{Gait}

Pehton clenched her fists so tight she broke two fingers on one hand. Korac’s cries followed her up the thirty floors of war criminals and various inmates until she reached the surface. She’d hear them in her sleep. If she ever slept again.

How?! How could things fall apart so quickly?!

{One Week Ago}

Pehton went looking for the Icarean General in his cell on Infernus block a week ago and found nothing. Not uncommon. The man regularly wandered out of his nacre-resistant cell. As one does when they possess no nacre and a penchant for mischief on a criminal scale. But that night… everything felt wrong. A shift took hold of their reality, and Pehton wandered into the empty neighboring cell.

Primary Rem, Tritan god and father of her children, created a false persona as a prisoner and spied on Korac until they identified him. Did the Icarus dare confront the Tritan?

Pehton pressed through the conduit disguised as the cell’s far wall. There he stood, as if waiting for her.

Primary Rem—Remorse—assessed the Lyrik with his black gaze, no white to his eyes, over every inch of her frame. The orb on his belt compressed all sixty-five feet of him to seven so he could fit within the invisible-glass shrine. The carbon fiber suit covered most of his pale blue skin. Though some of the dark blue striations lined the visible skin of his fingers and spanned his palm. Considering she copulated with him once to conceive their children, Pehton should know what the rest of him looked like without that suit. But, no. He asked her to drink a tasteless concoction that sent her into a coma for the deed.

At her arrival, the Tritan offered a lipless smile. Sad, like his name. “It’s out of my hands now. This is Razor’s time.” His deep voice held a startling resolve.

The Executive Warden sounded less impressive in comparison. They both knew he gave her the title, so who was there to impress? “Time for what?”

“He deserved this long ago. The others should never have left him there. He saved us.” Once finished, he raised a gun at her.

“Wait!” Pehton held up her hands to stop him. “Our children. What happened to them? Was it you?” Two and a half million years ago, the day she freed the child labor of Gait’s Prisonborne, all the children on the planet disappeared in the cast of white light, Inanis. Korac and the Shadow Progeny offered to help her solve the mystery. But here she believed she addressed the culprit. “Remorse, are they dead?”

The Primary shook his head. “There are things worse than death, and we put them through all of it. Abandon hope of ever seeing them again. Or of recognizing what remains.”

“Remorse!”

The tranquilizers took her down mid-charge.

One note.

That’s all Pehton needed. To sing one note at the right pitch and shatter his nacre. Instead, she awoke the day after in Razor’s bed.

“Good morning, Peh Peh,” the Pain Curator called from the boardroom table he used as a desk. “Sleep well after trysting with midnight visitors?” He gave her an irksome grin. The man grated on her with his coiffed good looks in shades of brown. Deep brown hair cut short, medium brown skin, and pale brown eyes. Fit, of course. Too full of himself not to work out for that boxer’s build he kept under-wraps in well-tailored suits.

Terrified from last night’s events, Pehton rushed to escape the violet silk sheets. Gross. The color of Sagan’s eyes. Stomping over to Razor, she demanded, “Tell me what the fuck is happening right now. Where is Korac? Why is that Tritan in my prison? And what are you doing with Sagan?”

Two more Lyriki wardens—her inferiors in every way—flanked him at her approach. His eyes glittered with dangerous humor. “Peh Peh, please. Relax. Everything is done.”

The conviction—the very finality of his words chilled her orange, kerosene-fueled blood. The Lyrik at his right hand with bright red feathers, Triss, sneered at her. Oleen, with yellow feathers, hissed, baring sharp teeth in a pitch-black mouth. They smelled her fear.

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Ignoring them both, Pehton addressed their master once more, “Razor, have you done something to the Seamswalker? That’s a declaration of war against her planet and endangers my prison—”

“Worry not. She comes to my side when I bid her. The poor thing’s sore and tired from last night, so I let her rest.”

The Executive Warden recoiled as if he slapped her at the same time she controlled the urge to vomit.

Razor chuckled at her obvious discomfort. Triss preened proudly. Monsters, both of them. “Now. Unless you want to relieve her of my round-the-clock gratification, do as I say. That heart of hers is much younger and more tender than yours. You could spare her from my cravings.”

Swallowing hard, Pehton considered her options. The secondary function of the Chorus—the satellites around Gait—allowed the prison’s senior officer control of the more junior staff, the Lyriks. A function she signed over to Razor in exchange for freeing the child-labor force. The primary function, acquired at the will of the Executive Warden, accessed the resonate weapon inside the satellites. With Lyriki abilities amplified by those and triangulated by the Overseers, Razor could shatter every nacre on the planet.

