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i. guessing at what the future might hold
An excerpt from the private journal of the Apokine, formerly known as Nikephoros Lysistrate Alexis of House Pelagios:
It is said that the memory of Eidolons are pristine and ever-clear, but the mortal part of me covets its own recollection of their firstborn’s tithe, so here it is.
It began thus: myself seated on the high throne, remote and serene as an Eidolon made flesh should. Dearest Anatolus, consort mine, on the throne beside me, their hand warm and trembling between my own. By our feet were Nikon Artemisios, watching the proceedings with rapt attention, and Timaeus Berenice, my little victory-bringer, wide-eyed with wonder as my eldest stepped onto the dais to face their destiny.
They are both still so young, but they too would be grown soon enough, and the names I had given them would cease to be the only ones to mark their paths.
On the dais my firstborn pledged themself to Apothesa, as I had expected, and for the same reasons I had before my ascension to the throne. Construction, to shape the future of our empire. Military might, to protect and advance the interests of our people. And history, to learn from the past so that we may have a prosperous future. A pretty bit of speech, delivered with such unyielding conviction at the tender age of twelve.
And to think even my own consort had advised against letting them take the vow this day. They forget that, though the flames of youth burn bright, it should never be feared.
Only one question remained: what name has my heir chosen to take into the world?
“In the darkness of night, I—”
Their voice faltered, teetering on the edge of panic, and for a moment I entertained the thought that perhaps my advisors were right—that I had allowed a mere child to debase our line in front of all the noble houses, weak and tender in the way of untried greenhorns who realize, too late, how ill-prepared they were for a chosen venture.
Below my throne and up on the dais, I saw that same child take a shuddering breath, opening their mouth to speak again. “In the darkness of night, I look to the warmth of our hearth for guidance. And in the brightness of day, I see our influence bloom throughout the Golden Branch sector, our noble heritage take root on distant shores across starlit seas. I see our people, every single one of us—” here their voice trembled, and did not break— “fulfilling the destiny written in our bones: to be the best of the best, to be blessed with strength in our unity. To be a people who will never want for anything. All true scions of Apostolos will bloom, ever proud and ever mighty.
“Our empire is strong, and it will grow stronger still. Upon my oath, Apostolos shall flower forevermore in a field of glittering stars!
“Under the guidance of Apothesa, sacred Eidolon on high, and blessed by the light of the Apostolosian sun, I shall be known as Euanthe from this day onward!” My firstborn declared amidst cheers, head held high in the fashion of generals, fearless and unwavering.
The presiding pontifex came forward with a wreath of blossoms. “You have chosen a splendid name worthy of a scion of House Pelagios, my prince.” They announced, my heir bending their head to accept their crown. “It is my utmost pleasure to welcome Prince Euanthe Akakios Themistokles into our covenant as the embodiment of Apothesa.”
The crowd roared its approval, and oh, how I wept with pride.
I know what they will say: it is unbecoming of the Apokine to be moored by ties of blood alone, unsightly to display one’s emotions in so public a setting. But the part of me that existed before my ascension—the fragment that will echo long after my death—will always remember the sight of my Euanthe on the dais, blooming under the setting sun’s glow.
---
When time draws near for their turn on the dais in front of all the noble houses, the youngest member of House Pelagios comes to their siblings for advice.
“You still have two years, whatever you choose will be fine,” says Sokrates, eighteen and newly named, gesturing vaguely in their older sibling’s direction. “Just promise me you won’t be like Euanthe over here.”
“We can’t all be as carefree as you.” Euanthe sniffs, drawing themself tall with a toss of their braid, not yet coiled in the style of a colossi commander under the Royal Strike Fleet. “Not everyone has the luxury to chose a name just because they like the sound of it. And what, exactly, is the problem with being like me?” They fold their arms primly across their chest, golden sash shimmering under the sunbeams of the royal garden. “What is so wrong with pledging myself to the glory of our empire? Is publicly championing our people’s dignity so offensive to your sensibilities? I will be Apokine one day, Sokrates—it’s my duty to choose a name well.”
