The men huddled together in the village's sole street—a thoroughfare more out of habit than practicality in what remained of the last village in Andronian civilization. Their voices were hushed, so hushed that Denor, lurking nearby after ambling back into the place, caught little more than the odd murmur. But if Denor couldn’t make sense of their words, neither could the invaders (now diplomatically referred to as "occupiers," because that sounded slightly less like they were staying for good).

Snatches of conversation drifted his way, but Denor’s powers of deduction couldn’t piece together the topic. Ever curious, he edged closer until one of the men caught sight of him. Upon realising who approached the group fell silent with the speed of a book snapping shut. Denor had developed a Reputation, and idle chatter around him was dangerous. He ventured forward, asking, "What's going on?"

There was a pause. Not the polite kind, where everyone is thinking of how best to phrase something delicate, but the sort of pause that happens when everyone hopes someone else will take the proverbial bullet and interact with Denor on their behalf. Finally, one of the villagers, a man so small and brittle he looked as though a strong gust might carry him off, detached from the mass and muttered, "Best you hear it from your father, boy, not from us."

The frail man was quickly backed up by another, more robust villager who declared, "This is man’s business." The others nodded in agreement, a chorus of cowards if ever there was one.

The nerve of these men, treating him like the village idiot, no matter the village! He wasn't a child, and he was sick of being treated like one. As for the village idiot thing? Well, he’d show them an idiot!

Just as Denor was about to do something he might regret, (likely involving a severe bout of idiocy) a firm hand clamped down on his shoulder. It was Ledo, who had, like any good parent, materialized at the exact moment his offspring was about to cause trouble.

"And what’s all this, then?" Ledo asked, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the guilty-looking assembly while his voice took on a remarkably good impersonation of a police inspector.

The first villager gave a weak smile and beckoned Ledo over. "We’ll tell you, but we weren’t sure if Denor should hear."

"Stay here," Ledo commanded. Denor obeyed, watching as his father joined the group, and once again their conversation dropped to a murmur. He might have caught a word or two, had he not been so easily distracted by a passing Trunian soldier. He tried to look inconspicuous, which of course made him stand out like a sore thumb. By the time he turned back, his father’s face had gone from its usual stony expression to something altogether darker.

"You’re certain?" Ledo growled, his voice low and dangerous.

"That’s it," said the first villager, and the others nodded in a chorus of agreement.

“What’s it? What did I do now?” Denor asked. “I swear, I didn’t do anything to that chicken that it didn’t deserve!”

Ledo sighed, but to our hero’s shock it wasn’t over something he had done. "An ill business. A most ill business indeed. And yes, the boy should know." He fixed his son with a stare that could have cut stone. "Do you remember when the Trunian captain warned us about his commander, Stantych?"

"Yes, father," Denor replied, a sense of foreboding creeping up his spine. In truth he hadn’t been listening, so he was worried this might lead to further questions.

"Well, it seems the captain was telling the truth." Ledo spat on the ground, a gesture of pure disgust. "This Stantych, if the rumors are true—"

“Indeed, those rumours,” supplied Denor, hoping he would elaborate.

"They are," the villagers chimed in, also interrupting, but with the eagerness of men who were desperate to be the messengers that Ledo didn’t shoot.

"If these reports are true," Ledo said again, upgrading ‘rumour’ to ‘report’ with the sort of emphasis that makes a word stand up and salute.

“Yes, the reports…” Denor stated, clearly clued in to the subject.

"This Stantych has taken an Andronian girl and is threatening to set his Trunian dogs loose on the land if she doesn’t bend to his will."

Denor lapsed back into his trademark expression of confusion. "Why would he take a girl? Girls are noisy and useless."

The villagers burst into laughter, the kind that’s as much about the person laughing as it is about the joke. Denor, being Denor, smiled, entirely unaware that the joke was, in fact, him.

Ledo’s frown had deepened in the meantime, growing roots in the lines of his face. All he seemed to do was sigh or frown these days. "The girl is one of our own. A survivor from our village."

A survivor. Denor’s mood pivoted with the speed of a cracking whip. "Don’t you see? We must kill him! We must kill all of them!" He surged forward, eyes blazing with the kind of fury usually reserved for someone with plans for galactic domination. The grown men in the group, normally sturdy folk in day-to-day life, found themselves stepping right back into cowardice, because Denor, while still a boy in mind, had recently acquired a certain intensity to him, and a reputation of being the sort that was far tougher than he appeared. Not dying permanently will do that, and he wasn’t the respectable sort of not-dying like Charan, who had settled in the village like he belonged there and was a good neighbour.

