Water and soil. That’s how you grow a garden in the desert. Given that Yole’s Spirine was separated from the nearest source of both water and soil by a thousand kilometers of sand, and because said source—that is, the town of Blacktree—was recently voided of life, Olm suspected Yole had an alternative, and perhaps, a uniquely unnatural means of enriching her garden.

Everything inside Yole’s place was warm, dew-covered, lush… and far too quiet. Olm could hear every scrape of the creature’s staff, several dozen paces ahead. He could hear individual drops of water falling from the branches and the leaves. It should have been a calming sound, like the soft rain after a heavy storm, but out here, in the middle of the desert, it frayed Olm’s nerves.

Or maybe it was the scent. He should have recognized it the moment the walls opened: a Dyssian smell. Coppery, like the taste of blood after getting punched in the mouth.

The smell was everywhere—in the dew that beaded on the flowers, and every blade of grass. In the soil, and in the artfully-meandering pathways. In the mist that swept down from the churning clouds above (white and cottony and absolutely alien to this part of the deep desert). The source of the scent was obvious: rising above the lush canopy, like some proud Grand-tree looking down on all his growing progeny, stood the Spirine itself, an imposing magnificence of pale and red-shining metal, whose twisting branches were laced with silver and chrome. Was it a bad sign that, while every other Spirine on New Nowhere had been nearly obsidian in color, this one shone a burnished red in the sunlight?

Everything Dyss is a bad sign, Olm thought.

The truth was, without the Dead One’s ruins, there would be no Synod—no hyperlanes to connect the vast, impossible stretches of space together, no city-sized repuslors that kept the Crown Cities afloat, and none of those prehistoric, architectural mysteries that littered the frontier clusters, still waiting to be discovered. Thus, the Dyssian ruins, the lanes and the city engines, and even the Spirines themselves, were a necessary evil. Still, it left a bad taste in his mouth, and a throbbing headache in his skull.

Some, like the Daedons, believed they could actually speak with a few of the more well-preserved ruins. They had even brought one or two to life, though, now, most people stayed far away from the remains of those planets…

Most of the Synodic species cultivated a fearful awe of Dyssian remains and their insidious secrets. Those that didn’t often became lessons for young Synodic children everywhere. Visceral lessons. Don’t upset the Dead Ones, and they won’t upset you. Simple as that.

During the ill-fated uprising of the Greater Rimward Gyriphate, Olm had been on a ship sent to support the negotiations. The negotiations featured an exceptionally diplomatic tonnage of nuclear and kinetic munitions, delivered (in good faith, of course) through a series of bombardments designed to pacify large swathes of the rebelling population.

The traitor-Gyriph himself, who was not greatly persuaded by these negotiations, and who also happened to have a Dyssian artifact embedded in the crust of his Capital planet, threatened to take drastic action if the bombardments did not immediately cease.

This threat was considered, under the ESCC code, chapter 113b, “an intergalactic act of terrorism,” which meant the moment the threat was delivered, the Synod no longer had to abide by standard peaceful negotiation tactics (like nukes and precision-dropped titanium rods), and could instead resort to more militaristic means, such as those orbital “burn it all” lasers and significantly-larger-and-less-precise titanium rods.

Escalation put the traitor-Gyriph in a corner. Somehow, he had figured out how to partially activate the Dyssian structure, which, by all accounts, had been nothing more than an oddly-shaped metal triangle, seven-hundred kilometers across, embedded at the intersection of three continents like a planet-sized staple. How the Gyriph activated it, and if he knew what it would do, these questions were never answered. But the effect was immediate: half the orbiting Synod fleet was obliterated in the blast. As for the planet, it looked like someone had taken a bite out of an apple with a particularly molten core. Strings of magma spooled around the planet like strands of liquid-hot sugar.

Even the most mundane of Dyssian relics were said to be packed with volatile and, according to some sects of science, malevolent energies, designed to induce change upon any piece of matter (including a sentient mind) that lingered too long in their presence. Olm subscribed very much to this school of thinking.

And yet, here he stood, in the shadow of the only Spirine that he’d ever seen breathe. At least, that’s what it looked like it was doing: cloud poured up from the branches which, the longer he stared, the more they seemed to change, to grow.

Yet the water played in the fountains and burbled in the bonds, and the trees of the garden swayed, as if this were Lost Paradise itself. Indeed, though some of the plants here were strange, like the jagged lilies that sat on the water, or the floating roots that made green spiderwebs across the surface, trapping ripples in their polygonal shapes, none of the flora showed any signs of Dyssian corruption. Nothing but that void-damned scent that made his head feel like it was splitting open.

“Taws,” Olm said.

