On my seventeenth attempt, Morta dwelt too long in the sunken realm and the peninsula grew stagnant in her absence. She returned to a broken world in much the same way I had: far too late to change the outcome. It was clear I needed a substitute in her absence. Millia Gnu Aye succeeded the throne.
Morta crossed her legs, tapping her knees impatiently and chewing on her lips. She shivered, tightening her red scarf around her neck and rubbing her shoulders.
Polka dots and a push-up bra—gawds. She looked ridiculous. Morta scowled, maneuvering her hands beneath the tablecloth and fingering the grip of her 9mm semi-automatic service pistol. She sighed, tracing the elongated ejection port, fixed front blade, and rear notch—a blowback action with a seven and 1-round detachable box magazine.
She licked her lips, closed her eyes, and spread her legs, thumbing the trigger, her nail gliding across the smooth finish and teasing the hook, mere centimeters from the sweat release of high-velocity muzzle fire.
She yipped, something slapping her hand.
“Quit fidgeting, my lady,” Igor said, shuffling beneath the table, his snout lifting the sheet. “You’ll blow your cover.”
Morta growled, sitting up straight and resting her hands in her lap. “I can’t help it,” she said. “I feel naked without one.” She lifted the tablecloth, searching for her purse. “Enjoying the view, pervert?”
Igor sat curled against the floor, two-way mirrors reflecting his surroundings, a crude camouflage easily disturbed, creating a distorted, mirage-like effect around his chassis. He knickered, stomping his hooves and adjusting his saddle. He must’ve been uncomfortable, his abdomen bumping against the table’s lip.
“I didn’t think you cared for pink,” he said. “Raiding Nona’s closet again?”
Morta laughed, resting her handbag on her lap. “Have you met my sister? She’s a prude, Igor. I wouldn’t dream of borrowing her undergarments.”
Her stomach dropped, and her toes curled. She closed her eyes, breathing through her nose and making fists against her skirt. The cabin shook, the sound of china clinking with the disturbed rustle of a newspaper. Her feelings subsided as the dining area leveled out.
Gawds, she hated flying, especially when she knew the vessel was fucked.
She tapped the hollow aluminum table, chewing on her lower lip, the passengers gathering by the side-facing windows leaving much of the dining area empty.
Morta sifted through her handbag, found her 17-jewel brass pocket watch, and started the timer at 6:30 p.m.
“Which way is the wind blowing?” Morta asked, crossing her legs, the butt of her pistol rubbing against her thigh.
“Starboard side.”
She nodded, standing and stretching, her feet wobbly against the unsteady motion of the airship.
“Where are you going?!” Igor’s snout peaked out from under the table.
“Relax, don’t get your spinnerets in a knot.” She shouldered her handbag. “I want a smoke and a better view. You can join me in a few minutes once the party starts.”
Morta left the dining area, stepping onto the promenade and tracing the walls with her hands to steady herself. She looked behind, catching the flash of a camera, her diode sparkling blue, men and women laughing amongst themselves as they posed for another group shot. She’d appear, of course. The widow always appeared moments before disaster.
Morta shook her head, stretching the lining of her skirt and taking off her heels.
It’s not that she tried to insert herself into history, it just always ended up that way, photos of her lining the collections of thirsty historians. They were never her type, but it was a perfect ego boost.
She moved into the stairwell and looked down the hallway into the passenger cabins. Silk wallpaper depicting scenes of foreign lands, lightweight styrofoam paneling, and red upholstered chairs. The accommodations weren’t too shabby, but she preferred the sands of her arena and a stiff metal throne.
Morta descended the stairs into B-deck, past a double-door airlock and into a small lively bar serving frosted cocktails with orange juice and gin. Her nostrils flared, the smell of smoke coming from an adjacent room. She fished through her handbag and checked her pocket watch.
6:35, time was running out. She bit her lip, stepping into the smoking room.
Small tables, chairs, and benches decorated the bay with depictions of archaic airships hand-painted on the silk walls. Many people gathered here, bickering loudly. It made her ears hurt.
Morta found an empty seat next to a young man. “Do you mind?” she asked. “All the other bays are taken.”
