Rage of Heaven

By Bells of Nevermore

Artwork by Yase.

Disclaimers—here's your fine print, people. None of the Star Blazers/Yamato characters are mine.

Likewise, any song lyrics appearing in any of the chapters will be credited appropriately to the artist in question. I don't have any money, I’m not making any money. Don't sue me, people, I'm just enjoying myself. No, this isn't a songfic; get that look off your face.

If you are under 18, close this story. The rating is NC17 for several reasons, and those reasons would be copious gore, vulgar language, adult situations, and disturbing imagery. I don’t use content or trigger warnings. Come at me and whine about that, I’ll tell you to go read something else.

Part I: Comes the Night of Fire

March 15, 2182

Is there a fire in the sky? Is there a moon up there?

Is there anything alive now? This darkness is what I hear

This is a breathless silence; a moment out of time

I see your face in the shadows; the tell tale signs are in your eyes

More than I can hold in my hands; running through the cracks like water

Aching with a passion inside as deep as the river…

—Shriekback, This Big Hush

The sea, still a rich blue this far out in the Pacific, knocked and slapped against the hull of the small fishing vessel. Here at Easter Island, called Rapa Nui by her indigenous people, it was still easy to forget the war—the radioactive hell rained down upon Terra by the alien race known only as 'Gamilans'. Piri piloted his outrigger through the choppy water with an expert hand; these waters were dangerous, but he had made his living from them throughout his life, as his people had for hundreds of years. As he passed Aku Akivi, he kissed his hand and waved to the seven moai statues, standing like silent sentinels, the only such stone giants that looked out to sea. All others faced inland, watching protectively over the descendants of the loving hands that had carved them, centuries ago.

It was a perfect day. The very last one.

As Piri turned toward the sea, he lifted one dark hand to shield his eyes from the sudden, hot brightening of the sun. The sun? Not from the north. He opened his mouth to cry out to Raá, Mahina—any of the several gods of his people. The last sensation the fisherman felt was the agony of his tongue cooking within his screaming mouth, and the wet heat of the liquid from his rupturing eyes pouring down his face. And then Piri, and the rest of the island once called 'Te Pito o te Henua'—'The Navel of the World'—simply ceased to exist. The planet bomb erased the sixty-three square miles of ancient, volcanic land as though it had never existed. And the resultant tsunami would see that not even flotsam and seawrack would be left...

*****

Warm brown hands clutched the edge of her desk. The young resident doctor was far away from the destruction she was witnessing on holovid. She felt the loss of the island that had given her birth like a gut-punch. Haka'ea Paoa Rapahango opened her mouth to scream as the news reports filtered in; all that emerged was a choked, sick sob. Her dark eyes poured tears; the warm salt trickled into her mouth, tasting of the sea… the sea, now poisoned, that had just swallowed every living soul of her Rapanui people—save herself. Finally, the scream came; a heartsick, bitter wail of denial, rage and loss.

She was still screaming when the hypospray was pressed to her arm; the dose of sedative was all her colleagues could do for her in the immediacy of the horror.

Beware the Ides of March…

Part II: The Hell Within

March 15, 2199

The small, hard-faced woman with the graying black braids responded to the call to the EDF headquarters with her usual perfunctory, professional manner. Emotionless, Dr. Rapahango listened to the strange debriefing: the alien woman found dead on the planet Mars, her hand gripping a message capsule. The Rapanui woman was the only xenobiologist that had both a medical degree and the proper clearances; she alone would perform the autopsy, under the most secure of conditions. She gave the usual toneless, dry acknowledgement of her orders; no one had any way of discerning that this coldly-skilled woman carried equal measures of rage and torment within.

Every night for the past seventeen years, Dr. Rapahango had awakened from night terrors with the afterimage of the burning of her homeland imprinted behind her eyes. Every day, she had gone through the motions: when the medical degree she earned with honors did not eat enough time, she returned to school to add a specialty in xenobiology. There was only one thing she wanted more than to understand the aliens that had reduced the sum of her people to one bitter woman.

And that one thing was revenge.

As she strode to the secure morgue and suited up, the doctor's mind went into overdrive. An alien woman from an advanced race—one clearly familiar with the bleak evil of the Gamilans—was a resource that could be turned to her advantage, dead or alive. A scheme had taken shape in Dr. Rapahango's mind.

The corpse was being held in a Biosafety Level IV laboratory in a classified facility on Mars; it was unknown what kind of pathogens the alien female might be carrying. With Earth's entire biosphere irradiated and fragile, the intergalactic version of the common cold could be catastrophic. No chances were being taken. Dr. Rapahango suited up and activated her controlled air source and went through the initial decontamination process; neither did they want Terron microbes possibly causing cross-contamination. She then went across from the 'gray zone' into the Level IV laboratory.

She was alone. So secretive was this autopsy that no observers were permitted. The information would be top secret, eyes-only and ultraclassified. It was the perfect opportunity for this healer gone sour to set a plan in motion, a series of events that would shake worlds, systems… galaxies.

With exquisite care, Dr. Rapahango began to record her initial findings. First, she took extensive photographs of the fragile-looking alien woman, still body-bagged and clad in the magenta gown in which she had been found. She had no diener—no assistant—so she alone would be responsible for handling, cleaning and moving the body. As she worked, her dry voice recorded her findings on a datatube within her suit, just beside her right jaw.

She removed the woman from the body bag with the help of a non-AI robotic assistant, the only aide she was permitted. She noted the type and position of clothing on the corpse before cutting it free and exposing the delicate, pallid flesh of this woman, whose message had cost her life. Dr. Rapahango felt no pity or gratitude for the sacrifice; all she saw before her was flesh, and in it, the physical manifestation of her scheme. She took samples of hair, nails and skin from the dead woman and then moved the body to the scale to weigh it. The corpse had been tall and very slender; this information was noted along with all other physical details—such as the cyanosis of her lips and the tiny, purplish petechial hemorrhages around and within the woman's eyes.

She then placed a rubber brick called a body block under the dead woman's back. This caused the lifeless limbs and head to fall back, pressing the chest outward. The initial cuts of the prosecting knife were done most easily in this position. Smoothly, she lifted the shielded prosecting laser and made a deep Y-shaped cut extending to the pubic bone, meeting at the breastbone. Only the slightest bleeding was evident; gravity had already pooled the woman's blood downward.

She dared not use a bone saw to fully open the chest cavity; such a process would create potentially-infective bone dust to aerosolize—a risk, even in a Level IV environment. The doctor used a laser cutter to slice carefully through the ribs at either side of the chest cavity, lifting breastbone and ribs as a unit. Setting the chestplate aside, she continued the internal examination. Rapahango found nothing unusual. To her surprise, the female appeared to be as human as she herself—just complete in her perfection. The examination of the brain and pelvic organs proved equally unremarkable.

The lack of any unusual anatomy made the autopsy go smoothly and quickly, even in the hyper-disciplined confines of Level IV. There was but one deviation from procedure.

One of the dead woman's ovaries would not be interred on Mars with the rest of the remains. Dr. Rapahango had plans for it.

Part III: Umbilicus

I collect my thoughts

And I rise above all that despises me

Comprehend the ways of man

And under a flag we salute or burn

There is blood on both shores

With hardened mind I traveled

With hardened heart I conquered

A freedom so ironic, so despicable, so hypocritical…

—VNV Nation, Serial Killer

October 31, 2199

Her clothes were filthy, and her hair was worse. The formerly neat and prim Dr. Rapahango lay hidden in an abandoned, irradiated portion of the subterranean cavern below Tucson, Arizona. The past seven months had been a living hell—but her plan was about to enter reality—ejected straining, bleeding and panting, from her own womb.

Her theft of the genetic material from the dead Iscandarian had been discovered by the most irritating of sources—a supposed 'genius' robot, of the same series as the heroic IQ-9. This second robot detected her condition and its anomalies before Dr. Rapahango could prevent it; it transmitted the information before she could destroy it. Since then, she had been running.

She had, for a time, paused in her flight. In hard labor, she lay like an animal in her own birthing fluids, trying to deliver in an agonized silence. If she were discovered, she would be taken in, the infant taken from her—all would be for naught. She was old for a first birth, but fortunately, had been in prime health when she conceived this strange, genespliced child, a daughter. And now, she could only hope that her pursuers were thrown far enough off her trail to allow her to finish what she had started.

A final gush of blood and fluid; and then, the doctor was rewarded by a surprisingly lusty wail. She fell back, clasping the tiny, perfect child to her chest, laughing in triumph, weeping in weakness and pain. She had just enough strength left within her to bite through the umbilical cord when it ceased pulsing and wrap the child in the only clean fabric she could find. She lay on her side, her breath still heaving in and out of her pain-wracked body. She had to get up and move, and soon—but first, she had something to attend to.

The infant's eyes were focused, brilliant, cobalt blue and almond shaped. She stared at her mother, almost as though she understood who she was seeing. Her skin was the same dark hue as that of the doctor, though she would be far taller and finer-boned. A beauty; all the better. Dr. Rapahango touched the baby's cheek, and a rictus crossed her face, a combination of an emotionless smile and a grimace of pain. And then she began to speak, soft words in a dead language, a melodic tongue of which she was the final speaker.

"My daughter," she said, "You were conceived not in love, but in bitterness. You have no father; you have instead a microscalpel and spliced genetics, because you were created to be nothing less than a weapon. I have given you every advantage, made you in perfection and beyond, because you have a people and perhaps a world to avenge. It is not yet known if the Yamato will return in triumph—or at all. We will not be here to find out, you and me. We will leave before then, if all goes as planned.

"You are Atirangi Paoa Rapahango. Your names are ancient; you will be the last newborn child to be given a Rapanui name, by a fully Rapanui mother. In your name is the power and purpose for which you were born, my treasure, my weapon, my beloved, murderous angel." She paused and kissed the child's brow and finished in cold-voiced English. "Your name means Rage of Heaven, my daughter. Because, for the Gamilans who killed both the past and future, that is what you will be."

She then cleaned herself and rearranged her filthy clothing as best she could and tucked the infant into the makeshift sling she had fashioned. The infant would have to have her first swallows of life-giving colostrum as they moved.

Soon, it would be time to break cover—and attempt to leave Earth.

March 15, 2200

Almost six months had passed; Dr. Rapahango and her daughter were still on Earth. All had not gone as planned.

It had started with the baby. Atirangi almost immediately began growing at an unbelievably accelerated rate. For each passing month, the little girl grew at eighteen times the normal physical and mental rate. When next the Ides of March returned, she was the equivalent of eight years in age—mentally, far beyond that.

They had survived by remaining in the underground cities, even when every other citizen had returned to the surface. The Yamato had returned in glory and victory; Earth was green and wholesome again. But it had all come too late for Dr. Rapahango. She was dying, and she knew it.

Without her daughter's gene-enhanced resistance to radiation, the few months spent dangerously close to the surface had taken their toll. Her long braids were gone; her liver-spotted, scabbed scalp was stubbled here and there with sickly grey tangles. She was blind; it had long since fallen to Atirangi to find shelter and food for them. She led her mother by means of a wrist tether attached to her belt.

Mother and daughter were cut of the same dark cloth; friction was building between the two. At first, Atirangi was more than willing to drink of her mother's bitterness, but her self-awareness was growing. She knew there was something else, something beyond the running and scavenging they did in tunnels. Without telling her mother, she began venturing closer and closer to the surface, wanting to see what she had never seen: a fresh, beautiful planet, made young again by heroism and the technology of her alien forebears. At the last, the child could no more resist the lure of the sun than could a flowering vine. She braved the last of the old, ill-maintained elevators and led her mother into the sunshine.

"Child, what are you doing?" Even blind, Dr. Rapahango could sense the freshness of the air and the warmth of spring sunlight on her face. "We cannot come here! We cannot allow ourselves to be caught on the surface, and you know it!" The woman's indomitable will was fading with the strength in her body; the words of protest were a pleading whine.

"I'm done with tunnels, Mother," Atirangi answered, her tone clipped; already, her mannerisms were much like those of the doctor. She brushed back a heavy, wavy lock of raven hair and yanked on the wrist-line. "They can't still be looking for us. You said yourself that they would think I'm a little baby. I'm tired of scraping and scrounging for canned food and the leavings of others."

"We cannot take this risk. If they find us, they will separate us—"

"Mother… you're going to die. We both know it. That will separate us just as surely as the people you say are hunting us. If you want me to be all you say you want me to be, you must let me go. I have the datatubes. If there is anything you have left to teach me, you'd better do it soon." In Atirangi's sweet voice, there was no pity; no more so than her mother had felt, looking at the body of the woman whose genetic material she had stolen.

"I am going to die, yes. But the more lead time we have, the better. If I can hold out until your growth process slows…” Dr. Rapahango trailed off, allowing the words to lie where they had fallen.

"I'm not waiting. If you are so worried that you will hold me back, I will take matters into my own hands. I will see to it that you do not."

Haka'ea Paoa Rapahango sat down, right where she had stood. With a slow twist and tug, she opened the ill-fitting smock she wore, baring her wasted chest.

"You have a knife. Do it."

Dr Rapahango never expected the blow; her goading had been a bluff. The hard, sharp point of the steel blade took her utterly by surprise as it gouged off her collarbone, into her neck and then severed her carotid artery. As cold and vicious as the blade in her hand, Atirangi stepped back; she watched her mother bleed out, the dark, poisoned blood seeping into the sweet spring earth. The girl slipped the tether from her waist. She left it coiled neatly about her mother's outflung hand. When she walked away, the child born of revenge did not look back.

Part III: Blood, Steel and Thorns

Blood on her skin

Dripping with sin,

Do it up, yeah

Living Dead Girl

—White Zombie, Living Dead Girl

August 2, 2200

She lived by her wits, continually on the move to keep those that chanced to see her unaware of the rate at which she was growing. Atirangi was impatient for the growth process to slow; she was weary of having to break off her self-education every few months, to say nothing of having to evade truancy, police and child-protection authorities. The lovely child blossomed into an adolescent of unearthly beauty, and on Lammas Night, she found herself upon Hero's Hill, listening in silence to tales of the Star Force's exploits.

By now, Atirangi knew of Starsha of Iscandar, and her near-refusal to give the Yamato the Cosmo-Reverse to clear Earth of the radiation left by the terrible Gamilan planet bombs. Captain Susumu Kodai’s book on the journey, Song for a Blue World: The Road to Iscandar, had told her much. As she had read of the arrogance of the Iscandarian Queen, an anger equal to that which she felt toward the Gamilans had emerged. In her opinion, neither Starsha nor Dessler were worthy of anything other than her hatred. Both had their hand in the fact that the Earth had nearly become extinct. The fact that Atirangi shared genetics with Starsha meant nothing.

“—and then this was the unbelievable part. Supreme Leader Dessler turned on his own people just to try to destroy the Yamato. It was a terrible thing. We had rammed the Palace, and there were so many people dead. But then, we learned that Dessler had evacuated in his flagship to go to an orbital station above his capital city of Baleron. He detached part of the station, intending to drop it on the city. One of the greatest acts of Captain Okita was the decision to destroy that part of the station with the Wave Motion Gun. Millions of people were saved that night.”

Atirangi’s lip curled, and her eyes narrowed. “Takieve,” she murmured. —Asshole. She had heard enough. Why would the Yamato do such a thing? She knew the eventual result all too well. After the fall of Dessler’s regime had come peace. Indeed, many of the faces in the crowd were blue. Seeing Gamilans on earth after all they had done disgusted her. She drew back into the shadows of the deepening evening and then strolled away, seeming to be just another pretty teenage girl out to enjoy the sultry air of a summer night.

The idle-seeming saunter was deceptive. Her vivid blue eyes missed no detail, no opportunity to better her situation. People were careless in these peaceful days, and there were numerous useful items that could be stolen. This time, an unattended coat fell into her possession. She slipped away with the suitcoat, finding an isolated spot. She rifled the pockets for useful items and grinned with elation when they yielded a bonanza: a palmtop computer and quite a bit of cash. Not only would she eat well tonight, but she would also have entertainment. The palmtop, when eventually sold, would yield even more money. She shoved the pillaged coat into a nearby storm drain and then continued her evening stroll, heading for a tubecar out of the city. She did not intend to be anywhere nearby when the rich man noticed his loss.

Three hours later found Atirangi happily seated at a steakhouse, ripping into a bloodily-rare steak and poking away at the palmtop. Its satellite access provided her eager eyes and mind with information—a thing for which she hungered even more than the meat. Out of habit, she pulled up information on the Yamato and her crew, but then remembered what she had heard from the man who had spoken of the choice to save the lives of Gamilan citizens.

The Gamilans. The target for which her mother had created her, a slim dagger of a girl, to be thrown, and thrown away.

After what I just heard, I think it’s time for me to live for me, not my mother made me to be. There are things I think I’d much rather do. First, though, I must get past my growth cycle. And I need clothes yet again—this shirt is already too tight through the chest.

She then slipped an ear bud into one of her ears and smiled as she partook of another passion: music. There was so much she intended to learn, do and exploit, and one of her first challenges would be the glory of what filled her senses. It was not enough to listen to music; she wanted to create it, immerse herself in it, celebrate it. She knew already that her voice was transcendent in its beauty and her pitch absolute. Atirangi had explored the topic thoroughly at a public library, quickly teaching herself to sightread music. She also researched the methods used by singers to train, but still knew herself to be at a disadvantage: she needed a voice coah, and for that she needed to wait until she stopped growing.

She finished her meal and was so absorbed in listening to the rich electronic sound that she let her guard lapse. Thus it was that did not see the two uniformed officers until it was too late. The satellite uplink had done more than provide her with music; it had led the police directly to her in a trace.

"Excuse me, miss; I'm afraid we need to talk to you," one of them began, but she gave him no time to finish. She simply leaped, catlike, over the back of her booth, scattering the meal of the couple sitting behind her. She made for the door amid shouts of surprise and outrage.

However, her luck had fallen short. She ran straight into the arms of two backup officers. Snarling and spitting like a wildcat, she left one of them—a Gamilan— with a broken arm and several others with terrible bites and bruises before they finally managed to restrain her and wrestle her into the patrol car.

"We need to know your name, miss." The officer speaking to her was carefully probing the eye that was already swelling shut from one of her violent kicks.

"Fuck you, I have no name!" The words were growled in a lush contralto voice, accented with the lilt of a lost island.

"You're in a lot of trouble, young lady. Theft, assault on multiple police officers..." He shook his head. "We need your name and contact information for your parents."

"Officially, I don't exist. I have no parents. I won't give my name to anyone other than someone from the Yamato.” She tested the plasteel restraints that bound her wrists and ankles, glowering at the officer with loathing.

"The crew of the Yamato is not going to involve themselves with a case of juvenile delinquency. We can and will hold you in a juvenile detention facility until you cease this foolishness." The officer who spoke was also Gamilan, and Atirangi bared her teeth in a snarl of loathing.

She considered the man, eyes narrowed. A thought occurred to her, and she smiled bitterly. They would believe her soon enough; all she needed to do was wait.

And grow.

She sealed her lips with a toss of her head, wild black hair screening her face from their view.

"All right… you have the right to remain silent…" The Miranda code, almost as ancient as modern law enforcement, was read off to her, and then she was taken away.

October 10, 2200

"This is a most amazing story." Susumu Kodai considered the social worker sitting in front of him, bewildered at what the woman was telling him.

"I know it is, and I know it's difficult to accept. But this young woman has been proven to be telling the truth. In the two and a half months we have had her at our facility, she has continued to grow at an abnormal rate. This picture was taken upon intake, and this one, I took two hours ago.” She handed him two photographs. “Her pituitary functions and brain chemistry appear normal. We finally reached your Dr. Sado, the only living physician to have information on Iscandarians. His findings confirm her heritage, and the records show that a Dr. Rapahango was indeed wanted for theft of classified materials." The woman sighed, her warm brown eyes appealing to the young officer. "She's difficult; I won't mislead you in that regard. But the fact remains that you are the closest she has to someone able to understand her. You and the others on the Yamato’s crew are the only people that have any tie to her existing heritage. Easter Island—her mother's home—was erased from the map during the war. Lieutenant, you are the only hope she has of having anything close to a normal and productive life."

Kodai stood, walking to the living room window. He looked without seeing at the neatly-manicured lawn of the small house he now owned. If he agreed to take the girl in, he would have to sell it and acquire a larger dwelling. He would have to give up his cherished solitude as well. How could he accept a violent teenager with a criminal record into his home? But, on the other hand, how could he refuse to do so? This Atirangi sounded like she had had a childhood worse than his own, and he, like every other Terron, owed Queen Starsha a great debt. He could not turn his back on the Queen's flesh and blood.

"All right… I'll do it. I'll come with you to meet her tonight and make arrangements to get her out of detention as her sole guardian." He sighed. "I'll need time to find a house adequately sized for two people, though. I'm not sleeping on the pullout bed in my own home, and I won't deny a young woman her privacy, either."

"Thank you, Lieutenant Kodai." The social worker shook his hand, and then took it into both of her own. "This is going to make a great difference in Atirangi's life."

"And my own," he quipped. "But, hey… I've had stranger adventures than this!"

When Kodai arrived at the detention center, his first sense of Atirangi Paoa Rapahango was... power. She was already taller than he himself, standing at 6’2”. With little to do other than physical exercise, she had put a bit of muscle onto her frame, and her great mane of hip-length raven hair only made her seem more imposing. She watched him through unnaturally-blue eyes, her face expressionless.

"Hi there," he said. "I believe someone here ordered a guardian?"

Atirangi blinked, and then could not help but soften. Kodai's sincere smile and lighthearted manner surprised her; she had steeled herself to be resented.

"Yes. Have any room for a delinquent alien that sings?" She grinned.

"I believe I do. But we must go over these terrible things called 'rules' first, before we do anything else." He would have begun the litany—no drinking, no smoking, good grades, no staying out late—but she cut him off.

"Don't worry. I have very little interest in the bullshit these other girls get into. I'm into information; I've been studying incessantly since I came here. I also have an interest in music."

"All right," Kodai could already tell that this was going to be entirely a different situation than he had expected. "One thing I do have to ask. Please tone down the language. I can tell you're smarter than that."

"Ugh." She rolled those piercing eyes. "All right, I suppose. It's a habit, though; living on the streets and then in here will do that to you."

"I'm so sorry you had to go through that," he said softly. "I know what it's like to have absolutely no one to turn to. That stops, now. I want you to know that you can come to me with anything—even if you think I won't like it, tell me. I'll at least hear you out, okay?" He offered a hand.

For the first time, Atirangi willingly accepted human contact; she clasped his hand in her own, favoring him with that radiant smile. "I won't let you down, sir."

"That's Susumu to you. Come on. We have about two reams of paperwork to fill out, and a hearing to sit through."

And the two made their way off to the administrative wing.

Part IV: The Hellion

Friday, November 13, 2201

The day is my enemy

The night, my friend

—The Prodigy, The Day is My Enemy

Living at Susumu Kodai's house, Atirangi knew peace just long enough to be furious when it was disrupted. Power surges, blackouts and increasing unrest—and now she found herself packing up her possessions, getting ready to be immediately sent to college. Her guardian had told her of his imminent departure aboard the Yamato. Over tears, protests, pleas and recriminations, Kodai stood firm: Yes, it was necessary. No, she would not be permitted to accompany them. And no, he did not feel safe in leaving her alone in the house.

