EARTH’S EXILES

Earth’s Exiles

Copyright © 2021 by Charles R. King. All Rights Reserved.

For More Information Contact:

Three Kings Publishing

115 Canterbury Court

Princeton, Kentucky 42445

threekingspublishing@gmail.com

Earth’s Exiles

Book 1 of the Exile Series

by Ryan King

Copyright © 2021 by Ryan King

Three Kings Publishing

Chapter 1

The verdict would be guilty, he thought. Was anyone ever really innocent?

"Drake Goodman, the State of Greater Chesapeake finds you guilty of murder," intoned the fat old judge. He said this with just enough contrived sadness to appeal to anyone watching the proceedings at home.

"Young man," the judge transitioned to the public service announcement portion in a stern lecturing tone, "self-defense is no excuse for killing. It is not your responsibility to protect yourself, but that of the State. Imagine the world we would live in if everyone arbitrarily decided on their own that they could use violence to defend themselves. I shudder at the thought." The rotund man actually did shudder from his dangling jowls down to his tent-like ornate gown, which was only partially visible behind his granite podium desk. He had the loose yet taut-looking skin that belied regular fat removal treatments. The judge was obviously overdue for his next one.

"We would be no better than our predecessors of generations past who murdered and raped and rioted with abandon. The State is the only element responsible enough to wield such power and make such decisions. I grieve for your dead brother, but you have now become no better than the one who killed him."

My brother, Drake thought. The pig says it as if it is nothing. Has he ever lost anything in his whole, soft, rich life?

The horrid scene flashed through his mind again. Drake's little brother, Sasha, was only eight years old. Jenson and his Woodmoor Boys went after Sasha to get to Drake, wanting to rough the older brother up. It could have turned out okay but for Jenson's knife. Jenson, egged on by his gang, killed Sasha right in front of Drake. The brutal beating Drake endured just wasn't enough. The gang's mistake was letting go of Drake after they killed Sasha. Drake didn't feel sorry. He felt fury. Fury that he couldn't kill Jenson again…and again…and again.

Piss on the State. They're never there to protect, only to punish and bring pain.

"Now that the verdict has been delivered, the guilty party has the opportunity to defend themselves, but since you are not yet a Citizen, you do not have that right." The judge already appeared to be growing bored and consulted a video tablet in front of him.

It took some effort for Drake to keep his face impassive. Not yet a Citizen, like I'll ever be a Citizen. They hold that illusionary carrot out to the masses, but in reality, you have to either know someone influential or pay the State's ransom to buy Citizenship. Mother has worked herself nearly to death her whole life just to keep us fed. It was better before my dad left, but not by much. Citizenship is not for normal people like me.

"Do you wish to appeal this decision?" He raised an eyebrow.

This was the first time Drake had actually been invited to speak, and it caught him by surprise, "I, uh..."

The judge turned away and pulled up a separate console. "The guilty party wishes to appeal this court's decision," he announced in an offhand manner. He punched a few buttons on his keyboard and a screen in the corner of the room lit up, showing a harried looking man in the foreground with several other harried persons at computer terminals behind him.

"Yes, what is your case number?" the man asked while pushing other buttons at his end, obviously distracted.

"Case number 2056-A449, the State versus Drake Goodman," said the judge.

The harried man pushed a few more buttons and leaned in close to another terminal screen. "Yes, I have it here: murder of another boy following that boy's murder of his younger brother. What a tragedy." The man shook his head without looking away from the screen. "We can effectively close the first murder since Sasha Goodman's murderer was killed, but this one..." he droned off and again stared at the screen. He looked up into the camera for the first time. "The defendant is a minor at seventeen, but in capital cases that doesn't matter." Another long pause as if the man were considering something. "Looks pretty clear cut, appeal denied." The screen went dark.

The judge nodded and turned back. "Drake Goodman, I sentence you to a lifetime of State Reorientation." He pushed something in front of him, and two guards walked up behind Drake and grabbed his arms. The boy started to struggle, but one of them touched a device at their belt and Drake went rigid with pain. Knives of electric fire shot out in all directions from the collar around his neck. He couldn't even drop to the floor despite being close to passing out.

After what seemed like an eternity, the pain stopped abruptly, and Drake fell forward supported by the two guards. "Okay now, enough of that, wouldn't you say?" said the guard to his left in an old gravelly voice distinctive of the Belsmire Commons, Drake's home. They dragged him towards an open door to the right of the courtroom as another guilty person was hauled in from the left to stand trial.

They led him down a brightly lit corridor with doors on either side and lights above. Most of the lights were red, but at the first one with a green light, they opened the door and pushed Drake inside. A young sneering guard who held Drake's right arm pointed at two lit footprints on the floor, implying the boy should stand on them.

Drake felt a strong impulse to strike the guard in the face but knew it would do no good. There was no way out and he still wore the restraining collar. The Commons had at least taught him the wisdom of picking his battles. Tall, like his father, Drake glared down on the man, but finally turned away.

Stepping onto the glowing footprints, Drake was immediately immobilized. Unlike the restraining collar, there was no pain, but waves of panic raced out from his brain when he realized he couldn't move a muscle. Drake couldn't even blink.

The older guard was at the back of the room typing on a keyboard, and soon a bank of images appeared on the large screen to Drake's front. His name lit the middle of the center screen followed by age, criminal history, and sentence. To the right of these fascinating bits of information appeared columns:

Strength - average (62 percentile)

Health - average (54 percentile)

Speed/dexterity - above average (86 percentile)

Social skills - below average (23 percentile)

Psychological – abnormal/dangerous (aggressive tendencies)

Intelligence - superior (96 percentile)

"Are you kidding me?" asked the young guard. "Ninety-sixth percentile? Got to be some sort of mistake."

"It's no mistake, the analyzer doesn't make mistakes," said the older guard. "Let's open up the auction. We'll have to go get a new prisoner soon."

A digital clock with five minutes on it appeared to Drake's left and began counting down. At nearly the same time a note flashed under the clock, 20 credits - Dolton Medical Research.

"How do they always get their bids in so fast?" asked the young guard.

"Probably a computer-generated bid; they just bid the minimum on everyone. Rarely sticks unless the prisoner is old or sick," answered the older man. "Someone is going to snatch this one up for more than twenty credits."

Twenty credits, Drake thought. They talk about it like it is nothing. It would have fed my family for a month. The State will get twenty credits and I'll spend my few remaining days having experimental drugs pumped into me or my limbs cut off so they can test a new prosthesis.

Another bid appeared just as the clock indicated four minutes remaining, 45 credits - Global Mining Corp.

"Why would they want him?" asked the young guard frowning at Drake. "He's only got average strength and he's way too tall for the mines. He wouldn't last a month."

"You must not have heard," said the older guard. "They had a cave-in at one of their deep shafts under the Rockies. Down three miles they say, too expensive to save the workers. Global lost over eight thousand laborers and their stock this morning dropped almost as many points. They need to replace those workers fast to get back to production. They won't get much out of the boy before he dies, but it will give them time to recover and replace their losses."

Another bid appeared on the screen as the clock approached three minutes remaining, 60 credits - Lonely Heart Companions, Inc.

"Ooooo," said the young guard, "someone thinks you're pretty."

Companion, Drake thought as his stomach knotted up. It would be better to die in the mines; at least there I would maintain my dignity. I won't be able to live as a sex slave for fat men like the judge or some strange medically enhanced mutant. Hell, they might decide to turn me into a hermaphrodite in order to increase my marketing options. He felt like throwing up and watched the screen hoping for another bid, any other bid. There were already less than two minutes left.

"Now that I'm getting a good look at you, you are kind of pretty," said the young guard tauntingly. "I might have to come visit you myself, have a little treat."

"Like you could afford it," guffawed the old guard.

One minute left.

The young guard leaned in close to Drake and whispered, "Don't you worry, I'll find your mother and make sure she knows you're all right. She can even come to visit you…as long as she pays."

Drake's teeth clenched tight. He wanted to scream.

Thirty seconds.

The young guard chuckled; now so close he was nearly touching Drake. "It will be a comfort to your mother to know that at least one of her sons will make an honest contribution to society. I'll see you soon myself, I promise."

He then kissed Drake on the cheek, almost gently. Drake pulled away from the repulsive touch and realized that he could pull away. He was no longer paralyzed.

Drake brought his elbow up into the guard's face as hard as he could and leaped onto the bleeding form as he fell to the ground. Drake relished the guard's surprised look and the blood spewing from his nose as he punched him again…and again…and again.

Sudden pain flashed through him. The restraining collar sent currents of agonizing control through the boy's body. The pain went on and on. Drake thought that if the pain in the courtroom had been long, this must be a lifetime. Finally, the currents stopped, and he collapsed into a corner.

The older guard yelled at his bleeding colleague on the floor. "I told you never to touch them when they're in the analyzer, it releases them! You got what you deserved, idiot!"

The young guard crawled up towards Drake with murder in his eyes. He raised a fist to strike the boy, but the older guard pulled him back. "Better not harm Lonely Heart's property unless you want to pay them..." Here he looked back at the board since he had forgotten how much the last bid had been. "Well, what do you know. Take a look at that."

Drake rolled over and saw the clock sitting on zero, but instead of Lonely Heart being the last bid, there was another, 65 credits - Legion Defense Group.

"Looks like you're going to be a soldier," said the older man. "Tough luck, kid. You'd be better off dead. The good news is, you will be…soon enough."

Chapter 2

Horatio McGovern checked himself out in the private elevator's ornate mirror. He wanted to make sure there was no sign of the epic hangover he felt from the fundraiser the night before. Although the elevator moved incredibly fast, Horatio took his time. He was going to the top floor of an immense building. His building, the corporate headquarters of Legion Defense Group.

The elevator slowed and came to a smooth stop. The burnished chrome doors opened, and he stepped out onto Italian marble floors. Everyone ceased what they were doing to rise and greet him respectfully. Horatio nodded back to each absently as he walked down the tall wide hallway lined by mahogany shelves and lit by delicate, luminous chandeliers.

As he approached the end of the hallway and his corner suite, his executive assistant, Kurt, rose and handed him a tablet.

"Anything unexpected today?" Horatio looked at the tablet.

"No, sir," answered Kurt. "You have lunch with the chairman of the judicial trust at noon. The monthly board meeting via digital conference is at fifteen hundred hours. Other than that, it is your normal schedule."

Horatio nodded, relieved. He needed some time to get his footing. Although normally a seasoned drinker, the night before had been brutal. "Make sure I am not disturbed."

Kurt bowed slightly as Horatio walked toward the thick wooden doors. President and Chief Executive Officer, Legion Defense Group was emblazoned on a brass plate set into the wood. As he closed the door behind him, he turned and froze.

A man in a perfectly tailored suit sat in one of Horatio's plush leather chairs. Legs crossed; the intruder regarded him calmly with an inquisitive gaze.

Horatio looked back towards the closed door before realizing who the man must be.

"Don't blame your secretary," the man said. "He doesn't remember me coming here in the first place. None of them do, I made sure of it."

A Royal, thought Horatio.

"No," chuckled the man, "simply a representative of the True Emperor. You may call me Abraham. It is a name I have grown quite fond of."

Horatio forced himself to smile and gave a slight bow. He had heard these creatures could read minds but hadn't believed it until now. This was the first time he had ever met one of the enigmatic beings face to face. "I am honored by your presence and am at your service."

"Of course, you are," smiled Abraham. "That is why I am here."

Not certain what to do next, Horatio's eyes settled on his drink cart. He wasn't sure about offering a morning drink, but he suddenly needed one more than he had in many years. The image of his predecessor came to mind. Rumor was a representative of the Emperor had made the man slit his wrists in this very office.

"You have nothing to fear," said Abraham soothingly, "as long as you continue to meet your obligations."

"Yes…certainly," stammered Horatio, moving towards the drink cart. He took the heavy crystal stopper out of the inlaid decanter. "Can I offer you a drink?"

Abraham simply stared at him with that mysterious smile. After several seconds Horatio poured two fingers each of the smoky brown liquid into a pair of thick crystal tumblers. He took both and handed one to Abraham, who accepted the glass.

"This is fifty-year-old Clavenson," said Horatio. "The best scotch in the world if you ask me. An Islay and very peaty, as I'm sure you'll agree."

Abraham took a sip and rolled the liquid around in his mouth slowly before swallowing.

Horatio threw his back in one large gulp. "Good, right?"

Abraham pondered the liquid for a few seconds before looking at Horatio. "I imagine this is how a moldy bath sponge from a burn ward would taste." He then released the glass, which was prevented from shattering on the marble floor by the antique Persian carpet. The tumbler bounced and rolled, dribbling an amber stain along the carpet.

"I'm…I'm sorry," said Horatio, turning to the cart. "Perhaps something else?"

"No," said Abraham, standing and moving up close to Horatio, who stepped back involuntarily before forcing himself to be still. Abraham regarded the man carefully for several seconds. He then turned and offered the chair he had just gotten up out of. "Please, sit. I think we should get down to business, as your people are fond of saying."

Horatio cut his eyes to his fine chair behind the monstrous desk. His seat of power. Moving slowly, he instead sank into the plush leather chair offered by Abraham.

The man sat on the edge of the large teak desk and bored down on Horatio. "Do you and your people not benefit from our arrangement?"

"Yes…of course. The benefits are—"

"Extraordinary. Before the Varangians came, your world was on the verge of destroying itself with nuclear and biological weapons. We took all of those away."

"A dark time." Horatio nodded. "I've seen the old digital footage."

"And we continue to protect your people from your own weather. Without our assistance, it would be impossible for you to feed thirty-eight billion people on this planet alone. And when was the last time there was a major weather disaster?"

An image of the giant tidal wave that had washed over Sri Lanka a decade before came to Horatio's mind.

"Ah, yes," smiled Abraham. "An object lesson. A reminder. The Indian Contingent had decided they were not going to fulfill their obligation to us. We showed them the error of their ways."

Horatio opened his mouth to say that he understood, but the man continued.

"And as a show of the Emperor’s great favor towards Legion Defense. Has he not bestowed on you advanced technology? Technology that no other contributor has received?"

The chips we put in our soldiers' heads, thought Horatio. What makes Legion the most deadly fighting force in the history of the world. "Yes, he has. Thank you."

The man paused and stared around the room. "The Emperor, of course, rewards those that he favors for their superior service. His rewards come in many forms, as I see you understand."

"We are…I am. I do. We are grateful for the Emperor’s generosity and will continue to meet our obligations to him. We have not missed a quota in decades."

"2.4 decades to be exact. But the obligation is not simply for Legion to provide twelve hundred troops each quarter. Those troops are supposed to be veterans. Some of the last batch had not experienced combat."

"It's getting harder and harder to get them that experience," Horatio pleaded. "What with fewer and fewer contracts. Also, the other contributors underbid us, and the customer frequently doesn't mind getting an inferior product from other bidders."

"Yes, but we do," the man said, tilting forward.

Horatio leaned away from the man's intense eyes.

"You are to provide us veteran units, just as the other contributors are. How you create those veterans is up to you. If there are not enough conflicts to get them the necessary experience, then generate conflicts. Aren’t that what good businesses do anyway? Find ways to generate business?"

Not for the first time, Horatio wondered what happened to the soldiers they sent to the locations designated by the Varangians once a quarter. None of them were ever seen again.

"That is not your concern," said Abraham. "Rest assured, they are used in the worthy service of the Emperor."

"Of course," nodded Horatio.

Abraham stood and walked over to squat in front of the seated Horatio. He peered intently at him. "My Lord is very busy and does not need to be concerned with troubles like this. Do you understand?"

"I do," he nodded enthusiastically. "No trouble from us, I can assure you of that."

"The Emperor does not want your assurances; he wants you to fulfill your obligations." He placed his hand on Horatio's knee and squeezed. "He is not only generous with those who receive his favor but also harsh beyond imagination to those who displease him."

Horatio felt his skin burning. He tried to move, to scream, but he was frozen by those too-bright eyes in front of him. Horatio's burning suit and smoking cooked meat began to fall off the bones at his arms. He could feel liquefied skin and hair running down his face.

The image of the man in front of him shimmered. No longer was there a human, but a glowing nebulous swirling presence. Horatio felt his mind tilting, slipping off its foundation.

I'm going mad, he thought and found the idea comforting.

Then it was instantly all gone. The pain, the burning, and most thankfully that image of Abraham that Horatio did not even want to remember. His skin and the suit covering it were as whole as before.

"I trust you understand the gravity of the situation," said Abraham standing. He moved towards the door before looking back. "It would be best for you if you never saw me again." He then opened the door and disappeared out into the hallway.

Horatio sat frozen for several seconds before leaping to his feet and rushing to the door. He closed and locked it quickly.

Horatio then bent over the exquisite marble floor and vomited.

Chapter 3

After Legion's purchase of Drake, he was immobilized and placed in a long thin metal container with a dim green light at his feet. There was an intravenous tube in his arm and a catheter that ran from his lower body out of a hole in the box. He had a lot of time to think about his dead brother, Sasha, over the next few days in that confined space. Drake could feel the box being lifted and shifted and occasionally dropped. He lay in some places for long periods and other times felt motion.

After what seemed like days, the box was opened, and a woman in a biochemical suit and mask stared down at him. She picked up a small device attached to the side of the box and pressed it. Drake found he could move again.

"Remove the IV and the catheter. Climb out of the container and step over there," she said, pointing off to her side. She did this with hardly a look at his naked form.

Drake's muscles felt as if they had been welded into position and screamed in response to moving again. His mouth felt like it was packed with sand and despite the catheter, he had to urinate so terribly that it felt like there was a large metal ball inside his bowels.

"Now, move it," the woman said, obviously annoyed. "I've got things to do."

He removed the two tubes with trembling fingers before climbing slowly out of the box, Drake slipped and fell back down inside. He instantly felt the agonizing pain coursing through his body and looked up to see the woman standing over him. She held the device out towards him with her thumb pressing down on something. The pain was thankfully relieved by his bladder letting go and the immense relief mixed with the pain was oddly disorienting.

A look of repulsion came over the woman and she let go of the button. "Disgusting." She turned away, shaking her head.

Drake was out of the box faster than he thought possible. The woman started to turn back towards him just as he punched her in the jaw under her mask. She pulled away and tried to press the device in her hand, but Drake knocked it away and kicked it across the floor. He kneed her in the stomach. As she bent over, he struck with his elbow down on the back of her neck. She crumpled to the floor. Drake stood over her, panting. Gazing around, he saw that he was in a large room with stacks of boxes like the one from which he had just emerged. About a quarter appeared unopened while the rest had the appearance of being empty and casually stacked against various walls for later reuse.

He peered in the direction the woman had originally indicated he should stand after getting out of the box and saw a brightly lit corridor with the opening covered in heavy plastic strips. The light coming out was accompanied by a hum and an oddly bluish tone.

Sensing movement to his left, Drake turned to see a man dressed similarly to the woman. He slowly bent down and picked up the control device.

Drake bolted towards the man, but before he could close the distance, he was thrown to the floor in pain and then frozen. Agonizing currents arced through his body.

The man slowly walked past Drake and over to help his colleague to his feet. "I told you that you have to be careful," the man said patiently.

"I was careful," she said angrily, struggling to straighten while wiping blood from her face. Once upright, she looked around and found Drake on the floor. With a determined look, she began to stride towards him.

"You know we don't have time for that," the man said with exasperation. "We need to finish filling the train cars. They're all expected by the end of the week. Besides, it was your fault. You can't blame a snake when it bites you."

"Who says?" the woman asked and kicked Drake savagely in the stomach. Liking the feel of this, she pulled her leg back and did it again, this time aiming for his privates.

"Come on," said the man. "If you harm another one, you'll be written up. Do you really want to deal with that?"

The woman stopped in the middle of her next swing and stood over Drake.

Drake lay still on the floor having hardly felt the woman's punishment over the pain coursing through his body from the restraining collar.

"Just get him out of here." She walked to the other end of the large room.

The man shook his head and muttered to himself. He stared pointedly at Drake before releasing the restraining button on the device. Drake felt blessed release and then rolled to vomit onto the floor.

"Damn, you city scum are all the same," the man said. "See the mess you've made?"

Drake did peer around and then smiled at the man. Not liking the look, the man took a step backward before steadying himself. He pointed towards the weirdly lit corridor. "Go in there," he said while holding up the device.

Pushing to his feet and staring the man down for a few seconds, Drake finally turned and walked toward the corridor.

"Put on the eye protection," the man said as he approached the plastic barriers. "They're in a basket near the sterilizer's entrance…unless you're tired of seeing the world around you."

Drake picked up a small piece of plastic with two oblong shapes held together by a thin flexible connector. He pulled these apart and then placed them over his eyes with the tension holding them in place. They sealed onto his face. Drake found he could still see even if his peripheral vision was almost completely gone.

"Walk," the man ordered and gave the tiniest charge of pain. "Don't stop until you reach the other side. Trying to go back will only make it worse."

Pulling the plastic sheets aside, Drake marched forward and felt instant burning all over his body. He turned back around and found he was frozen again.

"What did I just say?" the man hollered at him from the outside room. "You're dumb as shit, aren't you?"

When the man released him again, Drake turned and ran down the glowing pulsing corridor. The burning was inescapable. Looking down at himself, it was impossible to see the damage that was being done through the glasses.

He saw another plastic barrier at the end of the blue corridor and pumped his arms harder. Finally, he burst through to where the hideous light was no more. Drake yanked off the glasses and looked down at himself. He tentatively ran his hands over his ruined body. What he found was that everything seemed whole, but all of his skin was sensitive and fresh. There was not a single strand of hair on his body. Drake reached up to discover his bald head was as sensitive as the rest of him.

Drake found himself on the floor without remembering falling. He tried to look around, but a fog washed over him before the world went black.

*****

They piled him and all the other purchased criminals into an enclosed speed train car. It was bare and open except for each end where one contained several open toilets and the other had dispensers for water and food mounted like human troughs. There were about fifty young men and boys, all of them older than Drake. They wore identical one-piece grey jumpsuits with Legion Defense Group Trainee emblazoned in bright orange on the front and back. The jumpsuits also had their last names in small letters on the front.

The restraining collars were gone, but everyone now had a fresh scar across the back of their necks. Something had been done to their brains or inserted into their skulls the last time each of them had been put to sleep. These unknown alterations now performed the same duties as the collars. Whenever someone got out of line or wanted to fight, they froze solid for several minutes. Drake wasn't sure how their handlers knew what was going on inside the enclosed train cars but suspected there were micro-cameras. Or maybe they could use the men's brains to look around now that they had done something surgical to them. It made Drake's skin crawl to think of someone else looking through his own eyes without him even being aware of it.

He rode for several days, at least he thought it was days. There were no windows, so it was hard to know the passage of time other than by meals; two per typical sleep cycle, Drake believed. Speaking was obviously forbidden since anyone who tried was frozen for a while. If they kept trying to talk, they were given pain to reinforce the directive. This suited Drake just fine. He wasn't in a mood to talk anyway.

Some of his fellow passengers clearly didn't feel the same; the forced isolation looked as if it were killing them. They tried to pass notes, or use their hands to communicate, or even act out what they were trying to convey, but most just ignored them, wanting no part of the inevitable pain the handlers would send through their shocked bodies.

Sasha would have found all of this exciting, Drake thought. His brother didn't have the sense to ignore his curiosity or the wisdom to be afraid. This character defect would get him into lots of trouble one day, Drake thought, and then remembered where he was and where his brother was. Likely in a communal garden plot, as their mother certainly couldn't afford to get Sasha's remains respectfully cremated.

He slept most of the time since it was the only thing to do. There were no beds, just flat space on the floor. Drake didn't have to worry about getting beaten or raped because anyone who got physical with another passenger was immobilized. The food was actually pretty good. Drake could tell by some of the others' reactions that they didn't all share his opinion. A green light came on when it was time to feed, and they fell into lines to obtain a tray of food that appeared from the end of the train car. Anyone who caused trouble or cut line or talked was immobilized. Drake's fellow travelers may not have been the smartest shanks, but they learned pretty quickly, and everyone did what was expected.

After three days of this monotonous sleeping and eating routine, the train began to lose speed and then slowly coasted to a stop. Some murmured in spite of the enforced silence and all of them stood expectantly. The large doors on one side of the car opened to blinding light, oppressive heat, and choking powdery dust.

The silence was abruptly shattered by men yelling at them to get out of the car, and Drake was pushed in mass out the opening and down a ramp to flat baking concrete. Heat like he'd never known washed over him. We must have traveled far to be someplace like this, he thought, but one place is likely as good as another to die. Looking backward, he saw a long line of sand-colored train cars like the one from which he had just emerged.

Professional-looking soldiers herded them into a flat space in front of a large platform. The soldiers all appeared lean, scarred, and without emotion even when yelling as if it were all for show. They wore protective armor like the Police, but each had the symbol of a short sword facing up in the center of their chests. Drake could see other recruits training in the distance in every direction he looked. There must be thousands of trainees here, he thought, but then again Legion Defense provides most of the defense and military work of the Allied American States. Other countries as well if you believe the stories.

The mass of disoriented recruits flowed off the train and piled into some semblance of a formation in front of the platform. There were neat rows of painted footprints on the ground as guides for them. These were simply painted instead of electronic as Drake had experienced in the analyzer. He was pushed further and further forward by bigger older men until he stood on the front rank only yards from the elevated platform.

The professional soldiers soon stopped yelling and assumed rigid stances at the same time the new arrivals felt the familiar sense of immobilization, quickly followed by release. They are screwing with whatever they did to our brains, Drake realized.

The message was clear: Shut up and stand still.

Drake studied the platform to his front. It looked like it was made of the typical plastic ceramic composite and was attached to a large building behind it. Doors and slit windows looked out onto the parade field. Sweat rolled down Drake's back and he could feel his bare head beginning to burn from the intense sun.

Soon the main door opened and a large imposing man missing most of his face yelled out, "Maniple, A-Ten-Tion!" The command was unnecessary since the recruits were already standing still. Drake had no idea what the hell a maniple was or a tion, much less ten of them.

A thin, medically altered man walked out the door and stood before the main podium. At least one of his arms and part of a leg were certainly artificial. Unlike the professional soldiers around him, his appearance belied tranquility and certainty. He even smiled genuinely before he spoke. "My name is Commander Tripplehorn, and I am the commandant of this Legion Defense training facility."

Drake realized with a start that the man's lips weren't moving, yet his words were as clear as if he were standing beside him. With amazement and fear, he knew the man was speaking directly to his brain using whatever they had implanted in him.

"Eighteen long years ago, I stood where you stand now." Tripplehorn paused in thought as if reliving those memories. "All of you are criminals, rejects, the unwanted of society. Death is your due, life is too good for you and unwarranted. Just like it was for me. It would be easier if you accept that you will die, that it is only a matter of time. The question is, will your death mean anything?"

He moved in front of the podium and began walking back and forth. His voice was clear and loud in Drake's head. "Legion Defense is critical to protecting western civilization and is built upon superior soldiers and superior disciple, just like the Roman Legions our company was named for. Those men stood before the hordes of barbarians for nearly a thousand years in order to protect civilization. We serve the same purpose."

The commandant dropped his head before continuing. "But the sad truth is not all of you are cut out to be soldiers. It's not your fault nor is there anything you can do, it just is. We know how to separate the true soldiers from the pretenders. The 173rd Recruit Legion will soon deploy to an environment, possibly similar to this one. Before that happens, it will be composed of ten maniples, one of which is this one, the 3rd Maniple. A maniple is made up of one hundred twenty men; we currently have one hundred forty-six. Training will end when we have reached one hundred twenty soldiers."

This hung in the air ominously and Drake knew what it meant: Make it through training or you're dead.

The man moved forward down the stairs and the scarred faceless giant followed. "Do not worry about what you are to do or not do; we will tell you. Everything here is based on discipline and immediate obedience. If you cannot obey orders, you will not survive. Also, in case any of you are contemplating something unwise..." The recruits were all filled with pain and frozen. Fire shot from their brains to every point of their bodies. Then just as suddenly it was gone.

"There is a tiny microchip attached to your brain stem. It allows us to access your pain centers in an extremely efficient manner while causing no pain to your actual body. We can additionally immobilize you." They were all frozen just as some had been on the train numerous times for undesired behavior. "Forced immobilization is our signal that you are not doing what we desire or are engaging in undesirable behavior. This is typically followed shortly by pain should you chose to ignore this warning."

Drake braced himself expecting another demonstration of the chips' capability, but it didn't come.

"As the more intelligent among you certainly realize by now, the chip also allows us to communicate with you soundlessly," the commandant continued. "We can issue you commands and, in certain cases, allow you to communicate to your commander in return. This is of great advantage in a tactical combat environment and based upon Legion proprietary technology. That chip in your head is worth more than you are and something our competitors would pay dearly to acquire. Know that there is a self-destruct mechanism that will destroy the chip should you die or be grievously wounded or left behind in battle. It will also self-destruct should you, or anyone else, try to remove it. You do not have to concern yourselves with torture or mutilation if captured by the enemy because you will already be mercifully dead."

Tripplehorn stared at them as if this thought amused him. A slight smile played across his face. "But death is the least of your worries. When death does come to you, as it will all of us, it will be a grateful release from this dreary life. The goal is until that day to be a good soldier, follow orders, and serve the Legion. If you do these things, you may find that life is not so dreary and bad after all."

The grin dropped from the man's face. "But some of you will not listen, or cannot be trained, or are somehow broken inside. For those, the chip can and will do something else at our command."

Tripplehorn moved forward to the front line looking over them critically. He locked eyes with Drake briefly and paused. Fear tingled the boy's skin, but he looked to Drake's left at the last minute, pointing at the older man standing there.

The scarred giant behind Tripplehorn grabbed the chosen man and led him up the stairs to the top of the platform where everyone could see him. Commandant Tripplehorn followed. Once they were again on the platform, he turned around and spoke.

"There are no second chances here. Become a good soldier or die. It's as simple as that...and...as simple as this." He pointed at the man. The recruit instantly crumpled to the ground. Drake knew that the man was now nothing more than a lifeless sack of meat.

Tripplehorn looked at the former recruit on the ground silently and nodded slowly. "The chip in your head is connected to your central nervous system and can stop your brain activity and heart if we give it that command. This is what we will do if you do not perform or refuse to obey orders. This sorry puke" —here he pointed at the man on the ground — "was just an unfortunate object lesson that many of you will come to envy in the coming days."

Two soldiers in uniform appeared as if from nowhere and took the body away. "Nothing is wasted here," continued the commandant. "This man's clothes will be reused. The chip in his head will be recovered. Even his body will be sold to the Farming Collective to fertilize their crops. Even in death, he serves the Legion. The lesson I hope is clear: You can serve us alive or serve us dead, but you will serve us."

With that statement, he looked up with a smile as if he had just thought of something funny. "On the bright side, you're down to one hundred forty-five men. Only twenty-five more to go. Congratulations, men!"

That's when Drake began to suspect the commandant was insane.

Chapter 4

The sun burned down on Drake's exposed scalp as he ran. Fortunately, the other parts of his body were covered by the heavy training uniform. Otherwise, I'd be completely deep-fried by now, he thought.

Sparing a look back, he saw that several of the other trainees were gaining on him, and he applied an extra burst of speed just as he leaped up onto a large modular plastic beam set diagonally into the sand. Drake raced forward knowing the key was to not lose speed. He pushed hard up the beam and then dove off the end towards the thick rope hanging out over the opening.

He caught the rope and swung over the sharp gravel twenty feet below him. Drake had seen several trainees fall painfully and have to start the course over. That was not for him.

Whatever his weaknesses were, Drake knew he was faster and more agile than the other goons in training. There were situations where their superior strength and size put him at a disadvantage, but Drake quickly learned to avoid those situations just like he had in the Belsmire Commons.

Drake let go of the rope and landed lightly on the other side, allowing his momentum to carry him into a forward roll and then up onto his feet. He looked back again and saw several of the quicker recruits doing their best to catch him. He smiled, knowing they wouldn't.

As he turned, he heard, "Stop!" in his head.

Already learning to heed these commands, he did as he was told. Looking around, he saw Commandant Tripplehorn off to the side of the obstacle course trail staring at him, his giant disfigured sergeant major ever-present. Tripplehorn grinned at him and said in his head, "Just wait. This is getting too easy for you. You need the competition."

Drake ground his teeth as the two recruits behind him passed by giving him triumphant looks. He turned back to the commandant who appeared to be inspecting his nails now. Drake stared pointedly at the sergeant major, who, after returning the stare for several moments, simply shrugged.

Hearing a commotion behind him, Drake spun just in time to see a skinny recruit miss the rope and fall to the ground with a sickening crunch. A huge muscular recruit just behind him caught the rope, but glancing beneath him at the prostrate form, lost his grip and slid down the rope. With a sound like breaking boards, he landed on top of the first man.

"Stop the course!" came the command from Tripplehorn's unmistakable mental voice. "We need a doctor at Obstacle 27." He strode forward to where the large recruit was rolling off the man beneath him. He was massaging a shoulder but otherwise appeared unhurt. The man underneath him was oddly still, but his eyes moved. They roamed around listlessly looking at everything and nothing while drool pooled from the man's open mouth.

The sergeant major knelt down and inspected the man before looking up at Tripplehorn and shaking his head.

Drake heard the whine of an electric car and moved out of the way before he could be run over. The cart rushed past him and skidded to a halt a few feet from the injured recruit. A pale man in all white with slicked-back dark hair and a small case got out of the passenger side of the vehicle. The doctor stood for a moment as if waiting for everyone to get out of his way. When he finally decided this wasn't going to happen, he sighed heavily and walked around to where he could examine the injured man.

Placing several sensors on the immobile recruit at key points, he peered at a computer screen. "Pelvis broken in five places, both sides actually. He'll need surgery and lots of rehab."

"Will he recover?" Tripplehorn asked, and Drake realized it was the first time he had actually heard the man's physical voice. It sounded raspy and forced.

The doctor took a few moments to consider before answering. "Six months recovery before he can walk. He will likely never run again."

"Run the numbers," Tripplehorn told the man in a resigned voice.

After several tense minutes, the doctor looked up. "The algorithm says cut and sell."

The commandant nodded. He looked around and saw the bigger muscular fellow who had fallen on top of the doomed man. "You, load him on the cart." He spotted Drake. "You help him, jackrabbit."

"What does 'cut and sell' mean?" Drake asked in his head rhetorically and was shocked that Tripplehorn seemed to react to the question. He had not even been aware he could ask questions. As far as he knew, the communications were only one-way, from top down.

"Cut," said Tripplehorn in his head and suddenly there was an image of the man's uniform being removed as well and the chip being extracted from his head by a device that appeared more for plumbing than doctrine.

"And sell," Tripplehorn continued and showed him an image of the man being auctioned off and sold much as he had been. An image of Dolton Doctoral Research and then Superior Organ Replacement appeared in the image. "Those would be my best bets," Tripplehorn said.

They can send us their very thoughts, Drake realized with wonder. Whatever they imagine can be conveyed to another using those chips.

Drake moved automatically to pick up the injured man. He noticed that the large man standing nearby was hardly older than Drake. The small giant appeared stunned by what he had done, staring intently at the prostrate form before him. His nametag said Heaton.

"A little help here, Private Heaton," said Drake.

Heaton startled and swung his head from Drake to the commandant. He mechanically moved forward and grasped the injured man under the armpits while Drake grasped the prostrate body around the ankles. Both lifted together.

The man who seemed nearly unconscious screamed in agony.

They set him back down and looked at Tripplehorn who turned to the doctor. "Something for the pain?"

The doctor shook his head. "For a cut and sell? Doesn't justify the cost simply to make him comfortable. He'll be worth as much at resale whether he suffers or does not."

Tripplehorn nodded and then turned back to Drake and Heaton who lifted the man onto the cart and tried their best to ignore the screams. The doctor hopped in the passenger side with a self-satisfied nod and the cart pulled away.

"I'm sorry," Heaton said after the cart in a whisper.

He actually feels bad, thought Drake. Most of the guys here would cut your throat for a breath-mint.

"Resume the course!" Tripplehorn ordered all of them in their heads.

Heaton ran in a daze. Drake fell in beside him. "It wasn't your fault."

Not even looking at Drake, the big man began to sprint away from him. Drake let Heaton go. He knew a bit about guilt himself.

Chapter 5

Caylina stood in front of a long mirror and gazed at her slim bikini-clad body. She turned first to one side and then the other to get a full look at her tanned and toned fifteen-year-old figure. Thick dark hair framed a delicate almond-shaped face highlighted by deep green eyes.

Disgusting, she thought. How can they stand the sight of themselves?

She allowed the human shell that constantly surrounded her to waver. Her body shimmered, and beautiful rainbow colors filled the mirror in front of her. Energy tendrils flowed outward in every direction, and she turned and twisted. Pale blue light filled her large bedroom.

There was a heavy knock on her door. "Cay'lina," came the unmistakable voice of Lamin, her private tutor. "I know what you're doing in there, I can feel it."

"What am I doing in here?" she asked coyly while twisting first one way and then the other in the mirror.

"It's dangerous, and against the rules," Lamin said, trying to turn the locked doorknob to her room. "Open the door. It's time for our lesson anyway."

Caylina sighed in exasperation and resumed her human shell before walking over and unlocking the door. She pulled it open to find Lamin's disapproving gaze staring out at her from under long, unruly grey hair.

"No lessons today," she told him. "I'm going to lay out by the pool. Mother said I could."

"We both know that doesn't amount to anything," said Lamin telepathically. "You can make either of the Boyles agree to anything you want."

"Now look who's being dangerous," said Caylina out loud. "What if someone saw us staring at each other silently for long periods of time not knowing we're actually talking in our heads."

Lamin frowned at her. "No one is around, just wanted to make sure I had your full attention. Unlike you, I am always careful."

She turned away from him, bored, examining herself in the mirror again. "You act as if we have something to fear here. As if these weak humans could even consider harming us."

"There is more to fear than the humans," Lamin said, walking in and closing the door behind him before sitting in a nearby chair.

A tingle of excitement ran through her, although she tried to continue her demeanor of disinterest. "It that another allusion to the Succession?"

"Among other things. There are dangers you are not even aware of."

Caylina sighed and turned to him. "The Emperor is still young and healthy. There won't be a Succession for another hundred years or more."

Lamin nodded and hoped she was correct. "Even so, there will come a day when they will hunt you."

"Because I might become Empress?" she asked coyly.

"Of course not! There hasn't been an Empress in over a thousand years. You will do what all female Royal Offspring of the Emperor have done for many generations. You will go and Submit yourself to your eldest brother and likely victor in any Succession. You will denounce any claim…and live."

She tried to imagine humiliating herself before Shan'in, her eldest brother she had never met. Caylina couldn't do it, the very idea impossible. Of course, it was the smart move. As was tradition, all the Offspring would seek to eliminate each other until only one remained. That one would be the new Emperor of the Varangian Empire. This was one reason they lived apart from each other and never met. Caylina supposed it would make it easier to murder your brother or sister in the name of duty if they were all strangers.

"There are surely other options," she said. "Now that the Emperor is in exile, new traditions can come into play."

"Like what?" Lamin smiled, enjoying the thought experiment.

"Maybe we could share power," she said. "Or live together, like these human monarchs of centuries past that you've been teaching me about."

"No Varangian Emperor will share power willingly. It has been done in times of great crisis in the past but co-Emperors only meant ongoing conflict. One always has to kill the other."

"So, my only options are to kill all my siblings or debase myself before the victor?"

Her tutor frowned. "You could run, but that's not a real option. You'll be hunted all the days of your life. Vast rewards will be offered for you, not only by the new Emperor but by those traitorous forces that drove us all away from our home. In the end, you will still end up dead."

She imagined the vast conflict that was going on around her all the time. Bloody and vicious wars on dozens of worlds spread throughout the cosmos. Loyal Imperial forces against the upstart revolutionaries. Caylina often forgot this larger reality while pretending to be a normal teenager of "adopted" human parents who were really a ruse to the outside world. Human puppets of the Varangians who were made to believe what they should. That Caylina was their adopted daughter and that her tutor and bodyguard knew best.

She walked to the large bedroom balcony and looked out over the Olympic-sized swimming pool. Beyond it was nearly a thousand acres of well-tended forest and fields. She could make out the end of the stables where nearly a dozen fine horses lived in relative splendor. Although her parents had been wealthy even before the Varangians had orchestrated the adoption, they had pulled countless strings to ensure the wealth built upon itself. To maintain a safe refuge for the only daughter of the Varangian Emperor.

"Is this my purpose?" she asked softly, looking out over the estate. "To live like this? Waiting for the inevitable Succession so I can publicly beg for my life? To never even mate?"

"Any Royal Offspring from your union would be a threat to the Emperor."

"Not even to know love?" she asked.

Lamin laughed. "That is an archaic human concept. You have been watching too much of their video dramas."

Her human image wavered again before solidifying. She thought of all those battles raging this very moment out there. The mental images didn't distress her. It made her heart leap and spirit soar. To be able to fight for something!

Lamin must have seen conflict in her demeanor because his tone softened. "Your purpose, Caylina, is to survive. That is the same purpose we all have now, and it is the worthiest of purposes. The Varangian Empire has ruled for tens of millennia, and it is on the verge of collapse. Enemies gather to pick over the scraps of our impending doom."

She turned to him. "You're not just talking about the Revolutionaries, are you?"

"There are far worse enemies than traitors of our own race. Dark and sinister things rise from the depths of spacetime itself to extinguish all light."

"What?" she hissed at him. "Tell me what is out there. What is more dangerous or frightening than the Revolutionaries?"

Lamin leaned back away from her as if gathering himself. "The knowledge would do you no good, only make surviving more difficult."

"I don't believe that. Just another thing you can't tell me. A way to manipulate and keep me under control. Why can't I leave the estate? Why can't I go to school? Why can't I have friends? Yes, I know, because I have to be kept safe from dangers I can't know about. I'm sick of it!"

An image burst into her mind. It showed a small bundle of incandescent light being handed to a noble figure she knew was the Emperor. He gazed upon the figure silently before sending out a proclamation that none could refute. "This is my Offspring, she is Caylina." The bundle was then handed to Lamin.

Lamin spoke slowly, choosing his words with care. "I have lived centuries and seen much. I have faithfully served the Royals when others fled from them and refused to go into exile. Trust me when I say that I wish nothing more than what is best for you. Do you trust me?"

Caylina wanted to hurt him simply because she wanted to hurt something, but she realized Lamin did care for her. He was perhaps the only one in the entire vast universe who did.

"I trust you," she said.

"Then promise me when the time comes you will do what is necessary to stay alive. That you won't do anything rash. That you will be a faithful and loyal servant to the Emperor. Promise me, Caylina. For your own sake."

She stared at him for nearly a minute without answering.

"I promise," she finally said.

There was a part of her that even meant it.

Chapter 6

Drake, Sasha, and their mother sat in the one-room concrete box. Their particular concrete box was surrounded by hundreds of other identical concrete boxes containing families of similar desperate circumstances. The Goodman box contained a few rolled-up mats in the corner, some old trunks with locks on them chained together which contained anything worth stealing, and a rickety table that sat in the middle of the concrete box with three makeshift stools around it. Right now, Drake and Sasha watched their mother carefully divide up breakfast for them. The amount was pitifully small, but she managed the division with the care and mastery of someone carving a diamond.

"There you go," she said, pushing a small piece of chipped pottery over to Sasha. It contained several broken crackers, a small pile of vegetable paste, and half of an old, shriveled apple. She then pushed a similar plate across to Drake.

"What about you?" he asked.

"Don't worry about me," she answered. "I'm not that hungry, and besides, they sometimes have leftover food from the Distribution at work.

Drake doubted this very much, but ate his food regardless, ignoring the guilt.

"I should get paid today," she continued hurriedly. "Maybe we can have something special tonight."

"Spam?" asked Sasha hopefully. To him, the vast height of the delicious food pyramid was capped by a can of pressed mystery meat.

"Maybe," their mother answered, but she looked doubtful. For the cost of one can of the meat, they could likely get enough rice and beans to feed them for several days.

Drake peered at his mother's thin form and again noticed how her eyes sunk into her skull. How the skin was stretched tight over what had likely once been a beautiful face. She's slowly starving, he thought. For us.

"Anything is fine," Drake said, giving his little brother a warning look, which was wasted on the smaller boy. Sasha's whole attention was engrossed in eating the last crumbs off his plate.

Their mother slowly stood to her feet and picked up a small bag that she carried with her everywhere. "I'll be back tonight. Stay out of trouble and do your reading."

Drake looked over to the small, locked metal container in the corner. It held several dozen books; all they had left of their dead father. Most of the books were on mathematics and science, but there were several tomes on philosophy, literature, and history. His mother seemed to believe it was important that they read as a substitute for not being able to afford school. They could have sold the books long ago for food, but Mom would not even consider the possibility. Drake suspected the reason was not simply educational necessity for her children but the need to maintain some tangible sign of Kenneth Goodman's existence. At least they both knew how to read; there were plenty who did not.

His mother looked meaningfully at Sasha, and Drake knew what the message was. She knew that Drake had read all the books dozens of times, but not his little brother. Sasha didn't have the same interest in them as Drake did. Sasha hardly even remembered their father.

"I'll be back before curfew," she said, and Drake hoped it was true. He didn't like the long nights when she was either pressed into working all night or missed curfew and was forced to find shelter out on the street wherever she could.

She spared a smile for each of them, and Drake was again struck by how beautiful his mother must have once been. The smile fell as she walked out the door and closed it tightly behind her, ensuring the pathetic little latch caught.

"Let's go down and watch the trains," Sasha said.

Drake shook his head. The trains were boring, and besides, it would be better if they could spend their time scavenging food. There were several trash receptacles over on the east side that backed up to fancy restaurants. Sometimes these were only partially picked over.

Sasha scrunched up his small face. "You're not going to make me read, are you?"

"Later," answered Drake, standing. "We need to go out and see what we can find first."

This got Sasha moving. "Spam?"

"Shut up about Spam, you little turd. If we find any Spam, we'd be smart to sell it and buy other stuff."

His little brother's face looked defeated, and Drake could almost read his mind. I may never taste Spam again. We're going to continue to get hungrier and poorer until there's nothing left. Until we don't even have the strength to catch rats.

"Come on," said Drake. "Let's go see what we can find."

Sasha stood and followed Drake out of the concrete box. They didn't bother to lock the door as there wasn't a lock. Such precautions would only draw would-be thieves. They descended dozens of flights of dirty stairs, stepping over what was possibly an old dead man near the bottom. Likely a poor soul trying to get in from the weather as the last glimmers of his life leaked away.

What a selfish waste, Drake thought. That man could have sold himself for fertilizer if nothing else. Then his family might have at least benefitted. He hurried over the corpse and saw that it had already been looted. By the time they returned, it would likely be gone. Drake was again reminded of Spam and didn't have the heart to tell Sasha what he suspected the pressed meat probably contained.

As they emerged onto the narrow alley, Sasha took his hand as he often did. Drake held it for a second and then dropped it before heading east through a maze of narrow alleys crowded with pickpockets, illegal prostitutes, thugs, hustlers, and black marketers. Several times they saw Police and were able to hide from them. He definitely didn't have anything to give them for their protection tax, and sometimes, they demanded other disgusting services in lieu of a beating. Drake didn't feel like a beating this morning.

Finally, they arrived at the small alley Drake had staked out the day before. He peered carefully in both directions. This was Woodmoor Boys territory, but they were likely harassing kids or old people in the heart of their territory further north. Jenson and his thugs had chased and occasionally caught him, as the scars indicated to a discerning eye, but at their last meeting, the boy had promised "dire results" should he come back into Woodmoor territory without permission.

He's pissed because I won't join them, Drake thought again. Jensen seemed to take it as a personal insult that Drake rejected this great honor to join their band of cutthroat thugs and criminals.

"Stay here," Drake told Sasha, and left his little brother in the crumbling grotto where two derelict buildings were leaning against each other like old drunks. Drake crept down the alley, wary for anyone coming out the doors at the rear of the buildings that contained semi-respectable businesses.

Approaching the trash receptacle, he could read the familiar writing even through the graffiti. The carefully stenciled words said, Property of Stevens Universal Sanitation and Recycling. Contents are strictly off-limits! Perpetrators will be reported. Over the top of this warning, someone had crossed through with painted Stevens and written Woodmoor. The word reported had been crossed through and monkey stomped written over it. Whatever that meant, Drake thought.

Drake lifted the lid and found himself face-to-face with angry slit-pupil eyes. Hair sprang up from a small skull in dirty mats. Drake knocked the cat away as it swatted at him with outstretched claws. He looked inside with interest. The cat was a good sign, as it indicated something worth fighting for. Drake pulled a small plastic bag out of his back pocket as the cat watched angrily from a few feet away licking its paws.

Sighing in satisfaction, Drake reached out and pulled a small stalk of rotten bananas from under an old newspaper and thrust it into his plastic bag. The cloying smell of garlic led to what the cat had been consuming: a half-eaten tortilla wrap filled mostly with dripping white sauce, but also containing wilted lettuce and long noodles. Next to this morsel was a small container of rice that was hardly touched. Drake stuffed all of this into his bag as he dug deeper.

"Look at this," someone said from outside the dumpster, and Drake yanked his upper body out of the container and let the lid drop with a bang. Drake carefully avoided looking in the direction of where Sasha was hidden. He saw a dozen boys arrayed around him in a half-moon of viciousness. The cat was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, son," said Jenson sadly. "I told you there would be dire repercussions if you came back here without permission."

