Father of Warzone Daughters aka Special Skills
Kept mundane in a suburban house on the edge of Yu-Shan, Byram Nills(that was not his name, but it would do, in a pinch) had been trying to help his daughter with her mathematics homework, important, since she wanted to try for public service, and academic merit would go a long way. He had been failing miserably, despite his natural aptitude for it. His wife, a member of the bureau of humanity had teased him mercilessly about it, but hadn't offered to help, either.
Typical, she was a lot better at numbers than he was. He had a special, limited set of skills. Mathematics seldom entered the equation, if you'll forgive the pun. His hulking frame, bulked up with regular exercise, looked out of place in peacetime.
It looked out of place out of armour, an acquaintance of his had said, and that acquaintance had seldom said anything without reason. Byram knew not the specific reason for this comment, but he knew the Maitre'd seldom said anything without a good reason. What he didn't know, was that he had heard the Maitre'd speak more words than anyone else, this cycle of the year.
The Chef, another acquaintance, had spoken to him, as well, advising him to get the armour repaired, immediately, should any defect be detected. The Chef had meant that literally, and that was not something Byram had understood, thinking tomorrow would be good enough. An artificer had been retained, though, and was on the way, the armour, apparently, not needing Byram's opinion the matter. Byram felt more and more things were like that, operating without his guidance or approval, and perhaps that was for the best, at some point he was going to die. He was the second oldest Sidereal currently alive, only ten years younger than Chejop Kejak, or at least, that was the official story.
He had had ten daughters, in the last three centuries, with ten different women, in different places in heaven, in different situations, in different homes. He had always taken the 'make yourself at home' command from the bureau of destiny more literally than most, and so, he was now a great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, as well as all the other great- , up to fathering this chit of a girl, this bureau of seasons hopeful, called Marcia-who-smiles-with-the-dawn Nills.
Smoke rose upon the sky in heaven, at sun down, and all was well in the Nills household, whom he had called Marcia. "Marcia, did you do your homework?"
"Yes, I did?"
"And did you clean up your room, like I told you to?"
"I did, Daddy!"
"Well, Mommy didn't' ask me, but she thinks you and her should go on Phoenix Lake for an outing this weekend, since you've been good..."
"I have been good Daddy!" She looked more hurt by Byram's doubt than hopeful for time with her mother, but that was a feint. Both parents lavished time and affection on the girl, and time away meant time to work on one relationship or the other, always a blessing. Bryan bottled a sigh, he didn't want to limit the girl or his wife, but this felt railroaded. This smacked of the bureau of heaven's involvement. The special convention was being called.
Byram hated the very thought. He only had some limited skills, those skills were only useful when the situation was so dire, usually new titles would be added to the roll of history and new words added to the lexicon of normal people, lest they forget how to prevent such from reoccurring again. When Arcadelt was on an organization's speed-dial, what was normal became strange and unusual.
Byram was holding favours from Incarnae, from higher-level gods, from entire bureaus of heaven, for situations he had solved, from problems he had facilitated a solution to, not to say, he had solved them all. But those who proffered these tokens of favour, those markers of debt, cared not, or more properly, felt their debt covered not just Byram's involvement, but everyone involved's contributions. Heaven could afford to be inclusive, after all. And better to be in debt for your god-child being alive, than the alternative, or for your hostage being slain, or ... There were a thousand stories like this, down Byram's ledgers, he didn't need to enumerate them all. Without him, heaven's ledgers would have run red.
Maybe half the stories didn't involve just Byram, some of them involved just The Special Convention.
Byram didn't want to even think about that, but, the convention had sent his wife and daughter away, he would probably have no choice. Oh-oh, perhaps he could spend time with his grand-daughters, or even his older daughters, the ones' who'd given him daughters...
A whole day later, sending letters, messengers, IAM prompts. Byram realized, maybe this isn't just training... He needed have bothered, the Bureau's heavies were more thorough than he gave them credit for.
