TWO WEEKS PRIOR

  It is never a clean thing, exactly, when an Emperor dies. But the death of Doss Ken Volsif XCVII was messier than most.

  The problems were twofold; firstly, there was the whole matter of religion Volsif had introduced. The Great Domain had been firmly atheistic for many centuries on end, barring the usual myriad small-time paganistic cults, and thus was Volsif XCVII's legitimization of an official state religion quite a marked departure from the norm. By time of his death, scholars estimate than near thirty-percent of the human race truly believed Doss Ken Volsif XCVII to be a god made flesh. This was not mere fealty; this was outright worship, plain and simple, something that none of his predecessors could ever claim.

  Secondly, there was the Season of Crimson and Jade, the inter-universal war between siblings that exacted an astronomical toll upon the human race. That gargantuan conflict terminated, ultimately, with the death of Jaras Ten Volsif — the infamous Crimson Emir — and the total delegitimisation of Hiela Kor Volsif, the briefly-crowned Amber Empress.

  These two factors were responsible for the enormous power vacuum that followed in the wake of Volsif XCVII's suicide. There were no clear successors, no surviving heirs of the Volsif line whatsoever. And it cannot be understated that the people needed a Volsif then, that they desperately needed someone to fill the void of their dead god. It was he to whom they had looked, in the depths of their despair. It was he who had brought them out of the Crimson Season (and also he who beget it in the first place, though the Dogma of the time would disagree). It is perhaps only natural, then, that in the mad scramble for power that ensued — it was his protege, the so-called Jade Wolf, who secured an early lead.

  While others were only just receiving the news, Jaheed Vell — whom few, if any, knew had actually murdered the Emperor — was moving swiftly and decisively to eliminate his rivals. He secured an early alliance with the powerful Scion Ket Sal, as well as the Se-dai warrior AMMIT, then set at once to purging the entirety of the Scion court. Following the extinction of the Se-dai order, the Blessed Executioners were in woefully short supply, and thus did the warrior AMMIT slaughter Jaheed's foes in the Panopticon with uncontested ease.

  The splintering of the Star-Touched and Void-Grazing Imperial Naval Armada was inevitable and immediate, of course. Some Hosts threw in with various Dukes and Lords, whilst some split off to form their own militant enclaves — but the largest faction by far was that of the Jade Loyalists, who naturally pledged their loyalties to the Jade Wolf himself. Thus, with an early material advantage, did Jaheed take swift and firm control of the Sol System, and thus was Jaheed by far the dominant power for much of the Silent Thirty.

  Even now, at the venerable age of one-hundred-and-thirty-six, it is still the Lord of Callisto who holds by far the largest territory in the Shattered Domain; whose voice carries by far the loudest, at the annual gathering of the Consensus.

  And it is Jaheed Vell who stands, by far, the closest to that impossible and terrible dream — the reformation of the Great Domain.

  And the crowning, for the first time in over a century, of a new Emperor.

  Like anyone with even a basic education, Johann Tas Vell knows all of this by heart. Johann knows exactly who his father is — and that's why he's currently sweating buckets.

  It was but twenty minutes prior that his younger sister Raynia burst in to shout father is on his way here! And even that was a bit underselling it, for 'on his way here' actually meant 'descending through the atmosphere as we speak'. And so the next fifteen minutes were a frenetic scramble to get dressed, get ready, get himself presentable for void's sake! Just like our dear Morgan/Morgana, Johann takes a handful of pills for his hangover, though these are merely the amuse-bouche before an entree of mood stabilizers and stimulants and what-have-you. Johann needs to be at his absolute best, needs to be razor-sharp and lightning-quick. Needs to be the very pinnacle of the man he can be.

  He is joined, in a magnificent glass elevator more art-piece than functional vessel, by his younger siblings — Raynia Set Vell and Jargus Jon Vell — the two of whom fidget uncomfortably and babble amongst themselves, as the vessel descends. They all bear momentary witness to a staggering view, to a vast metropolis of gleaming glass-metal spires and ten thousand ships dotting the skies in ceaseless geometric formations, like ants in suspended animation — and then they are deep within the palace once more.

  "We're fucked," declares Jargus, a man who has been trained from birth to speak in proper Highborn fashion. Johann shoots his younger brother a disdainful glare. A smart man would already be getting into character, he thinks to himself. Oh well. If either of his siblings intend to speak like that in front of his father, then Johann will not hesitate to seize upon their impropriety. Better him than me, to paraphrase the old wisdom.

