“Where are you?” asked Illian to the sky. A gust then scrambled his coat fringe.

Gaia spoke, but the boy still could not understand her—just Her noises. He could somehow feel Her intentions glade by wind and feel, through glens and oaks lining The Breath beyond. She was leading the echoes he heard, and he came to know this wind as Gaia’s voice. In these gusts, She could finally speak. The moment fell; Illian’s face saddened when he realized his path here had been dotted with lies.

He said, “Am I not worthy?”

To lie to the council, to the Rayvine’s effigies that he met Her physically—Illian was breaking ever rule standing in Her sanctum! Fear came quickly. Bathed in sin and sweat, the boy looked over his platform to the ground below. He could taste the bottom and it tasted like death.

But Gaia’s voice perked, as if in a caring laugh. Then, a bass-like hum descended the cadence of his ears.

“No?” A glimmer of hope dared enter his eyes, in love with Her view.

She repeated then swelled with an adage. More musical billowing, sure and telling like a tender kiss. Illian brightened up.

“So, you did lead me here …”

The kiss returned.

Satisfied, Illian stepped forward with more to ask. But as he did, his platform began to sink. Illian was mortified. Their time together was coming to an end: “Wait, I-“

Striking the sky, a massive freighter invaded the boy’s haven in a demon red. They fired off kinetic rounds The boy panicked, jumped from the platform and splayed helpless to the current!

These screams still filled Her cove.

Illian rose up, patted his coat away of timeless soil. He had been in stasis on an unmoving platform. Still, there was a cataclysmic shakeup rattling the caverns. Before he could think, another schism roared, causing the cavern to kick up a trail of dust from its small ceiling rock.

“What the. Shaintro!”

Illian raced to the hole, shaking, sweating but the vines, they wouldn’t budge! “Let, me, through!” he said. But the vines, they didn’t listen—much as he pulled or plead. He snapped off, took to sliding against the rock wall with flustered motions. Through gnashing rock and an upward glance, Illian faced vastness: the empty black above. Somewhere deep beyond this stratum lied Gaia, Her answers for which he needed now more than ever.

He said, “Why bring me here?” to the black. Echoes alone; no answer came. Then he took in the platform, flickered clear as ever with erratic gestures. “Why?!”

He tried to stand, but lacked the resolve; he’d rather sit and tuck away. Buried within his new coat, a shadow casted. And within that darkness he studied quite clearly his journey here: his lies, his resignation from a sure-thing job for—what, exactly?

Made my bed … Guess I’ll lie in it.

He played with the rumble and tumble of grains at his feet. To think his first time wearing the Messenger’s signature coat would be his last. This universe played cruel jokes, but none as cruel as this. He had to laugh while he still could. Then as though struck by his chords, the shadow strengthened. The boy became curious to a shifting light now dancing, convening in wild glimmers from the roots to his very own palm in the grains. “What, the, hell?” Each word brought him closer to a shimmering blue manifestation. Illian studied this strange ball take form. A sudden pang ruptured the cove; Illian flinched. But the manifestation arose unimpressed in a more inviting form. A man.

No, a Messenger.

Illian climbed slowly to an authored stance; each step he took with care until he arrived shy of the pond. A crunch made the boy believe he’d raise alarm, but whatever this thing was couldn’t hear or simply didn’t care.

Not one to share duties, Illian said, “Who are you?”

The manifestation, in his own rarefied coat, grazed listless in the water. Illian took in their features, how their coat had aged, yet held together as well as his own. Slowly, the Messenger encrusted in corporeal form. They waked the water with physical hands and long, dreaded locks a comfort reserved for old friends. Illian’s face blazed.

Does he want me to follow?

Another barrage racked the cove; Illian tried to leave again, but the vine remained closed. A breath. He took to watching the manifestation; they now acquainted the platform in meditation. Then, Illian sparked: “Of course!”

