CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“I go,” the Ambassador told him. “Though increasingly I think I should not.” The Eldritch waited to see if the Emperor would object, but the Emperor didn’t know any longer what he wanted, or more importantly, whether his sessions with Laniis were accomplishing anything for either of them. Perhaps his ambivalence was too evident, for the Eldritch sighed and leaned down to rest his brow against the Emperor’s. “One more day, then.”

“For now,” the Emperor murmured, accepting the intimacy on the less sensitive skin of a dragon’s face. Soon enough he would trade façades. He would keep this one and its illusion of armor for a little longer.

“Uuvek says we should be passing a drop later.”

“I saw.”

“I wish we could go faster,” the Ambassador said, rolling his shoulders. “Knowing how swift this vessel is makes our dawdling all the more frustrating.”

“Too much faster and we would make it difficult to keep our communications secure,” the Emperor said. “Better that than to be caught, Perfection.”

“I know.”

The Emperor chuckled softly. “The hunt does not reward the impatient.”

“And yet, it calls, does it not?” The Eldritch’s eyes glimmered with dark amusement. “I leave you to your morning.”

“I’ll join you and Uuvek afterward.”

At the door, his lover paused and said, “Don’t let her destroy you, Exalted.”

That he was becoming more concerned that she would destroy herself seemed too private a revelation to share, so he contented himself by saying, “I won’t. I have too much to do.”

The Eldritch considered him for several moments, eyes grave, and then left the Emperor to his work: in this case, writing directions to the Chatcaava who’d responded to the Knife’s encoded messages. As he’d expected, all of them so far hailed from the less prestigious Southern and Western sectors; what did surprise him was that their enmity for the Chatcaava of the more industrialized regions easily overrode the inter-sector rivalry between the Navy and the system lords. In at least two cases, the system lord and a Naval representative had sent him a message as a unit. How long had that been going on, he wondered? And how had he not known about it? Obviously, they’d put their intelligence agents to work fooling Apex-East, where all such reports were funneled.

So much resentment, and he’d only been aware of most of it. Had the Usurper and Second only accelerated a process he would have been powerless to halt? The Emperor flicked through the tablet until he found the first of Uuvek’s memos on the state of the Navy. Had Uuvek’s projections about the probable lifespan of the Empire been correct all along?

Maybe he was not entirely to blame for what had happened. Andrea would tell him not to take more on his shoulders than belonged there, and forgive himself his failings. Laniis, of course, would tell him he deserved it, and that he should burn in a Pelted hell.

Where was Khaska?

The Emperor checked the time. “Computer? Where is Lieutenant Baker?”

“Lieutenant Baker is in the observation lounge.”

Perplexed, the Emperor set the tablet down. He had been on the Silhouette long enough to notice the computer was cagey about releasing information on the Fleet personnel’s location to non-Fleet passengers. Had the Seersa been occupied in Fleet business, she would have been reported ‘unavailable.’ He searched for a help file for more information: apparently, Fleet personnel could never be unavailable or set to do-not-disturb to other Fleet members, except by senior officers in special circumstances. Civilians, however, had finer control over their privacy settings. He wondered if the Ambassador was responsible for setting theirs and found he didn’t care one way or the other. How often had he assumed his own privacy inviolate as someone with power? And it had allowed him the illusion of security.

He set the tablet aside as he rose. Eldritch? Human? Chatcaavan? He chose Dainty’s more delicate appearance and studied himself in the mirror… combed his hair back with his fingers and pulled on the sweatshirt Andrea had brought him, and the soft pants. It was an unlikely shape, but the longer he spent in it while not naked or painted and pierced, the more he sensed its potential. For normalcy, and strangely, for strength. The wingless put their power elsewhere: he’d seen it in their bodies, in the density of their muscles and their solid bones. If he exerted himself to develop that same power, would it translate into his Chatcaavan self? And how?

Shaking his much-lighter head, the Emperor went in search of his taskmistress.

The observation lounge was sited aft and on the highest deck, a placement he could appreciate; the designers could have as easily set it on the lowest deck, since space surrounded a ship in all directions, but the instinct for height appeared to be common to all their species. He stepped through the hatch into a long room, built along the back curve of the ship, and saw his quarry sitting on one of the couches facing the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The sound of the door made her ears twitch. She sat up to look over the back of the couch, then slid back down. “I guess Chatcaava don’t waste space on observation decks in their warships.”

“On the contrary,” the Emperor said. “We also like a view.” He stayed by the door. “Am I intruding?”

“It’s a public room.”

“Lieutenant,” the Emperor said, and couldn’t help the chiding in his voice.

That made her look over at him again. “All right, fine. That was unworthy of me. Yes, you can come in.”

The Emperor drifted closer, not wanting to crowd her. “You did not come for our appointment.”

