There’s an old-world adage that claims “history is written by the victors.” That history is interpreted and written, and that this affects the way we remember, corruptions and malformations upon Real Truth. The actuality is much more powerful. History is made by power. To wield power, to control the flow and shape of history, is not to control narrative. It is the power to shape reality absolutely. The stories we tell about the past and the future, the world we live in and the world we inherit, are the science of social relation, the fabric of consensus reality. From this we can say truthfully, that the stakes of this war — this long, long war — are not “who rules the world,” or “who writes the history books.” The stakes are what reality is, and what it is to become. Through power, victory. For a future we deserve.
Historiography of the Knife, Mobius Selvedge, UCF Central Academy
Boca Chica, Texas, Axis Mundi, Earth, UCF 03/30/454, 1240 hours
About six weeks later
Aiko weeps, silently. Flechette stands with her mother at the entrance to the orbital launch station, awkwardly attempting to offer comfort, placing a hand stiffly on her mother’s shoulder. Aiko dabs quietly at her eyes with a handkerchief, ornamented with patterns of sakura blossoms and mayflies.
“Hanabi-kun, when can I see you again? Soon?”
“Mom, you— you know I’m stationed on the Rumsfeld for another two years. I’ll… be in orbit for a while. But I’ll be sure to call.” Flechette allows the slip of the affectionate nickname to pass by without struggle.
Aiko attempts to weep cleanly, to maintain her composure, but her sorrow bubbles up out of her control, and she begins earnestly sobbing, snot dripping down her flushed face, hiccuping between words.
“Promise— promise you’ll call. I want to see you more often. We have… I have so much I want to tell you…”
Flechette’s face softens a bit, just around the edges. She offers a lighthearted, loose salute, and says:
“By my honor as a soldier of the ARC, we will speak again soon.”
She puts down one of her bags to offer an arm to her mother for a goodbye hug. Her mother leaps into her arms, weeping loudly, and Flechette stiffly pats her back.
“S-stop, you’re gonna make me cry…”
Aboard the shuttle, Flechette stares out the window, anxiously chewing her lip, tapping an old marching rhythm on her knee with a finger. In the creak of her shoulders, exhaustion seeps from her bones. The kind that a few long weeks in the Texas sun may simply not be enough to leech out. Flechette gazes towards the horizon, trying to spot the massive hull of the Rumsfeld in the distance. As atmosphere continues to thin and gravity slips away, she finds that even in the soft embrace of weightlessness, she cannot escape this burden.
As the soles of her combat boots tap onto the lithosteel deck of the landing bay of Hangar 16, Flechette takes a deep breath of the scrubbed, ozonic air of the Rumsfeld. One. Two…
“2nd Power Flechette Jaydamn, Sir!” A small, fresh-faced cadet salutes, at attention. He’s shorter than Flechette by a head, with curly hazelnut hair. His rank badges bear the insignia of 4th Principality. Flechette eyes him up and down, registering him. She raises a single eyebrow.
“Yes, Principality…?”
“Hopeland, sir! Trinity Hopeland.”
“Okay, Principality Hopeland. Are you here to take my bags?”
Trinity Hopeland smiles, a wide, lopsided grin.
“No, sir!”
“Alright. Principality Hopeland, as I’m sure you understand, I’ve just landed from a very long flight planetside, and I’m eager to return to my quarters and get some rest. So can you…?”
“Our quarters, sir!”
Flechette squints.
“What?”
“Our quarters, 2nd Power Jaydamn, sir!”
“No, I heard you, I just don’t understand.”
“Sir, I’ve had the honor of being assigned as your new cross-trainee, sir! I have all of my paperwork here, sir, cleared by Interim Commander White Meniss.”
“…I see. You missed a sir, by the way.”
“Sir?”
“I’m fucking with you.” Flechette sighs. The creak in her shoulders feels deeper than it did a moment before. “Principality Hopeland, aren’t you a little… When did you graduate from Academy, Principality Hopeland?”
“Three weeks ago, sir!”
“Ah. Alright. Three weeks.”
“Twenty days, fifteen hours, and twenty-six minutes, to be precise, sir!”
“Twenty days, and you’re being assigned as the cross-trainee for an ace THRONE pilot?”
Trinity Hopeland grins again, a noticeably sloppy smile in contrast with his otherwise crisp performance.
“Sir, if I may, I suggest you read my paperwork, sir.”
Flechette smoothly takes the datapad Trinity is holding out to her.
“…”
“These are your scores?”
“Yes, sir!”
“These are your synchronization rate results? And your simulator scores?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Trinity, how old are you?” Flechette cocks her head in disbelief.
“Twenty and a half, sir!”
“Is that a joke?”
“Yes, sir!”
Flechette considers this for a moment.
“Good. I like jokes. Principality Hopeland, if your scores mean anything at all, I have to admit, I’m at least curious about you. What are you, some kind of freak of nature?”
“That’s what some of them call me, sir!”
“What do the others call you?”
“Some of them call me a genius, sir. Others call me a hyper-specialized highly-sensitive proprioceptopath.”
“…Alright. Well, what do you call yourself?”
“A goddamned pilot, sir!”
Flechette laughs, earnestly.
“Ha! Alright, Trin. We’ll find out what you are.”
“Sir?”
“Let’s head to our quarters. I’m exhausted. And I need to wake up early tomorrow to have a talk with Seraph about the babysitting job he dropped on me right at my return from medical leave.”
Trinity stares at Flechette, expectantly.
“But for now, you’re going to be my problem, I suppose. So we’ll go together. At the very least, I can’t have you wandering off and falling into an Egregore reactor before I find out which officer’s special little kid you are.” Flechette offers the hint of a half smile.
“Sir!”
“You can call me Flechette or Edge,” Flechette says, pinching the bridge of her nose. God, it’s been a long day.
“Yes sir, Edge, sir!”