“Is it allowed? I mean, being what I am.”

“Hey, we’re letting Lesley play. Why not?”

Dije squeezed in at the table next to Diamuun. Before she could ask what she could bet, a waiter set down a comped stake in front of her and asked what she would like to drink.

“The house is comping our whole group, because of those paparazzi over there,” Tiru explained

They played a few hands of the card game. Each time, they played a different variation: Shronk, Hi-Lo, Icehouse, and then in the fourth round the dealer announced Giptuvor. In that version of the game, each numbered or regular face card of a suit belonged to either the Black Magic or White Magic, according to the suit: swords and wands were Dark, coins and cups were Light. The special cards each had their own meaning and their own unique assignment to either Light or Dark. Of all the Tarot table games, Giptuvor was closest to the original use of the deck, which was fortune telling. Except that, in the game, the players could combine with each other to bring either one side or the other to a collective victory. The smartest move wasn’t having the best hand, but the best hand on the winning side.

Dije examined her hand. If this were a fortune telling array, instead of a casino game, the first card dealt to her would represent her. Dije’s first card was the Queen of Swords; she squirmed. Her entire hand was of the Rubo-giptuvor, and it was an easy decision to place the Queen card into the stasis field, to keep it from shifting to another card.

All the players but Lesley made their decisions quickly. He was staring at his cards in consternation. Rinonn reached around Chesley and nudged him in the ribs, as if to make sure he was awake.

Dije realized he must be trying to decide between playing to win and playing to conform to his image of himself; he must have been dealt a mostly dark hand. Dije suppressed a smile, leaned slightly forward across the green felt table, and stage-whispered: “Join the Rubo-giptuvor, Lesley.”

Lesley looked up from his cards and fixed her with his intense gaze.

“This game just became too high-stakes, even for us,” Tiru said.

In a standard Tarot deck, there was a special card that was usually represented as a robed Kirifo with a dej, and that card was called the Wizard. There was a Tsim, the Knight of Swords. There was also a card depicted as a tattooed Magus Lord. That card was called, logically enough, the Magus Lord.

Lesley placed the Magus Lord into the stasis field.

Tension filled the table. No one said a word the rest of the game. This had been a lighthearted gathering, but now everyone acted as if the game mattered in a way that even games where whole planets were won and lost did not.

Gradually, over the course of the round, the various players lined up on the side of either the Light or the dark. The sides were nearly evenly split going into the last phase of the game. Then Dije removed her card from the stasis field, and it turned to the Wizard before she had it safely concealed in her hand again. She paused, considered the high value of the card, and placed the Wizard back in the stasis field.

The game was over; everyone turned over their cards, and the dealer counted up the totals. The dealer announced, “Light wins. Highest hand: the lady with the ink.”

“You betrayed me!” Lesley shrilled.

Dije could tell there was no real emotion behind it, though. He was engaging in that peculiar custom called teasing. Along with everyone else, he got up from the Tarot table. They all began herding toward the exit. He hung back and fell into step with Dije. “Of course you did. You’re a Magus,” Lesley said, his voice steadied.

“Is that what you see? Because what I see is, if you join the Rubo-giptuvor, you’ll be left all alone, with a losing hand.”

“I’m going to get you for that.” He had his lips pressed out flat to keep from breaking into a silly grin.

“Revenge? Is that really appropriate for a Kirifo? I thought you left all your dark cards on the table. Got one up your sleeve? No? How about here?” She was tickling.

“Hey! How attached are you to that hand?”

Dije froze for a second. Was he playing Threat and Counter-threat? No, he was making a pun. “You don’t scare me, Kirifo.”

Lesley grinned. “Then my work here is done.”

* * * *

Ongreya found the couple in the park. Behind them, a waterfall roared, sending up cool mist, white noise, and rainbows into the pink air. Trees bloomed yellow above the clipped red grass; children of a hundred species laughed and played with aerial disks.

Ongreya walked up to them as they strolled along the trail.

“I’m Ongreya the Psy Healer. Your pain called out to me across the stars. I can help you.”

“We don’t need any help, lady,” said the male.

The female interjected: “Hey, I watch your show. This is great! Oh, wait, no. No! You bring out the dirt. It’s fun to watch, but I don’t want to be in the show.”

“I help people face the uncomfortable truths that would destroy their lives with secrecy and poisonous distrust.”

“No! Not that!”

“Hey, wait—Juluka, if you’ve got a secret like that, I deserve to know what it is. We’re getting married,” the male said.

Ongreya exerted her power on the female, but left the male’s mind alone; he was going to cooperate without any prompting.

“But I don’t—well, of course I want to share everything with you, Rey. And of course I want Ongreya to help us. I’m a big fan,” Juluka said.

“What is the truth you have been afraid of telling?” Ongreya asked,

“I had a sex change. I used to be a man,” Jukuka admitted.

“What?” cried Rey. “You told me you wanted children!”

“We can have children! We can have our DNA combined, and use a donor ova shell. They do it all the time!”

“That’s it— it’s over.” Rey turned to walk away.

Ongreya exerted her power on him. “We have not yet healed this relationship.”

The male came back. Ongreya got them seated on a park bench, and the show went on.

* * * *

Dije leaned out over the railing and looked down at the view of the blue sunrise. They were at a used starship lot.

The salesman was a Fii, and clearly not used to the cityscape. What burning economic need had driven him to take this job was not apparent, but it was clear he did not belong on a landing platform.

“Come away from there, miss. It’s a long way down,” the salesman said, as he floated in his skinsuit, a good ten meters back from the edge.

“It’s an even longer way down from a starship that won’t fly,” Dije said. “If I’m going to spend my Tarot winnings on a spacecraft, it’s going to be one that passes inspection by my friend there.”

“Ships have engines and decks. Isn’t it scary to look down like that?”

“Scary? This? You haven’t seen scary ‘til you’ve seen Lesley Smoke in a murderous rage.”

“Murderous is an exaggeration,” called Lesley, as he scooted out from under the ship. “Chesley was the one trying to kill you.”

“It sounds more dignified than hissy-fit.”

Lesley laughed. “True. This one will do. It’s not fast, and it’s not armed, but at least it’s an Earth brand, and all its amenities are made for humans.”

As Dije found out once they were in space, the reason the ship looked a little bigger than some of the cheapest used ships on the lot was because it had two private cabins on board. She had let Lesley pick the ship; she should have guessed that extra fuel tankerage would not be his biggest priority. In fact, the ship was not fast, just as Lesley had said, and it did not have a great range either. They ended up having to make numerous small hops to get all the way to the Private Sector.

The plan was for Lesley to drop her off with the Serekh during Gipcon, go back to Gis, and sell the ship for her, depositing the money in an account for her. That was Plan A, anyway. Plan B was for them both to go back, if the meeting with the Serekh did not go well. The Serekh were expecting her, so Dije did not anticipate a problem connecting with them. There was always the possibility that on meeting her, they wouldn’t like her, or that she wouldn’t like them.

On most of their stops, they just bought fuel, food and other necessities before heading back into space, without leaving the spaceport or space station. When they docked at the Private Sector world of Gelpion, though, they found themselves stranded by the unavailability of fuel.

Lesley asked a port official, “What is it, a dock workers’ strike?”

The official laughed. “No, no, we don’t allow that here. It’s a security measure. They’re hunting for a fugitive, and no ship is to be refueled until he’s captured, so he can’t get offworld.” The official showed them a printout of a flatpic, probably from someone’s official ID photo. “If you see this man, report him immediately. We’re very close to catching him. It shouldn’t take long. In the meantime, all the inconvenienced crews are invited to enjoy the hospitality of Gelpion.”

“Free?” Dije asked.

“Transportation to the hotel of your choice is available free.”

“The hotel shuttle is always free,” Dije pointed out. “Nevermind. We’ll stay on our ship, thanks.”

“Wait,” Lesley said. “I think I’m ready for a break from your cooking.”

“It’s better than yours.”

He asked the port official, “Where’s a good restaurant?”

“Rolthy’s is a decent mid-price place. If you want really good, there’s Joash. Just take the Drop Inn shuttle. One leaves the Customs-cleared area every hour. You’ll have to leave that,” the official said, pointing at Lesley’s side. “No weapons passed Customs.”

“That’s okay, he’s got a bodyguard,” Dije said. “Who doesn’t need any.”

When the port official left, Lesley said, “I could get this past Customs. I’ve done it before.”

“Why bother? If we’re going to pull off this bodyguard routine, I’ll have to actually act as your bodyguard. That means if someone tries to get you, I’m stepping in front. With as much progress as I’ve made, I’d still rather not have to deal with that and the sound of a dej igniting at my back at the same time. It would be distracting.”

“I really don’t like that idea, Dije.”

“We’re only a couple of jumps away from my homeworld. I could be recognized. Not just recognized as a Magus Lady, but recognized in name by other Magi. I have to have an excuse to be hanging around with a Kirifo Sidyerit.”

The two of them went to Joash, which was tastefully furnished with ferns and exotic flowers, musicians in lighted alcoves, and a suspicious security man at the door. Lesley wished he and Dije had simply relied on illusion to disguise them, instead of showing up in his Kirifo robes, trailed a half-step behind his right shoulder by a black-suited Magus.

“Aren’t you the Kirifo Sidyerit, Lesley Smoke?”

“Yes, I am.”

“That is a Magus Lady.”

“Why shouldn’t I hire the best?”

“Why would one of them work for you?”

“Our contract is our business. As long as anybody here has one, I need one, too. Everybody who’s anybody has a Magi Guard.”

“Well, that’s true,” said the bouncer. “All right, go on in.” He gave Dije a look meant to intimidate, as if to say he’d be keeping an eye on her.

Dije flashed him a sparkling smile that emphasized her cheek tattoos. She refrained from sticking out her tongue.

Inside, there were, in fact, other Magi Guards. Some of them were eating at the table with their employers. One was standing behind his client, back to back with his chair, which Dije thought was silly. Magi didn’t need to be looking directly at trouble to spot it. There were a few others just standing around menacingly near the windows.

Dije and Lesley followed the fashion of the less paranoid and ate together. The food was exquisitely presented, unusual, and not really all that tasty. So much for the gourmet cuisine on Gelpion.

They were just starting on dessert when the window crashed in. A humanoid swung in on a rope, brandishing a laser welder. He fired a burst at the ceiling to prove the safety mechanisms had been removed, and the welder could be used as a weapon.

“Everybody down!”

There was some shrieking and ducking, but all the Magi stood up.

Lesley stood up, too, his hand automatically going for his dej, but it wasn’t there.

“You!” the party crasher pointed to a woman in a frothy gown. “You’re Tira the Heiress. You have a private yacht. You’re my ticket off this ball of rock! Come with me.”

Tira had a Magi Guard. The man used magic to yank the laser welder away from the fugitive, but the criminal pulled another one and shot the bodyguard. The laser beam went straight through him. It lanced through an ice sculpture with a hissing sound and bored right at Dije. Dije calmly extended her palm.

Lesley had to restrain himself from pushing her aside. He did not have his dej, and could not deflect the beam. Whatever Dije was planning, he had to let her do it.

Dije absorbed the red laser bolt while simultaneously jerking the second welder away from the criminal. Then she reached out with magic for the rope still clutched in the fugitive’s hand and wrapped it around him. She gestured, and he flopped to the ground; she neatly tied his hands behind his back.

“I think this is the man the port official was after,” Dije said, as if commenting on the weather.

“Good. Looks like they’ll be refueling us soon, then.”

Lesley sat back down but did not bother to pretend to be interested in his pastry. He noticed the Magi noticing Dije. Most of them nodded at her in respect. Waiters scurried to the side of the downed bodyguard, and medical help was summoned.

Lesley and Dije got back to their ship without further incident. The first thing Lesley did was reattach his dej to his belt.

“You don’t know how hard it was just standing there doing nothing,” he commented.

“Oh, I do know,” Dije said. “Your frustration was rising off you like heat shimmer off pavement. Most of the time, you’re really heavily shielded, but even you give off waste energy. Especially when you call on magic really strongly and don’t use it.”

“That was a neat trick, by the way,” Lesley said. “I’ve only ever heard of one other person who could eat laser bolts for dessert. How is it done?”

They passed the time until the ship was refueled practicing Lesley’s new skill in the Giptuvor.

A few days later they landed on the planet where Gipcon was being held that year. Dije left behind both her Kirifo robes and her Magi attire. Instead, she wore her neon-green Bright dungarees, barely held up with the pink scarf used as a sash, and the white dashiki of the Kirifo uniform.

Once they reached the resort, Lesley warned her to shield strongly before going down to the convention floor. Some of the other magic users there would not have the quiet minds of Kirifo that she was used to being around.

Dije mingled with a dizzying array of humans and aliens, many wearing bizarre ritual garb including masks, robes of all colors of the rainbow—some colors only visible to alien sight—tons of jewelry in various meaningful shapes. There were also various weapons in attendance such as a wizard staff, several different kinds of edged metal swords, a plethora of knives, and even some smallish furry beings Dije was certain were pets or familiars.

Dije had a chance to listen to some lectures, and hear some music, before it was time to meet the leader of the Serekh, Nyokabi. She said her goodbyes to Lesley before going to the appointed conference room.

Nyokabi had white hair and was of the Imperial Race, as dark as the first Emperor, Xywanda. Wearing a flowing blue and green gown, Nyokabi stepped forward and regarded Dije carefully.

“Are you prepared to dedicate yourself to Hum?” Nyokabi asked.

“I am,” Dije replied.

“Then come.”

The Serekh moved off. Dije went with them.

Women and girls in froth and frills lined the corridor, each holding a glass with a flickering candle inside. The ship’s lights were off, and the warm browns of the corridor walls almost looked like the inside of a rammed earth shelter. Designs in blue and amber were unreadable in the wavering light.

The Serekh chanted a long, slow, sonorous chant of nonsense syllables. Nyokabi led her to an ornate door. It looked like carved marble, but how could such a thing be part of a space ship? It must be a replica, Dije decided.

“Beauty is an aspect of the Dreaming Goddess. By embodying Beauty, we embody the Dream. We make ourselves conduits for her love,” Nyokabi said

Nyokabi opened the door, and Dije stepped through it. Two young women waited on either side of the door. Each took one of Dije’s arms and guided her as the door closed. It was totally dark, cave-dark, and Dije became frightened as the two women undressed her.

What have I gotten myself into? Dije thought. But they couldn’t mean me any harm, the Serekh are pacifists.

She was led to another door, and her hand was placed on a metal ring. Dije pulled, and the door opened on light and moisture. The months away from Magi-ta had not dulled Dije’s ability to smell water, and she smelled it before her mind made sense of what she saw.

The room contained a vast white marble pool filled with still blue water. Flower petals floated on the glassy surface. The two guides led Dije forward and eased her into the pool. They walked down the steps with her, in their diaphanous white gowns.

They bathed her. At one point, they gently, but firmly, pushed her under the water. Dije came up looking at the ceiling, which was painted to resemble a planetary daylight sky. Orpheum was a palace in space. Dije had imagined utilitarian cabins, ascetic spaces, perhaps, enlivened with the occasional illusion. This incredible water profligacy astounded her.

The two Serekh ritually cleansed every inch of the new initiate. Then they brought her out of the pool and dried her with big, fluffy, white towels. They took her hands in theirs, bringing her back to the door, which now opened on multi-colored fairy lights, instead of primal darkness. Dije first noticed the will-o-wisps dancing in the air and recognized them as forms of the same illusion with which Lesley had lighted the way to the art of illusion, which was not lost. Then Dije looked around and realized the mysterious room of darkness was a prosaic locker room for the pool, except there were no locks on anything.

