Work Text:
“Where are you going dressed up like that?” Aubrey asked skeptically, not bothering to rise from the couch, and River froze in their tracks.
“I’m—not? Well, dressed up, that is. I’m getting coffee, that’s all.” River glanced down at their outfit—striped button-down, green sweater vest, neatly pressed slacks. Perfectly appropriate for a warm day in the Tharsese valley, never mind the amount of time they had spent fussing over it in the mirror. And sure, maybe their filters were different—their eyes just that bit darker, their hair shinier, but it really didn’t matter. They hadn’t seen Max in ages; it was perfectly normal.
Aubrey raised an eyebrow. “By yourself?”
“With Max.”
They scoffed. “Oh, of course you are. They’re back, are they?”
Max was; they had texted River as soon as they got into orbit. “Yeah—didn’t they let you know?”
“Maybe. I didn’t check. Glad Song unchained them from the basement radiator for once.”
River didn’t know what any of that meant. It was probably nothing—probably. Just another one of Aubrey’s moods. “I’ll say hello to them for you?”
Aubrey didn’t react, flipping the lid of their laptop back up with another raise of their eyebrows. “Whatever you say.”
River shook their head, dashing off to catch the funicular that would take them into the valley. Aubrey was just frustrated right now, River reasoned, and worried; Kali was making them help with House admin. They were eyes-deep in preparations, ensuring that House Gale would be alright while Aubrey and River were at university. They, River, would have been just as snippy.
River tried to get some work done on the train, they really did. Aubrey wasn’t the only one with tasks to complete; River had set themself translation exercises, and some neurological anatomy they wanted to get rock-solid before pitching their ideas to anyone in the Linguistics department.[1] But they just couldn’t. Instead, they stared straight ahead, focusing on staying still as befitted the scion of a Great House and trying not to think about—well. Tried not to think about anything at all.
All of that went out the window when River saw Max. They had been waiting for River just outside the door of the train station. Somehow, they looked both the same as the last time River had seen them—neatly pressed fatigues, shiny jump boots, gently curling hair coming out of its military braid where it had been cropped a little too overzealously[2]—and indescribably different. They were holding themself straighter, River observed. A romance novel might have called them “stately”—like their promotion had lit a fire in their bones, imbued them with the same glory and presence that all Tharsis’ war heroes had.
When Max noticed River, they lit up—like sunrise over the city, River thought unbidden. Their salute was crisp and perfect, years of practice gone into one movement.
River bowed in return, feeling more than a little ridiculous. “Hey, you,” they said by way of greeting.
“Hey yourself. Thanks for agreeing to this.” Max added, eyes on the toes of their boots.
River blinked at them, gently bewildered. “Of course I agreed to this.” They only managed to close their teeth over I missed you at the last second.
Max and River set off, wending their way through the crowded sidewalks, talking of nothing—House gossip, engagement announcements and Senate agendas. Song was pushing for an increase in defence spending, and therefore so was Niko.[3]
When they reached the cafe, Max held the door open for River, head held high like the Praetorians at the Jade Hill gates; like this was some solemn, holy duty. River couldn’t quite stop their heart from turning over.
River couldn’t remember the name of the little cafe that Max had picked out; some trendy little place on the Olympos line, just a few blocks away from the Senate. It showed the debates each election cycle, and then the scions and admirers packed the place; as it was now, it wasn’t exactly quiet. Even in the middle of the work day, Senatorial staff were bunking off here for a coffee, scanning the gossip pages or hunched over screens. In the corner, a small gaggle of teenagers about Max and River’s age had tucked themselves away—middle class, their state-of-the-art filters and gaudily colored shoes a dead giveaway. One of them was openly gawping at River and Max, glancing confusedly between them; Max pretended not to see, but River, suddenly feeling uncharitable, glared at them with all the anger and bitterness they could muster. It wasn’t difficult; the teenager squeaked, and whirled back around to face their friends.
