Pistol-caliber rounds ricochet off the heavy steel slab held aloft by my right arm, servo motors straining against bone while the staccato of submachine gun fire echoes in the restrictive hallway. The remaining targets are highlighted against the reticle of my pistol - nothing can hide them now. One throws a smoke grenade, filling the room with acrid grey clouds. While my expression does not change, I can't help but internally light up at this blunder. They don't know it, but they have just sealed their fates.
I see the first target against the hallway wall, hiding behind a makeshift barrier formed of an emptied filing cabinet. It will not save him. Low-caliber fire pinging off my shield, I level my pistol just to the left of the crouching soldier's outline in the thermal imager. With practiced movements, I depress the trigger, feeling the gas inject into the chamber as the laser reaches out into the hallway. Illuminated pink by the refracting smoke, the laser bores straight through the makeshift cover and halfway through the soldier. The superheated fluorine burst follows closely behind, oxidizing gas flooding into charred wounds, erupting into mauve flames. In the half second laser uptime, I sweep the beam across the target's body, near cutting him in half. With the fluoride-pink flames rapidly consuming his body, he doesn't stand a chance.
His screams lure another target into view, firing wildly into the hallway. I duck behind my shield, with no bullets finding their mark. As reprisal, I bore a hole straight through his chest. Nothing fancy, just a killshot. As if anticipating my reload, the third and final target dashes towards me, hoping to finish things in close combat. I don't have my baton with me, but I break his assault against my shield, knock him to his feet with the superheated blades of my pistol's heatsink, and cave in his head with the base of the sixty pound steel shield. His brains, greasy and slimy like unrendered fat, squelch against my boots as I take another determined step forward. Such raw flesh no longer affects me quite so much as it did on Titan. The exit clear of hostiles, I make my way to the waiting helicopter outside the premises. Getting behind the controls of such a beast has never felt so good. The engine roars to life, spitting and hissing as it does, rotor blades cleaving the air. Incrementing pitch trim, the massive craft leaps off the helipad and ascends into the blue skies above.
It is freeing, in a way, to fly in an open canopy helicopter. To feel the wind in your hair, the deafening roar of the rotors above, the inertia of a five-ton craft beholden to one's every whim - such things are all freeing in a way little in my life is. For a moment, I am able to forget about it all. Callisto's betrayal, the mindshackle, even Corinne (her memory still sticks in my mind, even now), all disappear. I'm able to leave them behind in the trail of disturbed air which tails the helicopter as I make my escape. The flight does not remain so exciting for long, quickly settling into a more peaceful lull as I watch the endless expenses of dry grassland pass beneath. Rolling hills hang in the periphery of my vision, hardly ever drawing closer, as if merely an illusory promise.
The landscape of the central steppes is one intensely uncomfortable yet extremely familiar to me, and has always posed an interesting enough subject of thought. I'm reminded immediately of my true home when I look out across the endless grasslands, the horizon shifting and stirring in the wind just as the sea does. Terra firma has never been kind to me, though. Only in sea or sky can I really feel at home.
Touching down at a nearby spaceport tucked away in the remoteness of the steppe hills, I am able to ascend to orbit easily enough with the vessel I had descended to the surface with. A hardy thing, and has served me well. A transport shuttle since modified with plenty of aftermarket parts and fixes, it's almost unrecognizable from its original form. No name - that would attract too much attention. The cargo space has been hollowed out to fit a small living quarters, with a cot (only long enough to fit my frame if I curl up), bathroom, and record player built into a cabinet. The record has since gone quiet by the time I dock with my new home.
The Iron Hand is aflutter with activity when I step aboard. I am hardly even acknowledged by the technicians - thank God - as I make my way to Asterius’ quarters. A shift gathers in the mess hall for dinner. The choir practices down a hallway. The lights flicker outside the workshop, doubtless the result of some kind of plasma experimentation. Despite it, I keep my eyes to myself, fixed dead ahead on the bulkhead doors at the end of the passageway. Behind them lies Asterius, and with him my evaluation. In preparation for the Church meeting soon, Overseers from across the solar reaches will come together and evaluate their operatives, exchanging and promoting the best. I ought to represent the Order of the Cog's Teeth well.
I place my mechanical palm against the doorframe, a pleasant chime ringing as the bulkhead hisses open.
