CHAPTER SEVEN

The work of sneaking into one of the most secure sectors in the entire Chatcaavan Empire Lisinthir left to the FIA team. The sifting of its networks for useful data, he left to the Chatcaavan specialist. That set him too much at loose ends and with too much to brood about, for while he trusted Sediryl to look after herself, knew Amber would do his part no matter how much he complained, and had faith that he had done everything in his power to prepare Jahir for his trials, still he hated having so many hostages delivered into the hands of fortune… and that was before he counted his lovers. The Emperor had been born to the fight. But the Queen….

Oh, how he honored her for her courage. And yet, he hated the thought of her alone and without ally.

So, he did as he did always when deprived of the ability to act decisively. He took his swords to the ship’s small gymnasium and practiced until sweat plastered his clothes to his body and dripped off his nose. And then he kept going. Meryl had been unable to give him a definite travel time—“We’re going to have to assess the situation as we go”—so who knew how long he’d be trapped here in abeyance, awaiting the moment he could take his fate into his hands again.

This business of delegation was fraught.

The second day of his self-imposed practices, the door to the gymnasium opened. He turned, clawing his hair from his face, and straightened, interested. “So,” he said in Chatcaavan. “You too find yourself with too much time on your hands and too little to do, do you.”

The Knife grimaced. “I’m not used to being idle.”

“Neither am I. And so you see me.”

“Fighting with weapons,” the Knife said. He hesitated, then gestured toward the room. “May I….”

“By all means.”

The male padded in, tail held in a low curve. Lisinthir observed with amusement that the Knife kept his gaze warily trained on Lisinthir while walking in a long curve around him, as if the Eldritch was some wild creature that might do something unexpected. Which was well, as it was not entirely untrue.

“I assume Uuvek is at least keeping you informed of what he’s doing?”

“He is, yes,” the Knife said. “But it is not… the way you are making it sound. As if he is my subordinate. We are huntbrothers, but I am not his captain. If he decides not to report anything to me, the most I can do is clout him on the head and tell him he’s annoying me.”

Lisinthir laughed. “Does that work?”

“Not as often as I’d like,” the Knife said. “He has a hard skull.” Another pause. Then, “This fighting with unnatural weapons. You do it because it increases your reach?”

Startled, Lisinthir said, “Partially, yes. I did not expect you to guess it, though.”

The Knife eyed him with a grim smile. “I am a soldier, Ambassador. If I can’t assess the utility of a weapons system… if we couldn’t assess the utility of weapons systems… we would never have come up with the weapons that allowed us to conquer the Empire.”

“True,” Lisinthir said. “Why then do you suppose so many of your kind dismiss them?”

“I don’t know that we do,” the Knife said. “Or at least, it’s not that simple. We do have personal weapons. The ones we use shipboard—they are like armored covers for our own claws, designed to slice through the body armor we wear to protect ourselves from vacuum. But we use them because we want to make it possible to engage in the single combat we are accustomed to.” He flexed his fingers, the claws gleaming under the overhead lights. “We cling to tradition. And… we cling to our identity. We are Chatcaava. We have to know what that means. If we don’t, then what holds us together?”

Thinking of the poor choices the Eldritch had made in order to maintain their own cultural identity, Lisinthir said wryly, “Yes, I can see how that would be a pressing question.” He considered the Knife, remembering the claw-knives he’d used and wondering. “Those armored claws…”

“A Naval weapon,” the Knife said, sober. “Used only on shipboard. To use them elsewhere would be unfair. We want to pit like strength against like strength. To do otherwise is cowardly.”

Lisinthir thought of the former Second’s outrage over the use of the claw-knives. ‘An assassin’s weapon.’ “I see.” And smiled crookedly. “You obviously do not dismiss the value of a weapon wielded by a clawless, wingless race. Shall I teach you to use one, then?”

“Those?” The Knife eyed his swords. “I am curious.”

“And bored?” Lisinthir guessed.

The Knife looked away with another grimace. When he brought his gray eyes back to Lisinthir’s, he said, “I am agitated. He is my Emperor. She is my Queen. It was my Empire, and my Navy.”

“Yes,” Lisinthir said, quietly. “So let us embark on this distraction. Perhaps we will learn something from it we might use.”

Instructing a Chatcaavan on the rudiments of swordplay involved challenges Lisinthir had not anticipated. The claws themselves explained why the Chatcaava had not embraced any weapon that required a handle, which led him to ask how most Chatcaava grasped anything. “Most males,” the Knife said, “Keep their claws shorter. It is a way of signaling they are not interested in climbing the ladder of dominance.”

Lisinthir lifted his brows but chose not to pursue that. Since the Knife had chosen that path—at least, enough to make grasping a narrow hilt difficult—he improvised with the gymnasium’s computer and managed an entirely solidigraphic sword the Knife could use to at least learn the rudiments. Once they’d dispensed with that issue, the teaching was not as difficult as Lisinthir had anticipated. All the Chatcaava in the Navy learned unarmed combat, since their fighters existed to deliver them to other ships where they could indulge in it. Having knives on the ends of their fingers meant they had learned some of the basic reflexes. The Knife knew not to put himself in the way of anything pointy, understood the importance of lunging and the maintenance of one’s balance, and had excellent hand-eye coordination and situational awareness. The rest of it, Lisinthir thought, was details… but then, God and Air were in the details.

They did drills first: lunges and basic attacks, parries. Lisinthir explained the principles, was fascinated by the concepts the Knife grasped easily versus those that took him time. It passed the hours better than single practice had, though when they were done with that first session, the male waved his sword back into the aether and said, “May I see it?”

“See…”

“What it looks like when someone who fights well with these implements does so. Do you have practice holograms?”

Lisinthir remembered fighting with a cousin at his back and all the exhilaration of that perfect communion fueling their battle. His mouth quirked. “We do, yes. If you would stand back? I wouldn’t mind the chance to drain the last of my energy.”

The Knife withdrew to the far corner, putting his wings and back to the wall, and folded his arms. Lisinthir smiled a little, then said, “Resume simulation, please.”

“Resuming.”

The playback the Knife had interrupted flashed back into life around him. It was set to increase the number of foes as he defeated them, and he had been on three simultaneously. Three was pleasure, was a good workout, but it didn’t empty himself of anything but the fight, didn’t drain the worries from him and leave him clean, a creature of body and air and steel. He didn’t start thinning out until six opponents, and he stopped at the seventh only because the guard protocol he’d selected allowed moderate contact and his limbs were beginning to suffer from the multiple bruises.

