Servants of the Empire

Prologue

Sidar City, Planet Bor’Kringen, Bor’Giddai System

The rain on Bor’Kringen was thicker, harder and more unrelenting than any Ray Thompson had ever encountered in his life. The torrential downpour was so heavy it obscured objects as close as ten feet away. He ducked under the makeshift awning of a shack along with his companion, Terry Plummer, as the drumming of the rain rattled the soaking wood.

How much farther is it? he yelled over the sounds of the storm.

Plummer crouched and pulled out a small flatmap, holding it close to the shack to keep it dry. A green dot blinked on the screen, marking their destination, and a red dot identified their position. A little less than half a mile! he declared.

Thompson gritted his teeth and motioned for Plummer to follow him back out into the wall of water. Up ahead, the dozens of identical shacks gave way to a plaza, in the heart of which appeared to be the remains of a lonely old fountain made of marble.

Bor’Kringen, homeworld of the Kringian race, had once been home to a spectacular civilization – well over a hundred individual nations spread across nine continents – until one day a spaceship of Grays landed, as a spaceship of Grays had landed on every now-civilized planet, to introduce and welcome the Kringians to the galactic community. Within a year of first contact the planet was consumed by a nuclear war so horrific it wiped out almost two-thirds of the planet’s population. Out of the ashes had emerged a barbaric, war-torn world inhabited by the survivors of the nuclear holocaust. Kringians fled the planet by the millions and left behind a handful of slum cities slowly sinking into the mud.

Thompson and Plummer walked past the fountain and found themselves at a massive gate fashioned out of the hull of a downed briling gunship. Six massive Kringians sat miserable in the rain, the patchy fur growing from the soft points on their exoskeletons slick against their hard chests and shoulders from the rain. Three of them rose, revealing that they were holding ad hoc weapons.

Thompson, well aware of the brutality of Kringian gangs, pulled out a phrasebook from his pocket and thumbed through it, looking for the right words. As water soaked through its pages, Thompson managed to stammer, "Jod’hai kaar, zidina surk bin. Nei zidaikh Broola jeh’rend." Greetings to you, we come in peace. We wish to see Broola.

The Kringians looked at each other momentarily and then turned their attention back to the two awkward humans, their little eyes studying the expressions on the visitors’ faces. Thompson remembered reading somewhere that, like dogs, Kringians could smell fear.

One of the Kringians shrieked something indecipherable and the gate lurched open. He waved emphatically for the two humans to follow and they quickly hurried inside.

Well, that’s the first step, Thompson said with a chuckle. His friend was not amused, glaring at the ground as the gate shut behind him with a slam.

The compound beyond the gate was partially covered by thick webbing stretching between metal poles set into the ground. About two hundred yards from the gate, in what Thompson assumed was the center of the compound, was a large building built haphazardly of brick, wood and steel. It was still the most soundly-built structure he had seen since arriving on Bor’Kringen.

The Kringian who had escorted them stopped at the doorway to this central building and indicated for them to enter with one of his hook-like claws. Thompson thanked him courteously in Kringian and pushed open the door to enter.

The building contained a single room full of old mattresses and pillows arranged in a circle around a fire pit. Roughly two dozen Kringians sat drinking an assortment of liquor from around the galaxy and playing a complex dice game Thompson had read about. Directly across the roaring fire from the door, astride a crude throne made of animal skulls, was a massive Kringian who at nearly seven feet was a good head and a half taller than any other member of the species Thompson had seen so far. His exoskeleton had been painted a dark red color, and the hair growing from his sides, shoulders and head were dyed blue, yellow and purple.

This has to be Broola, Plummer whispered in Thompson’s ear as they inched their way around the fire pit, taking care to avoid stepping on any of the boisterous Kringians surrounding it. Broola’s beady eyes were trained on them the entire way around.

They arrived at an open patch of dirt immediately before the throne and Thompson bowed his head. "Jod’hai kaar, Broola."

Broola grunted and opened the protective mandibles in front of his mouth, revealing the multiple rows of teeth behind them. I will speak Standard, since I know you will butcher the native tongue, he said with a deep, commanding and thickly accented voice.

I am sure we would, Thompson said, relieved, pocketing his phrasebook. We are here because we understand that you are someone with a lot of clout in this region.

I am respected in Sidar City, yes, Broola said and grunted loudly. A young female briling was brought out from behind the throne, her eyes wide with fear.

We were hoping we could speak in private, if that is alright, Thompson said, carefully studying the briling, who was suddenly stripped of all her clothes so that she stood completely naked next to the fire pit.

A host in Sidar City does not let his guests go without food! Broola declared, and one of his Kringian cohorts without warning pulled out a wickedly curved knife and drove it right between the poor briling’s shoulder blades. The female briling shrieked as the knife was dragged from her upper back down to her hips, splattering her blue blood all over the butcher.

Plummer vomited on the ground as Thompson watched, horrified. The Kringians laughed and pointed at the human’s reaction, and the butcher proceeded to dismember the briling, handing Broola her bright-blue heart.

It is a sign of power in this city, to eat the heart of a captive, Broola explained and bit into it, blue blood dribbling down his exoskeletal chin. She was an assassin sent here to kill me, part of a team of briling mercenaries. I will discover soon enough who her employer was, and destroy them. Please, eat! I understand you humans have a saying… ‘Waste not, want not?’

Thompson gulped, more afraid for his life than at any point before in the visit. I am afraid I have a strict diet that prohibits me from eating briling, he joked nervously, hoping Broola was good-humored.