"Listen," he had said. "We're leaving without orders, possibly under fire from the EDF themselves. We're going to be poorly provisioned and overmanned. And no matter how smart you are, you still don't have the kind of technical training I need for someone on the crew. This doesn't have anything to do with me not trusting you, Ati, I swear it. But, if my hunch is correct, there's going to be a whole lot of trouble very soon, and I just can't justify leaving you completely alone. The purse-strings are wide-open; study whatever you wish at any college you choose. But you are going to have to live on a campus with some recourse to safety and supervision."

She had sat, arms folded, at the kitchen table, her narrowed eyes regarding him. Her fiercely-stubborn nature urged her to engage in further protest, but logic and reason won out in the end. Kodai had been more than fair, kind and generous with her. He had encouraged her in every study and interest—perhaps even spoiling her a little. Their few arguments had been strident, but short-lived; she came to know that Susumu had reasons for everything he did. He was the one living being she trusted.

"All right, Susumu. But… if you go out there and get killed and leave me alone, I'll find some way to make the afterlife unpleasant for you. I'll use mysterious Iscandarian woojoo-powers." She broke into a slight smile; the joke was an old one between the two of them.

"No woojoo," he smiled. "I'm going to come back. And I'm going to be right there, yelling like an idiot, the night you throw your mortarboard up in the air with your graduating class. I promise."

The promise had sealed it. She could not return his kindness with reckless action, no matter how much she wanted to be left on her own. Besides, the opportunity to acquire more knowledge beckoned to her. Music and study; theirs was a siren song she could not resist.

She managed to beat the curse of Friday the 13th that night and made it to her chosen school: the prestigious Juilliard, in New York City. She and Susumu had gotten word only a week ago that her entrance audition and test scores were more than sufficient for her acceptance there. Her enrollment had been a very rushed affair; her unique situation had required a great deal of string-pulling, arranging and argument. Only her stellar grades and talent coupled with the impending departure of her sole guardian enabled her to win out at the very last minute—literally. She had had to run to catch the last shuttle, barely making it aboard the flight. As she sat, looking out the window, she wished once again that she could have at least seen the Yamato take off.

Oh, well; nothing I can do about it, she mused. I just hope he doesn't get his ass shot off out there.

Her hand caressed the Yamato patch she had sewn onto her leather jacket; still facing the window, she nodded off to sleep.

The intervening year began pleasantly enough, but the encroaching threat presented by this new foe, the Gatlantean Empire, began to present problems. More and more students were leaving or being called home; as the seasons advanced and her third semester reached its end, she was one of only a few staff and students remaining at the Meredith Willson Residence Hall. They stopped encouraging her to return to her family when she pointed to the Yamato patch, telling the dean that her only family was many light-years away. She had nowhere else to go, and she had promised Susumu that she would remain at school until either his return or whatever might occur in the event of failure. She had not allowed herself to contemplate that potential outcome; therein lay the beginnings of a panic which could not be permitted to overcome her.

Her roommate, a drama major, had left months ago, leaving her alone in the double room. She took advantage of the increase in space by disassembling the extra bed and stashing it in an abandoned dorm room. She spent her days immersed in study, using automated learning programs to fill in gaps left by absent professors. In the evenings, she divided her time between practice with her voice and chosen instruments, and an on-campus martial arts class she had enrolled in for physical exercise.

The style was called ‘Pencak Silat’, and its fluid speed and devastating technique spoke to the harsher parts of her nature. The instructor was also a dance professor and was one of very few of the faculty that allowed no worry to show. Even as things began to deteriorate in the city, he remained steadfast. Aditya Setiawan’s calm, encouraging manner was a comfort to her, and she found herself adding other classes of his, unofficially doubling her major in dance. She would finalize it—but only if the Yamato won out in the end, and there was a world left for which to perform.

Matters became worse as the Thanksgiving break approached. Outside the walls, the sounds of looting, rioting and even occasional gunfire caused the few remaining people at Juilliard to barricade themselves into Willson Hall. Atirangi emerged as something of a leader among the score or so remaining students; Professor Setiawan did all he could to help her maintain some sort of order and prevent the panic and hardship they faced from worsening.

The school shut down all media outlets and the world-wide Ultranet. Professor Setiawan kept a small palmtop, but he and Atirangi both agreed that free access to all the bad news would only make matters worse. Dean Marquisette and the remaining seven professors kept watch, even trying to keep some semblance of the learning process in place. As the crisis continued to worsen, they came to the bitter decision that moving underground would be safer. For the first time in years, the extension built beneath the school during the war with Gamilan was opened. They descended into what they hoped would be safety, deep underground. Atirangi was helping everyone settle in when Setiawan came to find her.

"Ati," he said, "can you help me with something over here?" The voice was his usual soft-spoken tone, but she caught a flash of urgency in his dark eyes. She nodded and followed him at once.

"What's going on, Prof?" she asked quietly.

"We've moved down here not a moment too soon." He ran one deep-brown hand over his bald pate, and then handed her the palmtop.

The Moon was burning. The night sky revealed on the screen revealed an oozing, blood-red ball, a molten welt where once there had been a lovely sphere.

"Oh, fuck," she gasped.

"Funny, that's exactly the same thing I said when I saw this image," he said softly. "We're in deep trouble. The rest of the news is very bad. I'm afraid the Yamato may not make it back. Every other ship in the Defense Force has been destroyed, even those huge Andromeda-class ships they just built. They're talking surrender."

The words hit her like a punch. She pressed fisted hands against eyes closed against the hot tears that were so difficult for her to shed. She stood, and just shook, unable to answer him.

"I'm not going to let anything happen to you, okay?" He said softly. "You're a treasure, a leader and an artist, and this world needs people like you, especially right now. What do you want to do?"

Her hands lowered from her eyes, and there was a terrible expression in them despite the tears.

"Resist. I will fight them with everything in me. Professor, we need to walk farther down, because I'm going to let you in on a little secret. What I am about to tell you can be told to no one else. Ever. I need your word."

"I swear by Allah, the Most Merciful, and by the red sash I wear," He answered, eyes wide.

"I'm not entirely human," she began. Quietly, she told him precisely who and what she was—down even to why she had been born. At the end of it, she said simply, "So I was made for this. I must resist. If there is anything I can do to prevent our whole way of life from being destroyed, I have to take action."

He stood, staring at her, eyes wide and a little fearful. But then, Setiawan gave a single nod and extended a hand. "Resistance." It was all he said.

Three days later, Atirangi found herself standing on top of the Metropolitan Opera House, watching the enemy fleet overhead. The previous days had gone by in blood and fire. After seeing the last students from her school to safety, she found herself unable to make herself remain in hiding with them.

Atirangi had never been a woman of faith before. However, she found herself looking at the still-lurid Moon. Mahina, she thought. Like my name, you are rage in the heavens. Let us be battle-companions against these monsters, these people that seek to enslave what few of us they do not kill. It is hard to ask you, in your pain, to give me of your light. But guide me—even if my path must be lit in red.

As she finished this, the only prayer she had ever uttered, Atirangi became aware of a vile smell, a faint waft of rot. Lifting a gloved hand to cover her nose and mouth, she turned to see where the stench was coming from. About twenty feet away, she spotted a prone humanoid form, covered in a dusting of snow. Protruding from the drift was a glint of metal.

A rifle.

Ati did not hesitate. She brushed aside the snow to see if the corpse carried other useful items and froze. The man was Gamilan. She came close to backing away but realized she did not have the luxury of refusing the advantage the weapon would grant her. She was fortunate that Susumu had chosen to teach her to shoot.

“You can never be sure what may happen,” he had said. “If I learned nothing else from the journey to Iscandar, it’s that one should be ready to defend the innocent. You may be all they have.”

Atirangi slung the rifle at her back. She also took the doubled bandoliers of cartridges the soldier had worn. Noting that the rounds this weapon used were a common caliber, she had hope that she could find more when the time came. Stifling her disgust, she rifled through the man’s pack and pockets, finding a few other useful items. With grim pleasure, she saw that there were two dozen palm-sized grenades. She recognized them from images that had been printed in Susumu’s book. Atirangi pulled the man’s wallet from his pocket, hoping to find cash. Instead, she found the image of a smiling woman with bright yellow eyes, an aureole of magenta curls and a little girl on her hip that looked much like the dead man.

“It’s on,” she breathed. “Let’s give these assholes a concert they won’t forget in a hurry. You might be a Gammie… but if I can, I’ll tell your kid that you managed to fight on even after your death.” She tucked the ID and the photograph into her pocket.

Quickly, she made her way down from the roof—now that she was as heavily armed as any soldier, it would never do to be spotted. Moving into an alley, she looked about until she spotted a recessed, round cover set in the street. Although the days of water-based sewage systems had long since gone, there was still a need for substreet trunks for such things as utilities. Her time with her mother had taught Atirangi how to use such maintenance access spaces to move unseen. She slithered inside after popping the hatch with the bayonet of her rifle. Knowing better than to remain too long in one place, she moved quickly. It also would not do to have someone decide to investigate the disturbed snow.

Another thing Atirangi knew was that many maintenance workers knew places where they could avoid the weather or even avoid working. One needed only to know what they were looking for. It only took her about an hour before she spotted the signs: a few candy wrappers, an old skin mag and a narrow gap that had been covered with a filthy piece of blanket. There was a scurrying of rats, but she ignored them—it had not been that long ago that she had needed to hunt them for food.

Atirangi slipped behind the makeshift curtain and allowed her eyes to adjust to the near-complete darkness. On one wall was a dingy monitor with a cracked, yellowing screen. With the power out, it revealed nothing, but a piece of paper beside the screen gave Atirangi another advantage. It was a map of the sewers, tunnels and maintenance shafts in a six-block area. The long-gone technician whose refuge this had been had marked the map with areas that had either been added later, or that had been rediscovered after later printings had left them off. Carefully, Atirangi removed the map, tucking it close against her skin.

Over the ensuing days, she explored the tunnels, highlighting important areas. Often, she found bonanzas, even down to a large cache of freeze-dried survival food that was left over from the previous war. Between that and a potable water valve, she would be able to hold out long enough to put a plan into place.

She marked places where there were damaged buildings. An especially shaky area was right beside the Opera House. A Gatlantean fighter had been shot down, causing an explosion, and the savage heat had weakened a section of roadway. Atirangi had spent plenty of time reading Susumu’s books on assorted militaria, and one area of study fascinated her. She had dug up as much information on guerilla tactics and unequal warfare as she could. It would take little force to cause the weak part of the road to collapse into an old subway tunnel, and if it did, there was a chance that the unstable building beside it would come down on top of that.

And Atirangi decided to make use of her research.

She knew she needed to take some risks to do what she meant to do. Two weeks after she saw Mahina torn, red and bleeding, she was ready. She had brought her Silat weapons down and hidden them in the tunnels, along with her guitar and harp. The night she chose was clear and bitterly cold, causing sound to carry nicely. She had placed six of the grenades directly below the unstable pavement, set to go off if there was sufficient vibration. Her own footsteps would not trigger them, but the heavier weight of a Gatlantean certainly would.

Two hours after sunset, the perfect opportunity presented itself.

The patrol of Gatlantean foot soldiers consisted of a dozen men. The massively-built troops were armed and armored, but Atirangi smiled as she saw that two of the men had lifted their visors as they moved. She lifted the first of her weapons—a blowgun. Taking aim at the lead man, Atirangi drew a singer’s breath and fired the dart. There was a sharp thwipp, and it hit the mark. The Gatlantean gave a roar of pain, clawing at his eye; the dart had pierced it. He went to his knees, but rather than rendering him aid, the other men went on alert. They left him where he fell.

Atirangi had hoped to have a chance at the other target, but there was nothing for it. Disassembling her blowgun, she hooked it back onto her belt to put the next part of her plan into play. Earlier, she had soaked the contents of an overturned dumpster with fuel oil. A shot from her rifle would ignite the inflammable material and set off the four pipe bombs she had placed inside. She popped off a single round and was pleased to see the fire start.

“Aûé! A nei, takieve’e!” she roared. “Catch me if you can, you green-faced shitbags!”

The group of them turned at the shout and opened fire, breaking into a run as they approached the alley she had ducked into as she shouted. As they came abreast of the dumpster, three of the four pipe bombs went off, peppering them with nails, pieces of glass and other sharp objects, tearing into their uniforms and killing two more of them outright. Now angry, they continued to barrel after her. She allowed them to spot her running across the street where she had planted the grenades. A moment later, there was a cacophony of noise, first from the grenades, then from the collapse of the roadway.

Atirangi became aware that one of the men was still on the surface, his body torn, caught on part of a reinforcing grid. From the place where she had hidden herself, she watched his face contort, his eyes first bulging and then rolling back. An instant later, he detonated just as violently as had the pipe bombs. A slow smile crossed Atirangi’s face, a feral expression of pure malice. She heard groans from below. It seemed another man had lived through the chaos she had caused. After waiting long enough to be sure that there would be no possibility of ambush, she approached the ragged hole in the ground.

“Hey, mister,” she called, pitching her voice sweetly. “Do you need help? That looks awful scary down there, gosh!”

“Pinned,” came the answer. “Free me… I will see that you are permitted to live.” Pain shook the man’s voice.

“Gee, I don’t know,” Atirangi answered. “I can try, but maybe you’ll still hurt me.”

“I dropped my comms pack when I fell,” he said. “Get it… call for aid. My name is Corporal Gorlok. Tell them I am here with four other men. I’m the only one still conscious.”

“I’ll call. Someone will come,” Atirangi said.

Gorlok had no way to see the wicked smile that curved her lips. She retrieved the pack. Shouldering it, she set three of her palm grenades to detonate in the event of a heavy vibration. After doing so, she once again took up her ruse of the frightened innocent. The comms rig was intuitive enough for her to operate it with little trouble.

“Hello?” she said, pressing the switch on the unit. “My name is Rose. One of you guys is hurt. Something exploded… the street collapsed, and he says there are others trapped with him. He told me that if I help, you guys won’t hurt me.” No lie she had ever told had tasted so sweet.

“Tell the Corporal that we are inbound, eight minutes away.” The line cut off after those few terse words.

Atirangi took the pack and waited a distance away, well out of range of the grenades, though still in line of sight in case she needed to shoot. Soon after, a small Gatlantean personnel carrier hovered overhead. Holding her breath, Atirangi watched, shouldering her weapon. The instant the carrier touched the pavement, there was a thunderous roar. The grenades detonated—the craft had come down on top of them. Immediately, the unstable building began to crumble. Two more explosions split the air, and Atirangi realized that two of the Gatlantean soldiers had chosen to destroy themselves rather than being buried alive.

Silence.

Once again, Atirangi depressed the switch and spoke. “I am Atirangi Paoa Rapahango. My legal guardian is Susumu Kodai of the Yamato. Wherever I can find you, I will hurt you. When I can cost Gatlantean lives, there will be blood. My ancestors ate the flesh of their enemies. Today, I have taken my first bite of Gatlantean meat. Kodai will end you with the aid of the Yamato, and I will rejoice when he does.”

“You have dared to defy me,” came an answer. “Forty-three men are dead. I will keep you alive as Gorlok promised, and I will make you watch as your species ceases to exist.” The voice filled Atirangi with hatred, so arrogant and cold it was.

“Zworder… so-called ‘emperor’. Rejoice in the fact that a teenaged student of music is smarter than your men. We survived Dessler. We will also survive you. I am not afraid of you. I will sing of your death, and that of all your kind.” With that, Atirangi cut the channel, walked away from the pack and pounded several rounds into it.

The soldiers that later responded found no trace of her. They combed the area near Central Park and Lincoln Square, losing men at every turn as the ‘dark hellion’ used the very city around them as her weapon. Only days later, they were forced to break off as the battle in Earth orbit heated up. Quickly thereafter, the war ended with the neutralization of the Ark of Destruction, the great white comet that had been Zworder’s base. Upon learning of Atirangi’s aid in seeing her fellow students to safety, the media hailed her as a hero. Only she and several dozen dead men knew the full story.

Or so she thought.

Part V: Hetu’u Hahati

I'm a little clockwork doll

On the shelf

On your shelf

And I dance and I sing

Whenever you pull my string

But the eyes that I mirror are your own

You're alone

But I'm the pretty doll on your shelf.

I'm a little music box

On the shelf

On your shelf

And I whirl and I chime

Whenever you spend the time

But the sounds I play back are your own

All alone

Yet I'm the silver box on your shelf.

CH: Cherish your illusions

Spin, spin around

Pretend that they are not just delusions

I am a music box

I am a clockwork doll on your shelf.

And you're alone.

Septigram— Clockwork Doll

When Atirangi had heard the news that Susumu Kodai and Yuki Mori had been trapped in an upper dimension after the war with Gatlantis, she had been devastated. Her heartbreak had caused her to throw herself deeply into studies, wanting contact with no one. When they were freed along with the Yamato, elation had filled her. However, Atirangi had been stunned by one matter—Kodai refused to see her. After weeks of effort, she finally managed to corner Yuki over the matter. The two were in a small café in New Tokyo, where Atirangi had traveled on no notice.

“Let me get this straight,” she said, forcing her tone to remain even. “Susumu’s pissed off at me for mounting resistance?”

“It’s not that you fought,” Yuki answered, her tone revealing her uneasiness. “It’s how. You know Zworder was a mentalist. One reason Susumu didn’t want to come back was what Zworder showed him. Some of it was about you.”

“So, I was supposed to—what? Huddle in the tunnels, doing nothing? Both of you know me better than that. I know you’ve had the issue with your memory, but even what you see now should tell you that there’s no way I’d sit with my thumb up my ass while you two were out risking your lives.” She became aware that her hands were in fists and folded them on the table before her.

“He’s bothered that you enjoyed what you did. Don’t you understand that? Susumu feels we’ve betrayed Starsha—”

“The hell with Starsha. I don’t give a good goddamn what she thinks. We share DNA, yeah, but what’s in here,” She touched her chest. “Is Polynesian. I’m Rapanui. My people didn’t just kill our enemies. We ate them.”

“My, God, Ati.” Yuki winced.

“The two of you have to have known this has been in me from the beginning. It wasn’t just me dropping part of the street and then what was left of the Lincoln Concert Hall on them, either. I also showed them what homemade napalm and pongee sticks can do. Any way I could make this war expensive, I did it, down to smashing one of them over the head with a piece of cinder block, slashing his throat and drinking his blood.” When Yuki covered her face and began to weep, Atirangi softened her tone. “I’m telling you this because my bet is that video will come out at some less-than-awesome time. I broadcasted it because psyops is an effective tactic in guerilla warfare. Susumu thought me reading about all that stuff was cute, right up until I had to use what I know. I’m sorry this upsets you, and sorry it’s such an issue for him. But I can’t change what happened, nor can I change me. And I don’t want to.”

“Atirangi, I don’t expect you to change. All I am asking is that you give Susumu some time. Let him see the why. What he went through in both the war and the upper dimension has made it difficult for him to accept violence at all, let alone coming from someone as young as you,” Yuki said softly. “But it’s very important to me that the two of you make peace. I’m pregnant. And I want the twins to have an aunt.”

“How long have you known?”

“I’m about twelve weeks. We wanted to be sure before we announced anything.” Yuki reached out to clasp Atirangi’s hands. “If you can’t do it for Susumu, do it for the twins and me.”

“For the kids, then. All I can hope is that Susumu dials back on the dickhead.”

*****

May 25, 2217

Magna Cum Summa. The words felt strange to Atirangi still, as she rolled them through her mind; as strange as seeing the abbreviation 'D.M.A.'—Doctor of the Musical Arts—after her name. She had taken off her graduation gown—the last one she would wear—and was packing to leave the city. Boxes and packing debris were strewn about; she was moving from New York to a climate more suited to her taste—the Sonora Desert near Tucson, Arizona.

The past seventeen years had been a whirlwind of study, performance and the writing of multiple theses and musical projects. She had long since ceased to need financial backing from Susumu; she had begun to get highly-paid performance and composition commissions from many sources in the media. Now, with the pinnacle of honors from the venerable Juilliard, she could literally set her own price. The running joke was that, like a highly-sought author that is paid by the word, Atirangi was paid by the note.

Those who promulgated this anecdote would be shocked, however, to hear some of the items that 'Aunt Ati' wrote for Yuki and Susumu’s children. Fourteen-year-old Alex and twelve-year-old Sasha were forever clamoring for such delights as Look Into My Nose, Pelican Poop and I Wish I Had a Prehensile Butt. Yuki spent a great deal of time pretending to be outraged—and Susumu, as bad as his children, spent just as much time laughing.

After Yuki drew them back together, Susumu had been a source of enthusiastic encouragement. Yuki had become Atirangi's confidante, a sounding-board when Atirangi struggled with the world around her. From Yuki came compassion, patience and a very strong system of ethics. Had Yuki not been present, Atirangi would never have had the temperament or the internal discipline to excel as she had. She had done much to repair the parts of Atirangi's psyche that were jagged and broken.

Tonight was to be an epic evening of celebration and amusement; this would be the first time the children would be allowed to stay up all night with the 'grownups'. They were looking forward to seeing a new holovid for which Atirangi had written the soundtrack, and to seeing their aunt perform. It was an endless source of boastful delight to them that they had a famous relative—one that they saw and spoke to on a regular basis.

Despite the closeness she enjoyed with the Kodai family, one topic remained contentious: the fact that there was a continuing alliance with the Garmillas Empire. Because of this, Susumu maintained ties with the newly-restored Supreme Leader, Abelt Dessler. Atirangi’s antipathy toward Gamilans had been discussed only once; the resultant fight had ended with so much anger and hurt feelings on all sides that Atirangi had not spoken to Susumu for weeks. It had once again taken the patient intercession of Yuki to get them to reach accord. Though the falling-out had taken place years before, it was just recently that the last of the strain had fallen away from the relationship, and all were at ease once again.

They were leaving the holocinema and heading to dinner when the comm panel in Susumu’s skycar chirped. He landed at once when he saw the insignia of EDF's Central Command come onscreen, frowning with concern.

"Ati, can you find Yuki and the kids a restaurant or something nearby? I'll meet you all there; this is eyes-only, and it can't wait," he said.

"All right; hope there isn't any trouble," Atirangi answered.

"So do I. I'll be back with you soon."

Atirangi took the group of them to a favorite spot of her own; a hole-in-the-wall pizzeria called Fioretti's. The pizza had just arrived when Susumu walked in, looking vaguely annoyed. He sat down, and with no explanation of the situation at all, grabbed a plate and a slice of pizza.

"Susumu?" Yuki asked softly. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, everything is fine. It was just information someone felt I needed immediately, despite having absolutely nothing to do with me." His irritation was evident.

"Can you tell us even what it was about?" Atirangi asked. She hadn't seen this type of reaction in Susumu at any other time he had received an official communiqué.

