Fitzgerald Fauntleroy McCappon is not in a good place right now. Sitting at the end of the board table, his pose is much like that in the painting, complete with the top hat and monocle. But his trademark smile has been replaced by a scowl, hardly concealed from the others around him. There are shadows under his eyes, and his greying hair seems to be thinner than usual.

  The others around the table are of little comfort. The Seraphim officer maintains a stoic expression, the most respectable position he can take after such a major blunder. The guards by the door stand with weapons ready, but they too are unnerved by the strands of light that creep out from the boarded-up window. The rest of the seats are filled with nobodies. Faceless administrators with nothing to contribute but empty words. When McCappon’s assistant steps through the door, he is the only one with something that resembles answers. None of them are good.

  “Company stocks are down, though they seem to be leveling.”

  McCappon nods. “Of course.”

  “Shipping is closed.”

  “No doubt.”

  “And the hyperintelligent apes we were developing are in revolt on the island.”

  “Well that one we should have seen coming. I assume the moon situation has not changed?”

  His assistant gives a defeated nod, hugging a stack of documents against his chest. McCappon nods back with some level of acceptance. He turns to the Seraphim officer, who struggles to maintain his composure in the hot seat.

  “I hope you are making good progress on recovering the missing weapons, officer.”

  “Yes, of course,” the man says.

  “Have you the missing weapons?”

  “Uh, no, Mr. McCappon sir.”

  McCappon nods knowingly as the officer hides his face in shame. McCappon stands up from his chair, which seems to take more energy that usual. He makes a waving motion with his hand, gesturing to everyone in the room. “Well go on then, get out, the lot of you. No point in gabbing on any more if we can’t do anything about it. Might as well enjoy the party.”

     “

  “Yes, we are still lying to the guests. What are we going to do, tell them the truth, after we brought them all out here? Gods above, absolutely not. Obviously they can’t know. Obviously we lie to them. Obviously. I’m surrounded by cretins.”

  “Not that, sir. The astronomer? Maria Lisbet?” The boy is backed against the door with a terrified expression. “Solberg has returned with her, and all of the data.”

  McCappon rubs his eyes and sits back down, collapsing into his chair. “Yes, very well. Bring them in.”

  The doors open and once more McCappon is bombarded with a room full of noisy mouths. A team of physicists takes their seats on one side of the table, exchanging small talk with far too cordial a demeanor. Vilma takes the opposite side of the room, practically dragging Maria by the arm as they come to their seats. What happens next is no less a painful process than the previous meeting. The physicists pour over Maria’s notes and recordings, muttering to each other as they go. Vilma watches with a curated smile as Maria sits nervously beside her, hugging herself and sinking into the chair. Finally, one of the physicists is ready to present their conclusions.

  “Well Miss Lisbet, we are quite impressed by the level of precision in your charts. Your findings quite parsimoniously determine that it is our own planet that is moving, and not the sky itself. I also agree with your hypothesis that the moon’s awakening is due to the 338 year cycle and the alignment of the planets.”

  “And the moon’s movements?” McCappon cuts in. “Did she figure out how to predict where it will go next?”

  The physicist removes his spectacles and runs his hand over his balding head. “Well, no, but I’m afraid that’s impossible. The moon, this Skarann entity, it is operating on its own volition. We could not figure it out any better than she could, and frankly, from what I’ve seen, if anyone could have done it, it would be her.”

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  “Excellent. So you are all equally useless then. All of you are dismissed indefinitely. Now please go.” McCappon stands up once more from his chair, an irritable look on his face. He waves them all away as he did with the last group.

  With uncertain expressions, the physicists clear out of the office. Maria gets up to leave as well, but Vilma puts a hand on her shoulder, expression unchanged. The two of them watch as McCappon stumbles out of the office, now in a fit of coughing.

  “Cretins. Nothing but cretins. I ought to—” His rambling is cut off as the door slams shut.

  Vilma turns to Maria, who is still beside her. She rotates her head without shifting her position. Sitting back, Maria has the look of an animal caught in a trap, finally willing to let go and stop trying to escape. She hears the words as though they are coming from miles away.