Broola glared at the two humans and shoved the rest of the heart into his mouth, chewing so loudly that his mandibles smacked into each other. After a disquieting silence in which the only sound was that of him eating the heart, the Kringian wiped the blood from his chin and burped, Tell me why you came here.

My name is Ray Thompson, and this is Terry Plummer, my traveling companion. We are but humble servants of the Great Dragon and his Speaker, the venerable Kataan the Visionary. You may have heard of the Visionary and his crusade of fire?

Broola nodded slowly. I have heard rumors of a human by that name who commands a powerful army. He either extends me a symbol of trust by sending his messengers to me unarmed… or reveals himself as a fool.

The Visionary wishes to come closer to the Great Dragon through pilgrimages to spiritual shrines throughout the galaxy.

Broola growled and leaned forward. It sounds as if the Visionary needs a priest, not someone with my talents.

On the contrary. The Visionary seeks to travel to a very particular shrine, a place of great significance in your culture. From what he understands, the journey is very difficult and seeks to employ you as his guide up to the shrine.

The Visionary seeks to visit Wamhurzun, Broola mused, flitting two of his tongues in and out of his mouth. Tell the Visionary I invite him into negotiations. I will send him the customary gifts of food, drink and slaves, and he will leave your friend here as a show of good faith, to be my guest.

Plummer shook his head violently and pleaded for Thompson to do something, but received only a slap to signal his silence. Thompson looked back at Broola and asked, What are your terms?

I will find a mutually satisfactory agreement with the Visionary in person, Broola snapped, pointing at the door. Kringians do not negotiate with lackeys. Tell him to meet me here tomorrow, and we will set terms. He forfeits the life of your friend should he refuse.

Broola coughed and motioned for two of his guards to approach. Show the human the way out, and send him with gifts and a protective guard to return him safely through the city to his employer. Until tomorrow, Mr. Thompson.

Thompson was forcibly led out of the compound, the sounds of Plummer begging for his help still ringing in his ear by the time the small platoon of Kringian mercenaries had brought him through the muddy slums back to the makeshift airfield sitting in the shadow of two collapsed skyscrapers. The rain had died down slightly, though Thompson was still soaked from head to toe by the time he reached the space yacht parked away from the other ships.

Once inside, Thompson hurried to the reception room of the massive, luxurious vessel. The room was empty of furniture save for a comfortable chair, and flanking the chair were six bodyguards wearing blood-red robes, their faces hooded. In the chair itself, the white-robed figure of the Visionary sat solemnly, his face hidden under his silver mask spare his newly-trimmed black beard and the pale pink outline of his lips.

O Visionary, Thompson breathed reverently and knelt down before his master. The mercenary Broola sends his regards.

Where is Plummer? the Visionary replied with his telltale rasp. Thompson had often wondered what injury or ailment caused his wise prophet’s voice to be so strained.

Broola is keeping him at his compound… as a token of the Great Dragon’s good faith, Thompson nervously explained. He sends, in return, a gift of food, drinks and slaves for us. He refuses to negotiate with anyone other than you – a Kringian tradition. He has requested an audience with you tomorrow morning, at his compound.

The Visionary silently considered this before slowly nodding. I accept his conditions. That will be all, Thompson.

Thompson bowed his head, professed his reverence once again and carefully left the room, thankful that the Visionary had been so reasonable. More reasonable than he expected, at least.

#

The rain in Sidar City had abetted by the time Kataan the Visionary and his small caravan departed from the spaceport where his shuttle had parked. Broola had sent three armored trucks in the morning to retrieve them and bring them along a wide ring road that circled much of the eastern remnants of the city.

In the pale, early afternoon light, Thompson stared out over the desolate shacks, muddy slums and crumbling monuments that were all that remained of what had surely once been a magnificent metropolis. The convoy pulled onto an embankment road snaking through the quiet shantytown, frightened locals staring out through panels in their huts as the heavily armed trucks raced past.

After about an hour navigating potholed roads made of little else but gravel and mud, the trucks pulled to a stop in front of the felled briling vessel that marked the entrance to Broola’s compound. The Visionary, with Thompson and four bodyguards in tow, hopped out of the two lead trucks. Out of the third truck jumped eight soldiers of the Visionary’s personal army, the Crimson Dragons, wearing their telltale black uniforms.

A beefy Kringian at the gate motioned for them to enter and the group entered the camp. Almost the entirety of Broola’s small force was standing out in the open center of the compound, armed to the teeth and growling suspiciously at the visitors. Broola himself, his fur and exoskeleton freshly painted, waited on a small wooden stool, his small beady eyes glinting in the gray light.

Welcome, guest, Broola boomed and indicated a similar stool to his side. Please, sit!

The Visionary paused, curled his upper lip in disgust at the conditions but complied, taking a seat. Thank you for your hospitality, Broola. The gifts you sent were much appreciated.

A sign of my good faith, Broola replied, clicking his mandibles together. I have called you here to negotiate, Visionary. Your messenger – he indicated Thompson with an errant claw – "mentioned you seek to visit the holy temple at Wamhurzun in the Shriee Kena’ia – the Haunted Mountains."

I look only for spiritual cleansing, the Visionary replied. The Dragon’s aura is rich at holy sites throughout the galaxy. He looks to draw from their power.

You know that Wamhurzun means First Temple – the most sacred of places on Bor’Kringen, Broola continued. It is where the boy king Sidda first spoke to the gods and was possessed with their power. When he returned from the mountains, he united the warring kingdoms under his banner and founded our civilization… what it once was.