“No.”

“Have I failed your test?”

“Is that what it was?” she asked, ears flattening. “Was I testing you? Or was I trying to crush you?”

“Is ‘both’ an acceptable answer to you?”

“No. Of course not.” He was close enough now to watch her lips pull back in a grimace. “I’m not a torturer.”

Like you, he heard in her abrupt end, and knew she was thinking it.

“What do you see?” she asked, nodding at the view with a jerk of her chin. “When you look out there.”

The Emperor perched on the farthest arm of the couch and considered the vista. What did he see anymore, looking at the stars? Young Kauvauc had seen his future and its endless potential. The naval officer who’d fought his way up the ranks had seen adventure and the record of battles fought and won. The Emperor had seen his demesne, stretching for light years in every direction. Dainty, when he’d been allowed the sight of the night sky, had seen the freedom barred to him, and the decapitation of his life.

What did this rescued self see, who was all these selves and all the selves to come?

“I see,” he said at last, “a universe that will go on without me.”

She twisted on the couch to stare at him.

“That would be the necessary end of my journey,” the Emperor said. “The spiritual one as well as the physical. I have learned that the worlds do not revolve around one Emperor Kauvauc, called Dainty as well as Exalted, and that in my attempts to make them do so, I have left behind a great deal of wreckage. And for what?” He shook his human head, feeling the fringe of his hair brush his far more sensitive throat. “I suspect Andrea would tell me this is some god’s plan, but I find that idea unnerving.”

“Why?” Laniis asked, her voice low.

“It implies a far higher power is in control of everything.” The Emperor managed a smile. “Knowing me, do you think I should find that notion comfortable?”

“No.” She bared her teeth and looked away.

“Lieutenant Baker,” the Emperor said, quietly. “Are you done with me?”

“No.” She rubbed her forehead. “Yes. No. I don’t know. How can I ever be done with you? I never want to see you again, but this…”

When she didn’t continue, he prodded, “…this?”

Laniis gestured toward the wall. “This matters to me. This war. What’s happening here. My year in your harem changed my life. It… it ruined me. But I rebuilt myself into something stronger and better, and that person wants to see the same thing happen to this part of space. I want… I want to destroy everything that hurt me and help build a healthy, shining thing to replace it. And that means I’m stuck here in this part of space, fighting this war… with you.”

“We are on the same side,” the Emperor said, quiet.

“So you say.” She scrubbed her hands through her hair. “So you say but how can I be sure? I changed for the better but damn it, I was already good. You were the worst scum of the universe. I’m supposed to believe now that you’re a saint?”

“I am certainly no saint.”

“Fine. But to go from ‘scum’ to ‘decent person’ is still a jump too far for most people.” She eyed him. “Wings or no wings. Did you think wearing that shape would make me hate you less?”

“No,” he admitted. “As you seem to have no trouble hating me as an Eldritch. You have a strong will, Laniis Baker.”

“You still think of me as Khaska.”

“You are also Khaska. Just as I am also Dainty.”

That made her flinch. He was glad to have her burning eyes turned from him, and was surprised to discover it was because he did not enjoy seeing her turmoil. “You were only Dainty for a few weeks,” she muttered.

“Thankfully,” the Emperor said. “As I think suffering what you did for a year would have killed me. You survived something I could not have.”

Was that shame? Her face was turned away from him, and he could see only part of one eye, one cheek, the edge of her mouth. “You might be surprised what you can survive if the choice is surviving or death.”

“Maybe. But it’s a long way down from the Queen’s window, and there would have been no guards to stop me.”

She shuddered. “Don’t. I don’t… I don’t want to imagine it.”

“You never thought of suicide, Lieutenant,” the Emperor said, quiet. “And yet I contemplated it a day into captivity. Why? What kept you fighting? Breathing?”

“I… I don’t know.” She slid a hand up one arm, staring at the receding stars. “At first it was because I was convinced I could escape somehow, and that I had to be ready for my opportunity. But I stopped believing I could ever escape, and at that point… I don’t know. Stubbornness? Or maybe I was just too used to living? They say you can get used to anything. Maybe I got used to slavery.”

“Somehow I doubt someone resigned to slavery could have become the Ambassador’s accomplice so readily.”

She snorted. “You found out about that, did you.”

“He is my lover. We talk.”

The Seersa shook her head. “I don’t know if I can ever forgive you. Or even believe in your remorse. But I’m beginning to worry that I’m going to get obsessed with finding evidence of your hidden sociopathy to prove that…”

“That what?”

She finally looked at him. “To prove that I live in a world I understand. A predictable one, where things follow the patterns I expect. To prove that… that it’s all right for me to distrust you, and even hate you. That my feelings should always be more important than yours, because I hurt more.” She flushed and hung her head. “I guess I’m not as over this as I think I am.”

