Flood: Spoiler Alert
Mar. 17th, 2018 07:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
packhounds[Video 1]
Mikodez is sitting in an office. There are paintings of ninefoxes with staring tails, a pattern-stones board with a game in mid-progress and a still life of a spectacular piece of architecture, composed of wild curves and tessellated facets; but it's clearly an office, however beautifully decorated. Mikodez looks different than he does on the barge, the same age and not much more formally dressed, but his usual expression of friendly amusement is replaced by a serious focus that goes much deeper than anything he's shown there.
His attention is on a range of screens, most of them showing numbers and moving graphs, with an image of a silver moth blinking in the corner of one. There's a profile up on another and he frowns at the picture attached to it; a somber looking young woman in a black and gold uniform. He drums his fingers on the desk for a moment.
Another readout flickers; grey rot creeping up the sides of an image of a fortress. Mikodez frowns again, typing something in and looking over the numbers that come up, various entries in the matrices blinking at him. He looks at the silver moth again, looks over another message, before straightening up, expression sliding into a look of casual confidence; there's a certain type of amusement mixed in to it, with the suggestion that he knows exactly what's going on and it's all going his way.
“Line 1-1,” Mikodez says. “Put Kujen on.” The video comes up to the right of the scrolling set of numbers.
The man in the video is slender and dark-haired and very pale, with wickedly gorgeous eyes. He's wearing a smoke-colored scarf with iridescent strands in it, and his black-and-gray shirt had buttons of mother-of-pearl carved in the shape of leaves. Mikodez appears completely unmoved by it all.
“How good to see you haven’t been assassinated,” Kujen says dryly. “If you were any other Shuos, I would accuse you of avoiding my calls by going out to shoot or seduce or spy on someone, but in your case I honestly think you got behind on paperwork.”
Mikodez shrugs, his tone as unconcerned as his expression and with the same hint of amusement. “I don’t care what candidates you’ve scared up," ignoring Kujen's comment, "I have a better one for you.” He taps something and looks at the photo again, his attention now on the signifier below the portrait: Ashhawk Sheathed Wings.
“You know,” Kujen is saying, “I wish the Kel would devise more reliable tactical ability batteries. I’m going to let Jedao figure out the – fuck me sideways with a drill press, is that a Kel with decent math scores?”
“You always make it sound like Kel-shopping is such a chore,” Mikodez says, smirk growing slightly, “so I thought I’d present you with someone more up your alley.”
“Where on earth did you find her? No, don’t answer that. It’s charming to think that there’s a Kel who might understand some higher math. Too bad I can’t yell at the Kel recruiters for not sending her my way.”
“Be fair, they tried to redirect her to the Nirai, but she insisted that she wanted to be a Kel. She was attractive enough as an officer candidate that they relented.”
The numbers change again. Kujen frowns, “Take a look at the composite indices for the Fortress readings, Mikodez. Whatever they’re doing in there hit all the wards at once. We just had to luck out with intelligent heretics instead of the usual stupid kind, so we need to settle on a candidate to deal with them. That’s hard to do when you’re dicking around avoiding me.”
“I wanted just the right one,” Mikodez says.
“She looks pretty good,” Kujen concedes, “but that commander with the beautiful hands also looked pretty good. And don’t roll your eyes at me, I’m talking about his qualifications, not his aesthetics. Honestly, Mikodez, don’t you ever take anything seriously? The commander at least has experience in space warfare, which your infantry captain doesn’t.”
“I take the situation at the Fortress very seriously,” Mikodez says, though his lazy smile might suggest otherwise. “Besides, the fact that Cheris specialized in mathematics might enable her to better deal with calendrical warfare.”
Another list pops ups, showing various projections of shifting numbers. Mikodez's eyes flick to them, though he doesn't seem moved. “I’ve sorted them by likelihood,” Kujen says. “That first one is bad news, especially if they’re fixated on seven as their central integer. And here I thought nobody paid attention to the past anymore.”
“You’ve been hanging out with too many Kel,” Mikodez says, still sounding amused.
“You’re stooping to making Kel jokes?” Kujen says, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Someone has to."
Kujen fiddles with something off-screen. “Anyway, all those calendars are compatible with the Fortress’s shields. I have advised Kel Command that they might as well just say how to take the shields out since it’s not like it’ll stay a secret, but they are proving resistant.”
“Never give information away if you don’t have to,” Mikodez says, with a slight shrug.
“Yes, but your own side?”
“They won’t like it if you say anything about it."
“I can keep my mouth shut,” Kujen says irritably. “You’ve made no secret of the fact that you have the usual Shuos prejudices, but I suppose you have your reasons for authorizing the mission.”
“Anyway,” Mikodez says after a pause, “You haven’t told me if you think the candidate’s acceptable.”
“You really like the Sheathed Wings, don’t you? Aren’t you afraid she’s going to put Jedao to sleep?”
“I’m sure the general will bring some excitement into her life,” Mikodez says, dryly.
“She’s wasted on him. I still think that commander would be a better fit. And I could get more use out of the Sheathed Wings if Kel Command doesn’t want her anymore.”
“Don’t get greedy. You’ll have plenty of time to see if she can tell you anything about the latest cryptology conjectures after the Fortress has been dealt with.”
Kujen sighs, appearing to sulk a moment. “Killjoy. You’re not going to fold on this one, are you?”
Mikodez smiles at him. “You wanted more funding for research on that latest jamming system, didn’t you?”
“It’s unlike you to resort to naked bribery, not that I’m complaining.”
“I’m bored,” Mikodez says, smirking slightly, “and if I don’t spend this money, one of my subordinates will put it into something wholesome, like algorithmic threat identification.”
“All right, all right, I’ll put in the authorizations on my end,” Kujen says. “You think you have paperwork, you should see mine. At least I’ll get a chance to say hello to her, even though I’m sure she’ll be focused on her duty. Sometimes I think Visyas and I did too good a job designing formation instinct, but the results can be adorable.”