"I heard you have made the pilgrimage into the Shriee Kena’ia many times, the Visionary said soothingly. My sources also told me that the mountains are a dangerous place… and that there are benefits to hiring a guide and guardian when making the trek."

Wamhurzun is for the Kringians alone. The path there is one of penitence and reflection…

And I seek both. I will pay you handsomely for your services leading me and a small attachment of my followers into the mountains. Name your price.

Five million in Dominion doi, Broola shrieked and clawed at his fur. Is this price acceptable?

It is acceptable. I’ll arrange with my financier to have the funds converted and sent to whatever account in the galaxy you nominate.

I will bring my men with me into the mountains. You will provide the provisions for both of our parties.

Fair enough.

Finally, you will forfeit the life of your follower Plummer as a sign of friendship. My men are hungry and human meat is a delicacy in these parts.

Thompson caught Plummer’s face in the crowd and saw his horrified expression as he caught wind of the new demand.

That is satisfactory to me, the Visionary replied without hesitation. You will provide your own transportation to the mountains, where we will rendezvous and proceed.

We are in agreement! Broola bellowed as his men converged on a screaming Plummer. The sounds of his flesh being torn by their sharp claws pierced the air and Thompson urinated on his shaking leg.

The sound of his comrade pleading for his life and the Kringian growls that ended it played through his mind over and over again, the entire return journey back to the shuttles.

#

The Visionary’s party waited for two days at the outskirts of a city in similarly ruined conditions to Sidar at the foothills of a tall, imposing mountain range. Every time Thompson stepped outside into the dirty, clammy air, he stared up at the black peaks, their tops hidden amongst a crown of clouds. By the time Broola’s twin shuttles arrived late in the second day, it was pouring once again and too dark to travel upwards, so the two mistrustful groups segregated themselves in their own quarters to wait out the storm.

It would be another two days until the gale-force storm had completely subsided and Thompson was getting cabin fever cooped up on the small shuttle with the Visionary. One of Broola’s Kringians came over to alert them that it was time to head up.

The Kringian warlord seemed stunned at the litany of vehicles that rolled out from the back of one of the Visionary’s ships, in particular the one carrying a massive, nondescript crate.

"The path through the Shriee Kena’ia is difficult, Broola warned. Your vehicles may not make it."

You will see to it that they do, the Visionary replied and jumped into the back of one of them. We have room for you and all of your men.

How did you store so many jeeps in the bottom of your space yacht?

We are well-organized.

Broola guffawed and picked at his mandible. Very well, Visionary. Up into the mountains we go!

Broola and the Visionary sat together in one of the main cars, along with Thompson, who was huddled in the front passenger seat next to one of the red-clad drivers. The convoy of vehicles – six in total – wound up a road that every few miles seemed to narrow by a few feet. Soon, the trucks were plodding along at a slow creep above deep ravines and steep cliffs.

I told you bringing these would be difficult! Broola grunted. The path will be so narrow at the mouth of the Wamhurzun that these vehicles will be unable to move through. We will have to leave them.

I can’t leave the crate! the Visionary snapped, hesitating afterwards after realizing how petulant he sounded. My apologies. I meant, we must move it with us. Somehow, vehicle or not.

Broola glanced out the back of the truck at the smaller jeep in question, the massive crate teetering on its back. What’s inside that is so important to you, human?

That is none of your concern.

If I lose men trying to move it through the gap into the temple, it becomes my concern.

It contains artifacts given to me by the Dragon that I must use in my prayers and meditation. That is all you need to know.

They continued maneuvering the vehicles slowly around the tight curves, narrow paths and up the steep mountainsides until they reached a flat summit where Broola suggested they park for the evening.

This is one of the Summits of Waiting, he explained as he hopped out of the truck. This is where the pilgrims stop for the night. The rest of the path is far too treacherous to attempt in the dark.

How long will the journey be tomorrow?

It would have been a few days on foot. It should take no more than a few hours.

Excellent. I will go meditate.

Broola watched the Visionary approach the edge of the summit and sit down cross-legged. He waved one of his lieutenants over and indicated their client.

Do you trust this Visionary?

Of course not, sir, the Kringian spat and clawed at one of his mandibles. We should kill them all and throw them in the canyon.

That would be bad for business, Broola replied and glanced back at the Visionary. "How would it look if Broola brought a party into the mountains and came down without them? And in the Shriee Kena’ia, no less? No, we will lead them to the Wamhurzun. But we will keep ourselves attentive. Don’t let him or that errand boy of his out of your sight."

#

The journey the next day was even more harrowing. The path grew narrower and narrower, soon to the point that the vehicles had their wheels inches from the cliff edges. The mountains had been weathered over the eons and purged of life from rain, erosion and nuclear fallout. Thompson, cold and clutching his knees to his chest, stared out the window at the dark, ancient stone inches from the glass. Every now and then there would be a scraping sound as the side of the vehicle tapped the rock and both Thompson and the driver froze, certain that the vehicle would lose its balance and plunge over the edge.

The small convoy meandered excruciatingly slowly along these thin paths, ascending as they snaked towards a particularly daunting cluster of three mountains in a light rain. Broola leaned forward into the cab and pointed forwards at the three peaks. "Those mountains ahead form the Surukaarn Hiaru’ai – the Crown of Clouds. Where they meet is where the Wamhurzun is located."

Thompson glanced up at the thick, puffy gray cloudbank obscuring the tops of the three massive mountains. The Crown of Clouds – an appropriate name.

