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The three of them say goodbye to the others a week before they finally leave Expel. That last week is reserved for travelling back to the continent of El. They locate the ship Ernest had hidden upon landing—a lifetime ago, before he’d gone to Cross for his research, before the Sorcery Globe fell. It takes a while to prep it for departure, especially since they periodically pause to assist with some of the restoration efforts, help clear out some of the lingering monster swarms. Over the course of these days, the feeling slowly seeps in, becomes more real. The feeling of parting, of the ending of an era, is bittersweet.
But not unfamiliar to Ernest.
Inside the ship, they all agree: the sight of the receding green planet behind them is a second goodbye.
When they eventually drop Claude off at the satellite station, there’s a third. Opera confirms she’s going her own way once they return to Tetragenesis, so a fourth is in store for the two of them after they land there. But here, for Claude, this is it. A Federation ship will soon come by to pick him up.
After more hugs between all three of them, he pats Claude fondly on the shoulder. “And remember,” he says, “you ever decide to take a break from service, give me a shout. My offer stands. Indefinitely.”
Claude looks at him, smiles and nods. “Keep in touch,” he says to both of them.
Part of Ernest hopes so, but he doesn’t expect it. Their lives were, and will be, very different. As he’d told Claude that night in L’Aqua, he’s seen it before in the aftermath of other adventures. In close proximity, ties seem impossible to break. Once separated by time and space—vast light-years of space—everyone moves on in some fashion. Though, this was certainly by far the most epic journey he’d ever been involved in, and the most epic group of people he’d ever been involved with.
In any case, the important thing is to treasure the experience, and all of the memories. To grow from them. To honour them.
To his surprise, they do keep in touch. It’s in no small part due to Claude’s tenacity and speed in setting up an encrypted comms channel for the three of them. It’s labelled with three eyeball emojis, and when Ernest opens the link, the first message that pops up surprises him—and, he’s sure, Opera as well.
My mom says hi! The line is accompanied by a photo of a well-known symbology scientist and her very familiar son, both leaning in to the camera with wide smiles, waving for the selfie. Both he and Opera immediately chime in, commenting with laughing emojis on the family resemblance.
That first message soon sprouts into a long-running chain between the three of them. It only continues to grow. The messages are infrequent, usually one person’s sudden ping followed by a burst of reactions from the other two. Then silence for weeks or even months, depending on schedules, timezones and interplanetary signal lag. But there’s a comforting cadence to them, pleasantly regular enough, with no expectation of any obligatory response. They all look forward to the pings, and even jump on them to reply when their personal situations allow.
As days, months, years pass, they continue to keep in touch. They wake up to deployment updates from Claude; the latest discoveries from Ernest; political play-by-plays and sumptuous event interiors from Opera. They share good news, bad news, birthday and anniversary wishes. They trade reflections, condolences, venting, advice. They reminisce about the past, cheer on each others’ exploits from different corners of the galaxy.
And, against all odds, they even manage to reunite in person three times. An awards gala for Ernest. A royal fete for Opera. A medal ceremony for Claude. Each time, it feels like a funny dream. To see each other face-to-face, as if they’re each others’ imaginary friends come to life, turned real. To greet each other, to laugh, to chat. To see how each of them has changed, and where they have not. To applaud as they take the stage, looking more spectacular than last time.
After each event, in the private channel, all three of them agree: these celebrations were extra special. All their memories feel especially alive, the past very much breathing in the present.
Ernest is in a faculty meeting one afternoon when he receives a private message out of the blue, separate from the group channel. FW: Confirmation of resignation.
Its contents are a highlight summary of a completed military service commitment. Short, but eventful, with impressive achievements considering the relative brevity of the term. The message accompanying the forward reads: I’ve fulfilled all my obligations. Re: exploring ruins. You still looking for a partner?
He doesn’t even need to think about it, and immediately sneaks in a response, hands texting out of sight under the meeting table. Congratulations! Of course. Attached latest travel itinerary, subject to change. Pack a sword. Or whatever you use now.
Three days later he flies out, heading for the spaceport to pick up his new partner.
Claude looks pretty much the same as Ernest remembers. But also—a little older, a little taller, a little leaner, with more self-assuredness. He’s wearing a hoodie, jeans and a light jacket, with a medium-sized duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Which feels very unusual to Ernest, since most of his memories of Claude are in some kind of uniform or some kind of armor.