“I’ll set it up, then,” Mikodez says. “Depending on how hard I can lean on Kel Command, I can get her to you in eighteen days or so.”
“Splendid,” Kujen says. “In the future, do try to be less transparent about avoiding me. It’s embarrassing when a grown Shuos is so obvious.” He signs off without waiting for a response.
Mikodez's smile vanishes when Kujen does, the carefree edge gone as he focuses on the numbers again.
*
[Video 2]
Mikodez is wrestling with a button on a jacket, swearing under his breath; it's red, threaded with gold, and a type of formal uniform he never wears on the barge. His hair is wet, though after a few moments of finger combing it at least looks presentable.
“All right,” Mikodez says to a flashing light on a screen, “Connect me.” Within seconds, five other people are glowering at him, emblems displayed beneath their faces.
The woman whose face is over the emblem of a wolf examines him for a few moments, severe dark eyes completely lacking humor, before saying, “Mikodez, is your hair dripping?”
“Look, Hexarch,” he says, “It was either my clothes or the hair dryer. Did you really want me to pick the other one?”
Her expression doesn't grow any more amused, “Is the whole Citadel of Eyes run like this?”
“Hexarch,” Mikodez says, grinning, “be reasonable. I hire staff as little like me as possible or we’d get nothing done.”
“We’ll talk later,” she says, “Hexarch Tsoro wanted to announce a change in plans.”
“I apologize for the late notice,” Tsoro says, a sardonic curl to her mouth as the others, include Mikodez, start slightly at something in her words. “The deliberations took time and could not be hurried. On behalf of the Kel, I am declining immortality.”
The long haired woman over the moth emblem looks like she's been slapped, Mikodez just looks amused again.
“Explain yourself,” The woman who spoke first says coolly.
“Rahal,” Tsoro says, “I may be the will of the Kel, but I am still Kel. The Kel are made to serve. Part of that service is death. I will not order my soldiers to risk their lives when I can endure forever, nor will I stifle the officers below me by making it impossible for them to hope for advancement.”
The large, pale man with hunched shoulders over the stingray doesn't seem able to decide between admiration and incredulity. “Tsoro,” he says, “That’s all very noble, but few Kel have any chance of becoming generals, let alone hexarch. You may feel this way now, but decades down the line, when death comes knocking—”
“Death,” Tsoro says, biting down on the word. “What do you know about death, Vidona? The scars are gone, but I once took a bullet that scarcely missed my heart. I was a junior lieutenant in a battle so small that even I wouldn’t remember its name if I hadn’t almost died. It was a long time ago, but I remember. I would die before I forget. If I live forever, I will certainly forget.”
Rahal looks unmoved by this, after half a moment he says, “Do you wish to send someone in your place? A subordinate?”
“I refuse,” Tsoro says, “on behalf of the Kel.” Mikodez's smile doesn't change but there's an extra hint of humor to it for a moment, a spark of something settling into place.
The woman over the blue rose speaks for the first time, “It’s your pyre, Tsoro, but we’ll honor it.”
The scorn in Tsoro’s eyes is faint, but not faint enough to be unreadable. “There’s no honor,” she says. “Only duty.”
“Does anyone else have any surprise announcements we need to know about before we send Faian off to recalibrate?” Rahal says. She eyes Mikodez. “Why were you shirking a remembrance, anyway?”
“My older sibling sent me some handmade soap and I had to try it,” Mikodez says, expression innocent. “Should I pass some on to you? Unless you’re allergic to plum blossoms or something.”
“Next time Wolf Hall has a soap shortage, I’ll keep that in mind,” Rahal says dryly. “Don’t let me catch you at this again. All right. Anything else?” Silence. “Then I trust we can return to what we’re supposed to be doing.”
Vidona is smirking at Mikodez, but that's all before the conference ends.
*
[Video 3]
A much younger Mikodez - younger than he was during the flood, though it might be hard to tell by how much - is rocking back and forth a little on his toes outside a screen door. He's wearing a red and gold uniform jacket, much simpler than the one in the other video and not with any other part of his uniform. His smile is bright and open and just a little satisfied when the door slides up and a girl stares at him wide-eyed for half a second before grabbing him for a long hug.
It's easy to see the family resemblance as they part, still standing close to each other. There's a slight difference in hair and eye color, his cheekbones are more pronounced where she has a sharper chin, and she's a bit taller but no one would think they're anything other than siblings.
She punches him lightly in the arm. "Fuck, Miki, I thought you wouldn't be home until next week."
He beams at her, smile some how even brighter. "Hey, who could've predicted I'd ace my finals? I was expecting to stay till the end of the week."
"Sure," she rolls her eyes, fighting back a smile. "Who could've guessed. And you didn't think to call on your way over?" She pauses, studying him a moment. "Actually, I could buy that. When was the last time you slept. Or ate food."
"I'm glad you're ready to focus on the unimportant details, Istra. Your transformation into our eldest father is almost complete."
"You say unimportant, I remember cooking experiments in the middle of the night, which I'm still banned from."
"Your idea."
"Your fire."
They exchange identical grins. Before she gives him a light shove. "Go and lie down. I'll tell the parents you're home - unless you didn't sneak through the alarms. There's a remembrance in two hours, you have to be awake enough to look like you're not sleeping with your eyes open."
He draws himself up with mock dignity, slightly ruined by the fact he is practically vibrating. "It's like you think I've learned nothing at school."
"Except to make even worse fashion choices." She hugs him again, before shoving him more forcefully. "Go. I promised to tell you everything, and you know I can tell if you're just pretending to be awake."
"As if I'd miss a moment of hearing you tell of your adventures."
"Is that what they've been teaching you?" She holds up a hand. "Don't answer, I'm leaving to remind everyone that their middle child is a barbarian."
He laughs, but if he says anything in return it's cut off when the video ends.
*
[Video 4]
"Zehun calling," a smooth voice accompanying a flashing light. Mikodez, grown and absently fiddling with the button on his formal uniform, smiles wryly at it for moment.
