Two Sarkics Take a Vacation in Polynesia, Stop Me If You’ve Heard This One
Outside New Kalmaktama Harbor – Aboard the VSS Perkele
30 December, 2021
The long-range VTOL aircraft, a V-22 Osprey she’d been told, set down on the flight deck of the aircraft carrier. She stepped out of the sliding door before the rotors had even begun slowing their rotation. She wore a silky blouse of maroon with long flowing sleeves that trailed past her hands, a pair of gray slacks and tall leather boots that rose up to her calves. Her brown hair was braided behind her head, the better to keep the rotors from disturbing.
“You always were such a prissy little shit,” her companion said. She looked at them, rolled her eyes, and walked away from the howling engines of the Osprey. A Vanguard captain approached, the small, uniformed woman reached out a hand and Lovataar shook it. These quaint customs. I shall never quite find them comfortable.
“Selaco Bridger, Captain of the Perkele,” the officer said. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
A feminine laugh from behind threatened to pull Lovataar’s attention away from the captain; she resisted the urge.
“My pleasure to meet you as well,” Lovataar said. “I understand you have been holding here for a long time.”
The captain’s mouth quirked in a tight but subtle smile. “You could say that, ma’am.” This time when the laugh melodically lilted behind her, the captain leaned forward to look over the Klavigar’s shoulder. Lovataar sighed and rubbed at her eyes.
“How long?” Lovataar asked.
“Since October, ma–”
“We can dispense with the formalities.”
“Yes, ma – Yes… Like I was saying, we’ve been in a holding pattern with two sister vessels since just after the address at the UN by Dr. Daniels. We were ordered to maintain our distance and stop any hostile vessels from approaching the Republic.”
“Have there been any incidents?”
“Yes. Although no invasion forces like what Karcist Varis experienced in Massachusetts, there have been several attempts at incursion by GOC contact and assessor teams. Six to eight individuals at most.”
“How many times?”
“At least three that we know of. It’s possible we didn’t catch them all.”
“And the GOC personnel?”
“In our brig, ma’am.” The captain frowned at her slip.
“Good, keep them there for now. We will release soon enough but I don’t want any more complications on the ground than we’re already likely to have.”
“What is the mission? We have several MTF forces on standby to accompany you.”
“That won’t be necessary, Captain.”
“But…”
“We can look after ourselves.”
“If you insist.”
“We do.”
Lovataar looked out on the harbor, the various shipping vessels and a few container ships. It was a bustling port, even as the sun crawled up to its midday position. The wind was warmer than she was used to at this time of year, but then this was the South Pacific and the seasons were reversed. Down the long centuries she had never spent much time in this part of the world, despite crossing Asia back and forth many times over the centuries.
“Ma’am, I really think we should send some sort of security with you,” Captain Bridger said.
“I brought my security,” Lovataar said.
This time the laugh was positively violent in Lovataar’s ears. She came up beside Lovataar balancing a knife on her fingertip, grinning like a fool at the captain.
“She sure did,” Saarn said.
Café – Mitte, Berlin, Germany
28 December, 2021
Lovataar dipped a biscuit into the cappuccino in front of her and she took a bite, savoring the sweet ginger and the bitter flavor of the espresso. A mauve turtleneck rose high beneath her chin, a leather jacket over it as protection from the bite of Berlin at the close of the year.
Her smartphone rang. She stared at it for a moment, still not entirely at ease with the device. Varis had given it to her before she left the Vanguard facility. It was “encrypted” – whatever that meant – and he could use it to contact her basically anywhere. She felt like she’d just got used to the idea of a cell phone and now here was the power of a computer that could fit in a pocket.
The phone rang for nearly a minute before she remembered how to unlock and answer it.
“Hello, Varis.”
…
“No, I haven’t. She’ll find me when she wants to.”
…
“Yes, I’m sure. They venerate her in the Republic, I need her. Besides, she’s been out in the cold too long, and we could use her with us in this collective. But don’t you have a very important press conference to prepare for?”
…
“Thanks, you know how difficult she can be.” She laughed, and hung up the phone.
Something strayed through her light in the open-air café, a shadow draping across her table and blocking out the sun. She looked up at the silhouette in front of her, surrounded by a corona of light. Her jet-black hair cut close, only barely reaching her ears in a bob. She could see the hilt of a knife rising out of the silhouette’s boot.
“I’m not half so difficult as you are,” the silhouette said.
“You’ve never had to deal with you,” Lovataar responded.
“Why are you here, sister?”
Saarn continued to stand over her, only the outline of her body visible. She stood directly in the path of the light, almost certainly with intent. Lovataar had no choice but to shade her eyes as she looked up at her sister Klavigar.
“Nice to see you too, baby,” Lovataar said.
“Don’t you ‘baby’ me. We haven’t had sex in almost a century. What are you doing here?”
“Sit down, you giant. People are going to stare.”
Saarn pulled out the chair opposite her sister and frowned across a small bistro table. She waved her hand at a waiter wandering by – who promptly ignored her. She was shorter than her sister Klavigar, by at least a foot. But that smaller form was bursting with irritated energy. Her foot started tapping beneath the table.
“Are you going to answer me?” Saarn asked.
“Possibly,” Lovataar said with a smile that was sure to annoy her old friend. “What have you been up to lately, sister of mine?”
“Oh, this and that.”
“Saarn, crusader against injustice.”
Saarn uncrossed her arms, braced both hands around the edge of the table and leaned forward in an aggressive manner.
“You say that like it’s not worth doing,” Saarn said.
“It’s a messy way to address problems. Effective I’m sure, but it isn’t making anything better for our people.”
Saarn flagged the waiter down finally and ordered a black coffee. She leaned over and whispered into Lovataar’s ear.
“They were never your people.”
The waiter approached the table with Saarn’s coffee and she thanked him in German.
Lovataar rolled her eyes. “Aren’t we past that by now?”
Saarn sipped at her coffee, trying in vain to hide the smile behind the cup.
“Have you settled in now? Maybe we can talk about why I called you here?” Lovataar asked.
“Called me! You had no idea how to find me.”
“That’s true, but I knew you were in the area, and you’d know if I was.”
“What do you want?”
Lovataar did not answer right away and searched Saarn’s eyes for a moment.
“Are you cross with me, sister?” Lovataar asked.
“…I’m still not over the last argument.”
Lovataar nearly spit out the cappuccino she had sipped. She choked a little as she laughed.
“That was over eighty years ago. I barely remember what it was about,” Lovataar said.
“I remember. You wanted me to ignore a disgusting pig. I disagreed.”
“Disagreed! You put an SS colonel through a wall and disemboweled his wife in front of his children.”
“They were laughing about what the party was doing to the Roma. He said they were beneath notice. You told me not to do anything.”
“We were at the opera! We were mid-performance! Surrounded by security guards and Nazi sycophants. I just thought we could have done something about him later, after the show.”
“It was pressing that I dealt with him right there,” Saarn said.
Lovataar sighed. She placed a hand on her sister Klavigar’s.
“I’ve never had anything but admiration for your mission,” Lovataar said. “You are a bulwark of justice. No, don’t sneer, I’m serious. I love you and I think it’s wonderful, if a bit noisy and messy sometimes.”
Saarn avoided Lovataar’s gaze, looking down into the blackness of her coffee. Eventually she smiled and turned back towards her friend.
“As if you’ve never done anything messy,” Saarn said.
“Touché sister, touché.”
Saarn looked around the courtyard and Berlin’s skyline beyond the walls.
“This place has changed a lot since then, for the better,” she said.
“Mmm. They’re still achingly devoted to capitalism.”
“They’ll get over it. Feudalism was basically yesterday. They have time to figure out a better way. They just need a helping hand occasionally.”
