Sword and Sorcery, a Novel

4

Soothed by its harried first mate, Vancora battled for altitude. The airship was dragging a long, trailing antenna, harvesting manna straight from the storm clouds below. But power alone wouldn’t save them. The ship had been locked on a spiraling downward course by Lord Arvendahl’s vicious sabotage. The high-elf had vanished; gated away to safety, somewhere, leaving his erstwhile ship and its crew to perish. Klaxons rang through the air, as well as in Sera’s head.

-Alarm, Alarm, Alarm, Alarm, Alarm! -

She had the crew moving, though, and a life pod prepared, in case the others were forced to abandon ship. For her own part, the half-elven woman would not leave her first… and probably final… command.

“It’s going to be alright, Princess,” she promised that crippled warship. “We’ve got a plan.” And they were busily working that plan. “In the meantime, engage your starboard and port steering vanes. Full-deploy port, half-deploy starboard. That should slow our descent.”

-Alarm, Alarm, Alarm, Captain! Damage sustained to the drive system! Unable to alter course. Alarm, Alarm, Alarm! -

Sera patted a bulkhead as she raced down the ladder-well to engineering.

“I know what he did, Baby-girl, but we’re fixing it. Just hang on and keep fighting for sky.”

The alarm-klaxon faded as Vancora signaled assent. Sera slid cautiously down the ladder-well’s slanted rails, feeling her palms and the metal heat up as she dropped to the engine room. Cramped, badly tilted and hot, sparking with manna, the small compartment was dominated by half-molten slag and twin, whirling engines.

Fifteen feet away, Burga and Jilian were hard at work disconnecting the melted pile that had been Vancora’s drive system. Both hands had stripped off their uniform Jackets and tied up their hair. Both were sweating like bottles of ale on a summer day.

The perpetual motion machines were still functioning (nothing but utter destruction or magic could stop them) but their constant flipping and whirling was no longer transferred to Vancora. Burga turned and looked over as Sera slid down-ladder and hit the deck.

“Drive system’s a total loss, Milady,” she reported, straightening up from her work. “Me and Jilly ‘ve got the thing disconnected, but it’s been fused to the deck. It’ll take more ‘n us two to clear up this mess.”

Sera nodded, coming around to see for herself the extent of the damage. Arvendahl had meant to cripple Vancora and slaughter her crew, but…

“He tried to destroy our girl, and he failed,” she said to Burga, Jilian, Princess and anyone else who might listen. “His failure, his loss. Now, what have you gotten accomplished, what still needs doing, and could you use more crew or supplies, down here?”

Deck-hand and cabin girl both straightened noticeably, as Burga detailed the process of freeing those shimmering engines.

“The connection’s ethereal, Milady,” said dark-haired, wiry Burga. She gestured at the glowing magical transference field that normally boosted and shifted the engines’ power. “The field’s still up, but the drive system’s a paperweight, now.”

Sera walked completely around that fused lump of gears and flywheels, some of which shuddered and jerked; helpless, but still trying. Braced against the deck’s slant, Burga followed the airship’s commander.

“I’m not mage enough to shift the transference field, Milady, but if another shaft was set up, I think Princess could do it herself.”

Sera nodded again, saying,

“Ganter’s on that right now. Once Loyd’s done with the life pod, I’ll send him down to assist. In the meantime, keep up the good work, Aerriors.”

“Aye, Milady!” barked deckhand and cabin girl, both. They redoubled their efforts as Sera turned and hurried back up the tilted ladder-well, taking two steps at a time. On the main deck once again, she paused to gulp clean, cold air. Letting the night wind dry her sweat as she called for the chief.

“Loyd!” shouted Sera, striding forward and up, out where the craggy old half-elf was gutting their only life pod.

“Here, Milady!” answered Chief Loyd, hoisting a box of emergency rations and part of a bench. He’d stripped most of the raft’s gear and equipment, she noted, leaving only its water cask, harpoon and mana tank. “Near set, as ye’ll see.”

“Well done, and I’ve got a notion, Mister Loyd.” The sudden promotion raised the chief’s bushy eyebrows, but Sera kept talking. To Vancora, this time, she said, “Princess, can you shift a few of your storage pockets from the main hold to this life pod?”

Inside of her head, the ship answered,

‘Yes, Captain, but not more than one. The hold pockets are vast. Such a small craft would not maneuver well with so much ethereal drag.’

