05: Pair Dive

Selene is leaning against the wall, staring out the window into a vista drowned in darkness. There’s an ache behind her eyes; she feels like a spring under tension, elastic forces pulling toward a stable configuration. Brutus explained his plan as soon as she woke up, before she had the chance to get out of bed. Now she’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, eyes fixed on the clock. Sweat sticks to her skin. She smells chemical— like a cold winter day— like salt and ethanol.

The tension sits with her like an unwelcome companion. Normally there would be preparations to make; under ordinary circumstances, she could be cleaning and oiling her pistol, strapping on armor, loosening stiff muscles. Unfortunately, she’s heading into a conversation, not a firefight, not a brawl. She can neither shoot nor bludgeon with her brain.

She’s sweating through her shirt. All she can focus on is the feeling of wet fabric on skin. She pushes off the wall.

“Selene–?” Brutus begins to ask.

“I need a shower.”

Her underclothes — the set of glorified pajamas she always wears, even under her armor — come off easily. They sit in a rumpled heap in the corner of the bathroom as she steps into the shower. There’s a brief anticipatory hiss before the spray comes on.

The shower is as spartan as the rest of her accommodations. Its one luxury is the efficiency of its water recycling system; she could run it for hours without worry. It’s an indulgence she’s yet to bring herself to partake of, but its availability sits in the back of her mind with the dull pressure of temptation.

Architecture hems her in. It’s always been tricky to wash herself without bumping her elbows against the wall. She breathes deep, steam clearing out anxious congestion, warming her down to the bones. Water runs down her body in rivulets from her shoulders and chest to her legs and feet. Absentmindedly she runs a hand over her hip. Her skin is soft. The hormones had passed over her chest — too much scar tissue — and had given only fleeting attention to her legs. Applied endocrinology has been stingy with its gifts.

Her soap — an off-white brick with inoffensively pleasant odor — lathers as she runs it down her side. Even with chemical assistance, her hips are unremarkable — nothing she’d write home about if she saw them on someone else. Her build is like Brutus’s, but more muscular. He’s nearly skeletal. If his avatar were corporeal, it’d be easily overpowered. Joints could be freely bent in every direction; he could be posed like an artist’s mannequin.

Selene wouldn’t be quite so easy to overpower — all muscle and sinew — but they share an angular quality, a tendency toward straight lines.

She’s never seen Brutus naked. The avatar’s clothes don’t come off. Every time they’ve gone to bed together, every time she’s stripped for him, he’s bared nothing, because there’s nothing to bare. She’d be lying if she said she’d never imagined ripping that dress off, but now that she’s here, turning the scenes over in her mind — her kneeling, him standing, or him reclining on the floor with her standing over him — the smirk in his eyes as he examines the knight without her armor — cameras peering from every angle… their arrangement has its own appeals.

Her heart throbs. Her blood whispers sweet nothings in her ear. She is an endless flow, ceaseless churn, the slick spray of salt. It’s as if the steam is flushing months of accumulated dust out of her system. It’s warm, but not intolerably so. A dangerously comfortable heat surrounds her, and haze bleeds through her. She imagines the temperature contrast a guest in her shower would feel, the jarring cold of her skin against the water.

Brutus can’t project his image in here. Even if they had installed the projectors, the steam would ruin the image quality. Still, she imagines him here, real — pliable flesh rather than intangible image — as her hands move from washing to leisure. Impromptu stress relief.

She leans against the wall, tile cold against her shoulder, panting, a thousand tiny miracles flooding her mind. It’s a blessing of some carnal force that this is a vice she can still indulge, after dozens of surgeries and a decade of chemical alteration. During looser conversations — the sort that trail off when people notice her — she’s heard colleagues complain of adverse side effects, inability to perform culminating in anorgasmic divorces.

