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Footfall always smells of promethium. It didn’t matter how far one got from the void docks: from the doors of the seedy dive bar to the banquet table of the Liege’s palace, the stink of fuel lingered. When Incendia had first arrived it had grated on her senses and nerves. Any time she heard the ignition click of a flamer, she half expected the entire station to go up in well-deserved flame.
Now, however, she is grateful for it. It drives the taste of grey matter from her tongue.
Collista watches her out of the corner of her eye as they leave the liege’s palace, as they walk over the rockcrete Incendia held her tribunal on. She says nothing, makes no movement towards Incendia. Incendia had been prepared to accept the judgment of Footfallians, bound to afford her as little mercy as she had given them. But Collista had insisted. So Incendia wore a mask.
She still harbors doubts as to whether the mask—brass, simple, akin to what that death cultist wore—is strictly necessary. Without its layer of powder, the pocks and blushes of her skin create a far different face than the chalk-white one she had worn before. Her hair had grown for several years now, after she had shaved it all off. It was long once more, but it will never be sculpted into the kinds of arrangements she had worn before. Instead, Incendia pulls it all to the back of her skull and knots it there, so she does not have to look at it any more than she has to.
So she scarcely looked like any woman who believes herself fit to rule. But Collista had disagreed. “Yours isn’t the sort of face one forgets,” she had said, smiling like there was a joke Incendia wasn’t aware of. Incendia could do nothing but believe her.
They pass through the square, towards the narrow transit streets that connect the different parts of station. Gas fumes from idling vehicles dislodge gummy meat from between her teeth. Incendia sees a flash of von Valancius livery through the crowd.
Secrecy has certainly made their business much smoother. Tocara is one of the only people who knows that Incendia has returned to Footfall. He only suffers her presence because she has returned a neutered, tethered thing. A rogue trader turned seneschal for a competing dynasty. Incendia thinks that rather endears Collista to him all the more. He must believe this is a punishment.
Incendia holds the car door open for Colliista, and slides in after her. He has renewed the von Valancius dynasty exclusive shipping contract with Footfall for the next ten years, with minimal concessions. If him believing that she is suffering nets the dynasty greater profit, well. Incendia is simply being good at her job.
-
Collista directs the driver not towards the docks, but rather deeper into the station. The strips of floodlight lumens become rarer on walls and overhangs. They are at the threshold of Footfall’s shadow quarters when the driver stops. Incendia hurries to open the door for Collista. Her Rogue Trader passes her with a nod, heading to the nearest building.
As Incendia follows her, she peers through the gaps in the mesh grid holding this part of the station aloft. She catches a glimpse of red neon, and hears snatches of laughter and glass bottles. The Adeptus Amasecus.
Then, they are through the doors. Plaster columns with peeling gold paint, a glissando played on the harp, the smell of promethium replaced by something floral and inoffensive. They’ll be staying at a spa, then. And any of the Kasballicans down below who wish to make their own deals with the Rogue Trader may call on her up here. At her own discretion.
“And I could use a massage,” Collista says. Her servants hurry her luggage through the suite, into her bedroom, and then scramble to situate themselves. “It’s been ages since I last got off the ship.”
“I’m afraid our tour of the segmentum will have to continue apace. If you don’t capitalize on the vacuum Winterscale left, someone else will.”
Collista turns back to her and starts slightly. With a sigh, she reaches out and plucks loose the cord holding the mask to Incendia’s face.
“Anyone who comes here knows better,” she says. Incendia nods. Collista places the mask in her hands and Incendia turns it over, unsure what to do with the thing. Collista was the one who got it for her.
“I know,” Collista says. She settles into the lounge area afforded to the suite. She takes the datapad Incendia holds out to her without looking. “But Winterscale’s demesne faces internal threats, not just external ones. After we’re done at Janus, we should head east.”
“And then you can get lost in one of the agriworlds for another few weeks?”
Collista starts and laughs. “That was before your time! Has that entered Abelard’s rotation of anecdotes? Or,” Collista grins up at her, “Were you asking him what happened down there?”
Oh, for a layer of white powder, oh, for her mask. Her face is bare and she can feel her cheeks burning. “I do not recall how the topic came up,” she says stiffly.
Still smiling, Collista sets down the dataslate. There is a pastel ceramic statue of some marine animal on the table, echoing the piscine creatures glazed on the floor tiles. Collista picks it up and turns it this way and that.
“Do you know what animal this is? I feel like I’ve seen it before.”
“I haven’t,” Incendia says. “We’ve received no warnings from the Arbitrator squads patrolling the former Winterscale systems.” Collista sets down the statue and run her fingers through her hair, exposing gray roots in black curls. Incendia has not been keeping up with her rejuvenat regimens. She wonders if she will be growing her own grays, soon.
“You still don’t trust the Arbites?” Incendia asks.
“I trust Solomorne to establish a unified force. But I don’t trust the officers under his command, who would use a tumultuous system as a cover for a coup.”
“I agree, which is why I took the liberty of dispatching a small contingent of the von Valancius guard to Marshall Anthar’s personal service. An added layer of security, and a reminder of your favor.”
“You did that?” Collista asks softly. Incendia nods. “Thank you. I—”
She trails off, which is fine. Incendia rarely needs her to finish her sentences anymore.
