by Richard Fox
Sarah and Michael were at the table, both in their Tyr synths. Michael was eating a bowl of cereal, his pad propped up against a glass of blue juice with a Tyr news program playing on the screen.
“Oh, hi, Dad.” Michael nodded slightly to Sarah. “Mom’s home.”
Daniel took a deep breath, then let it out slowly through his nose as he narrowed his eyes at his son.
Michael jumped away from the table and bolted upstairs. There was a slam as Michael locked himself in his room.
“He went to see her, didn’t he?” Sarah ran her hands through her hair. “He was awful tight-lipped about what he was up to while you were gone.”
“The constable stopped me for a little chat.” Daniel pulled out a chair and sat down. “Shuttle’s secure?”
“It is. Let’s just hope some local rancher doesn’t come through with a herd of hungry sauroids. Or that the Count doesn’t decide to show off the property to another buyer,” she said.
“We have to leave. The scrambler I used to tip off the astronomer didn’t work as well as I thought. The secret police have an inkling, but probably not a scent.” He poured himself a cup of tea from a ceramic kettle in the middle of the table.
“You got Fastal in play? Good…then what’s our next move?” she asked.
“Corporate needs another week to synthesize enough immunity serum for just the Myrmidon contingent. Give them three weeks before—”
“This is a special news report,” came from the pad. “Stand by for a message from the King, may the gods watch over him.”
“Maybe he’s going to announce the ship at Kleegar.” Sarah’s brows knitted. “But that’s too fast. The Speaker might not have even finished a deep communion by now. Streets are too quiet. We’re still monitoring the civil defense nets and—”
“To the faithful,” King Mencius began and a TV broadcast of him seated at the Sanctum came up on the pad, “by the grace of the gods, our two brave astronauts orbiting this world of trials have been lost. Unbloodied Quboth Hallas and Baron Nixazar Thanid were the best of us, and they sacrificed their lives to further our understanding of our place given to us by the gods. The nation enters a fortnight of mourning. May the gods’ gaze be upon us all.”
The screen clicked over to the royal seal.
“Corporate.” Sarah hit the kitchen table. “Hower didn’t have enough of a base for them to use, so they snatched the capsule in orbit. Why didn’t we think of that?”
“Because we were being chased back to the planet by missiles…assuming Ubom got the telescope on the moon…” Daniel sat back, arms crossed over his chest and fingertips tapping at his lips.
“We’ve tipped them off, got their best military leader out of retirement…and now?” Sarah raised her hands.
“Corporate only cares about one thing: their bottom line. We need the Tyr to fight them tooth and nail and make colonizing this planet too expensive for Zike and Hulegu.” Daniel let his arms fall to his sides. “I may need to go to the King myself.”
“No. No, you drop your face to them and the Tyr will lynch you in a heartbeat.” Sarah shook her head. “They’re still terrified of the Hidden caste after the deaths following the war.”
“The Hidden caste is a myth,” Daniel said. “Superstition.”
“According to the myth, they live in the Storm Seas. There’s never been a mission out there, so we don’t actually know if there’s a Hidden caste, do we?” Sarah asked.
Daniel raised an eyebrow. Sarah looked away.
“The King and his inner circle have to be aware of the torch ship by now…would Zike try and make contact with the King to negotiate? They do have Hower with them,” he said.
“You tell me. You were Compliance Force for a long time,” she said.
Daniel leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “What’s the best place to build a human colony on Tyr?” he asked.
“The Azure Islands. Beautiful, great climate,” his wife said.
“And that’s the Royal caste’s ancestral home. They won’t give that up without a fight and Hower knows that…so they might try and negotiate.” Daniel drummed fingertips against the tabletop. “I go to the Tyr now without my synth and…”
“A pyre. Torches. They’re in space and they still see demons everywhere,” Sarah said.
“But if we wait until it’s obvious that I share a face with Zike, they might listen to me,” Daniel said.
