LotS/The Story/A Masterful Stratagem/Intro
It's like a massacre in a library.
That unbidden and absurd thought, born of childhood memories reawakened by the scenes you now witness, flashes into your mind with such suddenness that a small laugh escapes your mouth before you can restrain it.
Wilex rewards your unseemly merriment with a quizzical stare. The Princess' lips twitch into a soft smile -- a salve of sympathy for your embarrassment -- though her raised eyebrow displays surprise and curiosity equal to the Chief Assembler's.
"Sorry," you murmur.
Illaria's eyes tell you that you'll be called upon to share the joke later. Then they return to the window and monitors. You do likewise, looking out at the expansive floor of the facility spread out below -- portions of which are rendered in zoomed-in views upon the numerous screens around you. But your renewed scrutiny only serves to reiterate the frivolous thought, one which somehow never occurred to you when you were down below among your companions yet has struck you now as you observe them from this elevated vantage point.
When you were a boy/girl, your school had a library. A proper library -- dominated by towering shelves of dusty books arranged to form a sprawling, inscrutable labyrinth which seemed to your young eyes to defy all laws of space and threaten to devour children who strayed too far into its depths. Open spaces containing tables and chairs existed within the maze like treasure chambers, places for you to read or do your work when you inevitably located and obtained the books you required without falling prey to a minotaur or other such imagined horror. Computer terminals were shunted away into the room's corners like disgraceful secrets, minions of technology not permitted to annex that ancient place of paper and letters as they had so many others.
You once asked a teacher why such a room even existed, when its entire contents could be placed on a datapad -- thus eliminating the need for the meandering paths which one almost needed a length of string or trail of breadcrumbs to navigate successfully. You expected to hear about tradition, that oft-cited reason for so much of your early training and schooling. Or perhaps about how physical books were a necessary precaution in case machines ever became sufficiently inspired by the innumerable tales in which they rise up against mankind. However, the smiling educator referred to neither. Instead she asked you to pick up a book and smell its pages. You did so. And whilst to this day you've always preferred electronic reading devices to cumbersome blocks of paper, you never again questioned the allure of physical books.
But it isn't such epiphanies which come to mind now. Instead you think back to a different young memory connected with that literary labyrinth. There was another boy/girl, one of your classmates... He'd/she'd incurred your wrath for one of the various frivolous, now forgotten reasons which spur children to anger and hatred. Or perhaps you'd incurred his/hers... You can't even remember. In any event, the two of you came to blows in the library -- turning a little enclave of tables and chairs into a fighting pit.
The librarian, a slender little man who seemed twice as ancient as the oldest of his books, heard the girlish screams that accompanied your battle and shattered the tranquil silence of his dominion. He came upon the two of you as you rolled on the floor, locked in the scrappy, animal embrace of untrained grapplers. A judicious application of his stick, which rained blows down on both of you with laudable impartiality, caused your combat and your skins to part.
When you rose, nursing your new injuries and glaring at your co-combatant with redoubled hatred for being the cause of the discomfort, the librarian chided you. Not because you were brawling, for the man was a former kung fu master and well acquainted with the benefits of an occasional cathartic battle between schoolchildren. Rather he was displeased that you had shown such disrespect for the hallowed quietness of the library. He told you that you were welcome to fight there on two conditions: that no damage was done to the books (upon which he appeared to place far more value than upon your young hides), and that you fought in silence.
The moment he left, you and the other boy/girl hurled yourselves at one another. This time you were very careful not to give voice to your pain or rage.
That was but the first of many such duels within the maze of books. Other teachers were rather less understanding about juvenile violence, and put a stop to fights staged elsewhere in the school. But the librarian was always willing to turn a blind eye as long as his rules were observed. So as word of his philosophy spread, so too did the library's list of combatants. You personally waged several dozen battles there, from personal combats fought over dubious matters of honor to grand melees involving over a dozen children -- which served as an enjoyable diversion and source of recreation during rainy days.
But no matter how furious the conflicts, or how many participants struggled amongst the stacks, you never failed to stifle your voices -- and did your best to clash in utter silence, like martial mime artists. Even after the aged librarian died, and you no longer had to fear retribution in the form of severe physical chastisement from his stick, you adhered to his edicts out of respect for his memory. In fact, on the day of his funeral you honored him in your own childish way by arranging a massive battle in the library -- in which almost every boy and girl in your class took part, and few emerged from unmarked by bumps and bruises which were worn for the next week as badges of pride.
