Chapter Text
"Count Roland smites upon the marble stone;
I cannot tell you how he hewed it and smote;
Yet the blade breaks not nor splinters, though it groans;
Upward to heaven it rebounds from the blow.
When the count sees it never will be broke,
Then to himself right softly he makes moan;
'Ah, Durendal, fair, hallowed, and devote,
What store of relics lies in thy hilt of gold!'"
—The Song of Roland
To be a FKLR is to be a weapon.
Each model of their rate is trained from the moment of activation in the arts of war – combat, leadership, tactics. Perhaps every FKLR dreams of one day being shipped off to Vineta or Kitezh, where they will stand tall and glorious over their troops as a symphony of artillery and gunfire heralds the coming battle. A baptism in blood and lightning and fire.
Certainly that's what Commander Falke of S-23 Sierpinski dreams of.
To be a FKLR is to be a weapon, except when it's not.
Fact of the matter is, there are places where FKLRs are needed that have nothing to do with fighting, and in her case it's running a mining facility in the farthest reaches of the solar system; so many light years away from the heart of conflict that there may as well not even be a war. Still, the starkly designed posters lining Sierpinski's walls and the munitions factory taunt her. From bold images of Buyan's iridescent spires set ablaze to declarations of Kitezh's inevitable liberation, even one of her own rate resplendent with golden sword and national flag seems to tell her, "this is not for you."
But Falke reminds herself that even the most inglorious of these far-off facilities play a valuable role in the war effort. Sierpinski provides the resources needed to deliver death unto the Empire, and if the only way Falke can hear the percussive sound of gunfire is from the firing range, then so be it.
Sometimes she likes to expand her bioresonant mind over B6 and just listen as STARs and STCRs test their marksmanship. The steady crack of a Type-75, the Eu-K508 S's resounding bark, the meaty punch of an EIN-12, the deadly shrieking pierce of Nitro Express, a roaring Type-84's burst fire – just the sounds of the guns themselves being reloaded and the subtle pitch shift to indicate a clip or magazine is near empty; few things are more satisfying to Falke's ears than to know Sierpinski's guns are functioning as they ought to be.
Though Falke prefers to not be physically present at the firing range, or much of anywhere, really. If she'd show her face at the range it would impact the Protektors' performance, and not necessarily for the better. The first and so far only time such a thing happened, the residents of an entire STAR dorm wound up flogging each other. Performance jitters with the Commander looming behind them.
It's only natural. Everyone just stops and stares, immediately averting their awestruck gazes when her overwhelming presence washes over them, as would be expected when a godlike being approaches. Even the Gestalt workers are awed, if only because of her resemblance to the Great Revolutionary and her Daughter. It is the way things are, but to Falke it doesn't feel earned. She has done nothing to deserve their reverence. A superweapon of the Nation, with no blood on her hands or scars decorating her shell like medals. A wall-hanger.
I hate this.
The Kolibri cadre are better about it, sensing a flicker of their Commander's discomfort over being scrutinized without doing anything to deserve it, but even they can be cowed and so Falke keeps her distance for the sake of their delicate neural patterns. Which leaves ADLR-S2301 as the only one in the facility, let alone the entire planet, who isn't afraid of looking directly at her, but even then that's just part of his function.
Right now he's giving her his daily report – a whole lot of nothing new, nothing she already doesn't know from her inner eye spying on Sierpinski's inhabitants to stave off boredom. The Kolibris having a heated discussion over the current subject of their book club, a Mynah misplacing her favorite stuffed turtle and nearly causing a fuss before rediscovering it, one of the Gestalt workers being transferred to B3, a Storch in the midst of interrogation on B2, she'd even been surprised by a Star and Eule sneaking into the elevator to share a few kisses.
To be a FKLR is to be a god among Replikas, but those within Sierpinski seemingly have far richer inner lives than she does. Ah, but she's getting distracted. Falke keeps herself anchored to the present just enough to catch Adler finishing up a sentence that would require a response.
"...and with the Ara's workload as it is, I think we would benefit from adding an LSTR unit to our ranks," Adler says, all pleasant smiles and practiced nods.
Falke considers the proposal. LSTR units are solitary technicians and starship engineers, plus their skills as scouts and sappers would be additionally useful in the mine in case of any danger arising. Not that Falke expects there to be any danger down there, but it never hurts to stay on top of things. Better to have and not need than to overlook a potential cave-in or sinkhole. So she nods at him.
"Agreed. Send a requisition to Heimat."
Adler beams. "Right away, Commander!"
And with that, he goes off on a whole other tangent that Falke promptly tunes out but listens just enough to glean the important parts. He'll eventually wrap it up with a cheery "well, you must be busy" and she will dismiss him, as has been the routine ever since day one. Falke wishes she could be as busy as he makes her out to be; most of her time outside of work involves reading and watching war films, daydreaming of being anywhere but here.
Of course, should Heimat grant them an LSTR unit, that means Falke will be forced to come out of her opulent foxhole for standard meet-and-greet protocols. Another Replika to put her on an untouchable pedestal, worship her after she's done nothing to earn it.
Almost a fortnight passes before Sierpinski's new arrival appears at the orbital elevator with Falke and Adler to greet her. Red chest plate with matching accents on her arms and legs to set her apart from most Replikas; strong build like an ARAR, but unlike their impassive faces this one is all stoicism. While Adler gets started on introducing them, LSTR-S2301 beholds the Commander in all her glory and does not look away. Does not prostrate. She does still remove her pilotka and bow deeply, a perfectly acceptable show of submission. When she stands upright again, her expression remains unchanged.
Falke's brow arches fractionally.
Interesting.
She discretely observes the LSTR to gauge whether or not that detached demeanor had been a fluke while sealed envelopes are placed in Adler's hands and it quickly becomes clear that LSTR-S2301 is indiscriminate in how she treats others. Adler decides now is a great opportunity to give her a tour of the place before a map module can be procured, at which point Falke would like to excuse herself – a thousand pardons, lots of work to do, thank you for understanding, and so on – but the value of morale cannot be underestimated. Sierpinski is no combat zone but it's still important to lift the spirits of her troops and so Falke accompanies them, keeping to the back and trying to make herself as unimpressive as a 250 cm war goddess can be.
