The Tyr: Arrival
Date: 2021-07-27 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Science Fiction
Description: Can one family save a world? Daniel Clay fought across the galaxy as a corporate soldier. He left the violence behind for a life of science, raising a family far from the bloodshed of the Corporation. With his wife, Sarah, and son, Michael, he studied the alien Tyr for years, hidden among their complex societies. Their mission should have ended with the arrival of a replacement team. Instead, the Clays’ corporate overlords choose a death sentence: an invasion fleet to conquer the Tyr. This first contact will destroy the Tyr, and only Daniel Clay and his family can help fight back against the d
Publisher: Independently published

The Tyr

Book 1: Arrival

By

Richard Fox

For Professor Elizabeth Samet
thank you for the books

Copyright © by Richard Fox

All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission.

ASIN:

Table of Contents

Prologue

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

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

An excerpt from the next novel, The Tyr: Ordeal

From the Author

Read THE EMBER WAR for Free

Prologue

The last of the An-Ra lay dying.

A mercenary in matte black power armor stood over the alien as it lay gasping near the crest of a desolate hillside. The human soldier lifted his visor, shaped into a death mask laden with scars, and stared down at the creature. Different-colored striations ran from the An-Ra’s blunt—but sharp—beak and down her neck. The flesh of her arms and legs was a pale grey with dark spots. A vestigial shell on her back was a poor leather shield that formed a low arc behind her shoulders.

The An-Ra lifted a hand off a wound to her side, inky blood staining her fingers.

She spoke, but Daniel Clay knew nothing of her language. He aimed the muzzle of his battle rifle over her chest. The same weapon had sent gauss bullets tearing through her abdomen a few minutes before. I would have been too easy to end the alien there and then…but Clay hesitated.

Smoke rose from a small village burning around the hill, darkening an ochre sky the same hue as the earth beneath the An-Ra.

Hourglass-shaped pupils stared up into Clay’s eyes and she spoke again.

“I…I’m sorry,” Clay said, gripping his rifle harder.

“What’s the problem?” Another mercenary came up a path worn into the hillside. “Village is clear.”

The An-Ra spoke words in hisses and pops, reaching to the sky.

“Can we let this one live, Hulegu?” Clay asked.

“Why? Corporation’s got all the bio samples they need.” Hulegu raised his rifle, but Clay held up a hand. “Mission’s sweep and clear…wait…” Hulegu canted his head slightly to one side. “Why’re your emotional suppressors turned off?”

“Because I wanted to know if I can still feel,” Clay said.

“Can you?”

Clay didn’t answer.

“You’ve got the last indig right in front of you,” Hulegu said. “You want the bonus for the kill or not?”

“The last one…how many were on this planet before it was marked for colonization? Tens of millions? A month later, and we’ve got them culled down to her.”

The An-Ra reached over and grabbed Clay by the ankle.

“You wounded it, but it ran uphill…odd.” Hulegu looked down at the blood trail.

“There’s a shrine up here.” Clay went to one knee and touched the back of the An-Ra’s hand. She felt cold to the touch, different from the warriors he’d torn apart when they were in the grip of battle rage.

“Her gods or whatever aren’t going to answer her, buddy. This your…what, eighth Compliance mission? You starting to crack?”

“It’s my last.” Clay stroked the top of the An-Ra’s bare head as her eyes went dull.

“She’s fading. Get the kill and get your bonus. I owe you one for that crash you pulled me out of,” Hulegu said.

The alien slumped to one side, her breathing growing more and more shallow with each breath.

“No.” Clay threw his rifle away and went down the path.

Behind him, a single shot sent a long-forgotten ache through his heart.

“Can’t change it, Clay!” Hulegu called out. “Can’t change what we’ve done.”

“I don’t have to be part of it the next time,” Clay tossed his helmet aside.

Chapter 1

Fifteen years later.

It was time for his second face.

Daniel Clay walked up to a mirror and slowly turned his head from side to side. His cheeks and jaw were raw from a too-close shave, his blond eyebrows trimmed down to the point they were almost invisible against his skin. A flap of pale silver hung from the middle of his neck like a bib, and strands of auburn hair dangled down to the leather belt strapped over his black tunic.

Better get used to this one again, he thought as he pinched and stretched his face.

“House, give me a reading.” Clay placed his hands beneath the synth-flesh of his second face and pressed it against his skin. The synth-flesh molded against his features, wiggling as it bonded to him. He dabbed at his forehead and jowls with his palms as his alien face took shape.

Small screens appeared within the mirror—surveillance feeds from hidden cameras arrayed for blocks around his home in King’s Rest City. The normal commuter traffic of delivery trucks and double-decker buses were on the roads, and Daniel could almost smell the exhaust from ambary oil that would form into an off-green smog by midday. Most of the government workers wouldn’t arrive for hours, as no work would commence until the King rose for the day.

There were a few things he wouldn’t miss about Tyr, the pollution being his main complaint.

“Constable frequencies and landlines have had no mention of this address or employees since your last query,” a computer voice said as graphs appeared on the mirror. “Military networks have 8.27 percent more traffic than baseline. Is this of concern?”

“No, House, the kingdom’s doing their annual drills in the southern plains. This is expected.” Clay flattened his second scalp and brushed hair away from his face. His skin was mostly silver, covered by a thin layer of ketafik, an amalgam of thin fur and down feathers that would be barely noticeable unless someone was close enough to smell his breath. Black swathes of ketafik covered his eyes and ran down from his ears to trace his jawline. Another pair of dark lines ran down from the inner corners of his eyes and around his mouth to join with the lines along his jaw, forming a smoky trail down the front of his throat. The borders of the darker color wavered ever so slightly against the silver as his disguise took shape.

The Linker caste had features of all the other strata of the Tyr species…all but one.

“Decrypted military communications indicate the Worthy Peoples have placed several of their strategic bomber squadrons on high alert,” House said.

“Saber rattling.” Daniel rolled his eyes and fixed a ponytail to the back of his head. The long auburn braid, inlaid with silver and gold strands, fell over his shoulder. He touched a hidden biometric reader on the desk beneath the mirror and the top drawer popped open. Inside were pairs of contact lenses, each freckled with black spots. He frowned—one set was missing.

“House, connect me to Sarah.” Clay looked over his more familiar face, then flipped open a lens box.

“Yes, honey?” His wife’s voice came through the mirror.

“Aaron’s eyes are gone. You know where he went?” Daniel blinked hard as he slipped in a contact lens.

“He found a buyer for his tackla bird. Finally. I thought he was going to let that damn thing go on the way to the off-site,” she said as pots clanked in a sink.

“Are you making breakfast? You know it’s Toil-day. Miska’s has the best morning grill and—”

“We are not leaving a filthy house for the next crew. I had to make Michael his favorite dessert last night or he was going to slip into another one of his moods, and you know what a pain in the ass it is to make that pudding.”

“Fair enough,” Daniel said with a sigh. He leaned toward the mirror and a grid covered the head and shoulders of his alien reflection. Several irises opened and closed as the lenses adjusted to the light. “House, how’s my synth?”

“Thermal profile within tolerances, all bind locations read full adherence. You are cleared for infiltration,” the computer said.

“Like you can stop me from leaving.” Daniel smiled.

“Lockdown procedures are enabled. Any attempt to exit this facility without full compliance with Corporate policies will result in—”

“Kidding, I’m kidding, House. I really hope the next team comes with a sarcasm module for your stack.” He adjusted a leather purse bound with silver string on his belt and gave it a pat, the rustle of coins bittersweet.

“Primary locks disengaged.” There was a clack inside a nearby doorframe. Daniel grabbed a handle with a silver-colored hand, the fingers dark from the second knuckle to his fingertips. The synth-skin covered his entire body, disguising him as a Tyr from head to toe.

He twisted the handle, putting pressure on it as House did one final security scan around their home. The handle gave way and he stepped through the inner doorway to a closet-sized chamber.

The sounds of a city waking up—the rumble of engines and calls of neighbors to each other—carried through the frosted glass of the outer door. Not too different from the routine of Armstrong Archology on Luna.

His mood soured as House bolted the door shut behind him. The thought of going home put a cold pit in his stomach. The Archology wasn’t the kind of place he wanted his son to grow up, and he held no illusions that the city of tens of millions built deep into Earth’s moon had improved much since their mission began on Tyr almost ten years ago.

His family might rate a higher tier of housing when his contract was up…though that depended on Corporate keeping to the letter of his employment agreement. He chuckled at the joke and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The smell always got to him first, the walnut tang of ambary oil burned by vehicles throughout the city. Black telephone and power wires formed erratic webs overhead, stretching over the roads and coalescing into ugly knots at building corners.

Buildings in this part of the city reached a few stories high, the walls clad in panels made to look like irregular decahedrons fit together. He’d lived in the neighborhood long enough to know where the cladding patterns repeated themselves after the quarter was rebuilt during the war.

There was chattering overhead and Daniel glanced up as a pair of tanna ran along the wires connecting the buildings. The maroon creatures were as large as the rats back on Luna, but covered in scales and with tufts of fur at their joints and along the ridge of their skulls. Daniel stepped to one side, not willing to risk them spotting his tunic with their droppings.

Rumor was that the tanna were smart enough to target homeowners that didn’t leave their leftovers out for the pests, but Aaron—his team’s zoologist—had assured him that the tanna weren’t that intelligent. Not that Aaron would go to the trouble of disabusing the locals of their theory.

A squat truck drove past, the wheels rumbling over the ancient cobblestone street, the small cab providing room enough for just the Tyr driving the truck. He touched the bridge of his nose then held his hand palm up in a brief gesture of acknowledgement and respect to Clay. The driver’s markings were different from his, with dark pools around his eyes that pinched around the temple, almost like the extinct raccoons of Earth. A Toiler caste.

Didn’t I hold his business in escrow while he was getting a loan? Daniel thought as he made his way down the sidewalk, his knees aching from the slope of the hill where his business and home were located.

Another thing he wouldn’t miss—though the view down the road was a different matter.

A large, red sun rose over the bay that King’s Rest had grown around over the many centuries. Bands of pink and ochre against the horizon would fade away to blue skies as the sun rose, then give way to the muted red sky of Tyr’s nights.

Nebula-occluded skies weren’t unheard of through settled space, but Tyr’s vistas were unlike anything Clay had ever seen in person or learned of in star surveys.

Daniel acknowledged a fruit seller as she raised the corrugated steel shutters of her business, another of the Toiler caste with different facial markings than him. The smell of pollen and citrus filled his nose as the Tyr woman swiped a covering of ambary cloth off her wares.

“Linker Clay,” she said, wagging a chubby arm at him. “I have fresh olisa fruit that your boy likes.”

“Your delivery isn’t due for another half decem, goodwife.” Daniel tapped the analog watch on his wrist. “Olisa gets a bit chalky if it’s left out too long.”

“Don’t you give my olisa the bad tongue.” She shook a fist at him. “Who can I go to for a balance if a Linker harms me?”

“Maybe your shipment will come early and then I’ll get fresh olisa on my way back.” He bowed his head slightly as he walked past her shop, the Tyr woman grumbling at him in her caste dialect.

A half-dozen jet fighters roared overhead, contrails tracing from their wingtips in the humid morning air. Daniel noted missiles slung beneath both fighters and made a mental note to double-check the kingdom’s air defense status before he and the rest of his household left for the countryside.

Getting detected by the local air force might make their final moments on Tyr more difficult, and the replacement team would certainly not appreciate it if the locals were on alert for UFOs.

The road leveled out into an open-air market. This was a Toiler caste area, but as a Linker, he could move about as he pleased. If his markings were of the Royal or Speakers…things might get ugly.

“Miska,” Daniel said, touching fingertips to his brows in a quick gesture of respect to a heavyset Toiler cooking at a grill. Thin metal pins held hunks of raw meat between Daniel and the Tyr.

“Clay, thought you’d come by.” The Toiler’s ketafik layer was puffy around his face and exposed arms, making him look almost corpulent, but his short-sleeved shirt and apron were tight over a slender build. “The usual?”

“You were in the mountains for too long.” Daniel smiled. “All that cold makes me think your clan works the mines and not the kitchens.”

“Bah, the Royals demand the best meat from wild hunts.” The cook drew three pins off hooks and laid the meat over smoldering coals. “I have to kill the damn things myself and come back with the cold still on my skin so they know that the beast was taken from nature and not the ranch.”

“Good hunt?” Daniel asked.

“In the end,” Miska grunted. “Good enough that I can come to you and pay the last of the mortgage on my equipment. The Royal that owns my debt won’t be happy…but what do I care, eh?” He gave the meat pins a twist and sprinkled seasoning over the hissing cubes.

“I will be more than happy to prepare the seal for you. Congratulations.”

“Don’t be too happy for me. Royals tend to stop buying from those who’ve cleared their debts. I can make ends meet cooking for my own kind, but if I want to own my home too,” he clicked his tongue, “that’s another problem. But Royals do as they like, eh?”

“Same as it ever was.” Daniel tilted his head slightly to one side, indicating that he did not wish to speak against a caste, such was his privilege as a Linker.

“Seven.” The cook scraped meat off the pins and into a wax-paper-lined pressboard container.

Daniel took a single silver coin from the purse on his belt and put it into a slot on a wooden box within a metal cage welded to the counter.

Miska jingled the box and frowned at Daniel. “I said seven. You put in a fifteen.”

“You put in some extra of my wife’s favorite.” Daniel took the box. “Don’t pretend you didn’t. Come to my shop when you’re ready to have your note paid. I’ll go to the Royal myself and see that the debt’s gone before second moon.”

“Ha, that thief will duck you if it means another interest payment.” Miska chuckled. “Be well, Linker.”

“Be well,” Daniel said and turned away, the warmth of the fresh food seeping into his hands. The smell of grish—a mountain lizard/goat analog with pink fur—was one of his first memories on Tyr when his team arrived. Another thing he’d miss.

The squeal of brakes broke his reverie and the crump of a crash pulled his attention to the far side of the market.

Shouts were mixed, the words accented by more than one caste. Daniel glanced at the food in his hand, then back to his house up the street. He walked briskly toward the commotion, the many Toilers crowding toward the site getting out of his way and calling for passage as Daniel strode forward.

“I will have your blood or your silver for this!” a Tyr man shouted from beside a small truck whose front wheels were over the curb. The angry Tyr’s markings were a solid black line across his eyes, the hair sprouting from behind his temples and over his ears ivory-colored. One of the Blooded caste, the warriors. A cargo hauler was on one side of the road and fist-sized nuts with dark shells and thick strands were littered all over the place. Two emaciated Tyr were frantically trying to pick up the goods, placing them in the folds of long tunics made of undyed fabric. A third rail-thin alien sat against the rear wheels of the truck, his face scrunched in pain, an arm held against his side.

“You will have nothing of me!” a Toiler woman shouted back, then gestured to the ruined front bumper of her car. “If you lack the intelligence to drive, then you should’ve let one of your Indentured—”

The man’s hand went to a dagger sheathed at his belt.

“Peace!” Daniel shot a hand up. “Peace as we are under the gods’ gaze.” He set his food on a wooden bench and walked up to the quarrelers. “Will you accept my services? I am Linker Clay and—”

The Toiler drew a silver coin the thickness of a fingertip from her purse and slapped it into Daniel’s palm.

“I am of Clan Tegal. You have my silver,” she said. “This imbecile drives about as well as he can speak—”

“These are not words of peace,” Daniel said. “This is a mediation, and if I cannot bring you two to an acceptable outcome, it is my clan and my silver that will suffer. So let us speak as equals beneath the gaze, yes?”

“She may insult herself all day and might finally speak some truth,” the Blooded mumbled. He glanced at the mess in the streets as his workers hurried to collect everything that hadn’t smashed on impact. The silver color on his face took on a slightly red hue and Daniel could tell the man was under a great deal of stress, much more than the Toiler.

The Blooded had three brass rings bound to his upper left arm, each engraved with the names of battles. This was a veteran of the Just War—as the Tyr called it—against the Eastern caste that ended almost a decade ago. He placed a beaten-up coin the same size as the one the Toiler had produced in Daniel’s palm.

“She paid first,” Daniel said. “She may speak first.”

“I was trying to turn onto Bayview Street, when this…honored Blooded cut me off. The back of his trailer caught my bumper and you see the mess. I am not at fault.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared daggers at the Blooded.

“This city moves too fast,” the Blooded said. “I have my license. I know the speed limits. She came up behind me like a demon as I was trying to take the exit.” He motioned behind him to the traffic jam that moved painfully slow off the street and to a thoroughfare. “She hit my cargo truck. Now I’ve lost goods and one of my Indentured is damaged. I’m responsible for their medical costs so long as they’re mine. I might just lose all the profit from this harvest if I have to both replace the truck and send that one to the hospital.”

“Sawbones are cheaper than doctors,” the Toiler sniffed. “Why does a Blooded care so much about his—”

“No.” Daniel raised a hand. “This is not the time or place for that discussion. The Speakers and the Royals decided their punishment. Blooded, go to your truck. Wait for my instructions.”

The former soldier hesitated then turned and walked away.

“You two,” Daniel said, snapping his fingers at the two Indentured as they made a pile of the large seeds on the sidewalk. Their face markings were mottled, like a Dalmatian dog’s fur, similar yet incongruous to the others of their caste, unlike the near identical markings of all the Toilers still watching the drama.

He didn’t want to treat them like they were mere servants, but even one of his markings—which specialized in dealings between the castes—had to keep with royal edicts, and any Indentured was at the lowest level of the social strata.

Daniel grabbed the side of the jackknifed cargo trailer and waited for the two Indentured to come over and help him. He pulled down, using his strength to slowly reorient the trailer. The Indentured strained as they tried to help. Their atrophied muscles were of little use, but Daniel let them struggle and acted like tilting over the partially full cargo trailer was any real effort to him. Tyr’s gravity was a bit weaker than Earth standard, which made him freakishly strong compared to the aliens. The trailer tilted over and more of the large nuts bounced out onto the street.

The two servants scrambled to collect the produce, pausing as Daniel grabbed the trailer beneath the bumper and straightened it out behind the truck. One shook his head quickly and rubbed the back of his hand against his eyes to clear his vision.

“Blooded, show me your turn signal,” he called out and looked at the back of the trailer. No lights flashed.

“Now wait.” The soldier came out of the cab and walked to Daniel. “That doesn’t make any difference if I—”

“Don’t even have your taillights hooked up?” Daniel leaned around the gap between the truck and trailer where the two were joined at a hitch.

“That costs extra.” The Blooded looked away.

“See! I’m not at fault,” the Toiler said, pointing at her damaged car.

“Not yet. Let me see.” Daniel walked behind her vehicle to tire streaks on the flattened cobblestone road. “You hit your brakes twenty legs from the point of impact. New tires, yes? That means your speed was—”

“Everyone goes over the limit in this city,” she said, the silver of her skin going slightly blue with fear.

“You were speeding and couldn’t slow down enough before he merged into the exit lane.” Daniel looked to the soldier. “But if you’d had a turn signal on, she might have been able to react sooner.”

“I have a delivery time,” the Blooded said. “Give your judgment so we can move on with our lives and I won’t lose any more money.”

“You were speeding.” Daniel slapped the back of one hand against his palm with a snap. “The repairs to your car are little if you’ve a shop in your clan. Do you?”

“I do.” She put her hands on her hips and her face returned to normal.

“Then consider the matter settled and leave. No damages.”

The Toiler went to her car and slammed her door shut. She lurched into traffic and honked her way into the milieu.

“No coin for me, Linker? I will tell my priest of this and ask why the gods delivered this judgment,” the soldier said. “But I agree to your mediation. This is what I deserve. Hey,” he said, slapping the trailer to get his servants’ attention. “Help Loosa into the front. You two get in the back.”

Daniel watched as they helped the injured Tyr up. Loosa limped, barely able to put weight on his left foot.

“How long do they have left?” Daniel asked.

“Almost a year. Three brothers; they’ve done their time well enough,” the soldier said.

“Take him to the holy quarter, the Temple of Harmony, and ask for Dr. Derancha. He treats their caste and does good work.” Daniel touched his fingertips to his brow then held his hands palm down in front of the Blooded. The Tyr frowned at him then returned the gesture of respect and brought his palms up to Daniel’s.

Silver coins—the same two that both parties paid him to adjudicate the situation—fell into the Tyr’s hands and Daniel turned away, not wanting to see the Tyr’s reaction. Some of his caste were too proud to accept money they didn’t earn by the adjudication or labor. This one didn’t strike Daniel as such, but leaving the scene of the accident would discourage him from trying to return the gift.

The crowd and the traffic dissipated now that the conflict was over. Daniel went back to the bench where he’d left his food…and it was gone.

“Blast it.” He put his hands on his hips.

“Danny, where are you?” his wife asked through a communications bead implanted in his right ear.

“I’m under the gods’ gaze,” he said, reciting a Tyr saying for times of bad luck.

“Getting a lot of crowd noise…don’t talk to yourself in public, you know better. Just get back here. There’s a line already and you’re the one with the seals. Can’t have angry customers waiting for the new team.”

“On my way. Do we have anything you can heat up for breakfast?”

Chapter 2

Tyler Zike walked with his shoulders back and his head up, mimicking confidence at odds with the armed guards accompanying him. Corporate didn’t send their gene-enhanced security enforcers to “escort” executives to meetings if there was good news to discuss.

The element of fear was there; he was dimly aware of the vestigial emotion as he moved down the passageway. Shuttles and giant wire-framed cargo haulers moved slowly in the void beyond the portholes of the space station. A slight crescent of a sunrise on Paradise IX caught his eye and he filed away a pic from the optics integrated into his eyes for the marketing department.

His steps slowed as they came to a corner, and it took a not-so-gentle push from one of the security men to keep him on pace. He didn’t begrudge his escorts. They had their instructions from Corporate and every good employee simply carried out their assigned duties—and no one wanted a black mark on their record for failing a directive from the Chairman.

That’s all it’ll be, he thought, a black mark. I can save the bottom line, and green numbers on a balance sheet are all that matters.

Assuming the Chairman didn’t have him killed. Assuming.

“Sir!” A portly man skidded around the corner, his arms full of data slates, his thin hair disheveled. “The-the holo synch is nearly ready. I got all the earnings projections done and I—hey!”

A security guard shoved him aside and all but one of the slates clattered against the deck.

“Leave my assistant alone,” Zike said. “I’ll see your pay docked if he loses work time for medical treatment.”

“Heh,” a guard grunted and pressed a meaty hand against a bio reader next to a sealed double door. “Spaced execs don’t have much pull with HR.”

“Might be the second one this month,” the other said. “Chairman’s on a roll.”

“Sorry, did he say ‘spaced’?” asked Furst, Zike’s assistant.

“Immediate loss of all company access and privileges.” Zike smoothed out his suit and reset his hair in the reflection of the bio reader. “Which includes this station’s atmosphere and artificial gravity.”

“Oh…then I should…” Furst glanced over his shoulder, eyeing an escape.

“I need him,” Zike said and a guard gripped the top of Furst’s head. “No need to worry. The Chairman’s not known for letting good assets go to waste. The report?”

Furst thrust the remaining slate into Zike’s waiting hand, then tried to pull away from the guard’s grip—to no avail.

Zike swiped through graphs and stamp codes of relevant articles, the software in his brain downloading documents and processing information for him.

“Where’s the client profile?” Zike frowned at Furst.

“What? I thought…I thought that was a joke. There’s no way that—”

The double doors slid open with a hiss and the guards gave Zike a rude shove forward into an empty room, the floor and walls covered in a grid of rainbow-colored lines. Furst was tossed in like a bag of garbage and landed hard, his ample belly exposed as his shirt buttons failed.

The room twisted around them, reshaping into a boardroom with a long mahogany table around which sat executives in drab grey suits in oversized leather chairs. Some were hooked up to life-support rigs, their bodies too old to do much else but keep their brains alive. Others had expertly bio-sculpted bodies, like they were Greek gods that stepped off the podium to join the Corporation as the Senior Vice President of Brand Engagement or the VP for Auditing and Accounting.

At the head of the table was Chairman Getty, his bulk held aloft by a suspensor chair. Silk sheets covered his corpulence, giving him the appearance of a cloud fat with rain. Pudgy fingers tapped at control screens specially designed to match the extra space between dirty fingernails; one digit was an ugly purple, the blood flow constricted by an oversized ring encrusted with jewels. A mask covered his mouth, forcing oxygen into lungs that could barely function with all the mass pressing against his diaphragm.

“Is this the one?” His voice bellowed through speakers built into the table and walls. “Is this the little shit that ruined our third-quarter projections?”

“Chairman Getty.” Zike smiled, flashing a fortune in expert dental work. “I see this as an opportunity.”

Getty snarled and leaned forward enough that Zike feared he might come crashing down—just before pain arced through his body and he went to one knee, one hand raised beside his face, the muscle frozen.

“So he has been conditioned. He’s not trying to joke around with me,” Getty said, his porcine eyes glancing at a severe-looking woman near his end of the table.

Zike wanted to scream, but his jaw was clenched shut and his diaphragm felt like it was made of molten metal.

“Zike has a profit rating of eighteen percent,” she said. “Above average, which is why he was given the terraforming project on Astra B-X-12.”

Getty tapped a button and the pain vise on Zike vanished. Zike leaned forward with a gasp as the other executives looked at him with derision and scorn.

Zike tried to pull himself up by grabbing the edge of the table, but his hand passed right through the hologram. Getty could send whatever orders he wanted through the quantum link between his headquarters on Earth and the station, but everything Zike saw was just a projection.

“Astra…why does that sound familiar…?” Getty asked.

“We experienced some design challenges,” Zike said, recomposing himself.

Over the center of the boardroom table, a ruddy brown planet appeared.

“The terraforming efforts were…behind schedule,” Zike said. “In an effort to deliver habitable space to the client on time, we utilized an oxygen-binding procedure that was projected to convert the atmosphere to human standards within a few days.”

“That was your plan?” Getty poked a control screen and a plume of fire erupted on the planet’s surface. Screens appeared, all showing camera footage of an industrial area under grey skies. The sky went red as the plume grew to engulf the entire planet.

Workers screamed as they immolated. Some managed to run a few dozen yards out of the buildings before succumbing to the flames and burning into charcoal effigies.

“It was Zike!” A new screen came up displaying an engineer in an environmental suit, the ceiling overhead thick with smoke and fire. “I told him! Told him this was madness, but he didn’t—ah!”

The man’s screams continued as he fell off-camera, limbs flailing as flames consumed him.

Zike’s smile got a bit wider. “The projections proved incorrect,” he said.

“I’d be angrier at your attitude,” Getty said, then paused for some labored breathing, “but we adjusted your emotion spectrum to make decisions without compassion or care for others. Sociopaths, all of you!” He lifted a fat arm and swept it across the boardroom. “An entire colony world…up in smoke. A world under colonial contract!”

“The Galactic Net hasn’t heard of this yet,” said a woman bearing a striking resemblance to the goddess Venus. “Projections on public opinion of Corporate image will be vastly negative, especially if competitors can get a viral messaging campaign trending before we get control of the narrative.”

“The losses will be catastrophic,” a wizened old man said. “We might have to spin off the entire colonial division to keep our brand image. The only way we can avoid that is if negative news of the war against the Reptilians came through the core systems, and even our influencers can’t get through censorship protocols.”

Getty snarled and reached for a pulsing red icon on a slate.

“But I have a solution!” Zike shouted. “Forgive me, Mr. Chairman, but we can still deliver to the client on time and within the parameters of the contract. We’re obligated to resettle the client…we never specified that it would be on Astra.”

“Go on.” Getty pulled his hand back.

“There are several habitable worlds in fringe space, and one is within jump nexus range of the client. Furst?” Zike turned to his assistant, whose mussed hair and untucked shirt didn’t give off the most professional appearance. Zike snatched a data slate from him, pulled up a file, and flicked a finger to the holo over the table.

Getty reached out and grasped at the air, intercepting the file.

“With some minor asset reallocation, we could have the planet habitation-ready…with perhaps a minor delay to the delivery date,” Zike said.

“Huh…I don’t remember authorizing this project…what do you need?” Getty asked.

“A single Compliance Force, its support ship and a nexus stabilizer—all of which are in-system and can make the jump to the target planet. The unit I have in mind is dog-eared to suppress a rebellion in the Maghreb System, but—”

“Caliph Omar’s operating on credit as it is. He wants a terror drop to get his population back in line…I’ll convince him to take kill droids instead.” Getty rubbed one of his many chins. “There is the matter of the client…”

“Also in-system.” Zike swallowed hard. “The Dauphin will likely accept. I’ll message her and—”

“No! You’ll go to her yourself. Her cult requires more delicate handling than most. You insult her and she’ll put out a missive on my corporation and we’ll have problems on a dozen different worlds.”

“In…person?” Zike felt the blood drain from his face. Despite his psych-conditioning, the Dauphin had earned her reputation.

“You thought getting fired and breathing vacuum was the worst outcome here?” Getty chuckled. “Pass on my respects to the Dauphin. If she doesn’t accept your offer, then you’ll wish you hadn’t saved your skin here. Your proposal is approved. You fail again and you won’t be answering to me.”

The boardroom dissolved, leaving Zike and Furst in the middle of the grid.

“Did we…sir, you did it!” Furst went to hug Zike and got a stiff arm to the chest.

“Getty’s throwing me to the wolves. Since I’m going in person to the Dauphin, they’ll put all the blame on me and not the company.”

“But those meatheads outside aren’t going to throw us—I mean you—out the airlock.” Furst pursed his lips and raised his palms.

“Small victory. Come along, Furst. We need to rendezvous with the Dauphin’s ship.”

“Both…of us?”

Zike smiled at him.

Chapter 3

“And that is nine thousand crowns to Lady Eletta in East March,” Daniel said as he placed a maroon strip across the flap of a coarse paper envelope. He plucked a silver stylus from a felt-lined cradle and began writing on the strip.

“Your discretion is appreciated,” said a Tyr wearing the deep-blue robes of a noble. The markings on his face formed a dark line the width of three fingers down the middle of his face, from his hairline to the base of his neck.

“All our financial services are treated with the utmost privacy.” Daniel tapped the base of his stylus three times against the counter in his office.

Sarah, seated at a desk with a brass plate at one hand and a large metal box decked out in switches and knobs at the other, placed thimbles over three fingertips and began a staccato rhythm against the plate. On the box, a hazy screen registered each tap with a bounce of a white line, and a printout flowed from one side.

“Always impressive to see your caste at work,” the noble said. “I give you crowns and thousands of strides away, another person can receive the same amount of money. How do you all do it?”

“The winds of commerce flow through the Linkers.” Daniel motioned to the motto carved into a wooden sign hanging over his head. “Though there has been a bit of an imbalance lately as construction efforts continue in the March. Our caste fathers will call for a meeting to balance the scales when needed.”

“Is that why you’re closing shop for a few weeks?” The noble gave him a sly smile. “Off to whatever secret place you Linkers gather to settle accounts?”

“A long overdue holiday. Rest assured that any business done with one of my caste will be honored by all my caste.” He pushed the envelope across the counter.

“Same as it ever was.” The noble slipped his receipt into his robes and left as Daniel buzzed the magnetic lock to open the door.

“How many mistresses is that for him now?” Sarah asked. “Has to be at least five.”

“I’m starting to think he’s a middleman for the royal court.” Daniel tapped his chin. “He’s got enough business contacts that it makes sense for him to be in and out of our establishment. Any of the other higher-ups come in here and it begs the question as to why they’re transferring money or property.”

“If the Royal caste had actual divorce laws and fewer sanctioned killings, they wouldn’t need to sneak around so much.” Sarah stretched her arms over her head, and Daniel smiled as the light caught her face stripes in just the right way. She wore a different face from when they married, but most of his memories with her didn’t match her current appearance.

The stomp of feet carried through the ceiling.

Daniel sighed.

“For what it’s worth,” Sarah said, taking off her thimbles, “Tyr teenagers are just as bad as ours, according to my tea circle.”

“He’s mad we had House lock him in?”

“He’s mad about everything. He’s seventeen and—” Sarah rolled her eyes as the stomping continued, louder and directly overhead. “Let me go talk to him.”

“Law enforcement personnel sighted,” the House said through a speaker at Sarah’s workstation. “Gait and pace indicate he’ll arrive in the next ninety-four seconds. Single. No associated radio traffic. Facial recognition—”

“I know who it is, House,” Daniel said.

“Good luck with that.” Sarah spun around on her stool and went up a stairwell, wooden planks squeaking with each step.

“Defensive measures primed,” House said. “Immolation of proprietary technology will commence in the event of imminent disclosure.”

“You’re lucky paranoia can’t give you ulcers.” Daniel reached below the counter and opened a small refrigerator, taking out a bottle of pale-white liquid and two crystal tumblers.

A shadow appeared in the frosted glass of the office door and there was a knock.

Daniel hit the buzzer and a Tyr with Blooded markings and one arm entered. He wore the dark chain-mail vest of the Constabulary, a pistol and truncheon at one hip, a badge with the King’s visage in gold leaf on a silver sun fastened over his left chest.

“Officer Pyth, what a coincidence. I was just about to enjoy a cold drink,” Daniel said.

“How is it you always know when I’m about to come in?” Pyth rapped knuckles on the counter as Daniel poured.

“What brings you in? I don’t have a transfer for you on my ledger.”

“You know why I’m here.” Pyth tossed back the drink, then waved his hand over the cup to decline a refill.

“I was hoping it would be business.”

“My daughter,” Pyth said, taking a deep breath, “my daughter’s showing a bit of color in her cheeks. We’re planning her veil ceremony.”

“Mmm…” Daniel looked down at his drink. Tyr females had a very different reproductive cycle from humans; most of the castes had only eight fertile opportunities their entire lives. The normal indication that one was nearly ready to conceive was a deepening of the hue of the female’s ketafik as the chance of fertilization grew stronger. For Pyth’s daughter to be showing now was almost a year earlier than the norm. Not unheard of, but still unusual.

“You’re no fool, Clay. You know my caste will never allow a Linker and a Blooded to bond,” Pyth said.

“I know that, but…” Daniel gave him a knowing look.

“Fuck, now you sound like my wife. Another.” Pyth rapped his cup against the counter and leaned against it. “No, it isn’t ‘fair’ by any stretch. Yes, my bonded is of the priests, but it was our right to be together.” He glanced at his missing arm. “Not many advantages to being Blooded. We’re to fight and die and the gods let us choose who we can bond with if we’ve sacrificed enough to the cause, doesn’t matter the caste. My daughter has my face, but her mind—”

“Kids these days,” Daniel said. “The gods set the world in order, and they want to break it all down.”

“My daughter intends for your son.” Pyth sighed. “But this cannot happen, Clay. She’s not a tested Blooded that can claim beyond her caste. There’s not even a declared war. Her first season must go to my caste. All her seasons. You know how it works.”

Daniel nodded. Tyr always—always—inherited the facial markings of their fathers. Whenever there was an illicit liaison between the castes, there was no denying the paternal lineage.

“So…you’re here because…” Daniel finished his drink.

“Don’t be so obtuse, Clay. You know…because I can’t be the one to break my daughter’s heart. She’s my only child.” Pyth’s shoulders drooped and he rapped his glass against the counter again.

“You want me to be the villain and forbid our children from ever seeing each other again,” Daniel said flatly.

“You say it that way and it makes me feel like grish shit,” Pyth said. “I’ve nothing against you, your son, or your caste. But we live under the gods’ gaze within the King’s city.” He touched his badge. “We let our children do as they please and they’ll be pariahs. We’ll be pariahs. We’ll all be stoned in the streets as heretics or have to run off to those degenerates in the south. Put yourself in my boots.”

“You’re forbidding your daughter from doing the exact thing you did when you bonded with her mother, I get it,” Daniel said.

“I knew I should’ve kept her and her mother in a Blooded quarter, but my wife isn’t treated well by my own caste, so I asked to be here where she could be with her own people and—bah!” He slammed his drink.

“It’s not fair, but matters of the heart rarely are,” Daniel said. “The gods are watching, though, and maybe there’s a bit of their mercy at work.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I’m not supposed to share this outside my caste, but we’ve been friends long enough that I know you can keep a secret.”

Pyth pushed his glass away.

“We’re going to a Linker conference very soon,” Daniel said quietly. “My family will likely be reassigned elsewhere. If we’re not back by next Kings-day, we will never return to this city.”

“Then Linker caste politics can be blamed.” A sad smile crossed Pyth’s face. “I’ll lose you as a friend, but my daughter won’t hate me.”

“Nor will my son hate me.” Daniel frowned. “Such are the way of things.”

“Such as they are. I’ll tell Lussea that we’re…considering her wishes, and the decision won’t be made until after your trip—a trip that you likely won’t come back from as you’ll be reassigned, but I can’t say that last part to anyone else.”

“What last part?” Daniel asked.

“I got it. Still, I feel like grish droppings. I’ll take the war over parenting most days—” he moved the stump of an arm that ended just below the shoulder, “—most, but not all days. Be well, Clay. Maybe your replacement will have a last name that makes a bit more sense.”

“Be well, Pyth. Sorry this is how we have to say goodbye.”

“We all live under the gods’ gaze.”

Daniel felt a cold pit grow in his stomach as the constable left.

****

Sarah pounded her fist against a wooden door.

“Michael, I am about done being polite and understanding.” She put her hands on her hips, waited a beat, then said, “Michael Alva Clay, if you don’t open your door in the next ten seconds, I’ll have House unlock it and then you really will be sorry.”

She counted and didn’t get to five before she heard a bolt snap. Pushing the door open, she found her son sitting on his bed, an open and half-full suitcase next to him. Loose articles of clothing and paperback books with Tyr script were in an ungainly pile on top of his headboard.

Michael wore his Tyr synth, his Linker markings, and long auburn hair bound behind his head. The seventeen-year-old was almost done with his latest growth spurt, but he was still a few inches shorter than his mother.

“You know we can’t get that much weight in the shuttle,” she said.

“How much would I pack if we really were Linkers about to be reassigned?” he asked.

“There’s a reason that caste is famous for traveling light. ‘Vagabonds of the high plains’ and all that.” She sat next to him and gently stroked the back of his head.

“We’re not Linkers in a silver-piece drama,” he said, glancing at the pile of paperbacks, “though we should bring some of this back to Luna. Pulp fiction had its place in Earth history…once.”

“That’s why we’ve had you making scans of everything to bring back on chip. Printers back home can recreate Tyr stories almost perfectly.”

“Can’t bring everything we want,” Michael said. “I thought that since Mrs. Hower won’t be…won’t be coming back, there’ll be more of a weight allowance.”

“Well, you are your father’s and my weight allowance. Aaron’s bringing back gene samples of as many species as he can find. We let him use Julia’s…he’s got that spot covered.”

“What’s Aaron going to do when he doesn’t have his work anymore?” Michael asked.

“That’s up to Aaron.”

“And Dad’s talking to Constable Pyth right now, isn’t he?”

“He is.” Sarah sucked in her lips for a moment, then glanced at the framed photo of Michael and a Blooded caste girl at a riverbank.

“I’m so stupid,” Michael said. “I should never have been nice to her to begin with. Would never have worked out.”

“At least you kept the secret, right? Right?”

“Come on,” he said, shifting away from her. “The Tyr are nuts about the hidden caste—which I don’t think even exists. How do you think they’d react if they knew we were walking around with their caste marks? They’d burn us in a heartbeat. I’m not that stupid.”

“We made it this far without being discovered, not too bad,” Sarah said. “You’re ready to leave—packing notwithstanding?”

“Am I ready to leave the only home I’ve known since I was seven years old? Sure, Mom, let’s just jump in the shuttle and get straight back to the hive cities. I’m sure I’ll fit right in with my ability to speak all Tyr dialects and my extensive collection of Second Dynasty lithographs. Wee ha!”

He flung the suitcase off the bed.

“You know why we brought you here.” Sarah leaned forward and put her elbows on her knees, then ran her hands through her hair.

“You explained it just fine when I was a little boy.” Michael flapped his arms against his sides. “Come live on a neat alien planet with Mommy and Daddy or stay in the housing stacks with a robo-nanny to raise me. What a tough decision.”

“And now you’ve had one of the most incredible opportunities that anyone’s ever had. You grew up in an alien culture. You know it better than anyone else. You can be the Tyr ambassador to Corporate and to the star nations. You know why that’s so important.”

“Because of what Dad did before he met you,” Michael said coldly.

“Don’t talk about that. This isn’t the same situation. At all.”

“But it might be just like that, and you think if there’s someone that can get on the news feeds wearing this—” he tugged at his synth layer—“and speak like the Tyr and act like the Tyr, they might do a little bit better than the An-Ra? To hell with what I ever wanted in my life; I’ve got to pay for the sins of my father.”

“And your mother. I’m just as guilty.”

“You were flying cargo missions. Not the same thing,” he said.

“It felt the same to me.” Sarah wiped a hand down the side of her face, masking a tear. “You don’t want to help the Tyr? Don’t want to help Lussea?”

“No. I mean yes, but…can’t we just stay longer? Maybe I can go to her veil ceremony and—”

“The laws of quantum wormhole travel don’t care about our wants and desires,” she said. “If we’re not at the right place at the right time, then we’re stuck here until the next conjunction…which won’t be for another twenty-four years.”

“I’d be here until I was in my early forties…practically ancient.”

“Watch it, buster. You know how old your parents are.” Sarah gave him a dirty look.

“But what about Lussea? She’ll think I…that I just left and didn’t care about her. You know about Pocahontas from the early North American colonial history? She was brought back to England and—”

“No.”

“We have the weight allocation.”

“Still no.”

“But if she—”

“What’re you going to do? Rip your synth off in front of her and say ‘jump in my rocket ship and come see my home in the Far Darkness’? These people don’t even have science fiction. The only frame of reference she has of what you really are would be as a demon. And what would Corporate do to her? What happens to any alien in human space?”

“The prohibition might be over.”

“We don’t know that. You bring her through the wormhole and they’ll…they’ll…” She stood up and faced a wall. “Nothing good can happen to her in human space, son. Nothing. Write her a letter that ends your relationship with her. It’s the kindest thing you can do. We’ll have House place it for the couriers a few days from now.”

Michael went to his hands and knees and began repacking the suitcase.

“I’m sorry, son.” Sarah joined him. “It’s not fair to you. To anyone. But this is part of growing up.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” he said.

“No, you don’t. You just have to fight through it all until you can make things better.”

Chapter 4

Elsime of Clan Huross gripped a leather-bound scroll tight against her chest with one hand while the other brushed over an apron holding several quills, inkwells, and paper-wrapped rolls of ambary wax. Her entire kit was there, still, even after the tenth check as she followed a hulking Close Guard out into a courtyard.

She looked up at the night, spotting the faces of the gods in the twists and swirls of the red and white blanket across most of the sky, a band of darkness spotted with a few stars of the Sleeve, a gap in the place of the gods that gave a glimpse of the Far Darkness, the final place for the unfaithful.

The Speakers promised that the gaze of the gods was always upon her, but their eyes seemed extra sharp as she passed a fountain where more armed Close Guard had gathered. The Royal caste men that protected the King—and those he deemed in need of protection—were far taller and more muscular than the men of her caste that she’d grown up around. Just how they got to their size, burly enough to give any Blooded pause before getting violent, was a source of some speculation. Inter-breeding with the Blooded was impossible. Elsime wondered if the rumors of a special root from the Azure Islands with anabolic effects were true.

The guard held up a hand and she stopped at a bronze door. This was the very spot where every one of the King’s calligraphers had stood since the Castle was built centuries ago. At that moment, she wasn’t entirely sure her shaking hands could even hold a quill.

The door opened slightly and a Tyr woman leaned outside. One of the Royal caste, just like Elsime, but her silver ketafik had a light green pallor to it. She was a Den Mother, one that had borne all sixteen children that the gods could gift a Tyr.

A slight smile crossed the Den Mother’s face as a conversation carried out from behind her. Elsime’s heart quickened as she recognized the King’s voice.

“By your leave,” the Den Mother said then beckoned Elsime into a small antechamber and closed the door behind them. She wore a gown with sixteen jewels sewn into an arc on her chest. The velvety fabric was trimmed in golden lace, the craftsmanship so exquisite that Elsime felt like she wore a roughhewn sack in comparison. The woman’s face was unveiled, rare for any Tyr woman her age, but natural, as a Den Mother could bear no more children and had no reason to hide the truth of whether she was in a fertile season.

“My writ.” Elsime’s voice trembled as she brushed fingertips over her gossamer thin veil as was custom, then removed a silver signet ring—the heraldry of her clan—from her apron and held it up toward the Den Mother. “My endorsement from the Service College is engraved and—”

“Calm down. The fastest way to lose this position is to draw any attention to yourself, but they taught you this?” the older woman said.

“‘The Quill must be silent,’ yes, Den Mother Virid,” Elsime said.

“You know who I am?” One of Virid’s eyebrows perked. “As you should. Elsime of Huross…northern lands. Yours pay the tithe with hydrocarbons…and fish. This position must not have come cheaply for your clan’s Den Mother. You’ve missed a season?”

Elsime felt her cheeks flush, and she was almost certain Virid noted the embarrassment.

“I went fallow to complete my Quill studies. My fast was complete and the doctors are certain my next season will be…available.”

“Clan Huross…the Duke is your father?”

“Yes, Den Mother.”

“Interesting.” Virid narrowed her eyes slightly and Elsime felt like a jewel being inspected for flaws. Elsime knew she was in King’s Rest as a debutante, but she hadn’t thought it would feel so…blatant. Not after the years of schooling and suffering through a barren season to qualify for the position. Her mother had been very clear that Elsime could do more for the clan as a Quill who would eventually be married off to the right family, not doled out to secure business deals like many of her sisters.

“I am here to serve,” Elsime said, and her throat went dry.

“Not every word will be recorded, you understand this.” Virid bent her fingers to right angles and touched the tips together. “The King is fond of discussions. You will only record what must be sent.”

“I know the signs.” Elsime bowed her chin slightly.

“Good, the rest of the party are on their way in. Take your spot.” Virid rapped a code against the door and Elsime memorized it out of habit.

A Close Guardsman opened the door. The Royal caste was tall and well built, a match for even the fierce Blooded that her clan employed as guards back home. He glanced over the two, then let them in.

Elsime’s breath caught as she saw the Sanctum with her own eyes. She knew the King’s chamber from countless TV broadcasts and from plays that made sets of the space. A wooden desk inlaid with intricate panels bearing each god’s visage was at the far end, and stained-glass windows rose behind it, the constellations of the night sky from the moment the dynasty began captured in the amber-colored glass.

Portraits of past battles covered the walls. One—closest to the stained-glass windows—was incomplete: the kingdom’s forces in tanks overlooking a cliff to a bare patch of canvas. The unfinished portion should have shown the moment that nuclear fire destroyed the Slavers’ island stronghold far to the east…but instead, there was emptiness.

Elsime’s lips pressed into a line. Why hadn’t she ever seen this before?

A burnished gold rug sat beneath the desk, and smaller circular rugs of similar design and color were arrayed in two arcs out from the desk. One on the far left bore a stool and a small writing stand.

Virid put a hand on the small of Elsime’s back and gave her a gentle push to her station.

A tall-backed chair rotated towards them and the King craned his neck to look back at Virid. He looked older than Elsime thought he would, with flecks of grey in the black of his ketafik. His hair was slightly unkempt and a glass of ice-laden alcohol was in one hand.

“This is the Huross Quill?” he asked.

“Yes, sire. Well recommended and well received.” Virid went straight to the King and began drawing his hair into a ponytail, snapping gold hoops into its length.

Elsime hurried to the writing stand and rolled out the paper within the leather scroll case. She fixed the edge to the desk with a brass rod and set out her inkwell and quill. She’d done this thousands of times during her schooling, and the routine gave her a bit of confidence. She scored the highest marks for transcribing the First Vision. She could record a King’s council.

She hoped. She prayed.

Marshal Hawn’ru, an older Blooded, stood on a rug close to the King’s spot. His uniform coat was thick with medals, and rumor was that he had to have an assistant wear the overflow of awards he’d earned during the Just War. Maroon stripes stacked high off his left cuff, one for each ten enemies he’d killed and taken a trophy from.

In a shallow bowl-shaped seat with a thick cushion sat a Tyr in golden robes adorned with a wide sash with dozens of knotted cords attached in lines down its length. His eyes were unfocused as he rocked slightly back and forth. His head was bare; the dark ketafik that covered his scalp and came down over his face stopped at the bridge of his nose and just below his eyes.

High Speaker Osuda.

“There is a new energy here,” Osuda said.

“The Speaker is deep in an oaxa trance,” Virid said to Elsime.

“Then only his caste can record his words.” Elsime touched a quill to an inkwell and the pen drew in ink.

“This one’s prettier than the last,” Hawn’ru said. “You bring on the homely ones and they’ll be at the job longer.”

“Mind to your own caste,” Virid hissed at the Blooded and he chuckled.

“Want to bet on how long it’ll be until this one’s married off?” Hawn’ru asked the High Speaker. Osuda’s eyes widened slightly and he gripped the side of his chair like he was about to fall off.

“Don’t prod him,” the King said. “I think his trance comes from coastal oaxa. Bit deeper than usual.”

“I wonder why he needs to commune that deeply with the gods,” the marshal said with a shrug.

A hidden door opened next to Elsime, startling her. A Tyr in civilian clothes and Royal caste markings came through. He did a double take at Elsime, then gave Virid an ugly look.

“She checks out, Ciolsi,” the Den Mother said. “How can you be the spy chief and be surprised by this?”

“She wasn’t supposed to start until tomorrow.” The new arrival paced between the gaps in the rugs, not taking a spot.

“You’re the one that called this meeting.” The King swung his seat around and Elsime was surprised by just how…normal he looked. The thick braid that fell down his chest from the back of his head glittered with interwoven gold rings and thread, his silken shirt was unbuttoned at the top, and a sense of fatigue pressed down on his shoulders. His eyes were tired with the weariness of responsibility and doubt that she knew also plagued her father, no matter how well new oil rigs worked or how good harvests had been.

“Yes, quite.” Ciolsi reached into an ambary woven jacket and glanced at a gold plate on the King’s desk.

Virid lit a stick of incense on the plate and rubbed her palms together as Elsime set the tip of her quill on the parchment and began transcribing.

“King Menicus, as your Lord of Shadows,” Ciolsi began, “it is my duty to ensure there are no secrets from you in the lands you rule, as deemed fit by the perfection of the gods, by lineage and—”

“I was told this was an emergency meeting,” Menicus said. “Skip the formalities, and do forgive me for that, Den Mother.”

“If it is an emergency…” Virid crossed her arms.

“It seems that Doctor Farlas of the Royal University has gone on an unexpected sabbatical,” Ciolsi said. “He loaded up his car with a fair amount of research papers and is driving south from the Indisa campus.”

“Bless all beneath the gods’ eyes.” The King leaned back hard against his seat. “Is he going to defect?”

“We believe that’s his plan,” Ciolsi said. “He got into a shouting match with the campus master a few days earlier. Likely his own decision to travel to the heretic lands. I don’t believe this is a targeted recruitment.”

“And why do you believe that?” Marshal Hawn’ru asked. “The heretics have been poaching our best and brightest for years.”

“Because this is damn sloppy.” Ciolsi walked past the high priest and sniffed at the air. “The Speaker’s deep with the gods. Maybe they’ll weigh in on my assessment. Farlas is leaving a trail so obvious behind him that the blind could follow. Then there’s a rather expletive-laden rant that he put in the mail to the campus master.” From his jacket, he removed a sheet of paper bearing a fuzzy fax copy and handed it to the King. “Likely he believed he’d be safe behind heretic lines by the time it was delivered. My men have Indisa under close surveillance, which is how we found this and then located Farlas.”

“Farlas…I know that name,” Hawn’ru said.

“Third son of a minor nobility,” Virid said. “Though he has been an important part of the rocketry program and space-flight initiative.”

“He did the major lifting that got our capsule into space,” the King said after glancing at the letter and tossing it to the edge of his table. “He wasn’t the one I honored for that success, though.”

“Clan fathers and mothers bear all praise and blame,” Virid said, invoking one of the Tyr’s oldest adages.

“Seems he wants some of that praise,” Ciolsi said. “And he’s not eligible for a more senior position until three other scientists ahead of him pass away. Besides being impatient and egotistical…he’s integral to the space program.”

“If he goes to work for the heretics,” Hawn’ru said, stroking his chin, “they may overtake us. Might beat us to a moon landing. They do that and there will be a flood of talent out of the kingdom.”

“They see him too,” the high priest said, his voice lilting. “They see him too.”

Elsime lifted her quill as the priest spoke and blew air over the drying ink of her transcription.

“We need to make an example out of him,” Hawn’ru said. “Convince others with similar notions not to make the same mistake.”

“I can have him taken care of privately,” the spy master said.

“You’d have one of our most brilliant minds snuffed out so easily?” The King steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Farlas has no love for the heretics. He wouldn’t have worked for decades to improve our rocket technology to the point where we now have two Tyr orbiting the planet. We need him.”

“Forcing him to work on the moon mission would be futile,” Ciolsi said and the King canted his head to one side, anger rising. “He inserts a single wrong calculation into the launch mathematics? Lets a design flaw ‘accidentally’ pass his inspection? We’d have to put more resources on him to ensure he’s doing correct work than would be worth the effort.”

“Easier just to kill him,” Hawn’ru said.

“But if he was made the head of the project with all the honors that come with it?” the King asked.

Hawn’ru, Ciolsi, and Virid glanced at each other.

“Three different scientists are lords above him,” Virid said.

“Then we get them out of the way and Farlas will give us his best efforts, won’t he?” The King tossed his hands up. “Have Farlas arrested. Bring him to the capital and we’ll convince him of the errors of his ways in the dungeon while Ciolsi and Virid arrange for a series of retirements. After the capsule returns to ground.”

“Significantly more work for me…but as you command, sire,” Ciolsi said.

“Is that solved?” Hawn’ru asked. “Because our radiation buoys in the West Sea have gone offline. Again.”

“I thought the design flaw was fixed,” the King said.

“I’m done thinking design flaws are behind it,” the marshal said. “The Islander caste must be destroying them. One bomber raid on one of their barges will get the message across.”

“What message would that be? That we want a new war?” the King asked.

“The Islanders are weak,” Ciolsi said. “We know they’re in the middle of a civil war. Perhaps if we seize the Dolta archipelago…it will convince them and the heretics that we’re not to be toyed with.”

“We take the Dolta and then we have another half-million mouths to feed,” said the King. “Environmental remediation of the Slaver lands has already put a strain on the budget. And I don’t want to find out that the Islanders recovered some of the lost nuclear warheads when a bright-white flash of light goes off—” He jerked a thumb at the stained-glass window. “How valuable are those buoys anyway?”

“Cost prohibitive, and we lose one out of five freighters we send into the Storm Seas,” Hawn’ru said. “The gods prefer that the Islanders inhabit those wind-blasted rocks.”

“The radiation data is what we need,” Virid said. “Just how long will the Slaver lands be…poisoned?”

The King looked at the unfinished painting. “Maybe the gods don’t want us to know. Of all the decisions made by my clan…that one haunts us the most.”

“The Hidden are to blame for that,” Ciolsi said, “not the gods.”

Virid signaled Elsime to stop recording. Elsime pursed her lips, unsure what they were talking about.

“The Hidden don’t exist,” Hawn’ru said. “They’re bedtime tales for naughty children.”

“That’s because no Hidden could pretend to be dumb enough to pass as a Blooded,” Ciolsi said.

“Enough.” The King rolled his eyes. “Our new Quill will go back to her quarters and tell the other maidens how ridiculous we are behind closed doors.”

Elsime shook her head quickly and drew in a breath to deny that, but she couldn’t find the courage to speak to the King.

“Tales or not, we have an issue with the buoys,” Hawn’ru said.

Virid signaled for her to begin transcribing again.

“A meeting with the Islanders?” the King asked Virid. “With one of the dominant, yet agreeable factions?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Virid said, “but I can make no promises. Islanders are just as likely to try to steal from us as they are to negotiate.”

“There is a darkness!” Osuda jumped to his feet and thrust his hands away from him like walls were closing in. “A darkness comes to the mountain.”

King Menicus glanced at Virid. She hurried over to Elsime and hauled the young woman off her stool and into the antechamber where she’d been waiting.

“Wait! My tools, my transcription,” Elsime said, pointing at the door.

“I’ll have them brought to you.” Virid smoothed out her gown. “There are…topics that must never be recorded. You’re new and don’t fully understand this. Damn Osuda and his communion. He went too deep, as usual.”

“Is this about the…Hidden?” Elsime asked.

“No. Something far worse than horror stories for the lower castes. Nothing to concern you, maiden. And if anyone ever enquires about a dark mountain, you feign ignorance and tell me or Ciolsi who did the asking. Fail at that and you’ll be shipped back to your clan in disgrace. And you had better believe Ciolsi will send someone to test you. That one loves his games. Now go back to your quarters and write up the meeting for the archives. Go,” she said, frowning at the priest’s shouting that carried through the door.

“Ugh, I wish we’d never told him about the mountain. But all things happen beneath the gods’ gaze. They would’ve told him eventually.” She rapped at the door and slipped back into the chamber.

Elsime stood there, her jaw half-open. Her mother wanted to know all about her first day being assigned to the King, but now Elsime didn’t know what to say…or if she could say anything at all.

She turned and walked down a narrow hallway, her hands and apron feeling too light without her tools. This was not the glamorous mission she’d given up so many years to training to accomplish. A pallor fell across her face, and she gained some appreciation for the work and responsibility she knew plagued so many adults of her clan.

Chapter 5

Daniel glanced at himself in the mirror before turning the bathroom light off. He’d gone to sleep with his synth layer on and was used to seeing himself as a Tyr. Would he be shocked to see normal humans again? Did a part of him think they’d see the Tyr face he’d worn for so long?

There was a thump in the floor.

“House, what was that?”

“Mr. Hower is in the garage and has been there for the past fourteen minutes.”

Daniel glanced at a clock on the wall then looked out a window to a deep-red sky—what passed for nighttime on Tyr.

Another thump.

Daniel grumbled and went downstairs, the floor squeaking with each step of slippered feet. He opened the door to a garage where weak overhead lights illuminated a sedan with the trunk open. Suitcases were in a pile on the concrete floor and a man was bent into the back.

“Blast this damn Dalmatian contraption!” the man shouted, and a tool flew out the back and hit a closet door.

“Aaron?” Daniel asked.

Hower’s head bumped against the car as he backed out. Hower wasn’t wearing his synth, but he didn’t react to Daniel in his Tyr guise. Hower rubbed the top of his head, sending loose strands of grey up to fold over his ample bald spot.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Help me pack.” Hower waved his hand at the luggage.

“I had it packed just fine when we went to bed.” Daniel went to a new suitcase and tested the weight.

“But then I realized I could get another fifteen tissue samples within my mass allowance if I digitized the mineral deposits from early on in our assignment.” Hower picked up a small suitcase and shoved it into the trunk. “How did you get all these blasted things to fit? Did House transport in three more when I wasn’t looking?”

“That technology doesn’t exist,” House said through a speaker in the overhead lights.

“Rhetorical, you stack of digital effluence.” Hower picked up another suitcase, but Daniel took it from him.

“Julia collected those mineral samples,” Daniel said.

“She did…that she did.” Hower stepped back. “I kept the ones she was most passionate about, something about silica structures and trace elements. The rest…best to leave the mundane behind. If I can license clones of the rainbow ground birds from the Alltia Islands…they’d make great pets.”

“You mean tap-taps? The birds outlawed in Royal lands because they breed so fast and wipe out native species?”

“We’ll just clone them sterile. Human beings have science at their disposal, Daniel. Don’t think like these primitives just because you look like them.”

“Fair idea,” Daniel said, placing suitcases in the trunk. “But Corporate has right of first refusal on any and all bio products that we bring back. You think they’ll give you a fair price?”

“I know they’ll cheat me out of every crown—I mean credit—that they can. But at least I’ll get…something. I’m leaving this planet without my wife. I need to go home with…anything.” Hower looked away.

Daniel stopped his work, then went to hug the other man.

“Stop. Stop! I don’t want or need your sympathy, and you reek of the Tyr right now. Tell me you won’t try to make their notion of cologne a thing back home.” Hower kept an arm’s distance from Daniel.

“We tried, Aaron. We tried everything we could to find Julia,” Daniel said. “House tapped into every government line we could. I bribed enough military and police to—”

“Your efforts were greatly appreciated, but she’s gone. Either dead at the hands of Slavers or lost to the elements when she fled during the raid on her encampment. This mission came with risks. She and I both understood that—though I thought I was the one in more danger, what with the apex predators in the grasslands and the tap-tap brood mothers that didn’t care for me taking samples from their nests…she was interested in minerals. Geology. She should’ve been fine…but the Tyr are savages. She believed the Slavers were properly cowed after the kingdom nuked their home islands.”

“We all thought that,” Daniel said. “I authorized her trip. It was a mistake.”

“Like you had a choice.” Hower handed over a suitcase. “Julia could be quite stubborn when she wanted something. The Tyr killed her. That’s the end of it. We’ll be done with this hell hole soon enough, and then I…I’m not sure what I’ll do. Open an exotic pet store, perhaps.”

“Give me that black one.” Daniel pointed to a small case.

“Three PhDs in xeno-biology and I can barely figure out the puzzle that is a trunk and luggage.” Hower handed over another bag. “How does a mere anthropologist like you manage?”

“Corp enforcement training. Spent plenty of time figuring out how to get ten pounds of crap in a five-pound bag.”

“Why would bags have a weight assignment?” Hower asked.

“Just give me that bag behind you.”

Chapter 6

Zike looked through the transparent plasti-steel of the cockpit floor. A miles-long, cigar-shaped void ship flowed beneath his shuttle as it passed over the hull. A docking bay opened into a ring of running lights as the shuttle neared the command superstructure—the only detail on an otherwise smooth, matte-grey hull.

Ahead, what looked like a bright and distant star, larger than the pinpricks of light in the deep void, shimmered as pulses of light from more void ships traced a line to the point.

The pilot, a bored-looking man in a sweat-stained flight suit, tapped at holo screens projecting over his controls.

“The Ligonier’s accepted our landing request,” the pilot said. “Weird accent. I don’t think it’s a company crew.”

“The client is a bit…eccentric. And private.” Zike examined his fingernails, then brushed them against his jacket. “As such, you’ll stay with the shuttle. Don’t go snooping about. Besides, I can get this done quick enough.”

“This is a shake-and-bake colony ship, right? Slow haul to the nexus with most everyone in stasis. What’s so private about a bunch of people on ice?” The pilot shifted in his seat then tugged at the helmet ring around his neck.

Zike pulled up the pilot’s HR file and skimmed it through his ocular implants. Several narcotic violations and open investigations for connections to illicit operators. He smiled. The main office must not have had any faith in his negotiation skills and hoped that the clients would take care of this problem child of a pilot and him at the same time.

He had to admire the efficiency. Meanwhile, if the pilot was looking for customers for whatever nose candy or contraband he had for sale, it wouldn’t do for him to be making such offers during Zike’s meeting.

“There are forty-seven thousand members of the Golden Light aboard this ship. They aren’t known for their hospitality,” Zike said.

The pilot did a double take at him. “That fucking cult?” He gripped his armrests and looked around like he was going to find an escape.

“Our customers, with whom we have several long-term contracts.”

“They…they’re why we can’t get shore leave on Paradise. The riots, the purges, the—”

“And Bahadur-Getty Incorporated sold the Golden Light a solution to their ongoing dispute with the planetary government, one that all parties involved want delivered,” Zike said. “So, any issue staying in the shuttle?”

The pilot shook his head so hard, a droplet of sweat landed on Zike’s shoulder.

“I didn’t think so.” He tapped a comm bead implanted beneath his left ear. “Furst, meet me at the ramp and double-check you’ve got the right presentation loaded up.”

****

Zike was well aware of the Golden Light’s reputation for…extremism, but seeing the Dauphin’s menagerie in person pushed even his psych-conditioning to its limits.

It was the screams, he knew. Even with his emotion-suppression algorithms acting to stem adrenaline and other stress hormones, some atavistic part of his brain still demanded a fight-or-flight response. He couldn’t tell where the screams came from as they walked down a narrow passageway, but they were getting louder.

He and Furst followed a few steps behind the vicar sent to meet them at the shuttle. The man hadn’t said a word, largely due to the rusted cage bolted over his mouth and jaw. He wore a coarse cloak that would’ve fit a larger man, but the bulky prosthetics supporting an augmented arm tipped in a trident and a metal leg that was several inches longer than his flesh-and-blood limb must have made getting dressed difficult for the vicar.

They turned a corner and Furst stopped dead in his tracks.

The way forward was lined with human skin, flayed and stretched out into display cases stacked three high on either side of the passage. Above, a strip of pass-through optic plating showed the void beyond. A simple arched doorway was at the end of the procession of horrors.

The screams suddenly stopped.

“S-s-sir?” Furst tried to back away, but Zike caught him by the scruff of the neck. “No, I think I forgot the seasonal data back on the shuttle, and if you’ll just let me—”

“She already knows you’re here,” Zike said. “She doesn’t appreciate shrinking violets, does she, my good man?”

The vicar turned around and looked them over with his single jaundiced eye, the other a dark socket that wept pus. He continued on, his metal foot stomping against the deck with a clang.

Zike grabbed Furst by the wrist and led him forward. His assistant had his eyes shut and his chin down, muttering prayers to some denomination that Zike didn’t recognize.

They reached the door, and the menagerie behind them began sobbing. Zike wasn’t sure if it was a recording or if the cult had found some…his conditioning snapped his mind away from the idea and a winning smile crossed his face, one designed to inspire confidence and put clients in the mood to close a deal.

With a pneumatic hiss, the doors opened a fraction of an inch, and a cloying odor hit him, like burnt sugar and vinegar. The doors retracted with a slam and the smell almost choked him.

Golden light hit him and he threw a hand up to shield his eyes.

“Behold the glory!” someone shouted and the light receded.

It wasn’t so much “glory” that he beheld, but the customer was always right.

The Dauphin lounged on a golden throne, the design a throwback to mid-eighteenth-century European opulence. The woman wore a simple gown of shimmering fabric, her skin powdered to match the precious metal tone of the throne and most of the rest of the room. Her hair was in tight braid down to her neckline, tipped in gold. He couldn’t tell her age, but she looked at him with a simmering hatred. She tensed, as if she was going to pounce on Zike.

Her attendees didn’t strike him as the religious type; most were rough-looking men with prominent scars and irregular uniforms. All wore the same dark-green slacks and tunic, but their awards and ranks were a mishmash of fetishes and trophies, many of them rank insignia from the Paradise IX militia.

“Sir…sir, I’m scared,” Furst said and shrank behind Zike. The smell of urine wafted up and Zike chided himself for not upgrading his assistant’s emotion-suppression systems.

“I want what I paid for,” the Dauphin snarled at him.

“Greetings on behalf of Bahadur-Getty Incorporated.” Zike flung his arms out and changed his facial expression to default optimistic. “I’ve come with a project update that I know you’re going to—”

The Dauphin flicked her hand and a blow struck the back of Zike’s knees. He pitched forward and an electrified clamp seized him by his neck. His hair fell past his eyes and a note of panic grew in his chest before his conditioning fought it down.

“Please, please!” Furst was on his knees beside him, pawing at the shock collar attached to a metal rod wielded by one of the Dauphin’s entourage. “I’m just a tertiary employee, no benefits. I’m not even supposed to be here today—ack!”

The scent of ozone overpowered the smell of the moist patch in Furst’s pants as the guard gave him a jolt.

A gold-painted hand touched Zike’s chin and lifted his gaze. The Dauphin was a bit shorter than he’d anticipated, and even on his knees, his head came level with her chest.

“I got a message,” she said, glancing around, as if this was something they shouldn’t discuss, “that my planet…” She tapped his nose with each new word. “My. Planet. Is. On. Fire.”

Zike bit his lips. Someone at the regional office must have tipped her off. Someone that really had it in for him.

“Did we pay for a cinder?” She looked over her shoulder, feigning confusion. “Did we, my companions? Did we exchange the great worth of the temple treasury for a cinder?”

A grumble of “no’s” came back.

“There was a slight malfunction during a technical operation,” Zike said. “But in the interest of customer satisfaction, the company has—”

The Dauphin raised a hand overhead and blades snapped out from her fingers. She swiped them down across her body, twisting to one side.

Zike felt a whiff of air at their passing, then blood spattered his face.

Furst’s eyes went wide as a red curtain fell down his chest from neat lines across his neck. He tried to speak, but there were no words as his neck split into segments and his severed head fell forward, bumping into Zike’s knee. Furst’s eyes had life in them for a moment more, and they pleaded with him to do something. Anything.

Zike frowned for a moment, then smiled again.

“That’s for wasting my time.” The Dauphin held her bladed hand to one side and a rag-clad slave wiped the weapons clean with his own shirt. “You’re too broken to even feel fear, aren’t you?”

“It isn’t a particularly useful emotion, as far as Corporate is concerned,” he said.

“But can you scream?” She brought a finger close to his eye and the blade transformed into a tiny saw. The mosquito whine of the spinning instrument made his lips tug against his will. “Your corporate overlords let you keep pain…interesting.”

The saw snapped back into her finger and the clamp around his neck went away.

“You didn’t come here to convince my flock that we’re better off on a burnt-out rock, did you?” She went back to her throne and eased against a pillow tucked into a corner. “Because if you did, I might just let my men have you to play with.”

“Not in the slightest.” Zike pulled a data slate from under Furst’s body, using the dead man’s back to wipe off the blood. “We have a substitution in kind. A world within the contract specification of habitability. Let me introduce you to…Tyr!”

He swiped on the screen and a holo of the planet appeared between him and the Dauphin.

“Climate zones to match Earth pre-Strike. Beautiful coastal areas and breathing room for not only your contracted population, but your faithful back on Paradise who can be re-homed at a discount if you use Bahadur-Getty Incorporated’s life-cycle colonization package.”

The Dauphin leaned forward, her gaze skeptical. “Why didn’t your people try and sell me on this before…I received revelation to relocate off Paradise?”

“This world had a number of caveats on it that put it outside your price range—namely that there is an indigenous species of some sophistication,” Zike said. “But this is manageable! I’ve secured a Compliance Force that will remove any and all nuisance populations from your first colony zone.”

“How much of a problem are they?” The Dauphin reached out and took the holo. Her fingers strummed the air and more data appeared. “The primary star is too strong. You want us to die of skin cancer?”

“We will establish a radiation umbrella free of charge. With some topical sunblock, it won’t be much different from living on Paradise.” Zike winked, his confidence growing that she’d take the deal and not add his hide to her collection.

“The natives? How advanced are they? You’re not going to build my city and then leave us to fend off…how many million aliens?”

“Primitives…they’ve only adopted electricity and combustion engines in the last few generations. No match for a Compliance Force, especially not a veteran unit like I’ve secured. There won’t be any threat to you and yours once you transit the nexus point.”

“This data is almost a decade old,” said a man with a face split by a wide scar. “What if you’re wrong about them? The Reptilians’ tech evolutions in just the last five years have—”

“The indigenous population is nothing like the Reptilians. They’re shamanistic. Glacial progress when it comes to technology,” Zike said.

“And what of the epidemiological picture?” asked a woman in a bloodstained white coat. Her breathing was labored, a bionic rig on her chest and back serving as her lungs. “One virus is all it takes.”

“We have personnel on-planet that are already immunized to all local pathogens—part of our deep-space survey and assessment division,” Zike said. “We’ll have plenty of time to inoculate every colonist before this ship even makes it to Tyr orbit.”

“I want my city on a hill.” The Dauphin pushed the holo back to Zike and it vanished. “I want what we paid for, corpo. This ship will hit the nexus point in fifty-seven days. You’re going to deliver by that date?”

“Yes…of course!” Zike felt moisture against his foot. He looked down and saw that the puddle of blood from Furst had inundated the bottom of his shoe.

“There…you see?” she addressed her companions. “I have led us to a garden world, one we will still remake to our own desires.”

She leaned forward and pointed at Zike. “And if you deliver this world to us, I will summon the rest of my flock from a dozen worlds.” She gave him a wicked smile.

Zike’s heart raced as he made revenue projections.

“But if you don’t…if there’s no city on the hill for me and mine in fifty-seven days, then I’ll issue a missive against your Bahadur-Getty Incorporated. My faithful will take back five times the price you’ve charged us. No matter where we find your assets. No matter what we have to do to balance the scales.”

His projections went into the red.

The Dauphin ran her fingertips along his cheek and it jerked as tiny needles pierced his skin and took biometric data.

“Naturally.” His voice cracked slightly and he decided to keep that last part of the exchange hidden from the Chairman—and anyone else in the company. If Getty knew of that threat, he might try and cut his losses before she could carry out her edict, and if he did that…there’d be no future for Zike within the company.

“These Tyr…I don’t even want them as slaves,” she said. “Clean slate across the planet.”

Zike thought for a moment.

“Eradication efforts are more time-consuming. You’ll have your city and we’ll provide security…but give me some leeway to achieve one hundred percent extinction,” he said.

“And you, Zike, what’s your role in this now?” she asked.

“I will accompany the Compliance Force and oversee Corporate efforts personally,” he said.

“A bargain,” she said, lounging back. “I have your blood. I have your scent, corpo. Try and run and we will hunt you down. My light shines everywhere.”

“I look forward to showing you around your new home,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m due to rendezvous with the Leopold to begin work.”

He glanced over Furst’s body.

“We’ll take care of the mess,” the Dauphin said, and waggled her fingers at him.