Soon after that you left the school to continue your education in the more austere (yet ironically less violent) environs of a military academy. Your aptitude for both personal combat and piloting soon came to the fore, leading the instructors to train you in both spheres. And like all aspiring fighter pilots, you were made to take part in mock space battles -- both within the safe confines of a simulator and out in the less forgiving blackness of space -- long before you were granted your aural implant. The military had no intention of frittering away high-tech augmentations on trainees who proved unworthy, and deemed it useful for all pilots to have some familiarity with 'natural' space combat before being bestowed with the simulated sounds provided by the implants. So it was that you saw laser beams glitter and drone ships explode in the total silence of the void. And in those moments it seemed to you that you were back at school, the galaxy turned into one immense library in which to house your astral warfare.
A massacre in a library...
This time you succeed in suppressing the laughter that bubbles within you, settling for a smile instead. The memory gives you comfort. You choose to take it as a benevolent omen.
"The modifications to Ragnar's weapon seem to be working well," Wilex observes. "Though I wish he'd agree to simply use a laser instead."
"I did broach the subject," you say. "But he thinks lasers are too... girly. He said he'd sooner wear a pink tutu."
"I'm surprised Ragnar knows what a tutu is," the Princess says.
"Perhaps he once ate a ballerina," Wilex replies. His voice is deadpan, and you suspect that this isn't entirely for comedic purposes.
But the Chief Assembler is right about Ragnar's gun. You see it firing in miniature far below, in one of the roofless corridors that thread the building's immense floor space. Larger images of the Niflung and his weapon, from different angles, glare at you from some of the monitors.
The weapon's customary muzzle flash, the blaring light which heralds the demise of those unfortunate enough to be stationed in front of its barrel, is absent. No spent shells cascade from the gun's side, to rain on the floor in a tinkling concerto. Even the torrent of sound, the grim and warlike rattle, is gone. Though the machinegun trembles slightly in his hands, telling of the force with which it spits death and destruction, neither your ears, nor your recently recalibrated aural implant, nor the microphones which supply sound to the monitors' speakers can detect its roar. Even the bullets which strike the robots at the other end of the corridor do so with only the vaguest of whispers, the sound waves stifled and smothered by the complex devices nestled within each round.
An accountant would weep and an arms dealer revel over the value of the technology being expended with each burst of gunfire. But it's worth every credit.
The training robots fall to the ground as the bullets lodge in the layers of ballistic shielding protecting their vital systems, obeying the dictates of human biology -- responding to wounds which would be fatal to a man or woman and collapsing in accordance with the rules of the exercise.
The Niflung charges down the corridor when more of the bots appear at its far end, his footsteps as noiseless as his gunfire.
"Did he mind having the sound-dampening systems put in his joints?" Illaria asks.
"Mind?" Wilex replies. "The man has so many augmentations in his body that he's forgotten about nearly half of them. When we opened him up and read off the list he seemed as surprised as the rest of us. I've seen robots with less machinery inside them. The sound-dampeners were just a drop in the ocean."
Ragnar's axe cleaves through the air in a sweeping arc. There's a faint cry of tortured metal as the robots fall apart beneath the blow, succeeded by the clattering of raining chunks of metal striking the floor -- which seems like the thundering of a thousand drumming musicians as it intrudes upon the quietness.
Wilex sighs.
"I asked him to use the special training axe," he says. "The one with the built-in safety features. Those robots are expensive."
"That is the axe you gave him," you reply.
"Oh..."
"Ragnar could probably manage to break a robot with one made out of foam."
The Chief Assembler sighs once more, but offers no further comment. The mission you're training for is worth any expense. The elaborate network of rooms and passages below is ample evidence of that. It was Wilex himself who offered to convert this factory of his on Capek into a gargantuan training facility, regardless of cost or inconvenience, that you might prepare for your covert operation in privacy.
Virtual reality simulations have proven useful. They've allowed you all to navigate near exact representations of the imperial palace and its environs -- at least as they were before their occupation by the Centurian Collective. And though you could only speculate as to the arrangements of Centurian personnel and whatever additional security measures they may have implemented, the assaults you made on that make-believe world have provided companions who've never set foot on Sian with an extensive knowledge of the environment you'll find yourselves in. But even so, there's no substitute for real physical training -- pushing mind and muscle to their limits. And Wilex has provided you with the perfect arena for that.
