2020 Annual One-Shot Anthology

A selection of short stories

This is a document that will list many one-shot stories from the Premiseverse. The majority of these stories come from the members of the Premiseverse Discord community.

LP's A/N: BEHOLD THE LEVI TIER.

Myself & Comma, Jacob and B.W's stories fall on this level.

The first story is B.W's, already posted. The second is Jacob on Maxwell.

Jacob's Note: It's easy to think of Maxwell Manswell as something less than fully human. I hope this story shows that he isn't.

Doing it in 5k or less was a hell of a challenge. Edited, as always, by the great SLotH4.

Jacob: I Remember You

Ah, meine Liebe, is it that day again? Already?

It is.

Maxwell Manswell sat awake on his bed for a few moments, gathering his thoughts and trying to focus. He deliberately shut down his non-essential augmentations, ensuring that he would have no biomechanical aid for this task beyond what was necessary to keep him alive. Not on this day.

No, today was for her, and for them, and for what they had.

He went to get out of bed.

He gasped, falling backwards onto the pillow and hitting his head on the bedrest, not hard, just enough to draw a snarl of anger, not so much at the pain as the embarrassment.

Do it again.

He lifted himself back up, tensing his core, small muscles flexing under soft skin that had been weathered by the passage of so many hard years.

A part of him actually enjoyed this. Enjoyed the interplay between discipline and motivation, enjoyed the challenge of relying on his ancient body instead of… no, not technology. Call it what it really is. 'Conveniences.' A word he usually sneered at, not a necessity for life but merely a tool.

And allowing a tool to become a luxury simply made one soft.

You will live as a man and die as a man.

Do it again.

He pushed himself, his mind willing his body to become harder and stronger, to endure – der Wille ist entscheidend – until finally he was standing by the side of his bed, panting, gray chest hairs covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

He staggered over to the next room, a small alcove – almost a shrine, really – custom-made for this purpose, the one measure of sentimentality and softness he allowed himself in this life. He slipped out of his dressing robe and put on his uniform for this day – his old boxer shorts, from when he really did box, and his faded white training singlet, both embossed with the Maxwell family crest and a small Guard of Iron logo, a legacy from when he and his friends infiltrated a Guard barracks on a dare.

Almost all of his friends were dead now, but he suspected they would be at peace with that. Once the rage and the grief passed, as all things did with the passage of time, he found something close to peace too. Or perhaps you simply became more used to carrying the weight of the dead.

Amor fati.

Except that was a lie, wasn't it?

There was her.

There was always her.

The irony of all his wealth, all his power, all his status, all of the supreme will and discipline and excellence which he prided himself on crumbling before a woman – of all things! – was not lost on him. It was, of course, the exact kind of weakness he used to relentlessly chide and mock in his father, his uncles, his brothers, and now his descendants. His friends too, though they spent damn near fifty years enjoying their revenge as they watched him enjoy his marriage.

It was strange. He never hated the Deathwatch for taking her from him that day. Never even hated the turians for it, if he was being honest. Oh, he hated them for what they did to humanity, of course, but never for what they did to him. That was simply a professional disagreement, all being fair in love and war.

But he did remember anger.

His anger always presented itself as a chilling, reptilian thing, a cold and murderous sensation that coiled around him like a serpent. In those early years he had the Broker and Cerberus and the AIS and a half-dozen less reputable parties look into the incident, looking for any hint that the Deathwatch Commander was lying and that they really had targeted her deliberately, but… no, they didn't. The demi-AI daemon they released into Earth's noosphere was ruthless and did not discriminate between civilian or military vessels, the birds never did.

He even asked the Primarch about it, decades ago.

Fedorian was at least enough of a man to give me a straight answer.

But enough of that.

This was their anniversary. It would be unbecoming for a gentleman to be in a poor mood.

He sat down in the alcove, the soft Napa leather of the custom chair enveloping him as he plugged his grayboxes into the reality matrix. The process would take a few minutes, and he looked around.

The alcove was covered in photographs of their time together, from their early years dating to their first solo space flight to the births of their children to—

Well, everything.

