It does not belong. Here there should be bodies mounded between the wrecks of ships that once sailed the stars. Here there should be the death and dirt and blood of a successful op. There should be moons disintegrating overhead, ships aflame in orbit.
There should not be a sheet of cream-colored paper, clean save a single line in a long, trailing hand: Burn before reading.
Red likes to feel. It is a fetish. Now she feels fear. And eagerness.
She was right.
She searches shadows for her hunter, her prey. She hears infrasonic, ultrasound. She thirsts for contact, for a new, more worthy battle, but she is alone with the corpses and the splinters and the letter her enemy left.
It is a trap, of course.
Vines curl through eye sockets, twine past shattered portholes. Rust flakes fall like snow. Metal creaks, stressed, and shatters.
It is a trap. Poison would be crude, but she smells none. Perhaps a noovirus in the message—to subvert her thoughts, to seed a trigger, or merely to taint Red with suspicion in her Commandant’s eyes. Perhaps if she reads this letter, she will be recorded, exposed, blackmailed for use as a double agent. The enemy is insidious. Even if this is but the opening gambit of a longer game, by reading it Red risks Commandant’s wrath if she is discovered, risks seeming a traitor be she never so loyal.
The smart and cautious play would be to leave. But the letter is a gauntlet thrown, and Red has to know.
She finds a lighter in a dead soldier’s pocket. Flames catch in the depths of her eyes. Sparks rise, ashes fall, and letters form on the paper, in that same long, trailing hand.
Red’s mouth twists: a sneer, a mask, a hunter’s grin.
The letter burns her fingers as the signature takes shape. She lets its cinders fall.
Red leaves then, mission failed and accomplished at once, and climbs downthread toward home, to the braided future her Agency shapes and guards. No trace of her remains save cinders, ruins, and millions dead.
The planet waits for its end. Vines live, yes, and crickets, though no one’s left to see them but the skulls.
Rain clouds threaten. Lightning blooms, and the battlefield goes monochrome. Thunder rolls. There will be rain tonight, to slick the glass that was the ground, if the planet lasts so long.
The letter’s cinders die.
The shadow of a broken gunship twists. Empty, it fills.
A seeker emerges from that shadow, bearing other shadows with her.
Wordless, the seeker regards the aftermath. She does not weep, that anyone can see. She paces through the wrecks, over the bodies, professional: She works a winding spiral, ensuring with long-practiced arts that no one has followed her through the silent paths she walked to reach this place.
The ground shakes and shatters.
She reaches what was once a letter. Kneeling, she stirs the ashes. A spark flies up, and she catches it in her hand.
She removes a thin white slab from a pouch at her side and slips it under the ashes, spreads them thin against the white. Removes her g
love, and slits her finger. Rainbow blood wells and falls and splatters into gray.
She works her blood into the ash to make a dough, kneads that dough, rolls it flat. All around, decay proceeds. The battleships become mounds of moss. Great guns break.
She applies jeweled lights and odd sounds. She wrinkles time.
The world cracks through the middle.
The ash becomes a piece of paper, with sapphire ink in a viny hand at the top.
This letter was meant to be read once, then destroyed.
In the moments before the world comes apart, she reads it again.
* * *