"The day will come," Ledo declared, in that ominous tone that made people start checking their calendars. "The day will indeed come. But it is not today." Repetition was clearly key here, as Ledo had told Denor about this day and how it would most certainly come multiple times now.

The villagers nodded in unison, still eager to agree with everything the gunsmith said. Except for one, who had the Denoresque look of a man about to make a stupid mistake. "If your folk hadn’t been so eager to charge off to war when the Trunians first crossed our borders, there’d be more men from this village still walking around above the ground instead of resting under it."

Yup, that did sound awfully like something Denor had said, but even worse.

There was a silence, as the men collectively realised that this was one of theirs, and they were technically participants rather than an audience.

"By Tamet, we had to try to drive them out," Ledo snapped, the memory of battle sharpening his voice further. "We were this close to winning, too. If it hadn’t been for those damned Kilru, we’d have been celebrating instead of mourning. Are you suggesting the fight didn’t cost us enough? Or that we’ve got the strength to start all over again when we’ve barely finished burying our dead?"

"I’ve got the stomach for it!" Denor shouted, still full of vigour and pie, though what he lacked was anything resembling a battle plan, which might have been more useful if he intended to do more than yell.

As per usual, no one paid Denor much attention. The men were too busy picking sides in the argument, which was an integral part of village life when everything was cold and you couldn’t do much else. Nothing warmed the blood like getting into a heated debate. They lined up behind their favorites, more interested in winning than worrying about the Trunians turning their temporary outpost into something more permanent.

"What if it was a girl from here?" Denor demanded, his voice breaking the way young voices do when they’re trying to sound important but puberty won’t let them. "Would you still just stand there and argue?"

His words fell on deaf ears, or at least ears more concerned with the immediate satisfaction of being right than the long-term consequences of being wrong. And as the argument wore on, the shadow of the Trunian outpost grew longer on the village’s doorstep, unmoved by all the wagging tongues and plans of eventual rebellion.

Foggle the tinkerer watched on from a nearby hill, shaking his head in a suitably unimpressed fashion.

***

Confounded by the ignorance, Denor stormed off in the sort of way that only the truly frustrated can manage—attempting to make quite the scene, yet still going completely unnoticed. Ledo was far too preoccupied with jabbing his well-worn finger under the nose of another villager, a gesture that usually signaled the start of a pointless argument, one that our hero wasn’t going to participate in and one that your narrator isn’t going to cover. You know the sort, with lots of shouting and very few salient points.

So instead our hero stomped his way back to Tycho’s house, grabbed his blaster with a singular purpose, checked that it was charged, and immediately headed for the door.

Just as he was about to make his grand exit—a door-slamming, dramatic affair if there ever was one—his grandfather’s voice, full of the sort of calm authority that only old age or vast experience can give, called out, "Where are you off to, lad?"

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

"Into the forest," Denor muttered, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably as his anger betrayed him.

"Fetch a fresh flask first," Tycho asked alliteratively, making it the sort of grammatically peculiar tongue-twisting request that wasn’t negotiable. "And while you’re at it, what are the men bickering about now?"

Denor did as he was told, not because he particularly wanted to, but because defying one of the men responsible for training you was a level of stupidity he was actively trying to avoid these days. He also didn’t question why his grandfather, once a force of nature, was suddenly more of a gentle breeze. Instead, he supported him with an unsteady hand and held the flask to his lips, speaking of Stantych and the unfortunate girl who’d been kidnapped—though ‘unfortunate’ was probably the nicest thing anyone had called her lately.

Tycho sipped, sighed, and then got it splashed all over his face, Denor being as good with beverages as he was with acrobatics.

With the kind of spluttering resigned wisdom that comes from having seen far too much and being doused in too much alcohol, he remarked, "Her boldness likely brought this upon herself."

Denor hesitated, as one does when they know they’re about to poke a hornet’s nest. "The men blame the Trunian," he ventured, trying not to sound too much like he was contradicting the elder, because doing so was usually a quick way to lose an argument—and possibly a limb.

Tycho dismissed the concern with a wave of his hand. "Mark my words, it will end as I said," he declared, and then promptly began to cough with the enthusiasm of someone trying to dislodge a whole pinecone from their throat. Denor eased him back onto the pillow. The coughing fit passed and Tycho, now looking more like a bedridden king than a sick old man, dismissed him with a regal flick of the wrist. "You can go now. Leave me be. I’ll manage somehow," he insisted in a hoarse whisper.

"Grandfather—"

"Go!" Tycho commanded with his old gravelly tone that brooked no argument, and Denor, torn between his own machinations and fear of leaving his grandfather, decided to depart.