He smiled to himself as his eyes caught the sight of one of his favorites, a perfectly timed vid-capture of the first time he took her ice skating and she stumbled around like she was blindfolded, somehow knocking over an entire group of schoolchildren.

Most were haptic representations, but a few were real paper photographs, along with an entire library of home videos and a handful of full-sensory captures. He didn't watch those very often anymore. It was… well, now he truly understood the beauty and the horror of being a drell, of living every day with the siren call of better years beckoning you to join them forever.

Such a path would lead only to madness.

His solution was this. To allow himself a single day, each year, on which to see her again.

A green haptic light flashed three times as a cool, artificial voice sounded over the speaker, letting him know that the system was ready.

Max smiled. "Do you remember the day we met?"

New Zurich Holdfast – Bismarck Beer Hall

Four friends sit at the highest table. They are bound by blood, by duty, and by camaraderie, and tonight they are here to celebrate. The Hefeweizen flows as smoothly as the cheer and laughter.

First, in every sense of the word, is Maxwell Manswell. He needs no introduction. He is the Prince of Sol, son of Jacen – a weak man, regrettable, ja, but one should honor one's father nonetheless – and the Chosen of Victor. He is nineteen, his mind and body are iron, and he is pleased.

Second is Hugh Martinal-Lawson. His rugged features are slashed open by a warm grin. They are here to celebrate his graduation with First Class Honors from the Systems Alliance Naval Academy. The golden captain's pin on his dress uniform fights for attention with the cross around his neck. Max does not spend a great deal of time around the scions of the Second Rank, but he has to admit that Hugh has a rough charm and is not even slightly intimidated by Max's rarified position. Max finds this strangely endearing.

Third is Loran Maxima. His mood, for once unguarded, is dryly amused and amiable. Even at rest with his closest confidantes he appears perfectly composed, his poise magnificent, the only imperfection the slight bruise on his left eye from his combat training earlier that morning. He has eschewed his traditional Argentine garb, instead opting for a simple suit in midnight-blue, with white calfskin dress shoes and a tie of dazzling ivory and gold thread.

Fourth is Martel Eldfell. He makes even lounging in a bar chair seem like an act of perverse decadence. He swirls his glass of wine – a surprisingly lively Grand Cuvee from his Family's high-orbit estate – and savors each piece of sashimi as if he would never taste its like again. His suit, needless to say, is magnificent, bespoke, and at least two years ahead of even the most avant-garde aesthete in the Holdfast. He entertains them with a steady stream of cutting bon mots and social gossip.

And then there is her. He notices her the moment she enters the room, but thinks nothing of it until his friends notice him noticing her. She's clearly with the delegation from the Neo-Catholic Church but the others in her party defer to her and warp themselves around her presence even though she can't be any older than Maxwell or his friends are.

"Max, mate, go talk to her. The rest of us will help block Martel or die trying," says Hugh. The India Pale Ale – he still can't believe they actually serve it here – has loosened him up. He's normally a depressive drunk, but tonight, Maxwell notices, he's full of good cheer.

"Three to one would only make it a fair fight," says Martel. He turns to Maxwell. "At least try not to look so beguiled, like a common—"

"I've never been beguiled by anything or anyone in my life," says Maxwell, a little too quickly and he knows it, his crisp Bavarian accent adding a mocking seriousness.

Hugh and Loran trade a knowing look.

"I like it. Warms my heart to see him squirming there like it's his first time in the ring," says Hugh.

"So sorry to see that the Prince of Sol is a wilting chrysanthemum," says Loran, switching from his native Spanish to exquisite High Japanese that somehow makes his words sting even more.

Hugh turns to Loran with a crocodilian grin. "If I grow some tits and squeeze into a pretty dress, do you think he'll look at me like that? Like a saucer-eyed little pug?"

"Undoubtedly," says Loran. His voice turns sly. "Not that they make them in your size."

"Haruki could get me a discount on a custom kimono, I hope."

Maxwell tries to ignore their banter. "…I'm not beguiled. I'm interested. Slightly. Slightly interested. She's too much of a contrast to the rest of the righteous dotards in the clergy. I want to know why," he says, glaring at each of them. His glare leaves grown men pissing themselves in fear, but his friends know him too well.