Lovataar chuckled. “A helping hand carrying a ten-inch blade.”
Saarn smiled and shrugged. “I can’t easily carry a sword anymore, more’s the pity.”
“I remember a time you didn’t carry any weapons.”
“That was the Bronze Age. Have you seen what a titanium knife can do to a sternum? It’s a thing of beauty.” Saarn withdrew her hand from Lovataar’s and sat back in the chair. “Stop avoiding the subject. What do you need me for?”
“Well, I’ve missed you.”
“Sure. That’s why all the calls. What is bringing Lovataar out of hiding and looking for her only sister?”
“Have you heard of The Adytite Republic of Polynesia?”
“Yes. I’ve even been there a few times.”
“Good. We’re going,” Lovataar said.
“Why?”
“How much do you know about what Varis has been doing with Vanguard?”
Outside New Kalmaktama Harbor – Aboard the VSS Perkele
30 December, 2021
“So, how long are we waiting here?” Saarn asked.
“Patience,” Lovataar said.
Saarn leaned up against the railing at the edge of the carrier’s deck. She took out a small (for her) six-inch knife and used it to clean her fingernails.
“We’ve been waiting nearly an hour.”
“You’re immortal. You can wait ten more minutes.”
“I’m bored.”
Lovataar sighed and turned back to look up at the bridge of the carrier above them. She could see Captain Bridger through the windshield giving her a thumbs up. Lovataar returned the gesture.
“What are you doing? You look ridiculous.”
Lovataar laughed. “They like doing hand gestures like this.”
“I know, I pay attention to human culture. I just think it looks ridiculous on you. Imagine if Ion could see you giving a thumbs up.”
Lovataar laughed again. “I’m sure they would think it was charming the way they found everything I did charming.”
“Teacher’s pet,” Saarn said.
“Hag.”
“Bit– Hey look, there’s a boat.”
Lovataar turned back to look off towards the docks, and indeed there was a small motorboat approaching the side of the carrier. She turned and walked down the deck until reaching the stairs to the miniature dock set up by the side of the ship.
“Coming?”
“Sigh. Depends. Can I kill the President if I think he’s corrupt?” Saarn asked.
“No.”
“Spoil sport.”
Watchtower 91 – Yorkshire, England
27 December, 2021
“We need to be careful about this,” Varis said.
“Why?” Lovataar asked.
“Because they have spent the last two hundred years thinking the Foundation would invade and the entirety of the 20th century being blockaded to various degrees. Every modern nation that knows about them is scared of the Republic, and the Foundation and GOC agreed to keep them tamped down and penned in.”
“All the more reason to offer the olive branch.”
They were sitting in the Director’s office on the top floor of the manor house, on opposing couches with a small coffee table between them. Director Varga was looking into other matters and offered the office as a meeting place for the Karcist and Klavigar.
“I agree, of course. I just want to make sure that we are moving forward with a diplomatic gesture. Open hand, no stick.”
“These are our people, Varis.”
“In a way, you’re right. But they have their own culture, and they’ve had a long history of white colonialism tainted with the religion of Ion.”
She held up her olive toned hands. “I am not white.”
“You’re not Polynesian either, is my point. People from Europe is what I mean.”
“Look, Varis. I appreciate this leadership role you’ve stepped into. I think Ion would be proud of you and happy to see you taking strides for the Nälkä. But I am a Klavigar. I seduced Ion. I think I can charm the president of a small nation.”
Varis laughed. “I’m sure you can. But I want to make sure the overture isn’t rejected. How much have you read up about the Republic?”
“I’ve read the Foundation’s files on it, and I’ve read some documents stolen from the GOC. It’s a broad shallow file, but it does enough to bring me up to speed. This is a diplomatic mission, not an invasion.”
“We’ve got a presence there since the unveiling in September, just as a precautionary measure but there’s been no serious contact yet. They have access to media so assume they’re aware of Vanguard’s revelation, but also expect them to meet it with distrust. They’ll likely assume any organization that rose out of the ashes of the Foundation to be fascist.”
“Perfect, I’ll take our radical leftist assassin.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“She was in Poland as of yesterday, but I think she’ll head into Germany. I’ll meet up with her there.”
“I’ve never known Saarn well, do you think she will help?”
“Are you kidding? There’s never been a more diplomatic person born.”
Presidential Palace – New Kalmaktama
30 December, 2021
“You want to know what I think about cops, you putrescent little shit?”
Lovataar wrapped her arms around her sister, one around her waist and the other holding onto her left wrist, straining to pull her back. In her left hand, Saarn held a knife, the point of which was pressed against an Adytite Republic Secret Service officer’s neck. Her other hand held the man by the back of the neck and was trying to push his head down towards the tip of the blade.
“You think you can take my knife? I can show you what I do to little men with badges!”
“Saarn! Yaldabaoth’s blood! Stop it!” Lovataar yelled into her sister’s ear.
“This pig thinks he can take my knife from me, I’m gonna slit his throat.”
Saarn strained against her sister’s wrist lock, leaning into the blade to push the point into his throat; Lovataar would not relent, and she had leverage over her sister. She succeeded in pulling the blade away from the man’s skin by a few centimeters and whispered urgently into Saarn’s ear.
“We cannot start our visit this way! Look around you, the entire palace is up in arms.”
Surrounding them in a semi-circle were eight presidential palace guards aiming their submachine guns right at the pair. Lovataar could smell their sweat and hear the pounding of their hearts. She could almost sense the tremor in their trigger fingers.
“Let him go, sister,” Lovataar whispered.
The red faded from Saarn’s vision long enough to register the eight guns pointed at them. A low growl escaped her throat, and she released the little man with a badge. He fell backwards and landed hard on his ass, then frantically pushed himself away along the floor before shakily pulling a sidearm.
Lovataar let her sister’s wrist go and held up her hands. She looked askance at Saarn and scowled until she put the knife back into its sheathe and similarly raised her hands.
“Gentlemen, this has been a serious misunderstanding,” Lovataar said with her best smile.
“Get down on your knees!” the guard closest to them yelled.
She knew from the file that many here spoke English, but it still surprised her. English, Japanese, several Polynesian languages and strangely enough, Old Adytite. An effort had been made by the colonialist powers to reinsert the old language to reinforce the Nälkän identity.
“I will not bend my knee to any man, especially not a cop. Go fuc–” Saarn started before Lovataar cut her off.
“What my lovely sister means is that she is the Klavigar Saarn, who your culture recognizes as the Lady Adytum. I am Klavigar Lovataar.”
“And I’m the reincarnation of Thomas Carnacki. Pull the other one, lady,” the guard said.
“She is the embodiment of your nation. Your forefathers designed an entire cultural identity around her person and her crusade against tyranny. Surely you can chalk this up to a diplomatic faux pas.”
The guard raised his weapon and pointed it directly at her face.
“No, we can’t. You will get on your knees or I will shoot you.”
“This is getting tiresome,” Saarn said, slowly lowering her hands. “You think those guns will kill us? Maybe I should try it my way after all, sister.”
“No. Be quiet for a minute.”
Saarn narrowed her eyes, drawing her lips into a straight line. Lovataar thought Saarn might be more disquieted by being told to be quiet than the guns.
“I won’t say it again, get on your knees,” the guard repeated.
“No.” Lovataar had also had enough of this. She raised her voice and calibrated the vibrations of her vocal cords in the way that most often demanded respect and obedience – a trick she had learned during the years of co-ruling an empire amongst her polycule and the Grand Karcist. “Lower. Your. Weapons.”
The lead guard visibly shook and took a step backwards. The barrel of his gun dipped a few inches. She turned to look at the eight other guards, including the one on the floor shakily holding the pistol.
“I said lower your weapons. Now.”