Drake knew if he hoped to get out of this situation with only a beating it depended on him not showing fear. "Do you even know what 'dire repercussions' means you ignorant shit?"

"It means what it says right there," said one of the other boys, pointing at the graffiti on the dumpster. "We're going to mess you up, scavenger."

"That's not what it says." Drake looked at Jenson with a slight smile. "Do any of your boys even know how to read?" He pointed at the graffiti. "Did you have to hire some off-duty butt-boy to write that for you? Do you even know what it says?"

"You'll learn firsthand what it says soon enough," Jenson warned. He looked Drake over and pointed at the plastic bag hanging from one tight fist. "Why do you mess around with scraps? I make sure my boys eat good. Live pretty well, too. Got everything we want, and no one screws with us. We might have a place for someone as fast as you."

Drake smiled. "You mean as a snatch-and-run boy. That always ends the same way: arrest and being sold off."

"Maybe, but only if you're slow. Besides, what the hell are you saving yourself for anyway? We're all going to end up dead, you know that, right?"

Drake did but wasn't going to give Jenson the satisfaction of agreeing with him. "I'm not interested in being part of your gang."

"What, you think you're too good?" asked a large goon missing most of his teeth.

"Yes," answered Drake. "I'm also too smart to get mixed up in your exploitive enterprise to benefit from those weaker than you."

"Explosive what?" asked a small boy in the back.

"Never mind," said Drake. "The answer is no."

Jenson shook his head. "You don't leave me much of a choice. I was hoping there would be a way out for you." The older boy then just nodded at those gathered around Drake, and they rushed him all at once.

Drake got one punch into someone's stomach before they bowled him over. Kicks and hits landed on his jaw and chest, and he instinctively curled up, protecting his face and stomach. He felt pain in his ribs and head while trying to scoot under the edge of the dumpster for some protection.

"No!" screamed out a voice, and Drake opened his eyes to see Sasha running from his hiding place towards them. Jenson swooped in and intercepted the boy pinning him to his chest.

Sasha struggled against the large boy. "Let go of me! Let go of my brother!"

The boys kicking and hitting Drake had paused in their abuse to watch the new spectacle. Jenson was smiling as he held Sasha. "Oh, this is just wonderful. I never knew you had a little brother."

"Let him go," said Drake, pushing himself up on his elbows.

"I got a better idea," said Jenson, pulling a short-wicked knife from the small of his back and holding it against the side of Sasha's face. "Perhaps we show you what happens when you cross the Woodmoor Boys. We don't hurt you, but we do hurt everyone and everything you care about."

"Let me go!" Sasha twisted unsuccessfully in the larger boy's grasp.

"Do it, Jenson!" yelled one of the boys, and then others echoed the cry.

Drake tried to climb to his feet, but two of the other goons pushed him back down. "Take it out on me."

"I intend to," Jenson answered, "but nothing says I can't take it out on him too."

Drake struggled and growled to no effect. Jenson's smile was maddening.

Suddenly the smile vanished and was replaced by a curiously high-pitched scream. The hand without the knife that had been wrapped around Sasha's neck was now bloody, most of the boy's thumb between Sasha's teeth.

"No!" screamed out Drake. He knew what was going to happen before it did, but he was powerless to prevent it.

Jenson struck at Sasha with the knife hand. The first few blows were with his fist and ineffective till he thrust the knife between the small boy's ribs.

Sasha's eyes widened and his bloody mouth opened. His gaze was locked onto Drake's.

The boys holding the older brother stood motionless and stunned, staring at Sasha as his small body crumbled to the dirty pavement. Drake leaped up and raced past Sasha to Jenson. He kicked the larger boy in the face before snatching the knife from his limp hand. He then swung it backward, catching Jenson in the neck. Blood spurted out and covered Drake, who stabbed Jenson twice more in the chest in rage.

A panting and bloody Drake turned to the other boys with murder in his eyes. They wasted no time, running away in a variety of directions. Drake dropped the knife and knelt down beside his little brother, who was struggling to breathe. Foamy bloody bubbles formed around his gasping mouth and the gash in his small chest. Drake placed his hand over the hole, not knowing what else to do.

"That was stupid. Stupid stupid stupid." Drake blinked back tears.

Sasha struggled for life and looked at him with eyes filled with love.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there with Sasha in his arms, but by the time the Police bothered to come, the boy was growing cold.

Drake knew this was a dream because in real life he had meekly allowed himself to be dragged away. In this dream, he stood over his dead brother's body and was confronted by hundreds of individuals: Police, workers, criminals, even soldiers. Not only did they not come after him, they all lowered their eyes in deference to him.

"Wake up," the command rang in their heads. Drake opened his eyes, sat up, and swung his legs off the low bunk to the floor. Like those around him, he carefully put on his uniform and made his bed.

Drake got in line with the rest of his maniple. They were marched to breakfast, which would be followed by a full day of deadly training. Drake didn't notice anything around him and was concentrating on keeping his face impassive.

But he could still feel Sasha's warm blood on his hand and see those trusting eyes filled with love.

Chapter 7

The food line was run as precisely as a metronome. One step forward, wait one second, then another step forward. At the end of enough steps, you receive a food tray, which you wordlessly took to the next open seat and just as wordlessly ate in exactly three hundred seconds before taking the tray to the collection point. Then you were expected to fall into an assigned place at the formation outside for training.

Drake was screwing up the program. The large recruit behind him kept having to nudge the younger boy, who seemed to be in some kind of daze, forward every few seconds.

"Goddamnit you simple-minded scumshit," the recruit hissed. "Wake up and move up. I'm hungry."

Drake ignored him. As a matter of fact, he hardly heard him. He was holding onto the image of Sasha as long as he could.

The big man pushed Drake forward again and the smaller recruit nearly stumbled.

Tears almost came to Drake's eyes as he thought about their mother. He wondered how she had found out what happened.

"I swear I'm going to beat you to death, lowlife," the big man said. "I hope to God you don't have any brothers or sisters that lived."

Drake rounded on the big man instantly and could tell by the look on his face he had surprised him. Punching the man's groin as hard as he could, Drake stepped back out of reach as the larger man fell to the ground. Drake then jumped on top of him, straddling the man's chest.

Drake felt pain coursing through his body. He fell onto his side as wave after wave of agony coursed through his body. Then just as suddenly it was blessedly gone.

"Everyone to your feet," came the command through their heads. Drake could tell by the voice that it was Maniple Commander Masse. "Everyone outside now. Those of you who have your breakfast, cease eating and return your trays."

They all made their way silently outside, many giving Drake angry sideways glances. Once in formation, Masse marched them over to the large open fight pit filled with sand. "Circle around the pit," he ordered, "except for Privates Goodman and Ritzer. You two dirtbags hop into the faceoff squares. We'll settle this here and now."

Drake walked out into the middle with the other larger man who smirked at him. The big man knew in the fair fight to come he was going to punish the smaller boy and embarrass him in front of the entire unit. The two squares were opposite each other and separated by about thirty feet. All the recruits had experience in this ring where they practiced fighting each other in a variety of different scenarios and circumstances.

Masse walked up between them and then turned to address the maniple in their heads. "Aggression is good, but discipline is better. You sleep when told to sleep. You eat when told to eat. You fight when told to fight. You kill when told to kill. And you most certainly die when told to die. None of those things are your decision. These two have broken the rules. Decided their personal disagreement was more important than what was best for the unit."

He turned back to them and regarded each for several seconds. "So be it," he said, and Drake felt frozen in place. Masse walked over and drew a dagger from his belt and threw it into the sand so that it stood hilt up about five feet in front of Ritzer. He then walked over and did the same for Drake, pulling a similar dagger from a boot sheath.

"There is always a cost to be paid when there is a breakdown in discipline. Someone typically dies. We have been allowing you to learn and not suffer those consequences, but that time has passed." Masse walked out from between the two men and looked around the circle. "These two men will fight each other until one of them is dead."

Masse looked at Ritzer and then Drake. "Prepare yourselves for what needs to be done."

Drake imagined himself running and picking up the knife before sprinting to bury the blade in Masse's neck. Drake noticed that the maniple commander's expression did not change.

They can't read our thoughts, Drake realized. He had wondered if this was a possibility, but this was the first time he had dared to send such a charged image. Drake felt it unlikely the man could control himself to the point that he would get this thought from a recruit and not react.

Turning his eyes back to the larger man across from him, Drake felt a moment of sympathy. The smirk and confidence were gone. This man was in trouble because of Drake's snap decision. The recruit across from him likely had never killed anyone in his life. Still, Drake knew enough to know that he could not let sympathy cloud what he needed to do. If he didn't kill the man across from him, the man would kill him. If neither managed the task, then the recruits around them would likely be ordered to kill both of them.

Drake suddenly felt unfrozen and raced forward with all his considerable speed. Ritzer's face showed surprise and then he moved forward as well. Drake leaped over his own dagger and dove forward to grasp the knife in front of Ritzer just before the larger man reached for it.

Drake rolled forward and lashed out at Ritzer, who pulled back just in time to keep his stomach from getting cut. Drake slowly retreated until he could pick up the other dagger with his free hand and stalked forward again towards the other recruit.

Ritzer looked at Masse in confusion and then fear. Drake herded the man into the line of other recruits around them, cutting off any avenue of escape. Just as he was getting within striking distance Drake found himself frozen.

Damn you, he thought.

The big man looked confused and then realization dawned on him. He lumbered forward and reared back to punch Drake massively in the face. Drake fell backward unfrozen again and rolled on the sand out of the reach of Rizter.

Climbing to his feet through waves of nausea and blood, Drake saw the big man charging at him with one of the knives Drake had dropped. Faking first one way before going the other, the big man almost fell trying to get to Drake.

"Drop your dagger," came Masse's command in his head.

Drake ignored him and kept circling around.

"Drop the dagger, or I'll immobilize you and let him gut you at his leisure."

Drake looked at Masse with hatred and frustration. Of course, it wasn't a fair fight. When had his kind ever gotten an opportunity at a fair fight? He threw the dagger at Ritzer's feet.

The big man appeared confused and then triumphant as he picked up the other dagger.

"No fight is ever fair," Masse broadcast out to all of them. "Don't expect it to be." He smiled ruefully at Drake. "Also don't expect the circumstances not to change at any moment."

He wants me to die, Drake realized. I'm one of the youngest and smallest even if I am tall and fast. They have their damn bottom line number to get to. He figures this is a quick way to do it.

So be it, Drake said to himself. He would be with Sasha soon enough.

Drake ran straight at the larger man and his look of triumph turned to fear. Ritzer almost appeared as if he wanted to flee from the smaller boy sprinting at him with a smile of contentment on his face.

Ritzer brought the knives together in front of him but shut his eyes and looked away as Drake closed with him. Drake felt the knives slice across his right forearm and his left side, but they did not have enough force to penetrate the uniform material. Both recruits rolled to the ground, and Ritzer ended up on top of the pinned Drake.

Looking around, Ritzer found one of the dropped knives nearby and brought it up in front of him with both hands. With a look of resignation, he lunged downward with the dagger aiming at Drake's chest.

Then he froze with a look of confusion on his face and looked downward. There Drake's hand was pressed up against the bigger man's groin with a bloody knife sticking out of it.

Ritzer dropped the dagger and moaned in pain before tumbling forward face-first onto the sand. Drake scrambled out of the way so that he was not pinned.

"Doc," said Masse in a calm voice, and the doctor who had been waiting out of sight rushed forward to stop the bleeding.

"I thought you said it was to the death," said Drake angrily, not caring if he got shocked.

Masse took a moment to look at the bloodstained Drake with the bloody dagger still in his hand. "You both needed to be prepared to kill the other. It couldn't be faked. Besides, even if Private Ritzer isn't fit to be a soldier, he'll be fit for something. Global Mining Corp is paying huge amounts for strong guys like him, I hear."

Again, Drake imagined himself shoving the dagger into Masse.

"Drop the dagger," the commander said, and Drake did.

"That was well-done," said the voice of Commandant Tripplehorn in his head. "You showed courage, audacity, deception, and ruthlessness. All sought-after qualities in a good soldier." Tripplehorn walked from the edge of the pit into the center to stare down at the doctor working on Ritzer before looking at Drake. "Who's your squad leader?"

"Corporal Heaton, sir," answered Drake.

"Corporal Heaton, front and center," ordered Tripplehorn. When the larger boy from the obstacle course was standing before him, the commandant regarded them both. After several seconds, he nodded his head as if making up his mind.

"Corporal Goodman, you are now the squad leader. Heaton you are demoted back to private." Tripplehorn graced them both with an out-of-place grin and turned away. "Carry on." He strode purposefully towards another maniple that was just returning from a morning run.

"Full combat gear and packs," Masse said to them. "Form up in two minutes. We're going on a little run."

The recruits broke apart from the sandpit and raced back to the barracks to retrieve their gear. On the way, Drake found Heaton in stride beside him. "Thanks," the bigger boy said.

Drake felt a flash of anger and railed against the other boy. "You think I asked for this? I didn't want it!"

Heaton smiled, showing Drake the error of his response. He could see the comment hadn't been made sarcastically. "Neither did I. Congratulations," Heaton panted. "And as squad leader, you'll need to keep an eye on Jonesy. He's the slow one that will get you in trouble if you haven't noticed already. I'm not sure he's going to last much longer, but then again, none of us might." Heaton laughed at this as they ran into the barracks and peeled off towards their respective bunks to retrieve their gear.

Drake grabbed his own equipment and noticed several looking at him. It was then that he remembered he was covered in blood. Just like his dream.

Chapter 8

Abraham felt the elevator slow after nearly an hour of steady descent. The elevator car itself was nearly the size of a basketball court, and all morning it had been packed with loads of soldiers from Oceanic Solutions. Abraham was pleased with this contract company which, except for a few hitches, had been able to provide seasoned soldiers gathered from Australia, New Zealand, the East Indies, and the Southern Pacific. Abraham thought he could still smell their fear permeating the air in the now empty elevator car.

As often as he was able, Abraham came to see the human soldiers depart through the Portal. The Emperor once asked him specifics about such a tribute event, and he was not able to answer. Abraham was determined to never let such a shameful thing happen to him again.

The industrial-sized doors opened, and he stepped out into a deep cavernous room lit by a maze of lights attached to bare rock high above them. The doors to the elevator slid closed, and he could hear the giant car rising again towards the earth's surface. Lines of soldiers in combat gear stood at attention in front of Abraham, sweat pouring off of them in sheets. They were far enough underground that the heat from the earth's core made the ambient temperature uncomfortable to humans.

The Varangians arrayed around the soldiers held their captives in place using a genetically engineered telepathic ability. Unlike the humans, the aliens showed no signs of discomfort from the heat. Like Abraham's, their human shells could be manipulated from within…to a certain point.

A brighter light appeared to glow and radiate throughout the cavern. Abraham walked down the long line of sweating, shaking soldiers towards the source of this light. He could feel the ground beneath him beginning to vibrate. He knew that even deeper underground were vast arrays of geothermal energy plants. It took an incredible amount of energy to power a Portal.

Abraham stopped within view of the beautiful swirling swath of energy. It was a circular ring of grayish metal alloy thirty feet in diameter. The metal alloy had been produced on Earth using indigenous materials, but no earthling had ever seen it's like. Inside the circle, there was a swirling fogginess of light and energy that sometimes darkened into miniature storm clouds. When this happened, tendrils of ebony energy reached out onto the platform which was situated halfway up the circle. Abraham knew enough to stay clear of the Portal between the time it was energized, and a destination programmed. Anyone walking into the Portal now would certainly be transported somewhere, but there was no way to tell exactly where. Given the vastness of the Multiverse, most Varangian scientists believed anyone transported during what was colloquially called "unplotted transport" likely ended up in the vacuum of space. Still, there were stories, tales told that the energy harnessed to transport across the cosmos was somehow aware and not entirely benign.

Abraham pushed these silly thoughts aside. He was no stranger to the device and had even gone through one himself several times, although it never failed to make his heart race. The Portal represented infinite possibilities. It represented power. He looked at the mass of humans staring in fear at the Portal. They were right to be afraid.

"Where are these destined?" Abraham asked telepathically to the Varangian working at the Portal's control module.

The technician did not bother to look up from his work, even though he surely knew who was talking to him. He was obviously at a critical juncture in his calculations. "Steward, these are allotted to General Karshean on Straysis."

Abraham nodded. Karshean was from one of the old Noble families who had served the Emperor well for centuries. A family of frighteningly courageous and even more frighteningly unimaginative fighters. Thankfully, Straysis, although critically important for their galactic lines of communications and transport, was at the periphery of the vast struggle. If Karshean's promises could be believed, this shipment of soldiers should be able to completely clear the small rocky planet of revolutionary forces.

A rattling noise caused him to turn away from the almost hypnotic sight of the Portal to where several Varangians in human form were pushing carts. Each of these carts contained a pile of black misshapen balls with the occasional tubes sticking out. The Varangians began handing the balls to the soldiers.

"Remove any headgear and drop it to the floor," the soldiers were all ordered. "Place the respirators on your heads." At the same time, images of how to put the devices on flowed through the soldiers' minds over and over again until they had successfully donned the cranial coverings.

Abraham watched a female soldier take one of the balls. She looked at it as if she were holding some giant alien bug eager to eat her face. The soldier reached up woodenly and pulled the cap off her head and let it drop to the floor. She then took the ball in both hands, and it began to unfurl in front of her, presenting a dark cavity. With a look of horror, the soldier placed her face into the cavity, and the ball on its own wrapped around the back of her head, sealing around her neck. A clear membrane opened in front of her face. The soldier's hands went to her neck, trying to pull the ball off, and Abraham could see her wide panic-stricken eyes.

"Breath normally," the Varangians told them. "The respirator converts atmosphere that would be unhealthy for you to perfectly breathable air. Just relax and breathe normally."

The woman's eyes began to soften slightly as she breathed in slowly and carefully. By the tenseness of her body, Abraham could tell she would be running right now if not held in place by the mind control, which this human species had zero defenses against.

Abraham heard the high-pitched whine of the elevator car arriving. As the doors began to open, he already knew who would step out by the feeling of energy being emitted. Abraham, like every other Varangian in the room, bowed his head respectfully as the Emperor emerged.

"Kneel!" came the order to the soldiers and, in one giant crashing sound, twelve hundred human soldiers went to their knees.

Looking towards the elevator, Abraham saw the swirling rainbow-colored forms of the Varangian Guard surrounding the Emperor as he stepped out of the car. Only the Emperor and his personal guard were allowed the honor of assuming their true form here on Earth. Even so, Abraham rarely saw members of the Guard in Varangian form.

The Emperor himself maintained the human shell of a tall, muscular, dignified middle-aged man of dark complexion. His jaw was strong and eyes piercingly green. As those eyes rested on Abraham, the Emperor’s tight lips relaxed into the barest hint of a smile.

"It is good that you are here," the Emperor said to him privately in his head.

Abraham lifted his head as the Emperor approached. "I thought it best, My Lord. I understand the importance of Earth Tributary Forces to defeating the rebels."

"Yes," said the Emperor, walking past Abraham and towards the Portal. Abraham followed. "These forces are small when compared to the elements involved, but they are an important factor. The revolutionaries do not collect Tribute from other species. That is their mistake."

"Certainly, My Lord. And when combined with our loyalist elements, the tributary forces represent more than simply a military element. They represent our power. Our authority to demand Tribute from subservient species. It is an important reminder to those who would think to challenge your right to rule, My Lord."

The Emperor frowned at the kneeling soldiers. "Although they rarely last very long."

"True," admitted Abraham. "But the more we send these Tributary Forces into the worst of the fighting, the fewer loyal Varangians have to die. It has also been reported that the rebels are sometimes unnerved by fighting against these alien humans, and our forces are able to provide protection for them against any enemy telepathic influence."

The Emperor shook his head. "It is a pity that this species is so physically weak."

Abraham nodded in agreement. "There are still many situations where these humans can serve the Empire well. They seem to excel at infiltration, fighting in small spaces, and urban combat. They are also more resilient than they at first appear, from the reports I have seen."

"Yes, of course," the Emperor waved his hand at the mass of kneeling soldiers dismissively. "As my father told me, you work with the tools you have been given."

"Indeed. By your leave, My Lord, shall we proceed?"

The Emperor nodded.

Abraham informed the Varangians and the mass of soldiers stood again as one. The swirling foggy energy in the Portal had formed into a smooth tranquil sheet of what looked like translucent water, almost mirror-like.

"Walk into the Portal," the Varangians ordered, and the soldiers four abreast began to move in that direction, jerkily and trembling as if on puppet strings. As the first line drew near the Portal, they stepped through with wild panicky eyes. The smooth surface enveloped the humans and seemed to reach out eagerly for them. Subsequent ranks followed, and Abraham could hear praying, crying, and even some suppressed screaming from them as they walked woodenly forward to an alien battlefield.

The Emperor shook his head. "Use the tools you have. My father never had to work with such poor tools."

Abraham wanted to apologize, to find better tools, but he knew there was nothing more he could do. Hopefully, the loyal Varangians soldiers and the tributary forces from other conquered worlds would be enough to compensate for the humans' weaknesses.

Nodding as if he could read Abraham's thoughts, the Emperor turned away towards the elevator before pausing. He coughed once and then staggered.

Abraham moved forward to help the Emperor, but one of his Guards' towering nebulous forms blocked Abraham's path, angry raw energy threatening to flash through him if he persisted. Even as the Emperor’s Steward, second only to him throughout the Empire, there were boundaries even he was not allowed to cross. Abraham backed away and saw that the other Guards had steadied the Emperor who was now standing upright and tall as if nothing had happened. After a moment of stillness, the Emperor moved into the giant elevator car surrounded by his Guard and the doors began to shut.

Abraham stared at the Emperor’s back until the doors completely closed and the elevator began to rise again to the surface. He turned to find the Portal nothing more than a giant ring of grey alloy metal with only air inside it. The flat surface that led to the Portal was bare now except for hundreds of discarded caps, sweat, and even the occasional pools of urine.

Work with the tools you have, thought Abraham. He then remembered the Emperor stumbling and had to push away a tinge of fear.

Chapter 9

As much as he hated someone screwing around with his head, Drake had to admit the implanted chips had their advantages. He had experienced some of these advantages firsthand already. Commands and directions relayed. Maps, images, and detailed instructions flashed into his consciousness. But as a squad leader, there was much more than he had imagined.

Drake soon found that he could issue instructions and send images to those ten individuals under him. By visualizing certain physical switches, he could allow any or all of those under him to communicate with him in return or with each other. No one told Drake how to do this; it came naturally.

Instead of wasting time telling his squad what he wanted, he simply showed them. Often, he did this at night after they had all laid down for sleep. Many times, he simply implanted the instructions in their heads after they had already dozed off. At first, Drake hadn't been sure this would work, or even if he was doing anything at all, but sure enough, the next morning those members would follow his instructions faithfully. Even slow Jonesy had turned around with the constant and steady instruction.

The question he hadn't figured out the answer to yet was did they follow his instructions out of chosen obedience to him or because they thought the idea was their own?

Regardless, Drake's squad did better than most in the following days despite not having the most capable soldiers. Drake was able to use the chips to get to know his soldiers, encourage them when needed, and calm any fraying tempers. On group missions, they performed exceptionally well.

Only once had Drake been forced to freeze one of his soldiers and inflict pain on them using the chips. He was not even aware he had this ability until Tally had challenged him. Tally was by far the oldest recruit in the maniple at thirty and thought he should at least have been selected as the squad leader if not a more senior position. Tally obviously resented Drake's youth and his authority over him.

"Stay out of my head," Tally told Drake one day in front of the squad. "You want something done, you ask me, but don't be using the chips to mess around."

Drake intentionally spoke in Tally's head. "I'm the squad leader. It's my job to communicate with you. I'm not trying to mess with you."

The older man pointed an angry finger at him. "I told you to stop it. You got something to say, do it out loud like a normal person."

"I'll use whatever tools have been given to me," said Drake in his head.

Tally turned red and charged at Drake. Before he had taken three steps, he froze with his face contorted in pain before falling to the ground. Drake allowed him to convulse for half a minute before ceasing the pain.

"Go get your gear and fall into formation," Drake ordered.

Tally slowly climbed to his feet and did as he was told. Except for angry looks and the occasional slow response, Drake hadn't had any further trouble from the older man in the days that followed and the others in the squad had taken note. Perhaps it was Drake's imagination, but it seemed like the others now obeyed him just a little bit quicker than before.

Now, the ten men of his squad were formed up in a perfect line to Drake's left. Two squads were to his front and one to the rear of his platoon formation. Drake's platoon was in the middle with one other platoon to the right and two others to the left. They all faced a small, raised platform on which Commander Masse stood.

Masse surveyed the maniple in front of him and smiled. "As the commandant has already told you, we are in the process of weeding out the non-soldiers from the soldiers. This is a process that began the day you arrived and will continue until you are declared legionnaires, are sent away or are dead. Today we continue with this process."

The commander pointed theatrically at the mountain off to the east. Drake knew it well. They had climbed its six-thousand-foot rugged slopes dozens of times. "You will each run to the top of Mule Mountain where a cadre will check off your name and number. You will then run back here to stand in this formation."

Here he smiled again as if enjoying what he was saying. "There is no time limit. Take as long as you like, but we are going to give you each some extra motivation. Thousands of years ago, the Roman legions fought against a fearsome race call the Gauls. These were monstrous and fierce men who fought naked in the snow and charged against swords and spears without hesitation. The Romans eventually defeated these fearless men but had to pay a heavy cost.

"When the Gauls prepared to go into battle, they would tell their warriors to be at a certain rally location as fast as they could. Their warriors were then released and would then run to the location which was sometimes days away. Once there, the chieftains would ensure all their warriors had arrived."

Masse's smile vanished. "But their gods required a sacrifice in order for them to have victory on the battlefield. Their gods were bloody and merciless. The Druids would take the warrior who had arrived last and stake them to the ground spread eagle and cut out their living heart to appease the gods."

Drake felt a hint of fear course through the minds of his squad and did his best to reassure and calm them.

"Just as then," Masse continued, "there will be a sacrifice made of the last recruit who returns here. So run well and run for your miserable sorry lives."

There were yells as men began to run. Some ran with their gear while others threw off their packs as they got up speed.

"Drop all your gear," Drake ordered, holding his men in place. "Stay together and follow me."

They ran behind Drake at a steady pace. He was one of the fastest recruits in the maniple and had to slow down in order for the slower members to keep up. It was infuriating for him because he could have easily outrun most of those in front of them. Drake's squad was in the very rear of the long line of desperately running men.

"We should run on our own," Tally panted, jogging up beside Drake. The man continued to refuse to use the chips to communicate. Tally looked back behind him at the bigger, slower Jonesy and Heaton. "No sense in all of us dying because some can't keep up."

"We stay together," Drake said and sent the older man an image of him getting back in formation. Tally fell back behind Drake grumbling.

They ran steadily upwards, and the flat sandy ground intermixed with small boulders gradually gave way to rocky ground broken up by cactuses and small hearty shrubs. Amazingly, the unrelenting sun had actually gone behind a cloud and Drake was able to relax his permanent squint. Even so, he nearly missed the blood on the trail in front of them.

It was smeared on a ragged stair step of rock in their path. It was obvious someone had fallen before climbing back up.

"See that," said Zinatu in his head. "That person will be slower now. You know it is true. Perhaps we should all now run our own race."

Drake didn't respond. Zinatu was an Ethiopian sold to Legion for being an illegal immigrant. Drake couldn't imagine anyone risking what the tall man had to actually get here but guessed things could always be worse elsewhere. Zinatu had assured him that East Africa, wherever the hell that was, was one of those places. Zinatu was one of the few recruits who could keep up with Drake, and the two frequently finished tests that depended on speed close together.

They settled into a slow steady climb that lasted over an hour. They were still a few hundred yards from the peak when they heard others coming in their direction down the narrow path. Drake saw a man barreling towards them more in a controlled fall than a run.

"Make a path!" Drake ordered just as the man passed between them. Several sweatier recruits followed close behind. During the short intermissions between opposite traffic, Drake had the squad move forward and then pull off to the side of the trail when others barreled past.

"Do you want us to die?" asked Tally, his voice raised. "We can't stop, there's no time. Make them go around us."

"We can't," Drake explained in all their heads, saving his breath. He showed them an image of a downward-running out-of-control recruit crashing into them and injuring themselves and members of the squad.

"You don't know that!" said Tally. "And even if that could happen, we have to risk it, otherwise we're dead anyway."

"He's right," said Zinatu apologetically to Drake.

Drake looked around at the squad. Several, including the big Heaton, stood off to the side of the path with their hands on their knees attempting to replenish much-needed oxygen. "We'll catch them on the way down," Drake tried to explain. "They're burning themselves out and someone's likely to fall and break a leg anyway."

Drake saw their looks and knew he wouldn't be able to convince them. "Go ahead then," he finally said. "Stay with me or go on; it's your choice."

Tally and Zinatu both began racing up the steep hill while Drake stayed to lead the rest of the squad. They continued to get out of the way, and soon both Zinatu and Tally passed them without a glance. Drake wished them the best.

Finally, they were at the top of the mountain where a Legion cadre stood and pointed a device at each of them as they approached. "You slow worthless slags are dead last. Better pick it up."

Drake ignored the man and looked down the long hill. He could clearly see the steep path and the line of runners spread out before them.

"Let's go, but be careful," he told them. "Don't rush. They'll be time to give everything you got once back on flat ground, but a fall now would be the same as losing."

He led them down and could sense their near panic through the chips. Drake sent them soothing thoughts of confidence, but it still felt like the connection between his chip and theirs were tight with resistance and tension.

Running as fast as he dared, Drake led them downward while warning them of treacherous spots in the path before his squad got to them. The ground gradually began to level out as the vegetation thinned again. Sharp and sheer rock was replaced by gravel and finally sand. Drake speeded up and saw runners spread out on the flat sand down below them.

They were nearly out of the mountain's foothills when Drake heard the scream. At the same time, he felt a burst of pain in his head and leg. He knew that it was Tally, hurt bad.

"Zinatu," Drake sent out ahead of him. "What happened to Tally?"

"Don't know," the man answered, "I passed him ten minutes ago." After an extremely long pause, the African added, "I'm going back to check now."

Drake did his best to calm Tally from afar as they closed the distance. The screams had thankfully stopped and were replaced by moans which grew louder as they approached. When Drake rounded a steep rocky turn in the path, he saw Tally on the ground with his leg between two large rocks, his foot at an unnatural angle to the rest of his body. Zinatu stood over the man. When Drake made eye contact with the Ethiopian, he saw the look of sadness on the mostly expressionless face. Zinatu shook his head slowly.

Anger burned through Drake. Anger at Tally for not listening. Anger at his men for not being able to run faster. Most of all anger at Masse for coming up with this degrading and sadistic test.

"Pick him up," Drake said. "We'll carry him the rest of the way."

All of them looked at him as if he were insane. Drake didn't need the chip to understand what they were thinking.

"I know the last person has to die, but I'm not going to leave him out here by himself."

"That's exactly what we're going to do," said Jonesy, and others nodded in agreement.

The anger welled up again and Drake clenched his fists. He pointed down the hill at the runners. "There isn't much time. We might be able to catch someone. Maybe another recruit got injured."

"No way," said someone, and the feeling quickly spread. Soon members of his squad were running individually towards the finish line in the far distance.

Drake froze all of them. And then, sent them an image of him going on alone and leaving them all frozen in place. He knew it was anti-logical to say he would doom all of them for failing to help him save one from certain death, but logic had never been one of his strong suits.

He released them, and they all hesitated, looking at him, some with hatred, others with fear. Their fear threatened to turn into panic and Drake was on the verge of freezing them again.

"Help me get him up," said Heaton, moving over towards the injured Tally. The big man pulled away the heavy rocks trapping the man's ankle. Tally started to scream again, and Drake sent soothing thoughts and energy, more forcefully than he had ever dared before. Soon the man was unconscious.

Did I just put him to sleep? Drake wondered.

Heaton grasped the older man's uniform at the thigh and sleeve and picked him up in a fireman's carry as they had been taught. Once upright, he bounced up and down a little to adjust the weight.

"We'll switch off when you get tired," Drake told him and pointed toward the finish. "You set the pace. We'll all follow you."

The going was slow, but it gradually became faster, and Drake realized that Heaton was running faster than he had ever seen the big man run before. Drake asked him if he needed a break and Heaton shook his head slightly without breaking stride.

They could see the parade ground ahead of them. Soldiers standing in their assigned position and looking out of the corners of their eyes at the approaching doomed squad. Masse stood on the platform with his arms crossed.

Drake noticed that the other members of the squad were bunched up around him and realized none of them wanted to be the last to cross over into the formation. He waved them in front of him and took up the rear urging them forward. A gasping Heaton fell back abreast of Drake at the rear.

"Let me take him," Drake said although he didn't know how he could possibly carry the older man. Tally wasn't anywhere near as big as the gigantic Heaton, but he was too large for Drake to do anything more than drag.

Heaton spared a glance in his direction and chuckled, shaking his head. Drake imagined himself being crushed flat by the weight of the larger man and sent the image to Heaton with a question mark.

"Exactly," Heaton hissed. "I've got him."

Drake nodded and saw that the rest of his squad was already in their assigned places. As they approached, Drake helped Heaton lower the unconscious man off his shoulders and into a pile at Tally's assigned place in the formation. After Heaton was standing in front of his gear, Drake methodically walked over and stood where he had stood nearly three hours previously.

The last man to return from the run.

Looking up, he saw the fury in Masse's face. The commander walked down off the platform towards Drake never breaking eye contact. When Masse spoke, it was so all of them could hear his frustration and anger.

"I told you all what would happen to the last person to return," Masse said, proceeding to stand in front of Drake. "This was not intended as a group exercise. It was intended as an object lesson in motivation. It was intended as a means to get rid of the slowest and weakest recruit in my maniple. You…Corporal Goodman, screwed that up. I don't like it when recruits screw up my plans." Masse then drew back and struck him in the face.

Drake saw the blow coming and could have easily avoided it but knew that would be a mistake. The commander could always freeze him at will and then strike him as many times as he wanted at his leisure. The blow landed with incredible force and Drake had to step back to keep from falling over. He closed his eyes, feeling blood gushing out of his nose, and moved back up onto his assigned spot. Drake felt a wave of pain like nausea wash over him, and he forced himself to open his eyes and look at Masse.

He must be really furious to actually strike me rather than use the chip, Drake thought.

Masse suddenly smiled as a thought came to him. "I'm going to give you an opportunity to fix this." He pointed at Tally and then swept his arm down the entire line of Drake's squad. "You're going to kill one of them. I don't care which, but you're going to do it now. Your squad has failed and, as a leader, you have to clean up the mess. It sucks, but that's the way it is."

Drake felt confusion. "How?" he asked.

Pain shot through him again, this time from the chip.

"How, sir, you mean?"

The pain relented and Drake nodded gritting his teeth. "How…sir?"

"You think those chips in their heads are for communicating only? Commandant Tripplehorn showed you the first day what they can do. Use the chip to stop one of their hearts. Do it now."

Drake shook his head.

Masse's face approached Drake's until only an inch separated them. "You pick someone, or I'll kill all of them."

Drake realized it was not a bluff. The man enjoyed killing and was probably disappointed beyond measure to be assigned to a training position where he couldn't commit atrocities and torture as a daily course.

He wants to torment me, Drake realized. To break me. He wanted me to die in the sandpit, for Ritzer to kill me. It's me he wants to die.

Feeling an immense sense of relief when the decision came over him, Drake actually smiled at Masse. "So be it," he whispered in the man's face and visualized his own heart stopping, blood congealing in his veins, death.

Nothing happened.

Masse screamed in his face. "You don't get to choose when you die! You belong to the Legion!" He then punched Drake in the stomach and, as he fell to the ground, began kicking him repeatedly over and over.

Finally, the panting Masse stopped and looked around him. He then glared down at Drake for another moment before turning and climbing back up onto the platform, carefully smoothing his uniform. Once there, he turned and faced them again.

"There is always a sacrifice required," Masse told them. "Those Gauls had it right even if their gods were fantasy. There can be no victory without death."

Drake lifted himself off the ground onto one elbow and looked over to see that Tally had awoken.

"Did we make it?" Tally asked him with wonder and hope in his voice.

"Yes, we made it" Drake whispered. "I'm sorry."

Tally tensed up and fell back onto the ground, one grasping hand clawing at his chest as his heart stopped.

Chapter 10

Drake and his squad always got the worst work details after Commander Masse's sadistic Gaul run. Whenever the latrine filters need to be swapped out or bodies loaded onto transports or a clogged sewage line needed exploration, Drake knew the duty would come to him…or more accurately, his squad.

All because of Masse.

Drake had thought a great deal about why the man was after him. Although there could have been plenty of reasons for Masse to dislike him, nothing really added up to the constant harassment. And why, if he hated Drake so much, did he kill Tally instead of him when he had the chance?

"Maybe you're just one of those people that other people can't help but hate," Heaton told him after one of Masse's verbal public debasements.

Watching his men scrape melted rubber off the concrete dirigible landing pad, Drake shook his head and wiped sweat out of his eyes. He wasn't allowed to help his men, as per Masse's orders, only to "supervise" as a leader supposedly should. Drake presumed this was a tactic to make his own men hate him, and the familiar anger welled up inside him.

There was no reason for Tally to have to die, he thought, not for the first time. In fact, there is no reason for any of us to have to die, not really.

Life is cheap, Drake remembered his mother telling him. Supposedly wasn't always this way, but that doesn't matter. Perhaps the cheapest thing in this world is other people's lives. Best guard yours well.

"Third Squad wins again," said Heaton, glancing towards Drake with a smile. The big man was on his hands and knees with a short flat trowel covered in sticky rubber. "Just think, we could be in class or something instead of out here enjoying the fine weather."

Drake had gotten to know Heaton well enough to understand this wasn't said with malice or complaint, simply an effort to lighten the mood.

"It could always be worse," said Zinatu, his dark skin gleaming in the harsh sun. The tall lean Ethiopian worked deliberately and without any trace of tiredness.

"How is that?" asked Jonesy, sitting on an upside-down can, taking his third break in as many hours.

Zinatu tuned to look at Jonesy. "We could be dead or dying or starving or getting cut up or killing each other."

"Exactly!" said Heaton cheerfully. "That's what I'm talking about. Look on the bright side of things."

The rest of the squad chuckled and kept at their work.

Masse meant to make them hate me, but they don't, Drake realized. As a matter of fact, they respect me more after Tally. None of them seem to mind that they're working and I'm not. Except maybe Jonesy.

"Back to work," Drake told Jonesy in his head so the others couldn't hear. "No one is saying anything, but they all recognize that you're slacking. At their expense, no less."

Jonesy looked at him as if he wanted to say something before cutting his eyes to his fellow squad members. With a deep sigh, he stood up off the bucket, picked up his own trowel, and got back to work.

Drake rubbed the short stubble of hair on his head and realized it didn't hurt. He was used to the constant angry burn of dying and overcooked epidermis from the sun's beating thereness. Like something always hovering inches over your head, aware and malignant, rather than millions of miles away. He looked down at his hands and saw that the formerly pale skin was tanned a deep brown like most of the rest of the squad.

He also noticed that all of them had put on many kilos of muscle. Between the increased calories consumed and the constant exercise, all of them were no longer the skinny and wiry malnutrition victims they had been only months ago when they arrived.

This is what a person is supposed to feel like, Drake thought. Not filled with constant fatigue and hunger.

"Yes," said Zinatu in his head, startling Drake who didn't realize he had sent the thought out to anyone. The black man looked at him intently and nodded before going back to work.

Drake gazed at the other men, but none of them seemed to have heard Drake's thoughts. He consciously kept the chip in non-broadcast mode and thought, Everyone beat the shit out of Jonesy.

None of them looked up or reacted.

Must be some sort of bleed-over when I'm not guarded, he thought. Or maybe Zinatu is more attuned to the chips than others.

"How about a little water, boss?" asked Heaton out loud.

Drake sighed. "You don't have to ask. Just keep working and break when you need to."

"I know," said Heaton, standing up to stretch his back before drinking from a large container nearby. "Just felt like justifying your existence out here is all."

The other men laughed, and Drake's scowl turned into a thin grin.

They all liked using their actual voices. Most of them went days without even uttering a whisper. Legion wanted them to be silent killers who communicated using the chips. So, no matter how stressed or tired, they did not forget and open their mouths thus throwing away a tactical position or element of surprise. In a sense, the detail meant as a punishment was a reward. Other than Drake standing there watching them, they were unsupervised and could talk all they wanted.

"The justification for our existence is to serve the Legion," Heaton said in an eerily accurate approximation of Masse's inner voice.

"We are all here because this is where we are meant to be," said Zinatu, who had not slowed in his work.

"That's bullshit," said the small stocky Reede. "I'm here because my business partner double-crossed me and took the whole score for himself."

"And what was your business exactly?" asked Heaton.

"Systems integration and security," Reede said, standing up a little taller.

Zinatu snorted. "A hacker. Stealing other people's credits to enrich yourself."

Reede looked hurt. "You've got me all wrong. I only stole from the big corporations."

"I suspect that's true," said Heaton. "If you'd kept to robbing ordinary people no one would have cared, and you wouldn't be here."

"What's that?" asked Jonesy who had again stopped working. He was shading his eyes and looking off to the north.

They all turned in that direction and saw a dark shimmering shape growing out of the horizon. Even with the energy-hungry masking devices turned off, it was difficult to see with its light underbelly and the heat in the air making everything twinkle in and out of existence. After a few seconds, Drake was able to recognize the giant dirigible. Large equipment and cargo pods hung underneath the transport bays. Radars, missiles, and coaxial guns covered nearly every available surface. As they watched it grew larger, Drake thought how strange it looked to have a shadow on the desert ground. They all stood mesmerized. They had seen the giant blimps from a distance but never this close.

"Squad leaders," said Masse's voice in Drake's head. "Have your units assembled at Formation Pad C in five minutes in light tactical load."

"Damn him," said Drake, looking to the east. That formation pad was nearly five minutes away even if they all ran. Before that, they would all have to change into the appropriate uniform and put away the tools and equipment they were working with.

"Heaton, Zinatu, Reede," said Drake, broadcasting forcefully into all their chips. "Grab all this gear and follow me to the storage shed. Everyone else get into light tactical loads and meet at Pad C. Bring our stuff there."

"Break's over, I guess." Heaton shook his head.

"Move!" ordered Drake, and the rest of his squad raced away while he and the three other men gathered up the tools and ran as fast as they could to the shed that served to hold the equipment. The tools were trash and hardly worth anything, but Drake knew Masse would check and come down on his men harder if anything was missing.

They put the tools away as quickly as they could before Drake closed and locked the door using his handprint. Then they all took off sprinting towards Pad C.

Drake could see most of the maniple already on the pad ahead of them. Commander Masse stood to the front, eyes following disapprovingly, of course. His attention was jerked away by a disturbance as the rest of Drake's squad arrived, wearing their own gear and carrying extra. Masse looked back at Drake and the three other men as they skidded to a halt at their assigned positions and began to quickly don gear.

Drake didn't have to look up to know that Masse was counting off the seconds and wanting them to miss the time hack. He tried not to think of the jerk, nor the time, simply going through the motions and silently urging his squad to do the same. He snapped one last strap into place as Masse yelled out, "Time! Freeze!"

Everyone did. Drake used his peripheral vision to check his squad and none of them moved. Masse strode directly towards them ignoring everyone else.

"We all good?" Drake asked them silently.

"My helmet face cover isn't locked upwards," Jonesy said.

Damn, thought Drake and looked at the platoon leader at the front of the formation glaring at him. The man already knew something was going to be wrong with Third Squad and who cared if Masse wasn't fair? They would all suffer at least a little bit for it.

Drake imagined himself choking the glaring platoon leader. His fingers digging into the man's throat until his eyes bulged out. Pressing the air and life out of—

The platoon leader coughed.

Masse froze and spun towards the offending sound.

The man's eyes were wide with shock as Masse strode towards him. When he was only a few feet away, the platoon leader began to vibrate in the tell-tale sign of intense inflicted pain.

"Now," Drake sent to Jonesy. "Fix it now." He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, but remained frozen, hoping Jonesy would act quickly.

Finally, the platoon leader stopped vibrating and tried to stand up straight, his face drawn and pale.

Masse pointed at the man and said in their heads so they could all hear. "You're relieved. Return to your original squad." He then turned to the First Squad leader. "Get up here. You're the new platoon leader. Hopefully, you're not as screwed up as the last half-wit."

The man snapped to attention and took his place at the front of the platoon while the other members of First Squad moved one step to the right. Masse continued his march towards Third Squad, but something in his face showed that he knew his plan had been sabotaged by the distraction. He gave Drake and his squad no more than a disgusted look before turning away and resuming his position at the front of the maniple.

Wind and sand began to blow around them as a shadow passed over. Drake didn't dare look but knew the giant dirigible was above them. He was surprised at how something so massive could be so quiet. All he could hear was a faint hum. As the blimp passed overhead it came into view behind Masse and settled lightly onto the concrete landing pad Drake and his squad had been cleaning earlier. Two dozen large rubber legs unfolded to touch the ground, sliding slightly before the blimp's momentum could be brought to a stop, leaving the familiar black rubber streaks.

"They messed up our clean runway," complained Heaton in Drake's head at the same time orders were issued to him from the new platoon leader.

"File from the right, column right!" echoed Drake to his men as the modular formation slowly turned into a long single line of recruits marching like ants towards the waiting dirigible.

"Wait," said Jonesy to the squad. "We're actually getting on that thing?"

Drake cut off their ability to communicate with anyone except him. "Don't think," he told them, "just act according to the orders." Drake didn't realize until after he had said it that he was repeating rote Legion doctrine.

Within minutes, Drake and his squad were part of the long line moving towards the dirigible. They could see that the surface of the structure was a nearly translucent sand shade that shimmered and changed color to match its surroundings. Drake knew that when the airships masking device reached full power it would be nearly invisible to radar and difficult to see with the naked eye until the giant floating machine was nearly on top of its target. The shimmering surface made Drake's head hurt, so he forced his eyes away.

"Proceed to your assigned loading positions," the command came down, followed by instructions, and Drake simply allowed the orders to be relayed to his men rather than him repeating them.

Marching up a ramp, they entered the side of the structure. It reminded Drake of a book he had seen when he was younger of a bunch of mythical animals happily climbing up a ramp into a large wooden dirigible. Once inside, Drake turned to the right and down a narrow hallway to his assigned sector. There he found rows of metal seats with piles of straps and black material.

"Don the wingsuits according to instructions," the command came, and Drake nearly fell as the information flooded forcefully into his brain. When it was over, he took a deep breath.

"Did everyone get all of that?" he asked his squad.

"Unfortunately, yes," said Heaton. "I wish they wouldn't do that. It feels like they're taking a dump in our brains."

"They almost are," said Reede. "It's as close as they could get to mind control without frying our frontal cortex, I bet."

What does he mean by that? Drake wondered.

"You mean we're actually going to put on the wingsuits?" said Jonesy. "Surely they won't want us to fly; we haven't had any training."

"I'm sure we will," said Reede. "They'll push the training into our skulls just like you would push a saline drip."

"I don't know about this," said Jonesy, and Drake could tell the boy was nearly frantic with panic at the idea of dropping out of the dirigible.

"Relax," urged Drake. "Just put on the suit like they just showed us."

They all did it as if they had done so hundreds of times before, the muscle memory pre-loaded into their heads by the chips. Drake discovered that the thin stretchy material was similar to the skin of the dirigible in that it shimmered and changed color according to what was around it. There were large flaps of material connecting his two legs with an even longer tail that deployed out behind once in the air. There were also connecting flaps from his arms to his sides that could extend or retract as needed for adjustments in speed, balance, or direction. They attached their packs and weapons to the outside of the suit according to the instructions.

When they finished putting on the suits, they all sat in their assigned chairs, which automatically secured them in place. As expected, they were all mentally force-fed basic instructions on how to fly in the wingsuits.

Drake found it difficult to concentrate on what was being poured into him. The more he tried to comprehend and make sense of the information, the greater his disorientation became. It was as if the training was designed to bypass his consciousness. He tried to relax and not fight what was being pushed inside him.

He didn't know he had fallen asleep until he awoke with a jolt to a shrill alarm. Drake looked around and saw that the interior of the ship was now cast in an eerie red light that made all the recruits appear old and drawn. With a whine, the floor cracked beneath them and opened up lengthways to reveal a desert floor slowly moving far beneath them. Cool air washed in over them.

Drake knew from the instructions in his head that the door opened sixty seconds before the first drop. He sealed his helmet's face shield. Even though they were not being dropped from a high enough altitude to require oxygen, the face shield provided protection from any debris in the air.

"Prepare for Drop Exercise 1A," said a voice in their heads. "This is an individual training scenario, and you will be graded on your ability to land on the designated target. Recruits will be dropped individually at random. Prepare to drop."

Drake looked up into the smiling face of Heaton, who gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up before Drake felt released from the harness into freefall.

Of course, I would be first, he had time to think.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Drake looked up to ensure he cleared the doors. Then he opened his legs and felt the air catch. A second later, his lower body was lifted upwards, and he then opened his arms to keep his body parallel to the ground. Drake knew that if he messed up any of the timing it would result in an extremely uncomfortable descent at best.

Now he was suddenly gliding easily away from the dirigible. Several other recruits were dropping behind him. Looking at his electronic face shield display, Drake saw that the target was twelve kilometers north of him, and at his current glide ratio, he would have to lose altitude if he didn't want to overshoot the drop zone.