“That’s too much of a risk,” she said. “You know the playbook. The tech. Zike realizes you’re helping them directly and there will be a giant target on you. The cost-benefit analysis of an orbital bombardment wherever you are will look pretty good. Or we keep doing what we’ve been doing. Hints from the shadows. Go deeper underground until we can get a line to the King that won’t put us in the crosshairs.”
“Stop saying ‘us,’” he said. “I’m taking the risk. I need you to take care of Michael. And speaking of going underground…we need to leave—sooner than later. We’ve already wasted too much time. Pyth says the area’s under surveillance. My scrambler might not have worked as well as intended.”
“I didn’t unpack,” she said.
“We switch castes. Go to the Royals’ lodge at Hawk Fall Mountain. It’s close to one of their main forts…more options there and we won’t be in this city if Corporate opts for high chaos.”
“I’ll get Michael. You don’t…just don’t say anything to him about Lussea. I think he got it out of his system,” she said.
“You’ve never been a teenage boy with a crush. I’ll pack the car.”
****
The Clay sedan left their garage just after nightfall. A constable in an unmarked car noted the time of departure and radioed up the license plate number. A surveillance team of several vehicles and checkpoints throughout the city went on alert.
Chapter 26
Fastal snapped out of sleep as his cargo plane landed hard. Bruises and aches and every last wound he’d just received—and a host of old ones—prompted a desire for pills, or a bottle of something stiff, to ease the pain. He adjusted the respirator over the lower half of his face, wincing where the hard plastic bit into his skin.
The gurney next to him rattled as the plane braked to a halt. The black bag with the dead…whatever it was…rustled in tune with the plane.
Fastal glanced at his watch, then over to an Air Force crewman on the other side of the cargo space.
“Where are we? Supposed to be a three-hour flight to King’s Rest,” he said.
The crewman shrugged.
The cargo ramp came down with a hydraulic hiss, revealing dark plains and fences topped with spikes and barbed wire. A pair of Tyr in environmental suits stepped onto the ramp before it even touched the ground.
Fastal unbuckled his restraints and stood up. He gave his caste salute, a fist strike to an open palm, then let his hands fall to his sides when he saw the Royal caste markings on the new arrivals.
“Figures that it would be spies,” Fastal said.
“Duke Ciolsi, King’s Shadow,” the spy chief said and then gestured to the woman behind him. “Maiden Sazon. This is normally where I tell you we were never here, but these are different times, aren’t they?”
“Your orders bring you back onto active duty,” the younger woman said. “Where are they?”
“When did the shadows become such sticklers for administration?” Fastal pointed to a bag on the other side of the cargo bay.
Ciolsi pointed at the crewman. “You, out!” The crewman ran off like he’d been bit by a sauroid and the teeth were still in his flesh. “Anyone else seen what’s in here?” Ciolsi asked, touching the gurney.
“Just the soldiers that helped bag it up,” Fastal said. “They’re quarantined, as per orders from the Castle. You know what it is?”
“I have a suspicion.” Ciolsi unzipped the body bag. The dead Myrmidon had gone stiff, the blood pooled beneath the body congealed and sticky. Ciolsi dabbed a fabric swatch into the blood, the
n dropped it into a plastic bag. He hooked a thumb beneath the cracked visor and pried it up.
“Ugh…no help there,” Ciolsi said. “Well…teeth are consistent.”
Sazon wrote on a clipboard, Fastal’s orders scroll tucked beneath one arm.
“What about the spurs at the wrist?” she asked. “Rib count. Cardiovascular fluid appears consistent.”
“Consistent with what?” Fastal asked.
“General, why was this one left behind? Feel free to speculate,” Ciolsi said.
“It…failed. The rest of the demons killed my men with ease. I managed to hurt this one.” Fastal pointed to the shoulder where a dab of sealant covered the opening his knife had cut into the exo-suit.
“Ooo, this goes to the Islander hypothesis,” Sazon said.
“What are you talking about? Have you seen these things before?”