Chapter 7

“Sarah, wake up.” Daniel nudged his wife in the front passenger seat. The car was on what passed for a Tyr highway in the coastal provinces—a mostly paved road that cut through endless fields of ambary crops. Early morning light diffused through pollen as the tall stalks swayed in the breeze.

“Huh? Are we there?” Sarah rubbed an eye and adjusted her seat forward. She glanced at Hower and Michael in the back seat, both still asleep and Hower occasionally snoring.

“Coming up.” Daniel scraped the tip of his thumb up his right ear several times and glanced at the overhead light in the car.

Sarah squeezed a coin worked into a bracelet and there was a faint pitch. She pushed up on the light and it popped out of its housing. Behind the light was a matte-black box with inlaid gold wires. She pinched two corners and the gold lines melded into the black.

“House is rebooting. What do we need to talk about?” she asked.

“Do we need to take the risk? You know Corporate will shake us down as soon as we return to the station over Paradise. If we get caught with those gene samples and—”

“We don’t have the Tyr’s genetic codes, then we really don’t have anything, do we? They’re just another humanoid species that Corporate—and any other government—will write off as ‘native fauna’ when it comes time to move on to their next exploitation,” she said. “I’ve got the proof surgically implanted. Corporate isn’t that thorough.”

“You really think the Tyr are the proof the Society needs?”

“Any proof is better than theories.” She stretched her arms in front of her. “And the Tyr’s mythology matches the fossil records. I’m certain they’re adapted to this planet; they’re not of this planet. If they’d developed the tech to do a proper gene sequencing, the Tyr would know this too. Corporate doesn’t want that answer. Which is why they don’t equip survey teams like ours with complete bio suites—also why’s Hower got suitcases full of animal samples in Tyr formaldehyde?”

“Let’s hope your contacts can do what they promised, else we wasted ten years of our lives,” Daniel said.

“Not completely.” She looked back at her son. “We trained up the best ambassador to the rest of the galaxy that the Tyr could ever have.”

Hower smacked his lips and stirred. Sarah placed the AI core back in the roof as the other man awoke.

“What? What were you doing to House?” he mumbled.

“Rest stop’s coming up,” Daniel said. “Double-checking his radio linkup to make sure there’s no checkpoints ahead. Do you want to explain to a Blooded officer why you have a bunch of dead birds in your luggage?”

“Linker business,” he said with a scowl. “Those knuckle draggers are smart enough to know when to leave well enough alone. I wouldn’t mind one last kaf if we’ve got the time.”

“A kaf…yeah?” Sarah nodded.

Daniel glanced at the clock on the dashboard.

“Might as well. We’re ahead of schedule, and if a ten-minute rest stop burns it all down, it was going to burn down anyway.” He turned a dial to activate the turn signal and pulled into a rest stop.

****

“But there was a shrine back there.” Michael looked through the back window as the car rumbled down a dirt road through a forest.

“No,” Sarah said.

“I’m almost at the gods’ age,” the teenager whined. “If I was a real Tyr, I’d be going through seminary like Lussea is right now. Can you imagine what the caste fathers would do if they knew you forbade your only child to meet his religious obligations to—”

“Well, you’re not a real Tyr, are you?” Sarah snapped. “So no, you can’t go pick up the bowl of psycho-active fungus a forest hermit left at a shrine at the roadside. Do you know what the oaxa will do to you if you eat it?”

“It’s probably not poisonous to humans,” Michael said.

Hower raised a finger to interject but opted not to join in the conversation after a brief glance from Sarah.

“There was that one guy from the mission before ours that tried the oaxa,” Michael said.

“And he thought he turned into a glass of orange juice for a week,” both Michael and Sarah said together.

“Yeah, yeah, you’ve said that a million times.” Michael rolled his eyes.

“And after the millionth time, you’d think you’d learn.” Sarah shook her head. “We share a number of physiological similarities with the Tyr, but we’re not identical. A substance that alters their consciousness won’t do the same thing to us. Just ask the only biology doctor in the car, right, Aaron?”

“Listen to your mother,” Hower said.

“We’re here,” Daniel said, an air of sadness to his words. He pulled the car into a gravel driveway dotted with grass and weeds and up to a cabin overlooking an ocean-side cliff. A generator on the side of the cabin looked rusted over, and one of the supports on a tin tank on the roof had failed, listing it to one side.

“Gateway to paradise.” Hower chuckled.

“House, status?” Daniel kept the car idling.

“Hide site lambda security protocols are intact. No Tyr presence since last contact. Warning. A den of mistles is present in the attic.”

“I hate mistles,” Hower said. “I excluded them from my samples intentionally. I won’t be responsible for those things spreading through human space. I don’t care how much of a royalty I might lose.”

“Relax, Aaron. It’s not like they bite,” Daniel said.

“You know full well that they bite! Must I show you the scar? Again?”

“I’ll take care of the mistles.” Daniel turned the car off and opened his door. “Michael, help unload. Michael?”

The boy had drawn his knees into his chest and buried his face in his arms.

“Go, get the pre-flight started,” Sarah said, shooing him away.

Daniel took a long flashlight from the side of the door and gripped it by the end like a club. House remotely popped the locks on the cabin as he approached, and lights inside flipped on and off. The simulated growl of a kerlinx—like an extinct mountain lion of Earth but with more scales—blared from the car.

A streak of brown fur shot out the door as he opened it, followed by two more as Daniel danced aside.

“Fire! Use fire!” Hower shouted and scrambled onto the hood of the car.

Daniel peered into the cabin. Hanging pots and spoons swayed from pegs on the wall, disturbed by the mistles’ flight. Mildew stained the kitchen sink, and the thick smell of animal droppings hung in the air.

The scampering of claws ran across the ceiling, and Daniel whacked the head of the flashlight against the wooden planks overhead. There was a thump from a bedroom and a mistle crashed into the hallway wall.

The creature was dusty-colored and had lizard-like paws that jutted out from the poof of fur. A sharp snout sniffed the air and it hissed at him.

“Git, you varmint, git.” Daniel sidestepped and rapped the flashlight against the wall. It skittered to the threshold, turned and rose on its hind legs, and hissed again.

A rather feminine shriek came from Hower as the mistle bolted away.

“Will you chill out?” Michael asked from outside. “They’re just hairy armadillos.”

“With pointy teeth and venom!” Hower shouted.

Daniel gave the cabin a once-over. The place promised little comfort and the smell would drive away any Tyr that considered squatting. But that—and the remote location with a reputation for predators—was part of the facility’s camouflage.

He grabbed a spoon hanging from the wall and pulled it down. The nail clicked and a hatch opened in the floor. Cool, sanitized air rushed up. He went down the narrow staircase and lights turned on around him as he descended into a hangar.

The shuttle was right where they’d left it when they first arrived ten years ago. No oil spots, no hint of corrosion. The five-seater Bahadur-Getty system jumper was just as he remembered it.

There was a faint hum as systems came online and a ramp lowered out from the back. Even though he’d been around such tech his entire life…it felt alien to him.

“Systems check green across the board,” House said through a speaker in the shuttle. “You have three hours and nineteen minutes to depart or you will miss the nexus portal. Failure to return Corporate property as per your contract will result in sanctions to include—”

“Thanks, House, I know the fine print…are you going to miss us?”

“Query unknown.”

“I don’t know how any of us will manage without you nagging us. Promise to go easy on the replacement team.” He went up the ramp and into the small passenger compartment/cockpit. “I’ll miss you too.”

Not much different from the room we have in our sedan, he thought. But our next road trip will have a bit of a different view.

“Everything still here?” Sarah asked as she came in behind him.

“You remember how to fly this thing?”

“Oh, easy.” She sat in the pilot’s seat and her hands hesitated over the controls. “Like riding a bike. A bike with an anti-matter power core and gravity inversion drives. Pre-flight checks…pre-flight checks.”

“I’ll get us loaded up.” He touched her shoulder.

“We have to leave.” Her hands fell to her lap. “Have to. This place has been home…now we’ve got to protect it.” She looked over at the fifth seat, the one that would be empty on their return trip.

“Julia loved this place too. Maybe Aaron can heal once we finally leave,” Daniel said.

“Go. Let me…remember where the wheels are on this bike,” she said.

“Should I be worried?” he asked. “Being stuck dirtside for another cycle is one thing. Being stuck in the void on a long, slow float to the next star is another.”

“Shush, you!”

“I’ll get the bags.”

****

At a Speaker caste monastery built into the side of a cliff, two aspirants sat in the lotus position atop a small rock outcropping.

They stared up at the red sky as the sun set, watching as the visage of the gods appeared in the nebula. Their eyes struggled for focus as the oaxa mushrooms they’d eaten an hour before sent different patterns across their vision, melding clouds into the swirl of the nebula.

The shuttle hidden beneath the cabin several miles up the coast shot out over the ocean, then pulled into a steep climb, the dull yellow flare from the engine like a falling star in reverse.

“Whoa,” said one of the priests, rocking back slightly.

“You…saw that too?” the other asked.

“Yeah…whoa.” He gripped the pillow beneath him like he was about to fall over.

“Double vision from the gods…what does it mean?” The other looked around, like he was hearing something. “It’s too much.”

“Whoa.”

Chapter 8

Daniel stepped out of the small washroom, his skin tingling after removing his entire synth layer. His flight suit felt too large now that his faux-skin was in a vacuum-sealed pack in his hand.

His wife at the shuttle’s controls and both Hower and his son in acceleration chairs were all bare of their synths. They all looked almost like strangers to him without their Tyr countenance, and he knew he was just as alien to them as well.

A silver moon grew closer and Daniel felt a tinge of homesickness for Luna. Earth’s moon was a shade darker and pitted with hive cities in the craters, and a ring of space debris had accumulated over the centuries since it was settled. Ashtani, the Tyr name for the inner satellite, was pristine by comparison. The kingdom had landed a few probes since they’d achieved space flight. Even the Worthy Peoples had managed to reach the moon with a single unmanned mission—that ended up crashing into the surface and breaking into a million pieces—but they’d made it.

“We’ll slingshot around for a bit of a velocity boost,” Sarah said. “Sensors picking up   bullshit particles at the Lagrange point behind Kleegar…right on schedule.”

“Must we?” Hower asked meekly before burying his face in a barf bag.

“Da-a-d,” Michael said, “he’s almost used them all up.”

“You all right back there?” Daniel turned the air scrubbers up to maximum as Hower lost what little breakfast remained in his stomach.

“Simple motion sickness.” Hower wiped his lips. “Can’t take anything to settle my stomach or the nexus transit will be even worse.”

“Too bad we can’t land.” Michael leaned against the glass to watch as the moon passed beneath them. “We could write out something in the dust. Really mess with the Tyr astronauts when they finally send a manned mission.”

“That is…so irresponsible, it’s not even funny.” Sarah clenched her jaw for a moment. “You know how superstitious the kingdom is. They find anything that upsets their worldview and there will be another Schism. They almost had a civil war over interpreting that scroll found in the plains.”

“Just joking, gosh.” Michael wafted his hand under his nose as Hower disposed of his bag into a flap at the back of their compartment. “Would still be funny. ‘Eat more tarka leaf’ or something.”

The inner moon fell behind them as the shuttle flew toward the outer moon, a dark sphere against the nebula. Kleegar was the smaller of the two satellites and held a bit more ominous place in Tyr religion. The Tyr were marked by silver and black, like the moons, and Kleegar held the negative connotations of everything the Tyr considered in their makeup. As such, it was the theological home to demons and the damned. While the Tyr knew it was another moon like Ashtani, there were no plans to land a manned mission—or even a probe.

One satellite had taken photos, but those had been suppressed by the kingdom. Only House’s constant surveillance of the communications grid had intercepted the pictures, which were all benign by Daniel’s standards. The place was simply too evil in the Tyr’s mind, though, for grainy photos of craters and ancient comet strikes to be released to the public.

“Mr. Hower, we can’t even feel the acceleration with the dampeners. I don’t get it,” Michael said.

“Age,” Hower said. “You get old enough and then things start hurting for no reason at all.”

“Dad, you think the Tyr got us on radar when we left?” Michael asked.

“Doubt it. The hull is non-reflective and there’s no heat from the drives. Might’ve upset some satellite orbits on the way out with the gravity fluctuations. It’s not like they have any weapons that could catch us either.” Daniel shrugged.

“The Pasdar particle readings are…way too high.” Sarah frowned. “It’s on the dark side of the moon, so we won’t have visual for a few more minutes.”

“What does that mean?” Michael leaned between the two forward seats.

“It means buckle up. Something might be wrong.” Daniel raised a hand in front of him and pulled up a holo screen.

“Cut velocity?” Sarah asked.

“Better safe than sorry. We go through an unstable wormhole and there’s no telling where we might end up,” he said.

“Or we’ll end up smeared across the system as subatomic particles,” Hower added.

“Thank you, Aaron,” Sarah said tersely. Their approach to Kleegar slowed. “We can land on the dark side if we need to. Sometimes it takes a nexus a few hours to stabilize for transit.”

“The partial oscillation is in the low femto range.” Daniel peered at a chart on his holo. “That’s not quantum noise.”

“I have no idea what’s going on,” Michael said.

“Just stay in your seat…you may get your chance to write your name in the sand after all.” Daniel swiped the screen away as the shuttle came around the dark moon.

The nexus point was a pulsating pinprick of light, flashing ghostly waves against the moon.

Daniel’s heartbeat increased and he took slow breaths to calm himself.

Sarah’s controls went red and her eyes widened. The shuttle lurched to one side as a starship emerged from the nexus on a collision course.

The shuttle rolled over, narrowly missing a cannon turret bigger than their vessel. Sarah spun them into a tight spiral toward the moon, an old combat maneuver.

A massive ship stretched out of the nexus, a utilitarian nightmare with a compressed hexagon hull and a second ship docked beneath it. The smaller vessel had missiles locked to the hull and several cannons arrayed across the underside.

“Oh no…” Sarah put a hand over her mouth.

“What? I thought the replacement team was coming in a shuttle like ours,” Michael said.

“It’s a…that’s a torch ship,” Daniel said. “Corporate sends those ahead to worlds marked for…”

“They can’t be serious.” Hower gripped his armrests. “The Tyr are too advanced. There’s no way they can—”

“Undesignated shuttle, this is the Leopold,” came through speakers. “Stand by for Director Zike.”

To the aft of the big ship, panels opened and beams of light shot out, tracing a circle around the nexus point.

“Bastards,” Sarah said, banging a fist against her controls. “Those bastards can’t do this!”

“What? Do what? What is that thing?” Michael threw off his restraints and gripped the top of his parents’ seats. The shuttle stopped descending, the nose pointing up at the Leopold.

“It’s a torch ship,” Hower said. “Those lines in the back are quantum stabilizers. They’ll keep the nexus point open even after the system gravitics shift. They’re holding the door open for another ship. One that’s even larger.”

“They’re going to colonize Tyr,” Daniel said.

“How? The planet wasn’t anywhere near screened for human habitation when we arrived.” Sarah’s hands opened and closed. “This is foolish. Stupid, even for the Corporation.”

Zike appeared in a screen that filled up most of the forward window. “Mission leader…Clay, is it? Pleasure to see you.” He squinted. “Oh, no synth on you. Well, there won’t be a handoff to another survey mission. As you can tell, we’re—”

“What’re you doing here with a torch ship?” Daniel asked.

One of Zike’s eyebrows jumped. “I doubt you’ve been away from company operations so long that you don’t recognize a settlement effort. Though your time with some xenos may have affected your manners. We’re detecting unanticipated levels of radiation in the planet’s atmosphere. Can you account for this?”

Daniel’s jaw clenched and he simply stared at the man.

“If it’s a minor detail, then I won’t bother with it,” Zike said. “Transmit your mission report before you transit the nexus. There may be some useful information before operations begin.”

The screen cut out.

“My, this is…unexpected,” Hower said.

“What’s going to happen to them? To the Tyr?” Michael asked.

“There’s really only one thing that happens to an indigenous species when Corporate moves in,” Hower said.

“They’re wiped out,” Daniel said quietly.

“We’re being hailed again.” Sarah swallowed hard and gave Daniel a sideways glance. “Not from that Zike.”

A blank holo screen reappeared and Daniel looked down at his controls in confusion. “I didn’t answer…”

“The Leopold is overriding our systems.” Sarah reached into her cuff and drew out a bracelet with the small coins worked into it. Daniel shook his head ever so slightly.

A man with black hair and a darkness behind his eyes appeared on-screen. A wry smile tugged at one side of his mouth.

“Dan-o…small galaxy,” Badar Hulegu said. His left eye was a mid-tier cybernetic, a glowing red lens of an iris within the socket. Bare metal had replaced much of the skin on the left side of his face, the ear missing and replaced by a sensor divot. He smiled, but only the right side of his face could move and it turned into a sneer. “I heard you went the leaf-eater route. Funny, that. Corporate says you’ve got a rundown on the indigs’ military. I’m going to need that, as they must have nukes, given the radiation in the atmosphere. Can’t have that wrench in the works.”

Daniel’s face contorted with rage.

“Problem, Dan-o? Doesn’t look like you’ve gone native,” Hulegu said.

Sarah squeezed the coin and all power cut out from the shuttle.

“What the hell?” Hower fumbled with his restraints. “What just happened?”

The shuttle listed to one side, the prow swinging toward the dark moon.

“Mom?” Michael jumped into his seat and fumbled with his restraints.

“It’s fine. I had to use a scramble pulse to break the slave protocols to that ship.” Sarah tapped her deactivated panel. After a moment of the moon growing ever closer, she bashed a fist against the controls and they sprang back to life.

“Wait…where did you get that?” Hower asked.

“What’re we going to do?” Sarah asked Daniel.

“The torch ship is holding the nexus open.” He put a hand over his mouth for a moment, his eyes darting back and forth. “Longest they can do that is for…two months? The Tyr have time to fight back, find a way to close the wormhole and—”

“Are you out of your damn mind!” Hower roared. “To hell with the Tyr. Let Corporate scrub the whole damn planet for all I care. Get us home. Now!”

“Mom? Dad? What’s happening?” Michael asked.

“The Tyr have no idea what Corporate is about to do,” Daniel said. He looked at Sarah. “We can help them…but that means our life is over back home.”

“Then it’s over,” Sarah said. “I’ll set a new course.”

Michael’s mouth moved, but he couldn’t speak.

“This is not a democracy!” Hower struggled out of his restraints and lunged for Sarah’s controls.

Daniel caught him by the chest and shoved him back. Hower smacked into the bulkhead, shock writ across his face. Daniel squared off against him, his fists at his sides.

“You have no right.” Hower pointed at him. “You have no right to make this decision for me, Clay. I have a home. A career. You drag me off on whatever fool’s errand you’ve in mind and—”

“You’re right.” Daniel walked toward Hower. The older man threw a weak punch that Daniel stopped with his forearm. He twisted the limb behind Hower’s back and slammed him into the bulkhead.

“Dad, don’t hurt him!” Michael shouted.

Daniel slapped a control panel and a closet door opened a few feet away. He manhandled Hower into the life pod and a clear plasti-steel hull swung around, locking Hower inside.

Hower banged his fists against the shell, raving.

“I’m sorry, Aaron. When they pick you up…remember my wife and son.” Daniel pulled a red lever and the pod shot out the bottom of the shuttle, rocking the craft from side to side.

Going to his son’s seat, Daniel went to one knee in front of him so they could speak eye to eye. “He’ll be fine. Don’t worry about him. We’re going to go back and help the Tyr, understand?” he asked.

Michael nodded quickly.

“We—your mom and I—we know what they’re going to do and we’re the only people that can help the Tyr right now. If we don’t…this isn’t fair to you, son. I know this isn’t fair, but—”

“Buckle up before I hit the drives!” Sarah called out.

“I get it, Dad. Let’s go home,” Michael said.

“You’re too young for this—” Daniel lurched into Hower’s empty seat as the shuttle banked to one side. He pulled himself into his original place as they cleared Kleegar and saw Tyr in the distance, where twilight grew over King’s Rest and most of the inhabited parts of the planet.

Daniel strapped in and gave his wife a worried glance. She nodded and answered with a weak smile.

****

“What do you mean they haven’t sent anything?” Zike asked from the captain’s chair aboard the Leopold’s bridge. The command dais was slightly elevated, with dozens of different data holos adjusting as more sensor readings came in. Every screen flickering before his eyes was of the nearby planet and the local system.

The bridge was covered by a lattice dome made up of thin rods and with ample viewing platforms around the crew pits. Torch ships had dual functions: they were the engine of colony efforts and showrooms for clients. Looking down on a world in the midst of the grand vista of the surrounding void was a proven sales tactic as perspective clients imagined all the possibilities available to them…and not the ground truth of where they’d actually live.

“The shuttle seems to have malfunctioned,” a technician said from a workstation below Zike’s left foot. She wore the standard blue company jumpsuit with years of employment pips and a badge for her crew specialty, which was as close as Bahadur-Getty Incorporated came to a uniform for their merchantmen. A bank of screens surrounded her, and the reflection from augmented reality glasses shined off her eyes.

“And now there’s a life pod beacon,” she said. “It’ll land on the outer satellite in a few more minutes.”

“How many pods?” Hulegu walked up to the captain’s chair, the steel-shod heel and toe of his boots clinking against the deck. He wore simple black fatigues with no other markings. A hook-faced woman with a pixie haircut followed a few steps behind him.

“Just the one,” the tech said meekly.

Hulegu looked flush, his shoulders slightly hunched, like he was about to attack.

“There were four on the shuttle,” said Karen Solanus, the woman with him. “Should’ve been five in there from the survey mission logs.”

“We may have a problem,” Hulegu said.

“Just tractor-beam the shuttle into the docking bay and rip the data.” Zike leaned forward and frowned at a screen. “These iridium particles concern me. The ship’s core says they fit with nuclear warhead use, but the concentration is years old…”

“The shuttle’s back online.” The tech tossed a screen up and the three on the upper platform watched as the Clays swung around the moon.

“I should’ve known.” Hulegu crossed his arms. “Daniel Clay’s going off assignment.”

“It’s just one thing after another. Argent!” Zike shouted up at the ceiling. A holo of a young woman with disheveled hair and a modest skirt and silk blouse appeared.

“Yes, Mr. Zike? My apologies, as nexus travel doesn’t agree with my stomach and I—”

“Have the Clays terminated for theft of Corporate property, failure to release proprietary information, etc., etc. Also the zoologist that’s with them. Whatever his name is,” Zike said.

“Hower.” Hulegu swiped across the screen showing the shuttle’s plot back to Tyr. “And, judging by the life signs, he’s the one in the pod. Don’t fire him just yet. Looks like we’ll need him.”

“Wait, just why is this Clay going to be such a problem?” Zike asked. “He’s an anthropologist. So is his wife.”

“Daniel Clay used to be in the Compliance Force,” Hulegu said. “Used to be my battle buddy on a couple cleanse missions before he got married and opted into a different program. He knows our playbook.”

“Kill them,” Solanus said. “Three interdiction missiles will get the job done.”

Argent gasped and covered her mouth.

“They’re expensive and they become a sunk cost once fired,” Zike said. “We have the company’s balance sheet to consider.”

“Clay was down there masquerading as some sort of liaison caste, right?” Hulegu asked. “If he has enough contacts with the indigs’ ruling caste, then it might be a problem. We’re holding the wormhole stable, but enough isotope decay in the quantum fabric will collapse the nexus. Then not only are we stuck here until the next cycle, but the client is left out to dry.”

Zike tapped his chin. “Fire the missiles,” he said.

“But, sir,” Argent said, raising a hand. She was young, just out of the company’s executive assistant program, and Furst’s replacement. “Sir, they have a child with them. Michael Clay.”

“Oh my,” Zike feigned concern, “let’s hope they get him into a life pod in time. Fire.”

Hulegu tapped the back of a bracelet against the holo screen, bringing up a menu with all the weapon systems integrated into the smaller vessel docked beneath the Leopold. He swiped a finger across four missiles then dragged them onto the shuttle en route to Tyr.

“Bit overkill,” Solanus said.

“Traitors deserve worse.” Hulegu smiled as the missiles tracked off the ship in the holo and sprinted after the Clay family.

Eyes wide, Argent covered her mouth with both hands.

“We need Hower,” Hulegu said. “He’s the only one that knows the Tyr. What they’re truly capable of.”

“Fine, fine. Pick him up but keep him in strict isolation,” Zike said. “Can’t have whatever alien viruses he’s carrying foul our current timeline any further. Are you well, Ms. Argent? You look a bit pale.”

Argent gestured at the holo, where the missiles were still closing on the shuttle. “Mr. Zike, there are…there are people in there,” she said.

“Indeed, but a little blood, sweat, and tears are vital to any successful project. Welcome to where Bahadur-Getty makes profit, Ms. Argent.” Zike watched the track for a few more moments, then swiped the holo away.

****

Acceleration mashed Daniel into his seat as the shuttle thundered toward the planet. He kept his abdomen and legs tight, fighting to keep blood flowing into his head as Sarah maneuvered wildly, trying to throw off the missiles tracking them.

The dampeners within the shuttle could offset the forces acting on them only so much. If Sarah drew on the engines any more, the g-forces would crush the life out of them. The missiles on their tail had no such restrictions.

“I’m scared!” Michael cried out. “Why are they—they’re trying to kill us!”

“Quiet or you’ll pass out,” Sarah grunted.

She was trained for this sort of thing, Daniel knew. He had to rely on old battlefield muscle memory to deal with the high g’s. That Michael was still conscious was a blessing.

“We’re not going to make it.” Sarah shook her head. “They’ll be on us before we can hit atmo.”

“Life pods?” Daniel asked.

“No time to decelerate,” she puffed, “and they’d just target the pods.”

Daniel struggled to lift a hand, but it felt like he was moving through just-poured cement. He swiped his thumb down a grid showing the planet, and several small icons appeared in orbit.

“Spoof ’em?” he asked.

“I don’t have…any other ideas.” Sarah eased off the acceleration and they could all breathe easier again.

“We’re slowing down?” Michael asked. “Why are we—”

“We’re going to borrow one of the Tyr’s geostationary satellites,” Sarah said. “This might work—if the company hasn’t upgraded their target acquisition systems in a while.”

Michael began hyperventilating, and Daniel hated himself as a father.

Ahead, the night side of Tyr was close enough that Daniel could trace the coastline by city lights.

“Hold on,” Sarah said as she banked the shuttle hard and sunlight reflected off the long solar panels of a boxy satellite close by.

“The military’s going to notice when this disappears,” Daniel said.

“Let’s not tell them it was us,” Sarah said as warning klaxons sounded in the shuttle. A timer appeared as the four missiles closed in on them in a holo.

Sarah crept the shuttle closer to the satellite, then flipped around and blasted it with the gravitic impellors on the bottom of the shuttle. The satellite shot toward the missiles.

Daniel gripped his armrests with white knuckles.

“Why are we sitting still?” Michael asked. “Why aren’t we—”

“Because the mass of the satellite and the mess of gravitons moving it are standing in for this shuttle.” Sarah kept a tight hold of the controls. “The missiles should target that and—”

A flash of white light burst across the windows and Sarah accelerated toward the planet.

Daniel watched the fuzzy mass of sensor data where the satellite was sacrificed, and his heart skipped a beat when one missile spat out of the noise.

“One’s on us!” he shouted.

“And I don’t have another satellite to chuck at them.” Sarah dove down and atmosphere began to ignite against the shuttle’s heat shields. She banked from side to side, watching the missile’s reaction.

“Looks like it’s damaged.” She slammed the control stick to one side, throwing Daniel against his restraints.

The missile overshot them, gouts of flame spurting in its wake.

“You did it!” Michael called out.

The missile flipped end over end, then shot back at the shuttle.

“Sorry, sorry!” Michael covered his face with his arms.

Sarah maneuvered the shuttle toward the planet and at distant thunderheads crackling with lighting.

“The slipstream—” Daniel pointed.

“Yes, the slipstream!” Sarah pushed the shuttle even faster. Fire covered the forward window and Daniel felt heat rising through the deck.

“Come on, come on…go faster,” she said to the missile.

In the holo, the missile closed on them and Daniel fought the urge to hold Sarah’s hand at that final moment.

The friction of burning through the atmosphere overcame the missile, and it exploded. There was a whack as debris struck the shuttle and it swung out of control.

“Hold on!” Sarah fought the controls as the shuttle fell into a dead spin. Daniel kept his eyes open as morning skies over Tyr swung around and around…then leveled out. Sunlight glinted off the ocean as the shuttle fell into a stable flight path.

“There…nothing to it.” Sarah smiled as Michael vomited between his knees.

“What now?” Daniel looked up through the roof glass at the sky as it faded from red to blue.

“That hit wrecked our stealth emitters,” she said. “Tyr can pick us up on radar, so we can’t lollygag. The company probably thinks we’re still alive, but they can’t trace our grav drives this close to the surface.”

“Get us back to the cabin,” Daniel said.

“That’s the first place they’ll look for us.” Sarah shook her head.

“That’s where our car is. Drop off Michael and me and then you stow this somewhere that Hower and the company don’t know about. Keep the option to use this in the future,” he said.

“There’s the property outside Vinica City. The one Baron Tal isn’t using while it’s for sale,” she said.

“That works.” Daniel nodded.

“And then what?” Michael wiped a sleeve across his mouth. “And then what do we do?”

“We warn the Tyr. We get them to mount a defense and we do it without tipping our hand to who we really are, because they’ll burn an alien as quickly as they’ll burn a demon,” Daniel said.

Chapter 9

Aboard the Leopold, Molly Argent stood on her tiptoes to peer into the containment unit. Hower sat inside the chamber filled with a thick mist of antiseptics that looked like steam. A face mask with a single tube running into the wall was the only thing on his body.

Molly blushed then keyed a button beneath the view port.

“Mr. Hower? I’m Director Zike’s executive assistant and he asked me to—”

“My samples! Did you recover the DNA cultures from the shuttle or not? None of the Enforcement scum that stuffed me in this box have any answers.” Hower folded his arms over his crotch and leaned forward.

“It seems that the shuttle in question has gone…unaccounted for,” she said.

Hower was quiet for a moment then nodded slowly. “So they’re still alive,” he said.

“The Clay family have been terminated from the company. Be aware that any future contact with them will be annotated in your personnel folder, but I have done up a preliminary report for Director Zike to sign off on, and your loyalty to the company has been noted.” She gave him a shaky thumbs-up.

“Then what am I doing on this ship? I should be doing decontamination on the other side of the nexus, not here.”

“Yes…about that. I’ve reviewed your employment contract and there’s a bit of a grey area on voluntary extensions.” She held up a slate and turned the screen toward him. Hower looked down at his nakedness and then back at her.

“Director Zike wants to exercise the company’s option to—”

Hulegu came up behind her and jabbed a knuckle into the comms panel. Molly jumped aside, startled.

“Oh…hi?” She clutched the slate to her chest and took a half step back.

“We need to ash him,” Hulegu said. “He’s a threat to this entire ship. You ever heard of the Constance? The Franco? Both had a containment breach during assignment. Total loss of crews.”

Molly did a double take at her slate then raised a finger.

“But the director—”

“Make a note in my file.” Hulegu slapped a palm to a bio reader and a panel fell open, revealing a red handle with a flame icon on it.

“I can hear you!” Hower called out. “You left the mic open, thanks for that. Burning me would be a particularly nasty error. Hulegu, is it?”

“One faulty seal is all it takes.” Hulegu grabbed the handle. “I’m not going to end my career drowning in my own lungs for this leaf-eater.”

“But then where will you get your antibodies?” Hower tapped his stomach. “Do a virology study of the entire planet? Do you really have time for all that?”

Hulegu scowled.

“And do you have anyone else aboard that knows the Tyr? How to handle them?” Hower asked.

“That’s what I was getting at,” Molly said. “In exchange for your continued service here as an advisor, Director Zike will double your reserved pay and you’ll accompany us back to Paradise IX after the clients arrive and take possession.”

“Double?” Hower cocked his head to one side. “Double my pay and my percentage on any exploited creatures native to this system.”

Hulegu scoffed and gripped the handle tighter.

“Agreed.” Zike’s voice came from the slate.

Hulegu narrowed his eyes at Argent as she turned the slate around, showing the open channel to the bridge.

“I needed you on record if you were going to…” she whispered and pointed at the switch that would immolate Hower with a flash of heat.

“The Tyr have nuclear weapons,” Hower said. “Rocket tech advanced enough to reach this nexus point as well. One explodes close enough and there goes the wormhole. You’d like some help identifying where those weapon systems are, wouldn’t you?”

“Where? We’ll bombard the place from orbit and be done with it,” Hulegu said.

“We’re certain one such place is a base in Mount Bagad, but Tyr has several factions and where the second major power keeps their warheads is a bit…bit more difficult to ascertain. But I can help with that. The Tyr are deeply superstitious. With the correct approach, we can have them under control without the risk of a nuclear exchange. May I suggest a bit more of a…lighter touch at first?” Hower said.

“You mean negotiate with the indigs?” Hulegu shook his head. “In the meantime, Daniel Clay is dirtside. Who does he know and what can he do?”

“He’s a fool!” Hower made to get up, but the tug of his mask hose kept him seated. “He spent the entire assignment documenting Tyr power structures and cultural nonsense. Nothing that could ever be licensed or put to actual use by the company. An idealist with no—”

“He was Compliance,” Hulegu said. “He knows how to fight.”

“So? The Tyr are still driving around tanks and are in their second generation of jet fighters. The main nation dismantled most of its military after it wiped out the Slaver Nation and they’ve only rearmed these last two years because—”

“Spare me the lesson. You were masquerading as some sort of messenger subspecies? Who can he contact? If the Tyr are going to launch missiles in the next few hours, then we need to know about it.”

Hower laughed and slapped his knee.

“We were Linkers. We were escrow agents and middlemen for money transfers. The occasional adjudication between castes. If he approaches a Royal with some wild story about an alien ship behind the cursed moon, they’ll throw him out on his ass.”

“So we have time.” Hulegu rubbed his chin.

“But don’t set foot down there without the right immunities,” Hower said. “There’s a particularly nasty adenovirus in the kingdom. There’s a strain to the south that’s a bit weaker as more castes have mixed. I got a touch of it before—but I recovered! Don’t immolate me, please.”

Hulegu lowered his hand from the switch.

“About that,” Argent said, trying to nudge Hulegu aside, but he was like a statue. “I need your release for the company to do a full blood and bacterial screening. The company already owns any immunities you may be carrying, but taking enough to jump-start an inoculation program will be a bit more…invasive than usual.”

“Do I have a choice?” Hower asked.

Hulegu reached for the switch.

“Fine! Fine, I consent. What do I do now?” Hower asked.

“Now the remote surgeon will take some samples.” She pressed a thumb against her pad. “I’m afraid that our onboard anesthetic hasn’t been tuned to your slightly alien bloodstream. That won’t be available for the procedure. So sorry.”

Metal cords shot out of the wall behind Hower and wrapped around his shoulders and waist. They slammed him against the wall and more restraints went around his forehead and knees, securing him in a crucifix pose.

A robot lowered from the ceiling of the isolation cube and a dozen metal arms tipped with needles folded out.

Hower struggled, but there was nothing he could do.

Argent turned away as the screams began.

Hulegu stayed to watch, a slight smile on his face.

Chapter 10

Daniel—in his Tyr guise—watched from the hangar hidden in the cliffside as the shuttle flew away. He waved goodbye to his wife as it lowered to just over the ocean and sped away.

“What if they see her?” Michael asked as the rock façade closed over the opening. “It’s broad daylight and you two never stopped harping on how the Tyr can know nothing about who or what we really are.” The boy nearly had his synth on and was pressing against his arms and chest to tighten the layer against his body. The Linker face and scalp hung from the back of his neck.

“If some fisherman sees the shuttle and says anything, they’ll be laughed at. The military picks her up on radar and they’ll think it’s some Worthy People’s airplane.” Daniel went to a wall locker and jerked on the handle. He looked at his palm and then reached into a pocket.

“They’ve already reset the biometric locks.” He quickly squeezed a coin on a bracelet and then flung the locker open.

“What is that?” Daniel asked. “You and Mom used that on the shuttle.”

“Black-market tech. An electromagnetic pulse sends company equipment into a rest cycle.” He looked over the contents of the wall locker: four gauss submachine guns, two pistols, and magazines full of small metal slugs. He grabbed four X-shaped, dull-black metal harnesses from the back and slung them over his shoulder.

“That’s what we’re going to use to fight Corporate? Enough gear for four people?” Michael asked.

“It’s better than nothing,” Daniel said. “No use giving it to the Tyr. Their material science is about three centuries behind being able to even dismantle any of this tech.” He drew one of the pistols out of the holster and looked at his son.

“I don’t know how to use that,” Michael said.

“It’s something fathers should teach their sons…just something I hoped you’d never have to learn.” He opened a drawer containing several Tyr scrolls and battery packs. “Dump clothes. We need to pack all this up.”

“Wait…” Michael put his face on and tried to speak through two sets of lips. “Wait—why do you and Mom have black-market stuff that Uncle Aaron never knew about?”

“Son, your mom and I had a life before you and this mission.” Daniel wrapped the weapons in clothes and stuffed them into a suitcase. “There’s a lot to it…and if I tell you, then there’s a risk the wrong people will know it too.”

“Who am I going to tell, the Tyr?”

“If you’re…captured.” Daniel snapped the case shut and carried it up the stairs. “Corporate has tech that knows when you’re lying. If you don’t know the truth, they can’t try and take it from you—but I’ll tell you what they do know.”

He pushed the hatch up and there was a mad scramble as mistles ran out of the house.

“After an assignment—the same one where I met your mother—we were approached by a certain…organization.” He left the cabin with Michael in tow and used keys to open the car trunk. “This organization believed that there was more to the current science behind how so many sentient species appeared in the galaxy at around the same time. You’ve noticed that the Tyr are…similar to humans in a lot of ways.”

“But that’s because of evolutionary efficiency. Bipeds are naturally better able to adapt to their surroundings and—you’re shaking your head at me.”

“What was the one rule Corporate made you, a six-year-old boy, remember before we arrived here?”

“No biological study of intelligent species,” Michael said. “But that’s because of what happened with the Reptilians. An experiment jump-started their evolution and then they became a threat to us.”

“And after that, the Combined Terran Governments declared all nonhuman species as hostile and subject to extermination. No one thought that was an overreaction after the Strike killed tens of billions on Earth,” he said, placing the bag in the trunk and shutting the door. “But there’s more to it.” He turned and leaned on the bumper. “Before that edict, a few other alien species in fringe space were gene sequenced and they came back as…human. Mostly human.”

“Wait, what?” Daniel asked.

“Human, but modified at the genetic and cellular levels to survive on their planets.”

“That’s not possible. The first contacts after the Reptilians were all several nexus jumps from Earth. We didn’t have the tech until—”

“Wasn’t us that modified those from the Second Meeting. After things went bad in the war against the Reptilians, no one wanted to ask those hard questions. Then corporations got the green light to clear out colony worlds to put more distance between the CTG and the Reptilians. Where’s this going, son?”

Michael tapped his fingers on the chrome. “If the corpos knew that species like the Tyr are human…then they couldn’t just take planets without any repercussions from the Combined Governments. But…wait, the Tyr don’t believe they evolved from here.”

“The gods put them here to be watched and tested,” Daniel said, nodding. “Another decade or so, and they’ll have the tech to contrast their DNA against species that are native. There aren’t any primates on this planet. No fossil record of them either.”

“Whoa, whoa….then that means,” Michael looked to the sky, “some gods really did put them here? But then that means…whoa.”

“The rabbit hole goes pretty deep.” Daniel opened the front passenger door and detached the House AI core from the overhead light. “The implications of that question…so the Combined Governments don’t want it asked or answered, neither do the corporations. So no DNA tests on the Tyr. Your mother and I are part of a society that’s trying to get answers. If we get proof, then this,” he pointed to Kleegar, the dark moon just barely visible against the blue sky, “will stop. No more killing sentients…sentient humans at least.”

“You think so? Have the Combined Governments really stopped fighting each other?”

“They did soon as the Reptilians became enough of a threat. Corps might tread on each other’s territory from time to time, but they don’t let word get to the big players. So your mother and I are in a society that’s trying to prove that species like the Tyr are human—human enough.” He uncovered the AI core and walked to a dead fire pit.

“House,” he said and clicked a corner.

“Alert! Unauthorized access by non-Bahadur-Getty Incorporated personnel. Return this piece of proprietary technology or you will incur license fees up to and including—”

“I’m sorry, House. Nothing personal.” He drew a pistol and shot the fire pit. Blue laser bolts ignited desiccated logs.

“Wait.” The voice from the box changed to Zike’s. “This is Clay, isn’t it? Missiles must not have worked…”

Daniel waved Michael into the car.

“Turn back,” Daniel said. “Just forget this place exists or you’ll regret it.”

Zike chuckled, the sound forced and without emotion. “I’m aware of your history,” Zike said. “You should have kept your augmentations, no nagging guilt to deal with as time passes. You’re in a position to either cause my operations a degree of difficulty…or be value-added. This is your last chance. Get these Tyr to cooperate and some of them may survive—on reservations or in show villages. There’s potential as tourist attractions.”

“Don’t lie to me. I know what the company does to anything that gets in their way. No survivors. Ever. Has that changed?”

“There’s always an opportunity for alternate income streams. But if gaining their compliance becomes cost-prohibitive, then my duties—and Hulegu’s—are quite clear. Start acting like you’re value-added and I’ll have you and your family returned to Luna, at no cost to you. You’ll be penniless, but you’ll be alive.”

“I’ve made my decision. You made yours when you tried to kill us. Last warning, Zike. Go home.”

The AI core glowed yellow and singed his fingers. He tossed it into the fire, where it crumbled into ash.

“Dad?” Michael asked from the front seat.

Daniel tucked the pistol into the folds of his tunic and got in the car.

“We’re going back to King’s Rest. We’ll link up with your mother there. Should take a few days before Hulegu and a Reaver team are immunized…until then we need to get the Tyr into action.”

“How?”

“They need to know there’s a threat…and then they’ll need a hero. And I know just how to get them going.”

Chapter 11

Hower spread butter across a warm slice of bread. His mouth watered as he took in the scent of what he knew were reconstituted macronutrients doused with artificial colors and flavors. A bite later and it almost tasted like the real thing. Almost.

His stomach cramped and he pressed a forearm against the many puncture marks and sutures still raw on his skin. He took a long sip from a cup full of orange electrolyte water, but he still felt parched.

The door to his quarters opened and a blast of disinfected air blew in. Zike emerged from the white cloud by himself and with no protective equipment, not even a cheap surgical mask.

Hower squinted at the director. “I’m still quite infectious, you know, even after your damn robots took significant amounts of my blood and gut biome. That Hulegu of yours might be on his way over with a flamethrower.”

“I received an immunity serum from your sample, thank you.” Zike sat across the small table from where Hower had his dinner tray. “Synthesizing more in a timely fashion is proving difficult. We need more stock to get the clients situated on schedule.”

“Now just a damn second.” Hower dropped his butter knife. “Do you know what it’s like to have your intestinal layer scraped out by a—”

“My staff virologists identified a number of gaps between what you were carrying and the initial settlement location. Legacy data from previous missions. Shame we couldn’t get newer data from your shuttle, but the same virologists are certain there hasn’t been enough time for a drift in the local diseases.” Zike sniffed the air and scowled at Hower’s food. “We’re on a timeline, Mr. Hower. The client is rather…particular.”

“And who is this client? I haven’t had actual faux-dairy in so long. No mammalian species on Tyr to be milked. Can your fabs do a pizza?” He dipped his buttered bread into a bowl of soup.

“The Golden Light,” Zike said.

“The cult!” Hower jumped back in his seat, banging his knees against the bottom of the table. “Ow! The company is dealing with those-those fanatics?”

“A lot has happened since you left Corporate space. The Combined Governments lifted a number of sanctions on previously…proscribed groups…to encourage further colonial efforts. The Golden Light had a number of disagreements with the local government on Paradise, and they received a grant to emigrate.”

“They bribed the cult to get them the hell off their planet,” Hower said flatly.

Zike wagged a finger at him.

“They won’t leave a single Tyr alive…” Hower wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Is that a problem?”

Hower sat back and folded his hands over his stomach. “No. No, to hell with them all. My wife…she was…lost. Lost when one of their more barbaric castes raided a town she’d stopped in for shelter during a winter storm. We never recovered her remains. Not unusual after a Slaver attack.”

“Unfortunate, but you are her surviving spouse and back pay and wages will be credited to you.” Zike tapped fingers against each other.

“Your sympathy is…palpable.” Hower pushed his plate away. “What do you want from me, Director? How many immunity doses have you made so far? Because I don’t know how much more I have to give.”

“Just the one,” Zike said.

“And it went to you…first?”

“I am the mission director. Hulegu won’t inoculate himself until there’s enough for his entire platoon of Myrmidons.” He rolled his eyes. “As such, we need more. Preferably from Tyr of this region.” Zike touched a finger to a band on his wrist and flicked it at Hower. A holo map appeared over the table with a highlighted region.

“Those are the Azure Islands, ancestral home of the Royal caste and where the Tyr have their most important temples.” Hower sucked in his bottom lip. “Why that spot? There isn’t more valuable real estate on the planet. Why not do fallout remediation on the Slaver lands? The Tyr will give those up for free, and in their eyes, you’d be—”

“These Slaver lands…here?” Zike pointed to a chain of islands on the opposite coast from the Azure Islands, across the largest continent on the planet. Radiation symbols dotted the land mass, and lower readings spread across scattered island chains and a massive ocean that took up most of a hemisphere.

“They were famed for their natural beauty before the last war put an end to the Slaver caste as a political entity. Savages,” spat Hower. “Famous for raiding the plains and murdering every male Tyr they came across, took every female capable of breeding with them, killed any past their prime. Centuries of wars until—”

“What’s this?” Zike highlighted a small land mass on the equator, hundreds of miles from the main continents.

“Gods’ Touch,” Hower said. “Volcanic island, but unusually large for a habitable planet like this, according to my wife. She was the geologist of the team. By legend, it’s where the first Tyr were set on the planet to live in full view of their deities. Considered forbidden territory because of superstition. Very difficult to reach the place as tropical storms are frequent and the Wayfarer caste—the ones with the freckled pattern—will kill anyone that tries to reach the place.”

“Expensive and time-consuming,” said Zike. “The client expects their initial colony to be ready and waiting for them when they cross the nexus. A sensor probe of the area shows a significant military presence and Hulegu doesn’t want to thaw his Marauders just yet. ‘Dropping in blind’ or some such, and he’s preparing a raid to seize the nuclear stockpile you identified.”

“You need Tyr from that area but aren’t ready for a full assault yet…I have just the solution. Do you remember the old Gemini space program from the early days of human space flight?”

Zike leaned forward. “Go on.”

Chapter 12

Sarah jumped off the back of a rickety truck and stepped over an oily puddle. She peeled off a couple bills from the purse hanging from a long strap over one shoulder and passed them to the driver, a Toiler caste with poor teeth and a yellow hue to his ketafik, a sure sign of long-term substance abuse. He took the money and drove off with a quick sign of respect as he touched fingertips over one eye, half blocking his vision.

For the Tyr, covering their eyes for a moment reminded them that the gods were always watching them.

The shuttle was now hidden in a barn several miles outside the city. She’d done what repairs she could to the hull, but their stealth cladding was shot. The piles of hay she’d piled onto the craft wouldn’t do much to hide it, but it was the best she could do in so little time.

She adjusted the veil over her mouth and looked around Vinica City. She was near the many bridges over the River Santas, one of the largest rivers on the planet. Vinica had two very different styles of architecture, depending on which side of the river one was. On the west bank, the buildings were older, almost baroque, with centuries-old temples and narrow streets. On the eastern side of the city, the construction was newer, with uglier homes done in simpler block designs and TV antenna spikes dotting the roofs.

Vinica had been the farthest reach of many Slaver hordes during the long centuries of war against the eastern power. Only one side of the city had been pillaged and burned many times, the other protected by blown bridges and the wide river.

Night encroached on the city, and streetlights began turning on erratically. She was in a restaurant row, and Toiler caste were busy dragging plastic chairs out onto the wide sidewalks and setting up tables.

“Pardon me,” she said, motioning to a Toiler woman sitting in an alley, two baskets of fish in the process of being gutted at her feet. “Where can I get toasted chass?”

The woman scoffed at her. “You show up in the back of a rust bucket and you think you can afford chass? Only one spot in our district. Pair of dirty Islanders have them. You know their script?” She pointed a bloody knife over one shoulder.

“I do, thank you.” Sarah kept one hand over her purse and the other close to the knife on her belt. The Toiler caste wasn’t the kindest to other Tyr, not after being little more than serfs for much of the kingdom’s history. Sarah’s veil showed enough of her skin to make it clear that she was a Linker, hopefully enough to deter any local criminal from taking a chance at a mugging.

Tyr handled inter-caste crimes among themselves. Any dispute between a Linker and others brought in the King’s police, and the Blooded weren’t known for their mercy for Toilers that got out of line.

The smell of fish cooking in oil and crustaceans past their prime filled the air around her. The long line of outdoor seating continued to take shape, and she thought of paintings of this exact location in their home at King’s Rest. The Promenade was famous across the kingdom for esoteric dishes and lively nightlife.

She looked up at the distant nebula, making out three of the swirls that the Tyr attributed to their gods. Boys with canvas bags hawked tightly rolled newspapers on street corners. Girls with flower garlands in their hair and small bracelets of neatly woven blossoms that formed sleeves from their wrists to their elbows walked between the seats and the restaurants, clapping their hands overhead to attract attention to the bracelets they’d sell to couples that would arrive for dates later.

It’s all about to end, Sarah thought. Their entire world is over…and they have no idea.

She sidestepped a boy shouting the latest headlines and came to a small bakery, the sign written with brass metal tacks instead of the flowing script of the rest of the block. The smell of spices and yeast tickled her sinuses.

Sarah rapped on a glass window and an Islander leaned over, his apron and kerchief over his head doused in flour. His ketafik was a mass of dark freckles from his chin to his hairline.

“Not ready,” he shouted and went back to cutting a pile of dough with a square-shaped blade.

“I’ll take a cold one,” she said, “if your chass is from Speaker-day and it hasn’t been under the gaze.”

The baker froze, the muscles in his neck tightening. “Min-nah, benti oklun ras. Chintata,” he called out and turned to face Sarah, adjusting the grip on his knife, ready to use it as a weapon. Father, special order for you. She knew enough of his caste’s language to catch the first part. The last word was a mystery to her, but hinted that she was in the right spot.

A heavyset Islander came out the back, a wooden basket in hand. The other baker grew even tenser, the blade in his hand quivering.

“Help you, Linker?” the older one asked.

“I walk among all, hated by all, known by none,” she said quietly, then traced her thumb tip along her markings not covered by the veil.

“Then you walk with the gods’ grace.” He held up the basket and opened it. A pile of stale rolls were inside.

She brushed a hand across her tunic, palmed a small piece of folded paper, and reached into the basket. Beneath the rolls, she felt a metal box. Lifting it open, she deposited the message, then withdrew a roll.

“How far does it go?” He held out a palm and she gave him a few coins.

“All the way home. No delay,” she said.

“I’ll send it right now.” He gave her a nod and went to the back room. She heard him stomping up a flight of stairs as the younger baker eyed her.

“Your face is good,” he said.

“Yours as well.” She dropped the roll into a brown paper bag and left. The “Islanders” she’d just visited were frauds, both members of a pariah caste that would be executed if their markings were exposed to be fraudulent. The Hidden moved through all castes, and just how they’d send that message back to the one that needed it was a mystery to her.

Lies and more lies, she thought. I’m more of a fraud than they are. Now to get home.

****

Daniel parked in the garage beneath their home in King’s Rest. Michael pulled down the too-heavy sheet-metal door that hit the concrete with a tremendous bang.

“We’re supposed to be incognito,” Daniel said. “Keep it down.”

“The garage door’s reinforced and too damn heavy.” Michael threw his hands up. “How’re we even going to get inside if House is…offline?”

“His stack is gone, but the passive defense systems are still armed.” Daniel gripped the door handle and there was a snap as lock bolts retracted. “Our biometrics are still loaded. House was supposed to update it with the new team’s…but here we are.” He pushed the door open. “Home sweet home.”

Daniel took the stairs two at a time and went for a telephone with three rows of switches on a stand. He opened a drawer, pulled out an address book, and began flipping pages.

“Dad, won’t the company look for us here?” Michael said as he hauled two suitcases up from the garage.

“They will eventually. They won’t hit us from orbit, at least not yet. There he is.” He laid the book out, removed an orange plastic stick from the drawer, and stuck it into a slot in the side of the phone, then he flipped switches.

Michael dropped the bags. “What do you mean ‘not yet’?”

“That was the Leopold, a torch ship with a single escort destroyer, the Matsui. I know that ship and who’s on it. The company can’t fit more than a division of Compliance troops and some support fighters. They don’t have the manpower to hold much territory. Riling up the Tyr with a ground strike will only make their job harder. Confusion and fear are their best weapons right now, and we need to take those away from Zike. Now, if only…it’s ringing.” He put the headset in the crook of his neck.

“Pack. Winter clothes. Get canned food together.” Daniel shooed his son away.

Michael looked at the bags on the floor, then back to the stairwell. He went to the kitchen, grumbling.

****

The incessant chime of the phone finally got Ubom off his cot. He stretched and rubbed sleep from his eyes, smacked his lips, and squinted at an analog clock. It was barely nightfall. Why was anyone calling him this early?

His bed, a dirty pile of clothes, and a camping stove were at the base of a giant telescope, the top of the overhead dome lost to darkness.

He stomped over to the phone and picked it up. “This had better be good,” he said as he scratched himself.

“Professor Ubom? This is Blooded Hawn’ru from the Ministry of Defense. We’ve got a situation that we need your help with,” Daniel said, his voice slightly augmented to carry a warrior caste accent.

Ubom almost dropped the phone as he stood up straighter.

“Honored Hawn’ru.” Ubom began sweating. He was of the Royal caste, but Hawn’ru was high enough in the court that he had nothing to worry about if he offended Ubom, who was set to inherit several dozen acres of ambary farms once his father passed away. “What a surprise…my last star survey of the Sleeve might have…that’s not why you’re calling, is it?”

“I don’t give a damn about what’s coming out of the demon pits. I need you to use that very expensive piece of equipment and take a good look at Kleegar,” Daniel said.

“Kleegar?” Ubom looked at a clock on the wall. “I…I can do that, yes. There’s great contrast between the moon and the background nebula.” Ubom tensed as he realized his faux pas. Polite society within the kingdom never referred to the red and white nebula that took up so much of the night sky by what it really was: the remnants of a star that went nova millions of years ago, as science had proven. The nebula was “the gods” so far as the court—and all the poorly educated Tyr across the kingdom—were concerned.

He scrunched his face up, ready for a scolding.

“Good,” Daniel said and Ubom’s face widened in surprise. “We have intelligence that the heretics have a satellite in orbit around Kleegar. I need you to get photographic proof for the King and deliver it to me personally. Is that understood? My access cypher is tree-garnet-yellow-bronze. Tell that to the guards at the Castle and they’ll bring you directly to me. Did you write that down?”

“Yes. No. I mean, I’m doing it now.” Ubom grabbed a stubby pencil and wrote down the code.

“Tell no one else about what you find. I want every picture. I want proof, you understand me?” Daniel acted more and more irate over the phone.

“Yes, I can…bring them to you next fortnight—”

“Tomorrow!”

“Tomorrow! I’ll miss my chance to do a drift report when the Sleeve passes but…hello?” Ubom frowned as the line went dead. “How strange.”

He went to a control panel and moved big aluminum pins on a rusty gear box to open the overhead dome. The rumble through the corrugated metal floor as the observatory readied for work always excited him.

Opening a fridge, Ubom got a soft drink in a glass bottle, then sat down in a seat with a threadbare cushion. He took a sip and turned dials to reorient the telescope. The platform turned slowly, until the dark moon was visible through the gap in the dome.

“Another satellite around Kleegar. What a waste of time and effort. Everyone knows it came from the asteroid belt, which is why…” He leaned over the eyepiece and reached for a camera switch.

Ubom stopped and sat upright, rubbing knuckles against one eye and blinking hard. He leaned over again, a bit more tentatively. In the eyepiece, he saw the dark sphere of the moon, in stark contrast to the nebula many light-years away. There was something…there. A shape with sharp edges, illuminated by star fire from one end, the light casting a faint glow on Kleegar…almost like it was a rocket ship.

“Ahh!” Ubom fell out of the chair and scrambled back. He hit the small refrigerator and empty bottles clattered around him.

“No…no, no, no…” He repeated the word over and over again as he crawled back to the telescope. He put his hand gingerly to the eyepiece, like it was made of hot metal, then looked through it again, half expecting the thing to be gone.

The shape was still there…and had moved slightly farther away from the moon. Ubom did quick math, estimating the size of it and its new distance from the outer moon.

Picking up a bottle that had rolled against his chair, he pulled the cork and tried to pour a glass, but his shaking hands missed the pour. He put the bottle to his mouth and took a deep swig.

“Impossible. Impossible. Nothing can move that fast.” He took a photo with a snap of a lever. “Too large to be a satellite. Are those…what are those?” He focused in and made out the turrets on the ventral side of the destroyer Matsui.

He snapped more pictures until the handle balked.

“More…I need more film.” Ubom swiped a hand down his face, stopping to tug at his jaw.

“Are…are the gods coming or—no, ridiculous superstition—then what…more film!” He fell out of the chair and landed hard.

****

Daniel adjusted his synth layer in the mirror and tapped on the holo. The dark markings shifted around, transforming him from a Linker to a Blooded.

“You’re a little short to be a soldier,” Michael said from behind.

“I’ve got riser boots upstairs and my synth will fill out my musculature just enough.” Daniel turned his face from side to side and double-tapped the mirror. A faint scar appeared down his left jawline.

“Why can’t I go with you?” Michael asked.

“Because I can’t phone this one in, and if I make a mistake…it won’t go well. Can’t have you near me if that happens. So I need you to hold down the fort until your mother arrives. Easy enough, right?”

“Am I still supposed to hit the trip wire if this place is found out? You know the secret police can trace phone calls, right?” Michael put his hands on his hips.

“Which is why I used a shunt. They look at billing records of that long-distance call and they’ll see it came from a cabaret across town. We don’t have House anymore to scramble all our communications or tap the kingdom’s networks,” he said, tapping the address book on the desk in front of him, “but we’ve got enough of their codes to keep us ahead of the game for a while. But if you have to…hit the trip wire and follow the evacuation plan. Your mother and I will link up with you as soon as we can.”

“That plan was in case the Tyr found out about us, not the company. Do you really think Uncle Aaron is helping them?”

Daniel’s hands fell to his sides.

“Hower’s…he’s no fool. The company either made him an offer he couldn’t refuse or he jumped at the first incentive they offered him. He has no love for the Tyr, remember that.”

“You were the one that threw him in the escape pod,” Michael said, looking away, “not me or Mom.”

“You’re right…but we’ve got a little more time before we have to worry about the company coming for us. We’ll disappear before that happens.”

“And if they do show up?” Michael looked at the ceiling. “Why are you so certain that they’re taking their sweet time before they send down a strike team or those suits they have?”

“Remember that old story about how Mars attacked late nineteenth-century Earth? What happened to the Martians?”

“The one where they have big brains and go ack ack all the time?”

“No, the other one. Big tripod walkers. Radio drama.”

“Oh….They got sick from endemic diseases and died. No immunities.”

“The company sets foot on Tyr now and they run the same risk. They’re not stupid, son. So I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt. I should be back within a day. Just hunker down. Don’t you do anything stupid.” Daniel leveled a finger at his son.

“What? What could I possibly do to make things worse than they already are?”

Daniel kept the finger pointed.

“I won’t say anything to Lussea…gosh.”

Chapter 13

In a ready room aboard the Matsui, Tanya Yenin shook powdered cream into a half-full cup of coffee, then added more water. She wore a void flight suit, with the gloves dangling from contact seals at her wrists.

“Doing another poor man’s latte?” Greg Cisneros leaned against the bulkhead. His flight suit was the same as hers, though more worn at the elbows and kneepads.

“Just so long as I don’t have to taste this crap the company calls coffee. It’s so fake, they can’t even put ‘coffee’ on the box.” She rattled a cardboard container with packets inside. “It’s water laced with caffeine and dark coloring.”

“Crew Alpha seven, report to your haul. Time sensitive,” came through an earbud.

Cisneros rolled his head back. “They can’t be serious. We just unmoored from the torch ship and they’ve already got ash and trash for us to move?” He put his gloves on and made for the doors.

Yenin shrugged and left her coffee atop a sink on her way out.

The doors opened to a hangar bay where cargo shuttles were slotted into berths up and down the bulkheads on one side, smaller fighter craft and kill drones on the other. One shuttle was on deck, the rear hatch open with a robot at the base of the ramp next to a containment unit large enough to hold three or four men if they were lying down.

“Ah…shit on me,” Cisneros said. “We’re doing this already?”

“Doing what when?” Yenin looked over the containment unit, a biohazard warning already pulsating on each side.

“This is your first bug clear, I forgot. Look, no matter what happens, don’t bust your seals, OK? Because if any of those psychopaths from—”

A pair of Myrmidons stepped out from behind the containment unit. They wore matte-black combat suits with augmented frames down their backs, over their shoulders, and along each limb, carbines slung onto a ring on their chest, and sidearms. Each carried a helmet in the crook of an arm. The taller man’s had a façade of a sneering jester, while the woman—who had a face that only a mother could love—had a helmet in the guise of an Oni—a Japanese demon.

“This ain’t hard.” Solanus put her demon mask on and her voice projected through speakers in the helmet. “Don’t make it hard. Don’t get in our way. Simple snatch-and-grab. Get the unit locked down so we can get this over with.”

“Ma’am.” Cisneros gave a sloppy salute and Solanus just shook her head at him as she went up the ramp. The other Myrmidon gave Yenin a wink before he bounded up and into shuttle.

“I’m still lost,” Yenin said.

“Just get the bio box locked down and,” Cisneros leaned close to her, “do not piss that bitch off. She will gut us as soon as look at us. You know how many reprimands she has for bodily harm?”

Yenin grabbed her helmet from a rack within the shuttle—a much simpler model with a wide, unadorned visor—and donned it. Seals snapped into place and she opened a direct channel to her crewmate.

“Why is she still working for the company if she’s that crazy?” She went to one knee and activated mag clamps built into the shuttle’s deck. The containment unit settled into a cradle with a snap.

“Because the company likes batshit-crazy Myrmidons. They do great work. And if their pay gets docked to compensate anyone they stab…they still end up in the black after an assignment. Aft locks set.”

“Starboard set. Didn’t the supervisor say this was just a shake-and-bake colony mission?” Yenin continued securing the bio containment unit. “What’s with this?”

“Head down, mouth shut, get paid,” Cisneros said. “Let’s not give those psychos any reason to notice us, OK? That other one was looking at you funny.”

“I knew I should’ve taken a starport assignment. The extra twenty percent ain’t worth this.”

The ramp came up with a groan of hydraulics.

Yenin stole glances at the two Myrmidons where they sat at the front of the cargo bay. The male lifted up a glass ampule and jabbed the tip into a port on his neck. He went stiff as he jammed the ampule home, then flicked the empty against the wall, where it shattered. The woman—Solanus—lifted her visor and snorted from an open capsule on her wrist. Then she bumped the back of her helmet against the bulkhead in a steady rhythm, never stopping, even after the shuttle lifted off and launched from the Matsui.

Chapter 14

“Elsime, get up.” Matron Virid shook the young Tyr woman’s shoulder.

The scribe jerked awake. Why was the matron in her quarters, and so close to dawn? Her mind raced as she struggled for a reason, then she gasped.

“No, child, you haven’t been betrothed. No sudden wedding for you.” Virid’s face was deadly serious. “Get your tools. The King needs you.”

“Before dawn?”

“Yes, now change out of your slip and into your apron and robes. You’ll know what’s going on soon enough—though you may not understand it. I don’t.”

The sound of the guards’ radios came through the closed door.

“Yes, right away, Matron.”

****

“You’re telling me this is impossible.” King Menicus flipped through photographs of Kleegar and the approaching Matsui.

Elsime rushed to her post and laid out her quills and scrolls, memorizing everything the King said as the council meeting continued. There were more of the kingdom’s elite in the room, all bleary-eyed from having been roused from sleep, not all in the best state of dress.

A meek-looking Royal, his shoulders hunched, stood just behind Marshal Hawn’ru, and he kept eyeing the main doorway as if looking for an escape.

“It’s impossible that the…object is some sort of spacecraft from the heretics,” said Ciolsi, the spy chief. “They haven’t even achieved manned space flight. That they could somehow get to Kleegar and construct that—ridiculous!”

“I have to agree with that,” Hawn’ru said.

“This is all an elaborate hoax,” said one of the priests flanking Osuda. “That unbeliever Ubom most have painted the object on his telescope and now he and his ilk are having a laugh at our expense.”

“There are three other telescopes within the kingdom,” Ubom said, raising a hand slightly. “They should all be awake and studying the stars beyond the Sleeve. Just ring them and—”

“Send police and operatives to secure each one immediately,” Menicus said. “No warning to the astronomers. We can’t allow this to get out to the public, whatever it is.”

“Sire.” Ciolsi stepped to one side and picked up a phone.

“Any unusual activity from the heretics? From the sea?” the King asked.

“Nothing, sire,” Hawn’ru said.

“And tell me again how you knew to call this one and have him turn his telescope to the moon?”

“I…” Hawn’ru raised a hand and bit back frustration. “As I told you, sire, I did no such thing. He was brought into my quarters at the Castle after presenting my secure cipher.”

“I got a call.” Ubom raised his hands.

“Then how by the dark of the moon did—bah!” The King threw the sheaf of photographs away from him and they fluttered across the room. One landed not too far from Elsime, and she peered at the strange vessel that contrasted starkly with the red sky.

“We have sent men into orbit,” Virid said. “Not many. None too far from Tyr. But we’re planning a mission to Ashtani. Is it not possible that some other…people are coming here?”

“No.” Speaker Osuda rose from his seat, his eyes sharp and clear. “This comes from the dark world, where the gods have banished those found wanting in their gaze. This is the time of judgment. We didn’t suffer enough for blighting the Slaver lands. Retribution is coming to—”

“You have lost your mind!” Ciolsi shouted. “The assassinations after the war were carried out by the Hidden, not by any sort of—”

“Stop!” Menicus slammed his palms against his desk and the room went silent. “I want an explanation for this…appearance from each of you. Ubom, you first.”

“Me?” the astronomer squeaked, clearing his throat and looking up at Hawn’ru, who growled at him. “There’s been discussion—heretical discussion, I admit—amongst some of my colleagues that there may be planets like ours beyond the Sleeve. We see some similarities between the rock samples taken from Ashtani and where the gods placed us, and the similarities point to a common origin. Once we can send probes to the other planets in the system, then—”

“That space vessel could be Tyr from another star,” the King said.

“Well…and this is where our speculation has gone rampant, but what if they’re not Tyr but some sort of green creatures that evolved under different conditions?”

“Heresy,” Osuda snapped. “I’ll have you and all your fellows at the stake for this.”

“No,” Menicus said, shaking his head. “We don’t have time for an inquisition. And what are the Speakers’ words on this?”

“Divine punishment. A ship full of demons come to punish us all,” Osuda said. “We must repent before the gaze and then we may be spared.”

“Have you taken communion regarding this?” the King asked.

Out of the corners of his eyes, Osuda quickly glanced at the two priests on his flanks. “Well…no. We only just learned of—”

“Then your warning doesn’t come from the gods just yet, does it?” the King asked. “You need how long to complete your journey?”

“I was with the gods just recently. The oaxa will not have the same effect on me for another two mornings,” Osuda said.

“Then send someone else to commune,” said the King, leaning forward on his knuckles.

“To achieve my level of communion requires a more…heroic dose of oaxa, but it will be done." Osuda crossed his arms and stuck his hands in his sleeves as the two priests flushed with anxiety.

Elsime had heard stories of Osuda’s tolerance for the mushrooms that sent him into communion. Her own christening had been a single cup of tea laced with oaxa and the experience had been…mind-altering. Osuda was rumored to eat up to ten weight coins worth of the holy sacrament at a time, while those that consumed half that didn’t always come back from their journey.

“Not heretic,” Hawn’ru said. “I don’t know what it is, but I suggest we go to full military alert. Recall the reserves.”

“The heretics will consider that an act of war,” Ciolsi said. “We could…we could bring this to their attention.”

Laughter broke out from those assembled.

“Some of them can be reasoned with,” Ciolsi said.

“Careful now, spymaster,” Hawn’ru said. “We might suspect you’re looking for a reason to defect.”

Ciolsi reached for a knife sheathed on the small of his back, and guardsmen snapped into action, pinning his arms to his sides. Another went for Hawn’ru, but he knocked the man back with a stiff shot from an elbow.

“Is this how we’re to conduct ourselves?” the King asked evenly. “Like squabbling sailors just into port? We have two days until this spacecraft—that’s what we’re going to call it—” the King said, rapping the desk, “until it arrives. Be it star travelers or demons sent to scour our sins away, it will affect every last soul in my kingdom, as well as the heretics and the wild ones in the sea. Focus. All of you. Another outburst like that and I’ll banish you to the mines.”

“My apologies to you,” Hawn’ru bowed to Ciolsi.

“Place the military on alert, but do not activate the reserves,” the King said. “See that word of my desire to carry out surprise inspections leaks to the heretics. They can blame the alert on that and then maybe we can avoid an accidental war.”

“Easily done, sire,” Ciolsi said. “There is the matter of who got this ball rolling.” He turned to Ubom. “My men traced the phone call, and there was some sort of…interference. Whoever tipped him off did so from King’s Rest, but there are nearly a dozen different possibilities.”

“Put them all under surveillance,” the King said. “I want daily reports.”

“It will be done.”

“All of you back here for the mid-afternoon meeting,” the King said. “Not a word of this to anyone. No one leaves the Castle. Go.” He looked at Virid then stroked his chin twice.

Elsime put stoppers in her ink wells, her hands shaking as she tried to grasp all that she’d just heard. Tyr from a different world? Demons sent to punish everyone for their sins before the gods’ gaze?

“Don’t close up just yet.” Virid put a hand on her shoulder and kept it there as the rest of the council filed out. When the last one left, the guard went with them, leaving her, Virid, and the King alone.

The King sat in his chair, his elbows on his knees and hands against his forehead.

Virid motioned Elsime to him and she carried over the scroll and a quill.

“Record this,” Menicus said. “Record this, as these words must be passed down, no matter what that thing in our sky really is.”

Elsime hesitated then set the scroll onto the desk, nodding quickly and readying her quill.

“Three months after the nuclear destruction of the Slaver lands…I found my father, King Iptari, at this very same desk. Dead. He was in his prime of life and I had just taken my confirmation a few weeks before. The timing seemed provident. I feared that the gods had waited to bring his soul to their judgment until I was ready to legally take the throne, that they had a grand plan for me with the crown.

“Now I am the same age as my father when he passed and this…test is placed before me. The gods’ gaze is ever upon us. For my sons who may well read these words, or for my brother Ythrain who may serve as regent if I fail this test…know that I am but the servant to the gods. That I rule in their place until their rightful return as has been prophesized since the first Tyr were placed on this world to be judged. Never forget what the crown means to the people, or to the gods.

“There, that’s all,” he said. “Write up the proper scroll and leave it for me. I’ll seal it myself.”

“Yes, sire.” Elsime choked back tears, feeling unworthy of a moment like this. The honor of recording a king’s message to his successor should have gone to one with a better hand, one with more talent at script and accents with golden ink.

Yet the task fell to her.

Chapter 15

Dawn broke over Tyr, and a pair of astronauts at the analog controls of a small pod sipped at mud-colored liquid in pouches and watched as more and more of the blue and white planet below became sunlit.

“I’ll never get tired of this,” said Unbloodied Quboth as he let his pouch go and it floated in the zero g. The upper half of his space suit was bunched against his waist, leaving his chest and shoulders in just a sweat-stained undershirt.

“It happens every two hours,” said his crewmate, Baron Nixazar. “Not that I’m complaining, but we have work to do and ground command is listening to every word we say, isn’t that right, ground command?”

“Time for health checks,” came through the radio, bookended by loud beeps.

“Years of training. Endless fitness evaluations,” said Nixazar, removing a blood-pressure cuff from a plastic box mounted over the control panel full of gauges, switches, and knobs, “and here I am, checking your vitals like some new apothecary’s apprentice at a Toilers’ hospital.”

“Careful, Nixazar. Plenty of workers in the space program. They may take offense.” Quboth held his arm out and made a fist as Nixazar worked a stethoscope into his ears. “We need a functioning heat shield to get home.”

“Physician’s note, sarcasm levels increase after eight days in orbit.” Nixazar wrote down Quboth’s readings on a chart clamped to a clipboard. “Are we doing another live broadcast with some schoolchildren today? Or is it ‘test the nitrogen levels in our feces’ day?”

“Ugh.” Quboth leaned forward to look up through the glass panels in their cramped pod. “That’s going in the after-action report—better seals for waste disposal.”

“Mission, ground control…we’re picking up a second radar blip trailing you. Any damage to the craft?”

The two astronauts gave each other a quick glance, then both rushed to get back into their suits.

“I thought the hull rattled a little too much during lift-off,” Nixazar said as Quboth ran down an emergency-action checklist.

“Everything’s reading normal.” Quboth slapped his helmet on, ran air from the capsule, and continued down his memorized emergency checklist. Then he glanced at Nixazar, who was staring out the starboard view port.  “Get your helmet on. Procedure.”

