Parsec

“Okay,” Jackal said, shutting the door. He let his pack fall and topple at his feet. “So you’ve been framed for a crime, you’re on the run, and all the other faeries hate you. What else?”

She’d hissed a summary at him in the paltry shelter of the alleyway before demanding to be taken to a more hidden place.

The inn-room had been paid for with a heaping handful of copper tokens. It looked very bare, she noted. Probably unpleasantly so, to human sensibilities: two cots and a small side-table with nothing but a cupful of wilting flowers atop it. The curtains, though, smelled pleasantly of mildew. Now that she had her shelter, his questions proved troubling to her ear. How much should she explain? Venera had not yet roused from her floating half-slumber, and Parsec could not risk calling to her for advice. To speak at seemingly nothing would be to seem mad, and would lose her Jackal’s trust. Not the issue of Venera, then—at least, not in her current state.

She decided to start with the simplest issue. “My name is not Pavao, actually.”

“Oh,” he said, frowning. “Great. So the memory loss, was that also a lie?”

“You may call me…Parsec,” she said, by way of answer. She had meant to say Parallax, but the word tangled in translation on its way out. Parallax had been a General’s name, and she was that General no longer.

“Parsec?” he said, bringing a hand to his forehead. “Okay. So, where are you from? What’s your crime, Parsec?”

The name was more familiar than she would have liked, coming out of a human’s mouth, but it would do. She had been fully Parsec in the shattered lands, and now she would reconcile herself with being the un-General Parsec again.

“From a southern Hive,” she said. “You know Glister?” At his nod, she continued. “I was severed away for the false-crime of…” Queenslaying? Regicide? There was no good way to soften the meaning of it, but it would be troublesome to lie if he caught wind of anything the Kraedian Hivers would say. “…Killing an important person. Our matriarch, you could say. A different General laid the blame upon me.”

He frowned, looking troubled. “A different General? Shit, you’re a General? Not that I know much about you lot, but Volans told me that Generals—”

“No longer a General,” she said, and bore the sting that came with saying so. “But the one who cast me out still holds the title. It is my deepest wish to kill him and thus divest him of it.”

Jackal’s face flickered through a series of expressions. “That’s, um…alright, thanks for telling me,” he said, and drew out a pause. “Look, uh, Pav—Parsec, you seem like a decent lady, but how do I know you won’t off me in my sleep?”

She scoffed. “You did not lie and say I killed when I did not, so you have nothing to worry about. Besides, if I were a real killer, I would not have told you this. If you wish for me to leave, I will oblige—after all, how should I know that you mean me no harm? You are an awfully hungry creature.”

He tensed visibly.

She nodded with satisfaction. “Yes, I see what lives in your head.”

He did not react for several moments, before his shoulders began to tremor. For a moment, she was worried she had pushed too far and caused him to fly into a rage—but he only walked over to one side of the room to sit with a thump onto the edge of one of the cots.

“You see it?” he said hoarsely. He raised a hand and pushed it through his hair. “Really? You can see it?”

Not right now, she couldn’t, but his voice was one of hope and disbelief. “Yes,” she said.

He shook his head and brushed fingers through his hair once more, an anxious movement. “No one’s been able to see it. I went and asked—must’ve been dozens—menders, apothecaries, even people calling themselves seers…you sure it’s there?”

“Quite certain,” she said. “It had very large teeth. I saw the knives, too: many hills full of them, in the Realm way of things. Will that be all? You have made for a kind acquaintance though it is a pity you cannot help me more.”

“Wait,” he said as she made to move. “Don’t, uh, don’t go just yet.”

She hid her relief, stilling her spines and tail to keep from giving her away. “You welcome me to fugitive a little longer?”

“Um, yeah,” he said. “Sure, sure—just, can you…you know, do anything about it? The…whatever it is.” He had a hand clawed over his cheek, as if desperate to uproot the thing, to reach in and tear it out of his very skull. “I got it after I saw something in the Library. Back when…in the shadow kingdom.”

She hesitated. Truthfully, it was Venera allowing this, and she did not know what Venera could or could not do. False promises would not endear her to him.

“I may try,” she said carefully. “Though it is an uncertain thing. This…entity, this parasite that has sunk its feelers into your head, it is very old, correct? I saw it reach back into an Archival space.” Venera’s un-words made more sense now. “You are Realm-touched, Archive-plagued—you call it a ‘library’? If it is a repository of knowledge, then I am sure it is similar enough. How long has it had to grow accustomed to your environment?”

