This is the first part of my @inklings-challenge submission! I'm not sure how many parts there will be, but I won't tag the challenge blog again until the story is (hopefully) completed, within a single reblog chain. I have many ideas. Oh, and in case you're concerned, this is NOT a story that will involve a great deal of gore... any horror aspects are psychological, not physical. And I'm always open to feedback, please please, as specific as you like. Anyway, here we go. Thanks to those who contributed names, various, for side characters—you know who you are.
~
The sun had just set; violently lovely, painfully rich, so that Mercy had to squint against it to see a fraction of its beauty. It was the last day of summer, and soon the darkening fall of autumn would take hold of the world and drag it kicking and screaming into the ever-mild Victorian winter. Soon she would be able to wrap up and enjoy the cold air on her face as she went for long walks.
That soon was only a promise, not yet; now was the warm, worn-out hush of departing summer, and the world sighed with golden weariness, ready to be tucked up peacefully in a pumpkin spice blanket.
She turned to go inside, joy brimming in her eyes and turning the corners of her mouth up. Summer was done, and she was glad it had been and glad it was going. Nothing could shake Mercy's contentment in that moment.
She went inside, and left the light behind. The house hung heavy with shadows, the gloom of gathering evening. It was late, though light still clung to the outdoors world, and Mercy was sweetly tired; she moved quietly through the rooms, then cataloguing the tasks of the morrow as she had a glass of water in slow, lazy sips.
Luke entered the kitchen, and the first thing she noticed about her brother was that he was staggering a little, as if drunk or hurt. When he greeted her his words were slightly slurred.
“Are you all right?” she asked, more out of habit than anything else. It was pretty clear that he was not.
“Fine, fine,” said Luke, and laughed with a shade of hysteria. “Mercy, you don’t understand; you can’t understand, not yet.” He got a glass of water too, and drank it in three shaky gulps, as if there was some fear she could not perceive; some dread sitting secret and engorged in his ribcage. Then another, while she watched in increasing wonderment.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m just thirsty.” He grinned small and tight, teeth baring. “Probably worried about my maths test tomorrow.”
“I didn’t know you had one.” Was he even doing maths at uni? How had she missed that?
The grin turned to a grimace and he shook his head like a cat with a fly on its ear. “I don’t. I don’t know why I said that.” His expression twisted into fear, lips drawn down as if he would never smile again. “Mercy, I—I’m sorry, for everything, everything I’ve ever said or done that wasn’t Christlike, I—I’ll do better, if God spare my life. I’m sorry to scare you now—I can see it, you know, I can see you don’t know what’s going on and I swear I don’t know either.” Luke was once again the kid she remembered, two years older and not much wiser, and the fear of the unknown glittered on his beloved face.
She gazed at him. “I love you, and for what it’s worth I forgive you for everything. But Luke, Luke me dear, what are you saying?”
“I’m not—I mean I’m—” He fumbled for words, and every moment the fear in his face became more staring, more blank. “I don’t know who you are,” her brother said at last, and the words dropped like stones into the silence. That was the precise moment at which Mercy realised that the ripples from those stones would continue to wash through her life for a very long moment.
Also the moment at which she realised she had no idea what she ought to do next. She was still, waiting, like an animal afraid of the hunter.
To her relief Mother walked into the kitchen, steps tight with fear and face drawn with it, carrying a heaviness of some kind of communication Mercy both longed for and dreaded. “Mercy,” said her mother in a low, low voice, “you have to ring the police. We’ve got to—”
Luke’s face contorted into an inhuman expression and he lunged at Mercy, reaching for her as if she was prey. She turned and ran, and her mother’s cries rang in her ears as she slammed the door in Luke’s face, locking it with hands that shook so much she could scarcely command them to move. She had locked herself into the bathroom; the only escape route was out there, past Luke, who was screaming something she could not understand.
But she had heard enough to understand what was going on.
He was showing the same symptoms that had been seen in the animal population for years now; some kind of disease nobody had yet classified, which had originated apparently in cats (first seen in a lion at Melbourne Zoo) and had been slowly spreading to other animals.
Two years ago, those same symptoms had begun to be apparent in Nini, the family dog, just before she died of kidney failure. The vet had brushed it off, saying it was just end-stage kidney failure and not that disease, but at the time Mercy had been concerned, and she remembered a scratch Nini had given Luke. But as time passed and Luke showed no sign of any kind of infection, she’d stopped worrying, and eventually forgotten about it.
She heard the front door slam and only then remembered to scramble for her phone, dialing triple zero after about four attempts.
“My brother Luke,” she said, to the operator, “he needs care, I don’t know what sort of care but he needs it, he—he’s diseased, he’s going mad.”
The person on the other end of the call was silent for a moment, then said, “Can you explain his symptoms? What is going on right now?”
“A few minutes ago he was sounding perfectly fine.” Her voice quivered. “He started apologising and looking afraid and not acting like himself, then when Mother suggested calling the police he lunged at me—but you’ve got to understand it was more like—like an animal, not like a human being. Not like Luke. I think he has the disease that makes the animals act irrationally, you know.”
“That’s an animal disease and we have no reason to think it’s jumped across to humans,” was the operator’s response. “Calm down and explain what’s actually going on.”
She managed to, with some superhuman effort, explain what she had seen and heard. They said they’d send an ambulance, and for her to keep talking to him through the door, if she could; once there, they’d assess the situation.
“Luke,” she called, once she was sure the ambulance was on its way. “Luke!”
Crashes, as if he couldn’t quite stabilise himself and was falling into the wall at every step. “Mercy,” he said, but his voice was high and tense. “Mercy! Thank God you’re there. I need—I need you to pray very hard, Mercy. I think I’m going mad. I—” He broke off, then resumed in quite a different tone. “I’m so hungry. Why won’t anybody give me anything? And it’s getting dark. I don’t like the dark. I don’t like the dark. I don’t like the dark. I’m so fearfully hungry. Can’t someone come and give me a blanket? It’s so cold and dark. I’m at the bottom of a hole and I’m never going to get out and I’m scared. Can’t you see them, swinging nearer? I think they’ll fall on my head.” He screamed suddenly and Mercy started so violently she dropped her phone with a clatter.
“Who’s there?” he cried in a thin voice. “Who’s there? I can hear you. Don’t think I can’t hear you whispering and muttering. I think you’re all talking about me and you want me to live and I’m scared. I’m scared. I don’t like the dark. Mercy! Mercy!”
And she was suddenly sure he was not calling for her. As they waited, dusk crept into the house and all around her, like an embrace she could not shake off. Luke muttered, cried out, sobbed and yelled, sometimes aware of her presence and sometimes not. Once he worked his fingers under the door and said quite lucidly, “Mercy, can’t you just hold my hand? It’s so cold. Please.”
She did, and his skin was warm and human and her dear brother. But then he snatched it violently away and began yelling about nothing that made any sense and the world cracked a little more about her again.
If she had not ended up in the corner of the bathroom, arms wrapped around her knees and rocking back and forward with little awareness of her surroundings, Mercy might have seen Luke one last time. As it was, she saw and heard nothing as he was taken away to the emergency department for evaluation. Of course, days later when she might have seen him again, everything had already started to crumble.
It was the last time she would see her brother Luke. By the time he was no longer in the confines of the hospital, he was known by everyone only as Patient Zero—the one who started it all.