"Put it on. I take it you were listening in on the whole thing," he says when Zehun's face appears in the subdisplay. His expression is controlled but his smile is warmer than it has been in the other videos of him at this age.
“If you didn’t want to be spied on,” Zehun says unsympathetically, “You should have pursued a nice, quiet life as a hopper mechanic or a pastry chef.”
“You only say that because you’ve never seen me try to use a screwdriver,” Mikodez says. “Or a spatula, for that matter. More seriously, what’s on your mind? Please tell me someone has extracted something definite from Cheris’s damn equations.”
“Zhao thinks she’s onto something, but the others are giving her long odds as to whether it’s the right track.” Zehun stops, frowning.
Mikodez’s hand is out of Zehun's sight, so it's probably not because he's begun entering certain codes.
“Forget the mathematicians,” Zehun says, their face composed. “You keep putting off this discussion, but we have to have it now. Forget sending a double. Don’t pull a Tsoro. You should accept immortality.”
“I don’t understand why you feel so strongly about this,” Mikodez says, face and voice both absolutely calm.
Zehun smiles like a knife. There are faint lines around their mouth, at the corners of their eyes. They look old in a way Mikodez doesn't. “Mikodez, remember what I told you earlier. Four decades of stability in the Shuos. Few Shuos hexarchs have accomplished as much.”
“I’m not saying that the succession isn’t a very large problem,” Mikodez says, still calm, “But this is not the way. Remember, Heptarch Khiaz lasted a good six decades, and she was responsible for her share of ruinous decisions.”
“If I believe you were a second Khiaz,” Zehun says, tone dry, “I would never have backed you. Give me a little credit. Please reconsider, Mikodez. Without a strong Shuos voice, who is going to counterbalance Andan and Rahal?”
“Zehun-shei,” Mikodez says, his voice is still calm but he's leaning forward a little, any flicker of amusement gone. “Listen. We know of three people who ended up in the black cradle. I have never been able to extract details, but Nirai Esfarel found existence as a ghost so unbearable that he convinced his anchor to kill them both.
“Nirai Kujen, on the other hand —” Mikodez pauses a moment. “Kujen thinks being a parasite is so entertaining that he’ll hang on until the universe’s last atoms unravel. He gave us remembrances, and with them, the mothdrive. He gave us formation instinct. He will show up with more gifts. I am one of the few people in the hexarchate who genuinely likes him, but we cannot afford to accept any more of his gifts.
“And then there’s Jedao. I don’t know at what point Jedao stopped regarding himself as a person, but once he decided he was a gun, everyone turned into a target.” Mikodez smiles grimly. “That’s three immortals who should never have ended up that way.”
Zehun puts their chin in their hands. “The problem with your argument is the black cradle. I don’t care what Kujen likes to say about stabilization effects, prolonged isolation would drive anyone crazy. That won’t be a problem with Faian’s method. The math seems to check out. Youth eternal, life unending, who wouldn’t want it?”
“Should I send you in my stead?” Mikodez says. “I’m serious. It’s not a state secret that you’re the glue holding this place together. I just give bored assassins a target.”
“You’re the only one who believes that,” Zehun retorts. “And no thanks, I’d rather leave eternity with people like Vidona Psa to those who are psychologically equipped for the job. I hear he’s always late on his paperwork.”
Mikodez drums his fingers on his desk, then taps out a few final commands.
“Mikodez, what are you —” Zehun’s breath catches. “The fuck, Mikodez, I taught you never to —”
“I think that’s all of them,” Mikodez says flatly, “But it’s not impossible that I missed something, and it’s guaranteed that some subordinate has something creative in the works just for the hell of it. Please tell me you’d broken into some of them anyway.”
“Some of them,” Zehun says. “Not all of them. What is wrong with you today? You can’t afford to trust anyone completely, least of all me! If you need to order my ‘suicide’ —”
“Zehun!” Mikodez slams his hands down on the desk, the slightest hint of surprise in his eyes a moment after, though it's quickly hidden. “You want an eternity of this? Being ruled by a man who’s ready to stab anyone who looks at him sideways? Because that’s what it would turn into.”
“Security intercepted an attempt on you just four hours ago,” Zehun says pointedly. “The only reason you didn’t get the alert is that we’re dealing with a bigger emergency. This is the reality we live in.”
“And having you killed because we’re having a policy dispute? Is that the reality we live in, too?”
“You’ve always preferred to turn people into resources and not enemies, but not everyone is going to cooperate with that.”
Mikodez studies Zehun’s face, it's impossible to say if he reads anything in their expression. “Zehun, the black cradle’s isolation is sideways to the point anyway. Thanks to Kujen’s narcissistic conviction that the universe can’t get by without him, we have the technology to kick death in the teeth. So sure, the unfortunate tendency of the body to give out over time has been dealt with. What I personally find infuriating is that everyone is obsessed with solving the wrong fucking problem. Granted, Kujen is psychotic so I don’t expect any better from him, but what good is immortality if nothing has been done to repair the fault lines in the human heart?”
“Mikodez —”
“We’re looking at an eternity of Iruja fussing over minutiae while ignoring the substance of the latest crisis,” Mikodez says, rolling forward with the momentum of open emotion and bitterness usually so carefully concealed as to make it all the more surprising. “An eternity of Shandal Yeng clutching silks to compensate for the fact that she can’t buy her children’s love. Nirai Faian trying to solve our problems by throwing equations at them. Vidona Psa inventing more excruciating remembrances because the heretics come so close to shutting down the system each time and he thinks brutalizing them will erode their determination. Or me, sticking knives in people because ruling a faction of people almost as paranoid as I am is the only entertainment that keeps my interest. Do you think I don’t know how bad my attention span is, even with the medications I take? At least Kel had the sense to opt out. Perhaps blowing up the system would be worse than having everyone be ruled by psychotic immortals, but I sure as hell refuse to become one of them.”