“Perhaps you never will be,” the Emperor said. “I have not suffered as you have, Lieutenant, but I don’t know if I will ever ‘be over’ my scars.” He studied the starfield. “In the past, I had always thought of scars as proud things. Records of duels in which I’d won power and acclaim. I now have scars that shame me.”

“Is that why you had the piercings stuck to your horn?” When he glanced at her, startled, she said, “Yes, I noticed them. Where do they go, when you change shape?”

“On my scalp.” He shook his hair forward and felt up along his temple until he touched them. Parting the tresses, he said, “Here, on both my human and Eldritch shapes.”

He heard the couch cushions crinkling as she slid closer, smelled the warm, furred scent of her body as she bent toward him. “Do you decide that? Where they end up?”

“No. At least, not that I know of. Perhaps it is a subconscious decision.” The shadow of her hand fell over his face, stopped. “You may touch them, if you wish.”

Her fingers trailed on his scalp, soft. “You could have thrown them away.”

“I dare not forget the experience I had in the Worldlord’s harem.” He exhaled with a shudder. “What if you are correct?”

“Pardon?”

“What if you’re correct, and I am still the male I was, waiting only for the right stimulus to impel me to my previous acts? What if this is all temporary? Is evil stronger than good?” He looked at his palms. “Is habit stronger than the will to grow?”

Laniis pulled her hand back as if burnt. “You’re not allowed to doubt your own change of heart.”

“Why not? You do. You are not the first, nor will you be the last.”

She swallowed. “Do you really fear it, though? Wouldn’t it be nice to have no conscience again?”

“No.” It came out without meditation, without pause. “I would lose… I would lose so much. My Perfection, my Treasure, the few real friendships I have accrued, friendships I don’t even understand earning, or if I’ve earned them at all. I would lose this… this luminous sense of the universe as more complex and more interesting than anything I dreamed in my most frenzied imaginings of a world where I need never stop learning. The texture of my world has become unspeakably more rich.” He straightened and met her eyes. “I would lose the truth, and with it reality. What use living then? In a false world created by my own denial and desires? It wouldn’t be real.”

“What are you?” she breathed.

“I am…” He trailed off and managed a smile with his so-versatile human mouth, a complex one. “I am Chatcaavan. I hope. I am Who Changes.”

“Who Changes,” she murmured.

“It is how the Ambassador taught me,” the Emperor said. “That was the key.”

“All this time,” Laniis said to herself, frowning. “I’ve been giving you my memories. But memories are the past, aren’t they. If I really want to affect you, I have to shape your future.”

“If… that is your aim,” the Emperor said, hesitant. “I had assumed your aim was not to affect me, but to punish me.”

Her head twitched up.

“Yes?” he said.

Her lip curled but she straightened her shoulders and met his eyes without flinching. “Yes. But punishment… it’s not much good if it doesn’t prevent future bad behavior. Is it.”

“I’m not sure if the aim of punishment is always amendment,” he said. “Punishment can serve other purposes. Issuing a warning. Setting an example. Removing an impediment. Pleasing the punisher. Appeasing the victims.”

“And this is why I’m not police,” Laniis muttered. “I guess the question I have to ask myself is what do I want more. To punish you… or to make an attempt to secure the future of this quadrant. For the Alliance’s benefit.”

“Forgive me for the presumption… but you have not seemed more whole, leaving our meetings.” At her skeptical look, he said, “And from your memories, you are committed to positive action, not negative. Am I wrong?”

“I don’t want you to be. So I guess I should start acting that way.” She swallowed and thrust her hand at him. “There. Go. Take it.”

“I… beg your pardon?”

“My pattern,” she said, firm. “You don’t know Seersa yet, do you?”

“N-no,” he said, eyes wide. “Nor did I assume you would ever share it.”

“But sharing it would mean something, wouldn’t it?” she insisted. “It would put a piece of me in you. You said the Ambassador taught you with the Eldritch shape. And then Andrea gave you the human form, and while in it you learned something that way too. Maybe these shapes are your vector for new information about what it means to be a good person. And if that’s true… then I’m going to be one of those vectors.” She lifted her head, ears quivering. “That’s power. Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, it is, Laniis Baker.”

“Khaska,” she growled.

“Also.”

“So?” Her gaze was a challenge, and it made her beautiful. He wanted to laugh, but helplessly, because the Alliance’s aliens never ceased to amaze him. Had he thought the Chatcaava sufficient challenge? Enough to force him to keep learning? He’d had no idea. There was no growth without exposure to truly alien ideas… and here they were. To be Chatcaava was to Change.

“Very well,” he said.