The vehicles reached an open, flat mesa overlooking a canyon that snaked up between the nearest two of the peaks. There was a thin road forward, marked with stone idols. At the end of the road, through a light haze, Thompson could barely make out what looked like an ornate gate carved from the mountainside where the slopes of two of the mountains met.

There it is, Broola side and indicated the gate. Beyond the gate ahead lies the Wamhurzun, the holiest of holy sites for the Kringian people. Once the Visionary had seen it, Broola added, A holy site meant for the Kringian people.

Your people leave it abandoned?

It is for pilgrimages and reflection, not permanent habitation. Broola pointed to the stone idols. The statues along the path represent the ancient kings who had their ashes spread into the canyons. Monks and priests would journey here at the end of their lives and throw themselves from the mountains or immolate themselves within the confines of the temple so as to die surrounded by the essence of the gods. Surely you can feel the essence?

The Visionary nodded. Yes, I feel your temple call to me. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I like the air up here. It is… cleaner.

The gods kept the poison of our weapons from contaminating this place, Broola offered. Even the gravest of our mistakes could not taint their perfection.

We will make camp here, and eat, the Visionary said as the rain started to grow stronger. Tomorrow, you and I will enter the temple.

Know this, human – you will be amongst the very few who have set foot in Wamhurzun who do not have Kringian blood. If you desecrate the site, I will kill you and all of your men.

Understood. In the meantime, why don’t we get my crate carried across the path into the temple?

Broola ordered his men to comply and stood out in the rain watching them carefully lug the cumbersome box across the path. They finally reached the entrance carved from the rocks and slid the crate inside. Once they returned to the Visionary’s large tent, the group of Kringians found a boiling pot of soup waiting for them.

Broola peeked under the lid and glanced up curiously. What is this?

Food, for you and your men. Thought we’d make some before nightfall, the Visionary replied and poured Broola a bowl. Please, eat!

Broola sniffed it suspiciously and clacked his mandibles. You first.

Absolutely, the Visionary said disarmingly and drank from the spoon. He smacked his lips and wiggled the spoon between his fingers. Delicious… and safe.

Broola sipped from his bowl and nodded. Yes, this tastes fine. He barked at his men to procure food and then go get their own tent out to pitch for the evening. The Visionary poured himself a bowl and drank from it slowly, his eyes intently studying Broola for a reaction every time the Kringian consumed more of it.

Finally, once Broola had emptied the bowl and poured himself seconds, the Visionary set his bowl aside and leaned back. The Great Dragon thanks you for your service, Broola.

Broola thanks the Great Dragon for five million in… Broola narrowed his eyes, breathing heavily. Well, I was saying… He suddenly vomited brackish purple blood and his eyes lost focus. As Broola regurgitated more of his soup intermixed with his odorous blood, the Visionary stepped out of the way so as to not get any of it on his robes.

Broola fell backwards off of his pillow, the room spinning and he gasped, You… you poisoned the soup… how are you alive…?

The Visionary cocked his head to the side. It wasn’t difficult, Broola, we’re different species. Some things that humans can digest with no problem just happen to eat right through your stomach like acid.

Broola dragged himself out of the tent on all fours, struggling to move through the thick, slippery mud beyond the tent. He heard a crack of gunfire in the distance and coughed violently.

Of all his enemies who had tried to kill him over the years in violent conflicts, he had finally been bested by a human zealot who had poisoned him. The great, fearsome Broola – killed by drinking soup.

He tried to stagger to his feet, barely able to support his weight on his legs. He vomited again, the stink now filling the nostril slits above his mandibles. Broola attempted one last time to orient himself in the rain, wiping water from his eyes to improve his blurred vision.

A bullet tore through his chest, and two more punctured his neck. He heaved, trying to plug the bleeding with his claws. Broola fell forward onto his knees, sinking an inch into the mud, and heard the squish of mud under boot behind him. There was a bang, the bullet split his head in two, and the corpse plunged forward into the muck.

The Visionary, traipsing through the deluge under an umbrella held by an attendant, approached the mercenary standing over Broola’s limp body. He regarded the corpse for a moment before signaling to his bodyguard.

Throw him into the canyon along with the rest.

#

The crate was moved fully within the Wamhurzun early the next morning and then the Visionary was left alone to enter the holy site. The rainfall had ended but a cold wind still blew across the mountain face as he crossed the path along the canyon. The place smelled stale and was eerily quiet.

The Visionary moved amongst the halls and courtyards of the temple, running his fingers against the ancient stones. He scratched dirt out of a symbol carved on a wall with his nail, inspecting it. It was most definitely not of the Kringian alphabet.

The largest structure was a domed building at the heart of the complex in the middle of a wide-open plaza. The emptiness was striking – the Visionary felt as if only the ghosts of the suicidal Kringian priests were in there with him.

I feel cold, he said out loud, glancing up at the cloudy peaks of the three mountains that surrounded the temple. He knew this plaza even though he had never been here before. But he had been somewhere similar.

The domed building and the plaza surrounding it were so very alike the temple on Burakai, a place the Visionary had stood in another life. In that life, his name had been Julian Castor, and he had nearly died in such a plaza. But there would be no death here today – he felt the energy of the Great Dragon running in every centimeter of his body, from his toes to his fingertips.

Speak to me, Great Dragon… Speak to me, so I can understand!

There was a rumble, and as the Visionary closed his eyes to meet those of the Dragon in his mind, he heard the voice he had come to know as the only voice he ever wanted to hear.

