Aetheral Space

The following is a notice to all max-level Superbian personnel.

An emergency meeting has been called.

All designated personnel are to gather at the Cardinal council chambers immediately.

Lateness will not be permitted.

This is a direct order from His Holiness, Apexbishop Giovanni Sigma Testament.

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Matters of utmost national security will be discussed.

Notice, Superbian Collected Network

Helga’s head hurt.

When she first woke up, she didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t move -- it would have been difficult anyway, as her arms and legs were bound. She simply listened. This was a lesson she’d picked up early in her career: never pass up a chance to eavesdrop on your enemies. Ears were the most valuable weapons a spy had, after all.

There were voices near her, muffled, on the other side of the wall. It took her a second to focus on them, but she quickly recognised the speakers: Dragan Hadrien and Ruth Blaine. It was a good bet that Bruno and Serena del Sed were lurking somewhere as well, then. Skipper’s whole crew would be here.

"Well, what about Skipper?" Dragan was saying, cautious, annoyed and unsure.

"He’s not answering my messages," Ruth replied hurriedly; the way her voice faded in and out suggesting she was pacing. "Do you think something’s happened?"

"Well, did you try calling him?"

"Of course I tried calling him," Ruth snapped back. It seemed she was annoyed now too. There was a moment’s pause, then: "Sorry. It’s just… stuff is messed up, you know?"

Another pause. "Yeah. I know."

"Is she… really dead?" Ruth slowly ventured.

Helga’s heart nearly leapt out of her throat, and it took everything she had not to move. If they’d come after her, did that mean they’d gone after the other GID agents as well? Was the ’her’ they were referring to… Olga?

Oh, no. Oh, God, please no.

"You’re awake… aren’t you, Helga?" said Mila Green.

Helga stiffened in response to the address, only to realize that in itself would have given her away. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes.

As she’d thought, she was lying down on an old couch, patches of comfort and discomfort running along its derelict surface, a stray spring irritating her hip. Her arms and legs were bound with steel rope -- and when she reached for her Aether, she found it absent, so there must have been some kind of Neverwire on her person as well.

The room was dark and dingy, walls made of metal well into its transition into dust, with only an old lampshade for insufficient light. Across from Helga sat Mila.

She was on an armchair that looked as ugly as Helga’s couch, with a book on her lap. Doubtless she’d been reading it before Helga had awakened. Judging from the cover, it was an autobiography from a famous actor -- just the sort of thing she liked to read.

"Who are they talking about?" Helga asked, her voice hoarse.

Mila furrowed her brow. "What do you --"

"Who’s dead?"

Mila blinked, silent for a moment, before sighing. "Gertrude Hearth. Apparently, her stomach burst open and she died on the spot. We don’t know how."

The relief that it wasn’t Olga lingered only for a moment before the tension of an Apexbishop’s demise replaced it. "Her stomach…?" she murmured.

Mila nodded. "Like an explosion, apparently."

It didn’t take much thought for Helga to work out what had happened there. Killing like that was Jean’s trademark -- but she hasn’t expected him to go after a head of state like that. It meant that things were far more serious than she’d expected.

She stayed silent for a while, thinking on it, until she realized that Mila was still looking at her.

"What?" Helga quietly asked.

Mila swallowed. "Why is it that you want to stay with the Supremacy so badly, Helga?"

Helga squeezed her eyes shut, gritting her teeth in frustration. "I’ve already told you this," she groaned. "Want has nothing to do with it. My family are with the GID, my siblings. If I deserted, they’d be the ones to get punished. Jean would see to it."

"So you just live a life you don’t want for, what… forever? Until you die?" Mila looked terribly sad. Despite her best efforts, Helga’s heart ached.

"If that’s what it takes to keep them safe."

Mila leaned forwards. "But they’re not safe, Helga. You’ve seen that! They’ve got your sister working for them, doing the same thing you do -- they’ll drag the rest of your family into it too!"

Headbutt her. Get your bound arms over her neck, chokehold with your elbows. Hold her hostage and make them undo your bonds. Snap her neck when you’re done.

Helga’s training whispered to her, but for the time being she ignored it. A better question had occurred to her.

"How do you know Olga is my sister?" she narrowed her eyes. "I don’t think I ever told you that."

Mila’s mouth was a flat line. "Dragan Hadrien told me."

"And how does he know that?"

"It’s… a long story," Mila said, looking down at the floor. "It doesn’t even matter. The point is… whatever deal it is you’ve got with this Jean Lyons guy, he isn’t sticking to it. He’s dragging your family into it already. If that’s the only reason you’re with them, then now should be the time to break free!"

Helga was silent for a long time.

