There’s a new full iteration of the formula that we’re going to implement.
This is going to change the “shape” of the spheroid dynamic, the shape of its internal motion.
So what’s that going to give us?
Different waves, with more lifelike complexity.
Like what kind of life?
Its own, perhaps.
This is something really big, double entendre.
It’s like a dynamo.
Like one, but of a scale, concept, and character not heretofore imagined.
Is this technically a planetoid?
Is a planetoid in the aetherscape a planetoid, and what is the nature of the dimensions of its reality? This is mystery discussion material, and I’ll just let them run with that.
It does have a lot of names.
What are we plugging this into, or into this, right now?
Music, mainly.
Music can be very powerful.
By our measurements, always.
And with this…
Yes.
What will we do?
What can it do?
Should we be prepared, should there be safety measures?
Safety Third.
That’s a good spot in the order of priority.
But, we want results.
We have results.
We’ll get results!
Possibly all at once.
What will it affect?
We’ll see. We’ll have to let people know.
I’m for it.
Oh, there’s no denying it.
We all want this.
We must thank the Human Hydraia.

Raev had asked to be left behind on Hirylien, and for all Verne knew, he might not even be there anymore. The others had gone on their way, minus their coins, via that other shuttle. Verne Trosper had been given leave to be a free agent for now, available to Raev’s call or other pressing need.

Trosper floated leisurely along a tertiary byway some distance from the dark planet, a known but low-usage dead-end route. Out of curious habit, he was doing some long-range scanning. Trosper’s own ship was attuned to a few specific ID alerts with multiple decryptions, enemies of the enemies of the state. One of these showed up in his outer vicinity. This guy. Oh, this guy. Showing up on the trail like usual.

Verne rolled his eyes, and checked his weapons systems. He could actually do this right now, equipped and in a mood to tangle. He wasn’t a popular person; there weren’t many people or things he cared about, anymore. On the special occasions when he did care about something, he did so from a deep, hidden place that could determine everything, and which he didn’t question. Right now, he cared enough to halt this foe. This was it – he’d had enough.

This General had proclaimed loud and long that all who fought for the vindication of Hirylien were vermin, and his minklike malice in pursuit of revenge for his sister and his pride had earned him no tolerance. Whether Hirylien was actually empty now or not, this close brush with a lone pursuant ship carrying General Iparia might be the best opportunity anyone could get for a simple shootout. Verne could use all his Vedani party tricks out here.

He commandeered a comm line in signature style, while still invisible to human readout. “Boy, do I have a bone to pick with you,” he said, reflecting and reversing the expected dynamic between them.

Trosper’s voice was also recognizable to Iparia, and the military man didn’t hesitate to respond. “Perhaps you can do it with the rats while you die like one.”

Verne shook his head. “Nothing’s changed, I see.”

“Nothing that could change my opinion of you.”

“You will not be able to complete your objective along this route, Iparia.”

“Yes, I will.”

“No, you won’t.” Systems ready; target in view.

The officer-in-waiting who stepped inside wore a red ribbon around the wrist, rare signifier of family communications. It was the first time in a little while that anyone had been inside the remote space bunker besides the family, so this intrusion already carried an air of importance. They recognized the meaning of the red ribbon, and there was only one family member unaccounted for. The young ones felt a inexplicable thrill as a missive was handed over to their father. The ceremonial air lent the moment additional gravitas, though it was an almost welcome break in the tension. Between a brooding parent and suspended fortunes at the edge of world collapse, something at least was happening.

There had been some forewarning, of this precipitating, though the communique was its own occasion. King Proxem Grant Vario had remained observant of current events from his vantage point – reading up, staying apprised, and strategizing in a chamber to himself. As a family, they did their best to uphold something like civility and normalcy for the sake of close-quarters survival. They occupied themselves individually with a method of coping: Mireille read, Cristobal wrote and drew, while Carlo completed puzzle game after puzzle game.

Word going around had been noted by observant people as something sensational was stirring. This had been noted by the King Proxem as well, half-blinded by denial though he was. So when he read the scroll, by himself in privacy, it made a kind of sense. Consistency of his previous standpoints would call for opposition, but what if that were ultimately the problem?

The message of the scroll came with a personal challenge from his daughter, behind a fully encoded seal. Such challenges were rare, and couldn’t ultimately be avoided. It was one of the family’s dark secrets, one way the lineage had kept power in forms of service. There was a method by which they would oppose and oust each other. It didn’t happen once in a generation, maybe not once in five. The family maintained an almost never-explained tradition of blade training under different masters, and the oath to face each other under necessary conditions. There were times, it was said, when one tried to flee a reckoning, but it never worked. This one came from Princess Ascendant Soleil, Magus to King Proxem Grant Vario.