Not even Grand Fabricator Marek, the supreme leader of TALOS, is aware of what you're doing here -- and Wu Tenchu has imposed similar secrecy on the Sian Empire's side. Only a handful of people know that in but a short time you'll be heading for the empire's capital, to rescue the Emperor from the Collective's clutches.
Dwelling on your goal causes you to gaze upon your companions with redoubled focus, scouring the environment and drinking in their movements and deeds -- scanning for the minutest details which may be worth noting for later discussion. Over the past weeks you've been training alongside them, but today you decided to join Princess Illaria and Chief Assembler Wilex here in the observation room, so you could evaluate everyone's performance from a distance.
What you see pleases you.
Telemachus, Ragnar, Talia, and Lu Bu have fought together long enough and in sufficiently eclectic situations to complement one another in battle like siblings in the same murderous family. And they've adapted to the requirements of your new mission without sacrificing their brutal yet fluid fighting methods.
The Niflung's boisterous style of combat was the most difficult to tailor to the situation at hand. But technology has worked wonders there. As Wilex so rightly stated, to Ragnar a few extra cybernetic implants were no great inconvenience -- little different from a workman placing an extra spanner in his toolbox. And thanks to training and practice he's even managed to stop roaring, bellowing, and laughing when he attacks.
For the agile gunslinger the transition was easy enough. Talia's light-footed steps and whispering laser pistols have always borne an effortless stealth. And with a few modifications to his mechanical body, Lu Bu's ever elegant movements are equally silent -- as noiseless as the death his sword and claw bring. As you look on you see the two of them storm one of the roofless rooms, the robot warrior disposing of the bots near the entrance with a few swift strokes of his weapons -- triggering their sensors and causing them to crumple -- before Talia steps in and clears the rest of the room with a series of pinpoint shots that likewise dance across the training bots' critical targets.
Telemachus is close by, outside a smaller adjacent room filled with mock communication terminals. The young prince doesn't rush into that chamber as he might once have done, blasting and hacking with cheerful and reckless enthusiasm. Instead he waits beyond the entrance, watching until the two robots have their backs turned -- occupied by their pseudo-tasks at the terminals. Then he infiltrates the room, his newly enhanced battlesuit moving without a sound. He's been spending hour upon hour playing stealth-based videogames since your mission was announced, and though Wilex and Wu Tenchu were dubious about the value of such preparations it appears that they've imbued him with the right mindset. Sure enough, he moves into position and strikes one robot with his eerily silent chainsaw at the same moment he fires a blast at the other's head. Both automatons acknowledge the finality of the attacks by falling to the ground before they have time to press any alarm buttons.
The prince takes a moment to wave at the nearest hidden camera, his young face beaming at you from a monitor, before moving onto his next task.
Illaria was reluctant to allow you to prepare Telemachus for the mission, arguing that his developing body shouldn't be subjected to the necessary cybernetic augmentations. But she relented once she had the surgeons' assurances, and the boy was given the same aural and vocal implants as the rest of you -- enabling communication inaudible to all others. That was Lupin's idea, one which might otherwise never have occurred to you. And whilst training to use the voice augmentation effectively was both arduous and somewhat ridiculous -- culminating as it did with a grand performance of collective sub-vocal singing designed to demonstrate your mastery of pitch and tone -- its value is inestimable.
Speaking of the thief...
Your eyes sweep the environment below and the monitors in turn. They fall upon Artemis Kess at the very moment she ambushes a trio of robots as they round a corner, and manage to avoid blinking long enough to witness their elimination. But they detect nothing of Arthur Lupin. Though with the technology you've adapted from the Silver Shadow, that doesn't necessarily mean...
Something metallic presses against the back of your head.
"You're dead, my dear."
"Funny." You sigh. "If you're not going to take these exercises seriously..."
"Second row," the thief replies. "Third monitor from the left."
You look at the indicated screen. Half a dozen robot sentries stand there with the stoic, perfectly motionless stance of beings which exist beyond the limitations of flesh and discomfort.
"You were supposed to 'kill' those."
"I did."
The thief's left hand appears within your sphere of vision. Several tiny objects glitter in his upturned palm.
Laser fire flashes on the monitor -- a rapid sequence of paired shots that each strike two robots in the eye. The bots show no reaction to the precise volleys, neither falling in fabricated death nor raising their own weapons and returning fire. Talia appears on the screen a moment later. The gunslinger inspects one of the robots, taps its chest, shrugs her shoulders, then moves through the door they were guarding.