He looked up from his musings, adjusting his black-tailed fedora, the end of a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth. He licked his lips, his gaze lingering, a reflection of thirst, but gone in a flash, a gentleman.
“Please,” he said, kissing the back of her hand. “Cainhurst, a pleasure.”
“Morta.” She sat, clicking open her purse and fingering a cigarette. She slid it between her lips and leaned forward, the young man lighting the tip with a glowing red implement. “Electric, clever.” Morta drew deeply, savoring the smokey flavor and satisfying burn.
“No open flames, of course.” Cainhurst stowed the glowing red implement.
Morta leaned back, exhaling, a cloud of smoke brushing against her lips. “Smoking aboard a hydrogen-fueled aircraft? It seems reckless to me.”
His eyes lingered, undressing her. She smiled, tapping the ashes over her elbow.
A charcoal grey slim-fitting suit with polished leather shoes and a shoulder chip as sharp as a pencil in a day trader’s pocket. She knew the type. Men eagerly courting death, far too gentle in bed.
“The room is pressurized,” he said. “You needn’t worry about leakage.”
“Still, why not helium? Surely an inert gas is far safer.” Morta let the smoke roll on the edge of her tongue as she licked her lips, slowly.
Cainhurst’s eyes flashed an eagerness to explain, or, perhaps, excitement at finding a woman who understood. “That’s true, but hydrogen is much lighter and allows for greater lift, more passengers, and luxurious accommodations. With today’s technology, you needn’t fear any mishaps.”
Gawds, she swore, if he was about to drop into some tirade about how the ship was unsinkable…
Morta frowned, drawing from her cigarette and flicking the ashes.
Of course, she was the one who prompted the discussion, and hindsight was so often twenty-twenty.
She leaned forward, resting her elbow on the table and giving her best doe-eyed schoolgirl impression as he explained the intricacies of hydrogen fuel cells.
Morta could’ve written a book on hydrogen fuel cells. Bastion let her play with one as a girl, bouncing on the latex-gelatin-coated cotton barrier filled with 200,000 cubic meters of raw hydrogen.
She snickered.
The explosion displaced Morta’s eyebrows and set Nona’s panty drawer on fire.
Girls will be girls.
“The cell has to remain free of static,” he continued, laying out a crude drawing on a napkin.
Morta smiled, nodding thoughtfully as she tapped her cigarette in the ashtray.
She had to admit his passion for the topic was infectious. Nona often told her that opposites attract, but she wasn’t so sure. Morta felt anxious listening to a conversation she could’ve had with herself in the mirror. His passion stoked hers, a single commonality, her heart skipping, her cheeks flush, a spark of intimacy.
“And what of a galvanized cell?” she asked, eager to contribute, her eyes flashing excitedly. “Modify the salt bridge and produce twice as much hydrogen cleaving the water.”
Morta felt swept up in the conversation as swiftly as a natural current. She rested her chin on her palms, smiling wryly as they spoke of circuits, poorly timed firing mechanisms, and the alchemical impossibilities of the philosopher’s stone. All of Nona’s novels and dating tips and all it took was a discussion about isotopes, critical mass, and a 5-ton bombshell—Morta’s heart filled in the blanks.
She frowned, putting out her cigarette, which hissed in the bowl.
What was she doing? Morta wasn’t Decima. She wasn’t Nona either. She was dead. Dead women didn’t find love. Dead women didn’t marry. Dead women didn’t bleed.
Her heart sank.
What life still beat beneath her breast was selfish, her kiln desiccated.
“Is something the matter?” Cainhurst asked, his fingers brushing against hers.
Morta squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the sides of her seat as the room tilted sharply, her stomach dropping into her feet. She sighed, breathing deeply until the feeling passed. “I’m just an unsteady flyer,” Morta said.
She opened her handbag and checked her watch: 7:21 p.m.
“Listen, once we’ve landed, would you join me for dinner tonight?”
Morta blinked, unable to keep her expression steady. “I—you want to have dinner with me?”
“I know this place where they serve cocktails late. We can start there and see where this goes,” he said.
She smiled.
He was sweet, but Igor would probably string him up by his big toe if she ever shared a bed with him. Besides, a night of drunken sex would no sooner stir her petrified womb than her sister’s bleating about her menstrual cycle. She’d hung around mortal fate long enough to know that most men longed for children, even if they were slow to admit it. He deserved to be with someone who could give him that.
