PART ONE

> Join Me if you want happiness. Join Me if you are afraid. I accept you as you are; the Majority never will. Come to Me.

- Thomas “the Betrayer” broadcasting to anyone orbiting his mind

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Cherise sat curled up in a stone window seat, gazing at the rain-sodden city.

Few hover vehicles or electric lights graced this neighborhood. At night, the maze of alleyways looked a lot like the Alashani underground, each storefront dotted by the glow of a gas lamp. Hand-painted signs marked the doorway of a toy shop, a jeweler, a tea cafe.

Except the streets were mud instead of stone.

The air smelled fecund, like New Hampshire in early summer. Swarms of alien frogs chirruped an eerie, overlapping song in the distance.

Cherise wished she dared to explore the natural wonders and beauty of the rest of this planet. If she wanted to plan an expedition … well, she supposed she could ask Thomas. He probably had memorized a complete catalogue of the indigenous wildlife.

He had chosen this world. He had selected the site of this city, without deigning to gather input from anyone else.

Many citizens of Freedomland had nicknamed it Ariock’s City. They believed that Ariock was in charge, with Kessa as his close confidante.

Cherise knew better.

Ariock kept winning battles, but every battle was strategized by Thomas. Ariock led the war councils, but he deferred to Thomas. No doubt Ariock believed it was sensible to trust a super-genius who never lied.

Cherise could have said otherwise.

“All this water.” Flen joined her by the window. He spoke in the slave tongue, since that was the language they had in common. Cherise had not learned the shani language, and Flen had no time to learn English.

He inhaled the night air with a look of wonder. “It’s potable?”

“It is,” Cherise confirmed.

Flen held out his palms to catch rain. “It just pours and pours from that ...” He gazed upward. “Sky?”

His people had no native words for the sky, or weather, or anything related to oceans, or a lot of things. They were too proud to admit ignorance, but they were beginning to infuse slave words into the shani language.

“Yes.” Cherise felt cozy in her leggings and woolen wrap.

She had overheard some of the albinos claim that rain was actually tears. They said the Lady of Sorrow wept for every person who had died in the annihilation of the Torth Homeworld.

Cherise doubted that the winged Lady felt that much remorse for the destruction which she had wrought.

“It is called ‘rain’ in my language,” Cherise explained. “It is as natural to my people as stalactites and mushrooms are to you.”

“This ‘rain’ happened in paradise?” Flen was incredulous.

Cherise wished Flen would come to one of her classes, just once. His conceptualization of Earth was so wrong, it bordered on comical.

“Well, we lived in houses that had better protection than this,” she explained. Panes of glass were too complicated to easily describe.

A pathetic coughing sound came from the courtyard below.

Four zombified Torth stood down there. As far as Cherise could tell, sentry duty was the only thing they did. She had never seen them take a break. When she had asked Flen whether they ever slept or used a bathroom, he had scoffed. “What are they, infants? We should not have to care for them like they are invalids.”

Cherise had almost argued.

But she and Flen were arguing too much, lately. And he was not responsible for the zombified minions. Their deplorable state was not his fault. If Cherise wanted to accurately place blame for the zombies, she reminded herself that Thomas was the root of it all.

“How does your new armor feel?” Cherise admired Flen’s lithe, slender body in the smooth black outfit.

He grinned and flexed. “I look powerful. Don’t I?”

“You do,” Cherise said approvingly.

Flen’s hair was like cotton fluff. His skin used to be the same moonlight hue, but it had turned ruddy. He burned in sunlight worse than Thomas ever had.

His physique, however…

The armor was custom-molded to fit his compact frame, cut from the same ionized polymer material that Torth military ranks wore into battle. Now Flen would be able to walk through fireballs and withstand extreme temperatures, just like the Dovanacks. Any weapon that was programmed to avoid Torth targets would also find Flen to be an impossible target.

It was a vast improvement over the leatherwork that Flen’s people used to cobble together.

“It is comfortable to move around in,” Flen admitted. “I just can’t figure out where to put the talky device.” He held up a tiny speaker pin. It was probably magnetized.

“Oh. They make earpiece versions, you know.” Cherise tugged her thick back hair aside, showing off the crescent hooked over her ear. Pretty beads decorated the device. “A lot of jewelry vendors are selling them.”

“You wear it next to your skin?” Flen said with distaste.

Cherise did not display her communicator wristwatch, which was hidden under her sleeve. The beaded bracelet included a screen, which allowed her to browse broadcasts which were live-streamed from the Academy. She could even select and call personal contacts. It worked a lot like a phone.

The latest generation of communicators had crystal clear audio quality. Lots of aliens were using them.

But not Alashani.

Flen distrusted any technology that made recordings or livestreams possible. It was all evil rekveh magic, to him.

Even if it was created by free people, for free people.

That was what infuriated Cherise the most about Flen’s attitude. He claimed that he loved her. He said that he was infatuated with her angelic beauty. Clearly, he had no problems making love to a human from paradise. And when they were in bed together? He was good at making Cherise feel like a goddess.