“I’m not planning to betray you,” Zehun says softly.
“I have done many terrible things,” Mikodez says, sitting up straighter again as he returns to an expression of calm control. “I have always done them because the alternative was worse. If I thought being a paranoid monster would help the situation, I wouldn’t think twice about signing on. But I don’t, and that’s that.”
“Fine,” Zehun says. “We do it your way. I only hope you’re right.”
“So do I,” Mikodez says.
“I’ll check in with the mathematicians.”
“All right.”
When Zehun signs off, Mikodez began going through his desk. He's already gone through a number of weapons in the few moments before the video ends.
*
[Video 5]
The room is livid red with gold accents; the red walls with their deeper red tapestries reflected in the guns' barrels give them an unhealthy luster as Mikodez paces around the room. He stops in front of one case that might be in the middle, study the grip.
He looks up, as if he's heard something, turning toward the door before the man standing there even speaks, "You are so morbid." When he walks over to join Mikodez, it's impossible to miss the fact they're completely identical. He frowns at the gun Mikodez was studying. “You should send that thing to Jedao as a gift, see if that makes him more receptive to your attempts at long-distance therapy. Face it, it’s not like one lousy handgun makes Jedao more deadly.”
“Well,” Mikodez says, “There’s the psychological factor. Besides, the collection’s worth more if I keep it together.”
The man snorts. “Like you’re planning to sell it.”
“Are you kidding? We’re always broke around here.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have me sit in on Financial for you more often.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Mikodez says. “It’s too important to hand off.”
The man smiles crookedly at him, it's an expression Mikodez's worn on the barge before. “Of course it is.” He yawns hugely and stretches first one way, then the other. “I have to admit, it’s a nice collection, even if I only recognize half these things. Too bad hardly anyone has the clearance to come in here to appreciate it.”
“I was hoping you’d see something here that I don’t,” Mikodez says.
“What, reading oracles out of a bunch of rifles and revolvers like they’re tea leaves? I don’t think so. Besides,” and he rests his hand casually on the side of the Patterner’s case, causing an informational display to come up, “I have spent the last few decades learning to think like you do. It’s surprisingly hard to unlearn.” He says it lightly.
Mikodez slips behind the other man and begins rubbing his shoulders. He sighs and relaxes, showing the subtle tension that had been there before in it's absence.
“I hope you’re not going to give me one of those obnoxious memory tests after we leave this room for dinner,” He murmurs, tilting his head forward a little under Mikodez's hands. “But I promise I’ve been doing my homework. I’m here to ask a favor.”
“More girlfriends?” Mikodez says, “If you’re getting jaded, I’m running out of —”
“Not that.” With perfect dignity, he slides out from beneath Mikodez’s hands, making sure they were facing each other, than sinks to his knees, head bowed. "Hexarch."
Mikodez draws his breath in sharply. “Istra —”
Istradez doesn't raise his eyes. “I wish to beg to be considered for an assignment. I’m not a Shuos, but I understand that there’s some precedent for the use of outside agents.”
“Get up,” Mikodez says roughly. “There’s no need for you to do that to your knees.”
“It’s kind of you to be concerned about the condition of my knees,” Istradez says, completely straight-faced. “I mean it, though. I realize you’re holding me in reserve, Hexarch, but I believe I am uniquely qualified for this assignment.”
“And what assignment might that be?” The question is cool, matching the cool distance of Mikodez's expression.
Istradez’s eyelashes lower, and his hand clenches slightly on his right knee. “I have heard that an assassination attempt on the hexarchs is in the works.”
“You’re not authorized for that information,” Mikodez says after a frozen second.
“I seduced someone on your staff,” Istradez says. “Occasionally there are people who would like to sleep with someone who looks as good as we do. I don’t think they even realized what they’d let slip.”
“That’s very interesting,” Mikodez says, as if it's a comment on the weather, "but the answer is no."
“Hexarch,” Istradez says, “I understand that it’s a suicide mission.”
“You’ve heard my answer.”
Istradez draws a shuddering breath. “I recognize that my usefulness to you is nearing its end,” he says. “I beg for one last —”
“No, Istradez.”
“I got into the evaluation you had Spirel do,” Istradez says, with only the slightest hint of bitterness. “You’re going to remove me from duty anyway, and then what will I do? Kick around here for the rest of my life? I don’t think so. Let me go, Miki.”
Mikodez kneels and grips Istradez’s shoulders. “You do understand that ‘suicide mission’ means you don’t come back? Ever?”
“What were you going to do, send one of the others? I’m the best one for the job and you know it. Please, Miki.” There's sincerity burning in his eyes as he looks into his brother's. “I’m your gun, Miki.”
“Don’t,” Mikodez whispers. “Please don’t. You’re no Kel.”
“I’m better than a Kel,” Istradez says. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”
“I’ll think about it,” Mikodez says after a few moments. But it's clear that they both know what his decision is.
"While I’m at it, what good will this maneuver do?" Istradez asks after a few moments, still focused on his brother.
"The Shuos will come out three moves ahead," Mikodez says, expression going from cool to his usual amusement. "Are you telling me you insisted on the assignment without thinking it through?"
"I still want to do it," Istradez says. "But I want something from you."
Mikodez looks at him, not smiling. "It has to be something I can give."
"An honest answer," Istradez says. "This time for real, not because you’re giving me therapy. Is there anything you care about anymore, are you even human, or is it all games and pranks and stratagems? Not something anyone can use against you. I just — I just need to know."
Mikodez stands up and Istradez freeze for a moment, the fear mostly hidden, it's gone again by the time Mikodez moves to sink to his knees in front of him, reaching for his hands, and kissing his palms fiercely.
"I do my job," Mikodez says. "It’s like I told you before. I’ll even send my fucking brother to die if it’s the best way to do the job —" His voice cracks, settles. "But don’t ever, ever think it’s because I stopped loving you. I don’t want you to go. It’s not too late —"
"It was too late a long time ago," Istradez says.