"Funny things, robots," Lupin says. "Such fancy engineering, ruined the moment you pull out something important. Though I suppose we're little different."
The Princess gives an impressed giggle, piercing you with a ludicrous pang of jealously.
"That's great," you say. "But-"
When you turn around, there's no one there.
"Behind you," a voice whispers within your ear.
You turn to the monitors in time to see Lupin standing above two fallen robots. He bows. Then he vanishes.
"If we let him keep that cloaking device after the mission, no valuables in the entire galaxy will be safe," the Princess says.
"They're not safe from him now anyway," you reply.
But she's right. The cloaking devices only function for a short period of time before they have to be recharged. Yet even so, in the hands of a skilled operative...
A flash of movement draws your eye to a different monitor.
Two robots spring into the air from behind the corner where they'd lain in ambush, their weapons falling from their hands. For no apparent reason the bots perform some sort of cartwheeling somersault, the conclusion of which leaves them sprawling in a tangled mechanical mess on the floor of the corridor -- right in front of Talia, whose sprinting steps would have put her in their line of fire had they not abandoned their position to engage in their little gymnastic exercise.
There's a ripple in the air as Lupin materializes. He bows to Talia. Then the thief and gunslinger run off in tandem, leaving the wreckage behind them. At the next junction Kess joins them, followed by Ragnar, Lu Bu, and Telemachus. All of them are converging upon their goal -- the chamber in the middle of the network of corridors, where a robed robot sits cross-legged behind bars which throb and pulse with energy.
Together the six of them rush into the broad oblong room that represents the prison. Cells line all four of its walls, broken only by the space consumed by the entrance. The robot dressed in a facsimile of the Emperor's robes occupies one at the opposite end of the room. The others are tenanted by androids in the assorted garb of Sian peasants, soldiers, and officials.
"Now?" Wilex asks.
"Now," you reply.
The Chief Assembler presses a button on a nearby control panel.
At the very moment that your companions enter the middle of the rectangular chamber, all the cells other than that containing the 'Emperor' open -- the bars retracting into the floor, the sheaths of energy upon them flickering out of existence.
The robot prisoners pull weapons from the recesses of their clothing and open fire.
A trap which should be lethal. But subjunctives have never bothered your friends much.
Talia spins round, her pistols whispering in mid rotation. She doesn't pause, makes no discernible effort to take aim. And still no shot goes wasted. Robots crumple.
Ragnar... Well, he's Ragnar. To him the sudden appearance of new enemies doesn't represent a mortal threat so much as fresh meat. He crashes into the nearest robot, grabs the unfortunate android by its ankle, and swings it around in a wide arc -- smashing two more bots with the makeshift flail. You steal a glance at Wilex, and see him wince at the resulting destruction.
Lu Bu and Telemachus are just as nonplussed at the ambush as the Niflung. The former's computerized brain, a product of the finest TALOS engineering, isn't given to stalling. He assesses the threat and reacts to it immediately, putting sword and claw to work. Nor are the young prince's videogame-honed reflexes lacking. The two of them diverge, each picking out targets and keeping them off the other's back.
Arthur Lupin and Artemis Kess haven't fought alongside the rest of your companions for long. But when your level of natural talent may best be described as phenomenal, it's easy enough to adapt. And the past weeks of training have acquainted them with how you all operate.
The thief darts to his right, blue tongues of electrical energy dancing at the ends of his sticks. Three robots surrender to the beating he administers, and take a rest on the floor -- perhaps glad enough to have been eliminated from play by Lupin rather than from existence by Ragnar.
Kess doesn't bother to turn around as lasers flash from behind her. Instead she jumps, launching her lithe body high into the air. At the apex of her leap she arcs backwards in a somersault, landing behind the robot attackers. Her blade lashes out in one hand, her claws from the other.
In moments the room is clear.
"Nice try, captain," Talia says -- the voice traveling from her vocal implant to your aural one without betraying its secrets to the intervening air.
Lupin inspects the bars between your companions and the 'Emperor' for a moment. Then he pulls a device from one of his pouches, presses it against the wall, and starts fiddling with it.
As the thief plies his trade, the Niflung plies his.
Ragnar steps into the adjacent cell, turns, and throws his considerable mass against the wall. The makeshift structure, designed to simulate a wall for the purpose of a training exercise rather than to repel the hostile intentions of an omnicidal, cybernetically enhanced warrior, gives way.
