And in that mont, when I reached the peak of Mount Pilto, I was reborn.
It was so perfect -- the snow beneath my feet, the sea of trees that spread out before , the clouds swirling through the sky. Even the tweeting of the birds which had irritated monts ago now seed magnificent. It was like the entire world had been arranged just for that one transcendent mont.
I knew, then and there, that all the assets I’d spent my life to accrue were nothing more than worthless numbers. This view, this existence, was the true treasure. Everything I could see was Y, and it always had been.
Even the reflection of it in my eyes was Y itself.
moirs of David Har Malcroft, Forr Humilist Apexbishop
Atoy Muzazi was in search of an abyss.
He put the glass to his lips, gulping down the drink like he was a drowning man scrambling for buoyancy. It burnt at his throat on the way down, but it was a good pain, like he was being punished for his inadequacies. Slowly, surely, with each drink, he could feel the coherency of his thoughts coming undone.
That was good. That was what he was here for.
He was sitting at a little bar right at the bottom of this makeshift city the Trueet had brought together. Cheap lights in the ceiling dimd and brightened nearly at random, but nobody who ca here did so for the atmosphere -- and it seed very few people ca here to begin with. It was just him, the bartender, and a couple of drunks animatedly ranting at the establishnts only table.
"Another one?" the bartender glanced up as Muzazi tapped his finger against the table. "You sure, pal?"
"I’m sure," Muzazi muttered, already extending a hand to accept the next glass.
He took it eagerly as it was extended. He was almost there, he felt. He was almost free of the hellish place his mind had turned to. With each gulp of rancid alcohol, he was slowly breaking through a wall, getting closer and closer to the void on the other side.
It would be a gentle place, he knew that, a place where the sorrow he was feeling would simply beco nothing. There would be no emotion, no mory, no pain. Just himself, free from it all, staring into a reflectionless mirror.
Just himself, not having to think of her face anymore.
He went to look to his side, only to stop. He’d see nothing there but an empty bar stool. She wasn’t there anymore.
The rest of the drink went down in three long gulps, and yet his ntal disintegration still eluded him. The abyss he was looking for remained just as far away as ever. He was still here, now, feeling these things.
Words cut through the space -- montarily distracting him from his thoughts.
"I’m telling ya!" One of the drunks behind him suddenly called out to his buddy. "It’s Gene Tyrants, all the way down!"
Muzazi quietly put his glass down.
The drunk’s friend, only marginally more sober, snorted in amusent, leaning back in his chair. "The hell are you talking about, man? You’re wasted."
"I’m telling ya, I’m telling ya," the drunk continued, adjusting the black beanie on his head. "If you follow the facts, and… and retrace the, uh, the evidence, it all makes sense."
"How’s that?"
"We -- we beat them in the war, right? Killed ’em all. Or did we? That’s what they, uh, what they wanted us to think," the drunk waved a finger as if he was imparting great wisdom. "But what they actually did -- what they actually did -- is they transford, and now? Now they’re still ruling over us! We -- we just don’t know it! It’s ssed up!"
The friend furrowed his brow. "What, so, like… all the guys in charge are…?"
"The Apexbishops? They gotta be Gene Tyrants, let’s start there," the drunk began, counting off on his fingers. "That council the UAP’s got going on? You know they’re Gene Tyrants. The Supre? Gene Tyrant. It’s -- it’s ssed up, they got us in their clutches, and we’re pretty much slaves, so… you know?"
"My boss stiffed for my bonus this month," the friend chuckled. "So you’re saying he…?"
"Oh," the drunk nodded sagely. "Definite Gene Tyrant. In fact --"
"Why," Muzazi growled, swaying slightly on his feet. "Are you speaking about things you don’t understand?"
The drunk and his friend looked up. Muzazi had stood up from his stool and walked over to their table, where he was now looking down at them with a thunderous expression. Even with the drinks he’d had, his movent had been so quiet he’d gone undetected until he’d spoken.
The drunk’s friend swallowed cautiously, shifting in his seat. "Kind of a private conversation, buddy," he said, voice low.
Muzazi ignored him, his gaze remaining fixed on the drunk. The drunk just glared back up at him.
"We got a problem, pal?" the man said. "Why don’t you mind your own business?"
Muzazi ignored the question.
"You don’t know what you’re talking about," he repeated, swaying slightly on his feet. "None of you. You just keep going on and on… you… why?"
"Well, uh," the drunk chuckled, exchanging a glance with his friend. "Sorry if I offended you, buddy. You a Humilist or sothing?"
