Orphan Wars
Author: J. N. Chaney; Scott Moon
Date: 2021-02-17 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction; Fiction
Description: What would you do if you woke up in another world? When leading archeologist Dr. Hank Murphy discovers an alien artifact on the Moon, corporate interests are quick to get involved. A discovery like this could change everything, but more importantly, someone stands to make a fortune. But Murphy just wants to understand what this thing is and how it works. After months of research, he finally manages to locate the power source. The gate is soon activated... And Murphy is pulled through. Moments later, he finds himself in a war-torn corner of the galaxy where strangers like him are called Orphans
Publisher: Variant Publications

J. N. Chaney

Copyrighted Material

Orphan Wars Copyright © 2021 by Variant Publications

Book design and layout copyright © 2021 by JN Chaney

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from JN Chaney.

www.jnchaney.com

1st Edition

Book Description

What would you do if you woke up in another world?

When leading archeologist Dr. Hank Murphy discovers an alien artifact on the Moon, corporate interests are quick to get involved.

A discovery like this could change everything, but more importantly, someone stands to make a fortune.

But Murphy just wants to understand what this thing is and how it works. After months of research, he finally manages to locate the power source.

The gate is soon activated...

And Murphy is pulled through.

Moments later, he finds himself in a war-torn corner of the galaxy where strangers like him are called Orphans...and they are considered extremely dangerous.

Somehow altered by the experience, the archeologist now has enhanced strength, speed, and agility. He is more than human. He is an Orphan. And he must survive a deadly new reality unlike anything he can imagine.

Worse still, Murphy is not the only so-called Orphan in this region of the galaxy. There are many others.

And not all of them are created equal.

Experience this exciting new series from Scott Moon and USA Today Bestseller J.N. Chaney. If you're a fan of Farscape, Renegade Star, or Battlestar Galactica, you'll love this epic scifi thrill ride.

Contents

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

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1

I’m standing inside a lunar dig site, surrounded by ancient technology that predates all of human civilization, and all I can think of is how hard the suits on Earth have made my job.

“You okay, Murph?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, only half listening as my eyes hover over a section of a wall with markings, probably alien script. “Yeah, I’m fine, Jack.”

He knows it’s a lie. The people who hired and sent me here are expecting results, and the work just isn’t ready. I’m not ready.

“This is your dig site,” he reminds me, as though he can hear my thoughts. “Who cares what the corporate jerks want? You take as much time as you need, but more importantly, as much as you want. If you don’t show them you’re the boss now, they’ll walk all over you later . . . and so will the Lunar Mineral Corporation.”

He’s right, but I can’t stop worrying I’ll lose the whole damn thing. Every ounce of what I’ve worked for. The job, the site, the truth of whatever the hell it all means.

All of it.

My eyes drift up to the device at the center of the room. “I know, I know. You keep telling me that.”

Jack moves closer. “You have to know the rules to set the rules.”

“You’re a broken record today.” I shift one of the work lights, trying to make it do its job while I examine the carvings. “There is never enough light down here. People need to stop jamming these things into the sockets. Look at this mess.”

“Which one of your guys made this mess anyway? I expect better of you scientists.” Jack crosses his arms. He’s strict, rigid, disciplined, and he isn’t supposed to be here. The man still thinks he’s a commando and can go anywhere and do anything, despite career-ending nerve damage and a desk job at an organization he won’t talk about—Mr. NDA, I call him.

“We’re messier than you think. Ask Peter Parker.”

“Don’t you bring Spiderman into this. He’s got an excuse.” Jack turns toward the high powered LED lights, then shields his eyes. With a quick motion, he points toward the device in the center of the room. It is, like everything else we’ve uncovered here, older than recorded history, and no one knows where it came from.

We call it the Cradle.

“I wonder how much power that thing is using,” Jack says.

“Hard to say, since we haven’t turned it on yet.”

“So why not do that?”

I shake my head. “Because that’s not how this works. You don’t jump ahead to the ending just because you want to. You have to follow the process. Do it right.”

“Then what is the process here, Doctor? I see all those wires and cords coming out of it. What comes next?”

“Tests. Lots and lots of tests.”

The device stands on its end, resembling what I called its namesake. Half of us suspect it’s a life pod without a lid, and the other half believe it’s a doorway to somewhere else.

“What do you think it is? I mean, really, what do you think?” my friend asks.

The artifact is cold and lifeless, with no way to activate it. No buttons, panels, no distinguishing marks—it’s an utter cipher, smooth and inert, and that’s just the surface. The interior is even more unknown, protected from study by a shell that wicks away 30 percent of the visual spectrum. Magic, I almost want to call it, because there’s nothing we know of that can do such a thing.

The giant semi-circle is either one piece or a thousand, but the number is irrelevant because we can’t even be sure of the composition. It might be metal. It might not. The labs are—inconclusive. The outward design is something out of an artist’s fantasy, with elements that almost fit what I know—Olmec, Mid-Century American and the Aboriginal Dreamtime, all swirled together in a matrix of technology that boggles the mind. It hinted at humanity and defied it, all in every sweeping curve or recessed panel. I came back to the same word, spelled in a different way: Sorcery.

“Gandalf built it,” I mutter, half-smiling.

“Doubt that,” Jack snorts, then lifts a brow. “Maybe. Hell if I know.”

I stare at the device, my senses fizzing with worry. Even my damaged ring finger throbs, my nerves on high alert as the object stands mute. Mocking.

Always mocking.

“It’s not magic, it’s real,” I tell him.

“And you’ve learned a lot, even if it’s beyond me.” Jack walks around the room touching things that are supposed to be off-limits. He straightens one of my notebooks against the edge of a work bench and organizes my brushes by size and bristle stiffness. “You deserve some recognition,” he says after a minute. “Enjoy a little spotlight. I’ll buy the drinks. You’ve earned it.”

“If you say so.” My boss is going to ask what I’ve learned during the last six months, which is a problem because I haven’t found enough—not yet, anyway, but especially nothing we can monetize. Funding is important, Doctor Murphy, he will tell me for the hundredth time, the need for money a constant thrum in our collective ear. If we don’t deliver something to our sponsors, we might as well pack our bags and head home now.

Jack leans on a temporary desk, a flash of something crossing his features. Pain, maybe—probably. He’s a shadow of the man he was—trim and energetic, but nothing like the warrior I remember from his days in the service when he was ten years younger. My aches are nothing compared to what he suffers daily.

I run my tongue over a tooth—the one twisted like an animal’s, then touch the scar on my finger. It’s thick, keloidal. Knobby with tissue and a constant reminder. The pain is a friend now, a constant passenger, and that friend will never leave me. “The LMC owns the site. I’m here at their discretion.”

Jack smiles, eyes flicking to my hand. He knows me well enough to spot when I’m deep in thought. “That’s it, brother, break out your thinking finger. I remember when our instructors thought you were cheating. Like you were checking notes in your palm or something. If only they knew the truth.”

“That I was nervous?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “That you were lost in your own head, always trying to solve something.”

Power surges in the research station, pulsing through the lights in a stuttering beat. Their color flares whiter, then settles back to a pallid tone that throws the room into weak relief. Every time this happens, my whole body tightens, as though I’m bracing for an overload. “This is supposed to be state of the art equipment, not someone’s home lab. This place is a mess.”

Jack laughs. “Hey, personally I love it. We’re like some homejacker, sending out a DIY show about ripping tech from old gear. I like order, but—this feels more alive. I need that to think, to really engage myself in the enormity of what we’re seeing.”

His laughter dampens my pain, however briefly, and I realize I’m glad he’s here, if only for a short time. “What could go wrong, besides getting cooked off by alien tech? This isn’t dangerous at all,” I say, watching the lights with a gimlet eye.

“That’s the Murph I know,” Jack says. “Glad to see your sense of humor is still in there. Warms my black heart. And just between you and me, if we have to go, I’m glad we’ll be together. I don’t wanna die alone. Or at all, really.”

“I’d like to die old.” I look around. “And sure as hell not here, but we can’t bail yet. We need more data on this thing.”

I can’t explain how the artifacts arrived, what they do, or even what they’re made of. The North American Lunar Research Foundation funded my grant, and they want all the answers. The LMC wants to get back to digging for minerals yesterday, if not sooner, and they can’t have some science wonk holding up their river of money. Not going to happen.

“Isn’t that always the case?” Jack asks. “Scientists always want more.”

I sigh and roll my head around but can’t find relief. I’m stiff and worried and sore. “Let me focus.”

What the LMC does with their property isn’t my concern. My job is to fulfill the conditions of the grant—and satisfy my own curiosity. The fact that these two things coincide is lucky happenstance. I understand that quite well, just like I understand that the second our interests don’t align, the corporate execs in fancy suits will tell me to leave.

And I won’t have a choice in the matter because this whole thing belongs to them.

“Relax, seriously.” Jack walks to the Cradle and flicks it with one finger. No sound escapes from the impact.

“Wish you wouldn’t do that.” I make notes at the workstation, the screen pulsing with soft light.

“For once, Doctor Murphy, I agree with you,” a new voice says.

I turn and motion for Jack to hang back. We do well with hand signals. They’re something we learned in the Army Reserves before our career paths diverged radically—before he went into the regular military and . . . took damage. I pursued post-doctoral degrees, and he somehow landed in the CIA, though I can’t prove it. Officially, he’s an international oil security consultant who goes wherever he wants and reports to God only knows who. It’s a good job for a warrior who can’t fight anymore, and the aura of mystery huddles under his cheerful exterior. I know he likes that. It’s a shadow that never leaves him. Like his wounds.

I adopt one of my best expressions—competent alertness—and wave airily at the device. “Nothing to worry about, Mr. Davis. I’ve directed numerous kinetic insults to the surface of the Cradle of far greater power than my friend can generate with one finger.” I dim the lights until I can see the man.

Jack flips off Brendon Davis, the CEO of the LMC field operations division. He’s an average man in every way, except for his gaze. Dark eyes glitter with intellect, and when he looks at me, I feel the weight of his curious apprehension. He’s thinking, and not just about Jack’s affront to the alien item.

“This thing looks more dangerous than it is, unless you get hit in the head with it,” Jack says.

Davis ignores him. “I’ve been patient, Doctor Murphy. My company has provided tools your grant funding couldn’t afford, and I’ve put considerable manpower at your disposal. I need an answer. Not answers, but one answer. When will you have information for me?”

“I can’t speak to that yet, sir.” My annoyance is close to the surface, but I control it with a force of will. Opportunity has a way of doing that—giving us dominion over emotions that would otherwise run wild. I hold my tongue because the company won’t hesitate to make my removal hurt my long-term career, either financially or legally. Maybe both. The last thing I need is to wind up in prison for bogus charges, all because I didn’t move fast enough or give some asshole with a suit the right answer.

“Can’t, or won’t?” Davis asks, moving closer. He’s shorter than me, but he fills the space with his intensity.

I push my glasses higher on my nose so they can slide back down again seconds later. It’s a battle I’ve waged since my teen years, only now it’s a way to buy time when I need to think, to form an answer, or in the case of dealing with Davis, to take a stand. To Jack, taking a stand means violence. For me, it’s a bit more cerebral. “I’m a scientist, Mr. Davis. I want answers more than you do.”

“I want to not go bankrupt.” His response is almost too low for me to hear, and also out of character. He never admits weakness, financial or otherwise. “Where is your security team? That’s part and parcel of the grant conditions and LMC policy.”

I point a knife hand at Jack. “Security.”

“That is hardly what I meant,” Davis says.

Jack moves to block the man’s ire, but I wave him off gently. No need to escalate.

The last thing I want is this kind of trouble. Not that there’s ever a good kind with Jack. For him, trouble is opportunity, not chaos.

My friend ignores me. “I could paste your entire security team, and you know it.” The threat doesn’t match his slender frame, which is an echo of what he once was. But his anger is swift and hot, and Davis takes a moment to let it dissipate. He wants answers too much to waste everything on the boast of a broken man. The silence grows longer.

Jack breaks it. “Why don’t you let Dr. Murphy do his work and then maybe he can learn something about this alien tech. Did you forget that part? This is an alien artifact. Kind of a big deal.” Jack moves far too close to the LMC CEO and speaks each word more slowly. “I’ll give you a pass, but no more threats. Not to him.”

“You shouldn’t be here, Barris.” Davis doesn’t back off a bit.

Jack doesn’t argue.

“I’m sending a complaint to your employer,” Davis says, tone crackling with authority. He’s used to getting his way. “You’ll be off the moon. Permanently.”

Jack, my oldest and best friend, holds up his comm, showing Davis something on the screen. Neither of them says a word, but Davis pierces me with a glare, turns on his heel, and leaves. Ten steps away, his voice drifts back to me. “Answers. Soon.”

His footsteps fade, and we’re alone with the alien artifact.

“He won’t be back,” Jack says. He sounds certain, to the point of smug.

“What did you do?” I’m not sure I want to know, but the question has a life of its own. Like Davis, I need the answer.

“He wanted to see my actual credentials. Doubt he’ll be a distraction anymore.”

I shake my head. “He’s going to send a security team. Frankly, I’m not sure why they aren’t here now.”

Jack gives me a look of alarm. “Really? I better take a walk to make sure everything is prepped.”

“Go ahead.” As much as I like Jack, I need to concentrate, and his questions take up time and effort. The answers are close. I can feel them. And once I’ve got them, my job will be secure.

As he walks away, I hear him calling for security officers on the comm. Then his voice fades, and I’m alone again, the air around me still and flat.

“Numbers first.” I open one of three lasers designed for fine measurement. The cases read NASA, and they’re heavy, even at one-sixth gravity. “Just keep sending me the cool toys,” I mutter, because the things I have are cutting edge—heaven for an engineering nerd. With the room to myself and absolute silence—

“Murph, I need you to call in one of your security teams right now.” Jack’s words come through the radio fast and sharp. “My people aren’t where they should be.”

I look at my radio, then grudgingly march over to the workbench to pick it up. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer.

I call a team and issue short, clear orders: “Find Mr. Barris, look for trouble, and no, I don’t know his location.” They’ll have to send a ping unless— “Where are you, Jack?” I ask, trying for him again.

And this time he answers. “I’m at the supply lift to your level,” he says in a rush like he’s been running or something. Static covers most of his words. “. . . secondary site . . . need . . .”

“Jack?” Nothing. “Jack? Lost you. Report.”

No answer. I yell into the comm, making sure security knows I’m serious.

The only answer is gunfire.

The shots echo from the hallway, louder than they should be if the security door is shut. Davis, if I know the man, left it open because he’s a lazy asshole making some kind of passive aggressive statement about who’s in charge.

If there are guns firing, then it isn’t Davis. He’d never risk the safety of his prize.

Jack left it open, I know, because he hadn’t planned on being gone long and I’d complained about opening it for him last time. Simple mistakes like that get people killed.

I haven’t thought like that for years.

My research team emerges from two side doors, eyes wide with fear.

There are six of them, every face tense, bodies held in rigid angles. They’re scared. It radiates off them like a scent.

“What’s happening?” Dr. Cynthia Allen has had, up until now, a perfect speaking voice, calm and measured. Now she sounds rough, as if she’s going to lose it. The guns hammer again, a staccato that rattles off the walls, ending at our location.

This time, I see the reflection of muzzle flashes from around the corner.

“No time. Get to the lift and get out of here. Do it now, Cynthia. Everyone, out!” They’ll be cold without hard suits, but they’ll be alive. It’s the right call, so I shove Cynthia toward the passage and wave at everyone else. They startle into motion like birds. I can feel the adrenaline pop, and my fingers curl. Stay or run. Flight or fight.

I choose to fight.

“We can’t take the lift,” Cynthia says, stumbling. “That’s for equipment. We’ll freeze, and it isn’t pressurized.”

“You can and you will. No arguments, Doctor. It’s that or—” I look past her, where another rifle cracks. “Just go.”

Her glare fades as another round whines through the air above us. The staff comes alive and flees, a mass of chattering humanity spurred to action. I brace the security door, shoulder flush against the thick mass of composite.

“Get it together, Murph,” I tell myself and start to push.

Brendon Davis and four armed men enter the room, backing me up a step.

“What?” I ask, stunned.

“I’ll take that.” Davis plucks the comm from my hand.

“What the hell are you—”

Davis snorts, not even letting me finish. “Petty. You science types don’t understand a simple timeline. Or money, for that matter. You think everything arrives when you call for it, but money—and stockholders—won’t wait. I won’t wait.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, fighting not to look for Jack.

“This was supposed to be a two week delay, Doctor Murphy. It’s been three months. Millions of dollars lost a day. Contracts near default. LMC the laughingstock of the industry.” Davis paces back and forth, hands jabbing at the air as his men point their guns at me. Not one of them makes a sound. “I have responsibilities. People count on me.”

“Then let me work,” I counter, but he waves me off.

Jack once told me there were desperate, stupid people in the world, and that they were as dangerous as rabid dogs. Handle with crazy, he always joked, but I know what he meant. The project hangs in the balance, even if Jack isn’t hurt. Or worse.

Davis shakes his head, not slowing. “It’s far too late for that.” His voice changes to informative and mournful. Like he’s addressing a board meeting. “Unfortunate things happen. Doctor Murphy turned out to be an overeager scientist cutting corners to advance his career. Tragic. No one survived the explosion and the resulting collapse.” He pauses and turns to me, his eyes lighting up. “Why, I half believe it myself.”

“You’re not—you can’t do this. You don’t have to do this,” I say, but my voice sounds weak, even to me.

You can handle this, Murph. One thing at a time. Fighting is a formula. If you need to fight, make sure they never want to fight you again. Pep talk complete, I draw in a deep breath, eyes darting around the room. The odds suck. Davis looks impassive, almost bored. He doesn’t see me as a threat. Probably never has.

Davis fans a hand at me. “Enough.”

His team flinches, then tightens their circle around me.

“Doctor Hank Murphy activated the artifact,” Davis says in a monotone. “Something I begged him not to do. I told him to be patient. I warned him that applying power to a device we knew little about was a reckless, unnecessary risk. Didn’t I? More than once.” He shakes his head again, regret in every motion. “Senseless.”

“You did, sir.” The lead gunman shifts nervously, obviously repeating from a script, a recording light now blinking on his body camera. “We all heard you say it over and over, practically begged him to be sensible.”

Davis warms to the charade, any hint of nerves fading. “It was a selfish act done by a man too full of his own pride to respect safety protocols. Sad, but not unexpected.”

“Understood, Mr. Davis. That’s exactly how it happened,” the lead gunman agrees, face wan under the artificial lights. “You can’t trust these science types.”

“That’s bullshit. We haven’t even thought about activating the power source. One mistake could ruin the only alien artifact we’ve ever discovered. It’s the most important item in human history. It’s unique.”

“Unique? Doubtful.” Davis waves his hand, eyes sliding from me in dismissal. “It’s showtime, gentlemen.” The body cameras blink off. Two of the men drag power cables from the banks of lights and clamp them to the base of the Cradle. They drop a coil of wires, bite off curses, and rush to complete the task in quick, economical motions.

I laugh at their efforts, but I’m worried. “There won’t be enough power. Our hypothesis is that it needs—”

“We’ve been testing the generators all day, or you have been, rather.” Davis gives another signal. “All it takes is a surge, which will be recorded and duly investigated by the LMC Superintendent of Site Safety. He’s a stupid shit, but what do you do when your brother-in-law needs a job?” Davis spreads his hands, a helpless shrug at his familial demands.

The lead gunman moves toward me, gun at the low-ready position. He appears hard but also worried, as if gunning down techs and security guards is more than he signed on for. Reality hijacks his expectations, and I see a man who knows there is no honor in murder.

But there is money.

He’s dangerous, but nothing like Jack, not even the depleted version of my friend, whose lifeblood has been forged through combat and pain.

“Grab him,” the hired gun says, barking the scripted words louder than necessary. His nerves are beginning to tell. That’s good.

Two more mercs—that’s all they can be—rush in and slam me against the artifact. My breath leaves in a whoosh, and I’m zip-tied to the Cradle, arms spread in supplication. I’m helpless, and I’m pissed.

My comm lies nearby, still active. “Jack!” I shout, but only once.

A merc steps forward and places his weapon against my face. The barrel is almost painful, it’s so cold. “No one can hear us down here,” he says, his voice is a growl, devoid of emotion. He’s a pro, and he’s not nervous.

“Shut him up,” Davis orders, voice cracking.

“He’ll be quiet.” The merc leans in with the barrel. It divots my cheek, but at least it’s warming from contact with my skin.

“Murder isn’t—” I say, but Davis rolls his eyes, tired of my voice.

“Hit it,” he says, and one of the mercs flips the connection on a wall panel. Davis doesn’t even look back, and the world goes white.

I scream. But no one can hear, and then I’m falling.

Fast.

2

Falling isn’t so bad if you’re sure you won’t hit the ground.

In high school, my grandfather’s little Cessna 162 Skywatcher was always trying to fall out of the air. I know that aerodynamics kept it aloft, but it also might have been prayer.

I understood the theory, but flying always felt like a long, relatively controlled fall. Small planes were all I had after a prank got me bumped from the US Army Reserve WOFT (Warrant Officer Flight Training). One flight over a nude beach—which was decidedly unfunny to the commanders—and I was off to Mechanized Infantry for the rest of my enlistment obligation. One weekend a month, and two weeks a year.

All for a glance at three nude women with severe sunburn. Not my best move.

I’m falling again. And this time, there’s no Cessna cradling me. Lights tumble around my face as I descend in a broken vision of colors and sounds, flashing past at a speed that makes my stomach flip with indignation. I close my eyes, but no—the lights are there. They’re inside me, through me, around and relentless and leaping, stars of fire and flashing destiny that spin ever closer.

I’m being torn apart.

And then I begin to slow. I am in—a tube? Tunnel? A place that I know, but it’s thick with fluid, which is filling my mouth and nose. I’m drowning, fighting the need to breathe, so primal. Then I give in, ribs shuddering up and out. Is this what dying feels like?

This has to stop. I’m coming apart.

Time lurches forward. I’m going under, dying, leaving everything I’ve ever known behind.

Death comes close now, a red shadow kicking hard from the depths to reach for me as I splash in desperation and horror. The end is nowhere near. I push against death—might be real, might not—and kick hard toward the light.

Then, darkness. Thick, perfect blackness. Grim. Lights out, Murphy.

If I’m not dead, then I am close. No sensory input remains—not a sound, image, smell, taste, or tactile experience—until the pain hits me. At that delightful moment, every part of my body burns like hell is real and I’ve arrived through the big front gate, hot coals and torment made just for me.

“Stop!” I howl, voice raw. It doesn’t sound like me. It’s primal. A shriek of pain, perfectly undone, and as I draw breath for another shout, I sense someone nearby. A shadow. I’m not alone.

Something stands over me—looming, dark, tall, possibly human, but it’s hard to tell. I crack my eyes and ignore the fuzz in my brain, like a bad hangover after a night of power drinking. I’m coming back to some kind of senses.

Pain slips away like a falling tide. The relief is intoxicating, and for one moment I feel invincible.

But I’m not. My body is punished to the edge and beyond, bones brittle like ashes.

“Stop?” the giant asks, but the way he asks tells me he doesn’t understand the word.

I try to make out who it is I’m talking to, but all I can do is squint and lick my dry lips. “You have no idea what I’m saying, do you?”

No response. I’m certainly not dead, and the pain is—if not gone, then almost. A memory, like a nightmare fleeing at dawn.

“Right.” I reach out for assistance, hoping this isn’t one of Davis’s people. “Help me up.”

The man-shaped silhouette slaps my hand away, saying nothing.

“A simple no would have been fine,” I say, struggling to my feet and hoping he doesn’t give my face the same treatment as my hand. I’m as wobbly as a newborn foal.

I’m never going through that again, I think. Rather die.

The person retreats a step, fists clenched at his sides. I can discern his eyes, open and staring, and an expression of disgust. I wipe my forehead and nose slowly. My hands are shaking, but feeling my own touch calms me. I peer at my visitor again, the image sharpening as the seconds pass.

Two things are clear now. He is every bit as huge as I thought, and he’s wearing armor out of a horror movie—thick, dark, and covering muscle-bound arms that are out of proportion to his body. The plates come together as if grown there, a film of fluid over the entire knobbed surface. There are swirls of color, ranging from green to black, all sickly grotesque and wet. His legs are too long, absurdly muscled, and thick. He stands in silence, regarding me with a blank stare, eyes flat as stones.

“Thanks. Thought I was dead. Now I see you just look like you’re dead, sort of, and I’m obviously not on the moon.”

The giant growls from under his headgear. It’s hard to tell where his flesh ends and the metallic plates begin.

“I’m Doctor Hank Murphy, lead scientist for the NALRF. That’s the North American Lunar Research Foundation. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. Big deal where I’m from.”

“From,” he says. His voice is like two stones grinding together.

I can’t tell if that is a statement or a question. I point at my chest. “Doctor Hank Murphy.” After a pause, I point at his chest. “You?”

He strikes my hand aside and follows through with an arm lock that lifts me onto my tiptoes before he releases me roughly, then jabs a thick finger in the middle of my chest. Staggering, I maintain balance, but only just. The violent impact twists me toward my left, and I stumble two steps.

I raise both hands and retreat. “Easy, hoss. No need to be a hardass.”

As I blink, the area around us comes into focus even more, but it hardly helps. I have no idea where we are, but it looks like the bottom of a shaft. There are tool marks, but not the kind that a chisel or primitive blade might make. Advanced, although not a cutting laser. Somewhere in the middle—despite the flecks of schist, feldspar, and veins of quartz, the cuts are smooth, even orderly.

“Orphan,” he says, without the common courtesy of pointing at himself or at me.

“Great. That’s supremely helpful. Need a little context, if you don’t mind.”

The giant says nothing.

I sigh. “Maybe I’ll just have a look around.” Solid plan, but there isn’t much territory to explore. Seems like we’re underground, like the NALRF dig site, but then the view becomes different.

The details send a chill up my spine.

Four ladders ascend to a startlingly small circle of light far above us. Small pads, like comms, are attached to the wall at regular intervals, each one surrounded by scorch marks. The air is heavy with stone dust, the smell of char, and something I can’t identify.

I point to the damage, the evidence of fire. “Where am I, exactly?”

No reply. This time, he looks me up and down.

“This is stupid. Either I’m hallucinating, or—”

“You speak Hadrian,” he says, then exhales like the words disgust him.

The term throws me, but I’m guessing he means English. Where the hell had a term like Hadrian come from? I search my memory for linguistic variations but come up empty. “Yeah, okay,” I mutter. “Great. Now we’re getting somewhere.” I move forward carefully but stand tall with my shoulders squared. Appearing confident might be a mistake, but looking like a victim could hurt my chances at survival.

He raises both fists.

I fall back a step, hands up. “Easy, big guy. I’m just trying to get my bearings. Can you tell me what happened?”

He points at me. “Orphan.”

“You already said that. Not helpful.” I twist right and left to loosen my back, which actually feels pretty damned good, all things considered. “Am I the Orphan, or are you the Orphan?”

The giant snorts, then turns away and starts climbing a ladder.

“Sorry, I’m not sure my Hadrian is that great. Can you tell me what you mean?”

“I am Zedas-Duryan,” he says without looking down. “You are Doctor Hank Murphy.”

At least he got my name right. I pause. “Should I follow you, Zedas?”

Silence.

“Cold down here.” I hug myself, then rub my hands together to demonstrate my discomfort. Maybe he’ll grasp my meaning—I’m bridging the gap between us as best I can, and that means hand signals for now. “I’m going to follow you up this ladder. I’d prefer not falling off. Or being pushed, for that matter.”

Zedas doesn’t speak, or look back, or seem to care if I live or die.

All I know is that I’m not at the lunar dig site and nothing about this place looks right. It doesn’t feel like a dream, or a nightmare, or a virtual reality game. But it certainly can’t be real, can it? Look at this guy. Look where I am. None of this makes any sense.

Am I still passing through whatever purgatory I was in before?

No. Not now. That part is over. Thank the gods of chance.

As I grab the rung of the ladder, I spot something that gives me pause. I rub absently at the thin line where my scar had been, my finger now fresh and new and straight as an arrow. The thick keloidal scar is gone—proof that a teenager, a few beers, and a badger are a bad mix. The aches in my hand are gone, too, the familiar throb nowhere to be felt. When I release my grip on the rung and step back to examine the change, I realize my glasses are missing. A quick look around locates their sparkling remains on the ground—suspiciously close to where Zedas was standing. I glance up and see detail well beyond anything I’ve known since I was a kid with good eyes.

My vision has to be 20/20, or maybe 20/10.

“Zedas, wait for me.”

“I am not Zedas. I am Zedas-Duryan,” he says, continuing upward at a surprisingly swift pace.

I laugh suddenly, and I don’t even understand why. All I know is that it feels good, so I let it come and then step forward.

“Not that I’m complaining, but haven’t these people heard of stairs, or an elevator.”

“There are both things, but this is the way Zedas-Duryan and Doctor Hank Murphy are going now.”

Good enough, I guess.

Climbing the ladder is easier than it looks. I stayed in shape after I left the Army, and thank God for that. I’ve never been an exceptional athlete, though. Just mediocre, and that’s on a good day.

But now? My muscles thrum with purpose. Every time I reach with my left hand, I see the new, pink skin covering my ring finger and know that I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole to Wonderland.

And that rabbit hole must have had one end on Luna at the base of an experimental shaft in front of an alien Cradle.

“This isn’t so bad, uh, Zardos.”

“Zedas-Duryan,” he corrects.

“Right. Anyway, it’s not bad, but then again, you could just be a figment of my imagination. Maybe I was shot and I’m bleeding out of my—”

My new friend growls low in his chest, or perhaps I imagine the sound. Feeling great and getting fingers healed aren’t the only good things about this place. I feel energized, even purged of the pressure and sadness that clung to me like a second skin.

It is here that I begin to remember. I was standing near the Cradle, and the security team turned it on. They flipped the switch, and I watched them do it. Yeah, and then I fell, but not to the ground. I fell through water and darkness. Fell through death, except no, it wasn’t that.

I was transported. Taken to another place. Not the moon, though, because the gravity here is different.

“Hey, Zedas, wait up.” I scramble up the last stretch of ladder and into the open to find the giant standing with his massive arms crossed. He’s even more impressive in the light of day, and his presence makes me hesitate, if only for a second.

“I am Zedas-Duryan. Are you stupid?” he asks.

Feeling a bit drunk, I spread my arms wide, then fight the urge to bow. “I’m a PhD. We’re only stupid until we get through grad school. Usually.”

He drops his head low and stares at his feet as he mumbles.

“Didn’t quite catch that.” This time, forcing myself to show some manners, I concentrate on his name and try to get it right. “Thank you for helping me, Zedas-Duryan. Did I get it right? The inflection?”

He walks a few strides and sits down on a big rock, a gusty sigh leaving his huge chest.

Other people gather around—humans, basically—filtering out of the surroundings in wraithlike movements. They wear simple, durable clothing and carry elegant tools, the metal bright, purposeful.

“He does not talk,” one of the new arrivals says. “Why would you waste your time mining words from a Dogan?”

“He talked to me—told me I spoke Hadrian.”

The man stares at me like I’m a liar. “Doubtful. Your accent is strange. Quite pretentious.”

His brown jumpsuit has a thick orange collar with silver stitching. When I look closely, there is also a black strip of leather—or something that looks like leather—around the base. My archeologist’s brain warns me it’s best not to make assumptions, and nothing here fits within my sense of science, or even reality.

Orange Collar motions for the others to stay back—a cautioning wave, reasonable on his part. “Everyone remain calm. I’m just as surprised as you are that anyone, ah, useful came out of the mineshaft.”

“Who says he’s useful?” a voice from the crowd shouts. “And what is the damn man-animal doing here? I thought the Dogan was down in the hut we set aside for him.”

“Settle down, Markel,” Orange Collar barks, then faces me. He’s a tall man, with the build and bearing of someone in charge. He has loose brown hair pushed back from a broad, steady face. “My name is Karl Herias of Ironback, Councilman of the Fourth Rank.”

“Doctor Hank Murphy,” I say. “A question? Where exactly am I?”

My body is healed, maybe in a superior condition than before, but I’m leery of rewards without cost. I might crash, as I have no idea what brought all of this on. One thing I will assume, however, at least for the time being, is that the Cradle is the source of this new version of me. I feel like a teenager in a growth spurt, an experience that is both miserable and exciting. Memories of my science team, the explosion, lights, and the betrayal of Brendon Davis and the LMC—all of it comes back in a powerful visual moment. I’m too invested in what’s going on around me to dive back into the—not the past, but certainly the previous hours.

“Doctor? Is that a name or a title?” Karl asks. “The accent . . . I apologize. You speak strangely. But no matter. You have come to our village, Ironback, and fallen into the old caves. Did you see the dead portal device at the bottom?”

I shake my head, which hurts, reminding me that I have a fully functioning nervous system, despite my shiny new finger. “I did, but it was hard to look at for long. Pulls on the eyes. Does that make sense? Absorbs light.”

“Ah, yes. You saw the portal, for true. Only teenagers with small brains and less sense go down there to look at it these days, and only on a dare,” Karl says with a look that all adults use when speaking of youths.

“And while good and drunk,” Markel adds, walking up behind the councilman. His collar has a thin orange line and no silver thread. With broad shoulders and strong hands, he looks like a workman of about thirty years or so. When he aims his gray eyes at me, I feel like an intruder, but his gaze is more neutral than threatening. Call it professional interest. “You’re not from around here.”

“I’m not.” I study the landscape with a quick glance. We’re high on the side of a mountain that slopes down into a green valley, leading to the sea—definitely not the moon where I’d been digging around moments before. I feel a sense of dislocation rise within me, but I force it down.

“Where are you from?” Markel asks, taking a step forward, his rough hands clenched into tight fists.

“Earth. The Moon by way of Cape Canaveral. Or do you mean where I grew up?”

“Grew what?” Markel asks.

“Why don’t you let me handle this,” Karl says, patting the air. “It is part of my job, after all.”

“Your job is to spend our money on pretty sidewalks and fountains,” Markel says in mild retort.

“Made of stone from your quarry, so I’m not sure why you’re complaining,” Karl says. He indicates that I should walk with him. “Now, tell me how you came to be down there with the arrival gate. Also, we would like to know its condition. It’s not active, is it?”

“I’m not sure about the details.” Some of my euphoria is wearing off, and I can already feel what’s going to be a kick-in-the-ass hangover. “The big guy probably saved my life.”

Karl flicks a glance at Zedas, who’s walking slightly behind us.

“We’re a team,” I say.

“A team?”

“We work together.” I nod toward the armored humanoid for help but get nothing. “It just seems right that we stick together for now.”

“I understand the word now, but team is an old word, not in common usage. Your town must be far from here,” Karl says.

“You could say that.” This is getting awkward. I’m not sure these people won’t burn me as a witch or something if I say the wrong thing. There’s an edge to their words and motions—not a threat, but not relaxed. I can understand why because I’m as alarmed as they are at the idea of me coming out of an alien artifact.

“Perhaps you came from off-planet, in a ship?” Karl asks.

A ship. That takes me a second to process. These people, whoever they are, don’t seem the most capable, but they know about ships and planets, which means they might be interplanetary.

“No, don’t think so.” I need an explanation to end this line of questioning. Something clever, an argument I can use again and again to put up barriers to inquiry when necessary. I need an out, so I go with the tried and true. “I think I hit my head.”

The man seems to understand, though he takes a moment to respond. “Ah,” he says, nodding. “That would explain your confusion.” He peers at me, then shrugs. “Perhaps more than a little dumb, if I’m being honest. I thought it was the accent of your people, but maybe you have been traumatized. The Dogan didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“No, like I said before, I think he saved my life.”

Karl draws back, embarrassed. “Yes, you mentioned it, but I politely pretended not to hear that part. That is . . . awkward. Getting rid of the big nuisance will be problematic now.”

Zedas grunts, a rumble that doesn’t sound friendly at all.

“Regardless of how you came to be here, we are a civilized people who know the value of hospitality.” Karl jerks his hand at the crowd—including Markel.

“Thanks.”

“What do you require? Food. Shelter. Companionship?”

“Let’s take it slow. I’m not sure what you mean by some of that. I don’t want to cause any trouble,” I say, knowing I should be interrogating this guy for information rather than the other way around. But he’s boring me and I’m feeling better than I have in years. Maybe I won’t suffer a galactic hangover after all.

“We will take our different cultures into account and agree in advance not to take offense at misunderstandings,” Karl says. “What do you wish to do? Tell me and I will find someone in our town who can assist you. Accounts can be settled at a more, ah, appropriate time.”

“You know what, Karl, I want to go for a walk,” I say, surprising myself at least as much as my host.

“Walk? To where?” he asks. “Forgive me, I am trying to understand.”

“I just want to feel the wind on my face. Would it cause a problem if I headed down to the coast and back?” I look at the distant water with longing. It’s a galaxy away from the moon in color and appeal.

Now he definitely thinks I’m crazy—his expression can’t cover it, and he doesn’t even bother trying. “That will take the afternoon. Is this a thing your people do?”

“Sometimes,” I admit, already starting to move. “I’ll jaunt to the beach and then meet you at that tower in the center of town. Clear my head and get my bearings.” And look for escape routes, I think, but I keep that detail to myself. Better he thinks me wobbly from a head wound.

“Oh, yes. Of course. That would be the best place for such a reunion. It is the town square, near the library and the Council House.” Karl gives me a tentative wave.

A few of the other townspeople raise their hands in confused farewell.

Zedas plods beside me without a word. After I stroll for a while, I slow to a mosey—just because of the terrain, not because I’m winded. My stoic companion makes no comment on the pace.

“Beats the hell out of the moon, Zedas,” I tell him. “Let’s pick up the pace until we get up the next incline.” I quicken my steps just short of a trot.

Zedas doesn’t respond and keeps up despite breathing heavily.

There is no way he can maintain this pace, not as big as he is. The armor, or whatever it is that covers him, looks and moves heavily, like if I tried to lift it, the metal might crush me where I stand. I feel vibrations from his boots hitting the ground five feet away. His breath comes every third or fourth stride and never changes no matter how fast I go. I break into a brief run, just for the hell of it—and his chest, huge and round, moves like a piston as his arms pump to counterbalance his heavy steps.

After a mile, I reach the top of a winding trail and figure he’ll stop if he needs to. “Suit yourself,” I tell Zedas over my shoulder. He’s staying close, his armor clunking together in muted tones as we descend toward the beckoning shore.

It’s the view that makes me want to walk again—miles of lush forests, broad meadows, and hills sloping down toward the coast. I slow to a walk, sun on my face, and I think that going through the Cradle again wouldn’t be so bad.

If I can get it to work. To find a way home.

The sun and breeze are perfect, but as my transfer buzz begins to wear away, the enormity of it all hits me.

I’m lost, on another world, with a guy who looks like an armored demon.

We stride downward, passing a pair of villagers leading a cart pulled by a hairy, four-legged animal that smells like a wet towel wrapped in manure, its mouth clipping grass as it goes. The drivers shout a surprised but playful word I don’t know and laugh as we pass them.

“Someone you know?” I ask my big friend.

He grunts. If it was a word, I definitely missed the meaning.

After a while, Zedas stops, sits down, and stretches out, letting his head tip back into the sun. If misery loves company, my running partner must be having a gala with a truly epic guest list.

The ocean calls, and I spin on my heel, needing to see that much water in one place, unbridled and free.

“See you in a half hour.” I step toward the blue, eyes narrowed in the light of what I decide must be an alien star, far from the only world I’ve ever known.

3

By the time I decide to head back, the sun is a burning red globe above the horizon, disappearing into a deep blue sea. The waves are faintly purple, their peaks reflecting gold. Stunning. That’s the only word for it.

Surely, if this place was real, I would have seen it on a travel brochure attached to a cruise package.

Come across the galaxy to scenic Ironback. Meet the delightful locals. Befriend silent, armored giants.

I stare at the completely functional, rejuvenated finger on my left hand again. Other things that are harder to quantify have changed as well—mental clarity, inner calm and confidence, a near constant supply of energy so rejuvenating that I wonder how I survived without it until now.

Physically, emotionally, and mentally, I’ve never been better, but I’m stranded in a strange place where nothing makes sense. What is the science behind my journey from the Earth’s moon to . . . here? How is it even possible?

Looking across the beach, I see Zedas sitting at the edge of the sand with his legs crossed. His compulsion to follow me makes the least sense of all. Doesn’t he have something better to do? And what’s with the armor? Is it his, or is it somehow a part of him, like the exoskeleton of a rhinoceros beetle?

He looks like a homicidal turtle, thanks to the pattern on his armor. Maybe there is a better adjective in Hadrian, the language of this place—which I understand some of the time, but as to the inflection and nuance, it’s unknown. Sooner or later, my lack of knowledge might end up embarrassing me—or worse. I’ll wind up dead in a ditch because I called someone a pig instead of “sir.”

Language and culture are just as much my enemy as my friend. I know neither well enough to be useful here in this place, at what I think is the other end of a long tunnel.

Inhaling deeply, I tip my head back into the sun, and with each rise and fall of my chest, my thoughts grow ever clearer.

Breathing is so easy here, though it feels like this is just how it’s supposed to be. As an experiment, I plant my heels in the sand, then push off to accelerate into a dash, faster than I’ve ever run before. To my utter surprise, I’m not even breathing hard, as though sprinting takes as little effort as standing. It feels surreal, but more importantly, my mind is unfurling like a sail, snapping to life in the wind, as though it belongs here.

Near the beginning of my career, I studied schematic drawings of Egyptian pyramids. Now, as I think back, I can see them like I have the book in front of me. I remember details I thought I’d lost, and mathematical equations twist and turn in the back of my mind like glowing wallpaper, fresh as the day I learned them back in college algebra. But that isn’t the weird part. When I focus on a memory, whatever it is, I remember everything—the temperature of the room, the faces around me, the scent of the rain outside the classroom window.

I’m having the most organized acid trip in history.

The transition from the LMC site to the abandoned mine remains a blur, yet I recall every detail of my confrontation with Brendon Davis. I hear the gunshots. The screams. The anger. Most importantly, I remember him saying the artifact wasn’t unique.

Not the only Cradle, I tell myself.

The son of a bitch must have been holding out on me. How could I not see it before? That must have been why sections of the LMC operation were sealed off—areas that had been in the same direction the shots came from. Jack Barris had gone that way and hadn’t come back. Davis’s goons killed my friend when he’d seen too much, and that demanded justice.

But how can I punish anyone and bring the LMC down when I don’t even know where I am or how to get home?

I’m lost out here, wherever this is, and with no idea how to leave.

Four hours have passed since I arrived in this place. So far, I’ve done nothing but recover and indulge in woolgathering and some brief, if intense, exercise. If this keeps up, I might actually be ready to take my shirt off in public, once I can find my way back.

Not long ago I’d been in constant pain and plagued by headaches. Now I’m stronger, faster, and more alert than ever. Theories I’d been working on regarding the Cradle snap into place like someone wrote them out on a high-definition screen in my imagination.

I stand, look toward my feet, and can’t believe what I see. “Am I taller?” I turn to my big friend at the edge of the sand. “Did I grow while I was asleep?”

Zedas stares at me like I’m a rat spider, or maybe some guy wearing a Patriots jersey. It’s hard to tell if he agrees or he’s annoyed by the questions and thinks I’m a fool.

“I do not like sand,” Zedas says.

“Sorry, buddy. I don’t know what overcame me.” Brushing myself off, I tug at my shirt and pants. “I definitely grew about two inches, though.” The urge to flex a bicep nags at me, but I resist. There has to be limits to what my friend will put up with.

“Orphan,” he says, then twirls a finger around the air between us.

“I don’t know what that means, Zedas, and repeating it isn’t helping.”

Growling, he repeats himself. “You are Orphan. Your body is. . . not slow, not aged. You are faster, better than before the journey.” He seems to struggle with the words. “Do not think so small. You are not the same as before.”

I think I understand his meaning. I’m stronger now than I was when I stepped through the gate, better and faster. Zedas knows this, and he’s associated that change with whatever the hell an Orphan is.

“Alright,” I tell him, then I step back and swing my arms a few times. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with here.”

I bounce on my heels, surprised by the lack of joint pain in my ankles and knees. With a quick and tight breath, I swing my elbows back and leap as high into the air as I can. And it works, or nearly does. My feet come up and above where my head was, and I let out a sharp laugh. For a moment, I’m six feet in the air.

Until I land on my face.

Or, more specifically, a buried rock.

My legs hit the ground a second later. Butt sticking up, I don’t move for about three seconds. “Ow.”

I collapse to one side, then pull my legs into the fetal position. This is undignified and juvenile. It’s time to grow up and take charge of my situation, despite my newfound ability.

“Doctor Hank Murphy, you should practice more,” Zedas says. “For now, you are still clumsy.”

“Brutal, but honest,” I say before climbing to my feet and wishing I’d made better decisions. I roll my head around until it feels like it belongs on my shoulders again. “Okay, so I’m not Superman or anything. Helps to know my limitations, I guess.”

“Come.” Zedas turns and walks toward a pile of rocks farther up the coast and several hundred meters inland from the sandy beach.

“You speak Hadrian well.”

“Doctor Hank Murphy knows this. Should be less stupid. Is Orphan.”

“If you say so, buddy. And you can combine nouns, verbs, and adjectives in the same sentence. It’s okay. All the cool people are doing it.” I shake my recently healed hand, worried the magical fix will disappear. “Just call me Murph.”

Zedas spins around and shoves me backward. Whatever I thought my new strength was, it doesn’t come close to matching the Dogan’s. “Zedas-Duryan. Not Buddy. Not Zedas. I am Zedas-Duryan.”

I spread my hands, watch him, and speak carefully. “You want me to use your full name. I get it. I’ll try to remember.”

He stares for a second, then turns away and walks off.

“Glad we got that sorted out,” I mutter before following. “You have to admit it’s a mouthful.”

My companion doesn’t seem to hear a word I say.

Once we reach the rocks, he points toward the portion facing away from the ocean. From the contour of the ancient boulders, I guess the other side will be concave, worn by the action of waves and wind. The formation is embedded deeper into the ground than it seemed from a distance, and there is evidence of the tide coming in and going out for untold years.

“You want me to look in there?”

“Yes, Doctor Hank Murphy. It is a Prothean Sanctuary.” Each word comes very intentionally.

“I know how you feel about your name, but can you just call me Murph or Murphy?”

“Murph. I will call you by your baby name.” The six and a half foot tall Dogan snorts once, his first sign of anything other than glowering seriousness.

“Thanks.” I move around three rocks, massive placements that resemble the hulking masses of Stonehenge. The megalithic shrine is probably a marvel to someone like my new friend, but I’ve just come through the Cradle, moved between galaxies—I think—like it was nothing.

I’m fizzing with a curious mix of energy and dislocation, but I ignore it—for now. Soaring before me, the Prothean Sanctuary is a trio of thirty-foot-tall slabs made from this planet’s version of sarsen stone, post-glacial fragments of Cenozoic silcrete popular with primitive cultures on Earth for funerals and other rituals. What few people know is that my colleagues have been studying better preserved versions of Stonehenge on each of the major continents for years.

“Are these transporters? Like the one I came through?”

Zedas shakes his head, then adds a shrug of his massive shoulders.

These monoliths are a lot straighter than the ones in Wiltshire, England, despite their placement in the shifting sands of a tidal zone. They must have deep foundations. On the leeward side there is a recessed portion, filled with glowing screens. That’s different. Symbols rotate counter-clockwise, almost vanishing into a tunnel of lights. “What the hell is this?”

“Murph doesn’t know?” Zedas asks, his Hadrian clear and concise. It’s different than before—better, in small ways.

“Is this like the Cradle?” I ask.

“Cradle?”

“The, ah—the portal, at the bottom of the hole. I call it a Cradle,” I try to explain.

Understanding lights his eyes, and Zedas flirts with a smile. “This is a Prothean Sanctuary. Much different. This is good for baby Murph. Is a—treasure trove. Mostly safe.”

“Just Murph. Not a baby.”

“Zedas-Duryan will—I will remember. Not a baby Murph. Just Murph,” the Dogan says, pleased that I’m impressed with the glowing banks of technology but obviously not wanting to get close to it or step onto the sand around the pillars of stone. “It can only transport items. Needed things. Things the Protheans send before they come. But they never come.”

I move closer, reaching out with my left hand to touch a row of glowing shapes that look like octagonal keys on a keyboard. There is obviously power running to them, from underground or maybe a solar charged battery I can’t see. The machinery is elegant, if simple, or maybe that’s why I find it elegant.

Or from the hydraulic power of the incoming and outgoing tide. “Of course,” I mumble. The ocean would be an eternal power source—always moving with inexorable force. It’s a superb solution to the eternal question of how to make things run.

Zedas gives no response.

“I’m a really long way from home,” I murmur, the true words vanishing on an uncaring breeze.

Zedas points into the circle of lights. “Open the Prothean box and find clothing. Replace his—your—rags. Look for tools, food, medicines. These are things you will need, Murph.”

My shirt and pants are damaged, and that’s a generous assessment. All the stitching is loose, and the fabric is spattered with stains of an unknown origin, like a rug in my college apartment. If my nightmares tell the truth—and this far, they’re only hints, shadows—I’m surprised my clothing survived the transformation. The only things that appear unaffected are my boots, but I never bought cheap footwear. What I have on my feet looks new, like they were completely rebuilt. High quality in, high quality out? Which is good. It was something that I learned in boot camp—take care of your feet or die.

“Stories of Orphans never said they come in rags. Maybe Murph did it wrong,” Zedas mutters

Leaning farther into the Sanctuary, I see a depression. At first, I worry it’s erosion from the ebb and flow of the tide, but I can just see part of a handrail.

“What about you?”

Zedas backs away and puts his hands up as I had when I didn’t want him to push me anymore.

“Do you have a home near here? Someplace you can sleep?”

“Zed—” He pauses, considering, then continues in a measured tone, new for him, “I will rest at the edge of the sand and no closer. Hadrians may use Prothean technology. Dogans do not dare.”

“Every time you talk, I have more questions.” I lean into the archway a second time. “Suit yourself. I’m going to have a look.”

Sliding into the Sanctuary feels natural. It’s just another site to investigate, or that’s what I tell myself. Inside, there is a catwalk that runs around the interior wall and allows me to look down on a tetrahedron. Lights the size of pinpricks glow on each edge of luminescent metal railing, their hovering specters adding an odd cheer to the gloom. It’s either floating by magic or resting on a foundation I can’t see, and the lights are untethered, like stars in a sky that’s close enough to touch.

Normally, I’d document the scene thoroughly—with digital photographs, laser measurements, and even radar scans—before approaching. But I don’t have the tools or the team to treat this discovery properly. This is field archaeology in the roughest sense, and my need for due diligence might be left behind in the Cradle, along with my previous life.

I climb down and plant my feet in damp sand that makes up the floor. From my vantage point below, the monoliths are even more intimidating, soaring up in cloistered bulk that fills my vision with dark, brooding stone. All I have to do is climb the ladder to the catwalk, retrace my steps, and shimmy out the way I came in.

But that isn’t what it feels like. With the top open to a sky full of strange stars, and the surfaces crowded with dimly glowing panels, this place feels magical. It’s not, of course. A quick survey of the structure and the control panels suggests—maybe even proves—it was built with science and for a purpose. Whether I can discern that use depends on my senses. And my intellect.

Squatting to gain perspective, I am finally able to see the support structure holding it up from the ground. From above, that detail was invisible, but I duck walk sideways to get a new view, then crawl in and quickly locate another set of buttons and levers, arranged in obedient rows that make sense to the scientist in me. It’s a tight fit, and the air is damp, but breathing slowly, I calm myself and stare. “It’s a locking mechanism.” Saying it out loud, the details solidify. Levers, buttons, order. Locks. This, I understand.

I retreat, then make several rounds, spending an hour on absorbing the details. No need to rush. I crawl under the tetrahedron again and systematically work through possible combinations of lever pulls and button pushes. It’s a puzzle, and nothing more.

The vault door slides open, and a flexible ladder falls from the gap, going inside the newly opened space.

“Guess I’m climbing. Again.”

When I ascend, I quickly realize there are strange tools, packages of food, and medical supplies—but there are a lot of lances that also look like guns, hybrid weapons with a vague lethality that sets my instincts on edge. In design terms, they’re elegant, like atlatls of Mesoamerica—but married to technology that’s at the edge of modern warfare. I empty out one of the larger medical packs and fill it with an assortment of what I need. Food packages that may or may not be safe for me to eat, tools, and obvious medical supplies go in first, packed as evenly as possible. I might be far from home, but I’m still organized. Sort of.

I search for anything resembling clothing and find only a machine loaded with spools of fabric—dark blue, green, and gray. Stealth colors, I think. The manufacturing terminal powers up when I touch it and seems to be asking for sizes. A wire model of a creature bigger and uglier than a Dogan rotates in three dimensions. It appears I’ve met the Protheans, if I’m going to guess, and there’s a vicious look to them that sets my instincts humming. Some fears are primal—and universal.

There are four buttons that I learn can make the figure taller or shorter, thicker or leaner. Another row of keys with symbols I don’t recognize adjusts other details of the wire-frame figure.

I manipulate the image, eventually creating something nearly human and about my size—if I am interpreting the scale correctly. Curious, but half convinced I’m about to start a self-destruct sequence, I press the only button I haven’t touched yet. Somewhere, a machine rumbles to life, making a low hum that leaves my ears and teeth vibrating uncomfortably.

“The rare nails-on-chalkboard galactic loom. A true wonder of science.” I rub a knuckle under one ear, then the other, and the unpleasant echo fades into a distant whine—then nothing.

Moments later, the textile machine makes twenty sets of clothing that won’t fit the creatures who made this place—not even close. I try on the results of my fashion experiment and laugh out loud.

“At least I tried.” I slip off the baggy, oversized outfit and roll it into a tight bundle that fits in my pack. I’ll keep it, in case I gain the ability to sew, but mostly, it’s my natural optimism that demands I tuck the comically large clothing into a pocket, then close the pocket with a jaundiced look. “Big and ugly. Perfection.”

Running on the adrenaline of so many new discoveries, I move to the weapons. It’s a short examination because I can’t pull them out of the rack. My best guess is that some type of magnetic locking system secures them to the stone surface, the power unyielding.

“Probably would have blown my foot off anyway.”

Then, my hands begin to shake. It’s small at first, moving to dizziness and a general sense of exhaustion that fills my bones with lead. I’ve hit the wall. I’m—hell, I don’t know where, not really, and my body has gone through physical changes unlike anything known to science. And now there’s going to be a cost, and it’s happening in the form of an exhaustion so pure, so punishing, that I slump to the wall, my head spinning with a sickness born of forces I haven’t had time to comprehend.

The wall is rough. The sand is cool. The air is damp, and beyond that, nothing matters, because the darkness reaches out to me, and I know nothing but the echoes of dreams that shatter behind my eyes, scenes of a place that is not my own.

A world I don’t know fills my mind, and silence reigns.

4

Morning on this planet is nothing like I expect.

I complete a new search that reveals a tablet-like computer device packed with language translators, maps, and schematics for machines I don’t understand but have designs dancing on the edge of familiarity. I also realize one of the tools in my kit is a hybrid knife-heater of some sort, it’s simple design easy enough for me to glean. I remove my voluminous clothes, make an educated guess, and run the tool along the edge, rewarded with the scent of singed fabric.

“Boom. Pants.” I shake out the trousers and fight the urge to bow, chuffed at my minor victory. The pants are a far more reasonable size, so I repeat the process with every item, and in moments I’m clad in something suitable for exploring an alien world while at the side of a churlish being whose armor may or may not grow out of his skin. With that, it’s time to climb up and out of the surreal alien structure, and as I do it, my clothes flex, my muscles feel good, and I can inhale deeply of clean air, far from the slate tunnels of the moon.

So that’s good.

What isn’t good about my morning adventure waits for me back where I started, at the place Zedas stayed behind. He’s gone, but in his place are angry Dogans pointing an array of weapons at me.

“Morning,” I offer, because being rude isn’t my style, even on another planet. “I’ve been collecting.” It seems like a reasonable place to start, so I hold my pack aloft and draw items out with exaggerated care.

Each item I liberated from the Sanctuary is tagged with a material as pliable as plastic, but with the look of stainless steel. Something from the Protheans—unknown in purpose, and thus, possibly dangerous—but on a whim, I remove the tags and drop them back down inside the stone circle, listening for their distant clatter. When I hear the cheerful impacts, I see a screen—the only one in my sight—start changing, images flickering across in a pattern that is instantly recognizable.

It’s a countdown.

Zedas is nowhere to be seen—which feels like a betrayal. In his place are a half dozen of his kind wearing heavy black coats embroidered with gold braid. Their whole air is military, right down to the spears they wield, each leaf-bladed tip crackling with energy I can feel, even at a distance.

I glance briefly at my clothes, freshly made and newly tailored, then assess their own uniforms, because that’s what they are.

Each of them wears the tight fitting, head-to-toe armor that only shows part of their faces around the mouth, rendering them ominous and wholly alien. Most of them are the same blue-green color with nacreous streaks, but others are a lurid purple, and one of the smaller ones is orange and maroon, the colors swirled in a pattern that reminds me of a tiger. There is variety among them, even though their body language is consistently menacing.

The countdown symbols come more insistently, and out of sheer habit, I hold a breath, waiting for a flash of detonation. Three elaborate pictograms light up, then flash out, soft glow fading like the coals in a campfire. After that there is nothing from the Sanctuary—the monoliths transform into big, perfectly cut rocks, their wonder and technology now gone, leaving only the mute stone and sand.

I’d like to find out what just happened and why, but the Dogans don’t look patient. In fact, they look angry.

Furious, if I’m reading them right.

“You don’t care that I took this stuff from the Prothean vault, do you? I didn’t take everything, just what I need to stay alive.” This isn’t exactly true because I took tools, reasonable replacements for my archaeology kit.

“Those things . . . mean nothing to us. My advice is to leave it so the dark ones cannot follow you. No Prothean trash is worth the risk of drawing their attention,” the leader says in a deep voice, his speech careful but certain.

“Got it covered,” I say with a glance toward the pile of tags I removed.

The Dogan grunts. “You slept there, where the Prothean devils stash their supplies. Now pray to your gods they do not observe you in possession of what belongs to them.”

“I am willing to pay for what I took if they show up.” If what the Dogans say is true, there’s a risk to my pilfering, but the chance of survival drops considerably if I put everything back—which I can’t. The cache is closed.

The Dogan leader curses, a noise spat in anger that I can understand regardless of our language barrier. His words are alien, but the emotion is not. He’s pissed—a universal state of being that I add that to my list of curious crossovers, like frowning and anger and the use of weapons. All human traits, but on a larger frame—and larger faces, too.

Caution seems the best course when evaluating this new culture, even though it’s clearly adjacent to humanity.

“They want nothing from you,” the very old, very large Dogan says, his voice almost a growl.

I smile winningly. “I’ll make them a deal they can’t refuse—knowledge and cultural exchange. It’s the best I can do, given my situation.”

The old Dogan bares his teeth—chisels covered with dark specks. “Make no jests about the Protheans, I warn you.”

“I’m sorry.” Stretching my back gets the blood moving. “I didn’t realize you guys liked the . . . uh, Protheans. The Dogan before you didn’t have much to say.”

The elder stares at me for several uncomfortable moments. “He is my third son.”

The other Dogans growl a word I don’t understand, then simultaneously ram the butts of their electro spears into the ground. “Quor, quor!”

“With respect, can you offer me context? I apologize if a, ah—new arrival offends.”

“It is good to be a third son, if one does what is required.” The old Dogan waves off my comments, then returns his gaze to me, eyes bright with interest. “You will return to the gate to summon warriors and weapons.”

For an instant, I consider mentioning the weapons locked to the inside of the Sanctuary, but I abandon the idea. The weapons couldn’t be moved, and Zedas had refused to set foot in the place. Why would these Dogans be different?

The remaining five warriors surround me, gripping their weapons and urging me toward the foothills where I first arrived in this world.

“Hold on,” I snap, walking away from the Prothean Sanctuary against my will.

“Go!” their leader orders.

“Let’s talk about this.”

One of my escorts jabs a spear tipped with electricity in my direction, and I decide discretion is the better part of valor. “All right, I’m going. Where is Zedas?”

They don’t indulge me with an answer.

Storm clouds tower high above the ocean behind us, boiling up in a pattern that is familiar and ancient. Wind increases, whipping away at the sand along the beach and pushing over the grass on the foothills and mountain trails. I don’t feel as good as I did yesterday, but I’m not bad either. Kind of like I’m leveling off—but not completely.

“You go faster,” the elder repeats when I try to slow down again.

“I’m moving.” The farther I walk from the Prothean Sanctuary, the more I worry about Zedas. I have other problems, of course, some of them less obvious than the others. Why are the Protheans stashing supplies and weapons here? The Sanctuary felt ancient, which suggests that whoever made it might have forgotten it was here or abandoned their plans to use it—a culture edging into senescence, or even passing into legend, forgotten. If they did show up and realized Goldilocks had been sleeping in their beds, there would be hell to pay.

The Dogan warriors watch me like they think I’m a flight risk. They talk infrequently, but when they do, the words are impossible to understand. The only thing I know for sure about their dialect is that nothing like it is spoken on Earth.

Neither Karl Herias, the Councilman of Ironback, nor Markel, the quarry foreman, are anywhere around. I’m on my own. They probably gave up on me when I didn’t arrive in the town square to meet them.

I consider that, because in truth—other than being stranded, disoriented, and generally in need of information—my situation is almost too good to be true.

I’m alive and vertical, and I still have my mind. Any problem can be solved with enough persistence. My biggest issue is that these Dogans aren’t concerned with my hunger, and I can’t dig out the mystery packs I stole to see if they’re safe to eat.

Stomach twisting hunger—that’s all I can think about. My hands shake. The strength is finally fading from my legs, probably because they need fuel. I fantasize about macaroni and cheese, buckets and buckets of it.

“Do you have anything to eat?” I venture.

The elder Dogan holds up one fist, halting the column. He approaches, considers me for a second, and steps back, casting a gimlet eye over me. “That is a task for Zedas-Duryan. Isn’t it enough that you burned the power from the Prothean devil’s Sanctuary? Pray that you did not do the same to the Orphan Gate. Your life is not worth so much. Now you wish to eat from our table? Why did you not find the edibles Protheans stash in their demonic cathedrals?”

I puzzle over the words, trying to hear through his grinding teeth and odd word selection.

“Edibles? That means something way different where I’m from,” I say, then search the pockets of my new clothing. They are completely free of food—or edibles. He has to be talking about the field rations I buried in my backpack.

“My question remains valid,” he grunts.

“Right now, I’d eat from anyone’s table.” I look across the green hills, hoping for fruit trees, a local family making pies, or even a plate of vegetables. Even kale sounds good right now.

The Dogans mutter and argue.

“I need to stop and get something out of my pack.”

“That is not acceptable,” their leader says, pointing toward the mountain to remind me where we are going.

Something he said earlier finally registers in my thoughts. “What do you mean, I burned out the power from the Sanctuary? And I can already tell you the Orphan Gate was jacked up after I came through it, you oaf.” I turn to him, anger rising in me like a column—

And the elder moves like lightning, the butt of his spear striking my head with a sound like the sky is falling.

I raise my hands, fists clenched. Though tired, my muscles hum with purpose and ability I’ve never had before.

“Do not say the name of it.”

“You did.”

“I am Zedas-Duryan-Eck! It is my right to speak as I wish!”

“Why are you taking me there if it doesn’t work anymore?” I need some answers. Getting pushed around by angry brutes isn’t helping me find my way home, and I’m still simmering with anger from his unprovoked attack.

“It better work,” he says.

“Or what?”

“Without new Orphans, the warrior kind—not weaklings like you—our cause, and the cause of the Hadrian rebels, is lost.”

“If I can power it up, can I use it to get home?”

