Die. Respawn. Repeat.

What I want to do now is something I considered doing from the moment I acquired The Road Not Taken. The only reason I haven't done it yet is because... well, because I couldn't. I've tried. The amount of Firmament it takes to go back and explore a different path increases almost exponentially the farther back I go; using the skill to try and retry Tarin and Naru's surgery was, moments ago, more or less my limit.

But things are a little different now. I've taken a half-step into the next realm of Firmament. I doubt that will make this easy, but if nothing else, I suspect it's no longer outright impossible.

I take a deep breath. I'm a little more nervous than I expected. I still don't know why Miktik did what she did; part of me fears finding out that it was something preventable, that it was something I should have noticed and tried to circumvent. It still feels... surreal, that she's gone. Death is so impermanent in the loops that for someone's loss to be permanent doesn't stick properly with me.

When I see her again—even just under the effects of the skill—it's going to be like she's still alive. I may not have known her well, but she was still a friend, and the idea of seeing her alive and well again, knowing there's nothing I can truly change...

It's not an idea that sits well with me. I haven't forgotten everything she's done for us. I haven't forgotten watching through Ahkelios as Whisper's skill burned through her.

She could have told Whisper about us to end it, but she didn't.

In a way, I think I owe this to her. I might not be able to bring her back, but whatever it was she wanted before she died—I'm sure there's something I can do about that. Something we can do about that.

It's something to do with Guard's AI core. I'm almost certain of that. That core is the whole reason Miktik agreed to work with Whisper in the first place. If there's anything that could drive her to dive by herself into the Intermediary, it has to be something she thought was really, truly important.

Time to find out what it was.

The Road Not Taken.

In theory, the change is simple. The problem is how far back it is—not just in linear time, but in loop time. Even with the changes to my Firmament it takes a concerted effort of will to make the change I want to change. I feel a barrier in front of me, and forcing myself through it feels like forcing myself through a sieve.

It hurts. That's the main thing I don't expect. It's not the same as the exhaustion of putting myself through the procedure with Tarin over and over. This is me forcing myself back through time, stretching the skill farther than it's supposed to stretch, forcing more out of it by pouring more Firmament through than it can handle.

The pain is soul-deep, like I'm forcing open a gate using my own core as the doorway. Blood drips out of my nose—I hear Ahkelios making a panicked sort of noise along with a worried whirring from Guard. I feel metal hands grabbing me as I collapse and chitinous ones holding me steady.

But I manage. I Anchor my changes, drawing deep, and take step after step into the past.

And when I'm far enough, I make a choice. Not a natural one, given the circumstances. Not something I could or would have chosen to do without the knowledge I have now.

This is no simple tweak to the past. It's a full, embodied change.

—

"Miktik," I say, looking up at her. My head throbs. The pain continues into this version of myself and holds, persistent; this is more than I'm supposed to be able to do with this skill, and it punishes me for what I'm doing.

I ignore it. This is important.

There's a change in my voice that startles Miktik. I see it in the way she looks at me, her eyes suddenly wide. I know what happens next here—we split up. In my Isthanok loops, this is right after we split up and each of the rebels went to find out more about Whisper's plans. It wasn't long after this that I had to chase after and save each of them from the circumstances they'd ended up in.

Miktik was supposed to stay back at the workshop to act as a sort of return point for any information we managed to gather. She was not supposed to leave. The whole point was that she wouldn't be in any danger, that any information sent back to her would be preserved until I was able to talk to her.

But I see it now, I think. There's a bit of nervousness in the way she moves. She fidgets more than she normally does. She's already planning to leave for the Intermediary. More likely than not she's thinking it'll be a quick thing, that no one has to know...

What I don't understand is why she didn't talk to any of us about it. I almost think to myself that I should have noticed—should have seen her fidgeting, the way her eyes dart toward the door. I see it now. But I don't let myself wallow in the thought. That way lies misery. I've already been down the path of what-ifs and should-have-beens.

"Ethan," Miktik says, echoing the way I said her name. She seems a little confused. Probably because I'm just staring at her.

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

"You don't stay in your workshop," I say. The throbbing in my head is getting worse and spreading through my body. There's no time for subtlety here. "Why are you going to the Intermediary?"

There's a shocked silence. I remember somewhat belatedly that we're not alone—most of the others don't know what I'm talking about, though.

"What is this, a loop thing?" Bimar scoffs. "You trying... to... intimidate..."

She trails off, probably because she's noticed the same thing I have. Miktik isn't meeting any of our gazes. The plates on her back shuffle together nervously.

"Miktik doesn't know what you're talking about," she says quietly.

"Miktik," Bimar says, her voice suddenly dangerous. Or... no. It's angry. Exasperated. Has Miktik done this before? "What is this supposed Trialgoer talking about?"

