Aetheral Space Chapter 230:9.21: The Cardinal Directions

Nason Vallister, known to so as the Chorister, hopped off his ship and onto the deck of the station -- his step as silent as the grave.

He’d changed his ceremonial white robes for a worn black coat and work pants. He’d dyed his hair an ordinary brown, and put on contacts to make his eyes a dull green. He’d brought a run-down ship, belching fus, all to create this common cover.

Even with all that, however… he couldn’t quite discard the silence that was his birthright.

"A little dramatic, don’tcha think?" li said, zipping around in front of his face. The little being -- the size of a thumb -- twinkled with Nason’s Aether. Today, she’d taken on the form of a tiny humanoid in a girlish dress, the detailing of her ’clothing’ intricate in the extre.

"Life is drama, my other self," Nason said, walking through the chaos of the landing bay. "Without it, we’d have nothing but business." He spoke quietly -- nobody else could see the Aether construct, after all.

li ceased her flight, landing instead on his shoulder, her legs swinging carefree in empty air. "Hm." She didn’t sound especially convinced.

As lightpoints went, the Myrmidon was hardly the most luxurious. From what information Nason had managed to dig up, it had originally been an unofficial installation used by smugglers, until the Superbian authorities had brought them down and retrofitted it for their own purposes.

What those purposes were, Nason could only guess -- especially as the Superbians had mostly abandoned it as well. Now, it served little purpose save for a quiet place for wretches to move through space unseen.

The first stop was the bar. Nason didn’t partake himself, of course -- but from the information the man called Skipper had provided him, that was where he’d find his target. The unfortunate soon-to-be corpse nad Damien hal Valde.

He wasn’t hard to spot. Nason positioned himself at a table by the door, sipping steadily at a glass of water as he inspected the clientele. The bar was nearly empty -- a dying establishnt, bleeding grace -- and so it was simple to spot the other fellow who wasn’t a regular here.

Damien hal Valde wore an expensive business suit as he sat at the front of the bar, nursing an impressively large drink. A briefcase lay next to his stool, firmly clasped shut. From what Nason understood of Paradisas associates, that briefcase likely contained so kind of defensive asure. He’d have to watch out for it.

"Oh, Y," li sighed, nearly salivating. "Look at that drink he’s got. Naldian Explosion, right? We could order that, as well. One or two wouldn’t hurt, you know. You’re good enough that you’d still manage to kill him easy-peasy. Co on."

"I’ve walked that path before, li," Nason said softly, very intently not looking at the drink. "I’ve no desire to return to it. It was not so easy to leave the first ti."

"Pussy," li sneered.

li the Aether fairy -- or imp, depending on her inclination -- could sotis be abrasive, but her usefulness in combat made even this minor annoyance worthwhile. The splinter of his consciousness was the conduit through which his Aether ability worked, after all -- and her capacity to reason and act on her own was quite useful as well.

So he could handle the occasional insult. Even if they did grate.

Nason’s body tensed up as he saw Damien hal Valde unbutton his pocket and reach in, pulling out his grace token. Imdiately, he reached down and flicked li, sending her flying off the table, limbs flailing.

"You’re up," he said firmly. "Inside his pocket. I want his room number."

"Fucking slave-driver… unbelievable… I’ll kick your ass next ti you talk to like that…" li grumbled, but she obeyed all the sa.

In a streak of purple, she zood across the room and dove into Damien’s pocket like a swimr into a pool. Then, a second later, she erged and returned to him just as quickly. Her purple Aetherlight hung in the air for a mont after her flight ended, like a fading ribbon. With Nason cloaking li, nobody could see it, but still… he couldn’t help but feel worried every ti he saw it.

"Well?" Nason asked as li returned.

"He’s staying in Room 272 -- private quarters aboard the lightpoint itself," she reported, lounging on a discarded coaster. "His ship’s being repaired, apparently, so that’s what he’s waiting for."

Nason raised an eyebrow. "You saw that in his pocket?"

"Heard him talking about it," li said. Despite the fact Nason couldn’t see her face, he was sure she was rolling her eyes. "It’s called listening, bozo. Could stand doing it with every once in a while."