He would look a sight before the abbreviated clinic saw to him. But at least there was a clinic.

The Knife had not moved from the corner, save to widen his eyes so much there was a rim of white around the irises. The Chatcaava had enormous irises.

“Swords have their uses,” Lisinthir said, wiping his brow with the side of his arm.

“I would have thought they would get in the way,” the Knife said. “But I see wielded by someone who understands them....”

“Yes. That is the key, isn’t it? A tool is useless unless understood.”

“Almost everything is useless unless understood. The quest for Perfection is, in the end, a quest for understanding.” The Knife stood away from the corner, tucking his wings neatly behind his shoulders. “I will return tomorrow, if you are amenable.”

“I am, yes.”

The Knife inclined his head, the neat end of his mane falling over his shoulder. “Tomorrow, then, Ambassador.”

Lisinthir decided his bruises did not rise to the level of urgency necessary to bother with the clinic and opted instead for a long water shower, and to spend the time before bed caring for the Imthereli swords. As he polished them, he wondered what he would have made of the Empire had he met individuals like the Knife first, rather than the males attracted by the rarified and extreme environment of the court. And yet, would it have mattered? The court ruled the Empire, and all the males like the Knife and Uuvek. Unless those males could be convinced to rise against their masters, not all the knowledge that they existed mattered.

A tool was also only as useful as its willingness to be wielded. Lisinthir slid the swords home in their sheaths and thought of Jahir and Vasiht’h’s commentary, about therapy requiring the consent of the participants.

That night, he lay flat on his back on the bunk and stared at the darkened ceiling, reaching in vain for traces of those he loved. But he did not have the talents that lent themselves to touching them intangibly—was better with the physical plane than the spiritual, did not have even Jahir’s small talent for the pattern that made it possible to sense where everyone was on their particular paths. He could only pray that they were where they were supposed to be, and do his best to be there himself.

He and the Knife were at their practice the following day when they were interrupted by the arrival of Uuvek. Unlike the Knife, Uuvek lifted his brow ridges in an expression of patent skepticism. “I didn’t expect to find you playing,” he said to the Knife.

“I am exploring the mindset of aliens in order to better assess the potential abilities of our allies in our mission to recover the Emperor,” the Knife said primly. And then, with a sudden grin that gaped his mouth. “And it’s not really playing, though it has its fun moments. You should try it, Uuvek, it’s interesting.”

Uuvek eyed the Knife’s practice sword, floating in the air beyond the Knife’s fingers. “I prefer aiming large grasers at things I wish to destroy.”

“Spoken like a true computer technician,” the Knife said. “So what brings you here?”

The levity fell from the other male like water sleeting. “I’ve found something we need to discuss.”

“Say that again?” Meryl said in the conference room fifteen minutes later.

“I have made contact with some of the survivors of the battle that destroyed the Emperor’s flagship,” Uuvek repeated. “They are requesting rescue.”

“I assume there’s some reason requesting rescue hasn’t caused the traitors in your Navy to swoop in and finish off the job?” Shanelle said.

Uuvek eyed her. “You work with networks. You know there are layers of them. Eddies where people wash and might go unfound. Some of us have kept secrets, and when we want to talk with like-minded Chatcaava we go to those places in the skein. That is where I found this request, and it was buried deeply enough I almost didn’t notice it.” He glanced at the Knife. “If you hadn’t made me read that scripture I would have missed it. They were using it as a code.”

“Really?” the Knife asked with obvious fascination.

Before the derailment could continue, Meryl lifted a palm. “All right. Let’s assume you’ve found valid information, not something someone left out there to catch people looking for your survivors. Where are they? And how many?”

“Four,” Uuvek said. “Not far from Apex-East. They limped into hiding out past the heliopause. And we must rescue them because one of them is the Admiral-Offense, and he is near death.”

The Knife’s mouth dropped open.

“The Admiral-Offense is important,” Na’er guessed.

“The Admiral-Offense would have commanded the flagship,” the Knife said, eyes still wide. “He would have been intimately involved with the Emperor’s plans.”

“Maybe he killed the Emperor, then,” Na’er said.

“No,” Lisinthir murmured. “They weren’t sure of his allegiance either, so they sent him to the slaughter with the male he served.”

The Knife and Uuvek looked at him sharply. The former said, “That is also a possibility.”

“A strong one,” Uuvek said. “Why would he be in hiding if he was on their side? He could ask for pick-up and be assured of a rescue.”

“Unless they wanted to kill him off as a way of erasing evidence?” Na’er said, tapping a finger against the side of his muzzle.

“They don’t think that way,” Laniis said. “They don’t care about evidence or rule of law the way we do. It’s the right of the strong to rule. If you lose, you’re automatically in the wrong.”

Meryl glanced at the Chatcaava.

“She’s correct,” Uuvek said. “Not that the rest of us are glad that it works that way. But in the upper echelons... yes.”

“So if we pick up these stragglers, we might learn what happened,” Meryl said. “From the perspective of people who were actually there. And all it requires is... finding them.” She eyed Uuvek. “You want us to find a handful of survivors who have consciously chosen to go dark in space somewhere they know they won’t be found.”

“Yes,” Uuvek said. He snorted. “Fortunately for you all, the Knife is a reader of poetry.”

The days that followed were excruciating. Meryl refused to drop into a system as heavily guarded as their target and coasted out of Well several days out from their destination. From there she appeared determined to creep as slowly as possible into the outskirts. Nor was she the only one plagued by an excess of caution, because both Chatcaava approved of her paranoia. They also needed her to move slowly so they could sweep the immediate area for their missing Naval personnel, and the area that constituted ‘immediate’ when using passive scans not likely to attract attention was so miniscule Shanelle described the procedure as ‘looking for a single germ in a city.’ If they had not had the clues the Knife decoded using what appeared to be an ancient set of psalms from the Living Air’s primary religious tract, they could have spent years creeping around the edges of Apex-East, hoping to find their targets... as it was, the volume they had to cover was small enough to handle ‘within a few weeks.’

In his calmer moments, Lisinthir knew their caution was necessary and justified. When he forgot this, he fought himself dripping in the gymnasium, gritted his teeth, and tried not to live in his memories of all his lovers, Eldritch and Chatcaavan, or in his fears for them in their durances.

