It was days before Tyver realized something strange: he hadn't run away. He'd always run before his change. From his parents when they scolded him, from the gangs, from those he robbed to feed the family, everyone and everything that might have hurt him, he fled. These three, though, for them he stayed.

Perhaps it was Gael's leadership that did it. It was quirky and often disjointed, but mindful as well, a quiet patience and understanding completely at odds with the gang lords of Tyver’s childhood. Wynn, for all their high spire graces, was another thing altogether from what he would have expected. Equally kind and direct, truly devoted to all of them and to their wellbeing. Even Naomi, for all her insistent training, had a childlike joy for her friends and the world that was impossible to fault.

For the first time in weeks, Tyver wasn't lonely.

"Funny. Haven't thought t'run from'y, I," he observed to Gael as they scanned the river. "Not once."

Gael regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then turned back to the water. "You must be happy, then. Father said he obviously made Mother very happy, or she would have left for someone handsome."

"Y'father talkin' y'stories most," Tyver said. "Why not y'mother?"

"Mother said talking scared the fish."

"Think y'mother wish't y'father shush't up, I."

"Yes," Gael said, then pointed. "There. Remember: just below the fish, not right at it."

"See him I." Tyver raised his spear slowly, adjusted his grip, and threw.

"You're better at this than I am," Gael said, walking forward and using his knife to quiet their breakfast.

Tyver shook his head. "Throw, maybe. Patience, not so much. Fair?"

"Have you two caught anything yet?" Naomi called from the shore. "You promised me something fresh and we've a long way to go today."

"Fair," Gael nodded with a grin. "Patience isn't for everyone. Tyver caught a fish!" he called back, hoisting it in the air "Almost a whale."

Tyver laughed and they both stepped up the shore. Gael took out his knife and, with alarming speed, reduced the fish to a few sections of meat. "A pity there's all this left," he said as he threw the leavings back in the river. “I’m sure there’s something we could do with it.”

"Fins and bones hardly counts as all this, Gael" Wynn said, taking the fish. He'd dug a hole, laid down a square of metweave inside it and dropped water, some herbs and a few heated stones into the improvised pot. He added the fish and a few more stones from the fire, stirring idly. "I've been thinking. Are we sure we want to do this?"

"Father said that eventually all things come to the shore. We've a year to face with them. Better we do it now before things have a chance to change for the worse. We all remember how the seasons change here, and when it comes we’ll be wanting shelter."

They were discussing Tyver’s report on their fellow initiates. Nine of them had banded together to make a rough camp on the far side of the river, several miles deep in the forest. Tyver had had brief dealings with this group and their leader, a hulking bully of a boy named Ezek. As he’d stolen Ezek’s backpack and knife at the end of those dealings, Tyver wasn’t keen to go back and try making nice.

However, the second, smaller group had a bunker.

It was old, possibly even older than the trials. Of their own little group only Naomi had memories of being inside. It had been only a brief look inside, but she recalled a huge, empty shell of a place little better than a cave, the door frozen open from disuse. Things had been living in there at the time, things best left undisturbed. Now, though, it seemed someone had been able to get the door working again: Tyver had seen the heavy thing swinging open when one of the occupants had knocked.

Tyver hadn’t tried to go inside himself, but knew the land well enough to find it again without running into trouble. The bunker was built at the end of an open field flat enough that it may have been tended ground in the past. While the occupants hadn’t taken up farming as yet they’d showed signs of making themselves comfortable for the long haul, clearing out the other tenants and setting stores for the winter.

For better or worse Tyver had been sneaking around Ezek’s camp for a while, mostly to steal food but also listening. He’d heard enough to know that Ezek and his fellows wanted the bunker for themselves and had limited views on sharing. They intended to wait for the lion’s share of the work to finish, then push the smaller group out. Tyver had been considering warning the smaller band when he’d stumbled across Gael’s group. The appropriate course seemed obvious to him, and both Gael and Naomi agreed. Wynn, though, was less certain.

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“I’m with you, all of you, on this. You know that. However, I have concerns. We all have lifetimes of memories on this world. We all remember struggling, fighting, dying. Perhaps I’m seeing something the rest of you aren’t, perhaps not, but what the recall is showing me is that the most dangerous thing to us at this point is another group with different priorities. This Ezek is a brute by Tyver’s account, placing value on life only so far as it profits him. How do we know the bunker bunch is any different?”

Naomi and Tyver chuckled at ‘bunker bunch.’ Wynn smiled begrudgingly, but pressed on. “Gael, you talk of openness and trust on the sea, but we’re not on the sea now. If we must approach them, I say we send an emissary rather than going all at once. I volunteer. If I come back, they can be trusted. If not…” they shrugged. “The three of you will still be safe, at least.”