Muzazi stared.
"What, UAP, then?" The drunk clearly didn’t know when to keep his mouth shut. "Little far from ho, aren’t ya?"
Muzazi glared.
The drunk’s face darkened. "Supremacy?" he said, his voice suggesting he’d already figured it out.
Muzazi blinked.
The drunk’s chair screeched as he got to his feet, squaring up with Muzazi, perhaps just an inch or so taller. He thrust forward with his hands to shove the Special Officer, but Muzazi did not budge. Seeing that this attempt at intimidation was not working, an unsightly sneer wrinkled the drunk’s nose. He turned to return to his table.
"Supremacy cunt," he muttered -- and he spat at Muzazi’s feet.
The movent was instantaneous.
In less than a second, Muzazi had seized the drunk by the back of his hair and smashed his face against the table, blood and teeth scattering across its surface. The drunk’s friend staggered back, falling over his seat and collapsing to the floor. An incoherent whining sound trickled from the drunk’s broken jaw, like a slowly dying pig.
But Atoy Muzazi was not done yet. A blazing anger like a star, targetless, had consud him. As he pressed the drunk’s head against the table, the light of a thruster blazed out of the back of Muzazi’s hand, slowly increasing the pressure between the man’s face and the surface below.
Crack. Crack. Crunch.
Slowly, inexorably, Muzazi could hear the drunk’s already broken nose fracture further as it was pressed tighter and tighter, closer and closer. It was a sickeningly satisfying feeling, and so Muzazi just stared down at him, like this mont of petty vengeance was the only thing that existed in the world.
He ignored the thrashing of the drunk’s limbs.
He ignored the screaming of the drunk’s friend.
He ignored the commotion from outside, from the passing pedestrians who were witnessing this sight.
But when the bartender slamd a farball bat against the back of his head -- catching him off-guard -- he could not, of course, ignore that.
Everything went rcifully black…
…and yet it was still not the abyss Atoy Muzazi had been looking for.
Malfi Root, Green Grace, and even a few fledgeling Apex trees, stretching lazily up to the ceiling. Mila recognised more than a few of those plants as she walked through her Apexbishop’s garden.
The bright lights above gave a decent impersonation of the sun, and she could hear the occasional tweeting of birds as she walked down the footpath, but Mila saw no signs of human life. A twinge of annoyance curled her lips: she’d spent months trying to arrange this eting. The least they could do was actually et her.
For what it was worth, she wasn’t too sure how this massive garden -- taking up a massive chamber right in the center of the nagerie -- gelled with the tenets of Humilism. Humilists like them weren’t supposed to make anything new, only recycling that which already existed, but how did growing plants factor into that? She supposed the seeds already existed, but it still felt like a loophole.
Well, whatever. She’d never considered herself especially devout, and she wasn’t here to question the Apexbishop’s devotion.
Mila turned the corner -- and there, finally, was the woman she’d co to et. The Apexbishop of the Humilist branch of the Final Church, Gertrude Hearth. The Scurrant woman was sat at an antique table, sipping a cup of tea, wearing a dress that honestly looked like half-a-dozen burlap sacks had been stitched together. Bizarrely enough, she seed to make the look work.
Getrude lowered the cup from her mouth, gently putting it back down on the saucer with a clink. Her feline ears, perched over her brunette hair, twitched as she addressed her visitor.
"Mila Green, isn’t it?" she said sweetly, cocking her head. Though she didn’t have the age for the role, her mannerisms gave off the impression of a kindly grandmother.
Mila nodded respectfully. "That’s right, ma’am."
Gertrude gestured towards the empty chair with a hand, her furry tail swaying in the air behind her. "My people tell you’ve been asking for this eting for a long while. Please, sit down."
She did as she was bid. Mila was here to make a request, and she wasn’t going to put that in jeopardy by being unnecessarily confrontational.
"Can I offer you so tea?" Gertrude asked, steepling her hands beneath her chin as she looked Mila up and down. "It’s Margrave. Lovely jubbly."
The pleasantries had to be observed, but Mila couldn’t help but feel like they were slow knives as she nodded. She was uncomfortably aware of just how sweaty her hands were, sitting opposite this woman.
People called Gertrude Hearth ’the cat’, and it wasn’t just because of her appearance. It was the way she looked at you, played with you… like a cat toying with a mouse. With every honeyed word she spoke, you couldn’t help but spot her fangs.
