Chapter Text
The stars outside the viewing blister were no longer stars, just a white-gold smear dragged thin across the dark by the drive. Occasionally, something bright would flare at the edge of perception—an afterimage of a sun they had already outrun, or a glitch of light where space-time folded on itself around the ship.
The Super Earth Ship Will of Liberty rode that warped tunnel like a bullet inside the barrel of the universe.
On the bridge, everything hummed.
Vibration lived in the soles of boots and the backs of teeth. It was subtle—more suggestion than shake—but it was there, a reminder that a hundred and seventy meters of armor, guns, and ideology were being pushed through a space that hadn't been designed for anything to move that fast.
"Transit stable," announced Navigation. "Alcubierre field nominal. Arrival at Kestros Prime orbit in eight minutes, real-time."
The Ship Master leaned forward in her chair, elbows braced on her knees, the collar of her immaculate uniform just slightly undone, as if she'd started the shift crisp and then thought better of it halfway through. The stripes at her breast caught the muted light from the consoles.
"Pull up surface feeds again," she said. "I want eyes on that defensive grid."
"Yes, Ship Master." The sensor officer swept fingers through the holographic display, and the air in front of them bloomed with layered windows.
Kestros Prime flickered into existence in blues and browns, clouds smeared over its curve. Zoomed-in insets showed the night side: archipelagos of city lights drowned in stuttering orange. Blast blooms. Firelines are crawling outward from impact points. Double-chevron icons marked planetary defense batteries; some were green, more were gray.
"Grid is… degraded," the sensor officer said carefully. "Impact traces on three of the northern hemisphere gun platforms. The Eastern Seaboard continent is under sustained bombardment, enemy mass signatures… Terminids, by density. Planetary Shield Three is fluctuating. Atmospherics show particulate increase consistent with—"
"Boil it down," the Democracy Officer said. He lounged at his console in that way he had where the lounging was still somehow perfectly within regulations. "Words for Helldivers, not for the Academy."
"World's on fire," the sensor officer said. "We're late."
The Ship Master didn't flinch.
"SEAF ground?" she asked.
"Last intact command node is Kestros Prime Central Command in the capital arcology. Signals are dirty, but they're alive. Requesting immediate orbital support and Helldiver insertion on multiple front-line sectors."
He flicked something, and the bridge filled with a desperate human voice, filtered through static.
"—repeat, this is Central Command, we are—" a crackling roar "—Termi— breached the inner perimeter— orbital support required on grids Foxtrot, Kilo, and Sierra— any Super Destroyer in range, respond—"
The Ship Master cut it off with a gesture.
"Comms," she said. "Return signal. Authentication: Will of Liberty, strike group four-seven. Confirm we are inbound, eight minutes out. Tell them to hold. Defeat is unpatriotic."
"Yes, Ship Master."
The Democracy Officer grinned around a chewed stylus. "Gonna be a hell of a fireworks show," he said.
A low whistle drifted from the back of the bridge. One of the junior techs was watching a small side-screen; it showed a Terminid swarm, recorded from some doomed drone. Ants the size of vehicles, beetle-tanks with chitin shells, clouds of smaller shapes boiling over fortifications.
"Think they'll still have a city left by the time we get there?" the tech murmured.
The Ship Master didn't turn.
"They will," she said. "Because we are arriving."
The hum of the drive deepened, a bass note everyone felt more than heard. Someone's mug rattled in its retaining ring. The bridge lights flickered infinitesimally, a pulse so faint it could have been a blink.
No one commented. FTL sometimes sulked.
"Field gradient shift," Navigation said quietly. "Minor. Within tolerance."
The Ship Master nodded once.
"Drop bay status?"
"Helldiver squad is prepped and standing by," said Comms. "Hellpods are locked and loaded, stratagem packages confirmed for defensive interdiction and urban extraction. Captain Rook requested we pass along: 'Try not to crash the ship before we get to shoot something.'"
The Democracy Officer chuckled. "They say the sweetest things."
"Tell Captain Rook," the Ship Master said, "that if I crash the ship, he's not going to have to worry about not getting to shoot anything."
"Message relayed."
Downship, far from the neat glass and polished holo of the bridge, the world was louder, dirtier, closer.
The drop bay was a cathedral of steel. Ribs of dark metal arched overhead, cables drooped like vines, hazard striping gleamed under strip-lights. Hellpods squatted in neat rows, their blunt noses aimed at the floor hatches, harnesses hanging open like jaws.
Captain Rook stood with one hand on the side of his pod, helmet tucked under his arm. His armor still bore the scorches and pits of the last deployment; he hadn't bothered to get the new plates sealed. A white stripe, hand-painted and slightly crooked, ran from his right pauldron across the chest to his left hip.
"Eight minutes?" he repeated, looking up at the ceiling as if he could see the stars through the decks. "Ship Master spoils us."
The trooper to his left, tall and lean with a numeral seven inked at his throat, checked the readout on his wrist.
"Surface situation's ugly," Seven said. "Termi-swarm's already in biting distance of the capital. We might be dropping straight into a hive cluster."
"Good," said the trooper on Rook's right. She slapped a magazine into her rifle with a satisfying clack. "If I have to sit through one more briefing about 'hearts and minds, 'I'm going to request a friendly orbital strike on my own patience."
"You don't have any," Rook said.
She grinned. "Exactly."
The bay speakers crackled. A voice rolled over them, bright and warm and soaked in enthusiasm.
"Attention, Helldivers aboard the Will of Liberty," the Democracy Officer's voice boomed. "You are currently en route to Kestros Prime, a planet whose citizens are counting on your bravery and complete disregard for your own survival. Reports indicate heavy infestation and compromised defenses. In other words, the perfect holiday destination for democracy-loving patriots."
A ripple of laughter ran through the bay, small but real.
"Remember," the voice continued. "Every bug you shoot today is one less vote against freedom tomorrow. Do your part. Spread managed democracy—responsibly."
"Turn it off," one of the techs muttered around a wrench.
Rook put his helmet on. The seals hissed, and his HUD blinked from black to a soft blue, then populated itself with icons: squad vitals, ammo readouts, a timer ticking down from 07:43. In the top corner, the mission header flashed: KESTROS PRIME – OPERATION: STALWART BULWARK.
He breathed in, and the smell of the bay—lubricant, hot metal, ozone—faded beneath the sterile, filtered scent of his suit.
"Rook," a voice said, tinny in his ear. Ship-to-squad comms.
"Here."
"Ship Master confirms final approach in under eight. You're green across the board. Your stratagem loadout's heavier on defensive emplacements and orbital interdiction—expect to be holding lines and keeping corridors open for evac."
"Copy. We'll give them a nice, polite, democratically mandated killzone."
"Wouldn't have it any other way. Glory to Super Earth."
"Glory," Rook said.
He bumped knuckles with Seven, with the woman on his right, with the rest of the squad arrayed along the line of pods. Their armor clinked softly.
Above them, the drive sang.
On the bridge, Navigation frowned.
"Ship Master," he said. "I'm getting… noise."
"Define noise," she said.
"Not sensor noise, not exactly. Field telemetry from the Alcubierre bubble." He brought up raw graphs, jagged lines across hovering holos. "There's a harmonic building that shouldn't be there. Like something's resonating with the edge of the warp envelope."
