> War is a construct of sacrifice. Whether it is men, materiel, land or resources, loss and gain define the motions of war. Economics is a helpful guide, here; at its most primitive it is easy to understand that one should secure a positive return on investment in order to progress in war.
>
> It is so apt as to hardly be a metaphor at all, but many struggle with the notion of evaluating the worth of human life in such cold terms. How many lives is land worth? How many of each hundred should die to secure comfort and security for the remainder?
>
> The answer, as with many things, is found in the truth of one’s own self. Ask what would entice you to trade your own life, sacrifice your dignity, send you crawling through mud and rust until you are left as a bloody ruin.
>
> The men who never find their answer inevitably die upon the swords of those who do.
- Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687
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The scent of smoke woke Michael abruptly; he was lying on his back, face up to the gently-waving boughs of the orchard. A dark plume rose from a handful of trees wreathed in flame on the other side of the grove. He levered himself groggily into a sitting position to take it in, looking around.
“You’ve got a problem,” Jeorg said from behind him.
Michael turned to look at the old man. He was staring at the fire, his face set in a grim frown. “I think you’re right,” Michael grunted, forcing himself to his feet. “I’m not sure what-” He paused, his sluggish mind flashing with memory. He had been in Luc’s tent about his wounded hip when he had felt…
“Ghar’s bones,” he murmured. “It was another soul.” He pressed his hands to his face, leaning heavily against the nearest tree and wishing fervently to be anywhere else; the orchard remained stubbornly around him even so. “Oh, Ghar’s bloody ashes. Who was it?” A pang of alarm made him drop his hands, his heart speeding as he looked wide-eyed at Jeorg. “Leire? Is Stellar causing this?”
Jeorg shook his head. “Souls wouldn’t harm you,” he said. “Harm others, yes, but never you. This is the other thing you took. Low souls, she called them.” He shook his head. “Not an ideal term. They aren’t lesser, only different. More human. They hold things that were never meant to endure past death. Memory, desire, love.” He looked back at the fire. “Animosity.”
Michael frowned, his eyes narrowing. “I thought you only knew what I know,” he said. “But I’m pretty sure I didn’t know any of that.”
“Didn’t you?” Jeorg asked, his lips curving into a low smile. “Perhaps you don’t know what you know.”
“Don’t know what I-” Michael turned away in exasperation. “This is not an ideal time for cryptic repartée, Jeorg. Something is on fire, and I think it’s me.”
“That’s the problem,” Jeorg said. “It’s not quite you yet. Oil and water.” He held up a hand to forestall Michael’s indignant reply. “The low soul you took can’t be reconciled. It feels, it remembers - it hates.” Jeorg nodded significantly towards Michael. “And it hates you. It has made itself anathema to all that you are, and will not be yours.”
Michael frowned, turning towards the fire. Hatred did not sound like Leire’s soul. Sofia, perhaps, but his mind rejected the idea as soon as it entered his head. This flame did not feel like Sofia; for all that he was gaining a better sense of it it felt foreign, unfamiliar, a near-stranger. All he could pick out was the sense of loss and injured pride, wounded but still standing upright, adamant, never flagging-
Realization washed over Michael, bending the world towards the white-hot inferno at the far end of the orchard. He turned to stare at the fire and saw it for what it was. “Galen,” Michael breathed. “But how? He was a captive.”
Jeorg shrugged. “I know what you know.”
“Do I know what to do about this?” Michael shot back, irritation coloring his voice. “Damn it, Jeorg - are you here to help me or not?”
“I am helping,” Jeorg grunted. “Can’t decide for you.” He looked up as the fire spread to another tree. “You already know what you need to fix. The conflict is harming you.”
Michael’s brow furrowed. “That much seems obvious,” he muttered. “But I’m still not sure how to go about resolving it. If I could make Galen stop hating me, I would have done it rather than fighting him.”
“Lie.” Jeorg turned and raised an eyebrow. “You always had the option to take away his hate.”
Ice threaded into Michael’s gut. “That’s no option at all,” he said. “If I crossed that line with my soul, it would make me no better than Spark.”
“Never just one line,” Jeorg said. “You won’t meddle with the minds of others; very well.” He pointed at the fire. “You’ve claimed that for yourself already. It is you, or would be. You’ve used your soul to heal your own mind before.”