Not only does the elder Dogan not answer my question, but he also urges his warriors to move me along faster. Soon, we are running up the hill, feet pounding in a staccato, thumping beat. They grunt and shout and jab at me with the electro-spears to improve my pace. I slow to a fast walk just to be difficult and get zapped more than a few times for my belligerence, my jaw set and eyes narrowed in anger.

My hunger still gnaws, but I ignore it for the moment, taking a different angle. The odds of me winning any kind of conflict right now are bad. I’ll try something different.

“Tell me your name again, old man,” I say.

The boss Dogan ignores me, and continues to ignore me despite my repeated questions—then we slow down, the group making gestures I recognize well as a former soldier. We’re taking a break. The Dogan surround me like a museum exhibit, watching as I tear a food pack open and choke it down. The contents are somewhere between slime and noodles, with a hint of dead things added for good measure.

“Nice feed,” I say, fighting a wet belch and tossing the pack with a glare.

The Dogans click their teeth in laughter, I think, so I settle for quiet, considering my overall position. It isn’t good.

By the end of the day, we’re in the valley below the mountain with the mine facility partway up the slope, and Zedas sits near the entrance, back straight, hands sticky with the juice of a large, pink fruit, the scent bright and citrusy, even a few feet away. My stomach gurgles. The food I’ve eaten still churns in my gut, an unwelcome guest.

“Zedas, good to see you. Is that an orange or grapefruit? Pass me some caloric replenishment,” I shout, breaking free of the other Dogans.

“Not orange. This is pink,” Zedas says. “And my name is Zedas-Duryan.” He follows this with a sigh of exasperation—common, it appears, to every language.

I set my teeth, inhale, and reach a decision. “I apologize. I’m a stranger in a strange land, so far from Kansas it’s not even funny,” I say.

“You are not funny. No wit,” Zedas-Eck says, pointing a thick, accusatory finger my way. “And Kansas is a fabrication.”

“Murph is a little funny,” Zedas whispers.

I catch a very faint smile concealed under the bottom edge of his helmet—

“Close your teeth, Zedas,” the elder snaps. The smile fades, and once again, Zedas is a stony presence.

I move between them, planting my feet. It’s time to make some ground rules. “Why do you call him Zedas?” I need context for this culture, whatever it is.

“I am his father and I do what I wish,” he says. “You are an outsider who will bring nothing but pain to my third son.”

“That’s fair. A question? Can we start over somehow? I wasn’t really trained for first contact. All of my education and experience is with long extinct civilizations.”

This, surprisingly, silences everyone in Zedas-Eck’s group. I can hear the breeze rustling over nearby trees, and my captor’s body language is shifting to that of intense interest.

“Do you speak truly?” Zedas-Eck says.

“I’m an archeologist. That’s a scientist who studies ancient civilizations and attempts to learn what happened to them.”

“So that others might learn from these mistakes?” Zedas-Eck asks.

“That’s part of it,” I say, keeping it simple.

“Then perhaps Zedas-Duryan, my third son, will also learn these things and bring them to us. We seek—we seek things from the Goliath. It is a sector, a place, and we have a need for these . . . stories.”

“Works for me,” I say. “A question, though?”

“Ask it.”

“Goliath?What is the significance of that term?”

To my surprise, the elder Dogan takes a moment, forming his answer. “There are many stars, all part of the greater map, yes?”

“Yes, understood. You said . . . sector?”

“Goliath Sector. It is the part of the map that is most dangerous because it has the most enemies,” Eck says, waving a thick hand toward the sky.

“You—the Dogans, the Hadrians, and their, ah, Overlords, and the Protheans, who are like—excuse me, similar to you in size, but dangerous, and an enemy?”

“Yes. You see the truth of this sector. It is a place of death for people who are not in power, and even they die. War is the way here, but there is a far greater threat,” Eck growls in disgust.

“Which is?”

“Treachery. It is the way of things.”

“I’ll make a note of it.” I bow from the waist because it seems reasonable, and he nods in return. “And I will conduct myself accordingly. As to your third son?”

“Before we began this day, I instructed my third son to provide you a last meal. When it was done, I intended to kill you to release my progeny from the dishonorable bondage to an Orphan, because you are—a being of great danger. You have been changed, and you are neither Hadrian nor Overlord, but something far worse. You are untethered, and I could not risk his life by allowing you to live. But”—he holds up a finger—“what you say could redeem him because your training is what we need. I make no apology for your previous chosen fate, and I do not expect you to understand. Not yet.” Zedas-Eck pauses, then begins to speak, and this time, his voice is gravid with command. “We will follow you to the mine and wait for you to activate the Orphan Gate—if you can. Try not to die, because we need facts, and weapons, and battle slaves.”

“Pump the brakes. I’m not going to be part of finding you battle slaves, or any type of slaves. As to the idea you were going to kill me, I’m not thrilled with that either,” I say, pinning each one of the Dogan with a stare. I’m alone, but I’m not ready to quit—or be killed. I’ll go down brawling. I’ve got new muscles and the will to use them. I’ve excavated too many skeletons to allow myself to go meekly.

He turns his back on me and rejoins the troop of Dogans a dozen yards away. They form up in a half circle and listen to Zedas’s dad tell a story I can’t understand, accompanied by pointing and the occasional shout. It’s animated and verges into an all-out brawl, at least in tone. When it breaks up, Zedas is at my side, offering me one of the pink fruits. He’s peeled it in three economical movements, and it glistens invitingly. I take it with a nod of appreciation.

“Popular guy,” I mutter. “Hope none of that is at my expense.”

“I cannot lie to Doctor Hank Murphy, though my people still consider you foolish. Possibly dangerous,” Zedas says with a shrug of his enormous shoulders.

The mountain breeze carries away the harsh Dogan laughter. “What the hell is he telling them?”

“There are ways to regain your reputation. If not, then I am lost.”

“Sorry, Zedas-Duryan. I bet your situation is worse than mine, and mine is surreal, with a side of disaster. I don’t even have a historical context for this other than—”

“You may call me Zedas, even though it is embarrassing,” he interjects. “Two adults using baby names. Unusual, but then, you are too. If it is good enough for you, I will accept this new form.” He regards me, brows beetled. “No further name changes, though.”

“Agreed. It’s a term of—friendship, let’s say. I shorten all of my friend’s names.” I add, just in case, “Let me know if there’s a place where I should use your formal name. Adult name, I mean. I’ll do so.”

“I can do that, Murph the baby-named archeologist,” he says. “See? It fits you.” A smile creeps at his face, and I feel my mood lighten.

“Your Hadrian is getting better all the time.”

“So is yours. My ears are used to it now.” He waves for me to follow. “Let me tell you about the gate you came through, if I can. The terms are—complex, but so is Hadrian. It will take a moment.”

“Are they going to follow us?”

“Yes. As far as possible.”

“I’m afraid to ask why.” The repeated mentions of armies, battle slaves, and weapons have me on edge.

“You should be, baby Murph.”

5

Darkness sweeps across the valley behind us as Zedas leads me the final distance to the entrance, a yawning opening that grows wider as we approach. A flock of large birds fly toward the ocean miles away, their raucous calls fading into the sunset.

“We’re going in there?” I ask, but Zedas only nods and proceeds inside.

The mine shaft is wide, the ceiling hanging low. The first room is littered with carts in various states of readiness. There’s a weight to this place, forged by time and dust and gloom. Nothing has been touched for years, and the grit covers everything. In terms of technology, it looks like the gold rush era or later American, and feels like I’m walking into a dig site.

“I only have two powered lanterns. Take one and don’t let the battery die,” he says. “If it blinks, you must shut if off for some time to preserve the, ah, cell.”

“Understood.”

Seven arches—gracile and slender, with medieval hints—reveal wide, low passages sloping downward on a two or three percent grade, every one uniform in shape and angle. A two-meter-high winch squats at each of these openings, their thick tow chains coiled tightly, every link dull with the patina of time.

Zedas keeps moving. “None of those entrances are for us.”

I kneel, examining steel beams on the floor polished smooth by constant, heavy use. “These are five and a half feet gauge rails, maybe six. What kind of loads are they meant to move?”

Zedas returns several steps, crosses his massive arms, and glares where I am kneeling. “There is iron in the mountains, as well as other metals, but legends say larger things once came through the Orphan Gate.”

“What kind of things?” I dust off my hands and stand with my lantern. The beam is a rare point of hope in the cheerless dark.

“I do not know. Items that are brought through and used for different purposes.”

“Where are we going? Why not follow one of these down to the Cradle?”

“Why do you call it the Cradle?” he asks.

“It reminds me of one. Not as much as the lunar version I was working on, but very similar.”

“I will believe you.”

“Thank you,” I say with a short nod. We’re making progress.

He leads me around a turn, down a short set of stairs, and into a narrower main hallway still leading straight into the side of the mountain. “It would take weeks to get to the bottom through these tunnels. The cage or the ladders are faster.”

“I don’t remember any of this,” Zedas admits. For the first time, he sounds uncertain. It’s not a tone I need to hear on an alien world, in a mine shaft, while looking for a gate that might send me home.

Or kill me. I shrug to myself, because I’ve only just begun my journey here, and fatalism feels like the right mood, huddled under tons of rock.

“It is because we took the ladder to another exit, one I do not wish for my father to know about,” Zedas says, still lacking the confidence he displayed until now. “There are three ways to the gate on this side of the mountain—the passages, the cage, and the ladders.”

“Are we in a hurry?” I examine a row of tools on a wall near another intersection. “You should let me catalog all of this. Might be useful later. For my other career, the one that isn’t simply surviving on an alien world.”

Zedas ignores me, his strides eating up distance.

“Noted. Thank you for the indulgence.” I skirt past a rack of mining tools that are also covered in a thick layer of dust. Our passage sets the particles swirling in the beams of our light, shadows and dust making the path ahead into something out of a fever dream.

Evidence of age and hard use constantly pop into view: grooves in the stone, faded bits of graffiti, images that look a lot like cave art for a civilization advanced enough to dig a mine this deep and use complicated tools, which suggests different groups have occupied these passages over the years. I see pictographs, lettering, and even something that has to be a bawdy cartoon, reminding me of Roman graffiti—lewd jokes preserved for the ages. The random nature of these little details doesn’t make much sense from an archeological perspective, but I file each image away, the whorls and loops of other languages passing by in a blur.

We arrive at the edge of a vertical shaft with a cage hanging above it. “Not everyone who emerges from an Orphan Gate survives. You are lucky, and tougher than you look.” He gives me a frank look of appraisal, then lifts one shoulder.

“Thanks. I think.”

“My father says Orphans are more dangerous than the rock snakes of Kiazhel. An honor, if you can imagine it.”

I study the Dogan’s posture and body language, looking for clues while bitterly aware that I’m probably reading the big man all wrong. “Why would he say that?”

Zedas shrugs. “He is wise. Has lived a very long time. Unlike me, he would never come to this place alone. He brings warriors to capture Orphans—unless they are too strong. Then even a brave man flees.”

“What is an Orphan?”

Again, Zedas’s shrug reminds me of a rising and falling hill, or a great ocean swell moving toward the mainland. “Strangers found at the bottom of pits.”

I laugh. “Did you just make a joke?”

Zedas smiles shyly.

So weird. He’s like the biggest kid I’ve ever seen.

“Maybe my wit is better than my father’s,” he says. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

“How old are you?”

“Age is different for us than for Hadrians--and your people perhaps. The answer might confuse you.” He counts on his fingers. “Six rituals.”

“In years, Zedas—orbits of your star. How many years have you been alive?” I regret the question, because my assumption that this planet must be in the exact same spot as Earth inside the green zone where life is possible still lacks precision.

“You want me to compare my life to the meaningless orbit of the planet around the star?” He presses the top of his helmet, shifting it side to side like he might remove it. But he doesn’t, of course. “I suppose that would be easier for a stranger to understand.”

“Yes, because I don’t know anything about Dogan rituals or how often they occur. I need context here.”

“Seventy-three solar orbits,” Zedas muses. “That is my age in your years. Orbits, that is.”

“And your dad is still on your ass?”

His face darkens in anger. “Explain that. Now.”

I hold up a conciliatory hand. “It just means your dad gives you a hard time, tries to tell you what to do.”

He thinks about this for a moment, then nods in understanding. “That is . . . accurate. Maybe you could tell my father how things should be. Give him some of your advice.”

“I’d prefer to stay alive,” I say, earning a snort of laughter from Zedas. “Can we go back down to the gate?”

He points to the chain hanging from a disturbingly primitive winch. “There are trace amounts of power coming from the thermal tap, so I must manually operate the crank. Maybe you will help?”

“Sounds fair,” I say. “How many different civilizations contributed to this facility?”

“This does not matter.”

“But it does. Everything points to different levels of technology being used over the years. That means trade routes, merging civilizations, possibly wars.”

“Yes. All of that has happened here.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere.” I peer down the shaft. “Looks completely safe. Let’s get after it.”

Let’s get after it. That’s what my old friend Jack used to say when he was back from a tour of duty he couldn’t talk about. Before the mission that nearly killed him, he had always wanted to run or hike or spar. What he never did was talk about the horrors of war even though we both understood he really needed to. His catharsis was found through motion, not speech. It was something I had to learn from him in order to be a good friend.

“I will leave a lantern up here,” he says. “The miners from Ironback tell me it used to help them with claustrophobia at the bottom when they were still able to work these mines. I have never been bothered by such things, but perhaps you are.”

We climb in, shut the rickety cage door, and slowly crank ourselves downward, inexorably losing altitude with each loop of the cumbersome chain. It isn’t bad because we’re just controlling the fall. “Coming up won’t be fun. Maybe we should take the ladder again.”

He focuses on his work, ignoring me. It’s a habit I don’t like but for now can tolerate.

Every four or five meters there are landings that lead to short, narrow passages where I assume people once excavated minerals, the shafts falling away into darkened mystery. Old, dust-covered equipment lies abandoned. Footprints from small—and not so small—animals cover everything, a story of predation that is as natural as gravity.

“Why don’t they use this mine anymore?” I ask.

“Crawlers.”

“Please tell me that isn’t some swarm of face eating spider bats,” I say.

“Crawlers are crawlers. Do you see one?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then there is no need to worry.” He works the crank for a few turns.

“How is it that you were down there when I popped through the Cradle?”

“I agreed to investigate the weeping at the bottom of the well and found you curled into a ball.”

“I wasn’t crying, was I?” The nightmares between Davis betraying me on the LMC site and waking up were pure hell, but they were also pushed into the back of my mind now. Surely I hadn’t been in that bad of shape when Zedas found me. How could I be? Whatever happened, it fixed a childhood injury and my vision, and who knows what else.

Zedas hesitates. “Perhaps the acoustics of the shaft altered the sound. It was ghostly, and the townspeople wanted me to stop it.”

“Who heard the, uh, weeping?”

He considers his answer. “There are vents that project the noise a great distance. My father says this was part of an alert system long ago, but he may be guessing, as such things have become less clear over time. A great archeologist could learn the answer to this and other mysteries, if he were not cursed with being an Orphan.”

“Are you trying to reassure me or make another joke?”

“No,” he says.

“You’re killing me, Zedas.”

He chuffs a laugh under his breath.

We pass level after level. The light above gets smaller and smaller. I retreat into my own thoughts and focus on investigating the gate until I figure out how to get home.

* * *

I point straight up. “That tiny speck of light doesn’t help with the claustrophobia I’m feeling right now, and that isn’t normally something that bothers me,” I say. “I’m a field archeologist. I’ve crawled into tombs and worse.”

“You are brave,” Zedas says simply.

“This doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it bother me? We all die when it is time. Location is irrelevant.”

“A sanguine attitude, especially this far down in a mine. With crawlers.”

“Sanguine?” Zedas asks.

“Accepting of your fate, but happy. Quite a mix.”

“I am neither right now, but I understand your meaning. Keep working. The fall is long.”

With a thump, we arrive, and there it is.

The Cradle.

Shaking my head, I examine the unit. It’s not an exact copy of what I worked on before getting shot across the galaxy, but there are familiar features. It’s shaped similarly, though it’s slightly smaller. “How would a person get into this one?”

“No one goes in,” Zedas says. “People only come out, and not very often.”

“How would you know that? I thought the townspeople sent you down here to investigate?”

He sits cross-legged near a wall, and there’s something of a teacher in his body language. “I come here often. It is a good place to be alone, and for a third son, solitude is best. But that is not how I know. My father tells stories, and there was a man from Ironback who knew a lot about the gate. He told me of others that came through before he died. You are the first I have seen, and to be honest, it was not as exciting as Zedas . . . as I . . . had hoped.”

“That hurts.” I make another pass around Cradle 2. Details draw me in—the faintly glowing metal that is at the same time dark and hungry for light, complex arrangements of octagonal buttons, and screens swirling with what appears to be grey on black screen savers. Zedas talks, but I’m only half listening. The artifact is more active than Cradle 1 at the LMC site. It’s—current. That’s the term. It’s less artifact, more working tool.

“Maybe we should have checked for crawlers,” Zedas says. “I do not come here when they are hungry.”

“What?”

“You are not listening.”

“This thing is amazing. The version at the LMC site never had transient power like this. Did you say there is a thermal source, like from molten magma? How can I tap into the subterranean lava flow?” I look up, hesitate, and get a bad feeling when my subconscious churns through something the Dogan said earlier. “What do you mean, crawlers?”

“This mine was abandoned because a crawler queen moved her nest into one of the levels above us. They avoid larger animals and humanoids unless one of her hives has just hatched, then they will try to eat anything.” He taps a plate of his vambrace, activating a small screen with green symbols. The armor is a synthesis of biology and tech, blended so seamlessly as to be artwork. He frowns, and I find myself holding my breath. “That’s not good.”

“How, um . . . often does this hive queen lay eggs?” The gate suddenly seems much less important, especially since I can’t make it do anything.

“She is always laying eggs, but they only hatch thirteen times per lunar cycle,” Zedas says.

A piece of equipment bangs against a wall far above us.

“Only thirteen?” I swear softly, looking up at the noise. “What the hell was that? How big are these things?”

“You should stand closer to the wall. Swarms sometimes push things into the shaft by accident.” He guides me away from the gate, then stands protectively over me near the wall. For once, his bulk is a comfort, and I strain my eyes looking up into the featureless black.

Silence. Anticipation.

A mining cart slams into the floor, showering us with bits of rock on impact. It’s deafening, but Zedas never moves.

“That could have hit Cradle 2,” I hiss.

“Do not worry, Doctor Murph. It cannot be damaged by falling carts.”

“But we can!”

“True. You’re observant, if a bit prone to twitching. We’ll have to take the ladders, but not these.” He points to the way we left the first time, a straight shot to a platform a third of the way to the top. “There are ladders and stairs on lower levels with doors we can lock behind us. I think this will be much better.”

He looks around nervously, like someone searching for a door that should be there but isn’t.

“We can’t take the ladders like the first time. We’ll get killed.”

“There are others,” he says.

“Where?”

“Five levels above us. We will have to risk the cage lift to reach that point, then take one of the side tunnels.”

Another cart hits the ground, but this one is loaded with three-foot-long centipedes. Some are flung into the darkness by the impact, lost to sight. Others spasm in death throes. The bulk of their group crawl free of the wrecked cart, pincers snapping and eyes looking for a meal.

“And now it’s an alien world.” I dash forward to kick one of the creatures out of the way. My shoe connects with a ripe splat, ichor spraying across me in hot jets.

Another cart full of the arthropods bursts apart, followed by another a half second later. “Come on, Zedas!”

“We should wait. There could be more carts falling. One might strike the cage while we work the crank.”

“Who gives a shit!” I jump in, wave frantically for Zedas to join me, and slam the door shut. “Are you seeing these things?”

Centipedes scurry toward us. I start cranking, not looking around. I’m not against insects and their friends, at least not as a concept. But when they’re three feet long, I reach my breaking point. My new muscles fire into motion, and I crank with a fury born of crawler-based hysteria.

Zedas pops his knuckles, then grabs the other crank handle. For a moment, we work against each other but soon pick up speed. The cage gets heavier as the creatures pile onto the outside, snapping their mandibles against the metal grating in a punishing chorus of ringing noises. The nasty purple and black ones are twice as large as the red and pink versions, a fact I note with mild interest even as I take one hand off the crank to punch a crawler that forced its head through the cage. It falls away, mandible clicking in fury, only to be replaced by another, even angrier version of itself.

“We’re ascending at least two or three miles per hour. Gotta be a speed record.” Sweat runs into my eyes. It feels good to heave my weight against the crank handle, but the crawlers trying to eat us ruin the experience. “Personal records aside, I could do without the monsters.”

“What is a mile?”

“It’s a—never mind. How much farther?”

A falling mining cart glances off the cage, dislodging some of our attackers but causing us to swing in a wild arc, which makes the crank nearly impossible to turn for almost a minute. It feels like an eternity before the cage stabilizes, and we both resume cranking in desperation.

“Not far, but we can’t make it now. I’m proud to die with you, as we are in battle. It’s the preferred way to go, especially for a third son,” Zedas says.

“This isn’t battle. We’re about to get eaten or crushed, and I don’t care what your birth order is, we aren’t going out this way.” I redouble my efforts, breath coming in great drafts as sweat sluices down my arms.

“We. Are nearly. There,” Zedas manages to say. “Just open the door and jump. Onto the landing. I will follow.”

Hundreds of giant centipedes snap at me, but they’re stopped by the cage wall. It’s a surreal sight—mandibles, eyes, antenna and legs in a storm of motion that strikes right in the heart of my most basic instincts. Predator and prey, and I’m on the short end of the equation. I swear, savagely, wiping at my eyes with a shaking hand.

“It is the only way,” Zedas says, and damn if he isn’t right.

6

Far above us a creature shrieks like a wounded elephant, the hideous sound caroming off every surface. I shine a light upward—and see more of the crawlers scrambling down the walls, antenna waving like a sea of demonic grain. Their assault is slower than the suicide carts, but they will arrive at our level in minutes.

“Can you disengage the cage from the cable?”

Zedas holds my gaze for a moment. “Yes, but we will have to jump at the same time, and there is no going back once we do this. The lever here will disconnect the cable from the cage lift.”

“If we don’t, these things will be all over us. Once we make the leap, we can’t stop for anything.”

Working together, we rock the cage toward the landing.

“The next time we get close, we jump.” My heart pounds in my chest. I can smell the crawlers covering the cage—almonds and vinegar, a grotesque combination—and feel the vibrations when they chew on the metal mesh. The door covered by their bodies looks too heavy to push open.

“Tell me when to force the cage door,” Zedas says. “Make certain it is an instant before you pull the lever.”

“Get ready . . . now!” I rip the lever downward, afraid it will stick at the last moment.

Zedas shoulders open the door and leaps toward the landing. I sprint after him, trip, and fall against his legs.

We go down hard as the cage falls away into the blackness behind us.

Zedas hoists me to my feet. “Run, Orphan! Run!” He shoves me toward the ladder chamber at the end of the cramped hallway, our combined weight dissolving into a chaotic tumble.

A dozen of the largest centipedes make the crossing with us. Zedas kicks one off the landing, then steps on another. Three fling themselves onto his back, their dozens of legs seeking purchase on his wide muscles and armor.

Without giving myself time to think, I grab one and tear it free. The thing squirms, legs scratching at my hands and mandibles snapping at my face. To my dismay, it’s covered in a clear, viscous fluid. I lock my hands around the bastard and squeeze, sending it into a paroxysm of violence as I hurl it to the edge. It rolls to a skittering stop, but I’m already pulling the next centipede from Zedas, prepared for the slick carapace.

“Off you go,” I grunt, sending the second creature slamming into the first. The impact carries both of them over the edge, legs waving comically as they vanish into the yawning shaft.

Zedas throws himself against the wall, crushing the remaining creature with a wet impact that makes the bile rise in my throat.

“You good?” I shout.

“Yes, I am excellent now.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” I run for the exit with the Dogan right behind me.

“You did not do what I said,” Zedas grumbles, feet pounding the floor.

Crawlers swarm into the hallway behind us, a clattering mass of nightmares.

“Get used to it.” I open the heavy door to the ladder room. “This is the best news I’ve had all day.”

“I am also happy to see such a stout door.”

We shove it closed as the wave of hungry creatures slam into it. The leading creatures lose mandibles like baby teeth, a snapping sound repeated dozens of times.

“Holy shit that was close.” Wiping sweat from my forehead, I study the ladder leading toward the surface. A dimly remembered dream comes to mind—part of the images I recall from my fall, or transfer, or whatever it is that brought me through the Cradle. I see echoes of that dream—spiders, and spirals, and fear, and in the background, images of the Protheans, brooding and deadly. It’s a daydream I can do without, so I shake my head violently to rest my mind’s eye.

“Let’s climb to the next level and see if the door is open there,” Zedas says.

“Good call,” I say, catching my breath. My vision—and mind—are now clear. It was a dark memory, and too powerful to be dismissed without an effort. “What are the chances it’s closed?”

“If they were left open, then someone has been irresponsible,” he says. “And also caused our deaths.”

Neither of us talk until we get to the next level. Rung after rung, my arms and legs grow heavy. Once again, I realize the unnatural strength and energy I feel has limits. But even so, this is amazing.

I glance at my finger, just to make sure it hasn’t become damaged again. But it’s still good as new, like a freshly healed scar. And my vision is 20/20 or better.

We reach the door and it’s locked tight. The way above us is gloriously clear of crawlers.

“I think we have a chance. How many levels to the surface?”

“Ascending in this quadrant of the mines, deeper within the mountain, there are one hundred levels, and we only passed the first five using the cage,” Zedas says. “So that only leaves ninety-five to go.”

“There’s a song about this,” I say. “Or, about beer.”

“What is beer?” Zedas asks, taking a rung in hand.

I follow. “Since we’ve got the time, let me explain. You start with grain . . .”

* * *

I click off the electric lantern as we put the stairway behind us and pass the workshops. The exterior door stands open. Starlight shines on the floor and against the lower portions of the walls, more than enough to see by after what we’ve been through.

Zedas hesitates, peering into the workshops.

“Did you hear something?” I ask.

“Ironback people were here, scavenging in the shops. We fought crawlers. They were probably stealing tools, pretending to fix things for when the mine reopens,” Zedas complains. “I can still smell their smoke.”

The aroma reminds me of tobacco but isn’t. Like many things on this planet, it almost fits. “Right. I notice it now.”

“They may still be outside,” he says. “It is not good.”

I can’t see much beyond the doorway, but I know that Zedas is worried when his syntax changes. “What about your father and his crew of comedians?”

Zedas rallies, visibly taking his time to speak more clearly. “This is a serious occasion. The Hadrian rebels only speak to me because I am an outcast—forced to work for them to survive. My father will not be telling humorous stories where anyone from Ironback can hear his words.”

“Why is that? And who are they rebelling against? Karl never mentioned that detail.”

“The people of Ironback have sworn secret oaths to resist the Hadrian Overlords, which makes little sense to Dogans. Protheans are far more dangerous, for the Overlords are merely humans, without the benefit of Prothean advances. The townsfolk also claim full rights to the mine and the gate at the bottom,” Zedas says.

“And your people disagree,” I finish for him. I’m filling in the spaces of their society, and it doesn’t look good. From battle slaves to massive centipedes, there are challenges here that make home seem even farther away.

“Dogans have always possessed the land around the mine and been tasked as guardians. Only the Dogan are strong enough to face the Orphans when they come through.”

“Your people are here to stop travelers like me from running amok,” I say, striding around the room and again peeking outside to look for my guards, or whatever they are.

“You are a disappointment,” he says. “Barely an Orphan at all.”

I give him my best grin. “But am I really? I could be holding out, playing my cards close to my vest.”

“What are cards?”

“Never mind.” I step into the doorway and see a lot of townsfolk and Dogans.

“You are not wearing a vest,” Zedas presses.

“Drop it. I think we have other problems. Your old man doesn’t look happy. The Hadrians are pissed off too.”

Zedas stands near me, arms crossed, but says nothing.

“I could use some advice.”

He stares past the Hadrian townsfolk and the Dogan warriors like none of this matters to him. Apparently, it’s silent treatment time—which seems to happen whenever we have an audience. Blood trickles from under his armor, but the armor also oozes where it has been cut deeply. It’s a surreal overlap of materials and biology, and I give him a meaningful look.

“What’s going on with your armor?”

He narrows his gaze. “I give my fluids to keep the armor strong, and it gives back when it can. You would not understand.”

“But you could help me understand.”

He does his dark and grim thing again, something I don’t have patience for right now. “Screw this. You’re hurt. I’ll tell them to come back tomorrow.”

Zedas stands like a statue, probably in pain, most likely pissed off at the world, but not about to complain. Admirable, but not helpful.

“All right, everyone,” I shout as I walk into the torch and lantern lights around the mine entrance. “I know you were all worried about us, but we’re okay. Just head home, and I’ll send word when we’ve recovered.”

“That’s him,” Karl Herias barks, pointing at me. He’s wearing a heavier coat this time, but still with the orange stripe on his collar. “The Orphan.”

The other Hadrian I remember, Markel, is among the crowd of people dressed like farmers, craftsmen, and fur trappers. Broad shouldered and serious, he talks with his workman’s hands. “He’s not one of the bad ones. And he’s more like us than the Dogans, so I think he’ll get the mine open again—no matter what the Dogans say about the gate. And when he does, I’m the most qualified person to direct operations here.”

Zedas-Duryan-Eck and three of his warriors stomp forward, forcing Markel, Karl, and the others to take several steps back. Their presence sizzles with untapped violence, and everyone can sense it.

“Leave the security of the gate to us,” Zedas-Eck growls, sweeping his palm over the crowd. “And pray that it opens and stays open this time.”

“To hell with that,” Markel argues. “Get rid of the crawler hive, close the gate, open the mine! You know the monsters came through the gate. Worse will come if it isn’t destroyed or buried. We need our lives back. We need the mine back.”

Karl puts a hand on Markel’s shoulder to calm him as he moves past the quarry foreman, then he straightens his tunic and stands tall. “You promised the mines would be open to us.”

The elder Zedas holds up one palm until Karl and all the others quit muttering. Then he turns to me. “What came through the gate when you opened it this time? Were there many warriors? And did they bring weapons we might use to maintain our independence? These simple Hadrians don’t understand that not all of what comes through are enemies. They can fight for us. I know they can.”

“Well, funny thing happened while we were down there.” There’s nowhere for me to run, and no one to help me since my friend Zedas has gone silent again. “There doesn’t seem to be enough power to activate it, but there were a lot of crawlers that took exception to our presence.”

“Crawlers?” Karl asks, voice rising to a squeak. “Did another batch of the queen’s eggs hatch?”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “And then did their best to eat us. Close call, if I’m being honest.”

“Crawlers are not my concern,” senior Zedas grunts. “Go back down and activate the Orphan Gate. My oracle predicts a large army will come through and help these pathetic Hadrian rebels with their cause. Only then will we be free to face real threats.”

“Who are you calling pathetic, you lumbering ox?” Karl snaps.

Zedas senior grabs at the man but misses, and everyone tenses. Again. It’s a default setting for the Dogans here—suspicion and potential brawling.

“There isn’t enough power for the gate. It will not activate for weeks or months, maybe never again,” Zedas says. “I have watched it many times. Doctor Hank Murphy burned up its power when he came through. I saw it.”

Silence.

“Why did you not tell me this before?” his father demands.

“You didn’t ask,” Zedas says. “You never ask, you only tell me how to live and then become angry when I choose my own path.”

Karl makes another, more tentative push to the center of the discussion. He looks around like all he wants is for the confrontation to be over. “We are dedicated to the resistance, but we aren’t ready. We must pay our Overlords while you find us weapons elsewhere. We can’t fight a war without being properly armed. I’d think this was obvious, even to you, Zedas-Eck,” Karl says, with what I have to admit is remarkable confidence. For a guy half the Dogan’s size, he carries himself well.

Zedas senior waves everyone to silence, then bends down to face Karl nose to nose. “You are shortsighted and think small. With no Orphan army and no weapons, there will be no victory. And if they have not come through the gate today, we need not be here.” He straightens. “We will march to our ship without delay. Call us when you really need us.”

Zedas takes this in with his normal stoicism. I’m seizing on details because none of these people are giving the whole story, and I don’t have the time or inclination to wait for them to give me a map home. If I’m going back to the moon, it will happen because of my own actions, not the accidental effects of an alien conflict peppered with prophecies and giant insects.

Zedas’s father watches him for a moment. “You are not disappointing because you are my third son, you are disappointing because of the choices you make and the challenges you refuse to face. Stay with this archeologist Orphan and learn something if you can. Do not come home until you’ve found your honor. This is your path. Follow it or do not, but my footsteps are unavailable to you until you cleanse your name.”

Honor, I think in a tone of disgust. It’s a noble idea that breaks families and gets people killed, and I had to transit an alien artifact just to see the same idiocy play out with new faces and new victims. I’ve walked countless battlefields where honor died with the flower of a nation—knights, cavaliers, warriors—whatever the name, they died the same, screaming for their mother and choking on blood. Crecy. Stalingrad. Shiloh.

I snort in disgust, then watch the Dogans turn to leave. “He’s been a hell of a lot more helpful than you. You should have seen him fighting the crawlers.”

The Dogans don’t look back. My barb missed.

“They have a ship?” I ask. “A spacecraft?”

Zedas nods. “First sons captain Dogan ships. Redas-Duryan has a fine vessel and a legendary crew.”

“Figures.” I face the Hadrians of Ironback. “You’re rebels?”

“Not so loud,” Karl says. “The Overlords send spies. We bide our time. We work. We stay alive and seek opportunities to fight back. And not everyone in our township is dedicated to the cause. They just want to work and live and raise their children. In peace, if possible. That’s always been the goal.”

“For how long?” I ask.

“How long . . . what?” Karl’s brow furrows in confusion.

“How long have you wanted this? Peace?” What I really ask is how long their history extends, because these people are clearly human, and I don’t think for a second that Homo Sapiens evolved on two worlds in the same way. Their presence is because of the gates.

Karl thinks, then sighs in frustration. Maybe he hates math as much as I do—it’s just one of the reasons I love archaeology—but I wait for his answer because the context of Hadrian culture will tell me a lot more about what shore I’ve washed up on.

“Thousands of years, well beyond our counting. We don’t have detailed records because war comes and—”

“Wipes the slate clean, and your people have to start over again,” I interject.

He nods, angry. “Exactly. An endless cycle, folding in technology in erratic ways, when and where we can, and then there are the Overlords. They’re not new, you understand.”

“Of course not. I’ve seen them before. Or, at least, their kind. They’re a symptom, not the example of humanity. I don’t know much about them, but I don’t have to. Let me guess—they’re ruthless, and obsessed with order, and tell you how to speak and think and live, and they do it in the name of a cause that keeps their small elite in power, right?”

Karl grimaces like he bit a lemon. “It’s almost as if you have been here all along.”

“I have, in a way. I know their kind. They’re nothing if not predictable.”

The moon rises above the mountains, casting our conversation in silvery light. A pleasant breeze fills my nose, and I can, for a moment, forget where I am.

“We must return to our walls. The talking wolves are coming,” Karl says. “You may accompany us or find your own sanctuary, but I highly recommend you—”

Dread fills me. “ Excuse me, talking wolves?” I’ve about reached my limit of new things for today, despite a lifetime in pursuit of knowledge.

“They come to feed on crawlers that escape the mine and anything else they find during their hunt,” Zedas explains. “Anything, or anyone.”

Karl and his companions hurry to their crude vehicle, a sturdy cart with a do-it-yourself combustion engine. A primitive muffler large enough to stick my face in does little to reduce the noise as it starts up, blatting our existence to the talking wolves and any other predator with ears. Bands of steel protect wooden wheels that are too large—probably a compensation for the poor design and simple construction.

Again I notice the varying levels of technology. This place is a buffet line of tech rather than a coherent accumulation of one civilization growing and advancing over time. “How fast is that thing?”

Zedas snorts. “Not fast, and it must stick to the road. The only thing that might keep them safe is the hideous clamor it makes, and of course the smell of the motor.”

“Are you coming?” Karl shouts from the passenger box.

“We’re good,” I yell. “Good luck!”

The people from Ironback leave without further pleasantries, possibly offended by my second refusal to accompany them to their village.

“I hope that was the right decision.”

“Our chances are the same either way, but we won’t have to put up with their annoying complaints and arguments,” Zedas says.

“I’d say that’s a victory.”

“Murph, you are absolutely right.”

7

A quick survey of my backpack reveals that I’m ready for aggressive hiking or maybe even light archaeological work. Flashlights, small hammers, picks, and even a selection of brushes complete the normal survival gear. Additional layers of clothing give me options for replacing the outfit that was damaged when I came through. My work boots, thankfully, are as stout and comfortable as ever. Why didn’t everything I wore get damaged when I went through the Orphan Gate?

So many questions. So few answers. Story of my life.

The Prothean Sanctuary had much of what I needed—but I’m still worried.

Thinking for too long on the nightmare passage to this world gives me a headache, so I push back doubts and fears. Maybe later I can figure out how I’m a new man and my boots are as good as they ever were. The rest of my outfit is holding and is surprisingly comfortable.

All things considered, I’m in good shape, but there’s a distinct lack of weapons, which is problematic. A chorus of otherworldly howls fills the night, predators and prey shattering the moonlight with disturbing regularity. It begins in the distance but moves closer minute by minute, a kind of shifting alarm that sounds alien and familiar each time the animals shriek.

Corrupt government officials in third world countries were the most dangerous problem I faced in my academic career. Now, I’m lost in a strange corner of the galaxy with animals singing a death song. It sounds like a language of demons—lonely, hungry—relentless.

“What are those things?” I ask.

“We call them soul catchers. In Hadrian, they are described as wolves that speak, or possibly hounds of the underworld,” Zedas says. “The translation is unclear in my mind because in Dogan they are simply known as creatures that must be avoided or killed.”

“Sounds like there are a lot of them.” I’m hopeful that he says no, but he only listens,
face upturned as though he might be trying to catch their scent.

“I have encountered more but always from a higher ground that was outside of their hunting area. We must go quickly. There is a storm coming. The soul catchers like to drive their prey up against bad weather, Murph.”

I jog after my friend. “Bad weather? Care to define that?” He strides away from the road, then quickly finds a trail and leads us through dense trees. “How bad is the weather? Are we going to be caught with our backs to the wall?”

“Their tactic works well on brainless creatures. Animals do not like to go into a coastal storm, but we are smarter than they are.”

“I hope so. We can move faster if you want. Don’t hold back on my account.” One of the hunters roars as it finds a squealing victim in the forest and kills it, a primal noise that chills my blood.

Zedas continues for several strides before answering. Watching him check over his shoulder, then peer down the narrow, twisting trail ahead of us, I’m suddenly very glad for my big friend. He knows his way around, and he’s solid in a fight. Here, in this unknown world, those are qualities I need around me.

“Now isn’t the time. One of my brothers claims he has seen the soul catchers send a blocking element when they hunt,” Zedas says.

“You make them sound like a squad of commandos—like they’re intelligent.”

“More intelligent than animals, almost as sentient as Hadrians.”

“How do they compare against Dogans?”

He sneers. “The Hadrians are animals that can speak and use tools. They call us brutes and beasts. I have not decided if they are smart or just regurgitate what other races have shown them. They are glorified mimics.”

“Good thing I’m not one of them. You don’t seem to be a fan.”

“You look as they do, but I’ve not decided if you are truly of their kind.” He stops, looks again toward the disturbing songs of the soul catchers, then narrows his eyes as though the situation has changed. He growls just loud enough for me to hear it. “Now we must go as fast as we can. If I fall, take this trail to the ocean and head into the storm no matter how intense the gale. If you get to the water, avoid drowning.”

“No drowning, got it.”

We race downward. I’m barely able to keep my feet in front of me. Branches slap me in the face. Fat raindrops pepper us whenever we cross a clearing or stream. Infrequent gusts of wind are harbingers of the really bad shit that is about to happen, and the air reeks of ozone and violence.

Shapes run through the trees on both sides of us now. I can’t get more than a glance, but they’re moving on all fours, loping like wolves or dogs.

The only time they stop making noise is when they stand upright to look around and babble, I note, then vault a boulder, land nimbly, and weave through another stand of trees. Now they really look like devils.

The animalistic song grates on my nerves, encouraging me to run faster and take bigger risks. A field of small rocks and dead tree branches marks the bottom of an old avalanche. I don’t even slow down. My feet dart across the larger rocks like I’m running a tire drill in a football camp, and when I’m close to the end of the mess, one giant leap takes me clear of it all.

If they’re moving, they’re howling. Does that mean something? Could it be communication? Can I use that to my advantage?

“Are you okay?” Zedas snaps. “Why do you seem distracted?”

“Have you been watching me move? I’ve never been this kind of athlete. Got brain power to spare and haven’t tripped once.” I stumble but quickly adjust my stride. “I was just trying to figure out why they go silent when they stop moving.”

“I never noticed that,” he says, then runs through a stream, his big feet churning the water to foam.

Sprinting, I catch up. A pair of the soul catchers run along a parallel trail, keeping to the high ground. Zedas and I accelerate to keep from getting cut off at the next trail intersection, visible a short distance away.

“Don’t like these things,” I manage, breathing hard now despite my newfound endurance.

A wolf-like shadow jumps from the trees, straight at Zedas. The Dogan slaps it sideways without breaking stride. I duck as the creature spins through the air, legs, thorny tail, and toothy maw flashing past me.

The next creature is lucky. Zedas jumps over it, forcing me to dodge around the beast as it nips at my side. Looking back, I see it pursuing me, but it had to get to its feet and turn around on the trail before resuming the chase with a new burst of speed.

“I can’t outrun this one!” I bellow, fear bubbling in every word.

“No need. Jump and climb.”

Zedas leads us into a dead-end. For a heartbeat, the steep cliff blocking our forward progress fills me with dread. Rising twenty feet above the trees, it looks like a personal insult. My friend jumps, grabs a hold of a crevasse, and heaves himself upward with a deep, basso grunt.

I follow, quickly rising higher than the soul catchers can leap. “You might’ve asked me if I was a good climber first.”

“So now you wish to have conversations when we are running for our lives? Discuss options? Argue? You already talk too much.” He reaches the top and pulls himself up, then he leans toward me and reaches down with one hand.

I take it and he lifts me up easily. “It’s not over. The pack will come around. This ridge line isn’t long. It only bought us some time.”

“Let’s beat feet, then.”

“This means?” Zedas asks, but he’s already moving.

“Run like hell.”

“That we shall do.”

We run on a new trail. It weaves a gentle course across the valley and then climbs again, hopefully over the last foothill before we reach the coast. The soul catchers break into the clearing behind us, and I see them in greater detail.

They look like wolves but with manes of ebony thorns and three eyes. Complementing their rows of sharp teeth are tusks jutting up from the side of their jowls—like a wild hog, but crossed with everything from a medieval nightmare. If they have fur, it’s hard to see well. Muscles ripple across their forms as they charge through high grass, leap over streams, and ignore other animals fleeing their hunger.

A gust of wind hits me when I reach the top of the hill. For a moment, I’m knocked off balance, but I press onward. Again, we race downward, this time onto the familiar beach where I wasted so much energy screwing around the day before.

The Prothean Sanctuary is nowhere to be seen, but it’s a big beach in total chaos from the weather. Running in the inconsistent gale force winds is hard, and the constant fight to move eats at my reserves, leaving each breath a new challenge. Sometimes it blasts me in the face, other times it hits me from a side angle and blows me off the trail. I’m off balance and wheezing and angry. I’m also scared witless, but inside me, an old friend—hot anger—comes to visit, and I find my feet again for one last push.

On the plus side, we disappear into a wall of wind and stinging sand.

“Gack,” I say into the howling wind, in a noise between a cough and curse. Half the beach is in my mouth, and the other half is looking for a way in.

Zedas stops. We look back and see that our pursuers have slowed and are cautiously moving parallel to the storm front. As the tempest pushes inland, they retreat several hundred meters, loping back and forth in a restless pattern that seems random—but menacing.

“Which way? We can’t stay here. A news crew wouldn’t stand here in this crap,” I say.

Zedas frowns. “What is a news crew? And why would they stand in a storm?”

“Never mind. It’s a human thing, gotta get those ratings.” Following his lead, I begin to jog up the coast, looking for something familiar.

“Ratings? You say strange things. Perhaps humans are not Hadrians.”

I fall to a knee, fighting the sand eroding from under my feet in one direction and the ass kicking wind knocking me the other way. It’s a brutal, swirling mess, and three days ago I’d be dead in these conditions. “I don’t see how humans and Hadrians could be the same, not directly. But if it looks like a duck and walks like a duck . . .”

“Then it is human? You confuse me, Murph.”

“Good guess, but no. How far do we have to go before we reach the Sanctuary? I know you hate going on the sand, but since we’re wearing half the beach now, maybe we could hold up there until it’s safe,” I suggest in my most reasonable tone.

“Not possible. The Prothean Sanctuary is in the other direction and dangerous to use twice. This will lead us to a river delta that we can follow to Ironback.” Zedas slows his pace to a fast walk and points inland. “You see, they are returning to the foothills to hunt something easier. Maybe they decided the obnoxious box vehicle is worth tearing apart to get at their victims.”

I’m glad to see them go but worried about Karl and the others. They aren’t armed and won’t stand a chance against the soul catchers, who are far worse than wolves. They’re alien.

“No need to worry. The townsfolk have a significant lead, thanks to us,” Zedas says. “Not that they will be grateful. If anyone is hurt, they will blame me for not protecting them against impossible odds. It is a burden of being an outcast.”

“Tell me about that,” I say. “I’m not just asking to be nosy. We’re in this together now, and I need to know the story.”

Zedas regards me for a moment. “It is simple. I am a third son who dreams differently and does what he must instead of stroking the ego of his hypocritical father. My people reject me, so I work for those willing to provide food and shelter.”

“We’re getting somewhere, Zedas. I like this better than the silent treatment.”

Zedas says nothing, and the wind continues to howl. The planet, it seems, will do the talking for him.

8

Strong winds—the kind that hurt—punish Ironback. An earthen berm topped with a wooden palisade encircles the settlement. About a third of the buildings are two or three stories of timber, brick, and plaster, with the other two thirds radiating out from the center along roads paved with flat stones. There’s a sense of sturdiness to everything, but even so, the storm is serious, and around us, there’s a buzz of activity.

Townsfolk close windows and fasten shutters. Awnings and umbrellas are brought inside. Men and women study us from doorways, then retreat inside and slide the crossbars into place with dull thumps.

“Friendly group,” I say, not blaming any of them for their reticence.

“Not to Dogans like Zedas, or strangers like Murph,” Zedas says. “I only speak to a few. Better for everyone that way.”

A group of sturdy men and women patrol the streets, picking up loose debris and strapping down anything that was missed by other residents.

“Greetings, Dogan,” a man says. “Where will you shelter from the storm?”

My friend points to the building that looks like a library.

“Good choice. Karl Herias and the others returned safely, in case you wanted to know,” the watchman says. “The talking wolves are active beyond our palisade. Be careful. Good evening to you both.”

“Have you ever heard him talk?” one of the men says as they continue their patrol.

“Not yet, but the councilman claims he does,” the watchman says. Their voices fade around the corner.

Rain pours down for almost a minute, then relents when we duck into the library foyer. The squalls start and stop, driven inland by inconsistent wind gusts. We shake off the rain before entering the library.

“No further,” says an old Hadrian woman. “You’re soaked to the bone, and my reading mediums must be protected, especially the paper versions.”

Zedas stops.

“Still not going to speak to me, eh?” The woman turns her attention my way, her face barely reaching the middle of my torso. “Who are you, then?”

“Doctor Hank Murphy,” I say. “Sorry to inconvenience you on such a stormy night.”

“That’s no bother, young man. What kind of doctor—blood and bones, or the kind that’s unusually chatty about one topic?”

“I’m an archeologist. The study of lost civilizations is my specialty.”

“Interesting, and I mean that—so you’re the latter. My name is Hengra. Don’t touch anything. When the weather passes, you need to go someplace and get dry before I grant you access to my books.”

“Thanks, Hengra.”

Hard eyed but not unsympathetic, the old woman watches me shiver, then motions me to a hearth with a blazing fire. There’s a maternal undercurrent to her movement, despite a firm exterior. “Are you an Orphan?”

“That’s what I’ve been told. Everyone assumes I am one the second they see me,” I say. “I’ll leave my nature for you to determine. Mostly, right now, I’m just confused. And wet.”

Amusement dances in her eyes. “That’s because you’re not from around here. Strangers always get the mystery treatment. That’s how my husband, fates rest his soul, caught my eye, even though he turned out to be just another Hadrian on the prowl for an attractive young wife. But you’re different. You’re not just any stranger. The way you speak is . . . different. Distinct, but I can grasp all of your terms. So far, anyway.”

“Are you afraid of Orphans? I assure you I’m harmless. I’m not the violent type, unless you’re a giant centipede. That did bring out a side of me I’ve not seen before.”

A cold, practical stare replaces the mischievous fun of moments before. “You better be, boy. The Goliath sector isn’t made for helpless wanderers. Be ready for anything, or find a way home. Don’t stop for nothing ’til you get there.”

“You don’t speak like a librarian,” I say, trying to put my finger on a revelation just out of reach.

“You’ve met a lot of librarians, have you?” She crosses the foyer, then takes a seat on a bench by the wall. “I wasn’t born to books. Getting this job takes work, which I know well from the mines, back when they were open. None of that means I don’t love to read and use my imagination.”

Karl Herias enters, hangs his raincoat, and steps toward us. “Hello, Hengra.”

“Karl,” she says. “Good to see you. I will bring tea.”

He bows, waits for her to leave, and steps toward Zedas. “The soul catchers nearly had us. Where were you?”

I answer. “We led them away.”

“The question was for the Dogan,” Karl says.

“And yet I answered anyway.”

“What say you, Dogan?” he asks.

“We led them away,” Zedas grumbles.

“Told you.” I press my hands toward the hearth fire. “All’s well that ends well.”

Color drains from Karl’s face.

“What, you’ve never heard that one? It’s meant to be reassuring.”

“Another Orphan said that once and then did bad things.”

“Did he talk and dress like me, I mean almost like me?” Thoughts of my science team, rescue operations, or even Jack Barris rush into my thoughts.

Karl hesitates. “It was dark. We were running for our lives. I never understood what the words meant because they didn’t make sense in the context of surviving an Overlord raid. It sounded like a joke. Very bad timing if it was.”

“Tell me more,” I insist.

“There is no more. As soon as the rain stops, I am to take you before the council.”

My instinct, though I’ve never had a problem with the law, is to refuse. I’m already tired of being told what to do and it doesn’t feel like a good time to be interrogated, especially now. Hell, at any time, really, but now the thought of anything that doesn’t get me home seems punitive. But I also need information, and a meeting with the important people of this town seems like a reasonable place to start. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

“I don’t understand,” Karl says. “Only the most respected people are granted an audience before the entire council. And there is much to discuss.”

Walking to the door, I consider all that has happened, then peer through the window into the post-storm showers. “I’m already wet. We might as well go now.”

“As you wish,” Karl says.

We move quickly through the light, steady rain. Without the gale force winds, it’s a nice evening, if damp—like Seattle, but with roving bands of demonic wolves. The flow of water from downspouts is soothing. Near the center of town, not far from the library, is a longhouse full of people. We enter through double doors, and everyone looks at me, their collective stare pressing in with a weight that would slow my steps if I could muster a care. I can’t, and we move on, the crowd parting to give Zedas a wide berth.

“I told you this was an honor. Everyone in Ironback is curious about the new Orphan,” Karl says, waving grandly.

He leads me to the raised area at the end of the hall where two dozen men and women sit at the high table, their faces schooled into expressions of polite interest or mild suspicion. Since there isn’t anyone staring in naked hostility, it’s already better than being out in the wilderness.

“This is Doctor Hank Murphy, recently arrived through the Orphan gate from a place he calls Earth,” Karl says. “He’s done us no harm, and he helped lead the talking wolves away from us so we could escape back to our town. It was a damned fine move on his part, too. He ran through the rain like one of the soul catchers himself, and at some risk.”

“Then we offer him our thanks,” says a handsome middle-aged woman. Her tunic and trousers are different from the men’s, but only in the small details. She has her hair pulled back and stands confidently. “I am Sarah Delong of the Council.”

“It’s good to meet you. I don’t know the protocol, so please forgive me if I give offense,” I say, expecting polite nods and reassurances. I get neither.

“Who sent you here?” Sarah Delong asks.

“No one sent me. I told Karl that I’m an archaeologist who studies ancient artifacts. That’s what I was doing when I was accidentally sent through the Cradle.”

“Cradle?” she asks.

“That’s what I call it in my reports, due to its shape.” I glance at Zedas, but he’s his usual stoic self. No help at all. “Why these questions? Have I done something wrong?”

Karl and Sarah converse quietly for a moment, then take input from the council, who again speak in soft murmurs. I can’t quite make out what they are talking about, but it’s clear they’re worried about an attack or raid, though they’re discussing the event in polite, hushed tones.

Karl takes over once again. “We saw more than just the talking wolves on our way back to Ironback. There were Overlord scouts, which could mean an attack.”

“And you think I’m the reason?” I ask.

“That was suggested,” Karl says.

“Considering I didn’t know who any of you are, and still haven’t seen a Hadrian Overlord, or a Prothean, I think you can cross me off your list of usual suspects.”

“You used the Prothean Sanctuary,” Sarah says.

“The Sanctuary works for Hadrians as well as Protheans,” Zedas adds.

Complete silence grips the hall. All I can hear is the fire crackling, and then someone dropping a fork, which makes me realize some of the spectators are at tables eating and drinking. For them, this must be rare entertainment.

“But not for Dogans?” Sarah asks, her tone suggesting this is a trick question.

“It is forbidden,” Zedas says. “It has not been done for generations because it makes my people sick afterward.” He pauses a beat, then adds, “A sickness that goes beyond simple illness. There are . . . changes. In our bodies.”

“Someone fill me in, in your terms. Who are the Protheans and how exactly does that Sanctuary work?” Theories run through my mind, but I prefer evidence, even in a world with things like demon wolves and centipedes the size of pythons. I went in exhausted and unequipped, found a secret stash of supplies, and came out feeling refreshed—if hungry.

How lucky was I to fill a kit bag full of stuff I needed for my chosen profession? Zedas told me they send forward supplies for an invasion that never occurs. How long has this been happening? Are the Dogan right to fear the Protheans while the people of Ironback are rebelling against the Hadrian Overlords?

It’s just my luck that first contact happens in the middle of a civil war—for which I’m completely unprepared. No news articles or CIA warnings to review before planning an expedition into the third world. I am alone, out of my element, and faced with multiple cultures—and species—all dancing around each other in a violent web of superstition and doubt.

I laugh inwardly, because the odds are dead set against my current reality. The Cradle is nigh on impossible—it took me to a world that’s just close enough to my own to be recognizable.

“Legends claim that the Protheans were not always our enemies, that once long ago they were adventurers who often journeyed into harsh new environments. They built the Sanctuaries by copying gate technology. As your Dogan friend has suggested, their attempts were imperfect and have inherent risks,” Sarah says, then sits back to watch me process the news.

I look at my friend. “And you put me in there on purpose? At the bottom of that . . . pit?”

“Why did you do that, Dogan?” Sarah asks before he can answer me.

Zedas crosses his thick arms and stands with his feet slightly apart. “It was the right thing to do at the time.”

“We should focus on the gate,” Karl says. “Were you able to figure out why it has been dormant?”

“I didn’t get to study it as much as I would’ve liked, considering the mines are full of crawlers,” I say. “If I could make it work, I’d already be on my way home.”

“Truly?” Karl asks.

I’m unable to answer. Logically, it would be insane not to take the first ride home. I’ve been here a short time, and I’ve already had two brushes with death. The odds of staying alive seem poor, but his question is compelling. I became an archaeologist for a reason. My curiosity about this world, from the big events to the small details, is on fire, and no amount of danger can quell it.

“I can’t make it do anything, so the question is pointless.” In my head, I compare the device at the bottom of the mine with the Cradle on Earth’s moon. The one that is currently covered by crawlers and probably unaccessible seems to be missing pieces. That alone means it’s a glorified paperweight. Or worse. It could almost work, and I might end up halfway between worlds, a cautionary tale about using technology that isn’t understood.

“I’ve got another question—well, dozens, really, but one that I need the answer to immediately. What do the Protheans look like?” I ask.

Zedas rumbles an answer first. “Like me, but thinner, and far more cruel. Do not use the opinions of these people, Murph. The Protheans are thieves, first and foremost.”

“Thieves? Of technology, but what else?” I ask.

“You are a stranger and cannot understand the peril of our situation,” Sarah Delong says. “Our chances would improve if we could control a functioning Orphan gate. At one time, we hoped to move it here where we could better study and control it, but that proved impossible when the crawlers came.”

“Did you move it?” I ask. This seems germane to our conversation.

“No, only a few pieces that yielded no useful information,” she says.

“Can I see the pieces? It could be important.” My words hang in the air, but soon they are discussing the matter privately.

Karl eventually comes forward with Sarah at his side. “The Council agrees. We have been given permission to show you what we have done so far and discuss theories.”

“Please come with us,” Sarah says. “We’ll take you to the vault.”

9

The vault reminds me of a fallout shelter that has never been used, like in Britain during the Second World War on Earth. Built of tightly fitted stone blocks, it was set into the ground with landscaped turf sloping up to the back and sides. On the exposed front, the door looks like it could stop an artillery barrage. A huge combination lock holds the metal hasp shut, and in front of the door there’s a sense of stillness caused by disuse.

“Ironback has a curious mix of technology,” I say without thinking.

“What do you mean?” Karl asks. “We have what we have always had. When someone like you brings us improvements, we incorporate them.”

“Makes sense, but this facility looks like it could survive a nuke, and your roads are paved with river stones.”

“A trickle of technology has come through the Orphan gates over the centuries, and to a lesser extent from the Prothean invasions,” Karl admits. “We take what is useful, when and where we can.”

His answer confirms my theory. The town has existed in the shadow of the Orphan Gate for a long time and has tools, architecture, and even cultural and political ideas that shouldn’t have developed at the same time. Ironback can’t decide if it is a feudal society, a republic, or a commune. The look on his face makes me regret my question. I think I’ve insulted him, and maybe everyone he knows.

“What are you insinuating?” Sarah Delong says. “That we don’t have our own science and arts? That we’re helpless pawns of fate? Other Orphans made similar statements. But we are still here, and they moved on. So who is better, the people of Ironback, or gate raiders and their shiftless existence, tossed on the tides of chance?”

“I make observations. It’s my job, and I mean no insult, ma’am,” I say.

Karl moves between us, hands up as if he can make peace with a motion. “We could argue all day, but we need answers. Let’s see the artifacts. Maybe Doctor Murphy can help us make them work this time.” He puts in half of the code, typing it on an analog number pad. Sarah shields the lock from view with her body as she enters the rest of the code, then gives it a sharp tug, unlocking it. Zedas pulls the heavy door open, and the four of us go downstairs.

The stairs are wide enough to move a lot of people or heavy equipment. I expect the complex to be more than it appears to be from outside, and I’m not disappointed. Electric lights illuminate the stairs, while outside there are gas lamps and simple lanterns. Again, the level of tech varies from place to place, with little sense of continuity.

I have a good theory, but I want to know the deeper reason. Why is this world a hub of Orphan Gate travel, and why do the Overlords and the Protheans want it so badly? Ironback seems like a nice place, but it is little more than a village, nothing worth crossing the galaxy to conquer. At best, it’s a pastoral blip on a map that spans worlds.

“This way.” Karl leads us into one of the small rooms at the bottom floor of the shelter. He unlocks a second lock with Sarah’s help. Once again, she has half of the code. Their security is simple but effective.

I follow them to a room lined with half empty shelves, and in the center is something that makes the entire ordeal—the fall, the wolves, the climb—worth it. A thick coil sits on a bench, shining like the material I’m familiar with from my lunar studies. The detritus of frequent test and examination scenarios marks the surface of the device—broken drills, bent pry bars, all the things that make an archeologist cringe.

“We think it is something like a lightning rod,” Karl admits.

“Close. It’s a heat sink. With that in place, the second Cradle might recycle more quickly.” I strain to remember everything about Cradle 2. Sifting through the scenes of terror and falling ore carts, I can’t be sure, but it looks like it’s missing a piece that was present on Cradle 1 in the LMC site.

Doctor Cynthia Allen, my most insightful team member, had theorized this particular piece was a heat transfer media or cooling device. I hope she and the rest of my research group survived their ride up the maintenance lift and aren’t being harassed by Davis and the LMC lawyers—or assassins.

The idea of going home grabs at me now, the option swimming into view with tantalizing detail.

My team is depending on me—unless they think I’m dead, which is the most reasonable conclusion given the chaos of my escape.

Activating Cradle 2 and correctly pointing it back the way I came is a slim possibility. I know little about engineering, and while I’m generally good at fixing things, my problem combines alien technology and a jaunt across the galaxy, both of which are quite different from identifying a Roman pot or Saxon weapon.

A smarter man than me would ask for help before he stepped through an Orphan gate again.

But what’s the worst that could happen? What do I have to lose now?

“A cooling device? How can you be sure?” Karl asks. “My father brought this one here decades ago because it seemed to be nonessential. He knew a great deal more about the gate than we do now, but that was before we stopped trading with the Dogans and they sent little more than their outcast sons and daughters to live among us.”

“Did he make notes, keep a journal? Anything could be helpful.” I go to my pack, hoping for a camera, but I don’t find one. “That’s ridiculous. The one thing I need isn’t in here. Who the hell packed this kit?” I look at my shocked audience and wonder if they understand sarcasm here. “Forget I said that. It doesn’t really matter. I’m not sure what I would do with pictures anyway.”

“We’ve never been able to find my father’s work,” Karl says.

“Or him,” Sarah grumbles.

I stop cold. “What do you mean? He’s missing, or he passed on?”

“Both,” Karl says. “Even if he left through the Orphan Gate, because I know that is what you are thinking, he would be too old to still be alive.”

“Of course,” I say. “Sorry for your loss.” To cover my awkward slip, I search again for a camera or voice recorder to make notes. I don’t want to lose details, no matter how small. They could be my saving grace.

Zedas retrieves a sketchpad from the pile of items I’m removing and hands it to me. “Use this.”

I stare for a second, then remove the stylus and start drawing the coil. Each new angle increases my certainty that it’s a heat sink. There are even obvious connection points, gleaming on the surface at regular intervals.

The longer I draw and the more I focus on my creation, the weirder the experience gets—because I am not just creating images on the pad. There’s a medium in my head that records ghost images of what I imagine—blue, ethereal lines that don’t fade until I want them to fade, closing each image like a program. My changes as an Orphan aren’t limited to muscles and lung capacity—they’re mental as well.

I put the stylus and the pad aside for a second and close my eyes, but I still see the image in perfect detail.

“Are you okay?” Karl asks.

When I open my eyes, he’s staring at me in mild concern, and my value to him—to the people of Ironback—comes into focus. This isn’t just an escape for me. This device is a possible key to survival for them.

“Yeah, just needed to think.” I return to my study of the Orphan Gate component. It’s about half a meter long and thicker than my arm. I pause. “We might as well take this back to the mine. He said the crawlers aren’t active unless the hive queen had just made hatchlings, right? How long does that normally last?”

Everyone turns to Zedas. For a moment, it appears we’ll enjoy a brooding silence, but he takes back the sketchpad and the pencil. After turning to a new page, he draws quickly, creating a neat diagram of the mine and its passages. His thick fingers and huge hands are surprisingly dexterous. In bold, clear lines, he draws, stopping when the map is complete.

“This is what I learned from my wanderings,” he says.

“You’re not supposed to go poking around.” Karl is obviously irritated. “You told us you only went a short distance to meditate, which is obviously untrue now that you have bonded with the Orphan near the gate.”

“And aggravated the crawlers.” Sarah’s eyes smolder with anger. “Maybe you’re the reason we’re forced to dig scraps from lesser sites.”

