The Lone Soldier illuminates Kaskit’s streets, casting spotlights on dissenters. A shout echoes in the night, and then cheers form to life, bellowed from the mouths of the frustrated, the eager, and the ignored.

“Now’s our chance,” says a bald-headed grunt, street thugs crowding around him. “You saw it! I’m not the only one fed up here.”

June-Leckie keeps her head down. She knows intimately what the grunt means but chooses not to fan that flame. She walks past the congregation, sticking behind a group of Kaskit City Police that disperses the thugs.

“A single man,” murmurs one of the officers, continuing where the grunt left off. “And all those bodies.”

June wants to correct him then and there but stays quiet.

“You could just give them your job while you’re at it,” says another officer.

The banter continues as the men funnel into the back door of a terminal-side pub. Torches on sconces fight against the shadows. Smoke and conversation waft out the door. The inside scorches like Hyrnlak, sucking every ounce of water from June’s skin. She can’t believe her thoughts turn back to the Second Signature’s alcazar, the pleasure baths, the legions of servants who would be willing to wipe every milliliter of that sweat off of her while kissing her boots if she only just surrendered to incubation.

Tale Jethry’s KCP constable’s uniform, with its broad shoulders and buffed chest, accentuates a shred of masculinity in the man June will never appreciate. The men in the room look much the same, demanding respect simply through dress, clearly in positions of power. They seem hesitant to engage in deep conversation, perhaps only corresponding through letters, messengers, mycorrhizal, or even rumor, up to this point.

June takes a spot in the corner and counts the heads until the eleventh one enters. The curious eyes turn from each other to her, the hooded twelfth, the unwelcome, unspoken addition to a tight cadre that aims for the impossible. Tale pulls their attention away with a discussion on the outcome of the KCP’s raid on the Chant temple, but it is momentary, for the gazes slowly drift back to her and never leave.

When June is sure she has their attention, she pulls her hood off.

Clenched gasps. Chairs shuffle. A realization sinks across the table upon the faces of old, tired, fed-up men who want to see the First Signature fall.

“What?” she asks. “Never seen a woman before?” Come to think of it, maybe most of them haven’t.

She wishes she had grown her hair out enough to laze a ponytail on the table in the visage of a live snake, for it would have had the same effect on this audience. She is at least the first woman in their operation, a resource or a liability; they are unsure which. Her machete is in its holster, and though the ever-chivalrous Tale stands beside her, it matters little, for she could take all these men all at once.

Tale clears his throat. “Fellows.” He holds out a hand to her. “This is June-Leckie. A Thurmgeist in the Emergence Corps.”

The men do not rise or clap, but their nods and closed smiles are recognition enough. They are tougher than the soldiers the krab killed, at least: burns, scars, and pocks marring their skin, the work of Kaskitian thugs and Chant acolytes. Their sullen silence for her is all the respect she needs.

“The forerunner was a Thurmgeist,” one of them says. “You called it, eh?”

A second man bows his head, a frilling gray mustache taking up most of his face. “That was a joke, but she’s not just any Thurmgeist.” The man regards the room. “The incubator abductor herself.” He dips his chin toward her. “How many women did you poach from the vats?” He asks not with challenge but with genuine curiosity.

“Not enough,” June says, and nothing more. The further she stays out of everyone’s attention, the better.

“The doors and windows to the building were closed,” Tale explains. “A select few know of June’s involvement, and it will remain that way. Regardless, an entire city witnessed that industrial block burning, inspiring them. I know it. They will continue to hear that certain parties in this city are not content with waiting for solutions. Some are willing to fight now, not later.”

So much self-praise for this old group of men. June suspects there are weaknesses here—there always are. These men have probably overreached in their time and are prone to repeat it. Do not rush to rally before you’ve even reached the battlefield, a line in A Thurmgeist’s Lament goes, or something to that fashion. One of her girls had written it and sang it once, staring up at the Lone Soldier as if it would ask for an encore.

“And the Second Signature will have seen that fire, too,” says a conspirator, a squat man almost as fat as Gauss. “She won’t believe anyone in the KCP would have authorized such a blunt approach. She will connect the lines and see they lead straight to us.”

“I do not doubt that,” says Tale, “which is why we start gathering forces immediately. We have allies in many places. Let me do the talking. All of you stay where you are and keep your ducks in a row. Each of you will be called upon soon.”

