Aetheral Space-Chapter 447:15.1: Serendipity

Blood sprayed on the floor -- and a second later, it was joined by embers.

Muzazi’s wound glowed a furious white as thrusters blazed to life inside it, sealing it shut -- but the cut had been jagged, and the cut had been cruel. Blood continued to ooze from Muzazi’s throat, and when he opened his mouth to breathe he found nothing but panic and a burning lack. The blade wasn’t done yet, either: it plunged into Muzazi’s back -- once, twice, thrice.

The fourth stab was stopped as Morgan Nacht, incandescent with rage, let loose a whip of black Fog that surely would have taken Hazzard’s head off if it hit.

It did not hit.

Folding himself into a mere scrap in an instant, Gregori avoided the blow, flitted between Muzazi’s legs, flitted between Morgan’s legs, and slashed the younger man twice in the back. Morgan staggered forwards, caught off-guard by the near-instant retaliation. Grabbing Morgan by the back of his hair, Gregori raised a blade-arm and prepared for the finishing blow.

Under these circumstances, against these exhausted opponents, Gregori clearly had no doubt that he would win. That was the sort of arrogance that rested behind those crimson eyes.

Muzazi collapsed bleeding to the floor, his strength spent, and Gregori brought his blade down towards the back of Morgan’s neck. Clearly, he intended to have servant join master. The slightest smirk played across his lips.

He’d won.

Ruth Blaine was running down the corridor to reach this place. Jamilu Aguta was weakly reaching for his spear from his sickbed. Neither of them would make it in time. He’d eliminate Morgan Nacht, and then he’d eliminate Atoy Muzazi, and then he’d eliminate the rest of them.

There was nothing they could do anymore. They’d reached the limits of human beings. He had seized the moment and made it his own.

The blade that was Gregori Hazzard’s hand went to pierce through Morgan’s neck --

Perfect Parry.

-- but stopped, suddenly captured, inches away.

Gregori’s eyes flicked upwards, all confidence suddenly vanished -- and saw the shape of the person slumped against the doorway. Del Sed. The moment had been lost. The moment had been stolen.

And, as Gregori Hazzard realized that, half-a-dozen comeuppances came for him at once.

AETHERAL SPACE 15.1

"Serendipity"

Two Weeks Later…

"So," said Jaime Pierrot, steepling his fingers on the table before him. "We have a new Supreme."

He and his three associates looked up at the holographic display dominating the room -- a transmission swiped from the Supremacy’s communication network. Dragan Hadrien’s coronation as Supreme had gone ahead last week, and now these backstage actors of the UAP watched as he gained the throne and lost his name. Pierrot narrowed his eyes as he looked at the young man: that calm face, that bright white cloak that nearly seemed to glow, those resolute blue eyes… Hadrien had certainly changed since the UniteRegent.

The new Supreme had broken from tradition with his coronation. Rather than appearing before the gathered servants on Azum-Ha, Hadrien had elected for a private crowning ceremony with just his supporters on the Shesha itself. Opinions on that, along with the mass pardons he’d handed out through some of the Supremacy’s top-security prisons, were mixed.

Clumsy mistakes. Pierrot recognised them. The boy was trying to seize things bigger than his hands.

"Thoughts?" Pierrot asked his companions.

Needless to say, none of them were truly in Pierrot’s darkened office. As important members of the Central Governing Council, they couldn’t be pulled away from their own work -- and besides, a gathering of this level would stink of conspiracy to anyone who spotted it. Best to keep things low-profile, and have the assembly call in via hologram as well.

Shen Xiurong, the newest addition to their little group, glanced at Pierrot with his discerning sapphire eyes. "I’d say we were fortunate to acquire Atoy Muzazi when we did."

"How so?" Agnes von Frostburn asked, raising an eyebrow. Despite her recent personal tragedy, the young Tsarina of Adrust was as unflappable as ever.

"An unpopular new Supreme?" Xiurong went on. "One that breaks with tradition and then complies with it seemingly at random? The sheep will smell incompetence, and some of them will choose to become wolves. When they do, Atoy Muzazi will make a fine symbol for them to rally behind."

