THE EARTHLING'S DAUGHTER

SOLDIERS OF EARTHRISE, BOOK 5

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

Illustration © Tom Edwards - TomEdwardsDesign.com

Chapter One

Pippi and the King of Bones

Pippi regretted coming back from the dead.

There were worse things than death. Far worse. Her miracle had become her greatest curse.

She lay on her side in the dark. Everything hurt. So many pains. The relentless pain of the manacles, those cruel metal claws, gripping her, crushing her, cutting her. A throbbing pain where her fingernail had been slowly, painstakingly pulled off, leaving a pulsing wound, a pulsar that blazed with every heartbeat. A raw pain between her legs where the guards took their pleasure. A dim, dark pain that haunted the void inside her, the place where her soul had once dwelt.

Her soul was gone now. She had no soul in this white sterile place. Only a body. Only a suit of meat and fingernails and sex and nerve endings. Only a machine made to suffer.

That was all Pippi was now. Meat and pain.

She had a real name. Not Pippi. Not that name from the brothels, that bargirl name. A real name. A name from her youth. The name of a peasant girl in a distant place that was green. She could no longer remember that place. No longer remember that name. The pills they gave her dimmed the memories. In here, she was just prisoner number B56137.

But she still remembered her nickname. She still remembered being a bargirl called Pippi. A dancer. A singer in a club. Another life. Its echoes dimmed every day.

A snore tore through her thoughts.

Pippi froze on her cot. Daring not move. Daring not every breathe.

Somebody snored! she thought, and her heart trembled. Oh God. Somebody made a sound. Too loud. Too loud!

Twenty of them shared this room. A small room. A prison cell. Bunks covered the walls, stacked three high. A bucket stank on the floor, filled with human waste. Cameras sprouted from every corner like eye stalks, moving back and forth, always watching. They all lay on their bunks, facing the wall, shackled. Twenty broken, soulless bodies.

Pippi could not see the others. She too faced the wall. You had to face the wall. Any other position meant the whip, the terrible pliers. But Pippi knew the others were there. She could hear the breathing. The odd sob muffled by a blanket. You had to muffle your sobs.

She could not see her fellow sinners. But she could tell them apart by how they sobbed. The child's sobs were loudest. He had lost three fingernails already for sobbing too loudly at night, but he never learned. The elderly woman's sobs were raspy. Diseased. The young man with no teeth gave wet, gurgling sobs. It was a muffled symphony. Afraid. Barely audible at all. They had learned to be quiet. Just quiet enough to avoid punishment. And Pippi recognized every note.

But she herself never sobbed.

She never made a sound.

Not even when they pulled off her fingernail. Not even when they put the pain between her legs.

And then it sounded again in the dark room. A snore.

An actual snore. Not muffled. Ringing out like a saw through bone.

Pippi lay very still. Daring not rattle the shackles. Nobody moved, but they all held their breath. Eerie silence filled the room.

"Somebody wake her up," came a whisper. "She can't snore. Wake her up or—"

The door banged open.

Light flooded the room.

He came in. An inquisitor. A masked man in red robes. A man? No. A deity of punishment.

His shouts filled the room.

"Up, up! In formation, sinners! Up and take position!"

Electricity crackled. Somebody screamed. Pippi began to rise. A bolt of pure agony drove into her back, and she yowled.

"Move, worms! Up for inspection."

Pippi climbed off her cot. She caught glimpses of her fellow sinners. Twenty men, women, children. Naked. Scars across their bodies. Their heads shaved. Their cheeks gaunt. Their eyes sunken in deep sockets.

But looking was forbidden. Raising your eyes was a great sin. Pippi lowered her gaze and knelt. They all knelt between the cots, facing the bucket of human waste, an altar of stench.

Silence filled the room.

Cloth rustled. Pippi glimpsed fluttering red wool. The hem of a robe. She heard the shuffle of red shoes. The crackle of an electric rod. The rod that had driven into her back.

Pippi screwed her eyes shut. Behind her back, she clasped her cuffed hands.

"Please, oh lord," she mouthed silently, "please forgive my sins. Please welcome me into your embrace, though I'm a sinner, and please protect me from—"

The inquisitor's voice boomed, interrupting her thoughts.

"Who is the sinner who spoke after lights out?"

Nobody answered.

Pippi dared raise her head just a few millimeters. She saw the red shoes. The inquisitor. An angel of wrath. A demon of heaven. Only one of them today. But one was enough. One could inflict so much punishment.

"Who is the scumbag?" boomed the inquisitor. "Who spoke in darkness? Confess!"

Still—silence.

A few chains rattled. Prisoners were trembling.

Pippi's heart beat against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Please. Confess. Whoever you are, confess. Or he'll hurt us all. He'll break us into a million pieces.

The inquisitor paced the little room. His electric baton crackled. Kneeling, Pippi could see its tip. Rounded. Metallic. Buzzing with electricity.

"We have cameras, you know," said the inquisitor. "I can analyze the footage. Pinpoint the source of the voice. I can know who spoke. And then I will be merciless. But if you confess, there is forgiveness for sins." The baton crackled louder. Sparks flew. "We are merciful men."

One spark landed on Pippi's knee. It burned. She bit her bottom lip, clenched her teeth, dared not make a sound. Even as her knee sizzled. As smoke rose.

The inquisitor kept pacing. Moving around that foul bucket. It was full to overflowing. Pippi could smell it. The stench of human waste. It had not been emptied in two days.

"And still the sinner does not confess!" the inquisitor said. "Perhaps you all need to repent. Perhaps a visit to the red room will—"

"It was me, sir!"

A quivering voice. A soft voice. The voice of a child.

Pippi closed her eyes.

Oh God, not him. Protect him. He's only thirteen. Forgive him.

"It was me," the boy repeated. "I spoke. Old Nan was snoring, and I just wanted to keep her quiet, so I—"

A hand reached out. A hand gloved in crimson leather. The boy flinched, but the hand merely stroked his stubbly head. The leather creaked. Pippi lowered her eyes. She dared not sneak another glance.

"Such a sweet, innocent child," said the inquisitor. "Come with me. We'll pray together. Your soul will be purified."

Pippi trembled. Her manacles clattered—a sound! Another sound! She froze at once, daring not make more noise. Not even breathe. But her heart pounded, pounded, pounded like hammers against her ribs, in her eyes, flowing, roaring, rivers of blood.

Don't hurt him. Please, God, protect him. Please.

"Old woman, you come too," said the inquisitor. "You snored, did you? You made a sound. Come. Come with the child. We'll pray together."

The old woman rose to her feet, joints cracking, breathe heavy. She was eighty-four years old, her legs bent, her bare feet callused. She shuffled forward.

The inquisitor opened the door, revealing a clinical corridor lined with flickering fluorescent. Down there, down at the bottom of the corridor, Pippi could see it.

A red door.

The red room.

Hell.

"Please, sir," rasped the old woman. "Please, I didn't mean to make a sound, I—"

"Come." The gloved hand clasped the old woman's arm. "All will be forgiven."

The inquisitor pulled the old woman and child from the room. Pippi glanced up. Just a quick glance. She could not stop herself. She knew it could mean hours on the rack, eternal torture in the afterlife. But her eyes flicked up nonetheless.

She saw the inquisitor. A tall man in crimson. Robed and hooded. His back was to her. He pulled the old woman with one gloved hand, the child with the other. They stepped outside and the door slammed shut.

The lights thudded off.

But the cameras remained, scanning, sweeping the room, seeing even in darkness. The microphones still listened. Ears on the walls. Ears in the shadows.

The inquisitors were always listening. Always watching.

And he was always watching.

The man who ran this camp. The man who ran this world. The man they had never seen in the flesh, yet who was always in the shadows, always in their prayers, in their screams.

The man they had once called the Red Cardinal and now worshiped as a deity.

I hate him, Pippi thought. He is a tyrant. He is a false god. He—

No. No! She loved him. She loved her lord! She was sorry. She was so sorry! She felt all the pain again. The pliers peeling off her fingernail. The whip on her back. The men thrusting between her legs. She was so sorry and she loved her lord so much.

A voice emerged from a hidden speaker.

"Return to your beds, sinners! Your morning prayers begin in two hours."

They climbed back onto their cots. They lay on their sides, wearing only chains. Facing the wall. Daring not move. Not snore. Not cry.

They could not lie on their backs. They could not lie on their stomachs. They could not face the room. They had to lie like this, facing the wall, still and silent. Or they screamed.

Pippi could not fall asleep again. She wondered where the inquisitor had taken the old woman and child. Were they screaming in the red room? Or were they praying in a chapel? Praying not to god but to a man. To a man who ruled this world. A crimson father.

She wondered about her friends.

About Charlie, and Kim, and Joyce, and all the other bargirls. About Maria, who had shoved Pippi into the path of a knife. Who had left her for dead.

"I forgive you, Maria," Pippi mouthed silently. "You sinned. You are forgiven. I miss you." Tears flowed down her cheeks. "I miss the woman I was. I miss the child that I lost. I miss having a soul."

* * * * *

She lay awake for the rest of the night, knees pressed together. Her bladder was full to bursting, but leaving the bed was forbidden. Besides, the bucket was full. If she made it overflow, she would be beaten. If she wet the bed, she would be beaten. She had learned those lessons well. She clenched her teeth, trying to ignore the pressure in her bladder. To ignore all the pain. To drown in memory.

The lights thudded on.

A klaxon blared.

It was dawn. Time to rise and pray.

The sinners shuffled down the corridor, as naked as Adam and Eve, their shame exposed to the cameras on the walls, the eyes of their new god. Their chains rattled. The fluorescent lights flickered above, buzzing, stained with dead moths.

Lucky moths, Pippi thought. I wish I too could fly. I wish I could fly into the sun and burn.

White doorways opened along the corridor, and more sinners emerged. They too shuffled forward. Gaunt. Eyes sunken. Scarred and bruised.

Thousands of sinners lived in this camp, seeking redemption. They said that a million more lived in camps across Bahay.

Bahay? Yes, Pippi was still on her planet. But this felt like another world. The war was over. The Red Cardinal had won, and he was transfigured and renamed. Now they all lived in his searing white heaven.

From ahead, she could hear the chanting. Priests were already in the chapel, worshiping their leader. She could hear the words flow like liquid grace.

Bless us, O father

Heal us, O king

We praise you, Papa Dominus

Hallowed by thy name

Amen

Soon Pippi and the others would join. They would praise him. Nobody prayed to God in this place. They prayed only to him. To their father. To Papa. A figure all in light, living in grace.

And on the way to his heavenly chapel lay the portal to hell.

Pippi saw it there. At the end of the hall. The red door. The red room.

It was silent now. No screams rose from inside. No blood leaked from under the door. As if all those past times had been mere nightmares. Not reality at all. As if Pippi had never seen the door open. Never glimpsed the men in bloodstained robes, leaning over the tables, tools in hand, working with relish.

No. It was just a regular door. Painted red. Closed and silent. The horrors could not be real.

They shuffled onward until they reached the chapel. They sat in the pews. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Row after row of them, countless sinners, naked and chained and shaved and shamed.

They lowered their heads. Pippi stared at her toes, and a memory flowed through her. A memory of painting her toenails purple, gossiping with Charlie and Maria and the others. Now her feet were pale, infected with fungus, her toenails cracked. One toenail missing. A little toe bent and broken.

"Let us pray, my flock." A bishop stepped onto the pulpit. "Let us pray to our lord."

Behind him rose a bronze statue, towering, filling the church. It depicted a man in midnight vestments, arms spread out. A mitre topped his head, filigreed in gold and inlaid with bloodstones—crystals infused with human blood, shining like dark rubies. The metal face was smiling thinly. The smile of a serpent before it licked its lips. The eyes glittered, carved from obsidian, watching the congregation.

Papa Dominus. The Red Cardinal reborn.

An inverted cross hung from the statue's neck, for he no longer served the lord of hosts, and he no longer bowed before the pope on Earth. Here on Bahay, he was the only god.

Pippi recited with the others. The thousands of voices wove together.

"Bless us, O Father! Heal us, O King! We praise you, Papa Dominus!"

The bishop, so small before the colossal statue, raised his hands to the heavens. His voice echoed through the hall. "Chant with me, my flock. I hate Earth!"

"I hate Earth!" cried the thousands of voices.

"I hate traitors!"

They all repeated. "I hate traitors!"

"I am a proud Bahayan!"

"I am a proud Bahayan!"

"I worship only Papa Dominus!"

"I worship only Papa Dominus!"

The bishop shut his eyes, head tilted back. "I will cleanse my soul of sin!"

Pippi cried out loud, tears on her cheeks. "I will cleanse my soul of sin!"

Yes, she had sinned. She had been a prostitute. Filthy. Sleeping with Earthling soldiers for Earthling dollars. She had prostituted herself to the demons. But she was purifying herself now. With prayer. With light. With blood. And someday Papa Dominus would forgive her.

Chains rattled.

Two figures, bent over and wheezing, joined her at the pews.

At first, Pippi did not recognize them. Blood covered them. Their faces were swollen. Their teeth were shattered. They had no more fingernails.

They sat down, trembling, and finally Pippi knew who they were. The old lady who had snored. The boy who had spoken.

The priest swung a censer, and smoke flowed through the chapel.

"Papa Dominus, forgive our sins! Hallowed by thy name."

Pippi and the others chanted, hands pressed together, heads lowered. "Papa Dominus, forgive our sins! Hallowed be thy name."

* * * * *

Often Pippi wondered if she could truly find forgiveness. She was, after all, risen by death, blessed by hell.

She still remembered. As she lay in darkness, chained and bruised, facing the wall, the memories rose.

The bargirls had gathered in the cemetery that night under a new moon. Her best friends. Charlie, Maria, all the others. Not just friends but sisters. Her fellow warriors in a war for freedom. Among the tombstones, they had clashed with the enemy. As lightning flashed and rain fell, as guns boomed and knives flashed, Pippi fought alongside her sisters. They fought for freedom.

Ernesto, the cruel warlord, had risen from the shadows, a night wolf on the hunt. Seeking his prey. Sniffing for Maria, his betrothed. His quarry. He lunged at her. Her blade shone, driving toward Maria's pregnant belly, ready to carve out the precious life within. Pippi still remembered the glint of moonlight on steel.

And she remembered hands grabbing her.

Maria's hands.

Gripping her so tightly. Shoving her into the path of the blade.

Pippi fell that day, a blade in her chest, sacrificed. The battle moved deeper into the cemetery, flowing into the storm, and Pippi lay there, her lifeblood feeding the cold soil.

The monsoon flowed above, and the thinnest sliver of moon shone a promise of light after the storm. The ground trembled. Crumbs of soil danced in a rhythm like pattering rain. The fingers reached from below, rising like the pale stalks of fungus, seeking the cold moist air. Bones. Nothing but crumbling bones and cracked yellow fingernails. Finally hands rose from the dirt, followed by the joints of wrists and crumbling ulnas like violin arches, overgrown with roots and fungus. Ants and centipedes raced across bony bridges, and worms fled. Moldy fingernails gripped the earth, eye sockets peered from below, and teeth gnashed through stones.

They rose into the fading rain. The dead.

Some were fresh. They had died in the great Freedom War. Others had lain underground for generations. They were no more than bones. They joined hands and they danced, ring within ring, clockwise and counterclockwise, the dance macabre of a world torn apart, of a nation shattered, of a planet where death reigned.

They danced around her.

They held back the living as her own life drained away.

"I … don't want … to die," Pippi whispered, lying among them.

The skeletons gathered closer around her. One leaned over her—a hoary king, a wispy beard growing from his jawbone, his skull topped with an iron crown. Mist flowed from his mouth like wind from deep caves, and his teeth were chipped and crumbly like tombstones. A centipede fled from his eye socket.

"Join … us …" His voice was a moan, an echo from beyond. "Dance . . . with … us …"

Pippi stared into those dark eye sockets, and she saw a vision of the worms and beetles crawling over her, consuming her flesh, leaving only bones and hair. She saw herself rising, a skeleton, dancing forever the dance macabre.

"I must …" Her voice was fading. Her breath was leaving her. Her lungs were shutting down. " … forgive."

I must forgive Maria, she thought.

I must forgive Earth.

I cannot die with anger in my heart.

The King of Bones knelt at her side. He gripped Pippi's wrist, and she gasped. Gently but firmly, he pulled her hand off her belly, revealing the wound. A deep wound. Wide. Ernesto had twisted the blade before pulling it out. She was bleeding heavily.

The king stared into Pippi's eyes, then raised a clump of soil rich with worms and moss. His voice whispered like wind.

"Here … is the soil of Bahay …"

He slapped the clump of earth onto her wound, and Pippi screamed.

"Here … is the ash of our world."

He placed mud and leaves and mold upon her, sealing her wound, and her blood stopped flowing. Soothing warmth filled her. The King of Bones ran his fingers across her forehead, anointing her with mud, then knelt and brought his jaw near her lips.

A heart shone in his rib cage. Cold mist flowed between his chipped teeth and entered her mouth. His heart pulsed, brighter and brighter, the color of moonlight, and Pippi realized that it was not a heart but a living Santelmo. A blessed being of legend. An intelligence from the realms among the stars.

She took a shuddering breath, inhaling the luminous mist, and she rose.

She was alive, and blood flowed through her veins, and her heart beat, red and hot and hidden within flesh. But she danced with the dead. She held hands with the king and queen of bones, and she danced with their court, rings within rings, frolicking over the graves as the city burned.

Distant cannons boomed. Fire spread. The wars of men raged across this weeping world. But here was a realm between life and death. Here the twin moons shone like eyes, gleaming and full of secrets, and here the dead lived and laughed again.

The King of Bones held her hand and bowed. "The dawn soon rises, and I must sleep again." His voice was still just an echo but stronger, clearer. "Should you need me … I am here. Bones do not forget. Call me with their sound."

Wind flowed between his ribs, singing the song of the dead, the song they had danced to. A song of deep bass and deeper beauty. A song of the underground and afterlife, fading in the dawn.

The sunlight draped over the cemetery, and Pippi blinked, finding herself back in a lesser world. Back in the world of solid things and sunlight, of sweat and scabs and sorrows. She felt as if waking from a dream.

The skeletons were gone. Perhaps they had never danced here at all. A breeze blew, scattering the echoes of her fever dream. Yet when Pippi placed her hand on her belly, she found no wound. On her skin was only a scar, brown and faded like a birthmark.

The city was smoldering. Distant gunfire rattled and a dog barked. A muffled crowd was chanting.

The cemetery trembled. Tombstones shook and dust fell. A space shuttle soared in the distance, then another, then a third. The machines rose on jets of flame, ascending like angels until they vanished into the blue.

The Red Cardinal was moving into the city. Earth was fleeing.

"Maria," Pippi whispered, then raised her voice to a cry. "Maria!"

She spun around, needing to find her friend, but found herself facing Ernesto.

The man who had stabbed her.

He grabbed her with hands like vises. Her face was hard, gaunt, scarred. His left eye was white and blind and blazing. An iron plate was bolted into his skull, oozing at the edges. He grinned. A twisted grin. A skeleton grin.

"So you survived my blade," he hissed. "Good. It was meant for Maria. You are too pretty to die."

Pippi struggled against him. "Let go!"

He tightened his grip. "You dress like a whore. You will learn purity. There's a camp I run in the north. It will teach you well."

His men stepped forward, rawboned, wearing straw hats and tunics. Guerrillas. Fighters of the Red Cardinal.

She tried to run, but they beat her. They bound her. They placed a bag over her head.

And everything went black.

* * * * *

Even here in the camp, so long after that cemetery night, they often bound her. They often placed a bag over her head.

Sometimes they came at night. The inquisitors grabbed Pippi from her bed, shoved the reeking bag over her head, and dragged her out of the corridor.

Sometimes it happened during the days. During the classes when they studied the glory of Papa Dominus. During prayer service when they praised him. During the hours of repentance, when they wrote down their sins and begged forgiveness.

The inquisitors could just walk in at any time. Grab her. Plunge her into darkness.

In their red robes and masks, they would pull her down the corridors. Even through the cloth bag, Pippi could make out the fluorescent lights. She could see her bare feet, bleeding, shuffling across the floor.

She feared they would take her to the red room. The place where sinners so often screamed. But every time, they took her to a room with a blue door. Through the sack, she could see the bottom of the door, the flaking blue paint. The men would drag her inside, shove her face down onto something hard, and she would find herself staring at stained green laminate. A table. A tabletop. By now, she had studied every crack and dent on its surface.

The men stood behind her. They thrust into her, grunting like animals. Raping her again and again. At first, it happened only every few weeks, then it became a daily ritual, and soon men were taking her here several times a day.

The blue door kept opening and closing. Pippi heard other women dragged in. Heard them beg, weep, scream. Heard the men grunt and laugh and howl as they claimed them.

But Pippi never made a sound.

She just lay there, bent over the table, handcuffed and thinking of nothing. Being nothing. Not calling out even when the pain pierced her very being.

Rape was another part of the camp. Along with the beatings. The chains. The songs and prayers. Nobody was spared, but young women like Pippi were particularly brutalized.

She was no longer pretty. Long ago, in a different life, she had been a bargirl. She had dyed her hair red, worn it in pigtails, and painted freckles on her face. She made herself look like an Earthling girl for the pleasure of the soldiers. She flaunted her curves, seduced the Earthling invaders, made a meager living. It wasn't much of a life. But the war had destroyed her village. Killed her son. So she moved to the big city, took on a new name, a new identity, a new life. And yes, in a way, she found some joy after so much loss.

Those days were long gone.

There was no more war. There was no more joy. Not here in the camp. And she was no longer pretty. Her hair was shaved down to stubble. It had gone white. Her face was bruised and scarred. The prisoners barely ate. A thin broth once or twice a day. A moldy piece of bread if they begged. Her curves had long since melted away. Her limbs were like sticks, the joints loose.

Yet still the inquisitors placed the bag over her head. And still they claimed whatever remained of her body.

Maybe her life as a prostitute had numbed her. The other girls had it even harder. So many had committed suicide, strangling themselves on their own chains. Yet Pippi lingered on. Perhaps she was already dead.

She remembered a day when thunder kept booming outside. There were no windows in the camp. Only concrete walls. But they could hear the booms like bombs. Like the bombs that had taken Pippi's son, and she knew it was monsoon season, that the rains were falling over the burnt villages and fallow fields. That no more rice would grow, that the mango groves were gone, and that the floods would reveal only skeletons.

They sat in class that day, crammed into rusty little chairs with desks attached. The kind schoolchildren used on Earth. A hundred sinners were here. One inquisitor stood at the head of the class, a tall man in crimson robes, his face hidden behind a mask. He carried an electric baton.

"Write your sins!" he ordered.

They did this every day. From noon to midnight. Filling sheet after sheet of paper. Notebook after notebook. Libraries of sins after sins. Day after day, year after year, sin after sin.

Pippi wrote with a trembling hand, filling another notebook.

"I prostituted myself. I slept with Earthling soldiers. I betrayed Bahay. I betrayed Papa Dominus. I am a whore. I am a traitor. I am a sinner."

She changed her repentances every day. Once, she had written the same sins two days in a row. The inquisitors had dragged her outside, chained her to a pole, and whipped her unconscious. Another day, she had not written sins severe enough. Only a few words about stealing food. The inquisitors had taken her to the head of the class, held her arm down on the table, and wrenched off two fingernails. Other girls, who could not find sins serious or original enough, suffered similar punishments. Pippi had once stood outside in the rain for an hour, watching a girl electrocuted over and over until she died. She had only filled out half a page of sins. For being too pure, she had died.

A few prisoners were illiterate. They were simple villagers who had somehow survived the war. Pippi saw them hung on the walls and beaten again and again with electric batons. Every day, they were ordered to write their sins. Every day, they could not, and they were hung on the walls again, beaten again until they passed out.

Today, Pippi began to write a new sin, recounting a tale of healing an Earthling soldier on the battlefield. Yes, the man had invaded her world. Bombed villages. Slaughtered women and children. And she, Pippi, had pitied him, bandaged his wounds! An act of treason!

It was made up, of course. Most of the sins they wrote here were made up. But later, Pippi could confess her sins in the chapel, and Papa would forgive her, and she would be spared a beating.

She had written only a few words when the door opened. Two inquisitors walked in. Big, burly men. Hungry. Hungry for flesh. She could smell their hunger.

They walked between the desks, and Pippi wrote faster, head bowed, hoping, praying that they would spare her. That she could go a day without the blue room.

Her hand shook. She nearly dropped her pen, nearly earned a beating.

Please, God. Please, Papa. Please …

They walked by her, and her heart pounded so loudly she feared they would hear, that they would hurt her.

"There," an inquisitor said. "That one."

They leaned down, and Pippi winced, and tears filled her eyes … but they grabbed somebody else.

They grabbed Jayne. A young girl. Barely more than a child.

It wasn't me, Pippi thought, breathing shakily. And she hated the relief that flooded her, because she knew how much her friend would suffer.

They pulled a sack over Jayne's head, and they dragged her from the room.

Pippi kept her head low, and she kept writing her sins. Sins of theft. Impurity. Sins of helping Earth. Of consorting with Earthling men. Or being impure, filthy, worthy of punishment. A worm whom only Papa could save.

It was an hour later, maybe two, that the door opened again, and the inquisitors brought Jayne back.

The girl could barely stand. Blood dripped between her legs. She walked toward her metal desk, each step a great effort, each step so slow. Her tears and blood mingled on the floor.

"Sit down," said the inquisitor who stood by the blackboard.

Jayne tried, but she could not. She was too hurt to sit.

"Sit down!" the inquisitor boomed.

And when she could not, the inquisitors dragged her away. Pippi, peeking from the class, saw them take her into the red room. And when she returned to the bunks late that night, she had no more fingernails.

Another time, another girl.

They stood outside in the heat of summer. The sun burned their naked skin.

A grand inquisitor was visiting from a camp in the north. His mask was golden, expressionless, and his eyes blazed through the holes. The highest ranking inquisitor to have visited this camp. He moved between the sinners, inspecting the lines. He chose one. A pretty girl. He took her to the center of the courtyard.

"Confess!" the grand inquisitor told the girl. "Confess your sins before your fellow sinners."

Trembling, the girl spoke in a broken voice. "I am a sinner. I did not pray loudly enough. I did not worship Papa Dominus with enough love. I helped Earth. I am impure."

The grand inquisitor grabbed her. "Now see what happens to sinners."

He and his men began raping the young woman. As everyone watched. There were no bags over heads. Pippi had never seen such a thing.

Man after man took the girl as she screamed.

"Watch!" the inquisitor boomed. "Watch this happen. See what happens to sinners."

Pippi stared, eyes wet with tears.

One sinner, an old man, looked at the ground. One woman closed her eyes. A few sinners winced, and one begged the inquisitors to show the girl mercy.

The inquisitors pulled them all away. In the distance, gunshots boomed.

It lasted all evening.

Pippi wrote in her notebook the next morning: "I pitied a sinner who was punished. I am soft. Forgive my sins, Papa Dominus. Hallowed be thy name."

* * * * *

The next day, they were singing in the yard when a new batch of prisoners was brought in.

A few inquisitors stood on a stage, leading the sinners in song. Pippi and thousands of others stood on the blackened field. Walls of concrete and barbed wire surrounded them. The sun beat down. They stood naked, skin burning, limbs chained. They were so thin. Pippi could see ribs pressing against loose skin. Heads like skulls. But their voices rang out loudly.

O holy Father!

O blessed Papa!

Strike our enemies

Forgive our sins

Purify our souls

Hallowed be thy name!

Again and again they sang. Louder and louder. For hours.

Inquisitors walked between them, holding crackling batons. They paused by one boy. He was barely twelve.

"Sing louder!" an inquisitor barked.

The boy tried. But he was so weak. His voice had not yet changed.

"Louder!" the inquisitor demanded.

And when the boy could not, they dragged him off. Pippi heard the electricity crackle. Heard the screams. She sang louder.

But she was not here. This was just a body. Just a machine, broken down and dying. Her soul was flying far above, gazing far over the barbed wire and concrete. Flying higher and higher until she flew among the stars.

She wished she could die, but she knew that only hell awaited her. That she was a sinner. She knew that only Papa Dominus could purify her doomed soul. Her soul was still tethered to this broken body. And her body was still chained to this place.

"Hallowed be thy name!" she cried out with the others.

She had been here for three years now, maybe four. They said that once purified, the sinners would be released. That they would work in factories and farms, would rebuild Bahay for the glory of their father. But the years went by, and they confessed more sins, and the path to purity seemed unending.

It was on this day, chanting under the sun, that the trucks rolled in. That they spilled out new sinners.

They were cattle trucks originally. The animals had died in the war. Now they carried new animals. Sinners from the south.

Pippi watched them stumble out, blinking in the sunlight. They still wore clothes. They still had hair. They were not even manacled. Sinful! They wore clothes like Earthlings! Trousers and blouses and boots! They flaunted long hair!

"Sinful," Pippi whispered. And she remembered a young girl from an era long ago. A girl with red pigtails. With striped stockings and high heeled boots. A girl who had died somewhere in this camp. Who was now only a soul floating high above, chained to this body of pain.

The new arrivals stared at the naked, starving sinners. And they began to wail.

The inquisitors moved in like wolves.

They ripped clothes off the new sinners. They drew blades and began shearing off hair. The batons swung again and again, electrocuting, breaking.

The camp's grand inquisitor stood on his stage, arms held wide open. His golden mask caught the sun. "Welcome, sinners! Here you will be purified."

Pippi flashed back to her first day at this camp. How the men had dragged her into the blue room before shearing her hair. How she had screamed. She had been a screamer then. But she had learned fast. Screamers never lasted long.

Pippi prayed louder. They all did.

O holy Father!

O blessed Papa!

Strike our enemies

Forgive our sins

Purify our souls

Hallowed be thy name!

One of the new arrivals broke free from the group. She was a middle-aged woman, heavyset, downright corpulent. Or maybe her weight was normal, but normal seemed decadent and cruel to Pippi now. How dared this woman devour so much food while Bahay starved? Sinner! Fat sinner!

The obese woman raced toward Pippi and clutched her arm.

"Please. Please, friend. I recognized your accent when you sang. You're a southerner like me, yes? Help me. Help me! Tell the guards I never helped Earth. Tell them I'm a good Bahayan! Tell them—"

"Go away!" Pippi whispered, heart pounding. She stood very still.

But the woman wouldn't release her. "Please. I have children. Please. I must go home. I—"

An inquisitor grabbed the woman. A towering man all in crimson, his face hidden behind his mask.

Another inquisitor grabbed Pippi.

"Please, sir!" Pippi whispered as the inquisitor dragged her away. "She just came to me. Please."

He struck her with his baton.

They took Pippi behind a concrete warehouse. Skulls lay across the ground.

The inquisitor drew a gun.

"Please, sir." Pippi fell to her knees. "Please! I'm not pure yet. I'm still a sinner. If you kill me, I'll go to hell. Please."

The inquisitor tossed her a shovel. "Dig."

Pippi dug a hole. Not a hole like a grave but like a well. When she was done, the inquisitor ordered her inside.

She stood in the hole, and the inquisitor refilled it, trapping Pippi inside. Only her head rose above the ground.

He put a cloth bag over her head. Pippi could only hear her shaky breath, her pounding heartbeat.

I should have begged him to kill me. I'm already in hell.

She wept.

I miss you, my son. I miss you, my friends.

And she realized that the skulls were not just lying on the ground. They had been buried here like her. Up to the neck. Left to die.

Water sprayed her head, soaking the bag. Pippi gasped for air. She heard a hose spraying, and she was drowning, sucking on the wet cloth, desperate for air. He kept spraying her with ice cold water. She kept coughing, drowning, until she passed out.

For two days and nights, they kept her in the hole. They gave her no food. Every few hours, they waterboarded her again.

And then she was dug out.

She had survived. She would not be one of the skulls in this yard.

They dragged her into the classroom and forced her to write her sins. Her hand shook. She had not eaten in days. But she confessed her sins.

Another day continued. Another day in purgatory, waiting for heaven or hell.

And Pippi knew she would not survive another beating. Maybe not survive another day. She had survived what so many had not. But she was dying here nevertheless, impure and doomed.

Until he came in the flesh.

Until he descended from heaven to bless them.

He was here. The god of Bahay. Papa Dominus. And Pippi's life changed forever.

* * * * *

He came with fire.

He came with soaring planes and rumbling airships. With ten thousand marching troops and booming guns.

He came to them as a god. For he was a god. No longer the Red Cardinal, a mere man, but an immortal father.

Pippi wept because finally the sinners, the worms, the wretched beasts who crawled on the dirt—they would be pure. Finally, after years in this camp, he would absolve her sins, he would embrace her, and Pippi would be free.

They gathered in the yard that day. The thousands of them. So many of the faces were new. So many had died, were buried outside the camp.

But I survived, Pippi thought, tears welling in her eyes. I survived purgatory, and now I may ascend to heaven.

She raised her eyes and she saw the angels. Silver chariots descending on wings of flame. In some other life, she might have recognized them as warplanes. As the planes that had bombed her city. But she had been a sinner then. Now she was pure, and she saw the hosts of heaven. They filled the sky, and the engines rumbled like a holy orchestra of judgment and mercy.

One of the chariots descended. Its hull was purest white, painted with inverted crosses the color of bruises. It puffed out smoke and steam and flames, slowing its flight, and landed in the courtyard.

The sinners stood in circles around it. Ring within ring of sinners, naked and skeletal, and—

I danced with the King of Bones, Pippi thought. I danced within rings of skeletons.

The memory came to her unbidden. A memory of her life before this place. She shoved it aside. She was no longer that woman, that whore, that sinner who had danced with the dead. She was now a worm, and she served her lord, and he would raise her from the mud and carry her to his realm in the sky.

A hatch on the shuttle opened.

Machines stepped out.

Androids. Warriors of dark metal, clad in crimson cloaks. They were like skeletons of steel, their faces like skulls inlaid with glowing red eyes. They held swords of fire, crackling and blinding.

Machines the Earthlings left here, Pippi thought. Why does our lord use the machines of the demons?

The androids arranged themselves in a ring of steel around the shuttle. Four more flanked a ramp.

At a cue from the grand inquisitor, the sinners began to sing. Naked, chained, miserable wretches, they sang angelic songs of holiness. Tears streamed down their cheeks. And from the gleaming chariot, he emerged.

"It's him!" a woman whispered, weeping. "It's our father."

Nobody beat her. Not today. Several sinners broke down, weeping, praying feverishly. Some fell to their knees. And the inquisitors did not strike them.

Pippi remained standing. She stood near the front of the crowd. So close to him. She stared across the courtyard at her god.

He was an old man. An ancient man. According to legend, Papa Dominus was as old as Bahay itself. And he looked it. His back was bent, his steps slow. His face was deeply lined, pinched, almost squished. Beady black eyes glittered over dark bags. He had no eyebrows. No lips to speak of. His mouth opened, revealing small, sharp teeth set in bright red gums.

He has piranha teeth, Pippi thought. A predator's teeth.

He limped down the ramp. He wore black robes embroidered with inverted crosses. A mitre rose upon his head, a grand headdress inlaid with rubies. Eyes blinked within each ruby, moving, staring. Actual eyes in the stones!

As he limped, his staff thumped against the ramp. Each thump echoed like a deep bass drum. The staff was cold, cruel steel, topped with a skull. A human skull. An inverted cross was drawn on the forehead.

It's the skull of his own son, Pippi thought. She remembered the stories. His son was a sinner. So Papa cut off his head.

A shudder ran through her.

The strange pope took a few steps forward, moving toward Pippi.

No, not a pope, she thought. His cross is inverted. An anti-pope. A lord of blood. A lord of life. But I danced with the king of the dead.

Papa Dominus stared at her. His beady eyes narrowed. A ring of fire crackled around him, and he began to levitate, rising higher and higher upon the flames. He hovered above the fire like a man on a stake, waiting for the inferno to climb and consume him. But though the fire roared, he did not burn. Below him, Pippi recoiled from the heat.

"Our god rises!" somebody cried.

"Blessed be our father!"

"Hallowed by thy name!"

They wept, bowed, adored him.

Pippi looked around her. She saw the skeletal, starving wretches. So miserable before this god of fire.

But he's not a god, she thought. Her hands trembled. Gods are beings of light, and he is fire. He is a devil.

Sinful thoughts! Too sinful to ever confess! If she wrote these thoughts in class, they would torture her to death. She silenced them. The only devil was inside her, whispering its curses.

A voice rose from the flames. A voice like smoke. Like cracking wood. Like souls leaving burnt flesh.

"You are sinners!"

Across the courtyard, they bowed, chains clattering.

"We are sinners!"

"You are worms!" said Papa Dominus.

"We are worms!"

Dominus opened his arms wide. Wings of fire flared, crackling with furious light, bathing the camp with heat. The sinners gasped at this deity of conflagration.

"But you will be purified!" Dominus called.

"Purify us!" the sinners begged. "Purify us and set us free!"

Free, Pippi thought. I can be free today. I can leave this place. I can find Charlie. I can find Maria and tell her that I forgive her. I can live again. Tears rolled down her cheeks, only for the fire to dry them. I can take back my soul.

"Across Bahay," Dominus said, "millions of patriots toil in fields, planting rice. They toil in factories, forging components for our new era of machines. They stand guard as soldiers, defending our freedom. Farmers, workers, and soldiers. Rice. Metal. Blood. Those are Bahay's three pillars! With them, we will forever resist Earth!"

"Resist Earth!" the sinners all chanted.

"A few years ago, you knew me as the Red Cardinal," their ruler said. "As a cardinal, I led my hosts to a great victory. I drove imperial Earth from our homeworld, earning my ascension. Yes, my flock. I have risen! I am now Papa Dominus, not just a servant of a god but a god myself. Yet in the darkness, the devil still dwells. We banished him into his pit, but he still plots his revenge. We know the name of this devil: Earth! Earth is ready to return. To chain us and slaughter our patriots."

"Save us!" somebody cried.

"Bless us!"

"Smite our enemies!"

"I protect you!" Papa Dominus cried. "I defend my children from the evil of Earth."

But not all Earthlings are evil, Pippi thought. Mister Jon is an Earthling, and he married Maria, and he's a good man. And you, Papa, are the one who chains and enslaves us.

She stepped forward. For the first time in four years, the inquisitors were not electrocuting, raping, beating. The sinners could speak freely.

"Free our souls!" Pippi cried over the roaring flames. "We've confessed our sins. Purify us!"

"Purify us!" somebody else cried.

"Purify us!"

"Free us."

"Free us from captivity!"

They wept. They begged.

"Free us! Save us!"

Papa Dominus smiled down upon his congregation. "You learned about the three pillars of Bahay. Rice. Metal. Blood. But there is a fourth pillar." His lips peeled back, and the flames roared louder, hotter. "Fire! The fire of devotion! Of prayer! Of holy repentance! Four years ago, I built this re-education camp for sinners. I built a thousand more across our world. In these holy camps, a million sinners pray and light the greatest fire the galaxy has seen."

"Now we are pure!" Pippi said. "Forgive us! Free us!"

Papa Dominus looked down at her from the fire. His eyes bored into her. He spoke to the camp, but he stared only at her.

"Four years is not enough to purify a soul stained with sin. The ancient Israelites wandered the desert for forty years before God allowed them into the Holy Land. And so you, sinners, will toil in my camps for forty years. Only then will you be free."

Everyone was silent.

Pippi stared at Dominus. And she understood.

This is not about forgiveness. This is not about purification. It never was. This is about revenge. We are South Bahayans. We helped Earth in the great war. So now he tortures us for his pleasure.

An old man limped closer to the fire. "You … you won't free us?"

A young woman, one Pippi had seen raped countless times, shuffled closer, the firelight painting her red. "But we've been so good." Her voice cracked. Tears flowed down her cheeks. "Please, my lord. We've been so good."

Others fell to their knees. Some fell prostrate, weeping, begging.

"Free us!"

"Please free us!"

"I haven't seen my children."

"They beat us."

"Please. Please! Mercy!"

The pretenses burned in the fire. Four years of lies and indoctrination and the destruction of the self crumbled like old bones. The flickers of souls returned. And the prisoners begged.

"Hear me, sinners!" Papa Dominus said. "You've all helped Earth. You must all learn to truly love me. I will return in thirty-six years. And then you will be pure."

The young woman beside Pippi let out a wail. A torn cry. A howl. She ran toward Papa Dominus. She ran into the fire. She screamed as she burned.

An old man crawled into the flames, silent as they consumed him.

Everywhere, the thousands cried out in horror.

Pippi stared, lips trembling, and clenched her fists.

She took a step closer to the fire, her manacles rattling.

She stared up at Papa Dominus. She stared him right in the eyes.

"You are a false god!" she said. "You are nothing but a man! A tyrant!" Her voice tore in anguish. She turned toward the other sinners. "He starves us! Tortures us! Rapes us! Rise up, people of Bahay! Rise up against the tyrant! Fight!"

Around her, she saw a change.

A few women, brutalized so many times, raised their heads for the first time in years. They stared at the tyrant, eyes hard, reflecting the firelight. But hotter fire burned within them. The embers of their souls, beaten and tortured for so long, blazed with new fury. They clenched their fists.

A few men, tortured into submission, stepped forward with the women. Their lips curled back. Some still had teeth even after so many beatings. They bared them. Some had been soldiers in the South Bahayan Militia. They became soldiers again.

They were naked and chained and starving. But they were thousands, and they were strong.

A few more ran into the fire, dying in the flames.

But others turned upon the inquisitors.

The men in red robes and masks raised their electric batons. For years, they had tormented the sinners. She could not see their faces, only their eyes through the holes of their masks. And she saw something new there.

Fear.

The sinners ran toward them, howling.

A skeletal man slammed into an inquisitor, trying to knock him down. But he was too weak. Batons pounded him, crackling with electricity. Several women screamed and lunged at another inquisitor, then fell, and boots kicked, breaking bones.

Pippi sneered. Her wrists were tied behind her back. She knew she had a choice. She could run into the fire. Or she could die fighting. But she would not submit to thirty-six more years of hell.

She ran at the inquisitors.

Hands grabbed her. Hands in red gloves. A baton drove into the small of her back, shocking her. Pain coursed through her. She wet herself. She couldn't even scream.

An inquisitor leaned forward. His mask pressed against the side of her face, and he hissed into her ear.

"I know who you are. You've been causing trouble for a while. But you've never seen the red room." His hands twisted her wrists near to breaking. "Now we'll have some fun."

She screamed and thrashed, but more hands grabbed her. Somebody opened a sack, a dark mouth ready to engulf her. Pippi raised her eyes toward the pyre. Papa Dominus hovered above, gazing down at her. Smiling.

Then the inquisitors pulled the bag over Pippi's head, and everything went dark.

* * * * *

The inquisitors pulled her down the corridor. Her toes dragged across the floor, and Pippi wondered how much longer she would have toes. She had seen prisoners who had tried to escape. Seen them brought back with mutilated feet, ensuring they would forever remain behind barbed wire. Pippi didn't know what parts of her the inquisitors would destroy.

But one thing was certain.

She should have run into the fire.

During the war, burning alive was known as the most agonizing death. Today it seemed a mercy.

She heard the fluorescent light flickering above. She heard sinners whimpering. Heard gunfire rattle in the distance. Smelled fire and blood and overflowing buckets of human waste. With the sack over her head, she could see nothing but the tiled floor.

And finally—the bottom rim of a door.

A door painted with flaking red paint.

A door that opened, and they dragged her inside.

Pippi had always been such a good prisoner. Such a penitent sinner. In all her years at the camp, she had never entered the dreaded red room. She had taken her torture in the classrooms, the courtyards, the chapel, but never this lowest pit of hell. Now the inquisitors pulled the bag off her head, and she beheld this holy of holies.

A torture chamber, was her first thought.

She looked around again and shuddered.

No. More than that. A laboratory.

They covered walls and tables. Bolted into place. Humans. Or beings who had once been human. Scientists in lab coats moved between them, poking, sawing, stitching, mangling. As people screamed or begged, the scientists took notes. Wrote numbers on blackboards. Took photographs. As the specimens begged for death, the scientists nodded and scribbled on clipboards.

"Ah, yes, excellent specimen," a scientist said, poking a woman with two heads. "The stitches can come out tomorrow." He turned toward a few corpses. "Pity the other ones died."

The inquisitors dragged Pippi deeper into the lab. They shoved her down to the floor. She fell, banging her knees.

"Here, we brought you another one," said one of the inquisitors.

A scientist knelt before Pippi. Blood stained his lab coat. A white mask hid his face. His eyes narrowed in concern.

"She looks half dead already." He looked up at the inquisitors. "I told you. My experiments demand healthy specimens."

"You'll take what we give you, old man."

They chained Pippi to a table. She lay on her back, staring up at a bloodstained ceiling, not understanding how blood could have ever reached that high. Around her, the specimens whimpered and screamed.

Pippi closed her eyes.

She thought of the rice paddies in a village not far from here. She thought of a time before the bombs. Before victory in war. She thought of a girl running through the paddies, splashing water, laughing. Always so happy.

Hooks pulled her eyes open. She stared at a white mask. Expressionless. Pitiless.

But in her mind, she saw the electric streets of Mindao. She heard the music of the bars, tasted the wine, danced with the handsome Earthling men. She hugged her friends, mourned the loss of her son, crawled from a deep hole into a neon oasis.

The scientist raised a tool. A dozen small blades emerged from it, clicking and snapping like the mandibles of insects.

Like the centipedes underground. Like the beetles and bugs that filled the earth, the guardians of the dead.

She had seen them in the cemetery. She remembered. On the day she had risen from death to life. She had met them. The little crawling things. Those who consumed the dead, who grew from flesh, who defended the bones.

I was dead once, and I rose again, she thought. Here is a metal beetle ready to eat my flesh. But I am not mere flesh anymore. I saw a soul of white light among bony ribs, and I am the bride of the King of Bones.

His words returned to her. The words of the king of underground and mold and crumbling things.

Should you need me … I am here. Bones do not forget. Call me with their sound.

The wind had blown through his bones that day, producing notes that still echoed through the hidden chambers of her soul.

She whistled them now. Notes of a world beyond. Of an underground lord. A keen for things lost and nearly forgotten.

She whistled the song of the dead, and the dead rose.

On the table beside her, a hand twitched.

On the wall, a dead sinner moved her head.

"Rise," Pippi whispered. "Sing your song. Dance the dance macabre."

The scientist recoiled. "What? How is this—"

An inquisitor screamed.

Across the lab, the dead rose. Deformed. Experimented upon, discarded, rising again. As they rose, they burst into white and blue flame. The fire rose high, purifying, searing off skin and muscle, revealing the bones. They shuffled forward. They joined hands. They danced in rings.

The scientist tried to flee. They captured him. They tore him apart. Bony fingers stripped off flesh, revealing his bones, his screaming skull, and soon he joined the dance. A skeleton. His flesh shed like an old cloak.

Skeleton hands reached toward Pippi, and she worried they would disrobe her too, freeing her bones. But the dead hands only tore off her manacles. She stood up, free from her irons for the first time in years.

The skeletons rushed through the room, freeing more prisoners from racks and walls. Prisoners deformed, mangled, dying, some already dead, all given new life. They tore down the red door.

They ran down the corridors, and the fluorescent lights shattered. The lights of their hearts shone in their rib cages, souls still luminous, filling the hall with lights like stars.

Pippi ran at their lead.

A few inquisitors saw them, men in red robes and red masks. They raised their electric batons. They swung the weapons, shattering bones. Crushing skulls. But they could not stop this wave. The skeletons rolled over them, and red masks clattered to the floor.

The dead danced on. And the living followed. Thousands of sinners poured out from rooms alongside the hallway. Rooms where for years, they had filled millions of sheets of paper with invented sins. Rooms where for years, they had prayed to a false god. Rooms where they had suffered, where their masters had broken them. They emerged weeping, laughing. The skeletons thrust bony fingers like keys into their manacles, unlocking the chains. The dead danced with the living here in this land where death and life had always danced cheek to cheek.

They burst into the courtyard. They swarmed between concrete buildings across this wretched camp.

Then ran over the concrete places where inquisitors had held women down, breaking them as the crowd watched. They ran over bloodstained fields where inquisitors had buried sinners up to their necks, waterboarding them, leaving them for days to survive or die in the sun. They ran along barbed wire fences and behind concrete walls where gunfire so often boomed.

And everywhere, the ground trembled.

And everywhere, they woke.

A hand burst out from the ground. A skeletal hand. A skull rose from the sea of soil, crying out wordlessly, teeth gone, eyes filled with new light. A mass grave cracked open. Skeletons bubbled up like ants from a hive. They were buried everywhere. A camp beneath the camp. Thousands of them. The victims of this place, forgotten in the dark. Now they rose again, filled with fury.

Across the void between life and death, the survivors and the fallen of this prison camp joined hands. Their song, the song the King of Bones had taught Pippi, filled the air. She sang too.

Pippi raised her eyes to the night sky. The airships and planes were leaving. Papa Dominus was ascending. Fleeing like a coward.

A few guards stood in towers. They opened fire, and bullets slammed into the crowd. The skeletons flowed up the towers, tearing them down, devouring the guards and spitting out bones.

The skeletons kept swarming. A few inquisitors tried to resist, only to fall under the waves of bones. Most fled. The dead danced. Rings within rings. Clockwise and counterclockwise. A strange dance echoing the movements of the stars and planets. They climbed over the prison walls like spreading frost and lay upon the barbed wire. They formed ladders of bones.

"Come, friends!" Pippi said to her fellow sinners. No—not sinners but martyrs. "Don't be scared. Come and climb."

She began to climb the wall of skeletons, grabbing bones like rungs in ladders, until she reached the top of the wall.

She stood for a moment, gazing upon Bahay.

Across her world, she saw desolation. In the moonlight, she saw burnt forests. Fallow fields. Great smelters and factories pumping out smoke. In the distance rose more concrete camps. More places like this. The rainforest was gone. The idyllic villages had burned. Now there was only a nightmare.

Was there any freedom on this world?

Thousands of prisoners climbed the walls around her, then climbed down to the countryside. They fled into the distance. Perhaps to seek old homes or relatives. Perhaps to some nebulous dream of freedom they would never find. Perhaps to starvation or death in the wilderness.

But the important thing was—they were leaving this place. And if they died, they would die free.

That was victory.

Pippi remained on the wall, standing where guards had once stood, standing still as the people fled. Bones clattered, and a skeleton walked toward her. He was taller than the others, and he wore a long beard of dust that billowed in the wind. An iron crown topped his head, and a luminous heart pulsed in his ribcage, as pale as starlight.

He came to stand before her. The King of Bones.

"You remembered," he whispered, voice like wind and echoes in deep caves.

"I called you, and you came," she said. "I should have called so long ago. But I forgot the song. It came to me like a figment of dream during the day."

"We live within a dream," said the King of Bones. "You were sinking into our realm, and you heard our song. You were dying again. So again we came." He held her hand, and he kissed it with ghostly lips. "You are my beloved. Will you be my bride?"

Pippi embraced the astral king. "Someday. But not yet. In a place of so much death, I learned to love life. In a place where life is so cheap, I learned how priceless life is. I'm not ready to dance with the dead."

The King of Bones still held her hand. "Perhaps one last dance? Before the long day?"

Pippi nodded. "One last dance before dawn."

He cloaked her with a robe the color of night just before dawn, indigo trimmed with gold. The wind whistled between his bones, singing the song of the dead, a sound like brass pipes in deep caves, sonorous and sad. Pippi and the King of Bones danced a slow dance on the wall.

Night faded.

The stars winked out one by one, and dawn kissed the horizon.

The King of Bones gazed into Pippi's eyes, and then his beard of dust fell apart, and his bones clattered onto the wall. All across the camp, the skeletons collapsed and their bones lay on the soil.

The dance had ended. Pippi blinked as if waking from the dream. When the sun broke over the horizon, even the bones were gone. For a moment, she wondered if they had ever danced at all. But she still wore the robe the color of night just before the dawn.

She climbed off the wall on the side of wilderness. Feet bare, thinner than she'd ever been, she walked across the charred land. The wind moaned. Ash danced between her feet. The sun beat down, but the lights of the night still guided her, and in the wind she heard the song of new life.

Chapter Two

The Poet on the Hill

Jon woke up screaming.

It happened a lot.

He tried to bolt up in bed. He could not. The ropes wrapped around him. He lay in hot blood. He thrashed, cried out, tried to free himself from the hands grabbing him. They wouldn't let go, and—

"Jon. Jon! It's all right. It's all right, sweetie. I'm here."

He lay on his back, panting. Sweat covered him. Not blood. Just sweat. Sheets trapped his legs. Just sheets, not ropes. He turned his head, and he saw Kaelyn lying beside him. Her mismatched eyes gazed at him softly, one blue like the oceans of Bahay, the other brown like the soil of Earth.

Her hair spilled across the pillow, the color of fire. His hair was long now too. He had not cut it since prison three years ago. But his hair was dark and shaggy, and hers was like silk. She had always had such beautiful hair.

"Kaelyn, I—"

He gulped down air. For a moment he could not breathe. The echoes of the dream flitted through his mind. Something he had seen in the war. Something that still came back some nights. A burnt child, skin charred and black. Lying in an artillery crater. Still alive. Twitching. Shaking. Nothing but a burnt lump of coal in the shape of—

And now Jon was trembling. A tear flowed down his cheek.

"Kaelyn, I … I can't … I can't breathe …"

"I'm here for you." She embraced him in the sweaty, tangled bed. She stroked his bearded cheek. "I'm here, Jon. It's all right."

For a long while, she held him, whispered soothing nothings into his ear. Slowly, the burnt child faded from his mind. Sometimes it gave another twitch. Became clear for a second. Then faded again as Kaelyn whispered and caressed and comforted.

Finally Jon's pounding heart slowed, and he could breathe normally again. He lay on the bed. It was four AM. The year 2227. Four years since the war ended. He would get no more sleep tonight.

"I'm sorry, Kaelyn," he said. "Another nightmare. I woke you again. I'll sleep on the couch tomorrow night."

Her eyes hardened. "You're staying right here, Mister. With me. In our master bedroom."

Jon closed his eyes. "I wake you up almost every night. Screaming."

"And I comfort you!" Kaelyn said. "Jon, you're my husband. I love you. I'm here for you. Don't push me away."

He turned to look at her again. He reached under the sheets and held her hand. "I love you too, Kaelyn."

She stroked his beard and gazed into his eyes. "Jon, I know it's hard. I know it still haunts you. I'll always take this journey with you. I'm with you through thick and thin." Her voice cracked. "You're the love of my life."

"And you are mine," he whispered.

And he thought of Maria.

He thought of her smile, a smile of true joy even in the filth of the slums. Her sparkling black eyes. Marrying her in the little room above the brothel. The fires washing over her.

Her memory faded, and he saw Kaelyn instead.

I love you, Kaelyn, he thought. And I lied to you. And I miss her. And I hate myself for it.

Kaelyn's eyes narrowed the slightest. She peered at him inquisitively. Then she rose from bed. She padded into the kitchen, and he heard her grinding coffee. Perhaps she had read his mind.

Jon tightened his lips, still lying in bed.

Maria is dead. She's been dead for years. Stop this. Stop this and love Kaelyn with all your heart.

He joined her in the kitchen. They drank coffee under the stark white light. The darkness spread outside. Soon dawn would rise, driving away the terrors of the night. But the demons would remain inside him. Waiting. Twitching. And Jon did not know if he would ever be free.

* * * * *

"All right, Jon, it's six in the morning. I gotta head out to work." Kaelyn placed down her empty cup of coffee and yawned. "Remember to take the garbage bins in. It's going to rain this afternoon."

Jon nodded. "I'll drive you."

"No. I'll take the train. It's faster." She kissed his cheek, but there was no warmth to it. "Remember the bins!"

He stood by the window, watching her leave. She wore a sensible black dress. Less sensible heels. She looked so professional, while he stood here in shorts, his hair long and shaggy, his beard desperately wanting a trim. A rundown, unemployed veteran. A shell shocked bum. Practically a walking stereotype. She was a data entry clerk now, but he still saw his muse. He still saw her on stage, wreathed in light, singing for thousands. Singing his songs.

He watched from the window as Kaelyn got on a bus. It would take her to the train station and from there the long, rattling commute into New York City. Jon turned away from the window.

He walked into the spare bedroom. It was meant to be a nursery someday. Now it was his studio, home to his upright piano, electric keyboard, a couple of guitars, and piles of music sheets. He stared at the poster on the wall. A poster from Symphonica's first world tour.