Nine guns fell to ground. The men and women holding them stared slack jawed and unfocused in the Klavigars’ direction. All of them began to tremble involuntarily, their muscles straining to hold completely still. Lovataar could hear the song of their blood, their spinal fluid, the breath in their lungs. She focused, taking in the feeling of their tense muscles and the electricity firing in their brains. One of the men’s eyes began to weep blood.
Saarn leaned into her sister and whispered. “We tread dangerously close to you crossing a line, dear.”
“I can see why Varis loves this so much, the control is delicious,” Lovataar said.
“Even so…”
Lovataar sighed and blinked, ending the contact with their nervous systems but not before sending a wide broadcast to their brains. They blinked, let out a ragged collective breath and took a step back almost as if slapped. The lead security agent looked perplexed at his gun on the concrete in front of the palace gates.
“My sister was just explaining that we serve no threat to your president and are in fact here on her invitation,” Saarn said. “You were asking for my weapons, and I gladly surrender them.”
She held out two long knives on the palm of her left hand. Lovataar felt the seductive call of the guards’ nervous systems fade from her, and she too took in a deep breath.
“Yes, I think all is in order now. Do you need to see any identification?” Lovataar asked in a wavering voice.
“No… no, ma’am. We received word of your visit and Madam President is waiting for you inside. I’ll just… take these.” The lead guard delicately took the blades from Saarn’s palm and backed away slowly, as if waiting for her to bite him. Lovataar wondered how much of this experience would leave an imprint, but clearly even with the last few moments forgotten, they knew enough to be wary of her sister.
“Excellent. Let’s go,” Saarn said as she approached the large wrought iron gates blocking the driveway into the Presidential Palace. The gates parted for her like the sea before Moses.
Presidential Palace – New Kalmaktama
30 December, 2021
The room they were led to was sumptuously furnished, with a semi-circle of couches ringing a large marble fireplace. Saarn sat across from her on the opposite side of the ring, her short legs crossed. Saarn wore black skintight jeans and dark gray turtleneck accentuated with a shoulder holster with two empty sheathes for knives. She was examining her fingernails and pointedly not saying anything to her sister; Lovataar knew she had more knives than she had given up, but where they were hidden was a mystery to her.
Lovataar sighed and looked around the room. On several walls there were paintings dedicated to Ion, to herself, to Orok and Saarn. There was also a portrait of the Republic’s founder, Norman Taylor, the first president and originator of the colonialist merging of native culture and Nälkän ideology. She knew he had come here with several hundred mercenaries and nearly a dozen ships in 1857 and proceeded to enslave and convert the entire population. She had read through the old Foundation file on the island before coming here, and she knew what he had done, especially with the children. Even though his tenure only lasted a brief period of years before the Foundation militarily rested control from him, his path was one of violence and oppression.
She wondered at the framing of his picture there next to idealized versions of herself and her found family. She decided she did not like it.
“Did you expect anything different, sister?” Saarn asked.
Lovataar turned to see a knowing but sad smile on her old friend’s face.
“For thousands of years we have walked this Earth and it’s always been this way,” Saarn said. “Taylor is no worse than any number of American or European authorities, especially not lately. Where has power flowed to those who sought to protect their subjects? Tyranny is power. And it must be abolished. That’s what Ion taught me to do and what I have been doing down the long years of my endless life.”
“How ironic that the individual who taught you to hate empires made one for himself,” Lovataar said.
“Don’t say that. Ion never ruled with an iron fist, never used fear to keep our people in line.”
“No, they saved that for everyone outside our borders.”
“You’re in a damn tricky mood today, sister.”
Lovataar shrugged it off, but Saarn was right. Over the centuries, she had come to suspect that what they had done in the long-ago days of the Deathless Empire was little better than what the powers always did. She longed to see Ion’s face again, to hear their voice, but she wondered if she would kiss them or slap them first. Where had they gone? What had they to do with the doom that came to Adytum? So many dead in a war that the Nälkä could never have won and then the collapse of everything Ion had built. Lost in the sands of history like her forebears in the Daeva. But those bastards had their book.
Her phone buzzed and she looked down to see a text message from Captain Bridger. She called her right away.
“Captain Bridger, could you repeat that?”
“We have an incoming vessel, military – they were on a direct bearing towards the port. Reports of a smaller boats circling around to the north and east.”
“Can you identify them?”
“Yes, ma’m. They’ve contacted us and asked permission to disembark at the port.”
“So, who are they?”
“The Broken Church,” the captain said.
“Ion’s blood. Refuse them entrance. We have control of the port and will not be ceding it to the zealots.”
“Acknowledged. We’ve already indicated that. They aren’t leaving.”
“Are they holding?”
“For now. I don’t like the looks of this boat, ma’am. They’re loaded down with weapons and personnel.”
“If they approach the port, you are to fire across their bow. We will not let them enter. Is that understood?”
“Ma’am, that will likely cause a significant incident.”
“Contact Moose and Varis, they’ll back me up. But until you hear otherwise, I’m in charge,” Lovataar said.
“Understood.”
Saarn looked at her intently.
“Mekhanites,” Lovataar said.
“Shit.”
Lovataar looked again at Taylor’s portrait on the wall, and she saw everything wrong with the world – men with guns thinking they knew what was best. She did not hear the door open behind her.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why we would frame his picture like that,” said a voice behind Lovataar. “Hang it up in a place of honor, right next to the drawings of our spiritual betters. Your namesake, for example.”
Lovataar turned and saw the president of the Republic: a woman in her early middle age, dressed in a tailored dark blue suit and hair drawn back from her face in a bun. She wore petite glasses with gold frames on her nose but did not seem to need them to see the Klavigars as she chose to look out over the top of the lenses.
“My namesake,” Lovataar said.
“Yes, and yours,” Madam President said looking toward Saarn.
“You think we were given these names as what? Some continuation of a legacy?” Saarn asked, barely stifling a laugh.
“Much easier to believe that rather than the alternative.”
“The alternative being that we two saw the beginning of our faith and walked beside Ion and our brothers,” Saarn said.
“Yes, that was the implication.” The president sat at the center of the ring of couches, like they were here to court her attentions and bring supplications. Lovataar thought they were doing exactly that. Saarn was yet to be convinced.
“I did wonder at the hanging of a portrait of a murderer and slaver on the wall of the Presidential Palace,” Lovataar said, ignoring the question of their authenticity.
“I imagine it is a strange sight for any outsider, if they’re aware of our history. The Republic was born in blood. But then it is our history. Who should we venerate? Ohashi Hachigoro, our second president? The man the Foundation put up to lord over us and keep us in check? The same Foundation who brought thousands of soldiers to our shores and killed nearly ninety percent of our military force.”
“I was under the impression that Hachigoro refused Foundation aid and barred their personnel from the island after Taylor was deposed,” Saarn said.
“Oh, he did. But the Foundation had provided the muscle and he took advantage. He set us on a new path and clearly was a better leader than Taylor ever was. But no one chose him, except the O5 Council. I would rather look at the face of a murderer and hold him in contempt, than look at the face of a man who would bend the knee to the Foundation for his own benefit and ambition.”
“Fair enough.” Saarn smiled at the president. She liked her.
“But that nicely segues into what you are doing here now, as representatives of the new Foundation,” Madam President said.
“Vanguard is not the Foundation,” Lovataar said.
“Bah, ridiculous. Do you not control the assets of the Foundation? Do you not operate out of the Foundation sites and bring to heel the thousands of soldiers in the employ of the Foundation? Do not those three warships in my harbor wear Foundation design, even if they fly a new flag from the masts?”
“Our goals have no comparison. While yes, we would be fools to cast aside all resources of the Foundation, those assets do not guide our policy. In the coming months and years, the vast majority of things the Foundation deemed anomalous will be let go and all will be disclosed to the public. More importantly, we wish to iron out past claims and right the wrongs of a century of containment.”
