ORNCHIEF, VIV LEARNED, is not a position one attains without a certain resistance to the notion of running away.
In other circumstances—circumstances in which Viv herself had not been chained to a bed, stuffed into a VR sim, and traded to monster robots—Viv would have admired the Chief’s chutzpah. Zanj, fresh-fallen from space, burning with reentry, claws dripping plasma, her head oblong, her teeth jagged, her eyes white, her face a mask of fire, did not look like a person with whom one should fuck. Viv would have run. Hell, she was tempted to run anyway.
The Chief leapt forward. The torques at her arms and neck flared, and that amber armor shaped itself around her; a spear thick as a sapling flew through the air to her grip, and she struck at Zanj, a blow so fast Viv’s eyes refused to track it, so fierce as to leave no question of quarter.
Zanj stepped aside, lazy slow. Her smile—even at this speed, Viv could see her smile—bore no trace of cruelty. For her, this was a joke.
Then she tugged the spear from the Orchief’s grip, swept it around over her head, and struck the Chief so hard that her chestplate shattered. The Chief tumbled back, landed on her feet, skidded, hands up to defend herself, a brilliant display of physical control that would have been more impressive had Zanj not been standing, suddenly, behind her.
Zanj took her time, and still it was over fast.
She toyed with the Chief: opened herself for a strike only to dodge with a yawn and a stretch and a leap that landed her on the Chief’s outstretched arm, reclining—then spun away, peeling off another pane of armor in the process. “No respect anymore,” she said as she appeared behind the Chief to tear off the plate that covered her back. “No welcome, these days.” Off came the pauldrons, left and right. “No guest right, no red carpet. Not even an offer of tea. Not that I mind skipping straight to the fun.” She ripped away the Chief’s face mask, hooked the Chief’s greave with her foot-claw and shattered it.
And that was the end.
The Chief stood, disarmed and human, before Zanj. Still, she would not give up. She ran at her, caught her by the shoulders—but Zanj slipped away and the Chief tumbled to the earth. Still alive. Zanj turned her, seized her by the neck, lifted. “But you might at least have asked my name.”
The Chief’s eyes were wide; Viv’s would have been wide with terror, but this looked more like religion. “Who are you?”
The hunters and guards had abandoned Viv entirely; spears ringed Zanj, Djenn commanding, “Release her!”
Zanj looked at him, raised one eyebrow— Are you fucking with me?—looked back at the Chief. “I’m Zanj. I’ve been away a long time. But now I’m back.”
She might have done something in the Cloud to prove it, unfurled a banner Viv could not see, offered a cryptographic signature—or else her word had weight enough. The name was a boulder thrown into a still lake: waves rippled outward. Warriors dropped spears, drew back. Gaped. Xiara, beside Viv, looked like she was staring into the end of the world.
“It’s okay,” Viv whispered to Xiara. “She’s not that bad once you get to know her.”
“It’s not possible.” The Chief could barely draw breath. “The Empress—”
“Reports of my impossibility, as the prophet says, have been greatly exaggerated. Now. Here’s what happens next. You will release my friend.” She turned and waved to Viv with her fingers, grinning. Viv waved back. Lacking claws, her wave was a bit less impressive. “You will give us fuel. We will get out of your hair, and you will forget you ever saw us.”
“And Hong,” Viv added. “Let Hong go, too.”
“Thank you,” Hong said.
Zanj rolled her eyes. “Okay. Viv and Hong. And fuel. And you forget. That’s the deal. Or I kill…” She added some numbers on the fingers of her free hand. “All of you.”
“We can’t.” The Chief, for someone dangling by her neck from someone else’s grip, managed an impressive amount of gravitas. “Grayteeth seized our manufactory. We have no choice.”
Zanj’s smile widened, as if she’d been hoping to hear that. “Good.” She began to close her hand. “Then neither do I.” She didn’t use her claws, just the strength of her fingers: closing, closing, slowly and without strain, as if the Chief’s muscle and sinew were soft as pulp, enjoying the Chief’s purpling face, her futile attempts to pry free.
Xiara broke from Viv and ran toward them, swept a spear through the air, broke it on Zanj’s back; Zanj turned casually and caught Xiara, too, by the throat. “Hi again. Missed you. So good to be back.”
“Zanj, stop it!”
Viv’s voice rang loud in the clearing. Zanj stopped. But she did not collapse. The circlet did not blacken on her brow. She looked from Xiara, to the Chief, to Viv, confused. Wondering.
There was no pain. Viv didn’t want it; had thought to herself, as she cried out, don’t hurt her. Don’t force her. This is not an order. “Let them go. Please.”
Zanj let the Chief breathe. She released Xiara, who stumbled, found her balance, and backed away from the sharp line of empty air that connected Viv’s eyes to Zanj’s. “They bound you,” she said. “They would have given you to the Pride.”
She didn’t think about that, or about revenge. “There has to be a better choice. The Pride are coming?”
Zanj nodded. “They’ll be here in hours. I passed them on the way.”
“You, and I, and Hong, are going to the manufactory. We’ll stop this Grayteeth thing. Then the Ornclan will be free, we’ll have our fuel, and we can get out of here.”
“We don’t even know where the manufactory is. I’m sure these losers have fuel stashed somewhere. If I kill a few of them, the ones left will show us.”
“I’ll take you to the manufactory,” Xiara said—soft, insistent, slow. “Please. Don’t kill my mother.”
Zanj looked skeptical. The Ornchief breathed; no one else dared.
“Are you saying you’re afraid of Grayteeth?” Viv asked.
Zanj’s eyes narrowed, and for a heartbeat Viv worried she had pulled the thread between them too hard, and it would snap. But then the corner of Zanj’s scarred mouth crept up, and she chuckled to herself, and let the Ornchief fall. “Okay, kid. Lead the way.”