“Max, I’m already sick of this mock trial crap,” Duncan said. “I think I’d rather live in the woods.”

“Duncan, stop complaining,” Max said. “What caused your defection, Mr. Racz?” Max’s voice changed, slipping into his curt, professional speech-pattern. “What suddenly made the Liberty Corps violence too much for you? It seems it was your concern for the wellbeing of your captain and friend that drove you away, and you were perfectly content to accept Corps rule until that moment.”

Kol didn’t know what woke him, and he faced the disorientation of total sleep. The warm glow of the afternoon sun shone through the hotel room’s blinds. The events of the day before were real, the battle, his survival, his defection.

“Sleeping Beauty is still with us,” Duncan said. He and Max looked at him. They’d heard him stir, or the change in his breathing.

“What have I missed?” Kol still felt the heaviness, the same weight of exhaustion he’d felt before he went to sleep, but it had lessened. It was manageable. “You’re preparing for an interrogation?”

“How are you?” Max asked. “You haven’t slept that much since you were a baby.”

“I’m fine now.” Kol felt better by the minute. He was waking slowly, but nothing caffeine wouldn’t fix for him.

But reality returned with wakefulness, the awareness of his reality. He’d been too tired to absorb the truth or to feel its burden. He’d betrayed the Liberty Corps. Brielle knew it. His two futures – professional and personal, both were gone.

“I’m awake now,” Kol said. “I hope you didn’t need me for anything.”

“Nothing at all,” Max said. “You boys did the hard work yesterday. Now, it’s my turn to get us safe and back on track. I don’t know how much you heard, but I’m attempting to prepare Duncan for a potential Alliance interrogation.”

“And he’s assuming that they have mind readers who will know my entire life story,” Duncan said. “I’m glad you’re awake, Kol. I didn’t think we’d do real well seeking asylum with you comatose.”

“How long was I asleep?” Kol remembered nothing since their arrival, not getting in bed or the passage of time or any sound from the others.

He sat up and was surprised to notice he wasn’t hungry. In its place, a deep nausea was settling into the pit of his stomach.

He didn’t feel the churn in his belly when he stayed still. The room didn’t wobble when he wasn’t in motion. He didn’t move.

“You’ve been asleep around twenty hours,” Max said. “We have food you can reheat, but I think you should rehydrate first. Unfortunately, I have no information about anything called Thought Fatigue. I’m afraid that the research the IHSA conducted in Shaping’s physiological effects did not undergo the extensive peer-review research process that mainstream medicine follows.”

“Enoa Cloud passed out after she blasted me, didn’t she?” Kol asked. “It didn’t kill her. I’ll be fine in time to leave. What are our next moves with the Pacific Alliance? How long do I have to get ready?”

“There’s no way to know,” Max said. “The Alliance has a huge amount of cleanup to attend to before they worry about us, but after this morning, I think there’s a real sense of urgency. We don’t have infinite time to send coded telegrams about what we know and what they’re willing to do for us.”

“Don’t have infinite time?” Kol sat up straighter and ignored the fresh wave of nausea. “What do you mean?”

“Helmont sent his knights to find us,” Duncan said. “Sorry, buddy, but the Baron knows what we did. He knows we betrayed them, and he’s putting a lot of effort into tracking us down.”

* * *

“Do you know how strict Orson is about power usage in here?” Jaleel entered the Aesir, carrying the few bags of Enoa’s things that had been taken to the Corwin infirmary room.

“Uh,” Enoa followed him back into the ship. “You didn’t need to carry all of the bags. I’m okay.” She wasn’t. She still found her mind wandering, thinking about nothing, zoning out, even mid-sentence, unless she fought to keep herself focused. But she was better faster, days faster than she’d expected.

Enoa also wasn’t sure how she felt about accepting constant help. Jaleel had been nothing but kind to her, but she’d known him only weeks. For all she knew, he had some ‘women are helpless’ complex. But that wasn’t likely with all of his sisters…

“Okay.” Jaleel turned around, his hands still full. “Where do you want everything?” Wesley flew from the cabin table and landed at Enoa’s feet. He chirped and gave her an expectant look.

“I have to redo everything.” Enoa hit the door switch. After what Orson had said earlier about the scientific interest in Kappa’s experiments, they definitely didn’t want Wesley leaving the ship where the Alliance forces could see him. “I guess, just put them all down between the bunk rooms, and I’ll get them cleaned up before Orson gets back from his meeting with those Alliance guys.”

She let Wesley sniff her fingers. “How are you, sweetie? You were worried about me? Aww, well I’m back. Yes, I am.”

“Hi, Wesley.” Jaleel walked further in the ship and dropped Enoa’s bags next to her door. “You’re sure you feel okay?” He had a strange expression on his face, like he was deeply worried, almost scared. Did she seem that unwell?

“I always go through this when I work too hard with the Shaping.” She opened her bunk door and threw the lightest of the three bags onto her bed. “I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. I just need to keep up with the training and stop skipping ahead to do all this high-level stuff I’m not ready for.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You have to take care of yourself.” He leaned against the wall, beside her door. “What would I do if you left me alone here? Everyone else we know on this adventure are grumpy old people.”