“Good diplomacy, Lovataar. Should I call you Lovataar or would you prefer Klavigar? If we are going to continue this charade, might as well follow the forms.”
“Madam President, you are misinformed. The Foundation kept you under its thumb, it’s true, but that is not why we’re here. We are here to discuss the ramping down of the naval blockade and the reintroduction of your nation onto the global scene. We wish to negotiate with you in good faith.”
“Why now?”
“For one, Vanguard is a new entity, we are working our way through the many bloody files of the Foundation and trying to make up for what happened before, but we can’t do everything at once. That being said, it was always considered a serious mistake the way the Foundation handled things in 1861. They held you back and blocked you from the mundane world, and they would have invaded if you ever geared up for another military incursion into the borders of your neighbors, but it was never seen as an airtight containment. Vanguard is looking to make things good between our organization and your nation.”
“Well, that’s very ni–”
“No, wait. I’m not done,” Lovataar cut her off. “You question our names, wondering if we weren’t some figureheads to evoke your faith and play on your sensibilities. I would hope that someone as worldly as you saw Karcist Varis give his news conference in Massachusetts? I hope you had also seen his interview on the BBC. The Nälkän people are emerging from the shadows and the margins, Madam President. We are not here to play your heart strings with deceit. We are here to play your heart strings with our reality. I am Lovataar. She is Saarn. We have a responsibility to our children to guide you into this new world. Even if Vanguard did not want us here, I would be here. Thousands of years ago, we stood with our fellow Klavigars and next to the Grand Karcist, and we promised to watch out for the Nälkän people. Things did not go as planned, but each of us in their own way have been watching out from those communities we knew about. You were always on the other side of the world for me, and you had a nation. More importantly, you had the Foundation here and the GOC navy. As powerful as I am, I could not have solved that problem – a problem that no longer exists.”
Lovataar leaned forward and held the President’s gaze.
“Vanguard wants to stop the blockade, open up talks with the GOC, and help usher your people into the wider diplomatic world. Varis has proposed a unification of Nälkä, at least in spirit if not in locality. A cooperative between all Nälkä peoples. We will be establishing this entity within the year. We want your community to join the cooperative, as an example of a strong nation built on the tenets of Ion’s philosophies. This is a time for all Nälkä to stand up and embrace each other, no matter what happened in the past. Varis started this, but we Klavigar support him and want to see our people stronger together rather than pushed to the edges of society.”
“You want to what? Open up our borders to all Nälkä people? Create a homeland? An Israel for Nälkä?” the President asked.
“Do we look like colonizers to you?” Saarn growled.
“Maybe not… so okay, let’s assume you’re telling the truth, that you are both the figures of faith that you claim to be. That you are a legendary lover of the Grand Karcist,” the president said. And turning to Saarn, “That you are the Joan of Arc of the Nälkän peoples, slicing the throat of tyranny every step you take in the world. But you still come here on Foundation boats, like Bowe did in the 19th century. Why would you expect anything but hostility?”
“I didn’t. I came here with full expectation of anger and recrimination. But I would remind you that despite our open arms, we are not to be dismissed. Vanguard is your nation’s best opportunity to change things, to be welcomed into the wider world. And more importantly, I feel responsible for you. You venerate my name, you equate me with the spirit of your nation. Let me show you the love a parent has for a child,” Saarn said.
Lovataar smiled at her sister. She did not expect her commitment to their work here, only expecting her to come for the love of a sister. A sense of relief washed through her. At least for a moment.
Lovataar’s phone rang. Bridger’s number flashed insistently.
“Excuse me, Madam President. I need to take this.”
She answered the phone to the sound of cannons.
“Captain Bridger?”
“They aren’t holding back anymore.”
“Did you fire a warning shot as I asked?”
“Yes, Varis confirmed… but they ignored us. We fired again and they have returned fire. They are not firing warning shots.”
“You are under attack?”
“Yes, ma’am. And those smaller boats are disgorging personnel onto the beaches. We can tie up the main vessel, but I’m seeing hundreds of armed anomalous entities landing. What are your orders?”
“Kill or immobilize the military vessel, Captain. I will speak with the President and get back to you.”
“Shall we fire on the beaches?”
“Hold off on that, but have your destroyers take out any smaller vessels. Refrain from anything that could be seen as attacking the Republic.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lovataar hung up and glanced up to see the President with an alarmed look on her face.
“‘Attacking the republic?’ Explain yourself at once,” the President said.
“Madam President, we are in the midst of a crisis.”
The door slammed open, and several aides and security forces rushed in.
“Madam President, we are being attacked!” one of the aides shouted.
The President looked at Lovataar, who merely shook her head.
“They seem to be Mekhanites,” Lovataar said.
The President stood and was in the process of being rushed out when she looked back at Lovataar.
“If you’re serious about helping, come with me.”
Presidential War Room – New Kalmaktama
30 December, 2021
“This is Medea Qingxing, speaking to you from the eastern shore of our island nation. Behind me is the village of Adytum’s Shallows. A quaint fishing village in the traditional mold of the Republic’s oldest heritage. As you can see behind me, the beach runs from the pacific up to the edge of this village. We have gotten word of a large landing of unknown and strange looking visitors.”
The young woman framed on the screen holds a microphone and wears a blue blazer. Behind her a sunny beach landscape is depicted on a high-definition screen. She is young and full of energy, made for a life in front of the camera. She turns towards the beach and the dozens of men and women armored in steel and bronze.
“Is this some sort of protest? A performative art piece? We know the Adytite State News audience will want to know more. Let’s go find out.”
Someone turned off the volume to the news report. Lovataar turned around from the screen and scanned the ready room, walls draped in monitors. Dozens of people, many in military uniforms, buzzed around the room. On another screen soldiers mobilized on a military base. On another, a bird’s eye view of a different beach filling up with Mekhanites.
Lovataar and Saarn stood against a wall, away from the commotion. They had no place here despite their invitation. The President stood at the center of activity, a large conference table populated by several generals and many political figures. Lovataar didn’t understand the political spectrum of this nation, but she knew it was organized roughly in the Federal US manner with a senate and house of representatives, but with the addition of a Karcist Council. Several individuals in ceremonial robes looked over at her and her sister. One, an older man with horns protruding from his forehead, his skin a mottled gray and red, nodded to her. She nodded back. It was all a bit surreal.
She’d come here to have a diplomatic conversation, to jump start a process that would hopefully bring the Republic in out of the cold. Because these people were her responsibility. She and the other Klavigars should have stepped in decades ago. The centuries splayed out behind her burned her with shame. All that time, all this power, and she’d hid.
“Status report, please,” Madam President said.
“Reports are coming in about the landings. North – approximately fifteen kilometers from the port – and along the east side of the island, another twenty kilometers away. Reporters on the site are the best we can do for documentation at the moment, but we are mobilizing,” a general said in response.
“Do we know what they’re doing yet?”
“Mobilizing, Madam President.”
Lovataar looked up at the screen showing the on-scene reporters’ viewpoints. The volume was down but she didn’t need to hear what they were saying. Hundreds of biomechanically augmented Mekhanites were organizing on the beach.
“We have to assume they will make a march on the capital and the Presidential Palace,” the general was saying.
The President bent towards the older man with horns, who was speaking quietly into her ear. She turned and looked at Lovataar and Saarn, and then beckoned. Lovataar approached the pair, while Saarn shadowed slightly behind her.
“Klavigar Lovataar, I would like to introduce you to Karcist Meleos, senior on the Karcist Council.”
Lovataar reached out her hand to the Karcist, but he was already on his knees.
“It is you. The Klavigars have come to their people in their time of need! Ion be praised!”
