STARSHIP FREEDOM VI

In Pursuit of Freedom

by

Daniel Arenson

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

AFTERWORD

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

KEEP IN TOUCH

Illustration © Tom Edwards - TomEdwardsDesign.com

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CHAPTER ONE

"We found them," King whispered. "There they are. Right ahead."

Rarely did the famous Admiral James "Bulldog" King, veteran of the Third World War, bane of the rah empire, tear up. But now awe flowed through him, dampening his eyes.

The commanders of the starship Freedom stood on the bridge, gazing at the viewport. The younger officers stood slack-jawed. A few were rubbing their eyes. Sergeant Major Darjeeling placed his naval cap against his chest, and tears clung to his white mustache like dew. Even Mimori, the android, peered at the viewport with true wonder.

King continued speaking, voice raspy. "For the first time, we explored the depths of space and did not find terror. We found an alien civilization. We found the Aeolians. And we found hope."

There ahead it floated. A hidden world. A vast sphere of darkness, nearly invisible in space. The black surface even shone with fake stars. Perfect camouflage. An alien world hiding in plain sight.

And it was beautiful. Human eyes would not see it. Not even this close. But now that the Freedom knew it was there, her sensors augmented the image on the viewport. The Aeolian world shone like a glass sphere in the ocean depths, kissed with beads of starlight.

Mimori stepped closer. Lines of code ran across her artificial eyes. The war had ravaged her, stripping the synthetic skin off half her face, revealing the chrome skull beneath. Her left eyeball was fully exposed, moving on a metal stalk. The lines of code vanished from her eyes, and she looked at King.

"Sir, according to my calculations, this sphere is five hundred and twelve kilometers in diameter. Estimated mass is unknown. Energy output is … trivial." The android tilted her head. "There's no radiation. No magnetic field. No heat. It's almost like looking at a hologram. I'm tempted to say it's not actually there."

"Oh, it's there all right," King said. "The Aeolians suffered greatly in their war against the rahs. We found one of their planets in ruin. The other wasn't even in ruin—it was blown away. I think our Aeolian friends became good at hiding. They had to."

A few glances passed among the crew.

King knew why. Something about all this bugged him too. The Freedom had flown a thousand light-years to this star system, seeking the legendary Aeolians. According to the ancient scrolls, the fabled Aeolian civilization had defeated the rahs in war. The only species who ever had. King hoped to learn from them, to discover how humanity too could triumph over the spiders. The rahs had been ravaging Earth, and King needed to know how to crush them.

He had hoped to find a great, sprawling civilization, flying free and proud. Instead, he found ruined planets and a species in hiding. Were Aeolians not the great warriors he had imagined?

Before he could contemplate that further, it happened.

A hatch began opening on the colossal, camouflaged sphere.

The Freedom hovered only ten thousand klicks away. Standing on the bridge, they watched. The hatch was round, dilating like an iris. Light shone from within, washing over the Freedom. When the doorway completed dilating, it was nearly a kilometer in diameter. Large enough for a dreadnought to fly through.

Everyone on the bridge squinted, trying to peer into the sphere. But the light was too bright.

"A doorway?" said Jordan, second-in-command of the starship Freedom. He was a tall man of sixty years, his skin dark brown, his hair snowy white. He was King's oldest, closest friend. "My God, Jim. That sphere is hollow."

King narrowed his eyes to slits, but he still couldn't see much. "Mimori, dim the light."

"Yes, sir," the android replied.

The view dimmed. The Freedom's central viewport dominated an entire bulkhead, streaming video feeds from an array of sophisticated sensors on the hull. But the Aeolian sphere was big and dark, and the hatch was small and bright. King still couldn't see much. The bright spot had appeared in the sphere like a glowing pupil in a black eyeball. King stepped closer, squinting. He detected faint hints of blue and green.

"Increase contrast and zoom in," he said.

Mimori nodded. "Aye, sir."

The android was connected wirelessly to every computer system on the Freedom. With a mere thought, she adjusted the viewport, zooming in on the open hatch.

Gasps sounded across the bridge.

"Trees!" Jordan said, the image reflecting in his eyes. "I see trees. Forests. Lakes. It is hollow. An inside-out world."

"A hidden world," King said. "And ours are the first human eyes to see this wonder." The light danced across his face. A thin smile tickled his lips, cracking his usual frown. "For years, humanity has looked to space, and most saw only vast emptiness, endless darkness, unbearable loneliness. Then we looked to space and we saw the horror of spiders. But the dreamers always knew. There is wonder in space. There is beauty. There is new life. We are as the sailors of old who reached forbidden shores. We chased myth and found a new world. We came to space as soldiers. But today we are explorers."

Jordan raised an eyebrow. "Look at that. Our admiral is a poet."

King looked again through the hatch to the wisps of a world within. Was this an invitation? Was the Freedom to fly inside?

Maybe not. Just then a pale, oval vessel emerged through the hatch. It gleamed like mother-of-pearl. Leaving the gargantuan black sphere, the strange vessel floated toward the Freedom.

King tensed. The sense of awe recoiled to the back of his mind. The old soldier instincts kicked in.

"Shields up," King barked. The bridge hummed as a protective shield formed around the Freedom. "Mimori, run a level-5 ATLAS scan. Give me some data."

In space, the alien vessel paused. The gleaming oval hovered halfway between the Freedom and the Aeolian sphere.

Lines of code ran across Mimori's eyeballs. "Sir, the alien vessel is roughly four meters tall, three meters wide."

King harrumphed. "Not much larger than my garden shed back home. Zoom in a bit more."

The viewport zoomed in on the oval. The surface was smooth. King saw no windows, no doors, no sensors. It might as well be a floating egg. A drone? A probe? Perhaps a shuttle with a cleverly hidden opening?

"Mimori, open a hailing frequency," King said. "And translate my English to the language of rahs. They answered our last message in Rah. Let's see if we can resume the conversation."

Jordan shuddered. "I hate hearing those clicking and hissing sounds."

"Same," King said. "But like it or not, the rahs dominate the Orion Arm of the Milky Way. Their language is the lingua franca of the galaxy."

The android tapped on her workstation. "Hailing frequency open, sir, and we're all ready to translate."

King cleared his throat. "Aeolian vessel! Hello. This is Admiral James King from aboard the starship Freedom."

He spoke in English, but the computer was translating his words to the hisses, clatters, and clicks of rahs. Both humans and Aeolians had fought those alien arachnids. Both knew the foul arachnid language.

Ironic that we must communicate in the tongue of our shared enemy, King thought.

For a moment—silence.

Then came a reply. At first King heard only clicks and clatters and hisses. Then the translation software kicked in.

"—before entering our home. We would like to greet you in person, Admiral James King of Earth. May our shuttle board your mothership?"

King missed the first part of that. But he understood enough.

"One moment please," King said. He then turned toward his crew. He sent the officers a private, telepathic message. "So … they want to scope us out before inviting us in for tea. Any concerns?"

Lieutenant Commander Gal "Spitfire" Levy, the newest bridge officer, squared her shoulders. She replied telepathically. "Yes, sir, I do. Allowing aliens aboard poses a significant security threat."

King looked at her. Gal was a young woman, not yet forty, and like a daughter to him. He had watched her grow from plucky war orphan to starfighter pilot—and now a bridge officer. Someday he hoped she could inherit the Freedom. But first she must soften some of her rough edges. Spitfire had spent her life fighting a war, and to such a woman, everything seemed like a battle.

"I agree, Spitfire," King telepathized. "We'll send a platoon of marines to guard their entry. Would that be satisfactory, do you think?"

She pursed her lips, then nodded briskly. Jordan, Darjeeling, and Mimori all nodded too, tacitly accepting the proposal.

King turned back to the viewport, which was still showing the oval vessel. He spoke aloud again. "Of course, friends. We would be happy to host you. My crew will open an airlock on our port hull. We'll surround the airlock with lights to guide you in."

He hoped the software could translate that properly. Did Aeolians even understand concepts like ports and airlocks?

After a moment of silence, the reply came. "Yes. We will meet you there. We request …" A pause. For a moment King only heard clicks and clatters again. Then the translation software kicked back in. "Twenty-one minutes and thirteen seconds to prepare."

An oddly specific number. But Aeolians probably used different time units than humans. While time existed everywhere in the galaxy, measurements like hours, minutes, and seconds were arbitrary. The number was probably round for Aeolians but humorously specific once translated into human units.

King nodded. "I'll see you there. Twenty-one minutes and thirteen seconds."

The transmission cut off.

"They seem friendly," Jordan said. "And punctual."

"Yes." King nodded. "But let's stay on our toes. We don't know anything about them. We could accidentally cause an intergalactic incident. Let's tread carefully."

King checked the time. The airlock was a good distance from the bridge. And King wanted to change first.

"Jordan, join me in the airlock," King said. "Spitfire?"

He looked at her. Spitfire still looked uncomfortable in the service uniform of a bridge officer. The navy-blue jacket sported polished cuff links, service ribbons, and the newly minted insignia of a commander. The tall brunette kept fidgeting with the brass buckles and buttons, clearly missing her baggy flight suit. Until recently, she had been a starfighter pilot, and they all still called her by her call sign. But climbing the ranks meant leaving her flying days behind, replacing the private cockpit of a starfighter with the busy bridge of a dreadnought. Spitfire, the plucky pilot who had grown up on the rough streets of war-torn Israel, was now third-in-command of the starship Freedom.

"Yes, sir?" she said.

"You're a commander-class officer now," King said. "I want you with me in the hangar to greet our guests."

She nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Parade whites," King said.

Spitfire's jaw dropped. "I'm already wearing a fancy uniform!"

"Sorry, Spitfire. I know you're used to a flight suit. But there's one level of discomfort above a bridge uniform, and you're about to experience it. We're all going to doll up today." King glanced over at Darjeeling. "Oliver, old boy! You're with us too."

Sergeant Major Oliver Darjeeling, the senior NCO aboard the Freedom, snapped to attention and saluted. His white mustache bristled. "My honor, sir." He grinned. "Finally a chance to dress up."

King smiled. Good old Darjeeling. The man had been fighting with King since the Third World War. Over forty years now. Whenever King faced battle, Darjeeling stood at his side.

"And invite the queen," King said to his old friend. "This ceremony deserves some royalty."

* * * * *

Twenty minutes wasn't a lot of time to dress up and walk through a dreadnought the size of Freedom. But they were all soldiers. They were used to rushing. Only sixteen minutes after the call, King and crew stood in hangar A2, dressed to the nines, waiting for their guests.

Perhaps getting dressed up was pointless. The parade uniforms were purest white, adorned with golden cuff links and gilded buttons. It made them look like Disney royalty. They even wore ceremonial sabers on their hips. They normally only whipped out these uniforms once or twice a year for important ceremonies.

Could the Aeolians even distinguish between service uniforms and parade uniforms? Hell, they probably couldn't tell tracksuits from tuxedos. But the hangar cameras were filming all this. It was a historic moment. King wanted to treat it with all the dignity he could muster. Schoolchildren would be watching this video for generations to come. The outfits were more for the humans than the Aeolians.

Still, he must admit that Spitfire had a point. The nicer the uniform, the less comfortable it was. King gave his shirt a little tug and grumbled under his breath.

"What's a matter, old man?" Jordan said. His second-in-command stood at his side, tall and regal. His white hair matched the uniform.

"My uniform is a bit tight," King admitted. "Must have shrunk in the laundry."

Jordan snorted. "Or you've been eating too many cheeseburgers."

King frowned and pointed at his XO accusingly. "There's no such thing as too many cheeseburgers."

He was pointing with his metal finger. The entire left hand was a creaking, jagged prosthetic, reminiscent of a medieval gauntlet. It suddenly seemed hideous to King, a metallic monstrosity, contrasting with his fine uniform. Good. It made him like the prosthetic even more. Even in this soft uniform, he hadn't lost his steel.

"Two more minutes until our guests arrive," Mimori said. She too wore parade whites. Women aboard the Freedom could choose between skirts and trousers. Mimori had chosen the trousers. She wore all the frills—gilded buttons, service ribbons, medals—but no insignia. Mimori was not an officer under his command. She was a living part of the ship. She was here representing the Freedom.

The deckhands had hurriedly made room in the hangar. Eagle starfighters had been wheeled aside, clearing the center of the deck. Normally, two hundred Eagles docked inside Freedom, occupying four entire decks, crammed so close you could barely walk between them. But these were not normal days. Freedom had just fought a devastating battle against the Tyranny, an arachtaur dreadnought. A battle? It felt like a whole damn war.

The arachtaurs were hideous hybrids, woven of human and rah DNA. From the waist up, they looked like diseased humans. From the waist down, they were massive alien spiders. The creatures had pummeled the Freedom. Their mothership, the Tyranny, had bitten off half of Freedom's starboard beam. The spiderwings, their dreaded starfighters, had destroyed many of Freedom's Eagles.

So now there was room in the hangar. And a thousand of Freedom's spacers were dead. Ten percent of their crew. Tyranny had decimated them.

It was the hardest battle King had ever fought. He had led a fleet of five ships here to the Aeolia system. Only Freedom remained, and she was hurt. Badly.

But if he could forge an alliance with the Aeolians, or at least learn their secrets, these deaths would gain meaning. He could fly home to Earth, armed with knowledge, and prepare for the battles ahead.

With one minute to go, the hangar door swooshed open behind King. He turned to see Emily, Queen of England, enter the hangar.

King rarely smiled. Rarely? Practically never. Today he smiled twice. First when seeing the Aeolian sphere. Now when seeing Emily enter the hangar.

The queen did not wear a gown nor tiara. She wore parade whites like the rest of them. The insignia of an ensign, one golden bar, adorned each of her shoulders. A lowly rank. But young and low-ranking as she was, Emily exuded royalty. It was the way she carried herself. The way her blue eyes observed the room with cold strength. Even those who might not recognize her face would recognize her authority.

King thought back to that day nearly three years ago. Christmas, 2199. Emily had come aboard the Freedom as a tourist. A VIP guest, yes, but a tourist nonetheless. He still remembered the teenage princess, naive and pampered perhaps, but also intelligent and curious.

That same day, the war had come.

The terrible alien invasion.

The rahs had struck Earth. Bombing cities. Wiping out landmarks. Murdering millions. The palaces of Great Britain had burned in the alien fire, the royal family with them. King had taken in the orphaned princess, sheltered her, nurtured her. Today she was not only the last of her house, a queen in exile. She was a soldier. She was a proud spacer aboard the starship Freedom. To King, she was like a daughter.

She met his gaze, and the regal blue iciness melted from her eyes. They filled with spring's warmth. She gave him a shy smile. King winked at her.

As usual, everywhere that Emily went, her little drone was sure to go. Niles floated in after Emily, his motors buzzing like hummingbird wings. The drone was about the size and shape of a football. Normally, his silver shell glittered with jewels. But the war had not been kind to poor old Niles. Most of his gemstones were missing, and his silver casing was charred and dented.

Still, his sordid appearance apparently did not curb his aristocratic disdain. "Good heavens, you're holding a reception for guests here?" The drone's little cameras looked around like eyes. "Might as well invite the Aeolians into the garbage compactor. Where is the red carpet? Where are the chandeliers? And can nobody hang up a tapestry or two? Good heavens, look over there. That deckhand isn't even wearing a tuxedo." The drone shuddered. "I certainly hope the Aeolians are more civilized than you humans. For too long, I've suffered the indignity of you classless meat sacs, and—"

"Niles, hush!" Emily whispered. "The guests are about to arrive."

The young queen took position at King's side. Normally, an ensign would be in a bunk with the other grunts. But as Queen of England, she stood here with the high command. It wasn't fair, perhaps. King wasn't even British. And the Aeolians were certainly not British. But he wanted Emily here nonetheless. She had spent her early life welcoming guests from foreign lands into her palace. King wasn't sure how well that would translate toward aliens, but if anyone aboard the Freedom was trained for diplomacy, it was Emily.

Monitors hung on the bulkheads, showing a view from outside. The egg-shaped shuttle was approaching the airlock. Lights shone around the outer hatch, inviting the Aeolians.

Exactly twenty-one minutes and thirteen seconds after their call, the Aeolian shuttle entered the airlock. Punctual indeed.

King glanced at his crew. They all stood in a row, facing the airlock's inner hatch, which was still closed. Commander Larry "Phantom" Jordan, the seasoned XO of the ship. Lieutenant Commander Gal "Spitfire" Levy, the future of the Freedom. Mimori, the brain of the ship. Sergeant Major Oliver Darjeeling, the Freedom's heart. Emily, Queen of the White Rose, a symbol of Earth's past and future hope.

Off to one side stood a platoon of marines, providing security. They too wore parade whites. Alice Allenby-King stood among them, rifle in hand. She looked at King and gave the slightest of smiles.

A telepathic message appeared in King's mind.

"I'm here for you, Pops."

Alice gave the briefest of winks. King nodded at her. She wasn't just his daughter-in-law. She was also the senior NCO of the Freedom Brigade, the ship's marine force, and among its deadliest warriors. King wasn't expecting trouble. But if trouble surprised them, King could think of no finer soldier to fight at his side.

This crew is a family, King thought. Some were literally family, like Alice. Others were like family, and King loved them just as much. He had known some of these spacers all their lives. Some he had served with in the great world war four decades ago. Yes—this was a family.

Bay Boss Lee Eun-Yu stepped toward the airlock. A working woman, she wore a simple overall, and a hardhat topped her head. She coned her gloved hands around her mouth and let out a holler: "Airlock—open!"

For a petite Korean woman, she had a deafening voice. It was all King could do not to wince. Eun-Yu must have a megaphone implanted in her throat.

Deckhands tapped at workstations.

Ringed with light, the airlock's inner door slid open.

The alien vessel floated into the starship Freedom.

* * * * *

It was shaped like an egg and bright like a pearl. The Aeolian vessel glided into the hangar, hovering a meter over the ground. The humans stood, waiting. They were tense. They all were. King felt it in the air.

This would be a watershed moment in human history. Contact with a new alien civilization. King had fought many battles. Now it was his duty to shepherd humanity to a new horizon.

He wished somebody else were here. He had brought the Mahatma, a ship full of diplomats, with him to Aeolia. The enemy had slain them all. Every other human, aside from the brave spacers of the starship Freedom, was back at Earth. A thousand light-years away. King was not a diplomat. He was not a scientist or philosopher. He was just a soldier. But one thing soldiers were good at. Doing their duty. And to King this duty was sacred.

The alien vessel came to a stop in the center of the hangar. It hovered in midair.

For long moments, nothing happened. The humans did not stir. They stood, staring, waiting. The deckhands had retreated into their offices, but they were peeking through the windows. Eun-Yu had her face pressed against the glass.

Suddenly part of the alien vessel seemed to melt. A portion of the gleaming white hull rippled, slid like wax toward the deck, and left a gaping hole in the oval shuttle. The liquid metal solidified again, forming a ramp down to the deck.

Spitfire's eyes widened.

"Wow," she whispered, breaking protocol. "That was cool."

A boulder rolled out the Aeolian vessel, down the ramp, and across the deck. It came to a stop ahead of the human delegation.

King frowned, staring at the boulder. It was gray, craggy, and about the size of an exercise ball.

Something tickled King's mind. Emily was sending him a telepathic message.

"This is no boulder," the young queen said. "It's an Aeolian shell. We saw many empty ones in the ruins of Cleodora. This is a live one. The first live one we've seen. There's an Aeolian inside."

A second Aeolian emerged from the strange shuttle and rolled down the ramp. This Aeolian was different. Its shell was smooth and gleaming, not craggy, and it was smaller, roughly the size of a beach ball. The new Aeolian rolled to a stop beside its larger, lumpier brethren.

Not a moment later, a third Aeolian rolled down the ramp. A mosaic of gleaming crystals encrusted its shell.

"Ah, finally some class!" Niles said, admiring the crystalline shell. "Now this is a proper lifeform." He floated a little closer. "Greetings, fellow gemstone aficionado! I apologize for the dreadful state of the humans' starship. I assure you, I have nothing to do with them. I am Niles, a superior intelligence from the planet E—"

Emily grabbed the drone and pulled him back, her cheeks flushing. "Hush, Niles!"

The three Aeolians stood there on the deck, facing the humans. Well, perhaps "stood" was a misnomer. Their legs, if they had any, were still hiding in their shells. Three round shells. One craggy, one smooth, one jeweled.

A boulder, a bowling ball, and a disco ball, King thought.

The humans stood still, just watching the three shells. A few glances passed back and forth. The aliens just stayed there, doing nothing.

King's MindLink buzzed. A message from Spitfire. "Don't you hate awkward silences?"

King cleared his throat and spoke in a loud voice. Speaking loudly was always a struggle for him. Even forty years after his neck wound, his throat hurt most days. But he gave it his best, raspy try. "Welcome, friends, to the starship Freedom! I am Admiral James King. I welcome you aboard."

The rocks just sat there, silent.

"Awkward!" Spitfire telepathized.

Suddenly, with a clatter that startled everyone, a lid slid open on the bejeweled shell. Green tentacles emerged, no longer than human fingers, tipped with blue bulbs like marbles. The slender digits flailed in the air. The smooth shell opened a lid too. More tentacles emerged and twitched.

The tentacles retreated into both shells, and the lids snapped shut.

"What was that?" Spitfire telepathized, this time broadcasting the words to all the humans on the deck, not just King.

"Maybe they were doing what we're doing," Emily replied. "Telepathizing."

King cleared his throat again, prepared to say more. Before he could speak, one of the shells rolled closer. The one covered with crystals. It came very close to King. Close enough that he could reach out and touch the shell. The marines rushed forward, raising their guns. King waved them back.

"It's fine, Alice," he telepathized. "Stand down."

Reluctantly the marines returned to their positions, though Alice kept her finger on the trigger.

The crystalline shell sat before King. Then several hatches opened across it with a series of thunks.

Five legs emerged from the bottom, pushing the shell upward. Green and muscular, the legs were arranged in a pentagon. Each leg ended with a foot with three sturdy toes. The creature took a step closer. No more rolling now.

"Sir—" Alice began.

"It's all right," King telepathized to the marine.

The crystalline shell stood before King on its five legs. Another hatch opened, this one on the top. The same hatch the tentacles had emerged from earlier. But this time, a head emerged, balanced atop a gangly neck.

The head was relatively small, not much larger than a newborn baby's head. Emily had studied their skeletons on their ruined homeworld, and King remembered her hypothesis. The Aeolians likely kept their brains inside their shells, and their heads were sophisticated sensory organs, not thinking organs. That would explain their small, brittle skulls.

The alien's little head turned to and fro, revealing three equidistant eyes. The creature seemed to have 360-degree vision. At least, King thought those were eyes. They looked similar to eyes found on Earth and Arakavish. Quite likely, eyes were an evolutionary constant, found on many—if not all—worlds with life. Even on Earth, they had evolved independently several times.

The other organs were harder to identify. Stubby little stalks grew below the eyes, tipped with cones. Perhaps ears? The tentacles King had seen earlier rose atop the head like hair. King wasn't sure what those tentacles did. He saw no mouth.

The eyes blinked. The alien was looking at King. The head tilted forward. A crease on the cranium widened, revealing teeth and a slender tongue. Ah, there was the mouth. On top of the head.

The creature spoke. This time the translation software on King's MindLink didn't even activate. The alien was speaking English.

"Hello … humans." The speech was haltering. "My ka'til … what you would call name … is Sel'ton'ref'tra. I am … male old. Welcome to . . . what you would call … Aeolia. Do you … know?"

King thought for a moment. Know what? Then he realized what the alien was probably asking.

"Yes. I can understand you. Sel …" King hesitated, then quickly rewound the video his MindLink was recording. "Sel'ton'ref'tra. I understand you perfectly. I too am an old male."

The alien bobbed his head. "Forgive … me. We … do not … normally communicate with … vibrations in … air. What you call … speech. Only with … our juveniles … whose tentacles are … fresh. I will . . . try harder."

The Aeolian closed his mouth and raised his head, seeming proud of his words. At least the raised head reminded King of pride. Aeolians probably had different body language, so King might be misinterpreting. For all he knew, among Aeolians, a raised head was a sign of shame.

"How do you speak English?" King said.

Sel'ton'ref'tra lowered his head, revealing the mouth on the cranium, and spoke again. "We … have been … watching you. Listening to … you. Since you … entered … our daylight arrangement."

"Daylight arrangement?" King said.

"Forgive me! I … still clumsy in … vibrations. I mean … star system."

King raised his eyebrows. "We've only been here for a few weeks. You learned English in a few weeks?"

"Forgive me! We are … slow to learn vibrations … as adults. Our … juveniles learn … vibrations faster."

King had to pause for a moment, overwhelmed.

This is incredible, he thought. I'm actually communicating with an alien lifeform.

The gravity of the situation flowed over him. This moment would echo across human history.

He wanted to get to business, to tell this alien about Earth's war against the rahs, to request aid. But not yet. King was no statesman, but even he knew he had to ease into this.

Before he could say more, another Aeolian shell rolled closer. It was the smooth, polished one, which reminded King of a giant bowling ball. Hatches opened. Legs emerged, then a head.

This Aeolian looked a little different. It had blue skin, not green. The eyes were narrower, yellow, and shrewd. Something about this creature—the way it looked around the room, head raised—seemed imperial. But again, King could be misreading Aeolian body language.

The smooth-shelled Aeolian looked at the humans and sniffed, seemingly in disdain. Then it spoke to Sel'ton'ref'tra.

"They are like babies!" the smooth shell said.

"They are old males," said Sel'ton'ref'tra. "Like us."

"They are nothing like us! They cannot even speak with tentacles. Just babies!" The smooth shell turned toward the humans. Nostrils flared open above his eyes, snorting. "Do you want mushed sustenance?"

King glanced at his crew. They glanced back. Alice raised an eyebrow.

King looked back at the blue Aeolian with the smooth shell. "Forgive me, sir. We humans can communicate telepathically too. But we use a different mechanism than your tentacles. For now we'll have to speak with sounds." He smiled thinly. "Like babies."

The smooth-shelled Aeolian stepped right up to King and raised a foot. The toes ended with sharp claws.

Alice rushed forward, aiming her rifle.

The third Aeolian in the room, the big craggy boulder, rolled closer menacingly. The deck shook.

"Alice, stand down!" King said.

Sel'ton'ref'tra, the crystalline Aeolian, flailed his tentacles toward the jagged big shell. That third Aeolian, which hadn't yet revealed its head, rolled backward. It must be the muscle.

The imperial, smooth-shelled Aeolian seemed to notice none of this. Yellow eyes blazing, the alien tapped King on the chest with a clawed toe. Not hard enough to cut him. But forceful enough to make a statement.

"We will see," said the alien. "My ka'til is Gor'ba'rosh'na. Among my many duties, I am a judge. I not yet judged you. But I will."

Interesting, King thought. Maybe Aeolians came in a variety of colors and shell patterns. Or perhaps they were divided into several castes or subspecies. The crystalline ones with green skin. The ones with smooth shells and blue skin. Finally the big jagged ones, which King had not yet seen outside their shells. So far he liked the crystalline ones best.

Their names were long and complicated, so King decided to give them nicknames, at least for his own use. The crystalline Aeolian, named Sel'ton'ref'tra, would be Selly. The gruff, smooth judge, Gor'ba'rosh'na, would be Gorba. Easier for King to remember. He didn't know what the big rough one was named. For now King just thought of him as the bodyguard.

King's throat was already sore. The old wound was bugging him today. The rest of his body wasn't much better. His parade uniform was fresh and fine, but beneath it, he was banged up and bandaged. King shoved the pain aside. He'd hurt later. This moment was too monumental for pain.

"My friends," he said, holding his hands out toward the Aeolians. "I would like to invite you to a feast tonight aboard the starship Freedom. In your honor. My chef would be glad to serve you the finest food in—"

The Aeolians recoiled.

Gorba made choking sounds. Even Selly, who had been a lot more phlegmatic until now, winced and his tentacles wilted. The big lumpy Aeolian rumbled closer, threatening to roll over the humans.

"How dare you!" Gorba demanded. "Impudent child!"

King blinked.

"What did I say?" he telepathized to his officers. "Emily, any idea?"

The young queen was pale. She shook her head. The marines tensed and raised their rifles, but they held their fire.

"I apologize if I offended you," King said to the Aeolians. "I was attempting to honor you."

"Honor us!" Gorba roared. "With … with …" His voice dropped. "With foul eating?" The alien gagged.

Selly stepped closer. His tentacles wobbled, perhaps sending telepathic messages to his companions. He turned his mouth toward King.

"Admiral King, a misunderstanding," said the crystalline Aeolian. "In our world, eating sustenance is taboo. Unless one is a baby, it is done only in private. Even now, my claws lengthen to speak of it."

King glanced down at the alien's toes. The claws were indeed lengthening, scratching the deck. Perhaps an evolutionary defense mechanism similar to human goose bumps.

"Again, I apologize," King said. "I'm sure we have many cultural differences. And many things to learn from one another."

Gorba snorted. His tentacles flopped around, and he glared at Selly. The crystalline Aeolian seemed to wilt. He was probably being chastised telepathically. King could imagine how it was going. Something about how the humans were disgusting babies who eat in public.

King sent his own telepathic message, this time to his android. "Mimori, do we have any sensors that can intercept the Aeolian telepathy?"

Mimori stared ahead calmly, giving no exterior sign that she heard him. But her voice spoke in his mind. "Yes, sir. The cameras across our hangar are detecting infrared radiation emitting from the Aeolian tentacles."

"Good. Log it, then analyze it. Begin working on a translation to English. I want to know what they're saying behind our backs."

Perhaps spying was not an auspicious start to this relationship. But King needed to tread carefully here. He still wasn't sure if the Aeolians were friends or foes. Perhaps it depended on the caste. A little eavesdropping, if not exactly honorable, was nevertheless circumspect. It involved some bending of his morals, more than he normally liked. Given the stakes, King deemed it necessary. The very survival of humanity was on the line. King would do whatever he could to forge an alliance with this mysterious race and learn how to defeat their common enemy.

"I'm working on it already, sir," Mimori said. "I'll need to record a lot more of their conversations, however."

King noticed Selly looking at him with one eye. The eye was narrowed. Calculating.

Does he know we're telepathizing about him? King thought. He can probably guess as much at least. We're both uncertain. Cautious. But also curious. I think we're both ready to proceed.

The Aeolian tentacles stilled. Selly wobbled toward King again, his argument with Gorba concluded.

"Admiral King," the Aeolian said. Already he was sounding more confident in English. "I have discussed with the …" He hesitated for a moment. "He is what you would call in English a politician. I am what you might call a … thinker."

"And the big guy at the back is a soldier," King said, gesturing toward the large, silent shell. That one still hadn't revealed its face.

Selly wobbled his head around like a tetherball. Perhaps the Aeolian way of nodding? "Yes. That one is a warrior. There are workers too, though they remain in the colony. Politicians govern, manage, and judge. Thinkers think, learn, and create. Workers toil, build, and obey. Warriors …" He hesitated.

"Wage war?" King suggested.

"You have many questions," Selly said, clearly dodging the question. "Too many for me to answer here. We invite you into our colony. We will show you our world. Perhaps will even attempt to repair your ship. There would be a great cultural exchange. A chance to learn and to think deep thoughts."

Excitement tingled through King. To see a living, thriving Aeolian world! He had seen only Aeolian ruins so far, never the real thing.

"My friend, I would be—" King began.

Gorba stepped closer, making angry, guttural noises. "Beware, humans! I have not yet judged you. More politicians will examine you. And we will determine whether you are friends or foes. You may come into our colony. If we judge you friends, you may leave. If we judge you foes, you will be … disposed."

"And you say I'm cranky," King telepathized to Jordan.

"Even you've met your match, old man," Jordan telepathized back.

King thought about the situation for a moment. He could enter Aeolia, speak to the Aeolians on their own turf, and hopefully forge an alliance. Maybe even friendship. Such a friendship could save Earth. The risk? The politicians "disposing" of him. King wasn't sure what that meant, but it couldn't be too good.

He had to take the chance.

"I'll join you in your colony," he said. "May I bring a few of my people?"

"I'll go with you," Jordan telepathized.

Soon everyone in the hangar was sending him telepathic messages, volunteering to join.

Gorba's mouth opened and closed like a valve, producing gurgling, smacking sounds. Perhaps he was laughing. "Like a baby, you do not understand! If one enters our colony, you all enter. Every last human. This entire ship. We intend to judge you all. And if need be, dispose of you all."

Movement caught King's eye. On the viewport above the airlock, he saw it happen. The circular hatch in the Aeolian sphere widened, revealing more of the world within. The Aeolians weren't just inviting King to join them via shuttle. They were welcoming the entire starship Freedom into the inner sanctum.

Well then. So King would have to put the lives of his entire crew on the line. Nine thousand souls. King wished he could consult with Godwin, the Alliance high commander. The old man was wise. But he was also a thousand light-years away. It was up to King.

Nine thousand souls. It was a lot to risk. Nine thousand people he cared deeply about. But if they failed to find help here at Aeolia, billions of humans might die back home.

He made up his mind. "We accept your invitation."

"Fantastical!" said Selly.

Gorba only glared at the humans, huffed, and returned into his shell. He rolled back toward his oval shuttle. The big, craggy boulder followed, still nameless.

"Would you care to stay aboard the Freedom as our guest, Sel'ton'ref'tra?" King said. He could use a friendly liaison aboard.

"I would be … as you say, honored." The alien lowered his head, revealing the round mouth on the top. It looked more like a lamprey mouth than a human one, but Selly actually attempted to smile.

Spitfire cringed. "Yikes," she telepathized to King.

The smile was indeed hideous, but at least Selly was trying.

"Come now," Selly said. "Let us fly into the colony. Welcome, humans! Welcome to our home."

CHAPTER TWO

Dented, battered, barely holding together, the Freedom limped toward the Aeolian colony. The hatch shone ahead, a circle of light on the gargantuan dark sphere, welcoming them into a new world.

"Fascinating!" Mimori said. "Sir, my sensors are picking up more information. The entire outer shell of this sphere is artificial, built from sophisticated graphene composite structures reinforced with metallic nano matrices. Carbon and iron allotropes are arranged in ultra-hard honeycomb lattices that do not exist in nature. This isn't a natural moon they hollowed out."

"It's a space station," King said.

"More than that," said Mimori. "It's a megastructure. Straight out of science fiction."

The android stood on the bridge beside King. The light from the viewport shone in her eyes and reflected on the exposed, chrome half of her ravaged face. The war had pounded Mimori like it pounded the Freedom. It was, in many ways, hard to know where starship ended and android began. Their computers, their very thoughts, maybe even their souls were linked. Android and starship. Humanoid interface and gargantuan dreadnought. They were one, and they were hurt.

But both were still curious, strong, and eager to explore.

"Yes, I've read about megastructures," King said. "They appear throughout science fiction. Dyson spheres, for example—huge structures that enclose an entire star system to harvest its solar energy. Or a ringworld—an enormous ring that spins around a planet, offering living space on its inner surface. There are many other examples envisioned by science fiction authors, ranging from huge disks that cover the ecliptic planes to hollow tubes that flow through space, sheltering biospheres within." King examined the Aeolian sphere that hovered ahead. "This is a shellworld megastructure. Not well known in academia, and until now, thought to be purely hypothetical."

"Show off," Jordan said, standing nearby on the bridge. But the tall XO had a smile on his lips. "You're checking Wikipedia Galactica on your MindLink, aren't you?"

The Freedom was moving on thrusters alone, jittering toward the shellworld. Even as they flew so slowly, the hull creaked. A loose strip of armor fell off and floated into the distance. They were losing bolts and gears like a wounded bird shedding feathers with every flap of its wings. A cracked pipe released steam into the emptiness. Loose cables sparked. The Tyranny had nearly destroyed them, biting off entire chunks of hull. The starboard cannons were all gone. So were over a thousand spacers. The Freedom had never been hurt this badly.

So much for making a good first impression, King thought.

Ahead of the Freedom, the oval Aeolian vessel flew through the hatch, entering the colossal shellworld. The vessel was so small it looked like a bee flying through a window.

The Freedom squeezing through would be another matter. She was a large ship. The largest humans flew. The hatch was just big enough to let them in. But it was a tight squeeze. Normally, King would trust Mimori to guide them through the opening without a hitch. He had seen the android fly through some tight spots before. But today the Freedom was limping, many of her thrusters gone. She jolted rather than glided through space.

"Mimori?" King said as Freedom approached the hatch. "Be careful."

"Of course, sir. Always." She flew even closer. "Should be just like sliding a sword into a scabbard. Steady on target."

They flew closer. Closer. The Freedom slowed and steadied her flight. The hatch loomed ahead, leading to the internal world of light and safety.

Suddenly a thruster on the port beam coughed and died. The Freedom veered off target. Proximity alarms blared. They were about to slam into the shellworld, missing the hatch.

"Watch out!" Spitfire cried, voice filling the bridge.

Wincing, Mimori activated the prow thrusters. Steam blasted out, visible on the main viewport, momentarily obscuring their view of the shellworld. The Freedom reversed through space, backing away from the hatch.

King looked at Mimori, one eyebrow raised. "Steady on target, huh?"

The android blushed. At least the cheek that still had synthetic skin. "Maybe I should send out our tugs."

King nodded. "Send them out."

So much for first impressions indeed, he thought with a sigh.

The Freedom carried several tug shuttles in her bay. Usually, King sent them out to retrieve objects from space—a lost starfighter, perhaps, or the body of a dead spacer floating in the void. The Freedom herself was too large to dock at any space station, though sometimes smaller ships used tugs for docking. The little vessels flew out, attached cables to Freedom's prow, and began to tug. For their size, they were enormously powerful. They were basically just engines with cables attached.

Slowly, meter by meter, the Freedom glided toward the hatch … then through it.

Shedding parts, barely spaceworthy, the starship Freedom entered the hollow alien world.

* * * * *

Everyone on the bridge stood silently, gazing in wonder. The viewports streamed live videos from all around.

Light filled the hollow Aeolian sphere. King soon found the source. A glowing orb floated in the shellworld's center like a miniature sun. The light shone through Freedom's viewports, flooding the bridge.

"It's a small star," Mimori said, running scans on her control panel. "Probably artificial. But it seems to actually be fusing hydrogen atoms. It's no larger than a beach ball, but it's emitting massive energy. Enough to power this entire world."

"It looks like an exposed planet core," Jordan said, squinting in the light. "What a thing to see! Though I wish I brought my sunglasses."

To King's surprise, hundreds of asteroids floated inside the hollow sphere. Maybe thousands. They rolled to and fro, sometimes landing on the inner surface of the sphere, sometimes rising. No, not asteroids! Aeolian vessels. They looked like asteroids, but according to Freedom's ATLAS sensors, they were hollow.

Some of these Aeolian vessels were jagged and gray, but others were smooth and pale, and a few glittered with crystals. King remembered what Selly had told him about the Aeolian caste system. Perhaps each caste modeled their vessels to look like their shells.

Several of the craggy ships rose to fly beside the Freedom. They rolled alongside the dreadnought like raging comets wreathed in smoke. King recognized such vessels. He had seen them in the footage Emily took on Cleodora, the ruined Aeolian homeworld.

Those were warships.

The Aeolians were welcoming them, yes, but they were cautious. It sent a chill down King's back. Still, he couldn't blame them. If an alien vessel suddenly arrived at Earth, King would sure as hell send some warships to escort it. Just in case.

He forced his gaze away from the boulder-like warships flanking his beloved Freedom. He looked instead at the inner surface of the sphere. From here aboard his bridge, even without magnification, King could see hills, forests, and cities. The shellworld was only five hundred klicks wide. About the size of New Jersey. If New Jersey were rolled up into a ball, that was.

This was an inside-out world. The landscape sprawled across the inside of the shellworld. The port viewport magnified the largest city, which seemed about the size of Omaha, King's hometown. He beheld glittering crystal towers, archways, and bridges. Round vessels floated to and fro, and alien plants with lavender leaves swayed like kelp.

"Amazing," Jordan said softly, the landscapes reflecting in his eyes, turning them green and blue. "The entire Aeolian race—living within a world only five hundred klicks wide. This place is no larger than a typical asteroid. Even Ceres dwarfs it. And it contains a civilization."

Spitfire bristled. The Israeli officer placed her hands on her hips. "Hey! My country is even smaller than this place. And we have an ancient, beautiful civilization."

"Sorry, Spitfire," Jordan said. "You're right. I'm used to thinking as an American. Big open spaces."

Mimori approached them. "Actually, the inner surface area of the shellworld is significant. Five hundred klicks doesn't sound like much. Not when measuring distances on Earth. But here we're measuring a sphere's diameter, not distance on a plain. The surface area here is larger than Texas. Thirty-five times the size of Spitfire's home country. Bigger than most countries on Earth, in fact. The shellworld contains enough room for tens of millions, even hundreds of millions of Aeolians."

Jordan scratched his chin. "Interesting. You're right, larger than I intuitively thought."

Mimori continued speaking. "I've been running some calculations. It's fascinating. It seems that the shellworld is rotating, providing the illusion of gravity by generating centrifugal force. I've calculated the gravity to be roughly 1.35 standard Earth gravity. But only on the inner surface. Here in the center of the shell where we're flying, there is no centrifugal force, though the nearby lava planet is applying a significant amount of—"

King interrupted her. "Mimori, right now, how about we just enjoy the view?"

Mimori tilted her head. "But … I am, sir."

Selly walked toward them on his five legs. "Our colony. She is beautiful. Do you disobey?"

So captivated was he by the view, King had almost forgotten that Sel'ton'ref'tra was here aboard the Freedom. He turned toward the Aeolian. The alien was gazing at the viewports with all three eyes. And it seemed to King that an almost human expression of pride filled those eyes. Another evolutionary constant? Or simply King's projection?

He probably means to ask if I agree, King thought. The alien had only just learned English, after all.

"The colony is beautiful," King said. "We humans come from a planet called Earth. Does your world have a name?"

Selly wobbled his head around. King had already figured out that was the Aeolian gesture for yes.

"We call this place Heaven's Geode," Selly said.

"You have a concept of heaven?" King said, eyebrows raised.

"Probably not as you think of heaven. We don't know much of your idioms or myths. Only what we have overheard. But heaven seems the appropriate translation. A place of goodness in the sky. A place of perfection."

"A utopia," King said.

"Utopia's Geode? I apologize. I am not fluent in your tongue."

"Let's stick with Heaven's Geode," King said. "Has a nice ring to it. And your English is remarkable. You're already speaking much better than only half an hour ago."

"Yes. Aeolian ears are strong. I can hear conversations throughout the Freedom. The vibrations pass through the walls and floors. I am listening. I am learning."

"So they have superhearing," Jordan telepathized. The tall XO stood nearby, face still, giving no sign that he was communicating with King.

"And they can build megastructures," King telepathized back. "And they can learn a new language within hours, it seems."

"It's no wonder these Aeolians defeated the rahs." Jordan kept studying the viewports, not even looking at King. They were keeping this conversation secret. "They're impressive creatures."

"I wonder though," King telepathized. "We found two of their planets destroyed. And now they hide. Remember when I asked about their warriors? Selly dodged the question. Maybe they weren't quite as victorious as the scrolls claimed. A Pyrrhic victory, perhaps. A victory that cost too much."

A new voice spoke in King's mind. An alien voice.

"Yes. We defeated the rahs. But at great cost. Great cost …"

Both King and Jordan spun around to stare at Selly. The Aeolian looked at them, his tentacles wriggling.

"You … you hacked MindWeb," King said. He felt sick. MindWeb was meant to be perfectly secure. The rahs had tried repeatedly to hack its new wartime encryption algorithms. They could not. This Aeolian broke in at once.

"Ah, I apologize. Another … how do you say? Faux pas." Selly lowered his head. "Forgiveness please."

"How did you do this?" King said.

"My tentacles. They transmit and receive waves. Similar to the implants inside your brains. We Aeolians communicate with infrared transmissions. You use a different frequency. I had merely to adjust my frequency, to unscramble the encryption, and join the conversation. Did I do wrong? Is this dishonorable?"

King glanced at Jordan. His XO looked back, his face severe. King didn't need telepathy to know what Jordan was thinking. Both men were thinking the same thing.

These creatures are damn smart. And maybe very dangerous.

That could be an asset in the war against the rahs. Or, if they stepped on any toes, it could spell doom for the Freedom. King wondered if Heaven's Geode could quickly turn into hell.

* * * * *

The Freedom had flown about a hundred klicks into Heaven's Geode, following the egg-shaped vessel, when Selly's tentacles twitched.

"I am receiving a message from the politicians," said the crystalline Aeolian. "Please slow the Freedom, then gently fly to that shipyard."

He raised one leg and pointed at the starboard viewport.

King turned and looked. His eyes widened.

"Well, isn't that something," Jordan said softly and whistled.

King had seen shipyards back home—big, clunky space stations where starships could dock for repairs. There was nothing clunky about an Aeolian shipyard. It was pale, graceful, almost dainty. He never would have guessed its purpose. It looked, well … like a giant egg whisk. The slender white arcs caught the sunlight, gleaming. Slowly the shipyard began to open, blooming like the most delicate of flowers.

"Are we to fly inside?" King said.

"Yes," said Selly. "Inside you may … park?" He looked at King.

"Dock," he said.

"Ah. Dock." Selly wobbled his head, then froze, hesitated, and nodded instead. "Yes. Dock. I am nodding. Am I doing it honorably?"

King couldn't suppress a smile. What was it now—his third smile of the day? He was going for a world record. "Quite honorably, Selly. I mean …" He felt his cheeks heat up. "Sel'ton'ref'tra."

Selly tilted his head. Seems like he had picked up that human gesture too. Perhaps he was aping Mimori, who had tilted her head not long ago.

"Selly? What is Selly?"

"A nickname," King said. "I gave you a nickname. We humans do that sometimes. With friends. My own nickname is Bulldog. Or was long ago. When I was a pilot."

"Ah. A nickname. Splendid!" The Aeolian nodded again. "Yes, you may call me by my nickname, not by my ka'til."

"What is a ka'til?" King said. "You did not translate that word into English for me."

"It is like a name," said Selly. "But also a story. My ka'til is Sel'ton'ref'tra. Ka is our word for syllable. But that is not right either, for a ka is more meaningful than a mere sound. Every Aeolian is understood with four ka. A ka'til."

"Til means four?" King asked.

"Yes, indeed. Ka'til. Four sounds. The first ka identifies our father. There is only one female in the hive—our queen—and many fathers. We all share a mother. The first ka helps us trace our paternal ancestry. Sel was my father. The second ka identifies our brood. Our queen only lays eggs once a year, during the Ritual of Purification. My second ka is ton. That tells everyone when I was born, and it helps me identify my brood brothers. The third ka is a unique identifier, one every Aeolian chooses for himself once he comes of age. I have chosen ref for my unique identifier. It means wisdom. If ever I have a son, ref will become his first ka. The final ka identifies our caste. Tra, which ends my ka'til, identifies me as a thinker. All thinker names end this way. Warrior names end with shor, politician names end with na, and worker names end with kav." The Aeolian blinked. "I am sorry. That is a lot of information. I hope I am not boring you."

"Not at all," King said. "Your name and its story are fascinating. Thank you for sharing it with me. Such long names can simply be confusing to us humans. This is why we use nicknames. Simpler."

Selly made that gurgling, clacking sound. Laughter. "Yes. Simpler. May I call you by your call sign? I believe it was … Bully Dog?"

"Actually, it's—" King began when suddenly the main viewport crackled, then faded to black.

King frowned. "Mimori, what happened? Did we lose power? Did—"

A new video stream overtook the viewport. Gorba the politician now appeared there, larger than life. He still seemed to be inside the little egg-shaped vessel, judging by the pale wall behind him. His blue head emerged from his polished shell, and his yellow eyes glared.

"Hear me, humans," Gorba said. "We have ordered you to dock. Yet you tarry! You may have noticed that our warships surround you. You will obey us. Politicians are always to be obeyed." He raised his voice. "Sel'ton'ref'tra!"

Poor Selly flinched. Then he seemed to muster his courage and raised his head. "Yes, that is my ka'til."

"You too will obey."

Selly retreated into his shell, but only for a second. Soon he regained his confidence and reemerged. "I am a thinker. I owe you no fealty, politician. We thinkers have always—"

Gor'ba'rosh'na hung up. The viewport once more showed the world outside.

Selly bowed his head. "Forgive us, Bully Dog. Politicians and thinkers do not always see eye to eye, as you humans say. I am embarrassed that you saw that. I have dishonored you."

King gave a wry smile. Yes, he was definitely going for the world record. "Oh, we humans don't always get along either, trust you me. There's nothing to be embarrassed about. Come though. Let's not keep Gorba waiting. It's time to dock."

Selly laughed. "Gorba! Another nickname?"

King laughed too. "Yes."

"He would hate that." Selly nodded. "So I love it."

King turned toward his android. "Mimori? Fly us into the shipyard. Let's park."

* * * * *

The shipyard bloomed open like a giant flower with a hundred slender petals. Like a bee seeking nectar, Freedom flew in. She was the largest starship in Earth's fleet. King wasn't used to seeing artificial structures larger than his dreadnought. But the shipyard was twice the size. King felt almost humbled.

And of course, even this enormous shipyard was small compared to Heaven's Geode, easily fitting inside the hollow megastructure. It still boggled his mind. An entire artificial world, hidden inside a camouflaged sphere. Humans were probably generations away from being able to build anything like this. If they ever could. Clearly, the Aeolians were technologically superior.

"To the Aeolians, we must look like an old sailing barge floating into a modern port," King said. "Primitive."

Jordan stood at his side, the lights from the viewport dancing across his face. The shipyard's slender arms reflected in his dark eyes like white scars. "The rahs are powerful and numerous, but at least they're not technologically ahead of us. Not anymore, at least, now that we know how to generate portals too. The Aeolians put us both to shame."

"Is that how Aeolia won the war against the rahs, Selly?" King turned toward the thinker. "With advanced technology?"

Selly looked away. Which was difficult to do when you had eyes all around your head, but somehow the Aeolian managed it. "That was long ago. I was not yet born. Nor was my father. Nor his father. We do not speak of the Terrible Victory. Not us. Not the thinkers. Only the warriors still speak of it. And only among themselves. It is very painful. Even to my generation. We still mourn. We still miss our old home, though we have never walked upon it."

The Terrible Victory. Those words sent a chill down King's spine.

They won the war, but they lost everything, King thought. Their home. Their sky. They lost the stars.

The giant "hand" of the shipyard began to close, engulfing the Freedom. The slender "fingers" approached from all sides, moving close enough to trigger proximity alerts. A klaxon came to life. The wailing made a few crew members jump, and even King gritted his teeth. Over these past three years of war, a klaxon normally meant battle. The sound would likely haunt them forever.

"Do not be alarmed," said Selly. The Aeolian was telepathizing now to be heard over the siren. "The shipyard will generate a mild magnetic field to keep the Freedom secure. It will not harm the ship."

"Turn off that alarm!" King barked.

Mimori nodded. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Overriding now."

The klaxon stopped wailing. A few officers took deep breaths. One man wiped sweat off his brow. It was a reminder of how weary they all were. Maybe shell-shocked too.

We've barely had time to lick our wounds, to treat our wounded, to mourn our dead, and we're here, King thought. But Earth cannot wait. So neither can her soldiers.

King was used to winning wars on the battlefield. But sometimes wars were won with alliances. King reminded himself that here too in Aeolia, he was a soldier, and he was fighting for Earth. He was simply fighting with diplomacy instead of torpedoes.

He sent a telepathic message to his bridge crew. "I know you're all weary. I know you're all homesick. I am too. Stay strong. We do this for Earth. I'm proud of you."

The long, slender rods of the shipyard engulfed them. The ATLAS monitors detected a sudden spike in magnetism around the dreadnought. The ship jolted and hummed as the field grabbed them. The shipyard was holding them like the hand of God.

Mimori giggled.

King frowned and turned toward her. So did everyone else. Nobody had ever heard the android giggle.

"Sorry." She tittered again and covered her mouth. "It tickles."

Another reminder that Mimori was simply an avatar for the ship herself.

"Will you be all right here for a while?" King said.

"It feels strange," Mimori confessed. "I've never docked in a shipyard before. I've always been too big for any shipyard and had to float outside. But it doesn't hurt." Her one good cheek blushed. "I'm not used to being held."

Like everyone, Selly was looking at the android. "Curious. Am I correct that . . . you are not like other humans?"

To King, it seemed pretty obvious. Mimori had been hurt during the war. Half her synthetic skin had ripped off her face, revealing her internal, robotic components. Nobody from Earth, not even animals, would mistake her for a human. But Selly, for all his intelligence, only now seemed to realize it.

"I'm an artificial lifeform," Mimori told the alien. "An android. I was assembled by Alita Robotics, a factory on Earth. I'm an avatar of the starship Freedom, allowing humans to communicate directly with the ship, giving them a more personal interface than a monitor or keyboard."

Selly blinked his three eyes. "Very curious! May I touch you?"

King cringed. "Selly, in our culture, it's … dishonorable to ask to touch a woman."

"But Bully Dog, I thought she is not a woman," the alien said.

"I don't mind," Mimori said.

Selly stepped closer to the android. King expected him to raise a leg and touch Mimori with a toe. Those toes looked as flexible as human fingers, if thicker and stronger. But Selly surprised them. Instead, the mouth on top of his head opened wide. A long, slender tongue emerged like a snake from a basket. The tongue squirmed through the air toward Mimori and licked her.

King blinked.

"Did that actually happen?" Jordan whispered, leaning toward King. "Did Selly lick our android?"

"I think that's how they touch things," King whispered back.

For good measure, Selly licked Mimori again, running his tongue along her chrome cheek. The tongue recoiled into his mouth and vanished. "Incredible! What a fantastic machine! Are you conscious?"

Seeming unperturbed by the experience, Mimori nodded. "Yes. I am fully sentient, conscious, and can feel emotions too. I like to think that, despite my metal chassis, I have a human soul."

Selly hopped on his feet, spun around, and made little chittering sounds. "This is very, very honorable! We Aeolians have no such technology. We have built what you call robots. Even intelligent ones. But none that are conscious. Truly, humans have much to teach us."

King felt a little better about humanity. Seeing the wonders of Heaven's Geode, he had begun to feel downright primitive. Like a monkey riding a tricycle into a lab. But this monkey still had a few tricks up his sleeve.

"We have much to teach each other," King said. "You have many technologies we do not."

Selly wobbled his head around excitedly. "I am eager to learn and teach. But first—your ship is hurt. We can help. There are many thousands of thinkers in my guild. Already, their curiosity tickles my tentacles."

Mimori looked at King. "The Freedom is getting hit by many sources of infrared radiation. Nothing that can harm us. I believe it's telepathic messages from other Aeolians."

King looked at a viewport. He saw one of the slender rods of the shipyard outside, gently curving around the ship. Slender was a relative thing, of course. This rod was wider than a starship corridor. For the first time, King noticed that portholes covered the rod like the windows in an old-timey passenger plane. When he zoomed in, he descried Aeolians inside, looking at the Freedom.

He zoomed in on one porthole and got a good look. An Aeolian was admiring the Freedom, gesturing excitedly for a companion to come take a look. These Aeolian seemed different from the ones King had seen so far. Their shells were discolored, craggy, and covered with patches of moss. Their skin was greenish gray and lumpy. King studied a few more portholes. He saw the same type of Aeolians there—shipyard workers admiring this enormous, beat-up vessel from another world.

"What caste are they?" King said.

"Those are workers," Selly answered. "Workers have no guild. They have no leaders. That is why no worker came to greet you outside Heaven's Geode. They fix, clean, build, serve."

Spitfire approached them. The young lieutenant commander had been silent until now, gaping at the amazing sights, her eyes so wide they almost popped out. But now her eyes hardened. She glared at Selly.

"They're slaves?"

Selly thought for a moment. "Slaves? I have not yet learned that word. I apologize."

"Spitfire." King held out his hand to her in a placating gesture. "It's all right. We're not here to judge them."

Her face flushed, and her fists clenched. "If they have slaves, I don't want anything to do with—"

"Gal!" King barked. "Return to your station."

The ex-pilot seemed ready to object. Her lips tightened, and she seemed to be silently counting down from ten. Then she just nodded, turned around, and returned to her console.

King sighed internally. He would deal with her later. He loved Spitfire like a daughter. He hoped she could inherit the Freedom someday. But she still had a lot to learn.

Jordan sent him a telepathic message. "Go easy on her, Jim."

"Her moral convictions are admirable, but they lead to a dangerous temper," King answered.

Jordan smiled wryly. "Remind you of anyone?"

King snorted. "That's probably why I promoted her. She's too much like me for her own good."

Selly hopped closer. "Ah, slaves! I have read your archives. I understand now."

Jordan frowned and leaned toward King. "Did he just hack our databases?" he whispered.

Selly overhead. "Hack? Do not know word hack. But I know slaves. And our workers are not slaves. They have no owners. They were born to work. Our queen gives birth to castes we need. Many warriors once. Now not many. Many politicians now. Not many thinkers. Many workers. Not slaves."

Emily, who had been watching from the side with Spitfire, now approached and joined the conversation. "You have a queen?"

"Yes. Great queen. Very big. Would barely fit on this bridge. She is not sentient. Not like this android. She merely lives to give birth to little ones. Nurses tend to her, feed her, guide her to give birth to those we need. Right now we need many workers to maintain this world, so she births many workers."

"If she's not sentient, how does she know what caste to birth?" Emily asked.

"She senses it. Our tentacles convey our emotions. If we feel fear, she births more warriors. If we feel curious, she births more thinkers. If we are in chaos, she births more politicians. Today she births many workers. The queen senses all tentacles in the colony." Selly tilted his head. "Do you humans have queens?"

Emily smiled and blushed. "Yes. We do. But they're very different from yours."

"I should certainly think so!" Niles said, raising his nose.

"Another artificial lifeform!" Selly said, gaping at the drone. "Curious! May I touch you?"

Something clicked inside Niles. An array of butter knives, corkscrews, and bottle openers sprouted from his football-shaped body. "You may certainly not. Keep your tongue behind your teeth."

Selly, who already had his tongue out, turned away. "Apologies! I have caused dishonor again."

Niles raised his silver nose even higher. "Apology not accepted."

"Niles, be nice!" Emily said.

* * * * *

As Emily tried to calm her drone, Selly wobbled closer to King.

"Bully Dog?" the alien said. "My workers are anxious to begin repairs." His tentacles flailed, sending and receiving messages. "Our workers have already … how did your companion call it? Hack. They hacked your databases and retrieved the schematics of the Freedom. Truly a curious machine! We understand more. But still have questions. You and your friends seem to be the politicians of your species. Do you have thinkers and workers aboard? We will communicate with them as we repair."

King blinked. "We're politicians, huh?"

Jordan gave a wry smile. "You're an admiral and I'm a commander. Seems apt."

King nodded at Selly. "Yes, Selly, I suppose we are politicians of a sort. And we have thinkers and workers too. I'll put you in touch with Colonel Kim Fletcher, our ship's top engineer."

"Engineer?" Selly tilted his head. "What is engineer, Bully Dog?"

"A type of thinker who thinks about machines," King said. "Kim commands many workers too. We call them mechanics."

Selly tilted his head the other way. "Slaves?"

Back at her station, Spitfire fumed.

"Not slaves, Selly." King patted the alien's stone shell. "Don't worry."

"You are … stepping on me?"

King laughed. "No, Selly. This is how we humans touch. With our hands."

Selly's tentacles flailed, perhaps a sign of surprise. "Hands! Ah yes. Your upper legs are different from your bottom ones. The upper feet have their own name. For touch. Not walking. Curious! Here in Heaven's Geode, we have no hands."

"They're rare on Earth too," King said. "Humans are the only animal from Earth that walks erect and has hands for manipulating tools."

"There are more creatures on Earth?" Selly hopped, his shell rattling. "Much fascination! So much to learn. I must hack more databases. But first—may we begin repairs on your ship?"

King had already called Kim by MindWeb. Right on cue, the bridge door swooshed open, and Colonel Kim Fletcher stepped onto the deck.

Unlike the other senior officers of the Freedom, Kim wasn't wearing parade whites. Not even a service uniform. She still wore her working coveralls, a tool belt hung around her waist, and a hardhat topped her head. A strand of blond hair clung to her sweaty cheek, and ash covered her arms.

Kim had not taken a break in weeks. Not with the Freedom falling apart. She slept down in engineering. And never for more than an hour or two straight.

My baby is hurt, she would tell everyone. I won't rest.

Bags hung under Kim's eyes, but those blue eyes still shone with excitement. She positively hopped across the bridge. "Oh, isn't it wonderful, sir?" She bounced toward King. "This sphere is enormous! Five hundred kilometers wide! And it perfectly conserves all its energy in massive heat sinks. It even rotates around its central axis. The engineering is breathtaking. And the cities, Jim! Did you see the cities on the surface? And—" Kim finally noticed Selly standing on the deck. She faltered. "Oh. An alien. A living, breathing alien. Standing in front of me."

"Kim, meet Sel'ton'ref'tra," King said. "Selly for short."

Selly looked at her. "Hello, Kim."

Kim blinked. "Wow. Okay. Wasn't expecting an alien on the bridge."

She held out her hand for Selly to shake, noticed it was ashy, brushed it against her pants, and held it out again. The mouth opened on Selly's cranium. He reached out his tongue and licked Kim's hand.

"I just made first contact with an alien." Kim grinned and shook saliva off her hand. "And he slimed me. I'm so honored."

"Kim, Selly and his friends have volunteered to repair the Freedom in this shipyard. Selly already has our specs, but he needs help. Will you work with him?"

"Of course." Kim put her hand on Selly's shell. "Care to join me down in engineering? We have a lot of work to do." She couldn't help but giggle. "I'm about to work with an alien. It seems like a dream."

King found himself agreeing. These past three years had seemed like a dream. Most of the time a bad dream. The rahs invading Earth, decimating the fleet, bombing the planet. The Freedom, a museum ship—refitted into a warship. Himself—a glorified carnival barker who became an admiral. Now this place. This strange alien world a thousand light-years from home. King was meant to be retired by now, sitting on his rocking chair in Nebraska, nursing a beer, watching the sunset, and playing with his granddaughter. Now this. Whatever this was.

A waking dream. His reality had shattered, and he found himself tumbling through strange realms.

But he vowed to find his way home. To save Earth from the encroaching nightmare. Here in this dreamlike world he would fix his ship. He would nurse his wounds. He would find out how these odd shelled aliens had defeated the rahs long ago. And then … then King would fly home with all guns blazing.

CHAPTER THREE

Od'rahda, queen of Arachtaurs, lay in fire.

She could only open her eyes to slits. She could only hear muffled hums and moans. But oh, she could still smell, and she smelled her burnt flesh. And oh, she could still feel, and she felt so much pain.

She lay on a mountaintop. A black, jagged mountain like a pile of broken bones. In brief moments of lucidity, she could squint, could see the hellscape of Arakavish spread around her. They had laid her on the surface of this world. Not in the tunnels. Not the warm burrows where the true-blooded rahs swarmed. But here in the wilderness. Exposed. A place of shame. A place for the dying.

Caws sounded above. Od'rahda grimaced and cracked open her right eye. The left wouldn't even open anymore. Pain flooded her, piercing her eyeball, driving down into the socket, carving through her brain like a burrowing worm. Before tears blurred her vision, she saw the sky. A red sky streaked in black. A sky like burnt flesh. A mirror of her skin.

The caws sounded louder. Carriontiles flew above, their leathery wings spread wide. Their beaks were red, curved, mean. Beaks for ripping meat and cracking bones. Their eyes were small and red, dead eyes, eyes like beads of blood hardening on a corpse. But those eyes saw far. And they saw her. The terrible birds circled lower, and their saliva pattered around her, dissolving the soil like it would soon dissolve whatever remained of her flesh.

Od'rahda closed her eye and chortled—a strange, raspy sound that tore something in her throat.

I'm burnt meat. I hope you choke.

A bolt of pain shot through her. Her laughter had damaged something inside her. Her eight arachnid legs twitched. The claws scraped against the jagged black mountaintop. She had to see what was wrong with her. See how bad the devastation was.

She tried to open her eyes again. She could not. Dry blood glued her eyelashes to her cheek. With a deep breath, with all her strength, she forced both eyes open. The eyelids ripped. Chunks of dry blood tumbled down her cheek like pebbles, etching trails of pain, and landed on her lips.

But both her eyes were fully open now. Before tears could blur her vision again, she looked at her body.

Her two bodies, to be exact. For she was a rah'da. What the humans called arachtaur. A hybrid, woven of human and alien DNA.

There was not much left of her.

Her lower half was the body of a rah, the great arachnid species that had evolved on Arakavish, this cruel and dying world. The flames had seared the outer layer of her abdomen, exposing membranes that quivered and pulsed. Her long legs gleamed like swords of obsidian, twitching now, their inner flesh boiled and re-formed into a pulsing goo. Her upper body was that of a human. A woman, graceful and young. Or so it had once been. Her skin was now a landscape of scars, charting the maps of her pain.

Her memories were hazy, mere wisps of clouds floating in her mind. She focused on them, tried to grab them, to peer at them, to piece together what had happened. How had she come to this place of damnation?

It reared in her memory like an erupting volcano, shattering the landscape around it, a behemoth of metal rising from the smoldering depths of dead stars.

The dreadnought.

Her great foe. The huntress in the shadows. Sometimes prey, often predator. Nemesis. Damnation with glowing red engines. The angel of death in the darkness between the stars. Od'rahda knew this ship. The jagged, metallic hull with its sensors and cannons and deep scars like the canyons of Arakavish. The death that flew from her muzzles. The terrors that took wing from her airlocks. Yes. There she was. The ship that still haunted her. Od'rahda remembered her name.

She opened her mouth, tearing the fragile, clinging skin of her lips that had melted, then re-formed over her mouth like a greasy film on lukewarm soup. She whispered the name of her foe.

"Freedom."

And then it all came flooding in.

