The Promethead

Traejan extended a hand in invitation. Althea nodded, followed him across the room. Just one more meal, and the way she moved was smoother, more sure. Nevertheless, that kind of resilience was on a totally different scale from taking on the vast numbers of bots and flyers he'd expected roamed the south.

Her eyes darted about, to scrutinize him, the dome, the view beyond. He watched her as she crossed her arms, gazed out at the ice, mountains; the clear sky beyond the transparent wall. The sun was falling over the snow-covered peaks – gleaming white under the pale blue. She turned back to him, eyeing him with her cool gaze.

"It's a beautiful view," she told him. "This was a resort once, wasn't it?"

He nodded. Once.

"How did you guess?"

She shrugged.

"The way the rooms are laid out, designed. The halls, this kind of… style. I've been in places like it before."

"In the Consortia?"

"Yes," she replied in a quieter tone, turned back to the panorama.

"We needed the Consortia – your help – years ago!" he blurted out.

She turned back, with a pained, sad look on her face.

"Many worlds," she said. "Many cultures were lost. I don't think any in your century escaped the Macros. We've only learned how to destroy them recently."

"How many worlds?" he wanted to know. "How many cultures?"

She shrugged again.

"Many… many. I can't tell you the numbers; the galaxy is a very big place."

Glasses clinked; Traejan turned to see Kyso putting the tray on a table. The old man approached them with two glasses, offered one to Althea, one to him.

"They used to sky surf from here," Kyso remarked.

She nodded, but was clearly more interested in the present.

"The mechs restrict you to… north of this Ice Line?" she asked.

"Right, where the glaciers meet the tundra." Traejan was happy to accept her change of subject. "We're safe from them, up here. It's still difficult to survive. The cold, lack of food, fuel…"

"The south still has usable tech," Kyso added. "And caches of trilium – theoretically – but the mechs…"

"You never know where they will be," Traejan warned. "Or how many, or what they–"

"Traejan…" Kyso began, in a tone meant to calm him down.

Only there was nothing calming about even thinking about returning to the south. He alone had survived that last trip down there. The best-laid plans turned to disaster: the confusion, the blood, the mechs – the huge, monstrous… He closed his eyes tightly, shook his head.

Kaelin… He glanced at Althea; saw the calculating expression on her face.

"Kyso, she needs to know how dangerous it is down there." To Althea: "The last time… no one made it back, except me."

Her expression softened. "Just you."

"Yes."

"What happened?"

Traejan took a deep breath. He couldn't meet her gaze, it was too demanding, intimidating.

"There were twelve of us," he began, lifted the glass to his lips, impulsively gulped the whole thing down, felt the burning in his throat, the sudden warming in his c.h.e.s.t. He wiped his mouth, then dropped the glass, looked back at her as it bounced on the floor.

"We had weapons," he told her bitterly. "We had countermeasures. We had a plan. It didn't matter. Look, if we go down again there they will find us, they always do! You haven't faced them. You don't understand!"

He made for the tray of drinks, but she held a hand out to block him. He glared at her, angered by the act.

"Traejan." Her tone was sharp as a slap. "Do you enjoy the world you live in?"

What kind of question was that? Of course he didn't. He hated it. He was about to tell her to shove off, looked over to Kyso for support – the old man was shaking his head – turned back to the woman.

"I understand how your world is," she continued, tone hardening. "I've seen it before, ten times over. Do you want it all to be like this for the rest of your life?"

"…No." He couldn't put much strength in his response to her stinging accusation.

He looked over to Kyso, again seeing the sadness in the man's face. He turned back to Althea, wanting to say something, but not being able to put it into words.

She stepped up to him, raised a hand, thin fingers gently touching his shoulder, gripping it lightly. No woman had been that close to him in three years. Her expression had turned sympathetic, but no less adamant.

"I'm aware that going into mech country is dangerous… risky," her voice was low but firm, full of conviction. "I've faced risks before – destroyed Macros before – and I will do the same here."

He wanted to pull away, but her gaze held him there, for that long moment. Then she released his shoulder, took a step back, turned her glance to Kyso, then back at him, gaze still penetrating.

"But I cannot do it on my own." She didn't raise her voice. It didn't matter, he could feel the accusation in her words. "And if you won't help, then please point me in the direction of people who will!"

Kyso jumped in telling her that they would do anything, again offered everything they had. Traejan, shaken, shamed and angry, could only turn to stare out at the hostile wilderness, the brutal world beyond.