Martel sighs and shrugs at the same time, before putting out his cigarette, perhaps the most Gallic thing Maxwell has ever seen. "Oh, well, this is a first, then. Très bien. Vous êtes un imbécile, mais vous êtes mon imbécile. I'll play the reprobate princeling – because what else do people expect from an Eldfell, hmm? – and you come in fifteen minutes later and play the Teutonic steel, le chevalier blanc. She swoons like they all do when we even bother to notice them, you take her to bed, you owe me a bottle of Château Pétrus and perhaps a pass at one of your servants, and we call it even. D'accord?"

Maxwell considers his options. "Einverstanden."

Martel snorts. "Was that so hard? I'll see you on the field." He leaves the table and struts over to the bar.

This is the part that he hates. The waiting. Always the waiting. Waiting for orders to be followed, waiting for events to transpire, and waiting for his will to shape the lives of others.

Waiting fifteen minutes.

He can't fault his friends' company. They make a fine effort to pass the time, and no one could ask for more. Hugh regales them with the tale of his latest hunting expedition in the Black Glassing, Loran talks of this morning's sparring session with his Guard of Iron instructors, and then Hugh insists that they try the Bismarck's famed Imperial Stout. It is, admittedly, quite good. No Bavarian Pils or a proper Riesling, but not bad.

Fifteen minutes don't go fast enough. He hates that even a sliver of his mind is counting the minutes down, like a nervous boy instead of a man of iron, a man who at a mere nineteen years sculpts his entire species as one would a slab of marble, a man who is second only to the hallowed Saint Victor himself.

It still doesn't make a difference.

Fifteen minutes.

The moment arrives, and he feels a hard surge of nervous energy, spiked with adrenaline and more lust than he would like to admit.

He assumes that this is how Hugh feels on a hunt, or how Loran feels when he wins a fight. Does Martel feel the same way? Probably not. Even now he seems almost bored by most of his conquests, but, Max thinks to himself, that's probably because they're such common stock – Martel really has no one to blame but himself. Lord only knows how jaded and cynical he'll be in thirty years.

Max enjoys sharing his bed, of course, but that is simply expected of him – people would ask too many inconvenient questions about what he really did if he wasn't seen at a soirée or public event with some glamorous woman every month or two. They could be relaxing and frankly necessary, considering the duties that consume his every waking hour, but none truly strike him as equals.

Stop.

Don't wander.

Refocus.

He does, shifting his entire mind to the moment, his senses sharpening upon command and taking in every immediate sensation within this environment.

Touch – the ribbed organic cottons of his undershirt, the sheer finery of the pure charcoal Merino wool of his suit jacket, the taunt muscles he's trained over the years, the cool beer stein in his hand, he's about to put it down.

Taste – that Hefeweizen still on his tongue, smooth malt and clove and banana notes melting together with the slick cloudy body of the brewer's yeast. The merest hint of coppery blood from his physical training earlier. He loves that. It makes him feel so alive.

Smell – his beer, the toasted chocolate malt of Hugh's stout, the delicate notes of Loran's sake, the pungent wakame atop their sashimi, the rich smoked wood of the bar and tables, the supple new leather he is wearing on his feet and the weathered old charm of the bar chairs, but above everything else, the smell of bodies.

Sweat. That was the dancing. But there is more, so much more to it. The pheromone cocktail of joy and relief and lust.

Stop.

Refocus.

Sound – the asymmetric melodies and smooth beats of the jazztronica quartet, a glorious fusion of wandering creativity and primal togetherness, the future and the past, all one heaving mass, one tribe of bodies. Conversation, ah, mein gott, the conversation, a hundred or more different voices with a hundred or more different minds behind them, each with their own needs and wants, their own fears and hopes, each here for one reason or another. Laughter and romance and intrigue and conspiracy all flowed in the words spoken in this room. He wouldn't have it any other way.