So, my story for @inklings-challenge is unfinished, but tonight's the deadline, so we're posting anyway. Someday I will actually figure out what I'm writing before the weekend before the deadline, but that is not this day. Or year. Whatever. I do hope to finish it in the next week or two, though.
Also, I feel like I need a better title, but I need to post this tonight, so we're going with this, and I'll rename it when I come up with something better. It's space travel in the sense that it occurs on a ship traveling through space; hopefully that qualifies.
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Lion of Wisdom (Part 1)
Commander Kyros Al-Amin, Lion of the Void and newest fleet commander of the Tahaqiq Union, arrived aboard the Wisdom of a Thousand Stars at precisely 1530 fleet-standard time. As he stepped from his small transport vessel into the immense hangar, rows of soldiers straightened to attention as one, slamming fists to heart in salute.
Kyros waited just a moment, studying them. They looked sharp enough, in their deep blue dress uniforms, each with a polished blast-pistol on one hip and a stun baton on the other. Yet even the most pristine company could hide abundant laziness and corruption beneath its surface. This ship's forces were no different than those on any other he had commanded, and whatever darkness lurked among them, he would find it and root it out — root it out and send it into the void, if necessary.
Today, however, was not the day for that task. Today was for establishing himself in his new position. Kyros strode down the line, making eye contact with as many of the soldiers as he could, although, as usual, he had to look slightly up to do so in most cases. To their credit, he spotted only a few looks of disbelief at the fact that the famed Hero of the Tahaqiq Union was, in fact, half a head shorter than most soldiers, and he caught no one staring as if trying to reconcile a full head of white hair, pulled neatly into a stubby ponytail at the back of his head, with a face that accurately suggested that he was a bit younger most of his predecessors had been when they took on this role.
At the end of the line of soldiers, he reached a group of men and women dressed not in military blue but in the green-and-white of civilian leadership. Here, Kyros stopped and tapped his own fist to his chest, addressing the foremost individual, a tall, white-haired man who wore a deep green robe, edged with gold, over his tunic and pants. "Commander Kyros Al-Amin, reporting for duty. You would be Director Javed Rostami?"
"None other." Director Rostami acknowledged Kyros's salute with a nod. "Welcome aboard, Commander. It is an honor to have you here, not just to defend our ship, but to lead the defense of the whole Tahaqiq Union. With your track record of cunning and loyalty and your previous successes against the Rishedari and other foes, I have no doubt that we are all in the best of hands."
"You honor me," Kyros replied. "I will endeavor to protect all of the Union against threats both inside and out, as I always have. Now, I understand that there are still several hours before the welcome celebration? I would like to get settled in my role here as soon as possible."
Director Rostami smiled as if he'd been let in on some joke. "Ah, yes. I have also heard that you do not like to waste time, Commander Al-Amin. Come. I will show you to your offices myself, and my secretary and aides will ensure that you are properly in the ship's systems. From there, I have arranged for you to be given a tour of the ship before tonight's festivities. Is that agreeable?"
"Entirely." Kyros turned to face the company of soldiers once again. "I thank you all for your welcome. In the coming days, I intend to meet with many of you to learn what manner of men and women are under my command. For now, you may be dismissed as your captains see fit."
"Yes, commander!" rang out from a thousand throats, and fists tapped hearts once more.
Well, they put on a good show at least. Kyros turned back to Director Rostami. "Lead the way at your leisure, Director. I am at your disposal."
~~~
Kyros's new office were near the ship's bridge, as he had expected, and also close to Director Rostami's own, in a section of the ship that had, once upon a time, been the spacefaring answer to a royal palace. Hints of that heritage still showed in the imitation wood bookshelves built into the rear wall and in the curlicue gold and lapis decorations inset in the white walls and ceiling and outlining a wide screen on the far wall that showed a view of the stars outside the ship, as if it were a window looking out into space. The room was spacious enough to hold not just the desk-station and associated seats, a meeting table and chairs, and a small kitchenette that could be hidden behind a curtain, while still leaving an open space in front of the screen. There, woven training mats had been embedded into the floor, providing an area for either exercise or pacing.
Adjoining his main office were several other chambers: a secondary meeting space equipped with the latest in vid-con technology, a full refresher room, a small sitting room, and an even smaller chamber equipped with a fold-out bunk, meditation mats, and a well-cushioned pod-chair, clearly meant as a retreat in case the occupant felt the need for some mid-day rest.
It was all far more luxurious than Kyros needed, and this wasn't even the entirety of the space to be his — somewhere on the Wisdom was another suite of living quarters reserved for him. When he commented as much, however, Director Rostami merely smiled indulgently. "Your humility is indicative of your character, Commander, but rank has its privileges, and you have certainly earned them."
There was something in Director Rostami's tone that Kyros didn't quite like, but before he could reply, several people appeared in the doorway, two men and two women. Both men and one of the women wore uniforms with the insignia of the Tahaqiq military on the left side and their rank on the right; all three rank insignias were accompanied by the silver star that marked them as a commander's aide. The final woman didn't wear a uniform, though her tunic and pants matched the blues of her companions, and she held a slim tablet in one hand.
Director Rostami beckoned them inside. "I took the liberty, Commander, of selecting some of your staff for you. Lieutenant Colonel Esmail Moradi, Sergeant Zahra Kazem, and Senior Wingman Behrouz Darzi will serve as your aides. Lieutenant Colonel Moradi was formerly a member of my own staff, and so I can assure you of his capability; the other two were chosen by his recommendation. Additionally, Ms. Parisa Nagi was the secretary for your predecessor and has expressed a desire to retain her position, as I believe you were already aware."
The three aides each saluted as Kyros surveyed them. Senior Wingman Darzi was a young man, taller and thinner than Kyros, who seemed to be trying to hide his nervousness behind a straight back and a professional expression. Sergeant Kazem wore her brown hair in a bun a little messier than regulation required, and the insignias on her uniform were slightly crooked, as was her nose, but she held herself with a confident readiness and met Kyros's eyes when he looked at her. The four-leafed pin above her rank insignia told him that she had at least twenty years of service behind her already, and NCOs didn't move ships often. Probably she knew the Wisdom like the back of her hand.
Lieutenant Colonel Moradi's service pin held only three leaves, but his square-jawed face was stern enough that, for a moment, Kyros almost felt he was looking in a mirror at his younger self. The motions of his salute were as crisp and precise as the creases on his uniform, and he looked like he could've been the poster boy for some recruitment campaign. Maybe he had been. He smiled as he saluted, showing a flash of his teeth. "I look forward to working with you, Commander."
"And I you," Kyros replied, keeping his tone neutral. "All three of you." He turned next to Ms. Nagi. "And you as well, ma'am."
Ms. Nagi bowed her head slightly, showing the grey beginning to infiltrate her short, dark hair. "Thank you, sir, and thank you for allowing me to stay on in my current role. I've been honored to work under the last two Fleet Commanders, and I hoped to continue doing so under a third."
"I've no doubt your experience will be a great boon to me as I get used to a new ship." Kyros returned his attention to Director Rostami. "I believe you mentioned we could begin the logistical onboarding process before tonight's events?"
Director Rostami nodded, clapping his hands together. "Of course. Ms. Nagi, if you will?"
