Like Bluebird, I decide to leave out the window to avoid alerting anyone to my absence: I can’t rule out someone at the base feeding information to those controlling the bombs. While I’m not as fast as Bluebird (the little guy is at least twice as fast due to its small size and weight), I get to the ship in under a minute.

Now, how to handle this delicately? I ponder, realizing that I’m not sure how to evacuate the hovergloss. There are six guards, two ambassadors, and an armored hovergloss between them and I. I give Bluebird a look, its violet eyes staring emotionlessly back. Not going to find any help there.

I have a feeling that if I do this poorly, I’m going to find myself quickly waking up on the dinghy. Bombs are no joke: Last time, I was taken out before I knew what was happening. Unfortunately, I don’t have very long to think of a new plan.

Bluebird, the defensive aegis mode...can you go into that right now?

Switching modes will take fifteen seconds. Commence?

Do it. If the defensive aegis is supposedly able to use up to 100% of my energy to create a shield; it might keep me safe if one of the bombs goes off. I’m not sure how much energy is required to offset the energy of a bomb, nor do I have an exact metric by which to quantify my ability to draw Death energy...but given the soul gems no longer used by the glosSword’s companion mode, I should have a good amount of power to fall back on. While decemancy doesn’t naturally provide the best defense against sudden burst attacks, being able to funnel my energy into a shield like the glosSword aegis should offset that weakness.

Feeling slightly less mortal, I decide to go forward with the first plan that comes to mind: ripping the hovergloss’ metal chassis with a few whirring blades of bone and extracting the people out the front of the hull. I have a few pieces of bone lining the inside of my officer’s uniform, providing me with all the ammunition I need.

I send the bones out without delay, their slender forms whipping through the air like bullets. I begin to rotate them like spinning tops as they approach the hovergloss, allowing their empowered edges to cut through the hull like knives through butter. Before the hovergloss occupants realize the hull has been breached, I seize hold of their bodies and launch them out of the hovergloss.

When they realize what’s happening, they begin to panic, muscles rebelling futilely against my control. The hovergloss continues unimpeded while I drag the contingent back to my location, up until when I use my bone shards to derail the car and hold it in place.

Soon, the party is close enough to me that I can send out the glosSword aegis around all of us.

I guess we’re as safe as we’re going to be.

“I have to apologize for the unfortunate circumstances of our introduction,” I begin, addressing their unnaturally still forms. “I am Corona Dunai, the one who requested your presence here. It seems that you were all unaware that your hovergloss was filled with bombs.”

I let the words sink in.

“I’ve taken the hovergloss off the rail. It hasn’t exploded yet, obviously, but you can test it remotely for bombs if you doubt my honesty. Now, after finishing this sentence, I’m going to relinquish my control over you; if you make any hostile movements, I’ll control you again, so I’d advise against it.”

As I let my hold over their muscles relax, the two ambassadors keel over panting, while the six guards groan and immediately take up a defensive position.

I smile. “Thank you for your understanding–that couldn’t have been comfortable.”

The ambassador with pale, yellow hair on the right speaks up: “It was certainly less than comfortable, but...” he pauses for a second, giving me an appraising look. “Better that than dead.”

—

The rest of the base was quick to respond to the bomb threat, swiftly isolating the hovergloss and sending in a team to disarm the bombs. While they did that, I took the ambassador party on a slow tour of the base.

“The view of the ocean is magnificent,” the black haired ambassador, Yeka, notes. “We usually just see the Bay of Ramsay, which is nice, but...”

“But it lacks these white sand beaches; and the palm trees, they’re a different variety here than we’re used to,” the other ambassador, Evelio, finishes.

“They are certainly nice,” I reply, “but only when they aren’t being blown up. We’ve been walking around for a while now, and I think it’s about time we get the point.”

The ambassadors glance at one another. “We agree. Do lead us to your chambers.”

Soon enough, the ambassadors are seated in cozy wooden chairs facing my own, their hands folded carefully in their laps. They seem nervous, their movements twitchy and different from before.

“Getting straight to the point, do you have information on the group carrying out the Godoran coastal attacks? This room is warded against any listening devices, so speak freely.” I have no idea if that’s true, but it shouldn’t matter: none of this is real.

“The attacks are likely carried out by the group Hashat, a cult of Dark and Cloud practitioners,” Evelio says.

“What are their aims?” I ask. “I can’t see too much point in blowing up our scenic coastline.”

“That’s just the thing: it’s a bit of an embarrassment. For a group to have so many practitioners–”

Yeka gives his partner a scowl. “Slow down, there.” He gives me a pointed look. “The cult believes that there’s something...hidden off the Godoran coast. Some kind of entity, and they seek to empower it, awaken it. What Evelio means to say is that many of our society’s elite have gotten caught up in this conspiracy.”

I get it now. Every practitioner is valued and considered a national asset: The SPU would know if hundreds of them suddenly disappeared into a cult. That means Hashat is being run covertly, its members keeping their day jobs while committing acts of destruction on the side.

