“Sure you don’t need anything else, baldies?” Carlos asked, leaning against Edward’s bed. “Puff up your pillows, tell a joke, do a back scratch, find a snack?”

“Carlos, we are tired, not bedridden!” Esmeralda laughed in a clear voice.

The twins had been relocated from the ship into the medical block by the medics, who wanted to keep an eye on them. Both had gotten themselves quite a bit of hair before the New Year and then had to shave most of it off to fit their heads into helmets, leaving a bit of fluff. As Esmeralda said, it was totally worth it, but Carlos enjoyed teasing them about their loss.

Both were weak; Esmeralda breathed heavily and sweat streaked down Edward’s face. Carlos paid them a visit because Elina was busy with the medic, and it felt wrong to leave them all alone. He helped them eat the soup, wiped the sweat off Edward’s face, and even told a few jokes. All in all, both seemed to be in good spirits, and thankfully, Edward’s brain was fine.

“I am a bit sad about missing the whole explosion thing,” Edward admitted.

“I got you covered, buddy.” Carlos smiled and sent the video recording of the event to their terminals. “Well, if the old Carlos can’t help you anymore, I guess I’ll be taking these orange sodas with me…”

“Where did you find those?” Edward opened his eyes wide, licking his lips.

“Contraband.”

“Figures,” Esmeralda said, hiding a chuckle in her fist. “We graciously ask for your continued help with the unexpected treats, Carly.”

“I would be honored, lady, sir.” Carlos bowed dramatically and filled their cups with soda.

He excused himself and slipped out of the room, singing a tune. Eddie, Esmi, everything’s fine. He was about to visit Rowen when he almost stepped on Augustus, who was sitting on a bench in the hallway. The man was stripped of his armor and dressed to the waist, a bandage covering his nearly healed wound.

“Carlos,” Augustus greeted him, typing something on the terminal. “How are Edward and Esmeralda?”

“They’ll be running around soon,” Carlos replied. “I’d love to stay and chat, but I wanted to check on Rowen...”

“He is well and sleeping; the doctors have treated his ribs. Vasily is busy questioning the Templar lore masters about his pet project. Eliza and Jumail caused a ruckus in the kitchen by voraciously devouring a squad’s worth of supplies, insulted a cook by comparing the food to spider meat, and finished their debauchery by volunteering to help care for the wounded. Elina is in her room studying. This leaves you.” He put aside the terminal. “Carlos. Do you want to talk?”

The trainee stopped, letting the smile fall from his face. It bothered him. The sound of a falling body, the scream as she died, and worst of all, the fact that he didn’t feel anything about the deed committed. All he cared about was the safety of Vasily and Augustus, and he lost himself in the fight, killing at the slightest provocation. It was... as if a dam had broken inside him, letting something out. And it scared him.

“So obvious, huh?” He ruffled his hair. “Yes, but not with you, Instructor.” Carlos took a breath. “Know what, sir? For a Rho, you’re not a total waste of space.” He sat down next to the man and fell silent.

Augustus gave him time, sitting next to him and observing how Lord Steward was busy healing a plague victim. The man’s skin on his face and sides were eaten away to the bone, the bones themselves yellowed, and lumps of lung moved spasmodically behind the ribs. The poor man’s nails had fallen off, most of his teeth were gone, and his skin had turned gray and bluish. Ulcers and blisters covered every millimeter of the patient’s body, spewing poisonous spores into the air, and one doctor fell to his knees, shaking feverishly. Even his protective suit had failed to provide full protection against this disease.

It wasn’t all. The man’s skin peeled away at a touch, his eyes sunk deep, and he was left blind. It was a miracle that he was still alive, and two trolls, the only medics capable of enduring this disease without a bother, tried their best to keep the wreck of a human alive. Vaccines and medicine had little effect; the disease had progressed too far, and the man himself was too weak. The patient should have died; even Iterna’s capsules couldn’t save a person whose very essence was soaked in an unknown plague.

