“Solid propellant reserves nominal, no degradation.

“Liquid oxygen reserves nominal, no degradation.

“Liquid hydrogen reserves nominal, no degradation.

“Nutrient reserves nominal, no degradation.

“Wisdom integration complete.

“Running diagnostics on SPELs… all registered sequencing templates viable. Telomeres intact.

“Running diagnostics on shuttle structural integrity… nominal.

“Recommend commencing Operation Silver Suns. Standing by for confirmation via radio integration only.

“Request received to roll-call critical SPELs. Comms integration, oxygen generation, photosynthesis, vacuum endurance, cling-vines, ocular lensing, fins, internal and external spatial manipulators, water recycling, engine control explicitly confirmed nominal. Recommend commencing Operation Silver Suns. Standing by for confirmation via radio integration only.

“Confirmation received. Commencing Operation Silver Suns in five… four… three… two… one…

“Lift-off.”

—Auditory record of non-Synaptic transmission (undated Last Era, unknown source) in Last Era city of Strathlic, unearthed 1885 CE

----

Thorssel Palace of Governance

Rising Blooming 28, 1885 CE

“I dreamed her again tonight, my darling.” Oralie had never looked more wan, nor the flesh of her face more tightly drawn. The silken blue covers of the bed, rich and vibrant, contrasted horribly with the pale shade of her visage. The treatments for her cancer were wreaking a horrible toll; Dorsin had held her gently all through the night as they slept, for she was becoming porcelain. “She is in great pain. She needs us.”

“Hush, Oralie. Do not overexert yourself,” Dorsin whispered.

“I’ve rested enough.” She threw off the covers and climbed out of Dorsin’s arms, out of the bed. Who was this skeletal creature who had replaced his wife?

“I am frightened, Oralie,” Dorsin said.

The bed creaked and she groaned as she sat. Her hand slipped into his. “We can do this, darling. You can.”

“Rosabella knew the dangers.” Even as he said it, Dorsin cursed himself for the coldness of it.

“And now she’s given us the answer. So let’s not dally.”

“What did she say?”

“What do you mean?”

“Last night, when you dreamt her, what did she say? Was there any news?”

“No news. Only that she doesn’t think she can handle it any longer. She’s in so much pain, Dorsin. We have to move.”

Dorsin squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know if we did the right thing in allowing the Generosi to come here, Oralie. I still have my health, but with them here, I cannot count on keeping it.”

“There’s no time for that now. If we don’t do something, we’re all dead anyway. Please, Dorsin.” The request was so heartfelt that Dorsin could find no way to argue with it. He nodded and climbed out of bed.

Piotr was waiting outside their chamber after they had dressed. “Princeps Gerart has arrived,” he rumbled.

Oralie patted Dorsin’s hand. “I’m not so sick I can’t see to the Dux’s business.”

Dorsin planted a gentle kiss on Oralie’s cheek. “Go on. Get the servants started on breakfast. I will begin the briefing. Afterward, let’s sit on the veranda a while.” Dorsin gestured toward the balcony. “And talk of… anything else.”

Oralie’s smile was a candle shining in the darkness of his spirit despite her pain.

When Dorsin entered the briefing chamber, the Princeps and several of the other Duxes were already waiting for him. The sight of his father lying on a gurney churned Dorsin’s stomach. Gerart had grown scales on his face; tiny horned spikes stuck up through the cracks in his skin. His man Markos stood over him, dabbing at the broken flesh with a handkerchief. Ductrix Lenaa was blinking away constant tears of blood, and in place of hands, Dux Viklas had grown pincers.

The family was falling apart.

“Ah. Join us, Dorsin.”

“I am sorry I was not here to greet you, Father, honored family.”

The Princeps waved a hand. “I am your guest. I would never expect a host to wake up in the night to receive me.” He coughed wetly.

“If it please you, Princeps,” Markos said, “I will go to the kitchen. Perhaps some coffee will make you feel better.”