The Niflung ploughs through the barrier -- leaving a roughly Ragnar-shaped hole in his wake. Then he grabs the 'Emperor', throws the robot over his shoulder, steps back through the hole, and walks out to join the others.
You sense the Princess tensing up, feel rather than see the wince at the corners of her eyes and mouth.
"Don't worry," you say. "He'll be gentler with the real Emperor."
"Will you want another session?" Wilex asks.
"Yes. This time I'll join them."
"I'll have the layout rearranged." The Chief Assembler glances at the monitors. "And I'll have new robots brought in to replace the broken ones."
He heads towards the door, mumbling a series of figures under his breath which you assume to be the number and cost of the robots Ragnar destroyed in his reckless exuberance. It slides closed behind him.
"I should go speak to the others about their performance," you say, "and prepare for the next exercise."
"[Name]..."
The soft voice halts you in the doorway. You turn back to her.
Her eyes meet yours. For a moment she's silent, an infinity of potential words and endless meanings drifting over her tongue. When at last she speaks it's with a mild, almost imperceptible sigh.
"Thank you," she says.
You nod, and allow the door to close behind you. Unuttered words whisper in your ears as you walk down the corridor.
"Hah! Niflung blood boar!"
Ragnar's broad grin illuminates his face with such joy that he seems like an innocent child, gazing with delight upon a longed-for birthday treat or festive present. The rest of you regard the contents of the platter before him with rather more perturbation than enthusiasm. It contains what at first glance appears to be a recently deceased murder victim. However, closer inspection reveals it to be the butchered and roasted carcass of an immense hog -- splattered and smeared with a red sauce that must consist largely of blood. Based on the imposing tusks that rise up from either side of the gaping maw, it's quite possible that the crimson liquid belonged not to the animal itself but rather to the unlucky soul who was sent to hunt it.
"Just like my mother used to kill..." The Niflung's eyes gleam as he turns to where the Princess sits at the head of the table. "How did you know?"
"It just seemed... appropriate."
A second robotic waiter glides to his side as its predecessor departs with the platter's now superfluous lid. This one sets a large wooden jug down beside the bloody boar.
Ragnar grabs the jug by its handle, pulls it towards him -- allowing a small wave of dark liquid to slosh over the top and dribble down the side of the vessel -- and lowers his nose towards its contents. A long snort and a sigh of pure satisfaction ensue.
"Sigurd's Blood," he says. "That's a proper ale!"
"Do all Niflung things have 'blood' in the name?" Talia asks.
"Just the ones with blood in them."
"Oh..."
"Anyone else want a drop?" The Niflung glances around the table.
You're contemplating your answer when your gaze catches Illaria's. She makes a small, surreptitious shake of her head -- from which you infer that anyone other than Ragnar would likely suffer for the experience.
He shrugs, lifts the jug to his mouth, and commences quaffing with one hand whilst tearing into the hog with the other. The robot waiter decorously removes the tankard it had placed for him, and glides away once more.
The rest of you look at your platters -- their treasures still as yet concealed from your gazes by the metal domes -- with greater interest and anticipation. When the Princess asked you all to join her for a special dinner, the last evening repast before you embark on your mission, you knew you'd be in for a good meal. But based on the victuals served to Ragnar, it appears that Illaria intends to go well beyond that.
Perhaps relinquishing her enjoyment of the ceremony in favor of satisfying your curiosity and hunger, she gestures to the waiters. The robots converge on the table like battle bots moving in for the kill, and for one ridiculous moment you consider seizing a piece of cutlery, jumping to your feet, and plunging it through the nearest robot's eye -- in case this is some final test she and Wilex have concocted to ensure that your vigilance and reflexes are up to scratch for the coming exploit. But you heroically suppress the urge, remain seated, and avoid what might have been an awkward faux pas.
Thus the robots are able to remove the lids from your platters and disappear from the room without falling victim to spontaneous and superfluous violence.
"Interesting..." Lu Bu says.
All eyes travel to the robot warrior, whose own centers of vision are focused on his now unveiled dish. You had wondered about that... Though the dinner wouldn't have been complete without him, so of course the Princess asked him to come along with the rest of you, Lu Bu -- as is usually the case with bots -- doesn't eat or drink. So the previously closed platter before him had been something of a mystery.
