Sodium Deficiency, Pacing Problems - SCP Foundation

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Courtly language (lit. "the uncommon tongue") in DSU#31 has proven resistant to many concepts associated with modern defense-intelligence apparatuses for reasons both somatic and semantic. Due to a strong preference in the Allaingian court against creating kludge terms, as well as a directive to obscure Foundation autotranslation technologies, briefings are largely conducted in the "common" tongue (which is far more amenable to bridging). Foundation advisors have also noted proliferation of some near-English terms into royal affairs, which is seen as beneficial despite risking detection by third parties. As providers of technology and disseminators of its tailored language, the Foundation is well-placed to shift thinking in preferential directions.

—Briefing to DSU#31 Exploration Committee

Of that which curls within the Saltmade Throne, there is no apt name, no able taxonomy, no feasible retreat into esotericism. A shape obscured by faults and impurities within the looming crystal—its shell long-since interlaced with rusted pipes, then modern conduits. An existence expelled through fissures, opalescent ichor confounding generations of scholars and their tests. A presence that courtiers feel pressing down onto each bow, each curtsy, demanding more than can possibly be given. Harnessing it grants power, true power, just as Her Immortal Majesty demonstrated when smiths had yet to forge even simple steel.

Indeed, to sit in the Queen's presence is to sit in her throne's presence, and supplicating to one is supplicating to both. What demarcates between a crooked, ageless form and that which fuels it? What divides elixir and imbiber when dependency is fully ingrained? The Foundation understood as much when it first trespassed into its far-abroad, offering tribute to both symbols when seeking influence. For one: tools of conquest supporting a tireless push into Cherinmark. For the other: trappings of power tailored to keep peasants, citizens, and petty nobles in their place. Which gift suited which mattered little by that point in their coexistence.

Eight rows from the Saltmade Throne's perch, eighteen places from an aisle bridging gateway to regal feet, Caloupe non Igliese IIV—duke of a land too small for even one manor—knelt for hours on end. Such was the role of noble houses absorbed by wars past. Three generations of his family bent day after day, year after year, craving independence from a process that fed and clothed them like children. Blonde locks pooled around his head as courtly matters proceeded within earshot.

"▒░░▒▒▒░ ░░░▒ ▒░" said a lesser minister, if not sang outright, in his presentation to Her Majesty's coterie of advisors. Each chest was replete with medals there. Each shoulder hosted sashes or scabbards signifying their office most high. To witness the work of government but never comprehend it was forever the conquered's lot. "▒▒░░▒▒▒░░░▒ ▒▒░░░░▒ ▒░▒▒░ joint strike complex ░░░▒▒░ ▒▒░░ ░░▒░▒░▒░▒ ▒▒▒░░ ░░░▒░░░░▒▒▒▒ threat surface ░░░░▒▒▒▒ ░▒▒▒▒░░░ ▒▒░░ ▒▒░"

"░▒▒▒▒" Condemnation from General Jarant, at least based on tone and terseness.

"░▒▒░░░▒░ ░░▒░░" Curiosity from the Minister of the Left, who was rumored to serve as spymaster.

"░░░▒▒ A3/AD ▒▒░░▒▒░░░▒░ ░▒▒▒▒▒░ ░░▒▒░░ PACER PHALANX ░░▒░–"

"▓▓▓" said the Queen so abruptly that her poor minister dropped. To his knees? To full prostration? The thump revealed nothing. Caloupe snuck a glimpse upward to see her rise from the Saltmade Throne, and immediately felt its weight settle upon his neck again as she continued in the uncommon tongue's lowest form. "Having been duly informed, our decision is thus: the fifth, sixth, and eighth battalions will be dispatched into Cherinmark to quell unrest so foolishly nurtured. Servants of imposter thrones captured therein will justify themselves or be returned in pieces. Humble the bannerless and cull the rebels."

A hundred guard's hundred halberds pounded against the floor, signaling that matter—and thus a day spent kneeling—concluded. Aches flared in both knees as Caloupe rose, but at least he was still young. Shaking was insignificant compared to those whose bodies had locked themselves into prostration. Minor nobles helped each other stand as he rearranged a once-colorful, now-faded tunic, glancing up toward the throne afterwards. No pressure diverted him this time.