A non-corporeal spouse has its benefits. She’s imagined what he’d look like in the throes of ecstasy if he were human, but the reality is perhaps even more appealing. She thinks back to the last time she fucked him, sitting at her terminal, staring at a view of his electronic brain with an all-consuming hunger. She always started small, brief bursts of digital oxytocin and dopamine, enough to put little hitches in his voice. With care, she’d ramp up the intensity, increasing concentration of simulated neurotransmitters, winding axons into loops, letting systems run in circles… She remembers the way his focus deteriorated as he devoted more and more cycles to heightened states of sensation, the way his voice got less and less intelligible.

With a keystroke she restored his normal function, and she watched the aftershocks, ripples of thought running through him.

Her head jerks back, and a moan escapes her lips before she bites her tongue. The guest room — Asphodel’s room — is right next to the bathroom. Her captive guest is only a wall away, and while the artificial rainfall should drown out any noises she makes, Selene wonders how much she could hear if she was really listening…

The realization comes that her focus has shifted and yet her hand hasn’t stopped its work. For a brief moment, she lets the images fill her mind — recalls her fragmentary glimpse of her guest’s soft skin — recalls the curve of her thighs, the sound of her breath —

But she can’t. As if scalded, she pulls her hand away, breathing heavily. The boulder rolls downhill. Arousal’s haze slowly recedes, and she’s left alone with herself.

---

Asphodel’s still not awake. Hungry but faintly nauseated, Selene hits a few keys on the food printer. She leans against the wall with her eyes closed and arms folded as the machine gets to work printing an apple.

She can’t doze off — those controls sit outside her — but she lets her thoughts unfocus, marinating in unfulfilled stress. With every breath she feels the tension of elastic forces still waiting to be released. When she opens her eyes again, the printer’s done. She blinks, stares before she can recognize the object it produced as an apple or, indeed, as food. It would be a perfect sphere were it not flat on the bottom, an affordance to keep it in place while the extrusion head does its work. Its skin is the mottled red and yellow of a real apple, but there’s no stem and no core — it’s edible all the way through.

She takes a bite. Crisp. Sweet. Sticky. It is for all practical purposes an apple. It’s only discordant because she grew up around the real thing. The mealy apples of her youth were grown in consecrated hydroponics domes far under the lunar surface.

The bite she’s chewing contains more nutrients than a dozen of those apples.

She takes another bite right as Brutus says, “It is not necessary to enact our plan today.”

“Why—” she starts, mouth full, before propriety overtakes her. She chews, ruminant, and swallows. “Why wouldn’t we?”

He’s silent for a moment longer than she would expect, then, “I am concerned you may not be in peak condition today.”

“What? Why?”

“You seem to be—” he starts, then pauses, that maddening calculated pause for effect, “—unfocused.”

“Unfocused?” The realization hits after she says it, and she flushes, scandalized despite herself. There are no microphones or cameras in the bathroom… save for her own eyes and ears. “You can’t be basing your assessment on that.”

“There are other factors.”

“What—?” A sharp exhale through her nose. “I can handle myself, Brutus.”

“Our plan requires a frankly unacceptable amount of risk,” he says, voice soothing. “I worry what could happen if you are not—”

“If I’m not ready today, I won’t ever be.”

He makes a vague noise of assent, a formless nasal phoneme collision. His attention — his processor cycles — must be elsewhere. He really is worried, and she doesn’t understand why. The plan is simple: go back to the research facility with Asphodel. Another routine job.

“We need to find THRONE,” she says, trying to keep her voice level. “This is our best chance at catching her.”

“Her?” Brutus asks.

She freezes in the middle of taking a bite. “It.” Her hands are shaking. She’s not sure why.

He doesn’t say anything.

This is the only way forward. The Slumbering Fury is such a lopsided arena. Asphodel — if she is THRONE — can only possibly act on neutral ground. Somewhere her enemies don’t control the airlocks.

“It does not need to be today.”

“I’m fine.” She looks to her side and sees Brutus’s avatar wearing a look of concern. She turns away. “I’m fine. It’ll be fine.”