Morta jumped, her pocket watch chiming three times, the sound of a raspy silver clasp ringing in her ear.
She breathed in sharply, the sound of screams coming from a distant corridor. She grabbed hold of the table as the ship angled sharply upward. Stools and counters slid, crashing against the back wall, the thin material buckling. Cainhurst let out a cry, falling to the floor and holding on, his fingernails leaving marks as he slid towards the bar. Morta dangled from the table’s edge, still bolted into the floor, reaching for him, but he slipped through her fingers.
She cursed, losing her grip, and falling with the furniture, landing on her back against the styrofoam paneling, her breath knocked from her lungs. Morta wheezed and then, all at once, the ship came crashing forward, the room leveling out instantly as they hit the ground. She landed on her chest, the sound of hollow aluminum clanging all around her as a stool struck her from behind, pinning her in.
Beads of sweat gathered along her brow as an intense blaze roared inside the cabin. The surrounding air sucked into a vortex, drawing a chimney of fire through the roof and consuming everything in sight.
She couldn’t breathe, the vile stench of burning hair and bubbling flesh choking her—a symphony of screams rising from the rubble. Morta covered the back of her neck as metal supports crashed from the ceiling, the flames caressing her thigh and licking her ear—a gentle lover.
Then, as quickly as it came, the roaring died down and the rumbling stopped, nothing but the sounds of loose fabric waving in the wind.
Morta moaned, reaching for her head, coughing and sputtering, at last able to catch her breath. She tried to move, but her back legs stuck, pinned beneath metal and foam.
“Any time now, Igor,” she said, propping her chin on her elbow.
There came a rustling behind her, the distorted mirage of a phantom spider weaving silk webs dislodging the rebar and charred paneling.
“Forgive my delay,” Igor said. “The promenade was a little more damaged than expected.”
“Whatever, just hurry up.”
Igor dropped a metal beam with a crash. “Aren’t you the one who enjoys being tied up?” he asked.
Morta waved her hair out of her face, glaring at him. “Would you shut up and get this shit off of me?”
He tossed aside the rubble, helping her to her feet, and offering her a silk-woven favor. She wiped her brow, scratching under Igor’s chin as he nuzzled her, his hooves kicking up dust and debris. “That’s better,” she said, standing on her tippy toes and kissing his snout. “What would I do without my pale stallion?”
“Crash and burn,” Igor said. “Doomed to be a historian’s pinup girl.”
“Oh, be quiet you.” Morta shoved him, a playful smile teasing her lips.
Nothing got her blood pumping quite like moments after a disaster. Gawds, what a rush! She blushed, holding the straps of her burnt gown to keep herself modest.
Wait, where was Cainhurst?
Her excitement waned as she sifted through the debris, wandering around what was left of the bar. There, beneath spilled cocktails and broken stools, were the charred remains of a young man.
Morta yelled, her hands moving in a panic, throwing aside shattered glass and burnt paneling, lifting him from the rubble, and laying his head in her lap. She pressed her fingers against his blackened neck but felt nothing, his brittle hair coming out at the stem. Tears dripped onto his cheek and she brushed her face with a shaking hand.
Was she crying?
“Did you know him?” Igor asked.
Morta sniffed, leaning forward and gently pressing her lips against his. She lingered as a lover would, holding his cheek, making out with sandpaper, his lips dried, burnt, and flaky. She parted from him, looking at the sky through the tattered fabrics and naked metal frame, balling her hands into fists. “Why are people dying?” she said, wiping her face.
She wasn’t crying! She refused to cry!
“I don’t know.”
“I gave up the knife, Igor.” Morta slammed her fist against the ground. “I gave up the fucking knife!”
Igor nuzzled her, his eight hooves stomping against the ground as he wove steel wool from his spinnerets, a nervous tick.
Morta ran her hands through his black mane, flexible conductors and male and female wire strippers brushing against her knuckles. She lifted herself onto his back, sitting side-saddle as she thumbed her lower lip.
“Take me back to the Isomerase.” She tossed her hair and flicked away the last of her tears. “I haven’t heard from Atropos, and I have a feeling someone is screwing with me.”