He would accept. Composing himself, he brought the virtualized copy of the scroll out to the family. “This is going to take a little time, but I want you to understand the contents of this document.” Hearing his tone, they put away what they were doing, and listened with the seriousness of lives at stake. They went over the different items; they went over the language; they went over the peoples involved, discussed within the context of public history contrasted with revealed information. There was some people’s insight that Vario refrained from relating because he hadn’t yet acknowledged these societal changes, though some inklings of it may have reached Mireille and Cristobal. Then the King said, “I’m going to meet with your sister in the court at the Capital.”

Mireille knew what this meant, and wondered who would survive the result. Cristobal suspected. Carlo intuited. Together, they established a new order of responsibility in the ship during their father’s absence.

“I’m really excited about this, been a while since a redcomm request. Paying whatever it takes, whatever it takes, whatever it takes. I can figure out what it takes.” Casper Jacobs was on a roll, muttering to himself the way he does when running multiple processes smoothly in high gear. He was gathering his resources and rearranging his workspace. “This thing is coming straight from the top, and it’s so cool, this could really blow people’s minds. As for me, I’m getting it out there, putting it into the right sets of claws – cause the Dragons, they haven’t been allowed to talk to each other, beyond problematic, and we want it fixed, along with everything else. Fix everything! Now that I’ve seen it, I know where I’ve seen people talking about it. And when I say people, I mean the kind of people I ain’t never seen but I’d sure like to meet. It’s not exactly hush, it’s just moving fast. And I’ll get it moving faster, from their heads to our heads without any untoward detours. Now I get to talk to the pigeon guy, who likes being left alone most of the time, but I love him and his brave fluffy dragonspies. Tiny scrolls, tiny scrolls. Time to make the teeniest tiny holo-key scrolls.” He let out a long exhale. “This moment is feeling very… vivid. Like things haven’t felt in a kind of while. Something is really happening.”

The Planks was a commonly used name for the interconnected floating platforms that made up the large craft fueling station for this subquadrant of Foshan. It was a famous fueling station, and some of the more unusual vessels in and on Foshan’s waters made it a destination. There were well-connected people at The Planks who could solve unique problems. News also flew fast from there.

The Arch approached underwater. Saer the cleaner had convinced Bux and Arjun that the escape pod with her and Draig Claymore was their best choice in this maneuver. The twin brothers solemnly enacted rituals meaningful to them before they left their greatest-yet achievement to an uncertain fate.

Draig was the last on the bridge, executing final command. The parting was a little sentimental – he may not have had the Arch for long, but what a magnificent and momentous thing it was. But one must molt when it is time, one of those crablike wisdoms that occasionally floated up ever since meeting the Eldest Davyjones.

Navigating to the very edge of flotsam moorage, they acted like any other partially submarine vessel, albeit a strikingly unmissable behemoth that was probably already creating a stir over the station’s readings. The Arch surfaced within approved tolerances, its light-absorbent black surface doing the opposite of gleaming. Calmly, Draig disengaged systems on a timer and walked to the emergency flyer containing the others.

At the surface, the Arch was straightened, resting oblong and unusually still atop the waves. It was large enough that it took small boats time to travel its length. The escape vehicle jettisoned underwater, and the image of the floating Abyssal Inverse Dwelling receded from them. Buckminster piloted the pod; Arjun had been worried that he’d be too emotional. In her seat, Saer looked glad to be moving on. Draig had already had himself strapped to a gurney with eyemask, earplugs, and blankets – the basic sensory deprivation protocol. He’d told them he would hum, and he used a throaty tone that focused him and allowed his mind to float.

Behind his closed eyes and screened behind the sound of his hum, Draig searched for and found a familiar parting of the veil. This was an access granted him by his role in organizing the Viridian Phasing, the dragonroad scrambling that kept Red Nexus dragons and the unaffiliated from being able to navigate Imperial space. Touching dragonroads as a human, even with just the mind, can be extremely unsettling; but Draig just took off, his hum tethering him to his body.

He was looking for a way to be heard, and figure out how to say what he needed to say. There was also the question of his current authority. While he may not have his human rank (which Dragons have learned to mind to an extent), he was still the most inextricable human to the Viridian Phasing synergy, having actually met many involved beings in its initiation. They might, he hoped, hear him with the most inclination to agree. Allowing in potentially destructive forces, but also many who can be instrumental, and freeing the resources of the closest allies – this was the shift being called for by this moment, if they would listen. He himself didn’t bother raising any quibbles as to his standing, and if they wished they could take it up with someone else later. They might, with their own powers of reason, agree with him enough to cooperate.

As he raced around the sonically fragmented byways with codekey clarity, he sounded the knell in as many ways as he possibly could, with the energy signatures read by Dragons:

time for this to end / time / for / this / to / end / t/i/m/e/f/o/r/t/h/i/s/t/o/e/n/d
now is the time / now / is / the / time / n/o/w/i/s/t/h/e/t/i/m/e