"It's not something you need to hear about, and what's more, you wouldn't want to." His tone was a little shorter than he intended, and Atirangi bristled a bit.

"My, thank you so much for protecting my delicate sensibilities," she growled, folding her arms.

"Look, the message was from New Gamilas, and it's kind of common knowledge how you feel about that. Add to that, the individual that contacted me said some things that weren't exactly welcome. Can we please move on? I don't want to talk about it anymore; besides, if we do, we'll just end up having another argument." Susumu moderated his tone a little and hoped that his explanation sufficed.

"Fine; consider it dropped." She didn't want another argument, either; she snagged a second slice of pizza, and lightened the mood by peering at it. "Oooh, is that an anchovy?"

"Ewww!" Yuki and Alex shouted in unison; neither of them were fans of the salty fish, though Atirangi and Sasha loved them.

"Don't panic, I got 'em on the side," Atirangi laughed. "I was kidding!"

"Yeah, well, don't throw any of them this time," Susumu grinned.

"Hey, I like this place; I don't want to get thrown out of here!"

"You got thrown out of a restaurant?" Alex looked very interested.

"We sort of started a food fight in a place just outside EDF Headquarters one time when I came to visit your dad. This was a long time ago, before you guys were born. They were pretty mad, and we had to clean up the mess! And then they told us it would be 'appreciated if we took our business elsewhere in the future'."

"I told you the two of you were worse than the kids!" Yuki pretended offense, but her eyes were dancing.

"Yeah, well, if we started a food fight in here, Mama Gia would come out with her rolling pin… so you don't need to worry!"

The rest of the evening had gone without incident; when Atirangi returned to the boxes and chaos of her apartment, she kicked off her shoes and then shoved some packing supplies off a chair and messily onto the floor. She settled artlessly, shoving back heavy locks of raven hair and sat regarding the middle distance.

The Gamilans, she thought. What could they possibly want? Why does Terra deal with them at all? Everything I've read and seen has them continuing to be militaristic and aggressive. But Susumu acts as though there is some importance attached to maintaining close ties with them.

Restless, she rose from her chair and walked to the window. The lights of Manhattan glinted and winked, drowning out the stars above. She continued to ponder, this time weighing her own reaction.

Why do I still have such a knee-jerk negative reaction to the mention of them, though? Did my mother really program me that deeply? Either way… my mother and the conditions of my birth are something I must put behind me. I certainly have plenty of other matters to occupy me.

Atirangi picked up the small lap harp that she had not yet packed. She settled back in her chair and made a light run down its strings, smiling a little at its pure tone. She began playing a very sweet-sounding nothing-in-particular. As always, the music untangled her nerves and enabled her to relax. She retired that night, feeling a bit more at peace.

The sun, an unfamiliar orb of vicious blue-white, beat down upon her head and arms. She was running, running through thick vegetation with the knowledge that she was fleeing some dire pursuer, a fate to which death would be preferable. Her feet were bare, and despite the pain caused by the stones and uneven ground upon which she fled, she dared not slacken her pace. She ran like a hunted animal, too afraid to so much as look over her shoulder at whatever was in pursuit. Her bruised and battered body told her that to stand and fight, even with the martial arts training she possessed, was not an option. She had attempted it and been forced into this headlong flight across a span of rocky beach, heading for the treeline of an alien jungle. She crashed into the underbrush—and realized she had made a terrible mistake. As though they were snares, the vines entangled her limbs, and she fell hard, striking her shoulder on a rock and tearing her flesh on daggerlike thorns. A pair of hands, steel-strong and blue-skinned, seized her by the wrists…

… and Atirangi woke up, bathed in night-terror sweat, breathing as though her panicked flight had been all too real. She shook her head in confusion and got up to shower; she had perspired so heavily that she was soaked to the skin.

Great. My mother's baggage has my head so fucked up that I'm now having nightmares about the damn Gamilans, she thought. She shoved the shower lever on with an irritated slap and let the nearly-scalding water soothe away the disturbing traces of the dream, both physical and mental. I need to lighten the hell up.

*****

The following day brought the final stages of her move. After directing the packers through their tasks, she left early for the shuttleport. She wanted to bid Aditya Setiawan, her dear friend and Guru Besar, farewell. As she walked along the streets of Manhattan, enjoying the warm evening, she recalled the night on Heroes Hill, and the series of events that had led her to this moment. Undeniably, her mother's engineering and indoctrination had contributed to her rise to eminence in her chosen field, but she still resented the fact that her formative years had lacked anything resembling normalcy.

It was many blocks to Aditya’s house, but Atirangi preferred to make the journey on foot, rather than by tube. She wanted to relish the time she had to be able to walk familiar streets without having to fend off overly-enthusiastic fans; her holovid scores alone were gaining her a following. Even without the pitfalls of social prominence, she attracted more than her share of attention: an imposingly-tall woman with nearly knee-length, wavy black hair and brilliant blue eyes, shocking against darkly-exotic features. She paid no regard to the occasional wolf-whistle or catcall; it took more than crude high spirits to offend a woman who had spent several years as an assistant teacher to undergraduates at a school for the performing arts.

Despite her physical attractiveness and compelling personality, Atirangi had never had a romantic connection of any kind. Part of the reason was a sheer lack of time for such things; the schedule she had kept at Juilliard had been grueling and competitive, and required hours of rehearsal, study and performance. Another contributing factor was Yuki's encouragement to do as she had done and wait for the right man, especially considering the burden imposed by her origins. The final contributing factor was her almost-unrealistically high standards. Short men were a turn-off to her, and few were taller than she was. Add in Atirangi's tendency toward intellectual elitism and the very morals encouraged in her by her adoptive family, and it led to a woman alone, at least for the foreseeable future.

Her stiletto heels clicked as she walked up to the doors of Aditya Setiawan's building and buzzed in; she had had the door code for years, and the denizens of the complex knew her. By the time the elevator had reached the professor’s floor, he was there to meet her, grinning broadly.

"Well, hello, Dr. Rapahango!"

"Ugh. Don't call me that." The memory of her mother rose, unbidden, within her; she suddenly realized she didn't want to be called by the same honorific.

"But… well, all right." Aditya looked a little confused.

"My mother clung to her title. I don't think I'm going to use it," she said softly.

"I see. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"You didn't; I'm already on edge." She smiled at him and patted his arm. "Let's go sit down. I only have a little while before the shuttle, but I wanted to say goodbye."

They wandered into the apartment; as always, it was almost neurotically tidy. The smell of incense hung warmly in the air. She chose her favorite chair—a large papasan style chair in the corner, and he settled on its ottoman.

"So, this is it, huh? What has you on edge—just the move?"

"Pretty much. That, and I almost had another fight with Susumu last night. I still have issues whenever I find out he's been talking to certain offworld entities."

"The Gamilans again?" He knew the situation that had led to the previous rift; other than the immediate family, he was the only one who did.

"Yeah. And they said something that irritated him, on top of just being who they are." She sighed. "This is going to keep coming up, I'm sure, and I've got to get over it."

"Well, have you ever considered trying to befriend a Gamilan? That might defuse the animosity."

"I vacillate between thinking that's a great idea to being afraid I'd become bitchy and make things worse, somehow. Either way, there aren't that many Gamilans in Arizona, at least that I’ve heard about."

"And we'd know; there's always huge fanfare about it when they send anyone important. Strange; they almost seem to give them a hero's welcome," he mused.

"And that gets on my nerves. Which brings me right back to what I said before: I've got to get over it. Anyway, let's change the subject; I'm sure we can find better things to talk about than my personal angst."

After a warm farewell with her dear friend, Atirangi made her way to the shuttle. Gazing out the window, she once again watched a city skyline fall away, and made plans for her future in Tucson.

First among them would be a return to the place in which she had spilled her mother's blood. A farewell was to be said there, as well.

Part VI: Seven Daggers

February 22, 2222

Oranges and Lemons

Now release all your demons.

A reckoning owed me

On the Feast of the Holy.

This debt must you pay me

Or with death I shall plague thee.

For I am the daughter

Of a land with no water.

Here comes a candle

To light you to bed;

And here comes a chopper

To chop off your head.

Septigram—Oranges and Lemons

Though her continuing professional studio work had proven as lucrative in Tucson as it had in New York, Atirangi had found it not to be as satisfying as performance. This had led her, at first for her own amusement, to bring together a musical ensemble—a band called Septigram.

By ones and twos, she had found them: Ewa Jankovski, the cellist, had been one of her own students at Juilliard. Following soon after was the grim-faced drummer, a Canadian Inuit named Cody Tiriganiaq. Her travel to Australia, Africa and Europe had brought the others to her: her flautist Kharzon Sonda, a giant of a man from Khazakstan, a somewhat obnoxious French bassist named Étienne Jourdemaine, keyboardist Msiba Nkele, from the Maasai Mara, and Jilliandrea Unaipon, an indigenous Australian, last to join them, became their lead guitarist. All of them were vocalists, and their association with Atirangi meant their voices would improve exponentially as she trained them.

Their musical backgrounds were just as motley as their origins; Ewa had to teach Étienne how to read music. His pitch was excellent, and he could improvise well, but he had had no formal training whatsoever. There was a sort of gestalt amongst this group, however; it did not take long before they were performing live, and then traveling in support of their first vid-album, Seven Daggers.

Their reputation—both musically and otherwise—also did not take long to develop. Seven Daggers launched with immediate critical and public acclaim. Atirangi's reputation meant that any musical venture she touched turned to gold; and the talent of the other band members—raw, trained or otherwise—ensured that their success would continue.

This evening's concert was in support of their second album, Spheres and Energies. This was something of a homecoming for Atirangi; the performance was to be at Juilliard's Alice Tully Hall. The concert was already sold out, and then some; people crowded the campus, hoping to be able to catch a bit of the sound. The concert was also going to be broadcast via satellite relay to some of the more remote Terron bases; this was something of a gift to Susumu and Yuki, who were patrolling the outer solar system aboard the Yamato and unable to attend. Alex and Sasha would, likewise, be unable to see her perform live; both were at the EDF Academy. Atirangi had calmed their protests and disappointment by promising a concert at the Academy itself. Even though they could not be directly there, Atirangi looked forward to performing to her adoptive family.

She was unaware that she would have other listeners as well.

When they were on stage, Septigram was a feast for the senses. Beyond the music, there was Atirangi's talent at dance; she seemed only loosely bound by the laws of gravity and physics. In a nod to her Polynesian heritage, she was also a firedancer, spinning flaming spheres on welded chains. The instrumental title track of the album showcased her dance beautifully; it brought the audience to a shouting, stamping standing ovation. At the end of it all, they had to return for no less than three encores, one of them a simple a cappella piece that had not yet been recorded in the studio. And then, three hours after it had begun, Septigram was offstage, and the spell was broken.

"Ugh, gods, don't even look at me, I stink!" Though Aditya was waiting backstage to greet her, Atirangi had only one thing on her mind: a shower. Covered in sweat and soot from her firespheres, she could not countenance even the slightest delay in getting clean.

"Don't worry, I can sit here and listen to Étienne's dirty jokes!" Aditya laughed. "You guys were great, once again."

"Of course we were fuckin' great, we're Septigram!" Jilliandrea popped up and began sashaying around. "King Shit, don't you know it!" Her thick Australian accent made it even more amusing.

Artwork: “Atirangi, the Dark Enchantress” © 2021 by Yase. Used by permission.

Far away, and several days later, the broadcast filtered its way into Gamilan space. A young communications officer named Lieutenant Zain Valas had the presence of mind to record it from the beginning. Within a month, Atirangi and Septigram would have fans they didn't know about—a development that would make the galaxy ring like a struck bell.

March 15, 2222

"No, it's ''Iorana'. There's a glottal stop and a trilled 'r' sound. Come on, you can say it!"

It was about a month after the tour; Susumu and Yuki had returned from patrol, and the kids were back for spring break. They were sitting around the kitchen table at the Kodais’ house, laughing at Alex's attempts to speak Rapanui. Atirangi was taking a few weeks' vacation herself before returning to the studio.

"You just want her to teach you to cuss, Alex!" Sasha snickered.

"You cuss more than I do! And 'Iorana isn't a cuss word, it's just 'hello'."

"There will be no swearing in this house, in English, Rapanui or any other language," Yuki cut in. "Save it for the locker room. I don't want to hear it."

"Don't worry, Yuki, I'll keep the Rapanui swear words to myself… along with the French, Russian and Swahili I've picked up from the band." Atirangi leaned back in her chair, her azure eyes sparkling with laughter.

"You people spend as much time causing and getting into trouble as you do making music!" Yuki laughed. "I read about that fight Étienne started in the Hard Rock Café in Dubai."

"Actually… he didn't swing the first blow. He was just the one who was loudest. At least Kharzon dragged him out. And believe it or not, he's not the biggest rage-vector in the band. That'd be Ewa."

"Cute little Ewa?" Alex asked, wide-eyed.

"Omighod, I am so telling her you said that!" crowed Sasha. The siblings began playfully shouting and slapping at each other over the table.

"Okay, you two, if you're going to do that, do it somewhere I'm not stuck in the crossfire!" Susumu said, dodging a wild blow. Alex and Sasha ran out of the kitchen, still slap-boxing playfully; their father sighed and relaxed. "I love having them home, but I forgot how chaotic it could be."

"Especially with Ati around," said Yuki, shooting a playful glance at Atirangi.

"Hey, I've only sung one round of Pelican Poop so far!"

"Yes, but we had to listen to the Prehensile Butt chorus all the way from the shuttleport. Where do you come up with these things?" She shook her head, a quirky smile on her lips.

"Sometimes, I just get inspired," Atirangi answered innocently.

"Is that what you call it? I'd say it's more like you lose your mind temporarily!"

"Watch it, or I'll write a song about you," Atirangi laughed.

"Do it! You should do it!" Susumu's encouragement earned him a punch on the arm. "Ow!"

"Actually, Ati… there is something fairly serious that we need to talk to you about. It's something that might get you upset, but I didn't want you to find out through the media or something," Yuki said quietly.

"Oh?" She sat up, her light mood fading a little.

"It's about the Gamilans. There have been many more sightings of their ships near our sector recently—"

"Fuckin' they'd better not start their shit again!" Ati snarled. "Because I swear to the gods, I'll—"

"Calm down, Ati!" Susumu put a hand on Atirangi's wrist, breaking her tirade. "We don't think there's any hostile intent behind it; if anything, they've been helpful. What Yuki is trying to tell you is that they are going to be establishing a consulate in the Southwest; our diplomatic relations have been strengthening. The reason you need to know now… it's going to be in Phoenix. The Gamilans tend to prefer higher temperatures, so they are placing it there."

"Wonderful." She sagged in her chair, her long braid swinging forward as she put her head down on her folded arms. "This, I do not need. I hope to hell none of them decide to come gallivanting down to Tucson. I just don't know how I'd react."

"The fact that you can say that is actually more encouraging than you think, Ati," Yuki said gently. She rested a sisterly hand on Atirangi's shoulder. "If you had said you'd be completely comfortable, or that you didn't care, then I'd worry. I'm sure you'll do fine if you need to interact with a Gamilan."

"I hope you're right, Yuki." She didn't mention the recurring dream of the world of the white sun.

After all, that was just a dream... wasn't it?

Part VII: Ominous Convergences

Friday, August 13, 2230

I dream a world of cinders

Stone above my head.

I cannot walk the surface

For all that lived, is dead.

(Chorus)

Anthem: My world lies bleeding

Dark Anthem: The sky blood red

Anthem: Stone scorched and blasted

Dark Anthem: We're walking dead.

I walk a world in blossom

The sky blue, overhead

But I still remember

When all that lived, was dead.

(Chorus)

Ashes over ashes

The scars of war now fade.

But what price have we offered

Have we our world betrayed?

—Septigram, Dark Anthem

"Branleur! Get the fuck out of my way!"

Atirangi sighed at the latest explosion of invective from the driver's seat of the airbus and went back to poking at the set list for the concert they were to perform that evening. Truth be told, the last place she wanted to be was caught in congestion over the sprawling towers and arches of Phoenix, Arizona. Usually, Étienne's foul mouth didn't trouble her; she could keep up with him, word for word, in both her languages of fluency and in his as well. But worry weighed heavily on her mind. She worried that Étienne would get them into an accident, that he'd end up at fisticuffs with another driver, or that his reckless driving would draw the attention of the police.

Most of all, she worried that her spirited bassist would get her in trouble with the very people for whom Septigram would perform.

The passing years had only been kind to this band. Their seven albums had all gone platinum quickly after release, and they had become something of a force of nature in popular music. When she learned that the satellite broadcasts of their music had attracted fans among the Gamilans, the irony amused her. Atirangi had never thought there would be fallout from Septigram's popularity, but a development had arisen with which she simply could not reconcile herself.

The Gamilan Consulate in Phoenix was expecting a visit from none other than Abelt Dessler, now styled as their Emperor. Nothing would do for entertainment other than Terra's most influential and celebrated of musical groups. It had taken the pleas of Susumu, Yuki and their children to sway her when she initially refused.

"Ati, this is an opportunity to let go of the very baggage you say has bothered you for years. I've talked to some of those guys, they're not that bad. You have more abrasive people in your band," Alex had said.

"I know. I just don't like being told that I am expected to jump on command like this. It was almost as though we were given no choice in the matter—we were just told where to be and when to be there. We're a band, not a military or political entity."

"This is a serious milestone," Susumu said. "This is the first time Dessler has ever set foot on actual Terran soil, and the treaty that's being signed is really critical. I know your feelings about… everything. But this permanent set of accords is aimed at there never again being tension between the Terran Federation and the Gamilan Empire. They are our closest allies, after all."

"All right, all right, I'll do it," She had said, holding up one hand. "But I don't intend to let the General Serizawa or Central Command ever get the idea that we're at their beck and call. I'll do this—but as a favor to you, Susumu. I understand that the Emperor is a friend of yours."

"Even when you can't imagine why?" Yuki asked softly.

"Even then. It's none of my business, for one, and for another I know a lot has happened out there, things I won't ever be able to understand because I wasn't and cannot be a part of it. And that's all right. My place is on stage, not out in space."

"Good thing we don't try to trade places!" laughed Sasha. Her tin ear was a running family joke.

"No kidding, I bet I'd puke on the first spacewarp!"

So, the seven members of the band left a post-tour vacation; none of them were particularly happy about it. For all their friendship and enjoyment of working together as Septigram, they were still individuals, still people with lives other than and outside of the band. The impending command performance had everyone on edge; they had never had to work under such circumstances. This, among other things, was leading Atirangi to be hypersensitive.

"Étienne, you get us pulled over, my size twelve is in your ass," she mentioned off-handedly.

"Size twelve? You have some huge feet, Ati!" Msiba sat bolt upright in her seat.

"We've known each other how long and you're just now noticing that?" she laughed. "Besides… I'm over six feet tall, I need these feet! Didn't you ever wonder why I never wear shoes on stage? That got started because, at first, I couldn't find shoes I liked in my size. Now it's a trademark."

They pulled up to the hotel in which they were being accommodated; Atirangi had insisted that they receive all the best in exchange for a full performance on such short notice. This meant that the Copper Skysuites—the most exclusive hotel in Phoenix—would be giving them a full hallway of their best rooms, as well as a private conference room in which to rehearse. They had tried, in fact, to get the Presidential penthouse, but had been told it was already booked.

None of them stopped to wonder just who had booked it.

They had the bellboys act the roadie and move the various luggage and equipment to the places necessary, and then began to unpack and settle in. They would be playing in three days; they insisted on an entire week to cover potential delays as well as recuperation time. Performance as Septigram did it was quite physically demanding, a reason contributing to the discomfiture revolving around this concert. It was also a measure of satisfaction to them to make someone else haul the amps for once.

At last ensconced in her room, Atirangi kicked out of the sandals she had been wearing and did a back-flop onto the grand-king sized bed. She sighed, turning the situation around in her mind again, attempting to reconcile herself with performing for—and likely having to socialize with—Gamilans.

Well, Mother, she mused, your damned target will be in sight. And my revenge will be to do nothing. At the same time… that will be an exquisite torment. I hope you watch from whatever hell I sent you to and experience every bit of both.

Several hours later, the seven of them were in the conference room with their instruments. Though they knew the music on what felt like a cellular level, they still rehearsed almost obsessively. It was a habit Atirangi had instilled in them, a carry-over from her years at Juilliard.

They had gotten about three songs into their set when a very panicked hotel manager hammered frantically on the door. They broke off, and Cody walked over to answer the door, drumsticks held loosely in one hand. The hard-bitten Inuit said nothing, merely lifting a multiply-pierced eyebrow at the man.

"You guys need to rehearse much more quietly," the manager said. He had an expression in his eyes much like that of a trapped rabbit. "You are disturbing the diplomatic party in the Presidential suite above you."

"You mean, the bloody Gamilans are already here and are right the fuck over our heads?" Jilliandrea blurted out.

"Merde! We got yanked off vacation for this bullshit; let them tolerate a little noise! The whole fucking lot of them can kiss my hairy French ass!" Étienne said. To emphasize his point, he gave his base a little thump, with some reverb added.

"That is a suggestion I would not make to the Emperor."

All of them, including the manager, turned, startled, to face the door. Standing there was an immensely-tall, slender man with azure skin and dark eyes. He was clad in the deep green uniform of the Gamilan military. Looking them over, he gave his mustache a stroke, smiling just a little.

Atirangi's emotions at seeing a Gamilan in military uniform were mixed. She felt the rage rise within her like an angry cobra, but at the same time, she felt intimidated for the first time in many years. This man wasn’t a mere police officer—she could tell from the profusion of insignias he wore that he was a war veteran. To cover her discomfort, she stepped forward, bare feet silent on the carpeting.

"My apologies. I am Atirangi Paoa Rapahango… I'm the frontwoman for the band. Please don't be offended by Étienne's outburst. He's still a little upset at having a visit with his family cut short." She offered a hand, forcing it not to shake and inwardly cursed her mother's indoctrination.

"I am General Talan, Emperor Dessler's aide. I don't mean to intrude, but His Imperial Majesty sent me down to ensure things went according to his will." Talan accepted her hand, his expression unreadable.

Atirangi stifled the urge to wipe her hand. Talan's skin had felt strange to her—too warm and too smooth. "We'll go to acoustics, then. But please ask His Majesty's pardon; we do have to rehearse with the actual instruments at some point. Can you give an idea of his schedule, so we know when he is likely not to be disturbed by some noise?" Privately, she wondered if the Gamilan Emperor would have the same reaction to the concert itself.

"Even I do not entirely know what the royal whims will be from one moment to another. I will do the best I can to convey your professional concerns, Dr. Rapahango." With a short nod, he turned and swept from the room, his cloak sweeping against the doorframe. Atirangi winced at both the honorific and its implications; the Gamilans knew far more than she had suspected.

"Étienne, from now on, keep the opinions to yourself. This may end up being an industrial-strength fuckup if that General decides to tell Emperor Dessler what you said." Her guts curdled a little at saying that name with the knowledge that its owner was so close.

"C'est emmerdant," he growled. "Fine. But I'm saying for the record that they need to understand whose fucking homeworld this is."