  It has always been something of a rat race between the children of Vell, you see. All of this entirely by their father's design.

  "Really, Jargus? We're fucked because our beloved father is coming home to see us?" Raynia scoffs, in sharp contrast to her panicked warning from earlier. Again, Johann's lip curls at the usage of such crude language, even in quotation. Both his younger siblings are shockingly undisciplined; these days, Johann doesn't even bother to pity them anymore.

  Now Morgana, his older sister — she knew how to play the game. Or so he thought, anyway, until she fled like a fucking idiot (language!) and torched any possible chance of succeeding their father. It was truly divine provenance: Johann's most dangerous rival, out of the running just like that in a moment of pure self-immolation. Her stupidity boggles the mind; there are times when Johann believes that he alone takes after their legendary father.

  That being said, Jargus does have a point. Jaheed Vell is rarely if ever spotted on Callisto anymore, preferring instead to rule from his gargantuan flagship the Doss Ken Volsif. And his visits are always announced well in advance. For their father to simply appear above Callisto, with no warning or preamble or explanation whatsoever? Well. It's only inevitable that one's mind wander to some rather dire places, isn't it? Nevertheless, Johann doesn't allow such self-defeating thoughts anywhere near the confines of his skull. Not ever. He visualizes only success, never failure, and thus he will actualize for himself a future to rival his father's own. A future in which he will surpass even the vaunted Duke of Callisto, and become something to rival the Jade Emperor himself.

  Ah, but for the moment these are only distant dreams. At present, Johann stands at attention with his siblings as a sleek, angular shuttle descends. At either side, one-hundred guards stand with force-pikes in hand, all adorned with elaborate and magnificently-embellished golden armor. Their purpose is purely ceremonial, for the High Palace on Callisto is perhaps the most fortified location in all the Shattered Domain.

  The shuttle comes to a halt; landing gear hisses and pops, and emits a great deal of ghostly steam. The vessel settles upon its haunches, and then there are a few tense seconds in which a pin-drop would have rung out like a gunshot.

  Then the gangplank swings down, and with little fanfare there emerges Jaheed Kesol Gragnad Demnod Vell, Most-Hallowed Duke of Callisto and man they call the Wolf of Sol.

  For a man nearly a century-and-a-half of age, he certainly does not look it. Cutting-edge genetic artisans have frozen his forty-year appearance in eternal stasis, though his once-scarlet hair is now streaked heavy with black and grey. His figure is rigid and stately; his advanced age betrayed only in the myriad lines that cross his face. Upon his lip, he bears a small vertical scar — a relic from an old assassination attempt, in the early days of the Silent Thirty, one perhaps kept as a reminder of his own mortality. And then, of course, there are his eyes. Not piercing-blue like his children, no, but a deep and dull and predatory yellow, in the style of Volsif XCVII's Scions. Never in all his years has Jaheed Vell opted to restore his original features, for reasons unknown, and thus is the Duke of Callisto always starkly differentiated from they of his vaunted lineage.

  Jaheed brings with him no entourage, no knights or soldiers or advisors or supplicants — only a pair of unassuming silver-eyed women, each clad in a long trenchcoat and each looking quite starkly out of place amidst this grand and stately spectacle. The shorter one, on the left, is smoking a cigarette and snickering something under her breath; the taller one has both hands in her pockets and is trying not to laugh. Johann has known these two ordinary-looking women for all his life, which is why he also knows to give them the absolute widest berth possible. And to avoid eye contact, if he can. Just to be on the safe side.

  Thus does Jaheed Vell stride briskly across a magnificently-embroidered scarlet carpet, then, and so do two-hundred guards all kneel in unison. Johann and his siblings bow at the waist; though he does not look, he can hear the cigarette-smoking woman snickering just a little bit louder.

  "Johann," Jaheed says, in flat greeting. Or perhaps mere acknowledgement. "Raynia. Jargus." The patriarch's face is stern and serious as always — which is a good sign, maybe? It's impossible to tell when Johann's father is actually angry, because Johann's father always looks angry, his face written into a permanently unamused scowl. He is the most stark and humorless man Johann has ever known; the kind of man who never releases himself from that iron grip of control. Any memory Johann has of his father actually smiling is an old and distant one, to be sure. And perhaps no memory at all — perhaps merely a hazy, half-remembered dream.

