Callum and me high-tail it up north. Most of the State of the Art is a decent place: gardens, museums, technological parks. In a way, that makes it worse, makes it too easy to be lulled into false security. Damn it, if I knew I was heading into conflict, I would’ve had Chase fly us here in the mecha and filled it up with weapons from the armory in New Merenis. A war serious enough to stop the trains means we need big guns, more than the standard issue packaged up in back. Rocket launchers, maybe. This calls for a new plan.
I scan the radio for any news about the war. Instead, there’s an announcement which is no surprise at all:
“Selby Wythe, Utmost Perfect Chef of the Empire. 80th to emanate, 6 in the color scale, resonates to 13. 1.808 meters tall, cock size 16.71 cm when erect, apparent age 25. Extreme chef. Totem is Salix caprea, the goat willow, fixed star is Dh’hurr, the bendy bit of the Great Branch. Esoteric symbol is the Aristotelian solid truncated tetrahedron. Dessert is deconstructed nau’gsh-scented crème cake with nau’gsh-wood grilled nau’gsh and javamelon fluff in a redberri-jasmine rhybaa sauce. Function is exegetic release, proto-conscious tendency is suppleness, designated Willow. Blazon is vair, five mullets, willow.”
« Woo-hoo! » comes a muffled voice from beneath a tarp in the back seat.
I pull the jeep to the side of the road, ripping off the tarp. « Jesse! Damn it, you were supposed to be an M46 mounting machine gun. »
« It was looking like Selby was a shoo-in, » he says sheepishly. « Cooking is not my forte unless you like charcoal. I figured that I’d have a better chance of making the achievement if I came with you. »
Eager enough to get himself into trouble – damn, I called it. Why do I always gotta be right? « Well, we’re not taking you back now, so keep your head low, you got me? War isn’t a game. »
« Sir, yes sir! » he says in such a snappy fashion that I know he thinks it’s a game. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
« Admiral, » says Callum quietly, in that tone that lets me know that nothing has ever been a game to him, ever, which is why I trust him. He points towards the horizon. It’s a dirigible.
It must be fucking amateur hour.
The radio blares again:
“Most Perfect Commander Gwion of Seachange, Ipsissimal Airship Corps. 75th to emanate, 58 in the color scale, resonates to 251. 1.830 meters tall, cock size 16.55 cm when erect, apparent age 33. Dirigible pilot. Totem is Ochroma pyramidale, the balsa tree, fixed star is Betelgeuse, the hand of the hunter, also called Chäk Tulix, red butterfly, Ya-jungin, owl eyes flickering, or Ardrã, the moist one. Esoteric symbol is the Etruscan letter 
. Dessert is persimmon-nau’gsh meringue pie. Function is visionary empowerment, proto-conscious tendency is idealism, designated Lofty. Blazon is persimmon, on a pale blue celeste fimbriated argent, a dirigible, argent.”
The chatburls are filled with cheers. But Gwion’s voice is weird – wooden, distant, all professional. We’ve located Templeton. He’s in the area.
When it rains, it pours reeking bloobird guano. But Templeton, that guy can probably take care of himself. As for Gwion – I can see him in Javor’s branch memories. Yeah, you can tell a lot about most branches by looking at them, but not always. You couldn’t tell by looking at me that I’m really getting into Virginia Woolf. And you can’t tell by looking at Gwion…you can’t really tell anything. He’s good-looking, well-built, but there’s something about him that’s vague. It’s unsettling. Like maybe some of these eggs are only soft-boiled.
It couldn’t be a rush job, could it? Defective workmanship for real? Damn, if we were in UP, he’d be close enough to smell, but in the pleroma…the Big Guy won’t let me do it.
What are my orders, sir?
I don’t trust this situation. And Javor’s memories of Varen and Ishan, the other guys with Gwion – they don’t look suitable for battle at all. Your orders are to get the hell out! You’re going into a fucking war zone, and that dirigible is a sitting duck for a torpedo. Don’t worry – we’ll find Templeton. You can keep looking for quest achievements – just stay in touch with Ailann – and stay the hell away from Armageddon.