Lo Lord Steward embraced him, and the President-elect’s chest cavity opened wide like a maw. Thousands of fleshy tendrils came out, merging with the sick person, and his body shuddered. Over the damaged skin, new skin sprouted; eyes and limbs moved with renewed vigor. The wounds closed, but Carlos saw the lungs changing color to pinkish-gray, and dark spots disappeared off them. White appeared on the bones, and a new hand emerged from Lord Steward’s back. He grasped the sick medic and melted his hazmat suit. Both the patient and the doctor thrashed, but no screams came from their mouths.

Carlos saw how the monitors showed that the patient’s heartbeat returned to a normal rate, and when Lord Steward let go of him, the man screamed, unable to contain the horror of the past days. The Trolls stepped in and gave him a sedative.

Sad. Carlos thought, remembering his own sleepless nights during which he was afraid that the Matriarch would slither into his room and eat him. You can have the best body possible, recover from the most grievous wounds, and still suffer from fear and nightmares. It will take years, if not longer, for the poor humans to get back on their feet and shake off the pain inflicted on their psyches.

“Your offer still stands?” Carlos asked.

“Both of them, yes.” Augustus nodded. Behind the screen, the Trolls took their colleague away for examination and left the patient to have a deep sleep.

“Should call them?” Carlos punched his palm.

“Yes,” Augustus said without hesitation. “Family is family.”

“Even Maxmilian?” Carlos regretted the words as soon as he said them. Augustus wasn’t to blame for his father’s actions. But the instructor didn’t even bat an eye.

“He isn’t family. Not anymore. Carlos, family is the people who care about you, listen to you, and help you.” Augustus picked up the terminal again. “The Shadows are about to arrive…”

“If that’s all it takes to count a person as family, then I feel a bit weird about having a Rho as part of my family,” Carlos admitted. He hesitated and offered the man his hand, and Augustus shook it. “Thank you, sir.”

“My door is always open.” Augustus looked around. “Or a hallway, for that matter. You aren’t a half-bad Barjoni yourself; the lack of proper throwing skills aside.”

Carlos felt a genuine smile come to his face and walked to a room assigned to him. It was hardly anything of worth—a small arch two meters long, with barely enough room to turn around, and a sleeping bag on the floor. Still, it had a lock and was supposedly soundproof, and that was more important to him than anything else. He sat down on the floor, pulled the sleeping bag over his shoulders to hide the welds, and dialed the number on his terminal.

Enrico’s personal office was drowning in luxury. A soft carpet, lined with silver-white traces of rhodium, led to a table of redwood. To the left of the table was a soft sofa covered in wolf and tiger pelts and a plain table filled with drinks. One side of his father’s office faced the rising sun, allowing the morning sun to play across the marble floor. Statues of his predecessors, six great enforcers of the Family, held the ceiling in their hands.

A statue of a golden serpent coiled behind Enrico’s desk—another robot, this time provided by the Matriarch. It served as advisor, defender and spy in equal measure. His father himself sat in the spacious chair, his power armor standing in the alcove behind the statue. Enrico was reading a paper document, a rarity in the house, tapping at the keyboard with calm, untroubled movements of his gray nails. Carlos looked at his father through a display that rose from the floor in front of the table.

Is this urgent?” Enrico asked without looking at his son. “I have a meeting to seal a deal for the restoration of the cathedral in Stonehelm in thirteen minutes. And we have had no less than four attempts by the Oathtakers to cut into our communication. Six,” he said at the new information on the display at his terminal. “Nine now. And the Shadows joined in. And Rho. And Intelligence tagged along. Impressive. I’m going to sue them later for this invasion of privacy.”

“Yes. It is urgent,” Carlos forced himself to say. He wanted to cut off communications. He never bothered to talk to his father about anything serious, and Enrico never pushed for closer bonds, either. Why should he listen to him now? “Dad... I killed a person... several people in today’s operation.”

Enrico put the papers aside and called a secretary, asking her to convey his apologies to the matriarch and to ask her to find someone else to talk about construction contracts on his behalf. Without further clarification, Enrico ended the call with the secretary, and the eyes of the statue behind him came to life, glowing with orange light.

“Shall we call your mother, Carlos? I think we should talk about this matter together,” Enrico’s voice changed, letting a hint of warmth into his tone. His nails turned red.

“Yes...” Carlos breathed out and closed his eyes. Let the Matriarch and the Oathtakers listen. What does he care? “It would be right.”