  "Father. Welcome home," Johann greets, to which Jargus and Raynia do the same. He has to look straight ahead, and he doesn't dare look the women in the eyes, and so he is forced to hold his father's gaze. Those dull-yellow eyes might as well have been blazing suns, for the intensity of his father's sight was such that Johann immediately feels sweat beading across his forehead.

  Perhaps this was simply part and parcel for anyone over a century of age — but there was truly an intensity to Jaheed Vell's presence. There was a weight, as though reality itself were flexing and distorting to accommodate him. Johann has felt this way even since his days as a child; though he has never dared speak it aloud, he is certain that his siblings feel quite the same.

  "There is business to discuss," Jaheed says, in the coarse and gravelly voice of a man far older than his appearance would indicate. And without further ado he just strides right past, with the silver-eyed women flanking him in tow. For a moment, the three siblings exchange stunned glances — and then they are scrambling to catch up, as their father steps into that same glass elevator.

  The ride back up is horrendously uncomfortable and fraught with tension; their father stands still and silent as a statue, whilst his bodyguards command an inordinate volume of empty space around them. Nobody wants to bump shoulders with either of those void-damned psychopaths. The only man who regards them without fear is Jaheed Vell himself.

  Nevertheless, Johann clears his throat and makes a game attempt at conversation. "How was the trip here?" he asks, and his voice cracks only the tiniest bit when he does so. One of the women — the shorter one, again — scoffs something under her breath.

  "Uneventful," Jaheed replies, eyes still locked dead-ahead. "Though my time at the Consensus was productive." Hands clasped in front of him, shoulders squared and posture rigid. Always.

  And that, apparently, will be the extent of the small talk. A minute later the elevator doors slide open, everyone steps out into the Grand Foyer, and then Jaheed instructs them all thusly: "Raynia, Jargus; leave us. Johann, come with me."

  Terror is eclipsed at once by smug self-satisfaction. Johann shoots both his siblings the quickest of winks over his shoulder, as they depart — to which Raynia responds with a roll of her eyes, and Jargus scratches his nose with one very particular finger — and then Johann and his father are stepping into the study, and one of the silver-eyed women is shutting the door behind them. And then...oh. He and his father are alone.

  Okay, that's fine. No pressure. No big deal. Johann tries to distract from this sudden surge of fear with rote registration of stimuli — that is to say, he glances around the room whilst lowering into a seat. Johann hasn't seen this room in ages, though it's changed little since he was a boy. His father has never favored any sort of throne room or grand, opulent chamber — instead, the nerve center of the Vell Dynasty is this smoky little office, with wood-paneled walls and dark-carpeted floor and shelves stocked to the brim with bonafide paper-bound books (each of which is a rare artifact in its own right). The Wolf of Sol sits now at a monolithic ebony-wood desk; behind him, there looms a holographic display in which two maps of the Shattered Domain are presented.

  The first is a chart of territorial boundaries. It is the Shattered Domain as it currently stands, carved up as it is by the twenty-two lords of the Consensus, and it is labeled CURRENT.

  The second? A map in which Vell-marked territory has greatly expanded, reaching out like some vast leviathan with tentacles overlapping each and every other territory. Here, nearly half the other Dynasties have simply ceased to exist.

  This map is labeled PROJECTED // YEAR 12939

  The only illumination, save for this portentous display, is a featureless orb that hovers inches above the desk and emits a warm, soothing amber light. Thus is everything and everyone cast into deep-lined shadow, and thus does the whole thing feel quite distinctly subterranean — like Johann is miles and miles underground, even atop the tallest structure in all of Callisto.

  Jaheed now produces from his desk a long wood-carved pipe, then stuffs it with some manner of black powder. Silently, the taller of the two women steps over and snaps her fingers; the resulting spark sees the pipe smouldering and smoking at once. Thus does Jaheed blow out a glittering cloud and close his eyes, for just a moment.

  It is the briefest of respites. A few seconds is all that the Duke of Callisto needs; an instant later, his yellow eyes are back open and he is regarding Johann with expression unreadable. Behind the firstborn, all the while, the two women are taking up positions — one of them leaning back against the far wall, cigarette in hand, whilst the other lounges across a neighboring couch. She, too, begins to smoke, and thus Johann is forced to blink his eyes in immediate discomfort.