Bringing his arms in closer to his body, Drake tilted his body forward and felt himself speed up. Although he knew he was moving at an incredible speed, the ground below appeared fixed. A combination of exhilaration and peacefulness filled him and, for perhaps the first time in his life, Drake felt himself truly relax.

His mind was empty, and his spirit soared with unknown freedom. Oh, to be a creature of the wind, rising above the earth and knowing no master.

Drak'enon.

The earth floated below him like a thin film that he could almost reach out and push aside.

Drak'enon…is that you?

His arms pulled in tighter to dive faster. Drake wanted to regain the feeling of freedom.

It is you…I had not dared to hope…not dared to look for you…

The edges of Drake's face shield began to grow dark.

I had to leave…they would have hunted you as they hunted me…

His arms were near to his side now. He was an arrow aiming to strike the earth with all its fury.

Drak'enon…you must survive…I will find you…if I can…

Darkness was closing around the tunnel he was hurtling down. Only a circle of light remained on the ground that was much closer than it had been before.

"Pull up, Goodman," ordered Tripplehorn in his head.

The command startled Drake out of whatever dream state he had slipped into, and he was stunned to see the ground rushing up, the target right underneath him.

He flared out his arms and legs as Drake saw Legion cadre run to get away from his impact crater. Drake even thought he saw a startled lizard scurry away beneath him.

Then everything went black.

Chapter 11

Caylina slipped to the left, barely avoiding her attacker's kay'ton. The knife-like device crackled in his hand with energy as he darted after her again. There were several spots on her body where he had already shocked her through the tight bodysuit she wore.

Caylina retreated from the incessant assaults across the large open room.

"Let's take a rest," she panted at her bodyguard, Reath.

The big shaved-headed man lunged low at her in a classic orangio frontal attack. Caylina dropped into a defensive stance, her own kay'ton low and close to her body with her free hand out, but Reath transitioned quickly into a series of Varangian feints and then a jabbing thrust that caught her on the shoulder with a sizzle of electricity.

"Ow!" she cried, stepping back and away from him.

"No speaking," he said into her head.

She circled away from the man who had never ceased stalking her. "I wish you two would make up your mind," she said telepathically. "First Lamin tells me to only talk out loud and then you tell me not to."

The man darted forward in a low stance, grasping her by the ankle before pulling upwards. She slashed at his face, and he let go as she stumbled backward, barely managing to keep her balance.

"I meant no talking by either means," Reath told her out loud. "There is a time to fight and there is a time to talk. These times cannot properly exist in the same space."

Caylina got an angry petulant look on her face. She stood up straight from her stance and put her hands on her hips. "I'm sick of this and just want to go back to bed. I don't see why I have to train in the first place."

"Get back in your stance," Reath ordered.

The girl shook her head at him and turned to walk away. "This is total shit. I'm done."

She took two steps before dropping suddenly and thrusting her kay'ton upwards to catch the onrushing Reath right in his chest.

The man's look of startled pain was intensely satisfying, and Caylina allowed the electrical charges to continue to flow as the man rolled away from her. Finally, he was on his back, and she straddled him, grabbing his kay'ton from his nerveless fingers and pressing both knives to his throat.

Reath smiled. "That was well done," he said. "It is rare that a Varangian Guard can be caught by surprise."

She pressed down with the knives on his throat, her fingers itching to send electrical charges through the man. "Are the stupid lessons over?"

"The stupid lessons are never over," he replied with a smile and then, quick as a viper, grasped her wrists with both his powerful hands and slammed her fists together. The two knives dropped from her grasp. Reath then thrust his legs and lower body upwards until his body was nearly bent over Caylina and then both were flopping over onto the matt.

Her stomach lay flat on the ground, and Reath was on top of her with both arms locking her wrists up into the small of her back.

"Enough!" she cried. "Get off of me!"

Reath ignored her. "There is another lesson here. Your enemy has you at his mercy and you wish to be released. How do you get them to do your will?"

"You'll pay for this, I promise!"

"Threats? Well maybe if they were credible, but in your case, they are not. There is very little you could do to me."

"I am the only daughter of the true Varangian Emperor!"

"True," said Reath pressing even harder on her back, "but that fact does not benefit you here. Even if the Emperor himself were in this room, he would not speak a word to stop me. You are my charge, and this is how Royal Offspring are raised."

"Help!" she yelled out. "Mother! Father!"

Reath chuckled. "Your…parents…would not come to your aid either. As a precaution, I have blocked the Boyles from even being aware of our training sessions lest their fragile human sensibilities be alarmed. You are alone, defenseless, and with no hope of assistance. What will you do?"

Caylina's mind lashed out at her bodyguard, but this was as effective as punching a stone wall, and she felt a similar level of pain.

"Now you are just panicking." He pressed down on her back, pushing air out of her lungs. "Use your brain…or die."

She fought to draw air into her lungs but couldn't even exhale. Struggling in the iron grasp of the powerful man, Caylina felt the world starting to go dim.

"Please," she whispered. "Let…me…go."

Suddenly the pressure was gone, and she was free.

Caylina rolled over on her back, gasping for breath, and saw Reath walking away from her to put the pair of kay'tons back in their felt-lined box. She slowly sat up, panting, and stared at the man with fury.

"What was the purpose of that?" she asked telepathically. "To humiliate and debase me?"

Reath turned back and gazed at her quizzically. "The purpose was as I told you. It was a lesson and you learned it."

"What lesson was that?"

The man walked over and squatted down in front of her. "That there are times when we are defenseless before our enemies. Our consciousness wants to refuse this reality. To strike out and wrest victory through more effort or savagery or brute strength, but that will not change reality. In those times, when the options are humiliation before one's enemies or death…humiliation is the right choice. How else is one to live to destroy one's enemies in the future?"

"I don't suppose you have ever been humiliated. Not a vaulted Varangian Guard."

Reath smiled sadly at her. "Varangian Guards know humiliation better than most. We are taken from our families before we can walk and submitted to every hardship and brutality to harden us. To prepare us to serve the Empire." He even sent her a fast kaleidoscope of horrific images of young Varangians being tortured and starved. Most of the shadowy forms could not easily be recognized as Varangians as their life forces were so dim.

Caylina's pulled away from the images. The prepared sarcastic response died in her mind.

"The lesson is to understand and accept your situation," he said, standing again. "And to know that…to be prepared, to do whatever it takes to survive."

She climbed to her feet. "Why do I need to learn any of this at all? I'm to be confined to this prison for the rest of my life. I would welcome the excitement of someone trying to kill me."

"You must learn what Lamin and I are teaching you because you are a Varangian Royal. They know how to fight, and they know how to think…or they die."

"Or they Submit themselves?" she shot back. "Isn't that what you taught me?"

"If you must."

"Such as a Succession? After the Emperor dies? I'll have to go crawling and begging to my brother, Shan'in, to spare my life. To convince him I am a pathetic worm incapable of ever being a threat to his rule."

"It is the Varangian way. Many of the Spared go on to lead pleasant lives," he said.

"Like this one?" she asked, spreading her arms to take in the vast estate.

"Exactly like this one."

Caylina rebelled at the idea. Surely there is something else in store for me. This can't be my fate.

"Your situation is your situation," Reath said. "Remember the lesson."

She was silent for a long time. "What if I wasn't defenseless? Why do I need to humiliate myself before I'm even beat?"

"Because you will be beat if you consider opposing your brothers. Do I need to remind you there has not been an empress in over a thousand years?"

"Definitely not. I've heard plenty about that historical fact."

"Then you should understand. I know better than most how fierce your spirit is. If you were not a Royal, you would make a fine Varangian Guard, but that is not your situation. No one wants to return to the Dark Times when there was a frenzy within minutes of the Emperor’s death to murder every babe with royal blood in them. Most of the time, they didn't even wait until the Emperor was actually dead. The new ways are better."

"Better for whom?"

"The Varangian Empire," Reath answered sternly. "That is the only thing that matters. It is of little consequence if you do not realize your selfish desires as long as the Empire survives."

"What if I don't care about the Empire?" she asked softly.

There was a moment of silence that seemed to stretch out for days. Reath stared at her expressionlessly.

Then she was on her back, blood running down her face. She reached up tentatively to where he had struck her. Fury raged in her and she looked up at him, but her anger died at the sight of him.

He had assumed his full Varangian form in all its glory. Although some would say it was humanoid, that certainly was a description that missed the essence of the matter. It was like saying a panther and a pig were both quadrupeds. Pure power and energy covered Reath in beautiful swirling colors. Tendrils of smoky light reached out to her and made it appear as if the man was actually levitating.

"The Varangians have ruled the known universe for as long as anyone can recall. We have turned back unspeakable evil and galactic catastrophes. There has never been a species like us in all of the vast cosmos and there never will be. That is who you are and there is no changing that. You care about the Empire because, without it, there are no Varangians. Without the Varangians, what would the universe be?"

What about the Varangian Revolutionaries? The ones who drove us all into hiding. They evidently believe there is another way, she wondered but kept the thought to herself. Instead, she stared at Reath silently and respectfully. It was nearly impossible not to be impressed by the sight.

Reath slowly resumed his human form and the effort appeared to drain him. As if taking on the shell was exhausting or possibly dismally depressing. He sent her images of Var, the Varangian homeworld, a place she had never seen and likely never would. Majestic purple mountains slopping down to deep green seas. Beautiful forests rising up between gracefully breathtaking structures. Twin red stars cast everything in a stunning crimson hue.

Then there was fighting and smoke and screaming. Forests burning as those graceful structures crumble. Varangians slaughtered as the Royal Family and their panicked supporters flee through Portals to various worlds where they find temporary respite or death.

Regardless, all the survivors are now hunted across the universe by the rebels. Caylina has never truly realized until now why they have to hide who they are among the weak earthlings. It is not for fear of them, she realizes, but for the hateful revolutionaries who are hunting them.

The visions cleared and she saw him gazing at her sadly. "Look at where we are. Look at what we have been forced to do. Look at what we have lost. Do you think for a second we haven't all had to humiliate ourselves to survive?"

Before she could think of anything to say, the man turned and walked out of the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Chapter 12

Darkness. Drake liked it in the dark. There, no one could see your face. In a sense, a person was alone. Alone was a matter of perspective. Drake had learned that lesson after months of never having a moment alone. He liked the dark. Sure, there were others around him, but they might as well be miles away.

They weren't allowed to use the night-vision headsets, but still, Drake knew where his squad was. Right where he wanted them. Waiting.

Masse had pitted the maniple's squads against each other. Their weapons were simulations, but Drake had no doubt the punishments for failure would be real enough and possibly there would still be death before the night was through. But not for Third Squad, if Drake could help it. One of the things he had learned in the Belsmire Commons was the wisdom of hiding and waiting. Of avoiding your enemy until you were ready to surprise them.

Drake closed his eyes and reached out in his mind. He could now touch the consciousness of each of his squad members without them even being aware he was there. He couldn't read their minds, but he could certainly sense their anxiety and feel their fear of the unknown.

It was the known that Drake feared. Certainty had never been his friend. Assurances and facts were the province of the state, the rich and established. And they used that certainty to bolster their own place in the world at the expense of anything and everything around them. In uncertainty and chaos, Drake knew there was opportunity.

He had thought about the last dirigible drop many times. Heaton, who was behind him on the drop, said that at the last minute he flared his wings, slowing his suicidal descent, but not enough to keep from striking the sandy ground. Heaton swore that he actually saw Drake bounce. The bruises and soreness throughout his body lent credibility to Heaton. Even so, he was one of the lucky ones who walked away. Several didn't.

The strange voice in his head during the drop might have been part of him blacking out. Too many g's of force too fast. Or it could have been one of the cadres screwing with him, using the chip. Yet, Drake felt it was neither of these. It had seemed like something…different. Something else entirely.

In the darkness, there were yells of surprise, and Drake was jerked out of his thoughts. Simulated weapons fired fifty meters to their southeast along the road they were set up on.

"Easy," Drake told his men in their heads. "We're in a perfect ambush position. Everyone is focused on securing the objective."

"Shouldn't we be doing that?" asked Heaton.

"We are," answered Drake. "The objective is to stay alive. Let them all kill each other out there, and then it will be easy enough to walk up there and take that outpost."

"Commander Masse is going to be pissed at you again," said Reede. "You know he wants us to do it his way."

"I know that," answered Drake, "but he didn't order us to do anything a particular way." And his way is not the only way.

The sounds of weapons and surprised soldiers died down. Drake knew those that were "dead" in the scenario had to lay where the simulators had shot them and wait for the exercise to be over...and receive their punishments for failure.

Drake didn't know how long they lay in the desert shrubs after that. It was long enough for it to get cold and the giant tarantulas to try and crawl up on top of their warm bodies. He realized that he had actually started to doze off when he heard the soft sound of a step.

He reached out in his mind to awaken the rest of his squad.

"They're right in front of me," said Zinatu back to them. "Looks like eight of them, but it's hard to know for sure in the dark. Single file with weapons ready."

He could see the faint outline of a shadowy form walking down the path in front of him from the left. Drake waited as three of the figures walked past him.

"Prepare to fire," Drake said. "On my mark…easy. Fire!"

They all lifted up their assault rifles and fired the simulated rounds into the figures before them. The weapons made small pops, simulating the suppressors that would be on their real weapons. The other squad dropped to the ground but did not return fire.

Drake slowly stood and walked out into the dirt road. He looked each way, seeing nothing.

"You ass," hissed a voice in front of Drake. He moved up to make out the face of the First Squad leader from Fourth Platoon but saw the wry grin on the man's face.

"Were you the last ones alive?" Drake asked him.

"You know I can't tell you that," the smiling man answered. "Dead men don't talk."

"Everyone up," Drake ordered, moving away from the squad leader. "Follow me."

"Good luck," said the opposing squad leader behind them.

Pulling up the digital map on his headset, Drake knew the objective was less than a mile ahead of them on a small ridge. It was supposed to be an enemy communications relay that must be destroyed…or at least experience simulated destruction. Although they had all received training in explosives, none of them carried the real thing.

"That was a neat trick back there," Heaton told him silently, "but what's good for us could be good for someone else. We might be walking into an ambush as well."

Drake had already considered this possibility. He checked the mission clock on the display and observed that time was almost up. Being the lone survivors would serve for naught if they failed to destroy the communications outpost.

"Let me go scout ahead," Zinatu said.

"No, I'll do it," said Drake, already getting a sense they were walking into something.

"You're the squad leader," replied Zinatu. "Besides I'm quieter than any of you city dwellers."

Drake had to agree with the man's logic. "Okay then, but not too far, and be careful."

Zinatu began creeping forward while Drake placed the squad in a concealed location off the side of the dirt path. He watched with increased nervousness as the precious time slipped away.

"Report," Drake ordered Zinatu.

Nothing. Not just a lack of response, but as if the man had simply ceased to exist.

"Zinatu?" Drake sent harder but could not even sense the man any longer.

"We're running out of time," Heaton told him. "There's no choice but to push forward and face whatever is ahead of us."

Growling in frustration, Drake had them all get out of their hiding positions and follow him up the hill. The path twisted and turned as the route became steeper. At the same time, the clouds overhead parted for the first time that night. A half-moon's light seemed as bright as floodlights on the ground.

Up ahead, Drake could see a small round stone-like structure on the peak of the hill with antennae pointed skyward. A tall fence surrounded the site. Hurrying up the path, they rounded a corner to see a lean figure standing still in the middle of the path looking towards the communications site.

"Zinatu," Drake sent to him.

Nothing. No response or even mental existence.

"Zinatu," Drake dared to whisper and walked up to the man's side. That was when he saw the man's tightened face and slightly quivering muscles.

A fraction of a second later, Drake felt himself freeze, and the cries of alarm in his head told him the same had happened to the rest of the squad.

"You bumbling fools," said Masse contemptuously as he sauntered slowly down from the top of the hill. "Stumbled right into an ambush." The man walked up close to Drake and stared at him while shaking his head. "I cringe at the idea of any of you ever actually becoming soldiers."

"Yet they got further than most," said Tripplehorn, walking up behind the man. "Everyone else is dead."

"Only because they hid like rats and refused to fight," Masse told him.

"Exactly," smiled Tripplehorn. "The objective was not to kill enemy, but to capture the site."

"Which they failed to do," Masse reminded the commandant.

Tripplehorn ignored Masse and looked at Drake. "Not half bad. You are the sort of sneaky bastard that might go far with Legion."

Drake felt unfrozen as Tripplehorn turned and walked away back up towards the structure on top of the hill.

"Exercise over," Masse sent out to everyone through the chips. "Return to barracks and await further instructions."

Starting to turn towards his squad, Drake found himself frozen again. Masse stood in front of him, so close that his angry face blotted out everything but Drake's peripheral vision.

"Don't think you're special," Masse told him silently. "Commander Tripplehorn doesn't care for you, he doesn't like you, you are nothing to him. Less than nothing, you are a tool to be used and cast aside. There's been a thousand like you before and they'll be a thousand more. You are dirt. Remember that, recruit."

He's jealous, Drake realized. This man is actually jealous of the attention the old man is giving me.

"Now get back to your barracks," Masse ordered.

Drake was able to move again and strode down the hill quickly, his squad following behind him.

"What was that all about?" asked Reede. "Looked like you and Commander Masse were having some sort of special moment."

"Just keep moving," Drake told them. "We've still got a long night ahead of us. I fear Commander Masse has more in store for everyone."

"Good thing he likes us," said Heaton then cut his eyes at Drake. "Except for you, of course. He obviously has the hots for you, friend."

Drake turned off their chip communications and began to jog, his men falling in closely behind him.

*****

Back at the barracks, they barely had time to stow their gear and change out of their soiled combat uniforms before Commander Masse walked in.

"Maniple, fall in!" he actually yelled out in a commanding voice.

Every man raced to the foot of their small cot and stood at rigid attention. Drake could feel Masse's glare on him from across the room. Within a few seconds, Drake could see Tripplehorn and his half-faced sergeant major enter the room and look around.

"At ease," he told them all in their heads, and there was a slight shuffling in the room as men put their hands together behind their backs and turned to look at the commandant.

Tripplehorn walked slowly down the pathways between bunks, gazing at recruits and equipment. There was a sad smile on his face as if remembering some nostalgic conflicted memory.

"I am pleased to inform you," Tripplehorn told them, "that Legion's lawyers have settled a complicated bidding contract. This Legion will be delivered for duty as per that contract. This is good news for all of you because it means that you are almost legionnaires."

His smile faded as he stopped in the center of the room and peered around at them. "Legion is the most respected, most feared, and most capable security organization in the history of the world. We will spare no expense or effort to deliver a superior product.

"Part of that expense is each of you. Legion paid almost nothing for your miserable lives. It cost more to transport you here than your lives could demand on the open market. Yet, Legion bought you with the hope that they could turn your inherent worthless lives into something valuable. Those with the capability of observation and circumspection have likely noticed that you are not the same as you were when you arrived here months ago. Those recruits were criminals unfit to contribute to society. You men are something more."

Tripplehorn nodded as if agreeing with himself. "Making a legion is like making a sword. It must be heated and tempered in the fire to make it hard and strong. The dross and slag must be removed from the true steel. This sword is almost ready...but not quite."

Pulling the Legion dagger from the sheath at his belt, Tripplehorn held it up to the light. "In many olden cultures, a burning finished sword was plunged into fresh blood to seal its strength. It was a sacrifice that recognized the value of the sword, costly yet necessary. Nothing of value comes without cost or sacrifice. Blood is always demanded, and it is blood that is required."

He turned with his arm outstretched, pointing the dagger at them. "I told you when you arrived here that this legion would get down to twelve hundred men and we are nearly there. Seven of the ten maniples have reached their number of one hundred twenty men, but Third Maniple is one of those three that has not. This maniple currently has one hundred twenty-eight recruits. That situation will be rectified shortly through the Legion tradition of Blood Night."

Tripplehorn returned the dagger to his belt. "But you are all different than you were. You arrived here without value, but that has changed. I do not wish to throw away valuable material for no purpose. Therefore, any of you men who wishes to step forward will not have to undergo this rite of blood. If you feel you are not ready, you may repeat training with the next class of recruits and ensure that you are ready. There is no shame in honest self-reflection. Trust that the brutal and difficult training you have endured will be markedly easier when you undergo it again. I warn you that this next test will not be without great cost for many of you, even if you survive the night."

He looked around at them nodding. "Step forward any recruit who would like to recycle."

Drake cringed at the idea of going through the training again. He could only endure it already due to the thought that it would end one day and there would be something else. Something better. He thought of his men and pictured Jonesy stepping forward, even wished he would, but all the men stayed in their assigned places.

"No one?" Tripplehorn asked and turned to his sergeant major. "Why doesn't anyone ever take me up on the offer?"

The large goon shrugged as if it perplexed him as well.

"So be it," said Tripplehorn with a tone of finality and a look that could carve stone. As if on cue, two cadre entered the barracks pushing a cart with a large flat box on top. Drake noted with amazement that the box appeared to be made of actual polished wood. He stared in fascination at the beautiful dark swirls and patterns.

The men placed the cart in the center of the room, locked the wheels of the cart, and then unlatched the top of the box. They then lifted the flat top off and walked out of the barracks with it.

Inside were rows upon rows of the Legion daggers that only true legionnaires were allowed to wear. They were nestled in red cloth-lined indentations and the light reflected on the polished surfaces of the small scabbards. Each of the men had to resist the urge to walk over just to get a closer look, but they were all instantly frozen in place.

"There are exactly one hundred twenty of the Legion daggers there," Tripplehorn told them. "Those who have those daggers by morning will be soldiers. Those who do not...will not be anything at all. You need to each figure out how to resolve the situation. No one will leave the barracks until the maniple is down to one hundred twenty men. No food, no water, no release until then."

Tripplehorn nodded and snapped to attention. He then rendered a crisp salute to them and smiled as if pleased with his cleverness. His sergeant major emulated the commandant with a slightly confused look on his scarred face.

"Good luck, men," the commandant said as he and the sergeant major walked out of the room. Masse gave them all an angry look that settled on Drake before moving away. The man strode out of the room and closed and locked the barracks door behind him.

The lights suddenly went out, and it was pitch black.

And then, they were no longer frozen in place. Chaos and madness followed.

Chapter 13

In the few short seconds between when the lights went out and they were unfrozen, Drake somehow manager to formulate a plan and pass instructions to his men.

Drake raced toward the crate of daggers with Heaton and Zinatu while the other six members of the squad retreated to secure a corner of the room. Actual voices cried out in threat or pain as shadowy shapes rushed all around.

Although it was dark, the darkness was not total. The faintest of light leaked in from openings in the barrack's skylights, allowing them to at least make their way forward through masses of fighting and panicky men.

Someone struck Drake from the side and he fell. As he tried to get up, others stepped on his head and shoulder. He rolled away from the contact until he came to rest against the legs of someone else. This unknown person crouched down over Drake as he tried to roll away. Powerful hands grasped him and pulled him, struggling up to his feet.

"It's me," Heaton told him silently. "Stop trying to hit me."

Drake did and saw Zinatu holding off two recruits.

"Fall back to us," Drake ordered, and when Zinatu did, the two attackers followed into the middle of the three men. After only a few punches and kicks, the two attackers retreated into the darkness.

"We better get to the daggers or there won't be any left," Zinatu said.

"And we could use some help here," sent Reede. "A large group has surrounded us over in the northeast corner. We can't hold them off forever."

Drake pushed forward with the two men close behind him. Whenever he met resistance, he sidestepped or slipped under it, confident the two men behind him would deal with it. Drake soon saw a regular-edged shape and saw the cart with the box on top containing the daggers. It was overturned on the floor with a dead, bloody body draped over it.

The box appeared empty.

"They couldn't have taken them all," said Heaton.

Drake kicked something and bent down, wrapping his hand around the hilt of a dagger. "They're scattered on the floor."

The three men stayed close together as they felt around the box for daggers and found a small pile in one corner. Drake was able to grab two more while Zinatu picked up two himself. Heaton meanwhile was wrestling with another large man who had jumped him from behind. The man had the larger Heaton in a headlock while his legs were wrapped around his middle, and the two fell to the ground. As Drake moved forward to help, Heaton's grasping hands found an errant dagger and plunged it into the attacker's thigh. Blood spurted upwards and the attacker rolled away with a cry.

Heaton climbed to his feet and stood panting over the bleeding man. The dagger was tight in his fist.

"Leave him," Drake ordered, tossing the third dagger to the big man. "Follow me."

They moved back towards the corner where the rest of the squad was trying to defend and barricade itself with overturned cots and storage furniture.

"Hold on," Drake told them, "we're almost there."

As they came forward, they could hear the grunts of exertions and see a ring of shapes darting forward and then back. Shadows probing the perimeter for an opening.

Drake ran forward screaming.

"There goes our element of surprise," Heaton sent telepathically while following himself.

"Scream," Drake ordered without stopping. "We don't want to take them by surprise but to drive them off. There are too many of them for us to take on our own. If they all turn and surround us, we're finished.

Heaton and Zinatu started screaming themselves and waving their daggers so the men could see them. The shadowy attackers fell back before them, and Drake rushed forward inside the small perimeter his men had established. They climbed over the cots and mattresses and then turned with the knives out.

"There's still daggers over there," Drake told the warily circling men outside their perimeter. "Plenty if you just go get them."

The men stopped as one and stood still. Drake realized the men were a coherent squad listening to their leader. The men all moved off together.

"Great," said Heaton. "As if they weren't bad enough, they'll now return with weapons."

"Doubtful," said Drake. "They were probably only attacking to take over this location. A corner is the closest thing to a strong tactical position in a square room. Once they're armed, they won't be as vulnerable, and maybe they'll find a way to survive the night."

"We should hope the same," Zinatu said.

Drake handed his two daggers to squad members and indicated Heaton and Zinatu should do the same. "We set up a perimeter of six men with daggers. The three unarmed men rest behind them in the corner. Every hour someone rotates out to get a rest. Understand?"

They all sent him their understanding and Drake even sensed relief. As if him taking charge and issuing commands somehow lessened the horrific situation they were in.

The signs of murder and bloodshed were plentiful, but not clear. Most of the recruits had been conditioned to remain silent, so any noises were that of exertion or dying. Vague, shifting forms sometimes darted towards them, but pulled back just as quickly, realizing they had not found a soft target.

Once a wounded boy, no older than Drake, crawled towards them out of the darkness. An ochre path followed behind him as if he were a snail crawling on smooth pavement. Even in the dim light, Drake could see the boy's face twisted in pain and fear, not even seeing the men waiting with knives ahead of him.

"Help him," Drake ordered.

Jonesy turned to him in astonishment. "What? Eight recruits have to die in order for us to survive this night and you want to save one?"

"Do what I say," Drake sent to them all sternly.

Reede and Jonesy stepped over the barricades hesitantly before rushing forward and grasping the boy by his arms. They then dragged him backward and, with help from the rest of the squad, lifted him into their protected circle.

Zinatu leaned over him, examining the boy. "I recognize him. He's from First Platoon."

"Can you help him?" Drake asked, having learned that the Ethiopian knew many things about healing that he had learned in his home country before fleeing to the Allied American States. Evidently, a nation at constant war with the African Union and without hospitals or doctors led to a certain amount of medical improvisation.

Pulling away the torn uniform, Zinatu hissed and then pressed down with both of his hands into seeping blood. He dug around and the boy yelled in pain. Zinatu ignored the cries and, with a look of triumph, found what he was looking for. Within seconds, the boy lost consciousness. "He's been stabbed in the groin. Blood is still coming out and the area is rigid. I'd guess the knife hit an artery and he's filling with blood internally."

"Can you save him?" asked Heaton.

The Ethiopian shook his head. "I've stopped the bleeding but have to keep the artery clamped. Even with no further bleeding, he's obviously lost a lot of blood. His blood pressure is dangerously low, and if he doesn't go into shock, it will be a total surprise."

"Might as well let him die while he's out cold," Jonesy said.

"No," sent Drake to them all. "We keep him alive until this is over...if we can."

"What if it's not over until a certain number of us die?" asked Reede.

Drake shook his head. "That's not what the commandant said. And even if it was, I'll not be a part of letting someone die when we might be able to help him." He pointed at the boy's face. "Look at him. He's the same as us. Didn't ask to be here. Doing what he can to survive. This could be any of us right now."

"And still might be before the night is out," quipped Heaton.

An image of Sasha dying in Drake's arms flashed through his mind. Drake glared at the big man. "Life can't really be this worthless."

They were all silent for a moment before they were busy again fending off a group of five attackers armed with knives and bed rails.

None of them slept, but they did take turns resting, all except Zinatu who kept his hand inside the wounded boy, knowing that if he released his grip the boy's death was assured. Sometimes they fought and sometimes they rested, but always they watched and listened. The night extended into eternity and after eons, almost imperceptibly, the room began to lighten.

Drake handed his dagger to one of the resting men who moved to take his place. He walked over to Zinatu who sat hunched over the wounded boy with his eyes closed. "It's almost morning. How is he?"

Zinatu did not open his eyes. "His heart still beats, and he still breathes, although I cannot tell why. He should have died hours ago."

"We all should have," Drake said, and the dark man opened his eyes to look at Drake before nodding.

As suddenly as always, they were frozen in place and the lights came on.

Drake tilted his eyes in their sockets as far as he could to see Tripplehorn, the sergeant major, Masse, and a retinue of cadre enter the barracks and walk to the center of the room.

"Drop all weapons," Tripplehorn ordered, and even though they were frozen, knives and makeshift implements fell to the ground with a clatter. "Cease all fighting."

Drake felt that he could move again and stood up. Tripplehorn walked around the room with the group following closely behind. He surveilled the carnage shaking his head as if he could not believe the mess they had made of his clean and orderly barracks.

"Blood Night is over. There are now one hundred twenty able-bodied men left who will go on to form Third Maniple. As for the unfortunate rest"—he looked around at the dead and dying bodies— "we will recover what we can. Nothing goes to waste."

Tripplehorn made his way over to Drake's corner and stared at him hard before smiling and nodding. "Corporal Goodman, you did well from my observation. You kept your squad together and did not lose anyone."

Masse frowned and pointed at the wounded boy. "He did take an unnecessary risk to save someone who could be considered an enemy."

"Yes, he did," Tripplehorn said with an odd soft cadence. He stared at Drake for a moment before looking at Zinatu and the boy. He then called out verbally for the doctor who made his way forward from the rear of the group.

The doctor climbed carefully through the improvised debris field to squat down beside Zinatu. He pulled out several devices and placed them on the wounded boy and then studied information on a small screen.

Finally, the doctor looked up at Tripplehorn. "The company algorithm says liquidate."

"Liquidate," Tripplehorn replied tonelessly.

The doctor shrugged. "Cut and sell. The recruit needs emergency surgery and weeks of recovery, and even then, his survival isn't assured."

Drake's jaw tightened and he had to force himself to remain still and silent.

The commandant stared at the boy for nearly a minute before nodding, appearing to make up his mind. "Command override. Authorization T-1069."

Masse looked at the commandant with astonishment.

Tripplehorn stared back. "Any man's life saved at great risk must be worth something. Besides, I have great hopes that he will recover. After so much training, he will be an easy recycle for the next class."

"If he survives," said Masse.

Tripplehorn looked at the man with annoyance. "Yes. He will not make a very good legionnaire if he is dead. Thank you for clarifying that point, Captain."

The doctor entered the numbers, and several medics made their way forward, unfolding a stretcher. The doctor meanwhile had pulled out a long thin device and slowly inserted it into the wound beside Zinatu's hand. He looked at a screen, and after several careful moments, clinched the device with a look of satisfaction. "You may remove your hand now...carefully."

Zinatu slowly pulled his hand out of the wound, and the medics placed the boy on the stretcher as the doctor inserted an IV. They then lifted the stretcher and took him away.

"Sergeant Goodman," Tripplehorn said off-handedly, "you are now a platoon leader. I would normally say your current platoon leader is demoted, but that man is unfortunately dead."

Drake felt the number of minds he could connect to in the room instantly triple, and he had to fight the feeling of panic. It felt as if he was being smothered under a pile of personalities. Drake forced himself to relax.

Tripplehorn watched him for a few seconds before he turned to look at the larger room. "Well done, men, and congratulations on still being alive. You are not yet legionnaires, but you are very close. Now" —he pirouetted with his arms out at the destruction around him— "you have one hour to get this horrendous mess cleaned up and get to breakfast. As you were, men." The commandant and the sergeant major walked out of the barracks.

"You heard him," sent out Masse forcefully. "Get this place cleaned up!" He then turned and gave Drake a look filled with promised retribution before moving away.

Drake looked over at the storage locker that had served as part of their barricade. The latch had come open and cleaning rags had spilled out. Drake picked one up and began to woodenly clean the boy's blood off the floor.

It was a small victory. The only kind they would likely ever be permitted.

Chapter 14

Horatio McGovern sat inside a plush suite in the United Nations Annex located almost next door to the decrepit Old United Nations building where the General Assembly was taking place. He was watching the President of the Allied American States speak and was growing angrier and more agitated by the minute.

He pushed a nearby button.

"Yes, sir," answered his secretary, Kurt, almost immediately.

"Get the president's chief-of-staff on facecall with me immediately," Horatio said hotly. "The man is going to try and blow you off, saying the president is speaking. Tell him if he doesn't speak with me, his boss won't be president after today."

Shaking his head, Horatio put the live feed on mute. He didn't need to hear any more of that ridiculous man's drivel. Glancing downward, his eyes caught on the Legion Defense Group stationary and he relaxed slightly.

Must act like a CEO, he thought. Have to stay in control.

"Sir," said Kurt on the intercom. "Mister Henry is on the facecall when you're ready."

Horatio swiped at the screen, and the president's address to the General Assembly vanished, replaced by a nervous man wrapped tightly in a crisp suit.

"Sir, so wonderful to talk to you," Henry said with a forced smile.

"Cut the rubbish. I don't have time for this. I've got a meeting with the heads of the Security Consortium in five minutes."

"Of course, sir. What can I do for you?"

Horatio leaned in towards the screen. "You can remind that ass clown you work for that he does not make policy, shareholders make policy."

"Yes, of course," stammered the man. "He is simply—"

"Simply talking about peace talks and good relations and cooperation. Do you think those things are good for my business? For anyone's business for that matter?"

"Sir, it is only his introductory remarks."

"Remarks that were not approved by me or any of the other shareholders, as far as I am aware."

Henry forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood of the conversation. "I think maybe you are reading too much into—"

"Stop talking," Horatio said and the man did. "I speak for all the shareholders when I say if that man can't stay on script, then we'll find someone who can. He will publicly retract his statements by the end of the day. Do you understand?"

Henry nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And Mister Henry?"

"Yes, sir."

Horatio smiled broadly. "If the president ever speaks publicly again without the shareholders approving his statements, then I'll make sure you, not him, you...regret it every moment of every day you have left on this planet. Are we clear?"

The pale man nodded vigorously and appeared to try and stammer out some words of apology.

Horatio ended the call and stood. "Kurt, are we all set?"

"Yes, Mister McGovern. The Crimson Board Room is fully prepared, and representatives of the Security Consortium have begun to arrive, but several are running late as usual."

"Let me guess, Andes Corp and Kurdish International?"

"Royal Gurkha, as well."

Horatio relaxed; there was no need for him to hurry. "I presume we have people down there to keep things running smoothly until the meeting starts."

"Yes, sir," Kurt answered, "but watching through the cameras, it appears the Russians are hitting the wet bar pretty heavily."

"They'll be fine, most of it's for show," Horatio said, adjusting his coat and tie in the mirror. "They have to keep up appearances." He walked out of the suite. The two Legion soldiers who were standing at attention outside his door fell in behind him as he walked.

Tapping his earpiece, he continued to talk to Kurt. "Anything else major on the schedule today?"

"You have dinner with the Governor of Manhattan and then drinks with Titan International reps."

Horatio groaned. Titan produced the majority of Legion's major combat systems to include their dirigibles, battlebots, and attack drones. Most people around Legion referred to Titan International as B2, as in Blimps and Bots. More than likely, they wanted to discuss an increase in costs—unfortunate, they would say, but necessary—and then explain how the cost must be passed down to the consumer.

"Get me everything you have on the Titan people," he said. "See if our intel guys can dig up dirt on them. It would be nice to have some leverage before seeing them." Not waiting for an answer, Horatio turned off the earpiece and walked through the double oak doors of the Crimson Room leaving his two bodyguards outside the entrance.

As usual, the lesser members moved up first to present their respectful greetings to him. Horatio shook hands with security companies from the Caribbean, Caucuses, Central Africa, and the steppes of Asia. Several up-and-comers from Europe were there as well. After these initial greetings were over, he knew it was time to get down to business. He saved the Russians at the bar for last. Horatio knew he couldn't trust them, but they were easy to get along with on a superficial level. Drinking was the great equalizer.

He didn't even bother doing more than shake hands with the Sino-Chinese. He had never seen them before and knew he would never see these persons again. Intense institutional state paranoia, combined with seven billion people, allowed for fire and forget persons on a massive scale.

Moving around the room, he talked to the Transjordanians, Nordics, Greater Turks, Lesser Turks, members of various Emirates, a bewildering array of areas ending in Stan, Boers, Nipponese, and a host of others. Everyone in the room watched Horatio and took their cues from him. Legion was the most powerful and influential security firm in the world, something most in the room would change if given the chance.

"Thank you all for coming to our quarterly meeting," Horatio said, inclining his hand towards an oversized conference table in the adjacent room. "Please take a seat and let us get started." Everyone followed Horatio's lead and sat according to an unspoken but recognized hierarchy.

"I don't think there is any need to stick to our normal agenda," said Vladimir Sukov, president and owner of Global Spetsnaz. "We all know what needs to be discussed. Perhaps we should just begin."

Horatio looked around the room. "You gentlemen appear to have me at a disadvantage as I was unfortunately detained prior to this meeting."

"As always it is about profits and meeting contractual obligations," said Andrey, a Serb who represented about a dozen small Balkan security companies. "It is becoming harder and harder to provide veterans given the lack of major conflicts at the moment."

"And we all know why we need veterans," smiled Vladimir who had quickly transitioned from vodka to coffee. "And what that particular contractual obligation is about."

Everyone looked around uncomfortably. No one wanted to talk about the aliens. Hell, no one even wanted to think about the aliens.

"Business is slow," Horatio admitted, "but we all know security work is cyclical. It will pick up again."

"And what are we supposed to do until then?" asked Mister Bumba from the Southern Philippines. "One of...them...came to visit our president last year when we missed our shipment. That man has been on suicide watch ever since. Turn your back on him for a second and he's looking for some way to cut his own throat."

"That could be the future of all of us," said Vladimir with a chuckle.

Horatio looked around nervously. He didn't like talking about the aliens. Intelligence agreed that they could assume human form at will, and it was obvious they possessed some form of telepathy and mind-reading ability. Any of the people in the room could really be one of them. For that matter, they could be monitoring the entire meeting from afar simply by listening through the participants' heads.

"Perhaps it's time we all come together to renegotiate our agreement with them," said a Persian.

Remembering Abraham's visit, the idea of renegotiating anything with the aliens made him nauseous. "We are not in a position to renegotiate anything," he said, cutting off the talk in the room. "And even if we were, it would be unlikely we would get a better deal than we already have. We provide soldiers, which is what we do anyway, and in return are paid handsomely and left to ourselves."

"And where do these soldiers go?" asked a South African. "Since they came here decades ago, we have to have given them close to a million soldiers between us all. Where are they? What happened to them? Normally when we do a job, we get our tools back at the end of the job."

There were choruses of agreement and murmuring around the room.

"The key issue is not what happens to our assets once they are provided," said Horatio, loudly enough to cut through the din. "The key issue is how do we find enough work for raw recruits to become veterans?"

Andrey looked around sheepishly. "We could always agree to enter into limited conflict and engagements with each other. It's been done before, and our governments never need to know the true nature of the conflicts."

Vladimir shook his head. "The profit margins are too low on that sort of thing. Having soldiers fighting soldiers just results in too many dead soldiers. It is far better for soldiers to fight and kill civilians. Profits are much higher with less loss of investment."

There was a wave of agreements around the room.

"I am working on that very thing in regard to the Allied American States," Horatio said.

"Then your president is...how do you say it...full of hot air?" asked Vladimir.

"Yes," answered Horatio. "All his words of peace talks, and cooperation are empty words. He will soon institute a policy of coming down harshly on anyone who even hints at opposing the state. If that doesn't produce enough work, then we can always invent some rebels to crush."

"Do you have that level of control over your president?" asked Vladimir with genuine curiosity.

"Don't you?" countered Horatio.

"Of course," the man answered. "Every member of the New Soviet Politburo works for me. The First Speaker is my brother-in-law. Is this president your brother-in-law?"

"Thankfully, no," answered Horatio. "Nevertheless, he answers to me and the other Allied American stakeholders. He will further our business prosperity or be replaced by a president who can." He turned to the others in the room. "What you all have to do is use your influence with your respective governments to generate the necessary conflicts."

"But not with each other," Andrey reminded them.

"Yes," nodded Horatio. "Adhere to the Security Consortium Code and do not engage each other. Business is our first priority, and the principal obligation is to our...guests."

"Because if we failed to meet our obligations, they would send another tidal wave?" asked Vladimir.

Horatio remembered Abraham. "I don't think it would ever get that far. Each of us would find ourselves dead long before that, I suspect."

The room was silent and still for a moment except for Vladimir who was fixing himself another drink.

He had switched again. It was back to vodka.

Chapter 15

After months of near constant physical exhaustion, the recruits typically looked forward to the small oasis of rest and privacy that their beds had become. The combination of intense physically demanding training, ever-present emotional stress, and tripling most of their caloric intake from their previous lives caused most of them to instantly go to sleep once their heads hit the hard, thin paperweight that served as their pillows.

Yet now most of them would welcome the old days. Days, when they didn't lay in their bunks most of the day as training scenarios, intense instructional simulations, and briefings, were force-fed into their brains. The recruits were typically frozen into place in their cots except for the daily exercise sessions, weapons practice, and meals. Their new times in their cots were not times of relaxation, but of much more intense and exhausting training.

Drake could tell that everyone in his platoon was now asleep after another such day. Since Blood Night, they had transitioned from activities that carried an element of physical danger to rounding out any necessary, yet lacking knowledge. Legion evidently believed the most efficient method for achieving this goal without damaging their investment was shoving that information into their brains like a cold hard enema.

It was impossible not to pay attention, or doze off, or think of anything else. The chip commanded total attention to the training or severe disorientation resulted followed by nausea. Several recruits the first few days were forced to lay in their bunks with cold vomit drying on their chins, necks, and chests until the training sessions had ended. Now they all knew not to fight what was being forced into their brains and to simply endure until it was over.

First aid, survival, intelligence collection, navigation, special operations, basic electronics, construction, engineering, even controlling the giant battlebots that would accompany them into combat—all of these things and more were jammed into their skulls over and over and over again. Most complained of even dreaming about the training when at rest, and Drake supposed that was part of the point as well.

This obviously didn't keep them from resting when given the opportunity. Drake could tell without opening his eyes that the twenty-seven other members of his platoon were all fast asleep. Drake tried to relax and rest as well, but his family was on his mind again.

Where are you, Mother? Did anyone even bother to tell you what happened? Do you know where I'm at now? Is it easier only having to feed one mouth? Did the Community Council force you out of our room now that only one person lives there? Are you worried about me?

Do you blame me for what happened to Sasha?

Drake wanted to push away the memories of his brother and mother but also relished them. They were certainly painful, yet Drake refused to let go of them. Without those memories, there would be nothing to fill their place.

He started to get images of other soldiers' families and scenes, and Drake knew this meant he was close to going to sleep. The chips somehow allowed him to get a glimpse into the minds of those he was connected to. These glimpses were only present when they, and he, were relaxed and strongest when sleep was nearly upon him. Drake had become familiar with each of these memories despite their jumbled nature and could assign them to the corresponding man under his command.

Zinatu's father teaching him how to fish along a narrow river surrounded by small stubborn trees and skies that stretched into infinity.

Heaton's little sister following him around everywhere.

Reede's wife and new baby, gazing at him with such love and trust.

Jonesy selling himself to Legion in order to give the money to his family.

Dozens upon dozens of memories, painful and joyful, all yearned and tinged with a sense of loss. None of them like his own but still somehow the same. They were all the discarded. The sad broken shards of something that might have been functional, maybe even beautiful, once.

Something is wrong, Drake realized. He was familiar with the dreams and images of everyone in his platoon, but there were many more than he was used to. People and memories he did not know but somehow weren't unfamiliar to him. More tales that were unique but still told all the same story.

I'm connected to everyone in the room, not just my platoon, Drake realized, too near sleep himself to be amazed. This isn't supposed to be possible.

Drake probed ever so faintly into the mind of a fellow platoon leader and realized he could establish the same level of control over this man as has been given to him over his own. Actually, the level of control he had been given was only the beginning. Reaching outwards, Drake could sense the minds of other recruits in other maniples. The sleeping hundreds all around him.

Then he was looking through the eyes of another. There was a brightly lit room filled with Legion cadre playing a game of stones on a round flat table. Seven men were gathered around in camaraderie drinking some form of alcoholic drink while playing their game.

As the other players became more and more intoxicated, the man Drake was inside of would gently nudge his bastion stone towards the center of the board while reaching for his drink, unnoticed by the others.

The man is cheating, Drake realized. He probed gently into the man's mind and caught a glimpse of a young Legion recruit. Striving and excelling and moving up the ladder of command. Receiving the praise and commendation of superiors. Of Tripplehorn.

Suddenly Drake knew whose mind he had slipped unbidden inside. He felt a hint of fear.

Masse.

The man spilled his drink over the board and his hand. Cursing, he shook his hand off and reached for a nearby towel.

Drake consciously pulled his mind back into himself and opened his eyes to stare at the stark shadowy dimness of the barracks. A haven that only weeks before had been christened in the blood of boys and men just like him.

Exhaustion pulled at Drake. Despite this, he lay awake in his bunk late into the night.

Thinking of possibilities.

Chapter 16

It feels odd to use my real voice after so long, Drake thought. Even his ears seemed unfamiliar with listening to so much of the spoken language, having to strain to follow what was being said. They were sitting outside on small tables under a tarp that billowed gently up and down with the warm air, which was for once not stifling.

The chip allows for much more efficient communications, he thought. Instant comprehension, not just words but images and intent.

"You listening there, Drake?" asked Reede.

"You were again talking about how nice it is to be able to talk," said Drake, feeling as if he were having to enunciate each word carefully.

Heaton nodded and appeared to have recovered his speaking ability faster than others. "These damn things in our heads have their advantages, but nothing beats actually looking someone in the eye, speaking actual real honest-to-god words, and hearing their response."

"It is the voice of free men," said Zinatu. "The chip only allows communication when our masters allow it and on their terms."

Heaton hooked a finger at Drake and whispered at the lean dignified man. "He's sitting right there. I know we're out of practice, but he can hear you."

Zinatu frowned at the big man. "I was not referring to Drake as our master. He shares our circumstances and adversities."

"Well, most of them I guess," admitted Heaton playfully.

Drake let the easy conversation drone on around him without registering the words. He was comforted by their relaxed cadence and closeness. As usual, when they were given free time and allowed to actually speak to each other, Drake, Heaton, Zinatu and Reede seemed to naturally gravitate towards each other.

Although the training was still intense, it had lightened up over the last few weeks. More free time was allowed between training. Some of the cadre often appeared to be teaching them skills they had already mastered or drilling them on techniques past the point of unconscious routine. As if they were simply filling time.

"What do you think?" Zinatu asked him suddenly. "You have the most experience and exposure."

His look must have told them that he had drifted off again.

Heaton sighed in exasperation. "The chips, or whatever they are in our heads. How are they controlled, do you think?"

Drake had actually thought about this a great deal. "Leaders are given authority over the chips of those under them. The higher the rank, the more authority, and control."

"So, a Legion Commander would have what…twelve hundred chips under him?" asked Zinatu. "Twelve hundred voices at any one time."

"That seems like it would drive someone mad," said Heaton.

Drake shifted on the stool thinking how it sometimes did feel overwhelming now that he could sense the minds of nearly everyone on the base. "It's not like that. You can turn off the feed from any group of chips by simply imagining turning switches on or off."

"Really?" asked Reede. "Did they download that information to you at some point?"

Drake shook his head. "It just seemed right to me. At first, it was chaotic and jumbled in my head, and then I imagined a wall with a series of switches like the old breaker box in our housing commune."

Reede put his chin in his hand and thought. "Perhaps each person develops their means of control independently. You see a breaker box, maybe someone else sees light switches, or maybe raising and lowering balloons or something. Being a hacker, I would probably see a computer screen."

"What if someone doesn't come up with such a system?" asked Zinatu.

"They perform poorly as leaders, I bet," said Heaton, thinking. "It would explain why some squad leaders looked like they were having nervous breakdowns."

"It is another test of sorts," Zinatu said. "This is why they do not simply tell you how to handle such information and power."

"So, you all have an advantage," said Drake.

"What do you mean?" asked Heaton.

Drake smiled. "You all have time to think of your mental process for controlling the chips of subordinates."

"Why do we need time for that?" asked Zinatu.

"Because the first opportunity I get, you all are going to be my squad leaders."

"I'm not so sure I want something like that," said Heaton.

Looking off towards the horizon Drake ignored this remark and their stares of surprise.

"Back on topic," said Reede. "There have to be tens of thousands of people around the world working for Legion."