Mikodez is sitting in an office. There are paintings of ninefoxes with staring tails, a pattern-stones board with a game in mid-progress and a still life of a spectacular piece of architecture, composed of wild curves and tessellated facets; but it's clearly an office, however beautifully decorated. Mikodez looks different than he does on the barge, the same age and not much more formally dressed, but his usual expression of friendly amusement is replaced by a serious focus that goes much deeper than anything he's shown there.
His attention is on a range of screens, most of them showing numbers and moving graphs, with an image of a silver moth blinking in the corner of one. There's a profile up on another and he frowns at the picture attached to it; a somber looking young woman in a black and gold uniform. He drums his fingers on the desk for a moment.
Another readout flickers; grey rot creeping up the sides of an image of a fortress. Mikodez frowns again, typing something in and looking over the numbers that come up, various entries in the matrices blinking at him. He looks at the silver moth again, looks over another message, before straightening up, expression sliding into a look of casual confidence; there's a certain type of amusement mixed in to it, with the suggestion that he knows exactly what's going on and it's all going his way.
“Line 1-1,” Mikodez says. “Put Kujen on.” The video comes up to the right of the scrolling set of numbers.
The man in the video is slender and dark-haired and very pale, with wickedly gorgeous eyes. He's wearing a smoke-colored scarf with iridescent strands in it, and his black-and-gray shirt had buttons of mother-of-pearl carved in the shape of leaves. Mikodez appears completely unmoved by it all.
“How good to see you haven’t been assassinated,” Kujen says dryly. “If you were any other Shuos, I would accuse you of avoiding my calls by going out to shoot or seduce or spy on someone, but in your case I honestly think you got behind on paperwork.”
Mikodez shrugs, his tone as unconcerned as his expression and with the same hint of amusement. “I don’t care what candidates you’ve scared up," ignoring Kujen's comment, "I have a better one for you.” He taps something and looks at the photo again, his attention now on the signifier below the portrait: Ashhawk Sheathed Wings.
“You know,” Kujen is saying, “I wish the Kel would devise more reliable tactical ability batteries. I’m going to let Jedao figure out the – fuck me sideways with a drill press, is that a Kel with decent math scores?”
“You always make it sound like Kel-shopping is such a chore,” Mikodez says, smirk growing slightly, “so I thought I’d present you with someone more up your alley.”
“Where on earth did you find her? No, don’t answer that. It’s charming to think that there’s a Kel who might understand some higher math. Too bad I can’t yell at the Kel recruiters for not sending her my way.”
“Be fair, they tried to redirect her to the Nirai, but she insisted that she wanted to be a Kel. She was attractive enough as an officer candidate that they relented.”
The numbers change again. Kujen frowns, “Take a look at the composite indices for the Fortress readings, Mikodez. Whatever they’re doing in there hit all the wards at once. We just had to luck out with intelligent heretics instead of the usual stupid kind, so we need to settle on a candidate to deal with them. That’s hard to do when you’re dicking around avoiding me.”
“I wanted just the right one,” Mikodez says.
“She looks pretty good,” Kujen concedes, “but that commander with the beautiful hands also looked pretty good. And don’t roll your eyes at me, I’m talking about his qualifications, not his aesthetics. Honestly, Mikodez, don’t you ever take anything seriously? The commander at least has experience in space warfare, which your infantry captain doesn’t.”
“I take the situation at the Fortress very seriously,” Mikodez says, though his lazy smile might suggest otherwise. “Besides, the fact that Cheris specialized in mathematics might enable her to better deal with calendrical warfare.”
Another list pops ups, showing various projections of shifting numbers. Mikodez's eyes flick to them, though he doesn't seem moved. “I’ve sorted them by likelihood,” Kujen says. “That first one is bad news, especially if they’re fixated on seven as their central integer. And here I thought nobody paid attention to the past anymore.”
“You’ve been hanging out with too many Kel,” Mikodez says, still sounding amused.
“You’re stooping to making Kel jokes?” Kujen says, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Someone has to."
Kujen fiddles with something off-screen. “Anyway, all those calendars are compatible with the Fortress’s shields. I have advised Kel Command that they might as well just say how to take the shields out since it’s not like it’ll stay a secret, but they are proving resistant.”
“Never give information away if you don’t have to,” Mikodez says, with a slight shrug.
“Yes, but your own side?”
“They won’t like it if you say anything about it."
“I can keep my mouth shut,” Kujen says irritably. “You’ve made no secret of the fact that you have the usual Shuos prejudices, but I suppose you have your reasons for authorizing the mission.”
“Anyway,” Mikodez says after a pause, “You haven’t told me if you think the candidate’s acceptable.”
“You really like the Sheathed Wings, don’t you? Aren’t you afraid she’s going to put Jedao to sleep?”
“I’m sure the general will bring some excitement into her life,” Mikodez says, dryly.
“She’s wasted on him. I still think that commander would be a better fit. And I could get more use out of the Sheathed Wings if Kel Command doesn’t want her anymore.”
“Don’t get greedy. You’ll have plenty of time to see if she can tell you anything about the latest cryptology conjectures after the Fortress has been dealt with.”
Kujen sighs, appearing to sulk a moment. “Killjoy. You’re not going to fold on this one, are you?”
Mikodez smiles at him. “You wanted more funding for research on that latest jamming system, didn’t you?”
“It’s unlike you to resort to naked bribery, not that I’m complaining.”
“I’m bored,” Mikodez says, smirking slightly, “and if I don’t spend this money, one of my subordinates will put it into something wholesome, like algorithmic threat identification.”
“All right, all right, I’ll put in the authorizations on my end,” Kujen says. “You think you have paperwork, you should see mine. At least I’ll get a chance to say hello to her, even though I’m sure she’ll be focused on her duty. Sometimes I think Visyas and I did too good a job designing formation instinct, but the results can be adorable.”