Near the border between the States of Art and War, the road starts getting rough. There are burnt-out houses; broken gear has been left by the wayside. We pass a smoking ruin which used to be the Museum of Wartime Propaganda, and the Social Justice Warrior Memorial looks like it took a hit from a torpedo. That’s not good. That means the conflict is bleeding across the line.
We can tell when we hit the border because there’s a huge mural of the Unicorn King, the kind of pseudo-inspirational, egomaniacal portrait beloved of dictators everywhere. It really is a fucking unicorn. And it’s pink. A screamingly bright color of magenta. « And that’s super-relevant because… »
I was about to say, “because it means he’s probably the last rogue spark.” But instead, Davy chimes in, Because Tara has always wanted a pink unicorn.
Fuck yeah, that’s true. That’s exactly what this compost-sucking achievement is about.
There are just some things about Tara I don’t get. A pink unicorn. Really? It’s saccharine enough to make me queasy, but at the same time, I’m getting an erection. Like when you go to one of those Kawaiian love hotels with the cartoon bunnies painted all over the place.
Don’t be so judgy, says Driscoll.
And what was that thing Stavros said about showing the horn? Don’t tell me it was significant. Here I am telling Jesse not to treat war as a game, and we’re fighting a goddamn unicorn.
I found out something else, says Stavros. The Unicorn King didn’t start the war. He’s being used.
« Stavros says the unicorn is under enchantment. He’s been bound with flowers. »
« That doesn’t sound too hard to deal with, » says Jesse cheerfully.
« Flowers can be stronger than you think. » Actually, it’s downright disturbing, like being held prisoner in a fortress made of penises. But I don’t think Jesse quite gets the tree thing yet. No point in upsetting him.
« Cut flowers remind me of funerals, » murmurs Callum.
Predictably, it gets worse as we get closer. Every few minutes, the area is rocked with the sound of an explosion. Shoulda brought Caddoc, dammit. He would’ve gotten off on this. He would’ve been useful.
« What’s all that smoke? » asks Jesse, pointing at a plume in the distance. « It smells terrible. »
« Great balls of compost, that’s an oil-well fire. » Don’t tell me they mine for petrochemical pollutants in the State of War? Figures. I guess they’ve gotta get the gas for the jeeps from somewhere. I’m glad that Tannon’s car runs on turpentine.
We barely miss hitting a land mine which explodes in the road behind us. Jesse screams and grabs hold of Callum’s hand. That’s okay. Callum is used to taking care of Ellery, and Jesse is nowhere near that flighty. I don’t hold stuff like that against anyone. I was made differently than Ellery. It isn’t his fault. It’s probably a good thing that the Big Guy keeps his heart separate from his hand-grenade. I just wish I didn’t have this green recruit with me, so close to the line of fire. He’s going to be a liability.
Not like Templeton, who is standing in the road, flagging us down.
Callum climbs into the back, letting Templeton take the seat next to me. « I saw that newsholo, too, » he says. « Bastien and Diego are in Armageddon. »
« You shoulda gone back to New Merenis. »
« Not after I spent all of that time avoiding the dirigible, » he says with a little grin.
« Now listen here, you smug sonofabitch… »
“Sir Simon del Eden’d, Knight Grand Eagle of the Most Illustrious Order of the Skarsian Matriarchy (KGESM). 69th to emanate, 17 in the color scale, resonates to 59. 1.782 meters tall, cock size 16.16 cm when erect, apparent age 34. Thespian. Totem is Paulownia tomentosa, the empress tree, fixed star is Mimosa, the actor-flower. Esoteric symbol is the Archimedean solid truncated icosidodecahedron. Dessert is nau’gsh and jamjam pod palatschinke. Function is facilitative resistance, proto-conscious tendency is drama, designated Player. Blazon is hot pink, on a bend compony argent and or, the masks of tragedy and comedy, proper.”
As soon as I finished the final edit, he got the achievement, says Cord. I’ll turn in the entry to the judges and head back home.
« That, » Templeton says quietly. « I’m tired of being on the outside. I’m tired of my potential being wasted. »
No point in arguing then. I can’t say as I blame him.