— ✦ —
The rush of the stellar wind passed quickly as Igor and Morta dropped from the rift back into the cathedral. His hooves crashed against the tile floor, kicking up the loose taconite pellets and kneeing the pews. Morta clenched her teeth, her arms wrapped tight around his mane.
A teenage girl was kneeling before the sprung fingers of the Isomerase. She wore a short black dress, shoulder-length white hair, and a locust’s wing folded against her back; strands of human fate woven between her fingers.
The girl saw Morta and jumped to her feet, dropping into a stance, an otherworldly blade singing in her hands, a professional dancer in silk and polished slippers.
Morta was right. Someone was screwing with her.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” She vaulted from Igor’s back. “You’re trespassing, little girl.”
The child hissed, spreading her legs and crouching low, the tip of her blade poised like a viper’s fang. “Stay back,” she said. “I… I’ll hurt you!”
Morta laughed. The balls on this girl…
She hesitated, seeing the tattered remains of mortal fate hanging from the Isomerase. The fabric bled, dripping into the Origin Well from a fresh cut, the destitute remains of a bright young future drifting into the darkness of the abyss.
Death had returned to the peninsula.
Morta’s face turned red, her hands shaking and her nostrils flaring. “Igor,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Go fetch.”
He charged at the girl like a raging bull, firing a salvo of steel wool cast into a net, but she dodged, rolling from the altar and vaulting under him.
He clamored, his hooves sliding, desperate to change course as he crashed against the wall.
The girl pounced, knocking Morta to the floor.
“Don’t move!” She lay on top of Morta, her blade pressed against her throat. “Or your mistress gets it!”
Igor whimpered, stomping his hooves as he paced, circling them, a predator waiting for an opening.
Morta chewed on her lips, thumping her head against the floor. “You think you can threaten me, you little bitch?!”
The girl didn’t respond, her hands shaking and her blade unsteady, her lips quivering in a way that reminded Morta so much of herself. She smelled of funeral incense and discharged gunpowder, the right side of her face blushing fiercely, the left a confusing patchwork of scales, claws, and maloccluded teeth with a yellow diode flashing brightly in her eye.
Fucking Atropos, a traitor to the last. How long had she been sneaking out of bed to work with this barely legal teen?
“Atropos is sorry,” the girl said, as if reading Morta’s mind. “But she understands the importance of death.”
“Just shut up.” Morta lay back, offering her neck to the singing steel. “If you think you can kill me, then give it your best shot.”
The blade shook, and the girl’s lips quivered, tears welling up in her eyes. She dropped her sword, which clanged against the floor. “I… I can’t do it,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry… I… I didn’t mean.” The girl burst into tears, covering her face, her knees shaking.
Morta lay for a moment, bewildered, the soft pattering of tears dripping against her tattered gown. Her heart swelled, and her cheeks flushed, a maternal tide snapping against her heel.
It was as if she knew this child, and she responded instinctively.
Morta wrapped her arms around the girl, running her fingers along her nape and pressing her cheek against her chest. The child’s white hair spilled over her shoulder, revealing the beginnings of a poorly done braid, a holster for a Colt .45 peeking out from beneath her skirt.
She had good taste.
“I missed you so much.” The girl cried, burying herself against Morta. “I’m sorry.”
Morta cooed, rocking back and forth, humming a distant lullaby, a tune Bastion taught her when her heart first stopped.
The child’s shoulders slumped and her sobbing turned to hiccups, an infectious smile creeping along her lips.
“Feeling better?” Morta asked, pushing her off her chest. “What’s your name, kid?”
She sniffed, nodding sheepishly and twirling her hair between her thumb and forefinger. “Durumgama.”
“Well,” Morta said, stifling a laugh. “I hope you slapped the bitch who gave you that name.”
Gama raised her hand, striking Morta hard with her open palm. “Thanks, I always wanted to do that, Mother!”
— ✦ —
Gama breathed in sharply—an original mortuary sword with its funerary basket intact! She turned the blade over in her hands, marveling at the gold and silver damascened steel and death mask hilt. She swooned, trying the grip and swinging the blade, balanced on the tip of her toes like a ballerina.