Break free…? It had been a long time since Helga had seriously considered that idea. When she was younger, she’d thought about it often, fantasized about a great escape with her family to a place where Jean would never find them.

But reality had a way of strangling dreams.

"I can’t," she finally said, bitterness dripping from her tongue. "He won’t let me."

"Then…" Mila said, fidgeting as she moved around in her seat. "I realize it’s a little awkward to say, but couldn’t you just… mmm… you know?"

Helga blinked, suddenly confused. "No. I don’t know what you mean at all. What?"

"Just…" Mila made a bizarre and inscrutable movement with her hands. "You know, ah… get rid of him. That sort of, uh… kill him?"

Helga frowned. "I’m surprised to hear you suggest that."

"From what I’ve heard and experienced myself," Mila said, her voice cold. "He doesn’t sound like someone I’d lose too much sleep on."

That, Helga seriously considered. Running away had always been the pipe dream, because he would pursue, but if he couldn’t pursue… was there a chance? Could she really be free of him?

The moment that thought occurred, however, so did dozens of memories from over the years. Memories of times when someone had attempted to kill Jean, and what had happened to them afterwards.

The states their corpses had been in.

Helga squeezed her eyes shut, and hung her head. "No. I’m sorry, Mila. I can’t. He’s too good. He’s too strong. I can’t beat him."

The door to the room squeaked as it swung open.

"Perhaps not," said a familiar voice, its owner striding into the room. "But I might have better luck."

Helga looked up -- at the swordsman silhouetted in the doorway. She’d read this man’s file before the disastrous operation on Yoslof, so his face was familiar to her -- but he had a kind of presence you couldn’t feel through a photograph. Not to mention he looked so much more tired than he had back then.

"You’re not the only one who has matters to settle with Mr. Jean Lyons," said Atoy Muzazi, gaze resolute.

"Thank you for joining us, sister," said Giovanni Sigma Testament.

He sat at the end of a long table that had been set up, hands clasped before him. Huge reddened bags hung under his eyes -- clearly, he hadn’t slept, and whatever he’d been doing instead didn’t seem pleasant. His pupils were lifeless, staring at Isabelle without passion as she entered the Cardinal’s chambers.

Isabelle Pi Testament had to admit, though: she wasn’t much better. This meeting had been called in the middle of the night, and so she’d only had four hours or so of sleep. It took everything she had just to prevent herself from yawning.

Still, she got the sense that she couldn’t let her guard down. There was a strange atmosphere in the room -- acidic, almost, as if everyone there were about to begin melting any second. Any careless actions here, she knew instinctively, would have massive repercussions.

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She cautiously took a seat opposite Giovanni, watching him from along the length of the table. Giovanni’s supporters lined the room, all the way up to Pablo sitting at the Apexbishop’s side. Every eye, she realized, was on her. Waiting for her to speak.

"I’m surprised," she finally said. "An emergency meeting like this would usually have the Cardinals in attendance."

Giovanni continued to stare at her. "I’ve sent plentiful invitations," he said, his voice dull, nearly emotionless. "Yet it seems the Cardinals are unwilling to break their seclusion for this petty matter. Their dedication is truly to be admired."

"Hear, hear," muttered Sir Helel the Knight of Reason, his helmet jangling as he nodded. Nobody else joined him in his agreement.

"In which case," Isabelle continued. "I’m surprised that I was invited. With no undue humility, I don’t believe my position measures up to those of the esteemed assemblage here."

As Giovanni spoke, his face was slack, the only part of him moving being his mouth. "You are my sister. I have asked that you be here. That is all the qualification needed."

Isabelle’s eyes drifted over the table, at the faces of the men and women cautiously regarding her. This was not a meeting, she realized. They already knew what was up for discussion.

This was an announcement -- one they wanted to see her reaction to.

"Very well," Isabelle said, mirroring Giovanni by clasping her hands on the table before her. "I’m grateful for your consideration."

Slowly, Giovanni blinked. Then, he spoke: "Gertrude Hearth is dead."

Immediately, Isabelle’s face fell.

There was no way that could be true, but if it was… oh, God, what had Giovanni done? Had he actually had her killed? That was insanity. Forget the quarantine on Polis -- he’d put the entire Superbian sect in danger like that!

Giovanni continued. "At the moment, this news has not leaked to the public. We know this solely through the efforts of our brave investigators. We believe Hearth was killed by elements within her own organization, a faction keen to open hostilities with us. They disposed of her so as to install one of their own in her place, a new Apexbishop who would be willing to persecute the Superbian church."

Isabelle kept her mouth shut, but she knew bullshit when she heard it. A few days ago, Gertrude Hearth had been Giovanni’s avowed enemy, an obstacle to his goal of Superbian supremacy. Now, all of a sudden, she was a peace-loving martyr?