We get as far as the outskirts of Armageddon before the road becomes impassable. We have to make our way to the ruined station on foot. I tell Templeton to stay behind me, which I can see he doesn’t like. But I’m the one who can smell the mines. He’s unrecognized, him and Jesse. The pleroma can hurt them. Even stupid shit like unicorns and dragons – if we’re really dealing with a hostile, it might be out to kill.
If I die, if any of the recognized ones dies, we wait in the mandala until our bodies can be restored. But what would happen if one of these guys dies? Would they lose their memories? Their personalities?
Here’s my plan: we don’t find out. Knowledge for the sake of knowledge is bullshit.
I see something move from the corner of my eye, a small, blue blur darting under the rubble of the platform. Before it gets too far, I leap and roll, grabbing it by the leg.
Aw, fuck. It’s just one of those little penguins. « Don’t eat me! » it pleads.
« What the fuck is going on here? »
« You’re an emanation, right? Don’t emanations eat penguins and make moth scales from the skins? »
« Besides the fact that I just puked in my own mouth, I think Suibhne would flay anyone who tried, » I reply. « Where did you get that idea? »
The penguin flops its flippers dejectedly. « More disinformation. It’s impossible to know what’s going on anymore. That’s the way it’s been ever since the Grey Troll Army invaded. »
It figures, burls Dig. Even one troll can cause a surprising amount of chaos.
« Let’s start from the beginning. »
« Once upon a time, the State of War was a bleak land of misery and oppression. Ruled by a junta of semi-fascist opportunists calling themselves the Conservo-mechanisms, we little penguins would work our flippers to the bone for sardines. Then the Troll Army came. They’re basically an anarchist collective. They started saying that the pleroma was built on the backs of penguins. Inspired by the rhetoric, some of my people went on strike. This gave the Conservo-mechanisms an excuse to impose martial law. Now we have to scrounge in the ruins just to survive. »
« Fuck, » I growl, « If there’s anything I hate, it’s a political allegory. »
« Then the Unicorn King appeared, » says the penguin. « We thought he was a savior sent by the gods, but he soon fell under the spell of the Trolls’ rhetoric. He says that he wants to give us freedom, but the only freedom I want is to get out. If the trains were running, I’d be on my way to Pleroma’s End. I’d try to get a job at the Ice Bar. »
The ground shakes from the blast of a nearby grenade. « All right men, penguins, dancing hamburgers, these fucking bombs are business! Stay under cover and don’t do anything stupid. Let’s come up with a plan to rescue the unicorn and get out. »
« The traditional means for attracting a unicorn is with a virgin, » says Templeton.
« Several of us would qualify, » says Jesse.
« I hate to burst your bubble, but it’s supposed to be a maiden. Unicorns don’t like any challenges to their horn, if you get my drift. »
« But if the unicorn doesn’t like sex with men, he’s going to be a bad fit here, isn’t he? » argues Templeton.
« If he only likes virgins, he’s going to run out of options, fast, » mutters Callum.
« That virgin thing – it’s fucking Neolithic. »
« It’s not going to go down well with Tara, » agrees Templeton. « She’ll say it’s archaic and sexist. »
« So the unicorn is going to need an attitude adjustment. »
The penguin is squawking and flapping its flippers rapidly. « You wanna tell us something? »
« Um…the unicorn king doesn’t really like virgins, » says the penguin. « He likes Sudoku. »
It takes a moment for this to sink in. « We should use Sudoku as bait, » says Templeton.
« ‘Scuse me, but that sounds like a pile of rambat regurgitation. I’m for a full-frontal assault. » If we had weapons.
« We don’t know what we’re getting into, » says Templeton.
« War: it’s a simple, three-letter word. »
« Our objective isn’t to win the war, » says Templeton. « This is the State of War. Maybe it isn’t even natural for the war to be won. And if we fight, we might harm the unicorn king. Our objective is to capture him and determine whether he can be rehabilitated into a productive member of our society. »
This guy is pissing me off. « Who’s the leader here, you or me? »
« You aren’t my Archon, » Templeton replies. « Ophion doesn’t have one. The name I was given during the initiation rite is Suibhne, the Archon of the Roots. So from where I stand, I’m a free agent, and I’m going to call it as I see it. »
The air seems to crackle with tension. The guy’s got rootballs, but maybe I’d better pound him to make a point. Nobody talks to me like that.