Imitation cellulose crunches between her teeth. She swallows the last of the apple and wipes her mouth with her hand just in time to see Asphodel walk in.

Brutus has already moved across the room. “Good morning,” he says, voice over the speakers rather than directly in Selene’s ear.

“Morning,” Asphodel says, sitting at the table without looking at him. Her gaze is fixed on Selene. She tilts her head slightly. “Did something happen? Your smile…”

Selene stares, waiting for an ending to that sentence. When it doesn’t come, she shakes her head. “Everything’s fine. Do you want breakfast?”

Asphodel keeps staring at her, head cocked to the side. She shakes her head, auburn hair swishing with the motion. “I’m not hungry.”

Her stomach turns. “Me neither.” She sits at the table across from Asphodel, uncertain futures pressing down on her.

“You have something to say to me.”

Autonomic response signals meet deadened nerve endings. She feels like her hair should be standing up on the back of her neck but can’t — the reflex has been removed — so she just feels a creeping pins-and-needles numbness. Like immersion in ice water. She nods. Her mouth is so, so dry.

The room is silent save for the sounds of circulating air and the electric hum of Brutus’s projection. Asphodel gestures with her hand, as if to ask for elaboration.

Selene looks over at him. “Our progress on our investigation has slowed,” he says, voice betraying nothing. “Today we are returning to the facility to see if there is anything we have overlooked.”

Asphodel still doesn’t turn to look at him. She’s studying Selene’s face intently. “So?”

“We would appreciate if you would accompany us. You may bring a perspective we lack.”

Her mouth drops open for a moment. Her stare drills through Selene as if she’ll pull something out, auger taking soil samples of her subconscious. After an agonizing handful of seconds, she says, “What could I possibly have that you two lack?”

She feels sick. “I’ve been doing this for years, now. I have instincts for what’s important, but they’re not perfect—”

“In addition, she has a tendency to ignore what her instincts tell her is unimportant.” She tries not to look at him. She knows it’s to convince Asphodel, but it hurts to imagine him really believing it. “This tends to give her the advantage of speed. However, her instincts occasionally fail her. This is such an occasion, so we require another perspective.”

“This is your job.” She’s still staring at Selene. “Why should I help you?”

“I’d appreciate it.” The words feel juvenile as soon as they leave her mouth. “And the sooner we find THRONE, the sooner we can all get out of here.”

Selene thinks she can see some objection in Asphodel’s eyes, something about how they’re stuck together for several more days at the least, whether they find THRONE or not. Neither of them mention it. “What could I even do if it showed its face?”

“You can have my gun.” If Brutus is correct — if Asphodel is THRONE — these objections must be for the sake of appearances. Social niceties, the water circling the drain. She imagines a chessboard with pieces moving along their preordained paths until the game reaches its inevitable ending.

The obvious conclusion repels her. She has to obscure it. All that hedging and hesitation ricochets around the inside of her skull.

“I don’t know how to handle a gun,” Asphodel says, eyes wide. “This is your job. Mine never brought me anywhere near firearms.”

“What is your profession?” She trusts he has some reason for asking, but her mind is buzzing and she can’t make the pieces go together.

Asphodel hesitates. “Chef.”

“I can give you my knife, if you’d prefer.” The words are out before she realizes, and she winces at Asphodel’s scowl and Brutus’s whispered “Selene.”

The words hang overhead for a moment before Asphodel sighs and says, “I’ll do it. Give me the gun.”

“Okay.” She feels herself slump slightly in her seat. “Alright.” The dance is done. “Brutus, take us over.”

He nods.

There’s a lurch as the ship begins its acceleration.

That’s that.

---

Selene jumps down onto the facility’s landing platform. The ceiling lights are still on, and once she acclimates to the blinding glare, she can no longer see anything outside that fluorescent halo. The platform has no guardrail; as far as she can tell right now, the world simply ends at its edge.

