The Coffin Club

"Lieutenant Wrench. 3202133."

"Yep. You sure are, bud."

The two of them sat in a plain, empty apartment, right on the floor. Wrench held his knees tight against his enormous frame, back to the wall, posted up in the corner. His eyes were locked on his roommate, a man who called himself Broil.

Broil clearly wasn't TEF anymore, if he ever was one.

Bald head, slim build, curious eyes, small hands. A comfortable set of robes and slippers. And here, wherever this was, Broil had let himself in, sat across from Wrench, plucked a bowler hat and a deck of playing cards from thin air, and set to trying to flick the cards into the up-turned hat.

"How'd you do that." he'd asked.

"We're in a virtual space. I'm pretty good at maneuvering it." was the response. "How's the TEF been treating you?"

"Lieutenant Wrench. 3202133." was his response.

There wasn't a lot of talking between them. Broil made overtures and Wrench would respond with name and number. Wrench asked questions and Broil would answer them as if it was self-evident and not follow-up unless prodded.

In short: he was on the Diamond of Mankind. He was in the hands of the great traitors. His physical body was gone. He was an uploaded consciousness; he'd been seized in the confusion on the drop on Miller by those alien pilots. He was wholly at the mercy of Sparky and Sixty-Nine and all those fucking Steward cultists.

And all Broil focused on was trying to flick cards into a hat.

He tried a variety of different techniques, angles. The closest he got was holding the card vertically and sort of chopping down with the flick of the wrist. Driving the momentum like that gave it power, precision, but was prone to wobble and coming up short.

Wrench was about to say something else when, suddenly, the Eight of Diamonds sailed right into the hat. Broil let out a sharp, short, self-satisfied laugh, a "ha!", and smiled to himself.

Then he picked up the cards, shuffled the deck, and kept going with the remaining cards.

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"Ohhhhh my god you're being so dense, just listen to me, okay? So Thomas and Aaron were dating this guy, Marrow, and were like bringing him into the polycule, right? So they've got him over for dinner, they're roasting lizard, you know how they do, and they're like "so which settlement do you live in?" and Marrow's like "oh I live out in Greenfield". And Louise is like "oh I heard Greenfield is kind of a shithole from the beanstalk runoff contaminating the ground after it fell" and, like. Okay. We don't have time to unpack, like, her approaching them with that, like fuck Louise sometimes for real, yeah? But then Marrow looks at her and is like "oh the beanstalk never fell, that was a psyop".

Right?

So like congrats, that's what dinner's all about now. Thomas and Aaron brought in a fucking Fall Truther. And like they're not even cute but y'know, not my type. But also like whaaaaat the fuck, guys? Like it takes a certain level of out-of-touch to sincerely hold that as a belief, right? And, like, I don't want to jump on Thomas and Aaron and, like, talk shit about them. Everyone already is. But like come on guys! The sex can't be that good!

Oh, like, how it fell? Tripartite collision in low-orbit due to, like, overlapping orbital schedules for satellites being overlooked, I think? It's really noticeable in the wounds around the points of severance and the directions the pieces landed in. It's like really cool if you're into it but it also really sucks y'know?"

https://thecoffin.club

"Pilot understands the question. Question is irrelevant. There is only the data for Pilot to interpret. There is only the field of battle. The inside of Lovely. That is all that matters, yes. How Pilot came to this war does not matter.

Pilot can speak of war, yes. They don't like it when Pilot does but Pilot can. Pilot can tell you what it would have done if it was told to destroy the Beanstalk.

...it didn't. Pilot was not yet born. And it would make many angry at Pilot. Don't want that. Pilot is good. Pilot listens. Promise.

Boren. Selvich. Whitespring. Massily. Selvich should not have invaded Boren. Massily should have allied with Boren. Whitespring should have allied with Selvich. Complimentary, complimentary. Would not admit it at the time. But, similar, similar. Happened anyway, sort of. All fell. All became corpos. Wasteful, wasteful.

Beautiful machines thrown away and left to rot. Could have been two states. No outright war. Protect civilians. Rebuild, rebuild. Tension, yes, but tension is tension. Pilot understands tension. Pilot understands when to shoot and when to wait. Stupid, stupid generals. Need Priest to tell them what to do, ha ha. Like Pilot.

Pilot tells joke. Generals unworthy of Priest's grace. Of knowing Lovely. Stupid, stupid generals. Pilot could be flying in the stars instead of Windspear. Short-sighted and stupid.

One day Pilot will fly all the way up there. It will be a beautiful day."

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"...what caused the Beanstalk to fall? Shit, I don't know. That kind of thing is luxury to think about, isn't it?

Let's look at it this way: I've lived in Lombard in Snapfield all my life. We had a city here once, Callis City. When the Beanstalk fell, it rained panels from the walls of the thing. They landed on Callis City with enough force to knock over the big buildings and kill thousands. Mass evacuation. Entire thing in disarray. But out here, in Lombard? We just...I don't know.