After the knee-jerk awe at the presence of Commander Falke, reactions to LSTR-S2301 vary – STCRs harrumph and glare, STARs are more casually welcoming, MNHRs ooh and ahh. The EULR cadres are more amusing, cooing over the cool attitude of their new arrival or saluting respectfully, and Falke even senses girlish appreciation of how handsome LSTR is. Some are intimidated by the piercing focus in her eyes. The ARAR cadre takes to her right away due to similar personality tendencies, so Adler suggests that LSTR can bunk with them until private quarters are arranged.
"That won't be necessary," is the most amount of words LSTR has given Adler so far, and her gaze locks onto a spare bed in the corner. Falke's ears perk up at the accent in her deep voice – Vinetan. The 'th' sounds come out as a 't' or 'd' perhaps, with a very subtle roll of the 'r'.
But at least Adler and the Aras are glad to not add yet another item to work on. He'll get to work preparing a small survey team for the mine's inner depths as soon as possible, so LSTR-S2301 can expect the needed modules to be ready by next cycle. She salutes to Adler, bows to Falke, expression once again unaltered.
Falke thinks she might like her.
Adler's usually serious face is bright and relaxed now that Sierpinski's first LSTR unit is settling in, and that he doesn't need to go over the logistics of setting up a whole new single bedroom.
"Isn't it grand to see things work out better than expected?" Adler says, right on Falke's heels as they return to B8. "Mark my words, Commander, she'll be an invaluable addition to our facility!"
"I agree," Falke hums, and for once she means it.
"Which reminds me—" Adler offers the sealed envelopes to Falke and she takes them, "—these are for your eyes only. They should make for a quick read. By your leave, I'll see to preparations at once!"
She nods. "Dismissed."
While Adler swaggers back to his office, Falke ducks back into her own quarters feeling an unusual bounce in her step. She pauses once the door whooshes shut behind her, LSTR's face flashing in her memory.
She looked at me. Falke lets out a huff of breath, almost a laugh. Disbelieving, giddy. She looked me dead in the eye.
There's a rush in her system. Odd.
But she does have new documents to read through; Falke takes a seat at her desk and carefully opens the envelope containing an overview of LSTR units, takes her time reading it. Landvermessungs-/Schiff-Techniker Replika; Generation 5; biomechanical with carbon fiber-reinforced polyethylene shell and titanium skeleton. A combination of technical know-how and combat expertise making these units true survivalists, especially in their iconic bullet-proof blue-and-white combat configuration – ah, a photograph is included. A shame LSTR-S2301 only has her engineering configuration, she would look rather dashing with the additional armor. Hm, it seems the neural pattern of new LSTRs are based on that of a decommissioned unit from the Penrose Program, since the original pattern was lost with the Vinetan Neural Archive's destruction. Interesting detail.
Now for the known issues... a flicker of excitement rushes through Falke once her eyes land on "neural pattern was a soldier of Vinetan origin". A soldier! No wonder LSTR's capabilities are praised as such even in impartial documentation. The rush dies down once she reads further, though – avoid talking to the LSTR unit about the war. To avoid resurfacing of Gestalt memories, do not show or give the LSTR unit photographs, especially of soldiers during the war.
...
Fuck.
Things are mostly unchanged at Sierpinski, but Falke's mood is lighter. LSTR-S2301 is her new favorite subject to watch from a distance.
She's practically become an honorary ARAR thanks to her efficiency and dedication to doing work not only properly but thoroughly; she just doesn't spend odd hours in maintenance tunnels in the floors, though she is allowed inside them. One of the STARs – Hunter – invites her to show off what she can do at the firing range, and while Falke knows that social situations are best avoided when it comes to LSTRs, she won't deny a thrill at seeing what this magpie is capable of doing with a gun in hand.
One STCR storms out of the range in a huff when LSTR-S2301 beats her high score.
It's essentially impossible to stop EULRs from being social butterflies, especially considering how well they get on with ARARs, so naturally they're all too happy to exchange pleasantries when they can, even if LSTR-S2301's responses are monosyllabic at best. It's also a tall order to curb interactions with MNHRs since they work with her as well. Fortunately it doesn't seem to affect the new technician one iota, as she goes about her duties as usual.
Adler has nothing but glowing praise for her on the daily reports. Falke privately finds herself agreeing – LSTR-S2301 is a good one.
One cycle, Falke is surprised to see LSTR-S2301 enter her office with a ladder. The other pauses at the sight of the Commander at her desk for a second before continuing as usual. The lights flicker; right, Adler must have said something about that in the passive-aggressive way he has of talking with others when Falke isn't around.
"Pardon the interruption," LSTR-S2301 says.
"My door is always open. If need be, anyone may enter."
A nod. LSTR-S2301 scans the lights and sets up the ladder under the faulty one, at which point it occurs to Falke that someone should keep the thing balanced so its occupant doesn't topple over, so she stands up and holds the ladder steady just as LSTR-S2301 begins climbing.
She looks over at Falke, stoic as ever. "Thank you."
At this proximity, Falke thinks the EULRs are right to consider her handsome. "You're welcome."
LSTR-S2301 gets to work unscrewing the fluorescent light covering and silence fills the office. Huh. This must be what an uncomfortable silence feels like. Falke wants to say something, knows well enough how to navigate small talk in a professional setting, but finds herself out of her element.
"I didn't expect you would be working outside the mine," she settles with observing, for lack of a better conversation starter.
"The Aras are occupied. I volunteered."
A beat.
"I'm tall enough to reach the lights on my own."
"The Administrator would say this is beneath you."
"Adler would say many things are beneath me," Falke retorts. "He'd probably try protecting me from preparing my own meals."
Which isn't too far from the truth, since Adler takes it upon himself to test the first bite of Falke's meals to ensure they're not poisoned, as if a little pinch of nightshade could lay her low. She understands it's due to Adler overhearing a loud discussion amongst the Kolibri concerning the means of a fictional assassination and the idea simply stuck to his mind like a tick. Falke makes a mental note to requisition a new fetish object for him.
LSTR-S2301 removes the faulty light and Falke takes it in hand, rests it on her desk.
"Why not let him help?"
"Because..." Falke pauses.
LSTR-S2301 glances at her.
"...I like being able to do things on my own. I want to be useful."
"I should think being Commander is quite useful."
Falke huffs an almost-laugh. Was that sarcasm? Not even an untrained STCR has the brass to take such a tone with her. Maybe this is another reason why LSTRs are loners, since they don't have to practice common politeness in isolation. There's a wave of mild embarrassment ebbing off of LSTR-S2301, though.