‘Soon’ seems an unsatisfying answer to this audience. Likely, they’ve uttered it daily. Well, June supposes she can throw them a lifeline, issuing some reward for their years of effort. Five of which you were absent. She has yet to fill those gaps, that missing chunk of her life.

Nods across the table of understanding, hope, and excitement, but the tinge of skepticism cannot be shaken away easily. June feels the need to try. “We already know where the First Signature is,” she blurts out. “From someone that I, personally and professionally, have no reason to doubt and that none of you should either.” There. See what you do with that. They would be fiends to reject her notions.

None try, looking to Tale, who is equally shocked at hearing the fact for the first time. His words come slowly but hold the force of his continued devotion. “I trust her.” Of course, he would say that. “June would not lie about something as important as this to her.”

It stings that those words are the exact truth, that Tale would notice this bit about her and expose it to these strangers.

The eyes that turn from their leader back to her do so with less weight than before. Some backs straighten, some shoulders lift, but they’ve yet to see evidence that June speaks the truth. They will ask for a specific location, and she knows quite well that if she did such a thing, they would run to the alcazar themselves, absorbing volleys of musket fire in the hopes of laying even a glance on the First Signature. They would die like their failed attempts many times before.

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“I will make arrangements as well,” says an officer, “but we must have a hint. Is it a long journey? Do we have to traverse the ropeway lines? What about supplies? What about protection, for that matter?”

A tunnel from beneath the Second Signature’s mycorrhizal leads to a cavern beneath the alcazar, large enough to hold the First Signature and a small maligned contingent. They will rip you all to pieces if you strike now. Gauss’s words had been something to that effect, save for the last sentence—those are June’s calculations, and she believes they’re correct.

She stands, taking the room by its neck. “You need not go far,” she hints. “He’s in the city.”

Papers rustle, men mumble, but then come only calculated breaths as the men dwell over the repercussions of those words. One or two of them look abashed, then the mood jumps to the others, and soon, they all seem to want to put June on a pike for suggesting they are blind for not having seen the First Signature before. Men and their conclusions.

From his stare, June can tell that Tale, as always, believes her vehemently. She could have told him the First Signature was floating in the clouds, and he would have commissioned a flight of birds to carry him up there.

“Right under our noses,” says an officer, previously unspoken. “All this time.”

“Didn’t we all expect as much?” says a second. “Not as if we can get in, though. Every time we are overwhelmed. Same stuff since the riot. You all see how fast she squashed that.” The room does not respond to that point.

“We can arrange for a warrant,” says a third conspirator. “We can make it legal, say it’s something to do with…” He searches for a way to describe his plan but comes up short because it won’t work.

“You won’t get it,” confirms a fourth conspirator. “For Hells sake, she’s the Second Signature. She will dodge any legalese we throw her way. She is above the magistrates, the courts, the Smatter Council—everyone. No governing body in Salvarin can bend that little wretch.” The cuss seems to put an end to the possibility.

“What if this First Signature is a decoy?” asks an Ox-infused brute, bald as a baby with a bubbling voice not too far off. “Have you seen him in person yet, Thurmgeist?”

If I did, I would have skewered him, and we wouldn’t have this conversation. “I don’t need to,” June tells the adult-sized baby. She feels compelled to speak, to stand. “Come to think of it, why am I telling any of you this? You don’t have to believe me. I don’t need any of you. I can go there myself. I got in where you guys couldn’t—days ago and before when I plucked her incubators. I can do it again.” It wouldn’t be challenging to find that mycorrhizal chamber, nor to create a reasonable excuse for being away from the alcazar for so long. Once inside, who would stop her?

“Dear,” says a man at the opposite end of the table. He is the oldest among them, two canes dangling from the armrests of his chair. A scar runs up to his left eyelid, where a silver ball resides. “I served at the Abscess for sixty years. I have watched maligned kill twenty men each. I saw hammerhead bats bigger than the building in which you butchered those Chant acolytes. I watched valleys of flesh swallow entire platoons. I could do nothing but pour sap over my friends’ outstretched hands and ensure they burned.” Is his fake eye staring at her? “The First Signature will have those capabilities and more. It doesn’t matter if you’re a woman. He will find a way to protect himself. There are many ways to stop a Thurmgeist without hurting them.”