The summons came while he was sleeping—poorly, as usual—and jerked him from his confused mélange of memory and dream. Shoving himself up from the bunk, he said, “Yes?”

“We’ve found them, and they’re coming over now.”

“On my way,” he said.

He hadn’t asked where to go and didn’t need to; when he exited his quarters he followed the sound of over-agitated talk to the clinic, where Dellen Crosby, the Seersan medic, was at work on the unconscious body of a male with a rack of horns that would have impressed Lisinthir had he not known the Emperor’s so intimately. Circled round him like a flock of distressed birds were the rescued Chatcaava in their torn and bloodied uniforms, dull-eyed with exhaustion. The Knife and Uuvek were telling them the freaks were willing to help and that they should stand down, allow themselves to be escorted elsewhere to ease the crowding in the room. The Fleet personnel were lined against the wall, watching the newcomers warily.

“Finally,” Dellen said when Lisinthir entered. “Get them to shut up and go somewhere else.”

“They won’t abandon him,” Lisinthir said. In Chatcaavan, he said, “Pardon me. I believe you’d like to know the person in charge of this mission?”

All the Chatcaava swiveled their heads toward him.

“What is that!” one of them hissed.

“That is the Ambassador who sat on Second’s pillow at the side of the true Emperor,” the Knife said.

The stares became rounder. He found the sight of them in all their lambent colors rather astonishing, jewel-like... unintentionally comical.

“I assume,” Lisinthir said, “You are also partisans of the true Emperor. If not, I fear things will not go well with you.”

They looked at one another, the three strangers. Then one said, “We follow the Admiral-Offense. If you save him, we have no quarrel with you.”

In horribly accented Chatcaavan, Dellen said, “If you don’t get out of my way I’ll stab him myself just to have enough peace to think.”

Another startled silence. Lisinthir filled it, before the Seersa could make good on his threat. “Those Outside have their idiosyncrasies, do they not? Rest assured we want nothing more than to succor the Admiral-Offense. Irascible medics notwithstanding.”

That made one of the rescued Chatcaava smile a little.

The Knife stepped forward. “Perhaps we can show these individuals to a place they can wash and eat?”

“Yes,” Meryl said. “Follow me. Ambassador, you’ll stay here?”

“So long as my presence does not disturb the medic’s peace,” Lisinthir said, studying Dellen.

The Seersa’s ears flicked back. “Just keep quiet.”

“My race is noted for its silences.”

Dellen snorted and resumed ignoring him and everyone else. The Chatcaava, appeased for now by Lisinthir’s promise, filed from the room in Meryl’s wake, and Uuvek went with them... but not the Knife.

“I too can be quiet,” he said when Dellen glared at him.

They settled into silence, then. Lisinthir studied the battered face of the male under the halo-arch. Burns, cuts and bruises, at least one cracked horn and a wing that was torn... the Admiral-Offense had been through hell, but if the halo-arch was any indication it was his internal injuries that were killing him. The Alliance was very good at arresting such traumas, however, and the Chatcaava, for all their slight frames with their occasional hollow bones, were harder to kill than they looked. Lisinthir let his head rest back against the wall, closed his eyes, and let time slide away from him.

“He’s coming around,” Dellen rasped into the quiet. Beside Lisinthir, the Knife sprung up, went to the bed to crouch alongside. When the other male opened crusted eyes, the first thing he saw was another Chatcaavan male’s worried gaze, which was good, Lisinthir thought... because Chatcaava did not heal from injury lying on their backs the way citizens of the Alliance tended to.

“Where....”

“You are safe, Admiral-Offense,” the Knife said firmly. “Among friends of the true Emperor, not the Usurper.”

“Did... did my messages...”

The Knife glanced at Lisinthir, who lifted his brows.

“We received no messages from you, sir,” the Knife said. “But you were rescued by three of your people who have been adrift with you since the battle, and they requested aid. Carefully, so that our enemies would not find you.”

“Uhn, where am I—” The Admiral-Offense looked past the Knife at the unfamiliar color of the walls and their height, then shot past the Knife’s shoulder to lock onto—“You.”

“I see you recognize me,” Lisinthir said.

“I know of you.” The male grimaced. “I am trapped. Why?”

“You’re under the healing arch of one of the aliens,” the Knife said. “I don’t know if you can rise yet.”

“I’d rather he didn’t,” Dellen said again in his horribly accented Chatcaavan.

“Stay a while longer, let your wounds finish healing,” the Knife said firmly. “You are among allies. These aliens... they are the Ambassador’s to command.” Dellen snorted. “They are here to see if they might rescue the Emperor, and with him help save the Empire.”

“Madness,” the Admiral-Offense muttered.

“Did you think we would not help the true Emperor?” Lisinthir asked.

“I think there’s no reason for you not to want us to fall apart,” the Admiral-Offense replied. “What better for you freaks if we dissolve into petty fighting? We can kill each other much more effectively than you can.”

“There is something to that, but it ignores a rather more important issue,” Lisinthir said.

“Oh?” The Admiral-Offense eyed him, managing a baleful look despite his inability to lift his head. The eyes helped, a bright crimson flecked in orange.

“A strong leader can keep you all in check. Failing that, a strong leader will give us a single foe to fight,” Lisinthir said. “If you ‘dissolve into petty fighting’ then exterminating you all will require us to disperse our forces so widely we would leave ourselves vulnerable to defeat in detail. We are not unaware of the size of the Empire, no matter the lies you offered us over a treaty table.”

The Admiral-Offense’s eye narrowed.

“He thinks a little like us,” the Knife said. “For an alien, a great deal like us.” Leaning forward. “Sir, you are the only one who knows. Where is the Emperor? Did he escape? Did they capture him?”

“I know where I told him to go,” the Admiral-Offense. “Whether he made it, I can’t say.” At their intense regard, he finished, “I told him to go to ground on the Apex world. He made it off the flagship by hijacking an enemy fighter craft. That’s the extent of my knowledge.”

Lisinthir looked at the Knife, who said, “Uuvek.”

“If anyone can find out, surely it will be him.”

“It’ll be easy compared to this,” the Knife said. And saluted the Admiral-Offense, claws out. “May I be dismissed?”

“Go.” Rolling his head on his cheek, the Admiral-Offense squinted at Lisinthir. “It’s said that he fell because of you.”

“If he did, then it is meet that he should rise again because of me, yes?”