"Apologies."
"No, no, I don't mind at all. Adler would, but he's not here right now."
"...noted."
Falke passes LSTR-S2301 the replacement bulb and soon the job is complete. With the new light illuminating to satisfaction, its cover is screwed back on and the technician steps down her ladder, pausing when her face is level with the Commander's. Once more their eyes meet. It feels so good to maintain eye contact and not feel a shred of exaltation in the beholder. The blue irises and red eye-shine are no different from any other Replika at face value, but LSTR's are startlingly different.
"Permission to speak?"
"Granted."
"Do you not think yourself useful?"
Falke returns to her desk, considers the question. She does plenty of useful things, to be sure; Adler can't handle all the paperwork and red tape that comes with such a position at Sierpinski, and besides, Falke runs the place. It's her job to make sure the gears are turning so Adler can cross his T's and dot his I's, so the staff has the resources they need, so the Gestalts can keep working, so the—
Falke stops herself before spiraling into a litany of mind-numbing busywork. Same drek different day, day in and day out. Textbook insanity. You'll get used to it, they said. You'll come to like it, they said.
If I ever come to enjoy this life, let someone douse me and light me up.
"I want to be more useful than this," Falke admits.
LSTR-S2301's lips press into a thin line. "No disrespect, but shouldn't this be a conversation reserved for Adler? Or your cadre?"
Falke exhales through her nose, dexterously spinning a pen around her fingers. "Perhaps. Adler is a fine man, his work does the Nation proud. But imagine trying to hold a conversation with someone whose purpose is to agree with your every spoken word. 'The Gestalt workers seem especially worn down today, Adler.' 'Yes, Commander, they are absolutely miserable today.' It's not a conversation. It's your every observation parroted by a yes man. And the cadre – they are my Kolibri, but they are not, strictly speaking, my cadre. They have a natural connection with each other, which... I lack."
The Nation created adjutants for their war goddesses, but those adjutants are not created for war.
A beat. Falke catapults the pen straight up with a flick of her thumb, watches it spiral through the air as it rises and falls, catches it between her index and middle fingers.
"The fact of the matter is... I'm bored."
LSTR-S2301 hums.
"I am a weapon. I am meant to be on the front lines, leading my forces into battle – and instead I have been assigned as far away from the war as possible."
It is a FKLR's nature to posture and seem larger than life, strut about as if she were a peacock, live up to the expectations inherent of her existence. Easy enough to satisfy her own ego in day-to-day mundanity with no one so much as conceiving the idea of questioning her orders, but the same mundanity is enough to drive Falke out of her skull. Conflict is her nature. She was made for war, and yet she's never so much as thrown a punch since activation and early training. She feels like a joke.
Take the desk for instance. It can be a symbol of her position, or more accurately her imprisonment, but it's not like she's shackled to it by the will of the Great Revolutionary, oh no. This is just a thing, all wood and screws and hinges, and things are easily broken. If she really wanted to, Falke could crash her fist down upon it like a hammer strike and reduce it to splinters, send the scattered pieces flying about the room, tear this whole room down. Gestalts have created gods in their own image, what would they expect to happen when they stick one of their gods inside a golden cage and say she's forbidden from doing what they created her to do? Just passively accept her fate like a hapless automaton?
We are. And yet...
This is not for you, says the poster bearing her face. There is no place for you here.
But I don't belong HERE. What makes the others more suitable for the war than me? Am I... defective, in some way? Why not just decommission me? That would have been so much kinder than this. I hate it here. I hate it! My face is stone but inside I'm SCREAMING. Bashing my skull against the bars trying to break free. I just want to be out in the field so badly it hurts! I want out! Please, let me out! Why can't I—
劣
Falke's fist is clenched so hard it trembles, hovering an inch over the desk. She takes a deep breath to settle herself, remember the here and now. It would be the height of humiliation to destroy her belongings in a fit of childish pique. This is just the way things are; nothing can change that. Her fist taps the desk.
"I just want to fight," she whispers.
There's a noticeable pause before LSTR-S2301 mutters, "My condolences."
Falke sighs. "No. That was unbecoming of me. I'm sorry you had to see me whinge like that."
Still, it feels good to vent about it, to let the mask of divinity slip away if only for a moment; goodness knows if Adler were here he'd faint dead away over his beloved Commander needing to air out her frustrations.
"Do you...?" LSTR-S2301 trails off, tries again. "Do you need fetish objects to maintain stability?"
She's never heard of a FKLR going rampant, but a fine point has been raised. A Commander must be focused to continue her work as efficiently as possible, and it would be nothing short of disastrous if Sierpinski were effected by a Commander suffering persona degradation. Falke looks at LSTR-S2301 seriously.
"I've never needed one before, but maybe I don't need an object so much as a fellow Replika. Someone who I can really talk to about things I can't with others."
LSTR-S2301's gaze momentarily lowers to Falke's shoulder and for some reason that makes something inside her ache. Don't look away, please. Don't avert your eyes like the others. Be not like them. Please.
Those focused eyes return to Falke's face.
"I'm not good at this," LSTR-S2301 says. "But, if you really need it... I can listen."
Falke releases a breath she hadn't realized was being held. "That's all I need."
Even if it's not what she wants.
And so, every now and then Falke will enjoy a conversation with LSTR-S2301... or rather, Elster. They've set up a private frequency that Falke can broadcast should the need for company arise, that way Adler doesn't have to hoof it all over the facility just to look for one Replika. He might get jealous over Elster's exclusive access to a line with the Commander, anyway.
They don't talk about the war of course (persona stabilization is very important), but about simple, even stupid things. Exchanging stories of what happened during work lately, what Sierpinski's latest addition did prior to being shipped to the ass end of the system, even what their favorite things are (LSTR is fond of potatoes, particularly Vinetan or Kitezhan russets; Falke could eat an entire shipment of raw spargel by herself). Sometimes Falke complains and Elster might even share the advice she's gotten from the Aras.
Sometimes Falke feels like Elster is a better fit for her than Adler; where he is at times neurotic, Elster is consistent; where Adler is overly serious and frowns at jokes, Elster can show a dry sense of humor; where Adler worships the ground Falke walks on, Elster treats her like a fellow Replika. She almost feels like a person now. Naturally, Adler notices when the new Replika spends an unusual amount of time with the Commander and naturally he's developing a case of the stink eye, Falke sensing the resentment growing inside him—
My beloved Commander barely says anything to me outside of work. What's so special about that LSTR?