The human had his nose pressed into a cluster of blood-orange flowers.

“Taws,” Olm growled.

“Who?”

“Stay alert.”

He snapped to attention. There was a dusting of pollen on his nose. “Frosty as a snowman!”

“I have no idea what that means—and no,” He put a hand up to stop the human, who had opened his mouth to explain, “I don’t need to know, either. Just be ready.”

Taws snapped a salute. Then, his face twisted. It looked like he was holding back a sneeze.

Olm eyed him warily. “Right. Let’s find Caly.”

They came to a split in the stonework path. It wrapped around a circular garden bed which held a single plant: an enormous mass of thick, rainbow-colored stems that snaked around each other and had been sculpted, or grown, or whatever, into a shape that was probably supposed to resemble a crown, but looked more like an overly-decorated bear trap.

“There’s no way that came from this planet,” Taws said. “Who do you think’s taking care of all these plants anyway?” “Don’t know.”

“I haven’t seen any gardeners. And—and—Ah—AH-CHA!” A sneeze cannoned out of the human, loud enough to make Olm’s headache flash with pain.

“Urgh,” Olm grabbed his skull.

“Sorry,” Taws said, wiping his nose on his shirt. “You okay?”

“Always hurts when we get too close to the Spirines,” Olm said, and massaged his temple. “Damn Dead Ones. Maybe it’s just the smell.”

“Maybe it’s that hammering sound?”

“The what?”

“Underground.” Taws mock hammered at the air, in time with a sound only he could hear, “They’re really hitting something down there.”

Olm looked down. All he saw were lines of dirt between old stone pavers.

“I don’t hear anything.”

“It’s like a booming sound. There it is again.”

Olm eyed the human suspiciously. He put his ear to one of the trees, but all he could hear was the arrhythmic dripping of dew. Wonder if he’s feeling the touch of the Dyss, too. Everyone felt it a different way.

As if merely thinking about it could summon it, a wave of pain washed through Olm’s mind, making him wince. It almost had a sound with it, too, like the hollow ringing of some discordant bell, echoing through his subconscious. His stomachs fluttered with sudden, dizzying nausea. And then it passed.

Up ahead, Caly followed the creature through the mists. Dew beaded on her helmet, and on the prosthetic horns that jutted from her forehead. She was pretending not to be impressed by the sheer volume of greenery in the Queen’s desert garden, though Olm caught her quietly plucking a blue-capped flower from a vine, and raising it to her visor.

“I thought she didn’t have horns,” Taws said.

“She doesn’t,” Olm said, keeping his voice low even though she was out of hearing. “And she doesn’t like to talk about it.”

“She wears fake horns?”

“I wouldn’t call them that.”

Taws blinked at Olm. “They’re not fake?”

“They are,” Olm explained. “But I just wouldn’t call them that, especially not around her. She was born without them, brought shame to her House. Courans, ah, they take appearances seriously. So, when she left, she had prosthetic horns built into her helmet. When she wants to look like a couran, she brings them out.”

“What do you mean when she left?”

“Caly’s the daughter of a House, one that serves on the Mass Council. Or, well, she was, before she went into exile.”

“Because of her horns?”

“No. Well, yes. Well, hmm, courans don’t understand the meaning of the word ‘simple.’ Everything they do, every action, every little smile or shake of the head can hide layers of meaning.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“Oh, human, trust me. It is. For a long time, their nature prevented them from gaining any true power in the Synod, despite being on the Mass Council for a few thousand years. But over the last few centuries, they’ve grown. They used their influence to find allies in a vast array of unlikely species. Species the other Rings and Crowns discarded. There was room for them all in the Unity’s web. Urgh.”

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Olm wiped the sweat from his brow, as another wave of pain rolled through his head, but it was duller this time. Surprisingly, talking seemed to help. Usually, he and Caly were too focused on their work when they were this close to a Spirine.

The path snaked through garden beds, flourishing with alien plants. A few had been dug out, and left empty, but Olm saw no hint of the laborers responsible. Not even a gardening tool, forgotten in the dirt.

“So Caly’s from one of these Houses?”

“Not just any House,” Olm said. “One of the Ring Houses, Gavant. Some call it the House of Betrayers. Given that courans see political backstabbing as an art form, it’s a more prestigious title than you’d think. House Gavant pride themselves on their guile. Being born into a House like that, and being born without horns, you’d think Caly wouldn’t have lasted long. But her mother … was different. When Caly’s horns refused to grow, everyone thought her mother would, you know, remove her. Couran society expects it. Demands it, even.”

Taws clicked his tongue sourly.

