“I have kept to my faith; that right makes might, and in believing so, carried out my duty.” — finishing statement of Adit Havrasalam, military tribunal, 2025.

“I thought you’d be in Sviratham’s office by now.”

Martin poured a thimble of milk in the cup. They were at the café where they had met Guo Hong after his dance off.

Having called in the altercation- anonymously- they both agreed that the best course of action was retreat.

“Doing what?”

Isla scratched at the baby-fuzz that was beginning to curl from her shaved head.

She remained silent, which was telling enough. She only kept her mouth shut when she thought she’d give serious offense.

“You thought I’d be tattling on Viktor.”

Statement, not supposition, yet deny it she did not.

She didn’t understand.

Martin Soleri was trying to be better, to be good, but good, he had learned, wasn’t nice. Adit Havrasalam had been good. Cameron Westerfield was good when he slammed a fucking claymore through Viktor’s chest to make his point. Martin was good, so good that he’d taken Isla’s abuse simply to make a point.

“Isla, they were waiting outside. Now, I don’t understand why they never came for us at Level 5, especially as this Chevalier is so good with the nets…but they were waiting outside my apartment.”

One face had been pointed out to him before they escaped the scene of the crime. A girl with curly black hair and a set of heraldic blues. Her right hand was stuck gripping the other hand, three fingers removed. The author of the Ukok Massacre wasn’t kind, but he could’ve taken more.

Martin slammed the cup down.”Suppose that Chevalier had blanketed the nets.I’d been alone with her, and five others. Somaronov…”

He trailed off.

Calix said nothing, for her growing horror was enough. They both knew enough of their peers, seen them speak during the lectures of the Tutelage to know their natures.

They remained silent, the two of them, together.

“What happened during the Crown-preliminaries?”

The black surface of the coffee reflected him, reflected the many ways in which he presented himself, yet Soleri could not see guilt in that image.

“I took all the darkness in me, every despair, and I hit Somaronov with it. But she…she showed me that person. That other me. She brought it up.”

“They say that several Deputies had to be brought in to heal her.”

Martin was grateful for the sidetrack. It allowed him to think, to coral his thoughts into order. To avoid the bleed of emotions into his orderly mind.

“What about that shitty doctor? Abban?”

Calix shrugged.”I don’t know. Maybe he was busy.”

Martin grabbed hold of the conversation.”We’re going off the rails. She…she put me in a bad place. I retaliated. Thought she was looking at me funny at the lectures, but never guessed she had a grudge like this.”

He downed the black liquid, enjoying the sear.”I’m not in Sviratham’s office ‘cause it wouldn’t do me any good. He showed up, you know after my fight with Somaronov. Told me anything goes. Bet he’d say the same here.”

Calix sprinkled cinnamon on her cake.”That’s…like you said, they were waiting for you.”

“And that is about what I would be able to tell our instructor. I’m willing to bet that the net’s been interfered with, and after that…what, I found them, just like that?”

A bit of bitterness tinged his voice. That wasn’t just coffee.

“Besides, the man’s made his opinions about what constitutes teaching quite clear. ‘A little scuffle between students’. That’s what he will say.”

“I think you’re giving him little credit.”

“He might as well have condoned Somaronov’s behaviour during the preliminaries.” Martin hadn’t forgotten they way Raja Sviratham had looked at him, all narrow, barely contained impatience.

“Which took place under a institutionalised form of combat approved by the fucking Bureau of Administration. You say that he won’t care about Chevalier and Somaronov’s attempt to assault you- but he will about care about them going over his head, and the Bureau’s head.”

That…Calix had a point there.

In fact, as minutes passed and he considered it, that was a great point.

Seen through an authoritative view, Sviratham’s actions made a certain amount of warped sense. Renaldo had questioned him, and been made an example. In the last lecture, Viktor and Ronja respectively gone off lengths, and been chastised. The Guos, Westerfield and Solzhenitsyn had fought their teacher during the Examination, and though he had hurt them, he hadn’t used more force than necessary—atleast what he considered neccessary. The more he thought about it, the clearer the picture became. Sviratham’s violence was always a reply to the questioning of his authority.