Gertrude made the tea quickly, grinding leaves together with a mortar and pestle she had on hand. The tea that resulted was a pale red, bubbling slightly from the heat -- Mila tasted sothing like strawberry when she raised it to her lips.
"So, Miss Green," Gertrude smiled. "I understand you want to talk to about Helga Malwarian."
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Mila stiffened, but she actually wasn’t too surprised. The Humilist Apexbishop was decided by majority vote -- and it was rumoured that Hearth had achieved her victory through copious amounts of blackmail. It was no surprise that she had such accurate information on others.
She nodded. "That’s --"
"What people sotis need to understand," Gertrude gently interrupted. "Is that necessity often trumps what’s right and what’s wrong. Please, though, go on, dear."
Gertrude Hearth’s gaze was like a magnifying glass incinerating an ant.
Mila swallowed, steeling herself before she continued: "I believe the ti has co to release Helga Malwarian -- or at least to change the terms of her punishnt. Right now, it is cruel and unusual."
The cat cocked her head. "Cruel and unusual? How’s that? Forgive if I’m wrong, but hasn’t Malwarian been unconscious since she was brought in? I’m a little confused, how can soone be punished if they aren’t aware of anything?"
"She’s been kept unconscious," Mila forced out. "That in itself is the punishnt --"
"Hardly cruel and unusual, then," Gertrude sipped her tea. "Fairly light, if I say so, especially in response to treason."
Treason.
The events of Yoslof ran through Mila’s mind in an instant, a horror show all in fast-forward. The Special Officer that had terrorised her friends, the red shadow that had betrayed them to him, and…
…and the mont that shadow had revealed itself as Helga Malwarian. The woman she’d loved.
"It’s surprising to that I’m hearing from you about this, if I’m quite honest," Gertrude went on, carefully sipping her tea. "When young Aiden first brought Malwarian to the Forgiveness Corps for arrest, you petitioned quite heavily to remain by her side, didn’t you? You didn’t seem to think the punishnt was cruel and unusual, then."
She’d already heard nasty rumours at that point, about the upper echelons of the Humilist faith, about the corruption in the Forgiveness Corps, about what happened to inconvenient people when you took your eye off them.
Despite everything, despite what Helga had done, Mila had simply found herself unable to leave her to that fate. And yet it had happened all the sa.
Mila put her own cup back down on the table with great force, Gertrude’s feline ears twitching from the sudden loud noise. She summoned the courage she’d been building ever since she requested this eting, and spoke.
"It’s a matter of duration," she said. "When Helga was first given to Dr. Cloud as a test subject --"
"-- for observation only," Gertrude interrupted. "No actual testing has been perford on the woman --"
"As a test subject," she insisted. "It was under the terms that it would be for a limited amount of ti. I’ve worked with Dr. Cloud for the last year and I can confidently say he has no intention of giving up useful test subjects. He will continue to hold her on a permanent basis. Permanent imprisonnt as a human guinea pig, without trial or parole: that is what I class as cruel and unusual."
She didn’t realise at first, but as she spoke, she slowly stood up in her seat -- passion prompting movent. Her breath shaky, she slowly sat back down.
But she already knew. All the passion in the world wouldn’t sway these people. She’d left Serendipity to escape the corruption of the dical profession there -- but she understood now. It didn’t matter where you went or how pure its ideals were: over ti, institutions accumulated corruption as houses accumulated rot. It was inevitable.
And the place she’d found herself in was very old indeed.
"What you need to understand," Gertrude said softly, as if explaining the matter to a child. "Is that Dr. Cloud is one of the foremost genetic engineers in the galaxy. It’s a miracle we have him now, rather than the Superbians. We need to keep pace with them when it cos to technology. If not, they will surely surpass us. If Dr. Cloud’s price for his continued brilliance is a test subject or two, well, I’m afraid we must simply swallow our pride and acquiesce."
Mila glared down at the table, her fists balled on its surface. "So that’s it, then?" she muttered. "Keeping her asleep to satisfy so mad scientist."
"I’d hardly call him ’mad’, but yes, that’s the gist of it. Unless you have sothing better to offer ?"
"Huh?" Mila looked up, a foolish spark of hope flickering in her brain.
Gertrude stared at her, unblinking. "If there’s sothing of equal value to Dr. Cloud you’d be willing to offer , I’d be happy to consider it. You’re from the UAP originally, aren’t you? Your father was a famous surgeon there, and worked with many prominent individuals. Perhaps in living with him, you yourself beca privy to so confidential matters? I’d love to hear about them if so."