  “Maria. We would like to thank you for everything that you have done for this company. Unfortunately, we are going to have to end your contract. Given these unprecedented circumstances, we will allow you additional time to clear out your belongings, but once the sun rises, we expect you to depart promptly. We will discuss later what to do about the money that you currently owe to the company.” She stands up and walks towards the door. Vilma gives one last saddened smile at Maria before she leaves. “I’m very sorry it came to this. I want to personally wish you best of luck in your future endeavors.”

  Then, she is gone. Maria sits in place for several minutes, taking one deep breath after another. There are no tears this time. Eventually she stands up and walks out of the room, continuing down the hall with a dazed expression.

  All around her, people in fine robes are talking and laughing, not a single care in the world. There is a levity to the entire ballroom that seems alien to her, unthinkable. She wanders down the staircase as though passing through a dream. Men in strange togas are sipping wine and eating grapes. Nobles from distant lands trade stories about suppressing revolts with the same nonchalance as one might when discuss their favorite type of cheese. Even the lizard people in dark robes seem to be having a good time, making conversation in an ancient tongue.

  Something in particular catches her eye. A man in flashy gold robes is handing out identical-looking certificates to people, who eagerly trade in their gold coins in exchange. Each document has the sigil of a star printed in the middle. Maria begins to drift in his direction, but he runs off before she can approach, disappearing out of sight.

  As though the world has shifted around her, Maria finds herself surrounded by painted canvases. The artists nearby have adopted the same high-end fashion choices as the merchants and nobles, making it hard to discern them from the crowd. She fixates on a particular piece that appears to be a single line cutting diagonally across the frame.

  “Man, art is really dumb, isn’t it?” Maria turns, startled, as Leylin approaches the canvas, clearly unimpressed. Her sword and shield are strapped to her back, depicting a life of rugged adventuring. The tattoos on her arms whisper of a mysterious source of power. She takes a meatball from her plate and pops it into her mouth, speaking with a muffled voice. “It’s a line on a canvas. That’s literally it. What will they come up with next year, lines on a canvas? Am I going crazy here? Please tell me I’m not going crazy.”

  Taken off guard, Maria struggles to formulate a response. A panicked look appears on Leylin’s face.

  “Oh crap, you’re not one of the artists, are you?”

  “No.” It feels weird to say, like that would be a possibility in the first place. Maria tries to imagine herself in such a position. It makes for an awkward image.

  “What do you do then?” Leylin asks. “You don’t exactly have the vibe of foreign royalty.”

  “I’m an astronomer. Or I was, I guess.”

  Leylin takes a moment to think, examining Maria’s face then looking off in the distance. The pieces start to come together in her head as another voice cuts across the jovial atmosphere.

  “Maria.” Vilma speaks as though she’s spitting poison. “I am incredibly disappointed with you. You should know not to attend a party that you were not invited to. You are essentially trespassing at this point.”

  Though she maintains her composure, Vilma looks like she could physically explode. Maria steps away from her, a look of fear and uncertainty bubbling up from beneath her moment of apathy. Leylin is not so concerned. She notes the brand-new robes that Vilma is wearing. She looks at the crazed look in her eyes with what is now a sort of fascination.

  “You know what?” Leylin tosses her plate to the side and swings her fist into Vilma’s face.

  The woman stumbles back in shock, clasping a hand over her bleeding lips. Without intending to, Maria laughs.

  “How you touch me. How you.” Vilma grabs her harpoon from the back of her robes and jabs it forward with a hateful expression.

  The tip of the weapon strikes against an invisible barrier as Emmitt runs up beside them. Two guards grab at his arms, and several more follow after. Leylin goes down swinging, but keeps her weapons sheathed so long as the guards do the same. Eventually she is overtaken by the numerous soldiers.

  Blood running down her chin, Vilma grabs Maria’s wrist with her free hand and directs them up the staircase towards the balcony. “We are going to sort this out once and for all.”

  Marco watches from across the hall, one hand is occupied with a tray of meatballs, while the other sits over a knife he has hidden at his belt. He locks eyes with Emmitt as they are led to the top of the stairs. Emmitt shakes his head, and Marco removes his hand from the knife. He watches as they disappear down the hallway.