To that, the male said nothing for a long time. Then, growling, “I rest.” And closed both eyes and dropped apparently unconscious. Lisinthir glanced at the Seersa, who looked at the read-outs with lifted brows. “I’d like to know that trick. Would have been handy when my kits were babies and I desperately needed the sleep.”

“Mmm,” Lisinthir said. And then, “For a Seersa, your accent is positively atrocious. I didn’t think that was possible.”

“It’s not,” Dellen said. “I do it on purpose.”

“The answer,” Uuvek said to them much later, “is a conditional yes.”

“A conditional yes? What does that mean?” the Knife asked, irritated. “Either the Emperor escaped or he didn’t!”

“The fighter was seen going down near the capital.” Uuvek pushed back from the console and folded his arms over his broad chest. “But there’s no report after that.”

“Meaning?” Meryl asked.

“No one has reported a body,” Uuvek said. “No one has reported a chase on-world. If you dig, there are some alerts sent to peacekeeping squads in the capital, but no one will say for what.”

“Maybe they want to keep his death quiet?” Laniis offered, tentative.

“That doesn’t seem in-character for anyone,” Meryl said. “If he’s dead, why wouldn’t they say it?”

“But if he’s loose, why not say that?” Na’er countered.

“Obviously because they don’t want anyone to realize he’s still alive,” Lisinthir said, tapping the console. “The question is... where did he go?”

“He might be dead but in a way that makes it difficult to identify the body,” Na’er pointed out.

“Maybe,” Laniis said slowly, “the new Chatcaava will be able to go on-world and find out?”

Meryl sighed. “Somehow I doubt that, since the one in the clinic’s been asking us to drop them off somewhere they can hijack a ship and head for the border.”

Both of their Chatcaava’s heads came up. “I beg your pardon?” Lisinthir said for them.

“He insists his duty is to go round up the loyalists and bring them here so they’ll be ready for the Emperor to deploy against his enemies,” Meryl said. “Or failing that, to avenge themselves on the traitors who decided to use the Navy for its own purposes.”

“Oh,” the Knife said softly. “Yes. That would be very pleasing.” Noticing the attentive looks, he added, “It is the one tenet that binds us in the Navy. We fight each other to decide the most worthy males in our ranks so that we might establish a chain of command. But we don’t betray one another. It’s...” He made a cutting motion with a hand. “It’s what sets us apart, as a group. It is the one place where a male is supposed to be able to trust that every other male is on his side. If the Usurper and Second have turned the Navy against itself, then they have destroyed something sacred to serve their ambitions. And given that they were Navy themselves....”

“They knew,” Uuvek said. He shrugged, the palm twitch Lisinthir knew most of the Pelted wouldn’t recognize. “It’s what made the plan work. Because no one would trespass on that imperative. So no one would expect it, to guard against it.”

“We couldn’t send those Chatcaava down, anyway,” Meryl said. “If they were part of the flagship crew, wouldn’t someone be watching for them? They’d be easy to identify as the Emperor’s partisans.”

“But if they can’t go down to the world to find out what’s going on with the Emperor, who will?” Laniis asked, frowning. And then her ears dropped abruptly, as if the framing the question had been enough to suggest its answer. She scowled ferociously at Lisinthir. “Don’t even say it!”

Lisinthir laughed.

Looking from the Eldritch to the Seersa and back, the Knife said, “What?”

“You can’t impersonate one of the Chatcaava,” Laniis said to Lisinthir, stern.

“Why not?” Lisinthir asked. “The roquelaure you assigned me will do the job quite admirably, I would think. And I am fluent in the language.”

“But you don’t know the local culture well enough to craft a character that other Chatcaava would accept!” Laniis pointed at Na’er. “He can do that. He can make you believe he belongs anywhere he’s supposed to be because he knows enough about the personas he’s inhabiting to pull it off. But you and I... all we know is the throneworld culture. This isn’t the Chatcaavan imperial court, it’s some Naval world with its own petty politics and personalities. You wouldn’t even know the name of the latest 3deo star, or whatever equivalent the Chatcaava have!”

“True,” Lisinthir said. “I should create a character who isn’t local to the world but who might have reasons to visit, and then take several guides with me who might advise me on how to keep from breaking my persona.”

“This should be good.” Meryl leaned back in her chair with her arms behind her head. “Let’s hear the plan.”

“And don’t tell us you want us to pretend to be your pretty Pelted slaves,” Na’er drawled.

“Not you, no,” Lisinthir said, and looked at the two Chatcaava.

For a moment, complete non-comprehension. Then the Knife exclaimed, “Us? But we are no less suspect than the Chatcaava we have rescued from the flagship! I was a palace harem guard, and known to be involved with the refugee flight! And Uuvek has surely been flagged as part of the team I requested on the throneworld!”

“I didn’t say you should come with me as Chatcaava,” Lisinthir said.

“He wants us to Change,” Uuvek said dryly.

“What!” the Knife yelped.

“The Change?” Uuvek said again. “That thing you have always wanted to try but have never had the chance to for lack of some aliens to Touch? I thought you’d be excited.”

“I want to know the shapeshifting, yes, but I do not want to learn it in order to impersonate an alien slave!”

“Even to save your Emperor?” Na’er said, ears flicking up.

The Knife opened his mouth and then his head sank, shoulders tightening.

“How would it work?” Uuvek asked Lisinthir, curious.

“I would presumably create a persona who would have slaves,” Lisinthir said. “Then you would accompany me as my personal possessions, and I would use my ability to read minds to consult with you at intervals. That way you could warn me of any impending pitfalls during my conversations with the local personalities Laniis has mentioned.”

“Madness!” the Knife exclaimed.

“It could work,” Meryl said, thoughtful.

“It’s the only thing we’ve got so far,” Na’er said. “I guess we could sleep on some alternatives?”

“But we don’t know if this plan will work because we don’t know yet if they can Change,” Laniis said. “They never have, it sounds like. What if they can’t figure it out?”

“We can!” The Knife sounded offended. “It is part of who we are. It is genetic!”

“It takes practice, the Queen said,” Lisinthir said. “But that is well. We have several species of Pelted on board, so you can try taking patterns at least five times.”

“I have not agreed to this yet!”

Uuvek guffawed. “Yet.”

The Knife glared at him. “This plan also involves you, you know.”

“Yes,” Uuvek said. “I admit to curiosity about what it will be like to Change. I don’t have your religious interest in it, admittedly, so maybe I’m freer to think of it more objectively.”

“I am not taking this personally.”

