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Saskia del Norma walks handcuffed into a room with a man on his deathbed.
“Saskia…” A whispery, shredded baritone of a voice wheezes out, somewhere further within the dark, curtained interior. “You’re here.”
The guard beside her shifts uncomfortably. She looks young, a few beads of Caenum still strung on her abacus. The breastplate of the Tripotentiary Guard is one size too big for her. “Your Valorousness,” she attempts. “I have served my station and delivered you the Queen of the Breach, Saskia del Norma. Do you in your gloriousness deem my actions as Valorous—“
“Leave us.” He cuts her off. “And take off Miss del Norma’s handcuffs.”
Something like desperation flashes in the guard’s eyes. “Your Valorousness—“ She begins to protest.
“Don’t make me ask again.” He says. An empty threat from a dying man, but the guard’s face falls flat and stony. She bows her head in submission and follows the order regardless.
As Saskia flexes her fingers after the guard released her from the cuffs, she feels something subtly pressed into her hand. The hilt of a small knife, practically a letter opener, but the blade sharp and glinting in the dim light. Her fingers fold around the hilt on autopilot.
“Why?” She murmurs softly to the guard who had given her the weapon.
The guard glances further into the room, then presses a hand to her abacus. “I finally see a way out.” She whispers. She raises her voice so the man can hear her say, “I will stand watch at the door, Your Valorousness.”
With a final grim, resigned look to Saskia, the guard steps out of the room, leaving Saskia alone with a knife and him.
Saskia begins to walk trepidatiously into the room, her heart thumping heavily. She notices her hands shaking and clenches them to stop, slipping the small knife into a pocket on her skirt.
As Saskia walks further into the room, she begins to feel a sense of dejá vú, her two bodies feeling connected despite being so far apart. Back on Midst, she takes a slow stroll through the Black Candle Cabaret, empty and dark in the blazing midday. With two pairs of eyes in two separate locations, she simultaneously sees velvet curtains hung from the ceiling like the ribcage of a whale, stained glass lamps positioned tastefully on end tables, a classy color palette of dark tones and reds and purples. The Black Candle changed during the Moonfall and has a new purpose as the town shelter, but this room in the Highest Light almost appears like a time capsule of what it had been before. Though of course, as Saskia looks around, it is far more cluttered and dusty than the cabaret had ever been.
Saskia can’t help a strange feeling of nostalgia and anticipation, like she used to feel in those last quiet moments before stepping onto the cabaret stage. It is pitch black throughout most of the room, any noises muffled by thick velvet curtains blocking out the outside light. Just in front of her is the only light source in the room, illuminating the man waiting for her. The stage beckons, and she steps from the dark into her spotlight.
The man is hooked up to a giant pumping machine, wheezing and churning in a way the musical part of Saskia’s brain can almost find a rhythm in. Like a little spider on a massive web, dozens of tubes siphon dark liquid out of him into a whirring device that takes up the whole wall. He lays on a velvet fainting couch, covered in a blanket of Valor, glinting in the gentle pulsating glow of the only light source in the room which is, of all things, a Fold-safe lamp. An empty overstuffed chair faces the couch, and Saskia sighs before taking an elegant seat on it.
Jet black eyes glazed over in pain abruptly sharpen to focus on her. “Saskia.” His voice wheezes out laboriously, clutching her name with the awe and desperation one might invoke a saint with. A translucent hand with pulsing, overfull black veins spiders out of the blanket, across the satin of her skirt to rest on her lap. “Saskia, Saskia. You’re here.”
She takes his hand. “Hello, Weepe.”
*****
Saskia del Norma, celebrity extraordinaire, broke even very quickly in her career—a young breakout star her fans just couldn’t get enough of. She had this way of making the spotlight feel like it was made specially for her, as if there was nowhere else in the cosmos she could conceivably be. Magazines covers with her face stared at her from store windows, plush red carpets spread before her into clubs she never could have stared at too long at as a young girl, heads turned to behold her in the vain hope of catching her ever-distant eyes.
Bright lights enveloped her body, and she lapped it up, soaked it into her skin like she was dying for it. High on being an overnight sensation in the city that never goes dark, she twirled Valor around her finger as her half-lidded eyes demanded more from life—another song, another drink, another hit. She was beautiful. She was elegant. She was everything. A roulette wheel of people and anything she wanted as long as she sang another song for it. Bright lights and a dulcet voice and the cosmos was hers for the taking.
She counted her Valor after every show she performed, more and more joining her signature tasteful necklace. I am perfect, she thought, and believed it, and wondered why she felt so sick to her stomach.
*****
Clara Mire was dying.
Saskia, the runaway terrorist, sat with the rest of her co-conspirators on the dusty ceiling of an upside-down cruise ship wreck, listening to a live teletheric broadcast of Clara Mire’s ritual execution.
The Breach was in poor spirits, to put it mildly, scratched up by mica and feeling the weight of failure heavy upon themselves. Phineas Thatch had defected, Lark was captured, Milton Fleit had been caught in the crossfires, and they’d lost their original plan in favor of blowing up only the Caenum silo. They were forced to flee before worse fates awaited them at the hands of the Trust.
Gretel had brought Saskia, Hieronymous, Agatha Ledge and Backpack to a spot she knew—a wreck of a cruise ship pinned upside down to a gigantic mica berg. Gretel quickly dropped them off before flying herself back to the Highest Light. As their getaway driver, she was the only one who hadn’t been seen at the Arca and whose cover wasn’t totally blown. She had the chance to monitor the situation and be their voice from the inside—not that they had any clue what to do next, having lost their resources, leverage, and hope.
All of them had wordlessly agreed to listen to the execution, a sort of useless honor-bound notion that this was the last thing they could do to be there for the comrade they left behind. They huddled around the teletheric in various stages of anger and grief. Agatha Ledge rubbed the back of a sniffling Backpack, Hieronymous furiously paced the room, and Saskia elegantly and quietly sat on the dusty floor with her hands pressed to her mouth.
“For the good of the Trust.” The Tripotentiary’s grainy voice emanated from the teletheric Backpack rigged to get signal. Saskia hid a wince. “We commence the Rebalancing.” Music played grandly as the announcer narrated Clara Mire’s definite demise—the Imbalance subsumed by the Valor of the Trust.
Saskia clenched her hands and let out a long, measured breath. Backpack started crying in earnest. “Well,” Hieronymous said. “Shit. Now that we’ve heard that—“
Everyone startled as screams and the sound of an explosion suddenly emanated out from the little speaker.
“What the hell?” Backpack lunged for the teletheric, picking it up and shaking it in disbelief. “What’s happening? What’s going on?”
The announcer of the broadcast was screaming, the scratchy sound of jostling and running with the recording equipment layered on top of the blast of an explosion, glass shattering, mica shrapnel flying, and a noise only Saskia recognized, one that immediately sent a flash of panic down her spine—the strange rattling hiss of a tearror.
“Did something happen with the fake Valor beads?” Ledge was asking desperately. “What’s causing this? Is this real?”
“I think Lark is doing this.” Saskia breathed out.
“How?!” Backpack waved the teletheric around as if looking for a better signal that could make it all make sense.