"Kataan… you have done well… you have done My bidding… now, you will open the crate… and unleash My Acolyte to unlock the secrets of this place…"

Yes, yes, of course! The Visionary half-sprinted back to the crate, fishing his remote out of his pocket. He had made sure nobody followed him in here for this very reason. The Acolyte only wanted to be seen by those he deemed worthy.

The Visionary slid to his knees, pressing the button to open the crate. The door lowered to reveal a rapidly-spinning silver sphere. As it slowed to a stop, the Visionary closed his eyes and began chanting the words the Dragon had taught him, remembering the death and destruction on Burakai, the screams of the wounded and dying, and the pale orange eyes of the creature that had approached him from the shadows. As it had descended upon him, Julian Castor had died and Kataan the Visionary had been born. The body had become the vessel for the Dragon’s crusade of fire.

You saved my life, the Visionary panted at the end of his chant, meaning every word. Something cold and damp touched the top of his silver mask and the Visionary felt the tips of the Acolyte’s three long, alien fingers reach under the back and remove it.

Sukud

Chapter One: The Merenga Family

Planet Kenka, Lurkk System, Krokator Star Empire

Again! Akgu Zurra cried out and swung the rigid foam stick. John Gresham rolled to the side and blocked the bludgeon with his forearm, and while the foam was preferable to the oiled wood stick they used in the afternoon session, his bruised skin still smarted from the blow.

Block, again!

Gresham ducked under a horizontal swing, stepped sideways and knocked away another swing with his wrist. A droplet of sweat rolled off of his forehead and into his eye, and he blinked, momentarily raising his hand to wipe the stinging liquid away. The stick slammed into the back of his head, sending him flying forward as stars erupted before his eyes.

Always remain aware! Never hesitate!

Gresham had long since lost track of how long he had been training with Zurra at the old Akgu family farm on Kenka. The planet’s overwhelming humidity, the excruciating rigor of each new day of exercises, and his lack of contact with the outside galaxy had left him drifting through the long hours, waking up to a new day of painful workouts and passing out to sleep at night.

As he ducked back from another swing of the stick, Gresham reminded himself that the work was paying off. As unbearable as many of Zurra’s exercises were, Gresham’s agility and reflexes had improved remarkably, as had his stamina. The twelve-mile run he had been subjected to on the second day had been torturous; now, runs of that length were standard practice.

It took a while for Gresham to realize that Zurra really wasn’t just making things up as he went along. Each exercise was designed to work on something different; whether it was dodging foam or wood sticks to work on reacting to enemy blows, or throwing small boulders around to build upper body strength, or leaping from tree to tree for four hours to work on putting the full body into motions.

We have similar training disciplines at the Academy, Zurra explained as they caught their breath after a hundred-yard sprint. We just use more sophisticated equipment.

Of all the exercises, the daily sparring to train hand-to-hand combat was the worst. Zurra, so much larger than Gresham and so much stronger, did not hold back as much as he claimed he was, landing hard blows with his padded gloves or the foam stick. The oiled wood was used more for technique perfection – had Zurra accidentally struck Gresham with it, he would surely have broken bone.

The stick swung once more and Gresham pushed off from the ground, rolling on his shoulder and coming up to the side of Zurra. His friend pivoted, swinging the stick without warning, and landed Gresham right in the chest. The human crumpled back against the ground, coughing as the air was knocked out of his lungs.

Up! Again! Zurra commanded.

The first few days, Gresham had been so battered and bruised that he would have been unable to comply. Now, however, his body had grown so accustomed to the pain he barely noticed. Throbbing muscles and aching bones were simply a reality of his existence, as normal as sight and smell.

He picked himself back up and immediately had to leap sideways and away from a swing aimed at his shoulder. He dove forward, driving his shoulder into Zurra’s side as the krokator turned to aim another blow at him, knocking him to the ground.

They wrestled momentarily before Zurra shoved him off forcefully, grinning. You are becoming bolder, cooker of foods! More aggressive. That shows confidence in your defenses.

Are we done with this for now?

Zurra glanced up at the sun, sitting high in the morning sky. We can take a break before your next exercise.

They walked over to a covered porch looking out over the small river that ran past the farm, forming its northern boundary. A few hundred yards in the distance, they could make out the stone bridge crossing the stream, as a three-wheeled likala bounced along the road that formed the farm’s eastern edge. The farms and fields of Kenka’s northern plateaus stretched in every direction before them, with the nearest farmhouse barely visible on the horizon.

You are improving, cooker of foods, Zurra complimented him, pouring them both cups of water from a pitcher. You have become very agile these past weeks.

I’m trying.

Zurra sipped his water and nodded. After this break we will return to the forest for more full-body exercises.

Their conversations were conducted exclusively in Krokam and were geared mostly to polish Gresham’s mastery of the language. Gresham had tried to glean more information out of his friend on what exactly had happened onboard the Manticore when Grakko had died, but eventually gave up after a string of non-answers and evasions. Whatever it was that had happened, Zurra’s personality was night-and-day different from when they had pursued the heretic’s trail to Helios and Nocturne. The former glum, detached and hateful demeanor Zurra had projected had been replaced by a calm earnestness and quiet warmth.

A likala chuffed up the path from the main road onto the farm, and Zurra rose to cover his eyes and see who it was.

Expecting visitors?

Not exactly. Stay here.

The likala pulled to a stop about fifty yards from the farm house and a large, heavy krokator hopped out. He had the same jet-black skin as Zurra, but was a full head shorter and his gut stuck out from under his tunic above the sash tying his kekkalo to his waist.