His lessons touched, if only briefly upon these wild summons. Shaintro emphasized—unlike many spiritual councils—that the Gods take form in which we need most. Humans focalize the seen. What they retain best is repetition.

Illian ran, the words of Shaintro leaving his mouth: “The seen!” He stopped amidst the Messenger’s company. “You’re Gaia, aren’t you?” hoping for more. Without a response, Illian exhaled warm mist, submerged in Her pond one last time as he mimicked the strange—hallucination’s pose. “What’s another shot in the dark?” he asked.

Illian closed his eyes, exhumed in unison. And all at once, a white light came.

A loving wind flapped against Illian’s form—now the only one here. The strange Messenger had disappeared. He took to searching in spinning motion; what he found was Her sky again. And the bottom without a platform to negotiate with. Illian tensed, braced weightless to plummet. Something which never came.

Illian peaked down. “I’m—flying?” he said, the wind clapping his shoulder tassels.

He whisked again, took a chance and dove. Slowly, his timid motions freed. He said, “Fuck yeah, I’m flying!”

And he smiled a grateful smile to these great amber clouds and their dusking purple sky. His cheer would turn to panic the moment he turned around. The Argo had been engaged by three fighters, shredding through imminent storm walls. And spearheading the assault was a red class D Husky freighter.

“The red ship,” Illian swallowed. “Hang on, Shaintro, I’m coming!” But, was he really?

No time to entertain the thought. A violent whistle thundered against his ears; the red Husky had jerked back to allow two rail-thin fighters to tear through with flak cannon fire. Their quad-engine thrusters popped and buzzed to an ugly crawl amid a cloud bank. Shaintro maneuvered with an allergy to fire, but for how long Illian was uncertain. He had to do something.

The Husky turned to flank; Illian darted his body to follow, but flinched when a crying ion round whizzed shy of the Husky’s blast doors. Dodge maneuvers flung the ship directly at Illian who braced for impact. Nothing; Illian realized he was shit at being a spirit when he opened his eyes to the Husky’s interior operations. He patted his form, tucked behind some peculiar tankard shells. Illian hummed. An operative decked in a dust-padded black gambeson then stopped his solder tool, making the boy dive back into cover. The operative unmasked from their square face optics to breathe. His emerald eyes became dangerously curious; he peaked near Illian and began to rise when another of his crew stepped from beyond a hatching blast door.

Their Greek complexion soured when they called: “Mitch, what the hell’re you doing? You’ll singe your brow again if the cannon goes off with you near’it.”

Cannon? Again?

Illian investigated the shells once more, to Mitch’s project: a plasma conduit far too dorky a fit for class D truss systems. Judging by the swampy air and belching thrusters, this ragtag group of mercs thrived in getting by, and this had to be one of several desperate measures.

“Right. Sorry, Rosqo,” said Mitch, attending to his haptic toolkit. “Cannon needs another round of recalibrating; that last shot cut The Breath something fierce, but the Messenger’s ship’s too fast for our normal lock ons.”

Bullshit.

The way Mitch slicked his tool away, the snide stare. Something didn’t add up to Illian. He eavesdropped further, but his touch shimmered against the cover, so he aired on caution not to lean too closely.

“You think they’ll handle it first?” Mitch offered. “Class A fighters like that are reinforced like a motherfucker, and I doubt our sweepers’ got enough ammo to spare.”

Rosqo laughed, snuffing his cigar against the truss. The compartment now smelled of mangos and fuel. He said, “Let ‘em try. Kor and Jeri are due for some humility—freeloaders.” He resurrected his cigar, puffed it and drew circles around the sunny orange plasma cannon with his fiery wand. “Almost done?”

“Yeah,” pounding the shell to comply, “just needs time to charge.”

Rosqo looked upon Mitch smitten. “Spare me the details next time,” he said, another puff smoking out. “When I get a hold of that blue freak’s coat, I’ll buy somethin’ nice for your trouble.”

Mitched scoffed, “If it’s not charred to nothing.”

