| >> | hey I thought I'd post a bit more of that sci fi story, just some ideas ive been working on for the past few days and really just found some sort of cohesion for today
When they approached the star coursed craft some pale hour of the morning, before Majula would have began its daily becoming to life, Yelly had the lasrifle disassembled and under her robe, and she would weeks’ voyage later, when her sandle first pressed sand on Laindsraad I. It was a fragmentary cold, against chest and underarm where it hung, casting an irregular weight on her, and casting in her an irregular frame, with only the tall sword’s straight weight at and down the center of her back to even or center her. Eighteen had taken an armful of explosives that morning then as well, all rolling and relic grenades, but she had forgotten about them since and left them behind on Anome’s ship. Anome herself had brought a few extra lasrifles aboard and they sat disassembled and cleaned, and waited indefinitely. Paul kicked up sand, and spit.
The infernal machine, which swung aberrantly yet gently as she skid and slid among that strange Laindsraad dawn’s first grey dunes, had been crafted on some burning iron dwarf moon in Iowa, and had made its way to Trachila through and then from the Aedread, where the farmer woman said it had arrived to, with its others, in the hands of a regiment dispatched directly from the Entuthon Berithon, to maintain an already ongoing terror campaign against the strayed and disparate corinthian forces that hunted slavers and slaver caravans in the now budding regions; and only just before the battle of New Pilate, as well, which and her wife and husbands and husbanders, with their wives and generations, had just barely by a gate’s wait avoided, leaving them to hop from mutilated planet to the next, from charred battlefield to charred and nameless homestead, in their short range pleasure shuttles for years until, desperately, reaching Trachila.
Yelly had listened back there on Trachila as the farmer woman finished with telling that she had had the Entuthon orders themselves, written in actual softscrip, with ink, but it had been too too many years since the wind had carried them cooled by the night and dawn from the bottom of her hearth to, before she paused, and only said as more, too too many years to, too, with an expression much more aged than her decades young face. But she didn’t tell Yelly, or even ever tell Chichi or anybody in her new life, that the young Emperor Alexei, who’d only just arrived Berithonside that day, and maybe for only the second time in his sprouting life, that he knew the new Pilate would fall, soon, and their forces, all concentrated, with it. Many an uncle had taken his hand in some attempt at warmly and told him it was necessary, just as many aunts, and even a male tutor who had to be reassigned to the young sovereign’s sister, were shut up and then barred from council.
She, herself, woman and now farmer, had only seen the young sovereign six times now, and he’d only spoken directly to her twice before that night, with never of each in person, only across rotate and vasty web comm lines and ears. Her and her wife and husbands, then, lived and operated tiers of deciacres of a farm at the twelfth level of a rippling atrisector, but the screen which gave up for her his soft, pubescent face, his clear skin riddled on it with technostellar distortions, was at an oupost- small, one person only- near a crystal bath on Aedread-Pilate’s surface, in which outpost the urinal, upon receiving urine of a certain scent, achieved by consuming oils of a particular nature not native to this galactic region or Corinthians’, and reading the melody hummed by the urinator, opened up way to a passage that led two miles underground.
She had waited in the dark hall for her husband one above to piss and descend, but before that the small sovereign voice came from the glow at the entrance to the room where his flat portrait awaited her, that voice inquiring over the glow, and requesting, “Darling.”; not her real name, nor her husband’s.
From before her then in the small room he looked at her as if he could know her. He said like an angel: “Forget the formal dinner my uncle ordered.” Her and her husband one and two were assigned to entertain the planetary region’s prominent capitalists and other deneaurocrats, as they had done near monthly for decades on this assignment, so some intel uncle could listen, could then report, and so on, where she was lost. “Don’t even cancel it. It doesn’t matter, Pilate is falling tonight. Tell your husbands if you think you must, the option is yours, but please, leave.” So she did. One husband remained behind to entertain and then poison their impending guests so that they could not leave come the chaos of the initial planetwide breach of regimental fleetlines. It had been the last she ever heard from the Entuthon, and she was content that it would be the last.
The only occasions in which the deformated lasarm ceased to bother Yelly were when Eighteen picked her up and carried her, in flight, in her arms, body and lasrifle pieces apart and all dangling, or otherwise in flight on Paul’s small back, her and her company and her arms of both kind all flying freely. |