But apart from their bedroom activities, he acted just like all the other superstitious albinos.

Alashani mothers dragged their children across a street in order to avoid Cherise. Every time that happened, Cherise would painstakingly reassure them. “I am a human,” she would say. “I cannot read minds. I promise. I teach classes at the Academy. Please come, and I will teach you about a world without Torth.”

Flen claimed to love her, yet even so … it was as if part of him, deep down, believed that he was dating a weirdly friendly penitent Torth.

Not that he would admit that out loud. The one time Cherise had brought up her suspicion, Flen had furiously defended himself. That had been their worst fight ever. They had been screaming at each other, tears streaming down their faces.

“I guess I am supposed to stick this talky thing inside my helmet?” Flen looked sour about it.

“Yes. A lot of people use them.” Cherise removed her earpiece. “We can link our communicators. That way, whenever you’re in Freedomland, we’ll be able to call each other.” Flen did not know how to read or write, like most shani, so written messages and texts were an impossibility. “We won’t be stuck leaving messages for each other with Haz or whoever…”

She trailed off, interrupted by choking, wheezing sounds from the courtyard.

One of the zombified Torth down there had fallen. It looked like a female, clad in a bodysuit that was probably stained and stinking. She lay curled on her side in the mud, choking.

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She looked and sounded exactly like a suffering human.

Cherise raced for the doorway, inwardly cursing her own misguided sympathies. It was a Torth. Not a human. Not a person.

And yet.

“Where are you going?” Flen didn’t even seem aware of the distant gasping sounds.

“I’ll be right back,” Cherise called.

She barreled through a corridor of rough-hewn stone, then down a spiral ramp, wide enough for two or three nussians abreast. Everything Ariock built was cavernous. The War Complex looked like a collection of squared-off mountains from the outside, much like the Academy buildings.

Cherise considered tapping her wristwatch to dial emergency medical services. But who would lift a finger to help a zombified Rosy Rank or Servant of All?

It would do no good, Cherise knew. Any medic would take one look and refuse to render aid. If she asked a medical team to rush out here, in the rain, through alleyways, perhaps taking a hovercart from someone who actually needed it … they would blame the human for the waste of time and resources.

That would likely pile on more nasty rumors about humans. Supposedly, Cherise and Vy were secret mind readers, with secret hidden powers.

Cherise splashed into the muddy courtyard. Three zombies remained standing, their faces gray, their lips swollen and discolored. The fourth lay unmoving.

Cherise knelt by the fallen one.

She had seen friends blown to bits or devoured alive. Even so, she recoiled from the fallen Torth. Her face was gruesome. No visible pupils or irises. The woman appeared to have choked to death on her own swollen tongue.

Cherise checked the zombified woman’s neck for a pulse. Nothing.

Then her wrist.

The woman was dead.

Cherise stood, her hair and woolens drenched with rain. It felt awkward to be sympathetic towards an empty shell of a person who used to think of herself a god. Servants of All tended to be merciless. The fallen zombie had probably murdered people for no reason other than her own sadistic whims, back when she’d had a working brain.

Maybe her fate here was karmic justice.

But free will—freedom of choice—somehow made all the difference, to Cherise.

“Cherise?” Flen rushed into the rain, protected by his wide-brimmed hat and his armor. “Darling.” He wrapped his arms protectively around her. “What are you doing?”

Cherise looked around for a pail, or anything which could be used to gather rainwater. “The zombified victims must be thirsty,” she explained. “And tired. Who’s in charge of them?”

Flen let go of her.

“How long have they been standing in the rain?” Cherise asked. “I’ve seen them here for days. Has anyone thought to command them to take breaks?”

“The rekveh said they would be self-sufficient enough,” Flen said.

“But they don’t have free will,” Cherise said. “They’ll still need commands for certain things.”

“Then they’re more trouble than they’re worth,” Flen said with disgust.

“They still need basic necessities,” Cherise insisted. “Like sleep. And food and water.”

“They are standing in this weather.” Flen faced the remaining three zombies, exasperated. “Drink sky water!”

They tipped their heads back. Rain fell on their tongues, and they made sick swallowing sounds.

“Isn’t that pathetic?” Flen put his armored hands on his hips. “I’ve heard of one that went blind because no one told it to blink. They relieve themselves like animals unless we order them not to. And then we lose them because they take the order too literally.”

“That’s sad.” Cherise stared at the zombies as they struggled to drink rain. At least she used to be able to defy her Ma in small ways. These zombified victims were worse off than slaves. One of them had died of thirst in a downpour. They were more helpless than infants.

“You are too kind-hearted,” Flen told her. “The only person who wants these useless creatures around is the skinny little rekveh who is secretly puppeteering everyone in power!”

He was referring to Thomas.

Cherise rolled her eyes. She had problems with Thomas—he had never apologized for torturing her—yet she doubted that he was evil. How many times did Thomas need to win battles and save cities to prove that he was on the side of the good guys?