Zurra, initially tense as he approached the visitor, relaxed and jogged forward, clasping the krokator’s forearm in a formal greeting before embracing him. As they turned to walk back up to the house, Zurra wrapped the newcomer in a headlock, giving him two light jabs to the gut.

Aware of Zurra’s almost feral strength, Gresham was surprised at how mirthfully the visitor took the gesture, slapping Zurra in the side with the back of his hand and kicking out his left leg so that they both fell to the ground.

Gresham jumped up, puzzled, as the two krokator wrestled playfully on the ground, giving each other punches that to them would be light but to a human would surely mean hospitalization. Finally, in a cloud of dirt and dust, they both rose, brushing off their clothes and embraced again, laughing.

As Gresham walked over, Zurra patted his apparent friend on the back and waved at Gresham. Cooker of foods, come! Meet my cousin.

His cousin, Gresham breathed, relieved. For various reasons, he had pictured Zurra’s family as being full of hulking eight-foot monsters.

The newcomer bowed his head and stuck out his arm in greeting. My name is Merenga Borakk, human.

Good afternoon, Gresham replied in Krokam and clasped the krokator’s arm up to the elbow. My name is John Gresham.

You pronounce the tongue well. You have practiced?

I studied Krokam when I was younger.

My cousin Borakk here is the educated one, much like yourself. He teaches history at the primary in Fal Kurkken, Zurra offered, giving the shorter, fatter krokator a strong slap on the back. The two of you would enjoy one another’s company.

Borakk flashed Gresham a broad grin, the stubs of his filed tusks poking out from under his lower lip, before he and Zurra walked into the house and disappeared. Gresham raised an eyebrow, still unsure why one of Zurra’s cousins had decided to drop by the farm unannounced.

He picked up his cup of water and walked along the side of the house to retrieve his baggy white shirt. Zurra had procured a handful of human clothes from an unidentified source in the village, but Gresham also wore Zurra’s boyhood shirts and pants, which were still much too large for him.

As he stooped down to pick up his shirt, he heard Borakk’s voice from inside the house. You have been back far too long without paying your respects, cousin. Why is this?

I am not here in an official capacity. My friend cooker of foods and myself are here to wait and keep a low profile, Borakk.

Father was upset when he heard you had returned and did not come to see him. He has made sure the farm stays in good condition over the years.

Please forward him my gratitude. I will go into town to pay my respects soon.

Grandfather was displeased as well. You know how he is.

Gresham paused, intrigued. He inched closer to the window from which the voices emerged.

I will go to see him as well. You know that you are all welcome over here at any time, cousin. I hope your family does not take offense at my absence.

I take none, Zurra, do not be concerned, Borakk chuckled heartily. But Grandfather is still prominent here in town, and the clan listens to him. There was a long silence before Borakk asked, Why are you here, Zurra?

I would only endanger you by revealing the reason.

Borakk coughed. "Ukkum strike me, cousin! What could be so dangerous that you came to this hrain-ridden rock to hide from it?"

As I said, cousin, I am here waiting.

With a human companion?

He needs training. He has not been to war since the humans repelled the dhzirs and needs to be refreshed in the art of combat. I have been conditioning him the krokator way.

So here you are, living in the house of your father and grandfather after it has stood empty for years, with a human, and you do not take the time to come into town to greet me or your family. You know that people in town have been talking.

They can say what they like. I have not the time, much less the patience, for their rumors.

I am trying to help you, Zurra. I want to understand what you are hiding from. Borakk went quiet before saying, Does this have something to do with Turka?

Gresham stiffened at the mention of Zurra’s dead brother. The name had gone unspoken even after Zurra had killed Grakko, regardless of how or when Gresham tried to bring it up.

In a way, Zurra answered, to Gresham’s great surprise. Grakko is dead, cousin. The heretic has been returned to the Origin World where he belongs.

Your father would be proud of you.

"Father would be pleased that I did not commit to a nohoken, Zurra replied curtly. That is what was important to him. In my heart and soul, I view Grakko’s death as an objective of my mission, not my personal vengeance."

"So they finally sent you out to kill the hrain?"

I have already said I cannot tell you.

Gresham smiled and shook his head. Getting information out of Zurra was a difficult and frustrating task. He sympathized with Borakk.

He took a seat on the grass, sipping from his cup and staring out across the fields beyond the farm. This place was so tranquil and quiet. Gresham understood why Zurra and his family of warriors before him had come to the farm to collect their thoughts and be at peace.

Will I ever be at peace? Gresham wondered, staring at the hazy horizon. In the midday light, he imagined smoke rising from the horizon – the smoke of the rubble that had replaced downtown Los Angeles. It was the vision he kept replaying in his mind every time he felt weak during training and wanted to stop. There could be no stopping – not with the Visionary out there, not while the Dragon Cult could strike again at any time.

With that in mind, Gresham threw himself on the ground to bust out fifty pushups. Each time he went down, he saw a face – Howard Paine, Sam Troy, even people whose names he didn’t know. They were all the same – victims of the Dragon Cult and the nuclear bomb they had somehow transported into the heart of Los Angeles.

As he did the pushups, the Gardelli charm ring he kept around his neck lightly tickled the soft Kenkosh dirt. His sweat ran down the silver chain it was kept on, beading up on the cold, twisted metal meant to fit on a Gardelli tentacle, not a human finger. It was more of a pendant than a ring, but it was an important reminder of the friend he had lost, and the millions who had perished with him.

