To Your New Era

"Report is two minutes and thirteen seconds old. Three bogies, fast movers, flew over section two-one-seven of the eastern border due southwest. Estimated altitude angels ten, estimated speed four hundred knots."

"Second aerial sensor report from area code two-six-three. Speed and altitude are identical."

Rumours. Hearsay. They bounced about the cluttered, steel room kept warm by the heat of both flesh and machine, implanting the notion of a small, mystical speck in the sky. Flight parameters not unbecoming of a fighter plane but easily achieved by an assortment of Spirits, too.

"Who's free and how much playtime?"

"EG two four and EG two six, thirty minutes."

"EC three three and NR one seven, one hour."

East Geverde, East Central, North Raleigh; a decent swathe of the country considering the bogie's probable course. Too far south from Aerilia, too far north from Excala to make sense fuel-wise. Must be one of the central cities.

The day was cloudy…must have been by design.

"Notify EG two four to head due southeast, give them the brief and begin plotting the radio reports. EG two six, EC three three and NR one seven on holding patterns."

"Yes, sir."

A bolt of red yarn, a map and corkboard riddled with pinholes. Two found their mark in quick succession, and a line of fire tore across the sky between them.

"EG two four has confirmed the request. Starting search."

"Put them on blast and someone hand me a microphone."

"Yes, sir."

Every desk was an eternal tangle of wires where house rules and weekly clean ups went to die. However, they lived in the mess. Ever-changing as it was, it had habits, and he was handed a microphone fished from the Aether in no time.

"ST room B3 to EG two four please run us a weather diagnostic, over."

"EG two four to ST room B3, sporadic cloud cover of A.S, A.C obstructing, average albedo holding at roughly zero point two five, over."

At first, the hissing, crackling radio was jarring, and the words hidden amongst the static were impossible to decipher

"Radio report from sixteen seconds ago. Aerial sensor in area three-eight-three, now due east-southeast. Advise EG two four to turn attention to three-eight-four."

"ST to EG two four, turn attention to three-eight-four."

"Copy ST…target found, I repeat target found. Three bogies, fast movers, travelling bearing two-five-two, speed three hundred and ninety-four knots, angels ten."

"That's Raleigh airspace in less than five minutes. Synchronise EG two four and EG two six and shut down Raleigh airport. Where are our flyswatters?"

"Flight from Ambletown airbase scrambled four minutes ago, ETA in sixty seconds, similarly from Tarren Hill, ETA two minutes. Third flight from Dydon scrambling now, ETA four minutes."

Staggered arrivals were the norm, but three bogies weren't. Fate willing, the first team could be picked off before the second could provide support.

"EG two four to ST; aircraft appear to be without propellers. Narrow chassis, underslung payloads, possibly bombs, over."

Another pin prick and another length of string. Central Geverde wasn't the definition of a target-rich environment, but hit a certain vein and striking gold wasn't impossible.

Every building, factory, settlement worth bombing in the region fit on seven of his ten fingers. He wiggled them, counting which the red length of yarn had already passed.

But what bothered him more, as the Geverdian fighters fast approached their targets, was a lack of standard procedure. Compression engine fighters were a well of untapped potential, but bombers still needed escorts, and at the very least bullet sponges.

"Is EG two six synced with two four?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get two six to widen their search, full focus on Aether movements."

"Yes, sir…EG two six has confirmed the request."

"Sir, Ambletown scramble teams thirty seconds out."

"Advise holding off engagement or start camouflage until we confirm it's safe to engage."

"Raleigh airport has confirmed the request; all planes on holding patterns. Two minutes until bogies enter Raleigh city airspace."

"Updates on EG two six?"

"Negative. Citing significant cloud cover."

"Get NR one seven synced and on it, too."

"Yes sir. Tarren Hill flight within a minute."

Four planes. Four planes could go up against three. Nothing was stopping them from moving in for some less-lethal warning shots. Nothing but Elliot's intuition.

Having lived in a cockpit for the better part of his life, he pictured himself second-guessing the intel. Whether he reacted with caution or brashness would be up to the age of this hypothetical self, but the initial cause for hesitation remained. One that the pilots—nothing more than specs in a landscape, blue yarn across a map—would share with him.