"Source?"
He hesitated. "Unknown. It's external, but not… localized. Feels like it's coming from everywhere at once."
The Democracy Officer glanced over his shoulder, the stylus pausing at his lips.
"Do we have another Illuminate toy on the loose?" he asked. "Because I don't recall signing up for that."
"Field integrity?" the Ship Master asked sharply.
"Still nominal," Navigation said. "If you didn't show me this graph, I'd say everything's fine. But this spike—"
The hum deepened again. This time, everyone heard it clearly.
It was as if the air on the bridge had suddenly grown a second layer. Consoles flickered, and a thin thread of light—purple-white and razor fine—ran along the inside of the viewing blister, there and gone in a blink.
"Did you see that?" one of the junior officers whispered.
No one answered.
"Diagnostics," the Ship Master ordered. "I want to know if our bubble picked up a passenger."
"Running full sweep," said Engineering over the internal channel. "Power flow is steady, Alcubierre field generators are in the green, E-710 feed is normal. I am not seeing anything breaking the hull or the field from out there."
"As if it's coming from in here, then."
The Engineering officer hesitated. "That's… not how this works, ma'am."
"I am aware of how it works," she said. "Check it anyway."
On the drop deck, the lighting flickered. For a heartbeat, the world went dim, then flared too bright, stretching shadows long and thin between the pods.
"Okay, that's not reassuring," Seven said.
Rook looked up. His HUD jittered, compass bearing spinning once before stabilizing again. An amber warning icon popped up for a second—FTL FIELD ANOMALY—then disappeared as if it had never been there.
"Ship's just adjusting her dress before she hits the dance floor," said the woman on his right. "Quit glaring up her skirt."
Rook snorted, but the sound didn't quite hide the tightness crawling up his spine.
He'd been in FTL a dozen times. He knew what it felt like when the drive hiccuped, when the field fluctuated, when the Alcubierre bubble brushed too close to a gravity well, and the whole ship groaned. This was different.
This felt like someone standing at the other end of a long corridor, pulling on a rope tied around his ribs.
"Seven," he said. "You getting anything weird on your feed?"
Seven narrowed his eyes behind the visor, checking his HUD.
"No flags," he said. "Feels… off, though. Like pressure behind the eyes. You?"
"Yeah."
"Probably just the thought of bugs chewing on your favorite democracy posters," the woman said.
"Shut up and get in your pod," Rook told her, but there wasn't any real heat in it.
On the bridge, audio clamps popped up along the bottom of half a dozen screens. For a moment, there was only static—soft, like distant rain. It washed into every open channel at once, a uniform hiss under the chatter.
"Is that from Kestros?" Comms asked. "Did we pull another feed in?"
"No," Sensors said. His fingers danced over the controls, slicing data, looking for a correlation that refused to exist. "It's not on any external band. It's bleeding straight into our internal systems."
"What do you mean by 'into'?" the Democracy Officer said. "These are closed. They're scrubbed, sealed, signed by—"
He stopped.
Under the static, a sound had formed. Not machine, not interference. A voice, thin and distant, like someone calling through a wall of water.
"…my servant that resides beyond the veil of worlds…"
Everyone on the bridge froze.
The words were accented strangely—crisp consonants, the vowels stretching in a way that didn't belong to any dialect the translation software recognized. It didn't try to interpret, didn't flash its neat bracketed approximations at the bottom of the screen. It just flagged the audio as UNKNOWN LANGUAGE and watched.
"…heed my plea and cross the boundary…"
"Comms," the Ship Master said, very quietly. "What channel is that on?"
He swallowed.
"All of them," he said. "And none. It's not coming in through the antenna array, Ship Master. It's being injected directly into our internal audio bus. It's not… It's not supposed to be possible."
The Democracy Officer tore the stylus in half without realizing he'd done it.
"Is this Illuminate tech?" he demanded. "Is someone screwing with our skulls again?"
Sensors shook his head, eyes wide.
"Signature doesn't match anything in the database," he said hoarsely. "No known psionic, no known broadcast type. Energy reading is… It's not even in our units."
"…I, Louise Françoise le Blanc de la Vallière…"
The name rolled through the speakers, clear now, sharp-edged and proud. The ship's automatic gain control tamped down the volume, as if it were just another source to balance in the mix.
On the drop deck, the same voice whispered into the Helldivers' helmets. It danced between channels, so that no one could track its direction; every time someone thought they'd pinned it to the left ear, it slid to the right.
"…on my name and my house I command…"
"What the hell is this?" the woman in Rook's squad muttered. Her bravado had finally slipped, just a little. "Is this some new Super Earth motivational program? Because I hate it."
"It's not us," Rook said.
"How do you know?"
"Because it's creeping me out."
Seven shifted closer, armor plates brushing Rook's.
"You hearing that too, cap?"
"Yeah."
"Sounds… young."
The voice did sound young. Not childish, but not worn down by the kind of service that made your spine ache in the morning. There was a tremor under the words, but it didn't sound like fear. It sounded like strain, like someone lifting something too heavy and refusing to admit it.
"…answer my call and appear before me…"
"And by the contract of the summon, I bind thee as my familiar!"
"Engineering," the Ship Master said. "Tell me this is a glitch."
"Yes, ma'am," Engineering said. "I'd love to. But the best I can give you is: the drive is fine, the hull is fine, the field is fine, and something indescribable from outside our understanding is talking directly to us."
"Wonderful," the Democracy Officer muttered. "If this is some unauthorized off-brand religion, I swear—"
"Energy spike," Navigation cut in. His voice had climbed a full octave. "I've got a localized distortion on the leading edge of the warp bubble. It's… It's not an intrusion from realspace, it's like there's a— a knot forming in the field itself."
On the main display, the warp tunnel representation shivered. The smooth gradient of curved space-time rippled, like someone had dropped a stone into a pond that had never known water.
A point of purple light appeared ahead of the ship in the visualization. It rotated slowly, facets unfolding without ever quite becoming a shape.
"What is that?" the junior tech whispered.
The Ship Master stood up.
"Collision course?" she asked.
Navigation stared at the projections.
"We're not moving toward it," he said. "It's… It's moving along with us. Locked to our bubble. It shouldn't be able to do that."
The light grew.
It wasn't getting closer, not exactly; it was getting bigger, expanding without any visible motion. Lines spun around it, thin and bright, tracing circles and sigils that meant nothing to anyone on the bridge.
The voice continued, louder now, threading between the beeps and hums.
"…from the infinite pathways between stars…"
The words crawled down spines, lodged in teeth, rattled loose memories from training films about alien influence and the importance of a clean, rational mind.
Comms ripped his headset off, but the voice didn't stop. It wasn't in the headset. It was in the air.
"…obey the binding and take form…"
On the drop deck, the Hellpods' status lights flicked from green to amber to a strange, flickering violet. No alarm accompanied the change. The system didn't know what to do.
"Okay, that's not regulation color," Seven said.
Rook stepped away from his pod. His boots rang on the deck.
"Rook," came the Ship Master's voice in his ear, brittle with restraint. "Report."
"You hearing this, ma'am?"
"Everywhere on the ship."
"What is it?"
"If I knew, Captain, I wouldn't be asking for your report."