"More than that, I bet," said Zinatu. "Everywhere you go, you hear of them."

"Yes, exactly," said Reede, growing animated, "so we're saying somewhere up high enough there is some single person with control over all those chips? Some Legion God or something."

"Mars himself," said Drake

"What?" asked Heaton.

"Never mind." Drake thought about Tripplehorn. "In that case, the person at the top must truly be insane."

"That's comforting," said Heaton.

Reede was smiling and shaking his head. "See, I don't think so. The chips are still chips that run programmed sub-routines. Programming means pre-established rules and boundaries. Sure, leaders at higher levels gain more authority over those below them, but it can't be absolute. Programmers loath single points of failure and a pyramid structure ultimately leads to a single point of failure."

"Isn't that what a chain-of-command is?" asked Heaton.

"Yes," admitted Reede, "but we've all seen instances where those points fail and are instantly replaced. No single point or person can make or change the rules. What I'm saying is that somewhere, someone or something writes the codes that govern these things." He tapped the back of his head for emphasis.

"I don't know if that makes me feel better or worse," said Heaton.

Zinatu leaned toward Reede. "You know such things. How would this work?"

Reede sat back and chewed his lip for a second. "I would imagine a central server location that monitors all the activity. Whenever someone cuts a chip's communications on or off, or freezes someone, or gets chips added or subtracted from them, that request is routed through the central server and validated. If it is valid according to the programming, it is approved and happens. If it is not, then it doesn't happen. Can you imagine the guy at the top having a bad day and just deciding to blow the self-destruct sequence on all of us?"

There was a moment of silence as they all considered this. Several of them rubbed the backs of their heads. What Reede was saying made sense to Drake. The part that didn't make sense was how he could sense other people's dreams, especially those not assigned to him. It didn't explain how he could actually see through their eyes and feel what they felt.

"Somewhere hackers and programmers like me are steering this ship," Reede said with a smug look. "Anything else would result in a series of cascading errors and faults."

Zinatu frowned. "And by errors and faults, you mean death and insanity."

"In extreme cases," said Reede. "Even simple glitches could be catastrophic in combat situations. What I'm saying is, be grateful the hackers are sitting there with their hands on the controls rather than some legionnaire psychopath or corporate suit."

Drake could tell by the beginnings of a smile that Heaton was about to deliver what he considered a witty comeback when they were are all frozen in place and then quickly released.

Tripplehorn's unmistakable voice came through all their heads. "Good afternoon, men. I am pleased to inform you all that there are again Californian rebels in San Diego. These rebels have illegally declared themselves independent of the Greater West Coast Continuum. The Continuum suspected such action was coming and, to the credit of its leaders, entered into negotiations with Legion Defense Group weeks ago. I am happy to inform you all that as of this morning the lawyers have finalized the contract and the Continuum is now our client. It is our duty to protect the interests of that client, and we will all do so using every means we have at our disposal."

We're going into battle, Drake thought.

"Leaders, take charge of your units and return to your barracks," the commandant commanded. "Once there you will don full combat gear and load equipment and await further instructions."

Just as quickly, the voice was gone from their heads.

"So much for the vacation," said Heaton out loud. "I was just getting used to speaking like a normal person again."

If we're going into combat, I want my friends supporting me, Drake thought and then was shocked the idea had emerged in his mind so casually. Drake wasn't sure if he could ever remember having true friends before. Sure, there had been acquaintances, but no one he could depend on. No one he would sacrifice for and vice versa.

He wasn't sure if he could even do it, but Drake reached out to his current three squad leaders and then imagined the breaker box on the wall. He flipped their master switches down and then flipped those of his friends up.

Heaton put his hands to his head in pain and looked at Drake with wide eyes. "You rectum!"

Reede was bent over with his hands on his knees. "I thought you were joking."

Zinatu stood stoically and stared calmly at Drake and nodded. "Thank you."

"Let's go," Drake ordered them silently. "You're responsible for other people now. Get them ready."

They returned to their barracks for the last time and prepared for war.

Chapter 17

Caylina walked along the wooded path listening with only half an ear as Lamin lectured her about useless ancient human history. A small river flowed gently off to their right, and the path followed the water in lazy loops and runs.

At least we're doing something different, she thought. Having her lectures while walking in their beautiful estate/home/prison grounds had been Lamin's idea. Caylina didn't want to humor the old fart by admitting that she was actually enjoying the pleasant walk. She understood the need to be peevish just to keep him on his toes.

"And so, Hannibal Barca did the unthinkable to the Romans at that time," Lamin intoned, his mind clearly several millennia in the past. "He took his army up and over the mountainous Alps and attacked Italy from the rear, surprising the Romans in the process."

"And losing most of his army, correct?"

Lamin looked at her with surprise. "I didn't think you were paying attention."

Caylina picked up a stone and threw it into the water.

"Anyway," continued Lamin, "he descended upon Italy and began to ravage the country. In two short years, he nearly brought them to their knees through a series of stunning victories against superior numbers and horrific odds."

"Yet, Hannibal lost in the end, thus Carthage and its silly people were wiped off the face of the earth."

"True," said Lamin warming to the topic. "After much study, I believe they lost because of faulty assumptions they made and a true lack of understanding of their enemy. That is a common mistake, as we tend to believe others think and behave the way we do."

The girl sighed heavily. "What is the use in learning about all this pathetic human history? They haven't even been able to master their single planet, much less their own solar system."

Lamin looked around nervously at this talk as if someone could hear them out in the middle of the forest.

"They are nothing compared to the Varangian Empire," she continued while slapping a nearby towering oak. "Studying them is about as important as studying the history of this tree here."

"I thought you didn't care about the Empire."

She rolled her eyes. "I see that you and Reath have been talking about me. Is that what you two men do together, talk about me?"

"Yes."

"Well..." she faltered at this simple response. "That's sad. Get a hobby or something."

"As your Warders, our charge does not allow for hobbies. Besides we are Varangian. The idea of spending time and effort on something that does not better ourselves, our families, or the Empire is a human concept you would do well to avoid."

Caylina sighed again. "Sometimes you can be so frustrating. I'm saying, why do you both have to obsess over me all the time? Just let me do what I want and stop trying to rule everything."

"You are a Varangian Royal...you will never be able to do what you want."

The angry retort died in her voice, and she stopped on the path, her shoulders slumped. "If I stay cooped up in this place for too much longer it will kill me. I'm dying here, don't you understand? The boredom alone is driving me crazy."

"Such melodrama," Lamin said, shaking his head. "It is a shame that we must take on some of the traits of the form we assume. I have read about teenage angst but thought it must be an exaggeration."

"You're not taking me seriously," she said, her anger starting to return.

"No. You are not taking me seriously," he said. "I have taught for generations on Var. I'm sure you've heard of it. There, I instructed scores of the best and brightest in the Empire. From me, they gained insight into the mysteries of the universe. They learned wisdom and gained discernment at my steady hands. These Varangians went on to great achievements and lasting glory for the Empire." He paused, looking her up and down. "Not one of them ever gave me the trouble you are giving me."

She smiled sweetly at him. "Why, thank you. I do believe that is the first compliment you have ever given me."

"It wasn't a compliment, and Varangian Royals do not need compliments. They do not crave the approval of others."

"How very true," she answered icily and turned to walk back the way they had come.

"Caylina," he called after her. "Where are you going? We are not finished."

"I have a terrible headache," she said, putting her hand to her head. "I feel I must go lay down for a while."

"We don't get headaches and you know it."

She waved a hand dismissively back in his direction and kept walking. Caylina expected him to follow her but was relieved when he did not. Lamin at least had the decency to leave her alone when she needed space, unlike Reath.

Caylina walked slowly down the forest path and reached out her mind carefully towards her bodyguard. She had to do it tentatively, so he didn't detect her searching. After several cautious probes, she discovered he was resting in his room. Although she had learned that Varangians didn't sleep, the human form did, and Reath typically rested during her lessons with Lamin.

The barest hint of a plan began to come to mind. She reached out carefully to Lamin and found that he had continued walking down the path, probably still thinking about failed human empires.

It could be dangerous, a voice said in her head, and she cast it aside. All Reath and Lamin talked about was danger and her need to be careful. What did she possibly have to fear from the pitiful humans? She knew their fear was just a tool to control her. Well, she was a Varangian Royal and would not be controlled.

As the plan solidified in her mind, she made her way out of the forest and towards the main house. There she climbed the giant sweeping marble and mahogany staircase to her room. She changed into more sturdy clothes, warm boots and, after careful consideration, tied a jacket around her waist even though it wasn't cold. She didn't bother a look back at her room as she left.

Walking down the stairs, she encountered the human who played the role of her mother.

"Hello, dear," Rebecca Boyle said with the barest hint of uncertainty. As if part of her was convinced the girl was her daughter and another part wasn't sure. "Would you like Alice to make you a sandwich?"

Caylina entered the woman's mind. "I am going riding and won't be back for a while. There is no need to be alarmed if I do not return. Do not tell Reath or Lamin where I have gone, and if they ask, tell them I am resting in my room."

She continued past the woman who looked as if cold water had been thrown into her face. After several seconds, the woman shook her head, put her hand to her face, and then went to the drink cart to mix herself a martini even though it was only just after noon.

Approaching the stables, Caylina started to have her first glimmer of doubt. Walking down the aisle of stalls, her giant black gelding, Smoke, whinnied as she approached. The girl rubbed the horse's nose affectionately over the stall door and then buried her face in the muscular neck. The horse sniffed at her hair as he always did.

There is something I will miss from here, she realized. After a few seconds, her resolve hardened, and she opened the stall door and put a blanket on the gelding's back before lifting down the saddle from the hook on the nearby wall.

Smoke started to stamp and blow air, anticipating the ride. After she adjusted and cinched the saddle's girth, she put on the bridle which wasn't easy, as the big guy kept tossing his head up and down in eagerness.

"Hold still, you big lout," she said and then entered his head. The horse settled down in an instant. She knew that she didn't even need the bridle. It wasn't that she had to control the horse, only communicate with him more efficiently. The big gelding had made it clear that he would do anything she wanted him to...out of love.

This is the only thing I've ever loved that loved me back, she realized suddenly and wanted to cry.

There was an image in her head of the two of them together. Riding in open fields and resting under shade trees. Smoke's thoughts.

She led him outside and through the gate before mounting. He stood dutifully still, his body quivering with excitement until she gave him leave. Then he took off.

Caylina knew what to expect but still squealed in delight. She stood up on the balls of her feet in the stirrups and leaned forward as the wind rushed around her. Her thick black hair blew out in a streak behind her, the reins rested lightly in her long-fingered strong hands.

They leaped over a four-foot-tall fence effortlessly, and she felt the horse's joy and shared it. Passing through fields and stands of trees, they rode for nearly an hour until they approached the south edge of the estate. There she slowed Smoke to an easy canter, dismounting near a small stream.

As the horse drank, she studied the wall before her. She could not remember being outside of that wall. Everything that she could remember was inside and safe. The rest of the universe was on the other side of this prison barrier.

Smoke rubbed his head against her back, and she turned to nuzzle his face. "Go home," she told him. "Goodbye, you can't go with me."

The horse whinnied and raised his head up and down.

She sent him as much assurance as she could that he was a good horse and that she loved him and would see him again soon. Then she sent him away.

As the horse galloped back to the stables, she reached out to Edgar, the stable hand, and planted the idea to come out and get Smoke, rub him down, and give him an extra ration of oats.

She then walked over to a nearby tree with massive limbs that spread out majestically. Climbing slowly, she made her way upwards until it was just a short hop over to the top of the wall. Grabbing a branch from a large tree on the other side, she hesitated for a moment.

Then she grasped the limb and put her weight on it. It bent but held her as she scurried forward over the wall. She stepped down onto another large limb that led to the base of the tree on the other side. One giant tree among what might be millions in what was evidently another large forest.

Sliding to the ground, she dusted herself off and looked back at the wall. Caylina felt a twinge of sadness and was surprised.

Leaving home was more painful than she would have thought.

Chapter 18

They stood on the parade ground in new body armor that they had discovered on their bunks. Over the center of each man's chest was a Roman short sword facing upwards. Ten maniples of one hundred twenty men each stood proudly with the Legion dagger at their hip opposite a pistol. Visors were up on their combat helmets and packs cinched down tight on their backs. Each held the gladius, the distinctive Legion attack rifle, in their hands in a precise diagonal manner across their bodies.

They stared fixedly at the raised platform in front of them. Everyone could hear voices and activity from the giant dirigible sitting on the landing pad behind them. As they stood there, missiles, drones, and battlebots were being loaded purposefully.

Tripplehorn walked out onto the platform with his ever-present sergeant major. Drake felt a sense of déjà vu as he remembered standing in this exact location months before. It seemed like another life. Impossible to believe that he could be the same one who was standing here now.

"At ease, legionnaires," said Tripplehorn silently and broke into a smile. "You heard me right. Training is over, you are all now part of a brotherhood of warriors. What you were before is of no consequence compared to what you have become. Everything that came before you arrived here is comparable to the time you spent in the womb. Important in some deep sense, but hardly worth remembering even if it were possible. You have all been reborn into something new. Congratulations, men. I salute you."

Almost in unison, twelve hundred voices unbidden let out a cheer and Drake found that he was one of them. After everything that had occurred, he had not even dared to think about surviving the training. He felt a slight tang of guilt as the image of Sasha and his mother came to mind unbidden, but he pushed the unwelcome thought down deep. The past could not help him.

"As I told you an hour ago," said Tripplehorn, "we are going into battle. This is your entire purpose for existing and you are about to fulfill that purpose. No one on this earth matters except your fellow legionnaires. Stick together and it is impossible for us not to prevail."

He looked down and nodded to himself. "I say us because I consider you all my brothers now. I am proud of each of you and would give my life for any of you as you would for me."

"That's laying it on a little heavy, isn't it?" asked Heaton silently.

"Shut up!" Drake sent back.

"I have taught here for almost five years," continued Tripplehorn, "but this is my last class of recruits. Today I hand over the burden of Commandant of the Legion Academy to another" —he held out a hand towards the half-faced sergeant major who was never far away— "and take up a new responsibility."

Here he couldn't contain a crazy grin. "I have requested, and been granted, the honor of being your legion commander! The 173rd Legion is no longer a recruit unit but combat-ready. I will be going with you, even unto the darkest fields ahead of us."

"Great," Heaton sent him sarcastically.

Drake didn't bother to tell him to be quiet. He had learned by now it was useless.

"And just so you don't think I'm going soft on you..." the commandant said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Drake knew what was coming and, without thinking, he imagined a thick brick wall between him and the rest of existence. The wall was flat, but it somehow extended all around him in every direction he looked, protecting him.

Others around him were obviously being frozen and then subjected to intense pain. Drake played along with them but remained completely free and without the accustomed jolt of agony. After approximately half a minute, the pain obviously stopped as did Drake's charade.

He wondered if there were others like him who had discovered ways to manipulate the chips or if he were unique somehow. For all he knew there were dozens of others pretending as he was and smiled at the idea.

"That was a reminder," said Tripplehorn. "A reminder that although you are now legionnaires, there will be no accepted drop-off in what I expect to see regarding discipline and effort. You are now soldiers and, as soldiers, you will obey orders. Kill when told and die when necessary. That is your life now and it is a glorious existence...or at least better than all the alternatives."

"Was that humor?" asked Heaton with amazement. "I think that was humor."

The commandant came slowly to attention and stared out over the tops of their heads. "Legion, At-Ten-Tion!"

Twelve hundred pairs of boots came together with a snap.

"Leaders take charge of your units and load the dirigible," Tripplehorn ordered and returned the salutes of the ten maniple commanders standing before him.

Masse did an about-face and looked at Drake and his other three platoon leaders. "Platoon leaders, take charge of your units and load up!"

Drake and the others platoon leaders saluted Masse who took his time returning the gesture. When he did, the man held the salute longer than normal and used the time to give Drake a hard stare.

"So much for that whole brotherhood thing," Heaton sent him.

"You ever had brothers?" asked Reede. "It's exactly like this. Better sleep with one eye open or they'll steal your socks."

Finally, Masse lowered the salute and spun on his heel to march away. Drake turned to his platoon and told them all silently. "You all heard the same things I did. Let's get on the blimp and do what we've been trained to do."

"Is it going to be a drop?" Jonesy asked out loud.

"Of course, it's going to be a drop," answered Heaton, putting his arm around the smaller man's shoulders. "Don't worry, it will be just like training...except this time people will be trying to kill us."

The platoon laughed and started to mill about.

"Squad leaders," Drake sent meaningfully to his three friends.

"Oh yeah," said Heaton and then spoke silently to his men. "First squad losers on me. Pre-combat inspections."

Zinatu and Reede took their cue and did the same with their squads. Several of the other platoons saw what they were doing and emulated their activity. Drake thought he saw Tripplehorn look over at them and nod ever so slightly in his direction.

Drake and his platoon fell into line when it was his maniple's turn to load. They stepped around pallets of bombs, missiles, and other sundry presents for the San Diegans. Unlike on previous trips in the dirigible, the hanger above where they sat was being loaded with manned fighters, attack drones, and the battlebots, one of which would be under the control of Drake.

He reached out in his mind to C-109, his platoon's designated bot, and checked the robot over. Technicians were attaching the bots drop package, which was four tilt rotors that folded up and only deployed once it was a few hundred feet about the ground. This was a much slower delivery system than the wingsuits, and they would be vulnerable to heavy weapons until the slower bot made it to them, but there was no other way to deliver the massive machine to them on the battleground without landing a transport. After completing a full system check and inventory of ammunition and supplies, Drake was satisfied.

Finding their loading area, he stood out of the way and observed his friends get their squads seated appropriately before seating themselves. They each then reported that their units were ready.

"First Platoon is ready," Drake sent Masse.

"Good," the man sent back. "I've volunteered Third Maniple to lead the assault. You and your platoon will drop first. Be ready."

Drake gritted his teeth. He should have expected that Masse would throw them into the teeth of any danger.

"Good news," Drake sent to his platoon. "We have the honor of leading the assault for the entire legion."

"That is a great honor," Zinatu replied, impressed.

"Are you kidding?" asked Heaton, turning to look at him. "It's the most dangerous place to be during the most dangerous time. Didn't you pay attention to any of the training sessions?"

"Which is why it is a great honor," Zinatu replied.

"We'll be fine," Drake assured them all. "Just stick together like the commandant said and do what we've been trained to do."

They quietened as the doors began to close on the giant structure. The earth fell away beneath them ever so slowly, and then they gained speed, rising rapidly.

Drake could sense the nervousness in his men's minds. They would need their strength and rest. After the drop, it might be days before they got proper rest and the stims in their suits could only do so much.

He checked the downloaded mission brief which had been sent to all of them as they loaded. It would be 9.3 hours before the drop. Drake set an internal alarm to go off in eight hours, and then slowly and carefully relaxed his platoon until they were all dozing peacefully.

Intending to go to sleep himself, Drake sat and closed his eyes but found he couldn't relax. He felt the enormity of the situation and of where they were going. Rising out of his seat, Drake secured his pack, wingsuit and weapons to the chair back and then made his way along the narrow metal corridors out to a thin railing.

He had grown to love flying in the wingsuit, simply being so high above the ground was awe-inspiring and peaceful. Drake looked down on tan mountains and dry riverbeds adorned with thin slivers of stubborn vegetation. Off to the south, he could see the remnants of what had once been a city, now nothing but ruins half-covered in sand and dust.

"Incredible, isn't it?" a voice asked him out loud.

Drake turned to find Tripplehorn standing there. The man stepped forward carefully on his mechanical leg and leaned against the rail himself looking down on the ground. Drake wasn't sure if he were more stunned by the fact that the man had approached him or that he had spoken using his actual voice.

"Yes," Drake said, nodding at the ground.

"No, this," said Tripplehorn indicating the giant dirigible around them. "There is nothing in the history of warfare that compares to it."

Looking up and around, Drake nodded dutifully.

"There used to be these massive things called aircraft carriers that floated on the oceans," Tripplehorn explained. "Their primary purpose was to carry flying aircraft and men into battle at faraway locations. They were big and slow but were the most feared thing on earth other than the nukes and plague bombs. You would think something so big and slow would be vulnerable, and they were, but they had defensive systems in place to protect them. Much like this dirigible."

Drake nodded appreciatively, stunned by the conversation. Tripplehorn was talking to him just like he was another person.

"This dirigible," Tripplehorn continued, "is the aircraft carrier of today except that it isn't vulnerable. We don't need a host of other ships around us as torpedo or missile magnets. No missile can get through our radar screens without being blown up. No aircraft can approach close enough to do us harm without being destroyed itself. There is no bullet that can reach us capable of penetrating the ship's skin. Once we arrive at the scene of battle we can sit and reign down death and destruction until there is no longer a need to do so. Our arrival in the skies above your city or town or little village is an assurance of your eventual defeat."

Drake could almost see it in his mind.

Tripplehorn turned to look at him full in the face. "I understand your platoon will lead the assault on the rebels."

"Yes, sir."

"That is why I am telling you this," he explained. "Know...don't think...but know that we will be victorious. As the lead element in an assault, confidence and audacity and even controlled savagery are important. Those elements will ensure the success of the operation and save the lives of your brothers. Make sure your men know what they need to know. That they are as prepared as they can be. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," answered Drake dutifully.

Tripplehorn moved up closer to him and stared in his face and then looked him all over before coming back to gaze into his eyes. The man waved a hand dismissing him. "Go prepare yourself then. Pray or purge yourself or whatever it is your people do where you come from when preparing to die."

Drake snapped the man a crisp salute and lowered it when Tripplehorn gave him another dismissive wave. Drake turned and walked down a nearby corridor and found Masse standing there as if he had been watching and listening to the two.

Coming to dutiful attention, Drake awaited any orders, verbal assault, humiliation, or pain that might be coming his way.

Masse only stared at him with hard eyes. After a moment, those eyes appeared to soften ever so slowly. The man shook his head. "He once talked to me that way. Realize that you don't mean anything to him. None of us do, really."

Drake continued to stand there, not sure what to say.

Finally, Masse's angry look reappeared, and he moved off, leaving Drake alone with his thoughts.

Chapter 19

Drake dozed in and out of consciousness as they traveled west. He would come close to fully awakening before realizing they were still far from their objective and push himself back down into sleep. He feared it may be a long time before they got proper rest.

He squirmed, trying to get comfortable again, but couldn't make himself relax. He checked the universal clock on the chip and saw that it was an hour before the alarm he had set would go off. An hour of rest he might regret not getting later.

Still, he sensed something off. Someone nearby. He slowly opened his eyes and saw Heaton sitting across from him watching Drake closely.

"Mister Sleepy wakes up," Heaton sent him silently.

"Where are we?" Drake sat up further in the formed drop chair.

The big man shrugged. "Best I can tell somewhere near the Mojave. We've been over the Arizona Wastelands for most of the past hour."

"Couldn't sleep?"

Heaton stared at him silently for a moment. He then looked away and began speaking telepathically. "Unlike most of the people here, I actually grew up with my father. My parents seemed to get along, and he didn't cheat on her or anything. He wasn't looking to whore around, gamble, or shoot stims. He wasn't perfect, but he was there."

Heaton sat back in the chair and looked at Drake with a smile. "Then at the company where he worked there was what they called a cost-saving initiative. As someone with diabetes, my father lost his job. Things got hard then, and he took work from a local hustler delivering something up north across the old Canadian border. We waited for weeks, but never heard from or saw him again."

"I'm sorry," Drake sent, but the man ignored him.

"My mother already had an okay day job but took on additional night shifts so she could afford to keep us in school. Problem was, my little sister caught the Asian cough and for some reason couldn't sleep during the night, only in the daytime. She was too young to stay home by herself so when she was kicked out of school for sleeping in class, I stayed with her."

Drake noticed that Heaton appeared strangely tense.

"But you see, she couldn't sleep during the night and my mother was gone so I had to stay up with her. She was scared of the dark and cried unless I was there keeping her company. Then she slept like a kitten during the day."

"Heaton," Drake asked as softly as he could, "why are you telling me this?"

The big man leaned forward. "Because no matter how exhausted I was from staying up night after night, I was never able to sleep during the day. Just one of those things I guess, but not a single peep when the sun is up."

Heaton looked meaningfully up and down their compartment and saw all their fellow platoon members sleeping. Drake followed his look.

"I never sleep during the day. Can't. I got up and walked around a little and that's when it hit me. There are thirty-nine other platoons on this ship, and best I can tell, they're all as jittery as hell. Men are telling stories or arguing or trying to relax, but I didn't see anyone sleeping, at least not for long." Heaton smiles at their platoon. "But would you look at that? Not a soul in Third Platoon is awake. Going into combat for the first time and all of them as relaxed as could be. Strange, wouldn't you say?"

Drake held the man's eyes and didn't say anything.

"So, my question to you is...what else are you doing to us?"

"What do you mean?" asked Drake.

The man shook his head and his fists clenched tightly. "I mean you obviously made us all go to sleep. What else have you done? Gone through our heads and darkest secrets? Had us do things we don't even remember? Made us like you and be your friend?"

"No," Drake answered. "None of those things. I just wanted everyone to be rested before the big battle. I didn't think it would do any harm."

"What else can you do to us?"

Drake didn't want to answer but couldn't avoid the man's look. "Mostly just calm people. I sometimes get glimpses of things in their heads when we're close to sleep."

"Can you read our minds? Control our thoughts?"

Drake shook his head. "No, nothing like that. And I wouldn't even if I could."

"You wouldn't?" asked Heaton with genuine curiosity. "It would be hard not to exercise that sort of power if you had it. I might be able to understand if you had."

"I wouldn't know," said Drake, "because I haven't."

"Okay," nodded Heaton, "that brings me to the next part...why just you?"

"Why just me…what?"

Heaton lifted his hands up to encompass the entire ship. "No one else has put their soldiers to sleep to help them rest."

"Maybe I'm just more considerate of my people's needs."

"I think it's because they can't. Not just that they don't know how. If that was the case, then the cadre would have that ability, but as far as I can tell, they don't."

Drake shrugged. "Maybe they do and just haven't shown us everything they can do."

"Why don't you cut the rubbish?" Heaton pressed. "You know more than you're admitting. We're getting ready to go into who knows what together and I need to know I can trust you. So, answer me one question honestly...why you? Why are you different?"

"I don't know," Drake said slowly.

Heaton sat back again. "So, you admit you can do things others can't? Even the cadre?"

"Yes."

"And you kept it a secret why? Because of what they might do to you if they found out?"

"Yes."

"And I'm supposed to believe you would never use this new unexplained superpower to cause those who trust you harm?"

"No, I would never do that."

"Or to do something potentially embarrassing?"

"No."

"Not even if it was really funny?"

"No."

"Okay then." Heaton slapped him playfully on the knee. "Let's go have a look outside while we still can." He stood and swept his arm over the room to indicate the sleeping men. "Might want to go ahead and wake them up as well. As funny as it would be to drop them still asleep, that would be very uncool."

Drake slowly began to rouse the men and saw them move about. Then he followed Heaton out towards the railing he had shared with Tripplehorn earlier. They were almost outside when Heaton stopped and turned back to him. "You also need to go ahead and tell Zinatu and Reede what you can do."

"Because they suspect something as well?"

"No," said Heaton, "because they're your friends. Like me." He turned and continued walking.

It didn't take tapping into the network through the chip to know they were close to the objective. Far off to the west, a thick pall of smoke hung over an area next to a large expanse of water.

"Is that the ocean?" Drake asked.

Heaton nodded. "Never seen anything like it. Maybe when we've accomplished the mission, they'll let us go down to the beach and surf like I've heard the Californians do."

Pulling up the current situation feed, Drake noted that advanced Legion elements had already seized San Diego's solar farms and desalinization plants as well as surrounding the area. So far there were minimal casualties on either side, but that was likely soon to change. Their orders said to avoid damage to marked key infrastructure, but there was no encouragement to avoid damage to the population.

"Look," pointed Heaton off to the south. "More dirigibles."

"That's the 206th," said Drake. "The 114th is to our north. Both are newly formed like us. We're to conduct the air assault. Three other legions are on the ground sealing off the city. Those are veteran legions. Guess they want us to get some experience pretty bad."

"Or feel that we're more expendable."

Drake flipped several levers on his mental switchboard and gave this same level of access to his squad leaders."

"What the hell are those?" asked Heaton pointing off in front of them.

Drake leaned forward and peered ahead of them into the hazy smog. Several small floating blobs at different heights waited in their path.

"Air mines," Drake said. "Didn't you do any of the additional study?"

"Nope. Anything to worry about?"

Drake shook his head. "We shoot out the balloons as we get close, and the mines will just drop on the city below. It's like they're providing us with the bombs to bomb them. Those things only work at night or in heavy fog against ships without radar or advanced visuals."

"Well, what about those?" Heaton asked. He was pointing at several lines of smoke that originated on the ground and were slowly making their way upwards towards them.

A loud siren began to sound around them. "Prepare for emergency drop sequence."

Drake and Heaton froze as three missiles came towards them. When they were only about a thousand meters away, a few multiguns opened up at once with a sound like a cat's purr. There were three quick explosions in the air and then the guns were silent again.

There were several loud whoosh sounds above them, and they saw a half dozen drones and then twice that number of fighter aircraft fly out of the dirigible's air hanger towards the city. These sped to the west and disappeared into the hazy smog.

"Come on," Drake said, grabbing Heaton's arm. "We'll be in big trouble if we miss the drop."

They returned to their platoon area to find everyone else checking equipment and weapons, all ready to go.

"We thought maybe you two had already gone AWOL," said Reede.

"Thought about it," answered Heaton, "but there's nowhere to go."

"Make final adjustments. Once we drop, follow me," said Drake to the platoon, struggling into his wingsuit before attaching his equipment pack and weapon holder. Nearby Heaton did the same.

Dull explosions could be heard outside over the buzz of activity inside the giant ship. Nervous soldiers looked at each other and fidgeted.

Their small room suddenly went dark except for a dull red light.

"That'll help," said Heaton. "Don't they know we're dropping in the day?"

"Drop in ten seconds," said a metallic computer voice from an overhead speaker. Nine. Eight. Seven."

The long doors opened beneath their feet.

"Six. Five. Four."

The warm dry wind rushed up around them as the chairs tilted downwards.

"Three. Two. One. Drop."

Drake felt released and counted a few seconds to allow himself to clear the bottom of the dirigible before opening the wings of his suit. His fall abruptly slowed, and he angled westward towards the embattled city. Checking through the chip, he could tell that all thirty members of his platoon had dropped successfully and were behind him in a series of V-patterns like extinct geese.

Activating the SeeAll heads-up display on his visor, Drake could spot their designated landing zone nearly fourteen kilometers off in the distance. Using the infrared setting and magnification, he was able to cut through the smoke to see a small parking lot in an area with a series of warehouses.

"The drop zone is ahead." Drake sent his squad leaders the visual.

"Looks like a perfect kill zone...for us," said Reede. "Who picked out the site?"

Drake suspected it had been Masse. "Just stick together and follow orders but tell your men to get ready."

"And we're going to need the Troll, soon," Heaton said.

Drake linked back to C-109 or, as Heaton called the battlebot, the Troll. Their bot was in line to be dropped from the flat platform at the side of the dirigible. The giant hulking humanoid robots squatted on their metallic haunches to save space and were moved around on small, wheeled pallets. Support personnel were maneuvering them towards the open doors where they would be dropped. Their bot was at the front of the line as his unit was going to be first on the ground. He watched through the Troll's eyes as the bot was pushed towards a precipice and then tumbled off towards the ground far below.

Drake stopped the dizzying feed to focus on surviving the next few minutes. He knew that stabilization fins would deploy from Troll's drop pack and, as he got lower, parachutes and rockets would slow the descent enough for the four copter hover units to deploy and bring him to their location.

"Troll's on the way," Drake told them and sensed a collective improvement in the platoon's overall spirits.

They glided incredibly fast over a desolate landscape and saw abundant ruins and abandoned roads. A century of persistent drought, wildfires, and mudslides had turned the surface as inhospitable as the moon. Ahead they could see the city's high fortifications to protect them from encroaching sands, huge roving gangs, unsponsored mercenaries, sea raiders, and rival city-states. Circumventing this barrier was another large makeshift wall approximately a quarter mile away. Outside of this boundary were thousands of men wearing the gladius symbol of Legion. These men appeared to be casually lobbing artillery shells into the city at a steady but not taxing rate.

Looking down at these brothers in arms, Drake thought he actually locked eyes with one of them. The man gave Drake several obscene gestures.

"Old-timers," Reede said. "Think we haven't earned their respect yet."

As they flew over the no man's land between the barrier, they were low enough that they could see tracer fire aiming up at them. In theory, the wingsuits let them move so fast that it would be statistically unlikely that someone would get shot...unless of course, they had advanced optics.

Just as he was thinking this thought, Drake heard a weird cry in his head. He looked back to see a man spiraling down towards the ground where his kinetic energy caused him to plow into the soil like a meteorite. Before he could look away, Drake saw the small flash in the helmet and smoke pour out. The chip self-destruct mechanism had automatically initiated.

Then they were passing over the wall and could see civilians pointing at them and running. Drake spotted the landing zone and adjusted his flight in that direction while flaring the wings to shed as much speed as possible. "Set proximity sensors," he ordered.

He aimed towards the far western edge of the parking lot, which he saw was covered in broken glass, crumbled concrete, and trash. This would give the rest of his platoon space to land behind him. When he was within a few meters of the ground the proximity sensor activated the landing cushion with a loud pop. Instead of being at the center of a series of flat nimble wings, Drake was suddenly in the middle of a giant inflated ball of air and foam.

Striking the ground, he felt himself bounce high in the air and then come back down to the ground and roll end over end. Drake concentrated on trying not to get sick, knowing the tumbling would end soon. He was suddenly jerked back in the other direction in a whiplash motion as the inflated ball struck something solid, and then he was tossed back head over heels, where he ricocheted off another bouncing person ball.

After what seemed like a half-hour but in actuality was over a few seconds, Drake rolled to a stop and the ball deflated. He climbed out of the wingsuit and adjusted his pack. Checking his gladius rifle, he saw that the propellant cartridge was unharmed as well as the magazine.

"Squad leaders, report," he ordered.

"We lost one coming in," said Zinatu. "Other than that, all accounted for. Setting my men up to secure the southeast line of a triangle defense."

"All accounted for," said Reede. "Securing the southwest line."

"I think I ruptured myself on the landing," said Heaton. "Everyone else seems fine. We'll take the north."

Drake looked around the large open area at the buildings around them. His men were gathering their gear and running to the edges of the parking lot, leaving the flaccid wingsuits on the ground. It was obviously chosen as a landing zone because it was an open space that would be easy to find. He could see other platoons dropping into areas to the north and south.

"Third Platoon has secured the drop zone," Drake reported to Masse. "No sign of enemy yet."

"Roger," replied the maniple commander. "Link up with adjacent units and begin a coordinated sweeping maneuver westward. Drones show enemy positions nearby." Drake felt the footage being fed into his chip and spotted the building off in the distance.

There was a heavy hum, and then trash and dead leaves were being blown around them.

"Here comes the Flying Troll," Heaton said gleefully.

The battlebot came in at a glide and settled to the ground. Once there, the rotors turned off and slowed to a stop as they folded up into a large box on the bot's back. Troll stood up to his full five-meter height and unlimbered his arms which contained, in addition to hands, an impressive array of guns and canons. Some of the men actually cheered at the sight.

Bullets began to ricochet harmlessly off the robot's armor with sparks and loud pings. Drake felt one of the deflected rounds pass within a few centimeters of his helmet. Entering the robot's head, he zoomed in on the building that was the source of the attack and prepared a series of rounds from the grenade launcher, but there were a number of satellite dishes on top of the building and remembered their orders to limit property damage. As if grenades could make anything worse in this place, Drake thought.

"Zinatu, you and Reede defend this position and link up with adjacent units." He then passed mental control of the Troll over to Reede. "You'll keep the bot."

"What about me?" asked Heaton.

Drake pointed at the building from where the firing originated. "We're going to take out that position. That's probably where the firing came from as we were landing."

Heaton's face got hard. "They killed one of us."

"Can't really blame them," Drake said. "We are here uninvited."

"Still," Heaton said, hoisting his rifle, "they've earned what's coming to them."

Haven't we all, thought Drake as he led the squad west.

Chapter 20

Reath and Lamin drove silently through western Virginia hills and valleys in one of the Boyle's luxury SUVs. Neither of them spoke to the other, telepathically or otherwise. There was nothing to say. They followed the sun westward towards their unfortunate duty.

The bodyguard strictly followed the speed limits and handed over their impeccable papers to the border control agents at the Kentucky state line. After a few cursory questions and a quick vehicle inspection, they were on their way again.

The wooded hills around them reminded Reath to some degree of his home on Canith, a planet several light-years from Var. His ancestors had settled the conquered world many centuries before, just after the Varangian armies had swept over the pitiful resistance of the native inhabitants. Reath's family had been proud beyond measure when he was selected to become a Varangian Guard at such a young age. He had never seen any of his family again...nor the comforting wooded hills of home.

"Perhaps we should stop for food," Lamin suggested.

"That would simply be a means to delay the inevitable," replied Reath.

"Perhaps, but I'm still hungry. Even the humans allow the condemned a last meal."

Reath gripped the steering wheel tighter. "Hunger is of no consequence and not your ally. If we are subjected to examination, they will discover that instead of proceeding directly to them, we stopped and ate. That does not sound like the activities of the shamed or contrite."

"Like that matters," Lamin snorted. "We cannot expect mercy."

"That is beside the point. It is our current duty, and we will fulfill it despite the fact that we have failed in our earlier duty."

Lamin shook his head and stared out the window. "Damn that girl."

Yes, thought Reath. Damn her. Damn us as well.

Within a few hours, they were nearing Lexington and obvious horse country. They turned off the highway to proceed down progressively narrower and more tree-lined roads. Horse fences and open fields bounded them. Beautiful equines of various colors grazed or ran or played in the afternoon sun.

Reath slowed the SUV and turned between stone pillars capped with giant iron upturned horseshoes. He then drove carefully down the narrow lane to a large Tudor estate house and grounds at the top of a gentle hill. Within a few hundred meters, they encountered a guardhouse manned by what appeared to be a pair of tired elderly parking attendants, who were in reality Varangian Guards.

Slowing the SUV to a stop, Reath and the two guards stared at each other for several minutes sharing a conversation that Lamin could not hear. Then they were driving forward to park the SUV in a racetrack-sized circle drive in front of a sprawling three-story stone-and-timber house covered in ivy. More guards awaited them as they exited.

"Do they know why we are here?" Lamin asked silently as they walked up the front stone stairs.

"They know we need to talk to the Steward and that it is a matter of importance."

Lamin couldn't control a slight shudder. The one and only time he had met the Steward had been under good circumstances, and still, the man had made him feel uneasy. Rumors alone hinted of the extremes this man would go to in order to do the Emperor’s bidding. He was not someone to bother even if you had good news.

Reath and Lamin did not have good news.

They were shown into a small library where they were told to wait. Neither was asked to sit. Reath stood stoically staring at nothing at all whereas Lamin couldn't resist scanning book titles and even pulling a few out for a closer examination.

After a quarter of an hour, two large wooden doors at the opposite end of the library opened and a nondescript servant beckoned them forward. "The Steward of Varangia will see you now."

Lamin squared his shoulders and did his best to walk as steadily and purposefully as Reath into the room. The servant left and closed the door behind them. Abraham sat behind an enormous antique desk while gazing back and forth between a computer screen and a pile of paper. Finally, he looked up at them and smiled.

"News of your failure proceeds you."

Lamin's mouth dropped open. "How…? Did someone tell you?"

Abraham chuckled. "There was no need for anyone to tell me. You two are responsible for the Emperor’s daughter. Her very life has been entrusted to your care. Yet you are here unbidden without her. Those facts speak volumes." Abraham sat back heavily and sighed. "Is she dead?"

"No!" answered Lamin. "At least not—"

"We do not know," answered Reath. "She managed to escape."

"Escape? A Varangian Royal is never a prisoner, always a guest," Abraham said. "I suppose you have tried to track her?"

Reath nodded. "She masks her mind from us. We trained her well and she is quite strong for one so young."

"I see," said Abraham, steepling his fingers together on the dark rich wood in front of him. "And just where were you two when she, shall we say, decided to depart?"

Both men were silent for several seconds.

"I was resting," Reath said simply.

Abraham stared at him silently, letting the words hang in the air.

"I was walking in the forest," Lamin said. "Caylina and I had just finished a lesson. She had not taken well to my instruction and wished to be alone. I thought it best to give her space. There was no indication that she would do anything like this. She is a strong-willed girl."

"She is a Varangian Royal," Abraham said softly. "Of course, she is strong-willed. Royalty are also unforgiving when it comes to incompetent failure."

The same nondescript servant opened the door suddenly and bowed at the waist. "The Emperor."

All in the room were startled, though Reath regained his composure first. He turned toward the door and went to both knees with his head bowed. Lamin quickly followed his example while Abraham stepped from around the back of his desk to bow deeply.

The tall dignified lean man walked in with light steps. Lamin noted that he was curiously pale and there were a few beads of sweat on his forehead. "Ah, we have guests. We get so few of those these days."

"Lord," said Abraham, holding out an open hand towards the two kneeling men. "These are the Warders of your daughter, Caylina."

The Emperor stared at them without blinking and nodded. "I was just walking by your office, Abraham, on my way to my afternoon ride when I heard the most interesting conversation. Something about unforgiveness and incompetent failure. Be so kind as to enlighten me, gentlemen."

Reath kept his head bowed. "Lord Emperor, we have failed you. Your Offspring has gone from our care without our knowledge, and we do not know her whereabouts."

"Are you quite certain she ran away?" the Emperor asked. "There are some who might find advantage in taking her."

"All evidence appears to indicate that she left of her own volition," said Lamin hesitantly.

"I see," answered the Emperor.

"Should we send out word?" asked Abraham. "Perhaps she can be found."

"No," said the Emperor. "That would likely only put the hounds on her heels, as these humans say." He turned to the two kneeling men. "Did you prepare my daughter well?"

"Yes, My Lord," answered Reath without hesitation.

He nodded as if this was the expected response. "Then my daughter should find a way to survive. If she does not, then it is your fault and a waste. A properly prepared Varangian Royal, one of my Offspring, should return to us safely after she has stretched her wings."

"What would you have done with these two?" asked Abraham.

"If she returns safely," the Emperor shrugged, "all is forgiven. If, on the other hand, she dies...they die. Eventually."

"Yes, My Lord," said Lamin. "We will not stop looking for her until we find her."

"No," answered the Emperor. "Leave her be for now. She will return to us or not, that is out of your hands. Besides, I have other work for the two of you. Work that if performed well might contribute to your return to my good graces."

"Anything," answered Reath.

"Of course, anything," laughed the Emperor. "You didn't think you were haggling with me, did you?"

Reath kept his head down unsure what to say.

The stately man walked over to stare out the window. "Do you know why I chose this place among every other option as my refuge? Not Earth, that was decided for us, but this place we are in now?"

"No, My Lord," Lamin shook his head.

"Horses," smiled the Emperor. "Here there are horses everywhere. Horses are so similar to the ray'eon of Var. They're not as intelligent or swift as the ray'eon of course, but there is something about them that reminds me of home."

He turned to them again. "I have learned a great deal about horses in my years here. Each animal is unique and not all horses are suited for certain tasks. Still, each horse is valuable and willing to serve a purpose. You do not cast away a useful animal when it can serve a purpose, even if that is not the purpose you have set it to. Not if it is willing to serve faithfully."

"Yes, My Lord," said Reath, his head bowed.

"Varangians...here on Earth...are like these horses. There are only a limited number of them and valuable as tools. A wise leader does not cast away useful tools...not unless it serves a larger purpose, such as an incentive to others."

Lamin glanced up and saw the Emperor peering at Reath as if studying an insect. He dropped his gaze again.

"Do you understand what I am saying?" the Emperor asked. "As much as you have earned death and more, I need tools to accomplish the work that is before me. The work of re-establishing the Varangian Empire to all its glory. Recently, I am afraid that I lost several such tools in an extremely dangerous and unpleasant, yet vitally important, task. You gentlemen will now perform that unpleasant and dangerous task."

"Yes, My Lord," both Reath and Lamin said together.

The Emperor walked over to stand close in front of them. "But even horses must understand when they have failed to perform. That such behavior is unacceptable. Otherwise, how can they possibly learn?"

He reached out both hands and laid them gently on the heads of the two kneeling men.

The nondescript servant was forced to close the doors in all the adjoining rooms to try and block out the sounds of the men screaming.

The servant then sat in the entryway composing his thoughts. His true master, far to the east, would of course want a full report of what he had learned.

Chapter 21

Drake popped one of the pocket drones out of its protective cover and tossed it ahead of him. He set the small drone to stay fifteen feet in front of them. The little hovercraft, smaller than the palm of his hand, would relay back video and sensory data and hopefully prevent them from walking into an ambush.

They made their way through the open interior of the warehouse on the north side of their defensive position. Thin rays of sunlight filtered through the edges of broken dirty windows high above. Dirty mattresses, food scraps, and bits of rags littered the floor as evidence of recent habitation, but everyone was gone now along with anything valuable. The squad fanned out along the edges of the open room scanning their sectors for any signs of trouble.

As they reached the other side of the open room, the small drone slithered between one of the broken windows and out into the alley separating it from the far building, their objective. Drake held the squad back and then used a small control device to send the drone slowly up the side of the tall structure.

Drake spun the tiny camera mounted underneath the drone as it climbed up the brick building towards the enemy position. Turning the view to the south, he could make out the area around the drop zone and even the giant dirigible in the distance, but not the actual area they landed on. Which was probably the only reason they had not received more enemy fire. Troll was just a big, tall easy target that was, fortunately, heavily armored.

By taking the drone higher, he could see billowing smoke clouds rising throughout the city as Legion fighter jets and drones strafed the rebels and bombed the city. Turning the camera back, he eased the drone skyward until it peaked up along the side of the building. He slowed the ascent as he spotted what appeared to be an antique rifle barrel poking out over the edge. With a loud boom, a flash of light appeared, and smoke followed.

"Good heavens," said Heaton silently, looking at the screen on his SeeAll display. "Poor bastards are using actual gunpowder weapons."

"I'm sure that's all they have," Drake answered. "The International Humanity Treaty banned explosive-propellant weapon use except for security companies. Same for most other advanced weapons. Means we've got the best stuff and they don't."

"How do you know this crap?" Heaton asked. He reached up gingerly and tapped at his head. "Is it...are you poking around where you're not supposed to?"

"No," answered Drake. "I actually paid attention to everything they taught us."

"I paid attention too, just don't remember it. You seem to be one of those brains who never forgets anything."

Drake shrugged and supposed it was true. He often wondered how people could forget something that was already stored in their memory cells. All they had to do was retrieve the data whenever they wanted it. Forgetting had always been a difficult concept for Drake to grasp. Drake didn't forget and he had always assumed the concept was a polite euphemism for someone intentionally not doing something they were supposed to do. Like when he told his mother, "I forgot to clean the dishes."

He took the drone around the edge of the building. Peering into the display, he was able to determine that there was at least a half dozen enemy based on their exposed weapon barrels. Probably more, he thought. They all seemed to be facing the attacking Legion troops to their east.

"All units," Masse's voice said. "Begin sweeping maneuvers to the west. Maintain contact with adjacent units. Do not bypass resistance."

"Did you hear that?" Zinatu asked Drake. "We're going to have to move soon. You need to eliminate that enemy position or we're going to be walking right under them."

"We got it," Drake said, recalling the drone before turning to the soldiers with him. "Follow me. We have to eliminate that position quickly but can't rush this." They all nodded back at him.

Creeping across the alley, he looked up nervously despite knowing the rebels couldn't see him due to the angle. He used a laser torch to cut through an old padlock on a thick door and stood back as he slid it open in case it was booby-trapped. When there wasn't an explosion or anything else nastily impolite, he sent the drone inside ahead of them with the feed switched to infrared in order to better spot any tripwires. They found more decrepit rooms and an elevator that likely hadn't moved in decades.

"Up the stairs." Drake climbed up slowly while keeping half an eye on the drone feed. After only three flights, they were forced to turn on their night vision. Thick sedentary puddles sat on every landing filled with flies and other disease vectors. Mold and fungus grew along the walls and ceilings.

"How is there all this water?" Heaton asked him. "We're in the desert, not some swamp."

"I imagine it's simply rainwater trapped in the walls over time," Drake answered. "Or a burst water or sewage pipe back when they had such things."

"Nasty." The big man tiptoed around a miniature, yet full-fledged, ecosystem.

Near the fifth-floor landing, he signaled a halt and examined the drone feed. He studied a thin silvery line on the screen that stretched across the top step. Drake crept forward carefully until he could see with his own eyes what the drone had shown him. A tripwire in their path.

"There," Heaton said, silently pointing up and to the left.

Drake saw where the line was attached to the pull-pin of an old-fashioned gunpowder grenade.

"I got it," Heaton said, stepping forward to clip the wire and remove the grenade before admiring it. "Cool," he said and wrapped the free end of the wire around the grenade before stuffing it into one of the small storage packs at his waist.

Sending the drone forward, they could see that there were only two more flights of stairs before an open doorway led to the top-floor flat that stretched out as far as a parade field. A group of figures in mismatched attire with a hodgepodge of weapons were focusing all their attention out the far set of openings. What looked like an ancient anti-aircraft gun on a tripod sat in one corner with three figures massaging the contraption. Boxes of supplies, old food, water containers, and trash littered the floor around them. Drake brought the drone back, folded it away, and put it in the storage holder on his hip.