Nason ignored her -- instead keeping watch on Damien as the man stood up, picked up his briefcase, and walked out of the bar. There was more than a little inebriation to his gait now. Wonderful: that would be a boon to him.

Seven minutes. Nason waited seven minutes, so it wouldn’t be obvious to any future investigators that he’d gone to follow Damien. As he paid with a forged grace token and strolled casually out of the bar, he seriously doubted that anyone would rember he was even here.

That was the way of people, after all. They avoided looking at the collapse around them until it was too late. It was the sa for Superbians, too.

The door to Room 272 was closed and locked when he got there. That didn’t necessarily an Damien had returned there, of course, so Nason had li enter through the air vents and confirm his target’s presence. Only then did he knock politely upon the tal.

It took Damien a few seconds to answer the door -- no doubt he’d been lying down on the bed, getting ready for the final stretch of his journey. The door did slide open, though, and when it did Nason finally got a good look at his target face-to-face. Fading dark hair and heavy bags under his eyes, his skin the shade of red reserved for those who had made a habit of overindulgence.

And yet… there was a trace of hope to him, a spark in his eyes that couldn’t be mistaken. It only made sense: the Paradisas had decided to reward his long years of service and approve his upload to the Garden. Immortality was within his grasp.

How sad for him.

"What is it?" Damien asked, looking Nason up and down. "What is… what do you want?"

Nason did not answer with words.

He stepped forward and jabbed his fingers towards Damien’s face, intending to poke the drunk’s eyes out. Damien staggered and fell backwards in surprise, however, coincidence serving just as effectively as an intentional dodge. As Damien landed roughly on the floor, Nason heard the pop of briefcase clasps coming undone.

"It’s coming," li snickered, twirling her hair. "Shall I?"

"Please do," Nason replied, turning on the spot to face the direction of the sound. The briefcase lay on the bed, its clasps coming undone one by one as sothing within endeavoured to force its way out.

The briefcase burst open, and an automatic of liquid tal -- shining in the dim light of the room -- lunged forth, sharpening itself into a spear as it leapt right for Nason’s face. At the sa ti, however, li dived into it, her essence suffusing throughout the entire tal structure.

Lines like glowing purple veins appeared across the surface of the automatic, converging at a single point -- a dot -- on its underside. As the automatic ca upon him, Nason ducked -- striking upwards and jabbing his fingers right into that purple dot.

The effect was imdiate. The liquid tal automatic exploded soundlessly into inert drops of chro, littering the room. A small module the shape and size of a centipede -- the control unit of the automatic, no doubt -- writhed uselessly on the floor for a mont before Nason crushed it beneath his heel.

All things that existed had built-in weaknesses -- killing points baked into them from the very mont they were born. By entering objects, li could expose those killing points. That was Nason Vallister’s ability.

"Behind," li yawned.

Nason ducked again as Damien swung a lampshade at his head, the tal structure brushing only against the very top of his hair. Damien swung it a second ti, trying to bring it down on Nason’s head vertically -- but this ti Nason seized the weapon with one hand, his Aether-infused strength more than sufficient to stop the attack.

Still, he didn’t want to be here too long. Best to end this quickly.

"Inverse, please," Nason glanced at li as he held the lampshade in place.

"Seriously?" she groaned -- but she obeyed all the sa. li entered herself, becoming a glowing purple mobius strip. Closing his eyes, Nason jabbed the first two fingers of his free hand into that structure.

Aether as a force all by itself produced little in the way of power, but light was another story altogether. The spectacular incandescence produced by li’s destruction blinded Damien for a mont, and Nason felt his grip on the lampshade loosen.

Imdiately, Nason tore it out of his grasp, threw it into the corner of the room, and advanced upon the cringing figure. li reappeared nearly instantly, and -- without having to be told -- dove directly into Damien’s body, exposing his divine deficiency.

Directly below the left eye.

Nason saw it, and Nason killed. His index finger lashed out with all the speed of a cobra, bypassing any defence Damien could have mustered. Warm blood coated the digit as it penetrated Damien’s skin, embedding itself in there up to the knuckle.