“Where are you anyway? According to your schedule, your group should be in Stonehelm, yet our agents have not caught a whiff of your presence,” Enrico asked, waiting for his wife to answer his call. “If you got into trouble with the law, just say so. You’ll be walking in an hour, tops.”

“No, nothing so pathetic!” Carlos laughed. No wonder Dad had mistaken the narrow walls of his room for a prison cell! “You won’t believe what happened!”

“I finally became a grandfather?” Enrico asked with wide eyes.

“Still sixteen.”

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“I fail to see the problem,” Dad said dryly. A sound from his terminal announced Mom had joined the call. “Now, Carlos. Calm down, take a deep breath, and tell us everything.”

****

“That’s a curious little story you’re spinning for us.” Lord Steward lifted the whimpering slaver by the cheek.

“It’s true!” cried the woman. “It’s true; I swear it, I swear!”

After being overheard by the Iternians, he asked Crawler to take his business to a more secure location. The general obeyed, moving the remains of his captives into a prison cell containing oracles, and kept untying the fools, ligament by ligament until they howled in pain. The walls of the room, once of shining, pristine steel, were covered with blood and shreds of flesh, and even after Lord Steward had visited and restored the fools, streaks of gray appeared in their hair. And there was animal fear in their quick-moving eyes. They groveled and begged him to accept their story. Broken. Good. Perhaps now he could forge them into something less vile.

The President-elect feigned disbelief, letting the fools repeat their story again as he looked down upon them. Truth be told, he wasn’t listening to them; Crawler was the one taking notes and comparing their version with what they had told him. Instead, he pondered the situation. Six people. Not nearly enough to escort a significant number of prisoners to the slaver gangs, and certainly not enough to do so through the territory tainted by the power of Chosen Prince.

“Silence.” His voice cut off their explanation, and the slavers shut their mouths. “Here is what we are going to do. You will swear the Oath. Or you can hang from a nearby tree like a New Year’s decoration; the choice is yours,” Lord Steward lied easily.

The Oath whispered to him, urging the ruler not to go overboard, but Lord Steward silenced its whisper.

It would be all too easy to kill the morons here and now. It might even be justice of sorts. But to solve problems the easy way, by ignoring the law, would be to take a step toward corruption. And he had seen more than one nation torn apart because its leaders chose the easy way out instead of sticking to the nation’s principles.

No, if they refuse, they will all face trial and life imprisonment. But there is no need for the prisoners to know about this.

“We’ll swear.” A slaver collapsed and crawled across the floor, trying to lick his boots. Lord Steward frowned and kicked the man aside, enjoying his misery.

“Smart kids. Next, you’ll return to your gangs. It shouldn’t be hard for you to convince them that the Oracles have nothing more to offer them, not after Birchshell failed.” Four more towns were still held by the remnants of Chosen Prince army, but their liberation would come within weeks of the Northern Army’s completion of its regrouping. They pierced the front like a wedge, and now several directions were open for an advance. “Once back home, you will find out who bought slaves by the thousands and who exactly is rich enough to smuggle such vast quantities of weapons into my turf.”

“But what if the leaders won’t believe us…” A woman shuddered.

“We’ll implant trackers under your skin. Get into trouble; call us; we’ll help. Lie and be melted alive by an acid.” Lord Steward smiled. They didn’t really have that kind of technology, but the goal of persuasion is to make the other party believe you can back up your words. In reality, if the slavers go back on their word, they will be found in more mundane ways.

“And if we do what you say?” One man dared to ask. “How do we know you won’t go back on your word?”

“Fool,” Lord Steward stretched the word. He stepped closer, causing the others to whimper like dogs and prostrate themselves face down in filth spilled by their released bowels during the interrogation. Ignoring the stench, the President-elect grabbed the man by the jaw. “You should know our reputation. The Oathtakers never break their word. If you do not know that much, try using your peanut-sized brains. Your gangs are finished. We will grind them to dust. Either side with us and see your families alive, or stick with the opposite party and see them burn. Will you choose wisely?” He increased the pressure, and the man nodded quickly with renewed fear in his eyes. “Good boy! I’ll eagerly await the news. Don’t disappoint me.” Lord Steward’s grin grew wider, the flesh of his chin disappeared, and the teeth inside his mouth turned to fangs, big enough to crack even a skull. “I get hungry when I am disappointed. Take them away, accept their oath, and give them supplies for the journey.”