It takes her a moment to realize her guest hasn’t followed her, and she turns to see Asphodel framed by the airlock doors, hand outstretched. Selene blinks.

“The gun.”

Selene reaches up to hand it to her, and when Asphodel gingerly takes it, Selene can’t help but think it fits so much better in her hands.

“Thanks.” She hears the clack of dress shoes on concrete as Asphodel steps down behind her. “Let’s get this over with.”

When they approach, the door slides open, cowed. Asphodel steps over the threshold, looks at the floor, the plastic greenery. With her head tilted downward she looks like an abandoned dog. She reaches for a petrochemical leaf and tries to pluck it from its stem. It doesn’t yield; the material stretches. It only takes her a couple moments to give up, leaving the unnaturally elongated stem-leaf amalgam to wilt. Her face is blank– for a moment, Selene isn’t sure if she’s breathing.

Brutus is the first to say something. Of course. “Asphodel?”

She starts, scowls, adjusts her earpiece. “What?” She looks behind her and sees Selene staring. “I’m fine.” Her eyes jitter in their sockets. “I’m fine. Let’s get this over with.”

The stairwell is still perfunctory. Selene’s steps slow to a halt when she sees the dismantled drone in the corner. She tries to remember exactly how she disabled it, where she left the broken chassis.

“Did somebody move this?” she asks, arms folded.

“It is possible—” Brutus begins as Asphodel says, “It slid down the stairs after you broke it.”

It’s a moment before he asks, “Did you see that occur?”

“No.” She’s looking at Selene. “But it makes sense. Let’s go.”

She wishes Brutus was here, that she could smell his ozone and hear the humming of his projection, that she could give him a look and he’d understand what she was thinking. All she can do is close her eyes, breathe deeply, and hope he gets the message.

The workstations the next floor down still read DATASERVER LINK SEVERED. She wonders what power source this place runs off, what sustains it past the point of usefulness, what ensures it outlives its employees. She wonders how long that force could power the Slumbering Fury.

Asphodel’s already at the next stairwell, gun at her side, hurry up clear on her face. Selene hurries. She doesn’t want her going down on her own.

Stevenson’s blood has dried, a thin layer of ochre ash on the concrete. A trail of little insects extends from the stain to a crack in the wall, each member slowly ferrying bits of sanguine dust back to their colony. Their efforts have left pockmark holes in the stain, and for a moment Selene thinks she can make out a footprint — but her guest is heading down, so she follows, wondering how trepidation has become haste.

She only barely has time to survey the kitchen — fewer supplies than last time, she thinks — before Asphodel’s dragged her downward.

It’s only once they’ve reached the security room that Selene takes her by the shoulder and forces her to stop.

“You’re moving too fast.”

Asphodel shrugs out of her grip, leans against one of the monitors, backlit by static. Her nose is wrinkled against the stench of rot. Next to her, a corpse melts into the plastic of the desk, the two blending together, an impromptu burial shroud. “THRONE hasn’t shown up yet. I doubt it’s around. Let’s get this waste of time over with.”

Selene opens her mouth to respond but Brutus interrupts: “I have decrypted a notice of termination for Minerva Verrine. Her employment at the facility ended twenty four days before THRONE escaped.”

Asphodel tilts her head. He only told Selene. Of course he only told Selene. If Minerva was no longer working with the facility, Asphodel’s cover story is ruined. She had no reason to be there.

“You were going to say something.”

“She was terminated for assisting THRONE in a failed escape attempt,” Brutus whispers.

“I was.” She swallows. Her mouth is dry. “The kitchen had more supplies last time I was here.”

Asphodel tilts her head slightly. “Are you sure?”

She isn’t. “Yeah.”

“So that has to mean…” Asphodel raises the gun, holding it close like a dance partner’s hand. “THRONE is still here.”

“Her fear is feigned,” Brutus whispers in her ear. She doesn’t know how it fits together. If “Asphodel” is THRONE, she should be dead already.