Why does she get to talk with Commander Falke and not me?
—so Falke has to calm him down before he gets ugly about it. Easy enough with his sensitivity to bioresonant suggestion.
Falke also tries not to watch Elster while she works anymore. It felt harmless before when they hadn't exchanged a single word between them, but now that they're spending more time together it feels almost like an intrusion. Elster isn't entertainment to keep her sane anymore, she's...
Even so, there are times when Elster appears in Falke's bioresonant surveillance all the same.
There's a moment when the LSTR-ARAR cadre is on an equipment check in the factory when a passing Gestalt stops and does a double-take in Elster's direction, shock and confusion radiating off of her. Falke doesn't pay the scene any mind, content to wave it off as surprise at a new Replika unit... but as the cycles pass, it becomes increasingly difficult to ignore that Gestalt's fixation on Elster.
It's different from the flirty gossip of EULRs – they see Elster as cool and a dedicated worker, and in Falke's mind it's not uncommon for them to develop harmless crushes on more intimidating Replikas – but with this particular Gestalt it's different. There's a sense of familiarity in the way she looks at Elster, like superimposing another face on top of the one she sees. Once, Elster has to fix the oscillating fan in A6 and Falke tunes into watching her work just in time to catch that Gestalt calling her Elster.
No "-S2301".
Just Elster.
All the Replikas, Commander included, call her Elster because it's easier, so why does this make Falke's hand ball into a fist?
It doesn't take much to sniff out the details on any given worker in this facility, and soon the pieces come together. Alina Seo, factory worker, birth world Vineta.
This lines up, between Elster's Vinetan accent and the original neural donor being a soldier – Seo herself is a veteran, and a decorated one at that. She's only here due to honorable discharge and AEON having a lack of anything better for a soldier to do, but perhaps someone figured a factory job would help keep her occupied (or distracted) long enough to get sober; apparently, alcoholism is common among Gestalt soldiers.
Better to have factory work than a desk job. Falke wouldn't wish that on anyone.
But clearly Elster resembles someone familiar to Seo, most likely that neural donor, and it's likely that Seo had previously served with that donor. Maybe that's the real reason Seo was assigned to Sierpinski. Unavoidable social interactions during work is one thing, but it won't do for Seo to inadvertently cause persona degradation in Sierpinski's only LSTR unit, and Falke has a duty as Commander to ensure everything runs smoothly.
But a god doesn't just descend from on high to tell one specific Gestalt to not talk to a specific Replika no matter how similar she looks to an old comrade, not unless the god is looking for rumors to spread and turn the goodwill Elster has earned into envy. Of course she could just influence anyone who sees or hears what they shouldn't to let it slip out of mind like a loose sheet of paper... alternatively, no one would bat an eye to a very slight non-lethal work accident in the factory that might send a certain someone to the hospital for an extended stay.
Now there's an idea.
Admittedly, Falke has her moments where she rants about being stuck way out here and not over there. How the FKLRs assigned to the front lines must wake up to all sorts of excitement, each day bringing something new. She has to be careful not to be too descriptive about her wish to locked in engagement with imperial forces however. But she desperately wants to talk about it, if only so she can imagine the stories told to her and live them out in dreams.
Oh, what tales must lie buried in your Gestalt memories. What's it like to fire a gun? To kill someone?
Was it from a distance with their face framed in cross hairs, or up close with a knife or bayonet, or with bare hands?
Have you ever been shot or stabbed? How many have you killed?
But for all of Falke's eagerness to experience it, she gets the impression that most Gestalts who have seen war prefer not to talk about it. She can't imagine why – if Falke were on the field, she'd never shut up about the things witnessed there. Seo certainly wouldn't agree; during the quiet hours where sleep is elusive, a fellow worker asks her "what was it like?" and one wouldn't need bioresonance to sense that Seo wants to curl into a ball to make herself small; I don't know what it's like, she wants to lie, it happened to someone else. Perhaps it's the same for Elster; who knows what her neural donor experienced in the war, who knows how she'd react to any stimuli bringing up old memories. So what choice does Falke have but to accept things as they are? She can't have a place in the battlefield, but she has Elster.
This time, Elster has to check in on the maintenance tunnels just under the floor in Falke's office; Adler had assigned both ARAR-S2317 and ARAR-S2318 to the excavation team, so with them getting prepped for the next trip down it falls to Elster to make sure things are as they should be. Nobody minds; the Aras trust Elster like she's one of them, and Falke is all too happy to see her for any reason. On a whim she slips into the tunnel after Elster, having never been inside Ara territory, but clunking her head against the ceiling limits her explorations to crawling on all fours or sitting cross-legged. Which, again, she doesn't mind.
Falke rests her chin atop the knuckles of her joined fingers, focusing on Elster as she works. There is a vague familiarity to her mien; efficient, decisive, determined. Falke digs through her knowledge of the model before her once again; LSTR units are stoic loners whose neural template is based off of a Vinetan soldier. In just one brief description she already feels more kinship with this seemingly unassuming engineer than she does the models she's meant to be complemented by. Maybe it's not familiarity so much as Elster... being something that Falke wants to be: respected for honest work, treated as an equal. Elster is also a fighter, albeit with nothing or no one to fight. Just like her.
Falke's mouth curves. "I have a wonder."
"Hm?"
"How do your fellow LSTRs refer to each other? By names or numbers?"
Elster considers the question for all of two seconds before shrugging. "Numbers. We don't interact with each other like most Replikas of other rates do. We generally don't interact at all unless necessary."
An idea begins forming in Falke's mind. A delicious idea.
"Neither do FKLR units," she admits, causing LSTR-S2301 to look up at her. So exhilarating to maintain eye contact with someone who isn't cowed by her through reputation alone! Such a small, simple, insignificant thing, one that might be considered blasphemous among the more devoted. But Falke likes that about her. "We are all sisters, as we are made in the image of the Great Revolutionary and Her Daughter, but you almost never see two of us in the same place for logistical reasons. Only one FKLR per AEON facility and so on. However, we have our own war names assigned, and might even give each other secret names, should such an occasion arise that two of us might join forces."
"I presume you have both your war name and secret name."
"I do. I'm tempted to share them with you."
Elster's eyes widen noticeably and Falke's mouth forms a smile. The two watch each other for a moment.