Saarn snickered and Lovataar lightly slapped her arm. She bent down and grasped the man’s shoulders, lifting him to his feet.
“Please do not bow to me, Karcist. You are a leader here; I am merely reaching out to establish communications with the Nälkä who live here.”
“But you are one of the Klavigar! The holy consort of Ion, no less! And you are accompanied by Saarn, our great benefactor and warrior against tyranny.”
“To be fair, we were all consorts of Ion at one point or another,” Saarn said.
The man gaped at her. Lovataar hushed her and turned back to the President and Karcist.
“What can we do to help?” Lovataar asked.
“Tell me about your ships in the area,” the President said.
“We have several destroyers and an aircraft carrier. They are engaged with the Mekhanite warship now I believe. I asked the captain to refrain from firing on the beachheads to avoid appearing like we were attacking.”
“I appreciate that, but I may ask you to reverse that request. For now, what sort of forces at your command?”
“Five hundred Vanguard marines, several attack helicopters. We weren’t here to launch an invasion.”
“Five-hundred Foundation trained soldiers would be helpful,” the President said.
“Excuse me, Madam President. Are you seriously considering allowing the Foundation to land a force here?” The general looked red in the face.
Lovataar reminded herself that the last time Foundation forces were on the island, they were supporting a coup.
“Dinesh, I am not negating any advantage we might have. How goes our mobilization of forces?”
“Nearly a thousand militia regulars are fifteen minutes from the East side landing.”
“And the north?”
“Nearly twice that time.”
Lovataar stepped forward. “What is between here and there?”
“East of the capital is rural, mostly empty country,” the general said. “North between here and the beach are several communities. A suburb I guess you would call it, some farms beyond that, and then a fishing village at the coast.”
“And it will be nearly thirty minutes before your forces are mobilized to the North?”
“At least.”
“Klavigar, we do not yet know what they intend,” the President said.
“With all due respect, I have been fighting these zealots for nearly three millennia on and off,” Lovataar said. “I know what they’re here for.”
“But why now?”
“Everyone knows the Foundation is gone, and they, like others, think that there is an opportunity to take advantage.”
“I don’t think a press conference will do anything this time,” Saarn said.
The president was shaking her head. Lovataar looked up at the screen showing the reporters.
“Look!” Lovataar cried.
Everyone in the room turned towards the screen. Projected nearly two meters tall were five Mekhanite warriors approaching the reporters. Someone turned the volume back up.
“- coming to you live during what appears to be an invasion.” Her voice was no longer cheerful. The camera shakes slightly as one of the Mekhanite approaches, his arms built out with steel and bronze augmentation.
“Excuse me, can you tell me why you’re here?”
“Turn off the camera,” the metal giant on the screen growled.
“No, we will not do that. Tell us what you’re doing.”
The cameraperson pulled away, and, continuing to train the lens on the Broken Church soldier, moved in the opposite direction. Bronze-clad fingers reached for the screen and then the camera went dark. The feed changed to an anchor woman.
”I’m sorry, we know that footage must have upset some of our audience. But it appears that our nation is being invaded by men and women with strange mechanical augmentation. We’re trying to reconnect with Medea, but we can’t reach her or her crew. We’ve heard the President has started mobilizing the defense forces, but we're not sure if there will be enough time to mount a response. In the meantime, citizens in the area sho-"
The sound cut off as the feed was muted once again.
“Well, I hope that clears things up for everyone,” Saarn said.
Lovataar met the eyes of the president.
“I’m going to connect you with Captain Bridger, so you can discuss any actions you would like our forces to take. In the meantime, we will go to the North side.”
“Who is we?”
Saarn pulled out a knife from somewhere. It had an oily sheen on the dark metal.
“We’ve done this before.”
Adytum’s Shallows – Fishing Village
Adytite Republic of Polynesia
30 December, 2021
Lovataar and Saarn exited the jeep the Republic sergeant had transported them in. Lovataar looked out across the highway to the fishing hamlet laid out in front of her. Several of the buildings were already on fire. To the right, a news truck had been parked on the highway and it too was on fire. She could see brass and steel glinting off the arms of the soldiers working their way through the small village.
Saarn was strapping a carbine over her shoulder and sliding magazines into a belt. She stripped out of the long sleeve button down shirt she had been wearing, revealing a short sleeve t-shirt and numerous sheathes. She had been returned her knives and wore several more in open confidence. Long knives at the belt, two more strapped to her thighs and a gladius running down the length of her spine. The smaller woman bristled with edged weapons.
“Ma’am, are you sure you want to do this?” the sergeant asked. “Reinforcements have an ETA of another twenty minutes.”
“Every second we speak here, another person is hurt or dying in that village,” Saarn said in response, as she checked the various sheathed knives. She looked up at the sergeant. “What are you going to do?”
“Meet the convoy as they head this direction, brief them on the sitrep.”
Lovataar placed a hand on his shoulder and nodded in the direction of the other side of the highway. Several Mekhanites had noticed them and were headed in their direction. “Then go while you have a chance.”
The soldier saluted and drove off down the highway.
“How are we doing this?” Saarn asked.
“Quickly.”
Lovataar started running towards the approaching augmented soldiers. She felt her heart hammer, the sheen of sweat dripping down her back. Three soldiers laden down with weapons, weapon augments and combat fatigues, sleeves torn off to show the augmentations on their arms. Her boots struck the pavement, and she began to will her flesh into conformance with her will. The muscles in her arms increased in density, the skin along her entire body thickened and turned a shade of purplish red, her bones spread out from within, growing external panels of armor piercing her clothes.
The three Mekhanites waded through the tall grass on the outskirts of the village, making steady progress towards her. One of them raised a weapon that glowed with heat, the light growing steadily brighter. Two rounds went off quickly, piercing both eyes of the soldier, passing harmlessly through the holes in his armored face and drilling into the meat of his brain. Saarn continued to fire on the group as that one fell.
As Lovataar reached them one of them swung a large baton, crackling with electricity. She dove under his lumbering swing and between his armored legs, extending her arms as she rolled. The nails on either hand stretched out into a razor’s edge and sliced through the armor covering his legs. She felt the bite of metal against the sharpened keratin of her nails, as the steel parted and she sliced through muscles, ligaments and blood vessels and bounced off his internal bone structure. The soldier screamed and fell to his knees, the baton slamming to the ground as he continued his swing – leaving a small crater of earth and obliterated rocks. She really couldn’t let those weapons near her. Her arms were charred black in spots from merely rolling underneath the swing of the glowing mace. She could smell her hair burning a little.
The third soldier pulled a sidearm and pointed it down at Lovataar’s face as she came up in a crouch. He fired twice as she twisted aside, the round striking her chest and left leg. She felt the muscles tear as the bullets tore through her. She understood pain but had a different relationship with it than one without her blessing. Lovataar’s flesh began knitting together, an itchy burning sensation running through her wounds.
“Abomination,” the Mekhanite said.
“Useless turd,” Saarn said as she sliced down with the gladius.
The armor on his forearm holding the weapon didn’t split but crumble as she applied force stronger than any mechanical augmentation could bestow. Lovataar heard and felt the bones in his arm shatter into pieces, piercing the muscle around it and causing numerous bleeds. The augmented man bellowed and dropped the sidearm.
Lovataar stood, cocked her fist back over her shoulder and then laid him out with a haymaker. The bones of her knuckles thickened and extended into small nubs of hardened bone. The plating snapped under the power of her fist – the bone extended, piercing his mouth and then his brain pan. The man’s head collapsed into itself, showering her with blood and bile. She pulled her fist from his ruined head with a sucking wet sound.
Saarn was straddling the collapsed Mekhanite with severed tendons. She plunged her knives into his eyes and then applied leverage. He screamed as she split his head open like a melon.