“The problem, oh noble Apokine-to-be,” Sokrates drawls, “is that everything is just sounds like posturing with you. Are you sure people know you’re championing their dignity, and not your own?”
“They’re one and the same!” Euanthe protests hotly, the metal blossoms of their rigalia jangling as they throw themselves forward with a wide gesture, startling a nearby seabird.
Timaeus Berenice intercedes with a sigh before they can begin arguing in earnest again. “I think it’s a good name.” They shrug. “Dignified. Exalted.”
“Oof! Betrayed by my favorite little fry!” Sokrates clutches at their chest, a theatrical look of indignant affront on their face.
Euanthe shoots them a smug look, and turns to smile approvingly at Timaeus Berenice. “Choose a path suitable for your station,” they say, patting their youngest sibling on the shoulder, the fierce pride in their tone the exact timbre of their royal parent’s. “Choose a name worthy of your destiny.”
Their destiny. As if such a thing is simple to decide—Euanthe doesn’t appreciate how easy they have it, they think.
“I’ll do my best,” they promise instead, and begins whittling down the list of names in their head.
ii. all metal and promises and penetralia
When Cass comes back from the Addax-Rethal spaceport with the burden of their parent’s legacy, AuDy’s remaining antenna twitches at the Arete and motions towards the expanded cargo bay with a brisk gesture. “We had to forgo an aesthetically pleasing tarp for this,” they say, appraising the weapons strapped to it. “But this is worth the inconvenience.”
They find Aria already hard at work inside, busy stripping the weapons off of a suspiciously familiar rigger and loading them onto Regent’s Brilliance. “Hey Cass!" She grins at them through the Arete’s comms interface as they steer it towards the Megalophile’s docking bay.
They smile wryly. “Looks like I’m not the only one with shiny new toys.” They tilt their head towards the plasma sword on the Brilliance’s back. “That’s Jace’s, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah!” Aria laughs, young and giddy, sounding so much like her idol in those few happy moments during the war. “Isn’t it great? I had a chat with Tea, and she gave it to me along with her Queen Custom.”
Ah, so that’s why the modified rigger looks so familiar. “I’m glad you have it.” They say, and hope they have a suitable answer ready for when she asks about the Arete.
She bites her lip on the comms screen, and they can see the Brilliance tilting its head towards the Arete through the viewport, but Aria stays quiet on the subject. Instead, they spend the next hour working side by side comfortably, humming snatches of old songs and reworking them into new melodies.
After their mechs are safely strapped in and both of them out of their respective cockpits, Aria throws an arm around their back in a hug. “Cass, I’m sorry for you loss,” she murmurs into their cape.
They stiffen, but she clings tighter, determined to make this work until they relent, leaning their head on top of hers with a sigh. “Don’t be.” There wasn’t anything she could’ve done about it.
Still. They remember Sokrates’s smile, wan and tired and so, so small. The brief note attached to the Arete, its curving script laced with resignation and unyielding integrity. The way Euanthe, hair coiled with royal lilies and spine stiff with contemptuous discomfort, had looked at them for a split second before sliding their gaze away, stoney-faced.
The first time they see their family in the better part of ten years, and all they get is a death, a sad smile, a note, and an inscrutable look.
Aria frowns up at them, radiating concern, and. It isn’t Aria’s responsibility to look after them—it’s Cass’s job to make sure the plan comes together, every piece in its place, and it’s their place to patch people up after the dust settles, not Aria’s.
“Cass—” she starts, hesitant, and the sound of groaning metal behind them cuts her off. The cargo bay doors creak open to reveal the mercenary Aria invited aboard, torn between bewilderment and deep annoyance, and a wary but enthusiastic Mako chatting up a storm at her side.
Aria rolls her eyes at the pair. “I better save Mako from getting maimed,” she sighs, shaking her head fondly before turning earnest eyes back to Cass. “You’ll come get me if you need anything though, right?”
“Of course.” They shrug at her. She gives them a searching look and, apparently satisfied, turns towards the newcomers.