“If I can get it down. Yes. Go, Markos. Dorsin, come in. Tell us what you have found.”

“You already know most of it, father, brothers and sisters.” Dorsin drew up the membrane screen. “Tool, display Nxtlu data decrypted Rising Blooming 24.” Red and blue veins formed into the image of a virus. “It seems Nxtlu has been hard at work on gengineering the genophage. As we are all living proof.”

“Except for you, Dorsin,” Lenaa said, grinning wanly.

“After today, in such close quarters with the rest of you, I will probably be as well.”

Gerart cleared his throat.

“Yes, Princeps?” Dorsin asked.

“Nothing. Go on.”

Dorsin glanced around the room. Something niggled at the back of his mind. “Where is Dux Pryan?”

“I was unable to raise him,” Gerart said. “His household said that he was attending to external matters, but he has not yet responded to my messages. He may already have been taken.”

Pryan as well, then. Dorsin nodded and turned back to the image. “Then for the sake of his memory, and Alvarin’s —” they had word that Dorsin’s nephew, Comes Alvarin, had already passed “— and for ourselves, let us speak swiftly. The variant of the genophage on which Gens Nxtlu has been working is quite different from the endemic version. Look around the room. Almost all of us are showing symptoms of chimerization. What are the chances that we all suffered from a failed chimerization struggle in the past few weeks?”

“My SOPHIOS has been as quiet as my dead children,” Lenaa said. Several of the others murmured assent.

“And yet you are suffering from uncontrolled stigmata. This is the first difference between the two: the endemic genophage is related to standard Chimera Syndrome due to improper activation of STIGMOS, while Nxtlu’s designer virus bypasses the STIGMOS entirely. We are all Bonded to a SOPHIOS, so we are all being Chimerized, regardless of how responsibly we activate our STIGMOS.”

“And my dead children,” Lenaa repeated, more forcefully.

“Begging your pardon?”

“Ulric and Fritz. They were unBonded. They died quickly.”

Dorsin’s head reeled. “I am so sorry, Lenaa. I had not heard.”

“We are all dying, Dorsin. I wouldn’t have expected you to track all of the passings. I will kill whoever did this to my boys, but we ought to understand what their deaths mean,” Lenaa said.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

“Yes. Of course. Ulric and Fritz were not yet Bonded.”

“No.”

Dorsin pressed his lips together. “And of course, you had not performed direct genemods on them.”

“Of course not.”

If those boys were unBonded and still contracted the disease, that meant that this version of the genophage could travel up and down bloodlines to infect victims who had no Symbionts at all. It was a horrifying thought.

“Ulric and Fritz were pure.” Dorsin looked at Lenaa. “They, nor their parents, nor their parents’ parents, ever received direct genemods. The endemic variant only attacks unBonded individuals through the altered metagenes that allow or disallow direct modification. If no direct genemods have been performed within several generations, diversity has not been removed from those genes, and an unBonded individual is safe. With the designer variant, however—”

“It attacks without regard to direct mods,” Gerart said. “And without respect to having a Symbiont, as well.”

“Yes, Father. Since the genophage infects through attacking common genes, there is only one explanation. This illness must be striking at our genes directly.”

“Our family’s common genes,” Gerart mused, then coughed wetly.

Dorsin growled, clenched his fists, released the grip and composed himself. “Precisely. Nxtlu’s genophage is targeted to our family. It must be that at some point or another, they reached a certain critical mass of genetic information on us, allowing them to assault solely Gens Nethress. Anyone who doesn’t share our bloodlines should be safe — the Magi from Chimerization, the unBonded from painful death. We, however…

“Well. It is tailored for our blood. Like the endemic variety, it is an airborne pathogen, but Nxtlu’s phage fabs are not perfect. The pathogen denatures outside the body within fifteen minutes. Transmission must be fairly direct. That being said, we are likely all infected, and we have likely infected our families—”

“And they have infected the people they come into contact with,” Lenaa said.