The chill intensified; Michael felt ill. “You’re saying Spark can change the low soul.”
“Two halves of a whole,” Jeorg said, waggling his hand. “Stanza and Spark. Each asserts your mind outside of its boundaries. They share many paired aspects, but the most important is this: Stanza guides the paths of the material; Spark guides the mental.” He made a face. “Conscious. Conceptual.” He shook his head annoyedly. “Words are limiting. This thing, this fire burning here, is made of precisely the material that Spark exists to change.”
“It feels wrong,” Michael murmured. “To change Galen, even in death. He was a person, he came to his hatred honestly. For all that you say this thing he’s left behind is mine now, to change it feels like making a mockery of him.” He raised his head, meeting Jeorg’s eyes. “I would rather destroy it.”
Jeorg raised an eyebrow. “You would choose oblivion for him?”
“It’s what I chose for myself,” Michael shrugged. “When faced with the prospect of an intolerable existence. I would have striven harder still for it if the alternative was a life where I was forced to love my father.” He shook his head, a small smile pulling at his lips. “Another man I’d prefer not to become. No, Galen does not want me - and I don’t want him. Can it be done?”
For a long moment Jeorg did not answer; the old man took his cap off to run his fingers through his hair. There was an odd verisimilitude to the gesture and the thoughtful frown he wore. It struck Michael with uncommon force, and for a moment he almost believed he was standing across from Jeorg in truth.
Jeorg sighed, and the moment passed. “It is possible,” he said. “Oblivion is the natural fate of a low soul. Thousands die daily; none of theirs persist.” He gave Michael an unreadable look. “This one was denied the void because of your decision. It can probably return to it the same way.”
Michael gave him a flat look. “Probably?”
“Probably,” Jeorg said. “I told you before, there is no precedent for what you’ve done. Price for stepping in fresh snow is that you don’t know its depth.” He shrugged. “Only one way to know.”
The fire flared bright; Michael staggered with sudden lightheadedness. “Fine,” he said, steadying himself with the aid of a nearby tree. “Fine. Not like I’m spoiled for choice.”
He took a deep breath, then looked at the flame. It was oddly uncomfortable, brighter in his eyes than it should have been. Slowly, Michael walked closer. He felt its heat on his face, smelled the scent of burning hair.
With it came the sense of a man he barely knew, save for a few chance interactions. Galen had been serious, dutiful, with a soldier’s heart long before he enlisted. His soul had come in battle. Scattered impressions came of a tall Safid laying waste to an Ardan battalion, his punches falling with the force of meteors, his skin impervious to harm.
Then Friedrich took the field, and the man fell.
In Galen’s memory Friedrich’s face was not much older than Michael’s. He saw it contort with the exultation of battle before everything faded to light; from then on, Galen walked in Friedrich’s footsteps. It was a bloody and chaotic path, seldom at rest for long.
Michael found himself interested, despite himself; here was a view of Friedrich that few men had enjoyed. It was not especially revelatory, for if any man lived his truth openly it was Friedrich Kolbe. Colored with Galen’s thoughts, however, a dimension of depth was added.
In his mind Friedrich was closer to a force of nature than a man, a storm that raged unceasingly as it built in strength. There was a purity to his life that drew Galen onward, mystified and intrigued him - and then at once shattered, as Friedrich came back a moaning wreck from his battle at the northern front.
Michael winced as the flame flared brighter. It seized upon the image of Friedrich lying broken, becoming a towering pillar of fire; in Galen’s thoughts Michael saw himself. He barely recognized his face in the shaded, sharp-angled visage, to say nothing of the cloaking dread that hung about it. Here was a man who routed armies, who called lightning from the sky.
The pain sharpened as the heat grew, and amid the fire’s agony he saw the shape of the bond between them. Michael thrust his hand into the fire, wrapping his fingers around the luminous tether.
He drew breath to speak, only to cough. Smoke filled his lungs. For a moment he succumbed to panic. The pain was too great, spiking through his mind in electric arcs. He gave a frustrated shout and raised his head, teeth bared.
“This is my mind,” he hissed. “My mind. I am not burnt.”
There was a flexing of the world around him. The pain lessened; Michael straightened up with his hand still around the bond linking him to Galen. Stanza flooded through his body, Spark glowed in pulsing rhythm from his eyes - and something more colored the power, something rich and deep as the oblivion he sought for this fitfully-burning soul.