"Looks like there's a dozen of them," Drake told the squad silently. "All their attention is away from the entrance so we should be able to get the jump on them."

"Probably trusting that booby-trap to warn them," said Heaton.

Drake nodded. "Follow me up and fan out. Don't take any chances though. Those old firearms can still go through the body armor if close enough and at a flat angle." He deliberately stared each of the men in the eye and then stood to creep up the stairs.

At the top landing, he turned off the night vision as enough light filtered in from the abandoned flat. Slowly he made his way across the landing past the open elevator shaft and into the room. The sounds of gunfire and excited voices came to them from the far corner. As he edged toward the figures, Drake felt his fellow soldiers fan out behind him into a lethal line of killers.

They were perfectly silent in their approach, but one of the rebels must have sensed something because he glanced over his shoulder. The man's face went slack with shock at the eleven legionnaires stalking towards them with weapons ready.

The smart thing would have been for them to surrender, but they panicked. The one who saw them yelled and swept his weapon around. Drake shot him in the chest with a nearly silent pop before the barrel of his archaic weapon got anywhere near them. Several more pops sounded as his squad engaged the enemy, but most of the rebels either stood where they were or dropped to the ground.

"Push your weapons away from you," Drake hollered. "Get on the ground and put your hands behind your back."

They did as ordered, and while Heaton and several soldiers covered the rebels, a few legionnaires came forward to bind their wrists behind their backs with quickseal. Another pair of men gathered all the rebel weapons and ammunition into a large pile in the center of the flat's floor.

"Can you believe this dung?" Heaton walked around pulling masks or hoods off the six prisoners, revealing surprisingly fresh faces. "They're kids. All of them."

Drake looked at the one he had shot and realized it was true. Same for the other four dead rebels and one who was seriously wounded.

"Headquarters, this is Third Platoon," Drake sent. "We have secured the objective without casualties. We have seven prisoners, one of them is critically wounded. Request prisoner extraction for follow-on interrogation."

There was a longer than normal pause. Drake was about to resend the report when Masse responded. "We've consulted with the Client Rep, and he has determined after an extensive analysis computing the costs of the incarceration contract, re-education, and possibly liability that it would be in the client's best interests if there were no prisoners."

Drake stood there for several seconds before responding. "Sir, I'm afraid I don't understand. What am I to do with the prisoners?"

"There are no prisoners," sent Masse angrily. "Those rebels all died in your attack. Leave the dead bodies where they lay and get back with your unit."

"Yes, sir," responded Drake, turning to his men. They stared at him with no judgment, only trust. They would do whatever he told them to do.

"Drake," called out Zinatu. "Second Maniple on our right is heavily engaged. They're requesting we attempt to flank around the enemy."

"Prepare for the maneuver," ordered Drake. "Two squads will assault with the Troll while one holds our rear and serves as a reserve. We'll be there in two minutes."

Heaton was staring at him with sad resolution. "I can do it; you don't have to."

"No," replied Drake. "You need to get your squad back to the rally point. You'll serve as the reserve element. I'll finish up here and come along soon."

"You sure?"

Drake nodded and waved them out of the room. One of Heaton's squad members broke a large cylinder over the pile of weapons and ammunition, and a grey slime poured out over everything. As the men pounded down the stairs, the grey slime began to smoke as it ate away at the metal.

"What are you going to do to us, merc?" asked a girl defiantly. Drake thought she might be thirteen. Like the others, she laid stomach down with her hands bound behind her back. Some of the teenagers were crying.

They are old enough to kill others, he told himself. Old enough to set booby-traps to maim and hurt him. Old enough to die. He imagined himself shooting her and the other kids and then walking down the stairs.

Pushing his rifle around to his back, Drake walked over to the pile of weapons, which now looked more like a mass of melted oozing metal and plastic. He retrieved a small knife that hadn't been touched by the liquefier yet. Striding back over to the girl, he drew his hand back and threw the knife down to stick in the rotting wooden floor a few centimeters from her face.

He knew he had her full attention and pointed. "In about two, maybe three minutes, the acid will eat through not only the weapons but the floor as well. Given the less than safe nature of this building, I suspect it will take the entire flat with it and then continue on down to ground level. This will likely destabilize the building, which will collapse entirely."

Drake was momentarily distracted by the thought of their orders to minimize property damage. Here he was inadvertently knocking over an entire building right from the start. Oops.

He shook his head. "Anyway, I suggest you use that knife to cut your bonds and get out of here before that happens. If you focus on that, and that alone, you should have time to get out with your wounded friend. If you try to save some weapons or come after me, you will not."

The girl instantly rolled forward and onto her side to seize the knife and began sawing at the hardened material which began to slowly part.

"Go west," he told them. "As fast as you can. If you see anyone with the Legion sword on their chest, run. Get away if that is possible. This city is doomed."

He jogged down the stairs and out to the rendezvous point to link up with his unit.

What a fool I am, he thought. If Masse or anyone else finds out I'm a dead man.

We're already dead men, remember?

Chapter 22

Drake's platoon trudged doggedly through an abandoned and partially destroyed section of West San Diego. Through night-vision devices, in the pre-dawn hours, they could see ruined areas which only recently people had called home. Places where they had done their best to survive. Like Drake and his family before those residents had likely thought about nothing but their next meal and how to keep from getting murdered, raped, or sold into corporate slavery. Now they were all dead or fleeing.

He looked at the line of men moving in front of him through the darkness. Although their steps were sure and weapons at the ready, he knew they were as exhausted as he. All of them were running on stims, which was a bill to be paid in full later. Their exhaustion wasn't simply because of the fact that none of them had slept in three days, but also due to the fierce combat. Fiercer than they had been led to believe from unorganized civilians. Their losses were not insignificant.

There had been atrocities on both sides. Execution of prisoners was the least of it. Despite the Legion's famed discipline, some leaders had turned a blind eye to their soldiers taking out their frustrations where they could. The rebels, for their part, didn't hold back either. Only this morning they had found a still partially alive legionnaire from First Platoon. He was hanging thirty feet up on the side of a building suspended by cables tied to his two outstretched arms. His belly had been slit open and entrails looped downwards to almost touch the ground. When they had arrived to put the soldier out of his misery, the man was staring at the rats below him eating at his insides. The rebels had done just enough to inflict pain without causing the chip to self-destruct.

One of his soldiers looked back at him darkly and then pointedly at Troll marching beside Drake, small speakers blasting a piercing squeal at a decibel level even the swarms of flies couldn't tolerate.

Trudging along with his helmet filtering out the noise, Drake forgot about the insufferable wail. Designed for riot and crowd control environments, the sound drove any residual defenders forward more efficiently than tedious urban-clearing operations.

He peered over at the battlebot and felt irrational affection. The previously smooth surface of the robot was charred and pitted from multiple assaults meant for them. At least half of Troll's supply of propellant, density rounds, rockets, grenades, and mortars were gone. The barrels of the guns and cannons on Troll's arms were blackened from extreme use. They had also seriously depleted the extra food, water, ammunition, and medical supplies Troll carried for them. Drake didn't want to think about how difficult their lives would be without C-109.

Still, since instituting his noise-herding idea after finding the disemboweled soldier that morning, few of the soldiers in his platoon seemed grateful. It wasn't simply that they wanted revenge for what had been done to them and their friends. It was something else as well. They loved the bot's ability to kill and support them, but not the bot's current use.

It's in some of their natures, Drake realized. Discipline and fear of punishment can hold that nature in check to a certain degree, but some of these men are natural killers. They relish the opportunity to kill, maim, torture, rape, and torment anyone they can.

Although he had informed his fellow platoon leaders of the sound tactic, only three others emulated them. When Masse had learned of what they were doing, he had been disdainful. He had cryptically said the foolishness of Drake's tactic would be shown clearly on the Legion scorecards when the operation was complete. Drake didn't know what scorecard Masse was talking about but was grateful the maniple commander hadn't given him an order to cease doing it.

"It will be dawn soon," Heaton told him.

Drake knew the man was simply making conversation. "Yes."

"I can see the light starting to come up behind us."

"A freakishly astute observer you are," Drake said.

"The days are better."

"Better than what?"

"Than other times," said Heaton. "Like night. Especially if we're not allowed to sleep then."

"I never liked the night," Reede said.

"It doesn't bother me," responded Drake while sending out a mental order for his platoon to shift slightly further to the north as they advanced.

"Night is for sleeping," said Heaton grumpily.

"Like anyone could sleep with Troll screeching like that," said Reede.

"Do you smell that?" asked Zinatu.

"Smell what?" asked Heaton. "How can you smell anything with your helmet on?"

"My faceplate is up," said Zinatu.

"Then how can you see in the dark without the visuals?" asked Heaton.

"Don't need it now," answered Zinatu. "As you so observantly noted, it's getting light."

"What do you smell?" asked Drake.

"I can tell you that with my faceshield down," said Heaton. "Rotting bodies, stagnant sewage, smoke, you know…the usual."

"The ocean," answered Zinatu. "I smell the saltwater. We are close to the sea."

Drake checked his internal map display and saw the man was right. They were within several kilometers of the ocean, which should be visible just over the next rise covered in old, abandoned homes.

"So that's what the ocean smells like," said Heaton, and Drake looked over to see the man had pushed his faceshield up as well. Soon Drake and Reede followed, and then many of the others in the platoon. Without the faceshield on, they could smell all the things Heaton described, but there was the underlying freshness of saltwater. In the growing light, they could see the gentle warm breeze blowing trash around at their feet. The warm fresh breeze on their faces was refreshing.

Drake cut Troll's riot control noise and adjusted his earpieces to hear the outside world. There was a small distant rumble that he presumed was crashing waves, but there was something else as well. Sounds of tens of thousands of voices all raised as one.

"Halt your advance along the eastern ridgeline positions that have been highlighted on your operations graphics," Tripplehorn sent out to them. "Fortify defensive positions and await further orders."

"Must mean the whole legion is halting for the commander to issue the order," noted Reede.

They climbed up to the top of the ridge and peered out over the biggest expanse of water any of them had ever imagined. Sunlight to their backs reflected off the water, turning it into a silvery flat mirror only broken when it intersected with the shore on crashing waves.

Countering this peaceful scene was the chaos they observed before them. The land sloped down beneath them to a shoreline and giant harbor filled with a hodgepodge of ships and barges. Some had already pulled out to sea filled with refugees while others stood in packed masses hoping to escape next.

"Where do they think they're going?" asked Heaton.

"Probably to the Vancouver or Baja Enclaves," said Reede. "They both still accept refugees…for a price."

"I thought there weren't supposed to be any survivors," said Jonesy. "Why are we letting them escape?"

Drake didn't know, but he was grateful. The mission was done, and these poor people could hopefully find a new life somewhere. Flipping his faceshield back down, he magnified the display until he could see individuals standing at the harbor. Young girls holding babies, children, and elderly with only a few belongings. An occasional man or teenager, but not many.

Just then they heard a series of booms to their rear. Drake looked backward and saw small smoke clouds out beyond the San Diego defensive perimeter at the same time he heard a series of whooshes over their heads. A second later, huge explosions erupted a kilometer in front of them. Several of Drake's soldiers began to cheer.

More artillery fire followed, and it became plain that they were not targeting those fleeing but walking the artillery in front of them to drive the last defenders forward inside the horseshoe of doomed territory around the harbor.

They watched for nearly an hour before growing bored. Drake had them establish defensive positions and sectors of fire before putting them on a rotating sleep plan. He must have dozed off as well because he was awoken by a voice in his head.

"Best look at this," Heaton said.

Drake rubbed his eyes and sat up to gaze around him. All of the ships, barges, boats and other questionable seaworthy craft were steaming away from San Diego. Most went south, but several had turned north and even a few west to who knew where. The harbor and city looked mostly abandoned except for bodies and death.

Heaton was pointing back east, and Drake turned to see fighter jets flying out of the three dirigibles' underbelly platforms. The jets approached with a high roar. It seemed as if they were far off and slow-moving when suddenly they reached a visual tipping point and flashed over them so quickly their eyes had trouble tracking the objects.

Then there were loud explosions. The ships were on fire and slowly sinking.

Drake at first didn't connect the two things in his mind and it took subsequent sorties for him to fully realize what was happening. The fighters were attacking and sinking the boats filled with refugees, hunting them down on the surface of the flat water where there was nowhere to go.

Putting on his helmet magnification, he saw panicked survivors struggling to get off the targets as attacking fighters approached. Thousands were pushed or jumped into the teeming water that was now covered in fuel and began to burn with giant black clouds billowing up from the surface of the cool water.

Drake stood there and watched all the ships sink as cheering erupted along the ridgeline around him. He did his best to ignore the deep rage that welled up within him.

They were legionnaires and had done their duty. That was all anyone could ask of him. There was nothing else.

Drake turned away from the scene his fists clinched and used his helmet to blot out the sounds of cheering.

Chapter 23

Alexander walked out on the villa's rough stone balcony. The villa sat on a small rocky outcropping of the Crimea with the warm Black Sea water spread all around them. Below he could hear the muted grunts and blows of close combat.

Descending the stairs that spiraled around the base of the rock outcropping, he came upon a circular brick courtyard with a timber-and-granite railing separating the area from the rocks and sea below. Inside the courtyard, four men fought, but only one was winning.

Alexander was not surprised. His master Shan'in, the future Varangian Emperor, never lost.

The Royal wasn't exceptionally large, or strong, but he had a feline grace and swiftness that the other three experienced fighters couldn't match even at three to one. Shan'in's kay'ton flashed against their bare skin with electric pops time after time.

Shan'in had been spending more and more time in training as of late. When the Succession happened, there was a good chance at least one of his three brothers would accept the challenge, also known as sorn'mai, and engage him in the ancient ritual duel for the Empire. Shan'in intended to be ready for such a challenge.

For everything else, he had Alexander. The future Steward of the Varangian Empire if their plans proceeded as envisioned.

The lean man in the center of the courtyard had already dispatched two of his assailants and stalked the third, a larger stronger man who still gave ground. Shan'in pretended to lose his balance, and when the man leaped forward, seizing his opportunity, the Royal did a forward roll, came up behind the attacker, and slashed his left hamstring. The man grunted and dropped this own kay'ton.

"Well done." Alexander walked the rest of the way into the courtyard. "Remember to keep your weapon low and close to your body until the time to strike is near."

"Like this," said Shan'in, lunging suddenly at his instructor and bodyguard.

Alexander stepped aside at the last minute, chopping down on Shan'in's wrist at the same time his other elbow caught the man in the throat. Both the Royal and the kay'ton struck the ground at the same time.

Shan'in coughed and grunted in pain before looking up at him in surprise and with a grin.

Alexander reached down and helped the man up. "Not bad. You can't expect to surprise a Varangian Guard."

"Then how would I ever defeat one?"

"Why would you ever need to?" asked Alexander. "You are a Royal. We exist to serve and protect you."

"You never know, traditions change. The Guard are loyal to their charges, not every Royal."

Alexander nodded. "The best way to defeat a Varangian Guard, My Lord, is to use another Varangian Guard. We all know each other's strengths and weaknesses better than anyone else."

Shan'in nodded. "I will keep that in mind." He looked around at the three sparing partners standing in wait for their master's command.

Alexander sent them all away with a silent directive. He also made a mental note to find better fighters. It would not do for Shan'in to grow bored. The Royal had always been difficult to control and more so without challenges.

"What of our plans?" asked Shan'in silently.

"They are proceeding."

"But when?" The Royal's voice held a hint of impatience.

"Soon," answered Alexander. "It is dangerous to rush such things. You must trust me."

"I do trust you. Otherwise, I would not have committed to making you my Steward when I come to power."

"You understand that some will oppose this? Varangian Guards are forbidden from serving in such capacities."

Shan'in shrugged. "As I said, traditions change. Tell me of the Emperor."

Alexander knew what he meant. He wanted a report from the spy and assassin they had placed in the Emperor’s household. "The Emperor grows weaker. The progress is nearly imperceptible."

"And the poison? Can it be traced?"

"Not to us. I doubt they will ever find it. Even if the Emperor were feeling the ill effects, he would not dare admit it to anyone for fear of triggering an early Succession."

Shan'in slapped his fist in his palm. "We must be ready when the time comes."

"We will be. The Spetsnaz belong to us as well as most of the security armies in Central Asia and Eastern Europe. Once we make our move, we can seize the Allied American forces as well."

"Legion." Shan'in grinned.

"Yes, they are close to the Emperor and his Steward. We don't dare make any moves yet, but we will when the time is right."

Shan'in nodded in understanding. The young face was grim and determined. Alexander had no doubt the man would make an excellent Emperor.

"There is something else," Alexander said. "An unexpected development our spy has reported to me."

The Royal reached over and grabbed a towel to wipe sweat from his body. "What?"

"Your little sister, Caylina, is missing."

Shan'in froze. "What do you mean?"

"Her tutor and guard came to Abraham to beg for forgiveness. She evidently escaped from their care and they have no idea where she is."

The Royal slowly grinned and then broke into a hearty laugh. "Excellent. We must find her before anyone else does."

"I already have people searching."

Shan'in looked out to the sea and didn't speak for nearly a minute. "If we can get her, it might be a bargaining chip during the Succession. If nothing else, it eliminates an annoying piece off the board."

"And saves her the trouble and danger of having to seek you out during the chaotic time of the Succession to Submit herself. The other Royals will be trying to kill her first as she is the most vulnerable."

"Of course," said Shan'in. "It is for her own good. Her running away might be the best decision she could have made."

"If we can capture her," reminded Alexander.

"Yes," Shan'in nodded meaningfully at his Steward.

Alexander took his cue, bowed, and departed, leaving the Royal gazing to the west.

Oh, my little sister, he thought as a wicked smile appeared on his angular face. Perhaps we shall meet at last.

Chapter 24

They marched into the dirigibles sitting outside the lifeless shell that had once been San Diego. Drake knew there were casualties but seeing all the empty seats made the losses more real somehow. Survivors looked around at each other and the empty seats with a mixture of relief, confusion, and guilt. Several were already asleep, not needing any assistance from Drake as the stims finally wore off.

They were just lifting from the ground, and Drake was beginning to slip into slumber himself when he was pulled into a mental conversation with what seemed like scores of participants.

"Congratulations on our victory," Tripplehorn told them. "This was a costly mission, but the client is more than pleased with Legion's work. They have granted us a sub-contract for security and occupation duty in San Diego until they can sell shares for new occupants. Additionally, we met all of our performance bonuses during this operation."

Drake thought of the piles of partially burned bodies and wondered if he was supposed to cheer or something. He was grateful his unit wasn't selected for the occupation duty despite its ease and chance for booty. Drake wanted to get away from the city as quickly as possible.

"There will be a quick after-action review, which will become part of the company record," Tripplehorn stated. "I must first state that the 173rd Legion took more than thirty percent losses."

Drake jerked in astonishment. He had lost six out of thirty men and thought his losses were high.

"This is to be expected of a newly trained legion and one reason they are thrown into the front of any fighting as soon as possible. There is no other way to make green soldiers into more valuable veterans. We certainly couldn't expect the company to risk valuable resources like veterans in costly urban warfare. Those soldiers thankfully suffered almost zero casualties."

Good for them, thought Drake, remembering the legionnaire who had treated him to obscene gestures as he dropped into the city.

"Therefore," continues Tripplehorn, "we are disbanding this legion and reconstituted along with other remnants into the 225th Veteran Legion. That legion will be reorganized at our base in the Yucatan State. A contract is currently under final review concerning tensions with the Bolivar Republic. I myself will be reassigned, as the 173rd is now deactivated. I want to say it has been my honor to be your commander, and I look forward to working with you all in the future."

"Sir," interrupted Masse, "during AARs we typically review the battle metrics."

"Those are quite tedious and outdated."

"Yet they are used to assign company value," Masse persisted. "It also allows us to gauge the success or failure of individual leaders and units."

"Very well," said Tripplehorn, and they could all feel his sigh of resignation. "Display the metrics."

Drake could now download and examine a screen filled with numbers and letters. It took him a moment to see individual units on the left while several columns stretched to the right.

"All right, moving on then," said Tripplehorn.

"If you would please," said Masse. "I've noticed that body counts are fairly consistent across the board with the exception of one element."

Tripplehorn spoke more sharply. "I never liked the whole body count metric. It often has little relation to mission success."

"Yet, it is an important measure of a combat unit's success," Masse pressed on. "I see that Third Platoon has less than half the kills of the other units."

"And less than a third of the average soldier casualties," Tripplehorn noted.

"It is obvious that something is off with this unit," pressed Masse. "And it is worth addressing."

"Very well," answered Tripplehorn. "Sergeant Goodman, what have you to say?"

"I found it unnecessary to kill the rebels in order to accomplish our assigned mission."

"Killing the rebels was your assigned mission," Masse retorted.

"Not exactly," Drake said. "If you refer to the logs, our mission was to sweep west clearing resistance and driving survivors before us."

"How could you possibly do that without killing them?" asked one of the other maniple commanders.

"I used the audio deterrent system on the battlebot. It drove the rebels before us so that there was no need to engage them."

"A completely unauthorized tactic," Masse said.

"So, you didn't know of this?" Tripplehorn asked him.

Masse hesitated. "I did not encourage it or sanction the maneuver."

"That's as good as approving it if you were informed of Sergeant Goodman's activities."

"Perhaps that was why his friendly casualties were so low," said another commander. "Maybe this is something we could consider doing in the future."

"Regardless, I think it is prudent that Sergeant Goodman be demoted from the position of Platoon Leader," said Masse "His activities could have potentially resulted in endangering the mission."

Another maniple commander laughed. "Masse, I would say your Platoon Leader did a fine job and should be commended."

"I agree," said Tripplehorn quickly. "As of this moment, I am submitting Sergeant Goodman for official commendation in the company records."

"I must protest!" Masse said hotly. "You give me no choice but to file a special report with the company headquarters."

"You do what you must, Captain Masse," Tripplehorn said sternly. "I know you have connections at headquarters that you can leverage, but those who know you recognize what you are."

"And what is that?"

"Someone who is no longer a maniple commander," said Tripplehorn. "I have tolerated your jealousy and insolence long enough. As of this moment, you are relieved."

"You can't do that! You're not even the Legion commander anymore."

"I am for six more hours until the official deactivation orders are filed."

"This won't stand," Masse promised. "You know that."

"I do," Tripplehorn answered. "You'll likely convince someone to give you your own legion. I know better than most how charming you can be when you want to be. You have fooled me before and I'm sure you will fool others. But for this small moment in time…you are fooling no one, save possibly yourself."

The feed was suddenly dead in Drake's mind, and he wasn't sure if it was because the AAR was over or if Masse had disconnected his subordinates. The meeting had given him plenty to think about and ponder, but for now, all he wanted was to rest.

Drake was almost asleep when there was a voice in his head.

"This isn't over," promised Masse and then silence again.

Chapter 25

Reath trudged over the dark, frozen, rock-strewn ground of Var, the glow from his swirling Varangian body lighting the way before him. He tilted his head one way and then the other, looking for something. Occasionally he jabbed a long metal rod-like tool with a flat end into the ground before moving on to repeat the procedure.

Var was tidally locked, meaning the same side always faced their twin stars. The area with constant sunlight was warm and pleasant. Crops flourished there and the closer you lived to the capitol of Emperium, the more connected you were to the Royals. Not coincidentally, the wealthier you tended to be. The area Reath currently trudged around in was called Inith, the Shadowlands. The ring of territory around the equator was a relatively thin area between the constantly light and constantly dark areas of Var. It was here, in this darkness, that Var's mineral riches lay. It was also where the more dangerous and exotic creatures lived.

Hearing a sound over the wind, Reath stopped and listened. After a few minutes, he continued on.

All the Varangians on Earth dream of returning here, but they can have it if they want, he thought. Send me home to wonderful Canith.

He pushed the thought aside. It would serve no purpose. He was here because the Empire needed him here. Besides, the last he had heard, Canith, like most of the worlds more than a light-year away from Var, was still free. The Revolution was slowly making its way outward from the center, but the outlying regions remained loyal to the Emperor. There was not yet a need for him to return home. Even if he could.

Thinking of the Revolution caused him to wonder about Lamin. The tutor ironically had the more dangerous job of going into the nearby city of Gad to gather intelligence for the Emperor. It wasn't like Reath could perform this duty, as locals would wonder why someone like him was not off fighting for the Rebellion. Lamin however was older and carried a certain distinction as a teacher. Many such as he traveled from city to city to earn their livelihood.

Still, it was dangerous. The authorities were certainly on alert for spies since they had captured Lamin's predecessor, but thankfully the Emperor’s previous spy had committed suicide before he could reveal the location of the hidden Portal.

Which touched upon Reath's real purpose, one Lamin did not know about. Should the tutor be captured, Reath had to find a way to kill the man before he could reveal anything that might harm the Empire.

To date, Lamin had not learned anything of import. News of the Revolution's brutality and mass executions were blasé. Descriptions of how priceless public artworks commemorating previous Emperors had been defaced or destroyed was certainly infuriating, but not terribly helpful.

No, the Emperor wanted Lamin to develop a sub-source network of loyal informants to travel into the capital, collect critical information, and report back. Lamin's predecessor had evidently been quite good at this sort of thing, notwithstanding his eventual capture and execution. Reath feared Lamin was not nearly as well suited to the task.

The rod quivered in just the sort of vibration pattern he had learned to recognize. Reath pulled out the rod and reversed the tool to use the flat edge in order to complete his secondary mission for the Empire on Var. After digging and cutting for several minutes, he stooped down and lifted up a dirty misshapen lump of metal approximately thirty kilograms in weight. He placed the metal on a small sled that he dragged behind him before brushing off a small section to reveal dirty yellow metal.

He shook his head at the irony. Here gold was something commonplace. It flowed freely in the warmer latitudes and was used for decoration by the lower class or possibly like pottery was on Earth. Yet, it funded everything the Varangians did on Earth. Reath had even heard that there was somewhere a room of Varangian accountants or economists or whatever the hell you would call them who tracked the value of gold on Earth and manipulated the price so that it was not debased too much by their regular introduction of fresh gold.

It is an interesting philosophical exercise, Reath thought, of what we value and why. Lamin would love it.

The thought of Lamin caused him to ponder what he was avoiding thinking about. The old man was late. Very late. There was only one likely explanation: Lamin had been captured and was being interrogated.

Reath began pulling the sled back to the deep cave that contained the Portal and his small bundle of blankets and supplies. He tried not to think about killing Lamin. Reath didn't necessarily like the old man, but he didn't necessarily dislike him either.

He trudged into the mouth of the cave and towards the back. He made his way down a progressively narrower path which got darker and darker. After several twists and turns, it got brighter again.

Stepping into a large, vaulted room, Reath set down the tool and untethered himself from the lump of gold. He added its weight to about fifty similar lumps resting on a motorized pallet that could hover during short transports.

A shuffling sound from the outer cave caused Reath to hold his breath. He reached out silently and picked up the mining tool. He wished he had a real weapon, but such could not be explained easily. His cover was as a low-level prospector, so he must look the part.

Creeping back the way he had come, Reath kept looking upwards. The caves attracted kemils, or ice wraiths, which loved to drop on their prey from above and suck out every molecule of moisture and warmth before filling the empty husk with eggs. I really don't need that sort of thing, Reath thought. My life is already complicated enough. He proceeded cautiously.

A dark lump on the ground in front of him gave him pause. There was the tiniest of glows around the edges.

"Reath," the weak voice said in his head.

He stepped forward to kneel beside Lamin. Examining him, he saw multiple ragged burn wounds where the man had been shot.

"Is anyone following you?" Reath asked, looking towards the entrance. "Did you lead them here?"

"No," Lamin answered faintly. "I was able to get away from them in Gad. Had to hide for a while to make sure."

Reath relaxed. "Good."

"Should I take your lack of concern for my wellbeing as promising?"

"No," answered Reath, looking at the dim Portal behind them. "Are you sure they aren't coming here?"

"I'm sure, but they know that I found something out. Something they didn't want anyone to know." Lamin smiled weakly. "The Emperor will not like the news but should be pleased with me."

"What did you find out?"

The old man shook his head. "Get me back, then I'll tell."

"Afraid I'd leave you once you told me?" Reath asked.

The man looked alarmed. "The thought never crossed my mind…until now. Would you do that?"

Reath bent down and picked up the weak, mangled form and carried him over to lay him on top of the stack of small gold boulders.

"You couldn't just carry me through?" said the old man, grimacing at the sharp jagged metal digging into his nebulous form.

Reath activated the controls to hover the pallet and moved it towards the portal. "This allows me to accomplish two things instead of one. Your discomfort will not last long, I imagine."

"Because you're going to get us back where I can be fixed up?"

"Yes, or you will die."

Reath walked over to the Portal control module. Unlike the system on Earth, this was a simple system slaved to only one other Portal in all the universe. It was a sort of one-way door, unlike the Master Portals that could take you multiple places. As he powered the system, he felt a rumble in his feet. Energy was being sucked out of the rock far beneath them, and once fully charged, they would only have a tiny window of opportunity before the energy was extinguished.

"Get ready," Reath told Lamin as the grey Portal began to swirl with color and light. Then the color was steady and still with thin ripples on the surface of a translucent semi-liquid.

Pushing the pallet forward, Reath walked steadily and held his breath as they passed instantaneously from one existence to another.

The Portal stopped humming and returned to a dull grey color.

A giant black kemil dropped to the floor with a wet flop confused as to where its prey had suddenly disappeared.

Chapter 26

They stood in a small circle around Jonesy; his face was peaceful despite the fact that the back of his head was gone. This was due to the self-destruct protocol of the chip activated by his heart flat-lining due to a lack of blood pressure. The blood pressure issue was a result of the wound on the left side of his chest.

Or some such bullshit explanation, Drake thought. He's still dead and no amount of clinically distant description is going to change that.

Drake looked up to see legionnaires stacking dead insurgents—at least that was what they had been told they were—into piles and then pouring some form of accelerant over them and setting the piles on fire. Dark smoke billowed up through the jungle into the clear sky.

Heaton must have been watching the same thing. "Why do we always have to make piles of bodies? And then burn them for heaven's sake?"

"I suspect it's in the fine print of most of our contracts," Reede said. "No client wants the public relations hassle of bodies lying around. The fire doesn't destroy them, but I suspect it looks a lot less like a pile of bodies from drone or satellite level."

"Why not just bury them?" asked Zinatu. "That would be the decent thing...at least in my country."

No one answered him because they didn't have to. They were not in the business of doing the decent thing. Besides, burial in the soil would take more effort and leave traceable evidence.

Drake bent down and lowered the helmet shield over Jonesy's face. He knew it was a pathetic gesture, but it seemed right.

I'm done, Drake thinks. I can't do this anymore.

"Everyone load up," Masse's voice came to them. "We've completed our mission, and radar shows a wing of Bolivar fighters and bombers headed our way."

Tripplehorn had been right. Masse did get a command, a promotion in fact. Within a week of arriving in the Yucatan, their current commander had been mysteriously replaced by Masse as the new 225th Legion Commander.

It can't be a coincidence that he's in command of this unit, Drake thought. Of all the legions, he gets this one.

Heaton was tugging at Drake's arm. "We need to go. Come on."

"Third Platoon, move your asses!" screamed Masse in his head.

"Pick him up," Drake said, pointing at Jonesy. "We're not going to leave him in this damn place." Drake imagined the snakes, spiders, and giant roaches feasting on their friend's body. Six soldiers carefully picked the body up on their shoulders and begin to carry him towards the waiting dirigible.

Drake saw Masse striding towards him with several soldiers in tow. The man's face was red and stormy. "Hell no! Leave him here! We don't have time for this!"

Ignoring the man, Drake continued to walk. His soldiers follow his lead.

"Didn't you penises hear me!" he yelled at them out loud. "Throw that meat sack on a pile." He was pointing at a mass of burning insurgents.

"Piss off," Drake sent him, his hand tight on the grip of his weapon.

He felt the pain before it actually reached him and could put up the mental wall. Although nothing got through to him, the rest of his soldiers fell to the ground convulsing in agony, Jonesy's body falling away. Something told Drake not to give away what he could do. Although everything told him to shoot Masse, he stood as if immobilized and racked with pain like those around him.

Finally, the agony stopped.

"You want more?" asked Masse with a tone that said he actually wanted to hurt them. "I can do it. Hell, I'd leave you all here to get skinned by the Bolivars if you weren't company property."

"Please," Drake forced himself to say. "Just let us take him. Won't be any trouble."

"No. I don't want any stinking dead rotting bodies on my ship. The policy is we leave our dead where they lay as the company calling card. Anyone who comes here will know it was us."

"They'll know that without our dead," said Drake. "Who else would do this shit?"

"Throw him on the fire…now."

Drake climbed to his feet and the others did as well. He stared at Masse and sensed the pain about to come again. Turning, he walked over and carefully pulled the man's usable gear off and then lifted Jonesy up off the ground and onto his exhausted shoulders. Heaton walked forward to help him, and the two carried Jonesy to the nearest body fire. They then tossed the man on top.

"Now, get on the ship," Masse said, pointing at Drake. "I'll deal with you later; I promise you that." He turned and strode towards the ship, his guards following along behind him.

"Let's go," Zinatu gently urged.

They walked unhurriedly to the dirigible and climbed on board just as it lifted off and began to race back north to their base and safety. Drake and his men went to their assigned section of seats and collapsed. It had been nearly a week since they had properly rested, and the jungle fighting had been brutal, inhuman, and nightmarish.

Drake just wanted to sleep, but horrifying images kept coming to mind. Things they had seen and done. He sensed the same troubled thoughts of his men and gently pushed them away, replacing them with comfort and familiar rest. Soon they were all sleeping fitfully.

As he was drifting off, Drake felt the minds of others around him. Men who were not part of his unit. He had become familiar with this by now and learned to wall these off when he needed to. Drake was in the middle of doing this very thing when he recognized one of the minds.

Masse himself was nearly asleep in his quarters.

Drake entered the man's head fully and caused him to stand up while keeping him asleep. Drake made Masse walked out of his quarters, past the control bridge where several pilots looked at him curiously, and on to the rail at the edge. Masse stood there and stared unseeing out at the vast jungle.

The man then climbed up on the rail and, oblivious to the cries of alarm behind him, leaped out into the air.

He fell towards the greenness below.

Just before he was about to hit the ground, Drake woke him and withdrew from the heinous man's mind for the last time.

Drake found he could sleep after all.

Chapter 27

Drake spent several days waiting for something to happen. For some smart superadmin hacker/programmer at Legion Headquarters server vault to see what he had done. Nothing happened. Well, almost nothing. He was promoted.

With the loss of Commander Masse, there was a reorganization of personnel. Drake had discovered that he could plant certain ideas in the minds of others through the chips. Those ideas came across to the bearer as having originated with them. In such a way, Drake was able to get Captain Ocan, his current maniple commander and a man he actually respected, placed in the position of Legion Commander. He was then able to get himself slotted into the vacant maniple commander position and was now Captain Goodman.

He had never considered himself a person of ambition, but his time with Legion had awakened a need to be heard and recognized. Not for praise, but for the fact that his thoughts, ideas, and opinions had true merit. Rather, that he mattered, and his contributions were of value. He also didn't like working for morons or fools, and the best way to prevent this was to be in charge himself.

The maniple commander was allowed a small staff. It was nothing to get Heaton, Reede, and Zinatu assigned as his chief-of-staff, support officer, and operations officer respectively. Only Heaton knew the full truth behind this miraculous turn of events.

The 225th continued to train in the Yucatan, and their losses were replaced with veterans from other reorganized units. Drake found that he enjoyed the autonomy and the freedom that came with being in charge. Some of his subordinate leaders resented his youth, but they soon came to respect him…or they were replaced with those who did.

One of the downsides of being promoted was that certain time-wasting obligations ensued. One of these was the dreaded Officer's Call. Sometimes these were opportunities to discuss problems, new tactics, or upcoming missions, but more often it was a social hour where the Legion Commander, his staff, and his ten maniple commanders engaged in highly organized drinking and camaraderie.

Drake didn't drink, having seen the effects of regular ingestion of the poison while in the Belsmire Commons, so that placed him at a social disadvantage. The other officers quickly made friendships with each other, but Drake remained aloof. He already had friends that he would rather be with.

On this particular Officer's Call, Commander Ocan was talking about a briefing he had just received from Legion Headquarters. Drake had tuned out the conversation as he looked through the nearby window and thought about how to use the battlebots more efficiently in the dense jungle terrain.

"That's what General Tripplehorn told me," Ocan said, taking another drink.

The name caused Drake to tune in. He didn't turn around, but he was now all ears as they were speaking out loud.

"Thank the stars," an officer said. "I'm sick of this heat and jungle rot. And the insects! Glad we'll be moving on."

"Where to now, sir?" asked another officer.

Drake turned to see Ocan shrug. "Not sure yet. Could be more insurgent clearing down in the Amazon."

"Hell no," said a drunken voice.

Ocan continued as if he hadn't heard. "There's also potential trouble with Quebec again."

"From sweating to death to freezing our balls off," said a staff officer. "Can't we go someplace comfortable?"

The Legion Commander did not seem disturbed by this complaining; in fact, he appeared to encourage it in this forum as long as it went nowhere else. "We might end up in the Chesapeake State too, that place is always out of control."

"Chesapeake State?" asked Drake, everyone stunned with his participation.

"Holy shit," said a near-drunk commander. "That guy can talk?"

Ocan nodded at him. "Food and fuel riots in Baltimore. Police are in disarray, no surprise there. Tripplehorn mentioned the state was in negotiations with Legion to restore order."

Drake fell silent again; the image of his mother came to mind. The revelry continued for several more hours, but Drake made a polite withdrawal as soon as he was able.

That night he lay still and forced himself to relax. He reached out to Ocan carefully. Connecting through the chips was becoming easier and easier for him and Ocan's brain was muddled with alcohol.

Why just me? Drake asked himself again. No one else seems to be able to do this.

He pushed the thought aside; there were things to do.

It was relatively simple to build a fully developed idea in Ocan's head. An idea of Ocan volunteering the 225th for the Chesapeake mission. Legion typically assigned units to missions irrespective of individual druthers, but Drake had learned they often did listen to input if it meshed with their objectives.

Having completed this task, Drake probed around inside the man's mind a little more than he would have felt comfortable doing if Ocan was sober. He envisioned a spider web of connections and contacts. One of those contacts was very familiar.

Tripplehorn.

Digging a little deeper in Ocan's relaxed mind, he discovered that General Tripplehorn was now the Director of Operations at Legion Headquarters. It was his job to assign missions and place units in certain locations to complete Legion contracts.

Finding the mental thread, Drake gently reached out until he could feel Tripplehorn's familiar mind. Once there, he carefully, much more so than he had with Ocan, planted the idea of assigning the 225th to deal with the Baltimore riots. When he was satisfied, he carefully withdrew.

He lay for a long time thinking about home. Wondering about his mother and their neighbors. When he drifted off to sleep, it was with a sense of nostalgia and loss.

Rude shaking woke him. "Come on, come on," said an excited voice. "Get up, we get to leave this damn place."

Drake opened his eyes to find Heaton standing over him. "What the hell? I was sleeping."

"I noticed," answered Heaton with a smile. "You can't sleep through this news though."

Now he heard noises around them. Many voices and things dropping on the floor, but not in a fearful sense as if they were being overrun by natives or exotic forest critters.

"We've got orders! We're leaving!"

Drake sat up. "Where?"

"The Greater Chesapeake State. Seems they're having some trouble with their populace. Can you believe it?"

Yes, Drake could believe it.

He climbed out of bed and began to pack.

Chapter 28

"You can drop me off here," Caylina said.

"Are you sure, hon?" asked the woman in the front passenger seat, looking around at the burned-out cars and graffiti around them. "This isn't really a nice place. As a matter of fact, I'm not even sure why we're here." Her face took on a confused look. "We were headed to Ohio?"

You wanted to see the old United States Capital, she sent to them.

"We wanted to see the old United States Capital," said the man behind the wheel and the teenage girl sitting beside Caylina in unison.

The woman relaxed. "I suppose, will you be fine here?"

"Yes." Caylina stepped out of the vehicle. You could give me something to help me on my way.

The man reached for his wallet and pulled out a wad of credits. "Here, take this."

The girl pulled her backpack from the floor and was pushing it her way as the woman loaded the pack with drinks and food.

"Thank you so much," Caylina told them and did feel actual gratitude for their help. She had traveled with them for the last eight hours after breaking into their house in the middle of the night. "You should probably return home now."

"Not go to Ohio?" the woman asked. "To visit my in-laws."

You don't even like your in-laws.

"I hate my in-laws," the woman said almost to herself.

"Hey!" the man said. "Really? In front of our daughter?"

The woman was angry now. "She doesn't like them either. No one likes them, especially your domineering mother. Your father might be okay if he ever said anything."

"That's it," said the man angrily. "We're going home." He promptly turned the wheel and headed the car back the way they had come.

The teenage girl looked out the back window and waved sadly at Caylina.

She waved back. When the car was out of sight, Caylina turned and looked at what had caused her to stop. She had wanted to see the relics of the old United States Capital and she could see some of them in the distance across the river. Now she stood on a low hill overlooking a series of other low hills covered in regular square stones. Line upon line of them.

These humans used to honor their dead properly, Lamin had told her. Especially their warriors. Now they value honor no more than anything else.

She walked up to the sign nearby. Through the spray paint and jagged cuts, she could still read the letters there: Arlington National Cemetery.

Looking at the closed gate nearby, she saw that someone had long ago busted the chain that had locked it. Now the wrought-iron barrier hung open. As she started inside, a squat dirty man with a leering look approached her.

"Whatcha doing there, girlie?" he asked.

She mentally sent him away as easily as flicking her hand at a fly. The man turned in the opposite direction muttering to himself.

Pressing herself through the gate, she walked down the paved path avoiding the presumably sleeping, and possibly dead, human forms in her path. She gazed at row upon row of headstones and even stopped to read some of them. Warriors, all of them. Men and women who had willingly served for an ideal. A naive idea that Lamin said was mostly dead.

She wondered if Varangians willingly served. Her impression of Lamin and Reath, the only other Varangians she had ever met, was that they served because that is what they were ordered to do by the Emperor. Would they serve if there was an option not to do so?

Was that perhaps why there was a Rebellion in the first place? Varangians being told to serve and sacrifice instead of being given an opportunity to do so willingly? Like one of the old-fashioned and hollow human monarchies?

Caylina realized there was so much she did not know. She couldn't even form an opinion about most things because she had been imprisoned in a sterile environment most of her life. All her reading, movies, conversation, computer access, and television were closely monitored and filtered by her Varangian Warders. Who knew what was real?

Bright color caught her eye and she was surprised to see a small bundle of flowers at the base of one of the stones. She read the name and inscription, but it meant nothing to her. It was as noble and simple as the other inscriptions.

"Peaceful, isn't it?" said a voice nearby.

Caylina gazed over at the old man sitting on a nearby bench. Her eyes had of course seen him, but she disregarded the man as irrelevant.

He smiled sadly. "There are so few places that are peaceful anymore. The world has almost given up on tranquility, I am afraid."

She studied him more carefully and saw the silver hair under a clean fedora hat. The threadbare but neat suit did little to conceal what had obviously once been an athletic body when younger. A thick walking stick that would have been suitable for fighting off a bear lay across his knees.

Caylina considered making him leave, but instead walked over and sat beside him on the bench. "Do you have someone here?"

The man laughed staring straight ahead. "No one has anyone here anymore. The last burial in Arlington was supposedly during the Great Petrol Conflict over a century ago and that was after the good old U.S. of A. was already a brief footnote in history. I imagine we all have distant relatives here, but who bothers to remember those that came before them?"

She turned to look at the flowers and then back at him. "Did you place those there?"

He finally turned to her and gave a furtive smile, as if sharing a secret. "That is the grave of the last U.S. Senator buried here. Best I can tell she was assassinated on the capitol building steps down there." He pointed across the river towards the ruined city and a collapsed dome. "She was leading the opposition to a bill that would have granted the president powers to extend martial law through the elections and thus remain in power indefinitely. Anyone studying history might say that triggered the chaos and subsequent collapse of a once wonderful thing."

"Why the flowers? It's not like she can appreciate them."

"I honor her not for her sake, but for my own," he answered. "I do it to remind myself that there is still beauty in this ugly world. If you care to see it."

She turned back to look at the flowers and admitted they were pretty. Most flowers were, she supposed, although Lamin told her they were all a shadow of the flowers of Var.

"I'm not talking about the flowers," he said, "although they are gorgeous. Picked them myself. I'm talking about people."

"People?"

"The indomitable human spirit that time and time again throughout history has arisen to great heights from the ashes of desolation."

"I wouldn't know about any of that," said Caylina.

The man's smile and eagerness evaporated slowly, and he leaned back against the bench. "So, few do these days. I try not to despair."

"You sound like my teacher."

He nodded. "I was a teacher once, back when people thought it was important to learn. Taught many things, but especially liked history, as you may have guessed." He looked at her expectantly.

Caylina shrugged.

"Oh, well," he said, the expectant look replaced by one of resignation. "History is the study of humanity itself. How it rose to great heights and fell to horrifying lows. It may sound like stating the obvious, but humanity is all that we are as humans."

"Humanity? What's so special about being human?"

"That is the core question!" he answered, excited again. "You have hit upon it exactly. I am pleased to see that some minds are still capable of thought."

She looked out over the graves of dead warriors to the grave of a dead ideal. Beyond, thin streamers of smoke climbed into the sky.

"What is that about?" she asked pointing.

"More signs of the sickness I am afraid. Discontent and riots. Fighting for something unknown. Ineffective opposition to a government that they do not feel a part of."

"Opposition to those in power?" she said and thought about the Revolution that had broken apart the Varangian Empire.

"Yes," he said, startling her by standing suddenly. "I have enjoyed our discussion, but I must leave now before unsavory types come to inhabit this place. Not to tell a young woman her business, but you should probably make your departure as well. It will be dark soon."

"Leave?"

"Yes. I would invite you back to my humble abode for some coffee to continue our discussion, but I don't want you to think I'm some sort of pervert. I wish you the best and perhaps will see you again. Be careful on your journey." He tipped his hat to her and walked away down the path not using the cane but carrying it like a weapon before him.

Humanity, she thought, looking at the smoke in the distance. There is so much I do not know. Rebellion and discontent everywhere. Perhaps there is not so much difference between us and the humans after all.

Guided by an overwhelming desire to understand, Caylina began to walk north towards the dead monuments beyond the river and the smoke in the distance.

Chapter 29

Things haven't changed much, Drake decided. If anything, the additional fires and new rubble had served to cover up older more unsightly rubble and generational trash. As he made his way down a side street in the Belsmire Commons, he felt so uncomfortably conspicuous that he had an irrational urge to run.

Everyone was staring at him, but it wasn't because they recognized him, even though he'd only been gone a little less than two years. It was the uniform and the weapons and the squad of killers that trailed behind him in his wake like the tail of a comet. Police were something to be afraid of, but they had loose rules that governed them. Contractors were not bound by such rules and the frightened residents knew that all their lives hung by a very fragile thread when his eyes swept across them. Drake could blow ever so gently on any of them, and they would break.

Most of his maniple was working to restore calm in the Commons with efficient brutality that experience had demonstrated worked. Drake had left the maniple in the capable hands of Zinatu while he, Heaton, Reede, and a squad of legionnaires went in search of his mother. None of them questioned this unauthorized action, all having mothers themselves.

His sure steps slowed, faltered, and then came to a complete baffled stop as he turned a corner. Drake's former home, a tall narrow structure honeycombed with air pockets that people utilized for sanctuary from the horrid world was no more. In its place stood only another pile of concrete blocks and broken pieces of every conceivable building material.

"Doesn't mean anything," Heaton told him silently. "She likely wasn't inside."

Turning to look at the surrounding area, Drake saw the old shop where locals could buy anything from gum to computer modules. A familiar face peered out at them. Drake strode towards the face, which didn't react until it realized with horror Drake's destination. Then the face vanished.

Drake tried the door of the shop and found it locked. He beat on the outside of the door for nearly a minute to no avail. He then signaled to a soldier who stepped up and, within about three seconds, had the door opened using a laser cutter. Drake, Heaton, and Reede went inside while the squad formed a perimeter around the outside of the shop.

"We're closed," came a small quivering voice from the dim back of the shop, and it served to vector Drake toward his target. They found the man huddled behind a large rack of interactive pornographic modules. Heaton grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and pulled him up.

Drake leaned in close to the shopkeeper who shied away. "Do you know who I am?"

The man nodded quickly; his eyes closed. "You're the man in charge. I'll do whatever you want."

"No," said Drake exasperated. "Well, yes, I am the man in charge, but that's not what I was asking. Do you recognize me?"

The man opened his eyes tentatively as if he were gazing directly into the sun and shook his head.

"Where is my mother?" Drake asked pointing. "What happened to Candice Goodman? She lived in that building right there."

The man stopped struggling and stared at Drake as recognition slowly came over his face. "You're her son, the older one." Then he looked confused, glancing at the gladius in the center of Drake's chest and the captain's rank. "But you were just a little shit."

Drake shook the man roughly and he squealed in fear. "Where is she?"

"She got sick," the man stammered. "Rumor was she couldn't pay rent. State came and took her away. I heard after sentencing she was sold to Trenton Textiles based on her skills. It's just a few streets over. Everyone thought it was kind of them to do that and keep her close."