“What is that?” Nixazar asked, barely over a whisper.

“Get your dome on before—”

White light flooded the capsule and Nixazar reared back in shock, the back of his head striking Quboth’s visor.

“Control!” Quboth pushed Nixazar back into his seat and grabbed the control stick. He couldn’t see anything but the blinding light, but he had the layout down with muscle memory. “Control, we’ve encountered some sort of an anomaly.”

All he heard back was static.

The capsule lurched, like a giant hand had grabbed it by the back and was pulling it away. Quboth triggered the engines, but the controls were dead.

“Nixazar?”

His companion groaned, chin slumped to his chest.

Quboth put his helmet on for him and connected him to the capsule’s air supply as the light faded away.

“Control? Control, we—”

Outside the pod, the star field wiped away as a ramp slammed shut. Quboth froze, the sound of his breathing and hum of life-support systems barely matching the blood pounding in his ears. Strips of light ran overhead and he felt a tremor through the capsule, like something was walking toward him.

Quboth may never have flown in combat, but he was still of the warrior caste and a trained soldier. He reached behind his seat to an emergency pouch and drew a small pistol.

A massive matte-black hand with a metal frame over each finger slammed down on the view port. Claws bored into the plexiglass with a dull whine, then there was the wrench of failing steel as whatever was outside ripped the hatch off his capsule.

Quboth came face-to-face with a demon, its face a mask of twisted onyx and a tight scaffolding of metal around its body. He snapped the safety off his pistol and thrust it at the demon, but it moved lightning quick and smashed the weapon out of his hand and into the other side of the capsule, where it fell into Nixazar’s lap.

The demon grabbed him by the front of his suit, ripped him out of the pod, and threw him against the floor. He bounced into the bulkhead and stars flashed across his eyes. He struggled to get up, but a boot slammed into his back and pinned him down.

On the other side of the capsule was another demon, its face different but still just as terrifying. Quboth looked around as far as he could move his head with the boot at the base of his neck. The place was like the hangar of an aircraft carrier, with light strips and bare metal frames on the walls. A large container, bigger than his capsule, was at the front of the space. There was another creature there, but in a dull-grey space suit with a backlit helmet.

It had a face—a true face, like his—but one with pale, plain skin. Its body had the same proportions as Tyr females.

The demon on his back spoke and the female went into action, working controls on the container. Not a simple container, he realized, but a cage.

Quboth pressed his hands against the grimy deck and waited a heartbeat. When the pressure on his back eased, he scrambled forward. A hand gripped his ankle, but he kicked free and made for the female.

He had no plan, no idea for escape. He just knew he had to do something.

The female shrieked and ran away as he closed. He reached for her, but his hand stopped short when the demon behind him grabbed his shoulder, ripping the outer layers of his space suit. He whirled around and swung a hook punch into the demon’s jaw.

Pain exploded in his hand as knuckles broke against the impact. The demon’s head barely moved. It simply raised a finger and wagged it from side to side.

A punch caught him in the stomach and lifted his feet off the ground. Air blasted out of his lungs and fogged his visor. He crumpled to the ground and felt rough hands on him again. He was lifted up and pressed against what felt like the base of a wall. A shadow crossed over his visor and it popped off as the demon squeezed his helmet.

Cold, antiseptic air flooded over his face. He rolled to one side and into the glass side of the cage. He took a deep, stuttering breath as his diaphragm spasmed from the blow. The female demon came back, her fingers dancing over keys made of light that floated over the side of the cage.

He heard nothing but a dull moan from a small air vent.

She looked at him, then ran her fingers over her visor, tracing the solid dark parts of his ketafik. He noticed her eyes, a single pupil with blue surroundings.

The female’s head snapped to her left and she pointed wildly, a silent warning as she shouted.

Nixazar stood in the capsule, Quboth’s pistol gripped in one hand. The two demons were next to each other, between Quboth and Nixazar. Neither seemed concerned.

The muzzle flashed and one of the demons swayed slightly while the other stomped forward, unaffected by more hits from Nixazar. The demon grabbed Nixazar by the wrist and slammed him against the deck hard enough that Quboth felt the impact. The demon then raised a foot and crushed Nixazar’s helmet and the skull within.

“No!” Quboth crawled to the end of his coffin-like enclosure and beat against the glass.

The demon raised its foot and bits of violet brain matter fell off the heel. It tapped the boot against the side of his capsule to knock away more.

The cage walls went black, leaving him shut off from everything but his fear, his grief…and his screams.

****

“Zorig, you fucking idiot!” Solanus shouted, the volume from the speakers in her helmet stinging Yenin’s ears.

A biohazard warning flashed on the inside of her visor and Yenin’s world shrank down until all she could see was that bright-yellow icon.

“What? It’s just an indig,” the other Myrmidon said.

Yenin breathed faster. Her suit still read as contained, but if the icon went red, it meant that alien biological matter had breached her seals. According to her employment contract, any at-fault exposure to contagious substances meant a trip out the airlock or to the ash chamber.

“One we’re supposed to take alive for the sawbones.” Solanus stomped over to the dead Tyr and shook her head. “Why, Zorig? You too wired on the Red?”

Cisneros nudged her on the shoulder and Yenin snapped out of the moment.

“It shot me,” Zorig said, touching small silver splatters on his chest.

“A goddamn tickle.” Solanus slapped him upside his jester-faced helmet. “A mosquito fart against your armor.”

“Yeah, well, whoever’s in the head shed should’ve warned us the indigs were armed. Tripped my conditioning.” Zorig shrugged. “And so what? They want bio samples for immunity serum. This one’s still good.” He nudged the headless Tyr with his boot.

“Dump the body in the containment box and flash freeze it.” Solanus turned around and snapped fingers at Yenin. “You. Get the cleanup kit and scorch everything. Then do a total air flush and flood the compartment with antiseptic.”

“Aww,” said Zorig, grabbing the dead Tyr by the ankle and dragging him to the containment unit, leaving a trail of blood across the deck, “that shit makes my armor reek of bleach.”

“Fuck you, this is your fault.” Solanus pointed at Cisneros, saying, “Then you get a wrap around this hunk of junk.” She jerked a thumb at the capsule. “Director might want to sell this to a collector. You’ll get a micro percentage.”

Zorig shoved the corpse into a separate capsule from the living Tyr and Yenin sealed it up from her panel.

“Pilots, get us back to the Matsui.” Solanus walked toward the fore of the shuttle, and the other Myrmidon followed.

“Ugh, I can practically smell it.” Cisneros knelt down and opened a compartment. He handed Yenin a blow torch with a long nozzle and a spray bottle, then took out a roll of plastic wrap with silver flecks in it. “I’d offer to switch but…you heard her.”

Yenin felt like her feet were stuck in concrete, but she forced a step around the back of the containment unit and thumbed the activation switch on the scorcher. The alien’s blood was the wrong color. She’d gotten a decent enough look at the other one…and he hadn’t seemed too different, except for the skin coloring and eyes.

A white flame sparked at the end of the scorcher and she ran it over the smeared blood, tiny bits of grey matter and flecks of white in the milieu. The thump of fists and feet against the walls of the containment unit felt like they hit her in the chest.

“I hate my job,” she said, running the scorcher over more bloodstains.

Chapter 16

Daniel parked on the shoulder of a dirt road where twelve-foot-high stalks of ambary plants swayed in the mid-afternoon breeze. The crop stretched as far as he could see, the only break at a narrow path just ahead of where he stopped. A single rusted-out mailbox teetered atop a wooden post, hanging on by a lone nail.

He adjusted his Blooded uniform, a knee-length tunic with riding boots, adorned with little more than the basic training bands and ribbons that any of-age man of the warrior caste might have. This was by design; the fewer hints to his false persona, the fewer details he could mess up. A scroll went under one arm and he donned a wide-brim hat.

Noticing there was no name on the mailbox as he walked past it, he headed down the narrow road, the close rows of ambary forming a canyon that undulated with the breeze. At the end of the path was a small farmhouse, smoke rising from an outdoor oven.

Daniel stopped at the end of the path, careful not to step foot onto the gravel that made up a parking spot for an older-model truck and the base for a rusty piece of equipment. Doing so without permission of the home owner was asking for a shotgun blast in the face out in the countryside.

The sound of wood clacking against wood came from behind the house.

“By your leave!” Daniel called out. “By your leave with business from the King!”

The clacking stopped.

“Back here.”

Daniel gave the house a wide berth as he came around. A coop full of stubby lizard-birds hissed at him and the smell of feces-laden straw stung his nose.

He found a single Tyr behind the house, piles of cut ambary next to him in a wagon. He was shirtless, and the warrior caste markings ran black down his spine and across the bottom of his lower ribs. He had scars—a jagged one across his flank from shrapnel, two puckers on his chest and back from bullets. His hands and arms were a mishmash of silver and scar grey. He slammed down the top of a wooden tool, cut into interlocking wedges the length of a man’s leg, and crushed segments of ambary, cracking the woody exterior and exposing fibers within. He carried the fibers, wheat-colored strands in a mass like a horse’s tail, to a stand with thin spikes, slammed the fibers into the spikes, then drew them out with a puff of dust.

“You going to help or just gawp at me, young blood?” he asked as he wrung the strands through the spikes over and over again.

“General Fastal Svar’Kut,” Daniel said.

The man paused, then went back to work. “No, wrong guy. Piss off.”

“General Fastal, orders from the King.” Daniel held out the scroll.

“Fastal?” The Tyr tossed the fibers into a pile and sat on his back porch, sweat pouring from his body. “You think that guy would be out in these sticks, breaking ambary and getting paid by weight? He’s dead. Gods judge him well. You some sort of highborn new blood? Maybe your kin don’t like you much, sent you out here to mess with you, see if you’d get your ass beat by a farmer for snooping around his daughter, eh?”

“You live alone,” Daniel said. “The last King—gods judge him rightly—had your death faked after a series of assassinations following the Just War. Now King Menicus calls you back to duty.”

“Bronto shit.” The Tyr reached into a tin bucket filled with icy water and took out a glass bottle. He snapped off the cap with his bare hand and threw it into the coop. “Everyone knows Menicus loves peace. If I was Fastal, why would he want me?”

“Because the kingdom needs you.” Daniel offered the scroll to him and gave it a gentle shake.

The Tyr hesitated, then snatched it away. He pulled a ribbon jutting out from a thin slit and drew out parchment bearing handwritten orders, sealed with wax.

“Fort Bagad? For a hoax, you think you’d trick me into going all the way back to King’s Rest or—”

“That’s where the kingdom has the nuclear weapon stockpile,” Daniel said. “You’re to travel there as soon as possible and take command of the garrison. The safety of those weapons is your responsibility now, General Fastal.”

“So that’s where they went.” Fastal released the ribbon and the parchment snapped back into the scroll. “We going to war against the heretics?”

“I don’t…have all the details,” Daniel said. “But the security of those weapons is important to the King.”

“He brings me out of retirement to babysit a cave.” Fastal took a swig from the bottle then went to the coop and kicked the door open. “Out! Out, you little shits!”

The creatures hissed as they bolted out. They gathered in a flock at the edge of the ambary fields, then vanished into the rows.

“We study you at my clan’s crucible,” Daniel said. “What you did at the Battle of Vinta Gap was—”

“A mistake.” Fastal drank more. “I let a column of Slaver refugees slip through my lines and to ships that evacuated them to their home islands.”

“You broke their last army, letting the civilians—”

“They all died in the fires!” Fastal hurled the bottle at Daniel and it struck him in the shoulder, spraying him with beer. “If I’d stopped them, they would all be alive in a camp. They’d be Indentured now, but they’d still be alive. Did Menicus ever finish that painting? The one where I’m watching the mushroom clouds stitch death down the Slaver lands?”

“I don’t know.” Daniel rubbed his shoulder and brushed flecks of foam off his tunic.

“Sorry…sorry, young blood. I’ve had too much time to think about what happened. My livestock aren’t much for conversation.” Fastal pushed the bucket over, spilling icy water and bottles across the ground. “No use feeling sorry for myself, is there? The kingdom really needs me?”

“More than you know,” Daniel said.

“I still…still got a uniform inside. You my ride?”

“No, sir, for your safety, you can’t be seen traveling with me. Your truck can make the drive in one tank. Present the orders at the gate and the garrison commander will have you kitted out,” Daniel said.

“What clan are you? I can’t place your accent.” Fastal stood up and scratched the scar on his flank.

“Not one with your history. Their gaze upon you.” Daniel saluted by touching his fingertips to his brows, then left.

Chapter 17

Quboth lay on a slab in total darkness, the cold creeping through his space suit. His helmet lay on his chest, and he tapped against the jagged fragments of his visor.

The count kept time, an old military trick to combat boredom during long, dull periods. Just what had happened to him? Where was he? Who had taken him? There were no answers.

There was a snap and something grabbed him by both wrists and ankles. He struggled, but his limbs slammed into the slate. The box over him rose and bright lights pierced his eyelids.

“Calm down,” a voice said in Tyr, carrying an odd Linker accent.

Quboth cocked his head to one side.

A metal hand blocked the light, grabbed him by the forehead, and forced his head down. The lights mellowed, and he made out a metal skeleton with cameras for a face and a screen across the chest.

Quboth grunted and tried to fight, but the robot held him firm.

“I said calm down.” Hower’s voice sounded through the screen. “You’re Quboth, right? The first Tyr to break the sound barrier in a jet. I thought I recognized you.”

“What-what is this?” Quboth grunted as a metal band went over his forehead and tightened so hard that his ears pulsed with blood.

“Congratulations.” A smiley face appeared on the screen. “You’re the first Tyr to knowingly have contact with an alien race. Lot to take in, I get it. But you’re a smart man and you’ve likely figured this all out already. We want you to go back to your people, but your vitals are all over the place from stress, naturally.”

“You killed—you killed—”

“Hush. Nothing’s going to change that. It helps to know what’s about to happen to you. It should stop your heart from exploding out of fear. We need something from you, Quboth. Doesn’t require any effort. Just know that it’ll end after a bit of pain.”

“What do you want from me?” Quboth tried to control his breathing but began to hyperventilate.

“Blood. We need your blood,” Hower said.

The robot snapped up a hand and three needles popped out of the fingers.

Quboth screamed.

****

“Ms. Argent. I need you.” Zike’s voice woke Molly and she flew out of bed to a waiting set of clothes and her vanity station.

“Yes, Director, I can be at your location and presentable in six minutes. Is this an emergency?” She slipped a caffeine wafer into her mouth and the effects cancelled any notion of sleep within seconds.

“Six minutes.”

Molly rushed into Corporate-approved outfit number thirty-seven: a black knee-length skirt with matching jacket and white blouse that were tight over her midsection and hips. She leaned close to the vanity, and cameras within the glass adjusted the makeup pigments implanted in her skin to match Zike’s tastes. He was fond of a sun-kissed look and long lashes. As she stepped into high heels and picked up a data slate on her way out of her quarters, a small drone lifted off the table and kept pace a foot behind her left shoulder.

She arrived in Zike’s chambers exactly six minutes after he’d spoken his last words to her.

The director lounged in a high-backed, well-padded chair. He was shirtless, his statuesque figure something to behold, even in his relaxed state. IV lines ran from his elbows, armpits, and wrists into the floor beneath his seat, cycling out his blood. Thumb-sized drones flitted around his face and torso, repairing micro abrasions and other small imperfections.

A fiber-optic cable was plugged into a data port just behind his left ear.

Standing nearby was a holo of Hulegu. The Compliance officer’s long hair was unkempt, the pale red glow from his cyber-eye growing and waning as it tapped in to whatever feed the director was on.

“We’re off the record still.” Zike gently raised the fingers of one hand and Molly’s dictation drone floated into her palm and deactivated. “But get ready for a profit-and-loss report for the record.”

“Naturally, sir.” Molly smiled.

“She one of the help with benefits?” Hulegu looked her over.

Anger grew in Molly’s chest. The Executive Assistant branch of Bahadur-Getty was renowned across human space for its professionalism and perfection of execution. For that brute to even insinuate that she was some manner of—

“Standard issue. I prefer competence over distraction,” Zike said.

“Bah. You can teach them to type. You can’t teach them to grow tits.” Hulegu winked at her.

Molly seethed, but this was an off-the-record conversation and she knew Corporate’s policy on such harassment from Compliance—chiefly that Compliance was immune to any such complaints during the course of their duties. She’d been warned about what precautions to take when the mercenaries were nearby.

“On the record.” Zike blinked one eye and holos appeared before Zike for Molly to see. “P&L assessment number six-epsilon. Indigenous population estimates were incorrect. Upwards of three billion are present. Compliance estimate?”

“Total elimination with available resources will take up to three hundred days,” Hulegu said. “I’ve requested to use larger-yield munitions on population centers, which will bring indigenous to near extinction within two hundred days. Sweep and clear of those that bed down in rural areas another twenty-one days.”

Molly recorded everything they said and pulled in the relevant data overlays. She paused for a moment…did they really mean extinction for the Tyr?

“Request denied as per client request,” Zike said. “No one wants to colonize a planet with a decade of nuclear winter ahead of it.”

“Or one burnt to a crisp, isn’t that right, Director?” Hulegu chuckled.

“Strike that from the record.” The corner of Zike’s right eye twitched. “Argent, insert the cost-benefit analysis of the extended elimination.” He touched a holo screen and tossed it to her. “Projections are beyond initial estimates.”

“Don’t blame me,” Hulegu said, shrugging. “My troops are paid by the hour and by the kill.”

“As client specifications bring us outside the profitability window, it allows us some latitude in contract execution. Option one: Establish a buffer zone around the initial colony locations and move indigenous sentients onto reservations. Extinction in twenty-two years unless we can sustain their costs through tourism or labor.”

“Combined Terran Governments don’t like outliers,” Hulegu said.

“The CTG doesn’t subsidize our expenses,” Zike aid. “Option two: We utilize other nation-states to accelerate the population decline through a proxy conflict and follow on with the reservation system. End state achieved in seven years, depending on casualty rates.”

“Note my objection as we don’t have solid intelligence on the nuclear munition capability of the ‘Worthy People’ political entity,” Hulegu said.

“Noted.” Molly smiled, then she furrowed her brow. “Sir? May I suggest we include Professor Hower in the discussion? I’m anticipating the central office’s questions, as they’re known to—”

“Hower declined to participate,” Zike said flatly. “Do up a prospectus for Tyr reservations. Traditional village areas for tourism. Domestic help.”

“The Emerald Isle option,” Hulegu said. “Colonists purchase land and an indigenous population with it.”

“Not cost-effective; there are no resources worth what we’d charge an investor,” Zike said.

“Don’t put it past some of the more…creative clients. There are plenty out there who’d pay a fortune to buy a decent-sized island and play god with the inhabitants. Plus, those so inclined will hire Compliance officers as security.”

“Looking to retire?” Zike asked.

“Maybe. Maybe, but I do get a percentage off any of my men who’re hired away.”

“Include that as an addendum,” Zike said. “Moving off the record.”

“Off the record,” Molly said, scribbling down a final note.

Zike flicked his hand up and a holo panel zoomed in on a coastal area. “We may have a black swan event that can keep us deeper in the black,” he said to Hulegu.

“The survey ship we lost?” Hulegu stroked his chin. “You denied the personnel recovery.”

Molly raised an eyebrow. The official report on the loss had all the crew as killed in action.

“I did. Not economically viable to do the recovery, cheaper to write off the sunk cost.” Zike tapped his armrest and graphs appeared around a coastal city. “Given what the xeno-biologists have gleaned from the sample we took from orbit, there’s a potential r-naught of nineteen and a case-fatality rate of ninety-two percent.”

“Convenient,” Hulegu sneered. “And could prove risky to us. A pathogen is the greatest threat to operations and—”

“Monitor the area. I’ll authorize a sample collection if things get out of hand. And if they do, it opens up a number of contract loopholes that can accelerate our timetable and leave us free and clear of any legal repercussions from the client,” Zike said.

“The Dauphin might consider herself the highest legal authority when she arrives,” Hulegu said. “You want to get on her bad side?”

“I have a Compliance division with me. She does not. Care to do that math?”

“Fine by me, Director. I’m paid by the hour and by the kill.”

“Back on record,” Zike said. “Argent, put the profit-and-loss report together and have it to me in…four hours.”

“Yes, sir. My pleasure.” Sliding her hands down her skirt, she bowed then left Zike’s quarters and leaned her back against a bulkhead. The data projections were still swimming in her mind. Billions of the aliens were marked for death, and Zike did it all as casually as one might browse real estate listings.

Now she had to put the report together, justifying the profits and expenses to the company in just a few hours. This was not what she’d trained for at the Executive Assistant academy. She’d heard rumors about the Corporation’s colonial division…but nothing like this.

“Not now, Molly.” She composed herself and walked back to her quarters with the same catwalk strut expected of her. “Professional and perfection of execution. Professional and…”

Chapter 18

Hower rapped on the glass on Quboth’s isolation tube and the Tyr astronaut within snapped awake. The alien screamed, the sound barely making it through the tube.

Hower shook his head slightly and pressed a comms button. “Hey in there, let’s calm down now,” he said in Tyr, and that seemed to get through to Quboth.

“I can’t—can’t breathe!” Quboth shouted.

“Your blood oxygenation levels are elevated, so you are indeed breathing just fine. You’re in the middle of a panic attack and I want you to remember all your astronaut training,” Hower said.

“You think they trained us for this?”

“No, but what should you do when your body panics from stress?” Hower asked, adjusting the filter on the view port over Quboth’s face so that the Tyr could see him.

Quboth took a deep breath and held it, then forced it out a moment later. His vitals calmed to a slightly elevated heart rate.

“There…much better,” Hower said.

“Why do my bones hurt?”

“Because we needed the marrow to manufacture Tyr blood and associated antibodies. Our serum production is on schedule, might not need another donation from you. But your immune system is compromised, so I’ve got you sealed up nice and tight in an iso-tube. The crew has a few diseases that’ll make the Blue Pox feel like mild indigestion.”

“Donation,” Quboth sneered.

“Pishposh with the semantics…I do have something to show you.” Hower turned and tapped commands into a wall panel. Double doors slid open and Quboth gasped.

The main hangar of the Leopold was several square miles in volume. Tracks crisscrossed the ceiling where mechanical loaders with giant paired forklifts removed cargo containers from towering racks. The loaders shuttled the containers to landing pads marked by thick yellow lines on the deck. The container touched the ground, then the contents of giant boxy machines with several multi-jointed arms rolled out to where a crewman in fatigues performed a quick inspection.

The side hull of the cargo bay was open to the void, the surrounding nebula diffused to the star-studded space over the dark side of the moon Kleegar.

Construction drones rose on anti-grav engines, then floated out of the ship.

“Why aren’t we dead?” Quboth asked. “Open space…”

“Triple-redundant force fields,” Hower said. “Invisible walls that you can pass through if you’re broadcasting the right frequency. Which keeps the air in and me breathing quite comfortably. This is one of five cargo bays aboard this ship.”

“It’s…incredible.”

“Isn’t it? We’re sending construction bots toward Tyr right now. If you watch the moon, you might see some of the polymer shipments, fusion reactors, etc., etc. This ship’s on the smaller scale of colony vessels. The Migration class can relocate up to five million at a time, but the strain on the quantum gates tends to leave a system isolated for years after a passage. There’s a story that one of the big movers suffered a system failure above one world. Crashed on a marginally habitable planet with most of the colonists surviving. Follow-on mission found them all living as savages in treetops, raiding each other for food as the local planets lacked enzymes and—”

“Why? Why are you showing this to me?”

“So you…so you know just what we’re capable of, Quboth. When we send you home, they’ll ask what you saw. The inside of an iso-tube and a few doc bots isn’t going to help your situation or ours.”

“You can build…but can you fight too?”

“I’m afraid that demonstration is already underway, or will be soon. When we tell you that we’re building cities within days, no Tyr will believe us. But now that you’ve seen this…what do you notice? I’ve always wondered how fresh eyes perceive it.”

“We have lifts and vehicles to move material, but nothing like this.” Quboth leaned closer to the glass of his upright tube. “Launchers on aircraft carriers…how do the grippers know which box to get?”

“Computers. Computers, my friend. The Tyr are just barely beginning to grasp what they’re capable of. The processing power in this watch is magnitudes greater than the total capability of your planet.”

“There’s no chance for us to win if we do fight, is there?” Quboth’s face fell.

“No, I’m afraid there’s not. Which is one of the conclusions I hoped you’d come to.”

“You have a Linker’s accent, why?”

“I lived among you for many years. More of a botanist and zoologist than a Linker, but I had to get around.”

“Then why do you hate us so much?”

The question caught Hower by surprise. “Hate? I don’t know if that’s the word—”

“You murdered Nixazar. I can still feel the needles in my gut. Now you’re sending soldiers and builders. It’s an invasion. Are you going to kill us all or have the decency to keep the breeding-age females alive like the Slavers used to do?”

“This isn’t…isn’t me, Quboth. I’m just a small cog in an immense machine. The Tyr are—well, your people are unique, so perhaps a long-term agreement is possible. The Slavers will get what they deserve—I hope that happens. To hell with those brutes.”

“So you’ll kill the women and the children too.”

“Not—I don’t have all those answers. Look, I brought you here to dazzle you with technology that no Tyr has even dreamed of, and all you can think about is…” Hower sighed. “I’m sorry.” The scientist shook his head. “I lived as a Tyr for a time, now I’m human again and I’ve lost my old perspective. Do you want to see more or are you going to keep needling me into depressing topics?”

“Just take me back to your lab or…”

“You don’t want to go to the lab, trust me on that. How about a viewing platform? Look out to the Far Darkness and I can tell you about stars and the history of our space travel. That interest you?”

Quboth smacked dry lips. “How…how did you solve the problem of getting back into orbit after landing on a moon with little atmosphere and low gravity?” he asked.

“Ah, now that answer may surprise you…Come to the observation deck.”

Chapter 19

Lussea Aib’Pyth adjusted her veil as she stepped off a bus, the new accessory to her wardrobe proving to be more of a nuisance than anything. The sheer fabric masked the golden tint to her cheeks, and while it was meant to keep of-age males from noticing that she was on the cusp of a fertile season…the veil itself seemed to draw more attention than a bit of color ever would.

Plenty of Tyr women went without veils, in season or not, but just because her father was a constable and her mother of a different caste than her, she had to go through extra effort for appearances.

Lussea gripped the edge of her veil and almost ripped it off and threw it into a garbage bin. But that would be noticed on the busy street, and somehow word would get back to her father. He always found out. Always.

She sighed and checked the signs for the matchmaker’s office that her mother had selected for her.

“This isn’t fair,” she whined and started down the sidewalk.

“Psst,” came from beside a toy shop. Her heart skipped a beat when she recognized Michael. He waved her over, and after quickly scanning the street for any constables, she pulled the veil tight across her face and hopped over a puddle and into the alley.

“Michael!” She hugged him and nuzzled him just below his ear. He pushed her back gently, then pressed a hand to where she’d touched him skin to skin.

“What’s wrong? I thought that was our thing?” she pouted.

“It is, it is…has your dad said anything about…anything?” he asked.

“Wow, it’s so good to see you too, especially after I was told your father was getting your family reassigned to some other city so we couldn’t be together.” Her anger rose and she stifled it back with tears. “Sorry. Sorry. It’s some sort of hormone thing my mom told me about. It’s not your fault, but it is. And it will always be your fault and—where have you been?”

Michael, slightly taken aback, held his palms up to her. “I can’t really explain, but you need to get you and your parents out of the city,” he said.

Lussea blinked. “You need to explain.”

“We went to the Linker moot and…we heard news from Linkers in the heretic lands. There’s a war coming, and King’s Rest is the first place they’re going to attack.”

“I thought Linkers couldn’t share Linker information with anyone but Linkers.” She put her hands on her hips. “You’re just begging to be exiled, aren’t you? Wait—is this your plan?” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, no, Lussea, it’s not like that…oh, you’re even more beautiful with the veil.” He clasped her hands. “You need to get your family out of the city. Get some canned food, iodine tablets for water and…toilet paper. Lots and lots of toilet paper. You won’t believe how important that gets when people start to panic.”

“You’re not making any sense,” she said, “but look.” She removed the veil and showed him each cheek. “I’m actually here to see a matchmaker. I don’t want to. She’ll probably try and send me off to some knuckle-dragging infantry clan. You’re here to save me from all that, right?” She intertwined her fingers with his and leaned forward to kiss him.

Michael pulled back, gave her hands a quick squeeze, and then gently released them.

“I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry, Lussea. Just get your family out while you still can.” He turned and ran down the alley.

“Michael? Michael!” Lussea reached for him, but he darted around a corner. Gone.

Chapter 20

“Play it again.” King Mencius clasped his hands behind his back and looked out the window of his office to the surrounding city as night fell. The King’s full cabinet were there, along with Elsime at her post, the tip of her quill dancing over a scroll.

Ciolsi hit rewind on a tape recorder then clicked another button.

“What is that,” Nixazar said, his words laden with hisses and pops. “Control, we’ve got some sort of anomaly out—”

“Mission, say again? Mission, you’ve disappeared from radar, status report. Mission?”

“Then it’s thirty more minutes of attempts to reestablish contact,” Ciolsi said. “The capsule vanished. No radar hits from anywhere across the kingdom. No sighting of the pod burning on reentry…no transponder beacons…nothing.”

“The heretics know,” Hawn’ru said. “They have the same radar capabilities we do, and they could pick up the transponder signal as well.”

“Let’s not…the space vessel and the abduction—because that’s what it is—have to be connected,” Menicus said. “Any debate over this?”

Hawn’ru and Ciolsi couldn’t even look at each other.

“I want a meeting with the First Among Equals. Passada,” the King said.

Matron Virid raised a hand. “Sire, you do that and—”

“And Speaker Osuda’s head will explode. If the gods let him come back from his communion.” Menicus gestured at the high priest’s empty seat. “But this looks more like a threat to all Tyr with each passing moment. Send a message,” he said to Ciolsi. “Meet here. Neutral territory. Just get it set up quickly.”

“As you wish, sire,” Ciolsi said. “We can’t keep the loss of the astronauts hidden for long. They were scheduled to land in two days.”

“They’re lost in space. Another worthy sacrifice to the space program.” The King shook his head. “What will the people do if they know what we know?”

“This is one time I want the priests around to answer,” Hawn’ru said. “Pandemonium, by my guess. The worker caste will probably run for the hills or flood the temples. We should get the army on the streets before that happens. Having the reserves called up will help. End the field exercises.”

“Yes, the reserves, and recall Prince Riktan. Get him back to the capital right away and…wait…” The King sat at his desk. “No, keep Riktan away. I’ll speak to him as soon as he’s back in a secure location.”

“It will be done,” Hawn’ru said.

“And deploy the nuclear stockpile.” The King looked up to the incomplete painting.

“About that…” Hawn’ru turned to an aide and took a rigid brown folder from him, which he opened and placed in front of the King. A single fax sheet fastened to metal clasps was within. “It appears that you recalled General Fastal from retirement to take command of Mount Bagad.”

“I did what?” The King ripped the fax out and held it up to the light. “That’s my seal…and done by my scribe. Wait—is Fastal at the weapons depot?”

“He’s at the weapons depot and has lit one hell of a fire underneath everyone there,” Hawn’ru said. “Blooded clans are already asking to send their best sons to serve under him. Amazing how fast that news managed to spread.”

The room full of the kingdom’s senior leaders turned to stare at Elsime. She glanced up from her scroll, then tried to shrink away behind the ink wells and parchment.

“Let me see.” Virid snatched the fax away. “This was written by the last royal scribe,” she said. “Different calligraphy.”

“She’s at a birthing center in the Azure Islands,” Ciolsi said. “Surrounded around the clock by nurses and doctors. She didn’t write the orders, I’m certain of it.”

“A forgery, but it’s perfect,” Virid said. “Impossible.”

“We keep using that word,” the King said, fluttering a hand overhead toward the sky, “yet the impossible is becoming quite the norm, isn’t it?”

“First, someone sends my cipher to a telescope and we learn about the vessel,” Hawn’ru said. “Now a war hero’s put back into play at a critical location.”

“Someone knows us,” Ciolsi spat. “Someone with access to everything we know. Fastal was officially dead, but they knew exactly where we’d shunted him away for his own protection. The seal. The writing…wait…” He squinted his eyes at Elsime. “But they’re not in this room. They would’ve used her to…give me a minute.”

“But they must be trying to help us,” Virid said. “If someone could both access the Castle and fake orders from the King…they could be wreaking havoc right now.”

“The hand of the Hidden?” said one of the worker caste union reps from the back of the room.

“That…is the best explanation,” Ciolsi said. “We need to end surveillance on all the places we suspect sent that first message to the Castle and raid them all. Figure out who’s behind this.”

“Do it,” Menicus said.

“And Fastal?” Hawn’ru asked.

“If ever we were going to need him again…this is the time. Let the recall order stand. Word gets out that perfect forgeries of my seal and signature are out there and commanders will second-guess everything they’re told,” Menicus said. “I need to prepare a speech to the nation. Tell them about our lost astronauts. The rest of you ready your departments for war.”

Chapter 21

“Yes, it has to be all gold. Do you think I was kidding about that?” Hower asked a visibly perturbed Argent. They were in the upper passageways of the Leopold not far from Zike’s quarters and the main boardroom.

“Our client has particular issues with anyone but her wearing that color,” Argent said, tapping her foot. “The Dauphin could construe that wardrobe choice as a slight, and if that’s the basis for a negative review during her exit interview, Corporate will pin the blame on me.”

“You’re the one that established Tyr religious iconography?” Hower asked.

“Well, no. But perhaps if we went with a different angle?” Argent turned a slate around. Zike was on the screen in robes of silver and black.

“He looks like a cow.” Hower shook his head.

“Do the Tyr hold bovines in any particular reverence? Because I spent hours on this and the cut on the fabric will accentuate his trapezius muscles, which is the aspect of the director’s physique that he is most proud of,” she said.

Hower stared at her with a blank face.

“He told me himself.” She raised her nose slightly.

“Tyr mythology begins with their gods placing them on the planet at the Obsidian Dolmen. You remember that from my last briefing?”

Argent rolled her eyes.

“And their mythology ends when the same gods return to the same Obsidian Dolmen to render final judgment on the Tyr. In both instances, the One Above All is in gold robes. Not chessboard colors, not a tasteful floral pattern. Gold. Robes. The director’s keeping me aboard this ship as a subject-matter expert. There’s my subject-matter expert advice. If he doesn’t want to follow it, then maybe he can send me through the wormhole in a shuttle and I can get on with my life. Hmm?”

“Back to the client’s reaction to the director crimping on her brand,” Argent said.

“Change the color of the recording in post? Is the Dauphin going to interrogate Tyr survivors—if there are any by the time she arrives—to make sure that the-the fashion police were enforcing her tastes? Or we…” Hower leaned forward slightly. “…we just tell the client the truth about what we did.”

“Oh no, the truth is against company policy when it might upset the client,” Argent said.

“Somehow that doesn’t come as a surprise,” Hower deadpanned.

“Make way,” came from down the passageway. A pair of Myrmidons had Quboth’s isolation tube on a dolly behind them. The mercenaries cleared a path through the ship’s crew and others waiting for the next board meeting.

“Where are you taking him?” Hower ran over to the isolation tube and glanced at the one-way view port over the Tyr astronaut’s face. The alien within was awake, shouting, though no sound could escape the tube.

“Boss wants him.” Solanus sniffed and rubbed her nose.

“The director never said anything about that to me.” Hower reached for the control bar on the dolly, but Solanus slapped his hand away.

“I said the boss, not the director,” she said. “Don’t worry. Just a little playtime.”

“‘Playtime’? This individual has just finished biome acclimatization. Do you know how painful that is?”

“So long as we don’t have to ash him and he doesn’t get us ashed, who cares?” Solanus led the dolly to the end of the passageways, where the bulkheads were decorated with marketing posters for Myrmidon recruitment and other highly edited images of the mercenaries in action.

“He is not a toy!” Hower tugged against the back of the dolly as it floated on a low anti-grav cushion through a wide set of doors.

Inside were training mats and an octagonal fighting ring. Myrmidons with their fatigue tops off, some sweaty and wearing thin fighting gloves, were seated around the ring.

Hulegu was in the center, his arms in a headlock on another mercenary. The other’s face was beet red, his mouth open and tongue sticking through his teeth as he fought to breathe. The merc tapped Hulegu’s cyborg arm, but Hulegu kept the hold.

“I catch you pulling punches on your sparring partner again, I’ll do worse than put you to sleep.” Hulegu held on until his opponent’s eyes rolled up and he went limp.

Hulegu pushed the unconscious man away. His face smacked hard against the mat and a tooth went flying. The crowd laughed.

Hulegu nudged the prone man’s leg with his foot and leaned over him.

“He’s breathing. Somebody drag him out and wake him up before even more brain damage sets in.” Hulegu put his hands on his hips. His body was thick with muscle, none of it shaped for the sake of pleasing the eye.

Pockmarked bullet-wound scars stitched a line across his abdomen. Grafted skin the texture of running wax covered most of one thigh, and one knee creaked from the replacement beneath cheap plastic skin covering the joint. The red lens of his false eye snapped back and forth as he looked over his Myrmidons, searching for his next opponent. Or victim.

Hower fought down disgust. Cosmetic surgery to repair such damage was pitifully inexpensive on most major worlds, and was even covered by Corporate health insurance. Hulegu chose to wear his wounds like a trophy.

“Boss, got it for you.” Solanus knocked on the tube’s view port like she was trying to get the attention of an animal in a tank.

“It’s had its shots?” Hulegu asked her.

“Leaf-eater says so.” She reached behind the tube and hauled Hower out where Hulegu could get a good look at him. The Myrmidons chuckled at the scientist.

“We’ve all got the serum, no worries.” Hulegu shuffled from side to side, shadowboxing.

“Mr. Hulegu, what is the meaning of all this?” Hower asked.

“You said this one’s a fighter, right?” Hulegu leaned against the fencing on the ring, then crouched and went into a roll. “I want to fight it.”

“He’s…he’s un-Blooded. Trained but not a combat veteran,” Hower said. “What possible reason could you have for this? He’s weak from all the medical procedures and—”

“If we’re going to kill them off, I want to know what we’re dealing with. Bad enough one of our leaf-eaters is in the indigs’ ear. Maybe we can get this one working for us too, eh? Let him out.” Hulegu backed up and put his arms out in a T-pose to grip the fence.

Solanus entered a code into the isolation tube.

“You’re not going to get his cooperation by-by punching him!” Hower shouted as the Myrmidons chuckled and crept closer to the ring.

Hulegu picked up a small cylinder on the mat next to a water bottle and flicked the top open. He pressed a small nozzle to his nose and sniffed hard. Mercenaries around the ring followed suit, most snorting, others putting small ampules to their throat, injecting their drug of choice.

“Whew, now we’re ready!” Hulegu hopped from side to side, his face going flush, his eyes red.

The tube opened and the Myrmidons began shouting, shaking the ring’s fencing as antiseptic mist cleared around the alien.

Quboth shrank back, and Hower felt a moment of pity for the alien. To come out of the tube and be surrounded by shrieking “aliens”…not a moment he would wish on anyone.

“Come on over!” Hulegu beat his gloved knuckles together and waved to Quboth. “Tell him what’s what, leaf-eater. Hurry before my buzz fades.”

Quboth tried to press himself deeper into the tube, a look of fear on his face.

The Myrmidons started hooting, making faces and shaking the fence even harder.

“You have to fight him,” Hower spoke in Tyr and stepped forward so the astronaut could see him.

“What’s happening? I don’t—” Quboth relaxed a bit when he recognized Hower.

“Hurry. Up!” Hulegu began pacing back and forth, hands on his hips.

“He is a clan lord and he wants to fight you. You want to live? Fight hard. Hurt him. He thinks you’re weak and he’ll kill you out of disappointment. Do you understand?” Hower asked.

A water bottle flew between them and bounced off the open side of the tube.

“Fight!” Hower grabbed Quboth by the front of his abused space suit and hauled him out of the tube and into the ring. Solanus shut the cage door and leered at Quboth, whose jaw had dropped open at the sight of her.

Hower made a mental note that this was the first time Quboth had seen a human female.

“Get in there, domino!” Solanus shook the fence and snarled at Quboth.

“What’re we dealing with, huh?” Hulegu kept his fists at waist level as he shuffled around Quboth. “This what most of their fighters look like? Skinny and timid?”

He feinted a jab at Quboth’s face and the alien flinched back.

Myrmidons chuckled.

“Kick the shit out of him, boss!” came from the crowd.

Hulegu kicked at Quboth’s thigh, but the alien hopped back. The crowed ooed and awed.

“Fight him, Quboth, please!” Hower shouted.

Hulegu lunged forward and snapped a punch into Quboth’s mouth that sent him backpedaling into the fence. A Myrmidon kicked him in the back and sent him sprawling onto the mat.

Hulegu jumped up and made an exaggerated pose as he dropped an elbow toward the back of Quboth’s neck. The Tyr rolled away and Hulegu landed heavily on his side. He propped a knee up and mimed feeding himself grapes, much to the crowd’s amusement.

Quboth was on one knee, breathing hard. He looked back and saw Hower next to the tube. The scientist’s arms were crossed, his gaze elsewhere.

“What is this? What is wrong with that one?” Quboth asked.

“He want mercy already?” Hulegu laughed. “Don’t tell him how to tap out. Won’t do him any good.”

“He’s…he’s like a Slaver, Quboth. You know the story of Mou’gh after the sack of Vinica? Fight him!”

Hower hoped the famous Blooded tale of a warrior captured by the Slavers and forced to fight their champions would stir some aggression in the Tyr. He didn’t need Quboth to remember that the tale ended with Mou’gh crucified after killing a Slaver chieftain’s son, but that the famed warrior had survived the slave pits for weeks before being murdered as the Slavers couldn’t kill him in a fair fight.

Quboth stood and adopted a fighting stance, forward knee bent to the foot barely touching the floor, hands raised slightly over his head with the bottom of his fists facing Hulegu.

“Now we’re talking,” Hulegu said and threw a jab-cross-hook combination that Quboth sidestepped. The Tyr snapped a kick at Hulegu’s midsection, but the mercenary bent slightly and took the hit on his outer arm.

“He hits like a kitten,” Hulegu announced and launched himself forward, arms spread, catching Quboth and pummeling him to the mat. Hulegu slammed his hands onto Quboth’s collar and belt, then hurled him into the fence to thunderous applause.

Quboth groaned and crawled forward.

“Boring!” Hulegu marched forward and raised a foot, ready to squash the life out of the alien with a single stomp.

Quboth pushed off the fence and rolled clear of the stomp. He got to his feet, then slapped his palms against the front of his space suit.

The crowd went nuts, and a few Myrmidons pulled themselves onto the top of the fence, screaming bloody murder.

“Now we’re talking.” Hulegu threw an overhead punch at Quboth. The Tyr raised an elbow and Hulegu’s knuckles struck the bone. Hulegu snarled and dropped the arm to one side, his hand twitching.

Quboth punched Hulegu in the jaw then followed with an elbow that slapped into Hulegu’s solar plexus.

Hulegu took the hits like he didn’t even feel them, then reached back with an open hand and slapped Quboth in the side of the head.

Hower winced at the sound and Quboth’s knees went rubbery.

Hulegu hit him with an uppercut to the gut that bent the Tyr at the waist and knocked the air from his lungs. He grabbed Quboth by the front of his suit and held him up as he beat the Tyr’s face with his other hand.

Quboth fell back, blood dribbling from split lips and a broken nose.

Hulegu dropped him like a piece of garbage and turned to the crowd, encouraging them to cheer even louder.

Quboth rolled onto his hands and knees, his violet blood spattering against the mat.

“Stay down.” Hower went to the floor to look Quboth in the eyes. “He’s had his fun and now all you have to do is—”

Quboth spat out a tooth and used the fence to pull himself back onto his feet.

Hulegu turned around, hands on his hips and a wicked smile on his face.

“He still wants to play!” Hulegu reared back and swung his right hand in a circle, showboating for the crowd. He launched the punch that was so telegraphed that Hower was confident even he could’ve dodged it.

Quboth stepped forward at an angle and used Hulegu’s own forward momentum to add force to his elbow strike. Hulegu took the hit square between the eyes and his feet and lower body kept moving forward. Hulegu caught himself before he completely lost his balance.

Quboth landed a flurry of punches onto both of Hulegu’s floating ribs, earning a grunt of pain from the Myrmidon. The Tyr swept a kick into the back of Hulegu’s knee and sent him to the mat.

Hulegu thrust his hands out to stop his fall.

The crowd went silent as Quboth launched a kick up at Hulegu’s face.

Hulegu caught Quboth by the ankle and didn’t let go. He looked up at the Tyr and a single line of blood ran down the side of his nose. Hulegu jerked up and Quboth crashed against the mat. He hauled the Tyr up, dangling him like a caught fish in front of his Myrmidons, who were now screaming for blood, many giving him a thumbs-down gesture.

Hulegu punched Quboth hard in the stomach, then dumped him on the ground, still keeping a grip on the ankle. Hulegu stepped on Quboth’s throat, testing the pressure until he was sure the alien couldn’t breathe anymore.

“He’s got spirit.” Hulegu wiped a finger down his nose, then flicked the blood at Quboth’s face.

The Tyr struggled against the foot on his neck, but he was effectively pinned.

“Hulegu, he still might be useful!” Hower called out. “Stop, please!”

“Finish him!” Solanus shook the fence.

Hulegu looked down at Quboth, watching consciousness seep out of the Tyr’s eyes. He sneered and pressed harder.

“No!” Hower rushed into the ring and straight at Hulegu.

The Myrmidon backhanded Hower across the face. The blow spun him around and he crumpled against the mat, the smell of stale sweat and blood all encompassing.

“Bah.” Hulegu took his foot off Quboth and the crowd booed. Hulegu snapped his chin up and the disagreement ended. “Director might want a pet,” Hulegu said. “Showers, then to range for weapons qual.”

He stepped over Hower and left the ring.

Hower sat up a few seconds later, nursing a hot spot against his cheek and a very sore jaw. A clean towel sailed over the side of the ring and landed next to him. He wasn’t sure which of Hulegu’s men threw it.

“Quboth, are you OK?” Hower slid over to the Tyr, whose face was slowly expanding into swollen welts. Hower dabbed at the blood coming from Quboth’s nose and mouth.

“Did I hurt him?” Quboth asked.

“A little…for sure.” Hower worked his jaw, growing more and more certain that a tooth was loose. “But not too much.”

“Then I may die well in the gods’ sight.”

“No, Quboth, that’s not going to happen just yet. I need you to get back in the tube. Can you do that for me?” Hower got up and tried to lift the Tyr by his arm.

“So this can keep happening?” Quboth looked at him, one eye swollen shut and blood marring his caste markings. He took his arm back and pressed it against his side.

“Yes…I’m afraid so. Maybe…I’ll try and get you home, Quboth. Don’t give up on that, OK? The kingdom will need you. They need to know what you’ve seen.”

“You speak with a demon’s tongue and give a demon’s promise.” Quboth gave an old insult to the untrustworthy, then crawled back onto his feet and limped toward the isolation tube, refusing any help from Hower.

When Quboth was sealed away, Hower sank to the floor against the grav cart. He buried his face into his hands and fought the urge to cry.

Chapter 22

“Can you believe this bullshit?” Cisneros ran his thumbs down the inside of the belts securing him to a seat in the back of the cargo shuttle.

Yenin ran her fingers through her short blond hair. She sighed as drone sabots locked down see-through boxes, squat cylinders of survey drones in each one, like giant coins in a roll.

“You want to be on the other mission?” she asked. “Thought you didn’t like Myrmidons. Especially after that last one made you clean his boot.”

“See, the mermies are going on a snatch-and-grab. The indigs won’t know what hit them before they pop smoke and hit orbit again. These indigs are barely capable of space flight—you saw that tin can of theirs.”

“What’s your point?”

“They’re going to poke the bear. Kick the beehive. Piss the hell out of the indigs while we’re dropping drones over the big ocean. What if they get their act together fast enough to hit us?”

“Please,” Yenin said, rolling her eyes. “We’re going to be skirting the troposphere. They don’t even have an Internet. You think they can target-track across the planet?”

“Who knows! This job gets worse all the time. You hear that the original survey team went native? That’s why we have to drop these damn things. Big bosses want data to feed the machines so they can figure out the best place to build condos or something. I just hope the director remembers these things are supposed to be disposable. You want to make a recovery drop? Down there with all the viruses and stuff?”

“I just want to go back to happy and wide-eyed colonists on board. Get them situated and then get the hell out of town before they realize the company skimped on some of the QC checks.” She bumped a knee against a sabot.

“Ugh…what do you think they’re doing to that one indig we delivered to the docs? Not the one they had to wash out with a hose.”

“You really want to know?” she asked.

“No…not really.”

Chapter 23

General Fastal initialed a box on a clipboard and looked up. He and a pair of technicians were in a concrete vault, lit by overhead bulbs secured to the ceiling by tight wire frames. Pill-shaped bombs filled the space, each so big, they barely fit in the back of a cargo truck in their wheeled cradles locked to the floor.

“Kaff-Shigg-9-9-Zola, accounted for.” Fastal read off the serial number etched into the bomb closest to him. He raised a small box dangling from the front pocket of his fatigues and glanced at a black bar on it, the very bottom turning red. “What’s this mean? We’ve been in here too long?”

“It’s when the reader goes green that we’re in the danger zone for radiation exposure,” said one of the techs, a worker caste. “It turns white, then you have to take an iodine-pill regimen. Three weeks of mandatory non-exposure after that. We’re good for another six hours in the vaults, sir.”

“I’m…surprised by just how many warheads there are,” Fastal said.

“Heretics have their own, General,” a warrior caste said. “So we have enough to wipe them off the planet. In case the gods demand such a thing.”

“Were you at the scouring?” Fastal twirled the pen between his fingers then rapped the clipboard with it.

“No, sir, I was at a convalescent hospital.” He reached down and knocked on the bottom of his right leg, which sounded hollow and plastic. “Got hit just before it all ended. Just my luck.”

“Eight nukes were enough to bring the Slavers to their knees,” Fastal said. “I was there, Blooded Tichon. Seeing that was…was not an act the gods would welcome. And now I’ve inventoried over two hundred warheads. And there are two more bunkers.”

“You believe in the curse, sir?” the tech asked. “Because all my laborer brothers here believe in it.”

“Enough of that,” Tichon said.

“Every military officer involved in the decision to destroy the Slaver islands died within six months of their surrender,” Fastal said, “including King Iptari, gods receive his soul.” He kissed the back of his knuckles and gave his chest a pat. The rest mimicked him.

“Coincidence. Accidents and ill health,” Tichon said. “It’s silly superstition to believe there was some kind of ‘divine vengeance.’ The use of nukes was approved by the Speakers after a communion. The gods wouldn’t permit with one hand and punish with the other.”

“Maybe the gods approved their use against what little remained of the Slavers’ military, not the cities full of civilians,” Fastal said. “Not that second-guessing—”

“General!” A soldier burst through the open vault door, panting and sweating. “General, all our radar has gone offline and the radios are…none of them are…working.”

“Full alert.” Fastal grabbed the nearest tech and pushed him toward the door. “Send a runner to the garrison and send the quick reaction force here. Now.”

The winded soldier went to one knee and got out of the tech’s way as he ran off.

“Likely just a glitch,” Tichon said. “Sunspot activity. Happens from time to time.”

“And if this isn’t another ‘coincidence’?” Fastal asked. “I was going to order a surprise alert as soon as these inventories were over anyway.” He glanced at a watch. “It’s late enough as it is.”

“Seal up this vault,” Tichon called out as he followed Fastal out, a slight limp to his step.

Fastal stepped over the threshold and into a hallway where the walls and floors were poured concrete, but the ceiling was bare rock, jagged from the explosions that hollowed out the mountain. A half-dozen soldiers were waiting for them, each armed with carbines. They wore flak vests and steel helmets, the brass rank rings on their upper arms blackened. The two higher-ranked men were Blooded—combat veterans, judging by the top, dark-red ring. The rest were too young to have fought in the Just War.

“Nothing.” The top soldier tapped a speaker mounted in the hallway. “Not a word from the control center. Must be why they sent a runner.”

The rest of Fastal’s bodyguards looked nervous.

“I’ve been out of the loop for a while,” the general said. “This something the heretics are capable of? Shutting down all our comms?”

“No, sir,” Tichon said. “But sometimes systems fail. This is a secret base and the worker caste tend to quit soon after they learn the ‘cursed weapons’ are being stored here. I’ve had to train up our own Blooded to—”

The lights cut off, enveloping them in total darkness. Red bulbs switched on and Fastal drew his revolver.

One of the newer soldiers began to shake. Fastal grabbed him by the shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Steady. You’re a true son of your clan, aren’t you?”

“Aye, sir…I just need to…” The soldier fished an amulet on a metal chain out from beneath his flak vest and fatigue top. He kissed it then stuffed it back down.

“Back to the command center,” Fastal announced. “We secure every vault on the way.”

A brief rumble passed through the cavern.

Fastal glanced over his shoulder to Tichon.

“OK, now this is getting weird,” Tichon said. “That was no bomb. Spent enough time in the bunkers on the eastern front to know the difference.”

“Agreed.” Fastal broke into a jog, hurrying past vault doors toward a stairwell at the end of the long hallway. He bounded up the stairs two at a time and reached for the handle. It swung open and almost knocked him over the railing.

A soldier fell into Fastal’s chest, his back bloody, a deep gash across his cheek exposing teeth and gums beneath.

“D-demons,” the soldier said and then fell with a gurgle and rolled onto his back.

“Get him stabilized.” Fastal did a quick peek around the open doorway as the sound of gunfire echoed through the tight confines of the access tunnel. White overhead lights flickered on and off amongst the red of the emergency systems, throwing a macabre mimicry of the night sky across the mountain bunker. A hint of smoke in the air made him aware that he didn’t have a gas mask or a respirator with him.

He ran down the access tunnel and skidded to a stop next to an empty munitions trolley with a broken wheel. Dark blood smeared the floor and walls. He’d been through here less than a half hour ago, and there’d been a bomb on the trolley. The warheads were heavy, far more than a team of men could carry on their own, but the bomb was…gone.

The double doors at the end of the tunnel were on the ground, torn from their hinges.

“What by the dark of the moon…” Tichon said.

Muzzle flashes punctuated the darkness beyond the doors, accompanied by screams and shouts.

“For the King!” Fastal charged forward. He slid feet-first through the doorway and bumped into the back of a utility truck in the main cavern where prefabricated offices ran along the sides of a runway cut into the mountain.

Gunfire echoed through the cavern, interspaced with sharp, electric snaps.

He leaned around the truck bumper and saw a warhead…floating a few feet off the ground, a pair of shiny discs attached to the underside.

“Look out!”

The truck slammed into Fastal and he went flat as its parking brakes failed and it rolled over him. Gunfire broke out all around him and he cursed that he was trapped beneath the truck in the vital moments that his men needed him.

A matte-black, metal-shod boot stomped down in front of his face. There was a peal of electric snaps and the reek of ozone almost made him gag.

The truck hit the side of an office trailer, leaving the engine compartment just over him.

One of his soldiers fell to the ground beside him, his chest riddled with bloody holes. Grabbing the dead man’s submachine gun, he pushed the body away, rolled out, and came up to one knee.

A tall figure stood next to the floating warhead, its armor the same subdued darkness, melding into the chaos of light around them. There was a tight scaffolding around the arms, shoulders, down the spine, and around the waist. Nearly two feet taller than Fastal, it held Tichon by the neck with one hand.

The older soldier’s feet dangled over the ground and he gasped for air, struggling against the iron grip.

The monster pulled Tichon close to its face. Fastal watched in horror as it canted its head slightly from side to side, as if examining Tichon for a moment, then snapped the soldier’s neck with a flick of its wrist, dumping the body to the ground.

Fastal fired from the hip, letting the recoil raise the muzzle and stitching bullets up the thing’s back. Hits erupted into sparks and there was a tug of pain on his forearms as shrapnel sprang back and cut into his flesh.

The demon whirled around and a fist struck the front of the machine gun, tearing it from Fastal’s hands. Its face was a frozen obsidian skull, a carving of some sort of serpent slithering from the mouth and into the eye socket.

It swung an overhand blow at him, blades on the fingertips flashing in the light.

Fastal reared back and felt the massive hand shift the air in front of him as it barely missed his face. He tripped over a body and fell against the roughhewn rock wall.

Rifle fire sprang off the demon’s back and hit the floating warhead, sending it in a slow spin.

The demon gave a guttural cry and twisted around. It moved between the bomb and the gunfire and raised a hand. Rapid snaps erupted from a small cylinder mounted on the forearm and white flashes came so fast, Fastal thought he was seeing fireworks from a Gods-day celebration.

The office pod against the truck erupted into flames and smoke billowed up and hit the roof.

Fastal coughed and tried to crawl away, his lungs seizing up as hands grabbed him beneath the shoulders and dragged him forward. A mask went over his face and he took greedy breaths as he felt himself lifted up.

He fought against whoever had him, finally twisting away and hitting the ground—soil littered with tree needles. He was outside.

Ripping off the gas mask, Fastal rolled onto his back. He was surrounded by a small circle of soldiers, each in flak vests and helmets and carrying proper battle rifles with wooden stocks.

Hatch-back trucks with no covers over the beds and a few jeeps with pintle-mounted machine guns had formed a perimeter beside an emergency access door into the mountain base.

“Sir! Thank the gods we found you,” a captain said. “We’re the alert force. Sorry we didn’t get here sooner but—”

Fastal coughed out the last of the smoke in his lungs and slapped his holster. The revolver was still there.

“What do you know?” Fastal accepted a hand and was pulled to his feet.

“We saw the weird lights in the sky. When we couldn’t reach anyone in the bunker, I decided to bring the force up to see what was going on. I just…I thought that’s what you would do, General,” the captain said.

“We’re under…some sort of attack. They’re here for the warheads.” Fastal looked up just as a dark blur roared overhead and angled into a steep climb. One of the machine guns mounted on the jeeps opened fire. Tracer rounds swept up, missing the craft completely.

“Sorry,” said the gunner, straightening his helmet. “Sorry, reflex.”

“My scouts saw where they landed.” The captain pointed to the trees at a narrow pass cut into the mountain. “That’s the access road to the radar station. I can’t get my—”

“You have anti-tank launchers?” Fastal asked.

“Yes, sir.” The captain opened a wooden crate and held up a metal tube.

Fastal snatched it out of his hands.

“Dismount the machine guns. Everyone on foot with me. Comms?” Fastal pointed a knife hand at a soldier sitting in the front seat of a jeep.

“Nothing, sir.” The man held up a handset and whacked it against the dashboard. “Can’t even get civilian radio stations.”

“Then leave the vehicles behind. Follow me.” Fastal took a step forward and almost fell on his face when his balance wavered. The captain caught him and straightened him up.

“Sir,” the captain said, looking at his hands, “you’re bleeding.”

“Not bad enough to worry.” Fastal shook blood off a hand and moved into the forest. “What did your men see?”

“They look like planes, but they don’t match anything the heretics fly—or even the Slavers. They landed straight up and down like a helicopter, but they don’t even have jet engines. Or propellers. Bunch of really tall—”

“I saw one up close. Don’t bother shooting them with low-caliber rounds,” Fastal said.

The captain looked at the pistol in his hand, then shrugged.

They ran past a shack where thick cables snaked down from a radar dish mounted on a cliff, then onto a narrow path in a thick forest.

A strange warbling noise filled the air and Fastal’s ears began to ring. He climbed up a boulder and peeked over the top.

At a small landing pad outside the main entrance to the bunker, one of the aircraft the captain described hovered in the air. It came down slowly, skids folding out from the smooth underside as it settled down. More of the dark figures he’d seen inside were there, forming a loose perimeter around the entrance.

A neat, rectangular door had been cut out of the giant metal blast doors. The yard-thick, reinforced steel that had been there had fallen forward and somehow been moved out of the way and pushed up against the car park.

“What—what are those things?” the captain asked.

The rear of the alien craft lowered, and demons came out of the bunker, each with several floating warheads in tow.

“Have your men spread out. Rocket launch on my signal. Suppressive fire from crew-served weapons during reload.” Fastal put the launcher on his shoulder.

“We’re going to…attack?” The captain’s eyes grew wide.

“Can’t let them get away with the warheads. They wouldn’t be here for them if they weren’t important, right?” Fastal spat bloody phlegm into the dirt.

“But shooting the warheads with the rockets…”

“Don’t aim for the warheads. The ship.”

The captain was about to object further, but then nodded quickly and vanished into the underbrush.

Fastal watched as warheads floated up and into the craft. He felt like he was trapped in some sort of communion nightmare, but there was no priest there to guide him out of the darkness.

How had the King known to reactivate him just before this happened? If the King and his counsel knew the bunker was threatened by…whatever these things were, why hadn’t he dispersed the weapons across the military?

The procession of floating warheads continued and Fastal considered trying to strike one with his launcher. It would all end in a bright flash…and he was pretty sure the demons weren’t tough enough to survive that.

He readied the launcher by unsnapping the cover off the trigger and flipping a switch on the side. Fastal inched over the top of the boulder, aimed the glowing sights on the warheads, then shifted his aim to the craft.

The launcher fired with a crash of smoke and flame. He held on to it and watched as the rocket sizzled through the air and a shield of light activated over the craft and the rocket bounced off, exploding high in the air and raining bits of shrapnel over the shield. A volley of rockets fired by the reaction force suffered the same fate.

“Reload!” He handed the tube to a soldier at the bottom of the boulder. “Captain! Aim for the nukes!”

Machine guns opened fire, a sharp staccato of out-of-synch rhythms.

The soldier with the box of rockets fumbled with the reload. He had no rank rings on his arm and looked far too young to be in a uniform, while the sound of battle almost calmed Fastal. He was home again.

He slid down the boulder and snatched a rocket out of the young man’s hands. He rotated it onto the breech and pulled the safety pin.

“Just like that, yeah?” Fastal tossed the pin aside.

Explosions ripped through the forest. Trees shattered and fell around him, their trunks alight, branches burning like torches. Debris crushed the young soldier, who died without the chance to cry out.

Something whacked Fastal in the shoulder and sent him sprawling into a pile of burning branches. He rolled out, slapping at his sleeves and pants to put out flames.

Against the smoke and fire, atop the boulder from where he’d fired stood one of the demons, its face a frozen grimace, its lips pulled back over sharp teeth. A ring of Tyr ears were strung up in a grotesque necklace over its chest plate.

The box of rockets was within arm’s reach, its contents spilled out across the ground. Fastal swept his left hand across the dirt and touched a rocket, the safety pin still in place.

The demon pointed at him and strange words sounded through the mask.

“Same to you, fucker.” Pulling the pin on the rocket warhead, Fastal threw it at the demon, dove to the ground, and covered his head.

The Myrmidon reached back and made a lazy swat, the targeting systems in his armor easily identifying the weapon’s arc. While the advanced systems hardwired into the Myrmidon didn’t ID the device as much of a threat, the onboard computer lacked data on just how shock-sensitive Tyr munitions really were.

The Myrmidon hit the warhead easily enough, but the blow triggered the detonator. The blast knocked the Myrmidon off his feet and he rolled down the boulder and over more rocket warheads.

Zorig shook his head, struggling as his systems tried to reorient after the concussion from the blast. Alert warnings flashed across his HUD, but his containment layer hadn’t been compromised. The muscle-assist servos in his knees jerked as he tried to stand up, so he reached back and hit one knee with a fist. That was enough to get it working again.

Zorig looked up and into the muzzle of Fastal’s revolver. A bullet struck his harlequin visor and his head snapped back, a slight crack across his visor. The Tyr slapped the firing hammer and emptied the pistol in short order into Zorig’s face and neck.

An amber icon filled his HUD and Zorig fell back. One of the bullets had dislodged one of the small interlocking plates of his environmental layer at the top of his shoulder, and he twisted away to protect the spot. Falling against the boulder, he swung his gun arm out in an arc, firing on full auto. The bullets cut through nearby trees like a scythe through wheat and more trees fell into the growing fire.

The Myrmidon’s arm hit the boulder, leaving his body open and exposed.

Fastal jumped up, dagger in hand. He grabbed the front of Zorig’s breastplate and stabbed the tip of his blade into the chink of the armor. Zorig felt a twinge of pain through the cocktail of drugs surging through his system.

The indig had actually managed to hurt him.

The amber environmental alert turned into a pulsing red biohazard symbol.

Zorig grabbed Fastal by the front of his fatigues and looked the alien in the eye. This indig wasn’t terrified. Zorig could feel his hate. The Myrmidon whipped Fastal aside and sent him crashing through the burning top of a fallen tree.

Zorig put a hand over the breach in his suit and sealants sprayed out and over the cut. The warnings switched to amber and he ran back to the landing zone.

****

“This is the last of them.” Solanus’ voice sounded through speakers in Hulegu’s helmet. He sent an order with the flick of his eyes and watched a holo map against his visor as his team collapsed their perimeter and came back to one of the two shuttles outside the mountain base.

Solanus was on the ramp of the other shuttle, taking inventory as smaller warheads flowed up and into her craft.

“You want to be on that one on the way back to the Matsui?” he asked her through the comms.

“Why not? It’s fun watching the techs piss themselves being in a hold full of indig weapons of mass destruction,” she said.

“Suit yourself.” He logged the time for each of his Myrmidons as they stomped up the ramp into his shuttle…all but one were back aboard. He saw Zorig come out of the forest, his suit beat up and smoldering in places.

“I sent you to clean up the trash. What took you so long?” he asked as Zorig bounded forward.

“Trophies.” Zorig held up the string of ears, freshly burnt.

A warning pip appeared over Zorig in Hulegu’s HUD. With a stiff arm to the chest, Hulegu stopped him from setting foot on the ramp.

“Why’s your telemetry data not coming through?” he asked.

“Indigs must’ve damaged the transmitter.” Zorig tried to sidestep Hulegu, but the chief stopped him again. “What? They got lucky with a grenade or something. Component swap. The rest’ll buff out.”

“Main, engage slave override,” Hulegu said, and his onboard systems linked to Zorig’s suit.

A pulsing red biohazard warning appeared over Zorig in the HUD.

“Your enviro layer’s compromised.” Hulegu drew a heavy pistol from where it was mag-locked to his thigh. “And you’re infected.”

“What? No!” Zorig tossed the necklace of ears away. “They never—nothing got through my layer!”

Hulegu aimed the pistol at Zorig, then ripped the tip of Fastal’s dagger from Zorig’s shoulder. He flicked the broken metal away.

“Look,” Zorig said, raising his hands. “It’s nothing, boss. I can quarantine on the way back to the ship and—”

“You know company policy,” Hulegu said. “We don’t have serum aboard the Mitsui, only aboard the Leo. Then there’s a cost to treating you after you fucked it all up.”

“I’ll forfeit my pay!” Zorig leaned to one side and waved at a group of Myrmidons at the top of the ramp. “Charlie! Miles! Spot me, you know I’m good for it.”

“We leaving? Indigs radio chatter’s picking up. I don’t want to know if our shields can handle their air-to-air missiles,” said the shuttle pilot through the comms.

“Sorry, Zorig, you’re a threat to the team…and you’re no longer economically viable.” Hulegu shot Zorig between the eyes, his pistol more than enough to beat Zorig’s already cracked visor. The bullet rattled against the inside of Zorig’s helmet before exiting his ear and striking the dirt.

Zorig fell back with a slight push from Hulegu.

“Button up.” The team chief holstered his weapon and marched up the ramp as the shuttle lifted off. He couldn’t see his men’s faces behind their many different masks, but he knew what they were thinking.

“We split his share at the end of the mission. Don’t fuck up.”

The Myrmidons hit each other in the chest and shoulders, cheering at the pay raise.

****

Hours later, as the sun rose over the mountains, General Fastal kicked Zorig’s shoulder.

“Every warhead is gone,” said one of the Royal caste, the local intelligence chief. “They even took the fissile material stockpile. Is that…that the one?” He kept a healthy distance from the body, but Fastal—his arms and one side of his face bandaged—knelt close enough to nudge the dead Myrmidon’s head with the muzzle of his pistol.

“It is.” Fastal looked to where the alien shuttle had been, then up to the sky. “And no, I don’t know why they killed…it.”

“Is it a machine, perhaps? That would explain why your—”

“Machines don’t bleed.” Fastal kicked dirt over the pool of dried blood beneath Zorig’s head. “Now get that ambulance over here. I have to go and explain to the King how I failed him in my duties…and he’ll want to see this. Whatever it is.”

Chapter 24

Yenin grunted as she pushed another drone out of her shuttle. Grabbing a handlebar, she leaned out over the edge, watching as the coin-shaped drone tumbled end over end toward a cloud layer thick with rain and flashing with lightning. Ice crystals formed against the front of her visor and she wiped them away.

The safety line connected to the small of her back pulled taut as she leaned out farther.

The sabot cover flew off the drone and its descent stopped. The drone snapped from side to side as its gravitic engines came online.

“Good release.” Yenin swung back into the cargo bay and bumped against the bulkhead. “How many more we got?”

“And drone seven’s got a telemetry link with the geostationary satellite.” Cisneros tapped on a tablet, cursed, then tapped again. “I hate doing this in gloves. One wrong key stroke and I have to redo the whole thing. And we’ve got three more. Easy to count.” He jerked a thumb at the trio of remaining drones.

“Just hoping we had a spare aboard. These things don’t always go off the right way.” She walked away from the open ramp as turbulence shook the shuttle.

“Corporate would probably order us to land and do a recovery, even if they hit the damn ocean.” Cisneros gripped the bench he was sitting on as the shaking got worse. “Hey, you fly-boys know we’ve got delicate equipment back here, right?”

A flight path appeared on Yenin’s HUD, showing them at the edge of a hurricane and their course toward the eye.

“Quit your bitching,” the pilot said through their comms. “The good-idea fairy must’ve whispered something to Leo, because now they want a survey done plopped dead center of that monster. Something about climate mapping or some bullshit. I don’t fucking know. I don’t fucking care. All I know is that I’ve got to get the drop done or I’ll lose my mission-completion bonus. You guys want your bonus or not?”

“Do we even have a choice at this point?” Yenin asked.

“I can’t fly this thing.” Cisneros pulled a D-ring off his back and snapped it to a runner line on the bulkhead. “Safety first.”

The shuttle buckled as a gust of wind hit them. Out the ramp, the sky turned thick purple as they flew into a cloud bank. A fork of lightning cut across the opening, flashing the cargo bay.

“Hey up there,” Cisneros beat a fist against the bulkhead twice, “don’t mean to tell you how to do your job, but can’t we fly over this mess?”

“This storm’s acting weird, some sort of magnetic particles throwing off the gravitics. We just lost some altitude is all…it’ll clear up once we hit the eye,” the pilot said.

“He seem that confident to you?” Yenin asked on a closed channel to Cisneros.

“Nope, but whatever. Again, I can’t fly this thing. Can you?” he asked.

“Nope, but whatever.” She pulled the locks up from the base of a drone and pushed it down the rails to the opening.

The storm beyond was a maelstrom of grey and purple cloud layers, and rain lashed the lowered ramp. The shuttle wavered slightly in the wind, and she was grateful—just for a moment—that it was designed well enough to handle all this.

The pilot had been a nervous wreck while the Myrmidon shuttles were taking off from whatever snatch-and-grab the director had them on. He’d said something about the indig air force starting to react.

She was pretty certain the locals couldn’t fly—or target—anything in the hurricane. So she took comfort in that too.

“This is a first,” Cisneros said. “Flying into the eye of a storm on some Podunk planet. Corporate should use our feeds for recruitment ads.”

“Looks great on the screen.” She grunted and pushed the drone almost to the edge as the shuttle’s nose dipped slightly and gravity tried to pull it back down the rails. “Not as much fun in pers—ahh!”

The shuttle fell into a dive and the drone slammed back into the other two. She fell toward the fore of the cargo bay, but her safety line locked in place and she swung like a pendulum into the bulkhead. Her flight suit softened the blow, but she knew she’d have a decent bruise later.

“What the hell?” Cisneros bumped up against the front bulkhead of the cargo bay.

The shuttle lurched back to level and the unmoored drone rolled down the rails. Yenin caught it and kicked a foot brake, stopping it in place.

“Woo, that wasn’t fun,” the pilot said. “Sure hope you two are buckled up back there. Got some more static on the scope.”

“Just tell me when to make the drop.” Yenin stepped across the drone to get to the other brake, when thunder crashed. Lighting struck the shuttle and Yenin gasped as electricity overloaded her suit’s systems and sent a shock up her legs.

She slumped against the drone, gripping handrails at the top. The drone case pressed against her and she realized that she was lying on it.

The shuttle was in a nose dive.

Smoke billowed up from the port side and Yenin reached for a small fire extinguisher on her belt. She was dimly aware of Cisneros yelling about something as she aimed the nozzle at a patch of flames dancing up from the power packs in the bulkhead.

A sudden tug of gravity threw off her aim, then the shuttle banked hard as the engine in the starboard wing went haywire. She grabbed a handrail on the drone and kept from smacking against the bulkhead again. The shuttle went nose up and she hung on for dear life as she looked down to a roiling ocean beneath her.

There was a creak from the foot brake holding the drone fast. Her heart fell into her stomach as she realized she’d only set one of the two brakes.

“Greg? Greg!”