  "Are you aware," Jaheed asks, finally, "of the situation on Teleren-Six?"

  Situation is quite an understatement. The far-flung moon of Teleren-Six is a vast commercial hub, and a key component of the sprawling trade network that makes the Vell Dynasty the mighiest in all the Shattered Domain. Nobody ships anything anywhere without passing through Vell space, and this can only be done by paying the tolls to continue through strategically-placed 'gates' of Voidspace Interdictors. Teleren-Six was a vital part of that whole racket, you see — until the Planetary Government outright rebelled, declaring itself fully independent and blockading every nearby gate to forestall any retribution. From what Johann has heard, the entire moon is currently one big battlefield, one unlikely to settle anytime soon.

  "I'm well-appraised, yes," Johann nods his head. That's not much of an accomplishment — everyone is well-appraised on the 'T6 debacle'. It's been intergalactic news for over a week. Nevertheless, Johann decides to tack on an arrogant, loathing little snarl: "Traitorous mongrels. They're fools to turn their backs on our family."

  "Mhm," Jaheed muses, taking another puff of that intricately carved and likely centuries-old pipe. "By close of day, the situation on Teleren-Six will be resolved."

  For a moment Johann just blinks, taken aback. By close of day? Teleren-Six was an ongoing crisis, a catastrophe that had stymied the entire Dynasty. It was shaping up to be either months of fraught negotiation or a years-long siege, because right now nobody could get through Teleren's gates. "How-"

  "Certain contingencies were put in place," Jaheed says simply, as though this is a matter of no great import. "The Sixth Fleet shall sail unimpeded through the gates. Through my gates. Punishment will be swift and decisive, and thorough to such a degree that no-one will ever attempt to replicate this little uprising." His lip curls, just a smidge. "Until the next generation forgets of these horrors, of course. People have short memories, Johann. It is the task of far-sighted men to remind them."

  "I see," is all Johann says, because he does not see at all. Why is his father here? Why this whole surprise visit? Surely it was not to deliver news of plans already in motion, nor was it to wax poetic on the tenets of ruling philosophy. Jaheed Vell is not a man to waste words or time — so what could be possibly be doing here, right now?

  This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

  "Nevertheless," Jaheed sets the pipe down, folds ring-laded hands on the desk in front of him, "Teleren-Six is an anomaly. It is something that should never have occurred, not with the precautions in place and not with the resources at their disposal. There is only one conclusion to draw: that someone has tipped the scales."

  "You speak of...outside interference?" Johann suggests, starting to get the shape of the thing now. In theory, of course, the twenty-two Dukes and Lords of the Consensus are at peace — but in practice, the conflict between them has merely gone cold and quiet. There are countless other wars, on countless other fronts, all visible only to a select few. Other boards, other games. Johann knows well that his father is an active player in every one of them.

  "A criminal syndicate known as the Bloodied Teeth," Jaheed declares. Behind Johann, one of the women mutters something to the other. It is too quiet for him to hear. "Their influence spreads far and wide, and now they have garnered the courage and resources to make forays into my borders." The Duke's eyes narrow, in an expression of cold loathing. "They do so at the secret behest of Baron Xzav."

  "How do you know-"

  "Irrelevant. All that matters is when, where, and how I choose to respond." Jaheed taps a finger at empty air, then, and a holographic display materializes before him. Three taps later, and Johann is staring into the eyes of a grim-faced fellow indeed.

  "Sekto Raa," Jaheed explains. "Head of a small-time crime syndicate embedded on Venon, a moon at the far outskirts of Aisaak space." With another flick of his wrist, Johann is looking now at a stellar map of Aisaak territory, and a representation of Venon's place within. "The Raa Syndicate have been busy, as of late—making inroads with the Bloodied Teeth."

  "Again, how do you-"

  "More contingencies," Jaheed waves away the question. "Contingencies that allowed me to exert certain pressure on certain areas. Information and opportunity reveal themselves with but the slightest squeeze."

  "So we're using Raa to get at the Bloodied Teeth," Johann muses, studying the stellar chart with renewed interest. It would be a daring venture indeed, to sneak into another Duke's territory and 'litigate' upon his soil. There is enormous potential here for embarrassment, for enmity — even for all-out war between the two Dynasties. The Vells would win out, of course. Of that Johann is most certain. But open conflict, even with the meager Aisaaks, would only weaken the Vell Dynasty before its rivals, who circle at all times like voracious carrion-birds around the largest and proudest of their number. The tiniest of cracks could spiral into total extinction, with so much on the line. There can be no opportunities given.

