Parsec

Segin had settled in well.

The bland, emerging throne had been sculpted into a thing of lavish swirls and lustrous whorls, tinted far bluer than it was before. Everything smelled of seawater and sugarmelon. The walls had been sharpened into jagged, boisterous outgrowths in pelagic colours: dull steel blues and the filmy white of foam-capped wavetops. Here and there, the roughness of the sanctum gave way to hints of uncanny softness: a curtain of sleek, chemiluminescent tendrils hanging from the ceiling, furniture that was vaguely reminiscent of cormorant wings. A simple layer of black sand lay underfoot.

The grains of sand itched unsteadily against the joint of Parsec’s knee as she knelt and recited her report of initiatives that were going as planned. Her thoughts kept drifting to Segin’s choices in fabrication. She had not been so naive to think that her taste would take after Venera’s. But she had assumed something along the lines of springtime meadows or a fanciful cloudscape, a little like Venera’s predecessor. Perhaps even ice crystals, to mimic the characteristics of her egg. Not…whatever this was, complete with a floor like wasteland dust.

“Report received! Thank you,” Segin said, clasping her hands together. The trilling, milk-fed affect of her voice set Parsec’s teeth on edge.

“Is there anything else you require of me?”

“Hmm,” Segin said as she smoothed her hands over her skirts. A dozen layers of freshly-grown, chiffon-like membrane had been shaped into something ruffled and flouncy, like the bell of an oversized jellyfish. Venera had never bothered with such frippery. “No, I do think that is all. You’ve been doing a lovely job, and you are free to go.”

“My thanks.” Parsec rose to her feet and shook her tail with discretion. Spare grains of sand clung stubbornly to the feathers at the end. A sour thought occurred to her: good thing for Segin that she was slippery all over, soft-bodied like a mollusc.

She passed by Perihelion as she headed for the sanctum’s membrane-gate. He nodded towards her and as she returned it, an icy knot formed in her core.

How had someone pierced this sanctuary? she wondered. The membrane-gate was guarded by guards, but it did not open for them. The Archives themselves wrapped strong, tight webbing around the boundary, flush with magic. Food was delivered by incorruptible attendants, formed from the Titania herself. Not for the first time, her thoughts ran down a web of possibilities, all branches terminating at dead ends—all but for one thought: of those capable of wishing the Titania harm, only the Generals could enter and leave.

She strode out through the membrane, feeling the Archive-current shimmer over her extremities. It bolstered the sanctum-shell and seemed impenetrable to the touch—but clearly not. Clearly not, when Venera’s corpse now lay within the cradle of the Archive itself.

She emerged on a platform, halfway up the main hall. Several sentries saluted her and she reciprocated before she stepped off the platform and glided downwards. The rhythm of the crowd shifted ever-so-slightly to let her in, another droplet merging into the current.

It was now her allocated rest period and she was free to do as she wished with it, including sleep for its entirety. The idea wasn’t unappealing: to wash away the tacky, saltwater-sweetness of the new inner sanctum by cocooning herself in her bower for the next twelve hours would be the sweetest of rejuvenations. But on the other hand, she had already stocked up on sleep over the past few days. Among the new work put forth by Segin—an expansion of the weaving wing, really?—it had felt like the suitable thing to do. And she had been right, because it left her to put her full focus towards real work now. At last, there was time to investigate. These investigations had been itching under her carapace all the while, questions salient to the late-Venera. Truly, the silver linings remained slim among the fumbling beginnings of successorship.

Parsec flexed her scent glands, tail lashing with concentration as they responded and shut down. She flexed the array of proto-pores over her body for good measure; not-quite-stomata and psuedo-hydathodes sealed shut, cutting off the excretion of any lingering scent. A learned behaviour from reconnaissance, though she did precious little of that these days. She followed one of the smaller streams of traffic, made her way down the tunnel that was laced with melted amber and sandalwood.

She winged her way leftwards and dipped her way down a twisting chute of damp vines and rough spikes of amber. Unwanted smells invaded her senses from branching exits in the tunnel: peppery milk, curdled sugar, powdered teeth. She shuttered physio-magiological filters into place, thinning out the scents until only the underlying note of amber-brine remained. She followed trailing thread down smaller and smaller passages, past dried-lavender chambers and up sour-lime spouts, until she reached Perihelion’s quarters.

His rooms were set within a glassy, orange-coloured thing, like amber but not. It had always reminded her of an enormous pile of hulled millet; a lumpy little hill erupting from the soil. She cracked open a round porthole on the far side using a word of power that meant suntide—gratifying, how she’d remembered that so easily. Gratifying, too, that she’d been right in assuming he wouldn’t have bothered changing it.