That he was deeply unlikeable, well, that was more an opinion of Martin’s.

“I’d still have to explain why I didn’t come clean the moment it happened. I look guilty.”

“We.”

Martin opened his mouth, then deciding to say nothing.

“We look guilty, Martin. But we’ll sway him with the one thing he respects.”

“Which is?”

“The truth.”

“The truth?”

“Man, think about it. When Viktor stood up for Renaldo, when you…when you called us fragile during the last lesson, when he asked whether anyone wanted to run before the Examination- truth and a bit of bravery, that’s what he wants.”

Martin’s anger warred with his indecision. They had ambushed him, and he didn’t owe them shit. Yet a couple of fingers, a couple of bruises was nothing to a Proxy. Sviratham would make sure the offenders got the best healing, just to make sure he could kick their asses again.

They’d still be keeping their mouths shut, and in doing so they’d get away.

Would…could Sviratham act on mere suspicion?

A mere hunch might not be enough to move him. He needed something more substantial and Martin could provide that. Sviratham kept to a tough form of justice, but he wouldn’t abide by this.

The reflexive need to keep quiet in the face of an authority held a certain hand on him. Martin’s lessons in Camp Redsjö, and then later Sala, had taught him that you should never trust the authorities. They cared more for quotes and the rule of law than actual justice.

That thought cinched it. Sviratham cared. In his own way, which often was at odds with the way Soleri saw the world, but he cared.

“We’ll go to Sviratham.” He downed the coffee.

_____

“This is it.”

Martin stared at the door, plain and pitted. Light cast shadows from beneath it and the door’s knob was covered in several layers of latex, the likes of which were torn. They were at Level 2. As close to hell, so to speak, as one could get in an arcology.

There was only one layer beneath this one, the one where the Seed sat. Or lay. The terminology was unfamiliar to Soleri.

He didn’t question that fact, or her assertion.

Martin raised a hand—then withdrew it. What was he going to say?

“What the hell, Soleri. Come on.”

“It’s just…”

“Just what? He isn’t going to bite you.”

Isla’s fist drew back, and she knocked it hard enough that the Seed, the heart of arcology would feel it below.

“Coming!”

Martin knew that voice.

The door swung inwards— and Raja Sviratham stood before them in all of his overall-covered glory.

Something had spattered on the blue overall a long time ago. Cleaned several times over, until the remnant was just a faded thing. Martin’s eyes were on that ancient spill, slowly moving up to the man’s face.

It would be easy to discount their instructor, were one to see him on a random street. His skin was of a shade all too common to the Indian subcontinent (Martin had checked it up on the nets), his hair—or the lack of it, reminiscent of those characters that played monks on casts. In the light, his eyes were amber, but here, in the shadows, mere brown.

Yes, Martin Soleri thought. You wouldn’t notice Raja Sviratham until he called on his burning light. He was struck by a random thought, was Martin.

How old was Sviratham?

As a teenager, Martin had taught his teachers born fully formed, like Athena of the myth, but he was old enough to know different now.

“…and that’s when the endoauric darkness vanished.”

Martin played Calix’s words back. She was telling their teacher of how Martin had vanished the darkness, leaving him a choice, or sorts.

Soleri cleared his throat.”It began with the preliminaries…” He told Sviratham about Somaronov, and his suspicions about why he had found her outside his apartment— Calix interspersed the account with what she knew, and it wasn’t until she finished that he realised they had mirrors and smoke.

Oh yes, they had certain flaunted Sviratham’s authority, but could that be proven?

He and Calix had nothing substantial, unless you counted the way they had entered his portal. Viktor showing up. But that was easy to deny, certainly more easy to deny than the lack of fingers on Chevalier’s hand. Words against words, and the arcology-born spoke silver over a provincial camper’s copper.

