Aetheral Space

Chapter 230:9.21: The Cardinal Directions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Pussy," Meli sneered.

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

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

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

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

"Fucking slave-driver… unbelievable… I’ll kick your ass next time you talk to me like that…" Meli grumbled, but she obeyed all the same.

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

"Well?" Nason asked as Meli returned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How sad for him.

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

Nason did not answer with words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Behind," Meli yawned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Directly below the left eye.

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

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

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

Damien collapsed to the floor, and Nason left him to it, instead turning to

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I want you to kill her."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Combat boots, reinforced for defence, with mechanisms inside assisting with rapid movement.

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

And blue Aether, sparking around his fingers,

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

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

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

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