“I’ll set it up, then,” Mikodez says. “Depending on how hard I can lean on Kel Command, I can get her to you in eighteen days or so.”
“Splendid,” Kujen says. “In the future, do try to be less transparent about avoiding me. It’s embarrassing when a grown Shuos is so obvious.” He signs off without waiting for a response.
Mikodez's smile vanishes when Kujen does, the carefree edge gone as he focuses on the numbers again.
*
[Video 2]
Mikodez is wrestling with a button on a jacket, swearing under his breath; it's red, threaded with gold, and a type of formal uniform he never wears on the barge. His hair is wet, though after a few moments of finger combing it at least looks presentable.
“All right,” Mikodez says to a flashing light on a screen, “Connect me.” Within seconds, five other people are glowering at him, emblems displayed beneath their faces.
The woman whose face is over the emblem of a wolf examines him for a few moments, severe dark eyes completely lacking humor, before saying, “Mikodez, is your hair dripping?”
“Look, Hexarch,” he says, “It was either my clothes or the hair dryer. Did you really want me to pick the other one?”
Her expression doesn't grow any more amused, “Is the whole Citadel of Eyes run like this?”
“Hexarch,” Mikodez says, grinning, “be reasonable. I hire staff as little like me as possible or we’d get nothing done.”
“We’ll talk later,” she says, “Hexarch Tsoro wanted to announce a change in plans.”
“I apologize for the late notice,” Tsoro says, a sardonic curl to her mouth as the others, include Mikodez, start slightly at something in her words. “The deliberations took time and could not be hurried. On behalf of the Kel, I am declining immortality.”
The long haired woman over the moth emblem looks like she's been slapped, Mikodez just looks amused again.
“Explain yourself,” The woman who spoke first says coolly.
“Rahal,” Tsoro says, “I may be the will of the Kel, but I am still Kel. The Kel are made to serve. Part of that service is death. I will not order my soldiers to risk their lives when I can endure forever, nor will I stifle the officers below me by making it impossible for them to hope for advancement.”
The large, pale man with hunched shoulders over the stingray doesn't seem able to decide between admiration and incredulity. “Tsoro,” he says, “That’s all very noble, but few Kel have any chance of becoming generals, let alone hexarch. You may feel this way now, but decades down the line, when death comes knocking—”
“Death,” Tsoro says, biting down on the word. “What do you know about death, Vidona? The scars are gone, but I once took a bullet that scarcely missed my heart. I was a junior lieutenant in a battle so small that even I wouldn’t remember its name if I hadn’t almost died. It was a long time ago, but I remember. I would die before I forget. If I live forever, I will certainly forget.”
Rahal looks unmoved by this, after half a moment he says, “Do you wish to send someone in your place? A subordinate?”
“I refuse,” Tsoro says, “on behalf of the Kel.” Mikodez's smile doesn't change but there's an extra hint of humor to it for a moment, a spark of something settling into place.
The woman over the blue rose speaks for the first time, “It’s your pyre, Tsoro, but we’ll honor it.”
The scorn in Tsoro’s eyes is faint, but not faint enough to be unreadable. “There’s no honor,” she says. “Only duty.”
“Does anyone else have any surprise announcements we need to know about before we send Faian off to recalibrate?” Rahal says. She eyes Mikodez. “Why were you shirking a remembrance, anyway?”
“My older sibling sent me some handmade soap and I had to try it,” Mikodez says, expression innocent. “Should I pass some on to you? Unless you’re allergic to plum blossoms or something.”
“Next time Wolf Hall has a soap shortage, I’ll keep that in mind,” Rahal says dryly. “Don’t let me catch you at this again. All right. Anything else?” Silence. “Then I trust we can return to what we’re supposed to be doing.”
Vidona is smirking at Mikodez, but that's all before the conference ends.
*
[Video 3]
A much younger Mikodez - younger than he was during the flood, though it might be hard to tell by how much - is rocking back and forth a little on his toes outside a screen door. He's wearing a red and gold uniform jacket, much simpler than the one in the other video and not with any other part of his uniform. His smile is bright and open and just a little satisfied when the door slides up and a girl stares at him wide-eyed for half a second before grabbing him for a long hug.
It's easy to see the family resemblance as they part, still standing close to each other. There's a slight difference in hair and eye color, his cheekbones are more pronounced where she has a sharper chin, and she's a bit taller but no one would think they're anything other than siblings.
She punches him lightly in the arm. "Fuck, Miki, I thought you wouldn't be home until next week."
He beams at her, smile some how even brighter. "Hey, who could've predicted I'd ace my finals? I was expecting to stay till the end of the week."
"Sure," she rolls her eyes, fighting back a smile. "Who could've guessed. And you didn't think to call on your way over?" She pauses, studying him a moment. "Actually, I could buy that. When was the last time you slept. Or ate food."
"I'm glad you're ready to focus on the unimportant details, Istra. Your transformation into our eldest father is almost complete."
"You say unimportant, I remember cooking experiments in the middle of the night, which I'm still banned from."
"Your idea."
"Your fire."
They exchange identical grins. Before she gives him a light shove. "Go and lie down. I'll tell the parents you're home - unless you didn't sneak through the alarms. There's a remembrance in two hours, you have to be awake enough to look like you're not sleeping with your eyes open."
He draws himself up with mock dignity, slightly ruined by the fact he is practically vibrating. "It's like you think I've learned nothing at school."
"Except to make even worse fashion choices." She hugs him again, before shoving him more forcefully. "Go. I promised to tell you everything, and you know I can tell if you're just pretending to be awake."
"As if I'd miss a moment of hearing you tell of your adventures."
"Is that what they've been teaching you?" She holds up a hand. "Don't answer, I'm leaving to remind everyone that their middle child is a barbarian."
He laughs, but if he says anything in return it's cut off when the video ends.
*
[Video 4]
"Zehun calling," a smooth voice accompanying a flashing light. Mikodez, grown and absently fiddling with the button on his formal uniform, smiles wryly at it for moment.