She’d expected some dramatic moment: he would grasp her hand, gasp, have some epiphany maybe. Instead, the slim human on the arm of the sofa started stripping off the sweatshirt. She started to object but his head was already under the collar, so she waited until he’d shucked it off and by then he was already talking. “…you would? If I change with it on, it will foul my wings.”

“I… uh… of course.” Laniis took the sweatshirt and folded it to give her nervous hands something to do. “I guess you can’t learn a pattern from a non-Chatcaavan form?”

“If it can be done, I am not capable of it.” The Emperor folded his arms around his knees and bent his head to them. “You may wish to look away. Some find the Change disturbing to witness.”

“I’ve seen worse,” she said, determined not to flinch.

He took her word for it, which annoyed her. Why did people she liked doubt she was strong—even Fleet’s psychiatrists!—while this monster believed her when she said she could handle something? She steeled herself in preparation for the sight, but when the Emperor Changed it didn’t bother her. She’d expected him to look like he was melting, but ‘melt’ wasn’t the word that came to mind. ‘Erupt’, maybe. Or ‘pour.’ She was so intent on finding the right metaphor that she didn’t know how long the Emperor had been staring at her, waiting.

“Ah, sorry.” She offered her hand again. “Now we do it, right?”

“Yes.” He reached toward her and stopped with his palm hovering over hers. “Because of all the liberties I have taken with you before, I would ask explicit permission to touch you, over and above the permission you have given me to Touch you.”

“Just… just stop it,” Laniis growled. “Stop being so civilized.”

His brow ridges rose just enough to express… surprise? Incredulity? ‘Disapproval’ was surely her imagination, because he had no right to disapprove of her, even when she was insulting him.

No, that was wrong. So wrong she wanted to reach into her own head and pull out whatever demon was riding her. “Excuse me. I’m having trouble with this, and it’s hard not to take it out on you.”

“I understand. But may I?”

“Yes. Go ahead.”

Despite her best effort, she twitched when his talons came to rest on her wrist. His palm didn’t bother her—how had she never noticed that it wasn’t scaled? But her memories of those talons were too vivid. He pretended not to notice, but he also waited for her to relax before closing his eyes to concentrate. It allowed her to stare at him with impunity and wrestle with the strangeness of her willingly sitting across from the Chatcaavan Emperor while he copied her… what, precisely? Her DNA? Her soul? How did this work? Did the Chatcaava even know? And how would she know when he’d finished? He looked so pacific. She didn’t want to know what serenity looked like on his hated face, and that it could almost make him bearable.

The Emperor gasped, a tiny sound sucked in through his mouth, so small she knew he could have suppressed it and hadn’t. These choices were conscious, surely, to make her trust him, or to signal that he didn’t fear her… or maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe he trusted her. Maybe it was that simple.

Of course, unlike him, she was trustworthy, so what did he have to lose?

“Did it work?” she asked.

“Yes. Shall I…?”

“Yes.”

He nodded and slid off the couch to stand, hugging his bare chest. And then the process started again, except instead of scales sliding up the hairless body of a human, this was fur gliding over the scaled body of a dragon, and it was far more shocking because the fur was white.

The Change drained away, leaving a Seersan male, a ridiculous one because he was petite and snowflake white with pitch points. His extravagantly soft fur bent in the air flowing from the overhead vents, like waves of grain rippling in a breeze. He looked enough like her to be a cousin and that made no sense either; the Knife hadn’t.

His face was subtly pointed, and his eyes large, expressive. He wasn’t handsome, though. He was sweet. It surprised her that it could make her so angry, that he might look so open. Why had she expected anything else, when his human and Eldritch forms also had the same aura of vulnerability?

He hadn’t moved yet. She wondered how long he would stand there, hugging himself. At last, his ears tilted, one outward, the other slowly forward. The Emperor opened one eye and breathed, hesitant, “Your hearing is… astonishing.”

His voice had the same timbre, at least, though the pitch had risen a few notes. “I guess I should have thought of that,” she said. “You don’t know any other shapes with directional ears, do you.”

“I… no.” He reached upward and touched one of them, and the awe on his face was… she should have found it comical. Instead, she felt a fierce rush of… something. She had done that. She had given him the Seersan experience. Had put this look of uncertainty and wonder in his yellow eyes. “They are so fragile! Do they tear?”

“They can. I’m surprised you didn’t experiment on mine.”

His flush colored those new ears so vibrant a pink that Laniis almost felt bad. Almost.

“I can see now why shaving must have distressed you,” he said, his hand dropping to push the fur on his forearm against the grain. “You perceive information through the fur, by how the atmosphere pulls at it.”

“Maybe,” Laniis said. “The shaving offended me because it was my fur and you had no right to get rid of it.” She thought. “And it made me feel cold. And naked. Fur is like a Fleet slimsuit. It’s a layer between you and everything else, and you get used to having it.”