The day of the concert came at last; Atirangi could not remember seventy-two hours passing so slowly in all her lifetime. The feeling of walking on eggshells with doom literally overhead had done nothing for any of their nerves; she had already had to break up a bitter argument between Étienne and the usually-silent Cody. She threw herself into the work of helping to set up the soundstage; unlike most bands, Septigram relied on roadies and automated lifters as little as possible. They felt that the handling of their instruments in preparation for a concert should be their sole responsibility.

As she was adjusting the soundboard, she saw the door open and then close out of the corner of her eye. Knowing that there was ample security posted around the concert hall, Atirangi chose to ignore the interruption. When a voice sounded behind her, she jumped, dropping the headphones she had been holding against one ear.

"May I watch, Doctor? Just for a while?" The tone was wistful, but the voice was Gamilan. Atirangi whirled around to see a tall young man with white, waist-length hair, a shocking contrast to his blue skin. His His pale green eyes were focused on her with an unblinking intensity.

"You may, as long as you don't call me Doctor." She forced a smile. "I don't use that. I'm primarily a performer and formalities make me feel awkward. Atirangi's fine." She offered a hand, absently wondering if their entire species would make her feel short. It was unnerving to contemplate.

"I am Lieutenant Zain Valas, but you don't have to use my rank, either." He broke into a surprisingly pleasant smile. "I've been listening to you since that concert supporting Spheres and Energies. I think I may be the one that got so many of the rest of us listening to you. I still have that concert on vid."

She felt taken aback. Part of her wanted to be angry at this man, who was at least partially responsible for this command performance. But seeing the shy enthusiasm in his eyes made her relent; the fault in this was not his. All Valas had done was share music he loved with his companions, which was a thing Atirangi understood very well.

"That's amazing, Valas. I never thought our popularity would extend so far. Please… feel free to sit down. This bit is a little boring, though; all I'm doing is setting up this soundboard for the acoustics in this hall." She smiled again, this one slightly less forced.

"To some, it might be boring," he answered, eyes dancing. "But I'm a communications officer. And I've never seen a Terron PA system."

She couldn't help but laugh. "So that's how you got a lock on that concert!" She was surprised at how much his friendly manner had done to ease her discomfort.

She returned to the task at hand, picking up the headphones. When she had what seemed to be a good balance, she glanced at Valas. She felt the young man deserved some sort of recognition for reaching out as he had.

"Valas, I wonder if you'd feel up to helping me get a sound check done. I can do it from here, but I'd prefer to work with a mic on stage as opposed to the middle of the hall. Do you think you can manage a couple of minor changes on the board if they're needed?"

Valas' pale eyes lit up with delight. "Really? I'd be deeply honored to help you, Atirangi." His voice softened as he spoke her name, as though merely saying the name of his idol made him shy. His pronunciation of her name was correct, though his accent made it sound a little strange.

"All right, let me get up there." She strode to the stage and vaulted up to its surface, agile as a cat. Valas just stared in open-mouthed awe. She then slipped the headset microphone on. "You know how to check acoustics, right?"

"Mostly for things like oratory. I've never done it for music."

"I have most of the serious work done; all I want you to do is adjust to make sure we don't have any weird slapback or other flaws in the sound."

Atirangi then began singing some scales, pausing between them to direct Valas in fine-tuning the soundboard. His eyes were even wider; it seemed that just listening to simple vocal exercises was enough to engender awe in him.

"Ati, Ewa wants to know if you have an extra pickup, she doesn't think she… whoa. Company." Kharzon stood in the doorway, a large crate in his arms, nervously looking at Valas.

"Kharzon, this is Lieutenant Valas. He's actually been a big help… considering you guys were out there farting around… "she grinned.

Valas snickered at the mild expletive, looking almost as delighted as he had at her voice.

“Just Zain,” he said.

"There was no farting around. It's gone straight to fuckin' off and being lazy." Kharzon caught the mood with a broad grin.

"I need to learn some more foul language in English," Zain said, setting the headphones down.

"Gods… have you ever come to the right place. You'll get all kinds of Terron swear words in some pretty obscure languages." Atirangi leapt lightly off the stage to move out of Kharzon's way.

The other band members began to filter in, evincing various degrees of surprise at Zain’s presence. The young Gamilan's warm manner put even the belligerent Étienne at ease, however. By the end of the setup, the French bassist had given Zain a backstage pass that read 'Sleazy Septigram Groupie' on the back. Zain was delighted, pinning it to his uniform at once.

As they were getting ready to prepare themselves for the performance, Cody turned to Zain with a shrewd look in his dark eyes.

"Now that I think of it, Zain," he said, "we could use at least one Gamilan with the security crew. I'm sure there are those among you that don't speak Terron Standard, and it would prove helpful to have you in the event of an emergency. Would you be willing to help out here in the auditorium?" Cody, most often in charge of making security arrangements, tended to use whatever resources he came across. He had decided that Zain was to be no exception.

Zain looked ecstatic at the suggestion. "I have leave tonight to attend the concert. I'd love to help out in any way I can."

"Good. See you here about an hour before stage time and I'll give you a rundown." Cody favored him with one of his rare half-smiles and then turned to leave with the others as they filtered out of the auditorium. As they left, Zain darted at top speed through the door from which he had entered, looking as excited as a child promised a long-awaited outing.

He's a kid, Atirangi thought, watching him. More innocent, in his way, than I ever had a chance to be. The realization that she envied him was a strange matter to contemplate.

Several hours later, they watched on backstage monitors as the audience began to filter into the auditorium. First, of course, was the royal party. Atirangi leaned forward, gazing at them intensely. She easily picked out the Emperor from among his assorted aides and bodyguards.

Abelt Dessler was tall, even for his own kind. There was a coldly-regal manner about him, almost as though he were deigning to attend this concert rather than deal with more important duties. His blond hair brushed the back of his collar, and his violet eyes trailed over the auditorium with an air of irritated ennui. At his side, General Talan solicitously made sure the Emperor was seated comfortably before taking his position behind and to the left of his chair. Once they were settled, the rest of those waiting were permitted entry.

As the house lights began to dim, Atirangi felt a thing she had not experienced in many years: the quiver of nervousness borne of stage fright. She drew in a few calming breaths to dispel it and did a section of one of the katas taught to her by Aditya. Once she felt centered again, she picked up her headset and slipped it on.

The first song was to be the Terron planetary anthem, sung a cappella by Atirangi alone. This would then segue smoothly into the anthem of the Gamilan Empire; she had practiced the transition repeatedly. She hoped it would emerge as perfectly on stage as it had in rehearsal.

Following the cue given by a small bit of luminescent tape upon the stage, she assumed her place in nearly complete darkness, knowing the audience could see nothing. Atirangi wore only a sleek, glossy catsuit of black leather, her feet bare other than the catsuit's stirrups that curved beneath the soles of her feet. Her hair, now brushing the back of her calves, was loose in a raven torrent; it needed no further adornment. Once in position, she spread her arms, and her contralto voice emerged, clear and true.

Her worries vanished with the first note; from the moment she began to sing, she knew she would be 'on' for this performance. The segue to the Gamilan Imperial Anthem was as perfect as ever she had done it, and she did not falter over its unfamiliar syllables. From the sound of the cheers and cries of acclaim, nearly half her audience tonight was Gamilan; a fact that surprised her. As the last notes faded, and the lights came up, she received what would be the first of many standing ovations that night.

She looked out, across the crowd to where the royal party was seated and something in her went a little jagged. Her eyes met those of the Emperor, and suddenly, the rage was in her again. This time, neither Talan's professionalism nor Zain's easygoing friendliness could mollify it. She found herself breaking the order of play, adding something that no one—either in the band or in her chosen family—would willingly have allowed her to perform, had they known her intent.

Still a cappella, she launched into the eerie, terrible beauty of Dark Anthem—the worst possible choice under the circumstances. Through each cutting verse, Atirangi held the Emperor's gaze, close enough to see the expression upon his elegant features. She dared him to rise and challenge her, to give her reason to give vent to all that lay within her and lay her fury at his feet. But, yet again, a Gamilan was to surprise her.

It was not fury that lay within the amethyst eyes—it was sorrow, though the expression did not spread from his gaze. She did, however, notice that his white-gloved hand gripped the arm of his seat as though he intended to sink his fingers into the metal.

Finishing the song, she took a step back as the others assumed their places on stage. There was explosive applause, even despite the inflammatory nature of the ballad. She then arched her back, fluidly lifting her arms; slowly lowered to her by a small grav-beam was a harp—but what a harp!

The harp, a double-strung concert grand modified with pickups and effects, was built to have almost as great a visual effect as an auditory one. The soundboard was lighted with a violet glow, and the harmonic curve was illuminated in scarlet. The sculpting of the entire body had an unsettling, biomechanical look to it. The crown of the harp was capped by the image of a shark with crystal teeth; the interior of its jaws was lit in green. This harp had been built to unsettle as much as to entrance, and the gasp of the crowd proved that it had struck home. She eased back onto a gravity-pad she knew would be activated and rested the ball of her foot upon the pedals of the harp. And again, Atirangi began to sing.

Septigram did no less than five sets that night; this was not counting the three encore songs brought about by the nearly-violent standing ovation and shouts from the crowd. Zain had to take action to prevent his fellow shipmates and officers from rushing the stage when the curtain at last dropped and the spell was broken. So great was the danger of a mob scene that both the band and their instruments had to be evacuated via a hidden passage. The after-party would have to be held on the floor that housed them, for reasons of safety.

"Fuck, Zain, are your people always that enthusiastic?"

They had made it without incident to the suites they occupied; their instruments were cased and locked away in case the after-party got out of hand as well. Zain had been admitted into the hospitality suite as soon as he was able to get away from his security detail. He had changed to civilian clothes and sat, easy and relaxed, as though it mattered not at all that he was the only Gamilan in the room. He grinned at Jilliandrea's question.

"We never do anything by halves. And the concert was fantastic!" He would have said more, he heard a frantic knock at the door; the same hotel manager had been admitted by security.

"What the fucking hell is it this time?" Étienne snapped. He had had more than his share to drink.

"I have to talk to Dr. Rapahango, right now," yelped the manager. "The Emperor— "

"Let me handle it." Zain had overheard what was happening; he stood and headed toward the door. He looked frightened himself, but not so much so that he wouldn't at least try to defuse the situation. Because he had been seated in the other room of the suite, the manager had not seen him until that moment. He leapt aside, as though afraid to touch him.

After both had left, a nervous Atirangi collapsed into a chair, running shaking hands through hair still damp from her shower. She had still been in the bathroom when Ewa had brought her the news.

"Looks like either we woke Sleeping Beauty up again… or maybe Dark Anthem came back to bite you in the ass," Cody said. "I told you to leave that off the list for a reason, Ati. This is one time when you seriously should have listened."

"Spare me the lecture, Cody," she snapped. "I'm sure Susumu will be more than happy to provide one."

"Listen," Msiba cut in. "Having a huge argument isn't going to rewrite the evening. We're going to have to deal with whatever fallout comes from whatever the Emperor's problem is and leave it at that. At least we don't have a bunch of EDF functionaries crawling up our collective ass."

"Yet." Cody's expression was sour.

"Will you just chill the fuck out?" Ewa looked equal parts frightened and angry. "Maybe you ought to—" She broke off when the door to the suite opened, and Zain stepped back inside. The expression of near-panic on his face was not comforting.

"He wants to see you, Atirangi. Alone."

"Bullfuckinggoddamnshit!" The snarl from Cody made everyone jump; it was the first time anyone had ever heard him raise his voice. "There's no way in hell I'm letting her go up there without some kind of backup."

"Come on, he's not going to attack a Terran over a song, no matter what the content. The man's not an idiot," Kharzon said.

"I'll do it." Atirangi's voice was subdued.

"You can't just—" Cody began, but Atirangi suddenly shouted over him.

"I'll do whatever the fuck I goddamn well feel I need to do, Cody! You're not my fucking father! Even Susumu doesn't order me the hell around like this!" Modulating her tone, she turned to a wide-eyed Zain. "Tell His Majesty I will be up as soon as I'm in something more presentable than a bathrobe." With that, she turned and walked out the door and down the hall to her room.

Zain drew a deep breath and left again, to bring the news to Dessler.

In her room, Atirangi was sorting over the clothes she had brought with her. The last thing she wanted was anything tight or suggestive; at worst, Dessler might take it as disrespect, and at best, an invitation she certainly did not wish to extend. Her lack of footwear was something about which she could do nothing; the sandals in which she had traveled were dusty, clunky and worn. She would have to appear barefoot before him, just as she had on stage. At last, biting her lip, she settled on a flowing robe with deep, batwing sleeves and a hood, in red-shot black silk. It was caught in at the waist with an ornate cincher of black leather. It was the only garment she had with her whose hem was long enough to hide her bare feet, and which would be modest enough to be suitable. And then, she simply waited.

She didn't wait long. There was a sedate knock at the door; she opened it to find Talan, regal and distant-looking in his uniform.

"His Majesty will see you now. This way, please." Crisply he led her down the hall, to the lift opposite the one she usually used. This one had access to the Presidential suite. She drew deep breaths to keep herself from fidgeting.

Talan walked with her as far as the double doors leading from the hallway into the suite, but clearly had no intention of going further. Two large guards stood at each side of the doorway; they snapped to attention, but otherwise were as expressionless as automatons. One of them opened the right-hand door. It seemed to beckon her, the rooms beyond dimly lit and very warm. Atirangi drew one more deep breath and then stepped inside. She couldn't help but jump a bit when she heard the door click closed behind her.

Her bare feet were silent in the deep pile of the carpets; it was with some irony that she noticed that the Presidential penthouse would have been too small for the band and their instruments. Slowly, she stepped forward, toward the spill of slightly brighter light emerging from an open doorway; she assumed that this was where the Emperor was waiting for her. She clenched her jaw, drew her hood a little more closely and turned into the room, steeling herself.

Dessler sat in graceful indolence on a chaise-longue. He had changed from his uniform and was just as barefoot as she; he was clad in a simple, loose tunic and trousers, both black. He did not speak; merely stood and offered a hand. She stepped forward, accepting it, awed as her own hand was dwarfed by his. She had never in her life felt so small. He guided her to sit beside him and then trained his intense violet eyes upon her; long moments slipped by, and she repressed a shiver.

"So," he said, finally breaking the silence. "I could not help but notice the interesting song you chose to perform right after my anthem." His voice was rich and deep, the most resonant she had ever heard.

"Your Imperial Majesty, you may not be aware of this, but I have some issues left from what happened when our peoples were at war. I acted impulsively when I performed Dark Anthem tonight, and I apologize." She felt as though she were babbling, but her words were sincere; she was indeed sorry she had provoked the current situation to come to pass.

"There are many people, I'm sure, that suffer the same burden. You, however, have the unique opportunity to advocate for them all." Never did those amethyst eyes release her own. "Speak; I shall listen."

"May I ask a question first?"

"Of course," Dessler said, leaning back and relaxing.

"I noticed that General Talan knew that I technically can be addressed as 'Dr. Rapahango', though I never use it. May I ask how much you know about me, Your Majesty?" Inside her sleeves, her hands fidgeted over each other; she could feel the dampness in her palms, born of nervousness.

"I know that you are the last of the Rapanui. As I understand, that island took a direct hit by a planet bomb and was vaporized. For that, I express my deepest regrets. And you are also the last Iscandarian with whom I have contact. When we departed our original system, we chose not to maintain diplomatic ties."

"How… how do you know…" She swallowed hard, unable to complete the thought.

"Susumu Kodai has told me much about you. He is as deeply proud of you as he is of his own children, and so is his wife."

Atirangi's stomach did a slow flip; she was unsure whether she should thank Susumu for making this conversation easier, or rail at him for telling her potential foe so much about her past. She shoved the thought aside; she could only deal with Susumu and Yuki if she got out of this suite alive. Dessler's unpredictability and violent temper were the stuff of legend.

"Well…" She gathered her thoughts around her like the ragged train of a skirt. "I had a very difficult time during the year in which I matured. My mother gave birth to me intending that I become a weapon in the event that the mission of the Yamato should fail. She bore me as a weapon against you, Your Majesty."

Might as well just get it right out there, she thought. If he doesn't already know, he's all too likely to wheedle that much out of Susumu, just as he did the rest.

"Interesting." Dessler made no further comment; just gestured for her to continue.

"When I was the equivalent of eight years old my mother died." She cursed herself for that hesitation but went on regardless. "I had to live on the streets, by my wits. I was always moving from city to city, however I could, lest someone realize the rate at which I was growing. It was a difficult existence, as you can imagine."

"Your mother died," he echoed slowly. There was a shrewd glint in his eyes. "I'm certain there is more to it than you are telling me, but I will allow it to lie where it is for the moment. You may continue."

"I was arrested when I looked to others to be fourteen. I had stolen some cash and a small computer. They traced the computer and found me. I concocted a scheme to speak to no one other than a member of the crew of the Yamato. When they refused to allow that, I let them just watch me grow. He was told about me within a couple of months and became my guardian." Her fidgeting had extended to the hem of her sleeve, bunching it and then spreading it. She stopped when she realized what she was doing.

"The rest of the story, I know. I know of the troubled, violent young woman that learned discipline at Juilliard. I know of your actions against Gatlantis. I applaud you in the winning back of your life from adversity." A slight smile curved Dessler’s lips. "It's not easy to achieve such a thing; I know this from experience."

"Your Majesty," she faltered. "Why did you call me here tonight?" Atirangi tried to keep the question back, but it emerged anyway, born of fear.

"I merely wanted to meet the woman of whom I have heard so much," he answered. "Also, I wished to commend you and your troupe on your performance. I did not want to smother your festivities under formality, which would have been the outcome had I tried to attend."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." It was the only thing she could think of to say in response.

"I need to rest, now. But… you will see me again, Atirangi. Talan will escort you back to your friends. And do not worry about the noise; it will not trouble me this evening."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," she repeated. She suppressed any reaction to the chill she felt at his insistence that they would meet again. She then rose, her robes rustling, and left Dessler to his evening's relaxation.

Talan was waiting at the doors for her. In silence, he escorted her back to the band's floor, bidding them all a good evening. Atirangi was at once mobbed by her bandmates.

"What happened?" Msiba demanded. She elbowed Kharzon, who had shoved her.

"You look like you saw a ghost, Ati," Ewa said. "He threaten you or anything?"

And then everyone else began shouting questions at once, until Atirangi finally held her hands up for silence.

"Seems he just wanted to meet me. He wasn't angry about Dark Anthem at all. There's only one thing he said that worries me. He said that I will see him again." She wandered over to a loveseat and plopped into it. She freed her hair from her hood and let it fall about her, caring nothing for how disheveled she looked.

"Having the favor of the Emperor can be a two-edged blade," Zain said softly. "If he is saying he wants to see you again, you definitely have his attention… but not even we Gamilans can ever really predict what he'll do."

"In other words, if she doesn't humor Dessler, he might kill her." Cody looked distinctly displeased, as did Étienne.

"That's very doubtful, considering her Iscandarian blood," said Zain. "But again, I have no idea what all this means. I'll do what I can to help, though."

"Do not get yourself in trouble with your Emperor, Zain." Ewa's hands were perched on her hips.

"I have no intention of it. But I feel like I'm partly at fault for all this happening in the first place. I was the one that told the Consulate what to do for entertainment."

"Thanks, Zain. Thanks loads." Jilliandrea shook her head, feigning annoyance.

"Hey, only the best of the best for the Emperor; he insists on it," he grinned.

"Well, he'd better not insist on anything improper that involves any of us," Cody said. "Especially Ati."

"I'm sure this will all work out in the end. Anyway, Ati looks as tired as I feel; I'm going to bed. And I think the rest of us should, as well." Despite the words, Zain’s green eyes were haunted.

VIII: Flight Under Fire, Grace Under Pressure

August 15, 2230

Do what you will (do it...)

Say what you will (already knew it)

Do you know? (Thought you knew)

I fear no evil.

Over the sea (I see you)

Over the land (look back at me, too)

Do you feel? (You used to feel)

I fear no evil.

—Septigram, Fear No Evil

Atirangi woke early on the Sunday after the concert. She immediately grabbed the nearest clothes to hand—a raggedly cut-off pair of black jean shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out of it. This was Phoenix, it was hot as hell, and she needed to brave the desert temperatures to go and pick up something essential.

Atirangi needed a pair of shoes.

She refused to appear before Dessler barefoot again. She needed something that would be considered appropriate, yet tolerable to her tastes. Even simple ballet slippers would have worked, but they just didn't make such things in her size. Atirangi found herself at a sprawling mall metroplex, aimlessly wandering from store to store. It was only when she found a shop specializing in orthopedic wear that she found a pair of simple black slides. They were a bit dowdier than she would have liked, but certainly better than her old sandals—or nothing at all.

The other order of business was to find a vidcom kiosk and contact Susumu. She was still a bit nettled that he had told Dessler as much as he had. Atirangi wanted to make it clear that her history was not something she was comfortable sharing—especially not with the Gamilans. Likewise, and just as important, she didn't want her discussion overheard by her bandmates. Atirangi just wanted to get past the issue and move on.

She found a kiosk on the second level of the 'plex; she was irritated by a nondescript man that seemed to want to follow her in at too close a distance. Atirangi slipped into one of the console booths and closed the door, a little more loudly than necessary. She tapped in Susumu's comms code and waited for him to pick up.

The man was still in the walkway between the console booths.

At last, Susumu answered the call. The minute he saw who was on the line, he switched on the security filter. Atirangi started to ask why, but he broke in before she could speak.

"Listen; don't talk. You need to get out of wherever you are and get back to the hotel as quickly as you can. There's serious trouble. I can't explain anything just yet, but you need to move." There was alarm in his eyes.

She nodded once, cut the channel and stood, opening the door to the console booth. The man, clad in a simple pair of grey work coveralls, blocked her way. One hand came up, and in it there was a badge.

"Dr. Rapahango, I'll need you to come with me." The voice was toneless and the eyes expressionless.

A sliver of fear made Atirangi go rigid; this was not at all like her arrest years ago. The police officers she had dealt with then had merely been men doing a job; this fellow's very lack of emotion made him seem far more a threat. On the instant, she made a decision.

"Forget it, takieve, I have other places to be," she snarled. She started to push past him, but he seized her wrist, attempting to twist it into a manipulation hold. Her reaction was immediate and very violent. She lashed out with the heel of her other hand, planting it in the man's solar plexus. This caused him to let go, but not to retreat. Atirangi realized she was dealing with someone who was all the fighter that she was.

And then she saw the hypospray unit in his hand.

She backed up just enough to give herself room and launched a front-kick to the man's face. He caught her foot, and to her horror, pressed the hypospray to her calf. Her struggles became both wilder and weaker as the sedative took effect. At last, the tall woman collapsed.

Atirangi awakened some time later; from the feel of it, she was in the back of a vehicle of some kind. She was bound, wrists and ankles, and her head ached terribly from the aftereffects of the sedative that had been forced on her. She kept her eyes closed, and, careful to make no sound, tested the restraints.