Dije was led back into the corridor, to a large room filled with chairs, stacks of organizer boxes, and racks of clothes. Her two guides dyed her hair in unnatural rainbow hues; when she saw it in the mirror, Dije could not help but smile. Any Bright youth would sting with jealousy to see her.

They braided her hair in multiple braids; plaited with multicolored silk ribbons, and decorated with occasional beads of crystal or gold. They shaped and painted her fingernails peach with silver traceries, and her toenails transparent purple with laser glitter.

They made up her face—covering her tattoos. Dije looked at herself in the mirror and was shocked to see a child looking back at her. Her tattoos were gone! Dije knew they were only covered with foundation and powder, not even a true glamour of Flow illusion, but she had not seen herself without her marks of adulthood since she had left her home planet. She suddenly felt far more naked than before, like part of her had been stripped away.

Dije hummed a calming song to deal with the sudden fear. As if it were a signal, the two guides took Dije’s arms again and stood her up, leading her to the clothes. They pulled out a glittering beaded dress. It was pale green, spangled with shiny apple-green sequins. They dressed Dije in it. She saw that it was fitted to the waist in satin, and then it flared over her legs in many layers of silken gauze. It fastened in the back in a way that made it impossible for someone to get in or out of it on your own. It was quite possibly the most impractical garment she had ever seen outside of a holodrama.

That would make an attractive target during a sneak-and-peak. Oh no, I’ve become Lesley: seeing everything through the lens of combat, Dije thought.

They put jewelry and beaded slippers on her, and led her to a gilt-edged mirror. She caught her breath when she saw herself. She did look very fine indeed.

Then they led her to another room, where all the women and young girls of the ship had gathered with many bowls of fruits and platters, breads and vegetables, and some sculptural things that Dije could not quite tell if they were for eating or merely gazing upon.

It’s an initiation feast, she realized.

“Welcome to the novice, Dije Kun. Blessings of Hum upon her,” Nyokabi announced.

“Blessings of Hum,” the congregation replied. Then the celebration began.

* * * *

Lesley came out of hyperspace unexpectedly. An interceptor! It wasn’t painted the battleship gray of the Loyal Empire; it was black like space, except for a giant white skull painted across its bow.

Pirates.

The comm crackled. “Ship—stand to, and prepare to be boarded.”

Lesley laughed out loud. At last, a problem he could solve by shooting at it. Dije’s ship was unarmed, and he could wish he was in his Raven right then, but the pirates were going to get a surprise.

He let the pirate pinnace latch on. Only four pirates—not even in armor—outfitted with flechette guns, and antipersonnel weapons that would not damage the ship. This was slightly harder to deal with than laser bolts since flechette cartridges could expand, but that only meant he had to disarm them before they could fire, instead of deflecting bolts with his dej.

It was not particularly difficult for the Kirifo. He simply grabbed all four guns at once and pulled them away from the pirates with magic. One of them drew a knife. Lesley ignited his dej with a hiss. The glowing white blade made it clear the pirates had made a terrible mistake.

“Want to surrender now?” Lesley asked. “Or do I get to kill some of you first?”

It was perhaps the shortest boarding battle in history.

These pirates were cowards, bullies, only picking on small, unarmed vessels. Lesley got the pinnace, and Dije’s ship, into the docking bay. He herded the pirates into their own holding cells, brought the interdictor to Earth, and sold it, along with the pinnace, and Dije’s ship, depositing the money to Dije’s Tarot winnings account. The pirates, he left in the hands of the Gis authorities. It was a job well done, and such a relief to have no qualms about how much violence he used. The pirates didn’t even get a scratch, but if they had died, Lesley would have no regrets.

On the way back to the Temple, he wondered if he would ever hear from Dije again. She might not care that she was rich now; the Serekh were certainly much richer. A thousand years ago, their ancestors had made some careful, and well-managed, investments.

He wondered if she had found her path, if she was happy, and if he would ever find out, one way or the other.

* * * *

Dije’s life was strictly, and rigidly structured, with a schedule of prayers to attend when announced by the ship’s intercom. She did work, or art—she was encouraged to reach a state of Flow. Dije was not sure if there was any purpose to the things she made, other than a meditative practice. Generations of Serekh had decorated all the ship’s interior surfaces. Even the engines in the engine room were covered with intricate paintings.

The engine sounded slightly sputtery to Dije. She reached for it in Giptuvor and made a minute adjustment. It evened out nicely.

“Don’t do that. It disrupts the harmony of the Flow,” her assigned mentor, Ize, said.

“Fixing things?”

“Using magic. It is not our way. You must only commune with the Flow.”

Dije chafed, but she didn’t feel comfortable enough with the Serekh to argue with them the way she did with Lesley. She had touched his mind the day they met, and she trusted him.

“Come away, now. It is fifth daypart, time for instruction.”

Dije attended class with the ship’s children, a group of mixed age, but all human females. There were exercises in the art of illusion, which Dije threw herself into with a gusto that was almost desperation. There were also classes in mathematics, the arts and sciences, philosophy, history, and the ancient literature of the Serekh; some of which was written in Ancient Magi, so Dije was able to keep up with the other students. Dije hardly ever had any idle time, but she was not allowed to do anything real, like pilot the ship or repair the engine.

In fact, she was not allowed onto the bridge at all. There were places in the computer she was not allowed to look, a whole level of the ship she was not even allowed to ask about, and more secrets around every corner. Despite the prohibition on using magic, Dije could still passively receive impressions of the emotions of others. Even though full truth sensing mode would require calling magic to her, Dije could still tell the Serekh were hiding something. Something big.

Dije was allowed to ask questions, but not to question. “What am I supposed to be doing in seventeenth daypart, and where?” was acceptable, but “Why does the teacher tell the children that males are inherently violent?” was not.

At the end of the day, in the privacy of her room, Dije stepped around the piles of the burdensome ‘things’ everyone kept dropping off for her, and muttered, “It’s a good thing these people are pacifists, or they’d be scary.”

* * * *

Chrrr’s assistant came into her office at Seal of Approval. He was a human, whose people were so alien that they came up with the idea of a ‘secret’–ary: a person who knows one’s secrets and helps one, instead of using them to claw their way to the top. Chrrr always chose human assistants for that reason, even if they were hideously bald, only having any decent fur on the top. Chrrr would never hire another Teluli.

“Disappeared again,” he said. “That makes fourteen so far.”

Chrrr clacked her claws on her desk. “I understand why the male victims won’t come forward, but where were all the female victims disappearing to? I’m sure they’re not ending up in the slave trade. I have plenty of evidence on Sekin the Giant’s slave operations.” That was how she had found the link between the slave trade and the Sex and Violence Network in the first place. Chrrr’s interest was in busting slavery rings. She usually didn’t bother with mere pornographers.

In fact, the Private Sector had state-sponsored pornography, which used paid actors and actresses, not slaves or kidnapping victims. The Privateers would never drive such a huge market underground when it could exploit it instead. The vast majority of porn was perfectly legal and available on the open market. Subcasters occupied niche markets that were either too small for the Privateers to bother with, or in the case of the Sex and Violence Network, engaged in activities that even the Privateers, who had been known to strip-mine whole planets to make weapons to sell to both sides in someone else’s war, found to be morally repulsive.

“Isn’t this a matter for the Vigilantes? We’re not about to market a Seal of Approval for subcast shows, only for the host sites for subcasters to buy from.”

“I know, but this could be precisely the leverage I need to get appointed as Seal’s representative on the Intercorporate Council. Who could object to my goal of breaking an operation involved in slaving, kidnapping, illegal drugs—numerous other felonies—and doing it all on holo, effectively spitting in the faces of the whole Council?”

Chrrr got out her sharpening sisal and neatened her little claws. Hunts in this modern age were only metaphorical, but instinct still drove her to the age-old ritual.

“It’s fantastically difficult to change the law in the Private Sector,” her assistant warned. “Imperial bureaucrats can issue tons of regulations whenever they feel like it.”

“Which is why they need us,” Chrrr reminded him, “if they want to have anything to buy. It’s all right, though. This issue is already getting lots of public attention. The opinions are already there, we just have to tap them. The important thing isn’t to actually change the law, anyway. The important thing is to be out in front of the parade, and to march right into a seat on the Board.”

* * * *

Dije finally had an answer to at least one ‘why’ question: she could not contact anyone by holo-comm from the ship because the Serekh’s enemies could track them by their holo-comm billing records. Which begged the question: who were the Serekh’s enemies?

Dije found she could not even ask out loud, not even of Ize. What was wrong with her? She could argue with Lesley— nettle him about moral issues while sparring with dejes, in fact. Why couldn’t she even say good morning to Nyokabi? ‘Unapproachable’ shouldn’t mean that much to someone with the courage Dije knew she owned. Her courage was the kind that faced fire, and it simply did not carry over to this situation; Dije did not know why.

She did know why she felt pretty miserable, despite all she was learning, though. She craved the Light like a drug, but she was forbidden even to meditate on it in her room. She had spent a year of her life perfecting her ability to use the Light, and now they made her feel guilty for wanting to.

Nobody liked her much. On Magi-ta, giving people presents was a sign of friendship, but it didn’t seem to work that way here. When she had first arrived, nearly everyone onboard came by with gifts. Dije was delighted, inviting them to stay and talk, but nobody did. As the months went by, Dije realized that she had simply been the object of charity, or perhaps, a dumping ground for unwanted art projects.

There were an awful lot of arts and crafts on Orpheum, accidental byproducts of meditative exercises designed to induce Flow. Dije had learned to slip into the Flow that way as well, and now had a closetful of ribbon-embroidered nightgowns to show for it. Rather more than she needed, or even wanted.

Dije fidgeted with the embroidery on the hem of her skirt as she sat and listened to a lecture about the inheritance of a pacific nature. When it was finally over, she got up and went to over to Ize.

 

“Not everything is about genetics, you know.”

“Much is. You have not had the benefit of selection for a pacific nature, and you have trouble fitting into our lifestyle here.”

“That’s true,” Dije allowed.

Encouraged, Ize continued, “The Dream is realized through physical forms, and the forms of living beings are realized through the genetic code. Though all the world be illusion, still, the illusion is beloved of the Dreaming Goddess. Everything is made for a reason; from the smallest fir needle to the largest galaxy.”

“Speaking of genetics, um, I’ve been wondering: with all the Serekh being women, how do you, you know…have children?”

“Some choose to take lovers in various ports; some design their children carefully, charting various desired traits, and assembling them in the ship’s bio lab; some choose to bear their children in their bodies, and others choose the cryo womb.”

“How do you design children?”

“I will show you the program if you like. It is fairly simple, easily downloaded to a flatty. Many of the Serekh spend years carrying around their plans, revising and refining their choices, as one would a great novel. One starts by charting her own DNA.”

“Could I do that? Chart myself?”

“Of course. I will show you during free hour.”

“Thank you.”

“Oneself is the base material as if beginning an artwork by being dealt the medium: paint, clay, stone, glass, metal, fiber, gravity, and light. Some choices are easy: a daughter, healthy. Some are purely aesthetic: hair, eyes, height, build. Perhaps you would choose a great singing voice.”

“Maybe.” Dije did not ask what Ize would choose. She was her assigned mentor, but Dije was not really close to her. She only really felt close to the ship’s cat. Everyone on board had known each other all their lives.

“Other things are less easily quantified. Is it possible to design serenity: a selfless submergence in the Flow; a personality that would thrive in the service of the Goddess, using illusion to reveal truth or protect the innocent, never as a means of dishonesty for mere personal gain? Then there is you—randomly bred of Magi, yet you seem to desire serving others beyond all else.”

“I do.”

“You chafe at the constant prayers, I know.”

“I thought I was being patient.”

“You are, dear. You have the patience of a—” Ize broke off, looking embarrassed.

“What? Kirifo?”

“Perhaps. What you truly desire is to help people, is it not?”

“Yes.”

“I will speak to Nyokabi. This ship is more than a convent, whatever it may seem. I think you would blossom in your submergence in the Flow, were you allowed to aid in our good works. This requires Nyokabi’s permission, though, since it means revealing the identities of those we help.”

“Thank you. I’d love to help any way I could.” Dije wondered if they did not trust her because she was an outsider, or because they perceived her as a child.

Again, she wondered what was wrong with her that she had to have Ize intercede with Nyokabi; the Serekh were hierarchical, but it was not as if she had been instructed not to talk to the elders. Dije had never thought of herself as shy.

She decided it must just be the oppressive weight of all that ritual. Sometimes she felt like she was in prison. They told her when to eat, when to sleep when to pray, when to go to the bathroom, when to be creative and make art, even when to feel pretty. Moreover, everything had levels and tests. She had to learn to recite long-winded histories of various Serekh’s adventures before she was even allowed to learn to make a star-crown braid, let alone the advanced Flow techniques she longed for. Dije had come to realize that the Serekh were not really interested in helping her develop her full potential—like Lesley was—or in aiding her in finding her path—like Lesley was.

She had often heard people say how wonderful it was to feel like a part of something greater than oneself. Dije thought it felt frustrating. She had worked so hard to learn to use the Light; turning away from it now made no sense.

From the strangled soup of emotion came one clear thought: I want off this ship. Then she told herself firmly, Not before I learn to make illusions that are more than illusion. I’m doing this for my people.

* * * *

Kerruke set down her drink and leaned slightly forward.

“I’m interested in joining the Smuggler’s Consortium.”

“You’re not a smuggler,” the Boss replied. “You’re a pirate.”

“Hardly. I’m not even a privateer. I’ve never taken a contract for six creds and found a day. I’m a mercenary. Mostly I move passengers, rather than cargo. I’ve taken contracts from all kinds of oddballs: debt collectors, people running from debt collectors, spies, assassins, bounty hunters, journalists, ex-wives; even a party of rich execs on safari, once. Still, most of what Magi Raider does can be classified as smuggling. We don’t move slaves. My Lady forbids it.”

“I thought you were the Captain-owner of Magi Raider.”

“I am. My Lady is currently pursuing her own interests, but I stand ready to serve her again whenever she needs me.”

“And what interests are those, if I may ask?”

“I hear through the Magi gossip network, that she’s the personal bodyguard of Lesley Smoke.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Why not? Even Kirifo Masters have to sleep some time. So, what do you say?”

“I’ll contact you.”

* * * *

The lab: a freezer full of samples. Each had a blue label and a white label. The blue labels were men’s names or alphanumeric codes. The ones with blue names tended to have names on white labels, too—the samples of lovers, carefully preserved by those who loved them, or who at least thought them suitable for reproduction. The code labels tended to have Open in the white label, meaning it was for use by all. Dije’s attention was arrested by one marked Lesley/Nyokabi.”

“My, my. Lesley didn’t say he knew her that well. I thought the man was a monk.”

“Oh, no, samples are not taken during a sexual encounter,” Ize said. “The samples have to be clean.”

“The Serekh think sex is unclean?”

“No, using sterile medical techniques, I mean. Although Hum takes only priestesses, we acknowledge the other gods and goddesses, including those to whom procreation is sacrosanct.”

Dije smiled. “That’s one way to put it. Remember, I know followers of the other gods, back on Magi-ta. I’ve been to a Fruitioner fertility festival out in the sacred farmland.”

“Really? We’ve been a ship clan for a thousand years. Agricultural rites are a little abstract to us.”

“Basically, they have fun with whoever happens to come along.”

* * * *

A human female opened the door and peered out suspiciously. “You’re not the delivery man.”

“I’m Ongreya the Psy Healer. Your pain called out to me across the stars. I can help you.”

“Another damn social worker. I’m not leaving, you hear me? I happen to like it in here, and you can’t make me. I make enough money on the Hobgoblin to pay my rent, and buy the stuff I want. It’s nobody’s business if I never go out.”