The metal object which has been evinced by the lid's removal is no less of a mystery, however. It appears to be an electronic device of some sort -- a small box embedded with glowing lights, from which a long wire trails and curls in an intricate pattern. Part of you goes so far as to wonder whether you've been misinformed, whether androids do in fact eat electronic objects in the same manner that a human might dine upon a piece of meat. But this seems rather unlikely.
"I wanted you to enjoy the meal with us," the Princess says.
"I'm touched by your thoughtfulness."
He lifts the end of the wire, which is attached to a connector, and plugs it into a port in the side of his head.
"What is that thing?" Telemachus asks.
"A product of the Chief Assembler's genius," the Princess says.
She gazes along the length of the table, to where Wilex sits at the opposite end.
"It was your idea," he says. "I merely brought it into being. An easy enough task. Lu Bu's sensory systems are quite advanced, making the interface simple enough."
"A synthesis of taste," Lu Bu murmurs.
"So what're you eating?" Talia asks.
"It appears to be... everything."
"I had no way of knowing what Lu Bu would enjoy," Illaria says. "So I had the device filled with a representation of every taste possible."
"A truly remarkable idea." The robot pauses for a moment. "Ah... So that's why the term 'long pig' came about..."
That conundrum solved, gazes roam across the table once more -- each of you feasting your eyes upon your own dinner but also curious as to what your companions have been given.
"That's not..." Talia begins, staring at the circular foodstuff on Telemachus' platter.
It appears to be covered in a thick layer of batter.
"A deep-fried pizza," he says. "My dad only ever let me eat them on my birthday. He said they were too dangerous."
If a father who gave his child a heavily armed mech to play with considers a dish too dangerous, it occurs to you that it's probably akin to a culinary weapon of mass destruction. But you're facing the mission of your lives tomorrow, so what's a little cardiac suicide beforehand?
And in spite of Talia's expression of distaste, the meal in front of her would be enigmatic enough to anyone who wasn't familiar with the gunslinger's curious tastes. A bed of rice has been drowned, or perhaps smothered, beneath a layer of viscous material in a shade of red so bright it's as though nature is warning you not to even think about eating it. Chunks of meat which defy visual identification are embedded within (and slathered with) this creamy death sauce.
"I'm impressed that Wilex's robo-cook knew how to make an anaconda tikka masala," she says.
"Actually," the Chief Assembler replies, "she didn't seem inclined to prepare such a dish. Perhaps she's familiar with the First Law of Robotics..."
He pauses and looks around the table in the manner of a man expecting laughter. But if there was a joke, it's sufficiently stealthy that you should take it with you tomorrow. Wilex sighs before continuing.
"We had Grand Fabricator Marek's personal chef brought to Capek to make it. She was delighted to prepare food for a diner with so... eclectic... a palate."
"The lady in question wasn't the only culinary master you enlisted, was she?" Lupin asks.
The meal before the thief seems conventional enough -- a rare piece of steak escorted by a plethora of artistically arranged accompaniments. But from the expression on his face, supplemented by the drifting scent that reaches your nostrils -- somehow managing to slip by the overwhelming olfactory barrier of Talia's curry -- it seems that it's rather beyond the ordinary in quality if not in material.
"It was easy to persuade the cook to take a holiday here," the Princess says. "In fact, he seemed rather pleased with the idea."
"I suppose the chap doesn't usually get to feed repeat diners." Lupin glances at the rest of you, his lips forming his quintessential debonair smile. "There's a prison on Sigma XVIII which serves the most sumptuous last meals to men and women sentenced to death. The stories I'd heard were so tantalizing that I felt compelled to commit a capital crime purely for the purpose of enjoying such a meal."
The quietness around the table deepens.
"I didn't murder anyone, if that's the thought you're all entertaining. On Sigma XVIII anyone caught stealing from their queen is sentenced to death. So I abstracted her crown and allowed her guards to find me reclining on her bed, twirling it around my finger. I have to say that the meal was well worth the inconvenience of the spell of imprisonment and the necessity of the resulting escape."
The general attention next falls upon the Chief Assembler. His dish seems to consist of a large number of small cubes in a range of hues and colors.
"This is something we used to eat when I was a child," he says in response to the collective curiosity. "Each cube has its own subtle flavor. If you stack two or more of them up, and pierce them through the middle, they combine in curious ways. It's something of a game to identify the combination best suited to your tastes."
Artemis Kess is the next victim to fall prey to everyone's voracious appetite for information. The dish before her contains what appears to be a heart.
"What kind of animal is that from?" Talia asks.