The Queen, whose modest robes were offset by trophies from an age where conquest was common, leaned over one armrest to speak with her Minister of the Left. Curling fingers brought him closer to the royal perch; each seemed all too used to rings now absent, bending in ways that ill-matched their available joints. 'Gregor the Sonorous' was all Caloupe could read on lips that otherwise traced higher speech. That was more than enough of a capstone though.

Out the throne room. Out a cavernous hall. Out the castle itself, then along a garden dotted with guard posts both obvious and camouflaged. A few black shapes gleamed atop newer poles, lenses having been imported from foreign lands like so much else. He found his way into the royal enclave's outer ring, where more insignificant business was conducted among more insignificant lives. Nobody seemed to be following, but he still paused where his handler had recommended to spot unwanted attention—none from old-growth groves or new-built pagodas, none from windows in the outer perimeter's walls. Caloupe finally reached a lonesome storehouse, then closed the door behind him and locked it tight.

Penning a ciphered message with the materials hidden under a loose floorboard was simple in comparison. They would execute him for this, of course. Allaingian law demanded that hot coals be forced down any throat guilty of exposing court matters. At his rank, pending royal intervention, the actual punishment was likely to be far worse. But what of it? Perpetuating bruised knees and scraped foreheads into future generations seemed no more palatable than stomach-boiling stones. Only being spirited into Tellech by its agents offered any hope of advancement in this life or the next.

When properly deciphered, his note read:

Q moves 5, 6, 8 bat. into Cherinmark. Disagreement between MLeft and Gens. Key: "Pacer Falanks"? Q wants Gregor the Sonorous.

How exactly that sliver of information traveled back to his patron was beyond most charting. From hand to hand and handler to handler, as expected. By courier. By carrier pigeon. Collated into a single file ready for Tellechian spymasters to review. But then there were more compromised aides to consider, more leaks that sent it across telegraph lines and priceless fiber-optics before bouncing off cubesats which intruded upon godly realms. Intelligence apparatuses abandoned in quarters, halves, or wholes trundled along, driven by new masters who understood little and less of their actual function. These black cells? These tealboxes? They were a toxic waste impossible to coexist with, yet impossible to dispose of—a lingering sludge that conducted information across the continent without care for what bloody decisions it drove.

Every monarch had already disposed of the largest weapons brought from another world by then. There was no maintaining those behemoths, let alone sustaining their use, especially not without refineries located across the gaps. These were families who had warred for longer than their now-absent partners existed in any form though. Leashing wizards, rousing warriors, marshaling peasants, these were moves exceeding any reflex born into leaders. Elves, orks, and mankind followed similar paths despite their disparate civilizations, preparing for what seemed nothing less than a bold play for control over Cherinmark's beating heart. If they couldn't extract the resources fueling it, that immortal nuisance certainly wouldn't be allowed to.

With national forces displacing the territory's outermost settlements—gambling houses and black markets whose occupants would unsettle deeper communities in turn—it was easy for leaders to overlook how much festering unrest had set off warnings weeks before. Those were fragmentary reports, of little use compared to logistics or force composition. Even planners aware that a peerless blade had been loosed from Fort Gräd merely needed to account for a particularly potent weapon emerging in other hands. Nothing unusual when war already sparked magical talents more often than not.

What was unusual were the three metal behemoths that had already crossed most of Cherinmark before other parties entered it. Dubbed PACER PHALANX in Foundation exit reports, designed within the GOC's YIV-202 silo, each three-story weapon lay at some nexus between crab, centaur, and battleship. Trees splintered beneath double-jointed legs. Ruins were brushed aside by approximate hands. Every valley crossing and river fording only brought them closer to the smog-shrouded Mt. Perfidy, and every crossed mile left the key hanging from Mealworm's neck feeling weightier.