« Nobody talks to the Admiral like that, » says Callum.
I shoot him a surprised glance. « I appreciate the thought, but I can fight my own battles, boy. »
« Sorry, sir, » he murmurs, casting his eyes on the ground.
« That got nasty all of a sudden, » says Jesse.
« It’s affecting us, » says Templeton. « The State of War. We’re starting to fight each other. »
We decide to hunker down in the station ruins. It’s not like we’ve got much of a choice. There’s active shelling going on in the city, and without any weapons, with only this lousy jeep, it’s suicide to change our position. I can’t even think of how to get to the unicorn – Sudoku, what the fuck?
Hours pass, or what seem like hours, anyway. I can tell that Templeton is still upset. He’s turned away from us, staring at the crimson explosions dotting the sky. « I’m starting to wonder if I was a mistake, » he murmurs. « Perhaps I got caught in Tara’s hair by accident. »
« You got caught in Tara’s hair? » says Jesse incredulously.
« When she and Hollis were making the first dive outside of Atlantis. »
« But that’s amazing, Templeton, » says Jesse. « You’ve been blessed. You can’t give up. »
He looks like he’s gonna give the troops an inspirational speech, which is my job, really, but I hate inspirational speeches almost as much as I hate military parades. Fortunately, before I can say “Tara’s Destiny,” I’m interrupted by the distant sound of a sophisticated rocket engine, about 300 years out-of-place in this mid-20th century nightmare. « Hear that? »
Templeton nods. « What is it? »
« I’m hoping it isn’t air reinforcements. If we get bombed, we’re done for. »
Chill, dude. It’s just us, chatburls Chase. It seemed like you could use some help.
Chase is not nearly as lame as he likes to act. After clearing the area, the mecha lands nearby, and the reinforcements pile out: Mickey, Marius, Dominic and Alexander. Now that’s what I call a team.
« Five of us, plus we piled the armaments you requested into other pod, » explains Mickey. « Also, Selby cooked up some rations. »
According to the penguin, the unicorn is being held by the Troll Army in what used to be the gubernatorial mansion. Our plan is for the mecha team – me, Chase, Jesse, Mickey, Callum and Templeton – to land in the courtyard. Dominic, Marius and Alexander have loaded the supplies in the jeep. They’ll provide backup. Once we dig ourselves in, we can scope the place out and develop an attack strategy.
When we take to the skies, I fully appreciate what a fine pilot Chase is. The air is thick with smoke; rockets and missiles fly past in fiery arcs. But Chase is unperturbed, dodging and weaving without even looking at the scanners or cutting in the auto-stabilizers. Ironically, the fact that he can’t be arsed to worry about anything makes him rock-solid under circumstances which would cause another man to panic.
I scan the courtyard from the air. For the most part, it looks defensible; I note two weak areas – the main gate, which is made of wrought iron, and the entrance to the garden, which will be a blind spot from some points in the yard. The best spot to land is on the same side as the garden entry, but on the other side of the main door to the house. Anyone trying to ambush us from the garden will have to come around the corner to get a clear shot at us.
Jesse is climbing down from the right arm cockpit when he cries out in pain. « My leg, » he says. « I think a dart hit… »
« Blowguns! » cries Templeton, grabbing Callum and diving behind the mecha. I can see the source; something ducked behind the main gate. But why hadn’t I smelled it?
« It’s gone, » says Chase, hopping down from the cockpit in the head. « Like it was never even there. »
This time, I feel the shadows before I see them: tiny creatures wearing chain mail, they look like a cross between lawn gnomes and lizards. They materialize in the center of the courtyard. One of them jumps on my leg and tries to bite me. « Heroic fiction breeds fascist escapism! » it screams. « Beauty, exploitive and compromising, cannot co-exist with truth! »
« That’s a troll all right, » says Templeton. « But not a major one. »
Yeah, every literary critic has run into pests like these, and there’s a time-honored way of dealing with them. « Fuck off, » I reply, kicking it across the yard. It hits the wall and vanishes.
Mickey grabs one by the scruff and tosses it back into its fellows, knocking down several more. « Progress is a fantasy perpetrated by the military-industrial complex! »
The pattern remains the same for a few minutes. Several materialize, when struck, they vanish in a blaze of inflammatory rhetoric. If their plan is to wear us down, it won’t work. Mickey and I could fight indefinitely. That, or until we get so annoyed, we start to get nasty.