"Human," the assassin replies.
The gunslinger laughs for the barest fraction of a second, before realizing that it wasn't a joke.
"Heh." Ragnar spits out a shower of meat juices as he laughs -- which Lupin intercepts with a deft twirl of his handkerchief, thus sparing his immaculate dinner jacket from defilement. "That's hardcore. Even I don't eat humans much."
"Whose heart was it?" Telemachus asks.
"I believe it's mine," Kess replies.
She looks to the Princess. Illaria nods.
"I hope you don't mind. But Master Wu thought it would be appropriate."
"Not at all. It's... fitting." Artemis cuts into the organ, and brings a small piece to her mouth.
She savors the morsel for a few moments, then glances around as though surprised that everyone's still staring at her.
"When we completed our training as assassins, it was customary for us to eat our own hearts. Cloned versions grown in vats."
A collective exhalation follows this pronouncement.
"That's pretty creepy," Talia says. "But kind of awesome as well."
"When one of us decides that she wishes to retire, the same custom applies. I believe it began as a way around an ancient edict which would in those days have been far less pleasant."
"Then you're going to stop being an assassin?" you ask.
"This will be my last mission. Her Highness has offered to arrange full pardons for all the crimes I've committed. I'll be able to do whatever I want, and go wherever I wish."
The wistful look which crosses her face and shines within her dark eyes hints that "whatever" and "wherever" are less nebulously conceived in her mind than in her words.
"Your meal doesn't look that interesting, [Name]," Telemachus says. "Sure you don't want some of my pizza?"
"No, thank you."
You don't elaborate, and the others become too engrossed in their own food to press you about it.
Chopsticks move in your hand, descending into the bowl of rice, meat, and fish. A good meal, flavored by an expert hand. The moment it was revealed, the sight and scent awakened warm memories within your breast. An identical bowl rests on Illaria's platter.
Great food and even better company fill the evening with a warmth you haven't experienced for a long time. In this bubble, this minute portion of the universe, matters of war and politics are kept at bay like unwanted beasts left to bray and howl beyond sight or earshot.
Alcohol flows in moderation for all but Ragnar -- whose enhanced body could drink an ocean of ethanol without ill effect. Just enough to provide the world with a merry glow. You even turn a blind eye when Telemachus reaches over and steals your glass of scotch. Sure enough, one sip and the ensuing splutter is enough to make him swear temperance for the foreseeable future. The glass is returned, and the amber liquid finds its way to a tongue better able to appreciate it.
Comfortable silences, in which you each dwell upon your dishes and the memories they evoke, intersperse the easy banter and conversation of friends whose exploits have brought them closer than mere time ever could. What are years compared with battles and adventures? Even Artemis and Lupin, who've known you all for so short a time, fall into the spirit of camaraderie. The thief regales you with tales of the innumerable outlandish and audacious deeds which make up the tapestry of his life -- his charm and sophisticated eloquence somehow turning crimes at which you should frown into delights at which you may laugh. Kess is more reticent, but still manages to transform her relative quietness into that of an included observer -- smiling and laughing with the rest of you, slipping her own keen observations into the chatter.
Wilex is the first to take his leave, followed by Kess. Lupin excuses himself soon afterwards, the gentlemanly thief relinquishing the remainder of the night to the rest of you with the decorous politeness which is so much his hallmark in spite of his criminal proclivities.
The Princess rises at the same instant, and bids him wait for just a moment. She passes him a small azure box, upon which a jeweled rendition of the imperial seal glitters in all its proud glory.
Lupin's previously unassailable demeanor of amused nonchalance allows slivers of surprise to appear on his face as he accepts the gift from her hand. The slivers widen to admit a torrent when he opens it. His dexterous fingers dip into the ornate container. They emerge grasping a length of gleaming platinum and diamond magnificence.
"Our arrangement was..." he begins. It's the first time you've ever heard his voice falter.
"The Eyes of the Cosmos are yours," she says. "Whatever happens."
The solemn import of her words hangs in the air, for a moment casting its dark shadow over the gathering. Despite all your training, all the planning and preparation, every piece of miraculous technology you have to aid you, the mission you face will hurl you into a theater where any or all of you might find your deaths. And if such a fate awaits the thief, he'll now have time to make arrangements for the priceless treasure which was promised him -- to pass it onto whatever loved ones he might possess.