“Do you like it?” Morta asked, folding her arms, a bemused smile flirting with her lips.
“I love it!” It took all she had not to jump with excitement. “I mean,” she said, clearing her throat. “It’s okay, I guess.”
Gama slid the sword into the umbrella stand but paused, enamored by the rectangular foil, the bell-shaped cross guard, and the depressible button cap of a triangular sectioned épée.
Her wing snapped against her shoulder.
Gawds, her mother’s bedroom was a fully stacked munitions factory prepped for world war.
She bumped into the nose of a 13-foot Mark 84 warhead with tapered fins and a laser-guided seeker package. Her heart skipped, the mischievous thoughts of a teenager intruding as she slid her fingers along the hoisting sling and brushed the fuse, rubbing her wrist against her thigh, producing an audible buzzing, betraying her excitement.
Morta came behind her, sliding her hands under Gama’s arms.
“Mother!” she shouted. “What are you doing?!”
“Relax, you’re too pent up.” Morta lifted her onto the nose of the warhead as if she were a child. “This is what you wanted, right?”
Gama blushed, holding onto the chains that suspended the 2000-pound bomb, her steed unsteady, wobbling like a drunkard.
“None of that side saddle crap.” Morta pinched her leg. “If you’re going to do it, you’ve got to do it right.”
Gama chewed on her lip, swinging her right leg over the side and straddling the warhead, her heels spurs and the hoisting sling an unsteady reign, 946-pounds of low drag general purpose ordinance warming her butt.
“I always wanted to do this,” she said with a smile.
“That’s my girl.” Morta pushed on the rocket, setting it in motion, swaying back and forth like a swing. “I never let you play with one?”
Gama shook her head, her hair waving in the wind as the warhead picked up speed, rising higher toward the ceiling before falling back towards her mother. “You only ever let me ride the 82s!” she shouted over the groaning of cables and clanging chains. “Never an 84. You said I wasn’t old enough!”
Her stomach dropped to her feet as the rocket’s tip barely touched the ceiling. She dug her heels into the insulated shell and held onto the reigns, her heart hammering, a wave of excitement filling her breast as it dropped back towards the wall, a high explosive pendulum with a hair trigger, a streamlined steel casing, and no escape wheel. She squealed with delight; the wind racing against her cheeks as she clung to the hoisting sling, swaying her hips to control the unsteady motion.
Like mother, like daughter… Quit playing games and get back to the cathedral. Did you forget why Bastion brought you here?
Gama frowned, letting the motion of her mother’s warhead slow to a stop.
Gawds, Atropos was such a bitch. She sniffed, catching Morta watching her with glassy eyes, holding the straps of her badly burnt form-fitted dress.
“What?” Gama asked, brushing her hair over her ear.
“Nothing, it’s just…” She helped her down, pulling her into an embrace. “I’m a mother,” she said, stroking Gama’s cheek. “Nona told me years ago, but I didn’t believe her.”
“Mom,” Gama said, pushing against her belly. “You’re being too clingy and you’re not a mother, at least not yet.”
“Why do you look so much like my sister?” Morta asked, letting strands of her white hair slide through her fingers. “And who gave you a diode?”
Gama chewed on her lips, looking at her feet and fidgeting with her fingers. “You did,” she said. “You couldn’t wait to pluck out one of my eyes. I thought you were joking.”
Gama could still feel her mother’s fingers brushing against her cornea. She shivered, wrapping her arms around her shoulders, her wing beating furiously and her freckles swelling.
She was a bleeder like her aunt Nona.
“Surely it wasn’t that bad.”
“You had me keep it under my pillow until the eye fairy came.”
Morta burst into laughter, slapping her knees, her face bright red.
“That’s not funny, mother!” Gama blushed, curling her hands into fists. “I was traumatized for a week!”
“Oh, grow a spine,” Morta said, wiping tears from her eyes. “I know you’re made of tougher stuff than that.” She crossed her arms, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. “So, does my sister find the love she seeks? And what of Nona? Does she have any kids?”
“Oh yes,” Gama said, leaning against the warhead. “Aunt Nona has three children, Anya, Penelope, and Caladrius, and Aunt Decima marries Uncle Alexander.” She blew her hair out of her eyes. “A shame the bastard commits adultery.”