“Come in, Sister Aurelia.”
I do as I am told, and cross the threshold.
“Overseer Asterius, I did as was commanded. The compound is clear, and the enemy presence has been eliminated. I trust all is satisfactory,” I say, kneeling.
“All is satisfactory,” Asterius’ vocoded voice reassures, “and the remainder of the mission is proceeding according to plan.”
I see helicopters landing at the massive concrete complex, soldiers rappelling down gargantuan slopes of weathered grey stone, and science teams stepping through the cavernous cargo loading bay. The facility, a reconstruction of a colonial synth-template field hospital - complete with exterior AA gun - had been constructed on Earth as a test article and had since become host to anti-Church activity. As such, the area had to be reclaimed.
“I'm very proud of you, Sister Aurelia,” Asterius continued, “And you can stop kneeling. Thank you for your devotion.”
“Thank you, Overseer Asterius.”
“Come with me. By the viewport.”
Nervousness rising in my chest, I hesitate a moment, but do follow his commands. The expanse of the Iron Hand extends beneath us, the tumor-like growths across the surface of the vessel exemplifying the strength and adaption of our people. Asterius takes in the view for a moment before speaking.
“Estimate the length of this vessel for me, will you?”
“I'm not sure. A kilometer?”
“A kilometer and 200. This place is our home, but it is quite small. At least compared to the palaces of Tyr and Helios. Why do you think that is?”
I pause a moment, nervous about saying the wrong thing. Before I get a chance to respond, Asterius continues once more.
“We've always been the ‘cursed’ order. Even before my time, that stain has followed us. Forced to hide behind mediocrity in order to stay under the radar, despite the Earth itself resting beneath us. But, this is our place.”
I remain silent.
“We always have to suffer for what comes easily for the rest. We have to bear the hardships as they come, and remain on top. We have to make the hard decisions no one else will, and we have to face down society at large.”
He pauses for a moment, turning to face me, and runs a hand over my golden arm.
“Like this. A painful reminder, but something that makes you more perfect. No one said it would be easy. But, I can assure you, everything you've endured here I've gone through in the service of my own Overseer.”
The intensity in his eyes - one of his few remaining organic features - conveys the brutal reality behind his words. I believe him.
“Yes, that includes what you're thinking. An operator must be unbreakable, and you are my operator, Aurelia. From the moment I first met you, I've known you've had the potential to be the greatest operator the Church has ever seen, even more so than myself. Everything I've done for you, everything, has been with good reason. You are my pride and joy, and I want to make you into the best version of yourself that you can be. Do you trust me, Sister Aurelia?”
I kneel once more.
“I trust you, Overseer Asterius.”
“Excellent! I have some news for you, before you go. I've decided to loan you out to an old colleague of mine.”
My stomach drops instantly.
“You'll be accompanying Overseer Zure of the Order of Vigilant Steel and his operator Sister Octavia for the foreseeable future. You'll still be acting in my stead, and Zure has no real power to make you do anything you don't want to, so don't worry. I think it would be a valuable experience for you, at the very least.”
His reassurances do help, somewhat. At the very least, it rang better than being loaned out to any of his other ‘old colleagues’ or ‘honored guests’, where the only rule was not to complain. I had heard stories of Octavia, at the very least, and was excited to meet her.
“Thank you, Overseer Asterius,” I say, kneeling once more.
“You may go, Aurelia. It seems you have a guest,” Asterius smirks.
I heed my overseer, exiting through the bulkhead, taking one last look at the stars through Asterius' massive window, the six-legged shadow obscuring the stars behind it, leaving only pitch black where he stood. Wreathed in the cloak of stars, Asterius cut an intimidating figure.
Ducking out into the hallway once more, I can hear the distinctive whir of a microphone, seemingly hovering down a utility corridor, before a familiar voice calls out.
“Aurelia? Is that you?”
“Harut!” I exclaim, turning at once to the source of the voice.
Harut is probably my best friend, both in and out of the Church. Our first meeting is something of an inside joke between us, as we met both modeling for an intra-Church morale campaign. We even had a few shoots together, which ended up being quite a lot of fun. He is as afflicted with the Mindshackle as I am, and as such we were quick to bond, shared miseries providing a wonderful basis to build a friendship.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. While we both enjoy each other's company, he's not the type to drop by on social calls. Overseer Kossa keeps him on a tight leash, to put it lightly.