All fight drained instantly from Damien’s body, all fear slackened from his face. His arms fell limp to his sides, and his mouth twitched uselessly as he no doubt tried to speak. His legs shook beneath him as they grew tired of supporting his weight.

"I’ve killed you," Nason explained, pulling his finger free. "You will no longer be able to control your body, and you’ll die in about twenty seconds. If you have any loved ones you want in your head before the end, I’d start picturing them now."

Damien collapsed to the floor, and Nason left him to it, instead turning to search through his belongings. Ideally, he’d have liked to perform the traditional rites on this job, but it was paramount that nobody knew the Quiet Choir was involved. Even the sll of incense would be enough to give them away.

It didn’t take Nason long to find what he was looking for, buried deep in the briefcase that had been the automatic’s nest. A small data chip, thin and fragile. Nason handled it with care as he transferred the chip to the secure container he’d brought with him.

A record of the communications between Damien hal Valde and the Paradisas sect of the Final Church. This was what Nason had co here for. This was what Damien had died for.

The plan Skipper had given him was daring in the extre, and just as foolish, and yet… he couldn’t help but feel his heart pound when he considered it. The way to burn the rot out of the Final Church -- out of the Superbians, too -- and bring back the days that once were.

"You’re adept at wielding hope, Skipper," Nason muttered, lifting the lampshade as he returned to Damien’s corpse. "A dark and poisonous hope, but all the sa…"

Before he left, it was vital that he disguised the skill involved in Damien’s assassination. It would show up in the investigation otherwise. Nason raised the lampshade over Damien’s bleeding head…

And brought it down.

And brought it down.

And brought it down.

Results of initial investigation are as follows.

Subject (Damien h. Valde) deceased as a result of blunt force trauma applied directly to the skull.

Body found at 19:22 in Damien h. Valde’s private quarters after he missed his departure window. Estimated ti of death six hours prior to discovery.

Grace token and other valuables stolen from the room. For this reason, local deputies suspect petty theft is the motive.

However, confird destruction of a PolyKnight-model liquid automatic at the scene. Doubtful a petty thief would have been able to accomplish this.

Conclusion: deputies insufficient. Recomnd sending in-house investigators to pursue the case further. In addition, as Damien h. Valde is now deceased, Valde’s existence will not be required. Recomnd deletion or reassignnt.

Paradisas Investigation Report XKD34-78, Investigator Gurakhurt.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Giovanni Sigma Testant stared up at the ceiling, savouring the warmth of the water on his body. His long hair spread out like a cloak around him.

His bath encompassed an entire chamber of white marble and intricate art, statues of Apexbishops past lining the walls. Machinery, hidden from plain sight, ensured that the water was optimised in terms of comfort and hygiene. Giovanni’s mind was not focused on any of those things right now, however.

No. His mind was focused on the judgent of history.

He reached up with his new arm, a tad paler than the rest of his body, as if to grasp the fresco above him. It was a masterpiece: he’d always thought so. The whole history of the universe, as laid out by scripture, was spread out before his gaze.

Y, in his galactic form, placing the stars in the sky with his divine tentacles.

The Seven Spearn, with spiral faces, tornting the first prophets.

Saints old and new, dignified and wretched, spreading out the word and influence of Y.

And, of course…

The figure Giovanni always found himself focusing on was small, nestled between two greater titans, clad in a white cloak with incandescent eyes. Nerlin the Healer, he was called. It was said that a great deal of Giovanni’s genetic material ca from that man.

Apparently, Nerlin had been adept in using Aether to repair the wounds of others. He’d even saved an Apexbishop from certain death. And yet… all his presence in legend amounted to was that tiny figure in the fresco and a few historical footnotes. After he’d died, he’d faded away to nothing.

Did the sa fate await Giovanni? Was he dood to irrelevancy, a diocrity written into his genetic code?

No, he told himself. You’ve already taken steps against that.

He would be the one to finally reunite the three branches of the Final Church. He would be the one to cast down the false Apexbishops and restore the proper order of things. He would be the one who brought about a new era of faith, prosperity, and hope.

It would be impossible for anyone to forget him.

Over on the side of the bath, his script beeped. Imdiately, Giovanni waved a hand, summoning the holographic interface to his side.

"What is it?" he asked, still staring up at the ceiling.

