THE GUARD Institute didn’t believe in computer-simulated breach and clear training. In fact, they didn’t care for computer-simulated anything. The board of directors was a group of retired soldiers who believed in hands-on learning. They preached about the virtues of muscle memory and claimed that habitual practice in realistic scenarios would better prepare their students for a future in citywide law enforcement. Some thought them old-fashioned. Taren thought them wise.

He’d spent countless hours sneaking through shadowy buildings, mazes, sewers, stretches of jungle, and fake streets crowded with volunteer pedestrians, with nothing but a plasma-proof vest and a stun gun to defend himself against fellow students posing as his enemies. He’d been in charge of leading groups of strangers to safety through these scenarios, all of them volunteers with specific roles to play that would create new hiccups for Taren to deal with while under pressure. These experiences forced him to deal with his own emotional responses, to find some sense of levelheadedness under duress. Because of that, he hadn’t been afraid the first time he’d been pinned down at a bakery and taking fire from enemies while trying to protect his princess. His body had taken over as his mind slipped down familiar checklists, which led him and Kylee to safety.

It was because of this that Taren had managed to take back The Andromeda from Queen Miyako’s soldiers with such precision and ease. That training, those checklists, were going to help him wipe out the Acadiens.

Taren and Jael split up after they left the old bank. He snuck through and around buildings, a silent wraith blending into the night. He knew the perimeter the Acadiens walked, where they changed shifts, and when they doubled back along their designated watch areas. He knew where to hide where they wouldn’t find him. All thanks to Jael’s watchful eye and forward thinking. Taren crept up to unsuspecting men, slitting throats and breaking necks, always catching the bodies and dragging them out of sight before moving on.

The streets around the whorehouse were cleared in no time.

Taren waited by the cannery’s front door until Jael came around the corner, wiping one of her throwing knives against her jumpsuit. She stuck it back into her pouch and grinned.

“I got four. How about you?”

“I didn’t keep count,” he lied. “Don’t enjoy this so much. We’re murderers.”

“Death is necessary, especially when the person dying is stupid, cruel, and has no intention of ever changing their ways.” She elbowed him in passing and turned so that she was walking backward into the cannery. “You can’t honestly say you don’t love the thrill of sneaking around, picking off your enemies without raising any alarms.”

He could feel his pulse in his fingertips. It was steady and strong. There was undeniable power surging through his body, like a live wire. He felt triumphant, indestructible, unbeatable. He hated it.

Turning away from her, Taren muttered, “Stay sharp.”

The whorehouse motel was a two-story square building, with rusting metal rails on the top story and a yellowing Welcome banner along the side. Unlike the surrounding buildings, most of the windows were still intact. Only three were covered by wooden slabs or pieces of cardboard. Green doors marked the individual rooms, separating them from the white maintenance doors and the glass door that belonged to the main office. According to Jael, the office was just where customers went to select their prostitute and pay for their time. The Acadiens lived and operated out of the accountants’ offices located behind the motel.

That’s where their leader, Ardelle Acadien, would be found, along with her various lovers. That’s where Taren assumed the bulk of their numbers would be, protecting their children and their vault room should the alarm be raised once Taren and Jael began their attack.

Taren’s stomach twisted in dread, some of that inexplicable power leaving his limbs. He had rescued two kids, but how many was he going to leave fatherless tonight?

He shook his arms out and then each leg. He was a gun—decisive, unapologetic, bringing swift judgment on anyone who threatened the lives of innocents. He was their angel of death. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, he rolled his neck. With each pop, he relieved some of the tension there. And got rid of the guilt.

He took a steadying breath, cleared his mind, made sure his submachine blaster magazine was full, and then glanced behind him at the third story of the cannery. Through one of the open windows, he spotted the end of his long-range blaster. Jael was in position.

It was time.

Taren held his weapon with both hands and snuck forward.