Ms. Nagi stepped forward, offering Kyros her tablet. "Of course. This has the necessary onboarding documentation on it for you to fill out at your leisure, Commander. And, of course, you'll want your earpiece." She produced the device from her pocket — the sleekest version Kyros had ever seen, just a curved bit of metal and plastic shaped to fit over the ear, a far cry from the full visor he'd been given on his first ship, or even the bulkier earphone he'd used at his last assignment, with the speaker that curved down in front of the ear opening. "We had your voiceprint and profiles transferred from the Journey of a Thousand Steps, so everything should be set up for you."
"Thank you. Very efficient." Kyros took both from her and fitted the earpiece over his ear. The magnets in the side clicked against the metal of the connection port there, and the shimmer of the visual display appeared in front of his right eye as a voice chirped — in his head or in his mind; he could never tell — <"Welcome, Fleet Commander Kyros Al-Amin! Your personal interface is ready to go!">
The voice sounded disorientingly real and even more disorientingly childlike. Even aboard Kyros's last ship, no matter how the technicians tweaked the ship's audio interface, there was always a certain computerized quality to its voice. But this sounded so lifelike that if not for the visual display now showing him vital signs and name labels, he would've wondered if someone was playing a joke on him. "Your system has an unusual audio interface. I'm impressed."
Director Rostami's smile grew a little, and he straightened. "Thank you, Commander. I myself had a hand in designing it. It's the latest technology, and we look forward to when all the ships of the Tahaqiq Union can implement it."
"Hopefully that day will come soon." Kyros unlocked the tablet with a swipe of his thumb. A list of documents appeared on the screen. "A child's voice is an interesting choice, though."
"Well, 'from the lips of children,' as they say. And I've heard no complaints about it; in fact, many people seem to like it." Director Rostami swept his gaze across the trio of aides and Ms. Nagi. "Wouldn't you all agree?"
Lieutenant Colonel Moradi nodded, as did Sergeant Kazem. Ms. Nagi brightened a little. "Certainly, Director. It's a very sweet voice; it cheers me up when I'm having a bit of a bad day."
"Sweet's sure the word for it." Wingman Darzi gave a shaky laugh. "Ro — Uh, really disorienting sometimes when she's giving me a flightpath or warning me about enemy spacecraft, but still sweet."
"Hmm. I see." Kyros tapped the first document on the tablet. "Thank you all for your welcome. I'd like some time to myself to get settled in now, if it's convenient."
Director Rostami nodded again and waved the others towards the door, moving that way himself. "Of course. I'll have Colonel Moradi come back about an hour and a half before the celebration to give you a tour of the essentials and show you your quarters so you can get ready for tonight." He paused in the doorway. "Thank you once again for accepting this position, Commander. I have no doubt that this will be good for all of the Union."
With that, he stepped outside. The door hissed as it slid shut behind him. Kyros slowly walked around the desk and settled himself into the chair. "Wisdom, set an alarm for two hours before the welcome celebration."
Again came the cheerful, childlike voice. <"Alarm set, Commander! You'll be reminded two hours before the welcome celebration.">
"Thank you." The words came automatically, and Kyros paused. There was no requirement to thank the computer, and he hadn't made a habit of it on his past ships. A computer was only a machine. Yet this one sounded so lifelike . . .
Well. This new assignment would take some getting used to. Still, he could rest in the fact that his duty hadn't changed. Protect the people, uphold what was right, root out corruption, execute justice, and preserve order — those responsibilities were the same no matter where he was, and he would carry them out to the best of his abilities.
~~~
Heavy footsteps and the hiss of the office door in its tracks heralded Sergeant Kazem's appearance in Kyros's office. Out of the corner of his eye, Kyros saw her stop just inside the doorway and do a quick, loose salute, just enough of one to say she had done it. "I pulled those incident reports you asked for, Commander. They should be arriving on your desk now." As always, she sounded faintly hoarse, as if she'd done a lot of talking — or yelling — already. Maybe that was a result of spending so much time as a sergeant. When Kyros had checked her file the first day he arrived, he'd noticed that she'd refused her last offered promotion, and that had been nearly seven years ago.
The notification appeared on his desk: <Document relay from Sgt. Kazem.> Kyros tapped the "Scan and Download" command. "Thank you, Sergeant." As the download began, he picked up a slim tablet from his desk and held it out to her. "This contains disciplinary warrants for all the overlooked infractions I've noted so far among the ranks. Most of the issues can be dealt with by the individuals' commanding officers; about half a dozen will require more extensive action, potentially up to a discharge and imprisonment. Please distribute them to the appropriate persons — and make sure they acknowledge that they've received and understood the orders."
Sergeant Kazem took the tablet automatically. "Yes, sir." She paused. "Imprisonment, sir?"
"That is what I said." Kyros glanced down at the desk, noted that the download was complete, and tapped to open the first file. It opened on the slanted document display section, and he picked up his stylus. "Additionally, please inform Ms. Nagi that I need a time within the next week to address the Wisdom's troops at an all-hands. I believe that everyone here needs to be reminded both of the values to which we all swore and the reason for and importance of those values."
"Yes, sir." Sergeant Kazem started to put the tablet in her pocket, then stopped. "Sir, permission to comment?" She waited for Kyros's nod before going on, "You've been here two weeks, sir, and you've found enough issues for disciplinary action that six is a minority. Most Fleet Commanders would leave this kind of thing to those under them, but you've done it while keeping up with all your normal duties and touring the whole ship day by day."
"'Defense of the Tahaqiq Union begins with defense against corruption and errant behavior within ourselves.'" Kyros could've quoted those words in his sleep, he'd repeated them so many times since the chaplain at his training assignment first said them to him. "My first concern is that I can trust those under me to be men and women of honor. If I cannot trust them to act rightly when all is well, I cannot trust them to act rightly when they are under fire. Dismissed."
"Yes, sir." Sergeant Kazem saluted, but didn't move. Her gaze remained fixed on Kyros.
"No, sir." Sergeant Kazem shook her head. "But I'd like to ask another question, if it's all the same to you."
Colonel Moradi, who'd been sitting at the meeting table, working on his own tablet, looked up slightly. Wingman Darzi appeared in the doorway behind Sergeant Kazem as he leaned back in his chair.
Kyros set down his stylus. "What is it?" He had a guess; if he was right, it was a wonder his aides had lasted this long before asking it.
Sergeant Kazem straightened almost to attention, as if by doing so, she could offset any perceived offense in her next words. "Are the rumors true, sir?"
So he'd been right. Kyros sat back in his chair. "Which rumors would those be?"
Sergeant Kazem nodded slightly towards him. "People say you're part Rishedari yourself, sir. They say you can think like them, and that's why you've been so successful combatting them."
"Well, I certainly didn't go white-haired like this from old age." Kyros was inclined to blame some great-great-great ancestor for his height as well — Rishedari were fairly uniformly white-haired and shorter than the average human, a side effect of the genetic manipulation and environmental adaptations that had also given them their near-endless lifespans, increased intelligence, and supposed special abilities that bordered on magic. Unfortunately, none of those more interesting traits had been passed down to him. "As far as 'thinking like them' goes, however, that's a misunderstanding. I understand how their strategists think. That's all." That had been what he'd told his commanding officer years ago, when he'd come up with a strategy to keep their battleship from being trapped in a siege position and turn the tides against the two Rishedari-commanded ships they'd been fighting — when he'd won the first of his many recognitions and honors.