"Giovanni?" Pablo’s voice was nervous, a rarity.

"What is it?" Giovanni repeated himself.

"Polis," Pablo finally said. "Trouble on Polis. The Humilists, they’ve… they’ve started attacking."

Giovanni blinked. "Eh?"

Dragan cracked his new shoulder. The existence of a ’new shoulder’ was starting to beco a regular occurrence -- which in itself was concerning.

This place was dull in the extre. A dusty apartnt, wallpaper in the process of rotting away, each piece of furniture right on the border of being considered antique if not for their ugliness. Was this hiding spot really the best Skipper had been able to put together?

After the incident at the cathedral, the group had gone right back into hiding -- and this ti they’d all split up to lay low individually. Their enemies would be looking for them as a unit, or so Skipper said, thus this was the best way to avoid their gaze.

Still… it was just so boring, especially for a Cogitant. For the last day, Dragan had just been stuck inside, watching old videographs while his new limbs adjusted. He couldn’t imagine Skipper giving himself such a dismal hiding place.

The videograph light danced across the screen as Dragan stared at it. A historical docuntary about the Fell Beast Incident, ten years back. He watched with dull eyes as footage of the tree-people writhing across the surface of Bepsis played. He’d seen this docuntary already. Boring, boring.

Idly, he began to massage his new leg. He’d read sowhere that doing that helped with the blood flow with new Panacea limbs. If nothing else, the sensation of touch helped stave off the cabin fever.

What’s wrong, dead boy?

Nevermind. The cabin fever was here.

I am not a house, dead boy. You know this!

This ti, the voice ca from his left. Dragan turned his head to look, and his eyes widened with surprise. There, sitting right beside him on the floor, was Pan. She was cross-legged, orange hair hanging over her eyes, looking with great interest at the videograph screen.

Fighting trees, fighting mushrooms, she mumbled. Humans have bad luck with plants, huh, dead boy?

"Actually, mushrooms aren’t plants," Dragan mumbled, staring at her. "They don’t make their own food, so they’re actually closer to animals than anything else."

Pan cocked her head, turning to look at him. You’re telling a mushroom what it is?

Dragan sat up. "Wait -- wait! How are you even here?! You’re…"

Here. Pan tapped Dragan’s new arm with a finger, and for a mont he swore he could feel her touch. And here. She tapped his leg in the sa way.

He looked down at his new limbs. "But… I thought it was ant to be inert? This far away from the planet?"

Pan hugged her knees to her chest, leaning back as she did so. Things are changing, dead boy. I feel like I’m waking up for the first ti. Besides… the traces of left in your head helped wake up these parts of , if only for a little while. I guess that’s it?

To be honest, she didn’t sound too confident in that answer, but Dragan nodded all the sa. With everything that had been happening recently, it was good to see a friendly face -- or hallucinate one, as the circumstances might be.

"So, uh…" Dragan rubbed the back of his neck. "What’s up? What can I do for you?"

Pan blinked. ? Nothing, dead boy. I ca because there’s sothing on your mind, I think. Sothing you’re wondering about? Worrying about? What’s wrong, dead boy?

So his thoughts were being monitored, now? Dragan wasn’t quite sure how he felt about that, even if Pan’s intentions were good. All the sa… it wasn’t like she was wrong.

"There has been sothing on my mind, yeah," he sighed. "I’ve been… wondering what I’m doing here."

You’re sitting and talking to , dead boy, Pan said helpfully.

Dragan shot her a glare. "That’s not what I ant and you know that’s not what I ant."

Then what do you an?

Dragan looked down at his hands, old and new. One was covered with the lines of life, while the other was soft and smooth as a newborn. The discrepancy was… unsettling.

"I could have died yesterday," he muttered. "And I did die, back on Panacea -- at least for a while, sort of. I just… can’t help but think. If I did die, properly, what would be the point of it?"

Pan cocked her head. Why does there need to be a point to it?

Dragan took a deep breath. "I’m… I think I’m following Skipper right now because I’m curious about his plan. How he intends to pull it off. What’ll happen once he does. Am I willing to die for curiosity?"