“The skin-only shapes appear to be more sensitive to external stimuli,” the Emperor said slowly. “But this coat is… comforting.” He petted his abdomen. “Does it grow too warm?”

“It can, yes. And it gets long, too, if you’re not careful, and then you need to trim it. Some people fluff out faster than others, though. I was never a quick-undercoater so maybe you’ll be spared.” She watched him, fascinated despite herself. “How much of me is in your pattern? I’m confused at your coloring. And your face.”

“My face?” He touched his cheeks.

“You look a lot more like me than the Knife does.”

“I don’t know,” the Emperor admitted. “There is little modern documentation on the Change, and no science on it that I know of. Perhaps when we reach the Source we will find an expert.” He flexed his fingers and studied their tips. “How do you… ah, I see.” The claws peeped from his fingertips—unlike hers, his were black bone. Laniis thought it dramatic enough, black claws, black gloves, and the white arms, but not enough to merit the stare the Emperor was awarding his hands.

“What is it? Does it hurt?”

“No,” he said slowly. Another of those silences as he regarded the gleam of light off bone. “We have to cut our talons if we want to make significant use of tools. If we prefer to fight for power, we must keep them. How different we might have been had we had your hands instead… with which we could have chosen, moment by moment, whether we wanted to build or rend.”

“I’m not going to feel any sympathy for you,” Laniis warned him. “You chose to keep your talons.”

“Do you think I want your sympathy?”

“Why else are you here?” she demanded. “Why would you put yourself through all this if you weren’t looking for forgiveness?”

He was watching her with an expression she didn’t like. As if she’d walked into a trap. “Do you believe this?”

“It can’t be because you like me,” Laniis said, ears flattening. “And it can’t be because you want to find some information you can use against me, because Speaker-Singer knows you raped all the information out of me that you could possibly want. What else can you be hoping for, except forgiveness?”

“That presupposes a personality that values forgiveness,” he said, low. “Doesn’t it?”

She froze. Then all her fur stood on end and she hissed, pointing at him. “Don’t think that the only reason people seek forgiveness is because they feel regret. You might be hoping for it so you can get something out of me.”

“And what would that be?”

She hated that he sounded curious. Not just because it made him seem interested in her ideas, but because it suggested he wasn’t sure of the answers, and if that was true, was she wrong? But she couldn’t be wrong. “So that I’ll help you do what you want, which is to get power again. And so that the people watching you try so hard to atone for your sadism can say ‘look, he’s changed’ and feel more inclined to help you.”

“Will it work?” the Emperor asked.

She’d been expecting outrage, or denial. His honest curiosity, so patently revealed by the body he couldn’t possibly know how to control yet, shocked her out of her self-righteous wrath. “What?”

“Will that work?” the Emperor repeated. “The tactics you explained. I do not always guess correctly how altruism will motivate people, particularly when paired with motivations I do understand.”

“What motivations do you understand?” Laniis asked, wary.

“That those people who want to help me regain my throne might wish it because they think of me as easier to control, and so a better choice for the Alliance’s security than the Usurper,” the Emperor said. He twisted to look over his shoulder. “This tail is heavier than I thought it would be.”

“The tail’s for balancing when you walk,” Laniis said dismissively. “Are you accusing us of using you?”

“No,” he said. “I don’t understand your motivations. But I am coming to suspect they are more complex than you admit to.” One of his ears sagged.

“You’re really worried about that? Our motivations?”

“Not at this moment,” he said, and his ears colored. “Right now I am concerned that if I step forward, I’ll fall.”

“You’ll fa—you haven’t ever been digitigrade, have you.”

“Is that what this configuration of leg is called?”

“Yes,” she said. “Just don’t think about it and I bet you’ll be fine. The Knife was.” And saying it, wondered if she hoped he would trip.

The Emperor set out one foot, toes spread, and stared at them. He tried pushing out the claws on those too. “You have beautiful feet.”

“Is that what you were thinking when you tortured me?”

She was grimly pleased to see his ears fall and his tail droop—pleased, and disturbed, because it made his shame obvious. It was easier to accept the premise that he might be dissembling in a body unlike hers. He couldn’t possibly be controlling his tells in an unfamiliar shape so quickly, could he? He didn’t even know how to walk properly, as he demonstrated by hopping and stumbling through a few steps, awkward as a new fawn.

“No glib reply to that?” she asked.

“No. And isn’t that the crowning irony, Lieutenant. I did those things because I could, and out of curiosity. But I learned less about you in a year of such cruel experiments than I have in a few minutes in your body.” He shook his head. “Turning our backs on the Change did not remove our thirst for the knowledge the Change brought us, and so we sought it elsewise, and it twisted our spirits.”