“One sneeze could be sufficient,” Dorsin agreed. “We have no way of knowing whether— ah. No, thank you, Markos. I am not thirsty. You found the kitchens to your satisfaction?”

“I did, thank you, Erus. If I may be so bold to say so, you have a lovely wife. Coffee, my Eri?” Markos asked, proceeding around the room.

“Thank you. As I was saying, we have no way of knowing how far the latent infection has spread.”

“Why does it matter?” Viklas asked groggily. “We’re all dying anyway.”

“It matters because there is a cure for the genophage.” Dorsin held up a hand to halt the murmuring. “I have it on excellent authority that within the Last Era Libraratory underneath Acerbia, there exists a sterilizing agent.”

“What authority?” Gerart asked. “Why was I not informed of this?”

Because if I told you that Oralie is somehow capable of sharing Synapsis with Ambassatrix Rosabella — even when both dear women are in torments — you would think me mad. Dorsin replied, “Excellent authority, as I say, which only informed me of this twenty-four hours ago. I do not have details on the sterilizing agent, except that it is an aerosol, and there is no guarantee as to its permanency, but we have an objective. If this information is correct, and I have every reason to believe that it is, we may be able to temporarily sterilize whole swathes of land.” Dorsin paused. “Whole swathes of our family tree, as well.”

“Silver desert,” Viklas moaned.

“Excuse me?”

“So thirsty…”

“Markos, water for my brother, please. Now tell me, brothers and sisters: are we agreed?”

“I must see this authority, Dorsin,” Gerart said. “I cannot agree to this—”

“Father, with all due respect, some hope is better than none.”

“We don’t know,” Viklas said, his face buried in his pincers. The water sat untouched beside him. “Maybe the fevers will break.”

“Alvarin begs to differ.” Dorsin raised a hand apologetically. “With your pardon, honored family, but it needed to be said.”

“Let us assume, Dorsin,” Gerart said, “that you are correct. Perhaps we can assault Acerbia. Perhaps we can retake it, and do so before we all succumb to Chimerization or death, according to our Bondings. But you said the boy was the only way in, and he is lost to us.”

“Not lost. My source informs me that he was released, though his whereabouts are unknown. And there are other options. His sisters, for example—”

The door to the room slammed open. “No. If you want to go, you take me.”

All eyes turned toward the interloper. Tvorh stood in the doorway, flanked by Senrii and Ferghall. A silk bandanna covered his eyes.

“The boy returns,” Dorsin murmured. “Tvorh, we are glad you escaped.”

Markos’s eyes flicked in Tvorh’s direction.

“This is the boy?” Gerart asked. “Wonderful news, even without manners. Dorsin, I assume his presence is a surprise to you as well? Markos, get the boy something to drink.”

The room exploded suddenly into chaos.

“Markos! That’s him,” Tvorh shouted, his voice so loud it stunned Dorsin.

Senrii’s and Ferghall’s eyes snapped to the servant. “Get down!” she screamed.

Gunshots rang out. Bone bullets struck the doorframe. Markos, his face white with fear, pistol in hand, stumbled madly toward the exit.

Blind though he was, Tvorh somehow managed to charge directly into Markos and carry him to the floor.

The Generosi who could stand shoved out of their seats. “What is going on here?” Gerart bellowed from his stretcher.

As Tvorh sat on Markos’s chest and pummeled him, the man brought his holdout pistol about —

With a snarl, Tvorh pulled a knife from its sheath on his hip and plunged its blade into Markos’s throat. The man gagged; blood bubbled up between his lips, and then he fell still.

Adrenaline pulsed through Dorsin’s body. For a long moment, nobody said a word.

“Tvorh found your mole, dad,” Senrii said at last, nodding toward the dead servant. Tension hung in the air like an ever-falling feather.

After a long moment, Gerart said, “Well. It seems as though matters have just become more complicated. Out, everyone, please. Not you, Dorsin. I wish to speak with you. We will reconvene at a later date. Piotr, is it?”

“Yes, Erus,” the ebony giant said.