“You ever held a Messenger coat before?” Rosqo flicked his cigar butt behind him, strode to leave. “It barely singes.” Mitch chuckled.

His hands rifled through his tools when a cyan device blinked through the shell, cluing Illian to maneuver when the bulkhead door closed. Another blink; the boy honed in. Mitch scanned the room before considering its call. When he swept over, Illian tried to duck, but found himself locked onto.

A pause.

Mitch arose and began to paint Illian’s spiritual form with a careful brush of his eyes. Illian stilled.

Fuck—Oh fuck!

Mitch stared through the boy’s eyes, to his coat and back. Then like flinging ice off his shoulder, Mitch averted, muttering, “Rustbucket’s playing tricks on me. Must be the fumes.” Mitch sniffed captive to the mango smoke, nodded. “I’m gonna miss it.”

Miss it? Illian hovered over their shoulder. He could sense the engines huffing, puffing to embark. He might be new to this whole ghost thing, but he wagered he would cascade out the way he came.

Mitch unlatched his optics, activated a comms relay budded in his ear. “Songbirds out,” he said definite. “Copy?” The action buzzed, buzzed in Illian’s ears. He had to keep his distance; Mitch flinched, too.

Then, Mitch propped up. His legs, they wanted to salute. Almost did with his hand; somebody of higher power was speaking. Illian braved a closer listen. Though scrambled, he plucked from their voice a warm, roasted drawl. “Yes, Commander.” And closer Illian got. “Have we shook hands?”

Code speak, surely. “But with who?” Illian asked.

Mitch nodded, rested his rookie demeanor when he said: “Leave it to a Maiorian to drop the ball on code words.” No laugh rescinded; Mitch racked back, Illian dodging his wandering eyes. Then came the question:

“What the hell is going on?”

The air cleared. Mitch locked his gaze onto a dock compartment unlike the rest; both he and Illian saw sharp lacerations on their door latches. Mitch smiled and said, “Exfil prepped.”

Then engines howled. Before Illian could breathe, he jettisoned out the hull but a whisper in the physical. Last he saw, Mitch had propped his feet into a bullet kick, gravity his hammer as he shot out portside. Through a tunneling wind, the operative known as Mitch folded into the storm like he missed the rain. And by Gaia did Illian miss the rain, too. He nocked, braced to follow. Right as he gave chase, the Argo cut into view. He redirected.

The closer he got, the more damage lined the exterior. Smoking holes all over. Illian trailed the thrusters, then the upper fin; all the while, he wondered why Shaintro would risk his own ship coming to The Breath.

“Why now?” he asked the skies. That cannon, these mercenaries. Mitch. Illian closed in and flung into the passenger side of the cockpit. Shaintro was muttering in sonorous Maiorian. Illian checked his uni-translator only to pass a hand right through his body.

“Oh, right.”

The ship stilled. Illian took a seat. Alarms were wailing. Heat levels maxed, pinged on the console. Weapon systems recoiled in an attempt to gather what little shells remained, but the Maiorian delegate remained poised in a calm blue. In his head, he’d won: a look unbecoming of the Shaintro he knew.

“Roa’civi,” Shaintro said in confirmation. His voice always perked when he said that. Illian’s ears buzzed again, evermore so near all these operations. But through the chaos, Illian went pale when he heard a southern drawl cut the comms. It remained fuzzy, but the man said one word which rang clear as any: “Mechais.”

Illian snapped back to the cove in his own skin. The quakes hadn’t ceased, yet the vines reeled open when he shot for the exit. But still, Illian ran without answers. “Mechais? Why would Shaintro be—working with the city?”

The cave darkened; he could hear the fighters belch and ignite for another run. Light disappeared; stones were crashing at his ankles. Through shaken vision, a brilliant blue shine guided. Illian followed, sprinted to an upcoming light. One last flash. Illian hurdled out the collapsing cave to a dusking sky. He was safe, for now. A prospect soon challenged when he heard incoming thrusters. And so it was; an object peeked through sky, illuminated by charging rounds.