Jael took out the men in the front office with two strategic shots through the door. The glass shattered, raining shards over the sidewalk. A plasma beam hit the man at the counter between the eyes. The second man ran to the first with a shout, only to be silenced by a blast through his ear. He was launched into the wall before he slid down to join his partner. His blood left a dark red stain on the faded yellow wallpaper. Taren walked in at a crouch, took a quick scan of the room to be sure it was empty, and then retreated.

Following the sidewalk, he approached the first green door. He placed a hand on the doorknob, bracing himself for what he might see. But then footsteps sounded behind him. He swiveled around. Three Acadiens rounded the corner with blasters raised. Jael took two of them out, her shots hitting them in the heads, while Taren took down the last one with a plasma beam to the throat. Their bodies hit the cement with faint, wet gurgles.

He straightened up, searching for the third-story window where his sniper was camped. How was she a perfect shot? When had she had the time to practice? He’d have to ask her about that later. Shaking off his momentary admiration, Taren turned back to the task at hand. He twisted the doorknob and stepped into the first room.

Fortunately, it was too dark to see details. Taren spotted lumps of furniture, the darker outline of what he assumed was a bathroom door, and the silhouettes of two bodies on the bed; the larger one was hunched over the smaller one. There was a surprised yelp and a curse as the larger, masculine shadow sprung away from the girl. Immediate, almost blinding fury swept over Taren as he pulled the trigger. The stranger toppled over the side of the bed and landed on the floor with a thud.

“It’s all right,” Taren said over the girl’s whimpering. He meant to sound calm and reassuring, but his words were clipped, betraying his anger. “I’m here to help. Go to the cannery across the street and stay there until I come for you. I’m going to free the others.” He waited, listening for any indication that she was moving to obey. All he heard was sniffling.

“Did you hear me?” he demanded.

“She can’t understand you through the fog of Bagora.”

Taren spun around, his blaster raised.

Lenore threw her hands into the air. She wore a black sweatshirt with the hood up, her denim imitations, and gray sneakers.

Taren stared, unable to process this new information. Lenore was there, in that terrible place, where dead bodies were already starting to pile up and more enemies were lurking around every corner. He was a gun. But looking at her, suddenly he wasn’t. He couldn’t. He blinked hard. His heart palpitated in his chest, reminding him that he was human.

Taren lowered his weapon.

BROCK AND Lenore approached Taren on The Andromeda after he and Jael had finished concocting their plan.

“We want to help,” Nora said. “Before you say no, hear us out.”

“No,” Taren said anyway. “It’s too dangerous.”

“That place used to be my prison,” Lenore said, scowling. “I want to help those girls escape it too. Plus, I know how they’re feeling. I know how they see the world while drugged. I can get them out of there faster than you can.”

“Nora is correct,” Brock tooted. He waved a hand between the two of them. “She can assist with the drugged captives. I can assist with the guarding. All Mr. Taren would have to do is teach me how to fire a weapon.”

Taren shook his head. “I can’t do what I need to and take care of you guys at the same time.”

“Do you really expect us to stay behind while you and Jael risk your lives?” Lenore demanded. “This isn’t just your fight, Taren.”

He spoke slowly, so that they would understand. “I said no. You’re too young and inexperienced. You’d only get yourselves killed. You’re staying here, and that’s final.”

LENORE DROPPED her hands and gulped. “I’m sorry.”

“What in the—” Taren floundered, looking for a word that was severe enough.

Brock poked his head into the room with one hand clamped over his eyes and the other holding the PDA. He wore some of Taren’s clothes—gray cargo pants and a black shirt. He honked uncertainly. “Is it safe?”

Taren’s blaster strap tightened around his neck as it bore the weight of his weapon. He grabbed them by the fronts of their shirts and dragged them into the room before shutting the door.

“What in the hell are you two doing here?” he hissed, straining to keep his voice down despite his anger. But this was a different kind of anger, one heavily warped by fear.

The PDA lit up like a flashlight under Brock’s chin, throwing his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose, and the center of his forehead into shadow.

Lenore stood beside him. Her little fists were clenched at her sides, her spine straight, her head held high. “We came to help.”