"Yes, very kind," said Drake darkly, thinking of his mother slaving away in cramped quarters with the bare minimum of food or heat. There would also be the ever-present overseer who could take every conceivable advantage should he chose to do so.

"Do you know where this place is at?" Reede asked Drake.

He nodded. "Yeah. Just follow the smell of waste."

Heaton wrinkled his nose. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to be more specific than that."

Drake led them out of the shop. They walked up and down several streets. There was looting and fighting all around them, but universally people gave them a wide berth. Turning into a small lot spotted with stubborn weeds, they approached the old warehouse with a giant TT hanging in the front. A mix of police, hired protection, and local thugs stood in a ring outside the building's front.

These men's eyes widened at the sight of Drake and his squad approaching them like an angry determined bull. Several stepped back and looked at each other for signs of what to do.

"State…state your business here," said one of the police officers.

"Our business here is whatever we choose to make it," said Drake.

The policeman's face reddened. "You can't talk that way to a policeman."

"Sure, we can," said Heaton. "Your government has contracted out for security and given us a free hand. Bet they never gave you a free hand."

"And I can see why," added Reede. "The city is melting down out there and you're taking bribes to guard a warehouse."

His face reddened even more. "What the hell am I supposed to do? Go out there and get killed myself? At least this way I can save one thing."

"Sure," answered Drake, "but you don't have to protect anything from us. We're not going to hurt the warehouse, just need to talk to someone."

"Talk about what?" asked another of the men standing there.

"About whatever we freaking well want to talk about," answered Heaton, lifting his rifle upward.

Both sides began pointing weapons at the other.

"Easy now!" said the policeman. "No need for that. We're all on the same side here."

Drake thought about the policemen who had arrested him and oversaw his sale into slavery. "Right," said Drake, walking forward. "Step aside or don't, but I'm going in there."

The policeman considered his options for a second before moving aside and the others followed his lead. The legionnaires walked inside the noisy, dark, smelly factory. Peering around, it wasn't obvious where to begin. People bustled from place to place hurriedly with no time or effort to glance at the interlopers. Finally, Drake spotted a tall thick man carrying a whip and wearing the curled lip of an overseer.

As they walked up to the man, the lip lost some of its curl. "What you want?"

"I want to speak to whoever's in charge here." Drake peered around wondering if he would even recognize his mother if he saw her. It had become difficult over the past few months to remember what her face looked like.

The overseer appeared torn, but Heaton's rifle barrel suddenly pointing up at his face decided the man. "Over there," he said, indicating a small office off in the corner. "Mister Dixon's the manager here."

They found Mister Dixon asleep, and he awoke gracelessly. Bleary-eyed and disheveled, it took the man an inordinate amount of time to comprehend the situation he was in. By then Drake felt as if he had to be the calm one in order to prevent Heaton from attacking the man.

"Candice Goodman," Drake said slowly. "Do not make me say that name again."

Dixon rubbed his face with both hands and then nodded. "Okay, yeah. I remember now. We bought her contract on the cheap a few months ago. I thought we were getting a steal given her experience with fabric, but I'm afraid it's going to turn out as a bad investment."

"Why?" asked Drake.

"Because she got sick. Hasn't been able to work most of the time she's here. Just a drain on food and taking one of our housing spots to boot. I'll probably see if Superior Organ wants her. They won't give me much, but it will at least keep her from being a total loss. Have to do it soon though; they won't buy a corpse."

Drake had to struggle with all his might to keep from caving the man's face in. "Sick how?"

"Doctor said it was one of those mutant TB strains from Siam. I just thought it was the regular TB, everyone gets that if you work here long enough, but this is something different. Doc said it was making its way through the city."

"Can it be cured?" Reede asked.

The man laughed as if they had told a joke. "She'll need hospitalization, not just black-market antibiotics. You can't expect me to shell out that many credits for some old used-up whore."

Drake slapped the man hard. He then drew his dagger and stuck it right under the manager's stunned left eye. "Take me to my mother."

"I'm sorry," the man stammered his eyes wide at the soldiers. "I didn't know that she…didn't know…"

"Shut up and lead the way," Drake said.

They left several soldiers topside and then followed the manager single file down a narrow cold concrete staircase at the corner of the warehouse. Every thirty feet or so a bare ancient light bulb cast the barest hint of illumination in the darkness. The sounds of dripping water were all around them and small furtive things scurried in the cold darkness.

After several minutes of descending, they reached a level where the manager hesitated before stepping off the stair into ankle-deep water. His face screwed up in disgust. Tiny sets of glowing eyes stared back at them from every direction.

"Don't come down here much, do you?" asked Reede.

"I'm responsible for running the entire factory," he protested. "Overseers are responsible for keeping the workers in line."

Heaton peered into small cells as they walked down the concrete hallway lit by the tiny bulbs. Inside each was several cots covered in dirty blankets, which currently served as refuges for the rats to stay out of the noxious water.

"In there's the infirmary," said Dixon, pointing off in front of him, his nose wrinkled up against the offensive smell of rot and sewage.

Drake walked past the man followed by his soldiers. Dixon tried to slip past them to return to the surface, but several of the legionnaires grabbed him roughly and dragged him along with them.

Turning on his light at the side of his helmet, Drake found a small room with what looked like old hospital beds. He peered carefully at the faces of several feverish patients and skeletal corpses before deciding that his mother wasn't there.

"Where is she?" Drake demanded.

The man stammered and backed away. "She's supposed to be…supposed to be here."

"Drake," came a whisper from one of the corpses.

He froze and turned to look from where the sound had come. Slowly he walked over to find a stranger staring at him. Except this corpse had his mother's eyes.

"I'm dreaming," she sighed and closed her eyes.

Heaton was there along with several other soldiers. They took her vital signs and began infusing her with healing medicines and liquids to rehydrate her. Drake reached out for the skeleton's hand and was shocked at how hot it was.

"Can we get her out of here?" Drake asked.

Their medic shook his head. "Her heart is barely even there anymore. The slightest stress could stop it. She needs to stay in place until we can build her strength back up."

"Is that really you?" she asked.

Drake bent down close to her, ignoring the smell of weeks' old sweat, urine, and feces coming from her bed. "Yes, it's me. I came back for you."

She smiled. "Such a good boy. Look after Sasha while I'm at work, will ya?"

"I will," whispered Drake. "Just rest."

"Got something for you," she said, reaching down at her waist as if she were wearing something more than a sheet. "Where's my bag?" she asked with a look of alarm. "Did someone take my bag?"

Shining his flashlight around the room, Drake finally spotted his mother's bag, far more familiar to him than his mother, on a shelf. He took the empty bag and brought it to her.

She could barely move and was only able to wave weakly at the opening. Drake peered inside and found nothing.

"Bastards must have robbed me again," she said. "But they don't know everywhere to look."

"We're giving her a sedative," Heaton told him. "She needs to rest."

Drake nodded, keeping his eyes on his mother. "Just rest now."

Her eyes were droopy, and her hand waved vaguely at the bag. "Hidden pocket…something…from your…father."

He froze, not sure if he had heard her right, but she was already asleep. Her breathing was slow but regular. Feeling first inside and then outside, he found nothing and then looked again. Finally, in a small pocket near a seam, something felt solid. Pulling his knife out, Drake cut carefully along a seal and pulled out one of the ancient thumb drive storage devices.

"Maniple Commanders," came Ocan's voice in his head, "report to Operational Headquarters by sixteen hundred hours. Be prepared to brief your progress."

Drake turned to Heaton and Reede, indecision pulling at him.

"We got her," Heaton said. "Just go. I won't let anything happen to her."

Nodding, Drake had the sudden urge to hug his friend.

He leaned over close to his mother's sleeping form. "I'll be back. Get better." After a moment's hesitation, he kissed her on her clammy hot forehead and walked out of the room.

Reede pointed at two legionnaires. "You two, stay with him." They fell in behind Drake as he walked upwards into the light.

Leaving his mother in the cold darkness.

Chapter 30

Drake arrived at the fortified operational command post at the Baltimore Inner Harbor area. The maniple commanders for all four Legions participating in the mission were in attendance. There was a tension and buzz in the air, and Drake soon learned it was because a company representative from Legion Defense Group was expected to visit. No one could remember the last time one of the suits had come to the field, especially when things were still even slightly dangerous.

After getting an update from Zinatu, Drake reported to Ocan and informed them of their progress. He carefully omitted anything regarding his mission to find his mother. Drake then took the opportunity to grab some food and released his two escorts to do the same. Checking in with Heaton, he discovered there was no change in his mother's condition.

He sat staring out at the choppy grey water inside the sane oasis of the headquarters. Officers around him took the opportunity to have a few beers and laugh with each other. Drake sat alone and thought about where he was.

After an hour, there came a general announcement. "Form up at the landing pad. The VIPs are on final approach."

Drake stood and walked to the back of the building as the other officers killed their beers. The officers of the four Legions formed squares, two to each side with a wide-open file between them. One side of this formation connected to the landing pad and the opposite to a small tent specifically arranged for the legion commanders to brief the VIPs.

A faint hum drew their attention to the eastern sky where a hoverplane approached. Drake also noticed that there were more than the usual number of fighters orbiting the city.

"Must be someone important," a fellow 225th maniple commander quipped to them.

"It is," responded Ocan. "Horatio McGovern himself is on that plane."

"Seriously?" asked another voice. "The CEO himself."

"Yes," answered Ocan. "Now be quiet and behave yourselves. And pop some breath mints so you don't all smell like a brewery."

Breath mints were passed around, which Drake accepted. He hadn't been drinking, but he still liked breath mints.

The plane grew, its two giant turbines blowing even choppier waves on the water and sending gales of dust and trash over them. After several seconds of hovering above the landing pad, the plane settled down gently and cut its engine.

"Legions," came the order. "A-Ten-Tion!"

Officers from four legions came to attention and stared straight ahead. The side of the hoverplane opened and two men exited. One was in the combat uniform of a legionnaire and Drake easily recognized General Tripplehorn. The other was a suit who walked with a confidence that bordered on disdain.

That's because all of us are his property, Drake realized.

Horatio McGovern strode briskly between the officers towards the tent where the four Legion commanders waited at attention for him. The CEO neither looked to the left or right. Tripplehorn who followed closely behind, on the other hand, nodded at several he knew and gave the appearance of speaking to a few using the chip.

Drake caught Tripplehorn's eye as he walked past, and the general stopped. "Is that captain's rank I see?" the general asked him silently.

"Yes, sir," said Drake. "They have made me a maniple commander. I am sure it was a gross administrative error for which someone should be punished severely."

Tripplehorn grinned. "On the contrary, I examine operational reports of our forces closely. You have performed well, and it is obvious you have vision and intellect. Perhaps you should consider coming to work at Legion Headquarters with me. I could use a good man and you'll get to learn how things really work. I don't have to tell you it will be career-enhancing. Most Legion commanders come from a stint at corporate headquarters."

Drake wasn't sure what to say. He couldn't remember the last time anyone had complimented him in such a fashion.

"I have to go," said Tripplehorn, looking towards Horatio as the suit slipped into the tent. "Keep my offer in mind and let me know if you're interested." He walked on into the tent.

They were dismissed, but as Drake walked back to the canteen area, he heard a growing chorus of voices and chanting coming from over the protective wall. More curious still, Legion mini-guns were not tearing into them.

"Better find someplace to sleep," a fellow officer slurred to him, seeing where he was looking.

"Crowds of those scumbags have surrounded us and blocked all the exits," another man said. "Word just went out that we can't leave."

"Why not just disperse them?"

The man pointed upwards, and Drake looked up at the sky without comprehension.

"Media drones," the man said with an exasperated sigh. "Drawn by the CEO's visit. Can't afford to flame all these civilians with the media watching. The client would go grapeshit. The accepted collateral damage meter has dropped through the floor. Our maniples probably found out first. I expect they're holed up somewhere waiting for this to blow over so we can go back to the good work of killing worthless protestors."

Drake moved away from the man and reached out to Zinatu who confirmed what he had just heard. He then contacted Heaton and Reede as well and made sure everyone knew he was going to be trapped at headquarters for the night but would be back when he could.

"We're fine," Zinatu said. "These people are angry but not stupid. They're keeping their distance."

"Good," Drake responded. "Let me know if there is any change."

"Will do, and drink a beer for me," said Heaton.

Someone had the foresight to arrange quarters for all the maniple commanders and Drake found his way to his assigned cubicle. It was little more than a cot with a chair, but it was warm and clean with a communal bath and shower down the hallway.

Sitting in the chair, he pulled the thumb drive out of his pocket and stared at it.

Something from my father, he thought in wonder. Something in my hand that he held in his hand once.

Pulling the operational electronic tablet from his pack, Drake slipped the old thumb drive into the port and checked the contents. There appeared to be one message file and dozens of data files. He opened the message file first and read.

My dearest Candice,

I am sorry for what I must do. It is not your fault. You have been the perfect companion for me, a good wife whose patience and understanding was exceptional. The part of me that could love did love you, I am sure.

He has finally decided to hunt me down. I had hoped giving everything to him would be enough. That he would let me be, but even so I broke the rules. I was never supposed to have children. If he were to learn of that potential threat, more than my life would be in danger. That is not something my budding conscience can handle I am afraid.

You will never see me again. Realize that is for the best. If my sons survive, I may find them when it is safe to do so, but I fear safety is an illusion which I allowed myself to believe in for a time. The time for sweet illusions has passed.

Again, I am sorry. I wish it could be otherwise, but you are strong and can survive. Do not look for me or ask after me; that would only endanger you and the boys. Those that seek me do not know of my family. I have made great sacrifices for it to be so. Do not waste these sacrifices in a futile effort.

I am including some of my better papers. It is vanity, but I am proud of them and hoped to get them published. Do not try to do so yourself. I only leave them with you because I cannot bear to destroy them and keeping them on me could give me away. It goes without saying that you must hide this device.

Tell Drak'enon and Sash'an whatever you think is best. They are of the Bloodline and should need little explanation or comfort.

Your Kenn'eth

Drake re-read the file several times in stunned amazement and his eyes keep coming back to how his name is written.

Drak'enon. Like the voice on the first drop. The one that said he would find him.

"What the freaking hell," he finally said. The letter birthed more questions than answers. His mother had told them their father had left looking for work and never returned. That he had died of the grey plague somewhere in the Great Southern Wetlands. He felt a moment of resentment towards her before remembering everything his mother had been dealing with. It was probably better to tell two young boys that their father had died than to tell them he had abandoned them with the message that his young sons should need little comfort or explanation.

He looked at the other files and found academic papers authored by Dr (Ph.D.) Kenneth Goodman, Professor of Theoretical Physics, Purina John Hopkins University. They were all highly technical and filled with equations and charts. Drake skimmed them making little effort to understand the advanced content.

"Heaton," he reached out. "How is my mother? Is she awake?"

"Her breathing and heart rate are steady," Heaton responded, "although her fever is still worrisome."

"Good," Drake said. "If she awakens, please let me know. I have some questions for her."

"Will do."

"Reede?"

"Yes?" the man answered.

"Do you have a hot feed?" Drake asked. "I'd like you to help me research something."

"Sure," he answered. "My hacking and cracking skills are at your disposal. What do you need?"

"Anything you can find on Doctor, Ph.D. type, Kenneth Goodman," Drake said.

"Let me do a quick scan and I'll get back with you," Reede answered.

After about ten minutes, the man was back. "Looks like a professor at PJH University in North Baltimore. Theoretical physics, but also taught history on occasion. Had a short but promising career. Disappeared about ten years ago but can't find any explanation."

"That's odd," Drake said.

"That's not the oddest thing."

"What?"

"I can't find anything on him before or after his years at the university," Reede said. "No birth record, no undergraduate work, no work history, no criminal history, nothing."

"How unusual is that?"

"Everyone leaves records these days," Reede said. "For someone to go through life with as little footprint as this guy, you are either very good at covering your tracks or you're not real—a phantom. I've seen some criminals go off the grid to lay low, but this guy looks like he appeared out of nowhere, lived a respectable life for a few years, and then vanished back into nowhere."

"Could you find him if I needed you to?" Drake asked.

A very long pause. "I'm good, but I don't know if I'm that good. Let me work on it when I can and get back to you. But don't expect anything quick."

"I understand," said Drake. "Make sure everyone gets some rest."

He closed the connection and thought about the phantom that was his father.

Chapter 31

Caylina found it more difficult to procure rides into Baltimore simply because hardly anyone was going there. Even the policeman she convinced to take her could only go as far as the outskirts due to all the improvised barricades and blocked roads.

Still, she walked the dirty streets and stared up at the tall buildings with smoke pouring out of them in amazement. Nearly everyone appeared to be gathered around the harbor area, and little drones were as thick as dragonflies on the river at home.

Home. That prison. Where they run my life for me, she thought. I miss Smoke. She pictured her magnificent horse and knew she had made the right decision not to bring him. There were few places outside the Boyle's estate where a horse would be safe from harm.

Is that what Reath and Lamin thought they were doing with me?

"You don't want to go down there," a gravelly voice said.

She turned to see an ancient woman sitting beside a large trash receptacle covered in a dirty blanket, which almost perfectly matched her surroundings. Caylina realized she had earlier looked right over the woman.

"Why is that?" Caylina asked.

The woman's tired eyes peered at her up and down. "Because you don't belong here. They'll make a plaything of you and then eat you when they're done."

She forced herself to smile. "What do you know, old woman? You live beside a dumpster."

"I know more than I want to," she said with wise wrinkled eyes. "Best get out of here and go back to where you came from before it's too late."

Caylina walked onward, ignoring the crazy warning. She could obviously take care of herself as she had proven hundreds of times the last few days. What could a pitiful human actually do to her? Nevertheless, she turned away from the riots at the harbor and proceeded northward up a steady rise into the old city.

She walked slowly yet purposefully peering at everything around her. No destination came to mind, Caylina wanted to experience real life. To be around the humans in all their chaotic lunacy. She also liked the element of danger and uncertainty.

People peered at her warily as she passed. Whenever someone approached with what appeared to be harmful or lurid intentions, she easily slipped into their weak mind and sent them away. Wandering the streets up and down, she saw dirt, squalor, destruction, and even death. Yet she also saw some happiness and what must pass for normal life around here. Lamin had told her the humans were much more resilient than they appeared.

When she became hungry, Caylina slipped into a small, covered stand that sold food and drinks. The owner freely gave her a generous portion of his cleanest and best meat tacos. He also gave her several drink bottles that hadn't even been refilled. Sitting at the small table, the owner watched her eat.

"It's good," she said.

He smiled at the compliment and then looked confusedly at the nearly empty cash box.

Caylina wiped her hands on a thin napkin and then dug into her pockets. She brought out the wad of money the man in the car from Virginia had given her and offered it to the taco maker. "Here," she said. "I don't need it…as you know."

His tentative smile returned, and he reached out slowly to take the money from her. His eyes widened at the amount. "Thank you."

"Do you like it here?" she asked the man.

He looked at her in confusion. "Like what where?"

"I like it here," she said, chewing. "I could live on the outside if I wanted. There's nothing I would need that I couldn't easily get. Certainly, don't need some Warders telling me what to do."

"You want more taco?" he asked, holding one up with a pair of long tongs.

Caylina shook her head and walked out of the stall. At the next corner, there was a small thin girl standing nearby who stared at her with nearly dead eyes. Caylina took off the backpack the teen from the car had given her and handed it over. The girl with the dead eyes backed away in fear.

"Go on," Caylina said. "Take it, I don't need it. There's food inside."

The word food broke through the fear and hesitation, and the girl snatched up the bag. She stared at her suspiciously for a few seconds and then took off sprinting with the backpack in her hands.

"You're welcome!" cried out Caylina and laughed. She felt magnificent and free. Even in all the filth and squalor. She knew she could live anywhere and have anything. The richest mansion or most luxurious yacht was hers simply by telling the human owners to give it to her. They would do so willingly and believe themselves generous and good for doing so.

Caylina hardly even paid attention to where she was going anymore. Her feet carried her where they would as she gazed around and thought nearly endless possibilities. Before she even realized it, there was a large group of shady teenagers and young men around her. She didn't like the way they were sizing her up.

"Are you lost, little girl?" said the one who appeared to be the leader.

She kept walking towards the boys while slipping into their minds. For a brief moment, she was stunned by the fantasies they had in store for her. They quickly stepped aside for her and she withdrew from them, feeling dirty.

"Hey!" cried the leader. "We're talking here. Boys, don't just let her walk away from me while I'm talking to her."

Hands grabbed her and she spun low like Reath had taught her, using her hands and feet to immobilize the surprised attackers. Several of the boys lay on the ground moaning. She started to break free, but more piled on top of her. Too many to fight off. Going into their minds, she ordered them to get off of her, and some tried, but Caylina found she couldn't influence so many at one time. The message was diluted and confusing. She was at the bottom of a large struggling pile.

Something hard and heavy hit her in the back of the head. The world swam and tilted, and the press of bodies around her lessened. She lay with her face against the dirty pavement as blood trickled through her dark hair.

"We gonna' play with her?" asked one of the boys, nearly jumping up and down while also rubbing at his groin.

The leader shook his head. "Look at her. How clean and neat. She wasn't even afraid." He laughed. "We've caught us some rich girl. Daughter of some important full Citizen somewhere. They'll pay a bundle to get her back."

She pushed herself up a little. "No, they won't," she croaked.

The leader shrugged. "No matter. Lots of folks will pay good money for a clean little unspoiled rich girl like you. There's some real sickos out there, let me tell you."

Caylina tried to push herself into the leader's mind, have him let her go, but she couldn't seem to concentrate. Reality slipped in and out in hazy jumbles of darkness and grey pavement.

"Why?" she moaned. "Why are you doing this?"

The leader bent back and laughed. "Why? Why?" He turned to the other boys who also laughed as if they got the joke.

"I'm doing this because I can," he said. "I'm doing this because everything and everyone around here belongs to us."

She tried to crawl away. "Mistake. Not supposed to be here."

He put his foot forcefully down on her back. "I'm sure that's true, my little flower, but you're ours now. You belong to the Woodmoor Boys."

As they began to drag her away, the shimmery world finally went dark altogether.

Chapter 32

Tripplehorn and Horatio McGovern departed just after nightfall without the fanfare of their arrival. Drake didn't even know they were leaving until he heard the whine of the hoverplane lifting off. Indications were that the visit had gone well because the four Legion commanders promptly commenced partying their asses off.

Drake returned to his small room, not caring for the vibrant atmosphere. To him, it seemed vulgar and unseemly, especially with all their soldiers outside the barrier in potential danger. Checking on the maniple, Drake was comforted by the fact that all his soldiers were warm, dry, and relatively safe for the night. Perhaps the other commanders had done the same as he. Drake hoped so.

During the night, Legion was able to bring in jammer drones around the city to disrupt the media feed in the darkness. The media might suspect what they had done, but could prove nothing, and deniability was the same as innocence for most Legion purposes.

By the next morning, they were clear to resume normal operations. The vast crowds around the headquarters the day before had all vanished, knowing that without the media drone coverage they would be slaughtered.

Drake collected his gear and two escorts in preparation for departure before reaching out to Heaton. "I'm getting ready to depart. How is everything?"

"Not too good," answered his friend. "I think you should get here soon."

"Why?"

"We're pretty sure she's dying," Reede stepped in. "We've had to jumpstart her heart twice in the night and she's currently on a ventilator. She's spiraling."

"Why the hell didn't you let me know?" Drake demanded angrily.

Heaton's voice came back just as angry. "Because we were kind of busy fighting to save her life. What were you doing?"

"Just keep her alive," Drake ordered and grabbed his two soldiers. They were able to get a lift on one of the ground transports to the outer edges of their maniple's sector. Still, it was maddeningly slow to Drake who wanted to scream in frustration. When they finally arrived, Drake leaped off the transport and sprinted down nearly deserted streets as his escorts followed.

At the Trenton Textile Factory, he didn't even bother to look at the hired guards out front who parted before him. Flying down the stairs and into the darkness, he raced through stagnant dirty water into the infirmary. There in the dim light, he saw the sad faces of his friends. His mother lay where she had the day before, but now a sheet was wrapped tightly around her body.

"I'm sorry," said Heaton. "We did everything we could."

"She didn't suffer," Reede told him, placing a hand on Drake's forearm.

Drake threw the hand away angrily and glared at him, his fists clenched. They had failed him. They had a mission and they had failed miserably. Such failure could not be tolerated, not in a legionnaire. Drake felt the righteous anger burn through him and he reached out to their minds.

Heaton must have sensed what was coming. "Do what you must but realize our friendship will be over if you do," he said calmly.

Screaming out in frustration, pain, and anger, Drake turned and pounded the wall with both fists. He then began to beat his head against the damp hardness as he cried out, his friends trying to pull him away.

The pain he had been prepared to send into his friends, he fed into himself, and he jerked and spasmed. He wasn't even aware such a thing was possible, but the pain focused his mind back from the edge of dark despair. After nearly a minute of the pain, he stopped and for the first time in his life cried.

Heaton looked down on his friend huddled in the dirty water on the floor. Turning to the two legionnaires standing in the entryway, he pointed at the shrouded husk on the bed. "Take her outside…gently. Guard her."

The men moved forward to do as they were told.

"And say nothing of what you saw here," Reede added.

They nodded in understanding and departed with the corpse.

Heaton and Reede lifted their friend to his feet. Drake was only crying softly now, doing his best to take deep breaths.

"She took care of us," Drake tried to explain. "Our father abandoned his family, and she sacrificed everything. We didn't understand or appreciate what she had done for us. I just wanted to let her know, before she left, that I recognized what she had done. That she mattered…to me."

"I know," said Heaton, holding Drake's arm. "Let's get out of this place."

They climbed up from the basement and towards the light. Walking outside, Drake knelt down beside his mother who lay on the weed-choked concrete in front of the factory.

Heaton turned and spoke to the manager who watched them curiously from the steps. "Get everyone out of that infernal dungeon of yours. Do it now."

The manager looked at the men to his left and right for support. "Where am I supposed to put them?"

"I don't care," answered Heaton, "but you better figure it out."

There was a slow whine and heavy pounding of steps behind Heaton, and the men's jaws drop open. Several stepped back. Heaton didn't need to turn to know the Troll had arrived.

Zinatu walked up to Drake with a squad of legionnaires behind him and laid his hand on his shoulder. "I heard. I am sorry, my friend."

Drake nodded looking up at the arriving battlebot and soldiers. He stood slowly and climbed the stairs at the front of the warehouse. He walked over to the manager who still stood staring at them in shock and Drake kicked the man savagely in the groin. The manager fell heavily to the ground where Drake continued to kick him.

Several of the hired thugs and the whip-carrying overseer took a step forward to help but stopped as a dozen gladius rifles pointed in their direction as one.

Drake kicked and screamed at the man who tried to roll away from the blows. Drake stopped and turned to look at the overseer. Walking over, he jerked the whip out of the man's hand.

"What was my mother's name?" he asked, pointing at the draped corpse on the ground in front of them.

The man shied back and shook his head.

Drake struck him across the side of the head with the whip and he fell to the ground. Drake then walked over to the second overseer who had already dropped a baton and scurried backward until he could go no further, his back pressed against the stone wall.

"What was my mother's name?" he asked. When the man blubbered out a request for mercy, Drake rammed the end of the whip into the man's mid-section. He turned to the hired thugs who had already moved as far away from Drake as they could.

He held up the whip. "What was her name?"

"Her name was Candice Goodman," Heaton said.

"Candice Goodman," echoed Reede and Zinatu. Several of the legionnaires said her name as well.

Striding across the stairs to lean over the manager, Drake poked the man in the side with the butt of the whip. "Her name was Candice Goodman, and she was my mother." He then tossed the whip on top of the huddled crying man and walked away from him.

"Attention commanders," came Ocan's voice in Drake's heard. It might have been his imagination, but it sounded hungover. "New engagement protocols. The Greater Chesapeake State has just won a contract to host an international summit on human rights in Baltimore. The summit will be in only two weeks, so the city council has a great deal to do before then to make a good impression on the international community."

"That's an understatement," said Heaton, looking around at the ruins.

Ocan continued. "The client has offered a substantial performance bonus for returning Baltimore to order by the end of the day. There is zero media coverage and engagement protocols are completely lifted. Any civilian that does not submit themselves to the authorities for processing is to be considered hostile and eliminated. That is all."

Drake stood over his mother and stared down at the shrouded body, which appeared as if it had diminished in the few minutes since she was down in the cellar.

"What do you want to do?" asked Zinatu.

"There's a little park three blocks from here," Drake said. "It's on a small hill and might still have some trees. She used to take us there sometimes. We'll bury her there."

"Yes," nodded Zinatu. "I meant what do you want to do about the orders?"

Drake looked up from his mother at his friends, then at the battlebot and nearby soldiers, and finally at the factory to his rear.

"Follow them, of course," he said. "This place is rotten, has always been. Turn the soldiers loose. Let them clear out the rot."

"Spare the children and defenseless," added Heaton.

Drake looked at him for a moment and then nodded. "So be it."

"This seems like a good place to start," said Zinatu, walking towards the men at the front of the factory who tried to run.

Drake turned the legionnaires loose upon the doomed city.

Chapter 33

Drake and his friends buried Candice Goodman under a small pine tree in the center of Belsmire Commons. Near hysteria reigned all around them, but within their small circle, it was peaceful for a time. Time enough for Drake to let go and completely close the chapter that was his life before Legion.

"Ready to finish the mission and leave this city?" asked Reede.

Drake nodded. He was ready and doubted he would ever be back. It was not his home any longer and there was no reason to return.

Checking with his platoon leaders, he found that they were accomplishing their mission with a level of efficiency and professionalism he had come to expect from them. They certainly didn't need his oversight. Drake led his staff randomly up and down once familiar streets more for effect than anything else. He noticed that his soldiers became a little more straight in their posture and professional in their demeanor when they knew he was around.

He hadn't intended to go anywhere in particular. It was the graffiti that stopped him in his tracks. For Drake, time stood still, and he could feel all the blood in his body cease moving.

Woodmoor Boys Rulz.

Those that had killed Sasha. The reason he had been sold into slavery. The reason his mother had been left alone at the end.

"Follow me," he ordered them unnecessarily. He knew where the gang holed up and, with legionnaires sweeping the streets for any resistance, expected them to be hiding in their lair.

Drake turned into a narrow ally and then kicked open a splintery door. The boy standing there as a guard was surprised, and before he could raise the alarm, Drake had taken him to the ground, silencing him by choking the boy out. His staff flowed around him and secured the rest of the building. Drake could hear yelling as he stood and walked into a large open room lit by dirty skylights above.

Drake recognized many of the Woodmoor Boys but was surprised at how small they were. How young, dirty, and thin. When they had tormented him years before, they had seemed like terrifying grown men. Now they were the ones who looked terrified as they stared at the legionnaires who had them all pinned against their graffiti-covered walls.

"This is our place," their leader yelled out. "We're not causing any trouble. You got no reason to be here."

Looking at the boy closely, Drake walked over and stood before him. "Your name's Kenyon, right?"

The boy looked surprised. "Yeah, that's right. What of it?"

"You took over from Jenson when he was killed?"

The boy nodded proudly.

"You recognize me?" Drake asked.

Kenyon shook his head and smirked. "Am I supposed to?"

"Yes. I'm the one who killed Jenson."

The boy nearly laughed, and then his smile faded as he stared at Drake's face in disbelief. "Bullshit."

There was a moan from the corner. Drake looked over and saw what appeared to be a person. He went to the bundle and pulled off a covering to find a beautiful girl with dark hair and brilliant green eyes peering up at him, dazed. She was bound with adhesive tape and gagged. Drake pulled out his knife and cut her bonds.

"Hey, that's ours!" cried Kenyon.

Drake didn't look away from the girl. She was strangely fragile and delicate. Untouched by the world and totally out of place.

"You hear me, merc? We already got a buyer for her. You mess with Sheik Jamal's merchandise, and you'll have to deal with him."

Reaching out to the men in the room, he said, "These boys were responsible for the murder of my little brother. A mere child. I leave them to you."

His back was to them, but he didn't have to wonder what was happening behind him. Other than the soft sounds of resistance, parting flesh, and spurting liquid, it was eerily quiet.

Drake was startled to find the large deep green eyes gazing at him intently. Mysteriously. Strangely without fear.

"You will protect me from these men and get me to safety," a voice said in his head.

There was an odd tug in his mind as if his ability to resist was weakened. He also noticed there was an odd bluish glow around the edges of the girl.

Drake closed his eyes and envisioned the brick wall in his head. He opened his eyes to find her gazing at him with a combination of astonishment and frustration. Both the glow and the tug on his mind were gone.

"Are you from Legion?" he asked her silently. "Never heard of a woman in the company, but it's the only thing that makes sense. You obviously have a chip like us."

"What are you?" she said. "There's something different about you."

"About me? You're the one who shouldn't be in my head."

She struggled to get up, but he held her down. Then, amazingly, there were hands on his shoulders, and both Heaton and Zinatu were pulling him off her. Realizing what was happening, he placed the imaginary brick wall in the minds of all his staff to protect them from the girl's strange power.

"How are you doing that?" he asked again, silently seeing the strange blue aura around her.

"I could ask you the same thing, human," she answered. "You have the countenance of a Varangian."

"A what?"

She stared at him without answering. "You obviously do not know. How could it be possible?"

"Uh…boss," asked Heaton silently. "Are you guys going to make out or something? You've been staring at each other for a really long time. We could give you both some privacy if that's what you want."

Drake looked around and saw them all watching them. He stood and pulled the girl to her feet. "What is your name?"

She hesitated as if thinking up a lie but finally answered, "Caylina. What is yours?"

"I am Captain Drake Goodman of the 225th Veteran Legion."

"Sounds impressive," she said with a smile.

"You should be afraid," he told her silently. "Why aren't you?"

"What do I have to be afraid of?" she asked. "You have rescued me, and I am at your mercy. Do you have plans to cause me harm?"

"What do we do with her?" asked Reede suddenly. "I haven't heard any guidance come down on prisoner protocols."

Caylina looked around at them all, and her face transformed into radiant joy. "Thank you! Thank you, all. You've rescued me. There's no telling what those animals would have done to me."

"Our pleasure, ma'am," said Heaton with a self-congratulatory smile.

"What are you doing?" Drake asked her silently.

"Commanders," came Ocan's voice, "finalize any ongoing activities and then move your units to the designated departure sites within the hour."

"We could just turn her loose," said Reede.

"In this city?" asked Heaton. "How would a girl like her make it out of here alive?"

"Yes, I'm so scared of what could happen," she said, her face a sudden mask of concern. Walking forward, she threw herself into Drake's arms, and, impulsively, he caught her.

"I'm so grateful," she said out loud and stunned Drake by kissing him on the mouth.

It was the first time he had ever been kissed and was surprised into returning it. Then there was a sharp pain in his lip, and he drew back with a cry.

"Sorry," she said with a wicked smile. "I do get carried away sometimes." Caylina reached up and dabbed the blood on his lip with the sleeve of her shirt."

"She is a wild one," nodded Zinatu with solemn approval.

"We need to go," said Drake, pushing Caylina away from him and then probing the cut in his lip. He couldn't believe she had bitten him.

His men were policing up the area to depart when suddenly the girl was darting to the exit. Two legionnaires stood in her path and reached out almost casually to grab her. At the last minute, Drake saw the strange blue glow around her, and then the two soldiers stepped aside with faraway disconnected looks on their faces. Then she was out the door and gone. The two men watched the girl before turning to each other in confusion.

"Should we go after her?" Reede asked.

Drake thought for several seconds. "No, let her go. Let's get everyone to the departure site."

They exited the Woodmoor Boys' lair and made their way to the old National Aquarium relic slightly southwest of them. The other elements of their maniple slowly converged on them.

"We will talk again soon, Drake," Caylina's voice came into his head.

He reached out to her but encountered a mental wall of ice that he could not get beyond. Then it was as if she were gone.

Drake wondered at what she had asked him. What are you?

Such a strange girl.

Chapter 34

"She's close," the Seer told Alexander, his eyes a milky white. "She was here. Not long ago."

Alexander tried to maintain his patience. They had been tracking the girl for days now. The Seer could sense specific telepathic ability, especially that of a Royal, but it wasn't enough to pinpoint her location. "How close?"

"We are closer to her than ever before," the Seer said, pointing to the north. "She went there."

Alexander looked over the rolling hills of square gravestones, past the river and ruins of some forgotten capital, to the smoke of a dying city in the distance.

"Baltimore?" he asked. "Why would she go there?"

The Seer smiled. "To make sense of a Royal's action and deeds would require abilities that far exceed mine, I'm afraid."

Pulling out his phone, Alexander called the private number to Shan'in. His master could likely reach out to him telepathically if he wished, the might of the Royals was extraordinary, but it was beyond his capability to cover such a distance with his mind.

After only a few rings, the phone answered with the voice of his master. "Yes."

"He says she's close."

There was a sigh from the other end. "That's what you told me yesterday."

"True," Alexander answered, "but you ordered me to send you regular updates. The Seer says she has gone into the city of Baltimore."

"Then she's more foolish than I imagined. Even here in Crimea, we hear of the problems they are having there. Poor girl might get herself killed…or worse."

Alexander saw an old, dignified human in a suit sitting on a bench along the cemetery path. He was looking at them and had some sort of cane across his legs. An old-fashioned hat was pulled down over silvery hair.

"Do you want us to go in there after her?" he asked.

"Of course," Shan'in answered. "Her death would not be a great loss, but there might be some advantage in seizing her before the Succession. We also can't allow one of my siblings to get a hold of her."

Alexander thought of Reath. His spy had been unable to tell him what had happened to the Varangian Guard. For all anyone knew, he was dead or trying to track Caylina as well.

"Of course, My Lord," Alexander answered looking over at the strange gentleman on the bench again and thought of Reath. His former instructor on Var before the Exile.

"Capture her and bring her to me," Shan'in said, ending the call.

Alexander turned to the Seer and the two men with him. "Get in the van. We're going to Baltimore." Instead of climbing into the vehicle himself, he walked over to the man on the bench.

"You see a girl around here lately? Dark hair. Pretty."

The man peered up at him, unafraid. "That would be some sight in the place like this."

Alexander felt something odd about the man. "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting?"

"Waiting for what?"

"For everything to change," he answered with an odd look.

Alexander looked back at the van. They were loaded up and waiting for him. "That could take a while."

"It has already started," the man said, standing up in front of Alexander. The two looked each other in the eye and then the old man began to walk down the hill. He carried the cane like a weapon rather than using it as a walking stick.

Alexander considered grabbing the old codger and making him talk, but then something changed his mind. Something that told him he should leave the old pitiful fool alone and get on with his business. Shaking his head, he climbed in the van and they drove away from Arlington Cemetery.

The old man continued to walk down the hill in thought. A faint pale bluish glow floated around him in the fading light.

Chapter 35

The cool wind blew across Drake's face as the dirigible lifted off. He looked down on the harbor and across the city. He could pick out the Belsmire Commons and even the ruins of where he used to live. A place that they had supposedly come to change for the better and left worse than they found it. All because of a contract.

Rumor was they were headed to Utah to fight the Mormons again. Another bloody fight that only killed more and more of his soldiers. Slaves like him who did what they were told until the day they died and were forgotten.

What would my mother think? Or Sasha? Of my father?

At the thought of his father, his hands wrapped around the thumb drive in his pocket. Reede hadn't been able to find out anything else on the man but had been entranced by the papers. Said they were highly theoretical and concerned practical construction of a wormhole that could actually be used to go from one side of the galaxy to another…if you already knew where you were going and there was another device at the other end.

"Worthless from an application standpoint," Reede told him, "but amazing from a theoretical perspective."

Drake entered the minds of his three friends and found them relaxing around a small table, joking with each other. Sharing everything they had to give with one another.

Everyone died. That's what legionnaires did, but he did not want his friends to die.

Making up his mind, Drake strode down the dirigible's narrow passageways to see Commander Ocan. He knocked on the man's private quarters at the front of the dirigible. "Come," said his commander's tired voice.

Drake entered, closed the door behind him, and saluted Ocan who lay sprawled across a couch near a broad window.

"Ah, Captain Goodman," Ocan said with a smile. He stood and approached to clap Drake on the back. "A fine mission. You and your men performed well, I hear."

"Thank you," said Drake.

Ocan walked over to a booze cart and began dropping ice cubes into a crystal glass. "Would you like a drink?"

"No thank you, sir. I never drink."

Ocan raised his full glass to eye level and winked at Drake over it. "Good man," he said and then laughed at his joke before collapsing back on the couch. "What is it I can do for you?"

"I've been thinking of my career."

"Really? In what way?"

"Like you, sir," Drake said, laying out the script he had worked out in his head. "You're a respected leader who came up from the bottom as a private. Now you're a legion commander."

Ocan smiled and took a drink. "Yes, thank you."

"I understand you worked at Legion Corporate Headquarters at one time?"

He nodded. "I did. Everyone has to do a stint a headquarters at one point. An unsavory assignment, but you get to know people."

"Sir, I would like to ask for your permission to volunteer to work at headquarters."

Ocan frowned. "I hate to lose a good leader."

Drake slipped into his commander's head and slightly modified the man's impression. "It would mean a great deal to me, sir."

Ocan considered Drake for a few seconds before smiling. "Why not. I'll even write you a recommendation. Do you have something specific in mind?"

"I would like to work for General Tripplehorn if possible. He was my commandant at the training academy, and I admire him greatly."

Ocan nodded. "A fine officer, for sure. Can't learn from anyone better."

"Yes. I would also like to take Lieutenants Heaton, Zinatu, and Reede with me."

His commander frowned again, and Drake pushed aside the resistance before it could solidify"

"I don't see why not," Ocan answered, taking a drink. "A commander should be able to keep his staff intact. I've said that for years."

"Thank you, sir. Can you make the call to General Tripplehorn? Tell him I came to you and volunteered to work for him."

"I'll do it first thing in the morning."

"I'd prefer you do it now," Drake pushed.

There was a hint of surprise and then relaxation. "Actually, I'll make the call immediately."

"Thank you very much, sir. Sorry to bother you. I'll leave you alone now." Drake turned to leave but at the door was stopped by Ocan's voice.

"Captain?"

Drake turned back to see that Ocan was preparing to call Legion Headquarters using the facephone.

"Yes, sir?"

"Up at headquarters you are at the center of things. Lots of strings get pulled, some this way, some the other. How far or how often those strings get pulled can mean a great many things. Perhaps the difference between death and possibly eventual freedom. Do you understand me?"

"No, sir."

Ocan set his drink down. "Remember me fondly, captain. When you are up there. Do not send me to die if you don't have to. I know it is against the philosophy of the legionnaire, but I have discovered I actually enjoy life."

"Yes, sir. I will." Drake closed the door and prepared to leave.

Chapter 36

Caylina waited until all the legionnaires left the city before making her way further north. She had heard that there was a scientific research area outside of Baltimore at Purina Johns Hopkins. There was something she needed to find out.

It wasn't terribly difficult to get to PJH or into the secure facility. Although she didn't have the access badge, it was nothing to convince one of the humans to let her inside and then promptly forget they had helped her. After wandering around the giant medical research facility for nearly an hour, she found what she was looking for.

Ducking into a biochemical laboratory, she found it deserted except for one young woman in the corner, glasses perched on her head as she peered into a microscope.

Caylina closed and locked the door behind her and walked over to the woman. She picked up a pair of sharp scissors off a desk on the way. When the woman sensed someone nearby, she pulled her eyes away and, seeing a strange girl holding sharp scissors, screamed in surprise.

"Enough of that," Caylina ordered sternly in her mind. "I need you to do something for me."

"What?" the woman asked, trembling her eyes fixated on the scissors.

Using the scissors, Caylina cut out the spot on her sleeve that contained Drake's blood. "I want you to analyze this and tell me what you think."

"What I think?" the woman stammered. "It's…a very nice jacket."

Caylina frowned at her. "I mean about the blood on it."

"What are you looking for?"

"I don't know. Just analyze it."

The woman didn't want to accept the piece of cloth but was incapable of refusing Caylina. Taking it from her outstretched hand, the woman placed it into a small round container and poured a small amount of clear liquid over the material. After pushing the cloth around for a few minutes, she pulled it out with tongs and set it aside. She then extracted a small amount of the reddish-brown liquid with a tiny dropper and placed it in a test tube. She then put the tube in an accelerator and turned it on.

They stared at each other wordlessly until the whine of the accelerator slowed to a stop. The biochemist then pulled the test tube out to reveal it had separated into a small red blob on the bottom with a large portion of clear above it. Taking a fresh dropper, she carefully extracted some of the red substance and dropped it into a tiny round reservoir. After sealing this reservoir, she placed it within the underside of the microscope.

The woman looked at the door as if to escape.

"Do as I want, and everything will be okay," Caylina told her silently.

The woman whimpered but dutifully peered into the microscope. Her trembling slowly stopped as she adjusted the magnification. "Odd," she finally said.

"What is?"

"This sample. What species did it come from?"

"You tell me," Caylina said.

The woman shook her head without taking her eyes away. "I have never seen anything like it. The blood is very similar to typical human blood, but there are strange irregularities. There are these odd blue glowing particles in the blood."

Suddenly the woman pushed herself back from the sample so that she fell over on the floor. "You brought me an infected blood sample! What is it?"

"Calm down," Caylina ordered. "It's not infected, just different."

The woman stared at her suspiciously and again flicked her eyes towards the door.

"Here," Caylina bared her arm to the woman. "Take my blood and compare it."

The woman looked hesitant but complied. After several awkward and mildly painful minutes, a sample of Caylina's blood was under the microscope. She sucked in her breath. "Holy shit…what am I looking at?"

"You are looking at another species," Caylina said. "More advanced than your own. Now back on topic, does this help to explain the first sample?"

Obviously wanting to run screaming from the room, the woman instead put in the first sample and examined it again. Then back to the second, all the time held in place by Caylina's mind.

Finally, the woman turned off the microscope and looked at Caylina. "It's a hybrid. Blood from a combination of two species. One obviously human, the other" —she shuddered— "whatever you are."

Caylina closed her eyes and smiled. Varangian blood in a human. Someone has been screwing with the indigent population. Wouldn't that just piss off the Emperor? One of his express dictates was to keep the Varangian blood pure.

"What now?" the woman asked with surprising calm. "Are you going to kill me?"

Shaking her head, Caylina placed her finger in the center of the woman's forehead. "I'm going to walk out that door and the very moment I'm out of sight you will forget you ever saw me. You will also dispose of the samples and erase any electronic files that may have been collected. Do you understand?"

"Yes," the woman answered almost in a trance.

"Good." Caylina headed for the door. Her mind raced at the implications of a Varangian human hybrid. A forbidden mutant. Something to be hunted down and destroyed at all costs.

Yet part of her had liked the boy. And kissing him. She had never kissed anyone before, and he had kissed her back. Perhaps she would make up her own mind about whether to report him or not. She was a Royal, after all.

"You are in danger," came a strange voice in her head.

Caylina froze in her steps. "What? Who are you?"

"They are hunting you. A Seer and a Varangian Guard. They mean you harm."

She looked up and down the hallway as if she expected to see them coming for her.

"You only have about an hour before they arrive. You must be out of the city before then."

"To where?" she asked.

"To safety."

She almost laughed. "Nowhere is safe."

"That's not true. You know one place that is. Safer than any other at least."

Caylina did know and found the thought of returning home didn't bother her as much as she would have expected. Part of her actually yearned to be back in her own room surrounded by familiar surroundings. The forests and the horses. Even Lamin and Reath.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Someone who doesn't want to see you come to harm. Now go."

She started to ask another question, but the voice, the presence, had vanished. Then the ramifications of someone contacting her so easily through her mental blockages frightened her. Only a Royal could do such a thing. Certainly, the Emperor didn't care enough about her to do such a thing. Or did he? she wondered.

There had been an intimacy of the contact. As if they had met before, but also not terribly familiar. It certainly hadn't been Reath or Lamin or that strange boy Drake. It had been someone else.

Someone else. A very powerful someone else.

Making her way to the parking garage, she picked the nicest car she could find and then sat on the hood. She waited patiently knowing some helpful human would eventually come along to assist her.

Chapter 37

Legion Headquarters in Indianapolis was the cleanest, nicest, and most opulent structure Drake had ever seen. He felt nervous walking on the marble floors or touching the white cloth curtains. He was surprised at how few soldiers there were in the building.

"Soldiers make them nervous," Tripplehorn told him when he asked about this. "Have to keep us in our place. After all, what do we know about business?"

The place was packed to bursting with suits. Professional men and women of all ages, mostly in the latest skin-tight multicolor affairs that to Drake appeared more clownish than respectable. Not that he would ever be able to give his humble opinion on such a topic. Legionnaires were expressly forbidden from speaking to any of the "business executives," AKA suits, unless spoken to first. Standard operating procedure in the headquarters was that soldiers were supposed to avoid suits and vice versa. Everyone went to great pains to make sure the dirty slave soldiers didn't get uppity or forget their place in the natural order.

Drake and his friends were housed in apartments in the basement of the giant building, unlike the suits who supposedly had luxury high-rise condos. Nevertheless, these basement apartments were the nicest place Drake had ever lived. In the Belsmire Commons, a residence the size of his new apartment would be unthinkable for one person. It would have been split up to accommodate four or five families at least. Heaton, Reede, and Zinatu felt the same way and they often used one of their quarters to house them all.