Uuvek gaped a grin at him.

“So when do we want to try this?” Na’er said. “If we’re not sure the Chatcaava can even do it? We should know that sooner rather than later or we’ll have to figure something else out.”

“Now, perhaps?” Lisinthir said.

“Now!” the Knife exclaimed. “But—”

“Now is a good time,” Uuvek said. “Who would like to volunteer?”

“Does it hurt?” Meryl asked.

“No,” Lisinthir said. “In fact, you won’t feel anything at all.”

“Then I volunteer.” Meryl grinned at Uuvek and the Knife. “Come on over, aletsen, and let’s turn you into a proper species.”

“Can we watch?” Na’er added, dropping his chin on his palms and beaming.

“There’s not much to see,” Lisinthir said. “They touch some part of your body—your hand suffices—and they learn something from it, and then it’s over.”

“Well, sure, the stealing the pattern part,” Na’er said. “But the shapeshifting part… that’s gotta be exciting!”

“I’d like to see that,” Shanelle agreed.

“We would too,” Uuvek said. “Right, Knife?”

“Right,” the Knife said, wings sagging. He pushed himself away from the table and walked over to Meryl, who offered him his hand. The stare he leveled at it would have been better reserved for something fell, but he gathered it into his finally and drew in a long breath, closing his eyes.

They waited.

“Don’t stare at me,” the Knife muttered.

“We’re not staring,” Uuvek said cheerfully.

“You’re lying,” the Knife said without opening his eyes.

“Well, yes.”

The Knife’s eyes slitted open, just enough to glare at Uuvek, then closed again.

Meryl was watching the Chatcaavan. After a few minutes, she glanced at Lisinthir and raised her brows. He lifted one shoulder in a partial shrug. It had not taken the Queen so long, but the Queen had Touched before. He assumed that practice conferred speed as well as accuracy, and he was unwilling to distract the Knife by making suggestions.

It was Uuvek who said finally, “You have no idea what to do, do you.”

The Knife’s wings sagged. “You try?”

Uuvek sighed and left the table to join the other male by Meryl’s side. He took her palm, turned it to look at the back, pressed on the ball of her hand to watch her knuckles and fingers move. “How does it work, then? You press your skin against the skin of your target. And then what? Is there an organ involved, beyond the brain and the skin? A muscle you flex?”

“I don’t know,” the Knife said, irritated. “If I’d known that, I’d be doing it.”

“You have read extensively about this process,” Uuvek said. “Presumably there was some description of it.”

“Yes, but it was all… all poetry, Uuvek!”

“So, tell us the poetry.”

The Knife grimaced. “The metaphor, overwhelmingly, is sexual.”

“Is it?” Lisinthir said, surprised. At the Knife’s glare, he offered, “I was not under the impression that any of your kind romanticized sex.”

“These are historical documents,” Uuvek said. “And religious ones. You’ll note they are considered antiquated.”

“If not dangerous,” the Knife muttered. He looked at Meryl’s hand, head sagging. “I wish… I would very much like… to know the Change. I am sorry.”

“Maybe,” Lisinthir murmured, “you can, still.”

“How….”

He ignored the protest, walking around the table to join them. To Uuvek he said, “Move to one side, please?” And then he stood behind the Knife, tapped one of the wings. “Spread these, if you would. I need to be behind you.”

The Knife glowered at him over a shoulder.

“If you don’t trust me at your back now, all this is useless, yes?” Lisinthir lifted his brows.

The Knife sighed and cautiously opened the wings. They were nicely made. The Emperor had had longer ones, but the Knife’s had fewer scars. Lisinthir moved behind him, pressed his chest against the Chatcaavan’s back and waited for the Knife to react. When he didn’t, Lisinthir reached over his shoulders, setting one hand on the male’s chest and reaching with the other for Meryl’s hand. “All three of us now.”

“This should be interesting,” Meryl said. “What are you trying to do?”

“I remember what it felt like when the Queen took my pattern, and when the Emperor did,” Lisinthir said. “I can transmit that feeling to the Knife. Perhaps that will help him fumble toward whatever procedure is required.”

“That sounds implausible, but what about this doesn’t? Let’s give it a go.” Meryl rested her palm on the Knife’s again, and Lisinthir placed his on hers. Practice had made it possible for him to avoid sensing the feelings of others through skin, but he thinned those shields until he tasted the clarity of her curiosity, the calm of it. It was like birdsong on a clear spring morning.

The Knife’s emotions were a jangle: yearning so intense it felt like a blow to the gut, like desperate thirst; embarrassment at his own failure; skepticism and fear that this would come to anything. Also, irritation at being touched by an alien; he manifestly misliked having the Eldritch leaning into his spine this way. The insides of the wings were erogenous zones for him, from the flavor of that mislike—well and good, if the metaphor in ancient texts was sexual. Lisinthir flexed his fingers against the Knife’s chest. “Are you both ready?”

“I’m good,” Meryl said.

The Knife shifted his wings, his shoulders. “Yes. I believe.”

“You will feel me in your mind,” Lisinthir warned. And before the Knife could object, sank into the Chatcaavan’s thoughts, ignoring them. He sought his gentlest memory, decided the Slave Queen’s was best, and drew it forth. Felt again the fear and the urgency of his petition, the way it had made his heart race. Took in the fear and the willingness with her hand as she touched his fingers, and then Touched his fingers. The ecstasy of that, the deep knowing of it, the falling forward into someone and becoming. The rapture when the pattern completed.

In his arms, the Knife gasped… and so did Meryl. The Chatcaavan reached for her, and Lisinthir went with him. Here, he whispered, know her. Love her.

Is this love? The Knife whispered. And then, sensing the edges of her pattern, he exclaimed, Oh, but it must be! And fell forward, and took Meryl with him, and Lisinthir as well.

Another gasp, in triplicate, and the Knife staggered back. Meryl grabbed his wrist to keep him from toppling into Lisinthir, and as the Chatcaavan swayed forward he Changed, because after the Touch the Change was natural, was consummation of glory. He fell onto his knees, head striking Meryl’s lap, and there at their feet was a dark gray Hinichi, and when he lifted his face the shape was perfect. Not even the Queen’s had been so complete.

“Oh my God,” Meryl whispered, her pupils dilated.

“That looked amazing!” Na’er said. “Can I do it next?”

Meryl burst out laughing. Reaching down, she grasped the Knife by the shoulders. “Up. Get up! Let’s have a look at you!”