They held firm. She cursed inwardly and waited.

The vehicle stopped, and the man that had abducted her came back from the pilot's seat and into the area in which she was being held. He nudged her with the side of his foot, none too gently.

"Wake up, Rapahango, we're going to have a little discussion." The voice was still toneless, and more chilling because of it.

"We have nothing to fucking talk about," she snarled. She gave the restraints a solid yank, violently enough that the man jumped a little.

"It's come to our attention that you have become overly friendly with certain offworld entities. It has been decided that this is not acceptable. You and the rest of your compatriots will return to Tucson at once. You are to have no further contact with the Gamilans; this is considered a matter of planetary security."

"What about this treaty? The whole 'peace forever' arrangement?" She maintained the tension on her bonds.

"That has no bearing on your orders—"

"Orders? Who the fuck are you, to think you can give me orders? I'm a private civilian!"

His answer was to ball his fist and punch her in the gut. Atirangi doubled up with a gasp. Other blows began to fall, blacking her eye, splitting her lip. She screamed and struggled as best she could; still the restraints held fast. Her outrage was now tinged with fear, and a great deal of pain.

"You will do as you have been ordered… or we will see to it that you are unable to perform ever again, and that your bandmates are eliminated." He punctuated this with another punch to her face.

The threat had an effect the man had not expected. Rather than terrifying Atirangi into submission, it had caused the rage to rise up in her, consuming her. Her muscles bunched, and her powerful voice lifted in a roar, a scream of primal fury. The restraints around her wrists continued to hold, but the rivets that fastened them to the floorboard of the transport vehicle sheared away. The man attempted to close with her, but with her arms now free, she was able to land a few blows of her own. As she kicked and struggled, attempting to free her ankles as she had her wrists, her captor finally came too close; he was attempting to pinion her wrists.

He never expected Atirangi to go for his throat with her teeth.

The sickening crunch of human tissue being pierced by a bite filled her ears, but she could not afford to allow herself to let up. Like a wild animal, she ground her teeth deeper, shaking her head like a terrier would when shaking a rat. Hot and thick, blood sprayed forth, blinding her, filling the air with a metallic, humid stench. The man's struggles slowed, and then ended entirely. When she finally let go, he rolled to the floor beside her, the expression on his face one of astonishment. There was a messy, ragged hole on the left side of his neck. She had ripped open his jugular vein and torn his throat so badly that she could see the grey-white tissue of his esophagus.

She freed her ankles, now able to reach the straps with her hands. Her wrists still bore the restraints; she didn't take the time to remove them. She tried the rear door of the cargo vehicle; it was locked, and there were no rear windows. Turning around, she made for the pilot's cockpit. These doors were locked as well, but here, there were windows. The rage was still in her, making her brute-strong. Atirangi snatched up what looked like a metal clipboard holder and slammed it into the passenger's side window with all her might. She was rewarded by the striation and crumpling of the coated glass; one more blow and it gave way entirely. She dived headlong from the window, rolling to her feet at once, and then Atirangi began to run.

The new shoes she had just purchased had been lost, probably at the kiosk; her old sandals were also gone. Her bare feet pounded the scorching pavement, but she could not allow herself the time to feel the pain. She found herself at the back of what looked like an apartment complex; she vaulted its wall, dodging along its manicured paths. The few people who were about in the desert heat saw Atirangi and screamed, ran or both; her blood-caked, wild-eyed expression held nothing sane. She cleared the wall at the other side of the complex, headed out in the street, and continued to run as though the breath of doom were at her heels.

As she came out onto a main street, she realized where she was. If she could maintain her sprint and keep from being detained again, the Gamilan consulate was a little more than a mile down this very road. Atirangi ran, adrenaline, rage and terror fueling her headlong flight.

Dimly, she was aware of pursuit; someone had reported the spectacle of a woman with blood-caked skin and hair, tearing like a lunatic through their complex. She redoubled her efforts to evade the pursuing police. Her goal was in her sight; she could see the fortified gates of the consulate, and the guards standing before them. The pain from the beating her abductor had given her throbbed in her flesh, but she dared not give in to it.

Only a few moments before the municipal police caught up, she hurled herself into the grip of a very confused Gamilan soldier. She clutched the front of the man's uniform, marring it with smears of blood—her own, as well as her abductor's.

"Asylum!" she gasped, her breath heaving in and out, almost in a whistle. "Call Lieutenant Valas… General Talan… someone… my own people just abducted me… tried to kill me!"

The invocation of names the guards knew prompted them to take immediate action. The man who held her up—for her legs would no longer support her—pulled her within the gates, while the other guard called for backup and stepped out to speak to the police.

"Come. You are injured." The guard's accent was heavy, and his words terse, but there was concern in his grey eyes along with bewilderment.

"Have to… contact Captain Kodai…" she panted. She tried to support her own weight, but almost screamed from the pain.

The searing pavement had blistered the soles of her feet, and she had run most of the skin from them. The guard lifted her easily into his arms and carried her into the consulate. She lost consciousness before they reached the medical facility.

Later...

Slowly, she became aware of her surroundings; yet again, she had no idea where she was. The lighting was dim, and the room very warm; she assumed this meant she was still at the consulate. Her feet were thickly bandaged, and her ribs were taped; the man must have cracked some of them as he was beating her. One wrist was also immobilized by a cast. The blood had been washed away, and her hair was draped carefully beside her. Atirangi tried to sit up, but pain made her gasp, and then whimper.

"Stay still. You are seriously injured."

She recognized the soft voice at once; it was the Emperor! She tried again to sit up, to acknowledge him somehow, but again, she subsided back onto her pillow with a low, tormented cry.

"I said, stay still, Atirangi." He moved into her view; he had been sitting just out of sight. One gloved hand rested on her uninjured wrist. "Talan told me how you came to the consulate. Can you tell me how you came to be so foully treated?"

"I went to call Susumu. I didn't want the band to hear the discussion. A man was in the kiosk area. When I tried to leave, we fought, and he sedated me." She struggled to keep from crying. "He had a badge of some kind. I don't know whether that was just to make me think he was some sort of EDF representative, or what. He brought me into a cargo van. I woke up in restraints. I think that's how I broke my wrist. I ripped free of them…" She dodged around how she had gained the opportunity to flee herself, but Dessler caught that at once.

"You were drenched in blood when you got to the consulate. Most of it wasn't your own. Tell me how you killed this man, Atirangi."

"I bit him," The tears came forth; she was disgusted and ashamed. "I tore his throat out like some kind of an animal." She broke off, her weeping racking her body.

"Listen to me." The hand moved from her wrist to smooth her hair back. "You are safe. So are the rest of the people from your band. You are no longer at the consulate. You are aboard my flagship. Kodai notified me of the situation before you called him; his wife apparently stumbled onto a coded transmission that made them both think you were in danger. I am sorry I did not get the information sooner; I wish I could have spared you these injuries. As for what you did to defend yourself, understand this. It was a matter of survival. That is not something any of us will hold against you."

"Why am I here, Your M—" He interrupted her by laying a finger over her lips.

"Abelt. You may use my first name."

"But… why am I here?" For some reason, the thought of addressing Dessler as ‘Abelt’ triggered a violent blush.

"You came to us asking asylum. You have it. I am taking personal charge of you, and of your friends. They are not happy, but they understand the situation. Kodai has fended off foolishness from his own people many times before. He is more than capable of addressing matters on Terra."

"How long are we going to be here?"

"Aboard the Desura III? Not long. But you will all be returning to New Gamilas with us when we leave the system. If you're asking when you will be returned to Terra, I'm afraid the answer is 'never'. I am not willing to risk one with Iscandarian blood. I may no longer maintain diplomatic ties with Queen Starsha, but you were placed in my path for a reason."

"What? You can't do this; you can't just snatch us offworld! Some of the people in the band have families!" This time, Atirangi did manage to push through the pain enough to sit up. There was fury in her eyes.

"It has already been done," Dessler said, with a light shrug. "And your bandmates were given a choice; you should be impressed with their loyalty. Every one of them chose to remain with you. Be as angry about this as you wish, Atirangi; the only one that was not given a choice was you."

She wanted to scream at him, to lash out and fight as she had against her earlier abductor. But her broken ribs were protesting at so much as remaining in a sitting position, and if she did fight Dessler, where could she run to? She was desperate, but not so much so that she wished to forfeit her own life. She sank back on the bed, weeping again, from both pain and helpless anger.

"I am going to call the physician to give you something for your pain, and then allow you to rest. There is more to this than you know, but I need to return to the bridge." He rose and paused to look down at her. There was compassion in his eyes, and she struggled to hang on to her rage. "I will return when we have successfully warped out of the Terra system." With that, Dessler turned and left the room.

She did not protest when the physician entered and gently pressed a hypospray to her neck. The sedative clouds began to cover her vision, and she sank into a deep sleep.

Eighty Hours Post-Warp

When Atirangi came out of the grip of the painkillers, she again found she was not alone. Surrounding her bed were the members of Septigram, all wearing the same look of concern. Jilliandrea leaned forward, offering her a glass of water; Atirangi accepted it and allowed Jilliandrea to help her sit up to drink it.

"Okay, what the fuck?" The question was the best Atirangi could manage. She still felt muzzy and faintly ill.

"General Talan came to us," Cody said, "and told us you were in trouble. A huge Gamilan force surrounded the suite; there was a conflict with whatever group this is that harmed you. I heard a lot of weapons discharge. But then, Susumu arrived with some of his crew. They covered us as we retreated into the Gamilan dropship. Apparently, the people who went after you are some sort of underground organization that stands in opposition to the permanent accords."

"It's probably worse than that, Cody. From some of the things I heard them shouting, it sounds like they want a rematch against the Gamilans," said Msiba. "And it seems like they have a good bit of popular support. They were probably waiting for the date of the accords before showing their hand."

"Our instruments?" Atirangi dreaded the answer.

"Zain and some of his friends got most of them out. Cody's drum kit and our amps are the only things we lost. Your harp is safe." Msiba reassured her, pressing the fingers of her uninjured hand.

"Thank the gods for small favors. I'm sorry about the drums, Cody." She looked at him, worried. The loss of the set was probably like losing an old friend.

"I'll live. I'll just have to adjust to whatever the Gamilans can fabricate. Not like they don't have the tech to do it, and besides, I did manage to grab my electronic drumpads, so I'm not entirely bereft."

"Damn these people," Atirangi muttered.

"As we were leaving, Captain Kodai said this was the safest course of action for us." Étienne had never sounded so subdued. "The people that attacked us were trained, Ati. Probably, they were former or current military. I just hope my mom and my sister will be all right."

"What are we going to do, though?" Ewa's voice had the sound of a lost child. Her eyes were red form weeping.

"Same thing we did on Terra," Cody said. "We have a following among the Gamilans. We'll be able to continue performing. It's not like we're going to have to struggle."

"Yeah, we'll be palace pets to Goldilocks and his goddamn minions," Atirangi growled. "I can't believe this is the only, or even the best, of all options."

"I thought you trusted Kodai. And don't call me 'Goldilocks'. It's absurd."

The entire band jumped, turning to see Dessler standing in the doorway, a slight smile on his face. Atirangi blushed yet again; she wondered how long he had been standing there.

"Are you trying to tell me that taking me offworld was Susumu's idea?" Anger made her words harsher than she had intended.

"Remember, you came to us, grievously injured and begging our aid. Yes, Kodai is the one that suggested that you remain with me. He cannot countenance the idea of anything happening to you. You are as alien to Terra as we are.”

"What is happening on Terra, Your Majesty?" Ewa asked softly.

"There is a great deal of unrest. The group that attacked you is a potent paramilitary force called simply 'the Sodality'. They have apparently attempted a coup against Terra's planetary government. We are waiting to see the results." Dessler made a gesture to one of the orderlies, and a chair was pulled over; he settled in it, seeming relaxed.

"What if they win?" Atirangi asked. "What if they start trying to provoke a confrontation?"

"If you are asking if I intend to attack Terra in that instance, the answer is a definite 'no'. I would, however, do all I could to assist Kodai and the Yamato in opposing the Sodality, barring direct interference."

"Why can't we go back when this is all sorted out?" Atirangi was not yet ready to use his first name.

"You know the answer to that already, Atirangi. I have no intention of allowing you out of my sight. Let's not argue about that again; my decision is quite firm in this matter."

She sighed and looked away. Many remarks came to mind, and none were appropriate.

"Your business during this journey is to heal. As soon as you can leave the infirmary, you and your companions will have a suite near the command quarters of my ship. And there will be more than ample time for discussion once we reach New Gamilas." Dessler rose, fluidly, and walked over to the side of her bed; Ewa flinched away as he did so. "It is my hope that you will, in time, come to understand why Kodai and I have acted as we have. I know it galls you to have decisions made for you. But the fact of the matter is that you are too precious to be lost—precious to both of us. Now rest; do not stay up too late conversing. There will be another spacewarp in about ten hours." As one, they all watched as he left the room, cloak swirling behind him.

"Well, it seems we'll soon have a new world to accustom ourselves to," Kharzon remarked.

"Do any of you know anything at all about New Gamilas?" Atirangi asked.

"Zain said it's hot. As in, even hotter than it was in Phoenix," Cody said sourly. His dislike for high temperatures was well-known.

"I know only one thing." All eyes turned to Jilliandrea. "I bloody well hope I can get some clothes soon, because I've left every stitch back on Terra, and these are all I have."

*****

The following 'day' (as such things were measured aboard a starship), Atirangi had been awake for around two hours. She was picking at a tray filled with unknown and dubious-looking foods, when a sonorous, reverberating alarm began to sound. She jumped, badly enough that she spilled the tray, and looked around wildly.

"Strap in. We’re going to warp." Lieutenant Milos, the physician that had been treating her, moved forward as though to assist her.

"I can do it," she said. She found the straps to the bed she rested upon and fastened them. Her hands found the railing, gripping it.

She had been sedated during the warp that had taken Dessler’s flagship far outside the solar system. She found that she was trembling, very afraid of what she would experience. With difficulty, she suppressed her fear and just waited.

Within a minute, there was an unnerving sideslip of time and space; the sensation was sickening and Atirangi could not suppress a cry of alarm. The sensation that filled her was not pain, but it was just as unwelcome—and just as intense. She felt as though her body were beginning to dissolve. She fought against nothing/nowhere, feeling an increasing panic. Just as she felt she could tolerate no more, as she felt a scream building within her, it was over. The return to realspace was just as jarring, and she leaned over the railing of her bed and vomited, adding to the mess from the spilled tray.

Sasha, you were right, she thought. I make a damned lousy spacejockey. How the fuck can you go popping in and out of warp and still function?

She looked away with embarrassment as Lieutenant Milos peered in and then sent an orderly in to clear away the mess on the floor. A few minutes afterwards, a female Gamilan—the first Atirangi had ever seen—entered the room, a towel draped over her shoulder and a basket filled with what looked like toiletries. She was wearing some sort of face-framing light helmet, and the short-skirted, pale blue uniform she wore had a suggestive cut. The expression on her face was resentful.

"I am Tantha. His Majesty has sent me to help you to bathe." Tantha's tone was carefully neutral, but Atirangi could see the animosity in the woman's eyes.

"Just leave the stuff," Atirangi said. She tried to sound as friendly as possible. "I can manage."

"You cannot walk; your feet are injured. I am to help you bathe."

Atirangi could see that Tantha would not be refused; she suspected the Gamilan woman had been commanded by Dessler in no uncertain terms.

"Very well; I can get into the hoverchair on my own, though." She suited action to word; she had become adept at pulling herself into the chair with one arm. Tantha stood by silently while she got into the chair, and then beckoned to her.

"This way," she said.

"There's a bathroom right here, though."

"It is not suitable." She turned and walked toward the door, and Atirangi followed in the chair.

The two women entered a lift; a few moments later, they emerged into a broad passageway, much more ornately decorated than what little Atirangi had seen of the rest of the ship. She realized that these had to be Dessler's own rooms. She wanted to ask why she had been brought here for a simple bath but didn't want to risk Tantha's further displeasure.

Tantha led the way into an expansive bathing area; there was even a small pool there. She set the towel and toiletries down and moved toward Atirangi to help her out of the light tunic she had been given to wear.

"Seriously. I can undress myself." She shifted, bracing herself on one elbow, and used her good arm to pull the tunic over her head. She did, however, allow Tantha to remove the bandages upon her feet and the tape covering her ribs. When she saw the soles of her feet, she gasped. "Fucking gross…I had no idea they were that bad."

The soles of Atirangi's feet were raw; there seemed to be no skin left on them at all. She could see where they had had to be debrided; granulation tissue was beginning to appear in many places. Frowning, she wondered if her feet would fully recover. The burns and abrasions were very deep.

Wordlessly, Tantha helped Atirangi into the bathing pool, lifting her from the chair to do so. When her feet hit the water, Atirangi gasped and bit back a shout of pain. Tantha paid it no heed. She settled her and then placed the basket of toiletries at her side.

"I will attend if you desire assistance, and I will help you back into the hoverchair when you are finished." Tantha's voice would have been as perfunctory as that of a robot if it were not for the slight thread of animosity that permeated it.

Atirangi nodded her thanks and then selected what looked like soap, smelling it cautiously. The scent was agreeable, so she grabbed the bathing sponge and lathered it up, giving herself a good scrub. And then, she had her hair to attend to.

Though she was used to having to deal with the masses of raven hair that fell to her knees, doing it with one arm in a cast was a challenge. When she appeared to be having difficulty, Tantha stepped forward and silently took over, thoroughly washing Atirangi's hair and then rinsing it. She wrapped it in a thick towel and then stepped back once again.

Now that her feet had adjusted to the warm water, the bath felt good; Atirangi was in no hurry to leave it. She leaned back against the side of the huge tub and drew a deep sigh. She picked up the sponge again and gave her face another good washing, enjoying the sensation of truly feeling clean. After relaxing for a few more minutes, she began to feel a little self-conscious; she knew Tantha was standing right behind her and waiting.

"I guess I'm done now. You can help me out."

Tantha stepped onto the bench within the pool; again, she lifted Atirangi, seemingly without effort. She brought her to a chair that had been placed near the bathing pool and handed her another towel. Atirangi began to dry herself, and Tantha stepped briefly out of the bathing room. She reappeared a few minutes later with a fresh tunic. After Atirangi slipped it on, she lifted her back into the hoverchair.

"Do you have a comb or something?" Atirangi asked. She was immediately provided with a wide-toothed comb and a hairbrush. And then the Gamilan woman led her back to the infirmary.

Lieutenant Milos was waiting for them; when Tantha saw him, she gave the doctor a salute, and then departed. Atirangi arched a brow at the lack of a goodbye.

Her feet needed to be re-bandaged. Milos sprayed a topical anesthetic on the soles of her feet and carefully removed any dead skin. He applied an antiseptic and then rewrapped her feet.

"How do your ribs feel?" he asked. "Do you think you will be comfortable without my taping them again?"

"I'll be fine, Doc, thanks. The tape pulls my skin, which bugs me more than the pain." She offered a smile. "And do I have to stay in bed now? I'm getting pretty bored in there."

"I'd prefer you remained on bedrest, but as long as you don't try to walk or otherwise do too much, I suppose I can allow you to use the chair. Shall I call Tantha back to—"

"Uh… thanks but no thanks. I can tell she doesn't want shit-all to do with me. If someone needs to show me around, I'd rather have a guard."

"She is a Blue Shadow; it is natural that she would feel threatened by a female that seems to have the Emperor's favor."

"Great, so he has a harem." Atirangi rolled her eyes.

"The Blue Shadows are not mere concubines. They are trained warriors, directly tasked with His Majesty’s physical safety."

"But why all women?"

"It’s a matter of the Emperor’s personal choice. Some of them do bed with him, though he has had a certain disinclination after what happened on Iscandar. Queen Starsha’s treatment of him was unreasonable."

"Well, here's one female that's not jumping in bed with him. And I won’t have the women in my band pushed into it, either."

"You have no reason to fear." Milos shrugged. "We feel comfortable with our cultural traditions, but we do not force them on even our vassal peoples. I will summon one of the soldiers to conduct you to the level your friends have been placed on. You are to be here daily so I can attend to your wounds. They're healing well, but there is still a risk of infection."

"All right. Thank you, Milos."

Milos summoned a guard, and had the soldier lead her to her new quarters. When Atirangi saw the room to which she had been assigned, she was bewildered. It was only slightly less opulent than the quarters she had had at the hotel. There was a large, comfortable bed, and a viewport gave her a stunning view of the passing stars. There was even a private bath, though it was far smaller than the one in Dessler’s rooms. She glided around the room in the hoverchair, exploring her new domain. She had just begun peeking into drawers when her door chirped.

"Come in," she called. She expected one of her bandmembers to appear… but instead it was Dessler.

"Hello, Atirangi. I trust the accommodations meet with your approval?" He stepped in, and the door closed behind him.

"Uh…" Yet again, Atirangi felt out of her depth in the presence of the Emperor. She managed a smile. "Yes, the room is beautiful. Thank you."

He pulled up a chair and settled in it with the usual languid grace. She felt compelled to move the hoverchair closer, so that she was facing him. Again, the violet eyes focused on her own without mercy, and again it was long moments before he next spoke.

"I have news regarding Terra," he said. "The Sodality and the current government are locked in quite a brutal struggle. Thus far, the UNCF are holding their own, despite being more suited to offworld action. Kodai and the rest of his crew, as you can imagine, are doing all they can to assist."

"So, I guess that means it will be a while before I can talk to him," Atirangi answered. She picked at the edge of her cast, where it encircled her thumb.

"By vid, yes. I can show you how to use our communications equipment to send secure text. That, he can answer when he has a safe moment to do so."

Atirangi found herself somewhat comforted by the fact that contact wasn't being completely cut off; it even appeared that Dessler was willing to give her as much privacy as possible. She shoved back her hair so that it draped over the back of the hoverchair, and then spoke again.

"What will our duties be on New Gamilas?" She felt some apprehension about so much as asking the question, but Septigram needed answers—and she needed to plan.

"Entertainment, of course. Lieutenant Valas will assist you in arranging to record music. And if there are other pastimes you find engaging—"

"'Pastimes'? Is that what you think the rest of our lives were?" She could not fight the rising tide of resentment she felt. "Cody was a spiritual leader among his people. Étienne has a kid sister and a sick mother back in Marseilles. Msiba was a conservationist… I could go on and on. There were other things besides this band for us, Dessler. It's bad enough that I've lost the only family I had. Having you describe all that in such insulting terms—"

"My… Kodai was right about that temper," Dessler said mildly. He seemed more amused by her outburst than anything else.

"Anyone would be pissed off by your fucking attitude!" Atirangi was now far too angry to utilize any tact at all.

"And about your tendency to use such uncultured language. Tell me, do you kiss your lovers with so filthy a mouth?"

"I've never had a lover, and you probably already know that!" As soon as she blurted the words out, she regretted them.

"Mmm… I wonder why," Dessler said, stroking his chin. "And no, I didn't know that. It explains a great deal, though."