Ongreya extended her power. “You are a wounded soul in need of healing. When did you become so afraid?”

The woman stepped back a pace, the wrinkles of suspicion erased from around her eyes. “The war. The one before the last one.”

“You want to invite me in and let me help you.”

“Yes, of course. Do come in.”

Ongreya entered the recluse’s apartment. This was going to be a long one. This woman had a genuine mental problem. Nice and juicy.

* * * *

Dije was finally allowed onto the secret level of Orpheum. It was not what she expected. There were many women there, living dormitory-style in what was clearly supposed to be a ballroom, with inlaid floors, crystal chandeliers, and oddly misplaced utilitarian bunk beds in between. They were not Serekh.

They looked like models. Each one of them could have won a beauty competition for the title of her own particular species or planet, except that many of them had purple stains on their faces, in various stages of fading.

“What’s wrong with them, Ize?” Dije whispered.

“They are victims of Purple Tears.”

“What’s that?”

“Purple Tears was invented for use on livestock, for stud farms. Its inventor never meant it to be used on people.”

Dije was so distracted by trying to puzzle out this non-answer, that she didn’t spot the recognition on the young girl’s face. A girl of about fourteen, just entering the bloom of womanhood, stepped into the space between bunks, and stood in Dije’s way. Dije stopped. Then she gasped out loud. It was one of them: one of the children from the Exporter.

“I know you,” the girl said in Magi.

Beside her, Ize exclaimed, “She can talk!”

Dije nodded seriously. She responded in the same language, a little rustily. “Yes. You know me. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you back then. I didn’t have the power, or the training, to help you. I’ll help you now if I can.”

“You’re too late,” said the girl. Then she flopped back into her bunk and started crying.

“I’m sorry,” Dije said again.

“Come on,” said Ize, leading her away. “You’ve helped already. You can speak her native language. We thought she didn’t talk because her traumas had turned her mute. We never even considered that she might just not speak English. You can work with her, help her adjust to her new life in the hidden city.”

“Where did you find her?”

“We take them when the media points them out to us. That’s what happens after they report to the police. The Private Sector has some really backward laws. They muzzle reporting on high-level scandals and then splash the faces of rape victims all over the Will.”

“If you take them after they make a police report, doesn’t that mean you’re preventing the cops from catching the bad guys and sending them to jail?”

“That is not our concern. Our task is to help the victims. We keep them out of the public eye, so the slavers will never find them again. We get them settled in their own community, where they practice self-help, and heal each other.”

“Why should they have to hide?” Dije dared to ask, feeling her gut go fluttery.

“It is the decision of the elders,” Ize replied, in a tone that brooked no further questioning.

Dije helped serve lunch and clean up, and then went back to her quarters feeling queasy. When the only tool you’ve got is a bolt cutter, everything looks like a bolt, she thought. The Serekh possess illusion, and they use their art to hide people. So, whenever they find people who need help, of course, they hide them.

In the privacy of her room, Dije whispered, “I couldn’t help the slaves because I wasn’t a Kirifo yet. And I’m still not. I turned aside from my path. I need to do something…something more than just hiding the victims afterward.”

* * * *

It had been almost exactly a year since Lesley had last been in the Private Sector. He wondered how Dije was doing. He imagined her happily snuggled into a community of like-minded pacifists, working for peace and saving lives.

He resisted the temptation to check the tracking program and find out where Orpheum was. He was here to attend Gipcon again, and on his way, he had figured he might as well try to track down the last known location of a Kirifo who had openly stood against Re. This Kirifo had, of course, been hunted for a political crime, and might have changed his identity by becoming, of all things, a Privateer accountant; or so the records on Earth hinted. Lesley hoped to convince him to return to the Order. Likely, he was tracking a ghost. Though, he was going in this direction anyway, so he might as well.

His first step was to find and befriend the suspected Kirifo’s Corporate boss, who might know where he went or what happened to his possessions, or at least who his non-work acquaintances had been. For that, he had to get himself invited to a gala. It shouldn’t be difficult; he was famous, after all. What was fame good for, if not opening doors for him?

* * * *

Many months passed while Dije attended classes and prayer gatherings, talked with the rescued slave girl, and served meals. She saw the hidden city, although she was not allowed into the pilot compartment of the shuttle when she landed or took off; the Serekh took no chances that she might find out where they were and leak it to someone.

Dije mentally contrasted that with her trip across the galaxy to find the Serekh. Lesley had let her make all the takeoffs and landings herself, even that very first takeoff from the used starship yard, in the heavy traffic of Gis’s capitol. He had activated the co-pilot’s board, so there were live controls under his hands, but he had not touched them, although he had twitched once or twice. Strange landing patterns, narrow docking doors, wind shear—he had let her deal with it all, content to offer occasional advice. The Serekh wouldn’t let her look out the window.

Back aboard Orpheum, Dije was at sundown prayers. That was what they still called the evening invocation, even though the Serekh had lived on a spaceship for so long that the children had to be taught what sundown was by looking at the painted murals on the walls.

One of the elderly Serekh suddenly fell over. Everyone rushed to her.

“Stay back, give her some air,” the medico commanded. “My bag!” Someone brought her doctor bag, which was an incongruous bright pink, dripping with fringe and beadwork. She used some instruments that Dije did not recognize. “No heartbeat,” the medico said, readying another instrument.

Someone tried to take the old woman’s hand, but the doctor yelled, “Clear!” and everyone stood back. She did something with the instrument and then bit off some choice curses in Ancient Magi. “Damn thing’s defective! You!” she pointed at someone in the crowd at random. “Get the antigrav stretcher. We need to get her to the infirmary immediately!”

Dije received a sudden prompting from Giptuvor. She was so unused to touching magic, now, that it staggered her. All at once, she comprehended the use of the machine, and what was wrong with it. It was a defibrillator; it was supposed to produce electricity and had not done so.

In a preternatural calm, Dije padded forward, feeling the Serekh part around her like water around a rock. She knelt by the dead woman and placed her hand on her chest. Dije called lightning.

Zap! Magic came to her, clean and pure as the air, snow and icy springs of an uninhabited mountain. Sun-white, still, free of all sound and emotion—the transcendent Light.

The dead woman breathed.

The Serekh drew back from Dije, casting dark glances at her as they gathered up the elderly nun and took her to the ship’s sickbay. No one said a word to Dije. She remained kneeling on the floor, emptied out, at peace for the first time since she had come aboard.

After about an hour, Ize approached her. “It is forbidden,” Ize said softly. When Dije did not respond, Ize continued, “You know it’s not permitted to use magic. The elders say you have to perform a ceremony of obedience.”

Dije climbed to her feet. “I saved her life.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

Ize shook her head. “A Serekh novice is expected to do as she’s told. The elders make the decisions. You know that’s the way it works, Dije. You’ve been here for almost a year now.”

“A year in which I worked up to what, kitchen maid? Where is the power I was promised, Ize? My illusions are still as insubstantial as they were when I arrived.”

“This is not a path of power.”

Dije breathed in and calmed herself; it was a Kirifo technique. Sometime in the last year, she had developed the ability to summon calm without touching either the Light or the Flow, and without using song. Perhaps she had simply grown up.

“I know what I must do, Ize.”

The ritual happened that evening, after the starflower prayers, which were usually sung an hour before bedtime. All the Serekh who were above Dije in the hierarchy swam one ceremonial lap in the pool and then lined up at the pool’s edge.

“Concentrate on the beauty,” Ize advised her.

“What beauty?”

“Toenails.”

Then it was time. The gong sounded, and Dije got into the water. She started at one end of the line. The first set of painted toenails: red, and not very imaginative. Dije kissed the freckled foot.

This wasn’t fair. She had saved the ungrateful old crone’s life.

Then she went to the next one in line. They were a little more creative: spring green, with pink and white flowers. Much better.

This was humiliating. She was a Magus Lady, and should not be kissing anybody’s anything. She reminded herself, I am doing this for my people. Dije choked back tears.

The next one: sparkly clear, embedded with little jewels. That was actually pretty. It made little crystal rainbows. It reminded her of the crystal Temple of the Kirifo.

Dije found she could separate herself from what she was doing by focusing on the nail art. She dissociated herself from the degradation of the foot-kissing ritual.

Finally, it was over. Dije had not counted how many feet she had kissed, but it was a lot. When she had gotten passed the last one, Nyokabi placed a hand on Dije’s braid-covered head, in token of blessing. Then Dije was allowed to leave. As soon as she had changed back into her dress in the locker room, Dije sped back to her room and let herself cry.

“I hate you!” Dije raged. She stretched out her hands, and dark smoke poured from them. The smoke condensed into snakes. The snakes coiled and hissed, with a hundred flicking tongues, like fire.

Dije gestured, and the snakes struck at the piles of useless ‘stuff’: artworks, she supposed, mostly fabric and porcelain, but given to her because their creators had no room for them. The snakes bit through the cloth, and exploded into clay statues; they sent bits of slivers flying, tossed beads into the walls, gnawed at the carpeting and slashed the deck plates beneath.

All these rituals. Levels, tests to pass, secrets promised and used like the fruit dangled in front of the dray beast. Techniques promised in order to gain her obedience and her silence. It was poisonous.

It was nearly Magi.

Abruptly, her eyes dried up with the shock of realization. She went to the little sink in the corner and washed away her ruined makeup. She looked at herself in the mirror; clean at last, her tattoos revealed. This was who she was, who she was born to be.

The Serekh were not ‘nearly’ Magi. They were Magi.

Threat of punishment, promise of reward: both equally manipulative. Both things she had seen Uncle Thodvexer use to keep control of his minions. So, the Serekh would never hurt her physically. They had done so mentally plenty of times.

How could she have missed it?

At the Kirifo Temple, it was said that the original Magus and Dianica, founder of the Serekh, had traveled together, and had Ascended together in the days after the Blockade went up. Both founders were cut off from their followers on Magi-ta. The Serekh must have learned much from Magus.

Dije’s snakes faded away, but the broken artworks remained. Her room looked like a tornado had gone through it. There were even bite marks that went all the way to the metal deck beneath the ruined rug.

Illusion that is more than illusion. The power of the serpents—I have it at last. Hatred broke through for me. That was the key: helpless rage. Just like with the lightning. No wonder they forbid magic. If I’d reached for it right then, it would have been the Rubo-giptuvor. Can I use this power without the hate? Can I make it come to me in peace, as I learned to call the lightning in peace?

Dije conjured another snake and made it snap the head off a chipped statue. Then she let it dissipate. Dije picked up the statuette, tracing the smooth finish, and the creepy interior plane of the neck, with her fingers.

Now I have what I set out to learn. Like the Magi they are, I had to learn it on my own. Now, I can escape.

Dije tossed the pottery back down, and it broke a little more as it hit the carpeted deck with a muffled sound. Escape. I’m not a prisoner here. I came here of my own free will, and so I will leave. Pack first. Yes, pack first. Bring what? Not art. Clothing, perhaps. Food? Yes, some, not too much. My flatty, with my gene scans. Go now, at night, while no one will expect you anywhere.

Dije tossed the flatty into a patchwork satchel and stuffed in a dress at random. Then she took it out and considered what she would need. For nostalgia’s sake, she carefully folded and packed the pale green sequined dress she had worn at her initiation. This was to remind herself how important the things she had learned here were, and also to assure herself that her sacrifice was not in vain.

Then she pulled out the black catsuit. She had never worn it, except to try it on. Someone had given it to her in a mound of other castoff costume projects. The skintight jumpsuit creaked as she put it on. She was fairly sure the Serekh would not make anything out of actual leather, but it was certainly a good fake. Next: the boots and belt.

It was as close as she could come to a Magi bodysuit, given the available wardrobe. It really did not look like something a mercenary should wear to battle.

Dije snorted, the first humor she had felt in a long time. Dressed like this, I shouldn’t have any trouble walking in the front door of a porn studio. I won’t even need any illusions. Getting out again, that’s the trick. Without doing violence to anyone, that is.

Dije slung the satchel over her shoulder and went to the shuttle lock. She did not know the code to open the door, but she did not need it. Now that she was no longer avoiding magic, she reached out to the electronic lock, and it opened.

Dije went in, tossed her satchel on a seat, and calmly closed the door. She went to the cockpit, released the docking clamps, warmed up the engine, and skipped the preflight. It was remarkably easy to steal a ship. At least an empty one, anyway, with no hyper drive.

Dije aimed for the planet and dove. Opening the comm frequencies, she scanned for clues as to which planet she was about to land on. She looked at the transponder beacons of the other ships entering and leaving local space and was riveted by a familiar name: Swamp of Delight. The little Magi slave girl had said she overheard Sekin the Giant saying that was the name of his smuggling ship.

Dije reached out with magic. She did not know what a Giant’s mind felt like, but she was fairly sure the only person on the Swamp of Delight was human. An employee, then, not the big shot evildoer himself, but it would do. Here was her chance to strike a blow for truth and justice.

Dije changed her angle of descent. She maneuvered the Serekh shuttle to hover over Swamp of Delight. The slightly larger craft tried to maneuver away from her, but she stuck to it. Swamp of Delight banked, zigging and zagging, rotating its cannon. Dije stretched out with magic and made the laser cannon malfunction. She brought her ship in closer until she forced Swamp of Delight down into the atmosphere.

Dije grinned evilly. “This works just as well in a shuttle as it does in a Raven.”

She forced Swamp of Delight to land. Then she landed the shuttle and hopped out, just as a police air car screamed up to the scene.

A human, with a day’s growth of beard, stormed out of Swamp of Delight and shouted, “Who taught you to fly, you crazy badger- lizard?”

“Lesley Smoke. Unfortunately, he also taught me how to swim.”

“Farking smart aleck, are you?”

The man started forward but prudently backed away as a patroller got out of the police air car.

“She’s nuts, officer!”

“Maybe,” Dije conceded, “but you’re a slaver.” Dije turned to the policeman. “That ship belongs to Sekin the Giant, a dealer in child sex slaves.”

The policeman spoke to someone on a commlink. Evidently, calling in a check on the ships, because he said, “All right, come along, miss.”

“What about the slaver? What about Swamp of Delight?”

“That’s none of your concern, miss. Your ship, however, was reported stolen. Come along quietly, now.”

“Am I free to go, officer?” the man asked.

“Stick around a minute. Let me get her into the back, and then I need to take a statement from you about this incident.”

“You’re letting him get away?” Dije squeaked.

Dije did not see if the slaver got away, because she was whisked off to the local jail while Swamp of Delight was still parked on the ground. She was seriously tempted to cut through the misunderstanding in the way she imagined Lesley would have, with a cutting instrument. No…no one would have tried to arrest Lesley. In any case, Dije was not about to do violence to a police patroller.

It took a week before her case came before a judge. A week of playing Threat and Counter-threat with the other prisoners, and learning to be a Magus again; a week in which none of the Serekh came to talk to her. She tried to convince herself she was not disappointed.

At last, she came before the judge. He read her a record of her statement to the police officer about the other ship being a slave ship. The judge told her that the police had confirmed that was true. A very high-level person had commended them for capturing it, although they had nothing on the pilot, and had had to let him go. The judge also told her that he understood she was a juvenile of seventeen, who had taken the shuttle from the ship she lived on to run away. He knew she was not really a ship thief, so he was inclined to be lenient.

“Do you have anything to say before I sentence you?”

“Where the law can’t reach, the Kirifo can.” Dije marveled at her own voice, so calm and matter-of-fact. There was none of the querulous shyness that had afflicted her among the Serekh.

The judge looked startled. This was not in his script of how the trial should go. “You fancy yourself a Kirifo?”

“Not yet,” Dije said.

He nodded decisively, back on script now. “Have you learned your lesson?”