"Put it on. I take it you were listening in on the whole thing," he says when Zehun's face appears in the subdisplay. His expression is controlled but his smile is warmer than it has been in the other videos of him at this age.
“If you didn’t want to be spied on,” Zehun says unsympathetically, “You should have pursued a nice, quiet life as a hopper mechanic or a pastry chef.”
“You only say that because you’ve never seen me try to use a screwdriver,” Mikodez says. “Or a spatula, for that matter. More seriously, what’s on your mind? Please tell me someone has extracted something definite from Cheris’s damn equations.”
“Zhao thinks she’s onto something, but the others are giving her long odds as to whether it’s the right track.” Zehun stops, frowning.
Mikodez’s hand is out of Zehun's sight, so it's probably not because he's begun entering certain codes.
“Forget the mathematicians,” Zehun says, their face composed. “You keep putting off this discussion, but we have to have it now. Forget sending a double. Don’t pull a Tsoro. You should accept immortality.”
“I don’t understand why you feel so strongly about this,” Mikodez says, face and voice both absolutely calm.
Zehun smiles like a knife. There are faint lines around their mouth, at the corners of their eyes. They look old in a way Mikodez doesn't. “Mikodez, remember what I told you earlier. Four decades of stability in the Shuos. Few Shuos hexarchs have accomplished as much.”
“I’m not saying that the succession isn’t a very large problem,” Mikodez says, still calm, “But this is not the way. Remember, Heptarch Khiaz lasted a good six decades, and she was responsible for her share of ruinous decisions.”
“If I believe you were a second Khiaz,” Zehun says, tone dry, “I would never have backed you. Give me a little credit. Please reconsider, Mikodez. Without a strong Shuos voice, who is going to counterbalance Andan and Rahal?”
“Zehun-shei,” Mikodez says, his voice is still calm but he's leaning forward a little, any flicker of amusement gone. “Listen. We know of three people who ended up in the black cradle. I have never been able to extract details, but Nirai Esfarel found existence as a ghost so unbearable that he convinced his anchor to kill them both.
“Nirai Kujen, on the other hand —” Mikodez pauses a moment. “Kujen thinks being a parasite is so entertaining that he’ll hang on until the universe’s last atoms unravel. He gave us remembrances, and with them, the mothdrive. He gave us formation instinct. He will show up with more gifts. I am one of the few people in the hexarchate who genuinely likes him, but we cannot afford to accept any more of his gifts.
“And then there’s Jedao. I don’t know at what point Jedao stopped regarding himself as a person, but once he decided he was a gun, everyone turned into a target.” Mikodez smiles grimly. “That’s three immortals who should never have ended up that way.”
Zehun puts their chin in their hands. “The problem with your argument is the black cradle. I don’t care what Kujen likes to say about stabilization effects, prolonged isolation would drive anyone crazy. That won’t be a problem with Faian’s method. The math seems to check out. Youth eternal, life unending, who wouldn’t want it?”
“Should I send you in my stead?” Mikodez says. “I’m serious. It’s not a state secret that you’re the glue holding this place together. I just give bored assassins a target.”
“You’re the only one who believes that,” Zehun retorts. “And no thanks, I’d rather leave eternity with people like Vidona Psa to those who are psychologically equipped for the job. I hear he’s always late on his paperwork.”
Mikodez drums his fingers on his desk, then taps out a few final commands.
“Mikodez, what are you —” Zehun’s breath catches. “The fuck, Mikodez, I taught you never to —”
“I think that’s all of them,” Mikodez says flatly, “But it’s not impossible that I missed something, and it’s guaranteed that some subordinate has something creative in the works just for the hell of it. Please tell me you’d broken into some of them anyway.”
“Some of them,” Zehun says. “Not all of them. What is wrong with you today? You can’t afford to trust anyone completely, least of all me! If you need to order my ‘suicide’ —”
“Zehun!” Mikodez slams his hands down on the desk, the slightest hint of surprise in his eyes a moment after, though it's quickly hidden. “You want an eternity of this? Being ruled by a man who’s ready to stab anyone who looks at him sideways? Because that’s what it would turn into.”
“Security intercepted an attempt on you just four hours ago,” Zehun says pointedly. “The only reason you didn’t get the alert is that we’re dealing with a bigger emergency. This is the reality we live in.”
“And having you killed because we’re having a policy dispute? Is that the reality we live in, too?”
“You’ve always preferred to turn people into resources and not enemies, but not everyone is going to cooperate with that.”
Mikodez studies Zehun’s face, it's impossible to say if he reads anything in their expression. “Zehun, the black cradle’s isolation is sideways to the point anyway. Thanks to Kujen’s narcissistic conviction that the universe can’t get by without him, we have the technology to kick death in the teeth. So sure, the unfortunate tendency of the body to give out over time has been dealt with. What I personally find infuriating is that everyone is obsessed with solving the wrong fucking problem. Granted, Kujen is psychotic so I don’t expect any better from him, but what good is immortality if nothing has been done to repair the fault lines in the human heart?”
“Mikodez —”
“We’re looking at an eternity of Iruja fussing over minutiae while ignoring the substance of the latest crisis,” Mikodez says, rolling forward with the momentum of open emotion and bitterness usually so carefully concealed as to make it all the more surprising. “An eternity of Shandal Yeng clutching silks to compensate for the fact that she can’t buy her children’s love. Nirai Faian trying to solve our problems by throwing equations at them. Vidona Psa inventing more excruciating remembrances because the heretics come so close to shutting down the system each time and he thinks brutalizing them will erode their determination. Or me, sticking knives in people because ruling a faction of people almost as paranoid as I am is the only entertainment that keeps my interest. Do you think I don’t know how bad my attention span is, even with the medications I take? At least Kel had the sense to opt out. Perhaps blowing up the system would be worse than having everyone be ruled by psychotic immortals, but I sure as hell refuse to become one of them.”
“I’m not planning to betray you,” Zehun says softly.
