy, the freedom! Felt how it fills your veins like a drumbeat, your limbs like lightning, pushes you forward and faster until there's nothing in the world but the yourself and the person you're aimed at.

None of that makes it feel like any less of a betrayal when she nods and turns to lead the Alcedi back to the ship.

Breathless Dead

That bastard.

She understands the plan in an instant. Sees the formations arrayed before her as neatly as the diagrams in The Masteries of Battle. The Kaeri hate the Alcedi, want to see them destroyed and laid on their altar, would hound them to the end of space if given the chance. And that's the point. You couldn't paint a more effective target if you tried.

It's as simple as it is cruel. So long as the Alcedi are on the field, the Kaeri are neutralized. Sacrifice the Alcedi, feed them into a meatgrinder of troops who are prepared and motivated to destroy them, and the day is yours. Why wouldn't you do that? Yes, it's regrettable that he must lose a third of his forces to win this battle, but it's not like there isn't a planet full of more of them. It's not like they're important. Dying is what they're for.

And all she had to do in this plan was care. She's damned if she does, and damned if she doesn't. If she leads them to victory, she keeps them alive and gives Father Molech exactly what he wants. And if she denies him his victory, they all die. Isn't that just like him?

She could push them forward, yes. Could take up her spear, become the leader they want. Face Lorventi, give the Tide and the Coherents the opening they need. Give the Emperor the victory he craves. Become the hero of the day.

But it won't be enough.

It will never be enough.

Let's say she does find a way to pull a miracle out of her ass. Appeals to Ares. Saves the day. Rallies the troops. Survives against Lorventi. Becomes a beacon of hope. Returns with a crown of laurels and the Plousios singing her praises.

What then?

Then Emperor Molech will be free to throw them into more battles. More days to save. More insurmountable odds to fight against. More chances for the Alcedi to throw themselves into the meatgrinder for a father who never cared.

Never even thought of them as people.

"Gather the wounded!" she bellows. "We retreat to the Plousios!"

[Get Away: 6]

It's messy.

She's shouting to make herself heard. The Coherents and the Tides are still surging towards the engine. The Alcedi almost are refusing to believe it. And worst of all, they're cut off. They've advanced so far into the ship, the mice have cut them off from behind, and now….

And now the phalanxes are advancing, while Lorventi's form cuts through the ship like the fin of a shark.

Breathless Dead

You know, the first time that Mynx brought her one of Redana's Azura romance novels, Alexa told herself she was just looking for information? The Azura! The one empire Molech never conquered, but must have spent time with, because that had to be where he originally got the seal from! Surely, there might be valuable ideas in there.

A few hours later, Mynx had had the good grace to act shocked when Alexa asked for the next in the series.

Daring rooftop chases! Duels for each others' love! Swords, smirkingly placed against lifted chins! Harems! Dungeons! Djinn!

By book three, she'd quite forgotten about command seals.

Not that there'd been a lot of good information on them in those books, anyway. They'd served mostly as plot elements, changing and shifting to fit the needs of the plot. Our daring heroine has received a beautiful but impudent djinn as part of an inheritance--the command seal means the djinn can't harm her, but can she win the djinn's loyalty, and maybe her heart? Or maybe our heroine has been, herself, captured by a stunningly powerful djinn, and bound with a seal. Can she find a way to escape? Does she even want to? By the end, is the seal even needed for her to do what her lover asks?

Not something you can use to break centuries of programming, is the point.

Then again… the command seal isn't perfect, is it? Even the twisting fiction of Azura romance novels agree that it mainly forces surface-level obedience. The djinn in the story can't disobey a direct order, no. But they subvert it all the time--twist it, interpret it to their own ends.

How large is her prison?

If she could get around the command to obey, then everything else would fall. That's the linchpin, the rule holding every other command up. But it's also the trickiest, the least open to manipulation or misunderstanding. What's there to misinterpret about "obey my commands?"