He looked around. Every Helldiver in the bay was staring up now, visors tilted, as if the voice might be hiding in the joints of the ceiling. A few had their weapons half-raised, not quite aimed at anything.
"I've got my squad ready to drop," Rook said slowly. "But right now they're all listening to a ghost."
"A ghost doesn't do this," the Ship Master said.
The deck lurched.
It wasn't much. Half a centimeter, no more, a stutter in the artificial gravity. But everybody on board felt it. People staggered, grabbed consoles, slammed palms against bulkheads. A mug hurled itself off a workstation and burst against the floor, coffee hanging in the air a heartbeat too long before splashing in impossible slow motion.
Warning icons bloomed across the bridge.
"Field integrity fluctuation!" Navigation shouted. "The knot is inside the bubble now, Ship Master, I repeat, it's inside with us—"
"Drop us out of FTL," she snapped. "Emergency abort, now."
"I'm trying," he said. His hands flew, stabbing at controls, overriding safety interlocks. "Alcubierre generator is not responding to shutdown commands, it's like something's—"
He gasped.
The purple light on the main display had flowered open. It was no longer a point; it was a ring, hovering ahead of the ship, lines of light inscribing themselves in patterns that hurt to look at. Strange curves, intersecting arcs, geometric and yet not. It spun faster, and with every revolution, the hum of the drive fell more out of sync with itself.
"…answer me…" the voice cried.
Louise's words cracked on the last syllable. For a heartbeat, the sound wasn't coming from the speakers at all. It was in their heads, behind their eyes, carried on a pressure like a storm front pushing down on jungle leaves.
The ring of light slid, impossibly, without traversing the space between, and wrapped itself around the projection of the Will of Liberty. The image flickered as the simulation tried to accommodate something it didn't understand.
On the drop deck, a circle of faint violet shimmered into visibility around the bay. It traced itself along the bulkheads, passing through steel and circuitry as if both were water. Wherever it touched, the metal glowed faintly, just for an instant, as if acknowledging the contact.
Rook stared at the line running across the floor between his boots.
"Seven," he said. "Do you see that?"
"Yeah."
"I really, really don't want to be standing in the middle of whatever this is."
"Orders, cap?"
He opened his mouth.
The voice cut across him.
"…and by the contract of the summon, I bind thee as my familiar!"
The last word slammed into the ship like a fist.
The Alcubierre field screamed.
There was no sound, not really. No air existed to carry it in the warped bubble at the edge of reality. But every structural member of the Will of Liberty shrieked at once. The bridge went white. For a moment, everyone was blind.
In that white-out, in that fraction of a second that stretched on too long, they all felt it: a wrench, not sideways, not forward, but in a direction that had never existed on any navigator's chart. It pulled at the ship, at the drive, at the E-710 pumping through its veins, at the bones of every human aboard.
The Ship Master felt her stomach drop through a floor that wasn't there.
On the drop deck, Rook's hand automatically grabbed for the edge of his pod. His gauntlet closed around nothing; the metal wasn't where he remembered it being.
The ring of light snapped tight.
Reality folded.
The warp tunnel, the smeared stars, the graphs, the alarms, the world—all of it—tore like paper caught in a wind, edges curling in, and the Will of Liberty fell through the hole.
Morning sunlight spilled over the towers of Tristain Academy and into the central courtyard, turning the stone flagstones and neatly trimmed lawn into a stage.
The students were already there, arranged in a ragged circle around a chalk-white summoning glyph inscribed into the dirt. Wands glinted, cloaks fluttered in the breeze, and murmurs rolled through the crowd like waves breaking on a shore.
"Settle down, settle down," Professor Colbert called, his voice warm but carrying. He stood near the edge of the circle, hands folded around his wand. His brown hair was already frizzing in the summer heat, and a faint sheen of sweat sat on his brow. The spectacles perched on his nose flashed light when he turned his head.
Behind him, the headmaster watched from a chair beneath a parasol, hat low over his eyes. Other teachers clustered nearby, a knot of color and robes and quiet assessment.
Louise Françoise le Blanc de la Vallière hovered near the front of the students, hands clenched hard around her wand, the knuckles pale.
Around her, conversation buzzed.
"Did you hear," one boy whispered behind a hand, "she blew up the alchemy lab last week. Just by walking past it."
"Not just the lab," his friend replied. "Three cauldrons. They say the iron bent."
The words pricked the back of Louise's neck. Her spine stiffened.
Ignore them. You are a Vallière. You will summon something glorious and wipe those smirks off their faces.
"Now then," Colbert went on, smiling as if today were a pleasant little exercise and not the moment that would decide a mage's worth for the rest of their lives, "you all know the formula. Focus your will, call across the boundary, and your familiar will answer. Do not rush. This is a pact which will last your lifetime."
He turned to the first student in line, a boy with perfectly combed blonde hair and a rose tucked in his lapel.
"Mister de Gramont," Colbert said. "Would you begin?"
Guiche de Gramont flourished his wand like a stage actor accepting applause. A scattering of sighs rose from the girls watching; Guiche's grin broadened.
"Of course, professor," he said. He stepped into the circle with a dramatic sweep of his cloak, careful to show the way the light caught his hair.
Louise scowled.
"Look at him, preening," she muttered.
Next to her, Kirche Augusta Frederica von Anhalt-Zerbst smirked, resting one hand lazily on her hip. The Germanian's red hair tumbled in curls down her back, her uniform shirt unbuttoned just enough to scandalize anyone polite.
"Oh?" Kirche drawled. "Jealous, Vallière?"
Louise bristled. "Of him? Absolutely not."
"Not of him," Kirche said, eyes glittering. "Just the fact that he'll probably manage to summon something."
Louise's fingers tightened around her wand. For a heartbeat, her imagination painted the courtyard with flames, roaring up from Kirche's smug face—
Then she remembered what usually happened when she imagined that sort of thing.
The mental flames flickered, hesitated, then blew themselves up in a deafening, smoking nothing. The image was too familiar.
She exhaled through her nose.
Guiche lifted his wand and cleared his throat.
"My servant, that lives somewhere in this wide world," he intoned, putting extra tremor into his voice, "come forth, and heed the call of your master, the beautiful Guiche de Gramont!"
He stabbed his wand toward the circle.
There was a soft pop and a puff of dust. For a moment, nothing seemed to happen.
Then the ground buckled.
A mound of earth pushed up from the center of the circle, crumbling aside as something burrowed its way free. A brown furry head surfaced, then a fat, whiskered body, claws scrabbling. A mole—no, a mole-like creature the size of a small dog—shook dirt from its fur and blinked nearsightedly in the sunlight.
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
Guiche's smile faltered. "A… a mole?" he said weakly.
The creature waddled over to him, nuzzling his boot with blunt affection.
Colbert clapped politely. "An earth-aligned familiar. Most fitting for a mage who has already shown aptitude with golems, Mister de Gramont."
"That is to say…" someone whispered, "…even he managed to summon something."
Louise's jaw twitched.
Colbert gestured. "The contract, please."
Guiche, cheeks pink, knelt and pressed his lips to the mole's forehead. Light flared briefly on its fur, then faded.
"Next!" Colbert called, cheerfully moving the line along.
One by one, students stepped forward.