“The Imbalance has summoned a tearror!” The announcer was yelling into the mic. “Coming to you live from evacuating the Central Vault, the mica-laden explosion from within the Arca has injured several, death toll currently unknown! Those closest to the silo upon detonation were most at risk, but the danger is still present as evacuation attempts continue! A reminder that tearrors pose serious threat of injury and death, so stay as far away as possible if you see one and report it to the nearest Company member immediately!”
Hieronymous’ eyes went wide. “Imogen. She’s in there. Shit. She may be—“ He cut himself off with a frustrated noise.
Saskia stood. “We have to go back. We can't stay here and do nothing.” She began strapping a respirator on, bundling up her minimal supplies into a pack.
“Whoa, whoa whoa.” Agatha Ledge stepped in front of her and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Even if we could do anything, even if we wouldn’t be immediately captured upon return to the Highest Light, Gretel took the limpet ship. We have no way to get there, Saskia, we are stuck here.”
On Midst, tears formed in Saskia’s eyes.
She sat with Sherman and Tzila at the bar of the cabaret, clutching both of their hands as they listened to the same live broadcast Saskia’s other body was hearing on the cruise ship. Both Sherman and Tzila were crying hard, tears dripping down their faces. Saskia squeezed their hands and tried to stay strong, but even she could feel her voice—her voice, steadfast and lovely—getting caught uselessly in her throat.
“Landlord.” Tzila sobbed out. “Landlord, I’ve got to find Landlord, he—“
She shoved herself out of her chair, rubbing furiously at her eyes as she ran out the door. Sherman and Saskia watched her go, a silent agreement passing between them to give her a moment before checking in.
Sherman sighed shakily and switched off the teletheric. “Fuck.” He muttered. “Fuck! I can’t believe—“ Abruptly he stood and went behind the bar, pulling bottles from the shelf and setting out glasses.
“I’m so sorry, Sherman.” Saskia said softly. “I know you… cared for her.”
Sherman barked out a bitter laugh and set down a mixer so hard it sloshed onto the counter. “Cared for her. Saskia, I’m the reason she’s dead.”
“Sherman!” Saskia stood up to look him in the eyes imploringly. He avoided her gaze, turning around towards the bottles on the shelf. “How could you think that? You’re in no way responsible for—“
“How do you think the Trust figured out who Clara Mire is?” Sherman asked in a low tone, completely turned away from her. His shoulders sagged. “Who Clara Mire was. I’m the reason. I gave her up.”
“What?” Saskia asked. Sherman breathed hard and still would not turn around to look at her. “How… How could you have known that? Why would you have—“
Sherman shook his head. “I’ve told too many of Lark’s secrets already. I thought…” His body shook as he began crying again. “They told me they could find Tzila. Weepe told me they could find Tzila.”
Saskia’s breath hitched. “He was lying.”
Sherman shrugged. “I don’t even know if he was or not. But I knew my daughter was with a murderer. I knew I entrusted my daughter into the hands of a murderer who would do anything to survive.” He scoffed at himself. “And it was maybe the safest place in the cosmos she could have been.”
“It’s not your fault, Sherman.” Saskia said. “If anything, I left Lark behind in the Arca. When Tzila was in my care I lost track of her. Blame me for that.” She went around the bar and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You were in an impossible situation. Of course Tzila was the main priority.”
“Yeah, well.” Sherman finished making his drink and took a long sip. “Doesn’t matter who’s at fault now. Lark’s dead and it sounds like she proved she was as dangerous as you warned me.”
Saskia’s heart sank. “That was rather hypocritical of me.” She said lightly. “As we’re all aware now, it’s not like I kept any less dangerous company.”
Sherman put his head in his hands. “What did we see in them?”
“What we hoped to, I suppose.”
*****
Saskia, the cabaret owner, brought three fingers of whiskey and a cigar to Weepe’s office and caught him just as he was finishing his nightly medical routine. He grimaced as he pulled the syringe from his arm, but nodded at her gratefully when she slid the drink across his desk to him. With slightly trembling fingers, he put the cigar to his lips, and she lit it for him without any prompting.
“Thanks for the painkillers, my dear.” He puffed a smoke ring at her and she waved it away, raising an amused eyebrow at him.
“Of course. You missed the show, I hoped I might find you in here.”
Weepe shrugged, waved a random financial document as explanation. “Got my calculations to wrap up and—hey, nothing for yourself, Miss del Norma?” He asked, pointing with his cigar at how she hadn’t brought anything for herself—no drink, no smoke, no indulgences. “You got no vices?” The tone of his voice sounded like he just might believe that.
She smiled lightly at him. “On the contrary, Weepe, too many. I try not to feed them.”
Two glasses of wine on the weekends, no more and no less, since she had arrived on Midst years prior.
He snorted. “Damn, okay. My vices are fat and happy, Miss del Norma. Fat and fuckin’ happy.” In demonstration he threw back half his drink in a single gulp, and Saskia smirked.
“I don’t suppose the extra treats I’ve caught slipped into Barty and Lloyd’s bowls would be any indication of this mindset?”
He shook his head. “You seen how big those dogs are getting, Saskia? Those things are gonna end up huge. They're gonna eat me, they’re gonna eat you if we don’t make it crystal clear to their dog brains who the breadwinners are while they’re young and impressionable.”
“No!” She protested, but she was laughing too much for it to hold any weight. Weepe smiled, abruptly and strangely, a bemused sort of expression crossing his opalescent face—nigh unreadable, unless you were Saskia del Norma.
“Those mutts are your damn vice, Saskia.” Weepe took a drag of his cigar, waved it in a general expression at the whole place around them. “You and your strays.”
“Well, I don’t know, I’m sure some might see it as a virtue.” She countered easily.
Weepe looked at her for a long moment. “Yeah, okay. Sure. Some might.”
He downed the last of his drink.
*****
There was someone on the abandoned cruise ship.
Saskia, exhausted and wary, put a finger to her lips for Hieronymous, Agatha, and Backpack to go silent. Someone had just flown a ship close by—too close by for coincidence. Gretel wasn’t expected back for a few more days, and Saskia didn’t believe highly enough in their luck to think this was just an early pickup. Sure enough, from the other side of the ship, she strained to hear the faint sound of clattering and heavy boots. They had been found.
She cast an evaluating glance around the room. Agatha Ledge, a woman used to the life and luxury of an upper Trustee. Hieronymous, with his haunted eyes and head wound wrapped with a blood-stained bandage. Backpack, brave but so, so young still. All trapped on this ship with nowhere to run. None of her compatriots were killers—well. Hmm. They weren’t, at least, up close and personal killers.
Saskia picked a pipe off the floor from where it lay amongst the detritus, some broken piece of the plumbing. Her fingers wrapped easily around the metal, and there was a good heft to it. It would have to do.
“Hide.” She whispered to her companions, and then snuck off into the hallway, stepping as lightly as she could around the broken objects and shattered glass.
The closer she crept confirmed her initial fears. There was someone in the cruise ship with them, walking through with heavy footsteps. The sound grew louder, so she gripped the pipe tightly and ducked into an alcove.
A few moments later, Saskia saw the shadow of a figure on the opposite wall, broken glass crunching underfoot. Silently, she stepped out and swung in the direction of their head as hard as she could.