“How are you doing?” Max asked, once they were seated with their drinks—well away from the teenagers. As River watched, they reached for the little organizer of cream and sugar, hesitating before their fingers could close around it. River slid it across the table before they could examine the impulse too closely.
“Thanks,” Max murmured, staring into their mug as the cream slowly incorporated itself. They cleared their throat, glancing back up, eyes flashing briefly in the sun that streamed in honey-gold bars through the cafe windows. “Really, though. How are you? What have I missed on deployment?”
Now it was River’s turn to stare into the bottom of their drink, somehow unable to meet Max’s eyes; as though their tea would give them answers if they were persistent enough. “I’ve been doing well. Setting up for university, mostly—you haven’t really missed much. Exams, if you want to get pedantic about it.” River had taken their qualifying exams in the spring, and passed with flying colors; Aubrey did slightly worse. Max, meanwhile, had been in firefights on Io, defending Tharsis with their life.
Max leaned forward, chin propped on their fist. “Linguistics still?”
“Of course—do you really have to ask?” River grinned self-deprecatingly, and Max almost smiled back.
“Anything in particular? You said you had big plans, but you never told me what.”
River blushed, face so hot it must have been visible in the part of their hair. They hadn’t told Max about their precise ambitions because they were ridiculous—nobody needed to hear about River’s crackpot theories.
Then again, Max had never made fun of River for their love of their subject. The opposite, actually—they paid real attention when River explained a new concept and asked follow-up questions. Once, they had even sided with River when Niko arranged to have their friends all draw straws for who had to sit next to River at some kind of Senate function. That was the night—
River couldn’t think about that right now. Instead, they took a shaky breath and began. “It’s nothing special—I was just thinking that neural pathway visualization technology would be a benefit to the field.”
Max cocked their head. “Fascinating. How, exactly?”
“Um—well, a big problem in linguistics is the gap between what people say and what they really think. Right now, it’s a lot of conjecture and blind surveying; a lot of these studies are vulnerable to bias or other data issues.” They glanced across the table, worried that Max wasn’t listening.
River was wrong. Max’s eyes were locked on River’s face; they nodded. “Following so far,” they prompted River to continue.
“Well, if we had something that could visualize neural pathways, show us what people were thinking as they spoke, that could eliminate many of our issues in that area. It could also—and this is ridiculous, but the big flashy stuff gets you research grants—maybe be used to talk to animals? Show us how they think, translate polar bear growls or mammoth subvocalizations into speech.” River’s face was well and truly burning now, their voice measurably faster as they tried to justify themself before someone could shoot them down. “It’s not within our reach right now, or even within the next five years, but maybe—”
“River,” Max cut them off, and their voice was so gentle and soft that River stopped talking without really thinking about it. They set their hand on the table, palm-down. “River, that’s not ridiculous at all. That’s wonderful. I wish—” They paused; just for a moment, it looked like they wanted to say something else, too. River waited, but it obviously wasn’t going to come.
“I’m sorry. I—thank you, I know that was more detail than you asked for.”
“Okay, now you’re being ridiculous. I knew what I was in for.” This time, Max’s smile was real, tugging at the edges of their mouth with what seemed like real affection. “I think it’s admirable that you’re so passionate about this. You’re doing something real.”
“So are you,” River said before they could stop themself.
Max scoffed, a single, inelegant noise—a slip of the Great House veneer, just for a second. “Depends on your definition of real.”
A followup question died on River’s tongue as the patron occupying the next table set down their magazine and rose to their feet. To River’s horror, they had a gun in their hands—pointed directly at Max.
Six months ago, Max had taught River how to use their service pistol, mostly for fun; “feet shoulder width apart, elbows locked, grip in the web of your hands.” River had been nestled gently in the circle of Max’s arms, Max’s calloused hands over theirs; they adjusted all of these things for River as they pointed them out. “Then—”
They pulled the trigger—a loud bang, and River flinched a little despite their best efforts—and the wine bottle set up on the fencepost detonated in a shower of green glass.