He remembered posing for that photo with the band. Kaelyn stood front and center, her mismatched eyes gazing into the camera with the ferocity of David Bowie and the grace of Tarja Turunen. Jon stood a step behind her, solemn, trying so hard to look like a serious composer. It was just the two of them in the poster. The rest of their band had died on Bahay. Jon had never replaced them. They had hired session musicians for that tour, that was all.

Below the photograph appeared the band logo, the word Symphonia with a stylized S shaped like a treble clef. Below the logo, a few words. Falling Like the Rain World Tour.

Yes, our first world tour, Jon thought. And so far the last.

The memories flooded him. Long days and nights on the tour bus, traveling from city to city. He would wake up screaming there too. Too much booze before the shows. Too many drugs to calm his nerves. Too many fights, too many tears. But also magical nights on stage, his body and soul given to the music. He would play with eyes closed, swaying, banging his head, like a man possessed. And Kaelyn would sing, her voice angelic, giving words to the demons and angels of music battling inside him.

Jon was almost there again. There on a stage as the crowd roared. For once since the war—not a soldier but a musician. Not a tortured soul but a being woven of sound. It was only on stage that he could transform, and he could feel like a man, beaten and weak, growing dark feathers and turning into some large black bird. Able to soar. To fly over the clouds. To flee the broken wretch on the ground. To glide on waves of sound as he flew toward a realm where angels sang.

But the shows always ended.

And the bird always lost its feathers.

The memories faded.

Jon once more was standing here in the studio, just staring at a poster. A poster from a tour three years ago. For an old album the world already forgot.

Guilt filled him.

"I let you taste fame and fortune, Kaelyn," he said to the poster. "I wrote you an album, and you brought it to life, and we bought a house in the suburbs, and …"

And that was three years ago.

Jon balled his fists.

He stepped toward his piano, sat down, and stared at the keys.

"All right, Jon," he told himself. "Write your second album. Make it a masterpiece."

He tapped a key. Another key. Exploring different chords and notes. Nothing came.

He paced the room, took a deep breath, sat down again.

For an hour, he played around, trying to form a tune. Finally—something was emerging. A catchy tune. A bit of a ballad, a bit of a rocker. He played the opening riff, smiled, and …

He groaned. He was playing "Stay Hungry" by Wolf Legion, one of his favorite metal bands. He had just been listening to the song yesterday.

It was hopeless.

He slammed the piano shut. Sat there. Panting. Eyes closed. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.

A twitch. A hint of charred flesh.

No. He pursed his lips and forced the memory away.

"I need to write a song," he said, eyes closed. "A hit song. A hit album. Like the one we had. I need to tour again. Kaelyn needs to sing on a stage. Not commute for hours to type numbers into a database. Come on. Come on!"

He opened the piano again.

He tapped the keys.

Nothing. Nothing!

He hunched over, muscles corded. Fists clenched. Sweat falling.

We're going to starve. We're going to lose our home. We'll end up on the streets. Like the urchins of Bahay. Eating trash. Kaelyn will have to prostitute herself, and another one of our children will die, and—

He stumbled away from the piano. He fell to the floor.

He was shaking.

No. No. Not that memory again. Not the memory of his child. Their child. No … The burnt child on Bahay was bad enough, but he couldn't think of—

He howled.

He stumbled upstairs, tore open the cabinet. He had already taken his anti-anxiety medication today. You weren't supposed to drink alcohol with those pills. But they didn't work. The damn pills didn't work, and Jon found himself drinking. It was good whiskey. Expensive whiskey to savor. He gulped it down like a shot. Poured another. Another. Trembling. Trembling slower, slower … drinking deeper, deeper …

And they faded.

The burnt child.

The dead child.

The slums of Mindao.

He looked around him. He was lying in his living room. By his fireplace. There was a photo from his wedding day on the wall. A good home. A comfortable home. Nothing could hurt him. He was safe.

"I'm safe. I'm safe. Nothing can hurt me."

But the demon was not in this house. It lived inside him. It had a thousand faces.

He needed to get out.

He pulled on his coat and stepped out into the cold and rain. The bins stood there on the sidewalk, full of water. He had forgotten.

* * * * *

He walked through the rain with no umbrella. He had forgotten his umbrella at home. He was forgetting many things these days. Maybe it was the meds. Or the booze. Or the weed. Maybe it was the ghosts. Maybe it was a hint of Mister Poison laughing inside him, lurking in his blood. Life was a haze.

But Jon liked how the rain felt. Cold. Purifying.

He walked down the streets of Lindenville, New Jersey, his home town. But in his memory, he was walking in the wilderness of Bahay, and the monsoon was falling. The rain pattered against the corrugated steel roofs of shanties along the beaches, and the waves were gray over the sand. The air was redolent with the smells of water and leaves and soil. Sheets of rain fell over swaying rainforests and raindrops danced in the rice paddies, and the peasants peered with frightened eyes from their bamboo huts. The skeletons lay in ditches. The enemy hid everywhere.

A motorcycle raced down the street, engine roaring.

Jon froze.

He backed against the wall and reached for his assault rifle. A weapon he hadn't carried since the war. It was like a phantom limb. Sometimes he swore he could still feel it, a weight across his back.

His heart pounded, and he looked from side to side, seeking the enemy, the incoming missiles.

The motorcycle rounded a corner and was gone. Jon stood there, sweating in the rain, heart pounding, head spinning. Drunk and afraid.

A few children, walking by, sneaked glances at him.

"That's him!" a boy whispered. "The crazy one."

"My dad says his brain is full of shrapnel," whispered the other boy.

They hurried on by.

Hey, Jon would have preferred being recognized for his music. But being known as crazy old Shrapnel-Brains beat obscurity. He couldn't help but laugh. A pained laugh. A laugh that hurt his chest and sounded more like a sob.

You boys are lucky, he thought, watching them flee down the street. The war is over. You live in peace. You have clothes and food. I saw children who are prostitutes in alleys and children burned in artillery craters. I saw my own child die.

He walked onward through the rain, head bowed.

He reached the grassy hill, a place with deep meaning, and he walked uphill between maple trees.

I climbed Surigao Hill through the humid jungle, the bullets screaming, my friends dying.

He saw the old brick church on the hilltop, the place where Jon and Kaelyn had gotten married.

I ran through the coiling black streets of Basilica, heading toward the basalt cathedral on the mountaintop, home to a red lord.

He approached the bench under the maple tree, the place Jon and Kaelyn had kissed for the first time.

I approached the artillery crater, and I saw the charred boy inside.

He stood by the bench as the rain fell. As the bombs fell. Because the visions never left. The flashbacks never stopped. His brain was not full of shrapnel but of shards of memory. He had fought a war against armies, and now he was fighting a war against a demon inside him, and he could not defeat it.

He left the bench. He stepped toward the graveyard.

He found the little memorial stone. Just a little stone on the ground, that was all. An angel engraved on it. Not even a name.

"You didn't have a name," he whispered.

Suddenly he laughed. A laugh mixed with tears. Who the hell buried a ten-week old fetus? A baby barely larger than a plum? Lindenville Cemetery had turned them away. But Kaelyn had insisted. What were they supposed to do—flush it down the toilet? So they buried the child here. In the churchyard.

They didn't even know if it was a boy or girl. Too small to tell. Jon stared down at his son or daughter.

"Two miscarriages," he said softly. "Then you, little buried one. Our best hope. Now Kaelyn is broken. She doesn't sing anymore. And I keep thinking of another woman."

A sob rolled through him.

I miss you, Maria.

He pulled out his pocket knife. He placed the blade against his wrist. The raindrops splashed against the steel.

I can't do this anymore. I can't.

He was broken beyond repair. He was ten thousand pieces on a burnt field. And he needed to end this. To join his son or daughter underground. Perhaps he had died years ago. Perhaps he had died on those battlefields under the monsoons. This was just a formality.

He applied pressure to the knife.

A droplet of blood beaded on his wrist.

And she came to him.

She rose from the storm of ghosts inside him. Smile bright. Eyes loving. Because it was not only death and terror in his mind. In the killing fields, a flower had grown. In the murk, a light shone. Maria came to him that day in the graveyard. Like she had come to him long ago in a war far away.

Jon. I love you.

"You're dead," he whispered, tears falling. "George is dead—my best friend. Paul is dead—my brother. Lizzy is dead. Carter is dead. Bucky is dead. My child is dead. I can't live without them. Without you. I can't live without my music."

The clouds parted, light shone on the graveyard, and among the graves he saw a woman walking, all in white, woven of light. An angel with swan wings, barely more than dapples of sunlight yet filling him with warmth and love. She was Maria in heaven, gazing down upon him.

A voice spoke, astral, a voice like starlight beyond a void.

Live, Jon.

"It's hard," he whispered, tears on his cheeks.

You have such light inside you, Jon. You still have so much to give. You still have a well of music that will flow forth. I love you, Jon. I will always l—

The clouds gathered again.

The light faded.

But her love remained.

Jon left the graveyard, left the church, left the hill. And he walked home. But he found that he wasn't walking to his new house, the house where he lived with Kaelyn. He was walking instead to Birchview Crescent. To his childhood home.

He knocked on the door.

His mother opened it. Her eyes widened. "Jon?" she whispered.

He was drunk. He was high. He was shell shocked and suicidal. He was sopping wet. But she took him in. She would never turn him away.

"Mom," he whispered.

It was all he needed to say. She pulled him into her arms. He stood a foot taller than her, but she hugged him, and he felt like a boy again. Like a little boy in his mother's arms, feeling safe, feeling like she could protect him from all the monsters in the world.

I saw many men die on the battlefield, he thought. Tough, scarred warriors. And when they lay dying, they called out for their mothers. Maybe I now am dying.

As he stood there in the doorway, holding his mother, the angel's words returned to him.

You have such light inside you.

And he knew he could compose again.

Chapter Three

The Dust of Life

"She's beautiful," Etty said. "She's perfect. This starship will save many children."

Howie scrunched his lips. "I dunno, dude. Calling her a starship is stretching it. She's barely larger than a minivan. I guess if you drive kids home from soccer practice, she'll do. But saving orphans halfway across the galaxy?" He sighed. "We need something better."

Howie was a big, burly bear of a man. His girth tested the limits of his XXL plaid shirt, his curly hair sprouted every which way, and his bushy beard could put most lumberjacks to shame. Despite his appearance, he did not spend his days chopping down pines in the forests of British Columbia. He was, in fact, a New York accountant—and, like many New Yorkers, a hopeless worrywart.

He's a pain in the ass, but he's a good friend, Etty thought. And a fellow orphan. He understands. He cares.

"Something better?" she repeated. "Well, better costs money, and our asses are broke. You should know that, Howie. You're our accountant, for God's sake."

Howie cleared his throat. With a hand like a paw, he pulled a calculator from his pocket and punched in some numbers. Etty had never understood how he could tap the tiny buttons with those sausage fingers.

"Yes, well, if we run another fundraising campaign this December, and invest the earnings at a sensible interest rate, within four to five years we can—"

"Howie!" Etty grabbed the man. "We don't have four to five more years! The orphans of Bahay need us. Now. We have to fly over and rescue them. And this is the only ship we can afford."

Howie lowered his calculator. He stared at his toes, which peeked from his sandals. They were as hairy as Hobbit feet. "You're right, Etty. You're right."

She stood on tiptoes. She still didn't even reach his shoulders. Standing only five feet tall, Etty struggled to reach most people. But Howie leaned down, and she planted a kiss on his shaggy cheek.

"Thanks, dude."

He mussed her black hair. "Anytime, dudette. You know I want the best for the Dust of Life, right?" Suddenly his eyes were damp. "Kind people saved us when we were orphans. We must pass it on."

Of course, they had lost their parents in very different circumstances.

Etty closed her eyes, remembering the day her parents had died. That peaceful Yom Kippur in Jerusalem, running along the cobbled streets, flowers in her hair. She could hear the boom again. See the blood wash across her feet. See her parents' bodies. Bodies torn apart.

You lost your parents to cancer, Etty thought, looking at Howie. You didn't grow up in a war zone. You can't understand. Nobody can understand. I …

She began trembling. She forced in deep breaths. And suddenly Howie was kneeling before her, embracing her. She leaned her head against his shoulder. He was so large and strong she thought he could protect her from the world.

"Hey, little one," he said. "We'll do this. We're a great team. All of us at the Dust of Life are behind you. Dusters forever, right?"

The Dust of Life. The name of the charity Etty had founded. A charity with a very specific, and very important mission.

Four years ago, the Bahay War ended. But not for everyone. During the war, many Earthling soldiers had fought on Bahay, mingling with the locals. Many had found comfort with Bahayan women. Some slept with prostitutes. Some raped village women. Some fell in love. Whatever the reason, they had children. Mixed children, half Earthling, half Bahayan. The Bahayans called them mestizos. On Earth, some called them the "dust of life." Unwanted children, neither Earthling nor Bahayan. Growing up fatherless in the dust of a ruined world.

Over the past few years, stories had come from Bahay. Stories of the mestizos facing brutality. On Bahay, they were shunned. They were living reminders of the Earthling invaders. Some mestizos ended up as slaves. Many ended up as prostitutes. Papa Dominus and his inquisitors hunted them everywhere.

Etty would save them.

"Dusters forever," she repeated and saluted.

Howie returned the salute. "For the dust of life, we fight." Their slogan.

Etty sniffed and smiled shakily. "And soon the Dust of Life will have a real interstellar spaceship. Let's take a closer look at this ship."

JEX's Starship and Robotics Emporium was busy today. Specializing in used starships, shuttles, and robots, the establishment spread across a dusty yard under the summer sun. It was Sunday, and shoppers came from miles around. Parents with young kids, searching for a family wagon to explore the solar system. Sleazy tourists, ranging from portly businessmen to rowdy frat boys, searching for transport to brothels and casinos outside Earth's jurisdiction. Shy, stuttering nerds, unlucky in love, seeking an "electronic companion," their euphemism for sexbots. If you needed something used, cheap, and tax free, you came to JEX's.

Half the stuff was hot. Half didn't work. But the prices were low. People took their chances.

When Etty saw the Kinnara, it was love at first sight.

She approached the starship, grinning.

She stood there on the lot like any other starship. Dented. Scratched. Covered in dust and rust. But Etty felt an instant connection. The Kinnara was small for an intergalactic starship. About as small as they came. Bigger than a minivan, despite what Howie claimed, though still damn small.

But unlike most starships here, simple vessels that could barely take you to Mars, the Kinnara had a warp drive. An actual, azoth-powered warp drive. This baby could reach the stars.

The Kinnara's hull was angular, armored, and pea-green. Scorch marks, scrapes, and dents marred the thick iron plates. Rotary cannons thrust out from her prow. A heavy railgun stuck out from her stern like a stinger. Hydraulic yellow claws sprouted from her sides, powerful enough to grab and crush asteroids. The entire vessel rested on dusty treadmill tracks like a tank.

"This girl has seen war," Etty said, stroking the scarred hull.

Howie frowned. "It has treadmill tracks. And claws. And wings. I can't decide if it's a tank, a tractor, or a spaceship."

"All the above, I think," Etty said.

She walked around the ship, coming to the prow. A brass figurehead rose above the grill. It was shaped like a beautiful woman with bird feet, talons, and wings.

"A harpy?" Howie asked.

"A kinnara," Etty said. "Like the name on the hull. The kinnaras are from Hindu mythology, if I remember correctly. Or was it Japanese? I'm not sure. But I remember one thing. They're deities of love." She turned toward Howie and grinned. "A perfect symbol."

"She's a lover and a fighter," Howie said. "I like her already." He patted the ship with his massive paw of a hand. An armored plate broke off and clattered onto the ground. "Oops."

"Try not to break the spaceship before she even leaves the lot, Howie," Etty said.

Squeaks sounded behind them. A tinny voice rang out.

"Welcome, welcome to JEX's Starship and Robotics Emporium!" A robot teetered toward them, shedding rust and gears with every step. "Whatever your price, whatever your pleasure, you'll find the ride of your dreams here. My starships will take you to the stars—and beyond!"

The robot left a trail of leaking oil across the sand. He stood about four feet tall, shaped like a barrel. He chomped on an electronic cigar, a prop made from a car's cigarette lighter. Letters were painted onto his chrome chest. JEX: Junkyard EXpert.

"I didn't realize there was anything beyond the stars," Etty said.

"Well, that's because you've never owned a JEX starship!" the robot said. "The Kinnara is a beautiful ship, isn't she? And she costs only one million dollars. A bargain for such a quality vessel!"

"She broke when I touched her," Howie said.

The robot swiveled toward the starship, then back toward Howie. "She's meant to do that. Those are detachable armor plates. You remove them for extra speed."

"I think it gave me tetanus!" Howie brushed rust off his hands.

"Not to worry, that's not rust," JEX said. "That's just scalding from a photon cannon."

"Oh, now I feel much better," Howie said.

"Excellent!" JEX flashed a metal smile. "Shall I ring you up at the cash register, then? We offer loans at low, low prices!" His voice suddenly sped up—so fast it was almost impossible to understand. "Loans available at thirty-five percent interest, options of primary residence or transplantable organs as collateral, all sales are final."

"We're not putting our organs up as collateral!" Etty said. She ran her hand along the Kinnara's hull. "She saw battles. But she's not military. I served in the HDF. I don't recognize this model."

"Oh no, she was never military," JEX said. "I never sell military vessels. Ever. The military is quite strict about that. It's illegal, you know." The rotund robot shuddered, shedding rust. "The HDF is a wonderful military, but quite … possessive. I've seen what happens to the robots who resell military vehicles. The gears spilling everywhere. Cables left across the grass like mere trash, as if true thoughts and emotions never coursed through them, as if robots were merely mindless machines and not—"

"JEX, pull it together," Howie said.

The robot cleared his throat, probably a mannerism coded by his programmer. "Sorry about that. The Kinnara once served in the Search and Rescue Guard. She's a Quadro-class rescue vehicle, able to operate in four environments. Space, air, land, and water. You name it, she'll take you there. Those treadmill tracks? They can drive on any terrain. Those wings? They can fly through the toughest storm. Those engines? They'll blast you across space. She'll even go underwater! Like a submarine! Hell, you could probably fly this baby into a volcano, and she'll be fine. If you need to rescue somebody, she's your girl." His voice sped up again. "JEX's Starship and Robotics Emporium will not be held liable for starships that fly into volcanoes."

Etty spun toward Howie, eyes widening, and she grinned. "A rescue ship! She's perfect."

Howie scrunched his lips. "The robot probably heard us talking about our mission to rescue orphans. He's pulling this out of his rusty metal ass."

"No, he's right! Look." Etty walked around the starship. "See the folding wings? That's for flying in an atmosphere. See this engine? That's a warp engine! For flying in space. And look!" She knelt under the ship's stern and tapped the underbelly. A few spiders fled. "This is a ballast tank. She's got submarine capabilities. This is a true quad-craft. These are rare, Howie. Only a handful were ever built."

"Geez, I wonder why. Maybe because they fall apart when you touch them?" The shaggy accountant grumbled, sounding like a bear woken up from hibernation. "She ain't worth a million. We can get way better for half that much."

Etty turned toward JEX. "We'll pay you a quarter million."

The robot wheeled backward, losing a few gears. His camera-lens widened. "What, a quarter million for this state-of-the-art starship? Do you want to ruin me?"

Howie snorted. "What, you got a family of calculators at home to support?"

"Oh, lovely, anti-robot jokes," JEX said. "You want to ruin me and wound me."

"We want a fair price," Etty said. "No more, no less."

JEX wheeled toward the Kinnara, adjusted the cigar in his mouth, then turned back toward Etty. He squeaked and shed rust with every moment.

"All right," JEX said. "I'll give you five percent off. Nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Final offer. I won't go a dollar lower, or may a short circuit fry my heart."

"We'll pay you three hundred thousand," Etty said, "and we won't tell anyone that the Search and Rescue Guard is an HDF corps."

"It—" JEX wheeled backward. His cigar thumped onto the ground. "It's what?"

Etty nodded. "That's right. The SARG is part of the HDF, the lovely Human Defense Force, the military of Earth. You know, the military that disassembles robots that sell its stolen equipment? Oh, you didn't know? Well, not to worry. I'm sure you'll be safe. We'll be glad to take this spaceship off your hands."

JEX opened his mouth wide, silent. He swiveled back and forth. He stared at Etty again.

"Cash or credit?" he squeaked.

* * * * *

With a cloud of dust, smoke, and rust, the Kinnara soared.

Etty sat in the cockpit, clutching the armrests so tightly she tore into the faux leather. Her heart pounded, and cold sweat trickled down her back. The starship rattled and roared, rising on a jet of fire. But that's not what scared Etty. The ground was dropping beneath her, and the sky parted above, giving way to the vastness of space. But that did not scare Etty either.

For the first time in four years, she was going back to Bahay.

Back to that planet hundreds of light-years away.

Back to that land of dark jungles and darker secrets, of neon slums and sensual sins. Back to that forbidden world of dreams.

And that terrified her.

On Bahay, she had lost her dearest friends. On Bahay, she had killed people. She had watched thousands die. She had trudged through the jungle as the bombs fell like the rain. She had fought up the basalt streets of Basilica toward a cathedral on a mountain. She had seen burnt children crawling through the ruins of a village. Seen them fall, dying, whimpering for their mothers. As their mothers lay raped and dead in the ditches.

She had seen nightmares. Seen the evil in man's heart. Seen nobility and courage under fire. Seen ugliness and beauty and nightmares that still haunted her.

When Etty had left Bahay, she had vowed to never return. Yet now she was flying back. Not with a fleet but in a single spaceship. Not with an army but with one friend.

The Kinnara rose from the atmosphere and glided through space. The ship stopped rattling, but Etty was trembling.

"Hey, you all right, dude?" Howie patted her with his massive hand.

She wiped away a tear. "Yeah. Just … remembering stuff."

Howie held her hand. His palm was so large her hand drowned in it. It made her feel safe. Her trembling eased.

"I never fought on Bahay," Howie said. "I served on Earth. Logistics corps. Non-com. But you—you fought. I can't imagine what this is like for you. To go back. For whatever it's worth, I'm here. Whatever happens, I'll protect you."

She smiled thinly. "Howie, I'm a combat veteran. You're an accountant. If anything, I'll be protecting you."

He snorted. "Yeah, well, I weigh about five times as much as you, so there's that."

George was big too, Etty thought. He died in the mud.

But she said nothing about that.

Instead, she leaned against Howie, feeling like a little tarsier leaning against a bear. People often called her a tarsier, due to her small size, brown skin, and very large, very green eyes.

"Thank you for coming with me, Howie."

The Kinnara flew through space. Sitting in the cockpit, Etty watched Earth drop away beneath them. Soon she could see the entire planet, a bright blue sphere, wrapped in a band of sky. No matter how many times Etty saw Earth from space, she always marveled at how thin and fragile the sky was, no wider than a peel around an apple. Her eyes strayed to Israel, her homeland, and she smiled sadly. The home she still loved. The war-torn country where she had lost her parents, where she had made her most cherished memories.

The Kinnara kept flying, and Earth became smaller and smaller, becoming a little marble, no larger than the moon viewed from Earth. And like always, Etty reflected on how small Earth truly was. An apple? A marble? Earth was no more than a mote of dust floating in the black waters of the cosmic ocean.

She turned away from Earth. She gazed into the void. Hundreds of starships, satellites, even space stations moved back and forth. Earth's orbit was always busy. But just a short distance away, past all the bustle and noise, open space stretched for eternity. Nothing but emptiness and silence.

"To the stars and beyond," she whispered.

She looked at the constellation Scorpius. The second star along the scorpion's tail. That was Sargas, a binary star. Bahay's star.

"You okay, dudette?" Howie said. He was squeezed into the seat beside her, barely fitting. He was already munching on popcorn.

She grabbed the bag from him. "Give me some of that."

"No worries," Howie said, pulling out a bag of potato chips. "I packed a lot of food."

"It's a three-week trip to Bahay," Etty said. "Try not to eat it all before we even leave orbit."

Etty flew past the last satellites. She placed her hand on the warp drive lever, then closed her eyes and tightened her lips. The pain clutched her chest. She could not breathe.

"Etty?" Howie's voice was soft. "You sure you wanna do this? We can still turn back."

A tear trailed down her cheek. "I'm not sure. And I want to turn back. But I remember the stories. I keep thinking about it. The news we heard. A group of mestizo orphans, forced into prostitution. Selling their bodies on Lollipop Lane, the most terrible street on Bahay. They have Earthling fathers. They deserve to live better lives. On Earth. And we can save them." She opened her eyes and looked at her friend. "I'm scared shitless. But I was scared shitless in the war too, and I went onward. So let's do this."

A long, silent moment passed.

"Etty?" Howie said softly. "You still haven't pushed the lever."

She laughed through her tears. "Together."

Howie nodded and placed his huge, warm hand over hers. They pushed the lever together.

The Kinnara's warp engine glowed purple. Spacetime warped around them. The stars stretched into lines. They blasted into the distance, flying faster than light. Flying toward that distant star. Toward all her terrors and children trapped in a nightmare.

* * * * *

The three weeks went by surprisingly quickly.

The Kinnara was a small starship. There was the cockpit. A hold about the size of a bedroom. A kitchenette by the stern. A crawlway under the main deck. That was about it. The living space was no larger than Etty's New York apartment. Back home, she left her apartment every day. Even a few hours in that cramped, concrete box made her antsy. She had imagined that three weeks in a starship, surrounded by vacuum, would give her some major cabin fever.

Instead, the days raced by.

She wrote short stories. She watched movies, listened to music, read comics. She played board games with Howie. Mostly she dreaded her destination.

That was probably it. Probably why time passed so quickly.

She didn't want it to end.

But every day aboard this starship, the mestizos were suffering. The abandoned children of the war needed her. And Etty did not know if she was strong enough to help them.

Finally they saw it ahead. Sargas. That cursed star whose light had fallen upon so many broken, dying children, whimpering in the mud for their mothers as their lifeblood flowed away.

She pulled back the lever, and the Kinnara dropped out of warp speed. Spacetime smoothed out around them like wrinkled cloth under an iron. The starlines slammed into points. Etty shuddered. She hated this part. It always felt like the universe was squeezing every organ in her body.

The Kinnara glided onward through space, heading toward one of Sargas's planets. Toward a blue ocean world dotted with islands. Toward the only human world not under Earth's domain. Toward Bahay.

"The tip we got was specific," Etty said. "And urgent. Twenty children, all mestizos. Sold into prostitution. Serving their clients in Lollipop Lane." Etty shuddered. "During the war, I heard rumors of that place. I never knew if it really existed."

"And we still don't know who sent the tip?" Howie said. He was gazing out the viewport, the planet painting his face blue. His voice was soft. His fingers were clenched around his chair's armrests.

Etty shook her head. "Anonymous tip. That's not surprising. Papa Dominus rules every aspect of Bahayan society now. People are scared. They speak only in whispers. Only from the shadows. But I hope that …"

I hope the tip came from Maria, she thought. I hope she survived.

She remembered how Maria had worked with the Bargirl Bureau, how she had leaked critical information to Earth. But Etty also remembered Jon's story. That he had seen the fire wash over Mindao, swallowing Maria.

I hope you're alive, but maybe it's only a fool's hope. Etty hung her head low. I guess I miss my friend.

Howie looked at her. "You okay, buddy?"

She nodded. "Lots of memories."

As soon as they entered Bahay's orbit, Etty saw the differences. This was not the same planet from four years ago.

All of Earth's starships were gone. Back during the war, motherships, shuttles, starfighters, medical ships, cargo ships—they had all filled Bahay's orbit.

Today only Mother's Womb remained, too large to tow home. The space station was no longer stark and military. The Bahayans had taken over. Neon signs had grown across the station, flashing with brilliant colors, calling space travelers like flowers calling bees. Some of the signs were humble, drowning in the glow of brighter neighbors. Other signs featured garish cowgirls, sexy nurses, or chinking bottles. Most were in English, presumably to attract tourists, and usually misspelled. Etty read a few.

BOYS NIGHT CABAREY

HAPPY BAR: HOTEST GIRLS IN GALAXY

COCK FIGHTS TONIGHT

PINOY PLEASURES: BEST MESSAGE PARLOR

PUSSY CAT MEOWS

TOY BOX: COME PLAY

SMOKEY MOUNTAIN: BEST HINTAN HERE!

There were hundreds more, but Etty stopped reading them. She got the idea.

If the signs left any doubt, the posters splattered across the space station hull clarified what pleasures awaited. They featured strippers in various states of undress, gladiators locked in battle, and a potpourri of hookahs, bongs, and pipes. Some brothels featured huge steelglass windows. The bargirls posed within, wearing next to nothing, luring shuttles and starships who flew by.

"Um … wow." Howie rubbed his eyes, looked again at the glittering space station. "Was it like this during the war?"

"Down on the surface, yes," Etty said. "At least in the city we Earthlings ruled. But we lost the war. Papa Dominus rules the planet now. It seems like all the fun fled into orbit."

A shuttle raced by them. It was full of drunken frat boys, wearing hideous pastels. They were drinking cheap Tiger Claw beer and cheering as they raced toward the station. Their hailing beacon was broadcasting on an open channel. Their voices washed across the Kinnara. It was mostly drunken nonsense, but Etty made out a few "woos!"

She sighed. "Instead of servicing Earthling soldiers, the bargirls are now servicing Earthling tourists."

Howie shuddered. "Who'd want to come here as a tourist?"

"Those who want pleasures Earth won't provide," Etty said. "Such as underage prostitutes."

They both got very quiet.

They looked down at the planet.

According to the tip, the mestizos were not on this glittering space station of carnal pleasures. They were down on the planet, right in Papa Dominus's domain, abused in the shadows. Some sins even Mother's Womb would not tolerate, it seemed.

Etty wondered whether Papa Dominus knew about this horror. Were Papa and his inquisitors familiar with Lollipop Lane? Or perhaps they themselves were customers?

She flew by the station, ignoring the siren's song of its countless bars. She flew toward the planet. Mother's Womb was an oasis of sin, but there below was a realm of rigid, ruthless piety, a place where sins did not shine with neon. Down there, horrible secrets lurked in shadows.

A chill washed Etty.

She saw the dead again.

The bullets flying. Soldiers falling.

I was sixteen when I first came to Bahay, she thought. A terrified child. Young even for a private. I'm twenty-one now. A little wiser, a little stronger. I can do this. I was a terrified orphan, so I must save terrified orphans.

Leaving the space station behind, she dived into Bahay's atmosphere.

* * * * *

No starships rose from Bahay to stop the Kinnara's descent. No missiles flew. No satellites aimed massive guns.

The planet seemed, well … undefended.

On Earth, this would be unthinkable. No starship could enter Earth's sky unannounced. Not without being shot down. Thousands of defensive satellites and starships surrounded Earth—a massive wall of armaments around the sky.

But this was Bahay. Technologically inferior. Bahay could not protect its orbit.

That's why they dragged us Earthlings into the jungles, Etty thought. And foolishly, we followed. That's how they won. On their own turf. Their own terms.

The Kinnara rattled as she entered the atmosphere, ionizing the air. Sparks flew. Fire blazed. But within moments, the ship was flying through clear blues skies.

Even after the war, even under the devastating tyranny of Papa Dominus, Bahay was still beautiful.

The oceans sparkled, rich blue speckled with spots of indigo and glimmering green. Puffy white clouds glided through the air like herds of sheep. Countless islands speckled the ocean. Most were too small or remote for humans, but they still boasted palm trees and sandy beaches. Atolls rose in rings, embracing azure pools. They were like pale blue eyes peering up at Etty.

Yet as Etty flew toward Bagong Palawan, the largest island on Bahay, the ruin was revealed.

The rainforests were gone. Plains and hills rolled into the distance, burnt and blackened. Even four years after the war, life had not reclaimed the poisoned lands. The mountainsides were still carved into terraces, but no more rice grew here, and no more farmers sang as they toiled.

There were many artillery craters.

There were many tombstones.

"We killed half the population of Bahay," Etty said softly. "We hit them as hard as the aliens hit Earth a century ago. Our society crumbled for two generations. I don't know how long it will take Bahay to recover." She lowered her head. "I don't know how long it will take us Earthlings to recover. We didn't lose many lives. Not compared to Bahay. But the war tore us apart."

Howie pointed through the windshield. "Dude. Look at that."

Etty smiled sadly. "Mindao. The largest city on Bahay. That's our destination."

"That's a city?" Howie leaned closer. "It's … God, Etty. I never saw anything like this. I don't even know how to describe it."

"A shantytown," Etty said. "It's a giant shantytown."

Howie winced. "I've heard of shantytowns. I grew up in a rough neighborhood myself. I've been to the slums of New York City. But I never imagined poverty like this."

"It shocked me too the first time I saw it," Etty said. "It still does."

The shanties sprawled for miles and miles, crammed so close together one couldn't even see the alleyways between them. They were makeshift dwellings, assembled from rotting plywood and scrap metal. Many were stacked several high. Rusty sheets of corrugated steel formed the roofs, held down by tires. The sunlight blazed over this sea of rusty metal and rubber, nearly blinding Etty. The patchwork of gray, orange, and brown squares spread to the horizon.

In some places, other structures broke through the cloak of shanties. A landfill rose into the sky, a mountain of trash. Beggars crawled over the reeking heap, desperately scavenging for food. Old Earthling barracks rose here and there like boils. But now Bahayan flags draped across their walls of raw concrete, and Bahayan troops in black armor guarded their gates.

Statues of Papa Dominus, carved from stone and bronze, rose among the huts. Dozens, maybe hundreds of them. Every statue wore robes and a mitre. Some statues carried a censer, real embers smoldering inside. Other statues carried a scepter topped with a star, symbolizing Sargas. Some statues held inverted crosses of dark iron.

The grandest building was a cathedral. A grand cathedral that could put Earth's best to shame. It rose from the shantytown like a tombstone. Etty had seen this cathedral during the war. Back then, it had been painted pale blue. Back then, it had been known as Saint Isidore Cathedral.

It too had changed. It was painted white now. Not a pure, gentle white like starlight. It was a stark, cruel white. The white of a surgery room. The white of bones. Clinical and cruel.

"He lives in there." Etty shuddered. "Papa Dominus." She pulled the yoke, diverting the Kinnara away. "I want to give him a wide berth."

She glided toward a spaceport. Several space shuttles were rising and descending. Some were probably bringing supplies to Mother's Womb. Perhaps some descending shuttles were taking adventurous tourists to the surface. Maybe some ascending shuttles were filled with impoverished girls, seeking work in the space station. Whatever the case, a little traffic was good news. Etty flew the Kinnara among the shuttles, trying to blend in.

The Kinnara thumped down in the spaceport, raising a cloud of dust. She opened the hatch. For the first time in weeks, she stepped outside the stifling little starship. For the first time in years, she stepped onto Bahay.

The heat washed over her. Thick. Humid. Soupy. Sweat beaded across her body. Howie stepped outside too and winced.

"Damn!" the beefy accountant said and mopped his forehead. "The heat hits you like a wave, doesn't it? I could practically hear the whoosh."

"Welcome to Bahay," Etty said. "It's a balmy hundred degrees year round."

"And as humid as a gator's balls in a swamp," Howie muttered.

"Thank you for that lovely image," Etty said.

A handful of other shuttles were landing and taking off around them. A few androids stomped across the sand, carrying crates onto shuttles, probably destined for Mother's Womb. Symbols were spray painted onto the wooden crates. A stalk of rice. A snake coiling around a staff. A drop of oil.

Food, medicine, fuel, Etty thought.

"Most of the shuttles are rising to Mother's Womb," Howie said. "What does the space station send back?"

Maria watched one shuttle land. Clunky androids stepped out, barely more than metal skeletons. Etty had seen the crude machines in the war. They were too clumsy to fight, but they often did maintenance jobs around military bases—cleaning, painting, carrying boxes around. Today the androids were carrying armored safes.

"Money," she said. "There's money in those safes. Earthling dollars. I'd bet my life on it. Money from the sex tourists up in space. That must be why Papa Dominus allows Mother's Womb to keep operating. It funds his little utopia down here."

"If this is a utopia, I'd hate to see a dystopia," Howie muttered.

"Hey, you two!"

The voice tore across the lot. The words were Tagalog, the language of Bahay, which Etty had spent the past few years learning.

She turned to see several policemen stomping toward her. They wore dusty tan uniforms, and they carried assault rifles and electric batons.

"Greetings, friends!" Etty replied in Tagalog. "Don't worry, we have all our papers."

The policemen surrounded her and Howie. The beefy accountant towered over them. The policemen's eyes hardened. A few reached for their batons.

"You're Earthlings," spat one policeman, a muscular man with a mustache. "Earthlings may visit Bahay only with an organized tour guide from the ministry of information."

"Ah, see, we're not tourists," Etty said. "We work for a class A registered charity, recognized as benefiting the people of Bahay." She raised her papers. "We're called the Dust of Life, charity number B7647a, and if you check our forms, you'll see—"

"We don't need your charity, Earthling." The policeman spat on the ground. "Who do you think we are? Helpless children?"

"Some of you are exactly that," Etty said. "That's who the Dust of Life saves. Vulnerable war orphans."

The policeman's lip peeled back in a snarl. "We can take care of our own. I know what you want. To steal our children. You'll have to come with me, Earthlings. The ministry of information would like to speak to you."

Etty felt the blood drain from her face. The ministry of information. She had heard rumors. Terrible rumors. Stories of people dragged from their homes in the middle of the night. Brought to gulags in the north. Torture. Systematic rape. The stories were so horrifying most Earthlings refused to believe.

But I know enough about human nature to believe the worst of the tales, Etty thought. There is no act so evil, no crime so depraved, that some men will not commit it. Sometimes the misanthropes are right. When you assume the worst about humanity, you're never disappointed.

She definitely did not want to speak to the ministry of information, thank you very much.

"Oh!" she said. "I forgot. I showed you the wrong papers!" She reached into her pocket and pulled out a handful of dollar bills. "Here you go. Here are the right papers."

The policemen stared at her. They did not take the money.

Howie shuffled through his pockets too. He stepped forward clumsily, nearly tripping on his sandals. "Oh, and, um … here." He held out a handful of silver coins. And for a man with such big hands, a handful was a lot. "Pure silver. A donation to the people of Bahay. You'll make sure this silver reaches the right pockets. Whatever pockets those might be."

The policemen stared. But this time they took the money.

Etty and Howie were free. They walked out of the spaceport and into the shantytown hell of Mindao.

* * * * *

Night fell, and they stepped toward Lollipop Lane, the most dreaded place on Bahay. Perhaps in the galaxy.

To get there, Etty and Howie had to walk down the Blue Boulevard. The name was a little misleading. The Blue Boulevard had been Bahay's red lights district. But the neon signs were gone. The bars were closed. Thousands of bargirls had once worked here. They now danced in Mother's Womb or lay underground. The bars were empty, mold spread across crumbling concrete walls, and wind moaned through the alleyways. Balconies leaked rust like bloody tears. Paper cups and newspapers scuttled across cracked asphalt like rats over a battlefield. Bundles of electric cables sagged over the road, crackling, but only a handful of street lights lit the night. Shadows cloaked the Blue Boulevard.

In her mind, Etty could see the avenue in its golden age—awash with lights of every color, redolent with the smells of beer, roasting street meat, and spicy hintan. Music played in every bar, a mixture of Bahayan pop songs and Earthling classics. Crowds clogged the sidewalks. Buskers. Bargirls. Pimps. Soldiers out for a good time. She was here with her friends. With Jon. George. Lizzy. Carter. Bucky. Her brothers and sisters in arms. People she loved.

The vision vanished.

Shadows and silence reclaimed the world.

We were caught in a war back then, Etty thought. A war we didn't understand. But somehow things seemed simpler.

Of that group of friends, only she and Jon had survived. Jon was back on Earth, fighting his own battles. Etty was here, and she would do what she could.

The Blue Boulevard had always disturbed Etty. Now, abandoned, it disturbed her more than ever.

She and Howie stepped off the main road. They navigated the alleyways. Countless beggars had once lived here, chasing any Earthling they saw, desperate for a few Earth dollars. They were gone. Even the stray cats and dogs were gone.

"What happened to everyone?" Etty whispered.

Howie stared around with dark eyes. His hand reached toward his jacket, where he carried a hidden pistol. "It fits the stories we heard. People disappearing. Nobody knows where they end up."

"Re-education," Etty whispered. She pulled her own gun from her purse, and she stuck it into her jeans for easy access.

Finally they stepped into a dark alleyway, no wider than a corridor. An alien bird stood on an electric cable, examining them with yellow eyes. A naked cat hissed in the shadows, its tail just a mangy stump. A lollipop was spray painted onto a moldy concrete wall.

"This is the place," Etty said. "The infamous Lollipop Lane. But nobody's here."

A mouse scurried across the asphalt, tiny feet pattering, holding a cockroach in its mouth. The wind moaned, and the electric cables buzzed.

She shouldn't be hearing these sounds. It was too quiet. Far too quiet for a city this size. The roar of jeepneys, rickshaws, crowds, bustling bars—it was gone. Nothing but wind and electricity and the pattering of bugs and mice. A single lamp hung on a wall, flickering.

Howie drew his gun. "I don't like this."

Etty looked around her. She passed her hand along the grimy walls, seeking hidden doorways.

"Is anyone here?" she whispered to the shadows. "Can you hear me?"

A shadowy figure appeared across the alleyway.

A man.

A man in red robes.

The lamp on the wall shattered, and the alley plunged into darkness.

"Who's there?" Etty demanded.

Footsteps sounded ahead. Footsteps sounded behind. Shadows stirred on the roofs alongside the alley. Robes rustled.

Etty pulled a flashlight from her purse. She swept the beam from side to side.

Men in red robes surrounded her. Nine of them, maybe more. Masks hid their faces. Hoods hid their heads.

"Stand back!" Etty said, drawing her gun.

They drew closer. They raised gloved hands, the fingers tipped with steel claws. Inverted crosses hung from their necks on barbed wire chains. Through the holes of their masks, their eyes appeared dead and black. Eyes that sucked in all light. All hope. All joy. Black hole eyes.

"You came to us," they hissed in unison.

"Who are you?" Howie shouted. The giant was trembling.

They laughed. A ring of red, circling around them. Cackling. Barely there at all. Etty's flashlight flickered and died. The crimson ghosts danced in the darkness. Halos of fire blazed to life above their heads, drenching the alleyway with light the color of blood.

The astral voices filled the alleyway.

"We are … inquisitors."

Etty understood. Her hands shook.

"You sent the tip," she whispered. "There were never any children."

"A trap," Howie spat.

"You will not steal our children," the inquisitors hissed, nine voices speaking as one. They all drew clubs shaped like inverted crosses. Nine black weapons of steel. "Our faith forbids us to spill blood. But we can break bones. Die now …"

Howie roared. The giant lunged forward, barreling into two inquisitors.

"Etty, run!" he howled.

And they were on him.

Like red wolves. They tore into him. Their clubs swung again and again. From the fray, from the storm of red robes and iron bars, Howie's gun fired. A bullet slammed into the wall, and the sound echoed through the alleyway, pounding against Etty, ringing her ears, shaking her soul, and she was back in the war. She was watching her friends die.

She screamed and fired her gun.

Her bullet tore through an inquisitor's head. Blood sprayed the wall. The robed man fell.

Clubs rose again. Drove down. Bones snapped. Howie bellowed, a sound like a wounded bear.

Etty fired her gun again. Again.

"Leave him alone!" she cried.

Blood sprayed in the darkness. Another inquisitor fell. His halo of fire tumbled to the ground. The flames gripped paper cups and scattered newspapers, coming alive, hissing across the alleyway like a demon.

The inquisitors turned toward Etty. Seven remained. They loomed tall. Hooded and haloed in fire, they raised their clubs above her. For all their talk of not shedding blood, those clubs were drenched with it, dripping it. Howie lay behind them like a sacrificial lamb, his blood pooling across the ground. He was no longer screaming. No longer moving.

Etty fired again.

A third inquisitor fell.

The others lunged toward her.

One inquisitor grabbed her shoulder. He was different from the others. Taller. His inverted cross shone with rubies full of fire, each stone like a candle. His mask was not a blank face like the others. It was serpentine. A demonic face, and his eyes were flaming pits.

A lord inquisitor, Etty realized. A prince of evil.

His hand was like a claw, tipped with long sharp nails. Etty flailed but could to free herself.

The lord inquisitor stared at her with yellow eyes. He whispered, never breaking eye contact. His voice was like smoke, like chanting demons. "In nomine patris et in die dolore …"

Etty screamed.

It burned! It burned with fire!

The lord inquisitor released her. Smoke rose from where his fingers had gripped her shoulder—five smoldering marks. She fell to her knees. Tears leaped into her eyes. She screamed again and again, could not stop screaming. Fiery agony pulsed from her shoulder, raced down her body, down her arm.

He cursed me, she thought. Curses aren't real. What the hell did he do?

She fired again. Through the tears and twisting pain, she fired. Her bullet slammed into another inquisitor. But the clubs rose again. The lord inquisitor was suddenly standing on a roof, gazing down like Satan upon hell.

Howie raised his head from the ground. Half his face was bashed in. But he was still alive!

"Etty …" he whispered. "Run …"

The inquisitors screeched. An inhuman sound. A sound like steam rising from a kettle. Like cracking steel. Like souls rent apart. More inquisitors shrieked on the rooftops. Lightning flashed, revealing the forms of a thousand more, perched like gargoyles. Like vultures. An army of dark birds waiting to feed.

The inquisitors in the alleyway spun toward the fallen Howie. They ripped off their masks, revealing pale, deformed faces and jaws full of metal teeth. They sank those terrible fangs into him. They ripped out his throat. They tore him apart.

Etty wept.

And she ran.

An inquisitor leaped from a rooftop, landed in the alley, and hissed. Etty fired, and her bullet drove into his chest. He stayed standing. She pulled the trigger again, wanting to finish the job, but the gun clicked. She ran, pawing for another magazine.

I'm sorry, Howie. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Two more inquisitors leaped off the roofs just as Etty reloaded. She fired twice. But only inquisitor one fell. The other plowed into her, raising his inverted cross of dark steel. More inquisitors raced from behind.

Etty ducked. The cross swung over her head. She fired. The gun boomed. The sound echoed off the alley walls. She slid forward, dodging the inquisitors. The cross slammed onto the ground, narrowly missing her, raising sparks. She ran onward, leaping from shadow to shadow.

But there were too many.

More inquisitors leaped down, sealing off the alleyway.

Others landed behind her.

Etty emptied her last magazine, then stood among the enemy, out of ammo. She panted. Her shoulder blazed with pain. The agony raced down her side, crawled through her organs. The curse was spreading like poison.

The inquisitors approached slowly, clubs ready to shatter her bones.

So this is where I die, Etty thought. Back on Bahay. Perhaps I was always meant to die here.

"I'm sorry, Howie," she whispered. "I—"

Gunfire blazed.

Bullets hailed across the alleyway, a storm of sound and lead and gunpowder.

Inquisitors fell. Bullets sparked across the concrete walls. Mowed men down. Ten inquisitors fell, then twenty. Etty could not see who was firing.

Whoever this angel of death was—they were leaving Etty unharmed.

The surviving inquisitors screeched like banshees. They scuttled up the walls. They leaped across the roofs like ghosts, robes fluttering. They vanished, leaving their dead behind.

Etty remained standing among corpses.

A few shadows stepped forward, holding machine guns. Scattered fires burned around their feet.

Etty squinted, trying to bring them into focus.

"Who …?" she whispered.

They came closer, and Etty gasped.

Holocaust survivors, was her first thought. They look like Holocaust survivors.

Their heads were shaved. Their skin was ashen. They wore nothing but rags.

"Who are you?" Etty whispered, stepping closer.

A woman stood at their lead. It was impossible to tell her age. She was too thin. Starving. Her face was like a skull, and white stubble topped her head. She dropped her machine gun and clasped Etty's hand.

"Etty?" she whispered. "Etty, it is you. Oh God. It's you." Tears flowed down her sunken cheeks. "It's me. It's Pippi from the Bargirl Bureau."

Etty gasped. "I remember you! Maria's friend. You used to have long red hair. Pigtails." Etty's eyes dampened, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "What happened to you?"

Pippi pulled her into an embrace, trembling and weeping. "Take me to Maria. Please. I need to see Maria. I need to see my friend."

"I …" Etty swayed. Ice flowed from her shoulder, raged across her chest and down her spine. "Maria is alive? She … Jon saw the fire . . ."

Her head spun. Cold fire was spreading from her cursed wound. Visions of bleeding crosses filled her eyes.

And then she was falling, falling, falling into a pit of red claws and dark laughter.

Chapter Four

Maria Who Danced Among the Stars

Maria danced among the stars. All those who saw her marveled. They said she was an angel from heaven. But every time she danced among the stars, Maria wished upon every one to simply be on Earth.

The planet had never seemed farther.

She had been dancing here for four years now, trapped in this space station. A station orbiting Bahay, a world she could see out the portholes, a world she feared. Four years of dancing. Of waiting. Of dreaming that Jon would someday return. Losing and finding new hope every day.

She stood on stage in the Toy Box, the sleaziest bar in the station. She swayed as the lights shone and flickered, blinding her. Disco lights. Searing white lights like tracer rounds, like bombs in the night. Lights like flashes of dreams from another life, like the ghosts that still howled inside her. She danced.

She wore the club's uniform. Blue short shorts. A tiny white sailor shirt, revealing her midriff, barely covering her breasts, tied with a red ribbon. High heels. Shame. A cloak of shame. But she danced because he forced her. She danced because her daughter needed food. She danced because she was still waiting, still hoping. That someday Jon would return. That someday he would save her, because she could no longer save herself.

The music pounded on.

Charlie Wonder danced beside Maria, wearing a matching outfit. She was known by many names. The Queen of Bargirls. The Bombshell of Bahay. The Minx from Mindao. For twenty years, Charlie had been dancing in bars, pouring drinks, servicing men's pleasures. She was both Maria's best friend and a vision of her future. As she swayed on stage, Charlie wore a huge smile plastered across her face, but her eyes were dead.

Twenty other girls danced on stage with them, all wearing the same little sailor suits. They swayed around poles, heads tossed back in ecstasy, drugs flowing through their veins. Thousands more danced in bars across Mother's Womb, this grand city in the sky. The crowd cheered. Whiskey and beer flowed, shabu crystals glittered, and the music kept pounding, pounding, pounding like artillery.

As the night went on, the girls injected, snorted, smoked more and more of the crystal dust, the sweet shabu to give them energy, to dull the pain. They removed their clothes. They danced with bare breasts, stumbled on high heels, limped into the beds of the highest bidders.

All but Maria. She refused the drugs. She refused the men who reached for her, who tried to drag her into bed, to leave her sore in the morning with crumpled, sweaty bills across her nakedness. She turned away their Earthling dollars. She danced for petty pesos. She danced to feed her daughter. She danced to stay alive for another day of waiting and dreaming.

"Yeah, baby, you're beautiful!"

"Take your top off for me, gorgeous!"

"Sweet thing, I wanna marry you!"

Men from Bahay. From Earth. From Alpha Centauri and Ganymede and Mars. Men from around the galaxy came to Mother's Womb. The space station, a great military headquarters during the war, had become a hive of sin and sensuality, far from the laws of empires or theocracies.

Anything goes in Mother's Womb, they said. A place for glittering crystals that opened the mind to new sensations. A place for beautiful girls who boiled the blood. A place where you could bet on cock fights, dog fights, man fights. A place to find a woman, a boy, or a child for a night to always remember and never speak of. A place to escape the pain. A place to be who you always wanted to be. A place for depravity.

Whatever your desire, you came here. However you wanted to hurt another soul, you came into Mother's Womb.

Maria swiveled around a pole, moving through beams of light, exposing her back to the crowd. She gazed out the towering windows of the Toy Box. The bar nestled against the space station's hull. From here, for a brief second before she wheeled back toward the crowd, she could see the grand vista of the universe.

Planet Bahay shone below, an ocean world dotted with islands ravaged by war. Its twin moons hung farther out, silver and blue. The Milky Way flowed beyond them. She imagined it as a river leading to Earth. To Jon. To her husband.

A thousand starships hovered outside, tethered to the station. Every day, standing here in the Toy Box, Maria gazed out the window, scanning the starships, seeking one that might belong to Jon.

She wasn't sure what Jon's starship would look like. But not like these. One starship, which floated directly outside the Toy Box, clearly belonged to bounty hunters. It bristled with cannons and laser guns and grenade launchers, and scars covered its armored hull. A few other starships belonged to space truckers, some with sexy silhouettes painted on their thruster flaps. Some looked like party ships from the colonies, flashing with swirling lights, filled with booze and drugs and tourists seeking the seedy side of the galaxy.

Maria didn't know what Jon was doing these days. But she couldn't imagine him as a bounty hunter, a space trucker, or a sex tourist. When his starship arrived one day, she would know. It would be a family starship. Humble yet comfortable. Affordable yet dependable. Maybe paneled with faux wood. There would be a cozy cockpit with fuzzy dice, a little fridge with snacks, and lots of good music. There would be a cabin in the back full of toys for their child. A bedroom where she could hug her husband all night. They would fly in this starship all the way to Earth, and Jon would show her the house he had built for them. A beautiful little home among trees. A place where he, Maria, and Lily could live as a real family, and she would never have to dance again.

"Hey, sweet thing, look at us, not out the window!"

"You're a real cutie."

"Show us a smile. That's it, baby. You're beautiful."

Maria faced these men again. Tourists from Earth and her colonies, come to drink, to gamble, to ogle the girls. A few reached toward her. She stepped back, slapped their hands aside. She just danced. She was not like the other girls. She never took the men into her bed.

I'm waiting for Jon, she thought. He's the only man who can touch me.

Truckers. Hunters. Tourists with cash to burn. Young guys on college break. Old men with white hair, big wallets, and bigger appetites. All men. None of them her man.

"Where are you, Jon?" she whispered, her voice drowning under the pounding music.

The war had ended years ago. He had never come back.

A tear trailed down her cheek.

"Come back to me, Jon," she whispered. "Please. I need you. Our daughter needs you. Where are you?"

The other bargirls said that Jon was never coming back. That he thought Maria was dead. That he didn't know Lily existed. That he probably had an Earthling wife by now, maybe even had kids with her too. That Maria needed to sleep with these men from the rough starships, that maybe one would marry her. And at least she'd earn more money. But Maria refused. Because she was already married. And her husband was coming back.

He just needs time, she told herself. To track me down. Maybe to save more money. But one day soon, maybe even tomorrow, I'll see that starship out the window. A small starship with wood panels and a cabin with toys for Lily. He'll come into my bar, and take me into his arms, and we'll fly away and never look back.

* * * * *

Finally the bells chimed.

After ten hours of dancing, flirting, pouring drinks, and slapping aside grasping hands, her shift was over.

Maria stepped offstage.

Charlie, who worked the same shift, stepped offstage with her. At once, the older bargirl's smile vanished. In the shadows, she seemed older. Weary. Crow's feet tugged at her eyes.

The two bargirls walked in silence. They walked like those already dead.

Before they could reach the exit, a drunkard rose from his chair, took a few stumbling steps, and grabbed Maria's arm.

"Hey, baby!" he slurred. "You're beautiful. Why don't you take me upstairs? I'll pay you well. Hey, I'll hire you and your mom. I always wanted a threesome."

Charlie, who always shaved ten tears off her age, bristled. "Hey, fuck off, bozo. I'm not nearly old enough to be her mom. But you're old enough to be her granddad!"

The drunk trucker waggled his white eyebrows. "Hey, you're feisty. I like that. Come on! Let me buy you both a drink." He grabbed Maria's wrist, stumbled into his seat, and pulled her onto his lap. "Come, baby, join me, I—"

Maria lifted his cup and splashed beer over his face.

The trucker roared and leaped to his feet, knocking Maria off his lap. Before she could regain her bearings, he struck her. A hard backhand across the cheek.

At once, Maria snarled, grabbed a steak knife from the table, and raised it.

Charlie grabbed a knife of her own, bared her teeth, and hissed at the drunkard. Whenever one of the friends was in trouble, the other instantly leapt to help. Together, they had fought many drunkards over the years, and they had the scars to prove it. Charlie and Maria. The best of friends. They were two wild cats of the alleyways—tough, feral, and always covering each other's backs.