The brake failed and she went down the rails with it, letting go just before she went flying out the shuttle. Keeping her hold on the drone might’ve ripped her arm out of the socket. Instead, she found herself dangling out the back of the shuttle as it hung beneath the hurricane, the gravitic engines malfunctioning and shooting off sparks.

In the distance, she made out a coastline, tall trees racked by the wind.

She slapped a button on the safety line and an internal winch began inching her back up to the shuttle. Yenin looked down at the massive waves sweeping toward the shore, then back to the shuttle. She hit the emergency button again, but it was still taking her back up.

“Hey!” she shouted into her comms. “Can you fix the drives or not because—”

Lightning struck the shuttle’s nose and the engines failed completely. She fell, the safety line going tight as a blast of wind slapped into her and the shuttle.

She pulled the emergency release and the line snapped off her.

Now she was falling—falling and screaming as a wave rose out of the ocean and swallowed her whole.

Chapter 25

Daniel drove through the tight streets of his neighborhood in King’s Rest. The morning traffic was the same as it ever was, and the Tyr went about their business as if nothing was out of the norm. Same street vendors. Same busy streets.

“They don’t know,” he muttered. “What is the King waiting for?”

He stopped at an intersection and a hand slammed down on top of his hood. Constable Pyth stood in front of the bumper, his one arm leaning hard on the car and a look of simmering anger on his face.

Daniel rolled his passenger side window down as Pyth went to the door and jiggled the handle.

“Is there a problem, officer?” Daniel asked.

Pyth reached inside and unlocked the door, then sat down.

“Let’s talk. Again.” Pyth pointed to a parking lot next to a clothing store.

Daniel had a fairly decent idea of what the constable wanted to say to him as he pulled off the road.

“We had an agreement,” Pyth said sternly.

“Just so you know,” Daniel said, putting the car in park and keeping his hands on the steering wheel, “I’ve been out of town for the last day and haven’t even been home yet.”

“Your boy…” Pyth pointed at Daniel, then pulled his hand back, “your boy found my sweet Lussea and now she’s…she is a wreck right now.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“She just had her first communion, properly veiled—beautiful ceremony that cost a decent chunk of my retirement fund—and she was on her way to the matchmaker when your boy found her and said there’s some sort of crisis coming. What crisis, Clay? You said you were being reassigned for good. I told her you were being reassigned. Yet here you are. Explain.”

Daniel swallowed hard. Michael must not have let the cat completely out of the bag, or else Pyth wouldn’t be doing his best to have a civil discussion.

“There was a…disagreement within my caste,” Daniel said. “Politicking over accounts and some errors with bookkeeping, nothing I was involved with at all. So the tribe chiefs reset everyone until things can be sorted out in the Linker way, which is none of your business, Blooded.”

“And this ‘disaster’? I now have a closet full of toilet paper, Clay. Why is there so much gods’ damned toilet paper in my house, Clay?” Pyth set the ball of his fist against the dashboard.

“We Linkers…we have connections, obviously. At the moot, we learned that the heretics are mobilizing their armies. The neutral city-states to the south might not be so neutral in the next couple days.” Daniel made up the lie at the spur of the moment. He only had to get through this encounter, not maintain the lie into the future. He just had to sound plausible.

“That might explain it…” Pyth rubbed the back of his hand against his chin.

“Explain what?”

“You’ve been gone for a few days. Notice anything unusual?”

“That’s right and I stopped just long enough to grab a change of clothes and leave for an audit. Nothing unusual.” He began sweating as his plans to remain hidden amongst the Tyr began to unravel.

“Central put out a blanket surveillance order on your neighborhood, big names on the seals. You see anything out of the ordinary, you—how much longer are you going to be in town? Lussea was a wreck at the matchmaker’s. I lost my deposit because the hag running the agency couldn’t even interview her properly.”

“Another day or two.” Daniel reached for the purse at his hip, then grabbed the steering wheel again. “You’re less because of me, Blooded. Can I make amends without insulting you?”

“Your money’s no good with me, Linker. My wife insisted I beat some sense into you, which I could do. I’ve only got one arm, but I’ve got both legs to kick your ass.”

“Tell her you roughed me up. I’ll confirm that story if ever asked. My apologies for what my boy’s done,” Daniel said.

“Ahh…kids. Young and stupid, but they think they’ve got it all figured out and they’re invincible. I see it every day.” He tapped the medallion on his chest. “Just keep your boy buttoned up. He bothers my girl again and my wife will call in her people. Priests are pretty good at finding ways to excuse their behavior, even when they’re doing it for someone with this face.” Pyth gestured to his Blooded markings. “Last warning, understood?”

“Understood.”

“Gods’ gaze be upon you,” Pyth said and got out of the car.

****

Daniel shut the door to the underground garage, activated the intrusion detection systems, then bounded up the stairs and into his kitchen.

Sarah and Michael were at the table, both in their Tyr synths. Michael was eating a bowl of cereal, his pad propped up against a glass of blue juice with a Tyr news program playing on the screen.

“Oh, hi, Dad.” Michael nodded slightly to Sarah. “Mom’s home.”

Daniel took a deep breath, then let it out slowly through his nose as he narrowed his eyes at his son.

Michael jumped away from the table and bolted upstairs. There was a slam as Michael locked himself in his room.

“He went to see her, didn’t he?” Sarah ran her hands through her hair. “He was awful tight-lipped about what he was up to while you were gone.”

“The constable stopped me for a little chat.” Daniel pulled out a chair and sat down. “Shuttle’s secure?”

“It is. Let’s just hope some local rancher doesn’t come through with a herd of hungry sauroids. Or that the Count doesn’t decide to show off the property to another buyer,” she said.

“We have to leave. The scrambler I used to tip off the astronomer didn’t work as well as I thought. The secret police have an inkling, but probably not a scent.” He poured himself a cup of tea from a ceramic kettle in the middle of the table.

“You got Fastal in play? Good…then what’s our next move?” she asked.

“Corporate needs another week to synthesize enough immunity serum for just the Myrmidon contingent. Give them three weeks before—”

“This is a special news report,” came from the pad. “Stand by for a message from the King, may the gods watch over him.”

“Maybe he’s going to announce the ship at Kleegar.” Sarah’s brows knitted. “But that’s too fast. The Speaker might not have even finished a deep communion by now. Streets are too quiet. We’re still monitoring the civil defense nets and—”

“To the faithful,” King Mencius began and a TV broadcast of him seated at the Sanctum came up on the pad, “by the grace of the gods, our two brave astronauts orbiting this world of trials have been lost. Unbloodied Quboth Hallas and Baron Nixazar Thanid were the best of us, and they sacrificed their lives to further our understanding of our place given to us by the gods. The nation enters a fortnight of mourning. May the gods’ gaze be upon us all.”

The screen clicked over to the royal seal.

“Corporate.” Sarah hit the kitchen table. “Hower didn’t have enough of a base for them to use, so they snatched the capsule in orbit. Why didn’t we think of that?”

“Because we were being chased back to the planet by missiles…assuming Ubom got the telescope on the moon…” Daniel sat back, arms crossed over his chest and fingertips tapping at his lips.

“We’ve tipped them off, got their best military leader out of retirement…and now?” Sarah raised her hands.

“Corporate only cares about one thing: their bottom line. We need the Tyr to fight them tooth and nail and make colonizing this planet too expensive for Zike and Hulegu.” Daniel let his arms fall to his sides. “I may need to go to the King myself.”

“No. No, you drop your face to them and the Tyr will lynch you in a heartbeat.” Sarah shook her head. “They’re still terrified of the Hidden caste after the deaths following the war.”

“The Hidden caste is a myth,” Daniel said. “Superstition.”

“According to the myth, they live in the Storm Seas. There’s never been a mission out there, so we don’t actually know if there’s a Hidden caste, do we?” Sarah asked.

Daniel raised an eyebrow. Sarah looked away.

“The King and his inner circle have to be aware of the torch ship by now…would Zike try and make contact with the King to negotiate? They do have Hower with them,” he said.

“You tell me. You were Compliance Force for a long time,” she said.

Daniel leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “What’s the best place to build a human colony on Tyr?” he asked.

“The Azure Islands. Beautiful, great climate,” his wife said.

“And that’s the Royal caste’s ancestral home. They won’t give that up without a fight and Hower knows that…so they might try and negotiate.” Daniel drummed fingertips against the tabletop. “I go to the Tyr now without my synth and…”

“A pyre. Torches. They’re in space and they still see demons everywhere,” Sarah said.

“But if we wait until it’s obvious that I share a face with Zike, they might listen to me,” Daniel said.

“That’s too much of a risk,” she said. “You know the playbook. The tech. Zike realizes you’re helping them directly and there will be a giant target on you. The cost-benefit analysis of an orbital bombardment wherever you are will look pretty good. Or we keep doing what we’ve been doing. Hints from the shadows. Go deeper underground until we can get a line to the King that won’t put us in the crosshairs.”

“Stop saying ‘us,’” he said. “I’m taking the risk. I need you to take care of Michael. And speaking of going underground…we need to leave—sooner than later. We’ve already wasted too much time. Pyth says the area’s under surveillance. My scrambler might not have worked as well as intended.”

“I didn’t unpack,” she said.

“We switch castes. Go to the Royals’ lodge at Hawk Fall Mountain. It’s close to one of their main forts…more options there and we won’t be in this city if Corporate opts for high chaos.”

“I’ll get Michael. You don’t…just don’t say anything to him about Lussea. I think he got it out of his system,” she said.

“You’ve never been a teenage boy with a crush. I’ll pack the car.”

****

The Clay sedan left their garage just after nightfall. A constable in an unmarked car noted the time of departure and radioed up the license plate number. A surveillance team of several vehicles and checkpoints throughout the city went on alert.

Chapter 26

Fastal snapped out of sleep as his cargo plane landed hard. Bruises and aches and every last wound he’d just received—and a host of old ones—prompted a desire for pills, or a bottle of something stiff, to ease the pain. He adjusted the respirator over the lower half of his face, wincing where the hard plastic bit into his skin.

The gurney next to him rattled as the plane braked to a halt. The black bag with the dead…whatever it was…rustled in tune with the plane.

Fastal glanced at his watch, then over to an Air Force crewman on the other side of the cargo space.

“Where are we? Supposed to be a three-hour flight to King’s Rest,” he said.

The crewman shrugged.

The cargo ramp came down with a hydraulic hiss, revealing dark plains and fences topped with spikes and barbed wire. A pair of Tyr in environmental suits stepped onto the ramp before it even touched the ground.

Fastal unbuckled his restraints and stood up. He gave his caste salute, a fist strike to an open palm, then let his hands fall to his sides when he saw the Royal caste markings on the new arrivals.

“Figures that it would be spies,” Fastal said.

“Duke Ciolsi, King’s Shadow,” the spy chief said and then gestured to the woman behind him. “Maiden Sazon. This is normally where I tell you we were never here, but these are different times, aren’t they?”

“Your orders bring you back onto active duty,” the younger woman said. “Where are they?”

“When did the shadows become such sticklers for administration?” Fastal pointed to a bag on the other side of the cargo bay.

Ciolsi pointed at the crewman. “You, out!” The crewman ran off like he’d been bit by a sauroid and the teeth were still in his flesh. “Anyone else seen what’s in here?” Ciolsi asked, touching the gurney.

“Just the soldiers that helped bag it up,” Fastal said. “They’re quarantined, as per orders from the Castle. You know what it is?”

“I have a suspicion.” Ciolsi unzipped the body bag. The dead Myrmidon had gone stiff, the blood pooled beneath the body congealed and sticky. Ciolsi dabbed a fabric swatch into the blood, then dropped it into a plastic bag. He hooked a thumb beneath the cracked visor and pried it up.

“Ugh…no help there,” Ciolsi said. “Well…teeth are consistent.”

Sazon wrote on a clipboard, Fastal’s orders scroll tucked beneath one arm.

“What about the spurs at the wrist?” she asked. “Rib count. Cardiovascular fluid appears consistent.”

“Consistent with what?” Fastal asked.

“General, why was this one left behind? Feel free to speculate,” Ciolsi said.

“It…failed. The rest of the demons killed my men with ease. I managed to hurt this one.” Fastal pointed to the shoulder where a dab of sealant covered the opening his knife had cut into the exo-suit.

“Ooo, this goes to the Islander hypothesis,” Sazon said.

“What are you talking about? Have you seen these things before?”

“Yes!” Sazon dropped the clipboard and scroll as she squeezed the dead Myrmidon’s wrist. “I feel it, the bone spur! Now let me…” She prodded the dead body’s flank. “This outer layer feels different than the other, possibly some kind of flexible armor plat—”

“Explain yourselves!” Fastal whacked the gurney and Sazon pulled back.

“Show him,” Ciolsi said to the other spy. “Nine years ago, there was a Slaver raid on a bronto herder encampment. One of the last before we hunted down the remainder of their military that managed to survive the war. The encampment got snowed in and the relief force got there too late to do much more than bury the victims.”

Sazon removed a cover sheet off the clipboard and handed it to Fastal. Clipped on top was a picture of a dead Linker woman next to a shallow grave separate from a pile of other bodies.

“I’ve seen Slaver raids before. Wait…her body looks fresh compared to the others. When did she die?” he asked.

“Told you he was a bright one,” Ciolsi said to Sazon. “Slavers would have taken her away with everything else they looted. She was young enough to go back into season. But she was killed in the raid at the same time as the rest. What you see there…isn’t Tyr.”

Fastal flipped to the next photo and almost dropped the pictures.

A dead human woman stared at the camera, her mouth half-open and eyes unfocused, a sheaf of skin peeled away and bunched together at the base of her neck, Linker markings visible in the mass.

Fastal looked at the body on the gurney and back at the photo.

“Are they…Hidden caste?” He sat on the bench bolted to the bulkhead and looked at more autopsy photos.

“The Hidden are no different from us, except that that the gods forsake them with bare faces,” Ciolsi said. “Rare to actually come across a Hidden, but not as rare as this.” He nudged the gurney.

“Likely a male,” Sazon said, “assuming they have two sexes, but the proportions are consistent. What did this look like before it was damaged?” She tapped the tip of a pen against the broken visor.

“A face twisted in laughter…” Fastal handed the clipboard back. “No look of the gods on it.”

“The recovery team thought they’d come across a Hidden,” Ciolsi said, “but once we examined the body further…not the case. It wore some manner of infiltration skin to pose as a Linker. We couldn’t find any travel records to corroborate the identity…all magically erased from databases. Orders to destroy travel logs and tolls also covered the unknown entity’s tracks. Very interesting, wouldn’t you say, General Fastal? Exactly how did you come to be at the nuclear depot just when you did?”

“Orders from the King.” Fastal used his foot and rolled the scroll over to Ciolsi, who picked it up and handed it over. “Wax sealed and delivered by my caste. Wait…”

“Who delivered it to you? Name? Unit?” Ciolsi passed the scroll back to Sazon, who unfurled the paper.

“He was of the eastern tribes by his patches. Strange accent. I didn’t get a name…that’s not our way.”

“It looks perfect,” she said.

“But they’re a forgery.” Ciolsi looked them over. “The date…the King has a new calligrapher. The handwriting matches his last scribe.”

Fastal leaned back, one corner of his lip twitching.

“So many dots to connect,” Ciolsi said, “and the full picture is…still a mystery.”

“The messenger was one of those…not-Tyr,” Fastal said.

“You were born with the wrong face.” Ciolsi smiled. “You could’ve been one of the shadows.”

“How’re you feeling? Fever? Muscle aches?” Sazon shined a light in Fastal’s eye. “There’s an immunological theory, same reason the Islander caste is so closed off. They haven’t been exposed to the Chaprax Flu and any—”

Fastal grabbed her by the wrist and wrenched her arm to one side, moving the light out of his eyes.

“I’ve had a hell of a day, shadow,” Fastal said.

“He looks fine.” She shrugged and tried to pull her hand back, with no luck.

“Sazon’s been studying the not-Tyr for years,” Ciolsi said. “That bag of meat you brought us is the first confirmation we’ve had since the initial recovery. Excuse me,” he said, turning away and speaking into a radio he had clipped to his belt.

“I have some more questions.” Sazon sat next to Fastal and he let her go.

The plane’s cargo ramp rose and the engines fired up with a low rumble.

“Did the NTE—non-Tyr entity—speak to you or any of your men? Did you experience any sense of disorientation or nausea when in proximity to their craft? Any physiological effects from their weapons, other than massive trauma and injury? Did you note the smell of burnt toast or…”

Chapter 27

Yenin opened her eyes, the feel of a wave receding against her legs cool against her flight suit. Sand matted against her visor and a crab skittered across the glass. She groaned and rolled onto her back.

The sky was a violent purple of a storm, and rain spattered against her visor, wiping away sand. A wave crashed over her, pushing her farther up a beach. She flailed against the water before being dumped back into the sand like a hunk of driftwood.

“Greg? Jessie?” Her HUD came alive with her voice, displaying nothing but failed connections and error messages.

She rolled over and crawled forward, her hands sinking into wet sand.

“Anybody out there?” The ground became reeds and grass and she collapsed. “Oh, god, where the hell am I?” She lay there breathing hard, trying to piece together what happened. She remembered the shuttle…lightning…and then a wave coming for her.

Her suit had enough internal air supply to keep her alive in the void for several hours. She slapped at her chest and thighs and felt collapsing floatation bladders.

Her lungs began to burn and she tapped the front of her visor. The O2 icon flashed amber.

“Shit….shit, shit, shit.” She popped the emergency release and salt-laden air washed over her face as the visor fell away from her helmet. She took a deep breath…and felt fine. Not a terrible surprise—the planet was colony-ready for humans.

Something poked her shoulder. She looked up at a pair of Tyr juveniles, both in plastic rain slicks. One had spots across his face; the other had wavy lines along the sides of her mouth and her jaw.

“Hi there, yeah?” Yenin raised a hand. “I don’t have a language codex loaded into my suit. How am I supposed to talk to you indigs?”

The two ran away, screaming.

“Fuuuuuuck.” She watched which way they went, keyed an adrenaline stim, and then went the opposite direction down the beach.

Chapter 28

“Constable Pyth,” croaked through a radio attached to the leather strip running down and across Pyth’s chest. He turned away from the very irate worker caste woman in a house robe and holding a crying baby. The street was lined with Tyr on the sidewalks, all in various stages of nighttime dress as the first hints of dawn rose to the east.

The cordon-and-search operation had launched two hours ago, and Pyth was going into nearly a day and a half of zero sleep. Orders to carry out complex, extremely urgent missions always seemed to come down right before he was supposed to go off shift. Always.

He ignored a warrior caste couple yelling at him as he stepped into the blocked-off street and away from the commotion as his men searched every single house and questioned the occupants.

“Pyth, go,” he said into the radio.

“There’s an issue at the Linker establishment on block thirty-seven,” came back. “Supervisor wants you on-site.”

“Moving.” Pyth shook his head, feeling anger rise in his chest. “Patrol, what’s the issue?”

“Residents aren’t responding to knocks or verbal commands to exit the residence.”

Pyth turned a corner and walked faster toward the Clays’ house, where a small cordon of officers had gathered. He regretted not giving Daniel a physical lesson—a gentle one, at least—when he had the chance. He’d shown weakness to his friend and now it had degenerated into outright defiance of authority.

Served him right for trying to be friends with another caste.

Pyth shouldered through the cordon and went up a short flight of stairs to the main entrance. He banged his fist hard on the wooden door.

“Clay! King’s peace is here. Open up or you’ll face sanction. I don’t care if you’re a Linker or not!” He backed down the stairs, anger rising. “Force entry,” he said to a police sergeant.

“One second,” said a lieutenant, bending an ear to a radio. “Got an order to hold off until a special unit arrives for this one.”

“Is it from the sheriff?” Pyth asked.

“No…”

“And it ain’t from me. So I don’t give a shit who’s on the other end of that radio. Force entry,” Pyth said.

Two burly officers ran up the stairs with a metal ram and slammed the end just beneath the doorknob. The ram bounced back and went tumbling down the stairs, almost hitting the lieutenant. One end whacked into the side of a police car, denting the door.

The two breach men stood at the door, flabbergasted.

“Weak.” Pyth grabbed a handle on the ram and tested his grip. The two breach men jumped over the side of the stairs as he hurled the ram like a spear through the frosted glass of the door.

A high-pitched whine stung Pyth’s ears. He and the rest of the police shied away from the noise, but it lasted only a few seconds.

“Ah…that some sort of Linker security thing?” the lieutenant asked as he wiggled a fingertip in an ear.

Pyth charged up the stairs and popped the door open with a bump from his shoulder. He stepped over the threshold and drew his pistol.

For all the years he’d known Clay, it suddenly occurred to him that he’d never been inside the living space of the house, only the office on the ground level. The foyer was normal, with a shrine to the gods in an alcove where it should be and black-and-white checkered floors.

“Clay! Get out here,” Pyth called up to the ceiling. A bitter aroma tickled his nose. He moved deeper into the house and into the kitchen. On the table was what looked like a square plate, but there was an image dancing on it. He picked it up and almost dropped it in shock when it exploded with color and strange text ran up and down the length of it.

It was like he held a tiny, almost weightless television in his hand. He turned it around, looking for the power cord, but there wasn’t anything.

There was a crack from the windows. Snowflakes of white grew across the glass, and the view of outside flickered and died into a flat grey.

Pyth shoved the plate into his uniform top and then drew his pistol.

“Clay! Clay, what is this?” He readied his pistol and backed out, stopping next to a mirror mounted beside the main door. Electric lines ran around the outer edge and his reflection flashed with color. The reflection froze, then the mirror disintegrated into a wave of coal-colored dust and collapsed onto the floor, covering his boots.

A hunk of the ceiling fell next to him, crumbling into dust just like the mirror.

Pyth turned and ran. He got out the door and knocked an officer over the side railing by accident as he went down the stairs as fast as he could manage. He hit the damaged police car and whirled around.

The Clays’ house rotted away, hundreds of years seeming to pass within a few heartbeats as everything crumbled into coal-colored dust that the breeze carried away. The ground floor collapsed with a hollow whoomph and a wave of dust billowed out, inundating Pyth and the rest of the men in darkness.

Pyth coughed and a bitter taste filled his mouth. The dust burned away like dew beneath morning rays, leaving Pyth and the rest clean.

The Clays’ home was gone. A few utility pipes jutted out of the concrete foundation where everything had just been.

The police stared slack-jawed as the last wisps of the house vanished into the air.

“Constable,” the lieutenant said, offering him a radio, “they…they want to talk to you.”

“I…I’ve got nothing.” Pyth took the radio, ignoring the rather stern questions coming out of it. He felt the press of the plate he took from the kitchen in his jacket then stared at the radio, words failing him.

Chapter 29

King Menicus stared at his desktop, which was covered in glossy photographs: the dead Myrmidon, the wrecked nuclear storage facility, airborne images of streaks of light from unknown aircraft escaping into orbit, and autopsy photos of Julia Hower. The dusty remains where the Clay residence used to be.

His cabinet stood in nervous silence. Fastal was there with Hawn’ru, both warriors in fatigues, sidearms on their hips.

“They took…every warhead?” Menicus asked.

“Yes, sire,” Fastal said. “I failed your orders.”

The King shook a hand at him and sank into his chair.

“Using those weapons against the Slavers was a mistake, and the gods have punished us for it.” Menicus hunched over, dejected. “Could it be that…that these ‘people’ are agents of the gods? Punishing us even more for keeping the cursed technology?”

“Sire, that…that doesn’t fit with everything we know,” Ciolsi said. “The body we found in the plains, these Clay Linkers…I expect the gods to act with a bit more unity and clarity—but I’m no priest.” He turned to Osuda, who reclined in his bowl-shaped padded chair, a cup of tea held in trembling hands.

“My communion was difficult,” Osuda said. “I felt the presence of each god, but they were at odds with each other. The spirits were silent and the great mother did not speak to me.”

“Their gaze is upon us,” the King said. “They’re watching to see if we do the right thing. ‘One is not worthy if he follows blindly.’”

“You know the mantras.” Osuda touched a section of knotted cord where that phrase was recorded in his caste’s peculiar writing system.

“The people will realize that something significant is happening very soon,” Ciolsi said. “The loss of the astronauts, the mountain…then this mess in your city.”

“You said you could keep it quiet.” The King looked up, one corner of his mouth tugging at a sneer.

“An attack on our most secret military installation with dozens of casualties and then a building in the commercial district just…crumbling is not something I can tamp down with ‘broken’ radio relays and arresting witnesses for a few days. The witnesses to the Clay house were police,” Ciolsi said.

“What of these Clays?” The King sat back and swiveled his chair to a Linker in expensive clothes and with jewels braided through her hair.

“Sire, they…they hailed from the Tamboosi tribe from the far east. Their home city was destroyed by Slavers during the war. Most of the records were lost,” she said, “but their service to the great family was impeccable.”

“They had the right face and the right credentials,” Ciolsi said, “and they emerged from the chaos of the war…perfect way to infiltrate.”

“Where are they?” the King asked.

“I’ve tracked them to a hunting lodge at Hawk Fall,” Ciolsi said, “which is strange, as it is reserved for Royals.”

“Bring them in,” the King said. “Alive. No mistakes.”

“As you wish.” Ciolsi went to a phone mounted on a wall.

The King stood up. “General Fastal, I remember you from when I was a child. My father spoke very highly of you and your service. You were the only one that spoke out against using the nuclear weapons against the Slavers…and then you were the only senior member of my father’s war effort to survive more than a few months after the war ended.”

“If your father had not ordered me into retirement, I’m sure I would have suffered the same fate,” Fastal said.

“And then you survived the attack on the bunker.”

Fastal held up bandaged hands. “They tried, sire. Those monsters were…not like anything I’ve ever fought before.”

“They executed the one he injured,” Marshal Hawn’ru said. “This was not the way of the gods. The Blooded fight beneath the gaze. That is something we would never do—not even the Slavers were so barbaric.”

“Then you believe that what’s come from Kleegar are not of the gods?” Menicus asked.

“No, sire. These are some kind of different Tyr. Perhaps of different stock than ours when the gods placed us here to—”

“The will of the gods is my business!” Osuda snapped. “Do not try to interpret our past so simply.”

“Before this spirals too far down the whirlpool,” said Matron Virid, stepping out of the crowd and approaching the King’s desk, “we have the summit with the heretics to discuss. Just how much should we tell them…what’s that sound?”

She cocked an ear to the ceiling as a high-pitched whine grew.

Ciolsi rapped his handset against the phone.

A light burst from the overhead glass dome and Close Guard rushed to the King, three forming a shield with their own bodies as the dome shuddered. A glowing disk lowered from the ceiling, blades of broken glass suspended in the air around it, twisting on unseen currents.

Fastal darted between the King’s desk and the disc as it settled into the middle of the room. He drew his sidearm and aimed it into the center of a thin column of light forming above the disk.

Tyr mashed against the walls as an invisible force pressed against them, sending their clothes and hair flapping without any accompanying wind.

A humanoid figure formed in the light, a golden being that resolved into Zike, large enough to be well over the head and shoulders of any Tyr in the room. Zike wore a space suit, the helmet ring at the base of his neck smooth and glittering in the light.

“I come in peace.” Zike raised his hands.

Fastal squeezed his finger against the trigger, cocking the hammer back.

“I come in peace…and I must receive peace in return.” Zike smiled and Fastal felt a chill in his heart. “The gods gaze upon us all. Let us act as such.”

“This is the prophecy!” Osuda clutched a length of knotted cords and tried to hold them aloft, but managed to lift up the front of his shirt in the process.

“Get off me.” The King struggled out from under his bodyguards, the golden light reflecting off his face, a look of fear and wonder captured in the wavering shine. He kept one hand on the desk to steady himself as he came around to the front with Fastal, knocking photographs to the floor in the process.

“You may call me Director Zike, and I have come to bring great wealth to your people.” Zike looked to one side, his attention elsewhere for a moment before looking back to Menicus.

“Wealth?” The King put a gentle hand on Fastal’s forearm, and the general lowered his aim. “Why do the gods need to bring us wealth? What happened to our astronauts? Quboth and Nixazar?”

Zike was silent for an uncomfortable few seconds, his golden, semi-opaque form wavering like a TV channel with degrading reception.

“I come in peace. To make sure I am received as the gods demand, certain precautions were necessary,” Zike said. “Meet me at the Obsidian Dolmen in two dawns. My connection to you is failing, as the gods will. The Obsidian…en…”

Zike’s image vanished with a pop. The disk hovering several inches off the ground slammed against the carpet and crumbled into dust, a bitter smoke rising from the ashes as it evaporated into nothing.

Menicus collapsed against Fastal, weeping. “I’m not…I’m not worthy of this,” he sobbed.

Fastal, both arms wrapped around the King to keep him upright, looked over the rest of the cabinet as they watched in horror as the device that brought Zike into the room burned away, leaving a dirty smudge in the carpet.

They weren’t ready for this, Fastal realized, and if the most powerful Tyr in the kingdom were rendered down to panic and fear so easily…all the Tyr were in incredible danger.

****

“What the hell was that?” Zike ripped off a clear earpiece and threw it at a pair of technicians at a control station. He stomped off the holo projection platform and snapped his fingers at Argent, who rushed over with a glass of fizzy liquid.

Hower and Hulegu stood against the bulkhead of a converted storeroom aboard the Leopold. The zoologist had his face in one hand. Hulegu looked bored.

“There was…some sort of atmospheric interference,” a tech said. “It drained the onboard power supply faster than we’d projected and—”

“And what? Now the timetable is delayed—again—because I can’t get the damn indigs to start moving off the construction sites.” Zike tossed his hands up. “Hower! You told me they’d capitulate so long as I pretended to be one of their saints or something.”

“You had to appear with the gods’ countenance,” Hower said, gesturing at his face, “but your holo was…was as is.”

The techs’ eyes went wide and they tapped at their controls. “I thought you were supposed to engage the filter,” one hissed at the other.

“Ms. Argent, prepare a sanction notice for both of them,” Zike said.

“But it doesn’t really matter, as you went off script,” Hower said. “The gods are supposed to return and render a final judgment on the Tyr, not bring them money and wealth.”

“And I told you that is not value-added.” Zike wagged a finger at him. “How is impersonating their deities going to get them off the colony sites if we’re here to bring about the Rapture or Ragnarök or whatever the indig equivalent is supposed to be? They’re advanced enough to appreciate wealth.”

“Director,” Hulegu said, raising his chin slightly, “this leaf-eater gave you a format that you could use to order the Tyr off the colony sites. That was supposed to be the ‘gods’’ judgment. Now you’ve…what has he done, Hower?”

“I’m a xeno-zoologist. Anthropology isn’t my specialty. I’ve made that clear, yes?” Hower asked.

“Constantly.” Argent tapped a slate. “You’ve had me annotate that at every meeting.”

“Why don’t we just stop with the pretense and go with the ultimatums?” Zike shrugged. “How long until the Matsui is within range for orbital bombardment?”

“I can start hitting targets now, but if you want pinpoint accuracy, I need another twenty-four hours to get my ship in close enough.” Hulegu’s hologram wavered slightly.

“There’s still time.” Hower held his hands up. “There’s still time to get the Tyr to do what we want. I had the director request a meeting at the Obsidian Dolmen, which is where the Tyr expect the gods to come back and give their judgment. The situation is salvageable. The timeline is just a bit more compressed, is all. Let’s hold off on the course of action with mass death and destruction, yes?”

Zike clicked his tongue and took a sip from his drink. “Argent, what’s the algorithm’s projection on immediate force vis-a-vis indigenous compliance?” he asked.

“With a slight delay,” Argent frowned at her slate, “even with a few local days before the Tyr evacuate the Azure Islands…ninety-three percent customer satisfaction. With projections on damage to the natural rock phenomena and extensive cleanup efforts…thirty-seven percent.”

“Doubtful,” Hulegu said. “The cult likes the smell of death and a little bit of urban blight. Lets them feel like they’re in control.”

“Let’s adjust that lower projection up five percent,” Zike said. “Hower, I am less than pleased with your expert advice thus far.”

“You had a script,” Hower pointed a finger at Zike, then snapped his hand back, “sir. You had a perfectly good script and all you had to do was read what I wrote for you.”

“Bahadur-Getty doesn’t want talking heads as project directors,” Zike said. “But a minor delay for a better customer satisfaction result is acceptable. Perhaps, Mr. Hower, you can explain your rationale to the client when they arrive in system.”

Hulegu chuckled.

“That…that won’t be necessary,” Hower said, shying away.

“Then let’s have less disagreement and more unity of effort toward getting this project done on time and on schedule, yes? Ms. Argent, let’s get me over to the foundry and have me fit for a synth layer. Can’t risk another holo filter failing again, yes?”

He made for the doors and Hulegu blinked out of existence as he cut his feed.

“Double sanctions,” Zike said to the techs and they both went pale.

Hower scurried after the director and his assistant as the two techs did quick mental math and realized that they’d both owe the company money after this assignment.

Chapter 30

Daniel shut the drapes over a window, blocking the dawn light filtering through the glass, yellowed from age and with small bubbles from imperfect manufacture. He did a double take at his reflection just before they were covered. His markings were of the Royal caste, not the Linker visage he’d worn for so many years. He touched his face and felt small air pockets where his synth had been adjusted to change his looks even further.

A cold draft hit his shoulders and he looked up at where the wall met the ceiling. A gap had been built into the original stone construction of the castle for air circulation, but had been filled with insulation and fans since the place had been converted into a hunting lodge/hotel.

Sarah sat in a chair next to a small table, a pile of newspapers before her, while Michael lay on the room’s large bed, watching a TV set.

“There’s nothing here.” Sarah rustled a newspaper. “Hagiography of the two lost astronauts, ambary yields, the usual horror stories of degeneracy and squalor coming out of the land controlled by the heretics. Maybe we went the wrong route with the warnings; should’ve leaked straight to the press.”

“Too many censors in the newsrooms. If we’d tried that first, the shadows would have fought the idea of an alien invasion as some sort of heretic conspiracy,” Daniel said, taking the seat opposite his wife.

“We have…” She pulled a small piece of paper with the hotel’s seal at the top out from beneath the stack of papers. On it was a hand-drawn diagram of the planet, the two moons, and a course for the Matsui. “We have another twenty hours until Hulegu’s in range to hurt the planet with any kind of accuracy. Maybe. Too many factors involved—how much immunity serum they pulled from Hower, what they can produce using the two astronauts.”

“Why are you doing this on the back of the envelope? Michael, give us your slate, please,” Daniel said.

Michael pulled the covers over his head.

“He left it at home,” Sarah whispered. “Besides, doing the math by hand helps clear my head. But let’s try and get ahead of Zike’s decision-making process. If they want the Azure Islands first, then they’ll need to—”

There was a knock at the door.

Daniel looked over to his suitcase where his carbine and pistol were stashed away. Sarah dashed over to their bags and began closing everything. Michael put his shoes back on while giving his father a worried look.

“Who ordered food?” Daniel asked a bit too loudly, but loudly enough for whoever was on the other side of the door to hear him. He adjusted his Royal caste garb of a silk cravat and jacket and opened the door.

A young Royal woman was there, a tired look to her. From several feet away in the hallway, a ceraton—a dog-sized working animal with short bony frill that ran down its snout to a sharp beak—growled as a chubby Blooded security guard pulled back on the leash, giving Daniel an apologetic look.

“Greetings, I am Shadow Sazon and I…am wasting my time here,” she said with a sigh.

“Can I help you?” Daniel asked.

“We’re looking for a group of fugitives. I received a report pertaining to this hotel, but you are obviously—” she canted her head back to the guard and his ceraton, which was hissing in anger, “obviously not who we’re looking for. Don’t suppose you’ve seen a family of Linkers? Parents and teenage son?”

“Have I been mistaken for a Linker?” Daniel raised an eyebrow.

“Evidently. You have my apologies.” Sazon held out a hand.

“Think nothing of it.” He went to shake her hand, but she shifted forward and gripped his wrist. Her thumb pressed against the small bone just forward of the ulna, the pisiform, and her eyes went wide as she felt the bone that Tyr lacked.

Daniel grabbed her by the arm and yanked her into his room, flinging her against the floor with strength beyond any Tyr his size, sending the shadow rolling into the legs of the table with all the newspapers. The wood snapped as Sazon barreled through them, and the table crashed down upon her.

“Move, move!” Daniel barged into the hallway and kicked the security guard in the sternum. He bounced off the wall and landed hard. His ceraton cringed back, snapping at the air. Daniel snarled at it and it ran off, its lizard-like tail between its legs.

Sarah and Michael rushed out of the room, each with a single bag in hand.

“We get to the car and then we—”

There was a clack as rounds were loaded into the chamber of a weapon behind him. He turned and found himself staring into the barrels of a half-dozen assault rifles, each wielded by a Blooded in full tactical gear.

Red laser lights flashed across his eyes. Another pair of Blooded were at the windows, hanging from ropes and harnesses.

“You sound familiar.” General Fastal stepped around the corner, his revolver held near his face, the muzzle pointed at the ceiling. “There’s a reason for that, yeah? Why don’t we talk?”

“Dad…what do we do?” Michael asked.

As Daniel raised his hands slowly, he heard the bags thump against the ground behind him. This wasn’t how he planned on making contact again with the kingdom’s leaders…but here they were.

Sazon stumbled out of the room, bits of newspaper and splinters caught in her hair. “That was amazing.” She glanced back and forth between the Clays and the assault squad, then slapped her back against the wall to get out of the line of fire.

“Cuffs.” Fastal tapped the shoulder of the soldier in front of him and the man moved toward Daniel at a crouch, pulling a set of handcuffs from his tactical vest.

A few minutes later, the Clays were all sitting on the bed in their hotel room, wrists and ankles in restraints.

Sazon bent forward and looked Daniel straight in the eye, then held up a penlight and passed it over the many small irises.

“This isn’t the place,” he said, looking over Sazon’s shoulder to the Blooded in the room with them and Fastal.

Sazon poked at his face, then pinched his nose and waggled it back and forth. “It seems so…natural,” she said. “Forgive me, but I have a theory.” She removed a small bottle with a stopper and unscrewed the top.

“Don’t you dare insult one of the King’s kin,” said a Blooded lieutenant, pointing at her.

“They don’t know,” Daniel said flatly. “Not a smart move.”

“I am of his kin. Know your place,” Sazon said over her shoulder, then put a drop of the bitter-smelling oil down the bridge of Daniel’s nose. He felt a prickle through the synth layer.

“We’re not Hidden.” Sarah shook her head. “Our markings won’t wash away with chadice tincture.”

“How do you know about that…” Sazon put the bottle away.

“Look at this.” A Blooded had one of the suitcases open and was using a thin metal rod to lift up a shirt, exposing Daniel’s Corp-tech laser pistol in a leather holster. “That molded grip looks custom.”

He reached for the weapon.

“Don’t!” Daniel snapped. “Don’t touch it.”

The Blooded huffed and grabbed it by the handle. The pistol flashed and the Blooded cried out in pain. The pistol hit the floor and disintegrated into grey smoke. The Blooded’s glove was on fire and he slapped it against his thigh to put out the flames.

“Get him to a doctor,” Daniel said. “He’ll need a skin graft—and have his hearing checked while you’re at it. There’s another weapon in the other bag. Please don’t touch that either, as it’s the last one.”

Fastal grabbed the injured Blooded by the shoulder and pushed him out of the hotel room. “What by the dark of the moon are you?” the general demanded.

“We’re here to help you.” Sarah pulled her hands apart and snapped the chain on her cuffs. “That you’ve tracked us down means you’ve put together most of the picture.”

Fastal tensed as Sarah freed herself of the restraints, but he didn’t aim his revolver at her.

“They got the warheads, didn’t they?” Daniel asked.

“Show me.” Sazon’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Show me what you really are.”

Daniel traded a glance with Sarah, then broke his own restraints. He pinched his left earlobe and his synth layer went slack, his Tyr face drooping like melting wax. He grabbed a handful of loose synth at his forehead and pulled down, revealing his true self.

Fastal’s jaw quivered, his whole body taut like he was caught between fight or flight. Sazon covered her mouth, eyes wide with excitement.

Daniel lifted his jaw and peeled down to the base of his neck, letting the synth layer hang like a bib over his shirt.

“You’re in danger,” he said. “Not just the kingdom, the entire planet. My people—we call ourselves human—will take over and kill every last Tyr unless you listen to me.”

“Demons!” a Blooded shouted from the doorway and snapped his machine gun up.

Fastal slapped the barrel aside and a line of bullets shredded the edge of the bed where Daniel sat. Fastal slammed the butt of his pistol into the soldier’s face and he fell back, then the general ripped the machine gun away and pushed the Blooded into the hallway, shouting orders. Daniel heard the shuffle of boots as the assault team retreated.

The machine gun had fallen at Daniel’s feet. He remained still as bits of down floated through the air.

Sazon snatched up the weapon, then removed the magazine.

“You understand why we prefer to have the masks on,” Daniel said.

“What is a ‘human’?” Sazon squinted at him.

“Were you sent by the gods or not?” Fastal asked. “The King must know this.”

“You have…no idea what’s out there.” Sarah shook her head. “But we are not of the gods.”

“No one move,” Fastal said. “Not an inch.” A Blooded showed up at the door with thicker chains. “You’re going to put these on. You try to break out and I will end you. Is that clear? Sazon, you take the female and the child back to King’s Rest. The male’s coming with me.”

“Now wait just a minute.” Daniel stood up slowly but froze when Fastal aimed his revolver right between his eyes.

“Put…your face back on, thing,” Fastal said. “And do not say another word.”

Chapter 31

Rain lashed at Yenin as she struggled through a patch of ferns. Vines gripped her ankles and each step became a chore as she slogged forward.

“I hate this place already.” She wiped her face and touched her mostly intact helmet. Without the faceplate, it wasn’t providing much in the way of protection, but she still heard sound through the earpieces. There were moments she could have sworn she heard radio chatter, but no one ever answered her broadcasts.

Thunder rumbled overhead and there was a squeak in her earpieces as lightning cut through the low storm clouds.

“The company sold condos on this planet, of course they sold condos on this planet…” She had no idea where she was going or even if she’d been walking circles in the jungle since she made it off the beach. “Couple video clips of actual weather will get the rubes living in some deep hive so excited for a colony world. Until they actually get here and water’s running down the crack of their ass and pooling in their boots and everything smells like a wet dog covered in cat piss and…ugh.”

She stopped against a tree, feeling tears come from her eyes that meant nothing in the rain.

“Training…what’s my training…re-contact with what we’ve got in orbit. Request pickup. Avoid indigs. Too easy. Way too easy.” She spied a clearing amidst a flash of lightning and made for it.

Yenin tapped her faceplate against her thigh to knock away water and walked out into the open space. She was dimly aware of the danger, as her flight suit would likely prove to be a decent lightning rod, but some chance of rescue was better than no chance of rescue.

Bending over the broken visor, she got a small part to function as a screen. She rested it on one knee and entered commands on a forearm screen.

“Come on, come on.” She skipped across lower-band radio frequencies, hearing indig channels and music. She switched her receivers to the telemetry channels used by the survey drones they’d dropped over this part of the planet, and her heart skipped a beat when she synched into one.

“Yes!” Weather data scrolled over her visor. Her fingers trembled as she accessed the re-transmission functions and opened the drone’s communications up even further.

A map of the local area appeared, along with two pulsating dots. One was hers, the other belonged to Cisneros. He was a few hundred yards away, just down a hill and in a riverbed.

“Greg? Greg, can you read me?” Yenin started toward him. His beacon wasn’t moving, but she saw hers shift on the display.

She ran into the jungle, her eyes locked on the screen. She was so focused on getting closer to Cisneros that she didn’t notice when the contour lines on the map adjusted closer to each other. She did notice the hillside suddenly becoming very steep and wet when her feet went out from under her, sending her sliding down a muddy slope.

Yenin’s limbs splayed out as she tried to stop her rapid descent. She hit a bump and went flying, pinwheeling through the air before landing hard on a shed made of tin. There were squeals and an incredibly earthy odor as mud flowed down the sheet metal and around her shoulders.

A porcine nose sniffed at her face as she stared dumbfounded up at the sky. Yenin slapped the nose away and sat up. A small herd of fat lizards with sky-blue scales had congregated in the corner of the pen. Double sets of eyes and a red line of hair down their spines stopped her from drawing further comparisons to pigs, but they were pretty close.

She looked down at one hand and saw it was full of a gooey brown mass; the other still held the broken visor.

“Ah…ah…that hurt.” She sat up, and then, with one hand on her thigh, limped over to a rain-soaked wooden fence. “That smell…I know what that smell is.” She hiked a leg over the fence and found herself in a small farm. Lights were on in a dilapidated home, but she didn’t see any movement.

“Riding the storm out with vids and booze?” She limped forward, regaining some grace as the knot in her hip worked itself out. She hesitated to go up to the window. An alien covered in sort-of-pig shit knocking on the glass in the middle of a hurricane was not part of the survival module the company had her complete.

“Greg?” She looked at the visor and gasped as his beacon moved ever so slightly farther up the riverbed. She stepped around the farmhouse and found a gravel road winding up past more farmhouses and small plots of land. Lights from a village glowed in the rain and low clouds.

The eye of the hurricane had passed, and the winds and rain eased away.

She was weighing the idea of moving back into the jungle to hide her movement, when a cheer carried through the waning storm from the village. She double-checked Cisneros’ beacon…he was in the village.

Yenin broke into a run. Cisneros was the only friend she was going to find on this planet, and stealth became less and less of a concern as the cheer rose into a chant.

She ran past a pen of saurian creatures bigger than cows and with curved, forward-pointing horns, and stopped against a wall with peeling white paint. Rainwater sloughed off the corrugated metal roof and hit her shoulders. She leaned back, the lines of water striking her chest and the tips of her toes. The chanting was louder and had gotten a touch faster.

“Who the hell is this?” came through her earpiece. She recognized the voice—the cruel Myrmidon woman from the alien capture mission. Solanus.

Yenin crossed herself and said a quick prayer of thanks.

“Matsui? Matsui, this is Yenin, Tanya. Employee number X-ray one nine—”

“You were on the survey mission that’s overdue. Did you all decide to land and collect souvenirs?” Solanus asked.

“No, no, Matsui, we crashed and I made it ashore to…to…just look at my beacon. I need recovery, ASAP. Me and Greg Cisneros. He’s alive, but I haven’t reached him yet.”

“Boss, I found that data leak from the survey drones,” Solanus said over the channel, obviously not to Yenin. “No, the cargo scrub…right in the middle of the shit storm, yeah…really? You think they’ll chop off on that?”

“I can hear you, but you haven’t told me where to make rescue,” Yenin said.

“Stand by, we need authorization from the Leopold.”

“Authorization? Why the hell do you need autho—hello?” Yenin tapped the side of her incomplete helmet, the channel dead. She cursed and crept around the side of the building. The village appeared to be deserted, but there were cars and trucks at each house.

She moved toward the chanting, where there was a glow of light. Checking her visor again, she saw Cisneros’ beacon at the center of the village.

“Maybe…maybe he’s being worshipped as a god. I can be his goddess. He’s ugly, but I can play the part for a bit.” She slipped the broken visor into a pouch on her chest and picked up a wooden board from a pile of scraps.

She ducked and ran to a truck parked outside what looked like a circular park. In the center was a crude dolmen of large standing stones, each the size of the cars and trucks arrayed around the park.

The space was full of Tyr, all with their backs to her, many holding torches in their hands. Smoke reeking of petrochemicals wafted over her. Some of the aliens thrust rifles into the air, calling out slogans that were repeated by one of the armed Tyr at all times.

“Shag og noth!” over and over again.

“That’s friendly, right?” She hid close to the truck’s cab, exposing as little of her face as possible.

The crowd began stomping their feet against the wet ground in a slow rhythm.

Ropes flew over the standing stones, then went taut. A wooden beam lifted up, and Yenin gasped.

Cisneros was lashed to the beam, his helmet gone, his head lolling from side to side as the beam sank into a post hole. Yenin almost cried out to him, but more and more rifles were brandished to the sky.

“Matsui, Matsui, come in. We need immediate assistance,” she said into the microphone built into her helmet.

Nothing but static back.

Dark liquid splashed over Cisneros, and he groaned. Raising his head, he let out a pitiful cry.

The Tyr pulled back slightly, but then a single Tyr with a face full of black splotches against white and a necklace of bones and bits of silver held up a torch, shouting words Yenin didn’t understand.

“Please, we need help,” she pleaded.

“Pickup’s not authorized,” Solanus said. “Good luck. Oh, I’ve got to play something for you…one sec.”

“What? What? No, you can’t just—”

“Attention, this is a prerecorded message from Bahadur-Getty Incorporated.” The voice was male and read like a sales pitch. “Following automated review—or executive-level judgment—your employment contract has been terminated as you are no longer economically viable to the general mission of the company.”

The Tyr with the torch thrust it into Cisneros’ stomach and he burst into flames.

He screamed, but not for long.

Yenin turned and ran.

“We thank you for your service, and due to the sudden nature of your termination, we will include a two-percent bonus toward any unpaid wages. Please return all issued equipment within twenty-four hours from receipt of this message, or the fair-market value will be deducted from your final pay due. A negative balance will be reported to credit agencies.”

Yenin ripped off her helmet and threw it into a ditch. She turned down a paved road leading out of the village and didn’t look back.

Chapter 32

Daniel sat inside a Tyr helicopter, the thinly padded seat growing uncomfortable against his hip, but the thicker double chains of his restraints meant he couldn’t even stand up if he wanted to.

The helicopter had landed in a freshly harvested ambary field, the pungent odor of the resin heavy in the air. He watched the sunset through the open ramp, alone in a space large enough to sit a dozen Tyr Blooded.

Fastal came up the ramp, his sleeves rolled up, hands dirty with oil and a scowl on his face.

“Where are we going?” Daniel asked. His face was that of his normal Linker. The sight of a non-Royal in chains seemed to be much easier for Fastal’s men to accept.

“What did I tell you about talking?” The general rubbed a cloth against his hands. “The security detail’s edgy enough as it is after an emergency landing.”

“You’re not taking me to the same place as my wife and son,” Daniel said. “There were two helicopters at the lodge. I went to this one, they went to the other. If we were going the same place, you’d have just tossed me in the back of the other one when this one had to land.”

“They’re really your caste?” Fastal asked.

“We don’t do family like you. Flesh and blood. Marriage. More important than…” He gestured to his Linker face. “How we really look doesn’t make things as complicated. Usually.”

There was banging against the top of the helicopter.

“General, we found the bad hydraulic line,” someone shouted.

“The King is waiting on you!” Fastal answered.

There was a curse and a toolbox slid off the side and crashed to the ground outside.

“By the Oath of Marsis.” Fastal sighed, putting his hands on his hips.

“‘What will go wrong will choose the worst time to manifest,’” Daniel said. “We have something similar. We call it Murphy’s Law. These Sky Raider helicopters were always hangar queens. I’m surprised they made it to the lodge without breaking down. So you’re taking me to the King?”

“To the Obsidian Dolmen. You don’t know? Your caste….your kind want to meet him there. How do you know so much about—no, just tell me what you are.” Fastal glanced out a porthole as his men scrambled to pick up all the scattered tools.

“I’m an anthropologist…but you don’t have a word for that. I study groups of people, like the family matrons. I’ve been here for a little over ten years, since just before you won the war against the Slavers,” Daniel said.

“Don’t give me any credit,” Fastal said. “I led the Blooded in a final war against those monsters. The pain of generations is what turned the tide at the end.”

“I’ll give you credit for crushing their armored corps at Tigane Pass. For breaking the siege of Lucansa. For winning a dozen battles from Vinica to the Port of Suffering. You deserved to be Marshal after the surrender,” Daniel said.

“You say you study groups of people, but you know a hell of a lot about our military,” Fastal said.

“Hobby of mine…and your military strength was an important part of my mission here.”

“You’re a spy. You know what we do with spies.”

“And I know what you do with demons.” Daniel shrugged. “I should’ve known better than to get caught. All my time here and you’re the first one that’s ever even suspected I was anything but another Linker trying to make a living.”

“Sazon,” Fastal said, cocking his head toward the ramp. “She’s been studying…you’re collecting on our military to report to that starship on the way from Kleegar.”

“We tried to learn as much as we could about the entire planet. The animals, geology. We meant to bring it back and prove that Tyr is precious, that you should be left alone, coveted for your uniqueness.”

“How many…how many worlds like Tyr are out there?”

“You look to the Sleeve, the gap in the nebula surrounding this system, and you see stars, stars just like the sun. You follow?” Daniel asked.

Fastal nodded.

“There are billions of stars in the galaxy—that’s something your astronomers are just starting to figure out. And most of those stars have planets, and a significant number can support life, like Tyr. Even we don’t know exactly how many there are. But human worlds…we’d settled several thousand by the time I arrived here.”

Fastal frowned, his eyes glancing from side to side as he did the mental math.

“By the gods,” the general said, slumping into a seat. “There must be so many of you…”

“For what it’s worth, it’s really difficult to get from star to star. Sending just a few people like my family is simple. Sending a colony ship is a whole other problem.”

“Colony. Colony?” Fastal jumped back to his feet. “No. We’ll never allow—”

“That’s what they will demand of King Menicus. And they will not take no for an answer.”

“Wait…you know us.” Fastal tapped his chest. “You know we will fight. Why—why aren’t you on the starship trying to talk some sense into your caste lord?”

“Because I know my people, Fastal. The best thing I can do for Tyr is to try and help you stop the invasion. Stop the colony. Because if they get a foothold, they will never stop pushing the Tyr out of their homes until there’s no place left and you’re all gone. Believe me, Fastal. I’ve seen them do the exact same thing to too many other planets. Too many species that lacked the will or the technology to fight back.”

“This has happened before?” Fastal asked.

“We’re rather efficient at it. The ones you fought at the depot? They’re not even the worst of it. If they send the Marauders…not even the Slavers are that evil.”

“And you couldn’t—” Fastal thrust a hand to the sky, “you couldn’t have told us about this years ago?”

“Took me by surprise too, if that’s worth anything. But moving in on a world like this is almost too difficult for us. Taking it without destroying it in the process and making the whole venture worthless, at least. Zike is desperate. That may be Tyr’s saving grace.” Daniel sighed.

“What would you tell the King?” Fastal asked.

“Stall. Stall until you have every Tyr that can hold a weapon ready to fight. Blooded. Worker. Priest…even the Islanders and any Indentured you trust with a rifle. Because the only way Zike will stop this is if it becomes too painful and bloody for him to justify the cost.”

“We just fought such a war,” Fastal said.

“No, you fought against the Slavers while the Worthy People to the south sat and watched. This has to be a total war, Fastal, a war like your people have never fought before.” Daniel raised his cuffed hands up until the chain went tight.

Fastal looked down at his boots, then to the cockpit.

“I need to make a call.”

****

“And where are they?” King Menicus asked from where he sat in the back of his personal limousine. Elsime sat catty-corner from him, a small clipboard on her leg and a quill in her hand as she jotted down the conversation between the King, Ciolsi, and Matron Virid.

“Engine trouble.” Ciolsi lowered a walkie-talkie from his ear. “They’re back airborne, but they won’t make it in time. Fastal’s passed on that the…subject…advises you play for time, that the non-Tyr from the starship are extremely hostile.”

“Perhaps we should cancel,” Virid said.

“The gods always give us an excuse to fail,” Menicus said. “They lay traps of naysayers, fear, laziness all along the path to salvation. But to stay true…at the end is salvation.”

“Sire,” Ciolsi said, “even the priests haven’t come to the conclusion that this is—”

“The crown is mine,” Menicus said. “I took it from my father after the gods punished him for despoiling the Slavers’ land. I won’t turn back from my test just because the situation is far from perfect.”

The limo was silent but for the scratch of Elsime’s quill against paper and the rumble of the engine.

“And the other two? The woman and child?” the King asked.

“En route to a safe house in King’s Rest,” Ciolsi said. “We’re doing everything we can to keep their arrival quiet, but there’s been a fair amount of unrest in the capital since their house…disintegrated.”

“Don’t even do an I-told-you-so because we shot down your idea to burn down the rest of the neighborhood to cover it up,” Virid said.

“Regardless,” Ciolsi shook the walkie-talkie and the antennae wagged back and forth, “regardless of hindsight, the city is on the verge of panic. Rumors about an Indentured uprising, something about a lost Slaver fleet that survived the war in the polar regions striking out as revenge…the constables have put down several riots already.”

“I will address the people once this is finished.” The King bent one leg over a knee. “When they know the gods look on us with favor…they will be at peace.”

Virid and Ciolsi shared a quick glance as the limo rolled to a stop. After a few moments, one of the Close Guard opened the King’s door.

Elsime jotted down the time on the side of her notepad, delicately rolled an ink stamp over the bottom-left corner, then slipped everything back into her apron as her door was opened. A hot gust of exhaust from the back of a tank hit her and her hair went into wild strands as a clip on the back of her head fell out.

“Oh no!” She reached down to pick up the clip from where it landed next to a tire, then stood and struggled to get her hair back under control. A ring of tanks, armored personnel carriers, and Blooded troops surrounded a wide grass field. In the center were glossy black stones, each polished to a mirror shine and cut to reflect the sky. They were in a ring, with similarly sized and cut stones laid across the top.

Elsime paused. She’d never seen the Obsidian Dolmen with her own eyes before. The place was reserved for the highest of each caste loyal to the King, and being granted access to the monument was one of the greatest honors the King could bestow. Now here she was…the King’s own scribe at one of the holiest places on the planet.

Virid snatched the clip from her and got her hair under control.

The King was in counsel with Marshal Hawn’ru and Ciolsi at the edge of a cobblestone walkway at the edge of the grassy field.

“Forgive me, Matron,” Elsime said.

“A gift from on high,” Virid said quietly into her ear. “The King didn’t want you recording what he’s telling those two.”

“And what is—”

“I can’t know either,” Virid said. “When the King does something like this, it’s done for our protection."

“Wait, but then…” Elsime removed her clipboard and looked over her last set of notes. “Perhaps the King…doesn’t believe that these not-Tyr are of the gods? I mean, there aren’t any priests here.”

“But if they are of the gods,” Virid tapped the clipboard, “then the King is on record.”

“And if they’re…not?”

“Then the record might not matter.” Virid lifted up the hem of her dress and went to the King, Elsime a few steps behind her.

A fresh breeze cut across the grass, gentle waves pressing down the blades. The sky was overcast and threatening rain.

“The last of a hurricane that came in from the Ryta Isles,” Hawn’ru said. “We don’t have long before it gets uncomfortable out here, sire.”

“The envoy said they’d be here in…” Ciolsi glanced at his watch just as shouts of alarm went up from the ranks of soldiers.

Elsime looked up, and a patch of cloud darkened even further. A mass of gunmetal grey sank out of the clouds. Turrets larger than any she’d seen on Navy vessels lined the hull, all pointed off to the sides of the enormous ship. It lowered without a sound, but a deep thrum built in her chest and her sinuses ached.

The ship was so massive that much of it was still lost behind the clouds. Running lights blinked through like the warning from a lighthouse in the fog.

Terror gripped her. All she wanted to do was turn and run, but Virid gripped her upper arm. She wasn’t sure if it was to help her or to steady the matron’s own nerves.

A golden circle appeared out of the bottom of the ship, and a disc lowered from the hull toward the ground.

Elsime watched the King. His face was upturned and wore a slight smile in the golden light as the disc slowed to a stop a few feet away from them.

There was a tall, golden being—the same Zike that appeared in the Sanctum—but this time, he was actually there. Beside him were two dark-clad warriors, the same that had attacked the nuclear depot. Both their faces were covered by horrific masks and each held strange-looking rifles in their hands.

Hawn’ru’s fingers twitched near his sidearm, and his knees bent ever so slightly, his body poised to act.

“Behold,” Zike lifted his arms, revealing long sleeves of a white robe that shone with gold and diamonds, “what a glorious appearance you’ve made. Yet…”

He looked from side to side slowly.

“We have gifts, as the gods require,” the King said. His bodyguards brought out several wooden chests with silver clasps and set them to one side between him and Zike. “May you receive them in their grace.”

Elsime felt a nudge. Virid had hit her with her elbow, and the scribe suddenly remembered why she was even there in the first place.

She readied her quill.

Chapter 33

Rain lashed at the jungle canopy over Yenin. She huddled against a tree trunk, feeling all the cold, wet, and miserable that her Corporate recruiter swore she’d never experience once she signed on to be a void-craft crewman, third class.

“Bastard lied to me,” she said as her teeth chattered.

Thunder cracked and lightning flashed through the jungle.

“Why are they setting up a colony on a shitty planet with this kind of weather? They think archology rats like me want this bullshit? No, we don’t. We want air conditioning and windows to see the weather. We don’t want to feel…feel?”

The touch of tiny fingers moved up her back. She looked over a shoulder at a neon-orange insect that looked like a cross between a centipede and a foot-long sandwich crawling toward her face.

She shrieked and spun away from the tree. The insect gripped onto her pistol holster, holding on quite well as she slapped at it and whipped through wet underbrush. Its many, many hind legs latched on to a trunk and it peeled off her waist before rearing up, its mandible shaking in the air.

“Well, the same to you! You’re lucky my boots aren’t bigger or I’d—”

The insect spat at her and a sticky red goo spattered along one arm.

“Oh…man…” She retreated and ripped off leaves to wipe away the goo…which had a remarkably pungent odor. Rainfall didn’t do much to wash it away, and the leaves she pressed against the mess came away with more and more effort as the goo congealed.

Something swooped past her face. Leathery wings flapped near an ear and she shrank into a bush with reedy fronds. A shadow thumped against a wide leaf on the bush and a pair of glistening eyes peeked over the edge at her. A Cheshire cat’s mouth of needle-sharp teeth glistened in what little light came through the storm, and a checkerboard of green and black skin on the lizard’s head alternated colors.

“Oh, hi there, little guy,” Yenin said, unsnapping the cover on her holster. “Look at those teeth…they for fruit? Maybe you’re a scavenger or—ah!”

The lizard chomped down on a bit of goo that had rubbed off on the leaf it clung to.

“Tasty? Smells like ass and sadness, but you do you,” she said, proffering up a handful of leaves thick with the stuff. The lizard jumped onto her wrist and began eating. Its wings were part of its forward arms, like a bat’s, but with ugly lesions in the folds.

“Hey…something’s sort of friendly on this mud ball. Maybe you’d make a fun pet.”

The lizard bit the finger of her glove and shook from side to side, trying to tear away the fabric.

“Whoa there, pal. Plenty of yummy leaf with bug spunk on it for you to…”

More wings flapped around her. She looked up through the fronds and saw a flock of the flying lizards overhead. One dove through the bush and struck her hand, knocking the first one away along with the clump of sticky leaves.

The lizards hissed and whooped at each other, fighting in a leathery ball that careened across the ground. More dropped through the bush and battled over the clumps of leaves.

There was a rush of air and her gooey arm was jerked across her body as wings flapped in her face. The whooping grew into a cacophony as more and more of the creatures assaulted her arm, ripping and tearing at the fabric of her vac suit.

Yenin screamed but could barely hear herself. Her arm went up as the flock tried to fly off with her. Her toes scraped the ground, but the creatures couldn’t get any higher.

She tried to get her sidearm, but a cluster of lizards were biting away at the frayed ends of her gloved fingers. She tried to grab the pistol handle, but a wiggling mass of lizard was in her palm.

“Stop! Stop eating me!” She wagged her hand as hard as she could, but the creatures were far more tenacious than she gave them credit for. Looking up at the arm held up overhead, she saw the emergency release in her shoulder seam and slapped her other hand against her body, feeling something crunch against her and driving one of them away. She brought her hand up to her shoulder and came face-to-face with one of the little demons biting into the back of her hand. It snarled at her, its mouth full of the outer layers of her vac suit.

Yenin snapped the safety on the emergency release and a zipper jerked open where the sleeve met her shoulder. Her feet lowered just enough that she could brace herself against a tree root. Yenin pulled back against the swarm and her entire sleeve ripped off.

The flock carried it up into the canopy and Yenin smacked into the ground, rolled onto her side, and sneered at the dead flying lizard that had taken the brunt of her fall.

“Hope you choked on that last meal of yours!” She stripped off her shredded glove and tossed it away.

“I wonder what Patience is doing over in Recovery ops,” Yenin said as she rubbed the back of her hand across her face. “Probably getting high and trying to get into Ragnar’s pants again. Not looking for me, that’s for sure. Bitch owes me money. Why would she want to come and find her flight-school friend that carried her through exams? Huh?”

Yenin double-checked that her sidearm was still in her holster, then started walking through the jungle.

“Nobody cares? Is that it?” she called up to the storm. “This is how it ends for a loyal Corporate employee with a stellar—OK, acceptable—work history?”

Lightning forked across the sky.

“Bastards and bitches, the whole lot of you!” She put her head down as she walked, the planet’s weather continuing to dump on her. She marched on, careful to avoid trees like the one where she’d encountered the goo-centipede.

The rain lessened to a drizzle and she stopped in a small clearing.

“What the hell?”

A few yards away was a wooden Y. A reptile the size of a cow with shark-grey skin was draped over the stand, dead and limp. She looked around and noted nothing else conspicuous.

“No,” she said, pointing at the carcass. “It’s a trap. Absolute trap. I am a human being.” She turned ninety degrees and made for the jungle. “I am a human being and there’s no way I’m going to blunder into something—”

A thin plank of wood snapped beneath her foot and she stepped into a shallow hole. Something constricted around her ankle, her leg shot out in front of her, and the jungle became a blur. Wet leaves fluttered around her and she bobbed up and down in the air, one leg holding her aloft better than the lizards had managed with her arm.

Bells clanged in tune with her bobs.

Blood rushed to Yenin’s head as she took in the new upside-down world.

“Why?” She tried to bend at the waist and grab her ankle—bound with a tightly wound rope—but couldn’t reach it. “What did I do to deserve this?”

She looked over at the bells, crudely made of beaten brass, none a match for the others.

Ringing filled her ears as the blood pressure in her head got worse. Whoops came from the distance, a different pitch than the vile flying demons.

“No…no, no, why does this keep getting worse?” She touched her holster and experienced a brief moment of hope. The weapon was still there. The grip on her ankle shifted.

“Why did I say that?” Yenin said as she watched her boot slide through the rope. She swung back and forth, which got the bells going again, and the whoops from the jungle came faster. She was more parallel to the ground than not when she slid out and went into a free fall.

She plopped into a puddle, which still managed to knock the air out of her. Underbrush rustled as whatever was whooping got closer. She limped up and made for the clearing, when she remembered the trap that had just gotten her.

“More? I bet there’s more. Of course there’s more.” She stayed in the jungle, skirting the clearing as she heard Tyr shouting at each other. She had no idea what they were saying, but it sounded angry enough to her.

She pressed herself against a tree trunk, glancing around for any sign of the centipedes. The shouting settled to a back-and-forth between two distinct individuals.

“Maybe they’re blaming each other. Bad trap design. No cookie for any of you savages. Now go home before the rain gets worse and…”

Yenin crouched and crept away as quietly as she could manage. She pushed aside a branch…and came face-to-face with a spotted Tyr—a boy with eyes like saucers, his face frozen in terror at the sight of her. He wore a headdress of twisted leaves and several bead necklaces covered his bare chest.

She put a finger to her lips and made a gentle shush.

“We can be cool,” she whispered. “You know what cool is? It’s being quiet right now. Quiet and just turning around to walk away. Never mentioning you saw me. Anyone asks, you can blame swamp grass or say you ate some bad cheese or something.”

She pointed to one side. “I’ll go that way. You just stay here with the deer-in-the-headlights thing. Whatever. And we’ll—”

The young hunter screamed bloody murder.

Yenin shot up right at the same moment a band of almost two dozen Tyr did the same. They looked at her with the same expression the other one had.

“Fuck.”

Yenin ran as fast as she could, one leg aching from the trap. An arrow whizzed past her head and thunked into a tree. She burst through a bush and her feet found no ground beneath them. She fell into a ditch, her naked arm hitting several rocks in the process. One way out led to more jungle. The other was a cave, the opening doubly wide enough for her.

A Tyr jabbered at the top of the ditch and whirled a sling overhead. He swung his arm down and a stone exploded apart near Yenin’s face.

“Ow, you primitive screwhead!” She grabbed a rock and threw it back, hitting the hunter in the stomach. He hunched over, his feet leaving the ground with the impact.

Yenin crawled into the cave, which was far warmer than she imagined. She backed up against a mound of dirt, her eyes on the entrance. The Tyr had gathered outside, all on top of the ditch above the entrance and seeming even more agitated—if that were possible.

“Here I am.” She drew her laser pistol and activated the charge, a faint glow emanating from the muzzle as it warmed up. “Looks like I’m going to have to be the Connecticut Yankee in King…Alien Clusterfuck’s court. Wait…how did that book end?”

She aimed the pistol at the entrance, ready to bolt the first Tyr that decided he was going to be the bravest of them all. Discussion continued outside the cave, with one speaking, then a chorus of discordant responses.

“What’re you waiting for? It’s just me in here…”

The ground against her back shifted.

An eye as big as her cheek opened up next to her knee. A dragon. She had no other concept to describe the beast with a shaggy beard when it raised its head off the ground and snorted.

Yenin shook, too tired and too terrified to even consider using the weapon in her hand. The dragon sniffed the air in front of her face, then coughed a stench of rotting meat all over her. It slunk back and snarled, blackened teeth as long as her survival knife snapping at her, then it turned and ran out of the cave. The dragon’s bulk passed across her back and she hit the dirt.

The Tyr outside stopped arguing and started screaming. She propped herself onto her elbows and watched as the dragon, which was almost as long as two ground cars and had a bloodred spine ridge, ripped a hunter apart right in front of the cave entrance, then sprang on top of the cave.

The screams got worse and Yenin decided to make her exit. She ran from the cave, jumping over the partially chewed remains of a hunter, and into the jungle.

She didn’t look back.

Chapter 34

“Good,” Hower said as he paced around the lift platform where Zike and his bodyguards stood. He walked over to the chests and stepped right through them as he ran a hand tool tied to the Matsui’s sensor suite over the tops.

“Ambary silk, food stuffs, textiles, everything as protocol desires. We’re on track.” Hower snapped the tool onto his belt and went to Menicus. “He looks so much older in person.”

“Focus.” Zike’s voice boomed from the ceiling. Hower was in a holo suite aboard the Matsui. He was able to walk around Zike and speak to him through the director’s many brain implants, but the Tyr couldn’t see him—and neither could the Myrmidons.

“Your gifts are received with dignity,” Hower said, and Zike repeated the words from his disc floating just above the grass.

“Your caste is unknown to us,” Menicus said. “Where is your homeland?”

“Now read the first prepared statement.” Hower leaned close to Virid, then pressed his face into the holo of her upright hairdo.

“We are of the stars, not of Tyr,” Zike said.

“What?” Hower spun around. “No! That’s not what you’re supposed to—”

“Silence.” Zike’s disembodied voice was loud enough to hurt Hower’s ears. Just how the director was able to speak in person and through a separate line into the Matsui while at the same time being physically on the planet and still seeing what Hower was doing in the holo was starting to bother the zoologist. When the Corporation opted to spend money augmenting its executives, it became hard to gauge the extent of their capabilities.

Menicus took a half step back, his brows furrowing for a split second.

“Now you’re completely outside his worldview. The Tyr have no concept of alien life. You’re either of the gods or you’re not—and now he can justify opposing us.” Hower slapped a palm to his face.

“You attacked the bunker at Mount Bagad,” Menicus said. “You killed my soldiers.”

“It is for your safety.” Zike leaned forward slightly, looking over Menicus like he was some sort of a curiosity. “Our response to a nuclear attack would be…total.”

“Is that why you’re here? To save us from those cursed weapons?” Menicus asked.

“No…we require…territory. Do not resist us.” Zike crossed his arms.

“Director,” Hower said, stepping through the King’s holo and into Zike’s eyeline, “you’re going about this all wrong. The Tyr will be more pliant if you play up the religious angle like I—”

Zike flicked a finger and Hulegu grabbed Hower by the elbow and dragged him out of the holo tank to a surrounding ring of emitters and bare metal bulkheads.

“Unhand me, you brute!” Hower tried to pull free, but Hulegu slammed him against the bulkhead hard enough that the back of Hower’s head bounced off the wall and he saw stars.

Hulegu’s cybernetic hand gripped the front of Hower’s shirt and he lifted the scientist up, his toes scraping the deck.

“You think you’re in charge?” Hulegu asked.

“No, I’m…” Hower blinked hard. “I’m just trying to stop any unnecessary suffering.”

Hulegu chuckled. “I get paid for the blood, leaf-eater.” He released Hower and the smaller man half stumbled back. “My men get paid for the blood. So what if the Tyr bleed for us? What’s it to you?”

“They—the Tyr aren’t spear-wielding savages. With proper leadership, they could be a problem for the director.” Hower rubbed a growing welt on the back of his head.

“We’re not armed with single-shot rifles. You’ve never seen a Compliance action, have you?”

“I’ve heard details from Clay.”

“Him…” Hulegu rubbed the back of his cybernetic hand across the bottom of his chin and turned back to the holo tank.

Zike had a map projected between him and the Tyr King, the Azure Islands highlighted with a pulsating border. Menicus was stoic, his head shaking as Zike spoke.

“Just as I predicted,” Hower said, flipping his hand up.

The holo tank fizzled into static, revealing Argent standing on the other side of the room. Her lips were pressed into a thin line and she held a slate tightly to her chest.

“Well?” Hulegu turned to a screen showing the Tyr delegation on the ground below. He ran a fingertip down the side panel and cross hairs appeared over the aliens. “The boss want us to take them out or not?”