Ah. So, in the end, that was why the cat had accepted this eting. To try and restock so of her blackmail. To exchange one piece of dirty business for another.
Well, Mila had nothing to tell her -- and even if she did, she was far too sick to her stomach to speak.
"No," she replied, her voice dull. "I don’t know anything like that."
Gertrude’s ears flattened as she smiled sadly. "Then I suppose we have nothing else to talk about, do we, dear?"
When Atoy Muzazi’s drifting consciousness -- victim to drunkenness and head trauma -- finally ca back into focus, he was already sitting in the back of a police car.
His head hurt, but that was no surprise. His hands were bound, but with ordinary handcuffs -- no Neverwire. It would be child’s play to snap them with his Aether, but Atoy Muzazi did not move. Even the idea of mustering that much effort seed sickening right now.
The streets gently moved past outside the window, the countless lights of the city forming an indistinct haze before Muzazi’s eyes, punctuated by the shadows of passing pedestrians. They weren’t moving particularly fast, but he supposed they were surrounded by crowds -- no doubt the officer didn’t want to risk running anyone over.
Muzazi’s headache eased, just a little, and he glanced up to the front of the car. There was only one officer up there, a young man driving the vehicle, and every now and then he was giving Muzazi a cautious glance back through the rearview mirror.
Foolishness. An officer should always have a partner…
"I suppose I’m under arrest?" Muzazi spoke through a throat that felt like sandpaper, his cheek pressed against the cool window. They were entering an area with less people, and the vehicle was speeding up appropriately.
"Ayup," the officer said, eyes on the road.
Muzazi blinked. "By whom, if I may ask?"
"Forgiveness Corps."
"That’s… Humilist, isn’t it?"
"That’s right."
Atoy Muzazi had no opinion on that information. The questions left his mouth, and he received and understood the answers, but he simply and honestly did not care about them at all. If the officer had refused to answer, or even lied, he probably wouldn’t have even registered it.
The car slowed down, and finally stopped. Had they arrived? No matter. Muzazi simply continued to stare into the pitch-black on the other side of the window.
"Damnit," the officer muttered -- and then there was the sound of him lowering his window. "Hey!" he called out. "You guys need to move this stuff!"
Footsteps, and then a gruff voice next to the car. For Atoy Muzazi, the whole world had beco so kind of audio drama.
"Transport accident along the road," the gruff voice said. "Got cargo scattered a ways -- we called ahead and got approval from the Corps for a clean-up. They didn’t tell you guys?"
The officer sighed. "Of course they didn’t. You got papers?"
A chuckle. "Sure. Here you go."
Click.
For a split second, reflex took over, and that familiar noise jolted Muzazi back into awareness, his gaze instantly moving to the sound’s location.
The barrel of a silenced pistol was peeking through the crack in the window, inches from the officer’s face. Face pale, the young man slowly raised his hands in surrender.
"Okay now," he said carefully. "Let’s not --"
His head snapped back as he was shot between the eyes -- and yet his body stayed in place, held up by his seatbelt. A aty hand word its way through the open window, unlocking the door, opening it, and pulling the corpse free.
Muzazi had seen enough. Where reflex had revived him, self-preservation now moved him -- and with a flare of white Aether, he smashed through the car door with his shoulder and snapped his handcuffs in one smooth motion.
He skidded to a halt on the concrete outside, boots kicking up sparks behind him. His eyes flicked around, picking out details, gaining an instant understanding of the situation he’d found himself in.
It was him and two n -- short and stout types, with bushy moustaches and amused eyes. Both of them wore overalls and caps, the only difference being the colour: the one holding the officer’s body was wearing red, and the other one was wearing blue.
"Atoy Muzazi, right?" the blue man spoke, scratching his moustache.
"Na yourselves," Muzazi demanded, once again reaching for a sword that was not there. "Why did you kill that man?"
"Na’s Solstice," the red man -- Solstice -- said, lifting the dead officer up by the shoulders like he was a baby. "That’s my bro Equinox. Hey, Equinox, can I take care of this thing?" He shook the corpse in his grip.
"Huh? Oh yeah, yeah, go for it."
Muzazi opened his mouth to interrogate further -- but was interrupted by a truly incandescent blaze of light that exploded out of the officer’s corpse, like the flash of a giant cara. When it cleared, Solstice’s hands were empty, and no trace remained of the officer’s corpse.
There weren’t even ashes.