Sight – he and his friends, that was obvious, and of course her, but naturally he was trying not to look. At least a dozen of their contemporaries, perhaps two dozen of their lessers, and several dozen others. Dignitaries, diplomats, intellectuals, artists, and other creative types. Soldiers, guards, intelligence officers, killers, and worse (most of those worked for him, they just didn't know it). Perfectly drilled servants and obsequious entourages. The professional classes of the Holdfast, the engineers, the scientists, the tycoons, the traders. The highest of humanity, and he could see all of them here in this room.

There they are.

True to his word, Martel is conversing with her at the bar, and he notes with no small approval how she controls her body language. To the entire world she appears engaging and confident, but underneath it there is something harder.

You've had to fight and scramble your way up the ladder to get to this place, haven't you?

It is deliberate, and he can't help but approve. It is charm as a tool and beauty as bait, like cashmere draped over a blade. But she knows that he knows, and then for less than a second she looks directly over at him and those green eyes make him—

Stop.

Stop. He does.

Then he smiles, as one predator does to another, and strides over to them.

He looks straight at her.

"You can do better than an Eldfell."

She speaks, and her voice is sprinkled with the accent of the Irish diaspora, a warm and lilting mezzo-soprano that dances around his ears. "Can't we all do better than an Eldfell?"

Martel, making an effort to appear unfazed and succeeding brilliantly, brushes a hand across his silk lapel and turns his louche smile onto Maxwell. "Ah, Max, c'est bon de te voir ici, mais j'ai peur que le léopard le plus rapide n'obtienne le sanglier."

"Anglais ou japonais haut en parlant à vos supérieurs, Martel. Eh bien, allemand aussi, en parlant à vos conquérants," says Maxwell.

She looks amused, he thinks, but her eyes give it away. She knows and is just playing along.

This pleases him. Manipulation would be boring and pointless if it worked all the time.

Martel at least has the class and good humor to laugh, smooth bastard that he is. "Mon ami, le français est la langue des dieux, et le vin leur nectar."

She's definitely amused at their pantomime. "I'm sure you can spare me a few moments with the Prince of Sol, Martel. Besides, it's traditional for you to fall apart and flee the battlefield when he appears."

Martel just glances at Maxwell and mouths the words 'two bottles.' "Consider this my white flag, then. I'll speak to you both later. Do enjoy the party, and yourselves." He leaves.

Der feinste flügelmann den Frankreich je produziert hat. Du hast deine zweite flasche verdient.

He turns to her. "You're quite the fighter."

"Oui," she says. "Je suis une savateuse."

"You practice savate?"

Her eyes dance with mirth. "Did you figure that out all by yourself? Such a mind you have. It must be that High Lord education."

"…And just like that, the attraction vanishes," says Max, in his finest Teutonic deadpan.

She giggles, and he feels his whole body flush with warmth. He tells himself it's just the Hefeweizen. He knows that's a lie. He knows that she knows and he hates that, but he doesn't want her to stop.

She looks him up and down. "Wait. Don't tell me… you prefer to box, don't you? Like a savage."

"No wonder mon frère français noticed you first," says Max. He's rather proud that the hint of jealousy he felt never entered his voice. She may be a rare woman but that's no reason to drop his guard.

Things that are rare for the common man are common for the rare man, after all.

"Please, he's never worn the boots in his life." She sips her drink, lips leaving a delicate smear of dark red on the golden rim of the glass. "Not that most would notice. I suppose that little lie goes down quicker than the putes paysannes he likes to hit on."

Max snorts. "Martel is blunt about his virtues and vices, as they were. He can be a strong man and a weak one in the same day, but he's still my friend – what matters, objectively, is that he's dedicated to the cause."

"…'The cause'?" She raises an eyebrow. "The cause being what? Solving problems that you helped create in the first place? Bitching about how the poors have the gall to keep being poor as you sip wine worth more than their entire family? The godless aghast at a world they made without God?"

That earns her a glance from the Guards of Iron in the corners of the room, and a broad smile from Max. Why not have a little sport with it? "You're so insolent, for a poor. No doubt your lineage is an embarrassment and your curtsey even worse."

She laughs, the sound warm and throaty and delightful to the ears of everyone who hears it. "Well, at least you don't take yourself as seriously as the rest of the Lords."