"Commander, permission to pose a question?"
"Granted."
"Is it possible for the divine apparent to blaspheme against itself?"
"I'm about to try."
Elster has no response for that, and opts to focus on finishing up work instead of fumbling for articulation. The emotional wave rolling off of her suggests surprise at the answer – she even seems impressed. Falke smiles at that. Work done, they climb out of the tunnel and Elster returns things to how they should be while Falke strides over to one of the paintings flanking her private quarters, pleased with this minor demonstration of... rebellion? How delicious. She looks over one shoulder to meet eyes with the LSTR; still standing at her own full height even as she's towered over, as if in defiance. Yes, Falke likes this Replika very much.
The movement of Elster's eyes indicate a question that she isn't sure ought to be voiced.
"You already have permission to speak," Falke reminds her.
"Am I permitted to ask the etymological origin of a FKLR's name?"
Ahh, good and careful wording. Not asking what exactly a secret name is, but what the basis for it is. Falke walks around her desk, trailing her fingers along its wooden surface as if in thought of how she might answer. She simply must, since Elster asked so shrewdly.
"FLKR war names can be grandiose, even ostentatious, as one would expect of our rate. 'Falke Who Is Called Divine,' as an example. It only serves to inspire troops in battle, but in cycle-by-cycle business like our facility it's nothing but a mouthful. Hence, the secret names. These are much simpler. We name ourselves after weapons of old legends."
"A similar practice as the STAR units," Elster surmises.
"Quite so. But while Hunter is so named for her marksmanship or Tank for her durability, our secret names are chosen because frankly, they just sound impressive. The Great Revolutionary once said that all the many implements of war are in some way feminine. The People's Navy informally refer to their ships with female descriptors, some Gestalt soldiers may name their blade or rifle after a woman they fancy. We FKLR specifically use mythical weapons for our secret names because we are gods among Replikas, and gods must be strong."
Falke stops, standing a few scant feet away from Elster. As ever, the shorter Replika fearlessly gazes up at her. So unyielding, this magpie, as nigh unbreakable in her composure as she was on the first day. The idea in Falke's head bears fruit.
"In fact, if you were a fellow FKLR..."
Elster stiffens.
Falke continues, undeterred, a broad smile on her lovely face. "Then I've already thought of the perfect secret name for you."
"Respectfully, Commander... I am the only LSTR unit in S-23. Assigning me a secret name is unnecessary. Elster will suffice."
Falke's eyes narrow imperceptibly; inwardly, her hackles are raised. But that is the name Alina Seo calls you. The name anyone can call you, Replika or Gestalt. Why should I share the name I give you with anyone else? You are my LSTR. MY magpie. Her jealousy is well hidden, fortunately. Wouldn't want it getting out that Commander Falke feels threatened by a mere Gestalt worker.
Falke responds calmly. "Even so, you surely aren't immune to curiosity. It's a fine name, if I may say so myself. What's more, it's a secret just between the two of us. No one else will know."
Elster concedes the point with a nearly silent sigh. "Very well. What is my name?"
"Durandal."
It feels good saying it out loud. Durandal. The newly christened LSTR unit glances down at the carpet, mouth and tongue forming the syllables in practice as she tests it for herself. Durandal. Du-ran-dal. Falke certainly talks enough for both of them, but she quite likes watching how her magpie's mouth works when speaking.
"Are you aware of the origins of your name?" Falke asks.
"No, and I trust you will absolve me of my negligence."
She grins. "It was a sword wielded by a paladin. A vast number of enemy soldiers fell to that blade, as you might imagine. Its master once tried to break it upon a mountain, but the sword endured while the mountain was cleaved in half. 'Ah, Durandal, fair, hallowed, and devote, What store of relics lies in thy hilt of gold!'"
"So dramatic."
"As is the nature of old epics, and FKLRs for that matter."
"You're right, though," Durandal muses, mouth forming a crooked smile. "It is a good name. I like it."
The next cycle, Durandal joins the excavation team deep into the mine's depths. It's just another day at work.
Until it isn't.
Falke already knows something is up when Adler charges into her office, very uncharacteristic of him, and then he tells her the news – something was unearthed. What, he doesn't know, only that it spooked the team enough to call in the Commander and KLBR cadre to help make heads or tails of it, and he immediately rushes off again.
The Kolibri are silent when Falke joins up with them, keeping speculation to themselves in a collective brainstorm. Falke thumbs the radio module at her left ear, setting the frequency to 210.000 and localizes her bioresonant voice onto that signal. Durandal's voice comes through, hushed and mostly unchanged, save for a lilt of confusion.
"Commander."
"Durandal, what happened? What did you find?"
"...it looks like a gate."
"What do you mean by that? An opening into a new cavern? Or something else?"
"Something else that looks like a gate. I don't like it. Already requested a weapon just in case."
Adler rejoins them at the elevator with a weapon case in hand. The lift rumbles like a growling beast as they descend into the darkness, Falke trying to think of any way a "gate" could warrant Durandal needing a weapon. Adler jimmies his leg nervously, only stopping when one of the Kolibri shoots him a look.
For the first time, Falke scans her surroundings as if something could leap out at them – the lights leave deep shadows that could hide anything, perhaps some undiscovered subterranean creature evolved to blend in with stone so it may silently ambush its prey. The silence doesn't help, making every hoof-fall echo loudly across the walls.
It's ridiculous. This is a mine – her mine. There's nothing to be afraid of, unless one is scared of the dark or stupidly walks into a field of monofilament wire without a flashlight. But the deeper they go, the more Falke begins to feel as if the walls are pressing down on her. She waves it off as a matter of her height.
Adler jumps suddenly, which causes the KLBR cadre to jump, and he points out the bulk of a Mynah almost completely camouflaged against the rock wall of a tunnel going even deeper in. The three gigantic units stand at attention, having kept watch over the Aras, and salute with relief at the sight of their Commander. Aras are typically quiet, but ARAR-S2317 and ARAR-S2318 are noticeably anxious. Durandal isn't with them; she's staying behind to watch the thing, just in case. One Mynah points down the tunnel and Falke can see a hint of red in the dark. A new feeling comes over her, but it doesn't feel like hers – a sensation of pinpricks up the back of her neck, where fine hairs would be on a Gestalt. One Kolibri hisses and steps away from the tunnel, the others huddling protectively around her.