Agnes blinked. "You think we should start a civil war in the Supremacy?"

"I think it’s an option we have open to us, one we’d be foolish to discount. If my information is correct, Muzazi is likely to survive his injuries." He glanced at Pierrot. "Or am I wrong?"

"You’re right," Pierrot nodded. "Thanks to the efforts of Nebula Two and… Nebula Five… of course, we were able to get Muzazi here mostly intact. He’s making a slow recovery. When the time comes to use him, he’ll be usable."

Albert Raise, Prime Minister of the Lesser Chain, cleared his throat as his flickering image leaned forward in its seat. "While we’re on the topic… Gregori Hazzard. The Special Officer."

Xiurong nodded. "I still think we should kill him. Erase him before anyone knows we have him in custody."

Agnes side-eyed the older man. "Gregori Hazzard is a trusted subordinate of Ascendant-General Toll. If it comes out we got rid of him, Toll could push for a war right then and there. He has the temperament for it."

"I agree with Agnes," Pierrot nodded. "Our best course of action is to keep Hazzard as a hostage, for the time being. There may come a time where we can use him as a bargaining chip."

"You think we should inform the Supremacy that we’ve captured him, then?" Raise asked, brow knitted in concern.

"No," Pierrot replied quickly. "But we shouldn’t stop them from finding that out for themselves. I’ll advise the Ultraviolets."

Albert quietly nodded.

"Hazzard lives," Pierrot concluded. "And Muzazi is kept in reserve. Agreed?"

"Agreed," the table echoed.

"Moving on, then," Xiurong tapped his finger against the table. "Pandershi. It seems he’ll be getting his assembly."

Pierrot nodded. It was true. Earlier that week, Zephyr Pandershi had proposed that the Central Governing Council meet in-person on Serendipity to discuss the threat proposed by the new Supreme. Many of the members had already agreed to a meeting at the end of the month.

"He’s up to something," Agnes said.

"Of course he is," Pierrot grunted. "That’s his nature. But, under the circumstances, we have no cause to deny his proposal -- and there’s every possibility we can turn his schemes around to benefit us."

"You’d like the three of us to publicly agree to the meeting, then?" Xiurong asked, resting his chin on the back of his hand.

Pierrot looked back at him. "You were born free."

"How lovely. That is what you want us to do, though, isn’t it?"

For a moment, Pierrot just continued to stare at the Lord Mayor… and then, slowly, he nodded. It was a nod he still wasn’t entirely sure about, a nod that could turn the gears of the UAP around itself… but if the Prince made no move to warn him against it, he supposed it couldn’t be so bad.

"The Nebula will be gathered on Serendipity by month’s end," Pierrot declared, sitting up straight, injecting some statesmanship into his posture. "Albert. How goes your work on finding a new Nebula for the Lesser Chain?"

Raise fidgeted idly. "I’ve got some candidates I’m sifting through," he mumbled. "Don’t worry. I’ll have someone here by the time of the meeting."

Pierrot smiled slightly at those words. Despite how oddly helpless his old teacher could come across as, Albert Raise had never given Jaime Pierrot reason to worry.

"I hope Misery will finally dispose of Nebula Ten," Agnes sighed. "It’s disgraceful that human garbage like that is even allowed inside this building."

"You know it’s not up to the boy," Xiurong said.

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"Still," Agnes closed her eyes for a second, stuffing away whatever sliver of sentiment she’d accidentally revealed. "I hope Irons goes the way of Westmore. Good riddance to bad rubbish."

"Yes, yes, Westmore, yes," Raise nodded hurriedly. "Pandershi will be needing a new Nebula as well, won’t he, with his traitor having absconded?"

As the discussion went on, Pierrot found himself looking at Agnes von Frostburn. She was putting on a good show, but Pierrot knew better. Adrust would be needing a new Nebula as well, now that Rufus was gone. Despite how it looked, Agnes was certainly affected by that.

"I’m sure you’re all very busy," Pierrot eventually said, cutting off the conversation. "We’ll convene again in a few days to discuss developments."

Three nods.

"Peace and joy for all mankind," he said.

Two echoes.