“Yes.”

In truth, she had. She did not say it aloud, but she thought, I have learned my lesson. If I am to embrace violence, I must do it wholeheartedly. I didn’t go far enough. He got away because I wasn’t willing to do what I had to do.

* * * *

“It’s getting expensive to keep sending the Acquisition Team to different planets,” the Producer said.

“It’s not safe to hunt in the same place twice since Purple Tears doesn’t block the victims’ memories,” the Director replied.

“I’ve got an idea. We pull male victims from the local population, don’t we?”

“Sure. They can’t go to the police. The way the laws are written, they’d go down for the rape. The Private Sector is great for having laws that haven’t kept up with the times, and for being pretty easy on businesses. That’s why we sited our studio here in the first place.”

The Producer nodded. “Certainly saves us from Galactic Empire law: a patchwork of local systems’ laws, which are nothing but species customs, and a hodgepodge of special interest driven legislation. You never know what’s coming next. All with Imperial law superimposed over it, but with way too much local variation. So, here’s my idea: the audience really loves the concept of taking victims at random, but let’s just do the male victims that way. We can use slaves for the women.”

“I think we can handle that. For Purple Tears Live, we don’t want recognizable faces, but we could step up the buy and sell rate.”

“Cheaper than all those trips offworld, you think?”

“Probably. Let’s try it out, and see how the numbers go.”

* * * *

Dije was free at last.

The fine had been large, but she found that her personal retinal identifier connected her to a much larger bank account than she had expected. So, she could add investment portfolio management to the long list of things she could trust Lesley with. She would never have guessed he had that kind of sophistication.

The first thing she did was have a really good breakfast. The second thing was to buy a nice black leather belt pouch to keep her flatty and green dress in, and get rid of the artsy-craftsy satchel. She gave the empty patchwork bag to a vagrant on the street and felt a peculiar smirk spread across her face.

The third thing Dije did was stake out the spaceport. It was not hard to spot the Serekh shuttle coming in. She was never going to forget what the outside of that ship looked like since the confrontation with the slaver and the Vigilante was burned into her brain.

Using illusion to disguise herself would have called attention to her from the Serekh, so Dije simply bought a black cloak and kept the hood up. She looked pretty much like any other Magus mercenary cruising the starport for a job.

Given the presence of the slave ship, Dije knew what the Serekh must be here for. This must be the planet where the SVN’s victims appeared. She trailed the Serekh for days, until she was sure they really did not know where the studio was. They did, however, lead her to a victim.

Dije let them take the latest victim away. She was interested in who came to investigate the witness’ disappearance. Dije followed the very frustrated detective. He was thinking very, very loudly, and Dije had no trouble hearing him in magic, without being the least bit intrusive.

He knew where the studio was, all right. The Sex and Violence Network operated openly here. They did not exactly have an ad in the comm directory, but the police knew about them. They just couldn’t pin anything on them, because nobody who made a complaint against them ever made it to court to testify. The Vigilantes were absolutely stymied about how they did it because the studio really did not seem to have anything to do with the disappearances.

Dije pulled the address from the police detective’s mind. She was going to rescue the next victim before the Serekh got to her, before she made a police report before the crime happened. Dije did not bother with illusion. She just walked straight in.

There was a guard at the front desk. Dije caused the alarm he was reaching for to go dead, so no one else was alerted. Then she reached out and pulled his stunner out of his hand, using it on him. He slumped over his desk, unconscious.

She walked around the desk and looked at the security monitors. One screen was designated as a live feed from the cell of the latest star of Purple Tears Live. The show was starting right now. The screen was split down the middle: one-half showing a bored looking woman sitting on a red velvet bed, chatting with a stagehand, both of them drinking steaming liquids; the other half of the screen was a cell containing a male victim with purple tears streaming down his face.

It took a moment for Dije to recognize him passed the dark slime. Then she flung down the stunner and ran in his direction. Whoever got in her way, Dije was going to kill.

* * * *

“Who’s that?” asked the head of the Acquisition Team.

“I don’t know, but he does look familiar, doesn’t he? Some kind of minor celebrity.”

“Think he’ll do?”

“I don’t know. His face is kind of lopsided.”

“Botched reconstructive surgery. Probably done under wartime conditions. I’ve seen the look before. Looks fine for about a decade, then it starts to shift over time. Hey Liria, what do you think, is he still handsome?”

“Sure,” the third member of the team, a human female, replied. “Forget the face, anyway. It’s going to be mostly covered in chemical goo. He’s got an athlete’s body. Not really great muscles, more of a gymnast than a bodybuilder, but good and fit, anyway.”

“Pick him up. The marketing team can figure out who he is later.”

“You’re on, Liria.”

“I’ve gloved up, give me the contact lotion.”

One of the few good things about formal eveningwear was that women could wear gloves up to their armpits and no one batted an eye.

Liria got the drug onto her gloves and pursued the blond man. He spotted her almost as soon as she started trailing him. Liria thought she might have to break off and wait for a chance at someone else. Then she saw him turn back around, with a little shrug of one shoulder, as if writing her off as an expected part of this party.

They were at a reception for the announcement of some company’s latest cool gadget, and most of the guests were industry people. There were also a few celebs mixed in, to liven up the event and draw media attention. Liria figured the more experienced members of the team must be right, and he must be someone famous because he was acting like he took being stalked by women at parties as a normal part of his day.

Liria decided to go with that angle. She didn’t bother with the old stumble routine; she walked directly up to him and tried to sound ditzy as she gushed.

“Oh my heavens I can’t believe it, can I shake your hand? Please?”

The blond man crinkled his eyes kindly at her. “Sure.” Then he shook her hand while looking over her shoulder. “Excuse me, please.”

The man took two steps before his eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped over.

Liria was ready. The man was neither very tall, nor very heavy, and she had practiced variations on this move a hundred times. She stepped forward, half-turned him, got a shoulder under his arm, and set her legs. When he passed out completely in his next heartbeat, it almost looked like they were doing a slow dance together. Liria hustled him into a side corridor, and then the three of them got him out the back exit, into the waiting aircar.

* * * *

There was a crackle of electricity, a puff of smoke, and then the door opened.

“I’m here to rescue you,” Dije announced with a smile, and a flourish toward the doorway.

Lesley jumped on her. They fell to the floor.

“Oof! Is that a dej in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

She pushed him off with magic, and he pushed back with magic.

“Oh no, he can still use magic!”

He attacked. He was the stronger, both physically, and in Giptuvor. She grabbed his shoulders and lifted, but it was no use. Purple tears fell from his eyes onto her face, spattering across her forehead tattoo.

“If you’re in there, Lesley, purge the drug!”

She didn’t dare try to link with him in his drugged state, afraid she would be drawn into the purple state of mind. Dije did passively receive impressions from the emotions he was projecting. There was no calm center from which he could use magic to move the drug out of his system. There was nothing in him but the most primitive emotions: fight and rut.

“Nothing in there but aggression. Oh no! Lesley, stop! You’re using the Rubo-giptuvor!”

His face was wild; a painted savage, wide-eyed and weeping. All the things that would have made Lesley an attractive lover—his knightliness, his caring nature, and his self-control—were all gone. There was nothing left but an animal. Dije was certain that Lesley, wherever he was buried under the berserker pelt of the drug, would have been the first to pull him off of her if he had somehow been able to appear beside them in his right mind.

Dije knew there must be a holocam in here somewhere. If Lesley were able to choose, Dije was sure he would not choose to make a spectacle of himself on the Purple Tears Live subcast. Plus, there had to be more than one security guard around. They did not have time to mess around. Dije had to get him out of here before more guards arrived.

There was only one thing she could do—only one way to fight and win, against someone far stronger in magic than herself. It was not the art of illusion.

“I’m sorry about this.”

Dije reached for magic. She reached for the Light, and the lightning.

Dije centered herself, closed her eyes, and concentrated on her fingertips. She still grasped Lesley’s shoulders, but she was no longer trying to push him away. Instead, she summoned the noble gift.

Lightning came to her, ever ready to her hand. She loosed it with a horrible sizzle and pop. Lesley fell away from her, screaming.

“Come on.” Dije tried to get him on his feet and steer him out the door, but he attacked again.

Dije poured magical lightning into Lesley until he fell, and she did not stop. He shrieked and writhed on the floor as she kept the lightning flowing. He could not attack, either physically or with magic. This was the reason the lightning was called the noble gift: because those who had it could defeat anyone who didn’t, no matter how middling her own power, no matter how strong he was in magic.

Dije choked down hard on her own pity. She used a Serekh technique to keep herself from flinching away from what she had to do. Dije was aware of the bitter irony of invoking Hum for this extreme act of violence, but then Dije let go of that irony, letting herself tap into the flow. The world of flesh was an illusion. The flash of the lightning was beautiful. The strange blue fire that circled Lesley’s teeth for a second as he screamed was nothing but color, light, and shape; a sculpture in honor of the Goddess. She let the lightning flow.

“Magic is Life, Lesley. Live.” Dije was a Magus Lady once again, as well as a Kirifo, and a Serekh. All three systems merged within her.

At last, the screaming stopped. Lesley lay still.

Dije ceased the lightning and sagged briefly against the wall.

She picked up his limp body with magic and got him out the door. Then she got a strong magical prompting to bring him to the spaceport.

It would have been easier to tow him behind her with magic like a box, but that might have attracted attention. She propped him up with magic and moved his feet with magic: left one, right one, left one, right one. The concentration required was exhausting, but this way, she looked like she was helping a drunken friend walk home.

She had his left hand, pulled over and locked in her own left hand, most of his weight dragged across her shoulders. Dead weight, she thought. She could feel the presence of his life in magic. There was heat coming from his body, which was both reassuring and disconcerting at the same time. She had not killed him. She had handled magic lightning exactly right, precisely the way a Magi initiation was supposed to work. Knocking him out had been the right choice.

I lost my one chance, Dije thought.

Unconscious, he was just Lesley again. The dark liquid coming from his eyes was just another object.

It would have been wrong to let anything happen while he was drugged out of his mind, especially in front of the cameras. It would have wasted precious escape time.

* * * *

They were away, now. The holocams, and any guards that might have been rushing to recapture them, were far behind. She didn’t have to follow the magical prompting; she didn’t have to go to the spaceport. She could take him to a hotel.

“No,” Dije whispered. “No, that would be wrong.”

Dije followed magic and arrived at the spaceport hardstands. She looked out at the assembled ships.

Magi Raider was there.

The Magi Raider was registered at the spaceport as Dawn Rose, which was its real name. Dawn Rose was a racing yacht. It was thirty years past its prime, but it was still a very fast ship. That is what had attracted Kerruke to it when she was presented with her choice of small, unarmed, pre-owned vessels, by the government of the Galactic Empire. Since then, Dawn Rose had acquired a slapped-on gun turret, a name painted in black Magi letters across its peeling, rosy hull, and a souped-up life-support system—the better to haul mercenary troopers.

“My Lady!”

“Get all your men who have the field effect talent. I need him held in a suppression field.”

“My Lady, isn’t he—weren’t you his bodyguard?”

“I’ll explain later. Get the men, and a med bot if you have one. Do you have a medical bay?”

“No, just some supplies in a cabinet.”

“How about a room that locks?”

“We have a cell, my Lady. We converted one of the staterooms for when we work for the bounty hunter.”

“Good. Get the men.”

Kerruke called the men. Four tattooed Magi got Lesley into the cell stateroom and held him in a suppression field.

“Do you have a med bot?”

“No.”

“Any bot?”

“We have a butler bot. He came with the ship. He’s a translator and housekeeper.”

“That will do. Hopefully, Lesley won’t attack a bot like he would a person. Have you got any sterile bags or small containers? Good. Have the bot hand them to Lesley, collect them, and freeze them for later use. That’s our reward and your payment for the use of your ship and crew. A third for you, a third for me, and a third for your crew; to use, to sell, or to give away. Only to sell or give to other Magi. This prize is for our people alone. Keep my cut on ice for me. I won’t have access to a medical freezer on my hunt.”

“What prize? My Lady, I don’t understand.”

“DNA, Kerruke. It’s a legitimate medical procedure. The drug comes out in the tears, but it comes out in other fluids, too. That’s how it clears the body.”

“My Lady!” Kerruke hissed.

“I know, but he won’t remember it. I’ve seen the victims of this drug; I’ve seen them not recover. I can’t let him remember the whole day, and probably several days to come. Memory holes are annoying, and memories like these are soul-destroying. I’m going to cap his memory. I’ll have to do it before the drug wears off completely. While he’s still in too much mental chaos to resist.”

“My Lady, that’s—that’s Sarav!” Kerruke strangled the last word, either frightened of the idea, or frightened of arguing with a Magus Lady, or perhaps both.

“Ironic. He’s the one who taught me how to do it. It’s okay to tell me when you think I’m doing wrong. You’re the Captain of this ship.”

Kerruke nodded cautiously.

“The drug made him attack me, Kerruke. I can’t let him remember doing that. He’s already been through so much in his life. I can’t fix it all, but I can fix this one thing. He can’t be traumatized by memories he doesn’t have.”

“What about you, my Lady? What about your recovery?”

“I’m the rescuer. I have nothing to overcome.”

Kerruke got the butler bot into Lesley’s cell and closed the door. From the images on the security camera, when Lesley awoke, he did seem to settle down when he could not see any people around him, as Dije had hoped.

“I need a workbench and some tools: pliers, a sheet metal hole punch, and a laser welder.”

Kerruke went white. “Wh-what?”

“I’ll write out a list of the parts I need: a class-six battery, and a precision emitter with computer control. Most of the rest will be simple hardware.”

“Oh, you’re building something. I thought—” Kerruke shook her head and sighed.

“And bring me a gemstone. The most flawless you have. I have some people to kill.”

She set up the workbench in front of the monitor so she could keep an eye on Lesley. He was doing all right in the stateroom-turned-cell.

The object on Dije’s workbench was a powerful device that had to be made to extreme tolerances. It was usually turned out by bots in a factory with custom made equipment, so she was a little nervous when she first turned on her creation. Luckily, it did not blow up in her hand.

The black garnet pried out of Kerruke’s necklace did not yield a different blade color. It was not there to act like the focusing crystal in a ruby laser, after all; that was a much older and simpler technology than this. Will told her how to build it, but had not mentioned the exact theory that made the crystal necessary. She wondered if the much larger versions of this type of device that projected ships’ shields had to have enormous crystals in them.

In any case, the blade was just as white as the blade of a mass produced dej from a factory. Dije admired it for several minutes, lost in the beauty of it. She snapped back to normal consciousness at Kerruke’s choked gurgle.

At first, Dije was confused. Surely, Kerruke could not be reacting to the blasphemy of flowing into a Serekh meditation on the beauty of craftwork when the object she had crafted was a weapon of violence. Then Dije remembered how she had felt about dejes before attending the Temple—before Lesley’s help.

“Don’t be afraid,” Dije said. “This is for use on those who hurt Lesley. It’s important to me that when I avenge him, it will be the vengeance of the Kirifo.”

“What do you want us to do, my Lady?”

“Guard Lesley, and the ship. Keep him in the suppression field. Send a few men with me to control the perimeter. Keep all the bilge rats in one trap. I’ll deal with the people inside, personally.”

Kerruke smiled. “And you’ll enjoy it. I understand, at last.”

Dije threw open the doors and strode into the holo studio. The same guard was back behind the desk. This time, Dije shorted out the monitors and alarms with magical lightning. She ripped the stunner out of his hand but did not stun him. She had learned that only meant she would have to do it again, and there was neither mercy nor pity in her now, not for anyone involved in subjecting Lesley to such a terrible degradation.