  And then: "Not us, Johann," his father declares. "You."

  Johann's eyes go wide; his manners are temporarily forgotten. "What?" he blurts out, and suddenly he is certain that he can feel the heat of those silver-eyed stares on the back of his skull.

  "Listen closely," the Duke snaps, and at once Johann clamps his mouth shut and does exactly that. "When your sister, Morgana, fled Callisto..." He glances away and there is, for the briefest of moments, a softening of the old man's features. A softening that vanishes at once behind a wall of iron discipline. "A great deal now rests upon your shoulders, my son. The Jade Emperor was a fool, to think himself immortal — to reign, as he did, with no clear successor. I will not repeat the mistakes of my predecessor."

  A great deal now rests upon your shoulders. In those words, the dismissal of his two youngest children was clear as day. Johann couldn't believe what he was hearing — that he was being told, almost outright, that it was going to be him. Not Jargus, and not Raynia. Him.

  There was also the implication that it was supposed to have been her — but Johann pays that no mind. The past is the past, and the future is not yet written. Morgana is a stupid fucking idiot, and the fact that Jaheed has not hunted her to the ends of the Domain can only mean that he does not want her back. She is dead to him, even if his voice always quavers for the briefest of moments when speaking her name.

  Morgana, for all intents and purposes, no longer exists.

  "Do you fully understand?" Jaheed asks. "This is a test, Johann. An opportunity for you to show me—" the Wolf of Sol leans forward, rests chin upon hands, and his eyes bore twin holes right through Johann's skull, "—who you truly are."

  Johann's responds with not a shred of hesitation. "I'll see it done," he resolves at once, back straight and shoulders squared and chin held high. Voice thick with conviction and purpose and all those other distinctly Highborn traits. And to that, his father barely even reacts.

  "You'll be ferried in by a voidship," Jaheed just tells him, flatly. "Provided, from then-on, with a shuttle, whilst the voidship waits in the shadow of the planet nearby. You and a contingent of Yellowjackets will dock at Precipia Station and seek out Sekto Raa at the appointed place and time. Though your presence will be unsanctioned, no Planetary Governor will be foolish enough to impede you, and by time Duke Aisaak receives word you will be long gone."

  "Understood."

  "And..." Jaheed muses, momentarily, before lifting his head to regard the silver-eyed women. "You two. Accompany him, if you would."

  "Ugh," the shorter one complains, rolling her eyes.

  "You got it," affirms the taller one, shooting the other woman a reproachful glare.

  "For the time being, my finest agents are at your disposal," the Duke tells Johann, which is just absolutely fantastic news. Oh, what joy, to be leashed to a pair of psychotic monsters! And this is indeed a leash, because those two serve no master but Jaheed Vell. They will obey Johann for only as long as they feel like doing so, and in truth there is likely not a soul alive who could compel them otherwise.

  "Thank you, father," Johann says, rising slowly and cautiously to his feet. He thinks this meeting is at an end, but isn't exactly sure. Doesn't want to risk it. "Is there anything more-"

  "That will be all, Johann," his father interrupts, his attention already focused on a new trio of holographic displays. And thus, Johann makes to exit as fast as humanely possible — with the silver-eyed women dogging his heels, of course, which makes him profoundly uncomfortable — only to pause at the very edge of the doorway, when Jaheed clears his throat.

  "Your sister..." the Wolf begins, then, in a profoundly unusual tone. His voice is hushed, almost a whisper, and sounds very far-off indeed. "Her absence is a wound in my very being; I feel her always, even in the most mundane of..." He trails off, wistful and uncertain, as though lost in the depths of his own memory. Johann is a statue, frozen, unblinking and hardly even breathing. Transfixed, in this surreal little moment of weakness.

  "Perhaps," Jaheed muses, finally, "when all is said and done, I might entertain the possibility of her return."

  No! No! No! Fucking no! "Of course," Johann agrees, managing a relatively sincere smile. "We all miss her dearly, even in spite of her-" he pauses, pretending to search for the word, "-regrettable choices."