Reede now worked in Legion's system control vault, the result of Drake's discrete mind manipulation. His friend was finally able to shed some light on how the chips work.

"None of the suits have them," Reede told them in Drake's apartment. An impressive array of beer bottles and a series of food containers sat on the table in front of them.

"Then how do they control everything?" Heaton asked.

"Through people like me," Heaton said. "The forgotten, yet trusted, hackers in the system vault."

"Have they accepted you yet?" Drake asked.

"We're getting there," Reede answered. "It helped when I stopped wearing my uniform and grew my hair out. Hackers and programmers are all the same, and if you know how to speak their language, they eventually accept you."

"So, all those chips run through the vault?" asked Zinatu, rubbing the back of his head.

Reede nodded. "And through the server protocols and sub-routines. They control everything and every legion around the world."

"How many of them are there anyway?" Heaton asked, and everyone turned to look at Drake.

"That's more complicated than you would think," Drake answered. "Even Tripplehorn doesn't know for sure."

Heaton snorted. "You mean the guys in charge of assigning and tracking all the legions worldwide don't really know what they're all doing? Doesn't seem like a smart way to run a business."

"Legions keep disappearing," Drake said softly.

"Come again," said Zinatu.

Drake took a sip of water. "We're tracking all these legions, but then we get a report that a dirigible went down, or a unit was massacred in Greenland, or an entire legion got the pink measles, and all died. But it doesn't add up."

"Sounds like someone is cooking the books somehow," Heaton said.

Reede was nodding. "I've noted something odd as well. Just last week a legion assigned for duty in Old Mexico went off the grid."

"Yeah," said Drake. "That was one we lost. All got surrounded and wiped out by guerillas was the report."

"Yes," said Reede. "I heard the same thing, but we've all seen combat. We know how it works. In this case, all twelve hundred chips went dead within a matter of minutes."

"Maybe they were nuked or something," said Heaton.

"We would see it in the news," said Zinatu, who had become a news junkie at headquarters. "You can't keep something that big hidden."

"That's not the only odd thing," said Drake. "I see and manage most of the contract bids."

"Lots of credits I bet," said Heaton.

"Yes," answered Drake, "but that's not the odd thing. Most contracts result in a bidding war. We're going at it, monetarily speaking, with the New Soviet Union Spetsnaz, the Sino-Chinese Collective, the United Islamic Emirates, all the big players. But for those contracts where we either entirely lose a legion or get it wiped out…no bids. Here's the other weird thing."

"There's more weirdness?" asked Reede.

"Yes, some of the contracts we could bid on and win, we don't. It comes down from higher to let a competitor company have a certain contract."

"Makes you wonder if those companies are also losing units mysteriously," said Zinatu.

"But what's happening to them?" asked Heaton. "Someone has to know something."

Drake smiled. "Oh, I'm sure certain people know something. Horatio McGovern likely knows everything. He's all about the bottom line and making a profit, and for him not to be concerned about losing entire legions says something. Not that he cares for any of us personally, we're not even people to him, but we are assets."

"So, what does it mean?" asked Zinatu.

They all looked at each other without answering.

Drake cleared his throat. "I suppose it means there is much more going on than we are aware of. Personally, I'd like to know what."

"I've always been curious to a fault myself," said Reede.

"And…" said Zinatu, holding up a finger, "we owe it to our legionnaire brothers to find out what is happening to them."

"And how long has this been going on?" asked Heaton.

"Longer than you'd think," said Reede.

They all turned to give the man their full attention.

"I get to read a lot of files in the server vault," Reede said. "Last night I found and read the official history of the company. Most of it was uninteresting dry business bull, but the story of how it came to be was quite enlightening.

"How so?" asked Drake.

"Well, did you know that a little over a century ago there were not any big security contract companies? At least none to speak of."

"None at all?" asked Zinatu.

"Batshit," said Heaton.

"No, seriously," Reede said. "Each sovereign nation and there were more of them then, although the distinction somehow seemed to mean more at the time, had their own national armies. Actually, made up of their respective citizens serving. Of…their…own…freewill."

They were all quiet as they imagined such a crazy thing.

"So, what happened?" asked Heaton.

"Not entirely sure," Reede answered. "Best I can tell, citizens didn't want to serve anymore. The government contracted out to private companies for security and defense. It just snowballed from there."

"And Legion was born," said Drake. "Along with a bunch of other companies."

"Big money," said Reede.

"Yes," answered Drake. "Especially when you consider that no one at Legion except the suits gets paid."

"Like they would pay us," smiled Zinatu.

"Soldiers used to get paid," said Reede.

"Yes," said Zinatu, "but we have been purchased. Legion owns us now."

"Indeed," Drake said. "They bought us for a relatively small amount, spent time and effort training us, and now uses us for company profits until we die."

"It sounds kind of bad when you put it like that," said Heaton.

Drake leaned forward earnestly. He hesitated to speak what had been milling around in his mind. Although they had all been speaking silently to each other, he looked around anyway first. "What if it weren't so?"

"What if what wasn't so?" asked Reede.

Drake smiled. "What if we weren't slaves? What if we could choose?"

"But we are," said Heaton standing. "And we can't. I'm going to bed."

"Think about it," said Drake.

"Oh, I do," answered Heaton. "I even dream about it. Having my life back in my own hands, but I don't think about it too much or it would drive me to drink." He chugged the rest of his beer. "Drive me to drink more, I mean. Best to accept what is." He stood abruptly and left the room.

"Heaton," Drake called after him, but the big man was already gone.

"I'm going to bed as well." Zinatu killed his beer. "See you tomorrow."

Reede followed, leaving Drake alone with his thoughts. Thoughts of what was going on with the missing legions. Thoughts of how they might gain their freedom.

Thoughts of a girl with dark hair and haunting green eyes.

Chapter 38

Lamin awoke from a deep dreamless sleep to find himself in a small bedroom. He lay on a medical bed with an IV stand nearby with the corresponding tubes going into him somewhere. Lifting up the covers, he found that he was naked except for a diaper.

At least they didn't use a catheter, he thought.

"Reath," he called, reaching out telepathically to the man. "Reath."

"I see you are alive," Reath answered. "I'll be there soon."

Lamin took a drink of water from a glass on the table beside him. Within a few minutes, Reath was there sitting in a nearby chair. He peered at Lamin critically. "You still don't look too good."

"Where are we?"

"The guest house of the Emperor’s estate. Couldn't keep you in the big house, afraid you would scare the humans."

Lamin's face wrinkled up. "Scare them how?"

"In your delirium, you kept switching back and forth from human to Varangian forms."

"Oh. That is bad. How long was I unconscious?"

"A week," Reath said, looking out the window onto long horse pastures. When he turned back, he grew concerned at how pale the teacher had become.

"A week? No…the intelligence I learned was critical! It needed to be reported immediately!"

Reath frowned at him. "Exactly why I wanted you to tell me back on Var."

Lamin struggled to get up out of bed and Reath pushed him back down. "The doctor says you need to rest some more."

"If I don't report what I know," Lamin said, "the Steward will have us flayed alive. We have to tell them now."

Reath debated internally for a few seconds then lifted the man out of bed and helped him dress. He left for a time and then came back with a wheelchair.

Lamin shook his head. "One does not sit before the Emperor or even his Steward."

"Get in the chair," Reath ordered. "You can try and walk once we're at the big house."

The older man obeyed him and climbed carefully into the chair stunned by how little strength he had. A week, he thought in disbelief. Reath wheeled him outside and down a small cobblestone path that meandered through several gardens and a small tree grove separating the guest house from the giant Tudor. Making their way inside, they proceeded to Abraham's closed office door.

Reath looked up and down the adjacent hallway. "I don't see the servant to announce us."

"No time to wait," said Lamin, climbing slowly to his feet. Once upright, he teetered for an exciting moment before his body decided it could stand. Lamin then reached out in his mind to the Steward. After a few silent moments, Lamin collapsed into the chair. "He's not in there."

"Where is he?" Reath asked.

"With the Emperor. Up in his private quarters," Lamin explained. "I convinced him the information was urgent and he suggested the Emperor hear it from me as well."

Reath sighed and nodded. "Today is as good a day to die as any other." He turned the wheelchair towards the elevator. They rode to the third floor and upon exit were greeted by two stern and imposing men that Lamin recognized as Varangian Guards. The two parted for them. At the ornate double wooden doors, Lamin stood again as Reath mentally announced their presence with the Steward. The guards opened the doors in near choreographed unison.

They stepped through the door, took several steps forward, and fell to their knees, Lamin in exhaustion, Reath in surprise. There before them was a giant four-post canopy bed with the Emperor upon it. A Varangian Healer and Abraham hovered nearby while the nondescript servant they had come to recognize stood off to the side ready to assist in any way imaginable. The doors closed silently behind them.

"Disregard any signs of weakness you see," the Emperor ordered them silently and then sent a mild surge of pain through them so that they understood. "This condition is temporary."

"Of course," responded Reath.

"I understand," the Emperor said, "that your latest mission was a success. Abraham has already told me about the gold Reath returned with, but I have not heard of your side of the mission, Lamin."

"I beg your forgiveness," Lamin said, lowering his head even further. "During my mission, I was injured escaping and have been recovering since then."

The Emperor stared at him. "I see. Perhaps you are not fit for this duty after all."

"The information I uncovered is important, I believe," Lamin said. "And urgent."

"Then I guess it's our good fortune," said Abraham, "that you did not lay in bed for two weeks before reporting it."

Lamin stammered on. "The rebels do not know where we are but are searching earnestly."

"We presumed as much. That is hardly valuable information," said Abraham.

"There was a factory I stumbled upon," Lamin continued. "Produced small space probes which they have been launching as quickly as they can be completed."

The Emperor looked amused. "They are exploring new planets for settlement?"

Lamin shook his head. "The devices are being sent to every habitable planet that they can reach. These probes contain small intelligent robots that are capable of replicating themselves from local materials. Similar to what the human term Von Neumann probes."

"Replicating themselves for what purpose?" asked Abraham.

"To build Portals."

There was stunned silence in the room except for the ticking of an antique clock in the corner.

Abraham appeared to understand the implications first. "And once they have a Portal to a world, they can send their forces there. Forces that can find us."

"Yes," answered Lamin.

Everyone looked at the Emperor who appeared to be thinking. "We can presume that none of these probes have reached our current planet, otherwise forces of the Revolution would be here by now."

"True," answered Abraham, "but one could arrive in the future."

"Please forgive my impertinence," said Lamin, "but I believe it is only a matter of time before one of these probes does arrive. The factory is mass producing these probes as quickly as possible and plans to send them to every known habitable planet they can identify."

"It's quite an ingenious and novel idea," said the Emperor, nodding.

"Begging your forgiveness, My Lord," said Reath, "but it is an old idea."

They looked at him quizzically.

"On my homeworld of Canith," said Reath, "there is an ancient museum that celebrates the conquest and settlement of the planet by the Varangians. In that museum is a small probe, much like the ones Lamin has described. It is probable that thousands of years ago when the Varangians began to expand beyond the limits of space flight and had discovered the technology of the Portals, this is how they found, conquered, and colonized new planets."

Lamin looked at Reath disapprovingly as if the man had stolen his thunder. "Reath, I believe, is correct. I managed to see some of the plans for the probes while working there. Those plans used terminology and words that were from the pre-Sassucian reign."

The Emperor stunned them all by looking at Lamin and asking, "What do you recommend we do about this new information?"

Although shocked, the teacher recovered his footing quickly. "We cannot prevent the probes from coming here, but we can destroy them before they have a chance to build a Portal. For a small probe to build a Portal likely takes many years given the tiny size of the robots and the requirement to self-replicate. Once the rebels learn that their probe has not resulted in a Portal, they will likely presume it was lost in route and send another, but we gain time even with the probes traveling at near light speed."

"It is quite a long distance from Var to here," said the Emperor. "Surely we don't have to worry about this for many years."

Lamin took a deep breath. "The probes in the factory were not being prepared for launch, but for shipment."

"Shipment?" asked the Emperor. "Where?"

"I believe," said Lamin, "that the probes are being sent through the Portals to the outer limits of the planets the rebels have taken. From there, they will be launched outwards, greatly diminishing the distance any probe will have to travel."

"Of course," nodded the Emperor.

"Presuming any of them make it here," said Abraham, "how would we know where to find these probes?"

"Meteorites," said Lamin. "These probes would appear as dense metal meteorites as they enter the atmosphere and crash into the earth's surface. Fortunately, given the latest technology, it is not difficult to observe and track meteorite landings."

"You're saying we have to investigate every single meteorite landing," the Emperor said, "and then destroy the meteorite if it turns out to be a rebel probe."

"Exactly, My Lord," said Lamin. "I would also suggest having past meteorite strikes investigated as soon as possible. As Your Highness noted earlier, it is a near certainty they have not completed a Portal here, given the time it would take to build one, yet…such a Portal could be in the progress of being built as we speak."

Again, the room was silent.

"I will see to it," Abraham said suddenly. "Past and future meteorite strikes will be investigated, and any probe will be destroyed."

The Emperor nodded. "Good." He then looked up at Reath and Lamin. "You have done well and regained my favor. You may return to your earlier duties. Do not fail me again."

"Caylina?" asked Reath. "She has been found?"

"No," said the Emperor with a smile. "She had her little adventure and then came back on her own, no worse for wear."

The Emperor coughed and the healer bent over him quickly, only to be waved away.

"You may go," Abraham told them, and they gratefully exited by standing and walking backward out of the room. The doors opened behind them, and once they cleared the room's opening, the nondescript servant walked forward to close the doors in their faces.

"That went surprisingly well," said Reath.

Lamin collapsed on the floor.

Chapter 39

Drake sat in a chair in his apartment, staring at a blank white wall. His eyes were open, but they were unseeing, his mind far away. Working through the problem. Imagining move and countermove, possibilities within possibilities. All the things that could go right and all the more things that could go horribly wrong.

Slowly he realized that he wasn't alone. Others were in the room with him.

"Should we be worried?" he heard Heaton ask.

Someone put warm fingers to his neck. "He has a pulse," said Zinatu.

"You okay in there?" Reede asked him silently.

Drake closed his eyes and then opened them again. Turning, he stared at them and smiled softly. "I need to do this," he told them using the chips.

"Here we go again," said Heaton. "The whole revolt from slavery thing."

"We can do it," said Drake, "but I can't do it. Not alone. I need your help."

"What makes you think we can escape from Legion?" asked Heaton. "Even if we manage to get their claws out of us, where will we go that we're not hunted? What kind of life would we have that's any better than this?" He tilted back a fresh beer as if to emphasize the point.

"Legion won't hunt us," said Drake, "because there won't be anyone to hunt us. We won't be running either."

"What are you considering?" asked Zinatu.

"Everything regarding Legion is about control," said Drake. "And control is all about the chips in our heads. Those chips are the same as chains and shackles to us."

"Yes," said Zinatu.

"To a limited extent, I can block their control, but only for a short time and the ability is fairly localized."

"How do you block their control?" asked Reede.

Drake shook his head. "I honestly don't know. I've seen no indications that anyone else has learned how to do this. I've tried to teach Heaton here, but it's not good." He decided not to tell them about the ability to perform limited mind control.

"I never was the best student," said the big man.

"I'm only telling you this to say that what I can do is not enough for our plan. We need to take control of the chips from Legion itself."

"You mean from the server vault," said Reede.

Drake nodded. "You've talked about how there are programs to load and download authority over certain chips to particular commanders depending on their levels. We want to take that control away from them and give it to us. All of it to us."

"Not to put a damper on things," said Heaton, "but that might not be a good idea. For society at large, I mean. Present company excluded of course; most soldiers were criminals before. Some of them are freaking psychopaths. Taking away that control and turning them loose, well-armed and trained I might add, might not be the most humane thing."

"Do we care?" asked Zinatu. "This is the same society that put us here, I might add."

"I care," said Heaton. "My family is still out there."

"And mine," added Reede.

"I'm not talking about turning them loose," said Drake. "I'm talking about taking the authority away from Legion."

"And replacing that authority with what?" asked Heaton.

"With us," said Drake.

"With us what?" asked Heaton.

Drake pointed around the room at them. "With us in control of the chips."

"All of them?" asked Zinatu. "There have to be thousands of soldiers out there."

"Nearly a quarter of a million to be exact," said Drake, then looked embarrassed. "By best estimates."

Heaton shook his head. "I know you're smart and all, but wouldn't something like that give you a stroke or drive you insane?"

"Not necessarily," said Reede, looking off into nothing. "We could also download the control sub-routines into our chips. This would allow our brains to do what the servers do. I've already determined that most of the chip is free space. Granted, I wouldn't have any idea how this would operate in our heads."

"So," said Heaton, "for the majority of the legionnaires, us excluded, we would simply be replacing one overlord for another—us."

"Yes," said Drake, "but we are soldiers ourselves. We can change things. Stop the suits from just using us and then throwing us away."

"This is all great," said Zinatu, "but is it even possible?"

Drake turned to look at Reede.

The man nodded slowly. "Maybe. I could download all the super system admin control privileges to Drake's chip and, pardon the phrase, slave our chips to his. I could then go in and delete all the backup files that would allow them to reverse the process. Essentially, Legion would be locked out of their own system, at least the part that controls the chips, unless one of us decides to let them back in."

"Can you do it?" Zinatu asked Reede.

"Probably. Yes. The other programmers trust me now. I have all the same privileges they do. They like me because I volunteer to monitor the system so they can all game with each other."

"Game?" asked Zinatu.

"Yeah," said Reede. "They use a legionnaire simulator as a first-person game. It's a virtual reality where they simulate being a soldier in various combat scenarios."

"Unbelievable," said Heaton. "Suits playing at being soldiers."

"What do you all think?" Drake asked, looking at them all.

"It's dangerous," said Zinatu. "Not just for what others might do. It could blow our brains out."

"I think I can mitigate that with software in the chips," said Reede. "We'll all have a mini server in our heads."

Heaton snorted. "That doesn't make me feel any better."

"I'm in," said Zinatu suddenly.

Reede nodded slowly and smiled. "Me too, of course. Our own personal servers in our heads…shit, yeah."

"I really expected a little more deliberation," Heaton said.

"Are you in or out?" Reede asked him.

Heaton looked at them in turn. "Hell, I'm in. Just try not to make me a drooling idiot."

"How would we be able to tell?" asked Zinatu.

"When do we make it happen?" asked Reede.

"The sooner the better," answered Drake. "Now let's figure out the details."

Chapter 40

"Major," asked Tripplehorn, looking at him. "Did you hear what I asked?"

Drake nodded. "Yes, sir. The quarterly operational projection report will be done by the end of the day." He spoke out loud since they were forbidden from using the chips to communicate with each other in the headquarters, as the suits didn't have them.

"How about within the hour?" asked Doug, Tripplehorn's superior. The man leered as always at those around him while pulling at his skin-tight elastic suit.

"Yes, sir," answered Drake, moving over to the appropriate terminal.

The truth was, he would not be done with the requested report in the next hour. He wouldn't even be done by the end of the day. More than likely, no one would ever complete a Legion quarterly operational projection report ever again.

"You got someplace to be?" Doug asked Drake, who was staring at a digital clock on the wall.

"No, sir," Drake answered.

"Then get your lazy ass back to work." Doug sat down to a computer game while placing a VR helmet over his lacquered hair.

There were three other soldiers and about a dozen suits in the large open bay room that served as the Legion Operations Center. Most of the suits were talking to each other casually while drinking coffee or surfing the web or napping. It was the soldiers who were doing all the work. That was how it should be the suits believed. After all, a farmer didn't pull a plow while the horse stood and watched, did he?

Drake looked up again at the clock. It was only a few minutes away. He felt a thick ball in the pit of his stomach.

"Are you okay?" Tripplehorn asked him.

"Sorry, sir," Drake said. "I was just working out a problem with the numbers in my head for the report."

Tripplehorn nodded and turned away.

Only seconds now. Five…four…three…two…one…nothing.

Drake stared at the clock and looked around slowly. He mentally probed to see if anything had changed. Maybe Reede had—

His brain exploded. Light and noise and experiences combined with infinite worlds flowed over him. Someone had cut the top of his skull off and millions of other brains had crawled inside, all fighting for space. Jumbles of flashing scenes, smells, and dreams poured over him like he was caught in a giant whirlpool. He felt himself swirling down into darkness.

Reaching out with every bit of control and strength he had, Drake grabbed hold of reality and forced all the other consciousnesses back. At the same time, he made himself relax so as not to panic. Slowly, the intensity of the minds receded, still there but not overwhelming.

Opening his eyes, Drake found himself staring up at Tripplehorn, who was leaning over him. The angle was all wrong and Drake realized he was lying flat on the floor. A series of alarms were going off in the control room. Tripplehorn had a strange look on his face.

Drake climbed to his feet. Mentally, he completed the next phase of the plan and granted the super-admin rights to his three friends one at a time. He shifted the authority to them slowly, mentally imagining he was helping someone learn how to swim. He held them aloft until they got the hang of it themselves.

"What the hell is going on?" Doug ripped off the VR helmet so roughly that it pulled a few hairs out of place.

Tripplehorn stared at various screens mounted on the walls around the large room. "It appears to be a failure of the control modules. On a massive scale."

"What does that mean?" yelled Doug.

"It means the chips are malfunctioning," Tripplehorn answered without a glance at the suit.

"Turn off the alarm," Drake silently told one of the other soldiers in the room. "Turn off all the alarms."

It went quiet.

"Thank god," said Doug. "Now someone better start explaining to me what is going on."

Drake silently ordered the soldiers in the building to lock down the headquarters and guard all exits.

Heaton and Zinatu come into the room, and Reede followed closely behind them.

"Hey, you can't come in here," one of the minor suits told Drake's friends. "Get out of here, you riff-raff."

His friends ignored the man until the suit grabbed Heaton, at which point the big man headbutted the other in the face. The suit crumbled to the floor, blood pouring out on the tile.

"Grab that man!" screamed Doug. "Grab him now!"

The suits stepped back out of the way, knowing this was directed at the other soldiers. None of them moved.

"Legion no longer has control of the chips in their heads," Drake told them. "I do."

Tripplehorn turned to him, a curious look on his face. "What did you do?"

Instead, Drake took a deep breath and began to talk to the legionnaires telepathically. Hundreds of thousands of minds spread around the globe. He again felt as if his head were about to come off, but not as bad as before. "Fellow legionnaires, the chips that are in our heads are no longer controlled by Legion Group. I have seized control of the command modules. My intention is to demand and take our freedom back from those who have seized it from us. All contracts are hereby null and void, and all combat operations are to cease immediately."

"You can't do that," said Tripplehorn out loud to him.

"Do what?" asked Doug. "Is he talking to you silently? That's not allowed here."

Drake continued, "Commanders, take your units to a safe and secure location and await further orders. Only use force to defend yourselves. Seize all Legion facilities, equipment, and weapons."

There was a massive host of voices that came back to him in response, and Drake cut them off.

"There will come a time," Drake continued, "when you will be given a choice. That choice will involve each of you deciding what is best for your future. That time is not yet here. Until then, you will continue to be soldiers and obey orders. My orders. Do you understand?"

There were thousands of positive responses, but not near enough.

"To show you that I mean what I say…" Drake then sent out a massive jolt of pain to all the legionnaires worldwide, taking steps to fence off those in the room with him.

"Legion commanders," he ordered. "Take control of your units and execute your orders. Acknowledge."

Drake sat still for several seconds as hundreds of responses came in. Once he was assured he had them all, he refocused on the control room.

Doug meanwhile was nearly apoplectic. He was running around the room pointing at the screens. "What's going on? There are complaints and anomalies all over the board!"

"What are you going to do?" Tripplehorn asked Drake calmly.

"No, I already told you that," Drake said. "The question is what are you going to do?"

Tripplehorn's eyes darted around the room and then back at Drake. He then walked over to the screaming Doug with a thin grin and punched him powerfully in the stomach. Once the suit was on the ground, he began to kick him, appearing to really get into it.

The other soldiers in the room took the general's cue and commenced to administer a long-overdue ass-whipping to the suits.

Panting and with a dangerous look in his eye, Tripplehorn drew his dagger from his waist and leaned over a quivering Doug. "You…dirty…little…shit!"

"No," Drake ordered as Tripplehorn drove forward with the dagger.

The general ignored him, and Drake was forced to freeze him. Then both Tripplehorn and the dagger fell to the floor. Drake released him after few seconds.

"Like I said," Drake sent to all of them in the room. "We are still legionnaires, and we still follow orders. I am now your commanding officer."

Tripplehorn stood slowly and nodded. "Very well, but he" —pointing at Doug— "deserves to die. You have no idea all the terrible things he has done or made me do."

"I'm sure he does," Drake said. "Perhaps you will kill him yet. For now, we need to solidify our position with as little blood spilled as possible."

Putting his dagger back in its sheath, he nodded at Drake. "Understood…sir." He then tied the suit up using thick office tape. The other legionnaires followed his example, and soon the only upright people in the room were soldiers.

"You ready for this?" Heaton asked Drake, walking up close beside him.

Drake grinned. "Let's go get what's owed to us."

The soldiers followed Drake out of the control room.

Chapter 41

It felt good to be home, Caylina decided. She grudgingly acknowledged, and was even a little grateful, for things she hadn't appreciated before. Little things were really big things. Even her mother.

"Make sure you get the weeds up, dear," Rebecca Boyle told her. "Don't want them choking out the petunias." Gardening was the woman's most avid passion, and Caylina discovered she liked gardening as well. She soon found that her mother wasn't the disdainful worthless droll she had previously considered all humans. Her mother, if she could be called that, genuinely cared for her. Caylina didn't mind if it was all a farce and an illusion in the poor woman's head. She was still the closest thing she had to a mother.

It had only been a week since her return, but the human staff seemed to have genuinely missed her. Her mother, of course, gave her a big hug and asked how "camp" was. She had no idea where this idea came from but suspected Reath planted it there. Alice the cook kept making her food, and the groundkeepers waved to her as they always had. Now she waved back for some reason she couldn't fully identify.

Smoke had nearly trampled her in his enthusiasm to see her again. She soothed him and connected with his mind and learned that the horse had feared she would never return. The animal's concern brought tears to her eyes.

"Whoa!" Her mother suddenly stood to walk over beside her. "Use your gloves with that one." She pointed at a small unremarkable plant.

"Why?"

"That's cicuta maculate."

"What?"

"Water hemlock," she said. "A wildflower indigenous to this area. Can be quite pretty when full-grown but also unbelievably deadly."

Caylina pulled back from the plant as if she expected it to leap upon her. "Deadly?"

"Infused with the most lethal cicutoxin in the world, especially the roots. Eating any of it would kill you almost instantly, touching it and then putting your fingers to your mouth or eyes could make you very sick. Here let me get it."

"No," said Caylina, putting on her gloves. "I can do it."

"Are you sure?" the woman asked worriedly.

"Yes." Caylina reached down to grasp the plant by its base in order to pull up the roots as well. After a steady pulling and rocking motion, it was out of the ground.

"Be sure to put it in the trash can instead of the compost heap," her mother said. "Don't want the horses or one of the cats to get into it. Also, go wash your hands just to make me feel better."

Caylina walked around the side of the house and dropped the murderous plant into a large plastic container, and then shut the lid. She then went into the nearby garage, tossed her gloves into a laundry bin, and washed her hands at the sink.

"I've been searching for you," said Lamin. "It is past time for our lessons."

Looking at the tutor, she felt a touch of guilt. The man was so frail now and often weak. All because of her. She didn't know what had happened to Lamin, and he wouldn't tell her, but she had no doubt, at its core, she was the cause.

"I will recover," he smiled as if reading her mind.

"Glad to hear it." She stepped out of the garage. "Shall we walk by the river again? We won't be able to do so for much longer. The weather is starting to change."

"As long as you agree not to run off."

It was meant as a joke, but the guilt returned. "I'm sorry."

"Don't say that," Lamin told her. "A Royal never apologizes. An apology implies equality and no one is your equal except another Royal."

"So, a Royal is never allowed to express remorse at anything?"

"Yes, but not as an apology. Try something like, 'that did not work out as planned perhaps next time I will do it differently.'"

"That doesn't sound near as good as mine."

"No, it does not. What should we study today?" he asked.

"How about some Varangian history? I'm sick to death of the human history."

"Very well. Would you like to hear about the exploits of the Anulsian Dynasty? Or perhaps of the Xenioth Wars? Or the emergence of the Great Masters in the Third Filian Age?"

"Actually," she said. "I'm interested in hearing about Varangian history here on Earth."

"Why?" Lamin asked with confusion. "That is a rather uninteresting and unremarkable topic."

"Indulge me," said Caylina. "Then we can talk about the Anulsian Dynasty if you like."

Her tutor sighed heavily. "Very well. As you know, the Varangian Royal family was betrayed on Var. The Steward there conspired with elements of what eventually became the Rebellion. He later seized power for himself."

"Is he still in power there now?"

Lamin nodded. "Unfortunately, yes. He abolished the old traditions and imprisoned the Royals. Thankfully, there were many still loyal who helped the ruling family escape."

"To here?"

"Eventually. We traveled through a number of Portals to throw off anyone who might manage to follow us before settling here."

"How did my father choose this place?"

Lamin laughed. "He didn't. Your father was still very young then. His father was Emperor. He died within a year of reaching Earth. It was a very stressful and dangerous time."

"And my father was then made Emperor?"

Lamin hesitated before answering. "No. The Eldest Offspring of the Emperor assumed that title."

Caylina stopped walking. "My father had brothers?"

"Of course," Lamin chuckled. "Every Emperor must have multiple children. How else can there be a proper Succession?"

"Then how did my father survive if his older brother became Emperor?"

"He Submitted himself. As did his sisters and another brother."

She started walking again. "Was there another Succession when my…uncle died?"

"Not exactly," Lamin said. "Emperor Kenn'eth was…let us say…unusual. He abdicated his responsibilities as Emperor."

"Abdicated?"

Lamin nodded. "Yes. He supposedly became fascinated with the humans and spent an unsightly amount of time with them. He would disappear for long stretches of time without even taking Varangian Guards along. After several years of this strangeness, he gave the Empire to your father who has been a proper Emperor ever since."

"What happened to the other siblings? Do I have other aunts and uncles out there?"

"No. Your father did the right thing. The very traditions of the Empire were threatened not only by our exile but also by his older brother's misrule. Many were questioning the old ways. Your father eliminated all threats and solidified his control here."

"He killed them?"

"No, not personally."

"He ordered them killed."

"Yes."

They walked in silence for a long time.

"And what of the older brother…Kenn'eth?" she asked.

"He was hunted, of course," said Lamin. "Never located as far as I know. His death would have certainly been proclaimed throughout the Empire, but he has not been seen again. There are only rumors now."

"What rumors?"

"That he lives among the humans as one of them. That he even took a human woman as his wife. There are even wild stories…granted, I don't believe them…that he had children by this human woman. Mutants." Lamin quenched his face up tightly while shaking his head.

"Mutants?" she asked.

"Cross-breeds, abominations. The Varangian blood is pure. Any dilution of it with inferior races is forbidden."

"Why is it forbidden?"

Lamin suddenly looked flustered. "It just…is. That is tradition. History hints at the disastrous consequences of mixing Varangian blood with that of other species. The results often have unforeseen consequences."

Caylina thought of Drake. "What would happen to such a mutant if it was discovered? If, say, the stories were true about the old Emperor having Offspring with a human?"

"Why they should be destroyed! As soon as possible! A mutant is one thing, horrible and disgusting, but a mutant of Royal blood is too much to bear."

"Because they might have a claim to the Empire?"

Lamin stared at her as if she urinated on his shoes. "Of course not! No mutant could ever be…how could it even be endured? No. No no no no. No."

"So that's a no?"

"Enough of this foolish talk," he said. "Now let us talk about something practical, like the Anulsian Dynasty."

Caylina continued to walk with her tutor and listen with half an ear. Her mind however was preoccupied with other matters.

Chapter 42

Tripplehorn, Drake, and his friends followed him out of the control room and down the wide halls. Soldiers stood at attention as they passed. Confused and nervous suits scurried out of the way, sensing that the world was gone off its axis.

As per the prearranged plan, Heaton was waking up the fleet of battlebots stored in the domed building adjacent to Legion Headquarters. These bots were in the process of blocking off streets leading to their location and surrounding the building. Zinatu was doing something similar with the drones whereas Reede was busy downloading everything from the servers they might need and working to ensure nothing could be somehow reversed. Tripplehorn had taken control of the soldiers in the building and was organizing its occupation as they all stepped into the executive elevator. Reede overrode the controls to take them to the top floor.

Drake continued to monitor the worldwide Legion system and traffic through the chips. He had to shock a particular unit that had decided to mutiny and take their dirigible to the South Pacific, but they were now back in hand. He was slowly working through talking to the individual Legion commanders and, after being assured of their loyalty, or at least willingness to maintain the discipline of their units and follow orders, gave them full authority over their units. He'd had to replace a handful of commanders, but not many. Few of them actually had any love for the suits running Legion Defense.

As the doors of the elevator opened onto the plush top floor, a wave of confusing noise washed over them. Suits were rushing around in near panic and it seemed like thousands of facephones were ringing.

Drake almost asked Tripplehorn which way to the CEO's office but realized that was unnecessary. This entire top floor was about the big man's office; everything else around it was to support him, his status, or his vanity. Drake strode to the huge double wooden doors at the end of the marble and mahogany hallway, his friends in tow.

One of the doors was closed, but the other hung limp between open and closed, as if uncertain which state it currently existed in. A mousy male secretary stood up to stop them, but a look from Zinatu closed his mouth. At the CEO's office, Drake pushed the heavy door open, and it swung slowly, revealing a half dozen suits huddled around Horatio McGovern who sat behind his desk. Their entire focus was on the two giant screens on a nearby wall. All of them turned as the door banged loudly against the mahogany paneling.

"General," yelled Horatio, "what the hell is going on?" He used both hands to point at the screens. "Every damn legion has withdrawn from their missions, their approved contracts. Do you know what that means?"

"I do," said Tripplehorn softly.

Horatio's attention shot around, looking back and forth between the screens and the soldiers in his office. "The techs tell me they can't use the control network. Some sort of glitch. None of the chips are responding."

The suits around Horatio stood up straighter and gazed at the soldiers with growing alarm as the CEO vented.

"Sir?" said one of them hesitantly eying Drake and his friends. "I think there's a problem."

Horatio snorted. "Of course, there's a problem, you moron! All the units have withdrawn at the same time. Why? Why would they do that?"

"Because I told them to," said Drake.

For the first time, Horatio looked up for more than a second and appeared to truly see the men in front of him. His eyes kept darting to Tripplehorn and then at the others. "General, get this scum out of my office."

They all stood impassive. Heaton smiled.

"Did you hear me?" he almost yelled.

"I heard you," Tripplehorn said. "I just no longer obey you, you little worm of a man."

The CEO's mouth dropped open. A little quicker on the uptake, the half dozen grim suits stepped back away from the soldiers until their backsides were pressed against the tall glass windows behind the desk.

"You can all leave." Drake waved the standing suits out.

They froze instead with nervous agitation, unsure whether to listen to Horatio or the soldiers in front of them. After several seconds, Heaton grabbed the one nearest to him by the front of his stretchy garment and half dragged him out of the room. Zinatu and Reede did the same. By the time they had thrown the first trio through the door, the suits were scrambling out under their own volition, anxious to exit the office. Once the Legion underlings were out, the doors were securely closed and locked.

Growing understanding and horror began to dawn on the CEO's face. He stared at Tripplehorn, the once familiar face. "What did you do?"

"It was him." Tripplehorn hooked a thumb in Drake's direction. "I didn't do anything, just along for the ride now."

Horatio's face clouded over as if the man were attempting to summon the resources for an epic furious tantrum but couldn't quite overcome the shock. The result was confusion as he looked at Drake and then at Tripplehorn and then back at Drake. "And who are you?"

"My name is Major Goodman…well, probably just Drake Goodman for now. I haven't given much thought yet to the new rank structure."

"What…what…" His eyes kept sweeping around the soldiers arrayed before him and occasionally back at the screens on his desk.

"I'll save you some time," said Drake. "We have managed to commandeer all control systems from Legion. Not one legionnaire, or for that matter a single piece of semi-autonomous weapon system, is now under your control."

"How? How could this be?"

"I'm not going to tell you that, just realize it is so. We now command ourselves. We are free."

The man's horror grew, taking the place of his agitation. "Do you realize what you have done?"

"Yes," said Heaton, "we've become free men."

"Free men?" Horatio said and gave a small laugh. "Don't you remember where you came from? A quarter of a million murderers, rapists, child molesters, arsonists now free with heavy weapons?"

"You forgot the debtors, immigrants, dissidents, poor, all those pressed into petty crime out of a need to survive," said Zinatu.

"Whatever." Horatio waved his hand. "Can you imagine what they will now do? As free men?"

"I have taken certain precautions to maintain order and discipline," said Drake.

The man studied Drake for the first time. "You? You're in control of…everyone? How?"

"Again, not going to tell you, and I think you're focusing on the wrong aspects here."

"What are the right aspects?"

"How to salvage the situation," Drake said. "We are willing to continue to voluntarily work for Legion. We have been trained, of course, and this is our new profession. All legionnaires will be compensated fairly. All Legion contracts will be approved by a Soldiers' Advisory Board prior to execution."

"Soldiers' Advisory Board?" Horatio asked.

"Us," said Tripplehorn, "for now. We make sure the missions aren't in actuality screens for mass slaughter or extermination. We will do proper soldier work, but no longer be your murderers."

"I see," said Horatio. "You said volunteers. What of those who no longer wish to be soldiers. What of them? Will those be freed? Killed? Put in charge?"

"We haven't fully worked those details out yet," said Drake. "And, not to sound rude, but that is not your concern. We will deal with those individuals on a case-by-case basis. All you need to know is that it is possible for you as the CEO to salvage the situation."

"How in the gods' names would I do that?"

"By meeting our simple demands," Tripplehorn said. "If you do so quickly enough, you might not even default on any contracts."

Horatio suddenly grew pale and stared at a small stain on the Persian carpet in front of a plush chair. "No." He shook his head and turned to his screens again and punched a few buttons. His hands moved with a slight tremble. "We have to meet the next contract. A legion was already en route. At least let that one go forward and then we can work on other things."

"What makes one contract any more important than another?" asked Drake. He walked over to the nearest screen the man had opened and spun it on the desk so he could see. Peering carefully, he shook his head. "Abraham Assurances in northern Mexico? What is that?"

"You don't want to know," the man pleaded. "Just fulfill that contract."

"Meet our demands and there is no reason we can't," Drake said.

"This is bigger than me!" Horatio nearly screamed at them. "We have obligations that are more important than just profits and losses."

"Then meet them," said Heaton. "Give us what we want."

"I'm just the CEO."

Tripplehorn snorted. "I never imagined I would hear that sentence coming out of your mouth."

There was an urgent buzz from Horatio's desk followed by a nasal tight voice. "Sir, very sorry to bother you."

Horatio looked relieved to get the call and pushed a button. "It's okay, Kurt. What is it?"

"The Allied American States Official Shareholders are calling an emergency meeting of the Executive Council. They say your presence is required."

"I understand," said Horatio. "Tell them I'll be there and make all the arrangements." He then looked over the soldiers. "Presuming I'm allowed to leave?"

"What is that about?" asked Reede.

Horatio laughed. "Stock value of course. Legion is shedding value at an alarming rate as we default on contracts. We are a significant percentage of the global market so we're pulling everything down with us. In short, gentlemen, you have personally triggered a worldwide depression. Congratulations."

"Like any of us care," said Heaton angrily. "What's it to us if some rich shit like you has to sell their yacht or loses their cottage in the Alps?"

"It's more than that," said Horatio.

"I'm sure it is," answered Drake. "You have our demands and adequately understand the situation, I believe."

"Oh, I understand."

"Then go," Drake ordered.

Horatio stood slowly, glanced over at them with uncertainty, and slipped out of the room.

Heaton walked over to the drink cart and picked up a few ornate bottles. Pulling out the stopper of one, he smelled it and then nodded to himself. "I think this is the good stuff."

Tripplehorn, Zinatu, and Reede gathered around as he poured generous portions of the amber liquid into four glasses and in the process finished off the bottle. Heaton looked at Drake questioningly.

"No thanks," said Drake with a short shake of his head.

Heaton then handed out the glasses, and they all held them up to each other. "Here's to freedom…however long it lasts." They gave a small cheer and drank.

Sliding behind the gigantic desk, Drake let himself slip into the leather swivel chair. He found the intercom button and pushed it.

"Ah…yes…sir?" came the hesitant voice.

"Kurt? It's Kurt, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Get us some coffee in here, please."

"And some sandwiches," added Heaton, already moving on to one of the other bottles.

"And some sandwiches," said Drake with a smile.

"Yes, sir," came the answer before the call ended.

Drake spun in the swivel chair to look out the expansive glass windows at the nearly deserted downtown area. Peering more closely, he could see battlebots at intersections blocking off traffic from getting near them. Standing at a respectable distance from the bots were small huddles of uncertain Police.

No matter what happens, he thought. This is better than what was.

Don't be so sure, came a strange voice.

Chapter 43

"He has a point, you know," said Reede from McGovern's genuine leather couch next to the faux fireplace.

"Who does?" asked Heaton who had finally slowed down on the whiskey consumption once he'd eaten about ten sandwiches.

"The CEO dude," said Reede. "About the dangers of freeing a bunch of dangerous criminals."

"Like us?" asked Zinatu.

"No, not like us," said Reede testily. "You know what I mean. Some of our brothers are not the sort you would trust alone around your family."

"True," said Heaton. "Not everyone is as upstanding as us."

"We talked about this," said Drake. "We'll have to figure out something. Separate those that can be trusted from those that can't."

"But how?" asked Heaton.

"The same way Legion does," answered Tripplehorn. "Design a testing scenario. Those that pass are fine; those that do not are…well…not fine."

"A test?" asked Zinatu. "Like what? Put them in a room filled with defenseless kittens and see what happens?"

"I know you don't like cats," Heaton said to Zinatu, "but that's not necessarily the problem with everyone."

"Cats, people, whatever," answered Zinatu. "We have to know that the people we are setting free aren't going to suddenly become predators on the weak."

"Like we were," said Drake. The room got quiet.

"That is different," said Tripplehorn, understanding what Drake was talking about. "We were following orders and might not have followed them given a choice."

"Choice," said Reede, "that's what I'm talking about. What is freedom without choice? We can't run their lives forever. Even if we could, I wouldn't want to. Besides, we'd be no better than Legion if we did."

Zinatu frowned. "We grant everyone the free will to choose whether to torture, rape, and murder others or not?"

"No," said Drake before anyone could answer. "We won't do that."

"So," Reede tossed his hands up, "other than keeping a quarter of a million soldiers in perpetual servitude, what can we do?"

"I just told you," said Tripplehorn. "Test them. All of them. Use every conceivable scenario you can think of…including the kitten one if you like."

"How can we possibly do that?" asked Heaton.

"Through the chips." Drake sat up suddenly.

Reede and Tripplehorn were nodding at the same time, grins spreading on their faces.

"We use the VR feed," said Drake, "like they did for training, except they won't know it's a VR feed."

"How?" asked Zinatu.

"We'll initiate it when they are asleep," said Drake. "They likely won't be able to tell that it's not real."

"I can set up the program to initiate on the chips after they reach REM sleep," said Reede.

"Is that possible?" asked Heaton. "And if so, why hasn't Legion been screwing with us during this…what is it? Ram sleep?"

"REM sleep," corrected Reede. "Probably because it wouldn't serve any training purpose for them. Or maybe they didn't bother to try or possibly didn't even know. Not sure."

Zinatu rubbed his hands together. "So, a test, right?"

"We can design a series of virtual scenarios and track how they score in each," said Reede.

"And how good a score is good enough?" asked Drake. "What if they don't kill the old lady, but like to set fires or defecate in public?"

"Oh, that's good." Reede pointed at him. "I hadn't thought of that one."

"Seriously," said Heaton. "Is it an all or nothing? Do we establish a passing score or something? I mean, how do you make a simple judgment of good or bad human nature?"

"I don't know," said Drake, "but we have to try. Maybe those that pass, whatever we decide that means, we turn loose, and those that don't, we keep under our thumbs for their own good."

"But we're talking a quarter of a million people," said Zinatu slowly. "How do we manage such a thing?"

"We don't," said Reede. "I'll write a program that will do it for us and report the results. People will be placed into certain categories that we establish ahead of time-based upon what we think is a passing score."

Heaton frowning in thought, "something like putting people into categories, such as saints, normal people, better keep an eye on them, hell no, and run away screaming."

"You're full of good ideas," said Reede.

"Where would we fall?" asked Zinatu seriously. "If we had to take such a test, I mean?"

"We can test ourselves as well," said Reede with a shrug. "It will be fun."

"My impression of such a test does not sound like it will be fun," said Heaton.

"Unless you are a psychopath," said Reede, "it will probably be extremely boring. Just a normal day of ignoring temptations to do horribly evil shit."

Drake was nodding slowly. "Okay. I agree, anyone have a problem with it?"

No one did.

"I'll start working up something," said Reede.

"What do you think is going on at their big shareholder meeting?" asked Heaton in the sudden silence.

"They are crapping themselves," answered Tripplehorn. "Trying to find any way out of this that does not give us what we want. Wasting time searching for a means to get us all back under control."

Drake nodded. "Eventually they will accept the inevitable and start worrying about how to get stock prices back up before they're all canned. They certainly don't want word of what's really happening to get out, otherwise, things could really go badly."

There was a buzz on the line, and then the hesitant voice of the secretary. "Uh…hello."

"Yes, Kurt," answered Drake.

"There is a call from Mister McGovern. He would like me to patch it through on the facephone."

"Go ahead," answered Drake, swiveling to the screen. Horatio's face, possibly even more stressed than when he departed, came into view.

"I figured you assholes would still be in my office," said Horatio. "If you touch my whiskey, I'll make you pay."

"Too late," hollered Heaton.

Horatio's jaw clenched tightly for a full three seconds before he could make himself speak. "All of it?"

"It's not like you told us we couldn't have any," Heaton responded. "Maybe you should have said something. That's on you, boss."

Horatio shook his head with a grim smile. "You will pay for this, all of you will. Very soon, I promise."

"Enough of the idle threats," said Drake. "Do we get what we want?"

"No, but you will get what you deserve."

Drake sighed. "You are wasting time. We both know you are powerless to do anything right now. We have control of the chips. We have ruined your control. We are free."

"Actually," said Horatio with a smile. "Legion network administrators just finished a reboot of the system and all your work has been undone."

"Bullshit," said Reede, running around to look at the screen. "No one has been in or out of the server vault since we took over."

"No one has been in or out of that server vault," said Horatio, enjoying himself. "I'm talking about the backup server vault."

Reede frowned. "There is no backup server vault. I checked."

"How would you know?" asked Horatio. "Hell, I didn't even know about it. It was the original vault when Legion first started. Hardly gets used, but still has all the connections, permissions, and protocols."

"He's lying." Reede turned to Drake. "It's a ploy to scare us."

"Is it now?" asked Horatio. He then turned to someone off camera. "Do it," he said.

An instant later they all were writhing on the floor as wave after wave of unimaginable burning pain washed through their bodies.

A quarter of a million soldiers around the world were suddenly back under Legion control.

Chapter 44

Abraham awoke suddenly, and as usual, he felt a sense of disorientation. Uncertainty of who, or where, he was. He hated that these human forms required such an inefficient use of time as sleep.

Sitting up, he realized that something was wrong. His consciousness was somehow filled with a strange vagueness. A disconcerting unmooring that nearly made him dizzy. Standing carefully, he got dressed and made his way to the Emperor’s quarters.

There he found what he feared most. The double doors leading to the room had been draped in the Royal colors of black and deep blue. Twin red stars representing the two suns at the center of the Var system stared out at him like accusatory eyes. The two Guards were on their knees with bowed heads. Pushing the doors open slowly, he saw the healer pulling the sheet up over the Emperors' dead face, the Varangian life force clearly departed from the human husk. The usual servant stood in the corner his head bowed respectfully.

Abraham walked over and jerked the sheet down. "That is a human custom. The Emperor never covers his face, not even in death."

"Yes, of course," mumbled the healer, moving back away from the bed.

Abraham turned and stared down at the man he had served for most of his life. For much of that time, the man on the bed before him had not been Emperor and had never expected to be. Abraham was simply his trusted advisor. It was only a fluke that had elevated Abraham to the status of Steward.

"When did it happen?" Abraham asked no one in particular.

"Just a few minutes ago," answered the healer. "He went quite suddenly in his sleep."

The Stewart nodded looking down. "Prepare the body," he said and then walked out of the room.

As he made his way back to his office, Abraham rehearsed what he needed to do. A Succession was always a chaotic and dangerous time, but there had never been a true Succession while they were in exile. Typically, each Royal would gather their loyal forces and form a series of fragile alliances that were all doomed from the start. As a Royal was defeated, the victor assumed control of the defeated forces. By tradition, the belligerents made great efforts not to harm infrastructure or civilians.

But that was before. And there was more at stake now.

Abraham's steps faltered as he thought of the units that passed through the Portal every month to support their forces. Forces barely holding back the Revolution. Somehow, they must find a way to keep sending those soldiers or there would be no Varangian Empire to be Emperor of.

Sitting down at his chair, Abraham noticed he had a message waiting from him. He clicked on the recorded message and saw the nervous face of Horatio McGovern.