“Oh,” he said, burying his head into his upturned palms. “Must’ve been…I don’t know, three years now? Maybe four? Is that bad? Shit.”

“I will try to help,” she said. “But not now,” she added when he looked up sharply. “I must rest first.” Venera likely needed it too, after the minor miracle she had pulled into existence. “And if you wish for my aid, I will require…I believe you call it ‘faery honey’. It has been a long way from my former Hive, you see.”

Jackal sat up a little straighter, blinking rapidly. “Faery honey? I don’t think I can get you that. Volans always got his from the office, but uh…well, the guys chasing you looked pretty ticked off.”

“You are correct,” she said, rubbing a hand over her forehead. “I do not think they would dispense to a human. Your friend, Volans, is he amenable to acquiring extra?”

He shook his head. “We split after the last dungeon ran dry. He’s off who-knows-where.”

“Hm,” she said. “And you have…no allies here? What of back in your campsite?”

He shrugged, the movement stilted and self-conscious. “No.”

“Hmmm. I see.”

He must have sensed some disquiet in her tone, because he began to frown. “You need this, right? Pretty badly? The faeries I ran with, they always went back city-side for their dose.”

She hesitated, reluctant to reveal any weakness. “It is…yes, it is necessary.”

With Jackal unable to obtain honey in her stead, she had trouble upon her hands. She could not risk approaching the main Hive, or the office, but perhaps a stray shipment…

No, no. It was far too risky. Her abilities had already declined, and they would decline further with sustained combat. Venera might aid in unlocking temporary abilities, but those would, she suspected, hardly be a match for a real General, or even a full-strength higher Lieutenant.

Jackal laced his fingers together and propped his chin upon his hands. “You could ask the ones that aren’t part of the Hive,” he said. “Volans called them ‘schismatists’?”

“Schismatists,” she repeated, holding back a whistle of disgust. So it had come to this? “Yes, I know what they are.”

“There are a bunch of ‘em living in the old shuttle-lines, or so people say. I probably shouldn’t go poking round those parts, but you might be able to.”

“Shuttle-lines?” she asked, frowning. “That word is…” Unknowable Titania magics darted through her brain, gleaning meaning from his use of the human-word, tone and context and piercing filaments into the weave of the world. “…Ah. Like tunnels?”

“Yeah. For shuttlebuses. You’ve never been on one?” He seemed to catch himself. “Oh, right. Wings.”

Parsec sighed and paced over to the window. When she peered through the gap in the curtains, the view was of the street. She saw many others of her own kind passing by—troubling, when it could be assumed they would all soon know her scent. The office Hivers, having been alerted, would spread warning along the Hive rhythms. She was lucky that they had not yet all known already; Segin’s outreach must have been recent and dedicated. Perhaps the messengers who had arrived to deliver the warnings and samplings were yet still here…

“I must evade the interest of all Hivers,” she said aloud. “It will be difficult. You will need to assist me.”

She could feel Jackal looking her over, likely frowning. “You seemed to manage, earlier,” he said cautiously. “I mean, I guess I could find you a big hat and a shawl, if you really need them.”

She shook her head, running a fingertip across the fine bloom of mildew gracing the curtains. “It is not an issue of appearance—I cannot walk amongst my own people with a hidden scent. It is simply not done.”

When she turned to look at him, he seemed confused. “Scent? They know you?”

“Yes,” she said. “Soon, they will. Some have already been alerted. Now, it is—it will be…knowledge propagation. You must help me avoid this.”

“Right,” Jackal said, looking faintly overwhelmed.

Cogitated, Venera spoke. She sounded as tired as a ghost might sound.

Parsec blinked. Recovered? She thought as hard as she could. Something must have gone through, because a ghost-hand patted her shoulder.

Murmur-frost. Sage and pomegranate. This-one-Parallax is sequestered?

She stilled her tongue before she answered aloud.

“I guess you could take back streets,” Jackal said cautiously. “And if it’s a problem of smell, well, fancy oils are expensive, but some of the deeper ‘runners used deer scent.”

Parsec felt her tail twitch involuntarily. “You have ‘deer’ here?” The only deer she’d heard of were from elder’s stories in the shattered lands: great, antlered creatures of dun and dappled gold, barely real, entrenched in the telling. “It is a unique suggestion, but I doubt it will work.”