Dije ignited her dej and struck off the guard’s head.

This time, there were more guards in the corridor, and they fired red bolts at her. She deflected them with the dej. Calmly, in total control, Dije walked around the corner and cut down her opponents like a farmer scything grain in the Sacred Lands.

She walked on into the complex. There were even more guards; she killed them. Gladiators in gaudy armor rushed at her. Dije knew they were slaves, so she tried to give them a chance to live. She disarmed them, in the literal fashion that had once given her nightmares. They still came on, and she had to stab them through their hearts. Sometimes the aliens had their hearts in unexpected places, and she had to cut off their heads, too.

There were screams and running footfalls. The studio was stirred up like a sand-bug nest. Dije opened every door, systematically killing anyone with a weapon, and destroying any recording equipment or computers she saw.

Once, she had opened a door on a girl a few years younger than herself, who shrieked in terror and dropped to the floor upon seeing the dej. Dije did not recognize the child, but she could have been from the Exporter or another ship like it. The girl’s mind cried out in terror of the Kirifo weapon, and Dije had to brace her mind against the torrent to avoid being carried away with the fear herself. She heard words in the cry, Magi words.

“Are you a slave?” Dije asked in Magi.

The girl nodded.

“Get out of here. You’re free. Go home.”

“Home? Who do you think sold me into slavery?” the girl gibbered.

“All right then, just go. Outside, there are some Magi mercenaries. Tell them Lady Dije said to help you. Tell them that I said one of them should take you to the police station to report the slavers, and stay with you as your bodyguard until the trial is over so no one can disappear you.”

The girl refocused from the dej to Dije’s tattooed face and seemed reassured. She nodded, scrambled up, and ran.

Dije went on. Computers and bots died by magical lightning. People died by dej. Finally, she had all the noncombatants herded into one room.

Dije thought of simply killing them all, as they sat or squatted on the floor before her, helpless. Ultimately, she could not do that; it would be wrong.

She had to have a way to sort out which ones needed killing. She had been planning to commit sarav on Lesley; surely, she could invade the minds of these enemies, as well.

What would she see what there? What would be her criteria?

One thing was easy: she separated the slaves from the willing participants in this horror, and let the slaves go. Some of them wore the gaudy outfits of tarts, and some of them wore the even gaudier armor of gladiators. They wasted no time when she told them to leave.

There were no other kidnap victims there at the moment. That left half a dozen men.

Dije realized that not everyone involved was here. Some people had left after the broadcast, and some had never been on this planet at all. The Sex and Violence Network had far-flung operations, and partners who catered to its needs: slavers, drug runners, and other unsavory types.

This was not going to be over when she had killed everyone here.

Dije went into their minds again. She learned the subcast had already been broadcast live, and she could not simply destroy the recordings in the studio to prevent the holocast from going out. Information, once propagated to the Hobgoblin, was impossible to eradicate. However, there was one item of information, in minds and machines, which she could utterly destroy. Only one person here knew the formula for Purple Tears. Dije cut off his head.

One by one, she stopped in front of each of her captives and judged him. Some of them cried, begging for mercy. Others cursed in bravado. Some simply waited.

None of these knew the formula to make Purple Tears, but they had seen her face.

Dije knocked them all out with the guard’s stunner. Then, regretfully, she wiped herself from their minds. It was the simple memory technique of preventing long-term encoding.

Dije deactivated her dej and walked back out the way she had come. If only she had thought of it before the vital few minutes had passed, she could have done that to Lesley on their way to the spaceport. Now, she would have to cap his memory.

Dije spent some time searching through whatever records she had not destroyed, looking for the identities and locations of other people who might be involved in the production of Purple Tears. She gathered up some notes. In her ransacking of the studio, she ran across a bin where personal effects of the victims were kept. She recognized Lesley’s dej and clipped it to her belt. She would hold onto it for him until it was safe to give it back.

This hunt was not over. It would not be over for a long time.

* * * *

Hareng walked through the vandalized studio and shook his head.

“All the botcams, cut up like so much cake. It’d take an hour to slice through all that with a beam cutter. This is the work of a madman, boss.”

“No,” said the Producer, his face ashen. “It wasn’t a beam cutter. Dej. Not everybody woke up scratching their heads. Well, not everybody woke up, but the dead guards weren’t killed with shop tools, that’s for certain. One of the slave girls came back. She said she’d been freed by a Kirifo.”

“Came back, huh? What, wanting her job back?”

“Why not? What else does she know how to do?”

Hareng made the thumb-circling gesture. “So, what now?”

“Now we clean up and go on. Rather, you clean up. I decide how to go on.”

“Right.” Hareng toed some of the wreckage. “How’d the Kirifo get into this, anyway? We’re pretty far from the Galactic Empire, and we’ve never hunted there.”

“What, didn’t you look at that last subcast while you were filming it?”

Hareng made the thumb-circling gesture that served his species for a shrug.

“I guess the Acquisition Team didn’t recognize him either, or they would’ve had to be crazy to bring him in. I knew we were in trouble when the holocams went live and I saw who we had, but it was too late by then. On the plus side, marketing’s going to have a field day with this. Don’t worry about the equipment, Hareng. We’ll make it all back, and then some.”

“But there wasn’t any sex,” Hareng protested.

“Unfortunate, but the fight was pretty good. That young Magus was just incredible. And did you see that outfit? I couldn’t’ve picked anything better myself. Really showed her figure. No, don’t worry, we’re coming out ahead on this one. We’re going to do a special for the fight crowd: See! The Magus Lady versus Lesley Smoke.”

“That was—oh. Wow.”

* * * *

Lesley woke up aboard an unfamiliar ship. Four tattooed Magi were holding him in a suppression field. Dije Kun was there. He had not seen her in a year. She was wearing his dej.

Lesley blinked gluey eyes, his thoughts in drug-mazed confusion. Then his mind caught up with what he was seeing, and just for a moment, he was utterly terrified.

“Long ago, you asked me to teach you the ways of the Magi. Today, you passed the final test of a Magi initiation. You have earned the secrets and a tattoo, but I don’t have a tattooist onboard. Which is just as well, since it would create political problems for both of us if today’s events became known. Today, you became a Magus, and I became a Kirifo.”

“What happened to your forehead?” Lesley asked.

There were purple spatters on it.

Ignoring the question, Dije gave Lesley the initiation knowledge. He felt like he was moving through molten glass. His thoughts were slow, confused and painful, but there was a white-hot clarity to his skin.

“Traditionally, a ghost appears to the initiate and tells him all about this. We don’t happen to have any here, and you’ve already seen a ghost or two. The type you’d see in a Magi initiation are the kind that are bound to a place or object, like dear old Lady Tiressi and her Demon robot. The lesson is supposed to be that you need never die. Of course, I can’t imagine anyone preferring a place-bound existence if they could be like your Ascended Ones, instead. Okay, back on script now. Magic is Life. That is the first lesson, and the last. That is what it means to be a Magus. Now, call me Nusiwote-nir, and acknowledge me as your initiatrix.”

“Nusiwote-nir,” Lesley repeated.

“Ah. Good. You’ve said the word. Traditionally, the party is supposed to begin now, but I think we’d better wait until the drug clears your system entirely. That will probably be another two or three days more, unless you think you can purge it with magic if I have the mercenaries turn the suppression field off. Are you up to that?”

Lesley took a moment to realize what she was asking. He could picture the technique she meant, but that level of concentration was beyond him right then. He fought down odd impulses that ran through him like parasitic worms beneath his skin. He was still considering his response in his syrup-slow thoughts when Dije decided for him.

“You’re doing really well to control yourself right now, but it’ll be easier for you if you’re by yourself. The butler bot here will help you with whatever you need: food, a change of clothes, books—whatever you want.”

“What drug?”

“There’s a truly sybaritic fresher through that door. This ship was supposed to be a racing yacht, but the yachtsmen must have been more spoiled noblemen than serious racers.”

“Where are we? Why am I being held in a suppression field?”

“You’re aboard the Magi Raider, and that’s just a precaution at this point. Something bad happened to you, Lesley. You’re safe now.”

“What happened?”

“Don’t try to remember, Lesley. Some bad people kidnapped you. I’ve already taken care of the ones on the planet below. I’ll hunt down the others; I will avenge you. I had to knock you out with the lightning to get you out of there, and you lived, so that’s how you came to pass the Magi initiation test.” Dije gestured to the other Magi and left the cushy cell with her men at her back.

Lesley was left alone with the butler bot. He went into the fresher and saw his face in the mirror. Purple stains streaked from his eyes.

He stared at himself in shock. As he watched, more purple tears wormed their way from his tear ducts down his cheeks.

He knew what Purple Tears were.

He thought of the purple splashes on Dije’s forehead and thought of the height difference between them. “I thought she was shorter than that.” Then he realized that the stains on his own face were lines, some going down his cheeks, and some down his temples to stain his blond hair. The marks on Dije were dots with little spatter lines from them, like craters on an airless moon.

Experimentally, Lesley leaned over the sink and watched a tear fall. It splashed wider than the spots on Dije’s forehead. He leaned farther, until the tears dripped from his eyes and made the same kind of spatter pattern he had seen on Dije. He must have wept on her from barely an inch above her, and she must have been lying flat on her back.

Lesley was sick in the sink.

* * * *

Dije and Kerruke spoke on the yacht’s bridge.

“Take him home. When he asks to have the suppression field turned off, turn it off. Go ahead and have a party, too, to take his mind off his troubles.”

Dije noticed that she had said party, not neon, even though she was speaking her native language once again. The Bright slang of her childhood was almost completely gone from her vocabulary.

“Where are you going, my Lady?” Kerruke asked.

“I’m going to hunt down everyone responsible for doing this to him. I’m going to destroy all knowledge of how to make Purple Tears, whatever it takes: killing people, erasing their memories, and destroying bots’ information systems. The slave lords of the Sex and Violence Network die. Whoever invented the formula—I hear it was originally meant for use on animals in stud farms. The scientist is innocent, but I’m still going to erase the formula. I can remove the Purple Tears formula without turning him into a vegetable; I’ll be careful. I will prevent this from ever happening again, to save all the future victims. No matter how well the Serekh hide the escaped slaves and try to deliver victims to help, it’s still going to go on shattering lives until somebody puts a final stop to it. That somebody is me.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“This is not going to be a series of pirate raids, Kerruke. Most of the people I’m going after, I’m not even going to kill. I’m just going to neutralize them as a threat and move on.”

“My Lady, I went to space to get away from my ex-husband, and I married him to get away from my parents. Until I met you, I’d done nothing but run away. When I saw you become a Magus Lady, I knew I’d found my ticket to the good life. I hitched my tow to a rising star, and now I have this ship and this crew. I’m your friend; I want to help, even if it isn’t the smartest business decision.”

Dije smiled. A friend. She hadn’t left all her friends behind after all, when she left Magi-ta, and in turn, the Kirifo Temple and the Orpheum.

“You’re my right hand, Kerruke.”

“Thank you, my Lady. What is our course?”

“Gis, to take Lesley home. And my friends call me Dije.”

“Yes, Lady Dije. Helm! Set course for Gis.”

* * * *

Even by the standards of the Magi, it was a strange party. Most of the guests spoke in hushed tones and avoided the honoree. A few people smoked strobe or shot up fiber, but even they seemed subdued. The only music was a mellow song sung by Dije, without accompaniment.

Lesley sat at the party with the hood of a borrowed black Magus cape pulled over his face. He did not laugh, or dance, or even eat much.

A blonde Magi named Ojaste approached the initiate timidly. “Would you like a beer, Lesley?”

“No thanks.”

“Anything?”

“I don’t suppose you have any chocolate onboard.”

“I’ll check in the galley.”

A few minutes later she came back with a fruit drink. “We don’t have any chocolate, but we’ve got nakroni juice. It’s supposed to be good for you.”

Lesley hesitated so long before accepting the proffered drink that Ojaste realized he was afraid someone was going to drug him again. In the end, he did take the nakroni juice.

Two other Magi drifted up next to Lesley and Ojaste. They introduced themselves, “We’re the brothers Arr, Imei-Sim and Dai-Oni.”

Lesley nodded. The silence stretched out.

After a while, one of the brothers joined another conversation circle, and Dai-Oni asked Ojaste if she’d like to do some knife play. Her eyes lit up, and she agreed; the two of them went over to a couch. Ojaste pulled off her blacks and lay face down. Dai-Oni pulled his boot knife and carved her up, drawing red designs on her back. Ojaste giggled through the whole thing.

Uncomfortable, Lesley turned away.

Dije watched avidly, along with several others. At first, she thought she wanted to experience the incredible subspace high again. She reminded herself that she couldn’t afford to show weakness in front of other Magi. So, it would be a really bad idea to get in line and ask to be next. As a substitute, she could passively receive impressions from Ojaste, and Dije opened herself to magic.

The feelings pouring off Ojaste were delicious—for a moment. Then Dije remembered how weak she had felt after she had experienced that altered state. Between one breath and the next, Dije found she had lost her taste for it. Even this vicarious experience disgusted her, like trying a treat she had liked as a child, and finding her adult tastes had changed. Dije drifted away and sang another song.

When the knife play was over, Dai-Oni got Ojaste some water. He helped her stand up and walk to a mirror to admire her temporary body art. The Magi viewed it and complimented Dai-Oni’s artistry.

Then the ship’s sounds changed. Lesley looked up. They were in atmosphere, coming in for a landing. Dije walked over to him, as the other Magi cleared out, perhaps going to their duty stations.

“You’re home. This belongs to you.” She handed over his dej, and Lesley took it with great relief. He clipped it to his belt, and looked a hundred times more confident, even though she could not see his face beneath his hood. It was in his posture.

“You still have a dej,” Lesley noticed.

“Yes,” Dije affirmed, glancing down at her belt. “I made it.”

“Then you’re a Kirifo.”

The ship landed.

“Yes. Among other things.” She opened the hatch and extended the ramp. The sharp smells of Gis invaded the cabin. “Goodbye, Lesley.”

“What will you do now?”

“Make sure this never happens to anyone else. That is my quest.”

“A good cause. Eo nir’jep argi odosisudinir esvyj p’birt, Dije.”

“May Hop-fejeptim watch over you, too.”

Lesley went home.

* * * *

“This is the mission: completely eradicate all information on how to make Purple Tears. In people, bots, computers—anywhere. This will only work because it’s a closely guarded trade secret. The formula isn’t all over the Will.

This is the plan: we’ll start will the studio. If we were after the customers, all we’d need is the subscriber list. What we’re after is trickier prey—knowledge. We need to find the factory, the workers, the scientist who invented the drug, and all doses of the drug, everywhere. Any and all records that include the formula, instructions, or chemical composition will be destroyed. That includes bad guys’ labs, police labs, and even government disease archives. Everybody remember the story of Tedow and the Marble Plague? Only someone who knows the Plague’s structure can create it. When we find someone who knows it, we’ll kill them. Or, if I can get close enough without a fight, I’ll wipe out their memory of the formula.

This is our first step: we send two Magi to infiltrate Marathon. Yes, the holo-comm company. What we’re after is billing records, records of holo-comm calls. Find out whom the studio execs called, whom the slavers called, whom their accounts payable clerk called, and we find the factory, eventually. Every time we find someone new who is part of their operation, we get the list of all their calls and track down each one of those people, and so on. Along the way, we kill the slavers, free the slaves, and generally foil the evildoers.”

There were no questions from the assembled black-cloaked mercenaries in the Magi Raider’s wardroom. They knew they would each be given whatever details they needed to complete their part of the operation.