Weak yellow light washed over a curving, swishing interior like molten slag suspended mid-flow. She hovered in the vestibule for a moment, drinking in the half-familiarity and almost regretting having come here.

It would have made a little more sense to go after Dysnomia, seeing as she’d been the one within the sanctum at the moment of Venera’s passing. But she’d clamped down on that feeling-urge, those irrational thoughts nibbling away at her cortex. If there was any killing blow, it would have been administered days ago, by anyone with access to the Titania: Cetus, or Eltanin, or Nephele, or any of the other Generals thirteen. She would be methodical about this—she had to be. Perihelion was simply the easiest to investigate. He was also her closest friend among the generals, and that made him the weakest point—that was all.

She floated over to his office door, careful not to bump into pieces of furniture, glassy things molded out of the same material as the walls. Patches of sawdust powder dotted the floor; that was new. How tasteless. She fluttered past them and inhaled, detecting a light cloud of the wood-on-a-brazier scent that she’d privately designated as simply Perihelion, possibly the most decent out of the lot. But there was also something else. Something dampened and half-masked, but there nonetheless. She frowned, chased that tiny thread. Peat and rain-soaked petals, like a crop of violets languishing in the shade. Vaguely familiar—

A noise, from behind the office door. She froze for the smallest of moments, then knifed upwards, slotting herself into a shallow nook high on the wall. The back of her head scraped against the ceiling. Privately, she thanked Perihelion’s choice of artistic flair. She strained for the faintest of sounds, heard nothing for several minutes. Then, a bump, and someone muttering a curse under their breath.

It was Dysnomia.

She knew that voice anywhere; they weren’t close, but when you spent half of your twelve-hour shifts in close proximity with another General, you picked up on the very cadence of their footsteps. And the scent matched, now that she thought about it. A little less dilute and with an underlying note of hibiscus; yes, that was certainly Dysnomia.

What was Dysnomia doing in Perihelion’s rooms? It was too much of a coincidence. Could she be the one to blame? Parsec didn’t want to believe it. Anger sparked in her core before she reminded herself that she didn’t know anything for sure—the other General could be here for entirely legitimate reasons…perhaps. Her fingers itched to close around a throat.

The office door opened and Dysnomia stepped out below, a dark grey blot speckled with white. Violets-under-shade scent wafted upwards to tickle at her nose. Parsec locked herself in place, willing ice into her veins, wishing in that moment that she were born of a visible wavelength closer to the yellow-orange of Perihelion’s walls.

Dysnomia stepped out and stopped dead. “Who’s there?” she demanded, turning in a slow circle.

Parsec clenched her jaw and stayed very, very still.

“I know you’re there,” Dysnomia said, her voice going up higher at the end. Her tail lashed in agitation, swiping against the floor and kicking up a cloud of sawdust. “I have put a pattern here and you have marred it. You’re here. You can’t hide. Show yourself.”

Parsec cursed herself even as she rolled her eyes at Dysnomia’s ever-so-slightly frantic demands; of course it was the damned sawdust. She should have known better. Perihelion would never leave loose materials just lying around for show. It wasn’t his style.

She weighed her options as Dysnomia peered around the corner below, one hand on the hilt of her sword. She could wait here and hope that she was not found. Unlikely to work, unless Dysnomia’s relative youth was paired with completely un-General-like idiocy. She could try to sneak out behind Dysnomia’s back. Also unlikely to succeed. She could fight her, and win. Or…

She sighed and slipped out of her nook, floating down to Dysnomia’s level. “Your awareness of your environment is lacking,” she said, pushing as much worldly weariness into her tone as she could.

The weariness was half of the key; her seniority should serve as the other.

Dysnomia jerked in the air, half-drawing her blade as she turned. Always skittish, that one.

“General Parallax,” she yelped. She slid the sword back into its sheath—though, Parsec noted with approval, not quite all the way. “What are you doing here?”

Parsec flicked her spines and tail questioningly, then dismissively. Her closeness with Perihelion was known and—she wasn’t blind to the gossip—speculated upon. Let Dysnomia assume the answer for herself, that Parsec was legitimately meant to be here, whether clandestinely or not.

“I believe the more pertinent question is, what are you doing here, General Dysnomia? Has Perihelion made close acquaintance with you without my knowledge?”

Dysnomia drew herself up straight and glanced around nervously. She swished her tail, and the sawdust about their feet rose up in a cloud before dissolving into the scent of bland air. The act was surprisingly skillful, for all her other faults.