He was going to shout. Taren bit his tongue and did his best to smother the overpowering emotion. It felt like his head was on fire. “How?”

“I drove the fusion cycle,” Brock trumpeted.

“Why?”

“We told you we were going to help,” Lenore said. “You didn’t listen.”

“I told you it was too dangerous!”

Brock let out an anxious, flatulent sound and ducked. “Now is not a good time for shouting.”

“I’ll shout if I want to, Brock,” Taren said, although he did lower his voice. “My kids are being stubborn and reckless! I’m not going to be able to focus on the task at hand because I’ll be too busy worrying.”

Lenore gaped up at him. Brock dropped the PDA. He lurched forward to catch it. The tablet bounced against his palms and fingers several times, turning and flipping, before he got a good enough grip on it.

This was the first time he’d called them his kids, he realized.

“Anything happens to you, it’s on me,” Taren said before the heat could crawl up his throat. “Don’t you understand?”

Tears shimmered in Lenore’s eyes. She drew her bottom lip between her teeth and looked away.

Taren cleared his throat, then pointed at the door behind him. “Now, get back on the fusion cycle and return to the ship.”

Brock swallowed audibly. “If we are indeed a family, then we should do things together.” He peeked up at Taren. “We are worried about you too, Mr. Taren. Does that not matter?”

Shadows moved across the window. Taren gripped the submachine blaster at his chest and stretched an arm to the side to shield the kids. A plasma shot from Jael and the man fell. Taren exhaled, sure he was going to regret this.

He removed the gumlauncher from his back. “You hold it with two hands, like this.” He demonstrated. “If anyone tries to stop you, you aim at their blasters first and then their feet. You pull the trigger to launch the goo.” He handed over the weapon. “There’s a bit of a kick, so brace yourself. Gather the girls in the cannery across the street. Jael’s on the third floor. Find her if anything goes wrong.”

Brock’s thin fingers closed around the handle of his new weapon. He bobbed his head, serious as Taren had ever seen him. “We will not fail you.”

Gnashing his teeth, Taren placed a hand on each of their shoulders and pulled them in for a hug. The anger had melted away, leaving only fear. “Take care of each other. Don’t try to be heroes. Just—”

Two arms came around his waist, one from each kid. Brock’s head of golden hair came up to his chest. Nora’s barely touched his diaphragm. They were both so thin, so frail. So strong.

“Just be careful,” he finished lamely.

“You too,” Lenore said.

He released them.

With nothing left to say, Taren twisted around and opened the door. He peered out to be sure the coast was clear before he snuck over to one of the bodies on the ground. He relieved the Acadien of his sidearm and extra magazines. Then he made his way to the next room.

“I’m a gun,” he whispered to himself. Grabbing the doorknob, he twisted. Then pushed. He took aim and fired at the offender. “I’m a good man.”

After stepping back out, he approached the next door at a crouch. His hand hesitated briefly over the knob. “I’m a father.”

He gripped the knob. Turned. Pushed. He pointed the gun at the first man, who was holding the young girl from behind, and fired. Then he met the eyes of the second man, who was clutching the girl to his chest.

“Don’t hurt me!” the coward shrieked, stumbling back. “Please, don’t hurt me!”

The plasma beam hit him between the eyes. The girl crumpled to the floor with her abuser, uttering a tiny groan.

Taren swiveled away and marched out of the room. “And my kids are going to be fine.”

HE CLEARED the motel in fifteen minutes.

When the last pervert was killed, Taren raced around the front to find his kids. Brock stood like a sentry at the cannery door, pivoting from left to right with the gumlauncher before him, his eyes darting around the street. Lenore guided a teenage Nudibra, with a steady hand on her elbow. Somehow, she’d managed to get the alien into some clothes before leading her away from the motel.

Relief hit, finally allowing the muscles in Taren’s body to relax. He jogged over to them with his blaster at his side. “How’d we do?”