“Hi Aria,” Mako chirps as Aria approaches to collect the mercenary and continues on her way out of the cargo bay, her robotic hand on one of the woman’s gigantic chrome arms. He blinks, shoulders drooping a little as Aria disappears with her guest around the hallway. “Oh. Bye Aria!”
Cass nods in acknowledgement. “Mako.”
“Hey buddy, what’s up with—wooooah nice,” Mako whistles up at the Arete. “That’s a big boy right there!”
Cass looks at their new colossus. As a child, the Arete had always seemed majestic and imposing, the distillation of their parent’s might given physical form. Now only the latter quality remains, for completely different reasons. “It sure is.”
Mako taps his feet when they don’t say anything else, launching forward to knock his shoulder against Cass, and nearly falls over from the momentum. “Whoops, my bad!” His laugh reminds them of the flock of silver fish in the royal gardens, flashing fins glancing the surface under the sun. “Sorry Cass.”
They rub at their arm. Mako’s never been a heavy hitter—they have Audy for that—but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt. “What was that for?”
“Nothing!” He throws up his arms reflexively. “Just… y’know.” He tilts his head over to Cass with a conspiratorial glance. “I heard about the family drama.”
Ah. Of course. “Yeah,” they shrug, “it’s not exactly a surprise.” A lie, though it becomes less of one the more they think about it.
“I mean, it’s nice of your big sib to give you this hugeass fancy mech, though I guess also kinda messed up?” Mako nibbles on his nails idly with a thoughtful hum. “Cause they like. Possibly maybe killed your parent most likely. But hey!" He brightens up. “Your parent’s kiiiiind of a huge dick, so. It’s probably a good thing?” He glances over and flinches, wilting under Cass’s glare. “Nevermind! Sorry.”
Cass sighs, lowering their eyes. “No, you’re right. Their policies led to the doom of Apostolos, and they weren’t much of a parent. But I wish—” They shut their eyes, hating the traitorous hitch in their voice. They have been dead—or as good as—in their parent’s eyes for almost a decade now, but it's different on the other side.
There’s also the fact that they’re still having trouble summoning the anger and disgust they should feel towards Sokrates, and they’re starting to doubt they ever will.
They aren’t sure how they feel about that realization either.
“Hey.” They could sense Mako hovering over their shoulder, his voice taking on the nervous pitch that means he’s getting worried and trying to dig his way out of trouble. “Why don’t we go uhh see what’s for dinner, huh?”
They grit their teeth. Their crew is fleeing a planet with an active Divine. They should be making back-up plans to get past Detachment. Or better yet, thinking of ways to permanently disable it. They should be researching alternate routes into September, in case local authorities had strengthened security since the time they ran a raid against their shipment lines. There is no time to dwell on useless things. “I’m fine, Mako.”
“Sure,” Mako gives them a pat on the back. “Whatever you say, pal.”
“Mako, I’m fine.”
“Yeah, I know.” He drapes an arm around their shoulders and steers them towards the door. “Anyways, I’m totally serious about that dinner thing. I dunno about you, but I’m one hundred percent bonafide starving right now, so let’s raid the fridge and bug Orth to get us some of the good stuff before we jet.”
“I—yeah, sure.” In the time they went under, the Apostolosian Empire is gone and the Consolidated Counterweight Technocracy dissolved. Who knows what is waiting for them on September? Who knows what Counterweight would be like the next time they set foot on its shores again?
So why not, Cass thinks, and lets Mako lead them to the tiny cubby they call a kitchen, chattering the entire way.
---
Weeks later, after the goddamn dumpster fire that is the September Institute and on the way back home -- back to Counterweight -- they catch Mako staring at his hands in an abandoned corner of the ship, a lost look on his face.
“Mako,” they say, and instantly regret the decision to open their mouth.
Mako looks up then, vacant desolation flickering into his trademark grin like a second skin in the mesh. “Oh hey Cass,” he hops to his feet with a cheery wave, “what’cha doing here buddy?”
“I…” They wish Koda is here to do this instead. Or Sokrates. They always know what needs to be heard—
(I’m not the heir so it’ll be fine, and so will you. Leave the political posturing to Euanthe and be who you’re meant to become, bright scales.