“Old people?” Enoa laughed. “Look out. Orson will send you back to work on the Solar Saver if you call him an old person.”

“Orson loves me. And why would he send me back? You call him old all the time.” Wesley flew over to Jaleel. He sat on the floor beside the aeropine.

“I don’t work for him, and I don’t really mean it.” She lifted the second bag. This one took effort. She needed both hands. Why would exertion of her mind make her this physically tired?

“He’s not old old,” Jaleel said. “But he’s definitely older than us. He scares me a little bit! I have to make my twenties count if I’m going to be like that in ten years, y’know?”

“I don’t think you just get like Orson. He fought robots in an apocalypse war. Hopefully we never have anything that bad to deal with.”

“It’s not the years, honey.” Jaleel tried to talk in an affected voice, but couldn’t keep a straight face. “It’s the mileage.”

“What’s that one from?” Enoa opened the second bag and removed the smaller bag of yesterday’s laundry. Then she slid her still-clean clothes back into drawers. “I’m assuming you, uh, that you don’t casually call women honey.”

“No!” Jaleel waved both hands. “My sisters would kill me. That’s from Indiana Jones, you know, the movies from the eighties.”

Stolen story; please report.

“I haven’t seen those,” she said. “Is that the one with the grave robber who runs into actual magic?”

“No, he’s an archaeologist and a professor. Well… you’re not totally wrong. But they’re fun movies. They’re kinda like hanging out with Orson, actually, without being in danger. We should watch them.”

“I don’t think I saw anything from before I was born, unless my aunt showed me, and she didn’t do much fantasy stuff.” Enoa turned to her last bag. She tried to lift it. The bag barely budged. She groaned and slid it across the floor. “Maybe because of her own life.”

“Indy does work for this shady government operation in the first one,” Jaleel said. “We should still watch those, though. That’s what I was getting to when we walked in here. I thought maybe we could watch some movies while you’re recuperating, but I don’t know anything about the ship’s power usage, and I hate taking advantage if we’re tight.”

“We can watch some movies, sure,” Enoa said. “I’m sure it’s fine, but we’ll check with Orson first, if you want.”

“We should totally start with Indiana Jones,” Jaleel said. “I have them on one of my hard drives. When I was little, I was one hundred percent sure it was based on a true story.” Enoa crouched down next to the last bag. “I’m sorry they’re all so full. I didn’t know what to take, and then Orson and I didn’t want to go through your personal stuff, so we had Eloise pack some of it, and I think you got double-packed.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “Maybe your Indiana Jones was real. Wasn’t one of those big blockbuster superhero movies about real people? I think I remember that…”

Enoa unzipped the third bag and saw a muted blue light, situated between her winter coat, boots, and a collection of books. It was the light of her bracelet. Did it activate when it was near her? Did it sense her? It couldn’t have been lit the whole time she was in the Corwin house. Or could it? She didn’t really know where it was receiving its power.

“That thing again,” Jaleel said.

Enoa pulled it free of the bag and read its latest hologram.

Congratulations Apprentice!

(new user), you have real potential! Your focus is great. You are doing vital work, advancing the understanding of this project. You are a credit to the Dreamthought Initiative.

After continued analysis, SITE protocols have determined that you have consistent skill. You are receiving +1 Rank and +5 Levels. This more accurately represents your strengths.

Your elevation will be reported to IHSA command. You can expect to hear from a program master or administrator soon, who will continue your training.

RANK: Rising Apprentice LEVEL: 12 SHAPE: Anemos MODE: Training

“Report my advancement to IHSA Command!” Enoa found Jaleel was leaning to the side to read the hologram. She was glad he was. As if sensing permission, he entered the bunk room and sat beside her and the device. Wesley followed after him. He flew up on the bunk and chattering, he watched them. “Maybe you were right about this thing.”

“The Hierarchia Command is all dead now.” Jaleel said. “They’re all dead now, right?”

“I think so.” Enoa turned the bracelet in her hands and the hologram faded away. “But I better find out if this thing is actually sending my information to someone.”

* * *

Investigating Researcher Three rarely left her office during shift hours. It was unorthodox to turn away from the feeds unless there was another pair of eyes to keep watch. The world was always in motion. Pieces were constantly moving across the board. It was imperative that all relevant data be recorded and processed.

But this was a specific situation, a rare situation, one that had happened only a handful of times, in decades. It could happen only so many times. A Legacy Scenario was taking place. The heir of Sucora Cloud was studying Anemos.

So IR-3 set her filing system to ‘automatic record’. She knew how many extra hours of work it would take to sift through her feeds. She was watching the Pacific Alliance response to the battle outside Littlefield, New Mexico. She was watching a manhunt in Patagonia, the search for a man who had murdered a general and three sections of his personal guard, before vanishing. She was watching a humanitarian mission in a disputed jungle in Southeast Asia, seeking a single name among thousands of refugees and aid workers and other tagalong travelers.