“I…General Parallax, this is going to sound utterly delirious, but I was looking for evidence of misdoing.”

“What kind of misdoing?”

Dysnomia took a breath, appearing to evaluate the risks of speaking to her. “Like I said, it seems almost delirious, but…I spoke to General Eltanin and he said there was something…unnatural…about Predecessor Venera’s death. And so, we decided it would be best to investigate.”

A shiver ran down her spine and continued all the way to the tip of her tail, which twitched involuntarily.

“I see.” How coincidental, that others thought the same. A glimmer of hope? She knew Eltanin only in the vaguest of senses—he was a competent General, not the best, but not bad either—their shifts did not often overlap. “And instead of notifying us, you chose to investigate in Leader General Perihelion’s quarters?” she asked, as if she were innocent of doing the very same thing.

Dysnomia wilted visibly. “I, ah. Well, anyone could be suspect. To tell you the truth, Eltanin told me to look through yours first. But I didn’t. Too difficult to get in.”

Parsec frowned even as she allowed herself to feel a droplet of self-satisfaction. She should really tell Perihelion to secure his quarters properly, if she could be sure that he didn’t have anything to do with murdering Venera. “Then what have you found? Report.”

Dysnomia flinched, seemingly more in confusion than fear. “Nothing salient. I was searching for correspondence, suspicious substances or requisitions, that sort of thing. But there’s nothing. I have been quite thorough, and yet…”

Correspondence? Requisitions? What was Dysnomia thinking? That there’d be a convenient bottle of poison tucked away in the back cabinet? Parsec almost lashed her tail. Ridiculous—as if it would be that easy. Anyone with half a mind to avoid getting caught would immediately dispose of such lingering proof. What were they teaching the younger Generals these days? Oftentimes, what wasn’t there was more important than what was. There existed gaps which she questioned Dysnomia’s ability to see.

Parsec sighed. “If you honestly believe what you tell me, then why tell me at all?”

“Because you caught me,” Dysnomia said gloomily. “And because I’m hoping that you could let me search your quarters to prove your innocence. It’s not as if Eltanin would be able to crack it either. He knows I’m here, by the way. You may check, if you like.”

She supposed that the implied subtext there was that General Eltanin would have some inkling of her guilt if Dysnomia was demoted for unspecified reasons. That, or he would simply suspect Perihelion himself.

“I shall speak with Eltanin,” she said. “Truth be told, I am not meant to be here, either. I only followed you.” It was a half-lie, and a passable one.

“Oh,” Dysnomia said, drooping visibly. “I suppose I wasn’t as subtle as I could have been.”

“We all have our improvements to make.” She shrugged, feigning more confidence than she felt. “You may show me to General Eltanin after I take a look at Perihelion’s desk for myself.”

It never hurt to be thorough.

===

It probably wasn’t Perihelion. That was the thought that looped over in her mind: it probably wasn’t him.

She should have pushed down the sense of relief that swept through her after examination of his papers showed no discrepancies. She should not be so weak, but she was dearly grateful that no signs pointed to him of all people. He had, after all, been the one to welcome her into the fold of the Hive. Some repayment it would be, if she had to kill him for Venera’s sake.

She frowned as they flew through the glimmering back-ways to Eltanin’s quarters. Dysnomia kept glancing back at her intermittently, like she was afraid that Parsec would put a knife into her back.

“Is everything alright?” Parsec asked.

Dysmonia’s wings gave an anxious little twitch. “Yes,” she said, whisking her head back straight ahead. “Of course. It’s merely…we don’t wish to be followed.”

“I would be aware of any shadow,” Parsec said.

Dysnomia’s wings twitched once more. “Yes. Of course, of course. It is from an abundance of my own caution. I did not mean to imply—”

“Of course.”

Skittish, Parsec thought. Jittery and hungry-eyed—poor girl wouldn’t last long if she stayed this way.

They descended through a spiraling section of milk-soaked grottoes and corridors of jagged, blood-pale karst. The air smelled crisp and knife-edged, like a whisper of snow to come.

Dysnomia finally alighted on an outcrop of rock on a cavern-side, covered in notches and dusted in grit. She raised her hand and knocked thrice; the rock face swung open. She straightened her back marched in. Parsec followed a few paces behind, her steps slower.

The passage was narrow and oddly silken underfoot. This was an old place, carved out not by hands and tools, but by old Hive currents, wind and water and loose magic. The scent was of green pine and powder-snow, of new shoots withering in frost-sharp soil. Eltanin had curious tastes, but she did appreciate the clean snow. There had been precious little of it to go around when she was younger.