“Alexander cheats on her?!”
Gama’s eyes grew wide, slapping her hands over her mouth. “Oh, I wasn’t supposed to… Look, forget I said anything, okay? It’s not what you think, and he doesn’t cheat on her in the traditional sense.”
Morta’s mood darkened, her brow furrowed and her lips pursed.
“Mom.” Gama took her hand. “Please don’t do anything. I’m supposed to help with the painting, not fuck it up. Besides, she finds the love she seeks, just not in the way she thinks. It’s her daughters. They bring her such joy. Don’t take them from her.”
Morta didn’t seem to listen, her nails digging into her elbow as she licked her lips, slowly, a bad sign. “Come with me,” she said, taking Gama’s hand and pulling her towards the corner of her bedroom.
Gama protested but skipped after her as they passed a collection of brass straight-edge and folded steel blades, hooked ritual knives, and a loaded 36-pound long gun. Near the back was a mausoleum of brick and stone with ornate pillars and a rusting copper door, green residue building up on the lock and hinges. It was an imposing structure within a structure, with open glass caskets lying on every shelf over two stories high.
“Do you sleep here?” Gama peered into one of the open coffins and shivered visibly.
“I pick a different one every night. They’re far better than Bastion’s closed caskets and I get to be close to what I love.” Her grip tightened on Gama’s hand. “Daughter,” she said. “Why are you cutting fate against my will? Surely you know of your Aunt Nona’s delicate condition and how much I love her.”
“Of course I do!” Gama said. “I love her too, Mother, and I’d never want to hurt Anya or her sister Penelope, and what would Caladrius think?” She bit her lip. “Look, this isn’t about us. I cut fate because I know something you don’t. I know of the beginnings of a twisted future that should never be.”
“A world without death becomes a desolate desert where the stars cry tears of blood and humanity is twisted into a new form.” She tugged Morta’s hand. “They become monsters, corrupt beings, slaves to their primordial instinct, returned to the ancient kiln as Daedalus designed. The stagnation in their souls, the sediment you and I feel, it’s real, Mother!”
Morta scowled, her grip twisting around Gama’s wrist. “Your grandfather put you up to this, didn’t he? Bah, I’ve seen no evidence of a curse.”
“That’s because I’ve been here for over a year!” Gama shouted. “Bastion asked me to act in your stead to keep the corruption from the peninsula. My world is lost, but yours still has a chance. Don’t make the same mistakes as my mother!”
“If he has you, why does he need me?”
“Because I was born with stagnation too!” The words slipped out before she had time to think. “Yeah, I’m a halfbreed like Aunt Nona.”
Gawds, damn it! This was not at all part of the plan. Her loose lips were going to sink this ship before it had a chance to float.
Gama panicked, trying to think of a decent recovery, but her words faltered.
Morta embraced her, her arms shaking and her fingers digging into Gama’s back. “Take her,” she said, nodding to something in the dark.
Gama suddenly jerked into the air, her arms pinned behind her back by an oily mirage. Igor materialized above her, a horse’s snout caressing her shoulder, and eight legs with glowing red horseshoes spinning her in a webbing of steel wool and synthetic fiber.
“Igor!” Gama said. “Don’t do this!” She struggled against the bindings, but it was useless, like prey wiggling in a spider’s snug cocoon.
Igor lay her in Morta’s arms and she smiled at her with a wicked grin, her diode flashing in the dark.
“Surely this isn’t the first time I’ve tucked you into bed,” Morta said, gently kissing Gama’s cheek. “First, I’m told I must kill my baby sister and then you come here and tell me I may have to kill you, my only daughter? What the fuck did you think my reaction was going to be?”
Gama hissed, still struggling against her bindings as Morta lay her in an open glass casket.
She was stupid, stupid, stupid!
“Sleep well, my baby girl.” Igor handed Morta Gama’s blade. “In the meantime, I’ll hang on to this.”
“Mother, please, stop this!” Gama banged her knees against the casket. “You must listen to me!”
Morta climbed onto Igor’s back, looking back over her shoulder, a weariness reflected in her eyes. “I love you, Dūramgama,” she said, trotting from the mausoleum and closing the rusted door behind her, cloaking the room in darkness.