"I don't see the difference, sir, but I'll take your word for it." Sergeant Kazem tilted her head slightly. "You aren't concerned that when you're fighting them, you might be fighting your own ancestor or such?"
There was another question in her words, one no one would be bold enough to ask aloud. "I'm no Rishedari sympathizer, Sergeant. I wouldn't be in this office if I was. They're people, the same as ordinary humans are. And just like ordinary humans, when they use their capabilities to enslave and tyrannize others, they need to be stopped." As they had been aboard the Wisdom and aboard every other ship in the Tahaqiq Union, back in the days when they ruled the fleet. "That's my job, and that's why I need people under me who know what's right and do it." He paused. "Any other questions?"
Sergeant Kazem shook her head. "No, sir. Thank you, sir."
"You're welcome." Kyros picked up his stylus again. "Dismissed."
This time, the sergeant did step out, allowing the door to shut behind her. At the meeting table, Colonel Moradi returned his attention to his tablet.
Kyros stared at the door for a moment, contemplating. All in all, that interaction had gone fairly smoothly. Hopefully, any remaining concerns she or others had would come out with time.
For now . . . Kyros considered the documents in front of him, then abruptly logged off his desk display and stood. "Time for a walk. Colonel, on me."
Colonel Moradi stood. "Where this time, Commander?"
At the same time, in his head, the Wisdom's system voice piped up, <"Do you want navigational assistance, Commander?">
"No navigational assistance, thank you." Kyros said the words under his breath, knowing the connector would pick it up. He needed to know the ship without the aid of the computers — you never knew when something would happen to knock out some system. To Colonel Moradi, he added, "Third level, fourth quadrant. Let's go."
One day at church camp, Kelsie suddenly became more distant. She had never fit in before, but now she would stare off into the distance of the woods other summer camp, at fleeting shadows but she wouldn’t look a person in the eye.
When her mom picked Kelsie up, at first she figured Kelsie was just tired from a long week, but she quickly noticed something was wrong when Kelsie switched from her usual habits of sewing or video games to going on walks through the woods and reading various fantasy books.
One day, her mom sat across from Kelsie at the breakfast table.
“Hey, did something happen at camp? Ever since you came back, you’ve been different.”
“Yeah,” Kelsie began quietly, and with prompting she continued, “It was like Narnia. A portal opened in the woods, and I slipped through. But the Pevensies died with Narnia.”
“I see,” her mom said. “Do you want me to find you a therapist? If you don’t want to talk with me, maybe a professional would be better.”
“No. I don’t want to see some doctor about this.”
“Kelsie, you need do something about this. You come home scratched up and you’re yelling at books.”
“Well, they’re all wrong! None of the books get it. You don’t get it. A therapist wouldn’t get it.”
“Wrong how? “ Kelsie’s mom sighs. “Maybe you should write a book that’s right.”
Kelsie nodded. “Maybe I will.” She cleaned up the trash from her breakfast and went to her room.
A week later, Kelsie’s mom found a notebook in Kelsie’s trash. Although she knew she shouldn’t she read through it, she felt she had to to get some sense of what Kelsie was going through.
The notebook had the start to a story where the main character, Kelsie, went through a portal to a magical world while she was at summer camp.
About halfway through the notebook, the story stopped. Kelsie’s mom debated back and forth, and then finally went to knock on Kelsie’s door.
“Hey, Kelsie. I read that story you threw out. I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have gone through your stuff. But it was really good, why did you stop?”
Kelsie jerked the door open. “Because. It wasn’t right.”
“What do you mean by that?” Kelsie’s mom asked, softly.
“It was just wrong!” Kelsie shouted.
“Wrong?”
“It was all about me,” Kelsie muttered, “But they’re the ones who are gone.”
“Alright,” Kelsie’s mom ran her hand through her hair. “Then write about them.”
That night, Kelsie’s mom researched therapists and when daydreaming becomes harmful.
By the time of Kelsie’s first therapist appointment, she had written the introduction and first chapter to her second attempt on the story.
“In memory of Normas, the world, the inhabitants, and especially Rannia, who hungered for a justice that I can only hope she found after death.
Chapter 1:
“Normas was a beautiful world, even as it was dying. In its prime, the world had thick forests, sweeping plains, and vibrant deserts. By the time Rannia was born, the trees had been all chopped down, the plain grasses turned to fields turned to dust, and the burrows in the desert taken over by armies. “During this devastation, Rannia grew up as a singer, a lover of insects of all sorts, and a doting older sister…..”
Kelsie talked to the therapist, but they never really believed her.
Kelsie continued to work on the writing the story.
Once Kelsie finished writing, she showed the manuscript to her aunt and best friend. She didn’t explain it, but sometimes her friend would say something reminded her of Ranni, and Kelsie would smile with and take a look, drawn further into her own world by the memory of someone from another.
Inklings Challenge 2025 Team Tolkien: Secondary World
The songs tell of a bandit called Thornghost who leaves gifts of bread and water for the poor and suffering. This Thornghost, so it is said, steals boldly from the queen's table, and doles out just enough coin to keep the debt collectors from one's door.
But what if one believes the songs cannot be true?
A Table Before Me @inklings-challenge
by Meltintalle
In the fifth year of the Fox Queen's reign I was not least among her courtiers. I was known as Beloved; ward to the queen and spoiled and petted by queen and consort alike. I dressed in colorful silks and feasted at the queen's table. No delicacy my heart desired was denied.
My parents had been her loyal subjects, tragically murdered by bandits. Until I came of age, their lands were held in trust. I had no voice in the assembly but I would wear my father's robe and the mask shaped like a bear which my grandfather had fashioned. I was content–nay, say even I was well-pleased with my lot.
Drought blighted the land. It was said it had not rained these past three years, and I could scarce recollect the sight of a clouded sky. The Fox Queen said when the rains returned we would see the country flourish as never before.
Sometimes, when I left the evening feasts and court entertainments early and walked unattended to my quarters, I heard songs whispered in the darkness. Voices carried in the still night air, and their shapes changed so I could not identify them during the day. They spoke of a king-in-exile, marking off the years his people awaited his return. Or they sang of a bandit called the Thornghost who left gifts of bread and water for the poor and suffering.
This Thornghost, so it was said, stole boldly from the queen's table and doled out just enough coin to keep the debt collectors from one's door.
It was all boasting, of course, for the Thornghost and bandits of his ilk could never lay a finger on the queen's bounty. If there was a crumb of truth in the tales of generosity, the food could only have been taken from one starving fool and passed to another.
I took it as my due to be included in private meals with the Fox Queen and her Royal Consort. I dined on sweetened cakes and listened to talk of policy and petty dramas enacted by various courtiers.
The consort mentioned he and his steward were to ride out and survey the land. The queen looked at him, the silver fox mask she wore under her long veil shimmering in the candlelight. He inclined his head, his own mask a perfect match for hers with its long snout, slit eyes, and delicately engraved features.
"May I go too?"
They seemed startled by the request. The queen laughed. "What, you would prefer hours in the saddle over dancing with me in the cool of the evening?"
"Mayhap the adventure will make that privilege all the sweeter."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," said the queen. She and her consort exchanged glances again, coming to an understanding without speaking a word. "Very well," she said. "Go, if you must, but do not stray."
"Of course not," I promised. I did not know where all the consort and his steward intended to go, but in my heart I harbored a hope of glimpsing my parents' holdings and putting a shape to my daydreams of the days when I would manage them myself.