At least the next two are more open. Oh, she'd despaired when he'd given those orders. Kill herself if he dies, and return to him if ever he's captured or lost? Together, those two ruled out so many of the options for how to get rid of him!

But… if she can turn the Alcedi, he doesn't have to die. And he won't be lost if he's enshrined in a place. Captured is trickier to figure out, but that's also a definition that's very subject to interpretation. She'll work on that, she has ideas.

Hmm. She's playing a dangerous game here. She's only going to get one shot per loophole she finds. Use it, and then Molech will close it. But… Maybe that's also a good thing. The more rules he issues to her, the more commands she has to follow, the less useful she becomes. She doesn't want to think in these terms, but… She's already broken, isn't she? She's going to have to break herself more to fit through the cracks that are left.

For now, though, there are lives to save. People--her family, her brothers and sisters--are hurting and dying. She clambers and scales the wall, trying to get above it, make sense of the chaos. For this to work, she needs the Alcedi on side. Needs to know their morale, how the battlefield is going. Needs to know whether she can pull out this win, or whether it's time to retreat.

[Look Closely: 8. Tell me about the Alcedi. What are they doing? What will they do next? Specifically, I'm looking for stuff about morale--are they holding? Do they look eager for the fight? Are they turning to run? What percent of them look like they actually want to be here? How many wounded? Etcetera.]

Breathless Dead

Seeming to smile.

Seeming to smile.

The words lodge in her mind like a thunderbolt, sizzling and electrifying everything around it, turning mental pathways blindingly bright.

How often had she seemed to obey? Sat with comrades who seemed to smile? All eying each other, each terrified in their own way that the other was a spy? That one wrong word would leak and filter and climb to the Emperor's ears? Always, on opening up, on showing trust, that explosion of relief? Of "oh thank the gods, we can talk?"

Oh gods, what must they think of her? A figure of myth, standing ever behind Molech, and quick to obey his orders? Always obedient, always fierce, always waiting for the command to kill? Who, on looking on her, would think of her as anything but seeming to smile?

Brothers and sisters, wheeling and fighting and dying above her.

How many of them actually want this? Who among them are simply following orders? Swept along, inexorably, by the will of Molech? Going along with things, as have the floods of Poseidon and the Hermetics, because the cost of resistance is too high?

She swallows hard, and tries to line up the words in the right order. How do you explain that for days, you've done your best to make sure you wouldn't be hurt if they died? Done your level best to avoid names, ignore markings, see them as nothing but tools so that if you're called on to murder them, it won't sting? That her primary concern was not to help them or know them, but to figure out how they might get in the way?

Slowly, she joins Zeus in staring out the window.

"I… I have brought shame on myself, Thunderer. I was so focused on myself, I blinded myself to how my family was hurting. If I can turn them from him--help them realize how he harms them--then that robs him of his power. And with no Father Molech telling them what to be, they can discover what they want themselves to be."

The lump in her throat is making it a bit hard to talk.

"But how can I lead them where I have not gone? How can I ask them to turn from Molech when he bids me slaughter all who oppose him? Even if they all turn from him, he will yet have one soldier."

Breathless Dead

"I can see it all happening again."

The Alcedi. Molech's hammers. Shock troopers, heavy on the awe. Skirmishers, taken to their logical extreme. They're the wind, given form and wings and ululating warcries. Only the relatively-tight confines of the ship prevent them from their true potential. They cannot soar over the battlefield and plunge, plunge, plunge into esoteric or engine. They must find the path, must turn from the walls of the phalanx, must zip and turn and howl through the ship, lightning blistering across wings and thrusting them along.

Were they always so terrifying? They can't have been. She remembers the comrades and friends she made--their faces, their habits. Sees them, even now, in the banshees. Hears the cries, and knows that they are of joy, of excitement, of fulfillment of purpose. Remembers when it felt so reassuring to know that they were coming, to turn and feel the ozone in the air.