“Yes!” Sazon dropped the clipboard and scroll as she squeezed the dead Myrmidon’s wrist. “I feel it, the bone spur! Now let me…” She prodded the dead body’s flank. “This outer layer feels different than the other, possibly some kind of flexible armor plat—”
“Explain yourselves!” Fastal whacked the gurney and Sazon pulled back.
“Show him,” Ciolsi said to the other spy. “Nine years ago, there was a Slaver raid on a bronto herder encampment. One of the last before we hunted down the remainder of their military that managed to survive the war. The encampment got snowed in and the relief force got there too late to do much more than bury the victims.”
Sazon removed a cover sheet off the clipboard and handed it to Fastal. Clipped on top was a picture of a dead Linker woman next to a shallow grave separate from a pile of other bodies.
“I’ve seen Slaver raids before. Wait…her body looks fresh compared to the others. When did she die?” he asked.
“Told you he was a bright one,” Ciolsi said to Sazon. “Slavers would have taken her away with everything else they looted. She was young enough to go back into season. But she was killed in the raid at the same time as the rest. What you see there…isn’t Tyr.”
Fastal flipped to the next photo and almost dropped the pictures.
A dead human woman stared at the camera, her mouth half-open and eyes unfocused, a sheaf of skin peeled away and bunched together at the base of her neck, Linker markings visible in the mass.
Fastal looked at the body on the gurney and back at the photo.
“Are they…Hidden caste?” He sat on the bench bolted to the bulkhead and looked at more autopsy photos.
“The Hidden are no different from us, except that that the gods forsake them with bare faces,” Ciolsi said. “Rare to actually come across a Hidden, but not as rare as this.” He nudged the gurney.
“Likely a male,” Sazon said, “assuming they have two sexes, but the proportions are consistent. What did this look like before it was damaged?” She tapped the tip of a pen against the broken visor.
“A face twisted in laughter…” Fastal handed the clipboard back. “No look of the gods on it.”
“The recovery team thought they’d come across a Hidden,” Ciolsi said, “but once we examined the body further…not the case. It wore some manner of infiltration skin to pose as a Linker. We couldn’t find any travel records to corroborate the identity…all magically erased from databases. Orders to destroy travel logs and tolls also covered the unknown entity’s tracks. Very interesting, wouldn’t you say, General Fastal? Exactly how did you come to be at the nuclear depot just when you did?”
“Orders from the King.” Fastal used his foot and rolled the scroll over to Ciolsi, who picked it up and handed it over. “Wax sealed and delivered by my caste. Wait…”
“Who delivered it to you? Name? Unit?” Ciolsi passed the scroll back to Sazon, who unfurled the paper.
“He was of the eastern tribes by his patches. Strange accent. I didn’t get a name…that’s not our way.”
“It looks perfect,” she said.
“But they’re a forgery.” Ciolsi looked them over. “The date…the King has a new calligrapher. The handwriting matches his last scribe.”
Fastal leaned back, one corner of his lip twitching.
“So many dots to connect,” Ciolsi said, “and the full picture is…still a mystery.”
“The messenger was one of those…not-Tyr,” Fastal said.
“You were born with the wrong face.” Ciolsi smiled. “You could’ve been one of the shadows.”
“How’re you feeling? Fever? Muscle aches?” Sazon shined a light in Fastal’s eye. “There’s an immunological theory, same reason the Islander caste is so closed off. They haven’t been exposed to the Chaprax Flu and any—”
Fastal grabbed her by the wrist and wrenched her arm to one side, moving the light out of his eyes.
“I’ve had a hell of a day, shadow,” Fastal said.
“He looks fine.” She shrugged and tried to pull her hand back, with no luck.
“Sazon’s been studying the not-Tyr for years,” Ciolsi said. “That bag of meat you brought us is the first confirmation we’ve had since the initial recovery. Excuse me,” he said, turning away and speaking into a radio he had clipped to his belt.
“I have some more questions.” Sazon sat next to Fastal and he let her go.
The plane’s cargo ramp rose and the engines fired up with a low rumble.