He let the soldiers drag away the pitiful mess of the once defiant slavers and walked into the room, spreading his flesh. Thin layers of skin, invisible to the naked eye, emerged from the surface of his boots and slithered across the floor, devouring excrement and bone fragments and licking blood. By the time he was done, the room was pristine once more, and Lord Steward recovered some of the lost mass that he had spent saving lives today.

“Anything on that Hustler?” Hive asked, wearing his dragonfly body. His named brother didn’t hide the disgust at Lord Steward’s actions from his voice.

“A flying vehicle left Birchshell for the north during the final showdown. We shot it down, and it crashed into stone cliffs nine clicks away,” Crawler reported. The general tapped on the floor with a leg and looked hungrily at the hanging oracles. “The whole thing burned down, and we found an unknown corpse inside. Convenient. Hustler’s alive. I’d bet my life on it.”

“Alive…” Lord Steward took himself by the chin. “He has a history with the kids from Birchshell.”

“I have ordered them, and their families moved from Stonehelm to the capital. The official reason is to begin their training to become Heroes. Keepers are watching them day and night; none of them are in any danger.” Crawler scratched his mandibles against each other. “We have found no line breakers during the battle, and Birchshell should have had at least eighteen such units. Champion Hive’s words seemed to have some effect…”

“Praised be God.” Hive pressed two of his legs together.

“… If you say so, sir,” Crawler continued in an even tone. “And they cooperated, giving us information about a supposed caravan of weapons and equipment heading north. I find that hard to believe. Why would the Oracles buy it and not use it here? There is nothing of value to them in the north.”

“Locate the caravan. Use a guide from the Condemned if necessary; I don’t care,” Lord Steward ordered. “Hive, take all of your bodies, but not the sand reaper! Move the sand reaper to the capital and make it hibernate. Go north yourself. Search every nook and cranny, every cave and crevice. Find out what Hustler is brewing.”

“And end him?” Hive asked.

“If possible, bring Hustler to me. If not, end the threat.”

“Sir.” The General bowed. “I advise against that course of action. The regions around Stonehelm are still rife with crime. Let us turn the champion’s attention inward while the army is away. Or at least come to Stonehelm yourself. With the Reclaimers on the border, Dominator and all of us in the field, it is unwise to leave the situation in the regions unattended.”

Lord Steward thought about Crawler’s words for a moment. His concerns were true; hundreds of thousands of people had come to Stonehelm to escape the invasion. And not just Oathtakers. There were people from all over the north, including gangs that had lost the struggle and had to escape. After the invasion, the immigrants spread out into the surrounding regions, rebuilding the damaged cities and trying to rebuild their lives under the new rulers.

On any other day, he would’ve welcomed such a large flock with open arms and a smile on his face. The nation was always in need of people to keep up with the industrial behemoth that was the Reclamation Army. Their lands were vast, but their people were few.

But the problem was that the war had destroyed most of the schools and police districts near Stonehelm, and the brave servants of the law in the region had paid the ultimate price for their quest to save lives. The rule of law eroded, and in its place stepped criminals who stole humanitarian aid and sold it to the locals, along with extorting money for protection. Left unattended and without guidance, a swathe of youths has joined the criminals. It can and will be fixed. Already, construction teams have worked overtime rebuilding the ruined houses. A champion’s presence would keep criminal activity to a minimum until additional police forces are ready to patrol the area. But at the cost of time and forsaking the lives of people held in the Ascension Towers. And at the cost of allowing the Oracles to prepare better defenses.

“No. We will advance.” Lord Steward clenched his fists. “I expect a full plan for a joint simultaneous advance in an hour. And I’ve had enough of Hustler’s antics. That girl I’ve met today… She has a point. God gave me power for a reason. Time to use it to bring this invasion to its appointed end before anyone else can capitalize on our problems. This time we hunt the wicked.” He raised a finger. “Yet we cannot ignore the situation at Stonehelm. The Avengers suffered tonight. We shall keep them as rearguards and send a quarter of their number to the city. It should suffice to keep some semblance of peace and order.”