  Father and son lock eyes, for a moment — and then Jaheed just nods, and waves Johann away. Before the son can get in another word, one of the women steps forward and shuts the door behind them. And then, just like that, his father is gone.

  And Johann has his work cut out for him.

  PRESENT DAY

  And that's why Johann is baffled, at first, when a plainclothes Yellowjacket reports that Morgana is somehow here on Precipia Station — and that's why, a moment later, he sees the opportunity clear as day.

  Perhaps, when all is said and done, I might entertain the possibility of her return.

  Well. We'll just see about that.

  "I have a new directive for you all," Johann announces, to the two-dozen Yellowjackets assembled in that cramped shuttle bay. The silver-eyed women are off to the side, as usual, smoking as usual and muttering amongst themselves as usual. And, as usual, everyone is keeping as much distance from the two of them as they possibly can.

  "By some bizarre quirk of fate, my runaway sister—Morgana—is here on Precipia Station," Johann tells them all. "And so we are going to comb this station, and we are going to find her, and we are going to return to my father his beloved daughter. I want half of you in plainclothes, half of you in armor. Now." He snaps his fingers, and all scramble to obey. All save for the silver-eyed women, of course.

  "You two," Johann addresses them, to which he gets a pair of bored stares in response. Forget respect — there are times when they scarcely acknowledge him at all. "Whilst the men and I commence the hunt for Morgana, I want you to handle the original mission. That is to say, the matter of obtaining critical information on the Bloodied Teeth Syndicate from one Sekto Raa. Can you handle that by yourselves?"

  Now that gets their attention. Both women perk up immediately, their eyes flashing bright, and the taller one asks at once: "What're the rules?"

  "What?" Johann furrows his brow.

  "Y'know, the rules," the shorter one eagerly chimes in. "What can't we do?"

  "Uh..." Johann doesn't have the faintest idea what these two crude-mouthed idiots are talking about. "Do whatever you need, to see the mission done. Understood?"

  He turns away at once and does not see, then, as both their eyebrows lift in surprise. "Really?" the shorter one asks. "Gloves off?"

  Abruptly, Johann has lost his patience. "Sure, gloves off, whatever," he snaps, waving a hand. He glances back over his shoulder. "Just take care of the-" And he falls abruptly silent, then, when he sees that the two women have simply vanished, as though they never existed at all.

  "Huh," Johann mutters, to himself, before forgetting the incident entirely and setting off towards other matters.

  And really, at the end of the day, none of this is Johann's fault. Arrogant and dismissive as he is, he simply has no idea the power of the words gloves off, in that context. He absolutely no idea what he's just done. He is very much like a toddler who has been handed a loaded gun — can anyone really blame him for firing it?

  Well. Then again, he's also endeavored to place himself right in the center of the debacle that will soon ensue. So...perhaps we can blame Johann for what happens next.

  At least a little.

  Seven-Two

  Morgan is the daughter of Jaheed Vell?

  Huh.

  Seven-Two is still processing that little bit of information, still adjusting the paradigm in his head, as he follows Captain Kaela down the hall and back to her quarters. Now in theory, this news shouldn't change a whole lot — he already knew that Morgan was the runaway daughter of some royal family, after all. But he couldn't have guessed that she was the daughter of the royal family, nor was he prepared to deal with a platoon of Yellowjackets searching for her.

  Except...Morgan still claims otherwise. She's adamant that her father disowned her, that he never wants to see her again. That he would never have sent these men to hunt her down, because he does not want her back. And Morgan isn't stupid; if that's what she thinks, then Seven-Two believes her. So—is this all just a nasty little bit of coincidence? Is God, or the Void, or whomever just having a laugh at their expense?

  Seven-Two can't say, and speculation isn't really his purview anyway. His masters—sorry, former masters—didn't bring him into this world to think. He is a tool, and at the behest of another, he acts. It's as simple as that.

  "What diameter?" Kaela asks, her voice knifing right through all these stray thoughts.

  "One-quarter," Seven-Two answers, and thus the captain steps momentarily into her quarters whilst the Mondatti-man waits with hands clasped behind his back. Pressing into his chest, all the while, is the source of all this consternation — the firearm he went out of his way to procure last night. Though Seven-Two isn't exactly pleased per se, he does recognize that the weapon is an exceptionally lucky find. A small, nondescript, anonymous-looking little fletchette-launcher, quiet when it fires and lethally precise when it hits. It suits him perfectly.