Claude’s squinting towards a projected map of the arrival level, searching for something on it. When Ernest calls his name, he immediately swivels towards the direction of the sound, then grins widely and waves. Ernest remarks on his observations of Claude’s unassuming civilian clothing, and Claude returns the favour by commenting on Ernest’s clean-shaven, faculty-appropriate appearance. They laugh, knowing both would be sure to change by the time they’re well into their first—or rather, second—adventure together.
Ernest helps Claude locate the special checked baggage claim booth. The bemused agent brings out a case with a back strap, wrapped in maybe ten feet’s worth of security tape, labels and warnings. After some struggle getting the ones around the locks off, Claude pops open the case to doublecheck its contents.
Ernest blinks. The case contains a folded-up symbology bow, a laser blaster, a pair of gloves with hi-tech knuckle duster attachments, and the one thing Ernest actually expected to see: a sword in a scabbard attached to a leather belt. When Claude pulls the last item out and unsheaths it to verify its condition, other travellers passing by stop and gawk. Ernest recognizes the sword as Claude’s favourite from their old adventure. Its base is a blade forged by the Lacourian smith Gamgee, a gift from Dias after the Tournament of Arms, just before Ernest had joined the group. It’s been repaired and upgraded multiple times since. After giving it a once-over to his satisfaction, Claude places it back in and secures it. He zips the whole thing up, locks it, and straps the mini-arsenal to his back like the world’s deadliest guitar case.
Before they leave the spaceport, Claude snaps some selfies of them in front of the giant sculpture just outside the arrival area. It’s either an abstract representation of waveforms in space, or an exploding egg. They do silly faces, funny battle stances, and just ham it up in general, interacting with the sculpture as if it were special effects or the prime enemy of the scene. Claude sends the best ones to their 3eyes channel with the caption 2/3 eyes and a googly eyes emoji.
In a handful of seconds, another photo returns: a selfie of Opera in a stunning purple gown, her hair done up in a fancy tiered style with a sparkling tiara, making an equally silly pretend-shock expression with three wide crossed eyes. Her butler Alfred is visible in the background just past her shoulder, waiting patiently with an exquisite-looking platter of what must be lunch. The message reads love it. have fun boys followed by a heart.
As they fly out, Claude tells Ernest a funny story about the mountain of paperwork and the agent’s reactions when he’d originally checked his weapons in. The voices he does, and his pantomime of the back and forth, crack Ernest up. They fall quickly into easy conversation, as if there’d never been any years apart.
Two chirps, one high and one low. Then an electronic warbling. Then the pattern repeats.
The third time around, Claude sighs, reaches over and flicks in the direction of the sound panel. The noise stops.
Ernest’s been fiddling with software updates around the Kalavinka, the trimaran he’d acquired and retrofitted as a floating home for two. The wakeup alarm has been different every morning. At least this one actually sounds like an alarm. The previous one had been birds in a forest, and Claude had uncharacteristically overslept by half an hour. He’d dreamed about walking through a small village with tall grass and fresh air and a bubbling stream running through it, a waterwheel turning lazily at its centre, asking all the villagers if they knew what a “masheen” is.
He sits up groggily, blinking and running a hand through his hair. The space next to him in bed is already empty. He pulls up the shade and is greeted out the viewport by the immense vastness of space, speckled with pinpricks of light.
He knows where he is, and he knows it wasn’t just the bird alarm that pulled the memories in that recent dream from his subconscious. Whenever he and Ernest have the chance to pass through the Arctura cluster, they always make sure they plot a trajectory that will fly close enough to spy Arctura IV.
Or, as they will forever call it: Expel.
Ernest is amused by the sight of Claude’s messy hair when the latter walks in. “Sleeping beauty awakens,” he pronounces dramatically, then laughs. Claude glances at the glowing digits on the wall—4:33 AM Intergalactic Standard Time—and squints at Ernest. Then he laughs as well.
Ernest waits to see if Claude realizes. When the other man takes two more oblivious steps, he says, “Did you know your shirt is on backwards?”
