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“That is cheating.”
Stelle grins at their phone screen. They dodge Silver Wolf’s every last attack.
“You’re cheating too!” they argue. “You’ve got a second screen over there that you’re hacking away on. I see you. Let me do my thing one last time.”
Silver Wolf’s avatar goes still. Stelle kills her.
You win! The screen proclaims. Start again?
From across her room, Silver Wolf looks up from her bean bag. There’s a deeper pain in her eyes than just of losing a game.
“We’ll still be able to play, right? After you leave?”
Stelle wishes they knew for sure. “I think so. But I’ll lose all my skills, so go a little easy on me.”
“I will not. Ugh, It’ll be so boring curb-stomping you. Maybe I’ll teach you to hack.”
Stelle laughs. “Good luck with that.” They start another room up, and their match begins again.
They both go quiet in concentration. Stelle is absolutely cheating, but so is Silver Wolf. They both have all the best gear, gather over months of grinding together, and every cheat code in the books.
There’s no use saving consumables anymore, so Stelle goes all out. It’s a match for the ages.
It’s close until Stelle runs out of items, but Silver Wolf wipes them off the map in the end.
“Aw, I nearly had it,” they say.
There’s a lot that goes unsaid when they both look up from their phones. Silver Wolf much prefers to hide her meaning behind code, holograms, games. But Stelle’s gotten good at interpreting.
She flops back over her bean bag. “Ughhh, and you’re gonna lose all your saves too,” she complains.
That does sound miserable. Stelle even has all the limited edition weapons on this account.
Silver Wolf tosses her phone down and reaches out over to her bed. A small black cat sleeps atop the covers, taking its half out of the middle.
“C’mere, you,” she says, scooping it into her arms. The cat yowls in protest, but she hugs it close as it squirms. “Nope, you’re helping me right now. Make me less sad and then I’ll put you down.”
“There’s a lot of them onboard right now,” Stelle notes. “Earlier, I saw Elio fighting another one over the kibble in the kitchen.”
Silver Wolf mushes her face into the cat’s soft fur. “The real game’s about to start,” she says. “They can smell it. It’s like catnip to them. Awful, miserable catnip.”
It is an awful, miserable thing Stelle will do to Silver Wolf when they leave. She is their newest member by quite a bit, but she took them by storm. Stelle’s not quite sure how they managed before her.
Stelle knows she was lonely before the Hunters. That’s part of why they approached her in the first place. Now they sit together in her room aboard their spaceship headquarters. Gifted trinkets litter her desk, pictures are tacked over posters on the walls, and a fragment of Terminus who is also a cat purrs contentedly in her lap.
The Hunters are her first real experience with home, with friendship, with family. When Stelle leaves for the Astral Express, it will be her first loss.
And Stelle is asking her not to mourn it.
“Can I do anything else for you, before I go?” they ask her.
Silver Wolf shakes her head. “Just play with me a little longer. I have more games I want to show you.”
“Alright.”
-
The day before they reach The Blue, Stelle finds Blade in the hangar, putting all the final touches on the cryopod. Stelle watches as he checks the tubes and valves, adjusts bolts on the side, and unscrews panels to make sure all the innards are in place.
Blade doesn’t notice their approach.
He seems content, fiddling away with the machine. Xianzhou weapons are contraptions as much as they’re blades, and this is the closest they’ve ever seen him get to practicing his old job as a smith. They can see it, now.
“How’s it going?” Stelle asks as they approach.
Blade looks up, putting his wrench down. “It’ll be ready for tomorrow. All the readings are right. We’ll pump you full full of drug cocktails, cosmic energy, and a drop of my damned undying blood, but the Stellaron won’t kill you when we use you as the sealing vessel.”
“Good,” Stelle nods. “Are your hands alright? This is the most handiwork I’ve seen you do before.”
Blade gives them a flat stare. “I will live,” he deadpans.
He returns to calibrating the pod. Stelle’s sure he’s checked that valve already, but they turn away to leave him be.
They make it half a step away when Blade says, “I hate this plan.”
Stelle pauses, turning back around. He’s still fiddling with the dials. “Aw c’mon,” they try. “It’s not that bad. Can’t be worse than Attouine, surely.”
Blade doesn’t dignify that with an answer. This is how most of their conversations go.