"Sir, EG two six has eyes on a spectre one klick away bearing one three nine bullseye from tracking bogies. Same altitude, same speed, same bearing."

Elliot dared a second to let go of a tensed breath. Vindication felt good, because apparently 'intuition' wasn't a satisfactory reason for letting an airport get bombed. Raleigh was a bit of a dump, anyway.

"Advise all scramble teams. Ambletown should break for the spectre, Tarren Hill and Dydon go after the bogies."

"Yes, sir."

Elliot sank back into his chair, the draining adrenaline sapping away his tolerance to the dank, stale air. He just about choked on it and wondered if people's ability to adapt to just about anything really was a worthwhile trait. Every smack of his lips tasted like bad posture and over-caffeination.

He'd be free of it soon. Today's drill was search and respond only; active combat was next week.

The lights came on, and while the machines still whirred and radio lines remained opened, they were now a product of another, dead reality, commanding none of the attention they deserved only a few seconds prior.

"All right everybody! Thank you very much for a great session. Powers-that-be want us to reconvene for a debrief here at fifteen hundred hours. Spend the time seeking sunlight or touching grass. Just get out of here as quick as you can. Dismissed."

With a few wry chuckles, his officers bid farewell to their aerial assets and cut power to their machines. They filed out one after another, the same topic of conversation weighing heavily on every pair of shoulders.

And soon, the room was quiet. The air was frosty, its moisture escaping through the open door. Basking, or rather wallowing in the release of weeks' long tension from his body, was tempting, but time was limited, especially free time.

He had a good book he wanted to—

"Tactical Director Elliot Maxwell, please report to the administration wing, I repeat, Tactical Director Elliot Maxwell—"

He hung his head. Thirty-six, and his parents were still calling him into the school office.

"Was it wrong of me to hope you might stop calling for me when I changed jobs?" Elliot asked, long past affording his superior five times removed even the decency of a knock. Right now, he was complaining to an in-law, zero times removed, and they didn't need the respect.

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"If it's about plans for Sunday again—"

"That time I actually had something important to talk about," Marie argued, ever the one to defend specifics with such things. "This time I do too, and no, Sunday can wait."

He'd spent the fuel to counter her pettiness in flushing the adrenaline out of his system. As at peace with the universe as a monk now that he'd walked it all off, he gave in and pulled up a chair.

Still, Marie's polite grin was a sour pill to swallow.

"I got a phone call from Colte just yesterday. Another batch of information, and I've just finished going through it."

"Oh yeah? Bastard's still alive. That's good," Elliot mumbled, eyes on the sky behind Marie's head, saturated with tufts of clouds compounding on top of each other, mind still back in the control room.

He caught Marie's eyes fishing for his attention in his peripheral vision.

"He's just sent us the first book of the Tetrica Resonances."

And just like that, his thoughts of a few seconds prior joined the whirring machines and radio lines in a reality no longer relevant. Marie's office was nippy, the air was fresh, and her grin was of suppressed excitement.

"The whole thing?"

"Only fifty-two pages, but yes, the whole thing."

"And it's really about—"

"Yes. It's really about her."

Her history that they'd been missing, the file that they'd never gone to an orphanage to read. He saw it, sandwiched between the small piece of Iris that was him, and the side that was Evalyn, a buffer zone of unshared history, of something else that couldn't be explained away as her own personality.

As much as he loved her, as much as he saw her as his daughter, that third, slender slice of the pie reminded him she was, and perhaps never would be, wholly theirs.

His lip quivered, his tongue tying knots as it tried to follow his directionless thoughts. So much for his job title.

"Is it…good?"

Marie winced. "What kind of question is that?"

"I mean…"

She shut him up with her index finger, ending his silent quandary for him with a mercy killing. "I'm going to give you a copy. Just read it. That's all you need to do."

"Sure…yeah sure, I'll give it to Evalyn first—"

"Maybe hold off on that," Marie interrupted, grin faltering. "I…don't know how she'd take it. What I do know is that she doesn't have your swagger; if Iris doesn't want to hear it, I know you'd let it slide."

To speak ill of his wife was asking for a reprimand, but he had to admit her parental guide rails were narrower than his, for good reason too. It had probably kept Iris alive.

But it also meant when he asked Iris of something, he seldom got the same pushback Evalyn did. Elliot nodded, afraid for his wife if he of all people was apparently the sensitive of the two.