“I have done many terrible things,” Mikodez says, sitting up straighter again as he returns to an expression of calm control. “I have always done them because the alternative was worse. If I thought being a paranoid monster would help the situation, I wouldn’t think twice about signing on. But I don’t, and that’s that.”
“Fine,” Zehun says. “We do it your way. I only hope you’re right.”
“So do I,” Mikodez says.
“I’ll check in with the mathematicians.”
“All right.”
When Zehun signs off, Mikodez began going through his desk. He's already gone through a number of weapons in the few moments before the video ends.
*
[Video 5]
The room is livid red with gold accents; the red walls with their deeper red tapestries reflected in the guns' barrels give them an unhealthy luster as Mikodez paces around the room. He stops in front of one case that might be in the middle, study the grip.
He looks up, as if he's heard something, turning toward the door before the man standing there even speaks, "You are so morbid." When he walks over to join Mikodez, it's impossible to miss the fact they're completely identical. He frowns at the gun Mikodez was studying. “You should send that thing to Jedao as a gift, see if that makes him more receptive to your attempts at long-distance therapy. Face it, it’s not like one lousy handgun makes Jedao more deadly.”
“Well,” Mikodez says, “There’s the psychological factor. Besides, the collection’s worth more if I keep it together.”
The man snorts. “Like you’re planning to sell it.”
“Are you kidding? We’re always broke around here.”
“I’m surprised you don’t have me sit in on Financial for you more often.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Mikodez says. “It’s too important to hand off.”
The man smiles crookedly at him, it's an expression Mikodez's worn on the barge before. “Of course it is.” He yawns hugely and stretches first one way, then the other. “I have to admit, it’s a nice collection, even if I only recognize half these things. Too bad hardly anyone has the clearance to come in here to appreciate it.”
“I was hoping you’d see something here that I don’t,” Mikodez says.
“What, reading oracles out of a bunch of rifles and revolvers like they’re tea leaves? I don’t think so. Besides,” and he rests his hand casually on the side of the Patterner’s case, causing an informational display to come up, “I have spent the last few decades learning to think like you do. It’s surprisingly hard to unlearn.” He says it lightly.
Mikodez slips behind the other man and begins rubbing his shoulders. He sighs and relaxes, showing the subtle tension that had been there before in it's absence.
“I hope you’re not going to give me one of those obnoxious memory tests after we leave this room for dinner,” He murmurs, tilting his head forward a little under Mikodez's hands. “But I promise I’ve been doing my homework. I’m here to ask a favor.”
“More girlfriends?” Mikodez says, “If you’re getting jaded, I’m running out of —”
“Not that.” With perfect dignity, he slides out from beneath Mikodez’s hands, making sure they were facing each other, than sinks to his knees, head bowed. "Hexarch."
Mikodez draws his breath in sharply. “Istra —”
Istradez doesn't raise his eyes. “I wish to beg to be considered for an assignment. I’m not a Shuos, but I understand that there’s some precedent for the use of outside agents.”
“Get up,” Mikodez says roughly. “There’s no need for you to do that to your knees.”
“It’s kind of you to be concerned about the condition of my knees,” Istradez says, completely straight-faced. “I mean it, though. I realize you’re holding me in reserve, Hexarch, but I believe I am uniquely qualified for this assignment.”
“And what assignment might that be?” The question is cool, matching the cool distance of Mikodez's expression.
Istradez’s eyelashes lower, and his hand clenches slightly on his right knee. “I have heard that an assassination attempt on the hexarchs is in the works.”
“You’re not authorized for that information,” Mikodez says after a frozen second.
“I seduced someone on your staff,” Istradez says. “Occasionally there are people who would like to sleep with someone who looks as good as we do. I don’t think they even realized what they’d let slip.”
“That’s very interesting,” Mikodez says, as if it's a comment on the weather, "but the answer is no."
“Hexarch,” Istradez says, “I understand that it’s a suicide mission.”
“You’ve heard my answer.”
Istradez draws a shuddering breath. “I recognize that my usefulness to you is nearing its end,” he says. “I beg for one last —”
“No, Istradez.”
“I got into the evaluation you had Spirel do,” Istradez says, with only the slightest hint of bitterness. “You’re going to remove me from duty anyway, and then what will I do? Kick around here for the rest of my life? I don’t think so. Let me go, Miki.”
Mikodez kneels and grips Istradez’s shoulders. “You do understand that ‘suicide mission’ means you don’t come back? Ever?”
“What were you going to do, send one of the others? I’m the best one for the job and you know it. Please, Miki.” There's sincerity burning in his eyes as he looks into his brother's. “I’m your gun, Miki.”
“Don’t,” Mikodez whispers. “Please don’t. You’re no Kel.”
“I’m better than a Kel,” Istradez says. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”
“I’ll think about it,” Mikodez says after a few moments. But it's clear that they both know what his decision is.
"While I’m at it, what good will this maneuver do?" Istradez asks after a few moments, still focused on his brother.
"The Shuos will come out three moves ahead," Mikodez says, expression going from cool to his usual amusement. "Are you telling me you insisted on the assignment without thinking it through?"
"I still want to do it," Istradez says. "But I want something from you."
Mikodez looks at him, not smiling. "It has to be something I can give."
"An honest answer," Istradez says. "This time for real, not because you’re giving me therapy. Is there anything you care about anymore, are you even human, or is it all games and pranks and stratagems? Not something anyone can use against you. I just — I just need to know."
Mikodez stands up and Istradez freeze for a moment, the fear mostly hidden, it's gone again by the time Mikodez moves to sink to his knees in front of him, reaching for his hands, and kissing his palms fiercely.
"I do my job," Mikodez says. "It’s like I told you before. I’ll even send my fucking brother to die if it’s the best way to do the job —" His voice cracks, settles. "But don’t ever, ever think it’s because I stopped loving you. I don’t want you to go. It’s not too late —"
"It was too late a long time ago," Istradez says.