That evening, several Andronians went missing.

***

Nonor Mettis was the sort of man who didn’t quite fit the mold of the typical Andronian—mostly because he was too out of shape for it. He also had the audacity to leave the planet every now and then. A wandering merchant of dubious goods and even more dubious stories, he’d come back every season or two to visit Tycho and Hevath, the latter being one of the few souls who could sit through one of Nonor’s tales without feeling the need to strangle him.

He was just returning from one such journey when the news of the Trunian conquest on Andron VII reached him, as these things always do—at the most inconvenient time. When he was off-world and could do nothing about it! Nonor would have happily helped repel the invasion of course, but sadly his hands were tied with too many trade agreements! The others would just have to be understanding about this. Eventually, after all the fighting was done, he was halfway up the slopes and hauling his hovering goods cart. When he caught sight of the village he was immediately dismayed at the outpost it had been transformed into. Now he stood before Tycho and gave voice to that dismay, having received a rather unpleasant escort to the man’s door.

“Trunian soldiers, by Tamet!” he bellowed the moment he crossed the threshold. “Trunian soldiers! What in the name of all that’s holy are they doing here this far north? And why, by the nine moons of Andron, didn’t you drive them off?” His tone suggested that Tycho himself was personally responsible for the invasion.

Nonor of course had been off-world when it all happened, quite possibly due to negligence, laziness, or a general lack of enthusiasm for violence. He most certainly could not be blamed for not standing and fighting with his people! Not when there was merchandise that needed selling.

Tycho looked up from a flask that, if it had ever contained water, had long since repented of the idea. He scowled, a deep, rumbling sound that resonated from somewhere around his boots. “What are they doing here?” he repeated, his voice a good half-octave deeper than Nonor's and twice as gruff. “Whatever they want, I expect. As for why we didn’t drive them away—well, my son tried. They beat us, so now they do what they please.”

“A disgrace, that’s what it is,” grumbled Nonor, a man whose girth was as impressive as his sagging grey moustache. He had the look of someone who had seen better days, but was happy to forge some new ones at the expense of his body. “A downright disgrace, I say. Stopped me at the gate, rummaged through my things like I was some sort of pickpocket. Could’ve been robbed, murdered even, and who’d be the wiser? The general populace of the Empire’s blissfully ignorant of the invasion, all the Merchant’s Guild knows is that New Titania’s doing just fine.”

“Well, now you’ve got some fine news to share on your way back,” Tycho murmured, the words so dry they could’ve ignited. Nonor nodded sagely as though he hadn’t heard the irony, which he probably hadn’t. “Denor!” Tycho bellowed, his voice echoing through the rafters like a thunderclap. Then, louder still, “Denor! Where’s that boy got to?”

The sound of a calamitous impact with an inanimate object resonated through the walls of the house.

“Ah, there you are, finally. Nonor’s just arrived from New Titania. Fetch him a drink that could strip varnish and something solid to chew on.”

“Yes, grandfather,” Denor replied, all gangly limbs and youthful haste. “Welcome, Nonor.” He darted towards the back of the house for round two of crashing into things.

Nonor watched him go, a twinkle in his eye. “He’s already up to my shoulder, and what is he now? Fifteen?”

“Fourteen,” Tycho corrected, with the sort of pride that indicates some genetics were passed on successfully.

“By Tamet’s beard!” exclaimed Nonor, his jowls wobbling in admiration. “The lad’s more you than his father, that’s for sure.”

“I know,” Tycho said, his voice dropping to a murmur, as though the past had sidled up behind him and given him a thump on the back. “It wasn’t easy stopping him from enlisting. He thinks he’s a man now.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” Nonor said, with a sage nod. “But tell me, how did they manage to outfox you? I’ve seen a lot in my years, but nothing like this.”

Tycho shrugged, a movement that suggested the weight of the world had made itself at home on his shoulders. “You could ask my son, but he’s sealed up tighter than a drum. We didn’t send enough men, and they had Kilru with them, who picked the perfect moment to strike—perfect for them, disastrous for us. There aren’t enough folks left with the fire in their bellies to fight.”

“And the ones who are left are the ones who’ll suffer,” Nonor replied with a nod.

“Go ahead, spread the news across the galaxy,” Tycho said, waving a hand dismissively. “If anyone actually comes to our aid—” He broke off with a laugh that carried the bitterness of a people who stood alone. “That’d be a miracle. But since when has Tamet ever been in the miracle business? He’s more of a ‘sort it out yourself’ kind of god.”