“Bond of hatred,” Michael said. “Be destroyed.” He clenched his fist around it, feeling its resistance - then twisted, exhaling. He cast the remnants away, watching them slowly dissipate.
“Find your peace within the void.” His eyes followed the last glowing scraps as they faded; he sagged to the side, feeling the cool air on his face. Jeorg’s hand was on his shoulder. The old man smiled at him.
“See?” he said. “Easy.”
“We both know that wasn’t easy,” Michael muttered, staggering over to put his hand against a tree. “It’s gone, then?”
Jeorg nodded. “Seems that way.”
Michael let out a long, slow exhale. He let his head thunk back against the tree trunk and looked up at the sky. “What did I just do?” he asked. “Did I destroy his soul?”
“Didn’t destroy anything,” Jeorg said. “Chose to try and keep something alive, then chose to stop.”
“Damn,” Michael said, closing his eyes. “I was hoping I could destroy Spark someday.” He opened them and looked at Jeorg. “Or Stellar. Maybe more. Some souls shouldn’t exist.”
“Hmm,” Jeorg grunted. “Useless line of thought. The souls that exist, exist. Can’t be created or destroyed. If there’s anything that separates them from low souls, that’s it.”
“You say that like you know it,” Michael said, pushing off the tree to stand upright. His eyes narrowed. “But nobody knows that. Even Spark didn’t know that. So why do you know?” He took a step forward. “Who are you, really?”
Jeorg smiled and shook his head. “You just said it,” he said, sweeping his hand to take in the whole orchard. “This is your mind. Your mind making sense of itself. The land, the trees, the wind and sky.” He raised an eyebrow. “And me.”
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“My mind isn’t doing a very good job trying to make sense of you,” Michael grumbled. “That wasn’t an answer to the question.”
“You’re not missing an answer,” Jeorg said. “You have the answer. I’ve told you who I am. What’s missing is the proper question.” He leaned in close, prodding Michael in the chest with a finger; his voice dropped to a low whisper.
“Do you know who you are?”
Michael blinked, a retort at the question’s absurdity rising to his lips; before he could speak, however, Jeorg’s finger pushed, pushed against his chest. The world spun around him, dizzying and lambent. When it stilled he was against the black void, the starry river high overhead.
He sighed and looked at the soul hovering before him, solid and unchanging. Michael took a deep breath and stepped forward, reaching out as he had with Galen’s fire.
There was no response from the soul, no haze of emotion and memory that would afford him purchase. The adamant glow only burned brighter as he approached, his fingers touching the surface-
A horrid squeal of metal jolted him awake; his eyes snapped open to show Sobriquet and Luc looking down on him, their faces pale. The omnipresent fear pulsed from them in quick, staccato spikes. They were standing several paces away, and even as they calmed to see him wake they made no move to approach.
“Galen,” he slurred, trying to sit upright. His body felt strange, light and heavy all at once. “Galen died.” His hand slipped, and another ear-rending screech filled the tent.
“Yes, we had surmised as much,” Sobriquet said, pointing beside him; Michael turned his head to see his fist wrapped around what had been the metal leg of Luc’s cot. The steel was mangled, squeezing between his fingers in brutalized slivers at the strength of his grip.
He dropped it hurriedly, his heart pounding.
Sobriquet finally took a step closer, squatting next to him. “Are you okay?” she asked. “That one seemed like it was difficult.”
Michael tried to order his words for a few long moments before shaking his head. “It was,” he said. “Hard to describe. I’m still not sure I know the full extent of it.” He moved to rise from the ground; Sobriquet offered her hand.
Before he could take it, she withdrew it hastily. Michael felt something inside of him crumple at the gesture.
His face must have betrayed it, as Sobriquet winced. “Sorry,” she said. “But it’s probably best if you don’t grab anything you wouldn’t mind losing, at least until you’re more accustomed to the soul.” She mustered a small smile, flexing her fingers. “I’ve only got the one hand.”
“No, you’re right,” Michael said, rising to his feet - and nearly toppling as he came effortlessly off the floor, the effort of lifting his own weight barely noticeable. He grimaced and found his balance, wavering for a moment before he felt stable.