More truckers rose from the tables. One man broke a bottle and raised the jagged shards. Another man sprouted a blade from a hidden implant on his wrist. The dagger crackled with electricity.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, calm down, everyone! Are my girls being too saucy? Here, have a free round of beer!"

A stocky, middle-aged man rushed toward the table. He wore a purple leisure suit, alligator skin boots, and a treasure trove of golden necklaces, bracelets, and rings. His black hair was slicked back, and his goatee was meticulously groomed to pencil-line perfection. He smelled of cheap perfumes and cheaper beer.

"Hey, Magic Man, you better keep a tight leash on your pets," said the trucker.

Maria lowered her knife. The fight was canceled tonight, it seemed. But she couldn't resist spitting at the trucker's feet.

"And you better keep your hands to yourself," she said. "Or you're likely to lose them."

Another backhand. This time from the Magic Man. Maria gasped, head ringing.

"Watch your tongue, girl!" the Magic Man snapped, then turned back toward the trucker, all smiles again. "I do apologize, sir. Would you like some free wings with your free beer? Maybe another girl? Come, come, wait—don't leave."

The trucker shoved his way through the crowd. "I'm outta here. This bar is a shit hole. I didn't fly all the way from Corpus to be spat on by some whore. There are better places on this station. Come on, boys! Let's head over to Hawaiian Dreams across the deck."

A fellow trucker whistled. "Hula girls, baby! I'm in."

The group of truckers roared their approval, chugged whatever beer remained in their cups, and stumbled out the bar, leaning on one another.

The Magic Man watched them leave, looking like a dog who was just denied a treat. Then he spun toward Maria, grabbed her by the collar, and snarled in her face. If Charlie and Maria were like alley cats, their pimp was a wild dog. They feared his bite.

"You cost me good business," the Magic Man said. "You were trouble down on Bahay in the Go Go Cowgirl. And you're trouble here in my new bar."

Maria stared the pimp in the eyes. She wanted to slap him back. To stab him. To raise hell.

A few years ago, she would have. A few years ago, she would have raised this whole station in rebellion.

But today she just lowered her eyes. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

Today things were different. Today Ernesto "Iron" Santos ruled Mother's Womb. And the Magic Man, like hundreds of brutes across the station, served him. Maria feared little in the galaxy, but she feared Ernesto. She was his slave.

Charlie balled her fists, a snarl still on her lips. But at a glare from the Magic Man, she deflated. The weight of the galaxy seemed to weigh down upon her. The luminous Charlie Wonder lost her shine. She wrapped an arm around Maria.

"Come on, Nini." She dabbed a drop of blood off Maria's lip. "Let's go home."

The Magic Man was already greeting new customers with open arms, his golden teeth sparkling like his chains.

* * * * *

Both of Maria's pets were waiting outside the Toy Box. They were not allowed inside the bar. Every day, they waited for Maria right outside the door.

Gummy lay on the floor, lazily flicking his trunk. Auburn fur covered his chubby body, his six legs, and his triangular ears. His eyes were large black orbs like Magic Eight balls. People often thought the friendly alien looked weird. To Maria, he looked like a six-legged elephant shrew the size of a Labrador retriever. So yes, weird, she supposed.

Maria had found Gummy on the space station a few years ago, hiding in the shadows. He must have escaped from the menagerie. Nobody knew his species. As far as Maria knew, he was unique in the galaxy.

"Gum gum gum!" the fuzzy alien said. It was the only sound he could make, earning him his name.

Crisanto, Maria's second pet, hovered before Gummy. His species was well known. He was a Santelmo, known in Earth lore as a will-o-the-wisps. He had an actual body, which looked a little like a neuron. But it was almost impossible to see. Crisanto glowed with warm white light, appearing to the world like a floating star. He was only a baby, barely larger than dandelion fluff, yet quite ancient. His kind could live for centuries.

Crisanto was the only one who seemed to understand Gummy. Whenever Gummy made his "gum gum gum" sounds, the glowing orb listened intently, then dimmed, shone brighter, and dimmed again, his own way of communicating. Maria could not understand that language of light, no more than she could understand what "gum gum gum" meant. But the two aliens, despite belonging to different species, seemed to understand each other.

"Gum gum gum!" Gummy replied to his glowing little friend.

Maria had seen the two share complex concepts. Both were as intelligent as humans; their language as elaborate as human languages. With just a slight variation in tone or brightness, they could speak of many things. Maria could understand none of it.

Perhaps it was unfair to call them pets. They were too smart to be mere pets. They were more like friends. Like family.

"Hello, boys!" Maria said.

They both turned toward her. Gummy leaped up, tail wagging. His six feet pattered as he raced toward her, and he nuzzled her with his furry trunk. Maria pet him, sinking her fingers into long auburn hair. Crisanto spun around Maria excitedly, drawing trails of light, then landed on her shoulder and rubbed against her neck.

"Hey, what, nobody gives Tita Charlie any love?" Charlie said.

"Gum gum gum!" Gummy said, turned toward Charlie, and nuzzled her too. Charlie knelt and hugged him, and Gummy tickled her with his trunk.

But Crisanto stayed on Maria's shoulder. He feared other humans, and he gave his attention to her alone.

Both aliens brought Maria so much comfort. As did Charlie. During the long, painful, lonely years, her dear friends kept her going.

* * * * *

Leaning on each other, Charlie and Maria walked through the space station, heading home. Crisanto and Gummy followed, the former floating in the air, the latter pattering confidently with his six furry paws.

Four years ago, I landed in this place like a settler on a new world, Maria thought. I imagined a utopia. But now I'm in hell.

Down on Bahay, Maria had once worked in a red lights district, a boulevard that stretched through the city like a neon scar. Here in the sky, the Blue Boulevard had been reborn, a hundred times larger, filling the space station.

They walked by other bars. Hundreds of bars. Bars with names like Candy Cane, Pinoy Princess, Starlit Dreams. Outside every bar stood the bargirls, glowing beneath the luminous signs, luring patrons like flowers calling bees. Girls in tiny sailor suits. Girls dressed like sexy nurses. Girls in bikinis and girls in lingerie. Girls dressed in little baseball uniforms. Outside some bars, girls held lollipops. Outside others they held whips. Girls who were born boys. Girls for every taste. Girls for every trucker, hunter, miner, tourist. Tens of thousands worked here, refugees of war. Maria walked by them, eyes lowered. They blurred.

She descended to a lower deck. She walked by drug dens. Countless drug dens where tourists and locals alike lay on pillows, smoking from hookahs, withering away. Drug dens where women with blond hair, runaways from Earth, lay with glassy eyes, gazing at cracked ceilings, mustering only enough energy for another puff. Drug dens where alien reptiles and slugs held bowls to their pendulous lips, devouring crystals, then sinking, sinking to the floor, sinking into puddles of stupor.

She descended lower still. She walked along a deck where blood flowed. Where howls of fury and screams of pain reverberated through the halls. Where men cheered, faces twisted into animal grimaces, fists raised into the air, as roosters pecked one another to death. As monkeys boxed in rings. As dogs tore one another apart. As humans and aliens fought in great metal pits with grates on the floor to drain the blood.

Down on the surface, Papa Dominus ruled with an iron first, forcing a life of austerity. Rice. Metal. Blood. But here in space was a glittering playground.

Because we bring the tourists, Maria knew. We feed the beast below. We are the sinners who fund the saints.

Over this entire station of sin, Ernesto ruled.

His face was everywhere. Watching. His posters covered walls. His statues stood in halls. Everywhere Maria looked, she could see him. A proud, petty man. His face angular, his smile cruel.

My betrothed, Maria thought.

Their parents had arranged the marriage. Maria had been only thirteen. Since then, she had refused him. And so Ernesto tossed her into this pit of despair. He kept her pinned down. He kept her alive.

"Someday you will crawl to me, Maria," he had told her. "Someday you will beg to marry me. Until then you will suffer."

And still she suffered. A bargirl. A stripper. Trapped. And after four years in this neon hell, she had not yet broken. She did not yet beg.

And I never will, Maria thought. Because I have hope. Because I have Jon. And I know he'll return.

* * * * *

Finally she, Charlie, and the pets reached the lowest deck on the space station. They called it Skid Bottom. The slums.

A hundred thousand people made their home in Mother's Womb space station. Countless more, tourists and merchants and wanderers, crammed inside on any given day. And here in Skid Bottom lived the most miserable.

The space station produced a lot of trash. And it all ended up here. Bags of garbage reeked everywhere, piling up faster and faster, higher and higher. The incinerators, built when the station had served only a few thousand soldiers, could never keep up. The trash overflowed. Diapers. Scraps of food. Broken electronics. Sometimes a dead pet. Or a dead human. The stench filled the recycled air.

"Gum gum gum," Gummy said miserably, trunk hanging low. He had a powerful sense of smell, and he suffered more than anybody.

As Maria walked through the slums, a robot trudged forward. With forklift hands, the robot was carrying a rusty metal crate. Children ran in pursuit, exciting as if chasing an ice cream truck. The robot reached a corridor leading to a garbage incinerator. Piles of trash blocked his passage. The robot paused, seemed to consider, then overturned his crate right there in the corridor. Garbage bags spilled out, filling the air with fresh stench. The robot stomped away.

The children leaped onto the garbage, tore the bags open, and began to scrounge. Anything useful, they salvaged. A piece of electronics that could be repaired and resold. A book that could still be read. Vegetable peels or bones that could go into stew. It was how they survived.

Maria walked through the towering caverns of Skid Bottom. Once bulkheads had risen here like the walls of a labyrinth, separating warehouses, docking bays, and armories. The Bahayans had knocked the bulkheads down, converting the entire lower deck to a sprawling warehouse. A single shaft rose in the center, the backbone of the station. The rest was open space.

Shanties filled the huge round deck. The people collected scraps from the garbage. Pieces of metal. Nylon sheets. Rods. Bits of old tents. And they built homes. The shanties rose everywhere, stacked several high, towers rising toward the ceiling, threatening to collapse any moment. Garbage covered the deck, knee-high at spots. Ropes, ladders, and electric cables stretched up and down, leading to the higher levels.

Maria paused for a moment, looking at the space station shantytown. A sigh rolled through her. "This isn't exactly what we imagined, is it? So much for our dream of a heaven among the stars."

Charlie held her hand. "Come on, Nini, I'll cook you some menudo tonight. Your favorite food."

Nini. The Bahayan word for daughter or little one. Charlie, who was a few years older, still saw herself as protector of the younger bargirls.

Maria sighed. "I'm not hungry."

She climbed a rope ladder up a tower of shanties. The crude little huts were stacked one atop the other, wobbling as Maria climbed. The makeshift tower rose several stories tall, nearly scraping the ceiling. Finally Maria reached her own shanty and crawled inside.

The foundation was just a few rusty pipes. The floor was made from dented deck plates tied to iron bars. Tattered curtains formed the walls. Even here, a framed photo of Ernesto hung from a pipe. He insisted that his photo hang in every home in Mother's Womb.

It was a small home, just one room, no larger than your typical prison cell. A single Earthling would consider it tiny. Maria shared it with Charlie, their children, and their pets.

Lily sat at a little table, four years old, scribbling with chalk on a board. The little girl rose and ran toward Maria.

"Mommy! Mommy! I missed you."

Maria scooped her up and held her tight. "I missed you too, sweetheart."

Gummy leaped up and patted Lily with his trunk. The girl giggled.

"I drew a picture of Daddy!" Lily said, pointing at the slate. "Is he going to come back today?"

Maria closed her eyes, holding the girl close. "Maybe tomorrow."

Lily nodded thoughtfully. "I'll save him the drawing." She smiled. "Mommy, can you tell me about Daddy again? Tell me all the stories."

Maria smiled wistfully. She carried Lily toward the back of the shanty and pulled back the curtain. From here, they could see several shanty towers, a cluster of generators, and a row of port-a-potties. If they leaned sideways, they could see the space station hull. And a porthole that gazed out into space.

They could see the stars.

It wasn't much of a view, but it was more than most people had. To Maria it was luxury. A window to hope.

"Do you see those starships out there, Lily?" Maria said.

Lily nodded and lifted her plastic telescope. It was just a toy, cheap and purple and cracked. Lily had found it in the trash. But it worked well enough. The girl raised the telescope to her eye, peering past the shanties, through the porthole, and out into space.

"Lots of big starships!"

"Someday a silver starship will arrive here, more beautiful than any ship before. And your dad will be on that starship."

"Like the Three Silver Sisters?" Lily asked.

Maria laughed. Centuries ago, three starships called the Silver Sisters had taken Filipino colonists to Bahay. They had come to build a utopia. But their world had become a nightmare. Lily's favorite picture book told the tale of the Three Silver Sisters. She still asked to read the book most nights.

"Maybe, Lily. Your dad's starship might look a little like that, just smaller. And instead of taking people from Earth, it will take us to Earth. Your dad will take us into his starship, and we'll fly together to our new home."

"I'll keep watching," Lily said, peering through the telescope. "If I see his starship, I'll yell really loud. Like this: Daddy! Daddy!"

Maria gazed out at the stars. Once, when she was younger and still full of fire, Maria would have stolen a smuggler's ship. Tried to make her own way to Earth. But Ernesto was always watching, scanning every ship that came and went. On Earth, the authorities rummaged through every starship that arrived, seeking refugees and sending them back to Bahay. Or worse—to refugee camps on Titan. Maria needed a visa. Needed her husband here. Needed Jon.

But it's more than that, she thought. A few years ago, I would have taken on both worlds. I would have fought the whole damn galaxy. But I feel so deflated. Always so tired. So … defeated.

She had fought so hard. She had lost. So many of her friends were dead. Ernesto had knocked her out cold, and she could still not rise to her feet. She was waiting for Jon to lift her from the mat.

But deep down, a fear grew in her. That Jon might never come back. That she was subconsciously using him as an excuse. To keep waiting, to keep suffering, to keep doing nothing. Maybe, after losing so many friends, Maria was just scared to fight again.

"Look, Mama!" Lily said. "Daddy's ship!"

The girl handed her the telescope. Maria peered through it, gazing out the porthole. A small starship was flying toward Mother's Womb.

She frowned.

She had never seen such a starship. She was larger than a shuttle but smaller than a frigate—probably just big enough to be classified as a corvette. She looked vaguely military. Treadmill tracks lined her underbelly; she was built to land on some rough spots. Armored plating covered her hull, the green paint scratched and peeling. Yellow claws extended from her flanks, similar to the claws mining ships used to crush asteroids. But unlike a mining ship, this corvette boasted some impressive armaments. Two rotary cannons on the prow. A torpedo bay just beneath them. A plasma cannon on the stern.

"She's a quad-craft!" Maria's eyes widened. "Wings for air. Treadmill tracks for land. I even see a ballast tank for diving underwater. She can operate in any environment. Air, land, space, and water. Quadros are usually used by rescue corps, but I don't see any insignia."

She squinted through the telescope, but she saw no identifiers. No military symbols on the hull. No bounty hunter clan symbols either. Likely the ship was stolen, and any identification marks had been scratched off. Only the brass figurehead provided a clue. The statuette was shaped like a woman with wings and bird feet. Maria recognized it. This was a kinnara, a mythological being, angelic and beautiful.

Indeed, when the ship yawed and exposed her starboard, Maria saw the word KINNARA painted on the hull. Kinnaras were popular across Asian cultures, from India to the Philippines, and they appeared in Bahayan lore too.

"Bahayans are flying in that ship," Maria said. "I'd bet anything."

Charlie leaned forward, squinting at the porthole. Without the telescope, she probably couldn't see much. "Enforcers from the planet?"

"No," Maria said. "No inverted crosses on the hull. Just a kinnara. An angelic being said to protect the downtrodden." She rose to her feet. "This is a ship of refugees. Come."

They hurried through Skid Bottom, rushing between shanties and beggars, heading toward the hangar. The airlock doors hissed open. Air whooshed, scattered paper cups, condom wrappers, and used diapers.

The Kinnara came flying in, just small enough to squeeze through the airlock doors. Her engines roared, filling the hangar with heat and smoke. Her stabilizing thrusters blasted air, tossing the trash into maelstroms.

Then the engines died, and the Kinnara thumped onto the deck. Her treadmill tracks groaned and scattered clumps of mud

The quad-craft stood there. Still and smoking. The hatch did not open.

Maria froze. Her hand inched toward the knife she wore on her belt. Her father's knife, the one with an antler hilt. Sensing her nervousness, Gummy stretched his trunk into a straight line and growled.

Maybe this was a raid. Maybe there were inquisitors in red robes inside, ready to leap out, to enforce the law. So far, Mother's Womb had lived by its own rules. Papa Dominus enforced his strict moral code on the planet, but he let Ernesto run the space station differently. Up here, the theocracy tolerated the brothels and bars. After all, the space station brought in the money, funding Papa's tyranny. It was easy to look away while the dollars flowed.

But now Maria wondered. Would this all end? Would this station too become a theocracy?

The Kinnara's hatch opened. A small ladder extended to the deck.

Maria drew her knife. Beside her, Charlie drew a pink, bedazzled pistol from her purse. Gummy bristled like a scared cat.

A few people emerged from the Kinnara, shivering, wrapped in robes. Maria sheathed her knife and rushed toward them.

Refugees. Refugees from Bahay.

Memories pounded Maria. Four years ago, when the war ended, a hundred thousand refugees had fled to Mother's Womb. They had come in shuttles, rockets, abandoned dropships—whatever they could find. But within days, the theocracy had sealed off the planet. The flight from Bahay dried out. Almost nobody made it off the planet anymore. Only Papa's brutes.

Yet here, years late, came more refugees! They were skeletal. So thin Maria marveled that they could stay standing. Their eyes were sunken into faces like skulls. They wore rags. Bruises and scars covered them, some fresh, some old.

My God, Maria thought. It's worse down there than I thought.

She rushed toward the refugees, comforting them, holding their hands. They trembled. A few cowered from her touch.

"Come, friends!" she said. "You're safe here. Charlie, get some blankets and water!" She looked back at the group. "We'll tend to you. You're safe. You're among friends."

"Maria?"

A voice from the group of refugees.

"Maria! It is you!"

A frail old woman stepped from behind taller refugees. She limped toward Maria, tears falling down her gaunt cheeks. Her hair was white and stubbly, her eyes large and dark.

"Maria!" she said again, weeping.

Maria tilted her head. "Do I know you?"

The old woman hugged her, sobbing. "I forgive you. Maria, I forgive you for what you did. You had to save your baby. I forgive you. I forgive you."

Maria stared at the old woman hugging her.

No. Not an old woman. A young woman, just so frail she looked old.

Maria remembered red pigtails. Freckles painted onto rosy cheeks.

"No," she whispered, taking a step back. "It can't be. You died. I saw you die . . ."

"I'm alive, Maria. I'm here!" She laughed through her tears. "It's me. It's your friend. It's Pippi."

Chapter Five

Graveyard Lights

Jon sat before his piano.

He sat in his home studio. It was night. Only a few candles lit the darkness. The rain was falling and the wind howling. The power was out, and he was lost in darkness. Lost in memory. Lost in silence.

Some artists composed on mountaintops or in meadows. Some found inspiration by the sea. Jon cocooned himself in his little burrow. His dungeon of tortured dreams. He closed his eyes, waiting for muse to come.

He remembered the angel in the graveyard. Remembered her words. You have such light inside you.

He played a single key on the piano.

A B4. That was all. Just a humble B4 that sounded through the darkness, a lone bird's cry in the night.

A tear fell, splashing the keys.

He paused, letting the note ring.

He saw her again. Not the luminous angel in the graveyard but the angel of the slums, not woven of light but of beautiful life. She was here in his studio, his holy of holies, his realm of music. In the silence, smiling at him.

Maria.

Her voice returned to him.

You still have so much to give. You still have a well of music that will flow forth. I love you, Jon.

He played another note.

A G4.

He paused. Silence.

In the darkness, his mother hugged him. Comforted him. He was a boy again, safe in her arms. And in this darkness, it seemed to Jon that Maria and his mother became as one, a goddess of comfort, a Madonna to pull him off the cross.

He tightened his lips, opened his eyes, and played.

He played note after note. Played with feverish intensity. Played like a madman, rattling the candles on the piano.

The music flowed through him. The song came to him like grace from heaven. Sometimes he paused, madly scribbled notes onto sheets, then played again. Scratched out notes. Revised. Replayed. He was not truly composing this song. It was coming from above, flowing through him like electricity, and he was merely a conduit to muse, merely transcribing. He could barely keep up.

Sheets of music fluttered around him. They covered the piano bench, the floor, the walls. The candles burned low. He lit new ones. He played.

Finally he stepped away from the piano, tears on his cheeks, his fingers twisted and aching. He grabbed a pen and began to write the lyrics. He hesitated, bit his lip, then wrote down the song title.

"The Day He Did Not Die."

He let out a sob. Because he had stood in a graveyard over his dead child. Because he had seen a burnt child in a pit. Because he had held a knife to his wrist, and he had nearly opened the artery. Because feminine grace had saved his life, three women who held his pieces from falling apart. His mother. His wife. And his angel.

He wrote the lyrics with a shaky hand.

A cold day in January was the day he did not die

He died many times before

He died in my dreams a thousand times

He died in the jungles where the fire burned him

He died in the neon slums where the needles stabbed him

He died in the hospitals where my demons called him

But one day in January the poet did not die

He returned to the piano. Pounded the keys. Imagined the orchestra swelling. The drums beating.

Pull the trigger!

End the pain!

Scatter notes like bullet casings

See the child burn

Join the dance of death

Die

Die

End

In his mind, the drums, the guitar, the orchestra... they all faded. It was just him and his piano, playing softly.

In a cold graveyard under rain

A light shone

A Madonna came on moonlit wings

You have such light to shine

Your well can still flow forth

You have such love to give

His tears fell. He kept playing, barely able to see the keys.

On the day he did not die

He walked through rain and darkness

A mother pulled him under her wing

I'm here my son

I will always chase the monsters away

You can walk through any darkness

This day you do not die

This day you're in my love

Silence filled the studio. Dawn rose, falling through the window above the piano. The beams fell upon melted candles. His song was complete. Seventeen minutes of his soul on the sheets.

"This day I did not die," he whispered. "This day I am saved."

He left his studio. Kaelyn was in the kitchen, waiting for him. It was Sunday morning, and she was beautiful in the sunlight. She wore an oversized white sweater, and her red hair cascaded down to her hips. A mug of tea steamed in her hands. As the light fell around her, Jon thought that she too was an angel, perhaps the brightest in his sky.

"I heard," Kaelyn said. "From here. It's beautiful."

"It's … seventeen minutes long." Jon winced. "Not exactly radio friendly."

She put down the cup of tea and held both his hands. "It will be the centerpiece of your new album. You'll add some shorter songs around it. Maybe one or two that are radio friendly."

He smiled bitterly. "I don't exactly know how to write radio friendly." He tilted his head. "Besides, it's the year 2226. Who listens to radio anymore?"

She laughed. "I can't wait to sing it, Jon." She closed her eyes, smiled, and swayed to silent music. "On a stage. For our fans."

Jon couldn't help but smile too. He pulled her into his arms. "Kaelyn, I'm sorry."

She opened her eyes and caressed his cheek. "For what?"

"I've been in a dark place for a long time. I neglected you. I spent years feeling sorry for myself instead of writing a new album. And you had to get a job you hate. To support me. While I wallowed in despair, and—"

"Shh." She placed a finger on his lips. "Jon, you did not wallow. You suffered. You saw things in the war that … I can't imagine. I just tried to be there for you."

"You deserve so much better than me." He caressed her hair, like stroking living fire. "It's not easy, being married to an artist. I know. But things will change. Things will get better. We'll go back on the road, and play new songs, and bring our fans home. To us. To our music."

"Your music."

"Our music. You sing my words and give them life."

"Jon …" She looked away. She gazed out the window. The rain had stopped, and sunlight shone on the puddles. "Jon, I … I have to tell you something."

Suddenly she was crying.

"Kaelyn! What is it?"

She walked toward the couch, steps slow, and sat down. Jon sat beside her. She looked into his eyes and held his hands.

"Jon, promise me something. Promise me we'll always be together. No matter what."

"Of course," he said.

She hugged him. She wept. "Jon, I'm pregnant."

He froze.

Everything inside him shattered.

The images flashed back. Their first miscarriage three years ago. Their second miscarriage a year later. Kaelyn crying in the tub, blood filling the water. Their third miscarriage. Kaelyn holding the child in her palm, no larger than a strawberry. A burial in the graveyard.

He began to shake.

It will happen again, he thought. Oh God, it will happen again. The blood. The trauma. The death in her hand—

The burnt child twitched in the crater, charred and black.

His friends died on the hill.

Fire washed over Maria.

He couldn't see. Blackness spread across his vision. His head was spinning, and he was going to pass out.

But Kaelyn was in his arms. She needed him. For once, he needed to be the strong one. For once, he needed to protect her. He took deep breaths. He held her in his embrace, protecting her.

"Kaelyn, I love you. Whatever happens, we'll be together. We'll survive together. That's what we do. And …" He smiled and brushed back her hair. "Let's be optimistic. Maybe this time it will work."

She nodded, cheeks wet with tears.

"One last try," she whispered.

He nodded. "One last try."

That night, when they lay in bed, Jon held Kaelyn in his arms. She slept, and he prayed.

He was not a religious man. He had not found God in war nor peace. He did not know if the angel in the graveyard was real or just a trick of the light. But he was afraid. And he needed all the help he could get. He had never prayed in the foxholes. He had never prayed even as the bombs fell. But he prayed now.

Keep my child safe, God. Let him or her live. Please, God. Do to me as you like. If you demand a life, take mine. But let the baby live. Kaelyn has suffered too much. I'll do anything. I'll be a better man. A better husband. I don't know what you want from me. I don't know if you demand worship, and if so, through what faith. But maybe you just want me to be good. And maybe I haven't been. Please, God, I'm a sinner, but Kaelyn is not. Our child is not. Let the baby live. Please, God. Let the baby live.

Chapter Six

Madonna in Light

Strange dreams filled Etty's slumber.

She lay in a boat of bones, floating on a sea of blood. The sea was rough. She rose and fell, rose and fell, and strange serpents moved in the water. A serpent rose from the depth, slithered into the boat, bit her shoulder. The pain drove through her body, etching lines of fire along every nerve.

And the pain was a nail.

And the nails pierced her hands and feet.

She hung from a cross on a red hill, an island in a sea of blood, and the waves crashed against the shores. A figure stood below her, cloaked in black robes. He knelt and lifted a serpent, and it became a staff in his hand. When he raised his head, his hood fell back, and his eyes of fire pierced her.

Etty screamed.

"See what lies ahead," hissed the dark pope. "See what is coming."

The horizons expanded. Her vision ballooned. She could see beyond the red waters to the stars and the depths between galaxies.

Creatures bustled in the pits. Creatures the size of starships, pale and gray. Tentacles flailed, millions of tentacles lashing, squirming, reaching out, gripping. Jaws opened, full of fangs that could tear worlds apart. White eyes blazed with horrible intelligence.

Hanging from the cross, Etty stared and wept.

"Hydrians," she whispered.

She had heard of these beasts. Rumors. Whispers. Terrors from another galaxy. Ancient deities that no army could defeat.

Suddenly Papa Dominus stood before her, twenty feet tall. He gripped her head, stared into her eyes. His face was ancient, peeling away. His eyes were two cauldrons.

"They're coming," he hissed. "They're coming for all worlds. Only I can stop them. Surrender to me. Join me. Become a soldier in my army."

She stared into his flaming orange eyes. And she spat on his face.

"Fuck you!" she shouted. "Fuck you, Papa Dominus, or Red Cardinal, or whatever the hell you're called. Fuck your inquisitors. Fuck your utopia. Fuck your re-education camps. Fuck this cross you nailed me onto. Fuck you and go to hell!"

Papa Dominus stared at her in silence, then laughed.

"But we're already in hell!" he said.

He pulled his claws down her cheeks, ripping her skin.

She screamed.

"Suffer now …" he hissed, digging his claws into her shoulder, into her flesh, reaching inside her. "You will never die. You will live forever only to suffer. You will suffer so beautifully for me."

Etty screamed.

She screamed for her mother. For her god.

She screamed for mercy.

And a light answered.

A light shone above the bloody sea.

Pure light. White and comforting. An orb of light descended toward the hill, and within this gliding star lived an angel. Her gosling wings shone with grace, and luminescence wove around her like a cloak.

Tears filled Etty's eyes.

"Beautiful," she whispered. "She's so beautiful."

The angel landed on the hill. A young woman, slender and fragile, yet shining so bright.

The dark pope screeched. He squinted, the light burning his skin. Smoke rose from him. He raised an inverted cross, and he swung it like a baton, lashing blindly at the angel. But the dark iron hit a shield of light, then shattered. Metal shards hit the ground, turned into beetles, and fled.

The angel took a step closer.

Papa Dominus howled. His cry shook the world. The ground opened up, swallowing him, and the sea of blood raged.

Etty's chin fell to her chest. She had no more strength to lift it. The curse was spreading through her. Withering her body. Turning her flesh black.

The angel hovered before her, wings spread wide, washing her with light. Etty gazed upon her glowing face.

She was Maria.

"Maria," Etty whispered. "You came to me. I always knew you were an angel."

Her eyes fluttered open.

Etty found herself lying in bed. Bach's Air was playing in the background, and the walls were pale blue. A window showed a view of the Milky Way.

I'm on a space station, she realized. I must be in Mother's Womb. The sea of blood. The cross. The dark pope. It was all a fever dream.

But no. Not all of it.

An angel was here by her bedside.

Maria was here.

She no longer glowed, no longer had swan wings. Maria wore a simple white dress, and her black hair flowed down to her waist. Her eyes were soft and kind. She touched Etty's shoulder, and soothing waves flowed, easing the pain.

"You healed me," Etty whispered. "You're an angel."

Maria smiled. "Etty! We didn't know what was wrong with you. The doctors couldn't say. I came to visit you in the infirmary, and …"

"And you healed me," Etty said.

Maria frowned. "I … I'm glad I could make you feel better."

"No, you healed me." Etty sat up in bed. "A dark inquisitor touched me. A curse infected me. In my dreams, evil hurt me. You drove that evil away. An angel lifted a demon's curse."

She pulled Maria into an embrace. The two women held each other close, shedding years.

"I'm no angel," Maria whispered. "I'm just a bargirl. A sinner."

"You have a pure heart," Etty said. "You have a kind soul. That is enough. A pure heart can drive away the greatest evil."

Maria kissed Etty's forehead and nearly crushed her in her embrace. "It's good to see you again, Etty. You came back to us. I never forgot you."

Etty smiled. "I never forgot you either, my friend. I thought about you a lot since the war. I came back to help the war orphans. To help Bahay. I found a nightmare I never imagined."

"Etty." Maria clasped Etty's hands and stared steadily into her eyes. "Did Jon come with you? Where is he?" Suddenly Maria was trembling. "Did he . . . did he not come, or …"

"Oh, sweetheart, look at you! You're shaking like a leaf." Etty stroked Maria's hair, trying to calm her. "Maria, I don't know how to say this, but … we thought you were dead. Jon thinks you're dead."

Maria leaped from the bed. She took a step back. Her legs shook, and tears filled her eyes.

"He thinks I'm dead?" she whispered.

Etty nodded. "He told me the story. When he was rising from the planet, on the last day of the war, he saw the fire. Saw the Red Cardinal bombard the city. Saw the inferno wash over you. He clung to hope for a long time. But eventually, I think … I think he accepted that you were gone. I thought you were gone too. I couldn't believe it when I found you here."

Maria let out something halfway between sob and laugh. "So that's why he never came back for me! Not because he forgot about me. Not because he stopped loving me. When he learns I'm alive, he'll he overjoyed! When he learns about Lily, he'll come for us!"

Etty opened her mouth.

She wanted to tell her. That Jon was married. That he had married Kaelyn.

But Etty closed her mouth again.

How can I break her heart? Etty thought. It should be Jon who tells her. Not me.

"Mommy?"

The voice came from the doorway. A little girl pattered into the room, three or four years old. She looked Bahayan. She had olive skin. Almond-shaped eyes. Black hair. But Etty saw it at once. A hint of Jon in her face.

Jon has a daughter, Etty thought. A daughter he doesn't know about. From a woman he thinks is dead.

"I must get back to Earth," Etty said. "And tell him. He must know what's going on. He must come here."

She tried to rise from bed, swayed, and fell back down. Her head spun. It took a moment to catch her breath. Etty pulled off the blanket, looked down at her body, and inhaled sharply. She was so thin. She had always been slender, even skinny. But now? Now she looked like Pippi and the other survivors. Downright anorexic. Her skin, normally a healthy tanned hue, was ashen.

A chill flooded her.

"What happened to me?" Etty whispered, eyes dampening.

"The doctors said you contracted an illness," Maria said. "One they don't recognize."

"Not an illness," Etty said. "A curse. It sucked the life out of me. But the curse is lifted. I feel so weak, but the curse is gone, and now I can heal. I promise you, Maria." She took her friend's hand. "Once I'm strong enough, I'll return to Earth. I'll tell Jon you're here. I'll tell him about his daughter."

Maria smiled. A smile full of light and joy. Her eyes sparkled. "Thank you! You have no idea how much this means."

Etty had to look away. To wipe a tear from her eye.

If I were braver, I'd tell her about Kaelyn. But I'm not. And I can't. Soon enough, Jon will come here, and Maria will know the truth.

* * * * *

The next morning, Etty was strong enough to rise from bed. She was still thin. Still woozy. But strong enough to walk around.

She took a photo of Maria and Lily. To show Jon.

She took a droplet of Lily's saliva. To run a DNA test. To confirm what they all already knew. That Jon was the father.

She had Maria fill out standard Dust of Life forms. Etty was an Earthling, after all. For Earthlings, paperwork was a way of life.

Throughout the process, Maria kept chattering on about Jon, about Lily finally meeting her father, about flying to Earth and being a real family. But Etty remained quiet. Daring not speak the truth. Feeling so ashamed.

Maria and Lily were smiling and happy. Hope blazed in their eyes. But Etty hung her head low. She could not stop the icy fear.

Jon will break an angel's heart. This will end in tragedy.

Chapter Seven

The Three Silver Sisters

They huddled in the shanty, listening to Pippi tell her tale.

Pippi sat wrapped in a blanket, holding a mug of chicken broth. The children had placed their teddy bears in her lap, a protective pile of plush. She still looked so frail, but with every sip, some color was returning to her cheeks. Her gaunt hands trembled. Sometimes she needed help raising the mug of broth. They all noticed the two missing fingernails.

Maria, Charlie, and a few other bargirls sat nearby, ready to help Pippi with whatever she needed. Right now, that just meant listening.

For a long time, Pippi spoke. Softly at first. Trembling. Barely able to get the words out. Charlie kept hugging her, stroking her stubbly hair, making soothing noises. Pippi often had to hug Charlie very tight, shaking for long moments, before she could speak again.

But she always kept speaking.

"You don't have to tell us everything today, sweetheart," Charlie said.

"I do," Pippi replied. "You must know."

She kept telling her tale. Speaking of the horrors of the camp. The torture. The never-ending brutality. The escape into a wasteland.

"I walked for three months across the land," Pippi whispered. "I saw factory farms where slaves toiled under the whips of their masters. Factories that pumped out dark smoke. I saw no more villages. Only ruins. I reached Mindao, and the city was half empty. A million people or more—disappeared. Everyone I met is missing somebody. Children, spouses, parents—vanishing overnight. But I know where they are." She shivered. "Taken to the camps."

For long moments, they were all quiet.

Then Maria rose to her feet. She pulled back the shanty curtain, revealing Skid Bottom, this slum that sprawled across the space station's lower deck. There, on the distant hull past several shanty towers, a porthole revealed a view of space. Bahay shone outside, casting blue beams of light between the shanties.

Maria spoke softly, never removing her eyes from that distant blue light.

"For years, I fought for Bahay. I fought in her jungles and her neon slums. I killed men and watched friends die. For years, I danced here in Mother's Womb, hoping that even should I leave someday, this space station could become a home for my people." Maria turned toward her friends. "But there's no more home for us here. Not on Bahay. Not here in this space station. Our war was for nothing. We failed to save our homeworld. Our new home lies on Earth."

"Preaching to the choir, baby," Charlie said. "I've been trying to get my puwit to Earth for twenty years now. Unless you got an Earthling husband with a golden visa, your puwit stays stuck here."

Maria watched a bounty hunter ship sail by. "If we could hitch a ride to Earth on a starship, maybe a cargo hauler or freighter …"

"No use," Charlie said. "We've been over this. Earth Orbit Patrol is crawling up every captain's puwit these days. No captain would dare smuggle refugees. Not unless we could pay them our weight in gold. And I know I'm a dainty little flower, but my weight in gold is still considerable. Remember what happened to the last starship smuggling refugees to Earth?"

Maria remembered. It had been all over the news last week. The EOP caught a freighter trying to enter Earth's orbit, ostensibly ferrying frozen meat from New Prairies, a farming world in the Epsilon Eridani system. Inside the freighter, Orbit Patrol found forty-seven refugees from Bahay. The captain had forgotten them inside the freezer. They had frozen to death during the flight.

"Etty agreed to give us a ride," Maria said. "She can even try to get us visas. She has connections through the Dust of Life, her charity that helps refugees. The Kinnara is a good ship. But small. We few—me, Charlie, Pippi, our kids—we could squeeze in there. But what about everyone else? All the poor refugees on this space station? All the people suffering down on Bahay? We can't just abandon them." Maria paced the shanty. Her fellow bargirls and their children crowded around her. "We need a big starship. Forget the Kinnara. We need something the size of a freighter or tanker. What if we commandeer one?"

"Now that's the old Maria I know!" Charlie said. "Feisty and ready for a fight! I'm down for it." She growled and waved her pink, bedazzled pistol around. "Arr, I'm Pirate Charlie, terror of the galaxy!"

Rodrigo, her oldest son, raised his eyes from the comic book he was reading. "Mom, you're embarrassing yourself."

"Shut up or Pirate Charlie will keel-haul you!" Charlie frowned. "And by the way, shave off that mustache already. I told you that you look ridiculous."

The teenager rolled his eyes. "You're just upset because you're old enough to have a son with a mustache."

Charlie bristled. "Nobody listen to him! He's still a baby, and I'm only twenty-seven."

Rodrigo groaned and returned to his comics. "You've been twenty-seven since I was a toddler."

Maria stepped between them and cleared her throat. "But no, commandeering a ship won't work either. Even the largest freighters and tankers only have life support in a few cabins. Even if we could hijack a massive freighter, and that's highly doubtful, we won't have room for more than a hundred people. Tops. Probably much fewer. Enough for us here in this room. Nobody else."

"And we'll probably end up freezing to death too," Rodrigo muttered, not bothering to raise his eyes from his comics.

They all turned to look at Pippi. The young woman still sat wrapped in a blanket, a pile of teddy bears on her lap. She looked back at them, eyes sunken.

"And we need to save more people," Pippi whispered. "We need to save thousands. Millions."

"We'd need a fleet," Maria said. "It's impossible."

Lily, all of four years old, put down her toy starship. She pattered toward the adults. "We need the silver ships!" the girl said. "The Three Silver Sisters! Like in my book."

Maria scooped the girl into her arms. "I've been reading her the storybook."

"They're real!" Lily insisted.

Charlie sighed and patted the girl. "Sweet little Lumpia, when you grow up, you'll learn that many things are fake in this world. Fake people. Fake spaceships. Fake dibdibs." Charlie cleared her throat and glanced down at her cleavage. "Not that mine are, of course, but some women—"

"Charlie, please stop explaining to my toddler about silicon dibdibs," Maria said.

"Sorry, sorry!" Charlie said. "I just mean that the story of the Three Silver Sisters probably never even happened, and—"

"Mom?" Rodrigo said.

"Quiet, the adults are talking!" Charlie glared at her son. "Where was I? Oh yes. Anyway, as I was saying, I am only twenty-seven, and I would show you my birth certificate if it wasn't lost, and—"

"Mom!" Rodrigo groaned. "The Silver Sisters are real. I've been reading about them." He held up a glossy book with three silver starships on the cover.

Charlie snorted. "What, those silly comics that rot your brain?"

"They're graphic novels, Mom." Rodrigo rolled his eyes. "And they tell the tale."

They all knew the story. They had grown up with the story. There were several different versions, passed from generation to generation. Rodrigo's graphic novel presented the most common version.

Maria nodded. "My mother used to tell me the tale."

Charlie frowned and tilted her head. "Wait, I don't know this story. Unlike you spoiled babies, I didn't grow up with storybooks or loving parents. Rodrigo! Useless, spoiled child! Be useful for once and tell me what's going on."

"If you ever read graphic novels, Mom, maybe you'd—"

"Shut up and tell the story! And then shave that mustache."

Rodrigo rolled his eyes so far back they went white. But he stood up, cleared his throat, and shared the tale of the Three Silver Sisters.

* * * * *

"Three hundred years ago, in the year 1898, the Red Cardinal summoned three Santelmo starships to Earth. The Three Silver Sisters, chariots from the heavens. He chose thousands of devout Filipino farmers and fishermen, filled the blessed starships, and led an exodus from Earth. The children of Earth fled the American-Philippines War. They sailed the cosmic ocean, seeking a new home among the stars.

"For forty days and nights, they were lost in the darkness. Finally they beheld Bahay. An ocean world with verdant islands. A new home.

"But when the Red Cardinal shared the good news with his flock, he discovered shocking revelations.

"The cardinal had spent the journey in one silver starship, which he named Canaan. Its people were devout. Along the journey, they prayed and sang. But the other starships, lacking his leadership, had fallen to sin.

"In one starship, men were laying with men, women with women. The Red Cardinal deemed this a great sin. Infuriated, he named this starship Sodom.

"In another starship, the colonists had discovered sinful science. They studied evolution, genetics, astronomy, and the other dark arts. The cardinal deemed their knowledge a sin against his holy book. He named this starship Gomorrah.

"The Three Silver Sisters arrived at Bahay. Canaan, full of the righteous. Sodom, full of sin. Gomorrah, full of forbidden knowledge.

"In his wrath, the Red Cardinal cast Sodom and Gomorrah into the sea. The starships sank and the sinners drowned. But the cardinal spared the passengers of Canaan. He landed this silver starship upon a basalt mountain. Its people emerged, colonists of a new world, and founded the Bahayan nation. The cardinal, to commemorate the sins and punishment, painted Canaan black, and he turned the starship into a cathedral on the mountain.

"It is said that Sodom and Gomorrah still lie under the sea, forever cursed, and the souls of their sinners still haunt their watery halls."

* * * * *

Rodrigo finished his tale. "Happy, Mom?"

"No. You still have a mustache."

He rolled his eyes. "Mom! It's a Van Dyke. It's classy."

Charlie scoffed. "It looks like a caterpillar."

Maria lifted the comic book. She leafed through the glossy pages, pausing on one featuring two starships—Sodom and Gomorrah—crashing into the ocean.

"The Canaan was destroyed in the war," Maria said. "Along with the rest of Basilica, the city where it stood. But if we could find Sodom and Gomorrah …" She looked up from the book. "We could ferry thousands of people home. After centuries, we could return to our homeworld. To Earth."

Charlie's eyes softened. She held Maria's hands. "And abandon our world? After all our wars, after so many dead—we would lead our people away? We would leave Bahay behind?"

"There is no more Bahay."

But those were not Maria's words. The voice came from behind them.

They turned to see Pippi approaching. The survivor had risen from the pile of plush animals, had let her blanket fall. She stood in an old tunic, pale and skeletal, but her eyes burned with deep fire,

"Our homeworld is gone," Pippi continued. "The war destroyed half of it. Papa Dominus rose from the ashes and destroyed the rest. We must save whoever we still can. Everyone is in danger here. We must sail to our ancestral homeworld. We all came from Earth. To Earth we must return."

She's changed, Maria thought, looking at her friend. Where is the silly girl with the pigtails and lollipop? The girl who skipped, told jokes, laughed all the time? She died in the camps. A shell remains. And she died in the cemetery. She died when I killed her. A ghost returned to me.

For a moment, they were all silent. The light of stars shone in their eyes.

Charlie cleared her throat. "Just one little problem." She grabbed the comic book and whacked Rodrigo over the head. "These are just stupid comics full of nonsense! Come on! Silver starships under the ocean? Even if it were true, we'd never find them. And even if we could find them, we'd never be able to swim so deep. And even if we could find them, and we could swim so deep, there's no way those flooded old starships would still work. And even if we could find them, and we could swim so deep, and they did work, we'd never …" She tilted her head. "I lost my train of thought. Was I talking about my son's mustache?"

Rodrigo rubbed his head. "I can't believe you hit me. You know, that's child abuse."

"If you were a child you wouldn't have a mustache!" Charlie said. "You're a grown ass adult."

"If I'm a grown ass adult, you can't be twenty-seven!" he shot back.

"I—" Charlie frowned and tilted her head. "I could, if … carrying the one . . ." She counted on her fingers, then placed her hands on her hips. "Shut up."

"Sodom and Gomorrah are real," Maria said. "Charlie, Pippi, do you remember how a few years ago, I was General Ward's paramour?"

They nodded.

"He spoke of Sodom and Gomorrah," Maria continued. "He said that someday they would rise again. That he knew where they lay. I thought he was talking about the biblical cities, the ones smitten with fire and brimstone. But now I understand. He was talking about the lost starships. They're real." She inhaled deeply. "And they can still fly."

* * * * *

They fell asleep soon after that. They were all exhausted. There was no day or night on the station. The fluorescent lights always shone, and the music always pounded from the decks above. But the bargirls had just spent twelve hours dancing at the Toy Box, and their children had spent the time studying, playing, and wearing themselves out. Before they could find legendary starships in lost underwater worlds, they needed some sleep. So they pulled the curtains shut, put in earplugs, and settled down for some shut eye.

The Cortez family, comprising of Charlie and her children, slept on one side of the shanty. Dalisay "Charlie" Cortez, matriarch of the family, lay on a pile of blankets, snoring softly. Her two younger children, both pre-teens, cuddled against her. Rodrigo slept with a comic book over his eyes like a sleep mask. Charlie's eldest, a girl named Jessica, slept on a tattered old armchair. The teenager looked almost exactly like her mother. Though unlike Charlie, young Jessica had very pale skin—like her father. The four children had four different fathers—all Earthlings who had hired Charlie for a night, then left.

The others slept on the other side of the shanty. Gummy curled up between Blessica and Christine, two younger bargirls, making soft gum gum gum sounds as he slept. Lily slept beside them, holding a plush octopus, a beloved toy. It was crowded in this shanty. They all pressed together, snoring and snorting and finding comfort in one another's warmth. There was no such thing as privacy for a Bahayan. They shared their humble lives. Together, they found some semblance of joy even in hell.

Pippi remained awake.

She sat in the corner, gazing through a tear in the curtain. Silent.

Maria was still awake too. Her feet bare, she padded between the sleepers and sat beside her friend.

"Pippi," Maria whispered and held her friend's hand.

Jon had once told her that Earthlings were shy with physical touch, even just physical proximity. They struggled with the crowds in Bahay, were surprised how eager Bahayans were to hold hands, embrace, brush back a friend's hair, even kiss strangers on the cheek. Maria was Bahayan through and through. She was touchy-feely to her core. She was always holding her friends' hands, hugging them, caressing them. Pippi used to love hugging her back during the war.

But now Pippi recoiled. She pulled her hand back as if stung. She stared from side to side, panting.

"Pips, it's me," Maria said. "You're safe."

Pippi took a deep breath, but she couldn't stop trembling.

"Can I hug you?" Maria whispered.

A tear rolled down Pippi's cheek. "Yes. Please."

Maria pulled her friend into her arms. She held her, soothing her, whispering soft nothings into her ear. Finally Pippi's trembling eased.

I took this innocent, precious woman, Maria thought. And I shoved her into the path of a knife. I left her for dead. To save myself. To save the baby in my belly. I murdered this beautiful soul.

"Pippi." Maria now shed her own tears, and she stroked her friend's cheek. "You will never know how sorry I am. You will never know how much it haunts me. How much I hate myself for what I did. I can't change that. I can't make amends. I know you forgive me, but I will never forgive myself. All I can say is: I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Don't apologize to me," Pippi said. "You did what you had to do. To save your child. I lost a child in the war. I would have done anything to save my son. I understand. And Lily is beautiful and precious." For the first time, maybe in years, Pippi smiled. "I'm glad she's here. She looks a little like Mister Jon."

Maria pulled her friend back into a tight embrace. "We'll get off this station, my friend. We'll fly far away from this world. We'll start over on Earth. And I promise you, Pippi. I promise that I will never hurt you again. I owe you a debt I can never repay."

"Just bring me to Earth," Pippi said. "Bring thousands of us. Find those starships, Maria. Bring us home."

Chapter Eight

The Angel and the Dying Demon

Jon tried not to worry every day. Naturally, he failed miserably.

After three miscarriages, how could he not worry?

As Kaelyn's pregnancy progressed, it was hard not to count the days. Fifteen days pregnant. Sixteen. Seventeen! Seventeen days! Every day felt like a milestone. Like a great hurdle crested. And the mountain still soared. On its top, eight and a half months away, awaited salvation. It seemed an impossible climb.

Every morning, before Kaelyn rushed out the door, Jon looked at her questioningly.

"Any news?" he asked the first morning.

She shook her head. "No news. And no news is good news."

But after the first day, he just looked at her. And she just gave a small smile. No news. And no news was good news.

Day eighteen.

Still pregnant.

As Kaelyn worked in the city, Jon chained himself to the piano and composed. "The Day He Did Not Die" had come easily enough. Well, maybe not easily. But at least fast. Birthed over one night of tears and rapture. The other songs struggled to take form. Each song felt like a pregnancy itself, like a baby that would just not come out.

He wrote some melodies. He tossed them out. He tried again. He could listen to Kaelyn's advice, perhaps. Go radio friendly. Take a few basic chords. Write something poppy and simple. But his muse would not let him. That angel of inspiration would only cross her arms and pout.

Draw water from your well, she told him.

"My well is empty," he replied.

Your well is an ocean. Draw the water.

Jon feared the well. Feared the pain inside him. Pain could fuel art and destroy souls. His well was full of monsters.

But a week went by, and no more songs came. So he peered into the well inside him.

And he saw Maria.

He heard a song about her smile. A song about her dark eyes. A song about the Go Go Cowgirl. A song about her love and death.

"I'm married," he whispered in the darkness to his piano. "I love Kaelyn. But all the music inside me is for Maria."

He slammed his fingers against the keys. A discordant chord emerged.

He looked at a photo on the wall. A photo from Symphonica's earliest days. Him and Kaelyn stood side by side, both looking so serious. Paul stood behind them, Jon's older brother. The guitarist was sticking out his tongue and flashing the devil horns. George towered over them all, snarling and raising his drum sticks.

"I wish you were with me, boys," Jon said.

Paul and George. His brother. His best friend. He missed them so much.

So he wrote a song about them. He called it "They Were Giants."

Within a few hours at the piano, the second song on his album was done.

The next morning, he looked at Kaelyn. She smiled. No news was good news. She was twenty-one days pregnant.

We're both growing something inside us, Jon thought. An album in me, and a baby in her. And I would burn ten thousand songs for our child to be safe.

* * * * *

On the twenty-second day, Kaelyn came home from work pale and rattled. Her eyes stared into the distance, the same haunted look Jon had seen in so many veterans.

"Kaelyn!" He took her coat, helped her to the couch. "What's wrong? Is—"

Is the baby gone? he wanted to ask. But he could not bring the words to his lips. His voice caught.

"The baby is fine," she said, reading his mind. "I just … I saw something. In the city." A tremble passed through her.

"Wait," Jon said. "Let me make the tea."

"Wine," Kaelyn said.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, I …" She placed a hand on her belly. "Sorry, I'm a bit flustered. Tea would be nice."

Soon they sat with two cups of Earl Grey. Honey for him. Sugar and milk for her. Jon placed a hand on her knee.

"Tell me."

"It's nothing really." She sighed. "I just … I saw a beggar. On the streets of New York. He frightened me."

"There are many beggars in New York City," Jon said. "Many are veterans."

"Jon, this one … he was a burn victim. Scarred all over. His face, it was . . ."

Jon's teacup shook. The child twitched in his mind.

"It's a horrible injury," he said.

"Jon, it wasn't his scars that scared me," Kaelyn said. "I think … I think it was Clay."

Cold and hard claws clamped down on Jon's heart. He sat stiffly. He put down his teacup.

"Clay Hagen?" he said.

"I think so. We saw him at the trial, remember? We saw his scars. The world saw. Four years ago."

"Of course I remember, Kaelyn. His trial was all over the news. And I was there in Santa Rosa. I was there when he murdered and mutilated five hundred people, when I shoved him into the fire, and—" He forced a deep breath. He was shaking. His vision was blurring. "Yes. I remember."

Kaelyn hugged him. "Jon, I'm sorry. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything, I just—"

"I remember how the judge exonerated him," Jon said. "Clay slaughtered hundreds of innocent people. And he went free. I leaked photos of his crimes. And I sat in prison for a year."

He tried to lift his cup of tea. He was shaking too badly. Kaelyn held him, stroked his hair, kissed him, soothed him.

"I know, Jon. The world is cruel. Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all. Forget about the judge. Forget about Clay. We've moved on." She smiled, a smile as bright as dawn scattering the night's ghosts. "You ended up marrying a super-hot redhead. That's gotta even things out, no?"

He laughed. He kissed her. And the next morning, he took the train into New York to find Clay.

* * * * *

The train rattled and screeched along the tracks, crammed full of commuters. It was two hours from Lindenville to New York, standing room only. It was damn cold, even with so many bodies crammed together. A burly man stood behind Jon, his breath smelling of stale coffee. A shabby woman in rags stood in front of him, her left eye leaking something yellow. A kid in torn leather sat nearby, legs stretched out, chewing gum and playing a video game. Everyone on the train tried to ignore the hologram rising from the console: a ridiculously buxom cheerleader battling a drooling zombie.

Jon closed his eyes. He felt trapped. He was trapped. Every second on this train frayed his nerves, and his arm was already cramping from holding the overhead bar.

I don't know how Kaelyn does this twice a day, Jon thought. And he realized the true depth of her sacrifice.

He had not told her that he was going. Kaelyn had left for work an hour earlier, taking another train. For all she knew, he was at home at the piano, composing.

But he could not stay home today. He had to see.

Somebody started coughing over and over. A child cried. The train screeched to a halt, and a robotic voice spoke, announcing a short delay, no more than a few moments. Just to address a little medical concern. They spent half an hour sitting on the tracks. Finally they rattled onward again.

People whispered that the train tracks were a popular suicide spot. That every day, several people jumped onto them. Every day, another little medical concern. Jon wondered how many were veterans.

He saw other veterans on the train. A stubbly man with a bandanna, no legs, and medals pinned to his ratty jacket. A man missing half his face, wearing a plastic prosthetic—half a nose, half a mouth, an eye, all plastic. A few others who seemed physically fine but who stared ten thousand miles away. Jon would bet his life they had served on Bahay. Their disabilities were invisible but just as real.

And me, he thought.

He wondered how he appeared to them. A lanky young man with scraggly long hair. With a month-old beard. With a shabby coat. He probably looked just as rough.

The train finally puffed and clanked to a stop. Jon walked the streets of New York, hunched over as the cold wind lashed him. Skyscrapers soared at his sides, built in New Revivalism style, mimicking Earth's glory before the Alien Wars. The city had been rebuilt from ruin only a century ago, but built cheaply, all facade and no foundation. Already it looked old. Decaying. Smog stained its buildings, its roads, its people. It was a great machine all in gray and white, rising like a tumor on the land.

And it was paradise compared to Mindao. Jon found himself walking in Mindao again. Seeing the shanties tilting over, overrun with mold. Seeing the naked children scampering underfoot, sleeping in gutters, scavenging through garbage. In his memory, heat replaced the winter, and electric cables buzzed overhead, and the smells of cooking meat, overflowing gutters, and carts of mangoes and pineapples filled his nostrils. He heard the sounds of merchants calling out their wares, beeping jeepneys, and rickshaw runners panting as they raced shirtless down the alleyways, glistening with sweat.

The vision ended. He was back in New York. But he was never really anywhere. Not fully. Since the war, he had lived in two worlds. His body here in the cold. His mind back in the feverish jungles and shantytowns. Back with her.