June has learned to respect some men in her time, and if she were more sympathetic today, this old crone would be one of them. She fights against the urge to tell him that the Second Signature’s alcazar is not the Abscess, and though the First Signature has enough maligned to stop these men, those creatures would do nothing against June. He would be safer in that continent-sized blister off Salvarin’s coast that the old man referred to.

“Maybe he will flee,” says Gauss’s fat almost-twin.

“If he does, we will know,” says the shortest officer in the room, whom June believes is standing on his chair, not sitting. “We have informants at every customs terminal, every airlock, every checkpoint towards Lamascus.”

“Even outside Kaskit,” Tale finishes. “Many towns beyond the enclosure are unhappy that they’re not underneath it.”

“They are useless,” says the conspirator with a mustache. “She has cut off immigration. No one’s allowed in the city. Something to do with the insurgencies that, at least I, did not explicitly order.”

None of the men confess to organizing those demonstrations.

June suppresses the urge to tell everyone why immigration would be cut off, for it’s clear to her. To contain the Inciter strand, in case anyone outside has it. She frowns. How would they?

“How will we know what to look for, anyway?” bumbles the baby officer. “No one’s seen the First Signature, so we don’t know if he’s a boy, a man, or somewhere in between. What’s their hair color? Eyes? Do they have eyes, or just something else to see out of? How can we distinguish him? It?” Everyone sees him glance at the veteran of the Abscess, who only nods back.

“Which is why we need to act quickly,” Tale reminds them, “but carefully. An assault on the First Signature will be against the Second as well. We must be ready for anything she will throw at us.”

“The numbers,” the conspirator on the stool reminds the room. “We don’t have the numbers yet.”

“We do,” Tale Jethry says, and the room focuses on him. “I assure you, I can bring down a force on the alcazar larger than she’d expect. Our attempts on the alcazar since the first riot have only served to probe her defenses. Every time those failed, we learned something new. Our next hit will be the last one.” He lets that point sink in. “I know I’m being vague, but that’s on purpose. Trust me.”

Despite the unclear nature of Tale’s words, the room eats it up, nodding all around. June feels the stretch of missing time now more than ever, for Tale would have needed it to gather that many supporters.

The old veteran grunts. “Her Entrusted will be a problem,” he says. “They are giant bipedal rhinoceros beetles. One is a weapons expert, and the other is a phalanx on legs. At least one of them is by her side at all times. The Decree does not protect them, but their devotion to the Second Signature is Written. They will die before they disobey her.”

June considers his words. “Why won’t we see them both?” It hasn’t occurred to her until now.

The old man’s nod is slow. “This is pure conjecture, but I believe it is because at least one must always guard something.”

June studies the ceiling. What could that be?

The comment earns whispers across the table and a knowing stare from Tale. He looks straight at June, raises an eyebrow, and the question becomes clear. Care to find out what that is?

That, and more. There is still the matter of those five years, which vanished when June learned from the Second Signature how long she had been away. How could such a relapse happen to anyone?

“What will we need?” asks the conspirator with the frilled mustache while looking between Tale and June.

Tale opens his mouth to answer, but June speaks first. “Explosives. The foundation is built of stone. Fire starters, too. The most potent we can find. Burn all those plants.” Perhaps these requirements are enough of a hint of the First Signature’s whereabouts. She will let the men draw their conclusions so long as they don’t run in and compromise the operation for everyone.

“What about a fire seed?” asks the bubbling baby.

“Stupid question,” says the old man. “Burn the whole enclosure? No. Vesh’Foktle and the Smatter have those on lockdown.”

The points slip as they delve into the logistics of administering a counter-offensive against the First Signature and, by extension, the Second. They discuss training efforts, meeting points, briberies, merchants to hire, people to assassinate should it be necessary, and all the while, June listens with half an ear, her head full of ghostly thoughts, full of the dying, full of fingernails scraping on stone, her Thurmgeist’s cheeks melding to the skin of the krab thing. They are all gone, aren’t they? Nothing but raw ground and maligned flesh on Hyrnlak now, and the soulless, turned husks that wander in a fate worse than death.

I am making a difference here, she thinks, assuring their ghosts. Yet even she can’t shake those haunting questions—five years unaccounted for, and no one knows the truth.

She will have to find out for herself.