“But Caly’s mother kept her. Had her trained, not just with the other Rings, but with the Crown Houses, too. The Matron, they said, had lost her mind. Old allies grew distant. Their enemies sensed weakness. In public, the Matron showered her daughter with attention, to the point that even Caly’s sisters grew jealous. But in private… the woman was different. Caly said she was cold. Distant. Once, Caly brought home her test scores. Highest in the class. Her mother didn’t even look up when she said, ‘Those children are idiots. Why should you be proud to be their queen?’”

“Harsh, but doesn’t sound that bad.”

“Then, she had the servants remove Caly’s bed from her room. Made her sleep on the stone for a month. For doing well.”

“Ah.”

“The courans have a twisted sense of society. The higher you go, the more twisted it gets. Caly’s mother was Matron of a Ring House. Can’t get much higher, without being on the Crown itself. But to the outside world, she appeared to be the most loving mother a child could ask for. They thought the Matron loved Caly. So, they did what any self-respecting couran would do, and tried to use Caly to strike at her mother. She’s got stories about people who threatened her, tried to deceive her, or pretended to be her closest friends. Wanted to use her against the Matron.”

“They didn’t know the Matron was using Caly against them…”

Olm nodded.

“So, her mother used Caly as bait?”

“From the day she was born.”

“All because of the horns.”

“All because of the horns.”

“And Caly didn’t know?”

“It’s complicated. You’d be surprised what kinds of lies kids will tell themselves, when it comes to your own mother.”

“Oh,” Taws said, suddenly solemn. “I understand.”

Olm raised a stony eyebrow at him.

“Why come all the way to New Nowhere?” Taws asked. “If she was a couran noble, she could have gone anywhere. Billions of planets in the Synod. There are a lot of options out there.”

“Maybe for some,” Olm said. “Not for Caly. I don’t know if it's a couran thing, a family thing, or just a Caly thing, but she says, ‘You’re not couran if you’re not the best.’ For her, there’s only one path: to join the Cavaliers, the greatest—and most independent—authority in the Synod. She sees it as a gateway back to her old House.”

“She wants to go back?”

“Of course.”

“What do you mean, ‘of course?’ Her mother raised her as bait in a political trap.”

“Look, human, courans are complicated.”

“Sound pretty simple to me.”

“That’s what I used to—” Olm stopped and crouched behind a flourishing bush. He pointed through the foliage, and lowered his voice. “Found your gardeners.”

Halfway across the garden, past Caly and the Queen’s creature, twenty or so xenos, all in the same tan, shapeless uniform, worked in a fresh garden bed. Most of them were couranoid—pioneer folk, or ranchers who had come to New Nowhere for the cheap land—though Olm thought he saw a few blue-furred rungen working alongside a razor-mouthed arbarix. Odd, given that arbarix were legally not allowed within three systems of the rungen, due to their evolutionary propensity to embed their lethally parasitic eggs in rungen newborns. Yet, here they were, with the insectoid arbarix carefully tipping over a wheelbarrow with its elongated, multi-jointed forearms, and the two bear-like rungen spreading the dirt.

“They look so peaceful,” the human said. Maybe he spoke too loud, because one of the xenos stopped, and looked at Taws.

Then, so did all the others. Each of their heads, as if they were connected to the same swivel, turned toward Taws.

“Uh.”

None of them had eyes, for their eye sockets were filled with the same bulging, black obsidian.

“I think they can see me,” Taws said out of the corner of his mouth.

“How can you tell?”

Taws lifted one hand and waved slowly. In perfect, synchronized imitation, twenty xeno hands waved back.

“Oh.”

The xenos were missing more than eyes: fingers, hands, limbs, or chunks of flesh, all replaced with that strange obsidian metal shaped into new appendages. Someone had done their best to imitate the limbs they’d lost, but their best either wasn’t very good, or they hadn’t tried very hard. Branch-like arms jutted out from frayed sleeves, and fingers that looked more like forked twigs clasped around the handles of their shovels. One had a torso that sprouted a set of skittering crawlers better suited to crawling up walls than the standard horizontal forms of locomotion.

“That is cursed,” Olm suppressed a shiver.

“Maybe they prefer being like that?” The human said, weakly hopeful.

A third voice answered, “Oh, yesss. We most definitely do.”

“How do you know?” Taws asked.

“How do I know what?” Olm said.

Slowly, human and hrutskuld turned. A third face was wedged between them, with great bulbous obsidian orbs bugging out of her eye sockets, one fixed on Taws and the other on Olm.

“Uh,” Taws said. “Hello.”

She had a large overbite, with lip tentacles that trembled when she spoke.

“Hellooo,” she cooed wetly.

The xenos across the garden echoed her word in a unified drone, “Hello.”