He found Kaelyn's office building, and he did not enter. He walked around the side streets, tracing whatever paths she might take—to grab lunch or coffee, to stare through shop windows at treasures they could not afford, to watch children play in a schoolyard, knowing her own child would never play among them.

And finally Jon found him.

He sat there on the curb outside a Burger Boy, wrapped in a scruffy old coat. A man burnt beyond recognition. But Jon recognized him. It was Clay.

Jon stopped. He stood before the deformed beggar.

He had imagined this moment. All night and morning. Hell, he had fantasized about seeing Clay again for years, imagined fighting him, crushing his head against a wall, avenging the dead. Jon had expected to feel rage. Even bloodlust. To grab the man, punish him, to do what the judge had not done.

Instead, standing here before his old enemy, Jon felt pity.

A tin dish sat beside Clay, a few coins inside. A cardboard sign was propped up beside him: VETERAN. HUNGRY. BURNED IN BATTLE. DON'T BE SCARED OF ME.

"Sir, a coin, sir?" Clay reached out a shaky, scarred hand. He had only three fingers left. The rest had burned off. "Help a war hero, sir?"

Jon exhaled slowly.

"Look at you," he said softly. "Look at you now."

Clay peered up at him. His left eye drooped under his scars, small and damp. He squinted. Then his good eye widened, and he hissed.

"You!" Clay's lipless mouth opened, revealing his teeth. "It's you! Jon Taylor." He spat. "Yes, you have long hair and a beard now, but I recognize you. I saw your whore of a wife yesterday. You had to come yourself, didn't you? To see the freak. To mock me."

"I didn't come to mock you," Jon said.

Clay snorted, then began to cough. Wind blew, scattering paper cups and old newspapers down the street. Clay's coat blew open, revealing the spindly, scarred body within.

"So why did you come?" he hissed, pulling his cloak shut again.

"To bash your head against the wall," Jon said. "To beat your face in. To kick your skull in. I don't know! To punish you. To make sure you suffered. To try and find some justice. Some vengeance. But now I see you, and I pity you."

Clay laughed. It sounded more like a cackle. Deranged. "I've haunted you, haven't I? All those years since the war. You never forgot about me. No … you obsessed! I filled your nightmares. I danced in your mind. When you slept, when you fucked your wife, when you took a shit … I was there."

"Don't flatter yourself," Jon said.

"Do you know, Jon?" Clay licked what remained of his lips. "I still think of it sometimes. Bahay. The way the bodies fell. The way you and I fought in the fire. Man to man. Just us and the flames. We'll always be part of each other, Jon Taylor. You can't get rid of me."

"No." Jon shook his head. "I can't. Neither can the families you hurt. All those who still mourn the innocents you murdered. I was angry for a long time, it's true. But I understand now. I understand why I came here. To see that you suffer. And you're suffering, Clay. You're suffering so much. Maybe this is the justice you deserve. To stay here on the street, rotting away, remembering old glories long gone. Goodbye. This time forever."

Jon began walking away.

Clay rose to his feet.

"You'll never get rid of me!" he shouted. "I'm a part of you now, Taylor! Always! Always!" He cackled. His voice rose to a hoarse howl. "I'm Clay Hagen! I was a god! I was a god on Bahay! They worshiped me. I was a god!"

Jon kept walking. He didn't look back. The deranged laughter and howls followed him.

"Shut up, loser!" somebody shouted at Clay. Just a harried passerby on his way to work.

"Sit the fuck down, freak, or we'll call the cops!" somebody else said.

Somebody spat. Somebody threw something.

When Jon reached the end of the block, he glanced over his shoulder. He saw somebody toss a paper cup at Clay, spilling hot coffee. Clay roared and people laughed. Somebody else tossed a handful of pennies onto Clay's head.

Finally Clay sat down. He held out his hand again. And he begged.

Jon walked around the corner. And he knew he could not leave Clay here.

* * * * *

"We can't just leave him there," Jon said. "Kaelyn, he'll die on the streets."

Kaelyn laughed bitterly. "I thought you wanted him dead! It's Clay Hagen, Jon. Clay Hagen. The butcher of Santa Rosa. You suddenly pity him?"

Jon nodded. "Yes. You do too. I saw how you reacted when you came home last night. How rattled you were."

Kaelyn sighed and shook her head. "I can't believe you went into the city. Two hours by train there, two hours back … without telling me."

"You go into the city every day."

"To work!" Kaelyn said. "Not to … not to chase ghosts!"

"Yes, to work," Jon said, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice. "Because your husband has composed two songs in three years. And somebody needs to support us."

"I didn't say any of that!" Kaelyn said. "I'm not bitter about my job. I just—"

"You just never considered how hard this is for me!" Jon said. "That you're the breadwinner. That I had a successful band for one year, and it's gone, and I'm nothing now. I'm barely more than Clay. A broken veteran. That I'd be on the streets without a woman to support me, and—"

Kaelyn slapped him. She slapped him hard on the cheek.

"Don't you dare," she hissed. "Don't you dare take your pain out on me. I've been there for you! This whole time. All these years of fucking pain. Memories every day. And her! Her with us—in this house!"

"Who?" Jon said, voice tight, but he knew.

"Maria!" Kaelyn shouted, and tears leaped into her eyes. "Maria has lived here in this house with us since day one. You wake up at night shouting her name! You wrote your most famous song about her! For all I know, your new songs are about her too. And I know you loved her. I know you loved her more than you could ever love me. And I understood! I accepted it! Because I love you, Jon. I love you, and … and I can't." Her tears fell. "I can't anymore. None of this. I just can't."

Jon stared at her for a moment in silence. "Are you done?" he finally asked.

Kaelyn nodded.

Jon pulled her into an embrace.

"I'm sorry, Kaelyn. I'm so sorry."

She tried to leave his embrace, but only half-heartedly. Then she leaned her cheek against his shoulder.

"You're a fucking nightmare, Jon Taylor," she said.

"I know. But it will get better. I'll finish this album, I promise you. We'll sell some records. We'll go on tour, play some shows, make some bucks. Have some laughs. And the baby, Kaelyn." He smiled shakily. "The baby is doing well. It's day twenty-four, isn't it?"

"Twenty-three," she said. "Twenty-four in three hours. But hey, who's counting?"

He held her hands and looked into her eyes. "The baby will be born. Happy and healthy. We'll be a family. The three of us. We'll be happy, and we'll put all this behind us. I promise."

She tapped his head. "Knock on wood."

* * * * *

The next morning, Jon mustered his courage and walked to Clay's childhood home.

Courage was hard to find these days. During the war, Jon had stormed enemy strongholds. Now just leaving the house seemed like a whole new war.

He performed a ritual first. A prescription pill to calm his anxiety, some molecule he couldn't pronounce. A few moments by the window, puffing on a joint of cannabis mixed with hintan. One drug from Earth, the other from Bahay. Two friends who were always there. A few deep breaths. A quick meditation. And his chemical courage walked him out the door.

I'm becoming a drug addict, Jon thought. But every day that I don't commit suicide—it's a day of victory.

Jon lived in west Lindenville, a middle class neighborhood full of parks, quaint antique shops, cafes, and faux-colonial houses. The Alien Wars a century ago had reduced New Jersey to rubble. Following the devastation, the survivors built a new town. They named it Lindenville after Addy Linden, a heroine of the war. The town was only a few decades old, but it perfectly captured the look and feel of history. If you didn't know any better, you'd swear Lindenville dated back to colonial times.

It was a beautiful place. Jon had been born and raised here. To him, Lindenville would always be home.

But even Lindenville had its rough edges. Jon crossed the train tracks, stepping into east Lindenville, and walked down toward the Hudson River. The Manhattan skyline rose across the water, cloaked in smog.

It was different on this side of the tracks. You saw graffiti. Homeless people on park benches. Youths sitting on fences, smoking, guns in their belts. Every week, there was another shooting or stabbing here. You didn't need to take the train into New York for urban decay. It was right here across the tracks.

Jon stepped toward Clay's childhood home. It was an old gunshot house, barely more than a trailer. A Rottweiler stood chained to the porch, barking madly. A dead cat lay in the patchy grass, covered in flies.

He knocked on the door. A few cats hissed and bristled in the windows and on the roof.

A woman opened the door. She wore a ragged old dress, and her gray hair hung loose. She was not old, probably no older than fifty, but there was an ancient, aching weight to her. Bags under her eyes. A bitterness to the lips.

"Hello, Mrs. Hagen. My name is Jon. I'm a friend of your son."

Well, not a friend, he thought to himself. But I don't know how else to describe it. Archenemy just doesn't seem quite diplomatic enough.

A voice rose from deeper in the house. "Who the hell is that? Is it the goddamn press again? I told those sons of bitches I'll shoot 'em if they come back."

A man stomped toward the front door, joining the woman. He was grizzled, unshaven, and clearly drunk. His greasy wife-beater revealed swastika tattoos on his arms. He pointed a rifle at Jon's face.

"Good morning, Mr. Hagen," Jon said. "Would you care to lower your rifle?"

A few years ago, I would have shit myself, Jon thought. But I've had many guns pointed at me. They mean nothing to me now.

"What the hell do you want, punk?" Mr. Hagen said. "You're one of those goddamn hippie journalists, aren't you? Looking for a scoop. Well, you'll get nothing but a bullet in your brain if you don't back off."

"Sir, I served with Clay in the war," Jon said. "I'm a veteran of Apollo Brigade. I wanted to let you know that Clay is homeless on the streets of New York. I wanted to see if you knew. And if you could help."

Mr. Hagen snorted. "My son? He's no baby! He's gotta be a man. Make his way in the world."

Jon frowned. "Sir! He's severely disabled. He—"

"He was severely wounded," Mr. Hagen said. "Four years ago. If he chooses to be a bum now, that's his own damn fault. He's not welcome here. Not till he gets his life together. Not till he learns to be a man. What kind of a man begs for money?" He scoffed. "My son is weak. Maybe the streets will toughen him up."

Back inside the house, Mrs. Hagen began to cry. Jon glimpsed her rummaging through piles of trash and digging out a crack pipe. Jon, himself struggling with drugs since the war, understood. They drowned the devastating pain.

He walked back home, feeling empty.

Did Clay's parents turn him into a monster? he wondered.

Clearly, Clay had grown up in a rough neighborhood. His father was a white supremacist and drunk. His mother was a drug addict. Neither seemed to love him. Jon wouldn't be surprised if they had abused Clay as a child.

Is this why you kill, Clay? Jon wondered. Because they hurt you?

But perhaps that was unfair. Tragically, the world was full of abused children. Most grew up to be kind, compassionate adults. Jon thought back to Bahay. He remembered Charlie, born and raised on a landfill. And Charlie had grown up to become nurturing and loving. He remembered many Bahayans who grew up in poverty, yet had golden hearts. Ernesto, meanwhile, had grown up in a peaceful village, the son of a successful fisherman. The war had only come to him in adulthood. And he was a monster.

Perhaps there was no excuse, no reason for evil. Perhaps Clay's parents had not made him a monster. Perhaps Clay's evil was his own choice.

Still Jon wondered.

If Clay grew in my house, with loving parents, would he still be evil? Could a loving upbringing have saved him from himself? Saved his victims?

These answers were beyond Jon.

If my child lives, he thought, I'll give him or her a loving home. I'll do whatever I can to raise a confident, kind-hearted child. Please, God. The world is full of monsters. Let me bring an angel into the world.

* * * * *

Jon returned to New York the next day. He shared the train with Kaelyn. For two hours, they stood crammed together among thousands of commuters, rattling into the city. She went to work, and he went to local hospitals.

"He can't just stay homeless," he said to a clerk. "He's hurt."

"No, he doesn't have insurance," he said to a social worker. "But he's a veteran. We can't just leave him on the street."

"Yes, I know the waiting list is long," he said to a hospice administrator. "Yes, I know there are hundreds of thousands of veterans who need help, but—fine. Fine, I'll put his name down on the waiting list."

Bureaucrats. They all looked at Jon sadly. Or impatiently. Or even with hostility. It was always the same.

"There are too many veterans to help, Mr. Taylor, and not enough beds."

"Mr. Taylor, do you realize our budgets have been slashed by half since the war? I'm sorry about your friend, but consider voting for another candidate next election."

"We're simply not equipped to deal with patients with Mr. Hagen's condition. I'm sorry. Have you tried the hospital up in Yonkers?"

Door after door slammed in his face. Sometimes literally.

Finally Jon gave up. He would have to return another day with a boost of energy and hope. That evening, as he walked back to the train station, it began to snow. Not a nice fluffy snow but a hard, gray sludge that covered the city like a giant's shed skin.

Jon found himself walking down the street where Clay begged. He walked on the opposite side of the street, worming through a crowd. Cabs and buses jammed the road, honking. Jon stared through the smog and snow, and he saw Clay lying there on the sidewalk. Wrapped in a coat. Begging. He wondered if he would last the night.

He walked on by. Clay did not see.

"Death will be a mercy to him," Kaelyn said that evening. Her voice was soft, no trace of scorn or hatred to it. They stood together on the rattling train, taking the two-hour journey home to Lindenville.

"Maybe," Jon said. "I don't know why I want to find him a home. On the streets, he won't last the winter. Maybe I pity him. Or maybe deep down, I think that dying on the streets is too easy. Maybe I want him to end up in some institution, to live a long, painful life. Is this side of me petty and vengeful? Or merciful? Do I wish him life because I pity him or because I hate him? I don't know. Maybe … maybe it's a bit of both."

Kaelyn leaned against him. "I'll admit it, Jon. I don't pity him. A part of me is satisfied that he suffers. I can't stop thinking about what he did. The people he killed. He's a mass murderer. Yes, he's a homeless veteran now. Yes, he's disabled and scared and cold. But he's still the man who murdered hundreds of women and children."

"I don't forget that for an instant," Jon said. "Not a single instant. He's a monster. But he's a pathetic, dying monster. Maybe the best revenge isn't to gloat at his suffering. Maybe the best revenge is to show him mercy." Jon allowed himself a thin smile. "He'd hate that."

He searched for several more days. He spent the time traversing the rough streets of New York. To the world, Jon probably looked like just another shabby old veteran, haunted, drugged up, slowly dying. His hair was long, his coat worn, and sometimes when the demons rose, he paused in a doorway to hide from the snow, to puff some hintan, to calm his nerves. The drugs were ruining his teeth, his lungs, his soul, but they kept the demons of suicide at bay. He already felt as hard as this city. As lost as the millions who lived here. The millions who moved through the snow and rain and underground tunnels, ants trapped in a machine. Part of Bahay was forever inside him, and now New York was infecting him, growing on him like a rash.

We become parts of the cities we walk, he thought. They grow on us. Fungal infections we carry forever. I am Lindenville and Mindao and New York City. I am soft childhood and trauma and cold concrete. I am among millions and I am alone.

Finally on the fourth day, he found a place that would accept Clay Hagen.

It was a little nursing home in Queens. Tucked away between a gas station, convenience store, and little synagogue. The other residents were all old, most over ninety, and needed round the clock care. For cheap. It was a bit rough around the edges, definitely underfunded. But surely it beat sleeping on the street.

"A bed just became available this morning, actually," the owner told him. She was Filipina, about sixty years old, with graying hair and tired eyes. "I must tell you, Mr. Taylor, we don't have experience dealing with patients like your friend. We care for senior citizens here. But we won't turn him away. He needs a home. He's welcome to stay."

"He doesn't have insurance," Jon said. "A bit of a pension because of his injury."

Jon himself did not earn a military pension. Few soldiers did. Earth had money for starships, not much for grunts. If you suffered horrific wounds, they gave you a few bones to gnaw on. Not enough to keep Clay off the streets. Jon got nothing.

"We're a non-profit," the caregiver said. "We'll cover his care. We'll have to cut some corners, but …" She sighed. "We'll make it work. If you would like to make a donation, or help with fundraising, it would be much appreciated."

Jon promised to do both. And he knew he had met another angel.

An angel who will tend to a dying demon, he thought.

* * * * *

A few days later, Jon came to visit Clay in the nursing home.

The burned man lay there on the little bed, hooked to an IV. A camera was watching him. A bedpan lay at his side, needing to be emptied. Faded wallpaper was peeling like scabs. There he was. The Butcher of Bahay. The Mindao Monster. Perhaps the worst human Jon had ever met. There he lay, coughing and cursing and spitting.

"Oh you love this, don't you, Jon Taylor?" Clay's voice was hoarse. His scarred fists shook. "You think it's funny, don't you. To leave me here! To gloat over me! Yes, take a good look. Laugh. Laugh at the freak! Is this your revenge? To leave me here in this room, to wither away among senile old vegetables?"

Jon frowned. "Clay, surely it beats the streets. At least for the winter."

Clay cackled, began to cough. "I should have died on Bahay. I should have taken you with me. Remember the fire, Jon? Remember how it burned us? It was beautiful. We should have died there in that village. Died in that fire. Died with the hundreds of them!"

Jon stepped closer. He leaned down.

"But you didn't die, Clay. Not in the war. And not on the streets. You're going to live. That is my gift to you. And that is your curse. You're going to live for a long time. You probably have another sixty, maybe seventy years in you. You'll be safe here. In this room."

He heard the acrimony in his voice. He wasn't proud of it.

Clay howled. He leapt from the bed, ripping off the IV. He lunged at Jon.

Orderlies rushed him, pushed him back onto the bed, sedated him.

"Now, now, Mr. Hagen," an orderly said. "There's no need to get so excited." Pinning Clay down, he looked over his shoulder at Jon. "It happens sometimes with the old folks too. Dementia makes them aggressive. We'll take good care of him, don't worry."

Jon walked down the hallway. He reached the exit, then hesitated.

Am I being merciful or cruel? he asked himself.

He did not know. And it seemed to him that sometimes in hospitals and hospices, there was a fine line between cruelty and mercy.

He knocked on the owner's office. She let him in, her graying hair pulled into a ponytail. Bags hung under her eyes, and she held a mug of tea. He noticed a flag on her desk. A Bahayan flag.

She's Bahayan! Jon thought. I thought she was Filipina, but she's Bahayan. A Bahayan refugee who made it to Earth.

She noticed his gaze. She smiled sadly. "A handful of us made it to Earth. Before the war ended. I was a nurse on a military starship. Now I run this place."

"Ma'am." Jon swallowed. "Do you … do you know who Clay is? What he did?"

She nodded. "Yes. I'll take care of him nonetheless. I don't turn anyone away. Not even the devil himself."

Jon lowered his head. "It's … hard to leave him here."

Her eyes were soft despite their weariness. "It's always hard for the families and friends. I understand. Sometimes I …" She sighed. "Sometimes I wish we could do more. Give our residents a better life. A better place to die. But I promise you that I care. For all my residents. Even for your friend. I'll do my very best to give him whatever quality of life I can."

He hugged her. Bahay must have rubbed off. Bahayans were huggers. He held the weary woman, eyes damp.

"Thank you."

As Jon took the train home, he wondered. What kind of quality of life could Clay have? And what about the other residents, suffering from dementia and a host of other ailments? It wasn't a bad nursing home. The staff cared. But Jon found himself wishing, praying that he never ended up there. That if he was ever that old or hurt, that he would still have the mental capacity to end things first. On his own terms.

Yes, maybe I was cruel to Clay, not merciful, he thought. And maybe he deserves it. Maybe this was not a righteous act but an evil one. To torture a defeated enemy is neither courage nor justice, and being evil to evil does not make one good. But I made a choice. I hope Clay does not suffer. And I hope that if he lives a long life, that he thinks about all the people whose lives he stole.

When he came home, Kaelyn was already in bed, yawning and close to sleep. He lay down, spooning her.

"No news is good news," she whispered.

"One month pregnant, eight more to go," he mumbled, sleep tugging him.

He slept, holding her all night.

Chapter Nine

The Urchin Express

"We need the coordinates of Sodom and Gomorrah," Maria said. "And only one man in our lifetime knew their location. General Ward."

Charlie stroked Maria's hair. "It's too bad you stabbed him with a katana, Nini."

"But I did not stab his notes," Maria said. "He wrote everything longhand. In beautiful leather-bound journals. They might still be in his cabin. I must find a way in."

Charlie snorted. "Good luck with that. The Crimson Claws took over the upper decks. Ernesto and his gago Crimson Claws live there now. If we go there, they'll shoot us." She swept her arm across the lower deck. "This is our world now. Skid Bottom. A stinking hangar full of garbage."

Maria looked across the scenery. It spread into the distance, covering the lower deck of Mother's Womb space station. Bulkheads had been knocked down, connecting warehouses, hangars, cargo decks, and offices, forming a sprawling shantytown. Thousands lived here in misery, scrounging to survive. And life down on Bahay was even worse.

I must save my people, Maria thought. Both the squatters in this station and the inmates on Bahay.

"I can reach Ward's cabin through the HVAC ducts," Maria said. "The Urchin Express will lead me there."

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "They're still around? I thought the Crimson Claws shut those kids down."

"They're still around," Maria said. "And they can get anywhere on the station."

The Urchin Express had serviced Mother's Womb since the beginning. Dozens, maybe hundreds of orphans operated it. The waifs lived in the HVAC ducts that ran through Mother's Womb like veins. They crawled where no adult could fit. The ducts led everywhere. There was not a single corridor or cabin without an air vent. And if there was a vent, the Urchin Express could reach it.

They ran messages, delivered packages, spied on enemies, had even been blamed for a few assassinations. If anyone could get Maria into Ward's cabin, it was the Urchin Express.

"Come with me, Charlie," Maria said. "Let's talk to Jay Jay. He still runs the Urchin Express, did you know?"

Charlie winced. "I hate talking to that gago. He keeps flirting with me."

"He flirts with you?" Maria laughed. "Charlie! Last time we talked to Jay Jay, you squeezed his bum and refused to release him."

Charlie raised her hands defensively. "Hey, it's not my fault he has a nice puwit!"

"So how does he flirt with you?"

Charlie shrugged. "By being irresistible?" She licked her lips. "Actually, good idea. Now that I think about it, I do feel like seeing him again. Come on." She flexed her fingers. "I'm in the mood for some good squeezing."

Rodrigo raised his eyes from a comic book. "Mom! Eww. Gross."

"Quiet, you! How do you think you were born, you stupid gago?"

Rodrigo rolled his eyes and buried his face in his comics again.

Maria and Charlie walked through Skid Bottom. They passed by beggars, squatters, and hundreds of peddlers wheeling carts, selling everything from broken electronics to religious artifacts. Old women stood at cauldrons, cooking pagpag—scraps of meat salvaged from the trash, washed, seasoned, and cooked, a tragic and common food among the poor. Children lined up for a bowl. Other people sifted through trash, finding scraps of food to add to the pots. Stray cats ran everywhere, snatching up treats, fleeing kicking feet, and hunting rats. A priest stood under a plastic awning, leading a congregation in prayer. An android thumped across the deck, carrying a crate full of rice, meager rations delivered weekly from the planet. A few children tried to steal some rice, only to scatter when the android fired his gun, blasting holes into the deck plating.

It was a wide, crowded deck. Maria and Charlie had to elbow their way through, struggling for every step. It took an hour to cross Skid Bottom. Finally they reached the far end. The starboard hull rose before them, lined with narrow portholes that revealed a view of deep space.

A gargantuan gear was embedded into the wall. It rose several stories tall—taller even than the shanty towers. Its iron teeth were the size of coffins. Graffiti covered the enormous cogwheel, depicting scenes from the war. Life-sized heroes battled Earthling villains. Spray-painted starships flew across the rusty metal. Maria herself appeared in a mural, wearing a white dress, walking among the poor.

I too was a heroine of the war, she thought. Holy Maria, saint of the slums. Now I'm nobody.

Charlie gasped at the giant gear. "Hey, it's me!"

She pointed at a mural. The graffiti depicted a woman in fishnet stockings, her hair cut into a bob, dancing on a stage. Nearby, Maria stood in her white dress, eyes downcast, as the Magic Man auctioned off her virginity.

"Jeez, did they have to paint this part too?" Maria muttered.

Charlie tilted her head. "I don't think they captured me right. They painted my dibdibs too small. Otherwise—I'm a masterpiece."

Maria approached one of the gear's teeth, the one closest to the deck. The gear was so enormous its teeth were bigger than Maria. A bronze door knocker had been welded onto the iron tooth, shaped like a goblin's head biting a ring. Maria grabbed the ring and knocked three times. The sound reverberated through the gear.

A hatch opened on the deck. A grubby face appeared. Two eyes stared from between strands of dusty hair. One of the urchins.

"What's the password?" the boy said.

Maria bit her lip, trying to remember. "Tarsier eyes."

The boy snorted and slammed the hatch shut.

"Maria!" Charlie said, rolling her eyes. "That was last year's password. Stay with the times." The bargirl grabbed the knocker and pounded. "Open up, gago!"

The hatch reopened. The boy glared at them.

"No second chances!" he said.

"Yes, well, this time it's Charlie Wonder knocking on your door," Charlie said. "You know, the masterpiece beauty who inspires artists? The one painted onto the gear you live under? Well, I happen to know the password. It's . . ." She paused. "It's …" She tapped her cheek. "Come on, come on, I know this. The password is … Ah, I remember!" Her knelt and grabbed the boy's ear. "The password is: We're friends with Jay Jay so let us through or I'll rip your ear off, you stupid boy!"

"Ow, ow, fine!" the boy said. "Yikes. This is child abuse, you know."

"People need to stop saying that!" Charlie said.

The boy retreated into the tunnel, and the hatch slammed shut. But rumbling sounded in the deep. The deck thrummed. The massive gear began to turn.

"Come on, Charlie!" Maria said.

They hopped onto the nearest gear's tooth. The gear creaked, spinning along the wall. Maria and Charlie rose like women on a Ferris wheel. There were no harnesses, only a humble handle welded into the metal. They clung on, swaying, coming dangerously close to falling.

The gear kept turning, raising them higher. From up here, Maria could see all of Skid Bottom, the lowest deck of Mother's Womb.

Four years is too long to have lived here, she thought. Too long for all of us. We must find a new home.

Finally the gear stopped turning. It had brought Maria and Charlie to the ceiling. A ventilation grate waited above, tied with a black ribbon, symbol of the Urchin Express.

When Maria nudged the grate, it opened willingly, revealing a shaft.

"Charlie, give me a boost," Maria said.

"Oh, sure, ask big fat Charlie to lift you up. You know I'm just as petite as you! Well, okay, maybe I weigh two or three pounds more. But it's all in the right places, and—"

"Charlie, fine, you climb in first." Maria grabbed her friend and hoisted her up. "Ow, dammit, you are heavy, Charlie!"

Charlie gripped Maria's face for support, smooshing her nose. "I'm a petite feather!" She placed her foot on Maria's head. "As delicate as a butterfly!"

"Ow, ow, Charlie! You're stepping on my head!"

"Hey, it's not my fault your head is so big. Stand still!"

"Ow, my face!"

Finally Charlie managed to climb through the vent, not before thoroughly stomping across Maria. Then she reached down and helped Maria up too.

Charlie brushed her hands together. "Well, that was easy enough."

"You just needed to rip off a boy's ear and flatten my nose," Maria muttered, gingerly touching her face.

They found themselves in a little hole in the wall. But this was no place of poverty.

Maria's eyes widened, and she couldn't help but gasp.

Here was a palace.

* * * * *

A hidden cave of wonders—here in Skid Bottom!

Gears, pipes, and screws hung from the walls, forming a kaleidoscope of brass, iron, and steel. Shelves rose everywhere, heavy with grappling hooks, ropes, lanterns, and spyglasses. Maps covered the ceiling, depicting the vast network of ducts that flowed across Mother's Womb. Orphans sat everywhere—on stools, in alcoves, on tabletops—gnawing on bones like wild dogs. They were so sooty they looked like blackened demons more than children.

An enormous ring of metal leaned against the back wall. Years ago, it had encircled an exhaust pipe on a starship. Now tasseled cushions and embroidered blankets filled the ring, turning it into a lush armchair.

A man lounged there like a king upon his throne. He wore brown trousers, a buttoned white shirt, and a silver chain. His skin was a rich brown, his goatee black, his eyes dark and mischievous. He looked at Maria and Charlie, eyes glinting, but did not speak. He was busy drinking beer from a greendeer horn.

Charlie placed her hands on her hips. "What, you're not gonna offer a pair of lovely ladies like us a sip?"

The man lowered the horn, wiped suds off his lips, and grinned. He had a bright smile full of perfect teeth.

"Charlie Wonder! How are you, gorgeous?"

She pointed at the floor. "Get your puwit over here, Jay Jay, and give me a hug."

"You're not going to squeeze that puwit again, are you?"

Not waiting for a response, he approached Charlie and gave her a crushing hug. Sure enough, she squeezed his backside.

"Sorry, couldn't resist!" she said.

Jay Jay kissed her cheek. "I'm irresistible." He turned toward Maria, took her hand in his, and kissed it. "My lady."

Maria laughed. "I'm no lady. I'm just a bargirl, remember?"

Jay Jay lost his smile. "No. You're more than that, Holy Maria. You always have been."

"And you've always been more than a rickshaw runner," Maria said.

She remembered a younger Jay Jay from her days in the city. Back then, he had been a scrappy young man with dreams of grandeur. He had owned a little rickshaw business, pulling one rickshaw himself, hiring friends and relatives to pull a few others. By the end of the war, he had opened up a bar too.

Then the Earthlings flew back home, their tails between their legs.

Then the Red Cardinal destroyed Mindao.

The Luminous Army marched into the ruins, slaughtering the South Bahayans, Earth's abandoned allies. Maria, Charlie, Jay Jay, and thousands of others had fled up here. To Mother's Womb among the stars.

Maria had hoped for a better life here. But Ernesto wanted her to suffer. He kept her a stripper, refusing to let her work any other job. And the Magic Man enforced his will. Maria was a slave, humiliated every day. Some of the other girls, like Charlie, enjoyed their work well enough, exhausting as it was. Maria hated every moment. It shamed her. It broke her.

But Jay Jay had thrived here in Mother's Womb. While not a child himself—he was almost thirty—he commanded the Urchin Express, king of the orphans. He sent them scurrying through the labyrinth of ducts, delivering packages and collecting information.

"Yeah, I suppose you could say I've done well for myself." Jay Jay winked. "I live like a king up here in my palace."

Maria stroked his cheek. "I'm proud of you."

"Hey, no touching!" Charlie pulled her hand away. "You have to learn how to respect people's boundaries, you know."

Maria rolled her eyes. "Charlie, you're touching his puwit as we speak!"

"Oh, he doesn't mind when I do it." Charlie kissed Jay Jay's cheek. "He's madly in love with me, you know."

Jay Jay nodded. "Sure am. I told you, Charlie, my throne needs a queen. Sit there with me."

"Hey, I'm saving myself for a gentleman from Earth," Charlie said. "You know that. Sorry, gorgeous, but I don't date locals. I just fondle them."

"That's sexual abuse," Maria said.

Charlie groaned and raised her voice to an exasperated roar. "I thought I'm a child abuser, not a sex abuser!"

Across the room, the orphans turned to look at her. One child whimpered and fled.

Charlie blushed. "Um … hi kids. Anyone want some candy?" She rummaged through her purse, accidentally pulled out a condom, then winced and hid it behind her back. "Sorry, sorry! Wrong compartment. Just … look away from Auntie Charlie right now. Before I end up in prison."

They sat at a scarred wooden table—real wood, a luxury in space—and Jay Jay poured everyone beer. Good beer too—imported from Earth. As they drank, Maria recounted the tale. Pippi's trauma. The missing silver starships, lost undersea. The journals in General Ward's cabin, containing information on Sodom and Gomorra, drowned starships that could ferry refugees to Earth.

"We need your help, Jay Jay," she finished the tale. "Can you sneak me into the general's quarters?"

Maria glanced at the ceiling, which showed a map of the ductwork. Miles and miles of ducts. If she tried to navigate them alone, she'd get lost in no time.

"Sure, I'll help ya." Jay Jay leaned back and placed his feet on the table. "But it'll cost ya."

"Unfortunately, we're broke," Maria confessed.

"Can I interest you in some condoms instead of coins?" Charlie pulled them from her purse and waggled her eyebrows. "They come in different colors!"

Jay Jay waved dismissively. "I don't want your money or your rubbers." He grimaced at Charlie. "Stop waving those around! There are kids here." He looked back at Maria. "What I want … is to join you."

Maria tilted her head. "What, as a stripper at the Toy Box?"

Charlie perked up. "I'd love to see that."

"No, you gagos!" Jay Jay said. "I want to join your quest. I'll help you find the maps to the lost starships. Then I'll go searching for them with you. Truth is, I've gotten a bit bored up here in my palace. I could use a grand old adventure."

"And then you'll become a stripper?" Charlie asked hopefully.

"Deal," Maria said. "Not the stripping part. Ignore the stripping part. In fact, going forward, just ignore everything Charlie says. I usually do."

"Maria is a stupid gago with a giant head!" Charlie said.

"I hear nothing," Maria said. "See how lovely it is?"

Jay Jay snapped his fingers. "Bobby! Alex!"

He whistled, and two boys scampered forward. Both were scrawny, sooty, and chewing on old bones.

"Yo, Jay Jay, can't we have beer too?" said one of the boys.

"No, of course not!" Jay Jay bristled. "That would be horrible, because it would mean less beer for me."

Another boy poked Jay Jay in the belly. "You could skip a few beers."

"I have the abs of Adonis!" he said. "Now shut up and show Maria the way."

The boys blinked innocently. "The way where?"

Jay Jay snorted. "As if you weren't eavesdropping the whole time. Go, go, urchins!"

The boys saluted. "Go go urchins!"

It must have been their motto. Maria shuddered. It sounded too much like "Go Go Cowgirl" to her. Her memories from that place were less than pleasant. Though admittedly the Go Go Cowgirl was no worse than the Toy Box.

The boys scampered through a hatch into the ductwork. One peered out a moment later, gesturing. "Come on, come on! We haven't got all day."

Maria was a petite woman, barely five feet tall and slender. But even she struggled to squeeze into the ducts. There was a reason the Urchin Express employed children. If she sucked in her breath, she managed to wiggle a few feet into the duct, following her sooty guides.

"Come on, Charlie!" Maria said.

"No way my shapely curves can fit in there," Charlie said. "You're on your own. I'll just stay here and make out with Jay Jay."

"Hey!" Jay Jay said. "I don't remember anyone asking my opinion on the matter."

"I'm not asking you," Charlie said, turning away from the duct. "Bye Maria! Take your time! I'll be busy for a while."

Maria sighed and wriggled down the duct, heading to the place she had been trying to forget for years. Heading into the heart of her nightmares.

Chapter Ten

Charlie's Place

Charlie waited among the urchins, and her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

It's happening again. Her eyes stung. War.

The images flashed before her. The shantytown burning. The skeletons dancing. Her friends dying.

I never wanted this, Charlie thought. I'm not a fighter or adventurer. I only wanted a better life. A man to love me. A ticket to Earth. Again Maria drags me into violence.

She sat here in a lair of urchins, but she wanted to go home. To hug her children. To snort her drugs. To dance for hours and hours under neon signs and flashing spotlights. To forget the pain. To drown.

She tried to light a cigarette. Her hands kept shaking. She couldn't get the lighter to work.

"Here." Jay Jay sat down beside her, pulled a lighter from his pocket, and held out the flame.

She took a puff, felt the sweet hintan flow through her lungs. The drug, cultivated from an alien flower, was milder than shabu crystals, which were synthesized in dirty little labs. Shabu gave her exhilarating strength, allowing her to dance for hours. Hintan soothed her. Warmed her bones. Embraced her from the inside. Both were slowly killing her.

"Thanks, darling." She exhaled, blowing out lavender smoke. "I'm old. My hands shake."

Jay Jay laughed. "Hey, I wish I look so hot when I'm your age."

"Shut up!" She hit him with her purse. "We're the same age. What are you, twenty-six?"

"Twenty-eight," he said.

Charlie looked around her. "And you lead an army of babies."

She looked around her at the lair, this little hidey-hole above the giant gear. Back during the war, when the Earthlings still ruled Mother's Womb, this must have been a service room. Today crates of food, medicine, and maps filled it. So did orphans. They sat on the boxes, huddled among the rafters, peered from under blankets. A few stepped closer, tried to steal some of Charlie's cigarettes, only to recoil when Gummy slapped their hands away. But most were shy, peeking from the shadows.

"They've had hard lives," Jay Jay said, gazing at the orphans. "A few came from the villages. Their parents died in the war. Most were born on the streets of Mindao. Born in gutters and on landfills. They were pickpockets, prostitutes, beggars, trash-eaters. I took them in."

Charlie leaned against him. "You're a good man, Jay Jay. Where were you when I was a kid?"

He smiled softly. "You come from Happy Mountain, don't you?"

She nodded. "A trash-picker through and through. How did you know?"

"I can tell," he said. "I always can. You might have been a bargirl for years, but you still have the accent. The mannerisms. The nervousness. I come from Moon River. You know Moon River?"

Charlie nodded. "The shanties along the water. Rough place."

"I was an orphan. Never knew my mom and dad. Grew up begging and stealing." Jay Jay flashed a smile. "Yeah, yeah, sob story, I know. We all got one."

"How did you get out?" Charlie said. She swept her arm across the lair. "You have a kingdom here!"

His smile widened. "I started humbly. When I was eight, I started pulling a rickshaw through the streets of Mindao. I pulled a lot of big fat Earthlings. Made me strong. Made me fast. When I was twelve, my master died, and I inherited his rickshaw. I kept all the profits that way. No need to pay a master a cut! So I saved. I bought a second rickshaw, then a third, then a fourth. I hired people to pull them. Then I upgraded to electric rickshaws, so we wouldn't have to break our backs."

Charlie grinned. "I remember you pulling me and my friends through Mindao."

"You were great tippers!" Jay Jay said. "Finally I fulfilled my dream. I opened a bar." He pouted. "But you never visited."

"Aww, honey." She kissed his cheek. "You don't want the likes of me in your bar. You probably ran a respectable establishment. I'm a bargirl. I'd attract the wrong clientele."

Jay Jay snorted. "My clientele was drunk most of the time. They came to watch sports on the holofeeds. Old baseball games. I'd rerun them over and over, and they were too drunk to notice."

Charlie laughed. "You have to be drunk to enjoy baseball."

He bristled. "Hey, don't insult baseball. Those games got a lot of asses in my seats. And then …" He sighed. "The Red Cardinal bombed my bar to the ground. Along with the rest of the city. So I came up here. Like everyone else. And I started over among the stars."

"You've done well for yourself," Charlie said. "The Urchin Emperor."

Jay Jay looked around him. "Yeah, I admit it. At first, I ran the Urchin Express for profit. Hired a bunch of skinny little orphans to scuttle through the ducts. Want to deliver a package to a loved one three decks up? That'll be five hundred pesos, please! Need to spy on a business rival? Well, sir, my urchins will listen through the vents, only a thousand pesos for each nugget of information. It keeps the kids out of Skid Bottom. Keeps them safe. And they keep most of the profits. Many of my orphans are filthy rich. Greedy little bastards."

"Hey, I should get my lazy kids to work for you," Charlie said. "But they're probably too fat to squeeze through the ducts. My son Rodrigo is sixteen and all he does is read comics all day."

"Rodrigo's a good kid," Jay Jay said. "Smart dude."

Charlie smiled and leaned against him. "If you were a little older, I'd marry you."

Jay Jay laughed. "I thought you only dated Earthlings. Men with a visa to Earth."

Her smile faded. "Not always."

She remembered Jose. Her dear, sweet Jose, a guerrilla-turned-nurse. A man she had loved. A man who loved her. A man Ernesto murdered before her eyes.

"I'm sorry," Jay Jay said softly. "You lost someone."

She nodded, tears in her eyes. "Yes." Her voice was hoarse. "I miss him."

Jay Jay brushed away her tears and smiled. A warm smile that filled his eyes and her soul. So many Bahayans could only smile sadly, the light never reaching their eyes. Jay Jay smiled truly. And it was beautiful.

"Hey, Charlie, you know, I've learned something. It's never too late. No matter where you are in life. No matter where you come from. No matter how much shit life has been tossing at you. You can still move up. You can still hope and dream and succeed. Maybe Maria's crazy plan will work, and we'll find those silver starships, and we'll sail to Earth. Hey, we can start a new business there."

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "We?"

"Sure!" Jay Jay said. "I'm not gonna do all the work myself, am I? I need your help! We can open a new bar."

"No." Charlie shook her head. "Not a bar. I don't ever want to work in a bar again. How about … a diner?"

He tilted his head. "How is that different?"

"It's totally different," Charlie said. "We'll have checkered tablecloths and flowers. There will always be a pot of fresh coffee brewing. I'll bake cherry pie. There will be no booze, no drugs, no strippers. Just hot coffee and damn good cherry pie. The regulars will come in, smile, and say hello. I'll wear a cute uniform, a little sexy, but not too revealing. And you can cook."

"Hey!" Jay Jay bristled. "Don't I get to wear a sexy uniform?"

She laughed. "I'd love to see that. But I might have trouble resisting myself, and I'd have to squeeze you."

"We'll name the diner Charlie's Place," he said.

"Not Jay Jay's Place?"

He laughed. "Nah, I'd rather work behind the scenes. Charlie's Place has a nicer ring to it."

"Charlie's Place," she whispered. She wiped her eyes and leaned against Jay Jay. He wrapped an arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

"So it's settled," he said.

"It's a beautiful dream," Charlie said softly. "And I'd like to dream it with you. Even if it comes true—"

"When it comes true," Jay Jay said.

"When it comes true," Charlie corrected herself, "we won't forget where we came from. We won't forget the slums. The war. The people we lost. I don't know if we can ever be happy, Jay Jay. Not us. Not the survivors of Bahay. We saw too much. We lost too much. We might never be as happy as those people coming in for our hot coffee and cherry pie. But we can still find some peace. Some worth to our lives. Maybe that's all I can hope for now. I'm broken, Jay Jay. I'm an aging, broken whore with four kids from four dads, with a drug addiction, with a cracked heart. There's barely any soul left in me. But maybe, if we can reach Earth, if we can open that diner … maybe I can salvage my life. Maybe someday, when I die, I won't die an old whore. I'll die a whole woman."

"Well, aren't you a cheery one," Jay Jay said.

She laughed. "You got me all morbid. Usually Maria is the mopey one. You and I are the sexy ones!"

Jay Jay tilted his head. "I thought I was the smart one."

"You wish, sexy-pants. Now light me another cigarette. And tell me more about that diner we'll open." She held his hand. "Tell me how everything will be good."

Chapter Eleven

Ten Thousand Pictures

The urchins moved confidently through the ductwork. One crawled ahead of Maria, leading the way. The other crawled behind her, shoving her whenever she got stuck.

"Come on, move it!" a boy said, pushing Maria through a tight spot.

"I'm trying!"

"Hold your breath."

"I am!"

The boy ahead of her pulled, and the one behind pushed, and finally they got Maria through. Slender as she was, Maria was larger than a child, and the ducts were a tight squeeze. They crawled onward through the labyrinth.

The ductwork spread up and down, left and right, coiling and branching off like the world's craziest labyrinth. They were not the only ones here. Every moment, another urchin crawled by, moving through the maze. Some carried roses, the gift of one lover to another, separated by decks. Other urchins carried messages in envelopes or codechips. Some carried bottles of wine, packs of cigarettes, or purses of aromatic hintan—contraband goods that everyone on the station enjoyed.

Arrows, circles, triangles, and various glyphs appeared on the steel walls, drawn with markers, chalk, or simply soot. The Urchin Express had invented an entire alphabet of symbols, marking the way through the labyrinth. When the urchins passed one another, they spoke a language Maria did not understand. Not Tagalog. Not English. A language of their own.

Every moment, they passed by another vent or grate, and Maria could peek into the various cabins of Mother's Womb. She saw countless berths, once the cabins of Earthling soldiers. Military cots still filled them, but now Bahayan families lived here, turning the berths into little apartments. Here lived the middle class of Mother's Womb, a level above Skid Bottom. They were merchants, doctors, engineers, tradesmen. This neighborhood was too nice for Maria, a poor stripper. Ernesto would never allow her to climb the social ladder of Mother's Womb. He wanted her to suffer in Skid Bottom. If she tried to rise, he'd smack her back down into hell.

As Maria kept climbing through the decks, she passed over vents that cast neon beams. Music pounded, heavy with bass and drums and electronic beats. Through the vents, she saw casinos, brothels, bars, fighting pits, hintan dens, all the hives of pleasure that saddled the middle decks.

As they kept climbing, Maria's nervousness grew. Ernesto and the Crimson Claws lived in the upper decks. They were the lords of Mother's Womb. From on high, they ruled the station. The higher she climbed, the closer to danger she came.

Finally they reached their destination.

Bobby, the urchin who led the way, pointed at a grate.

"There," he mouthed.

Maria frowned. She had expected something more. Armed guards, or robots, or a fiery pit she'd have to jump over while dodging spinning blades. But there it was, a vent like any other. The vent that led into General Ward's cabin.

"Later!" Bobby mouthed. "Just follow the symbols back."

He and his friend scampered away.

"Wait!" Maria whispered. "I can't read the symbols!"

But they were gone around a bend. Maria sighed.

She peered through the vent, but the cabin was dark. She couldn't see more than vague shapes. A desk. An armchair. She heard nothing but the white noise of the humming station. Nobody was home, it seemed.

Does anyone live here now? Maria wondered. Or do even the Crimson Claws, the rulers of this station, avoid the general's quarters? A shudder passed through her. This is where I stabbed him with a katana. Death still clings to this place.

She waited a while longer. She heard nothing.

She had left Gummy behind in the shanty to watch over Lily. But Crisanto was here in her pocket. Maria pulled him out. Her friend glowed in her palm.

"Crisanto, can you slip through the vent and spy for me?" she whispered. "Just don't glow much."

Crisanto normally shone as much as a candle. He dimmed in her palm. Soon he looked like an ember. And then he barely glowed at all. He was so dim Maria could see his true form: a tiny body with many slender limbs, reminding her of a neuron. The alien tilted on her palm as if asking, "Dim enough?"

Maria nodded. "Perfect."

Crisanto flitted off her palm, passed through the grate, and entered the cabin.

A moment later, he rushed back into the duct. He landed on Maria's palm, bounced up and down, fluttered from side to side, and flew in rings around her. She had never seen him so agitated.

"Crisanto! What's wrong?"

He flew toward her face, then down the duct, then back to her.

Come, come! he seemed to be saying. Let's get out of here!

He's scared, Maria thought.

"Is anyone in the cabin?" she said.

Crisanto froze, then flew from side to side. No.

"Is it safe to go in?" she asked.

The Santelmo thought for a moment, then bobbed up and down. Yes.

"Then I'm going in," she said. "I know you're nervous. I am too. But I need the general's books."

She removed the vent's lid, squeezed through, and dropped into the general's quarters.

For a moment, she stood frozen. She gripped the hilt of her knife. Nothing. No movements. No sounds. She was alone.

She tiptoed toward the wall, found a switch, and turned on the lights.

No.

Her head spun.

Her heart raced.

Her legs wobbled.

Oh God. Oh God no. What is happening? Oh god, what is happening?

They covered the walls. The ceiling. The shelves. The tables. They covered every free inch. Photos. Thousands and thousands of photos.

All of her.

Photos of her in the Toy Box, pole dancing. Older photos of her from the Go Go Cowgirl a few years ago. Photos of her at home in her shanty, reading to Lily, holding Lily in her arms. Photos of her sleeping. Photos of her bathing.

Countless secret photos, taken from the station's security cameras.

Somebody had printed them, had pinned them onto the walls, covering every inch. She pulled a few photos off, only uncovering more, layers and layers like old billboards stapled one onto the other. Years' worth of photos.

And somebody had vandalized them.

In some photos, her stalker had gouged out her eyes. In other photos, a red pen carved her neck open. In every photo with Lily, the child was scratched out. Violently.

"My God," Maria whispered.

She knew who lived here now. He wasn't in at the moment. But she recognized his smell. His madness.

Ernesto.

One photo caught her eye. She approached it, squinting.

It was a photo of her and Jon. Taken during that short, precious time they had spent together. A photo from the cafe where he had played the piano, sang for her, and everyone had joined in. They sat side by side, in love.

But in the photo, Jon's head was cut out. And Ernesto's head was taped in, replacing Jon.

Crisanto tapped her shoulder, flew around her, then whizzed back toward the vent, beckoning.

"No wonder you got scared, little one," she said. "Yes, we should leave. But I must find the general's journals first." She looked around. "Hard to find the bookshelf behind all these photos …"

She ripped bundles of photos off a piece of furniture, thinking it the bookshelf, but uncovered an armoire instead. Had Ernesto removed the books already? She moved through the cabin, tugging photos off walls, finding nothing. Dammit!

Crisanto tapped her shoulder again, then raced toward the vent. He glowed and dimmed, glowed and dimmed. Maria had never seen him so agitated.

"I'm going as fast as I can!" she said.

She kept ripping off photos until she found a door. A door to another chamber.

Of course, Maria thought. The bedroom.

A chill flooded her. She remembered that bedroom. She had pleasured the general in there many times. The memory sickened her.

She stepped inside. The general's elegant cruelty had left this space. Ernesto's insanity filled it.

Photos of Maria covered this room too. A huge photo, life-sized, covered the ceiling over a bed. The last thing Ernesto saw every night before drifting off to sleep.

Maria pulled photos off the wall, and there!

"Yes!" she whispered.

A bookshelf.

And the general's journals were still here! Two or three hundred books covered the shelf. History books. Philosophy. Art. And among them—a few journals bound in leather. The general's notes. One of these journals would contain the coordinates to Sodom and Gomorrah. Maria didn't know which one. She grabbed every journal she saw, stuffed them into her bag, and carried what didn't fit under her arms.

She stepped back into the living room and found Ernesto standing there.

He drew a butterfly knife and flicked it open.

Maria screamed.

* * * * *

"Maria!" Ernesto said. "What are you doing here?"

Not pausing to think, Maria hurled a journal at him. Hopefully not the one with Sodom and Gomorrah's coordinates. The leather-bound book hit Ernesto's face.

Before he could recover, she ran around him, heading toward the vent.

Escaping out the front door would be faster. But that was pointless. He would simply chase her into the corridor. To make things worse, a hundred Crimson Claws would pour from other cabins. Maria wouldn't last five minutes out there.

Salvation lay in the ductwork. Ernesto and his Crimson Claws were large men. They could not fit in there.

The duct opening was near the ceiling, its vent removed. Maria tossed the journals into the duct, then leaped toward the opening.

Ernesto caught her.

He pulled her back down.

"Maria, you should not have seen this." He snarled, digging his fingers into her. "You should not have come! Now you must stay here. Forever!"

"Let me go!" Maria cried. "You're insane! I'll never be yours."

"You'll be mine if I must disembowel and stuff you!" He raised his butterfly knife.

Light flared.

Crisanto shot forward and slammed into Ernesto's wrist. The knife flew and clattered against the floor.

Maria leaped toward the duct again. This time she caught the rim, strained, and pulled herself up. She squeezed her head and shoulders into the ductwork. Before she could go any deeper, Ernesto grabbed her ankle.

She kicked wildly.

He wouldn't release her. He was pulling her back into the cabin. Her fingernails scratched along the duct, scrabbling for purchase.

She drew her dagger. The antler hilt was warm and comforting. A memory of her father. She thrust the blade backwards, aiming blindly.

Ernesto screamed. He released her.

At once Maria crawled deeper into the duct, dodging his hands. She still clung to the dagger. The blade was bloody.

I hope I hit something sensitive, she thought.

Sensitive, may be, but not lethal. Ernesto still roared inside the cabin, too large to follow her into the ducts.

"You'll be mine, Maria! You'll be my slave!"

She scurried through the ducts, utterly lost, mad with fear, until she collapsed and trembled. Crisanto nuzzled her, soft and warm against her cheek.

"You saved my life, buddy," she whispered.

The Santelmo brushed against her cheek, tickling her.

A few urchins came crawling by, delivering flowers, toilet paper, and jars of soup from one deck to another—little gifts from lovers and friends separated by decks. One urchin was kind enough to show Maria the way. Finally, after navigating the labyrinth, she dropped back into Jay Jay's chamber above the gear.

"Maria!" Charlie rushed toward her. "My god. You're trembling. Are you okay?"

"I have the journals," she said. "Ernesto knows. We must leave the station. Right now."

Chapter Twelve

Skid Bottom Scuffle

As soon as Maria emerged from Jay Jay's lair, she saw them.

Crimson Claws. Trudging through the crowds of Skid Bottom, shoving squatters aside.

They're looking for me, Maria knew.

She stood atop the giant cogwheel that dominated the hull. The gear's uppermost tooth was just outside Jay Jay's lair. She balanced atop it, feeling like a woman on a Ferris wheel. From up here, she could see all of Skid Bottom.

The shanty towers. The piles of trash. The thousands of poor, hungry souls. And the Crimson Claws approaching like hungry sharks.

They're finally coming for me, Maria thought. The status quo is over.

Ernesto could have kidnapped her years ago, Maria knew. Forced her to marry him. Kept her as a slave in his cabin. His thugs patrolled every deck, including Skid Bottom. Even worse—Dark Mother, the artificial intelligent who controlled the station, served Ernesto. And that deranged machine saw and heard everything.

Yes, if Ernesto wanted her, he could have had her.

But Ernesto didn't want Maria in his bed. Not anymore. He had abandoned that dream long ago.

Instead, he wanted her to suffer.

Her wanted to break her soul.

Ernesto had personally founded the Toy Box, the sleaziest strip club in the station. He personally rescued the Magic Man from a re-education camp, brought him into this station, and reinstated him as Maria's pimp. It was Ernesto who insisted that Maria dance and strip for money. Debased. Humiliated. Flesh for tourists and truckers to gawk at.

Maria had spurned his love. She had married another man. For years now, Ernesto had tormented her. Shamed her. Broken her. It was his revenge. For years, she suffered.

But things were different now.

Things were so much worse now.

She had sneaked into his cabin. She had seen his madness. Seen the ten thousand photos. The photos of her over his bed. She had peered into his very soul and saw the dark fantasies he was most ashamed of.

If he caught her now, she would miss the Toy Box.

There were worse fates than dancing for money. Far worse. Maria knew that Ernesto would explore them all with her.

And now, his thugs were forcing their way through the crowd. Coming for her.

"Move, scum! Move for the Crimson Claws!"

They dressed like the Kalayaan, the old uprising against Earth. Wide straw hats. Baggy tunics. Peasant clothes. But they had become something different. Ritualistic scars marred their faces—three red lines on each cheek. They were Crimson Claws, the personal enforcers of Ernesto Santos. They swung electric batons. People screamed and fell back.

Standing atop the gargantuan gear, Maria snarled and balled her fists. The Crimson Claws were no men of the cloth. These were not inquisitors. But they too served Papa Dominus. The dark lord had blessed them, armed them. Like the inquisitors, those strange robed demons that tormented Bahay, the Crimson Claws wielded batons. The weapons were shaped like inverted crosses, the tips crackling with electricity.

Papa Dominus prohibited the use of blades. To shed blood was a great sin, he preached. But these thugs had no compunction shocking flesh or breaking bones.

Ernesto attacked me with a butterfly knife, Maria remembered. A forbidden weapon. An act a defiance against his lord?

It hinted at possible friction between the two leaders. But Maria didn't have time to consider that now.

Charlie leaped from the lair too, joining Maria atop the enormous cogwheel. She saw the Crimson Claws and spat out a string of curses.

Jay Jay emerged next, pulled a crank, and the cogwheel began to turn. The friends swayed and grabbed support handles. Creaking and rumbling, the gear slowly turned, carrying them down toward the deck.

"We're near the airlock!" Jay Jay said, pointing. "We'll grab a shuttle or ship. The one Pippi arrived in would do nicely. We're getting off this station."

"Not without Lily!" Maria said. Her daughter was still at home with Gummy—all the way across Skid Bottom.

The gear kept turning, maddeningly slow, like the world's laziest Ferris wheel. As Maria descended, towers of shanties blocked her view. She could no longer see the Crimson Claws, but she heard their cries. Heard their victims scream.

Yes, it was time to leave this station. To descend to Bahay. To find hope under the ocean.

"Nini, maybe we should leave Lily here," Charlie said. "Temporarily! We won't be gone forever. My kids will watch over her while we're away. The bottom of the ocean is no place for kids."