"I'm not even going to ask," Atirangi growled. She sat and glowered at him, arms folded as best the cast would allow.

"Good; because I'd answer, and then be treated to even more of your colorful invective. You and your friends have been an atrocious influence on Valas; General Talan has more than once had to caution him on his comportment lately." He rose from his chair. "I'll leave you in peace before I further annoy you—at least for the moment. You will take dinner with me in three hours, however. I will send Tantha to attend to your needs."

"Don't bother! Tantha detests me and I'm in no mood for her bullshit."

"Ah, she gave you difficulties earlier. I shall have the matter dealt with." There was a dangerous flash in Dessler’s eyes as he turned back to face her.

"No, don't do anything to her, she didn't actually insult me or anything," Atirangi said quickly. "She just feels threatened by me; that's what Lieutenant Milos said."

"As well she should. No matter. I will send another woman to assist you. I will see you in three hours." With that, he swept from the room.

Atirangi waited until he was well away before she gave vent to yet more of the 'colorful invective' he had criticized. She was morosely trying to unsnarl her hair when the door chirped again.

"WHAT?!' Atirangi bellowed, both startled and irritated.

The door opened, and a Gamilan female slipped in. She was smaller and lighter than Tantha; this one seemed quite young. Her red-golden eyes were wide surprise.

"Oh, come in, I'm not pissed off at you," Atirangi said, feeling a bit chagrined. "What's your name?"

"Treel," she answered. She ventured a smile. "Did I come at a bad time?"

"No, I just got into an argument with the Emperor over something sort of stupid. He sent you to help me get ready for this dinner, I take it?"

"You argued with him?" Treel's eyes widened even more.

"I take it that doesn't happen often." Atirangi found herself torn between amusement and annoyance by the Gamilan woman's trepidation.

"No one argues with the Emperor. Only General Talan disagrees with him and lives to tell of it. I would be careful." Treel stepped forward and gently took the hairbrush from Atirangi's hands. "Yes, I am to help you, though. We have to find appropriate clothes to fit you, as well as dressing your hair."

"Nothing that shows too much skin, all right?" Atirangi wanted to squirm at the thought of appearing before Dessler in something so revealing as what Treel was wearing.

Treel stopped brushing her hair and looked at her, seeming nonplussed. "You do not wish the attention of the Emperor? Do you not want to please him?"

"Not like that, and anyway, I'm still pissed off at him," Atirangi answered. She wrestled down her frustration; after all, Treel was just following tradition and the orders she'd been given.

"I would be very careful." She again began to brush out Atirangi's hair, gently untangling it.

"Has Dessler said anything about me?"

"He has said that you are of royal blood. He forbade any of us to offend against you; Tantha was lucky not to be whipped—"

"Whipped? What kind of barbaric shit is that?"

"It is not barbaric!" Treel's voice revealed a flash of resentment. "We are bound by regulations. It is our way. We both serve and defend, and please the Emperor in all things. We chose to be where we are."

"Well, at least you had a choice." Atirangi slumped in the hoverchair, scowling.

"I have heard how you came to be here. You did not have a choice; this is true. But the Emperor was not the one that took the choice from you. It was the terrorists, the ones your Yamato is fighting against. And you are of Iscandar. Until very recently, our people have protected Iscandar. The Emperor does as he must." A gentle, blue-skinned hand smoothed Atirangi's hair. "Please do not be angry."

"I'll do my best."

Three hours later, Atirangi was clad in a sleek gown of some supple, deep-blue fabric that matched her eyes. Her hair was braided at the sides, the braids pulled back by an ornate clip; it was otherwise allowed to flow freely about her like a cloak. She was still confined to the use of the hoverchair by her injured feet. Her bandages were less than aesthetically appealing She allowed herself a wry smile at the irony of, yet again, appearing before Dessler without adequate footwear.

Treel accompanied her to the ornate door to Dessler’s private parlor; Atirangi pressed the Gamilan woman's hands in her own and thanked her for her help. And then, she nodded to the guards to open the doors for her.

Atirangi was further reminded of the first time she had met Dessler; the passageway was dimly lit, a pool of light spilling through a door at the far end. She glided the hoverchair toward it, and then through the door.

This time, Dessler was resplendent in his uniform. He was quietly speaking with Talan; when she entered, the General made a quiet departure. Dessler turned to face Atirangi, smiling a little.

"I see that Treel has done well. Come; my dining room is this way." He turned and walked toward another ornate door.

Atirangi flipped the hem of the gown over her bandaged feet and tucked them closer, feeling self-conscious. She followed him, gingerly piloting the hoverchair through this narrower door; she could not abide the thought of scarring its elegant moulding. Within the room, a table was laid out; she noted that there were two silent attendants present, awaiting the Emperor's command. When she tried to pilot the chair to her place, she met with a bit of a problem; the hoverchair was too large, back-to-front, to fit. She began to struggle out of it and into the conventional seat beside it, but Dessler held up a hand.

"No; I don't want you in discomfort." He made a gesture to one of the attendants, and the man moved one of the place settings over. There was more than enough room at the head of the table for her to be seated at his side. She allowed the attendant to help her, trying to cover her nervousness.

The meal was brought out; Atirangi noted with some relief that the dishes were familiar, bearing at least a resemblance to Terron fare. Beside the Gamilan Emperor, though, she felt small and clumsy. She did her best not to fumble with the silverware as she began to eat. The meal continued in an uncomfortable silence until the attendants had seen to all their needs; it was not until they departed that Dessler spoke.

"There is something I wish to offer you, Atirangi; I must be honest, however, and let you know that I have an ulterior motive. Have you ever wondered how I so swiftly recover from grievous injuries obtained in battle?" He turned slightly, his intense gaze once again piercing her.

"Actually, no, I haven't, because I've paid as little attention as I could to shit like battles in space." She winced internally, realizing that her words had sounded flippant.

"I see," laughed Dessler. "Of course, you've had your music. And that music is partially what has led me to make an offer to you, a thing I have given to few others. What if I told you I had the means to banish your injuries in mere hours, rather than the weeks your recovery would otherwise take? And what if I told you that you would then need fear neither disease nor the degeneration of age?"

"I'd say I wasn't surprised. I know your medicine is as advanced as the rest of your technology. But why offer such a thing to me?"

"Two reasons." He picked up the carafe of juice that rested upon the table and refilled her glass. "The first is mere self-gratification; I would like you to sing for me tonight, and I know you cannot do so with cracked ribs. The rest? I gave the same gift to the Queen of Iscandar and her sisters. It seems unjust not to offer it to you as well."

"Abelt,” she managed, the name a struggle. “You know I self-identify more as Polynesian than as Iscandarian. Earth is my home, even if I can never go back, as you say. I don't want to seem like an ingrate, but I don't think it's fair to the rest of my family and my band to accept such a thing." She picked at a leaf of spinach in the bottom of her salad bowl, not looking at him.

"I offered it to both Yuki and Susumu, years ago. They declined; they wished to live out a normal Terron lifespan. But if it is of such import to you, I will provide the Picoserum to the others in your band as well."

"They'll only accept if I do. And I don't think—"

"You do realize that some vestiges of the serum already reside within you." Dessler rested his chin on the tips of tented fingers, watching Atirangi with almost a mischievous expression. "Why do you think you matured in only a year?"

"But that was supposedly the normal aging process for an Iscandarian."

"That is how it would appear to Terron technology. The Picoserum is a method of causing physical changes on a subatomic level. Injuries are remedied at once, as is any disease process. The serum is comprised of infinitesimally-small machines, objects one millionth of a nanometer in size. They are easily capable of passing from mother to child—especially in such a procedure as the one leading to your birth. All I am offering you is the final balance of your birthright, Atirangi."

"You're offering me something I can't even comprehend, for reasons that I don't understand, that will have effects I cannot begin to anticipate. I can't give you an immediate answer to this, Abelt, however much you want me to perform tonight."

"I was tempted to simply administer it in your beverage tonight; I didn't do so, though."

"If you did something like that to me, I'd feel completely violated," Atirangi said angrily. "It's bad enough that I've been snatched away from my homeworld and everything I ever knew and loved."

"Most of what you know and love is right here with you. You must understand that your lifespan will already be at least three times that of a normal human. If you think you will age peacefully and die along with those you know and love, you are incorrect. If you do not accept the Picoserum, the effect will be similar to having taken it alone. You will watch your friends fade, and still be left alone with me in the end."

"What the fuck do you really want from me, Abelt?" Atirangi had had enough. "You have done everything possible to see to it that I'm completely under your control. Every option I try to take turns out to be some goddamn scheme of yours!"

"I want you to understand and to be what you actually are." Dessler reached out roughly and turned the hoverchair to face him; she seemed to have angered him at last. "I cannot undo the destruction of Rapa Nui, no matter how much I wish it so. I cannot reverse the emotional torture your half-mother put you through, either. I cannot make you fit into a world in which you would always be alien. What I can do is help you to build a foundation upon the truth. And the truth is that you are far less human than you realize."

"I'll take your goddamn serum, if for no other reason than to wait you out, Abelt. I will return to Terra one day. You won't be able to hold me forever." Her words were impulsive, born of her ever-ready rage.

"I won't need to hold you forever." His smile was humorless; anger still glittered in his violet eyes. He rose, crossing to an ornate cabinet. Opening this, he removed a goblet much like the ones from which they had been drinking at dinner. This one, however, was filled with a thick, blue-grey liquid. He returned to stand before her, offering the goblet.

An internal struggle raged within Atirangi, but her stubbornness would not permit a change of mind. Part of her wanted to strike the goblet from Dessler’s hand and spit in his face, scorn this gift of immortal and eternal youth. And, to spite him, part of her wished to seize the Picoserum and drink it, accepting an eternity in which to avenge herself upon him. Once again, the spectre of her mother—or half-mother, as he had called her—rose within her. She lifted the goblet to her lips and drank.

Immediately, her mouth and throat felt as though they were on fire. Even pure capsaicin could not have compared to the agony that seared through her. Atirangi attempted to cast the goblet away, but Dessler would not allow it; his hand closed over her own and the goblet it held, tipping it forcefully to her mouth; his other hand fisted itself in her hair, yanking her head back. She had no choice but to drink, the viscous fluid entering her throat in a gelatinous mass. The last Atirangi knew before the pain drove her to unconsciousness was the shatter of crystal as the goblet fell to the floor.

When she awakened, she found herself reclining on a soft surface. Atirangi fisted a hand in the smooth fabric on which she lay and sat up, opening her eyes.

There was no pain. The cast was gone from her wrist, and her feet were unbandaged. Wildly, she looked around, attempting to understand where she was; the Picoserum and the agony it had caused snapped into sharp focus in her memory. Her eyes fell upon two points of green light; she was looking into the eyes of the shark that crowned her harp. Slowly, she stood, still being cautious of a pain that never emerged; she crossed to the instrument and ran her hand along the back of the shark where it merged with the harmonic curve of the harp.

"Play for me."

Atirangi started violently and spun around; Dessler was there, sitting in the shadows as he had in the infirmary. He was out of uniform, clad much as he had been when he had summoned her from the band's after-party at the hotel.

"Why didn't you tell me it would hurt so fucking much?" Her voice shook with renewed anger.

"Because I didn't want you changing your mind over something so silly as a little transient discomfort. Now, play for me, Atirangi." The words had the feel of a command.

She lifted the harp and brought it to rest before a chair. Settling herself, she brushed her fingers along its strings in a light arpeggio, as much to calm her emotions as to check the tuning. After a few minute adjustments, Atirangi obeyed. The song she played was no less inflammatory than had been Dark Anthem. Fear No Evil had never been publicly performed or recorded; its biting lyrics had yet to find a place within the theme of an album. But, here and now, she found it an all-too-appropriate reflection of her anger at Dessler. The last notes fell into the dark room; she did not bother to mute the strings as the piece ended.

"You are at your best when you are in a rage." Dessler’s voice carried amusement.

"Anger is one passion I'm pretty adept at under the best of circumstances… and you seem to have this way of enhancing it. You're an asshole, Abelt."

"Am I?" He chuckled, and then rose to his feet. Crossing the room, he sat on the edge of the bed, watching her. "Such personality traits are rather necessary in an autocratic ruler, I'm afraid."

"You mean a tyrant," Atirangi snapped.

"I'm more of a dictator. Zworder of Gatlantis was a tyrant.”

"Same fucking thing, as far as I'm concerned. Don't think even for a minute that I'll be like Treel or Tantha or any of the rest of your Blue Shadows. I'm not going to kiss your ass." Once again, Atirangi's rage had gotten the better of her; she spoke with no care for the consequences.

"You are not a Blue Shadow, nor do I have any intention of making you one."

"Then what the fuck do you intend, Abelt? Every time I ask that question, I get fed some high-sounding garbage about my heritage. You seem to want to superimpose this image of an Iscandarian princess over what I truly am—"

"And what is that? What are you, truly? Are you Atirangi the weapon? The thieving street-child? Are you the doctor of music, the virtuoso with the nine-octave vocal range? Or are you just one woman who hasn't figured any of it out yet? No number of edgy ballads meant to cut to the core will provide the answers. And as for my intentions… I will keep my own counsel on them for now."

"If it has to do with me, I have a right to know!" Atirangi struggled to control the shaking that had taken hold of her body; fear, anger and confusion boiled within her.

"And you will, in due time. Since you seem to have tired of my company, though, I shall have Treel bring you back to your room. I am assigning her to you as an aide; she can procure for you anything you need."

"Except my freedom."

"You still have your freedom in every respect other than a return to Terra. Enough now; I will call for Treel." Dessler stood, leaving her alone in the dark room.

Atirangi draped her arms around the body of her harp, struggling to quell her emotions. When Treel appeared to take her back to her room, she did not speak. And she held her tears in check until the Gamilan woman had departed.

*****

"How is she, Treel?" Dessler reclined upon his ornate bed, watching the youngest of his Blue Shadows.

"She is angry, Sire. And depressed, too, I think. It will be difficult to break through her resistance." She did not look directly at the Emperor, standing instead with folded hands and demurely-downcast eyes.

"I am willing to be patient—to a point. I am more than capable of overcoming any resistance, as you term it, but it would be better if Atirangi was willing. You will be greatly rewarded, if you succeed. But, even if you do not, remember that she is already your Empress. Do not make the mistake that Tantha made." His voice, as always, was calm, almost languid, but the threat in his words was implicit.

"I will do my utmost, Sire. I shall return and attend upon her when she awakens. What of the others?"

"The band? Or do you mean your fellow guardswomen?" Dessler stretched, stifling a yawn.

"I initially meant the other Terrons, Sire, but I would welcome such information as you are willing to bestow." Treel stole a glance at her Emperor through lowered lashes.

"The band are and will remain honored guests. Consider them members of my Court and behave accordingly, though it will be some time before you will have a great deal of contact with them. As for you and the others who serve me, your future assignments will be based on the quality of your service. Tantha, obviously, is beyond the need to worry about such things."

"I do not resent your Chosen as Tantha did, Sire."

"Good; General Talan would be bitterly disappointed if he had to choose another of my Shadows. No, do not be alarmed; I have long known how you feel for each other. Your reward is to be given to Talan, if you can convince Atirangi to come willingly to me. Now go… attend your duties. Speak to no one of what is afoot." With this last, Dessler lay back and closed his eyes.

Dismissed, Treel left Dessler, to attend to the matters discussed.

*****

The next morning, Atirangi shuffled from her bed to her bathing room, eyes still puffy from her long weeping the night before. The lack of pain was a welcome thing, but even that was scant comfort as she recalled the events of the previous evening. She took a long soak, trying to soothe away her unease, and was just beginning to tackle the daunting task of washing her hair when her door chirped.

"Hold on, I'm not dressed," she shouted. She rose from the bath, a large towel draped around her, and walked to the door. "Who is it?"

"It's just Treel," came the answer. "I have brought you food, if you wish it."

"All right, come on in." She opened the door for her. "I'll be out as soon as I'm done with my hair."

"Would you like help?" Treel paused in laying out the table, smiling.

"No, I'm fine, now that my arm isn't in a cast. Seriously, you don't have to do all this for me; I'm used to taking care of myself."

"I know. But it is what I am trained to do, Atirangi, and I do actually enjoy helping." She smiled again and continued setting out the dishes on her tray.

Atirangi finished her bath; she rummaged around and found a thick robe, slipping it on. She noted that Treel had made the bed and straightened up; the Gamilan woman was now standing by the table, apparently ready for further commands.

"Treel, don't do that. You're making me feel weird. Sit down and have something to eat with me."

"Very well," Treel answered, settling herself with delicate grace. She seemed uncertain, watching Atirangi dish up her own meal.

"Help yourself. We're friends, okay? You don't have to do the whole servant thing." Atirangi began to dig into her food, surprised at how hungry she was.

"It is difficult for me to not serve. And there are things I can and should still do for you, like finding you more clothing."

"Shoes. I need shoes. I haven't a single pair here and I'm tired of being barefoot every time Dessler sees me. I feel like an idiot."

"Your feet were wounded. You couldn't have worn shoes last night." Treel delicately avoided any mention of the Picoserum.

"Well, I can wear 'em now… that is, if you can find shoes to fit huge feet."

"Your feet aren't that big!" Treel giggled. "Maybe they are for a Terron, but not to us. I will find shoes along with other clothes. What do you like to wear?"

"Well, as I said, nothing revealing. The only time I show skin is when I'm on stage. I'll wear just about anything if it's comfortable." She shrugged. "Just, nothing pink or anything like that."

"How about bright green with orange stripes?"

"You bring that and I'm making you wear it!" Atirangi laughed and bounced a grapelike fruit at Treel, who caught it neatly, nibbling on it.

The two women chattered through the meal; Atirangi found herself growing quite comfortable with the amiable Blue Shadow. Treel's sweet nature seemed genuine; her disposition was similar to that of Zain. Atirangi helped clear away the dishes, despite protest; she then sent Treel on her way.

As soon as Treel had departed, Atirangi stepped out of her room. She headed down the hallway to where she understood her friends to have been quartered. Cody's door was the first she chirped; when he saw her uninjured and out of the hoverchair, he looked bewildered.

"I don't get it," he said. "Did the medics find a miracle cure for Foot Flambé or something?"

"Sort of, but not really. Get the others together; I have a lot to tell you guys."

Soon, the remainder of Septigram was settled in Cody's room. Étienne had brought his bass with him; its unamplified plunking was a reassuring, familiar sound. Jilliandrea was seated behind Msiba, braiding the taller woman's hair; Kharzon seated himself on the floor, silently waiting. The last to arrive was Ewa, her pale blonde hair wrapped in a towel.

"Okay… this is the situation," Atirangi began. "Last night, Dessler goaded me into taking something he calls 'Picoserum'. Think nanotech, but smaller. A lot smaller. Apparently, this stuff can heal just about anything, and it also prevents aging. At this point, the only thing that'd be able to kill me would be some sort of massive trauma. And he's willing to give it to the rest of you as well."

"But there's some kind of a catch, isn't there?" Cody leaned back against the headboard of his bed. He kicked a pillow onto the floor.

"There is, but I don't know what it is yet. I've also been assigned a Blue Shadow as a sort of a maid; Treel's all right, but I bet she reports everything I say and do back to Dessler. And… Dessler is most definitely up to something. He's been acting really weird toward me since all this started."

"He wants to fuck you." Étienne said, matter-of-factly.

"First of all, shut the hell up, you're gross. Second, if he were after that, I think he'd have hit on me by now. So far, all we've done is argue." She snagged the pillow from the floor, tossing it at the bassist.

"There might still be something to that," Cody said. "You didn't see how extreme the Gamilan response was at the hotel. Dessler called down three full squads of shock troops; even Talan looked confused at the show of force. And you're right; he's been acting weird. Asking lots of questions about you."

"Oh, shit." Atirangi swallowed against a throat suddenly gone dry. "What kind of questions?"

"Pretty much every kind. What you like and dislike… meanings of some of the Rapanui lyrics you've written… you name it. Seems like I'm the only one he's asking, though; he was here just last night."

"Probably while I was out cold from that damned serum. By the way, if you guys decide to take it, be aware that it's ten times worse than gargling habanero peppers. It didn't do any actual damage, but it hurt like hell going down. What was he asking?"

"He wanted to know if you had ties to anyone other than us, and the Kodais. I told him to ask you. That's what I've said to all but the really basic stuff," Cody said.

"Thank you for that. I've had just about enough of Dessler knowing every damn thing about me. Turns out Susumu's been singing like a bird. So now Dessler knows all kinds of uncomfortable details about me and is getting pretty obsessive."

"See? He wants to fuck you." Étienne continued noodling around on his bass. His voice was flip, but they all knew him well enough to recognize the worry in his eyes.

"What worries me is… what's he going to do if you refuse?" Ewa's voice was soft, as though she feared even voicing the question. "Gamilans aren't known for taking 'no' for an answer when they want something."

"At this point, it may be the lesser of two evils if you don't refuse," Cody said quietly. "All hell could break loose, and we're not exactly in a situation where rescue is a possibility. Things were different back on Terra. But, at this point, we're at a pretty serious disadvantage."

"That's bullshit!" Msiba shouted, leaping to her feet. "You're telling her to just let this asshole do whatever he wants—"

"Listen to me! I'm telling her this because it might very well save all our goddamn lives! How many stories have you heard of Dessler simply shooting people that piss him off? Do you really think we would stay immune from reprisal indefinitely if he doesn't get what he wants? We may be treated well, Msiba, but let's face it—we're hostages." Cody's voice was quiet but vehement. "As far as this Picoserum, I'm taking it. My place is with Ati, for good or ill. I won't let her face the future alone, whatever it may hold."

There was a quiet voicing of assent by all of them.

Part IX: Said the Spider to the Fly

September 22, 2230

Tonight, tonight, this terrible night,

The sky with no moon, nor faint starlight.

The roses, the roses, they twine and they grow

Even in snow, the cold winds that blow.

The river it flows, it flows and it knows,

That the roses will grow, through the rain and the cold

The cold winds that blow, and the sun in the sky

They will always flow round what lives and what dies.

Close your eyes, my love, and know...

That you, my heart, are the roses that grow.

Septigram—Roses, Roses

The remainder of the journey to New Gamilas—a short one, by intergalactic standards—was a sort of tense hell for Atirangi. Unlike the other members of Septigram, she found herself completely unable to tolerate the effects of spacewarp. Each sounding of the alarm sent her scurrying to her room; she spent the time in warp crouched beside the toilet in her bathroom, waiting for the inevitable nausea. She would then have to send Treel or one of the bandmembers to Lieutenant Milos for an antiemetic. Without it, she would feel ill for the rest of the day.

Atirangi had been shown the physical training room the officers used, and she had devoted much of the time between warps to exercise. The gravity aboard the ship was slightly heavier than that of Terra, and she wished to acclimatize herself. It was said that the gravity on New Gamilas was the same. She did not wish to weather any unnecessary disadvantage. Being slowed by a heavier planetary drag was something physical training could counteract.

Besides, she needed to occupy her thoughts with something other than her problems with Abelt Dessler.