But you’re taking down the Supremacy too, right, dead boy? Pan smiled. In your mories, they ssed with you. So you’re doing this for revenge!

Dragan shook his head. "I’ve kept up on the news. Everyone involved in what happened to on Caelus Breck -- them trying to get killed -- is already dead."

Pan flattened her mouth into a line. Then… you want revenge on the whole Supremacy. Because they were in charge of the guys who ssed with you! Right?

Again, Dragan shook his head. "I’ve never… personally, I’ve never really considered the idea of taking down the Supremacy. It’s like gravity, you know? Immutable. Even if you killed the Supre, a new one would just take the throne. Stuff like what we’re doing now is just baked into the system."

Then why are you here, dead boy?

He opened his mouth, but the words didn’t co out straight away. Eventually, however, he found himself voicing his thoughts. "I… guess I’m here because everyone else is here. The people I care about, I an -- but don’t tell them I said that. I want to make sure they all co through the other side intact. And, I guess…"

Pan blinked. You guess?

"...I guess I…" Dragan swallowed. His gaze was fixed on the videograph screen, but his eyes didn’t truly register anything they saw there. "...this crew is the first place I’ve felt like I’ve really existed before. The first place where I could be myself, without always worrying about positions, or rewards, or… you know. Do you get what I an?"

No, Pan shook her head. Do you get what you an?

Slowly, Dragan nodded. "Yeah, I do. I think… I think the thing is that I don’t know how to be myself yet, without soone else’s lead to follow. First the Supremacy, now Skipper… I guess I’ve got so thinking to do -- about what I do next. I still want to help Skipper, but I want a reason to do it that’s my own. I guess. You know what I an?"

He realised he’d been speaking for a while uninterrupted -- and, to be sure, when he turned his head, Pan was gone. He was all alone again, in that empty apartnt, his only company the inevitable flies and spiders.

Still, when he sighed, it was with relief. It felt like a great weight had just started to ease off his back.

It was only a second later that he noticed that the image on the videograph screen had changed -- a general broadcast, the channel automatically switched to. Dragan furrowed his brow as he looked at it: it seed the Humilists were announcing the capture of a criminal charged with treason.

That wasn’t what surprised Dragan, though, nor what made the hairs on his body stand on end. What did that was the fact that he knew this person.

Mila Green. The doctor from back on Yoslof. The one who’d helped Bruno and Serena.

Dragan clicked his tongue. He didn’t know much about this situation, nor about this supposed treason, but his ti on Caelus Breck had taught him one thing. It had taught him the scent of bullshit when soone was being set up.

And he could sll it here and now.

Giovanni stared at the images before him from his throne. Images of a ship attempting to leave, and being utterly annihilated by the quarantine regint. A fireball of debris, slowly unfurling like a flower over the planet Polis, forever trapped in its infancy by photography.

The council chambers were deathly silent, save for the tap-tap of Giovanni’s finger against the arm of his throne. Pablo, Peak and the rest of Giovanni’s command staff sat solemnly around the grand table as they waited for their leader’s instructions. Slowly, Giovanni blinked.

"In previous instances," he said softly, putting the script down. "Ships attempting to leave Polis were simply forced to return to the planet. If force was exercised, it took the form of warning shots. Why is this ti different?"

Peak stood up from his seat. "Sir," he called up. "I’ve been coordinating with my counterpart on the planet’s surface, and --"

"I’m not talking to you. Pablo?"

As Peak reluctantly sat back down, Pablo rose next to him, bowing deeply as he did so. "If I may be so bold, I’d say the reason for the Humilists’ increased aggression could be the events on the Aipol Beach. Several of their assassins were killed, after all. I believe the popular saying is ’an eye for an eye’."

Giovanni furrowed his brow. "They’d really risk starting a war over a few assassins?"

Pablo smiled. "You know how illogical the Humilists can be. I wouldn’t put it past them. All the sa, the Humilists have trespassed against us in this instance. We cannot allow this cri to go unanswered."

One of the other councillors, an old fossil from the Believers-on-Horseback, nodded. "I reckon we take down one of their ships in turn. Like ol’ Pablo says, eye for an eye. Ain’t no shortage of them outside to take your choosing from."