Claude looks down at himself and makes an exasperated sound. He pulls his shirt up partway over his head, pulls his arms in, drags the shirt around from the inside so that it’s properly oriented, then re-emerges like a turtle. He pulls the shirt down again. “There.” Now his hair is even messier. Ernest shakes his head, chuckling.
They have breakfast at their tiny shared table, the Kalavinka proceeding on autopilot with both of them keeping a periodic eye on the nav console. Ambient, jazzy, and eclectic tunes play in the air. Ernest gnaws on buttered toast and reviews image slides from one of their recent expeditions, jotting down observations while swaying and rocking to the music. Claude also attempts to match the rhythm of the song as he eats, but every so often his swinging foot kicks Ernest’s leg or chair, eliciting several mild ‘ow’s and ‘hey’s, until Ernest finally gives him a look and Claude cackles and stops.
Claude’s partway through his yoghurt, his spoon hanging from his mouth as he scrolls through his tablet, when the device emits a sharp little ding!
Ernest nods at the tablet. “News from your mom?”
Claude removes the spoon from his mouth and sets it alongside his bowl. “No. But almost as nice.” He beams. “A royalty payment!” Ernest pauses from clicking through images to clap, then resumes his work. Claude had taken up part-time writing soon after they started travelling together. It’s the perfect kind of remote work to squeeze in during the downtime between their field trips and outings. He focuses mostly on fiction over freelance commissions, since one can’t exactly guarantee hitting deadlines when bodyguarding an archaeologist across the galaxy, though a few of the latter have happened when available time and appropriate expertise overlap. The first time Claude received notification that he’d sold a short story, the two of them had just fought their way through a tunnel of monsters and were on a makeshift sled, trying to outrace an avalanche. The excited whoops, fist-pumps, hops and hugs at the end of their run were not only for surviving.
Claude swipes at his screen, muttering something about too much advertising spam and phishing, then exclaims, “Oh!”
Ernest glances up as Claude adds, “I did get a message from my mom. It came in late last night.” He sits back, taps the tablet a few times, then says brightly, “She says thanks for the review. The extra eyes—” he giggles at her pun—“on the dataset from her symbology experiment was super helpful.”
Ernest smiles. “No problem. Tell her thanks for cross-checking the runes in our artifacts.”
“Will do.”
After a few moments of silence, Ernest working on his notes as Claude continues to read Ilia’s message, Ernest hears Claude suddenly suck in his breath.
He looks up. “What’s the matter?”
Claude scrolls down slowly. His brow is furrowed. “My mom says she heard… Expel’s going to be upgraded to special monitored status.”
Ernest straightens, puts down his pen, and lifts an eyebrow. “Oh really. That seems… fast, even without considering government red tape. Did she say why?”
Claude shakes his head. “No. I don’t think she knows the details, or she would’ve said. This is through her grapevine.” He sets the tablet down on the table, staring at it quietly. Ernest can imagine his thoughts. They’ve had this conversation many times before. They know they feel the same.
Naturally, they both long to return to Expel, even if just for a brief trip, to see the people they’d left there, what’s become of all of them. There’s been zero communication all these years. At the same time, they’re torn on the idea of Expel officially connecting to the Federation, possibly even entering it, opening itself up to sudden exchange and growth and development. Of course, who could say what path a civilization would ultimately follow. Ernest recalls that time in Mars, when Rena had caught him admiring the greenery throughout the village. She’d asked him about Tetragenesis, and he’d explained—very high level—what had happened. He remembers her determined response that Expellians’ love for nature would carry them through such difficulties.
But from his and Claude’s perspective, history hasn’t been kind with multiple civilizations on this front. They both know this all too well with both Tetragenesis and Earth. And in their cases, at the planetary level at least, it all happened without any sudden escalation and influence from outside technology and capitalist forces.
If Claude were still a Federation officer, he would most likely have been assigned due to his history. But now, all the two of them can do is wait. For the day Expel has some kind of breakthrough to be able to upgrade its status one more time. Unless—
“Maybe they'll hire you as a consultant,” Ernest says.
Claude shrugs. “Maybe. If they do, I'll make them hire you too.”
They exchange small smiles.
In any case, in this moment, all of this is hypothetical. But what’s not hypothetical, what’s true right now, is that he and Claude are here. In space.