A nervous boy with ink stains on his fingers summoned a scraggly crow. A girl with her hair in tight braids called forth a sleek cat with one torn ear. A tall, silent boy received a tiny dragonfly that buzzed around his head and refused to land anywhere but the tip of his wand.
Each time there was a flash, a puff, a manifestation, and a murmur of approval, or snickering, or both.
Louise felt each successful summoning like a stone placed on her shoulders. Her chest grew tighter, her breath shallower.
It's fine. None of them matters. When it's your turn, you'll summon something incredible. A griffin. A dragon. A phoenix. Something that will make even Kirche choke on her own smugness.
"Miss Zerbst," Colbert said. "If you would?"
Kirche practically sashayed into the circle, cloak rippling. Her wand hung loosely between two fingers, casual, as if she were about to stir a drink rather than call a being from another world.
"Watch closely," she murmured without looking back, her voice honeyed. "You might learn something, Vallière."
Louise tasted copper on her tongue.
Kirche lifted her wand.
"My servant that lives somewhere in this vast universe," she said, her tone a touch lazier than the textbook, "my familiar that burns with passion and fire—show yourself to your new, loving master."
Her wand traced a curve in the air.
Flame burst up from the center of the circle.
Students yelped and stepped back from the sudden heat. Fire roared, forging its own wind, a pillar of orange and crimson twisting skyward. Inside the blaze, something moved—something large and sinuous.
The pillar collapsed inward, shrinking to a coil of embers around a shape crouched low on the scorched dirt.
When the smoke cleared, a salamander the size of a horse lay sprawled in the summoning circle, scales glowing like banked coals, eyes like twin rubies. Its breath washed over the students in a wave of heat.
"Whoa…"
"Incredible…"
"A salamander…"
Kirche's smile was feline.
She knelt without hesitation and kissed the beast's muzzle. It rumbled in pleasure, a sound like logs shifting in a bonfire.
Colbert's eyes shone behind his spectacles. "Truly remarkable," he said. "A fire salamander. Very suitable, Miss Zerbst, very suitable."
Kirche turned, violet eyes sliding back to Louise.
"Oh my," she purred. "What a shame, Vallière. You'll have to try very hard to match this."
Louise's ears burned.
Of course, she'd get something flashy. Of course. Of course.
Her thoughts churned. Fine. Just fine. When I call forth a dragon, we'll see who everyone talks about.
The line grew shorter.
Tabitha stepped into the circle with her book tucked under one arm, wand held as if she'd forgotten it was there. Her blue hair tangled in the wind; she didn't seem to notice.
She spoke her incantation in a low, simple voice. No flourishes, no theatrics.
The air above the circle rippled. A shadow unfolded, then wings. A small blue dragon dropped from a space that hadn't been there a heartbeat before, landing with a heavy whump that shook the ground. It shook its neck frill like a cat fluffing its fur and then, entirely without ceremony, licked Tabitha's face when she leaned forward to kiss its snout.
Louise's heart sank another inch.
Around her, the murmurs had shifted in timbre. Names were being compared, noble houses weighed.
"Zerbst, with a salamander…"
"Tabitha with a wind dragon…"
"What will Vallière manage, I wonder?"
"A smoking crater, probably."
She heard the last line clearly. The boy who said it didn't even bother to lower his voice.
Colbert checked his list, glanced at the thinning line, and then looked up.
"Miss Vallière," he said gently. "You are next."
It was amazing how quiet the courtyard could get.
The murmuring cut off like someone had shut a door. Heads turned. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, leaves hanging in the still air.
Louise swallowed.
Her legs felt oddly mechanical as she stepped forward, like someone had bolted them to her hips wrong. She walked into the circle, heels clicking on the baked earth, cloak scratching at her calves. The chalk lines of the glyph glared up at her—sharp angles and curves, symbols of a tradition older than any one house.
The silence pressed against her ears, thick and humid.
You cannot fail. Not again. Not here. Not in front of them.
She took her place in the dead center, feeling the faint chill where the chalk had seeped into the soil. Her wand weighed heavily in her hand.
Colbert offered a small nod, the shadow of encouragement in his eyes. "Whenever you are ready, Miss Vallière."
Louise lifted her wand.
Her mouth had gone dry; she licked her lips, felt them tremble, and clenched her teeth until they stopped.
She drew in a breath and let the words come, the ones she had practiced in her room until her throat was raw.
"My servant," she began, voice low but steady, "that resides beyond the veil of worlds…"
A murmur went through the faculty. The phrasing was slightly different, old-fashioned, dug from a dusty book in the library's forgotten back shelf.
She didn't care.
"My servant that walks roads no other eyes can see," she went on, raising her wand, "who stands in places where the stars themselves are only distant candles, heed my plea."
Her heart thudded against her ribs.
Please. Please, just this once.
"Cross the boundary," she said, louder now, the words gaining momentum, "and come forth. In my name, Louise Françoise le Blanc de la Vallière, and by the honor of my house, I command you—"
Her wand cut a sharp arc in the air.
"—answer my call, and appear before me as my familiar!"
The last word cracked like a whip.
She thrust her wand toward the ground.
The glyph flared.
Light shot along the chalk lines, racing from symbol to symbol, blazing white. The air above the circle twisted, heat mirage flickering over stone. A gust of wind slapped cloaks and hair against faces; someone yelped. Loose parchment tore free of an unlucky student's hands and whirled upward like startled birds.
For a moment, Louise felt something.
It was like a hand had reached through her chest and taken hold of her heart, not gently, not cruelly, just… firmly. A connection, taut as a bowstring, stretching out into a space she couldn't imagine.
Her breath hitched.
Then it snapped.
The light died.
The wind stilled.
Dust drifted lazily back to the ground, tiny motes glinting in the sun.
The center of the summoning circle was empty.
Silence fell heavier than before, like a blanket soaked in cold water.
Someone laughed. Just one voice at first, a stifled snort from the back. Then another. Then the dam broke.
"Oh, come on—"
"She did it again—"
"Zero—"
"Louise the Zero, right on time—"
Louise stared down at the bare patch of ground where her familiar should have been. Her throat had closed up entirely. She couldn't have spoken even if she'd wanted to.
Her wand hung useless at her side. Her fingers had gone numb.
Colbert was the first to move. He stepped forward, hand lifting as if he might touch her shoulder, then thinking better of it.
"Miss Vallière," he began, voice soft, "perhaps we should—"
Louise didn't hear the rest.
Heat surged up her spine, a burning flood that had nowhere to go. It pressed against her eyes, turned the world watery.
No. You will not cry. Not in front of them.
She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted iron.
She became aware, with sickening clarity, of the way everyone was looking at her. Not even trying to hide it now. Pity from a few, amusement from most, triumph from Kirche, who had one hand resting lightly on her salamander's neck, lips curved in a lazy smile.
"Well," Kirche said, voice oozing false sympathy. "Some things never change, hm?"
Louise's shoulders jerked.
I hate you. I hate you, I hate—
Colbert cleared his throat a little too loudly.
"Now, now," he said, forcing briskness into his tone. "We mustn't be hasty in our judgments. Not every summoning manifests identically. There may have been—"
He stopped.
The light dimmed.
It was subtle at first. The edges of shadows blurred, as if a cloud had drifted across the sun. A couple of students glanced up automatically.