We have our mechs. We have our guns. Our resources. Our walls. We took in survivors. We lead expeditions to the ruins of the city, of the elevator. We've watched bandits form gangs and dissolve, pirates and mercenary companies try and find purchase and get turned away or turn on themselves.

All we did was take it one day at a time. Through the famines, through the snow, the wars and the silence that followed. They didn't bother setting up an arcology anywhere near here and the Crawlers don't come through. It's our little pocket of world and...we do fine, I guess.

It could be better, sure, and we're working on it, one reclamation run at a time, with every new building raised or gardening plot that bears fruit.

Maybe I'm just naive but I don't worry too much about how we got here. I'm busy with what tomorrow brings. Sorry if that's not interesting but, like. I have chickens to feed, y'know? I have to make sure they're healthy. I need to do what I can. And right now that's feeding my chickens."

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"Hear me and hear me well, faithful: I know what it is like to be a pilot.

You see this frail and ravaged body. I won't say I am not old and used. But I survived the Boren Front, and that's a hell beyond any of your reckoning. It was these hands that controlled my Colossus, Beautiful Nemesis, for the glory of the Nation of Selvich.

It was my guns that brought the fury of Selvich to the capitol of Borenstadt. I may have been one voice in a chorus of righteous anger for what they did to the Beanstalk. But I was the loudest.

In their arrogance and greed, they forced us to destroy our planet's greatest creation to deny them the Beanstalk. And when they thought themselves safe and secure, they scurried away to their bunkers to hide and let us scrabble in the dust so they could emerge and claim the world for their own.

Bullshit. Cowardice. There was no quarter given to the Boren. We burned their lands and cut them down where they stood. And what was our reward? Scorn. Clucks of the tongues of weak-willed Republicans. Paranoid glances from the pathetic engineers of Massily. Anger that we showed the will to do what was not just necessary but correct.

And so we brought them all the war they deserved.

Suit up and start your engines. Selvich will rise again. I will show you the tools you need to bring this new world the wars of the old and make them learn."

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"My family were farmers. We used to raise, uh, staple crops overseas in the Whitespring Republic. My grandfather, before he passed, used to talk about how it was a hard life, but a good life. How they used to take care of their workers and pay fair wages for the crops they harvested.

My grandmother was a different story and much less nostalgic. And she outlived him, heh. So. She got the last word, I guess. We only survived because we held a knife to our own throats, looked the government in the eyes and dared them to blink. That's not just my family. That was all of the farmers. We had an arrangement to protect ourselves, our workers, from overreach and exploitations. They knew they had to play ball with us, so they did.

Then, uh, the Boren Confederacy blew up the Beanstalk. And the Republicans came for us in. Force.

No more fun and games. Almost a decade of winter *and* war on the horizon. They needed us under their thumb, to control the food, demand compliance from their civilians. Seize the assets, force the survivors to serve.

My parents were teens when they boarded the smuggler's boat. I don't remember what they used to call this place. But they were here when they started building A-SPR. When they started the agri-clans, my mother traded family tradition for a seat at the table. As an. Advisor, mind. The target on her head as a clan head was too much for the family to bear. But it was a good trade.

We've been doing business with them since. The Monroe Clan has been good benefactors, even if they have...everything, at this point. Delilah Monroe herself shook my hand when I graduated from accounting school and, well. She's been a good boss since. I can't really complain.

I wish it went differently. But I don't think I'd be any happier as a farmer."

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"Yeah man, everyone knows aliens did it. Everyone knows aliens blew up the Beanstalk.

Check it: we got the Meld, right? Where the fuck did that come from? Wasn't here when we had like, governments and shit. Nah man like. They saw the Beanstalk and realized we were a threat, right? The little monkeys deciding to poke at the stars with their fighting machines and shit. Maybe we'd climb up there and start colonizing the stars. I don't even know why we had that thing. I wasn't born yet. And it's not like we make shit or harvest shit. This planet fucking sucks. So like. Our reach outstripped our grasp or some shit. And the aliens saw us do that. And maybe they were like...alien gods. Punish the wicked trespassers.

Anyway yeah aliens did it and they sent the Meld for good measure to finish the job. Like who else could make it, right? If it was the corporations, they'd, like, include an off-switch or some secret shit to protect themselves. But that crap eats everything and everyone. Doesn't make any sense and they're not, like, dumb enough to make alien goo machines and just let them loose, right? They're, like, evil and shit, but not that sort of stupid evil, probably. You gotta worry about the arcologies and resources, y'know?

Nah man I'm not saying the aliens are gods. They could be as powerful as them, but like. No such things as alien gods. Just a bunch of spiteful assholes who dropped a robot bomb on us 'cuz they were scared of us. And like. Maybe we were scary? I dunno. I've seen old pictures of what this shit looked like. It wasn't great.

But fuck you, dude. Assholes."