"Sir, good day to you." Horatio made a weak attempt at a smile that slipped away quickly. "I just want to assure you that I…we, have everything under control. There is no need for you to be concerned, and I understand our obligations which we will certainly meet. I only send you this message in case you might hear alarming rumors concerning Legion. Please rest assured that everything is under control." The weak smile again. "Thank you, sir." The message ended.

Odd, thought Abraham. He hadn't heard any rumors, but then again, most of his informants had been elsewhere as of late trying to track down and investigate every meteorite strike.

He made a mental note to contact Horatio. In his experience, when someone so vehemently said that things were under control and that there was no need to panic…then things were definitely not under control and there certainly was a great reason to panic. But for now, he had other obligations.

Abraham pulled up the list of contacts on the facephone. Contacts for the five Royal Offspring, four sons and one daughter. Most of these contacts he had never used personally. Yet, he had carefully prepared them years before. It was the Steward's responsibility to initiate the Succession after all.

As was also tradition, he pushed the contact button for the eldest son, Shan'in. He was surprised when the call connected almost immediately. Abraham saw the son sitting with his advisor, Alexander, hovering in the background.

"I've been expecting your call," said Shan'in without sadness. "I felt it when he died."

"Yes," said Abraham forcefully. "Long live the Empire."

"Sounds almost hollow on this exiled planet, don't you think?" asked Shan'in.

"There is still a Varangian Empire out there, My Lord," said Abraham. "Loyal forces fighting for the Emperor."

"Who is now dead."

"Yes, My Lord," said Abraham. "I'm sure you know of our arrangements with the humans. To send tribute fighters to augment our loyal forces."

"Of course," answered Shan'in. "Pretty much the only contribution of any value the humans make as far as I can tell."

"It is my intention to urge the Offspring not to interfere with this arrangement during the Succession."

Shan'in's face grew hard. "Those forces belong to whoever is strong enough to take them. They are to be used however the victor decides are best."

"My Lord," urged Abraham, "it is vitally important that—"

"I understand the importance, but unless I am Emperor…frankly, I don't care. The whole thing can melt down into galactic chaos as far as I am concerned."

Abraham was stunned into silence.

"Now that is not my first option," said Shan'in. "I think we would both agree that I will likely be the next Emperor of the Varangian Empire."

"Yes," Abraham nodded.

"The Spetsnaz is under my control—and other than Legion—is the most powerful human force. My siblings will certainly scramble to assemble what is left over, but they will not stand a chance."

"Unless they band together," said Alexander.

Shan'in dismissed his advisor's idea with a wave. "Even so, that will only work for a time…unless Legion is involved."

"You want me to keep Legion neutral in the affair?" Abraham spoke carefully. "That seems only appropriate as it was in the Emperor’s sphere of influence. I believe that will not be a problem."

"No, you misunderstand me. I want you to ensure Legion is loyal to me, the future Emperor. I also want assurance of your personal loyalty."

Abraham was again struck nearly silent. "My Lord, the Steward must remain neutral in the Succession."

"Who says?"

"It is tradition."

"And look where tradition has gotten us," said Shan'in. "Fugitives hiding on some backward planet. Now understand, I appreciate what you are trying to do, but I think you would admit that the best thing for the Empire is a quick Succession."

"Yes," nodded Abraham.

"That way there is minimal disruption to our supply of human fighters to loyal forces. So that we can get past this quickly and on to the more important work of re-establishing the Varangian Empire."

"You're saying if I can bring Legion over to your side, you will ensure the forces keep going through the Portal to the Loyalists?"

"Yes, presuming I win." Shan'in laughed as if this were a joke. "It is your responsibility as a loyal Varangian, who wants what is best for the Empire, to ensure that happens. If you prove to be loyal to the Empire, and by extension me, I believe there will be great rewards for you in the future. I'm sure you know of the traditions regarding outgoing Stewards?"

"I know of them," said Abraham grimly. Typically, once the Succession was finished, the old Steward was expected to commit suicide.

"Traditions are made to be broken," said Shan'in. "To me, it would be such a waste to lose a Varangian of your capability and…loyalty. Wouldn't you agree?"

Abraham very slowly nodded.

"Good," said Shan'in charmingly. "Then Alexander will be in touch with you. In the meantime, we all have much work to do. I look forward to your long and dedicated service."

The screen clipped to a pale gray background before returning to the normal blackness.

It is the best thing for the Empire, Abraham told himself. None of the others stand a chance anyway.

The Steward sighed heavily and began to contact the other Offspring hoping they had the wisdom to Submit.

Chapter 45

The sharp crack of wood on wood filled the indoor horse ring. A cold rain fell outside, and surprisingly, Reath had allowed them to move under shelter to train. A month ago, he would have insisted on enduring the weather during his instruction. Maybe he has missed me as well, Caylina thought.

His staff caught her with a glancing blow on the side of the neck, and she nearly fell.

"Focus," he ordered. "There is nothing else except here."

She jabbed with the point of her staff, driving him momentarily backward.

"How come we never train with projectile weapons?" Caylina asked, catching his overhand blow above her head.

"Projectile weapons are for warriors, professional warriors," answered Reath, stalking around to her left looking for an opening. "Royals train in the ancient combat techniques of zor'in. Honorable hand-to-hand combat with honorable weapons."

"A lot of good that will do you if you aren't facing an honorable opponent."

"That is what I am for," said Reath, swinging towards her face and missing. "There is no reason you should ever have to fight another. You are a Royal and zor'in is not just for fighting."

She feigned to the left before darting right jabbing out at him and nearly catching him in the stomach.

"Good," he said. "You might have fooled me if your eyes hadn't given you away."

Suddenly she was filled with dizziness and the world seemed to tilt. The sharp blow of Reath's staff caught her in the stomach and she crumpled to the ground.

"You can't go all relaxed just because I give you a compliment," he said.

She shook her head and put a hand to her stomach. "Something is wrong."

"Yes, you never concentrate. Your mind is always halfway here and halfway somewhere else."

"No, not that," she said, rolling over onto her knees. "Something has happened. Something bad."

He stepped forward and lifted Caylina to her feet, helping her over to a bench. He then collected their staves and looked them over carefully. Satisfied, Reath wiped the wooden staves down with an oiled cloth and put them away.

"I'm fine by the way," said Caylina sarcastically. "Tend to the sticks."

"Always tend to your tools first," Reath said. "A tool will not tell you when it is in trouble, but a person will. If you neglect a weapon, it will not be there for you when you need it."

Caylina sat for a long time watching Reath as he demonstrated more advanced zor'in movements. He would not have been surprised to know she wasn't really paying attention.

She wondered about the dizzy feeling of loss she had just experienced. Her mind had been strangely connected to that boy Drake since they met; she wondered if something bad had happened to him. She then pondered why she cared about the welfare of some mutant.

Because of the way he kissed me back, she thought.

Shaking her head, she began to rise. Reath would want her to practice what he had just demonstrated. Both were surprised when Lamin came running in out of breath. He looked at them with wide eyes. After rushing to get to them, he was obviously hesitant to speak.

"What is it?" asked Caylina. "Something bad has happened, hasn't it?"

Lamin nodded. "I should have known. All Royals feel a connection. You likely knew the minute it happened."

"What has happened?" asked Reath.

"The Emperor," said Lamin, lowering his head, "is dead. Long live the Empire."

"Long live the Empire," repeated Reath, lowering his head as well.

"Dead?" Caylina asked. "But how?" She found herself strangely angry at the dead man. Even though he was her father, she had never met him, at least not that she remembered. She supposed she had harbored a fantasy that someday her father would call for her. To want her to be a part of his life and vice versa.

"I don't know," answered Lamin, sensing the mood. "I am sorry."

Caylina nodded. "Me too." She took a deep breath and let it out. "So, what now?"

"We go to Old Kentucky," said Lamin. "It is all arranged. The Steward has promised your safety to come Submit yourself. Shan'in is en route now from Crimea to meet us."

"As easy as that?" she asked. "I just go there and beg him not to kill me."

"You say the ritual words," Reath said. "The words that tell him and everyone else that you are not a threat. That you have accepted your role and wish nothing larger."

"But he could then still kill me, right?"

"Yes," answered Reath. "Just as it is the Emperor’s right to kill any of us if he wishes."

"Doesn't sound very comforting," said Caylina.

"Trust me," said Lamin. "You will be safer kneeling before your brother asking for his mercy than you are right this moment. We must make all haste. The rest of the Offspring are certainly not staying still."

"Shouldn't we at least wait to see who wins and then Submit to them?" asked Caylina.

Lamin shook his head. "By tradition, female Offspring Submit to the Eldest. If he is defeated, the victors will likely accept your Submission to them in turn."

"As easy as that, I guess." She was silent for several seconds. "What are my options?"

"Your options are you can wear the white dress or the blue pantsuit," answered Reath.

"What if I don't want to kneel?" she asked.

"Then do it anyway," said Reath angrily.

"It is not about what you want," Lamin explained patiently, "simply what is. Survive and serve the Empire in any way you are able."

"Remember what I taught you about accepting your situation," said Reath. "This is your situation. You must Submit."

"Will you?" asked Lamin, almost pleading.

She turned from them and walked a few steps away and looked out the window. Caylina smiled as she saw her horse Smoke eating from the nearby compost bin unmindful of the rain, his long neck stretched out over the rail fence. For all their inferiority, her human mother had been right. If she had put that poisonous plant in the compost heap as she had planned, then her horse would be seriously ill or dead.

"What are you thinking, child?" asked Lamin.

"About something totally unrelated to the current situation," said Reath disgustedly.

Caylina turned back to them. "I'm thinking about my horse."

"I stand corrected," said Reath, "my apologies."

"I was thinking," she continued, "that my father just died without a thought for me. How I'm suddenly mixed up in some sort of dynastic war and I'm supposed to surrender without striking a blow."

"This is not your fight to win," Lamin said quickly.

"I was thinking how I don't want anything to happen to Smoke," she said. "Part of me would love to resist just to see what would happen. Even if it were terrible, it wouldn't be boring, I bet."

"Excitement is overrated," said Reath. "Believe me."

"But I understand that this isn't just about me," said Caylina. "I would be deciding to not simply put myself in danger but the two of you, and those silly humans up in the house, and Smoke."

Lamin's face softened. "So will you do it?"

Caylina felt tears come to her eyes and she wiped them away quickly. "Yes," she nodded. "I'll do it."

Reath looked at her with an intensity she had never seen before. He then stunned her by getting on his knees and bowing to her until his forehead touched the ground. Lamin then did the same.

"Thank you," said Reath, climbing back to his feet.

"For what?" she asked.

"For being a worthy Varangian Royal. For putting the welfare of the Empire and others before yourself. For trusting us."

"We should leave within the hour," Lamin told her standing slowly. "You need to go ahead and pack."

Caylina nodded, thinking of Smoke again.

The two men turned and walked away from her and out of the horse ring into the cold air.

She made her way towards the horse. Suddenly her head was filled with pain and her knees buckled. Caylina quickly put up the mental barrier and the feeling was gone.

What was that? She tentatively reached out.

And discovered another connection.

Chapter 46

Drake fought to block the pain and rising panic. He could see his friends writhing on the floor and knew that hundreds of thousands of legionnaires around the world were doing the same. He fought to put up the mental wall, but the pain was already washing over him, and he mysteriously felt weaker.

"Drake," said the faint voice in his head. "Let me help."

He knew that voice instantly, and for some reason, he wasn't surprised. Drake realized she was the source of the strange feeling he had sensed in his mind yet could not identify.

"How?" he asked, gritting his teeth so tightly they threatened to break off.

"Let me in," she said. "Relax. We are alike."

Drake hesitated and glanced off the floor to look around at his friends covered in agony.

"Trust me," she said.

He wanted to ask why she would be willing to help him. Or why he should trust her. And how about why she had kissed and then bitten him? Instead, he did as she asked. He opened up to her in a more intimate manner than he ever had to anyone before.

Nothing happened at first. Then gradually he noticed that the pain lessened slightly. Without notice, it was gone, and he was able to climb to his feet. Drake reached out instantly into his friends' minds and re-established the mental wall to shield them, and they stopped rolling on the floor. He next pushed his mind out of the room towards all the legionnaires around him, but it seemed as if his influence diluted the more chips it tried to touch. He found he could lessen the effects for those soldiers in the building, but not do much practical good for those elsewhere.

"Better?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "Thank you."

"Got to go," she replied quickly. "Have to do something terribly unsavory, but we'll talk again soon."

"Okay," he responded, uncertain.

"And Drake?"

"Yes?"

"Remember that you owe me," she said in such a teasing manner that Drake felt more intrigued than obligated.

"Everyone okay?" asked Heaton, climbing to his feet.

Drake felt the worldwide pain suddenly stop and be replaced by the immobilization. He turned slowly to find Horatio still staring at them through the facephone screen. "I trust I have your attention now. Let there be no further foolishness. We have re-established control over the legions. You five will be dealt with very soon. All legionnaires will remain in place until released by a technician."

The screen then went dark.

"What the hell happened?" asked Zinatu.

"He told us," said Reede. "They have a backup server somewhere I didn't know about. I'm sorry."

"Doesn't matter," said Drake. "If we get to it and destroy it, will we have control again?"

"Yes," answered Reede, "but how do we find it?"

"We don't have to," answered Tripplehorn. "The CEO told us where it was…from when the company was first set up. That means at the original site at Paducah in the Ohio Reclaimed Zone."

"We have to take it out as soon as possible," said Reede. "Once that server is down, I can fully regain control and then wipe the system."

"But how do we take down what is likely a fortified facility?" asked Zinatu. "Especially since everyone appears to be frozen except us."

"And about two dozen others in the building," said Drake.

"Not everything is frozen," said Tripplehorn.

"What do you mean?" asked Heaton.

Tripplehorn turned to Drake and pointed out the windows down onto the streets. "Do you still have control of the combat systems?"

Understanding dawned on Drake's face. "Yes, I do." He reached out in his mind to the semi-autonomous Legion systems still under his control.

"There were no advanced combat systems originally," said Reede understanding. "The early company only had legionnaires. Those first backup servers had no capacity to deal with all the battlebots, drones, dirigibles, and everything else."

"Help me," said Drake silently to them. He envisioned battlebots and drones proceeding to Paducah. Tripplehorn linked them to an old map of the original facility. Each took control of certain assets and began to converge them on the facility while Tripplehorn began preparations to defend the Legion Headquarters against a potential counterattack on their position.

Somewhere during this process suits tried to come into the room but were forcibly evicted by legionnaires standing guard. Drake and the others hardly noticed; their minds were hundreds of miles away. They also thought they heard the facephone come on with the screaming voice of Horatio McGovern, but it was like background static and no more of consequence than the earlier dream of suits coming into the room.

Drake could see the facility through the eyes of dozens of running battlebots and hovering drones. He imagined this must be how an insect sees the world with multifaceted eye lenses. The bots hurtled through the chain-link fence that had never been designed to stop three metric tons of hardened metal traveling at fifty kilometers per hour. Bots converged on old warehouses and began to rip them apart. When they encountered the hardened bunker at the center of the complex, the bots and drones withdrew a safe distance in order to bombard the structure. The structure was built to withstand a direct strike from the old nuclear warheads but eventually it cracked like an old nut.

The bots then climbed over the rubble and pulled aside the fragmented heavy concrete and steel. Reaching inside, they were able to yank out modular servers and toss them onto the concrete behind them. Once the bunker was empty, both the servers and the inside of the vault were sprayed with the grey corrosive acid, which would create a crater deep enough to be considered a small canyon afterward.

Taking a moment to check in on the legions, he found they were now again free of corporate control. "Commanders, we have eliminated the foreign influence," Drake said. "Proceed with your previous orders."

Drake then ordered the bots to withdraw, leaving the sky above the destroyed facility billowing with black smoke and media drones.

Chapter 47

Abraham stood on the front porch of the large Tudor house and stared out across the wide fenced fields where thoroughbreds grazed. He rooted himself firmly and tried not to fidget. Although he wanted to check his watch again, it would tell him nothing. They would arrive when they arrived.

Only a few hours ago, he had completed the ancient funeral rites of Emperor Pel'in the Twelfth. The body had been cremated in a brilliant flash of light as the residue of Varangian essence combined with elemental fire to convert energy back to matter. Now there was a small ornately carved box that contained the remains of the Emperor. It would be presented to the next Emperor upon completion of the Succession as a sign of his legitimacy to rule.

In times past, the new Emperor would then add those remains to the giant stone urn that contained the ashes of Emperors from the ages, knowing that their own ashes would be added there as well when they died. Yet this was now impossible. The Royal Repository was still sitting in the middle of the royal gardens in Emperium on Var. Unless, of course, those savages the Rebels had moved or destroyed it.

Abraham straightened as he saw a line of cars approaching along the tree-lined drive. A half dozen luxury sedans pulled up at the circle driveway in front of him with the center car directly below. What appeared to be human military personnel speaking Russian poured from the vehicle and fanned out around Abraham and into the house while several others went to look at the grounds.

"I can assure you, My Lord," Abraham sent silently to the vehicle's occupants, "that this place is secure. There is no need to be concerned for your safety."

"There is always need to be concerned for my safety and my life," responded Shan'in. "Especially now when several wish so desperately to take it from me."

Abraham relinquished the point and stood patiently waiting. After several minutes, he noticed that the chief house servant was standing nearby. Abraham turned to the man. "There is no need for you to be here. You may go inside and prepare things."

"He is here to see me," responded Alexander into Abraham's head. "The man and I are old friends."

Stiffening, Abraham realized the import of this news. He also understood the message that was being conveyed by revealing it to him now—we have spies in your midst and always know what you are doing. He also instantly realized that this spy had been close to the Emperor. Abraham was dismayed and shamed at his failure.

Finally, the car's rear door was opened by a giant Russian commando and Shan'in stepped out with a triumphant smile. The Royal climbed the stairs to smile at Abraham while Alexander followed along behind. "Hell of a flight."

"I'm sure, My Lord," said Abraham. "We have prepared rooms for you."

"The Emperor’s quarters?" asked Shan'in.

Abraham paused. "No, My Lord. Those are for—"

"It wasn't a request," said Shan'in, leaning in close to Abraham. "Appearances mean things to people. They need to see me taking on all the trappings associated with the power. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, My Lord." Abraham nodded to a nearby servant to make it so.

"What do you know of the other Offspring?" Alexander asked them as they walked inside Abraham's office and sank down in antique furniture. Shan'in stood again quickly and helped himself to a glass of vodka from the nearby wet bar.

Looking nervously from one man to the other, Abraham said, "You both understand that as the Steward, I'm to—"

"Not this drivel again," said Shan'in. "I thought we already established that you work for me now."

"Well, not in those words, per se—"

"And as my servant…you do everything within your power to ensure that I succeed."

Abraham sat silently; his face impassive.

Shan'in nodded and sat down in a chair. "You served the Emperor well from my understanding."

"Thank you, My Lord."

"There is no reason you can't serve me as well…as my Steward."

Both Abraham and Alexander looked at Shan'in in shock.

"If…if you ensure I succeed and display total loyalty now. So, what of the other Offspring?"

Abraham licked his lips and then told him everything he knew. Of how the next eldest Norn'et had secured his hold over the Sino-Chinese and Indian companies and was moving to control everything in Oceana. He next divulged that the two younger sons, Pal'tine and Yorn'ean, seemed to have formed some sort of pact. They were frantically trying to gather the hodgepodge of smaller European and African companies under their combined control.

"What of my little sister?" asked Shan'in.

"She is on her way here now," Abraham answered. "The girl is prepared to Submit herself to you."

"Good," said Shan'in.

"Will you let her live?" Abraham asked.

"Will she be a threat to me?"

"Not Cay'lina," said Abraham. "She is hardly from the Royal cloth. The girl will do as she is told and be happy to escape with her life."

"What would be the upside?" asked Shan'in. "I don't need a Royal pet to keep an eye on and she is always a potential bastard Offspring away from trouble. It is best if she is gone…for the sake of the Empire."

Abraham looked pained and clearly wanted to argue the point. "Showing mercy to the Submitted is tradition."

"Not this tradition business again," said Alexander.

"I will consider it," said Shan'in quickly. "Now what of Legion?"

"Indeed," answered Alexander. "What of Legion? We've heard rumors of strange happenings the last day."

Abraham silently cursed. He had wanted to keep issues with Legion from them. First the house servant and now this. Alexander must be quite adept at establishing spy networks. "There have been some problems," Abraham said and told them all he knew.

"It was a mistake to share that technology with the humans," frowned Shan'in. "Look at what can be done with the chips. My soldiers are loyal and there are no chips in their heads."

"The previous Emperor," Abraham said and then corrected himself. "The previous Emperor’s father thought it a sign of good faith when we first arrived here. The Allied American States agreed to provide us sanctuary. The real power at the time was Legion. He was willing to make this one concession to Legion in return for convincing the rest of the Security Consortium to accept the Tribute Arrangement."

Alexander shook his head in amazement. "We are Varangians, there is no need to make concessions to these humans or convince them of anything. We simply order, and they obey or die."

"Nevertheless," continued Abraham, "the concession was made and the power inherent in the chips appears to have fallen into the wrong hands."

Shan'in turned and looked at Alexander who nodded slightly. He then turned back to Abraham. "I believe we can assist in this matter. Our Spetsnaz can be leveraged to help bring this rogue company back under control."

"And we shall keep sending the tribute forces through the Portal?" said Abraham.

Shan'in waved his hand while closing his eyes to lean back on the couch. "Fine, as long as we don't need them for any other reason."

Abraham nodded and stood. "If that is all, My Lord, I will go check on your accommodations."

"Yes, please do." Shan'in threw the rest of his vodka back in one gulp.

Once the doors were shut again and the two men were alone, Alexander stared at his master fixedly.

"Relax," smiled Shan'in, "I'm not going to make that fool my Steward. I simply need his cooperation…for now."

Alexander nodded, trying not to show his relief.

"You should have seen your face," chuckled Shan'in.

"So, what is to become of him?"

"It would be dangerous to have him around. When this is all over, make sure he disappears."

"Yes, My Lord," answered Alexander, getting his master another glass of vodka and himself one as well. They drank in silence for several minutes.

"The girl…Caylina?" Alexander asked.

"No, that was to calm the man down," answered Shan'in. "He is such a nutcase for Varangian tradition. It would be extremely foolish of me to keep her around."

Alexander nodded. "What would you like me to do with her?"

"After she Submits, kill her and her two Warders," answered Shan'in. "However, you choose. Take as long as you want; you've earned a reward."

Both men smiled to themselves as they sipped their drinks.

Chapter 48

"I don't follow," said Heaton. "What does MANP stand for again?"

Reede sighed and shook his head. "Morally Ambiguous Non-Predators, and please remember these are broad categories on a sliding scale."

"Just think of MANPs as people like us," answered Zinatu.

"Actually," answered Reede, looking at Zinatu, "you were one of only a few hundred who scored in the TWLA group."

"Trustworthy Law-Abiding," said Drake to cut off Heaton's question.

"This is good news," said Tripplehorn, sitting behind Horatio's desk. "It's like I predicted. The Legion training, for all its brutality, does work to weed out the true monsters."

"Most of them," said Reede. "Less than one percent scored in the TWLA category."

"I'm surprised it was that many," said Heaton. "Most of us are criminals of some sort."

"The majority of those tested in the MANP range," Reede continued. "Eighty-seven percent to be exact."

"That leaves twelve percent as what?" asked Drake.

"VAHS," answered Reede. "Vicious Animals in Human Skin."

"Twelve percent," said Heaton. "That's really not too bad."

"That's thirty-two thousand four hundred and eight trained and armed psychopaths," said Reede.

"Okay, that does sound bad," answered Heaton.

"Are we sure the test worked?" asked Zinatu. "I for one don't remember any such test or strange scenarios."

"You wouldn't," answered Reede. "The testing scenarios were programmed to be administered during REM sleep. During that point of your sleep cycle, you are at your deepest resting state."

"Doesn't this whole three-category thing seem a little overly simplistic?" asked Heaton.

Drake nodded. "It is. There are sliding scales for each category. Some of the MANPs certainly bears watching as near VAHSs, whereas some of the VAHSs with a structured existence, therapy, and support might move up to the MANP zone."

"And we just arbitrarily assigned these boundaries between groups?" asked Zinatu.

Reede shook his head. "No…well, yes, but the programming considered every factor at its disposal. Although Drake is right about some people being in the borderline region, there was a surprisingly large gap between the MANP and VAHS groups."

"Maybe we should just call the group non-predators and vicious animals to simplify things," said Heaton. "I'm not great at remembering acronyms."

"And we can call my group the Amazing Ones," said Zinatu.

"Fine," answered Reede, growing frustrated, "the point I think you are trying to get to is there is less of a concern with someone being in the lowest category by mistake than you think. Or of someone being on the cusp of turning from a vicious animal to a non-predator." Reede pointed to a nearby screen on Horatio's desk and typed on the keyboard. A scale appeared with a double bell curve like pictures of the mythical camel's back some of them had seen in cartoons. He pointed at the peak of the biggest hump. "This is your non-predators." He then moved his finger to the left down a slope. "Your Amazing Ones are in here somewhere, but not many of them, so they don't pop on the scale."

Heaton was already pointing at the second hump to the right of the largest hump. It was tiny in comparison to the non-predator group. "And this is the bad dudes' group."

"Yes," answered Reede, "although I wish we could pick a name and stick to it."

"It drops to nothing in the middle between the two groups," noted Drake.

"Yes!" answered Reede excitedly, giving the rest of them a disapproving look. "Glad someone gets it. We have a large concentration of MANPs."

"Non-predators," reminded Heaton.

"Whatever," answered Reede quickly.

"It was you who wanted to stick to labels," said Heaton.

Reede gritted his teeth. "And here to the right, we have a smaller concentration of…"

"Vicious animals," said everyone else in the room at once.

"Yes," continued Reede. "But between these two groups is a statistical trough. Very, very few individuals fell into the border between them."

"From a practical standpoint, what does that mean?" asked Tripplehorn.

"It means it makes our decision easier," answered Drake.

"Decision to do what?" asked Heaton.

"About what to do with the…vicious animals," answered Reede. "Why did you think we were doing all of this?"

"So, what are we going to do?" asked Heaton. "We can't lock them up. Are you saying we're supposed to kill all of them?"

"Yes," answered Zinatu.

"Says the guy from the trustworthy and law-abiding group," said Heaton. "We're talking thirty-two thousand people here."

"It was you who argued to do this," said Reede. "Remember how we can't turn them loose on innocent people?"

"We could keep doing what we're doing," said Tripplehorn. "Let the commanders be responsible for them."

Drake shook his head. "This is about freedom. I'm not going to take that away."

"Are we saying the only choices for these folks are death or freedom?" said Heaton.

"For these psychopaths," reminded Zinatu.

"And it's not just about them," said Drake, more heated than he wanted to. "Do you understand the toll it takes on you to control people's actions all the time? To monitor them and see the horrific things they want to do? It's like wading through feces all day. I won't put that on anyone."

"Perhaps if we give this some more time," said Heaton, "another solution could be reached."

Drake shook his head. "It will be easier to do now…for everyone. If we want to be free and get society to trust us with that freedom, they can't be afraid of us murdering their children."

"So, how are we going to do it?" asked Heaton grimly. "Send out an order to target these soldiers? Have their fellow legionnaires fall on them at night with daggers after going to sleep?"

"No," answered Drake, "it's much easier than that. I can do it."

"You can do what?" asked Heaton. "Kill them? All of them?"

Drake nodded. "I can slowly stop their hearts, and they will pass out and die. It doesn't have to be painful."

"And you can do this to any of us?" Zinatu rubbed the back of his head.

"I could…but wouldn't, of course."

"How does that fit in with your idea of freedom?" asked Heaton. "We may be free, but one man holds the power of life or death over us?"

"Just because one man has that power," said Tripplehorn, angrily standing, "doesn't mean those potentially affected by that power are not free…at least as free as you can expect to be in this world. A police officer has the power to shoot and kill anyone in a city. Does that mean that everyone in the city isn't free until there is nothing on this planet that is left that can potentially harm them?"

"I see you've put some thought into this." Reede looked at Tripplehorn approvingly.

Tripplehorn gazed around at them. "I've been thinking about this long before you pups came along. Freedom is like that chart on your screen there. No absolutes. Siding scales. Grays rather than black or white. Total slavery is obviously bad, but total freedom would be worse. Chaos and horror. The trick is to stay in the middle." The man sat back down.

Heaton blew out a deep breath. "Fine then, but I want no part of it."

"No," answered Drake. "We all agree to this or it doesn't happen."

"That's not fair," said Heaton.

"Fair isn't black or white either," said Tripplehorn.

Heaton turned on him angrily. "Since when did you turn into a freaking philosopher? Only last year you were making us kill each other."

"I agree with Drake," said Zinatu suddenly.

"Me too," added Reede, looking at Heaton. "I don't want these evil dirtbags out there with my family."

"Yes," said Tripplehorn simply.

Everyone looked at Heaton expectantly.

Finally, he dropped his head and nodded sadly. He then walked briskly out of Horatio's office without looking at any of them.

"Okay then," said Drake, taking a deep breath. "I'll take care of it. I'd like to be alone if you don't mind."

The three men quietly stood and then slowly left the room, closing the door behind them.

Drake collapsed into Horatio's leather swivel chair and turned to look out the windows.

"Don't," said a soft voice in his head.

Sitting up suddenly, he almost fell over.

"They'll be needed," said the voice.

Drake forced himself to relax and reached out in his mind. "Caylina?"

"You remember. I am pleased." He could almost see the slight smile.

"I've been wanting to ask you—how are we talking?" he asked. "Do you have some sort of chip in your head?"

"Of course not," she answered. "I would never submit to such a barbaric procedure."

"Then how?"

"I am Varangian," she answered. "My people have always had this ability…well, almost always. Lamin tells me that in the early days it was genetically engineered into our genes from another inferior species."

"What are you talking about?"

"We don't have time," Caylina said. "Here, let me help you."

Drake suddenly felt his head nearly explode and he threw up the mental wall.

"Don't do that," she said. "Otherwise, I can't show you."

"How are you even in my head?" he asked.

"You let me in," she said teasingly. "We are connected."

"Connected how?"

"By our shared Varangian blood."

"I don't know what you are talking about," he said.

"I know. Which is why I need to show you. Please, trust me. I don't have much time."

Drake sat still for nearly a minute and then slowly lowered his mental barrier. He felt his mind open and unused stagnant brain cells were suddenly filled. A cornucopia of visions and memories and information flowed into his head faster than he could keep track of it. Then suddenly he was back in the room.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" she asked.

He found that he suddenly knew things. As if he had known them all his life so that there was no surprise, no sudden revelation. It was as if he had always known them but had simply been pretending to not know.

"My father was a Varangian?" he asked. "Who was he exactly?"

There was a slight hesitation. "Just some minor official. The important thing is that you are one of us."

"A mutant," he said. "Abomination?"

"Ah, yes," she said, "I see your brain is already making use of the information I have given you. That is not an opinion shared by me, but going forward, we should keep your…genetics a secret."

Drake didn't have to ask why. The aliens living among them would hunt him down and kill him if they knew of his existence. "What do you mean by going forward?"

"I hope that we can build upon our relationship. I believe we can help each other."

"How?"

"The Varangians will never allow your legionnaires to be free," she said. "You think you are only fighting for your freedom against humans, but there is more. They must ensure the tribute continues. They will bring all their combined might against you…probably are in the process of doing it now."

"So how can you help?"

"I will have influence with the next Emperor, I believe," Caylina said. "I can get you your freedom and convince the Emperor not to destroy you."

Drake frowned. "Being free and choosing to be sent through this portal of yours on a suicidal mission to another world, are not mutually existent concepts in most soldiers' minds."

"We'll work on that later," said Caylina. "I'm running out of time. Don't you realize the Succession could destroy this little planet and all the humans? Just don't kill the legionnaires. Not yet. They might be needed."

"In this dynastic struggle?" he asked. "What makes you think we'll get involved in that?"

"You already are," she answered. "Just wait. I'll tell you more when I can. Will you at least do that for me?"

Drake found that his head was swimming in new information and concepts. Galaxies, and aliens, and planets in bondage. Also, intimate details about Caylina. He needed time to think and understand. He also had to admit he was grateful to have an excuse to delay murdering thirty-two thousand persons.

"Okay," he finally said. "For now, I will wait."

"Thank you," she said, and Drake almost felt a hug from this strange girl. "I might need your help and I hope you will come to me if I call. Again, you do owe me."

"I'll certainly consider it," answered Drake.

"If you don't hear from me again…do whatever you think is best."

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked.

But she was already gone.

Chapter 49

Drake sat in Horatio's office for a long time. The light from the windows crossed the walls and then faded until he was sitting in darkness. Still, he did not move. He hardly heard the knock on the door.

Heaton stepped in and turned on the light to stare at his friend. "Sorry about before."

Rousing himself, Drake stretched. "Don't worry. I ended up not doing it."

"What? After all of…that. Why not?"

"It's a long story, but I'm going to wait a bit. Let things play out some. The commanders can keep doing what they've been doing for a little longer."

"I would ask what you meant by all that, but I'm not sure I want to know."

Drake nodded. "I've ordered the legions into a few centralized defensive positions. They have also taken control of all the combat systems."

"You think there's a fight coming?"

"I know there is. I've also authorized legionnaires to go get their families if they want."

Heaton stood there looking at him. "Seriously? What about our families?"

"I figured you would want them close," Drake answered. "I've sent a platoon to get Reede's wife and kid and your mother and sister. They'll be here by the end of the day."

"Better send re-enforcements for my mom," Heaton said. "Those poor bastards have likely already surrendered."

Drake chuckled.

Walking over to stand near the desk, Heaton looked down at him. "Thank you."

Nodding, Drake smiled back up.

"And for what it's worth I'm glad you didn't do it…yet," said Heaton.

The facephone emitted its distinct high-pitch chiming, and Drake answered it. An even more disheveled Horatio was there looking at them.

"Prepared to meet our demands?" asked Drake. After talking to Caylina, he was no longer sure it mattered. He still hadn't been able to fully process all the new information rattling around in his head.

"Listen," the man said, all his bluster gone. "It's almost too late. Just send a unit, any unit, to Mexico. Perhaps then I can stop what's getting ready to happen."

"The tribute force?" asked Drake.

Horatio's mouth opened in shock before snapping it shut again. "How do you know about that?"

"Never mind," said Drake. "What's getting ready to happen?"

The CEO opened his mouth to speak, and then shook his head. "We both need to play for time. If we have time, I'm sure we can figure this out somehow. This situation can still be salvaged."

"You actually seem sincere now," said Heaton. "Maybe you do care about little ole us."

"I don't give a shit about you!" yelled Horatio. "I want my goddamn office back!"

Both Drake and Heaton sat still for a moment before bursting out laughing.

Looking deflated, Horatio pointed at them. "Fine. Just remember before the end, with your last thought, that I offered you a way out. That it didn't have to be this way. That my beautiful building didn't have to be destroyed."

Drake and Heaton stopped laughing.

"Building destroyed?" asked Drake. "This building?"

"He's bluffing," said Heaton. "No one but Legion has the firepower, and we control Legion."

Horatio looked fearfully at someone off screen and ended the call.

"Gentlemen," said Tripplehorn to them all in their heads. "I think it's time to depart."

"What's going on?" asked Reede.

"Scouts report a dozen armored columns converging on us from all directions," Tripplehorn answered. "Markings look like Global Spetsnaz Forces."

"Wow," answered Reede. "They must really be desperate to invite their chief competitor in to deal with us."

"Can we hold them off?" asked Zinatu.

"No," Tripplehorn answered. "The bots can cover our withdrawal, but we have to move fast. The drones report high altitude hover-bombers on the way as well."

Heaton turned to Drake in horror. "Our families are headed here."

Drake sent a silent order. "They're being taken to the rendezvous site. Don't worry, they'll be safe."

"All remaining forces to the roof," Tripplehorn sent out to the legionnaires in and around Legion Headquarters. "Load transport copters as per linked instructions."

"Come on," said Drake, heading out the door. Heaton followed after him, grabbing the last unopened bottle of whiskey in Horatio's office.

The suits had been sent away the day before once Drake realized they were useless for any practical purpose, even hostages. Legion cared more for them than the soldiers, but not much. It was all about the bottom line. It was eerily silent and empty as they made their way to the stairwell at the corner of the top floor. Drake and Heaton climbed up and opened the sealed door onto the large flat roof where three giant dual-rotor copters sat with their fans spinning.

Several legionnaires were already streaming onto the roof from the stairwells at the other corners. Drake and Heaton walked to the edge of the building to look downward. They could see the battlebots far below in a wide circle around the building, their guns prepared for combat. Further away, long lines of dark armored transport vehicles made their way steadily forward.

Tripplehorn grabbed them by the arms. "Let's go!"

They turned and followed him into one of the half-full copters, and a moment later, it lifted off. Drake reached out to Reede and Zinatu and found they were on the other one that was lifting off as well.

"What about the last one?" Drake asked, pointing back.

"A decoy," responded Tripplehorn. "It will hopefully draw their attention and keep them from chasing after us."

A few moments later, thin streaks of smoke fired down from above, and the top of the building was enveloped in a giant fireball.

"I guess they mean business," said Heaton.

Tripplehorn nodded. "If you think legionnaires are brutal, you've never met a Spetsnaz."

The distance between them and the smoking building was growing as they flew low to the ground between buildings. Drake put on a flight headset that was hanging from the ceiling and turned on the magnifier. He could see a fierce battle in the streets between the bots and what looked like an overwhelming force of armored vehicles, cannon, and dismounted Spetsnaz soldiers. Several of the adjacent buildings were now on fire as well as the Legion Headquarters building.

"Doesn't appear we're being followed," Tripplehorn said after consulting the drones. "Probably think we're all still inside."

"If they attacked us here," said Drake, "they might attack us anywhere." He mentally sent warnings to all the Legion enclaves to get ready. He also ordered any individual elements not consolidated into their units to get out of their uniforms and try to blend in with the civilian populace.

Heaton was staring back and shaking his head. "Who would have thought when we got off that train that it would come to this?"

Tripplehorn smiled wildly. "Get ready for a proper war, boys!"

They skimmed the ground away from the destruction behind them.

Chapter 50

Caylina waited in a small room that might have passed for a tiny library or a human nineteenth-century drawing-room. She tried not to fidget, and it helped to look at all the beautiful horses outside the window.

She sat in an ornate white gown that went all the way to the floor. Her hair was pulled up tight on her head in intricate curls and held in place by old-style hairpins, each capped by a large silver-colored pearl. Both the gown and antique hairpins had been gifts from her human mother before they departed.

Her Warders stood on opposite sides of the room, as nervous as she, yet trying harder to hide it. They were also dressed in their best, both in tuxedos and sporting fresh haircuts. Only a few minutes ago, a Varangian Guard had come to give them all a thorough frisking to ensure they were not armed, and now the same guard stood in the far corner, watching them closely.

Her father's Steward stepped into the room and looked at Reath and Lamin. "It is time." He then withdrew.

Caylina had noticed that since she had arrived, hardly anyone had spoken to her. It was almost as if she were invisible or already of no consequence. She supposed that was her future as one who had Submitted.

"We must go," Lamin said, turning to her.

Rising slowly, she gave them all her most confident smile, fighting down the fear that welled up inside her. She fidgeted with her hair again. Caylina just couldn't seem to get the pins to stay the way she wanted them.

The guard opened the door, and she stepped forward to the center of the opening. She saw before her what looked like a large ballroom or perhaps banquet hall. Now it was decked out as a throne room. Trusted human collaborators and even a few Varangians stood on either side of the room, leaving the center aisle open. This aisle led to a handsome man with an arrogant smile who sat opposite of her on a chair so large and ornate it couldn't possibly be comfortable. Windows behind the man cast light into the dim room and placed Shan'in and Alexander, who stood beside his master, in shadow.

Another borrowed human custom, she thought with amusement. The Varangian Emperor has never had a throne nor needed one. We disdain these humans yet keep trying to emulate them.

"My Lord," called out Abraham from behind her. "I present Cay'lina, a true Royal Offspring, and your sister."

Walking forward slowly, she felt Reath and Lamin on either side of her and was so grateful for their company that she felt tears forming. Pushing the emotion aside, she kept her eyes on her older brother as she walked with her hands held demurely before her.

When she was three meters from her brother, Caylina knelt as instructed. Her Warders went to the ground as well only slightly behind her.

"Cay'lina," called out Abraham. "Do you wish to Submit yourself to the protection of your brother, Shan'in?"

"I do," she answered in a voice that was surprisingly strong.

"Do you renounce all Royal claims and agree to remove yourself from the Succession?"

"I do," she said, and the image of her beloved horse came to mind.

"Do you place yourself under the mercy of the one you are Submitting to and will obey him even unto death?"

"I do," she said and felt the finality of the words in her mouth like ashes.

Abraham moved up closer behind her. "Shan'in, do you accept the Submission of Cay'lina and agree to take her into your care? Do you agree to protect her from harm and show her mercy?"

"I do," said Shan'in in a voice indicating he was struggling not to laugh.

"Will you accept her Kiss of Submission?"

"I certainly will," Shan'in said, already leaning forward, his hand out towards her.

Although she already knew what to expect, Caylina found it surprisingly hard to crawl forward on her knees. It wasn't the logistics of the action that challenged her, although those were not insignificant in the long gown, but the humiliation of it. When she was within a few feet of the outstretched hand, she stopped and gathered herself. Caylina nervously pushed stray hairs out of her face and adjusted the hairpins again.

Shan'in smiled down at her. "I appreciate your desire to look you best for me, dear sister. There is no need to be afraid."

Caylina smiled tentatively at her brother and reached out slowly to grasp his hand and then bent forward to place upon it the Kiss of Submission. The final act that would seal her fate forever.

"Ah!," Shan'in yelled, jerking his hand back. Sticking out of the skin was a silver pearl-headed hairpin. Blood dripped slowly off the hand and onto the carpet.

Time slowed down as Caylina followed each drop of Royal blood as it left her brother's skin and fell to the floor. She imagined the deadly cicutoxin, extracted and concentrated from the water hemlock in her mother's garden, working its way through the man's body towards his heart. The poison that she had carefully prepared with the mental help of a certain biochemist she had met weeks earlier at Purina Johns Hopkins.

Shan'in pulled back and was staring at her with anger and amazement. His free hand jerked out the hairpin and threw it at her. "What did you do!"

Caylina didn't flinch, and the pin flew past her head. She stared at him calmly as Alexander, Abraham, and her Warders looked on with confusion.

"Kill her!" Shan'in said, but almost immediately, he bent over in agony and cried out. Falling to the floor, he began to shake and convulse.

Staring at the hairpin in sudden understanding, Alexander drew a dagger from the inside of his trousers and leaped at her.

She rolled aside, but her long dress hampered her movements and the man's knee was suddenly on her chest. As he was about to bring the knife downwards, he was thrown away by a flying mass. Sitting up, Caylina saw Alexander and Reath grappling on the floor, both of them glowing pale blue in the room's dim light.

The Emperor’s Varangian Guards moved forward to intervene but were stopped by Caylina's ringing command. "Stay back!"

They froze and looked to Abraham for guidance.

The Steward met her eyes for a moment and then nodded at the Guards who backed away from the two struggling men.

Caylina walked over to the nearest Guard and held out her hand. "Your knife, give it to me."

The man hesitated.

Using the full force of her mind, Caylina blasted into the man's skull. "I am the future Empress of the Varangian Empire! How dare you do not obey me!"

The Guard immediately dropped to his knees and handed over his ceremonial dagger.

Turning back, she saw that Alexander had backed a bleeding Reath into a corner. She caught his eye and then threw the knife towards him. The Varangian Guard caught it in the air and swung wide to cut across the arm of his former student.

There were cries of alarm and some weapons firing around the estate grounds. The distinctive uniforms of the Spetsnaz could be seen outside the windows.

"Protect us," she ordered the Guards, and they all moved to block the entrances to the large room. Reaching out in her mind, she called to Drake. "It is time."

Refocusing her attention on the room, she saw that Alexander had been driven towards a far wall and was now bleeding heavily while Reath stalked him. Just as he was nearly in a corner, Alexander reached into his jacket and pulled out a human projectile pistol, and pointed it at Reath.

Time seemed to slow down again for Caylina. She could see the man's finger tightening on the trigger and the triumphant smile just beginning to form. She could even see the calm look of resignation in Reath's face as he realized he was dead. A mote of dust hung between them suspended in time as individual photons of light seemed to differentiate themselves.

Caylina did not know what she was doing until it was already done, and Alexander lay on the bloody carpet, most of his head gone. The man's hand was still pointed up towards his own face. Reath looked at her with amazement.

"Very few Royals have ever had that kind of power," said Lamin to her silently.

She turned to see her old tutor standing over a bleeding Abraham and holding the fireplace poker. Outside there was obviously a war going on, and the house shook with the vibrations of explosions. She was glad she had earlier "convinced" all the grooms to move the horses to the far pastures and out of harm's way.

After what seemed like an eternity, the gunfire seemed to slow and eventually stop. Then there was an even more ominous silence broken when the doors that Caylina had entered only a short while before were thrust open violently.

In strode Drake covered in blood and dust. To his right walked a giant of a man with an easy smile. To the giant's right was a much older dignified man. To Drake's left were a tall thin black man and a short stocky fellow whose eyes appeared to look everywhere at once.

Caylina felt Reath reach out to the men and order them to stop, but Drake already had his mental wall up. Caylina had insisted upon it. As Drake and his entourage marched up to Caylina, Reath rushed forward to intercept them and protect her.

"No," she said, turning her back on the legionnaires and putting her hand on the Guard's chest. "They serve me now."

"That might be overstating it a bit," said Drake silently.

Reath's face was filled with confusion as he looked at Drake. "How can he…"

"Long story," answered Caylina. "Just know that they are friends."

"Another overstatement," Drake said.

Caylina softly put a single finger to Drake's lips and smiled sweetly at him.

"Or…perhaps an understatement" Heaton laughed at his own cleverness.

"What now, My Lady?" asked Lamin.

The term brought her up short. The old man had known her since the moment she was born but had never addressed her by such a term of respect. "We change the world."

"That's exactly what I said," Heaton gushed, turning to Drake. "Did you tell her?"

"There is now only one course left to us," said Reath, staring at the little girl as if he had never seen her before. "Please forgive my doubt…Empress." He then knelt to her, and the other Varangians followed the Guard's lead.

Hundreds of miles away a horse named Smoke galloped and reared in pure joy.

Epilogue

Steven knew a shit job when he saw it. Sure, it was great to be outdoors all the time and the work was relatively easy, but it was still a shit job. The over-the-top assurances of how important the task was to the Empire was the giveaway. For really important work, no one had to tell you it was important.

Using the metal detector, he finally found what he was searching for. There was a small indention in the rough soil of the hauntingly beautiful Scottish moors. Digging with his trowel, he found the small burned-up crisp of a meteorite and its tiny core of nickel-iron alloy. He hefted the small ball and tossed it a few times up and down in his hand. The meteorite was cool and rough in his hands.

Why does some Royal suddenly care about stuff like this? he wondered. Likely watched a human documentary and now just had to have a few in shadowboxes sitting around in their parlor.

"Yep," he said, straightening. "Making the Empire safe by saving it from dangerous galactic metals. For a hundred generations, my family has been trusted by the Royals, now look at me. Digging in the dirt." In his solitude, Steven had taken to talking to himself without even noticing it most of the time.

He pulled out the smart tablet and touched the icon indicating his current location. Typing in the basic information, the icon changed from red to green. Steven was about to put the tablet away when he noticed a flashing red icon just to the north of him.

"A fresh one," he said. "Don't see many of those."

Putting his equipment away, he climbed into a small four-door truck with European Union Geological Research written on both sides and headed in the direction of the fresh meteorite strike.

After an hour of careful driving over rough terrain, his GPS told him he had reached his destination, but Steven already knew that. A small ribbon of smoke was rising into the air as if someone had hurriedly tried to put out a campfire by throwing water on it.

Parking nearby, Steven left his metal detector in the truck and instead pulled on his thermal gloves and retrieved the large shovel. Walking over to the smoke, he discovered a crater about two meters wide and half that deep. He gingerly stepped down into the crater and probed at the center of the depression with his shovel and then began to dig. Within a minute, he was holding the still warm fragments of something that he surmised for the last million years or so had been in the pure vacuum of space.

The job wasn't all bad, he admitted. He had always been fascinated by rocks, and what was more fascinating than rocks from outer space? Placing the pieces together, he stopped, his forehead wrinkling in confusion.

The pieces fit together nearly perfectly into a roughly spherical shape that was about the size of a grapefruit…but hollow.

Hearing something behind him, Steven turned, and the meteorite pieces fell out of his nerveless hand. A small metal creature on ten long metal legs appeared to be appraising him with a single red eye.

"What the hell are—"

His words were cut off as the robot fired a small projectile into the skull of the Varangian. Before the body hit the ground, the robot had scurried forward and began to bury the man and his shovel. It then turned and started the long and arduous process of cutting up and burying the truck.

In its robot mind, there was a series of electronic impulses that passed for satisfaction. The heavily ferrous terrestrial vehicle would make it much easier to replicate itself. The groundwork of its programmed mission.

It looked forward to not being alone.

Thank you for reading Earth's Exiles, I hope you enjoyed the book. Please check out the next book in the Exiles Series, Royal Exiles, on Amazon KDP or Kindle Vella. Thanks again!