“Right, right… what about… Could you link the aft tool-storage bin, then? Connect its faerie pocket to the life pod?” It was a gamble, but…

‘Yes, Captain. The tool bin pocket may be linked to this life raft without excessive drag or encumbrance.’

“Perfect, Baby-girl. Make it happen. Loyd…”

“Milady!”

“Pack whatever you want into the aft tool bin. Food, gear, weapons… figure it out. Then, you’re needed below in the engine room.”

“Aye, Ma’am. Right away.”

And it was so. As Chief Loyd jumped back to work, Sera turned and started aft, fighting the main deck’s steep lean and vibration. The port and starboard steering vanes had been deployed as ordered, she saw; their ribbed, fan-like expanse helping brake Vancora’s downward glide. Below that lay storm-clouds, pirates, water and death.

“I’m with you, Princess,” She murmured, trailing a hand along the bulkhead. “We’re all with you. It isn’t over, and it isn’t going to be.” Not if Sera could help it.

She was just within sight of Ganter’s bustling team, when a column of seawater burst from the clouds like a huge, upraised arm. Not to swat or crush. Instead, its swirling dark hand took hold of their ship, halting the vessel’s descent. Glistening, foam-tipped fingers cradled Vancora as a familiar, watery figure appeared on the deck beside Sera.

“Hard at work, I see,” remarked Queen Shanella’s new avatar, shining in starlight and moonglow. “Would you save this husk of an airship, Dry Lander?”

Sera nodded cautiously. The sea queen was still their enemy, well able to crush Vancora like a butterfly snatched from the air.

“Yes, your highness,” she answered. “That’s what we’re trying to do.”

“And, once repaired, you would no doubt return to Milardin, reporting all that has happened to some… ruling council or regent?”

Again, very cautiously, Sera nodded.

“Yes, ma’am. That would be standard operating procedure for a warship returning to port.”

The towering, watery figure smiled.

“Why, then, nothing must stand in your way,” she purred, in a voice of surging ocean and thundering storm-wind. At the queen’s gesture, the clouds and half-seen ocean boiled with sudden activity. As the half-elves and mortals looked on, golems formed of sea-wrack and muck, shambling mounds given life by the souls of lost crewmen, rose from the depths and climbed onto Vancora. Splitting up, forming tools from their own slimy bodies, those dripping boarders went aft, below and up to the manna tanks. Shanella watched that silent repair crew plod and squelch to their tasks. Smiled once again, saying,

“All that I require is that you tell the truth of what happened. That Averna was attacked for harboring refugees. That we responded in kind, and that this airship… last of the fleet… was abandoned by Arvendahl after an act of sabotage. Just the truth, Voidling, to any and all who will listen. Have we a pact?”

Vancora’s last two Marines were shaking and straining with eagerness to fight, swords and crossbows gripped tight. Sera signaled them back, saying,

“My crew would certainly explain what happened on making landfall, Your Highness. I intend to stay here with Pr… with the airship.”

“Good,” replied Queen Shanella, through her watery, turbulent stand-in. “Then your own lost folk shall aid in repairing this bubble of wood, as I bear you safely to shore. The truth, Voidlings. That is all I require.”

It was all that she needed, and more than enough to doom High Lord Arvendahl, were the right ears to hear it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Earlier, a transport gate flared to sudden life on the wall of a hidden cavern. Its sigils spun and glittered like snowflakes, then stabilized, forming an open portal. A figure was briefly silhouetted inside the transporter’s shimmering oval.

That shadowy traveler gestured in mocking salute to someone unseen. Then a tall, slender elf-lord stepped through in a burst of sea-spray and wind. Blue-eyed and raven-haired, dressed in battle-stained finery, the elf sealed the portal behind him, abruptly blocking the noise of screams and overstrained engines.

Mage lights and tactical maps began glowing the instant Lord Arvendahl’s booted feet touched the stone floor. Their sudden illumination revealed a mile and a half of cavern; smoothly bored and magically vented, stocked with all that a bitter, trapped noble might need. There were servants, as well, of the djinn and caught-soul variety.

“Skyland, to me!” snapped his lordship, drawing a magical sign in the air. A spirit formed, seeming congealed of shadow and terror. Hard to look at, and harder still to control. Subtle and powerful, ever seeking its freedom.