And they’re about to see an old friend.
Ernest glances at the clock, then at the nav console. “Just in time. Here’s the grand planet of the hour.” They both get up from the table and make their way to the largest viewport. Soon enough, the fourth planet around Arctura rolls majestically into view.
“It’s so interesting,” comments Claude, not for the first time, “how Earth’s oceans are blue from space, but Expel’s are green.”
Tetragenesis, of course, hasn’t had anything comparable for a long, long time. Ernest replies, “It’s nice just to have oceans.” He taps a few buttons along the viewport frame, takes some shots and video so that they can send it to Opera later.
Claude braces an arm against the glass, leans against it. “I wonder how they’re doing down there.”
“Mm.”
As the Kalavinka passes over the planet, they scan the view below, and start pointing out features to each other.
“If you just squint—you can imagine the Hoffmann Ruins up there.” “Where we saved your butt.” “Ha, ha. Yeah.”
“That should be where the Frontlines was.” “Can’t imagine what it looks like now. Hope Dias is okay.” “He must be.” “Yeah. He must be…”
“Lacour Castle is south of that—” “D’you think Leon invented something that caught the Federation’s eye?”
“Hmm, maybe. Or maybe Precis and Graft have? Linga’s like—a fingertip away at this distance—” “Bowman and Nineh might still be in El—” “Wonder if Keith’s finished translating the book?”
“There’s the Mountain Palace.” “I still can’t believe you were packing a contraband plasma launcher.” “No idea what you’re talking about. Never happened.”
“That area should be where Cross Castle is—whaddyou think Celine’s up to?” “Treasure hunting, probably.” “Probably.”
“It’s amazing all the green forests you can see from space. Noel’s gotta be in one of them. Having a nice sleep at 5:30 AM Intergalactic Standard Time.” “And not being gnawed on, I hope.”
“Arlia!” “Where?” “Somewhere there. Ish. Under that cloud probably. Go away, cloud.” “It’s gonna be so tiny. Not even a dot from space.” “Yeah… wonder if Rena’s in the Shingo Forest right now.” “At 5:30 AM?” “Oh, yeah. Wait, what time is it on Expel?” “I’ve no idea, actually. We can look it up later.”
“Chisato must be all over the place. I wonder what kinds of stories she’s been reporting on.” “And what kind of media empire she’s built on Expel.” “Haha.”
“You think Ashton ever found a way to separate Gyoro and Ururun?” “Who knows—maybe he took them to visit Xine again.” “Hmm. Oh! Right on cue—look, Lasguss.”
“Wow. You can actually see it.”
They fall silent, taking in the sight of the grand mountain range with the broad expanse of desert to its north. The only truly visible one of all of the landmarks they’ve been discussing, at this distance.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Claude suddenly straighten and glance over his shoulder. Ernest looks over, and sees Claude is looking at a screen where the two of them have a few images projected, some for practical purposes and some for sentimental ones. One of them is an old photo of a decorated war hero, his second-in-command, and their toddler son.
Claude turns back to the view outside. He bows his head and closes his eyes for a moment, paying his respects. Ernest does the same. Because seeing their old friend Expel is also visiting a memorial. Of Energy Nede. Of the Calnus.
Claude opens his eyes, and looks towards the Lasguss range again. “I wanted to surpass a mountain,” he says thoughtfully, in a slightly distant voice. “But one day, the mountain disappeared.”
Ernest has long grown accustomed to hearing these random quiet outbursts. It sounds like Claude’s reciting a quote or a line of poetry, but Ernest knows it’s actually connect-the-dots creative rumination. Claude’s sounding out a reflection, something that might turn into a line for a story. Hearing it outside of his head, giving it weight and solidity to be able to better visualize it, edit it.
“What’s behind the mountain?” he asks.
Claude doesn’t reply immediately. After a long, considered pause, he finally says, “Water. Nothing but water. It flows everywhere, unresisting. It always settles at the lowest point. It changes to suit whatever its environment is.”
They both look out at Expel, its oceans gleaming green in the vastness of space. Slowly, silently, the planet rolls past them into the darkness.
The Kalavinka sails on, headed for another destination with its unexplored ruins, nestled in countless stars that most certainly hold countless dreams.