The representative of the Nyxian Pugnanta, a massive woman with scars all over her body, nodded grimly. The slightest growl from her throat rumbled through those nearby.

"A subtler response. Required. Yes, required," hissed the masked leader of the Fifth Klavenian Hentopex of the Shivering Pulariovice, his speech underlaid by strange beeping. The fish in the tank he held eagerly devoured itself.

"Cowardice!" roared one of the Knights of Reason, Sir Helel, hand on his sheathed greatsword. "The ekness of a babe! As expected of a foolish theist!"

The discussion quickly turned into an argunt, the noise erupting through the sanctified space of the council chambers. If the cardinals had been alive to see such a thing, no doubt they’d have suffered heart attacks right then and there. No doubt words would start turning into violence if Giovanni didn’t intervene at so point.

And yet he just stared, slouched in his throne, at the chaos that his plan was turning into.

Atoy Muzazi looked at the broadcast, one hand on his chin. "This woman…"

"Mila Green," Lyons said coldly, fingers steepled before him. "The woman you did not kill last ti. It seems she’s been recaptured by the Humilist branch of the Final Church."

The two of them were in Lyons’ office, an old script resting on the desk between them. On it, footage of Green’s arrest was playing. Above, the light panel slowly flickered in and out.

Muzazi swallowed. "Unfortunate for her. What does this have to do with us?"

"Mila Green has been inside our base," Lyons said, in the manner of soone educating a particularly stupid child. "She’s spoken to -- and seen your face, heard your voice. Even if these mories are a blur to her, I do not doubt the Humilists have Aether-users who could extract that information."

The tone of Lyons’ voice, the look in his eyes, the abruptness with which he’d been called to this office… Atoy Muzazi’s blood turned cold.

Again, he swallowed. "What exactly are you asking to do?"

Lyons leaned back in his chair. "I think it would be very good for everyone involved if that information was not extracted."

"What do you want to do?" Muzazi repeated.

"I want you to kill her."

The words settled in the room like a cold weight. Lyons’ eyes drilled into Muzazi’s head as he continued to stare, unblinking. For the third ti, Muzazi swallowed -- and as he did, he beca aware of the cold sweat that had arisen over his body.

He looked down at the floor. "That’s… not the way I do things, sir."

Lyons cocked his head, and for the first ti his face softened. Almost sympathetically, he whispered: "With all due respect, Atoy, how has doing things ’your way’ worked out for you? With, ah… your forr partner, I an?"

The chill on Muzazi’s body beca a freeze, and he felt himself shaking deep down to his bones. He could feel it, he could feel it again, the feeling of that dust scattering across his bloody fingers. He could see that face disintegrating into nothing.

Marie was dying all over again. Marie was dead all over again. He put a hand to his mouth.

An illogical, insidious thought whispered to him: If I had killed Dragan Hadrien, back on Caelus Breck, that would never have happened.

"I’ll do it," Muzazi whispered, his voice quiet and weak. "This ti… I’ll eliminate her without fail."

Lyons smiled -- and, reaching over the desk, put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "It makes so proud you’ve grown enough to say that."

Two pistols in their holsters. One plasma, one stun -- both concealed by a blue jacket.

Combat boots, reinforced for defence, with chanisms inside assisting with rapid movent.

Black gloves, to prevent any fingerprints making their way onto… whatever he was about to do. In the sa vein, a black mask, ready to be pulled up over his face.

And blue Aether, sparking around his fingers,

Dragan Hadrien was ready. These were all the things he’d need to rescue Mila Green. He knew her location, and a flimsy plan was already starting to assemble itself inside his Archive.

His heart was racing in his chest, and his blood was hot in his body. It almost felt like he’d burst into fla if he stood still too long. He couldn’t really think of another ti he’d acted on impulse like this -- outside of shooting Atoy Muzazi back on Caelus Breck, and back then he hadn’t really realised what he was doing until it was over. He kind of liked the sensation.

He’d left Skipper a ssage as to what he was doing, but he wouldn’t give the older man a chance to talk him out of it. Just this once, he’d be doing what he wanted to do. The only one who decided what happened to him… was him.

Dragan Hadrien took a deep breath, and stepped out the door.