Sviratham’s face betrayed nothing. His eyes were dark, but that was due to his coloration, rather than mood, and his lips formed a thing that could be taken as a smile, but wasn’t.

“You have nothing. No, you have a chase and some lost fingers. Suspicions, and that brat Solzhenitsyn acting like normal human being instead of—“ Sviratham stopped, abruptly. What had he intended to say?

Martin’s hopes sunk. Why had he let Calix convince him? He should have kept his mouth shut. This what happened when you went to authorities, you—

“…fine then, let’s do this properly. We’ll need a third-party observer. Coastline?”

“YES?”

Martin jumped, his lims flailing, elbow striking Calix in the stomach.

A hawk hung in the air before them, a space previously unoccupied, great wings flapping to remain airborn, sharp beak open, from which a human voice issued forth.

Martin had seen the real deal once, and he was pretty sure a normal hawk shouldn’t be the size of a human being. He recognised it.

The Vänern Arcology Administrator.

“Coastline, I need your help. A couple of junior Proxies have had an altercation. I wasn’t there to witness it, but all the same, an account has to be made.”

Martin Soleri nodded to the hawk that wasn’t, thinking of the last time they had met. Nina Abrukha’s episode…

It, the Administrator, had made the claim that it didn’t lie. There was no way to measure the veracity of a claim like that..no, that was the wrong way to go about it.

Why would it ever lie?

To a being that held an entire arcology safe, the fate of a lone person meant little. That thought brought some comfort to him.

“YES.”

“And how will you-“

The brown wings flapped, growing as they did and for a unit of time that could’ve not have been longer than a heartbeat, Martin was distracted.

When the wings withdrew, their location had changed.

A…in a natural environ, Martin would have called it cavernous. It reminded him of the platform beneath the Mountain, where he and Calix had found their Chassis.

A circular space, with a hole in the center, the circumference of which was cut up and through with a pillar that speared—Martin raised his head, unable to see its end.

The outer wall of the room was so far as to be an expanse of grey metal. Was this the uninhabited Level 1?

He counted the seconds from the moment of entry until they stood some odd metres away from the pillar: twenty.

A series of laquered clicks echoed in the vastness of space, and three screens detached from the wall of the pillar, born by rotor-arms.

The screens fuzzed, and on them, a show aired.

“WATCH.”

On the leftmost screen, a ghost and a horned lord spoke in a gymnasium. In the centermost screen, a snowy mountain took up the majority of the surface shortly before the viewpoint shifted, revealing among others, Chevalier and Somaronov. On the right screen, a shaman garbled in midnight feathers and with the head of some predatory bird stalked the hallways of some unfamiliar Level.

The show went on; him and Calix standing at that fountain, Somaronov and Chevalier’s faces growing irate and Solzhenitsyn standing still in a corridor known to Martin.

He and Isla entered his apartment. A Proxy wearing a Chassis in the likeness of musketeer gestured at another Proxy wearing that classical knight armor, though hers was purple with white highlights, and the helmet had a bridge of feathers extending from somewhere along the height of brows to the back of her neck.

The purple knight, craned her head, distracted, just as Martin had when he searched that name, ‘Claire Chevalier’.

Looking for me, are you?

Chevalier pumped her fist then.

The purple knight created a portal-link, and the group of Proxies entered Level 9.

Martin felt himself tense, comparing the injuries he had seen to their unmolested state. Calix seemed to be enjoying herself.

The Vänern Administrator…the hawk hung listless in the air, only occasionally stirring to hold itself aloft. Did it really need to?

As for their instructor…Raja Sviratham’s countenance had darkened. How much of it was real? The man could lie with the best of them, and he was not beyond hammering a stake when a mere nail would suffice. Calix’s theory about his authority spun through his mind again.

The portal wheeled on itself, spinning like a coin, spinning, spinning before dispersing.

There was a flicker, a black wound stretching from beyond the screen—and a arc of blood arced from a Proxy’s sleeved gauntlet. A flurry of black eclipsed the screen.