The person gave an aborted shout, catching the pipe in strong hands. Saskia had a brief flash of fearful understanding that this person could fight, and fight well, before the pipe was ripped from her grasp. Following the momentum, her opponent skillfully grabbed her, spun her around, and slammed her into the wall, a strong arm keeping her pinned.
The air left Saskia’s lungs, and on instinct she grabbed at the place her pocket would be for a switchblade that wasn’t there. She wasn’t in her normal apparel, she was still in her Company outfit from the failed Arca mission. Stupid, she chided herself, fighting against the panic clawing its way up her throat. If she died here, what did that mean for her body back on Midst?
“Saskia del Norma?” The person pinning her said in a disbelieving tone, deep voice muffled by a respirator. The pressure of the arm holding her against the wall suddenly fell away, leaving Saskia to scramble to regain her footing. She looked up sharply, adrenaline still coursing through her veins, to see the large figure take off his respirator and reveal the lauded face of Jonas Spahr.
“Consector.” Both of her bodies couldn’t help but say sharply, fearfully. On Midst, Patricia gave her a worried look, and she regained enough control to wave her away. On the cruise ship, Spahr winced.
“Not anymore.” He corrected. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, the dark circles underneath making him look gaunt and crazed. There was also no sign of his abacus, but Saskia wasn’t about to read too heavily into that. “Care to tell me what the hell you’re doing here?”
Saskia blinked incredulously. Her animal fear over being found didn’t entirely fade, but gradually her composure was returning to her. “No, I don’t think I care to at all, former Consector.”
He did not seem like his Consector job was completely behind him, the way he straightened his posture and assessed her with calculating eyes. “This is where the Breach is hiding.” He guessed accurately.
“This is where I am hiding.” Saskia corrected sharply—fuck, too sharply to be believable, based on Spahr’s raised eyebrow. She desperately hoped the others could keep being quiet and out of sight.
Spahr didn’t immediately call her on her bluff. “By the current decree of the Tripotentiary, you and the Breach are one and the same.” He said.
A new, complicated emotion entered the whirlwind of her mind. Weepe had survived the explosion she heard over the teletheric. “Congratulations then, Consector.” She saw Spahr open his mouth to correct her again and she shook her head. “No, surely the Trust will reinstate you as something when you come back with me as your prisoner. The Prime Consector has quelled the Breach once and for all. Wasn’t that what you originally set out to do on Midst?”
On Midst, Barty and Lloyd sensed her nerves and came up on either side of her, pressing their soft heads into her hands. She scratched behind their ears gratefully.
Spahr’s jaw tightened. “Not my intention, thank you. I’m not here on behalf of the Trust or Company. I’m here for—”
“There’s no other reason to be here.” Saskia interrupted gently but firmly. “Treat me with some dignity, Consector. Am I to suppose you just… happened upon this exact place?”
“Yes.” Spahr ground out frustratedly, but a second later he scoffed to himself and ran a hand over his face. “No. You’re right. I did think the Breach would be here. I’m looking for—“
“I’m the only one here.“ Saskia tried to interject. Spahr gave her an unimpressed look.
“Treat me with some dignity, Saskia del Norma. This is not a well-known spot. Only a Company member would have known to hide you here.”
Saskia’s heart skipped a beat, her mind flashing to Gretel flying back alone to the Highest Light. Did Spahr know she was the mole? Was this a revenge plot? A power play? A—
“Phineas Thatch.” Spahr said firmly, his mouth set in a grim line. “Phineas Thatch brought you here. Where is he? I’m here to see him.”
Saskia liked to fancy herself a socially adept person, but she suddenly felt three steps behind in this dance of a conversation. “What?”
Almost imperceptibly, Spahr faltered as well. “I thought we were past the pretenses by now, del Norma. I know he’s with you.”
She huffed a disbelieving laugh, feeling completely off-kilter. “If he’s with anyone, he would be with you. He left the Breach very publically, as you might recall.”
There had been such a terrifying blankness in that boy’s eyes when he betrayed them in the Arca and delivered Lark to the Tripotentiary. The same way he had looked when he nearly killed Sherman. Saskia couldn’t think of him without feeling nauseous with anger.
“No.” Saskia was forced to refocus when Spahr shook his head resolutely. “Nice try. It was an infiltration plan, to use the Imbalance—Lark—as a weapon to destroy the rest of the Valor and Upper Trust. Thatch was in on it, that’s why he gave her up. Where is he now?”
“I can’t be any clearer with you.” Saskia said slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Phineas Thatch betrayed the Breach. There was no plan to— none of us wanted Lark to die. Whatever plan you’re talking about, I have no knowledge of, and neither, I would assume, does Phineas.”
Almost imperceptibly, she heard the slightest increase in his breathing rate. “Then where is he? He’s not in the Highest Light. If he’s not on this ship, where is he?”
Across the street on Midst, Saskia looked up and made accidental eye contact with Meryl Concord. In two bodies, her heart sank.
“Did he speak with Weepe at any point?” She asked through numb lips.
Slowly, Spahr nodded. “Before the execution, I believe they met. An altercation likely occurred. Some of that… that black blood Weepe has was spilled upon on the floor. Thatch is much more physically capable than Weepe, so I don’t think that—“
“Phineas Thatch is dead.” Saskia said. Jonas Spahr stilled. “I am absolutely sure of it.”
*****
Saskia, secret lynchpin of the Breach, stood over a dead body.
Calling it a “body” was generous. It was a steaming pile of black goo. It was a steaming pile of black goo that a couple minutes prior had been a man from the Trust threatening Saskia and the Black Candle Cabaret. She had subtly pulled a switchblade out from her skirt, waiting for the right moment to strike, but before she had a chance Weepe had come out of nowhere and stabbed the man in the neck with, of all things, one of his medical syringes. Then the man somehow was a steaming pile of black goo, and Saskia felt like she needed to sit down.
Weepe was looking at her with wild eyes, still clutching the empty syringe. Saskia was breathing very rapidly, she realized. She fumbled for a chair behind her and collapsed into it, placing a steadying hand over her racing heart.
Weepe took a step toward her, then thought better of it. He tucked the syringe into his breast pocket, wrung his hands out a little bit, made a strange half-bow he clearly regretted halfway through. “Well, Miss del Norma.” He said. “That was a good show, yanno it’s been fun. I’m just gonna take a bow and grab my coat and have one last drink and head on out, pleasure doing business with you but—“
She looked up at him in alarm. “Where are you going?”
He stopped, already nearly to the door. “Um. Out?”
She sighed, and patted the seat next to her. Weepe, seemingly against his better judgement, slunk his way over and tentatively sat beside her.
“He was going to hurt the Cabaret.” Saskia said numbly. “Everything I’ve—“ She looked at Weepe, who was still giving her a strange frenzied stare. “Everything we’ve built would have been gone. All those people that rely on this place… he was going to destroy it.”
Weepe cast a sharp sidelong look at her. Steepled his fingers. “Saskia. I’m just the guy who handles the finances of this whole damn place, so what the hell do I know? But you’re routing a criminal underground railroad from the Un to the Fold through a wannabe cabaret on Midst that puts on nude shows. He wasn’t just gonna put this business under, he was gonna fuckin’ kill you.”