A hatch opened in the center of the holo tank and Zike floated up into the room, the crates of gifts from the Tyr wobbling in the air at the same level as the platform. The hatch closed and his anti-grav platform sank down with a gust of ozone-laden air, the crates hitting with a thump.

“Get this off me.” The director held his arms akimbo and Argent rushed forward and grabbed the golden cloak by the back. Zike stepped off the platform and the cloak slipped away.

“I gave them two dawns from now to abandon our first development zone,” Zike said. “Ample time, yes?”

“There are nearly three million Tyr on those islands,” Hower said. “Even if they mobilize their entire navy, there’s no way—”

“Plenty of time,” Hulegu said. “I’ll break out the Marauders detachment. We’ll advance on line from north to south, push the slower ones into the sea if we need to.”

“I just released the fabrication drones from the Leopold,” Zike said. “Be aware those units comes with a significant price tag.”

“Too easy. Shall we cripple their command and control now?” Hulegu motioned to the targeting screen.

“You can’t!” Hower spoke up. “Menicus is…he’s not unreasonable. His brother is far more militant and the Tyr will rally behind a martyr if you give them one.”

“Menicus was not amenable to any of my demands,” Zike said. “But I was quite plain with my description of what would happen to any Tyr we found on the development zone. If we show him that we’ll follow through on our promises, then getting him to support evacuating King’s Rest and the coastal areas will be easier, won’t it?”

“If he doesn’t declare a holy war first,” Hower deadpanned.

Zike raised an eyebrow at Hulegu.

“So long as they’re not lobbing nukes at us.” Hulegu shrugged. “We’ve got the infrastructure survey done. I can cripple the kingdom in two orbits.”

“Then two dawns it is.” Zike smiled. “Hower, Argent, with me back to the Leopold. I’m sure our Compliance branch will have everything under control.”

The side of Hulegu’s mouth twitched and Hower held back. Zike was leaving Hulegu behind to have full command of what would be a slaughter on the Azure Islands, providing himself a degree of plausible deniability in case Corporate had any future reservations about how the Tyr were treated…or if that prime real estate was damaged by Compliance and the client took umbrage.

“Easy enough, sir,” Hulegu said.

“Then let’s away, yes?” Zike snapped his fingers at the crates and made for the doors.

****

Hower sat in the shuttle bay with his shoulders hunched and his arms crossed over his waist. He glanced up from the deck to see robots running decontamination wands over the crates.

Argent slid across the bench, breaking the personal-space bubble he’d come to appreciate on Tyr. The young woman had her slate clenched in her hands, a half mask of sterilizing fabric tight over her mouth and nose.

“There’s no risk from anything in there, right?” she asked him.

“Not if you trust the company’s bio filters,” Hower said, his gaze on his toes.

Argent stiffened.

“The Leopold’s processed enough serum from me and our…guests. You’ll be fine,” Hower said. “Besides, doesn’t Zike consider you ‘mission critical’?”

“I’m sure he does.” Argent set the slate on her lap then quickly rubbed her palms against the outside of her legs. “It takes time to learn all the…quirks of any director-level employee of the Corporation when you become an executive assistant. But handling all the less-than-urgent demands on Director Zike will increase the cost-benefit analysis when it comes time for bonus payments.”

“That’s what the Corporation’s focusing on? The return-on-investment potential from each employee?”

“There’s an advanced AI that does the final tally.” Her face lit up. “It’s really spectacular to see it work. Total compensation’s gone up nearly a half percent since the new system was put in place.”

“Wondrous. Truly.” He got up and went to the nearest crate. He turned the latch and lifted the lid, shooing away the disinfectant droid as it thrust out an air nozzle to suck in any particulates. Hower held up a spool of brass-colored thread on a gold dowel the length of his forearm.

“Made from ambary,” he said, running the side of his thumb against the threads. “Incredible plant. The seeds provide oil that’s used for lubricants and paints and it’s rather nutritious for the Tyr. The fibers in the stalks are synthesized into biodegradable plastics. Then there’s the thread, obviously. Different regions have plants that can be refined into what feels just like silk to coarser fibers equivalent to burlap. Then there’s the medicinal uses. Analogous to hemp, if you’re familiar with that.”

“My training academy had a module on that,” she said. “Required learning on market manipulation, legal and otherwise. Perhaps we can establish a number of reservations—company-run attractions to showcase the primitive lifestyles.”

“I’m sure the Tyr would enjoy that,” Hower sneered. “Living in zoo exhibits. Maybe we could stage slaver raids on a bronto-herding clan?”

He drew out a glass jar full of frosted nuggets the size of the tip of his thumb. “Ah, tardash.” He looked over one shoulder then twisted the lid off, took a sniff of the contents, and smiled.

“Oh, that smells lovely.” Argent leaned closer.

“They were my wife’s favorite.” He popped one into his mouth and nodded. “Fit for a king, no surprise.” He canted the jar to Argent. She plucked one out, put it to her lips, then glanced at the robot as it ran wands glowing with UV light over another case. Argent bit the nugget in half then looked at the inside.

“Sort of…umami with a walnut aftertaste.” She ate the rest.

“Julia always had me pick up as many jars as I could when I went to collect specimens along the coastline. She was so angry that I specialized in avian and aquatic species while she was more focused on the megafauna…it meant I had more access to her favorite treats. I would’ve switched disciplines with her, but she did love her giant dumb animals.”

“They don’t have tardash deeper inland?” Argent ate another.

“Well, not many sea slugs that far from the ocean,” Hower said.

Argent stopped chewing.

“Yes, sea slug.” Hower held the tips of his pointer fingers about ten inches apart. “You’re eating the preserved egg yolk of a sea slug. The slugs lay them in the fecal deposits of yitigri—think a turtle with squid-like tentacles for flippers. The coating is dried amniotic fluid from the same eggs. Purists will say that the coating has to come from a different nest, but I’ve never been able to tell the difference.”

Argent swallowed hard, then shook her head quickly when Hower offered her the jar again.

“Before my wife…” he paused and swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat, “we and the Clays went to a little fishing village down coast from King’s Rest. Michael was barely ten years old and could finally speak the local dialect without too much trouble. We bought lunch from a Toiler clan and spoke to several generations that had worked the same boat, the same waters. It was atavistic, a memory of the way humanity used to be before we innovated ourselves out of the need for physical labor to survive. Now we preoccupy ourselves with amassing wealth…or digging out of debt to finance wealth.”

“You’re almost romanticizing them.” Argent ran her tongue against the inside of her cheek and made a sour face.

“They have their bright points, but there’s nothing noble about their savagery. They’ve massacred each other for caste and country for as long as they’ve kept records. If the Worthy People hadn’t ‘acquired’ a few nuclear warheads, I doubt King Iptari would have left them to their own devices as he did before his untimely death.”

“Hower.” Zike came over, holos flashing on his contact lenses. “Compliance has located Daniel Clay, but the Tyr have not mentioned his spouse or child. Would the Tyr keep them together or separate the family?”

“They have Clay? Where?” Hower asked.

Zike stared at him.

“The secret police are…quite competent. They’d likely separate Clay from the others to discourage him from escaping,” Hower said.

“Unfortunate; that keeps other variables in play.” Zike tilted his head slightly. “Hulegu, your strike is authorized. Eliminate him, but I want confirmation, no saturation bombing.”

Zike motioned for Argent to follow him to the front of the shuttle where a small holo tank was active.

Hower stood there for a moment, then tossed the tardash jar into the crate, not caring when the glass cracked. He went back to the bench on the wall and sat down, a heaviness in his heart.

Chapter 35

Pyth came home through his kitchen door to find two pots boiling on a heavy iron stove and a radio crackling on a windowsill. As he unbuttoned his constable’s tunic, his hand fumbled absentmindedly over his sash as he tried to get at a covered button. He stopped and looked down at his hands. Lines of ash were embedded in the creases of his skin and his sleeve had a fine coating of dust—the remains of the Clays’ home.

“The fighter sees every mistake.” He muttered an old curse of his caste and rushed to the kitchen sink to wash his hands. He opened the tap then twisted a bar of soap in his hands before letting it fall into the basin. He smacked suds against his face, scrubbing hard.

“Darling,” said his wife Teya as she entered the kitchen carrying a tray of dried iptha cut into wedges; the white flesh of the starchy iptha had dark speckles. “I didn’t hear you—ah!”

The tray went flying as Teya’s hands went to her mouth.

“What? What?” Pyth drew his pistol, which slid out of his soapy hand and whacked against a small table already set for dinner. Pyth went for his truncheon and managed to keep hold of that.

“What happened to your face?” Teya asked.

“Huh?” Pyth looked in the window over the sink. A fine layer of ash clouded his caste markings, but where he’d scrubbed was clean, giving him the guise of a completely new caste of Tyr. “Fire…there was a fire…is all.”

“Are you all right?” She hiked up her housedress and squatted down to pick up the fallen iptha. “Anyone hurt?”

“Hurt? No…no one, actually. Huh…” Pyth shrugged off his sash and tossed it onto the back of his seat.

“Your sidearm.” She pointed beneath the table where his pistol lay. She was of the Speaker caste, and even though she wasn’t under the vows of any order, her kind did not touch weapons out of tradition.

“Sloppy. I should know better.” He undid another button on his tunic, and when he bent down to pick it up, the slate he’d taken from the Clays’ house almost slid out of his top.

“What was that?” Teya asked.

“N-nothing.” He re-holstered his pistol then hung the belt up on a hook near the door. “What’s for dinner?” He sat down, touching the slate still inside his tunic.

“Moonrise stew and my grandmother’s tea blend…for Lussea.” His wife set the tray of iptha aside. She got a bottle of ambary beer from the refrigerator and popped the cap for her husband, setting it in front of him.

“Rise stew and that gods awful…oh no…” Pyth took a swig from his beer.

“Yes,” Teya said, sitting down next to him. “She’s getting more color in her cheeks. She’ll be in full season soon.”

“I’m…I don’t know if I can handle this right now.” Pyth leaned back slightly.

“She’s been your daughter since the moment she was born. You know what happens when girls get to a certain age. Just because it’s our Lussea doesn’t mean she won’t have fertile seasons or—”

Pyth tipped the bottle up and drank deeply. “We have more?” he asked, belching slightly.

“I’ve been getting inquiries from several brotherhoods,” she said. “That she’s your daughter puts her a few rungs up in social standing.”

“No. No, if she—I’m not going to say it—her first season, then the pressure for her to be a matron will be enormous and—”

“You don’t want grandchildren?”

“Things…are a little weird right now. And…wait, where is she?”

Teya sighed. “Upstairs, counting the number of canned fish she picked up from the market today. You know, they won’t let her buy toilet paper anymore. The Toilers running the shops think she’s a straw buyer trying to drive up prices,” she said.

“Could you bring her down?” Pyth touched the slate through his tunic.

“Are we going to speak to her about offers? Something to get her mind off that Clay boy? People think we’re in some sort of new age after the Just War, but we are absolutely not. The ladies at my temple barely tolerate me for marrying a Blooded. But a Blooded and a Linker? Never.”

“Get her. Please.”

“Of course, dear.” She gave his shoulders a squeeze and left the room.

Pyth slowly removed the slate and examined it under the lights of his kitchen. The case was a beige plastic with tiny grooves worked into the edges that caught on his fingertips, stopping it from slipping away. Buttons flush on the sides changed texture when he ran his touch along the edge. Holding it up to eye level, he noted it wasn’t even as thick as a pencil.

He rapped a corner against the table, then against his mostly empty beer bottle. He frowned, then pressed the edge down hard, trying to crack the blank glass pane that took up most of one side. No success.

“Father!” Lussea hopped down the stairs. “So glad you’re back. Does your precinct have survival rations—not that garbage you ate in the army, but the tins of fortified bread that—what is that?”

She tilted her head to one side as she entered, the same inquisitive gesture she’d had since she was a toddler bounding down the same steps.

“I was hoping you’d know.” Pyth pushed it across the table to her as she took a seat, moving hair off her face. He noticed the slight amber hue on her cheeks and the tip of her chin, and his heart ached for a moment. He wasn’t ready for his daughter to be this grown up.

“Is it some sort of Islander trick picture frame? It feels like it’s made of glass, but it’s so smooth.” She frowned at the slate and marveled at how thin it was.

“So you’ve never seen it before?”

“No, why would you think that I…did you get this from Michael? The Clays? I heard there was some kind of a fire or something in their neighborhood and—”

“It came from the Clays’ house,” Pyth said, nodding slowly.

“Did you serve a warrant? Daddy, the Clays have done nothing wrong! Why are you bothering them so much?” she asked, slamming her palms against the table.

Teya, standing in the kitchen doorway, cleared her throat.

“It wasn’t me, Lussea. It’s the King’s Shadow. The Clays are…were…up to something. Something peculiar.”

“Oh, you’re sure of that?” Lussea asked with a mocking tone. “Pe-cul-iar.”

“Watch yourself,” Teya said.

Pyth took a deep breath, then explained what he experienced when the Clay home disintegrated. Both his wife and daughter were sitting at the table with him by the time he finished.

“Oh…” Lussea gently gnawed on the inside of her bottom lip. “I guess…that is peculiar.”

“Let me get you another beer. And one for me.” Teya reached across the table and accidentally knocked over the beer, spilling some onto the slate.

“Thanks.” Pyth swiped the liquid off, then touched the side and worked some moisture into the button recess.

The screen snapped alive with color and Pyth dropped it like a hot iron. It landed facedown, playing a tune.

“By the Far Darkness,” Lussea whispered, gently lifting the slate up by one side as it twittered with sounds of battle. She snapped her hand back and the three Tyr leaned a little closer.

“It’s like a TV,” Teya said, “but it’s not plugged into the wall and there’s no antenna…”

“I found it in their house,” Pyth said. “Maybe it can only work in a kitchen?” He looked up at the lights, then back at the slate.

“Hold on.” Lussea rushed to a drawer, pulled out a knife and used it to flip the slate over, revealing a deep 3D depiction of armored warriors battling spindly reptiles clad in glowing armor. The words REPTILIAN ASSAULT pulsed at the top of the screen, though none of them could read that text. Icons to start the game appeared at the bottom of the screen.

“Those look like dire claws from the Slaver lands…but they’re walking?” Pyth pointed at a Reptilian. “And we never had weapons that shoot light or…” He touched a button and the screen switched to a first-person view of a battlefield set in crashed starships on a dusty alien world.

Pyth moved his hand slightly and the muzzle of the plasma gun on the screen shifted. He moved his hand the other way and the game followed.

“How is this possible?” He closed his fingers slightly and the gun fired, sending a sizzling bolt into the side of a damaged hull.

“Oh!” Teya pulled back. “Lussea, don’t get to close to it—”

Pyth wiped his face and the screen switched from the game to a picture of Lussea and Michael on a riverbank, she in a bikini and Michael in trunks. Lussea gasped.

Her parents both looked at her.

“That…that was a few months ago,” Lussea said. “A trip with the Unity Club from school.”

“You said you were at the Blooded Daughters retreat,” Teya said, narrowing her eyes.

“He didn’t have this—that—thing with him.” Lussea touched the screen and the picture slid slightly, revealing another beneath. “It was a normal camera and…” She swiped over to another picture of a group of several different castes, all in their teens.

“The Unity Club is a front for the heretics to the south,” Pyth said. “But I can let that slide for now while we…do that again. Flip through the pictures with your fingers.”

Lussea swiped again and a picture of Michael’s bedroom appeared—a shot of the door and pictures on the wall—taken from where he’d lay in his bed. His feet were covered by a blanket and there was a mirror to the side of the picture.

“Wait, what is that?” Teya scrunched her nose and looked closer. In the mirror was Michael without his synth layer, his normal human-looking arm holding the slate up, partially obscuring his face.

“What’s wrong with his skin?” Pyth asked. “It’s pale…”

“No caste markings either,” Teya said, looking at her daughter.

“It might be Michael.” Lussea frowned. “But he’s a Linker and…”

“It might be time to accept that his caste is all wrong,” Pyth said.

Teya gasped. “What if he’s really one of those lizard people from the war video? Could he shed his skin and—”

“Michael is not a lizard person!” Lussea began sputtering. “I mean—if that’s him in bed there, then he can’t be a lizard. Why be a lizard under that…pink? And then be a Tyr too? Way too complicated.”

“OK, maybe he isn’t a lizard thing. Then what is he?”

A hard knock sounded at the kitchen door, startling the entire family. “King’s Shadow for Constable Pyth,” came through the door.

“What do we do?” Lussea looked around frantically.

“Say nothing. Act normal.” Pyth scooped up the slate and shook it hard. He pressed the buttons on the side, and when the screen went blank, he slipped it back into his tunic and went to the door.

Pyth cracked it open slightly and a trio of Royals wearing identical suits stood on his back porch. One raised a badge.

“I’m off the clock,” Pyth said.

“Constable, I’m Suumsar. Need to speak to you about the incident earlier today,” the lead Shadow said.

Pyth glanced at his pistol belt hanging near him on the hook, then turned back to look at his wife and daughter. These were Shadows, and they acted as the King’s authority in everything they did. If he tried to keep the magic plate hidden from them…it might protect the Clays, but he’d risk his own family’s well-being in the process. Tyr who crossed the Shadows had a way of disappearing, or being suddenly exiled by their castes. Giving up the plate would upset Lussea…but Pyth had his duty. She was a Blooded; she’d understand someday.

He stepped outside.

Chapter 36

As far as Yenin could tell, the storm had been raging for hours. The hurricane winds had blasted the jungle, sending her searching for cover not long after she’d seen Cisneros burnt to death. The indigs knew their storms well enough to time when the eye would pass over; she had to admire that.

A wide leaf over Yenin’s head dipped and dumped rainwater all over her. She didn’t react. She was so thoroughly soaked that a little more moisture didn’t make much of a difference.

The pitter-pat of raindrops against the leaves slackened, and Yenin looked up to purple clouds as morning began just as the storm was relenting.

“Oh…now I’m in trouble.” She stood up and shook mud off her gloves and boots. Her stomach rumbled and she looked around the jungle. Small bunches of leathery fruit hung from branches, but tiny black insects crawled on the skins, no matter how much it had been raining.

Even if the bugs were gone, she had no idea what was edible around here.

She looked down at the laser pistol in her hand. No one was coming to rescue her. The indigs would burn her like they did Greg. She put the muzzle to her forehead and remembered the old stories about pirates being intentionally marooned on desert islands and given a pistol with a single shot in it. The story was never more apropos as she tried to squeeze the trigger.

“Goddamn it,” she said and lowered the pistol. She was too scared to go on, but not scared enough to end the journey. “Maybe…maybe the ones that burned Greg were just having a bad day and the ones in the next town over—I am so going to burn.”

Yenin jogged down a dirt road, the lower layers of packed rocks exposed by the washout from the storm rains. She came around a corner and found an abandoned car canted to one side in a ditch, the front wheels buried in mud, the trunk slightly ajar.

She whacked the trunk and it popped open, revealing several plastic bags full of what looked like pine branches and two suitcases. The bags smelled bitter and she tossed them aside, getting an oily substance on her hands in the process.

Inside the first suitcase were flower-print fabrics.

“I’ll just disguise myself as a happy spring mummy. That won’t attract attention while I’m…waiting for rescue? There’s Jacobs on second shift—he’s always seemed interested in me. Who cares if he’s got bad teeth and smells like socks? Maybe if I send him some suggestive photos and a grid on the planet, he’ll find a way around Corporate policies…jackpot!”

She flipped open the second suitcase and took out a rectangular green cloth with an opening for her head. Hoods and scarves of the same type of fabric were also inside, along with sandals far too small for her feet.

“A muumuu and a ninja mask? Maybe that’s the fashion around here. They dress for comfort just like babushka. Do they have lepers? They could have lepers…or people with halitosis. But this might be enough to keep me from standing out like a sore thumb. Progress!”

An engine rumbled in the distance, so she slammed the case shut and ran into the jungle.

A ramshackle truck arrived a few minutes later, and a group of Tyr hopped out of the back. The males were topless and wore pants that came down to just below their knees. Most had dark spots surrounding their eyes, others had wide blotches over their torsos and face, and one had circular speckles all over.

A female—Yenin thought, by the pitch of her voice—got out of the cab and shouted at the others. She was covered in the same type of muumuu Yenin had discovered; her hair was covered by a hood, her face by a sheer cloth. Yenin tried to memorize the details of her dress as they recovered everything from the car crash and threw the bags and one case into the truck.

The female kept shouting and the cowed males took shovels out of the truck bed and started digging the car out. The truck drove off, leaving the males behind.

“Was she the big boss or just kind of a bitch? Whatever…it’s progress.” Yenin slunk deeper into the jungle then moved east, handrailing the road in case the workers got the car back up and moving.

A half hour later, she came upon a town along a riverbed where motorized boats sailed into a bay and a glistening ocean.

“Postcard,” she said, opening the suitcase and putting on the clothes, tugging the hood over her brow and covering up her face as best she could. “So stupid to do this, but I’m hungry. And thirsty. I’ll grab just enough to lay low for a few days until I can ping somebody from the Leopold. There we go, easy immediate target.”

She wrapped more clothes around her torso, left the suitcase behind, and got onto the road.

On the way into the town, she recalled in stark relief every time she opted out of the company’s voluntary survival training. In her defense, which she thought was pretty weak at the moment, the training was offered during crew rest rotations, and if she’d taken them, she would’ve missed out on shifts and pay. Skipping the brief indigenous Tyr cultural education module also struck her now as a poor decision.

But the Corp was going to wipe them all out, so what did she need to know?

“Ha ha…haaaa,” Yenin laughed at herself. “Just get food and water, woman. Maybe the Corp will license your survival story. There’s an idea.”

A car rumbled up the road from the city and passed her without incident. She felt a bit more confident as she stepped onto a sidewalk that was broken apart where it met the jungle. She took shorter steps, careful not to flash her boots from under the hem of her dress.

Tyr women wearing the same type of robe as she led children through the streets. Males picked up fallen branches and repaired storm damage. All chattered to each other in a language that reminded her of someone flapping an index finger over their lips while trying to speak German. No one gave her a second glance.

“Maybe they have a repli-mat or some quality garbage bins I can scrounge from,” she muttered to herself.

A female voice sang in a brief, lilting tune. A few blocks down was what looked like a grocery store—steam rose from the roof and boxes of fruit lay open in front of a counter. A Tyr woman, in an all-covering smock and with a T-line of dark marking across her face and down over her mouth, kept singing the same brief tune, then rapped a small hammer against a tin plate.

A Tyr male with Dalmatian spots and a ruffled shirt came over, picked out some fruit, and dropped coins onto the plate.

“Easy enough, yeah,” Yenin said to herself.

She watched as small groups of Tyr went in through a side door and the woman at the counter snapped her fingers in the air and shouted orders.

“Maybe a restaurant? Not that I can order, but maybe there’s something in the alleyway.”

Someone bumped into her shoulder and a Tyr girl in the same knee-length shorts and a sleeveless shirt dropped a small book beside Yenin’s feet.

“Asta min ha, asta.” The girl put a hand to her chest and picked up the book, then looked up at Yenin.

Yenin turned away, not wanting the girl to look too closely at her eyes and brows. All the Tyr had some sort of markings across their eyes, and Yenin didn’t want to chance anything.

“Asta?” the girl asked.

“Asta asta.” Yenin waved her away with an arm in the folds of her dress. The girl skipped away, waving the book over her head.

Yenin’s throat felt dry as sand and her stomach rumbled harder.

A Tyr that had just come from the stand ripped the skin off an oblong yellow fruit and took a bite of the bloodred flesh inside.

“Just that easy,” she said as the Tyr woman at the counter brought up a basket of steaming pastries. Tyr came rushing over, coins in hand and shouting at the woman with the unique markings.

“OK, here we go…” Yenin waded into the crowd, smelling a sweet cinnamon flavor coming from the pastries. She caught a couple elbows as she shouldered her way to the fruit and snatched some of the leathery yellow ones she’d seen the other eat, then some spotted plum-looking things as well. All went under her robe.

“Tardasa!” shouted the woman at the counter, and suddenly, the crowd around Yenin evaporated.

Yenin froze, three of the spotted plums in one hand, exposed to all the Tyr that had backed into a circle around her.

“Tardasa!” The woman leveled her small hammer at Yenin.

“Asta?” Yenin dropped the plums onto the road.

The Tyr woman vaulted over the counter and punched Yenin square in the stomach. The blow splattered fruit and made an ugly stain as the pulp and juices ran out.

“I can explain!” Yenin shouted and a look of confusion went across the Tyr woman’s face. She grabbed the edge of Yenin’s hood and yanked it away before Yenin could react.

There was a collective gasp as Yenin’s blond hair and pale skin were revealed to all.

The Tyr woman backpedaled into her fruit stand, knocking boxes to the ground, a look of sheer terror on her face.

“You know what?” Yenin brought a hand holding burst fruit out from under her robe and dropped the remains. “Fuck it. Take me to your leader. Is he a BBQ enthusiast?”

Tyr screamed and ran.

“I’m not going to take offense to this!” Yenin shouted. She looked over the counter and saw a restaurant set up inside. Abandoned plates of food sat on several tables. “Why the hell not?”

She went inside and sniffed at the plates, settling for what looked like a cross between oatmeal and couscous with a slightly nutty aroma. Utensils were beaten-up tin spoons. She moved a chair with a groan against the floor and sat down.

“If I run, they’ll burn the jungle down looking for me. I can at least die with a full stomach.” A wide porcelain cup had a muddy liquid in it. She took a sip and thought it was like stale coffee with a dash of turpentine. She drank more and began eating from the bowl.

She was almost finished when she heard the sound of approaching sirens. Two uniformed Tyr armed with revolvers appeared in the cashier window. One leaned forward to look at her and she waved. The Tyr shrieked and ran off, his partner yelling at him.

“Are these eggs?” She poked a rubbery yellow substance on a plate. “Because they look like eggs.”

Her nose stuffed up and a slight tickle began in the corners of her eyes. Odd. Nothing had tasted particularly spicy.

The police officer kicked open a door and approached, his weapon trained on her. He shouted at her, his voice getting higher and higher with anxiety as he got closer.

“Maybe?” She picked up a glass of water, saw lip marks on the rim, then grabbed a fresher glass.

“Han ta ra mitra!” the cop shouted and pointed at the floor.

“Asta.” Yenin shrugged and the cop jumped back at the word. “You know what? I’m full. And I don’t have any other plans. Hell of a way to end it all, right?” She held up her wrists and glanced at the cuffs on the cop’s belt.

The Tyr began shaking.

“I said I’m full. I won’t bite.” She wagged her hands up and down.

The cop slapped one cuff on, then the other. He jumped back and shouted at her, gesturing to the door with his muzzle.

“Whatever you say, buddy.” A tickle rose in the back of her throat and her sinuses began to throb. “Something in here doesn’t agree with me.”

The cuffs felt like a child’s toy on her wrists, but she didn’t try to break free. Wherever she was going probably had food and no one had tried to burn her alive.

Yet.

Chapter 37

“Do you understand what we need from you?” Hower asked Quboth. The Tyr was out of his isolation tube, his space suit hanging in tatters on his body. A ring around his neck was fastened to his spinal column with a small bolt.

“I’ve done commercials and interviews before…” Quboth had a shrink-wrapped silver packet in his hands.

“Same thing, just the cameras aren’t as cumbersome. We’ve got you immunized to our diseases, so there’s no worry about you being around other people. Change your clothes. I won’t look.” Hower turned around as the Tyr stripped out of his space suit.

Hower was grateful that the lab had sanitized Quboth thoroughly. There were no showers in his capsule and who knew how long it had been since the astronaut had changed his clothes.

“What is this?” Quboth had donned the silver trousers and was tugging at the waistband.

“It’s what Corporate believes you should be wearing,” Hower said with a shrug.

“Children wrap themselves in tinfoil and pretend to be me,” Quboth said. “Parents have sent me the pictures. Now I’m the one playing dress-up.”

“All about appearances.” Hower pressed the Velcro tabs closed on the front of Quboth’s silver jacket and then knocked on the door.

“Hello and welcome!” Molly appeared out of a wall of moving lights, holding her arms out wide. “This is the Tyr hero you’ve told us so much about?” She smiled at Quboth and he tried to back away.

“Her lips don’t match what you hear because of the translation software we’ve got installed on you,” Hower said. “Pull back a little, Argent. He’s having a rough couple days.”

“Hower told you what’s going to happen?” Molly asked, exaggerating her syllables and speaking louder. “You’re going to tell us all about your gifts.” She tried to take him by the hand, but he jerked it away.

Hower tensed at the sound of carbine bolts snapping forward.

“He’s no threat,” Hower said. “Weaker than a kitten in our heavier gravity. Isn’t that right, Quboth? We’re all nice and friendly here.”

“Yes. Yes, we are.” Quboth tried and failed to smile.

“Then just follow me over here and…” Molly walked to a long table where items from the crates given by King Menicus were laid out. Camera drones pulled back and Hower made out several Compliance soldiers along the walls.

“Now, what is this used for?” Molly held up a lacquered plate with golden letters etched along the edge.

“That is a dowry plate.” Quboth stepped closer to her, his hands at his sides and his head down. “When a Royal caste wishes to wed, he’ll place gifts—carved figures of brontos or other animals—that he’ll pay for his bride.”

“Oh, that’s so quaint.” Molly picked up a gossamer cloth with a metal ring at the top. Quboth gasped and tried to step back, but Hower put a hand against his back.

“Problem?” Molly shook the cloth.

“Th-th-that’s a death shroud,” Quboth said. “It preserves the caste markings of whoever it was placed over.”

“Does it?” Molly held it up to the light and an outline of a Royal’s face appeared. “Oh, it does, how interesting.”

“That was on King Iptari’s face when the crown went to Menicus at the Obsidian Dolmen.” Quboth swallowed hard.

“This might have been a mistake,” Hower said.

“Well, maybe you should’ve said something earlier that this was going to have such an emotional impact on the subject.” Molly tossed the shroud onto the table.

“I did point out that the subject had gone through extensive medical procedures and was aboard an alien environment. But no, you have to get your sound bites for a marketing package and—”

“I understand everything you’re saying,” Quboth said, his eyes glancing between the two bickering humans.

“Then we’ll just do an Orson Wells and have you do a voice-over.” Molly rolled her eyes. “Bloody Quboth, can you just pick up everything on the table, say a few words, and smile for the camera?”

“I am unblooded. I have never been in a battle or had my combat deeds witnessed to my clan,” Quboth said.

“Ooo…that was excellent.” Molly tilted her head to one side. “Can we get that line again from a different angle?”

Hower muttered to himself.

****

The isolation tube locked over Quboth and the view port over his face went opaque.

“Are we done with this nonsense?” Hower asked Molly.

“Why are you being such a prick about this?” She shook her head and tabbed through video segments on her slate. “For what it’s worth, no, the indig wasn’t camera ready. I’ll see what we can fix with AI in post.”

“You’ve got one of the bravest, most well-known Tyr on the entire planet playing show-and-tell in a ridiculous getup. He is the first Tyr to orbit their planet. He holds jet-speed records. He—”

“Is he a sex symbol? Maybe that angle can generate some interest with a few fringe demographics.”

“It’s like you just had Yuri Gagarin explain Play-Doh and how to make bread from flour.”

“Who and what?” Molly scrunched her face. “If it helps, you probably saved its life. For a little while.”

“Come again?”

“The director wanted to ash it now that we’ve got serum in mass production. But I suggested you could get some more mileage out of it and some of this footage is useable,” she said.

“You can’t just kill him because he’s no longer immediately useful,” Hower said.

Molly clicked a button on the side of the slate then held it in front of her waist. She pointed a thumb to the ceiling then flashed him three fingers and a zero. Thirty seconds of no monitoring.

“Then how,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “how do we keep him alive?”

“What? You care?”

“Don’t you?”

“Well, no, but…” Hower sputtered. “He’s just a Tyr and—”

“You use he and not it.” Molly tapped the edge of her clipboard in frustration. “No time to argue. Give me an idea or he’ll get ashed.”

“Goodwill gesture! Yes, giving him back to the Tyr will be a goodwill gesture, make them more compliant instead of fighting for a martyr. How about that?”

“That’ll work. You’re the expert.”

“In Tyr wildlife.”

“The expert.” She tapped one ear and then her mouth.

“Yes, well, I do hope we don’t have to do this again.” Hower laughed quickly.

“Stow the specimen back in the lab and stay on call. The director’s sleep schedule is a bit erratic.” Molly gave him a quick wave and she left.

“Huh.” Hower rapped on the tube and Quboth knocked back, startling the scientist.

Chapter 38

“This is such bronto shit,” said a Blooded as he threw a tool against the top of his armored vehicle. Layers of plastic ribbons sewn through netting rustled over his head, propped up by long poles. “We were supposed to be on leave!” he shouted to another soldier in the rear-mounted turret.

Quad heavy machine-gun barrels on either side of the turret jerked up and down as the soldier inside shook his head.

“The gimbals are off again. Estan, get me the number five wrench and the grease gun,” said the one in the turret.

“Did you screw up the alignment just so you wouldn’t have to be the one out here sweating your balls off to get the radar nets up? Not one layer. Not two layers. But three layers of net? Because you sure ain’t doing much out here in the humidity, Garta.” He picked up his tool and poked it into the netting overhead.

“In case you didn’t notice, this is one of the King’s finest Slinger air defense vehicles, and yet it still lacks air-conditioning.” Garta wiped sweat from his brow. “And I have been in the poop shoot for hours trying to get the manual controls to finally work right, and now the gimbals just misaligned. Again. So you want to keep whining like a Toiler in the fields or do you want to get me the tools I asked for so I can help you with the netting?”

“You’re going to magically finish the gimbal problem just as I run out of work for you to do out here, I know it.” Estan opened a toolbox and handed over a grease gun and several wrenches.

“Nonsense, I’ll be done after Unblooded Nemsi finally runs the commo wire to the platoon box,” Garta said as he whacked a wrench against a nut, then began to loosen it.

“He’s going to get lost in the woods,” Estan said. “All he has to do is follow the wire back to our track, but that might be too complicated for him. The line sergeant will eat him alive.”

“And then there will be more work for us.” Garta opened a side panel. “Yup. Gimbal’s off the track. Pain in the ass.”

“You know why we can’t use the hydraulics? Or even fire up the engine?” Estan asked. “First, we’re pulled out of leave cycle, then we have to jump through our ass to deploy around the airfield on no notice, triple radar scatter netting…and we can’t use the radio. Has to be wire-only comms.”

“Somebody said they saw the King’s limo on the airfield.” Garta reached into the panel and winced as he twisted a part back into place. “The high Svars don’t want anyone to give a hint to the enemy that the King’s here.”

“What enemies? The heretics aren’t dumb enough to attack us. How’re they even going to get here?”

“They have bombers. You know we’re in air defense, right? The only thing we train to shoot down are heretic planes. I swear, if I ever get my hands on the Toiler that built these gimbals, the Royal that profiteered off the construction, or the Linker that was the middleman, I’m going to—”

“Guys!” A panting Blooded came out of the woods, his lower body visible beneath the netting to the two in the Slinger vehicle. “Guys, it’s me. I’ve got—whew—I’ve got food.”

“Can we eat or are we still working?” Estan asked.

“Let me find out.” Garta grabbed a handle on a wheel and began spinning. The turret spun from side to side painfully slow. “OK, we’re in business.”

“Guys…” Nemsi grunted as he hauled several matte-green thermoses onto the hull of the vehicle. “You guys…you’re not going to believe this.”

“You only brought ambary gruel from the cook tent?” Estan touched small paper inserts on the outside of each container. “Not chili? Not even egg loaf?”

“Guys…” Nemsi raised a finger and took a sip from a canteen.

“Spit it out!” Garta shouted.

“He’s here!” Nemsi smiled.

“The King?” Garta asked.

“No…Fastal. General Fastal is at the airfield. He’s alive!”

“Wait. What?” Garta climbed out of the turret with a mess kit and poured himself a lump of off-grey porridge from a thermos. “Fastal died after the war.”

“I heard he was killed by the Shadows after all the rest of the high marshals died,” Estan said.

Garta kicked him in the shoulder.

“Don’t. Fastal was the best general we had in the war. Plenty of good clansmen died in his service,” Estan said firmly.

“Sorry,” Garta said, rubbing Estan’s shoulder. “I forgot. Sorry.”

“But I think I saw him!” Nemsi nodded so fast that his helmet fell over his face. “All the cooks say they saw him too.”

A rattle sounded in the turret. Garta reached inside and picked up a handset.

“But you didn’t see him with your own eyes?” Estan asked as he ate the porridge straight from the container with a long wooden spoon. “Maybe—just maybe the cooks were messing with you? There were some rumors about him at Mount Bagad. But it sounds like they’re setting you up to go ask some Svar for an autograph and then that shit storm will blow downhill onto us. Your track mates.”

“Everyone was talking about him. He’s in some bunker talking to a heretic spy or something,” Nemsi said. “Maybe that’s where he was? Tracking down Slaver war criminals that escaped from the nukes?”

“Blooded don’t make good spies,” Estan said, still eating. “We’re too damn good-looking. Can’t fit in with the heretics. Besides, how many of our caste ever defect?”

“None, because it would bring too much shame on the clan,” Nemsi said.

“OK,” Garta said, returning to his seat on top of the armored vehicle. “Platoon says no radio, no engines, no fires. Signal to request backup is a blue flare. We see the flare and we’re to engage anything that’s not positively identified as friendly. We see anything we can’t positively identify as friendly, we call it in. Shoot it if we get the signal or we feel threatened.”

“That’s weird.” Estan spat into the dirt. “Pretty vague for rules of engagement. They say anything about the triple layers of radar scattering canopy?”

“Yeah, it needs to be perfect. Lieutenant and the line sergeant will be doing inspections. Constantly,” Garta said.

“This isn’t how most field exercises go?” Nemsi asked.

“Nah, kid, this feels like a deployment right up to the heretics’ border,” Estan said. “We were assigned to Prince Riktan when he was about to crush the border fort at Chaimal Pass after they took some potshots at us. King had to pull him back at the very last second.”

“The King…” Nemsi pondered for a moment. “There were some long limousines near the airfield too.”

“Told you,” Garta said, climbing back into the turret. “You know what that means.”

“Yup.” Estan sighed and closed up the thermoses.

“What?” Nemsi asked.

“Better start polishing the brass on every bullet for the machine guns,” Estan said. “Because if there are high-falootin’ Royals around, we’ve got to look good so the Royals in charge of our unit look good.”

“Royals ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy,” Garta said. “Estan, grab your binos and keep an eye on the sky. Nemsi, get a shovel and start digging.”

“Digging? Why?”

“Because when you’re digging, no one ever asks you to go and do anything else. And we might need a trench to take cover in. Or shit in. Depends how deep you go. Get started,” Garta said.

****

The hood came off Clay’s head and bright light stung his eyes. He sat on a wooden chair with his hands cuffed through wooden slats he could feel, his ankles shackled to the peg legs. He shifted slightly and his seat didn’t move. It was bolted to the floor.

The room was musty, the concrete floor uneven and stained. Old.

“Let me guess, Fort Horizon?” Clay asked.

“Why do you think that?” Fastal stepped out of the shadows and bent forward to look Clay eye to eye.

“Went from a cool breeze that smelled of the ocean when we landed. Big hangar doors closed behind us and now we’re in what looks like a munitions bunker. This is the base with the most fighter squadrons in the whole kingdom. I figured you’d take me someplace like this…where’s my family?”

“Safe,” Fastal said. “Not here, but safe.”

“Thank you,” Clay said.

Fastal stood up. “You said you’re here to help us…you can start now. Bring it over.” He half turned and looked outside the circle of light.

A gurney wheeled in from the shadows, a pair of Blooded in simple fatigues on either end. The dead Myrmidon was on the gurney, a black body bag beneath his armored bulk. Sazon skirted the edge of the light, a clipboard and pencil in hand.

The smell of stale blood hit Clay’s nose and a flood of memories came with it. Human blood had more of a copper tang to it than Tyr.

“What is this thing?” Fastal asked. “Why did your caste kill it?”

“They’re not my caste. Not anymore. What you’ve got there is a dead human wearing a Myrmidon-pattern exo-armor suit. Not the newest model, but I’m familiar with it.” Clay craned his neck up to look at the corpse. “What do you want to know?”

“How…how to kill it,” Fastal said. “How many are there? What was it shooting us with? There were these snaps when it fired and we didn’t find a single spent cartridge anywhere on the mountain.”

“Gauss technology. Magnets accelerate the rounds and fire them that way, much more reliable. Nothing to clean and nothing to get jammed,” Clay said. “Look, we can waste a lot of time beating around the bush of what you do and do not know about the Myrmidons, or I can stand up and show you.”

“I don’t know what will happen if you touch this.” Fastal poked the weapon mounted on the dead man’s arm.

“Allow me.” Clay leaned forward and strained as he pulled his arms apart. The cuffs snapped apart and Clay rubbed his wrists but remained seated. “Gravity differential, makes me a bit stronger than I look.”

Fastal’s mouth contorted for a moment, then he motioned for Clay to get up. Clay crouched up, then broke the chair’s legs with short kicks.

“Mighty polite of you to keep those cuffs on for as long as you did,” Fastal said.

“It was getting a bit old.” Clay went over to the gurney and broke the cuffs off his wrists with a twist. “You see this?” He poked a finger into the Myrmidon’s chest and the fabric gave slightly, a hex pattern appearing beneath the light. “Graphene weave. You could poke a pencil tip against it and have a bronto stand on top without this stuff tearing. Feel this.” Clay squeezed the Myrmidon’s upper arm, feeling a length of metal beneath his touch.

“Non-Newtonian gel layer distributes force across the suit, counters blast waves and impact damage. There’s a frame over his body, like bones, that handles the weight of the suit and augments his strength even more than mine. The onboard computer should have self-destructed when his life signs terminated…” He pushed the body up on one shoulder and poked a finger into a melted, blackened mass at the top of the Myrmidon’s shoulders. “Gone.”

“There was a computer in that tiny little box?” Sazon asked. “How? Our smallest one can barely fit in this room. And what is ‘graphene’?”

“Who is ‘Myrmidon’?” Fastal asked. “Is that a clan?”

“Can we go back to ‘graphene’?” Sazon slightly raised her hand holding the pencil.

“How do we kill them?” Marshal Hawn’ru stepped out of the shadows.

“Marshal,” Clay said, touching his fingertips to his brows as a show of respect. “You have a dead one here. I assume you have an idea how to do it.”

“One of your chieftains finished him off,” Fastal said. “I doubt we can plan on that happening again and to every one of these demons that sets foot on our planet.”

“Looks like blast damage.” Clay ran his fingertips over small pits on the armor. “Grenade?”

“Yes, shoulder launcher,” Fastal said. “Barely slowed him down.”

“Taking a blast like that puts the gel layer off its equilibrium for a few minutes…you must have…here.” Clay stuck a finger into the knife wound near the Myrmidon’s neck. “You broke his containment layer. Hulegu—that’s their leader—must have killed him because he was infected with…any local virus. He was an infection risk to everyone else in his ship.”

“So we just attack with grenades and hope the graph things have a bad day?” Fastal asked. "How do we kill them?”

“You have to fight them like you’re fighting tanks,” Clay said. “Fragmentation grenades? No.” He shook his head. “Hit them with that molten lance of metal from an anti-tank shaped charge and it might—might—beat their armor. Or a tandem warhead…do you all have that yet?”

“‘Yet’ needs to come pretty soon.” Fastal looked up at the ceiling. “When we fought the slavers at Falling Strike Pass, I had my men organized into small kill teams. We ambushed their tanks using the warheads you described, but there was nothing ‘tandem’ about it.”

“Can we backtrack?” Sazon waggled the eraser end of her pencil next to her face.
“You’re…not sick,” Sazon said.

“We go to great lengths to immunize ourselves before we come here,” Clay said.

“Then we back engineer some of the Slaver’s equipment. They used poison gas and—” Hawn’ru stopped when Clay raised a hand.

“Useless—now, at any rate. The astronauts didn’t die in a crash, did they? They were taken. Taken because Zike needed their bodies to manufacture a serum against Tyr’s diseases.”

“How do you know Zike?” Ciolsi asked from the shadows.

“We spoke briefly when he arrived, then he tried to kill me and my family when we returned to help you.” Clay turned around to look into the darkness around them, making out more Tyr. “You’ve met him, I assume.”

“He wants us to abandon the Azure Islands.” King Menicus stepped forward. “We have a little more than a day to comply.”

“Sire.” Clay went to one knee, but Fastal caught him under the arm and forced him back up.

“Show your face. Your true face,” Menicus said.

Clay pressed behind his ears and the synth layer over his face went slack, then fell free like a curtain off a broken rod. His skin stung in the fresh air, and he tensed as a collective gasp filled the bunker. A moment passed and no one tried to kill him as a demon…this time.

“No god has touched you,” Menicus said. “You are like the cursed and the Hidden.”

“I am no Tyr, so no, the gods would not have graced me with their favor.” Clay opened his tunic and tucked his false face inside. “We have different tones to our skin, different prevalent features due to our heritage, but all humans are just humans, though it took us awhile to appreciate that about ourselves.”

“You were the one that tried to warn us,” the King said.

Clay nodded, then turned his attention back to the dead Myrmidon.

“This Zike demands the Azure Islands. I cannot give those to him. It is—”

“The homeland of the Royal caste and has the most sacred temples of the Speakers. I know, sire,” Clay said. “You no doubt told this to Zike and it changed nothing.”

“Why? Why must he have that land? Of all the places, he wants the one I cannot surrender!” Menicus shouted, his hands balled and shaking with rage. No one else made a sound as his cry echoed off the walls.

“Because they are so beautiful,” Clay said. “They are here to set up cities. To resettle human beings to your world. You must understand this, sire. We do not share planets. With anyone. The natives are always exterminated in time.”

“But Zike promised no further demands if we complied.” Matron Virid stepped forward.

Clay picked up the Myrmidon’s non-gun arm and touched the bottom of a ring over the wrist. A blade snapped out of a forearm housing, the focused-laser edge burning crimson. He clicked the ring to one side and the blade retracted.

“A lie.” Clay shook his head. “He’s playing for time. The colony ship isn’t here yet. Once that arrives, he’ll have no reason to negotiate with you. No reason to hold off the slaughter.”

“How many of those things does he have?” Hawn’ru asked, pointing to the Myrmidon.

“Probably no more than a few dozen, but these aren’t the worst of his weapons. You saw the warship? Several times the size of the Holy Favor aircraft carrier from the last war. It’s armed with missiles that are more accurate and destructive than you can possibly imagine,” Clay said.

“But they won’t use nuclear warheads,” Hawn’ru said.

“No…they won’t need to. An eradication action on a planet this size and with this population would take…maybe six weeks,” Clay said. “Assuming they don’t use bioweapons.”

“If it’s so hopeless, then why are you helping us?” Menicus asked.

“The wormhole,” Clay said, pointing to the ceiling, “the portal through space that we came through behind Kleegar; it’s Zike’s only weakness. If we tear it down, he’ll retreat or be trapped here for decades, and he doesn’t have enough soldiers to fight every last Tyr, not if you’re united.”

“Negotiate with the heretics or give up the Azure Islands.” Menicus crossed his arms. “Both are impossible things.”

“I daresay the gods will forgive you if you reach out to the Worthy People just this once,” Clay said, “because they should still have nuclear warheads and we’re going to need them. The only way to destroy the wormhole is with a significant quantum field disturbance, and that takes a gamma particle spike that only a nuke can provide…or a Sebrinski/Onozawa generator…but I doubt you’ve got one of those handy.”

“And if we had a warhead?” Menicus asked.

“I’d have to get it to within line of sight and a few hundred kilometers of the wormhole.” Clay rubbed the raw skin on the bridge of his nose. “Which is a whole other problem.”

“We still have a fair number of fissile—”

“Sire, no,” Hawn’ru spoke up. “He knew where our nuclear stockpile was and then his people attacked. Don’t give him another target.”

“Immediate problem first,” Menicus said. “Zike’s threat to take the Azure Islands.”

“I’m surprised he even gave you a chance,” Clay said, frowning. “Deadly serious. He’ll kill everyone he finds there after the deadline, and he’ll attack with things far worse than this Myrmidon.” He poked the corpse on the shoulder.

“Then an evacuation is warranted,” the King said, and the room erupted in shouts.

Menicus raised his hands and a tense silence returned.

“We give this Zike what he wants. Put him at ease long enough to give us time to fight back,” the King said. “Trying to get another warhead in the midst of an attack by the demons from the Far Darkness and worldwide panic would be a tall order, wouldn’t it, Matron? Marshal?”

“There will be a panic no matter what we do,” Virid said. “At least we have this untouched monstrosity to prove to the heretics that we’re not running an elaborate joke on them when we do come and ask for a warhead.”

“The Royals will object to leaving their estates,” Hawn’ru said. “You ask the Blooded to remove them and…”

“I can handle my own caste just fine, thank you, Marshal.” Menicus ran a hand down his face. “Where is my scribe? I need to prepare the evacuation order. You,” he pointed at Clay, “tell the marshal how to make those tandem warheads you mentioned and put your disguise back on. You’re…unnatural.”

“Yes, sire,” Clay said and unbuttoned his tunic.

Chapter 39

Elsime dipped her quill into a tiny inkwell situated inside her wooden lap desk, then wrote the date on the bottom of the scroll. She swiped a fingertip into another open jar and rubbed a very fine dust onto the moist ink.

Sighing, she looked out the back window of the King’s limousine.

A Close Guard sitting catty-corner from her touched the side of an earpiece.

“No word when His Highness will be done,” the guard said.

“I can’t believe we were left behind,” she said, wafting air over the ink, watching it dry.

“You were left behind. I’m assigned to you,” he said.

“Oh, do pardon my assumption.” Elsime rolled the scroll up and slipped it into a leather case. “Though I also assumed that I would be at the King’s side for all affairs of state to keep the official record. Yet here I am while the King speaks to…one of them.”

“The scribe records what needs to be on record. Not everything needs to be on that record. You heard anything about who—or what—they’ve got down there?” the guard asked.

“My duty is to record, not elicit” She set her writing desk aside and folded her hands on her lap.

“Shadow’s caught up to a family of these…not Tyr. They can change their caste at will. Worse security threat than any Hidden operative we’ve ever encountered. Then the local police went to search their residence and the whole building sort of…vanished.”

“Sorry, go back to the part about ‘Hidden operatives.’ The Hidden are just a myth. A tale from the Speakers to keep everyone moral and just. Sin enough beneath the gaze and the gods will take their gift away,” she said, motioning around her Royal ketafik markings. “Tyr without a caste. Please.”

The guard chuckled. “You remember the Speaker’s ritual when you were welcomed to the palace? Anointment with an oil that smelled like grish piss? That’s a solvent to dissolve the false caste markings the Hidden use to disguise themselves when they move amongst the kingdom. And the heretics. No one tolerates a ghost face.”

“What would the Speaker have done if my…what happens? The Hidden burst into flames like a demon that’s crossed into a sanctified shrine?”

“The oil runs dark and then the Close Guard hiding behind the curtains shoot the spy. We’ve never taken one prisoner before. They always commit suicide once they’re discovered. Poisoned teeth. Daggers to their own hearts. Hard to interrogate a corpse.”

“The Hidden are real…”

“Don’t write that down,” he said.

“I gathered as much. Not the most life-shattering revelation of late, is it? You’re a Close Guard. What do you think will happen once the people find out about these visitors? These humans?”

“Now you’re eliciting plenty.”

“You started it. We can just sit here and stare at each other or we can talk.”

The guard sighed. “Because there is no real precedent for…not Tyr, it will likely come down to how the Speakers interpret their arrival. If the priests say they’re an abomination beneath the gaze, then the castes will fight any cooperation with them…and not look too kindly on the King for meeting with them.”

“Ah…now it makes more sense…why I’m not recording the King’s meeting with the one in the bunker,” she said.

“Some Royal houses are always alert for a reason to push the King’s family out of power. Even in the midst of a crisis. If the Speakers interpret the arrival as they’re some kind of a new caste…then maybe the Tyr castes will accept them not as demons, but as mortals we can fight. Which is why High Speaker Osuda is at the Grand Temple back in the Azure Islands. Divining just how the priests will react.”

“I thought that revelation would come from being in the gods’ presence after enough oaxa.”

“Osuda is no fool. Sometimes he can gauge the gods’ intentions without a full ‘revelation.’”

“I’ve noticed some of the Speaker’s edicts have been rather…convenient—another realization about the kingdom that shouldn’t surprise me anymore. But the human caste crossed the stars and can speak through reflections of light from no mirrors. Their Blooded are formidable. Fighting them…”

“We beat the Slavers. Two thousand years of war on the plains. Burnt cities and stolen women and children. We beat the Slavers in our lifetime. Our ancestors would never have believed such a thing was possible.”

“They didn’t have nuclear weapons…then again, we don’t either, not anymore,” Elsime said.

“Those things are cursed,” the guard said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Is it true? The rumors from the end of the war?”

The guard’s jaw worked from side to side, but he didn’t respond.

“That every Blooded, Speaker, and Royal that approved the use of the weapons on the Slavers’ home islands died?” she continued. “Rather unexpectedly within a few months of the Slavers’ surrender?”

“The Close Guard failed. Utterly. The assassinations happened within a single day. The deaths didn’t happen over months like we let the public think. To have so many senior members poisoned, stabbed, drowned, or killed in ‘accidents’ all at once…it would’ve ruined any faith in the King…but Iptari was dead and Menicus still too young to assume the crown immediately.”

“That’s…horrifying. Could the Hidden be working with the humans?”

“Good question. Perhaps the King will ask the one in the bunker. Consensus amongst the Guard is that they’re not connected. The Hidden have been a part of myth and legend since the gods placed us here. The earliest trace of the humans is a few years old, and captured humans aren’t suicidal. Yet.”

“Hidden are always burnt alive once they’re discovered, in stories and historical records, which suddenly are a lot more believable. That only makes it more complicated. If the King can’t declare that the humans are somehow part of the Hidden…wait…”

“Welcome to the King’s court. Nothing is ever easy,” he said. “Virid and Osuda are away, leaving the Shadow and the marshal as the King’s nearest advisors. I’ll let you figure out what’ll happen next.”

“Did my predecessor have these problems?” Elsime put a hand over her mouth and looked out the window, noting the evidence of her lack of sleep in her reflection off the glass.

“She spent most of her time eyeing potential husbands. Virid couldn’t stand her and tried to pawn her off on the lowest-born noble she could find just out of spite. Didn’t work. You should’ve heard her go off when the dowry from House Duross was announced. She can curse worse than an Islander with a stubbed toe.” The guard chuckled.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Elsime took a deep breath, and fatigue set in.

“Want a bit of oaxa?” He reached into his jacket and took out a small tin.

“I doubt hallucinations as my spirit ascends to the gods’ realm would be very helpful,” she said.

“There’s oaxa and then there’s oaxa. Strains from the grasslands have different potencies. Take a tenth measure and it’ll perk up your mind. Better reflexes. Sharper vision. Old Blooded trick that the Close Guard picked up on. Just don’t take more than a tenth or…you know.”

“From the grasslands…but that oaxa only grows around bronto herds.”

The guard nodded and popped a small dried mushroom into his mouth.

“They grow off the bronto’s…leavings.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Can’t even tell after they’re washed,” he said between chews. He smiled and touched his earpiece, then tapped it several more times.

“Something wrong?” Elsime asked.

“No signal.” He opened the door and got out. Elsime followed and came out onto a hot runway and into muggy air that smelled of burnt jet fuel. Close Guard were outside all the vehicles in the motorcade, all tapping their earpieces.

Doors opened up and down the hangars adjacent to the flight line. Blooded in sandbag bunkers shouted at each other. Soldiers ran from the hangars, carrying ammo boxes and rocket launchers.

Her guard muttered to stay near the limo, then trotted over to where his fellows were huddled at the lead vehicle. A pair of helicopters farther down the flight line began spinning their blades.

“What’s happening?” she called out to the Close Guard, but none answered.

She touched her apron, feeling the box holding the King’s signet ring and seal in a small pocket. She could not lose that box, no matter what happened.

A faint point of light rose in the night sky, blossoming into a distant fireball. An air defense cannon chattered at the far end of the airstrip. Elsime looked at the bunker where the King had gone, then the open door on the limo.

A heavy hand touched the back of her neck. “Stay with me,” her guard said forcefully. “We don’t know what’s happening, but protocol is to get the King away from any danger.”

“My work,” she said, bending to pick up the scroll and lap desk, but the guard pulled her back.

“No. Stay ready in case—”

White energy bolts appeared out of nowhere above the flight line and struck around the farthest hangar. It exploded into fire and sent metal siding hurtling up and into the air. The guard pushed her down and bent over her, shielding Elsime from any threat. Fighter jets roared overhead, flashes sparking off their fuselages as internal machine guns roared to life.

“Evac air!” a Close Guard shouted and the order reverberated from every Royal bodyguard in the convoy.

Elsime looked up and saw the King, Marshal Hawn’ru, and Ciolsi being rushed out of the bunker. Her guard put an arm over her shoulder and half carried, half dragged her to the pair of waiting helicopters.

She tried to walk on her own, but her feet barely scraped against the tarmac as her guard hurried her away from the motorcade.

The helicopters erupted into fireballs, the blast wave slapping across her whole body and sending her ears ringing. She lay on the hot tarmac, stunned, as burning hunks littered all around her. Smoke caught in her lungs and she coughed, unable to hear herself over the tinnitus din in her ears.

“Help.” Her battered eardrums muted the sound of her own voice, but she could hear it. Looking to one side, she saw the Close Guard’s impeccably shined shoes. His upper body was askew, slashed through from his side to shoulder by shrapnel from the blast. Blood pooled out beneath the body, creeping toward her.

Elsime crawled back, her eyes locked on the blood flowing toward her. She put a hand to her mouth and screamed.

Someone hauled her off the ground and threw her over his shoulder. Her view of the horrors surrounding her bounced as her carrier ran across the flight line.

A column of light beamed down around them, and Elsime felt herself floating. She tumbled in slow motion across the flight line with no sense of up or down from her abused, confused eardrums. Three bright lights were “over” her and she made out a three-sided craft above that.

As quickly as the light came, it was gone and she landed hip-first on the tarmac. She slapped a hand over the seal within her apron, breathing hard.

“Are you OK?” asked a new Close Guardsman—probably the one that had carried her—as he grabbed her shoulder.

Elsime looked at him and just laughed, a guffaw just on the right side of sanity, but not by much.

The guard, a mountain of a Tyr that would put a Blooded’s size to shame, picked her up against his side and carried her off like she was a toddler on the verge of a meltdown. He brought her into a hangar where more Close Guard had formed a perimeter around the King, Hawn’ru, and Ciolsi.

All but the King and she were armed.

King Menicus pulled her in and sat her next to him. He put an arm around her and held her close.

“It’s all right. My men are trained for this,” he said. “They’ll get us out alive. Don’t worry.”

“I have your—” She reached into a pocket on her apron and felt moisture. Her fingers came out stained by ink from a broken well. She went for another pocket and touched the seal. “I have it.”

“Good.” Menicus gave her a smile. “When you write all this down, make it seem like I had a better command of the situation. The marshal and my Close Guard are better at this than I am.”

Elsime nodded quickly then leaned back, feeling wooden crates against her back.

Rifle and machine-gun fire broke out beyond the walls of their hangar. Elsime flinched every time the angry retort of a gun firing far faster than any Tyr weapon went off in the distance. Every time she heard the tight snaps, the sound of Tyr fire decreased.

“No! No, please!” a soldier cried out, then she saw the shadow cast by fires in front of the hangar. A Myrmidon held a Tyr up by the throat. The Blooded kicked and struggled, but it was useless. The cries grew less and less until they ended in a choke as the Myrmidon’s grip tightened. The mercenary’s hand snapped into a fist and the Blooded’s head popped off, the rest of his body falling like a sack of meat.

The head rolled across the front of the hangar. A moment later, the Myrmidon appeared and gave it a playful kick.

Marshal Hawn’ru stood up from behind the crates and opened fire with his pistol. Close Guard joined in, shooting the Myrmidon in the head and shoulders. Bullets smacked off the weeping angel face on the visor, but none broke through the armored glass.

The Myrmidon backed away, seemingly surprised by the sudden hail of bullets, then swept his gun arm across.

Snap-snap-snap

Crates exploded into splinters and someone tackled Elsime to the ground. Guards and the marshal kept firing. Elsime stared at the ceiling, where an overhead light fluttered on and off and swayed.

A warmth seeped across her chest.

She touched her apron and saw blood, not ink. She didn’t feel any pain, but the blood was hot.

“Sire?”

The King lay next to her. He coughed up blood and reached for her.

“To the King! To the King!” she shouted, pressing her hands onto an exit wound on his shoulder.

“Tell him…” Menicus rasped and put his crown in her hands, “he deserves this.”

“Move!” A Close Guard threw her aside and started first aid.

She backed into the shattered remnants of the crates where spymaster Ciolsi stared up at her with dead eyes. She brought her knees to her chest and clutched the crown to her breast, praying that the nightmare would end soon.

****

“This is starting to get on my nerves,” the pilot of fighter Yellow 2 said over the radio.

Blooded Captain Jiniq rolled his eyes and adjusted the oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. He shifted from side to side in his cockpit and did a visual check that his wingmen were still in formation around him.

Dawn broke over the horizon, and golden light highlighted the top layer of clouds below. After hours in the air, this was one of those few moments that made the boredom worthwhile.

“Cut the chatter, Two,” Jiniq said. “You know who’s monitoring. You run afoul of their standards, you’ll get a snap transfer flying over the Slaver lands.”

“I heard your piss starts glowing after the first month,” Yellow 4 said.  “Good news is that’s supposed to be a cure if you…cal…leave…” His transmission degraded into static.

“Radio check.” Jiniq switched to the squadron’s alternate frequency but got nothing more than squeaks over the airwaves. He turned around as best he could as his squadron closed in on him, waiting for a visual signal from him.

Loss of radio comms was a regular drill, but to actually experience an outage—especially while they were flying top cover for the King—was cause for concern.

His wingman flew close enough that Jiniq could see him in his cockpit. The other pilot tapped the side of his helmet, then slashed an X in front of his face. Jiniq returned the signal and checked his heading; they had a few more minutes until the racetrack pattern they’d been flying was due to change course.

“I’m not the only one having this problem…doubt the heretics can jam this far from the border.” He looked over to the rising sun, contemplating if a disturbance there was causing the problem. He barely understood the electromagnetic power at the center of the system, but the Toiler engineers assigned to his squadron warned about potential interference often enough.

“This isn’t something I can fix. Best have the Speakers commune with the gods to…what is…”

He leaned forward, his eye catching a series of glints over the horizon. He checked his radar, but there were no new returns on his screen.

A dark streak flashed overhead and his fighter went tumbling end over end, slamming him against his restraints and whacking the edge of his helmet against the canopy glass. He grabbed the control stick and jerked it from side to side, feeling his fighter react as he fought to get the nose pointed straight down and continuous airflow over the wings.

The jet engine intakes beneath his wings sputtered, then caught life again, accelerating him toward the clouds. He pulled up, g-forces crushing him against his seat and threatening to drain all the blood out of his head. His vision darkened at the edges, but after a few painful moments, he was level again.

A flaming mass fell through the sky, trailing black smoke.

“No, no, no…” He followed the dark trail up, praying to see a parachute, but there was nothing but the brightening sky.

Jiniq’s breathing quickened and he climbed for more elevation as he swung around, searching for his wingmen and whatever had just barely missed him.

He did a double take at a dark shape just over the clouds. It was just…hanging there. Almost twice the size of his fighter and with a quivering shadow beneath it, it was matte-grey and had pairs of stubby wings at the fore and aft.

Jiniq keyed the radar trackers on his missiles and banked his fighter around to begin his attack run. He didn’t know what it was, but the Close Guard at the mission briefing had been very clear: any craft that isn’t of the kingdom is hostile.

He waited for the tone of his air-to-air missile locking on, but heard nothing. He beat a hand against the controls, and when he heard a short blip, he fired anyway—not confident he’d hit whatever was out there, but hoping the missile’s streak might catch the attention of anyone else in the area.

Two missiles shot out from under his wings, the burning embers of their rocket engines leaving a streak in his vision as they sprinted away.

Both exploded simultaneously, well short of his intended target.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said and switched to guns.

A panel opened on the top of the hovering craft and a swarm of dark objects flew out like insects from a flaming nest.

Jiniq’s world went into a spin as something struck his port wing and his fighter fell into a tailspin. Impacts against the fuselage knocked him against the sides of his cockpit, then his canopy exploded into fragments and a frigid blast of air struck him.

He and his stricken fighter fell into the clouds, and a grey abyss enveloped him, fires on the tail of his ship casting a spiraling glow through the gloom. He grabbed a handle on the back of his headrest and fought to brace against his seat as the inertia of his spin tried to pull him free and send him to the ground all on his own.

He yanked the handle down…and nothing happened.

Thrusting it up, he felt something click inside the eject system and pulled again.

Rockets spat him up and out of his fighter, the pull of the acceleration so momentarily intense, he worried it would stretch his ketafik into a Linker’s countenance. There was a jerk against his seat and he saw parachute risers overhead but couldn’t see the canopy in the thick clouds.

His training took over and he looked around, desperately trying to figure out where he was going to land, and if more of whatever had attacked him was waiting on the ground.

****

“No, you need to have the right timing fuse on the leading warhead or it’ll be no better than throwing fireworks,” Clay said as he tapped a pencil against a diagram on graph paper.

The bunker had emptied to just him, Fastal, Sazon, and a pair of Close Guard at the door.

Clay sniffed hard and looked over at the dead Myrmidon on a heavy cart meant to move bombs or missiles. The body was starting to smell.

“You can’t just modify the shoulder-fired rockets we have in inventory?” Fastal asked.

“It’s not as easy as slapping a point detonating trigger on the tip,” Clay said. “Well…it is that easy, but only if you have the right trigger series in place or again…firecracker.”

“What’s the device behind your ear?” Sazon asked, and both Clay and Fastal turned from the table to look at her. “Because we X-rayed it and couldn’t find any moving parts.”

“He doesn’t have anything behind his ear,” Fastal said, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“It’s surgically implanted.” She tapped the eraser on her pencil against the same spot on her head. “It was there on the other one and, by the look on his face, he’s more angry than confused by the question, so he has one too.”

“Other one,” Clay said, leaning against the drafting table. “Male or female?”

“Female…wait…” Sazon’s brow furrowed. “Are our parts the same, because in the autopsy—”

“Two of my kind have been lost on Tyr. The first was a male scientist who disappeared years before I ever arrived. The second was a woman named Julia Hower. Slaver raid? East plains territory?”

“That’s where we recovered…her, yes.” Sazon wrote on her clipboard.

“Explains how you knew about this.” Clay touched the pisiform bone on his wrist. “Where is she?”

“That matters? Thought we were working on something a bit more pressing,” Fastal said.

“Her husband never had the chance to say goodbye and—no, it isn’t as relevant. Tassa? The caffeine in it works the same on me as it does on you.” Clay looked over at a chipped kettle simmering on a hot plate built into a small table on wheels.

“Tassa,” Fastal agreed, sinking into a chair as Clay walked across the room. “I haven’t been a three-day hero for a few years. All that extra sleep I got as a farmer didn’t build up a reserve.”

“Are you aware of any other atypical reactions to substances?” Sazon was as bright-eyed as ever, even though Clay wasn’t aware of her sleeping or drinking even a cup of hot tassa. “Perhaps an accrued dependence on a spice or severe gastrointestinal stress following an insect bite?”

Clay put a small spoonful of green powder into a cup of hot water and gave it a stir.

“Ooo, what would happen if you had to receive a blood transfusion from a Tyr? No, what’s the insolation strength of your home star? You mentioned pigmentation rates and we’ve observed that in some species of migratory birds—”

“Would you just answer her?” Fastal asked. “She will not shut up until you do.”

Clay prepared a second cup and brought them both over to the general, who accepted the one Clay held slightly higher than the other.

“That’s how junior Blooded pass on tassa.” Fastal took a sip and sniffed at the brew. “How do you know this?”

“Linkers, Royals.” Clay gripped the edge of his ear and ran his touch down. His ketafik changed to a Toiler’s wide stripe, then to an Islander’s spots. With a flick of his fingers, his marks returned to a Linker’s. “We had to be able to go everywhere, learn what we could from everyone.”

“Why are you answering him and not me?” Sazon rapped her pencil against the clipboard. “I’ve been waiting years—years—to speak to one of you in person and now we’re—”

There was a rumble through the bunker. Fastal jumped to his feet, one hand on his holster.

Shouts carried through the door and one of the Close Guard whacked the base of a walkie-talkie against his palm.

“It’s them,” Clay said. “Zike.”

“I thought the ultimatum gave us until tomorrow morning,” Fastal said. “We’re nowhere near the Azure Islands.”

“Have you—I’m a fool for not realizing this—have you made any radio transmission about the King being here?” Clay asked.

“No. Radio silent since we left the Obsidian Dolmen,” said one of the Close Guard.

“Then they’re here for me.” Clay looked over at the Myrmidon’s body. “I can fight them, but you need to get the weapons you took from me and you need to let me get into that suit.”

The sound of machine-gun fire sounded down the hallway.

“To the King, go!” Fastal shouted at the Close Guard, who ran out of the bunker.

“Why you? Why now?” the general asked Clay.

“I know them too well, and their commander—a bastard named Hulegu—it’s a bit personal between him and me.” Clay’s hands opened and closed as he looked at the Myrmidon.

Sazon’s pencil scratched against her pad. “So there is an interpersonal dynamic between the humans that’s on par with—”

“Shut. Up.” Fastal drew his revolver but kept the muzzle oriented toward the floor. “You can get into that suit?”

“Probably. So long as the old override hacks still work,” Clay said.

“You’ll be unstoppable in it. You’re asking me to let a thresher loose in the grish pen.” Fastal cocked the hammer back. “And if the King’s still here…”

“My head will be exposed. It’ll take a single bullet to put me down,” Clay said. “And if the King is still here, your men can’t stop whoever Hulegu sent for me.”

The rumble of another explosion shook the room.

“Sazon, bring us the case with his weapons,” Fastal said.

“But, sir, won’t the Close Guard object?” she asked.

“You want to see his weapon in action or not?” Fastal opened the door and Sazon raced out, leaving her clipboard to clatter against the floor.

“Help me.” Clay went to the Myrmidon and pushed the body up onto one side. “Hold him up.” He let Fastal take the weight, and the Tyr grunted with the effort.

“By the gods, you dung lovers are strong,” Fastal said. “Why didn’t you mention you could possibly get into this suit earlier?”

“Because you would’ve shot me for suggesting it.” Clay shot the general a look, and Fastal gave him a grudging nod. “And it’s an iffy proposition as it is.” He thrust a finger between the bloody stump of Zorig’s neck and the collar on his suit. Dark blood oozed out over the back of his hand and Clay had to stifle a gag.

“You’ve done this before,” Fastal said.

“It’s been awhile, but…yeah.” Clay found the switch on the frame bolstering the Myrmidon’s spine and the suit opened down the back. “Emergency release for badly wounded. Medics can’t always treat through the armor weave. Hold his feet.”

Clay peeled the suit off the corpse’s shoulders and then gripped it beneath the arms. He walked back, pulling the body free of the suit and then tossing it onto the floor. Zorig was in a tight body glove bearing the Bahadur-Getty Incorporated logo down the sleeves and legs.

“Now the fun part.” Clay stripped off his tunic and tossed it aside.

“Wait, why don’t I get in that suit and—”

“It’s not like putting on a new set of fatigues.” Clay dropped his trousers. “Without the helmet link, the haptics will be fouled up, and if you don’t move right, the frames won’t adjust properly and you’ll be waddling around like a damn toddler. On top of that, you don’t have a corporate gene ID, which the suit’s emergency systems can read to deactivate the lethal defenses.”

Sazon burst into the room with one of Clay’s cases in hand, just in time to see him in the full glory of nothing but his synth layer.

“Oh, the whole thing,” she said, staring at his crotch. “I guess that makes sense.”

Fastal swiped the case out of her hand and laid it on the drafting table.

“Wait, ‘lethal defenses’? Didn’t your guild fire you or something?” the general asked.

“Deep core systems are always the last to be updated and…” Clay thrust a leg into the suit then paused. “Here goes nothing.”

He jammed his foot against the boot and lengthened the frame.

“Bastard was short.” Clay repeated the move with his other leg, then slipped his arms into the jacket.

The cart fell over and Clay shot his arms out to break his fall, slamming his fists into the concrete. Spider webs cracked out from the impact. He stood up slowly, dragging his feet beneath him and flexing his fingers with a creak of stiff leather.

“Not ideal…but better than nothing.” He shifted his shoulders, then turned around to expose the open seam down his spine. “The Corp still hasn’t figured out a way to scratch back there. Hurry so I can get into the fight.”

“You sound like a Blooded,” Fastal said as he pressed the back of Clay’s suit together then fixed the clasp on the collar, still dirty with the dead man’s blood.

Heavy footfalls sounded through the door and Clay grabbed Fastal by the arm and whipped him around into a bear hug.

Bullets tore through the door—splintering it—and smacked into Clay’s back. Clay shoved Fastal away and turned as a Myrmidon stepped through what remained of the door. The face shield on its full helmet was of a weeping angel.

The Myrmidon stuttered to a halt inside the room, smoke rising from the carbine in its hands. Clay didn’t know if the soldier hesitated because he saw a Tyr inside the armor or if he was calling up that he’d found Clay for Hulegu—or whoever else had come for him.