  Kaela emerges, presses a small red-striped box into his hands. "Sixty-four rounds," she tells him, not letting go of the box. Seven-Two meets and holds her stare. "I'm trusting you, Seven. You told me that you needed help. I'm trying to give you that — so don't you dare make me regret it."

  "You won't," Seven-Two replies, flat and emotionless, because he doesn't dare put on false affectations with Medo Kaela. She is indeed helping him — saving him, actually — and for no good reason whatsoever. Right now Captain Kaela and the Dagger Dancer are the sum totals of Seven-Two's purpose in this world. He owes them both a great deal; this weapon will help him repay that debt, bit by bit.

  Kaela stares into his eyes a moment longer, perhaps searching for something — though Seven-Two knows she will find nothing — and then, finally, she just pats him on the shoulder and brushes past.

  "Watch over her for me, will ya?" she calls, over her shoulder, as she starts down spindly metal stairs. Seven-Two knows exactly who she means.

  "Yes ma'am," he agrees, following right behind.

  Morgan

  She feels a hand on her shoulder; turns to find Doc Meriya's orange-glowing photoreceptors staring right into her own. "You alright?" the good doctor asks, and those mechanized words are punctuated by twin puffs of steam. Morgan just grimaces, swallows, nods her head.

  "Course I am," she says, eyes flicking down to the floor as she says it. "You know me."

  They're all assembled in the cargo bay: Veis, perched atop a crate like a gargoyle and scrolling through a gargantuan holographic ledger with subtle swipes of one finger, eyes darting back and forth as he combs through such a vast quantity of information as to be total gibberish to anyone else (Patrick notwithstanding) on the ship. Like any money-man worth his implants, Veis is running the numbers, accounting for the recent market fluctuations and searching for any detail or deficit or advantage he may have missed in the past twenty-or-so reviews. Vasck and Drobyek, meanwhile, are currently arming to the teeth — blades, pistols, explosives, you name it, the both of them in tan military jumpsuits and battle-harnesses. They're also dying of laughter at something stupid and childish, as per usual.

  Doctor Meriya was going through her inventory, making a shopping list for all the things she'll need to procure (like hangover pills), but now the good doctor has noticed Morgan's anxious pacing and now she is trying to, well, remedy, as any physician is naturally wont to do. And now Morgan is trying to wave her off, because if nobody acknowledges how scared she is, then it'll be much easier for Morgan herself to pretend that she isn't scared. Does that make any sense? Morgan is increasingly unsure that it does.

  Thankfully, all this consternation is cut short as the door screeches open and Captain Kaela steps into the cargo bay, with Father Belos and Seven-Two in tow. Everyone snaps to some semblance of attention; Veis is on his feet, Vasck tosses Drobyek a lengthy repeater-rifle, then lays another over his own shoulder with a sustained yawn. Meriya steps forward with hands behind her back, prim and proper, whilst Morgan just puts hands in pockets and leans back against the nearest crate and watches, the picture of casual-but-not-too-casual indifference—as though anyone is going to buy that.

  "Alright, you loudmouth punks, you already know the score," Kaela says, stepping forward. While Father Belos waits at the doorway, one burly arm propped up against the wall, Seven-Two splits off at once and moves to stand just beside Morgan. The two acknowledge one another with surreptitious nods; Morgan feels an odd surge of comfort, at his presence. "Veis, Morgan, S-T, dumbass-" dumbass, in this context, means Drobyek, "-you're gonna be having a pleasant chat with one Sekto Raa, and hopefully getting us a good deal on all this bullshit we've been hauling around."

  "I gotcha, Morg," Drobyek calls, glancing over. "The trick to to start high, then make him think he's arguing you down to a good deal."

  "The fuck do you know about haggling?" Vasck snickers, elbowing his companion in the ribs.

  "Thank you for your wisdom, Esteemed Money-man Nelenn Drobyek," Morgan intones, folding her hands and giving an exaggerated bow, to which Drobyek snorts and Vasck chuckles harder and Veis cannot help but roll his eyes.