I can’t step aside and watch as we obliterate a quarter of the sector -- and for what? For a war that had always been about conquest instead of protecting our people? No. Blind loyalty only leads to ruin. I will do everything in my power to stop your deadly weapon.
The Arete is yours; I hope it serves you better than it had ever served our parent. Please be safe, Cass. I love you. I wish it didn’t have to come to this.
Cass, I can’t—I can’t lose another one of you. I love you, and I’ll see you soon.)
—Hell, they’d even take Euanthe right now, with their brusque insistence to push and get results. But, as is the case for the larger part of a decade, there is only Cassander Timaeus Berenice, the exile no-longer-a-prince of Apostolos.
“It's nothing.” They shake their head at Mako’s quirked brow, filing the guarded look that had crept into his eyes away for a later day. They bite at their lip—are they actually going to do this?
But… They’ve come this far and lost so much already (the wrong person in the pilot’s seat Aria’s brittle smile as she hovers next to Paisley Mako’s eyes further than even the distant stars) what else have they got to lose?
So why not, Cass thinks, and plunges ahead. “... How are you holding up, Mako?”
Mako snorts. “Me? I’ve never been better, you worrywart.” He winks and flexes his (not particularly impressive) biceps. “You got me all checked up after the big fight, remember? And anyway!” He continues with a clap before Cass could get in a word edgewise, “I just remembered that I really should walk the octodog, y’know? The poor lil’ guy’s bound to get lonely and—hey, I got an idea! Let’s go get the others.”
“Mako --”
“C’mon Cass! Race ya to the cockpit!” He spins past them, cackling wildly. The metal plating of the Kingdom Come’s hallways groan feebly under his feet as he dashes away, Cass chasing after him.
They never do manage to have that conversation.
iii. aspirations greater than
From the private correspondences of Princess-Regent Maxine Ming, the Third of Her Name, recovered 1320 years posthumously:
My dearest Cassander,
The trip back home was, pardon my language, a complete snoozefest thanks(?) to you-know-who. I hear your friend is doing quite well for himself; he and his compatriots have the compliments of my security detail.
I must admit, meeting your family wasn’t what I thought it’d be like, though in many ways it was exactly what I had expected. From the way you spoke of them, I know Sokrates is warm and compassionate, and that you admire them a lot. It had not, however, prepared me for the closeness they share with their Divine.
Remember how we’d sit through hours of lectures, learning how to finesse our way into the fissure between a Divine and their Candidate?
…Sorry, nevermind. Your enrollment in House White Star would’ve been under different circumstances, in any case, had any of that actually happened. The entangled mesh of our friendship still catches me off guard sometimes, and it is a comfort to discover that some things about Cassander Timaeus Berenice is constant: you spar for relaxation, cook a mean dish of squid-ink pasta, and are one of the most capable people I’ve ever known. Shush. I know what you’re going to say, and I’m telling you what I just said is the truth, even if you don’t believe it.
Anyway. The way Professor Ein used to drone on and on about how there’s always a degree of separation between Divines and Candidates, no matter how codependent they are, makes me think he’s never actually met any Candidates in person. Or maybe Integrity demands a level of intimacy that few other Divines require. It wasn’t as if I had met many Candidates myself either.
There’s something about your other sibling too, the one with the sash? You mentioned they can be standoffish, but—I’m not sure what’s going on exactly, but speaking with them almost feels like I’m trying to connect a cable without the right port. I understand the words coming out of their mouth just fine, and yet I can’t help but feel like I’m missing the right frequency to truly open a dialogue with them.
The one thing I didn’t miss was the significant looks they were giving us the entire time we hung out in the imperial gardens (although I guess they aren’t exactly imperial anymore). I’m not sure whether they think they’re being subtle, or if staring intently at visiting dignitaries is just a thing they like to do?
Your friend now and always,
Maxine Ming
Maxine,
Given the skirmishes along the borders of the Free States, I can’t help but be relieved at the lack of excitement on your way back to the Principality of Kesh. As uneventful as your commute was—believe me, I know how dull interstellar travel could be—I’m glad you had safe passage and have arrived back home unharassed.