He was being watched. The Chef, and the Maitre'D, the Distiller and the Brewer all gave a thought to contacting him, to getting him ready for a 'special convention'. None of them owed him favours, he thought, which put them in a small minority of heaven's hierarchy. One of them did, but it was a secret, and it wouldn't be allowed to stop him from joining this special venture. This convention might mean the future of reality, it could not be gainsaid. It could not be parlayed. A thousand regular markers would not have equalled this, one could only break the loom once. Once it was broken, Fate, Samsara, Destiny, would no longer be what had been ordained. That was intolerable. Once you break the rudder of the ship of fate, there is no going back. Battles would occur, but their tallies would not matter. Millions could die, but to no purpose or result. Secrets would unfold, but knowing, or not knowing them, would not change anything. The wrong people could know, but it wouldn't affect any outcome. Or outcomes could be affected by secrets people didn't know. The sages debate whether or not causality is preserved, but none have made any sense, so far. Endings would occur, but they would not end necessarily anything. Beings, organizations, sequences, would go on. Things that had not been ended would cease. Serenity, peace, you could call it anything, but it would not settle matters. Peace without harmony, not fighting would not mean lack of enmity. A permanent cold war. Journeys could be started, but they would not necessarily end, they would not necessarily take you anywhere. There would not be a start, nor an end, not points in between. Fate had to go on, Fate had to 'mean something', and these five special operatives, one for each maiden, had been especially chosen, out of twenty such specialists. Byram hated himself for being the representative of Mars at these gatherings. He hated the death tolls, he hated being the one with the codes that would unleash the Soulbeaker Orbs, the Five-Metal Shrikes, should one be required. Being the big guy in this audience wasn't what it meant in other groups, where his physical prowess might have carried the day. Even if in this particular group of five, he was the second biggest. And the 'The Maidens Will Disavow any knowledge of your actions' bit? It made him ill. Then he looked at the others. Fire without smoke, none knew much about him, but they were of an age, remembering their participation in the debates about what became the usurpation. He'd had a face then, at least to fellow sidereals, now he looked like they imagined they looked to mortals. It was disconcerting to talk to 'nothing' and have it talk back. If only he'd known he wasn't talking to Fire without smoke, but to Breeze blowing out smoke through a Sakura Grove, the taste of Rain. Yule delivery without subtlety was a young pup, eager, but skilled. He could drive that angry machine to the precision and agility that would make a cloud jealous, and had done so in Byram's sight multiple times. Equilibrium of a Soap Bubble always smoothed ruffled feathers back the way they were. None knew where they'd been, except that it'd been improved by their passing, Joy brought. If only she wasn't both Byram's ex and therapist. To say that had been a spectacular kerfluffle was an understatement. The Special Convention was kept under tight wraps. That meant any kind of kerfluffle would be flattened, flattened with extreme prejudice, if need be. Then came Friendships Broken. Byram wanted to be his friend, he was a positive giant in combat, someone you really wanted on your side. But he had the emotional maturity of a newborn minnow. Everything seemed to surprise and alarm him. It was very taxing. Byram couldn't know that was the result of him being part of the sub-bureau of uncompromised decisions, an abstract bureau if there was one, and one tasked with taking decisions totally logically, totally rationally. Rumours had it he was actually its head, but that honour went to one of Saturn's daughters. Someone high in the division of Serenity would have known he'd started being like this after three failed relationships, with three of Saturn's daughters. And that someone had tried to use what might have been a sorcery cast on him, to detect corrupt influences in heaven. The damage to his relationships was so extreme, Byram sometimes thought Friendships was some kind of full-time agent of the bureau of destiny, which the special convention tended not to be. "Hey big guy, steady there." Friendships broken jumped, as he tended to do whenever someone tried to reassure him, it was uncanny. Not that with that armor of his, he had any reason to be timid. Byram wasn't sure what could even scratch that pile of magical materials from before the Usurpation, maybe one of the Sun's chosen, with a lot of time on their hands, and a grudge, and