Lovataar shook the meat and blood from her hand. It hurt making bone dense enough to crack steel, but it also felt good to exert that sort of force. She stuck out her tongue as the bits fell from her hand. “He got all over me.”
“See? That’s why I like knives,” Saarn said. “Cleaner.”
Lovataar smiled. “Never saw the need for weapons, myself.”
Saarn was scanning the field. She glanced at the burning news truck and then across the space between them and the town, looking out towards the beach.
“We’ve got at least two hundred of the fuckers out there.”
Lovataar nodded. It had been so long since she had been in a real fight. And this was one that mattered.
“Eighteen minutes and counting. Anything we can do to distract them from burning down more of this village, is time well spent.”
“That’s assuming this army of military service conscripts will be up to the task,” Saarn said.
“Yes, well… this is their nation and they’ve been drilling and preparing for a Foundation invasion for decades. Let’s hope they’ve been paying attention.”
“What next?”
Two more squads of three Mekhanites walked towards them, weapons out and charging.
“I need a better vantage. Keep them off me?” Lovataar asked.
“You know it.”
Lovataar leapt up into a nearby eucalyptus tree and started scaling the trunk, her sharp nails providing purchase like a cat’s. Her breath came ragged as she reached the top of the tree and balanced between two strong branches with her boots pressed against the bark. The first squad was firing, but she tried to ignore the bullets that whizzed close. It was harder to ignore the round that struck her in the jaw, deforming the bone and splashing blood across her eyes. Saarn was already slicing into the group with gladius and long knife. Lovataar steadied herself, willing her flesh to flow back into shape, knitting the bone into its previous configuration. This hurt – rather a lot – but she kept the pain in the back of her mind, compartmentalizing so as to minimize her distraction.
She looked out into the middle distance, gazing down into the village, and reached out with her Halkost. She felt and saw more than three dozen Mekhanite soldiers between buildings and hundreds of panicked villagers hidden in the huts. She could differentiate the former by the greasy squeal of the metal in their bones, armor sliding across their skin, oil and electricity in their blood. She could taste their brains though, rich in the same chemicals that made up any human brain, even the augmented. She could smell the ozone from their weaponry and the blood of the Nälkän dead on their hands.
Below her a fourth Mekhanite fell beneath Saarn’s blades. Lovataar tried to focus on the soldiers in the village, screen out the blood and viscera Saarn was spilling at the base of the tree. She felt out and wrapped her tendrils around their bodies and squeezed. She felt the breath push out of their lungs and the resistance as she turned their bodies, until they faced out past the edges of the village. She struggled, pushing her will into their muscles, making their hands drop the weapons. She formed them up into squads and marched them to the foot of the tree, just as Saarn was disemboweling the last of her quarry. Lovataar shook with concentration; the nape of her neck felt cold, her vision blurred. She wasn’t used to this. She wasn’t Varis. But she managed.
Lovataar was momentarily distracted by her sister’s forearm which was almost torn off at the elbow and the skin blackened from Mekhanite weaponry, but Saarn noticed her looking and waved her off.
Lovataar felt the soldiers bristling against her control. She couldn’t subsume their personhood and make them extensions of her will like Varis. But she could force them to march to her rhythm. The song of the blood was in them, just like it was in everyone who bled. The chorus of the flesh bent to her will, if only for the moment. She found the longer she held them in her mind, the easier it was.
She squeezed them, forcing acid into their muscles, making them weak and pliant.
“You will surrender to me and to the army coming here. And we will not harm you. So long as you take not one more life.”
Lovataar scanned the nearly forty men and women in armor before her, and she looked out into the distance to see dozens more marching off the beach and towards their location.
“Kneel and lace your fingers together across the back of your heads.”
She could feel them holding back. Fighting everything she was doing to them. They bucked against the Halkost, they resisted the song. But they could hear it. She groaned slightly as she leaned into the effort, finding the leverage to push them down.
“I said, KNEEL!”
As one, they fell to their knees in the grass. At the edge of her perception she noticed the advancing horde of Mekhanites faltering, staring at her control over their brothers and sisters.
She looked out at the approaching soldiers, some of their mouths agape and others with barely hidden rage.
“You will drop your weapons, or I will do the same to you,” she called out over the distance between them. Her voice boomed like Orok’s.
A man in a brilliant coat of mail, golden and polished plate, stepped to the front of the crowd. He was carrying a large spear glowing with otherworldly energy.
“Who are you to demand anything of us?” he said.
“I am the Klavigar Lovataar.”
“Mother of abominations.” She could hear it whispered between them, even as far as they were from her.
“Yes. I am the mother of ten thousand. Echidna has nothing on me. I will spew acid into your hearts, tear out your brains and eat your eyes. If need be, I will take every one of you and march you into the sea. You will stop hurting my children.”
The leader stepped closer, approaching the tree she was balancing on, and stared at her. He barely looked at his compatriots.
“Mekhane killed your god. She lost herself in the process, trading her life for the existence of this world. Your god is everything wrong with existence and yet you still cling to hope of its return. If I must sacrifice my life to kill you as Mekhane did to Yaldabaoth in the beginning, it will be a worthy trade.”
“We kill gods, you vainglorious buffoon.”
She held tightly to those already under her sway but reached out with the halkost and speared into him. He was more augmented than most, but he still had meat. She speared out of his flesh, a thousand strands of coral-sharp tissue. This is what she was. The tender. The grower. The horticulturalist of flesh and nerves and tumorous cells. The effort of this was not half so hard as puppeting those at the base of the tree. This was what she was holding back from doing every moment of the day. She was here to make things better, stronger.
The membrane of his lungs burst as she sliced through them with her halkost, reaching into his spine and then ripped out into the open air. His armor dented, collapsed and then exploded off his form as the coral of her halkost ripped through his form. All she left was blood, guts and strung muscle stretched tight between the strands, the bands of armor ripped free and showering the ground along with his blood.
She turned to the rest of the group.
“Drop. Your. Weapons.”
Then they did so and fell back from her, the sharp tang of fear dripping through their nervous systems and poisoning their rage.
She could hear the convoy approaching down the roadside. Lovataar was drenched in bloody sweat, the effort tearing through her to do these things. She looked down at her sister.
“Bring them.”
Saarn turned and ran off along the highway as Lovataar slowly climbed down. She ignored the trembling figures in their armor arrayed around the foot of the tree. She approached the modern art piece she had made of the leader, the rock-hard coral of her halkost – grown from the nascent seed of cancer within his colon – shining in the afternoon sunlight. A cool wind came off the ocean, making the draping slabs of skin and tendons hanging from the sculpture of his cancer slide to and fro in the breeze.
Her phone rang. Captain Bridger again. She looked at the nearly forty kneeling Mekhanites, the blood of their captain and their compatriots splashed around the grass. They still resisted but she felt strong in her grip now, even if it took consistent pressure from her Halkost worming through each of their spines, their diaphragms, the muscles along their back and legs and arms.
“Do not move.” She answered the phone. “Captain. What is happening?”
“We have critically wounded the destroyer. They are limping away. How are things there?”
“Stopped the advance on the north shore for the moment. They’re pulling back and have relinquished weapons,” Lovataar answered.
“The Republic’s army mobilized that quickly?”
“They’re on the way, but Saarn and I have been on site for the last fifteen minutes.”
“By yourselves? What were you thinking?”
“I have been fighting this war for millennia, Captain. I wasn’t going to sit around in a ready room while they burned a village.”
“How did you manage to push them back?”
“Assertive diplomacy.”
“Well, we might need some more of that.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’ve received a communication from the destroyer. They’re asking to negotiate,” the captain responded.
“You don’t want to speak with them?”
“I don’t think that’s appropriate.”