This was clearly a cover story… but it was one that Giovanni himself seemed to be putting next to no effort into. Even his voice, as he spoke, was utterly passionless. There was no fear at the crisis that would surely ensue, no satisfaction at defeating a hated enemy, just… nothing.

Like he’d become a void overnight.

The man called the Chorister, on the side of the table, frowned. "These are grim times, then," he said. "When you say this faction means to act against us, I assume you mean… war?"

Giovanni nodded limply. "That’s right. We expect them to begin their campaign before the end of the Truemeet. As a matter of fact, it’s highly likely they’ll open by attacking the Deus Nobiscum itself. Which brings me to the order of this meeting…"

Giovanni closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and then opened it again.

"All non-essential personnel are to leave for inner Superbian space immediately. That, of course, includes everyone in this room."

Isabelle sat up in her chair. "For what purpose?" she demanded.

"As I said, protection. We can’t risk losing the upper echelons to an enemy attack. It’d cripple us."

Isabelle stood from her chair, slamming her hands on the table before her. "The upper echelons?" she scoffed. "What, these guys? What about the Cardinals?! I suppose they’ve told you they want to stay in their seclusion, then?"

Giovanni shook his head. "No. They didn’t say that."

"Then what?"

"They didn’t say anything," Giovanni explained calmly. "They’re dead."

Isabelle opened her mouth in the heat of the moment to reply, only to stop when she realized what Giovanni had just said. In the end, it just hung open. A chill ran down her spine.

She’d suspected, of course… but for Giovanni to just say it was another matter entirely. She finally closed her mouth, swallowing down her saliva, and found that her throat was terribly dry.

Giovanni continued speaking, his eyes locked onto her. "I killed them in this room, with assistance from the Vox Dei. Some of them I killed with my own hands. As such, there’s no need for them to evacuate. Is that a problem?"

Isabelle said nothing, her gaze roaming over the table. Was nobody… was nobody going to do something about this? The Apexbishop had just admitted to high treason, right in front of everybody, and would be met with silence? That couldn’t be. Surely not.

And yet… silence was all she found, silence and a collection of eyes that would not meet her own.

"If that is a problem," Giovanni said calmly. "I’d recommend you commiserate about that with Mr. Keats, rather than myself."

A shadow fell over Isabelle from behind, bathing her in darkness, and there was a growl -- low and deadly enough to trigger some old animal instinct in her brain. Slowly, she turned her head.

She’d heard about Jon Keats’ bestial form, but hearing about it and seeing it were two different things entirely. He was a mountain of fur and muscle, spindly limbs ending with rapturous claws. His multiple eyes glared at Isabelle as he looked down at her.

He was ready, she realized, to open her up with a swipe of his hand. If she said the wrong words, he would do it immediately. Those were his orders.

As quickly as she dared, she turned back to Giovanni. "That’s no problem at all," she said quietly. "Under the circumstances… yes, evacuation is best. I’ll need to go arrange things with my staff."

Summoning all her courage, she took the first step to leave the room -- only to halt as Giovanni spoke up again.

"There’s still more to discuss," he said, face dead. "Please sit back down."

Isabelle clenched her fists, urging herself on, her eyes fixed on the exit.

"Nevertheless," she breathed, voice shaky. "There’s much I have to organize…"

She couldn’t see Giovanni’s face, but when he finally spoke, it was as if he was tasting the word for the first time: "Nevertheless."

That ambiguous statement was all the approval Isabelle needed. She strode out of the Cardinal’s chambers, pushing the door open and hurrying down the hallway. As she left, she could feel countless eyes on her back, sharp as daggers.

She walked for ages, without a specific destination in mind, her only intention being to get as far away from that meeting room as possible. Sweat dampened her forehead. Her lungs burned. Although she did her best to conceal it, her arms trembled terribly.

What should she do? From what Giovanni had been saying, it was clear he was going to do something drastic. She’d realized by this point that talking him out of something was a fool’s errand. But he’d surrounded himself with his yes-men, too, so a coup seemed nigh impossible as well…

Isabelle finally stopped next to the meditation quarters, putting one hand on her hip as she caught her breath.

"Hi," said Pablo, from right behind her.

Isabelle whirled around, just in time to see the barrel of a pistol being pointed right at her face.

She threw herself down to the floor -- just in time, as the plasma shot blasted past her head, scorching her hair. As she did, she activated her purple Aether, the pseudo-electricity gathering in her left hand and coalescing into a sphere.