Denor returned then, somehow balancing a tray with two flasks of something that smelled like it might burn a hole in the floor, alongside some bread that had seen better days, and a piece of meat that had been a luxury some time ago. “Thank you, boy,” said Nonor, then his eyes widened as he looked at the tray. “Tycho, you old rascal! You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble for the likes of me.”

“It’s no trouble, Nonor,” Tycho said, managing a smile that would’ve been more convincing if it hadn’t been interrupted by a coughing fit. His face turned a shade of purple that wasn’t found in nature, and flecks of blood spotted the back of his hand.

“Get to bed, Tycho,” came a growl from the doorway, where Ledo had appeared, no doubt fresh from another argument somewhere. He snatched one of the flasks from Denor’s tray without so much as a by-your-leave and took a swig that made his eyes water. “You’re doing yourself no good by staggering around like a half-dead Aurox.”

“I’m having a word with an old friend,” Tycho said, his voice steady with the kind of pride that usually precedes a fall.

Ledo ground his teeth in that way he had when he was about to say something regrettable, but held back. It was obvious to anyone with a pair of eyes that Tycho was more than ready to die on his feet just to make a point. As another cough rattled his grandfather’s frame, the boy asked, “Are you alright, grandfather?”

Tycho waved him off with impatience. “Look after our guest, both of you,” he said, his voice softening. “I’ll be fine. Though perhaps, yes, I’ll take that as my cue to head for bed.”

Denor grimaced, but when your grandfather is the sort of man who can wrestle you to the floor and make you obey, you obey. He’d always been better at it than Ledo, whose iron will had a nasty habit of smacking into things like Denor's own stubbornness.

Nonor, ever the diplomat, chose this moment to slice through the tension like a well-honed bread knife. "Tell me about these cursed Trunians. When I bump into my kinsman out there among the stars, I’ll need to have the facts lined up neatly or I’ll be facing questions with no answers—and that’s bad for business."

Ledo opened his mouth, but Denor’s words leaped out first: "It’s not just soldiers stomping around Andron VII. We’ve got settlers from New Titania too. They are taking this land for themselves, permanently."

Ledo nodded, his glare tracking the retreating form of Tycho as though he could set the man's back on fire just by wishing it, then confusion reigned as he realised he was agreeing with Denor. He got up from the stool he’d been occupying and called out to his father. "If you're not planning on heading back to bed, you might as well sit down here where we can all see you,” he stated to the man’s back. “Denor, fetch him another flask. Maybe it’ll put some fire back in his belly."

Denor rushed off, making for the kitchen to prepare another flask of the brew he wasn’t allowed to touch—a mix so vile, it made engine grease seem like a fine vintage. Tycho, not particularly eager but knowing when he was cornered, plonked himself down on the vacated stool, all the while Nonor watched him with gradual reappraisal. Arguing wasn’t on the menu tonight, not openly, at least.

“Here you are, Grandfather,” Denor said, returning with the dreaded flask.

“Thank you, boy.” Tycho accepted it with a nod.

Nonor, meanwhile, attacked his food like a man who hadn’t had a proper meal in years. When he was done, the bones picked clean and the crumbs mere memories, he licked his fingers, wiped them on his trousers, and nodded to his hosts. "Thank you kindly. You’ve outdone yourselves this time, especially with family in the mix. I wouldn’t know how to repay you for all this—these scraps must’ve cost a fortune!"

“Your company is payment enough,” Tycho managed to say before Ledo could jump in, doing his best to keep the peace.

Ledo, though, wasn’t having it. "If you really want to repay me, Nonor, spread the word. Let the galaxy know what’s gone on here."

"That was the plan," said Nonor with the air of a man who’d already put together a few headlines in his head. "I’ll do it for my own honor, but for yours too, if it makes you feel better."

The conversation rolled on, getting as dull as only a late-night chat with too much drink can get. Denor, being the only one still sober, felt his eyelids growing heavy and took that as his cue to retire.

But sleep wasn’t the escape it should’ve been. Denor lay there, blood boiling with thoughts of vengeance. He pictured the vile Trunian general Stantych, mistreating Gella—no longer just some faceless girl from his old village, but someone who’d taken root in his imagination. He dreamed of slicing through the general and all his cursed followers like a scythe through wheat. Or at least a lot of snow, in the absence of good crops.

But what about the rest of the Andronians? If these abductions continued, would they finally rise up? Surely their love of freedom would drive them to one last stand. If this last village fell, the entire Andronian race would be wiped off the star charts. Surely, they wouldn’t let that happen. Surely they would—

Denor’s thoughts drifted into troubled dreams as sleep claimed him, his snoring a restless echo of his turmoil.

Someone had to do something.