Dije left the personnel decisions to Kerruke. Captain Kerruke Gradeth assigned the brothers Imei-Sim and Dai-Oni as the linked pair. One of them would get a job in Marathon’s billing department, and the other one would call in posing as a customer. Mind-link solved the password problem neatly. The brother posing as the customer would simply get the passwords telepathically from the brother who was looking at the information on the screen. Since there would be real calls that could be reviewed by Marathon’s quality assurance and management, calls that would sound exactly like a normal billing inquiry, the infiltrator would not be caught digging in files he had no business being in.

“Customer service is an excellent occupation for a Magus. The level of frustration and rage will make you strong in the Rubo-giptuvor,” Dije said.

“The what?”

“There are sides to magic. I will teach you, if you like. All of you. I have learned the deadly and forbidden secrets of the Kirifo.”

* * * *

When the ship was new, native planetary primitives had once called it the Pillar of Hell. It landed with a great smoke and fume, aided by a blast of retrorockets.

Ongreya assumed human form. She checked her ship and gear, strapped on her hat-cam, and activated the subcast. She exited her ship to find herself in a paved landing zone. It was a plaza encompassing a small park in front of a tall building comprised of translucent stone, topped by spires that turned icy clear at their narrow points. A few curious locals in white clothes gathered around. Some of them were human, some of them from various other species. None were her target.

Ignoring the assembly, Ongreya spoke to her listeners while panning up the imposing building.

“We’re here to heal a crime victim. He was far from here when I first heard the call, last week. It was incredibly strong. Then he came here, and since then he’s suddenly grown powerful shields. So his voice has gone quiet in my mind. That implies he is starting to recover already, but I still have hold of the safety line his soul threw to me, and his agony is undiminished. Now, it has merely become a silent anguish. Let’s drop in on him, shall we?”

Ongreya started for the building, only to be stopped by one of the locals. It was a Fii in a skinsuit, wearing a sleeveless white robe, from which her flipper protruded. A Fii in clothes; it was an odd sight.

“What brings you here?”

“Pain brings me here,” Ongreya replied. “I am a Psy Healer. I go to the one who has called for me.”

“Oh.” The Fii floated aside. “I didn’t realize he’d called for help. I’m relieved. I’ll take you to him.”

“Thank you, dear, but it’s not necessary. I can feel where he is.”

“Oh.”

Ongreya stepped into a grand hall. “That was interesting, wasn’t it, viewers? She didn’t question how I could feel where someone is, but she also didn’t seem to know how a Psy Healer is called.” Ongreya confidently climbed the stairs and came to a small chamber. She knocked, and a robed figure with a black hood pulled low over his face answered his door.

“I am Ongreya the Psy Healer. Your pain called out to me across the stars. I can help you.”

He was silent a moment. Then, in a voice of surprisingly youthful pitch, he said, “I didn’t think I was broadcasting. No one here mentioned any thought leakage. Then again, everyone has been pretty much leaving me alone, as I asked.”

“So you know you have shields, and you reinforced them.”

“Well, sure. Of course I know.”

“But you are still in turmoil. Invite me in.” Ongreya exerted her power.

The man’s hood moved a little, but that was all.

“What was that?”

“You could feel that?”

“I can feel it when someone uses magic.”

“Magic? No, it is the Psy Healer talent.”

“Trust me, it’s magic. I haven’t gotten so mentally confused that I’d ever be mistaken about that.”

“Interesting. Trust me, then. If you can, feel my power and do not fear it.”

“Huh. You weren’t expecting Kirifo. How did you get here and not know where you are?”

“Kirifo?”

“Well. All right, now I’m curious. Come on in.”

Ongreya entered the small, spare chamber. The furnishings were simple and comfortable; many were military surplus. Unlike most military men’s quarters, there were no posters or souvenirs displayed to enliven things. It was like a monk’s cell. Perhaps there were keepsakes in the drawers of the various chests.

“Leave the door open,” the man instructed. He sat down on a metal chair that had a folded military blanket as a pillow, and gestured her to a similar chair.

“Tell me of your pain.” Ongreya invoked her power.

“Hey!” he whined. “Don’t try to witch my mind!”

“I wasn’t trying.”

He snorted, finding that amusing for some unfathomable reason. “Okay. What do you know already?”

“I know something terrible happened. Your control over yourself was taken away from you. I know you can’t remember it. You don’t have to remember it, to heal. Not via the Psy Healer power, anyway. Psy Healers heal with truth, but not remembering is part of your truth. It is a condition to be accepted.”

“Go on.”

“You feel horror, self-loathing, and guilt, knowing that you should not. You are turning yourself inside out trying to transform your feelings. You’ve done something similar, once, with other feelings, completely different feelings. Feelings of love. That didn’t work very well, either.”

The man recoiled from that last statement, and one of his hands briefly flicked up, in denial or self-protection. “But you don’t know any specifics?”

“No. Sometimes I can see through the eyes of my patients, but very rarely. Only with people who have little to no shielding. From you, I only get emotions, and vague impressions.” Ongreya did not try to use her power again, but she steered back on course. “Tell me your troubles. Pour it out; get it outside of you. Then I can heal you.”

“What are you hiding?”

“Many things,” Ongreya replied. “My true form, for one. The Psy Healer gift is linked to my changeling abilities. I don’t absolutely have to evoke my human-seeming to use my talent, but it helps a lot.”

“And what else?” the man demanded. “I know you’re hiding something important.”

“Ah. I see this will be one of the longer, and more difficult, healings. So be it. Most Psy Healers charge money for their services. I have always felt that was a betrayal of the gift, to only heal those who have the money to pay for it. My mission is subsidized by subscribers. Subscribers who keep an eye on what I do.”

“Keep an eye how?” It was not really a question, and the man’s voice had gone whispery, without softening in the slightest. The tone was deeper, more confident, almost throaty.

“By watching the Psy Healer subcast.”

“Subcasting! That’s evil.” The man stirred in his chair as if about to leap out of it.

“Not at all. It’s simply a way to support my work, and a way to help a vast audience without ever even seeing them as patients. Many who subscribe to my subcast are people in need of hope. Watching people be healed, time after time, without fail, gives them the hope they need to go on living and face their own life’s problems.”

He settled back in his seat. “I can’t imagine how finding out what happened to me would give anybody any hope,” he said bleakly.

Ongreya suppressed a smile. He was starting to open up to her. “There is more than hope necessary to healing. Relief of the burden of unearned guilt is very important for those like you, who have been victims of crime.”

“Unearned? No. I should have been able to stop it.”

“All crime victims feel that, from one degree to another.”

“You don’t understand!”

“Then tell me.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “I should have realized I was being set up, not just accosted by a fan. I should have noticed the drug immediately, and purged it from my system before it took hold of me.”

“Ah. How long was it between when the criminals drugged you, and when you lost control of yourself?”

“About two seconds, I think. Maybe three.”

“Listen to what you just said, and imagine what you would say to another crime victim in the same situation.”

“Nobody else is in the same situation! Sure, lots of people have been kidnapped that way, but none of them are me!”

“Hmm.” Ongreya made an encouraging noise. She had long ago learned not to nod while wearing the subcasting hat. “You are some sort of famous person, then, I take it. Just imagine how much it would help other victims to know their hero is facing the same struggle they are; seeing how you overcome the same problem.”

He stilled and leaned forward. Ongreya knew she had found the wedge. He was motivated by service, just as she was.

“Do you really think so?”

“I know so. Are you ready to show us your face?”

The man reached up and pulled back his hood. Purple stains on his slightly asymmetrical face spoke eloquently of all the details he had left unvoiced. He had light hair, which had probably been blond once, and sad, rain-colored eyes.

He looked straight into the camera, and softly said, “Of all the people in the galaxy, I ought to be able to defend myself.”

Ongreya had occasionally been shocked by something she uncovered in the course of healing someone, but never like this. “Good gods. Lesley Smoke?”

He glanced away in embarrassment. “In the flesh. The marked, tainted flesh. The stain is already starting to come off of my face, after a week, but when it is coming off of my soul?”

“Now,” Ongreya replied. “That begins now; that’s what I’m here for.”

“What do I do?”

“Tell me of your pain,” Ongreya repeated, not exerting any power this time. She could see why it had not worked on him. Of course, she could not direct the mind of a Kirifo Master without his co-operation. “When you have poured out your story, you will be ready to let me into your mind. Then I will heal you.”

“As simple as that?”

“This is not going to be simple, or easy, or quick, or even painless—but it is going to work.”

“I see, and what about…” Lesley trailed off.

“What about who?” Ongreya prompted.

“Huh. I was sure I had my thoughts pulled in, but you’re reading me like I had no shields at all.”

“It is my talent. Who?”

Lesley looked away and gestured to his face. “This—implies another person. Her.”

“She has not called to me. Therefore, she does not need me.”

“You’re sure?”

“I am absolutely certain, but other people do. People you’ve never met, and probably never will. You can be an example of hope and healing. All you need to do is let me help you.”

“All right.”

“Tell me your story.”

Awkwardly, in fits and starts, the confusing tale came out. The parts about the Serekh were removed, and there was the huge gap of memory between the kidnapping and waking up on the Magi Raider. He also left out the part about being initiated as a Magus. It was not a very coherent narrative, but it was enough.

* * * *

“We need a lineman’s rig. Funny word, isn’t it?” Dije had become fascinated by words during her studies of Ancient Magi, and English. “I wonder why it’s called that.”

“We could hijack one of those, too.”

“We can’t kill the lineman. Firstly, it would be wrong—I only want to kill the bad guys. Secondly, it would be noticed. Capture the lineman, and then I’ll have to—” Dije and Kerruke had been talking in their native tongue, and Dije found she could not even say the word ‘sarav’, let alone do it to an innocent workman; even though she had done it to Lesley, and of course, a roomful of people at the SVN studio. “No. Send someone else undercover. Send one of the men to get a job as a lineman. The company will give him all the tools and knowledge he needs.”

* * * *

Lesley suddenly bent and put a hand to his forehead. “Ow!”

“You put your shields back up,” Ongreya said softly. “That pain was you pushing me out. I realize this process can be a little scary.”

Lesley nodded. “I’ve let my students into my mind; only to look around, not to change anything. In those cases, I know them.”

“We can wait. Talk more. You can get to know me, watch some of my previous subcasts…would you like to see my ship?”

A ghost of a smile touched Lesley’s stained face. “There’s an appeal no pilot can resist.”

“Come then.”

They walked out to the landing area.

Lesley swung up through the hatch, and into the workroom, peering up toward the cockpit.

The ship’s official name was something only the Zirua’a could pronounce; a souvenir of its days as an anthropological researcher’s ship. It was an old-fashioned vertical design, slender and pointed as a needle, resembling an obsolete chemical-rocket missile. The cockpit was in the nose and was reached by a ladder going up the ceiling of the sleeping compartment. The bed was not useable while the rocket was parked on a planet with any appreciable gravity since it was positioned vertically in the shaft of the cylinder. The idea was to save room, and also to encourage the anthropologist to live among the natives. In between the sleeping compartment and the engines was the workroom. This area contained computer and holorecording equipment, original to its scientific mission, mounted on gimbals so it could be oriented vertically when the ship was on the ground, and horizontally while the ship was in space. Like the early spaceflight rocket it resembled, the ship had no gravity generators.

“I call it Old Pointy. It’s probably not the most elegant name for a healer’s ship, but the other names I’ve tried out just haven’t stuck.”

Ongreya hadn’t needed to do much to the holorecording and editing equipment to make it suitable for subcasting to the Hobgoblin—as subcasters called the holographic bands of the Will—nor had she been required to upgrade the computer. It had originally been designed for serious scientific study and was overpowered for simply uploading edited subcasts. She did not store subscriber lists on it, or conduct any secure banking transactions. All those functions were part of the subcast site and were handled by a subcast hosting company. The one new piece of technology that Ongreya had installed in her ship was the holographic navigation system.

Lesley climbed up the ladder and squeezed into the cockpit. Once in the seat, he was facing straight up toward the clouds, like the earliest spaceflight pioneers. The pilot’s seat was so well padded that it felt exactly like an acceleration couch, and Lesley wondered if Old Pointy actually took off like a rocket. He’d love to light the engines and take it for a ride.

Ongreya, clinging to the ladder behind him, indicated a tacked-on box to the right of the dashboard. “That’s the holo navcomp.”

Lesley turned it on and saw a photographic-style representation of the galaxy, rather than the stylized map he had expected.

“To find the system I want, I reach in and grab it. Try it out.”

Lesley thought of Earth and reached in. Star systems magnified in size as he narrowed down the sector he moved his hand through. He tried to grab the Earth system and missed. He tried again, this time reaching for Sirius, and missed again.

“I can see this would take some practice.”

“Most humans find it confusing,” Ongreya said. “Aquatic species, like Changelings and Fii, take to it right away.”

“So, when you fly toward a call, you see a visual image of the world you’re looking for, but not the planet’s name or coordinates.”

“That’s right.”

“That’s how you managed to navigate to Gis without knowing you were putting down at the Kirifo Temple. And without smearing yourself across hyperspace.”

“Yes.” Ongreya sounded amused. Her natural form did not really smile, but it was there in her voice.

“For a while there, I thought you plotted hyperspace jumps with magic. In reality, you just pick the system, and the computer calculates the jump.” Lesley shut off the holo navcomp. “It’s really an amazing system. How does Old Pointy fly? Does it go bi-directional in the atmosphere, like an old rocket ship?”

“It does. Would you like to try it?”

“I’d love to.”

“Let me tell you all about the controls, then, since there’s no way to take a passenger.”

Lesley listened eagerly, picking up the concepts right away. Ongreya backed down the ladder and sealed the hatch, clearing out of the way of the engine blast. Lesley flipped on the controls, ignited the engines with a roar, and took off.

This was an entirely different flight experience than taking off in a gravity-controlled ship. It was like a fighter craft, but more so. The craft was more subject to the effects and feelings of takeoff; more primitively engaged in the visceral process; more exciting. Lesley laughed out loud when he cleared the atmosphere and the stars appeared. Then he, abruptly, went weightless. He circled Gis several times, and then set himself up for landing by flying backward with the tail to the target, totally relying on instruments. Lesley let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he shut the engines down.

“Now that was a ride.”

He slid out of the cockpit, emerging to find most of his students and fellow teachers watching the landing area from a safe distance. Lesley trotted over to Ongreya, grinning.

“That was fun! Thanks, Ongreya. It’s a truly unique ship.”

“You’re welcome,” Ongreya smiled a self-satisfied smile. Lesley was beginning to know and trust her; he was happy, for the moment; he was even re-engaging in one of his favorite activities—flying. There was more to Psy-healing than the kinds of revelations her subscribers wanted to hear. This was important, too. Ongreya was very pleased with her progress for today.

* * * *

Imei-Sim was undercover and in link with his brother Dai-Oni. He was just coming back from a break, primed to begin the telepathic charade. Dai-Oni was a solar system away, plugged into the Marathon network with a lineman’s rig; a ship that manipulated the relay stations dotted throughout the void. With that ship, Dai-Oni could disguise his call as coming from anywhere.

The bot Arpu trailed behind Mr. Veerterst, the Hssthisian, as he walked by. Imei-Sim turned to an Ai’toh walking near him and asked, “What does Arpu do, anyway?”

“I don’t know, but management seems to like him.”

The computers all restarted as he walked down the row.

The Lady was right: the arguing customers, the people who could never be pleased, the nebulous rules, the constant judgment calls that were always wrong, and the unfairness of being dinged for doing what he was told. They made him strong in the Rubo-giptuvor, strong with helpless rage.

Imei-Sim didn’t care about his conformance bonus. Like all Magi, he was trained to perceive criticism as an attack. A Magus Lord didn’t do anything so mundane as to dock a minion’s pay when he was unhappy with him. A Magus Lord called the lightning and tortured the target of his anger with powerful electric shocks. There was no one here who could, or would, do that to him.