Dysnomia led her into a large chamber: windowless, low-lit, and fringed with inky vines. General Eltanin was sprawled artlessly across a bench, surrounded by a mound of papers. He had a tattered page in one hand and a bitter drink in the other.

“General Parallax,” he said, looking up. His wings flickered with hints of wary-white and curiousity-silver.

“Eltanin,” she replied. “What is the meaning of this?”

“She has, ah, come to hear of our activities,” Dysnomia said, edging further into the room.

“I see.” He leveled a hard stare at her and put down his drink before turning to Dysnomia. “This new involvement of Parallax,” Eltanin said, as if she were not there. “You were caught?”

“Not in her chambers,” Dysnomia said, sneaking a sideways glance at her. “She has, ah, quite complicated spellworks guarding her gates. I was instead preoccupied with…General Perihelion’s offices.”

Eltanin made a weary noise. “How goes the situation with the Generals Nephele and Perihelion?”

“There was nothing amiss.”

“Hrmm.” Eltanin retrieved his beverage and took a long, slow sip. He swished it around his mouth before swallowing. “Parallax, then. If you truly know of the strange situation with the predecessor, then let us check your chambers.”

Predecessor. Was that all Venera was to them now? After ten years service to the Hive?

“No,” said Parsec.

“We cannot exclude you from wrongdoing without.”

“I could say the same to you.”

Eltanin drained his glass. Weary shadows tinged his fingertips, colours like bruised fruit-skin. “Hah. You would propose a trade, then.”

Parsec considered it. “Perhaps. Your two, for my own?”

“Mutual security,” Eltanin said. “Yes, that is wise. Give us a provisional key, and you may search my home to your heart’s content. As for Dysnomia—“ he turned to her again, crooking his spines. “What say you?”

“I have nothing to hide,” Dysnomia said, lifting her chin. She pressed fingers to her throat and withdrew a shining spell-key, coloured blue-white and smelling of night-violets. She held her hand out to Parsec, palm-up. The key floated there, twinkling in the gloom. “Here. Take it.”

Eltanin made a loose, easy gesture with his tail. “You are also already here, Parallax, are you not? Look as you may, so long as you provide a key of your own.”

“Certainly.”

Parsec closed her hand into a fist and concentrated; magic bubbled up under her skin, budding under her fingertips. When she opened her hand, a spell-key was there—indigo-black and shifting with iridescence. Somewhere under its almost insubstantial surface, glowing eyes winked like stars.

They made the exchange. Dysnomia flinched at the feel of Parsec’s key and passed it off to Eltanin. His wings flickered with the blueness of annoyance as he took it.

Parsec felt a pang of pity, despite herself; she too was like Dysnomia, once—flinching and feeble beneath the armour, a creature too small for its shell.

“Will you be joining us, Parallax?” Dysnomia asked her, eyes wide.

Most of her pity evaporated like dew-drops under high summer.

“She will not,” sighed Eltanin. “Beyond this test of mutual innocence, it is hardly viable.”

“…Because of the Hive? But surely there are ways.”

“And yet,” Eltanin said, irate. “Irregular rhythms are detected. So much poking around, clustered in three, and all of us Generals? No.”

“But we need help,” Dysnomia insisted, so bright and naive. “General Parallax is—”

“Eltanin is correct,” Parsec interrupted to save Dysnomia the embarrassment. “I will not join you. But so long as you do not interfere with the workings of the Hive, I shall not interfere with you, either. We all, of course, serve the Titania.”

“Of course,” Dysnomia echoed.

===

Parsec searched thoroughly, and found nothing. Eltanin’s rooms were nearly empty, his coffers gilded with nothing more than lost paper and old snow. His records were in standard order; the most interesting thing about him was his marked eye for detail and a burgeoning taste for fever-syrups. Parsec did not exactly approve, but she did understand; a drop of the stuff was needed after a certain type of day, the new Successor notwithstanding.

Dysnomia’s modest gardens were of even less interest, no mysteries tucked beneath the shadow-tree or within the chipped marble fountain. Her files were plainly written, openly scented, and obscured nothing. There was a handsomely-made chrysalis strung from the tree, and a nearby loom. The poor girl clearly liked to weave in her spare time, but that was the only really new thing that Parsec found. Useless, all of it.

She was forced to concede, for now. She marched onwards, no closer than she had been before. She chose to leave at a loss and to serve Successor Segin, even as troubled thoughts spun over in her mind throughout the days.

The nights were worse, of course. Venera’s spectre haunted her dreams.