“There are twenty in there now,” Lenore said, nodding at the cannery. “This one makes twenty-one.”

“All right, that means there’s still four in their rooms, right? You guys keep at it. I’ve taken care of all the men so you should be good.” Taren pointed at the rows of windows on the third story. “I’m going to grab Jael and clear out the accountants’ offices behind the motel. Once you’re done, stay here. We’ll come for you.” He patted Lenore on the back and grinned. “Great job.”

She beamed.

Taren ran over to Brock and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “Good job, kid. Keep it up.”

Brock honked after him as he proceeded into the cannery.

Rows of tables cut across the grimy wooden floors. They were heavy-laden with machinery that Taren assumed had once been used to seal cans of goods, although the absence of food made it hard to tell what kind of cannery this was. Metal pillars rose to meet the support beams with giant rivets keeping them together. There was a hole in the ceiling, giving him a glimpse of the second story. The windows that were still intact were caked with dirt. Dust covered every surface. It made Taren’s throat itch. He meandered around the tables to the staircase on the other side of the ground floor. He passed the freed girls, who were clustered together behind one of the tables of machinery. Their glassy eyes followed him.

The second story was similar to the first. The third story was a giant office space with desks, cabinets, chairs, and bookcases. One of the desks had been dragged over to a broken window; a single pile of warped books had been stacked at the edge closest to the windowsill. Jael must have lain over the desk to shoot, propping her weapon on the books. She now crouched over the rucksack, which lay open on the floor.

“I’m out of plasma,” she said without checking to see who had just climbed up the creaky staircase.

“That’s fine. We can tackle the accountants’ offices together.”

She zipped up the rucksack and stood, lifting it by its handles. “I noticed you let Nora and Brock stay.”

“Yeah. They’re going to finish rounding up the girls.”

A line appeared between Jael’s eyebrows. “Are you sure that’s the right call?”

Taren sighed. “No, but Nora used to be trapped here too, remember? She’s not about to walk away from these girls, not until she knows they’re safe.”

Jael processed this, her snake eyes scrutinizing his face.

“They should be fine so long as we make quick work of the remaining Acadiens,” Taren said. “Let’s go.” He waved her over before turning to leave.

“Have you changed your mind about the Acadien kids?”

Taren stiffened.

“THE ACADIENS,” Jael had told him back on The Andromeda, “turned the accountants’ offices into something of a compound. The men, women, and children live together, with Ardelle’s office and vault room toward the very back. The best thing to do would be to bar all the doors and windows from the outside and burn it to the ground. After we loot the vault room, of course.”

“We’re only targeting the adults,” Taren said. “The children can’t help who their parents are. We’ll take them to the Culvers, just like the girls.”

Jael scoffed. “Their parents were eager to enslave and abuse women so long as it made them money, and they didn’t teach their kids any different. Do you think they’ll grow up to be good citizens who strive to make Hurren a better place?”

“Would you be able to look a little kid in the eye as you shot them?” Taren demanded. “Would you be able to sleep at night knowing—”

“Yes!” she snapped, throwing her hands in the air. “Because no matter how hard we try, we will always end up like our parents. Their bad habits and temptations and views of the world are ours because we’re a part of them.” She shook her head in disgust. “Don’t you get it? Sparing the kids is like pulling a weed and leaving the roots in the ground. It’s just going to grow back later and probably stronger than ever.”

Taren placed both hands on the table. “I refuse to kill a child because of the choices he or she might make in the future. If that makes me stupid”—he shook his head, maintaining eye contact—“I don’t care. Mercy is what separates us from the bad guys. If you lay a finger on one of those kids, I won’t hesitate to stun your ass and drag you out of there. Do you understand me?”

TAREN GLANCED at her. “Have you?”

Jael’s lips quirked up at the corners, her snake eyes half-lidded. “No, but as much as I’d love to watch you try to stun me and drag me anywhere, I think doing things my way would make the ride off this planet kind of awkward.” She aimed a finger gun at him. “So I’ll follow your lead. Just this once.”