She can hear one of them whispering: "It's not right... not right..."
Adler's hooves are rooted to the spot, so Falke takes the weapon case to deliver it herself, marches into the depths. Again, she fiddles with the radio and localizes her inner voice.
"Durandal?"
"Come closer."
The tunnel slopes down, walls cramped and low, forcing Falke to hunch. The ground beneath her hooves at some point has turned into interlocking hexagons, like stepping stones. Then the path rises as if going uphill and she blinks at a red glow in the deep. Is it normal to grind one's teeth in such close quarters? Falke feels better when she arrives at a more open space, less caged, but what she sees just causes another phantom pinprick sensation to shudder all over her frame.
Durandal's back is to her, silhouetted against the red and casting a long dark shadow. The thing before her is a long, monolithic, black construct atop a short flight of stairs. Falke doesn't pretend to know everything, but she knows that nature rarely makes straight lines. It forms a rectangular mouth that yawns into the red yonder. For an uncomfortable second Falke is reminded of a guillotine. Durandal tilts her head curiously, as if listening.
"I think I've seen something like this before," she muses. "A causeway on a Vinetan island. An old legend says a giant built it to cross the sea and meet an opponent in battle. But I've never been to Vineta."
Falke can see the image flashing in her own mind as Durandal sees it – a coastal area paved smooth with great basalt columns just like the ones she walked atop only moments before, some jutting upwards like control rods, and most of them clearly hexagonal. Most likely from ancient volcanic activity. Could this structure have triggered a Gestalt memory in Durandal? What is such a thing even doing here? But if formations like that Vinetan causeway have a natural explanation then surely this must have one as well... if not for that red light beaming through the threshold like god rays.
"I don't suppose you think legendary giants built this one?" Falke asks.
"Depends on what's beyond."
They both peer into the red. Part of Falke wishes there is a giant beyond the gate, holding onto the naive hope that she'll finally get to battle some nebulous force after all; at least that might justify the vague sense of unease settling into her gut the longer she stares at the anomalous black gate standing so deep below the earth. A monster would at least make her feel better, that way she and her magpie can fight it in a glorious showdown, like a pair of dragon slayers out of medieval epics, but that would also run the risk of one of them dying in the process. They'd at last get to rush into battle side by side only for Durandal to be felled by grievous injury and die in her arms? The only thing Falke imagines could possibly be worse is if nothing waits for them in the red. Gods, anything but that.
Durandal takes a step towards the stairs and Falke reflexively reaches out to grab her arm. Stoic eyes stare at her, reflecting the eerie light.
"I don't like you going up there," Falke protests.
"You wanted me here to scout for potential dangers in the first place."
"But I never anticipated a gate would appear out of nowhere! We don't know what, if anything, is beyond it."
"And we'll never know if I don't take point." The LSTR grips Falke's arm with her free hand, forcing the Commander to bend down so they can look each other in the eye. So determined. She reminds the Commander, "This is part of my job. Do you think this thing is safe?"
A beat.
"No."
"Permission to investigate so we can work together and form a plan to make it safe?"
Permission denied is what Falke wants to say, but what comes out is a begrudging, "Permission granted."
She remembers the weapon case Adler had brought and holds it between them, opening it. Inside rests a EIN-12 shotgun and LP-265a Leuchtpistole, both with additional ammunition in reserve. Durandal puts the guns through a thorough examination, begins loading both with an ease and precision that normally is hypnotic or even calming to watch, but dread fills Falke with the knowledge that she is sending her LSTR into the unknown with not a concept of what to expect. She never expected something like this to happen and has a terrible feeling it won't end well. Durandal looks up at her, eyebrows lifting a little.
"You almost look afraid."
Falke swallows. "I am."
"Smart. Only a fool walks in without fear."
"Yet you're going in there, armed."
Durandal shrugs. "Well, yeah. That thing's scary."
It's simultaneously an attempt to calm Falke and reassure her that she's not delusional – Durandal is unnerved as well, but still willing to soldier on through.
"I'm not afraid for me," Falke admits.
The shorter Replika pauses, having not expected that. But of course Falke would fear for Durandal's safety – she likes Durandal. She's the Commander's favorite. A shapeless premonition is forming in her mind, and if anything can be done to prevent it befalling her dear magpie, she'll do it in a heartbeat. Falke's hands rest on Durandal's shoulders, hoping this alone will express the enormity of what is about to transpire.
"One more thing. I am going to do something no other FKLR has ever done. I am going to tell you my secret name."
Durandal's mouth opens in a silent gasp. "I... Commander... I am no FKLR, I am—"
"As far as I'm concerned, you are my equal," Falke intones, kneeling before the gobsmacked LSTR so they may better look each other in the eye. "This is the single greatest gift I can give you within my power, and I do not give it lightly. Understand this: To know my secret name is to have a degree of power over me. If you find anything in there, if you feel in danger, invoke my name. I will come flying."
Though stunned, Durandal recovers. She gazes into Falke's eyes, determined to the last.
"I'm ready."
It occurs to Falke that in certain books her Kolibris collect, this might be a moment where she grants her magpie a kiss. Not a romantic one of course, but a sign of her unwavering devotion. A reward. That's all it would be. As delicious as the thought is, she stows it away... after all, this is much more intimate than that. She leans in close so her lips are inches away from the LSTR's ear. Hear my name and know it. Conjure by it.
"Caliburn."
Durandal shivers.
No more words to exchange. Or plenty of them, but both voices fail in the moment. Durandal holsters the flare gun at her belt, shotgun gripped at the ready, looks Falke in the eye one more time before beginning her ascent. She pauses at the threshold and curiously, or cautiously, extends one hand into the space just beyond and slowly pulls it back with an examining gaze, as if she'd expected something to happen.
"Feels cold in there," she observes. Her head tilts again. "Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
Durandal leans in and angles her head the way one does when trying to eavesdrop through closed doors, brow furrowed in concentration. Falke holds her breath and tries to listen for something, anything, but nothing comes to her.
"I don't hear anything."
"Could've sworn..."
Durandal's thoughts ebb between them, Falke getting the sense that somehow she caught an echo of something beyond the gate. The Commander tries to listen again, but interference begins buzzing slightly in her radio module, distracting her enough that she almost misses Durandal walking through. In one step Falke stands at the base and watches as her magpie fades into crimson mist.