Hearing my question, Harut smiles, his normally stiff face loosening momentarily at my inquiry. The yellow sodium-vapor lighting reflects off his facial augmentation, copper facial plating reminiscent more of a statue than a man. At least it was tasteful and well crafted, his visage naturally enhanced to seem personable, attractive, and trustworthy. It helped that he was emblematic of such virtues naturally as well, though the mindshackle has dulled his charms somewhat.
“It's your birthday, silly! I certainly couldn't miss that. I know it's not much, but I brought you some gifts.”
Reaching from beneath his robes, he deftly withdraws a few packs of cigarettes - the same kind Callisto used to bring me. How he knew what brand to get, I do not know. I take the gift in hand, quite honored he would even think of me at all.
“Just one more thing, okay?”
Harut reaches into his robes again, this time withdrawing a beautifully woven golden silk sash, simple but elegant. Perfect for someone like me. I try to keep myself together, but tears well nonetheless. Pulling Harut into a hug, I tearfully thank him for thinking of me today, and that even I had forgotten my own birthday. The days blend together now, too much for my taste, hours lost in a morphine haze.
I let him go, his warmth leaving me just as quickly. He gently takes the sash from my hand, pinning it in place over my shoulder.
“Pose for the camera,” he says, the camera drone which follows him everywhere flitting into view.
I do as he asks, taking a demure pose as the camera drone seeks the best angle. Soon enough, it emits a bright flash, and my holo-watch chimes. The sash looks even better on me than I could have expected, its flair brightening up an otherwise drab outfit.
“Follow me, will you?” Harut prompts, after admiring the photos.
“I heard from a friend of mine that you’ll be transferred to work under Verdan Zure. Is that something you want to do?”
“I’m nervous, Harut. But if it’s true he has no real power over me, then I guess it can’t be all bad,” I reply.
“Well, I can tell you this much. I’ve worked with Zure before. He’s not like a lot of the other overseers. It’s hard to know what he wants. But he’s fair, and he’s actually quite nice to work under,” Harut says, pulling me in closer as he does, “at least much better than your butcher here.”
I initially take offense at the implication, but the sentiment rings true. All Harut’s augments were voluntary. The skin around his face was raw, yes, but it was raw in the way ones blessed find beautiful, the melding of skin and steel. My skin was raw, as well, and thus still beautiful, but it was raw against my will. Scalpels and bullets alike carved me to their liking, not my own. Even my beauty was not my own.
“Sister Octavia is at least pleasant to work with. She’s quite closed off, but I think she might like you. She seems like the… sympathetic type,” Harut continues.
“I can work with that.”
“She liked my drone, too. Couldn’t get enough of it. Wanted to get her own,” Harut replies, drone buzzing happily.
“I can imagine! I think it's cute.”
“Cute isn't the word I'd choose, but to each their own. Anyways, Octavia is certainly no Eliana, if that's any consolation.”
“It is. That's reassuring, at least. I don't need another operator pitying me for ‘outdated tech.’”
Harut chuckles, ducking into an adjacent hangar bay. A shuttle sat in the center, cryogenic steam spitting from decaying pipe seals. Not my shuttle, but close enough in form to be mistaken at a distance. Emblazoned with the symbol of the Order of the Crystalline Hand, it's clear enough that this shuttle is Harut’s.
“Don't worry, I'm not leaving yet. Soon, but not now. However, would you be so kind as to step inside, mademoiselle,” Harut coos, mimicking my accent on the final word. He always sees fit to tease me at least once whenever we see each other. As he was plucked from the Venusian acid plants, the idea of a cultural enclave such as the Venerable is almost incomprehensible to him.
“You know, I can still hear that Venusian twang in your voice. And you don't even have an AutoVox!”
“Okay, Aurelia. Turn off that AutoVox and sing for me in that… beautiful voice of yours, won't you?” he replies, exaggerating his natural accent.
Catching me pouting, he apologizes. Sometimes we get caught up in the banter and go a bit too far - my voice is a sore subject for me. I was only implanted with an AutoVox after my work amongst the fumes and dusts of the hangar bay ruined my once clear singing voice. Asterius considered the loss too great, and as such provided the remedy. The same is rarely extended to the technicians and menial workers. If anything, I'm lucky to receive my treatment.