The sky was flawless blue.
Yet the light continued to fade, not all at once, but in a slow, inexorable slide, as though the color were being drained drop by drop.
Louise blinked and looked around.
The hairs on her arms rose.
"W-what now?" someone muttered.
A breeze swept through the courtyard, stronger than before, tugging at cloaks and banners. It came from nowhere, with no rhythm of natural wind, just a single long exhale that made the trees lining the walls shiver.
The salamander beside Kirche lifted its head, nostrils flaring. Tabitha's dragon rumbled low in its throat, wings shifting uneasily. Cats hissed, fur puffing. The mole dove back into the dirt with a frightened squeal.
"Oh," Headmaster Osmond said quietly from under his hat.
He was looking up.
Colbert followed his gaze.
The sun was still there, bright and steady in the cloudless expanse. But something else had insinuated itself between it and the courtyard—a shape, vast and indistinct, turning the sunlight flat and gray.
A shadow rolled across the grass.
It swallowed the fountain at the courtyard's center, drowned the flagstones, and climbed the academy walls. It was too sharp-edged to be a cloud, too steady to be a passing flock of dragons. The air under it felt… pressed. Heavier, somehow, like the weight of a hand on the back of one's neck.
"What is that?" a girl whispered.
The shadow grew darker.
Birdsong, which had been a constant backdrop—sparrows chattering in the hedges, a distant crow on the tower—cut off abruptly. The silence that followed was deep enough to make ears ring.
Louise found herself tilting her head back, back, until her neck protested.
At first, all she saw was glare. Then her eyes adjusted.
Something hung in the sky.
It wasn't possible. Her mind told her that even as her eyes insisted.
It was not a dragon, not like Tabitha's. It had no wings, no beating limbs. It was not a floating island, either; it was too rigid, too angular. It was as if a fortress—no, a whole city of iron—had been carved into a single, elongated shape and then nailed to the sky.
The thing's underside stretched from one end of the courtyard to beyond the far walls, a vast expanse of metal plates and protrusions, seams and ridges and recessed shapes that might have been doors or teeth or both. Sections of it jutted downward, boxy and blunt. Strange round mouths dotted its belly—nozzles, ports, caverns rimmed in shadow.
Lines of light ran along it in thin bands—cold, unnatural, like captured stars forced into tidy rows. Here and there, a brighter point glowed, steady and unblinking, shining down like an eye.
No ropes held it. No spell circles glowed beneath it. It simply stayed there, as if the air had agreed to be solid for its sake.
"Is that… a golem?" one boy croaked. "A flying golem?"
"No golem is that large," another answered, voice strangled. "Not even the ones in Romalia's tales…"
A girl clutched at the sleeve of her neighbor. "Is it… is it one of Brimir's miracles?"
"Don't be absurd," someone snapped, sounding more desperate than confident. "The Founder's miracles are stories."
The metal titan in the sky hummed.
It wasn't loud, but it was everywhere—a low, thrumming note that set the windows rattling in their frames and vibrated in bones and teeth. Louise felt it in her chest more than she heard it. The chalk lines at her feet trembled, dust sifting from them in tiny streams.
Her wand slipped an inch in her slick fingers.
…Did I… do this?
She looked down at the circle, then back up at the impossibility, blotting out the sun.
The shadow of the thing swallowed her completely, cool and heavy, as if she stood at the bottom of a well.
Around her, students whispered prayers, curses, or each other's names.
Colbert's hand, unnoticed, had gone to his own wand, knuckles white.
The great metal fortress hung above them, unmoving, an iron omen dropped into a world of stone and spell.
And from somewhere deep within it, muffled and distant, there came a sound no one in Tristain had words for—the soft thump of something preparing to open.
The world slammed back together all at once.
On the bridge of the Will of Liberty, every console spat red. Warning glyphs climbed the air like bloodstained ivy. People grabbed for handholds as the deck bucked once, twice, then settled into a steady, unfamiliar pull.
"—Report!" the Ship Master snapped, steady by sheer habit. She had one hand on the arm of her chair, the other flat on the console, as if she could pin the ship in place herself.
Navigation was pale, fingers flying.
"FTL transit… terminated," he said. His voice wobbled, then hardened. "We are in real space. The Alcubierre field has fully collapsed."
"Good," the Democracy Officer muttered. "I was getting tired of not having anything to look at except math and existential dread."
"Where are we?" the Ship Master demanded.
Navigation stared at his screen. Blinked. Hit a key hard enough to make the console beep in protest.
"That's… the problem, ma'am."
"Explain."
Starlight flared through the forward blister as systems caught up. The warped, smeared tunnel of FTL was gone, replaced by a clean, sharp sky—too clean, too close. A curve of blue and white filled half the view. Clouds coiled like spun glass over a planet that should not have been there.
"Where is Kestros Prime?" the Ship Master asked.
"Not here," Navigation said. "This… is not Kestros. Orbital parameters don't match, stellar backdrop doesn't match, nothing matches. We've dropped into the upper atmosphere, holding a quasi-orbital hover over a large fortified structure on the surface of an unregistered terrestrial-class world."
"Breathable atmosphere," Sensors added, almost on autopilot. "Nitrogen-oxygen, within standard variance. Gravity one-point-oh-two G. Surface temperature in the current hemisphere. Life signatures… everywhere."
"Enemy presence?" the Democracy Officer cut in. "Terminid biomass? Automaton emissions? Illuminate psionic distortions? Shadowy cabals of hooded 'Illuminati' fiddling with reality again?" He half-smiled. "Please say no to the last one, or I owe Engineering fifty credits."
Sensors swallowed.
"No known Terminid clustering," he said. "No Automaton infrastructure. No Illuminate signatures. Radio spectrum is… quiet. No high-band traffic at all. I'm picking up a handful of low-frequency, low-power sources—primitive local broadcasts—but nothing with our modulation patterns. The planet is…" He hesitated, expression twisting between bafflement and a little bit of awe. "Pre-spaceflight. Culturally pre-industrial in most zones, with a scattering of anomalous energy readings."
The Democracy Officer's eyebrows climbed.
"Untapped," he said slowly. "They're not part of Super Earth."
Comms looked up from his board, eyes wide.
"How is that possible? We mapped every human colony in this quadrant. We vetted them, liberated them, made them fill out voting forms…"
"Then either the maps are wrong," Engineering said dryly over the comm, "or someone just invented a new form of enemy. One that can reach into a running Alcubierre field and yank us out like a tick from a dog."
"Feels very Illuminate," the Democracy Officer said. "Or Illuminati. Whatever we're calling them in this week's training video."
The Ship Master ignored him.
"Show me the ground," she ordered.
Sensors threw the feed to the main holo. The curve of the planet leapt closer, clouds whipping away as the view dove. Ocean flashed past, then coastline, then rolling green. Fields in patchwork squares. Roads made of packed earth and stone curl between them like veins.
There were settlements—clusters of stone buildings, smoky streaks rising from chimneys. No reactors. No towers. No vehicles moving faster than a galloping line on some dusty path.
The image narrowed again, focus tightening as the ship's orbital track slid over one particular region. A walled structure swam into view, perched on a rise: towers shouldering against the sky, stone buildings clustered around courtyards, banners flapping from spires.