“REPEATING, SLOWING THE MOTION.”

A slow…it was a feather. Black.

It struck the Proxy whose Chassis had long sleeves. The red fountained out.

They came then.

Like drops of rain, slow in the beginning, picking up speed with their fellows. An armada of black knives.

One sheared through Chevalier’s hand. Martin simply looked. What did it say about him, that he thought it less grisly to have fingers removed through happenstance than intent?

Somaronov took one through the jaw. Another struck at the raised section of her helmet, cutting the ‘feather’ in two.

The band of Proxies slammed to the ground, their strings cut.

How had Viktor overwhelmed the integrity of their Fields? By default, a Field would strengthen a Chassis by an unconscious degree. It was why Proxies could walk easier at battefields, knowing that they had at the very least a small chance to take a second hit. In the Examination, Martin had taken hits that would have cracked ordinary steel, if not for the advantage of a Field.

Oh, that they were surprised were certainly one part. Westerfield impaling Viktor only worked because the latter hadn’t seen it coming, yet there’d still be some Field technique at play.

Viktor strode onto the screen, one feathered boot coming to rest at Somaronov’s throat. He said a couple of words—Martin wished for sound—and then receded beyond the screen.

“SATISFIED?”

“No,” Raja Sviratham said.”Not at all. Please bring us back.”

The transition between the echoing cavern and Level 2 was a blink of an eye. It was several degrees smoother than the way Sviratham had teleported them, or the way Chiyo Moyomoto vanished him to his apartment. Using those two as yardsticks…but then, that was the thing, wasn’t it? They were both humans. The Administrator wasn’t, and Martin made a point to remember it.

The hawk dipped its head. “I MUST GO. WILL YOU REQUIRE ANY FURTHER SERVICES FROM ME, GOLDEN KNIGHT?”

Raja shook his head.”As always, thank you.”

“NAME YOUR FOE,” the Administrator called, and vanished in a funhouse distortion.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Sviratham declared, his voice clipped, the dismissal clear. He had even turned his back on them.

Isla glared at him. Martin shook his head.

“What…will you do?”

“Do?”

Sviratham’s voiced had dropped to arctic octaves.

“I’ll have that drunkard Abban mend the injuries, and once they’re healed…yes, I think a section of the arcology ceiling is in need of a proper scrubbing. The pigeons truly are a pest. Once that is done…if they are to ambush, then they better kill their prey. I’ll reach out some colleagues, see what can be done.”

“And Solzhenitsyn?”

He turned in profile, smiling without mirth.”Viktor Solzhenitsyn could have killed those children in moments. That he merely suppressed their Fields and took a finger or a jawbone says it all.”

Suppress their Fields?

He paused.”Best not to give him ideas. I’ll double the time of the sentence.”

“As for you…”

“Us?”

Martin stepped on Isla’s foot. Hard.

“You didn’t warn me, not before Calix convinced you, Mr Soleri. Besides, you should’ve come to me, Ms Calix, the moment you saw Ronja Somaronov and Claire Chevalier attempt to pursue your friend.”

“I’ll forward the punishment. For now be, away with you. I have something more important to do.”

Before Isla could ask what—judging by the hour and the lateness it surely was personal—Martin grabbed her and entered through the portal-link he threw open, slamming the gateway shut.

They lay there on the floor next to his bed, he and Isla.

“Uh, Soleri, mind getting off me?”

Reality cracked, and the two of them stared up.

A gauntlet in gold held the seam open. The portal-link Martin had made. Two amber orbs glowed from beyond the dark between spaces.”Remember; I’m alway watching. Always.”

The portal snapped shut.

Silence reigned in the apartment. Martin shivered. Did this mean that the Administrator—and Sviratham by extension of leave—could see…everything?

Gods, it was one thing know it intellectually, another to be confronted with the reality.

Calix swore.

“What kind of sick punishment is this?! An essay?!”