Lovataar looked at the kneeling Mekhanites, scanning the faces. Many of them quivered in fear but not all, not even most. Most of them looked at her with unadulterated hate. She was strong, she could hold these Mekhanites indefinitely. But still the relief of having reinforcements was palpable, it hurt to hold these many bodies in tension against their wills. Down the road, the convoys of Republic military forces were coming into view, Saarn riding on the side of a jeep at the forefront.
“When is this talk going to happen?” Lovataar asked.
Outside New Kalmaktama Harbor – Aboard the VSS Perkele
30 December, 2021
The sun was setting, casting a golden hue over the deck of the Perkele as Saarn and Lovataar exited the helicopter. An honor guard was approaching their aircraft.
Lovataar met Saarn’s eyes.
“Do you think they can hold them at the beach?”
“The North? Yes. I don’t know what they’re doing on the other side of the island. We’re not exactly in the chain of command here.”
“What would you do?”
Saarn looked out across the water at the damaged destroyer holding their enemies.
“Sink that ship. Gather the rest of them off the beach and send them home, weaponless and in disgrace. Kill the officers though,” Saarn said.
“We’re not at war anymore.”
“Yes, we are. They just proved that. They invaded the country and set fire to a village. All because of an ancient feud our people barely care about. I’m not about to punish a grunt for a tyrant’s orders, but these people attacked us.”
Lovataar shook her head. She was here to build bridges. And all this incident was doing was reestablishing old rivalries.
Her phone rang. It wasn’t a number she recognized. She answered anyway.
“Lovataar?”
“Yes, Madam President. I’m here.”
“I just wanted to say thank you for what you and your sister Klavigar did on the North Beach. We’ve got a lot of scared people but most of them are still alive thanks to you both.”
“What are you doing with those Mekhanites we captured?”
“We are taking them into custody. We have the technical knowhow to disable a lot of their more offensive augmentation, but that will all take time. Of more concern is what is happening out there.”
“Before we get into that, what about the East side?”
“They landed a similar force, and we met them head on. We’ve taken casualties but they just don’t have numbers on their side. We’ve taken quite a few prisoners there too and I think we’ll push them back, but it’s not done there yet. A few of them have mentioned being surprised at our technology. I think they expected country bumpkins performing fleshcrafting alone or wielding farm implements.”
“One good thing about the Foundation’s control over information about the Republic, no one really knew what you had here.”
“Agree to disagree. Look, we’re trying to clear things up inland. But if they have a working warship, it won’t make a difference. What is happening on the water?”
“Vanguard has disabled the destroyer, and they are pulling back from active engagement. They’re calling for a negotiation with Vanguard.”
“Are you going to speak with them?”
“I don’t have much of a choice, Madam President.”
“Good luck. I don’t mean to put more pressure on you, but what happens next will have a significant impact on your diplomatic mission to this nation.”
“I assumed. Thank you. We’ll update you soon.”
“Ion’s blessing.”
Lovataar hung up the phone and nodded to the Vanguard sergeant leading the squad approaching them.
“Ma’am, if you’ll come with me? The captain is waiting.”
The Two Klavigars were ushered into a conference room below the bridge set aside for briefings. The room contained a single long table and chairs, and digital screen for presentation. The table was mostly empty but for Captain Bridger and some of her support staff.
“Captain, have we heard anything more from the enemy leadership?” Lovataar asked.
“They’ve agreed to ferrying over a small delegation to negotiate. They’re going to leave their weapons behind, but we’ll check them for obvious armament before letting them aboard.”
“Do they know who they’ll be meeting with?” Saarn asked.
“No, I thought it would be beneficial to have some surprise.”
“Good, because with these people you can assume hostility to the prospect of meeting with a Klavigar. Let alone two.”
“Lovataar, I’m not briefed on our goals here. What are you looking to gain?”
“Other than a ceasefire and withdrawal from the Republic of all Mekhanite forces?”
“Yes, other than that.”
“We’ll have to play it by ear. Let’s hear what they have to say and then we can make decisions.”
“Moose has contacted us and urged us not to take any decisive actions that might lead to an escalation.”
“I do not intend to escalate matters, but they have already invaded a sovereign nation of Nälkä and started with sectarian violence. The Broken Church began at war crimes, avoiding escalation is the bare minimum. This cannot stand. Do you understand me?”
The captain nodded and kept any commentary to herself. A member of her staff whispered in her ear, and she looked back to Lovataar.
“They’re here.”
Three Mekhanites entered the conference room under armed guard. At first glance they were noticeably augmented like the soldiers Lovataar and Saarn had faced on the beach, but differences quickly became apparent, but these were different: eye augmentations, armor and limb modifications that were sleeker and less outwardly aggressive, and one of them had a metal grill surgically inserted over his mouth.
The leader was dressed in a sharp military officer’s uniform, with old fashioned piping along the shoulders and a flair to the design that spoke to Lovataar more of the Napoleonic Wars than modern military forces. He even made a little bow before sitting at the captain’s silent invitation. His two retainers stood behind his seated form. He was older, possibly in his sixties with a lantern jaw, clean shaven and sporting a gray military hairstyle.
“My name is Alexander Durham; I hold the rank of major and deacon for the Broken Church. I speak for His Holiness Robert Bumaro, Builder of the Broken God.”
“Major? I was not aware the Church had a dedicated military.”
“We have a modest military force, to execute goals in pursuit of building the God. To whom do I have pleasure of addressing this afternoon?”
“Captain Bridger of Vanguard, who is commander of this vessel. I am Klavigar Lovataar and this is Klavigar Saarn.”
Durham froze in his seat, the perfunctory smile on his face dropping to a neutral line across his face. His retinue tensed behind him.
“You are the Lovataar and Saarn?”
Saarn nodded shallowly, without saying a word. Lovataar said nothing.
“You are abomination. Creature of Yaldabaoth. Flesh of the Devourer. Mother of monst–”
“Yes, I heard all of this from one of your platoon leaders this afternoon on the beach. Can we skip all the sectarian drivel? We might be the prophesized evil in your religion, but you’re nothing but zealots hunting us through the centuries. We don’t think of you at all except when you force us to.”
“According to legend and from Bumaro’s own testimony, your people attacked us first,” Durham said.
“That war was won four thousand years ago! We lost! Stop trying to punish us for moving into your territory. That’s all it was!” Lovataar yelled. “That’s the entire fucking origin story to your hatred. Our people moved into the Aegean and you pushed us out. We lost our home at the end of the war and thousands died. Why are you still pursuing this vendetta?”
The deacon was silent for a moment, the vibrations from her voice shaking him in his very flesh. But then he struggled to answer, as if his own tongue betrayed him.
“We hold you in contempt,” he said “For shackling yourself to the Devourer. It is a core tenet of our faith.”
“We do not revere Yaldabaoth. We despise it. Ion always intended to ascend to heaven and eat god,” Saarn said. “You hate us on the basis of a misunderstanding. Because you’re ignorant of our culture.”
“Why are you here?” Lovataar asked the deacon before he could respond.
“We wanted to proselytize to the people, inform them of the error of the Sarkic tradition.”
“Let me ask you, deacon, do you have a slur that could refer to your people with such derision as to imply you should be erased from history?” Saarn asked.
“I have heard terms that I find offensive, yes.”
“Good. Then understand that if you call us Sarkic one more time, I will eat your tongue.”
Both of the Mekhanites behind Durham stepped forward, their artificial bones and muscles tensing. But he waved them off.
“I apologize. I forget myself. I came here to negotiate, and I insult you.”
“Why are you really here? Don’t tell me you came to convert people. You brought a small army and immediately attacked civilians,” Lovataar asked.
“Civilians using fleshcrafting in broad daylight.”
“In their own homes, in their own country! Who are you to impose your values on these people?!” Saarn yelled.