We set out in the half-light of dawn, just the three of us: the consort, the steward, and I. The consort had set aside his mask and fine clothes and we all wore hunting leathers. The horses brought from the stables were gaunt, and no amount of grooming or padding under the saddle could disguise the fact.
The queen's house sat atop the hill, bounded by a high palisade. The road from the main gate wound away through the city, and we passed folk going about their early business. Some wore animal masks in imitation of the court, but most had them tipped back on their head to leave their full face visible.
To my surprise, the market was empty. No one was unrolling canopies or ground cloths, and no carts were parked to stake a claim. I remembered going with my parents and being overwhelmed by the bustle and noise. There had been a vendor with piles of fruit…
I frowned. How long had it been since I had tasted actual fruit? A year? Two?
We left the city behind as the sun rose. The steward consulted maps, pointing out where water ought to have been. But streambeds were dry, the earth baked hard as bronze underfoot. The consort cursed the drought that had drained the wells. "How is a man to raise cattle in these conditions?" he complained.
I wondered how anyone raised anything, really. Scorching heat became our companion and as I shifted uncomfortably in the saddle I silently regretted venturing forth from the bounds of the queen's house and into a world determined to resemble a refiner's oven.
By noon we were coated in a fine layer of dust. We found a tiny bit of shade under a half-dead tree. The steward doled out water with a solemnity I associated with ceremonies in full royal regalia. He dampened a cloth and wiped the nostrils of our mounts.
"Not what you expected?" asked the consort. Without his mask, I could see lines on his face. He and the steward were both anxious about what they saw around us.
"No," I admitted. But the longer I had looked, the more I realized there was a stark beauty to the bleached landscape, each hill etched against the pale sky like drawings burned into dried wood. The very strangeness was compelling. "Still, I am glad I came."
He shook his head, amused that I had found anything to please me.
The steward suggested we cut across country, and in a shallow valley we found an old well. There was enough water to refill our waterskins and allow the horses a brief drink. I found green moss growing under the lip of the well–tiny and delicate and more real than all the colorful silks worn at court.
The consort smiled wistfully at my unconcealed awe. "Once, we would never have noticed such a thing. Now anything green is more precious than gold."
We circled past my holdings which were dry and barren, though I had hoped for another well or seep, and entered the forest north of the queen's house by the trade road. Thorns had grown up, and dry seed pods rustled in a way that made the steward nervous.
"Do you put stock in the rumors?" snapped the consort.
"One cannot help hearing," apologized the steward, but he looked at me as if he feared saying more.
"I do not believe in the Thornghost," I assured my escort.
The consort chuckled darkly. "If only it were so simple as a matter of belief."
The sun blazed through the trees, brilliant as a bonfire on the horizon, and we were surrounded.
I snatched my hand away as a bandit took the reins of my horse, fighting down a yelp of horror. The brief touch had felt like being brushed by living bone. If the Thornghost was as dashing as the ballads said, his tattered rags picturesque around the ebony fox mask he wore, his followers were skeletons fashioned from bleached dust.
"What do you want of us?" asked the steward. "We are farmers on our way to the Fox Queen's court to deliver her tax." I couldn't blame the steward for lying, but I wondered how he had forced the words out.
"You prosper in these days," observed the Thornghost. In the gathering dusk, the eyeholes of his mask were black voids staring into one's soul.
I had thought us suffering with dry throats, covered in a day's worth of road dust, our bones jostled by an uncomfortable trip over uneven ground. But that was only a temporary inconvenience. On our return to court, we would be clean and pampered once more. There would be no such respite for these folk–not even if the ballads were correct and there would be food and coin at the end of the tale.
"No one prospers," said the consort, his tone querulous.
"Not even the consort?" asked the Thornghost.
"You ask us to speak treason!" said the steward.
We were brought deeper into the forest. The bandits moved like ghosts, bare feet making no sound on the hardened earth. They all wore masks, blank ovals with slits for eyes, lest we recognize them. We reached a clearing and there our horses were taken from us. All round the perimeter thorns burned in braziers, the light reflecting from bronze discs strung on cords and suspended between the trees. A great table was set and the Thornghost seated us in positions of honor at the table. I could not say if it were a pointed mockery or an honest courtesy.
When I examined the place settings, I found it resembled the service on the queen's table. I picked up a piece and found it heavier–as if hers were counterfeit or plated metal. Uneasy, I set it back down again, hoping my companions had not noticed what I was doing. I was a courtier. A courtier did not fidget.
Our host took a seat across from us, facing the consort and leaving the highest place of all vacant. It was hard to see the shape of his mask now, the dark wood blending into the shadow of his hood. Traditionally a fox represented cunning, or wisdom, but it was far less common now under the Fox Queen. His folk flitted about, bringing us bread and small cups of water. Someone brought out their lauta and sang of the king-in-exile, the plucked strings a mournful counterpoint to a song that spoke of waiting.
I lowered my eyes to the table. Next to me, the consort slouched, one elbow on the table as he bit his fingernails. It may not have been a deliberate insult, but the musical choice rankled.
"You are rightfully steward to the king." The Thornghost leaned forward, keeping his remarks private between himself and the consort. "Why do you persist in a lesser seat?"
"I will not take council from a bandit!" he hissed.
"When the king returns–"
The consort cursed the drought again, avowing we would all be dead of thirst before it happened, and suggesting if there had ever been a king-in-exile he too would expire before rain returned.
I shivered. I could not imagine how the Fox Queen would take the suggestion that she lay down her crown and bow her head to another. Nor could I see the consort setting her aside as the Thornghost seemed to be suggesting.
"He will return," said the Thornghost with simple faith but the consort did not answer.
The night wore on. Most of the bandits vanished into the darkness. I assumed they slept. The fires burned low, faint orange coals blinking in and out of view as they cooled. Guards stood watch around the clearing, lest we attempt to escape.
"If my wife asks, we rode the horses to death and found nothing," the consort told me. I nodded. The lie would taste like ash, but she already sought the Thornghost. For us to have shared the bandit's table would be an unpardonable offence, one perhaps not even the consort would be allowed though my brain stuttered over this detail.
Was that why we had been placed in this position? Had the Thornghost stolen our power for vengeance as completely as he had stolen everything else we'd brought along?
It seemed I had barely found a position where I could sleep when we were roused by the Thornghost and a small escort. They returned us to the queen's house in the pre-dawn, left outside the smaller of the two gates with only the dust on our clothes and a memory of a crust of bread in our stomachs.
I have completed my @inklings-challenge story, in record time for me. I tried very hard to not make it too long and complicated as I often do. I hope you enjoy it :) 🪳
Well, I just realized that, as I'm at the end of the time for the Inklings Challenge, I better post what I have rather than keep thinking that I will be able come up with something new. So, @inklings-challenge and Tumblr friends, here is Part 1 of Again and Again!
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“Tell it again, MaeMae”
“I’m tired, Peter.”
Mira no longer cared about the sharp edge that crept into the words. Exhaustion leaked through her until every movement hurt, and every word was an effort. She would not tell the Story today. Not again.
“MaeMae. Pleeease.”
Mira looked pointedly into the flames, and zipped her coat all the way up, hunching down until she was burrowed up to her eyes like a turtle, hiding from the world, and from the eyes that looked up at her pleadingly from a too-thin face.