The Lady was pleased with his true work: tracking down her enemies through their billing records. Even so, the impersonal stat report on the computer left him sweating if any of his metrics were off, and speaking to a floorwalker in person about his exception time made him shake in his Magi boots.

He sat down at his station, logged in from break, and turned on the station holocam. Most interstellar customer service centers didn’t bother with images of their staff, using only plain hypercomm links. However, Fuholo—Marathon, Marathon Now Together With Fuholo, Marathon Fuholo—or whatever they were calling the company this week, was in the Will business. Their goal was to present their product as so routine and necessary for business customers that they would use it to talk to customer service representatives.

“Back to the Non-paying Idiots,” he remarked to Ted-Ted the Giant at the next station.

He needed to go on the next operation, to pour out his darkness in the freedom of combat. Imei-Sim felt like his head would explode if he didn’t kill someone soon.

There was a pop, and smoke came from his computer. He logged out. He was going to have to submit a clickit ticket, and exception time, again.

“What is with my computer?” It malfunctioned every time he got mad. Surely, he couldn’t be doing that…

It seemed like a very long week to Imei-Sim Arr. On the weekend, he went aboard the Magi Raider, and they headed for the enemy’s secret fortress. He was happy to be back amongst his own kind and heading for battle, but he was still crackling with pent-up fury.

He went to his bunk, planning to pull a sheet over his head until it was time to kill something, only to find his brother and Ojaste doing fire play in the bunkroom. She stood in an X, leaning on her hands against the metal shelf of Dai-Oni’s bunk, which was the one above Imei-Sim’s. Dai-Oni drew lines of fire on her with a specialized implement.

Imei-Sim stalked out. He needed to kill something—now.

A whir and a glint of metal appeared in his fevered vision. He stretched toward it like he was going to strangle someone, and fried the butler bot.

Imei-Sim stared at the bot, and then at his hands. That was lightning; that was the Noble Gift. He was far past the age when it usually manifested. Most Lords broke through in adolescence, and many of the people who carried the potential of the Gift never broke through at all.

“I guess I’d better find a tattooist.” That was Lady Dije’s voice; dry and pale, like a fine yellow wine.

“My Lady…” Imei-Sim went white.

“The rules don’t apply out here. Out here, we can work together.”

“I don’t mean to encroach on your Territory.”

“I don’t have a Territory. This is Kerruke’s ship, and that was Kerruke’s bot. It’s up to her if you have to replace it. Personally, I think the bot was a great choice. If you’d tried to ground it out in the ship, you might have shorted out something vital. We could all have been stuck in hyperspace forever. Keep that in mind the next time you need to ground out, and you will. Nobody gets control of it on the very second try. Do you want to party now, or after you get your tattoo?”

“Uh—after. Thank you, my Lady.”

“Call me Dije. You’re your own Lord, now.”

“All right, um, Dije.”

“By the way, just until you have control of your powers, if you need to gesture or touch someone, curl your fingers inward toward your palms like this.” She demonstrated the safety measure. “It prevents accidents.”

“Thank you, My—Dije.”

At last, the Magi Raider reached the area of operation. They strafed the compound from the air. It was a tricky maneuver because the laser cannon was on top of the ship. The Magus Lady copiloted and handled the guns.

After all the vehicles on the ground were destroyed, Magi Raider swooped in for a landing. Dije led the crack troop of mercenaries into the drug factory, cutting open the door with her dej. Behind her, the Magi fanned out, attacking anything that moved. With magic, the Magi pulled heavy bags of pharmaceutical ingredients down on top of the factory workers, pinning them in place. They also knocked beam weapons and fletchette carbines out of the hands of the guards.

Like most Magi, Imei-Sim used a rote recitation as a tool to call magic, but instead of the names of people he hated, Imei-Sim recited: “Interstellar Dual Electromagnetic Network. Clear Dual Magnetic Augmentation. Now together in the hybrid holo-comm!”

It was not a bloodless victory. Many of the enemy fought back, even after being disarmed, and there were several casualties. A few of the mercenaries collected minor injuries, but the worst was merely a broken nose from a hulking Giant’s fist.

Dije and the mercs lined up their prisoners in the landing zone. Dije sent a few men through the factory to collect whatever information was to be had, and any incidental money or weapons that might be lying around. Then, with a shot from the ship’s gun, they torched the factory. It blew with a hellish blast and a chemical stink, burning like a star.

One by one, Dije walked down the line of prisoners and ripped the drug-making knowledge from their minds. They fell over keening, clutching their heads.

Some of the Magi stirred. One younger fellow even squirmed. They were fine with killing, but sarav was a special evil. The mercenaries knew their business, though, and did not look away or give the prisoners any opening to escape.

“We have ten minutes before their next memories will start,” Dije announced to the mercenaries. “We’ll be gone by then, and they won’t remember us. Everybody back aboard.”

* * * *

Ongreya’s species, known as Changelings, had a true form and a Changed form. Their true form was green, and vaguely frog-like, yet bipedal and basically humanoid. Each Changeling had only one Changed form, which followed the basic outlines of their true form.

“When I chose my Changed form, in childhood, I copied a holodrama actress from my favorite show.”

“So that’s why, instead of just looking like a blonde, blue-eyed human, you look specifically like a young Tinda Chaen.”

“Yes. My species developed this power to kill a human child and take his place. In times of famine, Changelings would co-opt another species to provide food for our young. Somewhere along the line, we had to develop intelligence in order to pass for human, and that led to an awareness of morality. The direct result of this was the development of our religion, and the Psy Healers.”

“I think I’m more comfortable with your true form, Ongreya.”

“Oh? Most humans prefer to look at an aesthetically pleasing human-seeming.”

“Integrity—being the same inside and out—is a good quality for a Kirifo.”

“A Kirifo? You want me to stay here and study at your Temple?”

“Yes. You have great potential.”

Ongreya pressed her hands together thoughtfully. “I admit it’s an exciting possibility, but I have my work: patients who need me, and subscribers to whom I am obligated.”

“Do you go to space every time you hear a call?”

“No. I can choose not to go to a call. It’s not a need. I hear thousands of calls. I only answer a few each month. I have to spend at least a few days on each one, counting flight time. I focus on the lurid. If my show were boring, no one would subscribe to it. I wouldn’t be able to keep myself in hyperdrive fuel. If I tried to help everyone, I couldn’t help anyone.”

“Then you could stay here long enough to learn to use more of your natural talent in magic, besides the Psy Healer gift. You might even become a better healer. Healing is what many of the Kirifo do most of the time, anyway. Just not me.”

“Tell you what, I’ll stay if you let me create a Kirifo subcast.”

“A what?”

“I’ll bet lots of people are curious about the Kirifo: how they’re trained, what they can really do, what the limits of their power are, and how they are kept from abusing that power. There are people out there who will hang on your every word because you’re their hero, and there are also people who are really nervous about having dozens of potential Emperor Re’s running around the galaxy. I think they’d find the truth reassuring. I know I do.”

“All right. Yes. But it’s up to each one of the other students whether or not they appear on your show.”

“It’s a deal.”

* * * *

They had a genuine serial killer stalking the employees and associates of the Sex and Violence Network. They beefed up security, but only around their top people. Ordinary employees were given ‘panic buttons’ to alert security, or if the employee’s activities were legal, the local police forces. The buttons also turned on holocams.

The Sex and Violence Network had a brand new, exclusive subcast: Serial Killer.

A dozen times…the Serial Killer logo of the death’s-head dripping blood flashed onto screens across the galaxy. Eight times meant a desperate chase through cities or countryside ended in a kill. Four times—instead of killing, the Serial Killer merely counted coup. He left the victims clawing at their hair, or scales, and unable to remember what had happened after they hit the panic button. Only twice, and a bot-operated camera glimpsed a shadow across its track just before both camera and bot were destroyed. The Serial Killer was an anonymous figure in a black cape, always gone before the security forces, and live-operated cameras, arrived.

Hareng moved around the latest victim, who had been beheaded. There was no blood. Zooming in on the stump, Hareng got good shots of the seared flesh, cauterized as it had been cut.

In case anyone watching at home missed the significance of that detail, Hareng cornered one of the Vigilantes and got a recording of him stating: “Dej wound. That doesn’t necessarily mean the Serial Killer is a Kirifo. It could mean the Serial Killer killed a Kirifo, or even bought a dej. This is certainly a vicious killing, though. That I’m certain of.”

Ratings soared.

* * * *

Lesley concluded a class in sensing ill intent and dismissed the students.

Ongreya lingered. “Can I put on my healer hat for a moment?”

“Do you ever take that thing off?” Lesley asked.

She laughed. “I guess that’s not a good way of putting it anymore, is it? Not now that I’m live on the Kirifo subcast all the time, except when I’m asleep. Let me switch channels, then.”

“Okay.”

Ongreya touched a button on the side of her hat. “I could tell, during this class, that you were doubting; having second thoughts about your ability to sense ill intent. You haven’t talked about how you came to be kidnapped, yet.”

Lesley expelled air from his nose, and turned away slightly, thinking.

“I saw her following me. The woman at the party. I scanned her for ill intent, and didn’t find any.”

“Why were you not able to detect the ill intent of those who kidnapped you?”

“Because I wasn’t strong enough. Because I wasn’t good enough.”

“You are a very powerful Kirifo. Are you sure more power is the answer?”

“What else is there?” Lesley asked. “I suppose it’s possible they didn’t have ill intent, from their perspective. Different morality.”

“A moral system in which kidnapping is all right?”

Lesley shrugged. “Anything’s possible, but I meant that what I picked up from her wasn’t malice. They did what they did to please others, not because they were evil. Selflessly serving evil—I don’t know if that’s even possible.”

“Did you not selflessly serve as a Tsim Knight under the rule of Emperor Re, before you became convinced he was evil and had to be killed?”

“Yes. Yes, I did. So, I guess that is possible, then.”

* * * *

It was sunset on Earth. Outside the window, the pink light of evening competed with the glow of thousands of lights from buildings, air vehicles, and hovering antigrav billboards.

“Don’t point,” Peyton said to Jean. “Dije says pointing isn’t polite.”

“I’ll point your ribs for you,” Jean threatened, backing up his threat with rib-tickling. Damienne joined in mercilessly. Even though they were studying to be Kirifo, they were still children.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it!” wailed Peyton.

“Don’t gang up on your cousin,” Chesley called from the next room. The royal children were on one of their rare visits with their parents. Rinonn and Chesley had been spending as much time with them as they could, but at that moment, the kids were playing a console game while their parents talked with their uncle.

Lesley had decided to take the kids home for a week because Ongreya was satisfied he was as healed as she could make him. The rest he would have to complete himself. She had taken off in Old Pointy to answer another call, promising to return. Lesley had decided to take a vacation.

There was a loud thump, and Jean yelled, “Ma-gis!”

“Dije says that’s not a nice word,” Peyton said. “Hey! Stop it!”

Then there was an even louder thump.

Rinonn and Chesley looked at each other and started to get up, but Lesley called out, “Don’t make me separate you.”

There was total and sudden silence.

Chesley looked embarrassed, as if just being the parent should have made him better at controlling the children than the head teacher at the school where they had lived most of their lives.

Rinonn raised an eyebrow. “How do you do that?”

Lesley smiled. “They know I can pick them up without line of sight. They wouldn’t get much playing in floating ten feet in the air for the next hour. It only took doing it once.”

They heard some whispers punctuated by “shh!” Then Jean’s urgent whisper carried into the room: “Will you shut up about Dije, already? She’s gone. She’s not coming back.”

“Whatever happened to Dije, anyway?” Rinonn asked.

Lesley could not tell them Dije had become a Kirifo. She had not hidden that from the crew of Magi Raider, but she considered them her personal gang, the followers a Magus Lady naturally attracted. If anyone in the government of Magi-ta found out she was a Kirifo, going home could be lethal. The only people who knew Dije was a Kirifo were those who called her Lady—the crew of Magi Raider—or called her Nusiwote-nir—used by Lesley himself. He was certainly not about to mention his getting initiated as a Magus.

“She’s flying around the galaxy on a quest for personal vengeance,” Lesley stated.

“Oh. Sorry, Lesley,” said Rinonn. “I know you had high hopes for that one.”

“I still do.” If that implied that he hoped she would return to the Order, that was fine.

“So what are you going to do about her?” Chesley asked.

“Nothing,” Lesley replied. “I support her campaign, in fact. She’s set out to completely destroy all knowledge of how to make Purple Tears.”

“Oh. Oh, Lesley.” Chesley was rarely at a loss for words. He reached out a hand but stopped the gesture abruptly. The brothers were still physically awkward around each other, even after all these years.

“You don’t have to say anything. I know it was all over the Will.”

For a few weeks, it had been impossible to get away from the news clip of Lesley with his stained face, saying, “Of all the people in the galaxy, I ought to be able to defend myself,” under the headline: Smoke Shocker. Even in the isolation of the Kirifo Temple, there was still a news feed on the corner of the holo-comm every time he powered it up to receive a call. He had eventually turned off the headline function, but he had still been unable to avoid the story as nearly everyone who called was a well-wisher wondering if he was all right.

The media, both the tabloid and mainstream varieties, had run bits of Ongreya’s Psy Healer subcast, which apparently they could do simply by paying a preset media fee; it was part of the way subcast interfaces were designed. None of them had run stories on the healing, only the crime.

Lesley broke the uncomfortable silence. “Ongreya really did help me. I’m all right, now. As all right as I am about all the other really awful things that have happened in my life, anyway. Thank you both for not calling and asking about it.”

“I knew you were safe. I could feel it,” Chesley said.

Lesley nodded. “This isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. It doesn’t even compare to being kidnapped out of my mother’s womb and raised in the Anarchy Zone.”

“May I ask you something?” inquired Rinonn.

“Of course. Always.”

“How is Dije’s war against Purple Tears a quest of personal vengeance? Did they get her, too? Are they targeting your students?”

“No. The students are safe. Don’t worry about that. Dije rescued me.”

“Oh. Reverse damsel in distress, huh?”

Lesley’s voice went harsh. “Track that a moment, Rinonn. My teenage female apprentice came to rescue me when I was hopped up on Purple Tears. I can’t remember what happened. She does. It turned her into—” Lesley broke off. Actually, it had turned her into a Kirifo, but the rest of the galaxy knew her as the Serial Killer. That was a secret, too, since the SAVN did not know the Serial Killer’s identity.

Lesley thought of a hundred things to say, each worse than the last: it turned her into a person who terrified hardened Magi mercenaries; who killed like a warbot, and ravaged minds like Re’s Inquisitors; it was okay because Lesley was glad someone was doing it so he wouldn’t be tempted to do it himself.

Lesley settled for, “So what’s the latest gossip on Earth?”

Ever the diplomat, Chesley immediately supplied an inane story involving a Teluli Ambassador and a poltergeist.

* * * *

Light shifted oddly in the girl’s hotel room. Ojaste’s eyes were fully adapted to the darkness of the chamber, where she had sat at the table for hours now, after relieving the day guard.

Silently, Ojaste stood and went toward the outer wall, where the disturbance centered. She was a shadow in the night, a snake-headed goddess crowned with the Serekh style braids she had been keeping herself awake by practicing. She practiced everything the Lady taught her. Among those things was the art of illusion. Ojaste could not project it as Lady Dije could, but she recognized it when she felt the current flow around her.

A door opened in the outer wall, where no door had ever been.

Ojaste stood in the way of whoever was about to come through it. She put out her arms, raising a wall of magic between the door and the former slave girl. The field popped and spat as someone blundered into it.