Saskia opened her hand, showed Weepe the switchblade that she’d been clutching. “And I was going to kill him.”
Weepe blinked a few times, then reached for the knife. He picked it up, his fingers grazing her palm, and felt the heft of it, flicking it out a few times to inspect the blade. She kept it sharp. He nodded approvingly. “Where were you gonna aim this lil’ thing?”
“The neck.” Saskia said.
“Well.” Weepe handed her the knife back, and she slipped it into her skirt again. “Guess I saved you the trouble.”
“I suppose you did.” She looked at the steaming pile of black goo. “Made a bit of a mess, but, frankly, less messy than his body would have been. We’re going to need to clean that.”
“And we still haven’t acquired that vacuum cleaner yet.”
“More of a mop job, really.” Saskia said.
“Or one of those.”
Saskia laughed despite herself, and after a second Weepe joined in. Still, there was one last thing that kept her mind from being at ease.
“Weepe?” She asked. He hummed in response. “You injected him with the black blood you pull from your body. Then he died.”
Beside her, Weepe went rigid. “Yes, Miss del Norma? Your point?”
She tried to catch his eyes, but he angled his face too far away. “It just seems… painful for you to live with that inside you. You could take some time off to go to Sequester and see the Mothers. The cabaret can survive without you for just a little while.”
“No.” Weepe said, a little too sharply. She raised a poised eyebrow and he sighed, fidgeting his fingers restlessly.
“At some point, doesn’t even you gotta think that pain is just something that’s there, Saskia?” He asked, uncharacteristically flat in his tone. “That there are some things that just can’t be helped?” He didn’t say it like a question.
Deep in her gut Saskia hated his response, and he knew that. Weepe finally looked at her, their eyes locking together like magnets. He went very still. Saskia never knew if she was reading his blank eyes quite right, or just projecting the emotions she wanted him to feel onto the empty space. He slid his gaze away too fast for her to catch onto anything substantial.
“You are so goddamn stubborn.” She eventually said, and a delighted huff of laughter surprised its way out of Weepe’s throat.
“I aim to please, Miss del Norma.” He stood up, side-stepping the puddle of black goo, and gangily bowed as if preparing to lead her to the dance floor. “Now, in lieu of a vacuum cleaner, I gotta new diet idea for your dogs.”
Saskia smiled, and whistled for Barty and Lloyd.
*****
Saskia, unwilling bystander to the former Prime Consector’s poor excuse of a breakdown, watched him painstakingly pull himself together.
“We should kill Moc Weepe.” Spahr said, dangerously composed. He had not been just a few minutes prior.
Saskia, uneasily monitoring the flinty look in his eyes, shook her head. This felt less like talking to a person and more like defusing a bomb. “The Breach, despite all the propaganda you may have heard as Prime Consector, is just a system of extraction for Trustees that want out. We’re not assassins.”
“Milton Fleit.” Spahr started ticking off on his fingers. “Imelda Goldfinch. Imogen Loxlee. At least seven Upper Trustees.”
They had heard on the teletheric just yesterday that Lark’s execution-turned-explosion had a high-profile body count. Hieronymous hadn’t spoken a word to anyone since.
“That was Lark, not the Breach.” Saskia weakly protested. Spahr cocked an eyebrow as if to say “same difference.”
“Seems that you have solid credentials to me.” Spahr said. “It’s time to finish what you started.”
“We have finished what we started.” Saskia argued. “Lark took out the Valor silo, which concluded everything our original plan consisted of. Without its records and currency, the Trust will reorganize into something new of its own volition.”
“With all due respect, Miss del Norma, you are many things, but a politician is not one of them.” Spahr said. Saskia wasn’t impressed with his authority on the matter, as she was relatively sure the Prime Consectorship was more of a ceremonial position than a governmental one, but luckily for him she wasn’t in the mood to get pedantic.
Spahr continued grimly, “The Trust is in complete disarray right now. A full societal collapse. The only person with any semblance of authority left is the Tripotentiary, and he hasn’t made a public appearance since Lark’s detonation. I believe he was badly injured in the blast. Still, he’s been sending missives and mobilizing forces to pursue the Breach as best he can. Some are listening, hoping that their Valorous actions won’t be for nothing. Everyone else is left to panic. The people need guidance, but they need Weepe gone first.”
“Kill Weepe, and you kill the Trust.” A new voice said. Saskia and Spahr turned sharply to see Hieronymous standing at the end of the corridor. A pipe was held loosely in his hands, his grip on it not strong enough to do any real damage if he was forced to swing it. He caught Saskia’s alarmed expression and winced apologetically. “Sorry, Saskia. You were gone too long for me not to try to find you.”
“Mr. Loxlee.” Spahr nodded at him, unsurprised by his appearance. “Unusual circumstances we find ourselves in.”
Hieronymous gave him a withering look. “Did anyone follow you here, Prime Consector?”
Spahr, finally resigned to the usage of his former title, shook his head no decisively.
“Hold on.” Saskia broke in. “Our whole plan can’t be to just kill Weepe. Ending a rule with violence hardly ever works as a long-term peaceful solution.”
“Why not?” Hieronymous asked. “The Prime Consector is correct. It’s the best way to finish what we started. The Tripotentiary is the last semblance of any governance. Without him, the Trust can disband and choose new authority.”
“You all are in a perfect position for disposing of the Tripotentiary.” Spahr said. He pulled out a crumpled poster. Emblazoned across it in huge letters read “WANTED ALIVE: SASKIA DEL NORMA, THE QUEEN OF THE BREACH.” A sketch of Saskia in a slim black dress, her eyes crueller and her face gaunter than real life, stared icily at the viewer, the rest of the Arca team fanned out behind her.
“The Tripotentiary wants you captured alive and brought to him.” Spahr said. “I’m sure he’s weakened from the explosion. Ending his life could be a simple matter.”
“Both of your minds are clouded.” Saskia said sharply, pushing the poster away from herself. “You’re not pursuing liberation anymore, you’re avenging your own grief. We’re chasing after more death rather than thinking about returning to help Midst, or providing the Highest Light’s citizens with aid.”
“Your mind is clouded too, Saskia.” Hieronymous argued. “I know you and Weepe had affiliation with each other down on Midst. If it wasn’t him we were trying to kill, would you still protest this much?”
Saskia gaped at him, horrified by the terrible resoluteness in his features. “You’ve changed, Harry.”
He didn’t look at her. “Prime Consector, you have a vessel, I suppose?”
Spahr nodded. “It has enough fuel for a return trip.”
“Excellent.” Hieronymous continued not to look at her. “Saskia, the Prime Consector and I will embark on this new mission shortly. The others can find safety on Midst, but the Queen of the Breach would be invaluable for our purpose. Please, my old friend.” Yet again, he avoided her eyes. “Are you in?”
*****
Saskia del Norma, one of the Trust’s starlet singers, was losing her touch.
The Highest Light’s darling was still coveted, naturally, but it was the first time in three years she had not been invited to the Loxlee gala. There were other celebrities that rushed to seamlessly fill her spots, her flash of popularity vanishing with the same intense speed she gained it. Saskia felt herself being pushed out of the most renowned clubs and theaters, booked for more second-rate venues and smaller spots. Her managers got snippier with her, less heads turned when she walked into a room. The Valor she got for each performance was still immense, but, well. Not quite as immense as it once was. Saskia wanted to pull her hair out at the roots over it sometimes, but she made do.