Clay charged forward and swung an overhead strike at the Myrmidon, well short of hitting him in the head. The weeping angel brought his weapon up to fire at Clay’s exposed face and right into Clay’s fist.

The suit-augmented strike smashed the electromagnetic acceleration coils in the barrel and the weapon shorted out with a crack of static that ran up the Myrmidon’s arms. Clay followed with a cross punch that took too long in the windup. The Myrmidon ducked the follow-on blow and shoved Clay in the chest, sending him into an un-elegant backpedal.

The Myrmidon snapped the laser-edged blade from one forearm housing and slashed up. Clay took the edge on his right forearm and a gout of black smoke reeking of charcoal sizzled off Clay’s arm.

“Here!” Sazon tossed the suitcase at Clay, who clamped one hand on a corner of it then bashed it into the Myrmidon’s face. The suitcase broke into fragments and his carbines and pistols fell around them…along with clothes and paperwork.

Clay threw an uppercut into the Myrmidon’s chin, snapping the weeping face up and stunning his foe. The Myrmidon struck out with the knife, managing a glancing blow against the back of Clay’s hip.

Clay scooped up a laser pistol and thrust it into the Myrmidon’s stomach, driving the muzzle into the creases just below the rib cage. He swung an arm over the Myrmidon’s shoulders and pulled him close as he pulled the trigger and fired on full auto.

The laser bolts sent a spike of searing heat through the armor and a red glow appeared on the Myrmidon’s back as his torso was flash-baked.

Clay stepped back and tossed the fried pistol aside. The Myrmidon looked down at his smoking torso, then fell face-first into the floor.

“You OK?” Clay turned and asked Fastal, who was sitting where he’d struck the wall, his legs locked out, his revolver clenched in his hands.

“Been worse,” the general said, getting slowly to his feet with a grimace of pain.

Clay picked up a carbine that had been in the now-shattered suitcase and flicked the trigger guard off to accommodate his gloved fingers.

“Stay behind me,” Clay said and stepped through the broken door.

“Stay here.” Fastal pointed a knife hand at Sazon’s face.

She nodded quickly. “Surely; let me just gather up my notes and—” She poked the remains of the Myrmidon’s gauss weapon and then leaned over to examine it more. “Now that is fascinating…”

****

Hulegu fought the recoil of his gauss repeater as the circle of paired acceleration vanes spat death into a hangar full of Tyr. A utility aircraft exploded as the bullets ignited internal fuel tanks. The fireball washed over Tyr soldiers that had taken cover behind supply crates and he chuckled as they ran about in a panic, engulfed from head to toe in flames.

Rounds sprang off his helmet, bothering him as much as a toddler’s poke. He kept his back foot braced in the small divot he’d gouged out firing and turned to a mass of a dozen more Tyr charging at him from behind another hangar.

“Is it me,” he asked, letting off a quick burst that tore aliens apart, “or are these indigs fighting just a bit too hard?”

He strode forward and shot down the centerline of a limousine, shattering the front windshield, slicing it unevenly in half. Fire rose from the back of the vehicle and Hulegu laughed again.

“We’ve got their comms jammed, but they’re still transmitting,” Solanus sent him from their insertion craft parked behind him. “They’ve got a pretty significant force on the way. Suggest we extract and just scrag the place from orbit.”

“Director wants Clay’s head on a plate. Besides, this is almost too much fun.” Hulegu triggered a sensor pulse and the wire diagram of a group of Tyr cowering in the back of a hangar near the limousine he’d just wrecked came up on his visor.

“Why hasn’t anyone found him?” Hulegu walked through the fire spreading from the vehicle and into the hangar.

“I’m pinging everyone we’ve got on the ground now…Jackson isn’t reporting back.”

“Maybe he’s ripping faces off to make sure Clay isn’t hiding behind that fake one of his. Send two to remind him how to report in.” Hulegu kicked a crate and it careened into where the Tyr were hiding.

“Clay!” Hulegu said through his speakers. “Come out so I can kill you. These indigs die too easily. I know you can fight.”

A Tyr in fatigues and with elaborate markings on his collar jumped onto the top of a supply crate and launched himself at Hulegu. The Myrmidon caught him by the neck and held him at arm’s length, feet dangling a few feet off the floor.

“That you, Clay?” He snapped Marshal Hawn’ru’s neck with a quick twist then hurled the body to one side. “We know you’re here—your savage little friends wouldn’t stop talking about you.”

He came around the crates where the rest of the Tyr were hiding and paused.

One in white robes lay on his side, his chest wet with blood, his eyes locked on nothing. This one had markings of the priest caste. More of the ruling subspecies were clustered around another lying on his back. A crown lay in a small puddle of oil against the wall.

Hulegu recognized the King where he lay as his bodyguards performed chest compressions and gave him mouth-to-mouth.

A Royal female threw a glass vial that struck his face. It broke apart and stained his visor with ink. His armor heated and the ink burned away into dark steam.

“Shit,” Hulegu said. “Shit, shit, fuck.”

“What now? And that asshole Jackson is still off the net.”

The Compliance Force commander switched off his speakers and backed away slowly.

“We’ve got a problem. That pussy Hower forgot to tell us the goddamn indig King might be down here. Just got eyes on him. If he isn’t dead, he will be soon.”

“The director is going to shit a brick. Recall?”

“Yeah, recall.” Hulegu walked out of the hangar and into the hell-scape of the flight line. Fighter jets burned in their arming bays, and wreckage from aircraft they’d destroyed during the assault added to the pall of smoke hanging over the base. He broke into a long-stride jog as he made for the strike craft hovering just over the end of the runway.

“The King must have got caught in the cross fire,” Hulegu said. “We’ll get our story straight on the way back to the Matsui, pin the blame on Zike’s order for us to come down here and—”

A laser bolt struck him in the forehead and his visor shorted out. Hulegu put a hand to his face, feeling the heat from the hit through his palm. More bolts smacked into his chest and shoulders, sending little pinpricks of pain that his mind barely registered.

“Hulegu!” Clay charged out from a stairwell, carbine firing.

“There you are.” Shaking the fog from his mind with a dose from the narcotic dispenser plugged into a port on his neck, Hulegu charged up his gauss repeater and let loose. Bullets tore a line in the pavement a dozen yards short of Clay and through where he’d stood a split second earlier.

He’d glimpsed the traitor in Myrmidon armor, but even that wouldn’t hold up to what Hulegu was armed with.

A car door spun through the air, arcing for Hulegu’s throat. Hulegu knocked it away with a backhand, his mind sharp and body humming from the drugs coursing through his system.

Fires roared around him, throwing off the infrared and acoustic scanners as his visor system came back online. He keyed his speakers.

“Not bad,” Hulegu said, annihilating a half-wrecked fighter with a quick burst from his weapon. “Not bad, Clay. You remember what it’s like to suit up and bang. Just you out here? Or wifey and your plus one hiding out too? I’m only here for you, Clay. You either let me take your head back to Zike now or we’ll go looking for them. Least one’s worth taking alive for some fun, right?”

Clay popped up from behind a cart loaded with air-to-air missiles and shot Hulegu with his laser carbine, punching the Myrmidon in the stomach and forearms.

“Pathetic.” Hulegu braced himself against the ground and fired. The gauss weapon thrummed in his hands, then an error message popped up on his visor: the battery coils had overheated. No doubt from Clay hitting them with his bolts.

Clay wrenched a missile out of the cart and threw it at Hulegu like a javelin. The Tyr-made warhead wasn’t up to human safety standards, and the shock of the tip impacting Hulegu’s chest was enough to trigger a sympathetic detonation in the warhead.

Hulegu stumbled back, dropping his weapon as he beat at flames on his chest.

Clay appeared out of the smoke. Holding his carbine by the muzzle, he used it as a club to attack Hulegu. The Myrmidon blocked the strike with his forearm, then lowered his chin and lunged forward to head-butt Clay. The blow grazed Clay’s exposed nose and mouth and Clay ducked back.

Hulegu kicked out and caught Clay in the stomach. The armor stiffened at the blow, dissipating much of the force, but it was still enough to lift Clay’s pelvis and push him back. Clay’s face scraped against the runway and he lay prone, barely moving.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.” Hulegu punched his left hand at the ground and his laser blade snapped out. “I’ll take your head with that dirty indig skin still on it. Zike will appreciate the gesture.”

He bent his arm across his chest for the strike.

And heard the rumble.

Hulegu looked up as a Tyr tank ran into him at full throttle, the impact bending him over the front armor plate between the treads as the tank passed right over Clay. The tank slammed on the brakes and Hulegu flew off. He landed hard and skidded down the runway to the strike craft where the rest of his Myrmidons had gathered.

Solanus jumped off the ramp, grabbed Hulegu by the carry handle across the top of his shoulders, and hauled him into the cargo bay. The shuttle rose up…and the tank’s turret rose to track it.

The tank fired, a new boom that punctuated the destruction all around the base. The shell hit the side of the strike craft, making it wobble. It fell and hit the runway, sending a shower of sparks as the fuselage scraped against the asphalt.

The turret lowered with a whine and slewed to line up the next shot.

The shuttle sprang up as the crew overrode the safety protocols on the anti-grav engines and it soared upwards. The tank’s second shot missed and impacted a hillside.

Clay forced himself up to his hands and knees, his breathing labored. Drops of blood fell onto the pavement from a cut on his face.

Fastal opened the commander’s cupola on the tank and scrambled off the side. He ran to Clay and tried to help him up, but he was too heavy. Clay groaned and rolled onto his side, revealing lacerations around his right eye. The synth layer malfunctioned, throwing random patterns across the damage.

“You…you hurt?” Fastal asked.

“A little.” Clay tried to touch his face, but the armor seized up on him. “Bad news…this suit’s deadlined.”

“Your face…”

“Will heal itself in a bit.” Clay looked up at the smoke-filled sky. “Did you…did you really run over me with a tank?”

“You’re alive, aren’t you? Thank the soldier driving. I was looking for something useful to do while you were fighting that other one…found a tank platoon that needed some more leadership,” Fastal said.

“I need to get out of this and—”

“General?” Elsime was sobbing. One hand clutched the king’s crown; the other gripped the royal seal. “He’s….he’s dead. The King is dead!”

Fastal stood, emotions unfit for a leader clouding his face.

“Not just him,” the scribe said, “but the marshal, and the Speaker and…” She collapsed to her knees, crying even harder. “I don’t know what to do! I just…I don’t know what to do.” She struck herself in the face with the seal and Fastal grabbed her by the wrists.

“Stop, stop for a moment.” The general hugged her and looked over the carnage around them. Tanks were parked around the hangar where Menicus had died. Close Guard and soldiers raced about, shouting through the chaos.

“You stay here with him.” Fastal lifted Elsime’s chin up and looked her in the eyes. “You have the crown. The seal. We have to get them to Prince Riktan…he’s the King now. The evacuation order for the Azure Islands, was it sent?”

“We couldn’t get a radio signal so the King…he,” she sniffed hard and waved the crown at a burning plane, “he sent a scroll by air, but I don’t know if—”

“Another problem to solve. Both of you stay here.” Fastal stood, adjusted his pistol belt, and marched toward the King’s hangar, a degree of confidence in his stride.

“Where are you going?” Clay asked.

“To take charge!”

“Why?” Elsime asked quietly. “Why are your people so horrible?”

“Because,” Clay said as he pushed himself up with stiff arms to sit on his side, “because we can be. Because we want to be…and sometimes because we must be. We aren’t all good, we’re not all evil…you’re just seeing the worst of us right now. I can’t apologize for it. I can just fight it.”

Elsime nodded slightly, then used the hem of her scribe’s apron to clean soot off the crown.

Chapter 40

Garta rubbed sleep out of his eyes, then went back to staring at the darkening horizon as the sun set. It was too early to sleep, but they’d been on duty for over a day straight and his body took the hint of nightfall as a promise to lie down and rest.

He was outside the Slinger air defense vehicle, standing in a line of bushes that came up to his shoulders. The sparse forest around them didn’t offer much cover and was just thick enough to make a maze of driving into and out of their position.

The sound of jets in the distance perked his ears up. He looked over at the Sling where Nemsi sat next to the treads, tossing pebbles into a plastic cup.

“Is Estan awake?” he asked.

“Course I am,” came from the turret. “Why? We allowed to sleep?”

“Anything on the wire?” Garta brought his binoculars up and traced a contrail through the sky that ended in a snarl of smoke. He lowered the binoculars for a split second, then put them back to his eyes. “Anything on the wire?” he asked louder.

“No, all quiet.” Estan pushed against the radar scattering canopy above the turret. “Why? What’s happening?”

“I think there’s a fight up there,” Garta said. “But if there is one…how come we’re not hearing anything about it? Fly-boys love talking about themselves up there.”

“Commo line check back to platoon is good,” Estan said. “Want me to tell them we’re under attack? That’ll get the sergeant out here to talk to us real quick.”

“We’re under attack?” Nemsi stood up and clutched his rifle to his chest.

“I don’t know for sure. Maybe this is another one of Riktan’s snap inspections and they’re doing some air-to-air exercises, but it looks like something got hit up there,” Garta said.

There was a sudden rush of air and a blur swept over them. Treetops swayed in the wake and the poles holding up the anti-radar canopy groaned.

“Hold ’em up! Hold ’em!” Garta ran to the nearest one and braced himself beneath it. The pole shook for a moment, but a strange tremor kept running through it.

“Shit! Can we start shooting?” Nemsi shouted. “Because I felt threatened!”

“Shoot at what?” Garta stepped back but kept a hand on the pole as the thrum continued. “Nemsi, you feel that?”

“Look.” Nemsi pointed up at the nets.

An eldritch light, like the aurora Garta remembered from the skies of his childhood, played across the upper layer of the nets, casting waving lines onto them.

“That supposed to happen?” Nemsi set his rifle on top of the vehicle and held out his palms to see the light dance across his skin. The rifle rattled against the metal, then floated up a few inches.

“Nemsi…secure your weapon,” Garta said quietly.

“Whoa, what?” Estan had his head out of the turret, handset to one ear. The muzzle of the weapon tilted up and touched the bottom of the netting. An arc of electricity ran down the barrel and hit the wooden stock, blowing it apart and igniting the bullets in the magazine.

Garta hit the dirt, the ping of bullets ricocheting off trees and rocks all around him.

“Everyone OK?” he called out.

“I’m hit! Ah, shit, it stings,” came from the turret.

Garta took a tentative look over the top and saw Estan pulling himself out with one arm, the other shoulder a deep violet with blood. Garta grabbed handfuls of Estan’s uniform top and dragged him to the ground with as much grace and gentleness as he could.

“Nemsi! Nemsi, where are you?” Garta ripped open the field-dressing pouch clipped to Estan’s belt and slapped it onto the wound.

“Sir?” Nemsi was on the ground, doing his best to crawl into his helmet.

“Can you walk?” Garta asked.

“Yeah, yeah, ah gods, it hurts.” Estan put his hand over the bandage and grit his teeth.

“Bullet’s still in him. Take him back to platoon and to the medic,” Garta said, grabbing Nemsi and hauling him to his feet. “You understand?”

“But I’ll have to leave and—”

Garta slapped Nemsi on the side of his helmet and shoved him into Estan. “Go! Get moving and tell them…whatever just happened by the light of the dark moon because I don’t know. Now move!” Garta got onto the top of the vehicle, the smell of burnt wood and spent gunpowder all around him, and climbed into the turret.

He tested the manual controls for the weapons and double-checked that each of the eight heavy machine guns had a chain of bullets loaded up.

“They never mention shit like this back at training. It’s always duty to our nobles, to the clans and to—”

He did a double take up through the netting.

There was a darkness above him, its shape barely visible through the gaps, barely more than a hundred yards away. The fillings in his teeth began to warm up and he took a swig from the canteen Estan had left behind. Sparks snapped on the rim as he brought it to his mouth and he dropped it with a yelp.

The darkness was still there, somehow hovering overhead, though he didn’t hear the whirl of blades from a helicopter or roar of an engine that would have to be present to keep…whatever it was from falling out of the sky.

A solid beam of light snapped out from the object and split the sky as a distant explosion rolled over his position.

“Master Gottal, lord of my caste, witness my deeds…” He pulled the safety lever on either side of the inner turret and heard clacks as rounds settled into the machine guns’ breeches. He turned a wheel and the barrels rose higher and higher.

Flipping the guard off the firing trigger, he did a few mental calculations, then lowered the angle on his machine guns a bit.

The dark shape began to slide to one side.

Garta squeezed the trigger and the machine guns roared to life, shredding through the nets and sending burning bits of plastic billowing out like leaves off a burning tree. Rounds hit the dark shape—or at least they seemed to—as tracers veered off target at ninety-degree angles before they hit.

There was a brief flash of light and the shape bucked up.

Garta stopped firing, the reek of gunpowder and burnt plastic all around him. He spun the manual controls wildly, slewing the turret to line up on the object again as it wobbled through the air like a poorly thrown oblong ball.

He fired ahead of the object’s path and it passed through a hailstorm of bullets. Sparks bounced off against the hull and the object dropped like a stone. Garta stood up in the turret as it crashed down a hillside ahead of him.

“Platoon, this is Slinger two,” he said into the handset. “Hostile…burned. I repeat, one hostile burned.”

No answer.

He struggled out of what remained of the netting and jumped off the vehicle. He was only a few steps into a run when he turned right around and retrieved his rifle from the back of the Slinger before running to a tree on the other side of the clearing.

The heat in his fillings was gone, as was the constant thrumming he’d felt earlier.

He went from tree to tree, cover to cover, until he got to the top of a ravine.

Below was a Compliance Force support tender, a disk-shaped craft the size of his company barracks hall. One third was a crumpled mess. Steam bubbled up from beneath where it had crashed onto a stream, and the hull creaked and moaned as the anti-grav engines malfunctioned, shifting the ship around like it was a beast dying in the woods with an arrow in its back.

“Whoa…” Garta didn’t understand what he saw, but he was certain it wasn’t some heretic bomber. He looked back at his Sling, then down at the fallen craft. By regulation and training, he was supposed to search for the pilot or crew and take them prisoner.

He considered the rifle in his hands, then backed away from the edge and ran back to his vehicle.

Chapter 41

Hower stood in a holo capture of the hangar where King Menicus lay surrounded by Close Guard. The scientist looked over the King, the bandages across his stomach and the tourniquets on both legs. He flicked a hand over the King and sensor data appeared.

“Yes, those wounds are fatal,” Hower said. “Tyr aren’t that physiologically different from most humans. The blood loss, body temperature. Did your man intend to go down there and slaughter most of the key members of the kingdom’s ruling apparatus?”

“The target was Clay,” said a holo of Hulegu, naked from the waist up. The prosthetics of his left arm and shoulder ended in a tangled mess of faux muscles and metal rods. “We didn’t know the indig pooh-bah was there.”

“My, my,” Zike said, striding through the holo set, his hands clasped behind his back. “My, this does complicate things, doesn’t it? What do the Tyr do in the event of a leadership vacuum? Bidding to take over the tax-collection system? Proxy war games, perhaps?”

“Simple bloodline. There’s Prince Riktan…who’s in command of one of the kingdom’s army corps,” Hower said. “The King has two younger sisters, but they’re not even of age to—”

“So nothing that we can influence to keep the Tyr compliant. Is what you’re telling me?” Zike stopped and stood in the center of the projection of the dying Menicus.

“I’m a xeno-biologist, not a politician,” Hower said. “If you need an expert opinion on that, you should’ve asked the Clays.”

“Speaking of, did you eliminate him?” Zike asked Hulegu.

“Things got a little fuzzy before I was extracted.” Hulegu shrugged. “We held off on a saturation bombing to maintain the plausibility that the King’s death was unintentional. Which it was.”

“I daresay that the time for subtlety is over, yes?” Zike rocked back and forth on his feet. “We should take advantage of the confusion after such an incident. Our munition expenditures will exceed projections, but there are other revenue streams to compensate.”

“I don’t have enough immune serum for my entire ground force,” Hulegu said. “A battalion at most.”

“Just be a bit more liberal with the air support outside our first colony,” Zike said. “Spare the hemp-analog fields. There’s some derivative potential there in the health-food market. How long until you can begin operations on the Azure Islands?”

“Let me hot swap this,” Hulegu raised his arm stump, “and break out the ready company. Three hours to landfall.”

“Good. See to it.” Zike waved a hand and the holo faded into shrinking pixels.

“That it, then?” Hower asked. “I can finally go home?”

“Hmm? No, out of the question. Your insight has proven to be more than value-added. Besides, sending you through the wormhole now would use up resources I need for the colony.”

“You promised—”

“When it suits me and no sooner.” Zike looked at him and the corner of his mouth twitched. “And no later. Report to the bridge when the first landings begin. I may need your insight on local carrion species. Nothing like the smell of death and decay to ruin a colonist’s first impression.”

Zike walked out of the holo chamber and into a passageway, almost running into Argent, who chased after Zike with a slate in her hands.

Hower clapped his hands twice and a screen appeared in front of him. He tapped at it and the airfield formed around him. He traced a circle on the screen and time shifted around him until Clay was at his feet, synth layer damaged, a look of hatred in his eyes. The fast-approaching tank was a frozen blur.

“Stop it,” Hower hissed. “Stop helping them. You can’t…wait. If you’re here, then where are Sarah and Michael? They don’t deserve to die because of your guilty conscience. Hmm…”

He swiped across the holo panel and a globe of the planet coalesced in front of him.

Chapter 42

Camacho awoke with a gasp as freezing air filled his lungs. Hacking and struggling against the metal braces squeezing his upper arms and knees, his breath frosted against the glass tube encasing him.

The adrenaline of breaking out of cryo would only last a few more seconds, he knew. The drag of withdrawal was already clouding his mind and radiating out from his stomach as nausea and pain.

“Unit eight-charlie, you ready to work?” Solanus’s voice began and ended with a click from cheap speakers.

“Fix…fix me already!” Camacho’s teeth chattered, but not from the cold.

A syringe popped out from the side of his bracer and jabbed into his neck. Relief came a few heartbeats later and his brain flooded with just enough serotonin to stop his mind from itching.

“Congrats, you’ve been promoted to squad leader. Comes with a few extra additives to your drip,” Solanus said.

“What…what happened to Top G?” Camacho’s teeth ached as more of the drug took hold.

“Had his last ride during reanimation. Didn’t quite earn out. Shame, eh? System’s got you on 9cc’s of Rex…this’ll be your sixth employment and that makes you eligible for an upgrade on top of your promotion. You want it?” Solanus asked.

“Yes. Yes!”

The needle jabbed him again and a dull bliss filled him.

“Enjoy the glow. Just know the come-down gets a bit worse with each up-bump. Get your shit on.”

The tube encasing him rotated in time with the bracers and left him standing on a small step inside his cryo pod. His threadbare orange shorts chafed his skin as he stumbled out onto a catwalk overlooking a canyon of stacked rows of cryopods, the upper layers still holding their human cargo.

There was a groan next to him. A chubby man, his body covered in a sheen of sweat, was on his knees, hands gripping the bars. He banged one side of his head against one bar, then the other side against another.

“Move.” Camacho nudged the man with his foot. “The sooner you get in your gear, the sooner you’re on the drip.”

“They’re not giving me enough,” the man said with a raspy voice.

“You get enough kills, they’ll up your dose. You don’t get shit for bitching about it.” Camacho stepped over him and joined a shambling line of fellow soldiers moving down the walkway. Most had crude tattoos on their exposed upper bodies, but others had scar tissue brands.

Shuffling past open pods, he eyed the stenciled codes, counting down until he got to CCI-37—the shut pod. Through a clear pane, Camacho saw a dead man, his face gaunt and eyes rolled back in his head. Small tally marks scarred his entire forehead.

Camacho tapped two fingers to his lips and held them up in salute to the corpse as he passed.

He went around a corner and into a large hangar, where squat platforms moved bulky suits of armor to numbered boxes painted on the floor. Camacho and the rest of the crowd waited behind a faded red line. The robots moving the suits didn’t much care if they ran over anyone as they delivered their cargo.

Men and women sniffed hard and rubbed their eyes and noses, looking at the armor as if awaiting a feast following a long fast.

“Anyone know where we are?” someone asked.

“Not Caliph space; loadout’s all wrong.”

“Shit…this an indig sweep?”

“What’s the matter, Kay-Kay? You thought there’d be rape for dinner?”

There were a few strained chuckles.

Camacho scanned the suits, each with hunched shoulders and open down a center line for whoever would don the armor. Most were daubed in crude sigils, while others had fetishes of bones and metal dangling from the arms and chest plates.

His eyes locked on one with a rune matching the tattoos on both his arms.

A green light flashed on the ceiling and a siren blared as the last mobile platform stopped in place.

The soldiers ran forward like a starting gun had fired. Camacho shoulder-checked a woman off her feet when she tried to cut in front of him and she went face-first into a leg of a suit. A hand caught him by the ankle and he fell forward, turning the fall into a forward roll. He lost his footing in an oil slick, but struggled back into his sprint.

Another man made it to Camacho’s intended suit first. The other jumped on the platform and turned to slam his back into the opening when Camacho grabbed him by the waistband and yanked him back.

Camacho ducked an elbow and hooked a punch into the man’s gut. Straightening up, he bashed the top of his head into the man’s chin and he crumpled to the ground. Camacho used him as a step onto the platform and slapped his back into the frame.

Pads closed around his legs and chest as he gripped two handle frames. Needles jabbed into his arms and neck as the suit closed around him. A snarling wolf head lowered over his face and the smell of piss and old sweat enveloped him.

The suit activated with blurry screens and a waft of air from the hangar.

“Subcontractor CCI-8C, welcome to obligatory employment phase six,” a pleasant computer voice said. “You’re indentured amount remains…eighteen thousand, seven hundred and twelve pula, adjusted for interest, inflation and exchange rates to Bahadur-Getty Incorporated company script.”

“What? It was only eighteen K when I went under.” He flicked switches around the hand grips and pushed one forward. The suit’s left arm came up and gave the finger to a camera dome on the ceiling.

“The contract terms of your service from the Moho Caye government remain unchanged. Would you like to lodge a complaint?”

Camacho laughed, and a cold pit formed in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was from the drugs wearing off or the mental math: every time he suited up to fight for the Corporation, the amount he knocked off his debt got smaller and smaller.

“Ravagers.” Hulegu’s voice sounded through his suit and there was a slight pressure against the drug port on his neck.

“Come on, come on, give it to me.” Camacho tapped a heel against the ground and his armor echoed the motion slowly. Warmth flowed down his neck and into his body and Camacho breathed easier.

“Simple sweep and clear,” Hulegu said. “Indig tech level is rated mid-twentieth century. You get killed down there, it’s your own fault. Your suit gets damaged, the repairs go on your tab. This is a cakewalk, so there’s no excuses.”

Camacho felt a bit of relief. At least this drop would be simple.

“No indig survivors. No tech captures. Squad with the highest kill count gets a performance bonus of five percent off their debt,” Hulegu said.

“Aw shit.” A grainy holo frame of a man in another suit came up. “Straight ’zerker time, ain’t it?”

“Can’t spend the money if we’re dead,” Camacho said. “You stay on my leash or I will cut your feed. You go ape-y and you won’t get support.”

“I got a shitty suit,” a gaunt woman said from a different frame. “Bad rep for crap systems and overdosing ’scripts.”

“Learn to run faster at the light. Corps’ got our squad on a…shit—a fifteen hundred kill an hour quota? We don’t even carry that much ammo. Supervisors will ding our drips if we slack, so you better produce skulls, Darla,” Camacho said.

A blue liquid flowed through the line on his neck and his hands tingled.

“That’s the stuff,” Darla said, eyes rolling to the back of her head.

An alert icon flashed on Camacho’s screens.

“All units, report to arms and ammunition. All units, report to arms and ammunition,” a pleasant computer voice said.

Camacho stepped off the platform, then pulled and twisted the handles. His suit’s fists beat together then slapped at the wolf face on his helmet.

Chapter 43

“Riktan, I need you to make contact with him.” Fastal was in the backup communications center for the air bases—the original now a smoking hole on the other side of the runway.

A Toiler in singed work clothes and a Blooded line sergeant were at a bank of radios and a printout machine. The Blooded woman shook her head.

“General, there’s no signal for us to even broadcast on. The jamming is too strong and every transmission gets stepped on. Even the landlines back to the nearest town aren’t working,” she said.

“Have I made it clear just how vital this is?” Fastal asked.

“Yes, sir,” she said. “We’ll keep at it, but for now, we’re reduced to messengers and maybe a smoke signal if anyone knows to look for them.”

“I’ll leave a soldier outside. You get comms with Riktan’s headquarters—or anyone—you send him to get me.” Fastal shouldered the door open to find that the group of beaten-up, demoralized soldiers he’d arrived with had grown larger.

A too clean Royal lieutenant had a dirty, terrified-looking Blooded soldier with him.

Fastal looked out to the still burning hangars and the darkening sky as the last of twilight faded away.

“If my sergeants haven’t driven you off, then you must be here for something important.” Fastal waved the lieutenant over and slapped his pockets until he found a crumpled pack of cured ambary cigarettes.

He lit a match as the lieutenant rushed over and started to salute before catching himself, not wanting to invite any watching snipers to shoot Fastal.

“General, sir, Lieutenant Tarthon, Auraline Spears air defense reg—”

“Spit it out.” Fastal took a drag from his cigarette.

“Blooded Garta here destroyed one of the…planes…that attacked us. I had to see it myself to believe it,” Tarthon said. “It’s still mostly intact and—”

“Where?” Fastal looked to one side. “Get Clay over here, now!”

“Two thousand and ninety-five strides from here,” Tarthon said, handing over a map with a red circle over a ravine. “I’ve got a platoon with eyes on it, but comms are spotty and they’re not infantry.”

“What is it?” Clay asked, his synth layer set to a Royal.

“Tell him everything.” Fastal leveled a knife hand at Garta then jerked a thumb at Clay. Fastal whistled to get a major’s attention, then the two had a brief conversation.

“One of the support tenders,” Clay said. “Not meant for frontline duty, more for back-line fire support and recovery if needed.”

“How’d he manage to shoot it down?” Fastal asked.

“That low to the surface…the gravitic engines have a higher error rate. If one bullet gets through, it would throw off the entire equilibrium…which allows more bullets to hit. Which causes damage. And then there’s a cascade of—”

“So it isn’t a trap?” Fastal asked.

“I’m surprised they haven’t destroyed it yet,” Clay said.

“Sir, how does this Royal know anything?” the lieutenant asked.

“Survivors?” Fastal took a deep drag on his cigarette, then crushed it beneath his heel.

“Possible. Normally has a crew of four, but they can carry more,” Clay said.

“Did he get lucky,” Fastal asked, putting a hand on Garta’s shoulder, “or did your advice actually come through? For once.”

“No heat source. No emissions. Multiple anti-radar layers…sounds like he did everything like I said,” Clay nodded quickly.

“Of course,” said the lieutenant, “my men are—”

Fastal took the lieutenant by the shoulder and walked him away, Garta trailing behind.

“Your men are in a fair amount of danger right now,” the general said. “You’re going to swing by the back of that truck over there and get as many shoulder-fired anti-tank weapons as you can carry and take them back to your men. Have them keep the enemy under observation. I will be there as soon as I can and then we’ll deal with this together. Go!” He slapped the lieutenant on the back and clapped his hands twice.

“Mount up! We’ve got a target!”

The Blooded around him snapped into action and loaded into the back of cargo trucks and jeeps.

“Why?” Clay asked when Fastal linked up with him at his jeep. “That ship isn’t going anywhere. Just hit it with artillery or have your fighters use it for target practice.”

Fastal seized Clay by his top and pulled him almost nose to nose. “Because your caste just murdered our King,” Fastal said with a growl. “Because if I can’t prove to my soldiers that your caste can be killed, there won’t be a war. You get that? I have to strike back. I have to have your blood on my hands or they won’t fight. That course of action get your approval?”

Fastal let Clay go.

“There could be Myrmidons aboard, or worse,” Clay said. “You don’t have enough men. And even if you did have another battalion here, the casualties you’ll take—”

“Will be the price we pay for a victory. No matter how one-sided it is,” Fastal said. “Now hold your hand up.”

Clay did so and Fastal kissed his knuckles.

“I touched a Royal without consent. Thank you for maintaining appearances,” the general said, opening the door to his jeep.

“What was all that?” Sazon half crawled out of her spot in the back to look up at Fastal with big, excited eyes. “Are we finally leaving?”

“Do you want to get aboard one of their ships?” Fastal asked as he and Clay got into the jeep.

Sazon gasped.

“Do you want to examine more of their tech?” Fastal asked.

Sazon squealed.

“You might die in the process.” Fastal looked her dead in the eye.

“Will there be computers? Sacred texts? Maybe even …” her voice lowered, “the chance for an unadulterated urine sample?”

“I remember being that young and excited,” Clay deadpanned.

“We’ll see if her motivation keeps up.” Fastal stuck an arm out a window and waved it forward.

Chapter 44

Every sound made Nemsi’s heart beat faster. The rustle of insects in the grass. The snap of twigs in the forest. Everything was a demon from the Far Darkness come to swallow his soul, just like his grandmother had promised would happen to him if he disobeyed the gods. That it was past nightfall and he could feel the gaze of the gods from the constellations making up their faces made his fear and guilt even worse.

His muscles ached from digging the fighting position he lay in at the edge of the plateau overlooking the riverbed where the…thing had crashed. He didn’t have enough time to dig out something he could stand in—like grenade pits and everything else he’d been taught in training. With his sleeves and pants stiff with Estan’s blood, which looked even worse in the thin moonlight, Nemsi scraped out just enough to make a shallow grave. A field telephone in a small depression he’d dug out next to him felt like a time bomb. At any second, it might rattle and alert whatever was out there to exactly where he was hiding.

Not hiding, he told himself, observing.

He gripped his rifle as tight as he could, then crawled out of his position and peeked over the edge of the plateau. The crash site hadn’t changed: it was still lit up by intermittent sparks from beneath and a weak glow from still burning grass fires along the stream banks.

All he had to do was call in any activity. Why he had to do so while completely alone made no sense to him.

The sound of pounding feet and the rattle of metal sounded in the distance and Nemsi froze. His imagination put demons with a taste for his flesh crawling through high grass on spidery limbs and crystalline teeth dripping with—

Something covered his mouth and his rifle was jerked from his grip.

Nemsi screamed, but his face was pressed to the ground and his body held fast by a heavy weight.

“Friendly, friendly!” a loud whisper said in his ear. “At ease, soldier.”

When he didn’t feel himself being eaten alive, Nemsi stopped struggling and the press against him eased off. The hand over his mouth turned his face to one side and he came face-to-face with General Fastal.

“Anything down there?” Fastal asked.

Nemsi tried to answer, but managed only, “B-b-b-b—”

“Hard to believe there hasn’t been an extraction or demolition yet,” Clay said as he crawled up beside Nemsi on his other side from Fastal. A bandage over one eye and a heavy machine gun lay on the back of the Royal’s arm so he could move low to the ground and keep it out of the dirt. Nemsi’s jaw dropped. How could a Royal without a Close Guard’s bulk and size move that weapon with such ease?

“And what does that tell you?” Fastal asked.

“The crew thinks they can get it moving again, which I doubt as the grav engines look cracked from here,” Clay said. “Or the mother ship’s attention and resources are elsewhere…”

“Their attack on the airfield wasn’t their main effort?” Fastal looked confused.

“I know their procedures. Leaving something like this behind where it can be recovered has only so many explanations…and they did pull back from their raid here…”

“Sir, what’s—”

Both shushed Nemsi before he could finish his sentence.

“The Azure Islands,” the Royal said.

“I hate not having radio. Makes me feel like we’re trying to fight a war back before there was electricity, when we were reacting to Slaver horde raids on the plains. It wasn’t until we could coordinate elements to catch the bastards that we managed to put a stop to them…different discussion,” Fastal said. “But the Slavers got decent at electronic warfare. After a while, they’d back-trace signals and ambush the ambushers. My first company command was near the Baktin River basin, had to use old tactics to outfight the Slavers.”

“That’s great,” Clay said. “Old war stories are definitely what this situation needs.”

“That wasn’t for you.” Fastal reached over to the field telephone and picked up the wire that was absolutely not plugged into the receiver.

“Oh…” Nemsi said.

“The next time you’re on overwatch of a key target, just anticipate that the phone will ring constantly,” Fastal said as he fixed the wire.

A bird call sounded from farther down the plateau and Fastal whistled back.

“Got one platoon in place,” Fastal said. “Waiting on the assault force. Will the ones down there surrender?”

“No. Likely they’ve been told that they’ll be burnt alive if captured,” Clay said. “So why not hold out until rescue, try and escape, or fight and get a quicker death?”

“What’s happening?” Nemsi whispered and was shushed again.

“How much time do we have once they call for backup?” Fastal asked.

“If they’re over the Azure Islands and the mother ship decides to actually help…maybe fifty dreths,” Clay said.

Nemsi heard a long bird call downstream from the crash site. Fastal called back.

“Just long enough,” Fastal said. “Thank the gods some of the older Blooded know the calls. The caste in that ship won’t know that dalar birds aren’t native to this area.” He picked up the field phone and twisted a crank. “Illumination mission over the target. Constant. Fire on my command.”

“Oh dear,” said Sazon, crawling up to Nemsi’s boots. Her face and the front of her clothes were inundated with dirt and mud. “So…difficult. How can you two crawl…so fast?” She went limp and panted.

Clay raised his head to get a better look at the crash site, which was still a mass of shadow amidst a low glow from the fires and the occasional arc of electricity.

“You see any movement?” he asked Nemsi.

“Nothing, sire,” the soldier said.

“Any unexplained nausea? Tingling in your extremities?” asked Sazon as she took out a small pad of paper and a pencil. “It appears you were exposed to an intense amount of ‘gravitational energy,’ is that right, Mr. Clay?”

“No, it’s the Baumgartner effect from oscillating gravity fields,” Clay said, his eyes still on the crash site.

“So do you feel heavier? Lighter?” she asked Nemsi.

Nemsi stared at her for a few seconds. “What?”

“Incoming,” Fastal said, putting the handset to his chest and looking over the edge with Clay.

“You’re going to lose men,” Clay said. “Even if there’s just a few in there, they can fight.”

“You ever fought a war where the price of victory was anything but blood and suffering?” Fastal asked.

“Just remember you’re not a company commander anymore,” Clay said. “Riktan needs you.”

“He doesn’t need a coward at his command.” Fastal cocked an ear to the sky. “Here we go.”

Clay brought the heavy machine gun up to his shoulder, holding it with the same ease that Nemsi held his own much smaller rifle.

A parachute flare burst to life over the crash site, flooding the area with white light. A pair of shadows with oversized heads and unnatural bulk ran into the ship.

Nemsi yelped and ducked into his fighting position. He clutched his rifle to his chest and squeezed his eyes as tight as he could, repeating over and over again an old prayer against evil that his grandmother taught him.

****

“Forward!” Lieutenant Tarthon blew hard on his whistle and charged down the stream bed, pointing his revolver at the crashed ship with one hand and waving ahead with the other. He heard soldiers cursing, their footfalls behind him, but he refused to look and see if they were with him.

It was an old saying from Marshal Hawn’ru: if an officer’s men won’t follow him into battle, then he never deserved the rank—but he’ll deserve whatever death the enemy gives him.

The flare cut hard shadows against the crash, and dark angles shifted across the stream and nearby tree trunks like a whole day’s sun travel across the sky compressed into minutes.

Tarthon faltered as he got a glimpse inside the craft. It reminded him of the interior of a naval ship he’d been in during his academy days, but what he glimpsed through an open oval-shaped door was pristine—white walls and a lacquered deck. Luxurious compared to the painted steel and iron of a warship.

His lead foot hit a wet rock at just the wrong angle and he pitched forward, splashing into shin-deep water and gripping his pistol as tight as he could. Bad enough to trip over himself leading a charge, worse to lose his weapon in the process.

Hands grabbed him beneath the shoulders and hauled him up from the freezing water.

“Sir, you hit?” a soldier asked as more ran toward the ship behind him.

“I’m fine, just let me up!”

There was a flash of light and the soldier’s head popped like a balloon when a white bolt struck him in the ear. The corpse kept its grip on Tarthon and the lieutenant stared at the smoking mess of bone and crisp flesh on top of the dead Tyr’s neck.

More bolts cut past him and one struck the water a few feet from where he was. A wall of steam slapped him away from the dead soldier and Tarthon went spinning through the air. His right leg hit a trunk and he went rolling through reeds and mud. He heard screams as the world stopped spinning.

A turret had risen up from the back of the ship and was spitting death into his assault force. The single barrel jerked from left to right, pausing just long enough to fire a single bolt that blew limbs off Tyr soldiers or turned them into torches when the impacts ignited their clothes and flesh.

Dead soldiers lay everywhere, lit up by passing flares that washed out all the color from the battlefield into a harsh white light. Blooded dropped their weapons and ran away.

“No, no! Forward!” Tarthon tried to get up, but his right leg was broken. A bit of jagged bone burst through his pants leg.

“Forward!” He got up onto his left leg and hopped toward the crash. “For the—”

A bolt from the turret hit him clean in the chest and he went down into the stream in several pieces.

****

Clay fired a burst from his machine gun at the turret, but the bullets bounced off the armored top of the weapon.

“Come on!” Clay fired again, but the laser turret was focused on massacring the infantry assault along the stream bed. “Come on! I’m the real threat!”

The turret wagged from side to side and fired one last bolt at a fleeing soldier, hitting him behind the knee, severing the leg. The turret snapped up at Clay and both fired.

Clay dove to one side as a searing bolt ignited grass where he’d been a split second earlier and continued into the sky. Clay planted his feet and stood straight up, his machine gun tight against his shoulder, the ammo line dangling in the air.

The turret exploded, sending hunks of metal into the stream and careening up the hillside. Clay ducked as a piece went whizzing by.

“I damaged the coolant manifold!” Clay shouted to Sazon. “Next shot triggered an overload!”

Sazon had her hands over her ears, but she gave Clay a quick nod and a thumbs-up. She slapped her hand back over her ear and nuzzled against Nemsi when more machine-gun fire opened up farther down the hillside.

Fastal took a flare gun off his belt and pointed it at the crash site. He fired, and a small comet head of light and trailing sparks arced through the air and landed on top of the craft.

“What was that?” Clay asked.

“Making a new door.” Fastal tossed the flare gun aside and drew his pistol.

Shoulder-fired rockets streaked out from the other infantry position and exploded against the side of the crash. More punched into the rising cloud of smoke, bursting with sharp cracks and flashes of light.

Two rockets streaked through the smoke and the explosion was muted as the warhead went off inside the ship.

Fastal blew three times on his whistle and a roar went up from the position that had fired the rockets. Blooded ran down the hillside.

“Keep up,” Fastal said to Clay and went sliding down.

“No, no! Wait!” Clay raised the barrel on his machine gun and chased after Fastal. He got to the bottom of the hill without embarrassing himself and found Fastal at the side of the ship, a huddle of officers and line sergeants with him.

“Get in there. Clear one room at a time,” Fastal said to a scared-looking lieutenant. “Don’t focus on where you are or how…wrong it looks. Kill everything that moves. Go!”

Clay went to follow, but Fastal grabbed him by the arm. “No. You wait until there’s a problem only you can solve,” the general said.

“Time’s an issue,” Clay said. “We need to be in and out before—”

Rifle and machine-gun fire broke out inside the ship.

“First door left…first door left!” a soldier called out.

“That would be…shit!” Clay yanked a grenade belt off a soldier and ducked into the blasted-out doorway in the hull.

The outer layers of the hull were a silica composite run through with tiny graviton sensors, making it look like the ship was encased in cracked ice. Clay ducked inside to the dark lacquered deck and slightly curved hallways clad in alabaster. Smoke clung to the ceiling, whirling into air vents as the ship’s systems worked to keep the environment as pristine as possible.

A dead soldier lay against the wall, his face crushed, limbs twitching.

“Coming through,” Clay said as he moved up to Tyr huddled against the bulkheads, some with their weapons on one door, the rest focused down the passageway.

“Sire, this—this monster killed Borno and then…” The lieutenant pointed at a doorway. “We…we shot it, but it…”

“I need to borrow this.” Clay unsheathed a bayonet off a nearby soldier and handed him the machine gun, which the Tyr struggled to hold while his back was against the curved wall. Clay tossed the grenade belt up and grabbed one with his hand gripped over the spoon. He pulled the pin with his teeth and spat it out.

Soldiers began to panic—Clay had a live grenade in his hand. Letting go of the spoon would kill them all in seconds.

Clay tossed the grenade belt up onto his shoulder, then slammed the bayonet’s tip against the edge of a small panel beneath the controls and popped it out. The panel spun in the air and bounced off the top of a soldier’s helmet. Clay reached one finger in and hooked an emergency release.

“Move,” he said to two soldiers directly across from the door, and they scrambled aside.

He pried open the release and the door snapped up.

A flood of laser bolts smashed into the bulkhead across from the door. Clay swung the grenade belt into the room and yanked his hand out of the release. The door slammed down and Clay handed the knife back to the Blooded he’d taken it from.

There was a whoomph as the grenades went off. The deck lurched beneath their feet and Clay opened the door again.

“Keep moving,” he said to a shocked lieutenant as he took his machine gun back. “That trick will work for every door.”

Clay stepped into a small compartment, the walls scratched from the grenade blasts. A small circle of fires showed where they’d gone off. An acceleration seat had been shredded and was oozing gel, and the holo control panel had collapsed into fragments on the seat.

A Myrmidon lay on his side against the bulkhead, the remnants of holo projection crystals sprinkled around him. He clutched a bloody stump against his chest; his flexible armor suffered thousands of cuts.

The man breathed hard, a wet rasp with each exhalation. His face mask was of a snarling bear. One eyepiece was broken, the face beneath exposed.

“You,” the Myrmidon said. “That’s you, ain’t it, Clay? How else would you know how to get in here…”?

Clay brought his machine gun up to his shoulder and aimed it at the gap in the face shield.

“Boss wants you dead something fierce, traitor. He was going to bring your scalp back and give it to the director personally.” He coughed and blood dribbled from the cuts in his armor. “It was one thing when you turned tail. That didn’t cost the company any money. Now you’re messing with the bottom line. You’d better…you’d better hope we don’t find your family. Corporate’s got a way of getting even.”

Clay moved closer and pressed the muzzle into the broken eye socket.

“I’m dead…I’m dead already…what did I die for, huh? Credits. Stomping indigs for fun and profit…look at me, Clay. I’m a nobody dying on a shit-ball planet so Corp can bring in the Golden Light and make a buck off my blood. Maybe…maybe you’re right.”

Clay swallowed hard.

“My drip’s offline…I feel too much, Clay. Do me a favor? No hard feelings.”

Clay fired a single bullet and the Myrmidon jerked back. Blood welled up through the eyepiece and ran through the lines of the bear mask.

“You,” Clay said to a trio of soldiers looking around the doorway, “all of you, drag the body clear of the ship. He looks heavy too.”

“What did—what was he saying?” a sergeant asked.

Clay shifted his hold on his machine gun. This was neither the time nor the place to explain himself.

“Damned if I know. Now get moving before I tell Fastal he’s got shirkers working for him.”

****

Fastal moved through a loose throng of soldiers as he hurried down a curved hallway toward a group of them huddled around a set of double doors. They were arguing in low voices.

“What’s the holdup?” Fastal asked.

“We can’t jimmy this one open,” a line sergeant said. He pointed to a control panel with no emergency access panel, but it did have an abundance of knife marks scratched onto the edges.

“Rocket the doors open?” a lieutenant asked.

“The backblast will kill whoever shoots it and we may not have time to evacuate this…ship to plant charges.” Fastal rapped the muzzle of his revolver against the panel. He stepped back and his heel splashed into a puddle of water that ran toward the door. A brief wave of vertigo hit him.

“Anyone else feel that?” the line sergeant asked.

The double doors creaked, then a large crack opened in the floor and spread through each door like a dead tree branch.

A small hatch opened on the ceiling in front of the door and a ball mounted on a telescopic arm snapped down. A metal lens flipped open and Fastal stared into a red dot.

“Kill it!” A soldier swung his rifle like a club and the stock broke the ball off. The soldier kept beating at the device as it rolled across the floor like it was vermin that had found its way into a kitchen.

“Get yourself under control, soldier! Put your…what’s that?” Fastal felt a tug against his entire body. He tried to move, but it felt like he was encased in wet concrete. He flew backwards and hit the cracked doors, feeling like an enormous hand was pressing against him as the doors creaked.

They gave way and he fell—at least it felt like falling—across the ship’s control room. He bounced off the floor and hit water that had pooled against the front of the bridge. Fastal stood up in the aching cold water that came up just above his knees.

A dead human was strapped into a control seat that had broken off its moorings on the deck. Long blonde hair floated in the water and pale blue eyes stared into the abyss. Beside this figure, a bearded face was submerged a few inches below the surface of the water.

Fastal sloshed back, then looked down. His feet were against windows, where the nose of the ship had dug into the soil of his world just outside. To his right was the deck, to his left the ceiling. He looked up at the broken double door where his men were shouting to him.

Gravity had gone all wrong.

“Get Clay!” Fastal shouted. He looked around and found a second pilot’s chair, the restraints open, the buckles dangling overhead.

Fastal walked carefully toward the side of the bridge, parts of his body suddenly feeling lighter and heavier as he went. He reached a hatch with a glass panel over it and gripped a handlebar on top. The hatch was large enough for him to crawl through with a few extra inches. He leaned forward to look into the glass.

Darkness moved within, and a black-skinned human woman looked up at him.

Fastal locked eyes with her, and she snarled and thrust a gun against the glass. Fastal slammed himself back as laser bolts blasted the glass apart and struck the floor. The hatch popped open and slammed into the bulkhead next to Fastal.

The human thrust the gun out and Fastal grabbed her by the wrist. Even though he was a good deal taller and his body had been conditioned by years as a soldier and a farmer, the human nearly overpowered him as he fought to control the direction of the laser pistol.

“Alien scum!” the human shouted, and she bit into Fastal’s shoulder as she pulled herself out of the life pod.

Fastal snarled in pain then jammed his finger into the trigger guard and wiggled it back and forth, shooting out bolt after bolt until the weapon ceased firing and the barrel went red with heat. It started beeping and the human flung it away.

The general pulled away and backhanded the human as he turned to face her.

She took the hit like it was nothing and chopped a strike down where his neck met his shoulder. He blocked with a forearm and the blow knocked feeling out of his hand. She laughed, her eyes wide, her gritted teeth exposed in a snarl.

Fastal, just then aware that his pistol was not in his possession, punched her in the nose and she barely reacted. Grabbing him by front of his uniform, she swept him off his feet.

Water crashed around him, and the pilot kept him pressed to the forward control panel where the malfunctioning gravity field had formed a pool of stream water.

Fastal struggled against the two hands holding him underwater, but he had no leverage and the smaller human was proving to be far too strong, even though she wasn’t in Myrmidon armor.

The pressure against his back went away and he felt like he was floating. Water slammed him against the deck and he was torn away from the pilot’s grip. He gasped air as a wave of water swept him across the deck and he thudded against a side bulkhead, soaked through.

The pilot stopped herself against a squat holo table and crouched behind it, keeping its bulk between her and the soldiers in the doorway.

“Fucking domino-faced sons of bitches,” she said. Fastal wasn’t an expert on human expressions, but he recognized the rage in her voice, even if he didn’t understand her words. She screamed like an attacking predator and lurched at him.

Rifles opened up and a hail of bullets struck the pilot. One burst through her thigh as more smacked into the side of her vac suit. The material stopped most of the hits from penetrating, but each impact hit her like a heavy punch. Her charge faltered, then a bullet blew out the back of her skull.

She landed face-first in front of Fastal, then slid forward on the wet deck.

“Sir, are you OK?” a lieutenant asked from the doorway. “You fell…sideways. Then the water—”

“Yes, I’m aware!” Fastal moved his right shoulder, pain from the pilot’s bite growing less and less as adrenaline took hold. He took a tentative step toward the doorway, the inconsistent tug of gravity casting doubt on his movements.

There was a snap in the air and then everything felt normal again.

Fastal’s pistol fell off the ceiling right in front of his feet.

“Clear the next room.” He pointed to a dark, open doorway, then picked up his pistol, shook water from the barrel, and cycled the chamber.

“Wow!” Sazon entered the bridge with a handheld camera to one eye, the inner film cartridge ticking. “This appears to be a bridge of some kind. Consistent rune forms across doorways, but nothing on any actual control surface. Could the visitors see in wavelengths we can’t and I’m missing something? Like color blindness common in certain Islander groupings? Note to query subject four on—”

“Sazon.” Fastal put a hand over the lens and she lowered it, clearly annoyed with him. “The ship isn’t secure.”

“Oh pishposh, the Blooded haven’t found any but the one in the outer room and—”

Fastal put a hand on the top of her head, then angled it down so she could see the dead pilot.

“Is this one still warm?” Sazon could barely handle the camera, she was so excited. “She is! I need blood samples and—oh, look at the ketafik on this one! What an amazing spectrum they must have. But why? Solar radiation response? Sexual maturity signaling? You!” She snapped her fingers at a soldier in the doorway. “Give me your first-aid kit. I need to collect moist hemoglobin!”

The soldier shook his head and shrank behind the door.

“Sir,” said a soldier, motioning for Fastal from the dark doorway. “We found…something.”

Fastal pointed a knife hand at a wide-eyed sergeant in the doorway, then chopped at Sazon, who was tugging at a stud earring on the dead pilot.

He went through the other doorway and into a narrower passageway, one side bent and broken from the crash.

“I don’t…I don’t know what it is,” the soldier said.

A mangled suit of armor was gripped by broken hull plating and splintered trees, like the ship and Tyr’s earth were trying to pull it back into the depth of an underworld. It stood nearly half again as high as Fastal, the shoulders hunched over, the faceplate askew.

“This isn’t like the others we’ve seen.” Fastal’s mouth went dry. “It’s like a…walking tank.”

“A Marauder,” Clay said from behind him. He stepped up to the suit and pushed a button on the side of the faceplate. It snapped open and a dead man’s head slumped forward. Fastal lifted the face up, taking in the crude tattoos on the cheeks and over the eye sockets. “Beating these will be a challenge,” Clay added.

“How…” the soldier with them began shaking, “how does he know? What is that thing inside there?”

“We don’t have much more time,” Clay said. “We’re going to have to pry Sazon away as it is.”

“Go,” Fastal said, putting a hand on the soldier’s back. “Take out everything that isn’t bolted down. Everyone must be clear of this site in the next ten dreths, understood?”

“Sir,” said the soldier and then turned and left.

“Sometimes the enemy will load one of them on board as a fail-safe,” Clay said. “The Marauders are let loose to clear out an area. We’re lucky he died in the crash.”

“Now you mention this?” Fastal asked.

“They don’t use Marauders for delicate work. They’re terror weapons. Zike must have been desperate for manpower if he brought these along with him…”

“And what does that mean?” Fastal asked.

“I’m not sure. Wait, do you hear that?” Clay raised his chin slightly, then his eyes went wide. “Get everyone out now. Run. Run!”

Taking his own advice, Clay raced back to the bridge, almost slipping on the wet floor before he got to the co-pilot’s seat. He swung the control panel over his lap and pressed a tiny button underneath. The console lit up with blinking screens and Clay slapped a palm over a camera bead.

“Rescue 2-9, anyone there?” came from a speaker.

“Yeah, this is Lee, onboard security,” Clay said. “Both pilots are down. What’s my evac status?”

Clay could almost feel the weapon systems of the other ship locking on. He heard Tyr scrambling out of the ship along with the thump of a heavy object against bulkheads. Maybe he could buy them enough time to get clear. Maybe he and the rest of them were already dead.

“Lee, is it? Looks like you’ve got an indig problem.”

“Negative negative…ship security is tight. Turret took out a bunch that got too curious. Less work for later, am I right?”

“Boss must like you because we’re authorized to do a recovery. Activate your suit beacon and get clear. Leave your scummy behind and set him to agro burn. I don’t want a bull in the precious china shop I’m flying.”

“No issue…what’s your ETA?”

“I’ll have a line-of-site telemetry laser on you in…what did you say your name was?”

Clay bolted out of the bridge, bounced off the passageway bulkhead, and ducked through the blasted-out exit. He ran up the hillside as a low rumble filled the air. His lungs burned and legs ached as he pounded up the slope that seemed to get steeper as the sound of the Compliance ship grew closer.

He felt the heat of incoming fire before it struck the downed craft. The blast wave slapped him from behind and propelled him over the top of the plateau, sending him sprawling through grass and puddles.

Clay felt an odd texture against his face and hands. Radar scattering nets. He gripped the nets and rolled, wrapping the material around him. Sinking into mud, he prayed that it would mask his thermal signature from the enemy ship’s sensors.

The bottom of a triangle-shaped interceptor hovered overhead, the gravitic engines sending a tremor through the mud that loosened it into a slurry. Clay sank further, his face barely above water.

The interceptor bolted away.

“There we go.” Clay tried to open his arms, but the netting and mud held him tight. He scissored his legs and the water splashed over his mouth and nose.

“Help. Help!” Clay struggled but couldn’t get out of the straitjacket he was in. He sank deeper as he strained to get his mouth into the air for one last plea for aid.

The red skies and constellations of the gods were just visible through the muddy water as he sank deeper, his lungs on fire as he burned through the last of his oxygen. That he was about to die beneath the gods’ gaze struck him as a rather cruel irony.

There was a splash in the water and someone hauled Clay out and onto somewhat more congealed ground. He spat out water and choked for air.

Fastal leaned over him, a confused expression on his face.

“Move.” Sazon poked Clay in the cheek with the eraser on her pencil and then put the tip to her clipboard. “What was the purpose of that behavior? Some manner of ritual atonement for internecine conflict?”

“Cut me out! Just cut me out already!” Tangled up in the netting, Clay had never felt more like a fish in his life.

“Stop moving.” Fastal drew a knife from the sheath on his thigh. “You’re like a grish caught in pen wire.”

“Maybe he received a suicidal impulse from speaking to the others?” Sazon rapped the tip of her pencil against the clipboard. “Do you have any feelings of hopelessness or lack of enjoyment in—”

“The netting,” Clay growled. “The netting scrambles their area scans. Like I told you. They use a focused beam and there’s nowhere to hide, but it’s like looking through a straw for the pilot. Difficult and time-consuming. But I would’ve been easy to spot on thermals—ow, careful!”

“My grish would bitch just like that when they got nicked as I was freeing them from a long and painful death while they were caught in pen wire,” Fastal said as he yanked his knife up and cut through strands of netting.

“The mud masked most of my thermal signature. With my face in the pond, I must’ve looked like an animal or a fresh bronto pattie to the pilot. Doesn’t matter. I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“You’re welcome,” Fastal said and ripped netting away so that Clay could sit up. “So all we have to do to sneak up on the enemy is cover ourselves in mud and move under a canopy of this stuff.” He tossed a handful away.

“They’re lazy and we’re not enough of a threat to them right now.” Clay got to his feet and, with a slight limp, went to the edge of the hilltop. What remained of the Enforcement vessel was scattered in and around a smoking hole.

“I have my duties,” Fastal said. “You go back to the airfield with Sazon. Pack up everything. We’ll convoy out of here as soon as we can.”

“Your duties…I understand,” Clay said, looking around. Fires from the blast cast light on the dead soldiers from the first attack on the ship.

Clay limped away, not sure if he’d dislocated something in a knee or ankle or if it was the normal after-battle aches and pains.

Even though Fastal succeeded in shedding Enforcement blood, this fight didn’t feel like a victory.

Chapter 45

Michael paced back and forth through a small bedroom while Sarah sat on a chair and stared out the lone window overlooking King’s Rest from several stories high.

“Where did they take Dad?” Michael asked. “Why are we back home, of all places? Why aren’t we…teaching them something? Or helping them evacuate the city?”

“You know how to move millions of people out of a city in a quick and orderly fashion?” Sarah rubbed a temple. “Or if it’s even a target?”

“But it should be evacced just in case!” Michael went to the window and tried to open it, but it was nailed shut.

The door opened and a Blooded—a pistol in hand—shook his head at them.

“We can’t fly,” Michael said, sitting on the bed and sulking, “or survive a fall like that. Chill out.”

A Royal came in, a solid briefcase in one hand. “Even if you did survive the fall, every Tyr in a two-block radius has orders to shoot you two on sight—unless you’re with me,” he said. “Suumsar, King’s Shadow. Pleasure.”

“Why are you telling us your security arrangements?” Sarah asked.

“So you don’t even think about trying to escape.” Suumsar leaned slightly to one side and examined Sarah’s face. “Brilliant. Not even the Hidden are so well disguised.”

“The Hidden are real?” Michael asked.

“Something from the Far Darkness is ignorant about the Tyr…curious.” Suumsar glanced at Sarah, who said nothing to answer Michael’s question. “I will conduct your debriefing. Be completely truthful with me and it will go easier for you.”

“We’re not Worthy People spies you’re trying to recruit,” Michael said. “OK, we are spies, but not like that. Wait. What I mean is—”

“Ask your questions,” Sarah said, putting a hand on her son’s shoulder.

“Your house…” Suumsar laid out pictures of the dark hole punctured with utility pipes where their home used to be. “How did you do this and is this some sort of…power you have?”

“The house was rigged to disintegrate if it was ever compromised. Technology that we couldn’t risk being discovered,” Sarah said. “Same thing happened when one of your agents handled one of our weapons. They’re gene-locked to our…kind.”

“But what about this thing?” Suumsar took a wax-paper envelope out of his case and handed it to Sarah.

Sarah tested the weight of the slate, then gave Michael a dirty look.

“Oh. I…uh, was looking for that,” the boy said.

“You were supposed to ash it.” Sarah glowered.

“Well, I was doing some reading on these sorts of situations and then we were in such a rush to leave that…and it’s not like the old rules even apply anymore. I’m surprised they even got it out of the house,” Michael said.

“Constable Pyth grabbed it before your residence could erase itself,” Suumsar said.

“Pyth? How is—” An elbow from Sarah quieted her son.

“This might prove useful to you.” Sarah removed the e-pad and squeezed the corner. The screen lit up with a depth holo through the screen and she turned it to show the Tyr. “It doesn’t have an immediate military use, so our kind didn’t rig it to disintegrate on command, though it will burn like paper if it’s touched by fire.”

“Maybe a history lesson?” Sarah swiped to one side and a holo appeared above the pad. Suumsar jerked back. “Coherent light. It senses my touch but has no feel to it.” She fanned the pad down and ran the holo through her knee.

“Tell me what your kind is doing here…and how we can stop the attacks,” the Shadow said, composing himself.

“There are two issues,” Sarah said, entering text commands on the pad, “neither of which you’re going to understand right away…or accept. The first is the Reptilians. Almost…one hundred and twenty Tyr years ago, humanity found a primitive species that a Corporation—think a Toiler guild but run by Royals—conducted experiments on. Experiments in consciousness and genetics.” She turned the pad to Suumsar and his jaw dropped as he took in the true-vision recording of a humanoid alien with scales and large eyes lying on an operating table.

“The tests had a number of unintended consequences. The Reptilians became fully sentient and something a bit more…they evolved into something we don’t fully understand and became some sort of unified intelligence within a…parallel dimension.”

She swiped to a laboratory where a trio of Reptilians floated up and into a cacophony of color and fractal patterns.

“The Reptilians vanished for a few years, then returned with star fleets and technology on par with ours and began destroying human colony worlds. We thought they were defeated after the last of their ships was blown up, but then they returned again with an equal level of technology…and no mercy.”

“Demons,” Suumsar said.

“Yes, the comparison holds.” Sarah switched the pad off. “The Reptilians appeared in our home system of Terra a hundred years ago and smashed a comet into the ocean. Killed billions and wrecked the environment. We won’t be able to live there again for decades, even with our technology.”

“Are these reptiles coming here?” Suumsar asked.

“I doubt it. They seem tethered to their home star and won’t act beyond a two-thousand-light-year radius…which is where the bulk of human colony worlds were set up before they attacked,” Sarah said.

“So our corporations are moving colonies beyond the threat. To stars like this one,” Michael said.

“And our Royal caste issued an edict, the Human Imperative, that prohibits the genetic study or manipulation of intelligent—or nearly intelligent—life. Then there is a silent command to that edict: any alien intelligences are to be destroyed before they can become the next Reptilians.” Sarah’s face fell.

“That’s…that isn’t very reassuring, assuming you’re telling the truth,” Suumsar said.

“Zike and his soldiers have no reason to tell you the truth or to negotiate in good faith.” Sarah tapped the pad against her knee. “They must deliver a colony to their clients. That is all. They care nothing about saving the Tyr if that’s what it takes to fulfill their contract. It is a matter of survival to the supreme human authorities, and a matter of profit to Zike and his Corporation.”

“And what is this second matter?” Suumsar asked.

“That may be a bit harder to accept. Even though we’re forbidden to—”

An air raid siren howled in the distance, joined by more and more into an undulation of echoes as the wails reached the safe house.

“Bunker,” Suumsar said, drawing a small pistol from beneath his tunic. “Both of you, now.” He wagged the muzzle at the door and snatched the slate away from Sarah.

Explosions rattled the windows.

Chapter 46

“What was that?” Lussea looked up from her bowl of boiled grain.

“Sounded like an explosion.” Constable Pyth went to a phone on the kitchen wall and wedged the handset between his shoulder and ear. He flipped switches and pulled the dial lever, cursed, then did it again.

“Phone’s down.” He slammed the handset into the receiver then took his gun belt from a peg on the wall.

Lussea rushed over to buckle it, a task she’d done for her father hundreds of times before he left the house.

“Where are you going? Mother’s still at worship and—”

“If it’s the demons from the Far Darkness, then the King will need me to defend him and the realm.” He touched the holster on his hip. “Doubt I can use a rifle, but I’ll be of more use with the Blooded than at home.”

“They’re not demons. Don’t call Michael that.” Lussea put her hands on her hips and glowered at her father, but her countenance changed to one of fear as another explosion rattled the windows and shouts rose in the street.

“I have quite a list of unkind names for those that attack my city and—”

A blast wave tore through the front living room and sent Pyth stumbling into the kitchen table. It fell hard onto its side and sent supper flying across the room.

Lussea cried out, her hands to her abused ears. Flaming debris tore past the windows, breaking them and sending hunks of smoldering masonry into the drying rack and the icebox.

Instinct took over, and Pyth snapped to his feet and grabbed his daughter by the scruff of her neck. He kicked open the back door and dragged her to his parked police car. Lussea scooped up a backpack by the straps on the way out.

“Constable! What’s happening?” A Blooded neighbor stumbled out of their kitchen, blood flowing from cuts across her face.

“I don’t know.” Pyth opened the front passenger door and pushed his daughter inside. There was an earsplitting roar overhead, and he caught a glimpse of contrails and a blur of something moving far faster than any fighter jet he’d ever seen. An orange glow rose in the north, deep and menacing. His mind went back to Slaver cities he’d fought through during the war and all the danger he’d sworn would never come to his family once that fight was over.

But here it was.

He got into the driver’s seat, ignoring Lussea’s crying and near hysterics. He didn’t blame her for being scared. He never wanted her to ever experience war.

Pyth turned the key to start his car…and there were electric clicks and nothing more.

“Damn it.” He looked up at the ceiling light and saw that it was off, as were the headlights. He turned the key harder, but the engine still wouldn’t turn over.

“Piece-of-shit car!” He banged his fist against the wheel and jumped out. He looked over the nearby connecting street that was always busy at this time of the day…and there were no moving cars. Every vehicle was stopped on the road with space between them, not like the usual traffic. Drivers had their hoods open and were shouting at each other between nervous glances to the sky.

“Dad, what about Mom?” Lussea asked from the other side of the hood.

“She…she may have been born a Speaker, but she’s been married to me long enough to have a bit of Blooded sense. There’s a shelter barely a block from her temple. She’ll go there and—”

Someone screamed.

Bright green bolts descended through the clouds, raining down a few blocks away in an orderly procession. Pyth saw the first flash and counted until he heard the impact—an old spotter’s trick to know the distance to where an observed artillery shell hit. He estimated almost six hundred strides to the northeast…the Spring Bridge. One of the main routes into and out of the city.

All other sound drained away around Pyth as the muffled explosions rolled on.

Lussea clutched at her father’s arm.

“Shelter,” he said as he grabbed her hand and jogged down the road, ignoring his neighbors as they called on him for answers. “I’ll get you to a shelter where you’ll be safe. We’ll find your mother as soon as all this is over.”

“But if she took some oaxa, she’ll be goofy for hours. We need to go find her!” Lussea pulled him toward a street filling with Tyr as they wandered out of their houses, most with cracked or shattered windows from blast waves.

“Your mother—” he grabbed her by the upper arm and yanked her close, “would want you to get someplace safe before you risked your life looking for her in—the bunker. Next. To. Her. Temple.”

They crossed into the market where Daniel Clay liked to pick up food for his and Pyth’s lunches. A pair of Toilers came through the bent bars meant to protect a jewelry store and Pyth drew his revolver and pulled back the hammer. The Toilers froze, then dropped the stuffed pillowcases they carried.

Pyth wagged his muzzle from side to side and the two turned and ran empty-handed.

“Those two,” Pyth muttered and skirted the market with Lussea. “They’ll get the cuffs the next time I see them.”

They cut down an alley just as another thunder crack broke overhead. The pressure wave hit the building on one side and sent potted herbs, hanging laundry, and tanna pests falling around them.

Soil and shards of clay struck her shins from a near miss. Lussea gasped behind him, but he knew the difference between the sounds his daughter made when she was hurt and when she was startled; that sound was born of fear.

They emerged outside a park. The upper floors of buildings across the grass and ponds were aflame, but there was no sign of the fire brigades. A small crowd had gathered beside a dry goods store where a heavy metal door had opened up from the cobblestones.

“I’m telling you there’s no room for you!” a man howled.

“King’s Constable…move, move,” Pyth said and the crowd of mostly Toilers and a few retired Blooded got out of his way.

A scared-looking Blooded caste male, not yet old enough to take his oath of service, was at the bottom of the stairwell, a rifle in his hands.

“You let the others down there!” a Toiler shouted.

“Blooded and a Constable, thank the gods.” The young man slapped his chest twice in greeting. “I don’t…I’m assigned to this shelter and—”

“How many are in there?” Pyth stopped at the top of the stairs and held his arm up to keep some space between himself and the crowd.

“I have eighteen children, seven elderly, and nine…of age. I’m only supposed to have thirty in here and—”

“Wait here,” he said to Lussea and pushed past the youth. He unsnapped the cover off his flashlight and turned it on by biting down on the button. Clutching it beneath the fingers holding his pistol, he swept it over the shelter.

Small families clutched at each other in the dark, mostly family groups with grandparents and a few fathers, but there were a half-dozen Royal males in the corner.

“This is for women and children,” Pyth said. “King’s edict.”

“Do you have any idea who we are?” one of the males said. “We’re Countess Qaurana’s nephews, and we’re not going to have some brute like you tell us—”

Pyth cracked him across the crown of his head with the butt of his pistol. The Royal’s eyes rolled back and he fell into the arms of the others.

“Women and children. Unless that matches your description—or you’re on the honor rolls of the elderly or combat-disabled—then get out of this bunker or I’ll shoot you where you stand. You’re not going to steal the air from those that need it more!”

The group of Royals considered their options then quickly retreated from the bunker.

“We’ve got your name, Pyth!” one shouted.

“Tell your aunt I said you were a bunch of arseholes too!” He gave a few more encouraging snarls to lone adults and cleared out a decent amount of room in the shelter.

“There’s another at the corner of 2nd and Riktan’s Gift,” the Blooded at the entrance said to those leaving.

“If you’re supposed to be in here, get in here.” Pyth went to the door and shouldered up next to the guard as more civilians came down. “What’re your orders, unblooded? And what’s your name?”

“Bandar…sir. Orders are…ah…Don’t overload the bunker. Ration food and water and…oh gods, I don’t remember,” he said, still counting noses as more came down to fill the bunker.

“Keep the peace. Songs and prayer go a long way, trust me on this.” Pyth put his flashlight away. “You’ve got one space left.”

Lussea stood at the bottom of the stairs, just outside the bunker.

“Daddy, you should stay,” she said. “You’re combat-injured.”

Pyth looked down at his badge and sash, then gave her a quick hug. He turned and shoved her into the bunker, then bounded up the stairs, ignoring his daughter’s cries, though his heart ached to leave her.

Heavy doors shut behind him and he heard the locks engage.

Pyth slammed the cover down on the bunker stairs, then looked over those still there. Most were terrified Toiler men, flinching with each boom that carried through the city.

“I fought beside those just like you during the war. We did it to protect our families from Slaver trash and it’s time to do it again. There’s a constable force at the Linker quarter nearby. Come with me and I’ll see you get weapons and we’ll fight…whatever this is,” Pyth said.

“But what are they? Demons? I heard there was a lost Slaver kingdom in the Storm Seas and now they’re—”

“I don’t care what—or who—it is.” Pyth’s jaw clenched as he thought of Clay and whatever he really was. “Standing here crying about it won’t make the situation any better. Now you either come with me and fight or run off and—”

Several of the Toilers turned and ran.

“Bloody typical,” Pyth sighed. “The rest of you with a bit of steel in your balls, follow me.”

He ran toward Clay’s house, his lungs burning and sweat pouring off his face by the time he got there. A few from the bunker managed to keep up.

“Pyth!” his lieutenant shouted from the ring of officers around the dark pit where the Clays’ home used to be. Most were in various stages of riot gear, some looking like they’d just gotten out of bed and only had time to don their sash and boots. A crowd was trying to force their way through the cordon. “Get over here!”