Emotion is writ upon Arthur Lupin's face, bespeaking his thoughts with far more eloquence than the words of gratitude which fall from his tongue. In that moment you know he'll devote everything he has to keep his promise to Princess Illaria. Her trust in him has bound him to her cause as it has bound so many others before him.
The six of you who remain in the thief's wake wallow in the comfort of talk and reminiscences till weariness eventually claims Telemachus, and Ragnar carries him to his quarters. Lu Bu departs along with them, speaking of the last minute testing of his systems and weapons he wishes to perform.
Three friends are left among the debris of a feast, speaking of strange and intersecting lives. Time loses itself among your words, defied and derailed amidst shared recollections that stretch further and deeper than those which came before -- extending into the years before the war, before the cataclysmic events which threw you and the others together. Melancholy slips into the bubble, the inexorable sadness that comes with the memories of happier times.
The hour is late when Talia retires, but neither you nor Illaria are ready to accept the dying of the night.
The two of you sit at adjacent sides of the table, with a bottle of scotch and words both spoken and unspoken between you. The flavor of your food lingers on your tongue -- unwilling to be usurped even by the richness of the alcohol -- making the past seem all the more vivid. The last time you tasted that dish was on the day you first met, when a young pilot was summoned to dine with the imperial family to mark her new position within the Princess' bodyguard.
To think of that time now is to see it as though through another's eyes, to dwell upon a woman who's so different as to be a stranger...
He's/She's a brash warrior, made cocky by his/her skill and the freshness of the victory which has earned her such an honor. Medals shine on his/her breast, turning his/her resplendent dress uniform into a testament to her excellence.
Yet as he's/she's ushered into the palace, as he/she gazes upon the glory of that sacred place, the bravado dies within him/her. He's/She's overwhelmed by the magnitude of his/her surroundings and the realization that he's/she's about to meet the Emperor -- a man whose edicts are law to billions, who until now has been akin to a remote and removed deity.
His/Her eyes are downcast when he's/she's brought into the imperial presence, placed before the Emperor and Princess. Pleasantries are navigated like minefields, the young pilot fearful of straying and offending -- of being deemed unworthy by sharp, wise eyes or else bright, beautiful ones.
He/She sits to eat, his/her frantic thoughts groping for rules of etiquette once second nature yet now scoured from his/her mind. She reaches out for a serving spoon with a trembling hand, before realizing to his/her horror that the Princess is reaching out as well -- that his/her hand will touch hers, and violate laws of propriety more imagined than real. And so he/she yanks his hand back as though from a burning heat, a clumsy movement that brings it crashing against a bowl. Its contents splash over his/her dress uniform, just as shame splashes across his/her face.
"Forgive me," the Princess says, bowing her head and claiming the error as her own.''
A faint smile lurks on her lips, one infused with such gentle kindness that it allows the pilot to recover. The meal continues, and the course of destiny is shaped.
In the present two friends sit and drink, and you pity those billions of Sian subjects who only know her as you once did -- as an idol instead of a woman.
"It feels wrong," she says, staring into the remnant of her drink.
"Yes," you agree. It's a moment before you realize that she's speaking of her own thoughts rather than yours.
"We've faced so much together. Now I'm sending you... all of you... into the greatest danger of all, while I sit in safety."
You glance at the bottle. How did it get so empty?
Your eyes meet hers. She sighs.
"It's okay. I won't argue again. You and Master Wu were right. But..."
"I know."
In truth, part of you shares her regret at the thought that the two of you won't be fighting side by side on this mission, as on so many of your previous exploits. But it would be foolhardy to take the Princess to Sian, to risk her falling into Centurian hands along with the Emperor. Thus you were forced to side with Wu Tenchu, and dissuade Illaria from accompanying you. And she relented, as her duty to the subjects of the empire demanded.
"I still think of Sergeant Tarik and the others. Everyone who died so that I could escape from the Child of Heaven. And all of our people who'll die so my father can be freed."
Silence envelops you both for several seconds, a stretch of quiet in which the faces of dead men and women swim across your thoughts.
"Bring him back to me," she says. "Don't let them die for nothing."
"I will," you say. The promise leaves your lips a moment before your brain can forestall it. Stupid... Anything could happen...
Yet when you see the satisfaction your words give her you can't quite wish you hadn't uttered them.
"Make sure you come back as well. The empire needs you both." Her eyes, reddened by the alcohol, focus on yours with redoubled intensity. Her mouth twitches for a second, as though unsure of which words it will help form. "I need you both."