"I want you to have this," he heard Paine saying that night before Gresham had left Terra, in the executive mansion’s living room. The President had been so sad to see Gresham go, worried something might happen to the man that was one of the last connections he had to his son. Neither could have known that it would be Gresham who survived the events of the next few weeks, not Paine.

The mushroom cloud Gresham had seen in Nocturne’s deserts erupted again as he groaned, lifting himself up from pushup number thirty-six. He imagined that same bright light and dark fire, only transposed against the skyline of Los Angeles he had come to know so well in his years living on Terra. He had hated it all that time, detesting the heat, the crowds, the political nonsense that came with his job at Military Intelligence. But now that he knew it was all an irradiated wasteland, he longed to return, to walk along the streets of downtown on a warm day, to eat cheeseburgers at that restaurant he liked with a view over Crest Ave, to familiarize himself with the latest women’s swimwear trends down at the beach.

At pushup forty-one, Gresham saw instead the face of Colin Hess, the man who had started all this when he stole weapons from the Marines to sell to criminals, stunned that he had failed to blow up an international summit as he bled out, alone, in the convention center’s basement.

Forty-two, he pictured the sneer of Elijah Perry, Hess’ right-hand man who ran the whole show, right before Gresham emptied his gun into the smug bastard. He felt Perry’s blood splattering over his face and chest as if it had happened five seconds prior, not several months ago.

Forty-three, it was now Hans Volcker, the cold mercenary in his snow gear, flying back against the wall of the mine on Helios.

Forty-four, his brother Dietrich, so consumed by vengeance right before he tumbled into the oven after Zurra had shot him and saved Gresham’s life.

Forty-five, Hsufa the Mingiclorian, uttering a final obscenity and then the bullets tore through him in the hallway aboard the Manticore.

The last five pushups were for the one Gresham hadn’t killed and wished he had. With each tap of the charm ring against the ground and the strained effort to get back up, Gresham saw the silver-masked face of his onetime friend turned enemy, Julian Castor, now known as Kataan the Visionary.

Gresham rolled onto his back after the last one, shielding his eyes from the sun. How had Castor become that monster? The young kid he remembered from Puckshot had been a nervous wreck, barely knew how to handle a gun, homesick and fretting about his high school sweetheart who was back on Darwin waiting for him. He wanted to get in a time machine and follow Castor over the course of the next eighteen years, to understand how he had evolved into something so evil.

With that thought, Gresham reminded himself that in the eyes of the Alliance, Castor was killed in action. For all intents and purposes, Castor was dead. The moody, depressed young Marine from the war had indeed died eight years ago in that classified incident. The head of the Dragon Cult was someone else entirely – he merely inhabited the same body.

Cooker of foods! Zurra called out, and Gresham blinked. He propped himself up on his elbow and looked back at the house, where Zurra and Borakk where emerging.

I saw you doing your exercises, Borakk announced. Zurra tells me that you have improved immensely from where you were mere weeks ago. He is a good teacher, is he not?

Good enough, at least, Gresham replied and got up, dusting off his knees. You boys talk about everything you wanted to talk about?

The two krokator gave each other a strange look and then Borakk nodded. Yes, well, I must fulfill the purpose of my visit, at least. I was sent up here by my family – Zurra’s family – to retrieve the two of you for dinner at my grandfather’s home. Merenga Mura has requested Zurra’s presence. I am sure he would not refuse you, as the guest of an Akgu, human.

Zurra shook his head. No, Borakk, I already told you. We are on a strict schedule here and…

Nonsense, cousin! My father insists. He has cared for this property since his sister died. Gresham could detect the loaded way Borakk emphasized the last few words, even in the monotone inflection of Krokam. The human can accompany me to the marketplace in Fal Kurkken to retrieve some provisions while you gather a few bottles from Juska’s famed wine cellar. We will meet you at grandfather’s home in… an hour and a half?

Before Gresham could protest, Borakk was guiding him towards the likala, nimbly steering him around the farmhouse with a hand on his back. Gresham felt that the gesture was anything but friendly.

Zurra started after them but stopped, defeat and frustration plain on his face. Very well, cousin, I will see you there. No later than an hour and a half.

Gresham was quickly hurried into the passenger seat of the likala and Borakk started the three-wheeled vehicle up, and soon they were off, bumping up and down on the uneven, potholed dirt road that led up to the farm.

After a moment of pause, Borakk turned to regard Gresham and asked, I take it Zurra has not spoken much of his family since you made his acquaintance?

Zurra does not speak much of anything, Gresham corrected. He is very quiet.

That he is, Borakk guffawed and steered them back onto the larger road, turning in the direction of the village. Has he taken you into Fal Kurkken yet since you arrived here?

He has not.

That is no surprise either. He is like his father – always holed up in that farmhouse with his secrets, Borakk muttered. Gresham shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the cousin continued, Do not mishear me, human, I love my cousin. I loved his elder brother, too, before he died. That death ravaged their house. It was a true shame.

What exactly happened? Gresham blurted, hoping to get an answer on the subject from someone other than Zurra.

Zurra brought you to this place and did not tell you himself?

Only in passing.

Borakk shrugged. "Well, there is not much to tell. Turka was the eldest Akgu and as such was heir to his clan’s mantle. Zurra spent his adolescence working twice as hard for the same approval Turka received from their father. My uncle Juska was… cold. I have no other way to describe it. He is not of my kang, but Kurkand keep him in his mercy."

I figured you were from Zurra’s mother’s side of the family when you mentioned your family name, Gresham observed.