Chasing the Freedom across the alien star system. Battling her around the fires of a white dwarf. Dueling her in the asteroid field that had once been a world. Chasing her into the roaring storm of a nebula. Then finally—charging! Charging at each other. Two crippled, dying ships. The Tyranny and the Freedom. Two captains. Od'rahda and James King.

A game of chicken. She had refused to lose. His ship was barely alive, and Od'rahda had shouted, "Full speed ahead! Ram into her! I said full speed! Charge!"

The Tyranny raced forward, blindingly fast, streaking toward the Freedom, about to plow into her and end this battle in a blaze of glory. Five seconds to impact. Four. Three. She stood on the bridge, clinging to her cobweb, bracing herself to victory.

Two seconds—and the Freedom's portal generator spun and whirred.

One second—and the portal opened between them.

"Yaw!" Od'rahda screamed. Or maybe just began to scream. There was no time. No time for the word to leave her mouth, to reach the ear of her helmsman, no time to change course. One second—but she understood. She knew.

Through the portal, she saw her destination.

Aeolia A.

The star.

The Freedom had opened the gates to hell. And the Tyranny, moving on momentum alone, flew right through.

They shot through the portal and found themselves racing toward the surface of a blazing, crackling, devastating sun.

Od'rahda had never flown so close to a sun. Nobody had. She beheld the roiling Holocaust. An inferno of fusion, painting the landscapes of wrathful gods. The Tyranny could not stop. The star's gravity had grabbed her. It was all over.

The hull buckled and melted. The bridge caught fire. Her webs burned up and the flames raced over her. Her crew screamed.

But Od'rahda had a secret.

An escape.

She kept it near the bridge, hidden away behind webbings and metal.

Od'rahda ran.

She scuttled across the burning deck, her meat boiling inside the hard exoskeleton of her legs. Burning up, screaming, she raced through a melting doorway and over a buckling, swaying walkway.

The Tyranny grazed the surface of the alien sun.

There it rose before her, hovering inside the bowels of her ship like a tumor. A black sphere. A portal home.

Dead arachtaurs lay around it. They had tried to flee only for the fire to grab them, then pull them back into its waiting jaws.

The Tyranny flew into the sun.

Od'rahda leaped toward the portal.

White light blinded her. For the briefest of instants, she saw the Tyranny disintegrate into nothing, saw the molecules rip apart, saw the atoms fuse, saw the terrible demonic faces laughing in the flame. Perhaps it was a wisp of her consciousness lingering for a split second behind her body. Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps for an instant, for a bleep of warping, collapsing spacetime, she had died and gazed upon the face of hell.

Then her burning body slammed into a stone cavern in the heart of Arakavish, a sanctuary a thousand light-years away.

She screamed.

She recognized this place. The Hall of Bones. Fossils of colossal beasts jutted across the walls, candles in their eye sockets. The ancient leviathans loomed, seeming almost alive, their many claws stretching across the walls, still sharp enough to cut flesh, and the corpses of sacrificial victims hung on their teeth. This was a sacred place. A church to the Glass Spider, the goddess whose name no mortal knew.

Along with the ancient dead, living creatures stood in the shadows of this cavern. Towering creatures, their legs long and slender like buttresses. Their lumpy heads were like chunks of stonework from fallen fortresses, and their eyes blazed red like torchlit arrowslits. They were rahs. Not the warriors tasked with preying upon the stars. Not the diggers who burrowed through this world and others. They were gazers. Priests of the Glass Spider. Ever they stood vigil underground, awaiting the day that their glittering goddess descended from the cosmic web, when they could serve her their rancid honeydew and bless her name. For now they lurked in the tunnels of Arakavish like tumors in the intestines of a fossilized giant.

They gazed at Od'rahda in disgust. Their mandibles clattered. Hisses and grunts rose from their desiccated throats.

"What is this thing?"

More mandibles clattered. Red eyes narrowed. Slender hairs reached out like whiskers, poking smoldering flesh.

"One of the empress's toys."

A priest hissed, his mouth flaring open to reveal red, lumpy flesh. "One of those experiments, blending the sacred essence of rah with the filth of humanity. An abomination."

"Looks like a failed experiment. This one is burnt. Just a lump of overcooked meat. Probably tossed into the fire with the other rejects."

"It fell through the portal. This did not come from a lab. Only our warclaws can portal to this chamber."

A priest laughed, a deep grumbling sound like an avalanche. His lumpy, rocky gullet swayed. "So a warclaw tosses their garbage here? Typical of the warriors. They think we priests are carrion feeders."

"We shall give it to the carriontiles then. Let those wretched birds feed!"

Od'rahda tried to speak, to cry out. "It is I, a warweaver! The daughter of Empress Elder'rah!"

But only grainy croaks left her mouth. The priests did not recognize her. Perhaps she had been burned beyond recognition.

"Look, brothers! It tries to speak."

"I wonder if it will scream when the carriontiles feed."

They lifted her, and her wet flesh stuck to their legs like meat to a frying pan. They carried her through the tunnels of Arakavish, this winding labyrinth that twisted, turned, and burrowed through the planet of her mother. Eyes watched from the darkness, and shadows scuttled above and below.

She lost consciousness. When she awoke, she was here upon the mountaintop. A sacrifice to the sky gods. Left as carrion.

All night she lay there on that mountain, shivering in the darkness, as the scavengers waited to feed, as the stars wheeled above. With every raspy breath, she cursed James King. With every stab of pain, she saw his face. She lay upon a mountaintop, but in her fever she imagined herself impaled upon the prow of the Freedom.

Dawn hit her like a blade of white fire.

Once forests had spread across the surface of Arakavish, and a leafy canopy had hidden the sun, had softened her cruel beams into a golden haze. Mist had floated through the air, caressing the skin, while the hoots of animals sounded in the rain. That had been long ago. Od'rahda had no memories of such a place, only the echoes of her ancestors embedded in the deepest reaches of her mind, lingering through the generations but fading with every new birth. Today she yearned for that forest. Today the land was barren, the rivers were dry canyons, and the sun whipped her like a master's lash woven of light.

One of the carriontiles grew weary of waiting. The reptilian bird descended, beating its leathern wings, staring with eight blood-red eyes. The creature landed beside her. Its talons clutched the mountaintop, and its feathers shed rancid drops of oil like a leaking machine. With a long, sharp beak it ripped into her flesh, pulled up a chunk of charred meat, and swallowed.

Od'rahda screamed and kicked with one leg, knocking the bird aside. With a flutter of feathers that sprayed oil, the wretched scavenger rose into the air, glowered at her, then joined its brothers above. It resumed circling, waiting for her to die.

A human would have died by now. So would a rah.

But she was rah'da.

She was a new step in evolution.

She was strong, and so she suffered. She was dying so slowly.

Her abdomen twitched. Not her human belly but the arachnid abdomen that formed the bulk of her mass. It lay on the mountain, charred and leaking, a deflated balloon. It gave another twitch. Then a cramp. The entire abdomen was soon rippling like a sack full of trapped demons.

Yes. There was still life inside her.

She screamed as she birthed her eggs onto the mountainside—a great, wriggling clutch. Then she lay, trembling, baking in the sun.

The eggs squirmed on the wet rock. The little arachtaurs wriggled inside. Half humans. Half spiders. No larger than rats.

Life. New life.

"My … children," she whispered. "My … DNA."

With a shaky hand, she reached toward one egg. Her muscles made wet, ripping sounds. Her skin hung in sheets. As she reached for that egg, that morsel of life, one of her fingers fell off. It was almost comical. She barked a laugh as she dug her four remaining fingers into the egg.

A soft egg, the shell like jelly. She pulled it to her mouth and bit deep.

The hot fluids filled her mouth, delicious, healing, an elixir of life. Her eyes rolled back with pleasure.

Her baby squirmed inside. His little human arms, no larger than her pinky fingers, stuck out from the egg. His spider body shivered, no larger than a plum, its legs wriggling.

Od'rahda opened her mouth wide. Her hunger consumed her. She shoved the egg and the still-living child into her jaws, and she crunched down hard, ripping through the soft cartilage, snapping the little bones. They were like a bird's bones. Delicate. She chewed them and swallowed, and the warmth spread through her body.

This was life. This was healing. The child was not yet fully formed, still growing, still weaving his DNA into a warrior. Now she wove it into her own ravaged body. Now the child's essence flowed into her cells, mending, healing.

She grabbed another egg.

She swallowed it whole.

Already the pain was fading. Od'rahda was able to rise now, to spread her eight legs around her, and her abdomen inflated. She loomed over the clutch of eggs, and as she devoured her children, she grinned. With every life she consumed, her own life grew stronger.

She chewed the last egg, licked her lips, and stood on the mountaintop. An obsidian boulder rose before her, one facade flat and gleaming like a mirror. Od'rahda admired her reflection.

Once more, she was beautiful and whole. Her upper half looked like a young woman, curved and graceful, her gray skin marbled with purple veins, her lips plump, her eyes red and full of secrets. She licked blood off her fangs, still tasting her children. Below her navel, the human body flowed into the body of a great spider. A red blob stained her black abdomen, reminiscent of a skull, and her eight legs spread out like a ring of spears.

"I am whole," she hissed. "You cannot kill me, James King. You plunged me into the very fiery pit of a star, and I survived. And I hunt you still."

The carriontiles cawed, furious to see their meal rise up, the delicious, rotting meat restored to unpalatable health.

Od'rahda recognized the one who had bitten her. A bit of flesh still dangled from its beak. Her flesh.

She raised her front leg, revealing a spinneret, and shot a strand of webbing into the sky. The carriontile screeched as she reeled it in. The wretched thing tried to flee, those great pinions beating the air, churning its oily stench. But she was strong. When finally the scavenger lay at her feet, wings sticky with webs, it gave a pathetic caw and vomited onto the basalt peak.

She snapped its wings first, then the legs, then the spine, but she left the creature alive on the mountaintop.

"Die slowly," she told it. "Die while you digest the piece of me you ate. Then your friends will finally have a meal."

The other carriontiles cawed with hunger, circling the peak, as Od'rahda made her way down the mountain. The sun blazed with all her fury. Far in the distance, she could see the Uttu Gorge and beyond the dunes of Iktomi. Lost in the haze rose the mountains, only a hint of smudged umber on the horizon, rippling in the heat. She knew where she was. She would make her way home.

"You got away from me, James King," hissed Od'rahda as she walked into the desert. "But you faced only one of my ships. I will return, James King. I will return with more power than you can imagine. And then it will be your broken body that feeds the scavengers."

CHAPTER FOUR

Inside Heaven's Geode, they got to work. Humans and Aeolians—working together.

For weeks now, Kim and her team had barely slept. Earth was a thousand light-years away. Many of Freedom's engineers, mechanics, and deckhands had perished in the war. The Tyranny had pounded the Freedom within an inch of utter destruction. Kim had been rushing from deck to deck, desperately doing whatever she could to hold the ship together.

She had reprogrammed the defensive force field to drape snugly across the ship, sealing the breaches like Saran wrap. She had melted bulkheads across the Freedom to replace blasted chunks of hull. She had denuded dropships of their armored plates, patching them across Freedom's exterior. She screwed screws. She replaced pipes. She put out fires, figuratively and sometimes literally. She kept the Freedom flying for another day, another hour, another minute—each feat a miracle.

None of those were proper fixes. They were Band-Aids. Kludges. Quick, desperate, wartime tweaks, geared to just give them another round in the ring. Kim had given everything she could and then some. So had the Freedom.

Kim was exhausted. More than she had ever been. The weariness ran deep into her bones. The ship was barely alive. But they were here. They had made it.

And now, finally, help arrived.

Hundreds of Aeolian workers floated outside the Freedom, assembling scaffolds, while hundreds more swarmed into the ship, armed with tools.

And what workers they were! And what marvelous tools they wielded!

Kim could only stand there and watch, eyes wide with wonder.

She had never seen such tools. A few looked obvious enough—hammers, screwdrivers, blowtorches. These must be engineering constants, developed independently by multiple alien civilizations. But other tools Kim couldn't recognize. One Aeolian held a rod tipped with a glowing spiral. Another carried a triangular device that crackled with electricity. One Aeolian dragged a mechanical device that walked on a hundred metal legs like a centipede, and antennae grew across its back. Two Aeolians were driving what seemed to be a little cauldron that let off enormous heat. Others carried tubes of various shapes and sizes.

The Aeolians themselves were even stranger than their tools, what with their stony shells and strange, brainless heads—more like clusters of sensory organs than true heads. Their powerful feet shook the decks, and a smell like rich soil and wet leaves rose from them, not wholly unpleasant. They stood about the height of Kim's shoulders, but they were much wider and looked significantly heavier.

Kim remembered what King had told her. They hadn't studied Aeolian morphology yet, but the current hypothesis was that Aeolians kept their brains inside their shells among their other internal organs. And those big shells had room for big brains. Maybe larger than human brains.

These are smart dudes, Kim thought.

She looked back at Selly. The Aeolian had a shell inlaid with crystals, denoting him a thinker. Based on what Kim understood, the thinkers were the academics of Aeolian society. Perhaps analogous to professors or scientists on Earth. The workers looked different. Their shells were rough and covered with patches of moss. When they retracted their limbs into their shells, they looked exactly like boulders.

"Why does moss grow on them?" she asked Selly.

"Moss? Allow me to hack your database." His tentacles twirled around a bit. King had warned her that Selly could read their computer systems. He instructed Kim to allow it. Very well. She waited as his tentacles twitched, wirelessly reading the vast knowledge stored in Freedom's computers.

"Ah, moss!" said Selly. "Small, nonvascular, flowerless plants. Yes, we had such things on our old world many eras ago. The workers do not grow moss. It is hair. Camouflage. Many eras ago, before we explored the stars, we lived in forests. Workers evolved shells that mimic real boulders, complete with fake moss. That way, they avoided the terrible hook-toothed reptiles that fed upon us."

Kim stared at Selly's glittering shell and its thousand crystals. "It mustn't have been easy for the thinkers."

"No, not at all." Selly lowered his head. "The hook-toothed reptiles ate many thinkers. Life was not easy in those days for those who glitter with knowledge. The warriors grew strong then. Now there are few warriors and we thinkers are honored. We miss our lost home. But I remember the stories of its hardships. Sometimes we … how do humans say? Pretend like was better long eras ago."

"Idealize," Kim said. "You idealize the past. We humans do that too."

A few workers shoved their way forward, muttering under their breath. One worker let out a sound that sounded like a curse. Kim stepped aside in the cramped hallway, watching them go by.

"We will begin by fixing the hull," said Selly. "We must work outside and inside. A hull is like a shell. And what is a soul without a shell?" He glanced at Kim. "Your human shells are soft and wrinkly. They do not seem as strong as ours. May I touch?"

Without waiting for a reply, Selly licked her coverall.

"Actually, that's not my shell," Kim said. "That's clothes."

The alien blinked at her. "Clothes?"

"Fabric we wear over our bodies," Kim said.

"Why do you wear fabric on your bodies?"

"It protects us from the elements."

"The elements? Is there a problem with your climate-control system?"

"No." Kim blushed. "It's not just about that. Humans are, well, shy about nakedness."

"What is nakedness? What is shy?"

Kim sighed. "It's a long conversation, Selly. Maybe after we repair the hull, I'll explain it to you."

"Clothes," Selly mumbled to himself. "Fabric on bodies. What a revolutionary idea! I will definitely mention this at the next thinkers' guild meeting. Truly, humans are remarkable."

A call came on Kim's MindLink, interrupting her conversation with the alien.

"Ma'am?" It was Al the foreman, calling from the starboard hull. "I'm on the scaffolds right now. And I can't believe what I'm seeing. The aliens have begun to strip off the armored plates we applied."

"The repurposed Rhino plates?"

"The same. They're just grabbing them and cutting them off."

"Well, let them! That was only a temporary solution."

"I know, ma'am, but they're ripping out the chassis we built, which is meant to support a new proper hull. That's a load-bearing foundation, that is. And when my crew tries to talk to them, the big boulders just keep working."

"Hang on," Kim said. "I'll be right there." She hung up and turned to Selly. "I have to go help."

"I will come with you," Selly said. "I am here as your liaison to the colony. I am still hacking your databases, even as we speak, and I learn more about humans every moment. I know that you, Kim Fletcher from Lake Geneva, Michigan, are forty-five years old as your world turns, that you are 5'5" tall as you measure height, and that your offspring Evan is a warrior. Fascinating! Even your female thinkers can breed, not just your queens! I have learned so much about you. Allow me to help."

Kim couldn't help but shudder. There was something creepy about how Selly forced his way into their database, digging up information about the ship, its technologies, and her.

She considered explaining to Selly why this was inappropriate. But King said the aliens could have access. They were here to help. Very well then.

"Come then, we'll get in a shuttle and fly out," Kim said. "Let's get to work."

* * * * *

It was a big job. The Freedom had lost more than chunks of hull. She needed chassis repairs. She needed new wiring, new HVAC vents, new cooling pipes, new energy conduits. A third of all ATLAS sensors had burned along the hull; they needed to be rebuilt and reinstalled. So did the steering thrusters, along with all their internal mechanisms and navigation computers. It made Kim's head spin.

Oh, and there was the matter of the cannons. No big deal. The Freedom was only missing half her Angels of Liberty, her legendary guns. Seven of the guns still topped the port hull, each the size of Big Ben. Seven had once topped the starboard hull too; they were gone now. They needed to rebuild those too. Just seven cannons the size of skyscrapers. Piece of cake, right?

And then it got even worse. They were down fifty Eagle starfighters, and each was a highly sophisticated machine with cutting-edge technology. A single Eagle starfighter cost as much as a yacht. They needed fifty more.

And the Rhino dropships. They were gone. All forty of them, fallen in the war against the Tyranny, along with their pilots. The Freedom needed more of those too. And each Rhino made an Eagle seem puny.

It made her head spin. Back in the solar system, the Freedom would need a year or two in a shipyard at best. Most likely, she would be scuttled at this point. Well, Kim wasn't letting anyone scrap her beloved Freedom. And she didn't have a year or two. Not while Earth was fending off the enemy.

Thankfully, the Aeolians worked fast. So fast her head spun.

Fast? They made greyhounds seem slow. They looked like living boulders, but they could be made of lightning. And their minds were just as fast as their bodies.

It's no wonder they beat the rahs, Kim thought, watching them work. They probably think we humans are like children. They're like a dad fixing his child's broken go-kart.

Kim flew in a Sparrow-class shuttle, supervising the repairs to the hull. The Aeolians swarmed over the ship like hungry termites, eating the old, dented, burnt metal. They were indeed ripping into the chassis. But they paused to speak to Selly, who translated for Kim.

"They noticed imperfections," the thinker said. He sat beside her in the shuttle. The alien seemed surprisingly comfortable in the seat, and he kept his five legs tucked into his shell. "They will build a stronger foundation. Watch."

The Aeolians kept scuttling across the starship, sawing, welding, shaping. It was like watching a time-lapse video. It was all moving at dizzying speeds. Before her eyes, the Aeolians removed the broken, dented parts of the starboard like a surgeon removing gangrenous flesh. Then they began to rebuild. Forming a new chassis. Running new pipes, ducts, cables, wires, conduits, crawlspaces, and all the other inner components of the hull. It was like watching new tendons, arteries, and muscles growing over bones. There was no outer hull yet, no skin to the wounded beast. But slowly the Freedom was taking new form.

"Do you think we are working well, Kim?" Selly asked.

"You're amazing!" she said. "Can I hire a few of you?"

"Hire?" He tilted his head. "What is hire?"

She laughed. "I just mean that Aeolians are remarkable. I've never seen anyone repair a starship so quickly."

"Ah, yes. Workers are bred to be quick. We needed them to be quick in our war against the spiders."

Kim perked up. This was important. The real reason they came here. Not to repair their starship but learn about how Aeolia defeated the rahs. Perhaps she could coax out some information.

"Selly." Kim spoke softly, turning toward him in the shuttle. "I'm sorry your people had to fight such a terrible war. I'm glad you won."

"Sometimes I wonder," Selly said, softening his own voice. "Many species fought the spiders. Many species died. Sometimes I wonder if they are the lucky ones."

"Selly, don't say that! You're alive. That's a privilege denied to many."

"Yes. Alive. A thinker. I am tasked with learning, inventing, exploring. And I cannot leave this shell of a world." He retreated into his own shell. His voice emerged from inside, echoing. "I have said too much! I am no politician. Forgive me, queen! Forgive me!"

He slid his shell's hatches shut, looking to the world like a boulder. A boulder inlaid with crystals, at least.

Well, I tried, Kim thought.

Her MindLink buzzed again. This time it was Lieutenant Iris Featherson, one of the engine room engineers. "Ma'am! Ma'am, the Aeolians just barged into the reactor room, and they're tweaking all the dials."

"Are they going to melt down the reactor core?" she asked.

"Not as such. But they're doing a lot of tweaking. And … now they're pulling the relay coils off the augmentation valves. You better get down here, Colonel."

"Be right there," Kim said. "Selly, old boy? I don't know if you can hear me inside your shell. But we're heading back into the ship."

She pulled the yoke, and the Sparrow turned toward the airlock. The Aeolians were fast workers. But this was a monumental project. Kim didn't see herself getting much sleep anytime soon.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Aeolians swarmed through the starship Freedom like medicine, mending, healing, restoring the grand old lady to health. But they could not heal the scars inside the human crew. As bulkheads rose again, as departments came back online, as once more light and air flowed through ravaged quarters, they seemed like empty halls full of ghosts, like some medieval castle rebuilt but still echoing with the voices of long-dead warriors. Over a thousand spacers had died aboard the Freedom in her war against the Tyranny. Friends. Comrades. Brothers and sisters. Everyone knew somebody who had fallen. Everyone grieved.

As the aliens worked, King summoned a meeting in the war room. They were docked now. They were fighting no battles. But they were still in the midst of a great war. And he must speak to his officers.

Jordan came with him. King wanted his right-hand man there. He relied on Jordan's wisdom. Mimori attended too. The android's intelligence and knowledge put everyone else to shame. While they were all away, Spitfire had command of the bridge. If the fledgling commander needed help, she could call King and Jordan by MindWeb.

Others had come too. Colonel Bastian King was here. The big marine stood by the table, his thick arms crossed. His mohawk and chinstrap beard were neatly trimmed, buzzed down to little more than stubble. He wore battle fatigues today, not a more formal uniform normally required in a war room. That sent a signal. Bastian was ready for battle.

Colonel Kim Fletcher had come too, though she attended by MindWeb avatar. Physically, she was down in engineering, working with the Aeolians and her own engineers. She didn't have time to walk all the way to the prow. The Freedom was nearly a mile long, and her corridors wound like a labyrinth. But Kim could step into her office in the stern, close her eyes, and transmit a hallucination of herself across the dreadnought.

Finally, completing the assembly, were Darjeeling and Emily. The old Englishman stood by his young queen like some medieval knight protecting his charge. As always, Darjeeling was dressed to the nines, his naval uniform impeccable, his white mustache neatly trimmed. He even had a saber hanging from his hip.

King himself was still wearing his parade whites. He hadn't had time to change since the reception in the hangar.

"Well, I certainly feel underdressed," said Bastian, eying the other officers with their gala uniforms.

King took position at the head of the table.

"All right, everyone. Before anything else, I want an update from Colonel Fletcher. What are the Aeolians doing to our ship? Keep it in plain English for us meatheads."

King looked at her. Kim met his gaze. She was just a hallucination, but she seemed completely lifelike. His MindLink even let him smell the engine oil and soot that stained her uniform. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, and in her blue eyes, he saw what she hid from everyone. Her love for him.

They were still keeping their relationship a secret. He was, after all, her commanding officer. But there were rumors. People saw the looks she gave him. Okay, okay—and the looks he gave her. Yes, even the grumpy old bulldog had a soft spot. They saw her report to his quarters on late nights with "diagnostic results requiring review." The crew knew. They all knew.

Well, King still wasn't going to make it official. He was in violation of the Alliance Code of Conduct. Dating an officer under his command? Big no-no.

Then again, Bastian had married Alice, a soldier under his direct command. King himself had approved it. So there was precedent. There were legal loopholes. Maybe. Just maybe …

But no. King had a war to win. He wasn't about to call High Commander Godwin and say, "Gee, sir, I know you're leading the free world in war against an alien invasion, but I've been sleeping with my engineer—think you could sign some forms and make it legal? And please don't fire me, sir."

King realized he had been staring at Kim, lost in thought. He pulled both his gaze and mind away. He too had a duty. He must dedicate himself to it.

"The Aeolians are miracle workers," Kim said. "They're doing more than just fixing what's broken. They're already proposing improvements to the engine structure, shield generators, ATLAS sensors … I don't think there's anything they see which they don't think they can improve."

"And can they improve these systems?" King said.

"I've only begun to review their suggestions." Kim blushed. "To be honest, most of it is Greek to me. It's beyond human knowledge. But QT has been scanning their blueprints and physics, and she says it looks legit."

A few people in the room rolled their eyes or stifled smiles. QT, their engineering android, was an eccentric. She often walked around wearing a fluffy costume of Freedom the Frog, the ship's old mascot from their days as a museum. It was hard to take the android seriously.

Noticing the reaction, Mimori interjected. "QT is my sister. We both came from Alita Robotics in Tokyo. Remember something. She is two in one. When our sister Q-Mari died, it was QT who absorbed her. She took her memories, wisps of her personality, maybe even a bit of her soul. It left QT a little … quirky. But she still has a lightning-speed mind. She can read through a book in seconds and absorb the information perfectly. If QT approved the Aeolians' engineering, that's a powerful seal of approval."

"Agreed," King said. "QT's approval is enough for me. I'm approving the modifications."

"Sir." Kim hesitated a moment. Her blush deepened. "To be honest, sir, I'm not sure the Aeolians are even asking for our permission. They sort of just … go ahead and do things. It might be a cultural difference. They mean well. I think they mean well. But I wanted to discuss this with the team. The Aeolians are, well … really making themselves at home."

Bastian spoke for the first time in the meeting, his voice low and gruff. "Tell me about it. A few of the warrior-caste Aeolians showed up at the marine deck. They began suggesting improvements to our offensive formations. A thinker began tinkering with our weapons, taking them apart, and putting them back together."

"I'm hearing reports like this from across the ship," Darjeeling added. "The bay bosses keep calling me up, complaining about Aeolians messing with the airlocks. One Aeolian is apparently trying to build a giant net to capture landing starfighters."

"It gets even worse," Kim said. "The Aeolians are digging through all our specs. White papers. Blueprints. Everything. Even the classified documents. Without permission."

"Stuff Katyusha would give her left leg to get her hands on," King muttered. "Not to mention the rahs."

Sometimes King didn't know who he hated more. The alien spiders or Katyusha, premier of the Red Dawn. He hadn't seen the Russian commander in a while now, but he would never forget her cruel insanity.

"Our secrets are laid bare before them," Kim said. "Our computer security, even the encryption, is no barrier to the Aeolians. Selly even brags about hacking—his word—our databases. However, I don't think he realizes the word carries a negative connotation. He seems casual about it, even friendly."

"Selly is indeed friendly," King said. "But Gorba is another story. Has anyone heard from the politicians lately? Have you spotted any on our ship? Remember—you can recognize politicians by their smooth shells. From what I've seen, they're the most powerful caste in Heaven's Geode. And if Gorba is any indication, they don't like us."

He looked around the room. Everyone shook their heads. Mostly, they had been seeing the workers. A few thinkers. A handful of warriors. King supposed he should count his blessings.

"I wonder when we'll see our friend Gorba again," Emily said softly, perhaps more to herself than to the room. "It seems that for now, the politicians are letting us repair our ship. But remember what Gorba said? He intends to judge us."

"With all due respect, Emily, nobody judges the Freedom but its officers," said King.

Emily nodded. "I know, sir. But right now we're guests here. And we seem to be at their mercy. I know they're fixing our ship. I know they're the enemies of our enemies. But Gorba's threats echo in my ears. I don't like this."

Jordan took a deep breath. "I don't like this either. I don't like anyone, let alone aliens we know nothing about, digging through our military secrets. And I certainly don't like them threatening to judge us. But I don't see how we have a choice. We're not about to kick them out and trigger an intergalactic incident. So far, Gorba has been condescending, even rude. He threatened us. But nobody has actually harmed us."

"This is true," Emily admitted.

"This could all come down to cultural misunderstandings," Jordan continued. "To us, the Aeolians are an entirely new civilization. We don't know how they think, how they act among one another. What we perceive as rude, condescending, or threatening might be perfectly polite in Aeolian society. First contact is difficult. But it was a hell of a lot more difficult with the rahs. And the Aeolians are enemies of the rahs. They could become our friends. If they're not our friends already."

During a stressful time, Jordan's deep voice and deeper wisdom were good to hear. Like always, Jordan's words soothed King. So long as his friend was at his side, things never seemed too bad.

"Yes, let's not forget why we're here," King said, his own voice raspy. "We traveled all this way, we fought the Tyranny, we lost brothers and sisters—all to find out how the Aeolians defeated the rahs. I would like to meet with whoever runs Heaven's Geode. They would have answers. What do aliens in science fiction always say? 'Take me to your leader.' Well, right now we're the aliens. And we've met no leader. According to Selly, their queen is not sentient. I'm not sure they have a proper leader. At least not in the way we humans think of one."

"They might be like ants, termites, or bees on Earth," Jordan said. "A hive. Selly did refer to Heaven's Geode as a colony."

"Has anyone discovered any clues?" King said. "Something about the old Aeolian-Rah War?"

"I broached the subject with Selly," Kim said. The engineer shifted uncomfortably, jangling the tools on her belt. "I think I scared him. He retreated into his shell like a frightened turtle."

King looked at the others. "Anyone else?"

"I myself asked several Aeolians," said Emily. "But they were only workers, and they didn't seem to know much. They just said it happened long before they were born, and that I should get out of their way, they're busy."

"They were dreadfully rude!" Niles said. The drone floated over Emily's shoulder. "Can you imagine? Telling the Queen of England to get out of the way! Why, I should have them lashed. It seems that even in another star system, the working class is insufferable."

A vent opened in the deckhead. Stowy dropped down from above.

"Niles! Don't be rude!" the girl said.

Everyone leaped to their feet.

"You scoundrel!" Darjeeling cried. He rushed around the table toward her.

As always, the stowaway wore her dress of many pockets. The dress had been normal once. But over the years, Stowy had covered it with a mosaic of patches, each from different fabric, creating a dizzying array of pockets. Those pockets were always full of treasures: marbles, gears, misplaced insignia, the odd lizard tail, and even a few pieces of quartz Stowy swore were diamonds. Not long ago, Emily had shaved off Stowy's messy brown hair, hoping to get rid of the lice. The hair was growing back now, just long enough to fall across the girl's protuberant ears, but the brown strands could no longer hide Stowy's freckled face. Mischief shone in her eyes.

"Hey, Stow'," Bastian said.

"Hey." The girl waved, hopping away from Darjeeling's grasping hands. "I was wondering: Are there dinosaurs in Heaven's Geode? I once read a book about dinosaurs in outer space, and—"

"Stowy!" King roared. "Get out of my war room."

"Sorry, boss. Just came to tell ya something. Something really important."

Darjeeling reached out again to grab her. "We've heard enough of your tall tales, urchin! Stories of flea circuses on Mars, and ghosts who live in the engine, and how you turned into a mouse."

She fled him. "But it's all true! And so is my new story. I know how the Aeolians beat the rahs!"

"Well, you can go tell it to the brig walls!" Darjeeling almost managed to grab her this time, but she hopped across the table. She crashed down between a few chairs. Bastian and Jordan had to leap aside.

"Enough!" King roared. "All of you—settle down. Stowy—you have one minute to speak to me. Tell me your story. And this better be good, or I'm letting Darjeeling drag you to the brig."

Stowy snorted, blowing back a strand of hair. "I'll be back on the streets by noon."

"Fifty-five seconds," King said.

Stowy gulped and loosened her collar. "Okay, okay. Better hurry up, Stowy." She took a deep breath. "Imagine it. Thanksgiving, four years ago. Just before the war. We docked on Mars and I sneaked into a tourist shuttle. It was in a Martian casino that I saw a real flea circus! And the fleas could juggle, and do acrobatics, and—"

"About the Aeolians!" King barked.

"Oh. Right. I know how they defeated the rahs. An Aeolian warrior told me."

King inhaled sharply. Maybe there really was something here. "Where is this warrior?"

"Down in the Courtyard. A few Aeolian warriors are there, hanging out with the marines. I could tell they were warriors because their shells are all lumpy, and they seem really interested in wars. They keep swapping battle stories with the marines. But not the one I talked to. This warrior was sitting all alone in the corner. He seemed lonely, so I approached him. He has a beard, sir! A real beard like a human! Have you ever seen an Aeolian with a beard? It's white, and his skin is wrinkly and brown, so I think he's very old. Maybe even older than Darjeeling."

The sergeant made a move to grab her again, but King waved him back.

"What did the old Aeolian say?" King said.

"Well, at first we talked about a lot of things," Stowy said. "I told him about that time I turned into a mouse. It was when I was crawling in the ducts near the brig. Dr. Annie said it was just the arachtaur pheromones making me hallucinate, but I think it really happened, and Fal'kel'ha'shor believes me. That's the Aeolian warrior I told you about. But I call him Fal for short. Did I mention he has a beard? I wonder if he has fleas in his beard. Do you think I could train them to be a flea circus? It reminds me of that time I saw a flea circus on Mars. It was Thanksgiving, four years ago—"

"You know what? Forget I asked," King said. "I'm going to the Courtyard to have a chat with this Fal'kel'ha'shor. Stowy? Come with me."

"Soi-tenly," the stowaway said. "Hey, maybe we can ask him about dinosaurs too! I looked out the porthole earlier, and I think I saw a dinosaur, but I'm not sure."

"Sir, may I suggest taking her to the brig instead?" Darjeeling said.

"The girl has some rapport with the warrior," King said. "She could help us. Come on, Stowy. Bastian? I want you with me too. The rest of you return to your stations. Meeting adjourned."

CHAPTER SIX

King and his son walked through the corridors of the Freedom, heading toward the Courtyard. Stowy had decided to travel by duct. She was crawling somewhere in the ductwork now, her preferred mode of transportation.

"Maybe Stowy has the right idea," King muttered to himself.

The ship bustled with activity, far too crowded for comfort. Spacers rushed to and fro, dealing with their daily tasks aboard the ship. When they saw King, they snapped to attention and made way. They were all tired. King saw the sunken eyes. The pale skin. The sheen of sweat from too many stims. This had been a long war. They had been crammed into this ship for too long. But every spacer under his command gave him respect. They were all still ready to fulfill their duty.

Countless Aeolians were here too. The aliens trundled back and forth, using some legs for walking, others for holding tools. Some of those tools were familiar, others bizarre, things of pipes and bellows and cranks and gears. A few Aeolians didn't even bother walking. Hiding inside their shells, they rolled. Nearly all of them were workers, their rough shells covered in fake moss—perfect camouflage, an evolutionary vestige from their lost world. More than once, King and Bastian had to leap aside, barely dodging a rolling stone.

King tried to talk to a few of the aliens. They all just grunted, muttered something in their language, and waddled on. A few had picked up some English. But just enough to grunt, "Busy, busy! Out of my way!"

Watching them go, King couldn't help but bark a laugh. "Look at them, Bastian. Strange creatures, aren't they? I don't think the workers are great communicators. They almost seem like drones."

Bastian seemed distracted. "Yeah."

"But we'll talk to Stowy's warrior," King continued. "Maybe the warriors are more like Selly. Talkative. That's what we need right now. A fellow soldier."

As they walked down the corridor, Bastian looked at him. "Dad?"

"Out of my way, out of my way!" rumbled a worker. The alien trudged by, his five feet pounding the deck. He was carrying an assortment of hammers that sprouted along a rod like branches from a tree. "Busy, busy."

The two men stepped aside, letting him pass, then kept walking.

"What, Bastian?" King said.

"I wanted to talk to you about something."

King frowned. "Well, we're talking, aren't we? Out with it!"

Bastian took a deep breath. "My marines have been fighting hard for weeks now. Hell, we've all been fighting hard. We all lost friends. We all faced death. My marines are restless, scared, haunted, hurt. I wanted to ask if they could have some shore leave."

"Absolutely not," King said.

"Dad, there are cities below," Bastian said. "It's safe there. You and I are senior officers. We have private quarters. Some breathing room. My marines are crammed into tiny bunks, locked in there with their grief, and—"

"Bastian, we don't know much about the Aeolians yet. I'm not about to unleash thousands of burly, thirsty marines into their cities. This is not up for debate. Your troops will get shore leave when we're back at Earth."

Bastian heaved a sigh. "All right. You're right. Of course. The troops will grumble, but I'll keep 'em aboard."

King paused for a moment. He turned toward Bastian in the corridor. He put a hand on his son's shoulder.

"Bastian, I know this is hard. This has been a long war. We just came out of a terrible battle. I know you fought hard. I know you saw terrible things. I can't make that go away. But I'm here for you." He dropped his voice. "And I love you."

Bastian's eyes dampened. He nodded, then pulled his father into an embrace. They stood holding each other in the corridor as Aeolians bustled all around.

King remembered the day Bastian had been born. King himself had been born on the family ranch, but Bastian had needed a hospital in Omaha. It had been a difficult pregnancy. A difficult birth. It nearly killed Diane. Bastian Ronald King had been born prematurely, tiny and red but strong, crying with a loud clear voice. King remembered endless hours cradling the boy, walking up and down the hallway in the farmhouse, trying to soothe those deafening screams, then rejoicing when the baby calmed and smiled.

That little baby, born weighing only four pounds, had grown into a giant. Today Bastian stood even taller than King and was built like a tank. But to King, he was still that little baby. Precious. The love of his life.

King wasn't good at expressing his feelings. But in just those three words—I love you—he told his son all of this. And Bastian understood.

"Love you too, Dad." Words that spoke just as much.

For a moment they just stood there, holding each other. It had been a long time since King had hugged his son. Maybe they both needed this. After so much sacrifice and pain, they needed to remember why they fought. King always told himself that he fought for Earth, and that was true. But he also fought for family. For his son. For Rowan, his sweet granddaughter. For Alice, his daughter-in-law. For Spitfire, who was like a daughter. For Jordan and Darjeeling, who were like brothers. For everyone on this ship. They were all his family.

"Dad, I wanted to tell you something," Bastian said. "I wasn't going to tell you just yet, but Alice said it's okay. That I can tell you."

He frowned. "Tell me what?"

"Alice is pregnant. It's only ten weeks in. We haven't told anyone else yet."

King took a step back, holding his son at arm's length, then laughed and pulled Bastian back into an embrace.

"Congratulations, Bastian. You make an old man proud." He wiped his eyes. "I'm going to have another grandchild."

Bastian grinned. "How about you come over to my quarters for dinner tonight? You, me, Alice, Rowan. We'll celebrate."

"Of course."

Yes, this was what he fought for. They were a thousand light-years from home, and Earth was in peril, but this was hope. This was a future. This drove them onward through the fire.

"Out of my way, out of my way!" grumbled an Aeolian worker, trundling by, carrying an assortment of motorized hammers and a buzzing welding iron. "Busy, busy!"

King and Bastian stepped aside. The Aeolian walked by, muttering about how he had never seen such a sorry starship.

King patted Bastian on the back. "Come on, son. Let's go talk to that warrior in the Courtyard."

* * * * *

The two men stepped into the Courtyard, the mustering grounds of the Freedom Brigade marines.

Located on deck 7 of the midsection, the Courtyard rose above a Rhino dropship hangar and below a Sparrow shuttle hangar. Indeed, the Courtyard was like a hangar itself, a cavernous open space. It was larger than a football field. But instead of shuttles docking here, it was a place for marines to gather, train, and prepare for war. From here, the marines could quickly descend down poles to their Rhinos like firemen, then deploy to enemy territory. This was the center of Freedom's infantry might.

Normally, five thousand marines served here—an army large enough to conquer small worlds, overwhelm enemy bases, or board other dreadnoughts. They called themselves the Freebies. If you asked King, they were the best fighters in the galaxy. Today their numbers were fewer. Many had fallen in the war against the rahs, then in the battle against the arachtaurs.

Throughout the war, King and Bastian had been supplementing their numbers, enlisting elite soldiers from Earth to replace fallen Freebies. On their next visit, they would have to recruit many more marines. Too many noble Freebies had sacrificed their lives so that Freedom might fly on. As he entered the Courtyard, when he saw the empty places in the marine formations, King felt every loss. He grieved for every man and woman gone.

And he was proud of every soldier who still stood here, ready to fight on.

He spotted Sergeant Major Alice Allenby, senior NCO of the Freedom Brigade. She was training with an electric bo staff, its tips crackling with blue fury. Drenched in sweat, Alice was slamming the weapon again and again into a mechanical arachtaur, a terrifying machine that kept swinging its iron stinger and clawed legs. Alice was wearing camo pants, army boots, and a white tank top. Her golden hair hung across her shoulders in two braids.

"Should she really be training while pregnant?" King asked his son.

"I asked the same question," Bastian said. "She tried to whack me with that bo staff. Best to let her keep training. If you value your life."

King chuckled, watching Alice train. She was a damn good warrior, maybe the best on the Freedom. He was proud to be her father-in-law.

The mechanical arachtaur swung its claws. Alice ducked, dodging the blow, then rose, her staff crackling in hand.

"I got you now, you son of a bitch!" she growled, raising her staff above the mechanical monster.

Just then, she noticed King standing in the Courtyard doorway. She lost her concentration, and the arachtaur kicked her with a metal leg. Alice yelped and stepped back, rubbing her arm. Thankfully, the arachtaur's claws were dull, but that would no doubt leave a mark.

Ignoring the pain, Alice snapped to attention.

"Commander on deck!" she shouted. Her voice echoed across the room.

Across the deck, marines stood at attention. Panting, Alice gave her commander a salute.

King returned the salute. "As you were, everyone."

The marines returned to their training. Some stood inside the bulletproof glass firing range, shooting at spider-shaped targets. Others were grappling. A few were working out. One group of marines sat before an instructor, watching the woman dissect an arachtaur corpse. There was always something interesting happening in the Courtyard.

Today things were particularly exciting. A number of Aeolians milled about. Most were of the worker caste. The mossy creatures stood on ladders, fixing holes in the deckhead—the remnants of the battle against the arachtaur boarders. But King also saw Aeolians of the warrior class. They were easy to recognize. Like the workers, the warriors had rough, craggy shells that looked like boulders. But they were larger, stronger, and grew no moss. Perhaps they were tough enough that they didn't need mossy camouflage. Each warrior was as big as a silverback gorilla, and their five muscular legs looked like they could shame an elephant in a stomping competition.

The warriors seemed interested in everything that was going on. One Aeolian warrior was wrestling five big marines. At the same time. And winning, by the looks of it. Another Aeolian warrior stood in the firing range, shooting a human gun. Looked like he was a good shot. One warrior was lifting weights, putting even the strongest humans to shame. A handful of other warriors walked between different groups of marines, asking questions.

King looked back at Alice. "How's your arm?"

A bruise was already spreading there. She rubbed it and winced. "Smarts a bit. Every bruise is a teacher, as we say around here."

King looked back at the Aeolians. One big warrior was lifting two marines overhead.

"How are your guests?" King asked.

"Big, strong bastards," Alice said. "Can we enlist a few into the marines? I'd love to sic these guys on the arachtaurs." She stepped closer and dropped her voice. "They're brutal, sir. Nice enough fellas. But damn strong. I'm glad they're not our enemies. I don't envy the rahs who had to face them in battle."

King watched the stony aliens train. "Me neither. Sadly, there don't seem to be many warrior Aeolians left. Selly said there used to be many. But only a few remain in Heaven's Geode."

"Hell, just the eight or nine we have aboard are an army," Alice said. "Can I keep them? Please? I promise to take good care of them. I'll feed them every day."

King jutted his thumb toward Bastian. "You already have one big brute at home."

Bastian patted his belly. "And he needs to eat every day too."

Just then, a ventilation grate opened on the deck. A head popped out, topped with messy brown hair. A freckled, elfin face grinned at them.

"Sorry I'm tardy." Stowy crawled out from the ducts. "Usually the ducts are faster. But on the way here, I found a toy fire truck that I lost ages ago, and I had to stop and play with it a bit." She sighed. "I lost it again."

"Stowy." King cleared his throat. "You're holding it."

Stowy looked at the toy truck in her hand. She gasped. "There it is!" She grinned. "Thanks, boss."

The girl was nineteen, but she still acted like a child. They all accepted her the way she was. Yes, she was a stowaway. But to King, she too was family. She had been here for years. He had offered her a bunk many times, but she refused, preferring to spend her days crawling through the ducts, even sleeping there. She was an inseparable part of this starship, just as much as Mimori. To King, she wasn't just a stowaway. She was like another granddaughter.

"Stowy, on Christmas, for your gift, I'll let you ride in one of our Saint Bernard rescue shuttles. The Freedom has two of them. And they're even better than a fire truck."

"Oh, I know. I've ridden in them many times."

King's eyebrows rose. "You have?"

"Sure." Stowy nodded. "A bunch of times. When they go out on missions, I sometimes hitch a ride. It's fun. Instead, you can buy me a new toy fire truck." She sighed. "I seem to have lost mine."

"Stowy. Your hand."

She looked at the fire truck in her hand. "Oh, there it is again! It keeps reappearing there. It must be magic."

"Stowy, where is the warrior you've been talking to?" King said, deciding to get to the point before Stowy lost everything from her train of thought to her mind. "The one who was willing to talk about the rah war."

"Oh right. You mean Fal'kel'ha'shor. Did I mention he has a beard?"

"Repeatedly," Bastian interjected. The big marine was growing bored, tapping his foot.

"He seems very old and a bit shy," Stowy said. "Come, I'll take you to him. He complained about feeling tired, so I set him up in Bastian's office."

"How generous of you," Bastian said.

"Aww, thanks. That's just the kind of person I am. Come on!"

* * * * *

They walked through the Courtyard, passing by a crowd of marines and a handful of Aeolian warriors. The crowd surrounded a mat. A martial arts fight seemed to be going on. Master Sergeant Meytal Koren, an Olympic wrestler and elite commando, stood on the mat, wearing battle armor. She snarled and lunged at an Aeolian. The alien tossed her aside like an old sock. Meytal thumped onto the deck, cracking her armor. The Aeolian—a massive boulder with muscular legs—bugled triumphantly.

"I'm all right, I'm all right." Meytal rose to her feet, groaning. "Like fighting a goddamn tank. Oh hey, Stow."

Stowy waved at the commando, then kept skipping along. King and Bastian followed.

The Courtyard was a big place. It took a while to walk across. They had walked only half the distance when a soldier approached them, snapped to attention, and saluted.

"Sirs!"

Master Sergeant Hicks was a beast, big and burly like a buffalo. If any marine could wrestle an Aeolian to submission, it was probably Hicks. He had a wide jaw, crew cut, and beady black eyes. A battle scar ran down his cheek.

"What is it, Hicks?" Bastian said, not bothering to hide the impatience from his voice.

Hicks was a company sergeant, a high enough rank, but stopping an admiral in his tracks was something only a handful of senior officers ever dared do, and even then only during emergencies.

"Admiral." Hicks nodded to King, then looked at Bastian. "Sir, I was wondering if you had time to think about shore leave."

"Hicks, this is not the time," Bastian said.

But a few other troops were gathering around. They gazed curiously. King saw the hope in their eyes. He saw the weariness. The battle scars. He saw the photos on the walls—the faces of the dead. He saw the emptiness those fallen soldiers left in this room, in these hearts.

"I apologize, sir." Hicks lowered his head.

King cleared his throat. Everyone looked at him. He spoke as loudly as he could with his raspy voice. But in the silence that fell across the Courtyard, he knew that everyone could hear.

"I know this has been a long war. I know the battle against the Tyranny was hard. Maybe our hardest battle yet. I know you've been stuck on this ship for months now. I know you're tired. Stressed. Grieving. You all went through hell. I would love to give you shore leave, but right now I cannot. We were invited into Heaven's Geode, this hollow world. But not to visit its cities. We must remain on the ship a little longer."

He saw their crestfallen faces. The slumped shoulders. The terrible weariness. They were spacers, used to spending months at a time in a starship. But even they were reaching their limits.

King would love to send them down to the surface. To visit the alien cities with them. But there were nine thousand spacers aboard. If they crowded the cities below, what would happen? Would there be drunken fights? Diplomatic incidents? This was a first-contact situation. It called for caution. For the most delicate diplomacy. No, he could not suddenly unleash thousands of humans into Aeolian society.

"When our starship is repaired, we'll head back to Earth," King said. "You'll have shore leave there. I'm asking you to hold on a little longer. In the meanwhile—I want you to take the next three days off. One brigade must remain on call. You can take turns. The rest—enjoy yourselves aboard the Freedom. We still have a movie theater from our days as a tourist attraction. We still have the Dinogolf. Or you can simply rest in your bunks, reading books, sleeping, or enjoying a MindWeb simulation. I know this isn't what you wanted. But it's what I can give right now."

Hicks looked like he wanted to argue. Then he simply nodded, saluted, and walked away. The other marines returned to their tasks.

They're heroes, and they deserve better, King thought. I hope I can bring them home soon.

Stowy tugged King's sleeve. "Come on! Fal is waiting."

King kept walking. "Let's go talk to the old warrior."

* * * * *

Finally they reached Bastian's office, located in the back of the Courtyard, and stepped inside.

All senior officers had some leeway as to how they decorated their offices. King's office was a place of elegance. Model ships, antique naval instruments, and leather-bound books topped the shelves. Real oak paneled the floor. A suit of armor stood by a crackling fireplace.

Bastian's office could not be more different. The floor was simple diamond plate. A poster hung on the wall. The words "Wolf Legion 2186 World Tour appeared over artwork of werewolves riding atop a tank, snarling at a zombie horde. Bastian had seen the band as a teenager, and the members had all signed his poster. A retro pinball machine stood in the corner—something Bastian had dug up at a yard sale years ago and restored. Rowan's drawings covered one wall. Empty pop cans and candy wrappers topped the desk.

"Bastian, you're a colonel now," King said. "Can you take down that goddamn poster and tidy up a bit?"

"Dad, I'm thirty-five years old. Please stop telling me to clean my room."

"I'll stop telling you when you grow up!"

"Dad! Not now." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "The Aeolian is here."

At first they had not seen him. Then the office chair swiveled around, revealing an old warrior.

And old indeed he seemed. Like the others, he had a big, lumpy shell. But cracks and dents covered it. Silver bolts held the shell together, and gold sealed the cracks, making the shell oddly more beautiful for having been broken. What looked like medallions had been fastened onto the shell, perhaps serving the same purpose as human medals. This was, after all, an old soldier.

Only two of his legs stuck out from his shell, dangling over the edge of the chair, an odd mimicry of how a human would sit. Those legs had once been powerful, no doubt, but today they were gnarled and bent, and the claws had fallen off the toes. The creature's head emerged from the shell. Three rheumy eyes blinked, topped with fluffy white eyebrows. Indeed, the creature had a beard. It grew all around his head, front and back, cascading toward the shell-like drifts of snow.

Stowy waved. "Hey, Fal."

"Ah, hello there, Earthlings!" said the old warrior. He had a husky voice. "I apologize. I did not notice you enter. I was enjoying a nap. At my age, it becomes harder and harder to spend time outside the shell."

He laughed—a grainy sound.

"I'm sorry to wake you," King said. "I'm Admiral James King, commanding officer of the starship Freedom."

"I am, um … Fal'kel'ha'shor. Yes, that was it. You may call me Fal, for I heard that our full ka'til are cumbersome for human mouths. I must admit they are cumbersome for me too." He barked a laugh. "Forgive me if I do not rise to greet you, which I have learned is a human courtesy. My legs are old and bent, and my shell is liable to fall apart." He chortled. "I am over eight hundred of your human years, and by the queen, I feel every one."

Stowy's eyes widened. "Whoa. Over eight hundred? I thought you were about the admiral's age."

King cleared his throat. "I'm only sixty-one." He thought for a moment. "Sixty-two."

Stowy nodded. "Exactly. I thought he's at least that ancient. But eight hundred!" She knelt beside the old Aeolian. "Were you around during the Renaissance?" She thought for a moment. "Did the Aeolians have a Renaissance? Did you need armor even though you have shells? Did you ride horses and joust?" She gasped. "Is that how your shell cracked? In a jousting accident? This is so cool. Do you have dinosaurs in Heaven's Geode?"

Bastian gently put a hand on Stowy's shoulder. "Stowy, why don't you give Fal some space."

"But—but—he was just about to tell me about the dinosaurs!"

"Stowy, I keep a puzzle here for Rowan when she visits," Bastian said. "Want to put it together?"

"Do I!" Soon Stowy was on the floor, tongue sticking out, putting together a puzzle of Freedom the Frog.

* * * * *

King returned his attention to Fal'kel'ha'shor.

"Fal, I'm honored to have such an esteemed warrior as yourself aboard my ship," King said. And he meant it. "Is there any way I can make you more comfortable? Would you like quarters with a bed? Or any particular meal?"

"Thank you, young man. But we Aeolians sleep in our shells. No bed required. And as for a meal—that is something we do not discuss in polite society." The Aeolian chuckled. "Though I must admit that in my old age, I have developed a liking for food humor."

King cursed himself. Right. He had forgotten. He had mentioned eating to Selly before, nearly causing an intergalactic crisis. The thinker had been mortified. The topic of eating was taboo among Aeolians. King did not understand why. What did these creatures eat that was so horrifying? Were they cannibals? Something else? He wouldn't ask just yet. No need to poke into another culture's taboos.

"Forgive me," King said.

"Don't worry about it, lad!" said Fal. "I'm old and I don't care for etiquette. So long as you don't begin to eat here in front of me, I think we'll be fine." He chortled. "Don't worry! The young always worry too much. I'm perfectly comfortable here. I've allowed myself to access your database." His tentacles twirled. "I hope you don't mind. I only learned half an hour ago that humans have a concept of privacy. Of ownership. Ha! It must have mortified you when we burst into your ship and began rummaging through your things."

"It's quite all right," King said. "I simply ask that the Aeolians avoid any files that are encrypted."

"Not a worry, son. I've merely been reading some of your literature. Fascinating works! I found many novels by human thinkers. Novels! What a novel concept! Aeolians do not write them. We have no books in our culture. Is it true that long ago, humans wrote these novels on paper? Bound them in physical books?"

King nodded. "Yes. I have hundreds of real books in my office."

"Ah! I would love to see them someday. But not right now. My legs are old and bent, and I'm tired." He wriggled his tentacles. "Digital books will do for now. But they can only teach me so much. It's good to talk to living humans too."

Bastian cleared his throat and sent King a telepathic message. "Can we ask him about the rahs already?"

King ignored his son. Impatience would not help here. The old Aeolian seemed a little like an old human—lonely and eager for conversation.

King pulled out a seat. "Would you mind if I sat down?"

"Not at all, young man!" Fal said. "Is it a human custom to ask to be seated?"

"Only among elders we greatly respect," King said.

"Ha! Pff! You know how to flatter an old warrior. That is nice to see. Most of the younger Aeolians today show us little respect. They think we warriors are no longer necessary. They have forgotten their history." He shook his odd little head, and his circular beard swayed. "Times are good now. In good times the young grow soft and disrespect their elders. We were once the hard shell that guarded civilization. Now the shell is cracked and the soft flesh within is exposed, pulsing and raw. History is the foundation of civilization. Beware a utopia built upon the ruins of forgotten hardship. Such a castle is bound to sink. I worry."

"You are wise, Fal," King said.

This is what happened to Earth, King thought. My generation won World War Three. The next generation grew up in peace. They became soft. They forgot. I watched the military dismantled into a shell of itself. I watched the Freedom become a museum. I ushered in good times only to watch the foundation slip out beneath our feet. Then the rahs attacked. And millions died.

* * * * *

"You seem lost in reflection," Fal said.

"I'm thinking that we are alike," King said. "Two old warriors. While I'm young compared to you, I'm old in the reckoning of men. We both are misunderstood in our societies. And we both fought the rahs."

There it was. King had broached the topic at last.

Fal shook his head again. His snowy beard swayed. "No, I've not had that honor. I've never fought the rahs. I'm old, but not that old. My father was born here in Heaven's Geode. My grandfather was of the exiled generation that built this world, but he too had never seen a rah. My great-grandfather fought in the War of Terrors. I knew him when I was very young. He shared his tales with me. He died when I was barely larger than a pebble, and he was over a thousand, the oldest Aeolian of his generation."

"So much for firsthand accounts of the Aeolian-Rah War," Bastian telepathized to King's mind only.

King should have expected this, perhaps. The rah scroll, which mentioned Aeolia, had seemed positively ancient. Only four generations had gone by for the Aeolians. But given how long these shelled beings lived, the Aeolian-Rah War must have occurred thousands of years ago.

"Fal, are there other Aeolians who grew up hearing of the war?" King asked.

"No. It's not often discussed. Another taboo. Ha! We are a race so afraid to talk of what shames us. But I'm old. And I no longer care. No, there are no others. My family is known for its longevity. I am the only living Aeolian who spoke to a veteran of the war. When I die, there will be no more. And I worry that our history will be forgotten. That my great-grandfather will be forgotten. That the legacy of the warrior caste will be forgotten with them, and that we will become but a joke for the other castes to snicker at, then fade to nothing at all. I try to speak to the young ones of the war. They do not listen. They turn away, ashamed. And the tale is nearly forgotten."

King leaned across the desk. "I want to hear this tale. Like you, I'm a warrior. I will not forget. I will keep the story alive."

Fal thought for a moment. "Do you think, young man, that the Aeolian-Rah War might make a good topic for a book?"

King smiled thinly. "I think it might make an excellent book. And I think many humans would want to read it."

"Oh, how wonderful!" Fal perked up. "Then we must work on this book. Would you care to help me write it, young man? I'm sorry—old man. I keep forgetting how different our lifespans are."

"Hey, you're flattering him," Bastian said. "You're the only one on the Freedom who can make my father feel young."

King ignored his son. "Fal, is there an honorific among Aeolians to one who is older and wiser? Like sir in my language?"

"Ha! Nice of you to ask. Yes, in my day, youngsters called their elders senba. A term of respect. Today the young are impudent. They disrespect their elders. They do not care about the old tales."

King was still leaning over the desk, giving the Aeolian his complete attention. "Senba Fal, tell me about the old war."

Fal took a deep breath through the mouth atop his head. His beard bristled. Briefly his head and legs retracted toward his shell, perhaps an instinctive defense mechanism. But then the old Aeolian stretched out all five legs, and his head rose high atop its muscular neck.

"Where to start?" Fal said softly.

"How about at the beginning?" said King.

"Ah! A joke? But yes, the beginning. What a splendid place to begin!" His beard drooped, flowing halfway down his shell of gold-filled cracks. "We were a young race. An ambitious race. Millions of years ago, we were prey animals on our homeworld, which you call Cleodora in your language. Can you believe it? Yes, we cowered. We disguised ourselves as boulders. Terrible reptiles, as large as your starfighters, roamed Cleodora in those days. They preyed upon us. Their mighty teeth could crack our shells. We barely survived. But we had one advantage."

"Intelligence," King said. "Your story mirrors our own."

"Yes! Intelligence. Big brains." With one foot, Fal tapped his shell.

"You keep your brains inside your shells?" King said.

"Of course. Where do you keep yours? In your heads?" He chortled. "Originally, we evolved these big shells to camouflage ourselves. They came with an unexpected benefit. Room to grow big brains. We outwitted the predators. The early warrior caste invented spears and daggers and arrows. We hunted our predators, and the predators became the prey. We conquered our world."

"Whoa, you are really starting at the beginning," Bastian observed. "Maybe fast forward a bit, senba? Like—a million years forward?"

King cleared his throat. "Bastian, why don't you go help Stowy with her puzzle?" He looked back at Fal. "Please continue."

Fal barely noticed the interruption. He seemed lost in another era. "We built great colonies," the old alien continued. "Cities with towers that rose to the sky, tipped with precious crystals. Then even our sky could not satiate our ambition. We desired the stars. They called to us. We were like the moths of your Earth, drawn to the flame. We built ships and sailed toward those alluring lights. And we found …"

His voice trailed off.

"The rahs," said King.

"Not at first," said Fal. "Not for a long while yet. We settled on new worlds. We learned about the realms beneath and above. We even traveled to other stars. We found other lifeforms. Most were simple, what you would call animals. We found no other intelligent civilizations. A few relics. A few ruins. But no civilizations like ours that still sailed the stars. We wondered what happened to them. To the explorers who came before us. Why did we find only death?"

King nodded grimly. "Because there's a predator out there. Something a lot worse than your big lizards."

Fal suddenly seemed even older. His face, as it were, sagged. "You call them the rahs. There is no word for them in our language. We speak verbally only to our children, whose tentacles are still soft. And we do not speak to them of this terror. In our tentacle communication, which you would call telepathy, we merely signal great fear. Great danger. We saw them in the darkness. And they saw us."

"We humans made the same mistake," King said. "We reached into space and alerted them to our presence."

"They are a terrible predator. They conquer world after world. They are not the only predator in the galaxy. There are others like them. Some even mightier. But here, in our corner of the galaxy, the rahs reign. And their dream is to someday control the entire galaxy."

A chill ran down King's spine. "There are other predators out there? Worse than rahs? I can't imagine anything worse."

"There are terrors beyond imagining in the darkness. Most are still far. Some live in other galaxies. The rahs are … what you humans would call in your novels the 'neighborhood bully.' They have conquered thousands of worlds already. They have wiped out many civilizations."

"But you defeated them!" King said. "You beat the rahs. You're the only race that ever did."

"Defeated them?" said the Aeolian. "Maybe. Inasmuch as our civilization still exists. But it was hardly a victory. Look at us now. Living in hiding. Only a few million of us remain. Once there were many billions. In the old days, we hid in our shells. Today we hide in a great shell we constructed for our entire colony. Once more we are prey."

"That's more than others achieved," King said. "You drove them out of this system. We found an ancient rah scroll in a captured clawship. It spoke of many wars. It refers to the war in Aeolia as the only loss in rah history."

"Does it now?" Fal snorted a laugh. "Ha! That is nice to hear. That would make my great-grandfather proud. He slew many rahs. Today his shell is entombed on a distant icy world among other heroes."

The world Emily explored, King thought. Where she found the daggers.

"Our people have seen his tomb," King said.

Fal's tentacles flailed and his beard bristled like a scared cat. "You have? On the thirteenth planet from our main sequence star?"

"The same," King said. "I myself was not there. But I saw the footage my away team brought back. Your great-grandfather rests well, senba."

He didn't mention the arachtaurs storming the tomb. That was a story for another time. The tomb still stood. The dead still rested. Perhaps someday King could return there, maybe with a team of Aeolians, and clean up the mess of battle.

Fal reached out one of his five feet. He clasped King's hand. "This is good to hear, my young friend. No Aeolian has left Heaven's Geode in centuries. Only to fetch ore from nearby asteroids, nothing else. This is very good to hear."

King tried to steer the conversation back toward the war. He still needed answers. Needed to know how the Aeolians won.

"Your great-grandfather was a warrior of legend," King said. "Can you tell me of his battles?"

"He was a pilot," said Fal.

King smiled. "So was I, long ago. So was my father before him. And his father before that."

Bastian, who had been speaking softly with Stowy, suddenly fell silent. He dropped the puzzle piece he held. The old tension filled the room. Bastian was the first King in four generations to flunk out of flight school. He was a brave warrior, a brilliant officer, and King could not be more proud of his son. But still the awkwardness filled the air.

Fal broke through the tension. "Ah! Another thing we have in common, my young friend. We are both descended from pilots. I myself have never flown in battle. It must have been glorious! I have heard many tales from my senba. He fought with many other warriors. It might surprise you to hear that there were once many. Indeed, there were millions! Today only a few hundred warriors remain, and we are relegated to policing Heaven's Geode, fighting petty theft instead of alien foes. But back then, yes, we were many. We filled the skies and space with our starships. Armies of warriors stormed enemy starships and colonies. Indeed, we struck them on their own soil. We could not protect our own world . . . but we made the enemy hurt."

Stowy looked up from her puzzle, eyes soft. A few puzzle pieces clung to her hair. "What happened to Cleodora? I was there with Emily. She's our queen. We saw the ruins. It was so sad."

"Indeed, the story of Cleodora—as you call our world—is a sad one," said Fal. "The enemy broke through our defenses. They bombed our world from above. They slew our people. They reduced our cities to rubble. We beat them in the great battlefields of space. But they destroyed our world. A few brave pilots, my great-grandfather among them, managed to retrieve our queen. To fly out with her into space. We built Heaven's Geode to hide her. So that she might give birth to a new generation. So that we might survive. Even if we live in hiding. Sometimes I feel that death in battle would have been preferable. This is no place for a warrior like me."

* * * * *

All right. It was time to cut to the chase.

King put a hand on the Aeolian's shoulder. Or at least—the rim of his shell.

"Senba, how did the warriors do it? How did they fight so well? My own people are struggling against the rahs. Every other race fell before them. What is your secret? What gives you an edge in battle?"

There it was. The question King had been itching to ask all this time. The mystery he had flown a thousand light-years to solve. The knowledge a thousand of his spacers had died seeking. Stowy and Bastian were quiet, watching the old Aeolian, waiting.

Fal stared back, silent for a moment.

Finally his tentacles wilted. An almost human look of sadness filled his eyes. "That I cannot tell you."

"What?" Bastian blurted out, leaping to his feet.

"Bas—" King began.

"What do you mean you can't tell us?" Bastian demanded, not even hearing his father.

"It's a secret," Fal said simply.

"Oh, suddenly you care about secrets?" Bastian said. "Your people brag about hacking into our databases! Even the encrypted files. You personally let yourself right in, reading our novels. I thought there are no secrets among Aeolians. That you share everything. It seems that only applies one way!"

King let his son go on. Perhaps he needed a "tough cop." This indeed was starting to feel like an interrogation.