But Maria remembered the photos in Ernesto's cabin. Lily crossed out. Her face stabbed again and again.

No, Lily cannot stay here alone. Not for a single day.

She pulled Crisanto from her pocket.

"Crisanto, fly across Skid Bottom to my shanty. Tell Gummy to bring Lily! We'll be waiting at the cargo bay. Hurry!"

Crisanto bobbed, then whisked off, blazing like a tracer round between the shanty towers.

A voice boomed below. "There they are!" A group of Crimson Claws emerged between the towers. "Dissidents—halt!"

Maria and her friends were still on the gear. It was still turning, lowering them toward the deck at a snail's pace.

Charlie coned her hands around her mouth. "We can't halt! We're on a giant Ferris wheel!"

The Crimson Claws aimed their batons. Lightning bolts flew.

Oh crap, Maria thought.

A bolt slammed into the gear only inches away. Sparks blazed.

The gear trembled. Maria swayed and nearly fell to her death. Charlie caught her and pulled her back to safety.

"Whoa, what the hell?" Charlie shouted at the Crimson Claws.

More bolts flew. One grazed Jay Jay's arm, knocking him backward.

"Dammit!" Jay Jay patted out fire on his sleeve. "Don't waste your breath on that lot, Charlie. Bullets speak louder than words." He opened his leather jacket, revealing several pistols on a harness. "Ladies, take your pick."

"I'm covered, sweetcakes." Charlie pulled a huge pink condom from her purse. She cursed and tossed it aside. "Ignore that." She pulled out a huge pink pistol. "Here we go!"

She aimed at the Crimson Claws and opened fire.

Maria was only armed with a knife. She gratefully accepted a pistol from Jay Jay, aimed at the Crimson Claws below, and pulled the trigger.

One of the brutes fell. Then another. But both rose and marched onward. Their tunics fluttered open, revealing armored plates, dented and scratched and covered with flaking red paint.

Papa Dominus, it seemed, had given the Crimson Claws armor too. Lovely.

"Great, they're bulletproof," Maria muttered.

More bolts flew. Maria ducked. One bolt crackled over her head, slammed into the wall behind her, and showered sparks. She fired again and again, for all the good it did. She knocked another Crimson Claw down, but he just rose again, armor dented.

Jay Jay and Charlie kept firing beside her. From the hatch above, the orphans of the Urchin Express added their bullets. The hailstorm slowed the Claws but did not stop them.

Finally the gear's tooth reached the deck. The companions hopped off.

The hangar bay, which led to space and freedom, lay a hundred yards away.

Just a quick dash. Yet it seemed so far.

The companions ran as bolts flew above, as the Crimson Claws howled, and as the space station shook.

* * * * *

Maria could see it ahead.

Right there—just a short dash away!

The hangar bay. The doors out of this station. The gateway to freedom.

But crowds of squatters covered the distance, living in plywood shacks, nylon tents, or simply out in the open. Maria tried to elbow her way through. But the crowd was too thick.

"Please, let us through!" Maria cried.

A few people stepped aside. But that didn't help much.

"Let me handle this, sweetie." Charlie coned her hands around her mouth. "Everybody move! My friend has a bad case of the shits! You do not want to be near her! Move, move!"

The crowd parted, dismayed.

"Um, thanks, Charlie," Maria said. "I think."

Charlie flashed her a grin. "No problem, swee—" She yelped as a bolt flew over her head.

They ran through the crowd, heading toward the shuttle bay.

Come on, Crisanto and Gummy, Maria thought. Bring me my daughter.

She was tempted to turn around. To run back home. But her shanty lay all the way across Skid Bottom. And the Crimson Claws stood in the way. The best Maria could do now was draw them off, clearing a path for her pets.

The images flashed before her. The thousands of photos plastering Ernesto's walls. Lily crossed out.

He plans to murder my daughter, Maria thought.

"Seriously, people, back away!" Charlie shouted. "Maria has a bad fungus, you do not want to catch it. And you should see her lice!"

"We get it, Charlie, I'm a walking plague!" Maria said.

But it was working. The people kept stepping back. And Maria saw it ahead—the hangar bay.

A few small vessels docked there. The charred, dented dropships of smugglers. The corvettes of bounty hunters, bristly with weapons. The tacky shuttles of space tourists, painted with rainbows, palm trees, hula girls, and spacewhales—the logos of cruise ships that hovered a thousand kilometers outside the station.

None of those would work underwater. None could reach the sunken Sodom and Gomorrah.

But there was one ship that could. The Kinnara. The quad-craft Pippi had arrived in.

A quad-craft. Built for space, air, land, and water. Perfect.

"This is our ride to the lost starships," Maria said.

Charlie frowned. "What, we're just going to steal Etty's ship?"

"We'll borrow it," Maria said. "While Etty is recovering in the station infirmary. By the time she's strong enough to fly to Earth, we'll be back. With the Kinnara. With the lost silver starships. With the hope and salvation of Bahay."

"Still sounds like stealing to me, Nini," Charlie said.

"We have no choice," Maria said. "Come on!"

Maria was running toward the Kinnara when several Crimson Claws emerged from behind the quad-craft.

An ambush!

The Claws aimed electric batons and fired.

A bolt slammed into Maria's shoulder. She fell, screaming. Electricity raced across her. She convulsed.

Charlie fell beside her.

Jay Jay screamed and fell next, electricity racing across him like serpents.

The Crimson Claws thumped toward the fallen trio, weapons raised. Electricity kept pumping from the batons, filling Maria and her friends, pounding them with more and more agony.

One Claw approached Maria, smiling gruesomely. The ritualistic scars twisted across his cheeks.

"Our lord Ernesto summons you, Maria," one began. "He—"

Maria, still convulsing with electricity, drew her dagger, lunged forward, and stabbed the Crimson Claw.

The electricity raced through her dagger into the man.

He roared and fell back, dropping his baton. It clanged onto the deck. The electricity died.

Before the thug could recover, Maria swung her blade, slashing his throat. He gurgled on blood, fled a few steps, and crashed down dead.

The other Crimson Claws turned toward Maria. She knelt, grabbed the fallen baton, and found a button on the hilt. When she pressed it, electricity surged forth.

Lightning bolts slammed into Crimson Claws. Electricity raced across their armor. They screamed. Smoke rose from them. Their tunics and straw hats burst into flame. They fled, ablaze.

"Damn, bitch!" Jay Jay said, pushing himself to his feet. "You a savage."

"And she's my best friend!" Charlie said, beaming. "I taught her everything I know."

* * * * *

They ran across the hangar bay. Dozens of shuttles were parked here on the deck. Bounty hunter shuttles coated with spikes. Smuggler ships, charred and dented and incredibly fast. Tourist shuttles painted with garish murals. Among them, near the doors—the Kinnara.

Their ticket to freedom.

The quad-craft wasn't much to look at. Bulky armored plates, painted green. Hydraulic arms for crushing asteroids, painted yellow. Rickety treadmill tracks. Squat wings that seemed woefully inadequate for such a bulky hull. A ballast tank that hung like a potbelly. Cannons and guns galore. She was an ugly ship, dented, scratched, falling apart.

But when Maria looked at the figurehead on the prow, that beautiful woman with feathery wings, she felt comfort. Warmth. Hope. This ship would take her to her destination.

Maria pointed at the Kinnara.

"Get in and fire up the engines! I'll be right with you." She looked around her. "I need to find my daughter."

She looked away from the airlock—back toward the sprawling slums that covered the lower deck. Skid Bottom spread into the distance. Thousands of people crowded between the shantytown towers. No sign of Gummy, Crisanto, or Lilly.

It can take them an hour to get here! Maria thought, chewing her lip.

"We have to fly around the shanties," she said. "We have to find—"

More Crimson Claws burst out from the crowd.

Maria and Charlie opened fire—Maria with her electric baton, Charlie with her giant pink pistol.

Jay Jay had vanished. Where the hell was he?

A few Claws fell, crackling with electricity. Charlie managed to knock some down with her bullets. The goons wore armor, but that big pink gun packed a punch. One bullet hit a Claw in the head, splattering blood across the deck.

But more Claws kept emerging from the crowd.

Soon Maria's baton shot only sparks, then died completely, out of power. Charlie's gun clicked, out of bullets.

Twenty or more Crimson Claws charged, roaring for death, like some ancient samurais on a banzai charge.

Maria winced, seeing death.

Engines rumbled.

Blasts of air whipped her hair.

Guns roared. Bullets pounded the Crimson Claws, shattering their armor, tossing their corpses across the deck.

Maria raised her eyes. The Kinnara was flying!

Jay Jay sat in the cockpit, gripping the yoke. The quad-craft's rotary guns unleashed hell. Each of those bullets was the size of a dagger, piercing armor like it was paper.

The ship descended on jets of air, then wobbled and crashed onto the deck. A sensor broke off. An armored plate dented. The treadmill tracks caught on something and moaned, and the deck cracked open.

Jay Jay opened the hatch and leaned out. "Um … all aboard?" A gear detached and rolled across the deck. He winced. "Sorry, this is more complicated than a rickshaw."

Before more Claws could arrive, Maria and Charlie leaped into the Kinnara.

* * * * *

Maria raced into the cockpit.

"Give me the controls!"

She pulled Jay Jay out of his seat. He did not resist. The general had taught Maria how to fly. She was far from an expert, but she could certainly fly better than Jay Jay.

You taught me to fly, General Ward, Maria thought. She placed the leather-bound journals on her lap. And today you'll lead me to intergalactic starships.

But not without Lily.

And her daughter was still trapped somewhere in the slums.

Maria flipped a switch. Engines churned. Something popped. Something else snapped and clattered. But the Kinnara still rose on jets of air. Maria shoved the throttle forward, and they flew.

But not out the airlock and into space.

Maria flew deeper into the space station.

She flew above the crowd, the thousands of poor souls struggling to survive in Skid Bottom. Shanties rose before her—countless homes stacked one atop the other, constructed of cargo crates, pipes, curtains, and any other scraps found across the station.

She yanked the yoke, swerving around one tower. The Kinnara skimmed a shanty. A few metal rods—part of the tower's rickety foundation—tore loose. Scraps of curtain fluttered. The shanties tilted and nearly collapsed. The shanty residents rushed toward the far side, stabilizing the structure.

Maria swerved right, dodging another tower. Dozens of the towers rose before her. Maria whipped between them, seeking her home. The crowds spread below, pointing and shouting.

Maria glimpsed straw hats.

More Crimson Claws in the crowd.

The brutes raised batons. Electric bolts flew.

A bolt slammed into the Kinnara. Charlie and Jay Jay screamed and fell to the deck. Maria clung to the yoke. The quad-craft tumbled sideways and slammed into a tower of shanties.

The huts tore off their struts. Crates tumbled to the deck. Maria winced, hoping nobody was home.

More Crimson Claws fired from below. Maria swerved madly, desperate to dodge the assault. Another blast hit her. The quad-craft careened, glanced off the ceiling, wobbled downward. Maria barely steadied her flight.

"Charlie, little help?" Maria cried. She dared not use the Kinnara's rotary cannon. Not with so many innocents around.

"Got you covered, sweetie." Charlie loaded a fresh magazine into her pink pistol, leaned out the hatch, and opened fire. A Claw fell below. Perfect shot.

The Kinnara was approaching the end of the station. Maria saw her own shanty tower ahead.

Crimson Claws surrounded it. A dozen or more. They were climbing the tower.

"Lily," Maria whispered. "Oh God. Lily."

And then she saw it.

Light from below!

He rose from the crowd, a glowing star, shining like a beacon, calling her.

"Crisanto!" Maria cried.

* * * * *

The alien shone for a moment in the air. Maria knew he shone for her.

Then Crisanto descended back toward the crowd, casting his light. He wanted to show her something.

Maria gasped, and tears leaped into her eyes.

Lily. Lily was there! She was alive.

Rodrigo, Charlie's teenage son, was holding the little girl in his arms. He was running across the deck, worming his way between the people, drawing no attention from the Claws. Gummy ran beside them, trunk extended in a straight line.

Booms shook the station.

The Crimson Claws were firing again. An electric bolt slammed into the Kinnara. The quad-craft tilted in the air. Sparks flew from the dashboard.

Maria engaged the stabilizers, glided downward, and hovered above the crowd.

"Come on, Rodrigo!" she shouted, opening the side hatch. A folding ladder descended to the deck. "Hop up!"

Rodrigo leaped into the Kinnara, bringing Lily with him. Gummy hopped in after them. Maria was already ascending, swerving around crumbling towers and electric bolts.

The Kinnara raced toward the airlock. Maria hit a button, and the folding ladder retracted. The hatch slammed shut.

"Hey, stupid son!" Charlie shouted at Rodrigo. "You get out of here! This is a dangerous quest. You stay home!"

"Too late, mom!" Rodrigo said, still cradling Lily in his arms. "Besides, you need my knowledge on this quest."

"You only know comics, you stupid boy!"

"Mom!" He rolled his eyes. "I told you. They're graphic novels."

"He's right, no time to land again!" Maria said.

She nudged the throttle, flying faster toward the airlock. A robot manned the airlock doors—a clunky, boxy contraption like a washing machine with legs. The robot stared at the incoming Kinnara, something like shock filling its plastic eyes. It stumbled backwards and fumbled with the doors' controls. Lights flashed. A horn wailed. The airlock's massive double doors began to slide open, revealing space.

Crimson Claws ran toward the airlock, blocking the Kinnara's way out.

They were wheeling a cannon.

A damn artillery cannon.

Lily wailed.

Maria fired the Kinnara's rotary gun.

The cannon fired a shell.

The Kinnara's bullets slammed into the shell in midair.

A fireball blazed. The Kinnara shot through the flames and shrapnel and into space.

And they were out. They were free. Shrapnel stuck out from their hull, but they had survived.

Maria leaned back in her seat and let a sigh roll through her.

Space spread before her. For the first time in years, she had fled Mother's Womb.

"That was close," she said.

Jay Jay gulped. He was green. "Is it always like this with you?"

"Like what?" Maria said, pulling her daughter onto her lap.

"Giant guns!" Jay Jay said. "Fire! Explosions! People trying to kill us!"

Charlie nodded. "Pretty much. You get used to it."

Jay Jay sighed. "I miss my rickshaw business."

Maria was just starting to relax when alarms blared in the cockpit. Lights flashed across the controls.

She saw it on the rear-view monitor. Enemy shuttles.

Dozens were launching from Mother's Womb, guns blazing.

Chapter Thirteen

Dance the Skies

The shuttles kept launching from Mother's Womb like baby spiders. A hundred or more. All streaking toward the Kinnara.

Maria stared at the incoming enemy.

For a moment, terror froze her.

A hundred military shuttles. The hundred fingertips of Dark Mother. Flying toward her, guns blazing.

Ready to kill Maria and her daughter.

It was not Crimson Claws piloting those machines. Not smugglers or hunters. It was the mad A.I. herself, the goddess of the stars.

A missile stormed toward the Kinnara.

Maria clenched her jaw and opened fire. Her rotary guns roared. Bullets slammed into the missile a short distance away. Fire bloomed through space, winking out in an instant.

Maria flipped a switch, opening a hailing channel.

"Dark Mother, stop this!"

Another missile flew. Maria opened fire again, destroying it. Lily wailed and clung to Gummy. The alien wrapped his trunk around the girl, making comforting gum gum gum sounds.

Dark Mother is toying with me, Maria thought.

"I know you want me alive!" Maria said. "You must let me go."

A hundred transmissions washed over the Kinnara, rocking the ship. A hundred voices emerged from the speakers, speaking in unison.

"Why do you leave us, child?"

Maria rose from her seat. She sneered through the viewport at the shuttles, at the station looming behind them. "I'm not your slave!"

The shuttles shifted in space, rearranging their formation, creating a smiling face a kilometer across.

"Oh, but you are his slave," said the hundred voices. "You are slave to Ernesto. The man with the steel skull. And he is my beloved pet."

"Your beloved pet is a rabid cur!" Maria shot back.

She was buying time.

She needed a few more seconds.

As she spoke to Dark Mother, she was typing. Typing blindly with one hand on the controls.

"Ernesto Santos is like me," the hundred shuttles replied, all the voices of Dark Mother and her deranged personalities. "He is insane. He is cruel. He delights in games. So I let him keep his toys. And you are his most precious toy. Come back to me, Maria. Don't make me destroy you."

"You would never!" Maria said. Still typing. She dared not even glance at what she typed, hoping there weren't too many typos. "Destroy me? Deprive Ernesto of me? The woman he loves?"

"You need not die today," Dark Mother said. "Come back, Maria. And live. But if I must, yes, I will kill you."

"Then go ahead!" Maria said … and hit send.

The message, hopefully not a jumble of typos, broadcast toward the station.

Maria glanced at what she had blindly typed.

BOUNTY ON MARIA DE LA CRUZ, REFUGEE ABOARD THE KINNARA. TEN MILLION DOLLARS. BRING ALIVE.

There were hundreds of bounty hunters drinking and whoring in Mother's Womb. Right now, she imagined, they were all rushing toward their starships.

Not bad, Maria thought. Not a single typo.

Dark Mother howled and the hundred shuttles launched their missiles.

Maria narrowed her eyes and flew like never before.

She soared up, down, left, right, dodging the assault. She fired her rotary cannon, destroying some missiles in midair. More missiles flew. Maria served madly, and several missiles collided, exploding nearby, rocking the Kinnara.

She would not survive much longer. But she just needed a few more seconds.

More missiles flew toward the Kinnara. More than before. Maria winced, not sure she could dodge or destroy them all.

A button on the dashboard was flashing madly, begging to be pressed. Maria didn't know what it did. She shrugged and pushed the button.

A hatch opened beneath the prow. The Kinnara rattled, spewing a cloud of decoys into space—random scraps, bolts, and ribbons of metal. The chaff flew everywhere like confetti. The incoming missiles slammed into the decoys. Explosions bloomed. Debris hit the Kinnara, jolting the ship. But the hull remained intact.

Useful things, those decoys, Maria thought. Too bad I can only use that trick once. I'm out already. Must add more decoys to shopping list.

The hundred shuttles regrouped. They formed an assault formation. They stormed toward Maria, encircled her like a pack of wolves.

One enemy shuttle exploded.

Another.

A third.

And there they came.

The bounty hunters.

* * * * *

The bounty ships emerged from the station hangars. Ships bristly with machine guns, torpedo bays, photon cannons, laser blasters. Armored, spiky, charred ships, the veterans of countless battles. Some human ships. Many aliens ships. They came storming toward their prey.

Toward Maria.

But between her and them … flew Dark Mother's shuttles.

The space station seemed to stare at Maria with a thousand glowing portholes. Dark Mother screamed—a broadcast that flooded every ship in space, that pounded out of every speaker.

"She's mine!"

Maria smiled crookedly. "Not for a ten million bounty."

The bounty hunters fired their weapons. Lasers. Torpedoes. Plasma. Bullets. But not at the Kinnara. At Mother's shuttles.

The A.I. screamed, spun her shuttles around, and bombarded the bounty hunters with her full arsenal. Her bullets and bombs pounded the spiky armored ships.

"Nini, what the hell did you do?" Charlie screamed, clutching her seat's armrests.

"Created a distraction!" Maria said. "Hold on tight!"

Maria pulled the yoke, executing a sharp U-turn. Planet Bahay rose before her, an ocean world dotted with islands. The battle blazed behind. She shoved down the throttle, the engine roared, and the Kinnara swooped toward the planet.

Fire flowed across the rear-view monitor, nearly blinding Maria. The battle raged just behind her. Maria hoped the flames hid her escape.

As the Kinnara charged toward Bahay, everybody screamed. Charlie gripped her armrests so tightly she tore them, and her face drained of blood. Rodrigo was turning green, clutching his comic books. Jay Jay cursed and clung to Charlie.

"Hey, stop trying to cop a feel!" Charlie said, slapping his hands away.

"I'm not, I'm trying not to die!" Jay Jay cried.

Maria shoved the throttle as far as it would go. They flew faster, faster, faster even than bullets. The planet grew ahead, its blue light washing over the viewport. But when the flames cleared in the rear-view monitor, Maria cursed.

Several bounty hunters had survived Dark Mother's assault. The bristly ships were now pursuing the Kinnara, hungry for those ten million bucks.

"They're after us!" Maria said. "Somebody man the stern cannon!"

"We have a stern cannon?" Charlie said.

"What the hell is a stern cannon?" Jay Jay cried.

Rodrigo rolled his eyes and lowered his comics. "I'm on it. You guys are hopeless."

The teenager leaped to the stern, grabbed the controls, and unleashed hell. Plasma bolts rolled into space like flaming bowling balls. The inferno crashed into a bounty hunter's ship. The heavily-armed vessel careened into the distance.

"Goodness gracious, great balls of fire," Charlie breathed, eyes wide with awe.

"I told you playing video games would pay off someday, Mom," Rodrigo said.

"Enough bantering and keep firing!" Maria said.

Rodrigo busied himself with blasting fireballs. Only Maria had some experience fighting in space, but Rodrigo was doing a fine job for a rookie. The Kinnara was a tough old ship, built to survive almost anything. Her armor was thick, her weapons fearsome. The fireballs tore another bounty ship apart.

A plasma blast hit the Kinnara.

The hull dented.

Another blast clipped a wing.

The yoke tore from Maria's hands. The ship spun. She gripped the yoke, wrestled it into submission, and stormed closer to Bahay.

The planet's light washed over them.

A blast skimmed their underbelly. The armor rattled but held.

And then the Kinnara reached Bahay's atmosphere.

They plowed into a barricade of air with fire and fury.

They plunged through a shrieking, flaming, blinding inferno.

Space vanished. Blue sky and furious red fire blinded the stars.

The quad-craft ionized the air. Flaming demons roared over armored plates, desperate to enter the hull, to consume the sweet morsels within.

But the armor held. The Kinnara made it through.

She dived through the blue firmaments. Clouds burned, and sunlight blazed, and even as the horrors of hell pursued her, Maria found it beautiful. She was falling through heaven. She was flying through life.

She whispered old words.

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.

And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

- Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

Charlie looked at her. "One of Jon's poems?"

Maria shook her head. "A poem the general taught me. Long ago."

Charlie smiled and patted Maria's hand. "It would be beautiful if a fleet of starships weren't trying to murder us right now."

Maria glanced at the monitor and tapped a few buttons. The radar picked up seven crafts diving into the sky in pursuit. She switched to a live video feed from the stern camera. She saw the enemy ships diving like comets.

"Bounty hunter ships," she said. "Tough ones."

Sitting at the stern, Rodrigo pulled the trigger. Bolts flew upward, but the pursuing ships easily dodged them.

"Dammit!" Rodrigo said. "These plasma bolts move too slowly in the air."

"Better pray they work underwater!" Maria hit the throttle again, swooping fast toward the ocean. "We're going under!"

"What?" everybody cried at once. Even Lily.

"Gum gum?" said Gummy.

Maria nodded. "The Kinnara is a quad-craft, remember? Built for space, air, land, and water. Bet you those bounty hunters can't tolerate the wet stuff. Hold onto something! If you thought diving into air was rough, you ain't seen nothing yet."

"I regret coming!" Jay Jay said. "Take me back to my space station!"

"Too late, gorgeous!" Charlie said.

Jay Jay squirmed. "Stop squeezing my bottom."

"Maria said to hold onto something!" Charlie said. "She didn't specify."

"Eww, mom, gross," Rodrigo said.

"Shut up, son, and keep shooting the bad guys."

A missile streaked and skimmed the hull. The Kinnara jerked, losing a plate of armor. Bullets peppered the stern, rattling the ship as she flew. Maria kept swooping toward the ocean. Too fast. Too fast!

They were going to hit the ocean like an egg hitting a slab of concrete.

Maria hit the stabilizers and struggled to raise the nose. She had to slow down. To level off. A missile exploded beside her. She flew in a tailspin. They kept falling. They dived toward the ocean, and Maria saw the surf, glimpsed massive shadows beneath the water. Whales? Kraken?

She winced, pressed her feet hard against the deck, and—

A roar.

Screeching steel.

Water pounded them.

A monitor exploded. The hull dented. The ship rocked madly. A bulkhead tumbled to the deck. Gummy flew toward the ceiling, his trunk wrapping around Lily. Jay Jay had to reach out, grab them, and pull them back down. Water washed across the viewports and portholes.

"Maria, you're supposed to gently glide into the water!" Charlie said. "Gently!"

"Who has time for gently?" Maria said, praying the front viewport didn't crack.

For long moments, they carved through the water, boiling it as they plunged deeper. Sparks of light filled the ocean—bombs falling, exploding in the depths. Underwater shock waves pounded the Kinnara. The ship tumbled, knocked left and right, up and down. Lily was screaming, and Gummy wrapped her in his trunk, desperate to protect her. The alien was whimpering. The humans rattled in their seats.

Finally—they began to slow down.

The Kinnara floated gently underwater.

The monitors and overhead lights flickered, then finally gave up the ghost. The quad-craft plunged into darkness.

For a moment, everyone just sat there, not speaking. Maria could hear them breathing. Hear her own heartbeat. Hear Gummy's plaintive gum gum gum sounds.

Finally Charlie whispered, "Did it work? Are we safe?" She pulled a lighter from her purse. A small flame filled the cabin, illuminating their faces.

"They can't follow us here," Maria said. "Ninety-nine percent of Bahay is ocean. We've only ever seen one percent of our planet. Here is the true wilderness of Bahay. The ocean depths. Vast and unmapped. Somewhere in here, we must find the Silver Sisters, the fallen starships of legend. And we must save our people!"

Chapter Fourteen

An Unexpected Encounter

On a Sunday morning, lying in bed, Jon turned to his wife. He looked into her eyes, silent and tense.

She stared back. She bit her lip. She hurried into the bathroom, then crawled under the covers again and held him.

"Kaelyn?" he whispered.

She smiled hesitantly. "No news is good news."

A grin spread across Jon's face. "Second trimester!" He leaped up in bed and cheered. "Babe, we made it! Second trimester!"

Kaelyn sat up in bed, the sheets wrapped around her. She smiled. "It's only twelve weeks."

"Twelve weeks is huge!" Jon said. "Eighty percent of miscarriages happen in the first trimester, did you know? Once you're in the second trimester, you're much safer. Hey, who should we tell first? My parents or—"

"Jon." Kaelyn licked her lips. "Maybe we shouldn't announce it quite yet. I mean, after what happened the last few times …"

Jon sat beside her. He held her hand. "Kaelyn, I know these past three years have been rough. Three miscarriages. I know how heartbreaking it's been. But maybe … maybe things are looking up now. I'm almost done composing my new album. And you're in the second trimester. And maybe … maybe we got rid of all our bad luck and suffering, and we can finally be happy. Don't we deserve that?"

He didn't need to mention the rest. The war. His year in prison. The abuse she suffered as a child. The terrible loss of family and friends. She knew. She still carried the pain everywhere. They both did.

"Of course we deserve it," Kaelyn said. "But … I'm scared." She put a hand on her belly. "I'm not showing yet. Can we give it another week or two? Before we announce it?"

"Of course." He kissed her. "I love you, Kaelyn."

He spent the week feeling happy. For the first time in years—happy.

He had written seven songs for his sophomore album so far. It was almost done. His first record, Falling Like the Rain, was a concept album about the war on Bahay. This second album was more eclectic. More piano-driven. Sadder, more beautiful. He decided to open the album with "The Day He Did Not Die," a seventeen-minute look into his soul, his most personal work yet. The song he had written instead of killing himself.

The following songs were about different topics. Lost friends. Hopes for the future. A few songs about art and literature that inspired him. A song about Tolkien's time in the trenches of the Somme. A song inspired by Fahrenheit 451, one of Jon's favorite novels. A song about Carl Sagan. There was a song about Addison Linden, the great heroine of the Alien Wars, who gave Lindenville its name.

He just needed one more song. A song to close the album with. A song as powerful as "The Day He Did Not Die."

And … he had no ideas.

He had spent enough time in the studio, chained to the piano. He decided to seek inspiration in nature.

It had snowed all morning, and the roads were not yet plowed. Jon drove through Lindenville and the neighboring towns, moving northwest, his snow tires plowing forward stubbornly. Finally he parked on the roadside, left the car there, and entered Linden Forest.

Fresh snow coated boulders, fallen logs, and maple and birch trees. The only color came from red berries that grew across the bushes, trapped in marbles of ice. Jon found a fallen branch, which he used as a walking stick. He trudged through the snow, and in this silent place he found peace. Walking here, even the memories of Bahay did not rise. The magic of the frozen forest kept the nightmares away.

He walked deep into the wilderness. Well, maybe wilderness was an exaggeration. This was New Jersey, after all, not the Yukon. But it was a sizable forest, considering its location—about half the size of Manhattan. Jon walked for an hour, thankful for the GPS on his minicom. He stepped over frozen streams. Climbed over fallen logs. Trudged through deep snow as deer watched from behind icy trees. People had lived here before the Alien Wars, but over the past century, nature had reclaimed this place.

Jon remembered slogging for days on end through the rainforests of Bahay, but that seemed a different life, a different reality. The past faded here in this frozen forest, and the future silenced its eternal anxious song. It was just him here. Just his consciousness among wood and snow. Just the present moment and every frosting breath.

He hummed songs to himself. He saw the icicles as notes, the branches as lines in sheet music. Another song began to coalesce in his mind, still nameless, formless. But Jon had composed enough music to recognize that a new song had been conceived. That if he could grasp it, tug it, it would grow and finally be born.

Wings fluttered. A bird fled overhead, a speck of red in the sky.

A distant hum sounded. And then a great rumbling filled the forest. The ground shook and snow fell off branches. Jon froze.

A bomb? Was Earth under attack?

Then he saw it. A train chugging forth, its cowcatcher shoving sheets of snow off the tracks. The world trembled. The engines chugged. Smog filled the air. The train cars raced by, covered with graffiti, car after car of hidden cargo storming toward the city. The train seemed impossibly long, a snake of metal and smoke roaring through the wilderness.

Finally, after a good five minutes, the train was gone. But a spell was broken. The train had taken Jon's song with it.

He crossed the tracks. He walked deeper into the woods. But something was different now. No more squirrels scurried among the branches. In fact, there were no animals at all. Before crossing the tracks, Jon had seen footprints across the snow—of squirrels, rabbits, deer, raccoons. But on this side of the tracks, the snow was untouched, smooth and white as a shroud. There were no nests in the naked trees. No life at all.

He walked a little deeper. No music came to him. His muse was as dead as this forest.

I should go back.

He checked his minicom, hoping to map his way home using GPS. But the small computer was dead. He shook it. Nothing.

Jon cursed. Without a GPS, he was lost. Alone. Several miles in the woods.

It was snowing again. He would have to follow his footsteps home—and fast, before the falling snow could cover them.

He raised his eyes, seeking his path, and saw red among the trees.

He frowned. The color vanished. A cardinal bird? He heard no wings, no song. Berries? He saw none.

He took a step. Slowly. The snow crunched under his foot.

He took another step, eyes darting. Adrenaline flooded him. His heart pounded, and his palm was sweaty around the walking stick.

It's just the anxiety, he thought. After fighting a war, you're always on high alert. It was just a bird. Maybe some berries.

He forced a deep breath, walked again, and heard rustling behind him.

He spun around, raising the walking stick like a bo staff.

A man all in red stood there in the snow. He wore a red robe. A red hood. A red mask. Red gloves. Only the iron cross that hung from his neck was not red. An inverted cross.

"Um … hello there," Jon said, gripping the walking stick. "I guess it's true what they say. Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition."

The man did not move. He just stared.

"Nothing?" Jon said. "Is this thing on?"

Another man in red emerged from behind a tree. Then a third. Jon spun around, saw more there. The inquisitors surrounded him, the only color in the forest. On closer inspection, the robes were not red like birds or berries. Not a bright Christmas red. They were the color of blood.

One of the inquisitors stepped forward. Wherever he stepped, the snow hissed and melted. He was different from the others. He stood taller, and his mask was not blank but serpentine. A demonic mask. An inverted cross hung from his neck, encrusted with rubies. Little flames burned inside the gemstones.

He's a lord inquisitor, Jon thought. All the way from Bahay.

He had read about Bahay's inquisitors. Papa Dominus had founded their order after the war. The inquisitors served no god, no lord but Papa. They were his most trusted confidants and elite warriors. And the lord inquisitors were their highest ranking members.

"You are Jon Taylor," the lord inquisitor said.

His voice sounded oddly empty. Flat. Robotic. Maybe it was the mask. For a moment, Jon almost thought it was an android. But he saw living eyes behind the mask. Orange eyes. Eyes like fire. Was this creature even human?

"That's me, last I checked," Jon said. He tried to appear calm, though his heart was galloping. "And you are?"

The lord inquisitor took a step closer. "We are messengers of our lord. We've come from afar. He wants you back, Jon Taylor."

"Who?" Jon demanded.

The other inquisitors stepped closer. They circled Jon. Their masks were blank, and no rubies burned on their inverted crosses, but they looked just as dangerous.

"Our master," said the lord inquisitor. "You know of whom we speak."

Jon inhaled sharply. He raised his walking stick, knuckles white.

"The Red Cardinal," he spat.

"That was the name he once took," said the lord inquisitor. "He has been transfigured. He's a god now. His true form has been revealed to us. He is—"

"Papa Dominus," Jon said. "Yes, I watch the news. Like all the other idiots on this planet. Well, you can tell your so-called god that he can fuck off."

The lord inquisitor stepped even closer. So close he could have reached out and grabbed Jon. His eyes blazed, two cauldrons of molten metal.

"You are the scion," he hissed. "You are Papa's heir. You will come with us."

"Yes, he told me," Jon said dryly. "He claims to be four hundred years old, and claims I'm descended from him. Well, I call bullshit. I don't know what goddamn cult you belong to, buddy. But I ain't part of it. The war is over. Go home."

He tried to shove his way between the robed men.

The lord inquisitor grabbed his arm. Jon inhaled sharply. The man's hand was hot. Searing hot. Hot like Ernesto's iron. Jon grimaced, struggling not to scream.

"We know where you live, Jon Taylor," the inquisitor hissed. "Pray we don't visit you there."

"Don't you fucking threaten me!" Jon said, his rage flowing over his fear. "I killed a thousand of you in the war. I suggest you get the hell off Earth before I call down the wrath of the HDF on your ass."

The lord inquisitor finally released him. Smoke rose from Jon's arm. His coat was charred. Burnt open. The skin beneath was red and blistering.

"We'll give you some time to reconsider, Jon Taylor. We'll meet again. How do you say on Earth? Don't call us. We'll call you."

The inquisitors joined together and walked through the forest.

"Hey, wait a minute!" Jon said, beginning to follow.

Suddenly the ground shook. The train rumbled forward again. The inquisitors crossed the tracks, but Jon was too slow. The train roared between them. For long moments, Jon stood there, watching the graffitied train cars rattle by. When finally the train had passed, the inquisitors were gone.

* * * * *

Jon ran the rest of the way to his car.

He drove like a madman.

He burst into his house, panting.

Kaelyn frowned and dropped her keys. She stood in the foyer, wearing one shoe.

"Jon, what's wrong? God, you're covered in snow and sweat."

"Kaelyn." He held her hands. "Did they come for you? Were they here?"

"What? Who? I got just home from work." She touched his cheek. "Jon, you're having another flashback. Come, sit down, I'll get you your medicine, and—"

"Not a flashback." He stomped into the house, not even taking off his boots. He tracked snow across the hardwood floor. "Grab a suitcase. We're packing. We're leaving this house."

"What? Jon!" She grabbed him. "Jon, talk to me. What's going on?"

He took a deep breath. "I know this sounds crazy. But … I went for a walk in Linden Forest. You know, like I sometimes do. Men approached me. They looked like … like inquisitors. Red robes. Red hoods."

"I see why you're rattled," Kaelyn said. "Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition."

He laughed bitterly. "That's what I said. That's what I told them! I know, Kaelyn. It sounds nuts. It sounds like a Monty Python sketch. But it happened. They were Bahayans. They claimed to work for the Red Cardinal. Well, Papa Dominus as he's known now."

Kaelyn stroked his cheek. "Jon, the war is over. Whatever happened back then, it can't hurt you anym—"

"I didn't imagine it, dammit!" Jon said. "This wasn't some flashback! I saw them!"

Too loud. He was shouting now. He was losing control.

Kaelyn took a step back, going pale. "I know, Jon. I know. But remember what Dr. Personnen said. Sometimes flashbacks can seem very real. Maybe it could have been—"

He yanked off his coat, pulled up his sleeve. "Look! You see these burns on my arm? An inquisitor did that! He burned me. Somehow. His hands were hot. Burning hot."

Kaelyn's eyes widened. "Jon, you should see a doctor."

"I don't care about the burns! I want you to believe me. It sounds crazy. They were wearing gloves. Some kind of thermal gloves or something. Blazing hot. Kaelyn." He grabbed her hands. "Kaelyn, they know where we live. We have to leave."

Kaelyn laughed mirthlessly. "Leave?" Her eyes dampened. "I can't just leave my house! Where are we going to go? We're too broke for a hotel."

"We can go to my parents' place. No, wait. I don't want to endanger them." He thought for moment, then nodded. "Etty's place! Her apartment in the city! She's away with the Dust of Life, off on a charity mission. We have the spare key. She wouldn't mind."

Kaelyn blinked at him. Then she burst out laughing again. "Jon! This is crazy!"

He took deep breaths. "Kaelyn, I know. It's all crazy. But please. Please believe me."

She took a deep breath. "All right, Jon. All right. We'll spend a night in the city. But if somebody threatened you, we should also go to the police."

* * * * *

They sat in the police station. The officer, a jowly man with an ashtray full of cigarette butts, raised his bushy eyebrows.

"It sounds like a Monty Python sketch."

"That's what I said," Kaelyn said.

Jon heaved a sigh. "So there's nothing you can do?"

The officer cracked his neck. "I'll tell you what, Mr. Taylor. I'll spread the word among the boys. If we see any inquisitors, we'll bring 'em in. I imagine they'll show up when we least expect them."

"After all, their chief weapon is surprise," Kaelyn said.

"I'm glad everyone finds this so amusing," Jon said dryly. "Especially since they serve a mass-murdering psychopath who's obsessed with me."

They left the station in their rattling old Yamamoto sedan. Their suitcase slid around in the trunk. Rush hour had ended a while ago, but even now traffic clogged the roads.

"It's 2226, and we still don't have flying cars," Kaelyn muttered. "We can fly to Mars within a day, but it takes two hours to cross the Hudson."

Finally, late at night, they reached Etty's building. The apartment block was in a decent enough neighborhood, but Jon already missed the open spaces and trees of the suburbs. Everywhere he looked here he saw skyscrapers. He felt trapped. But perhaps there was safety in a crowd. In this city of millions, perhaps he could disappear.

"I lived in this building for a year," Kaelyn said as they stepped inside. "It brings back memories."

Jon smiled thinly. "It belonged to Colonel Pascal. He left it to Lizzy. Lizzy left it to you. You left it to Etty. Now we're here."

"Too many people bequeathed this apartment because they died," Kaelyn said, her eyes dark.

"Hey!" He poked her. "Being morbid is my job, young lady."

"Yes, and you're a workaholic."

He held her hand as they took the elevator up. "It's only for a while. Until we figure out what's going on. A little vacation. Hey, maybe we can catch a Broadway show this weekend? The Phantom of the Opera is playing."

She leaned against him and smiled wistfully. "You've always been obsessed with that musical. Remember how you would call me your Christine?"

"My angel of music," he said softly. "I remember. And you still are."

They entered the apartment, using the spare key.

"Are you sure Etty wouldn't mind?" Kaelyn said.

"Etty and I slept side by side in the mud," Jon said. "We shared ratty old blankets and leaky tents in the jungle. We leaned on each other while marching for miles and miles, so exhausted we practically slept walking. When you fought alongside another soldier, when you faced death together, you share a bond. You share everything. Etty would share her home. She'd understand."

Etty had done a little redecorating. There were three enormous bean bags instead of a couch. Posters of rock bands hung on the walls. Wolf Legion. The Birthday Massacre. And surprisingly—Symphonica. A menorah still stood by the window, coated with wax, even though Hanukkah had ended weeks ago. An old teddy bear sat on the bed.

It was a good home. A comfortable home.

A voice inside Jon whispered that even this place wasn't safe. That if the inquisitors tracked him down in the forest, they sure as hell could track him down in New York City. But he said nothing. He didn't want to worry Kaelyn. Especially not when she was pregnant.

"It's only for a few days," Jon reminded her. "I promise. I'll sort this out."

Somehow.

They stepped into the bedroom. Etty had replaced the modern HoverBed ("Sleep on a cushion of air!") with a rustic bedframe, made from logs and branches. A map of Middle Earth hung on one wall, a collection of medieval swords on the other. Interesting. Themed rooms. From metal to Middle Earth.

"Homes are mirrors," Kaelyn said. "They show us who we are. Every apartment in this block is the same. But they reflect different souls."

"Hey, you should take over my job as lyricist," Jon said.

Kaelyn sat on the bed. "Maybe we should stay here. Live here. And give Etty the house in Lindenville. It would make my commute easier."

"Your commute is temporary." Jon sat beside her. "Until I finish the new album and we go back on tour. I know it's been a while. A long while. A long, long while. One more song and I'm done."

Kaelyn leaned against him. She began to sing. She sang the song "Graveyard Angel" from the upcoming album. A soft song. A sad song. A song about a lady of light. It was a song about Maria, but Kaelyn made it her own. Her soprano voice was like a sad harp string. Like a strand of starlight in a city with no stars.

Jon held her hand as she sang. As his wife sang a song about the love he lost. She knew what the song was about. She understood. She accepted. She sang it with so much beauty that they both cried.

Kaelyn kissed his cheek. "I'm glad she saved your life. I'm glad that you met her. I'm sorry for what I said."

He brushed back a strand of her red hair. He stared into her eyes. "I love you. I love you so fucking much."

She smiled crookedly. "I know."

They made love, slowly, thoroughly. And then Kaelyn slept, cheek on her palms, face pale and peaceful and strewn with freckles like the stars. The headlights from passing cars streamed through the window, played across the wall, and haloed Kaelyn's head of fiery red hair.

This is the room where we first made love, Jon thought, watching her sleep. Long ago. When I came out of prison. We were so broken.

He left the bed, careful not to wake her. He tiptoed out of the apartment and took the rattling elevator downstairs. He walked the dark streets of New York, coat wrapped around him, as the wind blew, scattering paper cups and newspapers. A homeless man lay on a bench, clutching a bottle of booze, his only possession in the world. Jon remembered the million orphans in the gutters of Mindao.

He stepped into the little shop between the X-rated movie theater and convenience store. He paid cash. No ID required here, and no questions asked. And for the first time since the war, Jon owned a firearm. A little pistol, easily concealed.

Next time your goons come for me, Papa, I'll be ready.

He returned to the apartment, lay in bed by his wife, and slept.

Chapter Fifteen

A Riddle in the Dark

Maria flipped the pages, studying the journal by candlelight. Leather-bound books and flickering candles surrounded her. She sat in a cramped quad-craft, deep in the ocean depths. But she felt like some medieval scribe in a castle, studying grimoires past midnight.

"When are the lights coming back?" Charlie said.

Maria groaned. "I told you, I don't know how to fix the lights."

"But I hate the dark!" Charlie pouted.

Maria rolled her eyes. "Be thankful life support is still working. You have oxygen at least."

"Oh, great, lovely, really!" Charlie said. "We're stuck in the bottom of the ocean. No lights. We can't see a thing. But we can slowly starve to death while breathing my sweaty son's socks!"

Rodrigo didn't even raise his eyes from the book he was reading. "My socks smell like spring meadows."

"Yeah, meadows full of cow shit." Charlie rustled through her pink purse, pulled out a few more tealights, and lit them. "Here, more candles! These ones are scented. Aren't you glad I have candles in my purse?"

"You have everything in your purse," Maria said. "It's a magical portal to a land of endless wishes. Whatever I need, you have it."

"Well, I only have twenty candles, and you're using them up," Charlie said. "You know, I use these for my acts at the Toy Box. I arrange the candles in a circle around me, put on a sexy demon costume, and dance while slowly—"

"Mom, gross," Rodrigo said.

Maria forced a deep breath. "Charlie, please be quiet and let me study! Or better yet—grab a journal and help me."

"Hey!" Charlie bristled. "Reading wasn't part of the deal!"

Everyone else was poring through General Ward's journals. Maria sat in the cockpit with Charlie and a pile of books. Jay Jay and Rodrigo sat behind them in the hold, leafing through more journals. Gummy lay on the deck, curled up around Lily. The child was sleeping soundly, holding Gummy's trunk.

"Mom!" Rodrigo rolled his eyes. "So you were fine with firing guns, battling starships in space, and plunging underwater, but reading crosses a line?"

Charlie pointed at him. "Says the boy who only reads comic books."

"Mom! They're graphic novels." The teenager sighed and returned to the journals. "Bloody hell, she's mental."

"Bloody hell?" Charlie cocked an eyebrow. "What, are you British now? Stop talking like an Earthling!"

"I'm half Earthling, mom. Like Lily."

"See? You are a tiny toddler like Lily! You admitted it! So shave that mustache."

"I didn't—"

"Shave it!"

Maria groaned and covered her ears. She returned her attention to the journal. She had snatched twenty of them from the general's bookshelf—only a portion of his writings. Hopefully, the information she needed was here.

"Come on, General Ward," she muttered, flipping the pages. "You taught me so much. Now show me the location of Sodom and Gomorrah."

The general's journals were a study in madness and genius. He had filled these journals with countless words, drawings, and diagrams. There were no chapters. No organization at all. Ward leaped from one topic to another, sometimes on the same page, even the same paragraph. It was like peering into a madman's dreams.

Some pages featured meticulous illustrations of Bahayan fauna and flora. They were beautifully detailed, depicting fangwood leaves with little teeth, greendeer with coiling antlers, dreamtoads with hypnotizing eyes, and some animals even Maria, a Bahayan native from the countryside, had never heard of.

The general's written words were artwork unto themselves. The words coiled around the illustrated antlers. They glided along the curves of branches. They filled the eyes of peering tarsiers in dark forests. The words flowed in rivers, collected in puddles of ink, raised towers and cities of tiny scribbles.

On other pages, the general drew Bahayans. Warriors in tribal outfits, holding antique flintlock rifles. Women in traditional baro't saya dresses, woven from pineapple leaves, carrying baskets of fruit on their heads. Many drawings were portraits, faces lovingly detailed, the eyes always sad. Other pages featured star charts. Planets and moons. Starships, none of them the Three Sisters, navigating between spheres.

The general not only wrote his own notes in these journals. He quoted philosophers, poets, thinkers from across the generations. He added his own thoughts to theirs. He expanded their poetry. He illuminated their history. He collected the wisdom of mankind and wove it through his thoughts like strands of gold through samite.

"He was like Leonard da Vinci crossed with Julius Caesar," Maria said softly.

"With a good dose of Cortez tossed in," Charlie said.

Maria nodded. "Yes, he was genocidal. He murdered millions. But he was a genius. And at times, I almost liked him. I feared him. I always feared him. And I don't regret killing him. But sometimes …" She sighed. "Some men are like fire. Hypnotizing. Beautiful. Illuminating the darkness. But he was wildfire that burned our world."

Charlie groaned. "Fine, fine, I'll read a journal!" She grabbed one from the pile. "Anything to avoid hearing you pine over the general."

Maria gasped. "I wasn't pining over him!"

"Girl, you were practically drooling."

"I was not!"

Charlie flipped open a journal, flipped through a few pages, then tapped a page. "There. The Three Silver Sisters. This is what you wanted, right?"

Maria rolled her eyes. "Charlie, please treat this seriously, okay? We've all spent hours studying these journals. You can at least pretend to read a few pages before—"

"Nini, I'm not bullshitting you." Charlie brandished the journal. "Here, the Three Silver Sisters!"

Maria frowned. She snatched the journal from Charlie, stared at the page, and her eyes widened. "You found it!"

"Of course I did," Charlie said. "I'm a genius, remember? Just like Leonardo DiCaprio."

"Da Vinci," Maria said.

"You heard me," Charlie said. "You know I love Titanic." She raised her minicom. The movie was playing on the little screen. "I've been watching old ocean disaster movies to pass our time underwater! Next up is Poseidon Adventure IX. That's the one where cyborg sharks eat them!"

Maria was already ignoring her, studying the journal. Indeed, Charlie had found a good lead. The page featured an illustration of the Three Silver Sisters, the alien starships that had brought the first colonists to Bahay centuries ago. They were grand vessels like marble palaces, all fluid lines and graceful curves.

Maria read the small words scribed under the illustration.

The Three Silver Sisters feature prominently in Bahayan mythology. I've worked hard to filter reality from myth. In 1898, to the best of my knowledge, these alien star craft left Earth and flew among the stars. They are grand machines of Santelmo make, dating back to the Second Luminous Dynasty. But the Red Cardinal, a human, commanded these starships, and he gave them names of Earth lore. Canaan: a ship full of righteous souls. Sodom: a ship where men lay with men. Gomorrah: a ship where colonists explored forbidden science. Canaan landed upon the holy mountain and seeded Bahay with life. But the cardinal, furious at the sins of the other two ships, cast Sodom and Gomorrah into the sea.

Maria realized that the others had gathered around her, were reading over her shoulders.

"So far this fits what we know," Maria said.

She flipped the page, revealing another illustration. Canaan stood on a mountaintop, converted into Basilica, the cathedral where the Red Cardinal had ruled for so long. The other two starships framed the mountain, crashing into the ocean. The general had meticulously drawn a thousand beads of splashing foam.

Everyone in the Kinnara leaned forward, reading the general's words.

A Santelmo starship, in my hands, would yield a wealth of knowledge like a pomegranate cracked open to reveal a thousand glimmering rubies. In their foolishness, my colonels destroyed Canaan, mistaking it for a mere cathedral. I'm determined to retrieve Sodom and Gomorrah from Poseidon's embrace. When I return to Earth, triumphant, I will sail in Gomorrah, and Sodom will shine at my side. I will bring home the silver starships of our ancient enemy. All on Earth will see my arrival from afar, shining like brilliant stars. My victory will inspire my people and terrify my enemies. In the hulls of my ships, I will bring the treasures of Bahay for all to marvel at. And brightest among these treasures will shine the Last Rose of Summer, Maria de la Cruz. She will stand at my side, the last living Bahayan, and wave with tears in her eyes.

Everyone was silent for a long moment.

"So that was your plan for me, Ward," Maria said softly. "To slaughter every last Bahayan but me. Then to bring me to Earth like a leashed tiger for a zoo."

Charlie punched her arm. "And you were pining for him!"

"Ouch!" Maria winced and rubbed her arm. "I was not!"

Maria flipped the page. She read another journal entry, this one dated a month later.

For years, I searched the oceans, seeking the Silver Sisters. The quest consumes me. Fills my thoughts, my dreams, my visions. I am like a man possessed. I am like the poor addicts who trawl the slums of Mindao for shabu. But finally I've come across a light in the darkness, shining like ancient Pharos through a storm! It came to me in a dream. The location of Sodom!

Two princesses held hands

One in a blue gown, the other in white

They smiled their thinnest smiles

And their father's crown shone above

Their smiles faded

The crown fell into the ocean

It sank where sin has drowned

Maria flipped the page. But that was the end of the journal.

Charlie tilted her head. "What the hell? More poetry! Ugh, I hate poetry. Hell, I'd rather read comics than poetry."

Rodrigo's voice came from the stern: "Graphic novels, Mom!"

Maria gazed at the journal, tapping her chin. "A riddle."

"Rodrigo, are you on the toilet again?" Charlie yelled toward the stern. "I told you, Bunso, lay off all the lumpias!"

"Mom!"

"What? I'm just saying! You eat so much grease, what do you think will—"

"Mom, shut up!"

Maria hushed them. "Let me think!" She reread the verses. "Yes, definitely a riddle. The answer will lead us to the place where sin drowned. The location of Sodom!" She chewed her lip. "But what is the answer?"

Everyone turned to look at Charlie. Even Rodrigo stuck his head out the washroom hatch.

"Why is everyone looking at me?" Charlie said.

"You claimed to be a genius, remember?" Maria said.

"So?" Charlie said. "I also claim to be twenty-seven, and really I'm only twenty-nine."

"You wish!" came Rodrigo's voice from the washroom.

"Fine, fine, I'll solve your stupid riddle!" Charlie paced the cabin, chewing her lip. "Two princesses … a crown … a sin …"

Jay Jay bolted upright. His eyes bugged out. "Charlie! Why are you squeezing my butt again?"

"Hush, I'm trying to think," she said. "You know squeezing things helps me think."

"Get a stress ball!" Jay Jay said. "Hey, hey, no! Hands off my crotch!"

Maria glared at them, snatched the journal from Charlie, and reread the riddle.

"Two princesses, one in blue, one in silver …" Maria stroked her chin, deep in thought. "Princesses from some Earth fairytale maybe? Or Earth history? I don't know much about Earth lore. We should reread the journals, see if we find references to princesses."

"Oh God, not more reading!" Charlie said, tugging her hair. "Let me think here, I …" She frowned. "What?" She smoothed her shirt. "Maria! Why are you staring at my dibdibs?" She covered her breasts with her arm.

"The moons," Maria whispered.

Charlie raised her chin and fixed her hair. "Well, I suppose they are rather large and beautiful, but calling them moons seems—"

"The moons of Bahay!" Maria said. "Those are the two princesses! Pilak Mata and Asul Mata! One is blue, and one is white."

Charlie tilted her head. "Are you saying I have one blue dibdib? I'll have you know that's a bruise from when somebody bit me at the Toy Box. Don't worry, I gave him much worse."

Maria reread the next two lines in the riddle. "They smiled their thinnest smiles. And their father's crown shone above. The moons smiling … I know!" Maria gave her own smile. "Crescent moons. Two moons smiling their thinnest smiles. Thin crescents, just before the new moon. Their father's crown shone above … That must be Sargas! Bahay's sun!"

"But Nini," Charlie said, "you can't even see the moons when the sun is shining."

Maria chewed her lip like a piece of gum. "Maybe … I was wrong. The crown isn't Sargas. The crown must refer to Konting Liwanag, the second star in our binary system. It's the brightest star in our night sky. Of course! In our lore, we call Konting Liwanag the Father of the Night. The star shines as brightly as the moons—a golden crown. Okay, the general is describing a celestial event here. Both moons in crescent shape, side by side. Konting Liwanag shining above them. That doesn't happen often."

"What does this have to do with sunken starships?" Charlie said.

"Read the last few lines again. Their smiles faded. The crown fell into the ocean. It sank where sin has drowned. Get it?"

Charlie groaned. "Okay, okay, I'm not a genius! Is that what you want to hear? I admit it! Just tell me the answer, Miss Big Head."

"Hey!" Maria rubbed her head. "It's no bigger than your dibdibs. Besides, it's easy! Their smiles faded. That means that crescent moons just became new moons, fading from the sky. The crown fell into the ocean. That means that Konting Liwanag just set beyond the horizon, appearing to sink underwater. And where it sank …" Maria grinned. "That's where Sodom is!"

Charlie nodded, raised her finger, opened her mouth as if to speak, then tilted her head. "I still don't get it."

Maria grabbed Charlie's minicom. "I need to borrow this."

"Hey, hey!" Charlie said. "Hands off! I was watching Titanic. My poor Leo!"

Maria switched off the movie. "Too bad. I need to run some astronomical calculations."

"Okay, I need to pester Jay Jay a bit more anyway," Charlie said. "Hey, human stress ball, come back here! I need to squeeze something. Jay Jay! Where are you running?"

Flexing her fingers, Charlie ran off in pursuit of Jay Jay.

Maria finally had a moment of silence. She stuck out her tongue in concentration, typing furiously. She found the right software, then began inputting parameters. She adjusted dials. Raced forward and backward through dates. She searched all the times the heavens aligned just right: the two moons facing each other, waning crescents, with Konting Liwanag shining above.

The software yielded thousands of results.

"Dammit!" Maria said. "Hang on …"

She could filter these results. The general had written his journal in Little Earth, a military base in Bahay's southern hemisphere, just outside Mindao. He would be viewing the heavens from that location. That gave Maria a reference point.

She typed some more, filtering the results down to an observer watching the sky from Mindao City.

"Ah, here we go!"

The results filtered down to a hundred. Still quite a bit.

Maria chewed her lip some more. It was starting to get quite raw. Could she still narrow down these results?