Stelle relents. “Why?”
“I was promised a true death,” he says. “This is the only plan where we don’t know if that’s true.”
They have had this fight before.
Blade says his only reason for joining the Hunters is that they promised his true death in the apocalypse. Stelle has to laugh at that. The whole goal is to stop the apocalypse, and they told him that upfront. But they needed him, and the promise was tasty bait. There are many stories where Blade dies at the end, but Stelle is not blameless for the deceit.
He’s stuck around, though. Kafka and Silver Wolf and Firefly all like him well enough, and he reciprocates in kind. So Stelle can shoulder the tension. That’s fine.
They’ll be gone soon, anyways.
“We’ve found a hundred ways that would work just fine for you to die at the end,” they tell him. “Pick your favorite. But this is the only plan with a chance for everyone else to live.”
“Hmph.”
Pointedly, Blade goes back to work. He grabs some complicated wrench to check the torques on some of the bolts. He shoves his whole weight into it, then reels back with a grunt. He drops the wrench with a gasp, shaking out his wrist.
Stelle grabs it before it hits the ground, and holds it back out for him. “Can I ask for something selfish?”
He takes it. “You always do.”
“Don’t kill that Nameless. Dan Heng. Please.”
“Why not?” he scoffs. “That doesn’t affect the script at all. You checked it yourself.”
“That’s why I said selfish,” Stelle says. “The script doesn’t care, but I would. A wanted criminal kills my crewmate, who took me in when I didn’t even know my name? Imagine you, if someone killed Wolfie.”
“I don’t have to.”
“I know,” Stelle sighs. “I would loathe you all forever. I don’t want to do that.”
Blade watches them, thinking for a moment. There’s so much time hiding behind his eyes, Stelle thinks. They’re similar like that.
Another black cat wanders down the hallway, pausing to sniff the air as it passes the hangar door. It moves on.
“The Vidyadhara remember nothing after rebirth,” Blade says. His hair had fallen in front of his face while he worked. Now, he brushes it out of his eyes. “In their culture, they become a new person. Do you think my enemy is already gone?”
“I don’t know,” Stelle says.
“And what of you?”
Ah. “Hmph.”
Blade goes for the kill. “You will leave us on our own,” he says. “You will leave these people, each so fond of you in their own ways, and you will leave a hole in your place. Their grief, so thick I can taste it, for your vaguest chance to save the damn world.”
He smiles. The scary one, like he gets when the mara is bad. “And somehow along the way, you’ve made me fond of them too. I hate this plan.”
Stelle slumps, sitting down atop the cryopod. They can’t argue. That is exactly what they’re doing.
The glass is cold beneath their fingers.
“I’m sorry,” Stelle says.
“Don’t be. We’re going to save the damn world.”
They hope he’s right.
“Now get off of there. You’ll mess up the tension,” Blade complains, but there’s no heat to it. He hands them a screwdriver. “And put this panel back in. It’s too small for me.”
Stelle does so, sliding off the pod and into place beside him.
They finish the work in silence. Soon enough, the final plate on the pod is back in position. All bolts are checked, all valves and tubes airtight. Blade nods. The cryopod is ready.
Stelle stares at it. “I hate this plan too.”
-
Stelle is in their chair on the bridge, going over final notes and chaperoning the autopilot’s exit from the silver rail, when Firefly wakes.
“Oh,” comes SAM’s mechanical voice, and Stelle looks up as she enters. In the corner, their phonograph plays a record from its loop.
“What’s that song?” Firefly asks. “I haven’t heard it before.”
“Midnight Tumult,” Stelle answers. “I forget the artist. I wasn’t expecting you up yet.”
“I just got out of cryo. I got an alert about Legion presence in the area.”
Stelle glances out the window. Space is dark and still out here, just off the silver rail. The Blue is nothing but a speck in the distance, still outshined by its star.
“In the system, I’m sure,” Stelle says. “And the Express should be docked already. But we have a few hours still before we’re close.”
“Still, I’ll keep watch.”
“Thank you.”
Stelle goes back to triple checking the scripts, and The Blue hangs in the void outside. Beside them, Firefly sways slowly with the song. It’s something of a sight, seeing an eight foot mech tap its metal boot in time with the beat. Stelle pauses their busywork to watch.