As Agnes and Albert rattled off their little salute, Xiurong remained silent. He just stared at Pierrot with those calm blue eyes, his expression distinctly amused. It had only been a little while since Xiurong had joined their little group, but Pierrot was already certain of it: the Lord Mayor of Jìnhuà would be the next to host the Prince. He had the temperament required.

The holograms flickered out of existence as the window-shades ascended. Pierrot groaned, rubbing his nose as he leaned back in the chair. Recently, the beautiful cityscape -- the beautiful sunlight -- of Serendipity had started to feel more and more like just another searing burn.

He was getting old. Old, and tired -- but he had a thing for that. His three-o-clock.

Pierrot flicked on his videograph, and looked at the smiling face of his granddaughter.

"Hi, honey!" he said, grinning. "How’s school?"

Jaime Pierrot was not having an idea.

As he ended the video call with his granddaughter and let the smile slowly trickle from his face, he turned in his seat and looked out at the city-world of Serendipity. The last bastion of freedom in the galaxy. The final, greatest defense against the warmongering Supremacy. Perhaps it was not true, but it was a good identity to claim. Identity was the most important organ a human being possessed.

Pierrot considered that, and he considered the idea he was not having.

The escapees from the Supremacy were potent pieces -- but some had to be treated with more consideration than others. Atoy Muzazi, the could-have-been Supreme, was still in critical condition. While he’d escaped the immediate jaws of death, Pierrot had no doubt that the new Supreme would do his best to finish his opponent off, no matter how far he ran.

That piece was made of fine crystal -- to be handled with great care.

The others, though… there was potential there. Morgan Nacht, Ruth Blaine, Bruno and Serena… del Sed. A bitter feeling trickled through Pierrot’s heart. There was the Annatrice girl, too. Five pieces of little political value, but astounding utility. They didn’t enjoy the same protections as a rival-in-exile. There was potential that could be exploited without repercussion or challenge.

He did not have an idea about how to utilize that potential. The idea existed, but it did not belong to him.

It was always the strangest feeling, when a thought like this came up. The concept that had appeared in his head had his handwriting, but not his signature. It was his footstep, but not his foot. He had learnt from experience that, when such sourceless inspiration appeared, it could only mean one thing.

This was the will of the Prince.

Harry plunged his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, head hanging low, as he stalked through the rain-filled streets of Taldan.

He could feel it in his hand, tightly gripped -- the drive that would give him access to Tulston Dritt’s accounts. From there, it was simply a matter of siphoning the credits and making a hasty escape from this planet. Dritt’s ill-gotten wealth would provide comfort for a time.

Still, as he moved with the crowd through one of Taldan’s tunnel-bridges, Harry couldn’t help but run through his supposed victory in his head, over and over again. Had he made any mistakes? When he’d infiltrated the restaurant, had there been anything that could have given away his true identity -- or at least his true reason for being here?

No. No, there couldn’t have been. Could there? He’d been so careful. Hadn’t he?

Practiced hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He didn’t even need to turn around to know that someone was after him. He didn’t even need to see their faces to know who they were.

His killers. He’d messed up. He was dead. No other options. He had to get away. Harry took a deep, anxiety-soaked breath…

Will Lock.

Escape.

… and let it out again, as calm as a machine.

He needed to achieve his objective. His objective was to Escape. Everything else was irrelevant until it became a factor helping or hindering his objective. All other emotions and impulses were disabled for the time being. Even self-awareness had become vague and indistinct.

So.

Harry

> broke into a sprint.

> pushed through the crowd.

> felt a hand on his shoulder, and he drove his knife into that hand.

> drove his knife into the throat of his attacker.

> resumed sprinting.

> turned on his heel.

> ran down the alley.

> went to climb the wall at the alley’s end.

> fell.

A bullet had slammed into his leg, sending him right down to the ground. Two attackers remained. Dritt’s men, with sour faces and guns. Escape was no longer possible under these circumstances.

Will Lock.

Cancel.

Once circumstances sealed off Harry’s objective, Will Lock could no longer be sustained -- and all the pain and fear and shock returned in an instant. He collapsed onto the floor as a bleeding ball, arms waving desperately in the air, hyperventilated breaths rushing incoherently in and out of his mouth.