Zedas ignores this criticism. “This area is where the hive queen lives. I’ve seen it during one of her dormant periods. For some reason, they don’t normally hunt in this direction, probably because of the Overlord troops who patrol on that side of the mountain.”

I take the map and pace the room. “Why didn’t you tell me about all of this? The facility is enormous. Is this right? That’s an entrance on the opposite side of the mountain, much higher up than the one we came out of.”

“The Hadrian Overlords have a garrison on that side of the mountain, and they make a token effort to secure the mines on the western slope—which are very treacherous to navigate without flying ships,” Zedas says, body so tense I think this speech is causing him actual anxiety. “The subterranean passages through the mountain are long and often end abruptly, sealed with doors that can’t be opened—either from a collapse, corrosion of the joints and locking mechanisms, or because there is simply no door handle on the Ironback side.”

Sarah stares in wonder. “That’s the most I’ve ever heard him say.”

Karl waves away her comment. “I don’t see how this helps us.”

“Stop walking back and forth.” Zedas puts a hand on me as I pass him for the tenth time.

I comply and stand awkwardly. “Sorry, habit.”

“The crawlers followed us toward the top and then congregated. They will become sleepy with nothing to eat, or range into the wilderness as we saw and draw the attention of the soul catchers,” Zedas says.

“We prefer to call them talking wolves.” There’s a slight shiver in Sarah’s tone.

Zedas is unaffected by her pedantic comment. “It would be possible to enter the mines from the Overlord side and reach the Orphan gate. But it is a long, subterranean trek with no guarantee of success. Very dangerous.” He points to a huge cavern with a line drawn across the abyss. “The only way to do it quickly, once inside, is this.”

“What is that?”

“A rail car, but not like the carts. Made from a different metal. Single rail design. Probably Prothean science,” Zedas says.

“I’m not afraid of heights, but that looks unsafe.” And the only way to do this, I think.

“The plan is risky, and for what?” Sarah asks.

“Why can’t you just admit this is the right thing to do, Councilwoman Delong?” Karl demands. His question is formal, the tone rich with derision.

I sense a rivalry between them. “We all want the same thing, a functioning gate. I want to go home, and you want help from the gate, if I understand the situation. We have to get this thing back where it belongs.”

I grab hold of it and heave without moving it an inch.

“It’s heavy,” Zedas says.

“Thank you, Mr. Obvious.” I pull my hands back in disgust. It’s not just heavy. It’s dense.

“Leave it,” Karl says. “We have to take this issue to the council before we do anything.”

We make our way to the Council Hall, but by the time everyone is assembled and the spectators are calm, Sarah Delong is absent--having slipped off someplace on the way here. Karl motions for the meeting to continue without her, and it passes. He makes his arguments and quickly wins approval to return the heat sink to where it belongs.

Sarah’s absence is an issue, and I know I’m about to find out why.

* * *

“This is the fastest vehicle in Ironback,” Karl says, pointing at something similar to a dune buggy shaped like an obtuse triangle from the side. It’s all frame, tires, and engine.

I walk around the vehicle, checking anything that looks questionable. “This one’s a huge improvement over the wood and iron wheels of your other vehicles.”

Karl nods and rubs his chin knowingly. “Agreed. Our supply chain is inconsistent at best. Try not to tear this one up. We don’t have lots of rubber to make this type of conveyance.”

Behind the driver’s wheel is a simple switch to turn instead of a key slot. “I guess you don’t have a lot of problems with car theft here.”

“Why would anyone steal a vehicle? Only a few people in town can drive one. It would be a short list of suspects,” Karl says. “Jacob Devonte can drive you. But your companion will have to ride with us in the slower vehicles. There’s not much space in the cab, as you can clearly see.”

“I know how to drive,” I say. “Where I’m from, this is practically a kid’s toy. I was driving a tractor several times this size by the time I was ten.”

“Truly?” Karl seems to be imagining my ten-year-old self driving a huge farm vehicle. “Your fields must be enormous. What would you do with so much food?”

“Lots of people where I’m from,” I say. “It’s one of the reasons I have a job. We’re interested in exploration and colonization, if we can figure out realistic transport methods.”

This sobers Karl and the others listening. “That is unsettlingly similar to why the Protheans invade our world and others every decade. They have a problem with population control. The only way to deal with such a thing is by wars of conquest and aggressive colonization of places that don’t want to be colonized.”

“I can’t argue with you there. But that’s a problem for another day, unless they show up now.” I climb into the driver seat, check the controls, and see that the gas pedal and the brake are one system. Once it starts, I roll forward a few feet. Pressure toward my toes seems to accelerate, while my heel acts as a brake, both by downshifting and applying pressure to a very loud set of brake pads.

The others head to their vehicles and start their engines, and I can barely hear myself think.

“Your engineers really need to think about better mufflers,” I shout.

“What?” Karl yells back.

I wave for Zedas to get in on the other side, then raise my voice even louder to ask Karl another question. “Where did Sarah go?”

He cupped his hands around his mouth for increased voice projection. “What?”

“Never mind. It’s probably not important. We’re going now. Catch up when you can. We’ll have a look and make sure everything’s okay,” I shout.

Karl shakes his head and goes back to the column of slower, bigger vehicles. I notice three, and he doesn’t tell me which one carries the heat sink to the gate. That’s either an accident or a good security measure. Given his natural sense of suspicion, it could be either.

I take it easy on my way out of town, but once we are away from people and potential victims of my driving style, I put the front half of the pedal to the floor and try not to roll the bouncy vehicle. My teeth rattle, and I’m always on the verge of losing control—but we make damned good time, and I find myself enjoying the ride.

Zedas holds the dash, what there is of it, with one hand, and the frame on his side of the vehicle with the other. He is white-knuckled with terror but silent, his eyes closing now and then in what’s either prayer or nausea.

Okay, so one of us is enjoying the ride.

After ten minutes, I reach the end of my geographical knowledge and stop at a three-way junction. The engine idles, still loud but tolerable compared to the racket we made on the way here.

“We must go this way, the farthest road to the right and follow it. It will take us a much longer route around the mountain, but in this vehicle, we should get there in a reasonable amount of time,” Zedas says. “If we live, that is.”

“I like your optimism,” I say, but don’t start immediately. Once we are racing through the wind, which feels extraordinarily fast but is probably only thirty or forty miles an hour, there won’t be a chance to talk. “Why won’t you talk to the townsfolk?”

“I do not wish to talk to you either,” he says. “But we are bound by fate, and I do what I must.”

“I’m mildly offended.” I look for a fuel gauge and find nothing. That’s disturbing. And possibly inconvenient.

“I think better when I’m not talking. And listening is more useful than making noises with one’s mouth.” He shades his eyes against the sun, then gazes the direction we are about to travel. “The more I speak to you, the easier it is. There will soon come a time when our ability to communicate means life or death.”

“A bit fatalistic for a conversation during this go-kart ride, but I’m glad you’re talking. Off we go,” I say, and Zedas grabs the dash again, his fingers locked onto the metal with grim resolve.

Engine noise and wind create a wall of solitude between us, so I spend the time thinking and appreciating the view. It’s more than just the verdant green mountain range on one side and rolling plains and beaches on the other. By itself, the scenery is gorgeous and fantastical—there’s a serene beauty around me, but even that can’t keep thoughts of home at bay. Earth is my measuring stick for every vista before me, and no amount of grandeur can sway my mind from the problem at hand.

The gate, the parts, and a return. That’s my goal.

Still, this place is completely unique. No one from my world has been here, and my nature is to observe, no matter what the situation. I need to get home, then bring back a team to explore this place properly.

Beams of sunlight cut down through scattered clouds, blinding me for a moment, but the road soon turns so I’m not driving directly into the sun. The deeper we get into the mountains, the more shadows fall over us, their long edges cutting hard across fields and forests. Before long, we’re through the foothills, on the other side of the mountain, and climbing through a series of switchback roads, spraying gravel with abandon as I cut the wheel into each hairpin.

Zedas claps his hands together to get my attention, then points at a ridge line. I catch a flash of light, possibly from a pair of binoculars, or with my luck, a sniper scope. That’s not something an archaeologist should be worrying about, but then, this is no ordinary site.

“Overlords?” I ask.

He doesn’t respond immediately, probably attempting to decide if he heard me correctly. “One of their patrols. They have seen us.”

“What’s the plan?”

“That depends on what they believe we are doing,” Zedas says. “Young men and women of Ironback joyride. Your kind are reckless.”

“I thought we decided I’m not a true Hadrian,” I say. “Sure as hell don’t feel Roman.”

“What is . . . a Roman?”

“I’m guessing here, but Hadrian was an emperor—an Overlord, of sorts—from my world, in the past. Since we’re dealing with gates, I have some suspicions that the Hadrians are a lot closer to me than just cousins. As to you, friend? If we’re cousins, it’s quite distant, if at all.”

He shrugs. “I understand your point, but I’m thankful we aren’t related.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want ugly relatives.”

I snort, then nod in appreciation at his humor. For a glowering mass of armor, he’s sharp.

I slow the vehicle, giving myself more time to watch for Overlord patrols or other dangers, which include quasi-werewolves, giant insects, and other, yet to be discovered, delights. As a vacation spot, my new world leaves a lot to be desired, and the go-buggy-kart isn’t just loud, it’s bouncy on the road, with nothing that resembles a suspension or power steering. So far, I haven’t heard or seen the soul catchers. A tyrannosaur could be walking next to me and I wouldn’t hear it. I am already nursing the beginning of a headache—the kind you get from a bar with a band that thinks louder means better. I shake my head to clear it and drive on, eyes flicking across the horizon in fitful movements.

“Tell me if you see another one,” I say.

“Of course.” Zedas still holds on, but the patrol has his attention. He’s alert, his gaze tracking like mine, back and forth.

I push the pace for another half hour but remain mindful of the ambush or washed-out roads. A mistake in this world will cost me my life and endanger the people I’ve met here. There’s no way to call for help.

My heart aches for my friend Jack. He can handle himself, and I’ve no doubt he would’ve been more of a match for the LMC security forces if he was armed. Even broken down, he is a dangerous man, capable of surviving damned near anything—including a corporate sucker punch on the moon. But he never answered my radio call, and there had been a lot of gunfire at the lunar site. I wish you were here now, Jack.

The sun begins to set and the roads become so narrow that I’m not moving much faster than a brisk run, but with the added joy of engine noise and exhaust fumes. “Are we getting close? Might be better to hide this thing and hike the rest of the way.”

“Yes. That would be best.”

“Don’t slip back into silent mode,” I say. “I thought we agreed that the more communication we have, the better.”

“You wish to talk for no reason now?”

“Point taken.” I park the vehicle near a tree. It’s out of view for anyone not within a few hundred meters, but I find some loose branches and try to minimize its profile to anyone searching for it. “I’ll follow you.”

“Yes, that would be best. You have no idea where you’re going.”

“Do we have a problem, Zedas?” I ask. He’s a different person now, and the change doesn’t instill confidence. I need him to be present and alert.

“There may be a fight. It puts me in a bad mood.”

“Really? If I was your size, I’d probably be looking for trouble.”

He stares down at me. “Then you are stupid, Murph. Fights are rarely good things.”

“You’re right.”

We need to find the entrance to the Overlord mine and hopefully slip inside without too many problems. If Zedas is right, they don’t keep a lot of guards on it. If we’re really lucky, I’m hoping it’s just a lock we can pick or break.

Night comes quickly in the mountains, and we cut across animal trails until we pick up a well-maintained road that is better surfaced than anything near Ironback.

I kneel and touch it. “This is modern.”

“Of course,” Zedas says. “It’s new. Or newer.”

The pavement is more uniform, the road wider, and the grades more intelligently engineered. Driving this way would feel more like being back home on Earth, except instead of centerlines, there are various symbols down the middle of the blacktop that mean nothing to me. There are also small posts, which I mistake for mile markers at first, but on closer inspection they look like a place to plug something in.

“Are these charging stations?”

“They can be activated to provide power when they have lots of vehicles coming and going this way,” Zedas says.

“Are they driving electric vehicles?”

He rubs the side of his head as though I’m giving him a headache with my questions. “I do not know that word.”

“Then don’t worry about it, I guess. It should be easy enough to figure out when we see them.”

“Hope that we don’t. Overlords are not as easily escaped as crawlers and soul catchers. They have ground cars and flying ships and weapons that can kill at a distance.”

“I’ll make a note.”

“What good would that do?”

“I just mean I’ll try to remember,” I say, alarm tickling at my senses. Until this moment, I’d felt like I was in a feudal setting with the occasional odd modernity, but now? The enormity of this landscape is coming into focus. This isn’t a case of stronger tribes attacking a weak populace. This is civilization against civilization, with a massive difference between the two. I was in a glorified mead hall hours earlier, and now I’m standing on a road where powered vehicles run and recharge. This isn’t a civil war. This is an extermination—if I let it happen.

I stand up, listening.We move up the road, watching, turning, observing. Now that my hearing has returned, the forest is full of animal sounds and gentle breezes through the treetops, a series of sounds that are so close to home, but not quite right. At this altitude, they look a lot like pine trees and sway from the force of winds working their way through the mountain range. Nothing smells as I expect, but the fragrances aren’t unpleasant. This is a remote area, even with the powered roadways bisecting the land. We are in the deep wild, and the space around us sprawls away, unbroken and unsullied.

“Patrol,” Zedas says without fanfare.

We step into the ditch and duck down at the last possible moment. The closer the vehicles come, the more I want to crawl backward into the bushes, but Zedas puts his hand on my back and holds me in place. Above us, there’s a sound—a susurration that’s nothing like the braying engine in our glorified dune buggy. I peek up from the shadows and weeds, just enough to see what we’re dealing with and pray they don’t spot me.

The first electric vehicle glides silently by. Others follow. Each has a driver and a copilot near the front, and one man on a large gun—it’s a familiar design, if different in small ways—in the middle sitting higher than the rest of the passengers. Six armed soldiers sit on benches in the uncovered cargo area. None of them talk or crack jokes. They don’t look around much, but neither do they slouch or nod off. They’re clouded with an air of purpose, and for long moments, I don’t even breathe.

“Another,” Zedas mouths, and I nod once.

We watch more vehicles pass by, the soldiers all nearly identical. The guns sure as hell are.

“They’re heading for Karl and the others, even if they don’t know it,” I say. “Unless they’re looking for us.”

“I do not read minds,” Zedas says. “But I have never seen so many. That may be all of their garrison from the mine complex.”

“Could be good for us, but not if they capture our friends and steal the heatsink,” I say. “We need to warn them.”

“To what purpose?”

The answer is obvious, until I try to state it out loud. There seems little chance that Karl and his friends can escape this professional team of soldiers riding in much more advanced vehicles than the motorized wagons.

“Who are they?” I ask. “Overlords?”

For a maddening instant, I think he’s going to answer my question with a grunt, but he’s just thinking. “They’re the winners. They have the tools, the technology. They are only people—humans, to you—but they are killers, and they want more than just our heads. I ask you now, what is our plan?”

Seconds slip by. What I want to do is take a better look at our objective, but I know we’re already behind the eight ball if we’re going to help Karl and the others. “The Overlord base isn’t going anywhere. We better follow this patrol and see what we can do to help the townsfolk, and hopefully keep the Overlords from taking the heatsink.”

A vehicle with a loud muffler winds downward from the same direction the Overlord troops came from. We hide. A motorcycle ridden by Sarah Delong cruises around the corner, her face lit up with a grin.

“She sold us out,” I say.

Zedas scowls, his face a thundercloud. “Yes, she did.”

10

I creep away from the road, worried about another Overlord patrol. They didn’t look like the type to mess around but rather professional soldiers well indoctrinated to their cause. That’s my first impression, and I’m not willing to take chances. Nothing about them reads as amateur, and their gear—and bearing—are serious to the last details.

The moment we’re far enough from the road to avoid capture, I dash down animal trails and across clearings, feet moving in a blur. Zedas follows.

“Do not get lost,” he barks.

I stop. “I know the way this time. I think. Should the dune buggy be right here?”

Zedas walks with his hands on his hips, breathing heavily. “Why did you hide it if you wanted to find it easily?”

“I didn’t want other people to find it. That’s standard operating procedure.”

“I will help you look,” he says, “but perhaps we should continue another span, then look near the red slate cliff where the yellow flowers grow at the base.”

“You could have just told me you knew where it is.” I head for the next animal trail.

“I only think it is there,” Zedas calls after me.

I’m good at orienteering—top of my class in boot camp. I’ve also been to some of the most remote excavation sites on Earth, and I earned the top spot on the lunar investigation. But navigating an alien forest when life and death is on the line is a totally new experience, and one I never trained for. I’m on their ground, with their rules.

“Karl’s caravan is this way,” I say, and I know I’m right. I focus on what to do when we reach the townsfolk and conclude we must get there first so they can hide. Fighting isn’t an option, and I won’t have their blood on my hands.

Zedas catches me on a steep decline, then falls behind again as we ascend a terrain feature. He’s incredibly powerful but not much for acceleration.

“Found it,” I gasp, racing to the buggy. I toss the limbs off in a savage sweep of my hands, crank the ignition, and exhale.

The engine coughs to life, and Zedas climbs in, making the buggy lurch to one side. His armor is leaking sweat and dark smears of something else. He’s on the edge of collapse, I think. I cut my eyes at him as I turn the wheel.

“Are you okay?”

He swallows hard, nods vigorously, then answers. “I am as I should be.” It’s the best answer he can give, so I tear away from the clearing and punch the acceleration to its limit. In seconds our teeth are chattering like bones in a coffin as I slide through turn after turn, spraying dirt and scaring the hell out of a plump gray bird, which barely gets out of the way with an indignant squawk.

The noise is deafening, especially when I downshift on the declines. The forest rings with our passage, and any concept of stealth is long gone.

“Three sets of headlights. Not as bright as Overlord beams.” Zedas points. “They are not killed or captured.”

“Not yet.” I drive through a stream, spraying rooster tails high into the air. “Tell me the moment you see the Overlord convoy. We can’t just beat them by a little, we have to get to Karl’s people with enough time left over to hide. Can we drive this path without lights?”

“Let us not.” Zedas grips the roll cage with both hands. “Please.”

We are not yet out of the mountains but in a valley that stretches toward the ocean as part of an enormous river delta. Jagged rocks become rolling hills. There is enough starlight for me to see the terrain well enough to avoid major obstacles, like trees and rocks and the odd massive stump. As driving goes, it’s dicey. As for making time, we’re absolutely flying down the road and cutting through the curves to gain time. The fat tires hold long enough to deliver us—out of breath and shell-shocked—to the flatter lands, the impressive incline stretching away behind us under a sky spangled with silver points of lights. I crane my neck, looking for Overlord headlights—

Relax, Murph. I exhale, then start over.

When I finally see the first of them, I realize why. The overlord drivers were operating without headlights, probably with night vision or other advanced optics. And they were moving over smooth, often traversed roads toward a known confrontation.

Because councilwoman Delong told him Karl and the others were coming this way with a valuable piece of the Orphan Gate.

“Sellout,” I growl, and it’s more than just a curse. It’s a condemnation of Sarah Delong and her inhumanity.

I put my foot down hard on the accelerator, and we launch over a small ditch cut by years of heavy rains. The tires flex, the buggy soars, and we land, engine revving wild as I slash through a stand of thorny brush, punching through to clear driving in seconds.

“To repeat,” Zedas says, “please do not do that again.”

For a moment, I can’t see either of the vehicle groups. It takes a minute to pass through a low area and regain the high ground. As soon as I look out across the vast valley with mountains surrounding it on three sides, I turn off the engine, climb out, and leap onto the hood. The metal is hot under my feet, and it bows inward from my weight with a warbling protest.

Zedas follows me without a word, and now the hood bends in further.

He looks down. “It matters not. Metal, we can fix. That, we cannot.”

We stare at Overlord vehicles surrounding Karl’s convoy, wolves around lambs.

“That sucks,” I mutter, taking a better look with a pair of field glasses from my Sanctuary kit. The night springs into view, and the scene is one of complete failure. Karl is surrounded—totally—and there’s no way out.

Zedas furrows his brow, peering into the night. “I take it that sucks is a bad thing.”

“Yeah, Zedas, it is. Help me watch for Overlord vehicles breaking off from their main force. If they saw us out here, they could send someone looking. Stay alert.”

I can’t tell what the Overlord leader is saying to Karl, but it doesn’t look good. One by one, the men and women from Ironback have their hands tied behind their back, except for those who are forced to drive the motorized wagons.

“I think they are taking them, and the heatsink, to their base on the western slope,” I say.

“Yes.”

Rather than discuss it, I head back to the dune buggy. “If we can get back to their base before they do, we can watch them arrive. That’s when they’ll be most vulnerable. If they get inside the base, things are—less certain.”

“And you think their freedom is certain now?” Zedas asks. It’s a reasonable question that deserves an honest answer.

“No, I don’t. But we’re going to try.”

I start up the buggy, ease it away from the Overlord kidnappers, and drive away without any attempt at stealth. They know we’re here.

What they don’t know is how pissed I am. I watch the Overlords—a name of pure arrogance—and their body language. They are used to compliance. They are used to winning.

What they are not used to is being on the defensive. That is about to change.

* * *

Zedas and I take turns sleeping, never giving up eyes on the Overlord base. It’s wide and orderly, and filled with buildings that make sense to me—barracks, supply, chow, armory, and command, all in lines. Soaring skyward is a communications spike, a fuel tank, a water tower, and a small gun mount some thirty paces up in the air, a lone soldier on overwatch. The captive townsfolk are brought in in the wee hours of the morning, immediately separated, and locked in portable buildings that remind me of Airstream trailers painted dark red, the metal gleaming around each small window. Seeing how loose the camp situation is, except for the gun mount, I choose to bide my time and pick the shot. This is a base built on overconfidence, and a blind rush would be glorified suicide. I’ve got plans that involve getting home, so we wait. The heatsink is under guard, as are Karl’s people, meaning I have two separate problems and zero solutions.

For now.

One thing we need is less distance between us and the objective, so I wave Zedas forward, my voice low. “On me.”

He doesn’t argue, but he follows a few steps back, his eyes wide and watching.

I slink down the side of the slope—there’s nothing sneakier than a desperate human—then dart between buildings, working my way closer to the landing field. It’s one of the only truly flat places I’ve seen since leaving the coastal area, the dirt pummeled down by multiple ship landings.

Zedas growls low in his throat, drawing my attention. “Where are we going, Orphan?”

“Don’t get mad at me.”

“Why not?”

“Because it won’t help anything. I can hear it in your voice, and you make a face when you call me an Orphan.”

“I am wearing a helmet. You don’t know anything.”

“That bucket you wear doesn’t cover your mouth or chin.”

He bares his teeth.

“See? You’re an open book. Now stow your anger and listen, friend. There’s a fuel pod near the vehicle hangar. I saw a ladder. We can get on top and blend with the pipes and hoses. Lots of shadows.”

“I will follow you.” His words are so low as to be just above a whisper. For Zedas, that’s a feat, as subtle is not really his thing.

“Good. Now we watch the guards—let’s get their pattern. I don’t care what planet I’m on, guards get bored and make mistakes. It’s part of being human. Or, ah, sapient.”

“There is a ship coming from the upper atmosphere,” Zedas says, head tilting up to the sky. “They are likely here for the prisoners and the device.”

I swear under my breath at the bloom of technology around me. This was one moment I needed the enemy to be glorified serfs. “Offworld? To where?”

Silence falls between us as the ship begins braking through the atmosphere—not like a rocket, but a plane. The craft flares once from a steep angle, then settles onto flexible arms in a single, tidy motion. There’s hardly any dust, and the noise is minimal for a ship of its size.

“That’s beyond anything I’ve seen.” I watch a ramp descend in fluid grace. A new Overlord strides down it, and I know he outranks everyone else.

His coat reaches the backs of his calves and flares. The collar is high, stiff, and studded with tiny silver stars. On his belt is a sleek sidearm. Guards and assistants follow him at a respectful distance, and he doesn’t pause to greet anyone or break his stride. Even at a distance, I know a commander when I see one, and this guy—whoever he is—has arrived to fix things.

Soul catchers howl in the wilderness, their cries filling the air in a dolorous chorus.

I look toward the steep slopes and ravines all around the Overlord base. “Do they attack Overlords? On their own base?”

“Doubtful, but not impossible.” Zedas listens intently. “That is more than one pack. That is . . . all of them, I think. They are being called. Or drawn. This is new to me, though some believe they fear the ships. Others hold the opposite view.”

I point toward the shuttle with my chin. “Could they think the ship is a rival predator?”

“This, I can’t know--and guess that you are speculating without evidence. Normally they run away from a landing, but not always,” Zedas says. “I have heard tales of attacks.”

From my position, I can hear the soul catchers scuffing around in our former hiding place up the mountain. The breeze carries their—words? It’s on the cusp of understanding to me, a language that almost makes sense, even spiked with hissing and glottal growls, each sound raw with menace. Up the slope, I see six of the soul catchers rise up to stare down at the Overlord base, boldly abandoning their hiding places.

“Brazen. Too many moving parts here,” I say.

“Moving parts? How?” Zedas asks.

I wave to the wolves, then across the base. “The wolves. The Overlords. Your people. My people. Lots of factions, and everyone wants the same thing. The only thing I know is that they hate each other as much as they hate us. We’re going to use that, I think.”

Zedas narrows his eyes, head tilted to one side as he regards me. I’m smiling, and he’s suspicious. He should be. “What are you wanting to do, Murph? I don’t like your face.”

“I don’t like yours either.”

“Not that. Your facial expression,” Zedas adds. “You want to do something bold.”

“Great word. Yes, bold. Look there, between the buildings. Then look at the crossroad there, and there.” I point to a pair of junctions that frame the base. It’s not a huge base, but wide enough that there are four gates—and there are soul catchers at every point, as well as moving silently through the shadows between structures. “They’re losing their sense of fear. We’ve got about a minute to make it.”

“What are the Overlords—oh,” Zedas says. “Look.”

On the landing pad, crews boil with activity, loading the shuttle with prisoners, gear, and a single dolly carrying the heatsink. Four men wrestle the cart up a ramp, muscles straining to push it aboard the craft.

The soul catchers are done waiting.

In an explosion of movement, the wolves descend on the base, and now I can see the ones I missed. Screams echo through the air. A gun goes off, followed by a muffled whump as a fuel tank detonates on the other side of a barrack, orange flames licking upward before flaring into a cloud of thick smoke.

“There are others moving between the buildings,” Zedas says. “We cannot remain here forever.”

“We’re not. We’re getting on that ship. Can’t stay here, and we need to get that artifact back.”

“How will we do this?”

I look to the growing number of animals and shrinking numbers of line workers and guards. “No one would stop us if the soul catchers were hot on our heels. Get their attention and then run for the ramp before it closes.”

“Orphans are insane,” Zedas says.

“Or desperate. Feel free to suggest another plan.” I’m already moving toward the edge of our hiding place.

“Leave the Ironback folk to their own fate. Go into the hills and grow old,” he says.

“That is a plan.” I mount the top of the ladder. “But not my plan.” I slide to the bottom like a crewman on a nuclear submarine, scoring my palms but gaining precious time. With a jarring thump, I hit the ground, and Zedas lands right behind me. The soul catchers are closing in, and my hand goes to the ground, where it finds a flat, heavy stone.

I look at him, and his eyes are as round as saucers. I tell him one word. “Run.”

11

My arm moves in a blur. The victim of my attack whips around, spiny mane thrashing through the air as he searches for the source of the pain. Three monstrous eyes glow red. Its words turn into a screech. More of the alien wolves hiss at me, then the cry goes up all over the base and beyond.

“Time to go! These things should drive away the guards, but if we don’t move it, we’ll be in a bad spot.” I run for the Overlord vessel, hoping to reach one of the ramps that are closing slowly. Some seem to be for supplies, others for the guards, and one ornately decorated door is probably for a very important person.

The ship engines warm up. Hundreds, maybe thousands of the lupine creatures swarm down the mountain slope. Their deathly chorus fills the night with humanoid speech, howls, and coyote-like warbling shattering the air. The hair on my arms goes up, every nerve taut with instinct I’d thought was dormant. Now those are alien.

“We have enough time to escape,” Zedas says. “But no more than enough.”

I’m about to reply when we advance far enough to see around a giant shipping container. Karl and his companions are on their knees. Guards tie their hands behind their backs, kick them onto their faces, and turn to escape the rush of animal killers.

“And not enough time to help them,” Zedas observes. “Shall we make a last stand? It is time to die well or survive as a coward.”

“How about option C?” There are several problems in this scenario. I can’t fight the guards, and I especially can’t handle them in time to get the townsfolk to safety. Worse, the only remaining shelter is on the Overlord ship, and they’re not exactly handing out free boarding passes.

The largest pack arrives at the edge of the landing strip and breaks into a full sprint, their ropy muscles exploding into action as they eat up the ground. The others, led by the one I smacked with a rock, slow their approach and spread out to surround us. The process isn’t complete, but I have no illusions that we can escape from their half circle even if one side remains open.

Something else is happening, but I can’t decide why it matters. Micro-packs, groups of four to six of the wolf-like demons, form similar half circles facing each of the huge ship engines. The turbine-like thrusters spin faster and faster, promising an epic display of blast force in the near future.

Details snap into and out of my perception. Things are happening too fast. I long for the controlled environment of my lunar dig site, but part of me is thrilled by the raw emotions flowing through my veins. I’m cooking with—possibility. That’s it. Focus and possibility.

“Where the hell did you come from?” one of the guards shouts, pointing a gauntleted finger at me. Then to his squad, he says, “Why isn’t that one in restraints? Who the hell let a Dogan onto the base?”

A pair of soldiers with helmets approaches me. I hold up both hands to negotiate. “No time for that, gentlemen. Wouldn’t it be better to get your squad on board?”

The team leader looks me over, then turns to the hunters gathering moment by moment. “Red squad, let’s move. These idiots are on their own.”

The Overlord troops sprint for safety without the courtesy of shooting any of the snarling beasts, and the latter don’t try to stop the armed men. I think there’s enough time to follow, and maybe they would even let me on board through their ramp. Another micro-pack hesitates, apparently deciding whether to attack the soldiers or my group, and finally decides to howl at the ship. The larger pack tightens its ranks around the prone townsfolk. I can’t leave Karl and the others tied up and helpless.

I rush forward and kneel next to Karl first, then I pull a utility knife from my kit and slice the plastic bindings. I hand him a second blade, which is more for cutting paper or photographs than hard use. “That’s the best I have. Start cutting people free. Break it if you have to.”

Zedas faces the pack. He pulls something from his back that looks like a sword but expands like a Japanese fan. It’s covered with the most beautiful artwork I’ve seen in ages—silver filigree and whorls of blue ink, all rippling like water. With his other hand, he uncoils a chain from the back of his armor. The links clank ominously, a metal ball swinging on one end. The sphere is covered with studs and lacks the decorative flair of his blade. It’s pure of purpose and made for violence.

I free two more prisoners. “How you doing, Karl?”

Zedas whips the chain over his head, increasing its length each time it makes a circle. The ball strikes one of the soul catchers on its snout, knocking the advancing animal to the side, where it yelps in pain. The others grow wary. Zedas swings the flail harder and extends the chain to its maximum length, encompassing the prisoners under a dome that sounds like a massive propeller turning. The rush of air overhead is a song of battle, and even the bravest soul catcher shies away—but one fails to turn in time and catches the flail square across the jaw with a savage crack. Spittle and teeth loop away as the beast howls in rage and agony, then Zedas accelerates the flail without missing a beat.

I cut the last set of restraints, then shout at them to stay in the circle of protection. “Zedas, start working toward the ship if you can.”

We inch forward, barely keeping our hunters at bay, leery of the lethal whirling metal. Ship engines come to life, one after another in a roar of power that deafens me. Our safety won’t last long because the number of soul catchers is growing. They’re piling up like cordwood, bristling with fury just outside the reach of Zedas’s weapon.

I don’t bother checking my kit again for weapons. Even if I had a machine gun, we’d be screwed. “We’re going to have to run for it.”

Zedas’s response is barely audible over the engines and his effort. “Perhaps they can make it, but I cannot.”

At the front of the pack is a small soul catcher covered in scars. The scrappy little animal braves Zedas’s chain, nearly taking the studded ball to its face several times but always dancing clear of getting smashed.

“That one’s figured out the timing,” I warn as it darts in, then latches onto Zedas’s leg with a savage snap of teeth.

“Callagoon!” Zedas roars but keeps swinging the flail.

Three more of the snarling beasts spring forward but are slammed sideways, an array of teeth and skin torn free by the flail’s punishing strike.

I step back, line up a powerful front kick, and launch it at the soul catcher ravaging Zedas’s leg. My boot glances off my target, then Zedas’s hip. Closer now, I pummel the animal with my fists, landing crunching blows in its ribs and shoulder, then I follow with a whistling left hand that connects with its neck. The soul catcher yelps in pain, then loses its grip and whirls until it’s facing me with a maw stained red.

This time, my front kick strikes the creature right in the teeth, smashing its face toward its own shoulders. It staggers, then reels away leaking blood and saliva.

“We’re close, Orphan,” Karl shouts. “Almost there.”

A trio of soul catchers lunge forward, nearly ducking under Zedas’s defensive perimeter. Others give up and run a frenetic course around the ship, sometimes jumping at closing hatches or vents. Their fury is all animal now, any sense of strategy long since boiled away in the frenzied moment.

“Look on the bright side,” I gasp. “There aren’t any more coming down from the mine entrance.”

Karl waves his hands at me in disbelief. “That’s because they’re all here!”

“Why do the soul catchers hate you?” Zedas pants, nearly losing his footing from the momentum of his chain weapon.

“Never seen them so determined,” Karl adds.

“I think the engine draws them. It’s not all my fault. These things want off this planet.” Theorizing on the run is a new thing for me, and I’m not sure I’m good at it. This is more likely a wild ass hunch. “Or they really hate the Overlords. Or sonic signatures like the engine. Hell, maybe they’re just pissed.”

We’re almost to the ramp, which has stopped closing like someone is waiting for us to get on. The gap is five feet—possible, but not easy. Still, the air is filled with baying and engine whines and violent impacts as the base comes apart around us.

Zedas puts away his ball and chain in one fluid motion as he fends off the soul catchers with his fan. He slashes with the weapon on the forward swing and hammers them with the flat side on the back swing. It’s a lethal, elegant dance, leaving soul catchers mortally wounded—if not cut in two.

I expect a guard to greet us at the ramp, but we’ve got a special guest instead.

The Overlord boss himself.

He squats like a cowboy on the edge of the ramp, careful not to bump his head. The man is cool and collected, neither hurried nor concerned.

“Who are you?” he demands, dark eyes pinning me. With his high cheekbones and short-cropped hair, every inch of him screams soldier.

“No time for that. Let us on the ship before we get eaten.” I hold out a hand for him to grab, but he ignores it. Soul catchers encircle the entire ship, growling and showing teeth.

“It would be easier to let them have you,” he says.

“Stop screwing around. Sarah Delong told you I figured out what the Orphan Gate heat sink was, and now you need me to help you fix a gate or I’m—dead, most likely.” This isn’t exactly true, but the situation is desperate. I have some ideas, now I just need a lab and the support team to work on them. Then, maybe, with luck, I’ll learn the secrets of the gates.

I see calculation give way to decision.

“Lower the ramp. Let them aboard. Shoot any of those wretched animals if they come close. You would think we slaughtered them all the last time we were here.”

The ramp drops. As soon as Karl and the townsfolk are on board, I sprint up it with Zedas beside me. Charge guns fire rapidly on the surge of soul catchers. One of the soldiers raises the ramp and closes the door as a dozen angry creatures slam against it. Instantly, the ship deck cants sideways as the pilot takes off, knocking me to one knee. The last sight of the tarmac is an orgy of violence, and the air around me smells of fuel and fear.

I can’t see engines reaching full power and frying the pack during takeoff, but I imagine it. The beasts were trying to kill me, but fire is a bad way to go. Their songs come with me. Their bones will not.

The Overlord extends his hand. “Let me help, Orphan. I am Overlord Anaximander Hadrian, but most call me Anaxim.”

I take his hand. Once on my feet, I take my hand back and brush myself off. “Doctor Hank Murphy, this is my friend Zedas-Duryan, and this is Karl Herias and his people.”

Anaxim gives Zed and the townsfolk a hard look but says nothing. “Come this way, Doctor Murphy. My guards will show the others to . . . quarters.”

“You know what a doctor is?”

“I’m not a provincial fool stuck on this wretched planet. I’ve traveled farther than your friends from Ironback and met people across the spectrum of stars. I’ve even met those with the word doctor in their vocabulary.” He strides down a hall without explaining anything we pass, so it’s not much of a tour. “I haven’t actually met a member of your caste, but I have researched the term. Something to do with medicine.”

“Not in my case,” I say.

“Then I’m in error. Perhaps you might correct me. Show me the ways of your people.”

“Sure, but it’s not important. Where are we going?”

“To see an artifact you may be interested in, according to Delong. I’ll show it to you, but then you must help me fix it. It’s in the most unique place.” He gives me a sidelong glance. “If not medicine, then what kind of doctor?”

The guy doesn’t seem to understand the concept of no. “In my case, the title just means I read a lot of books and wrote a thesis.”

“My thanks. Clarification is often rewarding.” He leads the way to the command center.

“I’ve never been on the bridge of a starship.”

Frowning skeptically, he surveys the room, then asks me what I’m talking about.

“You know, the bridge. Where the captain flies the ship.”

“That is not a term we use, but speak as you like,” he says. “Strap in. We will be landing on the moon with the heatsink . . . and your theories.”

* * *

Zedas-Duryan is allowed to stay with me, but Karl and his people are kept on the ship. Anaximander walks beside me, by all appearances the perfect host even if I’m actually his prisoner. A dozen guards also in environment suits complete our party, six on each side of us. A work crew with a motorized cart on treads brings the heat sink.

We march away from the Overlord ship, then reach the entrance to another mine, this one on the planet’s moon. A chill runs up my spine even though this place is nothing like Earth’s moon. For one thing, there had been life here not more than a few generations ago. Skeletons of trees and a dried up lake bed project malice, the echoes of life still close enough to see, and smell, and touch. Inside, Anaximander’s soldiers check the environment, then remove their suits. When none of them die, he pops his helmet off. “Remove your suit. It’s too bulky to wear for long.”

Or you don’t want me to make a run for it, I think. Compliance seems the best policy, so I remove the gear, starting with the helmet. “Why can’t I speak to Karl and the others?”

“If you can make this gate work, I will allow you many privileges, including communication with your troublesome rebel friends.” His voice is even and crackles with authority. A true officer, he doesn’t yell. He commands. I’ll note that for when my travels take me away from him.

We descend through a maze of tunnels—no lifts, ladders, or stairs here. Cradle 3 might be on a moon, but that’s where the similarities end. The construction of the hallways looks nothing like my research area on Earth’s moon, nor does it resemble the Overlord ship.

I catalog observations but hold back questions. Anaxim already has the advantage. I might as well keep him guessing about what I know and don’t know. Along the corridors are fossils of animals like nothing on earth. There’s a spiral-winged bat, its tail forked twice. Further on, a fish with two mouths and an armored tail that looks like it could carve stone. The last fossil—five meters, easily—is neither plant nor animal, but a columnar beast with fan-like tentacles and a central mouth, every inch a horror show.

Not in Kansas. Not even close.

We descend through the last cuts, stratified rock of a dozen colors, all ancient, and all exposed in smooth, even angles.

Cradle 3, when I see it, takes my breath away. It’s three times the size of the first two and polished to a reflective shine. Alien script glows in places I only suspected there should be writing, the lettering unlike anything I’ve ever known. It feels like Sanskrit, flows like Arabic, and has the blocky spacing of Roman. It’s weird and wonderful, and it sets my imagination afire, all with one glance. The base is connected by power cables, thick and sturdy, coated in something that resembles mercury or chrome. As I stare, the cables vibrate, their coating shifting like a mirage.

“It doesn’t look like you need my help,” I say finally.

He holds up a finger to contradict me. “Unfortunately, only Orphans can pass through. There must be a way to use it to travel where I wish to go,” he says. “And come back,” he adds.

“That’s a big assumption.” The man is wrong, but I can’t articulate how. New questions grow in my mind.

He snaps his hand down against his leg, reminding me of an old world officer wielding a riding crop. A moment passes, and he gets control of his passions. “If something comes through, then something had to go in. Doors open both ways.”

“Usually,” I say.

“Always! Do not argue semantics with me.”

I raise my hands. “Relax, I’m just doing my job. Trying to be objective. That’s what you brought me for, right?”

“The only reason you are here is to attach the missing piece and make this work properly.” He motions for the work crew to bring the heat sink on a dolly.

They unload it near the vacant space where it, or a piece of similar size, would fit.

“Now explain why this component is important,” Anaxim demands. “Delong was not clear on the details. She said it will control heat, or possibly redirect heat, but she was vague or uniformed. That’s where you come in.”

I walk around the Cradle, then stop to examine the metal coil—and stall for time. “What I have is a theory based on my research on a different site on a Cradle nowhere near as large as this one.”

“Cradle?”

“That’s what my team calls the gate. It looks like a cradle turned on its end.”

He shakes his head, dissatisfied. “I don’t see it. Perhaps a cradle is something different in your world.”

“We tested a similar coil that absorbed heat and stored it with twenty times the efficiency of any material we have developed,” I say. “I propose that its purpose is to control excess heat during activation.”

“Fine. Attach the missing piece and make it work. Then you will select a destination for testing. One of my soldiers will go through and see if it works,” Anaxim says, his linear thinking on full display. I make a note of that and consider my options, all while keeping a face so devoid of emotion that I may as well be asleep.

The first option is home.

Assuming that heat is an issue, this might work. In my gut, I’m not convinced it will open the gate in both directions. But those are considerations for later. Right now, this is about survival, not science. “This might take some time. Are you going to wait here?”

“You have not earned my trust.” His tone isn’t offensive. Just pragmatic. A realist, I sense, again filing that away in case it’s useful.

Sifting his earlier words about the soul catchers, I see an opening—he thought they were all dead. He was wrong. As I survey the work area, I mention something to him—casually. “You could leave guards. This isn’t something I can rush. I studied Cradle 1 for months before coming here.”

“Why didn’t your rulers put you in chains and find someone faster?”

They did try to kill me, so maybe that’s a fair question. I shrug, unwilling to say more.

“Use your knowledge to fix the gate. Give me the power to stop Orphans from coming through and allow me to send my troops where I want,” he says. “Do this and earn limitless rewards.”

“What if I want to go home?”

Anaxim smiles. “Of course you would wish to return victorious to your people. No one will stop you as long as I control the gate.”

I hesitate too long, and he approaches Zedas. “What do you want, Dogan? Talk to the doctor. Convince him to do the right thing, and I will grant your wishes as well.”

“He doesn’t talk,” I say.

“Hmmmm. They’re notorious for that.” He looks Zedas up and down, scornfully. “Brutes, every one, but I thought it worth a try.”

Zedas doesn’t react.

“Give me an answer, Doctor Murphy.” He props a polished boot on the heat management coil and idly pushes against the massive device. “Your life depends on your answer.”

“Don’t you have your own scientists?”

His lip curls slightly. “None that have survived this project.”

The guy’s charm is wearing off. At best he’s a liar, at worst he’s dangerous.

“Give me some room.” I kneel by the coil once he’s taken a step back. Focusing on my work, I talk without looking at him. “What about Ironback?”

“Some of them might be useful to us. They will be relocated. The others must pay the price for their crimes. I’ve allowed their rebellion to go on . . . long enough.” There’s a casual cruelty to his tone, and I know his concept of a price is life itself. Maybe worse.

“I bet you could really stick it to them if you had this thing working the way you want,” I say. “The Dogans think they can summon an army through it, and others just want tools.”

“You mean the rebels.” His calm and reasonable demeanor is back in place. “We both know what they want is weapons. Illegal weapons to cause murder and mayhem, all while siphoning off my legitimate control. What kind of governor would I be if I allowed that?”

The heat sink has connection points at each end, but the tricky part is how far to screw it in—and which cables to connect to male/female ports near each end. “This isn’t that complicated. I don’t see why your scientists couldn’t figure it out.”

Zedas snorts, causing me to realize my slip. My ability to stall just took a hit—and I realize other scientists before me had played this game and lost. How many smart men and women had died to avoid giving Anaximander what he wants?

Too many. It’s a guess, but educated guesses are what I’m trained for.

Anaximander sighs, and it’s the sound of a man who is used to being lied to. “I’ve been inconsiderate. Your . . . ordeal . . . has strained you,” he says, suddenly imbued with the manners of a country gentleman. “My guards will show you and your companion to your quarters. Take all the time you need to think about my offer.”

The guards collect two squads of reinforcement as we travel to a building on the surface. We move through tubes without environment suits; those were left behind on purpose, I think. Crowd control has many forms. Sometimes, it’s what you don’t have that makes you compliant.

When we get to our quarters, there are nearly twenty armed guards arrayed to block any attempt at escape and to force us into our individual cells. I turn, feet apart, and I’m eye to eye with one of the guards. He’s a salty pro, in his late forties and not in the mood for any bullshit.

“Where can I leave a review because these quarters aren’t what was advertised.” I stand my ground until the pro pulls out a rod with a shock module on the tip.

“Get in your quarters. Make me use this and you can lose two meals. Your choice,” he says, voice like iron.

A group of guards approaches Zedas and reach for the weapons secured under plates on the back of his armor, then they think better of it. Zedas doesn’t move, but he’s quivering with untapped violence.

The moment stretches until I speak. “Why can’t we share a room?”

“They’re too small,” the leader says, then kicks me in the gut, driving me backward when I wasn’t ready to resist. The door slams while I’m picking myself off the floor.

Straightening my jacket, I get control of my breathing before trying to sound calm. “Well, at least it doesn’t smell like piss in here.”

No one laughs. A tour of my quarters takes mere seconds. In one corner is a narrow mattress on the floor. The other side of the room contains the facilities, featuring water, a sink the size of a cereal bowl, and a toilet that’s barely larger. I don’t see a room service sign, so chow will come to me on their schedule, if at all. The door is, of course, locked from the outside.

In the spirit of everyone who’s served as a soldier, I hit the rack—such as it is—and close my eyes.

I’m out before I can think about how angry I am. That’s a good thing. I think.

12

“Zedas, can you hear me? Tap the wall two times for yes, one time for no.” I cup my hand to the wall and hold my breath, listening for all I’m worth. Eyes heavy with sleep, body sore from sitting on the composite floor, I lever myself to a standing position and unkink my back. It feels like morning, but time plays by its own rules.

“It has to be the next day.” I pace the tiny space, hunger gnawing at my stomach. There is a button by the door. I push it. “Can I at least get my backpack? There were some calorie bars in it. Better yet, let me out and point me toward a good local diner.”

No answer. Predictable.

“Just letting you know I don’t mind solitary. I like my own company.” No answer again.

Tap. Tap.

I move toward the sound. After a minute, it comes again. Tap. Tap.

“Zedas, is that you?”

Tap. Tap.

“You okay?”

Tap. Tap.

“What took you so long to answer?”

Nothing.

“That was a bad question, unless you can just talk to me. Put your face close to the wall and yell if you have to.”

Tap.

“What do you mean, no? How can we plan our escape if you don’t even try to communicate?”

The door to my cell opens. Anaximander and his bodyguards shadow the threshold. “Who is planning an escape? Certainly not you and your Dogan pet.”

“He’s not a pet.”

Anaximander waves away my protest. “Time for you to repair the gate now that we’ve finished our patrol around Sarsten.”

“Never heard of it,” I say, trying to see past the man without much luck. There are too many Overlord soldiers behind him.

“Ironback is on Sarsten, a remote but important world in the Hadrian federation,” Anaxim says, and with that one sentence, the galaxy got a heluva lot bigger for me. His uniform is dark grey with white accents today. Black polished boots, belt, and gloves tucked through the belt complete the look of a casually cruel officer with delusions of grandeur. A sword in an ornate scabbard hangs from his left hip, and for a moment I wonder if he was an asshole before he became an Overlord. “It would be less of an inconvenience if it were fully explored. Satellite imagery does not penetrate the forests and jungles, or the storms roaming the sea.”

“Why is it important?”

He takes his time answering, looking me over like he’s surprised I haven’t begged to get out of the cell. “Because there are two active gates in this system, one on the planet and another on the moon.”

“Why do you want to use the gate so badly? How far are we from the action?” My hunch feels right. This man reminds me of a minor noble in a period film who wants to return to court and go to all the big parties on the other side of the ocean, or galaxy in this case.

“You really don’t know as much about the Orphan Gates as you claim,” he says.

“Have you traveled through one? I didn’t think so.” If I lose my sketchy credentials as a gate expert, I might rot in the Overlord’s prison. “I’ve thought about your offer. As long as you understand I need autonomy to work, I’ll do my best to make it function properly.”

“That is an excellent choice,” he says. “What were you like before you came through the gate?”

I shrug. “Just a regular guy trying to make a living and solve the mysteries of the universe.”

“Did you experience anything strange? An increased battle lust? Improved strength and coordination?”

“I required corrective lenses before I came here.” This sounds harmless compared to explaining how much stronger and faster I am now. I extend my healed ring finger, wishing it had been the middle one. “You can see the scar where this healed.”

“What was wrong with it?” Anaxim asks, gaze narrowed on my hand.

“Badger bite.”

He nods slowly. “A fierce beast attacked you, but now the journey through the Orphan Gate has repaired the damage. That’s what they do. Orphans claim they are enhanced by the journey.”

“How many have you talked to?”

He ignores my question. “I would like to reap the benefits of this phenomenon but also come and go as I please. Do you understand?”

I do, and I also remember him wanting to deploy troops across long distances. He’s after power and conquest. Cooperating with the man will put me on the wrong side of history. The guy looks and acts like a tyrant—a successful tyrant, which adds some background to my opinion of him. The Goliath Sector is a range of stars filled with ancient technology and savage fighting. It’s a place of multiple races, a history that goes back beyond anything I can fathom, and iffy gates that turn normal beings into super-soldiers or maniacal killers.

It is most certainly not Earth.

What I should do is sabotage the gate and forget about going home. The galaxy might be a better place if Overlord Anaximander has an unfortunate accident.

“I’ll work on the Cradle,” I say. “But there are no guarantees.”

He waves for one of his guards. “Take Doctor Murphy to the gate. See that he has whatever he requires to make it work.”

“Since you mention it, I need my assistant.”

“The Dogan?”

“Correct. Can’t do a thing without him.”

“The brute is not your assistant. A bodyguard, maybe, or at best, a battle slave, given his bulk. Either way, he will remain locked in his quarters until you are successful.”

With that, Anaximander turns on his heel and leaves, his decision rendered, his will unchallenged.

* * *

The heat sink from Ironback is too heavy to manipulate even with my improved strength. One of the first tools I request from Anaximander’s people is a dolly sturdy enough to move the cumbersome coil, removing the need for assistance. If I am going to take any kind of action, I need time, and a lack of immediate intervention. The dolly helps me with both, but left with with the same question—

How can I sabotage the Overlord without dying immediately?

“I’m ready to attach this,” I say. “You might want to wait in the other room.”

“Why?” Animaxander asks, suspicion heavy in his voice.

“It could explode, suffer an energy spike, or render us all infertile,” I say with my most gravid tone.

“Those are legitimate concerns. But I’ll risk it.”

“Something has been bothering me,” I say, preparing to negotiate. “The people of Ironback treated me well, even though I was a stranger.”

“They must pay for their insolence. Do not concern yourself with their fate. Even Karl Herias has admitted they unlawfully rebelled against the Hadrian Empire.”

Admitted or was tortured into confessing. An uncomfortable moment passes.

“If I fix this, will you promise to show them mercy?”

“Of course. All leniency that is allowed will be granted them.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“Enough,” he says. My attempt to negotiate fails, or at least he sees it and is done humoring me. “Attach the heat sink, or I will order my guards to make you attach it. I do not have the patience of an exiled Dogan, and you’d be wise to understand how insistent I can be. I get results. I always get results.”

“Understood, but at the very least—stand back. This is a dangerous procedure, with an unknown outcome, regardless of your confidence.”

“I strongly advise you not to cause damage to the gate,” he says in a conversational tone. “A martyr’s death will not lessen the pain of my wrath, and the possibility exists that you’ll survive just long enough for my close, personal attention to the administration of your punishment.” He smiled, and it was a desolate, frigid expression. “I pride myself on being creative when it comes to such matters.”

I can do the same. I steer the equipment lift closer, then lock it. The heat sink balances just above the connection point. With a few adjustments, I turn the piece around and lower it. As engineering goes, the piece is stunning—well balanced and perfectly fitted. I’d admire it if I had the time, but my mind whirls with outcomes, and none of them are optimal.

Here we go. If Cynthia’s hypothesis is correct, the heat absorbing properties of the metal run from positive to negative polarities, following forge marks invisible to the naked eye. Only my familiarity with the contour tells me which way is which. Connecting the heat sink backward will have repercussions.

I stand back and wait. Silence holds the room, growing fat on our nerves. Several of the dark symbols glow, flicker, then stabilize. Humming noises grow loud enough to hear, then fade, then return, a distant chorus of murmurs that build over time. Anaximander’s soldiers grip their weapons, alternating their attention between me and Cradle 3.

“We didn’t die,” I say. “My professional opinion is this—it’s a good start.”

“Take him back to his quarters.” Anaxim’s voice rings with decisive energy. This is a man who’s just been given his final tool—the thing he needed most of all, a companion to his boundless ambition. “Call the volunteers. Today, I send my own champions to become Orphans in the next star system. When they get there, they can follow the Dark Eye’s gate route and become as powerful as that evil bastard.”

“And hopefully obtain the same results,” the captain of the guard says. “It would be my honor to lead the expedition. I will return stronger and ready to win glory for you, Overlord.”

“Granted. Take the doctor away. This is none of his business.”

“If the gate can be operated both ways,” I say, “then I want a chance to return to my home world.”

“Of course,” he agrees. “Once I am done with you. Or did you think I haven’t considered that your exceptional compliance might be part of a trap?”

I raise both hands to calm him. “Hey, I’m not that complicated. Politics isn’t my thing. I’m just an archeologist who wants to go home.”

Overlord troops escort me away from Cradle 3. Anaxim ignores my explanation, preferring to gaze at the Cradle longingly, and I see lust for power in a new light.

It’s a weakness.

* * *

“He didn’t tell you? That’s—well, I don’t want you to get in trouble. If I’m being honest, I find him intimidating,” I say to the guard. There’s no doubt who I’m referring to, and for added effect, I bob my head nervously, cowed by the spectre of Anaximander and his magnificent uniform. Inwardly, I’ve answered one question about the Overlord—he was an asshole before he ever wore the cloak and stars. Of that, I’m certain.

“I won’t get in trouble.” The guard is serene in his belief. For now.

“If you say so, but I’m to be placed with Zedas. Anaxim promised.”

“Overlord Anaximander to you, Orphan,” he says, but he stops in front of Zedas’s door.

“It’s not like we can escape.”

“You are correct. No one has ever left Overlord Anaximander Hadrian’s prisons alive, unless he wishes it.” He opens the door and pushes me inside with Zedas, roughly enough to assert his authority even further. I’d marked him well—he’s overconfident and prone to bullying, likely a product of his system. And his position. He sneers, then closes the door slowly, every second it remains open a taunt. I turn away so he can’t see my smirk.

“Murph is unharmed,” Zedas says after the door clicks. “My destiny continues.”

“Nice place, Zed. Bigger than mine, but not by much.”

“Now you shorten my name further? Where does it end? Is this a new habit you find humorous?” he asks. If he could roll his eyes—which is possible—he would have. “Maybe this is your idea of mild torture.”

“Friends give each other nicknames.”

Zedas doesn’t comment.

“We need an escape plan,” I say.

“I agree. I anticipated your dangerous ambitions. Karl and his people are not the only prisoners here. There are others, and some look skilled at war and other useful things. There are enough to matter, should we come to a breakout point.”

“You saw them?”

“Overlord soldiers marched me around as an example. They love humiliation of their enemies. I made a map in my head and listened when they shouted at the prisoners. Their conversations also taught me much. It was like they didn’t think I could speak Hadrian.” He actually grinned, adding, “My size adds to their sense of mental superiority. I will not disabuse them of that.”

“Exactly what we need, and damned well done. In their defense, that’s a reasonable belief. Have any of them heard you speak at all?”

He stands, the grin continuing unabated. “I spoke with the dialect and sophistication of a child. They found this amusing and quit bothering to hold their silence as they paraded me in front of the other prisoners. I became their prize. Their trophy, large and stupid. Their pride will cost them.”

“Tell me more, Zedas-Duryan.” Restless energy forces me to pace. The situation has changed, possibly for the better.

“Are you using my full name to butter me up?” He watches me stride back and forth.

“Let’s make sure that phrase means the same in both our languages,” I suggest.

“You are showing unusual courtesy when you exert the extraordinary effort to enunciate two extra syllables. This suggests you want something.”

“Two things, Zedas-Duryan: your vocabulary is superb, and where I’m from, getting called by your full name only happens when you are in trouble.”

“Truly?”

“Yeah. The only person to call me Hank Bartholomew Murphy was my mom, and that meant I was getting a whooping.”

Zedas glares like I’ve killed his pet. “You withheld your secret name.”

“Oh shit. Seriously? Let’s move on. I hate my middle name. Can we just forget it?”

“Zedas-Duryan will meditate and seek solace in the cosmos.” He sits near the wall with his legs crossed, then he closes his eyes and starts to hum one note.

“We have to get beyond this,” I say. “Can’t I just apologize in advance for all the crap I’m going to screw up. You’re the only person in this place I can trust. Neither of us can do this alone.”

“I could,” he says.

“Good for you!” Clenching my hands into fists and pacing doesn’t help, so I rub my face and wonder if I should learn to meditate like my big friend.

“Murph,” he says.

“What?”

“I also apologize for all the things I am going to imperfectly execute in our conversations.”

“Okay, I think.”

He stands. “Ask me your questions.”

“Can you draw a map of the prison, and do you know where there are ships?”

He starts tracing patterns on the wall, his finger leaving a faint line that is surprisingly easy to see—like oils are excreting from his pores. Or maybe it’s sweat. “The prison looks like a wheel, with the interrogation chamber in the center. This passage leads to the Orphan Gate. That object has the highest number of guards. And weapons.”

“Are you sweating from your finger?”

He stops and frowns as though I’m telling another joke he doesn’t understand. “Can you not do this?”

“No. What the hell is it for?”

“You don’t want to know,” he says. “Is my map useful?”

“Yeah. Better than I hoped for. Keep drawing with your, ah, fingerpaint.”

“These cells hold prisoners. I know some of their names and who they are from listening to the guards.”

“When are they going to parade you around again?” I ask.

“That is not knowable.”

“Can we convince them to take me with you? Parade the Orphan. Show everyone how tough they are for capturing one,” I suggest. “Maybe we can find allies and effect an escape. I know we can’t do it here.”

“Doubtful,” he says, but he’s thinking about it.

The lights flicker from a power surge. It might be my imagination, but it sounds like screaming from the direction of Cradle 3. “I think they’re trying the gate. Be ready for problems, if my efforts pan out.”

“What did you do?” Zedas asks.

“Nothing. Except that I probably just destroyed my best chance of ever going home.“

“Why would you do that?“

I don’t have a good answer.

“Maybe you are not an Orphan. No one who has come through a gate would put the people of Ironback above their own interest.”

“That’s disturbing, Zedas.”

“Do you doubt me?”

“I’m not calling you a liar. But there has to be as many good people traveling the galaxy as there are bad.”

“I don’t understand why you would make that assumption,” Zedas says. “The galaxy is large, but the goodness in people is not. You’ll learn this, Murph.”

He sounds so world-weary. I pause, hoping he’s wrong. “I won’t argue because I don’t know. One thing I do know? We need out of here, and that means we need a pilot.”

“And a ship,” Zedas adds.

“Both it is.”

13

A squad of guards runs past our door. Their armor is different from other troopers I’ve seen, more like riot police with guns and stun sticks instead of batons and tear gas canisters. They’re moving quickly. There isn’t much time to assess them, as I only get a flash when they pass the small window on our door.

Zedas stands stoically beside me, neither brooding nor anxious. He’s just—present. Big and imposing, he stands with the stillness of someone who knows how to wait. It’s an ability I’ve yet to acquire, and I have my doubts I ever will.

Pounding steps herald another group of Overlords, this one an array of workers in fire suits. Three of them carry oversized fire extinguishers, and one grips a well-worn axe. I take solace knowing that even among the Overlords, fire is a deadly threat to the secret moon base—a facility I’m trapped on, but we can address that issue soon.

The floor and walls shake.

“Explosion,” I say.

“And what would cause this to happen?” Zedas asks.

“I may have installed the heat sink to the Orphan Gate backward.”

“It would have been better to agree on a plan before you destroyed the facility.”

“You might be onto something there, Zedas.” The desire to pace is strong, but I resist. “Can you force this door?”

“I haven’t tried, but I doubt it,” he answers. Before I can say anything else, he steps back and launches a powerful kick that does nothing.

“Don’t hurt yourself. Let’s think this through.” I systematically check the seams around the door, unable to find the hinge, which is protected inside the structure to prevent tampering. Whoever designed this prison did a good job, and I stand, arms folded and thinking. We’ll need assistance, and it won’t be from inside the cell.

More lights flash in the hallway, and then a single strobe starts to blink on the ceiling of our cell—red, white, and then yellow, before finally settling into a series of longer red flashes—bad news delivered in simple color coding.

“I think the fire must be spreading to the prison,” I say. “Which is really bad news if we’re stuck in here.”

“Is that what doctors of archaeology do, state the obvious?” Zedas says.

“Ouch. You’re getting better at jokes.”

“That was a serious question,” he says.

We are about to launch into a series of kicks when the door pops open a half-inch. We both lunge for it, but I’m quicker, and I swing it open. We slip eagerly into the hallway to see other prisoners leaving their cells, alarm on their faces as panic begins to take root. We might be in a subterranean moon base, but the people are still susceptible to the same primal fears.

“I think we can—well, shit,” I say, as the guard supervisor and his team rush toward us in full riot gear.

They sweep down the hallway, waving guns and ordering people back into their cells. None of the doors will lock, but that doesn’t mean the warden has allowed people to leave the building.

Zedas doesn’t comply. He faces the supervisor like a wall of Dogan muscle and organic armor, which he is, and the guard knows it.

“Get back in the cell, Dogan,” the guard says, with just enough heat to be a threat.

“That is a death sentence. I will escape with the others just as soon as you flee the fire,” Zedas says. “You cannot make us stay here, pup.”

“Let’s just shoot them all, like on Gias-5,” one guard suggests, earning a slashing wave from the supervisor, who has a name tag that reads Crispus.

“Stow it, Draxicus. You’ll do no such thing,” Crispus barks. He yanks his charge pistol and points it at Zedas. “You will all go to your cells, or your body will be laid out in the cafeteria, then sent to the recyclers. The choice is yours. Decide.”

I see details and possibility, so lurid they flash in my mind as glowing symbols. I know right then that this man has been pushed too far—he’s lost control, and fear is his response. He means to kill first.

The decision is simple and instant.

I lunge forward and grab his gun hand. My fingers curl over part of the barrel, but not enough to twist it out of his grip.

The charge pistol fires, painfully loud in the hallway. I flinch at the noise, but the slide doesn’t tear at my hand—it’s different from the weapons I used in the Army. Unhurt, I bore in on Crispus, and other prisoners begin fleeing with howls of fear. The other guards—eight in all—train their weapons everywhere and nowhere, their indecision reaching critical mass as the chaos spirals out of control.

Everything happens fast, but time slows for me.

I convert my hold on the guard supervisor’s pistol into a tackle, holding his hand and the gun with my left and reaching down to grab his ankle with my right. At the same time, I drive my shoulders into his midsection. The move feels awkward but makes a kind of kinetic sense. My upgrade gives me confidence. My new strength gives me power. We crash to the ground, and I drive my elbow into Crispus’s collarbone, where I hear it give with a sickening snap. He holds doggedly to the gun, and I draw back and deliver a short, vicious left.