  "Myself, doc Meriya, and dumbfuck-" that's Vasck, by process of elimination, "-will be perusing the market today for anything my beloved Dagger Dancer might need. We've received all your personal wishlists; Rohn and I have taken 'em into consideration and adjusted accordingly. You'll get watcha can get — but we're on a tight budget here, so don't expect the world. Food and repairs come first." Kaela jerks a thumb over her shoulder. "While we're doing all that, Father Belos and Patrick'll stay here, workin' wrenches and generally keeping my best girl in one piece. So — any complaints? Any objections, any bitching and moaning?"

  "Sounds like a plan to me," Drobyek grunts, slapping a fresh magazine into place. He looks up, raises his voice: "Hey, Father Belos! Enjoy your vacation, you lazy old bastard, 'specially while the rest of us are busting our asses!"

  "Seriously, man, what do you even do around here?" Vasck chimes in, slotting a wicked-curved dagger into its requisite sheath.

  "What do I do around here?" Belos repeats, laughing out loud. "Patrick and I do actual work, Nero—you should give it a try sometime!"

  "Okay, Patrick is literally on vacation," Morgan notes dryly, to which a holographic projection of an inebriated man on vacation materializes beside her at once.

  "Hey," Patrick toasts, raising some manner of alcoholic beverage. "What can I say? When you love your job, every day is a vacation."

  "Are you aware that delusional euphoria is an early sign of Exigent Locura in an artificial intelligence?" Meriya deadpans, glancing at Patrick over Morgan's shoulder — referring to the entropy-induced madness that devours every AI in time. To that, Patrick offers only a shrug and a half-cocked grin.

  "Oh shit, is Patrick turning into one of those crazy AIs?" Drobyek chimes in, stepping over.

  "Takes one to spot one," Vasch quips.

  "Hey!" Meriya snaps with, with sharp indignation, and instantly both the former soldiers are snapping to attention and apologizing in unison. It's bad business to piss off your doctor, after all, and Vasck and Drobyek are her two most frequent patients.

  "Alright, you dumb bastards. Standup routine is over." Kaela snaps her fingers, and everyone is on their feet at once. Veis tucks the holo-slate away and takes his wife's hand; Vasck and Drobyek both sling rifles over their shoulders, while Meriya throws on a winter coat and Seven-Two stands more or less perfectly still. And Morgan...

  Morgan reaches up, tugs at her collar. Adjusts her cuffs. Run a hand through her hair. Takes a deep breath, as the klaxon sounds and the cargo bay door comes inching down.

  "See you later, brother," Vasck says, holding up a fist.

  "Later, brother," Drobyek agrees, bumping that fist in turn. "And when we stand before the gates..."

  "...we'll see the shadows their swords make. Damn straight."

  "You keep my ship intact, you hear me?" Meriya turns, fixes Belos and Patrick with some facsimile of a glare. "And Belos, for the thousandth time, remember to say your prayers. You're supposed to be a priest, for void's sake."

  Belos frowns. "I already did my morning rites!"

  "That's only after you forgot to do 'em last night," Patrick scoffs. "C'mon, Mackran, why do we know your religion better than you do?"

  "Damn AIs," the boiler-man sighs, in good humor.

  Kaela and Veis don't say anything; they just lean in and kiss, briefly, before stepping apart.

  "I'll be right with her, Medo," Veis promises under his breath. "This shipment is going to pay off. I promise."

  "It has to, Rohn," Kaela tells him. "Or we're-"

  "I know," Veis nods. "I'll take care of it." And then, after a moment: "Morgan will take care of it."

  Reflexively, Morgan glances over at Seven-Two, and...the Mondatti is already looking at her. And then, lacking anything else to say, and in a moment of sudden weakness, she asks him: "How do you do it?"

  "Do what?" he asks, genuinely confused.

  "How do you...I dunno, how are you always so calm?"

  "Oh." He blinks, glances away for a moment. Looks back and says: "They beat the fear from me. It was a long and arduous process, and I wouldn't wish it on anyone." He pauses. "Sorry. Not a good answer."

  "Not at all," Morgan agrees. And then they are hit by a rush of freezing air, and then they are stepping off the gangplank. And then the sole of Morgan's shoe makes contact with Precipia Station's hard durasteel floor.

  And then?

  Here...

  We...

  Go.

  think I finally have that puzzle sorted and it should be smooth sailing from here. Next chapter coming sometime before saturday! And hey, there he is! jaheed vell, the former protagonist of Accismus, whose voice I imagine in my head to sound like Stellan Skarsgard

  Yellowjackets for their armored soldiers

  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x2B-fCq8aCM