We start to get nasty. Callum takes up a sniping rifle. He doesn’t hit anything but comes close enough to spook them into a retreat. Each one that vanishes is replaced by five more. The pack begins to wave their spears threateningly, muttering that penguin colonists have appropriated the native hobgoblin culture while stealing the best positions of degrading manual labor. « Don’t waste the ammo, » I advise. « We might need it for something a lot worse later. »
« It’s a distraction tactic, » mutters Templeton. « But what are they trying… » Suddenly, he jerks around and starts to run. Then I feel it, the emerging shadow, a shadow of something a helluva lot bigger than the mites we’d been dealing with. It’s a full-fledged troll bearing an axe, and it’s going towards our weakest spot: Jesse, who is pressed against the leg of the mecha, trembling in a cold sweat from the toxin-bearing dart.
Templeton charges into the troll just before the axe swings at Jesse. He grabs the axe handle and struggles with the assailant as I run towards him. Fuck, I’ve got a rocket launcher strapped to my back. I can’t fire without taking out Templeton, Jesse and the mecha as well as the troll. « Gimme your gun! » I shout at Callum.
Templeton falls to the ground and pulls a tricky move where he uses the axe handle as leverage to jerk the troll down with him, then kicks his attacker in the stomach while rolling beneath him. The troll goes flying backwards as Templeton recovers his feet. Callum tosses the gun; I catch and aim it in one swift motion. Then I feel the second shadow.
Behind Templeton, with a sword.
« Look out! » screams Mickey, but even he can’t move fast enough. From my perspective, everything is in slow motion: Templeton is falling, then I see Bastien jumping out from the place he was hiding, sheltered in the garden, covering an enormous distance so swiftly, so gracefully kicking the troll who stabbed Templeton and grabbing its sword. Before I can shoot, Bastien severs the head from the its shoulders, and then, in a fit of rage, he starts going after the little hobgoblins. I turn and peg the troll with the axe while I keep moving towards Templeton. Chase is already there, cradling his comrade’s head and screaming.
Jesse is freaking out, terrified because there’s blood all over, Templeton’s red blood and the blackish tar coming from the bodies of the trolls and hobgoblins, and that kid doesn’t know what war is. But Bastien does, and he’s on the attack, killing in an angry rage.
Bastien is killing.
Bastien is killing.
Oh fuck. Shoulda known that with 102 of us, there’d be more than three killers. But Bastien isn’t a detached killer like Patrick, or a strategic killer like me, or even a lunatic like Suibhne. He’s a warrior, and maybe a little bit of a berserker, and somebody’s gotta calm him down, but it ain’t gonna be me. I’ve got bigger problems – Templeton.
« Hang on, » I tell him. « I’m sending a chatburl to Seth. He can teleport Ailann here to heal you. » But Templeton is clammy, and his eyes don’t look like they understand what I’m saying.
« Why? » wails Jesse. « Why, after all he went through? He saved my life! »
“Maestro Bastien of Seachange, Order of the Cockatrice. 85th to emanate, 88 in the color scale, resonates to 457. 1.807 meters tall, cock size 17.22 cm when erect, apparent age 26. Fencer. Totem is Arbutus menziesii, the Pacific madrone or arbutus, fixed star is Hamal, the ram, also called Dil-kar, proclaimer of the dawn, Dil-gan, messenger of light, or Ku, leading one. Esoteric symbol is the Minchiate trump L’Ariete, Aries. Dessert is nau’gsholi baklava with Cu’enashti resin syrup. Function is administrative resistance, proto-conscious tendency is determination, designated Bastion. Blazon is per fess bastioned argent and terra rossa, to base twin sabers in saltire, argent.”
Then I remember. It’s a quest achievement – killing the fucking hobgoblins is a quest achievement. This was a setup, a fucking setup, to push Bastien to the point where he’d be able to kill. And all it cost us was Templeton.
Then I’m screaming too, screaming in inarticulate rage at the god who plays with our lives like Davy plays with his puppets, the god which each and every one of us is responsible for creating.