From within the warm coat-cocoon, she wearily laid out her stores of energy in her mind, and calculated how much it might take for her to tell Peter the Story. How much it might take if she was to go find something to eat. How much it might take for her to Move them (again). How much energy she even had left. Every thought floated in the air, just barely evading her; as if they waited in the moment behind or the moment ahead, taunting her in her weakness.
“MaeMae.”
“I’ll tell you the short version. If you’ll be quiet.”
She felt, rather than saw, the little arms wrap around her waist; the scruffy head burrowing against her side; the sore feet stretching toward the warmth of the fire.
“Okay. Ready.”
“There was a people once.”
“The Brave and the True,” the muffled correction floated towards her through the coat barrier.
“Something like that. And—” they died. They failed. They lost their way and the Bravery and Truth gave way to lies that fled into the night. Nothing but Lies and Fear time and time and time again.
“And they were waiting for a Leader, because they could not stay Brave and True and Good on their own.”
They waited for their King. And their King did not come.
“The world was dark, as they waited.”
The world is dark now. And cold, and cruel, and—
“But these People were given one thing to push away the darkness.” A vain hope. A foolish chance. A vision that kept them frozen in time, looking for that which would never come.
“A Story of what would come.” A story that was a lie.
The fire snapped, and sparks flew up, burning little black freckles into the faded pink of Mira’s coat.
“So,” Peter said, as relentless as ever. “Tell me the Story.”
She sighed, and spoke the ancient words:
“The King will come; a life after death, a branch from a tree they cut down.
The Spirit of God will rest upon him; the spirit of wisdom, of counsel and might, of knowledge and fear of the Lord.
He will never judge by the things his eyes see, or decide by the lies that he hears.
But in what is good will be his delight, With righteousness he will decide what is right, and judge with all fairness the poor.
The wolf then shall dwell right beside the young lambs, the leopard lie down with the goat. The deserts shall run full of springs overflowed, the lion shall eat only straw and be filled, and a child, still small, then shall lead them.”
“Little like me?”
“Hush. The earth shall be full of the Goodness of Him, like the waters that cover the sea. His people shall never be hurt or destroyed, the tree that was cut will stand tall and rejoice, and the peace they will have will be glorious.”
Mira closed her eyes against the hopeful silence.
“The End. Go to sleep.”
Peter wriggled closer.
“I can’t wait until He comes,” he whispered at last, looking into the flames with a hunger deeper than an empty stomach. “Maybe if we Move enough, someday we’ll find Him. Maybe, if we find Him, we can bring Him home.”
Maybe pigs will fly. Maybe people could actually be Brave and True and Good.
“Go to sleep,” Mira said again, and waited until his breaths had evened out to carefully extract him from her side, and tiptoe out of the cave and into the night.
I do not know if I will finish this. I do have a story planned out, but I wonder if I was possibly too ambitious with it. However, things weren't coming together, and on top of starting classes last week and trying to finish other things, the deadline for the challenge came up quicker than expected.
The themes I've chosen are not particularly obvious in the first "chapter" of this story, and they reveal would reveal themselves more further in the story. Hopefully, anyways. I may be stretching the theme a little too much. It would be nice to try to continue it. It does contain two characters I really like, one of which is rather dear to me. But we'll see.
The themes are: Righteousness, pure of heart, and mercy.
The story contains depictions of substance usage and murder.
Hindsight
No one could say anything. No one could do anything. Even the doctor in the crowd was helpless as they all witnessed the man on the ground gasping for painful breaths. His executors stood around him, letting him bleed out instead of delivering another shot to quicken the process.
Anzura felt a wave of hatred for the man holding the gun as he cast the crowd a sweeping glance, a smug grin on his face. The victim gave a final gurgling gasp before going completely still. The executioners turned to leave, the crowd parting to let them through. Not a word was spoken. Not until they got into their automobile and the engine revved. Even after they left, words were spoken in whispers. The doctor broke through the crowd to kneel by the man.
Another person pushed through the crowd. The woman staggered into the middle, freezing when she saw the body. As a rent from her throat, Anzura’s friend muttered to her, “We should go.”
Anzura needed no further encouragement. She spread her wings and pushed off into the air. Her friend Lattia made her way through the crowd, visible to Anzura by her red hat. They left the crowd behind and headed to the one place of refuge in this god-forsaken town- Zayne’s Lounge.
The Lounge was empty of people save Zayne himself, who stood behind the bar. The Lounge was painted in dark colors, dimly lit by lamps shaded with red. Booths with leather cushions were built all along the walls, surrounding round tables bearing evidence of the previous night’s gatherings. The middle of the room was left clear for dancing, the floor designed with a spiky star. There was a platform off to the side for the musicians, set with microphones and stools, and a baby grand piano. Two hallways sandwiched the bar, leading off to private rooms. By the bar, there was a gilded perch for ravens, like Anzura. The air was thick with the smell of stale alcohol and tobacco. Everything was gilded in fake gold and marble. Zayne had long forgone trying to keep up the illusion that the chipped luxuries were real. Everyone knew otherwise and it became a waste of money.
Anzura swooped through the lounge to land smoothly on the perch meant for her. She took a moment to admire the painting behind the bar, framed by colorful glass bottles of liquor. It was of a creature that appeared to be dog like, but was too light and airy, too long and narrow, to be a dog. It was in fact a spirit being true natives of the town of Racham knew as Ruaka. When she finished with her admiration, she turned to face the front as Lattia sat on a stool in front of Zayne.
“Light?” Zayne asked.
“Please.” Lattia pulled out her cigarette holder and placed a cigarette on it. Zayne lit the end for her. There were a few minutes of silence as fresh smoke replaced the stale scent.
“So they did it,” Zayne surmised.
“Of course they did,” Anzura said. “Tharth kept speaking out against them. They were never going to let that go.”
“It was the appeal to the tribe leader that did him in,” Lattia said. She breathed out a puff of smoke. “I told him if he was going to do that, not to breath a word about it. But he’s always been mouthy.”
“Did they leave his wife alone?” Zayne asked.
“For now,” Anzura answered.
“She’s got to learn to the lesson he didn’t,” Lattia qualified.
“So does this mean you two are rejecting that proposal?” Zayne questioned.
Anzura and Lattia exchanged glances, the memory of a man approaching them floating through both their heads.
Lattia shifted uncomfortably. “Now, I wouldn’t say that.”
“They seem equipped to help,” Anzura added.
“Maybe so,” Zayne said. “But they give me a weird feeling.”
“It’s because you’d rather keep the peace,” Lattia said. “You’d rather keep you head down. But we’re on our own. If we ain’t going to do something now, we’ll always be run by those crooks.”
“Keeping the peace has its benefits,” Zayne said. “I don’t like them coming into my bar and scheming anymore than you do, but they provide me means of business. What’s this group going to do if they chase them out? Are they going to lug out my crates of vanilla whiskey so you can continue your evening routine?”
“Now Zayne, that’s not fair,” Lattia protested. “You know I would give it up if it meant they were run out of town.”
“You say that now,” Zayne argued, “but when I’m not getting product? When customers are demanding to know why I’ve got nothing for them?”
“A man was murdered in the street and you’re worried about alcohol?” Anzura pointed out as Lattia shot her a grateful look.
Zayne held up his hands defensively. “I’m not justifying murder here. But if this other group you want to join wants to help us out, they gotta consider it takes more than running them out of town. I’m not the only one they supply.”