I hope Mako hasn’t been causing too much trouble—but then again, he usually gets himself out of it just fine. Still, please keep an eye out for him if you can.
Do not speak of Euanthe to me. They’ve been spending all their time alternating between debating the minutiae of who constitutes as a “true scion of Apostolos” with the council, and lecturing me on the duties of being Apokine—specifically, about arranging a politically advantageous match. How Sokrates bore their tirades with such patience I do not know.
The Demarchy is so young, and there is so much we must do to for it to thrive. And yet all Euanthe cares about is bethrothing me to a suitable house. As if we don’t have a million other priorities on our plate. As if they know the first thing about making advantageous matches, when the only thing they have mastered is how to stay bitter and miserable.
Well. Perhaps that’s unfair. They weren’t solely responsible for the outcome of the war, much less who lived or died during its course. But it is frustrating. How can someone bred for statecraft fail to grasp the precarious situation we are in? Or rather, how can they cling doggedly to outdated ideals and protocols, knowing full well it no longer applies to the world we inhabit now?
Stubborn pride, I suppose; they had always taken after our royal parent in temperament, if not in looks.
As for Sokrates… The metal behemoths of the Diaspora devastated what once was Apostolosian territory. We had lost so much back in the war, but without those losses the Demarchy could not exist now. Perhaps all of it was necessary for Apostolos to progress, and its citizens to thrive. Still, to see that thing in my sibling’s veins is unsettling, to say the least. It brings back some unpleasant memories. But it is pointless to act on irrelevant grudges, and Sokrates deserves the best I can be, so I will try.
Yours,
Cassander Timaeus Berenice
P.S. There are just some things on which we can agree to disagree.
---
The ascension of Cassander Timaeus Berenice begins with their name flashing across the screens in Sokrates’s office, a sibling on each side.
Sokrates beams at them, ever the optimist. “Congratulations, bright scales.”
“It would be a lie to say I do not begrudge any of this,” Euanthe says stiffly as they take in the results. “But it is for the best.” They smile wryly at the others’ surprised expressions. “Political posturing, remember? We all know Cassander must be the one who takes the throne—”
“Not a throne.” Sokrates corrects automatically, to which Euanthe only responds with a dismissive scoff.
“Pure semantics, but have it your way.” They gesture at the screens. “Cassander is the only one who could realistically take what used to be the throne… You and I both know there will be blood in the streets otherwise.”
This, unfortunately, is probably the truth: the public adores Cassander for bringing the Apokine home, returning a vital piece of Apostolos’s proud legacy to its shores, and their status as a scion of the once-royal household will soothe the traditionalists, much like Sokrates’s own appointment had…
Wait. “Is the lottery rigged?” Cass can’t help but ask, eyeing the seam on Sokrates’s neck where Integrity begins.
“Of course not,” Sokrates reassures them with a gentle gentle tug of their short, fraying braid. “To do so would betray the principles of the Demarchy.”
“The outcome is random.” Euanthe agrees, looking pained at the admission. “Against all common sense leaving the future of our nation to a fickle stroke of luck though it may be. We are fortunate this time.” They sigh, massaging their temples as is common whenever they spend a prolonged amount of time in Sokrates’s presence, and their voice grows quiet in the way faithful pilgrims' prayers do. “I may disagree with the tenets of your Demarchy, but I have no desire for civil unrest. Our people have lost too much already—they should not take up arms against one another.”
“On this we agree.” Sokrates nods solemnly, and turns to smile at their youngest sibling. “Are you ready, bright scales?”
“Yes,” they say, taking a deep breath; the last breath they would take simply as Cass, or even Cassander, for the foreseeable future. “I am.”
---
In the end—pinning the first Divine to a sinking planet, writhing and shrieking, with the exhaustion of a slow death creeping up their spine and the sun’s glare on their face—the last remaining scion of House Pelagios marks their destiny.
(Rigour, after all, was only ever a machine; and no one is an only child on Apostolos.)