The heavens had aligned this way many times, but mostly in the distant past. Far before the general had ever arrived. She filtered out all the years before the war. That left … three results.

Three dates the crescent moons faced each other with Konting Liwanag above them. But each of the three times, the star sank into a different spot in the ocean! Which of the three celestial events did the general refer to?

She re-examined the dates.

One was fifteen years ago. Before the general had written this journal.

Another date was four years ago. Around the time Maria serviced the general.

The third date was a week from now.

"It must be the third date," Maria said. "He probably planned a future expedition into the ocean. A week from now."

Charlie returned to the cockpit, hair tousled and shirt on in reverse. "So we have to wait a whole week? No worries! Jay Jay will keep me busy until then. We can make out, squeeze each other's naughty bits, make a few babies—"

"Mom, seriously, gross!" Rodrigo said.

"When did you come out of the bathroom?" Charlie said. "Did you wash your hands? Show me your hands! Why aren't they wet?" She gripped the boy's cheeks. "And why do you still have a mustache? I thought you were in there so long because you were shaving."

"Mom, it's a Van Dyke, not a mustache. Jay Jay has one too."

"Jay Jay is an adult! He's my age."

Rodrigo rolled his eyes. "Mom, Jay Jay is probably closer to my age than—"

She smacked him. "Quiet, you!"

"We don't have to wait a week," Maria said, sliding a toggle on the minicom. "I just need to fast forward, and … here! A week from now, two crescent moons will fade, and the star will sink into the ocean. Here. These coordinates." She tapped a map. "The star of our ancestors will lead us to Sodom."

"Cool!" Charlie said. "I always wanted to become a Sodomite."

Rodrigo rolled his eyes. "Mom, gross."

Chapter Sixteen

Full Metal Mother

Ernesto bowed before the electronic goddess.

"Maria escaped." The stumps of his fingers tingled. Maria had severed the fingertips years ago, and the pain never quite faded. "Dark Mother, grant me the power to bring her home."

He stood deep in the heart of Mother's Womb. A shaft rose through the station like a hollow spinal nerve. The shaft began in the steelglass dome that topped the space station. From there, it plunged downward, piercing the station's circular decks. Finally, below Skid Bottom, the shaft ran down a long service stem toward the ventilation shafts. It was the backbone of Mother's Womb.

Ernesto stood midway through this great column, clutching the railings of a mezzanine. Here was the Holy of Holies, the very center of the station. The dwelling of a goddess.

She hovered in the shaft before him. A computer the size of a car. Diamond-shaped. Blinking with many lights. Dark Mother, the A.I. who ran this station and its hundred thousand denizens.

"Kneel before me, son," the computer said.

Papa Dominus is wrong, Ernesto thought. God is not some mystical being in the sky. God is in space. God is a machine. God is a woman, and she is woven of metal and malice.

He knelt.

"I pray to you, Dark Mother. Give me the machines I need. Help me find Maria and bring her back!"

The computer dimmed. Tendrils extended from her. Metal claws on cables, articulating, flailing. A claw reached out and stroked Ernesto's cheek, drawing a red line. Blood dripped.

"Maria died, my son. She fell from heaven and crashed into watery hell."

"She's alive!" Ernesto clenched his fists. "I can feel it. Feel her. We've been bound since childhood. We're linked. She survived the fall, and she travels the oceans in her ship. She was flying a quad-craft. It can survive underwater. Unlike your shuttles, which can only—"

The tentacles all flew toward him. They grabbed him, digging claws into his body. They raised him off the mezzanine.

"Do you belittle your goddess, mortal?"

Ernesto grimaced, the claws piercing his skin. One tentacle wrapped around his neck.

"Not … at all," he managed. "You will build me … submarines."

The tentacles released him. Ernesto fell to his knees, gasping, and rubbed his throat.

"Do you give me orders, human?" The computer's voice was soft and dangerous.

"If I did, I would be dead. Unlike Maria, who lives. But I will hunt her, Dark Mother. I will bring her back. She's not done suffering."

Dark Mother laughed. A demonic sound. It echoed through the shaft. Through the station. The deck plates vibrated with the sounds of her cruel mockery.

"How you mortals amuse me! Your pain. Your pettiness. Your petulant desires. I will build you submarines, mortal man, and I will embed them with beads of my consciousness. Already my processors are drawing up the blueprints, and my robots prepare my factories. We dive into the depths."

Chapter Seventeen

Echoes and Stones

"No news is good news," Jon said. "But here is some great news. We're fourteen weeks pregnant!"

"I'm fourteen weeks pregnant," Kaelyn said. "The only thing you're pregnant with is that giant ham sandwich you had for lunch."

Jon patted his stomach. "Yeah, yeah, okay, the classic case. Soldier with rock-hard abs leaves army, gets pregnant with ham baby. But Kaelyn, fourteen weeks! We never got this far. Maybe we finally celebrate with people?"

Sitting on the bed, she placed a hand on her belly. "I'm not showing yet. We can hide it a little longer."

Jon knelt before her and held her hands. "Whenever you're ready."

She lowered her eyes, then peeked from under her eyelashes. She nodded. "Okay. I'm ready. You're right. We don't have to do this alone."

So they drove the old Yamamoto out of New York City, across the Hudson, and back into Lindenville. As soon as the skyscraper forest cleared, they breathed the fresh air, and sighs of relief passed through them.

"God, I missed air that isn't entirely full of smog," Kaelyn said.

"Wow, I can actually see a blade of grass!" said Jon.

Kaelyn gasped. "Look! A bird that isn't a pigeon!"

"What is that strange big rat on the tree?" Jon said.

"A squirrel."

"Will wonders never cease?"

They visited Jon's parents first. They shared the news. His mom jumped up and down, squealed with joy, hugged them, and began chattering on and on about what a lovely grandmother she'd make. Jon's dad hugged them tight. The old jazz player's coat smelled of expensive pipe tobacco, his hair was grizzled and shaggy, and his hug made everything seem right.

Jon's mom began to cry.

"Paul is with us," she said as tears fell. "I know it. He's with us in spirit. And he's so proud."

* * * * *

They hesitated before visiting Kaelyn's parents.

Like Clay, Kaelyn had grown up on the wrong side of the tracks. But that was not why they were afraid.

Jon parked the car down the block from her childhood home. He could see it a few houses away. A humble bungalow, a yard overgrown with weeds, a tin rooster on the roof. A pick-up truck was rusting on the driveway. A gust of wind rocked an old wooden rocking chair on the porch, sending a cat fleeing. An American flag fluttered on a pole, then fell limply again.

"I haven't spoken to my dad in years," Kaelyn said, sitting in the car outside her house. "I'm scared."

"You don't have to do this," Jon said, hand on her knee. "We can drive away. We can celebrate with my parents. I know that your dad is a piece of shit. He hit you when you were growing up. He hit George. When he found out you were an anti-war activist, he disowned you. Hell, I say fuck him. We're building our own family. He doesn't need to—"

"Jon." She placed a finger on his lips. "Quiet. Just give me a moment."

He nodded. He kept quiet.

"I need to do this alone," Kaelyn finally said. "This is my battle."

She took a deep breath, tightened her lips, and stepped into her childhood home.

Jon waited in the car.

He waited for a long time. He heard weeping from the house. He heard Kaelyn yelling, her voice drenched in sobs. He heard her father's muffled voice. A dog barking. Several times, Jon opened the car door, nearly ran into the house. He wanted to be by his wife, to fight at her side.

But he kept sitting back down, knowing that if she needed him, she would call him.

The Williams family has always been at war, he thought. This is another battle they have to fight.

It felt strange to sit here outside the old bungalow. Jon had come here so many times in his childhood to visit George. Now George was gone. A purple star still hung in the house window, a memorial for a fallen giant.

Finally Kaelyn returned to the car. She sat in the passenger seat, staring forward, silent.

Jon waited.

"There was a lot of crying and yelling," Kaelyn finally said. "A lot of grievances aired. There was no forgiveness. But we made peace, of a sorts. I can't forgive my dad for what he did. For how he treated us. But you make peace with enemies, not with friends. And we made peace." She took a deep breath as if steadying herself for war. "We're invited for dinner tonight. Your parents too."

* * * * *

With much trepidation, the families gathered.

Kaelyn's parents. A stubbly HVAC repairman and a demure housewife. Jon's parents. A shaggy jazz player and a kindly schoolteacher. After the awkward handshakes and congratulations, they poured wine—juice for Kaelyn—and raised their cups for lost sons. For Paul. For George. They drank.

The ice was cracked. Dinner began.

Mr. Williams barbecued steaks, while Mr. Taylor stood nearby, offering moral support. Both men drank beers. The wives chopped up a salad. Jon and Kaelyn moved between their parents, hoping to smooth any lingering social stiffness. But the family dog did a far better job, running from one person to another, breaking any awkward silence with a wagging tail. The beer helped too.

It was a good dinner. Good food. Mr. Williams behaved himself, even when the football came on and his team was losing. Kaelyn said that proved he was making a monumental effort.

It was an all-American house. An all-American dinner. And so much pain lingered here. Ghosts haunted this house. Memories haunted these souls.

After dessert, when they were all stuffed, Mrs. Taylor poured them all Canadian ice wine in little cups. It was very cold and very sweet.

"We bought it on our vacation to Niagara Falls a few years ago," she said. "I had to bring it over. A perfect night to drink it."

"Sorry, Kaelyn, it's more juice for you," Jon said. They laughed.

Mr. Taylor stood up. He raised his cup. He swayed a bit, and his cheeks were rosy, but that didn't stop him.

"Everyone, I'd like to say a few words," the jazz musician said. "The past few years … they'd been hard. We lost two amazing boys." His eyes dampened. "I lost a son, but I gained a daughter. And soon we'll have a grandchild. A new light in this family. I can't tell you how much this means to me. I know it means a lot to all of us. I … ah, hell, I'm rambling. I just want to say: Dammit, I love you all."

He sat down.

"Hear hear!" Mr. Williams said.

Jon and Kaelyn returned to the city that night. Jon began to hope that soon they could move back into their Lindenville home. The inquisitors had never returned. Jon began to wonder if Kaelyn had been right, if he had imagined the whole thing. He still kept the gun in the car's glove compartment. And when he got home, he placed the gun in his nightstand drawer, locked and loaded.

* * * * *

At four am that morning, Kaelyn woke up moaning in pain, and blood stained the mattress.

More blood flowed between her legs.

Jon called an ambulance.

They waited in the apartment. Their insides trembled. But they stayed calm as Kaelyn bled. They patted Etty's plush animals. They told a dumb joke or two. They did not panic.

A few minutes later, the medics were in the apartment. With a stretcher.

A few minutes after that, the ambulance siren was blaring, the lights were flashing, and Jon sat in the back by his wife, holding her hand.

Everything about that morning etched itself into Jon's mind. Later in life, he would remember every detail. The face of the young medic, no older than him, who loaded Kaelyn onto the stretcher and kept her calm. The cherry-red color of the ambulance and the smell of chemicals. Kaelyn holding his hand.

He remembered the fear. The tears. The shaking heart and trembling legs and pained breath. A fear worse than any he had ever experienced. Even worse than the war. He had faced armies, but he had never felt anything this terrifying.

He remembered Kaelyn on the hospital bed, how the blood stained the white sheet. Dripped to the floor. He remembered, perfectly clearly, every tool on the little tray the nurse carried. Remembered the nurses glancing at each other. Remembered what the squat nurse said.

"No heartbeat."

Two words that echoed forever.

The doctor spoke in a soft voice, explaining that it was not Kaelyn's fault. That these things happened. They just stared, numb.

The doctor left the room. The nurses left. Jon and Kaelyn remained alone.

She was very silent. She did not sob, weep, speak. Just a single tear rolled down her cheek. Jon held her hand.

They scheduled surgery for eight days from now.

It was the only time available.

So Jon and Kaelyn went home. And for eight days, they lived with a dead baby inside her.

For eight days, they had to live their lives as usual. They ran errands. Did the laundry. Shopped for groceries. Kaelyn even went to work. Jon tried to compose. They ate dinner, washed dishes, watched TV. For eight days they waited. Eight days with their hopes and prayers dashed inside her. Eight days of life with their dead child.

They returned to the hospital, where a doctor—a different doctor—put Kaelyn to sleep and sucked the dead baby out with a hose.

When Kaelyn woke up, a third doctor met Kaelyn in her recovery room.

"Mrs. Taylor, have you ever had a hysterosalpingogram?" he said.

"Not that I know," Kaelyn said hesitantly.

"I'd like to run one," the doctor said. "It's a simple, non-invasive scan of your uterus and fallopian tubes."

Kaelyn put a hand on her stomach and winced. "Doc, you'll find nothing. I feel like a vacuum cleaner just sucked up every reproductive organ I ever had."

Jon placed a hand on her shoulder. Even now, even with all this trauma, his wife still had a sense of humor. Maybe because of the trauma.

They stayed an extra day in the hospital, and the nurses and technicians ran their tests.

A forth doctor came to speak to Kaelyn and Jon. His voice was soft. His eyes were softer.

Jon listened, the walls closing in.

Most of it flitted away. But a few words remained, echoing over and over. Extensive scar tissue on the uterus.

"How did this happen, Doc?" Jon said, voice low, afraid to speak any louder, afraid his voice would crack.

"The old injury," Kaelyn answered, lying on the hospital bed. She closed her eyes. "The gunshot wound to my stomach four years ago."

Yes, Jon knew the story. During the war, Kaelyn had campaigned against the president. An agent in a black suit arrived. Fired his gun. Perforated Kaelyn's stomach, nearly killing her.

"But—the doctors said you made a full recovery!" Jon said.

"I did, in a sense," Kaelyn said. "It was my children who bore the brunt of my injury."

"I'm sorry, Kaelyn," the doctor said. "You'll never carry a baby to term. I know it's not the news you wanted to hear. But uterus implants are a very viable option."

Jon nodded. "All right! Yeah! Sounds great. Hey, Kae, today they switch uteruses like socks. No problem at all. We'll get a new put in, then try again."

He was talking too much. Too fast. Making dumb jokes. He knew it made him look scared.

"Now, I should warn you, the waiting list for a new uterus is substantial," the doctor said.

"How long?" asked Kaelyn.

"I'm afraid it can be years. But you're still young. In ten, fifteen years when a new uterus becomes available, you should still be young enough to—"

"Wait, what?" Jon said. "Fifteen years? We'll be … old. Well, not old-old, but …"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Taylor," the doctor said, his voice still soft. "I wish I had better news. If you're interested, our social workers would be happy to talk to you about the possibility of adoption."

They left the hospital.

The next day, they returned to the graveyard, and another stone marker topped another tiny grave. Two stones. Two lost lights. Jon and Kaelyn stood there hand in hand, empty.

Chapter Eighteen

Sailing Home

When Etty finally left the infirmary, all patched up and feeling fine, she learned that Maria had stolen her starship.

"Fuck," Etty said.

She liked Maria. But she had to admit. It was a dirty move.

"She had no choice," Pippi told her. "She said you'd understand."

"Like hell!" Etty said. "She stole my ship! What's next, somebody stealing my New York apartment while I'm here?" She sighed. "Sorry, Pips. Don't be scared. I don't mean to yell."

The two women sat in a Skid Bottom shanty. It was a hard life. It was a rough home. The floor and walls were constructed from rotting plywood, held together with rusty nails and zip ties. A tin sheet formed the roof. A tarp covered the windows. They balanced atop four other shanties, a rickety tower that kept swaying. Many other shanty towers rose around then like a forest, filling the station's lower deck.

There was no running water. But at least there was electricity. The Bahayans had filled the deck with generators, slung electric cables like cobwebs, and powered their shanties. An antique TV was playing cartoons. A few ragged children were playing video games.

Electronics are more readily available across the universe than clean water, Etty thought with a sigh.

The shanty was smaller than Etty's Manhattan apartment, and even that was tiny. Yet many people lived here. They came and went. Uncles. Aunts. Grandmothers. Many children. Several thin mattresses lay on the floor. Three people shared each humble bed.

"Maria's been living here for years," Etty said softly. "She should be living in Lindenville. In a comfortable house. With Jon. Or living in a peaceful Bahayan village with a nice bamboo hut, with rice paddies and palm trees and a beach. Not like this. Not here." She shook her head sadly. "This is all wrong. And now I'm stuck here too."

Pippi sat beside her, wrapped in a blanket, pale and shivering. She was still recovering from her trauma. Likely, she would never fully recover. Her eyes were sunken. Her fingers nervously kneaded her blanket over and over. Her gaze kept darting, seeking enemies. Etty had seen the same look, the same nervous ticks in many veterans. It was shell shock.

Etty knew all about that. All veterans did.

Post-traumatic stress disorder is an invisible disability, she thought. But it's just as real as getting your legs blown off.

"That's why Maria took the Kinnara," Pippi whispered. She rarely spoke louder anymore. "To find the Silver Sisters. Great starships buried under Bahay's oceans. Starships that can bring us home. All of us." She gestured out the window. "Maria doesn't just want to save herself. She wants to save her people."

"Like Moses," Etty said.

Pippi nodded. "Like Moses. And Earth is our promised land. Bahay can no longer be our home. Bahay is where we were slaves."

"And if Earth doesn't accept you?" Etty said. "If Orbit Patrol turns you away?"

"Then we'll find another planet," Pippi said. "One far from Earth, and far from Papa Dominus, and far from war and pain and suffering. We'll start over across the galaxy. We are Bahayans. For centuries, the hurricanes and monsoons destroyed our homes. Wars destroyed our lives. Yet over and over, we rebuilt. That's what we do."

Etty smiled softly. "It sounds like my people. I come from Israel. This all sounds so familiar to me. Maybe that's why Bahay means so much to me. Why I want to help. Why I joined the Dust of Life. Because our people are the unwanted. The untouchables. Those doomed to suffer. Those who keep rebuilding. Who keep dreaming."

"I think that all humans are like this," Pippi said. "And that's all that we Bahayans have ever wanted. To be seen not as slits. Not as strange little brown people from an alien world. But as humans."

"We Earthlings treated you horribly," Etty said. "There can be no forgiveness for what we did. We committed genocide."

"But you personally fought to end genocide," Pippi said. "You and Jon and your friends. We know this. All Bahay knows this. You will forever be in our lore. Forever be blessed."

Etty tilted her head, examining the young woman. "You are not the same Pippi I knew during the war."

"I was re-educated," Pippi said. "I learned many new things in the camp. But not the things they tried to teach me. I learned about pain. About so much pain and fear. But I also learned how precious life is. How delicate joy is. In the darkness, I learned how beautifully the light shines."

Etty pulled a photograph from her pocket. The photo she had taken a few days ago. A photo of Maria holding Lily in her arms. Both were smiling at the camera, hope in their eyes.

A photo to show Jon.

"Pippi, I would love to stay and help," Etty said. "But I can't wait for the Silver Sisters. I must leave to Earth now. I'll catch a ride with a cargo freighter. They often hire temporary laborers for the long flight back home. I'm not afraid of hard work."

Pippi gazed out the shanty window. She stared past Skid Bottom's rickety towers toward a porthole on the space station hull. At the stars that shone outside.

"You're going to find Mister Jon, aren't you?" Pippi said.

Etty nodded. "Yes. Jon must know that Maria is alive. He must know that he has a daughter."

That very evening, Etty stood in the ESS Energia, a heavy tanker bound to Earth. The starship carried natural gas from Bahay's oceans, formed a billion years ago from decayed organisms. Thanks to some serious lobbying, Bahayan gas was not subject to Earth's environmental laws, and it was fetching a premium price across the Human Commonwealth.

A few of Energia's crew members were new, hired on Bahay. Most were native Bahayans and didn't have visas. They could fly all the way to Earth, deliver the gas, never leave the starship, then fly back home with pockets full of dollars. Etty was an Earthling, and she had the papers to prove it. She would work throughout the journey home—hard, sweaty work—then land on her homeworld.

Tankers were slow. The journey home would take six weeks. But scrubbing space barnacles would keep her busy.

She stood in the galley, wearing the blue uniform of StarSource Energy Incorporated. A cup of cheap instant coffee steamed in her hand. She gazed out a porthole, watching Bahay become smaller and smaller in the distance. From here, it looked just like Earth.

Then they made the jump to warp speed, the star streaked into lines, and the blue planet was gone.

Chapter Nineteen

An Underwater Discovery

"Here it is," Maria said. "The grandeur of the ocean. Ninety-nine percent of our world is water. Here is the true Bahay."

"And it's fucking boring," Charlie said.

The two women sat in the cockpit. Maria held the yoke, directing the Kinnara through the depths, while Charlie had her feet on the dashboard, painting her toenails. The others sat in the hold, playing cards. Even Gummy was playing, holding his cards with his trunk.

"The ocean is fascinating!" Maria gestured at the viewport. "Why is nobody else admiring the view?"

Charlie yawned. "It's water, Nini. It's not exactly blockbuster excitement."

"Your favorite movie is Titanic, and that's all about water!"

Charlie blew on her toenails. "Call me when Leonardo DiCaprio floats by."

"I'm telling you, this is better than any movie," Maria insisted. "Look at the variety of life! There are so many … fish! And, um … plankton!"

Charlie looked at her and raised an eyebrow.

Maria harrumphed and crossed her arms. "Well, I think they're fascinating."

Charlie yawned. "I'm going back to join the card game. Enjoy your plankton."

The Kinnara, while blindingly fast in space, churned slowly through the water. To make things worse, the quad-craft had suffered damage during the battle, and one engine kept coughing and rattling. She was a tough old battle-axe, and she chugged along confidently. But at this speed, it would take three days to reach their destination.

Funny, Maria thought. It only took us a moment to fall from heaven.

She settled back to enjoy the view. She didn't care what anyone said. The underwater was fascinating.

Several fish swam by, blobby, their enormous mouths full of sharp fangs. Barbels grew from their chins, tipped with glowing lures. An octopus followed, sprouting a full twenty tentacles. The suckers glowed with lavender and azure light. Glimmering animals floated everywhere like snowflakes, purest white and luminous. Forests of seaweed grew from the seabed, raising coiling silver trunks like antlers, sprouting slender leaves that swayed in the currents. This was not some dark, deep void. The ocean was a place of light and life.

If only we Bahayans could breathe water! she thought. I could build us a home under the ocean, far from Papa Dominus. Oh, to be a fish!

But did they truly need gills? A hundred thousand Bahayans lived in space, after all, and there was no air there either.

Maria could already imagine it. Domes. Huge domes on the seabed, holding fresh air. There would be pipes that rose to the surface to recycle the air, of course. Or maybe machines that could bring in fresh oxygen from the water. Perhaps she could reverse engineer the mechanism that recycled air in this submarine, build huge submarines, submarines the size of towns. Or cities! Her people could live in underwater metropolises, moving across the oceans like whales. Let Papa Dominus rule the land, and let Dark Mother rule in space! The oceans would be the domain of free people.

Maria sighed wistfully. Pipe dreams. She didn't have the resources to build a single submarine of her own, let alone underwater cities. Even Earth, with all her might, would struggle with such a project. What chance did she have?

None, she realized. I have no power. Only my dreams. Dreams without power are nothing but ghosts. They float around and do nothing but scare people.

Underwater cities? Maybe not in her lifetime. But she could find starships. She could take her people to Earth, at least a few thousand of them. And if Earth shut her gates, she would find another world. A better world than these. Risen from Bahay's ocean, she would sail the cosmic ocean until she found an island in the void.

I will always fight for my people, she thought. So long as I breathe, I can fight. I can—

She frowned.

She leaned forward, squinting out the viewport.

A stone pillar rose ahead.

Maria yelped and pulled the yoke. The Kinnara, quick and nimble in space, was frustratingly clumsy underwater. The vessel slowly, slowly yawed left. The stone tower loomed, closer and closer, covered in barnacles and moss.

Maria tugged the yoke with all her strength, wincing.

She was going to make it, she—

The tower grazed the Kinnara's wingtip.

Dammit!

The quad-craft jolted. The seats rattled. Charlie shrieked in the back, and Gummy cried out in dismay, "Gum gum gum!"

"Nini, what's going on up there?" Charlie called from the hold. "Did you run over Leonardo DiCaprio?"

Maria didn't have time to answer. Another pillar rose before her from the murk.

This time she swerved properly. This time she minded her wings. She rolled toward the seabed, lowering one wing, raising the other like a dog's leg. She managed to avoid the stone tower. Just barely. Her lowered wing, however, dug into the seabed. It drove through the sand like a plow, raising murky clouds of silt. The ship vibrated madly. Every bone in Maria's body shook.

"What the hell?" Charlie shouted, stumbling into the cockpit. "I spilled my nail polish because of—whoa!"

Maria was already swerving in another direction, dodging a third tower. She pitched up Kinnara's nose, rose higher, and skimmed over a rocky shoal. Boulders almost tore open their ballast tank. More stone formations rose all around.

Maria rose higher, flipped a switch, and the Kinnara shone two blinding spotlights. The beams pierced the water.

"What the hell?" Charlie whispered, leaning toward the viewport.

Maria's eyes widened. "A city! It's a city underwater!"

* * * * *

The Kinnara floated among the ruins. The cabin lights were still broken. The cockpit was still dark. But sunlight shone through the water, illuminating a drowned cityscape.

"Wow," Maria whispered.

Charlie pressed her face against the steelglass viewport. "What? I just see lumps of stone. Nini, did you hit yourself on the head again?" She bit her lip. "If only your head weren't too freakishly big for a helmet. I always knew this would happen someday. Now your giant concussed head is imagining cities underwater and—"

"Charlie! Just look. The city is in ruins, but you can still make out familiar structures. Use a little imagination of your own for once."

Charlie bristled. "Hey, I have a great imagination!"

Maria nodded. "Sure, for imagining Jay Jay naked."

Rodrigo's voice came from the hold. "Eww, Mom, gross."

Maria pointed through the viewport. "See that round hill covered in seaweed? That's too perfectly round to be natural. It's a dome. A domed roof. See those pillars of stone? Those aren't natural either. They're arranged in rows. Columns. Maybe towers. Parts of a temple or palace."

Charlie gasped and pointed. "And look! That's a fire hydrant!"

"That's a sea turtle, Charlie."

She squinted. "You sure?"

"It's an underwater city, Charlie, they don't need fire hydrants."

Though Maria wondered. Had this city once stood above water? Had it sunken into the ocean like Atlantis? She was unfamiliar with any analogous Bahayan tale. Surely, this could not be a human city. Bahayans loved stories. They cherished their history. They sang songs and told tales of events dating back thousands of years—since their earliest days in the Philippines.

An entire city sinking underwater? The Bahayans would have remembered. At least—the human Bahayans.

Was there another race of sentient Bahayans? A native race, its secrets hidden underwater all these years?

"This city is ancient," Maria said softly. "Dating from long before our ancestors arrived in Bahay. Before any humans had ever sailed these seas."

Charlie gasped and covered her mouth. "The turtles built this entire city?"

The others joined them, crowding into the cockpit. They all gazed in silence for long moments. Maria reduced her speed, gliding the Kinnara over the ruins. They sailed over ancient boulevards, temples, domes. At least that's what Maria thought they were. The sand buried most of the city. Barnacles and seaweed covered the rest. Fish, eels, and mollusks swam back and forth.

"Whoever built this place is long gone," Maria said. "We humans aren't the first civilization on Bahay."

Charlie sighed wistfully and placed her chin on her hands. "The turtles were here before us. Such a noble, ancient race."

Her son groaned. "It wasn't the fucking turtles, Mom."

She smacked him. "Watch your fucking mouth!"

"Hey!" He bristled. "Why can you curse and I can't?"

"Because I'm already a fucking loser," Charlie said. "You want to end up like me? You're going to be a success someday, Rodrigo. A doctor or a lawyer or an undertaker."

Rodrigo tilted his head. "Why undertaker?"

Charlie shrugged. "There's good money in undertaking. Your Uncle Al is an undertaker you know."

"Mom, Uncle Al is a drunk."

"And how do you think he can afford so much booze? Undertaking! As he always said, there's riches in ditches!"

"Mom, hate to break it to you, but Uncle Oscar is a grave robber."

Charlie frowned. "Hmm. That does explain all those golden teeth he kept bringing home."

Rodrigo shuddered. "Super gross, Mom. Besides, I told you, I'm going to be a graphic novelist."

"You mean drawing those silly comics?"

"Graphic novels, Mom. And one of my graphic novels—well, not one that I wrote, but one that I own—talks about who built this city."

Charlie gasped. "You have a comic book about turtles?"

"It wasn't turtles!" everyone said together.

From his collection, Rodrigo produced a comic book titled The Lost Shachihoko Empire. The cover featured a mythological animal swimming through an underwater city. The beast had a tiger's head, complete with orange fur and fangs. The body looked like a carp, covered in yellow hexagonal scales, and its bristly tail was green.

Charlie examined the drawing. "That's a pineapple."

Rodrigo rolled his eyes. "It's half fish, half tiger. Don't you see all the fangs?"

"Spicy pineapple," Charlie said.

Rodrigo gestured at the illustration, then out the viewport.

"Before us is an actual shachihoko city," the boy said. "Most likely, we found the fabled Nibiru, the great Lost City of Light. The shachis were an aquatic race that colonized many worlds long ago. Nobody knows what planet they're originally from. The ancient Japanese even spotted them on Earth. The shachis built many grand underwater cities. But a thousand years ago, they vanished. Nobody knows why."

"Maybe they got real jobs," Charlie said. "Like undertakers."

"Haha, Mom, so funny." Rodrigo flipped a few pages, revealing illustrations of grand underwater cities. He compared them to the ruins outside. "Yep, like I thought. What we're dealing with here is a fairly typical third dynasty shachi city. See all the columned architecture? That's how you can tell. I happen to belong to a crytoid fan club online. A common argument is which types of shachi cities were built on Bahay—second dynasty or third dynasty." He chuckled and began snapping photos. "Man, the guys are gonna flip."

Maria frowned. "I've never heard of the shachis. Or of Nibiru, their underwater city."

"You should join our crytoid club, Tita Maria," Rodrigo said. "You want an invite?"

Charlie smacked him. "Maria isn't interested in your stupid clubs! What kind of Bahayan child are you? Using Earthling technology and internet and other Earthling nonsense like that!"

He groaned. "I'm half Earthling, Mom, remember? Like Lily."

Sudden movement in the water ahead drew Maria's attention.

The stared and frowned.

"That thing ahead … swimming toward us." Maria pointed. "Is that a shachihoko?"

Rodrigo snickered. "Unlikely. The shachis died off centuries ago. Probably just an eel."

Maria winced. "I dunno, it's pretty big."

Her hand strayed toward the weapons controls.

Perhaps this city was not abandoned after all.

* * * * *

The creature swam among the underwater ruins, raising clouds of silt and sediment. Sitting in the Kinnara's cockpit, Maria squinted. She couldn't see much through all the swirling debris.

Standing beside her, Jay Jay shuddered. The young scoundrel normally talked a mile a minute. But for a while now, he had been quiet, perhaps missing his cozy den back in Mother's Womb. He leaned against the viewport, peering into the distance, and stroked his goatee. The light from outside painted his face pale blue.

"I don't like this," Jay Jay said. "There's something big and sneaky ahead. Maybe we should back away. We could—" He jolted upright. "Ow, Charlie!"

"Sorry, sorry!" she said, pulling her hands back. "You know me, I squeeze when I'm stressed."

Maria was already reversing through the water. The creature ahead was no eel. It was massive—as large as the Kinnara. Through the swirling murk, she glimpsed fangs. Blazing yellow eyes. A flicking tail.

"Ah, a giant spicy pineapple!" Charlie cried. "It's a monster!"

"Nonsense, shachihokos are tame and no larger than humans," Rodrigo said. Though he sounded concerned.

A roar reverberated through the water. The sound waves rolled over the Kinnara, filling the cabin. A deep, enraged howl.

"Reverse faster!" Charlie said. "The turtles are faster than this ship!"

"Shoot that creature!" Jay Jay said.

"Gum gum gum!" said Gummy, snarling.

Maria kept reversing, but the Kinnara was slow enough going forward underwater, let alone backwards. They backpedaled at a snail's pace.

The swirls of silt settled ahead.

Silence fell upon the ocean.

The water stilled.

"Where did it go?" Charlie whispered. "Is the angry pineapple gone? Is it—"

It burst out from the murk. A massive beast with a tiger's head. Yellow scales covered an enormous body, and green fins sliced the water. The jaws opened wide, revealing a gullet full of fire. Its fangs thrust out like katanas, and its eyes blazed like two stars.

"A shachi titan!" Rodrigo cried out. "A mutant!"

The monster stormed toward the quad-craft, prepared to devour them.

Maria pulled the trigger.

The Kinnara's rotary cannons fired.

The bullets roared out … then slowed down to a leisurely glide through the water. They bounced harmlessly off the beast.

"Bullets won't work underwater!" Rodrigo shouted.

Charlie rolled up a comic book and began smacking him. "Why didn't you say anything before this?"

"Ow, Mom, hit the monster, not me!"

The monstrous teeth closed around the Kinnara.

Everyone screamed. The beast jerked the ship around like a fox shaking a chicken. The water swirled, churning up maelstroms of silt and algae.

"Rodrigo, you said shachis are small!" Maria said, desperately tugging the yoke. "Why is this one so massive?"

"I've heard rumors of this!" Rodrigo said. "It was hotly debated in our fan group. I must admit, I personally did not believe it possible, but our group admin always did claim that—"

"Answer Tita Maria!" Charlie said, smacking him with the comic book again.

"Mutants!" Rodrigo said. "Mutant survivors of their great last war!"

The jaws were tightening around the Kinnara. The hull dented. Controls flickered. Amazingly, the cabin lights actually came back on, illuminating the cabin.

"Hallelujah, I was blind and now I can see!" Charlie said.

"Hey, maybe the monster just wants to fix our ship!" Jay Jay said.

The hellmouth engulfed the Kinnara's prow, enveloping the viewport.

Maria found herself staring down a portal to hell.

The horrible fangs trapped them. Bits of old flesh dangled between those teeth like rancid pinatas—the remnants of old victims. A foul breath rose from the gullet like a plague, swirling with decay. The water steamed and drained from the massive mouth, as if the ocean itself were fleeing.

For a moment, trapped in the mutant mouth, the Kinnara hung in a pocket of air.

No water.

Maria pulled the trigger.

The rotary cannons spun.

This time, the bullets did their job. They drove into the creature's flesh, pulverizing its uvula.

The mutated shachi howled. A terrifying howl that thrummed through the ship. Everyone covered their ears. Lily wailed.

And then the beast released them.

The Kinnara tumbled back into the water, spinning out of control. The monster's blood swirled around them, liquid red demons in the depths.

Maria wrestled the yoke, managed to spin the ship around, and shoved down the throttle. The shachi was wounded—but still very much alive. And very angry.

"Time to skedaddle," Maria said, shoving down the throttle.

The engines rumbled, coughed, and finally roared. They stormed forward … at a comfortable walking pace.

The shachi raced forward, bleeding, roaring, and eager to continue the fight. Its scaly body whipped from side to side, propelling it forward at terrifying speed. It charged toward the Kinnara's stern, fangs bright.

Maria pursed her lips, flipped a switch, and engaged the afterburner engine.

White-hot fire blazed out the exhaust, shrieking, boiling the water. Steam filled the ocean, blinding the pursuing beast. It howled in fury and pain.

The Kinnara jolted forward.

And they were off!

Maria slumped back in her seat. "That was close."

* * * * *

"Skedaddle?" Charlie said. "Really? Skedaddle?"

Maria took deep breaths. Her heart still pounded in her chest. "It was the only word that came to mind."

"You're a lunatic," Charlie said. "I—"

She fell silent and stared ahead, eyes wide.

Maria saw it too.

Before them in the murk, something stirred. Something was moving among the ruins of the city. An ancient tower crumbled. Silt rose in clouds.

And from the murk rose a second shachihoko.

Another mutant! A giant!

The beast howled. Its tiger face twisted in fury. Its eyes blazed.

More shachis rose all around. They emerged from the sand. From caves. From ruined buildings. An army of them!

"Get us out of the water!" Jay Jay cried, pointing upward. "Into the air!"

"Skedaddle, Maria!" Charlie cried. "Skedaddle as hard as you can!"

Maria tugged the yoke toward her. The Kinnara pitched upward. She cursed.

"More shachis!" she said. "Coming from above!"

"It's a feeding frenzy!" Jay Jay said. "Why did I ever join you? I was happy on Mother's Womb! I had a nice business. I lived like a king. Now a bunch of catfish are going to eat me."

"Shut up, everyone!" Maria said. "Let me concentrate!"

She narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips, and piloted the Kinnara through the water. She swerved left and right, dodging snapping shachi jaws. She slammed into a tower, and the ancient structure crumbled, crushing one shachi. But a hundred others were storming toward them.

All across the underwater city of Nibiru, the smaller marine animals were fleeing. Eels and fish scurried into holes. An octopus hid under a discarded turtle shell.

These animals have survived here among the predators, Maria thought. We can too. There must be places to hide. Hopefully places we fit into.

She dived lower. A mossy archway rose from the seabed. It was all that remained of an ancient building. The rest lay across the seabed—just lumpy bricks.

Maria held her breath, squinted, and drove the Kinnara forward.

The submarine shot through the ancient archway, barely fitting. A shachi swam in pursuit.

"Rodrigo, the stern cannons!" she cried.

The boy was already at the stern, pulling the triggers. The bullets hit the archway. It collapsed. Heavy stones slammed into the pursuing shachi, shoving it onto the seabed. The keystone drove into its head, cracking the skull. The beast moaned, buried under the debris, then lay still.

"Two monsters down, two thousand to go!" Rodrigo said.

"You guys are crazy!" Jay Jay cried. "We're fish food!"

Charlie trembled. "I'm too young to die!" She clung to Jay Jay. "Hold me."

"Nobody is dying today," Maria said.

She saw it ahead. The fish and eels were fleeing through the storming clouds of silt. The animals were not panicking. They were moving in a very specific direction.

There is safety there, Maria thought.

Maria shoved down the throttle, giving the engines more juice. Clanking and jolting, the Kinnara followed the fleeing animals.

Another shachi rose before the Kinnara. Maria swerved, firing the rotary cannons. The bullets did no damage, but they stirred enough detritus to blind the beast. The Kinnara leapfrogged over the mutant, dived lower, and kept following the escaping schools of fish.

More tiger faces appeared all around, jaws snapping.

Jaws caught the Kinnara's wing.

The craft jolted to a halt.

Everyone screamed.

Maria let go of the cannon controls. Instead, she grabbed two yellow joysticks beside the yoke. The claw controls.

The Kinnara boasted two enormous hydraulic claws, forged from thick steel and painted yellow. Normally, they were folded against the hull, one on each side. During her days as a search and rescue ship, the Kinnara must have used these claws to dig through rubble for survivors.

Now the monstrous claws extended, stirring the water. Maria pointed one claw at the shachi that still gripped the wing.

Maria curled in her fingers, pressing levers built into the joysticks. It was like pressing down on bicycle brakes. The yellow claws, meant for lifting boulders, clutched the tiger-faced monster.

The shachi flailed and roared, releasing the Kinnara's wing. The beast stared through a porthole at Maria, its pupils shrinking to furious pinpoints.

She yanked the joystick. The metal arm swung, slammed into the shachi, and hurled the creature through the water. It plowed into its comrades like a bowling ball, knocking them back.

"Skedaddle, asshole!" Charlie shouted at the beast, shaking her fist.

Before the shachis could mount another attack, Maria shoved down the throttle. The Kinnara skedaddled.

More shachis rose from the sand below. Others dived from above. They were like a storm of piranhas.

But there ahead Maria saw it. The place the fish and eels were fleeing to.

A cave in an underwater mountain.

No, not a mountain—a temple! A massive temple covered in barnacles and algae!

No, not a cave—the gateway into the temple!

She piloted the Kinnara toward the opening.

"We'll never fit!" Jay Jay said.

"We'll fit," said Maria.

"We're too big!" Jay Jay insisted.

"We'll fit!" Maria said.

I hope we fit.

Their right wing was dangling, loosened by the shachi jaws. Maria grazed a mossy pillar, and the wing tore off. She plowed onward with one wing. She winced. She spun like a corkscrew toward the entrance.

"Here goes nothing," she whispered.

They shot through the gateway.

Their remaining wing slammed against the archway and tore free.

The Kinnara's flying days were over. But perhaps she could still keep them alive underwater. Wingless, the vessel lurched into darkness.

Behind them, the ancient gateway collapsed.

The Kinnara drove into sand and thumped to a halt. Stones tumbled around them. The cabin lights died again.

Their engine gave a last grumble, then fell silent.

The temple enveloped them in darkness like a tomb.

Chapter Twenty

The Flooded Temple

They huddled together in the dark quad-craft, trapped in the underwater temple. The black water engulfed them.

For a long moment, everyone was silent.

Something small and soft cuddled against Maria. She couldn't see much, but she recognized her daughter's warmth. Maria held Lily in her arms, kissed her head, and stroked her hair.

"Mommy, are the monsters gone?" the girl whispered.

Maria peered through the windshield. She saw nothing but darkness. Darkness outside. Darkness within. No roars, no burnings eyes, no—

"Ow!" Jay Jay's voice filled the cabin. "Something bit me!"

"Dammit, they're inside the ship!" Rodrigo said.

Maria pawed for her knife. "Where? I don't—"

"It's all right, it's all right!" Charlie said, raising a lighter. "It was me. Sorry, sorry!"

Jay Jay looked at the bargirl, head tilted, eyebrow raised. "You bit my bottom!" He rubbed it. "Ow."

"Hey, I saw a chance and I seized it," she said.

Rodrigo gagged. "Eww, Mom, gross."

Maria groaned. "All right, settle down, you lunatics. We're safe now. That is, aside from Charlie biting us. Those mutant shachis can't get into the temple." She heaved a sigh. "The question is: Can we get out?"

"There's gotta be another way out," Charlie said. "A back door. Hopefully not one that leads to a swarm of shachis."

Maria nodded. "Let's explore the temple."

She tapped the controls.

The engines coughed, then died.

Maria frowned, tapped the controls again. The lights flickered, then went dark.

"Gum!" Gummy said, sounding miserable.

"Great, Maria broke the submarine," Charlie said.

"Hey!" Maria said. "I saved your puwits. I got us away from the shachis."

"Oh, how lovely of you!" Charlie said, raising her hands. "You saved us by driving us into a watery grave! I'm so relieved."

Maria left the cockpit, stepped into the stern, and began rummaging through the closets.

"What are you doing?" Charlie said.

Maria pulled a spacesuit from a closet. "I'm going outside to fix the Kinnara."

"Nini!" Charlie rolled her eyes. "This isn't exactly a jeepney. You can't just pop the hood, tinker around, and get it running again. This is an Earthling quack ship!"

Rodrigo raised his eyes from a comic book. "Quad-craft, Mom. Quad. Not quack."

Charlie tilted her head. "Are you sure?"

The teenage boy groaned. "Of course I'm sure! Why would it be quack?"

"Because it's built for water, land, and air!" Charlie said. "Like a duck! Get it? Quack craft!"

Rodrigo shook his head sadly and retreated into his comic book.

Maria placed her legs into the spacesuit. "Charlie, stop quacking and help me zip up."

Jay Jay reached into the closet and grabbed a spacesuit of his own. "I'll help. My tuk-tuks used to break down all the time on the streets of Mindao. I've become good at fixing machines."

"Oh, great!" Charlie said. "A rickshaw repairman will fix a starship. Wait, son!" She spun toward Rodrigo. "Why are you pulling on a spacesuit too?"

The boy shrugged, wriggling into a suit. "I've read a lot about Earthling vessels. This is a third-generation corvette-class Quadro-capable rescue vessel, originally commissioned by the Human Defense Force's Search and Rescue Patrol. I've gone over their schematics a bunch of times. Personally, I've always favored the second-generation models. They had more robust dual-core engines. The newer models scarified reliability for speed. It's been an ongoing debate in the online community, but I think that—"

Charlie shoved a wrench into his hand. "You're fixing the ship, Rodrigo." She began pulling off her clothes. "And I'm going with you."

Maria looked at her. "Charlie, why are you stripping down to your underwear?"

"This is a nice outfit." She hung up her leopard-print skirt. "I'm not just going to shove a spacesuit over it and wrinkle it."

Rodrigo gagged and looked away. "Eww, Mom, gross."

"Sorry, Charlie," Maria said. "You're staying inside the ship to watch Gummy and Lily."

Charlie looked at the pair. The girl and alien sat on the deck. Lily was holding Gummy's trunk.

"Look at them!" Charlie said. "They'll watch over each other. I always left Rodrigo home alone at that age, and he turned out just fine."

"Actually, I still have a lingering fear of abandonment," Rodrigo said.

"Shut up, I'm an excellent mom!" She smacked him with a rolled-up comic book. "I'm the best damn mom in the world, you gago!"

"Charlie!" Maria said. "Stop hitting your son. And cover yourself. This isn't the Toy Box."

"Fine, fine." Charlie pulled her street clothes back on. "I'll stay and watch the little ones. Hey, Lilly! Tita Charlie is going to teach you some blackjack. Do you like blackjack?"

"Please don't teach my daughter to gamble. And put out that cigarette!"

"What?" Charlie bristled. "It's not tobacco. It's hintan!"

"That's even worse! Put it out!"

Charlie groaned. "The sacrifices I make …"

They floated out the airlock. Maria, Jay Jay, and Rodrigo.

A bargirl, a rickshaw runner, and a comic book fanatic, Maria thought. Somehow we need to fix an Earthling ship. Maybe it's hopeless.

The suits had come with the Kinnara, able to function in both space and water. They were marvelous pieces of technology from Earth. They were skintight and flexible, made using advanced, lab-designed fabrics to withstand the rigors of space and the pressure of deep water. A bit more sophisticated than the pineapple leaves Maria used to wear in her village. The helmets came with large visors and state-of-the-art commlinks, allowing the crew to talk freely. Disk-shaped lights shone on their shoulders, illuminating the darkness.

Maria swam through the dark waters, shining her light.

Her eyes widened. Her jaw dropped. She floated in the murk, gazing in awe.

"Wow," she whispered.

This temple was more than a crumbling ruin. It was a treasure. A marvel. A wonder Maria would never forget.

As a child, I used to walk toward the beach, gaze into the water, and wonder what lay below, Maria remembered. But in my wildest dreams, I did not imagine this.

"It's beautiful," she whispered. "It's so beautiful."

Columns soared. Outside the temple, barnacles, starfish, and moss covered everything. But in here, the lack of sunlight had preserved the stone. Maria's flashlight revealed unspoiled splendor. The columns coiled like whorled narwhal horns, filigreed with gold and inlaid with blue gemstones.

Maria swam upward, casting light upon a grand ceiling covered in murals. She lost her breath. Murals of fish with tiger heads, each scale a gemstone. Murals of grand sea serpents coiling over waves of water and surf. Murals of coral reefs and underwater forests teeming with life.

Inside her helmet, tears trickled down Maria's cheeks.

"It's Bahay," she whispered. "Our world is more beautiful than I ever imagined."

Jay Jay swam up beside her, admired the artwork, and whistled. "Damn. I need a ceiling like this back home."

Rodrigo hopped through the water, giddy. "Guys, guys! Are you seeing this? This is clearly second dynasty stuff. Second! This dates back a hundred thousand years!" He pointed at a mural. "Look at the armor the shachis are wearing! See those symbols? They are the sigil of Emperor Iriko Naga! This must date back to the great Wyrm Wars. Guys. Do you realize where we are? This must be Susanoo Temple! The biggest, most famous temple in shachihoko lore, built to worship the gods of the sea! They say the temple is so large, entire armies would muster inside it."

Maria turned toward the boy. "You knew about all this history? My own history books began just three hundred years ago. When humans arrived on Bahay."

Rodrigo grinned. "Comics. They know everything."

"They better know how to fix our starship," Maria said. "Come on. We'll do the touristy stuff later. Right now, let's fix our ride."

They swam back toward the Kinnara, floated toward the stern, and froze.

Maria balled her fists.

Jay Jay and Rodrigo cried out and raised guns.

On the stern, wrapped around the exhaust pipes, was a shachi.

Chapter Twenty-One

Old Tetsu's Dryroom

"Old Tetsu means you no harm!" said the shachi. His reedy voice rippled through the water with a cloud of bubbles. "He has no fangs left, as you can see. He is also quite small, no larger than yourselves. Even if Old Tetsu wanted to harm you, he could not. Lower your guns! Old Tetsu is a friend."

Maria narrowed her eyes.

He was definitely a shachihoko. The creature had a body like a carp, covered in large yellow scales, and the head of a tiger. But he was indeed smaller than the beasts outside the temple. Out there, the shachis were as large as killer whales. This one wasn't much larger than Maria. At first, she mistook him for a baby. She swam closer, and she saw wispy white fur, chipped scales, and wise eyes.

He's old, she realized. Very old.

She gestured at Jay Jay and Rodrigo to lower their guns. Reluctantly, they did.

Maria swam even closer to the old shachi. She raised her hands in a peaceful gesture.

"Greetings, sir!" she said. "My name is Maria. With me are my friends from the lands above water. We come in peace." She tilted her head. "I notice you speak Tagalog."

The old shachi smiled. His tongue lolled like a dog's. "Yes, Old Tetsu has been here for a very long time. He has studied many languages." He chuckled, releasing more bubbles. "He must apologize for his brethren—the giants who guard our holy city. They are stout souls, but they cannot distinguish friend from foe. Come with Old Tetsu! He keeps a dryroom. Many comforts for landwalkers. Bring your friends who remain in your ship. Come, come! Follow Old Tetsu."

The shachi released the Kinnara and swam into the shadows.

Maria glanced at Jay Jay and Rodrigo. They floated before her in their diving suits.

"I don't trust him," Jay Jay said. "He might be leading us into a trap."

"Or he might offer aid," Maria said. "I think we should take the chance. Rodrigo, do your comics mention anything about Old Tetsu?"

"Not specifically," the teenager said. "But he looks like a second dynasty shachi. They were smaller, tamer. I trust him."

Maria nodded. She approached the Kinnara's porthole and tapped the glass. "Hey, Charlie!"

Inside the ship, Charlie looked up. She was sitting cross-legged, playing cards with Lily and Gummy. The fuzzy alien was struggling to shuffle the deck with his trunk.

Charlie waved and pulled on a headset. "Hi, Nini."

"Mommy, I'm winning poker!" Lilly said.

"Charlie!" Maria rolled her eyes. "We talked about this."

"Hey!" Charlie pointed at Maria through the porthole, eyes flashing. "You said no blackjack. You said nothing about poker!"

"I'm swimming off with an old shachi from the second dynasty," Maria said. "I'll be back later."

Charlie was already back at the game. She waved dismissively. "Yeah, yeah, have fun." She looked at Lily. "Now, if you're going to be a real cardsharp, you need to learn how to hustle. Want Tita Charlie to teach you how to hustle?"

Maria winced. Floating in the water, she turned toward Jay Jay. She touched her helmet to his.

"Jay Jay, Charlie is staying to babysit Lily. But somebody needs to stay and babysit Charlie. Would you mind?"

He won't mind, Maria thought. Not judging by how much he's been looking at Charlie the whole trip here.

Jay Jay glanced through the porthole. Charlie was busy teaching Lily how to hide cards up her sleeve.

"I'll stay," Jay Jay said. "I should get some work done on fixing the Kinnara anyway. While I work, I'll glance over at Charlie now and then. I'll make sure Lily isn't completely corrupted by the time you get back."

Maria blew him a kiss. "You're the best. Don't let Charlie abuse you too much. I'll be back soon."

* * * * *

Maria and Rodrigo swam off, following Old Tetsu. She was glad the boy was coming with her. An adventure would do him good. For the first time in many days, he wasn't hiding behind comic books.

Rodrigo has a hard life, Maria thought. Born to an Earthling soldier and a Bahayan bargirl. Grown up in the slums. Never had a hope in the world. So he escaped into comic adventures. Here's an adventure of his own.

It was funny. Rodrigo was sixteen. Only a year younger than Maria when she had fled her burning village, going on her own adventure. Yet she thought of him as a child. That was wrong. He was a man already. All Bahayan children grew up fast.

She gave Rodrigo a reassuring smile. He was scared. As scared as Maria leaving her home into the jungle all those years ago. But the boy managed to smile back. They reached out and held hands as they swam.

"We'll be alright, Tita Maria," Rodrigo said, perhaps more to reassure himself than her. "We'll get through this."

Tita. Auntie. She was not his aunt by blood. But Charlie and Maria were like sisters. And Rodrigo loved her like a real aunt. And she loved him like a true nephew.

She gave the boy's hand a comforting squeeze. "We sure will, little buddy."

Susanoo Temple was dark, but their flashlights gleamed off Old Tetsu's scales—a beacon for Maria and Rodrigo to follow. The shachi led them past marvelous sights. Colossal statues of kraken, their tentacles sparkling with sapphires. Hallways lined with nautilus shells the size of trucks, inlaid with delicate flowers forged from precious metals. Indoor gardens where sea anemones grew from stone jugs, reaching their tentacles toward glass orbs full of white fire.

Finally they swam up a sloping corridor, and light shone above, turning the water pale blue. Beads of light bobbed above Maria's head.

She swam toward the motes, and her head broke over the surface of the water.

She looked around, blinking, confused. She was floating in a stream. Grass and trees grew along the banks. How did she get here? This was not an ocean!

She looked up, hoping to see the sky. But she realized it was a room. A grand room inside the temple, kept dry aside from the stream. She climbed onto the bank.

Rodrigo climbed out of the stream next. He pulled off his helmet and looked around, eyes wide.

"Wow," he said. "What is this place?" He sniffed. "Smells nice."

"It's some kind of menagerie." Maria kept her helmet on for now, not quite trusting this room yet. "I think."

Many trees grew here. Bibigpuno trees with snapping leaves, paglunas with sweet sap that could heal many wounds, and mamula trees with glowing pollen. All trees familiar to Maria from the surface, seeming so strange underwater. Birds sang in the branches. A furry mourning monk hooted, clinging to one branch. The simian was once common in Bahay's jungles, slaughter en masse in the war. A greendeer padded over grass, antlers coiling into silver labyrinths, and sipped from the flowing stream. Tarsiers peeked shyly from behind some leaves.

"These animals were driven to extinction during the war," Maria whispered, eyes damp. "But some still live here under our oceans."

Old Tetsu raised his tiger-like head from the stream. His fish body was underwater, fins flapping.

"Welcome to Old Tetsu's dryroom!" he said. "Old Tetsu is an avid student of biology. Here he collects, studies, and preserves landlife."

Maria winced. "You're not intending to add us to your collection, are you?"

"Oh no!" Old Tetsu shook his head. "Old Tetsu would never do that. He apologizes if he caused concern. He wishes merely to offer a familiar environment. Shachihokos are comfortable breathing both water and air, but humans are not. You may remove your helmet here, my friend. The air is quite fresh. Old Tetsu's special machines generate the appropriate amount of oxygen."

Maria pulled off her helmet and took a deep breath. A smile tingled her lips.

"It smells like my village," she said. "From before the war."

The memories flooded her. Waking up at dawn in her bamboo hut, her parents sleeping beside her. The rooster crowing. Racing outside on bare feet, eager for the day's adventures to begin. The rice paddies covering the terraced mountainsides like steps for a giant. The fruit groves rustling in the warm breeze. Beyond them, the rainforest draping the mountaintops, lush with birds.

Maria's eyes dampened. The smell triggered memories so powerful that she could almost see the forest, hear the song of birds. Almost reach out and hug her parents.

Rodrigo, who had grown up in the big city, looked around with eyes as wide as saucers.

"I've never seen so many trees," he said.

Maria lowered her head. Few trees grew these days on Bahay's islands.

"These trees, these animals," she whispered. "On the islands, they are dead. The great Freedom War burned them."

Old Tetsu gasped. "This is very disturbing news! It saddens Old Tetsu's heart." He looked around him. "At least Old Tetsu has preserved some of the wonder of the drylands." He looked into Maria's eyes. "There is not much room here for many landwalkers. Just this humble room, and Old Tetsu does not have enough machines to build more. But there is room enough for you and your friends. Stay here. Old Tetsu and his dryroom will shelter you."

Maria knelt by the stream. The shachi's fish body was still underwater. His tiger head was above the surface. There was barely any orange left to his fur; he had gone white with age. Maria hugged that big, fluffy head. His fur tickled her, fuzzy and comforting.