“If you’re excusing yourself,” she murmured.

“I excuse myself nothing, Lieutenant. Before the Ambassador changed me, I did not excuse failure, or obscurity, or weakness. Now that he has, I do not excuse myself my… sins.” Carefully spoken, that word, as if it was new to his Alliance lexicon. He looked up at her and for the first time since she’d been pushing herself on him, she saw anger in his eyes. “You know how well I wield a whip. I now have a more proximate—and appropriate—target.”

Laniis refused to feel guilt. She was feeling guilt and she hated it. She didn’t deserve to feel guilt for abusing her rapist. She opened her mouth to say so and what came out instead was, “There, you’re walking the way you should now.”

He looked down and immediately tripped, and watching him fall, all awkward limbs and tangled toes… she thought of him, stripped and pierced and weeping in the Worldlord’s harem, and her shame redoubled. Even if he didn’t deserve to be forgiven, she was better than this need for vengeance. She pushed herself off the couch and strode to him, extending her hand. When he eyed it warily, she said, “I’m not offering another pattern. Just help up.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, very low, “All the help up I can find, I will take. Thank you, Lieutenant.” As she hauled him upright, he added, “And for the shape.”

“After months of you leaving yourself in me,” she said, holding him in place by her grasp on his forearm and staring him in the eye, “I’ve finally left myself in you. And unlike all the filth you forced on me, my offering will never wash away.”

“Because mine was violence,” he said. “And yours was a gift.”

“Now,” Laniis said slowly. “Now, we’re done, you and I.”

“Save the war.”

“Except that.” She nodded and backed away from him. He watched her for a few steps, then turned his face from hers and began practicing anew the mechanics of walking. At the hatch she stopped to glance over her shoulder: still with that hesitant lift of toe, flex of thigh. It was her body, and he was treating it with all the reverence she could have asked for. It hurt that he hadn’t treated her body with that same reverence when it had solely belonged to her; it hurt her that she still didn’t feel whole, or as if she’d achieved any closure. But as she walked away from the observation deck, she thought that she’d made a better attempt at it this time.

The Seersan shape was his first Pelted body and with every breath he breathed in it he knew it as the body of someone he’d abused. At least the Ambassador’s body had become one he’d caressed and held as a lover, not as a rival or a slave. There was no reprieve in Khaska’s gift, save that she’d given it, and he could not begin to understand why. That he doubted she did either didn’t help.

It was such an extraordinary body. The ears… the ears defied description. The softness of the fur over his skin astonished; the claws, so versatile, begged contemplation and experimentation. Even the teeth—he licked them carefully with his short tongue and found little points. He’d never noticed Khaska’s fangs. Only in comparison with human and Eldritch norms did they feel similar to his draconic teeth.

The Eldritch body had taught him empathy; the human, suffering. Looking at his unfurred palms, the Emperor wondered what the Seersan one would teach him, and suspected it had something to do with how he had earned—or rather, failed to earn it.

“Exalted?”

His ears twitched toward the source of the Ambassador’s transmitted voice, and pinpointed it to three separate speakers by swiveling. “Here.”

“We’re approaching the drop now.”

“I am on my way.”

So tempting to stay in this body, but it was too much of a distraction. He shed it for his Chatcaavan form and draped the abandoned sweatshirt over his arm as he headed for the conference room.

Uuvek had commandeered one of the Silhouette’s meeting rooms for his efforts. The walls, which doubled as screens, showed maps of the Apex-East system, the Empire as a whole, the throneworld system, and the Alliance border, and superimposed on them were projections of the offensive weight being dedicated to the war on both sides. Columns of mysterious numbers—some unmarked, others timestamps, hovered in ghostly blue near Uuvek’s shoulder where he labored at the end of the table, bent over the embedded console. The Knife was behind him, peering at his tablet with narrowed gray eyes, and the Ambassador was leaning against a wall, arms folded. The ship’s captain was also there, and the Admiral-Offense, and one of the Fleet data analysts was sitting side-by-side with one of the Admiral-Offense’s rescued Chatcaavan ratings.

“We about ready, Shanelle?” the Pelted captain asked.

A transmitted contralto, the female human with the bright hair and dark skin. “Dropping out of Well now, sir. Hitting it up with a whisker—”

“I am receiving data,” Uuvek rumbled.

“….and that’s the whole packet.”

“Confirmed,” Uuvek said.

“Dust us and coast, Shanelle,” the captain said. “Let’s see if we want to talk back to any of these people before we dive again.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything interesting, Uuvek-alet?” said the captain, turning to him.

“Looking now…” The male trailed off, scanning. Over his shoulder, the Knife hissed. Uuvek said, “We have data from our connection in the palace.”

“Which is?” the Admiral-Offense asked, testy.