“Let go of the gun, asshole!”

“I will,” he growls. “Right after I put a round in your head.”

Above us, facing the other direction, Zedas roars a battle cry that rattles my teeth. The hallway blossoms into madness as gunshots and screams and falling bodies compete for what little attention I can spare. Guards bellow in rage, and I hear one of them scream, a howl of triumph as he shoots a prisoner twice. His victory is short lived, as I see him stagger through my vision, clutching his neck. He’s been cut, ear to ear, and his left hand is gone. I turn back to Crispus, who is fading, the broken collarbone now protruding from his skin. I lean in on it, feeling the bones grind, and he goes white with shock.

“My turn,” I say, then rip the sleek pistol out of his hand. I hold it up by the barrel as I consider shooting him, and I see that he’s in the grip of raw agony. He’s done.

Zedas heaves me to my feet, and we stand shoulder to shoulder facing the defeated Overlord prison guards. In the melee, they’ve come out on the losing end, and there are at least six dead, many wounded, and the survivors are a mess of bruises, cuts, and shattered limbs. None of them have weapons. A quick glance behind me reveals they have been tossed away during their struggle to subdue my friend, a mistake they won’t get a chance to repeat.

I scoop up one of the rifles—there are three, now under prisoner control. “Get the hell out of here.” My order is short, my intent clear.

These men are professionals, not cowards. They don’t run in panic but retreat as a well disciplined squad, carrying their wounded. When they’re out of sight, I sling the weapon over my back and tuck a pistol through my belt.

“I’m not going to kill in cold blood, so don’t ask. They’ll be back, which gives us even more reason to leave. We better find a way out of here soon,” I say.

“Which way, Murph?” Zedas asks. “If you remember my diagram, everything leads toward the center where we can go up or down.”

“I guess that means one way is as good as another.” I take off at a quick jog, looking for other prisoners who might join us in our grand escape. We rattle down the hall, armed and dangerous.

Behind us, the fire alarm still wails.

14

Spray nozzles pop down from the ceiling and cover the area with a mountain of foam. The deluge is comical at first, but they soon spit and cough air instead of fire retardant.

It isn’t long before I hear the sound of more fighting—if the facility isn’t in open revolt, it’s got more than one group of guards under assault. The floor plan does indeed resemble a wheel, but there are intersections and maintenance corridors branching off that Zedas hadn’t taken the time to draw. At the first four-way intersection, I pause, then proceed with a care brought about by instinct.

I edge up to the corner and peek through the narrow archway.

I see prisoners converting janitorial tools into weapons and stealing uniforms from a closet. When I shout at them, they take their loot and flee. Maybe they don’t have a map of the facility. “I don’t think they trust us.”

“Why would they?” Zedas asks, eminently reasonable as always.

We keep moving, only slowing down to check open doors or side passages. I never follow these smaller hallways, but each time we find one, I wonder if Zedas’s map is accurate. It’s a massive complex, with wide corridors and hatches too, the spaces tailing away into low light. I have a pistol and a rifle taken from the first guards we fought, but I’m not confident I can use either well. Zedas pulls his fan blade sword from his back and holds it in both hands as we get closer to our destination. As to the blade—my confidence has no limits. I’ve seen it in action.

“They didn’t take your weapons when they imprisoned you?” I ask.

“How could they? That is one of the advantages of my armor. What I don’t want them to see, they can’t see.”

“Good to know. You got any food hidden?”

He snorts, not slowing down to answer. It’s probably best that he doesn’t have food, given the swampy conditions under his armor.

Up ahead, I see a prisoner that seems different from the others. My first impression is that he’s a leader, possibly with a military background.

I roll the dice and shout, “Soldier! Which way are you going?”

He considers me for a moment with a cool, level gaze.

“I guess we’re all going to the same place one way or another,” the stranger says. Three or four people assemble behind him, armed with real weapons and ready for action. “We are either getting out of this death trap or dying here when the Overlords finish dealing with whatever catastrophe happened by the Orphan Gate.”

“We should team up,” I say.

He hesitates, studying Zedas and me. “Do you trust the Dogan?”

“With my life.”

“Very well. My name is Tamok Sky. It seems an alliance is in order.” The man is tall—as tall as me—with a calm bearing and lively eyes. A slight salt and pepper effect gives him the gravitas of middle years, and he holds his rifle with practiced ease.

“Some of the cells are still locked. We need to get them open or the prisoners will burn to death if the fire doesn’t get controlled,” I say. “The sprinkler system is weak or underpowered, and in some areas it’s not working at all.”

“I’m surprised there was any foam in the sprayers,” Tamok says. “They don’t care for prisoners, and they didn’t build this place. Sometimes I think they don’t know how to maintain it.”

He gestures to his people, three men and one woman, all lean and purposeful. “Use the crowbars. Get those doors open. No one dies in their cell.”

“We don’t—all right. On it, sir,” the woman says, and my new allies move off in unison. Definitely military.

I move closer to the leader. “Call me Hank Murphy, or just Murph.”

Surprisingly, he reaches forward and shakes my hand, and I have a moment of dislocation—it’s a wholly familiar gesture, despite my surroundings. “Let us proceed together in order and teach these Overlord bastards the meaning of justice.” His voice and inflection are formal, and I don’t doubt his intentions. He’s a good addition.

“Order is good. Justice is, too,” I say. “Do you know about the Orphan Gate?”

“Do you, Orphan?” He gives me a bland look, gauging my reaction.

When I say nothing, he snorts in disgust. “If they lose that gate, it changes the balance of power in this sector. Permanently, I think.”

“A fatal blow to the Overlords?” I ask.

“Doubtful.” Tamok’s eyes roam as he answers. “I suggest we make our way to the service bay and look for a ship large enough to get us all out of here. This place is in trouble—structural trouble.”

“Agreed. Zedas, lead us out of here.” I wave everyone forward.

The big Dogan marches toward the center of the hub, fan sword in one hand and the shortest version of his chain weapon in the other. We follow, pausing occasionally to break open a door that didn’t open when the fire alarm went off, each time freeing a stunned captive who either dashes away or wanders in shock. We do what we can, but the goal—a ship on which to leave—remains the same.

“That hallway leads to the cafeteria.” Zedas points to a wider than normal hallway with a handrail down the middle. At the end there are double doors. Through the windows there is nothing but orange flames. Smoke leaks out and runs across the hallway ceiling.

“Pick up the pace, Zedas,” I say.

He jogs through the intersection.

“You dare call him by a shortened name?” Tamok says. “You must be the most dangerous of Orphans. That’s a good way to get knocked on the head. Have you seen him use the flail?”

“Yeah. He used it against soul catchers.”

“You came from the surface? Is the terrestrial gate working? My sources informed me it was lost, broken and worthless. Anaximander has been looking for it to salvage parts—which I told him was a bad idea before he threw me in that cell.”

Zedas reaches the hub, stalks forward, then shouts over his shoulder. “There are no guards here. They have either died or already fled, the gutless fools.”

“They could be waiting at the top,” the woman I noticed earlier says. Her close cropped hair and serious expression scream soldier, and she affords me a small incline of her head. Her eyes—iron gray and narrowed—say veteran.

Tamok nods. “Agreed. With all haste, pick your steps. The guards will try for a kill, given the shot.”

“The lift has been taken to the top and locked there,” Zedas says.

“Good thing they didn’t collapse the stairwell,” Tamok replies. “Let’s get some exercise. On me.”

I keep pace with Zedas and the others as we rush up the steps, our feet pounding out a song of desperation. Tamok’s words ring in my head, and I fight the urge to spit with anger. Anaxim was looking for the missing piece, which I delivered to him, and now the riot around me might not only kill innocent people—

—it might have closed the way home.

I run on, heart heavy as the place continues to fall apart around us.

15

There are more than twenty of us by the time we reach the top of the main stairwell—we’ve collected a few strays along the way, people of all shapes and sizes, unified in their desire to get free of the Overlord facility. We burst out onto a landing field where many of the ships have already been stolen, or maybe taken by the Overlords themselves as the evacuation gains momentum. They don’t strike me as an honorable group, so the lack of ships fits my low opinion of them—but there are ships remaining, and that makes Tamok smile.

He points to the woman who spoke out earlier. “Commander Shaina Yonz, select the best ship and power it up.” He scans the others, apparently familiar with her abilities, then looks at me. “Can you fly a transport shuttle?”

“No, but I have some flight training in airplanes.” I immediately feel insecure at how long it’s been since I spent much time in the air.

“I’m not familiar with whatever that is, but join Shaina in the cockpit,” he says. “She may have use of you.”

There isn’t time to talk, so I follow the woman, and Zedas follows me. The others file into the cargo area of the ship the woman selects and subdue the Overlord workers there.

A nervous man emerges from the cockpit as we are about to enter. He’s wearing workman’s gear, a jumpsuit and a belt with simple tools. “I’m not a threat.”

Shaina points a pistol at the man. “Go to the back and ask for Tamok Sky. He’ll decide what to do with you.”

“Yes, of course. Thank you. Thank you,” he says, stumbling over his own feet as he darts toward the back, hands still half raised in submission. I guess that he would have kept them all the way to the ceiling if it were possible to run like that. He’s almost delirious with relief, which says a lot about the general state of Overlord labor relations.

“Have a seat and don’t touch anything,” Shaina says. “Your friend will have to stand in the doorway. Not enough room in here for the brute.”

I drop into what can only be described as a crash chair. “He’s not a brute. We may as well establish some parameters right now—he’s my friend and a damned good fighter. We good with that?”

Shaina gives me side eye, then grins. “Agreed. Not sure I want to ally with someone who doesn’t stand up for their friends.”

“I’m loyal, if nothing else. This is cozy for a crash chair.” I wriggle to get in position.

“That’s one word for it. The Overlords are atrocious pilots. Their ships go down a lot more than they land safely, especially if things get hot. You’ll be as safe as a baby in her mother’s arms. Your friend, not so much. He might be strong, but he won’t be able to hold on if we—if things go badly.”

I look at Zedas. “Why don’t you go to the back and find someplace safer. Or at the very least, more stable than standing there?”

He frowns—an impressive feat on its own—then disappears in search of a crash seat large enough for a Dogan.

The cockpit has a higher ceiling than I expect, and the controls are unfamiliar. There is a steering yoke, a three-quarter circle connected to a post that goes into the dashboard. But there is only one, which brings me up short in terms of an actual purpose beyond moral support.

“I guess I just sit here.” I drop my hands in my lap.

“Yes, that would be a good start. Fasten your safety harness, please.” She types on buttons, fingers flying, and swipes touchscreens that I hadn’t noticed until they activated, their warm glow lighting Shaina’s face. She’s a striking woman, with sculpted features, full lips, and dark, gleaming hair cut short.

“Is this a shuttle, or something else?” I ask.

She looks at me, unhappy with the interruption. “What do you mean?”

“I’m just wondering about the range of the ship. Are we going to the planet, or do we have other options?”

She returns to her work, flipping several switches, and then applying power by sliding a row of icons on the touchscreen upward. They turn from blue to red as they reach the top. “I forget that you know nothing, or close to it. Few Orphans do, so it’s a good question. I would prefer to fly to the other end of the galaxy, but we can just barely make it to the planet on this ship.”

“How do you know I’m an Orphan?” I’m curious because most people I have encountered have jumped to that conclusion. There could come a time when I don’t want to be known so easily, so I wait for her answer, which comes as a muttered phrase or two.

“Didn’t catch that,” I say, turning in my seat.

We launch, and she’s silent as the engines hurl us out of the gravity well into open space. It’s a smooth, professional launch, and the ship is nearly silent.

“Well?” I prompt.

“Different people will call you an Orphan for their own reasons,” she says as she steers the ship away from the chaos below. “Most will just guess because you are a stranger. Others will use it as an insult because your kind are generally hated everywhere they go. Some of us actually know why Orphans are lethal and have good reason to treat you like demons.”

“Excellent. We’re making progress.”

Shaina gives me a look of disgust, but I wave it away.

“I’m serious. You just told me you can tell I’m an Orphan—based on evidence, I assume. I’m a scientist, an archaeologist who studies ancient civilizations. When possible, I try to base my conclusions on evidence.”

She checks her gauges, says something to one of the other ship pilots, and joins a trio of shuttles headed for the surface. By listening to their crosstalk, I determine that reentry will not be for several minutes. Time enough for more questions.

“What gave me away?” I ask.

She softens. “Some of it is the accent, but it’s more than that. You’ve got a dangerous quality to you—hope. The Overlords crush that emotion when and where they can. But the big thing is, you have a freshly healed scar on your hand. The healing of old wounds is almost always the side effect of an Orphan who has just come through an arrival gate.”

I ball my hand into a fist and open it. There’s no pain at all. I think about the renewed strength and endurance that I felt when I arrived. It feels like I’ve been here half a lifetime. Avoiding death seems to fit me, and it’s the best mood enhancer I’ve ever known. Turns out, I like living, even if it’s on another world, among everything from demonic wolves to tyrannical assholes. I can only conclude I’m an optimist, no matter what my location.

“Does that answer your question?” she asks. “Coming into the atmosphere, and I need hands-on for this. It’s a stable ship, but—“

“Don’t let me distract you. I would like to learn how to fly this, though. Seems like a skill that might come in handy.”

“Just watch what I do.” She rapidly taps several numbers and symbols on a screen with her left hand while she steers with her right. “If I learn to trust you, if Tamok learns to trust you . . . I will make you into a pilot. You’ve got my word.”

“Good enough.” I watch everything she does and search for opportunities to help, but it seems just keeping hands away from the controls is all she wants from me.

I focus all my attention on Shaina, watching her hands, and the screens, and the keys. There are eleven screens on the dashboard, plus a few sliders that are their own type of screen, narrower and more vertical. For a moment, the center display of the ship we are in confuses me, until I realize this shuttle is taking camera views from the other shuttles and splicing them together. It’s an interesting touch, not unlike a video game, and once I have the context, the controls make a lot more sense.

In moments, we punch through a cloud layer and emerge close to the other two shuttles. Beneath us, a mass of water rolls, spitting whitecaps far below. Our destination is obvious—a mountainous island, bean shaped and covered in soaring peaks, its slopes far more drastic than anything near Ironback. With a feather touch, Shaina brings us down, speaking a constant stream of system checks to the other pilots as we turn and touch down. Then the door opens to reveal fresh air and clear skies.

Tamok Sky steps into the doorway, waving me forward. “She’ll be busy for now—come with me.” He turns and vanishes, leaving me no choice but to follow.

I wave to Zedas, who remains perfectly inscrutable, legs folded and arms crossed. He doesn’t move as I step down the ramp into an absolute hive of activity.

Tamok Sky isn’t just an officer, he’s critical to the people now crowding around, their shouts of joy ringing out as the shuttles disgorge their passengers. I stand next to him among people wearing an array of light armor and metal weave covered over with matching shoulder pauldrons, chest and back plates, and vambraces.

I’ve seen all of this before but never with sources of power, which their armor has, as LED lights run along critical seams and small screens peek from under flaps on their wrists.

Battle armor, and not for show.

They carry longer rifles, short swords on their backs, and boots with thick soles. These people are ready for combat, of that I have no doubt.

“These are some of my best fighters,” Tamok says, and I believe every word. The crowd is made up of individuals, but they all have an aura of competent danger about them, despite the smiles lighting up their faces.

“What is this place?” I ask.

Zedas moves to my side and crosses his arms, surveying the scene. It’s more than a camp and less than a city.

“This is my stronghold,” Tamok says. “You might not believe the efforts we have taken to hide it from Overlord Anaximander Hadrian. Come. Walk with me to my quarters.”

We move through the bustling crowd easily. Men and women step aside and treat my host amiably. Many of the folk here resemble the farmers, miners, and ranchers I encountered at Ironback. Others seem more galactic, rough looking mercenaries with charge pistols in drop-holsters, or humanoids with their faces covered by wraps or hoods so that I can’t tell if they’re human.

“I have questions,” I say.

“And they will be answered.” Tamok strides on until we reach his quarters.

I’m surprised. The building is plain, even humble, with two floors and no decorative touches. In design, it’s nearly identical to the other buildings around it, with one key difference—there are a lot of people waiting to talk to him. He handles several pieces of business, barely stopping long enough to sign a tablet or shake someone’s hand and thank them for their kind words. Everyone seems glad to see him and the other escaped prisoners.

“Step inside,” he says. “I apologize for being a poor host, but I do have a few urgent matters that can’t wait.”

“Such as?” I ask. He’s anything but a poor host—he’s in demand, and watching him work, I see why he’s in command.

“Relief for Ironback. I’ll be sending Karl and his people back with an armed escort, two full companies of my best troops. I don’t think it will come to a fight at the town. Thanks to you, Overlord Anaximander already got what he wanted from that region. But it’s better to be safe than sorry. The official Overlord policy is to execute brutal reprisals whenever possible—just to set an example.”

“I’m sure Karl and the others will be glad to hear that,” I say as exhaustion hits me like a physical blow. Everything’s catching up to me now—my sabotage of the Orphan Gate, escaping from prison, the flight from the moon to this secret island base—it’s an extraordinary series of events that has kept me at a heightened combat awareness for hours on end, and now my body wants to extract a price. I stifle a yawn and smile in apology.

“Get some rest. My home is your home. The best room’s on the second floor, toward the south end. Anything you want, just ask my staff and it will be provided.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it.”

He smiles and winks. “No problemo, Orphan.”

“What—can you repeat that? That phrase?” My interest flares at his casual dismissal.

“It was from an Orphan. Why, is the phrase familiar to you?”

“Yeah, the word and the way you say it. Is the person you got it from around here? I would like to talk to him, or her, or whatever.”

His expression is grim. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. The man who told me is far away, and we’re no longer on good terms.”

“What was his name?”

“He’s called the Dark Eye of the Hadrians,” Tamok says. “Now, anyway.”

“But what is his actual name, his given name?” I press.

Several men and women crowd into the room, speaking over each other in a babble. The senior officer silences the others with a slash of his hand. “We may have enemy contact—scout ships and drones near Tamis Bay. We need to prepare for defense. Could be a false alarm, but we can’t take the chance.”

Tamok stands from his chair, face darkening. “Agreed.” He faces me, but just for a moment. “I’m afraid we’ll have to continue this later. Get some rest, and we’ll speak again soon.”

“I won’t be able to sleep. Just let me do what I can to help.”

He shakes his head. “This is best left to my troops, at least today. Rest, recover, and be ready for hard duty tomorrow. And when I say rest, I mean it—you’ll need it.”

16

Sunlight streams through a high window as I lie on my back trying to remember where I am. The walls are concrete, like a fallout shelter. The door looks strong enough for this to be another prison cell. My bed, though extremely narrow, is surprisingly comfortable. I’m neither hot nor cold, and it has conformed to what my body needs.

I’m bleary eyed but feeling better than before. My body continues to change, now in smaller ways, but there’s no substitute for sleep. So I get some. And it’s glorious. When I awake, the sheets are crisp and unwrinkled.

“Finally slept like the dead. I just had to switch planets to do it,” I mutter.

Stretching, I lay there for another moment, considering the room. It’s large, more like a big living room than a bedroom. On one wall is a countertop with a sink and a small oven of some kind. Tidy cabinets promise quite a bit of storage, and I suspect the seven foot stainless steel cube is a refrigerator. Closer to my bed are the facilities, and I use them. The only thing I don’t see is a shower.

It’s not single occupancy. Zedas sleeps on his own bed—great gusty snores coming from him—that happens to be exactly his size, like these things were manufactured for us when we arrived. He mumbles, snorts, and settles again, his mouth in repose for the first time since we began our running battle with the Overlords.

Once I’m up and about, I feel energized. I stretch for a minute, as is my custom after years of abusing my body and sitting too long at desks between grueling days in the field. But it’s not really necessary. Once I’ve warmed up my brain, I’m ready to go.

And the Dark Eye question comes back to mind. There can be no doubt—someone came here from Earth. That could be a good thing, or it could be a disaster and part of the issue everyone has with Orphans. The term has a lot of baggage, and I need to know why.

But first, food.

I check the fridge and find it stocked with glass water bottles, bland looking food containers, and a limited array of condiments that are all the same color but labeled differently.

“Mustard, mustard, or mustard. I’ll go with mustard, thank you.”

None of the words are familiar, and I spend a moment deciding how adventurous I’m going to be with my breakfast.

Maybe I’ll just wait.

It surprises me that Zedas isn’t already awake. His stoic endurance of any and all adversity had me believing he would stand watch over me all night, grim, determined, and unwavering in his dedication to guard our room. But he’s lying on his back, still snoring, with a rhythmic twitch to his legs, like he’s dreaming of running.

I let him sleep.

Hanging next to my bed is a fresh set of clothing. The materials are different from what I found in the Prothean Sanctuary, and the size and cut is better than what I did myself. While the materials are more like denim than silk, they are comfortable—like something I would find on Earth. They’re also blandly uniform, grays and tan and a belt of woven material that looks tough enough to hoist an engine block. I dress quietly and slip outside to find an empty hallway—except for an older man pushing a food cart

“Sir? Point me to the showers?” I ask.

He’s a grizzled guy, with iron gray hair and a florid complexion. He nods, then keeps his eyes down, which makes me uncomfortable. “Opposite the food hall, you’ll find rooms for grooming.”

“I”m Hank Murphy. Nice to meet you. May I have your name?”

“I am Denion. It is nice of you to ask. Most strangers are dangerous to talk to.”

The man is so painfully polite, I suspect he’s substituted the word stranger for Orphan. This worries me because it reinforces the idea that people who pass through the gates are evil, bad, or both, and if there are Orphans from Earth, then the odds are they’re terrible as well.

It’s a conclusion that sits ill with me, but I smile at Denion, clapping him on the arm like an old friend. “You have nothing to worry about with me. I’m as easy as Sunday morning.”

“I don’t know what that means, but it sounds pleasant,” Denion says, his body language easing. “I’ll give you a tip about the liquid showers. If you don’t put in a time, then it won’t keep track of how long you are in there. If you don’t put in your desired duration, you can’t be penalized for ending too early or attempting to go past your allotment. It’s a flaw in the system.”

“Good to know. Thanks. Have a good day, Denion.”

My new friend’s advice is solid. I get into the shower and notice temperature controls, spray intensity settings, and a request to set a timer. I ignore that option and have a wonderfully luxuriant session. Steam fills the entire chamber by the time I’m done. I towel off quickly but am heating up again.

“Well, a hot shower seemed like a good idea.” I search around for a fan or vent to clear out the humidity but find nothing. By the time I’m dressed in the new outfit, sweat beads on my forehead, and I feel like a kid after gym class.

In the hallway, I see Shaina Yonz coming from the cafeteria. “First shower at Tamondran?”

“Yeah, best thing that has happened to me since arriving. What—what’s Tamondran?”

“This base,” she says. “Tamok named it. And as to the meaning, it’s his secret. I think he likes the mystery, but my instinct is that he grew up here, on this island.”

I wipe my forehead again, regretting the last ten minutes of my shower, and wave toward the outside. “Are you my liaison, my guide? Trainer?”

Shaina grins. “Partially. He told me to get you up to speed and show you where our training facilities are. If you’re like most Orphans, there will be gaps in your training and you will need to learn about your abilities. Jumping into the action without some sort of orientation course will get you—and everyone around you—killed. And that’s no way to gain popularity around here.”

I rub the back of my neck, thinking. I’m not even sure what has changed about my body, only that it’s system-wide and ongoing. “Understandable. But I don’t really have any special abilities. Just better eyesight and fingers that work.” Lifting my freshly healed hand to demonstrate, I leave my increased strength and endurance out of the conversation. Neither trait seems like something my hosts should worry about because I’m not even sure the change is permanent. I might try to run a mile and gas out after a hundred yards. It’s all unknown at this point.

She shrugs. “I believe you, if you’ve only been through one gate.”

“Can you clarify that?” I point toward the cafeteria. “Can we talk while we walk? Getting hungry.” My stomach growls loudly, and Shaina smiles again.

She adjusts her pace to mine, then laughs. “Let’s get you fed. And to answer your question, I’m not an expert on Orphans, though I know a lot more than you do. What I meant was that more experienced Orphans seem to have seriously enhanced strength, endurance. Oh, and anger. I don’t know if there is a correlation, but these are people who have traveled quite a bit around the Goliath Sector, almost always by Orphan Gates. It’s a cumulative effect, and it can be drastic.”

“Physical and mental changes? All because of the gates? Is it evolution? To deal with this, ah, area?”

“Don’t think our part of the Goliath Sector is representative of everywhere else,” she says. “The galaxy is a big place. And the Goliath Sector is too enormous for most people to travel in one lifetime. Without shortcuts, that is. The Overlords of the Hadrian Empire have ships that can move from system to system, but it’s too slow to compete with anyone commanding a gate. As to the changes in frequent travelers, I can tell you that some of them help, and some of them hurt.”

“Tell me about the Dark Eye.” I try to sound casual. “I heard he might be from Earth.”

“To hell with him. Best not to bring his name up around here, or anyplace else. Why do you think he’s from your home world?” she asks as we reach the doors to the cafeteria.

“Something Tamok said.” Inside the cafeteria, I don’t see a line, so I head for the food. Shaina follows me but doesn’t take a tray. She’s squared away this morning, close cropped hair looking clean, her uniform pressed, and her boots shined. I can’t tell for sure, but she has the look of someone who works out early—alert, healthy, ready for duty.

“Really? So why are you asking me. He didn’t tell you what you wanted to know?” She looks around, searching for someone or something.

“There was a crisis. We were interrupted. ”

“Yeah, well I can’t imagine him talking a lot about the Dark Eye. Do yourself a favor and don’t ask again unless your life depends on the answer. And expect that anyone who hears you say that name will not only not talk to you, but avoid you in the future.” She looks around. “I’m surprised your big friend isn’t here shoveling food into his face.”

“He was sawing logs last time I saw him.” I select an oblong tray with utensils magnetically attached at one end.

“He was doing what?”

“Sleeping, snoring and fidgeting like he was dreaming,” I say offhandedly as I start loading food onto my tray. Like the stuff in the refrigerator, it all looks about the same, but I load up anyway. I’ll never turn down food, sleep, or coffee. It’s one of my guiding principles.

“I’ve never seen one of the big guys sleep,” she says. “Are you sure he’s okay? Maybe he’s dying or something.” Her tone doesn’t betray an excess of concern for Zedas.

“Why the hell would you say something like that?” Now I’m worried. None of the food I’ve selected stokes my appetite, but I take it to a table and dig in.

“Do you want me to check on him?” she asks.

“Would you?”

“No. He’s a Dogan. Not worth the time.”

I eat and wonder, not for the first time, what I’ve gotten myself into. When I’m busy, my situation seems less surreal. But when I stop to think about it, there’s a causal cruelty here, perhaps born of the war. Or the social order.

Shaina watches, calmly at first. Before long, the rate at which I slam down my breakfast has her shifting uneasily and staring at me wide-eyed. Her level of embarrassment is palpable. I doubt she wants to be seen with me in public, but I forge on. The food is filling, and as to flavor, it’s also filling.

“You’re going to choke yourself,” she finally manages. “Even a starving man doesn’t eat like that. It’s undignified.”

“Two-time pie eating champion in college,” I say. “Don’t ask. But don’t judge, either. I need fuel for the machine, but I also need to get back to work.” Post gate travel changes seem to be ramping up again. In this world, workout recovery is another workout. I feel strong as hell. Maybe this is why athletes get addicted to working out.

“I can understand that,” she says. “How is your food?”

I pause for a moment. “Surprisingly, it’s pretty good.” The flavors become more pronounced as I eat—yet another subtle sign of my new body.

“Why would you doubt it? This food is the perfect consistency for digestion.”

“But it all looks the same. Don’t you find that strange?”

Her blank look tells me she doesn’t.

“Everything has its own flavor, but when something looks the same and has the same texture, it’s not visually pleasing,” I say. “Sight is a part of eating, but—hey, is this the only place to eat around here?”

“There are other establishments, but their reputations vary. You don’t know what could happen to your gut eating the local food. Better to stay on base. Your stomach will thank me, and everyone around you will appreciate your choice as well.”

“That’s ominous, but I am definitely eating the first pizza I see.”

“What kind of animal is that?”

I laugh. “Well, only the bravest adventurers can handle one without help. If we discover a pizzeria on this planet, you better let me order.”

“Okay. I will.”

She stays with me after I return my tray. She’s done lecturing me, and I’m processing everything I’ve learned. I need to find another Cradle, or someone with real information who will actually share.

Shaina looks at me strangely when I knock on the door to my own room. Zedas opens it. The Dogan is ready to go and as cheerful as ever.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

He frowns, then tips his helmeted head sideways quizzically. “I don’t understand this reference.”

“Think about it. Morning, like when the sun comes up. It’s a bright new day and the birds are singing.”

“Are they?” he asks.

Shaina steps past me, entering the room like she owns it. “For once, I share the Dogan’s confusion. You have a strange way of speaking, Orphan.” Before I can respond, she retrieves a water bottle from the refrigerator and takes a drink.

“Make yourself at home.” I grab my Sanctuary pack and take inventory, then add water and some nonperishable food items to the tools and notebooks. “I’d like to get to work.”

“There is nothing for you to do here but train,” Shaina says. “As I said, the training facility is open to you. Eventually, Tamok will give us real work to do.”

“A library or computer with high speed ’net would be better. Not that I wouldn’t mind grabbing a workout if there is time later.” Slinging the pack onto my back, I stand ready at the door.

“Computer? Ah, of course. That is an acceptable name for the information machines they use at headquarters, but you won’t be able to use one,” Shaina says. “Not until Tamok grants explicit permission. The libraries are accessed through the same computers, so that only leaves the training facility.”

“You’re killing me, Shaina.”

“That is not my intention.”

“Just show me the gym, and don’t say you don’t know that word,” I say, bemused at the silent walk through the facility. Hallways connect buildings, almost like we’re living on the moon or a planet without breathable atmosphere. I ask my guide why.

“Tamondran isn’t a secret by accident. The cloaking technology used to hide us from the Overlords is old and poorly understood—best not tampered with. Aerial and satellite surveillance shows an island with a few primitive villages. How would it look if strangers started running around test firing weapons?” she explains.

“It would look like a rebel base the Overlords would be obliged to destroy,” I say.

“Exactly.” She points at the first double door we come to in this wing. “This is a level one obstacle course. Once you can navigate it with nothing but your natural strength and agility, we can start using tools.”

“Like jetpacks?”

“No. That’s level four. No one makes it to level four. Pass these tests and we will introduce climbing gloves and grappling hooks.”

“I can’t wait. What about you, Zedas? Are you up for this?”

“If you go through this door and wish to embarrass yourself, I will follow and do likewise. It’s what, uh . . . buddies do.”

A group of workers pass us, nodding politely at Shaina and staring at me when they think I’m not watching. No one gives Zedas a second glance.

The doors swing open to reveal a stadium sized room with sand pits, ladder climbs, and rope swings. At least one section requires swimming. Another looks like a devious variation of a ring toss. Twenty or thirty people struggle through various stations.

“Looks like fun, but I still say this is a waste of time.” I drop my pack.

“Don’t be a barbarian,” Shaina says. “Put anything you don’t want to lose, break, or get wet in one of the lockers over there.” She puts a band from her wrist and a platinum chain from her neck in the pocket of her jacket and then stuffs the jacket in a small locker near the front door.

Following her example, I’m soon ready. Zedas doesn’t put anything in storage. His gear is attached to his body.

The first task is a classic rope bridge—one to stand on and another to grip just above eye level. The water below is rough from recent disturbances, a definite foreshadowing of our fate.

“Let’s get wet and filthy,” I say and take the lead.

17

At the end of the day, I’m exhausted but in an excellent mood. The obstacle course and the running track after that didn’t leave time or energy for brooding, so that was good. My body is trashed but my mind is fresher than ever. I don’t just want a puzzle to solve, I need one. Other things have improved as well. Tamok’s people provided new clothing, and I’m getting used to its toughness and comfort, though I keep the Hank Murphy Custom garments from the Prothean Sanctuary for the fabric. Close examination of the material is on my things-to-do list, which seems to grow day by day.

Zedas sits beside me on a bench as I pull on a pair of dry socks, then my Earth boots. I wipe my face again with a towel, feeling glad to be alive. Shaina is on the other side of the cleanup area, talking to a pair of officers I don’t know.

The main door opens and my new friend Tamok Sky strides in with half a dozen men and women in his entourage. When he stops, they remain a respectful distance back. All of them have weapons, at minimum a pistol and sword. Two in particular stand out—they’re in armor, with heavy rifles on their backs. I think back to the Overlord troops shooting soul catchers and assume these men have similar energy-based weapons.

Tamok’s followers look like grim professionals. These men and women are all business, and I don’t suppose for a second that they’re going to cut me any breaks. One moves to the back of the group as soon as I spot him. He wears a long black coat with a hood—a hybrid garment, half trench coat and half cloak. Weird even by local standards.

“I’m glad you had a chance to begin your training,” Tamok says. “I trust that Commander Yonz has been helpful.”

“Sure, as much as she’s allowed to be.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks.

Shrugging, I stand and toss the towel in a bin. “I’m not allowed access to a computer, for one thing. Which means no research in the library or manipulation of digital models of the Cradle, what you and your people call the Orphan Gate. I did some thinking on the obstacle course.”

“Really? That’s interesting. It normally demands all my attention,” Tamok says.

“The revelations came during rest breaks and when we were done,” I admit. “As soon as my mind turned away from the problem, the solution came. You need help with the gates, and I have a research team that has been studying them for several months. All we need is a route back to Earth, and I can return with resources that will be beneficial to both of us.”

He fidgets, something I haven’t seen him do before. It’s a small thing, just a touch of his middle two fingers to his thumb and a glance at his hand, but I see it for what it is—an unconscious tick. I did something similar growing up, but not since I arrived here. Jack called it using my thinking finger.

“That’s a generous proposition. Presently, sending you home, wherever that is, is impossible. There aren’t so many gates available to us, and there are even fewer with known destinations.”

“But there are some, right?” I ask, filling with renewed excitement.

“That’s why I came to see you. There is one that we have finally accessed, but it is difficult to reach and we only go there when absolutely necessary. Otherwise, it might be discovered by our enemies. I have new information that it will take a team behind enemy lines where they can liberate a valued comrade, Wist Hadrian. He’s critical to our cause,” Tamok says. “Come with me. We’ll talk on the way to my headquarters. My staff is completely trustworthy and already knows everything I’m about to tell you, so speak freely.”

“You have my attention.” I fall in beside him as he walks briskly through the complex. Again I’m struck by the obsessive secrecy—nothing is done outside of the camouflage technology. The huge underground obstacle course should have been my first major clue. One mistake, and this base will be wiped out by Anaximander’s forces.

“Wist Hadrian was an Overlord candidate a few years ago when his ship crash landed on Sarsten. Only candidates and full Overlords are granted the surname Hadrian—which means he was a rising star among our enemies. He sent out a distress signal and went into survival mode with the rest of his crew. They struggled for several months, exhausting all of their supplies and moving their camp several times to stay ahead of predators. At some point, he began to worry something was wrong. He started to suspect they’d been abandoned, so he sent a final message designed to elicit a response—and received just what he expected. An Overlord commended him on his bravery and sent regrets that no one would be able to respond in time to recover them.”

“Sounds like he got a raw deal, but I’m missing some context,” I say.

“He tells the story better. Suffice it to say, his message was a test and he was able to confirm that they had received his first distress call and done nothing. After that, he vowed to get his revenge,” Tamok explains. “How he finally managed to contact us, and how we were able to rescue what was left of his crew? It was as complex an operation as we’ve ever managed to complete. He’s part of the resistance now. His knowledge alone is valuable, but he is also a daring double agent who has served us well.”

“And you want to rescue him. Is he not as skilled as a double agent, or were you extolling his virtues for another reason?”

“The man risked capture and torture to learn how the Overlords are using the gates,” Tamok says. “We suspect they are looping, basically sending experimental troops through enough Orphan Gates that they find their way back to where they started with enhancements.”

I have my theories, but I want to know what he thinks first. “And why would they do that?”

He shifts uncomfortably, looking over his shoulder toward his subordinates, but decides to continue with our conversation. Apparently their trustworthiness has limits, and I’ve verged into a sensitive area. He lowers his voice. “You have to know better than anyone that going through one of the gates causes transformation. The gates not only provide nearly instant movement of troops and materials, but they also improve them somehow.”

No one speaks. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. It feels like everyone is watching me, including the people who supposedly are too far back to hear the conversation. This is a probe, a test. Tamok wants to know what happened to me when I came through the gate near Ironback. I think of the shadowy dreams during my fall—my transfer—helixes, pain, and darkness. The culmination of those dreams, if that’s what they were, is me, in my current state. There’s no doubt I’m different, and better in every way.

“Why is Sarsten an Orphan Gate hub?” I test him in my own way.

“Is that what it is?” he counters. “And I never said this planet was the same Sarsten Wist was stranded on.”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is.”

“Evidence suggests these gates are rare, yet we’re already talking about the fourth one I’ve heard of in two days. Sarsten can’t be normal or there would be Orphans all over the place, causing havoc.”

“A fair observation,” he says. “Overlords like Anaximander would do exactly what you’re talking about if they could. That’s one reason we fight against their research. What exactly did you do to the gate he controlled on the moon?”

“Do you want to discuss specifics right here, in an open hallway?”

“I told you I can trust everyone here,” he says, then waits.

“I misaligned a component I believe regulates heat dissipation.” No need to tell him I just put it in backward.

“Have you ever installed such a device before?”

“My team was working on materials and how they integrated into the artifact on our moon,” I say. “That’s why I want to find a way back. My research has always been a team effort.”

“That is impossible.” He clips his words short.

“You’re telling me I can never go home?”

He walks several brisk strides before answering, forcing me to keep up. “That’s not entirely correct. If you can find the right gate, or learn to control them, you can go home, but it will be a one-way trip. This may be selfish, but you’re no use to me if you just leave. I will help you when I can, but I have many people to consider when I make decisions.”

We arrive at his headquarters and pass two guards who scan us from head to toe and give Zedas dirty looks before admitting us to the inner sanctum. The machines that Shaina casually mentioned are monstrous, racks of processors stacked almost to the ceiling. There are relatively few keyboards, and they are round, slightly convex. Looking at them and imagining how to type in circles makes me reconsider my own methods of thinking, but I sense that the new me is adaptable—if not to everything, then at least to a new form of typing.

“You’re free to watch and ask questions, but fewer interruptions will be better at this point. The first part of our trip will be straightforward. We spent years expanding this facility into an underground highway that is impossible to detect from above. But once we are in Roan Valley, there will be challenges.”

“Have you been there before?” I ask. Planning expeditions has always been one of my best skills, but I don’t think I’m going to have much input on this one.

“I’ve sent teams to explore the area, and they brought back detailed reports. We have been building an underground access route to the place for years. I’ve only been as far as Roan. Beyond that, we will need special equipment and supplies for several days.”

“I can’t wait. We’re in my field now.”

“I take it you mean your area of expertise?”

“Exactly. This is what I’m trained for, and it’s also my passion. You want answers, I’m the one to get them,” I say.

He pierces me with a stare, deciding if I’m being truthful. “This is serious business.”

“I never joke about history or the pursuit of knowledge. You want me to trust you, I will. I’m asking you to trust my expertise, and this is it. This is what I am meant to do.”

Zedas looks down at me, taking my measure all over again. “He can do it.”

That surprises Tamok, who’s clearly never seen a Dogan offer advice about Hadrians. His response is telling. After a long moment, Tamok nods respectfully, then says, “I hope you’re right. For all of us.”

* * *

Our guides lead us inside to a new section of the complex, which is completely devoid of windows. There’s a downward slope that I can detect without tools. The main complex seems to rely on jungle foliage and electronic stealth fields to remain invisible, whereas now we’re simply underground—a low-tech solution to a high-tech problem. As to how far below the surface, that’s something I’d like to know. Their efforts are, for me, a means to judge just how badly they want to win.

We load into electric cars. Mine is big enough for myself, Zedas, Shaina, and one other person, plus supplies packed into crates I’m ordered not to open. Each time we stop, Tamok checks in. He rides in a different car for each leg of the trip, and it’s our turn to host him.

“We’re moving at twenty or thirty miles per hour.” I don’t care if he understands the measurement. “That’s a pretty good pace underground. How long until we reach this valley?”

“I have a guard station at each intersection along our route, which means we don’t have to stop and check for threats,” he says. “So we should be there by this evening.”

“How long did this underground highway take to build?”

“Over two years, but we had to stop several times to avoid detection, and we ran out of resources on multiple occasions,” Tamok says, pointing with some pride at a long, unbroken section of wall. The engineering is excellent. “I’ll ride with you until the next checkpoint, then I need to return to my command vehicle.”

I look toward the mentioned transport and the people on it. His usual collection of soldiers and technical advisors is packed in, jostling about in silence as we surge along. One man in particular holds my attention. He never shows his face. His hood casts shadows just deep enough to hide his features, and his hands are tucked away as well.

“Tell me about the rebellion,” I say.

He looks at me suspiciously. “Our cause is just. The Overlords punish the innocent and reward their vassals regardless of their lack of merit. Are you doubting your allegiance?”

I start to answer, but he interrupts.

“Because if you do, then we will doubt your loyalty to us. Do not think this is an academic discussion. We are in a struggle for life and death, and there’s no compromise to be had. My people have to trust you, and that means you have to be committed to the cause. In point of fact, your survival depends on it, because the Overlords won’t hesitate to split you into pieces if it pleases them.”

Zedas and Shaina watch me carefully, but I’m too stubborn to dress up my answer. “No one gave me a chance to pick sides. I was thrust into a bad situation and did what was necessary to stay alive. It would be irrational not to seek information.”

“Perhaps,” he says. “When you return to base, I will show you pictures of broken families, destroyed villages, and planets full of people that might as well be slaves. Maybe I’ll introduce you to mothers who sent their sons and daughters off to senseless wars and never saw them again.”

“I don’t doubt your sincerity, especially since I saw Anaximander in action. But I’m a scientist, and I have to review data when it is available and keep my hunches to a minimum. What I feel isn’t as important as what I know—especially now. I’m sure you can appreciate my, ah, hesitance. I’m on a different world, in a body that’s changing, and surrounded by technology, war, and people that are well outside my scope of experience. Candidly, I’m stunned to adjust this well, because most people from my world wouldn’t be this . . . practical.”

“I understand this, but others won’t. When you have doubts, please come to me directly and tell no one of your questions,” he says. “I’m a hard man, Doctor Murphy. In the Goliath sector, leaders must be ruthless. I appreciate your questions, believe it or not. I will do my duty, never doubt it, but it won’t hurt to be held accountable, even if it comes from a stranger. ”

“You mean from an Orphan.”

“Yes. But don’t take me for granted. That’s a mistake you only get to make once.”

At the next stop, he climbs down from my vehicle, inspects the others, and returns to his mobile command center. Exactly five minutes after we halt, the self driving vehicles give a thirty second warning. The moment the time has passed, they accelerate.

“Good thing I didn’t make a trip to the head.” I expect a question about what that means, but neither Zedas nor Shaina say anything. The next stretch of the trip is uneventful. Only the drone of the electric engines break the silence, featureless walls whisking past us in a gray blur.

Ahead, our tunnel stretches into the unknown, and I’m forced to admit—

I want to see what’s out there.

18

The road declines. I estimate somewhere between six and eight percent—steep by North American highway standards. The covered roadway widens, and I marvel at the effort it took to create something this colossal in total secrecy.

No doubt about it. They want the gate, and they want to win.

A platoon of soldiers awaits us at our destination, which looks like an underground hangar, ribbed ceiling soaring overhead like the bones of a massive beast. Beyond them is an open bay door with vines draping across the gap in a living, green curtain. My concept of what we are traveling through changes—updated details filling my imagination like a digital map. Part of it must indeed be underground, but other sections are just severely overgrown with plant life and hard to see from the air. As camouflage, it’s excellent.

“We have arrived,” I announce, then stretch my arms above my head as I breathe the heavy jungle air for the first time. It’s warm and rich with life, unlike the tunnel.

“Yes,” Zedas agrees, verbose as ever. Shaina says nothing but cuts her eyes at the Dogan, then looks away when I take notice.

“Problem?” I ask.

“The Dogan grinds his teeth when he walks and smells like raw earth,” she says, staring at Zedas’s back as he exits the vehicle. “I’ve never been forced to work closely with an abomination.”

“Let me stop you right there.” I feel my face color with anger. “I’m new here, but that doesn’t mean I checked my humanity at the door. I’m going to ask—respectfully—that you treat my friend with a modicum of whatever passes for manners in this upjumped Roman bootcamp. Am I making sense?”

She stares at me without apology. “I didn’t say you can’t patronize the brute. I’ve been civil. Have I said anything to him that’s even slightly offensive?”

“You called him an abomination.”

“He’s not paying attention. Look, he’s ten feet away from the vehicle already.”

“But I have excellent hearing,” Zedas says.

I spread my hands toward Shaina, who rolls her eyes and looks away.

“Do other people hold this kind of prejudice against the Dogan’s?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer.

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear, so let me add this—is everyone such an asshole when it comes to Dogans? And since we might face a language barrier, in context, an asshole is—”

“I know what it means,” Shaina says, rounding on me.

“Good. Then answer my question. I need to know, because I don’t want to make assumptions that get us killed. Like if I send him for help and they ignore him because they don’t like Dogans and we all die. I would find that less than optimal, wouldn’t you?”

“It would be unfortunate,” she admits. “The Dogans have not been at war with the Hadrians, either the Overlords or the rebels, for centuries, but we have long memories. And they resemble the Protheans more than they resemble us. So you can see how we would be wary of their intentions.”

This makes me remember the images I saw at the Prothean Sanctuary—oversized with twisted bodies and armor, images I’d dismissed as dreams or transfer confusion. A bit like demons, but more like slender, sinister versions of Dogans, radiating a kind of malignance that’s nothing like Zedas.

“Unfortunately, I am familiar with prejudice.” I hadn’t thought about social inequity for years, but being this far from home and witnessing a new civilization forces me to compare what I know to what I am learning. Not everything about my home world stands up to close scrutiny. I really hope we don’t start comparing moral history, but then I’m more concerned with the here and now.

Tamok and his entourage approach. Again, they are armed and ready for action, bristling with weapons and cloaked in a militaristic sense of purpose. This time, however, everyone has a backpack and a canteen on their belt. “We’ll have to cross the valley, which means hiking through a jungle. At night, it’s possible we will be seen from their satellites. If they have drones or airships patrolling this zone, we could have trouble. So be ready for anything and follow our lead.”

I check my equipment, then move toward Zedas. He has a pack but I have no idea what’s in it. “Ready?”

“Yes. This will be dangerous,” he says, making eye contact.

I can’t read his expression because his blue and green spotted helmet covers most of his face. I’m so used to it now that it’s hard to imagine him any other way. “Don’t hold back, Zedas-Duryan. We have to watch each other’s backs. You’re my friend. My only friend here.”

“Yes,” he says. “Our backs must be watched.”

“I liked it better when you spoke more.”

“Perhaps that time will come again.” He adjusts his pack and then moves toward the rest of the group. No one speaks to him, but neither do they exclude him from the marching formation. My firm conviction might have spread through the group. Good.

Shaina, finished with her own preparations, joins us. She reminds me of an excellent officer I knew in the reserves—fit and tough, with graceful and efficient movements, eyes alert and curious.

“We have to cross the valley on foot. This is as far as we could build the hidden road,” Tamok says, his voice strong enough for everyone to hear. “Decurion Syrus and trooper Filix will lead the way. They have made the trip several times. Listen to what they say. No arguing. No talking unless necessary. Just because the Overlords aren’t waiting for us in the jungle doesn’t mean there aren’t other things to worry about.”

Our guides and four other soldiers exit first, ducking through the greenery with weapons held at the low-ready position as they move. It’s been a while since I’ve been on the range, but I know they can bring the charge rifles up to aim at a target in a fraction of a second. The last thing I want is to get on their bad side.

The decurion and his assistant look like hard men. I roll the phrase in my head, making comparisons to Earth linguistics. If the Western Civilization class from my undergraduate days is accurate, a decurion is like a squad leader. Or maybe I’m confusing that with the Roman centurions, officers in charge of a hundred legionaries.

“Can I get a weapon?” I ask.

Tamok looks me over. “Do you know how to use one? I wasn’t aware that you made it to level II of the training course.”

“Not your weapons, but that can be fixed with a quick demonstration,” I say, brimming with the confidence of a man who is far from home and needs to get back there by any means.

Tamok and the rebels chuckle, but Shaina doesn’t.

Tamok gives me a bland look. “Training with the charge rifles is dangerous. Using them in combat is more so. Like handling a rock snake of Kiazhel.”

“For the enemy,” one of the rebel soldiers says under his breath. He bumps forearms with the man next to him, which looks like a high-five to me. The squad leader makes a short chop with his right hand, almost too subtle to be seen if I hadn’t used the gesture myself back in the reserves. Talking stops, focus returns.

We move out with the middle of the platoon-sized force and are quickly ordered by Tamok to stop—one of the scouts hears something, his hands raised in a fist. We hide under triple canopy tree cover while the rear guard emerges and takes their positions and a squad investigates the noise. It’s an impressive sight—the rebels vanish, like water into sand.

“Gungers,” Tamok says ten minutes later. “Noisy but harmless. They’re more afraid of us than we are of them. We continue.”

The next few minutes are frustrating because I can’t hear what they are saying on their helmet radios. After hiking in silence for a while, I’m able to see across the valley through a break in the trees.

I’m stunned by the sight. There are jungles, and then there’s what spills away before us, a panorama of green and gray and other colors, punctuated by soaring trees and the raucous calls of a hundred animals. The air, despite it being nighttime, is full of birds, large and small, colorful and bland—I see two whirl past in a chittering frenzy, a breeding pair no doubt, their plumes extended in crimson flares as they harangue each other in brash tones. Trees are dotted with creatures that climb, crawl, or slither, and at least half the insects are large enough to have faces, a fact that will make sleeping on the ground an absolute no for me.

I see a squad of lemurs just off the road. Their fur glows in the silvery moonlight, but they move differently and gather into groups from time to time, like a murmur of starlings, fluid and graceful. The moonlight fully pierces the light cloud cover, flooding random sections of the jungle floor with a hard light. When it hits the water, the panorama sparkles like shattered mirrors, moving in a dozen directions from the erratic breeze.

But the most amazing feature, and probably our destination, is a waterfall several hundred meters tall on the opposite side of the valley. It looks narrow, but it’s probably wider and deeper than it appears, as my sense of scale is wildly off from this distance.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Shaina asks.

In truth, I’ve witnessed every amazing corner of the Earth, including parts of the Amazon jungle that to this day remain isolated from modern societies. This is every bit as impressive, and it gets bonus points for being an alien world. “It’s hard to compare this with anything. I could do without the giant centipede-beetle-snake hybrids, though.”

“We all could. They’re edible, you know,” Shaina says.

“I’ll file that away under meals as a last resort.”

She laughs softly, and the anger between us dissipates further, if it was ever there.

The road quickly disappears, changing into an erratic trail that follows the terrain. It’s wider than an animal track, but not by much. We move single file, except for Zedas, who stays close at my side when he can. No one talks. Every thirty minutes, Tamok calls for a break, but I don’t hear the command because he is using the helmet comms a lot now. We fall into an easy rhythm, and I make the most of the solitude even though I’m in a group. Between the moon and the sounds of, well, everything in the valley, it’s possible to get lost in my head, savoring the sheer newness of this place.

Next to me, Zedas lumbers along, but his shoulders aren’t nearly as tense as when we began. That’s an excellent sign because a constant state of worry dulls combat senses, and I can tell he’ll be damned good in this fight, whatever it might be.

Halfway across the valley, in a small clearing, we take our next break, where we pull at water bottles with relief. Tamok sits down with me, and we begin eating cold food from containers that any grunt would recognize, no matter what planet they’re on. For a moment, Tamok says nothing, and we chew in companionable silence as the forest continues to chatter away around us.

I open my next food pack and stare in dismay—there are three cubes, and they look more ceramic than organic.

“The red is protein, the orange are carbohydrates, and the light purple are fats,” Shaina says. “Lucky you, that’s a fresh one. The colors fade the older they get.”

“Great. Looks delicious.” I eat quickly because it doesn’t take much chewing to make the food slide down. None of them taste bad. Forgettable is the only way to describe the flavor.

Tamok speaks after washing down his bricks with a slug of water. “I hate this part of the journey. This last stretch is high risk. We’re exposed past this point.”

“I didn’t get the impression you had been here often.” I finish my food and put the container back into my kit. We will leave no evidence of our passing. That’s understood.

“I’ve been here, and my people have been here, but not all the way to the waterfall—at least not often. Building the secret highway took a long time, and once we could touch Roan falls, I had people exploring it. I made my own attempts when possible. But it was all very tentative. This isn’t territory we control.”

“Does anyone?” I ask, then I take another drink of water and pack it away as well.

“Nature.” For a moment, he seems thoughtful, his attention sweeping across the dark forest around us and then to the sky. “Every time we make this crossing, I fear running into an Overlord patrol. Even if it’s a minor encounter, that would doom our operation. There would be legions of Overlord troops here by the end of the day.”

“Could there be an Overlord patrol here?”

He shrugs. “They’re always exploring forgotten places.”

“Like archeologists.”

“Doubtful, Orphan. Unless archeologists like to throw people in dungeons and interrogate them with heated irons.”

Syrus the decurion and lead scout appears out of the shadows. “It’s time to move, leader.”

Tamok stands. “I will send the order.”

He rises, our chat over, and even in the moonlight, I can see his face shift to something new.

He’s worried.

We step forward, and the waterfall beckons.

19

Up close, the waterfall proves to be thirty feet wide, a thunderous veil that fills the air with spume and noise. Tamok and the soldiers have less trouble communicating via their helmet comms, but I don’t even try to ask questions or make observations.The water is relentless, and the sound vibrates my teeth.

Wispy clouds part. Moonlight illuminates our position. Tamok waves for me to walk into the wall of water. “Go. Get moving. We’re too exposed here!” His face is shadows and planes as he barks orders to be heard over the sound of the water.

Zedas shoves his way in front of me, and we drive through the least violent edge of the tumult. The spray off Zedas’s helmet scours my face. I twist away from the deluge and stumble, then recover my balance at the final second.

“Shi—shit,” I hiss, but no one hears. The water is a hammer, and just a glancing touch on my shoulder nearly drives me to my knees. I stand, sway, then get my bearings as Shaina joins us with the rest of our force, all in varying states of disarray.

Men and women laugh out loud the moment they reach safety. There’s no reason to be quiet here with all the natural noise, and their relief is palpable. The power of nature—at least at close range—leaves us all scared but exhilarated, and my body begins to protest from the repeated impacts.

Each Cradle site is different, but patterns emerge. Ideas float around my brain, almost glowing with intensity. I begin to see symbols swirling around central ideas. Without thinking about it, I wander away from the group to reduce the amount of stimulus, but instinct tells me to keep my eyes open. This is a dangerous place. My friend and Tamok’s soldiers seem farther away, even muted.

One question demands my full attention. The LMC Cradle is different. How?

Power. The device at the bottom of the Ironback mine was connected to thermal heat sinks. The one that Anaximander controlled was run by artificial power—possibly nuclear or whatever the Hadrian Overlords use to run their starships and moon bases. Now, with the waterfall crashing down behind us, I think about the Prothean Sanctuary and my theory that the tide provided hydraulic power from the inflow and outflow of the sea.

“Check your equipment,” Shaina says.

My concentration fragments. Vague hallucinations of symbols and the lines connecting them shatter, spiraling away like fragments of blue glass. There is, however, a consolation prize—a new fact emerging from my brief but thoughtful sojourn. I realize Shaina is more than she seems.

Soldiers listen to her with a febrile intensity at times, and never without their full attention. Shaina has position. Or rank. Maybe both. I stow that newfound thought and lift my eyes to the upper reaches of our chamber, only to see it vanish into absolute darkness. The stygian shadows are oppressive, absorbing the lancing beams of our lights after a short distance.

At the edge of one light, an obscenely wide vein of silver runs up and away, broken by other deposits of minerals and even gems—rubies or garnets peep out from the bland matrix, their cheerful gleam breaking up the wall’s monotony.

Tamok works his way back down the line of soldiers, his attention focused on two men near Shaina. “What’s the holdup?”

Shaina detaches from the group. “Jakobs sprained his ankle. Stepped in a hole coming in.”

“Leave one to guard him, not a medic. First aid will be enough. He’ll have to tough it out until we come back. Medics stay with the team in case we have a catastrophic injury in the tunnels.” Tamok speaks with an absolute lack of concern, and Jakobs—his face a rictus of pain—says nothing.

And I thought the Army was hard.

“How much farther?” I ask, thinking of the descent I made with Zedas to reach Cradle 2. I search the rest of the area with my flashlight as I talk, letting the beam play over more wealth than I’ve ever seen in one place. Keeping my expression bland, I play the light slowly, looking for any sign of power generation—or technology in general. Shaina and Tamok watch me with mild suspicion, but it’s better than the open disdain they show Zedas, who looms to my left, mute but watchful.

“That depends,” Tamok says. “Syrus claims he found a faster way. We might be able to bisect the heart of the mountain in three to four hours instead of the day and a half the original team reported.”

“Every Cradle I have found has been deep underground,” I say, thinking out loud. “Is there a correlation between difficulty of access to these gates and what they do?”

“You’d be surprised to know you’ve already seen more of them than I have,” Tamok says. “This alone sets you apart. Some will call it an ill omen. But I think you might be right. I’ve never heard of one on a ship or out in the open. Unlike the Prothean Sanctuaries, Orphan Gates are always concealed or guarded in some way—often in multiple ways, truth be told.”

“Why do you think that is?” I ask.

“The Sanctuaries are poor imitations of the gates, a mark of Prothean arrogance.” Tamok takes off his helmet, then folds it neatly in half and hangs it on his belt.

His helmet is a marvel of engineering, but I pull my eyes away to address Tamok with what I call my teaching voice. “I need more data. And I need to know you’re telling me everything. It feels like you’re parsing the information, and it’s inconsistent at best.”

“No one has studied the Orphan Gates and survived long enough to record their findings with any degree of organization,” he says. “You want clarity—I will provide it. More is known about the Prothean Sanctuaries than the Orphan Gates, but not much. With both, there is speculation. A long-held theory about the Sanctuaries is that the Protheans attempted to imitate the gates during one of their failed invasion attempts. The two locations appear different, and for obvious reasons we conclude they have . . . differing effects.”

“How so?” I ask.

“Do you have any experience with biology?” Tamok counters.

“Some.”

“Consider your . . . friend. He’s large, and strong, and free of the innate cruelty that marks the Protheans. Dogans—and don’t think I haven’t heard your opinions on the matter—aren’t twisted or damaged by the gates. The Protheans are clever, but everything they do is vicious. It is, by all accounts, their single consistent quality, despite being similar to Dogans. The Protheans are slender but wrapped in a kind of menace that we believe to be an acquired trait. They’re dangerous beyond belief, and I say that as someone who has dedicated his life to fighting Overlords. As enemies, the Overlords are fierce, but they’re no Protheans.”

“Perhaps they studied ancient records that the creators of the gates kept,” I say, fishing for information. “That’s what I would do. And if we could find this library, it might lead us to a full appreciation of what is possible. There has to be an origin—a Rosetta stone, or Alexandria. Some key element that reveals the history of these gates and their makers. To me, this looks like a series of civilizations, and their lack of understanding about these gates makes their actions all the more dangerous. They’re like toddlers with a cannon.”

Tamok considers my idea, nodding. “I don’t know what the Rosetta Stone is, or Alexandria, but I grasp your concept about a child having a weapon. It’s apt. Perhaps,” he says, then steps away.

I’m being dismissed, and that doesn’t work for me. “Hold on. You’re not dodging this one. Why hasn’t anyone studied these people? The gates? Hell, why aren’t we looking for data right now? There must be some record of it. That’s what I do—dig things out of the dirt and figure out what they mean, give them context, depth, purpose. I sure as hell ask questions, even about the most trivial objects in the ground. For something as advanced at the gates? I wouldn’t rest. Not until I had a working idea of what I’m dealing with. Tamok, this is a technology that takes people like Zedas and makes demons. Don’t you think that bears examination?”

Tamok is pissed, and he doesn’t hide it. “You already know more than we do. Leave it at that.” This time when he walks away, I don’t try to stop him because I see a flash of something in his eyes—curiosity. “Form up your teams,” he says. “Let’s move out. I want to make some distance while we’re still relatively fresh.”

Shaina rejoins Zedas and me. “Come on, Orphan. This little foray may be about you, but that doesn’t mean you’re running the show.”

“What if I never showed up?” .

“Years of preparation might have been wasted,” she answers. “But don’t feel too special. There could be another archaeologist just like you arriving in the Goliath sector tomorrow. Or a warlord. Maybe a wanderer with a lute. Perhaps an assassin looking to kill us all. With the gates, there is no way to know.”

The way she says archaeologist is off, a reminder of our differences. Her poetic speculation about dangerous strangers is new—a display of real emotion, more romantic than fearful. Every man and woman in Tamok’s army has their own story, rich and complex. They’re real people from a civilization I know nothing about. I need to remember that.

When I’m focused on a task, it’s possible to forget no one here is from Earth. During my first expedition to Egypt, when I was a young graduate student, I was sometimes overwhelmed by the mystery of the place and the people, and other times it felt like I had grown up there. Mostly, that sense of newness had been a good thing. But every now and then, I lost sight of my location—being an outsider can be dangerous in the slums of Cairo, and on one occasion an old Imam nudged me back to safety, waving a pair of street thieves while I ran. It was a lesson I won’t forget—the smell of fumes, and food, and a city that was not mine.

Like now, surrounded by people who share my looks but not my history.

Syrus sets an aggressive pace. A series of stairs and switchbacks comes first, then there’s a long hallway that seems to follow the curve of the mountain, gaining elevation with each step. This surprises me because I expected to go downward like I had in all my other Cradle explorations.

I wait until Shaina moves through the column to check on other soldiers. “Zedas-Duryan, is it wrong that I don’t trust anyone here?”

“Not wrong, but wise. You should only trust me,” he says, then lowers his voice. “There is trouble ahead. Real trouble, not the kind that goes away.”

I don’t see or hear anything for several moments, then we start to bunch up because the guides have stopped. I work my way forward, earning unhappy looks from some of the soldiers, but none of them stop me. I wonder what their orders are, exactly. “Where is Tamok?”

“That way,” a decurion leader says, pointing the direction I’m already going.

“Any idea of what’s happening?” I ask.

“We are handling it,” he says. “Go back to your place in the column.”

“I’m going forward.”

“I can’t allow that without clearance.” He grips his weapon nervously but doesn’t raise it. “I’m sure we will be moving again soon. Please be patient.”

He is still talking when I edge ahead of him, straining to see down the increasingly narrow hallway.

“Orphan,” he growls. “Cut me a break. I have orders.” He’s tired, and sore, and he’s a soldier dealing with a problem. Me.

I’m almost sympathetic.

“You might, but I don’t.” I leave him behind and shoulder my way through others, who seem unhappy to see me but make no attempt to block my progress. Zedas follows. No one challenges him. I hear muttering. Someone calls him an abomination, and my cheeks flush. “Stow that shit,” I say over my shoulder, not slowing to see who uttered the slur. They’ll learn. I’ll see to it.

Before long, I see Tamok talking in low tones to the mysterious advisor, who melts away as I approach. “Who do you think that is?”

“I know what you know and no more,” Zedas says. “Tamok and the man have secrets.”

“That’s obvious.” I pass the last of the soldiers. We’re almost single file now the hallway is so narrow, our shoulders brushing the sides as we move forward in a lurching column.