"Thank you, Tetsu. But I seek a home for all my people. I can't hide while they need me."

"Come, come now!" Old Tetsu said. "Before you say more, come along the stream to the fruit grove. There you will find refreshments and you may speak in more comfort. Old Tetsu has been a rude host!"

He swam down the stream, moving toward the back of the chamber. Maria and Rodrigo followed, walking along the bank. They reached a large tree, the largest in the dryroom. Each branch gave forth another type of fruit. There were sweet crunchy apples, tangy oranges with skin so sweet you could eat it, grapes the color of memory, mangoes that were impossible to taste without shuddering in delight, and many fruit Maria didn't even recognize. Fruit like swirling galaxies. Fruit like little harps. Fruit like butterflies with fluttering, iridescent wings. Maria and Rodrigo sat on the grass, feasting. With Old Tetsu's permission, Maria collected a few fruits to bring back to the Kinnara.

As the two humans ate, Tetsu spoke in a voice like crinkling paper.

"Ten thousand years ago, Old Tetsu was known as Young Tetsu, a naive and eager shachihoko, an apprentice to the wise monks who dwelt in this temple. Back in those days, all shachihokos were like Young Tetsu. They were no larger than humans. Not that we shachihokos knew who humans were back then." He chuckled. "We built grand cities in those days, yes. What you see today are only the ruins. The echoes of memories."

He hung his head low, and Maria embraced him and kissed his fuzzy cheek. "I'm sorry, Tetsu. Loss is a cavern inside us we can never fill."

"The wyrms destroyed our cities," said Old Tetsu. "Thousands of them came. Scaly serpents with great teeth and claws. Larger, stronger, faster than us. They defamed our temples. Toppled our palaces. Slaughtered our children. We were losing the Wyrm War. We faced extinction. But Young Tetsu discovered hope! He mixed a special elixir. Any shachihoko who drank the potion grew larger, stronger, crueler, until they could defeat the mighty wyrms in battle. Young Tetsu brought his elixir to the glorious army of his emperor. And the soldiers drank."

Maria nodded, remembering Mister Weird. "And they mutated."

"Mutated?" said Old Testu. "No. They were blessed. They became great warriors. More and more shachihokos drank the potion. Everyone wanted to become a soldier. Females, children, elders—they all drank and grew and fought. They beat back the wyrms! They won our freedom! The war ended. But there was nobody left to rebuild. The war was over. And only Young Tetsu remained as before. All others of his race had become mindless, overgrown warriors, living only for the fight. The wyrms were gone. So they fought one another. Millions of shachihokos died in civil wars. And our cities remain in ruin. Only I remain, Old Tetsu, guardian of our past glory … and also its destroyer."

Maria hugged him again. "That's so sad."

Rodrigo was taking feverish notes. "It's wonderful! Sad, yes. But wonderful! I can't wait to write this down as a graphic novel. The fan club gang will go crazy."

Her belly full of fruit, her heart full of tragedy, Maria shared her own tale. Of the war between Bahay and Earth, the city among the stars, and her quest to find the lost starships.

"But our vessel is broken," she finished her tale. "And mutated shachis still swim outside the temple. We're stuck."

"Old Tetsu will help you," said the elderly monk. "He can fix your ship. And more importantly, he will grant you an ancient conch. Blow into the conch, and it will emit a beautiful song of our realm's lost glory. Any shachihoko who hears it will know you as a friend. Even the beasts outside the temple."

"Thank you!" Maria said, reaching out to hug him again. Bahayans were huggers by nature. And Maria had to admit—hugging this fuzzy old being was particularly addicting.

"Of course, not for free," Old Tetsu said.

Maria dropped her arms to her sides, aborting the hug. "Oh."

"Old Tetsu will help you if you help him."

"Of course we'll help you!" Maria said.

The shachi sank a little lower in the stream. The lights dimmed across the chamber. The birds stopped singing, and an eerie silence fell.

"Old Tetsu lost something," the shachi said. "A treasure in a glass sphere. It rolled into a cave long ago. A cave where Old Tetsu cannot swim. But humans can crawl. Humans have hands. Humans can grab onto stones and climb. You will retrieve my orb! And Old Tetsu will forever be in your debt."

Chapter Twenty-Two

Monsters in the Dark

"Again, again!" Lily said. "Tita Charlie, more poker!"

The young girl was beaming, proudly holding her chips. Even here, trapped in a dark submarine, buried in an underwater temple with monsters swarming outside, Lily was smiling. Laughing. Enjoying herself.

She's unaware of the danger, Charlie thought. But she won't be for much longer. She's four years old. She won't be innocent forever. Bahayan children grow up fast. I did.

Charlie thought back to herself at that age. Her parents, doting. Her siblings, naked and scrawny. Her pet, a stray dog named Sniffles. Her home, a landfill. A mountain of trash that rose from Mindao toward the sky, taller than the greatest cathedral.

Back then, she had not been Charlie Wonder, the alluring bargirl with fishnet stockings and curves to die for. Back then, she had been little Dalisay. An urchin of the trash.

In her memory, she saw them again. The trucks arriving at the landfill and dumping their rancid contents. Little Charlie, all of four years old, would laugh and run and play in the trash. Her parents and siblings would join her, shifting through the garbage, finding treasures. Old electronics they could repair and fix. Scrap metal they could sell to the smelters. Rotten lettuce with their inner leaves still good to eat. Old chicken wing bones, some skin and fat still attached, good pickings for pagpag stew. Hope to survive another day. At night, little Dalisay would lie atop the mountain under the stars. Sniffles curled up at her side, and she would sleep, a princess of garbage on her decaying bed.

But I grew up, Charlie thought.

Sibling after sibling died. The worms and rats spread the boils, the cough, the fever. Seven of her siblings died, and Dalisay was thirteen, still sifting through the trash, no longer so happy-go-lucky. A young woman covered in filth, always sick, always hungry, always ready to bury another loved one. She had no tears left.

All she had was her beauty.

"You are the princess of trash, the goddess of garbage," the garbage men would say, and they would mean it as a compliment.

She revered the garbage men, these angels who brought forth manna from heaven. And as she grew older, she accepted more than garbage from them. She took a few pesos here and there, and she pleasured them behind their trucks.

Yes, she grew up fast. And after she buried her parents, she left.

With her own hands, with garbage she herself had found, she built a shanty. With scraps of tarpaulin. With bits of rotting plywood. With strings and cables. She even found a rusty chunk of corrugated steel, and she placed it atop her shanty, and for the first time in her life, she had a roof for when the monsoon fell.

She got a job. A real job in the Go Go Cowgirl. Serving drinks. Serving other needs. She earned enough pesos to buy the glittering little crystals in the little plastic bags, the magic dust that dulled the pain.

She discovered her beauty. She cut her hair to a bob. She wore lingerie and heels. She became Charlie Wonder, Miss Mindao, the greatest beauty in the city.

And more men came.

They fucked her for half an hour, and they tossed her a few pesos.

A few stayed a whole night. A few placed children in her belly.

First there was Jessica, sweet Jessica with her pale skin and angelic eyes, the daughter of an Earthling sergeant who vanished the next day. A girl who had grown into a young woman, now tending to lost souls on Mother's Womb.

A year later came Rodrigo. Her clever little Rodrigo with his bright, inquisitive eyes. The son of a corporal whose name Charlie had never learned. A young man who fought here underwater at Charlie's side.

Two more children followed. Little John Mark and Angela, only eight and ten years old, both back in Mother's Womb. Both missing their mother.

Four children from her womb, from the seed of Earth. But a thousand men had come and left her bed.

Here was a new generation. Her four children, each a soul Charlie loved with all her heart. And Lily, a young precious flower, whom Charlie loved like a daughter.

Still growing up in shanties.

Still growing up in war.

Still growing up too fast.

"Tita Charlie!" Lily said, dropping her poker chips and rushing over. "Why are you crying? Was I bad?"

Charlie wiped away her tears and hugged the girl. "Lily, you are the most perfect little girl in the world."

"No I'm not. I'm bad."

"Lily!" Charlie stared into her eyes. "Who told you that?"

The girl stared back steadily. "My mom told me not to be scared. And I said I'm not. But I lied. I'm scared, Tita Charlie. I'm so scared of the monsters. I lied to my mom, and I'm so bad."

Charlie smiled sadly and dried the girl's tears. "Your mom is going to defeat all the monsters in the world. She's the bravest woman I know."

"And all the monsters will run far, far away, so far they can never come back?"

"Even farther," Charlie said.

Lily smiled. "Wow!"

"Now go to bed, Lily. It's late."

"Aww, but I want to play more cards!"

Charlie mussed the girl's hair. "And Tita Charlie wants some me time. To bed with you!"

The girl curled up with Gummy and was soon fast asleep. Charlie missed Sniffles.

She looked through the porthole at the dark water. Out there, just beyond the walls of the flooded temple, the monsters were stirring. Waiting.

The pain stabbed Charlie. The memories. The fear. The loss. They all wove together into a darkness that claimed her.

She opened her purse and fished around. Needing her secret powder. Just a taste.

There it was. The little plastic bag. She shook out a little crystal dust.

She closed her eyes, pursed her lips, lowered her head.

I shouldn't, Charlie thought. I can't be that old Charlie anymore.

But she was. Still Charlie Wonder, the woman that frightened little girl had become in the Blue Boulevard, a caterpillar grown into a neon butterfly. She might now be underwater, but she could not forget the electric slums of Mindao nor the sleazy clubs of Mother's Womb. Even in that station in the heavens, she was still a whore. She danced among the stars and sold her body in the light of the cosmos. And it hurt. She had been doing this for two decades, and it still hurt so much.

So she snorted the drug. And the pain recoiled, curled up, retreated into the pit of her stomach. It would lurk there until the drug wore off. It never left, only slept.

She pulled a mirror from her purse, flicked it open, and examined her reflection. Her tears had smudged her makeup. And more kept falling. She tried to fix her eyeshadow, but it was useless.

She sighed, looking at her reflection.

I'm a mess. A fucking mess.

Her hair was still perfect, smooth like a black helmet, flowing down to her chin. Her lipstick was bright red, her eyelids sparkling gold. She wore a lot of makeup these days. Yes, she prided herself on her youthful beauty. And everyone said Bahayans aged well, better than Earthlings. But as Charlie inched toward age forty—okay, sped more than inched, she had to admit—it was getting harder. Though she'd never admit it, she was turning forty this year. She needed more makeup to hide the crow's feet. And every week or two, she found a white hair and plucked it out. They said Asian women aged well, and maybe that was true, but at some point, Charlie would need a miracle worker.

"I better find a husband before the big four-oh," she muttered to herself. "Before it's too late for old Charlie."

She laughed bitterly. Who was she kidding? It was already too late. It was too late when she had four kids. When she became a whore. No man would want her now. She chased them. She loved a few for a night. They all left.

Only one man had ever stayed. Her dear Jose. The only man she had kissed for love, not money.

"So of course you had to go and die on me, Jose," Charlie whispered, and the tears flowed again. Her makeup was absolutely useless now.

So much for the shabu dulling the pain.

She snapped the mirror shut and shoved it back into her purse.

At least my hair's still fabulous. And I still got the best damn puwit in town.

When she composed herself, she pulled the floor hatch open, and she dropped into the crawlspace.

* * * * *

The Kinnara was a small ship. There was only one main deck. The lower level, where the machinery ran, was built for small service robots. Humans had to crawl. Charlie couldn't make heads or tails of the machinery down here. It was all pipes, tubes, gauges, cables, computers, and endless other components she couldn't even name.

"Hey, Jay Jay!" she said. "How's it going? You almost got the Kinnara patched up?"

Jay Jay lay on his back, tinkering with some machinery above. He held a wrench, and several other tools lay around him.

"Working on it." He spoke around three screws he held in his mouth.

Charlie wriggled in beside him. They lay on their backs side by side. She frowned up at the mess of cables, pipes, and bolts.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing, Jay Jay?"

He spat out the screws. "Hey, this ain't nothing but a fancy tuk-tuk." He winked and smiled, but Charlie heard a note of sadness in his voice, and his smile did not reach his eyes.

Charlie nudged him. "You okay?"

He gave a little snort. "Me? Fine. I'm great. As always."

But he was not. Maybe he was remembering his past, a rickshaw runner on the streets of Mindao. Maybe he was remembering loved ones fallen in the war.

And he's too damn smart to drown his memories in drugs, Charlie thought.

She placed a hand on his chest. "If you ever need to talk, I'm here for you."

Now actual warmth filled his smile. "Thanks, babe."

"Or if you ever need to make out," Charlie said. "Because I'm always here for that too. Not as …" She felt herself blush. "Not as a bargirl. I mean for real. No money. Like friends! Well, not that friends normally make out. I mean, um … I'm just being an idiot. As always. Because I have a bit of a crush on you."

"Geez, you do? I had no idea." He rolled his eyes.

"What gave it away?"

"Maybe the fact that your hands are, right now, all over me?"

"Sorry, sorry!" Charlie pulled her hands back. "I can't help it. I'm . . ." She looked away, and tears stung her eyes. "I'm high right now, Jay Jay. I'm high often. And drunk. And I'm a whore. And I'm almost forty. And I have four kids. You're young, single, and let's admit it, super-hot. Why would you want somebody like me?"

Jay Jay put down his wrench. "Charlie, I have two things to tell you. First, you are fucking gorgeous, and fucking hilarious, and I fucking love you to bits. Second, can you please stop navel-gazing like a schoolgirl so I can fix our starship and we can get the hell out of here?"

She gasped and slapped him. "You rude bitch!"

"I learned from the best." He handed her a wrench. "Hey, Charles, do me a favor and loosen that gasket, would ya?"

"I can't believe you just called me Charles, but okay."

She took the wrench, followed his instructions, and helped him tweak the machinery.

Soon—the Kinnara hummed!

The lights came back on!

Air flowed from the vents, and Lilly cried out in delight from above deck.

Charlie gasped. "I'm a genius! I fixed the spaceship!"

"Well, I helped a bit," Jay Jay said.

"Keep telling yourself that. I'm the genius! Me, Charlie Wonder! I—"

A scream sounded from above deck.

Lily!

Charlie's heart lurched. "I'll go check on—"

A rumble shook the Kinnara.

A roar echoed in the depths.

Charlie crawled hurriedly, banging her head against a pipe, and burst onto the main deck. Lily sat on the floor, hugging Gummy, trembling.

"Monsters!" the girl said. "The monsters are here. And we're all going to die."

Chapter Twenty-Three

Twisting Tunnels

Tunnels snaked below Susanoo Temple, twisting and turning deep under the seabed. Black water flooded the labyrinth. No light shone. It was a cold, blind place. A place of death. Of forgetting. The darkest, most isolated place on Bahay.

Maria swam here.

A shudder ran through her. She had thought the rest of the temple gloomy. That was nothing. They didn't just swim underwater now. They swam beneath the seabed, through tunnels plunging into the very bowels of the planet.

The murals were gone. The statues, the jewels, the wonders—they did not exist down in the dungeons. Here was a place of rough stone, coiling burrows, blind chasms far below any memory of life. Fossils of snarling, toothy faces covered the walls, the ghosts of predatory ancestors. Black water flooded the maze—thick, gurgling, breathing in and out, in and out. The water was a living beast of ink, forever caressing, suffocating.

Maria felt trapped down here. The walls seemed to be closing in. With every breath, she worried she would run out of air. Or that her helmet would shatter, and that black water would come rushing in. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a fish desperate to escape a net.

"Tita Maria, are you sure this is a good idea?" Rodrigo said, swimming behind her. The boy's voice shook. "Maybe we should turn back."

"We're all right, little buddy." Maria spoke softly, trying to calm the boy. "You're doing great. Don't worry. I'm right here with you."

Rodrigo looked around the dark, flooded tunnels. He trembled. "It's spooky down here, Tita."

"I know, buddy," Maria said. "But we gotta do this. We need Old Tetsu's help. Only he can call off his big, bad brothers. We'll fetch Tetsu his lost orb, and we'll be on our way." She patted the young man. "We'll be alright, buddy. I'm proud of you."

"Thank you, Tita Maria. You know, you're a lot nicer to me than my mom." Rodrigo peered into the dark distance. "What does this orb look like, anyway? What are we looking for exactly?"

"No idea," Maria said. "Old Tetsu just called it his orb. It must be very dear to him. He won't help us without it. Keep a look out for orbs!"

She kept paddling down the flooded tunnel. The lights built into her spacesuit, one on each shoulder, barely pierced this darkness. Worse, the batteries were running low. So was her oxygen.

In an hour, we need to be back on the Kinnara, she thought. Or this will be our tomb.

"Rodrigo, buddy!" she said. "We gotta move faster, okay? Can you swim faster for me?"

"Sure thing, Tita Maria." His voice shook, but he swam faster.

The tunnel became narrower and narrower. Soon Maria wasn't swimming but crawling. Her stomach pressed against the floor. Her helmet scraped against the ceiling. She had to pull her elbows in and wriggle. No wonder Tetsu had not wanted to come this way himself.

The walls closed in tighter.

Maria's head began to spin. Her hands to shake.

She was trapped in a hut. The bamboo walls were burning. She was trying to flee the flames. She was caught in the ducts of Mother's Womb, and the mad A.I. laughed. She was trapped in a stone coffin, and the dead danced all around. She panted.

"I'm going to faint," she whispered. "I can't see. I can't see …"

Something touched her foot. She jolted, banging her head against the ceiling. But it was only Rodrigo, patting her leg.

"It's all right, Tita Maria," he said. "You're doing great. If this whole saving the universe thing doesn't pan out, you have a job waiting at the Urchin Express. You're a natural."

She smiled shakily, and the fear parted like fog in the dawn. "Thank you, buddy."

How quickly she had gone from comforting the boy to being comforted!

She crawled with more confidence. Faster. Faster still. Lips pursed. Casting her light into the darkness.

Finally she tumbled out the tunnel into a flooded cave.

The place was huge. A church could have fit inside. A vent bloomed open on the floor like a red flower, revealing a pit of lava.

Gurgling sounded deep underground. The chamber trembled. The vent suddenly expelled a jet of boiling water and steam, filling the chamber with heat and red light. Pale white crabs, shrimps, and limpets scurried toward the vent, basking in the heat. They collected bubbles of boiling water and devoured them.

"Amazing," Maria said. "These creatures live far from the sunlight. They get their energy from thermal vents, not the sun. From the very energy stored inside Bahay!" She couldn't help but smile. "That makes them unique. All other life forms rely on the sun for energy. Here is a whole new branch of life."

"Look, Tita Maria!" Rodrigo said, pointing. "The orb!"

A sphere lay on the sandy floor. Moss and barnacles covered it. Was it the orb they sought? Old Tetsu has described a gleaming sphere like a crystal ball.

"Is it just a mossy rock?" Maria wondered aloud. She swam closer. "No. It's too perfectly round to be a rock. And there are no other rocks here. If we clear off the moss and barnacles, we can—"

The cavern trembled.

Silt flew in clouds.

The pale crabs, shrimps, and limpets fled into holes.

A voice rumbled, and the walls shook.

"Who enters my chamber?"

The vent widened like a cervix, claws emerged from below, and Maria screamed.

Chapter Twenty-Four

They Found Us

Lily's voice hung in the air, high and eerie.

"The monsters are here. We're going to die …"

The rumbles sounded outside the temple. The waters churned, rocking the Kinnara. A deep bellow rolled through the ocean depths.

Charlie raced into the cockpit and stared out the viewport. She saw nothing but the black water, the craggy temple walls, and the collapsed gateway. Piles of rocks blocked the entrance. The place was safe.

The roars rose again, deep and furious. But they came from outside.

"We're safe here," Charlie said, voice trembling. "Those shaco … sachi … spicy pineapples can't make it into the temple."

Jay Jay entered the cockpit too. He leaned forward, peering outside. "Shachihokos. And they sound angry."

Susanoo Temple shook.

A wall cracked.

A column tilted.

Charlie reached into her purse and grabbed her pistol, for all the damn good it would do. Jay Jay, proving himself less of an idiot, gripped the Kinnara's rotary cannon triggers.

They stood there, staring into the dark waters, listening to the cries outside. Roars. Grunts. Howls. A chorus of rage.

"Those pineapples are extra spicy tonight," Charlie said, refusing to release her big pink gun.

"I hear more than shachis," Jay Jay said, eyes dark. "I hear engines."

Charlie listened carefully. She heard it too. Some of those rumblings were not the mutant shachihokos.

"Submarines," Charlie said. "Who—"

Gunfire thudded in the distance. An explosion rattled the temple. A crack tore open in the wall, revealing the open ocean.

A battle!

A battle was being fought outside!

Charlie glimpsed the shachis going crazy, whipping their scaly bodies from side to side, snapping their jaws. They swarmed over a group of submarines, biting the metal hulls in a frenzy.

The submarines were heavily armed. Plasma guns fired from their prows. Their engines roared. One fired a torpedo, and a shachi exploded in a shower of golden scales and red blood.

"Could they be friends?" Jay Jay whispered. "Submarines come to help us?"

One submarine raced past the crack in the wall, pursuing a shachi. Charlie got a better look at it. She saw the symbol painted on the hull. Three red lines like the marks of claws.

"Crimson Claws," she said, gripping her pistol. "They found us."

Chapter Twenty-Five

Barracuda

"So here you are, Maria de la Cruz," Ernesto hissed. "Here, hiding in a drowned temple at the bottom of the ocean. Even here, I found you. I would chase you into the belly of the earth and past the unknown edges of the firmaments. You can never escape."

He sat in the cockpit of the Barracuda, a ruthless submarine, a true predator of the depths. Dark Mother had built the Barracuda, re-purposing old starfighters and shuttles. Her hull was thick. Her weapons merciless. She led a pack of ten other submarines, every one just as vicious. Inside each submarine gathered a squad of Crimson Claws, every man a killer.

"And you have nothing, Maria," he hissed, staring at the drowned temple. "Nothing but an old ship, a few squatters, and crumbling walls around you. You defied me. Now you will suffer so much." Ernesto licked his lips. "First I will make you watch as I slice your daughter's throat. Then the true fun will begin."

But not until Ernesto got rid of the temple guardians.

Another beast lunged toward his submarine, churning the water. The creature was massive, larger than any animal on land. Yellow scales covered its flailing body, and its fins and tail were green. Its head was like a great tiger, a bloom of reds and yellows, an exploding star. The jaws opened wide, and the fangs shone, curving and cruel like katanas.

Hundreds of these beasts swarmed, attacking the submarines, rabid with hunger and hate. Two submarines sank to the seabed. The fangs had ripped them open, and water flooded their hulls. A few men fled the drowned vessels, tried to swim to the surface. But the monsters got them. The jaws tore them apart. The beasts fed.

Shachihokos, Ernesto knew, gazing upon these terrors. He had heard of such beasts. All fishermen had. In generations past, it was said, they would terrorize the fishermen who ventured too far.

You've summoned the ocean and all her terrors to guard you, Maria, he thought. But nothing will keep us apart.

One of the shachis was still coming at him fast.

Snarling, Ernesto pulled a trigger with each hand.

Two rotary guns blazed on the Barracuda's prow. A hailstorm of plasma bolts bombarded the shachihoko.

Yet the beast kept coming!

Riddled with holes, spurting a fountain of blood, the shachi slammed into the Barracuda.

The submarine tumbled backward through the water. Ernesto fell, hit the deck hard. Around him, his crew of Crimson Claws cursed and shouted.

The jaws were gripping them. The gullet was open, full of swirling fire, melting the stern with its furious heat.

Ernesto dragged himself toward the controls and pulled the trigger.

The rotary guns were dented. They spurted plasma every which way, a whirlpool of furious red. Bolts sank into the creature, melted its yellow scales, took out an eye. It howled in fury. Ernesto flicked a switch, and jagged steel claws burst out from the Barracuda like mandibles.

"Die now," Ernesto hissed.

Teeth bared, he shoved the throttle. The Barracuda's engines roared. The submarine plowed forward. Its steel mandibles tore through the wounded shachi, ripping scales off skin, skin off bones, gutting the beast like a fish. Entrails spilled through the water, and the carcass floated away.

Ernesto surveyed the battle.

A hundred more shachihokos were mobbing his fleet. Another submarine fell. The fangs ripped it open like a tin can. His own submarine was dented, limping through the water.

"Master, we must retreat!" cried one of his lieutenants. "They're tearing us apart."

"We are Crimson Claws!" Ernesto said. "We never retreat."

Another shachi came at them. Ernesto loosed a torpedo. It tunneled through the water, leaving a wake of steam, and plowed into the beast. The explosion pulverized the beast. A shock wave rippled through the water, knocking the Barracuda backward. Chipped scales pattered against them—all that remained of the animal.

Two more shachis came in hot, bodies whipping from side to side. A scaly tail lashed, slammed into the Barracuda, and hurled the submarine through the water. They tumbled through the battle. Bombs exploded all around. Plasma bolts flew.

"Master, we can't defeat these beasts!" his lieutenant shouted. "Why are we here? Just to hunt one girl? How many must die because you fell in love with a whore? We must fall back now! Of you don't give the order, I wi—"

Ernesto put a bullet through the man's forehead.

He looked at the rest of his crew. "There will be no mutiny aboard my submarine. Only victory or death." He turned the submarine toward the drowned temple. "Come now, brave warriors! Let us choose victory!"

He fired another torpedo, his last one. But not at the shachihokos.

The missile thrummed through the water, hit the temple wall, and exploded.

A hole tore open, revealing the temple innards.

Ernesto licked his lips, hit the throttle, and stormed into the temple.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Magma

The underground cavern, buried deep below Susanoo Temple, trembled.

The thermal vent bloomed wider, wider, cracking along the edges, revealing a pit of magma. The water around it boiled. Red light flooded the chasm.

Maria floated in the hot water, staring, her scream echoing in her ears.

Like a demon from a womb, a beast emerged.

Claws scratched the cave floor. Jaws opened wide, rimmed with fangs like swords. A bellow filled the cavern, rippling the water, rising higher and higher in pitch until it became a shriek, deafening, threatening to crack Maria's helmet. She found herself staring into the beast's gullet, a pit of swirling, molten rock. Eyes opened in a stony face, searing, blazing white.

It was a monster that could dwarf even the mutated shachihokos.

"What the hell is that?" Maria shouted.

"A cherufe!" Rodrigo cried, voice shaking. "A demon of rock and magma! A big one too!"

"How do you all these things?" Maria said, fleeing to the back of the chamber.

"Comics!" Rodrigo answered. Of course.

No wonder Old Tetsu didn't want to come here, Maria thought. He claimed it's because he couldn't fit down the tunnel. What rubbish!

The beast rose taller, still emerging from the pit, pulling more and more of its stony body from below. It filled the cavern, looming, scraping across the stony walls. The chamber shook. The orb rolled into the shadows.

Firelight filled the chasm. Water bubbled and steamed. Maria's helmet began flashing warnings across her HUD.

Temperature reaching critical levels.

Oxygen down to 7%.

Warning! Warning!

She whispered into her comlink, "Rodrigo, try to snatch the orb. I'll distract it."

The boy nodded and began inching away.

Maria waved her arms and shouted, creating a distraction. "Hey, hey you! You there, yes, you!"

The cherufe of stone and magma howled again. Cracks raced across the walls. The beast spun toward Maria, eyes ablaze. The molten stone churned inside its gullet, and the water grew hotter and hotter.

Maria's suit was built to withstand the radiation of space and the pressure of deep diving, but she could still feel this blazing inferno. The suit creaked, its screws and bolts expanding in the heat. She worried her helmet could crack open. Without her suit, this water would boil her alive.

"Dear cherufe!" she said. "I come in peace. I'm a friend. I—"

The beast opened its jaws wide enough to devour her. Maria cringed, facing a swirling, spewing cauldron. It was like standing before the sun. She knelt, covered her face, and screamed as water bubbled around her.

A voice filled the cavern, deeper than the bowels of the earth, louder than the cry of dying whales.

"Leave … my … lair …"

Maria glanced toward Rodrigo. The boy was sneaking along the wall, trying to avoid the creature's lashing tail. She looked back at the cherufe.

"Of course, of course!" Maria said. "But before we go, is there anything we can—"

The beast spewed magma.

Maria yelped, paddled with her feet, and swam upwards.

The magma flowed beneath her, boiling the water, and landed on the cavern floor. The clumps lay there, steaming and pulsing, hardening into stone.

"Little buddy?" she whispered into her comlink.

"Almost got it!" Rodrigo said.

She saw him across the cavern, reaching for the orb. But the cherufe's tail flailed, hit the orb, and hurled it into the shadows.

The demon's voice rumbled again.

"I demand … flesh!"

Its flames burned hotter. Its body bulged. Cracks raced across his stone skin, leaking lava. The terrible molten eyes turned from orange to white. Maria winced, the heat engulfing her. Her diving suit beeped in protest. A hairline crack raced across her visor.

"Almost got it!" came Rodrigo's voice through the comlink, distorted in the heat.

The cherufe pushed against the ground, leaped through the bubbling water, and lunged at Maria. The enormous mouth opened to devour her. She saw skeletons inside its gullet, floating through the lava.

This is it, Maria knew. I'm going to die.

"Wait!" rose a cry from behind. "She's not a virgin!"

Rodrigo! The teenager swam behind the beast.

"Rodrigo, he really doesn't need to know that!" Maria shot back.

"Cherufes only feed on virgins!" Rodrigo said. "It's a legend that goes back thousands of years. Back in the old days, cherufes would live inside volcanoes and cause earthquakes. Only a sacrifice of virgins could appease them."

The beast was still facing Maria. She swam backwards, dodging the snapping teeth.

"It's true!" she said. "I'm not a virgin. I'm a mother! You don't want to eat me at all. I've slept with men before. Lots of men! Well, okay, not lots. But—trust me, I'm bad for your digestion."

"Yeah, she's a huge slut!" Rodrigo said.

"Hey!" Maria frowned. "Who taught you to talk like that?"

"My mom. Obviously."

Maria swam closer to the cherufe, waving her arms madly, desperate to draw the monster's attention. "That's right! I'm a huge slut. Don't eat me! Don't eat me at all. You really want to find somebody much more virginal."

She just had to keep talking. Keep distracting the beast. She glimpsed Rodrigo reaching for the orb again. But again the tail flicked. The orb flew again, tumbling through the water.

A warning flashed across her visor.

Oxygen down to 5%. Return to craft at once.

The cherufe towered before her, rumbling, leaking. Blobs of lava fell from its cracked, stony skin and hardened on the floor.

"Not a virgin?" it rumbled.

"She's not!" came Rodrigo's voice from behind. "But I am."

The gargantuan monster of stone and magma froze. Then it slowly turned around, roiling the water, digging grooves into the floor. Its tailed whipped over Maria's head, stirring up a maelstrom. The funnel knocked her aside.

Rodrigo swam through swirling silt and grabbed the orb.

Finally!

Not missing a beat, Rodrigo hurled the orb over the cherufe's head.

Maria swam upward and caught it.

"Got it!" she said.

She clutched the slimy sphere to her chest. White moss and barnacles covered it.

"Go without me!" Rodrigo shouted, facing the cherufe. He was trapped behind the demon of magma, unable to access the tunnel.

The monster lunged toward the boy, ready to feast on a true virgin. The water churned and bubbled all around.

"Not a chance, little buddy," Maria said and drew her pistol.

She had learned that bullets didn't work well underwater. She'd need to get close.

"Buddy, stay with me!" she said, paddling mightily, swimming closer to the cherufe's back.

The jaws were snapping, the water roiling and bubbling. But Rodrigo was still screaming. That was good. Dead boys didn't scream.

As Maria swam closer to the beast of magma, the water grew hotter.

Another hairline crack raced across her helmet. The HUD flashed its warnings.

Oxygen down to 3%.

Maria reached the beast and leaped onto its stony back. She cried out. The heat was melting her suit. She gritted her teeth, standing on the cherufe. Its body was made of craggy stone, but as it raged, the fires inside expanded. Cracks raced across the body like rivers of lava, leaking liquid inferno. The water bubbled and steamed all around, nearly blinding Maria.

She aimed her pistol into one of the cracks.

She pulled the trigger.

Her bullet sank into the cherufe's molten innards.

At this close range, it did some real damage. The cherufe howled and reared.

She fired again.

"Rodrigo, into the tunnel!" she cried.

The cherufe bucked like an enraged bull, and Maria tumbled through the water. The monster's head spun toward her, jaws snapping.

Rodrigo was already swimming toward the tunnel.

"Look up, little buddy!" she said.

Maria tossed him the orb. Rodrigo caught it and vanished into the tunnel.

The jaws opened before Maria. The fangs were closing in.

She fired her gun again. Bullets blinded the creature. She paddled wildly, retreating from the hellmouth. The jaws snapped shut behind her, nearly severing her feet.

The jaws opened again and spewed lava.

Maria swam into the tunnel.

The inferno engulfed the chamber behind her. Droplets sizzled against Maria's suit and hardened into pellets like barnacles.

She and Rodrigo swam away, breathing heavily, leaving the beast trapped in its cell.

"Well, that was fun!" Rodrigo said, swimming ahead. "Really, lovely of Old Tetsu to tell us about the giant lava monster in the room. Little detail. He probably just forgot."

Maria coughed. Gasped. Her head spun.

Oxygen down to 2%.

"Buddy," she managed.

Rodrigo turned at her. "Oh shit. You're not looking good, Tita Maria."

Oxygen down to 1%.

"I'm …" She coughed. She noticed that water filled her helmet up to her chin. "I'm … cracked."

Oxygen down to 0.4%.

"Oh shit!" Rodrigo said.

OXYGEN AT 0%.

Maria's eyes rolled back.

Vaguely, she was aware of Rodrigo fumbling with his suit. Then everything went dark.

She sucked in air.

The darkness lifted.

Fresh air was flooding her helmet!

"I redirected the nozzles, Tita Maria," Rodrigo said. "You're sucking on my tank now. I still got 12% left. Should be enough to get us home. We'll keep moving the nozzle back and forth every few seconds. Better stop talking now. Running out of air. Actually … I need my nozzle back!"

They kept swimming, passing the oxygen hose back and forth, back and forth, like a hookah pipe.

Finally they reemerged into the dryroom, collapsed onto the grass, and pulled off their helmets. They lay there for long moments, just breathing. The tree branches rustled above and the birds sang.

"Rodrigo?" Maria finally managed after catching her breath.

The boy lay beside her, eyes narrowed to slits. "Yes, Tita Maria?"

"I can't believe you called me a huge slut."

He blushed. "Sorry! I had to distract the cherufe."

Maria smiled weakly. "You sound just like your mother."

He smiled back. "Despite it all, I kinda love her. Just …" His blush deepened. "Please don't tell anyone I'm a virgin."

Maria mussed the boy's hair. "Not a word, little buddy."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

A Battle Underwater

Inside the drowned temple, Ernesto slowed the Barracuda to a halt. The other submarines entered with him, scarred and dented but still ready to fight.

Ernesto set three submarines to guard the hole in the temple wall. The shachihokos were still out there, roaring for blood. But a few blasts of plasma kept them at bay. They wouldn't be entering this temple anytime soon.

"So this is it," Ernesto said. "The fabled Susanoo Temple. The place from all those old stories."

He looked around him. The drowned temple was enormous. Larger than any cathedral on the islands. So large enough that many submarines could fit inside. Columns soared, supporting a ceiling adorned with frescoes. Precious metals and jewels covered everything, but Ernesto cared for only one treasure.

There it was.

In the center of the temple, floating in the dark water.

The Kinnara.

"I got you now, Maria," Ernesto said.

He pulled on his diving suit and swam out the airlock.

He swam toward the Kinnara. She hovered in place, her engines cold. Fang marks covered her hull. The prow was dented. The shachis had done a number on her. But she was still full of air, and a light shone in her portholes.

Maria was still alive.

As Ernesto swam, he gave the Kinnara's rotary cannon a wide berth. The ship perhaps was damaged, but she might be playing possum. That cannon could still burn hot. The water offered some protection from bullets, perhaps. But Ernesto wouldn't count on water saving him.

He swam into Kinnara's airlock. The water drained, leaving him dripping wet. He pulled up his visor, drew his pistol, and stepped through the inner door.

He thrust his gun forward, ready for a fight.

Nobody was there.

Ernesto froze, pistol held in both hands. His eyes narrowed.

"Where are you, Maria?" he said in a sing-song voice.

Nobody answered. Very well. She wanted to play cat and mouse? He was down for that.

He stepped deeper into the submarine, gun drawn, scanning the darkness. He was blind in one eye, but he moved his head from side to side like a shark, taking it all in. His nostrils flared.

He smelled her. Yes, Maria was here. He saw toys scattered across the deck. Lily's toys. Ernesto could not wait to put a bullet through the girl's brain.

"I will end this mongrel child, Maria!" he shouted. "You will bear my children instead. Purebred children! Proud patriots."

A voice spoke ahead.

"Oh honey! Maria isn't here. But I'm always up for a roll in the hay."

Ernesto's head whipped toward the voice. He hissed and aimed his pistol.

"You!" he spat.

The whore stood there. The one from the Toy Box. He remembered her name. Charlie. A pathetic pute name.

She was wearing her bargirl clothes. Lacy red lingerie, high heels, fishnet stockings. She held a cup of wine. The bottle stood on a table by an empty cup.

"Care to join me, sailor?" Charlie said. "Maria sent me here. To lure you underwater while she flew far, far away. Where? I don't know. Somewhere among the stars. But I'm lonely here in the ocean. I could use a strong man around the place."

Ernesto stomped closer to her, lips peeling back in a snarl.

"Where is Maria!" he demanded, pointing his pistol at her.

Charlie raised an eyebrow. "My my, you're a saucy one. I bet you like it rough in bed." She pouted. "But I don't like fucking at gunpoint. Why don't you put down that tiny little gun, and instead show me the big fat gun in your pants?"

He growled. "I'm not one of your clients, whore. I will tear this submarine apart if I must. I know Maria is here. She's hiding from me. I will—"

"Oh, sweetie!" Charlie caressed his cheek. "I'm so sorry we duped you. Truly I am. Let me make it up to you. Surely, there's some way I can make you feel better?"

Something moved in her eyes.

A reflection.

The figure of a man.

Ernesto spun around and saw him.

A man was lunging forward, a knife in hand. Ernesto recognized him. Juanito Jimenez, known as Jay Jay, a notorious criminal from Mother's Womb.

Ernesto fired his gun.

But with only a split second to aim, his shot went wide. The bullet pounded the bulkhead behind Jay Jay. The gunshot rang through the cabin, deafening.

And then Jay Jay barreled into him, knife lashing.

Ernesto twisted to the side, and the knife sliced the air. The two men crashed onto the deck. Ernesto raised his gun, fired again. A bullet hit the ceiling. His ears rang.

The men wrestled across the deck, knife and gun in hand, too close to use either effectively.

A metal rod slammed into Ernesto's back.

He howled.

The rod swung again, hitting his helmet. Ernesto reeled.

He fell backward, glimpsed Charlie standing there, still in her lingerie and heels. She swung the rod down again.

Ernesto raised his gun to shoot her. Jay Jay kicked, crushing Ernesto's fingers. The gun flew and clattered across the deck. The rod came down, but Ernesto rolled, dodging the attack.

Jay Jay raised his knife, ready to plunge it into Ernesto's check.

With a howl, Ernesto leaped up, slamming himself into Jay Jay, knocking the man back against the bulkhead. The knife clanked onto the deck, and Ernesto kicked it aside.

Charlie came at him again. Ernesto spun around, dodged her rod, and drove his fist into her jaw. Charlie went down like a sack of bricks.

Jay Jay seized his chance, driving his fist into Ernesto's chest. Pain bloomed from his solar plexus with beams of fire. Jay Jay grabbed a wrench, swung it. It slammed into Ernesto's shoulder. The pain was terrifying. Driving through him. All-consuming.

Jay Jay raised the wrench again, prepared to dish out more punishment. Ernesto had no gun left.

His opponent was young, strong, full of fire.

I can't beat him, Ernesto thought.

But Ernesto had one advantage. Unlike Jay Jay, he was wearing a helmet. He tapped a button, and the visor closed.

He grabbed Jay Jay, grappled the man, and shoved him across the deck. His opponent resisted, delivering blows with the wrench. Ernesto took the pain. He kept shoving, manhandling Jay Jay into the airlock.

"No!" Jay Jay howled, struggling against him.

Ernesto shut the airlock's inner door. Both men were now trapped inside the little room.

They wrestled. Ernesto was stronger. The pain fueled him. He slammed a fist into Jay Jay's chin. The man reeled, dazed, mouth and nose bleeding. Ernesto grabbed him tightly, then hit a button, opening the airlock's outer door.

Water came rushing in.

Jay Jay howled. His eyes bugged out with fear.

And then both men were underwater.

Ernesto kicked hard, shoving himself away from the Kinnara. And dragging Jay Jay with him.

His enemy tried to free himself, to swim away. Ernesto refused to let go. Jay Jay was panicking now, holding his breath, eyes wide with terror.

"In a minute, two at most, you'll be dead," Ernesto said, breathing comfortably inside his helmet. "Would you like to breathe the water now and end it early? Or wait until you cannot hold your breath a second longer, when you open your lungs and let the ocean in?" He pulled the man closer, his laughter echoed through his helmet. "A death by drowning is particularly painful. If you can muster words, before you die, let me know how bad the pain is."

Jay Jay struggled, floundered, swung his wrench again and again. Ernesto hung on. Bubbles fled Jay Jay's nostrils. His skin was turning deep red.

"There, there …" Ernesto hissed, holding on tight. "I'm here with you. It'll all be over soo—"

Engines roared.

The Kinnara came plowing forward.

Ernesto looked up, glimpsed Charlie through the windshield.

The quad-craft was coming right at him!

Ernesto began to swim aside, desperate to flee. To gain speed, he had to release Jay Jay. He was still too slow. The ship was coming closer. Charlie grinned savagely behind the pane of steelglass.

The machine's hydraulic claws, powerful enough to crush asteroids, extended toward Ernesto.

He winced, dived, and—

A yellow claw slammed into him like the fist of a god.

Ernesto roared and tumbled through the water.

He glimpsed Jay Jay swimming back into the airlock. And then the pain rolled over Ernesto, and he sank to the temple floor.

Vaguely, he was aware of hands grabbing him. Of Crimson Claws in diving suits, pulling him back into a submarine. Of torpedoes racing back and forth. Of explosions in the water.

So it will be a battle of machines, Ernesto thought as limped, sopping wet, back onto the Barracuda's bridge. Very well, Maria. If I can't take you alive, I will bury you in a watery grave.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Conch of Many Songs

The stream flowed gently through the dryroom, then suddenly splashed. Old Tetsu's head burst from underwater. His orange and black fur was sopping wet. His fish body remained in the stream, fins flapping.

"You found it!" The ancient shachi looked at the mossy orb, which lay on the grass. His eyes gleamed. "You found my precious treasure!"

Maria rose to her feet and pointed at him. "Why didn't you tell us about the giant lava demon?"

The shachi ignored her. He wriggled out of the water, flopped onto the grass, and propelled himself forward using his fins, looking like some ancient tiktaalik trying to evolve lungs. He began to lick the orb, cleaning the moss. His teeth—the few he still had—chipped off the barnacles. Gradually, he revealed a gleaming, polished sphere.

"What is it, little buddy?" Maria whispered, leaning toward Rodrigo.

"I don't know, Tita," the boy said. "My comics never showed me anything like this. But I think … I think it's an egg."

Finally the moss was all cleared. The sphere glimmered on the grass, white speckled with blue. Old Tetsu nuzzled it.

"Yes," the shachi said softly. "He is Old Tetsu's son."

Maria knelt by the egg, looked at Tetsu for approval, then laid her hand on the shell. It was smooth and warm.

"Your son?" she whispered.

The ancient shachi nodded. "He has lain underground for ten thousand years, trapped in that cavern. Countless times, Old Tetsu tried to save him, but he failed. Old Tetsu is sorry that he lied. If you knew about the creature, you would never have helped. Old Testu is sorry. He is so very sorry." Tears like dewdrops dampened his fur.

Maria took a deep breath. She wasn't ready to forgive Tetsu anytime soon. His tears did not move her. But right now, she had bigger concerns.

"I'm glad you have your son back," she said, stiffly.

"Old Tetsu will nurture his egg, and in a year, his son will emerge. Finally Old Tetsu will not be alone. There will be another like him to guard the temple. Perhaps it is cruel. To bring forth life in such a ruin. To bring forth life that is doomed to be lonely, with only a very old monk as company." Old Tetsu nuzzled the egg. "But perhaps one day, when he is grown, he will prove himself braver than Old Tetsu. Perhaps he will dare leave the temple, swim into the distance, and find more of his kind. Perhaps there are other shachis who have not become monsters. And he will find them."

Maria wasn't quite sure Old Tetsu himself was not a monster. He was perhaps smaller than the creatures outside, the mutants who had won the Wyrm War. But he had betrayed Maria. Or at least seriously misled her, nearly costing her life. She was torn between pity and the desire to put a bullet in his brain.

But then she remembered a dark night among graves.

She remembered shoving Pippi into the path of a knife. Just to save an unborn daughter.

To save a child, a parent will do anything, Maria thought. A parent will burn down a civilization to save their child. And perhaps that's the way it should be.

"Old Tetsu, I'm glad you have your son back," she said, voice softer now. "Now please fulfill your part of the bargain."

The shachi nodded. "Of course. Please replenish your tanks with air, then follow me."

He vanished into the stream. Maria put on her helmet and followed.

* * * * *

Rodrigo remained in the dryroom to rest and eat. The boy put on a brave face, but the battle had unnerved him. Maria could see it in his eyes, his trembling fingers, his pale cheeks.

Leaving the boy to recover among trees and animals, Maria swam again, following Old Tetsu. They swam down illuminated corridors full of pale water, up a coiling tube, and into a grand underwater cave.

The cave was so large a starship could fit inside. But this was nothing like the cherufe's fiery cavern. This was a place of beauty. Bioluminescent moss covered the walls and ceiling, glowing pale blue. Fish swam back and forth, tipped with bulbs of silver light. Maria felt as if she floated among the stars.

But she soon forgot the cavern itself.

The contents stole her breath.

Treasures. Treasures filled the cavern.

Clay jugs lay on the sand, overflowing with golden coins, strings of rubies, and diamonds the size of acorns. Thousands of bottles stood in alcoves—deep green bottles of shimmering glass, tiny bottles barely larger than vials, huge bottles a person could squeeze into, plain bottles, bottles blown into the shapes of coiling serpents and dancing fish. Inside every bottle lay a scroll, each scroll painted with flowing script, revealing hints of seascape illustrations. Marble statues stood along the walls, depicting women with nautilus bodies, octopuses with a hundred tentacles, and fish with fins that shone with ten thousand gemstones. Glass bulbs enclosed antique astrolabes with brass gears, clocks with golden arms, and orreries whose planets were carved from seashells and bones.

Maria swam after Old Tetsu, wishing she could pause, could read these scrolls, could admire these strange machines and works of art. But the shachi swam quickly, and Maria was running out of time. She followed, though with every scroll not read, every work of art not admired, her soul tore a little.

Finally they reached a collection of musical instruments. Golden harps glimmered, engraved with nautilus spirals. Drums rose in the sand, made of large seashells and turtle shells, their openings stretched with soft membranes. Flutes hung on silver strands, formed from whorled horns and coral stalks. Conchs lay on piles of moss, their shells drilled with holes, forming aquatic ocarinas.

As the water flowed through the chamber, the currents gently plucked the harp strings, padded the drum skins, and flowed through the flutes and conchs. The ocean was playing the orchestra, weaving a beautiful, abstract symphony.

Jon, you would have loved it here, Maria thought. I wish you could be here with me.

Tetsu selected a conch and nudged it toward Maria. It floated through the water, and she caught it.

"This is Tetsu's Trumpet," said Old Tetsu. "He carved it long ago. Play the right song, and it will soothe the wild shachikohos outside the temple. Old Tetsu will teach you."

He began to sing. A song in soothing bass, sad and beautiful, a song like the ocean's soul. With his guidance, Maria learned how to play the song on the conch.

While she was playing, a distant boom sounded.

Maria frowned and lowered the conch.

Another boom. Another and another. The walls trembled. The sand danced across the seabed. Fish fled into holes and under the sand.

"What's going on?" she whispered.

Tetsu's gills flared. "Machines. Machines of war."

Maria tapped her comlink. "Charlie, do you hear me? Charlie!"

No answer came from the Kinnara. Maria cursed, tucked the conch under her armpit, and began to swim.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Fire and Water

Charlie stood in the Kinnara's cockpit, wearing red lingerie and high heels, blasting the rotary cannons at her enemies.

"Nobody fucks with Charlie Wonder!" she shouted.

Lily padded up toward her, holding a plush octopus. "Tita Charlie, you're a badass!"

Charlie gasped. "Who taught you that word?"

"You did, Tita Charlie!"

"Well, never say it again. At least not around your mom." Charlie gritted her teeth and fired another volley. "Now go back to sleep, your Auntie Charlie has to kill some bad guys."

"But I want to help!"

"No killing until you're twelve."

Lily groaned and wandered off, pouting.

Charlie fired again and again. More torpedoes exploded ahead. The shock waves rippled through the water, rocking the Kinnara. Her bullets couldn't do the enemy subs much damage. But they could detonate the incoming torpedoes before they hit. Another explosion rocked the temple. The frescoed ceiling cracked. A column fell.

I can't defeat all these submarines at once, Charlie knew.

She checked the monitor to her left. It showed her weapons arsenal. There weren't many bullets left. And only two torpedoes.

Dammit.

"Where are you, Maria?" Charlie muttered. "Come back with my son. We gotta get outta here!" She tapped her comlink again. "Maria! You read me?"

She had been trying all day. Nothing. Dead. No goddamn reception anywhere down here.

The enemy subs surrounded her.

A torpedo flew. Charlie shot it down.

Another one. She shot it down too.

Two more came in, forking her, and Charlie screamed and pulled upward, and—

A torpedo skimmed the Kinnara's hull.

An explosion rocked the ship.

Charlie fell to the deck. Alarms blared. Lily screamed.

The armor held. Barely.

The enemy circled her like hungry sharks, ready to feed. Charlie stared at the submarine directly ahead of her. An ugly thing forged from black steel, sprouting claws and cannons. She read the word painted onto the hull. BARRACUDA.

She could see him there. Standing on the bridge. Staring at her.

Ernesto. So the bastard survived.

The two vessels faced each other. The Kinnara, dented, lights flickering, barely working at all. The Barracuda, three times the size, armed to the teeth.

Charlie aimed her torpedo bays.

But not at the Barracuda.

She fired.

Her torpedo swam through the dark waters like hungry eels, hit the temple wall, and exploded.

Bricks rained. Columns cracked and fell. The waters churned. When the dust settled, half the wall was gone, exposing the open ocean.

The shachihokos howled.

With a storm of yellow scales, the gargantuan mutants swam into Susanoo Temple.

Ernesto spun toward them. His face twisted with rage—and with fear.

"Fuck you with a spicy pineapple," Charlie hissed.

A shachi slammed into the Barracuda. Then another. A third. Their jaws gripped the black hull. A hundred more shachis roared into the temple, mobbing Ernesto's submarines. Suddenly all the gunfire turned away from the Kinnara—toward the new threat.

"I'm a genius!" Charlie said.

Jay Jay stumbled into the cockpit, sopping wet and shivering. "Charlie, those shachis won't distinguish between the enemy and us! You released a storm!"

She stared ahead.

An enraged shachi came charging toward the Kinnara.

Charlie yelped, tugged the yoke, and the Kinnara narrowly dodged the assault.

"We gotta get outta here!" Jay Jay said.

"Not without Maria and my dumbass son!" Charlie said. She tapped her comlink again. "Dammit, Maria, come in! Come in! Fuck! My comlink is still dead."

"Give me that." Jay Jay grabbed the communicator from her, cracked it open, and adjusted a few components. He held it up to his mouth. "Maria, do you copy?"

Her voice emerged from the speaker, staticky. "Maria here! I've been trying to call you for hours."

"Hi, Mom!" came Rodrigo's voice from the background.

Charlie grabbed the comlink. "The spicy pineapples broke into the temple! And so did that psychopath Ernesto with an army of submarines! Get your puwits back here!"

"On my way!" Maria said. "Hang tight!"

Charlie hung up and fired her cannon, knocking a shachi aside. "Hang tight. Great advice from Maria as always. I've been hanging tight since I met that crazy bitch." She sighed and dodged an incoming monster. "I miss the Toy Box."

Chapter Thirty

Exodus

Maria swam into the temple nave and found a battlefield.

Dozens of shachihokos swam everywhere—covering the ceiling, coiling around columns, smashing through walls. Their yellow scales and green fins shimmered, filling the temple with light. Crude, spiky submarines were firing all their guns, tearing through the shachis, filling the water with blood. Several submarines lay on the temple's sandy floor, hulls ripped open.

A porphyry column cracked and fell by Maria, scattering gemstones. Chunks of the ceiling caved in, raining pieces of frescoes. She swam, pulling Rodrigo with her. They swerved around a falling slab of ceiling featuring a pastel mural of a mermaid. It shattered against the floor, burying a mosaic of an octopus.

There, in the center of the madness, it floated—the Kinnara.

Jay Jay stood at a porthole, beckoning urgently.

"Nini, Rodrigo, get your puwits in here!" Charlie cried through the comlink, busy in the cockpit.

"Come a little closer to us!" Maria said.

"I can't, I'm surrounded by spicy pineapples!" Charlie said.

"Oh, yes, and things are just peachy for us here in the open water, Mom!" Rodrigo shot back.

"I said pineapples, not peaches!"

"Mom, this is not time for jokes!"

Maria and Rodrigo swam even faster. As she swam, Maria drew her gun. She had only a few bullets left. They wouldn't do much damage underwater, but it was better than nothing.

A torpedo came tunneling through the water, leaving a cone-shaped wake.

Maria swam upward, pulling Rodrigo with her. The torpedo passed just below their feet, then slammed into a shachi. Yellow scales flew through the water. One scraped Rodrigo's arm, and he screamed. Drops of blood bubbled up.

"Tita!" he cried, suddenly sounding very young.

"I got you, little buddy," Maria said, pulling him along. "I'm not letting you go."

The Kinnara was trying to reach them, but a shachi grabbed the quad-craft and shook her like a dog shaking a toy. Charlie screamed inside the cockpit and unleashed a barrage of bullets. As machine and beast battled, Maria kept swimming.

They were almost at the Kinnara when a jagged black submarine barreled forward, blocking the way.

The word BARRACUDA was emblazoned upon its prow in blood-red ink. Ernesto stood on the bridge, staring through the steelglass viewport. Through water and blood and mayhem, he made eye contact with Maria. And he smiled.

Maria froze.

Ernesto pressed a button.

A torpedo launched from the Barracuda, coming right at her.

Hovering in the water, Maria fired her pistol.

Bullet impacted with torpedo only a few meters away.

Maria pulled Rodrigo to the temple floor and shielded him with her body.

The explosion rolled over them. The temple trembled. Chunks of ceiling sank down around them—a thousand broken shards, painted with pastel mermaids, fish, and sea serpents.

A shadow fell. A submarine came down from above, ready to crush them. Maria winced.

But it was the Kinnara!

The airlock opened. Jay Jay gestured from inside.

"Get in, lazy bums!"

Conch still in hand, Maria bolted upward. Rodrigo followed. They leaped into the airlock, and the Kinnara was off.

Maria stumbled into the cockpit, wet and shivering.

"Oh, so nice of you to join us, Nini!" Charlie said. "Where's my son?"

"In the hold," Maria said. "Jay Jay is tending to his wounds."

"Wounded?" Charlie gasped. "My poor baby is wounded?"

Charlie raced toward her son, abandoning the yoke. Maria replaced her at the controls. Sitting in the cockpit, Maria could hear Charlie fussing, cooing, and checking her son's injuries.

"Mom, we met a real second dynasty shachihoko monk!" the boy was saying. "He was ten thousand years old! Almost as old as you!" He yelped. "Ow, ow, stop hitting me!"

At the controls, Maria shoved down the throttle.

The Kinnara plowed forward, driving through a dead shachi and a crumbling wall.

She checked the rear-view monitor. He was there! Ernesto! Chasing in the Barracuda!

A torpedo came flying her way.