That’s how she found herself performing one night at the Delagney Hotel—prestigious, certainly, but everyone in the business knew hotels were inferior venues. The stage was less ornate, the audience was more distractable—you were hired to be set dressing, not a main event. Saskia listlessly sang her retinue to a drifting crowd. It was her first time not having a pleasant buzz in a few days, and she already wanted to remedy that situation.
At the pinnacle moment of one of her most popular songs, her voice cracked audibly. She winced, then regretted having winced on stage, and attempted to croon out the rest of the song with enough verve to cover the mistake. Still, she saw a few audience members break from conversation to give the stage a confused look, and caught her manager’s glower from across the room. When the show wrapped up, the applause was lighter than she’d learned to subsist off of and she had no one to blame but herself for it.
Saskia wisped her way to the bar after the show, feeling a burning of embarrassment in the pit of her stomach. She sat down at a stool closest to where the bartender was chatting with a patron.
“Oh!” Upon seeing Saskia, the patron next to her did a double-take, pulling himself away from his conversation with the bartender. “Saskia del Norma!”
She tried to appease him with a gracious nod, largely ignoring him in favor waving a hand at the bartender to make her a drink. Still, the man kept going.
“That was remarkable, I’d like to say. I’ve been a fan of yours for some time now, but seeing you in person… well. Listening over the teletherics hardly holds a candle to seeing you live.” He smiled at her guilelessly.
Saskia gave him an assessing glance—he was handsome to be sure, a pleasing face, dressed with good taste but a far cry from designer. His abacus was Caenemous, not tremendously in-debt but unlikely to break even in his lifetime unless a miracle happened. Yet he spoke to her respectfully and comfortably, as if they were of equal station. Audacious, and Saskia didn’t enjoy any of his potential reasons why.
“Your flattery is well-intentioned yet unwelcome.” She responded coolly, the tendril of shame curling tight in her chest. “I’m not so easy as a few pretty words. Now if you’ll excuse me—“
“I did not mean to flatter.” He said quickly. “I’m being sincere, I promise. I… Well, to be honest, I liked your performance tonight better than your song on the teletheric because it sounded more… I don’t know, raw? Genuine? It spoke to me, is all I’m saying, and you can take my word on that. And to perform as frequently as you do and sound so lovely is very impressive, I can scarcely imagine the work it must take. My voice gets scratchy for doing far less.”
Saskia blinked, a little taken aback. She was no stranger to praise, but this was a different kind that she was typically used to. The bartender put the drink she ordered in front of her with a smile.
“Thank you, that really is… quite kind of you to say.” She graced him with a gentle smile, a beautiful twist of red lips. “And lemon helps keep the voice rested, though as you can see I seem to have found its limitations tonight.” She raised her glass to clink with his, drawing notice to the lemon peel within her cocktail.
The man laughed easily but not judgementally, and she found herself taking a liking to him despite herself. This, frankly, was more of a conversation with someone of his station than she’d had in years. But he had a certain charisma to him and Saskia didn’t want to return to the reprimand of her managers quite yet, so she kept the little conversation going.
“And you?” She asked. “You’ve made it clear you’re no singer, but there’s many other occupations, of course. How do you spend your days?”
He smiled, something in his eyes lighting up. “Me? I work in disaster relief. I help organize supply runs out to the outskirts of the Trust. Mica berg incidents are pretty common there, so we do what we can.”
For the second time in the conversation, Saskia found herself a bit startled. “That’s… quite the noble calling. You’re a downright philanthropist, aren’t you?”
The man snorted a little. “That’s kind, but I’m not quite rich enough to be considered a philanthropist. At my standing, I think the term used more is ‘social worker.’”
Saskia shook her head. “Remarkable.” She paused for a moment, but the openness of the stranger’s eyes convinced her to keep going. “May I ask… what calls you to it? Surely there are easier ways to…” She trailed off, but her eyes drifted to his abacus despite herself.
He shrugged, nonplussed, but took a second to truly consider the question. “If I was answering the teletherics, I’d say something canned about how it’s ‘the right thing to do’ or whatever.” He responded. “But that’s not the real reason—not all of it, at least. It’s hard to put into words. I do it because it makes me feel like my life is worth… something real, I suppose. I wake up in the morning and I know what I have to do with my day, and I fall asleep thinking that I did at least one thing that meant something. I don’t know if I’d be able to live with myself any other way.”
Saskia felt an unexpected kindling of longing surge in her stomach, bright and hot. It reminded her of stepping on a stage, a real stage, for the first time in her life, living in the moment before the first note. The way the stage hadn’t felt to her in years.
She picked up her glass, swirled it for a moment, and then set it down and turned back to the man. “What was your name?”
He stuck out his hand for her to shake. “Harry.”
She took it. “Harry, it’s a pleasure. How does one get involved with this line of work?”
*****
Saskia, conspirator extraordinaire, had a plan.
“When Gretel returns, get her to take you to Midst.” She instructed Agatha Ledge and Backpack as she urgently gathered all of her meager belongings off the floor. Hieronymous and Spahr were waiting for her as they started the limpet ship Spahr commandeered. “Meet with my other body immediately, I’ll explain everything. For now, I’m going with Hieronymous and Jonas Spahr back to the Highest Light.”
Agatha Ledge scrunched her face. “With Jonas—back to—Saskia, is that safe?”
“Probably not.” Saskia answered honestly. “But the plan I have relies on you two. Backpack, what media contacts do you have that could get to Midst in the next week?”
Backpack snapped to attention, the operative in her brain whirring back online. “Someone not Trust affiliated? Hmm, not many—wait! There is someone I know. They're about my age, is that alright?”
Saskia was already nodding. “Yes, that’s fine. Can you configure your teletherics to contact them?”
Backpack rifled through her equipment, pulling out gizmos and doohickeys Saskia could make no sense of. “They shouldn’t be in the Fold right now, so I think I can make that work.”
“Fantastic.” Saskia pulled Ledge and Backpack into a quick hug. “Stay safe. I’ll talk to you soon, when you get to Midst.”
“You stay safe too, Saskia.” Ledge said to her, and with that Saskia was off, her mind racing as she swiftly made her way to the limpet ship.
“Gretel will pick up Agatha Ledge and Backpack and bring them to safety on Midst.” Saskia told Hieronymous and Spahr when she climbed aboard the small craft.
Spahr shook his head minutely. “Of course. Gretel.” He muttered bitterly under his breath.
“Thank you for changing your mind, Saskia.” Hieronymous whispered to her. He laid a gentle hand on her arm. It was her turn to be unable to look him in the eyes.
“We found a bag of your possessions in Sherman’s apartment.” Spahr called back to them from where he was piloting, disentangling their craft from the upside-down cruise ship. “I brought it with me in case there was anything from it you needed.”
Sure enough, in the back of the ship, there were two bags next to each other. She recognized one of them as the bag she quickly threw together for her voyage to the Highest Light, mostly filled with extra clothing. It was a relief to see after so many days in the ill-fitting Company armor. She peeked into the other bag, and realized it contained a small amount of possessions that could only have belonged to Phineas. She tactfully didn’t mention anything, and Spahr kept eerily quiet as well.