Lovataar placed a hand on her sister’s arm. She felt the tension there and she knew how close Saarn was to leaping over the table. Lovataar leaned in close to Saarn’s ear.
“We are here to negotiate. I’m angry too. But let’s take it down several pegs,” Lovataar said.
Lovataar turned back to Durham.
“My sister is not a fan of imperialists. You will forgive her outburst. But you came here of your own free will, and immediately attacked people because they were different from you.”
“We were misinformed about the nature of this place. We thought that the ruling elite were Sa– Nälkän cultists like those who were in Massachusetts. We thought we would be liberating these people.”
“This nation has been of the faith for nearly two centuries, Deacon. You are not welcome here.”
Lovataar took him in, measured the length and breadth of his body with her halkost and knew she could split him open any time she wished. But this time she merely wanted to feel his reaction. He seemed dismayed. She doubled down.
“When you came here, you did so under the impression that the Foundation had fallen and you would have free reign,” Lovataar said. “That before the mundane world could step in, you would take action. Is that right?”
“It’s not entirely wrong,” he said.
“The Foundation is gone, it’s true. But all of its resources, most of its personnel and a significant number of my people and the Serpent’s Hand have joined to form Vanguard. You thought we would be weak. But we aren’t. We aren’t as interested in the oppression of the Foundation, but we have all the weapons and soldiers we need. And we have three Klavigars.”
Durham looked at his two retinue and sighed.
“What do we do now?” he asked.
“You will order all forces within the Adytite Republic to stand down and surrender to the Republic. If you allow it, I will offer your people a ride back to your ship. If needed, we will help you fix the vessel. You will leave these waters and never return.”
“With no penalties?”
“We will need to discuss that with the president, but I think we can arrange that, if you can guarantee you will not be returning with another larger force.”
“I can guarantee that, yes. We will not find what we were looking for here.”
“Then? Do we have a deal?”
“Yes. On one condition.”
“Order the forces to stand down now. Then we can hear the condition.”
Durham looked at one of his retinue and nodded. The Mekhanite turned and exited the room, apparently using a communicator of some sort.
“Captain Bridger, contact the president’s office and find out if the forces have surrendered,” Lovataar said.
The captain got on her radio and connected with the Republic office that was waiting for the call.
“While we wait, can you answer one question for me?” Durham asked.
“Is this the condition?” Saarn responded.
“It is.”
“Go ahead then.”
“How did you stop my platoon on the North beach? The reports were confusing. Was there a military base within short distance?”
“No,” Lovataar answered.
Saarn laughed. “We killed several small squads in hand-to-hand combat, a couple with guns.”
“Just you two?” Durham asked.
Saarn nodded.
“Why did the entire platoon surrender?”
“I marched your soldiers out of the village against their will,” Lovataar said. “I told them to drop their weapons, and they did. Your squad leader marched on me with almost two hundred others. He did not like that I did that to your soldiers, made them kneel like that.”
“I would not have liked that either.”
“Yes, well, he did not like it so much that he insulted me and intended to attack me. And that I did not like. So, I took a tiny seed of cancer in his colon, and I grew it until it burst from him like needles pushing through plastic wrap.”
Durham looked down at table and shook his head.
Lovataar looked over at the captain, who nodded. The forces were surrendering.
“I’m going to speak with the president and smooth things over, I cannot promise how things will go. But I promise to do what I can,” Lovataar said.
Durham was nodding absent mindedly. But as she went to leave the room his hand reached out to grasp her arm. Saarn pulled a knife from the sheath on her left thigh. Lovataar waved her off with a smile.
She looked down at the deacon. “What?”
“And you don’t hate us?”
“I don’t know you.”
“And you could have done that to all of them on the beach? And to me right here?”
“Yes. These things could have been avoided if you took the time to actually get to know us instead of relying on old prejudices.”
He nodded and let go of her arm.
Saarn followed her out but stopped to look at the deacon. “I hate you. But it’s not because of your faith. I hate every man who steps into a new country and decides he will conquer it.”
She continued out of the room.
Vanguard Watchtower-19
02 January, 2022
“And the president was fine with letting them go?” Varis asked.
“Not at first, no. But after a while and with the promise of further benefits the Republic could reap by partnering with Vanguard and joining the collective, she saw the right of it.”
“I read the report. I’m surprised by your circumspection.”
“Should I have killed them all? Maybe. Saarn wanted to. And Ion knows, I wanted to as well. But that wouldn’t have served anything except my impulse for vengeance.”
“This way we can move forward, and we avoided a major incident. Before we even unveil the collective, this sort of violence will play poorly with the public. As it stands now, the Republic was attacked unprovoked and defended itself. Releasing the Mekhanites allows us to present what happened in a sympathetic manner.”
“Well, I’m glad. I made serious promises to the President.”
“Cultural exchange, resources, introduction to the UN. Yes, and mutual defense.”
“If we want allies, we need to be in the position to give something. And although I don’t want to make it a Nälkän Mecca, it does stand as an established nation where our people are strong. Maybe we’ll see more connections develop between the Republic and the other communities we’ve already brought into the fold.”
“Even better, we might have earned something more valuable.”
Lovataar was in the process of getting up from her seat in front of his office desk, but paused.
“What?”
“Representatives of Bumaro have made some outreach. Varga is handling the talks, but there’s a version of events where we establish some sort of cease fire. At the very least, it’s an avenue of communication. This is the way we build a new world for our people.”
Lovataar smiled.
“You sound like Them.”
“Ion?”
“Yes. I think Ion would be proud of what we’re doing.”
Varis stood and escorted her to the door.
“Thank you for coming on board. I had doubts when we first began to make these moves and we have a long way to go, but having you and the other Klavigars here has convinced me of the righteousness of Vanguard and our collective.”
She kissed his cheek through the beard.
“But…”
“But we will need to speak about Saarn sometime soon.”
“Why? Is she not welcome here?”
“She is of course welcome here. Which she would know if she ever came to speak to me. No, what I am concerned with is the waves she will make by being visibly tied to our endeavors. Her work has been… controversial in many places.”
“She is wanted in something like twelve countries at this point.”
“Indeed.”
“I’ll keep her busy for the time being. But do not reject her. I would not smile on that.”
“You have no fear from my end. I will run interference with the other Shepherds in leadership. Vanguard has already allowed criminals in. The problem is, she has been identified specifically in several cases. We will need to handle it carefully.”
“I have some contacts at Interpol. I will reach out and gauge the temperature.”
“Good, do that. Let me know what you find.”
Lovataar turned from him and walked out the door, closing it gently. She looked up and saw Saarn leaning against a wall, casually flipping a knife in one hand and repeatedly catching it by the point between her fingers.
“What did he have to say?” Saarn asked without looking up.
“You could speak to him yourself, you know.”
“I’ve never liked Varis. He’s so stuck up. Rigid. Formal. I don’t know what Ion saw in him.”
“He bears a lot of weight on his shoulders right now. And he’s doing good work.”
“I know. I know. Just, if I don’t need to speak to him, then I don’t want to.”
Lovataar laughed and took her sister’s arm in her own and led her down the hallway.
“This place is so bleak. Was the Foundation always this dour? Concrete hallways and underground bunkers. I don’t like it much.”
“Well, we don’t have to stay. But they do have something worthwhile here.”
“Oh! Is it research? I so love a woman in a labcoat.” Saarn stuck her finger down her throat and made a gagging sound.
Lovataar laughed and leaned into her. “Well, yes they do have that. But I was thinking the dormitories. I have a little apartment here, it’s not much but, I have a bed.”
“Ohhhh. Are we back to that now?”
“Have you not forgiven me yet? Let me make it up to you.”
Saarn pressed her lips against her oldest friend’s and kissed her deeply.
“If you insist.”
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