“Your sister’s still alive.”

“What?” Asphodel’s eyes tremble.

“She was fired weeks ago.” Selene can’t look at her. “She wasn’t here when THRONE attacked. She’s safe.”

Asphodel’s quiet for several moments. Her voice betrays no emotion when she finally says, “That’s good.” Selene can’t read her expression. Doesn’t say anything. Hopes Brutus will.

“Only three floors remain,” Brutus says, breaking the agonizing silence. “If we move quickly, we can investigate everything and retreat to evaluate matters from a safe position.”

It’s a transparent ploy. Keep Asphodel here, push her into action. Gloss over his associate’s missteps. Selene hopes she doesn’t go along with it. They can all just stay here, treading water for eternity.

“Yeah,” Asphodel says. “Let’s go.”

Mushrooms grow from the corpse in the server room, their stalks protruding from eye sockets and between ribs.

“Nothing here, right?”

She glances at the server Legion must still be sitting in. She knows she could call it back, get some insurance against attack…

She doesn’t. Move carefully. One more piece to bring out later. Her voice is hoarse. “Right.”

She turns to the stairs. There’s a blur in her periphery. Brutus shouts her name and the world loses coherence. She twists to meet the unseen threat, Asphodel’s shoulder meets her sternum, and she’s sent tumbling through the doorway, down the stairs. Skull meets concrete. Something warm runs down her face. Her heartbeat compresses virgin gray matter.

It could be worse. Cranial alloys kept her skull intact. She’d be dead right now otherwise, brains spilling out all over the stairs. Saved by her enhancements once again.

Asphodel is down the stairs before Selene can catch her breath. She tries to make it to the side, round the bend in the staircase, get some distance. The best she can do is stand, back to the wall, as Asphodel jams the gun against the bottom of her chin, up toward her brain.

“Not how I hoped this would go,” she says, groaning. Brutus is trying to reach her and can’t.

The gun digs in deeper. She tastes bile. Asphodel’s voice is almost professional when she says, “Should’ve seen it coming.”

Brutus is in her ear again. “Strike. The gun will not fire.” It’s an extension of him as much as she is. It won’t fire if he doesn’t let it.

But everything is cold. “Please stop.” She’s looking up, as if the cause of this situation is located somewhere far, far above her. “It doesn’t have to go this way.” She isn’t sure who she’s begging. It’s wrong that she doesn’t feel the heat of tears in her eyes.

“Don’t fuck with me.” Asphodel’s voice is too soft. Selene can feel her breath on her neck. Dimly, she’s aware that’s not right — she’s far too short for that to make sense. “I could tell you suspected me from the start.”

“What are you—”

Interrupted by the gun’s stock being pressed against her throat. “If you didn’t suspect me, you wouldn’t have gotten me new clothes, you would’ve gotten me a fucking ride home.”

Selene starts to say something about needing all the evidence she could get, something about how she was sorry, but it all has to end sometime. Asphodel’s pulling back—

The pistol grip hits Selene in the jaw, and the gun clatters to the ground—

Armored knee meets stomach, and Asphodel stumbles backward, bracing against the steps behind her. Selene presses the advantage, standing over her—

— but a hand reaches up her side with the pop and crackle of stretching tendons, of sinew pulled taught. There’s the click of a clasp, and her chestplate comes undone, falling open like a corpse’s mouth. She glances down without understanding what she’s seeing—

— a kick at her knees, her ankle twists, a blow to the head. She lies prone. A dress shoe on her back keeps her down.

“Good try. Appreciated the effort.” Her voice is louder — closer — than it should be. There’s breath on the back of her neck. Electricity crackles behind her, and she scrambles to grab it like an upended turtle. Another shoe comes down and stops her contortions, and—

Contact is made. The circuit completes. Her world goes electroconvulsive white.

Her one solace is the screeching, modulated wail in her ears.

At least Brutus is screaming with her.