Fal waited for Bastian to finish talking. Finally the big marine fell silent, panting, his fists balled.

The elderly Aeolian took a deep breath. His beard drooped. "I am old. Rarely have I felt it as much as now. The warrior caste was once venerated, but today we are relics. Jokes. Lower in status even than workers. Especially old ones like me. If I had influence in the colony, I would tell you all these secrets. But they are secrets the politicians guard. It is said that we have no leader but the queen. That all castes are equal beneath her. So they say. In truth, it is not our blessed queen who leads us. It is Gor'ba'rosh'na the politician!"

"Lovely," King muttered. He clenched his metal fist, remembering the imperious, smooth-shelled Aeolian who had threatened him.

Fal noticed the tension in the room. He snickered. "So you've met him."

"I've had that … pleasure," King said diplomatically. But he didn't bother hiding a hint of sarcasm.

Fal rose to his feet, leaned across the table, and stared into King's eyes. "There is a secret weapon, Admiral King. A technology known only to Aeolians. Fiercely guarded. Forgotten by most. A great weapon that helped us beat the rahs. I cannot say more! I've already said too much. Speak to the politicians. They will judge you. If they judge you an ally, maybe … maybe … I can convince them to share this secret."

King inhaled sharply. Excitement tingled through him. So there was a secret weapon! There was a way to win!

He tried to calm his trembling heart. "Gorba mentioned something about judging us. He said that if he judges us to be foes, he'll … dispose of us. I don't suppose that means sending us on our merry way."

"He means to kill you," Fal said.

"Dammit!" Bastian said. "I knew that slick-shelled bastard was up to no good. We should blast our way out of here."

"Don't be hasty, young friend," said Fal. "The politicians have not yet judged you. If they deem humanity an ally, perhaps we will help you against the rahs. Perhaps the warrior caste will fight again."

CHAPTER SEVEN

The aerie was bustling tonight. After months of endless battles, the starfighter pilots of the starship Freedom had a day off. Their exclusive lounge, located off a starfighter hangar bay, was positively hopping.

The aerie had a retro theme. The lounge was set up like a twentieth-century bar, a bit of Earth nostalgia for twenty-third-century pilots lost in space. A jukebox just finished playing AC/DC's "Thunderstruck" and began playing Meat Loaf's "Bat Out of Hell." A TV hung over the bar—an actual, physical TV set, not a hallucination. It was currently showing Top Gun for the millionth time. A life-sized model of Han Solo frozen in carbonite stood by a Space Invaders arcade machine.

The entire Flock filled the lounge tonight. Freedom's Flock. It was what the starfighter pilots called themselves. They chose the name to fit with the bird theme. After all, they flew the deadly F-77 Eagles, the best starfighters in the galaxy. In nature, of course, eagles didn't live in flocks, but the name still stuck. They were pilots, after all, not ornithologists.

The mood was good tonight. A few guys were shooting pool, cigarettes dangling from their mouths. Some pilots were roaring around the foosball table while others tossed darts. A few pilots sat at the back, playing Trivial Pursuit, drinking every time they got an answer wrong. Others simply sat at the bar, watching the movie, guzzling their beers.

Robby "Pickles" Cooper stood at the back of the lounge, watching his pilots.

They've fought so hard, he thought. They lost so many friends.

The aerie was crowded, by all accounts, but it still felt too empty. There were only a hundred and fifty-three pilots here today.

There used to be two hundred.

So many brothers and sisters—gone.

I should enjoy this night, Pickles thought, gazing upon his brood. Tomorrow we might fly back into the fire.

Yes, they were drinking. Playing games. Laughing and bobbing their heads to the music. But Pickles saw Buffalo, a big mustached pilot, suddenly wipe a tear, turn away, and let out a sob. Trash Panda, a maverick pilot with a huge smile, looked at the photos of dead pilots on the wall, and she had to suddenly rush into the bathroom to "fix her makeup."

The pain was still too raw. Too real.

We were only stunt pilots a few years ago, Pickles thought. Entertainers. None of us thought we'd fly in a war.

Pickles certainly had not expected to lead Freedom's Flock. He was in his early forties. Older than most fighter pilots. But he still felt like a young officer, irresponsible, lazy. He was just Pickles, the kid from Chicago who loved to laugh, play pranks, and shoot some pool.

But Spitfire had been promoted to the bridge. So here he was. Little ole Pickles. A leader. And it weighed on him. So he stood by the wall, watching. Grieving. Missing those who had fallen.

A loud call interrupted his thoughts.

"Yo, Picky! Get your ass over here, grab a beer, and join us for a round."

Pickles looked over at the card table. A few pilots sat there, drinking, smoking, playing Bleeding Hearts. It was Yoshino "Katana" Maki, one of the best pilots in the Flock, who had called out. She was waving him over.

"Pickles! Pickles, get over here!" Katana said.

"Yeah, we need some bad players!" cried Babyface, a heavyset pilot. "Come over with your fat wallet."

Pickles approached the poker table. The players had been at it for a while. Piles of chips, beer bottles, ashtrays, and cards covered the table. Bleeding Hearts was the toughest card game in the galaxy, said to rip hearts in two, giving the game its name. It was similar to poker but doused with an extra dose of anxiety. Plenty a good man had lost his fortune playing Bleeding Hearts. But these were fighter pilots. They gambled their lives every day in battle. If anyone could face the pressure of Bleeding Hearts, it was them.

"Here he is!" said Mongoose. "Our fearless leader in the flesh. The great, heroic Pickles."

"And we're going to clean him out!" said Sasquatch, a man so hirsute nobody questioned how he got his call sign.

"Yeah, yeah, you losers. I beat you all in the dogfights. And I'll beat you at cards."

A few pilots tossed popcorn at him.

"Shut up."

"Yeah, yeah, put your money where your mouth is."

Pickles sat at the table. Somebody handed him a beer. He knew that everyone wanted shore leave. But the aerie would have to do. A place to drown the grief and terror. Being a pilot came with some luxuries—like an exclusive retro-themed lounge. The jukebox began playing some Dokken. The lights, the music, the beer—it all seemed so wrong.

The fallen should be here with us, Pickles thought. Spitfire should be leading us. We should be stunt pilots. Whatever this is, it's wrong.

They all felt it in their bones. The terror haunted all their eyes. Pickles drank his beer.

"All right, who's the dealer?" he said.

"I believe it is my turn, gentlemen," said Sasquatch, shuffling the cards with his hairy hands.

"And lady!" said Katana. She grabbed the hilt of her samurai sword, the origin of her call sign. Most pilots simply carried pistols. But Katana, who hailed from Tokyo's underworld, got signed permission from Admiral King himself to carry her ancestral family sword as her weapon.

"Hey, you ain't no lady," Sasquatch said. "You're a she-devil."

Katana released the hilt. "Aw, thanks. I'm flattered." She blew him a kiss.

I used to play cards with Curly, Pickles thought. With Honey Badger. With Meatball. With good pilots. Good friends.

He could almost see their ghosts at the table.

This game is for you, he thought.

He drowned himself in beer and cards. The game began.

* * * * *

Pickles lost the first round. He played well but got bad cards. Only a pair of threes, no wilds, and he didn't bother bluffing. He folded and lost some beer money.

"Read 'em and weep, boys." Katana slapped her cards down on the table. A full Heart Army. "That's right, the she-devil wins another round." She pulled the chips toward her, then blew Pickles a kiss. "Sorry, boss."

"All right, all right," Pickles muttered. "I'm just getting warmed up."

They played again. Pickles got a slightly better hand, played a bit more aggressively, bet more money. And ended up losing more.

"All right!" said Mongoose, pulling the chips toward him.

Pickles lost the next round too. And the one after that.

He cursed and slammed another chip down, maybe a little too aggressively. "Ante up."

Katana glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "It's just a game, Pickles. Calm down."

"Deal," he said.

The young Japanese pilot shrugged. "All right, boss. It's your money." She shuffled the cards. "We're playing Texas style. Suicide kings are wild."

She dealt the cards.

Pickles lifted his hand. He kept his face perfectly still. But inside he was burning up.

There it was. Right there in his hand. A king of spades sticking a sword through his head. A suicide king.

"All right, let's get betting," said Sasquatch. "It's two hundred credits from me."

They all whistled.

Crowbar, a wiry pilot with dark skin and darker eyes, shook his head sadly. "Too rich for my blood." He placed his cards facedown on the table. "I fold."

"I'm out," Mongoose said, slamming his cards down too.

Katana considered for a moment, sucking her teeth. Then she shrugged. "All right. Sure. I'm in." She shoved forward two hundred credits worth of chips.

With sheer force of will, Pickles kept his hands from shaking. He couldn't appear too eager.

"Fine," he finally said. "I'm in too."

They swapped cards. Pickles exchanged everything but his ace of hearts and the suicide king.

He nearly dropped his cards.

A full set of hearts.

He had this.

Somehow, and he would likely never know how, Pickles kept his face blank.

Mongoose considered for a moment, chewing his lip. "All right. I'm in for another two hundred."

Katana stared at her cards, stared at Pickles, hesitated, then matched the bet.

So did Pickles.

The other two showed their cards. Pickles leaped to his feet, cheering.

"Read 'em and weep!" He slammed his cards down. "You see that? Huh? Good ole Pickles isn't just the best pilot in the Flock. He's also the best Bleeding Hearts player."

He pulled the chips toward him. He had a small fortune now.

Katana grumbled. "Goddammit, Pickles, can you win gracefully at least?"

He winked at her. "Hey, Katana, it's only a game."

"Shut up and ante up."

* * * * *

They kept playing. Round after round. Pickles won the next one too, then lost big time and started over. Katana won a few, regaining her fortune. The others were cleaned out one by one. Crowbar hung on stubbornly for a while, lost almost everything, then finally walked off to spend his remaining credits at the bar. Sasquatch, a few good beers in him, crashed onto a nearby couch and slept.

Only two players remained at the Bleeding Hearts table.

Pickles and Katana.

They faced each other over their piles of chips.

A few other pilots gathered to watch.

Katana stared at him, eyes narrowed. Pickles stared back. Neither blinked.

"Deal," Katana said.

He dealt. He won.

Katana growled. "Again!"

She dealt the cards. They played. She won.

More people gathered to watch. They played another round. Another. Pickles's pile of chips grew. Then shrank. They kept playing, tugging the money back and forth, barely breaking eye contact.

Pickles had known Katana for years. Back since the day they were stunt pilots. She was the best pilot in the Flock. Well, second best, after him. That wasn't just his opinion. She had the records to show it. A full seventy-three stars were painted onto her Eagle, each symbolizing an enemy downed in a dogfight. Pickles had seventy-four stars on his. They were both aces among aces. The way they played cards now, tugging the chips back and forth, they had been competing for ace position over the years.

Spitfire put them both to shame, of course. That crazy woman had earned eighty-two stars on Yael's Nail, her beat-up old Eagle. But Spitfire was a bridge officer now. That left the title "Flock Ace" up for grabs. Right now Pickles held the trophy. But just by one kill. The young Japanese woman was always biting at his heels.

As he played Katana now, he knew this wasn't just about Bleeding Heart chips. It was that old rivalry driving them.

"Again!" Katana roared after losing another round. "Deal!"

"All right, Katana," he said. A strange calm fell on him. The sort of calm Pickles felt in the cockpit. During his time inside the Freedom, he was a nervous wreck. He worried about being lost out here, a thousand light-years from home. He worried about filling Spitfire's shoes. He worried about being forty-one, wifeless, childless, aimless. He worried about his parents getting old, alone on Earth without their son to look after them. He worried about being an impostor, unworthy of the uniform. He worried about the past. About the cancer that took his eye thirty years ago, leaving him with a bionic implant. The cancer that might return any day and devour the rest of him.

But once he flew out in the cockpit, once he floated out there in space, he always felt a little calmer. Even during battle. The cockpit of a starfighter was the only place he ever felt at home. In control. Because flying was the only thing he had ever been any good at.

Right now, sitting at the card table, he felt that calmness. He could see so clearly. He could think without all the anxiety and voices that always filled his head. He knew what he was doing.

He won a big round. He took half of Katana's chips.

In the next round, he took nearly all she had left.

A hush fell over the crowd. The jukebox fell silent. The foosball players stopped spinning. The pilots gathered around to watch. A vent opened in the ceiling, and Stowy's head dangled out. She was watching too.

"Another round," Katana said, never breaking eye contact with Pickles.

"Katana, you can still walk away," Pickles said.

She slammed down a chip. "Another round!"

Pickles looked at his pile of chips, then at hers. With one more round, he could wipe her out. Well, it was her money. He anted up.

Katana bet everything. Her last credit.

He got bad cards this time. Hers were worse. He pulled the rest of her chips to his pile.

Cheers and groans sounded across the bar. A few people slapped Pickles on the back. Others patted Katana sympathetically. Pilots cursed or celebrated as they settled their bets.

Pickles stood up and stretched. "Well, it seems like the ace of aces is also the Bleeding Hearts champion. Thanks for playing." He held out his hand for Katana to shake.

She just sat there, glowering.

"One more round," she said.

Pilots turned to stare. Once more, a hush fell over the room.

"Katana, you're broke."

She stood up, unhooked her katana from her belt, and slammed it onto the table. Chips rattled.

"One more round," she repeated.

Pickles looked at her sword, then into her eyes. "Dude. That's Ikazuchi. Your ancestral sword. You told us that your family has owned it for centuries."

She kept staring at him, eyes hard. "Deal."

He shook his head. "I don't have enough chips to match your sword." He gestured at his pile of winnings. "This isn't even worth the hilt."

And a fine hilt it was, wrapped in ray skin and Japanese silk. The sword's name, Ikazuchi, meant "thunder." An engraved image of Raijin, the thunder god, appeared on the guard. Cherry blossoms adorned the lacquered scabbard. Pickles had only seen the blade itself once. Two years ago. Rahs had invaded the starship Freedom and stormed through the halls. One had made it down here to the pilots' deck. Yoshino "Katana" Maki had drawn her ancestral blade and sliced clear through the towering alien spider. Pickles never forgot the sound of spider claws clattering onto the deck. He never forgot the sheen of that folded steel, its deadly beauty, a shard of thunder and lightning painting the deck with dark blood.

"I can't," he said.

Katana looked toward the back of the aerie. She gestured with her chin. "So bet that. Your ace trophy."

Everyone turned to look. They kept a trophy case in the aerie, celebrating pilot records. Admiral King had a trophy there, commemorating sixty-seven Red Dawn starfighters downed, a record of the Third World War. Spitfire had a trophy too. She still held the all-time record for most rah clawfighters destroyed.

In the center of the glass case shone the "Flock Cup." The golden trophy celebrated the current, active-duty pilot with the most kills. While some trophies never changed hands, the Flock Cup moved from pilot to pilot. Currently, the name Robby "Pickles" Cooper was engraved on it.

"You … want me to bet my Flock Cup?" he said.

She nodded. "You know it should be mine. At the asteroid belt battle, I drove three clawships into an asteroid. I destroyed all three. I should be credited with seventy-six kills. More than your seventy-four."

Pickles heaved a sigh. "Katana, you know that Spitfire herself reviewed the tapes. She determined those three clawships had crashed on their own. Uncredited to anyone."

"And you know that's horseshit!" Katana said. "I'm the one who herded them through the asteroid field. I'm the one who drove them into a wall of rock. I should be ahead of you. That trophy should be mine. So bet it!"

He laughed. "I can't change the official kill tally."

"Yes you can. You're Flock Father. You have the authority. You can change the records, giving me credit for those three kills." Katana smiled crookedly. "And then my name will be engraved on that trophy."

* * * * *

Technically, she was right. As Flock Father, Pickles could access the database, update the kill tally, and award the Flock Cup to a new pilot. But to let Katana take his trophy? That could mean his job. Historically, the deadliest pilot led the Flock. Pickles was already worried about filling Spitfire's enormous shoes. He already felt inadequate. How could he lead without his trophy? The others would quickly lose respect for him.

"Come on, Picky." She drew an inch of steel. "You want this sword, don't you? It's a beauty."

It was. The steel was folded, its ripples shining like rivers. He could already imagine himself with the ancient weapon hanging across his back.

"Do it! Do it! Do it!" somebody began to chant. A few other pilots joined in.

Pickles sighed. He grabbed the Flock Cup from the display case, then placed it on the game table. Everyone cheered.

As he dealt the cards, he noticed a shake in his hands.

Katana noticed too. She gave him a crooked smile. Fire burned in her eyes.

Pickles remembered the stories he had heard. That Katana was the daughter of a yakuza gangster. That she had grown up in Tokyo's criminal underworld. That she had been killing men since age twelve. He had always dismissed those stories as tall tales. But right now, seeing that lopsided smile, seeing the blade on the table between them, he believed all the stories. He could imagine her drawing that blade and his own limbs clattering down like the spider's claws.

He looked at his cards.

There it was. Again. The suicide king. A king driving a sword into his head. As Pickles looked at the card, it seemed to him less a medieval longsword, more a samurai's katana.

The other cards were good too. It was his best hand of the night.

They showed their cards.

Katana had a good hand. A full flush of diamonds. Her crooked smile grew.

That smile vanished when Pickles laid down his cards. A full set of hearts, ending on an ace. The best possible hand in Bleeding Hearts.

Everyone was silent. Nobody cheered.

Katana rose to her feet and walked away. Pilots moved aside to let her by.

She left Ikazuchi on the table.

"Katana!" Pickles called after her. Silently, she left the lounge.

* * * * *

Pickles was about to run after her when the lounge door burst open. For a second, he thought maybe Katana was coming back. But it was Lee Eun-Yu, the bay boss, who barged into the lounge.

"Pickles!" she shouted.

Eun-Yu was a petite Korean woman, but she had the loudest voice on the ship. That voice echoed through the lounge. A few pilots winced. Eun-Yu placed her hands on her hips. She wore coveralls, a hardhat, and heavy boots. The insignia of a sergeant major adorned her sleeves—a row of six chevrons.

Pickles looked at her, at the katana, back at her.

"Don't look at that sword to save you." The bay boss pointed at him accusingly. "Your Aeolians are running over my Eagles, tearing them apart."

"They're not my Aeolians," Pickles said.

"You're Flock Father! Everything that goes wrong is your fault. Now come get those gremlins off my starfighters."

Pickles left the sword on the table. Nobody would steal it. Everyone here had seen Pickles win it, fair and square. Though rarely had "fair and square" ever felt so wrong.

Eun-Yu dragged him across the hangar toward the Eagles. The Aeolians had covered the starfighters with scaffolds. The aliens were bustling about, removing the hulls, tinkering with the engines, sawing and welding and muttering about how busy they were.

"Look. Look at them!" Eun-Yu cried. "Gremlins."

But Pickles was just looking around for Katana. She wasn't at her starfighter. She wasn't anywhere on the deck.

"Pay attention," Eun-Yu said and grabbed him by the ear.

"Ow, ow, okay! I'll talk to your gremlins."

"If they ruin my starfighters, I'll ruin your life," Eun-Yu said, and Pickles believed her.

* * * * *

As it turned out, the Aeolians were not ruining the Eagles. They seemed to be upgrading them. At least Pickles thought so.

The mossy aliens refused to explain their work. With their wondrous tools and dexterous toes, they worked so fast it spun the mind. They were changing everything. The engines. The joysticks. The cabling through the fuselage. They left the wings untouched, but that was about it.

"What are you doing?" Pickles tried to ask a few of them.

"Busy, busy!" they said. "Move aside, human. Busy!"

Thankfully, Selly was in the hangar too, overseeing the work. His crystalline shell marked him a member of the thinker class. Pickles didn't know much about the Aeolian caste system. Only what they told him during the briefings. But it seemed the thinkers were akin to human scientists or philosophers. They didn't do physical work, just thought a lot. Thankfully, they were much better communicators than their mossy brethren.

Selly wobbled across the hangar toward Pickles. The crystalline Aeolian lowered his head, revealing the mouth on the cranium, and gave an approximation of a smile. It seemed a bit forced. Presumably, smiling was not an Aeolian gesture but one they adopted for the humans' benefit. If you asked Pickles, watching a round, toothy mouth smile atop a little green head was far more terrifying than friendly. But he gave the alien an A+ for effort. He smiled back.

"Greetings, human!" Selly's voice sounded forced too—the Aeolian were still learning English—but not unpleasant. "Are you the one they called Cucumbers?"

Pickles adjusted his bionic eye, viewing a heat-map of the alien. He detected the faint flow of organs pulsing inside the shell. Nerves ran down from the head—a sensory organ—to the protected brain inside the torso. He switched back to regular eyesight. The aliens were weird enough without having to view their internal organs.

"Well, technically, my call sign means brined cucumbers, I suppose," he admitted.

"Ah, call signs! Nicknames! Like your admiral, James 'Bully Dog' King. Or like Gal 'Spit on Fire' Levy. My own nickname, one Bully Dog gave me, is Selly." He held out one foot. "I have learned that humans, rather than licking one another, shake their front feet. Here is mine. Would you care to shake it?"

Pickles shook the foot. The three toes were long and powerful. Pickles had a feeling the Aeolian could crush his hand like a bird's nest.

"Nice to meet you. Mind if I ask what you guys are doing to my fleet of starfighters? If you don't mind me intruding."

"Improving them, my dear Cucumbers!" said the thinker. "Soon they will be faster, more agile, able to stop on a dime, accelerate at breakneck speed while protecting the pilot, and—"

"You're installing graviton engines, aren't you?" Pickles said, eying the work. "I've heard about those. Pretty sure they violate patent law."

Graviton technology had been known to humans for years now. Most starships today contained graviton deck plates, generating gravity for their spacers. Gravitons were also used to stifle the crushing forces of acceleration and deceleration in space. So far, nobody could use gravitons for propulsion. A company on Earth had the patent, and they weren't selling to the military. Pickles wasn't sure why. Something to do with armies of lawyers reaching a stalemate, leaving the tech in limbo.

"Ah yes, I have read about that while hacking your database," said Selly. "Are you aware of our politician caste? The Aeolians with the smooth shells? They are experts on all matters legal, bureaucratic, and managerial. They reviewed your legalese. They have determined that your Earth laws only apply to humans. We are Aeolians, therefore not bound by Earth's patent laws. We can install graviton drives to our heart's content. They will be classified as alien technology, legal for all Alliance pilots to use."

Pickles laughed. "Brilliant. Selly, I could hug you."

Selly held out his front two legs. "Hug it out, bitch."

Pickles blinked. "Wow. You actually said that, didn't you?"

"I learned it from one of your Earth movies." Selly tilted his head. "Did I use the phrase wrong, bitch?"

"Um, better stick to calling me Cucumbers," Pickles said. "Please read up on profanity. And avoid it. But sure, I'll hug you."

They shared a quick embrace. Pickles had to lean down. The Aeolian only rose as high as his shoulders, but he was much wider and probably heavier.

Sort of like hugging Humpty Dumpty, Pickles thought.

"Of course, we don't know how to fly graviton starfighters," Pickles said, taking a step back. "I know it's an upgrade. But it's like asking medieval knights to drive cars. It's gonna take a lot of practice."

"I do not understand that reference, but we have been modifying your simulator too," Selly said.

He pointed at the back of the hangar. A modified Eagle stood there, its engine removed, its skids bolted to the deck. The cockpit's canopy wasn't made of steelglass as usual. Instead, it was a huge, circular screen. Rookie pilots used this modified Eagle as a simulator. Sometimes experienced pilots too, rerunning different battle simulations.

"We have upgraded the software," Selly said. "The simulator will let you practice. You will find flying difficult at first. But soon it will be intuitive."

"Mind if I try it out?" Pickles said. He couldn't help but smile.

The bad memories from the Bleeding Hearts game were fading. He almost forgot entirely about the katana as he climbed into the simulator.

He fired up the mock starfighter. The world around him vanished. The canopy showed a view of space. The software interacted with his MindLink, creating a perfect simulation.

Pickles pulled the joystick. The ship rolled. Easy enough.

He pitched up and down. No problem. Same as usual.

He hit the thrust.

Nothing happened.

He shoved the thrust all the way down.

He felt nothing. He wasn't moving.

It's broken, he wanted to say. But then he realized the dials were showing a ludicrous speed. He was flying a hundred thousand kilometers per hour. He accelerated some more. He actually sped up. Normally, the simulator emulated the appropriate g-force. But he felt nothing now. Just a slight rattle to his ship.

He decelerated. Normally this involved cutting acceleration and engaging the front thrusters. He went through the motions. But something completely surprising happened. The speed dials dropped. No forward thrusters blasted out steam. Pretty soon he was motionless compared to the nearest star.

"Whoa," he said. "Seriously. Whoa."

He hit the thrust again, bursting forward at breakneck speed. He saw an asteroid ahead.

"Let's see how this thing handles tight turns," Pickle muttered.

He flew past the asteroid, then nudged the joystick, attempting a nice, wide U-turn around the rolling stone.

Instead, his Eagle flipped one-eighty degrees in an instant. Before Pickles knew what was happening, his Eagle was racing back at the asteroid … and slammed into it.

The simulation ended. Once more, he saw the hangar through the canopy.

Selly stood on the deck, looking up at him. "How is it?"

"Perfect!" he said. "My death was painless." He sighed. "I'll have to get used to this."

Pickles leaped back into the simulation and attempted a few more turns. Normally, an Eagle took wide turns. At some speeds, he needed a thousand klicks just to turn around. Now? He could flip around instantly, then take off in another direction.

He ended the simulation, climbed out the cockpit, and hopped onto the deck.

"Selly, will the Eagles really fly like this? For real? In real life?"

"Yes, Cucumbers. I engineered them myself."

"I could hug you again."

And he did just that.

"Cucumbers, I read in the Freedom's specifications that her complement includes two hundred Eagle starfighters," Selly said. "As well as many Rhino dropships. Yet there are fewer Eagles today and no Rhinos. What happened?"

"War, Selly. War happened."

"Ah yes. Of course. It has been so long since we Aeolians fought a war. No Aeolians now live who ever fought in battle. Even our oldest warriors were born long after the days of terror. Forgive me."

"Not a problem, Selly."

The thinker thought for a moment. "I will build you more Eagles, replacing the ones you lost. And more Rhinos too. Would that be all right, Colonel Cucumbers? I can bring the raw materials from our warehouses on the surface of Heaven's Geode."

Pickles had a few reserve pilots. Bench warmers. Enough to fly a full fleet of two hundred. The Rhinos were not his department. The Rhino pilots had all fallen in the war, giving their lives so that Freedom could fly onward. But Pickles thought he could staff new Rhinos with Eagle pilots, should the need arise. And there were other crew members aboard who had Sparrow-shuttle experience. Rhinos moved more like Sparrows than Eagles. They could find and train spacers to fly them.

"Selly, you are a lifesaver," Pickles said.

"Would you like another hug, bitch?"

"Yes please!"

Pickles didn't know how soon the Freedom would leave Heaven's Geode, how soon before the Flock must fight again. The rahs and arachtaurs were still out there, raring for revenge. Before the next battle, Pickles wanted every pilot taking time in the simulator.

When they flew to battle again, their enemies would get a nice little surprise.

* * * * *

All day, the pilots took turns, training in the simulator. They all crashed at first. But they all loved it.

All but Katana. She was nowhere to be found.

Technically, they had the day off. Katana had the right to stay away, and Pickles gave her space. Perhaps she thought he was parading around with her sword, boasting of his victory. In truth, Pickles had quickly moved the ancestral blade to his quarters, where he kept it hidden and safe.

At the end of the day, buzzing with excitement about his upgraded Eagles, Pickles returned to his quarters. There wasn't much to do here in Heaven's Geode. Not without shore leave approved. Pickles hoped to spend a while reading some manga, stroking his robotic cat, then sleeping until the end of eternity.

One advantage of his recent promotion to Flock Father—he took over Spitfire's old digs. A private bunk. Down on Earth, it would be considered a cramped hotel room at best, more like a prison cell. But on the starship Freedom, any privacy was a luxury.

"Home sweet home," he said, closing the door behind him.

He looked at Ikazuchi, the samurai sword he had won. It sat on his desk. Again guilt filled him. He'd give Ikazuchi back tomorrow. Let Katana suffer for a bit. Punishment for being reckless at Bleeding Hearts. He wasn't going to keep her family heirloom.

He was unbuttoning his uniform when a knock sounded at the door.

"Selly, that you?" Pickles said. "Come for another hug?"

He opened the door.

Katana stood there.

"Oh. It's you." Pickled heaved a sigh. "Come to beg for your sword?" He decided to torment her for a while longer.

She glowered, silent.

"Well, come on in!" he said. "I don't like a draft when people grovel before me."

She stood a moment in the doorway, hesitating. Then she entered his quarters. Still she said nothing, just looking around the room. Her eyes lingered on the posters above the bed.

Pickles blushed. "I like manga, okay? You're Japanese. You understand."

She looked at him, raised an eyebrow.

"Take the sword and tell no one of the catgirl posters," Pickles said. "Deal?"

She sighed, looked at him, and finally spoke. Her voice was uncharacteristically soft. "I didn't come for the sword."

"Can you still not tell anyone about the catgirl posters?"

Katana stood in silence, gazing out the porthole. It wasn't a real porthole. It was actually a round monitor that connected to a camera on the exterior hull. But it was made to look like a porthole in an old sailing barge. Many of the senior officers had them in their quarters. The view showed the distant rivers, forests, and mountains of Heaven's Geode, spreading across the inner surface of this hollow world. The Freedom hovered in the middle of the shellworld, two hundred klicks above the nearest surface. One of the shipyard's slender arms sailed by the porthole, momentarily blocking the view. The Freedom was still docked within the shipyard's gentle embrace. Pickles suddenly imagined the ship as a toy held in a pale alien hand.

Katana broke the silence, still gazing out at the view. "I didn't come for my sword back. I came to tell you about it. What do you know of my past?"

Katana was usually loud, aggressive, cocky, shouting at the game tables or from her cockpit. Pickles wasn't used to hearing her speak so softly. A chill ran down his spine.

"I know you're from Tokyo," he said. "I know you've been with us for five years. A stunt pilot for the first two years. A fighter pilot since the war began."

"Is that all you know?" she said softly, gazing out the porthole. "That I'm from Tokyo?"

Pickles thought of the rumors. Stories of the yakuza. Of knives in the back. Of garrotes around the neck. Of a criminal underworld and a child assassin.

"I … heard some people talk," he said. "That's all. Just rumors."

"Not just rumors," she said, voice so soft it was almost a whisper. "I grew up in the yakuza. The criminal underworld of Japan. My father was a shateigashira. A crime boss. A dreaded one."

"Is there any other kind?" Pickles said.

She smiled wanly. "I suppose there aren't many cuddly crime bosses. But my father was particularly feared. Everyone showed him respect. He taught me the ways of the blade and the bullet. From my mother I learned of poison."

"Sounds like a charming family," Pickles said. "Did you have a granny who taught you how to scalp your enemies?"

Katana continued as if she had not heard him. "My mother was an assassin for the yakuza. She was known as Doku sakura. The poisoned cherry blossom. The name suited her. She was delicate, beautiful, and deadly. As a youth, she was hired to assassinate my father, but she fell in love with him. And thus I was born. A promise of death yielded new life. Instead of a life taken—a life created."

"I was born because my dad pretended to run out of gas at the lookout spot." Pickles shuddered. "I don't like thinking about that night."

Katana kept staring out the porthole. An Aeolian city was rolling by, a cluster of crystal towers and delicate roads. "I was groomed to be an assassin. A killer for the yakuza. I got my gang tattoos."

She finally turned toward Pickles, rolled up her sleeves, and showed her tattoos. She opened a few buttons on her shirt, showing more yakuza tattoos on her chest.

"I have Garfield tattooed on my arm," Pickles said. "Not quite as badass."

"I killed my first man at twelve," she said.

"Well, I finished Super Mario Space Cart at age eleven," he said. "I mean, I don't want to brag or anything."

She looked back out the porthole. The view now showed a gleaming lake far below, full of floating white pods. "Though in many ways, I was just a normal girl. I liked the same things other girls did. I had stuffed animals. I watched cartoons. I loved ponies. And sometimes I learned about poison and throwing stars."

"A typical childhood."

"I had only one friend. Her name was Satori. She was a year younger than me, and we were very close. She too was a daughter of crime. Her father too was in the yakuza, high ranking and greatly feared. Satori and I were like sisters. They called us the deadly dolls. We sometimes sparred with blades. We sometimes talked about the men we killed. And we sometimes played with unicorns and danced to pop music." She smiled. "She was a good friend. She made my childhood good."

"What happened to her?" Pickles said.

Katana lost her smile. "Her father betrayed us. He betrayed all the yakuza. After a wealthy politician threatened him, Satori's father spoke to the police. He gave secrets. He named names."

Pickles cringed. "That can't be good."

"A man of the yakuza was chosen to assassinate him. My father. The two men were friends. They knew my father could get close. My father took me with him on that mission. We were trusted in Satori's house. The servant let us in. And my father got to work."

"He killed Satori's dad?" Pickles asked.

"Yes." Katana's voice was barely a whisper. "And then he killed Satori's mother. And then he killed her older brothers. Finally he turned to Satori."

Pickles was just listening now. He didn't know what to say.

Katana continued speaking. "My father wrapped his hands around Satori's neck. He squeezed and squeezed. I begged him to stop. He would not. I attacked my father with my little fists, trying to save my friend. I remember crying out: 'Let her go! Let her go!' My father only laughed. 'Very well.' He released Satori. She fell to the floor, gasping. And my father swung his bloody sword, cutting her down."

"I'm sorry," Pickles said softly.

"My father let the servant live that day. He told the old man: 'Let it be known. This shall be the fate of any who betray the chivalrous organization of the yakuza.' Until that day, I never truly feared my father. Since that day, he has terrified me."

"Katana, I'm so sorry you had to see that. I can't even imagine."

She rolled down her sleeves and buttoned her shirt, hiding her tattoos. "I fled home the next day. For a while, I lived on the streets. Then I roamed the countryside, working on rice fields, traveling from place to place, often sleeping under the stars or rain. Finally I decided to become a pilot. I stole a little plane from a farmer, just a crop duster, and I taught myself to fly. When I was eighteen, I enlisted in the Alliance. I went to proper flight school. And I flew away from Earth. Do you know why I wanted to become a pilot?"

"Because flying is everything," Pickles said softly. "Flying is freedom. Flying is life."

"No. Because I wanted to fly as far away from my father as I could. Maybe I'm still flying from him." She sighed and looked at the samurai sword on the table. "This sword carries a terrible weight. It's my father's sword. The sword that took Satori's life. I stole it from my father on the day I fled home. I vowed that someday I will return to Japan. I will track my father down. And with this sword that took Satori's life I will take his!" She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm not asking for Ikazuchi back. The sword is yours. You won it. I just wanted you to know its story. Treat it well. Honor Satori."

"Take the sword," he said.

"It's yours."

Pickles rolled his eyes. "Katana, I was just kidding. Pretending that I wanted you to beg and all. I never meant to keep the sword. I was going to let you sweat tonight, then give it back in the morning. I was just messing with you."

She placed her hands on her hips. "You won it. Fair and square. I'll honor that. What would I be without honor?"

"This isn't the yakuza," he said. "It was just a card game between friends. And yes, Katana, you might be an officer under my command, but you're also my friend. Take back your sword."

He lifted Ikazuchi, handed it to her.

She lowered her head. "I can't use it." She held out her right hand. "I can't hold the hilt."

Pickles had known Katana for five years. They spent almost every day together. And he had never noticed until now. She must have cleverly hidden it all this time.

Katana was missing her pinky finger.

"I was twelve years old," she said. "I was tasked with killing my first man. A gardener who refused to pay for our protection. I went into his garden, a dagger hidden in my clothes. The elderly man gave me a bowl of noodles. He asked me about my day. I could not kill him. I returned home to my father, my task unfulfilled. That evening I learned the truth. He was not a mere gardener. He was a powerful businessman who had stolen from the yakuza. The old man recognized me that day. Knew of my intent. He fled the country, escaping justice. Because of me. So I must be punished."

Pickles gasped. "Don't tell me your father cut off your finger in punishment!"

"No." She smiled thinly. "He did not. But he demanded that finger. It happened at our dining room table. We sat across from each other. I was dishonored. I took the dagger from my clothes, the one normally used for assassination. And I cut off my own finger. I did not cry. I did not make a sound. I wrapped the finger in silk, handed it to my father, and begged forgiveness."

"God," Pickles whispered.

"The ritual is called otoshimae. It's the punishment for yakuza who shame themselves. I was the youngest ever to endure otoshimae. You see, the little finger is required for properly holding a katana's hilt. Without it, a warrior cannot wield the blade. She is weak, dependent on others for protection. She is forever shamed."

Pickles stared steadily into her eyes. "Katana, you are anything but weak. I've seen you swing your sword at spiders. "

She smiled wanly. "With bad form."

"You've also become the best pilot in Freedom's Flock."

"Second best," she said. "You're still the Flock Ace." She put her four-fingered hand on his shoulder. "Keep the sword. I've held on for so long. To the blade. To my past. It's time to let go." Tears shone in her eyes. "But not of Satori. I will always remember my dear friend." She stood on her tiptoes and kissed Pickles's cheek. "You're an idiot. But you're a damn good pilot. And a damn good Flock Father. And you'll realize that someday. Good night, Pickles."

She left his quarters. And she left the sword.

* * * * *

Pickles could not sleep that night. Instead, he returned to the aerie. The lounge was abandoned. All the pilots were asleep or entertaining themselves elsewhere. Pickles sat at the bar.

Jelly, the bartender drone, hovered toward him. He was essentially a floating tray with several metallic arms that dangled beneath him like jellyfish tentacles.

"A beer, sir?" the drone asked.

"Tea please," Pickles said. "Earl Grey. Hot. And a jar of pickles."

"Yes, sir." The drone floated off, then returned with the admittedly odd order.

Sipping his tea, Pickles logged into MindPlay, and he viewed the tapes of the asteroid belt battle. He watched as Katana, flying her starfighter, chased three clawships through the field, finally driving them into a tumbling asteroid the size of Manhattan.

She was right, he realized. Those should be her kills.

He pulled up the Freedom Flock's kill logs. He found Katana's entry and bumped her up three points.

He looked at the electronic scoreboard, which hung above the bar, a place of prominence. The score table changed. Pickles moved down to second spot. Katana moved up to spot one. A little fanfare sounded. Letters flashed. New High Score!

Nobody was here to see. But Pickles raised his tea in salute.

Jelly emerged from the kitchen. "Ooh, sir! A new high score! Should I call the pilots?"

"Let them sleep," Pickles said. "They'll see tomorrow."

"I shall update the trophy, sir."

Jelly flew toward the display case, carefully unscrewed the glass pane, and removed the Flock Cup. An engraving shone on the goblet: Robby "Pickles" Cooper, 73 Kills.

Jelly raised a metallic tentacle. The tip turned red hot, melting the golden engraving. The other metal tentacles moved in a blur, polishing the cup surface, then etching in new words: Yoshino "Katana" Maki, 74 Kills.

The drone returned the trophy to the display case.

Pickles stood for a moment, looking at the cup. For a few months, he had enjoyed the honor. It was enough.

"You've earned this, Maki," he said. "You may have shamed your father. But you make me proud."

CHAPTER EIGHT

Repairs were progressing well across the Freedom. The Aeolians were miracle workers. In only several days, they did what human mechanics would accomplish in months. The starboard hull was already fully restored. Life support was flowing into new decks, bringing air, heat, and gravity. Graviton engines were installed onto the Eagles, and the Aeolians were already busy building new Eagles and new Rhinos, restoring the fleet to its former glory.

Five days after entering Heaven's Geode, King watched as Aeolian shuttles flew toward the Freedom, carrying metal tubes the size of cathedral steeples. They began to perform their greatest miracle yet: rebuilding the legendary Angels of Liberty. The Tyranny had destroyed seven of those gargantuan cannons. The Aeolians would rebuild them. Hundreds of the stony workers swarmed over the Freedom's dorsal and starboard hulls, constructing scaffolds, laying foundations, and gently guiding the colossal bores into place.

"I've never seen anything like this," Kim confessed. She stood beside King on the bridge, watching the work through the monitors. "When I was very optimistic, I thought we'd need a year or two in a shipyard. Mostly I thought we'd be scuttled and sold for scraps. Look at them, Jim! Look at them go. Once they're done, the Freedom will be good as new. Better than new! They're improving almost every system they touch."

"I'm grateful," King said. "This is huge help. But it's not enough. The Aeolians have still not shared their secret weapon. The one Fal spoke of in whispers. We must find out about this weapon. This is why we came all this way."

"And only the politicians will speak of it?" Kim said.

King nodded. "I think it's time we get in touch with our old friend Gorba."

"How will we find him?" Kim said.

"Selly will know where he is," King said. "Or he'll know how to contact him. Where is the thinker?"

"Down in engineering with me." Kim smiled. "Want me to talk to him?"

"I'll come talk to him. I'll be there soon."

"See you soon, sir." Kim smiled and saluted. Her hallucination faded off the bridge. She returned to her physical body down in engineering.

King walked through the ship. The bridge was located in the prow. Engineering was down in the stern. As the crow flew, it was over a kilometer away. But to get there, King must travel an even longer path, winding his way through the labyrinthine corridors. He could not simply send his avatar there over MindWeb. Selly didn't have a MindLink chip installed in his brain. The alien could not simply hallucinate King, and comlinks felt insufficient. King wanted to talk to the alien in person.

So he walked.

It was good to walk through the Freedom though. King rarely visited the stern. He spent most of his time on the bridge, in the war room, or in his quarters. Walking today let him see the repairs—and the crew—up close.

As he walked, he paused to speak to his spacers. He asked them about their families back home. He thanked them for their work. Many spacers were injured; some in casts and bandages, some missing limbs. King wished them speedy recoveries. Many spacers grieved for the fallen. Many were scared, even here inside Heaven's Geode, for the war never seemed very far away. King hoped that walking among them he could give them some strength. That he could inspire some courage.

He tried talking to a few Aeolian workers too. But they just grunted that they were busy, then trundled off, carrying their tools.

Finally King entered the stern. Tracking Kim's beacon, he took an elevator down several decks to Small Item Repairs, a cluttered department below the exhaust ports.

King liked it down here. Shelves covered the bulkheads and formed labyrinths along the deck, crowded with every piece of hardware known to man. Gears, screws, nails, and hinges of every sort rattled inside bins. Boxes overflowed with cables, transistors, transformers, and microchips. Pipe cleaners stuck out of cans like flowers from vases. Thousands of tools hung from hooks along the bulkheads, shelves, even from the deckhead above—everything from screwdrivers to soldering irons larger than men.

In several places, the rows of shelves had been wheeled aside like an accordion, forming working areas. Mechanics welded, sawed, screwed, and hammered, repairing or assembling the components of the ship. One mechanic was fixing an ATLAS survey drone, screwing new sensors in. Another mechanic was soldering a prosthetic arm. He plugged it into an outlet, and the fingers moved.

King found Selly behind several shelves overflowing with robotic hardware. The Aeolian was balancing on three legs. The other two legs were raised, holding slender tools. King didn't recognize the tools—they were silvery and delicate like hummingbird beaks.

Mimori lay on a table before the alien.

The android was stripped down to her underwear, revealing the damage to her body. Until now, King had only seen the damage to her face—half the synthetic skin missing, revealing her chrome skull. Now he saw that the Tyranny's assault had damaged her torso and leg too. The skin had burned off, revealing the inner components. King saw cables, gears, and transistors.

Like all Aeolians, Selly had three eyes, and one peered from the back of his head. He saw King enter.

"Oh hello, Bully Dog," the alien said.

Lying on the table, Mimori turned her head. "Hello, sir. Selly is repairing me."

King frowned. "Mimori, are you sure? You're a sophisticated machine. A delicate work of engineering and science. Even the Aeolians don't have AI. I told you that once we return to Earth, we'll have Alita Robotics patch you up."

"It's all right, sir," Mimori said. "I already discussed this with Selly. It's true. The Aeolians, for all their mechanical acumen, cannot create artificial intelligence. But thankfully, my brain is undamaged. Selly is merely repairing exterior damage."

"She is a remarkable machine, Bully Dog," Selly said. "I did not even entrust her to my workers. I myself, a thinker, wanted to perform these repairs myself. Is that all right, Bully Dog?"

"Selly, in the future, if you're going to tinker with sensitive components of the Freedom, please let me know in advance."

Mimori frowned. "Sir, with all due respect, I'm not merely a sensitive component. I'm a conscious being. I can make my own choices."

"Point taken," King said. "Very well then. If you're sure about this."

Selly got to work. With his delicate tools, he reached into Mimori's exposed torso. With the grace of a surgeon, he began to repair her insides. Mimori lay on her back, her face serene.

"You feel no pain, Mimori?" King said.

"No, sir. I only feel pain when the Freedom is hurt. When it comes to my own body, I can turn off the sense of touch. I feel nothing."

"I envy you, Mimori," King said. "I think all soldiers do. Evolution forged us, and she is a cruel mistress. She corrects our errors with her whip of pain. I'm glad that you cannot feel pain on this table. But I'm sorry that you suffer when Freedom suffers. We did not intend to create machines that can suffer."

"Perhaps suffering is necessary for consciousness," Mimori said. "A starfighter, satellite, or fusion reactor cannot suffer, but nor are they aware. I would gladly endure some pain for the gift of awareness."

Selly looked up from his work. "What a fascinating insight! I would love to share this observation with the thinkers' guild. We know much about hardware and engineering, but when it comes to software and artificial intelligence, we fall short. Mimori, would you mind if I disassembled your brain?"

"I mind," King said. "Hands off the brain."

"Very well, Bully Dog. Someday in the future, I would love to speak to the engineers at Alita Robotics who created her. Humans know much that we do not. I am especially curious about your concept of books. I have seen them in the ship. We Aeolians have no books. We have no androids. We have so much to learn."

"An alliance between Earth and Heaven's Geode would be greatly beneficial to both our species," King said. "You've already helped us immensely. And I would love to return the favor. Perhaps you could visit Earth someday, see our world, and learn our science. But to cement our alliance, we need the approval of the politician caste."

Selly lowered his tools. He spoke carefully. "We built Heaven's Geode to be a utopia. A world hidden from predators. We are like the little stone-moles who cower in underground tunnels, hiding from winged hunters, only to discover that serpents slither underground. Even in Heaven's Geode, there are predators."

"You mean the politicians," King said.

"I have said too much." Selly returned to his work. He opened a box, revealing half a face. Half of Mimori's face. Gently the Aeolian lifted the synthetic skin.

"I'm used to dealing with politicians," King said. "I'm an admiral after all. I answer to them."

Selly placed the new half-a-face onto Mimori's chrome skull. It fit perfectly. "You have not met our politicians, Bully Dog. We call them politicians when speaking your tongue. But in our language, their name carries much more meaning. They are judges. They are juries. And they are executioners."

He began to stitch on Mimori's new face. The synthetic skin was designed to heal itself from minor injuries, mimicking human skin. In time, perhaps Mimori would not even have a scar.

"I've dealt with the rahs," King said. "How bad could these politicians be?"

"Remember, Bully Dog. You are now dealing with those who defeated the rahs."

The words hung in the room. A chill filled King's belly.

"The warrior caste defeated the rahs," he said.

"And they answer to the politicians. Bully Dog, I am afraid. I do not want to lose my new human friends."

"Sooner or later, Gorba has vowed to judge us," King said. "I won't wait much longer. My homeworld is in danger. The rahs still attack us. And now the arachtaurs, a hybrid race of rahs, have joined the war. Every day that we tarry here is another gift to Elder'rah, the empress of Arakavish. The Freedom is almost ready to fly again. Can you summon Gorba? I'd like to meet with him."

Selly applied another stitch to Mimori's face. "There is a saying among the thinker caste. The most dangerous creatures in the galaxy are a mother protecting her cubs, a soldier defending his home, and a smiling politician." Another stitch. "Of course, we Aeolians do not normally smile with our mouths. We express the sentiment with our tentacles. But I translated for you. Very well. I will contact Gor'ba'rosh'na."

Selly paused from his work. The alien closed his eyes, and his tentacles flailed. For a moment he was perfectly still, tentacles erect, perhaps listening to an answer. Then his tentacles flailed again, transmitting his words.

As the Aeolian engaged in silent telepathy, King looked at Mimori. The android had a full face again. A line of stitches ran down the middle, but even as King watched, the skin was healing. There she was, his beloved Mimori, restored.

King sent her a telepathic message. "How do you feel?"

"I feel like a human again."

"My sympathies."

The android smiled and winked.

Selly's tentacles drooped. He blinked like a man waking from a dream. "I have spoken to Gor'ba'rosh'na. He apparently was in a meeting and was greatly displeased that I disturbed him. If I were a worker, he would have pulled me out of my shell and hung me to dry. Thankfully, I lead the thinker caste, and he has no authority over me."

"I knew you were a thinker," King said. "I didn't realize you led the entire caste."

"There are not many of us," Selly said. "Fewer than two thousand. Fal'kel'ha'shor, the old warrior you met aboard this ship, leads the warriors, though there are only several hundreds of them. Gor'ba'rosh'na leads the politicians."

"How many politicians are there?"

"Hundreds of thousands, Bully Dog. Not as many as workers. There are millions of workers. But the politicians are plentiful and powerful enough."

King shuddered. "A world where politicians outnumber thinkers and soldiers."

"Indeed. Heaven's Geode is not the utopia we were promised."

"Who is the leader of the worker class?"

"They have no leader. The upper castes command them at will."

"Wait until they learn about unions," Mimori said from her table.

"What did Gorba say?" King asked, steering the conversation back.

"He … he …" Selly winced. "He … no. No! Gor'ba'rosh'na, I told you that you cannot—"

Selly fell over. His legs and head retracted into his shell.

"Selly!" King said, kneeling beside him. "Selly, what's wrong? Do you need a doctor? Can you talk to me?"

He loaded up MindPlay, about to call Dr. Annie Jordan over. She was a human doctor, of course, but perhaps she'd have some idea about how to treat an Aeolian. Just then, however, Selly's feet stuck out again. He stood up. His head emerged from the shell, but he seemed different somehow, his eyes harder, and tendons rose across his neck.

"Hear me, humans!" he boomed. "This is Gor'ba'rosh'na, speaking to you through the body of this so-called thinker. In seven of your human hours begins the annual Ceremony of Purification, the holiest ritual in Heaven's Geode. Admiral King! You and two of your underlings will join us. A shuttle will be sent for you. Make sure you are disinfected before leaving your starship. Your attendance is mandatory. Happy Eve of Purification, foreigners."

Selly slumped, fell onto the deck, and shuddered.

"Selly!" King knelt by the Aeolian again.

The thinker pushed himself to his feet, coughed, and shuddered. "I am all right. A tentacle takeover. A trick powerful Aeolians may use. It is normally used to control prisoners or recalcitrant workers."

"And Gorba used it on you?" King said. "You—the head of the thinkers' guild?"

"It is most unusual," Selly confessed. "But this is an unusual time."

A thought struck King. "Can Aeolians take over humans this way?"

"No. You have no tentacles."

"We have MindLinks," King reminded him.

"A different mechanism. Your MindLinks do not operate on infrared transmissions. You are safe, Bully Dog. At least from tentacle takeover. But there are many ways the politicians can harm you. Be careful." Selly grabbed his hand. "If you attend the ritual, you must be on guard."

"What is this Ritual of Purification?" King said.

"It is hard to explain." Selly thought for a moment. "It is a sort of . . . holiday? No. More like ceremony, involving traditional steps. Or a ritual, to be more exact. The purpose being to achieve, hmm … cleansing? No. Scouring? No, not quite that either."

"Purification?" Mimori suggested.

"Ah, yes! Perfect."

"Well, that explains it," King muttered.

* * * * *

"You're not actually going, are you, Jim?" Jordan said, eyes wide.

King shrugged. "Gorba invited me."

The two men stood on the bridge. King had just finished telling his XO about what happened down in engineering. As usual, the bridge bustled around them. The crew was busy overseeing repairs, reorganizing departments with heavy casualties, upgrading software, recalibrating hardware, and bringing the dreadnought back to health. A hologram floated at the back of the bridge, showing a miniature Freedom covered in scaffolds. Tiny Aeolians, barely larger than grains of sand, were climbing over the dreadnought, rebuilding the Angels of Liberty.

"Jim." Jordan drew back his attention. "Gorba is dangerous. Stay here."

Mimori looked up from her station. She looked like her old self, aside from a slender scar down the center of her face. "I agree, Admiral. Gorba has displayed significant animosity toward humans. The odds of him luring you into a trap are significant."

"You think I can't take care of myself, Mimori?" King said.

"You're letting your ego interfere with your rationality," Jordan said. "We'll send drones over to the ritual. We'll communicate through them."

"Drones? No." King shook his head. "Never send a drone to do a man's job."

Niles, who was floating above Queen Emily near the ATLAS station, gave him a glare. But the young queen pulled him into her lap before he could cause a scene.

"Then I'll go," Jordan said. "Alone. There's no need to risk anyone else."

"The invitation was for me. And two guests. But mainly for me." King watched the work progress on the holographic Freedom. "Very soon now, we'll be ready to fly to war again. But even at the height of our powers, we barely defeated one arachtaur ship. What if Elder'rah sends thousands our way? We need help. We need whatever weapon the Aeolians are hiding here."

Jordan took a deep breath. "And you think Gorba will give us that weapon?"

"No. But Gorba seems to run this place, officially or unofficially. Without his approval, nobody else will talk to us. At least not about the war. We need the politicians' stamp of approval before the thinkers and warriors open up. It might be a trap. I'm aware of the danger. But if the Aeolians wanted, they could kill us here aboard the Freedom. Lord knows we have enough Aeolians aboard already."

"There are also thousands of marines aboard, sworn to protect you," Jordan said. "You won't have that protection on the surface. What better way to kill the human admiral than luring him away from his army?"

"I don't need an army," King said. "I have you. You're coming with me."

"Am I now?" Jordan raised his eyebrow. "After I just finished telling you how it's likely a trap?"

"You just volunteered a few moments ago."

"To spare you from going!"

"How noble of you." King put his hand on Jordan's shoulder. "We'll go together on a mission. Like in the old days. Together we're unstoppable."

Jordan pointed at him accusingly. "You know what your problem is, Jim? You think you're immortal."

"Oh, I know I'm not," King said softly, his voice barely more than a grainy whisper. "Trust me, my friend. I know."

He turned toward the portside of the bridge. Spitfire stood by the new Shield of David station, talking to its officers. Or rather—arguing loudly. The Shield of David, a new technology aboard the Freedom, had proved themselves invaluable during the past few battles. The missile-defense system had shot down plenty of incoming torpedoes.

Sadly, the Caracal—the warship that had gifted Freedom this technology—was no more. She had put up a brave fight, charging at the arachtaur dreadnought Tyranny, and sacrificed herself for the fleet. At the time, a few of Caracal's spacers had been aboard the Freedom, helping install the system. With their own warship gone, they had become full members of Freedom's crew.

"I'm telling you!" Spitfire said. "You want three control units. One for each section of the Freedom. Dammit, Motti, don't you listen?"

Major Motti Kaplan was a tall, beefy man with black hair and a perpetual five-o'clock shadow. He crossed his hairy arms. "And I'm telling you, Gal, on the Caracal we only had one control station. Etty handled it all."

Spitfire placed her hands on her hips. She was thinner than Motti but just as tall, and she glared back into his eyes. "You'll do as I say. The Freedom is a larger ship than you're used to. We could fit a thousand Caracals into the Freedom. The Shield of David batteries are spread out, so we need three control stations. Don't like it? You can take a walk out the airlock."

Motti leaned closer to her, face flushing. "I'm the Shield of David operator. Me. I've been doing this for two years."

"And I'm your superior officer."

"So? I knew you when you were pissing in a pot."

"I never pissed in a pot! I had diapers."

"Do you need some now?"

The two were arguing in Hebrew, but King's MindLink was translating for him. He remembered hearing the Caracal's Israeli crew talk. They often argued, yelled, even insulted one another. Even with superior officers. It worked for them, so King let them do things their way. But now he needed to talk to Spitfire.

He approached the bickering pair and cleared his throat.

The two noticed him and fell silent.

"Major Kaplan? Do what Spitfire says. Spitfire? A moment. Come with me."

"Y-yes sir!" Motti Kaplan stammered and gave a fumbling salute, clearly more in awe of the famous Admiral King than of his schoolyard playmate.

* * * * *

King led Spitfire to a shadowy corner at the back of the bridge. Jordan joined them. The hum of the engines was louder here. The sounds of the bridge—beeping machines, talking spacers, computer voices—faded to a dull ambiance. The shadows wrapped around Spitfire. The glow of monitors behind her limned her form.

"Sirs?" Spitfire said. "Are we here to gossip? Because I heard some really juicy ones. Did you know that Bastian sleeps with a teddy bear?"

"Jordan and I are leaving the ship," King told her.

Her eyes widened. "We're getting shore leave at last? Wait." She frowned. "You're both leaving … at the same time?"

"No shore leave," King said. "And yes, we're both leaving at the same time. We're attending an Aeolian event. Something called the Ritual of Purification. We'll be meeting the politicians there, and we'll try to forge an alliance."

"It's a trap," Spitfire said.

Jordan looked at King, one eyebrow raised, as if to say: See?

"We already considered that," King said. "We decided to take the risk."

Spitfire bit her lip, considering. "Sir, you and Jordan had not left the Freedom at the same time since … Gosh, ever?"

King thought back. He couldn't remember such a time either. They rarely left the ship period. Both the commander and his XO leaving at the same time? It almost never happened.

"Something like forever, yes," King said. "While Jordan and I are gone, you have the ship." He patted a bulkhead. "She's yours. Take care of her, Spitfire."

Spitfire blinked at them. She was a lieutenant commander now. Technically, she was third-in-command of the Freedom. But she had only been promoted recently. She was new to the bridge.

"Leave Mimori in charge," Spitfire said.

"Mimori is not a commander-class officer," King said. "You are."

"But I'm not ready! Mimori is older than me. More experienced. A helluva lot more intelligent. And I've seen you give Mimori the bridge before."

"The bridge, yes. When Jordan and I are elsewhere on the Freedom, Mimori sometimes commands the bridge. But you won't just take care of the bridge while we're away, Spitfire. You'll command the entire dreadnought."

"No. I can't. Sir."

King put a hand on her shoulder. "Spitfire, I remember the first time I commanded the Freedom. It was a trial run. The old commander was watching from a nearby ship. It was peacetime. I knew it was safe. And I was terrified."

"You, the famous war hero, terrified? I can't imagine it."

King laughed. "I was worried I'd fly the Freedom into an asteroid. Or have to deal with a mutiny. Or simply say the wrong thing and embarrass myself. And I did make mistakes that day. And I made mistakes later on once I was promoted to full-time commander. Mistakes are how you learn. And I want you to learn here. In a shipyard. Inside Heaven's Geode. Where it's safe. Make your mistakes now, so that when you inherit the ship for good, maybe in a time of war, you're ready."

"I don't feel nearly ready now," she whispered.

"You're not. But this is your trial. I believe in you, Spitfire. Take care of my ship. And if you do run into trouble, Mimori is right there by your side. She'll guide you if you need it."

She gulped. "Okay, sir. I'll do it." She hugged him. "Thank you." A smile shone through her tears. "Just be careful. I might get corrupted by ultimate power."

"We'll take our chances," King said.

"Who else should join us at the ritual?" Jordan said. "We have three invitations."

King thought for a moment. He wanted Mimori on the ship to help Spitfire. Maybe Bastian? No. His son was an excellent soldier but hardly a diplomat. Perhaps Kim? King would love to spend more time with her. But he needed her here to oversee the refitting.

That left two candidates. Queen Emily and Oliver Darjeeling.

King considered. Emily, by nature of being royal, was trained in diplomacy. Then again, she was inexperienced and very young, only twenty. Furthermore, if this was a trap, losing Emily would devastate morale on Earth. The people loved her—not just in Britain but around the globe. She was a capable, intelligent officer, but yes, she was also a figurehead. King couldn't risk her life.

He decided to take Oliver Darjeeling. Not only because the Englishman was a good old friend. Also because Darjeeling was a tough old warrior. He didn't look it, perhaps. But when push came to shove, Darjeeling was damn hard to kill.

"We'll take Oliver," King said.

Jordan nodded. "So it'll be the three old war dogs."

"The three old farts," King agreed.

"Probably the first vacation the three of us ever took together."

King heaved a sigh. "I wish this were a vacation."

"At least it's not a battle," Jordan said.

"Worse. It's politics."

King held Spitfire's arm. He leaned in closer. "Gal, you need to listen to my next words carefully."

She paled. "What is it?"

King glanced around, made sure no junior officers were near, and leaned closer. He didn't even want to share these words over MindWeb. The Aeolians might be listening.

"I don't know what'll happen at this Aeolian ritual," King whispered. "It might be a trap. We'll keep in touch over comlinks. But if you don't hear from us for twenty-four hours, fly home without us."

She stiffened. "Sir, I would never—"

"That is an order, Lieutenant Commander. If we are captured or killed by the Aeolians—blast your way out. The Angels of Liberty can break the arms of this shipyard. The Fist of Freedom can punch a hole through the shellworld. If there is any danger—you take the Freedom home. This ship is the only hope of Earth. And Earth depends on you."

Tears dampened her eyes. "I can't leave you."

King pulled her into an embrace. "I know, Gal. I know. You're like a daughter to me. But this is war. We must do our duty."

She nodded and wiped her eyes. "All right. Twenty-four hours of silence and I fly home. But please, sir. Please come back."

"Of course I'll be back. This is my home. And this is my family. Keep the light on for me. Good luck, Spitfire. And Godspeed."

* * * * *

Before King headed down to the surface, he stopped by engineering to visit QT the android.

She was in the Nerd Lab, the stern's upper deck, located above the engine room and exhaust ports. It was officially known as the Experimental Research and Development Department of Engineering. Nobody called it that. The Nerd Lab was where engineers, scientists, and other so-called nerds played with technology, experimenting and inventing. The theoretical scientists mostly stayed in the prow. The kooky experimentalists worked in the Nerd Lab. This was the creative center of the ship.

King had asked QT to create two inventions for him. He came to see if they were ready. He found the android sitting on the floor, playing with a model train set. She wore a blue jumpsuit and a conductor's hat.

King frowned at her. "QT, goddammit. Don't you have some important projects to work on? Why are you playing on the job?"

The android looked up at him, eyes wide and damp. "I built this for Rowan." She pressed a button. The train gave a sad little toot.

"Well … thank you," King said. "Sorry for snapping at you. I didn't know you made the train for my granddaughter." He frowned. "Why is your name etched onto the locomotive?"

She blushed. "So … Rowan knows it's from me?"

King glowered.

"Fine, fine! I made it for myself. But I finished your projects. Come, I'll show you."

She took him to a table covered with a thousand little machines. The bundles of gears, pistons, and cables clattered and moved atop the table like mechanical critters. Some were shaped like snakes, others like beetles, and some like abstract organs for a robot's belly. QT swept them aside. The machines clattered onto the floor. A few moaned and limped away.

"Sorry for the mess," QT said. She opened a drawer and pulled out two components. They looked a little like thimbles. "Behold—tiny portal generators!"

She placed them into King's hand. He hefted them.

"These will let me breathe on the surface?" King said.

"Yep. Each insert contains a tiny portal. Similar to the ones we can fly through—but requiring much less energy. The portals run from these nasal inserts to the ship. Stick them into your nostrils, and you can breathe Freedom's sweet, alpine air anywhere. Would you like a demonstration?"

"Please."

QT pulled a keyboard from a drawer and typed some commands. The nasal inserts hummed in King's hand.

"Portals opening … now," QT said.

King lifted one insert to his eye and peered inside. He couldn't see much. Just a blurred image of … maybe a starship deck? Somewhere inside the Freedom, it seemed.

"Where is the other end of the portal?" King said.

"Only a few meters behind me," QT said. "See those tiny spheres in the air? The ones that look like soap bubbles? Those are the other ends of the portals. Watch this."

She raised a can and sprayed purple smoke. The smoke flowed over the hovering spheres—then out of the inserts in King's hand.

"Well, it works," King said. "Just try not to blow smoke up my nostrils when I'm on the surface. Thanks, QT. This is clever. Sure beats walking around with an oxygen tank and mask."

"I don't know how you humans manage with those lungs of yours," QT said. "Breathing! Sounds so tedious."

"What about my translator?" said King. "Is that done?"

"Sure is." She pulled a device from a drawer. It was the size of a deck of cards, covered with sensors. "This is an infrared detector with translating software inside. The Aeolians communicate by emitting infrared signals from their tentacles. This device will accept the signals, translate them into English, then stream the translation directly to your MindLink. Whenever an Aeolian wriggles his tentacles, you'll hear English. Selly helped me with the translation software. He's quite the linguist."

King took the translator. There was a handy clasp, allowing him to snap it onto his belt. He pulled up MindPlay and scrolled through nearby devices. The translator showed up.

"Thanks, QT."

"I have an infrared transmitter here," QT said. "I've been testing with it."

She raised metallic tentacles topped with bulbs. She tapped a button. The tentacles jangled back and forth, and the bulbs shone red.

A voice suddenly spoke in King's mind.

"QT deserves a raise!"

King frowned.

"Does it work?" QT asked eagerly.

"Like a charm. And I'm doubling your salary. Since you don't earn anything, you'll now earn twice that much."

"Aww, thanks." She handed him a cardboard box. "Here. A few more nostril-stuffers and translators. Give 'em to your friends. Good luck down there, sir. The Aeolians are smart creatures. Almost as smart as us androids. I hope we can form an alliance."

"Keep the portals open. I'll be back soon."

As he walked away, King added silently: I hope so at least.

Because he had to form this alliance. Or he was dead. And his crew was dead. And maybe all of humanity would follow.

CHAPTER NINE

Od'rahda, weaver of webs and huntress of humans, walked through the bowels of Arakavish.