“You were told to wait,” Tamok says, mild disapproval in his tone. “But since you’re here now, listen to me. The path is narrow, and falling is a risk. Not a weapon, not a beast. A simple fall.” His eyes flash with irritation, and I see him working through options for me—possibly handcuffs, or trussing me up like wayward livestock. After a moment, he relents, but there’s a shadow on his face that wasn’t there when we left the base. This is a different man, and I can’t put my finger on exactly how.

I wish I had my friend Jack. He can see through bullshit, and he can spot liars a mile away—and when needed, put a round through their skulls.

Where the hell did that thought come from? Wishing my friend was with me to navigate challenges wasn’t unusual, but I rarely thought about the fact that he was a trained killer. I went to basic training, part of flight school, and then advanced infantry school before becoming mechanized infantry. He went into the regular military, special forces, and was probably the kid in school voted most likely to become an assassin. Or he should’ve been. Thinking back, he was a bit of a chronic geek despite his natural size and strength. That kid who was on the football team but also in choir and 4H.

No one could have guessed how dangerous he would become, or that all of it would be stripped away from him by injuries sustained in a foreign land that should have killed him. Additional revelations circulate through my brain.

“Watch your step,” Tamok says, irritation in his voice.

I look down into darkness. The passage opens on one side and falls away into a pit so deep the dim lights at the bottom are nearly swallowed up by the shadows. At first, it’s hard to recognize what I am looking at—then the picture clarifies, and I twitch with recognition.

It’s a Cradle.

“This one is massive,” Tamok says in a stunning understatement. With his arms crossed, he takes a furtive look around, assuring that we’re far enough from everyone to speak. Zedas is ten yards away, looking uncomfortably at the drop.

“Tell me what you see,” Tamok orders, but not in an unkind tone.

I peer at the scene, assessing angles, estimates, and the overall scale. In my mind, I see—numbers. Possibilities.

I see a purpose.

“This isn’t exclusively for moving people, or any living beings. This is for weapons, materials. Maybe even a ship—actually, yes. Based on what I’ve seen of your orbital craft, it’s almost certainly meant to move ships. This isn’t a transfer gate. This is an invasion point.”

Tamok gives me a wintry smile. “So far they haven’t been successful, but this one might be their best effort yet. It’s another reason we have worked so hard to conceal this gate. One of my sources believes there are non-terrestrial versions that would be better suited for mass transit.“

“Are there?“

He broods for a moment. “No, thank the gods. This one is large enough to do almost anything. And for now, it’s ours.”

His possessiveness sends up a red flag. I make a mental note but say nothing.

“Syrus says there are larger passages with rails that suggest heavy equipment can be transported in and out of this cavern . . . if you know the way.”

I remember the rails at the Ironback mine and my similar conclusion. “That’s a possibility. The question is why?”

“The Overlords, and the Protheans before them, are always expanding their reign of terror. This was where the ancients intended to launch their invasion of Hadrian space, and where our current enemies will seek to destroy us if they capture it.”

“What about whoever created the network? What was their purpose?” I ask, not liking the way he jumps to conclusions with very little evidence. I need more than one point of data, especially for something so far out of my normal experiences.

Tamok steps even closer to me and drops his voice to a whisper. “What do you mean network? I’m not familiar with the word.”

“Do you think these are just abandoned randomly across the Goliath sector, or the galaxy beyond that?” I ask. “Surely you—” I break off, shaking my head. We’re different people, from different worlds. I have to reconsider his knowledge base and work within it.

“There may have been a pattern useful to their creators, but we’ve discovered them randomly,” he says. “I said that you’ve seen more of them than most, but you don’t know everything. The more a person goes through, the greater the chance they will be lost forever—caught someplace they cannot return from. As to where? I don’t know. No one does. There are the usual religious legends, but I can tell you that many people are lost. Permanently.”

I shake my head in resignation. “Let me remind you of something. Networks are what make looping possible, or had you forgotten you told me about that?”

He doesn’t seem to appreciate my point.

I dig through my pack, find the electronic notebook I’m still learning to use, and do several quick sketches of what I see. I’m making notes when Tamok loses patience.

“We don’t have time for your childish doodles.”

I ignore him and complete my sketch. Tamok has secrets, and he’s a proven liar. I give him a level look as I slip the device back into my pack and study the soldiers.

“Can we get to work now?” he asks, hands spread in exasperation. Again, I see him as different than before. The hooded figure is still missing, and Tamok is compromised in some way. I know it.

“I’m the archaeologist. Let me do my job.”

“As long as that includes fixing the gate.”

“I think you’re confusing archaeologist with mechanic. Anaximander took me prisoner to fix his gate, and I proved a poor substitute.”

Tamok grabs my arm and squeezes hard, but I don’t flinch. “I don’t recommend you betray me in such a fashion. In fact, don’t even think about it.”

I glance down at his hand, then slowly remove his fingers. “A point, before I propose how to fix it.”

“Yes?” Tamok asks.

“Don’t ever touch me again.”

The moment hangs, fat and dangerous. Tamok’s eyes flash, then he nods, saying nothing.

“I’ll fix and study it, to the best of my ability. Try to think long term. The more I know, the more likely it is I can manipulate other gates in the network.”

“Again you use that term, network.”

“Whoever created these things had a purpose. The most obvious is to travel faster than light over extreme distances, either to colonize or conduct war or gather resources. Which means they had to have an organized trade route, or a supply line if you’re thinking in military terms. Which means there is a network. Whoever controls that will control—actually dominate the Goliath sector.”

This sparks his interest. “Good.” Regaining his decorum, he grips both hands behind his back like a general at rest. “Syrus will lead us to the bottom, and you can test the functionality of this master gate.”

“Is that what it is?” I ask.

“It must be.” His tone changes. “Where does this one go? We think we know, and if your network theory is correct, it might prove a powerful launch point for our eventual counter offensive against the Overlords.” He pauses a beat, and there’s a feral gleam in his eyes. “It will be the beginning. The start of our victory. Our redemption.”

I wait for more.

“But first we must rescue Wist Hadrian, debrief him to learn the strength and position of our mutual enemies, and plan our endgame.”

“This gate is one way, like all the others, correct?” I ask.

“It is,” he says. “Only fools like Anaximander believe in two-way portals.”

“Then how do I get Wist back here after I find him?”

“He will know the way. There are cruisers capable of long journeys, and other gates if you can find them.”

“Vague and not reassuring, but what choice does an honest archeologist have?”

“None.”

“That was a rhetorical question, Tamok.”

He frowns. “I don’t know this word.”

“Obviously.”

“Are you mocking me?”

I look down at the oversized Cradle. “What if I was?” The question comes out of nowhere. At no point in my academic career had I been this confrontational. I wanted to be lots of times, but I always chose civility and manners—maybe some jokes to defuse a situation in the field, but never this path.

It’s Tamok that brings this out of me. It’s the entire situation, a kind of pressure that reveals something in me I’ve not seen before. I’m more like Jack and less like myself.

I’m not sure it isn’t for the best.

Tamok chooses his next words with care, his voice low.

“I need you to help me defeat the Overlords. Do not mistake your usefulness with entitlement. Insult me in front of my troops, and I will be required to—deal with you. Publicly.” He calms himself. “We should trust each other, and we should be friends. Let’s work toward that goal.” It’s a bland, corporatist statement that inspires me as much as a bowl of cold oatmeal.

“I’m all about trust,” I say. “Let’s try it out. Who is the guy in the hood?”

For five extremely long seconds I’m sure I finally pushed the man too far, but he answers.

“An agent of the Dark Eye,” Tamok says. “We are not aligned with the sinister warmonger, but sometimes there is only one way to know your enemies, and that is to treat with them.”

“That’s a risk beyond anything I would ever consider, Tamok. Even I can see that, and I’m neither a general nor a politician.” There are so many questions I need to ask, but the Cradle is calling me, its oppressive presence like a siren on the rocks.

“You are . . . correct,” Tamok says.

“How did that feel?” I ask him, a slight smile on my face.

“Not good. Apologies are not my strong suit, but let me handle this. Do not speak to the Dark Eye’s agent. I wish to, ah, control the flow of information,” Tamok says.

“You’re feeding him misinformation.”

He smiles, and this time it’s genuine. “Yes.”

I hike my pack higher on my shoulders and roll my neck. “Well let’s get after it. That Orphan Gate isn’t going to wait all day.”

Tamok looks confused. “Why wouldn’t it?”

“Figure of speech. Let’s go. I’ve waited my whole life for this.”

Tamok waves at Syrus, who leads us down the narrowest set of switchback stairs in the galaxy. We move slowly downward, and Tamok says, “So have I.”

20

“Careful here, the footing is treacherous and the lighting poor,” Syrus says, leading us below the edge of the Cradle platform because that is the only way the stairs go. We’re plunged into darkness the moment the artifact is higher than we are.

“You’re probably not excited about going beneath it,” Tamok says.

“On the contrary, I see this as an opportunity.” And I do, because I can already see rows of symbols that weren’t accessible to my team on the lunar base.

Twenty minutes later, the decurion scout stops and stares at something for a long time.

“What is it?” Tamok asks. “Why the hold up?”

“Someone has been this way, and recently,” Syrus says.

“Hold your position. I’m moving up to you.” Tamok advances ten meters, the distance Syrus insisted should be the minimum following distance.

“I better come too,” I say.

Tamok points at me like I’m a dog. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I am in charge,” Tamok replies.

I spread my hands to agree but also to express my lack of giving a damn about his personal problems. “Sure, but if you want me to risk my life testing an Orphan Gate, I’m going to see what has your scout spooked.”

The showdown only lasts seconds, but it feels longer. “Very well,” he says, choosing his battles with care.

Syrus points a dim, red-tinted light at scuffs on the stone path, and then a snippet of fresh graffiti. Just higher than I can reach, it’s an eye scratched into the rock. Years ago, I studied Egyptian hieroglyphics and pictographs firsthand. This resembles the Eye of Horus, but it’s not. Whoever engraved it into the stone added a crowd of stick figures, like this thing ruled them all. It’s a scene of dominance, not coexistence.

“Crude,” Tamok says.

“Is that the Dark Eye? Maybe we could bring your friend here to confirm or deny,” I suggest in my most reasonable tone.

“I’ve never seen it before, but the coincidence is telling. If the Dark Eye has been this way himself, he has looped through our part of the Goliath sector. Which means he could know the location of my base,” Tamok says. “I will need to leave troops here and reinforce Tamondran.” He swears under his breath, jaw tight. “We’re running out of time.”

I make a sketch of the image.

“Tell no one, not even my soldiers. It could cause a panic,” Tamok says, then motions impatiently for Syrus to continue.

We follow more closely now, the destination growing near.

Fifty meters farther along the dark underside of the Cradle, Syrus stops again. “It’s time to make a decision. There is no light at all beyond this point. Pay attention to where you step or suffer the consequences.”

He’s right. What I thought was total darkness was just a prelude to this ominous path. I stop right behind Tamok, who holds up an open palm for his troops. They stay back, except for Shaina, who follows Zedas to the front. The five of us stare at shadows around the base of the giant Cradle.

“Halt. Turn off your lights,” he orders. “No talking. We need to be invisible for a while.”

I search for the hooded figure before all of the red stealth lights blink out and see the lithe silhouette far at the back, almost like the mystery figure could make us disappear with a gesture and a command. My gut clenches. If this is a trap, we’re too far in to escape.

“What do you think your double agent made of the graffiti?” I ask.

“Made?”

“Interpreted.”

“That is something I will find out when we’re done here,” Tamok says, then holds a finger in front of his helmet. Some hand gestures are universal. I stop talking and consider our situation.

On the way down, I’ve seen pulsing lights. The closer we come, the brighter they appear until it’s hard to look at them directly, their lurid colors too intense to view head-on. Now we’re faced with the dark underbelly of the Orphan Gate. It feels like sliding under a truck to work on the axle knowing it’s held up by a cheap jack, or maybe just a couple of cinderblocks.

“What do you say, Orphan?” Tamok asks. “Is it safe to proceed?”

I search Syrus’s expression for clues. He shakes his head just enough to suggest he’s never been this close.

“You implied this gate is functional,” I say.

“Because my scouts reported the lights. Any gate with power must be approached with caution.”

“But you think this one goes behind enemy lines. Someplace we can rescue your agent Wist Hadrian.” I stay alert for any variation of his story that might reveal a lie. He hasn’t been up-front with the details. I’m not sure I trust him more than I would Anaximander if the Overlord came striding out of the darkness.

“Just you, not a team. There is no we in this scenario,” Tamok says. “One Orphan should be enough to make contact. And then Wist will show you the way back to our base.”

“I must protect Doctor Hank Murphy,” Zedas grumbles.

“Forget about it, Dogan,” Tamok snaps.

“Why are you so hot to make me do this solo?” I ask.

My words hit hard, and he glares at me, anger flaring anew.

The gate shudders. Here in its shadow, there’s nothing to see and the sound is ominous—a primal hum that dances at the edge of my senses. It’s danger in a pure form, and I know that time is an issue. The argument achieves nothing, so I edge forward, nerves fizzing with alarm and interest. “Come on, Zedas. Let’s have a look.”

Tamok points at Shaina. “Stay with them.”

Watching over my shoulder is difficult, but I manage, not liking the sharp edge of command in Tamok’s voice.

“But the consequences.” The woman shifts her feet nervously, like a fighter about to enter the ring. She’s still the fit, short-haired woman who looks like a seasoned brawler, but she’s worried and unsure.

I watch her for a second, and in that instant I can see her terror. It’s present and complete, but she doesn’t back down from Tamok’s gaze.

Feigning interest in the darkness ahead of me, I continue to listen as Zedas and I creep ahead of the others.

“One Orphan is dangerous,” Tamok says softly. “Who knows what a Dogan Orphan will become. You must do this for the cause. For us.”

Shaina shifts her stance. “Of course, but—”

“If you survive, you will be one of a kind and destined for a greater place in the resistance,” Tamok says.

“Then I must do as you say.” She quickly catches up.

“Why are you trusting Sky?” Zedas asks.

His question confuses me until I remember Tamok’s full name. “I’m not. Don’t worry.”

“So we are going back now?” he asks. “Away from the gate?”

“No. I have to see this for myself. And if it works, I’m going through.”

Shaina reaches us, then adjusts to my cautious pace. “What are you whispering about?”

“What were you whispering about with Tamok?” It’s a test question since I know the answer. For a heartbeat, I dread her answer because I’m convinced she’ll fail the test and be one more hostile player in a dangerous world far from home.

“Tamok told me I had to go with you through the gate even though I don’t want to,” she says without hesitation.

“And?” I ask.

“He said if I survive I will be more powerful and earn rank within the resistance.”

The answer is spot on. Tension releases from my neck and shoulders. I’m less worried about her stabbing me in the back or trying to kill the abomination in his sleep. We’re not fast friends yet, but I realize that is what I have been hoping for the entire time. Shaina is tough, prickly, and loyal to Tamok before any concern for my welfare or that of Zedas, but I do like her without understanding why.

Maybe I’m desperate for community, for a circle of friends who have my back.

“How much farther?” she asks.

“The path continues under the edge of the Cradle and rises.” I point, stalling for time. My heart pounds in my chest, and I’m sweating just as hard as she is. “I see a glow, so we should be getting close to the aperture.”

The final approach takes us around most of the Cradle’s circumference. When we emerge on the platform we saw from far above, I’m nearly blinded by its brilliance.

“Why is it so bright?” Shaina asks.

“Our eyes are too adjusted to the darkness.” I shield my eyes and move closer.

“I knew that,” Shaina mutters.

Stepping closer, I laugh excitedly at what I see. “Except for its size, this one is an exact copy of the one my team was studying.”

“Which means what?” Shaina asks.

“All the others have been arrival gates. Tamok and his scouts are right. This gate goes someplace,” I say. “Maybe his intelligence is correct.”

“So are you going to find Wist?” Shaina asks, sounding younger and more vulnerable than she is. A quick look in her eyes tells me she desperately wants out of this trip.

“Zedas and I will go,” I offer. “Stay here, then go back and tell Tamok I tricked you—he’s suspicious of me as it is, and he’ll buy it.”

She stiffens. “No. That’s not a good idea. If you go through, I will follow.”

“What are you worried about?” I ask.

“Not everyone can survive gate travel,” she says. “I was raised on children’s stories about the horrible fate of those who made the attempt.”

“Do you think the bedtime stories were meant to keep kids from climbing through Orphan Gates?”

She frowns at me. “Of course, but almost no one in the Goliath sector has actually seen one. I thought it would look like the mouth of . . . of an animal, a monster. I expected sounds like the grinding of souls or something equally dramatic. This is a machine. I hate it, but it’s only a device. That, I can make sense of.”

“Good. Because that’s all it is.” I listen, hard. All I hear is the faint buzz of power. “I need to check one thing.”

“Where are you going? Don’t leave me and the Dogan here alone,” she says.

“I need to see where the power comes from.”

“I will help you, and so will the abom—so will he,” Shaina says quickly.

Zedas growls. “You wait here. I will guard Murph.”

“Not a chance,” she shoots back.

“Both of you shut up.” I squat down and look below the edge of the giant cradle-shaped device. Standing on its edge, it looks more like a portal than the one in the Ironback, or the one Anaximander controlled on this planet’s moon. “I don’t have to leave your sight if you stay still. These conduits lead the way we came, basically.”

“And that tells you what?” Shaina asks.

“I bet there is a hydraulic plant harnessing the force of the waterfall.” I make notes in my digital journal. “I’m making a note to track this back to the source when we come back.”

“If we come back,” Shaina says. “Wist might take us to another rebel base. Tamok wouldn’t have told him about this place. No one knows everything about our organization, in case we get captured. We can’t tell what we don’t know.”

“I was thinking long term,” I say, realizing that means I’m starting to accept the reality of not going home, at least not in the near future, and a pang of reality cuts through me, lonesome and bleak. One Dogan and a bunch of rebels can’t replace what I would be leaving behind.

The Cradle shimmers as I approach, floor vibrating through my boots in a low, desultory hum. “Amazing.”

My voice sends ripples across the surface. I make several quick notes, then hum a simple tune. A different pattern emerges.

“What are you doing?” Shaina asks, but her impatience evaporates as she sees her words and their effect on the thing we are about to step through.

“Patience,” I say. “If I can’t study it thoroughly, I can at least make some notes.” A few quick sketches later, I realize I’m stalling.

“You’re making me nervous, Orphan,” Shaina says, then she stares at the gate. “More nervous.”

“I’m looking for a control panel, something that might regulate our destination.”

Zedas shakes his head. “Legends say they go where they go. Nowhere else.”

“So no fine controls? I’m doubtful, but I’ll believe it has a single exit when I can prove it with data.” I do a final tour, finish my notes, and store my device in the backpack, which feels heavy, but it’s only the enormity of this moment weighing on me and everything I hold.

“Why would you say that, Murph?” Zedas asks.

“I just meant it would be nice to have control of the process.” I take a deep breath, then let it out. “It’s game time, boys and girls. Let’s go together.”

“Are you sure?” Shaina asks.

“If we step through at the same time, I think there’s a better chance we all go to the same place,” I say. “Maybe this is a one-way passage to a single destination, but why take the chance of being scattered to three different parts of the galaxy?”

“Wise decision,” Zedas says, clearly meaning that entering the gate at all is anything but wise.

Shaina bounces on the balls of her feet and hops side to side, shaking her hands vigorously. “I guess that makes sense. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

“I’ll count down from three, and then we go together,” I say. “Three, two, one—go.”

I step forward into eternity.

21

Lights rush past my eyes, too intense to endure when they head straight for me, then quickly fade to nothing when they change direction and speed away. It’s like the first time I went through a gate—but worse—a maelstrom of sensation so cutting as to make my guts twist, a long howl building in my throat with each passing second of raw chaos. I close my eyes tightly, and I’m in agony. Eyes open, it’s even worse. Glowing embers of the universe penetrate my senses, and my bones light from within by a fire older than the stars themselves.

For a moment, I see everything—or that’s the lie told to me by my senses. Darkness follows, bringing with it the sensation of drowning, a suffocating thickness filling my nose, lungs, and with a final scream, my mouth. My chest bucks, ribs expanding in animalistic fear as every cell of my body fights for survival. Time spirals, and death hovers into sight, a black point of nothing that looms closer—

And then it’s all over.

“Not . . . dead?” I croak.

Not dead. Just wish I was.

The Cradle we emerge from is set into the side of a stone wall, with only the aperture visible. Flecks of energy pop and sizzle across the surface of the opening, then go dark, like the embers of a dying fire. I stare at it for a long time and then turn to matters of survival. It’s hot, I need sunglasses, and I am thirsty as hell.

Flat on the ground are Zedas and Shaina. The Dogan stands as I’m clearing my head. He rushes toward me, staggering and reeling like a drunk on payday. I’ve never seen him so uncoordinated. When he drops to the ground, then pushes off with his hand to get back upright, I pretend not to notice. Sometimes, dignity is in the small things.

I roll into a sitting position, holding my head with both hands. Pain lances through my body as Zedas turns in a slow circle with his fan blade forward and his chain weapon drawn, albeit in an unsteady hold. I hear him grumbling in his own language, lurching around like he’s fighting ghosts. His armor is present but dark with moisture in new places—trauma, caused by our transit.

Shaina groans, reaching one hand to cover her eyes while the other fumbles around for something, probably a weapon that isn’t there. Her gear is scattered in a semicircle around us. Like last time, my clothing is changed, but not for the worse. From my boots to my shirt collar, everything fits perfectly and the fabric feels new—stiff enough that I need to break it in before it chafes my skin.

Neither Shaina nor Zedas have the same problem. Shaina’s gear, aside from being scattered, looks exactly the same. The Dogan is still the Dogan—big, angry, and starting to regain his balance.

“Zedas, are you okay?” I ask.

“I am alive.” His words are as thick as a drunkard’s. “And doing my duty.”

I push both hands against my knees to support my upper body and force myself to my feet. My stomach convulses and I want to puke, but I don’t—that, I can control, but the afterimages of me being taken apart and reassembled still float under my eyelids. The damned spiders, or spider like things, make a brief appearance too, alongside shadows shaped like demons.

“I do not recommend this as a means of travel,” I mumble, then wipe my mouth. Twice.

With this second trip comes understanding. I’ve been—rearranged. True, I’ve come a great distance, and I can already sense that the differences are good. I’m not damaged like I hear the Protheans are. I’m augmented, although how, I don’t know. Yet.

Shaina stands with difficulty. “Oh good, the abomination survived.”

“So did you,” Zedas says. “Weakling.”

This causes Shaina to laugh bitterly. “Well, there is that. Now we can all suffer together. Three miserable outcasts with no hope of redemption.”

Her comment catches me off guard as I am assessing what’s left of my pack. The fabric is amazingly textured and not like anything I’ve seen, likely fire-proof and moisture wicking, too. The Prothean device I had been using to take notes, however, is a block of ash being blown away in the gentle breeze. It might seem like we’re underground, but there is a sky above us, harsh light cutting deep shadows in places, punishing beams in others.

Since I have neither a device nor a notebook, I make a mental note by concentrating on the scene, sketching on the slate of my memory, soft blue lines following my mental commands as I save every detail. If nothing else, I’ll remember our arrival, and that might matter later on.

But for now, I ask a question based on Shaina’s words. “No hope of redemption?”

Shaina stretches, then pats her face and rubs a hand over the skin to restore some sense of alertness. “We’re all outcasts, don’t you know?”

“I know Zedas is on a difficult path, trying to earn the respect of his father, if I interpret the situation correctly,” I say.

She checks her own gear and retrieves a charge pistol, a charge rifle, and a big knife she keeps strapped to her leg. The guns look and feel familiar, but they center around an octagonal barrel—or cluster of rails, I think. A moment of vertigo passes, but during that uncomfortable loss of balance, I see everything about my companions, from their body language to the details of what they’re wearing.

The sensation passes quickly, but the awareness does not.

“I’m not an outcast. An unfortunate victim of corporate greed, perhaps, but I have no redemption story. That leaves you. What are you trying to prove?” I say.

“No need to get personal.” She laughs. It’s the first time I’ve heard her express amusement, even if it is bitter. “I thought you knew. The only people who survive the gates are outcasts. That’s why my Nana told me travelers are called Orphans.”

I think about it, but it doesn’t feel right. “It’s a theory.”

She shrugs, then steps away from our arrival site to view the towering cliffs above us. “At least we’re not underground. Though we might as well be from the looks of it.”

“I’m not an outcast, or even a rebel. Maybe not everyone appreciates my sense of humor, but I know how to work within the rules. You don’t become the lead archaeologist on an LMC lunar dig with a reputation for instability. One man betrayed me for money, probably, but that doesn’t mean I’m some kind of grave robber.”

“Those are dishonorable conditions.” Zedas grinds his teeth, which sounds like bones going through a wood chipper. “Tell me archeologists are not part of such crimes.”

I face the gate and examine it for several minutes, but it yields no further secrets.

Shaina shields her eyes from the noonday sun, a blinding yellow glare streaming straight down into the canyon we occupy. It’s clear she’s looking at me rather than my Dogan friend. “So you say, Orphan.”

“If you are okay, friend Murph, we should move,” Zedas says. He gives me a canister of water from a storage compartment on the back of his armor. I hadn’t noticed before, but not all of his bulk is muscle and defensive plates.

“Thanks, Zedas.”

He takes the canister back when I’m done. “There are many tracks leading through this area. Large and small, some of them hooves and others with claws.”

“That’s reassuring.” I adjust my shirt collar to reduce the chafing from the stiff material. “Thought you were going to say there were snakes and spiders.”

“Yes, there are many of those, sort of, but I did not know how to describe their tracks,” Zedas says.

“Perfect. Let’s get going then.” I point to my right with the vague idea that climbing to a higher altitude could give us some type of advantage if we run into trouble. Neither of my companions question me, so we begin our ascent.

Zedas soon takes the lead, putting away his weapons but remaining alert, his muscles bunched with readiness. From time to time, he slows and holds up a hand for us to stop. I’m not sure if this is a Dogan hand movement or something he picked up from Tamok’s soldiers, but I understand it.

Shaina follows me but is close enough to talk.

“Why is my clothing affected by the gates and you have no problems at all?” I ask. “Not bitching, just asking.”

“How should I know that?” She walks backward for a step, again shielding her eyes against the glare, then faces the direction we are going once more. “I don’t like being in this canyon. Every step feels like we’re entering an ambush.”

“Agreed. If we see a way to climb up to one of those ridges, I think we should take it,” I say. We trudge on for an hour. I think about our arrival and try to remember our course, forming a mental map that uses every mnemonic trick I have in my senses. If my notes and computer devices are going to be trashed every time I travel, it might be better not to rely on them.

It’s the third time that proves a charm. On that attempt, I actually see the map I’m creating. Glowing blue lines crisscross a dark space in my imagination. Small icons pop up at known locations: the cradle we came through, the first intersection in the canyon we passed, and a stream flowing into a pond of steaming black fluid. It’s more than a simple map—it’s a living record, showing more data than anything I’ve used before.

“There is a man waiting for us up ahead,” Zedas says. “He is armed with an Overlord charge pistol, but the weapon remains in its holster.”

“Let me go first,” I say. “Not that I’m doubting either of you in matters of diplomacy, but I doubt you in matters of diplomacy.”

“What, you don’t think the chattering abomination will leave a favorable impression?” Shaina asks.

I glare at her. “I thought I made my feelings clear about your regard for Zedas.”

“He doesn’t care what I call him,” Shaina replies, ignoring my warning.

I’m about to argue, but my big friend shrugs like it doesn’t mean a thing. So maybe it doesn’t.

“I don’t concern myself with the words of failed Hadrians,” he says.

I give Shaina a searching look, then step past her. I’ll address her archaic views later, but for now, I’ve got a meeting to handle. The man—and that’s all he appears to be—waits for me a short distance away. So far, so good.

“Welcome, travelers.” He bows slightly. “Did you happen to see if the Orphan Gate has been active?”

“We saw it. My name is Doctor Hank Murphy. My friends are Zedas-Duryan and Commander Shaina Yonz. What do they call you?”

He smiles just enough for me to recognize the expression. “I am Wist Hadrian. I guess you could say I’ve been waiting for you.”

22

I should’ve known our target would be waiting. Maybe it’s not an overt betrayal, but the man’s presence is too coincidental. Are we here to rescue the man or become pawns on a chessboard? Wist Hadrian is a double agent, and no matter how many times Shaina tells me we can trust him, I still have my doubts. Tamok explained how Wist came to work for the rebel cause, but even if true, working both sides is a dangerous game and everyone knows it.

The former Overlord candidate seems pleasant enough and doesn’t question my motivation when I confront him. He finds a spot in the shade and removes his hat to wipe sweat from his brow. I expect anger but witness only patience.

He’s about my height, somewhere between five eleven and six one, with salt and pepper hair a lot like Tamok and a mature face that has spent time in the sun. He’s not especially broad shouldered but looks like an outdoorsman rather than an academic desk jockey. Sturdy boots, trousers, and a work shirt under a jacket with patches on the elbows make up his outfit. He has a small backpack, something for a day trip rather than an expedition, and the hat he’s still holding in one hand.

“How long have you been waiting?” I ask.

He puts on the hat. “I spend a lot of time hiking these parts and always stop here when I can. Overlord Anaximander sends patrols to handle any serious threats coming from the Orphan Gate. I’m surprised we haven’t seen them today.”

“Interesting,” I say.

One look at Shaina tells me she’s also skeptical. Zedas, as usual, is inscrutable. His bulky presence is reassuring. He is always alert and ready but not a wealth of nonverbal feedback.

“I’m sure you have questions, but we should get moving,” he says. “You need time to adjust before really interrogating me.”

“You don’t seem worried about the prospect,” I say.

“I’m not.”

“You haven’t called me an Orphan. Everyone else does.”

He shrugs. “I have always thought it an unnecessary rudeness. There is better shade ahead, but not for a mile. Think about what you want to ask me, and we can start fresh when we’re not roasting in the heat.”

“I like this plan,” Zedas says.

“The Dogan is the smart one in your group. That’s a surprise.” Wist says this with a smile that disarms me.

“We’re full of surprises,” I say. “We’ll follow you.”

He leads the way up a steep trail. The canyon grows wider. On the side we are traversing, there is only a trail twisting through rock spires and scraggly trees with roots sticking out of gaps in the rocks. On the other side, about a hundred meters from us, there are even narrower trails leading to small cave openings. The oblong gaps in the cliff face are dark, the contents invisible. Nothing about this planet puts my mind at ease.

The red and yellow rock formations show the effect of untold years of erosion—layers stripped away to reveal the skeleton of the world. Apart from the trails, there’s no evidence anyone has been here. The rugged paths are most likely caused by animals seeking water from the stream that is sometimes visible at the bottom of the canyon, a mirrored ribbon that plays hide and seek as we move on.

At first, I’m irritated that our contact has so artfully delayed a direct interrogation. Wist doesn’t seem like much of a prisoner, but he wouldn’t if he was truly a double agent.

And I thought university politics were sketchy.

Our hike gives me a chance to think and plan for the conversation that must follow. I’m also able to review my post Orphan Gate reaction. Last time, I immediately felt stronger and full of energy. The same is true now but the improvements lack the same intensity—more of a slow burn, settling in my bones like a visit from an old friend.

I suspect the improvements to strength, endurance, and agility must be tested to fully activate, like breaking a seal or using a key. It’s disappointing that more hasn’t happened, although I’m not sure what I expected, and in the recess of my mind, I’m thankful that the changes are beneficial. The gates are powerful beyond belief, and I expect this won’t be my last transit.

The trail leads around a stack of boulders thirty feet high and exposes the creek bed twisting through the canyon floor. It’s the first long, unobstructed view of the terrain we’ve encountered. I look toward a waterfall at the end and wonder if they have a significance in the Goliath sector.

It’s beautiful, a quaint version of what we passed through on Tamondran. This one marks an oasis of sorts, as the parched landscape stretches away in barren grandeur. Here, I can even see animals moving about, nearly lost in the greenery.

And then it hits me. The scene at the end of the canyon is perfectly clear in my mind, almost like I zoomed in for a better view. “Stop for a moment.”

My companions halt, looking at me with concern. I rub my eyes, shake my head clear, and look again. The meager waterfall is nearly a half mile away. I focus, willing a better view. The change is subtle, but now I can see much farther than I should be able to.

“Now that’s interesting,” I mutter.

“What?” Shaina asks.

“Nothing. I’m just getting my bearings.” Like it or not, Shaina and Zedas are my closest companions and I need to trust them. That doesn’t mean I want to start talking about my Orphan Gate experience before I understand it myself.

“It didn’t look like nothing,” she grumbles. “I thought maybe you have a screaming headache like I do.”

“Are you all right?” I ask.

“I’ll survive. It’s a small price.”

The implication of a positive transformation that makes her suffering worth it is there, but she doesn’t elaborate. Wist waits a few strides up the trail, almost like he’s giving us some privacy, something I doubt is true. The man is working hard to appear trustworthy. He’s doing a good job because I feel a twinge of shame at doubting his sincerity, but part of my cynicism stems from my chosen career. The other issue is the result of my experiences since leaving the LMC site via space portal.

Taken as a whole, a sense of suspicion is a positive right now.

Zedas looks right, then left, checking for danger. Only when his scan of the terrain is done does he face me. “I cannot tell you how the trip affected me. All I know is that the stars are different here.”

I look at the afternoon sun. “I can’t see stars.”

“They are very faint,” he says.

I think about my friend’s excellent hearing and assume his visual acuity must also be superior to mine, which brings me back to my initial revelation about the distant waterfall. I focus my vision on the sky, relax, and search for constellations. Sure enough, I begin to pick out a few faint dots in the pale blue dome above us. The moon, once I know where to look, is easy to see in the middle of the day, although I can’t say if it’s the only one circling this world. The Orphan Gate added new functions to my vision, including the ability to detect stars during the day.

“Wist, where the hell are we?” I ask. It seems like a good place to start.

We stop in the shade of a red rock overhang that’s even cooler and more welcome than he promised, the deep shadows giving me instant relief from the punishing glare. Wist answers, giving me a set of astronomical coordinates that mean nothing. I make a mental note and see the words in my mind. Maybe this type of total recall will make me smarter, but maybe not. Either way, I’ll compile data that might prove useful in the future.

What I do know is that this boost to my biology is a useful replacement for technology that seems to get broken or lost when I travel through one of the portals. I am, in effect, becoming more important than my gear.

“Do you know why we’re here?” I ask.

“Are you trying to politely ask me if I’m still working for Tamok Sky? Because that is a difficult question. In my position, a man does what he must to survive. Which master should I turn to if things go wrong? Will either be merciful?”

“I didn’t expect candor,” I say, and it’s the truth. Double agents are not, in my estimation, fountains of honesty. Not that I know many double agents.

“As dangerous as spying for both sides is, trifling with an Orphan is worse,” he says. “I don’t enjoy that I have found you.”

“You don’t seem bothered.” My observation is based on his pleasant and patient disposition. He could be hiding his true feelings, but that would make him one incredible actor.

“Unfortunately, I’m not new to this. And I’ve decided that I will die when I die. So what use does growing anxious serve?”

“That’s an admirable ideal. In the real world, I wonder if it works.”

“Anaximander’s people will be waiting for me at the staging camp for this zone,” Wist says. “His officers don’t trust me. They give me free reign to travel and study the Orphan Gate as much as I want, but I imagine we are being watched even now. What I’m saying is that if you need more time to rest, we could make camp and stay out for a night or two before he sends a patrol to bring me back in under the pretense of protecting me.”

“My companions and I can’t accompany you that far,” I say. “Anaximander won’t forget what I did.”

“I understand.” For the first time, his façade falters. Not because of what he says, but because of a slight pause between the words. “I’ve arranged for a safe house, a cabin not too close to Anaximander’s base camp, but near enough that you can watch his troops come and go. There are only so many roads on this continent. He has mountaineering units that can scale cliffs and climb peaks, but they’re rarely deployed to their fullest potential.”

“Why not?” I ask.

“The wilderness is a dangerous place. I will lead. We don’t want to be out past nightfall.”

We fall into a single file column, but I hang back slightly so that I can talk to Shaina. “How’s the headache?”

“Don’t worry about it. The smell of the Dogan is distracting me.” She quickly realizes my annoyance. “I’m stuck with you and the Dogan. We’re in this together. But I don’t have to like him. He’s not exactly trying to make small talk, is he?”

“No, he’s probably still recovering from your insults.”

“He dislikes me as much as I dislike him. But in a way, we have more in common than you and I do. So maybe I should appreciate him more. When it comes time to fight, I’m sure he’ll be useful.”

“You’re just a bundle of positivity today,” I say.

Surprisingly, she smiles.

I allow her to pass me so that I can talk to Zedas.

“What do you need, Murph?” he asks.

“Just wanted to check in, see if you’ve noticed anything I’ve missed about this place.”

He considers my statement for almost a full minute before responding. “The planet is harsh, and we have few options. We should be ready to run if we encounter Overlord Anaximander’s forces.”

“What do you think of Wist Hadrian?”

“He no longer looks like an Overlord candidate. They wear rich clothing.”

I consider my Dogan friend. It’s doubtful he knows as much about the Hadrians as Shaina, but maybe his perspective is more trustworthy. “Can you feel a change from the Orphan Gate?”

“I feel an urge to grow new armor. Adult Dogans do not feel this compulsion. There is no point. I don’t want to run to the ocean, if that is your question.”

“Okay, but tell me right away if you start to feel sick or something. And keep an eye on Wist. I don’t trust him.”

“Perhaps you did listen,” he says.

“Trust no one. I get it.” I make my way back toward the front and pause to talk again with Shaina. “We were sent to rescue this man. I’m ready to get this over with.”

“I’ll be ready,” she says.

I join Wist in our slow procession. “I was told you had a way out of here once we arrived and located you.”

“There is a ship, but is on the other side of Anaximander’s territory.” He points to a temporary structure barely visible from the trail. “This is a safe place. Rest and be ready when I give you the signal.”

“What’s the signal?”

“That depends on what type of vehicle I can secure. I hope for an airship, but it may be a ground car rugged enough to handle the trails in the more remote regions. If I return with an airship, I will waggle the wings before making my final approach. All you have to do is be ready. If I come in a ground vehicle, I will flash the lights.”

I imagine both scenarios and see a problem. “What if it’s noon?”

“If you pay attention, you should still be able to see the lights change,” he says. “Come, I will show you how to reach the cabin and get inside. It was abandoned because of its poor location, which now makes it useful to us.”

“That’s lucky.” Before long, I’m watching my footing so carefully that I don’t have time to worry about anything else. At the end of the trail, we are forced to scale a thirty foot rock face and then scramble through a tangle of underbrush.

I stand and dust myself off. Rough plank walls rise above me. The cabin is larger than I thought. When I climb the stairs onto the porch, I feel like I’m at an old hunting lodge, the rough timbers scored with tool marks and square-headed nails.

Trees and bushes, their leaves a deep, intense green, grow against and around the cabin, slowly bringing the building down with the inexorable power of nature.

“Home sweet home.” I stand, hands on hips, and tap my foot against the door. “Cozy, right?”

“If cozy means old and filled with insects, then yes,” Zedas says.

“You’ve got armor. You’ll be fine.”

Zedas grunts, and for once, Shaina looks like she agrees with him.

23

The door creaks in protest when I push inside. Zedas follows closely, then moves to guard my left flank with his wide bladed sword held in both hands. Shaina does the same on my right, but she carries a short-barreled charge rifle at low ready like she knows how to use it.

Something is definitely different about the woman, even if she won’t tell me what it is. I’m not sure it’s good—eagerness for violence, maybe, and the energy to export it.

The person I really want answers from, however, comes in last and carries no weapons. The double agent is calm like a monk and half as talkative.

“It’s as dark as the underworld in here,” Shaina complains.

“I can see fine,” Zedas says.

And so can I.

“Can either of you explain why your clothing and weapons came through unchanged and mine get randomly up or downgraded?” I stretch my back from the difficult hike. The cabin isn’t a threat, unless I sneeze to death from the dust. The insect situation remains unknown, for now.

“Weapons, armor, and uniforms translate more easily for most people.” Wist moves to a grimy window and gazes out. It’s a casual movement, but also calculated, like he knows snapping the window dressing aside would give away his position to anyone watching the cabin.

“You know a lot about the Orphan Gates. And the Orphans,” I say.

“Years of watching the portals and talking to people. That’s all it is.” He glances at the door like maybe he just remembered someplace he really needs to be right now. “It’s accrued data and nothing more.”

“That’s all it takes?” I ask. “Or are you the Orphan Gate master?”

The man shifts weight onto his left foot, then back to his right. He’s probably right-handed. His stance will allow him to shuffle forward with the left foot so he can push off with his right leg and swing a haymaker with his strong hand.

I know this because his body language changed the moment I asked that question.

That’s how I read it. In this place, thoughts of what kind of beads the ancients used or how they developed a written language are secondary. My concerns now center on immediate information—mistakes that can kill me, along with everyone else.

“Why so tense?” I ask. “You look like you’re ready to fight.”

“We took too long to get you here.” A tremor runs through him. “I need to get back or Anaximander will lock me in a box. Teach me a lesson. Try to compromise my spirit.” His face is grim. What he says is a fact, not a possibility.

“How many times has he put you in isolation?” I’m guessing a lot, maybe enough to break him.

“Three. Two were miserable. One was pure hell because he was truly angry. His soldiers banged on the outside of my confinement with sticks for days, and when they weren’t doing that, they dripped water through a hole in the top of the box—or that is what I told myself to stay sane. But if I’m honest, sometimes it was engine fuel and other times it was urine. They’re creative that way.”

“Why?” I prompt.

A pained expression crosses his face. “The man believed I was an Orphan.”

“Are you?”

“No.” He heads for the door but stops. “I might be gone for two or three days. Stay hidden. The less moving around in the open the better, even in the dark. The Overlord patrols fear the night here, but they have ways of dealing with it. Anaximander can make them do anything, including enter this region on a moonless night.”

And then he’s gone before I can ask clarifying questions, leaving me with Zedas, and Shaina, and fewer answers than when we arrived.

* * *

“We’re not staying here,” I say.

Zedas stands with his back to the wall and makes no comment. I doubt he cares whether we stay to face danger here—or find it someplace else. But that could be a false assumption. I’ve ascribed codes of honor that I am familiar with. Assuming he is like a samurai warrior or a knight templar might be as incorrect as someone believing archaeologists are swashbuckling adventurers by nature.

I’ve never been in a swordfight, but as a I pass from gate to gate, that possibility looms ever larger. At least I won’t go into battle wearing glasses.

Shaina sits up wearily “We’ve been hiking our asses off all day. And surviving the gate is a big deal. Why not stay here? Unless you have a better place to hide out.”

“I don’t.”

She curses. “Please convince me leaving this hiding place is a good idea. Because I have my doubts. I want to sleep right here, but the easy way is often fraught with danger. By design, the Overlords might even craft a path to lure us into our end.”

“If Wist is truly our ally, then staying here would be smart. But if he’s been broken by Anaximander’s torture, there will be Overlord commandos kicking down our door before the night is over. Bet on that.”

That gets their attention. Shaina shoulders her pack, checks her weapons, and stands ready at the door.

We leave the safe house without a word. The night closes in around us. The landscape forces us to move slowly, and in the darkness the scraggly trees become a dense forest, dark limbs climbing high above in a wild profusion. Yellow eyes glow in the trees above us. When the animals—or whatever they are—climb down, they change colors from blue to red to vanished, an ability that gives me pause as I watch the endless parade of life-forms, all churning the forest air with calls, or complaints, or invitations to breed.

“What kind of eyes are those?” I watch another animal, but Shaina isn’t listening. She’s frozen, looking back at the cabin in mute horror.

“We should—wait,” Shaina says, voice rough with disbelief.

I look the way we came and see a ship hovering over the rustic building. Floodlights illuminate the scene, and soldiers fast-rope down, shattering the windows in a tinkling that just reaches our ears. They shout and kick open doors as they search room to room.

“Not an option,” I say.

“How did you know that would happen, Orphan?” Shaina demands.

“I’ve always been a good judge of character. And you do realize I’m not the only Orphan in this group now.”

“It’s not the same with us,” she argues.

“Really? Then explain it to me. I’d like to know.” I’m irritated but also afraid to get in a shouting match this close to unknown life-forms and the Overlord troops who were just then concluding that we’d made a run for it.

“We should keep moving,” Zedas says.

“Agreed, but I want answers.” I take the lead, confident in my abilities. I may not be a warrior like my companions, but I am a trained soldier—even if it’s been a while. But soldiering is like riding a bike, I tell myself, imbued with a confidence that either reflects my new abilities—or a lack of good sense.

I’ll go with ability.

The trail winds ever downward. We stop frequently, but there’s no pursuit.

“Wist sold us out,” I say.

“Yes,” Zedas agrees, and it kills Shaina to admit he’s right yet again.

Grudgingly, she nods. “What next?”

Finding a way back to Sarsten and Tamondran is going to be a lot more complicated now that Wist is against us. Maybe he always was, and maybe the situation is fluid. One thing I do know is that the Overlords won’t simply stop looking. In the distance, the enemy ship rises from the safe house and begins a search of the area. Powerful searchlights sweep sections of the harsh landscape, their beams nearly blue-white as they throw the dusty landscape into harsh relief. Not long after it begins, several more join it. Worse, they systematically scour the area with a beam scanner, the laser pulsing out in steady brilliance.

“We’re in trouble,” I sum up.

“That’s a lot of ships,” Shaina says. “We need to pick up the pace.”

“No.” I reply. “We can’t outrun them. There’s no need to rush to failure. Look for places to shelter until they pass. I doubt their scanners can reach into caves or underground.”

Shaina curses, but I don’t recognize the phrase. Then she pushes past me, taking the lead. “Enough of this. I may be tired, but I know I can run. The gate has made us strong. Let’s use the one advantage we have.”

Before I can stop her, she rushes down the trail at a reckless pace. Birds and bats are startled from tree branches and cliff overhangs near us, filling the air with frantic motion. I chase after her, and Zedas follows closely. A quick look toward our pursuers confirms they have changed course.

“Dammit, stop. You’re drawing them in!” I snap, but her feet never slow down.

“We tried your way. Now we need to make a run for it.” She sprints ahead, then leaps over a log and splashes across a shallow stream. I keep up easily. Zedas struggles to maintain the pace, even though I’ve seen him run much better than anyone his size should be able to.

Forest creatures show themselves, red eyes blinking again as they reveal arms that are too long, ribs that are too visible, and skin that hangs in sallow sheets. Their faces are lean and desperate, a feral air of hunger around all of them as we rush by in a blur.

“Finally. Real aliens.” I catch a glimpse of a face and mouth straight out of hell. The predators are pack-based and determined. They’re also ragged and weak, a condition that I hope to exploit with my Orphan transition.

Shaina runs even faster. This time I don’t bother to argue. Zedas falls farther behind, giving me one plaintive yell, pitched low.

Two of the ships draw closer, leading others like wayward birds, their pattern still locked in on a systematic search. Laser scanners flash against the twisted desert trees, and the sands spread away in austere sterility, broken by rocks that look tired and worn.

“Stop. We have to wait for Zedas,” I shout. To my surprise, Shaina halts, draws her weapon, and sweeps it across the hungry predators edging closer. They’re beginning to yip, like wild dogs, but with a wheezing chorus underneath the sounds.

“Zedas, we’re here.” I move up the trail, worried that he might take another way down. Animals have cut a maze of paths through the area.

“I have arrived.” He plods to a stop. Each breath whistles from his helmet. “The Overlord ships are still coming.”

“Yeah, and these things are surrounding us.” Shaina points her weapon at one hunter after another. They hiss and swarm around, continuously circling our position. The bigger ones click their teeth and pound clawed hands against their shaggy chests, fingers bent with at least one extra knuckle. It’s an unsettling detail over and above their slavering teeth and wild eyes.

“Are these the reason Overlord patrols don’t come out at night?” I ask.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Shaina kicks one that gets too close. “If we start shooting, the Overlords will be on us in seconds, not minutes.”

I don’t see what color they are until three of the largest rush us. The biggest tree dweller heads for me, his fur streaked brown and grey, longer around wrist, ankle, head. The eyes pulse red malevolence. I see specks of orange and yellow in star-shaped pupils right before he swipes a claw at my face, closing the distance between us in a muscular leap.

Create distance. Change angles. Block, then strike hard. The fight happens so fast that thoughts are slower than actions. My analytical brain tries to impose order, but my body responds to violence in kind. With each impact of my fist or foot, the alpha—he has to be, he’s so much larger than the others—falls back, wounded.

He’s also pissed.

The alpha comes on in a blur, slashing at my face with ebony claws, then jumps forward, driving his bony knees into my chest. My breath leaves in a surprised whoof, but I let my body take the lead and grab his thin wrists in an attempted throw.

My boot slips. I go down on one knee. The creature presses its advantage, knocking me sideways, then shoves me down onto my back, mouth opening coffin-wide as he bears down for the kill.

I plant one boot on my attacker’s torso and heave him away. Once I’m up, Zedas grabs it by the mane and twirls it, then he throws the alpha in a whistling arc, its legs splayed wide as it bellows in fear. It strikes the bole of a tree with a ripe crunch and slides to the thirsty soil without another twitch.

“It is dead,” Zedas says.

“Um—yes,” I agree. He really is a master of the understatement.

Others swarm forward, a hissing rabble with eyes that light up the night—and the Overlords appear, lights blazing down in harsh beams, sending the tree-dwellers into a wild scramble. The Overlord ships cut loose with wing-mounted charge cannons, cooking the night air even as they sear the ground behind every fleeing predator.

“They missed,” Zedas says.

“No shit,” Shaina grumbles, eyes narrowed against the punishing lights. “Don’t think they’ll miss us. Unless we run?”

I’m tempted, but escape is impossible. “No. Not this time. Not now.”

Noise increases as the first two ships descend, drop their ramps, and deploy soldiers in full battle rattle, their boots thumping out the sound of our capture. The roar of the turbines vibrates my clothing, my skin underneath, and even my teeth, but there isn’t much of a dust-up.

“I need to get one of those,” I say, but no one hears me.

Once the assault vehicles are down, the noise ends abruptly.

“Remain without motion. Obey my mandate,” the lead trooper shouts, his curious syntax leaving me confused.

I raise both hands—which doesn’t mean the same thing here as it does back home. An Overlord soldier rushes forward and strikes me in the gut with the but of his rifle.

I stagger. “What the hell was that for? I surrendered, asshole.”

“Do not raise your hands to my troops,” the leader says.

My conscious self wants to comply, but something more like my old friend Jack Barris wins the day. “How about just a finger?”

Maybe presenting the middle finger means the same thing here, and maybe not, but I’m not awake long enough to learn the answer. The butt of the charge rifle slams against my face and it’s lights out.

* * *

Losing consciousness doesn’t subdue my spirit. I’m not exactly driving the bus, but I regain lucidity every few minutes, and each time I’m straining against my restraints, grinding my teeth together from the effort. I twist away from a guard with rough hands and anger management problems. Another shoves my head down, bending me at the waist, and drives his knee into the side of my thighs. What is it with knee strikes today?

Shaina swears like a MARSOC Marine having a bad day. I only glimpse fragments of her struggle, but I hear her body hit the ground, cutting off her protests. Kicks and punches fly. Guards shout at her. For several seconds all she makes are choking, gurgling sounds at the bottom of the pile of Overlord troopers, then she starts calling them parentless sons of dogs and other colorful metaphors while they dodge her frantic kicks.

From the other direction, Zedas roars and throws bodies against trees and rocks. The sound of a charge rifle ends his resistance, and I hope he’s not dead.

All in all, it’s one hell of a fight, even from my limited perspective. I only hope we all survive it.

I go under again, swimming through blackness that is nothing like traversing an Orphan Gate. When I wake up from this, I won’t be stronger or possess increased mental abilities—I’ll be busted up like the loser of a bar fight, if I wake up at all. I’m dimly aware that they might put a round in my head while I’m out, and that fact alone makes me fight for consciousness with the desperation born of pure, animalistic fear.

Every time I slip under, the nightmares flare to life. I see myself, torn apart, transferred through gates, and drifting among shapes of creatures from the bowels of hell. Their leering faces only move on when another more fearsome beast pushes them to the side—all wanting a look at me, all craving a part of me—my mind. My body.

My soul.

One thing I do know. We’re going to die, but not quickly or with dignity. The Overlord soldiers will torture us first because their leaders will demand it.

I awake in a primitive jail cell with Shaina and Zedas near me. She’s trying to talk to Zedas, but her voice is so rough it’s barely recognizable. For his part, Zedas breathes too heavily—like a wounded man at death’s door.

Now there is the ultimate Orphan Gate, I think, knowing I’m not ready for the terrifying prospect of crossing the river Styx. I haven’t done enough in this life. There’s too much unfinished business. Even the thought of giving up feels like cowardice, and here I am, on an alien world, with only shreds of knowledge tucked away in a mind made better by ancient technology.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow.

Shaina edges toward me. “This has been a complete failure.” Her throat is covered with finger marks where someone choked her—probably more than once—and the flesh around her left eye is swollen.

I raise a finger. “But did we die?”

Her eyes narrow before softening, and she tilts her head at me. “Was that. . . a joke?”

“Sort of.”

Zedas grunts. “Not a good one.”

And then we all laugh until it hurts, which isn’t very long.

Tears of anger and frustration fill my eyes despite my bravado. I don’t think she can see my response in the poor lighting. I think of my friend Jack, and home, and I want to laugh because that seems like a better thing than surrendering to despair. The Murphy family doesn’t quit. I had an uncle who knew how to deal with “being in the shit” as he called it during the few Christmas holidays he managed to come home.

I decide right then to stay strong and always resist the Overlords, and it starts with taking stock of our reality.

“All right. What do we have?” I say, and Shaina smiles.

* * *

I’m facing the bars but not touching them, when Wist and Anaximander enter the long, wide hallway leading past the prison cells. There’s a reason I don’t touch the bars. They’re covered in grease to prevent rust, and maybe to keep prisoners from climbing them. The grease will also serve as a sign that I tried to escape. I’ll pass, thanks.

Guards follow Wist, his boss, and a pair of civilians. One looks like a doctor. The other wears a hooded coat and carries no visible weapons. At first, I think it’s Tamok’s other double agent, but this one is too short and . . . possibly a woman.

“That’s interesting,” I mutter.

Shaina moves to my side. “Great. We’re going to be tortured.”

“Tell me something before they get here,” I say. “What do you know about Tamok’s double agent, the one in the hood who never shows his face?”

“Nothing,” she answers. “Tamok is the only person who talks to the Dark Eye’s emissaries—for our protection, he says.”

I twitch in irritation. “Emissaries . . . plural? What are they, a spy club?”

“I’ve only seen the one we call TDAS,” she says.

I give her a questioning look.

“Tall, dark, and scary. Some of the troops turn it into Tidas, like that is his real name. Come to think of it, I couldn’t tell you if Tidas is a man or a woman. Never seen even his face. I see what you’re looking at. This one is a woman for sure. Curvy,” she says, staring at the procession approaching us.

Zedas levers himself to his feet and joins us about the time the procession stops in front of our cage.

A burn scar covers half of Anaximander’s face. One of his eyes weeps constantly. From the way he stands, I suspect most of his body is covered with damage from my sabotage. He’s not limping, but he moves stiffly as though concealing deep, long lasting injuries. The degree of hate coming from his eyes is impossible to measure, but I’ll assume our bridges are good and burned.

“Doctor Hank Murphy.” He thrusts each word at me with deadly precision. “You are treacherous and shortsighted. Be thankful that Wist advocated for you. My other advisors want to torture you to death while I watch, a fact that gives me pleasure you can’t imagine. I’m not a cruel man, ordinarily, but for you, I’ll make an exception. For now? You have a reprieve. Do not test me again. The damage you’ve done to the gate system is incalculable.”

The man’s entourage holds their places in silence. Formality isn’t the right word to describe their bearing. Except for Wist, these men and women seem like the type to kill or die for their leader.

“Are you running a cult?” I ask.

“I’m not familiar with that word,” Anaximander says. “Your tone suggests it is an insult to me and my people. Do not push your good fortune.”

I take a moment to respond, using every precious second I’m given to think and evaluate the situation. “What happens now?”

Anaximander steps closer to the bars and speaks to me in a low voice. “I’m not done with you, but my business today is with other prisoners. Listen to them if you can, or cover your ears like a coward. It means nothing to me. But remember this, your fate will be worse.”

He steps back, faces the next cellblock, and continues with his followers in tow.

Wist lingers. “He’s going to put you on a ship along with the worst of his prisoners. One of his officers may even tell you it’s a chance for you to escape, but that will be a lie.”

Shaina gasps and takes a step back, her angry red face suddenly devoid of color. “Not a sun ship.”

“What the hell is that?”

“An ancient tradition,” Wist says. “Old vessels about to be retired, or those that are cheaply made for this purpose, are sent on an automated course into this system’s star. It sounds dramatic, but everyone on board will be cooked long before they get close to the real fire. It’s hideous. It’s . . . inhuman, but beyond that, it’s slow.”

“What’s the point?” I ask. For the first time since I arrived in Goliath sector, my body truly aches with hopelessness and my spirit surrenders to darkness. There is a tiny light in the distance, but I can’t decide what it is or why I should try to reach it.

“You will be given a chance to swear fealty to Overlord Anaximander. I suggest you take it. Don’t judge me until you’ve experienced the consequences of resistance. Ask Shaina Yonz. She knows the futility of your quest.”

24

Anaximander’s entourage moves out of view. Wist Hadrian, the double agent and double traitor, follows and is soon gone as well. I listen for the sounds of the Overlord’s promise. The thought of other people suffering for my actions sickens me, and I sift my memories, looking for comfort from the life I’ve left behind. The only person I can resurrect in my imagination is Jack, and he’s most likely dead, shot to death by Brendon Davis’s treacherous mercenaries.

How has my life gone from academics, to fieldwork, to a nightmare?

“What are we doing here?” Desolation colors my words. I need to lash out but lack the energy.

Shaina responds to my tone as though I accused her of something. “You knew the mission would be dangerous. And Tamok told you more than he ever told me. What would you expect from a double agent but betrayal? This was a risk, and we came up on the wrong side of the knife toss.”

“I don’t understand the concept of a double agent,” Zedas says.

Shaina glares at him. “You wouldn’t.”

“Don’t you understand what’s happening?” I ask.

“Of course I do, but why don’t you explain it to me, professor.” She begins to pace angrily.

“Wist was supposed to tell us how to get back to Sarsten and Tamondran,” I say. “And our closest allies—hell, our only allies—are on the other side of the Orphan Gate. No one is coming to rescue us. That’s the reality of where we are.”

She stops abruptly, her chin dropping as the full impact of my words hits her.

“Unless you have a miracle in your pocket, we’ll be riding the sun ship until we all melt.” I resist the urge to yell, but it’s there.

“Did Tamok explain that Wist was an Overlord candidate?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Do you understand the import of that statement? In Hadrian society, Overlords are everything. Perhaps you have something similar in your society? Joining the upper-class means wealth and power beyond imagination. Even high-ranking officers in well rewarded specialities remain in danger of falling into poverty and despair. It’s unreasonable to think Wist would give up on that ambition,” she says.

“What about you? What would you do to become an Overlord, or even a candidate?”

She starts to pace again. “Don’t ever ask me that question.”

“What about you, Zedas? You have some sort of grand ambition that makes you untrustworthy?”

“My only hope is redemption through service to Doctor Hank Murphy,” he replies.

Shaina swears under her breath.

I sense that Shaina was about to reveal more but stopped, either because her resolve faltered or because the next revelation is unspeakable. “Tell me the rest.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s something. How do you know so much about Wist?” As soon as I ask the question, I know I’m onto something.

“Did Tamok explain how Wist was marooned on Sarsten?” Shaina asks.

“He did.” I keep my answer short, not wanting to interrupt her confession.

“Well, that wasn’t the first time the man was stuck in a bad place.” She stops pacing and holds my gaze. “Part of the reason he earned his candidacy was because of his boldness and willingness to take risks. This often caused him to be wounded and got members of his team killed. Long before he came to Sarsten, he found himself in a similar predicament on Chosian, a planet far worse than anything you can imagine.”

I wait for the revelation that I can almost feel in the air.

“My father was on that expedition. He didn’t survive.”

“Wist probably can’t bear to look at you out of guilt,” I tell her.

She doesn’t seem convinced. “If he knows who I am, I’d be surprised. The man appears soft-spoken and kind when he’s playing his role, but less so when he stands next to Anaximander wearing his true colors. He’s as selfish and evil as all the rest.”

“I’m sorry.” I mean it.

She turns away from me, face twisted with regret and disgust. “My father only joined that mission because he hoped to become an Overlord candidate. Greed. He was sick with it, even—I loved that man. Loved him as only a daughter can, and I watched greed take root in him like a poison. Wist lied to him and others—promising he would keep them safe.”

“So that’s why you didn’t want to come on this mission. I thought it was because you were afraid of the Orphan gate.”

“I am, but I also fear what I might do to Wist if I get him alone. And that would disgrace me in the eyes of Tamok Sky, who is the only hope for the Goliath sector.”

There isn’t much to say after that because I have my doubts about Tamok. Jack would be proud of how distrustful I’ve become. Trust no one, have an escape plan, and be prepared to kill everyone you meet was one of his favorite jokes.

Now I’m wondering if it was a joke.

Shaina’s pacing increases, her feet scuffing in the rhythm of unchecked rage, but she doesn’t share her thoughts. Facial expressions and exotic swear words give away her mood without revealing details, a murmur of anger and frustration that I feel in my bones. Zedas sits at the back of the cell, thick legs crossed in a display of flexibility that makes me stare. Even now, some things are too strange to ignore.

“Are you okay?”

Zedas nods but holds it like a bow. “Yes, Murph, I am improving.”

And he is. I can tell by the long, even breaths he draws in, holds, and releases like he is meditating with his eyes open. One spot of his armor is smooth, while the rest is scuffed and scratched from his recent ordeal.

“Did you polish your right shoulder piece?” I ask.

“Not exactly, I’m healing. Slowly, but yes.”

“His appearance doesn’t matter. His battle skills do,” Shaina says.

“Doesn’t hurt to look good while you’re killing. Just saying.” I grin.

“Excuse me for trying,” she mutters. “Overlord primadonna.”

I chuckle. “Your insults are getting better.”

Shaina tilts her head in mock respect, but her smile is real. “Hey, Orphan, a thought?”

“What?”

“I think some of the prisoners will make a breakout attempt before too many of them are tortured to death. Maybe we can exploit that opportunity. Follow them out.”

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard so far.” I sit with my back to the wall and close my eyes. Exhaustion pulls me down and holds me. “Can’t wait to get shot by the guards.”

25

Two squads of Overlord guards gather at our cell before the door is opened. They fill the hallway and act nervous, constantly checking weapons and arguing in low voices.

“Not me,” one says. “You go in there and bring him out.”

The supervisor smacks the back of the man’s helmet. “None of us are going in. We’ll call him out. What are you, stupid?”

Four of the men wear heavier armor than I’ve ever seen and carry bulky rifles with large battery packs. They’re armed to the teeth, and yet—

The supervisor approaches the gate. “Orphan, approach the door. Keep your hands where they may be observed.”

I comply. Why not?

“Stick your hands through the slot so they can be bound.”

“What if I don’t?”

He sneers. “I’ll make you regret it. Maybe you think that big bastard will help you, but he won’t if I have him shot before we open the door. And if you give us trouble, I leave my men with your girlfriend there while you’re being interrogated.”

“Well, I don’t want any of that. You’ll get no problems from me.” I stick my hands through the slot.

The guards stare in disbelief, but they quickly bind my hands.

“Pull them back inside so we can work the door,” the supervisor says.

I do as I’m told.