“I have a small addendum to the plan I’d like to suggest.” Saskia called out. Both Spahr and Hieronymous cast glances at her: Spahr’s suspicious, Hieronymous’ hopeful. “If you genuinely want actionable change to happen in reaction to Weepe’s death, it can’t be a silent assassination. It needs to be a production.” From her bag, she pulled out her Valorous abacus and a black, satiny dress, almost identical to the one her sketch wore in the wanted poster.
Spahr’s expression changed to one of begrudging approval. “What do you suggest, Miss del Norma?”
*****
Saskia, tipsy in a way she usually didn’t let herself be, laughed with Weepe in the first post-show rush since getting the cabaret’s finances back in the green.
“If you had to die, Miss del Norma,” Weepe asked hazily, a bit far gone himself. “Like if you had to, how would you wanna go?”
Saskia thought carefully, unclipping her large earrings and shimmying out of the feathered costume she wore for the show. Weepe averted his eyes in a rare demonstration of gentlemanliness.
“Hmm.” She mused as she slipped into her evening attire. “Just after a performance, I think. Right there on the stage. I finish the song, the whole crowd applauds, and then gasps all at once! I collapse beautifully to the floor. Someone rushes up to check my pulse, but I’m already gone. She died doing what she loved, they’ll say about me. Rumors of the theater being haunted will last forever.”
Weepe wheezed for air, laughing unstoppably. “Damn, fuckin’ morbid, Saskia!”
“Hey!” She laughed as well, playfully swatting at him. “It was a morbid question! What did you think I was going to say?”
“Oh, I dunno.” Weepe snorted, then tried and failed horrifically to pitch his voice up in a terrible imitation of her. “I’m Saskia del Norma and I’m going to die peacefully of old age, right here in this cabaret, surrounded by my old-as-fuck dogs and looking right at your handsome face, Mr. Weepe.” He batted his eyes at her, dodged when she threw a tube of lipstick at him. “But no, Miss del Norma here wants to traumatize an audience to death, run out our whole damn business right after we finally fixed the finances up.”
Saskia turned up her nose at him, faux self-righteously. “You can’t deny it would be an excellent show.”
Weepe laughed again, lighting a cigar for himself. “I’ll deny anything, Saskia, you know me.”
She hummed in acceptance, then looked in the mirror to set about wiping the make-up off her face. “And you, Weepe? How would you die?”
Reflected in the mirror, she saw his grin sharpen. “Who’s to say I’m not already dead, my dear?” He spidered his fingers in the air menacingly, keeping the cigar caught between his teeth. “Maybe you already got your haunted theater!”
“A ghost with a smoking habit?” She asked wryly. He shrugged gamely.
“That’s the thing about you and me, Saskia.” Weepe said suddenly, a non sequitur from their previous conversation. “We’re not a lot alike. Fire and ice.” He gestured at her and then himself. “But the thing we both got is an eye for good showmanship, a flair for the dramatique, a little bit of pizazz, a heaping spoonful of razzle dazzle. That’s why this cabaret is going to make it, is gonna be the crown fucking jewel of this dusty little place, be a chain all throughout the whole fuckin’ cosmos. You and me just putting a death on that stage every night. Metaphorically. Or maybe not, who’s to say!” Weepe huehuehue’d his way into another cigar puff.
Saskia smiled fondly at him in the mirror. He froze, his eyes darting away. As she rose from her seat, she grandly beckoned him out of her dressing room. “Well then, the show must go on, Mr. Weepe.”
*****
Saskia, the body of hers still on Midst, was doing her damndest to ensure the show would indeed go on. Gretel brought Backpack and Agatha Ledge safely to her, now there was one last person she was waiting for.
Saskia and Backpack watched the Unship touch down. Its passenger door opened and a snazzily-dressed person in their late teens stepped out, burdened with teletheric equipment similar to Backpack’s.
“Kanneken!” Backpack waved. “Over here!”
The teenager gangled their way over to them as fast as possible, equipment clattering on their back. “Hello.” They officiously shook hands with Backpack, then with Saskia.
“Kanneken Hartevelt.” Saskia said warmly. “Our mutual associate tells me you’re a journalist, correct?”
Kanneken nodded. “More of a journalist-to-be, but yes, I suppose I am.”
“I have a story to launch your career.” Saskia helped take their bag, then led them up the winding road to Stationary Hill. “We want to set up a live broadcast to de-mystify Midst to the cosmos. Everyone has heard of us since the Moonfall disaster, but that’s not the totality of our story. We’ve come together to fix this place, take care of one another, and keep Stationary Hill as our home without needing interference from the Baronies or Trust. As our journalist, would you serve as an outside perspective, interviewing residents and sharing what you see here with the rest of the cosmos?”
Kanneken’s eyes widened as they saw a woman walk by with a man for her leg, passed by a stream floating above the ground, noticed the fractal district spiralling off into the distance. They seemed to recognize the enormity of their task without being off-put. Saskia appreciated that in them.
“I can do that.” They said. “A live broadcast, you say? What channel is it going to go on?”
Beside Saskia, Backpack lit up with a youthful grin.
“All of them.” She said.
In the Un above, Saskia was getting dressed to become a queen.
She wasn’t sure why she threw the black dress into her bag. It wasn’t a practical choice at all, more frantic impulse when she was quickly preparing to depart for the Highest Light. Most of her outfits were colorful and bright, this was the one spot of darkness in her wardrobe. Weepe always remarked upon it whenever she wore it. Regardless, it was coming in handy now, the perfect costume piece for the Queen of the Breach role.
“What will you do after Weepe is dead?” She asked Hieronymous, smoothing the wrinkles out of the satiny skirt the best she could. “Stay in the Highest Light? See Tzila and Sherman on Midst?”
Hieronymous sat beside her, holding some of her accessories. Just like the good old days. “I don’t know.” He answered heavily. “There will be so much work to do in the Highest Light. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get away.” An emotionless smile quirked his lips up. “Besides, Tzila doesn’t need me. I’ve done enough to her and Sherman.”
Saskia sighed. “Fair enough.” She stepped into the gown, gestured for him to help her zip the back. “If you’re staying in the Highest Light, then why me, Harry? This whole plan is for, what, me to guide the Highest Light to choose their next leader? My home is on Midst now. Why aren’t you the face of this project?”
She felt him shrug behind her as he draped her Valorous abacus around her neck and clasped it shut. “We can’t help the way the chips have fallen, we can only try to play our hand. By decree of the Trust, you are the dastardly ‘Queen of the Breach.’ Hell of a title, Saskia. You’re the one the Tripotentiary wants brought to him alive. You said it yourself, when you kill him, everyone in the cosmos is going to know you did it. You’re the only one anyone will accept to fill that power vacuum, even if you’ll only do so temporarily. Besides,” Hieronymous stepped around to face her, a wryness present in his expression. “Your Majesty, you and I both know I’m not made for leading roles.”
“Are you ready?” Spahr appeared at the entrance of the limpet ship. “Company ships should be here in the next few minutes.”