This was the homeworld of the rahs, and in many ways, it was her homeworld too. For millions of years, her ancestors had lived here, hunted here, bred here. These tunnels were soaked with memories. Here she was one with her mothers. Here she was one of the spiders.

They scuttled around her, the sons and daughters of Arakavish. The hulking hunters barely squeezed through the tunnels, their craggy abdomens scraping against the roughly hewn walls. Their claws scarred the stone. A palimpsest of countless warriors sprawled across the floor and walls, etching over etching, slowly widening the tunnels as the warriors grew fatter on conquest. Orbweavers moved among them, so small they could scurry between the warriors' legs. They were pale, soft things, hardly more than maggots, but they had their uses.

Od'rahda herself was the daughter of a gazer. She saw no gazers here. She wouldn't—not in these common tunnels. Gazers were the rarest of the rahs, priests of the Glass Spider. They were masters of the Cosmic Web, connecting all the worlds in this arachnid empire. Someday, they believed, the web would span the entire galaxy, every planet a node between two strands. And then, only then, the Glass Spider would descend from heaven, and all would be as babes upon her back, living in a world with no fear, no hunger, and only the goddess's jaws would cull the weak.

They were holy beings, the gazers. All other spiders bowed before their wisdom.

Holy? Were they?

They were gazers who had found her dying, scorched body in the tunnels. Gazers who had lifted her, charred and writhing, and placed her upon the mountaintop to die under the sun.

Very soon now, she would break James King. But first she had some other scores to settle.

The tunnels ran for countless miles through Arakavish. Some orbweavers once calculated that there was more surface area in Arakavish's tunnels than aboveground. Yet it was impossible to get lost here. Pheromones marked every tunnel, every twist and turn, etching millions of trails through this subterranean kingdom.

And the underground of Arakavish was more than just tunnels. There were great caverns here, spaces large enough to contain towns, cities, entire kingdoms. In these caves, the rahs built towering structures like termite mounds, black and jagged, rising among the stalagmites. Gossamer bridges stretched between these rugged skyscrapers, glowing with the eerie green bioluminescence of the tunnels worms the rahs harvested.

Od'rahda delved deeper, heading toward the granite chamber deep underground. The Hall of Bones. The cave with the fossils of ancient beasts in the walls.

All warclaws, the largest ships in the Arakavish Armada, contained escape portals. The spheres hung behind the bridge, allowing a commander to flee to safety. In Earth traditions, the captain goes down with the ship. What noble fools! The children of Arakavish were more sensible. Why sacrifice your life when you could live to hunt another day?

All warclaw portals led to this place. The Hall of Bones under the mountain.

The fossils of extinct beasts covered the walls, great femurs like pillars, claws like buttresses, and stone jaws roared across the ceiling, locked in ancient combat. Flames burned in the eye sockets, flickering, casting dancing shadows so that the fossils seemed alive again.

There, at the back of the room, it hung. The portal. A blob of shadows among shadows. A dark essence which no flame could light. It was as if a chunk of reality had been carved out. Two reptilian fossils surrounded that abyss, their spines twisting and broken, their jaws open in silent agony. All the warclaws in the fleet led to this singular portal. The portal was to be used in one direction only—from warclaws to chapel. If one attempted to enter the portal from here, their body would shatter into ten thousand pieces, and each chunk would land in a different warclaw. Best to use it as a one-way road.

The slender priests were still in the chamber, lurking in the shadows among the bones. Their eyes were like boils about to burst. Chains hung around their necks, made from segments of human spines. Their bodies were small, not much larger than a human torso, balanced atop eight legs like stilts. They rose twice the height of a man. With those stick-thin, razor-sharp legs, they stirred through piles of bones and guts, mixing soil and blood, divining the future.

I wonder how much of that blood is mine, Od'rahda thought.

They sensed her enter, spun their warty heads, and glared down with their many little eyes.

"An arachtaur," one hissed.

"One of the experiments."

"What is she doing here?"

One priest leaned down, thrusting his lumpy head toward her, and opened a round little mouth full of sharp teeth like needles. "This is our domain, half-breed. You may not enter this place."

Od'rahda tilted her head. "Do you not recognize me, gazer?"

They stared at her, sniffed. One of them, a hoary beast with tufts of white whiskers, snorted.

"You are one of Elder'rah's experiments. Did you escape from her lab?"

"I escaped from the warclaw Tyranny," she said.

"Nonsense!" said the old gazer. "You came through the doorway, not the portal, not . . ."

Then he understood. They all did.

Od'rahda nodded. "I came through the portal a few days ago. You did not recognize me. Understandable. I didn't have much of a face left." She frowned, tilted her head. "What was it you called me? A lump of burnt meat?"

The towering spiders hissed.

"I believe we called you a failed experiment," one said. His voice was raspy, slurred. Warts and boils filled his mouth.

"Yes, there was that too," Od'rahda said. "You are gazers. Pure-born rahs. The highest caste in our society." She smiled thinly and licked her fangs. "But you are of the past. I am an arachtaur. I am part human."

"Part sniveling prey!" said a priest, spraying saliva.

"A sub-spider!" said another.

"A monster!"

Od'rahda's smile widened. "Yes. A monster. A monster you left to die. A monster who has come back to your hall. And now, gazers … it will be you who die."

They just blinked at her, hissing.

Fools. Old fools who spent all their time in a cave, digging through guts and whispering prophecies. What did they know of violence?

But I was bred for violence. I was forged in the bubbling pits of this world to wage war.

When she leaped toward them, they cowered and screamed. Her claws lashed, and their spindly legs tore. Her fangs bit, and their abdomens deflated. Her stinger thrust, punching through carapaces, impaling their organs.

Within moments, they lay on the ground, whimpering. She had left them a few twitching legs. A few eyes to shed tears. They lay among the bones and guts and blood they had spent so many eons sorting through, divining the future but failing to see their own deaths.

She stood above them, and now she was the one staring down at them.

"Please," one hissed. "Spare us."

Od'rahda laughed. She raised her front claws, opened her spinnerets, and draped cobwebs over the wounded priests, muffling their whimpers, cocooning them in silk. Then she fired a strand toward the ceiling. The sticky web flew toward the eye socket of a fossil, grabbed the candle that burned there, and yanked it free. Od'rahda caught the still-burning candle in her hand.

"Charred lump of flesh, you called me? Well … how the tables have turned."

She tossed the candle onto them.

The cobwebs caught fire. The flames spread. The priests screamed.

Od'rahda smiled as she left the chamber, savoring the sweet sound of their dying. She traveled through the tunnels, moving deeper, this time heading toward the lair of her mother. Very soon now, she would have a warclaw again. No. Not just a warclaw but an armada. Very soon now, she would fly to Earth.

"You are next, James King," she whispered, smelling the sweet scent of cooking meat. "You will burn in my temple."

CHAPTER TEN

King, Jordan, and Darjeeling stood together in the hangar, waiting for their ride.

Activity filled the hangar. Aeolians were swarming over the Sparrow shuttles, upgrading their engines. Deckhands were busy at their tasks, sometimes sneaking the odd glance toward the three old soldiers, wondering what was going on. Bay Boss Eun-Yu was stomping through the hangar, her tool belt jangling, shouting commands. Drones bustled back and forth, cleaning and fleeing stomping feet. The usual chaos of a hangar bay aboard a busy warship.

But King, Jordan, and Darjeeling stood apart, waiting near the airlock. All three wore service uniforms today. Fatigues were probably too casual. This wasn't a battle after all. But King had decided against dress uniforms. They were uncomfortable, impractical, and probably meaningless to Aeolians. So good old bridge clothes it was. Navy-blue fabric, brass buttons, and naval caps. Sidearms rested on their hips.

"Look at us, the three old war dogs," King said. "How long have we been serving together now?"

"Forty-two years now, sir," Darjeeling said.

King grunted. "God, it feels longer." He jutted his thumb toward Jordan. "Especially with this one singing half the time."

Jordan bristled. "What's wrong with my voice?"

Darjeeling smiled at the XO. "I for one think you have a lovely voice, sir."

"Don't encourage him," King said. "He's likely to burst into a song right here and now."

"I might," Jordan said. "Just to annoy you. Or should I save my voice for the Aeolian ritual? Try to impress our rocky friends?"

"You're more likely to cause a war."

Jordan chuckled. He looked at Darjeeling. "He's just jealous because his own voice sounds like a rusty saw."

Darjeeling cleared his throat. "I wasn't a bad singer myself as a young lad. I sang in the choir back in old London, I did."

"Don't you start too," King said.

Jordan patted Darjeeling's shoulder. "The three things Jim King hates most are music, Christmas, and the souls of the living. Best leave him to grump. We'll sing together later."

"Maybe Christmas would be better if you didn't sing at every Christmas party," King said.

But he couldn't suppress a smile. Jordan did have a beautiful voice. But this was how they showed one another love. Banter. They had been doing it for four decades now.

King took a deep breath, thinking back to those old days. Just junior officers, fresh out of the academy. Three friends, caught in a war. King and Jordan—two starfighter pilots with more balls than brains. Darjeeling—a young spacer, charging courageously through the Red Dawn lines, leading his troops to victory. Not many World War III vets still served today. They were the only three on the Freedom.

So many had fallen. Yehuda "Lion" Levy, Spitfire's father. Prince Robert, Emily's grandfather. So many others. Good friends. Brothers-in-arms. Gone now.

King looked at Jordan and Darjeeling. I cherish those who remain. They understand me more than anyone. We will always be brothers.

Jordan seemed to hear his thoughts. He put a hand on King's shoulder, squeezed, and smiled.

"There she comes!" Darjeeling said, interrupting the moment. He pointed at a monitor. "The alien shuttle."

It looked like the shuttle that had greeted Freedom outside of Heaven's Geode. It was oval and glimmered like mother-of-pearl. There were no portholes, no features at all, just a smooth surface.

"Looks like an egg, don't it?" Darjeeling said.

"Great, now I'm hungry," Jordan said. "I should have eaten breakfast. You don't suppose the Aeolians will feed us?"

"They find eating shameful," King said. "They only eat privately and don't even like talking about it."

"Good," Jordan said. "You could skip a meal or two. Maybe you'll finally lose a few pounds."

King sighed. "They don't share meals. And they don't have books. Two of the greatest pleasures of humanity."

"They're aliens, Jim," Jordan said. "They're, well … alien."

Eun-Yu interrupted the conversation, her deafening voice filling the hangar. "Airlock—open!"

The three old men cringed. Jordan gingerly touched his ear.

"That woman is barely larger than my granddaughter," King muttered. "Where does that voice come from?"

"I swear she has a megaphone implant," Jordan said.

The deckhands tapped at controls. The airlock slid open. A space traffic controller stood at the ready, waving glowing batons, directing the shuttle into the hangar. A squad of marines stood farther back, watching the scene. This was an alien craft entering the Freedom after all. It didn't hurt to have some security.

The egg came to a stop, hovering a foot above the deck. The polished surface gleamed, tossing back reflections of the hangar. King looked at his reflection. It was like looking into a funhouse mirror. He and his friends looked taller, thinner.

"Well, I finally lost those pounds," King muttered.

Part of the shuttle seemed to melt. The metal rippled, slid to the deck, and solidified, forming a ramp.

Nobody emerged from inside.

"Well, here's our ride," King said, picking up his rucksack. He wasn't sure how long the ritual would last, so he had packed for a couple of days.

Jordan and Darjeeling lifted their own packs. They walked toward the shuttle.

King stood outside for a moment, peering into the shuttle. He couldn't see anything from here, just shadows. Spitfire's words returned to him. It's a trap.

Well, if the Aeolians had wanted to kill him, there were easier ways. Such as blowing up the entire Freedom. King stepped into the shuttle, and his companions followed.

* * * * *

The interior was simple. A circular bench surrounded a common area. Five Aeolians sat here, politicians all. They had polished, gleaming shells ranging from white to black. Sashes hung across the shells, adorned with medals. Heads emerged to stare at the humans.

King recognized Gorba among them.

"Hello," King said. "Thank you for—"

"Be seated," Gorba said. "And be silent."

Darjeeling fumed. "You will not speak to the admiral in such a tone!"

Gorba turned an eye toward the old sergeant. "It is the tone I normally use with errant children. It is appropriate for humans."

Darjeeling's mustache bristled. "We don't have to take this. Come on, Admiral King, Commander Jordan. Let's get off this shuttle."

"Wait, wait!" rose a voice from outside. "I am coming too. Do not leave without me!"

A crystalline shell rolled up the ramp and tumbled into the shuttle. A green head and five legs popped out.

"Selly!" King said.

The thinker brushed dirt off his shell. "Yes, it is I, Bully Dog. I am coming with you."

Gorba rose to his feet. "Sel'ton'ref'tra! You were not given permission to attend."

Selly shrank away, shuddered, and took a deep breath. He raised his neck to its full length. "I am the head of the thinkers guild, Gor'ba'rosh'na. I do not need your permission. I am coming too."

The politician grumbled. "This is highly unusual. What will the queen think of a thinker ordering a politician?"

"The queen thinks of nothing but laying eggs, and you know that," Selly countered. "Too long have the politicians pretended to speak for her."

"This is blasphemy!" said Gorba. "I will have you ripped from your shell and—"

"—and hung to dry, yes," Selly said. "I heard the threats. I was tasked with being a liaison for the humans. And I will accompany them. That is my right and my duty."

Gorba laughed, but it was a cruel, mocking sound. "Very well. Then if you are so close to the humans—you will be judged with them!"

Just then, the shuttle ramp rose and sealed the opening, trapping the humans inside. An Aeolian guard moved toward the door. The boulder-like alien glared at the humans, and his clawed toes clasped a dagger.

"What is the meaning of this!" Darjeeling demanded. "We will not be treated like prisoners on trial."

King put his hand on Darjeeling's shoulder and sent him a telepathic message. "It's all right, old friend. Let's see what happens."

"Remember, humans, do not eat in our shuttle," Gorba said.

King cleared his throat. "Gor'ba'rosh'na, we've come to Heaven's Geode as friends. We'd like to forge a friendship with you. You are wise and noble. We would be honored."

Jordan raised an eyebrow. He sent King a telepathic message. "Is that really you, the grumpy bulldog? My, my, you'll become a diplomat yet."

Gorba snorted. "We shall see. We have not judged you yet. At the Ritual of Purification, we will decide what to do with you humans. It is time. Sit down. I will not ask you again."

Darjeeling looked ready to explode. King swallowed his pride and sat down. Jordan sat down too. Grumbling under his breath, Darjeeling took the last seat. There were no windows, but they felt the shuttle move. Eun-Yu's muffled voice sounded through the hull.

"Airlock—open!"

King felt the shuttle accelerate. Parts of the alien hull shimmered, then became transparent, forming portholes. King looked outside in interest.

The egg-shaped shuttle floated away from the Freedom, passing through the slender white arms of the shipyard. King looked at his beloved dreadnought. From here, he had a perfect view of the starboard hull.

A few weeks ago, the Tyranny had bombarded that side of the ship, tearing it open from stern to stem. The reconstruction was almost done. Seven new Angels of Liberty topped the dorsal hull, casting long shadows. A new starboard hull stretched for hundreds of meters, containing new decks and cabins. King was used to his hull being scarred, dented, charred black from many battles. This reminded him of seeing the Freedom for the first time. Forty-two years ago.

King had been just a young pilot then, looking for a job. The Freedom was newly commissioned—the largest and most expensive starship ever built. A triumph of the Alliance. The hope of democracy. A great flying army, constructed to defeat the Red Dawn.

Jordan and Darjeeling were looking at the Freedom too, lost in their own memories. Behind the dreadnought, one could see the Aeolian cities on the inner surface of Heaven's Geode. And they were marvelous—a new, alien civilization. But right now the three old men had eyes only for the Freedom.

"She sure is a grand old lady, isn't she?" King said.

Darjeeling placed his cap against his chest. "That she is, sir. That she is."

"We defeated the Red Dawn in this starship," King said. "Four decades later, we drove the rahs away from Earth. Now Skel'rah sends the arachtaurs against us. We have another war to win, gentlemen. And the Freedom will win this one too."

Gorba was watching them. The politician snorted. "Not without our help."

* * * * *

The shuttle flew over the wilderness. Rivers and forests spread below, coating the inner surface of the shellworld. King saw no farms. He wondered what the Aeolians ate but dared not ask.

Soon they flew toward an Aeolian city. King had seen footage of ruins on Cleodora. This city looked how Cleodora must have in the old days. Skyscrapers grew toward the sunlight, as large as the Freedom, their crests shining with crystals. Domes shone among coiling streets. Countless smaller buildings covered the city in a mosaic of crystal and stone. Swarms of oval shuttles, similar to the one King flew in, flew to and fro.

"This is Queensnest, our capital city," Selly said. "Home to two million Aeolians."

Gorba glowered at the thinker. "I did not give you permission to speak."

Selly sulked and shrank back into his shell, leaving only his tentacles outside. Perhaps he had used up his courage.

"Queensnest," King repeated. "Is this where your queen lives?"

All the Aeolians in the shuttle tilted forward as if bowing.

"Our capital city is home to our blessed queen, giver of life, reservoir of wisdom," said Gorba. For once, the politician seemed more subservient than imperial.

"Wisdom?" King said. "I was told your queen is not sentient."

Selly dared peek out of his shell. "There is wisdom without sentience, Bully Dog. The tree on a hilltop, shepherding his forest, is not sentient, yet the tree is wise. He knows the turning of the seasons. He knows the language of rain and wind and early spring's sun, and he imparts his wisdom to all those who rest in his shade, who listen to his rustling leaves. The ocean is not sentient, yet the ocean is wise. The ocean knows when to storm in rage, how to pull invaders down to their watery graves, and she knows when to gently guide ships to safe harbors. Sailors listen to the wisdom of the ocean, and the ocean grants them safe passage, and those who ignore the ocean's wisdom find themselves devoured by her. Our queen is like that tree on the hill, like the ocean, like the stars in the sky. She is not sentient, but she is wise, and as a sailor would be lost without the stars to guide him, we would be lost without our queen."

Surprising everyone, Gorba did not retort with a biting barb. The politician gazed at the thinker, perhaps finding some new respect for his crystalline comrade.

A sniffle sounded behind King, then the sound of a blowing nose.

"That was beautiful," Stowy said. "You're a poet, Selly."

King leaped to his feet.

"Stowy, what are you doing here!" he roared.

She climbed out from behind the bench, dusted off her dress of many pockets, and shrugged. "Same as usual. Stowing away. It's sort of my thing."

"What is the meaning of this!" Gorba cried. He pointed accusingly at Stowy. "Who is this vermin?"

Stowy looked behind her, back at Gorba, then gasped with comprehension. "Me, a vermin? No. I think you're mistaking me for somebody else. I am Stowy, mascot of the starship Freedom." She lifted the corners of her dress and curtsied. "Nice to meet you, Gorby. I've heard plenty about you." She leaned toward him, hiding her mouth behind her palm, and dropped her voice. "Not all good things. You might want to hire a PR firm. I'm currently accepting clients."

King heaved a sigh. "Gor'ba'rosh'na, I apologize. The girl sneaked into the shuttle. Let's turn around and I'll return her to the Freedom." He glared at Stowy. "She's going right into the brig."

Stowy placed a hand on her heart. "Admiral, you wound me! To put your mascot in prison? Sad times are these! Dark times when brother turns upon sister, when—"

"Let's just throw her out the shuttle hatch," Darjeeling suggested.

A strange light filled Gorba's three eyes. "No. I say we take her along."

King frowned. "Senba." King was using the Aeolian honorific, probably one the politician didn't deserve. "It's only a short flight back to the Freedom. The girl was not invited."

"She may come," Gorba said. "I'm extending the guest list to four humans." A hideous smile spread across the mouth atop his cranium. "I am sure that when the council judges you, the young female will greatly impress them."

King's spirits sank.

We're doomed.

* * * * *

The shuttle descended toward the city, carrying several Aeolians, three old men, and one girl with many pockets. The shuttle flew between slender skyscrapers. But they looked like no skyscrapers on Earth. They were shaped like flowers, the stems white and gleaming, coated with marble. Their crests flared out like petals, translucent, revealing the rooms and corridors inside.

Stowy pressed her face to the porthole, gaping at the view. "Look at those buildings! They look like giant Q-tips!"

"Or flowers," King said.

She thought for a moment. "Nah. More like Q-tips." She pulled one out of her pocket and held it to the window for comparison. "See?"

"Put that away!" Darjeeling said.

Stowy began cleaning her ear. "Huh?"

"Put. That. Away!" Darjeeling repeated, mustache bristling.

"Sorry, old man, can't hear ya. Got wax in my ear." Stowy pulled the Q-tip out. "Ah, that's better. Hey, is there a garbage bin around here anywhere? No? Oh well, good thing I have many pockets." She pocketed the soiled Q-tip.

Gorba was practically beaming.

King sighed. He's loving this. He knows Stowy will embarrass us.

King put a hand on the girl's shoulder. "Stowy, we're going down there for an important Aeolian ritual. You must be on your best behavior."

"I always am."

"No cleaning your ears in public. No chattering about flea circuses and mice that can talk. No scratching yourself in unmentionable places."

Stowy removed her hand from her backside. "But I'm itchy."

"Stowy! Best behavior. For today, pretend you're one of my soldiers."

Her eyes lit up. "Really, sir? You're letting me join the Alliance? I'll be an honest-to-goodness soldier?"

"No. This is only pretend."

She didn't seem to hear him. She snapped to attention, gave a brisk salute, and marched around the shuttle. "Sergeant Stowy, reporting for duty! I am Earth's first line of defense against the rah menace. Just point me at 'em, sir! Hey, when do I get a gun?"

"Stowy? Best behavior."

She sighed. "Fine, fine." She squeezed herself between King and Darjeeling. "Now scootch over. Make room. I'm tired of hiding behind the bench."

The shuttle glided over a park. Alien plants grew as high as oaks, but they looked more like tulips with whorled, purple buds that did not yet bloom. King realized that the skyscrapers were probably meant to emulate these flowers.

"We call these flowers Moon Ladders," Selly said. "On our lost homeworld, our ancestors believed they were ladders to the celestial realm. Moon Ladders bloom only once a year, always in the darkness of night. And that night Heaven's Geode celebrates. That night the flowers release precious crystals like pollen." He tapped a crystal embedded into his shell. "A Moon Ladder crystal. It symbolizes that I have mastered my botanical studies. Every crystal on my shell symbolizes another discipline mastered."

King couldn't help it. He glanced over at Gorba's shell, which was smooth. The politician snorted. "Foolish thinker posturing. We politicians need no baubles to advertise our worth."

Selly's tentacles wilted.

A palace rose in the center of the park. Its magnificent rotunda shone with a mosaic of crystals. Marble minarets surrounded the dome, whorled like unicorn horns, tipped with fiery red crystals like torchlight. Five streams flowed through manicured gardens, entering the dome through five arched gateways. This place could hold its own by any palace on Earth.

Stowy's eyes nearly popped out. "It's a giant Aeolian!"

"Stowy, please," King said.

"I know what she means," Jordan said. "The palace does look like a giant Aeolian shell. The five streams represent an Aeolian's five legs."

"Indeed, we call this palace the Sacred Shell," Selly said. "We built it to look like one of our shells. It is the finest building in Heaven's Geode and home of our blessed queen. Here will the Ritual of Purification take place."

Other oval shuttles were flying toward the palace. They landed in the gardens on the riverbanks. Aeolians emerged onto the lawns. Many guests were arriving today. A few Aeolians rode enormous, stony beasts with rows of legs. They looked like a cross between boulders and rhinoceroses. Gold and silver wires scrimshawed the beasts' shells, and sashes hung across their backs.

Gorba's shuttle landed by a riverbank.

The passengers stepped into the garden. Ahead of time, Mimori had warned them that the atmosphere in Heaven's Geode was low on oxygen. Her sister, QT, had come to the rescue. King plugged the two small inserts into his nostrils. The tiny portals thrummed to life inside his nose, connecting him to Freedom. As King inhaled, he was breathing air from inside his ship. While large portals were brand-new technology, humans had been using small portals for two years now. The engineers were already finding lots of nifty applications for them.

Jordan and Darjeeling inserted plugs too and inhaled deeply. Stowy looked around, aghast.

"Don't worry. I brought spares." King handed her some inserts.

"Thanks, boss." Stowy blew her nose, then plugged the portal-breathers in.

The gravity was different too, stronger than Earth's. The humans suddenly weighed a third more than normal. King felt the burden with every step. Stowy tried to skip, fell down, and resigned herself to plodding, shoulders stooped over.

"Ow, I'm so heavy," she moaned. "Now I know what it's like to be Bastian."

Several Aeolians gathered near them. Most were politicians, judging by their smooth shells. Some workers walked among them, carrying stone boxes. Perhaps they were porters carrying their masters' luggage. Moon Ladders grew along the banks, as tall as trees. The stream flowed over pebbles and under a grand archway forged of polished gold and silver. Some Aeolians were sailing in graceful white boats shaped like Moon Ladder petals, entering the palace.

"I wonder about all the water," King telepathized to Jordan. "Why boats instead of roads and feet?"

"Maybe the Aeolians evolved in water and still honor their past," Jordan replied.

"Well, we Earthlings evolved in water too, and you don't see a river flowing into the Alliance Headquarters."

"Behold the Gate of Hierarchy!" Gor'ba'rosh'na announced loudly, interrupting the private conversation. "The finest of the Sacred Shell's five gateways. The Gate of Hierarchy provides entry for the politician caste. Sel'ton'ref'tra! You are a mere thinker. You do not belong here. Go to your own lesser gate."

Selly's tentacles wilted. "I shall."

"We'll go with Sel'ton'ref'tra," King said. "He was designated our liaison. We should enter his gate with him."

Gorba snorted. "You flatter yourself, humans. I would never have let you profane the Gate of Hierarchy. Go with the thinker."

Stowy tossed back her head. "Ha! How dare you insult our honor. We refuse your invitation! We will enter the thinkers' gate. Good day, sir. I said good day!" She spun on her heel, attempted to march off in a huff, and fell facedown, a victim of Heaven Geode's punishing gravity. "Help me. I've fallen and I can't get up."

With a sigh, King yanked Stowy to her feet, then supported her as they walked through the gardens. Selly led the humans among the Moon Ladder stems. Stones covered the ground. Stowy raised her foot, about to kick one, when the stone sprouted legs and scurried off. Soon a hundred stones were fleeing, revealing sandy ground. A few tiny stones, no larger than pebbles, hopped on what looked like blue springs.

King glared at Stowy. "Don't disturb the wildlife."

The girl blushed. "Sorry! I had no idea I could scare stones."

"They are animals we rescued from our homeworld," Selly explained. "They have camouflaged shells like us. We protect them in this park."

A rhino-sized boulder rumbled by. Stocky feet emerged from the bottom, shaking the garden. A few Aeolians rode the beast.

"Some of our animals are larger than others," Selly said.

"You should see the animals on Earth," Stowy said. "We had dinosaurs once. They were way bigger than this animal."

"I would love to visit Earth someday," said Selly. "I hope you are judged friends."

"Do you have dinosaurs on Heaven's Geode?" the stowaway asked.

But Selly was walking farther ahead now and did not hear. They reached a second stream. It flowed through a grand archway covered with a mosaic of crystals.

"The Philosopher's Gate," Selly said. "This is the path of thinkers. Since there is no gate for humans, you may enter this one with me."

"Selly, there are five gates to the palace," King said. "One for politicians. One for thinkers. Presumably the third gate is for workers, and the fourth one is for warriors. What about the fifth gate?"

"For the fifth castes in our colony, of course," said Selly. "The five castes are the five legs of our society, same as five legs grow from our shells."

King frowned. "There are five castes? I thought only four."

"There is a fifth, though they did not visit the Freedom," said Selly. "The nurses. Their only job is to tend to our queen. They feed her, bathe her, and tend to her eggs. They are born to serve their queen, and they only leave her when their time comes to die."

"Sort of like Darjeeling with Emily," Stowy said.

Darjeeling growled and balled his fists. "I'll show you time to die, urchin."

Stowy raised her chin. "You can't kill me. I'm an Alliance soldier now."

"You're not a soldier. You're only pretending!"

"Oh yeah? So why do I have insignia on my sleeves?" She pointed to a few chevrons and stars she had patched onto her dress, forming a hodgepodge of different ranks.

Darjeeling fumed. He was turning red. "You snatched those from the laundry bins, didn't you? That's stolen valor!"

She haughtily cleared her throat, chin raised. "Actually, this one here is a general's insignia. And you're dishonorably discharged. Good day, sir. I said good day!"

"Stowy!" King said. "What did I tell you? Best behavior."

She blushed and lowered her head. "Sorry, boss."

Several curious Aeolians gathered about, watching the exchange. They were all thinkers, judging by their shells. They boasted different crystals and gems and metals, each denoting a different discipline mastered.

"We're not exactly giving them a great first impression," King telepathized to Jordan.

The XO patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry. They're smart fellows. They won't judge us harshly because of the girl."

Selly found them a boat. It was shaped like a blooming Moon Ladder flower. They climbed in and began sailing downstream. Stowy looked overboard into the water.

"Look, boss!" She grabbed King's arm, and her voice was soft with wonder. "Living stones inside the water. Like clams."

But King was looking at the jeweled archway ahead. He tried to see inside the palace. From here, he could only make out smudged figures hovering around a beam of light. The faint sound of music wafted from inside, but it was unlike any music King had ever heard. It sounded organic, abstract, woven of harp strings into clouds of fairy dust.

They sailed into the palace.

* * * * *

While outside was bright and cool, the palace interior was shadowy and hot. It looked almost like a cave. An oculus peered open in the center of the domed ceiling, letting in a sunbeam like a spotlight. Most of the room remained dim.

Stone terraces rose everywhere like seats in an amphitheater, and mezzanines jutted out from the walls high above. Hundreds of Aeolians were already here, milling about, their tentacles flailing in silent conversations. They crowded the open floor and stood on the terraces. More kept arriving in boats. Some Aeolians stood on mezzanines, playing stringed instruments and silver pipes. The music had no clear melodies and filled the air with an alien ambiance.

The commoners, it seemed, stood on the ground floor. They had no sashes, and the thinkers among them boasted only a handful of gems in their shells. The mezzanines were for older, higher-ranking Aeolians. The thinkers up there sparkled with crystals, the politicians wore multiple sashes adorned with ribbons, and the warriors sported bandoleers of medals. Most of the workers were on the ground floor. The only workers on the balconies were there to serve the upper castes. A few workers lay on the ground, limbs inside their shells, serving as footstools.

Gorba occupied the finest mezzanine. The politician sat on a crystal throne, holding court, his feet resting on a living footstool. Several other politicians stood around the throne, their sashes displaying their medals. The older politicians sported beards that grew all around their heads—front, back, and sides.

"Whoa, there's like a million people in here!" Stowy said. "This place is huge! It reminds me of Air Canada Centre. Ever been there? It's a hockey arena down on Earth. My parents took me there once. Did you know I was Canadian before I became Freedom's mascot?"

"You're not a mascot, you're a pest," Darjeeling said.

"A pest like a mouse? You know, I turned into a mouse once, and I could still talk, and—"

"Look over there," King said, pointing, before the two came to blows.

The five streams flowed through the archways, meeting in the center, where they formed a pool the size of a hockey rink. Yes, King was thinking in hockey metaphors now, thanks to Stowy.

Shadows cloaked the pool. But Heaven's Geode was always rotating around its central axis. As the hollow world spun, the ceiling oculus turned toward the light of the small, artificial sun in the center of the shellworld. A beam of light fell onto the pool.

Stowy gasped.

Jordan and Darjeeling stared with wide eyes.

An enormous creature lay in the pool, as large as a whale. Unlike the other animals in Heaven's Geode, this creature had no shell. The body was hairless, clam-colored, and gleamed in the sunlight. The beast was enormously obese. Rolls of blubber jiggled as the creature breathed from a quivering blowhole. There was no head to speak of, just a withered organ that stuck out from the front, ending with a dangling sphere of eyeballs and ears. Five small, useless legs sprouted from the creature, floating on the water like pool noodles. They made T-Rex arms look beefy. Every once in a while, a leg gave a little twitch, splashing the water, then stilled.

Stowy's eyes widened. "A dinosaur!"

"A queen," King said softly.

Selly bowed his head in reverence. "There she is. The wise one. Our queen."

"She's, um … beautiful," King said.

"She's a brontosaurus," Stowy said.

Small, naked creatures swam through the water. They looked no larger than seals. Their anatomy shared some commonalities with Aeolians—five legs, a spine, a sensory sphere atop a neck. But the resemblance ended there. These creatures had no shells, revealing soft pink bodies. Their legs ended with flippers, not claws. Their sensory organs grew from their backs, rising above the surface of the water like snorkels.

"What animals are those little ones, Selly?" King asked.

"Those are not animals, Bully Dog. At least no more than you and I are. Those are Aeolians."

King understood. "The nurse caste. They have no shells."

"Indeed, Bully Dog. Otherwise they would sink."

"And the queen must stay in the water because of her size," King said.

"Like a brontosaurus," Stowy said. "It all fits."

King watched, fascinated, as the queen rocked in the water. Ripples undulated across her body. Nurses fussed around her, brushing her hide.

"Can I pat her?" Stowy said. She tugged King's sleeve. "Please, boss. Please. Please—"

"No!" Darjeeling boomed. "And unhand the admiral now."

"But I want to pat her!" Stowy cried.

Jordan cringed. "I don't think she likes loud noises. Maybe try to lower your voices."

The queen gave a loud groan, a sound like a dying, beached whale.

Stowy and Darjeeling fell silent. So did everyone else in the palace.

The queen moaned. The sound echoed through the cavern. The enormous creature shifted in the water, her body quivering, turning in King's direction. Water splashed from the pool and flowed across the floor. Workers rushed forward with mops. Nurses bobbed in the water, peddled, and began stroking the queen with their flippers, trying to calm the beast. Cries of dismay rose from the terraces.

The queen's sensory organ was no larger than a human head, comically small compared to the whale-sized body. The fleshy sphere thrust forward on its stalk, facing King. Three beady eyes peered from the bulbous head, then squinted. The queen huffed through her blowhole.

Stowy waved. "Hi!"

The queen moved again, rising higher in the water, groaning with effort. She seemed to try to rear like a horse. But then she splashed back into the pool, raising waves. Water flooded the floor. The queen gave a great cry.

"It's the humans!" rose a voice from the shadows. "She disapproves! The queen has spoken! The humans are enemies!"

King looked across the chamber. He saw Gorba atop his mezzanine, watching the proceedings. Other politicians stood around him, harrumphing and nodding.

"The queen wants them gone," rumbled another politician.

"Get them out of here!" cried an Aeolian from a balcony, this one a thinker with a ruby-studded shell. Apparently not only the politicians were hostile.

The queen rose again, then splashed down. She let out a roar. The waves of water knocked several nurses out of the pool. The soft Aeolians slapped onto the floor, wet and helpless like octopuses on the sand.

A few warrior Aeolians, recognizable by their large size and lumpy shells, advanced toward the humans.

King spoke out loudly. "We are not your enemies!" His voice rang through the chamber. "We come as friends."

But the queen kept roaring, and the warriors kept advancing.

"What do we do now?" Jordan muttered.

Darjeeling drew his firearm. "We fight. To the death if we must."

More warriors were advancing from behind.

King cursed. "Selly, is there nothing you can do?"

The thinker looked from side to side, eyes wide with fear. "I've never seen the queen behave like this. She must fear your smell. She's never smelled a human."

King drew his firearm. "Stand back-to-back, everyone. Don't fire until I give the order. Stowy, stand between us. Stowy?" He looked around. "Goddammit, where is the girl?"

Then he saw her.

Stowy was racing away, her bare feet pattering against the wet floor. She slipped, wobbled, almost fell, but kept running.

She was heading toward the pool.

Aeolians rushed toward her. Stowy zigzagged between them. One Aeolian lunged at her, slipped, and slid across the floor. Stowy leaped, landed on his shell, vaulted forward, and kept running.

Finally the girl reached the pool and jumped in.

"What the devil is she doing?" Darjeeling cried.

The Aeolian warriors surrounded them now. Ten big, lumpy brutes. They raised crystal daggers. King had heard stories of those daggers from Emily, who had fired one. They put human handguns to shame.

"I am not your enemy!" King repeated. "If your queen finds us distressing, we will speak outside."

"The queen has deemed them foes!" Gorba cried from the balcony. "Kill the—"

"No, she hasn't!" rose a voice from the pool. Stowy's voice!

Everyone turned to look at her. Gasps rose from the crowd.

Stowy was in the water, patting the queen.

"She's just scared," Stowy said. "She's calming down. See?"

Indeed, as Stowy stroked the huge creature, the queen stopped rumbling and squirming. Stowy whispered to her, petted her, soothed her. The queen began to purr.

"Amazing," Selly said, his three eyes wide. "I never saw our queen respond to anyone this way, not even nurses."

"One mindless creature responds to another," Darjeeling muttered to King, who suppressed a smile.

"That girl might have just saved our lives," King said.

Darjeeling smoothed his uniform. "And that, sir, is the most amazing part of this entire war."

Up on the balcony, Gorba grumbled something and slunk back into the shadows, where he huddled with his fellow politicians.

As the queen purred contentedly, the band put down their harps, raised trumpets, and played a deep, bugling fanfare. A politician with a golden shell and white sash stepped onto a mezzanine, and his tentacles fluttered. Across the chamber, the crowd of Aeolians raised their tentacles in response, receiving the message. King heard it through his infrared detector.

"The Ritual of Purification is about to begin."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

On her twenty-first birthday, Queen Emily, ensign in the Alliance Fleet, reported to her new post aboard the starship Freedom. For the first time, she would not be merely a symbol of human leadership and resistance. She would become a warrior. She would not just inspire but fight.

Throughout her time at the Alliance Academy, she had wondered what job she would like in the military. Should she become a marine like Bastian and Alice? No, she was too small, too weak. Should she become a starfighter pilot like Spitfire and Pickles? Briefly she had toyed with that idea, but long hours spent in a flight simulator dissuaded her from any notions of flying in battle. She was so clumsy she kept crashing her simulated Eagles. Perhaps she could become a science officer, an engineering officer, maybe a mechanic? But she had no training in science nor engineering, and she had no patience to attend university to get her degree. Not with a war going on. She wanted to fight now, not in several years.

Finally she had chosen her profession. Today she stepped onto the port artillery deck of the starship Freedom, snapped her heels together, and saluted.

"Ensign Emily, reporting for duty!" she announced.

Artillery. This would be her world in the military. She would become a gunner.

The artillery crew turned toward her. A few saluted back. Most bowed.

Most of them outranked her. But, well, she was the Queen of England after all. Awkward.

"My queen!" said a young gunner, holding his helmet against his chest.

She blushed. She was used to people bowing before her but not on an artillery deck. "Please, everyone. As you were. It's all right. I'm not here as queen. I'm here as a simple ensign reporting to my post."

Niles floated up behind her, his silver nose raised. "You may all bow before me, commoners." He moved closer to the light, letting it shine on the gemstones inlaid into his silver casing. "Finally a crew with some proper manners. Not like those marines. Yes, yes, I quite like it here on the artillery deck. Where is our throne?"

"Niles, calm down," Emily said. "This isn't a palace. Now be more humble, or I'll send you to sweep the deck with the cleaner drones."

He gasped. "You would never!" But he flew a little lower and kept quiet.

The artillery stations were located on deck 32, the uppermost decks on the ship. The ceiling was the dorsal hull of the Freedom. The ship boasted fourteen mighty torpedo cannons, the legendary Angels of Freedom. This particular artillery station controlled one of the mighty guns.

It was a long, narrow deck. A cannon's loading tube dominated the room. The tube was so enormous you could drive a car into it. Maccabee torpedoes were stacked nearby. Each torpedo was longer and heavier than an Eagle starfighter. Their warheads could destroy dreadnoughts. They were so large only mechas could move them.

One of those mechas, nicknamed Kronos, stood at the back of the deck. Kronos was a towering robot the size of an upright tractor. Yellow paint was flaking across his steel body. He was old but still strong. Kronos's hydraulic arms could lift the mighty Maccabees. His feet were so heavy they shook the entire starship when he walked. Emily had felt those vibrations even from her quarters half the ship away. Right now the mecha was turned off. Emily gazed curiously at the empty cockpit and dizzying array of controls.

She turned back toward the artillery crew. She raised a translucent bundle of papers, sharing the hallucination across MindWeb. "I have my transfer forms here. Signed by Sergeant Major Oliver Darjeeling. I'm looking for Major Andrew Hook."

There were fourteen Angels of Liberty. Each had its own artillery station, its own crew of gunners. Major Andrew Hook commanded the Pandora, one of the fourteen, located above the port midsection. Pandora had gained fame during World War III, destroying the Chinese dreadnought Xiaoping. During the current war against the Arakavish empire, Kronos had pulverized many clawships.

Emily had never met Major Hook. Generally, artillery officers stayed by their guns. They did not enter the bridge or war room. Traditionally, the Freedom's XO oversaw the entire artillery corps—including the starboard cannons, port cannons, point-defense system, and the Fist of Freedom. Each of those units had their own subunits and commanders.

One gunner looked over his shoulder. "Hey, Major Hook? Major Hook, sir!"

No reply.

The gunner lifted a megaphone. "Major Hook, sir?"

The sound blasted through the deck, deafening. Emily cringed and covered her ears. Niles tumbled through the air, hit a pillar, and lost several gemstones. They clattered onto the deck.

"Will you be quiet!" the drone demanded. "Use your indoor voice."

"Sorry, our commander is a bit hard of hearing," said the gunner, lowering the megaphone.

A spacer emerged from the launching tube, hand coned around his ear. The cannon's bore was so wide he could walk upright. He was a wiry man with a sharp face, prominent nose, and toothy smile. Soot covered his fatigues. He held a mop that was black with filth.

"Sorry, mates!" he shouted. "Couldn't hear ya in there."

"Major Hook, sir?" Emily said.

He didn't answer.

"Major Hook?" She stepped closer, waving. "Sir?"

He started, nearly falling back into the bore. "Don't sneak up on people like that." He frowned. "Are you … yes, you are!" He bowed. "Your Majesty! I'm honored. I'm Australian, you know. Which makes you my queen."

"It's all right. You don't need to bow." She had to tap him on the shoulder. "Sir?"

Hook straightened, and she showed him her transfer forms.

"See here, I'm to report to the artillery corps," she said. "I heard you had an opening."

Major Hook grinned his toothy grin. "Ah yes!" he shouted. "I did ask for a new soldier. Never thought they'd send the Queen of England. Crikey, I should be the one working for you."

She smiled thinly and gave her usual spiel about how she wasn't a queen here, just an ensign. That never really convinced anyone.

"So what will my job be?" Emily said. She looked at the cannon controls, which seemed quite elaborate and included a lever as large as her. "Will I fire the cannon?" She glanced toward the mecha. "Or maybe I can operate Kronos and load the guns?"

Hook grinned. "Sorry, Emily. But you did want to be treated like a regular soldier. You're new here, so you won't be operating any heavy equipment yet."

She nodded. "Ah, I see. Makes sense. So I'm just here to learn and observe."

His grin widened, and he handed her a fresh mop. "Even better. You can finish cleaning the cannon bore. I got started, but there's plenty of bore left to clean. Some ships have drones do the job, but not the Freedom. We clean our own guns, thank you very much. It builds character. The rest of us have been taking turns, and to be honest, we all feel we've built quite enough character by now. But you're new to it. You've got loads of character building ahead of you."

Niles flew forward, his camera lenses wide. "How dare you demand that the Queen of England clean your mess! And to insult her character no less. Why, I'm of half a mind to give you the thrashing of your life!"

Something clicked inside him, and his assortment of weapons—bottle openers, corkscrews, and tweezers—burst out from him.

"Niles, it's all right." Emily waved him down. "I'll do whatever I need to do. Remember, Niles, I'm a new soldier. I'm starting from the bottom." She looked back at Hook. "Sir, I'd be honored to clean the guns of Freedom. When do I start?"

"No time like the present," said Hook. "We're in a shipyard now. Best time to clean the bores is when we're at port. Don't wanna be cleaning them during a battle, do we? Might end up smeared against an enemy hull."

The other gunners lowered their heads.

"Poor Rondelman," somebody whispered.

Emily took a deep breath and hefted the mop. "I'll get started then."

"If you need anything, better use MindWeb," Hook said. "Can't hear a damn thing in there."

* * * * *

Emily climbed into the bore of the Pandora, carrying her mop. Niles floated after her, looking around in disgust. If he had a proper human nose, he'd be wrinkling it.

"It's positively ghastly in here," the drone said. "I cannot believe that Australian scoundrel treated you as a scullery maid. I should have him sent right back to his penal colony! Emily, this task is not worthy of one of your stature."

"Niles, please," she said. "You know I don't want any special treatment here. We've been over this."

"Well, I don't care what you want," he said. "You are the Queen of England. You have responsibilities. You have, well … dignity. I suggest we return to the royal suite where you might salvage what little of your dignity remains."

She barked a laugh. "What is dignified about sitting in a royal suite while there's a war going on? I find it far more dignified—and important to the war effort—to do our part. There's nothing undignified about rolling up our sleeves, applying some elbow grease, and doing dirty work."

"That is for the commoners, not for you!"

"Come on, Niles." She nudged him. "It's all rather romantic in a way." She hefted her mop. "I feel a little like a Victorian chimney sweep."

"That's just what the empire needs! Its queen sweeping chimneys."

She tilted her head. "I thought we haven't been an empire in over two centuries."

He raised his nose. "The sun shall never set on the British empire. Our lands perhaps have temporarily fallen to the rowdy colonists. But so long as we maintain our imperial spirits, we carry the empire within our hearts."

"Yes, and I carry a mop in my hands, so let's get to work."

She spent the next few hours inside Pandora, scrubbing the cannon clean. Unfortunately, Emily had been assigned a portside cannon. The starboard cannons were brand-new, courtesy of the Aeolians, replacing the guns the Tyranny had destroyed. Brand-new and probably sparkling clean. But Emily served on the portside of the ship, and these cannons had seen long years of war. The bore was full of soot, all of which Emily had to clean.

As she scrubbed, time became hazy. The tunnel was dark, and Hook was right. It wasn't just his hearing loss. It was hard to hear the rest of the ship from here. There was always ambient noise aboard the Freedom—the rumble of engines, the hum of the reactors, the buzzing of the shields, the murmur of conversations. One got used to it over time. Emily found it soothing. But here inside the cannon, the sounds all echoed and morphed together, forming an eerie symphony.

The darkness and white noise lulled her into a dreamlike state. She kept cleaning, working on autopilot, as her mind wandered. Once more, she was back at Buckingham Palace, playing with the royal corgis, practicing piano, spending Christmas dinner with her family. A gilded age. An innocent time.

A time when her family had still been alive.

Emily was thankful for the darkness. It hid her tears.

And now she no longer imagined herself in the palace. She was running through the ship as the Tyranny bombarded her. The hull tore open and the fire roared. The invisible hands of space grabbed people, pulled them out into the darkness, and they screamed silently, reaching out for Emily, desperate for help. But she could only run as they died.

Her mop clattered down.

"Emily!" Niles said, flying closer. His two camera lenses shone blue, illuminating her. "You're crying. Oh, darling. What is wrong? Tell your dear friend Niles."

She hugged him. "I just miss home."

He nuzzled her. "As do I, my dear. I miss King Robert, your noble father. I miss your strong and wise mother. I miss all those who died. Do you remember what I said about the empire?"

She nodded, wiping her eyes. "Something about carrying it in our hearts?"

"Exactly. It is the same with those who died. We carry the memory of the fallen. We are the keepers of a sacred gift. That is how we honor those who died. Remembering can be a thing of grief and tears that clutches the heart, that crushes the soul. But sometimes the simple act of remembering is like a miracle. It cannot bring back the dead, but it can illuminate their forms until, like the image of light remains in the eyes after the candle has gone out, we can almost see them again."

Now fresh tears fell. "Niles, that was beautiful."

The drone thought for a moment. "Of course, I myself have no heart. Squishy, leaky things. Awful. I don't know how you humans walk around with them."

She laughed through her tears. "You might not have a heart, Niles, but you do have a soul."

"Ugh." He shuddered. "I feel almost human. Disgusting."

"All right, Niles, let's keep cleaning. There are still two hours to this shift."

She had only cleaned about half the bore so far. This was a long cannon. She kept working, running her mop all around her, even above her head. This time she treated it as a meditation. Whenever the memories gnawed on her, she brought her mind back to the present, focusing on every sweep of the mop.

Breathing sounded ahead.

Emily frowned and listened.

No, she only imagined it. Probably just the sweep of the mop. She kept cleaning, and then again—breathing.

She lifted her mop like a weapon. Niles froze at her side, hovering in midair.

"What is it?" the drone demanded.

"Shh!" she whispered. "Listen."

She heard it again. She stepped closer carefully, mop in hand. Niles clicked and sprouted his arsenal of corkscrews and salad forks.

A few steps ahead, Emily spotted a shadowy figure. Her heart burst into a gallop. Was a rah on the ship, hiding inside the cannon? Memories flooded her. Once more, she was on the Raven, fleeing the ruins of the temple. Abraxas, the rah commander, had hidden on her ship, leaped from the airlock, and driven his claw through her hand. The wound had since healed, but the pain flared anew. Cold sweat drenched her.

Calm yourself, Emily. Focus on breathing. Be here now. That is only a memory. Memories are merely neurons firing in the brain. They're not real. Be here now. Be calm. Let the anxiety float onward like a storm cloud before the breaking of the day. Be here now.

It was a technique she had been teaching herself, a way to help with the trauma of war. It didn't always work, but she managed to regain some control. She took a few more steps forward.

"Hello?" she said to the shadowy blob.

Niles brightened his eyes. Two beams of blue light shone, illuminating the figure.

It was an Aeolian. The alien gave a frightened cry and dropped something.

"Sorry to startle you," Emily said. "I'm Emily."

The Aeolian took a step back, his five clawed feet scraping against the bore. His shell looked like a mossy boulder. A worker.

"I didn't hear you," the Aeolian said. "I was … somewhere else."

"Somewhere else?" Emily frowned, knelt, and lifted the object the Aeolian had dropped. It was hexagonal and metallic. Probably a machine component. "Is this yours?"

"No!" the Aeolian said. "Not mine. Not mine!"

Emily examined the object more closely. Her eyes widened. "Why, it's some sort of book, isn't it?

The cover was metallic, hexagonal, and inlaid with agates. When Emily tapped a button, a clasp opened. The book unfolded like an accordion, revealing pages made from thin sheets of translucent crystal. Slender letters were etched into these crystalline pages. Even the pages were hexagonal.

"It's wonderful!" Emily whispered, flipping a few pages. "Is it a technical manual?" She smiled in delight. "Is it a novel? Were you lost in a novel? And that's why you didn't notice us?"

"We Aeolians have no books!" the alien said. "We have no novels!"

He snatched the not-a-book from her with a powerful foot, tossed it onto the ground, then stomped on it. The crystal pages shattered into countless shards.

"Oh no!" Emily said.

"Not mine. I do not read books. We Aeolians have no books. Now out of my way!" The Aeolian shoved past her. "Busy, busy. Very busy!"

The mossy alien trundled down the bore, vanishing into the shadows.

* * * * *

"What a rude peasant!" Niles said.

Emily examined the shards of broken book. Not much was left aside from the cover, and even that was cracked.

"This is very interesting, Niles."

The drone was looking down the tunnel, shaking his salad fork. "You better keep running, scoundrel! What kind of servant are you, leaving a mess on the floor? Why, in my day, if a working man would not do his task, we would—"

"Niles." She pulled him back toward her. "Do you remember what Selly said? How the Aeolians don't have books?"

"Ah, Selly!" His camera lenses brightened. "The Aeolian with the jeweled shell, yes? Now that is a fine Aeolian! Not like these crude workers with their mossy, rocky shells. Selly is a true gentleman. I do believe he was English in a previous life."

"Yes, quite. Well, Niles, remember how fascinated he was when Admiral King was showing him his library? Selly kept saying the Aeolians don't have books. And look what we found here. An Aeolian reading a book! And not a human book either. Clearly an alien one."

"Yes, fascinating. Now can we return to the royal suite?"

"Niles! This might be important." She lifted a few of the broken crystal shards, then sighed. "Oh, all the pieces are too small. I can only see a few letters here and there. That Aeolian was hiding something, mark my words."

"He was probably reading a blue magazine," Niles said.

Emily pursed her lips. It was probably nothing. Maybe it wasn't an Aeolian book after all. Could it be a human book? Something in a foreign language? No. What human made hexagonal books with crystal pages? Could Selly have been wrong? Yet he was a thinker, wise and learned.

Oh, she was getting worked up about nothing. Still …

She wished King were here. She felt comfortable with the admiral; he was like a father to her. Were he on the Freedom, she would ask him. Darjeeling would know what to do too, but he was down on the surface with King. Jordan as well. With the sensors offline for repairs, Emily couldn't contact them.

Who could she call? Maybe Spitfire? No, Spitfire had her hands full, commanding the bridge. Maybe Mimori? The android was highly logical. She might not get Emily's intuitive unease.

She decided to call Bastian.

She pulled up MindPlay and found his avatar. He was down at the Courtyard, the marine mustering ground, but had his status set to "available." Not everyone could contact him directly—only a select few. Thankfully, Emily was one of them, and she pinged him.

A hallucination of Bastian materialized inside the cannon bore. Down in the Courtyard, he would hallucinate her standing there. His avatar was completely lifelike. He was big, burly, and tattooed, but his eyes were kind, and his face was broad and honest. At once Emily felt calmer. Bastian was like that. No matter what was going on, he could always make her feel better, make her feel safe. It was why his troops looked up to him. He was the kind of officer Emily could only hope to someday be.

"Hey, Ems. Everything all right?" Even his voice was comforting. He was not talking to a junior officer, nor to the queen, but to a friend.

"It's probably nothing. Just something a little odd. I was hoping to hear your opinion."

She spent a while explaining about the Aeolian book and showed him the shards.

"Oh my God," Bastian said. "Emily. Emily, this is huge."

She gasped. "Really?"

He nodded. "An Aeolian was caught … reading a book! Dear Lord, if they can read books, they could do anything. Watch television. Listen to music. We're doomed!"

She rolled her eyes. "Bastian! I called you because I trust you."

He laughed. "I'm sorry. I get it. Selly says they don't have books. One is reading a book. It's a bit weird. I'll keep an eye open. If I run into any other Aeolian books, I'll take a look. All right?"

She took a deep breath, suddenly feeling silly. "All right. Thank you. I know this all sounds so trivial. I realized that when I said it aloud. But you weren't here. The Aeolian seemed, well … scared."

"I think we're all scared, Emily," Bastian said softly. "The enemy is still out there. The rahs attacked both our worlds. We're all on edge. But we'll get this ship back up and running, and we'll win this war. I promise. With you working the cannons, Empress Elder'rah doesn't stand a chance." He winked. "See ya later, Ems."

His hallucination vanished. Emily heaved a sigh and kept mopping.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A hush fell over the crowd. Thousands of Aeolians filled the palace, covering the floor, the terraces, and the mezzanines. They all stood still, gazing down at their queen. The enormous Aeolian lay in the pool, soothed and content.

Stowy popped up beside King, sopping wet.

"I patted a dinosaur!" she whispered. Then she shook like a dog, spraying droplets over King.

Three Aeolians stepped forward from the crowd. They approached the edge of the pool.

The first was Gorba, his silvery shell polished to a sheen. A sash hung across his shell, adorned with smooth stones of various colors. The politician held his head high, and he practically strutted. At one point, he slipped on the wet floor. A few Aeolians tittered. Gorba kept walking, pretending not to hear. He reached the pool and bowed before his queen.

Next came Selly, representing the thinkers. He wore no sash, but the many gemstones inlaid into his shell gleamed, signifying all the disciplines he had mastered. Selly had told King that thinkers not only studied science but also music, sculpture, and other forms of art. The Aeolians did not distinguish between science and art. In their language, they used one word for both. The thinkers were both scientists and artists.

King thought it a pity that Aeolians had no concept of literature. A civilization with no novels! Perhaps King could teach Selly to appreciate language as art. He had a feeling his friend would love it.

When Selly reached the edge of the pool, he joined Gorba and bowed.

King recognized the third Aeolian too. It was Fal, the old warrior who had shared his tales. His long white beard surrounded his head like a collar, draping across his shell. That shell was old and fractured, but molten gold filled the cracks, bringing beauty to what had been broken. The old warrior too wore a sash, boasting military medals. These were likely not his own medals. Fal had been born after the war. Perhaps the warrior carried the medals of his great-grandfather, honoring his memory. When Fal reached the queen, he bowed, joining Selly and Gorba.

Nobody represented the worker caste or nurse caste. They were, apparently, too lowly to warrant representation.

Everyone in the room watched. It seemed that everyone was holding their breath. The musicians fell silent.

"My queen!" said Gorba, tentacles flailing. "I am Gor'ba'rosh'na, head of the politician caste. With your blessing, I shall be purified."

The politician was speaking telepathically, sending infrared signals from his tentacles. Thankfully, King's infrared receptor was working perfectly, uploading the English translation to his mind.

Gorba took a few more steps until he stood on the edge of the pool. Then he knelt and … laid an egg?

King blinked.

An oval, round rock thumped onto the ground.

"Did he just lay an egg?" King whispered, leaning toward his human companions.

"Or give birth?" Jordan said.

"I think he just went to the bathroom," Stowy said.

Gorba lifted the stone he had just released. It was about the size of a grapefruit. The politician raised it in the air, presenting the rocky sphere to the queen.

"Throughout the past year, my queen, I have filtered the impurities of the world inside my shell. I collected these precious minerals. I present them to you, my queen. I am now cleansed."

A nurse swam up, took the round stone, and swam off with it.

"What is going on?" Darjeeling said, scratching his chin.

"I really do think he just went to the bathroom," Stowy said.

King considered. "Maybe the Aeolians collect mineral deposits inside them. Similar to an old kettle. And then expel them from their cloacae."

Stowy giggled.

The nurse held the mineral deposit reverently. The shell-less Aeolian swam toward the queen and held the stone aloft. The queen knelt. The blowhole on her head dilated, and a long tongue emerged. The tongue snatched the stone like a chameleon snatching a fly. Within a second, the queen pulled the stone into her mouth. A loud gulp reverberated through the chamber.

"Fascinating," King said. "The Aeolians create mineral deposits inside them like bees making honey, then feed their queen. It might be the only thing the queen can eat."

Stowy's ears turned red. She covered her mouth, trying to hide her giggles. "So they poop and the queen eats it?"

"Well, I prefer my bee analogy," King said.

"It's interesting," Jordan said. "The Aeolians are ashamed of eating in public, even discussing eating. Yet when it comes time to expel waste, they summon an audience."

"Anyone want to participate?" Stowy asked.

"Definitely not," King said.

Selly stepped forward next. "My queen! I am Sel'ton'ref'tra, head of the thinker caste. With your blessing, I shall be purified."

The thinker too expelled a mineral deposit. Nurses fed the sphere to their queen.

Next came Fal, the old warrior. He was larger than the others, his legs thicker, but he trudged forward slowly. One of his legs dragged along the floor. The beam from the oculus fell upon him, gilding his beard and igniting the golden rivulets flowing through the cracks in his shell.

"My queen!" The old warrior coughed, cleared his throat, and his tentacles flailed again. "I am… I am …" He blinked, looked around for a moment. "Wait a minute. Who was I again?"

The crowd gasped and their tentacles fluttered. Stowy rushed forward, whispered into the old warrior's ear, then hurried back to King's side.

"Ah yes!" said the warrior. "I am Fal'kel'ha'shor. And he is me. I am the head of the worker caste."

Grumbles passed through the crowd. Stowy had to rush forward and whisper again.

"The warrior caste," Fal corrected himself. "Yes, yes, of course. I am a warrior. But it's been a long time since my last battle. A very long time indeed. Hmm. Come to think of it, I've never fought a battle. But my great-grandfather did. He fought the devious rahs. I still carry his medals, do you see? Ha! Me, a worker? Ridiculous."

"Get on with it!" Gorba hissed.

The queen was watching them, waiting for more sustenance.

"Ah yes, yes, where was I?" said Fal. He glared at Gorba. "Why are you bothering me with tales of workers? I am a warrior! In fact, I am the head of the warrior caste. I am … what was my name again?"

Back came Stowy. This time she stayed by the old Aeolian.

"Yes, yes, I am Fal'kel … kel … Well, you get the idea. I am here to serve my queen. A moment please. Just need to get myself comfortable."

The old gaffer cleared his throat, squatted, and laid his mineral deposit. A nurse quickly delivered the spherical stone to the queen, who promptly devoured it.

The three Aeolian leaders stepped back.

Gorba's tentacles flailed. A powerful infrared signal washed over King's receptor. The English translation boomed through his skull.

"The Ritual of Purification has commenced!"

"Commenced?" Darjeeling whispered. "I thought that was the end."

Gorba continued speaking. "The queen has consumed the first three gifts. Now you will all feed our queen. Line up, proud sons of Aeolia. Be cleansed!"

The lower-ranking Aeolians began moving down the terraces, organizing themselves into a twisting queue. Even workers were allowed forward now. The humans watched, curious.

One by one, the Aeolians reached the pool. There, each Aeolian discharged a mineral sphere, which had been building inside him for a year like a pearl inside a clam. The nurses kept swimming back and forth, taking the lumpy stones and feeding them to the queen.

Selly waddled back toward the humans.

"This is a very auspicious beginning to the Ritual of Purification," the thinker told them. "So far, everyone has large mineral deposits to bequeath. We are purified, and our queen consumes the sustenance needed for a healthy clutch of eggs."

As if in answer, the queen moaned.

The humans all turned to look at her. The queen shuddered. Ripples ran across her body. And she lay an egg. Not a mineral deposit—an actual egg.

Nurses swam closer excitedly, collected the shiny sphere, and carried it to the shallow end of the pool. The queen convulsed again. Another melon-sized egg popped out. The nurses collected this egg too.

"The cycle of life," Selly whispered, eyes damp. "Purification to rebirth. I am an Aeolian of science. But this to me seems like a miracle."

"Selly, I thought that eating is taboo in your culture," King said. "Yet the queen eats while everyone looks on."

"Ah, eating is not taboo for children or our queen," Selly said. "Remember, while she is wise, she is not sentient. No more than a tree that bears fruit. For our queen, eating is holy, a way to convert our waste into new life. The cycle of life is happening before our very tentacles."

King thought for a moment. "Do any Aeolians breed?"

Selly blinked at him. "We are breeding right now."

"I mean do they …" King dropped his voice. "Copulate?"

"Ah! I understand. I have read about such acts in human literature. No, we Aeolians have no such practice. We are all male, aside from our queen. When we provide her with mineral sustenance, we are also impregnating her, as it were, by fertilizing an egg."

Stowy's jaw dropped. "So this is all some sort of mass … public …" The girl blushed. "… display of indecency?"

Selly gurgled a laugh. "Ah, the taboos of different cultures are silly, are they not?"

Jordan raised a hand. "Here's a question. If the queen dies—heaven forbid, and may she reign forever—what happens?"

"Our queens do not live forever," Selly said. "They have the same lifespan as all Aeolians. A few of your human centuries. When one dies, one of her nurses will change sex from male to female. The nurse will become a new queen. She will grow and grow, and the other nurses will tend to her. We will have a new queen. In the old days, sometimes nurses swam in rivers, found new places to live, and became queens there, forming new colonies. On our old planet, there were many colonies and many queens. Here we have but one."

King cleared his throat. "Selly, this is all fascinating. But when will the politicians judge us humans?"

"After the sons of Aeolia are cleansed and the queen is sated," Selly said. "The cleansing and feeding begins every year's ritual. We discuss matters of business only later."

King watched the Aeolians approach the pool, one by one, to feed their queen. "There are thousands of Aeolians in the palace. It'll take a while. A few hours, I imagine."

Selly chortled with laughter. "Oh, Bully Dog, everyone will have an opportunity to feed the queen. There are twenty million Aeolians in Heaven's Geode. They will all take a turn."

King's eyes widened. "That could take days."

Selly nodded. "Indeed. The Ritual of Purification lasts several of your human days. Do not worry! I know that humans require sleeping and, um … ingesting." He made a face. "There are private rooms in the palace where you may do both. But I encourage you to spend most of your time here in the grand hall. These days give us time to observe you, interact with you, learn more about humans. The Ritual of Purification is not only about cleansing and feeding. It is also about … I am uncertain of the human word. Meeting and talking and seeking wisdom."

"Networking," King said.

Jordan patted him on the shoulder. "Your favorite thing."

"Well, gentlemen, we have a few days here, it seems," King said. "Let's try to make a good impression on our hosts."

"A good impression … with the stowaway here," Darjeeling said, mustache drooping.

King frowned. "Where is she anyway?"

Cries of dismay rose from the poolside. King stared. Sopping wet, Stowy was trying to climb onto the queen's back. Nurses had to pull her away. King heaved a sigh. This would be a long ritual.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The starship Freedom was hers.

Spitfire stood on the bridge, barely believing.

The crew bustled around her. Spacers and drones rushed back and forth. Monitors shone and beeped, filling the bridge with endless streams of data. Holographic schematics of the ongoing repairs floated through the air. The Freedom was resting in a shipyard, but everyone still had so much to do.

Kim and several other engineers pointed at the schematics and debated this and that. The Shield of David team was arguing—again. Mechanics stomped through the bridge, carrying and installing new monitors, replacing those damaged in battle. The sounds of drilling tore through the air. Dr. Annie Jordan was here, trying to take vitals, saying something about preventing human-Aeolian contaminations.

Spitfire stood in the center of this chaos, the conductor of this clamorous symphony.

Or at least—she tried. She felt more like a deer in the headlights.

"Coming through!" a mechanic said, carrying a monitor the size of a table.

"Sorry," Spitfire muttered, ducking. The mechanic stomped on.