Wait.

Illian took a good look. His face alit with relief: “It’s the Argo!” Amazed, he splayed his arms as though to catch the spade vessel mid-landing. The cockpit parted and Shaintro leapt out in a hurry. Illian’s device rang.

165 BPM

Please stabilize subject: SHAINTRO

Probable cardiovascular (MAIORIAN) risk:

56.89%

Illian committed in his stance, his legs wobbling, hands clamming, chest heavy. His mind had long since convinced him he were dead.

Shaintro seized this window of opportunity. He ran to his fellow Messenger in a hug. “Yes—I missed you, too, Sol! Come now, it’s about to start.”

“What? Hey!”

He rushed Illian along to an ample spot, hands propping his sightline in place from the shoulders. “I’ve got so many questions!-“

“Look,” said Shaintro, insistent. He was pointing to a dissipating cluster of fluffy, amber-headed clouds on the horizon.

There, the mercenary trio maddened a search effort hungry for stray Messengers. Through Shaintro’s gleaming bulbs and telling muscles, Illian could tell that was their first mistake.

In one explosive flash, the Husky class ignited in an orange fireball when the cannon primed. Its smoldering wreckage plunged into The Breath, but a demon falling back to hell.

Panic ensued.

The other fighters, without an operable fortress to rely on, scattered. When they crossed, an ion shriek pierced through the storm, skewering both, causing them to explode into smoking shrapnel rain.

A vessel emerged to claim the awesome power of its ion technology. Their gleaming hull, skirted with cannons, shifted Illian checked off more questions.

“We are not fighters, nor should we take part as a holy weapon.” Shaintro was repeating a lesson learned several months ago, but rather than keep on the script, he deviated, drawing his gloved fingers to the fighters. “But with enough practice,” he said. “You’ll never have to worry about fighting up close.”

“Right.” The only word concrete enough to fall from Illian’s mouth without sounding zealous, or worse: stupid. Shaintro’s comms flickered alive. In fact, both of their devices did, clashing tongues outside the realm of their translators.

Incoming hail from: MECHAIS

Illian jumped at the name: “Shaintro, what the hell’s going on?”

“I’ll extrapolate details later,” he said, answering the call. “We’ve been hunting Rosqo and his pack for some time.”

“But, why work-“

Shaintro gestured to hush. “Yes, commander, this is Messenger Vadis. I regret to inform you that subject Mitch is unaccounted for.”

Illian stared bug-eyed.

“You’re talking to him!” said Mitch. Both the Messengers took another look at the chrome ship. Illian followed its path through the storm walls and wanted to call bullshit. Even as a ghost, nobody could fly that well! “Mechaís sends their regards for cleaning up The Breath! Commander will be in contact soon. Out.”

The feed died. Mitch’s ship kicked off, thrummed its glossy silver thrusters to distort the air before spearing out of sight.

Glass floors had a nasty habit of giving out under pressure. Illian was no different. His eyes did all the talking to the ground, to the Earth he’s now responsible for.

In rumination, he spotted the strange Messenger staring right through his gaze. It made him tread that much lighter as Gaia’s voice. Both smiled to one another—come whatever may. “Great,” said Illian, shaking his head. “I’m a target.”

Shaintro said, “No. We’re a target.” He claimed a spot by Illian’s side, who glanced at his incandescent ebbing skin. Illian sought the Messenger again, but they had vanished with the wind. “I assure you are on the winning side of that exchange, Sol.”

The Maiorian began to venture back to the Argo, as did Illian in time. Illian couldn’t help but feel the Messenger stare survey him, and he still had so much to ask-

“Sol?” said Shaintro. He had unlatched the back docking ramp, the clap snapping him back to reality.

“Yes?”

“The Courtship awaits your report.”

“Yes, Shaintro. Right away.”

Oh boy. Homework. Bite me, blue man.

And … Thanks. I think.