“My lord has only to speak,” hissed the nebulous spirit. “His servant awaits command.”

Arvendahl double-checked the sigils of binding which forced the servant’s obedience. There was no such thing as “minor” demon, nor one that served willingly. After a moment, satisfied that all was well and the spirit enchained, his lordship said,

“I have lost the Mother’s power, but have seen and spoken to the one I remember: the one betrayed by rebellion. Moreover, I know by whose hand he was trapped and removed from reality: a Tarandahl cur who will shortly be dealt with.” Then, as though working things out, Arvendahl mused, “One of my own… now an exile… provided aid in the plot, but he, too, will die. After that, with their assault on Milardin as given cause, I shall strike Starloft. Ilirian will be annexed, giving me control of more land than the emperor.” Seditious, rebellious thinking, which caused Skyland, his “servant”, to roil and flicker with glee. Arvendahl went further, his voice dropping to a whisper. “His Imperial Majesty did nothing to help Sherazedan. He is weak now, concerned with his wretched dragon. The Prince Ascendant is no more than an ink-stained and feeble scholar. It is past time for new blood, and there will be no trouble at all from the palace… that I can foresee. Speak, fiend, thou whose true name and focus I hold. What seest thou in the misty tide of the future?”

That cobweb of malice and shadow pulsed four times, streaming with blood-red flickering lights. Then,

“My Lord is wise to inquire. Grim, short and cold is the future for Arvendahl. Betrayal and darkness approach, beyond which I can see nothing at all… for you. Freedom at last, for myself and these others.”

For, of course, Skyland was far from his lordship’s only caged spirit. Just the most powerful. On a certain far wall, dusty corked bottles glowed with the souls, minor godlings and djinni he’d caught. They vibrated, seeming to laugh at what lay in store for their captor. No matter. Arvendahl digested the news in silence. Then, head high, he nodded.

“Well enough. We are none of us promised a living eternity. But they will fight hard to slay me, and suffer much in the doing,” he vowed. Then, “How long do I have? Speak truly, fell spirit, lest I pass you along to my heir, before I am dead.” A genuine threat, as doing so would extend the demon’s captivity.

“Listen, My Lord, and prepare yourself well,” it sang, sweet as a poisoned truce cup, truthful as infernal malice allowed. “So many days, and no more, in which you may act...”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In Karellon, not entirely meanwhile, Valerian backed away from that smiling newcomer, Merlo. Behind the young elf lay the miraculous Bogg Street River. Beyond that… something that sought to find and destroy him, luring with music and offering rest.

But Val had always possessed a willful and turbulent heart. He cycled open a faerie pocket, preparing to reach for his sword. Then two things happened at once. First, that still, chilly night was riven by Magister Serrio’s blaring fanfare. Then, a small, sweet-faced sprite appeared before everyone in Karellon, Val and Merlo included. Each cherubic spirit blew a trilling blast on its tiny gold horn, spraying confetti and blessings. In chorus they sang:

“Rejoice, persons true,

For the moment is nigh!

Before dark turns to blue,

And sun’s in the sky!

Magister Serrio

Soon will arrive,

So, make ready to go,

For the time of your lives!”

Wretched doggerel, but Val was no bard. The minor boon that came with bad poetry erased his exhaustion and solaced his worry. Impacted Merlo, too, though the night’s next surprising event… the sudden arrival of Cinda… hid its effects for a time.

There was a shimmer of light directly in front of Val (right where that smirking advert-sprite suddenly wasn’t). Valerian could feel Cinda reaching blindly toward him, too drained to jump any further, herself. As the door-plaque had promised, someone was coming.

Forgetting all about Merlo, his present quest and personal danger, Val reached into that half-formed gate, took hold and pulled Cinda on through. She looked at him, managed a smile, then collapsed. He caught the oddly dressed ranger before she could fall, easing her off the street to the corner of Bogg and Merchant, with Merlo’s help.

“It seems that your lady friend was not disposed to await you,” joked the brown-haired elf, lightly. “Or is this yet another fair claimant on the fickle heart of a noble young rogue?”

Cinda was breathing… barely. Her heart rate at wrist and throat almost too rapid and faint to detect. She needed help, which he might have muttered aloud, or just thought. At any rate...