“It’s… a description of a series of movements across a map,” the Knife said, eyes twitching down each line. “A verbal description? An extremely detailed one. And… Living Air! Our contact says Second is pulling out for the border.”

“Already?” the Pelted captain exclaimed.

The Ambassador shot a look at the Emperor.

“Is he taking anyone with him?” the Admiral-Offense said. “It makes no sense. Why is he leaving in advance of the fleet?”

“He’s taking the Eastern naval force with him,” Uuvek said. “In its entirety.”

“What!” The Admiral-Offense reared back, wings sagging. “He’s splitting his forces? Why?”

“You were right,” the Ambassador murmured.

“It happens from time to time,” the Emperor said, but from the dull and clotted pit of his spirit rose a thrill, like an arc of fireworks. How he remembered the exhilaration of making the correct guesses, of being a step ahead of his enemies. It faded too fast, but for a moment, he remembered.

“This is our chance, isn’t it?” the Knife said. “The Eastern fleet is forty percent of the entire Navy. If Second removes it from Apex-East, we might be able to take it.”

“Forty percent of the Navy,” Uuvek said. “But not the system militias.”

“The system militias are too disorganized to trouble us,” the Admiral-Offense said. “They lack discipline, have never worked as a team. Nor are there enough of them to deter us.”

“Our contact says the Twelveworld Lord is bringing a fleet ‘equal in strength to the northern sector’s naval fleet’ to Apex-East,” Uuvek said. “That does not sound too small to deter us.” His talon tips swiped through several of the ghostly displays and brought up a new column of numbers. “We don’t know how many ships we’ll have to bring to a fight yet, either.”

“We can assume that we’ll be drawing some of the naval strength away from Apex-East, though,” the Knife said. “There are loyalists even in Second’s fleet.”

“Most of the support we are certain of will be coming from the Southern and Western sectors,” the Emperor said, drawing the Knife’s attention. Uuvek, as usual, was head-down in his display. “That includes some of the system lords as well.”

“Do you have exact numbers?” Uuvek asked, distracted.

“I do.” The Emperor pressed a palm to the table display and commanded it to send his personal projection file to Uuvek, saw it light up a box amid his floating columns. Uuvek prodded it open and squinted at it, renewed his tapping.

The Admiral-Offense sidled to the Emperor, arms folded and wings lax, his expression puzzled. “It is a good opening. Why would he give it to us?”

“Because, my friend, he does not care if we take it.” The Admiral-Offense’s head jerked upward and the Emperor nodded. “Yes.”

“Then it isn’t a trap.”

“Why would he need to trap us?” the Emperor asked. “He thinks we are dead. The enemies he expects to fight are awaiting him at the Alliance border… or gnashing their teeth in Apex-East, impatient for their chance at the fight.”

“We will have the advantage of surprise,” the Admiral-Offense mused.

“Which will only matter if we have enough ships to win,” the Pelted captain said dryly.

“And?” The Admiral-Offense asked. “Do we?”

The Emperor already knew the answer, felt a great calm in himself as he waited for Uuvek to make it plain to everyone else.

“No.” Uuvek pushed the displays away, dissipating them. “Not yet, at least. There is other mail here to be read. For you, Ambassador. And for the Knife, more messages to decode.”

“A ship here, a ship there…” The Pelted captain’s lip curled. She too had pointed eye teeth, like Laniis’s. “Unless that adds up fast, it’s not going to matter. Especially if Apex-East is getting reinforced by another fleet the size of… how big’s this northern navy?”

“It comprised thirty percent of the remaining total.”

She snorted, ears flipping back. “Great. So you lost forty percent but thirty got put back in? I’m not seeing a lot of opportunity there.”

“If we got in and out before they arrived…?” the Chatcaavan at the side of the data analyst offered, tentative.

“We’d need to have our fleet assembled in time to make it there before they did. Presumably they’re already on the way… what are the chances?” The Fleet captain shook her head. “I wanted that to be our opening, but it’s not.”

“Agreed,” the Emperor said.

“It may be the only opening we would have had,” the Admiral-Offense said to him, low.

“We will have to go where the Air bears us, huntbrother.” The Emperor smiled at him, with teeth. “And where there are no openings, we make our own. Yes?”

The Admiral-Offense snorted, but his wings relaxed. “Yes.”

“Good.” The Emperor met the Pelted captain’s eyes. “How long do we have to read and reply to our messages?”

“Shanelle?”

“System’s clear and we’re making like a hole in it, sir. I’d say we could stay for a few hours. Too much more than that and we’ll be biting into our schedule if we want to make our destination before the war’s over.”

The Pelted captain snorted. “Less editorial, more pith, arii.”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

The female sighed.

“A few hours should be sufficient,” the Ambassador said. “We should see to that now.”