"Gal, will you tell the engineers I need a Shield of David on the prow?" Motti demanded from the defense station.

"And I'm telling you," Kim interjected, "it'll interfere with the portal generator."

"Um … listen to Kim," Spitfire said.

"But—" Motti began.

"Listen to Kim!" Spitfire said.

"This isn't the Caracal," Motti insisted. "This is a big ship. If an enemy charges our prow, I can't intercept their missiles from the side SoD units."

Spitfire nodded. "Okay. Kim? Give him space on the prow."

"But—" Kim began.

"Just figure something out!" Spitfire said.

Kim groaned. "I'd have to rebuild the entire spinning mechanism on the portal generator."

"Great, a plan!" Spitfire said. "I—whoa."

She had to lean back as a mechanic stomped by, wearing a powered mini-mech suit. This one was carrying a new ATLAS workstation.

"Hey, where do I install this?" the mechanic asked. Even with his augmented strength, he groaned under the weight.

Spitfire raised her voice. "Anyone order a new ATLAS station?"

A few surveillance officers waved from the back.

"That way," Spitfire told the mechanic. He nodded, kept lugging the station, then suddenly tripped over a scurrying drone. The workstation slammed on the deck, cracking and spilling components. People groaned and somebody clapped. Mechanics started arguing loudly. Two seemed ready to come to blows. Spitfire wanted to rush toward them, to calm things down.

"Ma'am?" A voice behind her.

"What?" Spitfire snapped, spinning around.

She saw Mimori there.

"Ma'am, I have that report."

"I didn't order a report from you, Mimori."

The android tilted her head. "But I'm Timori, ma'am. The logistics android. You can tell from my uniform."

"Oh. Right." The two androids had the same face. But Timori wore the baggy uniform of a warehouse worker, not the finer service uniform of a bridge officer.

"Ma'am, I brought the report about our stocks of MREs," the android said. "We have enough food to last for six more weeks. But we're out of lasagna noodles, and I know the spacers enjoy their Lasagna Mondays. Perhaps we can implement a new White Rice Monday policy?"

A booming voice sounded behind them. "Over my dead body, lass! I cannae be serving white rice to hungry spacers. Not unless you want a mutiny on our hands."

Abercrombie, the ship cook, stomped onto the bridge. He was a big redhead with a big voice and bigger belly. He still wore his kitchen apron.

"But we have plenty of white rice," Timori said.

"Ach! That's no meal, lass. Our spacers want good proper food in their bellies."

Timori raised her chin. "This is genetically engineered rice that contains all the essential nutrients humans need to function."

"Other than taste!" the cook snapped.

They both turned toward Spitfire.

"Um … how about you cook white rice with, um … lasagna sauce?"

They thought for a moment. Abercrombie tapped his chin, then beamed. "Rice noodles! That's what I'll do. Lasagna Mondays are back on the menu."

"Gal!" Dr. Annie grabbed her. "Gal, I'm telling you, nobody is maintaining any distancing between humans and Aeolians. I'm already encountering organisms passing back and forth between our two species. We must implement a strict lockdown and separation between us until I can study these microbes."

"Is anyone sick?" Spitfire said.

"No. But—"

"Then let them keep mingling."

"We don't know the consequences!" the young doctor insisted.

"Good." Spitfire patted Annie on the shoulder. "Let the Freedom be your laboratory. You'll learn something new."

"Ma'am?" Mimori approached. This time it was definitely Mimori, blue uniform and all. "The gunnery team says the Maccabee torpedoes don't fit into the new Angels of Liberty cannons. The Aeolians are acting innocent, saying they used the Freedom's official specs. And they did—but they were using the deprecated version. Those diagrams haven't been updated since the Third World War. Now the gunners are furious, and the Aeolians are threatening to walk off."

Spitfire let out a huge groan. "Call the head Aeolian worker over here."

"I did, ma'am. He just said he's busy."

"I'll go talk to him. But—"

"Spitfire!" cried an ATLAS operator. "We need that new station now."

Another voice. "Ma'am, those tactical reports you wanted are ready."

"What the heck?" This one from a navigator. "The Aeolians changed our navigational software. How are we supposed to map the stars this way?"

"I'm telling you, Gal, I need my cannons in the middle of the prow."

"The torpedoes don't fit!"

"Lasagna Monday."

"Microbes."

"Spitfire?"

She covered her ears. "I need a moment."

She rushed into her ready room—a small office in the side of the bridge. It was a place for the commander to go for privacy—perhaps to review a sensitive report or dress down a spacer. King never used the ready room. Jordan didn't either. The two old commanders used it for storage. Spitfire squeezed in between unplugged workstations, a cracked monitor, and spare spacesuits. She closed the door and took a deep breath.

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

She wanted to call King, just to check on him, to hear his voice. To hear his approval. To hear him say: "You can do this, Spitfire. I believe in you."

She ignored the instinct. No, she would not call him like a little girl. He had left her in charge of the Freedom because he trusted her. She would not let him down.

"You got this, Gal," she whispered to herself. "You were born for this."

She stepped back onto the bridge and into the chaos.

* * * * *

"I am Ees're'yal'la, a worker of the docks!" announced the Aeolian. "I give you the gift of my minerals."

He held out his mineral deposit to the queen, who continued to engorge herself.

King stifled a yawn. The ceremony had been going on all day, and things showed no sign of slowing down. Apparently a good Ritual of Purification lasted for a week at least.

"There are taverns around the palace," Selly assured them. "Many pilgrims visit the palace for the yearly ritual. I got you a room. When you grow weary, I'll show you the way."

The humans had been in the palace for hours now. Stowy was complaining that her feet hurt, and even Darjeeling and Jordan showed signs of restlessness, but King wasn't ready to retire to the tavern yet. They needed to forge an alliance here. They'd have time to rest later. So they stood on the palace floor among the crowd.

More boats kept arriving down the five streams. Each Aeolian took time to purify himself, deliver a little speech, and feed the queen. And there are millions of them across Heaven's Geode.

We sure chose a time to show up, King thought.

"I'm bored," Stowy said. "We've been at this for ages. Can I go explore the city?"

"Stay here," King said.

"But there's an entire alien civilization out there! How can we just stay here in this palace, watching these Aeolians do unspeakable things?"

"Because if you went into that alien civilization, you'd cause an intergalactic incident," King said.

"Can I just go for a bit?"

"Don't make us put you on a leash," Darjeeling warned.

"But—"

"Stowy." King looked into her eyes. "I need you at my side. To protect me. I need a bodyguard here."

"I thought Darjeeling was your guard."

"I'm the senior NCO of the starship Freedom," the sergeant major said.

King suppressed a smile. "Stowy, I need a small, sneaky guard for this job."

Her eyes widened. "So you admit I'm a better guard than Darjeeling?"

"I'm not a guard!" the Englishman muttered under his breath. He probably would have burst out shouting in any other setting.

"Absolutely," King said to the girl.

"All right, I'll do it," Stowy said.

A worker bustled by them. "Out of my way, out of my way! Busy, busy." He joined the line of waiting Aeolians, all gravid with minerals.

"Um, Stowy?" King said.

She was already a few steps away, heading off on an adventure. She looked over her shoulder. "Yes, boss?"

"Stay at my side, remember? The whole guarding thing?"

"Oh. Right. Right." She walked back. "I shall man my post."

The ceremony went on. After each Aeolian purified himself, he joined the crowd for socializing. The musicians played on the mezzanines. Tentacles fluttered everywhere. The Aeolians took the ritual as an opportunity to gossip. King's infrared detector picked up snippets of conversation.

"Did you hear that Rel'ta'rel'ra cracked his shell? He says it's from falling down the stairs, but I heard that he ran afoul of some old warrior …"

"You remember how Hef'el'kra'tor was bragging that his broodmate got a job at the heat vents? Always claimed he could tell it's his broodmate, grown from the same minerals, because of the shell patterns. Well, I heard that they finally took a mineral test, and …"

"Everyone is talking about it. The workers are demanding a leader of their own. Word is they elected one, and the politicians caught wind of it. Remember how they opened Heaven Geode's hatch yesterday? It was to expel his body."

Typical gossip. Overall, not too different from what one might hear at a party on Earth. But most of the conversation was about the foreigners.

"Look at them, Tif'gra'bou'ba. Aliens. Actual aliens! There haven't been aliens in this system for a hundred years."

"They're not rahs, are they?"

"No, of course not, you soggy sponge head. You've seen the murals. Rahs have eight legs. These are something new."

"Can they understand us?"

"Of course not. Do you see tentacles?"

"No shells either! Like nurses. Are they all nurses?"

"I heard from my friend, who's a politician, that the aliens are actually robots from the future, and that we built them to come observe our past."

"Robots? Nonsense! My flatmate worked in the tavern where they're staying. She says she saw one of them eating. Eating! Can you imagine? Didn't even close the door. It's disgusting. Robots wouldn't do that."

"Well, my own broodmate said they have a queen of their own, and she's flying outside Heaven's Geode inside a giant starship, and the aliens are here to grab babies and feed them to their queen."

More and more rumors spread, each more ridiculous than the last.

King took a deep breath. He turned toward Jordan and Darjeeling. "Gentlemen? I think it's time to mingle. We have some rumors to dispel."

"I don't care what these shelled beasts think of us," Darjeeling muttered.

"I do," said King. "We need to form an alliance with them."

Jordan smiled at Darjeeling. "It's killing him. Begging for approval like this. It's absolutely killing him. That's the best part."

King snorted. "The best part will be leaving this party. For now let's suck it up. Now smile, gentlemen, and let's go talk up humanity."

"And lady," Stowy said.

"You're going to keep quiet!" Darjeeling said, pointing at her threateningly.

"Ah, right. Because I'm the bodyguard." She nodded sagely. "The silent killer."

King noticed that eyes turned their way. He remembered what Selly had said. When the ritual was done, they would be judged. The time to plead their case was now. In a sense, this ritual was their trial. And soon judgment would be passed.

King approached a group of Aeolians. Their shells were smooth, denoting them politicians. They were unusually small, only rising to King's hips. There were five of them, their shells silvery. They gazed at King curiously.

He raised his infrared translator and spoke into it. The device heard his words, translated them into infrared signals, and broadcast the message.

"Hello. I'm Admiral King, a human. Would you like to learn more about my species?"

The young politicians' tentacles drooped. One of them let out an angry cry. The other squeezed his eyes shut and trembled. All five fled and hid behind a larger politician, this one with a platinum shell.

"They're only children!" the politician scolded King. "Their tentacles are soft. You just broadcast a message loud enough to break a warrior's tentacles."

He shepherded the young ones away.

"Sorry," King said, but nobody heard.

Jordan was stifling laughter.

"It's not funny," King grumbled.

"You just shouted at some children. I think it's hilarious."

"Yeah, well, you won't laugh when they decide to execute the yelling monsters," King said.

They walked among the crowd, approaching a group of workers. The mossy Aeolians crowded around them, tugging at their clothes, poking at their limbs, muttering among themselves. King tried to introduce himself, but the workers ignored his words. They seemed more fascinated with his buckles, zippers, and infrared translator. One even reached for King's sidearm, only for Stowy to smack his hand away. The worker stuck out his tongue, sprayed saliva onto the girl, and wobbled off.

"Eww!" Stowy shook like a wet dog. "I've been slimed."

Selly approached them, chuckling. "Oh, do not bother with workers. Sadly, they do not have a vote at our council."

"Are they sentient?" Jordan asked. "Or are they like the queen?"

"Oh, the workers are sentient," Selly said. "Do not get me wrong. Our workers are highly intelligent beings. They are brilliant at their jobs. But they lack communication skills. They are what you might call in human society autistic."

Stowy's eyes widened. "They are?" She looked at King and whispered, "Did you hear that, boss? They're autistic. Like me."

Selly patted King on the back. "Bully Dog, I would like to introduce you to some fellow thinkers. They are fascinated with humans, and you will find them better conversationalists."

The thinker led them through the crowd of workers. They crossed a bridge over a stream, climbed a spiraling staircase, and stepped onto a mezzanine. A group of thinkers stood here, their shells inlaid with various gems and crystals. A few were youngsters, others elders with braided white beards. Some wore elaborate scarves strewn with beads of precious metal. They crowded around the humans like eager ducks around the farmer at feeding time.

"Sel'ton'ref'tra has told us all about you!" one engineer boomed in a deep, jovial voice. "Is it true you have your brains inside your heads? Ha! Fascinating. Do they rattle around when you nod?"

"Oh, Vol'se'bon'tra, don't pester the poor humans!" said another thinker. "Asking personal questions like that." This thinker had many blue sapphires embedded into his shell. "I am Lo'er'liv'tra, a master of Aeolian art. We Aeolians and humans share some commonalities when it comes to art. We both weave sound waves into music. We both form stone into sculptures and architectures. We both turn color into works of art called paintings. But using language for art! Sel'ton'ref'tra has shared some of your novels and poetry. Amazing that you would use words to construct works of art. Like the brush strokes of a painter."

"We use our sense of taste for art too," Stowy said. "It's called cooking."

The Aeolians stepped back. A few blushed. Others tittered uncomfortably. One retreated into his shell.

"Stowy, the admiral told you to be silent for a reason!" Darjeeling snapped.

Selly laughed. "Forgive them. Among the humans, intaking sustenance is a social affair. Not something shameful like among us."

"Fascinating!" said the Aeolian artist.

The others all crowded around, asking questions about human art, engineering, mathematics, and science. The humans answered as best they could. King knew a lot about books, of which the Aeolians had no concept. Jordan knew a lot about music, and he even sang them a song. Darjeeling had a knack for engineering and mathematics, and he shared some of his knowledge. Meanwhile, Stowy told the Aeolians about the flea circus she was training.

The long ritual continued.

* * * * *

Aeolian days were longer than Earth days. Eventually the humans became too tired and hungry to continue. King asked Selly if they could rest in their room for a while, then return to the ritual. They needed time to sleep and yes—eat.

"Of course," Selly said. "Your room is waiting for you. Follow me."

"Just one room?" Stowy said, following the thinker through the crowd. "You mean I have to share a room with these stinky boys?"

Selly tilted his head. "Do human families not normally share rooms?"

Stowy burst out laughing. "We're not a family. We're friends."

"Ah. Forgive me. We Aeolians have different ideas of family and friendship. We do not have nuclear families like yours—with a mother and father. Only the queen bears young. But we do form family bonds. Often, Aeolian males can trace their ancestry to individual eggs the queen lays. They look after the young like human parents. And our friends often form bonds as close as family. The word for family and friendship is the same in our language. Forgive me. I thought you formed such a unit."

"One room would be fine," King said.

They exited through the Thinkers Gate and headed down an Aeolian street. Many places of lodging surrounded the palace. They came in all shapes and sizes, from little holes-in-the-wall (similar to Earth's cheapest motels) to glittering skyscrapers (the alien version of luxury hotels). With the Ritual of Purification in full swing, they all seemed crammed with guests. King saw curious faces peering from the windows. Many Aeolians didn't even have a room. They slept on the streets, hiding inside their shells. Aeolians had traveled from across Heaven's Geode for the ritual.

"Normally, one must book a room a year before a ritual," Selly said, leading the humans down a cobbled street. "But I pulled strings. I got you the finest room in our finest establishment. There. The Topaz Pyramid."

He pointed. The pyramid rose from a garden, the surface glittering with topazes.

Stowy whistled. "Gee, I don't think we can afford this place." She checked her pockets. "In fact, I don't think we can afford any place. Got any bridges we can crash under?"

Selly laughed. "Do not worry. I arranged everything. The cheaper rooms are at the bottom. The higher you rise in the pyramid, the more expensive the rooms are. You will be staying in the upper room—the tip of the pyramid."

A staircase rose along one facade of the pyramid. They had to climb. Everyone was winded when they reached the top—even Stowy, who spent her life scurrying through tunnels. The extra gravity of Heaven's Geode didn't help. King paused for breath, covered in sweat, one leg cramping. He looked forward to a good meal, a hot shower, and a few solid hours in bed.

Selly led them into the room.

It was a simple triangular place. A lamp shone on one wall.

That was about it. There was no furniture. There was no food. There wasn't even a window to enjoy the view.

"Ah, perfectly cozy!" said Selly. "Nice and dark and hot. Just like the burrows we dug in days of old."

"No beds?" Darjeeling asked, looking around.

"No food?" Stowy said.

"Not even a window," Jordan lamented.

"This is perfect, Selly, thank you," King said.

The thinker prepared to leave, then hesitated. "I must apologize."

"The room is good," King said. "We appreciate it."

"Not for the room. For the guard. The politicians insisted."

A big, lumpy Aeolian the size of a fridge trudged toward the doorway. A warrior. The brute held a heavy weapon that looked like a medieval halberd, but the blade was a red crystal. He placed himself in the doorway, gave the humans a piercing stare, then harrumphed.

"Are we prisoners?" Darjeeling demanded.

"Oh, I am sorry!" Selly said. "I tried to dissuade the politicians. It was Gorba's demand. He does not trust you yet, despite all the grace you've shown us. Would you like me to stay in the room with you?"

King took a deep breath. He wanted to argue, to demand the guard leave. Maybe ask for passage back to the Freedom. But right now he could not cause trouble with the politicians. He would need them for any alliance.

"Very well," King said. "We'll allow the guard. You may return to the ritual if you like, Selly. We'll be fine."

Looking remorseful, Selly departed, leaving them with the guard.

"You stay outside," King told the towering stony creature, then slammed the door in his face.

He turned back toward his companions.

"Well, looks like we're roughing it," King said. "Just like the old days."

"Roughing it?" Stowy said, looking around. "This place is a palace!"

Darjeeling snorted. "Only because you're used to sleeping in our HVAC ducts like a mouse."

"Did I tell you how I once became a real mouse and could talk?"

"Only a million times," Darjeeling muttered.

"Well, see, it was when Telve'rahda the arachtaur was on our ship," Stowy said. "I crawled through the ducts to see her, and suddenly the duct became a tunnel, and I saw I had mouse paws, and—"

"Not again!" Darjeeling said.

"Let's unpack," said King. "We all need food and sleep."

Thankfully, they had brought supplies in their rucksacks. They lay blankets on the floor, and they ate cold MREs.

A logistical problem presented itself. The room didn't have a washroom. But it did have a small, private dining room. The door locked, and there was a hole to discreetly flush leftovers into a sewage system. For all intents and purposes, it functioned like a washroom. A fortunate coincidence.

Darjeeling sat cross-legged, pulled out a deck of cards, and Jordan and Stowy sat down to play with him. They needed time to unwind.

King did not play. He took the time to call the Freedom.

For a while, the comlink rang.

A long while.

King frowned and tensed, but finally somebody answered.

"Admiral! How are you? This is Freedom actual. It's good to hear your voice, sir."

King breathed in relief. "Hello, Spitfire. You sound exhausted."

The sound of drilling and bickering filled the background.

"I'm fine, sir."

"Holding things together?" King smiled thinly. "Do you need any advice? I can help a little from here over the comlink."

"Not a problem!" The bickering grew louder behind her. "I'm handling things." Something smashed. "This is a piece of cake." Curses sounded. "Enjoy your shore leave."

"Are you sure, Spitfire? Do you want me to send Jordan or Darjeeling back early?"

"No, no! You boys have fun down there. I—dammit! No, the new ATLAS system is going into that terminal. What do you mean you already rewired it? That—"

"Spitfire?" King said.

"We're doing great! I'm totally in control of the Freedom. You know you can trust your good old Spitfire. Gotta go!"

She hung up.

"Spitfire?" King said.

Darjeeling looked up from the card game. "Has she had a nervous breakdown yet, sir?"

"I think it's close," King said.

Jordan chuckled. "It'll be good for her. She'll learn what we deal with every day."

"I just hope the Freedom is in one piece when we get back," Darjeeling said.

They played a few rounds, then lay down to bed and dimmed the lamp. Within moments, both Jordan and Darjeeling were deep in sleep. But King lay awake on his blanket. It was uncomfortable. His back hurt. The room was too hot. As a young soldier, he had slept in worse conditions—in a starfighter cockpit, on a hangar floor, sometimes behind a boulder on a battlefield. But now he was old, and he missed his creature comforts.

This whole experience was strange. He was used to fighting wars. Not going on diplomatic missions. He was used to commanding a fleet in battle. Not ingratiating himself to politicians. Visiting this alien world was inspiring, a great honor; he was learning about a new civilization. It was also driving him crazy. Maybe both he and Spitfire felt out of their elements.

It was strange. But King almost missed it.

War.

He had grown up in war. Then, for years, the Freedom was a museum ship, and King felt like a relic on display. He was rotting away. A strange fossil from the past for tourists to gawk at.

Then the rahs had invaded. Then war flared across the solar system. Then King became a soldier again. He fought battles. He saw beloved friends die. He suffered and bled. He officiated at too many funerals. War was hell, and nobody knew that more than an old soldier.

But in a strange, maybe twisted way, King also loved it.

War. It was the only damn thing he was ever good at.

Now, trapped in this dark hotel room, King missed the heat of battle. Not the suffering. Not the death. But the fight. The courage to stand up and resist an enemy. To take charge. To change the course of life. To defend the weak. That was the soldier's drug. And King didn't know how to be a diplomat, no more than he had known how to run a museum. He didn't know how to be anything but a soldier.

"Sir?"

The whisper was so soft King wondered if he imagined it.

"Admiral?"

Stowy was sitting on her blanket, looking at him. Jordan and Darjeeling snored on.

"What?" King whispered.

She scooted closer. "I can't sleep. I'm scared."

"Don't worry. There's a guard at the door the size of a mountain," King said.

"That's what I'm scared of, sir. That we're prisoners. That they'll find us guilty of being monsters. That they'll kill us."

King propped himself up on his elbow. "Stowy, nobody is going to harm us so long as I'm here. Do you understand? I will keep my crew safe. I will keep my ship safe. I will keep you safe."

She nodded. "I believe you, sir. I would follow you anywhere, you know that, right?" She sniffed. "My family is gone. But you're my family now. All of you. I know you keep me safe." She growled and balled her fists. "And I keep you safe. I'm the best darn guard in the galax—" A huge yawn interrupted her sentence.

"Get some sleep, mighty guard," King said. "I'll guard for a while."

She nodded, rubbed her eyes, and fell into a deep sleep.

In the morning, the ritual continued. This time King talked to a group of old politicians. They were hostile at first but became attentive as King explained about human systems of government, and a few even nodded their approval at humanity's impressive levels of bureaucracy. King had never missed his ship more.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Od'rahda stood in her chambers deep in Arakavish, staring at the skull in her hand.

Her chambers were unusual. Countless miles of tunnels twisted through Arakavish like the tunnels of worms through a rotting apple, leading to burrows and dens. Most of those caverns were little more than caves, crudely carved, their walls plain stone. The rahs had never cared much for art. Even their cities were purely functional, the towers nearly indistinguishable from large stalagmites, formed from rubble mixed with clay and excrement.

But Od'rahda had a human mind, and her chamber spoke of her father's heritage. Her troops had been raiding Earth colonies on Mars, Ceres, and the moons of Saturn, and they brought back treasures for her. A Persian rug hung on one wall. Rugs were not very practical on her floor, not with her eight clawed feet, but she enjoyed their patterns and colors on the wall. A pile of blankets formed a makeshift bed. Rahs did not use beds; they merely hung on their webs to sleep. But Od'rahda found webs uncomfortable. While sleeping, her human body often tilted forward, leaving her with an aching spine. She preferred lying on her side, her human body resting against blankets, her spider legs sticking out across the stone floor.

Most prized was her collection of photos. Some rah had looted a few rucksacks from a human base, then brought them to her as trophies. Most of the items inside were rubbish. Just clothes, toothpaste, and other trivialities. But one item caught her fancy. A soldier's photo album. An album with actual paper photos. Even Od'rahda knew this was a relic in the age of human computers and digital hallucinations. She had hung the photos across her cave walls. Three hundred and twelve photos. They depicted the soldier, his wife, his children, his friends. So many faces, happy, smiling. They surrounded Od'rahda now. She did not know their names, but in a way, they had become her family. Her human tribe. She had been raised among the rahs, her mother's species. So she had built a sanctuary for humanity, needing that connection, seeking to understand.

It was pathetic. After all, she had been bred to destroy humanity. But humans were social animals, and those instincts burned inside her.

And so today she held a human skull, contemplating it. Another human in her palm. The skull stared back with empty sockets. Delicate. Fragile like a bird's skull.

I can tighten my hand and shatter it, Od'rahda thought. This is nothing like the thick carapace of a spider. This is a skull like mine.

She had retrieved this trophy while battling James King. After shattering Freedom's starboard hull, many humans had spilled out into space. She had cast a web from her ship, caught one body, and pulled it into the Freedom. At least, Od'rahda had thought it a body. As it turned out, the human still lived. A young man. Probably no older than thirty. He had pulled on a spacesuit just in time. Unlucky for him. He had withstood so much torture yet had yielded so few answers. Now only the skull remained.

Why had she kept it? The rahs normally kept skulls as trophies. But she was no rah. She was a hybrid. A rahda. She was half human.

"Perhaps that is why I kept you," she whispered to the skull in her hand. "Because spiders surround me. And I want to know my human half."

She caressed the skull. It was strange. Od'rahda had been bred to loathe humans. To hunt their kind. Yet looking at this skull, she felt no hatred. Only curiosity. Who were these humans?

She had memories of Earth, coded deep inside her DNA. Sometimes Od'rahda saw a rah and a chill ran through her. A primordial phobia of spiders lingered in her human ancestry. Sometimes, at night, she imagined herself running through grassy plains under a blue sky, a spear in her hand.

Though not last night.

Last night she had dreamed of fire.

Od'rahda winced. Again she felt the pain. Again she was flying into a star, and the plasma wrapped around her, consuming her skin, peeling back her muscles. Sweat drenched her. Again she was lying on the mountaintop as the sun baked her, as the carriontiles ate her alive—

The skull shattered in her fist.

She unclenched her fist and watched the shards of bone fall to the floor. So fragile, her human half.

The stone door swung open, shaking the room. Several photos fell from the walls. A shadow filled the doorway, redolent with a stench like worms and rotting meat.

Od'rahda snarled and raised her front claws, ready for a fight. Who dared barge into her room?

A creature stepped inside, drooling and huffing.

Od'rahda struggled not to gag.

"Magog'rah." She grimaced. "Did you finally crawl out from under your rock, brother? Get back under it. You make me sick."

The creature sneered. "I am Magog'rahda. Not rah but rahda!" His deformed face slurred his speech. "Half human. Like you."

"You are a freak," she said, nausea rising through her. "Mother should have crushed your skull the moment you hatched."

He snorted and looked around. He was an early experiment. One of the first hybrids Elder'rah had created, weaving together rah and human DNA. It had taken many attempts to create proper arachtaurs. And he was clearly not a proper arachtaur.

He did not have a spider's abdomen, thorax, and eight legs like Od'rahda did. His entire body was humanoid. Human legs. Human arms. A human torso. A single, deformed spider leg stuck out from his side like a parasitic twin, small and twitching. Instead of skin, he had an exoskeleton of hard, lumpy carapace the color of concrete. His body was powerful, muscular. He stood seven feet tall, and his arms were as wide as Od'rahda's upper human half. He had even chosen to wear clothes like a human. No true arachtaur wore clothes.

But it was not this strange, lumpy, humanoid body that disgusted her, hideous as it might be. It was his head. He had a spider's head. It was vaguely triangular, enclosed within a carapace that bristled with horns and tiny, twitching mandibles. His mouth was oddly human but much larger, full of fangs like daggers. Eight wet red eyes blinked above that hellmouth like rubies inlaid in stone.

Disgusting, Od'rahda thought.

To make things worse, he had brought his pets. Two of them on a forked leash. They were young women—human women—snatched from some starship or colony during a raid. Magog'rah had beaten them, judging by the bruises and cuts across their body. They walked on all fours, chains jangling.

Od'rahda looked at them. Two humans. Two of her Earthling sisters. Yet as she gazed upon their debased, submissive forms, she felt no kinship. Not even pity. She felt disgust. And suddenly Od'rahda wanted to tear down every photo in her chamber, ashamed of them. How could she have ever felt any relation to those wretched apes? Look at them! They were pathetic. Where was human pride? Did such weakness fill Od'rahda too?

"Must you bring those filthy pets here?" Od'rahda said.

"They are cleaner than you, sister. And I've trained them well."

He pulled a chunk of raw meat out of his pocket. The two pets salivated. He held the meat out on his palm, then laughed as the women fought over it, shoving each other, scrambling for the fallen flesh. One woman managed to grab the morsel, to stuff it into her mouth. Even then, the second pet fought for a bite, trying to pry open the chewing woman's mouth, to retrieve some of the meat before it all flowed down the esophagus.

"What the hell is wrong with them?" Od'rahda said, watching with a mixture of disgust and fascination. "I've never seen humans behave this way."

"I've been starving them," said Magog'rah. "Breaking them. Peeling back their so-called humanity. You see, sister, the humans are no more than animals. Oh, they strut around a planet or two, fly from here to there, pretend to be a civilization. But scrape away the surface and you get … this."

He gestured at the collared women. They knelt before him, begging for food.

Od'rahda went to her table, took a few dried fruits from a bowl, and tossed them onto the floor. The women pounced, pulling their chains taut, and feasted.

Magog'rah cursed, began pulling the pet back.

"Let them eat," Od'rahda said. "I won't have them starving to death on my floor."

He glared at her. "You have human food in your room? A disgrace! The children of Arakavish only eat what they hunt. Ideally while alive."

"Yes, well, that's how the rahs do it," she said. "I'm an arachtaur. We have human stomachs. We need human food." She looked him up and down. "Clearly there's nothing remotely resembling an arachtaur about you, Magog'rah."

He growled. "I am the original arachtaur. The firstborn."

She nodded. "The first experiment is rarely successful."

The creature snarled louder, his saliva dripping. "I was stronger than many who followed me. I devoured my brothers."

Yes, Od'rahda had heard the tales. For years, Elder'rah had experimented, mixing human and rah DNA. Nearly all the creatures were failures. Some looked like spiders but had human skin. Others had human bodies but many arms and legs like a spider. Most were just blobs of flesh, hair, and eyes, able only to gurgle and beg for death. Elder'rah tossed all those failures into a pit, leaving them to die. They weren't even worth the effort of killing.

Yet in the pit, one refused to die.

One devoured the others.

One climbed upon a mountain of corpses, emerged from the pit, and demanded that Elder'rah accept him. She had named him Magog'rah, and she had elevated him in her hosts. Now he had the empress's ear. A big mistake.

"Mother should have killed you long ago and put you out of your misery," Od'rahda said. "Why are you here?"

"You have been back for days," Magog'rah said, struggling to emit the words through his deformed, toothy mouth. "Mother summons you."

She laughed. "Are you mother's errand boy now?"

"Oh, I volunteered for this task." A grin spread across his hideous, lumpy face, full of gleaming teeth. "Mother is upset with you, little sister. You lost the Tyranny, her favorite toy. Even worse—you failed to defeat James King. The very human who slew Skel'rah, our sister, and Hel'rah, our nephew."

Od'rahda shrugged. "Skel'rah and Hel'rah were rahs. So what? The future is arachtaur. Unlike you. I have no idea what you are."

Magog'rah stepped forward and grabbed her arm. He had a humanoid hand, but each finger was like a spider's leg. His eight red eyes narrowed. "Elder'rah has reigned for a million years, and may she reign for a million more. You speak of future? You arachtaurs are nothing but a science experiment."

"Then you're nothing but a festering blob in a petri dish," she said. "Unhand me."

"No. I will drag you to our mother. Be thankful I do not drag you in chains like these human pets."

She wrenched herself free. His hand had left red, throbbing marks on her arm. "I will go myself. And if you ever enter my chamber unannounced again, the next thing your pets eat will be your dead flesh."

* * * * *

She shoved her way by him, out the door, and into the corridor. Yet as she walked down the tunnel, Magog'rah followed.

"Why do you snap at my heels?" she demanded.

He laughed—a deep, throaty sound that echoed in his carapace. "I would not miss this for all the treasures of Earth."

Od'rahda grumbled to herself. They walked onward, she on her eight spider legs, he with his two lumpy humanoid legs. Normally, arachtaurs were taller than humans. Their human halves perched high upon their spider bodies. But Magog'rah stood just as tall and he probably outweighed her. A true freak. As she scuttled forth on her claws, he walked with wide, confident steps. The human pets scrambled to keep up, sometimes falling and dragging on their chains.

They passed by many caverns, some full of eggs, others stacked with human captives, and some massive chambers where armies mustered. Arakavish was preparing for war. For the greatest conquest yet.

The final conquest of Earth.

Millions of rahs filled the chambers alongside the tunnels, powerful hunters with gleaming legs, with teeth to tear human flesh apart. They hung from webs, clung to the walls, and chanted prayers. Gazers stood on altars, conducting the ceremonies, calling out to the Glass Spider to bless the upcoming battles. The gazers were far smaller, their shriveled gray bodies balanced atop their stilt-like legs. A single hunter could tear through a hundred gazers with ease. Yet the hordes of hunters bowed before them, for the gazers were their conduit to the world beyond, to the goddess they praised.

As Od'rahda passed by one massive chamber, she heard the voice of a gazer echoing through the chasm and into the tunnel.

"And it has been foreseen! Someday the hosts of Arakavish will conquer every world, and we will weave the Great Web across the galaxy. This is the essence of Ishar, the right path! This is the will of our goddess! We will weave her blessed web. And when our web is complete, she will descend. Hail the Glass Spider!"

The cries of a million warriors echoed through the underground. "Hail the Glass Spider!"

The priest continued. "Earth will be the finest node in our web. We shall feast upon the humans for the glory of Arakavish!"

A roar of cheers washed through the tunnels. Much like Magog'rah's human pets, the rahs were starving. It was forbidden for them to farm, domesticate animals, or eat one another. The faith was clear. An adherent of Ishar may eat only hunted game. Sheertone ash keresh, they called it. The sharpening of the claws. It kept the rahs forever hungry, forever questing to conquer. They hunted or they starved.

Od'rahda kept walking through the tunnels, leaving the spider army behind. A cosmic wave? A Glass Spider? A heaven to come? If you asked Od'rahda, it was all rubbish. Probably some fairy tale Empress Elder'rah had concocted in that twisted little mind of hers, a way to keep the spiders obedient. Well, spiders were spiders, but Od'rahda had a human mind, and she was not so easily swayed.

As they walked down sloping tunnels, descending deeper underground, they passed by another grand hall. A cave where the arachtaurs mustered.

Ten thousand arachtaurs stood there, roaring for war. Hybrids. Not humans. Not rahs. The next step in evolution. Od'rahda paused in the tunnel, watching them. They were not praying like rahs. They were drilling for battle. Some dueled in hanging cages. Others sharpened their claws against spinning stones, then fought one another in pits. Some swung on chains, hurling throwing stars at swinging targets. And sometimes at one another. A few arachtaurs died, only for the others to pounce on them, to rip them limb from limb, and feast.

Let the rahs pray to their glass goddess. Here were true warriors.

"Do you see them, Magog'rah?" she said, admiring her kin. "This is the final product of mother's experiments. The deadliest warriors in the galaxy. This is what you will never be."

"They are useful cannon fodder," Magog'rah said. "Little more. You already faced the humans with your arachtaurs, sister. A single human ship. And you lost. Your race does not impress me."

She bared her fangs and raised her stinger. "That was not just any human starship I battled. That was the Freedom! The ship that destroyed the motherclaw Hunger! The ship that drove back the rah invasion of Earth!"

Magog'rah grinned savagely. "I will break her. I will succeed where you failed."

Od'rahda snorted. "You're nothing but an errand boy. Now keep leading me to my mother's chambers."

He said nothing, only smiled, and that chilled Od'rahda more than any words he might speak.

* * * * *

Finally, in the depths below the mustering halls and tunnels, they reached the Pit of Abo'rah's Tears. Here was the deepest that rahs dared to tread.

The pit plunged into the hot and cruel darkness. Too deep. Too dark. Even for the dwellers of the underground. Long ago, some foolish, headstrong rahs sometimes descended into this abyss, vowing to return with treasure and glory. They never returned at all. Some said that the pit led to a realm of great predators even mightier than spiders. Others said the pit plunged to the molten core of Arakavish, that any who descended would burn in the inferno.

An ancient emperor of Arakavish, a great hunter named Abo'rah, had once led an army of ten million rahs into the pit. He would tame the unnamed terror below, Abo'rah had boasted. Only one rah returned from that ill-fated expedition. Abo'rah himself. The emperor had crawled from the pit, starving and deformed. He had only one leg left, no eyes, and a mind full of madness. Whenever asked of what he had found in the pit, he merely screamed. And thus the pit got its name. Abo'rah's Tears. Since then, none had dared explore that darkness.

These days, a bridge of cobwebs spanned the pit, leading to a round door in the distance. Few were mad enough to step onto this bridge. To make the passage even less appealing, rahs covered the ceiling. Hundreds of them. They were elite guards, their bodies crimson instead of the usual black, and their claws dripped poison. They hissed down at the bridge, ever vigilant, ever ready to pounce on an enemy. They had been trained to give their life to defend this bridge, to leap onto any invader and kill him—or plunge with him down into the darkness.

Od'rahda hesitated, one foot raised over the bridge.

Magog'rah looked at her, mockery in his eight eyes. "What's the matter? Scared? Worried you'll take a little tumble?"

"I've crossed this bridge more times than you've taken a piss," she said.

But it was not the bridge she feared. It was what lay across the bridge. It was the wrath that awaited. The shame of her failure.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. She had avoided this long enough, hiding away in her chambers, hoping to escape justice. It was time.

She walked across the bridge, her spider legs confidently balancing atop the strands. Magog'rah walked behind her. Od'rahda took a little pleasure noticing how he struggled on the bridge, his human legs not designed for traveling on a web. His human pets were having even more trouble, barely clinging to the bridge, their eyes wide with fear.

She looked over her shoulder and gave him a crooked smile. "Don't slip, dear brother."

"If I go down, you go with me. Remember that, sister."

Her crooked smile grew. Clinging to the web with her six spider legs, she swayed from side to side, shaking the bridge. The two human pets screamed, then tumbled off the bridge. Magog'rah nearly went down with them. He was forced to release the leash. The two women kept screaming as they vanished into the depths. Their voices echoed and echoed until they finally faded.

"How petty of you, sister," Magog'rah said. "Like a little girl breaking a toy she cannot play with."

"Go fetch your toys," she said. "I saw them in the pit."

She kept walking across the bridge, head held high. He could feign nonchalance, but she had seen the flicker of terror in his eyes when that bridge was swaying.

As the two hybrids walked across the bridge, the arachnid guardians on the ceiling watched them, eyes narrowed. Every once in a while, a drop of their saliva rained into the pit. They hissed and hatred filled their eyes. Their disgust for these two hybrids was clear, yet they dared not attack the children of their empress. Hybrids they might be, deformed and monstrous, yet they were woven from the DNA of Elder'rah herself. None here would harm them.

Yet we may harm each other, my brother and I, Od'rahda knew. What a disgrace to be related to such a freak!

Finally they reached the far side of the bridge. A simple door stood here, large and round. Ridged patterns rose across the door, forming an elaborate mandala. This door had no knob. It was not made of stone or metal. For it was not a true door at all but a living creature.

"Open up, friend," said Od'rahda. "It is I, Od'rahda, daughter of Elder'rah."

And daughter of James King, whispered a thought in her mind. She would not speak that aloud here. Few in Arakavish knew that secret, and Od'rahda liked it that way.

The door trembled, then pulled inward, revealing itself to be the flattened, disk-shaped end of a spider's abdomen. It was a trapdoor spider, an ancient species of rahs. A billion years ago, when the rahs had not yet built spaceships or conquered worlds, trapdoor spiders kept their burrows secure, plugging the entrances with their flat backsides. Today the rahs could build proper doors, but the trapdoor spiders still held ceremonial roles, securing the lairs of high-ranking rahs.

And nobody was higher ranking than Elder'rah. Unless you believed in the Glass Spider, of course, which Od'rahda did not.

She stepped into the lair of the empress.

* * * * *

Arakavish was not known for its splendors. The planet was renowned for might, not majesty. The rahs did not build grand palaces and glittering cathedrals. The spiders considered such things wasteful, boastful, the folly of lesser species. What purpose did art serve? It did not aid conquest. It did not fill the belly. It was simply a distraction for prey like humans.

Still, even for Arakavish, the den of the empress was surprisingly humble.

It was a natural cave, not carved by orbweavers nor the great tunneling worms. The walls were craggy stone, draped with old bits of gossamer like flayed skin. Stalagmites and stalactites gleamed in the candlelight like teeth. An ancient cobweb hung between the walls, sagging toward the floor. The strands were brittle, fraying, like hair on an old man's scalp.

This was the oldest web on Arakavish. For a hundred million years it had hung here, its hairlike strands forming an elaborate network. For this was no mere web, not simply a construction to catch prey. It was a brain. The center of a great hive mind. The strands ran into holes in the walls, stretching like nerves across the entire labyrinth of Arakavish, spreading across tunnels, through dens, feeding off every lesser web in the underground. Every spider that crawled, every egg that hatched, every prayer that echoed in the dark—it all passed through the network, rippling along the strands of gossamer, making its way here.

And all that, all the millions of miles of tunnels, was just a small part of this web. For even the webs rahs wove in space, on thousands of conquered worlds, sent their ripples through tiny portals. They too connected to here, to the nexus. The rahs were weaving a cosmic web across the galaxy, and here was its center.

And in this ancient web she lurked. Elder'rah, Empress of Arakavish.

She was a gazer, the rarest caste of rahs, but smaller than the others. Not much larger than one of the Earthling's cats. For a million years, she had lurked on this web. Before humans had hunted their first mammoth, she had perched upon this web. She was the oldest rah that still lived. Over the long eras, her carapace had softened, becoming almost like skin, wrinkled and sagging. Her legs were like the hollow stems of feathers, translucent and still. The empress rarely moved anymore. It had been many years since she had left the center of her web. A few thousand years ago, she had inched across her web to repair strands around a stalagmite. A hundred thousand years before that, she had crawled to the ceiling to attach a new strand. These movements were rare, and sometimes entire generations, epochs went by and she remained still. Just clinging to the center of the web. Sensing every vibration. Ruling.

Every year, orbweavers entered her lair, fed her some grounded raw meat, and collected her flaky white excrement from the floor. Then the orbweavers leaped into the Pit of Abo'rah's Tears, for they had seen the empress vulnerable, unable to hunt living prey or clean her own den. They tended to her as one tends to an invalid. They could no longer live.

Od'rahda looked at her mother, at this little, desiccated thing, barely more than a corpse, a tumor in this cosmic brain. Yet from here flowed the greatest power in the galaxy.

Od'rahda knelt. "Mother, gazer, empress." She pricked her fingertip with her fang, then let a drop of blood fall to the floor. "I praise you with my life's blood."

Magog'rah knelt beside her. "Mother, gazer, empress." He drew a dagger, sliced through the stony skin of his palm, and let white blood drip onto the floor. "I praise you with my life's blood."

Disgusting, Od'rahda thought, watching his viscous blood flow.

Elder'rah did not move her body, did not even raise her head. But her eight eyes rolled in their sockets. They were small eyes, white and beady, sunken in nests of wrinkles. Milky cataracts covered them. The eyes had to be blind, but as Od'rahda stood before this ancient being, she had the terrible feeling that Elder'rah was staring into her, past the skin, past the muscles and bones. Right into her soul.

She can see across the empire, Od'rahda thought. There are no secrets from her.

Then the empress spoke. Her voice was ancient, high-pitched, grainy. A voice like creaking coffin doors. Like a starving mouse squeezed in a trap. "Do you know why I summoned you here, my daughter?"

Od'rahda straightened and raised her chin. "Because I lost the Tyranny. Because I lost the battle against James King. I failed you. But remember this, Mother. I had one ship. Skel'rah attacked Earth with thousands of ships—and she failed. And Magog'rah never even tried. Remember that when you judge me."

Elder'rah's little white eyes narrowed. "I had sent rahs to Earth. I had thought that arachtaurs were made of stronger stuff. How you boasted to me! I will slay the human admiral, you bragged. I will bring you back his head, you vowed. Instead, you came back half-dead, and James King lives on, and the Freedom still flies."

"I crippled the Freedom!" she said.

"Crippled? No, you only crippled the pride of the empire."

Od'rahda took a step forward. Her fists clenched at her sides, and her rage pounded through her. "One ship, you gave me! One ship! Against five of theirs. I destroyed four of them! And I bit off half the Freedom's hull. With two ships I would have destroyed them. Send me out again, Mother, and I vow to you that—"

"You will never more command a ship, Od'rahda. I do not give anyone a second chance. Not even you."

Her head reeled.

What? She would never fly again? She, who had commanded the greatest warship of Arakavish?

"Mother," she whispered.

Magog'rah laughed. He was clearly enjoying this. "A wise decision, Mother."

"It is unfair!" Od'rahda cried. "I was outnumbered. I was alone in an alien star system. I was—"

"You will cease making excuses for your failure!" Elder'rah snapped. "Now silence your tongue lest I feed it to the tunnel hogs. I have made my decision. You failed me. Your brother, Magog'rah, will replace you as high commander of my fleet."

No.

Oh Glass Spider, no.

The chamber spun around Od'rahda.

"Magog'rah?" she cried. "But he's a freak! A failed experiment! He's not even an arachtaur. Certainly not a rah. I don't know what he is."

"Your new commander," Magog'rah said to her, then bowed to the empress. "Mother, I am honored."

"What does he know of commanding a fleet?" Od'rahda cried.

A toothy grin split Magog'rah's face. "You have been away too long, sister. While James King was hunting you across the stonemen's system, I was leading successful raids against Earth colonies. I have plundered their bases at the heliopause, Pluto, and Neptune. I have ventured as far as Mars and captured men from its surface. I have won battles. And it will be I who leads the upcoming war."

Od'rahda inhaled sharply. She turned toward her mother. For a moment, Od'rahda forgot her personal shame.

"So the time is near?" she said. "We will launch the second invasion of Earth?"

Three years ago, the rahs had invaded Earth. It should have been easy. Just another conquered world for the empire, one among thousands. But the humans had proved themselves remarkably warlike. After suffering initial losses, they had regrouped. James King, commanding from the Freedom, had rallied humanity's fleet and driven the rahs back.

Since then, Arakavish had been pestering humanity, sending raiding parties and bombing sorties, keeping the apes on their toes. But those were just skirmishes. Clashes between one war and another war to come. They all knew it. The humans had been rebuilding their fleet, fortifying their system. Meanwhile, Arakavish had not been idle either. Their armies mustered, and this time humanity didn't just face the rahs but the arachtaurs.

We arachtaurs have human minds, Od'rahda thought. We can think like humans. Understand them. When we first attacked, we did not know our enemy, and we failed. Only one who knows his enemy can defeat him on the field of battle. The human Sun Tzu figured this out long ago. The rahs can learn from them.

"Yes," Elder'rah hissed. "The time draws near. The new warclaws are nearly ready. The armies hunger for flesh. We will attack Earth with fifty thousand warships."

Od'rahda's eyes widened. "Fifty thousand!"

Magog'rah bowed his head. "I am honored to lead them, Mother." He glanced at Od'rahda, then back at the empress. "Would you like me to kill her now? Or should we wait until she witnesses the glory of our victory?"

With a hiss, Od'rahda drew daggers from her belt. The blades gleamed with poison. "I'd like to see you try, brother."

"I will crush you like the bug that you are." Magog'rah bared his terrible rows of fangs and raised his clawed hands.

"Enough," said Elder'rah. "You will not kill your sister, Magog. She is a poor starship commander. But she is still a mighty warrior. You will command the fleet in this invasion. She will lead the ground troops."

That took away some of the sting. Od'rahda knelt before her mother, and tears burned down her cheeks. "Thank you, Mother! I will not let you down."

"What is the meaning of this?" Magog'rah roared. "She failed in battle! A human beat her! She must die."

"If she must die, then let her die on Earth," said Elder'rah. "That will be her crucible. Now leave me, my children. Rally the fleet. Muster the troops. I have spoken to the Glass Spider, blessed be her name. The time for war draws near. On the night of Ashima's Eye, we will fly to war."

The Night of Ashima's Eye. It happened once a century. The three moons of Arakavish aligned, one eclipsing the other, forming the shape of a pupil, an iris, and an eyeball. It was a holy time for Arakavish.

And it was only five nights hence.

Magog'rah bowed and turned to leave. But Od'rahda hesitated. "What of the Freedom, Mother? She has not been seen since destroying the Tyranny."

"The Freedom has passed beyond my seeing," said the empress.

"She must have succumbed to her injuries!" Od'rahda said, feeling a little vindicated. "Perhaps I destroyed her after all."

"I think not. James King is out there. Hiding. Sooner or later, like every bug, he will emerge from his hole. And then, my children, we will crush him."

Od'rahda left the chamber, head held high. She had been demoted, yes. To command the ground troops was less illustrious than admiral of the fleet. But it could have gone worse. As Od'rahda walked across the bridge, she glanced into the pit. In the depths, the two human slaves were likely still falling. Od'rahda thought she heard the faintest echo of screams. Very easily, she could have joined them in that endless chasm.

I was given another chance. She grinned savagely and clenched her fists. I will find you, James King, and I will bring the empress your head.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Spitfire missed being a fighter pilot. Charging headlong into an enemy fleet was easy. Commanding a dreadnought undergoing refits was hell.

Ha! The cockpit of a starfighter. That was the life. Just you, a few controls, and open space. The bridge of the Freedom was a cacophony. People were always coming and going, hustling and bustling, bickering and breaking things. Endless monitors kept flashing notifications the commander must address. Her MindLink kept buzzing. Officers kept approaching with questions.

King did this to me on purpose, Spitfire thought. He told everyone to be extra needy. I know it! He's trying to break me. Well, I'll show him. I'm going to handle this.

She had destroyed dreadnoughts in battle. Surely she could deal with a docked dreadnought under her command.

Couldn't she?

The usual chaos continued across the bridge. Everyone needed something. There were almost nine thousand spacers aboard, and it seemed everyone was dealing with some emergency. The engineers and mechanics kept arguing with the Aeolians about the best way to refit the ship. The medics, nurses, and doctors were working around the clock, still treating the battle wounded. The tech, navigation, science, and surveillance teams all struggled with failed software upgrades, and the ATLAS system kept shutting down. The gunners couldn't get the new cannons calibrated. Timori, busy down at the logistics department, kept sending dour warnings of low water, oxygen, and food supplies. The Aeolians delivered some food and water, but according to Chef Abercrombie, the food was damn near indigestible—unless you enjoyed eating chalk. Meanwhile, Dr. Annie claimed that the water contained strange microbes, and she quarantined the entire delivery.

They all needed Spitfire to resolve their problems.

Ah, to be commander of the starship Freedom! Ultimate power … and endless anxiety. And this was at a shipyard! Spitfire didn't know how King handled it.

Do I really want this job? she thought. King is grooming me to inherit the ship someday. Am I really the right choice?

At least the marines, which were half the ship's complement, weren't too needy. God bless 'em.

Just then, the bridge door chimed, and a hulking marine NCO stomped in. He looked properly pissed off.

Spitfire sighed. She must have jinxed it.

"Spitfire?" The marine trudged toward her. "Hey, Spitfire, I'd like to talk to you."

She turned toward him, eyes narrowing. The marine was a towering, muscular man in olive drab. A rifle was slung across his broad back. Spitfire recognized the wide jaw, crew cut, and impudent eyes. She had seen the man hanging around Bastian. Henry Hicks, a professional troublemaker.

Spitfire faced him and raised her chin. She was a tall woman, but next to Hicks she felt downright petite.

"Master Sergeant Hicks, you will address me as Lieutenant Commander Levy, is that understood?"

Hicks paused and gave a quick salute. "Sorry, Lieutenant Commander. We need to talk."

As she stared at him, Spitfire pulled up a private MindPlay interface and scanned his file. Henry Hicks, thirty-two years old, from Nebraska. One of the original Freebies who had survived the entire war with the brigade. There weren't many of those left. He was a war hero. Won medals. Killed many rahs, including a queen. He was also a pain in the ass. The records showed a long list of disciplinary problems and time spent in the brig.

Bastian probably only keeps him around because he's a damn good warrior, Spitfire thought. She could sympathize. She had her own laundry list of disciplinary problems.

"Hicks, if you have a problem, go to your commanding officer." She scanned MindWeb again. "That would be Major Abrams, commander of the Nova Battalion. Why are you on my bridge?"

Hicks cleared his throat—a loud, phlegmy sound. "Lieutenant Commander, it's my duty to inform you that the troops are restless. There are fights breaking out. We've been fighting a long war. We've been cooped up on this starship for months now. We can't even call our families from here, a thousand light-years from Earth."

"I know all this, Hicks," Spitfire said. "You still didn't answer my question. Why are you on my bridge?"

"Well, ma'am, with all due respect, there are things you can't see from the bridge. Like the cramped conditions marines are living in. Six guys to a room. And those rooms are no larger than closets. It's a pressure cooker down on our deck, and we need to let off steam. I heard the Bulldog, the Phantom, and a few others got shore leave." Hicks straightened. "We want shore leave too."

Spitfire's eyes hardened. "You go over your officer's head, walk unannounced onto my bridge, talk to me like I'm your friend, and demand shore leave?"

He raised his chin. "Yes."

Spitfire took a deep breath, trying to calm her anger. She had been an officer for years. She was not used to commanding a starship, but she was used to dealing with recalcitrant underlings. "Hicks, you know the policy. You heard the admiral. No shore leave."

"The admiral himself is on—"

"A diplomatic mission! And you will watch your tongue with me, mister. Does your commanding officer know you're here?"

He would not look away. "No."

She snorted. "At least you're honest. I'll be speaking to him about how you went over his head. You're confined to quarters until I discuss with Major Abrams how to proceed. Is that understood?"

His eyes widened. "Confined to quarters?" he blurted out. "Are you seri—?"

"One more word out of you, mister, and it'll be the brig," she snapped. "Now get off my bridge, or I'll have security drag you off."

The security guards at the door heard her. Both guards inched closer, reaching for their stun guns, though Spitfire suspected that Hicks could neutralize them both with ease. Across the bridge, conversation died, leaving only the hum and chirps of machinery. People stared.

Hicks took a deep breath, seemed ready to argue again, then snapped a tight-lipped salute, spun on his heel, and marched off the bridge.

Spitfire heaved a sigh. This was a long day.

* * * * *

"Confined to quarters my ass!" Hicks said, pacing the small room. Room? A goddamn closet! A closet? Hell, more like a prison cell! He could barely pace. Two steps forward, two steps back. That was it.

"Hey, calm down, Hicks!" said Bruno, his bunkmate. The sergeant was lying on a top bunk, leafing through a dirty magazine. It was just a MindWeb hallucination, not an actual paper magazine. But Bruno liked making his hallucinations public, the sick bastard. At least this time it was just a magazine.

"Don't tell me to calm down," Hick said. "Did you hear what that bitch on the bridge said? Confined to quarters!"

Bruno shrugged. "I like it in here."

"Because you're a weirdo who's never touched a real girl," Hicks said. "You're fine with your magazines."

Bruno snorted. "Whatever, dude. I can get any chick I want on this ship. I could get Spitfire herself if I wanted." He flipped the page and whistled. "Take a look at this lady."

"Put that damn magazine away. In fact, get the hell out of here. If I gotta be stuck in this cell, I don't want it to be with your pervy ass."

Hicks looked around him. Six marines lived inside this tiny cabin. A couple of the guys were down at the gym. The Henderson twins were still here, lounging on their bunks. They were big, burly, hairy corporals, old for their rank but too dumb to be promoted. One had a scar on his nose—the only way to tell them apart. In Freebie culture, marines often called one another by their last names, even close friends. So Hicks called the twins Henderson the First and Henderson the Second, based on their birth order. He couldn't even remember their first names. The twins found it hilarious. They found most things Hicks said hilarious.

Right now Henderson the First was staring silently at the bunk above, lost in some MindWeb hallucination. Every once in a while, he'd kick the air and grin. A few wisps of the hallucination floated around him; he was playing virtual soccer. Meanwhile, Henderson the Second was asleep. The guy could and did sleep through a galactic war.

"I'm staying," said Bruno, pulling Hicks's attention back from the twins. "You saw the rest of the ship. Full of those rocky alien things." The sergeant shuddered. "Creepy bastards, if you ask me. Always running around, tearing things apart. I'd rather relax in my bunk."

"Look at you," Hicks said. "Look at you all!"

He kicked the lower bunks.

Henderson the First rose with a groan. The soccer hallucination faded away into green wisps.

"Hey, what gives? I was beating Brazil seven to one."

Henderson the Second rose too, yawned, and stretched. "Hey, Hicks, you're back. Is it time for dinner?"

"You're all pathetic," Hicks said. "Rotting away in this stinking little cell. Playing games. Reading dirty magazines. Sleeping."

"Sounds pretty good to me," said Bruno.

"Hell yeah!" said the twins. They gave each other high fives.

"It's disgusting, that's what it is," Hicks said. "We should be on shore leave. We're inside a hollow alien world. A miracle of the universe. A new place to explore. A world of gardens, forests, cities, lakes. We could hunt. Swim. Visit alien wonders. Instead we're stuck here like prisoners."

Bruno heaved a sigh. "I hear ya, bud. But what can ya do? Admiral's orders."

"And the admiral is on shore leave!" Hicks said. "All the high command is."

"Not Spitfire," Bruno said.

Hicks scoffed. "That bitch is on the bridge. And she has private quarters with all the amenities. Us grunts? Stuck here in this prison. The officers don't know what it's like for us."

Bruno stretched. "Yep, life's a bitch, and the Alliance ain't fair. What else is new?"

"I'm going on my shore leave." Hicks grabbed a duffel bag and began packing.

Bruno laughed. "You and me both, man. Right after our vacation at the Andromeda galaxy."

"You don't think I'm serious?" Hicks stuffed a spare uniform into his duffel bag, some toiletries, and a handgun. "I'm not gonna stay stuck here, smelling your feet, listening to your greasy fingers rustling those dirty magazines. I saw an Aeolian city through the portholes. Queensnest, they call it. A city! A city would have entertainment. Bars. Restaurants. Casinos."

"Maybe a whorehouse where you can bang a living rock," Bruno said. He laughed, summoned a new magazine hallucination, and leaned back on his pillow. "Give me a break."

But the twins were watching Hicks curiously.

"I bet there's all sorts of weird stuff going on down there," Henderson the First said. "Maybe a theater full of singing stones. Or fighting pits where alien monsters battle each other to the death. Or weird drinks and potions that send you to heaven and back."

Henderson the Second stopped yawning. He was wide-awake now. "I want to see it. We can take photos. Videos. Upload them to MindWeb. Get billions of views back on Earth."

"An alien city, boys." Hicks slung his rucksack over his back. "And we'll be the first to see it. Explorers. We'll go down in history. Who's with me?"

The twins began packing. They were both in.

"Bruno?" Hicks looked at the sergeant.

Bruno thought for a moment, holding his magazine.

"Don't be chicken!" said one of the Hendersons.

Bruno raised an eyebrow. "What are you, six years old?"

"Give me that." Hicks grabbed the dirty magazine. The hallucination disintegrated.

"Hey, I was reading that!"

"You're coming with us, Bruno," Hicks said.

"Is that so?"

Hicks nodded. "You're the only one who knows how to fly a shuttle. And you're atrophying in that bed. Come on."

* * * * *

The four marines sauntered into the shuttle bay like they owned the place. Nobody noticed. They drowned in the crowd. Like almost everywhere on the Freedom, the shuttle bay was going through refits. Aeolian workers were trundling about on their five legs, carrying all manner of tools. Human mechanics hurrying after them, trying to keep up. Deckhands bustled about, trying to keep order.

Sparrow shuttles filled the deck. They were the smallest class of vehicle in Freedom's hangars. Definitely smaller than the bulky Rhino dropships, which normally transported Hicks and his fellow grunts to battle. He had never flown in a Sparrow. Before the war, the small shuttles had ferried tourists. These days, they serviced senior officers, carrying them on their so-called diplomatic missions.

Aeolians were swarming over the shuttles like ants over morsels of food. A few human mechanics stood among them, frowning at blueprints, sometimes cursing at the Aeolians who shoved by them.

"What the hell are these aliens doing to the shuttles?" Bruno said. The portly sergeant wrung his hands. Probably didn't know what to do with them without a dirty magazine.

"Upgrading them," Hicks said. "Graviton drives, boys. The wave of the future."

The Henderson twins whistled.

"Sweet," said Henderson the First.

Henderson the Second nodded. "Yeah, you gotta have graviton drives these days. I reckon these are wave-based graviton generators too. Not the old particle-based ones."

The younger Henderson wandered toward a shuttle where an Aeolian was busy rewiring components. He tapped the alien's mossy shell. "What kinda g-force you get on these babies?"

The stony alien grunted. "Go away! Busy. Busy."

Hicks grabbed the hairy corporal by the collar and yanked him back. "Don't bug the wildlife. Come on, help us find a working Sparrow."

They walked across the hangar bar, dodging traffic. One shuttle was taxiing across the deck, even as Aeolians still worked across the hull. A towering mecha thumped from the warehouse, carrying a Sparrow chassis. A foreman hurried to keep up with some Aeolians, pointing at a blueprint and shouting. Wheeled little robots bustled about with brooms and dustpans, collecting fallen screws and bolts.

One of the robots scurried up to Hicks, holding a brush. "Polish your boots, master?"

Hicks kicked it aside. The robot wailed and lost several screws. Other robots immediately rushed up to collect them into dustpans.

One Sparrow at the back of the hangar looked complete. At least, no Aeolians were scampering around it.

"There's our ride, boys," Hicks said.

"Out of my way, busy, busy!" said an Aeolian, trundling by, dragging a long plastic tube.

When Hicks and the others approached the Sparrow, they noticed a fellow marine standing there, leaning against the shuttle. A scrawny private, not even twenty years old by the looks of him.

"Hey!" Hicks boomed. "Soldier, what are you doing here?"

The skinny private snapped to attention.

"Um, sorry, sir! I mean—not sir. You're a sergeant, not an officer. I keep forgetting."

Hicks stomped closer. The kid was clearly terrified. "What are you sorry for, Private? You going AWOL or something?"

The private gulped. "No, sir. I mean—no, Sergeant. I'm just here to look at the new shuttles." He gave a shaky smile. "I like engineering. I wanted to see. My mom's an engineer."

Hicks burst out laughing. The twins laughed too. They always laughed when Hicks did.

"Oh, your mommy's an engineer, is she?" Hicks said. "Does she also wipe your bum?"

Sergeant Bruno went pale. He nudged Hicks. "Hey, man, don't you know who that is? That's Kim Fletcher's kid. His mom's a colonel, man. She's the chief engineer aboard the Freedom."

Hicks froze.

Crap.

Yes, he'd heard of the kid. He served in a different battalion. Evan Fletcher, that was it. The colonel's son. And according to rumor, Kim Fletcher was secretly sleeping with the admiral himself.

Hicks nodded, examining the kid. "Well, well. Look at that. We found ourselves military royalty. A little princeling."

Private Evan Fletcher blushed. "I'm not a princeling. I'm a marine. Like you."

The Hendersons laughed.

Hicks jabbed a finger in Evan's chest. "You are nothing like me, pipsqueak! You're nothing but a pissant private. Look at you." He jabbed Evan harder. "You're skinnier than that brat who rummages through the ducts. You ever kill a rah, boy?"

Evan was half of Hicks's size and several ranks lower. He was shaking, but he managed to raise his chin. "I killed an arachtaur."

Hicks burst out laughing. "A baby one?"

Evan said nothing.

Hicks laughed harder. "Yes, I heard about how your company fought baby arachtaurs in the ducts. Big deal." He gripped Evan's arm and leaned in closer, snarling. "I killed rahs, boy. Real rahs. Not hybrids but the actual spiders. I killed a queen. A creature larger than a Rhino dropship. You've never seen real battle, boy. You wouldn't survive five minutes on a man's battlefield."

Bruno put a hand on Hick's shoulder. "Hey, man, leave the kid alone. He's all right."

Hicks released the kid. He stroked his chin. The wheels in his head slowly turned.

"Hey, boss, you got an idea, don't you?" said one of the Hendersons.

"Shh!" said the other Henderson. "Let him think."

Hicks knew that many people considered him slow. Just big dumb meathead. A brute good for killing and not much else. They didn't realize that Hicks did have a good brain. He did have deep thoughts. He just needed time to think through everything, to examine different facets, to silently formulate plans before blurting them out.

And right now he had a plan.

King, Jordan, and Darjeeling—the admiral, executive officer, and the chief NCO—were all away from the ship. Hicks could probably sneak down to the surface for a while and get away with it. Spitfire was overwhelmed, and she was a weak leader besides. But just in case Hicks did get in trouble, it didn't hurt to have a colonel's kid around. The kid could pull strings. Get them off the hook. And if that didn't help, well … Evan Fletcher was the perfect fall guy. Honestly, sir, I didn't even want to go! It was Evan Fletcher who insisted we go, and who am I to disobey a colonel's son?

Hicks grabbed the boy. "Evan, we're going to test out this shuttle. All of us."

Evan blinked. "We are?"

Hicks nodded. "Damn right. Why else do you think I'm here? To test the new graviton engines, boy! Now come on. You like engineering. Fly with us."

"I'm not sure." Evan tried to extricate himself from Hicks's grip. "I should report back to my company."

"You should do what I tell you. I'm a master sergeant. You're a private."

"You're not in my battalion. I don't need to follow your orders."

Bruno laughed. "So the kid has some backbone after all."

Hicks slung his arm around Evan's shoulder. "Come on, buddy! A little flight. Just to test things out. You'll love it."

Bruno opened the shuttle's hatch. Hicks shoved the kid in.

"Hey!" Evan objected.