"You've met the others? Which ones?" asks Maxwell. He's partly interested in her, partly in gathering additional data points on his peers, and always satisfied to combine business and pleasure in the same conversation without the other party knowing.

"Patience Ngubane and her brother are great supporters of the Church's work, particularly amongst the colonies, and Patience herself is something of a confidante of mine," she says, before pausing for a moment, "Or perhaps it's the other way around. She calls quite regularly. We had brunch just last week. Anyway, then there's Mikael Ashland, Ekaterina Dragunov, too many Windsors, most of the Houses of the Second and Third Rank, and almost all of your little satraps and minions."

You switch so easily between flirty banter and cocktail party patter, thinks Maxwell, You tailor what you're saying to the person you're saying it to without ever really saying anything at all.

Ausgezeichnet.

"I should introduce you to Hassan al Saud," says Maxwell, already imagining how such an encounter would play out.

She rolls her eyes. "Has he ever spoken to a woman who spoke back to him? He'd probably explode on the spot, or just turn into sand and blow away."

Ja, no arguing with the facts.

He laughs, and she switches codes again. "Although his brother Rami and cousin Fatima are both a delight. I'll never understand why he was chosen as heir."

Because his brother is a good man and his cousin a good woman, thinks Maxwell, his inner voice far too bitter and sour for a man of nineteen, Because being good and being effective are radically different things. Because we cannot tolerate weakness. Because there are no second chances when human survival is at stake. In a just world, being good and getting results would overlap without conflict, but we don't live in such a world.

We live in a world of endless bloody conflict.

We do it to ourselves. We deserve it.

We deserve this.

"Say it, Your Grace," putting down her drink on the polished brass and oak of the bar. He notices the condensation beading on the smudged stain of her lipstick.

He turns back to her and refocuses. "…Say what?"

"What you're thinking behind that oh-so-stoic boot camp face."

He ponders for a moment, and then decides to turn the board on her, see how she reacts. "You know exactly why he was chosen, and why they weren't. You're a fine actress, and the way you control your voice and facial expressions is exquisite, but I know when you're – what's the common word? Fronting? Playing the ingénue."

"You'll need to use more common words, milord," she says.

"You're doing it again."

"I am." Could a smile be sweet and poisonous?

He holds his ground. "If anything you've said is true – and most of it likely is, based off what I've heard of the other House's ties to the Neo-Catholic Church – then you know full well why they weren't chosen. Or, for that matter, why we do what we must do."

"Yes. Because you tell yourselves that you need to be cruel when you only need to be hard—"

"I don't defend the excesses of the others—"

"You do, by your silence, but I'm still going. How rude to interrupt a lady when she's speaking," she says, "Because you create problems and then expect to be celebrated when you solve them. Because you secretly enjoy maintaining this status quo."

She waves an arm at the party around them, the decadence, the rarest natural foods prepared by the most skilled chefs, the finest vintages, the hand-crafted wood of the bar, the perfumed and filtered air, the servants and bodyguards, the band and entertainers, the celebrity, the trappings and symbols of ultimate status and ultimate power.

"Was that all? Did you practice this earlier?" he says, mildly impressed at her boldness but mostly amused by her idealism.

"Because you treat the common rabble like a herd to be tamed rather than a garden to tend. Because you would rather die than admit this to yourselves. Admit that you were wrong. Admit that a brittle piece of iron merely requires a superior smith. There. Now I'm done." And then she picks up her drink and finishes it.

He watches the last few drops of blueberry liqueur mixing with her lipstick like ink on blood.

"Well, now I'll have to kill you," says Max, trying to keep a straight face and doing a solid job of it, in his opinion. "I can't have those dirty poors getting word of your revolutionary ideas and spreading the moral void they create in our society. Such a shame."

Her laugh is even more poisonous this time, cutting and warming him all at once as she leaned in closer to him. "You're enjoying this, aren't you? Speaking to someone you don't own. Someone whose entire life doesn't depend on kissing your arse and telling you you're some billionaire ubermensch destined to lead humanity into a thousand years of light?"

"Yes. I am enjoying it," he says, and he's shocked by how freeing it feels to openly admit that to anyone, let alone this woman he's just met.