“Please remove the body of the traitor and debrief the boy.” His face became grimmer, if that was possible. “I assume there will be a compelling explanation. For all of this.”

“At once, Erus.”

The room emptied as swiftly as the handservants could manage their ill lords. When only he and Dorsin were alone, Gerart cleared his throat. “Markos. My own man.”

“It seems so, Father.”

“What a waste. How long, traitor? How long had you been betraying me? I ought to have been wiser, Dorsin.”

“You had no way of knowing.”

Gerart coughed wetly. “A Princeps should always know. Well. What is done is done.”

“You wished to speak to me, Father?”

“Yes. Come here, Dorsin. You were always a good son.”

Dorsin ran a hair into his hair and squeezed at his scalp. “Not as good as I should have been, Father. I brought ruin on our family through my indiscretions.”

“You were far better than I deserved.”

“Do not say such things, Father.” Dorsin chanced taking Gerart’s hand.

“It is true. What bravery you have shown in battle. What intrepidity in the face of death. I have always been proud of you, my son. And yet I forced from you the woman you would have had, and insisted you take another.”

“I love Oralie as I love myself, Father.”

Gerart’s chuckle was as weak as a newborn kitten. “You do not need to prove your devotion to the General Principles to me, Dorsin.”

“I do not love her because of the General Principles. I love her because I could not have done otherwise. Father, Oralie is everything to me.”

“Nonetheless, I ought to have let you make your own decision. I owed you that much. Listen to me, Dorsin. Hear me well.” Gerart crooked a finger toward himself, and Dorsin leaned in. “If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, then do so.”

“Forgive, Father? For what?”

“You are immune to the genophage, Dorsin.”

Dorsin’s heart stopped beating for a moment. At last he found his voice. “What do you mean?”

“You are not of my blood.”

Dorsin reeled back to the table.

Gerart continued, “Your mother was a Generosus lady, but she was not my wife, nor even my lover. Her husband had died—”

“You met her in the Seastake Wars,” Dorsin protested. Had the genophage addled his Father’s mind as well as his body?

“Yes, but she was pregnant already. With you, my boy. I am sorry. I should have told you. I only knew her for a short time, but she was… important to me. When it became clear that the pregnancy’s complications were mortal, I made her a promise. I added you to the bloodline rolls, but there were always some…” Gerart smiled; it was a ghastly gesture, with a mouth too large and teeth too sharp. “Yes, complications all around.”

Like a child slowly coming together over nine months in the womb, the pieces began to come together. “This is why our Tools so often reject me? I am not your flesh and blood? This is why it took me six intervals to accept the SOPHIOS?”

“I am sorry. Truly sorry. You have never been of my blood, but you have been the truest son a father could hope for.”

“Then I am immune.” Dorsin sat back into a chair and stared up at the ceiling. “I am immune. Senrii is immune. My children are safe.”

“Yes, and you’ll be the only one lucid enough to lead the assault on Acerbia.”

“The assault? Then—”

“Of course. The city is ours by right; the cure is ours by need. Did you ever doubt that I would agree to it? Give word to the others. Gather your bondsmen. Prepare for war. We sail for the futures of our family.”

Safe. Dorsin’s wife, daughter, sons, all safe. This was more than he could have asked for. Even losing the father he had always known was a tiny thing beside the health of his family. “All the darkness in the world cannot snuff a single candle,” he murmured.

Gerart, for his part, was murmuring to himself in between his coughs. “The treacherous cur probably put it in the coffee in Lellonell. It’s the only explanation.”

Coffee.

Markos.

Kitchens.

You have a lovely wife…

Dorsin leapt from his seat and flew from the room, sprinting down the hallways of the palace.

“Is she in there?” he shouted to the guards at the chamber door. “Did she come back from the kitchens?”

“Yes, Dux —” one of the guards began.

Dorsin flew past him, bursting into his bedchamber. The balcony doors were open.

A shattered coffee cup lay on the floor next to a chair, fallen from the armrest where Oralie’s limp hand hung slack.