“I.” Tyver countered. “Spent time with gangs, I. Buyin’ passage’r food f’kid sis, runnin’ grabs, trackin’ cops.” He gestured at the goods he’d stolen from Ezek’s gang. “Food, spare rope, metweave. Take one bag, promise more plus three pairs’a hands beside. Buy us in easy, fair?”

Gael shook his head. “Father said that a lonely little fish gets eaten, but lots of little fish protect each other. I say we all go. If they want trouble and we send one, that one might not come back. I know you’d take the risk for us, but even willing it doesn’t feel right. The two of you can negotiate, Naomi and I watch for trouble. Four is more trouble than one. Fair?”

Tyver shrugged. “Sure, but we hide t’goods first. Can promise t’fetch f’deal. Like what I did, fair?”

“That went so well, after all.” Naomi said. “Still, it’s a good point. Wynn, we’re in this together. I don’t want you going alone. I don’t even want Tyver going alone. I say we all go, but stash our buy-in first like the little thief suggests.”

“He is part of the family now,” Wynn said reproachfully. “He caught you your breakfast. You could stand to be a little nicer.”

“No, fair.” Tyver was grinning evilly at her. “A sneakin’ thief, I. Good Martyr material: sneakin’ enemy lines, sneakin’ intel, sneakin’ sneakin’ sneakin’. Wish y'was sneakin’ like I..." He paused, making an effort to be clear. "Noisy ship mouse, you.”

Naomi didn’t dignify that with a response. Gael, however, was nodding sagely. “He’s not wrong: you could stand to be a little quieter. I know space does funny things to a body, but you step on an unusual amount of sticks.”

“It’s decided, then?” She said grumpily. “The four of us, sans gear?"

“I suppose we are,” Wynn said. “Let’s pack up and get to sneakin’.”

It was getting dark by the time they reached the bunker. They could make out the shape of the door set into the concrete, walls sweeping out beside it like stubby wings. There were a pair of sentries standing above the door, watching like hawks. At least, that’s what Tyver had reported seeing when he’d been here: the brush had grown in thick on the building's roof, soil building for so long the place looked like a small hill from anywhere but the front. Any number of people might have been hiding on the top. Wynn glanced at Gael and nodded before stepping from the tree line, hands raised. “Hello the camp!” they said.

Nothing happened.

Tyver stepped forward, waving an arm to where he thought the sentries might be hiding. “Oi, lookouts! Knowin’ y’there. Want t’talk is all. Trade!”

Seconds passed and the four of them eyed the bunker and fought not to fidget in the suddenly eerie quiet of the night. Without looking away, Gael drew his knife. “Tyver. Wynn.” he said quietly. “Circle around, see if you can find them. Naomi and I will make straight for the door. Be careful, be ready to run. We’ll meet back at the bags if we’re separated.”

The two of them vanished. Naomi stepped to his side, knife drawn. “Ezek, you think?”

“Father said only a fool pulls the trap in early, and this is far too early. Tyver said they always had lookouts, yes?”

“Yes, always two.” They started forward, moving with all the assurance the recall could give them.

“All clear, Gael.” Tyver called a few moments later. He sprang up from the rooftop bushes, his face pale.

“Damn, but he’s fast.” Naomi swore softly, her eyes not moving from the door. “Did you hear him make any noise?”

Gael ignored her, turning. “What’s wrong, Tyver?”

“Dead, Gael. Only lookout, dead.” Tyver swallowed. “More than dead, truth. Et. Don’t know what by.”

“Et? What’s that mean?”

Wynn pushed through the bushes with a rattle of leaves and paced out along the concrete wing, crouching at the end with all their usual reserve shaken away. “Eaten, Naomi. Something ate her. I… I can’t remember what could have done this. Can't imagine it. The two of you need to look, please. Maybe you’ll know. We’ll watch the door.”

They exchanged a look and went to climb the bunker's side. Tyver kept an eye on them as they climbed, then pointed a pale finger.

He hadn’t needed to: they could smell the body by then.

There were dangerous creatures on the planet, they knew. Most had been evacuated from old Earth-That-Was, some not. Big cats, wolves, great lizards armed with poison and cold patience, great armored herbivores that would sooner kill than bear to look at you. None of them could have done this.

The bushes were trampled flat around her remains, the patterns of many small and varied feet showing where smaller animals had come for the leavings. Despite the attention she’d been paid they could clearly see how she’d died. Large and yet delicate punctures were visible on her chest, deep and dark. Blood had flowed in a torrent from the wounds.

“She must have died in moments,” Gael said, going to a knee and reaching for her shoulder.

“Gael, what are you doing?!” Naomi hissed.

“I need to see,” he said simply, gently pulling the shirt along the body’s shoulder. Evidently he found what he was looking for, because he nodded and deftly turned the body over.

A pair of matching wounds were on her back.

“We need to get inside,” he said, rising in a crouch and looking everywhere with a sudden look of worry.

“Do you know what did this?” Naomi asked.

“Not yet,” he answered, beckoning. “We need to move, come on.”

That was all the warning she had.