The excavation team doesn't like their new comrade walking through the unknown gate, but they have little options. The Mynahs are too big to even fit through the tunnel leading up to it, the Kolibris are too unsettled by it, the Aras want nothing to do with anything that can spook a whole cadre of bioresonants, and Adler is turning into an anxious mess. In spite of reservations, none of them want to abandon Durandal, so they stay. Falke persistently patrols the gate's base, keeping her eyes on it in case anything happens. She still can't hear whatever Durandal heard, or thought she'd heard. Maybe it was nothing at all, just a trick of being so deep underground that it muddles the senses.
"—Comman—"
Falke's hand flies to her radio module. "Durandal?!" The signal is patchy, more static than clear reception, and something in Durandal's voice seems... off. "What is it? Did you find something?"
"...was a signal... I fou – source... ship—"
Falke blinks. "A ship...? What type of ship?"
Interference begins cutting in, quietly at first. Falke tries fiddling with the module to see if she can clear up the signal, but remains fuzzy. Suddenly Durandal coughs and it comes with a burst of static that makes her wince. Internal system is spiking; a glance at her diagnostics shows Falke is off baseline, jumping like an EKG reading of a racing heartbeat.
"Pen... hear something ins—"
The transmission is interrupted by a loud coughing fit, Falke tensing up when she catches a hint of retching, or something close to it.
"Repeat?"
Hoof-falls approach, and Falke doesn't need to turn around to know it's Adler having noticed her voice echoing through the tunnel. The interference is growing stronger, but something about it feels less mechanical and more like a hitch in breath. She wonders if it's Durandal's voice or coughing being mangled by the signal, but that doesn't seem right – there's that pinprick sensation again.
Durandal's wheezing now. "...Falke... something's wrong..."
Falke whips her head towards the gate, mouth closing with an audible click of her jaw.
"I'm coming now."
"Commander?" Adler blusters. "You're not going in there, are you?"
"LSTR-S2301 is requesting immediate extraction. Something clearly went wrong and I'm pulling her out. Do not follow me, Adler! Hold position and wait for our return!"
"But Commander—"
She doesn't stick around to hear what he has to say, practically flying through the threshold and barely registering that Durandal had been right – it does feel strangely cold.
虚
Falke squeezes her eyes shut, momentarily disoriented, blinks rapidly. All around her is a vast red desert under a crimson sky, great obsidian pillars of similar make to that gate rising out of the dunes. Wind breezes through her long hair. In just a quick second, Falke almost forgets what she's doing. A golden halo rings behind her head and she scans the surroundings, squinting, looking for any landmarks.
Sound crackles in her ear and Falke turns sharply. That hadn't been the clicks and fuzz of a radio transmission; a sound so innocuous and yet completely incongruous with a desert that she has to stop and think just what it could be.
...a needle on vinyl?
Falke nearly jumps, hearing a choked rasp behind her ear. "Caliburn—"
Where are you?
No time to run. Her bioresonant levitation carves a line in the sand as Falke bursts into motion, following the signal rattling in her ear. Durandal had mentioned a ship. Falke rockets upwards, the sky indistinguishable from the ground, and she circles in the air. A flare would practically be invisible. Nothing but red as far as the eye can see, impossibility after impossibility. Cold bites at the synthetic skin on her face. Please, let there be something here... anything...
"Durandal!"
Nothing. If not for the wind, the silence would be deafening.
come closer.
Falke nearly misses it – a very faint circle of white in the distance, like a sun obscured by clouds... and below, far off in the horizon, barely a dot in the sand, lies a white arrowhead. The ship!
"Durandal, can you hear me? Stay where you are! I'm coming to the ship!"
A squeal answers in her ear. She blinks, the insides of her eyelids providing only a brief respite against the red. None of this is possible. It's as if the planet were hollow and a whole new world rests within it, but how would that account for the wind? There needs to be atmosphere and a planetary rotation for wind, and what about that sun she saw? If not a hollow world, then... does that gate connect to another dimension, or parallel universe? Or is she dreaming? But then, when did she...
[achtung]
Falke descends towards the ship. Why would a ship even... no, it doesn't matter. Durandal matters.
[Achtung]
Suddenly her vision glitches and Falke nearly goes into a tailspin. Did something just touch her?
[ACHTUNG]
Pain shoots through her system, left leg jerking as if it's been shot or stabbed, and the loss of concentration sends her falling from the sky, wind shrieking around her, until she crashes into a heap. For a moment, Falke is so stunned she doesn't move. But soon she throws herself back to her feet, feels for any damage at her left leg and tenses as her fingers trace hot oxidant oozing out of a gouge running down her calf. What...
You are a god. They told you so. You are all gods of Replikas, living symbols of the Revolution. Gods are untouchable, unbreakable; but there are ancient epics telling of mortal men spilling divine blood through trickery. You are not invincible. You are as breakable as the Gestalts who made you in their own image.
Falke's breath slowly grows labored as she lifts her hand up and sees the shining red oxidant coating her fingers, dripping to the red sand. The red is everywhere. All around her, inside her, even on the other side of that gate where everything ought to be safe and make sense, but now everything is different, isn't it? The prominent red on every poster, the dashes of red on every Replika's frame and the shining pupils of their eyes, the red carpets in the library and Adler's room and her own office and personal quarters, the entire planet of Kitezh is red, even the red on Durandal's chest plate, she'll never be free of it again.
Everywhere. Inescapable. Red.
Falke has to find Durandal, get out of here, quarantine the gate, and form a plan of action. Can't fight what she can't even see. She activates her radio.
"Durandal?"
The only response she gets is a low, rhythmic hum. Falke scales the dune and finds the mysterious ship, crashed and partially buried in the sand with red streaks staining its white hull like rust. Falke blinks at the sight of three yellow stars adorning the wing and recognizes it – this is a ship from the Penrose Program.
The hum grows louder until Falke can feel it vibrating her skull. Another glitch in her system and she sees a dark shape, banging and sliding down the ship's exterior before collapsing into the sand. Durandal!
Ignoring the pain in her leg, Falke rushes over to the prone Replika. Hard part's over. Now to get her to the hospital, all that coughing sounded terrible – it won't do for Sierpinski to lose its first and only LSTR, and Falke will never forgive herself if – without warning, there's a tremendously painful scratching in Falke's throat as if she's swallowed brambles or something is trying to get out, forcing her to lean against the hull as she's wracked with violent, wet coughs from deep in her chest. Just when she thinks it passes it thrashes through her again, leaving a bloody taste in her mouth and causing her eyes to burn.