Lisinthir stepped away so the male might have the room to rise, and the Knife stumbled on the way back to his feet, hands out. Like the Queen and the Emperor, he seemed to find the lack of wings to counterbalance himself unsettling, but once he was upright he stayed there, wide-eyed and utterly convincing, other than his newborn lamb body-speech. The fur, the ears, the tail, and particularly, the face were indistinguishable from any other Hinichi’s, given the variation within the species. But he also looked like the Knife, somehow, and not because of coloration: he’d ended up with a brindled version of Meryl’s coat, more gray than gold. Something about his face and his mannerisms revealed him.

“Beautiful,” Lisinthir said.

The Knife’s ears flicked toward him, and he grabbed them, startled. “They move!” And then, in wonder, “They hear better than mine!” And then with fingers to his face, “My mouth is wrong!”

“Your mouth looks fine to me,” Meryl said with a laugh. She was flushed still but in high spirits. “Holy God, but that was something. You look fantastic! Can you flip back, or will the Ambassador have to show you that too?”

“No, I know how,” the Knife said. He touched his mouth again. “My voice is the wrong pitch as well!”

“And yet there is something reminiscent of you in it anyway,” Uuvek observed, fascinated. “The rhythm, maybe.”

“Prosody,” Laniis offered. “The prosody.”

“You are so tall!” the Knife exclaimed, and ran his hand up his arm, his neck. “And so furry! And so... so... astonishing, Uuvek, you must try this! And I must try it again!”

“Me next,” Na’er said firmly. “You’re not leaving me out of the good time.”

“Shall I teach you?” Lisinthir asked Uuvek.

“No, I think I can,” the Knife said. He rested his larger Pelted hands on the Chatcaavan’s shoulders. “Dive the way you have always dove into your computers, but with your mind, into another person. Flex your wings.”

Uuvek’s eyes narrowed. It was the first dangerous expression Lisinthir had seen from him—merited, no doubt, for what Chatcaavan liked to be reminded of any of his weaknesses? And Lisinthir didn’t need to be told that Uuvek’s stunted wings had hampered not only his ability to fly, but his ability to protect his social standing among other males.

“It is exactly like that,” the Knife said, quieter. “But you can do it without fear.”

Surprisingly, Uuvek did not say he feared nothing. He only canted his head and looked at Meryl.

“I’m up for another round,” she said. “Though I’m guessing it might not be as intense without an Eldritch linking everyone’s minds together.”

“Possibly not,” Lisinthir conceded.

And it wasn’t. It was, in fact, anticlimactic for everyone involved, because Uuvek was a phlegmatic male, and not given to the Knife’s more obvious displays. His reaction to claiming the pattern was to open his eyes suddenly and then narrow them and look at Meryl.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” he said. And added, “How fascinating it is, from the inside.”

“It’s even more fascinating from the inside-inside,” the Knife insisted. “Try it!”

Uuvek’s Hinichi was not as good a facsimile—the eyes, as usual, were the most likely to show the differences, and Uuvek’s were a little too draconic in the pupil and the color and shape. But he could pass, Lisinthir thought.

“Me now, finally?” Na’er said, laughing.

“Yes!” the Knife said. “All of you, if you are willing!”

“And then,” Laniis said, ears flipping back, “You get to pick one of these shapes to be when we collar you, strip you naked, and send you downstairs in the Ambassador’s wake. On a leash.”

The Knife’s ears and tail fell in comical dismay.

Unperturbed, Uuvek said, “That is the role we’re supposed to play. If we go with this plan. Does that seem likely?”

“It seems a lot more likely now that we know you can shift,” Meryl said. “All we have to do is get the roquelaure to whip up a credible Chatcaavan alter-ego for the Ambassador and you should be good to go.”

“Other than crafting the personality,” Laniis said.

“And the body,” Lisinthir said. “Since unlike the Chatcaava I can choose what I look like.”

“My palms are not furred,” the Knife said, turning his hands. “But the backs of my hands are. Why is this? It is nonsensical. But fascinating.”

“Are you sure he’s going to be able to concentrate on the mission?” Na’er asked, amused.

“Once the novelty wears off, I’m certain he’ll be fine,” Lisinthir said. “Yes? Knife?”

“What?” The Knife’s ears pricked. “Shall I do the longer-eared shape now?” He eyed Na’er. “Is your hearing better than this body’s because your ears are longer?”

“I dunno,” Na’er said, offering his palms. “Let’s find out.”

Meryl joined Lisinthir against the wall. Quietly, while the others conferred, she said, “You trust this Admiral-Offense to do what he says he’s going to do?”

“Find allies for the Emperor?” Lisinthir looked up at the ceiling. “If he’d wanted to betray him, he’s had ample opportunities. This seems an unnecessarily convoluted way of doing so.”

“Will you check anyway?” Lisinthir looked at her and she met his eyes steadily, finished, “Will you go into his head and pull it out?”

Perhaps she was expecting him to have some moral objection to the request... but he was part Chatcaavan, and he had threatened torture and worse to the males in the court. Had killed them after mutilating them. Had run a knife up the wing finger of a technician on a Chatcaavan vessel to drag the information about that ship’s oversized complement out of him. Compared to those things, evaluating the loyalties of a male by doing absolutely no harm to him, other than invading his privacy, seemed minor. And even that could be mitigated—he could ask for permission. Asking would tell him something on its own.

Was he evil for this? He met Meryl’s eyes and thought of them extinguished, thought of millions upon millions of Pelted civilians slain or enslaved.

“I must,” he said. “There is too much at stake.” He managed a crooked smile. “Is that too much expedience for you, Captain?”

“I think we have to be able to live with ourselves at the end of the day,” Meryl said. “And everyone’s got a different threshold for how much end justifies how much means.”

“And yet you asked.”

She snorted softly. “I know where the line is for me, alet. I’ve been out here long enough to decide.”

Watching the Knife assume the shape of an Aera, Lisinthir said, “So have I.”

Unlike the Knife and Uuvek, the Admiral-Offense and his party had not been allowed the run of the vessel. Fortunately they did not seem insulted by their confinement, had even commented that the cabin to which they’d been assigned as a group was ‘luxurious,’ which, given the typical Chatcaavan vessel, was certainly true. Lisinthir left the shapechanging party behind to present himself at the door to that cabin, and was admitted by a wary male who followed him into the second room, where the Admiral-Offense was sitting on a chair. Backwards: the Pelted chairs were not comfortable for winged creatures, so the male was leaning over the back of the chair, straddling the seat. When Lisinthir entered, he raised his scarlet eyes but not his head.