“What about the Iternians?” Hive asked. “I was supposed to keep an eye on them during the training, but I can’t escort them into the western regions now…”

“Let them go to Stonehelm,” Lord Steward sighed. “A deal is a deal, and they have helped us. There are caves near the city, opened by the Steel Keep. Let them train there and hunt down any mechanical horrors left by Chosen Prince. And give them an A+ in all grades, regardless of their performance. I say they have already earned it by their actions. Just keep it a secret from the trainees! Or those children won’t bust their asses.”

He waited until the general and his friend would leave and turned to the oracles. Sixteen; those the Oathtakers had managed to take alive during or after the battle. All had armor grafted to their bodies, energy chords and wires disappearing beneath the skin. Where the Shamblers and the Condemned had their bodies ravaged by viruses, the Oracles lived in perfect harmony with the filth that coursed through their veins, growing stronger from it.

He walked past them, feeling hateful gazes fixed on him. They expected to be killed. He could see that. Their thoughts were easy to guess as well. Lord Steward talked a lot about his plans in their presence. Why did he let them live? Torture, of course.

In a way, he didn’t blame them for the assumption. The Oracles’ wounds were untreated; these men and women could easily end a life, even in such a condition. Steel straps closed around their bodies, and power-suppressing drugs robbed them of their powers for a long time. Lord Steward came to one of them, a teenager with an open abdomen and a missing lower jaw. The mass-reactive bullets had destroyed her face, but there was still enough of it for his eyes to open wide.

“You.” He raised his hand. “The children told me about you. They thought you died when you and the other kid teleported Praetorian away.” He looked around, but of the other Birchshell’s kid, there was no sight.

The Oracle gurgled some obscenity left unheard because of the missing tongue and spat blood at him. The red spot was absorbed into his skin, the disease in it disintegrating into calories.

“I don’t want to save you.” He pointed at one of the girl’s pupils and moved his finger to point at another. “But I want to save you. Because you, the original person, are still here, only warped. Iterna had offered to take you in and put your bodies in stasis to maybe heal you one day. But finding a cure is a long process. It can happen tomorrow. Or in the next century, or maybe never. They still have people with incurable diseases from the Old World locked in stasis vaults, sleeping in an eternal slumber, and the hope of a cure grows fainter with each passing day. And your families deserve closure. Your friends deserve closure. You deserve freedom, even if it will be freedom from this horror. So I ask you to forgive me for what I am about to do.

“Truth be told, I have tried this before. With captured numbers. I had nearly eliminated the parasite when it shut down the brain, killing the host. I suspect the virus controlling you work the same way; it merged with your very own brain matter. To me, repairing bodies and organs is a piece of cake. But brains are another matter entirely because of the high risk of altering a person completely by accident. I desire to spread the Oath far and wide, from one corner of our world to another. Creating willing slaves to obey my will is not part of my goal.

“But with each attempt, my mastery grows. I will begin to purge the virus from your body, cell by cell. It will be painful, but I will do everything in my power to preserve your life. And give you back your freedom.” He paused, thought for a moment, and then said. “Please endure it. Your family and friends are all waiting for you. Don’t give up.”

Lord Steward changed. His body started melting; the grown clothing, arms, legs, and other parts of his body fused together, turning into one pulsating mass of flesh. Muscles, organs, and bones fused together, gaining elasticity and reshaping themselves to suit his needs. The digestive system expanded. A whole new chamber capable of preserving an outside organ grew. New eyes formed on the surface of his body that were far sharper than the eyes of a normal human. In place of bones, he used muscles, and he breathed through the skin.

His fleshy mass rose, sprouting appendages that lifted the wounded teenager away from the other Oracles hanging on the wall. And plunged her into the depths of the waterfall of flesh in the middle of the room, dissolving their bodies and connecting the tortured brain to his own, storing it in the chamber and sustaining it with its nutrients. In this brief period of time, they screamed in excruciating pain, both the Oracle and the victim controlled by it. The healing began.