Firefly notices, of course. “It’s slower than your usual taste,” she says. She exaggerates her dancing now that she’s been spotted, and her armor clanks along with the bassline.
Stelle chuckles. “It’s a waltz. It’s no Inside by Robin, but Kafka picked it up way back in New Babylon when it was just us. It’s one of her favorites. She says waltzes are made for dancing to.”
“Is that the fancy slow dance they do in movies?”
“Sometimes. I don’t know how to do it.”
Firefly holds out a hand, gauntleted in silicon-carbide and polished steel. She says, “Then let’s make it up as we go.”
“What happened to that watch of yours?” Stelle asks, but they let her pull them to their feet.
So they dance. Mostly, they stumble across the bridge as the song plays, twirling each other at random every few steps and giggling as they go. Sometimes it’s even in time with the beat.
SAM is designed for spaceflight, not footwork, and Kafka deemed Stelle hopeless years ago, but they make it work.
When the final notes play, they’re simply swaying in place in front of the window. Stelle leans against Firefly, and her armor is warm.
“I ask too much of you,” Stelle whispers, as the silence returns.
“You could never,” she replies.
“You die in this plan. I wish I knew of a better one. I’d still stop the whole thing if you asked.”
“Death will come for everyone,” she shrugs.
“That’s my line,” Stelle says. “It’s easier to say to strangers, I’m realizing.”
“I’ve lived my whole life knowing I was destined to die,” Firefly says. “I knew that long before you. You have given me more life than I should’ve had in the first place. You’ve all given me love, excitement, and a chance to just exist in ways I couldn’t ever have imagined.”
Firefly leads them by the hand again, dipping them back to look up towards her helmet. Her eyes are hidden like this. Stelle has only seen them once, but they remember their sunset colors still.
“And just maybe,” Firefly says. “You have given me the chance to save the world.”
Just barely, Stelle smiles.
Firefly lets go then, and wanders back over to the phonograph. She swaps out Kafka’s record, and soon another song starts to play.
“Got tired of the quiet,” she says. “This one’s my favorite.”
Now Stelle really smiles. “That’s Robin again.”
Firefly crosses her arms. “So you have good taste,” she defends.
“I really do, don’t I.”
“I also don’t really know many songs.”
“We’ve gotta get you an in-suit radio,” Stelle says. “Tell Kafka to put it in the budget. Boss’s orders.”
Firefly giggles. Robin’s song is a waltz too, Stelle realizes. They’d never noticed before.
One two three, one two three...how come all the waltzes sound so sad?
Then Firefly asks, “This whole thing is about changing fate, right?”
“Of course,” Stelle confirms.
“Then change mine too. You’ve already done it once.”
So they have.
There’s nothing right to say here. Stelle searches every timeline for something that might make all of this better, some perfect magic phrase, and comes up empty.
So they just nod, stand next to Firefly, and watch the sky. The galaxy spills out in front of them, beaded stars on an endless inky blanket.
The music continues to play.
-
Herta Space Station comes into view soon enough. When the clouds and waters of The Blue fill the whole window, Kafka comes to meet them on the bridge.
They lock eyes, and Stelle knows it’s time.
“You’re sure about this?” Kafka asks.
“Nope!” Stelle laughs weakly. “It’s a new feeling.”
Stelle uncoils from their seat at the ship’s helm. In their hand is their tablet: filled with scripts and plans for every occasion they can think of, all the way up until the end of time.
They turn it off and stand.
Kafka meets their tired gaze.
“In every plan,” Stelle says, “In every timeline, every path that I can see, we are slaves to destiny. And then the universe ends.”
Kafka knows this. They all know this. But if they say it enough times, maybe it’ll actually feel real. To Stelle, it all still feels like a bad dream.
“But if we do this, if I wish away my past and power on a Stellaron, then I can’t see my future there. I have no idea if we win or lose in those timelines. And that’s the best chance we’ve got.”
“New feeling is right,” Kafka says. “This awful plan of yours makes my heart race. My voice keeps shaking, my hands feel numb, and I can’t stop thinking of all the ways I might lose you. What do you call that?”
“Usually?” Stelle raises an eyebrow. “Fear.”
Kafka blinks. “Huh.”