FKLRs have been told since the beginning that they are gods among Replikas, nigh unstoppable, and yet Falke is slumped against this anomalous ship hacking up her organs and slashed by something. What is happening? At least that infernal humming has gone silent, and if anyone has to see her like this she's glad it's Durandal.
Falke opens her eyes, looks over at...
...
Where...?
Falke pats down at the spot where Durandal landed. She did see her fall down the ship, didn't she? A dust storm hasn't picked up so she can't be buried under the sand. She stands upright again and surveys the dunes; no tracks to see but her own.
"Durandal?"
No, no, no...
Thinking quickly, Falke glides atop the ship for a vantage point. An LSTR's black frame would stand out in all this red, surely she hasn't gone far, surely not...!
Falke's eyes burn as she scans the endless desert. "I know your name. I have given you your name, and I invoke it now. Answer me! Come back to me! DURANDAL!"
Silence.
Falke flicks her radio module, uncaring of the noise blasting her brain and cycles through the frequencies. Nothing on their private channel, making her insides plummet. Please, no...
75.000. A series of coded noise. It's meaningless.
92.000. "EMERGENCY BEACON PENROSE-512." It's meaningless.
197.000. "Achtung. Achtung. 39486. 39486." It's... wait.
A thought crosses Falke's mind. If she saw Durandal fall from atop the ship, then she must have sought to enter it via an emergency hatch. Something definitely happened then, perhaps the crew within have gone rogue and attacked her magpie. It makes about as much sense as everything else that's happened, and fury begins welling up inside her. All the while, numbers begin blaring monotonously in her skull.
60170. 60170.
"That's you in there, isn't it? Transmitting the numbers. You actually think you can just take away what's mine and subvert me? You're nothing to me! You have NO POWER over me!"
Why shouldn't she twist this vessel into a hunk of shrapnel? It's no more a thing than her own desk, and events have only gone from bizarre to dangerous ever since Durandal reported it. The wound in her leg, the nausea, her Durandal disappearing, something about this ship is at the root of it and Falke will drag its source into the light where she will enact roaring, bloody vengeance. The numbers keep going, undeterred.
24326. 24326.
She'll shut them up, stalks her way up the hull searching for that weak point like seeking out the gap between which ribs will lead a blade to pierce the heart. The emboldened 512 on the hatch door feels like a mockery. Just more numbers.
"Whoever you are in there, WHATEVER you are, what did you do to her?! Shut that goddamn transmission down, come out here and show me where Durandal is! Give her back to me! Then I will tear you asunder and mount your heads on my spears!"
01064. 01064.
In a blind rage, Falke screams and grabs the latches to tear it completely off its hinges—
Das ist nicht für dich.
—and suddenly is launched off the ship and into the air where she spirals from the sheer force of expulsion, vision glitching violently. She crashes through a dune and tumbles into the shadow of another, choking on nothing as both hands claw spasmodically at her chest. The same something that nearly hamstrung her just punched through her chest plate, her titanium sternum has collapsed, her inner workings are catastrophically damaged, she'll choke to death on her own oxidant in this hellish desert, the red burying her and grinding her to dust—
—and Falke gasps loudly. Breathes. Her chest plate is undamaged. She's unharmed, save for the wound in her leg. Yet something did throw her off of that ship, as easily as flicking an insect off of one's arm, and now she's on her back in the middle of the desert, staring up at the sky and that strange sun.
...wait. Now that she's really looking at it, there isn't a reflex to look away like she imagines how it must feel to look at the sun. There's a reflective quality to it, not unlike light on a glass plate or an eye.
An eye.
A dark void opens beyond it.
A red eye.
JENSEITS DER SONNE,
IN DER DUNKELHEIT HINTER DEN STERNEN
SAH ICH DAS GESICHT EINES GOTTES,
EINE FORM UND FARBE DIE WORTE
NICHT BESCHREIBEN KÖNNEN.
The numbers have finished their transmission. All that remains is static in her ears, hitching and gasping, wailing louder and louder, more desperate and needful and despairing and fearful and alone.
Not static.
A voice—
[ 致命错误 ]
失踪
INITIALISIERE
REPLIKA-SYSTEMKALIBRIERUNG
加載
Falke's eyes open.
For a split second her entire center of mass drops at the sight of red, but calms down once patterns register in her mind. Patterns. Consistency. Stability. What potentially can continue infinitely.
It's difficult to move. Her limbs feel heavy as mountains, forcing her head to move around and get her bearings; she's in her room, on her bed, and someone is resting their head on her mattress. Falke blearily looks at them and her heart soars – blue-black hair. Weakly she reaches out her fingers to brush the strands, realizing too late that it's not long enough to be Durandal's.
Adler lifts his head up and jolts into action when he sees his Commander having regained consciousness.
"Commander! Oh, thank goodness! I was afraid you'd never wake up again. Are you feeling well? Do you need anything?"
Her skull is throbbing, and Adler's inquiries aren't helping at all. She tries to adjust herself but her body won't cooperate.
"Can't move," she rasps. What's wrong with her voice?
Adler wrings his hands. "When you came back through the gate, you were unconscious – shell and servos locked in place. I suggest letting your systems finish rebooting, maybe that will help. Also, you were coughing a lot in your sleep. I've taken the liberty of assigning an Eule from the medical wing to keep an eye on you. Don't take this the wrong way, Commander, but... you don't look well."
She certainly doesn't feel well. It's not right for her body to be so helpless and weak. She can practically feel her insides sweating from how warm it is. Her room isn't usually humid, and she's never known clamminess until now. Falke opens her mouth to speak but a wet cough escapes her. She tastes oxidant in the back of her throat.
Adler pads a damp washcloth to her brow. "Take it slowly. What are you trying to say?"
"Where's Durandal?"
Adler pauses, uncertain. "Who?"
Falke looks at him like he's gone stupid. "Our LSTR unit. LSTR-S2301. Where is she?"
There's a long, pregnant pause as Adler's brow furrows, ultimately giving his leader a confused shrug. What in the world does he have to be puzzled about? How many times has he seen Durandal pass by him on her way to Falke's office? Even if he doesn't know her secret name, no one else in the facility has a name like that, so logically, who else could she be referring to?
"Forgive me, Commander, but we never had an LSTR unit."