"My bro’s got a good power for clean-up, huh?" Equinox grinned, hands on his considerable hips. "Mine’s not bad, either, but for corpses his is the best."
Muzazi adopted a martial arts stance, one hand held back in a fist, the other held forward as an open palm. He wasn’t as confident with his fists as he was with a sword, but it would suffice. If it ca down to it, he wouldn’t go quietly.
"What do you want with ?" he said, eyes hard.
Equinox chuckled, exchanging a glance with his brother. "Gee, bro, I think we mighta co on a bit strong. Don’t you?"
Solstice nodded sagely. "Seems to we might have, bro, what with the murder and the incineration and whatnot. I bet he’s real confused."
"Maybe he thinks we’re here to kill him, too. Wouldn’t that be sothing, bro?"
"Why, bro, I do think that would be sothing. Nothing could be further from the truth, but --"
"Enough gas!" Muzazi barked, his Aether coursing furiously around his body. "Tell what it is you want from -- or I will not be responsible for my actions."
"Okay, okay," Solstice chuckled, reaching into the pockets of his overalls and fumbling around there. "There’s soone who wants to talk to you real bad, buddy pal. Oh, I know I’ve got it sowhere…"
"Who?" Muzazi narrowed his eyes. "Who wants to talk to ?"
Solstice’s eyes lit up, and he pulled sothing free from his pocket. "There we go!" he exclaid triumphantly. He tossed his prize onto the ground between himself and Muzazi. "There, check a look."
He glanced down at the pin that had landed on the concrete before him. Needless to say, he recognised the logo. The wide, staring eye of a watchful bird, surrounded by three rings -- one for each pillar of the Supremacy’s society.
This was the symbol of the Galactic Intelligence Division.
The building Muzazi was taken to was busier than he’d expected. It was so kind of barbecue restaurant, and already on the first day of the Trueet it was full to bursting -- blazing with light and noise, the sll of ribs and at pleasing to the nose.
As he and his two ’companions’ made their way through the crowded venue, they received not so much as a suspicious glance.
The back rooms of the establishnt were more like what he’d expected. Solstice and Equinox led him down several dark and dusty hallways, through several password-locked doors, and finally…
"Here he is," Equinox said.
…they shoved him into the back office itself.
"Atoy Muzazi," a clear, calm voice said. "A pleasure to et you at last."
The man who’d spoken, sitting on a chair before a network of monitors, had an… unusual appearance. Nearly everything about him was sheer white. His hair, his skin, the suit he wore… the only traces of colour on his person were the Cogitant-blue of his eyes and the black of his lips and fingernails.
He was like a sketch that hadn’t been coloured in -- or perhaps an escaped mi.
"Jean Lyons," he introduced himself, smiling. "Director at the Galactic Intelligence Division. My apologies we have to et in such an unusual venue, but we’re currently conducting business here. We couldn’t risk anything less discreet."
Jean Lyons… the na rang familiar, yet Muzazi couldn’t recall ever eting this man.
"You’re a spy from the Supremacy?" he asked hoarsely. "What is it you want from , then?"
Lyons’ tight smile widened slightly.
"Well," he said. "While you’re here, we figured you could help us with any number of things. Retrieving a GID asset lost to the Humilists, eliminating so inconvenient individuals…"
His smile widened such that there was the slightest hint of a grin.
"...and bringing an end to the Final Church."
Muzazi sighed until his lungs were empty. Even he was surprised by the sheer relief in the sound. His arms swayed limp by his sides, and it felt as if the world’s greatest weight had been lifted from his back.
Orders. Finally.
There was the abyss he’d been looking for.
Mila looked up, her face coldly illuminated by the light from the stasis module. That cruel glow was the only illumination afforded to this room.
Helga Malwarian floated freely in the blue stimulant fluid of the tank, a rebreather placed over her mouth allowing her oxygen. At first glance, it seed she had no arms at all -- but no, if you looked closer, her transparent limbs were simply refracting the fluid.
It had almost been a year now -- a year since she’d been knocked unconscious on the planet Yoslof, and kept that way by this tank. An entire year had been added to the distance that already separated them.
Tomorrow, this tank would be moved to the main laboratory again for further scans. Dr. Cloud was interested in the way Aether use interacted with genes, particularly when it ca to Scurrants. He’d keep using Helga until there was nothing left to use.
She placed a hand against the curiously warm glass of the tank, staring into the blue abyss beyond.
Helga, she thought. I’ll get you out of here. I promise.
It was ti to start making plans of her own.
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