"Dumbass," the first man said, spitting a cigarette into the gutter. "Dritt said not to kill him. He wants to teach the brat a lesson personally."

"Does he look dead to you?" the second asked, appraising the prone Harry with cold blue eyes. "This way, he can’t run. It’s easier to teach when the students can’t leave, right?"

"Please!" Harry screamed, kicking at the air with his good leg, as if his meagre strength could keep these two at bay. "Wait, wait, wait! Please!"

"Y, he’s loud," the first man muttered as he approached. "You’re the one who shot him, so you gotta make sure he don’t bleed out. I’m not gonna explain to the boss why his classroom’s empty, yeah?"

"Whatever," the second man rolled his eyes, pistol still trained on Harry as he came over too. "Just make sure he stays still. That brat kicks me, he’s losing the --"

"Stop doing that."

The calm voice cut through the night-rain of Taldan. It wasn’t that the speaker had been loud. In fact, they’d muttered their words more than anything else, a bored-sounding monotone with just a hint of gloominess. Yes, it was just muttering, but anyone who heard it would agree on one thing.

That was how God would mutter.

The two thugs turned, their prey forgotten in an instant, that pistol already pointing at the new arrival.

A woman in a black tracksuit stood at the mouth of the alley, illuminated from behind by a crooked streetlight. She was older than Harry, he could see -- in her late twenties, most likely. She stared down the length of the urban vein, messy black hair concealing her eyes from view. That mop looked like it had encountered a brush only a couple of times in its life, and scissors even less.

The first man turned to face the woman, his hand resting on his own holstered pistol. "This is Royale Club business, ma’am. You understand? You from around here?"

"I’m not from around here," the woman replied.

"Then all you need to know is you mind your own business when it comes to us," he said. "Understand?"

The woman slowly cocked her head, her eyes coming into view as her hair drooped to one side.

A shudder went down Harry’s spine.

It wasn’t just because he knew this woman. It wasn’t just because of the agony from his wound. It was because of those eyes. Those completely normal, completely regular brown eyes. The eyes themselves weren’t the problem. It was just… people said they were the windows to the soul, and on the other side of those windows… Harry could sense something far more important than him. Something that existed far more than he did.

He was bacteria beneath a microscope.

"Everything is my business," the woman said, slowly walking down the length of the alley. "The stars in the sky. The bricks in these walls here. Every drop of blood in your veins. Every breath you’ve ever taken. All of that is my business."

Despite her absurd words, her voice contained no trace of arrogance. She spoke calmly and clearly. To her, this was a mere statement of fact. A universal formula she was now imparting upon them.

The first man lost his patience. In one smooth motion, he pulled his pistol from his holster and pointed it at the woman. The second man mimicked him, an eager smile spreading across his lips. The woman stopped her approach.

"Last warning, lady," the first man said seriously, his finger flicking the safety of his gun off. "Turn around and forget what you saw."

By way of reply, the woman just raised her arm and pointed her index finger at the two gunmen before her. They exchanged a bewildered, slightly amused glance between themselves. Then, the woman spoke.

"Bang," she said.

For a moment, the two men just stood there in silence. Then, they exchanged another look -- smirks opening up into grins. Finally losing all ability to take this weirdo seriously, they began to laugh uproariously.

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The woman just stood there, hands returning to her pockets, as the laughter bounced off the walls.

But then, they stopped laughing.

And then they put their guns to their heads.

And then they pulled the triggers.

Blood and brains sprayed onto the walls, and Harry watched in muted terror as the woman came over. She stepped over the corpses like they were speed-bumps in the road, not even looking down as she walked across a dead man’s chest. Finally, she hopped down and regarded the prone Harry.

"Harrison del Sed," she said.

This was not a question. Harry expected this wasn’t the sort of person who asked questions at all. He silently nodded at her.

For the first time, an expression broke onto the face of the Sed’s first graduate. It was the slightest twist of her lip, barely enough to qualify as a smirk, and it was gone in a moment… but it was enough to assure Harry that this person was a human, just like him. Perhaps that had been its purpose.

Erica del Sed extended a hand downwards.

"Come on," she said. "Let’s go home."