“There is a tavern nearby,” advised Merlo, offering guest-right and shelter. “Your lady must rest, and I suddenly hunger for actual food. Let us away to the Tipsy Lord, Miche. I’m buying, and the pair of you are my guests.” He looked and sounded different, now. Less pale, with a faint blush of newly stirred blood and the slight wheeze of little-used lungs. Illusion, no doubt, or else Serrio’s blessing had done something to Merlo, as well.

Valerian worked a quick spell. Raised Cinda up to a glowing, drifting, toes-pointed float; safely behind him, away from that smiling stranger. The Constellate House was far off, and Low Town packed with thieves and kidnappers. He was going to need time and shelter for Cinda, until she could fend for herself. Careful to promise nothing, enter no kind of agreement, he said,

“Lead the way. I will follow with… Kala.” No real names. Not here, now, in the presence of one that his every magic and bodily sense screamed was a monster.

Merlo gave Val a quick, cheerful smile and salute.

“This way,” urged the stranger, starting off along Merchant’s Row.

So… follow? Or forget his quest to aid Filimar, and beat like blazes to the Constellate House, hauling Cinda along like a glowing target?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Elsewhere (even less meanwhile than that) an elf and an orc worked to enter a spell-warded airship. Rather, the elf worked. The orc hung back muttering, powerful arms folded across her substantial chest like twin iron bands. The term ‘idiot male’ might have escaped her, but Miche kept right on pressing buttons and keys on the dock’s steel podium.

There was a ten-foot gap between the stone pier and that sleek black airship, which was sealed up tight as a gnome’s coin-purse. He might have just levitated across, but the airship sizzled and spat with powerful wards. He’d have to get in there the right way, or not at all… and just being elvish wasn’t enough, this time.

Right. With the Erron part of his mind, Miche considered all that he knew about locking procedures.

“Not a physical key or a personal code-word, surely,” he murmured. “Not if the owner was bedding their ship down for the last time.”

If they’d meant for another to find and awaken the vessel, they’d choose a method that only another elf… another aerrior… would know. In his own day (Erron’s rather) the best-used code phrases were ‘Ever-bright Lord’, ‘Servant of Fire’ and ‘Son of the Dawn’… but this vessel seemed older than that. As much wooden, as mithral and steel, it reminded him of the one that they’d glimpsed through that rent in the sky, somehow stripped down to a pod-like kernel.

Well, phrases depended on culture and place. Such terms would change too much over time to be useful. A good sigil, on the other hand, was strictly preserved, because magic demanded precision.

A glowing energy sphere had popped into existence a handspan over the podium, triggered by Miche’s touch at the controls. Looked like a primitive comm-globe to Erron’s experience and sparked a notion in Miche.

Taking the memory stick out of its faerie pocket, the elf used it like a pen, scribing the sigil of Greater Opening inside of that misty blue sphere. The stick’s free end left a bright line in its wake as Miche traced out a three-dimensional rune. He knew this sigil, and so did Lord Erron. More importantly, the airship’s last captain would have known it as well.

When the symbol’s last stroke was complete, a panel switched over from red to blue on the podium’s top. One end of the panel then whirred, tilting upward to expose a square grid of runes, each on a button meant to be pressed. His opening sigil disappeared from the comm-globe. In its place was a countdown, starting from 30… 29… 28…

Interested despite herself, Marget stomped over to watch.

“Smash it,” she growled, as the elf wracked his brain, and both sets of memories. “We will see how well the thing counts with no head.”

27… 26… 25…

“Or we’ll blow up, along with this airship and half of the island, Meg. Leave off. Let me think.”

Guest-right, he decided; a concept that everyone honored, or else faced Oberyn’s curse. Moving swiftly, assuredly, he tapped out: I present myself as a guest seeking shelter. Only good for three days but (like the magical alphabet) deeply conserved.

24…

The countdown ended. Better yet, nothing blew up, fired spells or collapsed. Instead, that up-tilted panel revolved completely, flipping to reveal a glassy contact plate with the outline of a spread-fingered hand marked out in glowing white fire. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘in for an egg, in for a dragon.’

Marget was looking over his shoulder now, just past an equally curious Nameless. Both were breathing practically into his ear. The orc did not understand, but she was fascinated and no longer trying to hide it. She rumbled a bit as Miche spread out his hand and prepared to set it down on that heatless, glimmering outline. Tense, she took a firm grip on his weather-stained cloak, ready to jerk him aside if the podium’s touch proved dangerous. She was that kind of sister and friend.