Max grinned and stepped away, flipping the pistol around so the grip was towards River. The sleeves of Max’s sweater were rolled up, the edges of their Marines insignia tattoo still red and healing. “Your turn,” they chirped.
The pair of them had passed the rest of that afternoon playing target practice, River trying hard to focus on their shooting and not how it had felt to be held. As River watched, Max carried out that same procedure here; swift and automatic, barely five seconds from drawing their pistol to a hole opening up in their would-be assailant’s forehead. Here, though, a tide of red rose in answering. Most of it dissipated; some of it, however, settled across the curve of Max’s cheekbone and the aquiline bridge of their nose.
Sometimes, River thought that Max could be two different people, at different times. Lieutenant Liu had been molded into the perfect marine; upstanding, heroic, self-sacrificing. Someday, there would be memorials in their name and portraits in government buildings. Max, meanwhile, had once “borrowed” a Defense Department jeep to take River for a joyride.
Max’s posture relaxed just the slightest bit, and all of a sudden River had their friend back. They looked back at River, brow furrowed—like they hadn’t quite yet grasped what had happened. “Let me call Song,” they said evenly, phone already in hand.
“We don’t need to be bothering the Secretary of Defense.”
“The Secretary of Defense has a fleet of armored cars with bulletproof windows at their disposal, and has informed me that they actually quite enjoy shutting down traffic with their motorcade.” Max’s smile was triumphant, and River was forced to acknowledge the hit.
After Max hung up on Song, there was really nothing to do but wait. The conversation couldn’t particularly continue after that, not with a body cooling on the floor; a deeply unpleasant reminder of what had just occurred. What remained of the attacker’s face was twisted in a rictus of pain and shock that would surely set within the hour.
“Do you know who that was?” River inquired, horrified at the words but unable to stop them from passing their lips.
Max shook their head. “No—they’re in civilian clothing, and I don’t recognize the model of handgun. Rules out the possibility of direct military involvement.” Touching their fingertips to one of the spots of blood on their cheek, they spread the clotting blood over their fingers; red rusting orange, settling into the lines of their fingerprints. “Could be an extremist of some variety. Are you alright?”
River didn’t know what to say; they were spectacularly out of their depth here. “I should be asking you that.”
“No, you shouldn’t be. The Tharsese marines are the best in the business; takes more than that to rattle me.” River couldn’t even tell if Max was joking or not; their deadpan tone could have gone either way.
The two of them passed the rest of the wait in silence. The cafe owner wanted to file a police report, and demanded to see Max’s license to carry within city limits; River, meanwhile, vacillated back and forth on whether or not to tell Aubrey what happened. They must have drafted and redrafted that message roughly a thousand times; as a consequence, River didn’t realize that the Secretary of Defence had arrived until they were actually in the room.
Guang Song was deceptively short, only up to River’s shoulder or so. Their vitality more than made up for it, however; even at rest, their eyes seemed to glitter with latent mirth. Their locs, contained in a military braid that spilled down their spine, clicked and jingled with the mandated Senatorial ornamentation. They were, in short, the picture of authority—not the stuffy kind, shut up in a boardroom or preserved in marble, but the sort of authority that did something about problems. The kind that picked up a pen or a rifle when things went wrong and went well—are you just going to stand there, or are you going to pitch in?
Song made a beeline for Max; Max snapped to attention almost before they realized Song was there.
“At ease, soldier.” Song ordered, all business. “Let’s have this discussion in the car, shall we?”
Max nodded. They dropped the salute, but remained as upright and rigid as before, as though someone had pulled all of their strings taut. “Yes, sir. If you’ll allow me to make a suggestion, sir—I think Mx Gale ought to come with us. If there are more assassins, they could be in danger even if I’m the only target.”
“Seems reasonable to me.” Song turned to River, then, as though noticing they were there for the first time. “River, isn't it? I’m Guang Song, the Secretary of Defence.”