Pyth holstered his weapon and started flinging Tyr aside until he got to the cordon and squeezed through a pair of officers. He made his way to the lieutenant’s vehicle, where the other Tyr had a radio to one ear.

“You’ve got someone?” Pyth asked.

“No. All the freqs have gone to shit. I’m just trying to look like I’ve got a clue.” The lieutenant shrugged. “You have any idea what in the Far Darkness is happening?”

“Weird fighters in the sky. Big bolts of light destroying the Spring Bridge.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the pit. “That bronto shit. It’s adding up to…I barely know either.”

“Here,” the lieutenant said, tossing him a baton. “Your family safe?”

“My girl’s in the park bunker. My wife…I don’t know. She should be OK. Lieutenant, why are we guarding a hole in the ground?”

“Because no one’s told me to go anywhere else!”

A beam of light—so bright that it washed out all color around Pyth and stung his eyes—hit the car. Screams rose around him and he kept one hip against the car to keep his bearing as the cordon failed and Tyr went running blind.

The light shifted to the pit and Pyth steadied himself at what he saw.

A craft floated silently overhead, though he felt a constant thrum in his chest from something. The light washed out what he could see at the front, but the back had two stubby wings with open rings, the space within wavering like it was over a fire.

There was a hiss of air, and a single green point burned even brighter than the floodlight. A bolt shot down and struck the pit just before an explosion slammed the side of the trunk against Pyth and he went tumbling over the back and hit the ground hard.

Pyth wasn’t sure how long he lay there, but when he got up, he found the lieutenant nearby…dead, a hole burnt through his chest. Pyth rolled onto one side and looked back to the park where he’d left his daughter.

Fire.

Infernos roared through the buildings around the park and smoke darkened the sky.

“Lussea!” He reached out weakly, feeling all the broken bones in one leg and pain through his ribs. He flopped onto his face and pulled himself forward with his one arm.

Someone grabbed him by the ankles and another man picked him up.

He howled in pain—and grief—as they carried him away.

Chapter 47

Sazon heard the chanting in the air and smelled the burning gasoline, more pungent than the smoke that lingered over the wrecked air base. She brought the top of her blouse up to cover her nose and mouth with one hand, while the other clutched clothes and a glass bottle to her chest.

She hurried down a line of cargo trucks, the faint light of a flashlight in the back of a covered cargo bed tipping her off and telling her where to go. She got to the truck and lifted her chin, which barely came over the level of the floor bed.

“Clay?” she asked a seated figure cast in shadow by a weak flashlight. A crate covered by a tarp was in front of him.

“Right spot. You have it?” Clay asked.

“I do.” She slid the clothes with the bottle on top toward him, then struggled to get a foot onto the handlebar at the bottom of the open tailgate. Clay grabbed her by the wrist and lifted her up.

“My, this is…quaint.” She ran her hand along a wooden bench on one side of the truck bed.

“The Blooded might tell you that the worst ride is better than the best walk,” Clay said. He tugged on the flashlight and it lengthened to expose a glass cylinder around the bulb, flooding the truck bed with light from the flashlight-turned-lantern.

The bandage over his eye was gone and Sazon could see Clay’s true skin beneath.

“I should have my camera for this,” she said.

“So someone could find it and watch the movie without knowing what they’re seeing?” Clay popped a cork on the bottle and sniffed the contents “Good. This is good.”

He poured drops of deep-green oil into his palm, then slapped it against his damaged synth.

“Why is it so important to keep to a skin-care routine?” Sazon asked. “My matron would never stop pestering me about my ketafik. ‘Have to have that gentle, downy complexion or you’ll be married off to a landlord with grish herds.’”

“Being on a grish pasture doesn’t sound so bad right now, does it?” Clay took his oily palm away and turned his head to Sazon. “How’s it look?”

“Should it be…foaming?”

“Yes, that’s my synth layer recombining the fats and protein in the oil into new tissue. Easy enough to repair the occasional ouchy boo-boo. Exposing it to fire slows down the repairs considerably,” Clay said, applying more oil.

“How much damage can it take?” Sazon poked a finger at the bubbling section of Clay’s forehead, but he pushed her hand away.

“So long as there’s still some of the synth layer attached to the nerve bridges along my spine, it will regrow completely. Every synth is made for the user. They’re implanted as tiny patches up and down my nervous system, takes up to a year to grow in fully.”

The clang of metal on metal and a low roar from dozens of throats rose in the distance.

“Blooded,” Sazon said, “their customs are always so…strange.”

“They’re chasing away the spirits from the bodies of the slain,” Clay said. “A ritual as old as their caste has records for.”

“And they won’t let anyone but Blooded participate, even their Royal commanders. It always strikes me as an act of defiance. Did you know that non-Blooded are forbidden from even touching one of their dead? There’s even…” her voice lowered to a whisper, “there’s even a curse for watching the pyres burn.”

“I know, which works out for us. No one’s looking for us during the ceremony. We can go through what was salvaged from the ship.” Clay removed the tarp and Sazon clapped excitedly.

The crate was of human manufacture. Tiny gold hexagons formed a network over the green exterior.

“Graphene-composite.” Clay rapped his knuckles on the top. “You could drive a tank over this and not break it.” He slid a latch to one side and there was a hiss of air as the top cracked open. He lifted it off and his jaw worked from side to side.

“What did we get? A repository of alien knowledge? An energy source that can destroy the mothership? Recordings of erotic art?”

Clay leaned away from her and raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t keep me in suspense!” She glared at him.

“We’ve got…” He reached inside and brought out a small box with a grey-colored flap. He tipped it to one side and water poured out. The flap came up with a flick of his finger, and he took out a small cup with a hole in the top. He sniffed deep and sighed. “A coffee maker. A coffee maker with a broken power base, so I couldn’t get it to work even if I had a transfer plate. Or coffee.”

“Cough-y?” Sazon smelled the cup and wrinkled her nose. “Bitter. Disgusting.”

“Don’t knock it. It’s the stuff of life, and people have been stabbed when there’s not enough around,” Clay said. “It’s not a systemic weakness—don’t think we’re going to slow them down by taking away their coffee.”

He set the machine on the ground.

“Then we’ve got…oh, hello…” He drew out a matte-black case and unzipped it. Silver instruments glistened in the light. “This is a field armor repair kit for the Myrmidon suits. Non-Newtonian layer sutures, frame ratchets. This might be useful.” He zipped it back up and set it aside.

“What the hell?” Clay picked up thin metal rods and a see-through plastic sheet. “A shower. Crews on those ships tend to stay embarked for days at a time, but…The Blooded ripped apart a shower. Looks like the crew tapped in to the feed lines to set this up for themselves on the ship…”

Clay sat down. Dejected.

“You said everything that wasn’t nailed down,” Sazon said, raising her hands.

“Worthless.” Clay tossed the aluminum rods past Sazon and out of the truck. “Absolutely worthless. Our one chance to…” His grumbling continued as he threw out the last of the sheeting and then pulled out a bra and panty set fastened to a clothes hanger.

Sazon gasped and he handed it over to her. “This fabric…it must breathe so well.” Sazon rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger, looking at Clay and pressing her lips together.

“The Tyr don’t need a quantum leap in underwear technology, and no, you can’t try it on right now,” Clay said.

“I don’t have to ask you to do anything,” Sazon snapped. “This artifact crossed the stars to reach me. How many centuries of knowledge went into its manufacture, to get just the right feel against the skin, to—”

“It’s underwear,” Clay said.

“—to know that a non-Tyr made conscious decisions to obtain this, to…clean it out in a sink, apparently. This is a symbol of comfort that the other sex of your species—wait, your females—appreciate bosom support as much as we do?”

“I’m not having this conversation…bingo.” Clay smiled.

“What is a ‘bingo’?”

He brought out a metal case the size of a footlocker and set it on the bench with a grunt. He twisted latches on either side of the case in opposite directions and the top lifted up with a hydraulic hiss.

Light from inside the case illuminated a rack of laser carbines.

“That’s a bingo.” Clay slapped the top. “Field-ready Kawasaki off-brand battery stack. This has got enough charge to cycle those laser weapons—and the ones I had stockpiled—several dozen times each.”

“More effective weaponry…it’s a start,” Sazon said.

“The battery stack is more important. There isn’t a more—” he paused, thinking of the shuttle his wife hid in Vinica and opted not to share that bit of information “—not a denser source of energy anywhere else on the planet.”

“Are there any more bingos in there?” Sazon asked.

“Last thing is…” Clay picked up a leather-bound folder and opened it to find pictures of a blonde-haired man hugging a woman with a snowy mountain background on one side. The same couple with corgis in a backyard on the other. He tapped the screen and the picture changed to a wedding.

Clay set it aside.

“A bingo?”

“A dead man’s memories,” Clay said. “Fastal saw the body aboard the ship. I have to wonder if he was…what was he like? Just another hive kid willing to do anything to get out of the deep dark and have a shot at a real life? Maybe he signed years of his life away to the Corporation to get them to finance his wife’s medical treatment. I knew men that had to do that…”

“What about the Blooded killed during the attack? They were all young. Strong. They’ll be mourned too. And let’s not forget the King,” she said.

“When did you get so sentimental?” Clay asked.

“I was raised at my father’s court,” she said, opening the picture book and tapping the screen, frowning at more pictures of corgis, “a fishing duchy on the Bay of Dreams. Only ever saw the other castes when they were cleaning or maybe I saw them working the docks. Then I shared that little hole with Nemsi during all the shooting and…he was a real person to me. How scared he was.”

“You weren’t scared?”

“I’ve been inured to bizarre human things more than the average Tyr. Searing-hot bolts of light going over my head was almost normal. OK, what are these hairy beasts?” She turned the book around to a mother corgi nursing a litter.

“That’s a dog.”

“Dog?”

“A mammal. Warm-blooded. Gives birth to live young. Breathes air. There are no mammals on this planet…except for the Tyr,” Clay said. “And my family. I suppose.”

Clay closed the gun chest and put it back in the crate.

“The scientific explanation for why the Tyr are alone in our…mammal-ness…to the rest of the planet’s biome has always been lacking…the faith-based reason wins out: because the gods placed us here to be unique in their sight.” Sazon repeated the old Speaker saying.

“Interesting.”

There was a rap of metal against the edge of the truck bed. A small group of Tyr were there, looking restless in the deep shadows.

“You,” one said, pointing a half-arm length of pipe at Clay. “Come out here.” His voice was rough.

“Don’t presume you can order us around.” Clay moved the flashlight so the new arrivals could see his and Sazon’s Royal caste markings.

“The only thing worse than a false voice is a false face, Clay,” one of the Tyr said. “You come with us easy,” there was the click of a pistol hammer locking back, “or we’ll make it hard on her.”

Clay stepped in front of Sazon and the flashlight in his hand illuminated the Tyr outside the truck. Their caste markings were…off. Blooded had lighter coloring around their eyes, like they were fading into Toiler ketafik. One had a dark smudge down his face and neck.

“I don’t know who you are, or who you think I am, but you’re making a mistake,” Clay said. “Disappear or your foreman will be punished for this.”

“The ghost face thinks we’re his slaves just because he puts on the paint,” one said. “I say we beat a lesson into him and kill the other.”

“He’s an insult to the Queen,” said the one with the pipe, and then he swung it at Clay’s ankle. Clay stomped on the weapon, fixing it to the floor. He flung the flashlight at one of the assailant’s faces, hoping it was the one with the gun, and he dove forward. Clay’s shoulder hit the pipe wielder in the chest and he landed hard on top of the Tyr.

The flashlight spun around, shining like a lighthouse beacon moving way too fast. Clay knew he had a brief advantage: he was surrounded by foes, and whoever he was fighting had to identify him in the oscillating darkness before they could attack. He kicked out and his heel hit the thigh of another, sending the Tyr’s leg straight back.

Clay grabbed the Tyr by the front of his work overalls and launched an uppercut into his groin. Human or not, that was still a quick way to remove a male from a fight.

Clay didn’t see the pipe, but he felt it whack against the back of his skull. He fell to one knee, his vision swimming. Putting a hand to the back of his head, he accidentally swiped up his ear.

The flashlight was in his face along with the barrel of a pistol.

Clay’s synth layer scrunched around his face, shifting from caste to caste as the blow from the pipe and his own touch caused it to malfunction.

“Disgusting. Even with all those faces…you have no soul. Get the cuffs,” the Tyr said. “The thicker set. He’s stronger than I thought.”

A weak groan came from the Tyr Clay had struck in the groin.

“Fucker…cracked some ribs,” the other said.

“Hurry up,” another hissed. “They’re almost done with the ceremony.”

A bell chimed slowly from the pyres on the other side of the airfield.

“Leave him alone!” Sazon hurled the coffee maker at the Tyr with the pistol and hit him in the shoulder.

The Tyr snarled and pointed the gun at her. Sazon’s jaw fell open and she thrust her hands forward like she was warding off a punch. “Sorry! I’m sorry! Don’t—”

Clay slapped a hand down on the Tyr’s wrist and knocked the weapon aside as he fired. The bullet sparked off a metal strut on the back of the truck and the Tyr on lookout began speaking in a rapid-fire dialect Clay didn’t know.

Clay smashed his forehead into the bridge of the Tyr’s nose and the other crumpled. Stripping the pistol out of his hand, Clay fan-fired at the lookout, striking him in the torso. He grunted and crumpled onto his hands and knees.

The fallen flashlight spun around, coming to bear on the third one behind Clay. Snapping his head to one side, Clay saw the Tyr had a pistol in hand. It was aimed right at his face.

The Tyr—the darkness of his ketafik running down the side of his face and dripping onto the asphalt—sneered at him. “You weren’t worth this,” he spat. “None of you are.”

The pistol shifted to aim at the one Clay had shot and fired twice. The already wounded Tyr’s head snapped back with a cloud of blood and skull fragments.

“Brother, don’t!” The one Clay had taken the pistol from reached out.

A single shot through the forehead and the Tyr went limp against the ground.

The shooter put the barrel in his mouth and fired one last time.

Clay let the weapon in his hand slip away and clatter to the ground while shouts and the clomp of boots sounded in the distance.

“Sazon…say something.” Clay touched his face, feeling the synth straining as it stabilized.

“They’re…this can’t be…” She was out of the truck and at the side of the dead Tyr just behind Clay, a penlight in hand. Sazon ran a thumb down the Tyr’s face, then rubbed an inky substance between her fingertips. “He has no ketafik. He’s not a Toiler or a Blooded or…”

“Hidden. The Tyr with no markings at all.” Clay’s synth layer slowed its cycling and finally stopped with him as a Blooded.

“I thought they were a myth.” Sazon frowned. “But things have been all sorts of impossible as of late. What did they want with you?”

“I don’t know,” Clay said. “These are the first ones I’ve ever encountered.”

“Clay. You’ve guided me through everything with your caste. There’s no need to keep a secret now, so just—”

“I. Don’t. Know,” Clay said.

Sazon narrowed her eyes at him for a moment, then turned her attention back to the Hidden.

“Most peculiar. Not only do I have cadavers from your caste to examine, now there are Hidden and—the coffee shrine!”

Sazon hurried over to the appliance at the dead Tyr’s feet.

Armed Blooded arrived and Clay raised his hands.

“You, state your clan. What unit are you with?” a sergeant demanded.

“He’s mine.” Fastal pushed through the security team and put a hand on Clay’s shoulder. He looked down at the Hidden’s ketafik, the darkness flowing off his face like ink dropped into a glass of water. “Get the bodies…by their gaze, what is this?”

“Spies come to take what we captured off the sky demon’s ship…sir,” Clay said. “I heard the honored Royal calling for help and did what I could.”

“Yes!” Sazon hefted the coffee maker back onto the truck bed. “Exactly that. And exactly whatever else he says.”

“You have a magnet in your heart for trouble,” Fastal said, his mouth twitching as he examined Clay’s new Blooded ketafik, “soldier.”

He led Clay to the side of the truck while others searched the dead. “Explain. No, don’t. There any more surprises in store for us? Because I have to get to Prince Riktan as soon as possible,” Fastal said.

“I didn’t know there were kidnappers…or assassins looking for me. Not Tyr ones, at any rate,” Clay said. “What I’m trying to figure out is why they didn’t kill me when they had the chance. They wanted me alive. You search the area and you’ll find either their getaway vehicle or some warm tread marks from where it used to be.”

“I’m starting to miss fighting Slavers,” Fastal said. “Maneuvering my corps through hundreds of miles of terrain against the hordes? Battle command in the middle of typhoons blowing in from the Vast Sea? Balancing the egos of Royal commanders against the better tactical, operational and strategic advice of Blooded officers? All that feels a hell of a lot easier than what I’m dealing with now.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re managing it pretty well,” Clay said.

“You are helping, but you can also go fuck yourself. Because now I have to explain why I have a new aide that’s rather similar to the Close Guard that was in that ship with me but no one’s ever seen before. No, don’t switch back. How about a little less complexity, yeah?”

“I’m your aide. I’ll work out the backstory for you,” Clay said.

Fastal looked out to the horizon and the first hint of dawn. “At least yesterday’s over. Come, we need to get the convoy ready. Now I have to tell Prince Riktan about the damn Hidden too.”

Chapter 48

Yenin sat on a concrete slab topped by a pitifully thin mattress that stank of spilled alcohol. Tyr were huddled outside the bars of her cell, all staring at her intently.

Her muumuu and other acquired clothes were in a pile to one side of the slab. The pistol was beneath the back of her flight suit, and it remained an option if she heard wood getting stacked outside.

“I have to pee,” she said and the Tyr began speaking amongst themselves. “Look, you put me in a cell and give me an audience, nature will call.”

When she heard pencils scratching on paper, Yenin rolled her eyes, walked over to the toilet, and pointed at it, making a hissing noise.

The Tyr got very quiet.

“This is not…are you all pervs or just short on the uptake?”

One of the aliens—a male with a thick band across his eyes that wrapped into his temples and vanished in his hair—pushed some of the Tyr out of the way…only to reveal a crude-looking camera on a tripod.

“For the love of…” She slipped on the muumuu and used it to obscure her as she did her business. Some of the Tyr got very animated, and she stared right at the one that wanted the camera involved as she tinkled. She finished up, fixed her pants, and tossed the muumuu aside.

“Boom.” She pressed the handle on the toilet, but it didn’t flush.

The cell door opened and the camera enthusiast and a younger female with blotchy marks came in. She held a camera.

“You’re going to make it weird, aren’t you?” Yenin asked.

A Tyr sneezed outside the cell and wobbled on his feet.

“Barsa,” the male said, touching his chest then pointing at the female. “Tol.”

“Yenin.” She poked her sternum.

The Tyr outside repeated her name over and over as Barsa reached slowly toward her face, then lifted up some of her blond hair. He rubbed it between this fingertips and spoke to the camera.

“Corporate never mentions this in the recruiting videos,” she said. “It’s always debt reduction and skill acquisition.”

Barsa looked at her with wide eyes.

“You know, I just wanted to be a dentist. Fifteen percent of people can’t stand the auto-docs. They want an actual human being to fix their teeth. And a lot of those fifteen percent are pretty well off, so a dentist that offers a ‘hands-on’ experience makes a pretty decent salary on any world with a decent population. That’s what I was going to do after I’d saved up enough money. Dentist. You guys have those?”

Barsa and Tol traded confused looks.

Barsa touched Yenin’s forehead and traced tiny circles into her skin, all the while narrating for the camera.

“This is going to be a long day.” She cleared her throat and swallowed hard. Some warm lemon water should clear up what was bothering her, but getting that would be something of a challenge.

The doctor—Yenin decided that was what Barsa was—shined a light in her eye and she noticed that he had a few more pupils than her. He wiggled her nose and Yenin sighed. He poked her left breast—which was significantly more ample than any Tyr female she’d seen thus far—then drove his finger in a bit harder.

“Ow!” Yenin slapped his hand aside and he fell to the ground, clutching his fingers. “We’re going to learn some boundaries, OK?”

Barsa began coughing and it spread like a yawn to other Tyr outside the cell. Tol sniffed hard and wiped her nose.

“Is it allergy season down here?” Yenin cleared her throat again.

Barsa crawled out of the cell, still coughing, and was taken away.

Tol proffered up the camera and Yenin held out a hand and flipped it up and down.

“Sure, toots, this is better than an autopsy, right?” Yenin felt flush as she splayed out her fingers so the Tyr could get some images. Tol snapped pictures even as her nose was running.

Someone called Tol out after a few minutes of the photo shoot. Yenin mimed drinking and, much to her surprise, a box full of a variety of bottles was pushed into her cell. She looked each one over before finally settling on what looked, smelled, and tasted like sparkling water.

A Tyr passed out as she drank, and finally, a male with spot markings called out orders in a phlegmy voice. Her audience was gone.

“Maybe one of these are booze. If not, there might be something with enough sugar for pruno down the line.” She looked at the non-flushing toilet and gave up on the idea of prison wine for now.

As she lay down, she felt a heaviness in her chest.

“Am I getting sick? Thought I had all my shots.” She tried to remember the last time she slept and drifted off.

Chapter 49

“Why can’t I reach anyone?” Suumsar tapped his earpiece. “Why are all the radios dead?”

He was in the basement of the safe house along with Sarah and Michael. A pair of Royal Shadows, both armed with assault rifles, guarded the only way in or out.

“Radios operate on an electromagnetic spectrum.” Sarah held her hands up and explained things slowly. “They can be jammed with enough power on the spectrums you use. That’s assuming your equipment even works after they hit the place with an electromagnetic pulse. Which is why none of the lights are working.”

“And you told them our frequencies?” Suumsar took the earpiece out and shoved it into his pocket.

“They only had to listen.” Sarah pointed to the sky. “They’re using quantum-linked point-to-point receiver/transmitters, not something that can be jammed or intercepted.”

“So even if we could broadcast…they’d pick up everything we sent. But our codes—”

“Your encryption is a joke,” Michael said. “I used to break them with my slate all the time and listen to the Shadows and what the King was up to.”

“We need to get out of the city.” Sarah pointed to a small window. “This sort of attack, it’s isn’t an all-out assault. They’re trying to sow confusion and keep you from reacting to their real target.”

“And go where? You think you know where your caste’s true attack is?”

“I know it won’t be in the countryside. Not in the ambary fields or the plains. I can’t help you—or the King—if we’re trapped in a burning city. You’re a Shadow. I thought that meant you had to be decisive and quick-witted.”

“Just because you can wear the gods’ touch doesn’t mean you know anything about us,” Suumsar growled. “Our guns will still work just fine, won’t they?”

“So long as there’s no electronics involved,” Sarah said with a shrug.

“Laden Basket Street is on fire,” someone shouted from up the stairs.

“We get them across the Southern Wild Bridge to safe house thirty-seven, understood?” Suumsar said to the pair of guards, then he turned to the Clays. “Can you change your caste? If you’re Royals, the armed guards around you will attract less attention.”

Sarah pinched the outside of one ear and swiped down. Her synth layer changed to the wide, dark swath down her nose and over her mouth and chin. Michael did the same.

“Evil,” Suumsar said, “that is pure evil. Come on.” He hurried them up and out of the building and through a parking lot. A group of Shadows formed a loose circle around Sarah and Michael as they followed the head agent.

Sarah looked around, the heat from the fires pressing against the back of her neck. She recognized their location—just outside the city’s docks.

Tyr trickled out of homes, most carrying bags and suitcases as they moved to a bridge, its shadows flickering against the night from the burning city.

“It was never this bad during the Slaver War,” one of the Shadows said.

“Keep it to yourself,” Suumsar said. They skirted most of the crowd and moved to a chain-link fence over a tall concrete wall leading down to the mouth of the river where it poured into the ocean.

“Going to get bad over the bridge.” One of the Shadows pointed and Sarah made out thousands escaping from the city.

“We all know where to go,” Suumsar said. “Keep positive control over the prisoners and link up at the next safe house. This is easy.”

“Give it back!” A pair of Islanders, both in sailor outfits, began fighting just ahead of them. One drew a knife and slashed at the other, missing.

“Around,” Suumsar said, veering off to avoid the fighting men and heading toward the throng of Tyr closing in on the bridge. He kept one hand inside his tunic, gripping his pistol.

“Hey, any of you want to buy some chass?” asked a Toiler, bumping into Suumsar.

Sarah’s eyes widened and she threw herself onto Michael, taking them both to the ground.

Gunshots broke out and a bullet smacked into the grass next to her face as she did her best to shield her squirming son. She looked up and found Suumsar lying next to her, blood dripping from a bullet wound to the cheek. His dead eyes stared at her.

“Faan gu, tak tak!”

Hands ripped her off Michael and she was being carried toward a gap in the fence. Nothing but a steep drop to the bay lay on the other side.

“No, no!” She twisted, using her deceptively strong human muscles to wrench free of one of the Tyr holding her.

The Toiler that bumped into Suumsar gave her an angry look, then thrust a rusty pistol into her face. She slapped it aside hard enough to send it flying, then backhanded the Toiler across the face.

“He comes with us!” She pulled her other arm free and looked back to where she’d lost Michael.

The brass on the knuckle-duster flashed before it crashed into the bridge of her nose. Her vision flashed white and the world muted around her. She felt grass against her heels and saw smoke rising across the sky to wash out the gods’ faces so they wouldn’t see how their children suffered.

Arms wrapped around her stomach and she had a brief feeling of weightlessness before she slammed into the cold water of the bay.

****

“Mom!” Michael shouted as a pair of Tyr held his shoulders down.

Two Islanders had just jumped off the wall and into the sea with her and he was on the edge of panic.

“Stop.” A Blooded leaned over and looked him in the eye. Michael froze, not because he was done fighting, but because the Tyr said the word in English.

“Stop make fight. Yes.” The Blooded touched two fingers to his mouth then pressed them to Michael’s. “Mother safe. You safe. We take you safe. Take you mother, father. Yes?”

“How the hell…” Michael’s mouth kept moving, but he couldn’t say anything.

“Friend not friend. Move.” The Blooded and two other men, both Toilers, helped him up. “Place…” He spoke to the others in a dialect Michael didn’t know.

“Kitty,” a Toiler said.

“Kitty bad spirit.” The Blooded pulled him toward the bridge then cleared his throat and spoke the King’s language. “Enough of that tongue. There’s enough panic that no one’s going to care what we say or that we’re covered in chagash blood.”

Michael almost tripped over a body as they got into the throng pressing toward the bridge.

“You stay with us,” a Toiler said in his ear.

“Your face. The synth,” the other said and Michael’s chest seized up. “Change to Linker. We’re your hired help if anyone asks.” He took off his tunic and draped it over Michael’s face just long enough for him to change the synth settings, and he emerged as a Linker.

A Toiler girl on her father’s shoulder saw the whole thing, and her eyes went as wide as saucers.

Michael pressed a finger over his lips and winked at her.

“He can do that a hell of a lot faster than we can,” the Blooded said. “Not bad. Just behave, kid. We’ll keep you alive and get you back to your—”

A human fighter slashed through the air and shot up the street leading to the bridge. Explosions knocked Michael against his captors and they went down in a heap.

Screams rose into a constant high pitch as Tyr panicked and abandoned all pretext of orderly behavior and the mass rushed across the bridge.

Someone kicked Michael in the arms and the side of his head as he tried to get up. There was a tumult of black and silver as Tyr of all castes bumped against him, lifting him up and into a rush of flesh that reeked of fear and carried him onto the bridge.

He lost all his bearings in the struggle to stay on his feet. He tripped over people that had fallen, but the press of bodies was so close that he remained upright. Cries for help—mothers and fathers shouting names of their children—surrounded him, but he could do nothing but move along with the flow.

Even though he was pressed shoulder to shoulder, front to back with Tyr, he’d never felt more alone and afraid.

Chapter 50

The combined smell of body odor and machine oil was the first hint that she was alive; a growing pain across her nose and the top of an eye socket was the next.

Beneath her was a wet grate through which she saw shirtless Tyr rushing through narrow confines, shouting orders in the Islander dialect to each other. With a clang of metal, a pair of booted feet landed next to her. She pushed herself up and saw a ladder and a closed hatch.

She was in a submarine.

A Tyr with pure white hair and silver ketafik—pure silver without a spot of black—knelt next to her.

“I’m Illion, lord of this vessel. You are Sa-rah Clay of the human caste. The All Mother bid me to bring you to her. The Doc-oh-tour of yours has made many promises. He says you can deliver on them, so the All Mother desires you. It will be so.” He smiled at her.

“My son…you idiots didn’t bring my son!”

“Ah!” A knife flashed in Illion’s hand. “The All Mother wants your son safe. He will be safe. The true caste always obey the All Mother. The doc-oh-tour tells you this, yes?”

“What happens to my son in the middle of all this madness isn’t up to the Hidden. What about my husband?” She pressed the side of her hand against her pounding nose.

“Not my mission, maybe another family’s on him.” Illion stood up. “Jargah!”

“Sire?” The Blooded—no, the Hidden—that punched her with the duster came up the ladder to the small platform, joining her and the sub’s captain. His Blooded markings were half-gone, reduced to a smear over the top of his face. He rubbed a cloth that reeked of ambary oil over one eye to reveal more of a ketafik just as plain as Illion’s.

“Get her to quarters and seen to,” Illion said.

“Wait, how can your sub work at all? The Corp hit the city with an EMP and even in the water—”

“The doc-oh-tour made adjustments.” Illion looked up and sneered. “Did something to the engines. We can stay submerged for days, but I don’t like the sound when we’re underway. Side.”

Jargah swung to one side of the ladder and Illion slid down.

The former Blooded touched his own face where he’d hit her. “Apologies to you. Difficult times, yes?”

“Fuck you,” she said in English.

“Fuck?” He looked down at the crew. “What is fuck?”

Someone shouted back a word.

“Ah ha…no. Come on,” he said and motioned her to the ladder.

Sarah looked at the hatch. Even if she could beat him to the top, there was no way she could escape if the sub was underwater…or that far from the coast.

Now she was torn from both her husband and her son, and held hostage by the Hidden. If they could—or would—care for Michael and her husband remained to be seen.

But at least she was en route to someone that had been preparing the Tyr for this attack for many years…and a chance at winning this fight.

Because if the Tyr lost, so would her family.

Chapter 51

Yenin woke up and hacked out a thick glob of phlegm onto the floor. Her vision swam for a few seconds and she rolled off the cell slab and hit the floor.

“Ow.” She looked up at the barred window. Late afternoon by her guess. The guard that was normally posted outside her cell was gone. “Room service…room service,” she called out as she stood, muscles aching. Her throat hurt and she desperately wanted a drink of water.

The water fountain at the top of the toilet didn’t work and what was in the bowl had a yellow tinge. And it still refused to flush.

She tried to take a deep breath and felt pain in her diaphragm. Going to the bars, she saw the guard lying on his side, his back to her, a thin puddle of foamy liquid beneath his head and shoulders.

“Hey, you OK?” She rattled the bars. “Anyone out there? That guy needs help.” She shook the bars harder and concrete dust fell down from where the cell was set into the ceiling. “He does not look OK…”

She stopped and listened, but heard only the rattle of a distant air conditioner.

“They were going to get introduced to this eventually…” She went to the pillow on her bunk and got the small laser pistol from underneath. She checked the power levels and put her finger on the trigger.

“I come in peace?” she said and triggered the beam, shooting a solid laser that belted easily through the lock on the bars. The cell stank of iron and smoke. She transferred the weapon to her other hand, shaking heat off the other.

A line of fire fizzled on the hallway wall.

No shouts of alarm. No panicking.

“Weird.” She wrapped the still-hot weapon in the pillowcase and stuffed it into a thigh pocket. She pushed the cell door open with her foot then took a hesitant look down the hallway—more cells and the prostrate guard.

She nudged the guard’s shoulder. Stiff and cold to the touch. Yenin removed the keys from his belt, not wanting to waste any more of what little power remained in her pistol to cut her way through the next door.

Her efforts were unnecessary; the heavy door out of the cell block was ajar.

“I’m thirsty,” she said, holding up one hand then grimacing at the growing pain in her throat, “and that guy was like that when I found him…”

She pushed the cell-block door open to find an office of wooden tables and spinning ceiling fans on the other side. No sound or movement anywhere. A brass tank was on a far wall, its sides dripping with condensation, a stack of paper cups nearby.

“There we go…” She crept forward, hands up. “What is this, a holiday or—oh my god!”

Tyr were strewn across the office floor. Their mouths and noses stained with dried foam, many curled into the fetal position.

“Oh…oh no…” Yenin had a dry cough and she felt a tightness in her lungs. “Corporate…they were serious about xeno-infections. I thought they were just being too cheap to rescue me.”

Yenin sidestepped across the office toward the water tank, her gaze darting from dead Tyr to dead Tyr.

She fumbled with the nozzles before getting a stream of ice-cold water into a cup. She drank over and over again, until her belly felt like it would burst, but the pain in her throat remained.

“I’m so stupid.” She leaned against the worn wooden table holding the tank. “This is…this is all my fault. All I could think about was saving my own ass. Never even occurred to me that…Christ Almighty.”

Snot ran down from her nose and she picked up a box of napkins. Dabbing at her nose, she walked out of the office to the main foyer of the police station. A few Tyr were handcuffed to a pipe on one wall, and all had died there—one hand suspended, their upper bodies dangling just above the floor like meat in the window of a butcher shop.

“Ah…” Pain shot through her abdomen and she lurched against a tall desk. An alien in an inverted cone headdress and sky-blue robes lay dead on the stairs leading up to the seat. “Ah… whatever I gave you guys…y’all got me too.”

Outside the police station was dead silence. No cars were driving around, though streetlights with blue and orange options switched on and off. A small flock of birds flapped overhead.

A dog-sized lizard with fur running down the top of its head and spine trotted out from behind a car that had jumped the curb and crashed into the side of a brick building. It looked at her and bared its teeth, an undulating hiss rising from the animal.

“Good…thing. Nice thing.” She threw the jail keys over its head, but the animal wasn’t interested in fetch. “Let’s be cool now, OK? Just be cool and—”

She screamed as the animal charged at her, its legs splaying out and shuffling forward like a charging alligator. Yenin turned and ran, but her lungs seized up within a few steps and she started hacking.

The animal bit her ankle and she pitched forward. Sharp teeth pierced the fabric of her vac suit as it shook her leg violently from side to side. Yenin’s vision blurred as she tried to kick the damn thing off her, but her inability to breathe was proving an issue.

There was a sharp crack and the beast sprang into the air, its muzzle nipping back at its rear. It spun around, whimpering, as blood spurted from a sudden wound. It tried to crawl away on its front two legs but managed only a few feet before collapsing, its whip-thin tail flapping.

A few yards away were three male Tyr. Each carried a rifle and wore a gas mask and thick-looking rubber gloves.

Yenin groaned and rolled onto her side, the position making breathing just a bit easier.

“I wouldn’t…wouldn’t come any closer.” She coughed and her vision blurred in and out as the Tyr did indeed come closer. They spoke to each other, shouting to enunciate through the gas masks.

One knelt next to her and patted her down, removing her wrapped pistol and handing it off to one of the others.

“You see all the other dead ones? I did that…but it was an acci…dent,” she slurred.

She’d begun hallucinating when the Tyr spoke to her.

“If you’re still alive right now,” one said in perfect English through his mask, “then you’re probably going to be OK.”

She squinted at him then tried to look around for whoever had just spoken to her. Her hallucination intensified when the gas mask came off, revealing an elderly man—human—with pale blue eyes.

“You’re going to feel a little pinch.” He took a small case from where it was strapped to his thigh and assembled a glass and brass syringe. He stuck the needle into a vial of tea-colored liquid in which flecks of gold floated, and drew the trigger back.

“Corp…Corp came for me?” she asked.

“Oh, my dear, I’m no corpo. Now hold very still, I haven’t done this for one of my own in a while. Veins should still be in the same spot, yes? Chata ig nathma.”

The other two pulled her onto her back and held her head to one side and her shoulders down.

Sunlight flashed off the needle as the old man pierced the side of her neck and fire flowed into her jugular and through her heart. Yenin tried to scream, but her lungs were not cooperating.

“There.” The man removed the needle from her neck and took it apart. “Assuming the system shock doesn’t kill you, the antibodies should get back to normal in a few days.”

“Who?” Yenin took a ragged gasp. “What the hell?”

“I am Doctor Philip Turley and you—you corporate lapdog—may have just murdered an entire continent simply by breathing around the inhabitants. I hope you’re proud. Did Corporate ever mention me? I have been dead—as far as they’re concerned—for quite some time.”

Yenin coughed up green phlegm and spat it out.

“No…you’re just some low-level cog, aren’t you? Not one of the butchers they sent to Mount Bagad. I can see a question burning behind your sick eyes. Why did I save your life instead of burning you to save millions? Because the Tyr are a stubborn, stubborn people. And sometimes they have to learn lessons the hard way. The All Mother always had her doubts about me, but you’re going to be a big help.” He gave her a pat on the shoulder then reached into his collar and drew out a sheaf of what looked like limp plastic.

He stretched the synth layer over his face, and a few moments later, he bore the face and markings of the Linker caste.

The other Tyr put together a stretcher from packs they carried and strapped Yenin to it.

“Come on,” Turley said. “I’m taking you someplace even most Tyr don’t know about. Not an honor. They’ll probably still want to burn you at the stake out of principle. I wasn’t kidding when I said they’re stubborn.”

Yenin wheezed as they raised her on the stretcher. She stared at the sun for a moment, then passed out.

Chapter 52

“Come on! Give it to me, give it to me, give it—”

“Enough already, Darla!” Camacho yelled. He keyed the mute function on her transmission, but the system was malfunctioning. Again. His forward screen was of a serene blue sky meant to keep him calm, but the glare was starting to get to him.

Camacho felt his sweat building against the contact points in his Marauder suit, the smell of body odor and grime growing thicker the longer he had to stay buttoned up during the drop. He spat on his visor and droplets floated in front of him. They were still in zero-g.

Just what their transport was doing right now, or even where it was after it left the Matsui didn’t concern him; he only cared that it got him to their assault location in one piece and before the withdrawals got to him too.

“They can’t just leave us in here forever,” Darla said, her words coming fast and slurred. “Scratch my itch, boss, just a little.”

“I can hit you with enough to make your heart pop or enough to send you into a coma. And I can’t adjust for your weight or tolerances. Want to risk it or just shut your damn mouth until we’re loose?”

“Sh-sh-sh-sh—come on!”

“Mute yourself and I’ll let you get ahead of me for first quota and a nice bump.” Camacho raised an eyebrow and Darla’s icon went amber with a single diagonal slash through it.

“Finally. Shijir?” He looked at the icon for one of the others in his squad. “Who are you?”

“Wo chongle ge zao, dan haishi hen yang.”

“Standard?”

“Wo fangpile tai zaole!”

“Fine, whatever. The suit will keep you on target. Who else is that…Agnello?”

“Sir?” a man’s strained voice answered. “I’m…I’m so lost right now. And my muscles ache and it’s so hard to concentrate in this damn thing.”

“First drop,” Camacho said flatly. “Who’d you piss off to get sold to the Corp?”

A small red light turned on above his HUD, warning him that his conversation was monitored.

“I had a business on Praxis. It went under when my market got flooded by knockoffs of my own product…the bankruptcy court gave me the option to work off my debt in the asteroid mines out of system or indenture.”

“And you chose this?” Camacho tried not to laugh and failed.

“Mining would’ve taken ten years and the accident rate is so bad that most don’t last past five. This…math was better. But not by much. Are my teeth—are my teeth supposed to hum like this?”

“That’s the stims your drip’s feeding you. Oh, how I miss those first few days on the uppers. Enjoy it while it lasts.” Camacho toggled a squad leader menu and dosed himself with the only available choice from the recreational drugs in his suit, making his mouth taste strongly of limes and tinting his vision green.

“What did you do?” Agnello asked.

“Gang war on Segovia. Civilians got in the middle of it and the hive lords noticed. I wasn’t in the fight in question, but I had the tats and the colors. Los tamarindos picked me up and then sold me to the Corp to pay for ‘damages.’ Soon as I earn out, they’ll send me home.” Camacho chuckled at that last part, his eyes on the red light. It was a lie, but the Corp needed him to say he believed it.

No one ever earned out. Ever.

He looked at the last icon for the fifth member of his squad.

“Tak, you hear me?”

An unintelligible mess of vowels came back. Tak had chewed off his own tongue after his drip malfunctioned a few drops ago. That was about the best answer he was going to give.

“You’re good. All y’all need to—” The border of his visor screen went red then the blue sky vanished, replaced by the locked ramp of their shuttle. “Go time!”

A rectangle of dots appeared on the upper left of his screen. One switched back and forth between a skull and the dot.

“Quota’s pretty high,” Darla said. “We even have that much ammo?”

“Flames. Boots.” Camacho’s heart pounded and his hands tightened against his control handles. “Computer don’t care how we kill ’em.”

“I only got three days of training before they iced me,” Agnello said. “Are there rules or—”

Darla laughed hysterically. Camacho tried to mute her again, but the system was still bugged.

“Don’t damage Corp property,” he said as Darla took a moment to breathe. “Follow your HUD’s prompts or they’ll dock your pay. You go too far into the red and they’ll just write you off.”

“What does that mean?” Agnello asked.

“They yank you from your suit and throw you in a cage to die of withdrawal. Takes four days.” Camacho pushed forward with his left control stick and his left arm extended. Rounds from internal feed lines loaded into the chamber of the machine gun built into his left fist. His right knuckles sparked with a pilot light as he activated the flamethrower.

“Prepare for employment,” a pleasant voice said. Darla jostled him from behind, already out of the mag locks that had secured her boots to the deck. “Thank you for your service to Bahadur-Getty Incorporated. Compliance brings rewards. Have a nice day!”

A smiley face pulsed on his screen, then the ramp fell open.

His jaw clenched shut as the suit flooded his bloodstream with adrenaline and a proprietary cocktail of drugs the rest of the indentured called the Rage. Camacho charged out of the shuttle and into a forty-foot drop that would’ve terrified him if he was back in his normal life.

Now he felt nothing but the urge to kill as he dropped onto a tile roof. His wide metal boots crushed the roof and he slammed into the floor. He turned, firing his machine gun into the dust and smoke, hearing only a high-pitched whine from the drugs and a constant roar of amped-up men and women through his radio.

Kill markers popped up on his quota field and he charged forward. He punched through the wall and out into a square in the center of a village, a beautiful fountain in the center.

Target icons popped up on the second story of a nearby building, but someone else shot it up, the rounds tearing through the walls then exploding within the room.

He tried to curse out whoever stole his kills, but the screaming he heard was coming from him.

He stomped around and ran through the fountain, bashing the centerpiece aside and into a shower of masonry fragments and water. Lowering a shoulder, he burst through a brick wall. Bound books and scrolls fell around him and he ignited his flamethrower.

Camacho lashed flames against wooden desks and the tinder piling onto the floor. Gold stars lit up on his quota board and a wave of ecstasy flowed through him as the system rewarded him for annihilating the building.

He punched through the other wall, his limbs feeling sluggish and drool moistening one side of his face.

Jackpot.

A group of Tyr fled before the demon that had just emerged from the burning building. Camacho tried to smile, but his teeth were clamped onto his lips.

“Threat warning. Threat warning.” One side of his HUD flashed.

A Tyr armored car came to a screeching halt a few dozen yards from him and alien soldiers jumped out over the sides. Camacho stood pat as they opened up on him with rifles, the hits barely registering as they ricocheted off his armor. He loped forward, bending at the waist to lead with the wolf’s head visage.

He grabbed the lead Tyr soldier by the leg and thrashed him against the cobblestone road, bursting him apart. Oversized claws built into his hands clamped down on another’s torso. He lifted the screaming Tyr up and activated the flamethrower, burning off the soldier’s face and leaving his head a blackened skull that lolled to one side and snapped free of the spine.

The system rewarded him with another dose. The quasi-AI aboard his suit knew how to appreciate a glory kill.

He twisted his entire body into a punch that obliterated the head of another soldier and carried through into the side of the armored car. He buried his arm up to his elbow and felt something jostling against his hand. He gripped something soft and struggling, then pulled a Tyr soldier through a hole far too small for his body.

Camacho dropped the bloody meat and did a double take.

The cliff side of a nearby mountain was deep blue. Thousands of feet of crystal sparkled in the early twilight like a giant geode cut open by God so that He could appreciate its beauty when He looked down from heaven.

A circle with a slash through it pulsed on his HUD over the azure mountain. Off-limits to destruction.

“Underperformer. Who is investigating?” asked a slightly agitated female voice. A timer appeared on his HUD along with an arrow to the west. His drip halted and the Rage cleared from his mind to the point that coherent thought was possible.

“Agnello? Agnello, what the hell? You’re at zero!” Camacho ran toward a small building where his squad member was on the other side. The tally for his entire squad pulsed beneath his: Darla was almost to her first bonus hit, Tak and Shijir weren’t far behind, but Agnello didn’t have a single kill to his name.

Camacho skidded around the corner. Agnello was there, his flamer pointed down at an elderly Tyr man crouched against the wall. The Tyr had one hand up and was babbling in an alien tongue.

“Your gear not working?” An itch began in the back of Camacho’s mind as withdrawal hinted at pain if he didn’t kill again soon.

“I c-c-can’t,” Agnello said, his teeth chattering from lack of Rage. “They look—ugh, it hurts—they look just like us.”

“So? You’ve got a fucking quota, cherry! You don’t produce, your work falls on the rest of us. Corp doesn’t credit us for those kills. Now get it in gear!”

Camacho reached for the old Tyr but pulled himself back. He had to get the new member to contribute to keep the kills coming, to keep the drip into his bloodstream.

“He-he’s with a dead one,” Agnello said. “Female. Like his mate or something.”

A pic snap from Agnello’s cameras hit Camacho’s HUD: an equally old Tyr female was beside the male, no life signs.

“Then send him to whatever afterlife they share.” Camacho’s jaw began to clench uncontrollably.

“I don’t…I don’t want to!” Agnello shouted.

“Fuck it.” Camacho opened the menu on Agnello’s suit and overrode the safety settings to dump Rage into the reticent man’s bloodstream.

Agnello’s suit swayed from side to side, then an atavistic shriek stung Camacho’s ears.

Agnello raised a foot and stomped the Tyr to death. He ripped a limb away and tried to force it into the wolf face of his helmet, then lurched away, firing his machine gun indiscriminately and sending a plume of flame over his head. His kill count jumped by two’s and three’s as he tore into a building trimmed in gold with constellations painted on the sides.

“All members compliant,” the computer told him.

Camacho sighed as the drip turned back on.

“Contact. Contact!” Darla shouted and red icons pinged on his HUD.

Camacho ran to the sound of her machine-gun fire and found her standing in a small copse of trees, her gun arm pointed at a raised highway over a causeway. A Tyr column of military vehicles, some of them burning, were rolling toward the village his squad was in the process of dismantling.

“They didn’t EMP the place?” Camacho drew down on the lead tank and fired a burst. The hypervelocity round tore through the armor like it was nothing and ignited the shells within the turret. “Cheap bastards. Shijir, Tak! Save bullets and go tear ’em apart. We’ve got you on overwatch.”

“New guy?” Darla fired single shots, picking off Tyr trying to take cover behind the concrete sides of the highway.

The system awarded bonus points for opposing military; killing anything that might damage the suits was considered more economically viable than unarmed targets that could be finished off at leisure.

“He’s still got to catch up.” Camacho glanced at Agnello’s tally. It jumped every few seconds as the Rage kept its grip on him.

Camacho picked off another tank and his own tally jumped toward his quota. He salivated, imagining the bliss the system would give him once he’d amassed enough skulls.

A still, quiet voice in his mind repeated Agnello’s protests against the task, but he let it fade away with the thrill each kill brought him.

Chapter 53

“Downtime awarded. Downtime awarded.”

Camacho’s arms dropped to the side of his suit and his system took the edge off his mind, flooding him with tranquilizers. His squad was outside a wooden structure deep in the forest outside their initial target, a long line of dead Tyr that had tried to flee marking their passage.

“No fair,” Darla said. “Other squads are still stuck in.”

“We hit our first number. Corp’s happy. That’s all that matters.” Camacho brought up a small plastic nozzle and drank lukewarm water spiked with electrolytes. “Drink up, get set for the next call.”

Camacho deactivated the pilot flame on his right knuckles as he approached the wooden Tyr building. It had the same golden trim and constellations he’d seen on some buildings back at their initial landing, but this one had a few mushrooms carved into the corner beams.

Shijir banged his wolf mask into a nearby tree, normal for him during a come-down. Tak walked tight circles around a dead alien. Also normal for him. Darla shifted her weight from side to side, basking in her bonus hit from reaching the quota first.

There was a tap on his shoulder.

Camacho turned around and looked directly into Agnello’s face, his wolf visage flipped up and over the top of his armor. The man’s pale face sagged and his pupils were freakishly wide.

“How’d you get your helm up? That’s a safety violation.” Camacho tried to log in to Agnello’s suit but got an error message instead. Another glitch.

“You know what my old job was?” Agnello stared hard at his squad leader, like he was trying to look into his soul. “It was robotics. These things are shit.”

“New guy…you got a heroic dose of the Rage. You’re going to feel a little off the first time.” Camacho sent an alert signal to Darla, but she didn’t respond.

“Does the Rage make sure you remember all the faces? I killed them all. I killed them all and I hated it,” Agnello said.

“I can calm you down,” Camacho said, raising a hand. “Just let me access the panel on your back left shoulder and—”

“You already fixed me once. Now I can fix me.” Agnello pointed his gun arm at Camacho’s face.

“Useless. The smart shells won’t pop on Corp equipment. You’ll just scratch my paint and add to your debt.” Camacho raised his palms up in a defensive pose.

“I…will fix…me!” Agnello thrust the muzzle of his gun arm into his own face and opened fire. His head exploded into a red mist and the weapon kept going, sending shells careening off the back and against the front of Camacho’s suit.

Camacho punched hard on the back of Agnello’s gun arm, crimping the feed line inside the armor and shutting off the bullet supply. Agnello’s suit stood in place, blood pouring down the front in thick lines.

“Another cherry goes pop,” Darla said. “Corp really should screen shitheads better.”

“Ah…damn it.” Camacho shook chips of skull and grey brain matter off his hands. “Now I can’t even slave his suit to get it to follow us.”

“This mean we have to wait for it to get extracted?” Darla asked.

“Yes. No. I don’t…let me ping a Myrmidon. There should be one of them down here.” Camacho continued a long line of expletives as he tried to open a comms line. He bounced the request off a Corp satellite, then stepped away from Agnello’s suit.

He shook more viscera out of his hands. “Gross…ugh…” Camacho had few foibles, but wearing human blood was one of them. He double-checked that his comms request was still open, then kicked open the door to the wooden building.

Rows of neat pillows on a golden carpet led up to what looked like a shrine, in front of which sat offering bowls on a low wooden table. Candlelight wavered off liquid in some of them.

Camacho stomped forward, his footsteps cracking the wooden floor. He stopped in front of the shrine and reached for one of the bowls surrounded by many small cups. He looked away when he saw remnants of Agnello between the fingers.

“You OK in there, boss?” Darla asked.

“I’m breaking seal to clean up. Don’t let any indigs sneak up on me.” Retracting one arm back into his suit, he pulled an emergency release. His wolf face lifted up and the armor split down the middle. He touched the drip on the side of his neck, feeling the wide heavy-gauge needle beneath his flesh. There was a moment of hesitation before he slipped it off his body, and he felt like he’d lost an old friend as he disconnected from his one source of positive feelings.

It would be all right, he told himself. Just a few minutes until he could hook up again, and the drip wasn’t even on.

He got out on wobbly legs and almost retched at the smell coming off his armor. Did the whole planet reek of burnt hair and vinegar, or was it just him?

He picked up a ceramic jug and poured water over the bloody hands of his suit, washing away most of what Agnello had contributed.

“Fucking corp. They know nausea gets worse after the drip stops. They’ve never had to clean up a suit after you puke in it…” He kicked a grey lump away.

He leaned over a dark broth and sniffed at it. His stomach settled a bit at the earthy aroma.

“What’s this?” He dipped a finger in the bowl and brushed the liquid against his lips. When it passed the taste test and didn’t make his lips go numb, he picked up a small cup and turned it around in the candlelight, appreciating the beautiful patterns hand painted on the side. They reminded him of the nebula in the sky, and he wondered if there was a correlation.

“I’ve got my serum, to hell with it.” He dipped the cup into the broth and drank deep.

His stomach felt even better, so he drank more. It had notes of cherry and cinnamon that made him think of home. He shrugged, picked up the entire bowl and put it to his lips, drinking greedily until something bumped into his upper lip.

He pulled the bowl away and saw partially rehydrated mushrooms at the bottom, swaying in the broth.

“Not bad.” He wiped his arm across his mouth and got back into his suit. His hand seemed to go blurry for a moment, then solidified as he clenched it into a fist. The wolf helm snapped tight and the HUD lit up. His call was still on hold.

“You OK in there, boss?” Darla asked again. “’Cause it’s pretty dead out here. And over there. All the way back to where we landed.”

“I’m solid,” Camacho said, exiting the building. The colors of the distant azure mountain seemed even more vibrant, despite the sun’s fading twilight. The pale red of the surrounding nebula was almost electric with intensity.

“Whoa,” Camacho breathed.

“Fucking what?” Solanus came online through his suit link.

“Unit CCI-8C, reporting an employee failure. Suit not responding to slave commands.” Camacho broke into a giggle then caught himself.

“Which…oh, him.” Solanus accessed Camacho’s suit remotely and his HUD blinked as it snap-downloaded data back to the Matsui.
“Another cock-up for this planet. The rest of you better pick up his slack or it’ll be a bum performance report for the whole mission and then bonuses get iffy and…8C your heart rate’s elevated.”

“Is it? I feel fine,” Camacho said as the bark of a nearby tree began to twist. He closed his eyes hard and the tree was normal when he opened them again.

“You shouldn’t be this close to stim burnout…maybe Zike altered your formula for better performance. Your buddy isn’t the first one to check out today. Move to LZ-99E and hand off the suit. I reset your master/slave beacon so you should be good now.”

“Yup! Hee hee.” Camacho accessed Agnello’s suit and it moved a few steps behind his. He walked forward and the armor with most of a corpse inside maintained his shadow.

“8C, you got contraband on you? You so hard up you can’t go thirty minutes without a fix?”

“Negative.” Camacho became dead serious. “I adhere to all Corp-poor-ation policies.”

“You fuck up your next quota, you’re getting a blood panel. Don’t give me a reason to cut you off. Solanus out. Goddamn worthless junk—”

Spirals formed in Camacho’s vision and his face went flush as hash marks formed into grids then broke apart like a net on fire.

He tried to speak but could only manage a baby’s babbling.

“Boss, you figure out how to talk to Tak?” Darla nudged him on the shoulder and everything came back into focus.

“What? Where?” Camacho bent his arms halfway up. “How long did that last?”

“How long did what last? You got some of the shit the ship’s crew have? And you’re not sharing?” Anger crept into her voice.

“I was here the whole time? Whole time…right. Follow me. We’ve got to drop dipshit’s gear off then we’re on to our next target.” Camacho tried to walk straight but veered into a tree. He backed up and managed to stay on course.

Tak lit the building on fire before falling into the squad’s loose formation.

Camacho’s tongue felt fat in his mouth, the taste of the broth heavy in the back of his throat. Just what had he drunk?

His drip activated and a small icon showing the new feed appeared in the bottom corner of his HUD. He kept walking…but didn’t feel anything.

He nudged the drip against the side of his suit and got a quick electric shock from the system warning him not to do that again.

Camacho stared at the road they were on, ignoring Darla’s pestering about their new quota now that Agnello was gone.

The black road began to undulate like the ocean and Camacho thrust his hands out to balance himself. He didn’t sink as tentacles of some long-forgotten sea monster reached up from the abyss.

He screamed and shuffled off to the gravel shoulder where the rocks twisted into eyeballs that blinked at him. Camacho ignited his flamethrower and tried to burn the eyes away. The flames shot up into towering spirals of red and orange, tornadoes that seemed to charge at him one moment, then retreat into the distance the next.

The flames vanished and Camacho found himself in an open field, his squad standing around him.

“Did you…did you all see that?” His breathing came hard and the drip reading on his HUD was as high as he’d ever seen it, but he still didn’t feel the buzz.

“See what?” Darla pointed up. “Retrieval’s almost here.”

“No, we were miles away when we…” Camacho looked up.

The nebula pulsed in the sky as constellations twisted into faces, some laughing, others crying, one looking right at him. That face pressed against the sheen of the nebula, coming closer and closer to Camacho.

It opened its mouth to speak, and Camacho began screaming.

Chapter 54

Michael kept putting one foot in front of the other as the early morning chill made his breath steam and his lips ache. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking, but he’d done everything he could to break ahead of the refugees fleeing King’s Rest since the attack the night before.

He looked over a shoulder. Smoke was still rising from the city.

His feet ached and his stomach rumbled. Movement to daylight was something his father spoke of as a punishment when he was in the Corporation’s military; this felt even worse than the war stories let on.

There’d been no sign of the Hidden that had tried to drag him away, but Michael had changed his face to a Toiler’s hours ago and exchanged his clothes for some he’d found in an abandoned suitcase, so any Hidden trying to find him should have a hell of a time doing it.

The idea to get away from them had seemed brilliant when he had it, but now he had no way of getting back into contact with his mother. And he still had no idea where his father was.

“I’m going to be on Tyr forever. Got my wish alright. But will I get put into a work brigade or drafted into the army to get slaughtered first? Stupid. Stupid move.” He rubbed his upper arms, hoping the friction would get some heat back into his fingers.

He passed a small gas station and saw that other refugees had beaten him there. The windows were broken and everything had been picked clean. Muttered curses and groans came from behind him. Michael quickened his pace.

“Brother, come over here.”

He kept going and a pair of Toilers stepped out in front of him, one armed with a crowbar, the other a crude club.

“Brother, didn’t you hear us?” one asked.

“He may be too young to be in a guild, but he knows the rules,” said the other, scratching his nose with a flick of his thumb.

Michael now regretted taking on the markings of the Toiler caste. They had organized into trade syndicates after the last war, which gave them a fair degree of power when it came time to negotiate with the Royals that held monopolies on many industries.

“I’m pledged to the teamsters, but I haven’t finished my apprentice term,” Michael said, raising his hands.

“We’re with the docks, but you look hungry. Come on, we’ve got eyes on some food. You can help,” the one with the crowbar said. “It’s union or nothing, ain’t that right?”

Michael felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold air. When a Toiler said, “It’s union or nothing,” it was the same as saying you were with them or against them, and given how desperate everyone had become in the last half day, Michael wasn’t ready to make an enemy of every Toiler in the immediate area.

“We’re nothing if we’re not union,” Michael countered with the appropriate response.

“See, even teamsters know what’s good for them. Follow me, kid,” said the one with the club. They went around the back of the gas station where three more Toilers were squatting, additional simple weapons within reach. One had his arm in a sling, another bled from cuts on his face.

“Pair of mercenary filth got a pack of food down in a ravine,” crowbar said. “They don’t want to give it up. One’s hurt and the other won’t leave him behind. So we go back there and convince them to give up the pack. We show up with enough muscle and they won’t fight this time. Here.” He gave Michael an ax handle and the impromptu gang moved off into the woods.

Hours after the first attack and the Tyr society is already breaking down, Michael thought. Hours later and I’m part of a bandit gang. How the hell did I sink so low so fast? I’m not going to hurt anyone. I’m just a kid and—

“Stay back!” a young woman shouted.

Michael stopped in his tracks. He knew that voice.

“We’re done asking!” Crowbar shouldered through bushes and slid down a muddy embankment. The rest of the Toilers followed, but Michael came down behind the rest.

Lussea sat with her back to a boulder, one leg in a splint. Another Blooded, a young man the same age as Michael and her, had a constable’s truncheon in hand. He stood over her with his weapon held high.

“You scum want more? I’ve got plenty for you!” the Blooded shouted.

“Ain’t none of yours to protect you or turn us in to the Royals,” crowbar said. “Now just toss that pack to us and we’ll be on our way.”

“No,” the Blooded said.

“As you like,” said crowbar and rushed forward.

Michael caught him by the collar and the Toiler’s feet shot out from under him. He jerked the Toiler back and threw him into a rock bed with an ugly crack of breaking bones. He swung his ax handle into another and earned a sharp cry of pain as a humerus cracked beneath the impact.

One of the Toilers reacted to the sneak attack faster than Michael anticipated and stabbed at him with a knife. The blade nicked Michael’s side, bringing with it a dull pain, and he began to panic as the one with the knife slashed at him again.

What had started as a brawl suddenly became a life-and-death fight.

Michael backpedaled and swiped the ax handle across him, one hand on his wound. The knife wielder lunged at him, but his back foot slipped on the loose soil and the attack faltered. Michael punted him between the legs and the Toiler collapsed with a deep groan.

Michael—now alive with adrenaline—slammed his weapon into the shoulder of another fighter, dislocating the arm. He whacked the butt of his club into the man’s face and broke his nose.

“Run. Run!” Crowbar abandoned his weapon and helped drag away the one with a demolished crotch.

Michael watched them retreat, his chest heaving. He glanced down at his hand covering the wound and saw a bit of red human blood on his palm, not the same deep violet color of the Tyr.

“Thanks,” the Blooded said, “but don’t think that we’ll share—”

“Lussea, are you all right?” Michael asked. “It’s me, remember?”

“Michael?” She leaned forward, staring at his caste markings.

“Yes, from…from the Linkers’ place on High Market. The Clays,” he said.

“You know this guy?” the Blooded asked.

“I do. I do!” She scooted toward Michael and the Blooded lowered his guard. Michael went to her and touched her face. “But you’re…you know what,” she said, “I’m not going to try and make sense of this anymore.”

“What happened?” he asked.

“I was in a shelter with Bandar—he was the warden—but it was getting too dangerous with the fires and everyone ran…I broke my leg when a building almost collapsed on me and he saved me. Got me this far out of the city.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Where are your parents? Where have you been?”

“It’s…” he glanced at Bandar, “it’s hard to explain. With…others around.”

“What? We’re not all friends now?” the Blooded asked.

“Bandar, we can’t stay here. Those Toilers might not have learned the lesson the second time. My splint? A crutch, maybe?” she asked.

“He can…he can hold his own. Damn strong, even for a Toiler. You watch her. I’ll be back soon as I find a branch or something we can work with.” Bandar went into the woods.

“Now you’re a Toiler?” Lussea loudly whispered, hugging Michael as best she could.

“I can be any caste. Linkers were the best option for us for the most part. I was going to go with Blooded like you, but I thought I’d get drafted by the army if they saw me. I haven’t been making many good decisions lately and now, all of a sudden, I really want my parents around, but they…” He gave her a quick update on being arrested by the Shadows and the ambush at the bridge.

“I don’t know where mine are either.” Lussea wiped away a tear. “Why are your caste doing this?”

“We’re not all like this, but the ones with the spaceships and blasters are here and…first things first. Do you have some bandages or something?” he asked.

“Here,” she said, bringing the pack around and opening it. Inside were packages of crackers, nuts, and several rolls of toilet paper. She thrust an arm inside and brought out a tin first-aid kit. “Should’ve had more medical stuff and water. A utility knife. But you were so insistent on toilet paper. That’s proven useful only once, but still…”

He unscrewed the top from a small bottle of rubbing alcohol and dashed it over his wound, then against the stain on his shirt.

“It’s useful again.” He tried folding squares of toilet paper into a pad, but his hands were trembling too hard. “Damn it…adrenaline. Dad told me that when the body’s in a fight-or-flight situation, this sort of thing will happen.”

Lussea finished folding the paper and pressed it against the cut on his synth. He grimaced at the wound. If it hadn’t been for the synth and its inherent toughness, the wound would’ve been much worse. He held down the field-expedient compress, then secured it to his side with a small roll of tape from the kit.

She looked at his too-red blood on her hands and gasped. “That’s not…that’s not right…” She wiped her hands against her shirt.

“We’re a little different,” he said. “Tell your boyfriend I’ve got Faben Syndrome, a Toiler blood disease. I’ll switch out my shirt later.”

“He’s not…he saved me is all.” Lussea rolled her eyes. “I’ve never heard of Faben Syndrome.”

“It’s not real. I’m just assuming he’s not real familiar with caste-specific diseases, OK?”

“Can you switch to Linker again?” She poked at his markings.

“I could, but how would we explain to the knuckle dragger that I’m suddenly not a Toiler?”

“Oh, right. So what do we do now?”

Bandar came out of the forest along with several long and somewhat straight branches.

“We…we get you up and then we keep moving. Any place is better than King’s Rest right now…OK?”

“That’s a start.” Lussea’s jaw worked from side to side, and Michael knew her well enough to recognize fear and uncertainty in her.

And to be honest with himself, he didn’t feel all that confident either.

Chapter 55

Clay touched the bandage wrapped over his eye and around his head. There was no pain, but he needed to hide the damaged synth layer while it self-repaired. He leaned back in his seat in the rear of a utility vehicle, the bare metal of the interior and the too thin padding making him feel like he was back in the Corporation’s Compliance Force.

Designing equipment with the soldiers’ comfort in mind proved to be a low priority for both species.

Elsime sat in the seat next to him, a small radio set between them. She sat slightly hunched over, fiddling with a small tin in her hands.

“We were in such a hurry to load up into this crap box,” she said. “Now we just sit here and wait.”

“Welcome to the military. It won’t get any better,” Clay said.

Elsime flinched away and looked up at him, like she’d forgotten he was there with her.

“Prince—Crown Riktan…I’ve heard stories. Haven’t exactly been at this position for that long…what do you think he’ll do with you?” she asked.

“Listen, I hope. If he doesn’t, then I’ll probably get burned at the stake…look at him.” Clay leaned around to one side of the seat in front of him. Fastal stood on top of a truck hood, speaking to a stunned motley crew of air force personnel and soldiers, a pair of Close Guard flanking either side of the truck.

“What’s he doing?” Elsime asked. “I can’t make anything out.”

“He’s giving them hope,” Clay said. “They all know what happened to the King. They saw the Myrmidons—sky demons—killing their fellows. Fastal’s showing them a path forward, giving them a reason to drive on and not give in to despair. We used to have men like him.”

“Your caste doesn’t anymore?”

“Somewhere…there might be some out there, but all the ones I’ve met fight for a bonus payment or to get out of debt. They’re all mercenaries. No honor. Fastal…all the stories about him are true.”

“I could use some of that resolve he’s handing out right about now. What’s…what’s inside those things that killed the King? I had nightmares about Slavers coming to take me away when I was a little girl, but that thing was far worse.”

“Just a man, like me.” Clay reached for a weapon absent from his hip. Fastal had him lock all his Corporation-tech weapons away. “If it makes you feel any better, if they tried fighting you in the same stuff,” he tugged at the collar of his freshly issued fatigues, “I’d say you’d come out the winners.”

“But we’re not in that kind of a fight, are we?” The corner of her mouth pulled into a momentary sneer. “We can’t even get our radios to work. Nothing but static for hours.”

“That’s not such a bad thing. If Fastal broadcast that he was bringing me to Riktan, the Corporation would take us out from the air—assuming they still want to kill me. Explaining to Fastal that radio waves keep going off into space—and my people can intercept them—took some time, but he’s inclined to believe me.”

“We’ll be on the road for almost an entire day.” She opened the tin in her hand, revealing a few dried mushrooms packed into papers. “One of the medics gave me this. Said I should eat one to calm my nerves for a bit. Oaxa. I don’t know if I should. Take too much and things get…iffy. You want one?”

She held the tin over to him.

“Human and Tyr are pretty close physiologically, but we’re not entirely sure what it’ll do to us. This isn’t the time for science,” he said.

The front doors opened and Fastal and a driver got in. The general reached for a radio handset clipped to the front dash, clicked the receiver, then tossed his hand up in frustration.

“Still no radios. How long will this last?” he asked over his shoulder. Seeing the look on Clay’s face, he added, “Oh, our driver’s eardrums were blown out during the attack. We can talk. Just kick the back of his seat and point if you need something.”

Clay shrugged. “They’re jamming from orbit…so until they stop, we move out of the area or we knock down the satellites doing the jamming.”

“I remember talk about firing missiles from fighters to take down the heretics’ spy sats…” Fastal narrowed his eyes slightly.

“Don’t bother. The Corp will knock down anything you can shoot at them.” Clay took a sip of water from a tin canteen.

The vehicle’s wheels ground against loose dirt as it joined the convoy and rolled onto the road.

“Close Guard’s taking the King back to the capital.” Fastal kept hold of the useless handset. “No one else in the kingdom knows what’s happened. The Prince will…I only met him once. He was a bean head at the Royal Barracks. A first year—”

“I know,” Clay said.

“He was very excited to get on the front lines and ‘kill heretics to please the gods.’ Wanted to serve in my command. I would have let him, if for no other reason than to tamp down his enthusiasm for combat,” Fastal said.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Elsime asked. “Don’t we need to fight?”

“We have to fight smart,” Clay said. “Charging tanks across the field like at the Battle of Broken Hearts won’t end well.”

“That battle didn’t end well for a lot of my men,” Fastal said, tapping the handset against a radio, “despite how the commissioned art made it look. I still have nightmares about that day. What’s the enemy doing right now, Clay?”

“If they follow normal operations for a planet with your tech level…clearing out a foothold. From there, they’ll establish a colony and push ‘threats’ farther away.”

“The Azure Islands.” Fastal rubbed his face. “We’re not helpless there. Blooded garrisons to discourage the Slavers from raiding. Royals know how to fight too.”

“If I was in in charge of the Compliance Force, then it would be Marauders on the attack, which…”

“Tell me everything about them,” Fastal said.

Elsime began taking notes as Clay spoke.

“…the suits can be—” He squinted out his side window. “Stop. Stop!” Fastal slapped the driver on the shoulder and Clay jumped out of the vehicle as it slowed.

He ran into the forest and to a tree, where a fighter cockpit chair was caught in the upper branches, the parachute tangled in the next tree over. Clay put his hands on his hips and looked over the situation.

“I’ll be damned,” Fastal said. “One of the fly-boys survived…probably.”

“I need to use one of the weapons we ‘captured.’” Clay drew a laser pistol from beneath his tunic and fired twice into the top of the tree. Flocks of birds burst into the air as the bolts impacted. Flames licked blackened branches and there was a creak of failing wood.

The ejection seat fell a few feet onto a lower bough, then dropped down the side of the trunk. Clay caught the seat with a grunt, then plopped it onto the ground.

The pilot’s face was cut, and bloodstains marred his caste markings so badly that Clay had to assume he was Blooded and not a Royal.

Fastal gave the pilot’s shoulder a shake. “You OK?”

The pilot smacked his dry mouth. Clay handed his canteen to the general and he poured water over the pilot’s lips.

“Captain Jiniq…King’s Striker squadron,” the pilot rasped.

“We’ve got medics on the way, hold tight.” Fastal looked at Clay. “Don’t make it harder for me to explain that you’re just my ‘aide.’ Not until we get to the Prince.”

“Doubt many saw what I did,” Clay said. “Another soldier in the fight, at least.”

“Are you sure you’re not a Tyr under all that?” Fastal asked. “Because you act like us.”

“Don’t…don’t believe humans are like you. That will only end in disappointment and suffering,” Clay said, shaking his head. “Let’s get the fly-boy to the road. Sooner we’re on the move, the sooner we can get to the Crown Prince.”

The two grabbed the carry handle at the top of the seat and dragged it back to the road.

“Where’s my family?” Clay asked quietly.

“I don’t know. I heard the Close Guard had them, but I don’t know where. Everyone that did know was close to the King and they’re dead…or maybe Matron Virid, but she said she didn’t know and I sent her back to the capitol,” Fastal said. “What happens to them is not my decision.”

“We had plans for if we were ever found out, but not at the same time Corporate was hunting for us too. If they can escape, they will…but I won’t.”

“Yeah, why’s that?”

“Because we can change our caste at will,” Clay said. “We can go anywhere, be anyone. Finding each other could be…a problem when we’re separated. Which is why I’ll stay close to prominent people like you. Either you’ll bring my family back to me or they’ll find me on their own.”

“You could’ve just gone home, couldn’t you? Back to whatever planet you came from. Why do this?” Fastal asked.

“Because if I ran home, I know what would happen to the Tyr, and sitting safe at home knowing I’m a coward is no life at all…and my family would have shared that shame. So we’ll win or I’ll die trying.”

“If you really mean that, Prince Riktan might believe you,” Fastal said.

“What’s…going on?” the pilot asked. “Planet?”

“Ah shit,” Fastal said. “You’re concussed; everything you heard is just crazy talk.”

“O…K.”

“Hate concussions,” Fastal said.

“Me too. Let’s get him loaded into an ambulance. We’re burning daylight to reach the Prince.”

****

“You have everything ready?” Zike raised his arms in front of him and Argent slipped golden robes onto him. She tied his costume against his back, then held up a face mold that activated makeup pigments in his skin that gave him a glow worthy of a deity.

“Your script is in the teleprompter, sir,” Hower said from a holo station as camera bots floated around an ivory-colored dais. “If you would…perhaps…stay on it this time? Might incur less cost to future operations.”

“And our visual aid?” Zike huffed into his palm to test the scent of his breath.

“Ready, but I strongly disagree with—”

“Then let’s begin.” Zike stepped up to the dais. “I have a design conference with the construction team in forty-five minutes.”

“Sir…” Hower looked at a Compliance soldier in simple fatigues at the door and tilted his head to one side.