“No matter. Do come aboard?”
I oblige, climbing into the cramped shuttle. The interior is done-up well, better than my own shuttle. A mirror is hung on one wall, above his cot, mildly cracked. The other wall is decorated like a mural, roiling clouds in vibrant colors painted by hand. The only interrupting element is a calendar. Looking closer, my cheeks blush red and I turn away.
“Harut. Tell me exactly why you actually have one of these.”
“I figured we put too much time and effort into this photoshoot not to commemorate it, no?”
I shake my head disapprovingly. Emblazoned above the month of August is a photo of Harut and I posing in outfits far too revealing for my sense of decency. I'm welding metal on an aircraft frame with grossly unacceptable PPE while Harut stands behind with a clipboard, outfit similarly sexualized. Our augmetic scars had been touched up in post, imparting a red blush to the wounds not present in the real article. I remember the photoshoot well enough. It was exceptionally embarrassing, but at least it was with Harut. Neither of us really had a choice in the matter - Asterius and Kossa held our metaphorical leashes tight with the Mindshackle. They figured it was a good morale-building exercise. Not for us, presumably. My mind drifts to Asterius’ words before I left. Was he ever forced to model in his tenure as operator? I highly doubt it. Hypocritical. Yet another sin to add to the order. Was this my destiny?
Harut interrupts my thoughts.
“You know why you're being transferred, right?”
“I can guess, but enlighten me.”
“Callisto. Asterius can tell she's becoming a problem for you. He knows what she's doing to you, after all. He's going to get you set up with a stable presence while you process what's going on.”
"What she's doing to me?" Ever since my encounter with her hallucination, the name Callisto stirs discontent in me, despite my overwhelming love for her. It's hard to explain - as if she is more than what she claims, or perhaps less.
"What's the deal with you two, anyways? I've never seen anything like it. I know I'm not Sierra, and you don't tell me everything, but what is it about her that keeps you so attached? She's a nonbeliever, and you'd better start treating her like one. But yes, what she's doing to you. You seriously don't know?" Harut's tone takes on a more pointed quality as he speaks. As if he's disappointed in me for something.
The pit in my stomach grows deeper. I know on an intrinsic level what he means - my dream back on Earth, Callisto's apparition in the viewport, all our 'shared memories' that I can hardly remember. I don't want to accept it, but what choice do I have?
"Harut, what is she doing to me?" I ask, my voice steely cold.
"She's tapping into your augmentation, Aurelia. I figured you of all people would know when a mindshackle is being used on you. Heaven knows I do. Asterius says she's been loading programs for at least the past year or so. Seems like she's having them custom-built to bypass encryption. What he -and I - don't get is why she's just doing this as opposed to anything else. He wants to help, but…"
Harut's words hit me like jet exhaust. So my fevered thoughts above Kazakhstan were not merely delusion? Callisto had been tapping into my mindshackle and Asterius knew? And it took Harut to tell me this?
I cannot decide what to do. My hand instinctively reaches for my sidearm, but my legs give way before I can draw. I crumple to the floor of Harut’s shuttle, unable to suppress my tears, then sobs. Harut gingerly places his well-kept hands on my shoulders. They're not scarred and calloused like mine, instead strong and tanned despite their seeming lack of hard labor. He gently holds me while I sob, apologizing between breaths for my unbecoming behavior. He reassures me that it's alright, not to worry, he's not going to tell the other overseers, that no one can see me but him. I know that's not true - Asterius sees all I do - but I don't press the issue. My sobs slow, and I eventually pull myself together. Harut helps me to my feet.
“Asterius wants to be that stable presence for you, but he knows he can't be. He thinks Zure is a suitable replacement. At least, so says Kossa.”
I can only hope Asterius isn't listening in right now. Either way, it won't change what is coming.
“Aurelia, I must go. The leash tightens. But I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again soon. Keep me posted, okay? I'll miss you.”
I duck out of Harut's bronzed shuttle, just in time for the door to snap shut behind me. A quiet kick of the thrusters, and the craft lunches into the air of the hangar, before jetting into open space with rarely-seen urgency. I pull the silk sash tighter around my body, and turn away from the hangar. The ghost of a smile graces my chapped lips, despite it all.