From his upright vantage he saw Zabala standing near the tent’s entrance. His emotions hadn’t registered, muted as they were next to Sobriquet’s intense concern and Luc’s-
Michael frowned, then softened his expression. “Luc,” he said. “It’s all right. It’s past.”
The absolute terror he had seen in Luc’s eyes shifted, but did not wane; Michael had the sense of a man bricking himself into a wall, heedless of his imminent suffocation.
“It’s not all right,” Luc rasped. “Not all right. And it’s not past.” He raised his eyes to Michael, wide and brimming with tears; his hand clenched spasmodically, clutching at empty air. “You know what’s going to happen next. In power’s wake, the world strives for balance.” His lip quavered, and he let his eyes drop down. “The War is going to get worse now.”
Sobriquet shot him an annoyed look. “Is that really our chief concern at the moment?” she said. “Let him catch his breath before you go on doomsaying.” A frown pulled at her lips, and she looked off towards the Mendiko camp. “Although he’s not wrong to say that this is far from over. Now that the moment has passed and things are calmer, I’m starting to see more clearly.”
She gestured towards him, her hand wide as if fishing for strands of spiderweb floating in the air. Her eyes were fixed on something only she could see. “There are secrets that weren’t there before,” she murmured. “And as they are attached to you, there is a remarkable clarity to them.”
Her brow furrowed, and she turned to look at Luc for a long moment - then shook her head, and looked at Michael. “Things are still shifting. We need to go to the airship, now.”
Zabala straightened up, looking at Michael. “I can go get the truck,” he said, turning to leave. There was a crispness to his steps that had been lacking throughout the day; though Zabala still bore the indistinct quiet of a man who had not completely grasped events unfolding before his eyes, something in Sobriquet’s tone had at least convinced him that this was important.
Michael grudgingly let himself accept the same truth. Sobriquet saw the weight of things; if she said it was significant, he believed her. He just didn’t want to.
“Is there still danger?” Michael asked.
Sobriquet snorted. “Silly question to ask in a war,” she sighed. “It’s all so tangled that I can barely see. I can’t rule it out.”
The noise of the truck intruded through the thin walls of the tent; Sobriquet ducked out to meet Zabala as he pulled up. Michael turned to Luc.
“Do you want to come along?” he asked.
Luc shook his head. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I don’t mean to - to doomsay, as she said.” He paused. “Your soul does this violence to you, presses you upon the world with greater force. The world cannot help but press back, and I fear it more than anything. I fear what must follow. But I - trust you, more than myself. I have for a long while, despite that selfish fear.”
Michael laid his hand on Luc’s shoulder, keeping his fingers carefully relaxed. “Spark did at least one good act in throwing us together,” he said. “Thank you for your help, earlier.”
“Anytime,” Luc said, managing a tiny smile. “Although I suppose that’s the last you’ll have need of me. You won’t need to fear bullets or shells.” His eyes shifted to the side, and his smile faded. Michael felt a pulse of fear quicken within him.
“It won’t make them stop,” he said. “They’ll just find something worse than bullets. The power will draw them to you.” He hesitated on the verge of speaking more, then shook his head. “I don’t need to tell you to be careful. You’ve already seen where the road of power ends. So - good luck.” He stepped away, meeting Michael’s eyes once more. “Don’t trust anyone who is glad to hear of this. They aren’t your friends.”
Michael nodded, struck by the unexpected gravity of Luc’s tone; it was not like the other man to speak so authoritatively, and it troubled him to find that Luc’s words rang true.
He let out his breath and turned from the tent. Zabala and Sobriquet were outside, the latter looking impatiently as Michael hopped up into the vehicle. He ascended without much incident, although as he shut the door the handle cracked and bent under his fingers.
Zabala made no comment on his destruction of military property, driving immediately towards the Mendiko encampment on the outskirts of Leik. For a while there was silence as he wove his path through the shifting lanes of the medical barracks.
Sobriquet gave an irritated grunt, letting her head fall back against the headrest. “Still muddled,” she said. “It’s never been this bad, not even after the first attack on Leik. One or more of these secrets is big.” She gave him a significant look. “Even relative to your own.”
“Big,” Michael frowned, shifting in his seat. “That doesn’t bode well. Maybe Luc was right.”
Her mood shifted noticeably, her head turning towards the window; Michael looked over curiously. “What is it?”