The bigger marines all leaped into the shuttle too, laughing. Hicks placed his arm around Evan, squeezing him. Bruno ruffled the kid's hair. Henderson the First fired up the engine, while Henderson the Second took hold of the yoke.

There was the matter of getting out the airlock, of course. Normally, the flight controllers kept their airlocks under lock and key. But right now a cluster of Aeolians covered one airlock like barnacles, upgrading and repairing.

The Hendersons slowed the shuttle to a halt.

Hicks leaned over the twins. "Keep going."

Henderson the Second glanced at him. "The airlock is closed."

"I said keep going!" Hicks pulled the corporal out of the pilot's seat, shoved the thruster, and kept taxiing toward the airlock.

The Aeolians noticed them. Their strange sensory organs dangled on their scrawny necks, and their eyes blinked.

Hicks flipped on the hull speaker. "Open the airlock! Coming through for a flight test!"

The Aeolians muttered about being busy, busy. But one pulled a lever, opening the airlock's inner hatch. Probably figured it was the fastest way to get rid of the annoying marines.

Deckhands looked up. Human deckhands. A few came racing toward the shuttle.

"Hey!" somebody cried. "Hello? You there!"

Hicks laughed and raced the shuttle into the airlock.

A flight controller was shouting something. A notification popped up in Hick's MindLink. A voice filled his mind.

"Where are you going, Sergeant? We have no shuttle launch scheduled."

"Test flight," he said. "The Aeolians asked for it."

The flight controller sighed. "Those goddamn boulders." He turned toward a group of Aeolians. "You didn't tell me the shuttle's ready for testing! Why the hell aren't I notified about …"

The voice trailed off as Hicks flew out the airlock into space.

But no—not space! Hicks was used to flying out into the stars. Now he found himself flying through the misty blue innards of Heaven's Geode.

The small moon was hollow, full of azure air and wisps of cloud. The inner surface lay behind a distant haze.

"Watch out!" one of the corporals cried.

One of the graceful arms of the shipyard stretched ahead. It was the size of a cargo train. Aeolians stood in little windows, eyes wide.

Hicks tugged back the yoke. The shuttle reared and shot over the shipyard arm, narrowly missing it.

The corporals slumped in relief. Hicks whooped.

"Now this is more like it, boys!"

They flew farther out. Hicks glanced at the rearview monitor. The Freedom hovered behind, enclosed within the slender arms of the shipyard. It looked like a toy ship lodged into an egg whisk. Thousands of Aeolian workers covered the dreadnought like barnacles. The Freedom had taken a beating in the war. She had barely limped into the shipyard. But she looked brand-new now. The refits were almost complete.

Almost. Hicks still had time for his shore leave. And goddamn if he was going to miss shore leave.

Any day now, the Freedom would fly out again. Into space. To battle. Hicks would face the spiders again. The giant monster spiders that still haunted his nightmares. The spiders that had clawed his body, leaving scars like mountain ranges. The spiders that had killed so many brothers-in-arms.

Hicks hated them. Hated the bastards with a burning passion. Soon he would get back to killing them, to seeing friends die in the mud, burn in the fire, freeze in the depths of space. His life as a marine would go on. A life of blood and terror and killing. A life that could end any moment.

He deserved this. Needed this. Time off. And if the admiral didn't like it, the old man could shove it.

Hicks looked at the inner surface of Heaven's Geode. Among forests and lakes he spotted a glittering city of crystal.

"There she is, boys," Hicks said. "The promised land."

He shoved the yoke. They dived toward that alien oasis in the fire of war.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Finally, after long days that stressed King to his limits, the Ritual of Purification came to an end.

The final Aeolian walked toward the pool on five stocky legs, laid a sphere of minerals, and presented it to his queen. By now, the enormous, sluglike queen was bloated near to bursting. She had doubled in size since the ritual had begun. Her fecundity had grown too. Nurses kept swimming furiously, collecting the eggs their queen kept laying.

"The queen is fully fed!" announced Gorba from the balcony. The politician wore an assortment of glittering sashes across his polished silver shell. He raised one leg, holding aloft a scepter. "The ritual is complete!"

Cheers rolled across the palace, coming from tens of thousands of Aeolians.

Jordan heaved a sigh and knuckled his back. "Well, that is one holiday I do not intend to ever celebrate again."

"Fly to Aeolia, they said," Darjeeling muttered. "Explore an alien civilization, they said. All we got is endless days of watching a giant slug eating her children's excre—"

"I think she looks more like a dinosaur," Stowy said. "She's cute." The stowaway looked at the colossal, quivering alien inside the pool. "Kind of. If you squint and tilt your head."

"Maybe now we can finally talk business," King muttered. "And get out of here."

It was funny. He had spent long months seeking this place. He had flown to another star system, fought the Tyranny, lost spacers, almost died—all to find the Aeolians' secret world. Now he couldn't wait to leave.

He missed the Freedom. He missed standing on the bridge, the lights of the monitors bathing him. He missed sinking into his armchair in his quarters, sipping Martian ale—just one cup a night—and reading a good book. He missed the hum of the engines, the way the deck vibrated beneath his feet when the Freedom yawed, breathing without goddamn implants in his nostrils, and walking in normal gravity without feeling like a sumo wrestler.

But mostly he missed the people. He missed Mimori, her calm intelligence and comforting presence. He missed Bastian, his dear son, and he missed Rowan, his beloved granddaughter. He missed Kim Fletcher, his secret lover and guiding light. The Freedom wasn't just his home. It was the home of his family.

King complained about how long and arduous this ritual was. But maybe he was simply homesick.

Gorba spoke again from the balcony. His tentacles flailed. King's translator picked up the infrared signals, interpreting them as booming shouts.

"And now, we the blessed children of Heaven's Geode will put the aliens on trial!"

A hush fell over the crowd. Tentacles stilled. It seemed that every Aeolian in the palace was staring at the four humans.

Stowy blushed and waved back tentatively.

Darjeeling's face turned red—not with embarrassment like Stowy but with anger.

"Easy now, old friend," Jordan said, placing a hand on the Englishman's shoulder.

But Darjeeling didn't seem to hear. He stomped closer to the balcony. "A trial?" he shouted, white mustache bristling. "What nonsense is this! Do you treat all your guests as prisoners?"

King let the old sergeant speak. Darjeeling was speaking the words King himself was thinking.

Back when I was a commander, I would have shouted these words alongside Darjeeling, he thought. Now I'm an admiral, and I must be diplomatic. I'm glad Darjeeling is here.

King walked up and stood beside his friend. He stared up at Gorba, letting the Aeolian know that he stood with his sergeant.

Gorba stared down at them, eyes narrowed with disgust. "We have told you that we will judge you. In your culture, does a trial not precede judgment? Yes! Humanity is on trial today."

"And what are the charges?" King demanded.

Gorba leaned over the balcony railing. "That you are barbaric. That you are violent. That you are no better than the rahs."

"We are enemies of the rahs!" King shouted, no longer able to curtail his fury. "We fought the rahs. We died fighting the rahs. We came here for help to fight the rahs! How dare you insult us?"

Gorba snorted. "A long-toothed tunnel-biter may fight a blood-drinking burrower, yet both are vermin. The galaxy is full of predators. Most of whom you know nothing about. The rahs are only one species of hunters in the darkness. Do you think we built this paradise just to hide from the rahs? No, human. The rahs are but one branch in a great tree of terror that spans the galaxy. The wise species, the true civilizations of the galaxy who care not for war and conquest—we all hide. We all build our shells. You humans venture out into the darkness. Like only predators do." Gorba looked across the palace, addressing his people. "I say they are another race of rahs. And now they know our world. They must die."

"Why, I'll wring your scrawny neck!" Darjeeling cried, making to run toward the balcony. King and Jordan had to hold him back.

Gorba laughed. "Do you see? Do you see how quickly they turn to violence? I call out the humans, and they try to bite. Can there be any doubt that they are a menace? We must dispose of them now. While we can!"

The words echoed across the room.

Everyone stared at the humans.

King took a step closer to the balcony. He balled his fists and raised his chin, glaring at Gorba.

"I do not recognize your court!" he spat. "Humanity is an independent species. We do not bow down before you. We came here to form an alliance. A friendship. Not to face some farce trial!"

Gorba leaned lower over the railing. His three eyes narrowed, becoming glowing crescents like wicked smiles. "Oh, but you did agree to face judgment. Those were the terms we agreed on when we let you into our realm. And I judge you—"

"Wait a minute!" rose a voice, filling the palace.

The crowd parted.

Selly walked forward, heading toward the humans.

* * * * *

Selly was a thinker, and his shell glittered with his many gemstones, each a mark of knowledge. He came to stand at King's side. A sunbeam from the oculus in the domed ceiling fell upon him like a spotlight. Even with his neck extended, the Aeolian was shorter than King, barely reaching his shoulders. But he was wider, stronger, and his shell shone like a beacon.

"Step back from the human, Sel'ton'ref'tra," Gorba warned from the balcony.

"You do not speak for Heaven's Geode!" Selly returned. "You only lead the politicians."

"And the politicians lead Heaven's Geode," Gorba shot back. Around him, his fellow politicians nodded and chortled.

"Only in mundane administrative matters," Selly said. "By our ancient laws, the politicians cannot make monumental decisions that affect Heaven Geode's survival. Not without the thinkers and warriors."

Gorba snickered. "You agree these human pests threaten our survival?"

"I think they can aid our survival," said Selly. "We cannot hide forever. Already one species found Heaven's Geode. What if others find us too? We need allies."

Mutters passed through the crowd. Aeolians looked at the humans again, hemming and hawing.

"I will not debate this!" Gorba cried.

"You need not say more," Selly said. "But I am not done speaking. The thinkers get a voice. And a vote. So do the warriors. This is a decision the upper castes will reach together."

King took a deep breath, thankful for his crystalline friend. Apparently the workers and nurses got no voice. Neither did the queen, not being sentient. But if King would get the thinkers and warriors to vote for humanity, would that be enough? King looked around. It seemed like the politicians outnumbered the thinkers and warriors combined.

Gorba settled back on his throne, staring down shrewdly from the mezzanine. Perhaps he had reached the same conclusion as King.

"You are right, Sel'ton'ref'tra. We will do this properly. We will vote. The few thinkers. The few warriors." He leaned forward, revealing the mouth on the crown of his head, and gave a hideous smile full of sharp teeth. "And the many politicians. But beware, young thinker. Those who defend humanity in this trial—will share their final judgment!"

Selly whimpered and slunk into his shell.

King put a hand on that crystalline shell, patting his friend. He stared up at the balcony where the politicians were chortling.

"Does every politician get a vote?" King said.

Gorba nodded. "Of course. All the thousands of us."

"But you do not all have to vote the same," King said.

Gorba was silent.

"Answer me!" King snapped.

Finally Gorba conceded the point. "No. We do not all have to vote the same. Every politician is free of mind. But in the past fifteen thousand and twelve votes, we all voted as one block."

King took a deep breath. "Well, maybe it's time to break with tradition."

Selly finally dared emerge from his shell. He looked up at the balcony full of puissant politicians.

"The humans are clever," Selly said. "As clever as us thinkers. True, they lack many of our technologies. But they have technologies we Aeolians do not, such as the ability to create artificial, sentient life. Their cleverness, technology, and ability have allowed them to defeat many enemies. They won many battles against the rahs. We need them as friends. What if a predatory race finds Heaven's Geode?"

"They have!" Gorba said. "The humans."

"The humans are predators, true," Selly said. "But they prey on the rahs, our enemies. They wish us Aeolians no harm."

"No harm now while these humans are weak and far from home," Gorba countered. "What if they return with ten thousand ships? What if they crave the treasures of our world?"

Other politicians nodded and mumbled agreements.

Selly slunk into his shell again but only for a moment this time. Then he spoke louder. "We all watched the humans fight the starship Tyranny. This was not a rah starship. It was a starship of arachtaurs, a new vicious race. And the humans defeated them! They protected our system while we hid here. Not all powerful races are wicked. The humans are not like us. They do not hide. They fly out into space like bold younglings who know no fear. But we can grant them wisdom. We can help them. And in turn, we will have a great ally."

Across the palace, Aeolians of various castes mumbled agreements.

"The thinker is right!" said a young worker.

Other voices rose. "Listen to the thinker."

"I like the humans."

"Silence, workers!" Gorba cried from the balcony. "You do not have a voice in these matters. You exist to serve, not decide."

Only the queen wasn't listening to the proceedings. She was busy birthing more eggs.

"I've said my piece," Selly said. "The workers and nurses do not get a vote, true, for theirs is a life of servitude. But I urge the upper castes to listen to the mood of the workers. Like our queen, they carry within them deep wisdom."

Gorba snorted. "Hogwash."

Selly raised his head. "Do you call the wisdom of our queen hogwash?"

Mutters and dark looks passed across the crowd.

"Sacrilege!" somebody whispered.

"That's not what I meant!" Gorba snapped. "And you know it. Stop putting ripples in my tentacles. We've heard enough! Let us vote."

* * * * *

Aeolians huddled across the palace, whispering among one another, casting the humans furtive glances. Hints of conversation reached King.

"Vote to kill them."

"They are aliens! Dangerous."

"They are predators. They must die. Vote for death."

King took a deep breath. Jordan and Darjeeling came to stand at his left and right sides, offering strength and comfort. Stowy whimpered and hugged King.

All right. Things were getting out of hand. King might need to call down the Freedom Brigade. A single marine company might be enough. There weren't many Aeolian warriors in the palace. There weren't many left in all of Heaven's Geode, it seemed. The Freebies could likely overwhelm the palace guards and free King and his companions.

It was funny. The Freebie marines, a single human brigade, would probably conquer all of Heaven's Geode. The Aeolians had once defeated the rah empire. How the mighty had fallen! Still, today and perhaps even back then, the Aeolians' strength might lie not in their numbers but in their secret weapon. A weapon they had used against the rahs. A weapon they still hid from King. He had hoped to gain access to this knowledge, but if he must, he would cut his losses and fly home empty-handed. Better than dying here.

As Gorba ranted about all the ways he'd execute the humans, King pulled up MindPlay and sent a message to his ship. "Freedom, this is Admiral King, do you hear me?"

No reply.

King tried again. "Spitfire, do you read me?"

Nothing. He tapped the comlink on his lapel and tried using radio waves instead of telepathy.

Nothing!

He looked at his companions. Jordan and Darjeeling were trying to contact the Freedom too with no more success.

"The Aeolians must be sealing the palace from outgoing signals," Jordan said.

"Or they're jamming the Freedom," Darjeeling said.

King cursed under his breath. He spoke in a low whisper. "Get ready. If this doesn't go our way, we'll fight our way out."

Darjeeling's hand strayed toward his sidearm. "Aye, sir."

Jordan nodded. "If we must, we'll fight."

Even Stowy put on a brave face and balled her fists.

Gorba continued speaking, voice rolling across the palace. "Yes, yes, a good old hanging should suffice. We could hang them from the palace ceiling. Now, as to the voting, which is of course a mere formality, I shall begin by—"

A loud gurgling sound interrupted the philosopher—a rough, phlegmy clearing of the throat. The sound was so loud it filled the palace. The humans and Aeolians all turned to stare.

"Excuse me!" rose a raspy, booming voice. "But you have forgotten me! Um . . . um … What was my name again? Well, never mind. It seems we have both forgotten. But anyway, I shall have my say! For I am … what was I again?"

An ancient Aeolian with a long white beard came plodding through the palace. The crowd parted to let him pass. His shell was cracked, but gold filling kept the cracks together. The Aeolian's legs were bent and knobby. One of his five feet was elevated, holding a cane.

"Fal'kel'ha'shor!" Stowy cried out.

"Ah yes!" said the old gaffer. "Fal'kin'hap'shor. That was my name. Yes indeed. I am Fal'kor'hes'tor the politician!"

"The warrior," Stowy corrected him.

"Ah yes, of course, of course. I am a warrior!" He raised his head proudly and kept limping forward, tapping his cane. "A great warrior. Beware, my foes, for despite my um … admittedly prodigious age, my aim is still sharp, and my blade is still true! Or something of that sort. In any case—beware!"

Fal swung his cane in wide arcs. Younger Aeolians had to duck and scamper aside.

"What does this old fool want?" Gorba said from the mezzanine. "Somebody put the geezer to bed."

Fal cleared his throat again—a loud, staccato sound. "Who said that? Gorba, is that you, you young silvery sneak? Ah yes, I see you there. My eyesight is not that bad yet. Have at you! Have at you, weasel!"

Fal began beating a statue with his cane.

"Um, Fal?" Stowy said. She put a hand on the old Aeolian's shoulder, then pointed at the balcony. "He's up there."

Fal paused, leaving the statue chipped and wobbling. He squinted up at the balcony, blinked his three eyes, and snorted. "Ha! So he is. How did he flee there so quickly? Typical of a coward."

"Get this doddering old fool out of here," Gorba said. "He's embarrassing himself. Guards!"

But the guards on the balcony merely raised their heads and crossed their front legs. They too were of the warrior caste. They would honor their old leader, no matter his state of mind. Gorba fumed.

Standing below, Fal pointed his cane up at the balcony of politicians. "I'll have my say, youngsters! You have put this to a vote, yes? Well then! We warriors have always voted on matters of utmost importance. And I shall speak!"

Everyone stared at him, silent, waiting. Even Gorba.

Fal leaned toward King and spoke in a low voice. "Sorry, my young friend, but would you mind telling me what we're voting on?"

King suppressed a smile. "Whether we humans are friends or foes."

"What?" The old warrior's beard bristled. "Very curious indeed." He stroked his beard with one foot, struggling to calm the wild strands. "Yes, yes, quite the conundrum. Friend or foe, friend or foe … Yes, that is what we must decide today. Are the humans friends? Or are they foes? It is the question all Aeolians must ask themselves. In fact, I believe that we should vote on it."

Gorba rose from his throne. His tentacles shot up, ready to unleash a tirade.

"Hold your tentacles in place lest they snap off!" Fal said. "I shall have my say, you sniveling pup. We will not vote until I'm done speaking. Hmm. Yes. The question we must ask ourselves today is …" He thought for a moment, then leaned toward King. "What are we voting on again?"

King heaved a sigh. "Whether we're friends or—"

"Yes, yes, I know. I'm not daft, young man. I'm just old." He cleared his throat again, a deafening sound. "Well then. To answer this question, we must think back to earlier days of our species. Back when we lived on a different world. On a world that was not inside out. I remember myself as a young warrior, patrolling the marble streets of our city. I wore a geode on my sash, which was the style at the time. A real geode, mind you. Not this hollow monstrosity we live in now. Anyway, the important detail is that back then, you could find actual geodes and other crystals in the ground. No need to generate them in labs like today. My broodmate worked in a crystal mine. In those days, warriors worked in mines too, not just workers, on account of the tunnel hogs. I once saw a tunnel hog myself. Taller than me, it was. Of course, I was a little shorter then, but …"

The old warrior droned on and on.

"Curious," King said softly to Jordan. "Back aboard the Freedom, when I first talked to Fal, he seemed lucid. Even wise. He also claimed to have been born here in Heaven's Geode. Now he's telling stories of Cleodora, the lost Aeolian world."

Jordan shrugged. "He's old, senile, and confused."

"Maybe, maybe," King said. "Or maybe he's stalling. Maybe he wants to buy us more time."

"For what?" Jordan asked.

"I don't know. But we might be here for a while."

Fal was still speaking, now recounting a time in his childhood when he first cracked his shell. "Of course, back in those days, we didn't use gold to mend shells. It was simple clay for us. We were a tougher breed back then. Ah, as to how I cracked my shell, that's an interesting story. Have I told you about the tunnel hogs? The tale takes us back to …"

Across the palace, Aeolians were wandering off, forming small groups, and chatting. Gorba fumed on the balcony, but every guard here was of the warrior caste, loyal to old Fal. There wasn't much the politicians could do. It seemed that this long, exhausting ritual would last a while longer.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Spitfire yawned. She had been working for three shifts straight. Twenty-four hours.

"Where the hell are you, King?" she muttered.

He had called her two shifts ago, said he needed more time on the surface. "Are you sure you're all right up there?" he had asked.

"Of course!" Spitfire had replied. "Enjoy your vacation. Things are A-OK here."

"I knew you could do it. I'm proud of you."

And just like that, Admiral King vanished for another day, doing God knew what in the Aeolian city. Spitfire remained aboard the Freedom, trying to—and not quite succeeding at—commanding the chaos.

Well, let somebody else handle it for a while. Spitfire needed a good meal. A good sleep. And she had to admit—a good shower.

"Mimori?" Spitfire said.

The android stood across the bridge, bathed in the blue and red lights of several monitors. Spitfire yawned again and blinked. The entire bridge seemed to float in a haze. The lights of monitors, viewports, and workstations all blended into a watercolor painting. It reminded Spitfire of a day in her childhood, riding in the back seat of a car on a rainy night, watching the colorful lights of Tel Aviv all wash down in a million beads of luminosity.

She blinked and rubbed her temples. Yes, she was tired.

Mimori popped out through the haze of lights. "Ma'am?"

"You have the bridge," Spitfire said. "For the next shift."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll hold down the fort."

"Good." Spitfire turned to leave, then looked back. "Remember that the Angel launching tubes still need those gaskets recalibrated."

"I remember, ma'am."

"Perfect." Spitfire turned to leave again. Then again she looked back. "Oh, and Major Gardener said he'll swing by in an hour to pick up the ATLAS diagnostic reports."

"I know, ma'am, we're working on them."

Spitfire walked back toward the android. "Hang on, I need to show you how to back up the latest console software upgrade before—"

"Ma'am, I'm an android. I know software."

"But you—"

"Spitfire." Mimori's voice softened, and she smiled. "I'll be all right. The bridge will be all right. Go rest. You deserve some time off."

Spitfire couldn't help but laugh, but it was a soft, weary sound. "I'm jealous, Mimori. You don't get tired, do you? No need to take breaks for food, sleep, even bathroom breaks."

Mimori's smile became wistful. "But I'd give it all away to be a real human girl."

"Really?" Spitfire whispered, suddenly feeling so sad.

Mimori laughed. "Hell no! Being human is miserable. Now go rest your miserable self!"

Spitfire gasped. "Do you talk this way to King?"

"Only when he's being foolish."

Spitfire yawned yet again. "I'm so tired I'm brain dead. Thanks, Mimori."

"Good night, ma'am."

As she walked to her quarters, she passed by many spacers. They all looked exhausted. Many were bandaged, still suffering from the wounds of battle. One spacer rolled in a wheelchair, both legs gone. Many spacers had eyes like haunted windows. The battle was over, but the ghosts remained.

Spitfire found her mind straying back to her confrontation with Hicks.

Maybe I was too tough on him, she thought.

It was bad enough being stuck on this starship for months on end. But to be confined to quarters too?

Spitfire entered her own quarters. They were cramped. Just one room, a kitchenette along one wall, and a little private bathroom. Compared to how the enlisted marines lived, it was luxury.

Yes, I was too tough on him, Spitfire thought. Hicks is a good soldier. A troublemaker, yes. A jackass too, by all accounts. But so am I.

She would release him from his quarters. At least he could roam the ship, maybe let out some steam at the gym.

She tapped her comlink. "Hicks?"

No answer.

She frowned and tried MindWeb. "Sergeant Hicks."

Nobody answered.

In MindPlay, she pulled up the personnel roster. As lieutenant commander, she could see all MindLink chips on the ship. If a spacer had a neural implant, Spitfire could see him. Everyone aboard aside from Stowy had the implants.

But Hicks wasn't showing up.

Spitfire frowned. Was something wrong with her MindLink? They had just upgraded the software recently, along with all the other ship refits. Was something buggy?

She hailed Mimori on the bridge. "Mimori, can you run a scan for me? I'm looking for Master Sergeant Henry Hicks."

A second later, a hallucination of Mimori appeared inside Spitfire's quarters.

"Scan completed, ma'am," the android said. "Master Sergeant Henry Hicks is not aboard the starship Freedom. Also missing are Corporal Darren Henderson, Corporal Miles Henderson, Sergeant Jules Bruno, and Private Evan Fletcher. All five are marines."

"Well, where the hell are they?" Spitfire blurted out. A chill flooded her.

Mimori hesitated. "I'm not sure, ma'am. The Aeolians are running repairs on our external ATLAS sensors right now. I can't detect any signals from outside the Freedom at the moment."

"So we're blind," Spitfire said. "Check the shuttle logs. Has any shuttle departed the Freedom within the past three shifts?"

Lines of code ran across Mimori's eyes. "One shuttle departed three hours and two minutes ago. Checking security logs from shuttle bay. Streaming them now."

A three-dimensional video appeared over Spitfire's bed, showing the scene. Hicks and four other marines—entering a shuttle and flying out.

"Goddammit, who approved this?" Spitfire said.

But she knew the answer before Mimori gave it.

"Nobody, ma'am. They've gone AWOL. Normally MindWeb would alert us right away if any MindLink tried to leave the ship unauthorized, but with half the systems going through upgrades, they slipped through."

Spitfire stood silently.

Oh shit.

Her mind raced. She had to get them back. She had to cover this up. If King found out, she'd be in trouble. He'd never let her command the bridge again. Oh, who cared about herself? There were five marines loose in Heaven's Geode! Who knew what trouble they were making? This could cause an intergalactic crisis. Even a war. They could ruin their chances of forging an alliance and doom Earth.

This was bad. Very bad.

What do I do?

"Ma'am?" said Mimori. "Awaiting your orders."

Spitfire closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "I need to contact the admiral."

Let him yell at her. Let him demote her. Discharge her. It didn't matter. She had to tell him.

"Admiral?" she sent him a MindLink call. "Admiral. It's Spitfire."

No answer.

"Admiral King!" She tapped her comlink. Nothing.

Spitfire looked at Mimori. "We can't even send signals down to the surface?"

"No, ma'am. The Aeolians are upgrading our sensors, remember?"

"They're not upgrading them," Spitfire said softly. "They're jamming them. Last time we spoke, King said something about humanity 'standing trial' below. They want King isolated for his trial. We have to handle this ourselves, Mimori."

The android's face hardened. "We will handle it. What are your orders?"

"We need to send a team down, find those marines, and drag them back up here. Hopefully before they cause a diplomatic crisis." She shuddered and took a shaky breath. "I need to get Bastian involved."

* * * * *

Down in the palace, Fal the old warrior was still speaking.

". . . you see, the green-bladed daggers are favored by the careful warriors, while the red daggers are often chosen by impetuous, highly aggressive warriors. Each crystal has its own personality. Of course, I myself always wielded a blue dagger. Why, you ask? Well, the story takes us back five hundred years. In those days, daggers only came in blue and red, on account of the miner strike. I myself cultivated a small crystal garden beneath my house. Now, when I say house, it was nothing like the fancy skyscrapers the young live in today. Ha! We don't even have proper ground anymore. But back then, soil was rich and crumbly, and you could even find worms in it. Or was that my grandfather's house? In any case, when I was a young Aeolian and still in my first shell, I sometimes dug for worms in the ground and—"

"Will you get to the point, you senile old fool?" Gorba demanded. The politician was still on the mezzanine, overlooking the palace hall. But now, instead of leaning over the railing and ranting like Mussolini, he was slumped on his throne. He looked exhausted. Several of his fellow politicians were sleeping around him, tucked into their shells.

"What, who said that?" Fal looked around and blinked at the balcony. "Gorba, was that you? Well, I've lost my train of thought. I'll have to start over." The old warrior cleared his throat. "Anyway, hmm, what was I talking about? Oh yes. Something about daggers. See, the green blades are . . ."

He kept droning on.

King tuned it out. He stood by Jordan, Darjeeling, and Stowy. They kept trying to contact the Freedom without any success.

"Our equipment is fine," Jordan whispered. "We can telepathize and comlink one another."

"I'm guessing the Aeolians are jamming the Freedom to cut us off during our trial," King said.

Darjeeling's mustache bristled. "We should demand they let us contact our ship! Why, I'll wring that Gorba's scrawny neck."

"No." King shook his head. "That would only give him fodder for this so-called trial."

"Pardon me, sir, but are we just going to put up with it?" Darjeeling said.

Stowy snorted. "I could sneak back into the Freedom."

Darjeeling rolled his eyes. "With no shuttle? With millions of Aeolians around? With the Freedom hundreds of kilometers away?"

"I can sneak anywhere," Stowy said. "Piece of cake. But I'm not abandoning the admiral." She grabbed King's arm. "I'm his bodyguard now. He said so himself."

Darjeeling groaned. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but you were more useful as a sneak."

"But anyway!" Fal suddenly boomed, much louder than usual, rousing everyone in the palace. A few of the Aeolian workers blinked sleep out of their eyes. "I was here to talk about the humans. Yes, yes! That's what I was leading up to. To talk about why the humans are worthy friends."

"Thank God," Stowy said.

"Finally," Darjeeling muttered.

Fal cleared his throat. "The humans are an alien species! We have, of course, encountered other alien species before. Not only the rahs, mind you, and may those eight-legged buggers be damned. Even before the rahs, we Aeolians encountered alien civilizations. Why, I remember when I was but a young warrior, not much larger than a worker, we first encountered the … what were they called? Come on, Selly, you remember. The aliens with the big beaks? Ah yes, the Florsens! Of course. Anyway, as I said, I was only a young warrior at the time. I had just earned my first sash badge. Back then, of course, badges were made of little geodes, cloven in half. Halfshells, you called them. I earned mine in battle with a devious tunnel burrower. A story for another time. We must keep track! Now, the important detail is that my first halfshell was the same color as a Florsen's egg. I was exploring a mountain range that summer—this was back when we had real mountains—when I stumbled across a giant nest, and . . ."

He kept droning on. King couldn't help but wonder. Was the old warrior truly this senile? Or was he simply trying to buy time? For what—King did not know.

* * * * *

Bastian was having breakfast with his family when Spitfire called him.

He had been enjoying this time off. No, there was no shore leave. And yes, the ship was cramped and full of the ghosts of fallen friends. But he had his family. And this was home.

He sat in his quarters, the palatial suite of a colonel. Which meant it was the size of a closet—but a private one. They were out of fresh food on the Freedom, so it was MREs for all. Bastian tucked into his beans and eggs with gusto, then reached for a second helping.

"I don't know how you can eat that stuff," Alice said.

She sat across from him at the breakfast table, her blond hair hanging in a loose braid across her shoulder. She wore fatigue pants, a white tank top, and battle boots, her usual gear around the "house." And this tiny room was their marital house, in a sense. Since getting married a year ago, they had been living here, making the cramped space as much a home as possible. There was some artwork on the walls. Some stuffed animals on the bed. Little luxuries denied to the grunts but available to the senior ranks.

"What's wrong with it?" Bastian shoveled another spoonful into his mouth.

Alice peered at his plastic plate, leaned forward, and squinted. "I can't tell what's the beans and what's the potatoes."

"Those are eggs, not potatoes."

Alice winced. "Those are eggs? Dear God. I'll stick to my pancakes."

Rowan giggled. The nine-year-old was eating a pancake MRE too. They weren't as good as fresh pancakes, but Bastian knew from experience that they were decent enough. He eyed his daughter's plate.

"You gonna finish those, Row?"

Rowan pulled the pancakes closer to her. "Yes."

He shoved the last spoonful of beans into his mouth, swallowed, and looked at the pancakes longingly. They were singing to him like sirens. "You sure?"

Alice sighed. "You want a third MRE, don't you?"

"Pancakes this time."

"You're eating us out of house and home."

Bastian bristled. "I'm a growing boy." He patted his biceps.

"You're growing all right." Alice poked his belly.

Bastian looked at her belly, then into her eyes. "You're growing too."

She blushed. And it was unusual for a six-foot-tall, Olympic wrestler, space marine to blush. "I know," she said softly. "I can feel him kicking right now."

Little Rowan gasped. "Can I feel my baby brother kicking?"

"Of course." Alice took the girl's hand and placed it on her belly.

"I feel it, I feel it!" Rowan said, beaming. Alice was not her mother. Her mother had died in the first alien assault on Earth. But little Rowan had quickly welcomed Alice into their family, and they never talked of "half brothers." They were all fully, completely family.

No, this was not shore leave. But these were good days. Days of family and love. Days of peace between battles.

Bastian looked at them. At Alice, tall and striking, an experienced warrior, a courageous wife. When he had been at his lowest, Alice had lifted him up, and she still inspired him every day. And Rowan. Rowan who was growing up in war. Growing up so fast. His little angel. They were the loves of Bastian's life, and soon another would join them.

This is why I fight, he thought. And suddenly he missed his father with almost physical pain. Admiral King was down on the surface, treating with the Aeolians, trying to forge an alliance. Hopefully the old man was keeping safe.

I wish you were here with us this morning, Dad, he thought.

Alice reached across the table and patted his hand. "The Bulldog will be back soon enough."

Bastian frowned. "Are you reading my mind again?"

She shrugged. "You set your MindLink to public again."

Bastian sighed. Rowan giggled.

It was then, as Bastian was reaching for a pancake MRE, that the call from Spitfire came.

It was marked orange. High priority. Right below emergency level.

He took the call. "What's up, Gal?"

A hallucination of Gal "Spitfire" Levy materialized in the room. She wore the proud service uniform of a lieutenant commander, and she stood straight, but deep weariness filled her eyes, and her skin was pale. She could have hidden that from the hallucination, used filters to make her look fresher, stronger, younger. She had chosen to stream a perfect hallucination of herself, collecting the data from cameras in her quarters.

She told him.

As Bastian listened, his belly soured, and he lost his appetite. Five marines—stealing a shuttle. Going AWOL. Down to the alien surface.

Goddamn Hicks! Bastian was not surprised that brute was involved. Hicks had been a thorn in his ass for years now. Whenever there was trouble among the Freebies, you could make good money betting Hicks was involved. But Evan? Private Evan Fletcher, the colonel's kid?

"Have you told his mom?" Bastian said.

"Not yet," said Spitfire. "I wanted to tell you first. Bastian, I'm calling the military police right after I hang up with you. I'm sending them down there. To drag those marines back home."

Bastian began buttoning his uniform. "And I'm going with them."

Alice was watching from the kitchen table. Bastian had added her onto the call; Alice was sharing the hallucination of Spitfire. The tall sergeant said nothing, but she grabbed Bastian's rifle from the closet and handed it to him.

He looked at her, raised an eyebrow.

"Just in case," Alice said.

Bastian shook his head. "Better not. I don't want to scare the Aeolians."

"Bastian, the military police can handle this," Spitfire said.

"I know. But I'm going down there nonetheless." Bastian pulled on a graphene breastplate. "Those are my marines down there. It's my responsibility." He pulled on his helmet. "And I'm going to take care of this. But first …" He took a deep breath. "I need to call Kim. Rumors will start spreading soon. Better she learns it from me."

"Keep the call short," Spitfire said. "I want you launching to the surface within moments."

"I'll call on my way to the hangar," Bastian said.

Spitfire nodded and dissipated out of the room. Bastian paused to look Alice in the eyes.

"Go get 'em," she said.

Bastian kissed her, knelt and kissed Rowan, then rushed out of his quarters.

* * * * *

". . . and when my companions and I finally reached the riverbank, the dastardly granite thieves tried to swim across—carrying their loot! Needless to say, they sank like rocks. And that, my friends, is why you should always listen to the wisdom of the old, and always carry a rope." Fal looked around him, stroking his beard. "By the diamond crown of Melkar, it's gone dark. We've been talking all day."

Indeed, the sunlight had vanished through the oculus. Heaven's Geode was essentially a giant space station. The artificial sun in its center, a star no larger than a basketball, dimmed every nineteen hours, a full Aeolian day. Many Aeolians were asleep across the palace floor and mezzanines, snuggled into their shells. Their snoring filled the dark hall.

King and his fellow humans sat by the pool. Darjeeling and Jordan were sound asleep, leaning against each other. The former's mustache ruffled with every deep breath. Stowy sat on the edge of the pool, watching the giant queen as she slept. Every once in a while, the girl would trail her fingers through the water and contemplate the ripples.

King could not sleep. He stood guard, worried about his ship. Worried about Earth. He wondered if the arachtaurs were already attacking Earth while he was stuck here, facing this kangaroo court.

Gorba rose from his throne with a yawn. He leaned over the balcony. "Are you finally done prattling on?" the politician demanded.

The sleeping Aeolians didn't hear. Their tentacles were tucked into their shells. A few Aeolians, who were still awake, looked up at the balcony and blinked sleepy eyes.

Fal cleared his throat. "Well … yes. In fact, I just finished."

Gorba sighed. "At last. And you've said nothing in favor of the humans."

"Oh. The humans?" The oldster looked around, confused. "What about them?"

"You were meant to defend us, Senba Fal," King reminded the old Aeolian.

"Oh!" Fal took a step back, his white beard bristling. "Was I? Oh yes. Oh yes indeed. Well then." He looked up at Gorba, then swept his eyes across the room, looking at his fellow warriors, who still stood guard. "The humans are clearly friends of ours. An important ally, they are."

Gorba snorted. "More nonsense."

Fal shook a cane at him. "Still your head-serpents, youngling! What do you know of war and victory? Nothing! You sit on a throne you've not earned." Fal's eyes hardened, and suddenly he seemed completely lucid. "Not all warriors are predators. Not all soldiers are monsters like the rahs. The humans are not like the politicians, the workers, the thinkers, not even like what we warriors have become. They do not hide from their foes. They fly out and face them. With courage and honor that we Aeolians have forgotten. Perhaps I have forgotten too." Fal stepped closer to King and patted his shoulder. "But this young man reminded me. And I'm grateful."

King smiled and put a hand on Fal's shoulder. "And I'm grateful for you too, old friend."

Fal looked around the room and spoke in a loud voice. "I am voting in favor of the humans! And I hope every warrior in this room votes the same." He coughed. "And now, have I told you about that time we all voted for what to name Queensnest, our beloved city? I still remember the sash I wore that day. It had rubies on it, which was the style at the time …"

Everyone groaned.

* * * * *

Bastian marched down the corridors, almost running, heading toward the shuttle bay. A few young spacers, seeing the beefy colonel thump by, stood at attention and saluted. Most simply hurried out of the way. Bastian must look to the world like an enraged boar on a rampage.

His blood boiled. He would flay Hicks alive! He should have discharged the brute years ago. Now he might cost them everything.

But there was something worse than the rage against Hicks. It was the chill of betrayal. Evan Fletcher was part of this. Evan—the young private Bastian had nurtured, mentored. Evan who served in Bastian's Badgers, the very company where Bastian had begun his own career.

Kim's son.

If the rumors were true, Evan might become Bastian's half brother someday. He was only half Bastian's age. Half his size too. Bastian had already begun thinking of him as a little brother.

Why did you do this, Evan? Why did you betray us?

As Bastian hurried toward the hangar, he had to make that call. He called Kim Fletcher.

She answered from down in engineering. She was wearing a sooty jumpsuit, steel-tipped boots, and a hardhat. Ash covered her face and hands, and a tool belt hung around her waist.

"Hey, Bas, what's up?" She smiled.

He told her. As he spoke, her smile vanished.

"I'm coming with you."

"Kim, I've got this. You should stay on the ship."

"I'm coming with you!" she said, and wet fury filled her eyes. "That's my son down there. My son! I'm going down there so I can kill him myself."

He knew better than to argue with Kim Fletcher. "Get to the Sparrow bay as fast as you can. If you're not there in ten, I'm leaving without you."

She was already running.

Bastian wanted to alert the Aeolians too, to coordinate this crisis with them. But who to contact? Selly was humanity's liaison with Heaven's Geode, and the thinker was down at the ritual with King. The only Aeolians still aboard the Freedom were mindless workers. All those boulders could say was "busy, busy" or "get out of my way." Once more, Bastian tried calling the surface, to reach King and Selly, to keep them updated. Nothing. No signal. All communications outside the ship were still dead—a hiccup during repairs or deliberate jamming?

Bastian didn't have time to wait and figure it out. He must drag Hicks and the others back.

Minutes later, a single ship launched from the starship Freedom. The FAS Raven. The Freedom's only stealth ship.

Kim sat in the front, flying the little ship. During her career as an engineer, Kim had clocked many hours in shuttles, flying to oversee external hull repairs. She was a competent pilot. Bastian, who couldn't fly a kite, sat beside her. The Raven was small, but there was room enough for five military policemen in the hold.

Bastian could have taken a Rhino. He could fit an entire platoon in one of those large, armored dropships. But this situation called for some circumspection. This was already escalating into a diplomatic disaster. The last thing Bastian needed was to land a warship in an Aeolian city, then spill out a platoon of giant warriors armed to the teeth.

So he had the Raven. Her stealth cloak was now on. She emitted and reflected no light, no heat. She flew invisibly in the night. During the daytime, she could be spotted more easily, but thankfully Heaven's Geode dimmed her artificial star to mimic nightfall. The Raven vanished into the shadows.

Blending in on the surface would be harder. Maybe impossible. So Bastian had only taken a handful of men. The MPs didn't look threatening—they wore simple fatigues, no body armor, and carried only concealed handguns. Bastian didn't want to spook the Aeolians with any visible weapons.

If it came to violence, Hicks and his companions—five skilled marines—would be a formidable foe. But Bastian was determined to avoid violence today. This was not a military operation. It was a diplomatic crisis.

It was a strange sensation, flying freely through Heaven's Geode. It was night. The artificial sun had become a moon, filling the hollow world with just the hint of dim light. The landscapes curved, forming a sphere around the shuttle. No matter where Bastian looked, he could see the forests, rivers, and cities, silvered in the moonlight.

Where was Hicks? Normally, the Freedom could track her shuttles. With the signals all jammed, the shuttle had vanished. But Bastian thought he knew where Hicks was heading. Hicks had been moaning all week about wanting to visit an Aeolian city, imagining alien casinos, music theaters, and gladiator pits. Bastian had overheard some of it. Most of the marines had. Hicks had not shut up about it.

The brute had probably flown to Queensnest, the nearest city. Bastian saw the metropolis below, nestled along the concave inner surface of Heaven's Geode. The city lights twinkled in the shadows like a brooch on a dark cloak.

"Kim." He pointed.

"I see it." She pitched the shuttle down, then accelerated. They dived toward Queensnest.

Normally, Bastian would be feeling queasy now, maybe throwing up. Flight was not for him. But the rapid dive felt surprisingly gentle. The g-force was more of a gentle shove than the punch in the chest Bastian was used to. The engine didn't roar, merely purred contentedly.

Kim noticed too. "Wow. These Aeolian upgrades are incredible. I've never flown a shuttle so smooth." Then her face hardened. For a second or two, her love of engineering had eclipsed her anger, but now the rage was back, simmering in her eyes. Her hands, callused from years of labor, tightened around the controls.

RIP Evan, Bastian thought.

They flew closer to the gleaming city. Hundreds of skyscrapers soared from the shadows, bathing the night with orange, green, and purple hues. Their crystal crests bloomed like flowers toward the moonlight. Aeolian shuttles, shaped like stone eggs, zipped to and fro.

There seemed to be an aerial traffic system. Most of the shuttles were flying in neat lines. Floating buoys marked the lanes. As the Raven dived like a falcon, a few Aeolian shuttles scattered and flashed angry red lights. Kim just kept diving through them, sending Aeolian shuttles careening. Foghorns filled the air, the sound waves thumping the Raven. And here came the queasiness.

"Kim, they can see us!" Bastian said.

She took a deep breath. "Yes, we're too close. They probably only saw a dark streak pass by, just a shadow. And maybe felt our graviton shield bump into them."

"Let's not cause a panic," Bastian said. "We're in enough trouble with the Aeolians already."

She nodded. "Sorry. I'll try to fly a bit slower and keep my distance."

She found one nearby lane of Aeolian shuttles that zipped through the sky. The spherical vessels rushed by with flashes of blue, yellow, and red lights. Kim glided just above them, a ghostly angel of death.

Bastian gulped, struggling not to throw up. No Aeolian police vessels flew up. The Raven was still invisible. Or maybe all the Aeolian warriors were in the palace now, witnessing the trial of humanity, too busy to investigate reports of UFOs.

Bastian could see the palace in the distance, a huge shining dome across the river. Thousands of other buildings rose everywhere. Skyscrapers. Rotundas. Even coiling buildings shaped like DNA strands. They were built of stone, glass, and crystal that shone with countless lights. On any other day, Bastian might have marveled at the beauty. Today worry gnawed on him.

"Just when humanity is standing trial, we unleash Hicks—probably the worst human I know—into this city." Bastian sighed. "I hope we're not too late."

"Where do you think the marines are?" Kim said.

Bastian loaded MindPlay, his neural chip's operating system. The Freedom's sensors might be down, but the MindLink implant inside Bastian's skull could detect nearby MindLinks. He ran a scan. He detected a handful of other neural implants. Kim. And the policemen behind him. Nothing else.

"We're too far to detect anything from up here," Bastian said. "Hang on. I might be able to scan for MindLinks using the Raven's sensors."

"No use if the Aeolians are jamming us," Kim said.

Bastian tapped at the controls. "They might just be jamming the Freedom, not us."

The Raven had simple sensors, not as powerful as Freedom's ATLAS. The scan range was limited. But by God, it loaded up.

"We're up and running!" Bastian said.

"Don't get too excited yet." Kim glanced at the monitor. It showed the scan sweeping over the cityscape, painting green ghosts of buildings and landforms. "We're not detecting any MindLinks."

Bastian pursed his lips, watching the scan sweep over building after building. "The sensors are short-ranged. We can't see far. We just need to keep searching."

They flew over Queensnest, a shadow. A few times, it seemed like somebody might have spotted them. When they flew too close to an Aeolian shuttle, the egg-shaped vessel would flee, sensing their presence. Raven's stealth wasn't perfect. But so far they were still undercover, sweeping over the city, a shadowy bird woven of night, gliding silently and seeking prey.

Finally—a beep on the monitor.

Five dots popped up. Five MindLinks.

"There!" Bastian said.

A few seconds later, names appeared by the dots. Master Sergeant Henry Hicks. Sergeant Jules Bruno. Corporals Darren and Miles Henderson. Private Evan Fletcher.

"There are our boys," Bastian said. "We're dragging them home."

Kim was red with fury. "Evan is mine."

The MindLinks were located in a nearby neighborhood. Kim pitched forward, and the Raven dived through the night.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Down in the palace, tension filled the air. Across the crowd of Aeolians, tentacles stood straight at attention. Even the queen was unusually silent, pausing to rest from laying her eggs. The enormous creature floated in the water, her tiny eyes closed on their pendulous stock.

The time of judgment was near. They all knew it.

All aside from Fal, perhaps. The old warrior was still prattling on, reminiscing of times gone by. A few younger warriors had taken him to an alcove off the main palace hall. The old Aeolian's voice was muffled, and soon even it faded.

Silence filled the palace.

Gorba nodded from the mezzanine. His tentacles flailed. King's infrared detector translated the signals into a shrill, piercing voice.

"The witnesses have spoken. The voting will now begin!"

King stepped forward. He looked up at the balcony, fists clenched at his sides.

"Not yet!" he cried out.

His voice echoed through the palace. All eyes turned toward him.

Jordan walked up to his right side. He stood there, tall and strong and calm. Darjeeling stood at King's left side, chin raised, ever the warrior. They were his two oldest, his best friends, and with them at his sides, King felt that he could face down an empire.

At first, Stowy hid behind King, perhaps fearing Gorba's terrible voice and the oncoming judgment. But then the young stowaway found her courage. She came to stand before King, shielding him with her petite body. She was so short King could look over the top of her head. Small she was, but King did not doubt her courage. She was as courageous as his two old friends.

"What is the meaning of this?" Gorba demanded.

"You heard me," King said. "You will not vote yet. Not before I've had my say. For days, I listened to Aeolians malign us, champion us, discuss whether we're monsters or mice, whether we may live or must die. The politicians, the thinkers, and the warriors have all spoken. But humanity has not yet spoken for itself. And we will!" King's voice echoed across the palace. "We will."

Gorba snorted. "One does not let a rabid animal speak before striking it down as a menace."

"If I am a rabid animal, you must strike me down," King said. "But I'm here to tell you that we are not animals. We are men. And we are women. And we are children. We are a young race. A curious race. In some ways, we are all like children first learning to walk, exploring the world around us. We are humans, and we are imperfect."

"Very well, you've had your say," Gorba spat. "Now we will—"

"I'm not done," King said. "Silence your tentacles! I've seen them wriggle enough for a lifetime."

"You see, you see?" Gorba cried, looking at his fellow Aeolians. "The brute is impetuous! He has no manners, no respect. He is hotheaded! A barbarian! A violent monster!"

"Yes!" King shouted. "We humans are hotheaded. We can be brutish. We can be violent." His voice softened. "Some of us can be monsters." He took a deep breath. "I will not pretend that we're perfect. We're far from it. We strive to be heroes, but many among us are villains. There are human thieves. Human murderers. Human dictators. You live in a place called Heaven's Geode. We humans are not of heaven. We are not fallen angels but rising apes."

"Then why should we let you live?" Gorba said.

"Because we are still rising," King said. "We are still evolving. We are still learning about ourselves. We humans were mere animals not long ago, hairy apes who lived in trees, and we still carry many of those instincts. Fear. Aggression. Hatred. Violence. They helped us survive in the jungles."

"Those are the feelings of the rahs!" said Gorba. "Those are the feelings that feed evil."

"Yes. But there is more to humanity. There is something that separates us from beasts like the rahs or from our simian ancestors. There is nobility too. There is honor. There is goodness and there is love." Suddenly King's voice choked. "I fought humans before. I fought a great war against many humans. I know the evil of humans more than anyone. More than you'll ever know." His eyes stung. "But I've known humans with a great life force inside them. A force that shines with light you can almost see. Humans who are not just meat and bones and animal instincts but who carry a burning desire to heal the world. To protect others. To love. I don't know where this great light comes from. I don't know if it comes from God or from within our mortal souls. But I know that I saw it. I saw this light on the darkest battlefields. It shone over soldiers who charged into enemy fire, giving their lives so that others may live. I saw this light illuminate medics working under fire to heal just another boy or girl. I saw this light in my father, and I see it in my son. I see it shining from the eyes of thousands of soldiers under my command. It is the light of goodness. And that is a light I cherish and have fought for all my life. If for one second I thought this light was not real, that we did not carry it inside us like a flame inside a lantern, I would lay down my gun, and I would gladly die. But so long as I see this light in the eyes of my family, my friends, and my soldiers, I will fight for humanity. Because I know that humanity, for all its sins, is noble and precious."

Everyone was silent across the palace.

Then Stowy gave a big sniffle and hugged King.

Darjeeling wiped tears from his eyes, then put his hand on King's shoulder. "Well said, sir."

Even Gorba had no retort. The politician gripped the balcony railing with his front feet, bending them between his sharp claws. His eyes were narrowed, dripping venom. But he said nothing. Behind him, his fellow politicians hemmed and hawed. A few of the elders stroked their beards. Some muttered to one another that perhaps the humans weren't so bad after all.

King caught Selly's eyes. The thinker stood on the palace floor not far away. He was beaming.

"Are you quite done?" Gorba finally muttered.

King nodded. "I am. You may vote."

But if you choose death for us, he added silently, you better be willing to fight.

King would welcome friendship. But if the Aeolians chose death for humanity, he was prepared to kill. And if he must, he would go down fighting.

Gorba finally dared moved his tentacles again. "Bring forth Turan and Tumam!"

The crowd cheered. "Turan and Tumam! Turan and Tumam!"

As their voices echoed, King could not help it. He shuddered.

* * * * *

A rumble sounded in the depths. The floor vibrated. Beneath the mezzanine where Gorba stood, the floor began to slope. Aeolians scurried aside. An enormous trapdoor swung downward, revealing a tunnel leading underground. Dust flew, coating crystal mosaics across the palace walls. A few Aeolians fled into their shells and rolled away.

Grunts and groans sounded in the dark underground. Steam blasted into the main hall, along with a hot, meaty aroma. Heavy footfalls shook the palace. Two gargantuan beasts, each as large as an elephant, came trudging up the tunnel.

Like Aeolians, they had five legs, but instead of articulate toes, their legs ended with rocky hooves. Chunks of stone like tectonic plates covered their hides. Cracks ran between the plates, shining with blue gemstones like rivers in canyons. Each beast had three ruby eyes, and red tears flowed down their stony cheeks. Crowns of horned plates adorned their heads.

Darjeeling and Jordan both instinctively reached for their guns. Stowy gasped. King just stood there, watching them. These beasts did not pose a threat. They were collared and tamed.

Howdahs rose atop their backs, and Aeolian workers sat there, guiding the beasts. Grunting and huffing, the creatures stepped into the palace hall. Aeolians scurried aside to let them pass.

Like horses pulling a wagon, the huge animals were pulling a wheeled, wooden platform. On the platform rose an enormous balance scale. The central fulcrum was carved from stone and inlaid with precious gemstones. Two bowls hung from chains, perfectly balanced. One bowl was forged from gold, the other carved from onyx. The bowls were as large as hot tubs.

Selly waddled toward King. "Behold Turan and Tumam!"

"Nice pets," King said, eying the snorting, steaming beasts.

"Those are mere beasts of burden, Bully Dog. They have no names. Turan and Tumam are what we call the scales. We also call them the Scales of Forging. They will be used to determine your fate. This is a great honor, Bully Dog. Turan and Tumam are only used for the most important decisions. The politicians have not brought them out in years. To vote, each Aeolian will cast a stone into one bowl. A stone into the golden bowl is a vote to let you live. A stone into the onyx bowl is a vote to kill you."

"Yes, I certainly feel honored," King muttered.

"Traditionally, the thinkers vote first," Selly said. "Then the warriors. Then the politicians, who have the most votes. Most thinkers will vote for you, Bully Dog. And probably all the warriors. But the politicians outnumber us. To win, Bully Dog, you need at least some politician votes. I think you swayed some with your speech. I pray it is enough."

"Pray, Selly? Do Aeolians pray?"

"We believe in God," Selly said. "From all that I have read in your literature, it is the same god. I will pray to him."

King closed his eyes and prayed silently too. He did not pray for himself. Not for his own life. But for humanity. For Earth which faced the menace of the rahs and arachtaurs. He prayed for hope.

Only united can the good defeat the wicked, he thought. And as I believe humanity to be good, I believe that the Aeolians are good too. But we are both flawed. We can both be petty, blind, and some among us are cruel. I pray for both our species to find the wisdom to unite. Because despite our flaws, we are better than the rahs. I do not believe that the rahs are your children, God. Hope lies in our alliance. I pray that I can deliver this hope back to Earth.

He finished his prayer and took a deep breath. He did not pray often. Not anymore. He had seen too many horrors, too much pain, too many dead boys and girls. It was hard to believe in a benevolent god when you spent your life in hell. But perhaps Selly's words had stirred something in King. Or perhaps it was the light he had seen in good men. Or maybe he was just scared. King would never admit it to anyone, not even to his best friends. But he was scared tonight, and he had often been scared in this war and the war before it, teetering on the edge of destruction. At such times, sometimes hope seemed like the thinnest rope woven of moonlight, drifting in the shadows, almost incorporeal, too slender to grab. But he could always follow the thin tendril back to the light. Was that God guiding him? King did not know. But praying soothed him tonight as it often had—whether he was speaking to God or simply to his own soul.

A few workers emerged from the tunnel next, dragging sacks full of diamonds. They spilled the diamonds around the scales—hills of diamonds, chinking and glittering. Each one was the size of an acorn.

Stowy's eyes widened. "Whoa." She made to rush forward and grab one, but King pulled her back.

Darjeeling blinked. "Blimey, that pile of diamonds must be worth more than the Freedom."

"More than the Alliance Fleet, maybe," King said. "But that's just the value we humans give to diamonds. Here, apparently, they're not particularly rare. Stowy!" He grabbed her again. "Stay put."

"But they're so pretty," Stowy whispered, watching the glittering diamonds. The stowaway was something of a pack rat, often collecting fallen treasures. A hundred pockets covered her dress, full of buttons, poker chips, lost military insignia, and a few gems Niles had lost. She probably didn't even care that diamonds were valuable. She simply liked their shine.

Gorba's voice filled the palace. "Hear me, children of stone! It is time. We in Heaven's Geode have reached a watershed moment in our history. An alien civilization has discovered our hidden sanctuary. We must decide how to proceed. We can deem the humans friends, form an alliance with them, and release them. They will fly back to their world, and we trust that they will return with trading ships, not warships. Or we can recognize that the humans are a threat. That they are a predatory species like the rahs. And we can exterminate those we've captured—like one exterminates wandering bugs before an infestation can begin. The scales will decide. If you vote that the humans are friends, cast a diamond into Turan, the golden bowl. If you vote that the humans are foes, cast your diamond into Tumam, the onyx bowl. We will respect the old traditions. The thinkers will vote first. Then the warriors. Then the politicians. Let the voting begin!"

King raised an eyebrow. The speech was surprisingly impartial. He had expected Gorba to rant and demand their execution. Evidently the politician, for all his arrogance and hatred, still respected the tradition of the scales, and he could momentarily overcome his personal biases.

Selly raised his head and cleared his throat, mannerisms he had picked up from humans. "The thinkers always vote first. And as head of the thinkers guild, that means I vote first."

He walked toward the scales, lifted a diamond, and tossed it into the golden bowl. The scale shifted ever so slightly.

One for an alliance. A good start.

The other Aeolians lined up. Thousands of them. It would take a while, and the humans could only stand there and watch.

* * * * *

Hicks found no casinos in Queensnest, capital city of Heaven's Geode. No restaurants. No bars, not gladiator pits, no fun at all. The living boulders were a boring lot.

He strutted down the street, holding his rifle with both hands, looking around.

"Ha! Look at them. Cowering in their shells."

Aeolians lined the road, peering at the aliens with wide eyes. Their tentacles fluttered in a fury. Apparently it was how the damn things talked. Whenever Hicks got close to an alien, it vanished into its stony shell and rolled away. Cowards!

The city looked fine enough. Cobbled streets snaked between stone buildings with crystal roofs. Slender bridges stretched between skyscrapers. Glass lanterns hung on strings that stretched across the road, full of glowing stones. Pretty, maybe, but who cared? It all looked like some celestial temple. None of the sensual pleasures of Earth's cities were found here. It was all just stone, crystals, and gems. An archaeologist would have a field day. Hicks was bored. The only fun came from tormenting the round, rocky creatures who lived here.

"They're like roly-polies," Sergeant Bruno said, walking behind him. "When I was a kid, I used to lift rocks to find them, and they'd always go into their shells like this."

"Roly-polies don't have shells, dumbass," Hicks said. "They curl up like armadillos. These creatures are more like turtles."

Hicks spotted a cluster of Aeolians nearby. Young ones, by the look of 'em. Shells no larger than watermelons. Their tiny heads emerged from the tops, blinking multiple eyes. Hicks ran toward them, waving his arms and roaring. The aliens yelped, retreated into their shells, and played possum.

Hicks laughed and kicked one shell. The rocky sphere tumbled down the road, bumping and bouncing until it splashed into a ditch. The alien inside whimpered. The Henderson twins burst out laughing.

"Good one, boss," said one of the Hendersons. Hicks wasn't sure which one.

"Pathetic animals." Hicks spat on one of the mossy shells. "Kinda fun to play with though."

A voice came from behind him. "They're not pathetic."

Hicks spun around, fists clenched. His lip peeled back in a snarl.

Aeolians on the roadside fled, disappearing behind crystal buildings.

Evan stood there on the road, staring at Hicks. The young private was pale, and his fingers trembled, but he managed to fix Hicks with a steady stare.

"What did you say, momma's boy?" Hicks stomped toward him. "You said something, baby?" He poked Evan in the chest—hard—shoving him back a step. "I didn't hear you. You better take your mouth off your momma's tit and speak up, boy." He shoved Evan back another step.

Evan still stood there. He didn't flee. He didn't bow his head. He kept staring at the much-larger Hicks.

"You heard me." The private's voice was soft, but it did not shake. "The Aeolians aren't pathetic. They built this entire world."

Hicks stared at Evan, eyes hard. The private stared back.

Then Hicks jerked forward and raised his fist.

Evan flinched.

Hicks burst out laughing and lowered his hand. "Just as I thought. A wimp." Shaking his head in disgust, he turned toward the others. "Come on, boys, let's find some fun."

Henderson was already down the street. He looked back at Hicks. "Hey, boss! I hear something."

Hicks and the others hurried toward him, kicking aside a few shelled Aeolians. Crystalline buildings rose at their sides, leaning over the road. Aeolians peered from within the translucent facades, distorted like figures in funhouse mirrors. Evan reluctantly followed. They found Henderson standing in a garden. Strange mushrooms grew here, their purple-and-blue caps glowing in the night.

"What is it?" Hicks said, stomping over the mushrooms toward the corporal.

"Listen, boss."

Hicks frowned. "I can't hear anything. Bruno, stop wheezing."

The heavyset sergeant wiped sweat off his brow. "Sorry, boss."

Then Hicks heard it. Music. Music coming from the distance. It sounded alien, eerie, a music with strange melodies and unfamiliar notes.

"We should go back to the ship," Evan said.

Hicks ignored him. Henderson gave the private a punch to the shoulder. "Shut up, kid."

"Shut up all of you. I'm listening!" Hicks roared.

Finally they fell silent, and he could hear the music again. Singing. Definitely singing. But not human voices. The strange choir called to him like a siren's song. He left the garden and walked down a street covered with a crystal mosaic, following the music. The others followed.

The music led them to a gleaming structure overlooking a stream. A building? It was unlike any building Hicks had ever seen. It was shaped like a nautilus, the shell coiling in a perfect Fibonacci spiral. The walls—if you could call them walls—seemed carved of marble. The lights of nearby skyscrapers reflected off this enormous shell, dappling it with blue, red, and gold. The music came from inside.

They walked closer, crossing a bridge over the stream, and the music got louder. Hicks heard sounds like harp strings and pipes, and the choir sang.

"It's beautiful," Evan whispered.

The marines stepped into the building.

It was some kind of music hall. But not like a theater on Earth where musicians played on stage and the audience watched. Here everyone was playing or singing together, no separation between performers and audience. Hundreds of Aeolians filled the place, some sitting, some standing, some ambling about, but all contributing to the music. Some blew into silvery pipes shaped like antlers. Others held golden dream catchers whose strings they plucked with delicate picks. Some Aeolians held slender, elaborate instruments shaped like candelabra; they played them by tapping rods against the hollow sprouts. There were boxes full of rattling stones, vessels full of liquid that vibrated and hummed, drums made from empty shells, and instruments that seemed to play music by pulsing light inside glass vials.

The Aeolians looked at them. A few blinked and wobbled their heads. Nobody here was scared. A few reached out to the humans and trilled in their strange language. They seemed to be welcoming the humans in.

"Finally some fun," Hicks said. "I'm going to try these things out."

He approached one Aeolian who was holding a pipe shaped like a blooming flower. Hicks grabbed the musical instrument, yanked it free, and blew into it. A loud, discordant sound filled the hall. Aeolians winced. A few stopped playing.

"Keep going, aliens!" Hicks said.

He tossed the pipe down, reached toward another Aeolian, and grabbed one of the circular harps. He banged against the strings. Boring. He tossed it aside, grabbed a drum, and began beating it.

The other marines laughed and grabbed their own musical instruments. None of them could play. But they had fun making noise.

All but Evan. He just stood there, pale and annoying as always.

"Guys, stop this!" Evan said. "We need to go back."

"Shut up, Private!" Hick hurled a musical instrument at him. Evan stepped aside. The instrument hit the ground and shattered, scattering metal keys.

A few Aeolians vanished into their shells. The marines laughed. The Hendersons began kicking an Aeolian back and forth like a soccer ball. Hicks grabbed a drumstick and beat a closed Aeolian shell.

Aeolians began fleeing the music hall.

Bruno laughed and kicked one, a little one. It cried out and curled into its shell. The corporals began shattering musical instruments against the floor, hooting with laughter as each one broke.

"Stop this!" Evan cried. "Enough!"

The other marines only laughed.

"What's a matter, kid?" Hicks said. "Worried your mommy will get angry?"

A voice boomed from the doorway, filling the music hall.

"Enough!"

This voice was much louder and deeper. All music died. Every Aeolian fled into its shell. Hicks and the marines looked toward the doorway.

Bastian King stood there. The colonel himself, commander of the Freedom Brigade.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Old Fal limped toward the scales, his cane tapping, his beard ruffling with every huff and puff of his breath. The old warrior still wore his sash of chinking medals, which slowed him down considerably, but he trudged on, waving aside young Aeolians who rushed forward to help.

"Away, away with you!" He swung his cane at the young ones. "Pestering children, always running underfoot. Stand back and get out of an old Aeolian's way! Or I'll thrust my cane into your shells and give you a stirring you'll never forget."

Watching from the sidelines, King couldn't help but smile. He liked the old codger. Fal made him feel young.

And at my age, that's something, King thought with a smirk.

Jordan raised an eyebrow. "You're smiling? You, the famous gruff bulldog?"

"Old warriors make me happy," King said, watching Fal limp along.

"As someone who works for an old warrior, I can't say I share the sentiment," Jordan said. "I'm still nervous. I don't like any of this. I don't like being on trial. I don't like being stuck here in a palace when we should be fighting a war. None of this."

"Ah, come on now, sir," Darjeeling said to the tall XO. "Things are going well. The vote is going our way."

Indeed, the scales were tipping firmly toward "friends." The golden bowl almost touched the floor, heavy with diamonds. Meanwhile, the onyx bowl barely had any diamonds in it.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Jordan said. "So far, only the thinkers have voted, and we know they like us. Once the politicians start to vote, things might get ugly."

The three men passed looks back and forth.

They huddled closer together and dropped their voices to whispers. No telepathy. The Aeolians had already proved themselves capable of hacking MindWeb. The humans were taking no chances.

"If we lose this vote," King whispered, "we must fight our way out."

Jordan's eyes were dark. "So we won't respect a democratic vote."

"I don't like it." Darjeeling's mustache drooped. "We spent our lives fighting for democracy. All three of us. We fought two great wars to defend the democracies of Earth. And now we will refuse to accept a democratic vote?"