that's if they avoid the tombstone-shaped stone that served as a pectoral. Nothing Byram had seen, and he'd seen basically everything that counted as a weapon, or close enough that made no difference, had managed to do any damage to it, but Friendships was the only one who felt comfy being that slow. Byram liked to be able to move around a battlefield, if he had to be on or in one. Friendships Broken tended to do the moving, to other people. Violently. His idea of 'throwing weapons' had been demonstrated to include both his friends and his enemies. That he had thrown every single other member of the convention, in anger, was some kind of record. Of course, not everyone thrown had been thrown to do the same damage. Equilibrium of a Soap Bubble, Lack of Chemistry had been thrown into groups, and dispersed them, just with the merest flicker of their essence, of their magical might. Lack of Chemistry, especially, just walked into room, spotted a 'target', and broke that relationship. Friendships Broken had been excited to throw her into a room once, just for the change that her being thrown in represented, versus her walking into place. Lack of chemistry knew better. Lack of chemistry actually was the closest approximation to a friend Friendships Broken currently had. Lack of Chemistry was Friendships Broken's therapist. Just like Equilibrium of a Soap Bubble was Special Skills's, and Sophia was Fire without smoke's. Extra therapists had been picked, mostly from the Bureau of Destiny, Division of Serenity. It wasn't an accident that the most messed up operatives had the therapists who were fellow agents. It was a distraction though, an inefficiency, and the bureaus, the directorates, the convention itself, tried to remove it. But it couldn't, even in heaven, there was no such thing as perfect efficiency, not as long as the games of divinity lasted, for they predated this order of the universe, remembered how and when it had been different, and resented it powerfully. The cosmos had rules, heaven had rules, Creation, had rules, they 'mostly' worked. Love Conquers All, the newest member of the convention, had been assigned to no one as a therapist yet, this surprised Byram, who assumed any Serenity had credentials for that. He was wrong, Love conquers all had her own problems, and needed more therapy than her colleagues, and was often in suspended animation, while her therapists recovered.
He was being watched. The Chef, and the Maitre'D, the Distiller and the Brewer all gave a thought to contacting him, to getting him ready for a 'special convention'. None of them owed him favours, he thought, which put them in a small minority of heaven's hierarchy. One of them did, but it was a secret, and it wouldn't be allowed to stop him from joining this special venture. This convention might mean the future of reality, it could not be gainsaid. It could not be parlayed. A thousand regular markers would not have equalled this, one could only break the loom once. Once it was broken, Fate, Samsara, Destiny, would no longer be what had been ordained. That was intolerable. Once you break the rudder of the ship of fate, there is no going back. Battles would occur, but their tallies would not matter. Millions could die, but to no purpose or result. Secrets would unfold, but knowing, or not knowing them, would not change anything. The wrong people could know, but it wouldn't affect any outcome. Or outcomes could be affected by secrets people didn't know. The sages debate whether or not causality is preserved, but none have made any sense, so far. Endings would occur, but they would not end necessarily anything. Beings, organizations, sequences, would go on. Things that had not been ended would cease. Serenity, peace, you could call it anything, but it would not settle matters. Peace without harmony, not fighting would not mean lack of enmity. A permanent cold war. Journeys could be started, but they would not necessarily end, they would not necessarily take you anywhere. There would not be a start, nor an end, not points in between. Fate had to go on, Fate had to 'mean something', and these five special operatives, one for each maiden, had been especially chosen, out of twenty such specialists. Byram hated himself for being the representative of Mars at these gatherings. He hated the death tolls, he hated being the one with the codes that would unleash the Soulbeaker Orbs, the Five-Metal Shrikes, should one be required. Being the big guy in this audience wasn't what it meant in other groups, where his physical prowess might have carried the day. Even if in this particular group of five, he was the second biggest. And the 'The Maidens Will Disavow any knowledge of your actions' bit? It made him ill. Then he looked at the others. Fire without smoke, none knew much about him, but they were of an age, remembering their participation in the