“The secrets touch on him,” Sobriquet said. “He’s always carried his own, but they deepened in the wake of this last soul, gained connections to whatever is going on at the encampment.”
Michael blinked. “You’re not suggesting he was involved?” he asked. “We’re talking about Luc. He hates anything to do with souls, and he’s scared of his own shadow.”
Sobriquet grimaced. “Not involved, but it involves him,” she said, waggling her fingers. “The secrets bear relevance to him. And you’re right, he’s not the man who would be entangled with a plot.” She turned to look at him, her eyes alight with tension. “But he is the man who will receive your soul if you should die.”
A chill took up residence in Michael’s spine, prickling with borrowed fear. “Well,” he said. “We already knew that more than a few people want me dead.”
She did not smile at the weak levity. “Yes, and this is the first time I’ve felt the weight of an event so strongly. I can’t think of another reason that Luc would be involved save that you stand a very real chance of dying.”
“I admit I’m out of my depth,” Zabala said, not taking his eyes off the road, “but it seems like a convoluted sort of logic to say that he’s more likely to die now that he’s got that potens soul.” He paused for a moment, seeming to replay the words he had spoken in his head; Zabala gave a small, exasperated sigh. “Eromena. But you know what I mean. He’s not invincible now, but he’s the next best thing.”
“Plenty of ways to kill a potens,” Michael said, shivering as he remembered Charles’s intent face, the metal flowing inexorably into Galen’s lungs. “Probably none of them quick, or pleasant. I certainly won’t be trying to test the limits of this soul anytime soon.” He forced a smile. “At least this means you’ll probably be rid of me. I think I’ve graduated past the necessity of being your ward.”
Zabala shrugged. “Only two ways a thing like this goes,” he said. “Either I go, or you get three more of me.” He shifted his eyes to Sobriquet for a moment. “You come in saying the things you’ve been saying, and I guarantee it’ll be the second option.”
“There is a limit past which paranoia is no longer productive,” Michael grumbled. “I already knew all of the Eight that aren’t with us want very much to kill me. I’m struggling to think of what could be more threatening than that.”
“Don’t ask questions like that,” Zabala muttered, pulling the truck up to the encampment’s checkpoint; an unusual number of guards stood outside, alert at their approach. “They tend to get answered. Hold on, I’ll get us in.”
The fortimens leaned out the window, shouting something in Mendiko and getting a terse response; after a few exchanges, the soldier who had come out to meet them stepped aside, waving them through. Zabala settled back into his seat, lips pressed into a line.
“Well?” Sobriquet asked. “Any word on what happened?”
“Nothing you couldn’t have guessed,” he said. “Disturbance at the special holding area, where they were keeping that potens. Camp’s been in lockdown ever since.” He turned down a hastily-graded road towards the airship. “I assume you two want to go straight to the top.”
“Yes, please,” Sobriquet muttered. “Michael, I - be careful.”
It was the rush of emotion from her more than the tone in her voice that drew Michael’s eyes to her; she was visibly agitated, more so than Michael had ever seen her. “You know I will,” he said. “What’s wrong?”
She looked at Zabala for a long moment. There was a telltale flex of her soul, and Michael felt her veil pull tight around them.
“We are in the middle of the Mendiko camp,” she said. “It doesn’t look to be overrun with Safid or Ardan soldiers. If your life is at risk…”
Michael nodded slowly, her words cementing the chill from before. “If there’s a risk here,” he said, “it’s from the Mendiko.”
She nodded. “Don’t trust anyone. Even those without malice can play a part.”
Michael managed a smile. “I’ll trust you,” he said, leaning over to kiss her - gently, afraid of even his lips.
Zabala pulled the truck to a stop, killing the engine. Outside, the airship blotted out the sky overhead. “We’re here,” he said. “I don’t have to tail you in, but if you’d prefer…”
The offer drew a surprised glance from Michael. “I - yes, actually. I’d appreciate that.” He met Zabala’s eyes, then tilted his head at Sobriquet; Zabala gave him a fractional nod in response.
As they approached the airship Michael was again struck by the sheer number of soldiers milling about outside; none seemed particularly well-informed, and most buzzed with the same aimless anxiety that was nibbling at the edges of Michael’s attention.