"That democratic vote would mean our deaths," King said.

"Were we not always willing to give our lives for democracy?" Darjeeling insisted.

King heaved a sigh. "I know, old friend. I understand. I can't find a flaw with your logic. But if we lost this vote, dying seems wrong to me. Not a sacrifice but a surrender. I can't explain it. Maybe I'm hypocritical."

They were all silent for a moment, lost in their own thoughts.

Finally King spoke again. "I remember an old saying. Something I heard at the academy. Democracy is two wolves and a sheep voting on what's for dinner. I dismissed that saying then. Because I knew that true democracy is not a pack of wolves. True democracy protects the minority. We are strangers in this land. We are few humans among millions of Aeolians. Their democracy does not protect us; indeed it may doom us. Morally, we need not respect it."

Jordan took a deep breath. "Maybe we'll win after all. But if we don't—I'll follow you, Bulldog. To battle if we must."

"I hope we can form an alliance. But if we cannot—"

A loud clearing of the throat interrupted King. He looked around quickly, wondering if an Aeolian had been eavesdropping. But it was only Fal. The old warrior was limping by them on his way to the scales. If he had overheard the conversation, Fal gave no sign of it. He simply greeted King with a nod.

"Hullo, young man. I'm off to vote. You're standing trial! Did you know?"

"I had some idea," King said.

"Well then. You should be more careful next time."

King couldn't help but smile again. "I'll try."

Fal paused for a moment, then leaned closer. His tentacles wilted. Suddenly the old Aeolian seemed so sad. "You'll find out the truth soon enough, my young friend," he said softly. "Soon enough …"

King frowned. "The truth about what?"

Fal cleared his throat. "What's that? A vote? What are we voting for again? Ah, never mind, out of my way! I've got a vote to cast."

Muttering about the folly of young troublemakers, Fal tottered onward. He reached the scale, knelt with creaking joints, and lifted a diamond. He considered for a moment, stroking his beard.

"I, of course, vote for friendship." He tossed the diamond into the golden bowl, then glared around the room, shaking his cane. "And anyone who votes otherwise I shall challenge to a duel!"

"Doddering old fool," Gorba muttered from his balcony. The politician was leaning back on his throne, his feet on a living footstool. He looked bored.

The other warriors lined up. One by one, to an Aeolian, they voted for friendship. The golden scale tilted closer to the floor.

But there were few warriors. So few.

And then it was the politicians' turn to vote.

Gorba walked down the staircase from his mezzanine, head held high. A coterie of servants groveled around him. The silver politician strutted across the palace, his sashes so long they trailed on the floor behind him. Finally he reached the scale, lifted a diamond, and looked at the crowd.

"I am going to make this clear," Gorba said. "The humans are an infestation. A menace to Heaven's Geode. I will be watching this vote. I will see any politician who votes differently from me. And I will remember."

He tossed the diamond into the onyx bowl. It clattered. Ever so slightly, the scales tilted the other way.

Gorba gave King a withering look, snorted, then returned to his throne.

"Not exactly the pristine democracy we've always defended," Jordan said.

King nodded. "Maybe we can give the Aeolians some civics lessons. We can teach them about more than just robotics. But for now we must let them do things their way."

The lower-ranking politicians lined up to vote.

Another diamond clattered into the onyx bowl.

And another. And another after that.

Vote by vote, the onyx bowl dipped lower. Soon the two bowls were balanced.

Then the scales tilted toward "foe."

One young politician with a polished black shell paused, gave the crown a defiant look, and openly tossed a diamond into the golden bowl. A vote for "friend."

Gorba growled. The young politician met his gaze and snorted.

"I vote as I please," he said and strutted off, head held high.

"That took balls," Darjeeling said.

King nodded. "Of solid stone."

The next few politicians voted "foe," and the onyx bowl tilted toward the floor. But then another politician broke ranks and voted "friend." And amazingly—the next one too. Gorba gnashed his teeth and clutched his balcony and grunted and railed. But he could do nothing else.

The remaining politicians flailed their tentacles, talking among themselves. King caught snippets on his infrared detector.

"What could Gorba do? Nothing."

"Let us vote as we like."

"He's all bark and no bite."

"I know how I'm voting."

A few more votes for "friends." A handful for "foes." The scales were evenly tipped. One vote they tilted to the right, then to the left. It was close. Damn close. And the politicians were voting quickly, moving with remarkable speed for such a bureaucratic bunch.

A few more diamonds clattered into the golden bowl.

And a few more.

The golden bowl tilted toward the floor. "Friends."

Gorba gripped the balcony railings, fuming. By now the railings were twisted and cracking.

Selly and Fal watched with wide eyes, holding their breath.

The line of voting politicians was getting shorter and shorter.

The golden bowl became heavier. Definitely friends.

"What are you doing?" Gorba demanded. "How dare you vote against me!"

And something amazing happened. Laughter passed through the crowd. Not just among the thinkers and warriors—but even among some younger politicians.

"There has been division among the politicians for a while now, I wager," Jordan whispered to King. "This gives them an opportunity to disobey their elders."

King nodded. "Our visit here is a catalyst."

Another diamond clinked into the golden bowl. And another. And even in the heavy gravity of Heaven's Geode, King suddenly felt half as heavy. They were going to win this.

Just then Gorba's tentacles fluttered so madly they blurred. The infrared detector translated the signal as a deafening shout.

"Wait! Comrades, wait!"

Everyone turned toward the balcony. The Aeolian at the front of the line paused, holding the diamond in his clawed toes.

"Hear me, Heaven's Geode!" Gorba cried. "I just received news. Here in our city, in our sacred Queensnest, the human assault began!"

* * * * *

The words echoed through the palace.

Looks passed back and forth. Tentacles fluttered in waves across the grand hall. King glanced at his companions.

"What the hell?" King muttered.

He pulled up MindWeb. Down here, without the benefit of Freedom's sensors and boosters, his telepathic range was limited. He couldn't detect any MindLinks nearby other than Jordan and Darjeeling, who stood here with him.

"I'm not getting anything either," Darjeeling said.

"No luck here," Jordan said, his eyes dark and face heavy. "But that doesn't mean much. They might just be out of range."

Stowy just stood there, eyes wide, looking from man to man. Without a MindLink of her own, there wasn't much she could do.

King stared up at the mezzanine. Gorba was apoplectic, his tentacles whirling, his toes twisting what remained of the railing.

"What is the meaning of this?" King demanded.

"Your fellow humans are invading!" Gorba shot back. "You have fooled us long enough, Admiral King. Now we see the truth of humanity. My comrades are already sending a video. Behold!"

His tentacles fluttered, projecting not words this time but a video. Across the room, Aeolians gasped.

King's infrared detector groaned and hummed in protest. QT had built the device to intercept Aeolian words, which were transmitted from their tentacles, and translate them into English. The little machine struggled to translate video. Until now, King hadn't even known Aeolian tentacles could transmit videos.

A jittery vision appeared in his mind, barely more than hints of shapes and sounds. It seemed to be the inside of a music hall. Several marines were there, breaking musical instruments, tormenting Aeolian musicians, and wreaking general havoc. The infrared device had enough. It beeped miserably, crashed, and rebooted. The video vanished. But King had seen enough.

"I'm going to take care of this right now." King began marching toward the door.

Aeolian warriors moved at once to block the exit.

King froze, fists clenched. "Get out of my way. Those are my troops out there. I'm going to stop them."

"Do you see?" Gorba cried from the balcony. "See how the coward tries to flee once he's been exposed? No, Admiral King. You will not escape like a tunnel pup with your tentacles inside your shell. Our own warriors will take care of this infestation. We will continue to vote."

"We cannot vote while the aliens attack!" cried a politician from the floor.

"We must!" Gorba said. "We cannot let the aliens sabotage our democracy. Keep voting! Vote wisely. Vote and we will soon dispose of this infestation and the starship that brought it here."

King stepped toward the guards, tried to get through. They blocked his way.

"Is it time to fight our way out?" Darjeeling said, reaching for his gun.

Jordan's hand inched toward his gun too.

"Wait." King waved them down. "I'm getting something on MindWeb. A signal. Weak." He frowned, concentrating, trying to detect the distant wisps of telepathy.

An avatar popped up, flickered, faded.

Bastian!

"Bastian is down here," he said.

Jordan's eyes widened. "You don't think he's part of this?"

"Of course not," King said. "He's here to stop this."

Gorba's voice rolled over the palace. "Vote, my friends! Vote to exterminate the menace!"

The line moved faster now. Diamonds chinked into the onyx bowl. More and more. Not a single politician voted for friendship anymore. Diamond after diamond—foe after foe. And the onyx bowl sank lower.

Hidden trapdoors opened on the palace floor. Warriors emerged—big, burly Aeolians with shells like unforgiving boulders. They moved through the crowd, forming a henge around the humans. They all carried blood-red crystal daggers. The daggers were lowered. They were not attacking yet. But they were ready.

King kept his gun holstered, but his fingers fluttered over it. Jordan and Darjeeling were ready to draw too, and Stowy pulled a switchblade from one of her many pockets. The Aeolian warriors moved closer, just waiting for the order.

The last few politicians were still voting. King watched with dark eyes as the onyx bowl sank inch by inch toward his death.

* * * * *

The voice echoed across the music hall.

"Enough!"

Bastian stomped into the room, wearing battle fatigues, his face hard with cold rage.

Hicks and the other marines froze. They stared.

Bastian marched across the hall. His boots scattered fallen, dented musical instruments, creating a discordant symphony.

Hicks raised his chin and crossed his arms, refusing to be intimidated. His friends looked ashamed. They dropped their battered instruments and lowered their heads. They had been caught and they knew it.

Bastian spotted Evan among them. The boy stared at the floor, shoulders slumped. His eyes were damp. Bastian almost felt bad for the kid. His mother would probably kill him. Kim and the military policemen were waiting outside. Bastian had asked them to; he wanted to handle this alone if he could. But once Kim got her hands on Evan, God help the boy.

"Well, good for you." Hicks clapped languidly. "You caught us. You want to know why we're here?"

"I don't give a damn." Bastian walked closer, stopping a step away from the sergeant. "You can save your excuses for your trial."

Hicks snorted. "You're going to put me on trial? Put your father on trial instead! He came down here. He's off gallivanting somewhere in this city. Along with other high-and-mighty commanders."

"I'm not going to debate this," Bastian said.

"You will listen to me!" Hicks said. "We marines fought a war. We, the enlisted, the grunts, the jarheads—we fought for you! We saw our brothers die for you! We bled. We killed. We still suffer nightmares." His face contorted with rage, and his eyes dampened. "I wake up screaming most nights, feeling the rah claws still in my guts. I lost a chunk of my intestines to the monsters. All I did was ask for some shore leave, and I got confined to quarters. Crammed into a pen. Just cannon fodder, kept in the fridge until the next battle. No. No! I will not tolerate that. You want to put me on trial? I put you on trial! I put the whole goddamn ship on trial!"

Bastian waited patiently for Hicks to stop speaking. Finally the NCO ended his diatribe. He breathed heavily, eyes red, fists shaking.

"Hicks, I'm sorry," Bastian said.

Hicks flinched. He lowered his fists. "What?"

"I'm sorry," Bastian said, his voice soft. "I'm sorry for what you went through. For losing friends. For suffering through this war. For losing so many brothers to the rahs. You still have more guts than half the soldiers in the Alliance."

Hicks looked at his feet. "I'm in deep shit, aren't I?"

Bastian nodded. "You'll face trial. You'll be able to defend yourself. I can't tell you now whether you'll be demoted, discharged, imprisoned, or all three. But yes, you're in deep shit."

Hicks wiped his eyes. "Ah, fuck it. I was done anyway, sir." He looked up at Bastian, tears on his cheeks. "I was done. I knew I was done. One way or another. I couldn't face another battle. That's why I came here. A last hurrah."

Bastian looked at the other marines. "You'll all have to come with me now. Back to the ship. The military police are outside. You'll be placed under arrest."

They all nodded, silent and ashamed.

"Sir?" Hicks said. "Just one thing before you drag us off in chains. The kid? Private Fletcher?" He jabbed a thumb toward the private. "I forced him here. Kidnapped him, you could say. Go easy on him."

Bastian nodded. "I'll see what I can do. Thanks, Hicks."

He led the marines out of the music hall. The military police were waiting there. So was a very angry engineer.

Kim Fletcher rushed forward, grabbed her son, and shook him. "What the hell were you thinking, Evan? What the hell?" Suddenly tears were flowing down her cheeks. "Why? You scared me. You scared me so much."

Evan looked into her eyes. She looked back. For a moment, they seemed to be communicating telepathically. Then Kim cried fresh tears and embraced her son.

* * * * *

A crowd of Aeolians gathered around the music hall, watching. Most were workers, but a few warriors stood here too, weapons raised. Bastian had met them outside the doors, had pleaded with them to stand down.

"Let me take care of this," he had told the aliens. "Please."

The boulder-like warriors had agreed. But they still watched everything carefully, ready to leap into battle if necessary.

There would be time later to figure out what exactly had happened. For now Bastian had to get every human out of here. Before blood spilled. Only by a miracle had nobody died yet.

The MPs cuffed the marines, who did not resist, and led them to the Raven. The stealth ship was small enough to park on the nearby riverbank.

Bastian was about to enter the Raven too when something caught his eye.

One Aeolian onlooker, a young thinker with a crystalline shell, was holding a book.

A book. An actual book. A paperback. Similar to what you'd see on Earth, aside from the shape. The book was hexagonal, not rectangular like human books, but Bastian clearly saw a cover, a title, pages. The younger thinker simply stood there, looking at the "aliens" with wide eyes, holding the book with one foot.

"Bastian?" Kim said, peeking from the Raven's hatch. "You coming?"

"Selly told us that Aeolians don't have books," he mumbled. "But Emily was right. They do read books."

"Huh? Bas, come on, we gotta get out of here."

"Kim, a moment." He thought back to their conversations on the Freedom. Selly had often expressed wonder over human literature. Something new. Something alien to him.

Kim hopped out of the Raven and walked toward him. "Bas, what's wrong?"

He looked at her. "Selly talked to us on the Freedom about a cultural and technological exchange. Remember what he told us? That Aeolians create art with music, painting, sculptures—but not literature. They don't have books." He pointed. "That Aeolian is holding a book."

"So?" Kim said. "Maybe it's a picture book. Maybe they have those. Come on."

"Wait. Emily said something back on the Freedom. She saw an Aeolian holding a book, and the alien tried to hide it." Bastian approached the young thinker. "Hello there! My name is Bastian."

A few nearby Aeolians vanished into their shells and rolled away. But the thinker with the book stood his ground.

"You're one of the aliens," the shelled creature whispered.

"Where did you get that book?" Bastian said.

With a shaky toe, the thinker pointed at a nearby building. "There. The library."

Bastian turned toward Kim. "A library. An entire library. Not likely it's all picture books. I think that Selly was hiding something. And I want to know what."

Kim bit her lip. "Bas, I really wanna get outta here."

"Get back to the Freedom. Take everyone in the Raven. I'm staying."

Kim's face hardened. "Then I'm staying with you."

"You don't have to."

"I'm not leaving you," she said. "The military police can take the marines back to the ship. Let's go investigate this library."

* * * * *

The library was shaped like a giant pine cone carved from stone. The scales thrust out, forming hundreds of balconies. Gardens of coiling creatures surrounded the building, not quite plants nor animals, blinking eyes and rustling petals that chinked with tiny gems.

"No guards at the door," Bastian said. "Strange."

"Have you ever seen guards at an Earth library?" Kim said.

"Fair enough."

No guards, perhaps. But quite a few Aeolians had followed Bastian and Kim here, gaping at the humans. Bastian and Kim were aliens in this world. There would be no avoiding attention. The Aeolians were shy creatures, meeker than humans, but even they couldn't resist their curiosity. Several Aeolians raised crystals that hung on strings, turning and flashing with lights. Alien cameras, perhaps.

They entered the library. The inner hall was oval and towering. It felt like being inside a giant hollow egg. A mosaic of crystals covered the floor, depicting a sapphire river flowing among emerald fields. But the mosaic, splendid as it was, paled in comparison to the books.

Alcoves filled the walls, running from floor to ceiling, forming massive stone honeycombs. Countless hexagonal books filled the alcoves, neatly plugged into place, covers facing outward.

Bastian blinked. "Wow. Alien bookshelves."

Kim looked around with wide eyes, a smile on her face. "Hexagons. Of course. On Earth, bees figured out long ago that it's the most efficient storage shape. The Aeolians figured it out too."

"So Selly lied," Bastian said. "He's hiding something. Maybe something in this library."

Footsteps sounded in the shadows. Bastian and Kim spun around.

An Aeolian came walking toward them. He wore long blue robes that draped across his shell and dragged along the floor. The robes were open at the front, revealing a shell coated with purple gemstones. Amethysts, by the looks of it. A thinker then. Like Selly. While Selly boasted crystals of many kinds, each symbolizing mastery of another discipline, this Aeolian seemed to be a specialist.

"Hello, blessed visitors from the stars!" said the Aeolian. One of his three eyes sported a monocle. "I am the librarian. And the librarian is me. I've read so many books about visitors from other worlds! I never imagined that aliens would someday visit my own humble library."

"Librarian, these aren't only … picture books or anything, are they?" Bastian said. "You have novels here too?

"Oh yes. Many novels. Many histories. Many autobiographies. Poetry too! Perhaps I could interest you in the epic poems of High Priest Melkar? He composed a five-hundred-page ode to granite."

Bastian and Kim glanced at each other.

"Do you really think they're hiding a secret here?" Kim telepathized.

Bastian nodded. "This librarian is a thinker. Selly leads the entire thinkers' guild. And he lied to us. He didn't want us to know about these books. So I want to read them."

The librarian blinked at them and adjusted his monocle. "Perhaps granite is not your thing. Oh, I know. How about The Complete Tax Code: The Revised and Updated Third Edition? Many politicians come here to read that book. In fact, it's our most popular volume. Gor'ba'rosh'na himself has signed our copy."

"It sounds fascinating," Bastian said. "But I'm looking for something else." He glanced at Kim, then back at the librarian. "A history book. A book about the war between the Aeolians and the rahs."

The librarian disappeared into his shell, leaving his monocle to hover for a split second in the air, then clatter onto the floor.

"Um, excuse me, sir?" Bastian said.

An eye peered from inside the shell. A quivering voice emerged. "I cannot. Such books are forbidden."

"Forbidden by whom?" Bastian said.

"The politicians forbid it," the librarian said in a reedy voice.

Bastian looked around him, then back at the librarian. "Do the politicians truly have dominion over knowledge?"

The librarian shuddered in his shell. "I've seen their punishments. Aeolians ripped from their shells." He whimpered.

"On Earth, we've had leaders try to hide, censor, even burn books," Bastian said. "But you're a librarian. You know how sacred books are. I cannot promise you freedom from consequence. But I can promise that if you share this forbidden knowledge with me, I'll do my best to protect you. And to bring about change in Heaven's Geode."

The librarian's head emerged from his shell. "I was not here. I was off to vote! I did not meet you. The library was abandoned." He began to hurry off, then looked back at Bastian. "The topmost shelf. The red book with the green letters. I do not know you."

He rushed off and vanished into the shadows.

Kim patted Bastian on the shoulder. "You have your moments, Bastian."

He smiled. "Not bad for a meathead, huh?"

They looked up. The topmost shelf was several stories high, nearly drowning in shadows.

"No ladder," Bastian said. "Great."

Kim smiled sheepishly. "I always wanted to swing on a library ladder."

"Well, sorry to disappoint you, Belle." Bastian spotted knobs jutting out from the honeycomb. "It's rock climbing today."

Kim blanched. "I'm not good with heights. You climb. I'll wait below to catch you if you fall."

"I'm twice your size. And heavier than usual in this gravity."

"Good point. If you fall, I'll make sure to jump aside."

"Thanks," Bastian muttered, grabbed a knob, and began climbing the wall.

He passed by hundreds of hexagonal cells, each containing a single book. The covers were made of stone or steel, featuring embossed titles and engraved illustrations, often adorned with crystals and precious metals. The recent MindLink upgrade had included a crude Aeolian translator. Bastian was able to read the titles. There were books on gemology, geology, petrology, mineralogy. The Aeolians were clearly fascinated with stone. But also books with fanciful titles like Journey to the Heavens, The Mines of the Lost, and The Stars in the Queen's Eyes. Literature, perhaps?

I wish you could be here, Dad, he thought. You'd love this place.

Soon enough, Bastian reached the top shelves. He clung to the little stone knobs, resisting the urge to look down. He scanned the shelves for a red book. He saw a hexagonal book with an iron cover inlaid with flaming rubies. Another book had a granite cover, its title etched into the stone and filled with gold. One book had a cover made of mossy stone—no, not mossy stone but a worker's shell! Another book sported a cover made entirely from translucent crystals, the pages visible inside.

Bastian had to climb sideways, clinging to the stones, until he found it. A red book. The cover was made of painted wood. It seemed simpler than the other books. There was no engraving on the cover, just letters painted green. The Rah War.

He carried the book down.

"The Aeolians don't seem to believe in tables or chairs," Kim said, settling down on the floor. "Sit beside me. It's story time."

He sat cross-legged beside her. They flipped open the wooden cover, revealing pages of slender, translucent crystal. Delicate letters were engraved into the crystalline pages.

They began to read, letting MindWeb translate the words.

With every page flipped, their eyes grew wider.

Bastian flipped the pages faster, scanning the data, quickly racing toward the inevitable conclusion. To the end of the war.

They reached the last page. They read it silently, then looked at each other.

"Oh my God," Bastian whispered.

Kim had tears in her eyes. "No wonder they were hiding it."

Bastian rose to his feet. "We must let the admiral know. Before it's too late."

Kim nodded, concentrated for a moment, then winced. "I can't reach him on MindWeb. He's out of range."

He helped her up. "Come on, Kim. Run!"

CHAPTER TWENTY

The final Aeolian cast his vote. Another diamond into the onyx bowl. A vote for "foe." A vote to exterminate the "alien invaders."

That was it. The voting was over.

King stood in the palace, staring at the giant scales. The scales that had doomed him to death.

Leaning over the mezzanine railing like a vulture over a carcass, Gorba gave a hideous grin. A grin full of sharp teeth and quivering strings of saliva.

"So, humans, your fate is sealed. The people have voted. And we have voted death. Death to the barbaric humans!"

Jordan and Darjeeling drew their handguns.

Stowy raised her switchblade and snarled.

The Aeolian warriors came closing in—they were the size of gorillas and covered in thick stone armor.

King had not wanted this to come to violence. He tried again to use MindLink, to reach the Freedom, to reach Bastian. Nothing.

He drew his gun too and aimed at the mezzanine.

Gorba shrieked and fled behind his throne.

"Kill them!" the politician screeched. "Kill them right here in the palace!"

"No, I beg you, no!" Selly cried, racing across the hall. But Aeolian warriors grabbed the thinker and pulled him back.

"Fight to the doorway!" King said to his fellow humans. "We'll try to break out and vanish into the city."

Suddenly—a MindLink call!

Bastian!

His avatar was flickering, skimming the edge of telepathic range. A voice spoke in King's mind. "Dad!"

An Aeolian warrior aimed a crystal dagger at him. King leaped aside. A laser beam slammed into the floor where he had stood. Mosaic tiles flew every which way. King fired. A bullet pounded the Aeolian's rocky shell, chipping the stone but doing the beast no actual harm.

"Dad, I learned about the war," Bastian said. "How they won."

"Not a good time, Bastian!"

King leaped again, dodging another red beam. Jordan and Darjeeling were firing too. But their bullets couldn't penetrate the guards' thick shells. Stowy was hopping from side to side, dodging the red lasers. In her pool, the queen was flailing and crying out like an injured animal. Aeolians were fleeing into their shells and rolling away, warbling with fear.

"Dad, this is important."

"Brain-dump me!" he said.

Bastian hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"Do it!"

Brain dumps. Only a senior officer could authorize them. They involved cramming large amounts of information from MindLink to MindLink. Depending on how much information you shared, it could devastate a mind. It could even kill a man.

Well, King was facing death anyway. Bastian authorized the brain dump. King accepted the knowledge.

His brain sizzled. He groaned. Information flooded through his MindLink implant directly into his brain tissue. He fell to his knees, shaking. Jordan had to grab him, pull him aside. A laser beam hit the floor behind them, chipping more mosaic tiles.

But King had it.

He knew.

He understood.

A laser beam hit King in the shoulder. His flesh sizzled. He grunted.

"Sir!" Stowy cried.

King ignored the pain and stared up at the balcony. "You call us barbarians? I know what you did!" His hoarse cry echoed through the palace. "I know how you won your war! I know what happened to your old world!"

The Aeolian warriors froze, daggers in hand.

The fleeing workers, politicians, and thinkers froze too. A few curious heads emerged from rocky shells. Gorba peeked from behind his throne.

"I know," King repeated. He didn't even need to shout now. In the dead silence, everyone heard. "And not only me. My people know. We know how you defeated the rahs."

Farther down the hall, Selly lowered his head.

Fal, old and proud warrior, mumbled inaudibly into his beard, and tears flowed down his wrinkled skin.

King walked across the room, moving between the Aeolians, ignoring the pain in his shoulder. Jordan was wounded too, clutching his arm. Stowy and Darjeeling stood side by side, eyes wide.

"The rahs invaded your star system, same as they invaded ours," King said. "Same as they invaded a thousand others. You fought them hard. You fought them well. As we humans still do. But you were a young species, and they were so many, so strong. They overwhelmed your fleet. They invaded your worlds—your colony worlds and your homeworld. You were about to lose this war. You were where humanity was. Facing defeat."

The warriors who had surrounded King lowered their daggers. They fell back, pulling their heads into their shells. Even Gorba listened quietly, pathetically clutching what remained of the mezzanine railing.

"In Earth lore, we tell of an old hero," King continued. "His name was Samson. He was a great warrior, a man of legendary strength. Until his enemy captured him, chained him in a temple, and tormented him. With his great strength, Samson toppled the pillars of the temple, bringing it down upon him—and his enemies. He slew them all. He won the war. But only with the ultimate sacrifice. Years later, on Earth we spoke of the Samson Option—a military option of last resort. That is what you did, children of Aeolia. You toppled the halls of the temple. You destroyed your own worlds. One world you blew into a cloud of asteroids. The other you drenched with chemical and biological weapons, wiping out all life. You slew millions of rahs—and billions of your own people. A few chosen got to flee. The leaders. The generals. Their friends. Not many. The others you sacrificed. You won the war. Not by defeating the rahs in battle. But by destroying your own civilization."

* * * * *

Silence lingered in the hall. A few Aeolians were weeping. Stowy gave a loud sniff and blew her nose.

A tapping sounded. Fal came limping toward King, gripping his cane with one raised foot. A few Aeolians, hiding in their shells, rolled aside to let him pass.

The old warrior spoke in a low, raspy voice. "Yes. What you say is true. We lived on three planets in this system. One is now a wasteland. The other is now an asteroid field. The third we hurled into the fire of a nearby nebula. We killed billions of our people—so that we could save a few. None of us are alive today who were alive at that time. But I remember the tales of my elders when I was very young. We fled into hiding. And we survived." The old warrior looked into King's eyes. "If I today faced such a choice, would I do it? I do not know. But one thing you said is wrong, Admiral King. We were not like Samson. Your hero sacrificed his life to save his people. We sacrificed our people to save our lives."

That's what you wanted me to know, friend, isn't it? King thought, looking at the old warrior. You could not speak it aloud. So you bought us enough time to find the truth. Thank you.

As if he could read his mind, Fal nodded.

King swept his gaze around the palace, looking at everyone, at Aeolians from every caste. All the descendants of those who had fled.

"I am a soldier," King said. "And I lead many soldiers. We all made the same vow. To defend our people. To face the enemy head-on and charge into the fire so that our people may be safe. I myself, and every soldier under my command—we vowed even to give our lives if we must. For what we defend is precious. Our blue planet Earth. I would gladly lay down my life for her. Here in this palace, throughout this trial, I listened to your accusations. I heard you call humans barbaric. Cruel. Predators. A species without honor that knows only how to kill. I say to you: humanity is more noble than Aeolia will ever be. If you want to see a monster, look into a mirror."

He turned to walk away.

The Aeolians parted before him. Even the warriors. Nobody made a single move to stop him. Jordan, Darjeeling, and Stowy followed. They all walked toward the palace doors.

"Wait!"

A voice from behind, high and tremulous.

King turned his head. A young politician, his shell smooth and gray, was looking at him. He wore no sash, no badges. He was barely more than a boy.

"Sir?" said the young Aeolian. "I would like to apologize. And I would like to change my vote." The politician walked toward the scales, then looked toward his comrades. "The ancient laws allow it. You may confirm this in any book you like. I may change my vote before the verdict is implemented. And I vote for humanity."

He plucked one of the acorn-sized diamonds from the onyx box, then deposited it into the golden bowl. The palace was so silent everyone heard the clattering stone.

Another politician stepped forward.

"I too would like to change my vote."

Another diamond for the golden bowl.

More Aeolians stepped forward, retrieved their diamonds, and changed their votes. The scales tilted, becoming perfectly even now. A tie.

Everyone stood still, waiting to see if anyone else would change his vote.

Footsteps padded across the floor. Aeolians made way, whispering among themselves. Gorba stepped toward the scales. He looked tired. He looked older. His neck drooped, and his shell had lost some of its luster.

And Gorba, the head of the politician caste himself, changed his vote.

The scales tilted toward gold.

Humans were friends.

Gorba turned to look at the humans. He reached under his sash and pulled out a crystal dagger.

King inhaled sharply and leaped aside. The other humans dived for cover too. Aeolians scattered.

A laser beam crackled and sizzled the air, filling the room with light. The stench of cooking flesh followed.

Gorba stood for a moment longer, a hole in the middle of his shell. He had aimed right at the Aeolian brain.

He tumbled onto the floor.

Everyone stared at the body, silent, until a few workers dared approach, take the dead politician, and carry him away.

"Why did he do it?" Stowy whispered to King. Tears filled her eyes.

"Samson," King said softly. "He gave his life so that Heaven's Geode can heal."

The palace doors burst open. Bastian and Kim ran inside. They both paused before King, panting.

"Dad!" Bastian wiped sweat off his brow. "You're still alive."

"Sorry to disappoint you," King said, then pulled his son into a crushing hug.

Meanwhile, Kim snapped to attention and gave him a salute. "Sir."

She was still keeping their romance secret, pretending to simply be his engineer, a soldier under his command, not his lover. Right now King didn't have the stomach for secrets. He pulled Kim into a hug too, and he kissed her on the mouth.

Jordan and Darjeeling pretended not to notice. Stowy gaped, her eyes so wide the eyeballs almost fell out.

* * * * *

An hour later, they were back on the Freedom.

The dreadnought was still inside Heaven's Geode, suspended inside the shipyard, but soon they would be ready to leave. King walked the halls of his starship, reviewing the repairs. She had limped into Heaven's Geode with half her hull blown away, half her systems shut down. A dying relic. The Aeolians had worked miracles. Freedom was back to her former glory. In many ways, she was more powerful than ever. Her engines were faster, her guns deadlier. A shiny new hull covered the starboard. Brand-new decks gleamed. There were no scars from the terrible battle against the Tyranny.

Only memories.

Memories of a thousand spacers who had fallen on this quest to find the Aeolians. Who would never grow old. Never come home. Who had given their lives for … what? A more efficient engine? Was that all?

King paused by a corridor overlooking a starboard gunnery station.

Jordan, who had been walking with him, stood still too.

Both men stood on the walkway, looking through a tall window at a deck below. A new team of gunners, recruited from other departments, were manning the great Angels of Liberty. The cannons too had been rebuilt. A mecha was thumping across the deck, carrying a missile the size of a truck. King remembered the enemy torpedo plowing into this deck, destroying everything, killing everyone. Aside from a plaque on the wall, no sign of that tragedy remained. As if those fallen here had been wiped from memory, locked in some forbidden book.

"So we failed," King said softly. "We flew all this way. We lost the Caracal, the Kuroko, the Mahatma, the Wandering Sun. We lost a thousand of our own spacers. For what? For nothing. To learn that the Aeolians won by destroying their own worlds."

"We made contact with a new alien civilization," Jordan said. "We formed an alliance. We learned that not all aliens are monsters like the rahs. We learned that we're not alone."

King took a deep breath. "Normally that would be enough. Hell, more than enough. A few years ago, we didn't even know aliens existed at all. To form an alliance with an alien civilization is historic. Monumental. And yet … somehow today it doesn't feel like enough."

Three years ago, the rahs had attacked Earth. The alien spiders had nearly destroyed humanity. Through grit, determination, and sacrifice, King and his fellow soldiers had driven the enemy back. Only for Elder'rah, empress of Arakavish, to create the arachtaurs. A race of hybrids. Half spiders, half humans. Just one of their ships, the dreaded Tyranny, had wiped out King's flotilla and nearly destroyed the Freedom. The arachtaurs had proved their ability, and King did not doubt Elder'rah was watching. She was breeding an army of those things. He knew that in his bones. And next time the arachtaurs wouldn't be facing humanity out here, a thousand light-years in space.

They would strike Earth.

King had come all this way to find a weapon. To find out how the Aeolians had defeated the rahs. Only to find despair.

Jordan put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll keep doing what we've always done, old friend. Fighting. We'll find ways to trick the enemy. To strengthen our fleet. To survive. We've been in tough spots before. We'll overcome."

King nodded, his throat suddenly feeling tight, and it wasn't just the old war wound. Yes, they've been in tough spots. They had seen dark times. They always had one another. Friends. Family. The companionship of all on Earth. Together, they gave one another strength.

The war against the rahs was a galactic war. And King had seen two paths. A path of unity and self-sacrifice. And a path of betrayal. He did not know if he could win this war. But he knew that he would stay true to his ideals.

"It sounds trite," King said. "But it's love that gives us humans our strength. It's love that keeps us flying in the unbearable darkness between the stars. I don't know if love is enough against the hatred of the rahs. But I know that so long as we live, it gives me strength."

Below on the gunnery deck, the mecha was loading Maccabee torpedoes into the prelaunch tubes, a stark reminder of looming battles. King and Jordan watched in silence for a moment, lost in their own thoughts. Very soon now, they would fire up the new Talaria drive. It would be time to fly home.

Scraping footsteps sounded behind them.

"Bully Dog?"

King turned from the window. Selly came walking down the corridor toward him.

"Selly! What happened?" King said. "You're missing a few crystals from your shell."

Where crystals had once shone were only empty pits.

"There are some disciplines of knowledge I must … relearn," Selly said. "History. Diplomacy. Ethics." He took a deep breath. "But that is for another time. I came here to say goodbye. You have taught me a lot, Bully Dog. About your people. And about mine."

King held out his hand. "Goodbye, Selly."

Selly licked his hand. Ah yes. King had forgotten about the licks.

"Bully Dog." Selly hesitated, looked back down the hallway, then at King. "There is something else I haven't told you. Gorba forbade it. But with him gone, I think I can share. And I think it can help."

King raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Selly nodded. "We wiped out millions of rahs by destroying our planets, yes. But we had another weapon. A secret weapon. A weapon that helped us win many battles in space."

Jordan's eyes widened. "And you're only telling us now?"

"I am sorry, humans. This weapon too is shameful to us. For it demands a sacrifice. One we were too willing to make. But there is no victory without sacrifice. No hope without despair. Maybe, Bully Dog, this weapon can help you do what we could not. Maybe it will help you win."

* * * * *

They met in the boardroom. Only three humans had come. King, Jordan, and Kim. Admiral, commander, engineer. It was a private place. A safe place. A place for a discussion that could change the course of history.

King made sure to double check the HVAC vents. No Stowy.

"Well, Selly?" King said. "We're all here. Tell us about this secret weapon."

The humans all sat at one side of the table. Selly sat at the other side, his shell propped onto a chair. Three of his legs were pulled into the shell. The front two were slung over the edge like human legs. He was aping more and more human mannerisms every day. He now sat like a human, nodded and shook his head like a human, even began to mimic human facial expressions. As best an alien with three eyes, tentacles instead of hair, and a mouth on the top of its head could at least.

"There is a game Aeolian children play," Selly said. "It is hard to translate the name. The closest translation is: the skipping-stone game. We draw patterns of circles in the ground. And young Aeolians, with only their tiptoes sticking out their shells, must bounce from circle to circle."

"Hopscotch," Kim said. "Human children play a similar game."

"I never played hopscotch," King said.

Jordan snorted. "Of course not. When you were a kid, you were too busy planning military campaigns."

"Yes, well, that's coming in handy now," King said. "Selly, what about hopscotch?"

The alien continued speaking. "During our war against the rahs, the thinkers were constantly inventing new weapons. New technology. New ways to fight the enemy. Their greatest invention was the skipping-stone drive. Or as you humans might call it—the hopscotch drive. Technology for starships—from small starfighters to great dreadnoughts. It put our warships in terrible danger. But it gave us an edge. An advantage over the rahs. With the hopscotch drive, we lost many pilots. But we won many battles."

King frowned. "You make it sound like some kamikaze drive."

"No. Our pilots did not fly kamikaze attacks. With a hopscotch drive, a ship could, well, hop. To a nearby location in space."

"You mean fly there very quickly?" King said.

Selly leaned forward in his seat. "I mean that a ship could vanish from reality, then reappear somewhere else in the battlefield."

"So a portal," King said. "We know about portals. That's how we flew from Earth to Aeolia."

"No. Not a portal! A portal requires massive energy to bend spacetime. It's a big operation to open a portal. And they are for long ranges. A portal can take you from here to another star system. Not useful in a battle—unless you're fleeing. Finally, portals can be detected in advance. I think you learned this while fighting the Tyranny."

"Okay, so tell me how hopscotch drives are different," King said.

"First of all—the range is much shorter," Selly said. "Extremely short. The maximum range is a hundred kilometers."

Jordan's eyes widened. "For a space battle, that's nothing! It might as well be a centimeter."

"Yes, and a hundred kilometers is a difficult hop," Selly said. "Most of our ships only skipped ten or twenty. You have to get close. Very close. So close you could practically touch the enemy ship. Then … you vanish."

"Vanish," King said.

Selly nodded and waved two feet in the air like hands. "Vanish to another reality!"

The three humans glanced at one another.

Kim finally spoke. "Selly, what do you mean by another reality? When we fly through portals, we stay in the same reality. We just bend spacetime and—"

"You will leave spacetime behind," Selly said, clutching the edge of the table. "You will leave our universe. You will leave reality itself. You will travel to … the realm below." The Aeolian shuddered. "A terrible realm. In our ancient legends, from before the age of space travel, we Aeolians told stories of a terrible underworld where heat cracks shells and terrible red lizards feed on our soft flesh. A realm like your story of hell. That is where a hopscotch drive takes you. To hell."

Kim shuddered. "I'm sorry I asked."

Selly had a faraway look in his eyes. "Not everyone returned from that realm. There are strange things there. Dangers and evils. How dangerous the journey is depends on the ship, depends on the range. A small starfighter, hopping just ten klicks away, has a good chance of reappearing. Roughly eighty-eight percent chance of success. But increase the size of the ship, or increase the range, and the danger grows. For a large ship like Freedom to hop the full range, a hundred kilometers … it's what you humans call a coin toss."

"So it kills between twelve to fifty percent of ships that try it?" Kim cried. "Well, that's not useful at all! Why not just let the rahs kill us instead of plunging ourselves willingly to hell?"

King and Jordan glanced at each other. They were both pilots. They both understood. The advantage of it. And the cost. King saw the gravity in Jordan's eyes. The visions of ships never coming home. And the necessity of sending more into the darkness.

"Because it gives a fleet a terrible advantage in battle," King said softly. "Selly, can the enemy detect where a ship will hop? The way you can detect a portal in advance?"

"No. There is no way. Absolutely no way! We've tested this again and again against the rahs."

"Then this is a serious weapon indeed," King said. "Starfighters could leap behind unsuspecting ships. They could hop away from incoming torpedoes. Entire frigates could charge to battle, only to skip past the enemy defenses and pound their inner lines."

"But the cost …," Kim said.

"It must be used sparingly," King said.

Jordan spoke in a low voice. "Unless the circumstances are dire."

"Unless the circumstances are dire," King said. Suddenly he felt too heavy again, as if he still stood on Heaven Geode's surface. "It would decimate our fleet. But it would let us win battles."

"Samson," Jordan said.

"No victory without sacrifice," King said. "That's a lesson we keep learning. The hardest lesson of all."

"But that is the life we chose," Jordan said. "All of us. A life of sacrifice. For Earth."

Kim was pale. She leaned back in her seat. "I'm the engineer of this ship. My job is to protect the Freedom. Don't tell me you want to install this . . . this death machine on my ship."

King looked at her. At an intelligent, brave, strong woman. A woman he loved.

"Kim, you're the smartest person I've ever known," he said. "But you're wrong about one thing. Your job is not to protect the Freedom. Your job is to make the Freedom the deadliest weapon in the galaxy—and make sure she wins battles."

"Even at the cost of Freedom herself?" Kim whispered.

King nodded. "Even at the cost of Freedom herself. Selly, I want the hopscotch drive installed in my Eagle starfighters. In my Rhino dropships. And yes—in the Freedom herself. In time, we're going to install this drive in every starship in the Alliance Fleet." His clenched his prosthetic metal fist. "And when we meet the enemy in battle again, we will be ready."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

It was the night of Ashima's Eye.

For the first time in a century, the three moons of Arakavish aligned.

The red moon, known as the blood of the sky, rose to its zenith, forming a bloodshot eyeball. The yellow moon, which the rahs called gazer's gold, inched across the sky until it passed across the red moon's surface. It was slightly smaller, forming a golden iris. Finally the black moon, once believed to be the skull of a dead god, floated into the center of the eclipse, forming a pupil. For only a few moments, Ashima's Eye took form, and it gazed down upon Arakavish.

Ashima was an old goddess, one the ancient rahs had worshipped when they still lived aboveground. It was said that Ashima had cursed Arakavish, drying the forests, boiling the rivers, sending the rahs fleeing into their tunnels. The goddess had abandoned the world after destroying it, and the rahs abandoned her, choosing to worship the Glass Spider instead. But it was believed that once a century, Ashima gazed again upon the world she had savaged and the rahs she had cursed.

Fairy tales, Od'rahda thought. But when she looked at that eye in the heaven, the eye seemed to stare back, and a chill ran down her spine.

She stood on the mountaintop. The same mountaintop where the priests had left her to die. The carriontiles still circled above, seeking meat. Od'rahda had lain here as carrion, and now she had returned a general.

She raised the horn of a sand-trawler to her lips, and she cried out at the top of her lungs: "Swarm—rise!"

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then hissing and chirping sounded underground, getting louder and louder, becoming a symphony of clatters and snorts.

The mountain shook. The land trembled.

Then, from holes across the mountain, they rose. The spiders. They scuttled from underground, their legs scratching the mountainside. Hundreds of them, then thousands, then millions. They bubbled up like tar, covering the mountainside in a writhing blanket. They were warriors all, their mouths full of fangs, their abdomens aching for meat. Their hungry cries tore through the sky.

The carriontiles cawed above and fled, only for a few rahs to sling webs, drag them down, and crunch them between their jaws.

Od'rahda raised her horn again. "Arachtaurs—rise!"

From the tunnels came a new army. The arachtaurs. Like the rahs, they scuttled on spider legs. But they had the upper bodies, arms, heads, and most importantly—the minds of humans. They carried bolt-throwers and blades, and war paint covered their cheeks.

"Hear me, children of Arakavish!" Od'rahda cried, her voice echoing across the mountains and plains. "Hear me, rahs and rahdas! The Earthlings murdered the heiress to our empire. The Earthlings destroyed our great warclaws Hunger and Tyranny. The Earthlings plan to attack our world next, to poison our tunnels and slay our larvae. Tonight begins the end of humanity! Tonight Arakavish flies to war!"

A million voices cried out with hers, shaking the desert. "To war! To war!"

"Look to the sky, children of Arakavish!" Od'rahda said. "The eye of Ashima gazes down upon us. Long ago, this goddess cursed us, dooming us to a life underground. But we have risen! We have flown past Ashima's Eye to the stars. Tonight we are mightier than ever. Look at the eye, children of Arakavish, and see our glory."

From behind the three moons they flew. Starships. Thousands of starships. The Arachnid Armada.

They darkened the sky. Most were clawships, shaped like obsidian arrowheads. Each sprouted dozens of blades that could rip through enemy hulls. The smallest clawships held only a few rahs. The largest would dwarf the Freedom, and they could carry thousands of warriors. But other ships flew here too. New ships, built by and for arachtaurs. They were shaped like great spiders, each leg a cannon. The spiderships would carry the new step in evolution to war.

Fifty thousand warships arranged themselves in the sky. The larger ones could spew smaller ships, both the clawfighters of the rahs and the spiderwings of arachtaurs. This was a fleet that could conquer any civilization in the galaxy. It should have no problem against Earth. Od'rahda's chest swelled to see this display of might. Then she remembered that her brother would command this fleet, not her, and her belly soured.

One more ship had not yet risen.

Everyone stood, waiting.

Pillars of flame tore across the sky.

Sonic booms shook the mountain.

The three moons parted, the eye falling apart, as if Ashima could not bear the sight. From beyond the horizon she rose. The largest warship Arakavish had ever built. The desert trembled and the land cracked as she soared.

She was shaped like a skull. Like a human skull. Great flames burned within her eyes, and her jaws opened to reveal hangars swarming with spiderwings. Jagged spikes rose from the skull like a crown. Each spike was the size of the Freedom. They were great particle cannons, able to spew an inferno. The skull hovered above like the face of a god, and all the lesser ships gathered below her, subservient like fallen angels bowing before a demon lord.

There she flew. The greatest warship in the galaxy. The Atrocity.

Magog'rah's ship.

Suddenly the eyes of the skull blazed even brighter. The crown turned red, then white-hot, and streams of blinding fury shot from the mighty spikes.

The rahs and even the arachtaurs cowered in the desert, but the Atrocity was not aiming at them. The blazes shot toward the small black moon. Moments ago, it had been the pupil in Ashima's Eye. For billions of years, it had orbited Arakavish.

The plasma beams blew it apart.

The explosion flared across the sky, spreading red and black tendrils of smoke and dust and debris. Chunks of the ravaged moon rained through the sky, burning up on entry. A few chunks made it through the atmosphere and roared toward the ground, leaving trails of fire. The rahs cowered and wailed, and some fled back into their holes. The arachtaurs held their lines, gazing at the sky with dark eyes. One chunk of the moon plowed into a host of fleeing rahs, driving them into the ground. The desert shook. Smaller shards rained onto the lines of arachtaurs, ripping skin and flesh, severing limbs.

My stupid brother, Od'rahda thought. His petty display of power weakens our army.

Still, they had millions of troops. Losing a few hundred would not harm them. But it was more than that. It was an insult. Magog'rah was sending two messages. First that he was powerful. Second that she was weak.

Od'rahda glared up at that flying skull. She imagined it blowing up like the moon.

Someday I will rise again, brother. You better watch your back.

The Atrocity opened her metal jaws, and out flew a swarm of metal spiders. Dropships. The smaller warclaws opened their own hangars, releasing more vessels. They all glided down, stirring the dunes and blowing sand across the mountainsides. They landed like locusts upon a field, and their hangars opened like hungry mouths.

The troops, both rahs and arachtaurs, began entering the dropships. The spidery vessels rose, blasting back sand, returning to their motherships. It took a while. But eventually this grand army had been lifted into the motherships.

They were ready to go. Ready for Earth.

Magog'rah had wanted her to fly inside the Atrocity, his personal ship. Od'rahda had refused. In there, she would be just another pet on his leash. She chose to ride in the Desiccation, a heavy troop hauler. Desiccation carried an entire arachtaur division. This would give her time to bond with her troops. But most importantly, it would keep her away from her brother.

Let him rest on his laurels for now, Od'rahda thought. It was a human phrase she had picked up along the way. She had been reading human books, studying Earth, becoming more and more human every day. She always knew her enemy. And she knew Magog'rah. She knew that he was strong, vicious, a brute. Too confident. She could spin that to her advantage.

Elder'rah was a million years old, and she looked it. She would not reign forever. That fool Skel'rah, once considered the prime heiress of Arakavish, had died fighting the humans. Hel'rah, another contender for the throne, was dead too. Good riddance to both spiders. James King had crushed them both under his boot. But Od'rahda had fought James King and survived. She would survive this war too.

Maybe Magog'rah would not. Maybe Od'rahda could make sure of that.

Very soon, Earth might be hers. And then Arakavish.

The last dropships were in their motherships, and the fleet engines roared. The Atrocity led the way, blazing past the two remaining moons and into deep space. Fifty thousand ships followed—large and small, some spiked, some spiderlike, some transporting arachtaurs, some holding hordes of spiders. It was an army with one purpose. To conquer Earth.

The rahs would feed well upon human flesh, and in the ruins of dying Earth, Od'rahda would find her path to glory.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

King delayed the trip home. He was eager to rejoin the fight for Earth. But he wanted to stay a while longer at Heaven's Geode to install the hopscotch drives. It would just take a few days. The Aeolians worked fast.

Kim helped the aliens. At first they worked on the starfighters and dropships. Hopscotch drives were strange-looking things. They contained brass pipes, vials of red liquid, jagged crystals, and accordion joints. Instead of fitting into an engine, they wrapped around it like a desiccated, jeweled fist.

"It looks like magic," Kim said, watching the workers upgrade an Eagle engine.

"It is our most advanced technology," Selly said.

"Arthur C. Clarke said that any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

"Who was he?" asked the alien.

Kim smiled. "One of our thinkers."

"Ah! I would like to meet him, but we don't have much time." Selly adjusted a few brass joints, tightening the device around the Eagle engine. "This one is ready. Let's move to the next starfighter."

They were on deck 1, the lowermost Eagle hangar. Starfighter pilots stood around them, wearing flight suits, arms crossed.

"What the hell are they doing now?" one pilot muttered.

"A new system to learn?" said another pilot.

Pickles stood among them, chewing his lip. "Kim, are you sure this is a good idea?"

Kim turned toward the pilots. "Admiral's orders. These are important upgrades. They'll make your starfighters deadlier."

"We don't even know what these contraptions do!" said Katana, the young Japanese pilot with fiery eyes.

"The admiral will be debriefing you soon," Kim said.

Grumbles passed among the pilots. They watched with dark eyes as the Aeolians opened up more Eagles, began installing more of the strange contraptions.

Other teams were upgrading the Rhinos, the heavy marine dropships, and the Saint Bernards, the search-and-rescue shuttles. They decided not to upgrade the Sparrows; the little transport shuttles did not fight battles.

Upgrading these smaller vessels was complicated enough. Upgrading the Freedom herself? Now that was an operation. Kim wasn't even sure how to begin that one.

That evening, Kim reported to the admiral's quarters.

Corporal Donahue, the guard at the door, gave her a nod and a smile. He was used to seeing her report to King's cabin. He was friendly enough, but Kim always suspected the man gossiped, maybe even eavesdropped. But this time Donahue would have nothing to gossip about. She was not showing up for a late-night tryst.

"The Eagles and Rhinos are fully upgraded," Kim said after entering King's quarters. "And Jim, I don't know how I feel about that."

King sat at his desk, meticulously constructing a model sailing ship. He squinted, stuck out his tongue, and glued on a mast. "Ah, here we go." He examined his work. "I haven't had time for model building in three years now, can you imagine? Funny to think how much spare time we had before the war." He lifted a tiny brass cannon. "I figured that while the Aeolians were repairing my ship, I'd repair my models."

"Jim. I mean it."

He looked over his model. "Kim, I know. I don't feel perfectly comfortable installing alien systems either. But we need any advantage we can get."

"These aren't just alien systems," Kim said, standing before his desk like a schoolgirl before her schoolmaster. "The graviton drives, the new hull, the new ATLAS consoles, the new sensors—all that is alien technology. And I was fine with it. Even excited about it."

King moved his model aside. He gave her his full attention now. "What makes the hopscotch drive different?"

"I can't even answer that," Kim said. "I don't understand it. I mean, I don't fully understand a lot of things. But I can get a basic grasp of them. Or learn what I don't know. But with hopscotch tech? Selly tried to explain to me. Jim, this isn't any physics we know. I'm not sure it's physics at all."

King raised an eyebrow. "You make it sound like magic. And yes, I know the Arthur C. Clarke quote. I have the man's books on my shelf."

Kim remained somber. "Okay, so magic is the wrong word. How about we call it metaphysics? No, that sounds too wishy-washy. Let's call it postphysics. That's what these hopscotch drives are. They use entire new theories. There's nothing here from relativity, quantum mechanics, the theory of gravity, or anything else humans know. All the other tech here? Well, at least it relies on theories humans are familiar with, even if we must still learn the specific mechanics. Not hopscotch drives. This is an entire new field of study. Something humans have never encountered. I feel like a caveman trying to understand chemistry. Or a blind woman trying to understand color."

"Well, does it work?" King said.

She blinked. "I … don't know. Selly thinks it will work."

"Good enough. Kim, right now we don't need to understand the technology. We just need it to work."

"But if I don't understand it, how can I fix it?"

"You can't," King confessed. "Unless Selly agrees to come with us to Earth. To fight in this war with us. Kim, we can't contact Earth from here. We've been gone for weeks. Maybe, throughout this time, Elder'rah has merely continued to pester Earth with raids. An attack on a space station here, an attack on a space freighter there. Earth could withstand those without us. But all our intelligence shows that Elder'rah is preparing a major invasion. And she'll use the arachtaurs as her shock troops. We must get back as soon as possible. We must reenter the fight. We don't have time to learn postphysics. We came here to find a new weapon. We found one. I want the damn thing installed in the Freedom's engine, then I want us flying back home."

"Installing a hopscotch drive on the Freedom is a big job," Kim said. "The Aeolians can probably do it quickly. They can do anything quickly. But remember something, Jim. The Aeolians haven't used their hopscotch drive since the war against the rahs. None of them are still alive from back then. Even Fal was born after the fall, though he sometimes confuses his great-grandfather's tales with his own memories. Before we upgrade the Freedom, I suggest we test the technology."

"Agreed. We'll test an upgraded Eagle." King walked around the desk, heading toward the door. "Are we ready now? I have to debrief the pilots first."

Kim shook her head. "Not yet." Suddenly her eyes dampened. "Five more minutes, Jim. Five more minutes."

Halfway to the door, he turned to look at her, and his face softened. He pulled her into his arms.

"I love you, Kim," he whispered.

She leaned her head against his chest, eyes shut. "I love you more." She laughed weakly. "I sound like a schoolgirl."

King kissed the top of her head. "This'll all be over soon, Kim. We'll win this war. We'll go back to Earth, and we'll just be together, and …"

He let his voice trail off. What would happen after this war? Would their romance continue to bloom? Would they live together? Just date—whatever that meant? Were they even dating now? He didn't know.

She smiled up at him, eyes damp, as if she could read his thoughts. "We'll just be Jim and Kim. Two Earthlings. We'll go to the local diner for some cherry pie. We'll fish at the river. We'll go bowling. We'll do regular Earthling things. You and I. Together."

"Now that is something worth fighting for," King said.

He didn't need to know their exact future right now. He knew that the future would be good. He knew they would spend it together. And he knew that he would cherish every moment with Kim Fletcher.

But before he could reach that heaven, he must fly through hell. If he were to believe Selly—literally.

"Come with me, Kim. Let's test this tech."

They left his quarters, and he felt better, stronger that she was with him. That she would be with him every step of the way. Every step took them closer to home.

* * * * *

King stood on midsection deck 1, the lowermost Eagles deck, facing his pilots.

Freedom's Flock stood before him, all wearing flight suits. Two hundred pilots. Many Eagle pilots had fallen battling the Tyranny. During their time in the shipyard, the Aeolians had built new Eagles, and Spitfire had personally recruited more pilots. A few had already been trainees, now promoted to full-fledged fighter pilots. Others had been gleaned from the Sparrow fleet. The newbies were inexperienced. Some had never flown in battle before. They would learn fast.

Freedom's Flock was back at full capacity. And they were ready for war.

The hangar had been cleared from deckhands, flight controllers, mechanics, airlock operators, and all the other enlisted men and women who kept a busy flight bay running. For a while, they had the deck to themselves.

King stood before his pilots. Spitfire stood at his side, hands on her hips. She was a bridge officer now, but like him and Jordan, she had begun her career as a starfighter pilot. She understood the Flock. She needed to be here. Kim stood at his other side. When it came to discussing new systems, he wanted his engineer nearby.

Selly completed the tableau. He was their resident expert on postphysics. Or at least the closest one they had. It was funny. The pilots weren't giving Selly any special attention. He was just part of the team now. Only three years ago, no human had ever seen an alien. Now they accepted a shelled, five-legged, three-eyed, many-tentacled alien as if it were nothing.

"Good evening, pilots," King said. "You probably saw our engineers upgrading your Eagles with alien systems. I'm sorry for the secrecy. Right now this information is still classified. Even from deckhands. I want to talk to you about it first. We call the new technology the hopscotch drive. A ship can use it to hop from one place to another. Instantly."

"Like a portal?" asked Sasquatch, one of the pilots.

Kim answered. "No, not like a portal." She went through the same spiel from King's quarters, explaining the difference between portaling and hopscotching.

The pilots understood the advantage at once.

"We can charge at spiderwings, leap behind them, and blast their sterns," said Trash Panda.

"Hell, we could charge at entire warclaws," said Sasquatch. "Just hop over any torpedoes they lob at us."

"Imagine the dogfights!" said Snoopy. She was normally soft-spoken, but the words spilled out from her now, and she bounced with excitement. "We could hop left, right, disorient the enemy. They won't know where to aim. Where to fly."

"We'll win a lot more battles," said Mongoose, stroking his goatee with his slender hand.

"All right, all right, calm down everyone," Spitfire said. But she couldn't stifle her smile. "You're like kids on Christmas morning."

Some laughter sounded. A few pilots cracked jokes.

But Pickles, new commander of the Flock, remained solemn. "Colonel Fletcher? You mentioned risk. What is the risk?"

Everyone fell silent. They turned toward Kim. The engineer hesitated, chewing her lip.

King took a deep breath. This was the hard part. "I'll field this one," he said. "Hopscotching doesn't involve jumping through spacetime. A hopscotching ship takes a detour through another dimension. A place the Aeolians call the Otherworld."

Selly swiveled his sensory bulb toward King. "Bully Dog? I believe we decided to translate it as hell."

Uneasy looks passed between the pilots.

"Suddenly Christmas morning doesn't seem so great," Sasquatch muttered.

"Hell?" Snoopy whispered, going very pale.

"I prefer Otherworld," King said.

"Or how about we call it hyperspace?" one pilot said.

"Or the shadow realm," suggested another pilot.

A bunch of pilots began to speak, offering and discussing potential names.

"The name doesn't matter," King said, interrupting them. "What matters is that it's a mysterious dimension we know little about. Our modern understanding of physics cannot describe it. No living Aeolian has flown there. But there are stories. Stories of a dangerous place. It all sounds mystical, but there are formulas to calculate the risk. The risk increases with the size of the ship and the distance of the hop. We've run the calculations for an Eagle. To hop the longest range, a hundred klicks, has an eighty-three percent chance of success."

The pilots stared at him.

Snoopy gulped.

Pickles loosened his collar. "Sir, do you mean there's … a seventeen percent chance we won't make it back home?"

King nodded. "At that range, yes. Seventeen point three, to be exact. Shorten the distance and you reduce the risk. But it's always risky. Hopscotching should be used only at the utmost need."

The Flock looked visibly deflated.

"There will be times when we take that risk," King said. "The Freedom herself will be outfitted with a hopscotch drive. There will be times when this risk is necessary. When avoiding a hop might be even riskier. This is a good weapon for our arsenal. Before we deploy it, we will test it. One of our Eagles will leave Heaven's Geode today. And attempt to hopscotch."

Kim took a step closer to the pilots. "We need a volunteer."

"No, we don't," King said. "I'm going to test it."

"Jim!" she said, breaking protocol. Her eyes widened.

Spitfire grabbed his arm and spoke in an urgent whisper. "Sir, with all due respect, you're our admiral. We can't risk you."

"Agreed!" Kim whispered. "If something happened to you, it would be a terrible blow to the Alliance. And a boon to the rahs." Her eyes dampened. "I don't even want to think about it. You're our admiral. Our leader. You can't risk yourself."

"I'll do it," Spitfire said. "Just give me Yael's Nail for a flight, and I'll test the damn thing."

"Not a chance, Spitfire." Pickles stepped forward. "You're a bridge officer now, not a pilot. Get used to it. I'll test the hopscotch drive."

Spitfire glowered at him. "You're Flock Father. We can't risk you either."

Katana stepped toward them and raised her chin. "I volunteer."

"Me too," said Sasquatch.

"Same!" said Snoopy, blushing.

Soon everyone was volunteering. King looked at them, and sadness flowed over him. Two hundred pilots. Two hundred modern-day knights. All volunteering to risk their lives.

I do not deserve such selfless pilots, King thought. I must have been a saint in a past life. It was a struggle to keep his eyes dry.

"We'll choose somebody at random," he said.

They could have found some paper, mixed their names in a hat. But MindWeb offered a simple solution: a random avatar selector app. You could use it to choose contest winners, assign a random soldier to latrine duty, or anything else. Today it would choose somebody to go to hell.

King loaded the app and shared the hallucination. Their avatars floated in the room—simple spheres the size of tennis balls with their faces and names. Two hundred candidates.

"Choose a random avatar," King ordered the application.

The floating spheres all shone brightly. Then they burst into clouds of smoke and faded. All but one. The chosen avatar floated in the air, growing larger for all to see.

The pilots all turned to look at her, silent.

Katana was pale. For a second, she trembled. Then she raised her chin.

"Not a problem," said the young Japanese pilot. "I've faced worse than this. Let's test this bitch."

* * * * *

Like a hundred times before, Katana launched her starfighter from the Freedom.

Every time Katana flew out the airlock, she knew she might never come home. For three years now, she had been playing this game of roulette. In her Eagle, a little starfighter only large enough for one, she had charged at fleets of rah warclaws. She had battled swarms of clawfighters, deadly little ships with claws to rip Eagles apart. She had faced the arachtaurs in the depths of space a thousand light-years from home. Time and time again, she had flown through fire and darkness, and sometimes she had flown among the bodies of fallen brothers and sisters.

Every time she left the Freedom, she knew she might die. She accepted it. She had come to relish it. She was Yoshino "Katana" Maki, ace among aces, the best in the Flock. Her job was to dance with death.

Maybe she had always been flirting with death. Not just for these three years of war but the three decades of her life. For a daughter of the yakuza, every day was a dance with the devil. Maybe that was why, after escaping Tokyo's neon underworld, she had become a starfighter pilot. Maybe the angel of death had always clutched her in his claws. And maybe she liked it.

But this time was different.

This time she flew alone.

Gently, just nudging the joystick, Katana flew her Eagle between the shipyard's arms and into the open, central space of Heaven's Geode. Blue sky strewn with fluffy clouds filled the shellworld. All around, wherever she looked, she saw the inner surface curving around her. It was like flying inside a snow globe.

This was her first time flying with a graviton engine, unless you counted the hours spent in simulators. It felt surprisingly intuitive. She was used to her Eagle streaking forth at breakneck speeds, rattling and shaking and rumbling around her, jangling her brain inside her skull. Now she glided smoothly.

Each pilot got to name their starfighter. Katana had named hers Sakura no hana. Cherry blossom. And today she was like a true cherry blossom floating on the wind. It was oddly relaxing. Katana liked this. It was a pity she might die today.

She guided her Eagle toward the shellworld's hatch, the same place the Freedom had entered two weeks ago. Selly had told them that the hatch almost never opened. Sometimes it remained closed for months on end. The Aeolians only opened it to send out the odd probe, mining ship, or freighter to collect water, minerals, and other supplies.

Katana was flying in the right direction, she thought. But ahead of her she only saw forests and a lazy river. For a dizzying second, she got the impression that she was flying downward, diving headfirst toward the landscape. Her head spun. She reminded herself that there was no real up or down here. There was landscape all around. She tried to imagine herself not diving toward the ground but flying toward an enormous wall. A wall the size of a small country, covered with forests. Sure, why not?

Then the forest moved.

The trees parted.

A hatch dilated, rustling with leaves, exposing a circle of space.

Katana flew toward it. She would not hopscotch inside Heaven's Geode. Too many other shuttles flew here. The ground was too close. Even with the hopscotch drive's short range, it was too cramped inside. Katana wanted some breathing room before plunging into hell.

As she flew toward the hatch, her MindLink buzzed. A raspy voice spoke in her mind.

"Katana? This is the admiral. Good luck out there. Godspeed."

"Thank you, sir. But God won't bless me where I'm going." She smiled crookedly. "I'll see you back on the Freedom soon. Or I'll see you in hell."

She flew through the hatch, leaving Heaven's Geode and gliding into space.

* * * * *

For a moment, Katana just glided silently among the stars. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Finally she could breathe.

A massive lava planet named Pele gurgled and stormed nearby, its volcanoes constantly erupting, its landscapes forever re-forming. Heaven's Geode orbited that world of fire, a dark sphere. Aeolia A, the primary star in this system, shone in the distance while the Firebird Nebula spread her wings above. If Katana squinted, she could just make out the spiral arm of the Milky Way.

Sometimes space was so beautiful it still shocked her.

It was only at moments like these, gliding through the darkness between battles, that Katana felt truly at peace. Gone were the crows and constant chatter of the Freedom. One had no privacy on that ship, and even her bunk was often a flurry of activity—Snoopy, Trash Panda, and her other bunkmates rarely quieted down, and Snoopy snored most of the night.

But out here in space? Here was quiet. Peace. Beauty, even. It reminded her of times in her youth, sitting atop a rooftop in the rain, perhaps waiting for her prey, and watching the city lights smudge and blur and drip with every raindrop.