In addition to armories exceeding most quartermasters', each PACER system had holds for inserting soldiers into this land's worst battlefields. Filters for elvish pollen weapons. Plating for orkish flamespits. Low-tech countermeasures for magic as it was understood Earth-side. All that, but it was mostly just cramped for the teams she cobbled together from those unsuited to abandonment. Mealworm tugged on her cold key while surveying faces. Some were local: an elvish translator whose distaste for traditions turned into comfort with the Foundation, or a dwarf whose nationalism aligned through some metric she barely understood. Others were foreign in her own manner: left behind as TAMPER teams or Foundation projects dissolved. No faces from Alpha-85, but that was to be expected; the rest had been sacrificed throughout this now-frozen war's natural course. It needed thawing for those to have any meaning again.

"MEAL WORM COME OUTSIDE" blared an internal speaker. Few among them winced. She stood from her seat near the circular hatch, then pressed against it after a loud click. Mechanisms ushered her out into winds that rushed above the canopy. Concerns about plummeting swept through too, but they subsided as she hopped down onto one of the freer-moving limbs whose three digits approximated hands.

Mt. Perfidy loomed in the near-distance as she was brought before the orb forming that PACER's torso. Although focused on keeping the mechanisms in working condition, Aster had never neglected the smaller touches either. Stenciled serial numbers, hazard signs, and miscellanea all looked factory new there. Armor plates opened with several pneumatic hisses; the pilot chamber lowered to that new precipice, a cocoon of semi-translucent plastic that barely revealed how Aster arrayed herself inside. Further cocooned in those endless locks of red hair, at least. Made comfortable by cloth and cushion even when it wasn't her bodily senses that mattered.

Where wind plucked at Mealworm's kit, their shepherd was shielded from its every touch, save for those brought into her nervous system through cables now locked firm into flesh-borne ports. Fingers twitched and eyelids fluttered as her consciousness maintained that metal shell's integrity, but all such motions ceased as her green eyes snapped back into focus. The PACER's trundling seemed maintained by momentum alone as a speaker crackled to life nearby.

"We're thirty minutes from the castle's outer perimeter," she said. "Scopes are clean, and nothing is pinging off my countermeasures yet."

"Does artillery ping off anything?"

"It does for us lucky few with proper bodies. You could always upgrade after joining the correct side, you know. The process barely hurts at all."

"Trade one set of whiners for another that trusts me even less? I'd rather hop into one of the Foundation's mechs and fight you properly. We must have something stored somewhere."

"Oh, wouldn't that be wonderful?" Aster sighed, and the machine sighed in turn—expelling vaporized coolant, perhaps, or warming up electronic warfare systems instead. "I won't hold back if I see you on the next battlefield though. My weapons aren't gentle enough."

"Is that why you needed me out here? One last goodbye for your penpal?" She rapped a knuckle on the hand cradling her, but any smiles in return were hidden by fogged plastic. Whether wry, sad, or simply amused, their emotions didn't need conveying when so many gears had already spun into motion.

"I'm not allowed a little sentimentality?"

"Not when we're about to set everything ablaze again! Save it for when you're digging me out of a bunker up there. I promise that won't go any easier!"

Aster laughed, soft even when projected onto fierce winds. Those speakers surely weren't intended for such a sound, but only because of their designer's deficiencies. It was hard to imagine anything worse issuing from uncaring behemoths. "I think I will miss you, Mealworm, like it or not. Affection won't spare your armies from the pain they deserve, but content yourself with it anyway."

Her retort was snatched away as Aster's head jerked back again, evidently reconnecting to her shell, if not her truest self. The metal hand returned Mealworm to a protective chamber, and it wasn't long at all before something indeed began pinging off metal outside. Impacts continued in an unsteady rhythm as the trundling of Aster's two other brain-bound PACERs quieted. Did the mountain's castle really host weapons capable of stopping them in their tracks? Mealworm frowned to herself, only to wince in earnest as twin thunderclaps penetrated their own unit, plus every eardrum inside. Aster had gotten to fire her main cannons at last. What joy she must be feeling. What adulation. To finally make full use of a body left dormant for decades. Another two roars sounded, and somewhere deep in the metal shell surrounding them, laughter could yet be heard through ringing ears.

Whether that was enough to balance the scales between fifty and fifteen-hundred remained to be seen.

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