They did not have to look far for Antolin and Leire. Sobriquet led them straight to the viewing gallery. Antolin turned as they entered, and though he was as difficult as ever to read, Michael was gratified to feel the briefest note of relief from the grand marshal when he saw them.
Even those without malice-
Michael’s nascent smile died as Sobriquet’s voice echoed in his head. He nodded at Antolin, then at Leire. She was inscrutable, cloaked in the radiance of her soul; her craggy, ancient face bore no expression he could ascertain.
“I assume you heard about the escape,” Antolin said.
“More than heard about it,” Michael said, walking over to the window. Wordlessly, he grabbed the metal railing and tore it free from the wall, bending it into a rough hoop and tossing it to the decking. It clattered noisily, scratching the metal as it spun to a halt.
“Tell me what happened.” Michael said.
Leire and Antolin both looked at Michael with sharp intent; Antolin was the first to speak. “We’re not sure,” he admitted. “There were several souls involved, most of them tasked with obscuring the area in a variety of ways. Occultors, dediscators, calorigens - by the time we had vision on the holding area, five men were dead and Galen Wahl was missing.”
He gave Michael an evaluating look. “Our original assumption was that he escaped to finish what he started. We have teams out looking for you right now; I’m glad to see they weren’t necessary. Did he attempt to fight you again?”
Michael blinked, taken aback. “We never saw him,” he said. “I gained his soul suddenly, with no warning or disturbance.”
“You’re sure it’s his?” Leire asked.
“Certain,” Michael replied.
Something in his voice spurred Leire to sit forward in her chair, her eyes fixing on him. “Are you well?” she asked. “You had expressed some concern about this precise scenario, when we last spoke.”
“Well enough,” Michael said. “My concerns were - justified, I suppose, although not in the way I imagined them.”
Leire darted a glance at Antolin, then sighed. “I suppose we must sort this out first, but I would like to document your experience if we ever again get a calm moment.”
“Straight to the scientific inquiry?” Sobriquet observed drily.
“What else would you have me do?” Leire asked. “Antolin is investigating the incursion into our camp, Michael is safe, and the escaped prisoner is no longer a threat.” She tilted her head, looking at Sobriquet’s face. “Ah, I see. Perhaps this will set your mind at ease: I did not kill him.”
Antolin and Sobriquet both looked at Leire in surprise.
She gave a small, bitter laugh. “I don’t blame you for thinking so,” she said. “I’m one of the few who could, from what we saw of that man’s soul. But no, my dear - though I do confess to being glad that it has happened, for all the reasons I stated the other day.”
There was a pause in which Antolin gave Sobriquet a look that was equal parts disapproving and exasperated before turning nearly the same expression on Leire. “I will continue to investigate,” he sighed. “And keep you all apprised, of course.” He turned to leave, nodding at Michael in passing.
Leire, too, stood to depart, but not before turning to look at Michael and Sobriquet. “I am on your side,” she said, bearing a melancholy sort of smile. “Paranoia is normal - healthy, even, in wartime. It must be leavened with a bit of trust, though, or it turns to poison.”
“And we should trust you?” Sobriquet asked.
“Does it matter if I say yes?” Leire asked. “I think not. Trust me, or don’t. For me, Mendian is all that matters. For Mendian’s future, I will support you in the War; nothing short of death will stop me from doing what I must.” She looked at Michael. “And when it does, you’ll know anything you wish to know of my motives.”
There was a long silence while they held their gaze; Leire was the first to break it, looking wearily away. “I have no wish to expedite my death, however,” she said. “So I will take my leave, and rest. I do want to hear about your experience today, Michael, so - at your convenience.”
She turned and left without speaking further, leaving the rest of them alone in the room. Michael turned to Sobriquet; she was staring out the window, her brows knit together.
“It wasn’t a lie,” she said quietly.
Michael turned to face her, dropping his voice low. “Which part?”
“All of it.” Sobriquet shook her head, looking troubled. “With something this big, I would know. But it’s still so muddled, so chaotic. Something is wrong about all this, and I can’t see what.” She balled her fist. “I feel so blind.”
“You’re in good company,” Michael sighed. He joined her in looking out the window; below them, the camp buzzed with activity. It seemed distant through the cold barrier of the window glass, as though the world was some far-off curiosity that held no bearing on their lives.
But Michael knew better.