debates about what became the usurpation. He'd had a face then, at least to fellow sidereals, now he looked like they imagined they looked to mortals. It was disconcerting to talk to 'nothing' and have it talk back. If only he'd known he wasn't talking to Fire without smoke, but to Breeze blowing out smoke through a Sakura Grove, the taste of Rain. Yule delivery without subtlety was a young pup, eager, but skilled. He could drive that angry machine to the precision and agility that would make a cloud jealous, and had done so in Byram's sight multiple times. Equilibrium of a Soap Bubble always smoothed ruffled feathers back the way they were. None knew where they'd been, except that it'd been improved by their passing, Joy brought. If only she wasn't both Byram's ex and therapist. To say that had been a spectacular kerfluffle was an understatement. The Special Convention was kept under tight wraps. That meant any kind of kerfluffle would be flattened, flattened with extreme prejudice, if need be. Then came Friendships Broken. Byram wanted to be his friend, he was a positive giant in combat, someone you really wanted on your side. But he had the emotional maturity of a newborn minnow. Everything seemed to surprise and alarm him. It was very taxing. Byram couldn't know that was the result of him being part of the sub-bureau of uncompromised decisions, an abstract bureau if there was one, and one tasked with taking decisions totally logically, totally rationally. Rumours had it he was actually its head, but that honour went to one of Saturn's daughters. Someone high in the division of Serenity would have known he'd started being like this after three failed relationships, with three of Saturn's daughters. And that someone had tried to use what might have been a sorcery cast on him, to detect corrupt influences in heaven. The damage to his relationships was so extreme, Byram sometimes thought Friendships was some kind of full-time agent of the bureau of destiny, which the special convention tended not to be. "Hey big guy, steady there." Friendships broken jumped, as he tended to do whenever someone tried to reassure him, it was uncanny. Not that with that armor of his, he had any reason to be timid. Byram wasn't sure what could even scratch that pile of magical materials from before the Usurpation, maybe one of the Sun's chosen, with a lot of time on their hands, and a grudge, and that's if they avoid the tombstone-shaped stone that served as a pectoral. Nothing Byram had seen, and he'd seen basically everything that counted as a weapon, or close enough that made no difference, had managed to do any damage to it, but Friendships was the only one who felt comfy being that slow. Byram liked to be able to move around a battlefield, if he had to be on or in one. Friendships Broken tended to do the moving, to other people. Violently. His idea of 'throwing weapons' had been demonstrated to include both his friends and his enemies. That he had thrown every single other member of the convention, in anger, was some kind of record. Of course, not everyone thrown had been thrown to do the same damage. Equilibrium of a Soap Bubble, Lack of Chemistry had been thrown into groups, and dispersed them, just with the merest flicker of their essence, of their magical might. Lack of Chemistry, especially, just walked into room, spotted a 'target', and broke that relationship. Friendships Broken had been excited to throw her into a room once, just for the change that her being thrown in represented, versus her walking into place. Lack of chemistry knew better. Lack of chemistry actually was the closest approximation to a friend Friendships Broken currently had. Lack of Chemistry was Friendships Broken's therapist. Just like Equilibrium of a Soap Bubble was Special Skills's, and Sophia was Fire without smoke's. Extra therapists had been picked, mostly from the Bureau of Destiny, Division of Serenity. It wasn't an accident that the most messed up operatives had the therapists who were fellow agents. It was a distraction though, an inefficiency, and the bureaus, the directorates, the convention itself, tried to remove it. But it couldn't, even in heaven, there was no such thing as perfect efficiency, not as long as the games of divinity lasted, for they predated this order of the universe, remembered how and when it had been different, and resented it powerfully. The cosmos had rules, heaven had rules, Creation, had rules, they 'mostly' worked. Love Conquers All, the newest member of the convention, had been assigned to no one as a therapist yet, this surprised Byram, who assumed any Serenity had credentials for that. He was wrong, Love conquers all had her own problems, and needed more therapy than her colleagues, and was often in suspended animation, while her therapists recovered.
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