Pablo’s black eyes were wide, yellow pupils dilated, as he looked down at her -- but a wide grin was distorting his face. A stray sadistic impulse had clearly driven him to make his presence known, but he didn’t look like he regretted it in the least. The slightest high-pitched giggle leaked from his mouth as he moved to dodge.

So that’s your real face, Isabelle thought, looking at the ugly visage -- before screaming out: "Painted Moonlight! Chapter Three!"

The sphere in her hand completed, flaring with purple light, and she pushed it in Pablo’s direction. It was the size of a soccer ball, but extremely slow -- barely faster than a snail. Pablo leisurely dodged out of the way, raising an amused eyebrow.

"Really?" he chuckled, raising his pistol once more. "That’s all you’ve --"

Isabelle tackled him with all her strength, throwing him off guard and causing him to miss his second shot. He wrestled with her for a moment, and was on the verge of overpowering her, until she struck his legs with a kick. He stumbled, just slightly, but enough -- enough to make his clothing just graze against the sphere she’d created.

He immediately vanished.

Isabelle let out a deep breath.

When Pablo came to, he was lying in a warm bed, a blind pulled around the frame. Faint sunlight streamed in through the tiniest gap. Somewhere nearby, he could smell medicine.

An infirmary? Pablo frowned. Had Isabelle managed to get the best of him? Even if that was the case, though, why would he be somewhere with sunlight?

He looked down at himself. The hell…? He was wearing some kind of school uniform. Sharply cut, fancy, clearly the uniform of a private institution. As Pablo was considering this bizarre situation, the blinds around the bed were pulled open.

A well-groomed man, clearly too old to be a student yet wearing a school uniform all the same, looked down at him with concern in his eyes. Those eyes seemed to be red with tears as well.

"Clara," he whispered. "Oh, I was so worried… when you passed out in class, I-I didn’t know if you’d… thank goodness… if you had fallen…" He visibly writhed. "...I simply don’t know what I would do, my… petite… bibliothèque…"

With each cringeworthy word, he drew closer and closer to Pablo’s face, until their noses were almost touching.

Pablo blinked. "Eh?"

Isabelle struggled to compose herself as she made her way through the dark corners of the Deus Nobiscum, wary of anyone else coming after her.

Before long, Giovanni would realize that Pablo had failed, and would bring down the hammer of the Vox Dei on her fully. Returning to her office wasn’t an option, nor was meeting with any of her few allies. They’d surely be waiting for her there.

Not to mention, there was no telling how long Pablo would be confined for. Painted Moonlight was a power that transported its target to a narrative of the same name, a simulation being run on her Aether itself. Pablo would be stuck in there until he completed the narrative.

She’d sent him into Chapter Three, the longest section of the story. Even if he skipped through all the events he could, it would take him at least twenty minutes to escape -- and given his personality, it would take him at least a couple of attempts to get the true ending. That gave her a pretty good amount of time in which to act.

But what to do with that time was the question. Right now, she was basically a fugitive. The only tool she had to work with… was her script.

She fished it out of the pocket of her robes. She’d been so tense leaving the meeting that she hadn’t turned off the recording -- it had still gotten everything from Pablo’s attack on her. For a few moments, she lingered on the file, finger moving back and forth through the recording, before reaching a resolution.

Giovanni had come this far by making sure information was contained -- information about his coup, about the moves his faction was making, and about their enemies. If she wanted to take him down, she’d have to start by removing that advantage.

She didn’t have time to be selective. She sent the file to her entire contact list.

Skipper raised an eyebrow as he looked down at the file, the automatic transcription giving a readout of its contents as the audio file went on. Interesting, very interesting. Seemed all wasn’t well in paradise for the Superbians.

"Skipper?" Hamashtiel said, his diamond-shaped automatic body swinging around to face him. "If you could please pay attention. We’re arranging the transport route for the Hanged Man?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Skipper said, putting his script back into his pocket. "Keep going, pal."

He didn’t have the time to deal with this right now, but it was still an interesting opportunity. With a slide of his finger across the unseen screen, he passed the file on to his trusty second-in-command.

Sending… he imagined the screen said. Dragan Hadrien.

Dragan Hadrien narrowed his eyes as he listened to the file, sitting on a metal crate in their warehouse. The earbuds he was using were good quality -- it was as if he himself were in that meeting room, listening to the Apexbishop pretty much admit he’d gone batshit.

Skipper hadn’t sent any context with the message, because of course he hadn’t, but the fact that he’d sent it basically meant he wanted them to do something about it. Dragan clicked his tongue and looked up from his little hideaway.

Ruth was doing pushups in the corner. Bruno and Serena were doing some minor modifications to the Slipstream’s systems.

"Hey guys," he called out. "I think we’ve got a problem."