“Did the NTE—non-Tyr entity—speak to you or any of your men? Did you experience any sense of disorientation or nausea when in proximity to their craft? Any physiological effects from their weapons, other than massive trauma and injury? Did you note the smell of burnt toast or…”
Chapter 27
Yenin opened her eyes, the feel of a wave receding against her legs cool against her flight suit. Sand matted against her visor and a crab skittered across the glass. She groaned and rolled onto her back.
The sky was a violent purple of a storm, and rain spattered against her visor, wiping away sand. A wave crashed over her, pushing her farther up a beach. She flailed against the water before being dumped back into the sand like a hunk of driftwood.
“Greg? Jessie?” Her HUD came alive with her voice, displaying nothing but failed connections and error messages.
She rolled over and crawled forward, her hands sinking into wet sand.
“Anybody out there?” The ground became reeds and grass and she collapsed. “Oh, god, where the hell am I?” She lay there breathing hard, trying to piece together what happened. She remembered the shuttle…lightning…and then a wave coming for her.
Her suit had enough internal air supply to keep her alive in the void for several hours. She slapped at her chest and thighs and felt collapsing floatation bladders.
Her lungs began to burn and she tapped the front of her visor. The O2 icon flashed amber.
“Shit….shit, shit, shit.” She popped the emergency release and salt-laden air washed over her face as the visor fell away from her helmet. She took a deep breath…and felt fine. Not a terrible surprise—the planet was colony-ready for humans.
Something poked her shoulder. She looked up at a pair of Tyr juveniles, both in plastic rain slicks. One had spots across his face; the other had wavy lines along the sides of her mouth and her jaw.
“Hi there, yeah?” Yenin raised a hand. “I don’t have a language codex loaded into my suit. How am I supposed to talk to you indigs?”
The two ran away, screaming.
“Fuuuuuuck.” She watched which way they went, keyed an adrenaline stim, and then went the opposite direction down the beach.
Chapter 28
“Constable Pyth,” croaked through a radio attached to the leather strip running down and across Pyth’s chest. He turned away from the very irate worker caste woman in a house robe and holding a crying baby. The street was lined with Tyr on the sidewalks, all in various stages of nighttime dress as the first hints of dawn rose to the east.
The cordon-and-search operation had launched two hours ago, and Pyth was going into nearly
a day and a half of zero sleep. Orders to carry out complex, extremely urgent missions always seemed to come down right before he was supposed to go off shift. Always.
He ignored a warrior caste couple yelling at him as he stepped into the blocked-off street and away from the commotion as his men searched every single house and questioned the occupants.
“Pyth, go,” he said into the radio.
“There’s an issue at the Linker establishment on block thirty-seven,” came back. “Supervisor wants you on-site.”
“Moving.” Pyth shook his head, feeling anger rise in his chest. “Patrol, what’s the issue?”
“Residents aren’t responding to knocks or verbal commands to exit the residence.”
Pyth turned a corner and walked faster toward the Clays’ house, where a small cordon of officers had gathered. He regretted not giving Daniel a physical lesson—a gentle one, at least—when he had the chance. He’d shown weakness to his friend and now it had degenerated into outright defiance of authority.
Served him right for trying to be friends with another caste.
Pyth shouldered through the cordon and went up a short flight of stairs to the main entrance. He banged his fist hard on the wooden door.
“Clay! King’s peace is here. Open up or you’ll face sanction. I don’t care if you’re a Linker or not!” He backed down the stairs, anger rising. “Force entry,” he said to a police sergeant.
“One second,” said a lieutenant, bending an ear to a radio. “Got an order to hold off until a special unit arrives for this one.”
“Is it from the sheriff?” Pyth asked.
“No…”
“And it ain’t from me. So I don’t give a shit who’s on the other end of that radio. Force entry,” Pyth said.
Two burly officers ran up the stairs with a metal ram and slammed the end just beneath the doorknob. The ram bounced back and went tumbling down the stairs, almost hitting the lieutenant. One end whacked into the side of a police car, denting the door.