"Power must feel so easy when you're born into it. Earning it is so much more satisfying."

A bartender, bionetically handsome and the very picture of sartorial elegance, silently refills her drink, earning a polite nod from both of them. The jazztronica quartet reaches a crescendo and a trumpet sounds over a pounding, lo-fi bass line.

Max laughs. He feels a hint of anger at that. I like you, you are a rare breed, but you are not in command here. I am. He knows that's his pride talking. He doesn't yield his pride to anyone or anything. He never will.

"What?"

"It's funny," he says.

"What's funny?"

"If any man said that to me, if anyone else here in this room—" and then she cuts him off.

"Yes," she says, and behind the drollness her voice sounds older than he has ever heard, and he wonders why. She gestures to the Guards of Iron stationed around the room. "You'd motion to those… I can't even say their name. Is the melodrama your doing? And tell me you aren't responsible for the fascist-chic uniforms. Gunmetal-grey berets, slim fitted kevlar, and designer mirrorshades? Really?"

Maxwell coughs. "I… yes, well, that was Victor's doing by way of Mickey Rourke. Truly his sickest crime. The man has all the taste of a rabid badger."

"This season's hottest look, Sapeur Goon by Eldfell-Armani." She studies him for a moment. "You don't respect what they represent, do you?"

"You guessed wrong. The Guard of Iron is loyal and competent. I respect those traits."

"No. Not them. Violence. The act of killing. You don't shy away from it, but you don't enjoy it like too many people do now."

"People like the Salvation Committee of the Neo-Catholic Church of Christ?" he says. I know. Don't think I don't. And you are, of course, intelligent enough to realize that what I know can easily be told to others at the opportune moment.

And I want to see how you react.

Was that a flash of anger tearing across her face for the briefest moment?

Yes. Yes it was.

He watches with amusement as she narrows her eyebrows and tilts her head ever so slightly upwards, her jawline cutting through the space between them like a shard of porcelain.

He hates that he already wants to kiss it.

"We live in a fallen world, Maxwell," she says, her voice full of passion, "It's a world full of cowards and hypocrites, full of the corrupt and abusive, and full of heretics and blasphemers. The Salvation Committee is concerned with matters of spiritual justice. We hunted down the last of Ardiente's clergy. We offered peace and closure to High Lord Coleman. We protect innocent working families from criminal gangs."

Deadpan. "Ja, no one expected the neo-Inquisition."

She smirks. "Touché."

"You clearly believe. Or at least you're very good at pretending to truly believe, which is equally effective."

"You don't?"

"I see no problem with belief, per se, but I refuse to submit to anything as a matter of principle," he says, as he folds his arms across his dress uniform.

Her smirk sharpens and her eyes never leave his. "I'm sure I can find something for you to fall to your knees and worship, Max."

For once, he can't find anything to say.

"Oh. Well, well. Slugcat got your tongue? I hope not. You'll be needing it."

How long was I just standing there mute like an idiot?

Stop.

Focus.

He holds out a hand.

"I just realized I never formally introduced myself. Maxwell Manswell, Prince of Sol."

She takes his hand. "Erin."

"Erin…?"

She laughs as she leans in and whispers in his ear. "My last name doesn't matter… but then neither does yours."

That laugh, mein gott, that laugh.

She hands him a card. He takes it. Polished titanium with platinum edging, security chipped, her details embossed in gold on the front, a hologram imprint of the coat of arms of the Neo-Catholic Church on the back.

She curtseys. It is perfect and perfectly mocking of him earlier.

"Call me when you'd like to worship, Max. Or at least convert."

And then she turns and leaves the room, never looking back.

He gasped as he disconnected from the reality matrix, the sensation like that of a great hand grabbing you and lifting you out of a deep pool of warm water. The parallels with the birth trauma were not lost on him, yet another reminder of the trappings of this place, of the danger it could represent, of the potential to be lost in a place you can never return to.

He cried the first time he used it, the first time he saw her again, but now he never did. Why would he?

Nothing made him happier than this, now.

He stood up and turned to face their old photographs.

"I will be with you again soon, meine Liebe."