Marie handed over a thick, bound file disguised as a mission briefing, held together by twine wound around a button.

"Bit bigger than what I usually get," Elliot said, turning it over in his hand.

"Evalyn can't tell the difference," Marie said. "She doesn't know what Deity division gets up to."

They'd known her for as long as each other. If the difference in opinion was based solely on godmother's intuition, then…well it was her idea to hide it from Evalyn in the first place.

"And before you go home for the weekend, I need you to let me know your results from today's test."

"Oh…sure? I wasn't planning on it, but thought you'd find out either way."

"Actual marks won't come out for another few days, but if your debrief sounds good, then give me a ring. Something's come up, and I'm short-handed."

Marie stood from her desk, arching her back, and wincing as her spine crackled like roast pork. "Come on," she said. "We'll walk and talk."

The Steel Whale's million nerves and arteries were as busy as ever, information flowing on the former, most of it not nearly as exciting as one might imagine, and blood on the latter, to jobs that were again, not nearly as exciting as they sounded on paper.

In a state of constant, consistent cacophony was where the monstrous contraption found peace, and everybody aboard were professionals. If to keep that strenuous peace, maintaining a measured façade was always necessary. However, it seemed the world beyond the radio was hell-bent on ripping that mask to pieces.

"It's not limited to Spec Ops, either," Marie explained, cutting through the crowd as Elliot followed, tucked in her wake. "There's a measure of anxiety everywhere. Army and Navy aren't as worried, but friends in the police are."

Geverde boasted a set of secure borders: one with an ally, two with natural barriers. Invasion was a tall order, but declarations of war were becoming something of a rarity.

"Vesmos has a new M.O as of late, and the brunt of the impact is falling on the shoulders of law enforcement. Seven wars, sure, but I'm noticing just as many seeding infections."

They turned off the wide causeway, one shoulder overlooking the steel city within walls, and traded the sprawl for a choking, long-forgotten alleyway. A shoulders' width between buildings, and to an engineer just incorrect rounding that flew under acceptable tolerances.

"It always starts with money. Back-channel funding. Happens all the time but never at scale. Vesmos always had problems knocking at the border, keeping the beast occupied. Now it's changed tactics, and is for some reason content with losing some territory in the process."

They paused by a waist-high air duct, breathing gentle chatter and clinking glasses. A warm glow from between the grille spilled across the folds of his jacket.

"Are we busting a speakeasy?"

"What? No. This is way too well hidden to go to waste."

She lifted the grille out of place and set it aside, waving Elliot in first.

"I'm never saluting you again."

"No one's perfect."

Unable to refuse even an immoral order from her, he stepped inside, subtle strings punctuated by radio static greeting him.

The room, small and makeshift as it was, resembled a bar the same way a sketch resembled a final product. Block shapes in place of elegant lines. Tables and chairs that knew the product itself was worth the patronage, no presentation needed.

Ten or so people hung about enjoying the music, some sitting on milk crates and apple boxes, others regarded him from salvaged couches, spilling their innards through the fabric.

Marie replaced the grille behind them before stepping in herself. Nobody regarded her rank, saluted her, let alone ran for the hills. A silent agreement to leave work and its responsibilities by the door.

"They serve drink left over from events and such, so it's all quite cheap." She searched the dark corners of the room. "I think somebody's saved a spot for us."

Marie moved first, and Elliot's eyes followed to find a daft, familiar smile waiting for him.

"Hi Elly," the alcohol said with Evalyn's lips.

Elliot tried. He tried his hardest, but the atmosphere was too quaint to ruin.

"Yep. All right."

"This has to do with our conversation," Marie promised, offering him a seat.

"Well, if it is, I want it to be on your tab."

Marie shot him a look as though appalled. "Goodness no. You've got a debriefing in an hour. Bit early for celebrations."

"I'm not the one you should say that to," he argued, taking a seat next to his wife.

Marie crossed the floor to the bar; a modest set of shipping crates dressed with a tablecloth, leaving Elliot with the drunkard.

"You've had a head start," he said. "How long have you been here?"

Evalyn thought aloud, humming as her inebriated brain visually processed the question.

"Two hours?" she said, "give or take."