Now…

"They fall before him. Bow before him, turn to his purposes. A ship now, but tomorrow?"

She shudders as she stares at them.

"I could tell you that I am doing this for other people. That I do not wish to harm them, do not wish to be a tool in the Emperor's hands in once more bringing the galaxy to it knees. And that would be true, I think.

"But it would also be a lie.

"I know that, if Emperor Molech emerges triumphant, I die."

It's blunt, factual, and she hates that she can't keep the tremble out of her voice.

"Maybe not today. Maybe not for a long time. Maybe something that looks like me keeps going, keeps commanding the troops, obeys orders. But I! I, who collect scraps and memories and hoard them. I, who would improve myself, and learn to cook, and share food with friends! I, who can love! I, Alexa, will be gone!"

Only here, in the howl of the chase, can she discuss this. Only here, where none can here, can she be sure that it will not get back to the Emperor. Only in the mechanical action of orders followed is there safety.

"I… It would also be a lie to say I do not want my father gone. But I do not want to want that, if that makes sense? If he could leave well enough alone, if I could plant him on a planet somewhere, and have done, I would. But ever has he sought to control, to own, to dictate. To form the world, to bind people, to his ways.

"And were it not for this seal, things should be so simple."

She is silent, for a while, or as silent as she can be while following her troops.

"Please, Thunderer. How did you first come to raise the sword against your father?"

Breathless Dead

Alexa follows Hera, doing her best to shake off the impression that the Plousios is a colossus turning in its sleep. Everywhere they go, the ship's cavernous steel halls ring and re-echo the sounds of a thousand lives preparing for war. They pass the Alcedi, and the staccato rattle of spear-on-spear kata turns the room to a rainstorm. They pass the engine, and the call-and-response of the engine crew's shanty bears witness to the effort of turning the engines for maneuvers. Painted battlecrab legs skitter and scuttle across tiles, snapping claws bashing spears against shield. And below all, the thrummm of the engine is less heard than felt, the star that powers the ship rumbling as it wakes to its master's call.

Frankly, it was less lonely when the ship was empty. Everywhere, creatures bend the knee, offer her respect--she is the Emperor's right hand, the Pallas Rex, she who will lead them in battle. She's surrounded by the loyal, the brave, the followers of Emperor Molech. And yet…

"I am not wrong to reject this," she insists. "To turn from the purpose for which I was designed. These people follow joyfully the call of War, of the Emperor Molech. That does not make it right.

"But what can I do?" She stares at a passing crew of Hermetics, hauling something bristling with crystals. "I cannot harm Emperor Molech. Cannot plot against him, cannot disobey him. And I cannot wait for a rescue that may not come."

Breathless Dead

Alexa sighs, lays a cloth over the bowl of dough, and starts meticulously putting things back in place.

"… He told me I should be a dutiful daughter."

By rights, the kitchen should be a mess. Each ingredient should have been decimated after its brethren had joined the bowl--the sack of flour rent in twain, the delicate jar of starter shattered against the wall, the salt bin splintered. The room should bear witness to her frustration, leave a lasting testimony of her anger.

But that's not a luxury she has. There should be no evidence she was here--nothing to tie her to this conversation, nothing to make the Emperor wonder what his chief agent was doing.

"I thought that would work, once upon a time. That by doing what he asked, when he asked, willingly and helpfully, I could unlock some secret that would let him love me."

It's simple work, but gratifying. The measuring cups get rinsed and scrubbed out and hung back up on their hooks. The sourdough starter gets a small helping of flour. The counters shine under her hands. Inch by inch, the room starts to sparkle.

And so long as her hands are busy with something else, she can talk without thinking too hard about what she's saying.

"… Why is it my task to love him? To be loyal to him? He does not love me--does not even think of me as a person. He stole my childhood, hurt my friends, and now he seeks to steal my future."

She stares at the bread dough, before finally meeting Hestia's gaze. "How did you do it?"