“So. Your alien allies have told you I wish to go.”

Lisinthir inclined his head.

“And now you wonder if I should be allowed to leave.”

“I told Captain Osgood that you had many opportunities to betray the Emperor already, and that it struck me as unlikely that you would choose this method to do so.”

The male tilted his head. “And yet you are here. Why?”

“Because it occurs to me that while this is a bad plan for a male who wishes to betray his Emperor, it is an excellent one for a coward who wants to flee the fight.”

All three of the watching males hissed, and one of them took a step toward him. But the Admiral-Offense only raised his brow ridges, his pupils narrowing visibly. “Not as stupid as you look.”

“I like to think so.”

The male’s nostrils flared. “What will you do, then?”

“Sir!” one of the watchers said. “He has insulted you!”

“And I do what in response to that?” the Admiral-Offense said. “Demand a duel? We are on their ground. They are the ones with the power here, Tauchoht.”

“They say he fights duels,” said another of the males, driven to speak by his anger despite his obvious reluctance. “That he understands that some things can only be answered in blood.”

“This is not one of them.” The Admiral-Offense sat up with a grimace, rocking a shoulder back and forth as he stretched the wing joint. Bracing it with a hand, he said, “Why have you come, alien?”

“I have the ability to sense your motivations and thoughts,” Lisinthir said. “So I have come to do so, to see if you are planning to do what you have asked to do.”

“That’s true then,” the Admiral-Offense said, eyeing him. “The stories.”

“They are.”

“Then,” he said, “Go ahead. I have nothing to hide.”

Lisinthir knew he would find no duplicity or dishonor in this male’s mind; had known it before he’d heard the response to the offer. There was a straightforwardness to the males in the Navy, now that he had met a sufficiency of them to form an impression of their mindset. It was as the Emperor had divulged to him during their lovemaking, near the end of their time together on the throneworld: the Navy was the one place where males learned to trust one another, where they knew that if they turned their backs they wouldn’t find a knife in them. It was a culture that created males like the Knife and Uuvek, and the Admiral-Offense.

Second and the Usurper were flukes: dangerous ones, poisons that could render entire wells useless. But they existed, and because they did, because they’d been capable of convincing a significant number of males to join them, Lisinthir rested a hand on the Admiral-Offense’s and reached for the male’s mind. He found himself amongst thoughts dense and closely woven with years of service, and sullied with regret and a tired anger.

The Admiral-Offense knew the Navy he’d known and loved for so long would never be whole again. Not after this. And if they survived, what remained would not be the Navy he had given his life to.

“I don’t think so either,” he said aloud, quiet. “But it is possible that what will remain will be stronger for having fought this fight.”

The male lifted his head sharply, considered him. Then: “The alternative doesn’t please.”

“No,” Lisinthir agreed. “What do you think the chances are of there being a significant force waiting to rally to the Emperor’s banner?”

“I think… it may be good. The Eastern quadrant is its own culture. The other Naval bases… they are not so well-regarded, and feel that lack of respect keenly.”

To maintain this situation without its implosion, or fomenting rebellion, requires the constant shift of territory and personnel in and out of situations that challenge, reward, and punish them. One never rests, but one never grows bored.

“Yes,” Lisinthir said, the Emperor’s voice in his ear. “I imagine so.”

“When can we leave?” the Admiral-Offense asked. “It will be enough of a challenge to find someone to trust here. It will be difficult to form a concrete plan until we have assessed the local situation. We will need time.”

“You leave as soon as I do,” Lisinthir said. At the canted head, he said, “I go to rescue the Emperor.”

Hisses from the watching males. Not offense, he judged. They reacted to the temerity of the declaration. To his arrogance. A freak, rescuing the Exalted ruler of the entire Chatcaavan Empire?

“You have a plan to survive your trip to the Apex world?” the Admiral Offense asked, curious.

“I do. But if I may be so bold, I shall keep it to myself. What is not known cannot be betrayed.”

“We would never—” one of the others began, but the Admiral-Offense lifted a hand.

“Even the strongest male can be brought low by the right weapon,” that male said. He lifted his chin. “You and I will meet again, then, alien.”

“Ambassador,” Lisinthir insisted.

A chuff, dry laughter. “Ambassador.”

“Admiral-Offense.” Lisinthir bowed, extravagant. “I look forward to the day.”

When he entered the conference room in search of “their” Chatcaava he found them with company: Na’er and Laniis, and all of them bent over their data tablets and a scattering of drinks. His arrival caused the Knife to exclaim, “You are here! We have just finished crafting your persona!”

“You’ll like it,” Laniis added, her ears akimbo.

“You see,” the Knife continued, waving his arms, “We required you to be someone who would have slaves, and this is not a normal thing for most Chatcaava. But there are freelancers who raid the Alliance’s fringes for slaves they can sell on the luxury market—that is where most of our slaves come from. We have decided you are one of these freelancers, and this is perfect because it means you can be working alone, and also that you have been away from any planet with Chatcaava on it for long periods, and so do not necessarily know all the news such locals would know. Additionally, such raiders have been hired in the past by both system and imperial government officials—to spy, or to raid some particular locale—so there is precedent for you working with high-level males. We even know why you are in Apex-East! The Navy...” A pause here for a scowl, “Second’s Navy is inviting such raiders to come join the Navy in time for the war against the aliens. You might be here to evaluate that opportunity. But since such freelancers are not known for enjoying collaboration, it would be sensible for you to be cagey about accepting this opportunity. So you arrive at the world to sell your latest cargo and you will have reason to contact the highest level Chatcaava on-world, like the Deputy-East, and Manufactory-East, and the Worldlord—they are among the only people rich enough to have slaves in this system—and there you can tarry while asking opinions on whether you should join the war effort. Which will also give us information on how the war is going.”

“Goodness,” Lisinthir began.

But the Knife had not finished yet. “We have also decided on your visual appearance. White Chatcaava are not rare, but it is a remarkable color and we would prefer you not to be remarkable. So silver, we think. And your eyes cannot be so dark; dark eyes are considered untrustworthy because the pupils are too hard to see. So blue eyes, but brighter. The long mane is fine because it is in keeping with such personalities: raiders are supposed to be vain and arrogant and princely. It is something everyone despises about them, particularly since they have usually earned their attitudes. But we want the long mane as it is an excuse for us to be with you at night. You will particularly enjoy your slaves brushing it for you.” The Knife sucked in a breath and finished, “You will have a title. Such raiders always choose titles for themselves. We have decided yours is the Sword, because you will have captured slaves wielding such weapons and you will find them amusing. This will give you a reason to wear yours.”