“They do it to keep your loyalty,” Anzura pushed.
“And I can’t afford to say no,” Zayne replied. “Besides, how am I to believe these guys you run with are any better?”
“They’re by the people, for the people,” Lattia said proudly, quoting part of the pitch the man had given them. “Their whole goal is to defend the commoner from corrupt government. And the Majram family is good as.”
Zayne shook his head. “For all you know, this Innominace gang is just like them.”
Lattia scoffed while Anzura clicked her beak.
“We haven’t made a decision yet,” Anzura said. “But they want to put us through trials first anyways.”
“Because that’s not concerning,” Zayne said critically, shaking his head.
“They have standards,” Lattia said, taking another drag of her cigarette.
Zayne pulled out a couple of glasses and poured a shot of vanilla whiskey in both. He pushed one towards Lattia and lifted the second. Tilting his glass towards her, he said, “May Ruaka keep you safe.”
* * *
Foresight
“May Ruaka keep you safe.”
Those were the words spoken to Cora by her friends and family when she announced the calling to fly overseas to the country of Cheranee, miles away from her home country of Catam. It certainly came with incredible risk- not least of which that Cheranee had no accommodations for the likes of Cora, as the race of Telethians were not native there. And that was if she chose to reveal what she was, and she had chosen otherwise.
At the time, she had applauded herself for such a decision. It was so clever, she had told herself. No one would suspect her. At first, it seemed as though it would further her mission.
At the very least, it did in the start.
She was not sure why she was in Cheranee until she had seen him- a man who had just entered adulthood.
Dhrake Jaysquer.
Innominance’s best eraser, undeniably.
Such a status provided him pariah status among even his colleagues, and he encouraged such distance. With Cora, however, she was let into his life on the fact that he believed her to be a normal raven. It was this man, she knew, that she was supposed to work on.
But here she was, years later, in his studio apartment and he wasn’t any closer to abandoning his position. His living space was a mess, as Cora was his only visitor and he saw no reason to make order for himself. He had few possessions, and fewer still were not obtained by ill gotten means. She dejectedly watched him from his bed while he sorted through his dinner of shoplifted snack food. If she had chosen to reveal herself as a being with a soul, perhaps by this time she could have spoken to him about his actions. Perhaps by this time, he would have had some remorse when he came back from an assignment instead of lighting up at the prospect of erasing yet another person his boss disliked.
He joined her on the bed, presenting her with a bowl of cereal he knew she enjoyed. She clicked her beak in appreciation and began eating, doing her best to seem raven-like.
A fool, is what she was. Did she honestly think that she would be able to change the heart of the world’s deadliest assassin, groomed for this very job?
She lifted her head to study him. At what point was she just enabling him? Or being complicit in his crimes?
Dhrake mistook her stare. “I’ve got nothing else for you.”
She cawed.
“I gave you what you wanted.”
She cawed again.
“You can be like that all you want- it won’t change anything.”
Beak open, she ruffled her feathers as though in offense. Perhaps at the very least, her offended display would encourage him to get something healthier to eat. Like vegetables that weren’t thinly sliced and cooked in vats of oil.
“I gave you food. Be grateful.”
She turned her head away. As though to reconcile, he reached out a hand and stroked her chest feathers. This part she certainly liked. She remained still, slowly blinking. She noticed out of the corner of her eye that his attention was waning. His focus, while his hand still stroked her, turned towards the night sky out the window. She noted that he looked more tired than usual. He had been waking a lot in the middle of the night. Perhaps he was coming down with something.
Soon, his hand dropped, and his eyes closed. She hopped about the bed, clearing the trash from it and putting the bowl on the floor. She dragged a blanket over him. Then she settled by his head, preening his hair as he drifted further into sleep. When she deemed him asleep enough, she became to hum-sing a lullaby. It was a song of protection Ruaka had taught her.
Why someone like Dhrake needed it, she wasn’t sure. But she knew that this song was for him.
She let her own attention drift to the window as she sang-hummed the last bars of the song, resting her head on his. Another would soon lose their life to him, and she would have accomplished nothing.
This is the first of three chapters for my story for the 2025 @inklings-challenge. And if I say it confidently, maybe this time it won't end up being five chapters and incomplete this time. I'm on Team Chesterton this year and I chose to do an Earth Travel story with the main theme of "Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied." So naturally it's a cyberpunk victorian-esque murder mystery. As of the writing of this post, this is the only complete chapter. It is very unpolished so constructive criticism is entirely welcome.
●-=●=-●
Chapter I: Early Morning Wake-Up
“I repeat, is there a physician onboard? We have a person in need in the First Class carriage.” The smooth but urgent voice of the hyperlight train’s AI announcer said, jolting Atarah Conway awake.
Atarah groaned. She was coming off of an incredibly taxing mission as a SPECTRE for the United Nations of Terra. That would’ve been enough as it was. However, she was also stressed about her upcoming meeting with her estranged stepsister for the first time in nearly six years.
In short, she was in no mood to be awoken by loud train announcements that didn’t apply to her.
“Conrad, what time is it?” Atarah said. He didn’t answer her, his robot ocelot form still curled up at the bottom of her berth.
Atarah reached up absent-mindedly to key her earpiece’s mic in the (exceedingly rare) case the sub-vocalization sensors hadn’t picked up her movement. Only to remember that she had taken it off and tossed it on the berth’s in-built side table to charge.
She rolled around clumsily and fumbled around on the side table until she felt her earpiece. She slotted it around her left ear.
“What’s the time, Conrad?” Atarah said. This time Conrad’s form stirred from where he lay.
“It is 0428, Atarah.” Conrad answered in her earpiece with his smooth, slightly British voice. “Did you have trouble sleeping again?”
“If by trouble sleeping you mean a train announcement woke me up, sure.” Atarah said, pulling herself up into a seated position. “They need a doctor in First Class.”
Conrad blinked at her with his glowing amber eyes. “Which you are not.” He said firmly. “So we’re going back to sleep, right?”
“You know I can’t go back to sleep that easily.” Atarah said, sliding around him to climb out of her berth with practiced ease. She pulled out her trunk from her locker and started to look for a change of clothes. “I’ll just put something on real quick and visit the lounge for a few minutes until I’m tired again. Won’t be too long.”
“Atarah, you really ought to go back to sleep. You need rest.” Conrad said flatly, huffing slightly. “You know full well we can’t do anything to help with a medical emergency.”
“I- I’m not going to help, Conrad.” Atarah sputtered, pausing but a moment as she rooted around her luggage. After a moment she had her coat, bodice, stockings, petticoat and skirt. “I know they probably don’t need my CPR training. I just can’t- I can’t sleep when I know something’s going on. You can go back to rest mode. Nothing’s going to happen, promise.”
“Nope. I’m getting up too then.” Conrad said, sitting up. “I’m your partner, Atarah. That means I keep you out of trouble or get into with you. Even when it’s self-inflicted.”
Atarah sighed fondly, clothing in hand. “Thanks, Conrad. I’ll be but a moment. Just have to go get changed.” She patted his head, making his synth fur fluff up.
Conrad shook his fur out and clambered out of the berth. “Wait. You should wear your armor.” He said, nosing the berth closed. He tapped it for a second with his nose and it chirped, locking.
Atarah groaned. “Conrad, you know what a pain that is to get on. We’re off duty and I’m literally just going to stretch my legs. Nothing is going to happen.”