"Miktik doesn't know," she insists.

"We can tell when you're lying." Bimar's voice is flat. Colder, more out of disappointment and worry than a sense of betrayal. "You already tried to find it. It's not there."

"But... there are places Miktik can't check," Miktik protests weakly. "Normally. But if we have the Trialgoer..."

"What then?" Bimar asks. "Let's say you do find it. You miraculously survive long enough to tell the Trialgoer, and you're dead, but not permanently, because of whatever time nonsense he's got going. What are you going to do with it?"

"Fix things," Miktik says. "Miktik can fix things. Miktik just needs—"

"Excuse me," I say politely. "I need you both to tell me what you're talking about. Right now."

I'm a little more brusque than I intend to be. The pain is getting worse. I can feel the active drain on my Firmament and what feels like a wound being slowly pulled apart as I hold open a branch of time that was never meant to be.

"Ethan, it's not—" Miktik tries to protest.

"Miktik." I step closer and kneel by her—she flinches, but I think she sees something in my eyes, because she suddenly stills. "...I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. But if this is important at all, if it could help Guard or that AI you left with Whisper, I need to know. Now. As quickly as you can tell me."

"...I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry. But if this is important at all, if it could help Guard or that AI you left with Whisper, I need to know. Now. As quickly as you can tell me."

Miktik saw the look in Ethan's eyes. He was sad. Why was he suddenly sad? There was no reason for him to be sad. No reason for him to look at her like—like she was—like he'd—

The thought froze in her mind. Crystallized into something painful and broken.

"Ethan," she asked. Whispered. She didn't want the rest of her friends to hear it—not if she could help it. It would create too much chaos, delay things. In all honesty, she knew she shouldn't even have asked, but she couldn't help herself. "Am I dead?"

The look in his eyes told her enough. She didn't know how he was doing this, but if this was the approach he was taking, then he couldn't save her. There was a look in his eyes...

He'd tried. He'd failed. And the longer this took, the more things shrunk around them, until reality was nothing more than the two of them.

How was he doing this? How was he talking to her now? Was he from the future? Was this some branched, doomed loop? What did it mean for her if she was real, if she had thoughts and feelings and...

No. Not a useful train of thought. Miktik shut it down, forced it away, took a deep, shuddering breath; Ethan waited for her without a word, despite the pain she saw in him. Not emotional pain. The physical pain radiating through him. Whatever he was doing now was costing him.

Her species could sense the pain of others. She'd never told him that. Never told anyone that, as far as she knew. What made her decision for her how well he was hiding it.

All that pain, and the only thing she saw in his eyes was kindness.

Miktik was afraid of many things, in truth. She thought of herself as cowardly for giving in to Whisper's demands. For not protecting what she'd considered her responsibility. But skies above, if Ethan could push aside that much pain and spare her nothing but kindness...

She could be brave. Just this once. Even if she'd be judged, even if she'd be damned.

She told him.

"It—her name is Aris," she said. "The chip I gave Whisper, I mean. She's a modified artificial intelligence protocol. She's supposed to be a nursing program, but I made some changes, I wanted—" Her voice broke. "—I wanted someone I could raise. She was going to be my daughter. I—"

Ethan put her hand on her shell. She froze for a moment, expecting judgement or rebuke, but no. Only kindness.

Miktik made herself keep going.

"I raised—it took a few years," she said. "I raised her for a few years before Whisper took her from me. She isn't complete yet. She still needs—there's a part she still needs to be alive, something called a circuit veil, and I've been looking for it so if we get her back—"

Her voice failed her then, but she'd said what she needed to. She thought Ethan would leave then. He had what he needed, and maintaining this hurt him, she could tell.

Instead, he drew her into a hug.

"What would you tell her?" he asked quietly. "Tell me quickly. If there was one thing you could give her to remember you by."

Miktik froze. Ethan would—? What would she even say? Would Aris care?

Why was there so much hope suddenly burning in her?

She leaned in and whispered her words. Ethan let her. There were a lot of them, and the longer she took, the more of his pain she felt, but he held on. Let her say her dues.

Not just for Aris. For everyone she'd let down.

And when it was done, he hugged her close once more. "They all love you," he said.

He told her what they'd said at her funeral. The goodbyes they'd given. The memories that were important to them, which were nothing like the ones Miktik imagined they'd be. She could have wept. Did weep.

It was her, in the end, who had to tell Ethan to stop what he was doing. To tell him she could feel that holding on to this was damaging him. He'd given her peace.

"Thank you," she said. She meant it almost more than anything she'd ever meant in her life, save perhaps the words she left for Aris.

Ethan smiled at her. A sad smile.

And then Miktik was once again no more.