The door opens, then they drag me out and slam the door behind me. Shaina and Zedas attempt to follow but stop well short of the confrontation. This isn’t the time, and we all know it. Lacking expertise at prison life or jailbreaks, I’m not sure there will be a time. I don’t have a reference point, but it doesn’t matter, because we start moving as one, my feet making a staccato beat on the floor until we reach a door of modern design.

It’s metal, with a metal frame and a keypad on the right.

“You must go inside.” The guard supervisor sticks his finger in my face and then points in the direction he wants me to go. “There are no exits from this room, and we will still be here if you try to leave with your Orphan tricks. Do nothing we don’t want. Clear?”

“I understand even if your Hadrian is awkward and strangely worded.”

“Look who talks.” He frowns.

I walk in, and for a moment the cool air is pleasant. Whoever summoned me is nowhere to be seen, so I continue farther into the room and see a wall full of video screens. These are far more primitive than I saw in Anaximander’s ship and his Orphan Gate facility on the moon of Sarsten. The lights serve a purpose—to cover the shabby reality of this room.

“I’m taking a huge chance talking to you like this. You can’t imagine what I went through to give you this warning before Anaximander sets his interrogators upon you.”

I turn to see Wist. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Truly.” I think of my escorts to this meeting. “Especially since I assume you’re going to help us escape. It’s your fault we’re in here, after all.”

“That is humorous. You would’ve been caught with or without my involvement. I arranged it at a controlled location to render the process as safe as possible. Not that you made it easy.”

“I guess I’m just not an easy person. And to be honest, Wist, the longer I’m in the Goliath sector, the less easy I’m becoming.”

“Is that a threat? I don’t like your tone.”

“Cut to the chase.”

This phrase confuses him for a few seconds, but he shrugs it off and answers. “I can’t make promises now. But I can help if you don’t act like a fool. You’re new to this game. I’ve been in the arena a long time and understand how the contest is meant to be played.”

“So far, I’m not impressed. If you really want to help, let’s discuss a plan in advance. Get on the same page, work together. Haven’t you heard the expression two heads are better than one?”

He closes his eyes for a moment, genuinely disturbed at something I don’t quite understand. The man is interpreting my words differently than I mean them. Factoring that into future conversations as a confounding variable will be important, I think.

“In the Goliath sector, that phrase refers to executions—it’s a nuanced expression I can’t translate. Don’t use it unless you mean it.” He gathers his thoughts. “There have been worse Overlords than Anaximander in this part of the Goliath sector. He’s one of the most murderous people I know, but at least he doesn’t perform mass executions out of boredom,” Wist says.

In a flash, I’m painfully homesick. I don’t want to be here, and I don’t want to fight this fight. But it’s not like I have options, so I push forward before mental gravity drags me further down, where the light can’t reach and giving up feels like the right choice.

“Sure, but you understand my question? Teamwork only works if we have the same goal and agree how to reach it.”

He twists his upper lip slightly, eyes dead before he hides the sneer. “You wish to make decisions by committee. Sometimes that works. This time, I thought it would be best if you were just captured without incident. My plan had been to convince Anaximander that a suite of apartments on one of his starships would be sufficient to restrain you. From there, I could have granted you access to data devices and perhaps introduced you to members of my resistance cell. But you had to be reckless and impetuous, like all the Orphans are.”

I sigh, tired of his bullshit. “What do you want, Wist? Why are we in this room right now?”

“It’s simple, and if you think about it, you will know what I want.”

It takes me two seconds to realize what this self-serving asshole is worried about. “I’m not going to tell Anaximander you’re a double agent. He’ll probably figure that out on his own. I’ll be long gone by then.”

Wist laughs. “I admire your confidence.”

“Tell me about the Dark Eye.” My demand knocks him off balance, which makes me feel pretty good. Score one for Murph.

“He’s an Orphan. Arrived here five years ago. Unlike others, he didn’t try to fight everyone himself, even though I think he could have. If the stories are even partially true, he’s a demon in combat. But the Dark Eye immediately consolidated a power base and began to expand it. Anaximander and his rivals realized too late what type of creature this new player is.”

“So, is he an Overlord or a rebel?”

“Doctor Murphy, that’s a good question. I’m a double agent trying to stay alive. He’s a power piece on a game board where most of the pawns died suddenly. His dominance is unnatural and dangerous. The man has a—what did he call it—a personality cult. His closest agents commit suicide before risking capture and an interrogation.”

I shudder involuntarily at the images this evokes. Wist doesn’t notice. He seems afraid of his own words.

“For all of our problems, the Hadrian Empire is the only entity strong enough to resist the Protheans while still keeping the Dogans in check. Hard choices must be made.”

“And you don’t think this Dark Eye Orphan is the right man for the job,” I say. “I don’t see how that has anything to do with me.”

“You’d be surprised. But I’ve already said too much. The trick to being a double agent is keeping the most powerful people happy and never getting caught. I give you this much because I’m afraid you will be worse than Anaximander or the Dark Eye or the ancients. Remember what I’ve done for you if that day comes.”

“Oh, I’ll remember.”

This irritates him but also turns him pale with fear. He summons the guards with a crisp command into a handheld device and a petulant click of his hand. They enter and drag me back to my cell.

“Move, Orphan,” the leader growls in my ear as they manhandle me down the hallway. Wist disappears immediately. All of my attention is on my escort.

I glare at him. “I am.”

Someone punches me in the face. I lean away from a second strike, and we go down in a pile with me on the bottom.

I twist to my side, trying to keep pressure off my diaphragm, but I get a knee in my kidneys instead. Someone steps on my hand, sparking memories of the badger bite that maimed me decades ago.

“You must no longer struggle! Become compliant! Do what we say!” the leader screams into my ear, because we’re that close to each other in the tangle of bodies.

“Okay. I’m done. Just let me up.”

Everyone stops moving, but it’s another minute before they actually stand me up. Adrenaline surges through my veins and I almost—almost—want to try them again. “You guys are a bag of dicks.”

No reaction. Lucky for me.

Reclaiming my dignity takes a while. They walk me through the prison halls. I imagine my peers from Harvard, Oxford, and other international universities like Tohoku in Japan witnessing my walk of shame. I can’t brawl like this. How is that getting me answers?

The rest of the walk doesn’t seem as long, even though I have more to think about. Huge dumps of adrenaline distort time sense, I know that. I haven’t begun to sort things out when I’m shoved back into an empty cell. Loneliness crashes down on me like a meteorite.

Get your act together, Murph.

An hour passes before Shaina is shoved inside with me. One eye is swollen shut. The other is close behind. She has a split lip and bruises all over her body. The choke marks on her neck from her capture are turning yellow and green. Her clothing is nearly as ragged as mine was before I came through the gate, and she looks defeated, mentally and physically.

“Are you okay?” It’s a stupid question and I regret it immediately.

“I didn’t die,” she says with a smile.

“Optimist. We’ll count that as a win.”

She looks me over. “You did better than I did. Maybe you can explain how that works. Because I’d gladly change places with you.”

“Wist Hadrian issued me a long apology for betraying us and trying to manipulate me. I tried to get information out of him, but it was all bullshit and riddles.”

“Still better than thirty-five punches to the face.” She spits blood in the corner. “Thirty-six, maybe. Hurting your friends, then trying to kill them, is how they will make you serve them. They will also use it to learn the location of Tomandran. Too bad for their plan that I’m not your friend.”

I wait, feeling guilty, and wish Tamok hadn’t ordered her to accompany me on this doomed mission.

She looks me over with her good eye, raising her chin higher than normal to see around the swelling. “So why didn’t they beat you?”

“It was a different type of interrogation.” My reasoning sounds lame, but I know it’s right.

She snorts in disgust.

“It’s a common tactic, what they’re doing to us. One of us will be treated well, and the others will be abused. Resentment will grow until it divides us. Once that happens, they’ll pick us off one by one.”

“You’re smart for an Orphan.” She draws away from me, still struggling to stare with her battered face obstructing her mission. “The Dogan will suffer worst of all.”

I look at my feet.

She curls up in the corner to sleep. I watch her carefully, afraid she will choke on her blood or die from internal injuries. Two days ago, I barely knew her name. Now I feel like we’re part of the same tribe, or even maybe a smaller social unit—a family, bonded through pain. I’m not sure if she likes me or I like her, but it’s definitely us against them. Suddenly, the Overlords’ efforts to divide us are really pissing me off.

I wonder—because I too am an optimist—how much worse things can get.

I am soon answered.

26

A voice crackles from a speaker box in the hallway. “Attention prisoners, take nothing for granted. The very air you breathe belongs to Overlord Anaximander. Light is not necessary for your continued survival, and your pathetic lives are not worth the fuel necessary to heat this dump.”

“As public service announcements go, this one lacks subtlety,” I say.

“Your fate has been decided. Due to your lack of compliance, all residents of this facility will be moved to a sun ship, where you will have a limited amount of time to confess your sins and prove your usefulness to the Hadrian Empire. Once that time has passed, the crew will depart the ship and you will be abandoned to the star. Prepare yourselves for transfer and interrogation, and remember, your lives mean nothing.”

The power comes back after an intense blast of feedback caused by the sound of a microphone clicking off.

“Well, that was unpleasant,” I say. Neither of my companions respond.

“Orphan!”

I freeze, then move to the bars to listen to the ragged sound of the man’s voice.

“Orphan! I know you can hear me. Why can’t you just pledge fealty to Overlord Anaximander? What right do you have to get us all killed?”

That’s a good question. I don’t have an answer, so I look away. It’s a long way from Luna, and each passing day things have gotten worse.

“Orphan!” the man screams again. “Why should we suffer for your pride?”

“Close your teeth, old man!” Shaina yells. “To the darkness with you!”

The man curses her with words I know, and others I don’t. Two, then three, then an entire mob of the other prisoners start yelling at us. They’re all saying the same thing, a rabble of hatred and fear in words I can’t understand.

A siren blares, hideous and sharp, deafening me and Shaina. The Dogan trembles from the effort of resisting the sonic onslaught—it’s the precursor to an attack, softening us all up for what comes next.

Guards storm into the hallway and move to the other cells first, where they start escorting the bewildered prisoners out, some of them nearly catatonic from the noise weapon. They come for us an hour later, and by the time it’s done, we are in a new set of prison cells. Gone are the greasy stone walls, replaced by low-quality stainless steel, which has been buffed with use. The walls are tired. The floor is worn.

I test it, but it’s obvious we’re not getting out of here. The entire ship, like us, is disposable. Or obsolete.

The lights go out. A different type of cold fills the room. There isn’t even a public service announcement to inform us of our fate.

“Welcome to the sun ship,” Shaina says, each word a nail in our coffin. “I didn’t think it would come to this, but—we’re going to regret not making the guards kill us outright.”

27

Life on the sun ship bends reality. Food comes once a day and it’s always cold. The exact same guard brings it, and he never speaks. Each day, the lights seem a little dimmer until Zedas and Shaina are staring at me through near total darkness, and I can sense their growing fear.

A door in the hallway opens. I can’t see it, but I hear it. I get up and move closer to the exit. Shaina beats me to the tiny window.

“What do you see?” Even to my own ears, I sound desperate. I know exactly how long we’ve been here because I have finally figured out my internal clock with the same precision I’m able to remember notes and maps. Two weeks isn’t an eternity, but it feels like galaxies have been born, lived, and died since we were confined. The Overlords understand punishment. Of that, there can be no doubt.

“Back off,” she snaps. “Your breath smells like—”

“Like we’re in prison?” I offer helpfully.

She smiles, but only just. “Yes, now let me—GAH—” Shaina screams and falls back, holding her eyes.

Light streams through the door window like a laser beam, striking the back wall, causing the cheap metal to flare into brilliance. My senses spiral into a furious tangle, and my eyes fill with floaters as the floor begins to slide—sideways. My stomach pitches up, and yesterday’s gruel rises to the back of my teeth, hot and sour.

Zedas puts a hand on my shoulder to steady me.

“Overlord’s balls, that was bright,” Shaina complains, still covering her eyes, tears streaming down her face.

“Thanks, Zedas.” I move to Shaina and pull her hands away to see her face. “You’re okay. No permanent damage. Open them slowly, by small amounts if you can.”

“I’m fine,” Shaina says, twitching under my touch. She’s still angry, but now she’s also hurt, and the fear of our fate has been elevated by the simple presence of sunlight—our unmaking—as it sears the room, and our senses, and our remaining hope.

Footsteps draw closer, more than one pair this time, which is new. Excitement lifts my mood even as anxiety, something I’ve never been prone to before this mad odyssey, grows from someplace near my diaphragm. My heart races.

“Spread out,” I say. “Be ready for anything.”

Shaina moves to one corner, Zedas the other. I stand in the middle and face the door with my left hand shielding my eyes from the light. The beam bounces slightly. Like someone is walking while carrying a flashlight.

Five Overlord soldiers enter the room, but they’re as different from previous guards as I am from Zedas. Each man is exactly the same height, broad shouldered under perfectly painted and highly polished armor, and wearing lights on both sides of their helmets and shoulder plates. Two carry charge rifles at port-arms, large batteries blinking below the barrels. Two others have stun sticks as long as their arms, and one has black wrist manacles thick enough to restrain a wild bull.

“Doctor Hank Murphy, Anaximander will see you now,” the man with the restraints says. “Shaina Yonz and Zedas-Duryan will remain at the back of the cell until we leave or there will be severe consequences.”

I wave my friends back. What’s the point in getting them killed or beaten?

“Step forward, Doctor.”

“You’ll get no trouble from me. It’s about time we talk like civilized people. I’m honored Overlord Anaximander is on this ship just to meet me.” I’m betting the guards are too dense to pick up on nuance.

“No talking, fool.” The man clamps the restraints on my wrists. “He isn’t on the ship. What kind of idiot are you? I’m taking you to the communications room. Then I’m getting my team off this sun hulk before it melts. Hurry your ass up or be dragged. Your choice, Orphan scum.”

“I’m coming—” A jab from one of the stun batons propels me into the hallway. “Fuck! That wasn’t necessary.”

The two men with the batons take turns shocking the hell out of me, which doesn’t seem like the best way to speed me up. Sure, I lurch forward each time I’m blinded by pain, but then I stagger to a stop and get the treatment again, head spinning and guts gone to water. It isn’t long before I wish they had left me in the dark cell.

You can’t hurt me, you can’t stop me, and you’re going to regret making this personal. I repeat the mantra in my head until they shove me into a room dominated by a massive screen displaying Anaximander on a raised dais. The people around him are on a lower level, never able to stand higher than him even when he reclines with a glass of something in one hand. Wine? Whisky? The blood of his enemies?

“Doctor Murphy.” His scarred face twitches, forcing him to pause longer than normal. The burn marks are still an angry red color, rising up to form a web of damage along the left side of his face. The man keeps his burn-damaged side angled away from the camera most of the time, revealing a vanity that will be his undoing. “I regret that it is impossible for me to conduct this interview in person. You will find my proxies lack the finesse of my personal interrogation team, but they are extremely dedicated and energetic.”

A fist slams down on my trapezius muscle, sending lancing pain through my body as I crumple. My knees hit the floor a second later. Without hesitation, I stand. Strong hands force me back down.

“Let him stand,” Anaximander orders. “I’m bored with his insolence. Soon, it won’t be an issue.”

“Yes, Overlord,” the man behind me says.

“Where is Tamondran?” Anaximander asks.

“Like they gave me a map, you stupid asshole.” I brace for a strike, but nothing happens.

Anaximander strokes the clean shaven side of his face, ignoring the puffy, scruffy mess opposing it. It makes sense when I think about it; shaving the slowly healing scars probably burns like hell itself.

I caused that. And he hasn’t forgotten.

“I have researched your profession. No easy thing, considering the distance you have traveled to infect the Goliath sector with your particular kind of evil,” he says. “Very few documents of Earth exist here, and very few people from the lonely blue planet. If you are half as bad as they are, then I should have you killed before the sun ship reaches its final destination, just to be certain of your death.”

“Prove it, you whining bitch. No one from Earth is like you.” My curse earns a slap, but I keep my feet.

Anaximander continues without a pause. “You investigate the fall of ancient civilizations, how the people lived, what they were like, the secrets of their greatness, and I must believe that includes building their dominion. So tell me, where is Tamondran? Where is the base?” His tone is almost friendly because he’s holding all the cards.

“Why don’t you ask Wist?”

“He is the most loyal of my servants. If you knew the things he has done to prove himself, you would shudder with horror,” Anaximander says. “He warned me that you would betray me, that you would sabotage my gate.”

“Really? Did he also convince you that the gate could move troops in both directions?” I ask, playing a hunch.

Anaximander sneers, but his eyes widen slightly and I’m sure I scored a direct hit. Wist must have played to the Overlord’s greatest ambition, convincing him of what he already wanted to believe.

“I probably did you a favor,” I say, feeling the lie take hold with ease. “It would do far worse than explode if you attempted to use it in both directions. It’s a good thing I came to the Goliath sector because your scientists are idiots at best, and treasonous at worst. The Orphan Gates remake people and put them back together during the transit. How could that ever work in both directions?”

Articulating the theory aloud gives it substance—I might be onto something, for what it’s worth.

“This brilliant conclusion comes from a man who can’t point to a rebel base on a map. Not very credible.”

“You haven’t shown me a map to point at, dumbass.” I need to get control of my anger. I’m swearing like one of Jack’s spec ops friends and picking fights like we’re all drunk in a pub. Not me at all—or maybe it is and my calm, rational career choices have been lies to hide the darker elements of my personality.

Maybe everyone from Earth, including me, is a terror to the Goliath sector. I feel—if not more powerful, at least better prepared for my situation. Earth Orphans are a special kind of danger to these people.

That means I’m more dangerous.

He leans forward. “Show him a map of Sarsten.”

The image that appears is more detailed than I could have imagined. Ironback is on the other side of an ocean from the Tamondran Island. I keep my gaze moving in case they can track where I’m looking, which has the added benefit of telling me more about the world than I could have hoped for going into this interview.

Once, the planet of Sarsten was not much different from Earth. There are ruined cities along the coast near transportation hubs on each continent. I see canal systems, highway remains, and shattered dams. I feel an unexpected pang of regret imagining all that was lost during decades or centuries of war, famine, and disease. The satellite map shows craters, broken mountain ranges, and poisoned lakes so clear that it’s evident not even bacteria can live there. Their unnatural blue depths stand like accusations, spreading across a land that is scarred by war and cruelty. Something bothers me until I realize many of the lakes are perfect circles.

Bomb craters. Too much like Earth.

“Tell me where Tamok Sky and his rebels are hiding, Orphan. It’s your only option,” Anaximander says, but there’s an undertone that tells me he’s close to losing the friendly facade.

Trusting my instincts, I move a piece on our mental chessboard. “Who is Tamok . . . Sky?” I say the name like I’m tasting something for the first time. Anaximander’s face flushes, erratic color brought on by scarring and fury.

“You lie,” he announces.

“Sometimes, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He focuses both eyes on me, febrile with hatred. I have what he needs, and even control over my life can’t give it to him in time—he’s gone too far with the sun ship, and if he backs off, he’ll look weak.

Steeling himself, he manages a smile. “Let me assist you.”

New images cover the screen. In places, cities are still burning. The view descends until I see ruined village after ruined village, then the neighborhoods of a collapsed city. There are other disturbing images. Troops dragging people away from their homes. Firing squads. A ship damaged by charge weapons. Bodies—and body parts. A child, alone, wailing. Bloody.

“Now you see the extent of my commitment to peace and security, Doctor Murphy,” Anaximander growls.

My eyes move because I force them from one image to another. If he realizes what I’m seeing, he’ll quickly gain even more of an advantage than he already has.

One of the ships is from Earth. It’s a modern design, but older, worn out by damage and make-do repairs. None of the paint matches, and there seems to be Goliath sector technology melded onto the Earth style wings and fuselage.

But what really disturbs me is the unit insignia on the tail fin.

“You see the ship, don’t you.” Anaximander stands and walks to the camera and the overlain image of the burning world. “It came five years ago. Hunting down her crew wasn’t difficult.”

I barely hear the Overlord. The insignia is Jack’s old unit, a North American Special Operations (formerly USSOCOM) team made from SEALS, MARSOC Marines, and Green Berets—Delta Force, I think, but I can’t really remember what Jack told me was real and what was popular fiction. I wonder if he knows his friends died in a distant corner of the galaxy. And had he known about the gates before I started investigating the LMC site? Was that why he kept visiting me on the lunar dig?

Five years.

How could he have kept this kind of secret for that long?

The answer is obvious. Jack’s security clearance in the CIA never gave him permission to gossip with old friends. Of course he wouldn’t be allowed to tell me the military was running secret operations in another corner of the universe.

“Take him back to his cell,” Anaximander finally says. “Interrogate the others, then disembark from the sun ship. Set the course for the fastest route into this system’s star as possible. This Orphan is useless to me.”

I don’t remember the walk back to my cell. Images of the galactic war refuse to let me go. Until now, I’d imagined a small group of rebels fighting a totalitarian regime. While that is true, the scale of the conflict sickens me. How many planets have been ravaged?

And they are even more afraid of a Prothean invasion. How much worse can it get here? I’m not the man to take on this fight. What kind of cruel joke puts a failed soldier better at analyzing cave drawings than talking to real people in the center of a war threatening billions of lives? “I’m just an archeologist,” I mumble, but the mantra doesn’t serve as armor.

“Shut up, Orphan scum.” The guard shoves me inside without removing my restraints. “Gommer, bring the woman next. I’ve got a proposition for her that might save her life. And send a team to deal with the other prisoners. Not that they’re worth the air they’re breathing on this hull. They’ll cook off soon enough.” He smiles, a ghastly expression that reveals a brown tooth, the root as dead as his mercy. “They burn slow. Skin. Blood. Eyes. Wish I could see it.”

Shaina fights the guards, but not for long. Zedas grabs one of the Overlord troops and throws him across the room, his skull cracking with lethal finality. A half-dozen men with stun poles drive him back into the cell and shock him long after he falls in a quivering heap, armor leaking dark fluid as he rolls back and forth in pure pain.

I go over and lay a hand on his shoulder. He’s quivering, and that scares me more than the oncoming photosphere of a star.

I stare at the door, thinking about the commando ship from Earth. Crew dead, ship stolen and modified by new owners who care nothing about where it came from—to them it’s just another dark detail of this nightmare.

But it also means a ship from Earth did come here, so there has to be a way to return. Does that mean someone back home can use the Orphan Gates, or are there alternate ways to travel the galaxy? Most importantly, does that mean I’m not alone out here? There could be a rescue attempt—not sent by Brendon Davis or the LMC, but by Jack’s connections higher up.

I shut down that hope immediately. Because if that is possible, the first person to volunteer would be Jack Barris, and he’d get slaughtered like all the others—presuming he is alive. And available.

“Zedas, are you alive?” I ask. We’ll start with the basics.

The Dogan stands, groaning from the effort, and I let my hand fall. “They did not kill me, but they should have. When would a third son help an enemy of the Dogan.”

“She’s not your enemy.”

“You are wrong. Shaina Yonz hates me and my people. Wait and see. She will betray us.” Zedas is certain of his truths.

Guards come for him. They have new stun sticks with forked tips that look even more dangerous, the air crackling around them like small, violent storms.

“Don’t fight them, Zedas. Save it for when we have a real chance.”

“You are wise, friend of mine,” he says.

His phrasing takes me off guard, and I realize I’m glad to hear it. If nothing else, I’m not alone here. Not truly.

I resist sleep, worry about my friends, and replay my interview with Anaximander over and over. The North American Special Operations ship haunts my daydreams. I imagine stealing it and going home, then I picture MARSOC Marines and Navy SEALS swarming down the ramp, driving back the Overlord troops, and rescuing us.

But that’s not going to happen. The ship was here long before I even knew the LMC gate existed. Her crew must be dead, even if they were captured like me. I pray I’m wrong.

Neither Shaina nor Zedas return. Hunger eventually drives me to try the door. To my surprise, it opens. I lean out into the hallway, looking right and left. I wait and try to hold my breath so that I can hear better.

Silence.

“Don’t like this.” Another shiver runs through my body as the air is even colder now. “Is anybody there?”

I hear something clink against one of the prisoner doors, and then nothing. I step out into the hallway, crouching low like it will somehow protect me if the guards see me and start shooting.

But there are no guards. A camera at the end of the hall blinks slowly. Perhaps there is somebody in the guard shack dispatching a group of Overlord thugs to attack me even now. Memories of their stun clubs and batons nearly convince me to go back into my cell—which annoys me. I’m not a beaten dog afraid of its master. Beaten, yes. Defeated, no.

I creep toward where I had heard other prisoners in the past. All of the doors are closed.

I stop at the first one, trying to estimate if that’s where I heard the sound moments ago. “Anybody in there?”

No answer.

I put my ear to the door and listen but still detect nothing. I press the button to open it, and it slides free.

“Please, don’t hurt us! We’re just simple ship crew. We haven’t done anything. We don’t know anything about the Orphan.” The man’s words come out in a harried tumble. He’s terrified—along with everyone else in his cell.

“Why didn’t you just take him instead of us?” a woman asks, fear in every word.

“Because I’m the Orphan,” I say, and it’s a mistake.

Everyone in the cell freezes. I count four adults, three teenagers, and two small children. I have their attention—and something else. It’s a mix of fear and resentment, and it flares into life on every face, no matter their age.

“I think the guards have left the ship,” I say.

Half of the prisoners, men and women alike, begin to cry. The oldest, a woman, steps forward. She’s dirty, and her uniform is caked with grime, stained by sweat, and frayed in places, showing scabbed knees and a body at war for the simple act of survival. Despite her circumstances, she has attempted to keep her hair neat and pulled back, tied into itself in a half braid. Her humanity remains, even on this doomed ship.

“I’m Amanda Reason. I probably outrank most of the other prisoners on this wing. Are you really the Orphan?”

“Unfortunately, that’s me.”

“We should be afraid of you.” She lifts her shoulders. “But what’s the point? We all share the same fate now.”

I glance around their cell but decide there’s nothing of interest, then return to the hallway. Amanda follows me out.

I turn to her. “If the guards are gone, maybe we can take control of the ship.”

“There will be automated guards, at least. Drones that follow whatever mindless orders were given to them. They won’t hesitate to kill or maim us,” Amanda says.

“So you don’t want to help me find the bridge?”

“I didn’t say that. James, Devon, Camara—come with me.”

One adult male and two teenagers who are wearing some sort of cadet uniform join us in the hallway. Amanda points to the other doors. “You two get everyone out of their cells and check on them. See if anyone needs medical attention.”

I go with James and Amanda to the end of the hallway, where we find the door locked. “Can we force it?” I ask.

“I think we can get open,” James says. “I’ll look for some tools. They should have cleaning and maintenance areas in the low security parts. All I need is a metal edge.”

I wait with Amanda, who leans back against the wall, her body a picture of exhaustion.

“How long have you been on the ship?” I ask.

“Almost a year. Can you fly this thing?”

“Aren’t any of your people pilots?”

She laughs bitterly. “They never put pilots on sun ships. Even if we had one, it would be difficult to go anywhere useful. They’re aging hulks with limited fuel. No weapons, either, so even if we do break free—”

“They have to have enough fuel to get us to the sun,” I say.

“Which is easier than escaping the gravity well of a star. We might be past the point of no return—which is why the guards left.” Amanda’s words are bleak and dull.

“Hadn’t thought of that. But we’re going to try.”

She sighs, a long, soft noise of surrender. “I’m glad someone is.”

28

“If it matters, I didn’t try to come here,” I say when I see Amanda staring at me.

There’s an accusation in her eyes, weak but present.

She shakes her head. “That doesn’t help. I’ve never been one to believe in fate or chance. I can’t speak for all of my crew, but we believe that hard work pays off, and that surrendering to fate is for the lazy and weak.”

“You sound like a friend of mine.” I think of Jack Barris.

“The way you say that, I assume this friend met with some misfortune.”

“You could say that.”

She narrows her gaze. “Answer me this, Orphan. Were you the cause of his ill-fated destiny? My sources tell me that you came here with a Hadrian rebel and one of the Dogan abominations. Since I don’t see either of them, I suspect your alliance with them has cost them more than it has cost you.”

“I can’t argue with any of that. I’m hoping that Shaina and Zedas are still on the ship. That’s why I want to get control of it, so I can look for them.”

“And so we can all escape and survive this trip into the sun,” she says.

“Of course. It doesn’t do any of us much good to get cooked in a solar flare.” I run through my interview with Anaximander in my mind but don’t speak of it.

Devon comes running up the hallway. “We found the Dogan. There is something wrong with him.”

I’m running toward the other end of the hallway before the young man can finish explaining. I look for the cell but don’t find it immediately. People point, and I rush past them. I clatter down a set of metal stairs and burst into a hallway, alarming everyone who is watching the spectacle in the jail cell.

None of the escaped prisoners approach the Dogan. I’m probably more stunned than they are because I only saw him with armor and had decided it couldn’t be removed.

The Overlords have skinned him—the cell is a crime scene, spattered with blood and fluid, and there are pieces of Zedas’s armor everywhere, erratic edges gleaming like a broken turtle shell. Flesh clings to some of the pieces, and I fight the urge to spit with fury.

There is killing, and then there’s murder. The Overlords are fans of the latter because peeling Zedas like an orange achieved nothing—except pain.

I move slowly, choosing each step to avoid stepping on pieces of Zedas’s scattered armor.

“Who the hell thinks of sending people into the sun,” I mutter. “It’s psychotic.”

Zedas groans, blood spooling from his mouth. “It was a Prothean punishment long ago. They were said to be so hard to kill that the only way to be sure was to use the power of a star. But I doubt that is true. Otherwise they would still rule the galaxy.”

“You’re alive,” I say.

“Not by much. Come no closer. I am bleeding. There is . . . my essence. My lubricant—from the way they broke my bonds with my armor. I’ve been told that it is acidic to other races. One of the guards complained about it loudly enough when he got some on his face.”

“You’re in pain,” I say, knowing that there are no words for his condition.

“Yes. And now I will die without redeeming myself.”

“I can still help you. Just tell me what I can do. Do human medicines work on you?”

“I do not know. I’ve never been out of my armor before.”

“Never? That can’t be possible.”

“You don’t understand Dogans. We grow into our armor during maturation—I think you call it puberty—and then molt only once or twice in our lifetimes. I think the Orphan gate has affected my ability to regrow it, but I can’t tell if it will make it easier or more difficult. If I live past this hour, that is.” He spits, and the gobbet is nothing but blood. His teeth are rimmed in pink, his gums a pale white.

“There has to be something I can do.”

“There is. Shut the lights off when you leave. Put food and water through the meal slot, and I will try to recover. I am sorry, Murph. I should’ve been stronger so that I could protect you from Anaximander and his torturers.”

“You do what you can. I’ll bring you food. And water.”

“Leave me,” Zedas says. “With my shame.”

* * *

“What do you mean you were wrong?” I demand, tired and frustrated by our lack of progress with the ship’s navigational systems.

“There are still personnel on board,” Amanda says. “We surrounded them, but it took a while to coax them out. They had weapons and wanted to set the rules. None of them are pleasant.”

“I bet they aren’t. Anaximander left them to the same fate as us.”

“It’s a common practice. Their families will be well compensated. Crewing a sun ship is actually a coveted post in the Hadrian Empire. Very lucrative for the families left behind. But those selected are always old, damaged, and hateful of life.”

“Can they steer the ship?”

“Probably not. They’re just here to make sure the engines run for as long as possible. We found them in engineering, next to the engine rooms, because that’s the coolest part of the ship. They’ve stockpiled quite a stash of food there. So that’s good. I had some of my people take the best portions to your friend, the Dogan.”

“You don’t like Zedas, do you?” I ask.

“No one does, but why does that matter now? We all face the same damnation. It would take a ship of the line to pull us out of the sun’s gravity at this point. Why you want to heal him just to watch him die is beyond me, but I know his welfare is important to you.”

“Thanks. I should check on him.”

“I’ll join you.”

My feet slow as I approach the cell. Amanda walks beside me but gives me time to think. The woman is unique: patient, intelligent, and strong-willed. Average height, with hair short like Shaina’s, but a mousy brown. She’s about the same build but clearly hasn’t spent the same amount of time training her body as my fellow Orphan. I like her. It’s easy to do, even in this circumstance.

Liberated members of the crew gather along the hallway and watch our procession. Not all of them are equal. This fact is apparent by differences in their uniforms. All of them are old and disheveled, but some have been mended better than others. Even here, on a ship falling into a star, there are castes and cliques. I wonder if humanity can ever rise above our base instincts.

We arrive at Zedas’s cell.

The door stands open. The lights remain dim inside, but it’s not the total darkness of before. I expect to hear moaning, or crying, but the room is deathly silent.

“I can accompany you or wait here.” Amanda’s voice is hushed with respect. Or maybe fear.

“I’ll go it alone. Thanks for the offer.” I hesitate. “Your medical staff have been in here. They told you what happened to Zedas? What should I expect?”

Her gaze falters. She looks down for a moment. “I never believed the rumors about Dogan armor. Children’s tales claim that removing it is the same as murder. I fear your friend has—I think he’s near the end. I am”—she pauses, trying the word on for size—“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” I enter the cell and see Zedas.

He huddles in the corner, but he’s alive because I sense him looking at me. His indistinct form shifts, abandoning the childlike ball for the more familiar lotus position. But his legs aren’t so thick outside of his armor, even though he is still far larger and more muscular than I am. He has a lean, vulpine look now, albeit streaked with angry fluids and a rawness that makes me twinge in sympathetic pain.

“May I come in, Zedas-Duryan?”

“Yes, Murph. Do not call me by my proper name. It is shaming in my condition.” His voice is rough like someone who has screamed for a week. His body, even in the poor lighting, is covered with a mass of scabs—thick, hard crusts of blood, ranging from brown to rust to black, the edges weeping and angry. The floor around him is stained so dark it looks like motor oil, thick and cloying. The air smells of copper and death.

His arms and legs are much longer than I assumed. His armor had been shaped similar to what a human would look like in that type of equipment. But his torso is very short and muscled like I haven’t seen, even in comic book art—there are more layers, more connections, and possibly an extra few rows of ribs, the diaphragm lifting high with each labored breath.

He takes a longer breath then, and I see that this compact center of his body must be wrapped in air bladders. His hands and feet are also different—broader and with longer digits. It’s weird that he wears boots because I think his feet must be as articulate as his hands. For some reason, I wouldn’t be surprised to see claws or fangs, but his facial features are more human, or Hadrian, than I assumed. His chin looks like it could deflect a sledge hammer strike, but it’s not monstrous or non-human. Lantern-jaw is the old term, and for him, it fits.

He doesn’t say anything, so I do. “Why does your helmet expose your mouth, chin, and neck?”

“It is meant to be a mark of humility among our people and a chance for us to actually hurt each other during single combat. A mature Dogan is very hard to kill with melee weapons, or any traditional way of fighting. Unfortunately, the Overlord charge rifles and other tools of violence render our biology much less effective than it once was.”

“What can you tell me about the Protheans? The images I observed at the sanctuary were more like your people than mine,” I say.

He exhales through his nose, a strange sound that makes me wonder if it has meaning. If he’d been wearing his helmet, it would have been too quiet to pick up on—at least for me. Now that I have heard it, I will listen for it.

“An unfortunate coincidence, and one that gives us endless shame. I do not know why they resemble us, but be aware of false similarities. I have not seen a Prothean in the flesh, but our oral traditions suggest they are much larger, and their external layers are harder than the best forged steel. Some say they are protected by a layer of diamonds.”

I sit close to my friend but try to give him enough space as he—heals, I hope.

My friend talks slowly, normal for somebody who is in pain, but I’m still impressed that we have made such great strides with no medication.

“Amanda Reason warned me you might die,” I say. “She said that it’s fatal for your armor to be torn away.”

He bears his teeth. “Is she here, listening to us?”

“She is waiting outside.”

“Good. Do not bring her close to me.”

I nod but say nothing else. He has his reasons, and we’re still heading into the corona of a star. I can worry about building bridges between them later on, if we survive.

The moment stretches, and then it’s five minutes, then ten.

“I probably should die.” He breaks the stillness. “But we went through the Orphan Gate. My people don’t do that. Now, I am alive when I should be dead, and my armor is growing like I am a healthy child. So maybe it is right and proper to call me by a baby name.”

I laugh, and it seems okay, despite the seriousness of his statement. “Why don’t your people go through the gates?”

He looks directly at me and starts to speak so softly that I have to lean forward to hear him. “It is feared that we will become more like the Protheans.”

“What do you mean?”

He stretches one leg out in front of him like he has a cramp. In all the time I’ve watched him use the meditative posture, I’ve never seen him do that.

“They look somewhat like us, don’t you agree?”

I nod. “Yes, I think so.”

“But they are bigger, their armor more resilient. Their mastery of weapons and technology is greater. And they live to murder and conquer. They thrive on such things. It is their religion, Murph. Why would I want to become their equal?”

“Is that what you think would happen?” My inner scientist begins to awaken, even in the sun ship.

“It is impossible to know. But I fear the changes inside of me as well—the things that cannot be seen but only felt.”

I listen and say nothing. Honestly, I was starting to think nothing had happened to him. Shaina was changed by the gate passage, but I’m not sure how. She seems stronger and more aggressive, which aligns with how I felt when I first arrived. But she also claimed it was different for her and Zedas, a statement that still makes no sense to me.

“I need to check on Shaina,” I say finally.

Zedas grunts, then touches me on the arm. His hand is fever-hot and shaking.

“Go. Save the Hadrian.”

“I will.”

29

Zedas’s words resonate with me—he called Amanda a Hadrian. That means something, even if we are, at our core, humans.

“You’re still here?” I ask.

“I told you I would wait,” Amanda says. “Let’s go for a walk. I can show you the rest of the ship. Maybe you will see something I haven’t, some way to survive our doom.”

“I need to check on Shaina Yonz.”

She points towards a four-way intersection we are approaching. “She’s in the shuttle bay.”

“This thing has shuttles?”

“Of course.” She acknowledges a pair of men standing at the intersection. They wear the same ragged prisoner uniforms but have crew cuts and shorter beards than the man I noticed earlier.

“Major,” one of the men says respectfully.

“Troop,” Amanda answers as we walk by.

I raise a brow at her. “Did they work for you before you were captured?”

She shrugs as we continue to the next intersection. “We weren’t captured. We surrendered when presented with official charges.”

“Your entire unit allowed themselves to be sentenced to death?” Again, I’m reminded that I don’t know how this Hadrian society is structured. I make a mental note, writing it in bright blue ink in my mind, then closing the mnemonic portal I’ve created.

“No. Some were sent to work camps. A few were rehabilitated. One was able to purchase a pardon because he came from an important family and never fit in with my unit in the first place. The rest came with me when I was placed on the sun ship.”

“Because of loyalty? Or being captured?”

She sniffs. “Loyalty, of course.”

The shuttle bay is empty except for a man and a woman trying to repair a shuttle that will never be used because it would not have the power or range to escape the gravity. We’re a long way from the sun, but that scorching mass has gravity with a very long reach.

“Where is Commander Shaina Yonz?” Amanda asks.

“She went for parts, Major. Or maybe to the bridge. Omar and Dane are attempting to access flight simulation training. Shaina said she was a pilot and could help. They think they can figure it out based on their hobby flying when they grew up,” the mechanic says. “But they’re not young, and that was a long time ago. So I’m not placing any bets on their chances of success.”

“Fine.” Amanda faces me. “Would you like to see the shuttle bay or look for your friend?”

“Let’s go find her.”

Amanda salutes the mechanics, then leads me into a new hallway. “It doesn’t matter if your friend or my crew can pilot the ship. It doesn’t have the power to break free of this gravity well. It barely has enough thrust to keep us moving forward faster than gravity would pull us, and that is basically a formality. The people who designed the ships didn’t want a drawn-out sentence. That’s a rare point of kindness in their doctrine, though I think it merely reflects their pragmatic need to kill everyone quickly.”

“You said a better ship could pull out of this.” I wish I had paid a little bit more attention in astrophysics. “Define better, please?”

“If our current location is what I’m told, most functioning merchant class ships and all military vessels could change course,” she says. “We do not have one of those. We have a hulk, a power system, and precious little else.”

It’s hard to admit defeat. I’m impressed that despair hasn’t taken every member of the crew. They’re free of their cells but not their destiny. It’s like we’re all playing make-believe. Carry on as though there is hope when there isn’t.

“So where is Tamondran?” she asks.

I’m alarmed, but I hide it. This isn’t my first poker game. “Probably doesn’t matter now.”

She laughs, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve heard her express humor, but it’s forced and brittle. “Sure. But if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to know what Anaximander is willing to kill for. Excuse me, to kill so many for.”

I fall behind a half-step, eliminating her ability to look at me. This gives me a moment to study her bearing. She moves in exactly the same manner she did when we began this tour of the doomed sun ship.

“You’d have to ask him. I’m sort of new around here, but not free of his judgement, it seems. What about you?” I wave at the ship, and our plight. “Why are you sentenced to all this? Something to do with Tamondran?”

She hesitates so that she can make eye contact, and I know she’s searching for an answer. “No, I was condemned for other reasons. But his interrogators always ask the same questions. I was bewildered by their angle of inquiry. It had nothing to do with my—with me.”

Her phrasing gives me pause.

“Well you didn’t know then, and you don’t know now.”

I walk past her, step to the door to the bridge, and look at the guards who don’t seem ready to allow my entry. “I’m with her. We’re looking for Commander Shaina Yonz. And Amanda told me I could have a look around the bridge. I used to fly a Cessna, long ago.”

“I don’t know what a Cessna is, but you would be best served to refer to our commander by her proper rank,” the guard replies.

“Silence,” Amanda says. “You talk too much, guard.”

Again, I notice this is one of the more clean-cut prisoners, and that he clearly respects the chain of command.

Clean cut—and well fed. Orderly.

“Shaina is busy on the bridge,” Amanda says. “You were saying, Doctor Murphy?”

“Nice try.” I walk past the guard without looking at him. It’s a calculated risk.

“What do you mean by that?” Amanda follows me, her footsteps quick and angry.

Inside the bridge, I find a full crew manning the stations. There’s even a captain, who looks like he’s ready to shoot me in the face. Shaina is there, sitting off to one side in a chair, her face a study in misery.

Amanda’s voice booms behind me, clear and ringing with authority. “Guards. Bring the Orphan back to his cell. Any amount of force is—”

The first shock stick sends a furious rush of charge into me from behind, followed by another. The door guards are jabbing me with ruthless efficiency, and I fight the urge to vomit and fall right there.

“Call the Eternal Domination. We need extraction. Soon,” Major Amanda Reason says to someone I can’t see, and once again I see my instincts are correct.

Trust no one. And fight like hell.

Their weapons find my skin, and the world goes black.

* * *

Five minutes or five days later, I’m awakened by rough hands dragging me from my cell. There’s panic in their voices, barely controlled by their training and the demands of their unit supervisor.

“Just get him to the shuttle bay,” a woman barks.

I don’t recognize her. Light twists in my vision, spiraling down into darkness as the remnants of a dream I can’t remember. My head throbs, but it’s not an uncomfortable sensation—more like an echo. I am revived, if not ready to fight again, though my skin feels split in places. It’s a minor inconvenience, given what Zedas endured. I bunch my muscles but let them haul me onward, head hanging in an approximation of defeat.

There are a lot more people in the hall—now, it’s almost crowded.

A half-dozen guards surround me, shoving me forward. I keep tripping and falling because I’m bound at the wrists and ankles. Someone sparks one of the stun batons near my face.

“I can’t walk if you keep shocking the shit out of me,” I fire back over one shoulder. Someone pushes me hard, but at least I don’t get zapped again.

“Keep moving, Orphan. You’re the reason we’re all here, you son of a whore,” the guard spits, venom in every word.

We move through a four-way intersection, where an even larger group of guards are manhandling Zedas despite his pathetic condition. His body is still covered with dried blood and scabs, but I also see sheets of tender new flesh where his armor had been before. He looks like a crustacean pried from its shell.

How long will it take him to grow new armor? He made it sound like that couldn’t happen at all for an adult. The only thing that is certain is that he’s in no condition to resist. They stun him four or five times for no reason, then drive him ahead of me. My group stalls until the others have a good lead with Zedas and then follow into the shuttle bay.

There are a lot of small transport ships now, perfect in condition and readiness. They’re powered up and have their ramps dropped to accept passengers and materials worth salvaging. The clean-cut prisoners board with alacrity while others guard the ramps from the desperate real prisoners of the sun ship.

“I never trusted you assholes. Your haircuts are all alike,” I say, but no one stuns me. Small favors and all that.

Crowds of desperate men and women gather from maintenance entrances and other parts of the ship the Overlord troops haven’t bothered to lock down. Time is of the essence, and this operation feels rushed. My resistance has broken their system, and I know this isn’t the first time Amanda has gone undercover to pry secrets from the doomed. If I survive, I’ll make certain she never hurts anyone again.

Guards escort Shaina onto one ship, but she’s not fighting or being beaten. Maybe that’s because she was one of them not so long ago, or maybe it’s because she is one of Tamok’s lieutenants who finally switched sides. If anyone knows where Tamondran is, it’s her.

Zedas and his abusive escort disappear onto a different ship. I’m dragged up the ramp to a third. I look around and eventually find Amanda, who stands with her arms crossed at the top of the ramp leading into the ship I’m destined for. Her lips are pressed into a grim line, so I know she’s unhappy. Good. That makes two of us.

The last of the guards rush onto the escape shuttles, followed by a swarm of desperate, long-haired prisoners begging for mercy. Shaina, I notice, sees this as well because her escort stops, turns, and fires into the front ranks of the panicking mob. Their charge rifles render prisoners inert with each shot, the body falling to the deck with a dull thump. It’s murder, plain and simple, and Shaina flinches, conflict on her face as she draws back while the killing fusillade goes on, hammering into the innocents with hideous brutality.

A pair of my own guards open fire. I lunge at them and receive a shock baton to the face for my efforts. If I had seen who swung it, I’d put that face on my growing list for payback. Since I can’t record that information, I decide they all have to pay for this bullshit.

“Stand up, Orphan. I’m not carrying you,” my guard says.

I struggle to my feet, barely able to hear the shouts because my ears are ringing from the cacophony of weapons.

A guard gives Shaina a rifle, then points his own gun at her head. His head jerks to the rabble of prisoners. Shaina’s shoulders fall, then she lifts her gun and fires, tears rolling freely down her filthy cheeks. If she’s acting, it’s a damned good performance. She squeezes the trigger again with only an instant’s hesitation.

It’s a miss, but not by much.

The officer who gave her the rifle cuffs her on the back of the head and shouts at her, then he pulls a knife from his belt and places it against Shaina’s ribs. She snarls, but she aims again and fires. I can’t see if she hit her target this time because I’m being shoved inside this shuttle where Major Amanda Reason waits with crossed arms and a thunderous frown.

“At least one of your friends has made the right decision,” she says. “She’ll tell us where Tamondran is hidden, and then your cause is ended. There is nothing left for you but to swear fealty to Overlord Anaximander.”

“Do the words fuck and you mean anything here?” I ask, my voice cheery and light.

Amanda shows me her teeth. “I know those terms, and you will, too, Orphan. Lock him up, and make sure he can see you split the Dogan down to his bones. I want this prick to smell his friend’s guts when they spill.”

“My pleasure,” the guard says. And he means it.

30

Wist Hadrian visits my cell shortly after the morning chime. I’m fascinated by the sound, or maybe my brain just cracked during the long, cold night without food, light, or information. The Goliath sector is too strange, too far away from home, and too full of intrigue and betrayal. All I wanted was to explore the secrets of an alien artifact on the moon, and now I’m neck deep in a culture where deceit and war are as natural as breathing.

And I thought humanity was shitty.

Can I trust anyone?

Zedas? Trusting him seems as obvious as the sun rising, but when was the last time I experienced that? My mind drifts to my first day on Sarsten and our little jaunt to the sea, my new body thrumming with the effects of a gate transfer.

“Doctor Murphy, are you listening?” Wist says, stepping deeper into my cell and crouching to get a better look at me where I sit against the wall with my head down in abject misery.

This isn’t who I am. Get up. Do something. Take action. Be the master of your destiny, Murph. The voice in my head sounds like mine. Or maybe my grandfather’s.

Memories of the Cessna 162 Skywatcher and my grandfather allowing a very young Hank Murphy to fly for a while bring a smile to my face.

Wist draws back.

That’s right, you asshole. Maybe you should be cautious. “Why did you do that to Zedas?”

“Me?” he asks. “I took no part in that interrogation.”

“But you took part in some of them, didn’t you.” I push off the wall. Still sitting, I feel the energy coming back—and the need to take action.

“You don’t understand. I do what I must. There are people I care about who will suffer if I fail. I have no choice.”

“Sure you do. You always do. Choices are always present—just like choosing to trust someone in this snake pit you call a sector.”

“What does that mean?” He’s near the door but more relaxed now. Conversation calms and reassures him. Keep people talking, and they lower their guard.

“I trusted you,” I say. “And look how that worked out.”

“You judge me harshly.”

“You earned it.”

“Have you ever been forced to choose between the lesser of two evils?” he asks.

“I’m familiar with the concept. None of that excuses your behavior. The people back on that ship are going to die horribly. I watched guards gunning them down when all they wanted was a chance at survival.” Images of panic stricken faces, hands reaching out, wounded men and women tumbling backward, and blood spraying as howls of terror echo off the bulkheads fill my mind. That was a choice, made by the Overlords.

“Believe it or not, they were convicted criminals.”.

“Do you know that, or is it just what you tell yourself to get to sleep at night?”

He closes his eyes, just for a moment. The man is not young, but he is in his physical prime. Right now he looks ten years older. “I don’t sleep, Doctor Murphy, and neither do you, if I judge you correctly. We are not so different.”

“Go to hell. Tell me what you want this time or get the hell out of my cell. I was listening to the morning chime. That’s more important than anything you can say, you serpent.”

He looks confused. “That chime won’t come for another twenty-three point eight standard hours.”

“Exactly. I don’t want to miss it.” I lean back. “Is this going to be a long conversation?”

“I will leave you to your brooding, but I expected more. Finally, a man of education and moral integrity comes through a gate, and he turns out to be a petulant, self-serving child.”

“What kind of person normally comes through?” I ask the question before I can stop myself.

“Conquerors. Adventurers seeking fortune at any cost,” he says right when he moves out of the light. There is still illumination in the room, but shadows ruin his face until he shifts his position another step. “And monsters.”

This sparks questions, but he’s gone.

I stand, walk the walls, then stretch until I feel almost normal. Breakfast didn’t come with the morning chime. Isolation survival tip number one: fantasize about food until the bowl of gruel shows up, and it will still taste like chocolate cake. Hunger really is the best sauce.

The next time the door opens, there are two guards wearing helmets with their face shields darkened—and Shaina. Her face is as grim as a hangman’s.

This time I stand immediately, crossing my arms in defiance. Or maybe I’m trying to keep myself from attacking her and getting beaten down by the guards. One of my few goals at the moment is to avoid getting shocked today, as I’ve decided that pissing my pants from electrical overload isn’t on my list of favorite things. “My favorite tra—” I start to say traitor, but I remember her crying as she fired the rifle. It’s too cruel, and too far from the truth. I settle on a question as bland as my breakfast. “Joining me for gruel?”

“I was never a traitor,” she says. “If you didn’t realize I was still loyal to the Hadrian Empire, then you’re a fool. And so is Tamok Sky.”

“Great, then you told them where Tamondran is.” It’s an accusation, but I’m too tired to give it any heat.

She doesn’t answer, but for a moment I sense she is unbalanced. Her eyes flick toward the guards, then away—a fugitive moment of conflict, there and gone. I’ll play my odds and hope for the best.

“That’s unfortunate,” I say. “Thought I was a better judge of character.”

“You are not.” She motions for one of the guards to advance. “Restrain him. Take him to the execution chamber. We’re done here.”

The guard moves forward. I retreat but stop before my back is against the wall.

She looks at me and crosses her arms. “Don’t fight him. He’s tougher than you are, and his partner is just looking for a reason to put you down. They’ll call another squad if they have to. You won’t like the trip, I promise, even though we need you to calm the abomination for his last walk.” Now her lips lift in a grin, and I’m rethinking my desire to knock her teeth out.

“Why should I help you?” I ask, but she used the word abomination, which I hate, and she knows it. I’ll take it as an opening. “Get stuffed, Yonz. I’ll do no such thing.”

“We’ll see,” she says, oblivious to the insult. “But you will, for certain, and so will the abomination. He’s an animal, not worthy even of an Orphan like you. You’re not the only Orphan, remember?”

The guard pulls my hands through the restraints and tightens them. I study the materials and decide they are some type of plastic, but they’re the color of blood instead of the white zip ties I’ve seen law enforcement officers use back home. I hear his breathing, but he doesn’t speak. His emotions, if he has any, are buried too deep for me to analyze.

It doesn’t matter. If there’s one thing I have learned since arriving in the Goliath sector, it is trust no one and always assume the worst. I flip through my mental notes and apply all of my abilities to finding a way to escape. The analysis is grim. I can’t do anything here, so my best plan is to go with them and look for a chance to make a break for it. The only thing I have going for me is that they bound my hands in front, leaving me a considerable amount of mobility. I probably can’t win a fight like this, but I could still work a door handle or a set of keys.

The guards escort me out. Shaina follows. We proceed down the hallway to a cell guarded by a dozen men and women in full armor. Each of them carries a similar baton on their belt, and they have extra shock poles leaning against the wall. More disturbing are the heavy charge rifles and pistols—the first slung across their backs, and the latter hanging on their hips in drop holsters. I’ve seen police officers use this type of weapon carrier, the kind that are really hard to draw from unless you know exactly which way to pull the pistol free.

A good choice for prison guards, especially in an environment where men and women are desperate enough to fight back.

“Bring out the Dogan,” Shaina orders. “He’s to be executed with his traitorous partner.” She almost sounds bored.

The unit supervisor steps forward and removes his helmet, then he leers at her like he would rather pick her up at a bar than obey her order. “I wasn’t notified of this.”

She hands him a tablet barely thicker than a piece of paper. He puts his thumb to one corner, then reads it reluctantly.

“Are you sure about this? The Dogan is dangerous. That’s why I have these ass kickers standing here all day.” He waves his hand to the heavily armed squad.

“Not my decision,” Shaina says. “Wist convinced Overlord Anaximander that the abomination wouldn’t act out if we transported him with his master.”

“The Orphan? Since when do the animals serve an Orphan?” the guard asks.

“He’s a third son, obligated to me by an honor quest,” I say.

“Close your teeth, shithead,” the man spits. Seconds pass as he considers the information, then he steps very close to Shaina. “I’ll do anything you want, commander, now or later when we’re off duty. What do you say?”

“Not in front of your men.” Her voice is cool. “I know you’ll brag about it to them no matter what we do or don’t do, but give me the respect of waiting until my back is turned.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That is an ‘obey the order,’ guardsman.” When he turns to his squad, she slaps him on the ass, just a little too hard to be playful.

He jumps, then smiles. “You heard her. Bring out the Dogan. Stay sharp. I still think the animal is dangerous, no matter what that rebel turncoat Wist says.”

The guards move like professionals, never alone, always in teams of two or more with one person who does nothing but stand ready with a charge rifle. Four big men with stun poles prepare themselves, and the entire group goes in.

I hear shouting, much of it in a language I don’t understand. Shaina pops out, points at me, and snaps her fingers. “If you want to live, get in there and tell him to do what they say.”

“Aren’t you taking us to the execution chamber?”

“You know what I mean. Just do it. No questions.” She puts one hand on her charge pistol, still in its holster, to illustrate her point.

I enter. The room stinks. I’m not sure, but I think they must have been beating on Zedas before we got here, like he hasn’t suffered enough. The scene sickens me, but I notice that his newly grown plates have changed color, like they’ve started to harden even if they are thin.

“Zedas-Duryan, we need to go with them. No fighting.” I move farther and hold up both of my bound hands to one of the guards. “And no more shocking him for no reason.”

“You’ve got no right to tell me what to do,” the man says, but he takes a step back.

Other men put my friend in restraints while the team of armed heavies watches carefully. Several tense moments pass before we are in the hallway and moving again.

I watch Shaina a few strides ahead of me. She never looks back. There isn’t the slightest hint of remorse in the way she walks.

“This isn’t the way to the execution chamber,” the guard supervisor says.

“This is the way I go,” Shaina says. None of the Overlord guards like the brevity of her answer, but again, she doesn’t seem concerned with their opinion or anyone else’s.

We pass another intersection and the guards start to look at each other questioningly. The supervisor moves forward and grabs hold of Shaina’s right bicep.

She shakes it off. “Don’t touch me. You forget yourself. I could have you tossed in the brig for that.”

“I doubt it,” he sneers. “You came on the ship as a rebel, and maybe that’s who you really are. You know what, I wouldn’t touch you with someone else’s—“

“I hate to disappoint you, but you never had a chance anyway,” she interrupts, her voice barely hiding a derisive laugh. “Now let’s deliver these two prisoners and be done with this. I have things to do.”

“This is the way to the shuttle bay,” he says, then draws his pistol.

“Read the order again. I didn’t write it. But I’m not going to be held responsible for your incompetence.” She pushes forward the electronic document.

He studies it for a long time, mouthing the words as he reads, and finally hands it back. “I still don’t like it.” He waves at the group to continue.

At the entrance to the shuttle bay, Wist Hadrian intercepts us. Behind him are a half-dozen of the elite guards.

“Run for the ship!” Shaina shouts, then she turns and shoots the guard supervisor in the face. Red and grey gore form a mist behind his skull—or what’s left of it—as he crumples to the floor, limbs twitching. She draws a knife from her boot, then slashes my bonds with confident precision. Fortunately, it happens too fast for me to flinch and get myself cut.

Zedas lowers his head and charges forward, smashing two men off their feet. He tears free of the bindings by sacrificing a good portion of the flesh on his wrists and ankles. I’m a bit slower, but I manage to push the man nearest me off balance, then lash out with a brutal kick that turns his nose into confetti.

Shaina fires rapidly, moving to one side as she dodges return fire. The only thing that saves her is the crossfire situation between Wist’s goons and the guards. With us in the middle, it’s hard to shoot without risking hitting each other.

A guard swings a stun baton at me. I dodge back, then immediately advance. My jab is poorly timed, but he flinches when I hold up my right hand like I’m about to execute a powerful roundhouse punch. Instead, I twist my hips and kick his outer thigh with my shin as hard as I can.

It’s a trained move from kickboxing, and it lands well enough that he retreats, bowing to one side from the impact.

“What are you doing?” Shaina shouts as she kicks one of the stun poles toward me.

“Fighting!” I grab the weapon. As soon as I square off with my opponent, he pulls his charge pistol and aims. I throw myself sideways, barely avoiding a blast to my chest.

Zedas throws guards around the space, their bodies flying like discarded toys. As he does, he works his way closer to our escape path. Howls of pain punctuate every impact of his hands, his feet, and once, a headbutt that splattered the chin of a guard, sending blood and teeth flying like the man had swallowed a bomb. Stun batons strike him over and over. A new guard supervisor responding to the alarm shoots him in the chest, but it’s a graze wound because he’s moving so much, never still, whirling, lunging—striking.

I surge toward my adversary and jab him in the neck with a stun pole. He goes down screaming, the smell of roast pork filling the air—I broke the skin, and he’s bleeding heavily from the wound. I charge forward and kick the weapon out of his hand, realizing a moment too late I should’ve taken it from him, or at least tried to.

More guards show up from both directions. I see Wist standing back, hands on his hips, anger in his eyes.

A large group of guards, and another of the elite soldiers, swarm onto Zedas and bear him to the deck with their weight. I can’t help but think it might’ve been different if he had his original armor and the weapons that always seemed to go with it.

Shaina is clubbed mercilessly until she finally stops swearing vengeance on them.

It seems like a good time to give up, but it doesn’t feel right to escape unhurt when the only two people in the Goliath sector I can trust are being maimed or killed only a few feet from me.

I jump into the landing bay where I have some room, grab the stun pole at the very end, and start swinging it over my head in huge circles to drive people back. The tactic works for about ten seconds.

And then I get shot.

I don’t know much about the charge weapons, other than they hurt like hell.

Holding my side with my right hand and swinging the pole ineffectually with my left, I stagger away from my friends, closer to one of the ships. It’s an idiotic gesture because I can’t fly one, and I’m not leaving my friends behind.

But I have to do something, so I just keep fighting. There’s no room for my intellectual self to operate here. This is pure survival mode, my lips pulled back as I spit and curse, surrounded by the bastards as they invariably move forward—always forward.

A battle line forms, crowded with guards and troops. They’re all armed, many with lethal weapons, and then I see Anaximander and his personal bodyguards step from the ornate cargo hall. His cloak trails behind him, and he’s wearing an imperious, angry look that’s performance art, as far as I’m concerned. I’m going into a star. He and his haughty bearing can kiss my ass.

Wist sees Anaximander too, then everything happens in slow motion. The traitor whips his head around, focuses on me, and rushes through his goons to make the apprehension himself, eager for glory in the presence of his true master.

It’s a mistake.

I kick him square in the balls, take his pistol, and grab him by the hair. Pulling him to his feet is a lot harder than it should be, especially since I can’t stand well on my own. When I finally have one arm wrapped around his neck from behind, I press the barrel of the pistol to his head, feeling the flesh give under my jabbing pressure.

The Hadrians look confused—like they’ve never seen a hostage situation before. My stomach drops out of my body as I pray I haven’t miscalculated.

“Stop,” Anaximander says. “I’m not ready for Wist Hadrian to die.”

The guards and soldiers retreat a step, some of them lowering their weapons.

Shaina grabs Zedas and urges him into the ship.

“What are you doing, Orphan?” Anaximander asks. “The Goliath sector is no place for you. Even if you run, how far do you think you will get? And why wouldn’t I blow the shuttle to pieces the moment it leaves my flagship?”

“Because you don’t want to waste a perfectly good shuttle?” I ask. “Or kill Wist.”

“You are beaten. Drop the weapon. Release the spy. I will consider leniency for your friends if you fall to your knees and pledge eternal fealty immediately,” Anaximander says, and for a moment I’m almost too stunned to speak. His arrogance is so galactic, he thinks his offer carries weight.

The shuttle roars to life. Then, instead of taking off, it flies into the ship, scattering Anaximander and the others in every direction. It’s mass chaos, with broken bones and a cracked skull or three, and the guards are in total disarray, watching their control evaporate. This is not what they’re used to, and it sure as hell isn’t what they planned.

“Let go of that gutless traitor and get on the ship,” Shaina yells from the cockpit.

I drag my prisoner up the ramp and close it, losing my balance each time the shuttle changes its vector and attitude.

“You have made the worst mistake of your life,” Wist says when I release him and shove him away from me.

Shaina takes off, causing us to stumble.

“You’re a fool,” Wist says.

“I’ve been called worse. Zedas, lock this asshole in a room.”

“Then what?” Zedas says, grabbing Wist with one of his massive hands.

The traitor winces—and I see real fear in his eyes.

I smile. “I’ll think of something.”

31

In the escape shuttle, I somehow manage to strap Wist into a safety harness—instead of a room, we use a seat, and it’s better. I can watch the sonofabitch, as well as judge his mood. Zedas, unable to find a seat his size, ties himself down to the deck like he’s a piece of cargo, but close enough to watch our prisoner as well, his eyes locked on Wist with a predatory focus.

Shaina leaves the cockpit door open as she flies, something I suspect is not standard procedure. The ship lurches sideways, then forward, and then it does a barrel roll out of the launch bay. For a moment, I’m suspended in midair, feeling vulnerable but energized—we’re breaking free of a certain doom and replacing it with even more uncertainty.

I don’t care.

She can really fly.

I wait until she’s leveled off and rush into the cockpit, then I jump into a seat and attach one of the three safety straps before she makes another rapid maneuver that almost shoots me back into the air.

“Do you know how to fire these weapons?” She points at a joystick and some view screens slightly to my left.

