TheAmishPirate

Breathless Dead

She finds him where she always does; in the kitchens. The constant buzz of activity dulls to a pleasant background hum. The scents blend and grow into a rich fullness that begs to be stopped and savored. Even the oppressive heat could be mistaken for an oven that’s been left open.

Dolce’s heart leaps, and cares not for the mousse he was mixing. The dessert, sensing an opportunity, makes a daring escape before he can restore order to the bowl. He wipes his hands on his apron. Hestia dips her finger in the spilled mousse, and samples shamelessly. He opens his mouth, and fifteen different thoughts scramble to figure out which should be first. Hestia takes the opportunity to offer a spoonful of ice cream.

He doesn’t have to be perfect here. Home is a place where you can laugh at mistakes.

“I have missed you so much.” He finally gets out. “I, she’s well? Vasilia’s well? Oh thank goodness. Thank goodness.” He’s going to make it. He’s going to make it. There will be a home for him to return to. He’s not going to be too late. After, yes, after there will be difficulties, but, but! “Oh Hestia, it’s awful here. It’s been awful ever since I left Beri. I haven’t met a single soul who seems like they know you. Are all the official parts of the Skies this noisy?”

Breathless Dead

Does he deserve to feel comfortable?

Every job here supports Quality Assurance. The sheep who works in the mailroom never puts his hands on an SP round, but he delivers the letters that request them by the ton. The sheep who makes up the shuttle schedules doesn’t keep the Summerkind working double shifts, but the work crews don’t make it to their sites without him. Does he deserve the chance to forget that?

Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe, he thinks some sweltering nights, if he could only burn hot enough in his heart, then Apollo’s curse would feel like a refreshing breeze. But that was a silly thought for Dolce of Beri to have. Even if he was some unstoppable ram of war, with a hunger for E N D L E S S B A T T L E, what good would that do anyone? He wouldn’t be unstoppable for long, that’s for sure. Far better to bide his time, escape when the time was right and get a warning to the others ahead of the fleet. It wouldn’t do the Summerkind any good. He’d have to settle for saving his home.

If Vasilly were here, that’s just the sort of thing she’d tell him.

At least, he hoped it was. And not just the thing he wanted to hear, because it was easier. Because it was a relief to his weary heart. Because it meant he didn’t have to do anything grander than…

Well, the Summerkind were quick learners, but it was a lot quicker to have someone give you supplies and a recipe rather than try and re-create the culinary arts from scratch. Nor had anyone bothered to teach them how to survive on anything more than bare necessities. Under his watch, the kitchens remained fully stocked with refreshing drinks and cool, soothing dishes, just the thing after a long day spent working in the sun. He manned one of the kitchens himself, when he had the time, working out new dishes so the menus wouldn’t get stale, and serving the troops himself.

The Summerkind deserved at least that much.

Breathless Dead

Contribution barely survives the party.

Few other Summerkind get to stand this close to the real Liquid Bronze in his moment of triumph. It’s like receiving the salute - the previous highlight of his life - every waking moment. He has no ceremonial weapon, he has no uniform for the occasion, but he can stand to attention like the best of them, and no force can move him from this spot without killing him.

Down below is the last chance he may have to find if any of his clutchmates survived the war. The party will last for as long as Liquid Bronze wishes it, and everyone in attendance will then do whatever he decides next. A month gives no time for shore leave.

Leaving means interrupting Liquid Bronze to ask to be dismissed. Worse, it means moving further away from Liquid Bronze. Either is impossible.

Dolce is a guest of Liquid Bronze. Dolce has the right to speak, and Contribution is expected to speak back. He asks him about the music. He asks him about the dancing. He asks him about the novel construction techniques that could make a bunker that becomes a palanquin. He asks him about anything and everything that crosses his mind. When Contribution looks fit to burst, Dolce takes extra long to think of his next question as the Summerkind basks in the presence of his creator, and speaks up before he can be torn in two again.

By this, they barely survive the party.

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?”