"Large structure," Sensors said. "Fortification or… educational complex? Hard to tell with this architecture. Multiple life signs. Several hundred in the immediate vicinity."
"Magnify," the Ship Master said.
The view dipped. The courtyard widened beneath them, a rectangle of green and pale stone. Tiny shapes moved across it—people, dressed in cloaks and strange uniforms. Colorful creatures lurked near them: a beast like a lizard made of charcoal and flame, a small blue dragon, a mole the size of a dog.
In the very center of the courtyard, a chalk circle scarred the earth. A girl with pink hair stood in the middle of it, a limp wand in her hand, her face turned up toward the ship.
She looked… very small.
"Human," Sensors said. "All of them. Baseline stock. No augments, no atmosphere gear. Tech level… Iron Age in some zones, late medieval in others. I see steel, glass, textile—no visible firearms. No power grid."
The Democracy Officer stared.
"They're wearing capes," he said.
"Robes," Comms said. "They might be ceremonial."
"No voting terminals," the Democracy Officer went on. "No propaganda holos. No recruitment centers. No fast food. No shopping malls. No orbital laser arrays." He looked pleasantly horrified. "They've never even heard of mandatory patriotism seminars."
"So we are not above enemy territory," the Ship Master said.
"Not a conventional enemy," Engineering replied. "But something here reached out and grabbed us through FTL."
Silence stretched for a moment.
"What if it were some new hostile force?" Comms asked quietly. "A fourth front we haven't seen before. Not bugs, not bots, not glowsticks. Something… else. Something wearing human skin."
"Please," the Democracy Officer said. "Don't say 'new enemy.' I just memorized all the existing ones for the inspirational quiz games."
Navigation pinched the bridge of his nose.
"We could run," he said. "Spin up FTL, try to retrace—"
"We don't know what happened to our last spin-up," Engineering cut in. "And if something on this planet keyed into that transit? We might just be handing them another shot."
The Ship Master watched the tiny, terrified figures in the courtyard.
"This world is human," she said. "It is unaligned. And it has been touched by something that can interfere with Super Earth military assets in transit."
Her mouth thinned.
"That makes it a threat," she said. "And an opportunity."
The Democracy Officer's eyes lit with a familiar manic shine.
"A poor, backwards human colony," he murmured. "Tragically distant from the light of Super Earth. No mandatory schooling. No approved entertainment. No standardized cuisine."
"Almost like finding a… a conservation zone," Comms said. "But for ignorance."
"Think of the potential," the Democracy Officer went on, warming to his own fantasy. "Raw, unsullied minds waiting to be uplifted. No competing brands. No pesky 'local traditions.' Just fresh soil for the seeds of managed democracy."
Navigation made a faint, strangled sound that might have been laughter or despair.
"So we're really doing this," he said. "We got kidnapped through time-space by an interdimensional… whatever that language was… and your first instinct is brand expansion."
"Second instinct," the Democracy Officer corrected. "First was to panic internally, which I have heroically suppressed." He flicked a toggle on his console, bringing up deployment icons. "Ship Master, permission to initiate a First Contact / Liberation Protocol?"
The Ship Master tilted her head, considering.
"Is there any sign," she asked Sensors, "of organized resistance? Military forces? Orbital defenses? Enemy silhouettes?"
"Negative," Sensors said. "No orbital assets. No anti-air batteries in scan radius. The structure beneath us appears to be an academy of some sort, maybe a noble training hall. Armaments… are mostly pointy. And on fire."
On the holo, the salamander snorted a little plume of flame.
"Cute," the Democracy Officer said. "I want one."
"Later," the Ship Master said. "For now, we will assume potential hazard, unknown capabilities, unknown psy-weaponry. But they are human. That puts them under our… stewardship." She let the word sit, weighty and satisfied. "We will not open fire without provocation."
Engineering grunted.
"Music to the hull integrity's ears," he said. "I'd rather not be the first ship to put a crater in a pre-contact school."
"Helldiver deployment?" Comms asked.
"Yes," she said. "We need eyes on the ground. Captain Rook's squad is prepped."
The Democracy Officer leaned forward.
"Request authorization for supplemental propaganda package," he said. "We have a Flag Pod we've been saving for a special occasion."
The Ship Master closed her eyes for a heartbeat, as if asking some unseen entity for patience.
"Fine," she said. "But if you scratch my courtyard with fireworks, you're filling out the damage forms."
"Worth it," the Democracy Officer—"Democracy" to everyone who'd suffered through his pep talks—said, already tapping commands. "Comms, patch me to the drop bay. I want my voice to be the first sound this benighted world associates with freedom."
He grinned, teeth bright.
"Let's go make some history."
In the drop bay, the deck thrummed with a new note.
Rook could feel it through his boots. Different from the sickening lurch of whatever had yanked them out of FTL. This was familiar: the steady heartbeat of atmospheric entry systems spinning up, grav clamps adjusting for a planned fall instead of an unplanned one.
He stood with his helmet under his arm again, staring at the nearest Hellpod. Its nose cone seemed to be smiling at him.
"So," the woman on his right said. "Where are we not going to die today?"
"Kestros Prime," Seven said. "Except… not." He flicked a menu open on his wrist. "Ship just pushed an update. Mission header changed."
Rook's HUD, still on standby, blinked as the new op data filtered in. He skimmed the lines, reading them aloud.
"OPERATION: FOUNDING FATHERS," he said slowly. "Target: Planet—designation pending. Status: uncontacted human world. Threat level: unassessed. Objective: initiate first contact, assess local capabilities, secure foothold for future democratic expansion."
The woman snorted.
"They really wrote 'democratic expansion'?"
"Democracy Officer probably got a bonus for it," Seven said.
Rook keyed his squad channel.
"You all seeing this?" he asked.
A chorus of affirmatives crackled back.
"Suit up," Rook said. "We're dropping into a live question mark. Rules of engagement: weapons are on safe unless fired upon, or if something looks like it's going to eat you, or your rights."
"If they're humans," someone further down the line said, "you think they'll at least have coffee?"
"Have you seen the scans?" Seven said. "They're plowing fields. With animals. Coffee is probably still a myth they tell each other around campfires."
Rook slid his helmet on. The HUD woke fully this time, overlay smoothing into existence. A tiny icon pulsed in the corner, a stylized planet with a question mark stamped over it.
"Command," he said. "This is Rook. Squad is suited, strapped, and morally superior. Request final brief."
The Ship Master's voice came through, clipped and level.
"Captain Rook, your drop zone is directly beneath our current position," she said. "A large fortified structure with high human density. Likely a center of local power and education. You are to establish contact, minimize casualties, and avoid leveling their institution of learning unless absolutely necessary."
"Copy," Rook said. "We'll try not to redecorate their school with high explosives."
The Democracy Officer cut in, his tone oppressively cheerful.
"Remember, Captain, you are the first representatives of Super Earth these poor, unenlightened souls will ever see," he said. "Smile under the helmet. Project confidence. Announce that their long night of ignorance is over and that they are now under the benevolent protection of managed democracy."
Rook stared at the inside of his visor for a moment.
"Is that the exact phrasing?" he asked.
"It's a suggestion," Democracy said. "Feel free to improvise as long as the message, tone, and legally required enthusiasm remain intact. Oh, and one more thing…"
A new icon appeared on Rook's HUD: a small, animated flag unfurling.