All these things would wait, because Enoa Cloud was coming into her own. For the first time, she had fought Shaper against Shaper. She had prevailed, wielding one of her predecessor’s signature techniques.

Journeyer Lyrid and the Dreamside Road Mission needed this information.

IR-3 printed the copy of the GARNET login in the Eta account, as well as the descriptions from the surviving Liberty Corps War Force personnel. The report would include medical records of a Major Rinlee, a profile of the Midnight Sight Fog, and eyewitness testimony of Enoa Cloud’s Bullet Rain. IR-3 bound the data in a report folder and took the lift down to the ground floor, descending through thirty other levels, all occupied by researchers with new data to be processed.

The Journeyers’ Cloister stood only yards from the transmission tower, but IR-3 had donned her heavy overcoat for the walk. The tower was the only structure that pierced the top of the almost-perfect geodesic dome. The dome protected the town and the research holdout, but wind crept inside, twisting down and around the tower, chilling the ground below.

IR-3 checked her jumpsuit clasps. She sometimes kept her regalia loosened, while at work, while spending hours alone at her station. If she wasn’t careful, her breath would steam up her own mask lenses.

No one was out to see IR-3, as she walked across the paved lot from the tower to the Cloister. No one would be out mid-shift, not between command structures, but that didn’t mean she was unseen.

The Journeyers’ Cloister had been converted from a mid-twentieth-century office building. It had been the height of sleek modernity in the nineteen sixties, a perfect parallelogram with tall, narrow windows.

The Cloister’s foyer had wood-grained walls and vinyl seating. Even the lighting looked like a relic from over half-a-century earlier. There appeared to be no doors, other than the entrance.

There was a check-in desk, tall enough that only the Coordinating Officer’s masked head was visible. The crimson-masked Coordinator glanced toward IR-3, as she entered the foyer.

“Designation?” The Coordinator spoke in a masculine voice.

“Investigating Researcher Three,” she said. “I have information for Journeyer Lyrid.”

“You have no appointment,” the Coordinator said. “Journeyer Lyrid is currently studying. She will not wish to be disturbed.”

“I have new information on a Legacy Case,” IR-3 said. “It is relevant to the Journeyer’s research.” She could say no more. The Coordinator would surely know as much.

“I will call for the Journeyer,” the Coordinator said. “Please, have a seat.”

IR-3 offered brief thanks and sat. She was mindful of her posture and her poise. She thought of her widower father, alone in the ranch house they shared, one of almost three hundred small, identical homes situated throughout the village grid. Once, before IR-3 learned to leave her civilian name behind her, she would have spent her waiting time messaging her father, checking on him.

But such a thing was not tolerated. IR-3 was not that man’s daughter. She served as a Foundation of the Future. Her father was safe and monitored and protected from the chaotic world that would surely have proven his doom. In return, his daughter surrendered herself and her time and her life. IR-3 fulfilled that compact, every day.

A panel of the flawless wood-grain slid aside. The room on the other end could not be seen, only perfect darkness. Journeyer Lyrid entered the foyer. She walked through the dark doorway and appeared in the harshly lit foyer.

Lyrid was dressed in crimson armor, head-to-toe, smooth armor that did not appear to match the contour of her body. Beneath it, she wore a strange garment, a tunic and attached cloak with some peculiar camouflaging quality. The cloth appeared black, but it blended into the wood-grain walls and the shadows cast along the floor. The fabric seemed to fade at the edges, as if Lyrid were only partly present in the room.

Lyrid’s mask – the mask of a Journeyer – had the same crimson color as the rest of her armor. It was the same design that all Contributors wore, plain metal with perfectly black lenses, in a simplified likeness of a human face. The masks ended just below the nose.

“What do you need, Researcher?” Lyrid asked. “You have one minute of my time.”

“Journeyer Lyrid.” IR-3 inclined her head. “Please accept my congratulations on your elevation. Your apprenticeship was…”

“I wasn’t exaggerating.” Lyrid stepped no closer. The open space behind her still gaped wide, pitch dark. “You now have fifty seconds.”

“I have a new report from a Legacy Case that concerns your ongoing mission,” IR-3 said. “I can say only so much.” She glanced at the Coordinator, who was looking nowhere in particular, mask facing forward, unmoving.

“Bring it here,” Lyrid commanded. IR-3 stepped forward and offered the Journeyer the printout of the Cloud file update. The Journeyer took the folder, unclasped it and read.

Up close, IR-3 could see the perfect crimson armor, unmarked, undamaged, with just a hint of shine to it. Perfect black and crimson covered Lyrid, except a thin silver cord. It hung, looped, from a hook on the Journeyer’s thigh armor.

IR-3 caught herself before she genuinely stared at the other woman. IR-3 only rarely saw the Journeyers or their master, the Master. A civilian might find the Journeyer’s armor uncanny and unnerving. An Investigating Researcher would not.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention.” Lyrid closed the folder.

“I apologize for the interruption,” IR-3 said.

“No need. This may be useful. Master Ruhland might yet decide to pursue the Dreamside Road, directly. And now, if he does, collecting Cloud’s key will be no challenge.”