Now that I think about it, they did attack Godora on a weekend...

“So that’s why the SPU is also interested in dismantling Hashat,” I say. “Can’t have a number of your elite romping around trying to awaken some kind of monster.”

Yeka nods. “That’s an unfortunately accurate summary of the situation. Essentially, what we ask of you is the ability to interrogate the captives and try them in our own courts. Our aim is to find the root of Hashat and shut the cult down.”

“So you want us to catch the cultists...and just hand them over to you?” I’m not exactly an expert, but considering Godora’s subpar relationship with the SPU, handing practitioner “terrorists” over to their courts would be political suicide. “You must see why I can’t agree to those terms.”

Evelio smiles. “We understand your position. While in that case we won’t be able to offer any assistance, do tell us if you change your mind. The only way to actually disrupt this cult, after all, is to cut it off at the base; something that can only be done from within the SPU.”

I smile back. “It’s been a pleasure talking. Now, I have other business to attend to, but while you wait for a replacement hovergloss, Secretary Schaeff can give you an extended tour of the grounds.”

“That would be excellent,” Evelio says, his eyes filled with palpable relief.

The two ambassadors still seem quite jumpy and unnerved. My eyes narrow slightly as I ask, “With everything you’ve told me, I still have a question: Why were there bombs on your hovergloss?”

The ambassadors look at one another. “We...we honestly have no idea,” Yeka says. “There’s no point in killing us.”

“It’s also odd that the bombs haven’t gone off yet,” I observe. “Almost like they’re connected to a remote trigger, one that has yet to be engaged. For some reason, I think that there’s something you’re hiding.”

I only realize when Evelio swallows and falls backward that I’ve left my seat: I’m leaning aggressively over the table, my face less than a foot away from Yeka.

“Well?” I ask.

“We aren’t practitioners,” Evelio sniffs. “It’s in poor taste to intimidate us with your practice.”

Intimidate them? With decemancy?

I lean back, arms still planted on the table. “You’re wrong,” I say. “This...it isn’t my practice. It’s my experience.”

They don’t know how many times I tried to warn the Menocht people. How many times I tried to tell them, get them to listen, get them to do anything other than sit around and let their city turn to shit. I stopped trying to work with them years ago: You can tell them the city is going to fall in the next two days all you’d like, but they won’t ever believe you.

I continue on: “I’ve been on the frontlines of calamity for years. You don’t think I’ve had to deal with my fair share of treacherous information brokers?” I think back to when I first made it to the city, after I learned how to take control of the cruise ship. I think back to the countless iterations that I stumbled around blindly, following false trail after false trail, often murdered for my curiosity.

“We really don’t know anything about the bombs,” Yeka spits. “I wouldn’t have agreed to ride a bomb-filled hovergloss to diplomatic negotiations, even if I knew I wouldn’t be caught in the blast: It’s dishonorable.”

Evelio clears his throat. “Moreover, it wouldn’t have accomplished anything. Think about it: What would the SPU have to gain from sending a diplomatic envoy, only to attack in bad faith?”

They aren’t wrong, but I do believe there’s something they aren’t telling me.

“But...?”

The two are silent for a moment.

“This room, it’s definitely soundproof?” Yeka asks.

“Yes,” I state unhesitatingly.

He sighs and folds his hands. “We personally believe that whoever is at the head of this cult also holds a high place of power.”

“Like who?”

Evelio replies, his voice like ice: “Like one of the twelve princes.”

“Why do you think that?” I ask, intrigued. This is the kind of information I was looking for.

“They all hate each other.”

Yeka gives Evelio a look. “That’s ridiculous.” He then turns to me. “Only five of them hate each other, the Prime of Fives, unsurprisingly.”

“But I think whoever is behind the cult isn’t one of the primes,” Evelio protests. “Besides, you see how the princes treat one another during the council meetings.”

“Stop gossiping to the Godoran,” Yeka snaps, his voice barely audible. “With all due respect, Corona, I think it’s time we accompany your secretary. Be careful, and...thank you for taking us out of the hovergloss, even if your methods were uncomfortable.”

I give the two a curt nod. “Secretary Schaeff is just outside the door. This meeting was more useful than I expected, so thank you for helping my investigation. Have a good day, gentlemen.” This isn’t saying much, given my low expectations going in, but I really did get some good information.

I decide that it’s time to gather information myself. If I play it safe and send professional spies, it might take months before obtaining any conclusive information. Besides, it’s not for nothing that I’m a high-affinity decemancer: thralling and diagnosty, while not my preferred specialties, are perfect for what I have in mind.

—

Memory of Menocht

Day One – on the dinghy

Ignatius Dunai woke up almost calmly, his eyes shut, shoulders stretching to either side. But in the moment of waking, he noticed the salt in the air, the touch of a breeze, and the wetness soaking his feet. As his eyes snapped open, his morning-muddled mind was unable to fully comprehend the scene before him. Why was he on a tiny little wooden boat in the middle of the open ocean?