“Uhm. Hi there,” Taws said.

“Hiii there.”

“Hi there.”

Olm pulled the human aside, “Would you stop?”

“They seem friendly.”

“What happened to staying alert?”

“Weee are friendly,” Olm hadn’t noticed the xeno creeping over his other ear, close enough that he could feel her tentacles. It made his skin crawl.

“Would you mind, uh, giving us some space?” Olm grumbled.

“There is space for everyone in the Queen’s garden. Safe and happy and freee.” Her lip tentacles wriggled, and she wrapped her arms around herself in what might’ve been a blissful show of self-content, except Olm couldn’t help but notice how both her arms had been severed at the elbows and replaced with what could only be described as multipurpose gardening tools made of Dyssian metal. The pointy shovels could probably dig a hole as easily as they could poke out an eyeball. Probably a good thing she doesn’t have any eyes.

“So, you like being here?” Taws asked.

“Where else should we like to beee?”

“What about your home? Didn’t you have friends before you came here?”

“We have always been here.” The xeno’s mouth tentacles twitched uncertainly. “Haven’t we?”

“Yeah, okay, that’s nice, good talking to you. See you around.” Olm grabbed the human by the arm. For such a slender xeno, the human was surprisingly hard to move.

“You had to have come from outside the walls,” Taws insisted.

She clacked her garden-tool arms together nervously. “W-what do you mean outssside the walls?”

“You know, out there. One of the towns on the border. Blacktree? Or Piedra? Or maybe Little Point?”

Her head twitched to the side, like something had cracked inside her neck. “Little… Point…?”

And from across the small ponds, the convoy of gardeners echoed the name, “Little Point…”

“No,” Olm shook his head. “We are not doing this.”

“Doing what?” Taws asked.

“Whatever it is you think you’re doing.”

“I just wanted to see—”

“I remember… Little Point…” She was looking down at her gardening-tool arms, like she’d never seen them before. “I remember…”

“That’s nice,” Olm said, grabbing Taws by the shoulders and steering him away. “Have a nice day.”

Taws waved at all the xenos. This time, only a few waved back. The rest stared down at the dirt like they couldn’t remember where they were, or how they’d gotten there.

“We’ve got a mission,” Olm growled. “And it has nothing to do with them.”

“But they’re—”

“They’re gone, Taws. You can’t help them.”

“Who would do that to them?” Taws said.

“Cruel world. Lots of cruel people.”

“No, I mean, it’s got to be expensive using people like that. You have to feed them. Keep them sheltered. Keep them alive. Why not use bots instead?”

Olm stopped in mid-stride. It was actually a good question. People were complicated, and messy, and had a tendency to break down. A half-way decent farming combine could replant this whole garden in a matter of days. So why use people?

“Maybe the Queen likes the company,” Olm said. Behind him, some of the mindless gardeners were still waving at the empty spot where Olm and Taws had been standing.

A glossy, reverberating note chimed over the garden. The sound sent a lance of pain through Olm’s skull, almost doubling him over.

Up ahead, a ramp spilled out of a hollow in the Spirine’s trunk, like some great red tongue. At the base of the ramp, the Queen’s creature fell to the stones, prostrating itself. Caly knelt down, too. Marching footsteps made their way down the ramp and a dozen xenos emerged from the obsidian entrance. Each one had obsidian eyes and obsidian limbs, and strained under the weight of a glittering litter upon which was seated a xeno who wore cascades of shining silks, and white-gold beads and bracelets and gems shaped like eyes that flashed in the sunlight. A crown jutted up from her head, adding a full head of height to her stately posture.

“So,” Taws said, “You think that’s the Queen?”

“Yes. Yes I do.”

Caly, already kneeling at the foot of the ramp, bowed until her helmet’s prosthetic horns brushed the surface of the ramp. The Queen stepped down from her litter, yet all the hunched xenos remained hunched, as if their bodies were designed only for the purpose of carrying her.

Her aged hair was still long and black and luxurious. Her eyes were bluer-than-blue, like pale gems, and they flashed with the thousands of jewels threaded into her chains and necklaces. Her crown—

“Uh oh,” Olm said.

“What?”

The Queen wasn’t wearing a crown. Upon her head, twisted and delicate, engraved with jewels and leafed with gold, a majestic set of—

“Taws, I think we’d better kneel.”

“Just because she’s got a big hat?”

“Those are her horns, human,” Olm whispered urgently. “The Queen is couran.”

“That’s good news, right? Her and Caly will get along.”

“It’s not Caly I’m worried about. We’d better kneel.”

“Why’s that?”

“You haven’t met many couran nobles, have you?”