Not a day passed that she did not see the Emperor, regardless of whether she had been notified in advance. The Gamilan ruler had a way of simply being there when she turned around or looked up; it was distinctly unsettling. Often, he would not so much as speak; he would simply pierce her to the quick with his amethyst gaze, and then turn and walk away with a swirl of his cloak. His behavior made her angry and afraid by turns.

That afternoon, word reached Atirangi through Treel that the journey was ending. One more warp would see them into the Symbar system, and thence, quickly, to New Gamilas. Atirangi settled herself beside the toilet in her bathroom, dreading the sickening wrench and disorientation of warp. She was trying to allay her fear when Treel rushed in, eyes wide.

"Ati, the Emperor is here. He says he wants you with him during this warp." The slender Gamilan woman was slightly out of breath; she had clearly run the entire way to deliver this message.

"No way. No way in hell. He does know I puke every time we warp… right? I draw the line at puking in front of him." Atirangi's hands encircled the base of the toilet as though she were afraid that she would be dragged from her refuge.

"I'll tell him," Treel said nervously. She did not relish the idea of conveying this refusal.

"Tell him it's nothing personal; I don't like puking in front of the rest of the band, either." She tried to make light of the situation, but Atirangi was close to panic at the idea of having Dessler with her when she was, once again, at her most vulnerable.

Treel departed the room quietly; a few moments later, the bathroom door opened. This time, it was not the guardswoman, but her Emperor. Dessler leaned against the doorframe, watching her for a moment before he spoke.

"You do realize that the more you work yourself up over spacewarp, the worse it is." He smiled faintly.

"Several factoids come into play here. The first is I throw up whether I'm worked up or not. Last time we warped, I had trained to the point of exhaustion and was asleep when the alarm sounded. The second, I hate anyone seeing me throw up. The third… you are the Emperor, whether I am on a first-name basis with you or not. Don't you think I'd feel damned strange with you standing over me while I have puke, snot and tears running down my face?"

"I'm not leaving." He settled himself on the bench along the wall opposite her, carefully smoothing his cloak. "I am certainly not trying to humiliate you, Atirangi; I'm here because I think I may be able to help you get through your warp intolerance."

"What's next, Abelt, watching me jerk off or something?" The nervousness over her impending discomfort made her even more tactless than usual. "I'm getting pretty fucking sick of having my privacy violated."

"I wouldn't watch, I'd take over," he said lightly.

"I knew it! I just fucking knew that's what you were after! Look, I don't care what you say or do; I'm not going to fall merrily into bed with you or anyone else! I'm not interested in—" Atirangi broke off suddenly; the warp alarm had sounded.

Dessler moved closer to her at once and pulled her hands from their grip on the toilet. She started to struggle, but then the sickening spacetime slip began. She was aware of his soft-spoken words, encouraging her to concentrate on the grip of his hands and not on the erroneous sensations given forth by her confused brain. She had just enough left of herself to be quite irritated at the fact that, once again, Dessler had won. The dissociation was nowhere near as severe as it had been, despite the length of this warp.

When it ended, Atirangi found herself face to face with Dessler, closer than she had ever been to him. Their hands were interlaced with each other, and her eyes were locked with his. At once, she tried to pull away; he hesitated a moment, and then let go of her hands. The memory of his alien touch remained on her skin, and she tore her eyes from his with difficulty.

"How do you feel?" Dessler asked.

"Angry. But not nauseated, which is what I'm sure you mean." She curled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, gazing balefully at him.

"Angry is your usual state; the lack of nausea is encouraging. You won't need to worry about another spacewarp for a long time, though," Dessler said, rising. "We will be in orbit of New Gamilas by the end of the day. And then, we will go planetside immediately. I've much to show you." He turned to depart.

"Abelt," Atirangi burst out. "What color is the sun of New Gamilas?"

"Symbar is a class A white dwarf star, on the main sequence. Treel is waiting to help you pack; I will see you soon."

Once again, Atirangi waited until Dessler left to give vent to her emotions. Rather than a string of expletives, however, what emerged were tears. Treel came in, seeming about to ask a question. When she saw Atirangi curled in the corner of the bathroom, weeping bitterly, she gasped and ran to her at once.

"What's wrong? What is it?" Treel knelt beside Atirangi and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Nothing you can really help with, Treel. I'm homesick, confused and scared. Dessler helped me handle the warp and I almost wish he hadn't. What am I supposed to do? He's around every corner. I feel his eyes everywhere."

"So do we all. There is a reason we revere His Majesty so. Nothing happens in the Empire that he does not know." Treel picked up a towel from the floor and dabbed away Atirangi's tears, but more followed.

"It's more than that with me, though, isn't it? No one else has this much of his undivided attention. He doesn't follow others and personally observe them. Tell me what he wants. I can't take any more of this!" Atirangi's hands seized Treel's shoulders, and she stared wildly into the Blue Shadow’s eyes.

"This part of things I think I can help with," Treel said gently. "I may get into some trouble if I tell you too much, but I don't like seeing you like this. I know you're afraid, but the fact is, you have less reason to be afraid than we Shadows."

"I'm not just afraid for myself; I'm afraid for the rest of Septigram, and even for Zain. What's going on, Treel? What does Abelt want with me?"

"I'm going to tell you the situation, and then I will tell you the best way to handle it. The first thing I will tell you… His Majesty will not hurt you willingly. The reason is that he has Chosen you. You are Empress; you just have not known this until now." Treel lifted the towel to wipe more tears from Atirangi's face, but she pushed the Gamilan girl away, a little violently.

"Just like that, huh? Without so much as asking me, and after completely fucking my life up, he expects me to just smile and crawl into his bed? The hell with that—fuck Abelt, and not the nice way, either!" Atirangi leapt to her feet. "What happens if I refuse? What if I fight him until he has to hurt me?"

"Please, Atirangi," Treel said, her own eyes now filling with tears. "It is not merely a matter of His Majesty’s physical desires; that was part of our purpose, after all. I could go into many, many reasons you should accept this—not the least among them, the treaty with Terra. Have not many women in your history accepted arranged marriages for the sake of the nations involved?"

"This isn't the fucking Middle Ages and I'm not some cloistered little Catholic princess!" Atirangi snapped. She stalked out of the bathroom; Treel followed her, wringing her hands.

"I know. I know you aren't," Treel said. Now, she was the one who wept. "But the people you will aid by doing this are not faceless, unknown entities. Besides your band, every one of us has much resting upon this. So do General Talan and Lieutenant Valas. His Majesty will not ill-treat you or confine you any more than needed." She dropped to her knees before Atirangi and pressed her brow to the tops of the woman's bare, brown feet. "I am begging you. He will never allow you to leave. Must other hearts break for that? Can something good not come of what has happened to you?"

"Get up," Atirangi said, pulling Treel to her feet. "You know I can't stand that shit. You say I'm an Empress? Here's your first order: never kneel in front of me like that again. Now… what exactly do the Blue Shadows have riding on this?"

"Everything, Atirangi," Treel said softly. "You know that His Majesty has a terrible temper. If he is thwarted, he may do to us as I had to do to Tantha. He may kill every one of us. Beyond this, a promise was made to me. I am ashamed to tell you my part in all this, but how will you trust me if I do not? There is one whom I love. And it is not the Emperor. It has been promised to me that, if I succeed in convincing you to take the throne at His Majesty's side, I will be given to General Talan. I would be wife, not just a guard. Talan returns the love I have for him. There; you know it all. I am ashamed to have told you so little, but I was afraid. Afraid of the Emperor, and maybe of you as well." Treel lowered her face into her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

"Treel… don't take this as an outright refusal, all right?" Atirangi was shocked from her anger by Treel's sincere distress. She drew the Gamilan woman into an embrace, holding her and stroking her coppery locks. "I need some time to think. I also want to talk to the others, especially Cody. Can you hold off on saying anything to Abelt until I come and find you again?"

"I will try, but if I am commanded, I must obey," Treel whispered.

"I understand. Dry your eyes," Atirangi said. She suited action to word, wiping away Treel's tears with the edge of her sleeve. "I'll be back soon."

Treel settled herself in a chair at the foot of Atirangi's bed.

"I will wait," she said softly.

The moment Atirangi stepped into the hall and closed the door, she broke into an all-out run, headed for Cody's room. She rained a hammering of knocks on the door, praying that her drummer was not training or practicing with headphones. She was rewarded a moment later when the door opened. Cody looked up at her, a brow lifted with concern. He reached out a tattooed hand and took her arm, guiding her in and sitting her down at his table. He said nothing until he had placed a steaming cup of tea before her.

"Talk to me. What's happened?" he asked.

"Étienne was more than right. And so were you. And I don't have any idea how to handle it. He wants me to take the place of all those Blue Shadows. Treel said he's 'chosen' me. She said I am already considered the Empress." Tears threatened again.

"The first thing to do is to concentrate on not panicking. You need to get your shit together, right now. This sucks because you have no real choice. I'm quite sure all our lives, yours included, will be made some kind of living hell if you try to refuse him. I'm not going to hand you any 'close your eyes and think of England' horseshit. You know that I'm not going anywhere. I won't leave you alone with this. I took the Picoserum last night to ensure that." His voice was calm, as always.

"Treel said something pretty close to that—about things being made a living hell. Also, if I refuse, I fuck up her life at the very least or get her killed at the worst. Same with the other Blue Shadows. Treel says she killed Tantha. Cody, this man is fucking batshit crazy, and I'm scared shitless." She picked up one of the napkins and wiped her eyes. "All this talk about it being an arranged marriage is well and good for everyone else. In the end, though, I'm alone with him. Hell, I don't even know whether I can keep from attacking him. The shit my mother did to me runs pretty deep."

"Try to trust yourself. Try to trust the rest of us, including Treel. I get a good feeling about her. I don't think she's bullshitting when she says she cares about you. Yes, you'll have to spend time alone with Dessler, but let's face facts: the man has an empire to run. You'll have us as a refuge, and I'm betting Susumu—"

"Fuck! I'm not even sure I want to talk to him. If he hadn't told Dessler all that shit—"

"Don't put it all on Susumu. Dessler would probably have found out eventually anyway. Your origins have become kind of an open secret. Without Yuki and Susumu as a sort of filter, things could have been a hell of a lot worse. As in he could have snatched you off Terra without us." Cody leaned back in his chair, one hand idly toying with the labret ring that pierced his lower lip. "I think you should contact Susumu as soon as possible, even if that means sending him a subspace text and waiting. He knows Dessler pretty well. He may have some coping strategies or even some sort of work-around."

"You're right, and you're right about not panicking. I'll text him as soon as I possibly can. I'm going to go back to Treel and tell her the joyous news." Atirangi made a face and rose to her feet.

"Think of it this way: at least this won't be as difficult as getting that DMA you never attach to your name." Cody smiled faintly and walked her to the door.

Once in the hallway, Atirangi stopped. She knew she was only delaying the inevitable, but she was in no hurry to return to her rooms. She leaned against the wall for a moment, splaying her fingers against the cool, greenish metal of its surface, and closed her eyes.

I can't believe I'm doing this, she thought. Here it is, the twenty-fourth century, and I'm about to agree to a dynastic marriage to a man I barely know—and can barely even stand.

Finally, she squared her shoulders and pushed off from the wall, bare feet soundless upon the carpeted floor. As she entered her rooms, she noted that Treel was yet again tidying up.

"You're slacking, Treel," she chuckled. "Two whole grains of dust have fallen since the last time you did that."

The Gamilan woman started and spun around, dropping the cloth.

"Oh! I didn't expect you to return so soon," she said. She knelt, picking up the cloth. Though she did not speak, her red-golden eyes asked the question.

"I'm going to do it, Treel. I want you to know that it's as much for you as it is for my band, or the people of Terra. There's something I need from you, though." Atirangi sank down into one of the large chairs beside her bed.

"Anything. Anything, even unto my very life," breathed Treel, tears standing in her eyes.

"It's not going to come to that. Keeping you around is one reason I'm doing this, remember? What I need is information. I know the mechanics of sex; who doesn't? My problem is I know jack shit about how to please a man. I've never so much as kissed anyone."

"But… how could you not… you mean you've never…" Treel trailed off, the expression on her face one of complete shock. It was as though Atirangi had admitted to all manner of revolting peccadilloes.

"No time. No opportunity. And no man I've ever been attracted to that way."

"You mean you are not attracted to the Emperor?" Treel's question came out as a gasp.

"You want the polite answer? Or do you want the truth?" Atirangi folded her arms, tucking one foot beneath her.

"The truth. I gave you no less than that."

"Treel, he’s a dickhead. He's overbearing, arrogant and cruel. He may be beautiful, but I'd honestly rather… oh, forget it. I'm sure you get the point."

"He came to you and helped you through your warp-sickness. He saved your band, your life, even your harp. And you call him cruel?" Treel's voice lifted in outrage.

"He follows me the fuck around all over this entire ship! He probably has this room bugged, along with everywhere else I ever go! And did you forget the bullshit he pulled on me with the Picoserum?"

"I fail to understand how his desire to heal your injuries is 'bullshit'! Any of us would give all to have such favor from the Emperor as you have, yet you act as though it is a burden!"

"Why can't you understand that it is a burden? All I ever wanted was music. What I had with Septigram back on Terra... that was my dream, Treel. Music for its own sake, with others of like mind." Atirangi lifted a hand, wiping angry tears from her eyes.

"Don't you see? You can have that with us! Do you not understand that we love you and your music as much as Terra does?" Treel went to Atirangi, kneeling before her and taking her hands. "And when it becomes known that you made such a sacrifice for me and others, they will love you even more. You may have lost one people. But you will gain another, Atirangi. Please… give us a chance."

"I'm sorry," Atirangi sighed. "I don't mean to be such a raving bitch. I'm just having a very hard time giving up what I know in favor of what I do not. And I'm sorry my feelings toward Abelt are such that they upset you. I'll do the best I can, but it'll be for you and for Zain, and even General Talan and Lieutenant Milos. But there are going to be rough spots. I'm not easy to get along with under the best of circumstances. Even Susumu and I had problems from time to time."

"It is a beginning. That you will try… that is all I need." Treel rose a bit from her knees and kissed Atirangi's brow. "You are not merely my Empress, you are my friend. I will do all I can to help, and so will Talan."

Atirangi would have spoken, but, just then, the door chirped. Treel rose to answer it, and stepped aside at once, dropping to a kneel. Dessler strode in, not so much as glancing at Treel.

"It is time, Atirangi; gather your companions. We are going to the surface, to the city of Gamilas. We are home." He offered her a hand.

"I want Treel with us." Atirangi declined the hand and stood, once again nettled by Dessler’s lack of regard toward Treel.

"Very well; I am pleased to see that you hold her in high regard." There was a glint in Dessler’s pale eyes.

"I'd say she was doing fine even if she wasn't. Whether I liked her or not, it's bullshit that you had Tantha killed."

"As it turns out, I neither killed Tantha nor gave the command. I suppose you would have welcomed the opportunity to fight for your life against her? Tantha was plotting to assassinate you, Atirangi. Treel got to her first. And, for all your prowess against your own kind, you cannot prevail against a Blue Shadow without a weapon."

Atirangi's rage, simmering since the day she had been forced to leave Terra, boiled forth. She drew back a hand and slapped Dessler as hard as she could. A human male would have fallen, and possibly have been injured; the Emperor, however, stood and took it… and then smiled coldly. From where she was kneeling, Treel was heard to gasp, and then sob.

"I see you intend to make this interesting. Very well, my patience with you is at an end. You will understand the meaning of that when we arrive in the city. Now, prepare yourself, woman. I will expect you in the docking bay in ten minutes." Dessler turned and stalked out.

"Gods, Atirangi, why… why did you strike him?" Treel was on her feet the moment the door closed, grabbing Atirangi's hands. "I wanted mercy to be shown to you. I wanted to help you ease into this, but now you have challenged him."

Atirangi did not answer; she stood, shaking with fury, her hands tight upon Treel's. She herself did not know why she had slapped Dessler; the enormity of the act was, however, beginning to register to her. She realized with a sick lurch that she may not have doomed only herself, but Treel and Septigram as well.

"What happens now, Treel?" Atirangi asked faintly. The rage drained from her like water. Terror and shame rose in its place as she realized the implications of what had happened.

"He will still claim you. But he might choose to do so through combat. And there will be no mercy, Atirangi. He will take all from you, and more."

"How do I save my friends? How do I save you, Treel?"

Treel's answer was simply a shake of her head.

"Don't tell me that. There must be a way. I'll get him to listen!"

"I know you will try." It was the best Treel could offer; the despair in her eyes made that clear.

"Let's go." Atirangi wasn't sure whether she could make Dessler any angrier than he already was by being tardy, but she didn't wish to find out. Likewise, she had no intention of making matters any more difficult for Treel.

The walk down to the docking bay was a silent one, despite the presence of the entirety of Septigram. Cody fell into step beside Atirangi; Treel walked at her other side. Atirangi scarcely paid heed to her surroundings; the others had picked up her unsettled mood and merely offered unspoken support by staying close.

They arrived at the docking bay; interestingly enough, nothing recognizable as a ship was present. Instead, there seemed to be some sort of shielded platform, set about with elegant, ornate chairs. The platform was enclosed on all sides with transparent steel windows; it seemed to be more of an observation deck than a spaceworthy craft.

"What's this thing?" Ewa asked. She had stopped short upon seeing the platform.

"It's my personal grav-tower lift," Dessler said; they all jumped. Yet again, no one had seen him before he spoke. "There are no spaceports on the surface of New Gamilas; they are far too damaging to the local ecosystem and are not accessible to our larger ships. Shuttles and other spacecraft require a massive amount of fuel to even reach escape velocity. With a gravity tower, no such drain on resources becomes necessary. There is a platform above us in geosynchronous orbit; we will be descending via a permanent tractor cable. Do not be alarmed; it's quite safe." He turned and walked to the open ramp leading within the transparent steel enclosure.

Atirangi draped an arm around Ewa's shoulders before following; the Polish woman had a fear of heights. Privately, she welcomed the need to be attentive to a member of her band. She did not wish to weather Dessler’s stare without distraction.

As they entered, the officer in charge of the platform guided each of them to one of the thickly-cushioned chairs. Atirangi hung back until the very last; despite this, as she had dreaded, she was placed directly beside Dessler, sitting at his left hand. He gave her a sidelong glance through unreadable, hooded eyes. His smile was unpleasant.

When all were seated, the platform was sealed and pressurized. The grav officer manned the controls, swinging it free of the docking bay of the flagship, and then the descent began.

Seen from orbit, New Gamilas was utterly beautiful. Its oceans were intensely blue, and blindingly-white clouds stood in stark relief against them. There seemed to be a great deal more water than land, and the atmosphere appeared to be thicker than that of Terra. The sun, behind them, was shielded from their view; the glassteel windows were light-reactive in order to protect the passengers from the vicious brilliance of the blue-white primary star. The descent progressed at a stately pace, the planet below looming ever larger beneath them.

Atirangi busied herself with continuing reassurance to Ewa; she concentrated on helping her contain her overwhelming fright. When mere words were ineffective, she chose to fall back on song. And she could only conceive of one melody that would cut through Ewa's terror. She needed to make her laugh.

While out a-sailing one day in a sloop

I was hit by a missile that made me droop!

It smelled so fishy it gave me the croup!

What was it, you ask? It was pelican poop!

CHORUS:

Pelican poop! Dripping off my head!

Pelican poop! Smells like something dead!

Pelican poop turns my heart to lead!

O Pelican poop! Boy was my face red!

So I got off the boat and my heart hung low

I looked and I smelled like a freakin' freak show!

My face was all twisted, and chunks did I blow

Um... lions and tigers and bears! Oh no!

Pelican poop! I can only write

So much about something so smelly and white!

So sticky and gritty, its presence a blight

I'm stopping this now; it's getting too trite!

This was the first time Pelican Poop had been performed for anyone other than the Kodai family. Ewa did indeed laugh, and she wasn't alone. The rest of Septigram broke into mirth, and even General Talan stifled chuckle. Dessler turned and stared at Atirangi in complete disbelief.

"More of a measure of musical talent than anyone I have ever encountered… a voice that could move the very Ancestors themselves to tears… and here you are, singing about bird shit." He shook his head, but some of the coldness had vanished from his eyes.

"Think that's bad? I also wrote Look Into My Nose and I Wish I Had A Prehensile Butt." She carefully schooled her features into a deadpan expression.

The song titles were too much for Talan. He immediately lost the battle against his laughter, though he tried to stifle it with one gloved hand. Dessler turned and gave him an elbow in the ribs, but this only served to make the usually-staid General laugh even harder.

"Do not sing that nonsense. I don't need General Talan or anyone else repeating it," Dessler said.

"I'll just do it when you're not around." Atirangi permitted herself a slight smile.

"If I hear anything in my Court about noses and butts, I will hold you responsible." He then paused for a moment, looking stricken. "And now you have me saying things I never imagined needing to say."

"Good." Atirangi started to add a remark about Dessler needing to add an apology to his repertoire, but she bit back the words. She was already in trouble enough.

With Ewa's fears somewhat calmed, Atirangi found herself at exactly the kind of loose end she had wished to avoid. They were now breaching the edge of the planetary exosphere; she focused her eyes out the observation panel closest to her, watching without seeing the play of light brought on by their descent. She could feel the Emperor's gaze upon her and did her best to ignore it.

"Is it your intention to refuse to so much as converse with me during this journey?" Dessler’s tone was mild, but Atirangi had begun to know him well enough to know that this was the most dangerous of his moods.

"Considering that every time we speak lately, we argue, I was trying to avoid causing a spectacle." She turned to look at him and wished she hadn't; she found herself unable to break away from his stare.

"You've no idea what 'spectacle' you have yet to cause, my Chosen." There was a collective gasp from all the Gamilans present at these words; it was the first time he had publicly stated his intentions.

"Oh, I'm sure I will soon enough." She was careful to avoid saying anything that could be taken as a refusal; she hoped it was enough to remove the threat to Treel and her other friends.

The rest of the descent passed unremarkably—that is, if one could call anything about New Gamilas unremarkable. The planet, fourth from the sun in a system of thirteen planets, was larger than Terra, with a more severe axial tilt. As they descended into the troposphere, the sky took on a rich green hue; the platform also took a buffeting from the strong winds and air currents present upon this wild, young planet. General Talan began to fill in further details.

"Our diurnal cycle is sixty-two hours long; the local planetary year is 864 days in length," Talan said. "Our seasons tend to be more severe because of our axial tilt; this also results in a lack of polar caps. What little land there is spans an archipelago around the equatorial region, and there are a few moderately-sized islands scattered mostly throughout the southern hemisphere. The time period currently experienced by New Gamilas would roughly correspond to the Jurassic period on Terra; there are megafauna present, and the most highly-represented biomes are tropical and montane rainforests. There is considerable tectonic activity as well, but not to dangerous levels.

"We have taken care to build in an ecologically-sound manner, and our cities are planned in accordance with the potential severe weather and tsunami activity. We have learned much from the loss of our previous homeworld, and we have no intention of allowing the same to happen here. There is much more to be told, but that will have to take place after we have you settled in. Welcome to New Gamilas, and to the city of Gamilas."