I pivot the chair and then realize I can lock it down facing my new workstation. My hands hover over the controls. It looks easy, but I can’t get any of the weapons to come online.

“How do I activate them?”

“Don’t have time to teach you.” She’s annoyed but not surprised. “Just hold on.”

And that’s when I experience the full consequences of zero gravity combat maneuvers for the first time. She changes directions so quickly that I nearly pass out, and there’s a dangerous click in my neck after one of her maniacal turns.The ship may not be affected by gravity, but I feel like a mixing ball in a can of spray paint.

“We should all be in flight suits for this.” She strains against the controls. “But I guess this is better than going back into a cell.”

“Thanks, Shaina.”

She risks a glance at me. “When did you finally realize I was dropping you hints? It’s not easy convincing Anaximander’s people I’m on their side while simultaneously keeping you from doing something stupid.”

“Looking back, it seems obvious. But I was pissed at you for a while.” I grin. “I was starting to think I couldn’t trust anyone on this side of the Orphan Gates.”

She shrugs and shakes her head, then concentrates on flying. Fortunately, the only things pursuing us are other shuttles. The scene I imagined—a horde of space-based fighter craft, spitting death—doesn’t materialize. At least, not yet.

“That’s a good policy,” she says. “I’m not going to be upset if you still don’t trust me. Sometimes I don’t even know what side I’m on, but this is survival under a regime with people like Anaximander. There’s only necessity. It has to be my guiding star, at least until we’re truly free.”

My mind rushes back through history, comparing all of the books I’ve read, courses I’ve taken, and research I’ve conducted. She’s absolutely right, and I suddenly have a new appreciation for what people suffered under Earth’s worst dictators.

“Trust but verify,” I say.

“What?”

“I’m saying that we should start fresh. I’ll trust you, as long as you understand I’m going to be careful, evaluate what you say versus what you do, and make my decisions accordingly.”

“I can live with that. And I will treat you the same way. To be honest, it was a hard decision. I could have become an Overlord candidate just like Wist. That would’ve meant security and good fortune for my family for generations to come. And, in case you haven’t figured it out by now, Orphans are never good people.”

“Never is a long time.”

She snorts. “That’s an idiotic thing to say. Maybe rescuing you was a mistake.” She smiles, just enough that I catch it in my peripheral vision.

“Look, I found a Dogan and a Hadrian with a sense of humor. What are the odds of that?”

She steers onto a new course and accelerates, sliding her controls all the way forward like she’s redlining the engines. “They’re probably about as good as finding an Orphan who isn’t a murderous conqueror trying to dominate the galaxy.”

My logical mind resists the idea that no one good can come through one of the gates. Especially since I suspect Earth’s best military operators have attempted to explore this realm and were killed, losing their ship to the locals who modified it, then took it on a murderous rampage. Tragic, but not their fault.

From the look of the ship Anaximander revealed to me, a North American military force went through the Orphan gate and met their end, plain and simple. The markings are Jack’s old commando unit, from before he was injured and sent into the CIA, but it’s not really relevant. He’d be just as insulted as I am, probably more so, at not being selected for that mission—if he wasn’t dead.

“They stopped pursuit,” Shaina says. “That only means they can track the shuttle and are probably hoping I fly directly to Tamondran.” She snorts in disgust. “That’s not happening.”

“Good call,” I say. “This chair is—tolerable.” I rock experimentally.

“Lean back and let the adrenaline cook off. You’re no good to me if you can’t fight,” Shaina says, then begins speaking into the headset, contacting flight controllers, requesting to become part of a deep space convoy.

The haggling should fascinate me, but the need to interrogate Wist rises up—a powerful compulsion to confront him right now. Any sense of needing rest boils away, and I stand. “I need to check on the prisoner.”

Shaina waves toward the door without looking at me. “I’m trying to trade the ship for something a little less conspicuous, and maybe arrange for transportation across the system. Unless you’ve got another Orphan Gate lying around we can use.”

I don’t bother to answer. It’s a short trip to the cargo area. Wist Hadrian is right where I left him. Zedas sits cross-legged in front of the man, meditating with his eyes open. This has the disturbing quality of the most unequal staring contest ever witnessed.

“I need to talk to you,” I say.

“Are you going to unlock these restraints?” Wist asks. “I can’t go anywhere now.”

I step to the back of the safety chair and release the belts. He leans forward, massaging his arms and hands for a moment. “Thanks.”

“I haven’t forgotten your part in the sun ship,” I say. “Those prisoners are headed to their deaths.”

The smile he gives me chills my blood.

“What’s that for?” I ask.

“You don’t know half as much as you think you do. And you should not trust your pilot. I was an Overlord candidate, hence the reason I’m able to use Hadrian as my last name. Yonz is a much lower caste, barely qualifying for flight service. She’s already risen much higher than her station. When Anaximander offered her a candidacy, her eyes lit up. I was there to witness it. Such an advancement would provide for her family for generations.”

“That’s what she told me.”

He looks at me skeptically. “I doubt it. You’re bluffing. The woman is a worse liar than I am.”

I don’t bother arguing the point. Remaining calm, I watch for physical tells like we’re in a life and death game of Texas Hold’em. Every movement is a piece of information I can evaluate. I treat his actions as a study in contemporary anthropology. Each one has its own meaning, and the sum of his behavior has yet another meaning.

His face reddens. “How can you be so calm?”

“There’s no reason to get excited. You’ve lost all credibility with me.”

He stands abruptly but sits back down when Zedas starts grinding his teeth and muttering something in Dogan under his breath.

“Zedas-Duryan has even more reason than me to want some payback,” I say. “My recommendation is to not antagonize either of us.”

“That’s . . . a threat now?”

I wait, since I want him to keep talking.

“Those prisoners don’t matter,” he says with an irritated wave, his feigned self control slipping. There’s a natural arrogance he struggles to maintain, so I do the only reasonable thing and continue to stay silent—because that irritates him further, prompting him to make mistakes. “And they have a far better fate than the ones at Helion Station.”

“Where’s that?” I ask.

He closes his mouth, then shakes his head once. When he speaks, it’s a single word. “Irrelevant.” His eyes are hard now, and with a glance, Wist sizes Zedas up—something no sane human would do.

Unless—

“How long have you been an Orphan, Wist?” I asked.

He looks down. “As I have said before, I have a family. Overlord Anaximander is not someone to be trifled with. I did what I must, but I will never be an Orphan like you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not an outsider. I’m not from beyond the Goliath sector . . . like you.”

32

“That’s it, the basic steering commands. These two panels control starting the engines and keeping them going,” Shaina says.

I review the lessons she has taught me since I left Wist under the watchful eye of Zedas. “How do you power the ship down?”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that now. When we get close enough to dock with a carrier or a planet, I’ll show you.”

“Can we reach Helion Station?” The thought of prisoners suffering under the Overlord persecution causes an ache in my gut, but so does facing the truth about the sun ship. I escaped, but most didn’t. Many were gunned down, but not all.

“What could you possibly want with that place?” Shaina checks the positions of the other ships in the convoy we were allowed to join. Most seem like legitimate merchant ships, but there is a faint whiff of smuggling in the way they talk during our infrequent communications.

“Wist told me there are prisoners there with a worse fate than those on the sun ship.”

“It’s an Overlord prison,” she says. “Mostly the conquered enemies of the Hadrian Empire. I don’t know how they are treated, but I doubt it’s kindly.”

“Do you have comrades there?”

She shakes her head. “No. It’s rumored they captured the Dark Eye and put him there, but I’ve also heard that he is ruling Ixohm and keeps a harem of the most beautiful women in the sector.” She sniffs disdainfully. “If you can believe such bragging, of course.”

“What about other Orphans?” I think of the Earth ship I’d seen.

“There aren’t as many of them as you seem to think.”

“What about ships?”

“What about them?” she asks.

“Do they have one powerful enough to pull a large hull out of the sun’s gravity well?” I can’t get images of the prisoners being gunned down out of my head. When I start to close my eyes, I imagine them going up in flames as they run through the hallways, looking for an escape that doesn’t exist, even as they roast in their own skin.

“Helion is nowhere near being pulled into the sun’s gravity,” she says.

“Can we get back to Tamondran? Because I imagine a ship that can travel that far, that fast, could also rescue people from the sun ship.”

“They did nothing to help you, or me, or the abom—or him,” Shaina says. “Even if they were worth helping, it would be dangerous. Near suicidal, if you want my opinion as a pilot.”

“Do they have capital ships at Helion we could steal? Or do you have some other way to get back to Tamok and his army?”

“Yes, they have cruisers. And no, I don’t.”

“Where else can we get a ship?”

She flares her nostrils and avoids eye contact. “Nowhere close enough for it to matter. Like I just said, if you were listening, I don’t know how to get back to Sarsten. I mean I know the way, but it’s a long distance. This gate may not have moved us as far as you came to get to the Goliath sector, but it was a big jump—two systems.”

The conversation devolves into silence, then Shaina talks to several ship captains, bartering for docking rights. No one even comes close to granting us permission to land.

“What’s the problem? Don’t they understand we’re a shuttle? We can’t reach a planet if I’m reading the star charts right,” I say.

“They know that, and despite the false codes that I’m sending them, they understand this is a stolen Overlord shuttle. If they realize we came from Anaximander’s flagship, they’ll turn us into a cloud of expanding gas just to erase the evidence that they ever talked to us.”

I sigh. “We need options.”

Zedas leans into the doorway, too big to enter the cockpit. “A Dogan ship will take us.” He points toward a screen with the vessel slightly apart from the convoy but obviously traveling with it.

“I thought you were in disgrace,” Shaina says.

“I am quest bound.” He frowns. “I cannot accept help from my people, but I can demand passage if the quest requires it.”

“It might be helpful if we know what the quest is,” Shaina mutters darkly, hands on the controls.

My big friend ignores her tone. He’s good at that, and I grin. He speaks, his voice gaining a note of confidence as his body heals. “There are limitations on one of my people’s ships, but it will be better than this, and my quest pertains to something I do not see among the Hadrians. Honor.” He waves at the stolen shuttle.

“Just like that—options. Set a course for the Dogan ship,” I order.

I study the vessel. In a way, it’s a simple design, just a cylinder open at both ends. I can’t tell for sure, but it looks like the center might be the docking bay or a runway. “Your people are minimalists when it comes to ship design”

“We can afford to be. We wear our own hulls,” Zedas says.

“Is that a joke?” I smile and clap my hands together softly. “Well done, friend.”

Zedas inclines his head with great dignity. “I am merely warming up. As to our option, let me speak to them. Do not interrupt, please. This is a . . . cultural issue. For me.” He takes one of the communicators and holds it up, clears his throat—

And unleashes a torrent of grinding coughs that sounds like a turbine chewing steel girders.

I pull at one ear, and Shaina does the same.

“Hope he doesn’t sing,” Shaina mutters.

“If he does, you have my permission to space me. Quick.”

The image of a Dogan in yellow armor appears. Other members of the crew have white armor. Zedas and the officer—he has that air about him, it’s not just the uniform—continue their harsh exchange of sounds, also known to them as a conversation.

“We’re getting close,” Shaina says. “Can we dock or not?”

Zedas continues to speak to the yellow Dogan, adding an occasional wave of one meaty hand. Shaina matches speeds with the vehicle and stands off a hundred meters, ready to approach or flee as needed.

“You may land this ugly ship,” Zedas says.

Shaina complies without comment. With not much to keep me busy, my stress levels spike. Not that I show it. Appearing cool under pressure is a skill I learned in graduate school when I had to give a lot of presentations. Now, I think it might save my life. My old friend Jack would never show weakness, not even around allies.

The closer we get to the Dogan vessel, the bigger it appears. My sense of distance is wrong—big surprise in the vast expanse of space. I glance several times at Zedas, unable to read his expression as he focuses on the screen.

“I’m going to land,” Shaina says. “Please tell me they’re not going to open fire on us.”

Zedas stares at her for a second, then he looks back to the screen. “All will be well. They are gloating.”

“What?” I ask. “Why would they do that?”

“It is not often that a quest bound warrior, especially a third son, demands assistance. They will be granted three times the honor I secure. And if I fail, they will get ten times the reward.”

“Freaking Dogans,” Shaina mutters.

“It does seem like an unfair system,” I say. “Thank you, friend. I mean that.”

“No problem, Murph.”

I think back to how we started, and how we could barely communicate. Now, my big friend has a fluidity to his speech that makes me feel—not at home, but more like home is here with me. He’s getting more and more of the nuance—not just the words, but the tone necessary for lighthearted banter. It sounds weird coming from his rough vocal cords, and he still grinds his teeth more than is pleasant, but I tell myself that even a chainsaw fades into the background after a few hours, so this will too.

I hope.

The shuttle glides into the tube and lands on a bright red X with a circle around it. To me it looks like a warning not to go there, but I’m clearly wrong this time.

Good thing I’m not flying the shuttle.

Shaina lets out a rare laugh. “Someone please mark me down for a perfect landing.”

“It was very good,” Zedas says.

“What do you know about flying?” She lifts a brow in doubt.

“Enough to recognize a good landing. And good manners,” Zedas says.

Shaina closes her mouth, abashed.

“Can we get off the ship, or is there some sort of protocol we have to follow?” I ask.

“We may disembark,” Zedas replies. “I would remain on board if I could.”

His statement worries me. “Is there a problem?”

He shakes his head no, then leads us to the exit ramp. After a brief pause, he strides down to a platform surrounded by white-armored Dogans. One of them has a single yellow stripe around his helmet. A few others have double or triple stripes, thinner and less impressive.

None of them are as large as Zedas. When they see his half grown armor, they gasp and grind their teeth, a chorus of outraged disbelief.

“This will not be forgotten,” Zedas says under his breath, just loud enough for me and Shaina to hear. “An Orphan with a baby name, and a Dogan third son with baby armor.”

“Oh, the humiliation.” She waves Zedas’s concern away. “Can we just talk to their captain and figure out how to get back to Sarsten?”

“A Dogan captain cannot be rushed, but I will try.”

“Why are these warriors wearing white armor?” I ask.

“Because they are of the Order of the Travelers, what the Hadrians would call a space navy. They have relinquished all family ties and live only to serve their captain. If he is displeased by our actions, we will not escape the ship alive,” Zedas says.

Shaina looks up the ramp like she might get back on the Overlord shuttle and leave right now. “That might’ve been good to know before we landed.”

“Zedas-Duryan, third son of Zedas-Duryan-Eck, welcome to the Longreach. Our captain has directed us to speak Hadrian for the sake of your companions,” the Dogan with one yellow stripe says. “I am Kea-Ohm.”

I lean toward Shaina while the Dogans talk. “Does that sound like a female voice?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Shaina answers. “This should be interesting because I’ve heard that female Dogans are extremely, um—forward.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, but the answer arrives quickly.

Zedas bows, a formal gesture from the waist. It’s graceful despite his bulk. “I am in gratitude, Kea-Ohm.”

“You are very handsome, Zedas-Duryan, but I am wondering about your armor and what happened to you?” Kea edges close to Zedas, looking up.

“I have become an Orphan.”

Kea hisses but doesn’t step back.

“Is that a good thing, or are we in trouble?” I ask Shaina.

“You tell me. Don’t have a clue.”

Her response doesn’t make me feel better. I look around and realize we’re spinning. And just like that, my body goes haywire.

Zedas steps back and puts a hand on my shoulder to keep me from falling. It’s a generous thing, to be steadied like that, and Zedas does it in front of his people without thinking. Then he addresses Kea-Ohm, and this time it’s more confident than when they were having a growl-fest on the shuttle comm channel. “My quest brother is twice Orphaned, brave, and honorable. We must recover a sun ship and return to a planet that the Hadrian Empire must remain ignorant of. This is our mission. It is made of honor, and it is just. I ask that you lend us your aid under the auspices of all that we hold to be fair and good.”

Again, he bows, but from the neck. Kea is in his personal space, with no retreat in sight.

“Yes, of course. I must make apologies for my reaction to the news of your ordeal. I will take you to our captain, per the laws of hospitality and family. You are still very handsome. I would have you tell me if the things we hear of Dogan Orphans are true. In private, perhaps.”

Zedas says nothing.

I’m starting to realize the power of silence in awkward social situations.

Kea-Ohm is, if nothing else, determined. “I’ll take that as a yes. Follow us.”

The white armored Dogan warriors surround our trio and we are taken deeper into the ship. Halfway along the landing strip, which stretches from one end to the other, we pass through blast doors into hallways, where my vertigo fades.

At each location, there is a transparent blast door with a pair of guards. They salute. Zedas ignores them. Shaina and I follow suit.

The captain’s bridge is a marvel of grandeur. Not only is it far larger than anything I’ve seen, but the ceiling is also transparent, giving it the feel of a giant deck open to the void. In every direction, endless, deep black saturates my view, punctuated by stars in an array of lurid colors.

Shaina flinches at the sight. “I’m not sure I can endure the view.”

“We will not remain long,” Zedas promises.

The captain approaches. He is much taller than the others but not as thick. I assume he’s spent more time in the void without gravity than them, but I could be wrong. His eyes glitter with intelligence, and an air of ability clings to the man, comfortable as a favorite shirt. I sketch the bridge in my mind, just for good measure. I want to remember this.

“I am shipmaster Orion-Bos-Yni.” He wears a warm smile. It’s in stark contrast to Zedas—he of the constant glare—and Kea-Ohm, who radiates feral coquettishness. “Welcome, Zedas-Duryan. My crew welcomes the challenge of your quest. And your friends, as well.”

“I stand here in gratitude,” Zedas says.

He is the only Dogan in the room close to the captain’s height. Watching them talk, I realize he’s much more powerfully built than the ship warriors.

Shipmaster Orion-Bos-Yni and Zedas converse in their language for several minutes. Shaina and I retreat and are shown around the bridge. I examine workstations that look like awkwardly slanted computer keyboards with tiny screens approximately one inch high and ten inches wide.

“How do they see anything useful on these little screens?” I ask quietly.

“Who knows with these—um, people.”

“Can you dial it down a notch with the casual bigotry? We are, as you might note, on their freakin’ ship.” None of our hosts respond to her derogatory comment. They are either too polite, don’t understand her tone, or are waiting for a convenient airlock to push us through.

“I told you before, they don’t hear it,” she says.

“Or they’re more polite than you are.”

Her wounded look suggests I might have gone too far, but what the hell. Someone needs to put her in check.

“What do you have against them? Give me the story, here and now. I’m tired of this factory setting in your personality.”

“I guess I don’t know,” Shaina says. “Tradition, really.”

“It’s a shitty tradition.”

She sighs. “Maybe it is. Many things in this sector are.”

“Shitty? Or tradition?”

“Both.”

We’re left with an awkward silence, and then the Dogans summon us toward a large box that looks a bit like a phone booth lying on the floor—or a coffin.

“Overlord rebel Shaina must go into the navigation box to take us to the sun ship,” Zedas says.

“Oh screw that,” she says. “I’ve heard stories about the navigation chambers. Never believed them, but I’m not taking any chances. That thing looks like a funeral pod.”

“You must guide us,” Orion-Bos-Yni says. “Otherwise the third son will fail. This will be on your conscience, pup.”

I tense, not sure where to move to stop the argument from escalating. To my surprise, Shaina explains.

“Hadrians commonly call the Dogans abominations. They call us pups. I’m not weak like a pup, so I don’t really give a damn what they say. But I can’t get in that chamber.”

“How does it work?” I ask.

Zedas stands very close to me. “You climb into the chamber, think of your destination, and it does the rest. It’s keyed to your brainwaves, and it’s fast and accurate, and it never malfunctions.

“Sounds optimal. Why are you staring at it like it can bite you?” I ask.

Zedas shifts from foot to foot. “There is some, ah, pain involved.”

“Not the most scientific explanation I’ve heard, but it looks easy enough. I’m game.” My words betray me. Silence falls over the bridge.

Even Shaina looks surprised, then worried. “Murphy, do you know what you agreed to?”

“If it will show us the way to the sun ship, I’ll get in the chamber. I’m not claustrophobic, and the term some pain doesn’t mean—”

There’s a long, quiet moment, filled with the Dogans staring at me. Zedas puts a hand on my shoulder, and it feels like he’s trying to comfort me.

I clear my throat. “Could someone clarify what some pain means, exactly?”

“Mild discomfort,” Zedas elaborates.

I look up at him. “Thank you, friend. That really illuminates the situation.”

“My pleasure.”

“Thanks, Orphan,” Shaina says. “I can’t do this because it’s a security risk. You know I can’t risk revealing the location of our base on Sarsten.”

“What about Helion Station?” I ask.

Orion-Bos-Yni gives me a toxic look that transcends species. “You do not need to go into the navigation box for that. Is this where you want to go first?”

I look to Zedas, but he gives me nothing. Something about the quest is complicating this issue, and it’s outside my grasp of Dogan culture.

“Is there a problem going to Helion Station?” I might as well get right to the point. After all, I’m going into the coffin of doom, or whatever they call it in their own tongue.

Instead of answering, Orion imitates Zedas, down to the way his feet are placed and the way his arms hang at his side—not quite relaxed, but not tense either. It’s probably some cultural affectation.

I look to Shaina, who shrugs.

“I don’t know what their problem is, but it could be they are worried about going to war with the Hadrian Empire,” she says.

I look back to Orion. “I’m not asking for you to get involved. If you can’t get us close enough, we will take the shuttle to the station and liberate the prisoners there ourselves.”

Zedas rattles off an extremely long sentence in Dogan before the shipmaster faces me once more.

“This will be done,” he says. “Our presence must not be detected in this part of your quest. But if you succeed, and if you take one of their cruisers, we cannot help you back to the sun ship to rescue the other prisoners.”

I clap my hands together. “Fair enough. Let’s get started.”

“After you complete your suicidal mission,” Orion-Bos-Yni says, “you must return here and go into the navigation chamber if we are to help.”

“Why?”

“Because you—it’s a matter of honor, Orphan, and you must—” Orion sputters.

“That’s what I thought. Tell you what, if I live through this and feel the need to boost my honor?”

“Yes? You would come back and do this?” Orion asks.

I give him a level look. “We’ll see.”

33

We are escorted back to our shuttle, and not all of the Dogan warriors seem happy with the plan. Kea-Ohm chastises Zedas in their language until one of her companions gently draws her back from the confrontation, a hum of danger filling the air between them.

“I don’t even want to know,” Shaina says.

“Their culture is . . . complicated.” Moving closer, I can hear Dogans speaking, but all I can glean is tone, and possible mood. As to what I see, that’s clearer—if a pastiche of many familiar things. “Some Heian Japan, medieval Europe, even a little Sicilian family culture. It’s all here, I think.” I shake my head in wonder. Every day in the Goliath sector is like my first day in the field. It’s a bright spot in a situation that’s fraught with danger like I’ve never known.

“You are the strangest Orphan I’ve ever heard of,” Shaina says.

“So I’ve been told.” Once we are inside, I clean up and eat some of the ship rations, which taste surprisingly good. Since coming through the Orphan Gate, I’ve learned to turn my hunger off—something that would’ve been helpful the first day when I thought my body was being consumed from the inside out. But when it’s on, it’s definitely time to devour as many calories as possible. And everything tastes good.

Like being sixteen years old again but without the acne.

Shaina experiences the same effect if her binging is a good indicator. She talks with her mouth full. “I can’t believe how good this tastes. Maybe getting involved with you and your friend wasn’t such a bad deal after all. I had given up on ship rations a decade ago. But this . . . simply fabulous.”

“How old are you?” I ask, still chewing. I feel no shame. Only the delight of sweet, sweet carbs.

“Not a polite question—asking a woman her age.”

“This coming from a woman who called my friend an abomination.”

She aims a six pronged fork at me. “Good point.”

“So what’s your answer?”

She chews on a bite that had obviously been too large, then drinks some of the flavored water from a connected container that’s like a straw linked to an MRE. “Sorry. I didn’t know being an Orphan was going to make me eat like a pig. I’m not as old as you, if my estimate is correct. I’d say about three Decca.”

“Three decades? Like thirty years old.”

She shrugs, then nods and waves the fork like that’s close enough and it’s time to move on with the conversation.

“Well, then you’re in your prime.”

“You’re just being generous because the food is so good,” she says.

“We’ll probably pay for it later.”

She glances down at her stomach, then grins. “Hope not.”

I pick up my trash and neatly tuck it into a receptacle below a gravity sink.

Zedas enters the room, his face even more unreadable. “There is a message from Shipmaster Orion-Bos-Yni. Problems at Helion Station. Some sort of crisis, possibly from sabotage. Most of the cruisers and life pods were deployed days ago. Orion-Bos-Yni wishes to abort the mission and says he will take us anywhere else we wish to go, including the sun ship.”

“We’re not doing that,” I say. “This sounds like perfect timing for a rescue mission. There might not even be guards there. No, we go onward. Chaos, in this case, is our ally.”

“Unless there are not enough ships to evacuate a bunch of desperate prisoners,” Shaina says. “They’ll murder us and take our shuttle, then crash it because they will put too many people on it. Basically a waste of time that gets us killed.”

“Or we get in there and find a vessel that works,” I say, then face Zedas. “You said most of the ships were gone.”

“There is a cruiser. It must be nonfunctional to still be there. So the pup is correct.”

“See!” Shaina jumps up out of her seat and points at Zedas. “I told you they call us that.”

“I call a pup a pup.”

Shaina swaggers forward but doesn’t seem that angry. “Abomination.”

“Pup. Look at how small and unarmored you are. How can I take offense at your words when you are so pathetic?” Zedas growls.

Shaina spreads her arm as though she’s been totally vindicated. “Now look at that. Who’s the insensitive asshole now?”

“I’m gonna vote for both of you,” I say. “Let’s table this discussion until after we rescue the prisoners from Helion Station.”

“You’re really stuck on this, aren’t you, Orphan?” Shaina pops her knuckles like she’s about to get to work. “We survived about 500 percent longer than I thought we would, so I’m game for anything.”

We move to the cockpit, without Zedas, who has to remain just outside due to his bulk, then we send a message to shipmaster Orion-Bos-Yni and wait. An hour later, we are notified that we must launch.

“May your quest be successful, Zedas-Duryan, third son of Zedas-Duryan-Eck,” Shipmaster Orion-Bos-Yni says.

We fly toward a speck on the monitor.

“How far is that? Are we looking at it under magnification, or can we get a better view?” I ask.

Shaina adjusts the view, and I see a marginally better picture of a sphere with four large docking areas. From this distance, it’s got a vaguely organic appearance, like a massive beast with four mouths.

“Normally it doesn’t look so broken apart because there are ships parked everywhere on its surface,” she says. “Like everyone else in the resistance, I studied it during basic training, but there’s never been a practical reason to assault the place.”

“We’re not assaulting, we’re sneaking,” I say. “Zedas, maybe you should tie yourself down in case Shaina has to do some, ah, fancy flying.”

The Dogan goes back to the main compartment, out of my view.

“No one has tried to hail us or shoot at us,” Shaina says as we get closer. “That probably means everyone inside is dead or gone. If I were an Overlord warden being driven off my own prison station, I would have set the thing to blow, or at least disabled the life support systems.”

“I expect nothing less from those vicious rats.” I search the screen and the sensors for signs of life. One of them shows movement, indicated by green, red, or amber dots below the surface of the sphere. I point at what I’m seeing.

Shaina studies the screen for a moment, then frowns. “That’s a lot of running about. If people are panicking, it makes the situation far less stable. You remember the doomed crew on the sun ship, right? Because I guarantee you some of the Overlord personnel were left behind. They’ll have weapons and nothing to lose. This may seem like a lucky opportunity for us, but it’s not.”

“I think the Dark Eye brought some people from my home system here, to serve as fighters,” I say.

Shaina swears in words that are too fast and too vile for me to understand. Apparently, there are parts of the Hadrian language I haven’t mastered yet.

I open an intercom link to the main compartment. “Zedas, bring Wist up here and make sure he’s in the mood to listen.”

Shaina steers around the station without drawing fire. One section vents atmosphere. Debris, including broken ships and bodies, floats from a docking bay.

“Keep going.” My voice cracks. “There are other places to land.”

On the far side from the worst damage, there’s a large ship moored to a repair boom, but it’s completely dark. Despite the carnage and destruction, other parts of the station have power. Uneven lights flicker over the massive exterior, dancing in white and yellow, with the occasional flash of red. It’s an awesome sight, but it triggers alarms deep in my instincts. This place is danger made real.

“There’s a reason they left that one,” Shaina says. “It’s a Class VI Cruiser, more than we need.”

“Here is the Overlord candidate.” Zedas pushes Wist into the cockpit. “Sit.”

Wist takes the navigator’s seat, then moves it on rails as far as he can from the Dogan. “Just kill me. I’m not going to that place. The people there are far more creative in the ways of torture than Anaximander.”

“Especially a traitor, I bet,” Shaina says.

I hold up a hand and glare at her for a second, then face Wist. “We’re not dumping you there. This is a rescue mission, and I need that cruiser to pick up the people on the doomed sun ship.”

“They won’t thank you,” he says. “And they are criminals.”

“Some of them had families,” I counter.

“Most of them are more dangerous than others,” he says. “You think a bunch of innocent people whose only crimes were their political views are on that doomed vessel?”

“Am I wrong?”

His voice falters. “Some are . . .”

“Your master is putting entire families to death.” Heat fills my words. For the first time in my life, I’m tempted to hit a man who can’t realistically fight back. My hands curl into fists without a thought, and Wist sees.

“Is that not how your people deal with criminals?” Wist asks. “Why would you expect a murderer’s child to be anything but another murderer.”

I stand, my guts boiling at such wanton stupidity.

“Do Hadrians follow that bullshit logic?” I demand.

Shaina crosses her arms. “No, we don’t.”

Her answer reassures me, but I’m not 100 percent convinced. “Aren’t you furious?”

“He’s one of them,” she says. “I don’t expect much from someone like him. Why would I be angry when he is just following his nature? I would no more chastise a pet for eating something dead. He’s just attracted to a different kind of carrion—and that is power.”

“Because it’s wrong, and he’s wrong. If we don’t feel the injustice of this, then we’ll stand aside and let it happen. And it will continue to happen through this sector, which I’m starting to realize is a home to evil, not civilization.”

Shaina’s face reddens. I’m too close to the mark for her to remain neutral.

Zedas is unreadable.

I turn my attention back to Wist, my hands clenched to save him from a beating. “Tell me about that cruiser. Can we make it work?”

He stalls, but not for long. “Of course it’s possible, but you will need to find your way to the station’s engineering level to power it up. And then you’ll need a crew. Maybe that won’t be so difficult with everyone trying to get off since the damage here is catastrophic.” He pauses, then stares at the destruction. “What happened here?”

“You know the answer,” Shaina says. “There was either a failed breakout attempt or it was attacked, but the former explanation makes the most sense. Unless there are Protheans in the system no one knows about, there aren’t ships capable of fighting the defense fleet that had to have been here before the evacuation.”

“We need that ship, and we need to liberate the prisoners here, especially those who are illegally detained for political reasons. That’s what we’re going to do. Starting now,” I say.

“How are you going to do that?” Wist and Shaina say at the same time.

“Whose side are you on?”

She points at Wist. “Not his.”

I review what I need to do and check my mental notebook. A long look at the space station and the obvious damage it has sustained doesn’t reassure me, but this feels right.

“Is the Dark Eye being held here?” This question catches him off guard, as I hoped it would.

He stiffens but recovers quickly. “Who else could have caused this kind of rebellion?”

“Then we’re going to land, and you’re going to take me to meet him. And then we’re stealing a big ship and getting the hell out of here.” I think of the Earth commando ship and worry they are among the prisoners left to die. If they came through an Orphan Gate and are still alive, this is the most likely place they will be.

And if it is now controlled by the Dark Eye, then the survivors will be a lot less like me and more like my friend Jack.

As to what side they took, we will soon find out.

34

Once we decide where to land, Zedas and I take Wist to the main compartment and check his wrist restraints. When he’s as safe as we can render him, I search the ship for weapons and anything else that might be useful.

Zedas opens a locker. “Wear this and look like them. The guards will not shoot you.”

“But the rioting prisoners will, and I bet there are a lot more of them on Helion Station right now,” I say, but my big friend is onto something. “What if I tear off the patches?”

“They might think you took the uniform from a soldier or guard,” Zedas says.

“They will still murder you.” Wist looks resigned to his fate but also completely unmotivated to help us.

“Well, since you’re with us, maybe it would be smart to help us with the plan. You know Overlord standard operating procedures and their combat tactics. Do yourself a favor and find a way to do this.”

He listens but says nothing.

“You’re not being useful, Wist, and that means I might as well let Shaina shoot you,” I say.

Shaina draws her pistol, a cold smile on her face. She’s almost bouncing on her toes with excitement, and Wist’s control cracks, if only for a second.

“We have to sneak through the middle decks,” Wist blurts.

Shaina frowns, disappointed that she won’t be putting a round in his head—yet. “Despite what you believe about the Overlord crew, some will be left behind, with orders to fight, hold, or maybe even die,” Wist states.

“Is that right, Shaina?” I ask.

She shrugs. “He knows more about their operations than I do. He’s the Overlord Candidate, not me.”

“I could change that if we survive,” Wist says.

Shaina, right in the middle of checking weapons, stops and looks at him.

“You know there’s a chance I will be rescued,” Wist says. “Especially if you walk into an Overlord garrison attempting to regain control of Helion. I’ll deliver you, the Orphan, and the Dogan, and I’ll be a full Overlord when it’s done. Think about it. Your family would be protected for generations, and you could rise high in our society.”

“I think we’re all Orphans here,” I say, acting on intuition.

Wist stares at me and denies the accusation again. “I’m not like the three of you, and I’m certainly not a double Orphan—Doctor Murphy.”

If Wist hopes to shame me, he fails. Being an Orphan feels amazing.

I grab another uniform from the locker, smiling broadly. “Put this on.”

Wist points at the uniform, one brow lifted. “This will make me even more recognizable when we contact garrison troops.”

I rip the patch off and hand him the jumpsuit. “Maybe, but not on your terms. Get dressed. We have places to be and people to shoot.”

Zedas watches us, eating from the shuttle’s emergency rations like he’s starving.

“Tank up, big guy,” I tell him.

He waves a hand filled with food packs, then swallows. “I will if you think we can afford to. My tank is bigger than yours.”

I notice his armor is noticeably thicker than it was a few hours ago but still nothing like when we first met. “We’ll scout food, so eat as much as you need.” I peer at his armor, impressed. “That’s really growing fast.”

“It is only because I am an Orphan, as you say. It is difficult to know if this will increase or decrease my honor.”

“In case we don’t get to discuss this again, your honor isn’t tied to your value. Not in my eyes, friend.”

Zedas gives me a small nod. “I will remember that. Maybe your culture has something to teach me.”

Shaina’s voice comes over the intercom. “I’m about to land. No need to buckle in because it should be smooth as glass. We’ll need to start looking for allies and get that cruiser ready to go as soon as possible.”

I brace myself for impact, watching my prisoner and calming my nerves. The shuttle slows, touches the deck, and stops. A faint chime sounds.

“There you have it, another perfect landing,” Shaina says.

“You’re going to jinx yourself. It’s bad luck to brag. Guarantees the next landing will be . . . of lesser quality.”

“If you say so.” She goes to a locker and retrieves a belt. “Make Wist put this on.”

The Overlord candidate stands straight, lifting his chin arrogantly. “I won’t.”

Shaina puts the muzzle of her charge pistol under his chin. “Listen, you mud-sucking son of a whore. The Orphan wants to do this, so we will. And you’re going to help us. If you don’t, then I vote to eliminate you and your treachery right now. We don’t have much to lose at this point, and seeing your head split would make my year.”

I let her run with the intimidation and quietly cheer her choice of slurs. She’s good.

Zedas stands and watches, not saying a word. That is almost more intimidating than Shaina’s threats.

“What does the belt do?” I ask.

“It’s an insurance policy,” Shaina says. “He takes a wrong step, and he’ll be lying on the floor convulsing.”

“How did you know there was one on the ship?” My suspicions spike. Sure, Shaina helped us escape. Her betrayal had been a farce, but I’m not convinced she can resist what Wist just offered her.

“Overlords use these things a lot. Most ships have them in storage. If you’ve never worn one, you’re lucky. I have, and they make life a living hell, especially if your guard is a sadistic bastard.”

“Okay, it’s fortunate we have one then.” I take the belt control and tuck it inside my new Overlord jacket, then I strap on a charge pistol. “Can you show me how to use this?”

Shaina looks at the way I’m holding it. “You kept your finger out of the trigger guard, so that’s good.” She adjusts my grip slightly and shows me two buttons on the side. “The first one gives you a temporary boost in power. The second puts you in energy conservation mode if you don’t think you’re going to use it for a while. Don’t mix them up. This lever here, a trigger you might call it, activates the charge, then automatically sends the pellet, which basically melts at the speed it moves and superheats the air around it.”

“What’s the recoil like?” I ask.

She gives me a questioning look.

I point the pistol at a blank section of the wall and imitate it bucking backward several times.

She gives me her best poker face.

“You know what I’m talking about. When I start shooting, is it going to kick and ruin my shots?” She still doesn’t respond, so I make sound effects while pointing a finger gun. “Pew, pew, pew.”

She finally laughs. “I knew what you meant the first time.”

“You’re such a tool.”

She slaps me on the shoulder. “I’m assuming that is mildly offensive, which means we’re making progress. We can’t be part of the same fighting unit without giving each other a hard time. In answer to your question, the recoil, as you call it, is brutal. If you don’t keep your hand, wrist, and elbow lined up, you will injure yourself when you fire it. Bonus points if you can keep your shoulder and core muscles tight. Pistols are almost more dangerous than our long guns.”

“I wasn’t nervous before,” I say. “Thanks for the encouragement.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Let’s get going. Wist, stay close to me. Wouldn’t want to lose track of my newest friend.”

He shambles forward, head down, his attitude just the way I want it—cowed and desperate.

We disembark the shuttle and move quickly across the landing bay. It’s dark, only a few emergency lights flicker here and there, brightness and shadow in a dizzying contrast. I see bodies on the other side of the deck. The unnatural angles of their heads mark them as deceased.

I regret coming here but say nothing. “Which way, Wist?”

He points. “That will take us toward the engineering level where you can redirect power to the ship you want to steal.”

“Are we going to have problems with guards or inmates that way?” Shaina asks.

“I can’t be sure.” Wist looks back at Zedas. “But I don’t think so. If the denizens of this place truly think it is doomed, they will be fighting over the food and liquor, and maybe other things to make the final hours more enjoyable.”

“And maybe raping and killing each other,” Shaina says.

“Ray of sunshine, you are. We’ll do what we can, but for now—the ship,” I say.

She looks at me strangely and then laughs. “Odd time to talk about a star. Orphans truly are alien.”

“That’s—never mind. Let’s go,” I say.

Zedas walks past us into the hallway Wist indicated. “I will go first.”

“He has better night vision than Hadrians, probably better than you as well unless you had some sort of Orphan upgrade you’re not telling me about,” Shaina says.

“He does, but I’m no Hadrian, I”m an Orphan now.” I tap a finger near my eye. “New and improved.” I think about the order of march I learned during advanced infantry training. “I’ll take the prisoner, you bring up the rear, Shaina.”

“That works,” she agrees.

We move quickly. From time to time, Zedas stops and motions us forward to get directions. Wist sullenly complies. The station vibrates. A drunk, or possibly high, escapee cranks up the public address system and swears for no reason—then threatens to burn the galaxy to embers. As performances go, it’s not bad. As a public service announcement, it’s on par with any subway driver in New York. Or Philadelphia.

“Sounds like he’s from Soln Kaidra by his accent,” Shaina informs me. “Rough place, and he’s as mad as void death. Probably not dangerous unless he has friends.”

“Everyone stop.” I listen to the messages with all my attention. With effort, I understand the words.

“From here until the end of time, I rule the eatery. No man, woman, or Dogan interloper will infringe on our lawful rights to sustenance!”

“Is he talking about us?” I ask.

Shaina shakes her head. “I don’t think so. He’s all over the place.”

“Sounds like he is describing our party, except for Wist.” I’m not really arguing, but I’m not done with the topic.

“Coincidence. Part of a formulaic call to arms by many rebellions,” she says.

I look at Wist. “Is that what you think? Keeping in mind that if we get attacked, you’ll be shot right beside us. Or one of us will do it.”

“She is not fabricating information,” Wist says. “Are you worried about that?”

“I’m worried about a lot of things. Let’s get going.”

We pass several maintenance bays, and I think I see part of an Earth style ship, but when I run to investigate it’s clearly of Hadrian design. “If people from my sector of the galaxy are here, then we need to find them.”

“I understand how you would feel that way, but that would be useless. What could they do for you?” Wist asks. “By contrast, I could make Shaina an Overlord. I could guarantee you fair treatment, Orphan. And I could see that the Dogan comes to no excessive harm.”

Shaina lunges forward and strikes him across the side of his face with an open palm. The crack echoes off the walls, and Wist staggers, then rights himself with a furious glare twisting his features.

“Next time, you get the shock belt,” Shaina hisses.

She’s still glaring as I hear voices from around the corner.

“Someone’s coming. This way,” I murmur. I duck into a deep doorway, moving us well away from the main corridor.

They follow quickly.

I can’t see who is arguing, or if they’re passing by, and the seconds feel like hours until their voices fade. I turn and find Shaina whispering harshly to Wist, both pressed against the deepest recess of our hiding place. I don’t like it, and Zedas sees my expression go dark.

“I’ve been watching and listening,” Zedas tells me. “She has not betrayed you yet.”

“I’ll take what I can get.” I step into the hallway, almost hoping there’s someone to shoot at.

Shaina pushes Wist to Zedas, who shoves him so hard he hits the far wall and staggers.

“Do not tempt fate, Overlord scum,” Zedas warns, pointing a hand at Wist, fingers hard and flat like a blade.

“Shaina, our turn to lead,” I say. “Zedas can handle the prisoner. Just let us know when we need to change course.”

Zedas nods once. “This is a good modification.”

Shaina shrugs and joins me. “If that’s what you want, Orphan.”

“What were you talking about that I couldn’t hear?”

“I was telling him that if he tried to alert the guards, I would cut his throat. Maybe next time I should just shout it. Seemed better to keep the warning quiet.”

“Fair enough,” I say, but I don’t believe her. Or maybe I do—partially.

We head around a curving hallway, stop to allow two more groups of marauding ex-guards pass us, and finally arrive at a large spiral stairway. In the middle is nothing but empty air leading down to a power plant, huge engines humming with purpose and a scent of ozone in the air.

“We’re going up now,” I announce.

I check with Wist, then head up the stairs to the engineering level, but I’m thinking about my impulsive plan to rescue Overlord prisoners here before heading for the doomed sun ship. So far, I haven’t seen anyone I want to approach on Helion station, much less save.

Yet what I’m doing feels right. It’s the decent thing to do. And enemies of the Overlords have to be allies. Jack would tell me I’m on the money. He’d say trust yourself, and he’d say the first thing he would do is take control of the ship through the bridge or the engine room.

My old friend was practical like that.

I run up the stairs, too fast for Shaina, Zedas, or Wist, but I don’t care. The place will be empty or lightly guarded. So far, the infiltration has been easy, almost routine.

A walk in the Goliath sector park.

35

I burst through the door, feeling like a badass with my charge pistol out. Tamok didn’t know what the hell he was talking about—the gun feels natural in my hand. I’ll go through the weapon’s training course when I can.

Long before I stepped through the Orphan Gate, my close quarters battle instructor in AIT had explained that fighting room to room was the worst scenario possible in war. He also said, over and over, not to stop in the doorway.

So I dash in, then clear to the right while Shaina, a few strides behind me, follows and goes left. Zedas appears in the doorway but apparently never heard the prohibition against clogging the fatal funnel and getting shot. He takes one step inside the room and stops with both fists raised like a giant boxer, his knuckles the size of plums.

I see all of that in the span of a few seconds, but it barely registers.

“Um. Okay then, this is unexpected,” I say.

I’m looking at Jack Barris in faded BDU pants, a skin tight shirt over a muscular torso that clearly belongs to someone else, and the darkest sunglasses I’ve ever seen. He ripples with muscle and glows with good health. This is not the friend I had—that husk is a memory, replaced with this version.

Flanking him are several commandos and a motley collection of Goliath sector characters wearing prison uniforms and Overlord guard gun belts. Some look like Hadrians—others, not so much. Large and small, they seem mostly human but with little additions and subtractions here and there—skin tone, strangely shaped eyes, and one guy with four arms.

“Hold your fire!” Jack shouts.

I move closer, lowering my weapon with no regard for anything happening around me. “You’re alive! I thought Brendon Davis had you shot.”

“That fool?” Jack laughs. “I’d forgotten about him. How long ago was that?”

“What are you talking about? Did you link up with the ship from five years ago?” I glance back once, checking on Zedas and Shaina, but they’re still there watching me—and looking nervous.

“Uh, yeah. Something like that. Glad you made it. When I checked the remains of the Cradle, it looked like you had been torched, nothing but ash and pieces of the gate left,” he says. “Davis was a fool. Shortsighted.”

A big man, even taller than Zedas, if not quite as thick, with muscle and newly grown armor, touches Jack’s shoulder. At first, I think he might be human, but his skin has a red tint and his eyes are yellow with black diamond pupils. “We need to go.”

Jack points at the giant. “This is Slade. No one can pronounce his real name. Ironically, he’s the best English speaker I have.”

I notice something else as my friend introduces the rest of his team—the Earth soldiers are young, late twenties or early thirties. And they’re in peak condition, true operators at the height of their game. What’s left of their uniforms are patterned with a style of camouflage I haven’t seen before. How could they be from five years ago?

Jack sure as hell isn’t.

This has to be part of a rescue mission. Has to, but isn’t—thought icons and connection points fill the back of my imagination, warning me that I’m missing something.

“How are you feeling, Murph?” Jack asks, getting closer. This is the man I knew years ago, but now he’s packed with muscle--a sign of his status as an Orphan. What stands out the most, however, is his hair. Back when he had some, it was always buzzed short. He’s let it grow long enough now to tie back. True to his personality, it is styled perfectly centered and tight enough to almost look painful.

I smile for the first time since seeing him. “Pretty damned good,” I tell him, displaying my repaired finger.

He laughs out loud, then clamps me on the shoulder. “Listen, everyone, this is my old friend, Dr. Murphy. Treat him like he is my brother, because he is.”

The crew surrounding him seems uncomfortable and not happy. More than a few of the humanoids give me dark looks, scanning me as though assessing a threat.

“Do you know anything about the Dark Eye?” I ask.

“Not a concern. We need to sneak past the last of the Overlord troops—the ones too stupid and loyal to their masters to leave when the leaving was good.”

“Why haven’t you powered up the cruiser?” I ask. “You’ve had control of this level long enough to do it.”

“I was waiting for some of my people to get back.” He points toward a group wheeling in crates full of weapons and body armor. “But you’re here now, and they’re here, and it’s about time we take care of business.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“For what?”

“For not getting killed, and being here, and everything else.” I’m not even sure what I mean. I’m just glad to see him. It’s like I’m already home.

“No problemo, brother.”

His words should reassure me, but they don’t. Men and women pull on armor and check batteries and pellet magazines for long guns and pistols, or they swing melee weapons to test their balance.

“Can we get one of those swords for Zedas?” The short, blocky weapons remind me of high tech versions of a gladius—the Roman shortsword.

Zedas clicks his teeth together and flares his nostrils.

Jack laughs good-naturedly from the other side of the room where he is helping a woman put on a ballistic vest. “I don’t think he wants one of our crude weapons.”

“Why can’t you use one of these?” I gesture toward the well-made blades.

“Dogans must use their own weapons,” Zedas replies.

“Drop it, Orphan,” Shaina says. “You thought you had problems with the abomination? Now you have these rogues to deal with. Watch your ass. More importantly, watch your new friend.”

I survey Jack’s people again, wanting to argue with Shaina, but my instincts tell me she knows what she’s talking about. The good feelings don’t leave but are tempered by a reality I don’t understand.

“Norn and Isa, help Doctor Murphy’s team watch their prisoner,” Jack says. “I don’t like the looks of him.”

“I don’t want him hurt.” I mean to say I don’t want him hurt yet. But with my friend’s strangeness pressing against my senses, I suddenly feel even less ruthless than before the Orphan gate changed me—because my friend and his companions are obviously ruthless enough for all of us. There’s no reason to give them an excuse to get violent.

“Let’s get moving,” Slade says. The Earth commandos and the Goliath sector rogues gather the rest of their gear and move out. “We’ll hold the hallways and stairs leading here while you get the cruiser online.”

“Don’t be seen, and if you are, leave no one alive to tell the tale.” Jack urges me to walk beside him.

We head toward a row of control terminals where a man with a nine inch afro, sunglasses, and glowing blue earrings works, his hands moving in a confident blur. Shaina follows us. Zedas takes up a position between us and Jack’s team, who are now just outside the main door to this facility.

“Can you do this, Patrick?”

The man I don’t know is wearing the remnants of military fatigues mixed with gear I’ve seen on both rebels and overlords. His shades are every bit as stylish as Jack’s, but he pushes them up on his nose several times as he works—just like I used to do. Tall, lean, and always moving, the guy seems like he’s listening to music even though I don’t see a device, not even wireless earbuds.

“I’ve done it before,” he says. “Why do you always doubt me?”

Jack shrugs. “Maybe I’m remembering the half-dozen times you tried and failed.”

Patrick looks at me. “He’s a real motivational speaker, isn’t he.”

“Do I know you?” I ask. There is something familiar about him, but it’s just a fleeting image.

“I was with a team of graduate students who toured the LMC moon base about the time you were really getting started. I don’t think you had done much other than find the device yet, but it was an amazing time—history making science right there in front of us,” Patrick says. “I really want to go back, if I’m being honest.”

His statement is obviously for me, but Jack harrumphs loudly. “Why would anyone want to go back to the Sol system?”

“We haven’t all done the loop,” Patrick says. “If we can’t get boosted, why not go home and be big fish in a tiny pond?”

Jack glares at him. “Just get the cruiser online. The longer we wait, the harder it will be to sneak through the station.”

I watch Patrick work but still don’t recognize him.

Jack considers me for a long moment and chimes in, like he always used to—like he can read my mind and has the answers to my questions before I ask them.

My brother.

“He was recruited by the agency shortly after his tour,” Jack says.

His ability to guess my thoughts has nothing to do with Orphan Gate powers. That’s an innate ability he carries, just like his organization of the space around us—it’s flawless, with no clutter or objects out of place. A kind of OCD brought on by necessity—and efficiency. I see the evidence of his personality now that the initial shock has worn off. His crew looks wild and ragged, but they are well behaved even though they obviously don’t like me and my friends. They are disciplined shock troops, commandos, and skilled technicians Jack has molded, just like he did every team he was assigned.

Before his injuries took him out of the game.

His instincts might look like mind reading, but they aren’t. He is just that smart, from the time we were running from bullies on the playground to when we chased girls in college—he always knew what to say, but more importantly, what to ask. Probably one of the reasons he was selected for the CIA after his nerve damage.

Patrick looks from Jack, to me, as Jack talks.

“That’s the only reason he never joined your team. I’m pretty sure he was on the fast track, because he’s pretty damn smart and doesn’t know how to not work. I tried to get him to take days off before the Cradle fiasco, and I would find him in his lab running experiments or reading technical manuals. He really needs to get a life,” Jack tells me.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I say. “I heard gunshots. A lot of them. And I called you on the radio. You didn’t answer.”

He looks toward the open doorway where one of his guards stands, charge rifle held at port-arms. “I was busy. Speaking of which, about to get hot here. Patrick, where are we on the ship?”

“Coming online.” Patrick steps away from the control panel. “All we have to do is get there before someone else takes it.”

Jack steps past the young man, draws and aims his charge pistol, and blows the workstation to pieces.

“What the hell?” I ask.

He laughs, and it’s not a good sound. “Don’t want anyone taking control from here, do I,” he says, an amiable grin on his face.

“We should go.” Shaina suddenly sounds more reasonable and familiar than a man I have known since I was a kid.

Zedas looks down on Jack but speaks to me. “Yes, it is time to go.”

“You let the Dogan talk to you?” Jack asks. “Never mind.” He also starts for the door and orders the rest of his team into place. They form up without a sound, their positions known beforehand.

“You know him?” Shaina asks me.

“Yeah. He was trying to save my life when I was blown through Cradle 1. The Orphan Gate.”

She pales. “That is unfortunate.”

I look at Zedas for support. “Do you have a problem with my friend too?”

He says nothing, which is on-brand for him, if irritating.

The station trembles, alerts sound. I hear gunfire from several of the hallways. The main engineering room is central to the rest of the station, with vertical and horizontal passages radiating out from it. There’s also a huge bank of elevators, and clear tubes I think are for sending items to other levels, because they’re too small for a person to get in and the items I see rocketing past in them are moving way too fast for an organic being to survive.

We rush into a hallway, then run through several intersections with Jack’s commandos giving hand signals and barking commands.

“Clear, move through,” a man says.

“Moving!” a woman responds, then runs to the next intersection with three other people. The moment they stop, they aim weapons around corners. “Set.”

“Moving!” shouts the next team leader.

Once, I see Jack look back at me and smile like a proud father.

“What?” I wish he would take off those glasses.

“It’s just good to see you moving like that. You always were a piss poor runner. The gate has done you good. You might even be able to keep up with my team.”

The point man shouts a warning and then opens fire. Someone returns the favor and ups the ante. The charge bolts coming past us seem heavier, almost glowing as they rip by our position. Where the bolts strike, the bulkhead sizzles and bits of slag spall away in bright arcs.

“Someone’s taken a heavy gun from the ship and mounted it on the deck,” Shaina says. “We’ll need to go another way.”

I run through the training I did at the Tamondran secret facility, reviewing the mental notes I made. Shaina’s recent explanation of the weapons play in my head like a high-def video. Reviewing lessons and weapon details calms me as I aim and move, hoping that the real soldiers will do most of the work. The charge weapons do, in fact, fire a projectile, but it’s very small. It’s mostly the speed and energy transfer that does the damage. So if I get hit with one—

Gone is the confidence I felt when handling the weapon earlier. I plug the charge gun ballistic information into what I see coming for us, and it gives me a chill. The weapon is launching an enormous amount of deadly energy our way at a rate none of our small weapons can sustain without overheating. The math doesn’t work. We won’t make it if we go forward.

“This way,” Slade says, taking us down a different hallway.

We’re almost at the docks when the worst ambush comes. Charge weapons blast at us from all directions, a crossing fire that sears the air and sends sparks flying in crimson showers. Jack’s team responds so quickly I can barely keep up. They’re shooting and moving to cover, putting down guards and other prisoners without mercy. I hear a howl and a shriek, then someone begs for mercy—only to be cut off with a wet splat and a long sigh of surrender.

“Move, Orphan. Jack will have my head if you go down.” Slade takes me by the shoulder and guides me behind better cover. The workstation I had selected looks slender and frail compared to the steel shipping container he shoves me behind.

Shaina and Zedas arrive at the same place but from the other side.

A charge bolt slams into Slade, spinning him away from our new shelter. He falls hard and staggers, his wound erupting with blood.

“You can’t stay there,” Jack shouts. “Get to the ship.”

I look around and spot my friend inside the cruiser at the top of a ramp. His image shimmers as though he’s behind some sort of shield.

“Slade is down!” I shout.

Jack looks at his lieutenant. “His choice. Told him not to do anything heroic.”

I lean out and try to grab Slade but nearly get shot in the face as I watch him writhe in agony. Zedas steps over me, hoists Slade over his shoulder, and runs for the ship. Shaina and I follow.

The ship is bigger inside than it looks from the outside, but it’s simpler and less ostentatious than Anaximander’s flagship. There are a lot more people here than Jack’s mercenary squad had.

I find my friend and wait until he’s done giving orders to a group of mechanics. “Do we have time to check the station, see if there is anybody else who needs evacuation?”

It seems like a stupid question because I can hear people firing small arms weapons ineffectually at the exterior of this vessel. It’s faint, like a whisper of a battle. But it’s there, and it reminds me that people are going to be left behind to die horribly.

“I brought everybody I thought was innocent, and even those who at least agree to do as they’re told,” he says.

His words catch me off guard, rendering me momentarily speechless.

“Let me ask you something, Murph. How do you know which ones are mere political prisoners, guilty of nothing more than speaking out against the Overlords, and which ones were running concentration camps worse than anything in our own histories? Which of these inmates are serial killers, rapists, and organ thieves? Can you tell by looking at them?”

“I saw families, men and women with children.”

“You don’t think the commandant of Auschwitz had a family? Or maybe that the leaders of the Khmer Rouge were completely one dimensional movie villains?”

I struggle for an answer but find nothing.

Jack pats me on the shoulder. “We’ll pick up everyone we can and separate them from the crew members we already trust. Then, if we can’t verify their innocence, we can put them down on some planet where they have a reasonable chance of surviving. Good enough?”

“Sure, Jack. Thanks. I’m glad you already thought this through because I’m a little outside of my comfort zone.”

“You won’t be for long. I’ll show you how to loop like a real Orphan, then everything will change.”

“Loop?”

Jack laughs and shakes my shoulder again. “Buddy, we’re just getting started.”

36

Getting political refugees off Helion Station turns out to be far more difficult than expected but not quite as dangerous as I had assumed. Shaina and Patrick team up to fly the ship, taking it neatly out of the bay and circumventing the equator of the damaged sphere. There isn’t a cockpit but rather a control deck where several workstations are linked together. Each position has a safety chair that can convert to a life pod—a testament to how much damage this type of ship is expected to sustain during combat. It looks like the designers planned for complete destruction of the vessel.

I expect gunfire when we land on the opposite side to rescue a group putting out a distress call, but the real danger turns out to be the damaged flight deck.

On this side of the station, there have been multiple explosions and depressurization of certain levels, bending beams of metal and huge ropes of wiring and ventilation tubes in random directions.

“Adjust point five degrees lateral, then point five up.” Shaina is on her controls, her movements intentional and minute. Her gaze moves back and forth between several screens, but she never has to look at her hands.

“I’ve got it,” Patrick says. “Good call, rebel.”

“Why are you calling her a rebel?” I ask. “Isn’t that what you are?”

He smiles and I realize I like the kid. Although kid might not be the right word for somebody in his mid-twenties. “There are rebels, and there are rebels.”

Jack strides into the room, followed by Slade and two other soldiers. A sleeve of metal mesh wraps the black diamond eyed lieutenant’s leg. He doesn’t limp, but his posture and movements betray stiffness—and pain.

The other two look like Earth commandos, one with a MARSOC Marine tab but little else to identify his past, and the other probably a SEAL judging by the tattoos on his forearms. I don’t know their names, and Jack doesn’t stop to introduce them.

“We have a meeting with one of the prisoners,” Jack says. “If you want to help your political refugees, get down to the loading ramp. Remember, if they look dangerous, they have to submit to isolation until we have time to vet them.”

It feels like he’s giving me an order.

“Your meeting can’t wait?” I ask.

“No. Part of the vetting process. Don’t worry about it. You don’t want to be involved. This man has critical information about Overlord shock troops. We’re going to have to fight them sooner or later, and we need to know how they operate.”

My blood goes cold. Something about my friend’s tone is dangerous, far different from the man I remember.

Shaina gives me a blank look, then nods toward Zedas. “Take the abomination with you. He might be useful, and I don’t like him stinking up the control deck.”

“Come on, Zedas,” I say, unsure of who—or what—Jack has become. I know he’s not the man I once knew.

Zedas faces Shaina. “Try not to wreck the ship, pup.”

“Thanks for your concern, abomination,” she replies. “Watch out for our Orphan.”

“I will.” Zedas’s voice is even lower than usual. I’m not sure, but it feels like a warning to Jack’s mercenaries. When I see him casually flex his thick biceps, I know it’s a warning.

Patrick stretches both hands above his head and pops his fingers. After a lazy yawn, he grins. “I’ve got control of things here, Shaina, if you want to go with them.”

She hesitates, but only briefly. “Okay.”

The three of us leave the control room. Jack doesn’t seem to notice. He’s in his own world, discussing something with his people in low tones, prepping for the interrogation. Part of me wants to confront him, but the rest of me is glad for a reprieve. I need time to think and figure out what’s wrong.

“What was that about?” I ask once we are in the lift heading for the loading ramp.

“We do not trust your friend,” Zedas says.

“And you’ve teamed up to protect me? Hard to believe.”

Zedas says nothing for several strides. “Shaina Yonz is not quest bound to Murph as I am, but she can be trusted.”

“You think so?”

“Yes.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t see it coming, but I’m thankful.”

The loading area is chaos. Refugees swarm forward. Jack’s soldiers shout, ordering them into small groups where they are patted down for weapons, briefly interviewed, then assigned to a section of the ship. The sense of dehumanization is clinical, and designed. This isn’t the first time Jack’s people have done this.

Wist Hadrian and the two mercs Jack ordered to guard him remain away from the action but immediately catch my eye. “What the hell are they doing here? I thought Wist was restrained in a cell.”

“He should be.” Shaina looks at Zedas accusingly.

“My quest is not to guard Wist Hadrian,” Zedas says. “I am bound to Doctor Hank Murphy, the Orphan.”

“I know who he is,” Shaina says.

“Stop arguing. I should have been more specific with Jack. He might not understand how dangerous the man is.” I approach the guards. “We need to get him to a cell.”

The lead mercenary shakes his head. “Negative. Dark Eye said put him on Helion and let him fend for himself when we leave.”

I process the information, again feeling out of my depth. Genetic mutations from the gate haven’t changed who I am at my core. I’m not Jack Barris, a ruthless, skilled CIA agent with all the tools to survive in a strange galaxy far, far away. I’m an archaeologist with a new body, a new world—or three—and a sense that I’m falling, with no end in sight.

All I have is my moral code. And that cannot be compromised, or I risk becoming the people I’m fighting against, here in this swirling morass of war and cruelty.

“The Dark Eye is on the ship? What does that make you, a double or triple agent? I’m starting to hate the Goliath sector and its bullshit espionage.”

The guard steps toward me, raising one hand like he’s going to backhand me.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

Wist lunges at the other guard and slams his face into the jaw of the shorter man, knocking him onto his back. The guard about to assault me changes course and leaps into action to stop his prisoner, but Wist, hands bound in front of him, disarms the man and shoots him under his jaw, blowing blood and brains over me in a mist of gore.

Then he shoots me an instant before Zedas and Shaina team-tackle him to the deck.

Pain flashes from my chest to legs in a white hot sensation that overloads every nerve with a howl of undiluted agony. I buckle, then fight to stand, sight flashing to a red curtain as the floor greets me, my body in full betrayal as I collapse.

“Hold him down!” Shaina says, then she draws her own pistol.

Zedas pins Wist to the ground as she aims.

I roll onto my side and force myself into a sitting position so I can see what is happening. “Don’t . . . kill him . . . unless you have to. I want to interrogate him.”

Wist screams in defiance at being restrained.

“Or let Jack . . . interrogate . . . him.” My body is in full rebellion, and to my embarrassment, I’m drooling. It’s not a good look for me.

The shouts from underneath Zedas cease. Then, after several seconds that feel like much longer, Wist starts to laugh. “Don’t trust Jack Barris, Orphan.”

He tries to say more but Zedas’s weight wins out.

“You sure you don’t want me to shoot him?” Shaina’s tone is part anger, part pleading, and I’m tempted to have her shoot him, then I’ll shoot him, and then I might shoot the bastard again.

Other soldiers rush to the scene. A pair of them treat my injuries with spray glue and field bandages, their hands moving quick and with great care. A team drags Wist off to a cell. He’s spitting in fury until someone gives him a short, savage blow to the back of his neck.

“Someone call Jack,” a voice says. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

“He’s gonna be pissed!” another voice says.

I try to pay attention as they load me onto a cart and rush me to the medical bay, but my body gives up for the moment, and all I see is black.