“God and Living Air,” Lisinthir said, staring at him.

“He really got into it,” Na’er drawled, grinning.

“Really, really into it,” Laniis muttered.

The Knife said, “Do you approve, Ambassador? If so, these aliens say you must have the technology programmed and then we will be free to decide how to be inserted.”

“You mean you haven’t figured that out yet?” Lisinthir asked, mouth quirking.

“I have some ideas...”

Na’er put his head in his hand and dragged the palm down the length of his muzzle: even from this angle, Lisinthir could see the laugh he was smothering.

“Before we discuss that,” Uuvek said, “And now that you are here, Ambassador....”

“You are about to tell me you cannot go,” Lisinthir said.

Uuvek lifted his head, contemplating him. “I should have known you would guess.”

“Possibly,” Lisinthir said. “I am not averse to greater intelligence being assigned to me than I have.” He smiled. “It is safer to believe me in possession of significant cunning.”

“There’s a difference?” The Knife frowned.

The two Pelted looked at him. Uuvek watched the interaction, then ignored it to address the Eldritch. “The Admiral-Offense needs to find people of our faction to abet him in his search for allies outside this system. His chances of success become far greater if he is here, working with these aliens, and with me.”

“Wait,” the Knife said. “You have discussed this with the aliens?”

“With the alien captain,” Uuvek said. “How else is it supposed to work, Knife? We drop off the Admiral-Offense and his three males—none of whom have any useful training in anything that would help them locate any sympathetic males, much less steal a ship... where? On a moon? The moon controlled by a naval contractor? No? The orbital station, also controlled by a naval contractor? What about the naval base? An asteroid somewhere? A mining shaft?” Uuvek snorted. “If you think at all about how it has to be done, the course is obvious. The Admiral-Offense remains on-board with the aliens, who have the capability of going unseen. I help them locate their allies. Their allies arrange to meet them somewhere with a conveyance after we have recovered the Ambassador, hopefully with news that the Emperor has been found and is able to lead his own coup. Then we meet our allies at the new location and proceed. All this requires someone who can hack into a computer without setting off every trap in it.”

“But... if you don’t go with me, who will?” the Knife asked, wide-eyed.

Laniis drew in a steadying breath. “That would be me.”

Na’er’s ears flicked back. “Arii—”

“Don’t,” Laniis said to him, softly. “Don’t try to stop me. Nor you either,” she said to the Ambassador.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “If you tell me you are willing to go back into the fire with me, Laniis... I would never dream of it.”

The Knife threaded his fingers together, wide-eyed.

“You’ll be fine,” Uuvek said.

“I am not worried about me,” the Knife said. “I am worried about you. Unlike you, I don’t have to reveal myself to potential enemies in order to accomplish my mission. You will have to take the chance that whomever you contact won’t betray you.”

“Second and the Usurper have much to answer for,” Lisinthir murmured.

Both Chatcaava glanced at him.

“Yes,” the Knife said. And sighed. “This plan makes more sense. But I am not glad.” He looked at Laniis. “On more counts than one.”

Laniis’s ears flattened to her skull. “Do you think I can’t do it?”

“No,” the Knife said. “I think the Queen Ransomed cared for you. I don’t think she would like knowing that you were doing this.”

“The Queen Ransomed stayed behind to gather intelligence for us even though it meant being remanded into the custody of pirates,” Laniis said icily. “I think she would understand very well what I’m doing.”

“I’d just stop right there,” Na’er said, rueful. “Y’know. Friendly advice from male to male.”

“I—” The Knife looked at Laniis and lowered his head. “Yes. That seems sensible advice.”

Laniis sniffed.

“I take it you have discussed this already with Captain Osgood?” Lisinthir asked Uuvek.

“Yes.”

“Then I suppose all that remains is... logistics.”

“Isn’t it always,” the Knife said with a sigh.

Uuvek grinned.

“So that’s the plan,” Meryl said to him as he sat on the clinic’s bed, allowing Dellen to swab his arm for the implant. “We drop you off, we go find these people their allies, and then we come back for you. All the timelines will be communicated to you via the implant. We’ll give you an eye-film so you won’t have to rely on the roquelaure’s aural cues, but you’ll have to talk to command it. Don’t do that out loud, though. Subvocalization will work. Once we’re in-system, we’ll send you an update. The plan’s too loose for me to give you any specific dates.”

“I didn’t think you’d be able to,” Lisinthir said.

“From your history I’m guessing you’re fine with improvising,” she continued. “If you’re not... now’s the time to tell me, not a week from now when I discover it by hearing you’ve been captured.”

Lisinthir snorted. “You need not fear on that account, alet. So long as the roquelaure holds, I am confident of my ability to remain in character.”

Dellen brought the AAP over and set it against the inside of Lisinthir’s arm. The hiss it gave off was the only sign the chip had been delivered; he would have liked a sting, some piece of poetry to hint at what was to come. But that was not how the Alliance worked. Its technology was an obedient servant, something to be self-effaced so that its people could find the poetry in their own lives without being hampered by tools and methods they considered mundane. It was left to him to impart whatever lyricism he wished to the occasion... or so he thought, until he lifted his eyes and found Meryl studying him, worry crimping the lower lids and darkening the gray in her green-gray eyes.

“Alet,” he said. “I won’t promise you that all will be well. You know better than to believe such promises. But if it is in my power, I will bring everyone back when you return to pick us up.”

Her mouth twitched at one corner, though her eyes didn’t reflect the near smile. “And I won’t promise that we’ll make it back to pick you up. But if it’s in my power, I’ll be here. And then....”

“And then, Lord and Lady and Living Air willing... we will know the next step.”

Neither of them said that they might not find that next step. That was not how the game was played... not at his level, among people with the experiences they shared. He respected the silence and her willingness to grant it to him in turn.

He had asked the Night Admiral for a team he could work with. He would have to tell that worthy when he returned how well he had wrought.

“You ready for the eye-film?” Dellen said. “Then we can run through the initialization sequence and you can practice talking to the thing without being heard.”

“Let us, alet. Time is wasting.”