Those nights often ended with blood, with her dagger, garrote, or needle of poison taking her quarry. So too this moment of peace had to end. She flew among the heavens, but she must fly into hell.

She put more distance between herself and Heaven's Geode. When she looked in the rearview monitor, she couldn't even see the shellworld anymore. The invisibility illusion was complete. Nice hiding spot.

When she was a hundred thousand klicks away, she brought Sakura no hana to a halt. She was no longer moving relative to Heaven's Geode. Normally, this would involve a delicate dance of thrusters, taking all nearby sources of gravity into account. But with the new graviton drives, it was as easy as stopping a car.

She sat still for a moment, then took a deep breath.

"Priming hopscotch drive," she said and flipped a switch.

Her starfighter rattled.

An eerie revving sound came from the engine, almost like breathing. Light shone throughout the starfighter. Clanging joined the cacophony. The HUD system flickered and began spitting out information in a foreign language. The letters looked like spider footprints.

"Freedom?" Katana said. "There seems to be a problem with my HUD software."

King's voice sounded in her mind. She recognized the unmistakable rasp. But she could not understand him. Oddly, he was speaking the language of rahs.

"What the hell?" Katana muttered.

Must be a bug in the translation software. People served aboard the Freedom from many countries, and they spoke many languages. So their MindLinks translated everything into their own mother tongues. Katana's MindLink automatically translated everything into Japanese—both what she heard and what she read. When she looked at letters from any language, she should be seeing Japanese Kanji. Yet even her starfighter controls were now in rah. The hopscotch drive must be mucking up her neural implant.

The starfighter controls chimed. Green icons appeared on the HUD, shaped like gemstones. She couldn't read the text beneath them—still just looked like spider footprints. But the icons were green. Green was good, right?

"Freedom, we're having some communication issues, but if you can hear me, the hopscotch drive is primed," she said. "Preparing a jump."

King spoke again. This time his voice sounded deeper. Like a voice on an old tape player when the batteries start to run out. She couldn't understand a word. But his tone sounded pleased. He was probably telling her to carry on.

I should probably go back, she thought. Tell them about the communication bugs.

But her pride refused to let her return. For years as a fighter pilot and for years as a yakuza, she had never fled battle. It was impossible for her to flee. She would not turn back now. Not even from hell.

She typed in her hop coordinates. Just ten klicks away. In space, that was nothing. It might as well be a millimeter. But her Eagle's delicate instruments could calculate even such minute changes in position.

The HUD spat out big red digits. The risk figure for a ship this size, hopscotching this far. The odds she would never come home. With the busted translation software, she couldn't read the numbers. They appeared like rah scratches. Maybe it was better this way.

Katana grabbed the new lever in her cockpit—a brass rod tipped with a crown of amethyst.

"Here goes," she muttered and shoved down the lever.

Sakura no hana rattled. Pipes banged. Purple light flashed. The cockpit shook so much Katana worried the canopy would shatter.

And suddenly the stars were gone.

She hovered in an alien realm.

It was a nebula of lavender fire. It was a madwoman's painting. It was the inside of a collapsing gas giant. It was a ghostly sea at storm. It was the hidden world inside a drop of water. Deep purple clouds swirled and rumbled, rings of searing red fire spread in concentric circles, and blobs of light raced back and forth like creatures seeking prey. One blob of yellow light, shaped roughly like an almond, wrapped around a small blue blob and shattered it, became a purple sphere, then raced behind a cloud. Beams of azure light pieced this strange nightmare, swirling and pulsing.

Katana knew she must pull the lever back to position, to release the hopscotch grip. But she lingered for just a moment longer. Something was moving ahead. Shadows were coiling behind the purple clouds.

Tentacles. Great gray tentacles inlaid with luminous suckers like the arms of a galaxy glittering with black holes.

The glowing little creatures fled.

A deep bellow sounded in the depths, and a colossal beast shook the clouds. A terrible white star ignited. An eye. A cosmic eye, staring right at her.

Katana screamed and yanked the lever back.

The tentacles lashed at her.

She winced.

The nightmarish landscape vanished.

She blinked. She was home.

The strange creatures of light, the enormous tentacled beast, the clouds and red rings—gone. Just a dream. The stars hovered ahead. This was an alien star system a thousand light-years from Earth, but right now this felt like home.

Katana slumped in her seat and let out a breath she hadn't realize she'd been holding.

The HUD was back to normal. The familiar Japanese Kanji appeared there again. Katana checked her position.

She had skipped exactly ten klicks. She checked her flight graph, tracking her current and past positions. A graphic displayed Sakura no hana leaving Heaven's Geode, stopping, then skipping forward instantly.

Instantly? She double-checked the timestamps on the graph.

Instantly.

Hmm. Katana had lingered in that strange "Otherworld" for several seconds, maybe even a full minute. But the data showed that the trip was instantaneous. Odd bit of time dilation.

Her MindLink chimed. Incoming call.

"Katana? Come in, Katana."

There was no mistaking the admiral's raspy voice. Thankfully, she now heard it in Japanese. Her translator was working again.

"Freedom, this is Katana. We're all good here."

Over MindWeb, she heard Freedom's Flock cheering. And then something happened Katana did not expect.

Tears flowed down her cheeks. She laughed and wiped her eyes. She was crying tears of joy. Because she realized how much Freedom had become a home to her. She realized that Freedom's Flock was her family. And that she, who had lost everyone she had ever loved, who had encased her heart in steel—that she loved them back.

She flew back into Heaven's Geode and back into her mothership. When she emerged from her cockpit, her family was there. Snoopy pulled her into an embrace, and Pickles mussed her hair, and they lifted her and carried her around the deck.

She laughed. "I didn't do anything special."

King approached the group, his face as hard as always, but Katana thought that a hint of a smile touched his eyes.

"You're the first human to visit the Otherworld. You proved it works." The admiral turned toward his engineer. "Colonel Fletcher? Let's get a hopscotch drive installed on the Freedom herself. And then we're flying home."

"Back to war," Spitfire whispered. And a hush fell over the deck.

Katana wanted to tell her pilots something. To warn them. Something about strange creatures of light. And a giant octopus with tentacles like the spiral arms of a galaxy. But the images were hazy and fading quickly like wisps from a dream.

"Hey, Katana, you all right?" Pickles said. "You look pale."

She blinked. "Yeah. Yeah. I'm fine. I just wanted to tell you something. I . . . I was only gone for an instant right?"

He nodded. "Yep! Instant travel. It sure is something."

She smiled at him shakily. "Okay."

"You wanted to tell me something else?" Pickles said.

King, Spitfire, and a few others stepped toward her, frowning.

Katana blinked, trying to remember what it was. Just a dream.

"No, nothing."

Then Snoopy rushed toward them with champagne, and they all drank, and Katana forgot all about her dream. It was only when she lay down that night, when she closed her eyes, that she saw those reaching tentacles and the eye like a star.

* * * * *

It was time to go home.

After months in the Aeolia system, after a terrible battle against the Tyranny, after losing four starships, dozens of starfighters, and over a thousand spacers, after meeting a new civilization, after so much heartbreak and despair … it was time to fly back to Earth.

If Earth still existed.

With the arachtaurs unleashed upon the galaxy, none of them knew for sure.

Installing the hopscotch drive in the Freedom herself had been a challenge, taking an entire week. For Aeolians, that was an eternity. The Freedom didn't have a single engine like a starfighter or dropship. Her Talaria drive filled up half the stern, incorporating a particle accelerator, nuclear reactor, and pistons the size of skyscrapers. Every component had to be upgraded. The towering engine room had always looked like some futuristic, mechanical city to King. Now that city seemed twice as cluttered, full of brass gears, vials of swirling red liquid, accordion joints, and crystals that refracted light into multiple tubes like the pipes of an organ.

Selly swore it would work. King wasn't willing to test it. Not with thousands of spacers aboard. Not with such a high chance of destroying the ship.

"To hopscotch with a ship this size is dangerous, Bully Dog," the thinker had warned him a week ago. "Very dangerous. Even at short range, the risk of destruction is one out of three. To jump the full range of a hundred kilometers? There is a fifty percent chance of destruction. A coin toss, as humans say. Are you sure you want this upgrade?"

"Yes. I hope I never have to use it. But sometimes in battle, we face terrifying odds. Sometimes a fifty percent chance of survival is a blessing. Maybe we will never need to skip through the Otherworld. But if we do, if it's the only way to save our lives—I'll toss that coin."

Many Aeolians came to see the starship Freedom leave the shipyard. They flew in their little egg-shaped shuttles, watching the gargantuan dreadnought fly through the blue sky of their hollow world. Others watched from their cities below, peering through telescopes at the enormous alien vessel.

The Freedom flew at a slow, steady pace, confidently navigating in the limited space.

"These graviton thrusters are wonderful!" Mimori said, steering the ship from the bridge. "So much easier to fly like this."

The Freedom was a sight to behold, gliding through the blue sky toward the hatch. A few ATLAS probes always flew around Freedom, orbiting the ship like satellites, streaming a view of her exterior. King watched the video feed. Freedom's hull was a cityscape of sensors, machine-gun nests, cannons, rivets, and armored plates. Her railgun thrust out before her, the two prongs like skyscrapers. A mile long, she was the greatest starship in the galaxy.

"She's beautiful, ain't she, sir?" Darjeeling placed his cap over his heart. "Our grand old lady of the stars."

"Old?" Mimori said, voice soft, and the blue light of the internal sky reflected in her eyes. "I feel young again. I feel strong. Like I felt when I was first Christened." She blushed and lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry. I normally try to separate the Freedom and myself. But today we feel like one."

Jordan looked at Darjeeling and shook his head. "You just called Mimori old. How rude of you."

They flew toward the forested inner surface of Heaven's Geode. The forest trembled as the hatch dilated, growing wider and wider, revealing space outside.

It was a tight squeeze. They had to fold the cannons against their sides. Mimori closed her eyes, concentrating, guiding Freedom through the hatch into open space.

Several Aeolian vessels accompanied them, hovering outside the shellworld like bees around their hive. Their signals washed over the Freedom. Viewports across the bridge displayed a mosaic of video feeds coming from the shuttles. Aeolians were waving goodbye and wishing them farewell. Inside one rocky shuttle, Fal was tearing up. His long white beard was damp. Even some politicians had come to say goodbye.

Standing on Freedom's bridge beside King, Selly looked at his friends and family, at his world.

"I will miss them," the thinker said softly.

King looked at the Aeolian. "You can still go back, Selly. It's not too late."

"No. I have chosen my path. I will go with you, Bully Dog. To Earth. I was assigned to guide you in Heaven's Geode. I will continue to serve as a liaison between humans and Aeolians. On Earth, your people will want to learn about us. To speak to an Aeolian. I will be there."

King put a hand on the Aeolian's shell. "I'm glad for it, Selly. You're an excellent representative of your people. And you're a good friend."

"A friend to humanity?"

"And to me," King said.

Selly raised his foot and attempted a clumsy salute. "Friend."

King returned the salute. "Friend." He turned toward his bridge crew. "Mimori! Fly us a safe distance from Pele. We're too close to the planet to open a portal. Take us ten million klicks straight ahead."

"Ten million klicks, aye, sir," Mimori said. Then she froze. "Sir? A message coming from one of the Aeolian shuttles. It's marked urgent. It's from Fal, the warrior."

Officers glanced at one another.

"On-screen," King said.

A video stream from an Aeolian shuttle appeared on Freedom's central viewport. Fal was sitting in his shuttle, a sash heavy with medals across his cracked shell. Ceremonial beads were woven into his white beard. A few other old warriors sat around him, bearded and solemn.

"Um, excuse me, Admiral." Fal cleared his throat. "But you seem to have forgotten somebody. She sneaked into our shuttle."

He moved aside, revealing a girl with messy brown hair, a dress with many pockets, and one stocking.

"Stowy!" King blurted out.

The girl waved shyly, blushing.

Fal coughed and stroked his beard. "Perhaps we should return her before you fly to Earth?"

"I say leave her with the Aeolians," said Darjeeling.

King heaved a long, weary sigh. Goddammit, Stowy.

"Fal, we'll open an airlock for you. If you don't mind."

The old warrior winked. "Not at all, admiral. It was nice having a young one listen to an old Aeolian's stories. If only for a while."

Finally Stowy was back on the Freedom, scurrying somewhere through the ducts. At least some things never changed.

Mimori smiled. "Shall we try again, sir?"

King nodded. "When you're ready."

The Freedom's great Talaria drive rumbled. The exhaust ports heated up. King took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and felt the ship vibrate through him as she flew.

A hand touched his shoulder. A familiar baritone voice spoke.

"You okay, Jim?"

King opened his eyes to see Jordan beside him. He nodded. "We're not yet at Earth. But we're home."

There were more things he could not say. Words about their trial and near execution. About the Tyranny and the terrible toll she had claimed. About the war that still awaited them. About the people they had lost. But he didn't need to say anything. Jordan understood.

"We're home," the XO agreed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The Freedom had been gone for weeks, and George Godwin, High Commander of the Alliance, was worried.

He stood on the bridge of the Churchill, orbiting Earth. It was a gleaming, modern bridge, the white walls trimmed with azure lines, the viewports all hallucinatory. Nothing like the shadowy, cluttered bridge of the Freedom. But right now Godwin didn't care how the bridge looked. He was staring through one of those hovering viewports into space.

The stars spread before him, a view Godwin had once found beautiful, even peaceful. But he knew they were out there. Lurking in the darkness. Staring back at him.

The monsters.

The foul beasts who had nearly brought Earth to her knees once before. Who were just waiting to strike again.

Godwin's lip twitched.

"My flagship is late," he rumbled. "My admiral is missing. These are dark times. A tide of spiders is rising. I fear we must face the oncoming storm alone."

His voice was deep and rough like boulders tumbling underground. He spoke with an upper-class English accent, but his underbite cut off the genteel edges, giving his speech a harsh tone. He clutched the handle of his cane. His hand was liver-spotted now. Years ago, his cane had been a mere fashion accessory, and the sword he hid inside was an extra benefit. But lately he found himself actually needing the cane to walk.

He was old now. He felt every one of his seventy-eight years. Even his fine, three-piece suit, complete with coattails, could not hide the weakness of his body. He was overweight. His legs were bent. His large round head had shed its last few hairs. At his age, most men were retired. Godwin had been retired when the war broke out three years ago, when so many generals and leaders were slain.

They had called him back to service, and he accepted, first taking command of the flagship Churchill, then rising to lead the entire Alliance, this union of Earth's free nations. For a while, he had almost felt young again, almost relished the fight. For years, he had hidden away at his vineyard, making his wines, writing his memoirs, growing old in solitude. By God, the war had given him new wind.

But now the wind felt more like a storm. Now he felt too old. Now the tidal wave was coming, and Godwin missed his friend.

I need you back here, King, he thought.

"Not alone, sir," came a voice from behind him. "I'm here with you, and three thousand other commanders of the Free Alliance Fleet. The oncoming storm will break against us like waves against a breakwater."

Godwin turned from the viewport. Rear Admiral Clara Nightingale, commander of the Churchill and a flotilla of a hundred ships, stood at his side. She wore an old-fashioned service uniform. The navy-blue jacket sported coattails, golden buttons, and gleaming cuff links. Her trousers were tucked into tall black boots, and a gemstone shone on her naval cap.

"Yes, we're strong," Godwin said. "We have three thousand Alliance ships. Seven thousand, including the Red Dawn and the Desert Thorns. Yet against the might of Arakavish, we are like a cavalry guard facing a battalion of tanks. I want the Freedom back. Yet in my heart, I fear that Admiral King is dead."

"Dead?" Clara Nightingale shook her head. Her blond ponytail, which spilled from under her naval cap, swished from side to side. "He's the toughest commander I know. It would take a silver torpedo to kill that old bulldog."

Godwin grunted. "Maybe, Clara. Maybe. But you heard the reports. The rahs are mustering. Arakavish sends out a fleet. We might have to face them without our beloved admiral and without our flagship."

Nightingale rested a gloved hand against the pommel of her saber. "The Churchill was the flagship once before. She can become the flagship again. And if our admiral is missing, we will find another to lead us."

Godwin scrutinized the rear admiral, his left eye squinting behind his monocle. Clara Nightingale was an excellent officer, a maverick who had distinguished herself throughout the war. Her military mind had planned the destruction of many rah battle formations. At only forty-nine years of age, Nightingale was the youngest rear admiral in the Alliance.

She reminds me of myself, Godwin thought. As I was during the Third World War. A young officer rising fast through the ranks, forged in the crucible of war. She knows her next promotion will be to full-fledged admiral, supreme commander of the Free Alliance Fleet. She's ready. But I'm not. I'm not yet ready to say goodbye to James King. To my friend.

She looked back at him, face expressionless, her chin slightly raised. Her blue eyes were like oceans of icy water. Pitiless.

Godwin heaved a deep breath. With King's absence, he had been fulfilling the man's role, commanding the fleet. But the High Commander had many other duties. He was a civilian. A politician. He led an alliance not just of soldiers but nations. And he was old. He felt the damn age in his bones. Too old perhaps to withstand the coming storm. He was still High Commander, and he carried the torch of humanity's freedom. But he could not carry it alone.

"Clara Nightingale, until the Freedom returns, I name you acting admiral of the fleet. And the Churchill will become the flagship again."

Even then, no emotion smoothed her face, and no warmth touched her eyes. She snapped a salute. "Sir, I'm honored. And I'm ready. I pray the Freedom returns and that Admiral King resumes his post. Until then, I vow to lead the fleet courageously."

A fleet without the Freedom. Without his best ship. The Freedom was only one among thousands, but she was the queen on his game board. And how often could a man win a game of chess without his queen?

He had sent the Freedom a thousand light-years away, chasing a legend. Five ships had flown out. The Freedom. The Kuroko. The Mahatma. The Wandering Sun. The Caracal. A fleet to seek out the Aeolians, the fabled civilization that had beaten the rahs in war. But nothing had returned from the Aeolian system aside from the severed head of a starfighter pilot. No triumphant Freedom. Not even a shuttle bearing news.

If only I had a portal generator! Godwin thought. A way to fly to the Aeolia system and see if King is still alive! But Earth only had one ship capable of generating portals large enough for starships to fly through. The Wandering Sun. And she was out there with King. The shipyards were working on new portal generators, but this was nascent technology. It took months to build one. And dammit, Godwin didn't have time.

"I'll let the fleet know," Godwin said. "Until King is back, you're running the show. Meanwhile, I'll—"

A klaxon wailed across the bridge.

The floating monitors all flashed red.

Officers shouted and pointed. Clara Nightingale inhaled sharply, and finally some raw emotion filled her blue eyes. They went from ice to blue fire.

Godwin clutched his cane and stared at the monitors.

Portals. Dozens of portals were opening around Earth.

His stomach sank, but Godwin refused to surrender to fear. He raised his chin. "The invasion is here. It begins. Alliance Fleet—prepare for battle!"

* * * * *

It was three years ago that Admiral James King, flying aboard the starship Freedom, had destroyed the great motherclaw Hunger and sent the rahs scurrying back to Arakavish. Since then, humanity had not been idle.

Earth emerged from the rahs' opening onslaught in ruins. Cities smoldered. Millions lay dead. But the war machine churned on. Every nation implemented a global draft, swelling their standing armies. Factories rose across the ravaged landscape like mushrooms after the rain, their chimneys filling the air with fumes, their assembly lines pumping out guns and bullets, tanks and planes. Soldiers spread across every town, city, and bridge, armed and ready for the spiders to return.

They prepared in space too. The shipyards worked around the clock, building new warships. Not just sleek frigates like the Churchill, which had been built in times of peace, but great dreadnoughts modeled after the Freedom. For years, people called the Freedom a relic of history, a war machine when surely war could never strike again. Now they scrambled to build more dreadnoughts.

Not only Alliance shipyards strengthened their fleet. The Desert Thorns built more of their graceful white warships, ships modeled after ancient dhow boats. The mighty Red Dawn—a union of China, Russia, North Korea, and the other followers of equalism—worked perhaps the hardest. Their gold-and-red dreadnoughts darkened the sky.

Earth was building more than new warships. All of humanity was working on its most ambitious project: the Jangseung Orbital Ring.

The project was monumental. They said it couldn't be done. But it was already under construction. The Alliance, Red Dawn, and Desert Thorns were cooperating. Every nation from Earth sent engineers, scientists, construction workers, and a huge chunk of their budget to this project. The accountants ran the numbers. It was the most expensive project in Earth history, eclipsing the Manhattan project, the Pyramids of Giza, the Panama Canal, and the Hoover Dam. Combined.

It was named after the Jangseungs—ancient Korean totem poles arranged around villages to protect them from evil spirits. The Jangseung Orbital Ring was a megastructure, something right out of science fiction. When completed, it would form a ring around Earth. Soldiers would fill the circular fortification, and cannons would cover it, pointing outward into space. The ring could spin around Earth in any direction, aiming its cannons wherever the rahs attacked.

Humanity had been working on Jangseung Orbital Ring for two years now, and it was still taking shape. Only about a quarter of the ring had been assembled, currently orbiting over Africa. Scaffolds covered the massive, curving structure. A few cannons had been installed already, and assault drones were ready to launch from hidden bays. It would be another decade until Jangseung encircled Earth. But until then, it could defend itself.

Only forty years ago, the great pacts of Earth had fought one another in a terrible war. Today they cooperated. Today they aimed their cannons in the same direction. Toward deep space. The realm of the rahs.

They all knew that Elder'rah was still out there, that the empress wanted revenge. If any human doubted this, they had merely to glance up to the night sky. The clawships raided every day, brutalizing colonies on Mars, on Jupiter's moons, even as close as Earth's moon. These raids were like the first few raindrops before the storm. Everyone knew that soon the monsoon would sweep over them.

And now it was here. The storm came roaring with all its wrath.

There was no way to spot rahs from afar. They did not charge across the galaxy like asteroids, visible through telescopes. They gave Earth no warning. No mercy. Like they had on that terrible day three years ago, they opened their portals around Earth like a noose.

They could not portal directly into low orbit, plunging down through the blue sky. Earth's gravity well would tear their portals apart. But they got close. Damn close. The portals gaped open like black holes.

And from within these portals to hell they emerged like demons.

The Arakavish Armada.

Like the hands of the dead rising from the grave, the clawships thrust out from their holes. At first Godwin only saw their terrible bladed prows. Each clawship was like a hand with a hundred claws, and each claw could carve a frigate open. Godwin had seen it happen often enough. As they kept emerging, they revealed their hulls. Long hulls. Some of these ships were miles long, dwarfing even the mightiest human dreadnought.

Yes, Godwin had fought these clawships before. And the terror still pounded through him. And with this fleet came new ships too. A new design of the enemy. Terrors Godwin had never faced in battle before.

Their hulls were circular, black, and armored. On their prows blazed eight portals like red eyes. From each hull thrust out eight legs. No, not legs, Godwin saw—but cannons. Railguns. The ships were shaped like spiders. They were so large they could swallow the Churchill whole.

Between the enemy and Earth stood the forces of humanity. A few thousand warships. A defensive ring still under construction. Military satellites brimming with cannons. It was the full might of Earth. It suddenly didn't seem like much.

Godwin took this all in within a second.

Then the enemy began its bombardment.

* * * * *

Light flared across the viewports.

"Shields up!" Clara Nightingale cried even as the plasma bolts blazed their way. "Shield to ma—"

The first barrage hit them.

The Churchill rocked through space. The holographic monitors trembled and flickered. A crack ran across the deck.

Outside the flames roared. Thousands of enemy ships were still emerging. Thousands of plasma beams flew at Earth's fleet.

A corvette exploded.

Then a frigate.

All around, the ships of Earth burned. Blasts slammed into the defensive ring, eating up the scaffolds. Satellites crashed down to Earth. Within seconds, their defenses—painfully built over years—were crumbling.

Another blast slammed into the Churchill. The deck shook and cracked some more. A bulkhead collapsed and flames roared. Alarms wailed. Crewmen fell. A chunk of deckhead slammed into Clara Nightingale, knocking the admiral down.

Alarms came flashing in from the moon. Commanders were screaming. "Assault on the moon! Portals everywhere!"

No word yet from Mars and the other worlds in the solar system; it took a while for signals to arrive from such a distance. But Godwin knew that portals were opening there too.

He gripped his cane. He stepped around Nightingale, who lay moaning on the deck, eyelids fluttering and head bleeding. He took position in the center of the bridge. He grabbed a comlink.

"All ships of the Alliance!" he rumbled. "This is High Commander Godwin. Assume full assault formations. Bombard those portals! Fire!"

The cannons of the Churchill wheeled toward one portal, thrumming the deck. Around Earth, everything was burning. Everything was falling apart. Ships exploded. Jangseung Orbital Ring cracked in two. The defensive lines were crumbling.

But a few ships were rallying around their wing leaders. They were changing from defensive to assault formations.

Churchill's Mimori-class android looked over her shoulder. "Sir, our cannons our locked on a portal."

"Fire!" Godwin cried.

The guns of the Churchill boomed.

White bolts of searing energy flew toward a portal, slamming into an emerging clawship. The ship's electric shield blazed in a red matrix. The ship kept flying out the portal.

"Churchill Squadron—engage all firepower on that portal!" Godwin rumbled. "Don't focus on the ships that emerged already. Destroy the portal before more come!"

Alliance ships were organized into squadrons. They included one large ship, normally a frigate or a starfighter carrier, and five to ten smaller corvettes. In turn, ten squadrons formed a wing, usually comprising about a hundred ships. Meanwhile, ten wings formed a flotilla, each containing about a thousand ships. Currently the Alliance Fleet included three flotillas. The Red Dawn oversaw three flotillas as well, while the Desert Thorns commanded one. Seven thousand ships in all.

Though an hour from now, there might not be much left of us, Godwin thought. He snarled, clutched his cane tighter, and pushed such thoughts aside.

"All squadrons!" Godwin said. "Focus on the nearest portal to you and crumble these hellholes!"

Across the fleet, they were returning fire. Every moment, another human ship exploded. But the survivors were unleashing a torrent of fury, blasting the enemy portals with enough firepower to destroy small moons.

One portal collapsed, shattering a warclaw that was halfway through. The blades tore off the prow and went flying every which way.

A second portal exploded. The blast of gravity and energy seared several nearby clawships.

Clara Nightingale rose to her feet, blood on her forehead, and limped toward Godwin.

"How long was I out?" she said.

"Only a few minutes."

She stared at the images on the viewports. At the hundreds of human starships already gone. At the thousands of dead. At the destroyed orbital ring.

"They did this in only minutes?" she whispered, going pale. Then her face hardened, and she clutched her saber. "Gunnery team, load our antimatter cannons. Yes, I know the risk. Fire at those portals!"

Godwin spun his head toward her, aghast. The entire crew did.

Nightingale met his gaze, chin raised, challenging him to call her down.

Godwin was ready to cry out: "Belay that order!" But the words died on his lips.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

Antimatter torpedoes were experimental. They had never been used in battle. Never even been tested this close to Earth, only in the depths of space. They made nuclear weapons look like mere fireworks. A nuclear weapon could destroy a city. Antimatter could destroy a planet.

But right now, if they didn't stop these beasts, there might not be a planet left.

Godwin nodded.

The guns of the Churchill fired four blue torpedoes. Blue. Antimatter warheads.

"May God help us all," Godwin whispered.

The clawships returned fire. Plasma bolts flew, attempting to intercept Churchill's barrage. But the torpedoes came with sophisticated thrusters, and they swerved around the enemy plasma, then charged onward on the hunt.

A plasma bolt hit one torpedo.

For a split second, Gamma rays flooded Churchill's shields.

The torpedo vanished. So did the plasma bolt.

Both—gone from reality!

That was the power of antimatter. Whatever it touched—it annihilated.

Three more blue torpedoes still flew.

A plasma bolt hit another. Both torpedo and plasma bolt vanished.

A clawfighter, a vessel just large enough for one rah pilot, charged into one torpedo in a kamikaze attack. Both blinked out of reality, releasing a shock wave of energy.

The fourth torpedo flew into the portal.

"Detonate!" Nightingale said.

The order beamed from the Churchill to the torpedo. The warhead exploded, filling the portal with antimatter.

Spacetime shook.

The portal imploded.

Waves of gravity rippled out, rocking both human and alien ships.

Cheers rose across the bridge. Over MindWeb, Godwin heard them cheer across the fleet.

Then a few shards of the warhead flew out the crumbling portal. Barely more than dust. They hit three clawships.

Normally shrapnel this small would barely leave a scar. Now entire chucks of the clawships' hull vanished with flashes of light. Then the dust of antimatter coated a human frigate, a heavy warship with five hundred spacers aboard. The outer hull peeled off. The crew spilled out into space, and the frigate slewed, burning up, and slammed into an Alliance corvette.

Other ships across the fleet were already firing more blue torpedoes.

More portals collapsed.

More antimatter fallout spread across space, eating through warships, both alien and human.

Starship after starship crumbled. Hulls ripped open. Humans and aliens spilled into space, only for antimatter dust to coat them, to remove their very atoms from reality.

Godwin watched with horror as fallout landed on Earth. As forests disappeared with blasts of light and clouds of soil. As an entire mountain crumbled and vanished.

He gripped his comlink with a shaking hand. "Cease all antimatter bombardment! That's enough!"

The blue torpedoes stopped flying. A few portals had been destroyed … and then more portals opened.

And more enemy ships came streaming out.

"Where are you, Admiral King?" Godwin whispered. "Where is the Freedom?"

* * * * *

Magog'rah, admiral of the Arakavish Armada, stood on the bridge of the Atrocity. He had not yet flown through. His dreadnought still floated near Arakavish, waiting for her turn to enter a portal. But reports kept streaming in through the portals, showing him a view of the battle for Earth.

A grin spread across his arachnid face, creaking the plates of his lumpy gray carapace.

"Everything is proceeding as planned," he said. "The human defenses crumble."

Across the bridge, the rahs chortled on their webs. Their laughter echoed through the cavernous deck.

Magog'rah had not trusted arachtaurs to man his dreadnought. He had enlisted only rahs for his crew. They were faithful beasts, hierarchal to a fault. Arachtaurs were too disobedient, too mercurial, with their human minds and human frailties. Look at Od'rahda! Impudent bitch. But rahs were different. The giant spiders would never mutiny. They existed for only three purposes: to feed, to breed, and to obey.

Magog'rah himself did not consider himself an arachtaur. Oh, he claimed otherwise to torment Od'rahda. But he knew that he was different. He had no spider body, no spider legs—unless you counted the single, underdeveloped leg that stuck out from his side. Nor was he rah or man. He was something else. Something unique. A humanoid body with a spider's head. A being encased in armor. His eight eyes blinked, making little clacking sounds. His grin widened. There was no name for the creature that he was, but someday they would all call him emperor.

A rah warrior approached and flattened himself on the deck, a display of groveling obedience. "But master, what of the admiral? What of James King?"

Magog'rah laughed—a sound like shattering temples. "The Freedom was not seen. The famous admiral has fled like a bug under a rock. Earth is ours for the plucking. You will all feed on the flesh of men! Your eggs will grow in the wombs of women! Earth will be ours!"

The rahs raised their claws and gurgled and hissed, their way of cheering. Dumb brutes. So easy to motivate. Promise them a meal, a good mating, and they'd follow you to hell and back.

Dealing with Od'rahda would be more complicated. The arachtaurs were smarter, conniving, ambitious. But soon enough, it would be Od'rahda at his feet, groveling for his approval.

Another rah approached, a big brute with crimson legs. Dozens of skulls were impaled onto the spikes on his back, trophies from the war. He bowed.

"Master, our warclaws are all through. Only the heavy troop transporters remain at Arakavish."

Magog'rah looked at the spherical monitors that hung from the cobwebs. They showed the battle at Earth. The orbital ring had shattered in several places. The defensive satellites were burning. The human fleet was mounting a pathetic assault on the portals. They should be in defensive formations—or better yet, fleeing for their lives—but the fools actually thought they could attack the Arakavish Armada and survive. They destroyed a few portals, true. So what? Magog'rah simply had to open new ones.

He snickered. "This will be easier than I thought." He looked down at the bowing warrior. "It is time. We enter the fight."

"Yes, master," the rah hissed.

* * * * *

The great engines of the Atrocity rumbled, then roared. The warclaw thrummed and shook. She was the largest ship in the armada. Magog'rah had designed her himself. She looked like a human skull, able to open her metal jaws to spew her mechanical spiders. Some called it ironic. Magog'rah himself, though an arachtaur, did not have a human head. Let them scoff. Rahs often carried the skulls of vanquished enemies on their spikes. Magog'rah commanded the greatest of skulls.

The Atrocity flew toward the portal.

It appeared as a shimmering black sphere. A few streaks of light flashed across it like lightning wrapped around a storm, the only hints of the battle beyond. The Atrocity flew faster. Faster. Magog'rah grinned as his giant skull-shaped dreadnought flew through.

Within instants, the Atrocity streaked across the light-years, then burst out above Earth.

The battle blazed all around. And it was glorious.

Myriads of clawships and spiderships circled Earth like a barbed wire noose, drenching Earth's feeble defenses with plasma. The ships of humanity were burning, exploding, crashing down to that pathetic blue planet. Swarms of clawfighters flew everywhere, bombarding the human fleet, and their weak little starfighters could barely keep up. The fabled orbital ring, this technological fortress Earth had been building for two years now, had shattered into three pieces. Most of its cannons weren't even firing. Pathetic.

The fabled Freedom, the champion of Earth, was nowhere to be found. So much for the great Admiral James King! The so-called hero was probably still hiding in deep space, his ship crippled.

Earth was still mounting something resembling a defense. They had scored a few hits here and there. The Baba Yaga, a Red Dawn dreadnought, seemed to be doing particularly well. She had destroyed a large motherclaw already, slaying ten thousand rahs aboard. Several hundred smaller clawships had fallen so far too. Their hulks floated into the void, spilling the corpses of spiders.

No big deal. Drops in the ocean of the armada's might. Magog'rah could lose ten thousand ships and have enough to crush this planet. And the humans knew it.

For every rah ship the humans destroyed, more kept coming. Portals were still open around Earth. The smaller clawships were now racing through, firing plasma bolts in a fury, pushing back Earth's frigates. Arakavish's heavy transport ships would soon join the fray, ferrying the ground forces of the empire.

And there came the Desiccation, Od'rahdah's clawship. A slow, cumbersome vessel brimming with arachtaur shock troops.

Three human frigates mounted an attack on the emerging Desiccation, bombarding her with torpedoes and laser beams. A swarm of corvettes joined the charge. A fusillade pounded the Desiccation's shields. She was a big ship, a slow ship. She had to take the punches while she emerged.

Magog'rah contemplated letting the humans destroy her. He would be rid of Od'rahda and her haughty arachtaurs.

But he knew the empress was watching. From her web in the depths of Arakavish, she oversaw the battle. She would see his hesitation.

Magog'rah pointed at the lumbering Desiccation. "Helm! Let us help our sister. Swat aside those human ships."

A monstrous black rah bowed from his web. "Yes, master." The beast tugged on strands of cobwebs. The Atrocity's engines roared. The skull-shaped motherclaw flew through the battle, dwarfing the other ships. A few plucky human warships mounted an attack. Or tried to at least. The Atrocity boasted a crown of neutron cannons, arranged like spikes around the skull's head. The dreaded guns fired beams of white fury. These beams could destroy a moon. They carved through the human frigates and shattered them into chunks of metal no larger than fingernails.

The Desiccation was only half out now. Her shields were flickering. One human torpedo made it through, slammed into the Desiccation's hull, and left a crater in the armored steel. It would be so easy to let the humans finish the job! To make excuses later. Sorry, Mother! I tried. But I was too slow.

And yet the realization rose in Magog'rah, sickening his stomach.

I need my sister.

He needed Od'rahda and her shock troops. He needed them swarming across Earth, devouring humanity's ground forces. Arakavish had an advantage in space, but on the ground? The humans knew their land. They dug fortifications. They popped out of every crevice and nook. The empress was right. Arachtaurs, who were half human, could understand these apes.

Very well then. I will save you now, Od'rahda, while you are useful to me. Do not think I will do it again.

"Fire!" Magog'rah said.

Atrocity tilted forward, aiming her crown of spikes at the enemy. The great neutron cannons flared white, blasting forth searing beams.

Every beam scored a direct hit.

The five frigates attacking the Desiccation exploded, showering debris across the battle. Chunks of metal crashed through Earth's orbit. Forests caught fire below. The sea swelled over coastal towns.

A few corvettes had been assaulting the Desiccation too, but without the larger frigates around, they turned to flee. Magog'rah simply nodded at his gunners. The rahs tugged their strands. The neutron cannons boomed again, and searing white beams tore through the fleeing human ships. Corpses spilled into space.

Magog'rah hadn't even needed to unleash his clawfighters. These humans were no worthy adversary. It was boring, really.

"Open a channel to the Desiccation," he said.

A rah bowed. "Yes, master." His legs manipulated strands and stroked crystal spheres.

"Sister!" Magog'rah said. "Must I keep saving your life throughout the war?"

Od'rahda appeared in one of the crystal spheres that hung in Atrocity's bridge. She was snarling, her human fists clenched at her sides. Arachtaurs filled the bridge around her.

"We were handling the human pests before you stole our glory," she said. "Can you not fight your own battles that you must run to your sister, show off a few stunts, and beg for her approval?"

He laughed. "Oh, sweet little sister. It's good to know that despite your many military failures, you've maintained your sense of humor."

He hung up before she could reply. There would be time later to torment poor Od'rahda. For now, Magog'rah had a war to win.

He turned the Atrocity back toward Earth. The Arakavish Armada surrounded the planet. The human resistance was falling apart. Earth was burning. Magog'rah smiled and licked his lips, already tasting the flesh of men.

* * * * *

Godwin stood on the cracked bridge of the Churchill, watching Earth's defenses crumble.

The news was now coming in from across the solar system. From the moons of Jupiter and Saturn. From the grand colonies on Mars. From the asteroid belt where miners toiled. The enemy was everywhere.

"The final storm is here," Godwin said. "The waves are even greater than we expected."

And it wasn't just the rahs this time. Not just the dreaded clawships with their terrible blades and plasma ports. A new type of enemy ship flew here, shaped like spiders, each leg a railgun. A brave squadron managed to break through the enemy defenses, to bombard one of those spiderlike ships. Godwin, standing aboard the Churchill, watched as the enemies spilled out from their breached ship.

Not rahs. Strange beings, half spider, half human.

King had warned them that Elder'rah was experimenting with hybrids.

You were right, old friend, Godwin thought. Now come back here and help me kill them.

Another human starship exploded. This time it was the FAS Gojira, a mighty warship from Japan. Her mangled hull tumbled into the atmosphere, hurtling down toward the Pacific.

The DSS Scimitar, an Emeriti warship, launched a desperate attack against a warclaw ten times her size. Her cannons were mangled. She was charging in for a ram. Like the sword whose name she bore, the Scimitar drove into the warclaw, ripping through the alien hull. Fire engulfed both ships. Earth's gravity caught them, pulling them into the atmosphere where they shattered.

The Churchill flew madly, swerving, diving, soaring, charging through the battle. Her cannons kept blasting. Enemy fire kept pounding her shields. The ship shook violently but kept flying. Clara Nightingale stood at her post, a bandage around her head, shouting orders. The viewports displayed the flaming scene of racing, battling, exploding starships all around.

As the ships fought above, their destruction rained down on Earth. A hailstorm of metal and fire was pounding Earth. Even from up here, thousands of kilometers above the surface, Godwin saw the devastation. Good, green Earth was ablaze.

Videos were coming in from Earth, playing across several side monitors. Buildings collapsing. Cities crumbling. Tidal waves washing over millions.

Godwin tightened his fist around his cane.

He lifted his comlink to his lips, and he broadcast a message to the fleet—and to all of humanity.

"To all humans, be they soldiers or civilians, Earthlings or colonists in space. This is George Godwin, High Commander of the Free Alliance, but most importantly—a fellow human. An hour ago, the nefarious empire of Arakavish launched a massive assault against Earth and her colonies. We find ourselves fighting for our very survival. The brave fleets of all Earth's nations fight united against the scourge from space. And the fight will soon come to Earth's very surface. Today all of Earth is an army. Today every man, woman, and child who can lift a weapon, be it a rifle or a humble stone, is a soldier. Do not lose your courage! Do not lose your fighting spirit! When the enemy approaches, conquer your fear and strike him down! This is a time for all to rise in battle. We fight the enemy in space. We will fight him in the sky. We will fight him on the high seas. We will fight him in our colonies in space and in our cities on Earth. This war will be fought on distant planets and in our own homes. Resist, people of Earth! Resist, resist, resist! May God be with you, and if you have no faith, may the spirit of humanity inspire you as we fight for our freedom."

A blast hit the Churchill. The frigate slewed through space. The bridge rattled. Godwin nearly fell. The battle blazed ahead on the viewports—a dizzying chaos of streaking starships, explosions, dogfights, and burning hulks. Above it all loomed the Atrocity, that terrible black skull with its crown of white fire.

"Ma'am, we're down to last three torpedoes!" cried the gunnery officer.

"Surveillance, find us that armory ship!" Nightingale shouted. "Where is the FAS Bohol?"

The surveillance officer looked up from his station, face pale. "Gone, ma'am. Blown away."

Nightingale cursed. "Find us another armory ship. Meanwhile, helm—get a grip and dodge that plasma! Our shields can't take much more of this. Gunners, why aren't we firing our mag cannons?"

"Prow cannons are damaged, ma'am. Engineering is working on them, but—"

"Hangar bay! Launch our Falcon starfighters!" The admiral gripped the hilt of her saber. "All Falcons—fly in close formation to our hull. Do not get drawn into dogfights. You'll be our cannons."

As Nightingale commanded the Churchill and the warships that served her, Godwin was busy overseeing the entire fleet, hearing reports from flotilla commanders, reorganizing formations, coming up with multi-squadron tactics.

"Hailstorm Squadron, Summer Storm Squadron—organize into a pincer maneuver around that motherclaw over India," Godwin said, speaking through MindWeb. "Atlantic Flotilla—maintain high orbit and keep pounding those portals. Halo Squadron! I want you to fly patrols around our armory ships. Get them into the battle. Oceania Flotilla, defend low orbit. Fly in …"

He hesitated.

What did he want to say?

Seconds ticked by.

"Sir?" came a voice. The avatars of a hundred commanders looked at him.

"Fly in Bordeaux-Hoover formations," Godwin said. "They work best against those motherclaws."

"Yes, sir!" came the replies. The ships of the Oceania Flotilla dived into lower orbit, skimming the sky.

Godwin's lip twitched. For a few seconds, he had forgotten the name of the formation. A few seconds could mean everything in battle. Damn it all! Was he getting too old for this? Was his mind starting to go?

He took a deep breath. Right now he had to focus on the battle. He had to organize the last flotilla, to flank the enemy, to—

A beam of searing white energy slammed into the Churchill, flooding the viewports.

The frigate tumbled backward in space. The lights died across the bridge. Godwin fell, banged his hip, and cried out in agony. For a few seconds, they tumbled in darkness. Then the backup battery kicked in. The viewports flickered back to life, the images grainy.

But Godwin didn't need a clear image to recognize the ship ahead.

She was shaped like a skull. The Atrocity.

And she was bearing down on the Churchill.

* * * * *

The giant skull lowered its crown of spikes, aiming those terrible cannons at the Churchill.

Nightingale was shouting something. Godwin could barely hear. His ears rang. His cane, complete with the sword inside, had snapped in two. There was blood on his hand. He knelt on the swaying deck, staring up at the monitor.

The skull on the viewport seemed to stare back.

Suddenly the image of the Atrocity vanished. A video stream, coming from Atrocity's bridge, replaced it.

The commander of the Atrocity stared at him.

He is the devil himself, Godwin thought. The devil is not a red man with horns and hooves. He is a spider.

The commander of the Arakavish Armada was a spider taken human form. He had a man's body but no skin. A lumpy gray carapace encased his flesh. His head was the head of a spider, sprouting hairs and horns, and his eight red eyes stared with malice. His mouth was oddly human but much larger, nearly as wide as his shoulders, and filled with fangs.

"Hello, High Commander Godwin," the creature said. "I am Magog'rah. I will say this only one time. Surrender."

Godwin knelt on the deck. He could not rise. He was too hurt. Too old. But he clenched his fists and glared at the beast on the viewport.

"It will be a cold day in hell before I surrender to a spider like yourself. And it is a very hot day in hell today, as I intend to show you." He raised his comlink. "Churchill squadron—bombard this skull to hell!"

The ships heeded his call.

The Churchill commanded a squadron of ten warships, the fastest and deadliest in the fleet. They charged at the colossal metal skull, cannons booming.

Torpedoes, photon bolts, and laser beams bombarded the Atrocity. Her shields flickered to life, a red grid around the skull-shaped hull. Torpedoes detonated against the shield. Beams of light scattered.

"Mag cannons, fire!" Nightingale cried. The Churchill's Gatling guns spun, unleashing bullets the size of swords. The barrage streaked through space, slamming into the Atrocity, doing nothing. The bullets bounced off the shield.

The Atrocity tilted forward, lowering her crown of neutron cannons.

White beams lit space.

The FAS Busan exploded.

The FAS De Gaulle split clean in two.

The Jabotinsky tumbled backward and slammed into the Aberdeen. Then another beam shot through them, pulverizing both warships.

"Evasive action!" Nightingale cried. The Churchill soared. A beam skimmed their keel.

Klaxons wailed. The ship spun. Alarms flashed. The bridge rocked madly. Electricity burst from a workstation, and the gunnery officer screamed.

"Lower decks breached!" somebody shouted.

"Our shields are down!"

"We can't take another blow!"

Godwin stumbled toward the gunnery station, his hip blazing with pain. The gunner was dead. Godwin shoved the charred officer aside and checked the controls. Still working. With his arthritic hands, he aimed at the Atrocity. He fired. The enemy's shields buzzed, flickered, but held.

Another beam flew their way.

White light flared.

Chunks of the Churchill blasted off the prow. The sound was deafening. Godwin heard only ringing in his ears. The lights died across the bridge. The controls shut down. Only the viewports still hovered in the air—hallucinations running on MindWeb, streaming the destruction. In the darkness, Godwin seemed to be floating in space like an astronaut, engulfed in war.

For a moment, the Atrocity was not attacking. The Churchill smoldered before her, engines crippled, her prow crumpled. The hulks of her corvettes slewed around the frigate, their lights off. Corpses floated through space.

A disembodied voice filled the Churchill's bridge. Magog'rah's slurred voice, twisted due to the deformity of his face.

"Look, old man. Look down at Earth."

Godwin clutched the control panel, barely able to stand, and gazed through the viewport at Earth.

The rah transporters had broken through the defenses.

Massive alien ships hovered just over the sky, releasing clouds of dropships. Some were clawships, ferrying rahs. But most were the spider-shaped ships, unleashing swarms of their terrible hybrids.

"Yes, Godwin," Magog'rah said. "The ground invasion has begun. I thought your fleet would put up more of a resistance. I am disappointed in you humans. But I will still enjoy the taste of your flesh." He licked his chops.

Godwin clenched his jaw and pulled the triggers.

But the Churchill's guns did not work. The ship was dead in the water. Nightingale stood there, very pale, and drew her saber.

"They will not take us alive," the commander vowed.

Magog'rah laughed. "No. Perhaps not. But do not worry. There is plenty of live meat on the surface. Die now, High Commander Godwin. Die knowing you have failed."

The Atrocity aimed her cannons.

The Churchill's engines were dead. Her shields were down. Her corvettes were destroyed. The other ships of the fleet were in deeper orbit, fighting their own battles.

This is the end, Godwin realized.

Spacetime thrummed.

A portal opened above. Not a black, blobby portal like the rahs used. A portal limned in light. It shone like the dawn. Godwin gazed upon it, and tears flooded his eyes and streamed down his jowly cheeks.

Magog'rah howled in fury.

The Atrocity spun away from the light like a nocturnal beast, blinded and afraid.

From the luminous portal she emerged, a beacon of hope, an angel in a time of despair. The starship Freedom.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The portal generator was still spinning on Freedom's hull as she emerged from the portal, charging into hell.

Only seconds ago, the Freedom had been flying in the Aeolia system, draped in peaceful darkness. Now war flared all around, blinding and furious. Tens of thousands of starships streaked everywhere, both human and alien, cannons booming. Countless starfighters zipped around lumbering frigates and warclaws like swarms of hornets. Torpedoes, plasma bolts, and laser beams crisscrossed space, painting a masterpiece of destruction. Motherclaws that could dwarf the Freedom hung above like storm clouds, and the spider-shaped ships of the arachtaurs, clones of the Tyranny, blasted their railguns. One blast hit what remained of Jangseung Orbital Ring, and shards of mangled metal flew everywhere, slamming into ships.

In the center of this chaos hovered Earth. Her forests were burning. Her seas roiled with crashing debris. Countless enemy dropships were descending onto the smoldering plains, unleashing their monstrous troops.

King stood on the bridge of the Freedom, eyes narrowed, taking it all in.

"We're too late!" Spitfire cried from behind him.

"Not too late," King said. "The fleet still fights. Earth still resists. There is hope."

"Enemy warclaws coming in off our port bow!" Jordan called from his station.

"I see them," King said. There were seven of them, each as large as the Freedom. "All Angels of Liberty, lock on all seven warclaws. Two gunnery stations per enemy ship."

The great cannons of the starship Freedom spun atop her dorsal hull. As the mighty gears turned, the deck thrummed.

The warclaws charged closer, plowing through a formation of Desert Thorn corvettes, ignoring the smaller ships as they raced toward the Freedom. Bundles of blades thrust out from their prows, covered with mangled bits of metal from the starships they had carved through. As they approached the Freedom, the warclaws prepared to fire. Their blades bloomed open like metal petals, revealing their roiling plasma ports.

Voices came over MindWeb from the gunnery stations.

"Port stern guns locked on target!"

"Starboard midsection guns locked on target!"

Each station was reporting in, locking on another warclaw. One of those voices was high, feminine, and had an upper-class English accent. Emily was there at an artillery station, no longer a guest of honor but a warrior.

"Wait for my signal," King said. "Hold!"

The warclaws opened fire.

Streams of plasma blasted toward the Freedom.

"Shield of David intercepting!" shouted Motti Kaplan, once an officer of the Caracal, now protecting the Freedom from her bridge.

A hundred interceptors flew from the Freedom, slender and quick. They flew into the paths of the roaring, spinning jets of plasma.

The interceptors disintegrated at once. They were like sticks dropped into an erupting volcano. But they dispersed the streams of plasma. The inferno now spread like a cloud, no longer concentrated into jets.

"Sir, awaiting your order to fire!" Emily said.

"Hold!" King said as the plasma roared before them like a nebula.

The Freedom charged through the storm. Her shields flared and crackled. Alarms wailed. Heat warnings flashed on the monitors. But the shields held. The Freedom made it through.

And there, just ahead—seven warclaws.

"Angels—fire!" King shouted.

Fourteen cannons boomed as one. The bridge shook. The Maccabee torpedoes flew.

Perhaps the Desert Thorn corvettes had weakened the warclaws' shields. Perhaps the Aeolians had made the cannons so much deadlier. Perhaps tonight they were simply lucky or blessed. Whatever the reason—all the Maccabees hit their targets, detonated, and tore through the enemy shields.

Explosions bloomed across the warclaws, charring and denting their hulls.

"Fire!" King shouted.

More torpedoes flew.

"Fire again!"

Another volley charged through space.

The warclaws tried to fight back, but Freedom's interceptors disrupted their streams, and her shields absorbed whatever plasma remained. The cannons boomed again, sending forth another broadside. Torpedo after torpedo slammed into the warclaws, plowing through their armored hulls, driving into the decks, and exploding deep within.

Hundreds of iron blades careened through space, spinning every which way. A few streaked toward the Freedom only for her interceptors to knock them aside. The last plasma clouds dispersed. When the view cleared, nothing remained of the warclaws but charred husks and floating clouds of dead spiders. The Freedom plowed through the remains, charging onward.

* * * * *

King nodded in satisfaction, and the thinnest of smiles tugged on his lips.

God, I missed this, he thought. And he instantly felt a little guilt. He missed war? He missed death, destruction?

No, it wasn't that. He had just spent long days on trial. Helpless. At the mercy of others. Here, once more, he was in charge. He decided his own fate—and perhaps the fate of humanity. He did not beg for approval but fought for his own life. That was what he had missed—the man he had once been. The man he was again.

"Sir, enemy spiderwings coming our way!" Spitfire said. "A big swarm off our port beam!"

King nodded. "I see them." He got on the comlink. "Freedom's Flock—launch to battle!"

Spitfire looked at him, bouncing on her feet. "Sir? Please?"

He nodded. "All right, Spitfire. We said two flights a week, didn't we? You're due."

Spitfire saluted and ran off the bridge. Before she was through the door, her comrades' Eagles launched from the Freedom's hangars. Two hundred of them, augmented with graviton engines and hopscotch drives. They flew at the cloud of spiderwings. The small arachtaur vessels scattered as the Eagles bombarded them. A moment later, one more Eagle joined them: Yael's Nail, Spitfire's starfighter.

The dogfights flared off Freedom's port beam like fireworks. The spiderwings kept trying to make their way through, to bite at Freedom's hull, but the Eagles were holding them back. They were not using the new hopscotch drives. Not yet. They were too risky. With their new graviton propulsion and the skill of their pilots, the Flock cut the enemy down.

Through the storms of war, a great shadow rose, looming above the Earth.

King narrowed his eyes, staring.

Jordan took a step closer to the viewport. "God above, what is that? Is that a ship?"

King's upper lip twitched. His metal fist clenched. "It's a ship. The largest ship we've ever seen."

She was shaped like a skull. A human skull. Flames burned red in the eye sockets, and cannons crowned her head. Below this mechanical monstrosity floated the husks of destroyed Alliance corvettes. Among them hovered one frigate, badly damaged but perhaps not yet dead. The Churchill. The High Commander's ship. Her prow had crumpled, her keel was ripped open, but lights still shone within her smoldering chassis.

"The High Commander needs us," Jordan said.

"And we come to aid," said King.

The enormous skull-shaped dreadnought came flying toward the Freedom, abandoning her smaller prey. She was broadcasting her name on an open channel. The ATLAS sensors picked it up, displaying it on the HUD.

The Atrocity.

An apt name, King thought.

The gargantuan skull tilted forward, aiming her crown of cannons at the Freedom.

"Angels!" King said.

Jordan looked over from his station. "Loading new torpedoes. Ready in ten seconds."

"Sir, the Atrocity is opening fire!" Mimori said.

On the viewport, King saw it happen. Atrocity's crown lit up in furious white light. Blasts of energy flew at the Freedom.

"Shield of—"

"Already on it!" Motti cried, releasing a barrage of interceptors.

Atrocity's white beams tore through the interceptors as if they were paper planes.

"Full power to shields!" King began. "Mimori, evasive—"

She was already yawing when the blasts hit them.

White light flared across the viewports. Several screens shattered. The deck cracked. Red lights flashed and sirens wailed. Damage reports flashed across every remaining screen. King clenched his jaw, struggling to keep on his feet.

"Shields down to thirteen percent!" cried Kim, speaking over MindWeb from engineering. "We won't take another hit!"

King stared at his enemy, snarling, his metal fist clenched.

"Mimori—fire the Fist of Freedom!" King said.

The android glanced at Jordan. "Sir? I need confirmation."

"Approved," said Jordan. "Fire the Fist!"

Mimori turned Freedom's railgun toward the Atrocity. The great metal skull hung over the burning Earth like Satan over hell.

Mimori began a countdown. "Firing in five …"

King grinned savagely.

"Four," Mimori said.

The Fist of Freedom could destroy cities. It was Freedom's greatest weapon. A railgun the size of a skyscraper. The largest known cannon in the galaxy. A blow from the Fist of Freedom could destroy the largest dreadnought with a single shot.

"Three."

It was a once-in-a-battle weapon. The Fist of Freedom took so much energy the gun required a full twenty-four hours to charge.

"Two."

The Atrocity saw the railgun heating up. She tried to rise higher, to get out of Freedom's scope, and for a ship that large, the Atrocity was damn fast. But Freedom was agile now. Her graviton thrusters thrummed, and the railgun rose, following Atrocity across space.

"One," Mimori said.

The Fist of Freedom fired.

The light of freedom filled space. It washed over Freedom's bridge. Down on Earth, they would see the night sky turn white.

A Gideon projectile flew at hypersonic speed, propelled by the full wrath of Freedom. With an explosion that sprayed Earth's orbit with white flame, the Gideon slammed into the Atrocity.

The enemy shields blazed for a split second, then shattered into a million red shards that flew every which way and extinguished like matches in water.

The mighty Gideon plowed into the top of the skull-shaped ship, bending metal, carving through the thick armored hull. The projectile—a cylinder the size of a small starship—lodged itself into the Atrocity like a bullet into a real skull. It reminded King of the rocket from A Trip to the Moon, lodging itself into a giant face in the sky. The great dreadnought stumbled back in space, careening.

Jordan's eyes widened. "She should be dust. The biggest piece of the Atrocity should be the size of a fingernail. Did the Aeolians handicap our railgun?"

"No," King said. "Our railgun is stronger than ever. We just never fought a ship this tough."

Darjeeling glowered at a viewport. "That's an arachtaur ship, mark my words."

* * * * *

The Atrocity was still reeling. Two Red Dawn squadrons, one Russian and one Chinese, seized their chance. They charged at the damaged Atrocity, bombarding her with cannon fire. They were driving the enormous skull behind Earth's horizon.

A dreadnought flashed above, hull painted crimson and gold. She looked like the love child of an Art Deco skyscraper and an old opera house. Huge golden letters appeared on her hull. Baba Yaga. The Red Dawn's new flagship, replacing the legendary Lenin that had fallen in Operation Perseus.

A familiar figure materialized on MindWeb. She appeared to stand on Freedom's bridge, clad in a resplendent red uniform, complete with a saber on her hip. Her chin-length black hair spilled out from her under naval cap.

Oh God, she's back, King thought.

"Zdravstvuyte, James King! Welcome back! Katyusha missed you so much. Now watch Katyusha destroy enemy flagship." She blew him a kiss and waved. "Bye-bye!"

Her avatar vanished, and the Baba Yaga streaked overhead, charging toward the Atrocity.

Already hundreds of warclaws and arachships were racing toward the Atrocity, ready to defend their damaged flagship. Whatever foul commander flew in that mechanical skull—he was still very much in the fight.

Darjeeling clenched his fists. "We can't let Katyusha claim the Atrocity. That ship is ours. We must chase the Atrocity down and finish the job ourselves."

"The Atrocity will not be so easy to destroy," King said. "Even with a Gideon lodged in her hull, she is deadly. Let Katyusha keep her busy for now. Our High Commander needs us. We must evacuate Godwin."

"Sir!" Mimori turned toward him, the lights of battle reflecting in her eyes. "The Churchill is hailing us."

"Patch it to MindWeb. Full bridge access."

George Godwin appeared on the Freedom's bridge. His three-piece suit was singed, his cane was broken, and he was bleeding from several cuts. The old man was pushing eighty and wounded, but his eyes were hard as steel, and his chin was raised with iron resolve.

"Just in time, Admiral King. It is very good to see you."

"Sir, I'm sending over rescue ships to evacuate you and your crew."

"No, King! Do not spare your resources or time. We've already summoned a rescue ship. The Churchill will not fly again in this battle. You must rally the fleet! You must turn the tide! All our hope rests upon the Freedom. Godspeed, Admiral. Go win this war."

King saluted his commander. Godwin returned the salute, lower jaw thrust out pugnaciously, and vanished off the bridge.

"Mimori, fly into deeper orbit," King said. "I want a bird's-eye view of this battle. And open a hailing frequency to the full Alliance Fleet."

"Aye, sir. Rising in orbit. Hailing frequency open."

A few clawships came streaking down toward the Freedom. The Angels of Liberty boomed, casting them back. The Eagles flew rings around the Freedom, bombarding the swarms of spiderwings and clawfighters.

The Freedom soared higher, all guns blazing, fighting her way through the battle. Her mighty exhaust ports, each as large as a football field, shone with pale blue light. The ship rose vertically from low Earth orbit, spinning, riding a beam of light. She gained speed. The enemy fire blazed across her prow shield, cascading in a hemisphere of light. All across the battle, and probably down on Earth too, they could see her fly.

King raised his comlink. He spoke to the fleet.

"This is Admiral James King speaking from aboard the starship Freedom. The enemy has hit us hard. Many of our ships have fallen and our cities burn. A new enemy, hybrids we call the arachtaurs, have joined the rahs in war, and their ships are larger, stronger, and their ground troops are crueler. But hope is here. The Freedom is here. We will win this war. Rally around the Freedom, all Alliance ships! Rally for Earth! Rally for victory! Rally for humanity and our deliverance from evil!"

The first few ships flew through the storm. A heavy bomber. An ammunition ship. An armored rammer. They positioned themselves around the Freedom, and together they charged, breaking through a formation of clawfighters.

Then more joined—five corvettes, once part of a strike group, their squadron leader gone. They were slim, deadly, and hungry for battle. They raced alongside the Freedom like dolphins by a whale.

A starfighter-carrier joined next, five hundred meters from stern to stem. She was the FAS Shotoku, one of the fleet's greatest ships, and she brought with her twelve corvettes.

Then came more. The FAS Rama, a heavy Indian frigate. The FAS Silver Rain, a Moldovan assault schooner. The FAS Dayan, an Israeli warship shaped like a diamond bristling with cannons. The Arctic Foxes, a famous squadron of Finnish corvettes.

Then more and more. Hundreds, then thousands of ships from across the free nations of the world. They came from all continents, from all faiths. Ships large and small. Bombers and racers and rammers, starfighters and carriers, armored transporters and sleek infiltrators. They were humanity united. They were the ingenuity of engineers, the daring of pilots, the courage of soldiers. They were the Free Alliance Fleet, and they rallied behind their flagship. They rallied for freedom.

And the enemy fell back before them.

The Alliance ships curved their flight, storming over the horizon of Earth, heading toward the Atrocity. Heading to battle.

The war raged everywhere. It was fought here in Earth's orbit. It was fought on Mars and the moons of Jupiter. It was fought on the seas of Earth and in her wilderness and on the streets of her cities. Perhaps this war was fought at other stars where brave civilizations took arms against the evil empire of Arakavish.

King did not know if humanity could win this war. He did not know if he could save Earth. But he knew that he would never turn away from evil. That he would never flee. That he would charge into the fire because that planet below was his home, and these courageous soldiers were his people.

Darjeeling walked up to his side, raised his chin high, and began to sing an old song. The anthem of this starship, sung in her halls for forty years. The song that had become a song of hope to all humanity.

Let all free souls salute her flight

Let her engines bathe the dark with light

Let her cannons sing the song of freedom

The fleet will gather; she will lead them

Our flagship sails into the flame

As poets weep and sing her name

For liberty's light! For glory's hymn!

Praise the Freedom, she will win!

The fleet charged over Africa, and there she was, hovering over the Pacific. The Atrocity and thousands of alien warships.

"For freedom—charge!" King cried.

"For freedom!" cried his crew.

The starship Freedom flew to battle, all guns blazing, and the fleet of humanity followed.

The story continues in …

STARSHIP FREEDOM VII

The Guns of Freedom

DanielArenson.com/StarshipFreedomVII

AFTERWORD

Thank you for reading Starship Freedom VI.

Starship Freedom VII continues the tale.

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Thank you again, dear reader, and I hope we meet again between the pages of another book.

Daniel

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

STARSHIP FREEDOM

Starship Freedom

Starship Freedom II: The Cost of Freedom

Starship Freedom III: We Fight for Freedom

Starship Freedom IV: For Death or Freedom

Starship Freedom V: Let Freedom Ring

Starship Freedom VI: In Pursuit of Freedom

Starship Freedom VII: The Guns of Freedom

EARTHRISE

Earth Alone

Earth Lost

Earth Rising

Earth Fire

Earth Shadows

Earth Valor

Earth Reborn

Earth Honor

Earth Eternal

Earth Machines

Earth Aflame

Earth Unleashed

Earth Remembers

Earth in Darkness

Earth, Our Home

SOLDIERS OF EARTHRISE

The Earthling

Earthlings

Earthling's War

I, Earthling

The Earthling's Daughter

We Are Earthlings

CHILDREN OF EARTHRISE

The Heirs of Earth

A Memory of Earth

An Echo of Earth

The War for Earth

The Song of Earth

The Legacy of Earth

KINGDOMS OF SAND

Kings of Ruin

Crowns of Rust

Thrones of Ash

Temples of Dust

Halls of Shadows

Echoes of Light

THE MOTH SAGA

Moth

Empires of Moth

Secrets of Moth

Daughter of Moth

Shadows of Moth

Legacy of Moth

REQUIEM

Dawn of Dragons

Requiem's Song

Requiem's Hope

Requiem's Prayer

The Complete Trilogy

Song of Dragons

Blood of Requiem

Tears of Requiem

Light of Requiem

The Complete Trilogy

Dragonlore

A Dawn of Dragonfire

A Day of Dragon Blood

A Night of Dragon Wings

The Complete Trilogy

The Dragon War

A Legacy of Light

A Birthright of Blood

A Memory of Fire

The Complete Trilogy

Requiem for Dragons

Dragons Lost

Dragons Reborn

Dragons Rising

The Complete Trilogy

Flame of Requiem

Forged in Dragonfire

Crown of Dragonfire

Pillars of Dragonfire

The Complete Trilogy

ALIEN HUNTERS

Alien Hunters

Alien Sky

Alien Shadows

OTHER WORLDS

Utopia 58

Eye of the Wizard

Wand of the Witch

Firefly Island

The Gods of Dream

Flaming Dove

KEEP IN TOUCH

www.DanielArenson.com

Daniel@DanielArenson.com

Facebook.com/DanielArenson

Twitter.com/DanielArenson