Where...am I? Where was I before this? Panicked thoughts began to surface. Wasn’t I at school? He couldn’t remember clearly, the past surrounded in a haze. Not remembering why he was on this boat was probably the most terrifying part, aside from the soul-sucking vastness of open water all around.

—

Day Four – on the ship

Ian snarled, hurling a glass table at one of the animated skeletons. They shrugged off the blow, the shattering glass inflicting at best minor scratches.

This is impossible, damn it, Ian thought as he shuddered in place, eyes locked onto the approaching skeletons. They’re not even rushing over here. They don’t need to: I’m nothing to them.

Ian narrowed his eyes, furious, indignant that he was subject to a never-ending nightmare. He did know one thing: he didn’t want to die again.

The very first time they caught him off guard, slamming him into the deck with a side swipe, then following up by swiping at his face with a bony hand.

He’d never felt more pain in his life: the hand tore right through his left eye and ripped through his mouth, shattering his jaw. It was over pretty quickly after that, the skeleton forcing its reinforced hand through his skull.

The second time, he waited on the dinghy to be rescued. He lasted two days before succumbing to heat stroke and dehydration, not to mention blistering sun burns.

—

Day Twenty-Five ­– on the ship

Ian no longer shook like a leaf as he clung onto the ladder leading to the ship deck. He’d already died at least thirty times at this point; it was hard to keep count. Moreover, time wasn’t easy to measure: whenever he died, the day reset to mid morning.

Wedged in his shirt was a plank of wood he’d torn off from the dinghy, finding it surprisingly loose. Perhaps it had been left there on purpose by whoever put him in this nightmare.

He peeked up over the railing at the deck, eyeing the two skeletons guarding this area of the ship. His one advantage was speed: If he moved quickly, he’d catch the unwitting skeletons by surprise. If he got lucky, maybe he’d even take one out by smashing in its skull.

One...two...three! Ian thought as he leaped over the side of the ship, drawing the wood plank out from under his shirt. The skeleton closest to him seemed surprised when he gave it a solid whack on the head, causing the skull to dislodge slightly from its neck.

“Just die!” he screamed, hitting the skeleton again, completely hysterical. When the skeleton swiped out with a green-tinged claw, Ian realized too late that he hadn’t been giving himself enough distance, losing the reach advantage of his weapon. But a wave of determination poured through him.

Even if it kills me, I’m taking this fucker down. Eyes manic, he continued to rush at the skeleton with the wooden plank, only noticing when its eyes began to flicker and fade in color that the skeleton had never finished its attack. Before he had time to think about it, the other skeleton swiped the wooden plank away before stepping in to claw Ian across the chest, leaving four deep lacerations. His weapon forced away, Ian grabbed for the femur of the fallen skeleton. Whatever energy had kept it together had dissipated, and since any ligaments had long since rotted away, it was an effortless acquisition. The bone was still slightly greenish in color from residual energy, but was still just a bone.

A nice, solid femur bone: the perfect club.

Ian came at the other skeleton with a roar, ramming the femur into its skull. To his surprise, the bone did significantly more damage than the plank; perhaps whatever energy empowered the skeletons was still at work, allowing his impacts to have greater kinetic force. After being on the wrong side of that equation for so long, Ian was excited to find himself so-easily beating down a skeleton.

In four strikes, the second skeleton fell, scattering into a heap of bones.

Tears ran down Ian’s face, his arms slacking like deflated balloons. The now-scarlet, rather than green, tinged femur in his hands dropped to the ground.

Ian began to laugh, a sound animal and desperate. The bones of two skeletons lay on the deck, their eye sockets devoid of characteristic emerald embers. He beat them. Nobody was coming to help him, but here was proof that he wasn’t useless, that he could save himself.

As he stood panting, blood pumping with adrenaline, he began to think back to his exchange with the first skeleton. Why hadn’t it clawed at him when he got too close?

He walked over to the first skeleton’s bone heap, pushing part of its rib cage with his foot. That’s when he saw something incongruous: part of the skeleton’s claws were tinged not green, but a light violet-red. Ian froze, his heart pounding audibly in his chest.

For some inexplicable reason, he knew that the violet color was his doing. He dropped the femur in his hands and crouched down, gathering the small, violet hand bones into his hands. When he held them, he could feel something, a kind of foreign connection. He looked back at the femur, noting that its reddish tint was actually just a lighter variant of the deeper violet.

“Whatever is happening to me...” he began, his words a soft murmur, “it’s going to mean the difference in getting out of here.” Steeling his eyes, Ian began to concentrate on the violet bones, trying to understand what he’d done in the hopes of being able to do it again. He had a suspicion that the power he was developing was the same kind that empowered the skeletons, but power was power: Dark Art or not, he would take what he could get.