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"What's most important to understand about the war is that there was an intentional omission and destruction of context. We know the war started. We don't exactly know why or who threw the first punch.

We do know what the opening salvo was: cutting down the Beanstalk.

Given...recent intelligence, I'm unsure the intent of the Beanstalk was to send things off-world back to somewhere else. But that's baseless, fruitless speculation. The Beanstalk would've been a boon for us one way or another, even if we weren't a client state for a distant parent nation.

I apologize for the digressions. There's only so much I can say on the matter.

The simple facts are this: we used to be a planet of nations. Four major continents, each with its own master. There was a balance, and it was tense; I don't think the arrangement was a good thing. The idea is that they would motivate each other to do better. Steel sharpening steel. And what they had to offer was...a nationalist industrial powerhouse, a confederacy of energy oligarchs, research-obsessed propertarianists and a liberal republic dabbling in empire and mass culture. The question on everyone's lips was "who will throw the first punch?"

I don't think anyone did, is the thing. The circumstances don't quite add up. People talk about how the Beanstalk fell at the ground level, yes, how it tipped over, struck the earth. Earthquakes. The shit it kicked up into the air that resulted in five years of winter. The ensuring war.

But then why did the top 20 floors explode in low-orbit? Why is the sky full of shrapnel that stole away our satellites and cut us off?

In my humble opinion, it wasn't a single punch. It was a targeted strike from multiple conspirators out to take this planet for themselves. And when the dust settled on their broken toy, they did what they did best: turn on each other and rewrite the history books as fast as they could."

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"Did she ever call her goddess again?" Sister Zlata hugged her knees close as she sat on the stool.

The rest of the novice sisters had left the lecture and gone to do chores. Zlata had remained behind to ask questions. Sister Charity didn't much mind; it was a sign of a healthy mind and good faith.

"Nope. From what the texts tell us, she survived the war and settled down to rebuild the Temple with a new congregation. She lived late into her elder years and was survived by a couple dozen brothers and sisters."

Zlata's face fell. "Oh."

"You have to understand: we have been told these truths from the Goddess herself. They happened long ago and far from here. But she remembers those who call her and tells their story so we understand."

"...yeah, but. They both killed all of those people. It sounds like they made the war *worse.*"

Sister Charity nodded.

"...and she dies in her bed in a new Temple?"

"Mmhmm."

"...I don't think I get it, Sister."

Sister Charity exhaled. "Well. What is there to get? It's a recounting of a history. I never said it was a metaphor, or a parable. It's a fact of our faith. Some sisters...they take faith in knowing that it was one of us who got the "happy ending", mm? That it's not an exec or some corpo or warlord dying peacefully." She sighed. "I worry about those ones. I'm glad it makes you uncomfortable, little sister."

She frowned, wrinkled her nose. "What am I supposed to do with any of this?"

The older sister shrugged. "Whatever you want. The past is what it is. Our goddess kept going, and so did Nia. One of those stories...these *histories* had an end, and the other didn't. Interpret these truths as you see fit." She closed her copy of the Book of the Earth and Moon with a smile. "And you're not going to get out of all of your chores by asking me questions."

The younger sister rolled her eyes as she rose. "...would you have called her?"

The older sister paused. "I will only know if I am ever in her shoes.

I hope I never am."

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The history books talk clearly about what happened next after the Scourging of Roden.

The Emperor was survived by his mother, Lady Belhaine, his bastard teen son, Volkan of Wrought, and his adopted cousin Firhardt of Tessalan. The members of the Inner Council had their own surviving heirs as well who laid claim to their seats (or, if they were bold enough, laid claim to the destroyed throne).

Thus began the Succession Wars, where Belhaine and Firhardt tried to control Volkan for his strongest claim while also putting down the uprisings fomented by the Council's heirs.

Abroad, the war to occupy Djartola ground to a standstill. Cut off from commands and logistics, the field commanders had to make their own calls. The smart ones held to the mission with aplomb or went rogue and were not punished for it. The majority of them reveled in loot and slaughter, sweeping across the roads of Djartola to feed the beast as Djartolan resistance bled them for every inch traveled.

The Succession Wars had a third player as well. There were rumors that at night, across the countryside, a woman and young girl could be found stealing into the strongholds of successors and would-be heirs alike, leaving no survivors. They would flicker in and out, ghostlike, without distinct reason beyond taking one more piece off the table.

In time, Roden began to fear the Daughter of Moonlight and her merciless hand.

And in time, Paraleux and Svatkopt saw the weakness of Roden and Djartola alike.

This was how the whole of the continent came to war and the real slaughter began. Twenty years of marching boots, barked commands, scrabbling in the mud over long-ruined farmlands, the "Continental Look" of haunted eyes and sunken cheeks, families stitched together from scraps and clutched close.

Her goddess left two years into the conflict.

Officially, her husband needed her elsewhere.

Unofficially, she had run out of ideas for how to stop the war without killing even more.

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