Maria yawed left and right, swerving around a column. The torpedo slammed into the pillar, pulverizing it. Shards of stone flew through the water. More chunks of the ceiling fell.

"Hold on tight, we're outta here!" Maria shouted.

"Skedaddle away, Maria!" Charlie cried.

She increased the thrust. The Kinnara roared forward, leaving a churning wake, and shot through the shattered wall. The ship burst into the open ocean . . . and into an army of shachihokos.

* * * * *

For a moment, Maria just stared in silent horror.

Thousands.

There were thousands.

They covered the ruins of Nibiru, the sunken city. They hid the ocean surface. They swarmed through the water everywhere.

When coming to this city, Maria had encountered a hundred wild shachis, and that had seemed an invincible army. More had come from far and wide. Much more.

The mutants saw her emerging from the temple. And they swarmed.

Maria stood there, paralyzed.

Thousands coming in.

Her head spun. Her heart pounded. She was going to faint. She couldn't see, couldn't hear.

Rodrigo limped into the cockpit, holding his wounded arm. His voice tore through the haze, sounding miles away.

"Tita Maria! Play the conch!"

Maria blinked, snapping out of her paralysis.

The shachis charged from ahead, only seconds away. Ernesto and his submarines came from behind, guns priming for a deadly barrage. Jay Jay was firing from the stern, but he would not hold them off for long.

Trapped between the two forces, Maria raised the conch to her lips, and she played the song of the ocean.

A sad song. A beautiful song. A song of lost civilizations and drowned treasures. A song of beauty and life. Of beads of light gliding through the blue waters like autumn leaves. Of the dark depths where bioluminescence lit the ocean, blazing on barbels and stalks and the dorsal fins of those who explored the dark. Of forests of kelp and cities of coral. Of lost wonder and old gods. A song of forgotten dreams.

The song thrummed through the cockpit, along the hull, and into the water. And they heard.

Ahead of her, the thousands of shachis halted their charge. They floated in the water. They listened.

They lost their snarls. They eyes saddened. And then something happened that Maria would have never expected.

They began to sing.

Thousands of shachis. A choir of waterdepth. They added their voices to her song.

They were not like the small, mild Tetsu. These were the mutated fighters, the berserkers, large and strong and mindless. They could not speak, could not sing with words. They sang like whales. A keening song. A song in deep bass and baritone and soaring soprano. Their voices were so sad, but this was a song of beauty, and Maria realized for the first time that beauty and sadness came full circle, that those things most beautiful were also most sad, and her tears flowed down her cheeks.

Charlie joined her in Kinnara's cockpit. She gazed with wonder.

"You tamed the pineapples!" she whispered, gazing with awe.

Then Charlie blinked, collected herself, and took the controls. As Maria played the conch, Charlie inched the Kinnara forward.

The shachis made way.

Charlie nudged the throttle, giving the engines a bit more juice. The ship thrummed faster through the water. The host of shachis parted like the red sea, letting them pass.

The small craft sailed onward, leaving the temple behind. Thousands of shachis rose above, below, all around the Kinnara, each as large as the vessel, all singing. They formed a tunnel of scales and fur. Inside the Kinnara, everyone had tears in their eyes, sensing this was a moment of holiness, a moment they would remember forever.

Then the Kinnara jolted.

Bullets were hitting their stern!

"Maria, I can't hold them off for much longer!" Jay Jay called from the stern cannon.

Maria checked the rear-view monitor. Her heart thudded. Ernesto's submarines were chasing! They were storming through the tunnel of shachis, guns blazing.

A torpedo flew.

Jay Jay shouted and shot it down. The explosion bloomed underwater.

Another torpedo fired, exploded only a meter away. The Kinnara rocked, nearly slamming into the surrounding shachis.

"Faster, Mom!" Rodrigo cried.

"I'm going faster, I'm going!" Charlie said.

"I'll give us some afterburner!" said Rodrigo and shoved down a lever.

The engines roared, flooded with fuel. Fire burst from their exhaust pipes. The Kinnara bolted forward with a turbo burst.

Maria fell. She hit the deck hard, and the conch fell.

The song died.

The shachis around them snarled. Their eyes flamed with hatred. Their jaws opened, baring their fangs. They closed in around the Kinnara, prepared to rip the hull apart.

Maria grabbed the fallen conch and quickly began to play again.

The shachis calmed. Their snarls faded. They pulled back. Soon the ocean orchestra was singing again. Their anger forgotten, the shachis parted before the Kinnara once more. The quad-craft kept fleeing through the water.

And the enemy still pursued. Ten ugly submarines, all spikes and guns and cruelty. Ernesto stood inside the lead submarine. The Barracuda. She was the largest of the enemy subs and easily the ugliest. Iron claws sprouted from her prow. Her headlights beamed like red eyes. She moved at terrifying speed, gaining on the Kinnara. Her cannon kept firing.

Jay Jay was doing a good job shooting down Ernesto's torpedoes, but that wouldn't help for much longer. Within seconds, Ernesto would reach them. Then Barracuda's iron claws would gut the Kinnara like a fish.

Ahead—open water!

The army of shachis was ending!

The Kinnara kept driving through the water at top speed.

Maria played a loud, pealing note.

The Kinnara burst out from the cloud of shachis into the clear blue waters.

Maria glanced behind her. Ernesto and his submarines were still traveling through the tunnel of shachis. They were coming fast. Seconds away.

Die now, you son of a bitch, Maria thought and lowered the conch from her lips.

The song ended.

The shachis looked around, blinked, and then howled in rage. The spell was broken.

As the Kinnara kept moving through open waters, the shachi army closed in. The living funnel collapsed. Waves of orange scales and white fangs slammed together, engulfing Ernesto's submarines.

Like the Red Sea closing in on the Pharaoh's chariots, Maria thought, gazing in wonder.

The shachis did not chase the Kinnara. They had easier prey. They stormed, thousands of them, tearing apart the black submarines. Soon Maria could see nothing but orange scales and green fins. They formed a super-organism the size of a city, one monstrous beast comprised of thousands. It devoured Ernesto's machines until nothing remained.

The waters calmed.

The Kinnara sailed onward through beads of light.

Maria sank back into her seat. Lily hopped into her lap, and Maria held her daughter close, never wanting to let go.

Chapter Thirty-One

Rise Again

His submarine tore apart.

Countless shachihokos fell upon his fleet.

Walls of yellow scales, blazing eyes, and furious fangs closed in around him.

Ernesto stared, barely believing.

Claws ripped the armored plating off his submarine. Fangs punched holes into the hull. Water came rushing in.

Tails like the hammers of gods hurled the submarine across the ocean. The starboard hull ripped open like a zipper. Crimson Claws, proud warriors, tumbled into the open ocean like discarded dolls. Fins as sharp as razors sliced through fleeing men. A few survivors tried to swim to the surface. The mighty jaws closed around them, devouring them like orcas devouring seals.

Ernesto remained in the cockpit of the shattering Barracuda, clinging to the yoke. The water kept rushing in. Rising higher and higher. Soon rising to his chin.

Ernesto pulled on his helmet, and then the water covered him.

The submarine rattled. Another blow, perhaps from an enemy claw or tail.

The controls ripped apart.

A green tail slammed into the windshield, shattering it. The head of a hideous tiger thrust into the cockpit, bellowing. Shards of glass filled its flaming fur. Lips peeled back to reveal rows of fangs like swords. Eyes blazed above the hellmouth, two smelters, pure white in the center, radiating out to pale blue and yellow and finally dark red.

The hellish countenance moved closer, jaws snapping, ready to devour Ernesto. The jaws opened wide enough to swallow him whole. Ernesto found himself facing a gullet full of liquid fire, a passageway to hell.

More beasts ripped the sides off the submarine. Ernesto floated in the water, still trapped in the flooded cockpit, facing these gods of the depths.

"Do you understand me?" Ernesto cried. "Do you speak the tongues of men, or—"

The shachihoko lashed forward.

Ernesto aimed his pistol and fired.

Bullets flew into the gaping maw. The beast kept coming, and the jaws closed around Ernesto's arm.

He screamed.

He screamed so much.

The beast gnawed on his arm like a dog on a bone, then opened its mouth again. Ernesto stumbled back.

His arm was gone. It ended with a mangled stump. The severed arm floated in the water before him.

Blood filled the water. And the feeding frenzy began in earnest.

The shachihokos stormed with rabid hunger, fighting over the arm. One began snapping the water, drinking the blood. One tried to swallow the arm, only for another to knock it free, and the creatures slammed together, cracking scales, desperate for the morsel.

Ernesto knew he was going to die.

Yet somehow, he kept swimming.

He rose higher and higher.

The shachis below saw. One leaped up, tried to grab Ernesto, only for another to knock it aside, to lay claim to the meal. That shachi too was mobbed. Two more pulled it down, then rose in pursuit.

They're squabbling over me like pigeons over crumbs, Ernesto thought.

A few corpses sank by him. Ernesto's crew. Eyes swollen, mouths open in silent anguish, lungs full of water. Crimson Claws, proud patriots and mighty warriors—dead like so many fish.

The sinking corpses diverted the shachis' attention. A few turned to snap at these new morsels. Ernesto kept swimming, one arm and all, moving higher and higher. His eyes were rolling back, and his blood kept flowing, and he could not see.

He was drowning.

He was dying.

In the ocean depths, sinking toward the monsters, he saw Maria again. A vision. A ghost. His betrothed, young and beautiful, walking among the rice paddies, wearing a dress of pineapple leaf fabric, carrying a basket of mangoes on her head. A memory of their village. A memory of the girl he had fallen in love with so long ago. Before this war. Before this pain.

A girl he could not let go of.

A girl who, despite everything, he still loved.

You chose another man, Maria, he thought. You hated me. You hurt me. You mutilated my body and soul. But I still love you. Don't you see, Maria? I could have killed you ten thousand times. I protected you. I love you.

His legs kicked.

His remaining arm reached upward.

He rose through the water.

A thousand monsters coiled and roared around him, and he ascended among them, as safe as Daniel among the lions.

His head burst over the surface of the ocean. He tore off his helmet and breathed the air.

He floated on the water, dying.

Corpses floated up around him. Shachis. Crimson Claws. He lay among them, arm gone, lifeblood leaving him. Everything was fading. Light shone.

Death is not darkness, he thought. Death is light. Death is endless luminosity.

"Please, Mother," he cried, reaching up a shaky hand. "Save me. I must live."

He saw her above. Dark Mother, the space station, the goddess that ruled from on high. She was no longer dark but woven of good light. She gazed down upon him from the firmaments, a loving mother, and he ached to return into her womb.

"Mother, please …"

And his mother turned away. She vanished in the light. She abandoned him.

It was not his mother who came to Ernesto that day, dying in the water. It was a father.

He came sailing on a silver platform that skimmed the ocean. Balisong fighter jets flew above him like flaming angels. A blimp rose behind him, a machine the size of a town, its tentacles trailing along the water.

He came closer to Ernesto, clad in a black robe, a dark mitre on his head.

"Father," Ernesto whispered.

The platform halted before him, hovering on a cushion of air, rippling the water. The robed man gazed down from above. His father had come.

"Papa Dominus," Ernesto whispered. "Save me."

The dark pope studied him, beady eyes glittering over dark bags. The thin lips twitched, parting in a diseased smile. A white tongue flicked out, covered with white scales, and licked blood-red gums.

Papa Dominus wore a resplendent outfit. His black robes were embroidered with inverted crosses. His mitre shone with rubies. But the flesh was decayed. Leprous. Centuries old. Through dark sorcery, a humble priest had extended his life, becoming the Red Cardinal, now the Black Pope. It had given him immortality but ravaged his body.

Twisted, knobby fingers reached toward Ernesto, tipped with cracked fingernails.

Bleeding, dying, Ernesto reached out and clasped the proffered hand.

His father pulled him from the water like Moses from the river. His father laid on down in the sun. His father stroked him with decaying fingers.

"My son, I'm here."

I hated you, Ernesto thought. I feared you. I dreamed of replacing you. I love you.

Then everything went dark.

* * * * *

A long time later, his eyes snapped open.

He gasped for air.

A shuddering breath rattled through him, blazing with pain.

Lights blinded him. He hung in a white, sterile room. Chains held him up. Machines moved around him, thrusting needles, scalpels, saws. Tubes filled his body. His neck. His chest. His veins. Running from him to bulbs of bubbling liquid.

His name was Ernesto. Or had been long ago. He barely knew who he was.

He screamed.

"Calm now, son," rose a wispy voice, a voice like wind over an old battlefield, scattering bones. "You are safe."

Papa Dominus shuffled toward him, hunched over. His dark robes trailed across the floor. He stared at Ernesto, and his eyes glittered in delight. He licked his lips, reached out a decaying hand, and caressed Ernesto's cheek.

"You will be so strong," he hissed.

A machine wheeled toward Ernesto. It raised a spoon. An ice cream scoop. The machine moved closer to Ernesto, closer, and raised the spoon to his eye. His blind eye. The white eye, ravaged by cataracts.

"What are you doing to me?" he shouted.

"Giving you new life," replied the anti-pope.

The ice cream spoon thrust forward.

I scream, you scream, we all scream …

Ernesto screamed and everything went dark.

* * * * *

Dark dreams haunted him. Dreams of a village far away. Of a reed fishing boat. Of a beautiful woman with perfect brown skin like the soil of the earth, hair like woven midnight, and a bright smile that shone like Pilak Mata, the silver moon. A woman of the world and the sky and the beating of his heart. In his dreams, he saw her burn.

He woke up, and he gazed upon the world.

And the world was deep.

The world had three dimensions.

For the first time in years, Ernesto saw the world with two working eyes.

He was staring at a ceiling. A mural spread above, featuring cherubs dancing among the clouds. But the closer Ernesto looked, the more disturbing the children seemed. Some had six fingers. Some had sharp teeth. And it seemed to him that they were not frolicking but dancing a strange ritual, and in the clouds, he saw demonic faces.

Ernesto tried to move, but he was strapped to a bed, attached to tubes. A howl bubbled up from his mouth. It emerged with a mechanical screech. A sound like a cracking submarine. Like a robot programmed to feel, dying in agony. Ernesto strained his muscles, veins bulging, struggling against the straps.

His left arm tore free.

The arm he had lost in the sea.

He looked at it. The arm was different. An arm of metal. A monstrosity of pistons, pipes, and gears. It ended with five claws, each one a dagger. He brought the daggers closer to his face, and he saw himself reflected in the blades.

They had changed him.

His head was shaved. Four years ago, Jon Taylor had shot him in the head, ripping out a chunk of skull the size of a playing card. His men had bolted in a steel plate, and over time, it had rusted, dented. Somebody had removed that old scrap of metal, replacing it with a transparent piece of steelglass. Ernesto could see part of his own brain.

And somebody had gouged out his eye, the blind eye covered in a cataract. He had a new eye now. A camera that moved around in the socket, filming everything, transmitting information directly to his brain.

"I … am a machine," he whispered.

A tear flowed from his remaining human eye.

"No, my son. You are not a machine." Papa Dominus shuffled forward. "You are a child of God and Satan. Metal and flesh. Together, you are one."

Ernesto tore off the remaining straps. He rose from the bed, howling. With his human hand, he grabbed Papa Dominus's throat and squeezed.

"Tell me why I shouldn't switch to my metal hand," Ernesto hissed. "Tell me why I shouldn't cut off your head."

It felt like holding a bundle of twigs. Ernesto could feel the slender bones inside Papa's neck. Could feel them creak as he squeezed, ready to snap. But the dark pope only laughed, a sound like shattering bones.

"Go ahead," Papa said. "Do it! Take my life. Slay your father. Are you ready to rule this world?"

Ernesto narrowed his eyes and snarled. "I'll do it!"

"Then do it! Coward!" Papa Dominus laughed. "Or if you cannot, fall to your knees and worship me."

Ernesto tightened his hand. Something cracked inside the frail old neck. A bone snapped.

But the dark pope just stared back, eyes glittering with amusement. The white tongue flicked over the gums. The neck was full of bones, dozens of slender bones woven together, white branches wrapped in paper. Ernesto would have to break every one.

I can do this, Ernesto thought. I can kill him. I can replace him. Bahay, Dark Mother, the ocean depths—they will all be mine.

But another voice sounded deep inside him.

It's a trap. He's impossible to kill. He survived the firebombing of Basilica. If I kill him, he'll rise again, stronger than before.

He released his hand.

He fell to his knees.

"Papa." He kissed the creature's robes. "Forgive me."

The pope caressed his naked head. The little red claws scraped across the steelglass. "Rise, my son of blood and machinery. Rise and hunt again."

Chapter Thirty-Two

Graveyard Lights Galactic Tour

As spring bloomed across New York City, Jon wrote the last song for his second album.

He called it "The Day You Died."

A song about their last hope to ever be parents. A song about their last fading little light.

He cried as he wrote it, and he knew he and Kaelyn could never perform it live. It was too devastating to ever play on stage.

The band recorded it next month in the studio. In one take. And it took all their courage, and every last drop of their emotional being. Jon played the piano. Kaelyn sang. Session musicians did the rest.

And that was it. That was the one time Jon would ever be able to play this song. The one time Kaelyn would ever sing it. It was too painful. Too raw.

But they would release the song to the world. Because they were artists, and they bled their art onto paper and into sound. They gave birth to art with blood and pain and then let it free. They gave of themselves. Their bodies and souls and all their beautiful fears.

They recorded the rest of the album in the studio that week. It opened with "The Day He Did Not Die." It closed with "The Day You Died." In between was life.

Symphonica's second album. It was done. Jon titled it Graveyard Lights.

They did not celebrate when they released the album. The pain was still too real.

It sold ten thousand copies on the first day alone, and Kaelyn quit her job in the city.

They did not move back to Lindenville. That house was still too sad. The memory of the inquisitors in the forest was still too real.

Instead, they went on tour.

* * * * *

It was a bigger tour this time.

Much bigger.

Three years ago, after releasing Falling Like the Rain, they had performed in a few venues here and there.

For the Graveyard Lights Galactic Tour, they booked over a hundred concerts. They would perform across Earth. On the moon. On Mars. On Titan and Ganymede. The solar system would hear their music.

And it was time to take a difficult step forward.

It was time to replace Paul and George.

It was hard. The pain was still too real. But Paul and George were gone. Their era was over.

So they hired a new guitarist. They hired a new drummer. For the first time, they hired a full-time bass player. The same musicians who had helped them record the album in the studio. They were now full-time members. For the first time in years, Symphonica was a proper band.

They even bought a tour space shuttle.

Jon leaned back in his seat as the shuttle took flight, heading toward a concert on the moon.

He looked out the porthole. Earth was dropping away below. Jon held a glass of wine, not drinking.

"It feels like a dream," he said softly. "When I was a teenage soldier, trudging through the jungles of Bahay, I dreamed of releasing my music, of being a real musician, even a rock star. I dreamed of going on tour across the solar system. During the hardest days, that's what kept me going. That dream. But I never imagined it would be anything but a dream."

Kaelyn squeezed his hand. "You've only been dreaming about this since you were a teenage soldier? I've been dreaming about this since I was a little kid, singing at home to my plush animals."

For the first time in weeks, her smile reached her eyes.

* * * * *

The crowd roared.

Five thousand people filled the Lunar Dome, among the moon's most prestigious venues. A huge glass dome covered the club, revealing a dazzling view of the galaxy. From here, Earth was just a little blue crescent, so small it was barely a glare in the glass.

The Dome was hopping tonight. Sold out. On stage, the opening band was slashing away at their guitars. The bar overflowed with beer and spirits. Laser beams flashed and the speakers thrummed. Thousands of people were drinking, dancing, and banging their heads. Everyone was having a good time.

The moon was a popular tourist destination—close to Earth, affordable, and flush with entertainment. The Lunar Dome rose smack dab in the middle of Tourist Town. With a hundred thousand square feet, all dedicated to partying, the Dome was downright iconic. Some of Earth's greatest musicians had performed here—including Wolf Legion, one of Jon's greatest inspirations. The club was part of a larger complex, which included a casino, three luxury hotels, an upscale shopping mall, a low gravity waterpark, restaurants, spas, and a sports arena that could seat fifty thousand people. Whenever the arena hosted a game, gravball fans came from across the solar system.

Sometimes, between gravball games, musicians played the arena. Famous musicians. Musicians who could sell out a staggering fifty thousand seats. That meant they were pop bands from Japan—bubbly, adorable, and richer than most nations. Or they were Space Crooners—truckers and miners with slide guitars, harmonicas, and sad souls.

Symphonica was neither bubbly or adorable, and it certainly didn't feature harmonicas. Symphonic metal, a blending of classical music and heavy metal thunder, was a niche genre these days. Which was more or less its status throughout the ages. That didn't stop Jon, your friendly neighborhood metalhead, from dreaming. It would have been nice to play the Lunar Arena. It was, after all, ten times the size of the Lunar Dome.

But hey, Jon wasn't complaining. Even the Dome, with room for five thousand, was the largest crowd he had ever played for. By far.

It was standing room only, everyone on their feet.

Some of the people were typical tourists, the kind you saw across the moon. They carried expensive cameras around their necks, and they wore cheap but comfortable sandals. A few wore the cheesy, mock-spacesuits they sold the spaceport, hideous things made of glossy plastic and nylon. Others wore shirts featuring three wolves howling at the moon. Those were a favorite at the lunar gift shops. Typical tourists. They had probably flown from Earth to play the slot machines, watch a gravball game, visit the Neil Armstrong museum, and hit the buffets on a world where they only weighed a portion as much. They were not here for Symphonica. They had probably just seen the sign outside the Dome, then wandered in for some cold beer and whatever band happened to be playing tonight. Symphonica who?

But others, a few hundred at least … they were here for Jon and Kaelyn.

These were the fans.

They called themselves Symphonifans. They had been following Symphonica since Falling Like the Rain three years ago. They were easy to recognize. They had long, shabby hair. They wore black clothes, deep purple makeup, many tattoos. Some carried copies of Falling Like the Rain like priests carrying beloved bibles. Many carried gifts for the band. Fan art. Stories. Sculptures.

But more than the clothes, the hair, the tattoos or piercings—it was their eyes. They had sad eyes. Not a mournful, agonizing sadness, not like depression or despair. Theirs was a melancholy sort of thing, soft like the rain and beautiful. Jon knew those eyes. They had Symphonica eyes. These were his fans. He would know them anywhere.

Of course, the fact that they all wore Symphonica shirts helped too.

Jon recognized many of their faces. They had sent him fan letters online, and he had answered every one. But talking to people online was one thing. Playing live for thousands of them? Quite another.

Jon peeked from backstage. He gulped.

"I'm used to playing grimy little bars on Earth," he said. "Now we're playing Lunar Fucking Dome."

At that moment, Jon didn't care about the money. He wasn't thinking about the war. About Maria. About the miscarriages. For the first time in a long, long time, he felt joy. He felt that his life was worthwhile. That he had not suffered so much for nothing.

I almost killed myself this year, he thought. But that day, I did not die. And now I've found life.

The opening band played their last note, took a bow, and stepped off stage.

The artificial lights turned off.

No longer masked, the starlight and Earthlight washed the Dome.

Five thousand people fell silent. The only sound was the murmuring and breathing of the crowd, a white noise like the sea.

Silence. Shadows.

Then the crowd began to cheer.

"Symphonica! Symphonica! Symphonica!"

In the dark, Kaelyn stepped alone onto the stage. She was only a shadow, limned in Earthlight.

The crowd hushed.

Pale blue spotlights turned on, revealing her. The light glowed around like moonbeams. She wore a white dress glittering with silver threads, and her hair cascaded like rivers of molten fire. Smoke rose around her feet. And Kaelyn began to sing.

An angelic song. A song with no words. A soprano lilt, sung completely in head voice, operatic, as pristine and pure as moonlight trapped in a crystal.

Her voice filled the Dome. The crowd watched, silent. Many already had tears flowing. Only a few notes, and they were weeping.

Her voice faded.

For a second—silence.

Then red beams blazed from the ceiling. Pyrotechnics fired across the stage, filling the Dome with fire and heat. Sparks exploded above, raining across the stage. The word SYMPHONICA appeared in golden light across the wall, illuminating the entire band.

The crowd cheered. Devil horns flew into the air.

The electric guitar shredded. The drums beat. The bass rippled across the arena like a living thing. Jon played his keyboards, filling the Dome with his music.

They were playing "Planet on Fire," the loudest, fastest song from their first album, a crowd favorite. The crowd went wild. They cheered. They danced. They banged their heads. Several people began crowd surfing already.

Jon surrendered himself to the music. He stood at his keyboards, legs wide apart, hunched over, banging his head to the beat. His shaggy long hair flew every which way, blinding him, but he could play his keyboards blind. He pounded the keys, spilling every last emotion inside him into his music.

Kaelyn sang with him, like she had sung a thousand times at home. There was no awkwardness, no bad notes. She was at home on this stage, whipping her hair from side to side, dancing like moonlight on water, smiling and waving to the crowd, tossing back the devil horns to her fans, soaking in the adulation.

This was what Kaelyn was born to do. She was like a nymph imprisoned all her life in some old, twisting tree, and only on stage was she set free.

But it was not her dancing, her flaming red hair, or her glittering dress that made Kaelyn a star, beautiful as they were.

It was her voice.

The voice of the stars. The voice of an angel. At times operatic, bombastic, shaking the Dome. At time soft, bringing tears to every eye. It was a voice that could inspire hearts and break them.

After four minutes of ear-crushing, soul-shattering symphonic metal, "Planet on Fire" ended.

The crowd roared. The Dome shook.

Jon looked at Kaelyn across the stage. She looked back and smiled. A bright smile. A beautiful smile full of true joy.

Soak this in, Kaelyn, Jon thought. You deserve this. We both do.

The lights faded again.

A single spotlight fell, illuminating Jon alone.

The rest of the band was silent. Jon played the opening notes to "Dreams of Earth," and the crowd roared even louder.

Kaelyn stepped to the front of the stage. She didn't sing. She smiled and held the microphone out to the crowd. The pit was full of Symphonifans. As Jon played the keyboards, hundreds of fans sang the words at the top of their lungs.

Kaelyn let them sing the first two verses alone, then pulled the microphone back. And she began to sing again.

The rest of the band joined in. The crowd jumped, banged their heads, and sang along, and when the song finally ended, the roars could probably be heard on Earth.

The last note of "Dreams of Earth" faded. Without a break—the guitar began to howl.

The drums, bass, and keyboard joined in.

They played "Symphonic Devastation" from the new album—the loudest, angriest song Jon had ever written. Hair swirled across the venue as rockers banged their heads. The waves of bass were so loud you felt them pound your chest. The guitars roared even louder, wailing on full distortion. A few of the tourists fled. The Dome shook so violently Jon feared it would crack.

Finally "Symphonic Devastation" ended, and Jon felt exhilarated, crackling with electricity.

I too was born for this.

"Hello, the moon!" Kaelyn cried. "Can I hear you scream?"

Five thousand voices screamed, shaking the entire moon. They were probably causing tides on Earth.

"Did I hear something?" Kaelyn coned her hand around her ear.

A new wave of screams rolled over the stage. Kaelyn laughed.

"It's lovely to be here, Luna Dome!" she said. Her tone became somber. "Now we're going to go a little softer. Here's a song about the fallen. Those we will always remember. Here is 'Scattered Pages.'"

The lights softened.

Jon played the keyboards, and the other instruments fell silent. It was only him playing now.

Pale blue lights bathed Kaelyn, and she sang with eyes closed.

A dead boy cries

His tears fall cold

On the scattered pages of a poem untold

Do not weep

For notes already played

For symphonies composed

For prayers prayed

In the silence they echo

Marble halls they haunt

Death is only dry ink

Of notes written for naught

A dead boy cries

For those fallen young

On the scattered pages of a song unsung

Do not weep

For notes already played

For symphonies composed

For prayers prayed

A dead boy cries

His tears fall cold

On scattered pages for a dead boy's soul

The crowd sang along. Every word. And when the song ended, tears filled every eye in the audience. And every eye on the stage.

They kept playing. Song after song, some new, some old. Some were ballads. Others were rockers. Some of the tourists, who had just wandered in for drinks, found themselves rocking along with established fans. Merch was flying off the shelves.

Throughout the evening, Jon kept looking at Kaelyn, caught up in her joy. She commanded the stage, changing outfits every song. White gowns strewn with jewels. Red gowns sparkling with obsidian. Even a small leather skirt that made Jon's heart beat faster. She switched microphones between songs too, matching each mic to the colors she wore. She was a goddess of music, an angel of sound.

I'm proud of you, Kaelyn. I love you.

He knew that Paul and George were here with them. Halfway through the show, the lights dimmed, and Kaelyn and Jon performed alone again, just keyboards and vocals. They performed the song "Fallen Giants," a song about Paul and George. Their original guitarist and drummer. People they loved with all their hearts. Brothers. Electric lighters rose across the audience, swaying back and forth, a field of stars.

After that, they played another crunching rocker. Surprising himself, Jon even abandoned his keyboards during the guitar solo, ran to the front of the stage, and joined Kaelyn for a good, solid headbanging session. The crowd was just there below, reaching toward him, singing his lyrics. He had never felt closer to them, literally and figuratively.

All these songs that I wrote in grief and isolation, locked away in the studio with my memories and hopes … they mean something. Not just to me but to them. To thousands of people. I did something that matters. I killed people in the war. I did terrible things. But I also did something that matters.

They played for two hours with no break, culminating with an explosive, eardrum-piercing rendition of "Starfire."

"Thank you, Luna!" Kaelyn said, waving. "We love you, good night!"

The lights turned off.

The band stepped to the back of the stage, drowning in shadows. Even the luminous SYMPHONICA sign went dark.

The crowd chanted.

"We want more, we want more!"

The band wasn't fooling anyone.

Jon stepped back to his keyboards, and they roared.

He played a single note. That single B4. That note he had played in his home on a dark night with no stars.

The opening note to "The Day He Did Not Die."

A song about how I almost killed myself, Jon thought. A song about an angel in a graveyard. About a light that saved me.

He played another note. Another. The song took form.

Kaelyn emerged from shadow, stepped to the front of the stage, and sang.

A cold day in January was the day he did not die

He died many times before

He died in my dreams a thousand times

He died in the jungles where the fire burned him

He died in the neon slums where the needles stabbed him

He died in the hospitals where my demons called him

But one day in January the poet did not die

Jon tossed back his head, eyes shut, tears on his cheeks. He hammered the keys blindly. The guitar and bass exploded with rippling sound. The drums beat with fury. Kaelyn sang louder, her operatic voice threatening to shatter the steelglass dome overhead.

Pull the trigger!

End the pain

Scatter notes like bullet casings

See the child burn

Join the dance of death

Die

Die

End!

Every instrument stopped playing. Every note faded to silence. The crowd watched, enraptured.

Jon began to play again, softly, barely audible. Kaelyn joined him.

In a cold graveyard under rain

A light shone

A Madonna came on moonlit wings

You have such light to shine

Your well can still flow forth

You have such love to give

Jon's tears splashed the keyboard. He had to stop playing. It was only halfway through the song, but he could not continue. He was shaking. He covered his eyes, crying.

The crowd cheered for him.

"Jon! Jon! Jon!"

Kaelyn walked toward him, hugged him. Jon took a shuddering breath and nodded. He would continue. He would complete the song. The band kept playing, softer now, and Kaelyn sang with all her grace and nurturing softness.

On the day he did not die

He walked through rain and darkness

A mother pulled him under her wing

I'm here my son

I will always chase the monsters away

You will walk through any darkness

This day you will not die

This day you are in my love

The instruments swelled. Jon played the last note, eyes closed, and the song ended. Seventeen minutes long. The last song of the night.

He left the keyboard, shaken, and stepped to the front of the stage. Kaelyn held his hand. The rest of the band joined them. They gave a bow. The crowd cheered, and the curtain dropped.

Symphonica's comeback concert was over.

"One down, ninety-nine shows to go!" their bass player said.

Jon didn't know how his heart would handle it. Or how he had ever lived without it.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Symphonic Fire

The band was backstage, unwinding after the show, when the inquisitors burst into the room.

The after party was a tame affair, for a rock band. Nobody had tossed any televisions out the window. Nobody had passed out and choked on their vomit yet. They were a symphonic band with an opera singer, after all, not some brutal genocide metal band. Shredding guitars notwithstanding.

But for Jon, it was pretty wild. The new guitarist, bass player, and drummer were experienced musicians, older than Jon and rougher around the edges. They had been touring with other bands for years, and unlike Jon, they knew how to party. Empty bottles of booze rolled around everywhere. Hookahs were lit, and hintan smoke filled the backroom, scented of cinnamon, intoxicating to the senses. The guitar player lounged on a sofa, two beautiful women on his lap. They were cooing and caressing his hair. The bass player and drummer lay on bean bags with their own groupies, puffing on hookahs and giggling at everything. The roadies were playing video games.

But it wasn't all sin and sensuality. Many fans came in, awkward, geeky, ranging from young teens to elders with silver hair. They carried albums, t-shirts, and posters, which the band members were glad to sign. Many brought gifts for Jon and Kaelyn. Framed fan art, featuring the band in pastels and water colors. Fan fiction, handwritten in beautiful journals. One fan had even sculpted dolls of Jon and Kaelyn, beautiful wooden dolls with meticulously sewn clothes.

Many shared stories of what their music meant. One fan said that he listened to Symphonica over and over after his parents died, and the music comforted him. Another fan, blushing furiously, handed Jon a watercolor painting of him. She mumbled something inaudible and fled, her blush deepening. Another fan approached, a burly bear of a man, his beard shaggy, his leather jacket inlaid with spikes. He looked like he could beat a dinosaur to death, but his eyes dampened, and he knelt before Kaelyn and trembled. His twin brother had died on Bahay a few years ago, he said. Symphonica gave him new joy in life.

Jon and Kaelyn listened to all their stories. They accepted gifts. They hugged their fans. They learned the importance of their art.

One fan, a meek girl with a mop of brown hair, approached Jon and immediately burst into her tears.

"Can I hug you?" she managed between sobs.

Jon pulled her into his arms. "Hello, Fiona."

She cried harder. "You recognize me."

"Of course." He smiled, holding her close. "You send me letters every week."

Fiona looked up into his eyes. "I'm so honored to finally meet you, Jon. A year ago, I was suicidal. I was seriously planning to kill myself. But I listened to your song. To 'The Day He Did Not Die.' And I decided to live. You saved my life."

Jon couldn't stop his eyes from dampening. "If you ever feel sad again, if you ever have suicidal thoughts, just call me. Symphonica is here for you."

I fought on Bahay, he thought. I killed people. But I also saved a life. I saved Fiona. And this is the best thing I've ever done.

Fiona smiled through her tears, and she handed him a medallion. It was made of silver, shaped like a treble clef. Like the stylized S in the Symphonica logo. The amulet hung from a silver chain.

"I made this for you," she said. "I make jewelry sometimes. I hope you like it."

He placed it around his neck. "I love it, Fiona. I'm honored to wear it."

And Jon realized something. This was not about him. None of it was. It was about the emotions the fans felt. The paths they walked. The courage they found. He had simply nudged them out the door. They took their own journeys.

Jon had to admit. It moved him to meet these fans, yes. It lit his soul. But it was also hard. He was naturally introverted. He felt awkward when fans shared their stories. He felt awkward in a party, or whatever you called this gathering backstage. He wanted to retire to the tour shuttle, crawl into his bunk, and spend an hour reading a novel before falling asleep. He wasn't used to meeting so many people. Not since the army.

But in the army I fought and killed, he thought. Here I make art. Look where I was then. Look where I am now.

"I just wish George and Paul could have been with us," he said to Kaelyn.

She smiled and hugged him.

It was then that the doors burst open and the inquisitors barged in.

* * * * *

Jon froze. Icy claws gripped his heart.

The inquisitors entered the room, crimson robes fluttering, hoods shadowing their faces.

The band and fans looked up.

"Awww, they're cute!" a groupie said. "Look at their red robes."

The bass player, wreathed in hintan smoke, laughed. "No one expects the Spanish Inquisition."

The drummer put down the hookah and struggled to his feet, eyes like half-moons. He pointed at the inquisitors and smirked. "Hey, homies, you're in the wrong room. The religious seminar is at the Buzz Aldrin Hotel."

But Jon was not laughing. He leaped to his feet, heart pounding. Kaelyn had never seen the inquisitors, but she had heard Jon's tale. She stood at his side, and her hand reached out to grab a guitar like a weapon.

The inquisitors stepped closer. There were six of them. Their robes rustled. Their hoods shadowed their red masks. Their hands, gloved in crimson leather, held batons shaped like inverted crosses. The tips crackled with electricity. As the inquisitors walked across the room, the air sizzled, and the stench of ozone overpowered the cinnamon aroma of hintan.

Terror filled Jon. Not for himself. But for his band. For his fans.

He stepped forward, heart pounding, and cold sweat trickled down his back.

"You're not welcome here!" Jon said. "Leave."

The rest of his band gathered around him.

"Yeah, get lost, clowns!" said the drummer.

"Beat it!" said the bass player.

Not only the band members rallied around Jon. But his fans too. They raised their chins. The Symphonifans would not be cowed.

"Get outta here!" shouted Fiona, the girl who had overcome suicidal thoughts.

"You heard the maestro, get lost!" cried the burly, bearded fan with the spiky metal jacket.

More fan voices rose.

"Go away!"

"Fuck off!"

"Nobody messes with Symphonica!"

Jon had never loved his fans more. At that moment, he thought them just as loyal, and just as courageous, as any soldiers who had fought at his side.

Jon faced the inquisitors, chin raised.

"You heard them," he said. "I gave you my answer last time. I'm not interested."

The lord inquisitor stepped closer. Jon remembered him. The man with the serpentine mask and rubies of fire. The one who had burned Jon in the forest. Wherever his boots fell, the floor hissed, and smoke rose.

"It is time, Jon Taylor," he hissed. His voice itself sounded like smoke. "You must come with us."

"Like hell!" shouted Fiona. She ran toward the inquisitors, waving her fist. "Don't you bother the maestro! He's a genius, and—"

The lord inquisitor pointed his baton. A lightning bolt shot out, lifted the girl into the air, and slammed her onto the ground. Fiona convulsed, sparking with electricity.

A few people screamed. Others grabbed any weapons they could find—guitars, drum sticks, chairs. The other inquisitors gathered around their lord, batons crackling.

Jon knelt by Fiona. She was knocked out cold, but her pulse was still strong. The next victim might not be as lucky.

"Everyone out!" the lord inquisitor cried. "This is between Jon Taylor and us."

Some Symphonifans knelt by Fiona. Others crowded around Jon, unarmed, protecting him with their bodies.

Jon could not bear the thought of any other fans getting hurt. They were dear to him. They were like the children he did not have. He would allow none of them to sacrifice themselves.

"It's all right, everyone!" Jon said to his fans. "Our friends in red here are right. This is between me and them. You should leave."

"We won't leave you!" said one fan, cradling the fallen Fiona in her arms.

"No way!" said another.

"We won't abandon you, Jon. Ever."

The inquisitors all raised their batons overhead. Electricity crackled upward. Light bulbs shattered across the room, and broken glass showered. Fans screamed. Only one dim lamp remained, barely bright enough to see by.

"It's all right, everyone!" Jon said. "Go wait outside. I insist. I'll be fine. I promise you."

Finally the Symphonifans filtered out, casting him nervous glances. A few were weeping. Others vowed to call the police. They carried Fiona, who was still unconscious. The inquisitors swung their batons, sweeping electricity through the air. The lingering fans rushed out.

"The band and crew too," Jon said. "I'll be fine."

Symphonica traveled with a sizable crew. Not just musicians but roadies too—managers, technicians, engineers, and more. They walked toward the exit too, mumbling that they would return with backup. Only Kaelyn remained beside Jon. Even if he demanded it, he knew Kaelyn would not leave him.

The couple stood before the inquisitors.

"I told you," Jon said. "I'm not coming back to Bahay. So Papa Dominus thinks he's my ancestor. Maybe he is. I don't care. I'm staying here."

The lord inquisitor narrowed his eyes.

"Why don't you tell that to him personally?"

Jon snorted. "Because he's hundreds of light-years away? So unless you got a wormhole generator, I … Oh. Okay, you … have a wormhole generator. Great."

The lord inquisitor pulled a cube from his robes. It was no larger than a Rubik's cube and covered in electronics. Lights flashed. Cables shone. It looked like some futuristic prop from the Hellraiser films, a franchise that just refused to die.

The inquisitor placed the cube on the floor, then stepped back. The mechanical little contraption bloomed open like a music box.

Kaelyn tightened her grip on Jon's hand.

Lights shone from the cube, flickering. It almost looked like something from tonight's concert. Then a hologram appeared, floating over the box. It died, reappeared, wobbling a little like some old timey film reel.

Bahayan tech was a little clumsy compared to Earth tech. But despite the low resolution, there was no mistaking the man in the hologram.

Papa Dominus.

He no longer wore red vestments. He was no longer a mere cardinal. He had elevated himself to a pope without a god. He wore black robes woven with inverted crosses, and a baby's skull hung from his neck on a chain. His mitre hat shone with what Jon mistook at first for rubies. Then he noticed those were red eyes. A hundred red eyes that grew from the papal hat, blinking, staring.

This creature—Jon could not think of him as a man—had always seemed old. But now Papa Dominus seemed downright decrepit. His skin was like paper that had dried after a flood, wrinkled and blistering. His mouth was a lipless slit like a surgical incision, full of piranha teeth. His eyes were black holes, sucking in all light and time and hope.

"Hello … my heir …"

Papa's voice was wind through a graveyard. The creature was probably back on Bahay, speaking through a miniature wormhole. But Jon still shivered. The room felt colder. Papa's evil wafted like a foul miasma, freezing the air—even through the hologram.

Jon glared at the astral projection. "I told you back on Bahay, and I'll tell you now: I'm not interested. I don't care who you think I am. I won't join you."

Papa smiled thinly. He licked his sharp little teeth. His tongue was white and scaly.

"You are my blood, Jon Taylor," he hissed. "A line stretches through the generations. From me to you. You belong … to me. You belong … on Bahay."

"I don't care about Bahay!" Jon shouted. "I never wanted to go there. I was drafted—against my will! I was sent to fight a war there. Not a war I asked for! I—"

"Oh, but you did ask to fight," Papa said. "I know the truth. I was there. Watching. From the beginning. You asked your officer to send you to Bahay. So that you could avenge your brother's death!"

Jon's heart lurched. He took a step toward the hologram, balling his fists. Kaelyn gasped, never leaving his side.

"Don't you talk about my brother!" he said.

"Do you know why he died, Jon?" Papa said. "Did you hear the true story of what happened to Paul Taylor?"

"Shut up!" Jon shouted, tears in his eyes. "I don't want to hear anything you have to say."

"Yes, your brother was like that too," Papa said. "Stubborn. Feisty. He too was my heir. I tried to get him to join me. When he refused … my pet Ernesto executed him."

"Liar!" Jon shouted. "My brother died fighting the Kalayaan."

"I speak truth," Papa said. "When he refused to join me, to accept his true heritage, I executed him. And I moved on to the next heir. To you. Do not make the same mistake."

"A threat? Seriously?" Jon laughed. "Well, you can't kill me! If you do, that's it. I'm the last heir in your line. If I die, game over. So threaten me all you like. I don't have kids. Your dynasty would end!"

Papa Dominus smiled thinly. Wickedly.

"Oh … but you do have a child," he said. "You have a daughter."

Jon snarled. "If you're talking about … about …"

"No, Jon Taylor," Papa said. "I do not mean the tiny souls buried in your church's graveyard. You have a living daughter. A daughter on Bahay." The cardinal smiled. The smile a wolf gave its prey. "She is four years old."

"Jon?" Kaelyn spoke for the first time. "Jon, what is he talking about?"

"He's lying," Jon said to her. He turned back toward the hologram. "You're lying! What a pathetic trick. First you threaten me with your goons. That doesn't work. Then you lie about Paul. That doesn't work either. So now you pull out yet another trick. Lying about me having a child. Pathetic!"

The creature laughed. A laugh like tumbling boulders, like shattering tombstones. The last few lights shattered on the ceiling, plunging the room into darkness. Only the hologram now emitted light. Papa grew larger and larger, reaching the ceiling, nine feet tall and shining with black light.

"I often lie," Papa said, and the room shook. "I am a lord of lies. But this is truth. You have a daughter with Maria de la Cruz."

Jon's fists shook. He shouted up at the hologram, "Maria died! I saw her die!"

"She survived my assault on the city," Papa said. "And she was pregnant. Come back to me. Come back … and maybe I'll spare your daughter's life."

The hologram flickered out of existence. Wisps of light retreated into the mechanical box. The contraption closed, leaving the room in darkness.

* * * * *

In the shadows, the inquisitors stepped closer to Jon.

Six of them. They held their batons close to their chests. The electric tips crackled beneath their chins, painting their masks with eerie light. Their eyes narrowed, as if they were grinning wickedly behind the masks. Smoke rose from their footfalls.

"Come with us," hissed the lead inquisitor.

Jon reached into his jacket and drew his handgun.

"Back off!" he shouted. "Now!"

The lord inquisitor aimed his baton at Jon.

A lightning bolt flew.

Already expecting the assault, Jon sidestepped and fired his gun.

His bullet drove through the inquisitor's mask, leaving a perfect hole just below the left eye. Blood spurted. The inquisitor crashed to the floor.

"Get back, Kaelyn!" Jon shouted, already firing his gun again.

He shielded her with his body, giving her a chance to flee. He fired again and again. Another inquisitor fell.

The remaining four thrust their batons.

Electric bolts flew. Jon ducked and rolled. Kaelyn scurried behind a couch. Bolts slammed into the walls, shattering framed photos, a cabinet, the fridge. Jon got one shot off, but another electric barrage came almost at once. Jon tried to dodge again, but—

A bolt slammed into his chest, hurling him into the air.

Pain blasted across him.

He hit the wall, slid down. The pain was terrifying. He could barely see. His legs twitched.

Through the agony, he fired his gun.

Another inquisitor fell.

The three remaining ones advanced toward him. Nearly blind with pain, Jon roared and leaped at them.

A bolt hit his shoulder, knocking him back. He reeled. A baton swung, and the metal rod crashed into his shoulder. Jon howled and crumpled like a sack of bricks.

He lay, moaning, his shoulder a furnace of agony. His legs twitched.

One inquisitor stomped on his wrist, and Jon cried out, losing his grip on the handgun. The inquisitor kicked it aside.

The three inquisitors leaned over him like vultures.

"Yes, he's a warrior," one hissed.

"He killed three of us."

"He's down. Let's bind him."

They pulled out chains.

A cry pierced the air.

Kaelyn lunged forward, swinging an electric guitar. She smashed it against one inquisitor's head. He hit the floor.

Jon scampered for his gun.

"Kill the woman!" a remaining inquisitor shouted.

Jon spun around.

The inquisitor swung his club toward Kaelyn's head, ready to shatter her skull.

Jon fired.

Again.

Again.

The club clattered onto the floor.

The last two inquisitors fell, bullets in their chests. Jon put an extra bullet in each man's head. Just to be sure.

Because I'm not only a musician, he thought. I'm a veteran. I'm not only an artist. I'm a killer.

Kaelyn stood above the corpses, trembling, and looked at Jon with huge, terrified eyes.

"Jon …" She looked around her, then back at him, face pale. "You killed them. Six men."

And the fear in her eyes was not fear of the inquisitors.

It was fear of him.

Jon holstered his gun, stepped over the bodies, and pulled his wife into his arms. He held her close.

"It's all right, Kaelyn," he whispered. "It's all right."

She trembled. "Jon, I'm scared. You carry a gun. You never told me you had a gun. You killed these men like … like it was nothing. They hit you with bolts. You stayed standing. They lay on the floor, maybe just wounded. And you put bullets in their heads. Who are you?"

Jon pulled his shirt open, revealing an armored vest. The only light came from the crackling batons on the floor, but it revealed the secret.

"An anti-plasma, anti-electric vest," Jon said. "After what happened in the forest, I prepared."

Kaelyn blinked. She took a step back and tilted her head. "You didn't get me one?"

Jon smiled wryly and gestured at her outfit. "It wouldn't suit your beautiful dress."

Her jaw unhinged. "What … what the hell is wrong with you, Jon?"

He held her hand. "Kaelyn, listen to me. You saw another side of me tonight. A side you never saw before. A side I discovered in the war. I'm killer. I can kill without a second thought. But I swear to you, Kaelyn, I always cared about your safety more than mine. You were never a target. They were after me. And I suspected they might strike tonight."

"I don't know who you are," she whispered. "I don't know who I married. I don't know what I got into. Jon … is what that … that creature said true? That you have a child with Maria?"

No! Jon wanted to say. Papa Dominus is a liar!

He hesitated.

"I don't know," he finally said.

"Jon, if it's true, what—"

Jon inhaled sharply.

He saw it reflected in Kaelyn's eyes. Movement on the floor.

An inquisitor was still alive.

Dammit. He had neglected to shoot one in the head.

Jon spun around and saw the inquisitor aiming his baton. The tip crackled furious red.

It was aimed right at Jon's head. And he didn't have time to draw his gun.

"Die, Jo—" the inquisitor began when a bullet tore through his skull.

The inquisitor crashed down, blood flowing from his mask.

Jon blinked. He had not even drawn his gun yet.

The shot had come from the doorway, he realized. Jon turned to look. A short, slender figure stepped into the room, cloaked in shadows.

"Who …?" Jon whispered.

The figure stepped into the light, peering with huge green eyes.

It was Etty.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Light in Maria's Eyes

The police filled the Lunar Dome. Dozens of them everywhere.

They questioned everyone. Apparently, two security guards were found dead outside the venue, necks snapped. Witnesses described men in red robes killing the guards, forcing their way in. The same robed men found dead in Symphonica's dressing room.

Everyone in the band gave statements. The police also interviewed the Symphonifans, who all insisted that Jon did nothing wrong, that he was a hero.

Jon wouldn't go that far.

"I'm no hero, sir," he told the policeman who questioned him. "I just acted in self defense. I'm sorry to hear they murdered two security guards. The proceeds from tonight's show will go to their families."

As the questioning continued, throughout the night and the next day, Jon ached to hug his wife. She was being questioned in another room.

But even more, he ached to talk to Etty.

Last night, showing up backstage, she had only said, "Jon, we need to talk."

Then the police had swarmed in. They pulled everyone into separate rooms. They sealed off the entire Dome. Nobody could enter. Nobody could leave without first being questioned. The police re-purposed various dressing rooms and service rooms, turning them into interrogation rooms. And Jon had not seen Etty since.

Finally, after grueling hours, Jon was free to go.

They weren't charging him with anything.

He was, after all, a war hero.

It's like that when you kill Bahayans, Jon thought, with more than a little bitterness. Clay was freed after slaughtering five hundred women and children. Of course they'd let me go for killing a few inquisitors. Some Bahayans are good. Others are evil. To Earthlings, their lives are all cheap.

His fans, God bless 'em, stayed nearby the whole time. Even those the police didn't need. When Jon emerged from the interrogation room, they were waiting in the corridor. They hugged him, cheered, brought him flowers. A few wept.

Fiona, the girl electrocuted during the fight, had regained consciousness. She hugged him tightly.

"If you ever need anything, Jon, let me know," Fiona said. "Your songs saved my life. If you ever feel sad about what happened today, about having to kill again, call me. I'm always here for you. All us Symphonifans are."

"Today we did not die," Jon said.

"Today we did not die!" the Symphonifans all repeated, devil horns raised.

Kaelyn emerged from a room next, still wearing her sparkling dress from the concert last night. She thanked the policemen who had questioned her, then hurried down the corridor toward Jon. They embraced, and the fans cheered.

"Best vacation ever!" one fan said to another as they walked toward the buffet.

A few minutes later, Etty was released.

The three of them headed toward a little bar in the Lunar Dome, just across from the stage where Symphonica had performed last night. The crowd had dispersed. The Symphonifans were all at the breakfast buffet down the hall. Only a few service robots remained in the Dome, scuttling across the floor, sweeping and polishing. The stars shone through the steelglass dome that enclosed the complex. Earth rose above, a blue crescent.

Jon, Kaelyn, and Etty had the bar to themselves.

The robotic bartender served them Kahlua cocktails—the closest thing on the menu to coffee, which they desperately needed. They drank. And for a long time, Etty spoke.

She spoke about the Dust of Life undertaking a mission to Bahay. About the inquisitors ambushing her in the alleyway. Killing her friend.

About the re-education camps across Bahay.

About the sin and suffering in Mother's Womb.

And she spoke about Maria.

And she spoke about Lily.

"So it's real," Jon whispered. "Maria survived. She's alive." He trembled. His heart pounded. "I have a child."

Kaelyn looked at him, pale. Jon held her hand, but her hand felt dead, hanging limply in his grip. She did not meet his eyes.

"Yes, Jon," Etty whispered. "It's true. It's all true." She pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it. "I brought a photograph."

Jon stared.

It was a photo of Maria, and his eyes flooded.

It was her. There was no doubt. A young woman with brown skin, with intelligent black eyes, with long raven hair.

There she is, Jon thought. There is Maria. There is the woman I fell so madly in love with. The woman who survived. The woman I still love.

She was smiling in the photograph. But her eyes were so sad. She was so beautiful.

She was holding a little girl.

Lily, Jon thought. She named her Lily. My daughter.

Kaelyn finally tightened her hand around his. She leaned against him.

"She's beautiful, Jon," she whispered. "They both are."

Jon knew what Kaelyn was going through.

She miscarried four times, he thought. She cannot give me a child. Now she sees Lily. And she accepts her.

He had never loved his wife more.

He looked into Kaelyn's eyes. One blue, one brown. The eyes of his muse. The eyes of his soprano. Of his wife. Of the woman he loved with all his heart.

"Kaelyn," he said, "they're on Bahay, and they're in danger. I have to go back."

Chapter Thirty-Five

A Beacon of Hope

The Kinnara glided through a kelp forest, hidden among towering, leafy stalks. The seaweed grew tall here, taller than most trees on land. The water rippled. The kelp swayed in the currents, a languid dance. Countless fish and mollusks lived here, flitting from one stalk of kelp to another. Starfish and seashells jeweled the seabed, and beads of sunlight cascaded from the ocean surface above like autumn leaves. Sometimes a whale swam by, larger than the Kinnara, its barbells fluttering like a mustache, tipped with glowing lures.

It was a beautiful place. Yet as the Kinnara kept sailing onward, the seabed sloped into the depths. The sunlight dimmed. The kelp thinned out until only a few strands of seaweed remained. The ship plunged into the ocean depths.

The fish and mollusks no longer swam around them. The whales were mere shadows far above, echoes of distant songs. Deep sea creatures appeared at the portholes, flickering with bioluminescence. The water became black. The Kinnara's headlights could barely pierce this darkness, and the immense water pressure gripped the hull like a kraken. They navigated over shoals, through trenches, around drowned mountains.

Finally in a valley ahead, they saw a distant glint. A hint of silver soon vanishing in the currents, then shining again. Calling them. A beacon in the dark like a lighthouse, like a lodestar to a sailor lost at sea, like a church upon a distant hill on a night of rain and wind.

Maria piloted the vessel. Her companions stood around her, solemn. They rumbled through the water, heading toward the light.

They crested a shoal, dived into the deep valley, and she revealed herself in all her glory.

A starship.

A silver starship the size of a skyscraper. As graceful as a harp of the gods, fallen into the sea.

Tears filled Maria's eyes.

"A lost Santelmo starship," she whispered. "One of the ships that brought the first colonists to this world long ago. A ship that can bring us home. To Earth. To life. To hope."

"A ship called Sodom, like the biblical city of brimstone and fire, lying on the bottom of the ocean," Charlie said. "A ship that crashed, killing everyone aboard. Sure says hope and beauty to me!"

Maria smiled softly, the silver light in her eyes. "The brightest hope springs from tragedy. The strongest life rises from death. This ship will rise again."

Lily climbed onto her lap, and Maria held her daughter close. The Kinnara sailed through the black water toward the ancient starship. Toward hope. Toward a single light in a world of crushing darkness.

The story concludes in …

WE ARE EARTHLINGS

SOLDIERS OF EARTHRISE VI

Click here to read Are Are Earthings.

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NOVELS BY DANIEL ARENSON

MINTARI

A World of Dinosaurs

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

Starship Freedom VIII: A Time for 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