"We're sending a Flag Pod with you," Democracy said, practically vibrating with pride. "Fully equipped with an audio system, pyrotechnics, and an automatic flag-raising mechanism. First impressions matter."
Rook slowly tilted his head toward Seven.
"We have a… what now?"
"You heard him," Seven said. "We're invading a medieval school with a party cannon."
The woman cackled. "I love this job."
The bay lights shifted from white to a steady amber. A klaxon whooped once, long and low.
"Hellpods, stand by for drop," the bay officer called. "Lock harnesses. Check seals. Remember: we're aiming for 'liberating shock and awe,' not 'crater formerly known as diplomatic opportunity.'"
Rook clambered into his pod. Inside, it was cramped and impossibly familiar. Straps bit into his armor as he buckled in. The smell of machine oil, hot metal, and someone else's recycled breath filled the small space.
The pod hatch swung down, sealing him into a tiny world. Lights blinked to life on the control panel above his knees. A small camera display painted the outside bay: rows of pods, all snapping shut like eggs.
Across from his pod, on the far side of the bay, a larger, fatter shell settled into launch position. Its nose was painted with a stylized eagle and a spray of stars. Someone had doodled a smiley face in one corner.
Text flashed over Rook's HUD: FLAG POD ONLINE – FIREWORKS: ARMED – ANTHEM: QUEUED.
"Of course," Rook muttered.
"Don't be jealous," Democracy's voice chimed in his ear. "You're important too."
The deck beneath the pods began to split, iris doors grinding open. Rook felt the pull of the planet's gravity reach up, hook around his bones.
"Drop in three," the bay officer shouted. "Two—"
Rook squeezed his hands into fists.
"—one."
The floor vanished.
Hell was always the bit between ship and sky.
The pod dropped like a stone kicked out of heaven. Rook's stomach tried to climb through his lungs. Acceleration slammed him back into the seat. The HUD jittered, then corrected, as atmospheric data poured in: pressure climbing, temperature spiking at the nose, exterior plating blooming orange with re-entry heat.
Through the tiny forward port, the world grew.
Blue, then white, then rapidly expanding green and brown. A patch of stone and grass spread under him: a courtyard, a ring of walls, towers stabbing upward like accusing fingers.
Other pods streaked down around him, trails of fire painting the sky. Off to his left, the Flag Pod descended with obscene grace, its fall aided by retrothrusters that burned in a patriotic pattern.
"Flag Pod deploying," an automated voice announced over the squad channel. It sounded smug. "Stand by for symbolic superiority."
Rook had half a heartbeat to wonder if he was about to die, embarrassed.
Then the retros fired.
The pod's descent snapped from suicidal to merely dangerous. Grav dampeners grunted. His teeth clicked together. The courtyard leapt up.
On the ground, the world fell apart in three directions at once.
The humming in the air rose, a building vibration that made the fountain's water shiver. The shadow of the metal behemoth overhead seemed to deepen, edges hardening.
"Everyone, remain calm," Colbert said. It sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "We will—"
Something screamed out of the sky.
The sound hit them first: a shriek of tearing air, like a dragon's roar dragged ten times too long. Heads snapped back as streaks of fire knifed down from the underside of the metal fortress, each leaving a smoldering trail.
"Spells—" someone gasped.
"Missiles!" another shouted, though they had never seen one.
"Get back!" Colbert bellowed. He thrust his wand up, mouth already forming the syllables of a shield spell. "All of you, away from the circle, move!"
Students scattered, shoes skidding on stone and grass. Guiche tripped over his own mole, yelped, and fell in an undignified bundle. Tabitha grabbed the collar of a nearby boy and yanked him bodily aside, her dragon already stepping between her and the falling fire.
Kirche whistled; the salamander surged forward, interposing its massive, burning bulk between its mistress and the center of the courtyard, head low, eyes blazing.
Louise didn't move.
Her legs refused.
She stood frozen in the middle of the summoning circle, wand hanging at her side, eyes fixed upward as the first flaming object punched through the last meters of sky.
That's going to hit me.
The thought drifted through almost calmly.
I failed at summoning, and now the Founder has decided to drop a star on my head. That seems… about right.
The first Hellpod landed.
It did not so much land as attempt to bury itself in the planet.
Stone exploded. Flagstones flew in jagged shards. Dirt fountained. The shockwave slapped Louise in the chest, knocking the breath out of her. She went down on one knee, ears ringing.
Three more pods slammed into the courtyard in quick succession, each impact a hammer blow. One cratered a section of lawn that had, until recently, sent gardeners into smug raptures. Another smashed the decorative base of a statue, sending the marble mage on top toppling gracelessly into a hedge. The third landed so close to Guiche that his hair whipped sideways; he screamed in a pitch he would later deny was his.
The salamander roared, flame boiling from its jaws in pure reflex. It washed over the nearest pod, shrouding it in fire. The metal blackened, hissed—and held.
"By Brimir…" Colbert whispered.
Louise coughed, forcing herself back to her feet. Her legs shook.
Around her, the courtyard looked like a warzone. Dust and smoke billowed. Students huddled behind anything that resembled cover—fountain, pillars, or suddenly less decorative statues. Someone was sobbing. Someone else was laughing hysterically.
Above, more streaks fell—but these were smaller, brighter. They burst overhead in showers of color and sound.
Booms cracked across the courtyard. Red, white, and blue sparks bloomed in the shadow of the metal ship, curling down as glowing embers. A tune blared from somewhere, brash and triumphant, all brass and drums and a choir shouting words no one here spoke.
"What… what now?" Louise croaked.
A pod right in front of her hissed.
The Hellpod's nose, charred and cracked from impact, split along cunning seams. Superheated air gusted out. Gears clanked, pistons fired. Plates folded back like the petals of a grotesque iron flower.
Something stepped out.
It was man-shaped, approximately. Two arms, two legs, a head. But it was also very clearly not a man.
Armor—thick, angular plates of dull metal—encased it from neck to boots. The helmet was featureless save for a reflective visor, a smooth strip of darkness where any face should have been. Antennae and sensors bristled from the sides. Its shoulders carried heavy pauldrons, painted with symbols no one recognized. A rifle longer than a musket and ten times as intricate rested easily in its hands.
Louise stared up at it, throat tight.
This… this is not a dragon. This is not a golem. This is…
"Mechanical knight," someone whimpered behind her. "They've summoned… metal knights…"
The armored figure turned its head slowly, taking in the chaos—the craters, the screaming, the dragons bristling defensively, the crimson salamander's still-flickering flames. More pods were opening around it with similar clanks and hisses, disgorging more armored figures.
In the center of the courtyard, the largest pod—the one that had landed with suspiciously precise timing and minimal collateral damage—sang.
Gears whirred. Panels slid aside. A pedestal rose from its core, bearing a gleaming pole. Atop it, a rolled bundle of fabric snapped taut.
Fireworks spewed out of vents around the base, spraying crackling sparks in a circle. The triumphant music punched its volume up a notch, blaring so loud the nearby windows vibrated.
Then the flag unfurled.
Blue, stark, and almost painful against the dusty air. A white shape in the center—an Earth surrounded by laurel, surmounted by three stars. Beneath it, blocky symbols no one could read. The fabric snapped as if eager to be seen, held rigid by some invisible force.