“Of course, your Ladyship. When we arrive at Janus, we can send an Astropathic message to Marshall Anthar on Grantis as well.”
“Yes.” Collista clears her throat and stands, shrugging off her coat as she does. “I’m going downstairs.” She pauses, fingers fixed on the buttons of her shirt. “I doubt the proprietors will want to get on my bad side…”
Incendia suppresses a shudder at the thought of some Footfall peasant digging their knuckles into her bare back. “I was going to take the time to rest anyway,” she says.
Collista cocks her head, then nods. “Well. Do actually rest, Incendia. I worry that—Oh!”
“Your ladyship?”
“A dolphin!” Collista hefts up the garish statue once more. “It’s a dolphin. A terran animal. A bit ugly, don’t you think?”
“I couldn’t say.” Collista shrugs and continues undressing, and Incendia hurries to rest.
-
It is not Incendia’s intention, but she does manage to sleep after all. It ends up being very difficult for her to concentrate on work in the suite. Music and voices are just barely audible, not enough of a presence to understand but enough to itch. Every surface Incendia tries to sit on is coated in a squeaky leather. She keeps getting distracted by damned dolphins.
So she encloses herself in the enjoining room to the master bedroom, where it is dark and quiet. Collista has probably procured a real bed for her somewhere. She does not need to stay in the servant’s quarters. But she is tired of perfumed sheets and feather mattresses. She will sleep better here.
And she does, until the lights in the bedroom go on. As Incendia pulls herself loose from sleep, she hears Collista’s low laugh, and another, more melodic voice.
“—wait, wait, let me—”
A slight shriek, glass shattering. Incendia roots herself to the cot. The damp sounds of kissing.
“I missed you,” Collista says, her voice husky and just quiet enough to itch. Incendia does not know if she has heard Collista sound like this before.
“I did too,” says the woman with the lilting voice, and Incendia is almost certain of who it is when a, “shereen,” confirms it for her.
Incendia never spoke to Jae Heydari. An official trade representative in the dynasty should probably keep contact with the Lord Captain’s seneschal, but Heydari’s information always comes through the High Factotum instead. She does not truly know the woman and even if she did, she cannot judge anyone anymore. She cannot withhold grace and forgiveness from anyone, not when Collista had granted to someone as undeserving as herself.
Heydari, though, did not forgive Incendia. And Incendia had been all the more pitiable when Heydari knew her. She had left the ship a few weeks after Incendia had come aboard. Incendia had just uprooted herself from the Chorda dynasty, and nothing had yet grown to replace it. Bald, unspeaking, only eating or drinking when Collista fed her. The last image Heydari would have had of her was probably a sweet one for her. Let her keep that victory.
The feather mattress Collista and Jae lie upon is too thick and soft to make much noise. Only the occasional rustle of sheets breaks up the sighs, wet kisses, and moans coming from the other room.
Incendia does not dare move, but an image forms in her mind. The spa’s floral perfume Incendia had smelled on the way in has made its return. Heydari mutters honeyed praise for Collista’s body, Collista tells her she is beautiful. They must be dewy and clean from the spa treatments. Collista must have tended to her body just for Heydari’s pleasure.
Collista would not want Incendia to ruin this for her. If she leaves her quarters, makes her presence known, she will sour Heydari’s mood. Heydari must not know that she is here.
In the morning, Collista will know that Incendia was here.
There is pressure between her legs now. The cloth around her crotch dampens and she closes her eyes in shame. She wonders if the women in the other room can smell her wet cunt but when she closes her legs, the feeling only builds. She pulses the muscles of her core and grips the side of the cot.
Heydari’s voice has gotten higher, practically operatic. Incendia would not be surprised if she woke the neighboring suite as well.
“Yes, shereen, there, there, don’t stop—”
Collista’s answering grunt is muffled by something. Incendia wonders what she is getting from this exchange with Heydari. Heydari calls out her name, and Collista has no response.
“I missed you,” Heydari says after a moment, and finally Collista laughs.
“I have a bath. A private one. Pick out a good wine and meet me there?”
“I was just getting comfortable.”
A kiss. “It’s a nice bath.” A dramatic sigh, and footsteps. Collista remains.
Quietly, barely audibly, Collista whimpers. The click of metal confirms it for Incendia.
Collista’s most recent augment is a series of brackets along the top of her spinal column, even dashes along her skin spiked into her vertebrae. Incendia has never seen one like it before, and she is not familiar with the admech who sold it to Collista. It has never seen use but Collista never leaves her quarters without it. She goes through the painful process of removing it only for hygiene. Apparently, it is meant to prevent xenos infection of her brainstem and cerebellum.
Collista breathes heavily through the last few clicks. She opens a drawer and places the augments in it, hiding them from Heydari. In the morning, Collista will turn her back to Incendia, neck bowed, breasts bare, spine ripe. And Incendia will press the armor back into her skin.
Collista may not hold her, but she never strains to hold her. She does not bathe or primp to meet with her. She does not meet with her at all—Incendia simply flows into her presence as naturally and unobtrusively as blood running through veins, saliva pooling behind lips. She sits beside Incendia looking old, tired, worried. Even when she is at her most vulnerable, Incendia’s presence never disturbs her.
Incendia lets go of her cot and lets her legs drift apart. She slips back into sleep.