* * *

I don’t sleep after they give me the pain meds, but I hover somewhere between states of being. Jack’s medic seems like a seasoned pro and has a good bedside manner. At some point, I realize my old friend and several others are lined up against the wall of my room, staring at me like they expect me to do a trick.

“He’s lucky,” the medic says, his voice warbling. The meds are powerful, and my senses are compromised. “Anderson and Cates tell me your friend nearly dodged the charge pistol bolts. If he had cover to duck behind, he might not have been hit at all.”

Jack grunts.

“I’m just saying it’s not as bad as it looks. Two or three of the wounds are basically deep graze injuries. But they’ll feel like slashes, and he should stay out of action for a while if he can.” Eventually, the man realizes Jack isn’t going to respond and starts checking my bandages again.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“You’re healing fast,” the medic says. “Thank the Orphan Gate for that, but you need to know your limits and respect them.”

“Okay.” I don’t feel very lucky.

The medic touches one of my torso wounds, between my chest and armpit, causing me to flinch. “That one should have gone straight through your lungs and heart, but it was slowed down by passing through your Dogan’s arm. He took a round for you, I’ll give him that.”

“He’s not my Dogan.”

“If you say so.” The man orders everyone out, dims the light, and then leaves me to rest.

“Zedas-Duryan?” I ask.

A chair creaks when he stands, then he steps into view. “Should I get the one they call Doc?”

“No, I only wanted to know where you were.” I fight against sleep. “They shut the light off when they left.”

“They did.”

“Rude with you still sitting there.”

My friend doesn’t seem offended, but it makes me think they act like he’s not even there. I’m pissed at their treatment of him, but it’s not a surprise. I try to roll over, and pain spikes through my body again, then it fades, overpowered by the meds. Still—

It’s too much. I close my eyes to sleep.

A klaxon sounds. A voice orders all qualified pilots to the flight line to deploy void fighters.

“All hands, battle stations. Overlord attack fighters are inbound,” the voice says.

“Stay in bed, Murph,” Zedas says. “You can do nothing. Shaina is a superb fighter pilot and will lead your friend Jack’s forces.”

“That doesn’t matter. I need to get up, Zedas. Help me.”

The Dogan complies without argument, helping me sit up and swing my feet off the table.

“What type of medical facility is this?” I don’t wait for an answer because I quickly realize we’re in a converted workshop that just happens to be close to where I was injured. “Never mind. I need to figure out what’s happening. Can you take me back to the control deck, or wherever Jack is?”

We move into the hallway and immediately step aside for a squad of mercenary troops running past, their boots hammering the floor in unison. Pain makes it hard for me to breathe, but I lean on Zedas. Jack’s soldiers hold a tight formation, better trained than their mismatched uniforms and gear suggest. More alerts sound. Combat and support personnel are directed to different areas of the ship.

Time slows, then grows—unclear—before we arrive back at the control deck, its space split between navigation and Jack’s command center.

He sees me through the crowd of fleet officers and tenses, hands gripping the rail in front of the central work terminal. The high ceiling arches above him, and in that frame, he appears an emperor, or maybe a doomed martyr.

Conversations trail off and soon all eyes are on me.

“You recover quickly, Orphan,” Jack says.

I struggle to remain stoic because I don’t feel recovered at all. “You’re calling me Orphan now? What should I call—‘’ I let the question die, because I’m too tired and sore to risk giving voice to my suspicions—not now.

Maybe not ever.

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” he says, and there’s a soft warning in his denial of the truth. I look back on all of the clues and realize I was probably being intentionally ignorant—waiting for somebody to come out and just tell me straight up, or for him to confess and repent.

Other things make less sense, like the timeline. Did he come through the gate when I did and meet up with an advance team from five years before, or was there a reverse time dilation?

“Come look at this, Murph,” he says. “We can talk about the other issues later. It doesn’t hurt to have a reputation in the Goliath sector. Keeps people honest. Keeps people away.”

I move forward, my body reaching a tipping point in the healing process. Whatever is happening to me, it’s fast. All that matters now is keeping my cool. I win nothing by splitting his head, no matter what my base instinct is telling me. His presence, my healing, and the sheer complexity of the Goliath Sector demand that I maintain a calm I can’t feel, no matter how many deep breaths I take.

But I try. And in trying, I do.

“Show me?” I step close to Jack.

What he shows me is the most amazing ship to ship battle I’ve ever imagined. A half-dozen fighters from the liberated cruiser dive and wheel to avoid the attacks of twice their number of Overlord fighters.

I watch the screen, enthralled by the deadly contest.

“We would’ve already lost if not for Shaina Yonz,” he says. No one disagrees with him. “That ship there, with the yellow icon, is her. Watch her—she’s efficient, killer instinct, and never lets up in keeping her entire fighter wing pressing their advantage. She’s smothering the enemy, and there isn’t a damn thing they can do about it. Shaina was born to lead out there in the combat zone.”

Four ships rush at Shaina and her wingrider. She pivots and dives, her partner matching every move in a synchronous dance that’s elegant and lethal. As though planned, two more fighters join Shaina’s team to make it an equal match—except it’s not really equal now. Shaina fires rapidly and never misses. Her enemies vanish in a flash of debris that is gone as soon as it appears, and in less than two minutes, the enemy foursome are reduced to expanding gases.

I whistle softly, impressed beyond measure.

“Did you know she was that good when you sent her out there?” I ask.

“Of course.” He types on his command tablet, which is a version I’ve not seen, then looks up. “Shaina’s reputation precedes her, but she’ll never work for me. The only reason she’s fighting like that is to help you stay alive.”

I check Zedas to see where he is. Over the last few days, I’ve become protective of the Dogan. We’ve come a long way since I awoke at the bottom of the Ironback mine shaft. And now, despite her obvious skill, I’d prefer if Shaina was here instead of in a running battle with swarming enemy fighters.

“Do you still fly, Murph?” Jack asks.

“Not often. I’ve been busy investigating the Cradle.”

“That might be a skill you need to foster if you stay in this sector.” He checks the unique tablet again, then puts it down. “In fact, you’d better develop any skill that will allow you to dominate because you’re going to have a lot of enemies, no matter how benign you think you are. Don’t judge me for the harsh things I’ve done. You’ll do the same, after long.”

“How long have you been here?”

He smiles wryly. “You picked up on that, did you? Five years. I admit, when I got here and you were nowhere to be found, I assumed you were dead. I went after you when Davis sabotaged your site.”

“And how did you do that?” Keeping my emotions in check is hard, because Jack is—was, maybe—the best friend I ever had. If there was another Cradle, he didn’t tell me about it then, and that changes all of my memories of the man.

“Working for the CIA wasn’t easy,” he says. “They told me what to do, when to do it, and who I could tell about it. But the situation has changed for the both of us. We’re on our own now.”

“That’s great.” I avert my eyes so he can’t see the conflict there. “You won’t have to keep secrets from me anymore.”

He doesn’t respond right away, and when he does, he’s not upset or worried about my reaction. I know how to read him, and I interpret his calm expression as regret. He pushes his tablet to the exact edge of the workstation, checking the angles until it’s perfectly squared up.

That’s Jack—fussing about little details even as Shaina and the others duke it out with the Overlord fighter craft.

“I have a difficult choice, Murph. Why don’t you help me make it?”

I watch the battle and scan other displays that show their mothership approaching with a small fleet of support ships. I’m not a strategist like my friend, but I think I know what he’s going to say.

“I can take the Subversive and leave now.”

“Subversive?”

“That’s what we call her, this cruiser.” He glances at his crew, then continues in a low voice. “Abandoning the fighters would let us escape cleanly. If we wait for them to finish their skirmish and land, it might doom us all. What would you do if you were in charge?”

My answer pops into my head immediately, but I force myself to consider all the options like I’m playing an advanced game of chess. “If you leave them, you’ll win the battle and lose the war. Your people won’t trust you after that. What’s to say they won’t be the next to be left behind?”

He smiles, but there’s no humor in it. He doesn’t blink and he doesn’t look away. “You got it in one.” He turns toward his crew. “See if we can help them out with our point defense weapons and prep the landing decks. The moment our people get back, we will be making a tactical advance in the new direction, if you take my meaning.”

The mood of the crew visibly changes—I can see relief on their faces. At that instant, the ship’s gunners open fire with point defense charge cannons, hitting nothing but making the battle zone a lot more dangerous for the enemy. It’s harassment and interdiction fire, and it changes the battlespace in the span of a second. With rounds flying, the Overlords don’t have a clean approach to our ship.

And Shaina, showing her true genius, finishes the enemy dogfighters off with a final, disdainful spray of her own cannon, sending the last Overlord into a crazy spin before it implodes, flaring to nothing against the backdrop of stars.

“I’d say that was a success.” Jack smiles. “Prepare to receive fighters and wind up the ladders. We’re going hot the instant the last pilot is in.”

He’s good to his word. When the last pilot passes into the bay, the Subversive aims itself out of the system and heads away from the fight.

Behind us, chaos and loss still swirl. On the Subversive, the war has gone from theory to practice, and I’m right in the middle of it all.

37

Jack leads the way onto the private observation deck. His ship jumps three systems, checking for pursuit after each arrival. We seem to be in the clear.

“Let’s talk.” Jack hands me a spill-proof flask of liquor. “And relax. I’ve been hard at it for, well, five years or more. Lucky for you. Now I can spare you from the mistakes I made when I got here.”

I sit, drink, and watch a view screen the size of one entire wall. Space has a new allure for me. I always found the stars to be more whimsy than fact, but that’s changed. Now, they’re real. They surround me and have become my home.

At least until I return to Earth, which seems more distant with each passing moment.

“What mistakes?” I ask.

“I took sides—worked for the Hadrian Empire thinking they were the lawful rulers of this sector. That probably seems ludicrous to you, but I didn’t have all the information. They didn’t present themselves as an evil empire. By the time I realized the truth, I was mired in their treachery and espionage. I was—stained.”

I think about Wist warning me not to trust Jack, and about the fear the Dark Eye inspired in people. Shaina told me not to bring up the name with Tamok Sky unless my life depended on it, and she said it with a sense of genuine fear in every word.

“They branded me a terrorist,” Jack says. “Even though that’s not what they called it.”

“You’re different.”

“Of course I am. So are you. The sooner you embrace it, the better.” He pulls out the tablet I saw him using before. “Let me show you what we’re dealing with here.”

He places the heavy-duty, banged-up device on the drink table. A few taps on the screen bring up a three-dimensional holograph. The Goliath sector star map glows between us. He zooms in, each search command narrowing the focus to where we are now.

Each change illustrates how massive the Goliath sector is—stars, their orbiting planets, and strangely shaped nebulas complete the picture. Blue icons mark many of the systems. When I examine the map closer and read the legend, I recognize how vast the distances are. It’s a scale I can’t fathom, and it makes me feel small.

I think I’m looking at a chart of the Orphan Gates, but Jack waves away my questioning look, opting for an overall lesson about the sector.

“This is the Sarsten system, named after it’s primary star. Here”—he points at a mother cluster of lights—“is Hyka system. Here, the Golgen. The Hadrian Empire rules most of these three primary systems with their shock troops.”

“Are these Orphan Gates?” I point at the specs of blue.

He indicates them with a sweep of his hand. “Some of them. These on the outer rim are tricky because there’s no way back. Exploring where a gate opens is dangerous. Every world is a bit different, and as you can imagine, it’s best to stay in the confines of the Hadrian Empire. Unless you want to walk home.”

“I see the problem.” I need to catch him off guard, so I drop a bomb. “Which of these do you use to loop?”

He folds the device three times and puts it inside his coat. “You’re not ready for that. When the time comes, I will give you the name of my contacts, guides who will make your passage easier.” He stares at me like an angry stranger. “If that’s something you want. Consider what you’re losing if you follow in my footsteps.”

“What is that?”

“Your humanity.”

“You still look human to me.”

He sits upright like he’s going to stand but changes his mind. Hands on his knees, he reminds me of the man I knew—always rushing back to his secrets with the CIA. “Figure of speech. I’m not as precise with my language as you are.”

“How did you keep the Overlords off the island? Anaximander governs the Sarsten system. His garrison is too strong for someone like Tamok Sky to resist.”

I scramble to remember what I know about Sarsten. Maybe it has more than one island, but my brief flyover after escaping from Anaximander only revealed one. Acting confused, I shrug. “Not sure where I was. There were mountains. Is that helpful?”

“Not really. The planet has a lot of mountains, but only one island large enough to hide a rebel base.”

“I wish I could help. Is that where you are taking me, back to Tamok?”

“Did you talk to Haym?” he asks.

“The mysterious stranger in the hood?”

Jack smiles. “Yeah.”

I feel like an idiot. If Haym was the double agent Tamok warned me about, and he is still working for Jack, then I just confirmed something about Tamok’s rebel base. If I saw Haym after coming through an Orphan Gate, then Jack has now confirmed where Tamondran must be.

He suspected it was on the island his agent had infiltrated. Now, I’ve confirmed it. “How do you communicate with your agents?”

“We have gravity pulse communications,” he says. “Very reliable, if a bit hard to decipher—more like a telegram system than internet broadband. We can send messages in days that would take years by simpler tech. You can’t stream a movie or transmit large data packages, but once we have control of the Orphan Gate hubs, that will change.” He’s almost serenely confident, and it rankles me. I don’t like authority without checks and balances, and everything he’s proposing feels like changing masters, not delivering freedom.

“Get some rest,” Jack says. “We’re heading for the Sarsten system. It’s slower than taking a gate but a lot faster than any ship the Earth governments have. Tomorrow I’ll give you a tour of the Subversive.”

I hesitate, then decide to accept his offer, knowing my options are limited.

“It’s good to see you again, Jack. I’m glad you’re alive.” My words sound like a lie, and there’s a tightness in my chest when I look at Jack. No matter what he’s done over the last five years, he is still my best friend. How different are his actions now from what he was doing for the CIA back home? Did I think he was digging wells with the Peace Corps all those years?

The answer is, of course, no, and my ignorance was willful.

“I’m tired,” I say. “This sector is a bit much to process—at least, it is now.”

He pats me on the shoulder and grins. “Leave all of that to me. Your job is this—just figure out how things work and why whoever came before the Protheans made the Orphan Gates in the first place, and we will change everything here. If the Overlords of the Hadrian Empire are corrupt, we’ll cast them down and build a new, better republic. But we need you. Hell, the sector needs you. This network, and all the tech? It’s got a history, Murph. And that’s where you come in.”

“That’s in my comfort zone, but all the rest scares the hell out of me, Jack. We’re talking about millions—maybe billions of lives at stake.”

“Like I said, leave the politics and wars to me. It’s what I was built for.”

I toast him with my whisky. “Let’s hope I’m built for this, too.”

38

“This is your third system entry,” Jack says. “You should be used to it by now.”

“I’m fine.” The first was by far the worst experience, but that was also where we picked up the survivors of the sun ship. Not that many remained. Things went badly for them when they believed hope was lost. But we saved those who endured and retained some semblance of order.

“You’re sweating,” he counters.

Perspiration beads on my forehead, but I’m not sweating. I review what Shaina and Patrick taught me about Hadrian system jumping. It takes weeks to go where a single Orphan Gate passage can go in seconds.

First the ship has to run up to three percent of light speed, which feels terrible for reasons no one can or will explain. That takes us beyond most of the planets in the system we’re jumping from to the system we’re targeting. When the boost is engaged, something Jack promises me is not faster than light travel, we have to be as far from a star as possible, and the ship has to be cooled to near unlivable temperatures—which takes a week of gradual acclimation. Any faster and people and parts start giving out.

But it is faster than light, or we would still be poking across the void. I think he understands the propulsion less than I do, but that isn’t saying much. I need to look into it, for the clues about the Hadrian society and their technology levels if nothing else. At the moment, it’s enough to understand it is far faster than anything humanity can manage and far slower than gate travel. If my guess is correct, the range is much less than an Orphan Gate as well.

When we arrive in a system several weeks later, the ship is unbearably hot and takes several hours to bring back down to comfortable temperatures. We wear suits for all of it, like we’re on a desert world with toxic air. The trip’s been a grind—dull, long, and repetitive, with little to do except sweat and bitch about food, water, and a lack of comfort.

In short, it’s a military cruise.

Except for Zedas. Nothing about traveling through this part of the Goliath sector bothers him. Three jumps, and he hasn’t spoken a word. All he does is follow me everywhere and watch Jack’s soldiers. His body is healed, armored, and even more lethal than before.

Shaina works with the crew, helping with piloting, navigation, and simple engineering issues—repairs and improvements of the engines and launch bays.

Jack compares images on the tactical screens with a list on his personal tablet, the one he never lets anyone look at or touch. His expression darkens. “There are more Overlord ships in the Sarsten system than I was led to believe was possible. How the hell did Anaximander get such defense in depth?”

“I don’t know,” Patrick answers. “Most of those are smaller ships. His flagship is a carrier. I assume he has spread his forces around the system to catch us arriving if he can.”

“Make sure he doesn’t,” Jack says.

“We’re on it.” Patrick consults Shaina and others regarding navigation vectors and plots a course leading farther into the system. “We should be able to avoid their patrols, but if we can detect them, then they can detect us.”

“True,” Jack says. “But we’re better at this than they are.”

“What’s so important about Sarsten?” I wipe my forehead for what I hope is the last time. The climate control on the bridge is overcompensating now. It’s cold enough to give me goosebumps under my most recent outfit, an Overlord flight suit I took from storage and found to be the most comfortable and versatile attire over the last few weeks.

“We’re bringing you back to where you started, Murph. So you can research the Orphan Gates. That’s what you wanted.”

“There are other gates I could study.” Neither Zedas nor Shaina give me hints at where to take this conversation, so I follow my gut. “Anaximander seems obsessed with finding the departure gate in this system, or turning one into a two-direction gate.”

Jack laughs loudly. “What a jackass. Every Orphan knows you can’t do that and why. You know why, don’t you, Murph?”

“Going through a gate builds you up.” I keep my voice low. No need to start rumors in his crew. “Going the other way would tear you down.”

“That’s putting it mildly. The Dogans were once supreme in this part of the Goliath sector. Far more powerful than the Hadrian Overlords. In their hubris, they thought they could use the gates however they wanted and wasted entire armies trying to send them back through gates. Isn’t that right?”

“You understand nothing of our history,” Zedas says.

His voice surprises me because I haven’t heard it in days, and never in the presence of Jack or his crew.

Jack shrugs off the comment. He tours the control deck, asking for updates and giving orders.

I confront him the moment he returns. “Why are the Sarsten Orphan Gates so important?”

He consults his device, jabs the screen several times without explaining himself, then puts it away. When he faces me, he looks ancient—like a man who had aged a thousand years, then put on a costume to look like a man in his twenties again. The tension around his cheeks makes creases, not lines.

“There are five arrival and five departure gates in the Sarsten system, if my sources are to be believed. No one can find the fifth portal until they find the first four.”

“Why is the fifth Orphan Gate important?” I have a theory that involves moving armies and fleets, but I want to hear him say it.

“Because only fifth gates are in the void,” he says, hedging his answer.

“How big are they?”

His gaze narrows. For a moment, I’m sure he’s going to lock me in a cell next to Wist. But he answers instead. “Large enough to send this ship through.”

“Wouldn’t that create a ship full of Orphans? That would upset the balance of power everywhere.”

“Items are not affected by gate travel, except in extremely rare cases no one understands. There was an Orphan who ruined everything he touched during portal crossings—armor, weapons, talismans, and the like. But that’s the stuff of ancient legends. You would be interested in those stories, now that I think about it,” he says. “If my sources are correct, creatures occupying a vessel during Orphan Gate travel are less affected—still improved, but not like you and me. Very minor changes occur, almost impossible to detect—probably general good health for the most part.”

“Sickness and disease defeated most Earth armies in history. Whoever made the gates wanted to invade the Goliath sector a long time ago, but something stopped them,” I say.

“That’s my guess.”

“Unless their timeline is vastly different from ours.” I wing it just to set him off balance. “A race advanced enough to create the original Orphan Gates might be very long lived. They could be, in all practical senses, immortal. So you assume they abandoned the technology, when in reality they might arrive at any minute to punish us for eating their porridge.”

He slams one fist on the workstation. “Don’t make this a children’s tale. I’m trying to save the Goliath sector from that very possibility. We have to be unified and strong.”

“And ruled by someone with absolute authority.”

He retreats. “We’re all tired, Murph. Let’s stop arguing before we say things we can’t take back.”

Shaina shakes her head very slightly, warning me not to continue.

“Where can I learn about this Orphan whose armor and clothing disintegrated when he passed through the portals?” I try to change the subject.

Jack smiles tiredly, and I see the same man who tried to save me at the LMC excavation site when we were both betrayed by Brendon Davis and the company. “It isn’t like there’s a library someplace full of arcane knowledge. You’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way—investigate lost cities and artifacts. Most of what I know is like a fairy tale. Supposedly, his problem with gate travel evolved the more he did it. That’s where I got the idea to start looping through known gates. By the time he was done, he not only kept this armor intact, but his armor and tools changed just like he did—which made him extremely powerful.” He pauses, giving me a second look over. “Why are you so interested in this—besides being a history geek?”

“I’m just trying to be friends again.” I’m worried he’ll find out I came to the gate with my clothing in rags, just like this mythological figure.

Maybe I’m just unlucky. Or maybe I’m some sort of Orphan Gate anomaly that he will use for his own purposes. Am I speaking to my old friend Jack. . . or the universally feared Dark Eye of the Hadrian?

“It’s my fault,” he says. “You know I’ve always been too intense for my own good. I’ve tried not to be so OCD about everything, but it’s in my DNA. I’m not really built for fun and relaxation. You look tired, by the way.”

“I could use a shower and a nap.”

“Exactly.” Jack smiles like we never traded a harsh word. “Head to your quarters. I’ll finish up here and meet you for dinner, if you’re hungry.”

“That’s one thing I can say with complete confidence. Yeah, I’ll be in the mood to eat.”

* * *

An alert chimes, waking me up. Dreams of bursting through the final Orphan Gate wearing plate mail armor and waving Excalibur over my head slip into the recesses of my imagination. Nothing about the images make sense because the outfit is a hodgepodge of every culture I’ve studied during my career—from Aztec and Egyptian raiments to samurai geta and traditional footwear.

I rub my eyes and criticize my dream-self for poor clothing choices. “I can’t wear all that at once.”

Jack’s voice comes through my comm device. “Murph, are you there?”

“I’m up.” I roll out of bed and look at the dark room, expecting to see Zedas watching me. When I turn on the lights to look for a change of clothing, I’m alone.

“You don’t sound like it,” Jack says. “Get to the control deck as soon as you can. We’re at Sarsten, and so is your old friend Anaximander.”

“Okay, now I’m really awake,” I say, but he’s already cut the comm channel. I throw on an Overlord flight jumpsuit, find my boots, and rush to see what the hell is happening.

The room is packed with people, and I’m confused as to how we scavenged a complete crew from the political prisoners and criminals of Helion Station.

“Was this your ship before you were imprisoned?” I’m annoyed that I didn’t think of it before.

“It was.” Jack looks at my boots, almost nervously, and I remember our conversation from the night before. Is he wondering if I’m the strange Orphan Gate traveler who has an effect on physical items with each passage? I change the subject.

“Where are Zedas and Shaina?”

He points toward the primary control station, where Shaina and Patrick are working as a team again. “I don’t know where your big friend is.”

That worries me. Zedas hasn’t talked much since we retook the ship, and he has never left me for more than a few moments. Now I wake up with Anaximander’s fleet threatening us and my friend gone.

“I’ll send someone to look for him,” Jack says. “Would that make you feel better?”

“Sure, but I’ll do it. I don’t consider him an abomination, to put it bluntly, which makes me better qualified to—”

Jack shakes his head. “You’re needed here. Come with me.”

I pause, then make my decision. I allow myself to be taken along in Jack’s wake. We weave through the crew, and I realize everyone is working—some at a furious, fevered pace. As crowded as it seems, there are no spectators. Every workstation has a primary operator and an assistant, either working, talking about work, or actively fixing something. It’s a hive of activity.

“Some of the political refugees you asked me to liberate have turned out to be blessings,” Jack says. “They were merely people trying to live their lives, but after being thrown in prison with their entire families and watching people they care about get tortured and killed, they became fanatics to my cause. Most of them are extremely educated and skilled. I could split my crew and run two ships.”

I look over the screen, studying the positioning of Anaximander’s ships while he continues to talk.

“In fact, I think I see the ship I want.” He points toward Anaximander’s flagship.

“How dangerous is it to capture something like that?” I consider naval battles I studied in various cultures and the horrendous loss of life that boarding a ship always costs. Most of the time, the ships were so damaged by the broadsides and boarding parties that they were both ruined and soaked in blood. Even the best victory at sea could be Pyrrhic. The engagements could end with both captains dead—or worse, a fleet with no leaders left at all and more men on the seafloor than in their vessels.

Space was, if anything, even more dangerous.

“It’s nearly impossible, but I’m an impossible guy,” Jack says with a sly look.

“That’s the truth.”

He laughs, then gets to work. “Has Anaximander responded to our hails?”

“Yes, Dark Eye. He demands our surrender,” a young man at the communications station says. “If we submit immediately and help him find the Orphan Doctor Hank Murphy, his Dogan battle slave, and the traitor Commander Shaina Yonz, he will welcome us all back into service to the Hadrian Empire.”

Jack strides among his people until he is right behind Shaina and Patrick. He clamps one hand on her shoulder. “How do you feel about that, Shaina?”

“It’s a shit idea,” she says. “Anaximander can’t be trusted.”

Jack releases her and faces his crew. “Who trusts Overlord Anaximander?”

The control deck shakes with the volume of their boos and hisses. A dozen profane variations of Anaximander’s name fill the air.

I watch my old friend and marvel at how adroitly he manages his crew. To Jack, command is an art form. He’s more than their boss—I’m witnessing the Jack Barris cult of personality. Everyone in this room, probably everyone in this ship, including the new converts to his cause, will die for him today, tomorrow, or whenever he commands it.

And I just signed on to his team.

39

“Okay, everyone, calm down,” Jack says. “Let’s have a talk with the man. Maybe he’s come to his senses and he’s ready to surrender.”

Laughter rolls across the deck, filling the room with confident good humor. More than a few people think this is a reasonable idea.

And maybe it is.

I know Anaximander is murderous and dangerous, and cruel when he doesn’t have to be. Jack has to be a better choice than the Overlord, even if he scares me more than he should. Throughout history, there have been choices where the lesser of two evils was, in fact, better. Jack is a known quantity, and if nothing else, he has not committed the grotesque crimes that come to Anaximander as easily as breathing.

Anaximander appears on the main view screen, dominating an entire wall. He stands so that the camera looks up at him, and I stifle a grin. His choice of camera angle leaves much to be desired, but I school my features into a blank stare—I won’t give him the dignity of my fear. Silence spreads across the deck where there had been confidence and laughter. I wonder how many people once worked for the man or have been imprisoned by him and tortured. Judging by their faces, it’s more than a few.

“Overlord Candidate Barris.” Anaximander’s voice sounds deep and official. “You have strayed from the path. I present you one chance to return to my good graces.”

“That’s a generous offer.” Jack takes off his sunglasses for the first time since our reunion, looking completely at ease.

I’m standing slightly behind my old friend so I can’t see his eyes, only his profile, but even from the side I can tell—

Dark Eye isn’t a nickname. It’s a description. Jack’s eye sockets are coal black and cracked at the edges, and his eyes are the purest ebony, lit from within with the fire of command and will.

“What is your answer, Dark Eye?” Anaximander crosses his arms.

Ship crew and soldiers glance furtively at my old friend, clearly not wanting him to witness their concern. A door opens behind me, and I know Zedas has finally arrived. Even without looking, I can tell he’s here and I feel better at his presence.

“Where’ve you been, Zedas?” I ask

“I completed a new stage of my armor re-growth. It was painful and humiliating.”

I take a second to study my big friend and see that his armor is much better now, thick and robust. “Do you have your weapons again?”

He shows me a small sword, more like a long, wicked dagger, and a chain that looks about as dangerous as my boot laces. At the end of it is a metal ball bearing that resembles a toy more than a deadly instrument.

“Baby steps,” I mutter, and Zedas lifts his bulky shoulders in a disgusted shrug.

Meanwhile, the battle of wills goes on, unabated.

“I’ll consider it,” Jack says to Anaximander. Everyone on the ship tenses. “I require full pardons for all of my crew, plus a hundred I can grant anyone I see fit as deserving of mercy. I’d like a second ship, fully armed and armored. And we’ll need our own planet as a base. I need to start thinking about my people’s future, you know—retirement plans, health benefits, maybe some sort of casino where they can blow off steam between tours of duty.”

“The pool, sir,” someone pipes up from behind me.

“And a pool. With a diving board, naturally. We’re not animals.” Jack says, amiable as an old pal.

“As always, you speak of nonsense and mock me,” Anaximander says. “I warn you, Dark Eye, I am not to be trifled with.”

“Neither. Am. I.”

Jack’s crew grumbles their agreement with his sentiment.

“Tell me the location of Tamondran, or I will bombard the entire planet. Surely you have wrested the information away from your Orphan scientist by now. Unless you’re soft.” Anaximander gives Jack a measuring look, then tilts his head to one side. “That is more likely, I think.”

Zedas, standing very close to me, grinds words through his teeth. I barely understand him and only because I’ve grown accustomed to the sound of his speech. “They planned this.”

I don’t want to believe it. “You can’t know that.”

“Are you smart or dumb? Decide,” Zedas grumbles.

The negotiations continue between Jack and Anaximander. I watch and listen, analyzing what is said—and their body language. Zedas might have a point, but I doubt Jack can truly play second fiddle to the Overlord. This could be another well orchestrated attempt to get information from me, just like Major Amanda Reason on the sun ship. But my gut tells me Jack won’t work for Anaximander. And if he does, it will only be for as long as it takes to get what he wants from the Overlord.

There isn’t room for two alphas in one system. Or empire, as the case may be.

“I’ll be careful, Zedas.” I catch the eye of Shaina at the controls. Her expression suggests she’s just as worried as my Dogan friend is.

“I must have the departure gate!” Anaximander finally shouts.

“And you can have it. Right after you heave my corpse off the controls, you grandstanding prick.” Jack thrusts a fist at the view screen.

So much for their cooperation. I should feel better. I really should.

The viewscreen changes as Anaximander draws back to address his own crew. “Very well. Begin the bombardment. Plot each grid for maximum destruction. Leave no one alive. We can sift through the debris to find the gate, and damn their bones to eternity.”

“Cancel that order,” Jack shouts as though he has the authority to countermand Anaximander. “That’s an unlawful order, even by the appalling standards of the Hadrian Empire. I demand that your security teams place former Overlord Anaximander in a cell for his war crimes and transfer command to me at this instant.”

“Your presence is not needed . . . rebel,” Anaximander says to us all. It’s imperious, and dismissive, and calculated right down to his curled lip.

With the flare of a true showman, Jack mutes the screen, waves savagely, and goes about his work striding from terminal to terminal, checking the location of other Overlord ships and plotting ways to fight them when the inevitable space battle begins.

Anaximander sputters for a few seconds, brought up short by his inability to cow the rebellious sunglasses wearing Orphan and his crew. Then, he begins his own preparations, still visible on the screen, and I realize everything Jack just did is part of a well-coordinated act. His crew is doing nothing consequential, nothing the enemy could learn from. Jack and his people are pretending to take action. In reality, they are analyzing their enemy’s orders and preparing to evade the multi-prong attack being launched.

“The Dark Eye is clever,” Zedas says.

I should be proud, but I’m worried. He might have tricked Anaximander into leaving the visual communications link open, but he also provoked him to real anger. “Yes, he is.”

The battle zone is three-dimensional, represented by a sphere of gridlines. At first, the boundaries are not clearly defined. Once Anaximander commits to his attack, everything becomes more stable.

“And we’re off,” Jack mutters, eyes directed to the massive screen tracking our battlespace.

A primary attack group comes directly at us. This consists of small ships leading the way just like during the Helion Station incident, though that had to be a different Overlord fleet. The ships have different markings, but their formation is crisp, and they display all the discipline of experienced combat pilots.

Four squadrons of flanking units launch next, some coming from Anaximander’s flagship and others from the small support fleet he has gathered around himself. About the time I am adjusting to the three dimensional nature of this fight, I realize I was thinking too small.

It’s well beyond an attack. It’s attacks.

More and more ships fill the three-dimensional perimeter collapsing on us, using time, distance, and direction braided together in an elegant assault that’s hard to follow, and even harder to predict.

And yet—Jack doesn’t look worried, and neither does his crew. I wonder how many times they’ve done this.

Zedas edges forward, showing more interest than I’ve seen since meeting him. “My people have not had a fleet battle for generations. Someday, if they return to dominance, they must build an armada.”

“Or maybe there could be peace throughout the galaxy,” I say, almost laughing at my own naivete.

“Yes, that would be best,” Zedas says. “But for now I will watch and learn how the Dark Eye escapes this predicament.”

I watch Anaximander brood and wonder how long he will leave the communications screen open. His crew continually adjusts vectors, talking to their workstation partners, controlling their portion of the assault force with practiced efficiency.

By contrast, Jack and his crew are just watching. Patrick drums his fingers on the console in front of him. Shaina looks back at me, making direct eye contact and holding it, but giving me nothing beyond that.

“The situation seems dire.” Zedas sounds more formal than normal, and I wonder if I understand the full import of this scene. From what he said, he is dreaming of a more glorious future for his people and probably imagining what his father or others would do in this type of situation. I pat my big friend’s shoulder, and his tension breaks, if only for a moment. That’s good enough.

All of that happens in seconds, each observation powerful but brief. I think back to my younger days with Jack, growing up in tree houses and then ditching school and finally parting ways in the military—me leaving entirely, and him going onto the highest levels of combat and espionage.

And in a flash, I know what he’s going to do, because I know Jack.

Patrick leans forward at his terminal and starts planning vectors, his hands moving faster than I can see. Shaina watches and assists from time to time. Soon, they’re in a rhythm, working together with a natural affinity for each other’s styles.

Jack looks at me and winks. He moves closer so I can hear him. “I’m glad we found you and your friend the pilot. This is going to work a lot better with her helping Patrick. Lucky, but you know I always factor luck into my plans.”

“Yeah, I remember that. Most of the time, the bad luck only affected me while you skated through unharmed.”

He laughs and returns to his commands. “Okay, I think we’ve run this farce long enough.” He snaps his fingers at someone, and the video link blinks off.

“Patrick, you have your course?”

“Got it, Jack. Just say when.” Patrick pops his fingers.

Most of the scene is just as I expect, military precision and professionalism. But there’s also a casual air of special operations here, like the way Patrick never calls Jack by rank and others call him the Dark Eye.

Something cold shoots up my spine. Do I really believe my friend? Is he the man I knew, or the legend of the Goliath sector terrorizing Overlords and rebels alike?

“Prepare for maximum acceleration,” Jack says.

Everyone tightens their safety harnesses. I look at Zedas, then point to a chair. “You have to just squeeze into it. I’ll tighten the harness for you.”

The process takes far longer than expected. At one point I have to put my foot on the armrests so I can heave on the strap to tighten it around my friend’s huge chest. It’s like putting biscuits back in a tube, but the biscuits are made of muscle, and they complain every time you make progress.

“Murph, get yourself secured,” Jack says, a clear warning his voice.

“Working on it. Maybe you should have your engineers build a couple larger crash chairs before the next battle,” I grumble as I sit and lock myself in.

The Subversive shoots forward at critical speeds, more akin to a long jump than ship to ship combat. Acceleration, however, tapers off as Patrick and Shaina steer and brake aggressively. A swarm of fighters, smaller ships, and then two light cruisers hove into scanner range, then weapons range, and then—beam and kinetic weapons set space ablaze around us. Some of the shots glance off our shields as we speed forward at suicidal rates, spalling away in brilliant flashes that barely register in the human eye.

We cut through the initial wave and head straight for Anaximander’s flagship, then brake hard to avoid a collision.

Jack looks at me again, beaming with pride. “We practiced this maneuver hundreds of times. Hard on the ship but a great gamble if it pays off.”

I want to answer, but I’m struggling not to vomit. Other members of the crew seem dazed as well. Zedas reaches up with his huge hands and pops his safety harnesses but otherwise seems no worse for wear.

“What’s your endgame, Jack? We avoided getting slaughtered straight out of the gate, but how does this help us?” When I ask the question, I expect an angry retort and maybe some doubt and worry from his crew, but neither happens.

“It’s merely an opening and a counter move.” Jack points at the screen. “Basically, what I’m doing is spinning the chessboard around. We’re going to shoot past his flagship, forcing him to engage us. All of his resources are overcommitted in the other directions. He does this every time.”

“And you know that because you served him when you were an Overlord Candidate.” I know the significance of this from my conversations with Shaina.

“Let’s not get into this now, Jack.” He consults his private tablet. In this environment, I see even more clearly how different it is. The device looks like something from another age, and possibly designed by a race I haven’t seen yet. Inside, I’m dying to learn more about it, but I understand this isn’t the time.

“We’ve come about and are preparing for our run against the Eternal Domination,” Patrick says. “I can handle it from here if Shaina wants to pilot the boarding team’s shuttle.”

Shaina gives me a nod, conveying without words that she has worked out this plan with Patrick and the others. We’re good to go even if Jack has other ideas. Somewhere between our expedition through Tamondran, imprisonment, and escape, I’ve come to trust her nearly as much as I do Zedas.

It’s time to test my old friend, the Dark Eye.

40

“I’ll go,” I say. “Zedas and I have been on the ship. Shaina too.”

“Out of the question, Murph. I have people trained for this.”

“I also want to look for clues on the ship for the location of the fifth gate.” For the first time in this conversation, I gain the upper hand. Jack wasn’t expecting that, and he’s momentarily speechless.

“If your team is that good, they can handle a couple more experts. I’m not doing anything useful here,” I say.

Jack disengages from his safety harness, stands, and paces briefly. “I should be the one going, but you have a point.” There’s an undertone of hunger in his voice.

Gotcha.

This statement makes his crew nervous, and I wonder if he will bully his way onto the mission. Love him or hate him, he’s their leader and shouldn’t be getting involved in shootouts and high-risk ship raids. He holds up one hand as though to forestall argument. “You all know I want to go lead from the front, but my duty is here.”

I release myself from my chair and help Zedas free himself from the rest of the extremely tight belts. “Are you up for something dangerous?”

“Yes,” Zedas answers, quick and earnest.

“We are being hailed by Eternal Domination,” a comms officer says.

Jack stops, smooths his coat, and motions for the officer to put the transmission on the main screen.

“Candidate Barris,” Anaximander begins.

“Stop calling me that,” Jack snaps. “I’m never working for you or any of the Overlords again. Unless you want to surrender and pledge fealty to me.”

Anaximander slams his fist on the railing, and it’s no act. He’s volcanic with rage. “Cease your fantasies. Power down your ship and lay down your weapons. I will send a team to board and reclaim the vessel stolen from my brother.”

“No can do, amigo.” Jack puts both hands behind his back as though standing at parade rest, but he signals his commandos, and me, to begin our mission.

We quietly leave the control deck as Jack and Anaximander shout at each other, though for Jack, it’s a delaying tactic.

It’s working well.

“I’m Raj Dehner, commander of this mission,” says a tall, dark-skinned man with silver hair. He appears more Hadrian than Earth human, but Jack’s team is so intermingled it’s hard to tell who is from where. “I’m not excited about last-minute additions, but everything Jack tells me about you gives me confidence. Personally, I see the value in Dogan allies, and Commander Shaina Yonz has proven herself a capable and daring pilot. I can’t imagine she will fail us in this endeavor. As to you—”

“I’m ready,” I tell him, meeting his level gaze.

Shaina, Zedas, and I fall in step with Commander Dehner and his team.

“Good. We’re going to keep this simple,” Dehner says. “My team is making the crossing before they can employ their own boarding forces. That’s the part that can go sideways fast. We have to get off the ship—and onto theirs fast enough for Patrick to slip away without getting the Subversive boarded. They have numbers and firepower, and we can’t win that fight any more than we can win a head-to-head slugfest with their battle group.”

“You’re going to take their engineering and flight control levels?” Shaina asks.

“Yes,” Dehner answers. “I need to figure out an intelligent way to use you and your skills, and by that I mean your entire team.”

“Of course,” Shaina says.

So far, Dehner seems like a good man, professional and concerned about his troops. This much is obvious from the way his team moves and the way they’re equipped—completely professional, confident but not overconfident. But he’s holding back.

“What does Jack want me to do? And before we get off on the wrong foot, I know he gave you orders about my part of the mission. Don’t forget, I’ve known the man all my life. We practically share a brain at times, so for me, honesty is critical. Purpose is even better.”

Dehner stiffens and seems slightly embarrassed, which increases his credibility in my book. “You’re to take out Anaximander.”

“Is that all?” I ask.

Shaina balls one fist. “I knew it. We’re the suicide squad.”

“It’s not like that,” Dehner says. “Anaximander has several weaknesses, his pride being the biggest one. After what you did to his secret Orphan Gate, he will practically invite you into his inner sanctum so he can gloat over capturing you. That’s when you have a chance to take him out.”

“I’m not an assassin, I’m an archaeologist.” I consider that, then add, “with a few upgrades.”

Dehner doesn’t have an answer. We walk almost to our launch bay before he responds. “That’s a problem.”

Dehner’s team loads up the rest of their gear, most of it having already been staged and triple checked. I want to ask Shaina or Zedas for help, but this isn’t something they can decide. I need to confront Anaximander—not to kill, or even punish him, but to get information. Suddenly, I feel like I’m even farther from home. I’m not on the other side of the galaxy, I’m in a whole new universe. One wrong move, and I won’t be coming back to this, my pale imitation of home.

Shaina, Zedas, and I move to our own part of the shuttle where Shaina goes over my gear and refreshes my charge pistol knowledge. “Remember, this thing has a lot of recoil. Brace before you start shooting, keep your wrist, elbow, and shoulder aligned as much as possible—and don’t slap the trigger.”

“Sounds like a regular firearm,” I mutter, my thoughts elsewhere.

“Firearm? That sounds like a fearsome weapon,” she says. “You’re leading our team. You know that, right?”

I nod.

“So what’s the plan?”

Zedas also looks at me as though he’s expecting a brilliant answer.

“I’m not going to murder Anaximander, even if he deserves it.”

“That’s what I thought you’d say.” Shaina nods. “If it comes to that, I’ll do it.”

She sounds confident, but I don’t think she’s as comfortable with the prospect as she pretends.

“We’ll try to capture him,” I argue. “If that doesn’t work, we’ll help the control deck assault team sabotage the ship and get out of there. I want to free any prisoners he has left.”

“If he has any,” Shaina says. “You’re obsessed with freeing prisoners. You understand not all of them are equal? Some are more murderous than Anaximander.”

“You have a point, but it’s just hard to believe without evidence. I know I was innocent when he locked me up, and I assume you and Zedas did nothing to deserve that kind of treatment. Just humor me. If we see innocent victims, we have to do our best to help them. Look at what happened on Helion Station. Most of those political refugees are now valued crew members on the Subversive.”

Shaina sighs, then turns away, conflict on her features. “I’m needed at the controls.” She moves forward.

I make sure Zedas is strapped in, which is easier this time. For some reason, the safety restraints have more options on this ship. Apparently, assault troopers come in all shapes and sizes, unlike deck officers.

After a countdown, we launch. Outside the Subversive, the battle is raging. Many of Anaximander’s assault forces have turned around and are rushing to punish us for our little trick. Distances are hard to judge. I don’t know if I’m looking at real images or something translated by computer algorithms to make more sense to my human brain. I suspect it’s a combination of technologies, filtered through my new abilities into an amalgam that makes the battlespace less chaotic.

Not understandable or simple—just less of a melee.

The Subversive opens fire, glowing projectiles and missiles streaking in every direction. I start to realize how deadly a three-dimensional battlefield can become, and fast.

“Do you hear me, Murphy?” Shaina says into my headset.

“Loud and clear.”

“I won’t have time to give you a point by point update, so listen once,” she says. “We’re going into their launch bay right after they go out to storm the Dark Eye’s ship—which will quit the battle zone the moment we have boarded Anaximander’s flagship. Ideally, a bunch of their assault forces will be stranded in space while the larger ships maneuver.”

I wait and watch. Moments later, a few shuttles zip out of the launch bay and head for Jack’s cruiser. But there aren’t that many, and I’m worried. “I was hoping most of their soldiers would be gone when we arrived.”

“Look again.” Zedas points at a screen that shows Sarsten. Dozens of large assault craft speed toward the surface, glowing with heat as they enter the atmosphere. Ahead of them rains a deadly barrage of the planetary bombardment, kinetic and explosive weapons spreading out in lethal patterns, dense enough to register on our screens even at this distance. Explosions light up the continent, dangerously close to Ironback.

Another wave of shuttles heads for the planet. And then a third.

“I guess I should’ve been more careful with what I wished for,” I say.

“You’re wise, Murph.” Zedas touches his forehead once. It feels like a gesture of respect.

And then our shuttle lands roughly. The ramps drop. Dehner’s team swarms out, shouting commands and firing on the move. My instinct and infantry training take over, and my muscles begin to heat with purpose. “Come on, Zedas!”

We sprint across the deck. There’s no practical way to duck or dodge charge rifle bolts—we’re just rolling the dice and trying to get to cover. One of Jack’s Goliath sector mercenaries is struck in the face. He flips backward and lands at a terrible angle that has to break his neck, even if survives the wound. A smoking hole in his helmet reveals he’s dead. The fall is irrelevant.

Zedas’s shoulder plate deflects a bolt, which howls away into the air with fury. I aim but don’t return fire because my sights are bouncing up and down as I run. This isn’t like training on the range. The only thing that matters is getting to safety, even if it’s only for a moment.

Jack’s soldiers swarm around a series of hastily erected barricades, shooting on the move and dominating their enemies. Two more of Jack’s people go down with horrific injuries and crawl away from the fight, arterial blood trailing behind them like a pronouncement of their doom. Anaximander’s people suffer worse casualties, which is a testament to the team Jack recruited and trained. The air rages with bolts, and bullets, and curses and screams, some cut off in horrific gurgles as life is snuffed out in realtime. There is no glory here. Only blood. Only pain.

All I can do is try to win.

“Into the main hallway!” Dehner shouts, motioning with his left hand while keeping his right hand near the trigger guard of his charge rifle.

I catch him reloading out of the corner of my eye. Seconds after Zedas, Shaina, and I arrive in the hallway, the rest of the team flows in and sets up security. Men and women catch their breath and talk in low but excited tones, a chattering babble fueled by fear and adrenaline. We stink of it—fear—and blood, too, and sweat and hot metal. We stink of death.

“That was one hot ass landing,” one says.

“Just wait. Gonna get a lot worse,” another comments.

Dehner takes control. “Focus, people. We have jobs to do.”

Other squads head for different hallways on their own missions.

An explosion rocks the ship, pulsing up through the soles of my boots.

“What the hell was that?” Dehner demands.

Shaina looks at him coldly. “Ship guns. Eternal Domination and Subversive are having a duel while we’re still on board.”

“You’ve boarded ships before,” Dehner says.

“Yes.” Shaina looks uncomfortable, memories of death and destruction in her eyes. “Let’s find that bastard Anaximander.”

We race through hallways. Dehner’s troops blast holes in Overlord defenders and step over the bodies with a casual acceptance of gore and death that I hope I never see again—and yet, I know I will. I struggle to keep up, not because I’m winded—the Orphan Gate took care of that physiological weakness—but because each death scene is an image I can’t unsee.

Again and again, the ship shakes from missile strikes. Alarms blare so loudly it covers the sound of gunfire. I fire on the run, my round taking an Overlord soldier in the hip, spinning him around as his mouth goes to a perfect circle of shock and terror. My second round punches through his cheek, blasting his skull apart like a dropped egg. I don’t look at my handiwork, and Shaina puts a casual shot in his chest as she runs by, making sure the deed is really done.

“Was still twitching,” she shouts. She gave me an out—I am no longer a certain killer. I won’t forget her kindness in the midst of this horror.

“Thanks,” I bellow. The ship’s guns are deafening, and my ears are already ringing.

Shaina calls for a stop, then strips a helmet from a downed Overlord sergeant. She drops it over my head before I can complain. “Just let me adjust the settings.”

“A man died in this helmet,” I protest.

She shakes her head in disgust—probably not at the death, but at my squeamishness. “He doesn’t need it anymore.” She wiggles her fingers under the bottom edge, pushes, pulls and gives it a twist. Then she opens a panel and types on a screen I can’t see.

“Couldn’t you have done that before you slammed it on me?”

“What fun would that be?” she asks. “How does that feel?”

“Pretty good, actually.”

“All right,” Dehner orders. “Let’s move. We’re getting close.”

A dozen Overlord guards in upgraded armor block the final intersection before the control deck. The ship is bigger than the cruiser we stole by a factor of ten, but I’m becoming familiar with the way the Overlords design their vessels. The ceilings are high, and the hallways are wide. I don’t know why they waste so much space, but I’m thankful—we have a clear assault vector thanks to their design.

Much more relevant to our current situation are the defensive devices. Anaximander’s personal guards have raised sections of floor to ninety degrees, creating barricades that look impregnable. Several charge blasts ricochet harmlessly.

“Keep up the suppressive fire,” Dehner says, then turns to me. “You haven’t fired enough.”

“Your troops seem to be doing a good job.” My excuse feels lame. Combat isn’t what I thought it would be, and my infantry training was a long time ago.

“How’s your arm? Can you throw things? The Dark Eye said he was a quarterback once and could throw a pigskin through a hanging tire from thirty meters, whatever that means.”

“Not my sport, but I can throw hard.”

He hands me a grenade and points to a circle on one side. “Push that button and see if you can get one over the top of the barricades. Don’t hold it too long unless you want to die and take the rest of us with you.”

My heart races. Sounds fade away. The Overlord guards are shooting at us. Two of Dehner’s men fall back holding wounds. A man on our right flank throws a grenade, but it bounces back. In the smoke and flashing charge fire, I can’t see if he hit the barrier or someone swatted it back. The concussion rattles us, but Jack’s commandos rally quickly and resume their suppressive fire on the defenders.

“Throw it, Orphan,” Dehner barks.

I back up a step, then run forward and arc the grenade high, almost to the ceiling. All I wanted was for it to clear the barrier, but the effect on our enemies is deadly. The device deflagrates on the other side of the flipped-up floor shields—right at eye level. Of course, I don’t see this, but the blood and bits of armor and helmets spattering the back walls tell the tale. It’s the goriest kind of cave art I can imagine.

“Good throw, Orphan,” Dehner says as he leads his men in a charge.

I glance at Zedas.

He grunts, then pulls me forward. “Fewer of them now, thanks to you. Let us press the attack, Murph.”

Shaina propels me forward as well. “We need to get in there and grab Anaximander before they put him down. I don’t think it was ever about a chat.”

“He told me to kill him,” I argue as we move after Jack’s commandos. The way they shoot amazes me despite the situation. They’re so fast and accurate. The Overlord defenders, wounded and stunned, don’t stand a chance. These men had the advantage, but now they’re fighting half blind and badly hurt. Dehner and his team show no mercy, unless it’s a killing shot once the Overlord is mortally wounded.

I slip on blood. Zedas catches me and pulls me to my feet. Shaina keeps moving several steps and then looks back.

“I’m coming.”

We rush into the control deck, which is three times the size of the one on the Subversive.

Dehner rushes toward Anaximander, weapon pointed at the Overlord’s face, once perfectly arrogant but now—stricken. Stunned.

“Wait!” I sprint through the chaos. Deck officers fight back with underpowered sidearms while Jack’s best warriors slaughter everyone who resists. The others are forced to the floor and held at charge rifle point. Again the stench of innards and blood fills my senses, and piteous sounds from people are growing all around me.

“Surrender, Anaxim!” Dehner bellows, his voice ringing with personal hatred. This isn’t just business.

I move close to Dehner. If I can’t calm his bloodlust, then he’ll take revenge on this man before I learn anything, and above all else, I need Anaximander to talk. “I need him alive, if only for a moment.”

“He killed my family while I was working for him,” Dehner says. “Bombarded my father’s mining operation and never told me until a year later when I was up for re-enlistment and decided to get out of the service.” Dehner spits at the feet of Anaximander, whose face radiates febrile hatred.

I have nothing to say to such a heinous loss, as there is no good solution. What can I say to convince the man to lower his weapon?

“We can’t get information from a dead man.” I rush the words to beat his finger to the trigger.

“I don’t care about that.”

“You know he’ll be tortured to get that information,” I say, a sick feeling in my gut. “That will be justice for this son of a bitch.”

“Son of a what?” Dehner asks. His confusion buys me a few seconds.

I move between the men, one hand facing each. And that’s about the time I realize they are both pointing weapons with me in the middle. Brilliant move.

“Just stop, Dehner. Jack will skin you alive if you don’t let me interrogate him, and there’s no limit to the, ah . . . creative nature of our questioning. Think about it. A bullet . . . or a long time under our close, personal interest.” This time my words have an immediate effect. All of the color drains from Dehner’s face as he takes note of my expression—a mix of feral interest and joy at the thought of having Anaximander under my control.

It’s a fabrication because I am no torturer—but it works.

I face Anaximander, stepping forward until our noses almost touch. “Give me something valuable, or you’re going to die right here, and badly.”

He stands tall and proud, lowering his weapon to his side. “Would you really skin me alive?”

“For a start. Do you know what I did before I came through the gate?”

“No. Nor do I care, Orph—”

“Silence, if you want your tongue.”

Anaximander closes his mouth, jaw working. There’s fear in his eyes. He sees something I cannot—me.

“I am a person who studies the past. The people, the songs, the art . . . the traditions. Some are beautiful,” I tell him, a smile on my face. I crush the smile, leaving only a stony glare. “I also know of what my people used to be. Our endless creativity, before we became—I think you would call it civilized. So creative, we were. Purification through pain, they called it, and I am an expert in these things. Now, to be fair, I don’t have a lot of practice—who has that kind of time when you’re busy with life—but for you, you murderous prick? I’m willing to practice. To learn.” I step even closer. “I will bring forth skills and tools so foul that they’ve been buried in my people’s past since your empire was young, and I will use every one of them on your body until you beg me to die.”

Anaximander swallows, and he is no longer a warlord. He is a husk, hollowed out by fear of an Orphan who traveled the gates to deliver him into hell.

“All the other prisoners are secure,” says another of Jack’s soldiers. I don’t bother to look to see who it is.

“What is it you want?” Anaximander asks.

“Tell me where to find the fifth gate, and I will convince the Dark Eye to let you live.”

He smiles, and I know he’s playing his final ace. “You should have sworn fealty to me instead of the murderous traitor you call a friend.” The Overlord holds up a device that looks like the one I’ve seen Jack using so many times. On the screen, however, I see an image like the Cradle, but floating in space near a planet or a meteor.

In his other hand, he holds up a grenade. “I suggest you step back, unless you want to join me in an honorable death.”

“No!” Dehner shouts, then he opens fire as he moves around me, charge bolts splitting the air near my head, burning a streak through my hair.

I charge forward at the same time, ripping the Orphan Gate tablet from Anaximander’s hand like I’m stealing a football, and sprint away from him. Dehner’s shots punch through Anaximander’s body, narrowly missing me. I get several strides before the grenade detonates.

The shockwave fills the room and feels like someone hitting me in the back of the head with a baseball bat. Some vague memory reminds me to open my mouth to prevent overpressure to my lungs. I think it works, but it also causes my teeth to clack together when I slam into the deck against the far wall. My mouth fills with blood, and my ears ring, high and whining, even as everything spins. I’m not sure if the ship has lost gravity or I just had my ears blown completely out of my head.

I start to come around. The first thing I see is Zedas looking down on me like he did the first time we met at the bottom of the mineshaft.

“Are you stupid?” he asks.

“Yeah.” My voice is so rough I sound like I’ve been smoking my entire life. “I’m the stupidest.”

“Then maybe you are not a doctor,” Zedas says. “You told me that they are very smart. Also, you worry me, Murph.”

“Why?” I croak.

“Because I think you really like torture. I will not sleep in the same room with you now.”

“Good. You snore.” I laugh.

At some point, Shaina talks to me, but her words make no sense. She’s complaining about all the blood she’s wiping from my face and keeps asking me where it’s coming from. Other people in the room moan as their wounds are treated. I hear someone announcing that the Dark Eye is on deck.

I slip Anaximander’s tablet into my jacket as deep as possible and then lie on it. It feels like a weak attempt, but he doesn’t see through my ruse.

“You’re alive,” Jack says. What he does next chills me to the bone. He squats next to me, traces the side of my face with one hand like a loving parent, and breathes a sigh of relief, but when he looks at the ruined corpse of Anaimander, there’s something new in his eyes—joy. “And you gave that lying asshole what he deserves.”

“I think Dehner is dead,” I say.

He bows his head. “Yeah. I’m afraid so. Good man. He will be hard to replace.”

Over the next few hours, I wait for one of the commandos to fill my friend in about my confrontation with the Overlord at the end, but no one does. Witnesses are either dead or didn’t see what happened due to all of the fighting. Someone puts me on a gurney and rolls me toward the medical bay. Shaina walks on one side of it, Jack on the other, with Zedas pushing it carefully. One of Jack’s people leads the way.

“Does this mean we won?” I ask.

Jack shakes his head. “We stopped the bombardment of the planet, but Anaximander’s shock troops are already on the ground and they’ll wreak havoc with your friends in Ironback and other places. I’ll be sending people down as soon as I can because Karl and his people seem committed to my cause now that we’ve had a long talk, but also because I’m still looking for the fifth gate that has to be in this system.”

The tablet in my jacket feels hot against my skin, but no one notices my discomfort. I think about the image Anaximander showed me right before activating the grenade. I have the coordinates to the fifth gate, the one that will move entire ships across the Goliath sector in an instant, but I’m not about to share the knowledge with Jack.

Not yet, and maybe never.

41

“Zedas, tell me what’s happening.” The mother of all migraine headaches squeezes my brain like a vice. I cover my eyes with both hands to keep out the light, even though there is little more than a lamp in one corner.

“It doesn’t matter, Murph.” He moves closer to my bed and takes a knee. “Tamok’s medics say you have a concussion, if I am understanding their words. Everyone on Anaximander’s control deck was damaged by the grenade. Some have recovered. Others have died. You live because you are an Orphan.”

“How did we get here?” I can’t remember why this should worry me.

“The Dark Eye and Tamok have reconciled,” Zedas says. “Your friend sent troops to help fight Anaximander’s shock troops. We are in the Tamondran base.”

“Did we win that fight too?”

“No. They have more trained fighters. This is war. It will last a long time,” Zedas says. “I am glad you are alive, Murph.”

“What about you, buddy?”

He makes a rhythmic grinding sound that I think is a chuckle. “When we met, I was angry that you did not call me by my formal name. Now I am glad to hear you mutter senseless nicknames.” He inspects the bandage wrapped around my head, which requires him to move my hand. His touch, despite his size and obvious strength, is gentle. “The explosion was uncomfortable. I am fine now.”

“You’re one tough cat,” I say.

“Truly? Are cats great warriors?”

“Some are kings of the jungle.” My head throbs. “Lions, I mean, but they don’t live in jungles. So maybe it’s not a great analogy.”

“I will take your word for it, Murph.”

“I need to get to the headquarters and see what’s happening.” I lever myself out of bed.

Zedas stands and crosses his arms. “Tamok said you would say that, and he provided this viewscreen.” The Dogan points toward a cart with a convex video screen balanced on top of it. “I can show you pictures of the debris field after the space battle, or satellite and drone footage of the invasion of Sarsten.”

“Show me the planet.” I hold still, leaning forward slightly, hoping that I won’t vomit. My hands and forearms are covered with lacerations. I inspect my torso and legs and find similar first-aid treatment. The ringing in my ears won’t stop, and I know in my bones that I’m damned lucky to be alive, let alone whole.

The sky above Ironback is full of contrails, some from ships landing on the planet and others from air battles. It’s easy to tell the difference by their vector and by the way the planetary assault contrails have faded and blurred substantially. Some of the troops land in the ocean off the coast and are now gliding their ships onto the beach. Others touch down in the foothills and set up defensive perimeters around their newly formed bases.

Zedas shows me a lot more of the continent that we covered on foot. There are other towns and a few small cities, primitive in many ways, that are being occupied by Overlord troops. I feel like I have failed.

“Where is Tamok? I need to speak with him.”

Zedas nods. “He expected you would say that also. I will call him now that you have not passed out.”

“I’m pretty jacked up, but I’m tougher than that. Not going to pass out.”

“You have done this many times, Murph. Each time you have fallen unconscious before I finish showing you the videos of the planetary invasion.”

He’s probably telling the truth, so I don’t argue. Again, I’m just glad to be alive even though everything hurts and my brain feels like a big wad of cotton.

Shaina is with Tamok when he arrives. Her new uniform has a metal tab I don’t remember, and I wonder if she has been promoted. One of her eyes is swollen shut. Her left wrist is in a brace, and the back and side of her head is a web of stitches and staples—causing gaps in her short hair.

“Orphan, you survived,” she says. “Even with the abomination caring for you.”

“I’ve felt better.”

Tamok steps close. “It’s good to see you awake. The battle is dangerously close. We may have to evacuate not just Tamondran, but the entire planet.”

I listen.

“Did you find anything on Anaximander’s ship? A calculation device perhaps, or a star map?” Tamok’s expression is hard to read.

Behind both Tamok and Shaina, Zedas looks at the ceiling in the perfect attitude of feigned innocence.

I know he hid my tablet before medical teams stripped me out of my gear and Jack’s people, then later Tamok’s, searched my belongings. Because they all want to know where to find the fifth gate.

“No.” I try to look like I might throw up or pass out. “I was trying to negotiate—stupid, I know—and he blew everything up.”

Tamok puts a hand on my shoulder and stares into my eyes for a long time. If this guy can read minds, I’m really in trouble. “It is good you survived. We must trust each other in the future. I was surprised to learn you were friends with the Dark Eye, but that is a conversation for when you are better rested.”

“Okay.” I feign sleep for a few seconds.

Tamok addresses Shaina. “Make sure the Orphan has whatever he needs. Report to me immediately if he remembers anything important.”

“Yes, sir,” Shaina says.

No one speaks for a long time after Tamok leaves. I hear an artillery duel in the distance, then a ship breaking the sound barrier.

“Are you both going to stare at me, or can I get some food or something?” I ask, uncomfortable with their stare.

“Zedas-Duryan told me about the tablet,” Shaina says. “I helped him hide it.”

“Why would you help hide it?”

She looks toward a window, gathering her thoughts. “The Dark Eye has legions of fanatical followers. Tamok Sky has all of Tamondran and the rebel forces. The Overlords hold power on multiple worlds. You have a Dogan third son and a pilot. Maybe I picked the wrong side, but I’m in it for the duration this time.”

“We are with you, Doctor Hank Murphy,” Zedas says.

I think about their declaration for a minute, then nod, but slowly, because it hurts like hell. Nearby, someone fires up one of the simple buggies, the engine blatting to life like a bomb going off in my head.

“Murph? What will we do first?” Shaina asks.

I grimace, then smile. “First? We invent a better muffler.”

* * *

Murphy, Zedas-Duryan, and Shaina will RETURN in WAR SONG, coming April 2021.

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About the Authors

J. N. Chaney is a USA Today Bestselling author and has a Master's of Fine Arts in Creative Writing. He fancies himself quite the Super Mario Bros. fan. When he isn’t writing or gaming, you can find him online at www.jnchaney.com.

He migrates often, but was last seen in Las Vegas, NV. Any sightings should be reported, as they are rare.

* * *

Scott Moon has been writing fantasy, science fiction, and urban fantasy since he was a kid. When not reading, writing, or spending time with his awesome family, he enjoys playing the guitar or learning Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. He loves dogs and plans to have a ranch full of them when he makes it big. One will be a Rottweiler named Frodo. He is also a co-host of the popular Keystroke Medium show. You can find him online at http://www.scottmoonwriter.com