“Pleased to meet you, Secretary Song.” River bowed, eyes trained on the tips of their sneakers. They didn’t need to be told; Song had been everywhere recently, their relative youth for their position and their meteoric rise in the government meaning that their presence was inescapable in everything from fashion magazines to primetime news.
“Likewise. Come on, you two—if there are more assassins, we’re putting ourselves at risk staying here.” Song didn’t wait for an answer, turning on their heel and stepping outside. Max saluted and followed them, but not before gently bumping River’s shoulder with their own. It wasn’t much—a gentle, tactile check-in, subtle enough to explain away as a bit of clumsiness. Nevertheless, River pressed their hand to the spot as though they had been burnt.
Song waited until the three of them were well on the road before they spoke. They had positioned themself facing backwards, River and Max next to each other in the front-facing row. River was almost nervous to take their eyes off of them; as though they could keep Max safe by sheer observation.
“What happened?” Song asked, not necessarily unkindly.
Max pulled their shoulders back, sitting even straighter—if that was possible. “They drew their weapon on me, sir. I saw it out of the corner of my eye; they had it pointed directly at my temple.”
They could have killed Max, River realized. It hit them like a physical blow; it would have knocked them over if they hadn’t already been sitting down. In that moment, they could see the other timeline, clear as day; Max’s blood on the floor of the cafe, the face of the assassin cold and distant. And then—a state funeral, a headstone, Niko in ghostly white for months. A new lieutenant for the Fourth Clandestine, like Max had never been there, nothing had happened. Nothing, save the gap in River’s life where their friend had once been.
Great House scions were brought up not to feel, keep a layer of decorous distance between them and the world. But River’s restraint had worn thin; the floodgates broke, and to River’s own silent horror, they felt the tears rolling down their cheeks.
“Did you notice anything about the gun?” Song inquired, not looking at River.
“It wasn’t military issue, sir. Whoever it was, they weren’t getting their weaponry through official channels.” Wordlessly, Max slung an arm around River’s shoulders and pulled them in close. Though they were sure they would pay for it later, River gave up trying; let their eyes slide shut and the tears flow freely, Max’s report to the Secretary of Defense becoming nothing but a low murmur at the edges of River’s hearing.
Just then, River could feel both Lieutenant Liu and Max at once, their collarbone solid against River’s cheek. River was far too old to be held, but they submitted to it anyway; who knew when Max would ever touch them again. Who knew how much longer River would have Max for.
1. River had big plans—ones they couldn’t share with anyone yet, but still. They had dreams of revolutionizing the entire field of linguistics, all with a singular machine that could visually show you what people were thinking about. return to text
2. That had been done after Max passed their officers’ exams. It was a long, storied tradition, all the prospective candidates lining up at parade rest in the courtyard outside Laohu House to hear their results. Anyone who’d passed, earning the rank of lieutenant (or equivalent) got pounced on by their superiors, hair tugged loose from the mandated braid and cropped as short as Tharsese social convention would allow. Max had submitted to the ritual easily. They grinned as their fellow officers shouted congratulations and thumped them jubilantly on the arm or shoulder. Just for a minute, River realized how much of an outsider they were to this world, how much they would never understand—then quickly turned their attention to snapping photos as Niko rushed forward to hug Max at precisely the same time someone decided the best way to celebrate the newly-minted officers was to push them in the fountain. Niko came up soaked to the skin, almost spitting with the force of their indignation; River was absolutely going to send them the photos later. return to text
3. House Song and House Liu had complicated legal ties—House Liu had been nearly brought to its knees, something about the inherent instability of sending all your young scions to die on backwater Galilean moons, and House Song stepped in to help. It wasn’t out of the goodness of their hearts, of course; House Liu owed House Song fealty now, and a decent financial debt besides. It was what House Song did; saw weaknesses in other Houses and exploited them for profit, along with their shares in news media production and Tereshkova Wharf. return to text