"We are both prominent clans in this province. The marriage of an Akgu to a Merenga was a favorable match. A family of soldiers and a family of merchants, both of means. My cousin’s kang is very fine."

His what? Gresham was unfamiliar with the word, though he knew he had heard it before.

"His kang… his, what is the human word? Oh, yes. His ‘blood.’ But it is more than just his blood, human, it is his essence. Your kang is what connects you to the gods. It is what is released into the sky when you are burned upon your funeral pyre, your ashes returned to the earth that begat you and your kang free to be received by Kurkand in the Last World."

So his soul.

"A crude word, but yes. Your kang is in your name and in your blood. Two fine names like the Merenga and the Akgu joining to produce offspring – well, that is quite good kang."

They came to a turn in the road and passed an orchard where beastfruit was grown. Some of the dark, thorny plants hung over the road as it travelled down a hill and Borakk stuck his hand out of the window, snatching a handful from the vine and handing a thick, black berry to Gresham.

Do you have a taste for the fruit of the beast?

Zurra has forbidden us to drink during our training. I have not tasted beastwine since I was in the Krokandir during college.

You schooled in the Empire?

For a few months. It was a study-abroad program at the human university on Rukkur.

Gresham bit into the berry and its dark, tangy juice squirted out all over his shirt and hands. He sucked some of the sour substance out of the fruit’s skin and once it was smaller stuck the whole thing in his mouth, chewing in bliss. It had an almost narcotic aftertaste.

So you were telling me about Zurra and his brother, he munched.

I suppose I was, yes. Well, Turka was the favorite, but Zurra had the talent. Turka was tall and thin, Zurra was tall and thick. You could tell which one was going to be the superior soldier even in primary. Borakk scratched at his neck. I am between Turka and Zurra in age, so we all schooled together. I was and still am a scholar and some of the other kroklings tortured me for it. Zurra and Turka were my protectors on the schoolyard. Nobody crossed those two.

They passed a forlorn residence right up on the road. Borakk slowed down and pointed to it. "That is where Elder Akgu Turka, Juska’s uncle, lived. He was Turka’s namesake. His younger brother, Akgu Murskk – Zurra’s grandfather – died in the Fifth Human-Krokator War… I believe it was at Cuephesis. Elder Turka was taken by the sukuda when we were in primary. He was an odd old krokator, I never knew him well – wrong side of the family – but the rumor in town was always that Juska turned him in."

His own uncle?

Borakk nodded carefully. It affected Turka a great deal. He loved that old one. He became more withdrawn, all through his formative years. I think he hated his father for it, though Juska was too proud and stubborn to believe his eldest son could despise him. A shame, for he should have been noticing Zurra’s devotion instead.

And I thought my brother and I had a hard time when we were kids, Gresham chuckled. They meandered down the road and in the valley ahead he could see the buildings of Fal Kurkken, the local town.

Fal Kurkken is the capital of this province, Borakk explained. Juska twice turned down offers to become regional governor, despite the fact that he would have seen his family more. He always believed he was needed in the Krokandir, but he hated Rukkur too much to move his family there with him. In a twist of fate, his daughter now lives in the Krokandir itself.

Zurra’s sister? What is she like?

Urula? Lovely, of course. Akgu Nefeg, her mother, would have had it no other way. She is married, has a son and an infant daughter. She is doing well… it was good for her to escape this place. Nothing here for the Akgu descendants but pain and sadness.

The road wound down along the side of the valley and on the top of a high hill with a sheer side facing the village, Gresham saw an estate built of fine stone and surrounded by a wall. Along the wall, he could see lush treetops and what looked like statues perched every ten yards or so.

What is that up there? he asked, pointing at the mansion.

"That is the mansion of the andar who serves as our regional governor. All business regarding the province is conducted either there or at the government offices in the town. There is a firm distinction between what kind of business is transacted where, if you follow my meaning."

Gresham had read extensively about the Empire’s andar class, but he had never seen anything related to them up close. So he’s a landowner of some kind?

"You know about the andara?"

"Andar means ‘elite,’ if I am not mistaken. They are the upper class of the Empire, given their titles at the Emperor’s discretion. They must please him to keep their titles and cannot pass the titles on to their children without the Emperor’s permission. Keeps them honest and keeps them loyal, from what I read."

"You should read elsewhere, Gresham. They are the civilian upper class, yes, but it is quite easy for them to keep their titles and pass their power through the generations. Over the past century-and-a-half, since the Oranokk Coup, the andara have slowly gathered power so that they now control the Empire’s industries, the resources needed for those industries to thrive and much of the land needed for their subjects to till crops. The Emperor would be a fool to face them down and try to revoke their grants now, especially this early in his rule."

Gresham felt uncomfortable looking at the way the walled estate sat above the hill, as if it were sneering down at the town below. That’s borderline feudal, he whispered to himself.

They pulled into Fal Kurkken and passed the five landing pads that served as its spaceport. Gresham remembered arriving from Kenka’s capital by night last time they came and was surprised at the size of the town. Most buildings were three stories and were packed tight, slapped together out of wood and blackrock. At the center of town were six two-hundred foot towers arranged in a circle, and at the other end of the valley Gresham could see what looked like a dull gray box leering over its neighbors from a rocky knoll.

That is the government building, Borakk explained, indicating the box. Those six towers surround the marketplace. That is our destination.

The roads in Fal Kurkken were paved with blackrock, but the cracks sprouted mud and small, purple-tipped weeds. Krokator