“I will not sign over my volition to you.”

Razor settled for her obedience.

That was a week ago. Pehton never once saw Sagan in the meantime, though the Executive Warden spent many hours in the Pain Curator’s personal suites. He conducted much of his business beneath his Emporium of Exotic Experiences. She and the other Lyriks tended his every whim. Performed facility security detail with Matt, who also looked worse for wear lately. Entertained Razor’s clients. Dressed and undressed him. And, unfortunately, he and Triss liked an audience on occasion. The former Executive Warden, the woman Pehton replaced, took great pleasure in getting off with that monster in front of the younger Lyrik.

None of it mattered. As the current Executive Warden left from her brief visit with Korac, she burned with rage. How dare they lock him in that awful cell? Chained down in the dark and fearing for his lover. And what of the slaves still in the Emporium’s secret facility? Forced to endure abuse later sold on the pain market, Razor’s dominion.

This time, Pehton was done. Damn Razor. Damn Officer Tumu’s summons. And damn Enki.

She pushed through the revolving door of the Emporium. The throng of greedy, well-dressed clients congratulating each other on their entry into such an exclusive establishment sickened her. They danced and chatted on the parquet floors beneath the whiskey lights with no inkling of the horrors that lie below. Or perhaps they did. Perhaps they shared in the hedonism. Their eagerness for the Pain Curator’s attention like the acknowledgment of some sinful holyman to their evil religion.

Yet again, none of this mattered. What counts? Ending this.

Now.

Normally, Razor mingled with his clients to feed their fantasies of meeting him in person. In the last week, he kept to his suites. Pehton climbed the wrought-iron spiral staircase to the glass mezzanine and stomped over to the vault. Within, the hidden stairs to his living quarters sunk into the black floor. Through the transparent parquet floors above, light illuminated the all-black walls, floors, and columns. In the inky blackness, she found him at his desk as always, flanked by Triss and Oleen.

“Free Korac and Sagan.” Pehton wasted no time.

Razor scoffed without looking up from the device in his palm. “Why would I want to do that?”

“I’ve nothing left to lose, Razor. You’ll do as I say this time. Let. Them. Go.” By the end of her speech, she slammed both hands on the desk and leaned into his face.

The smile he gave her in return shriveled her skin. “The Tritans built the Lyriks with such interesting quirks. Like when I touch them here. See?” His hands disappeared behind the women. But she realized what he meant to do. He pressed into the small of both their backs. The women folded to their knees, purring. Smugly, he assured, “I imagine you’ll enjoy it as well, Peh Peh.”

“You bastard!” She jumped onto the desk, grabbed his open collar, and sang into his face.

Nothing happened. No. That was the right frequency. Pehton was certain—

A mania shone in Razor’s brown eyes. Lightning crackled inside the iris. Delight lit his smug smirk into a crazed smile. Triss bolted from his side, lifted Pehton, and slammed her back onto the desk. He climbed on top of Pehton. The Lyriki hand on her throat squeezed with no effort, yet still she couldn’t gather enough breath.

In her face, Razor purred, “Are you prepared now? To call down the Chorus? Blare it to your makers? Come on, Executive Warden. Let’s see what you’re capable of.”

Pehton clawed at the other woman’s hand, but couldn’t grasp her fingers to peel them back. Why didn’t the attack work—No. Her eyes bulged from surprise more than oxygen deprivation. “No… nacre… Korac…” The strangled words hurt to force out.

At the Icarus’ name, Triss knocked Pehton’s head against the metal surface. Anger thickened Razor’s voice. “That’s right. Before him, you and I were friends. Now, here you are. Willing to kill everyone on this planet—INCLUDING ME—for that contaminant thug. Oh, Peh Peh. I expected more from you.”

They let her go abruptly. The black that crept into her vision cleared instantly. Air slammed into her lungs at such a force she couldn’t swallow it fast enough, and she broke into a violent coughing fit. Curling on her side, Pehton met Triss’ extremely satisfied smirk. Crazy bitch.

Razor hopped off the table, and Oleen straightened his button-down and white slacks with his back to Pehton. Over his shoulder, he ordered, “Bring her.”

As the other fourteen Lyriks she sold out for her own promotion surrounded her, Pehton knew she wouldn’t like what happened next.