The plan was this: with Spahr’s knowledge of the Company scouting routes, they would drop Saskia off in full Queen of the Breach apparel on a small islet she was sure to be noticed and captured on. The Trust would make a dramatic outcry that the Queen of the Breach was caught, and Saskia would be brought for a private audience with Weepe. He was expected to be injured, and so she should kill him by any means necessary. After the dirty deed was done, Saskia would reveal herself to the Trust as his assassinator, step in unopposed as his successor, and guide the Highest Light into a new form of governance. Hieronymous and Spahr would remain hidden until after the assassination, at which point Mr. Loxlee and the former Prime Consector would throw any and all of their remaining political weight into backing the Queen of the Breach’s decrees.
Weepe would approve, Saskia thought wryly. The ordeal was as showy as any one of his schemes. This was no typical Trust plan, this was akin to the gruesome drama between the Baronies during their wars. Successors and queens made so through blood.
Saskia settled herself on a rock, the tiny islet half stone and half mica. This was the highest part of the Un where the air was remotely safe to breathe without a respirator, and even so she felt the air sting her lungs. The price to be paid for beauty.
“Good luck.” Hieronymous told her.
“You too.” She said, and meant it firmly.
The limpet ship left her there, and a few minutes later Company ships crested into view. When their spotlights rested on her, they saw the Queen of the Breach dressed in the black of mourning, ill-begotten Valor wrapped around her neck, and an expression of stone fastened upon her regal face.
*****
Saskia, loved fiercely by all who know her, helped set up the show of a lifetime.
Underneath the Valor tree, a crowd had formed. “How are we doing here?” Saskia asked a familiar face, leaning over where Backpack was configuring dials and cranking knobs. The girl smiled up at her.
“Great!” Backpack said. “My contact in the Highest Light is helping us out. Whenever we say go, he’ll override the frequencies and this broadcast will be played live by every channel in the Un.”
“Thank you.” Saskia squeezed her shoulder, then looked over at where Agatha Ledge was fiddling with a terrifying-looking apparatus—otherwise known as the Incendiary Imaging Device—explaining it with jargon-heavy verbiage to an absolutely delighted Kanneken.
“Agatha, Kanneken.” Saskia called them. “Are we ready for curtain—excuse me, for action?”
Kanneken gave her a thumbs up. “After Agatha takes the picture, I’m ready to start the broadcast whenever you are!”
“Get in frame, Saskia! This is downright historical!” Agatha pointed at the crowd milling a safe distance in front of the Incendiary Imaging Device, consisting of every resident in Stationary Hill. They clamored and jostled each other, organizing themselves for the group photo of a lifetime. Saskia heard Goe’s voice above everyone else’s as he holldered for taller people to move towards the back and give him a smile like they meant it.
“Yeah, Saskia!” Goe noticed her standing a distance off and waved a giant arm at her. “Get on over here!”
Despite her protestations, she was wrangled into the center of the picture, Sherman and Tzila to one side, Patricia on the other, Goe standing behind her.
“Gotta have you in the center, Saskia.” He said kindly. “You’re the beating heart of this place.”
“Say Midst!” Agatha yelled, and Saskia smiled harder than she ever had in her life as an explosion of bright light enveloped her vision.
Bound in handcuffs far, far above, Saskia couldn’t help but smile there too.
“What are you smiling for?” A guard asked, confused. “Come on. It’s time to take you to the Tripotentiary.”
“Okay, Kanneken.” On Midst, Saskia waved the teenager over. “Come on. It’s time to start the broadcast.”
*****
Saskia, sitting in front of a dying man she shares so much history with, takes his hand that rests on her lap.
“Saskia.” Weepe says, eyes glazed over in so much pain. The flickering Foldlight on the bedside table makes his translucent skin shine with a sickly hue. “I like that dress.”
“Thank you. I can’t stand your outfit.” Saskia says, not unkindly, but casting a critical eye upon Weepe’s outrageous Valorwear. He laughs, and it sounds like it hurts.
“I’m so fuckin’ glad you’re here.” Weepe said, his translucent face stretching into a gory smile. Saskia sucks in a sharp breath, taken off guard by his unusual candor. The sharpness she is used to being in his eyes is a modicum of what it once was. “I don’t deserve it, I don’t deserve you being here, but…” Weepe, somehow, smiles wider. “This whole fuckin’ thing has been me getting all the things I don’t deserve.”
Saskia’s nostrils flare, and she wrenches her hand away from Weepe’s, stumbling backwards away from him. “How the fuck can you say that?” She demands. He smiles knowingly at her. “Don’t smile like a creep at me like that. How dare you? Is this how you see everything that’s happened? You conning everyone until you’re richer than the cabaret could ever make you? People have died, Weepe, good people!” She wants very much to slap him again, but then she looks at his atrophied body on the fainting couch and isn’t quite sure what she wants to do anymore.
“Fire and ice.” Weepe says, downright smugly. “We’re polar opposites, you and I. You’ll never understand why I’ve done the things I’ve done. Goodness lives inside you, Saskia, it lives and pours itself out in everything you do. I think it’s very apparent what lives inside me.” Thick black blood ripples underneath his skin.
Saskia sighs, finding it difficult to keep her anger ablaze with the omnipresent reminder of how little time he has left. “What has happened to you?” Saskia asks softly. “How did it get this bad?”
Weepe shrugs, the gesture odd coming from his horizontal position. “You and I are very different, my dear.” He says. “Imelda Goldfinch and I were very similar. She saw this in me, and she was right to see it. A monster that matched hers. You know, when the silo exploded, she jumped in front of me. Saved my sorry life and got herself killed in the process.” Weepe lets out a wheezing laugh. “That’s what I do.”
Weepe’s eyes have never once left her. Saskia can barely keep up with his incoherent ramblings, and she takes her seat beside him once again. “Imelda Goldfinch made you this sick?”
“Don’t worry about me, Saskia, don’t be sad.” Weepe almost rushes to…what, console her? “Maybe I’ve gotten some things I deserve, maybe this is it. You can get everything too. Saskia, I can finally do it. I can make up for everything I did to you. You’ll get what you deserve, Saskia.”
His fingers scrabble for something on the bedside table, and Saskia unconsciously reaches over to help him with it before stopping dead. Weepe is reaching for a dagger. Horror races down her spine. “Weepe, what—?”
Weepe proffers her the hilt of the blade. “I can give you a kingdom, Saskia.” He says, nearing desperation. “You and I were the lord and lady of the Black Candle Cabaret. I haven’t forgotten. The king dies, and the queendom is yours. Kill me. Slit my throat, end me cleanly. I can give you everything I didn’t deserve, and everything you do.”
Saskia squeezes his hand gently, but her voice is full of steel. “I don’t need you to give me anything, Weepe.”
“My dear, my dear, ever the martyr, always so fuckin’ proud.” Weepe is the one who looks proud of her now, staring at her with shining eyes and still trying to press the dagger into her hand. “Give your help all the damn time and never accept it, nearly bankrupt your business and still tell a guy you have it under control. It’s okay, Saskia, it’s okay now. I know you don’t care about the Trust, but I got the crown jewel.” Weepe nods his head to the wall, where Saskia sees a framed Mayor of Midst certificate. “Saskia, I can give you Midst. You’re the only one out there who deserves it.”