Talan had timed his introductory speech well; he had just concluded and reseated himself when the spires and arches of the alien city came into view, rising above the jungle canopy. Rain pelted the windows of the grav-platform; the mist made the city look even more eerie. Atirangi suppressed a shiver at the thought that this strange city would be her home for the rest of an unnaturally-extended life.

With Abelt Dessler at her side.

Atirangi grasped the arms of her chair as though to hold on to the last vestiges of the life from which she had been torn. As the platform slid into its docking tube, she closed her eyes; tears threatened, and she did not want Dessler to see her weep again. She did not open them again until the change in air pressure told her that the ramp had been lowered to allow them to disembark.

They emerged from the grav-platform and into a vast chamber with a vaulted ceiling. There were many Gamilan troops present; all snapped to rigid attention the moment their Emperor's soft tread fell upon the highly-polished stone tiles of the floor. He led them through the docking hall and into an equally-opulent passageway. Waiting for them was a tube-car, appointed with the same type of elegant seating as had been within the grav-platform. Atirangi started to seat herself with the rest of Septigram, but Dessler seized her wrist, pulling her down beside him. He did not speak; only gave her the sidelong glance she had come to dread.

The tube-car then slid from the boarding gangway and shot along on its programmed course. Outside, the storm had intensified; it was hard to see much of the city beyond, because of the lashing rain.

"Know what we call this on Terra? A fucking hurricane," Étienne said. He slumped further into his seat, plucking at his restraining belt and scowling.

"On New Gamilas, we call this normal spring weather. Do not be concerned; we are quite safe. The tube walls are glassteel, and so are the windows of all buildings." Talan said. The General seemed to be in high spirits.

"Glad to be home, are you?" asked Kharzon.

"Yes. More than that, glad to have a homeworld at all."

"Shit, I'll be happy if we just have a decent place to set up. We haven't practiced since we left Terra," grumbled Cody. "And let's not forget that I need to replace my drum kit."

"None of the above has been forgotten. We will see to it that you have all you could ever need," Dessler said. He still had not relinquished Atirangi's wrist from his grip, though his cloak hid this.

In mere minutes, a great, towered building loomed before them, thrusting up toward the sky. Its graceful spires had a non-Euclidian look; there were no sharp angles, and it seemed almost to have been grown, rather than constructed. The tube-car slipped through a docking-port in the wall and came to a smooth stop. The doors opened and admitted the group to a hall no less elegant than had been the one from which they had just departed. There was a different feel to this cavernous space. It seemed built to intimidate as much as to impress. Lines of troops, at attention, stood along a long, black carpet that led to a massive set of double doors.

Dessler led them past the honor-guard and toward the doors. He kept Atirangi at his side, though he had relinquished the brutal grasp on her wrist. She was uncomfortably aware that the soldiers she passed stared at her for as long as they could. She resisted the urge to rub her wrist. The Picoserum had already erased the bruising Dessler had inflicted, but the memory of his touch seemed almost like a burn.

The great doors swung silently open; they were now in a passageway that echoed the opulence they had seen thus far. Here, several servants politely and solicitously came forward to bring the members of Septigram to their living quarters…

… all save Atirangi, who Dessler continued to keep at his side.

Once all others had departed, including Treel and General Talan, she stood awkwardly in this echoingly-vast hallway, alone save for Dessler, towering over her and looking down at her with implacable violet eyes. There was even less escape than there had been on the ship; where would she go, in an alien city, whose denizens would surely return her to the palace if—when—they found her?

Brazen it out, she thought. It's either that or end up just like Tantha.

"So… what happens now?" She kept it simple; she didn't want him to hear any uncertainty in her voice.

"That depends on you, Atirangi," Dessler said. "I do love a challenge, you know; your defiance was a factor in my decision to place you at my side. Fight me if you wish; I will still prevail, in the end."

"Fight you? And end up getting myself killed by you or your guards? First of all, I doubt I'd last ten seconds in hand-to-hand combat with you. Second of all, I'm not going to get Treel killed. I know what you'll do to her."

"Your dedication to Treel speaks better of you than that slap. But do not fear for Treel, or the other Blue Shadows. By dawn, they will have been placed in their new households. You have only yourself to worry about, and the fact that you now have my… undivided attention." Dessler ran the backs of his fingers along Atirangi's cheek; unable to help herself, she flinched away. "Do you find me so repellent?"

"Physically? No. But as I said the night you tricked me into taking the Picoserum, I think you're an asshole. I don't want to be what you're trying to turn me into, but the alternatives are even more unacceptable. So, I ask again—what happens now?" She cursed herself for the trembling that had taken sudden hold of her frame.

"Perhaps I should give you an 'out', or at least a way of delaying things a bit. There is a very old tradition among my people, born before ever we ventured to the stars. It is simply called 'the Hunt'." He would have said more, but Atirangi gasped and reeled back a step.

"No. Fuck no, I'm not going to do that. I already know how that ends!" She could not countenance the thought of playing out her recurring nightmare—a dream that now seemed as though it may be prophetic.

"Do you?" Dessler closed the distance between them, and caught Atirangi's chin in his fingers, forcing her to look into his eyes. "Tell me."

"I don't want to tell you. Am I not even to have privacy in my own dreams?"

"I am curious. Tell me."

"Your curiosity doesn't make a good reason for me to share something like this with you. Let's just say I knew New Gamilas had a white sun years before I saw it." She wanted to push him away, to tear her eyes from his, but dared not; she knew further defiance would only goad him.

"Ahh, so you share some of the psi abilities held by the Royal House of Iscandar." His arm encircled her body and drew her close against him; he smiled as he felt her tremble. "I knew telepathy and a certain amount of clairvoyance were present in Starsha's family, but precognition is something unexpected."

"It's only been that dream. And now I seem to have assured it won't come true, so… " Atirangi placed her hands on Dessler’s chest; anything to reassert some control of a situation that was quickly overwhelming her.

"You still have to make your choice, my Chosen. Come willingly, do battle or be Hunted."

"You mean, get raped on the beach or get raped in the comfort of your rooms!" Again, she immediately regretted what she had said.

"Do you think I'll simply hurl you to your back and attack you like an animal?" Dessler’s chuckle was dark. "No, by the time I truly claim you, you will be begging for it, Atirangi."

"You arrogant fuck!" This time, she did shove him away, hard enough that he staggered a bit. She stood, hands fisted, enraged enough to throw caution to the wind.

"Come on, then. Battle is your choice?" Dessler reached to his shoulder and unclasped his cloak, letting it slip to the floor behind him. "I'll sweeten the deal. If you win, I will allow you to return to Terra. But if I win, you squirm in my sheets tonight."

His arrogance made Atirangi reckless. Her lip curled to a snarl, and she moved into a stance. She saw through the eyes of her half-mother then, saw the man that had ended one future, and was now stealing another. She sized the tall Gamilan up, her eyes like those of a tigress, cornered and ready to attack.

He feinted to her right, testing both her reach and her reflexes; she danced aside. Her returning blow connected with nothing; Dessler was terrifyingly fast for a man his size. She was outmatched and she knew it, but her anger, ever her downfall, would not allow her to capitulate.

Dessler paced around her; she kept him before her, turning to face him as he moved. In a blur of motion, he struck toward her midsection with the heel of one hand; she evaded the worst of the blow, but was still winded, forced to concentrate on controlling her breath. She stepped back a few paces to attempt to get some distance, but he came at her again, aware of his advantage.

This attack did not go as he had planned; she succeeded in catching the punch he had leveled toward her temple. Atirangi attempted to strike his elbow and hyperextend the joint, but he jerked his arm back, dragging her with it, and headbutted her violently across the bridge of her nose.

White-hot pain exploded behind her eyes and she stumbled back, trying to evade him long enough to recuperate. Atirangi was dimly aware of warm blood gushing from her nose, covering her face and chest. She got her hands up with difficulty, just in time to slap aside a front kick. Again, she backpedaled, and Dessler followed her.

More to buy time than anything else, she snapped out a low, sweeping front-kick. To her surprise, it connected with his shin, eliciting a grunt of pain and causing him to stagger. She attempted to take advantage of the temporary instability with another kick, this one aimed at the knee, but he evaded it. He began to move toward Atirangi again, and her fury was suddenly replaced by panic.

Turning on her heel, she fled toward the nearest door she could see. She found herself running down a long, down-sloping passageway. Atirangi could hear Dessler behind her; he was quickly closing the distance between them. There was a smell of moist, warm air, laden with greenery; she fled toward it, praying that she had found an open door. She dodged into another hallway to her left; she was encouraged by seeing what appeared to be natural light streaming through an oval-shaped doorway.

The moment she passed through the door, Atirangi realized she had made a mistake. There were indeed plants here, but the light came from skylights set into the vaulted ceiling. The room she was in was some sort of solarium. Unable to contain the terror she felt, she continued to run, fleeing along the elegant, tree-lined walkways. Dessler was just behind her.

When she felt him attempt to seize her hair, she took the last possible avenue of evasion: she vaulted into one of the great, fern-branched trees, scrambling upward as high as she could. She clung frantically to the trunk of the tree, her breath whistling in and out of her lungs, broken by occasional terrified sobs.

"You do realize that tree will be of finite use as a safe haven." Dessler’s voice held amusement. "I can wait as long as necessary; you won't be able to remain up there forever. Indeed, I could draw my sidearm and stun you, and then catch you as you fell."

"Damn you," she wept. "Damn you to hell… why does it have to be me? Why can't you take one of your Shadows?"

"They are not worthy. Especially not when compared with you. Come down from the tree, Atirangi."

Atirangi closed her eyes and simply let go of the trunk, allowing herself to fall backward. Though the Picoserum had mostly remedied her injuries, she didn't have the strength to face the downward climb. Part of her hoped that Dessler would fail to catch her.

It was a vain hope. Her fall was broken by his strong arms, arms that closed around her in a possessive grip. Atirangi kept her eyes closed, not caring to see which way she was being carried or anyone they passed.

The shipboard chambers of the Emperor had been splendid, but they were nothing in comparison to what was within the palace. Atirangi opened her eyes when she became aware that they had passed through a large door; she heard it slide shut behind them, as heavy as the door of a vault.

The room they had entered—some sort of parlor or sitting room—was larger than had been the entire loft apartment she occupied in New York City. It was decorated in deep jewel-tones, at once opulent and somber. She had time to see few details, however; she found herself carried further, through another set of doors, and into Dessler’s bedchamber. As they entered, several servants knelt, awaiting commands. Dessler spoke in his native tongue, and they vacated the room at once.

He crossed to a large chaise-longue and settled her upon it. Briefly, he left the room, returning a moment later with a warm, damp cloth, which he used to wipe the blood from her skin. He then joined her, leaning back and drawing Atirangi close. He gazed silently down at her. She tried at first to avoid his eyes; more than ever before, his stare frightened her. At last, she opened her eyes to look at him, and to her surprise, he was smiling; it was the gentlest expression she had yet seen him wear.

"So afraid," he said softly. "And you have less cause to be than any other in the galaxy; you alone are truly safe with me."

Atirangi started to make a sharp retort, but then the realization struck her: yet again, Dessler was right. Had he wanted to, he could have killed her; the Picoserum would not have been able to regenerate the damage done, for instance, by a crushing blow to the skull. The only response she could think to make was a question she had asked before.

"What happens now, Abelt?" All her anger had now been replaced by an ineffable sorrow.

"Among my people, dominion. Your word shall be no less than my own. We have much to learn about each other. I know I can never replace Terra for you. But I do know that, if you but give me the chance, I can give you something new. Do you not find it ironic that the throne will pass in time to one of Rapanui blood? I destroyed your mother's people. In return, I give you my own." A gentle hand caressed her cheek; the show of affection seemed far more sincere than when he had done the same before they had fought.

"I don't want dominion, Abelt. I've told you before, my life is music." This time, she did not flinch away from his touch. She remembered that Treel had said much the same thing.

"And you will have that. I am not going to expect you to sit in Court and take part in the governance of the Empire any more than you wish—even if that wish is not at all. And you had an audience among us, even before I chose you. Even I remember the Spheres and Energies concert." His smile deepened. "And I'll try not to be such an asshole."

She couldn't help but smile at that.

Abelt then placed his fingers beneath her chin, turning her face up to his. His lips met hers, gentle but insistent; Atirangi closed her eyes and allowed his tongue to slip between her lips. The fear was still there, but so was her resolve to keep her promise to Treel. His arms slipped around her, and this time, she returned the embrace. She was astonished to feel that he was shaking as much as she was.

Well, even if this goes wrong, she thought, I know for a fact that what that Sodality agent put me through was worse. I have no choice but to try to trust Abelt or risk what little I still have left to me.

She did not resist when Abelt lifted her into his arms again, nor when he carried her to the huge, draped bed and lay her upon it. He kicked off his boots, and then gently removed the sandals she was wearing. Abelt then stretched out next to her, drawing her close.

"The one time I wear shoes, and off they go," she said. She was trying to lighten the mood a little, but her nervousness made her voice shake.

"Being barefoot suits you," he said. One hand threaded gently through her hair. "And surely, being completely unclothed will suit you even more."

Gently, he reached to the magnetic clasps on the shoulders of the tunic she wore and unfastened them. He brushed the silken fabric down, revealing the lacy camisole she wore beneath it. She shivered as his lips trailed from just below her ear and down the side of her neck. His too-warm hands caressed her shoulders, and then he sat up. He was already without his cloak; that had been left where it had fallen, in the passageway where they had fought. He removed his uniform shirt and the grey undershirt beneath it, tossing both carelessly to the floor.

Any woman not completely inert would respond to his graceful perfection; not a scar marred his blue skin, and his toned body was sleek with muscle. Atirangi stared and was distantly astonished at her own reaction; a flush came over her. She could not resist the urge to sit up as well and hesitantly caress his chest. He smiled and gently tugged the laces of her camisole so that it began to fall open; scarcely knowing what she did, she shrugged out of it and let it fall to land beside his boots.

Abelt’s arms slipped about her again, drawing her close, closer than anyone had ever held her. She turned her lips up to his; she had a sense of the same thing she had felt in the tree—a letting go, a surrender to what was to happen. This time, though, she did not wish Abelt to fail in catching her. This kiss was more intense and demanding than the first; she allowed him to claim her mouth and tentatively returned his kiss. When she felt his hands glide to her waist, slipping beneath the fabric of the skirt she wore, she unclasped it and allowed it to join the growing pile of clothes upon the floor. She was now all but bare before him; he broke the kiss and leaned back to take in the sight of her body. Her skin tingled beneath his gaze.

Abelt didn't speak; the blaze of his eyes told Atirangi eloquently of his admiration—and his primal desire for her. Artlessly, he kicked out of his pants, shedding whatever undergarment he was wearing along with them. When Atirangi saw the size of his manhood, the sheer girth and length of him, she gasped. Seeing her apprehension, he drew her into his arms once again, caressing her hair and her shoulders. He lay down, drawing her beside him.

The warmth of him was soothing, as were his caresses. As she lay in his arms, struggling to shove aside her fear, she thought of Treel, and even of Tantha. Both women were small and slight compared to Abelt, but they certainly seemed to enjoy his attentions. Surely, she—Atirangi—could at the very least tolerate it. She allowed herself to relax, a little at a time.

Sometime later—mere minutes or an hour, she didn't know—she became aware that Abelt had slid away her underwear and turned her to lie on her back. Atirangi trembled as his kisses became yet more demanding, and his hands moved to caress her breasts. Atirangi gasped, suddenly feeling short of breath… his hands! Again, it felt as though fire followed his touch. She was torn between the urge to arch her back, press her flesh more closely into his caress, or pull away, try to run—try to save herself from the cascade of sensation that surged through her body. She tried to repress a moan as his lips, even warmer than his hands, began to trail kisses along her jaw and down her neck. She struggled to stay still; of itself, her body wanted to rock and writhe. The growing moisture between her legs made her feel ashamed and wanton by turns. She knew his hands would discover that as well, and he would know that she had lost the fight.

Another shock of sensation jolted her system as his lips encircled the stiffening peak of one nipple; it felt like electricity traveled down her spine, forcing her hips to rise of themselves. She made a sound; she, herself, could not tell if it was a moan or a sob. Her hands grabbed at Abelt's shoulders; her intent had been to push him away, but she found she could not, could not make her body obey her. His knee parted her thighs; her will wanted to clench them together, but the fire in her body refused; they fell open, leaving her vulnerable, knowing she was all but his.

And then his lips began to trail down her body, kissing and licking, and giving her the occasional sharp nip. She had heard the ribaldry of the men in her band too many times to be ignorant of what he would do to her next. As his shoulders slipped past the reach of her grip, her hands twisted in the silk counterpane below her. She quivered like a struck harp string as he kissed his way down to her mound.

She felt his fingers gently part the petals of her sex; he chuckled darkly, and Atirangi knew it was because he had felt and seen how wet she had become. She trembled, feeling more vulnerable and out-of-control than ever in her life.

When the tip of his tongue caressed her swollen clit, she gave a hoarse cry, just short of a scream. The sensation jolted through her body like high current and she felt the last shreds of her resistance fall away. Abelt chose to show her no mercy; he furled his tongue hotly against the center of her pleasure, and it was only seconds before she shuddered and screamed her way to a violent climax. Even then, it did not end; he continued to wring pleasure from her body, over and over again. When she felt him slide two of his fingers inside her, she ground down upon his hand, wanting them deeper, wanting even more of the maddening sensation he brought to her.

When he let up at last, she was too weak to move, too overcome by the fire in her belly to do more than gasp, gazing at a man she now knew to be utterly her master. Abelt moved up between her legs, his violet eyes fixed upon her. She could not look away, even as she felt the head of that huge shaft part the lips of her sex and bear in.

There was little pain; some dim recess of her mind registered surprise. There was only the sensation of being filled… impaled… and wanting more. Her hips lifted from the bed, inviting him deeper, and he was all too glad to oblige. Atirangi let go completely, allowing him to take control.

The dance of their passion started at a slow and almost leisurely pace. She twined first her arms and then her legs about him, and he thrust faster, harder. Atirangi realized he was as overcome as she, and it made her that much more eager for more of what was happening to her. Another violent climax wracked through her body, and she gave another wild cry, digging her nails into his shoulders. The sting of pain seemed to only goad him further; the sound of flesh upon flesh became even more savage as he pounded into her in a primal frenzy.

Atirangi had no sense of the passage of time; she was dimly aware of blacking out at one point, her senses overloaded by pleasure. When she returned to herself, it was still happening; she was too weak, though, to be anything other than a vessel for his pleasure and her own. Her body shuddered with the jackhammer blows of his manhood, a broken doll. She felt him tense, and then he roared. Moist heat filled her, and the sting of his teeth meeting in the flesh of her shoulder made her shudder and scream. The pain blended into the pleasure; all she could do was take it and feel.

Abelt turned his head, kissing the side of her neck; at last, it had ended. Weakly, Atirangi threaded her fingers through his tousled golden hair. The weight of him on top of her, the feel of him still inside her caused a shiver to thrill through her body. He slid to the side, slipping out of her; Atirangi gasped at the sudden lack of fullness within her. He drew her gently but possessively close, and this time, she was willingly his prisoner. She rested her head against his shoulder, and one hand caressed his chest, savoring the strange smoothness of his skin.

"How do you feel?" Abelt asked softly.

"Different," she answered. "Dizzy. I thought the first time was supposed to hurt."

"It doesn’t for everyone." He pressed a gentle kiss to her brow. "Of course, my back and your shoulder got a little messy. Good thing the Picoserum doesn't allow such things to remain long enough to be an irritant. I'm sorry I bit you so hard."

"I kind of liked it." Atirangi giggled weakly. "We were loud. I bet the entire palace knows."

"Servants do carry tales, it is true. But have no shame in what we are to each other, my Chosen."

"I'm more worried about the band," she sighed. "I’m going to catch so much bullshit."

"I think you can deal with it, if you do. I've borne the edge of your tongue many times, you know." He chuckled softly and drew her a bit closer.

"I'm sorry I’ve been a bitch to you, but I have to be honest. I still don't know how I feel about all this… about you. I enjoyed what we did, but I don't know if I can say I love you."

"You will know your feelings in due time, Ati." He turned her chin up and looked into her eyes. "Remember the tree? I will be there to catch you if you fall for me. And I will never let go."

She gazed back at him for a long moment, and then lifted her lips to his, pressing a kiss for the first time. The taste of him and the feel of his lips was a sensual pleasure, one which she knew she would often relish.

"Sleep, my love," he whispered, when their lips parted.

She gave way to her exhaustion and allowed herself to rest in his arms as sleep claimed her.

The sun's vicious blue-white light, beat down upon her head and arms. She was running, running through the familiar/unfamiliar alien vegetation with the knowledge that she was fleeing some dire pursuer, a fate to which death would be preferable. Her feet were bare, and the ground was searing hot, yet she dared not slacken her pace. She ran like a hunted animal, too afraid to so much as look over her shoulder at whatever was in pursuit. Her bruised and battered body told her that for all her height and physical strength, she could not prevail against whatever wished to prey upon her. She had been forced into this headlong flight across a span of stony beach, heading for the treeline of the alien jungle. She crashed into the underbrush—and realized she had made a terrible mistake. As though they were snares, the vines entangled her limbs, and she fell hard, striking her shoulder on a rock, and tearing her flesh on daggerlike thorns. A pair of hands, steel-strong and blue-skinned, seized her by the wrists. The hands belonged to a tall Gamilan with golden hair and eyes of violet; he drew her into his arms and then pulled his sidearm, firing at Atirangi's pursuer. She saw, then, what truly pursued her, the demon that had sought to batten upon her flesh.

It was her mother, cadaverous and corrupt, as she had been the day Atirangi had slain her.

She watched as the blaster bolt caused her mother to collapse, her body caving in upon itself, leaving only a slick stain of filth upon the forest floor.

Atirangi sat bolt upright as the dream ended. This time, instead of a cold sweat, it brought ironic laughter. Remembering where she was, she fought to stifle it, not wanting to wake Abelt, but it was already too late. He was leaning up on one elbow, looking at her with bewildered eyes. The expression on his face caused her to laugh even harder.

"I really, really wish to know what is so amusing," he said.

"The dream… I know the end now, and it's come true," she managed, and then dissolved again into helpless mirth.

Abelt grabbed her, pinning her shoulders to the bed. "Tell me, Ati!"

Atirangi managed to break free of her giggle-fit; slipping her arms around her lover, she at last told him of the white sun, the chase and, at last, his rescue of her. When she had finished, his eyes were wide with admiration.

"I knew you were dreaming precognitively," he said softly.

"Woojoo powers." And Ati began to laugh, all over again. "I really do have woojoo powers! Wait till I tell Susumu. " Her eyes grew wide. "Oh, shit. I have more than just that to tell him."

"Yes… yes, you do," Abelt said, chuckling. "And now that you've awakened me with your silliness, you'll have to find a way to get me back to sleep again." One hand caressed her cheek, trailing down along her neck, to at last cup a breast.

Atirangi reached up to kiss him, and the night grew sweet once again.