The soldier smirked and mimed the gesture back at him. Hower left the room, grumbling.

“Hulegu. Update,” Zike said and the officer appeared in a holo panel projected by one of the drones.

“Initial landings met with minimal effective resistance,” Hulegu said. “Azure Islands are forty-nine percent clear. Indigs are evaccing without any additional pressure. No organized resistance. We’re shooting down any planes that go feet wet on a course to the islands.”

“Why are you letting Tyr escape? We’ll just have to exterminate them later,” Zike said.

“The Marauders are almost at system burnout, but we can push them a bit further…safety recommendations are just suggestions, right? Mind if I let my Myrmidons stretch their legs?”

Zike flicked a dismissive hand.

“Nice. We’re ready for the next phase,” Hulegu said.

“Co-opt every signal the kingdom uses and then let’s ready the delivery to our next target,” Zike said. “Cameras ready? And live in five…four…”

Dead air across the kingdom—jammed by the Compliance Force—suddenly came alive with a series of pings then a recording of Hower’s voice counting down from one hundred—enough time for word to circulate among the Tyr that the radio waves were working and something was coming. Television stations came back on with the countdown.

Zike scrunched and stretched his face as lights from the camera drones turned on. A line of text with a bouncing ball over the first syllable appeared just below eye level so he could look down when speaking.

“Tyr,” Zike said it slowly, letting audio filters lower the timbre of his voice and add an ominous rumble to it. His transmission went over every radio frequency and he appeared on every channel.

In the ruined streets of King’s Rest, radios in cars and houses crackled with the message.

“I am Zike, herald of the human race. We will establish colonies for our people. The Azure Islands are now ours. We gave the occupants the chance to relocate. Those that refused will be removed by force. Those that resist our demands will be punished.”

Standing on the shoulder of a dirt road, Lussea, Bandar, and Michael listened to a small handheld radio.

“But we are a benevolent people. Compliance will be rewarded. Everything you do is under the gaze of your gods. Be wise. Now…you will evacuate one hundred ‘long strides’ along your eastern coast, from Ice Port to the border with the Worthy People. You have three days to comply.

“Those that comply will be compensated for their losses. Medical technology that will double your lifespan. Unlimited power generation and devices to perform all the most mundane and difficult labor. Our partnership will bring the Tyr to the stars, end wars, and usher in your next great evolution as a society and a people. All you must do is…comply.”

Fastal’s convoy came to a screeching halt as their radios finally returned to life.

“More will be required of the Tyr. But for every sacrifice you make, there will be a reward. Abandon the western coast immediately. Those that refuse will not be spared.”

Hower stepped into the edge of the circle of light around Zike, holding Quboth by the elbow. The Tyr astronaut wore a brand-new space suit, and his wrists were bound together. His eyes and cheeks were sunken and a slight grey pallor leaked through the white of his ketafik.

“My first gift to you,” Zike said, gesturing to the Tyr. The camera drones turned on him.

“My name is Unbloodied Quboth Hallas…I have been a guest with our visitors. They mean…” he rubbed a knuckle up the left side of the bridge of his nose and began blinking erratically, “…they mean us no harm. They cannot be beaten. Do not resist and our lives will be greatly improved. I say this under the gods’ eyes.”

Hower stiffened, then pulled Quboth away.

The cameras turned back to Zike.

“Three days.”

Red recording lights on the drones turned green.

“And we’re clear,” Argent said from a control station. “Projection drone delivery to the Most Equal citizen of the Worthy People in ten—no, two…one!”

Zike rolled his eyes in annoyance and a new holo projection appeared around him. A dozen Tyr were backed against the walls of a bunker, all in gaudier dress than he’d seen King Menicus’ inner circle wearing. Lace frills on long cuffed jackets and pants that stopped at the knees seemed to be the fashion with the nation to the south of the kingdom.

A targeting circle appeared over an immensely fat Tyr of the Toiler caste.

“Most Equal,” Zike said with a smile, “I have a deal for you.”

***

“See, that wasn’t so bad,” Hower told Quboth in a hallway adjoining the broadcast center.

“You said I could go home.” The Tyr rocked slightly, his shoulders drooping and arms hanging low from the heavier gravity. “It’s hard to breathe.”

“We might need you a little more…I don’t have permission to send you back yet, sorry.”

“I lived...my clan is from Oshan Point on the coast. There won’t be a home for me to go back to, will there?”

“Um…” Hower sucked in his bottom lip and looked away. “Wherever we send you, it’ll be better than this, right?”

“Will it?”

Hower’s watch beeped and a message scrolled across the face.

“Definitely. Because they need you for a few more tests.” Hower grabbed him by the upper arm and tugged him forward, but Quboth fought him.

“You said—”

“I told you what I knew to be true at the time I said it.” Hower got Quboth moving forward like a recalcitrant child. “It’s not fair to me, it’s not fair to you. This is what happens when the company gets you under their thumb. Your life stops being your own and compulsion drives everything. Like being in the military, right?”

“Or a slave,” Quboth said.

“I hadn’t thought of it like that, but I can’t fault the comparison.”

“Everything Zike said is a lie, isn’t it?” Quboth kept his head down as he walked with Hower.

“It’s not my decision.”

“But his promise to punish anyone that resists is true. I believe that.”

“I…believe that too. Now let’s get you in and out of the lab as quick as we can. It’s the least I can do for you.”

The Tyr—one of the best-known and revered heroes of his people—shuffled along, broken in body and spirit.

Hower’s heart ached for him and he knew that Quboth’s fate—and even worse—awaited the entire species.

And he was fully invested in that outcome.

Hower stayed silent the rest of the trip to the lab.

Chapter 56

Molly Argent felt the shuttle touch down and a bit of a thrill ran up her spine. She double-checked her makeup then tapped into micro-drone feeds from inside the shuttle. Director Zike had a serene expression, meant to convey absolute confidence and ease, so the marketing department could turn the colonization footage into advertising fodder.

“Principal arriving, maintain perimeter,” Hulegu said over the Compliance nets that her earbud was tapped in to.

“Shiny boy know we’re missing out on kills to guard him against absolutely nothing?” another Myrmidon said.

“Shut it. If he’s down here and he’s monitoring, then—”

Zike raised a hand and his fingertips tapped against a holo panel only he could see. A pay-dock order flashed over the slate in Molly’s hand and the offending soldier began cursing. A second pay dock went through and Hulegu killed the channel.

Molly’s lips pressed into a thin line. She wasn’t sure how wise it was to upset their security element just before they disembarked onto a savage planet filled with hostile indigs.

“All construction units in use,” an engineer said from a window on her screen. “We’ve got the stage set for the director.”

“Thank you.” Molly got out of her restraints and put on a winning smile. “Sir? They’re ready for you.”

The drones began recording.

“This is yet another successful colonization effort from Bahadur-Getty Incorporated. Let’s see what twelve hours of progress has achieved for our client.” His smile opened to a slight smirk, mathematically set to display a bit of overconfidence.

The ramp lowered and Molly gasped.

It was the smell. Burnt wood and smoke heavy with grease assaulted her nose and she gagged.

“Pause. Argent, you’ll re-record your walk down the ramp with me once you’ve composed yourself. Have the editors splice in the proper reactions. Awe and confidence, that’s what we need to show the clients and marketing. Awe and confidence. Record.” Zike’s face darkened as he spoke to her, then snapped to confidence as he looked down the ramp and waved to the engineers gathered at the bottom of it.

Molly keyed an antiemetic drug to stop her from vomiting, then an adrenal stimulant to get her back into gear. Her face felt fuzzy as the latter drug took hold and she brought her shoulders back and did her best runway walk down the ramp.

Dawn light reflected off the distant azure cliffs, sparking like bits of gold were embedded in the jewel face. The frame of an archology was already fifty stories high, with construction bots still printing the skeleton of the upper floors while others laid down walls and utility lines from a gap in one side of the construction—left conveniently unfinished so Zike and the cameras could capture all the work being done.

Polymer roads with built-in solar cells led to surrounding worksites. The augmented reality filters in her eyes put Peach Tree Towers, Excelsior Rise, Gold Tier Estates, and more over the bare dirt patches.

She deactivated the AR with a shake of her head. Zike needed genuine, on-point reactions.

“We’re already nine percent ahead of schedule on the main tower construction,” said an engineer raising an arm at Zike, who leaned forward and squinted ever so slightly. “The new proprietary software in the BGI construction bots is self-correcting for local conditions, and the found efficiencies will be passed on as enhancements to the client’s blueprints.”

“That’s amazing news, Jerry. What exactly will we surprise the client with?”

“A holo-masked observation tower on every hab. The colonists can enjoy this spectacular view any time they like without worrying about obstructing the vista for other towers.” The engineer smiled a little too wide.

Zike gave off a plastic laugh. “Fantastic, Jerry! This is one-of-a-kind work from Bahadur-Getty Incorporated. How much room will the next generation have to expand?” Zike asked.

“I’m glad you asked, sir,” said another engineer, stepping forward.

A breeze carried past Molly and her upper lip twitched. She turned around to identify the odor on the air.

A hasty trench had been cut into a once green and open park. Three incineration units, each built into a cargo container and with their intake chutes open, were spaced along the hundred-yard length of the trench. A long dune of Tyr bodies overflowed the trench, while carrion birds flocked overhead with rasping calls to each other.

Humanoid robots stood in front of the dead, their giant, meat-hook hands already stained with violet-colored blood.

Molly felt her jaw slowly fall open, the horror of what she saw pounding against the walls of the drug-induced haze in her mind. There were so many dead…

A worker next to one of the incinerators waved at her then gave his wrist an exaggerated pat. Zike’s presence must have slowed down his disposal operation.

Molly turned away and put a hand over her mouth. She looked down and saw a doll in the dirt beneath the ramp, a plush of the bronto lizards from the plains. Her chin trembled and she saw four small fingertips sprouting up through the soil.

She squeezed her eyes shut and dosed herself again, clouding her mind with a pleasant fog.

Someone touched her shoulder and she jerked away with a tiny shriek.

“Ms. Argent, is there a problem?” Zike asked.

“No. No, sir! Just being down in true air. Have to get used to it again.” She giggled. “Void legs. Land legs. You know.”

“I don’t like the angle for the recycling operations. We’ll move to the next filming location and get the repurposing foundries in action. Did you know we can extract found materials with a ninety-three percent efficiency?”

“Sorry, what was that, sir?” Molly tried to smile at him, but a tear went down her face.

“Practicing my line. Perhaps ‘legacy’ materials. The Tyr’s construction techniques are primitive. It seems they used that ambary for a type of concrete and there are some trace minerals that are upsetting the—what is wrong with your face?”

“Perhaps an allergy?” Molly turned to stare into the shuttle’s open bay, not wanting to see the bodies again.

“Every reshoot you have to do is money and time wasted. Get yourself together. Now let’s move on to the next location.” Zike brushed his sleeves and went up the ramp.

Fine black specks of ash floated past Molly’s face. A primal horror struggled to break through the drug haze as she realized the newest smell of burnt meat was coming from the incinerators. She walked up the ramp on stiff legs, her eyes squeezed shut. She fumbled her way into a seat and the shuttle took off before she was fully buckled in.

“Oh God, what am I doing here? Why am I a part of this?” she muttered to herself.

“Ms. Argent? Let’s consider welcoming gifts for the Dauphine. Would local animals be more appropriate or perhaps relics of the kingdom?” Zike tapped his lips and brought up more holo panels that he linked into her AR.

Chapter 57

Clay and Fastal stood on the side of a highway, watching as Tyr cargo trucks drove past them, each with a tank strapped down to the open beds. Their jeep was parked in a ring of smaller trucks and utility vehicles.

“They’re going the wrong way,” Clay said. He felt exposed wearing a rank-less Blooded uniform and missing his laser weapon—or any weapon.

“According to you,” Fastal said. “Remember who you are. I doubt Riktan’s had much of a chance to process any of this. Not that I have either.”

“What? You’re practically a pro at fighting sky demons by now.” Clay smirked.

“Riktan is not his brother. For good or for ill.” Fastal pointed at an antennae-laden jeep as it drove off-road and came straight toward them. More trucks and jeeps followed. Squads of Blooded jumped out from the back of trucks and formed a perimeter around the small clearing.

A minute later, a powerfully built Royal with a camouflaged sash across his chest got out and approached them. His eyes were hard and he worked a silver toothpick in one corner of his mouth.

“It is you,” Riktan growled at Fastal. “Heard you’d taken up farming. Eggs.”

“I was recalled to the King’s service,” the general said. “Not a moment too soon, it turns out.” He glanced at Clay.

Riktan scowled at Clay’s incomplete uniform. “We’re getting reports about the Azure Islands, some kind of disaster coinciding with the strange broadcasts that—”

Fastal raised a hand. “It’s true. All of it.” He turned back and waved to his jeep. Elsime got out, half-stumbling through a rut in the ground, and hurried toward the group. “There’s more. The Close Guard didn’t want the news to break before you were ready. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Crown Prince Riktan,” Elsime began, doing her best to curtsy, “as tradition and custom demand, the King’s seal and—”

“What? What is this? Where’s my brother? Where’s Menicus?” Riktan’s expression softened.

“Dead, sir,” Fastal said. “Dead at the hands of the invaders from beyond the stars. You’re King in all but name until the final ceremony at the Obsidian Dolmen—I believe that’s how it’s done. I am but a simple Blooded in your service.”

Elsime handed over a signet ring and a wooden seal with a golden cap.

“Then we—” Riktan cleared his throat as he choked down his sorrow “—then it’s all true and we have two days before they attack the coastline. Enough time to get my corps into position for a defense.”

“Crown Prince,” Clay said, stepping forward, “that will only get your men killed. We need to—”

“Who in the dark heart of Kleegar do you think you are?” Riktan snarled.

“You don’t understand what you’re fighting.” Clay touched Riktan’s shoulder. “They have—”

The Prince backhanded Clay so hard that he whirled around and landed face-first in the mud. His vision spun as he tried to understand just how he’d been hit with so much force.

“Quill! In my vehicle. I have a few pronouncements to make before we get to the next base.” Riktan turned and marched back to his vehicle. “Fastal, join the rear of the convoy. I’ll work you in to my command team as best I can. Move out!”

The squads of soldiers raced back to their trucks as Clay rolled onto his back and touched his face where the blow had split the lip on his synth layer.

“Shit,” Fastal spat to one side.

“You were going to tell him I was the subject-matter expert on the sky demons.” Clay wiped a bit of blood off his mouth.

“Why did you touch him? You’re not a Blooded sworn to his service.” Fastal shook his head. “You’re lucky one of his men didn’t shoot you for the insult.”

“That…I didn’t know about that. I’ll add it to my report.” Clay got back to his feet and watched as more tanks and armored personnel carriers sped by. “They’re driving west. To the coastline.”

“They are.” Fastal nodded.

“Riktan’s going to try and fight. It’ll be a bloodbath unless—”

“Yes, it will. But do you want to try and tell the new King who’s eager to set the tone of his rule that he’s all wrong about what he’s about to do next?” Fastal raised a hand overhead and traced a circle, and the vehicles from the convoy from the airbase started their engines.

“I need to speak to him again! A head-on fight is suicide. You can’t just let him—”

“‘Let’…” Fastal leaned slightly to come eye to eye with Clay. “Let. You think I’m in charge here? The King commands his military as he sees fit. Our best hope is that Elsime lets slip what you really are and we can get you in front of Riktan to do your face-ripping…stunt before he launches an attack wherever your caste happens to make landfall first.”

“If your army sets foot within the exclusion zone Zike spoke about, it will be a massacre, Fastal. A rout like you’ve never imagined.”

“I believe you, pink boy. But I’m not the one we have to convince. Now load up and let’s follow the Prince. I recognized some of his staff. I can reason with enough of them to get you another audience. Maybe. Now let’s get moving before Riktan launches an attack that gets us all killed.”

THE END

The story continues in The Tyr: Ordeal, coming soon!

An excerpt from the next novel, The Tyr: Ordeal

Chapter 1

“But what the hell’s wrong with him?” Dr. Piotr Stamets shook his head at the patient inside an isolation chamber.

Camacho was in a straitjacket, crouched in a corner, rocking back and forth.

“According to toxicology and a circulatory scan, there’s nothing wrong with him,” a medical tech said. “The scummies in his squad said he didn’t do anything wrong—but they’re scummies. They ‘snitch’ on anyone, it means a spine shank the next time they’re in line for chow or sleeping.”

“The patient had—what appears to be—a complete mental breakdown just before recovery. A Myrmidon had to do a remote shutoff on his suit or he would’ve taken down the whole craft trying to…what was it? Show me the cargo-bay footage,” Stamets said.

The tech punched a holo key and pulled up a video of Camacho in his Marauder suit in the back of a shuttle. He was beating against the deck like he was trying to dig his way out.

“The worms know! The worms know everything!” Camacho shouted, then froze in place. The shuttle banked to one side and Camacho fell over, still screaming about worms.

“This isn’t his first mission with the company. Did he tamper with his drip or add a little something extra to his cocktail?” Stamets asked.

“Suit came back clean, same as his drip. Spontaneous mental collapse like this should be impossible, given his psych profile and history,” the tech said. “Bloodwork shows some unusual parenchymal neoplasms. Maybe his pineal gland—”

“But one of his squaddies did self-terminate before this break.” Stamets stroked his chin. “Did we get a bad reading from personnel on this batch of scummies?”

“The one that self-terminated was borderline to begin with. HR had him at a seventeen percent chance to make it through his first mission, and looks like those projections were right. Camacho? Ninety-nine percent chance of sailing through. Should’ve been a stud.”

“Seventeen? I thought the cutoff was twenty percent chance of survival.” Stamets frowned and brought up holo screens in front of him.

“There’s no paperwork in the system, but the director was pressed for every warm body he could get for this project. Maybe some of the benchmarks got a little fuzzy when we took on this consignment? I’m just spit-balling.”

“The Corp ignoring its own safety regs to make a deadline? Why I never…but what is wrong with this scummy? His EKG readings match someone in a lucid dream state, but there’s nothing in his system to suggest a poison or some environmental factor?” Stamets asked.

“Usual spores and deactivated viruses from a new biome. His serum’s working as intended. Want to pump his stomach? Hang around for a urine or stool sample?”

“I’ve got to do reconstruction surgery on one of the Myrmidons in ten minutes…the supervisor wants to know if this scummy’s got anything contagious.” Stamets put a hand on his hip.

“Nope, he’s as clean as a whistle.”

“So we know that. We run any more tests on him, it’ll come out of our section’s budget. I’m not losing my bonus to figure out what’s wrong with some scummy that the Corp is just itching to get killed off or ashed for ‘public safety’ reasons. If he doesn’t recover in…eight more hours, he’s in breach of contract and he gets the ash or the airlock. His choice. Got it?”

“Fine. Eight hours to get back in the suit to do his job or else. I’ll just sit here and—”

“No. Need you down in bio processing. The sanitation droids broke down again. Go clean out Marauder unit thirty-seven. The suit Camacho’s squaddie was in.”

“Aw…” The tech rolled his eyes. “Come on, sir. You know what those things smell like after a scummy expires in them?”

“I do, which is why I’ve got you doing it instead of me.” Stamets gave the tech a pat on the shoulder and left.

“Fuck my life.” The tech fumed for a few minutes then glared at Camacho through the glass. He flipped a switch and a microphone activated.

****

Checkerboard patterns in every color of the rainbow roiled like waves through Camacho’s vision. He knew it wasn’t really there because he couldn’t touch it, yet he felt the waves against his skin and through his stomach.

“I’m a little teapot short and stout…” he sang weakly and a chipped kettle that belonged to his grandmother emerged from the scrum of checkerboards. The top bent toward him and came away. Dark tea with tiny whole mushrooms floating in it swirled within the kettle and Camacho gasped.

“Here is my handle…here is my…”

A face pressed through the background swirl and swallowed the kettle. Stars swirled over the face, twisting into constellations.

“Camacho,” the face spoke.

He screamed and pushed against the floor with his feet to get away from the very, very real face looking him over.

“Camacho, I don’t care what you do, but do it fast.” The face’s voice warbled like it was coming from underwater.

“Yes, God, whatever you want!” Camacho began shivering.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” the face said.

Camacho babbled, his lips nothing but rubber.

“Really? I’m going to give you some synthetic adrenaline—don’t ask where I got it—to get your heart pumping. Maybe that’ll get your liver to filter out whatever goof juice you’re on. Maybe you’ll pop and then I’ll have even more work to do. Whatever. Just don’t move.”

A bird rose from the ether and floated to him on slow-motion wings. Colors radiated down its feathers and Camacho tried to whistle at it. The bird clamped talons into his neck and pain reverberated up and down his body. His eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped over.

“Now we wait for…hey, why isn’t your heart going full bore? Goddamn it, that asshole sold me bad shit. This is the last time I ever—” The voice of God ended in a click.

Camacho stayed there on his side as Tyr children danced in the reflection off the floor and a string of drool stretched out from his mouth.

“Sorry…sorry for what I did…”

****

The tech opened the door to Camacho’s isolation room and sighed down at the scummy. Camacho sat on the single gurney in the room, looking normal except for the straitjacket. The tech brought up a sensor wand and looked at a holo projection down the back of his arm.

“Oh. Good. I’m not going to have to drag your dead ass out of here. EKG’s normal. Low levels of drip on your respiration…how you feeling?” he asked.

“Like a can of hammered assholes,” Camacho said.

“Your readings got you as medically fit for duty. You ready to get back to work? Got to warn you, you lose any more time and the Corp will rate you as no longer economically viable. You know what happens after that?”

“Airlock,” Camacho said as he stood up and tried to wiggle out of his straitjacket.

“Or the asher. You won’t get benefits like that with other companies…you good or are you going to go agro on me? Damaging Corporate property like me will get you a taste of the void.” The tech snapped the sensor wand onto his shoulder.

“Back to work. Sure, let’s do that.” Camacho turned around and the tech undid the straps.

“Man, wish you could’ve been this lucid a little while ago. I could’ve used your help cleaning up a mess.” The tech pulled the jacket away and Camacho rolled tight shoulders out of them. “You feeling all right? Longer-term guys like you…been off the drip for a while. Normally your type’s jonesing pretty hard. Ready to do anything to get a fix.”

“Fuck off, I’m not sucking your dick.”

“Whoa, whoa…who hurt you, eh? Like I’d let a scummy near my meat whistle. Some of y’all got diseases we don’t even have names for. Come on, I’ll get you back to the armory so you can suit up. Knock down that debt with a couple hundred more dead indigs, am I right?”

“That’s how it’s done,” Camacho said, following the tech. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he was last on the drip, but there was no pain in his hands or feet, no sensation of worms under his skin or ice in his spine like usual when he was in withdrawal.

He felt…fine. More even-keeled than he could remember. They passed a porthole on the hull, and in his reflection, he saw someone he hadn’t known in years.

Himself.

Chapter 2

There was a knock on the iron door. Sarah looked up from the cot bolted to the bulkhead and grumbled. She put her back to the far side of her small quarters from the door, and rapped on the metal, then kept knocking as the door opened a few inches. Instead of getting her normal plate of gruel with scrambled eggs and cup of watered-down alcohol, the door opened the whole way.

Captain Illion smiled at her, his face the all-silver of the Hidden caste. He wore black pantaloons and a gold sash around his waist. Going shirtless seemed to be the norm for his crew.

“Good news, we’re almost home,” he said, stepping inside. A pair of rough-looking sailors armed with pipes stayed in the passageway, watching her.

“Where’s my son?” Sarah asked. “My husband?”

“Your son is with another team. I don’t know about your mate.”

“I didn’t ask who they’re with. I asked where.”

“That I don’t know.” He shrugged. “You may have noticed you’re aboard a submersible? We don’t send or receive signals while we’re underway. It draws attention. But once we’re home…there should be word of your brood.”

Sarah mulled this for a moment. “And where is ‘home’?”

“The Grand Mists,” Illion said. “You’ve heard of it?”

“The rest of the Tyr believe it’s an uninhabitable string of islands…which would have to be weeks away from King’s Rest by submarine.” She frowned.

“Partly right. Partly wrong. Your doc-oh-tor made some modifications to my ship’s engines. Very impressive what your people can do,” he said.

“Burning down King’s Rest wasn’t enough to show you what they can do?”

“Not everyone believed Turley’s stories.” Illion’s face fell. “Even after his promises proved correct over and over, not everyone believed. Perhaps we did not want to believe? We lived too well for too long. To believe him meant that our troubles would return. But the tide comes. Deny it. Ignore it. But if you’re picking clams on Rushes Beach and you pretend there is no tide…”

“Rushes Beach?”

“A place with extreme tidal ranges. A story for Hidden children. I am so used to bringing home our infiltrators, not…whatever the Queen decides you are. You can…adopt castes at will? Like Turley?”

Sarah gripped an ear and her synth layer went blank like the Hidden.

The guards shuffled nervously in the passageway. One slapped his pipe against his palm.

“Easy now, easy now.” Illion leaned toward her and sniffed at the air. “No scent of the ink at all…impressive. Yet strange. I look upon my own caste and it is our true face, yet we must wear the markings of the others to leave our homes. Now I return home with one that bears our face…yet you are not of us.”

“My family’s purpose on Tyr wasn’t that different from what the Hidden do amongst those touched by the gods.” Sarah bit her tongue, fearing she’d just insulted the Hidden, who were pariahs across the planet because they had no ketafik markings to show which god favored them.

Illion’s face was stone for a moment, then he began laughing. He slapped his leg and wagged a finger at her.

“You…you have jokes. I like it. But there are two things I need of you. First, change back to a Linker…thank you. Next, come with me. You get to see something special.”

“Captain,” said one of the Hidden in the passageway. “It is forbidden.”

“The Queen demands her. The Queen will not have her if she drowns. Besides, her people fly; they don’t sail.” Illion rose and motioned Sarah to follow him.

Being able to walk more than a few steps without turning around was a relief for Sarah. Moving through the tight confines of the submarine was easy as the crew made way for Illion; all she had to do was follow in the wake of his wide shoulders, though she saw little more than compartment doors and dimly lit side passageways on her way through the ship.

Crew members pressed the bottom of their fists against their chests, then slapped two fingers against the back of their hand when she passed. Others squeezed bracelets made of intertwined red and blue strips of cloth.

Illion jumped onto a ladder and climbed to an open hatch, a misty grey sky above.

As she followed, the natural light hurt her eyes, but the smell of salt air and fog were a welcome change from the sweat and must of the ship. With her upper body out of the conning tower, she looked around. The submarine moved slowly through the sea, with water lapping over the nose and the upper deck.

A small group of sailors stood around a steering wheel while others inflated a small lifeboat.

All around them was an endless grey of fog.

“Come down.” Illion waved her toward another ladder on the side of the conning tower. “This is the place to be during a crossing.”

Sarah slid down the outer rails of the ladder. She felt the warmth of the water through the air and she was tempted to dive in just to clean off the stench of days kept in a little cabin.

At the steering wheel was a tall crewman with the same dark loose pants bound at the knees and a golden silk belt. He wore no shoes and kept flexing his bare feet against the deck.

“Bird sign! Bird sign!” came from the aft, where a pole had been erected with a cage holding a dead grish up at the top. Sarah heard wings flapping overhead but caught only a few shadows in the mist.

“Don’t worry, the maita birds prefer to eat dead things,” Illion said.

A sailor beat a pole against the forward edge of the conning tower.

“Looks like we’ve got a couple.” The captain put a hand on a curve-tipped knife hilt on his belt as slow flaps sounded overhead, circling the ship.

“I thought you said they prefer their food to be dead.” Sarah’s chest got tight as she realized just how exposed she was on the deck of a submarine. There was nowhere to run but the conning tower, and swimming for it felt like a great way to die tired.

“Prefer. I said prefer.” Illion flicked the knife up and down in the sheath with his thumb.

There was a swoosh and a bang from the aft. A black bird with a ten-foot wingspan had struck the cage and, using its bloodred bill, was tearing at the dead grish inside.

“Recognize it?” the helmsman at the wheel asked. He reached beneath his belt and drew out two small mushrooms, raised them to the yellow smudge of the sun behind the mists, then popped them into his mouth.

“No, younger male.” Illion traced lines in the air to match white patterns in the maita’s tailfeathers. “I have him now.”

“What’s going on?” Sarah asked.

“They’re territorial. We give an offering to know if we’re in the right area for the crossing. Familiar bird? Right spot,” he said.

“But you said that bird is new.” A shadow loomed out from portside and the submarine passed within a dozen yards of a rocky outcrop. The helmsmen spun the wheel to his left and the fore of the submarine shifted directions. Water sloshed over the hull and kissed her boots.

“Old birds die or get pushed out by younger birds,” Illion said. “So we’re maybe on the right route.”

“Strong maybe,” the helmsman added.

The maita ripped the cage off the pole and carried it into the gloom. Fierce squawking broke out and a section of bloody cage wire landed in the sea just to starboard.

Crew stepped away from the inflated boat and took rifles handed down from a sailor in the conning tower.

The helmsman turned the wheel and angled the sub around another rocky islet stabbing up from the sea.

“What’s with the guns? Thought you liked the birds.” Sarah reached toward the sailor passing out weapons, but he shook his head vigorously at her.

“They’re not for the birds.” Illion pulled the bolt back on his rifle and examined the large-caliber bullet within. He locked the bolt forward and brought the stock up to his shoulder. “Turley spoke of some beast from your home world. Swims. Teeth. Eyes that go white when they strike.”

“A shark,” she said.

“Yes…shark. We don’t have sharks here.”

“Then what…do you have?” Her eyes darted over the water and she put her back to the conning tower.

“Marker!” The helmsman pointed ahead of them.

A wooden ship, its sails decayed, was wrecked against an island, the masts broken over jagged rocks, the hull cracked open like the dried skin of an old onion.

“There’s the Star Fortune,” Illion said. “Belonged to a Toiler nation that was wiped out by Slavers. Rest the souls of those aboard. No grave but the sea for her Islanders.”

Illion gripped the stock of his rifle with one hand and slapped two fingers over his knuckles.

“Back to sharks?” Sarah asked.

“Yes. Sharks. We don’t have them.” Illion nodded. “We do have red maws. And this is their breeding season.”

“Silence or you’ll summon the spirits,” said the helmsman as he chewed on the mushrooms stuck between his cheek and gum, his ketafik going pale red as his blood pressure rose.

“We’ve a charm, no worries.” Illion winked at Sarah. “Now, let me make something clear. These are bad waters to the uninitiated. As skilled as we are,” he said, motioning to the lifeboat, “these are still bad waters. If you need to—” he didn’t speak aloud the tragedy that would necessitate a lifeboat, “you’re the first in there, as you are our precious cargo.”

“Not that I know where to go…”

“I’m sure you’ll have as much company as that raft can bear, but northeast if you find yourself all by your lonesome. Now if you—”

A scream went up behind them and the sailors whirled around, rifles ready. Something hit the submarine and the aft shifted to one side, sending Sarah stumbling toward the water. Illion grabbed her by the collar and yanked her back.

What looked like a massive fin rose and fell in the mists.

“Get him inside and get that leg off him!” Illion shouted to a pair of sailors carrying another with a gash down his left shin. The sailor had a wadded-up belt in his mouth, stifling his screams. A bitter odor came off the wound and fizzing blood hit the deck as he was hauled up and into the ship.

Rifles cracked behind her and she whirled around. The “fin” was the head of a giant fish with barnacles dotting its red flesh. Its upper lip rose over the water, revealing rows and rows of needle teeth.

Illion shot it in the gums, blasting out a hunk of flesh. More rounds smacked into the barnacles and the maw twisted away.

A tentacle whipped out of the water and slammed onto the deck between Sarah and the helmsman. She tried to shout a warning, but Illion slapped a hand over her mouth. The tentacle wiggled toward the helmsman, who didn’t even turn around to see it.

He spun the wheel hard, steering the ship away from the red maw and stretching the tentacle out. He raised his left foot as the appendage thumped against the base of the wheel mount, then hopped over it as it slithered to his other foot.

The helmsman pulled a lever and the ship rumbled as the main propeller spun up. The tentacle went rigid then began flopping up and down against the hull.

Illion jumped forward and stomped onto the tentacle, pinning it to the hull, then shot it several times until it broke in two, the base section continuing to thrash. Illion kicked the rest off his ship, careful to avoid the barbs at the tip.

“That’s a bad omen if ever there was one,” the captain said. “Lose our cage. Attract a maw…” He looked at Sarah with hard eyes. “Haven’t seen anything like this since the Scouring.”

“Are there more?” Sarah pointed at a slick of blood in the water.

“No, you injure one and it keeps others away. They don’t want to be eaten either,” Illion said.

“Hold on, something eats those things?”

“Pinch,” the helmsman said, and a cliff face loomed up out of the fog that poured through a small opening at the base. The pilot steered straight for it.

“Ha-a-a…” Sarah shrank toward the deck as the submarine sailed through what felt like a tight fit, but she noted there was extra space upwards of several yards on either side of the ship.

A deep chill flowed over her and her teeth chattered. A mountain loomed up out of the mist straight ahead, its cliff faces wavering in the fog. It looked more like a dreamlike threat in the mist, but it was still there.

The helmsman spat his mushroom chew out into the sea. He did not change their direct course toward the mountain.

“Illion,” she said, tugging on his gold belt. “Illion, it’s coming right for us.”

“That it is.” He flicked the safety on his rifle and breathed a sigh of relief as the heavy darkness in the abyss loomed ever closer.

“We’re going to crash!” She jumped into the lifeboat and it slid to one side, catching on the lines securing it to the deck.

The fog was so thick, she almost couldn’t see her hands as she struggled to untie the moorings.

“No! Michael! Daniel!” She ducked into the lifeboat as the fog went dark as the abyss…and nothing happened.

She looked up as the fog thinned, the bright smudge of the sun becoming visible a few moments later. She sat up in the lifeboat. To the rear was the same dark mass in the fog, with grey tendrils swirling where the submarine had passed.

Illion leaned over the side of the lifeboat and looked her over.

“She didn’t mess herself. You owe me ten shillings!” he called out to the helmsman, who responded by raising one hand, thumb and forefinger pinched into a circle.

“What…what was that?” she asked.

“Our home’s last little trick for unwanted guests.” He put one leg up on the side of the life raft and set his rifle over his lap. “If I tell you how it’s done…the Queen may not ever let you leave.”

“I’m good with keeping promises.” Sarah got out of the lifeboat. “But why tempt fate or the Queen’s mood, right?”

She put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips. “But why? Why have an obstacle you can just sail through?”

“You pass through the Pinch and come right out with that ahead of you…what do you think an uninitiated captain would do?” Illion asked.

“Hard to port or starboard, sail around it,” Sarah said.

“And right into the shoals that’ll rip out the bottom of your ship.” Illion smirked. “There’s a reason we’ve never had unwanted guests. Most never even try to sail in here. Those that do wreck before they ever get close.”

“The Slaver or King’s navy never tried to come here?” she asked.

“Damn airplanes.” Illion spat on the deck. “Weather keeps them from flying overhead and seeing much. And then…this isn’t the only submarine in the Queen’s service. But we’re surrounded by Islander nations. They keep the riffraff out.”

“What keeps the Islanders away—besides the sea monsters and navigation hazards?”

“The mists are haunted, of course.” He winked at her. “Every Islander knows that.”

“There.” The helmsman pointed ahead and the pulse of a lighthouse shone through the fog.

“Ah…home,” Illion said, handing his rifle up to a sailor. “Now, Mistress Clay, there’s a bit of a detail I haven’t mentioned yet.”

“What’s that?”

Shackles and chains landed on the deck between them.

“We don’t have…guests, but we do bring in prisoners. The Queen asked that I not disturb public order by waltzing through her streets with a returned operative that no one knows or recognizes. Begs too many questions.”

“So am I a guest or a prisoner?” She held up her wrists.

“Bit of both, part of either.” Illion put the cuffs on her. “Now don’t think you can slip out of these and just put on our face with your star magic and get away. The dialect we speak to each other’s a might different than the King’s tongue. One word out of your mouth and you’ll be known—even if you wear the true caste. I say this to stop you from doing anything rash while you’re our guest…or non-guest. We’ll see.”

He bent down and fastened the shackles to her ankles.

The mists dissipated to just the hint of grey in the distance but still occluded the skies. Ahead were docks where Islander-style construction vessels, more submarines, and even a few wooden ships were moored. A sloped wall made of earthen bricks rose behind the docks, and antennae and long-barreled air defense guns dotted the ramparts.

Tyr moved around the docks, but she couldn’t see where they were heading.

“One last bit,” he said, holding up a dark felt sack just big enough for her head. “Protocol, my apologies.”

“What am I going to do?” She raised her cuffed hands as high as the chain attached to the line between her ankle shackles would allow, then bent her head forward.

Illion put the hood over her, then grabbed her by the elbow.

“We’re home, lads!” Illion called out. “Make ready to dock.”

****

The cart Sarah was chained to rumbled over cobblestones, the jostling and the dark hood almost enough to make her nauseous. She swallowed bile as her seat wobbled.

“Halt,” Illion ordered and her ride stopped. “She needs to see this.”

The hood came away and Sarah scrunched her eyes. She was in a cage just large enough for her on the back of a small handcart. A Slaver Tyr in breeches and sandals was chained to the poles in the front. A black leather mask covering his mouth was locked from behind. The Slaver breathed hard, not saying a word.

They’d stopped in a narrow street with rows of single-story houses on either side of the steep road, the walls covered in white mortar, the roofs comprised of dark shingles.

Two fat sacks that smelled of ambary flour were tucked into the space around her cell.

Illion knocked against the back of the rickshaw and the door to the nearest house creaked open. He spoke in a dialect that had some words in the Islander language, but the phonetics and grammar were lost to her.

An elderly woman wearing a thin shawl over her shoulders had come out, supported by a wooden cane. She limped over to Illion, then kissed his knuckles. He stroked her face, then lifted her chin up to Sarah.

Instead of the face of an old woman, she had the smooth skin and gentle features of a girl. The hand gripping the cane was stunted and malformed, like it had stopped growing when she was a toddler. As she looked up at Sarah, her jaw worked from side to side and she spat.

More emerged from the house, Hidden boys and girls tall enough to be adolescents. All were deformed, with milky blind eyes or dead muscles in their faces. Some had wisps of hair on their scalps and one girl had a distended jaw that drooled constantly.

“My god…what happened to them?”

Illion hefted the bags of flour out of the cart and gave them to another sailor who brought them into the house. The captain took a small bag from his back pocket and shook it. The malformed Hidden lined up behind the first girl with the hunched back.

Illion shook a handful of red hard candy into his palm and gave one to the hunchback, then the rest slowly filed forward.

“The blighted happened to us,” he said, using the Hidden’s name for the Tyr outside their own caste. “The final war between the Slavers and the kingdom, it ended in nuclear fire.”

Sarah pressed the back of her hand against her mouth.

“We learned…we learned what fallout,” he said the word roughly in English, “does to Tyr. The trade winds blew radiation from the Slaver lands—courtesy of the kingdom’s bombs—through some of our islands. Your doc-oh-tor tells us that we’re unusually susceptible to…some sort of language in our bodies being rewritten by the poison. Adults…maybe nothing. Maybe a bad growth takes them in years. But the growing children…” He tousled the hair of a boy with his nose mashed to one side of his face.

“Every ship captain adopts an orphan house. It is part of our ways now,” Illion said.

“I’ve never seen DNA degradation like this before,” she said. “We weren’t allowed to study you all so deeply…”

Illion shook out the last of the candy and gave it to the smallest child in the back of the line.

“I don’t understand what you said, but your doc-oh-tor promised treatment for them. Can he do this?” he asked.

“He would need…I’m not sure. I’m not that kind of a scientist,” she said. “How many,” she looked up and down at the dozens of similar houses, “how many Tyr were hurt by the fallout?”

“Too many.” Illion clicked his tongue at the Slaver, who grunted, lowered the poles, and pulled the rickshaw up the hill.

“Hood,” Illion said, flapping it against the bars.

Sarah grumbled again.

****

“Get that off her,” a woman Tyr said.

The hood was yanked away and Sarah blew at a strand of hair over her face. She was on a stool in a dank, musty cell, a bright light overhead.

A Hidden in dark-green body armor stepped back from her. Gold lines formed hexagons on the armor and flexed as he moved—a graphenium weave, technology centuries beyond the Tyr’s capabilities. He turned away and Sarah glimpsed a battle rifle slung over his shoulder that looked almost identical to standard Bahadur-Getty issue for its security personnel.

A Tyr woman stood just outside the light, her athletic frame covered by a dark skirt that came down just below her knees, over trousers and tall boots. Her long-sleeved top looked like an old-style military uniform with a high collar. Her hair, done up over her head, was dark but run through with grey.

“With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?” Sarah asked.

“I am Keesla,” the Tyr said. “Your advocate before the Conclave.”

“I take it I’m in trouble, what with the chains and—”

“And being a member of the outer caste that has come to destroy all Tyr, if Turley is to be believed.”

“He is.” Sarah rubbed the cuffs on her wrists. “Illion and the others must have told you what happened to King’s Rest.”

“And the massacre on the Azure Islands.” Keesla stepped a little closer, but Sarah still couldn’t make out her face. “Turley said your people were vicious, impossibly cruel…but many of us didn’t believe him.”

“Can I see him? He’s here, yes?”

“He’s on a mission that only he can do right, according to him.” Keesla stroked her chin. “But you are the one that sent us the warning from Vinica City…”

“Yes, unless you have another human spy that’s been feeding you information for years like I was. I don’t know who you are in all of this, Keesla, but I have been on your side—all the Tyrs’ side—along with my husband and son for years. Turley needed his computer memory core updated? Done. He needed a shipment of anthracite coal from a specific mine in the Arctic Circle? I got that sent to the post of his choosing. Early warning about the Corporation’s arrival? Me! That was all me, Keesla. Now how about you stop treating me like some low-level King’s Shadow that you snatched off the street and treat me with a bit of respect for what I’ve done for you?”

The guard at the door put a hand on a billy club, but Keesla calmed him with a small finger wave.

“My, my,” the Tyr said, “you hide amongst my kind for a few years and you think you know us. You think the Hidden are like the rest of those blighted by the idea they’re blessed by gods? False gods, at that. You expected a hero’s welcome in this most sacred of places?”

“Turley should’ve taught you about humans.” Sarah held up her cuffs. “Some of us are patient to a fault—I suspect Turley is one of them. I, on the other hand, was taken away from my son in the middle of an attack, and I have no idea where he is, who he’s with, or even if he’s hurt. Same with my husband. Can you tell me anything about my family, Keesla? Let’s have information go both ways, yeah?”

Keesla clasped her hands behind her back.

“Your son…is under observation. He slipped away from the team that was protecting him, but we’ve reacquired him. He’s with an un-Blooded male and a young Blooded female. Curious that they’re traveling with him, as he’s suddenly become a Toiler,” Keesla said. “They’re in a refugee column moving out of King’s Rest.”

“Blooded girl…why that little—” Sarah’s face contorted with anger. “That little tramp found my son again. It’s Lussea Pyth, isn’t it?”

“I’ll see if we can get her name.”

“It is. I guarantee it’s her. How she managed to track Michael down in the middle of all that chaos…but he’s safe?”

“Until he’s within arm’s reach of you again. Safe as can be, otherwise.”

Sarah breathed a sigh of relief.

“Your mate…we’re less sure of. An extraction team sent for him hasn’t reported back, and there was a human caste attack on the airfield where the Shadows had him…” The Tyr woman raised her chin slightly.

“How bad was the attack?” Sarah asked quietly.

“King Menicus was killed. Which is a complication we don’t need. He was a known quantity. Prince Riktan is a bit more…difficult to predict. We don’t know if your mate is alive or dead. If he’s alive, he’s likely with General Fastal…and it was your husband that conned him back into active duty, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right.”

“Ha!” Keesla snapped her fingers. “I knew it. Smart move. Fastal’s the best commander they have…and a decent Tyr, for a blighted. Now for a matter of protocol. I will see you.”

“Pardon?”

“My caste walk among the blighted. Unknown and undetected. It is here in the Mists that we can be as the One True God made us. We don’t have to hide behind the blight of lesser Tyr. To bear a caste marking is not done, not when you have a true face.”

“If you insist.” Sarah pressed the release behind her jaw and her synth layer sloughed off. She winced as the dermis anchors released their grip and her face tingled in the fresh air.

The guard muttered a prayer and flashed the same two fingers over the back of his hand in the same gesture she’d seen before.

“You’re not…exactly like Turley. More tan.” Keesla approached slightly, but her face was still hidden in shadows.

“Our skin tone depends on our need for vitamin D levels…solar damage…it’s a trivial part of our biology, but socially and historically, it was a major bone of contention. Now you see me. Satisfied? Why am I here? What do you need me for?” Sarah asked. “Why would you send a team for my husband? You’ve got Turley.”

“Turley…” Keesla pulled over a stool and sat down. “He is a problem. Rather, that he is of the human caste causes problems for the Hidden, despite what he’s done for us. What do you know of us?”

“I know you exist because Turley contacted me after I arrived. He told me of his…predicament with the Hidden. How you captured him and kept him in jail for a time.” She looked around. “Guess I’m following suit? But that’s all. That you exist, that you’re working with Turley and…then there’s the legends about you.”

“That we have no souls as we bear no marks from the gods. That we steal children, our men paint other caste’s marking onto their ketafik to seduce women and leave them with children that are killed within minutes of being born for being ‘abominations.’ That we are blamed for every single fault a blighted suffers that they choose not to believe is their fault.” Keesla folded her hands on her lap.

“We were hounded for centuries while our tribes still lived on the main continents. We had to take to the sea to survive, and eventually, we found the Great Mists. Here we could remain…hidden. And in time, we returned to the rest of the castes, disguised as them. Which you can appreciate,” she said.

“I can. Being mistaken for a Hidden was a very real concern for us…we didn’t want to be burned at the stake because Tyr knew us with different faces. So we settled on being Linkers, who are always suspected of being Hidden anyway,” Sarah said.

“What you know of the Hidden beyond the Great Mists…is not the reality of my caste in our home islands,” Keesla said. “We have a Queen and she commands all efforts beyond the Mists, but she doesn’t have the power that Menicus has. Had.”

“Then the Queen brought me here because…”

“Turley has a phrase…something about an ohs-trich and sand, coupled with ‘an object not in sight is not of concern.’”

“Out of sight, out of mind,” Sarah said.

Keesla snapped her fingers. “That. For centuries, we’ve been safe behind the Mists, behind the ring of bickering Islander nations that keep others away…it wasn’t until the Slavers were burned alive that the rest of the world proved to be an issue for us,” she said.

“The children,” Sarah said, nodding.

“More than that,” the Tyr said. “We suffered far worse than that. We thought if we stayed out of the affairs of the blighted, we wouldn’t be bothered. But we share this planet. We all feel the same wind.”

“I feel a ‘but’ coming.”

“But factions of us believed we should have intervened in that war sooner, kept the powers off-balance…or stopped the blighted from ever getting the power of the atom. We hid from the world and we paid the price. Now the human caste is here…and we have a similar problem. An even worse problem.”

“Turley said…he said he was preparing you all to fight.” Sarah looked away.

“You met Turley in person twice. The last time you saw him was six years ago. And you think that every message you received from him through the network was him?” Keesla asked.

“Oh…oh no. You mean you’re…not going to join with the rest of the Tyr and go to war for your own survival? Because that is exactly what’s at stake for you.”

“Not all the Hidden believe that. And then there’s the question of just how much of a fight we could offer…what we’ve heard from the Azure Islands…”

“You’ve got graphenium armor. Battle rifles—”

“We do not have magic fighter planes that defy gravity and break the laws of physics! Or walking metal monsters! It will be a slaughter, even if our capabilities are improved.” Keesla crossed her arms.

“Give me…give me a cup of water.” Sarah looked at a small tray next to the guard that held what she asked for. The guard looked to Keesla for approval, then brought over a small tin cup filled to the brim.

“This is the Corporation’s total strength,” Sarah said, then poured it on the ground right at her feet.

“That’s incredibly rude here,” Keesla said.

“This is all the territory they can control.” Sarah tapped her foot in the puddle. “The Tyr have the numbers. You’re everywhere on this planet that our enemy wants to go. You need the will to act.” Sarah pressed her hands to her chest, pleading.

“This Zike that’s all over the airwaves, is he a fool?” Keesla asked.

“No…far from it.”

“Then he knows exactly what his capabilities are. What will he do next?”

“An old tactic from our people’s past: when a powerful nation doesn’t have the manpower to take on a larger force, they divide and conquer,” Sarah said.

“The Free State…those lunatics.” Keesla looked away for a moment. “But that is a far problem. You have a more pressing issue right in front of you. The Conclave demands to see you. If you want to survive, you need to listen very closely…”

****

Sarah was caged in the back of a rickshaw. Again. This time surrounded by guards, all of whom pelted her with furtive glances as her synth layer was off, leaving her head and shoulders exposed.

A pair of guards pulled her cart to a wooden set of arched double doors with iron rings for handles. They stopped outside a coliseum with no windows. Stone carvings of winged lizards adorned the upper level where the roof disappeared in the mists.

Muffled voices came through the door, a pair of male voices arguing.

“So, you all get out much?” Sarah asked, startling the guards. “You know the kingdom’s tongue? Islanders?”

One guard holding a rickshaw pole turned around, then picked at his hair and rubbed it between his fingers.

“Sure, why not?” She flipped some of her auburn hair over the front of her shoulder and leaned forward.

The curious guard touched it, then swiped his hand down the front of his battle armor.

“So maybe they don’t let Dr. Turley walk around au naturel,” she said.

The arguing within grew more intense, but it didn’t seem to faze the guards. There was a clunk and the double doors went ajar.

Sarah swallowed hard as the guards opened them and she was pulled inside.

Five concentric rows of seats ringed the inner wall, filled with Hidden men and women in white robes. Each wore an ivory disc painted with dark markings that matched the ketafiks of the rest of the Tyr castes, and some had gold-rimmed badges on their left shoulder. All were silent, staring at her intently as the wheels of her cart squeaked against a stone floor. There were more Tyr on her left than her right, and the ones on the right seemed to have far fewer badges than those on the left, who were a bit older.

A massive bench on the far side of the coliseum from where she entered was unoccupied.

While Sarah understood she was the center of attention, her eyes were on the wooden stake in the center of the room. At its base were piles of wood and kindling.

“Look at this!” A Tyr rose from the stands and held out an open hand. “Look at this…thing.” He was a bit past middle age and wore a single badge with Islander caste markings on it.

The translation bead in her ear picked up all the Hidden dialect for her, an upgrade left by Turley.

“Do not be so cruel, Baron Narog.” Another Tyr rose on the other side, an elderly man with a chest full of badges. “This one claims to be an ally, like the good doctor.”

“We don’t need her, Rand. We’ve never needed the human caste. We’ve only ever needed to trust in the One True God and his deliverance. Well…it is here!” Narog slammed his hands on a wooden railing in front of him and his side of the chamber burst into applause.

“You don’t know that!” Rand raised a fist and the room went silent. “You are so blinded by faith that the first hint of the prophecy you can divine blinds you to all other options. You feel a tug on your line and think you’ve got a silver beak, but it may be a red maw coming for you.”

“Every blighted on the Azure Islands has been slaughtered,” Narog said. “How much more obvious does it have to be for you and yours?”

“Why don’t we ask the human caste what their intentions are?” Rand came down a set of stairs near the bench and walked onto the floor. He continued addressing both sides of the room as he walked around Sarah’s cage. “Sarah Clay, is it? When did you arrive on our world and what is your mission?”

Sarah wanted to stand, but the cage wasn’t tall enough. “Ten years. We came through a portal from another star ten years ago. We took on Linkers’ marks and lived among the kingdom. We studied you. Learned your languages and culture, with the intention of presenting your world as equal to human space, as a place to be preserved and protected…”

Rand cocked an eyebrow at her. “You weren’t here to collect information on the nations’ military strength? To learn where we—the Hidden—had built the bastion for our people?”

“No, no…I wanted to learn how humans and Tyr could be so much alike when our home worlds are so far apart. A greater mystery of the cosmos,” she said.

“Yet your caste knew exactly where to strike at the kingdom!” Narog shouted.

“When it’s time to cook a grish, is it that difficult for you to know how to kill it?” Sarah called back. “My people have waged war through the stars for centuries—waged war against ourselves and nonhumans as the need arose—and it wasn’t until recently that we fought a race that could beat us. As proud as the Tyr are for finally defeating the Slavers…as you are now, you wouldn’t stand a chance against the full might of humanity. You’re dealing with a single colony ship and the mercenaries they brought with them. I believe you can win against that, or my family and I would have gone home and left you to the inevitable.”

“But this ship will wipe out the kingdom. The Worthy Peoples. Every Tyr with the blight on their bodies?” Narog asked.

“They will.” Sarah nodded.

Narog raised his hands and his faction rapped fists against the wooden rail in front of their seats.

“They won’t stop there!” Sarah shouted. “I’ve seen them eradicate entire thinking races, races with souls like we all have, just to clear out more room for humans. You think these mists will hide you? The Corporation already knows you’re here. You can’t hide from them.”

“What does this ‘Corporation’ know of us?” Rand asked.

“Little more than what I knew when I first arrived. That the Hidden are a subspecies of Tyr and—”

A small metal plate struck the bars of her cage.

An elderly Tyr woman stood up on Narog’s side and brandished a crooked finger at her. “We aren’t the same as those blighted filth! We are as the True God made us!”

Rand swiped the plate away from where it was spinning near Sarah’s feet. “She only gets that one outburst,” Rand said with a wink.

“Humans won’t see you as a higher caste.” Sarah grabbed the bars. “You’re all—every caste—indigenous people to be removed. But I came here knowing that the Hidden were real. I didn’t meet any until Dr. Turley found me and told me how you brought him to the Mists to learn more from him and—”

The room broke out in chuckles.

“I found Turley in a Slaver ship hold.” A Tyr from Rand’s side stood up. “He thought he could infiltrate those barbarians without fully knowing their ways and was being sent back to their homeland to be executed for disrespecting a chieftain. I heard of this and thought it was one of my fellow walkers amongst the world.” He tapped a badge with Slaver markings. “Imagine my surprise when I figured out that Turley wasn’t a brother, but something else entirely.”

“He told me that…that lying son of a bitch.” Sarah gripped the bars harder.

“What did you tell your caste of us?” Narog asked again.

“Nothing.” Sarah dropped her hands to her sides. “Turley and I are part of our own ‘hidden’ society. One that’s working against the xenocide—the complete destruction of alien races. That Turley was working with you to give you new technology…weapons…none of that would be told to the Corporation, only to our society.”

“So the human caste that destroyed the Azure Islands knows nothing of our true strength?” Narog asked.

“No. Zike and his people believe Turley died many years ago and the Tyr had no warning or time to prepare for their arrival,” she said.

“Then I say let the blighted die!” Narog raised a fist. “We have fulfilled our duties to the One True God. We remained apart from the blighted. Our blood and our people are pure. Now he has sent his vengeance. The human caste are his instrument and we will be rewarded with peace so long as we stay virtuous and true!”

A handful of Tyr from Rand’s side crossed the room to join Narog’s.

“And we will permit the great injustice that fell upon our caste to be waged on the blighted!” Rand shouted. “I have walked amongst every caste, every nation, and it is that same fear and ignorance that drove our people to the Mists that you’re repeating. The Islanders allowed us passage to the Mists when the Slavers and Toilers drove us from the last prophet’s land. We only survived because of mercy from another caste. Now we must have no mercy on our fellow Tyr?”

“The last prophet was murdered,” Narog said. “The temple burned. Our people killed wherever they were found. One small mercy does not excuse all the suffering we’ve endured. The prophecy—”

“Did not come from the last prophet.” Rand wagged a finger. “It came from his wife after taking oaxa to commune with gods we don’t believe in.”

“She had a vision of the prophet, not the false gods.” Narog raised his nose.

“Excuse me?” Sarah slapped her bars. “Human here. I’m no expert on your religion, but I can tell you that Zike doesn’t know about any prophecy and he absolutely does not care. The bulk of human space’s problems came from not wiping out an alien race. They experimented on a species that was on the verge of extinction and it blew up in their faces. Zike won’t risk making that same mistake. I need you to believe me.”

“You speak with a demon’s tongue and give a demon’s promise,” one of Narog’s group said. “You’re trying to guide us away from the prophecy and the final test before the gaze of the True God.”

“And you all are risking our survival on faith.” Rand reached into the cage and touched Sarah’s shoulder. “A living, breathing human is here, swearing exactly what will happen to us, but you still believe the words of a grieving…widow repeating an oaxa vision. What if you’re wrong? Eh? What if you ignore the proof right in front of your eyes and the human caste chooses to come for us last? Will you dance in the streets as our homes burn, thanking the humans for-for releasing your soul to the One True God after you’ve proven yourself so faithful? So faithful that you abandoned our chance to survive?”

“What is there for us to do, Rand?” Narog asked. “Abandon our faith and join with the blighted to fight the humans? You paint a picture of our final moments, but imagine the irony if we reveal ourselves to the blighted and they choose to attack us out of ‘ignorance and fear’ instead of the humans? There will be no respite for us once the blighted know of the Mists. We will be just another grand crusade for them now that the Slavers are beaten.”

“You don’t have to…you don’t have to join kingdom armies and win a grand battle like at the Plains of Martydom.” Sarah shook her bars. “You simply have to convince Zike that fighting the Tyr is too costly and he’ll leave. Then you can keep the humans from ever coming back. I’ll show you how to do it. I have a spaceship that can—”

Two massive knocks thudded against a door behind the bench.

Tyr rose to their feet and pressed palms to their hearts. Even the guards around her bent their heads and followed suit.

Doors slid open and a figure in pure white robes with a cape over her shoulder strode onto the bench. A golden strip of cloth was tied to her forehead and wound through her hair.

Sarah’s jaw dropped as she realized she’d spoken to the Hidden Queen before. Keesla.

She leaned against a golden rod atop the bench, then slid one hand across it. The Tyr took their seats and remained silent.

“This is the other,” the Queen said, “obviously.”

“Our discussion continues on how best to advise you, My Queen,” Rand said. “We remain…divided on a consensus.”

“There’s no majority yet,” Narog said, motioning to the many Tyr seated around him, “but we’re approaching one.”

“As much as I appreciate the Conclave’s vigorous efforts to understand the problem we face,” Keesla said, drumming her fingers against the golden rod, “we do not have endless time for debate. Is the human caste a threat to us or is she not?”

“Her caste is the will of the One True God made manifest,” Narog said. “They are here to rid our world of the blighted and restore us as the only caste pure enough to receive the God’s bounty, all his blessings, yet she denies what she is. She demands we side with those that would work with our oppressors, save the blighted from the doom they deserve!”

“I am not a manifestation of anything!” Sarah called out. “Humanity is millions of years old. We were not brought forth from nothing to act as any sort of divine vengeance. Believe me when I tell you that—”

“See! She continues to test our faith. Burn her so that we may pass the test sent to us.” Narog pounded on the railing in front of him. “Burn her!”

“Wait. What?” Sarah shrank back against the bars. “I’m here to help you! I risked everything so you all can survive. If you’d just listen to me—”

“Enough!” Rand stepped between her cage and the stake. “I have walked among the world longer than anyone else in this Conclave. I have seen the world for what it is better than anyone, and I have seen how the other castes can be. They live in peace in the kingdom, in the Free Nation. They can accept us once we stop living in the same fear that drove us into the Mists. We cannot sacrifice the rest of the Tyr because of old hatreds. I believe this soul,” he pointed at Sarah, “that the human caste is not our salvation, but our doom!”

The word echoed through the chamber.

“We have been enlightened with science from the knowledge Doctor Turley’s given us. Every last one of us downwinders would have died of cancer had not Turley known what medicine to give us. The faith healers were useless. Everything we’ve learned about the humans tells us that Zike will destroy us. Believe your own eyes and—”

Keesla raised an obsidian gavel and rapped it against her bench.

A half-dozen Tyr crossed from Narog’s side to Rand’s.

“The Conclave has made its argument,” the Queen said. “There is no consensus. The decision will fall to me for the good of our caste. Human Sarah Clay, are you a divine agent?”

“I most certainly am not. If I had any sort of godly powers, do you think I’d be in this cage? No, I would-would come down from on high with wings and trumpets and have a glorious appearance that would leave absolutely no doubt as to just how holy my message was. And if I’m no divine agent, then Zike and his bunch of killers aren’t any sort of divine will either. So let me out of here so we can—”

“Precisely as we would be tested,” Keesla said, her face darkening.

A mote of fear grew in Sarah’s chest. This didn’t feel like the plan they’d discussed.

Keesla banged the gavel. “Burn her.”

++++

Read the rest of The Tyr: Ordeal, coming soon!

From the Author

Hello Dear and Gentle Reader,

The Tyr! This is a brand new series from me and I enjoyed writing this for you. I can’t say things are going to get any easier for the Tyr or our heroes, but book two isn’t called ‘Ordeal’ for nothing.

Thank you for joining me on this journey that’s a bit different than my usual military space opera books, but I think it’s a good different. We’ll get more into the Hidden and the Heretic nation and what they’re up to in the next novel…plus much more!

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Leave an honest review wherever you like. Your feedback is important. Drop me a line at richard@richardfoxauthor.com.

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The Ember War Saga

1. The Ember War

2. The Ruins of Anthalas

3. Blood of Heroes

4. Earth Defiant

5. The Gardens of Nibiru

6. The Battle of the Void

7. The Siege of Earth

8. The Crucible

9. The Xaros Reckoning

The Ember War Saga Volume II: Terran Armor Corps

1. Iron Dragoons

2. The Ibarra Sanction

3. The True Measure

4. A House Divided

5. The Last Aeon

6. Ferrum Corde

Terran Strike Marines

1. The Dotari Salvation
2. Rage of Winter

3. Valdar’s Hammer

4. The Beast of Eridu

5.
Gott Mit Uns

The Ibarra Crusade

1.
Ashes Fall

2. Steel Sworn

3. Soul Invictus

4. Valdar’s Legacy (Coming soon!)

Terra Nova Chronicles

1. Terra Nova

2. Bloodlines

3. Wings of Redemption

4. Hale’s War

Ember War: Pathfinders

1. Light the Way

2. Belisarius

The Exiled Fleet Series

1. Albion Lost

2. The Long March

3. Finest Hour

4. Point of Honor

5. The Last Ditch (Coming 2021)

Also By Richard Fox

Til Valhalla

Hell’s Horizon

The Queen of Sidonia

The King of Sidonia

Through the Nether (Galaxy’s Edge Order of the Centurion)

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The Earth is doomed. Humanity has a chance. Read where the saga began!

In the near future, an alien probe arrives on Earth with a pivotal mission—determine if humanity has what it takes to survive the impending invasion by a merciless armada.

The probe discovers Marc Ibarra, a young inventor, who holds the key to a daring gambit that could save a fraction of Earth's population. Humanity's only chance lies with Ibarra's ability to keep a terrible secret and engineer the planet down the narrow path to survival.

Earth will need a fleet. One with a hidden purpose. One strong enough to fight a battle against annihilation.

The Ember War is the first installment in an epic military sci-fi series. If you like A Hymn Before Battle by John Ringo and The Last Starship by Vaughn Heppner, then you'll love this explosive adventure with constant thrills and high stakes from cover to cover.

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Here’s a sample for you:

CHAPTER 1

THE NEAR FUTURE

Humanity’s only hope of survival entered the solar system at nearly the speed of light. The probe slowed as the sun’s heliosphere disrupted the graviton wave it rode in on from the abyss of deep space. Awakened by the sudden deceleration, the probe absorbed the electromagnetic spectrum utilized by its target species and assessed the technological sophistication of the sole sentient species on Earth.

The probe adjusted its course to take it into the system’s star. If the humans couldn’t survive—with its help—what was to come, then the probe would annihilate itself. There would be no trace of it for the enemy, and no chance of humanity’s existence beyond the time it had until the enemy arrived. The probe analyzed filed patents, military expenditures, birth rates, mathematical advancement and space exploration.

The first assessment fell within the margin of error of survival and extinction for humanity. The probe’s programming allowed for limited autonomous decision making (choice being a rare luxury for the probe’s class of artificial intelligence). The probe found itself in a position to choose between ending its mission in the sun’s fire and a mathematically improbable defense of humanity—and the potential compromise of its much larger mission.

Given the rare opportunity to make its own decision, the probe opted to dither. In the week it took to pass into Jupiter’s orbit, the probe took in more data. It scoured the Internet for factors to add to the assessment, but the assessment remained the same: unlikely, but possible. By the time it shot past Mars, the probe still hadn’t made a decision.

As the time to adjust course for Earth or continue into the sun approached, the probe conducted a final scan of cloud storage servers for any new information…and found something interesting.

While the new information made only a negligible impact on the assessment, the probe adjusted course to Earth. It hadn’t traveled all this way for nothing.

In the desert south of Phoenix, Arizona, it landed with no more fanfare than a slight thump and a few startled cows. Then it broke into the local cell network and made a call.

****

Marc Ibarra awoke to his phone ringing at max volume, playing a pop ditty that he hated with vehemence. He rolled off the mattress that lay on the floor and crawled on his hands and knees to where his cell was recharging. His roommate, who paid the majority of their rent and got to sleep on an actual bed, grumbled and let off a slew of slurred insults.

Marc reached his cell and slapped at it until the offending music ended. He blinked sleep from his eyes and tried to focus on the caller’s name on the screen. The only people who’d call at this ungodly hour were his family in Basque country…or maybe Jessica in his applied robotics course wanted a late-night study break.

The name on the screen was “ANSWER ME”.

He closed an eye and reread the name. It was way too early—or too late, depending on one’s point of view—for this nonsense. He turned the ringer off and went back to bed. Sleep was about to claim him when the phone rang again, just as loudly as last time but now with a disco anthem.

“Seriously?” his roommate slurred.

Marc declined the call and powered the phone off. He flopped back on his bed and curled into his blanket. To hell with my first class, he thought. Arizona State University had a lax attendance policy, one which he’d abuse for nights like this.

The cell erupted with big-band music. Marc took his head out from beneath the covers and looked at his phone like it was a thing possessed. The phone vibrated so hard that it practically danced a jig on the floor and the screen flashed “ANSWER ME” over and over again as music blared.

“Dude?” said his roommate, now sitting up in his bed.

Marc swiped the phone off the charging cord and the music stopped. The caller’s name undulated with a rainbow of colors and an arrow appeared on the screen pointing to the button he had to press to answer the call. When did I get this app? he thought.

Marc sighed and left the bedroom, meandering into the hallway bathroom with the grace of a zombie. The battered mattress he slept on played hell with his back and left him stiff every morning. Dropping his boxers, he took a seat on the toilet and answered the call, determined to return this caller’s civility with some interesting background noise.

“What?” he murmured.

“Marc Ibarra. I need to see you.” The voice was mechanical, asexual in its monotone.

“Do you have any frigging idea what time it is? Wait, who the hell is this?”

“You must come to me immediately. We must discuss the mathematical proof you have stored in document title ‘thiscantberight.doc.’”

Marc shot to his feet. The boxers around his ankles tripped him up and he stumbled out of the bathroom and fell against the wall. His elbow punched a hole in the drywall and the cell clattered to the floor.

He scooped the phone back up and struggled to breathe as a sudden asthma attack came over him.

“How…how…?” He couldn’t finish his question until he found his inhaler in the kitchen, mere steps away in the tiny apartment. He took a deep breath from the inhaler and felt the tightness leave his lungs.

That someone knew of his proof was impossible. He’d finished it earlier that night and had encrypted it several times before loading it into a cloud file that shouldn’t have been linked to him in any way.

“How do you know about that?” he asked.

“You must come to me immediately. There is little time. Look at your screen,” the robotic voice said. His screen changed to a map program, displaying a pin in an open field just off the highway connecting Phoenix to the suburb of Maricopa.

“Come. Now.”

Marc grabbed his keys.

****

An hour later, his jeans ripped from scaling a barbed-wire fence, Marc was surrounded by desert scrub. The blue of the morning rose behind him, where his beat-up Honda waited on the side of the highway.

With his cell to his ear, Marc stopped and looked around before deciding how to continue. Spiked ocotillo plants looked a lot like benign mesquite trees in the darkness. A Native American casino in the distance served as his North Star, helping him keep his bearings.

“You’re not out here, are you? I’m being punked, aren’t I?” he asked the mysterious caller.

“You are nine point two six meters to my east south east. Punk: decayed wood, used as tinder. Are you on fire?” the caller said.

Marc rolled his eyes. This wasn’t the first time the caller had used the nonstandard meanings of words during what passed as conversation between the two. Marc had tried to get the caller to explain how he knew about his theorem and why they had to meet in the middle of the desert. The caller had refused to say anything. He would only reiterate that Marc had to come quickly to see him, chiding him every time Marc deviated from the provided driving directions.

“If you’re so close, why can’t I see you?” he asked. He took a few steps in what he thought was a northwesterly direction and squished into a cow patty.

“Continue,” the caller said.

Marc shook his foot loose and tried to kick the cow leavings from his sneakers.

“You know what this is? This is exactly what’s all over my shoes, you monotone bastard. Forget it!” Marc shoved his phone into his back pocket and limped back toward his car, his right foot squishing with each step.

The route back to his car was comparatively easy; he just had to walk toward his headlights. That was the plan, anyway, until the lights on his car shut off.

“Marc, this is important.” The muffled words came from his pocketed cell.

“How are you doing this?” Marc shouted into the night.

“Turn around, please.”

Marc did as asked and a silver light like the snap of a reflection from a fish twisting just beneath the water flared on the ground ahead of him. No one was there a moment ago and Marc hadn’t heard any movement.

“I swear if I get my kidneys cut out I will be so pissed about this,” Marc said as he made his way to where he saw the light. He stood for a moment, then flopped his arms against his sides. “I’m here.”

“You’re standing on me.” The voice came from beneath Marc’s feet.

Marc skipped aside like he’d just heard a rattlesnake’s warning.

“Holy—did someone bury you? Why didn’t you tell me to bring a shovel?” Marc went to his knees and poked at the ground, which felt solid. “How deep are you? Do you have enough air?” Marc asked, using both hands to shove earth aside.

“Two inches ahead and three down.”

Marc’s face contorted in confusion as he kept digging. He moved a mound of gray dirt and pebbles aside and a silver light washed over his face.

A silver needle no more than three inches long rested in the dirt. Tiny filaments of lambent energy crept from the needle and undulated through the air like a snake in the ocean. Marc was frozen in place, his jaw slack as the filaments extended away from the needle, shades of white swimming in and around it.

“We don’t have much time.” The words came from the needle in the same mechanical voice as his mysterious caller. A point of light appeared in the air above the needle, sparked, and then lit into a flame no bigger than he’d seen on a match head. The white flame, which gave off no heat, rose and grew in size. A flame the size of Marc’s head came to a stop a few feet in the air.

Marc, transfixed by the flame until now, got to his feet. The filaments from the needle had extended past him and formed a perimeter ten yards in diameter. Tendrils of energy writhed against each other and against an invisible boundary. His heart pounded in his ears and his innate fight-or-flight instinct made a decision.

“This is a different experience for you. Let me—”

Marc turned and ran away. He got to where the tendrils had stopped and ran into what felt like a wall of water. Air thickened around him as he tried to push through and find purchase on the ground ahead. It felt like he was moving through clay.

“Marc, you’re being ridiculous.” The air hardened and spat him back toward the flame. Marc tripped over his own feet and tumbled to the ground. He snapped back to his feet and looked for a way, anyway, to put some distance between him and the flame.

The flame, white on silver or silver on white—Marc couldn’t tell as it morphed in the air—floated toward him slowly.

Marc made the sign of the cross with two fingers and looked away. He heard a sigh.

“Look at me.” The flame, again.

Marc opened an eye. The flame was a few inches from his hands but he still felt no heat.

“I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help you. Understand?” The flame bobbed in the air gently until Marc nodded. “I am an emissary from an alien intelligence sent to save your species from extinction and I need your help to do it.”

Marc pointed a finger at the flame and tried to touch it. His fingertip passed into the flame’s surface without sensation.

“I thought unsolicited physical contact was against your species’ norms,” said the flame, the tendrils rustling with the words.

Marc snapped his hand back.

“Did you say something about…extinction?” The flame bobbed in the air. “How? Why?”

“An armada is coming.” The flame morphed into an oblong shape with a half dozen tendrils sticking from it, like a misshapen spider. “They are the Xaros and they will annihilate your species with ease. Unless you and I work together, your extinction is assured,” the flame said, floating closer to Marc, who stood dumbfounded. The flame came so close that he could see his reflection on it. Deep blue motes of light sprang from the flame and evaporated in the air.

“Why me? What am I supposed to do about an alien armada? I’m a B-minus grad student with a mountain of student loans, not some…some world leader!”

The probe returned to flames and a hologram of a white paper popped into the air next to it. Pages flipped open from the book, the mathematical proof he’d finished the night before.

“We expected that your species would have progressed to the edge of your solar system by now. To see such potential squandered on wars and Internet cat videos was disheartening, but this is well beyond what you should be capable of. The advancements you discovered in material science and energy storage are a springboard to technological advancement that will give you a 27 percent chance of survival, provided everything goes as planned. We can start here.” The proof stopped with the picture of a lattice of carbon atoms. The last page had the words “No way!!!!” scrawled next to the diagram.

“I don’t understand,” Marc said.

“You will, but we need to get started right away.”

“How much time do we have?”

“Sixty years.”

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Table of Contents

Prologue

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

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

An excerpt from the next novel, The Tyr: Ordeal

From the Author

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