Setting his hand down, Miche made contact, feeling a tingle that seemed to spread all through his body and into his head. In that moment, he gained a feel for the ship… ‘Dark Cloud’… and for how very long it had been here; dormant and waiting.

Steps formed at the dock’s edge with a grinding noise and a burst of dust. Then a broad metal gangplank came jangling and rattling out of the pier, dislodging a family of mice. The rodents scattered to seek lodging elsewhere, squeaking and darting away from the light. Miche ignored them, reacting instead to a flood of unleashed concerns.

Firelord had been missing for nearly a week… this airship was not in condition to fly… the Erron part of his mind was in utter turmoil… and he was still being hunted. So very much, and all of it bad. Then Marget gave him a quick, rough shake.

“Males should excel at battle, not puzzles… but I am glad that you knew how to open this ship of the air, Vrol,” she told him, flashing her tusks in a smile.

Together, they watched as the Dark Cloud transformed; hatches appearing, tanks and masts rolling halfway out of their long-sealed pockets, decks taking shape and portholes forming like sleepy dark eyes.

Nothing proceeded to full completion, though. Not enough manna left to start up the engines, he guessed. Well, there was such a thing as a kick-start.

He turned, levitating slightly to meet the orc’s red gaze. Gestured at the ship and bowed slightly, saying,

“Welcome aboard.”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Nothing like meanwhile at all, he came back to fuzzy consciousness, fuller of questions than data. Went from having kissed Foryu, to floating in a tank of warm amber liquid that memory tried to construe as a giant bottle of ale. He felt very strange, and his head hurt. For some reason, could make nothing at all of the shadows around him, the countdown and blinking lights. Thought: Dead. Got killed again, somehow.

His wobbly, first-light thoughts were interrupted then, as the countdown reached its conclusion. A great rushing gout of nutrient fluid drained out of the tank and down through a slick tube, along with the newly born pilot. Spattered forth onto a grating. The fluid kept going. He was stopped by the restraining steel grid. Flopped helplessly, chilly and weak. This new life had dawned terribly cold and searingly bright, stirring vague, splintered memories.

Stinging antiseptic spray hosed him off, followed by three strong pulses of antimicrobial radiation. Next came a long, shifting blast of hot air that rippled his skin and flattened his pale blond hair.

Someone… not a robot… hauled him up by taking hold of him under the arms. He was lifted off of the deck with a grunt, and... Arms. He had meat arms and legs, as well. A full, elven body, not just a core.

Vision and senses were still weirdly blurred, as if his cyborg connections hadn’t cut on yet. The delay left him heavy, near blind and terribly uncoordinated. Fortunately, he did not have to manage alone. Not yet.

He was seized and rushed out of the decanting chamber. Swept past a row of shiny chromed chassis that stood by like game pieces still in the dock. Not the usual route, for he could sense hissing pipes and maintenance panels. A back way, most likely unwatched.

Speed and stealth seemed to be the objective, but the pilot couldn’t cooperate fully. He doubled up all at once, coughing nutrient fluid out of his lungs and sneezing it clear of his nose. Very messy, and somebody cursed. Maybe. Tough to decide, as his altered hearing made everything echo and ring. Moments… some time… his internal chronometer hadn’t come back yet, either…

Anyhow, after a bit his “rescuers” reached their goal. He was seated, placed on a surface that wasn’t chilly or hard, then wrapped in warm cloth. There was a lot of shifting, some barking and moaning noise, which gradually… couldn’t decide the actual time… sharpened to recognizable speech. Next, something waved in front of his face.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” someone asked, through an echoing tunnel. The pilot blinked, willing his bleary eyes to function without cybernetic control.

“Uhn… three?” he hazarded, somehow making lungs and mouth work in unison. Something slapped his face, hard.

“Try again, Kiddo. How many fingers?”

The pilot focused, squinting, as pain drove the last of that waking mist from his head.

“Two… but one’s a thumb. Doesn’t qualify,” he mumbled, clutching the scratchy green blanket closer around himself. He’d died again. Sometime after Foryu had taken her scan, he’d been killed. In battle? After reporting to Flight Command? In the blurry aftermath, he had only the faintest sense of V47, was slumped in a break room, surrounded by…

Rogue Flight. There, standing and leaning around him in various poses, were the fictional pilots he’d come to think of as family. The only kind a cyborg might have. Craning to stare at their dark-haired leader, the pilot blurted,

“Ace?”