Rene sat bolt upright in her bed and screamed a little girl scream.

Someone tried again to slip through the magic field and was repelled. Then there was a ripple in the interior wall going into the next suite of rooms, and again on the other side.

“Ojaste! The invisible people! They’re over here!” Rene shrieked.

Ojaste dropped the magic field and whirled toward little Rene, letting go of magic and summoning what little she could hold of the rushing waters of the Flow. She could not project illusion, though she could detect it, and disrupt it. With a grimace and a burst of light-like a static discharge, three Serekh appeared in the room, their illusions of invisibility dispelled.

“Shhh,” one of the women said. “We won’t hurt you. We’re here to help you. We’ll take you to a new life, with others like yourself. The slavers will never find you again.”

Rene jumped out of bed and clung to Ojaste. “I don’t need to hide,” the girl cried. “I have real Magi Guards.”

“That’s right,” Ojaste assured her.

“Guards can’t heal you. We can. Come with us.”

“I’m not sick,” Rene said.

“Wouldn’t you like to live in a community of women who care for each other; women who’ve had the same experiences as you, and who understand you?”

“Will these women teach me to kick butt?” Rene asked.

“Violence is not the way.” The magnificent Serekh woman might have looked like a fairy tale heroine coming to save the little girl, except that Rene was from Magi-ta, and her fairy tales usually ended with the death of the protagonist.

“Here,” Ojaste whispered, handing something to the child.

Even in the faint city light coming through drawn curtains, Rene’s teeth gleamed as she smiled wickedly. “Nobody touches me now. I’ll zap you if you come any closer. Get out, and never come back!” The girl brandished an electric stunner. It was an old-fashioned weapon, only lethal by occasional accident, but perfectly legal to own and use on this civilized world.

“Yes,” Ojaste whispered. “Even a commoner can hold the power of the Lords in the palm of her hand.”

The Serekh tried again. “You don’t need weapons to stay free, and out of the hands of men. We will protect you.”

“Ojaste will protect me, and teach me to protect myself. Because the Lady loves me.”

Startled, the Serekh woman replied, “Of course, the Goddess loves everyone, but force is not part of the Dream, nor is Magic. Do you not hunger for the gentle touch?”

“Get out!” Rene shrilled. “Get out, get out, get out!”

The three women in the long gowns turned and exited by the normal door.

Rene sobbed, and Ojaste knelt and took her in her arms.

“You did it, Rene. You drove them off.”

Rene hugged her fiercely. “You saved me.”

“I barely helped at all. You defeated the invisible people. You are strong and brave. You’ll kick the butts of the slavers in court tomorrow, too, just exactly like you did here tonight: by telling the truth and not backing down. You stuck to your guns, and you can do it tomorrow, too. I’m proud of you, Rene.”

“Nobody’s ever said that to me before.”

“This ‘Nobody’ is a fool.”

Rene smiled and wiped her eyes. “What will happen to me after the trial?”

“VP Chrrr will find you a home. Someone to take care of you until you’re old enough to do for yourself.”

“What if I don’t like them?”

“Then call the VP, or the Lady, or me. We’ll always help you. You’re free now, Rene. You don’t have to stay with bad people anymore.”

“Can I keep this?”

“Sure. Don’t sleep with it, though. It’s best not to handle a weapon unless you’re completely awake, and sober—I suppose that won’t be an issue for a few years yet. Remember it, anyway.”

“I will, Ojaste.” Rene set the stunner on the nightstand and climbed back into bed, although she did not close her eyes for a long time.

* * * *

Lesley walked down the stone corridor of the Temple. He had been ‘home’ on Gis for some time, and the initial awkwardness of trying to resume his teaching had faded away to nothing, just like the marks on his face had disappeared. Ongreya had returned, and was well on her way to becoming a Kirifo. Very rarely now did she guide Lesley’s healing in any way, now. She had told him, more than once: whatever was left, he would have to discover himself.

All in all, he agreed with that assessment. He needed to do something, take some action, and not just wait around for the actions to be taken by others, no matter how well. Nevertheless, what action?

Lesley had a prickly feeling that he was about to find out, as he went into his spare office.

Waiting for him was a hologram of Dije Kun. She had acquired a proper set of black mercenary fatigues, which made the silver dej on her belt very obvious. She wore her hair in Serekh braids, plaited with red ribbon.

“Hello, Lesley. How are you?” The bland pleasantry seemed freighted with dire import.

“Well. Well enough. You?”

“I’m down to the last one on my list, but he’s elusive. Magi Raider is a fast ship, but his is faster. We’ve tried several times to catch him. We can’t go after him on land, the planets he flies between are tightly controlled corporate worlds with Vigilantes everywhere, and unfortunately his connection to the target information is perfectly legal.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“Can I borrow your Raven?”

“No. Yes. Wait. My ship can be part of your operation, as long as I’m in it.”

Dije shook her head, stirring her snake-like collection of braids. “The plans calls for a cloaked fighter, made invisible with the art of illusion.”

“I can do that.”

“As well as me?”

“Maybe not, but can you fly a Raven as well as I can?”

Dije fidgeted with her belt for a moment. Then she smoothed her hands decisively. She looked off to the side, speaking to a crew member. “Send him the coordinates for the rendezvous.”

* * * *

“The Board is very impressed with your work on the slavery ring case, Chrrr. This is the kind of dedication and vision we’re looking for. Congratulations. You’ve got the open seat.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I’m delighted to accept.”

* * * *

In the infinite void, bits of matter flocked together. Small chunks tumbled in asteroid fields. Smaller still, mists of matter congregated into nebulae. Larger collections coalesced into planets, stars, black holes, and galaxies.

Not all the lightless shapes in this young star system; faintly lit and harshly shadowed by a hot blue sun; were simple space rocks or icy cometary fragments. One was a fighter lying doggo in the commercial space lane, at the bottleneck where ships leaving the system had to pass to avoid the asteroids.

A small transport ship dove crazily at the gap. Its shields shed space dust, minor rocks and red streaks of coherent light. The ship in pursuit had the lines of a yacht, with a laser cannon turret slapped on the top.

The transport’s disproportionately large engines blazed with white fire, running over capacity. They were pulling ahead, winning the race, again. They were winning the same race they had run against Magi Raider three times before.

“Not this time,” said Lesley. “Bot brain, power up the ship.”

The bot lit the engines and brought all the systems up from standby. Bot brain swiveled its cameras as the other ships passed. The robot sent an intercept time estimate to the monitor inside the Raven.

“Thanks, Bot brain.”

The controls went live under Lesley’s hands, and he steered to shave seconds off the intercept time. Bright lances of destruction shot at the transport from two directions, now.

The transport’s pilot had an inhumanly fast reaction time. He broke and skimmed the asteroid field; the yacht and the fighter gave chase. The transport did not quite enter the field, and neither did Magi Raider. They ran alongside it as if they were terrain-following on a planet.

They approached the Knob, a section of the field where the space debris was pulled farther into the system by the gravity of a nearby planetoid. The transport and Magi Raider snapped away from the hazard.

Lesley stretched out his mind. Magic confirmed what his pilot’s instincts had guessed: the transport was going to pop back under the Knob on the other side.

“Pretty good trick, but not good enough.”

Lesley plunged directly into the asteroid field. Dodging with Kirifo magic and skill, he wove through the tumbling meteors at speed; shooting out the other side, ahead of the transport.

The transport looped and sped toward the planetoid. Magi Raider followed, slightly less maneuverable, and was losing ground. Lesley poured on the speed and caught up, gluing himself to the transport’s tail. He fired, and scored a hit. The shields absorbed it.

The transport juked and jinked, but Lesley stuck right behind him. He fired again and again. The transport’s shields failed in spots, and the hits blackened the white metal. A geyser stream of escaping air signaled a hull breach.

The enemy ship made for port, a small settlement on the planetoid. Lesley did not want to involve innocent bystanders.

“Enough,” he said aloud.

He had been toying with them, playing pilot games for his own amusement. He did not need to defeat his opponents with superior flight skills. He was a Kirifo. “A Kirifo Sidyerit, and a Magus,” he whispered. There was no limit to the power he could command.

Lesley cast out magic and found his quarry, a Torshon pilot whose spirit sang with triumph. Lesley reached into the alien body and stopped his heart.

The transport crashed into a construction site, snapping steel girders and sending them wheeling off into the light gravity.

Lesley circled and saw a form emerge from the wreckage. He strafed the survivor as he ran for the shelter of partially finished steel buildings.

Lesley set his ship down, popped the canopy, and leaped out. He hit the ground running with his dej in his hand.

“Ha-ha!” The enemy would never escape him, now.

No one would mistake that wordless cry of exultation for the deep calm of a Kirifo meditation. This was razor-edged berserker glee.

Lesley extended all his senses and darted into the partially finished structure. He felt multiple dangers at every turn. No matter. His prey was running, and he would have him.

He rounded a corner and ran into a wall of sound. His steps faltered, and he felt as though someone was trying to stop his heart, as he had done to the enemy pilot. Sonic weapon, he realized. He hunted for the source of the sound, reached out through magic and pulled the speaker off the wall.

The sonic attack stopped. Momentarily, Lesley sagged forward; he panted, supporting himself with his hands on his legs. He recovered quickly, and was off again, moving more slowly and carefully.

He felt the one he hunted react to something in great surprise, and then the emotions ceased abruptly, although the man’s life had not winked out to Lesley’s magical senses. Lesley tracked his quarry to an avenue between steel skeletons of future buildings. The man lay in the yellow dirt of the planetoid, unconscious.

Lesley eased around the corner, approaching cautiously. A surge of danger came to him, a second before the danger manifested, and Lesley leapt back out of the killing field. Broad circles of blue light danced over the area.

Stun beams. Lesley peeked around the corner, looking for the weapons. He found three, and ripped them down with magic. Slowly, he crept back into the avenue. No stunners fired. He had gotten them all.

Lesley went to the unconscious man, igniting his dej as he approached. Lesley lined up and started to swing, but let the blade drift to a stop. No matter how much he wanted to complete this quest—no matter how much he wanted revenge—he could not kill a helpless, unconscious person.

So what now? Lesley wondered. Wait for him to wake up, and then kill him?

A roar came from overhead, and Lesley looked up, coming to a ready guard stance. It was Magi Raider, on full power descent, coming in for a landing. The ship cleared the four-story girders, but still swirled the dust in the avenue.

The sight of Magi Raider reminded Lesley that Dije had told him that when she could avoid killing those on the list, she erased the formula from their minds. Lesley decided that was what he would do with the unconscious man.

He reached into his enemy’s mind and did not find an enemy. The man knew the formula, but he was not connected to the SVN, or the drug manufacturers, or the slavers. He was a police scientist.

Lesley hesitated. This man would not manufacture the drug. Lesley sifted through the unconscious man’s thoughts until he found what the man intended to do with his knowledge. Lesley discovered that this man was potentially more dangerous than the whole SVN combined. The police scientist was planning to put the formula of the drug on display, as part of his testimony at the slavery ring trial. The formula was going into the public record. From there, it would propagate through the Holoweb until there were so many copies the knowledge could never be contained. Above all, that must be prevented.

As carefully as he could, leaving as much of the rest of the man’s mind intact as he could manage, Lesley cut out the Purple Tears formula and destroyed it.

A sudden silence told Lesley the Magi Raider had landed and shut off its engines. He reached out in magic for life forms and passageways, intending to plot his course to meet up with Dije and her gang. That was when he felt the non-human presence. There was someone else here.

Lesley centered on the alien mind and sought it out, dej still glowing and humming like an excited demon ready to drink blood. Lesley walked into an area with a lattice wall and sensed some sort of danger behind it. Before he could figure out what it was, his dej flew out of his hand.

It deactivated when it left his grip and passed through one of the holes in the lattice. It was not magic that had pulled it away. Lesley felt a horribly strong tug on the little metal clip by which his dej attached to his belt. “Electromagnet,” Lesley said out loud. Then red lines of light crisscrossed the area.

Lesley jumped straight up and grabbed onto one of the steel girders. The blasters tracked him, and he jumped to another part of the structure. Barely ahead of the killing bolts, Lesley made an impossible jump—impossible for anyone but a Kirifo—to another building, and ran around a corner. He started to relax, only to find himself face to face with a warbot.

The ancient war robot had its shield, and both guns, live. It was about to fire, and Lesley did not have his dej to deflect the shots.

“Lesley!” Lesley! Dije’s voice: both in his ears and in his mind. His head snapped around; a moment later a small object sailed toward him, Dije’s dej.

He activated the white blade just in time to intercept the warbot’s attack. Red beams bounced back at the warbot, to be absorbed by its shield.

Then the Magi arrived. Dije stretched out both hands toward the warbot. She cast lightning, and the warbot exploded in a cloud of smoking sparks. Its shield went down, its arms lowered, and it clanked to motionlessness.

“The planetoid is a trap,” Lesley said. “Magnetic wall for catching dejes, area effect weapons—a trap for a Kirifo.”

“A trap for the Serial Killer,” said Dije. “It’s got to be the SVN. Magi Raider is jamming all transmissions, so if they’re trying to subcast, they won’t get anything.”

“Good. There’s someone here: our true enemy. The scientist was just as surprised by the traps as I was. The enemy’s this way.” Not bothering to give Dije’s dej back, he sprang off into the construction site.

Behind him, he heard Dije order: “Fan out. You two, circle around. Establish a perimeter.” Then Dije followed him.

There was one finished area in this construction zone, a small comm shack, sprouting antennae like some building-shaped alien lifeform. Inside was a humanoid with a bank of screens, on which he watched fixed cameras.

Hareng jumped up when Lesley kicked in the door. He snatched up a handheld holocam.

Looking at the big, obvious camera, Lesley missed Hareng pressing a button on what he could only guess was a necklace. It was really a still camera; Hareng got one good shot of Lesley, dej in hand.

Lesley chopped the holocam in half. The two pieces fell to the floor. He whirled the dej, preparing to cut off Hareng’s head.

Behind him, Dije shouted, “No!” She ran into the shack. “Let him go. He doesn’t know the formula.”

“He’s one of them. The Sex and Violence Network.”

“You don’t have to kill him.”

“Maybe I just plain want to,” Lesley said.

“It’s not necessary,” Dije argued. “Lesley, this won’t help anyone. It’s not justice. It’s not even vengeance. If you kill just because you feel like it, you will no longer be a Kirifo. Your mandate is to heal and protect.”

For a long moment, Lesley did not answer, or make a move.

Only Hareng’s long habits as a combat photographer kept him from trembling. One of Dije’s men came to the doorway but did not crowd into the shack.

Finally, Lesley asked softly, “Will I be a Magus?”

“No,” Dije said firmly. “Remember the day I showed you the true nature of magic? What is the first lesson, and the last?”

Lesley thought a moment. His memories of the initiation were chaotic, due to the confusion of his mental state at the time. When he thought of the answer, he straightened his posture.

“Magic is life.” Lesley shut off the dej and retracted the steel bar of the blade.

“That’s right,” Dije affirmed. She walked up to him and took the dej hilt from his hand. “It’s over. Come on.” She turned him around with a hand on his arm, and Lesley walked back toward the other Magi.

Dije looked back over her shoulder at Hareng. With a simple gesture, she effectively wiped out Hareng’s short-term memories, erasing the past half hour as if it had never been.

That was the conclusion of the Serial Killer series. There was no holo of the final hunt. There was, however, a single still picture, a wrecked trap, and two people with their memories pulled from them. The still was the exciting find, because it clearly showed the shadowy figure’s face at last. Raven fighter pilot jumpsuit, glowing dej, asymmetrical face: the Serial Killer was the Kirifo Sidyerit, Lesley Smoke. So the galaxy believed.