“The last time you said that, we got into a shootout.” Conrad said, tilting his head with a pointed look.
“I- You know what? Fine.” Atarah said, grabbing her armor case. “I will put on the wholly unnecessary armor. Just to walk down to the lounge car and back.”
“Does this give me bragging rights when it turns out to be very necessary?” Conrad asked.
Atarah rolled her eyes. “Sure. Fine. I’ll be back. One minute.” She said.
●-=●=-●
The lounge car was almost completely empty. A man with hyperlight armor sat slumped over in one corner. His armor was in pristine condition but his vest was a bit rumpled. He looked a bit shaken. Still, he was alert enough that he looked up when Atarah entered the carriage.
“Morning.” He said, voice rough.
“Good morning.” Atarah said. “Were you woken up by the announcement too?”
The man’s eyes snapped to Conrad. “I- no, I was already awake. Pardon me, but are you a SPECTRE?” He said.
Atarah blinked. Her armor, stun-staff and pistol were neatly concealed beneath her high low skirt and bodice. Conrad likewise had his weaponry tucked away, which meant he looked similar to a civilian cyber-cat, albeit a larger model. So there should’ve been no evidence that Atarah was a SPECTRE.
Still, there was no reason to deny it. “I am.” Atarah said. “SPECTRE Atarah Conway.”
“Ah, I thought so.” The man said. “I’m Liam Nash. Bodyguard and former SPECTRE. I recognized your cyber-cat. Though that model was new when I retired two years ago.”
Conrad huffed. “I’m still top of the line.” He said in Atarah’s earpiece.
“Hush, Conrad.” Atarah whispered silently. Then, louder, she added. “It’s nice to meet you, Liam. You on break then?”
Liam sighed. “Basically. Not like this is a particularly active train at 0400.”
“Mind if we join you?” Atarah said, though she was already moving to join him.
As a Business class passenger, she didn’t have access to the First Class carriage. Plus she suspected that Liam would be her best chance at hearing what had happened. He hadn’t outright said his employer was in First Class, but his employer had hired a bodyguard and that spoke for itself.
“Not at all.” Liam said, gesturing to the seat next to him.
The floor to ceiling windows were filled with the nighttime ocean lit only dimly by the hyperlight track beneath the train. The track supports vanished into the stormy waters below. They probably only extended around a hundred meters down. Any more would be unnecessary, as
the track only existed temporarily, mostly under the train itself. It was a beautiful sight Atarah would’ve enjoyed more if she wasn’t so preoccupied. She took a seat quickly.
“Do you know what’s going on with that announcement?” Atarah asked. “Feels like if I’m going to be woken up at unreasonable hours, I could at least learn why.”
Liam laughed, but it was edged with exhaustion and worry. “Ah, you are definitely a SPECTRE! Always curious. Unfortunately I’m not sure I’m allowed to tell you anything. My clients pay for confidentiality after all.”
“Who am I going to tell?” Atarah said. “I promise, my lips are sealed, no matter what’s going on.”
Liam sighed, lips pursed. “I- it would’ve killed me not to know what was going on. Fine. I can’t tell you exactly what the medical emergency was, but I can tell you it was with my client, Tamera Whitehall.”
Atarah’s heart skipped a beat. That was her stepsister. The stepsister she was returning home to meet with after almost six years of estrangement. What were the chances that they were on the same train?
Liam obviously didn’t know. Of course he didn’t. Atarah had started going by her mother’s maiden name when she became a SPECTRE. Legally she was still Atarah Whitehall, but that was mostly because she kept forgetting to file the paperwork. Mostly.
No reason to tell Liam that though. “Of the first family of AI?” Atarah said, feigning ignorance.
“Who else?” Liam said, flippantly. “I don’t really know why she’s decided now is the time to visit the States but I’m not paid to care about that.”
“She’s alright, though, right?” Atarah said, unable to keep the note of worry in her voice from slipping in.
“Of course she is.” Liam said, glancing at her quickly. “Has to be, she’s paying me.”
“That’s reassuring.” Conrad said to Atarah.
Atarah patted him absentmindedly and stared out the window. She felt sick, stomach twisted in newfound worry. Something was not right about all this. But if Liam was certain Tamera was alright, then having actually seen her, he was probably right.
“Well I hope she’s alright.” Atarah said eventually.
“Agreed.” Liam said quickly.
Without much more to say, the two of them lapsed into an mostly peaceful silence. The ocean rolled along beneath the train tracks.
After a moment, Conrad shifted into an alert state, crossing his paws. “We’ve got company.” He said in Atarah’s earpiece.
Atarah glanced up. A steward stood in the doorway, having almost silently snuck into the lounge car. He looked harried. He was also clearly a worker from First Class, as the stewards in Business class were all robots.
His uniform was simple in its elegance— a simple suit-coat, a trainman cap, white gloves and cyberweave piped pants. He wore a monocle visor that probably gave him information from the train itself. As he drew closer, Atarah could read that his nametag proclaimed him to be Tyrone.
“Excuse me, sir.” Tyrone said, walking up to Liam. “But the train security has asked that we keep all First Class passengers in the First Class carriage until further notice. So I’m going to have to ask that you return to your carriage.”
“What?” Liam said, slightly indignant. “What’s the lockdown for?”
“It’s merely a precaution, sir.” Tyrone said. “My deepest apologies, but we need to hold all First Class passengers for police questioning when the train arrives.”
“Police questioning?” Atarah said, looking up in alarm.
“No need to worry, ma’am.” Tyrone said. “As a Business class passenger, you will only be stopped for a moment to obtain your contact information. You’ll be free to go after that, no lengthy questioning necessary.”
“That’s not ominous at all.” Atarah whispered silently to Conrad.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything, Atarah. Your stepsister could be alright.” Conrad said in her earpiece, but Atarah could hear the doubtful note in his voice. A doubt she couldn’t help but agree with.
“This is ridiculous.” Liam snapped, drawing Atarah’s attention back to him and Tyrone. “Where am I going to go on a hyperlight train in the middle of the ocean?!”
“As I said, sir, it is simply a precaution. Please come with me or I will be forced to get the train security involved.” Tyrone said.
“I- fine.” Liam said, standing up to leave the carriage. “Nice to meet you, Miss Atarah.”
“And you, Mr. Liam.” Atarah said, glancing at Conrad.
Liam stalked out of the carriage behind Tyrone, leaving an uneasy peace between Atarah and Conrad.
“You’re going to get involved, aren’t you.” Conrad said, resigned. “Atarah, if something really is wrong, you’re emotionally compromised.”
“I haven’t even spoken to her in years.” Atarah said.
Conrad placed a paw on her skirt. “Atarah, there’s a reason why SPECTREs are encouraged to self-elect themselves out of conflict of interest situations.”
“I know.” Atarah said. “If there was another active duty SPECTRE on-board I would self-elect out of the situation. Advisory role at most. But SPECTREs are trained for in-situ detective work for a reason. Sometimes we just need to act as quickly as possible to solve cases. And who knows? The medical emergency Tamera had could be completely unrelated to this police questioning.”
Conrad gave her a flat look. “You don’t believe that. It would be too much of a coincidence.”
“I never said it was likely.” Atarah said defensively, even though she agreed with Conrad. “Just that it could be.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Atarah said, standing up and heading towards the carriage corridor. “Can’t blame a girl for some wishful thinking though, can you?”