Every eye in the courtyard locked onto it.
"Is… is that a… banner?" Headmaster Osmond said faintly.
"A war standard," one of the teachers muttered.
"It's ugly," Kirche said, dazed.
The music swelled.
"Citizens," a voice boomed over it, magnified and crisp. It came from somewhere within the pods, from the unseen speakers studding their hides. It rolled over the courtyard, bouncing off stone and glass.
"Do not be alarmed. Freedom has arrived."
Louise winced.
The closest armored figure—and there were now at least six, maybe more, fanning out from their craters—lifted a hand. The voice in the courtyard's air paused; in Louise's ears, inside her head, another voice spoke quietly, filtered and tinny.
"Ship Master, this is Rook," it said. "We have boots… on whatever passes for ground here. Locals are humanoid, primitive-aristocrat aesthetic, accompanied by… animals. Some of the animals are on fire."
"Do any of the animals appear to be eating anyone?" a faint reply asked.
"Negative. They look… protective. Or decorative."
"Then continue as planned."
The external speakers crackled.
The armored figure stepped forward, rifle held across his chest in what might, in some very forgiving culture, be considered a nonthreatening posture.
He spoke, and the voice that boomed across the courtyard matched his body language now, filtered through translation systems that did their best and failed gracefully.
"Residents of…" There was a brief pause, as if the words were being yanked sideways into something more local, "this fine educational fortress," he said. "Fear not. You are now under the benevolent protection of Super Earth."
The translation software turned "Super Earth" into an echo of itself, as if the local language had never conceived of such a concept. It came out as something like "Great Soil," which did not help.
Murmurs went up.
"Great… Soil?" someone repeated weakly.
"That doesn't sound benevolent," another whispered.
Rook pressed on, helmet turning slowly to take in the crowd.
"I am Captain Rook of the Helldivers," he said. "Elite infantry of Super Earth, champions of managed democracy, frontline of liberty, et cetera." The last two words garbled into a string of formal-sounding syllables in the local tongue. "We come in peace—unless you are secretly bugs or robots in disguise, in which case we will have to have a very short and violent conversation."
Colbert, who had been standing with his wand half-raised and a shield spell trembling on his lips, blinked.
"I… beg your pardon?" he said.
Rook's helmet turned toward him. The reflective visor gave nothing away.
"This settlement," Rook went on, "has been… unexpectedly graced by our presence as a result of unknown hostile interference with our faster-than-light transit. We believed, briefly, that this was the work of the Illuminate—glowy psionic jerks, don't worry about it—or possibly a new, nefarious enemy threatening democracy."
The translator flailed desperately around "democracy" for a moment and eventually landed on a phrase that meant "rule-by-many-voices-with-too-many-meetings."
Louise's head hurt.
"But," Rook continued, "our scans indicate no such enemies. Instead, we have found… you." He spread one armored hand, encompassing the students, their familiars, and the towering walls. "A poor, backwards human colony planet that has tragically never known the guiding light of Super Earth."
Gasps.
"Backwards?" Kirche hissed.
"Poor?" Guiche sputtered, climbing finally to his feet and brushing stone dust from his cloak. "I'll have you know, sir, that I am a member of the noble house of—"
The woman Helldiver to Rook's right lifted her rifle an inch. Not quite pointing it at Guiche. Not quite, not pointing it at him.
Guiche's mouth snapped shut.
Seven leaned slightly toward Rook, voice low on the internal channel.
"Should we be calling them 'backwards' to their faces?" he asked.
"Democracy Officer's briefing," Rook said. "I am legally obligated to convey his contempt."
"Fine," Seven muttered. "Just making sure."
On one of the higher balconies, a teacher whispered, "Professor, what do we do? Do we… greet them? Attack them? Offer them tea?"
Osmond continued to stare, hat tilted back, eyes reflecting the waving blue flag.
"For now," he said, "we avoid being shot."
Rook cleared his throat.
"Rest assured," he said, "we are here to help. Your world will be evaluated for admission into the glorious fold of Super Earth. We will bring you advanced technologies like food that comes in tubes, personal firearms, and standardized elections. We will free you from the tyranny of… whatever tyrants you currently have."
He paused, as if hoping someone would raise their hand and volunteer.
Silence.
Students pressed back in the ranks, eyes wide. A few had their wands out, but none had yet done the foolish thing and pointed them.
Louise swallowed.
Did I… do this?
They had come after her spell. After the light. After the circle.
The timing was perfect in the way disasters sometimes were.
She looked down at the chalk lines around her boots. They were smudged from the impacts, scuffed where she had fallen, but the shape was still visible. Her wand felt like a lump of lead in her palm.
I called across the boundary, and something answered.
She looked up again at the metal ship looming overhead, at the flag snapping in its self-generated breeze, at the armored strangers with their impossible weapons.
But I was supposed to summon a familiar. An animal. A beast. Not…
"Hey."
The word snapped her out of her spiral. One of the armored figures—Rook himself, she realized belatedly—had taken a few slow steps closer. Not enough to breach the warding circle one of the teachers had begun sketching in the dirt, but close enough that she could hear the faint whir of servos.
The reflective visor tilted, focusing on her.
"You," he said. His voice boomed in the courtyard, but now that she was this close, she could hear the quieter layer underneath, threaded through with something that might have been curiosity. "Pink hair. Standing in the glowy chalk circle. You look less confused than some of the others. Are you in charge?"
Louise opened her mouth. Closed it. She was fairly certain she was, in fact, more confused than anyone else here.
Every gaze in the courtyard seemed to swing to her at once.
Kirche's eyes gleamed, half amusement, half morbid fascination.
Tabitha's dragon rumbled warningly.
Colbert took a half-step forward, then stopped himself, as if afraid that sudden movement might spook the strangers into shooting.
Louise swallowed.
"I…" Her voice came out in a squeak. She coughed, tried again. "I am Louise… Françoise le Blanc de la Vallière," she said, dredging dignity from some deep, stubborn well. Titles tumbled into her mouth by reflex. "Second daughter of the Vallière duchy. Student of this academy."
Seven's voice buzzed in Rook's ear.
"Local nobility," he said. "She sounds like every colonial governor's spoiled kid in the training sims."
"Show respect," the woman muttered. "She might be our ticket to not getting burned alive by the lizard."
Rook inclined his helmet slightly.
"Miss Vallière," he said aloud. "Question. Did you, very recently, perform some sort of… ritual? Perhaps one involving unusual words, a strong emotional component, and a vague sense of reaching out into the metaphysical fabric of reality?"
Louise stared.
"…yes," she said.
"Right before we appeared," Rook added.
"…yes," she said again.
Rook let out a breath only his squad could hear.
"Okay," he said. "So either these people have developed the universe's first democracy-aligned summoning technology, or we just got magically conscripted."
On the balconies, teachers exchanged panicked looks.
On the ground, students clutched wands and each other.
Overhead, the Super Earth flag rippled dramatically in the artificial breeze, fireworks still occasionally popping above it, showering the cratered courtyard with sparks of light.
Louise looked from the flag to the armored figures to the giant ship blotting out the sun.
If this is my familiar, she thought, throat dry, I am in so much trouble.