Would not work so well, Venera agreed wearily. Complex diagrams crammed their way into her head, twirling diagrams of link and joint, detailing what she guessed were scent-profiles.

He shrugged. “Not wild ones, I don’t think. Most of the oldwood’s cleared by the looks of it, but Magisters keep their own plots. There’s, you know, hunts and things. Also where they farm the stuff, I assume.”

She shook her head. Mere mimicry would not be sufficient. The intricacies of one’s unique, identifiable scent went far further than that. The compounds were given off without thought, and any changes were subtle—on account of stress, or level of health. To twist them entirely would be…difficult. But Venera, or half-Venera-and-half-Archive-ghost, had been helpful in forging adaptations. The honey-production, painful as it had been, was proof enough.

Oxidants, Venera warned. Intrinsic. Is not so simple here. Not build from…nothing.

She supposed she could base the scent-profile off a pre-existing one, on someone she knew…perhaps layering the actual substances would do the work for her, so long as she did not linger too near any given Hiver. The trouble with this, though, was the fact that many such scents were not so readily available. She ground her teeth together, thinking of Perihelion’s: wood upon a brazier, slowly churning to char. Could she try with charcoal? No, that wouldn’t do—charcoal alone would be too dead, too flat. Her gaze caught on the bundle of flowers on the side-table, their heads wilted and drooping, as if bent in shame. A better disguise would be a floral one, with simpler pieces making up the whole, a scent containing elements of soil and rain…

She paced over to her side of the room, feeling Jackal’s gaze trained upon her.

“Are there violets growing in these parts?” she asked, focusing on the movement of her legs, the instinctual steadying motions of her tail. “Or hibiscus?”

“Violets wouldn’t be blooming now,” Jackal said with a frown. “I suppose you could check with a flower-seller, but those things are blasted-expensive for what you get. And I don’t even know about that other thing you said.”

Proxy, Venera said.

“Surely there is summer-blooming woodland blossom?” she coaxed. “Any will do. And moss—surely there is some moss. Ah, and some of that mineralised water from the city outskirts, once it has cooled down.”

“Sure,” he said warily. “And you want me to find all that for you?”

“I wish to help you,” she said in her best General voice. “I wish to assist you away from the Archivalness as best as I may. In order to accomplish this, I require either Hive honey or schismatist syrups. I may…deteriorate…lose functions, otherwise.” Already, it was taking conscious effort to speak so articulately.

A-weakening, said Venera. That-one, too. Archival siphon. We know of the pale demise.

Parsec hid her shiver.

Jackal’s hand drifted to his forehead, an unconscious reach for softer solace. “Okay,” he said. His eyes flickered up to meet her own. “Sure, I can do that. But I’ll need some time. Couple hours, at least. You…you’ll wait here, right?”

“Of course.”

Propagation was exponential: one node to two, and two to four, and so on and so forth, until it was simply everyone. If Kraedian Hivers were anything like Glister, the process would be efficient. They would have many nodes, forming a grid of patrols: she should know.

“Okay.” Jackal stood, glancing over the room. “You need anything while I’m gone? Food?”

She needed the honey far more than she needed food. “A little morsel would be appreciated, depending.”

He rummaged through his pack and withdrew a small flask, along with a strip of dried meat wrapped in paper. “Here,” he said. “Have these. I’ll be back.”

She took the items with a gracious nod.

Realm-hungers, Venera said. This-one makes clingful promises. Pale demises, are more than one. Empty-flesh-pale. Marbled-pale.

Jackal’s shadow spasmed as he departed. It could well have been a trick of the light—pity she knew better. She could not fully stifle her shiver, this time.

“Have you no way of seeing the entanglement through?” she asked, when he was gone.

Neither-nor.

“But you may…find one?”

Hm. Predecessor is predecessor. Parts filled with stillness. Adaptation remain mere stagnant mimicry. What say you, this-one-Parallax?

“I cannot do it,” she said. “I am but a former General. I doubt I have the capacity to fight the corruption in his head.”

Fight? Perhaps not fight. Felt only an anchor. A siphon.

“Sever it, then? Though I do not believe there exists a knife for such a purpose.”

Why attempt, then? Was it just her imagination, or did Venera’s not-words seem a touch melancholy? What where may we go?

“It is a pitiful situation,” Parsec said, and twitched her spines restlessly. She bit into her strip of meat, chewed, and swallowed. “Convincing the human is convenient. If you are referring to the issue of Eltanin…he will still be there when I return. And I will require honey, false or otherwise, to face him.” In truth, she would need much more planning than that.