She swayed, pressing her shoulder against his, a glass of beer hanging from her fingers.

"I haven't seen you tipsy in a while."

"It's so cheap," she moaned as though he were attacking her for it. "I can't get drunk anymore."

"Can't?"

She nodded. "Unless it's enough to make the bartender think I just became a widow."

Elliot simply nodded along. She seemed genuinely upset, so he decided it was safest to treat her as such.

"How's work?" she asked, eyeing up his bulging folder. He set it aside, out of her eye-line.

"Good," he said. "Can just about taste the pay rise."

Evalyn's elastic smile stretched across both cheeks. "I'm so proud of you. Now I get to hear your voice when I'm working."

Bit of a leap in logic, but again, happy wife, happy life.

Marie returned with her pick of poison and set herself across the table from them, her visage swaying through the waves of heat rising from a candle set on their table.

"Where were we?" she said. "Lots of anxiety, yes."

She glanced at Evalyn.

"She looks sober enough."

"I'll take notes for her. Please, continue."

Marie wet her throat and continued. "The board for the Middling Nations Convention was playing hot potato for the last however many years trying to decide a host. Situations are volatile everywhere, and eventually Excala got stuck holding the bag. Thanks to that, now the metro police's hair is standing on its ends day in, day out."

"I'd imagine the Feds can afford some personnel. It's an international convention."

"You'd think," she said, as though the story only got good from there. "The GFP are run now by a man named Wardow Grayhem. He's in bed with the New Modernists. Radical progressive voting block, fair game if they didn't take political donations from Vesmos front companies."

She took another swig; the alcohol going down as though it smoothed the otherwise grating words coming out of her mouth.

"The GFP are keeping a light presence at the convention on the grounds of staff shortages. Convention board hired a private security company to fill the missing places."

Evalyn stirred next to him. He peered over and found her brow furrowed. Through the stupor, she was at least partly listening.

"And amongst all this, I get an anonymous tip-off come across my desk about an unregistered Aether line transmitting code. It's domestic, so not my issue, and it's intercity, so not the metropolitan police's problem either."

"That leaves only the feds. I can see where this is going."

Marie nodded, sharing his enthusiasm as she continued working her glass between paragraphs.

"Gods willing, the feds do an honest job, and we'll be all back here in a week's time hunky dory."

She bucked her head back, downed the rest of her glass. With a bittersweet sigh, she watched the last drops swirl at the bottom of her glass like a divination.

"You jinxed it Marie," Evalyn pouted. "I want my weekend, and Iris has tests."

"It's a personal case, not a council one. No reason you can't do it yourself. I just wanted to give you first pick, seeing as you've got less and less to do nowadays, I thought you might be bored."

She hadn't chased a rogue cat or spouse in several years, and even from arm's length, the days between work looked as though they were growing longer and longer. Now, with Iris leaving the shade of her wings, there were fewer jobs than ever that required both of them.

There was perhaps no greater sign than that her cooking now was palatable, even enjoyable at times. Her honeymoon phase with retirement was over, and Elliot sensed some anxiety born from stagnation.

"I don't see the harm in it," Elliot said. "No shame in quitting if things get too hot."

Evalyn worked her brain through her drink and deepening pout.

"I'll ask Iris first," she said.

Marie stood, throwing a handful of coins onto the table. "Let me know what she says. I'll give you the details if she wants them."

She wagged her hand in goodbye and left the narrow way she came. Elliot checked his watch, counting up thirty minutes before he had to move.

"Find somewhere better to wait until I'm done. You'll reek of beer if you stay here."

"Is that so bad?"

Elliot roused her by her shoulder. The alcohol was partly to blame, but underneath was a familiar tone of voice he'd heard more of as of late; risen from the dead, haunting him from a grave he thought was more than a decade old.

"I don't need you going through a midlife crisis ten years early."

"Don't remind me."

He stood her up, and she swayed a little on her feet. Her grip around his harm stayed fast.

"I don't know what Marie was smoking when she brought you here, but you're not coming again. It's barely the afternoon."

"But—"

"Evalyn."

It came out barely a hiss, but was enough to convince her. He felt her heart skip and her hands tighten around him.

"…okay."

He wrapped his arm around her waist. "Sorry."

Despite a lack of words, she seemed to accept it.