“I’ve routed the messages,” Uuvek said. “And copied the contact’s to you both.”

“Thank you,” the Emperor said.

In their cabin, the Emperor settled on the couch with his wings slung over its arm. Few were the pieces of Pelted furniture designed for winged individuals; he could have changed shape, but he wanted to read these messages in the body his subjects would expect him to use to fight the war. Beneath his skin he could feel the Seersa struggling for primacy, demanding he face its challenges, find some meaning in fur and ears that could hear the past. But his future needed him more. The Ambassador walked past him to find a chair, and he allowed himself to wonder what it would be like to hear the boot steps with a Seersan’s clarity before putting the distraction away.

Most of his messages were more promises of aid from individuals. Some of them were powerful enough for what they were, but as the Pelted captain had observed such piecemeal promises would not add up to enough weight of metal to fight the Northern fleet alone if the Twelveworld Lord threw his legions behind it. Few were the system lords who could command the obedience of their fractious peers… but the Twelveworld Lord was one of them. How long he could maintain that control was debatable, but he need only hold it for long enough to defeat the Emperor’s forces. Too much risk. He appended his replies to the people who’d send him fresh information and was sorting through the new messages from those on their way to the Source when the Ambassador spoke.

“Well. Deputy-East has been prompt.”

The Emperor looked up. “What did he say?”

“He says he’s ours, and to direct him. And that he’s asked the Worldlord to put his resources at our disposal, which he claims are considerable.”

“And did the Worldlord agree to this?”

“I don’t know,” the Ambassador answered, brow lifting. “Deputy-East’s message contains a note from him, and this message is addressed to you, not me.”

“And yet he did not send it to me.” The Emperor set his tablet down and folded his arms. “Very well. Read it to me, Perfection.”

His Eldritch said, “’Sword. Deputy-East tells me it is time for us to choose sides. Ask your master, this, then: ‘Why you?’”

The Emperor leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He remembered standing before the Worldlord in the helpless shape of an alien, painted and collared. But where there is life, Dainty, there is hope of change. If nothing else this is something Chatcaava know and aliens would be well to learn. “He loved that Pelted female, didn’t he.”

“Simone? Yes. Insomuch as I think any Chatcaavan could who was not also willing to admit it.”

The Emperor glanced at the Eldritch, who said, “The Worldlord did not have the benefit of feeling through a porous skin, beloved. It is easier to deny an experience from which you can distance yourself. Having said that…” He lifted his tablet, showing the Emperor its surface. “He did ask for news of Simone, and her prognosis.”

“He released the slaves,” the Emperor murmured.

“He was positively enlightened for a Chatcaavan male of his rank.”

The Emperor snorted and closed his eyes, tilting his head back.

“What shall you tell him?”

But where there is life, Dainty, there is hope of change.

“Tell him ‘I know three alien shapes, and all three of them were gifts. What have you learned? What do you want to?’”

The Ambassador looked up at him slowly.

“Just that,” the Emperor said. “If it does not convince him, there is no point to chasing him.”

His lover nodded and turned his attention to the tablet. After a moment, he said, “Was it Laniis?”

“It was.” The Emperor glanced at him. “How did you know?”

The Ambassador only smiled, a sad and complicated and very alien smile, and yet, the Emperor understood it. And smiled back.

A little while later, Lisinthir said, “I’m done here. Would you like to sign your portion?”

The Emperor canted his head, then extended a hand for the tablet. Taking it, he scanned his message, wondering how the Worldlord would receive it. With the tip of a talon, he wrote:

 

—by my hand, Emperor Kauvauc

 

“You keep your name,” the Ambassador observed.

“It is the name I was given.” The Emperor surprised himself by chuckling. “An ally to aliens should be open to accommodating their customs.”

The Ambassador laughed. “Change comes to the Empire.”

“Hopefully not too late.”

“So long as there is breath in us, we fight the good fight, Exalted. And if you are done with your mail...?”

The Emperor sent the last of it to Uuvek. “Yes.”

“Then send mine as well, and bring my data tablet—and yourself—nigh.”

Sliding over the Eldritch, the Emperor said, “Is it not a little early to be rejoicing?”

Lisinthir wound his pale fingers through the Emperor’s dark mane and tugged him down by it. “Only if we doubt the outcome. Do you?”

“Yes,” the Emperor said, smiling without happiness. No one had told him how much love could hurt. That accepting love could cut sharper than any talon when that love felt undeserved. “Yes, I doubt it. What else anymore?”

“Then,” the Ambassador said, biting his jaw, “we make love against the sure day that we will die. Either way.”

“Either way,” the Emperor murmured and allowed himself this. But the Seersa was waiting under his skin, and it roiled like a storm on the rim of the world.