Was not speaking of Eltanin, Venera said. Troubles solace, Parallax. Vengeance reasons for self or no—

“I hunger,” she replied, even as she felt the strength draining from her limbs. “Is that enough reason for you?”

It was not the same hunger she had seen in Jackal’s Archival-dream. Nor was it the same hunger scratching at her core and armature both, a nagging need for Hive honey. This hunger was slower, quieter, and perhaps worse than all the rest. Finishing the meat, she tore the paper wrapper into pieces and ate that too. Then she took to the cot opposite to the one Jackal had claimed and lay there, head pillowed into worn linens.

Quiet settled for several, long moments. Shadows flickered beyond the sunlight through the curtains, and the room felt very still. When Venera spoke, her tone was as calm as the mildewed air.

Where this one goes, the predecessor will follow.

Parsec exhaled. That was answer enough.

===

By the time Jackal returned with her requested items, the sun was starting to fall from the sky.

“Sorry,” he said, elbowing the door closed behind him. “Took longer than I thought.”

She frowned, finding herself having to actively concentrate to parse the meaning of each word. No natural skill with the human-language to fall back on—Titania’s gift had carried her this far. She could only hope it would aid her a little longer.

Rising from the bed, she peered at the ingredients as he set them onto the side-table: a flask-full of mineral-rich geyser-water, a bowl filled with clumps of moss—rust-tinged, scraped off the side of some leaking drainpipe, by the scent of it. And most importantly, several bunches of wildflowers bound together, petals bruised but rife with colour. Beside his offerings sat a little pile of mildew she’d managed to scrape off the curtains, and a clump of dust-choked spiderweb. Her fingertips shook as she reached for the flowers.

Work fast, now, Venera said.

“Equipment?” she muttered aloud.

No need. A day’s passing—begin now. Tell the human—not disturb.

“I will need some space,” she said to Jackal. “And some time—perhaps much time. Several hours. There may be, ah, magic. Or strangeness. Please, no interrupting.”

“Okay,” he said warily. “So the ingredients—you need to do some sort of…ritual? What’s happening, exactly?”

Synthesis.

Parsec did not know how to answer, herself. She merely shrugged and followed Venera’s wordless instructions, allowing neural prompting to move her limbs. She caught ahold of the side of her cot and hissed with exertion as she dragged it away from the spot where two walls met.

“Woah there,” Jackal said. “Calm down, Pav—Parsec. The innkeeper’ll—”

Venera’s ghost-touch sprouted glands at her throat, purring with cold catalysis.

“I will return it to its proper place afterwards,” Parsec said. Her voice sounded scratchy, all of a sudden.

She backed into the far corner and crouched over the floor—thin wood panel, smooth and cleanable—and spat a deluge of indigo into her open palm. Jackal made a vague sound of indignation as she smeared the makeshift ink into pair of rough circles, scribbling clumsy shapes over the inner ring.

“Are those runes?” he asked.

She clicked with mild annoyance, despite herself. “No. Not your human-signs, I don’t believe. Please, no interrupting.”

He fell silent, though his presence hovered before her. She ignored it, scooping the ingredients from the table and into her circle.

Braid together, first.

Understanding threaded into her motions, slow and sure, an old song of scent and sound. The flowers in her hands shuddered at the edges and spell-light sparked at her fingertips. Stems fractured and split, forming branches that twined upward. The moss crawled from its bowl, ate up ground like spilled ink. The geyser-water began to simmer in its bowl. Everything smelled of slow decay. Blood filled her mouth, and she added that too.

The armature emerged quickly enough. It surrounded her in a mesh of hard filaments. She noted Jackal backing away through the film of fast-forming membrane.

“Don’t wake me,” she said, and blood-ink poured from her mouth when she said it. She coughed wetly. “I will sleep. And wake. Soon.”

Soon.

It was Venera’s knowledge that filled her head. It was Venera’s Titania-sense guiding her hand as she spun the coating, the capsule, the cocoon. Spell-silk closed over her head and dull vapours began to fill the space. The air warmed, coating her with disguisement. Her eyes grew heavy and began to close.

Soon, she thought. Soon, she would find her way home. And once she was there, there would be a way for Eltanin to be dragged before the might of an unblinded Hive. And if not that, then…

She dozed off before she could finish forming the thought.