They walk down the hallway towards the hangar. Kafka was with them at the beginning, when ‘Hunter’ first became ‘Hunters’. They walk now in perfect lock step, Stelle’s thoughts mirrored in Kafka’s eyes each time they share a glance.
Stelle can think of no one else they’d trust more to be with them here at the end.
“We’re not totally blind,” Stelle tries, mostly to convince themself. “I can still see down all your paths right now. That’s what the scripts are for. You have those sorted, right? Searchable? Duplicated? Everyone knows their parts?”
“You made sure of most of that yourself,” Kafka assures. “Your obsession with logistics still confounds me, but that part will be fine. We practically have them memorized at this point.”
“Hey, don’t knock the data integrity meta until you’ve tried it! What if a Fictionologist tries to rewrite something? Or one of you guys lose your memories?”
Kafka snorts. “The meta?”
“Silver Wolf might be rubbing off on me,” Stelle shrugs.
They reach the door to the hangar. The others are here already, each busy with their own tasks. Stelle feels their breath catch.
“Man, I’m gonna miss you guys,” they say.
“You won’t,” Kafka says. “That’s the whole point.”
Something soft snakes past Stelle’s feet. A black cat twines around their ankle, darting into the hangar ahead of them with a trill.
Stelle pauses in the threshold.
“What if I think I hate you?”
“I’m about to rip my best friend’s whole life away from them.” Kafka’s posture is perfect as ever, but they have known each other too long. Her eyes give her away, as she says, “I would hate me too.”
“Keep in touch, then,” Stelle requests, and they step into the room. “Let me get to know how great you all are all over again. Is it too late to add that to the script?”
Kafka shrugs. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks.”
In the hangar, as their ship pulls into covert orbit around The Blue, the Stellaron Hunters finish their final preparations.
Silver Wolf gives a thumbs up: her aether program is ready to encode a Stellaron into Stelle’s heart.
Blade nods. The pod is ready too.
Firefly stands at attention, weapons primed and ready to rend the Legion to ashes.
The pod lays open at Stelle’s feet now. It feels like a coffin. Stelle strips their coat off, hands it to Kafka, and steps inside.
“Wait.”
They pause, one foot inside.
Kafka asks, “Who do we say wrote the scripts? Since we can’t say you.”
Stelle feels an ice cold panic shoot through them. They’re blindsided here. All their planning, and somehow they forgot this, out of everything.
It is so strange to not know things. “Huh,” they say. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Clearly.” Kafka smiles.
About this, she still seems calm. It’s fine. Kafka caught the error, and she’ll take care of it. The team is in good hands. Stelle doesn’t know what they’ll do without her.
“I don’t know,” Stelle says. “Make up a guy, I guess? Or—“
The cat wanders by again. Terminus is close, here at this end and beginning. This one favors their group, and comes by often. He even has a name tag.
Stelle reaches out to pet him, and he meows.
“Say Elio wrote them,” they grin.
Elio the cat perks up at his name, and flicks an ear. He purrs, arches his back into the scritches, then continues on his way with tail in the air.
Kafka snorts.
“I will miss your awful plans,” she says.
“I’m sure I’ll make more.” Stelle steps fully into the pod, takes a deep breath, and lies down. “You won’t be rid of them that easily.”
Kafka sits down beside them.
“Ready now?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Distantly, an alarm sounds. The Legion is here, right on cue. Everyone is in position, and there are no tearful goodbyes. Like this, they can pretend this is just one more mission of many.
Then. “Listen,” Kafka says.
And they do.
“My voice is your anchor, and your truth.”
“Listen,” Kafka says. “But for me, your mind is strong against tricks and charms.”
“Listen. When you wake up, you will hold a Stellaron, and you—you” she stumbles. “Shit.”
Stelle can feel the cocktail in their veins now, coaxing them toward sleep. “Don’t stop now,” they coax.
Kafka nods. Her voice is thick as she continues. “Listen. You will ask it for a chance to change fate. You will ask it to take away your visions and your destiny.”
“Listen,” Kafka says. “You will ask it to forget.”
Stelle’s eyes drift closed, and Kafka’s somber face is the last thing they see. The others must be deep in their own missions now, following their first scripts, but for now that is secondary.
“Listen,” Kafka whispers. “See you on the other side.”
And Stelle’s world fades to black.