Saskia sighs. “You think that piece of paper gives me anything substantial?” She asks Weepe softly. “I don’t need you to give me Midst, Weepe. Midst has never truly belonged to anyone but the current.”
Before Weepe can protest, she reaches over to his bedside table and flicks on the teletheric. Static crackles as a signal is caught and a voice becomes audible.
“Coming to you live from the islet of Midst, bobbing on the beautiful Mediun!” Saskia recognizes Kannekan’s enthusiastic voice as the signal sharpens. “As a reminder for my listeners all around the cosmos, I’m meeting with Stationary Hill’s residents so they can show me around their lovely town and tell me how they’ve survived and thrived since the Moonfall disaster. We’ve just come back from Patricia’s Cafe, join us now as we get dinner here at this next fine establishment. We’re walking beside a stream floating several feet in the air, isn’t that incredible!”
“If you’re patient, you can see fish swimming in it!” Patricia’s cheery voice chimes in. Ever since the word “Midst,” Weepe’s attention has been firmly caught. “Our next beloved Stationary Hill locale is under the care of the amazing woman Saskia del Norma. She’s been everyone’s rock since the Moonfall. There’s no one out there like her in the whole cosmos.”
Weepe’s eyes narrow with confusion, catching onto some sort of plot. On Midst, Saskia opens the door, greeting Kannekan and Patricia with a warm smile. Backpack stands behind them broadcasting everything, her multiple microphones humming.
“Welcome to the Black Candle Cabaret.” Saskia and her voice over the teletheric say in unison. Weepe stills. “I wish you could see it in person.”
“It’s beautiful.” Kannekan gushes. “Clearly a very classy establishment, incredibly tall and—is that a smoking patio?”
Saskia laughs. “It is! An idea from a friend made into reality.” Looking at Weepe’s lost expression sombers her up quickly. “Just like all of Midst, it changed in the Moonfall. So much work has gone into this place I love so much. I adored how it was before, but I do truly think it’s even more extraordinary now. We always wanted a remodel.”
“How—” Weepe whispers, his eyes casting back and forth between the Saskia sitting in front of him and the teletheric broadcasting live, the two Saskias’ words perfectly matched.
Still with two mouths at once, Saskia answers. “We were all changed by the tearrors, for better or worse. We mourn what was lost but try to embrace what is new.” Recognition sparks across Weepe’s face.
“An incredible sentiment.” Kannekan answers over the teletheric. “You’re right, this place looks like the perfect place to get a drink after a long day. Listeners, when you visit Midst, this has to go on your must-see list.”
“Thank you, Kannekan.” Saskia answers. “It’s been a long road to be able to look forward to visitors again. It’s a welcome change of pace. During the full length of the Moonfall disaster, Midst received no outside aid from the Baronies or the Trust. It is due to the kindness of our neighbors and the strength we lended each other that we are able to stand before you today and show you the wonders of our islet. It is that same kindness and strength that will guide us in the difficult road ahead, as we seek our independence to be known not as property of any jurisdiction, but as simply Midst.”
Weepe reaches out a shaky hand and flicks off the teletheric. In Stationary Hill, Saskia continues her interview with Kannekan, leading them into the cool interior. In the Highest Light, Saskia hears Weepe’s breathing get shallower.
“There’s two of you.” Weepe says dully. “One on Midst, and one here with me.”
Saskia smiles softly. “How can I be the one to kill you, Weepe?” She asks. “When the entire Un is listening to a live broadcast where I’m clearly at my home? There’s even a beautiful Incendiary Image to commemorate the occasion.”
Weepe exhales shallowly, his chest shaking. Saskia leans forward in alarm only to realize he’s laughing, weak puffs of air barely vibrating his ruined vocal chords. “Sneaky Saskia.” He says between alternating coughs and laughs. “Always knew you had that fuckin’ sly side of you. Coming up with schemes to not end up Queen of the Breach, good, so good, you were always too damn good to me. I can’t—” Weepe shoots up in bed, panicked eyes scrabbling to meet Saskia’s. “I can’t do anything for you anymore. I’ve wasted it, I’ve wasted it all, I’ve ruined my chance to do anything for you, and you’re too damned good it makes me sick, I’m fucking sick Saskia and you need to kill me, you need to slit my throat and then maybe I can stop for once, I can stop haunting and and stop being haunted and I can stop.”
Weepe is gasping for air by the end of his frantic speech, words spiralling out like he has no choice in the matter. “Saskia, kill me kill me please fucking kill me.”
Tears drip down from Saskia’s face. “I can’t, Weepe, I can’t.” She furiously tries to wipe them away. “Even if I wanted to.” Weepe falls back into bed, his outburst having spent so much of the little energy he has left. He mutters inaudibly, Saskia needs to lean forward to hear him.
“Does that mean you forgive me?” Weepe barely murmurs into her ear.
Saskia can’t help herself but give a short laugh through her tears. Still trying to con her for everything she’s worth, even to the end. “I can’t, Weepe. Even if I wanted to.”
Weepe smiles, a facsimile of his old one. His eyes start to slip closed, she squeezes his hand to keep them open.
“There’s so much about me you don’t know, Saskia.” He whispers. “You wouldn’t sit here with me if you knew it all.”
“The stuff I do know is very bad, and I’m still here sitting with you.” She says lightly. “There’s so much about me you don’t know either.”
“Two Saskias…” He murmurs. “If there had to be two of anyone…” His eyes open to meet hers, the first time they ever sought out eye contact with her willingly. Saskia knows it will also be the last. “You remember that time you came into my office, and my medical kit was going wrong that night, and I didn’t tell you it hurt but you still knew, and you sang me that Midst song? You’re so good, Saskia. I’m so glad I didn’t ruin you.”
He did a little bit, but Saskia keeps that to herself. She raises her voice in gentle melody, an echo of that long-ago day. Standing on the stage of the Black Candle Cabaret with microphones trained toward her, she sings it too, for anyone out there that might be listening and might need to hear it.
Weepe’s eyes slip shut, and they don’t re-open. He says nothing else.
*****
Saskia leaves Weepe’s side only when she is certain there are no more final words from anyone. She sings into the silence, then cries, and whispers some words only for her ears. Then there is no choice but to leave him behind. On Midst, Barty and Lloyd join her on stage, their presences immediately soothing her.
The Tripotentiary Guard from earlier snaps her head toward Saskia as she exits the room.
“He is dead.” Saskia immediately says softly. “But not by my doing.” She hands the Guard back the knife, shiny and unbloodied. “Find Mr. Loxlee and the former Prime Consector. They are in the Highest Light and should be able to help you with this.”
“Wait,” the Guard stops her, looking at her with wide eyes. Saskia notices a small teletheric listening device beside the Guard’s chair, a song she continues to sing warbling from its speakers. “I—I hear you live on the teletheric, even right now. How—how is this possible?”
Saskia glances at her through half-lidded eyes, and seems like she is everywhere and nowhere at once. “I am at home, on Midst.” She says. “There is nowhere else for me to be.”
The ghost of the Queen of the Breach walks away, and the Tripotentiary Guard lets her.
Saskia sings on her stage in the Black Candle Cabaret, the whole cosmos listening. But she doesn’t sing for the cosmos. She sings for the people of Midst and for everything her beloved home could become, as the current keeps on flowing and Midst keeps on turning.