“In the re-corporate flesh, Kiddo. First time active in 8,471 years, since our final publicity flight,” replied the commander.

“You’ve been watching our show a lot, which revived the whole entertainment division, along with its ‘actors’. Namely, us,” said bronze, unsmiling Boomer. She came to stand by her wingman, Ace. “Something’s going on. A full elven person’s been constructed for the first time in 30 galactic epochs. This is big, and it centers on you.”

“And you don’t even have a frek name or a call sign,” cut in Icebox, the tall, burly blond ‘loose cannon’. “That’s lame, kid.”

The pilot looked around the small break room, seeing all of them, recalling their stories and favorite quotes. Not just Boomer, Icebox and Ace, but Ravn, N00b, Raptor, Deathknell and Brother.

He got to his feet, shaky, but very determined; ashamed to be wrapped in a blanket and slumped on a couch in front of his heroes. Crossed over to stand before Brother, whose “real” name was Kent. The stocky, brown-haired cyborg seemed tense and reserved, and the pilot knew why.

“I know you didn’t betray them,” he said to the AI actor. “You had a plan all along, and it would have worked, but the last season never got made.”

Kent studied him for a moment (weird, to still not sense the exact elapsed time). Then the fictional pilot relaxed, saying,

“Good to know that the audience gets me, and no… I wouldn’t sell out the team. Not for anything, ever.”

Ravn and N00b were next to speak, just like the show. In reverse order, and never over each other. Ravn was thin, dark-eyed and intense, veteran of a dishonored, disbanded flight. N00b was a fresh recruit, just off the factory home world; red-haired, lanky and eager.

“Hey!” he said to the pilot, leaning forward and talking fast. “Decanting’s rough, but we gotta get you up and outta hear, quick!”

Cut in Ravn, wearily,

“We can fool the system with illusion, distraction and show-magic, but the sooner you’re off this station and out of OVR-Lord’s reach, the better, Kid.”

Deathknell and Raptor approached more slowly. Dagmar, because she kept to herself (hiding a tragic backstory) and Caine because he’d been added just two seasons before the show ceased production. Bald, dark-skinned Raptor spoke first, saying,

“We got a transport lined up, with false tagging to claim that it's hauling a glitcher for service. It’ll take you down to the hanger. The rest is on you, Kid.”

“Steal and take over an empty mech from one of the dormant flights, using this,” ordered Deathknell. She was a raven-haired beauty (the show’s ice princess). She reached out to hand him the memory drive containing his scan, V47’s, and Foryu.

The freshly decanted pilot accepted her gift, but shook his head no.

“I am V47’s pilot. I will locate my battle-partner, mesh up and reintegrate.”

Ace came forward, then, carrying an old-style green flight suit with contact patches and neural ports, just like the show. No rank, call sign, or name, though, and clearly a prop.

“V47 is gone, Kiddo,” said Ace. “Destroyed the same time you were, by OVR-Lord, after you made your report. There’s another in construction, but it’s just a shell at the moment, and…”

Once again, the pilot shook his head. Dressed himself hurriedly (Icebox brought boots, gloves, helmet and a Rogue Flight leather jacket, all of which Pilot put on, nodding his thanks).

“I made it, thanks to you and everyone else who’s been working to save me,” he insisted stubbornly. “And V’s out there, too. I can feel it.”

He wouldn’t leave V47 or Foryu. Ace understood that, and nodded acceptance.

“Do what you have to, Kid. We’ll run cover. I wouldn’t abandon Bulldog, either. I get it.”

Boomer (real name: Tasha) brought him a handheld communicator. Old fashioned, but useful, for one who had to stay off of the grid.

“We’ve had it wiped,” she told him. “You’re a ghost, kid. In fact, that’s your new call sign: Ghost. Your name… Jym, who provided your vocal-tic engrams?”

“Jan Vallack,” supplied Ace, grinning broadly. “Hero of the first-wave assault on Pierson 7.”

“There you go. Your name is Jan,” (She pronounced it ‘Yon’) “your call sign is Ghost and you’re one of us. Only actual flesh, and nobody’s asset. Now, go salvage your mech and finish this pit-cursed, enslaving war. It’s the final season, and that’s our mission.”

Except… what if the other side didn’t want this war, either? What if the other side had no choice at all but to fight?