He had saved Cherise, once.

She had saved him, as well. They were even.

Anyhow, Thomas was a hybrid, like Garrett, not wholly a Torth. His unknown biological father—a victim of Torth rape, no doubt—must have graced him with some non-negligible amount of human compassion.

Flen saw her unspoken skepticism about Thomas. He tightened his jaw, no doubt suppressing his own arguments.

“I agree that what he is doing to the Torth prisoners is wrong,” Cherise admitted in a placating tone. “It’s sick. No one deserves to become…” She gestured at the zombified victims. “What they are.”

“Oh, they deserve it,” Flen said stubbornly.

Cherise lowered her gaze, aware that Flen had powers. Sometimes he caused things to float when he got enraged.

“This is the exact same sort of demon that enslaved my mother.” Flen pointed at one of the gaping zombies. “And my sister. This is the evil that murders everything good. This is the reason I don’t have a family anymore!”

He drew back his leg, looking mighty in his compact armor. And he kicked the zombified Torth woman.

Hard.

The helpless victim staggered. Yet she continued to gape at the sky, catching rain on her tongue. They were as mindless as pumpkins.

“Stop,” Cherise said. “Don’t hurt her.”

Flen slammed his armored fist into the woman’s stomach, hard enough to make her fall, doubled over.

“Stop, Flen!” Cherise wondered if he was aware that the victim he was beating up looked somewhat like his girlfriend. The zombified Torth had black hair, and a skin tone that was similar to Cherise’s.

“Kill yourself!” Flen yelled at the fallen victim. “Choke yourself, the way your evil slave collars choke slaves to death!”

The victim obeyed, of course.

Cherise could not imagine what thoughts, if any, went through the victim’s damaged mind. The command was stronger than whatever survival instincts her body had left. She wrapped her hands around her own throat and began to gag.

“What is wrong with you?” Cherise screamed at Flen. Her rage surprised even herself. “They’re helpless! And they feel pain! You need to tell her to stop!” She shifted her attention to the victim. “Stop! Please stop!”

But the victim was brainwashed to only obey warriors. She would not, and did not, obey Cherise.

“They deserve suffering and death,” Flen said.

No pity. No mercy.

And Flen was not the only warrior who treated the zombified prisoners as if they were still capable of doing harm.

Cherise whirled and stalked away through the mud. She would never approve of brutalizing a helpless person, no matter what sort of monster that person used to be. She wanted to explain dehumanization. Maybe she should teach classes on why her culture had abandoned torture and excessively cruel punishments, even for the worst criminals. A lot of people in Freedomland could use education about human rights.

Flen never imagined that he was doing evil things. To him, the bad guys were always Torth and the good guys were always Alashani. There was no nuance.

He had the nerve to accuse Thomas of being callous and unfeeling. Was he really that much better?

A female voice called in the echoey darkness of the foyer. “Cherise?”

There was Jinishta, leaning in an archway, her black civilian garb blending in with the shadows.

“Your zombies in the courtyard are dying,” Cherise said coldly. As the premier of premiers, Jinishta ought to feel responsibility for the brutality. “Someone should take charge of them.”

“I know,” Jinishta said in a mild tone. “It was supposed to be Vedlor. He took the night off without bothering to ask anyone to cover for him. I just found out. I will handle it.”

Cherise had nothing to say except for criticisms. She turned away.

“I saw you and Flen out there,” Jinishta said, her tone kinder than usual.

“I don’t care.” Cherise hurried towards the ramp upstairs. She wasn’t ready to endure more excuses for abuse towards former Torth.

Justifications for abuse were easy. Cherise’s Ma used to call her a spoiled brat, and worse. Ma would say anything to justify hitting or neglecting her own children.

“I know it is wrong,” Jinishta called.

Cherise stopped. She had never heard a warrior sound ashamed.

“This is not how I ever imagined battles against Torth,” Jinishta said. “I did not think we would use prisoners like this. It is dishonorable.”

They regarded each other in the dim foyer.

Maybe Jinishta could persuade Thomas to stop making zombies in the first place? Someone ought to.

“Flen is angry,” Jinishta said. “He lost his family. And his world.”

“I know.” Cherise remembered that Flen’s mother and sister were likely slaves right now.

In secret, she had begged Vy to ask Thomas to find them. The reply, relayed through Vy, did not bode well. Thomas claimed that the Alashani captives had been shipped to the Death Architect’s secret lair. Not even he could learn that location.

Flen sometimes begged for his mother in his sleep. He woke up weeping sometimes, and Cherise held him, letting him to cling to her.

She ought to be more sympathetic. Flen had good, valid reasons to want to hurt Torth.

Thomas did not have such an excuse. Nor could he claim ignorance. He, of all people, ought to know better.

So Cherise told herself.

“If you know it is wrong,” Cherise said, “then maybe you can ask Thomas to stop?”

Jinishta’s luminous eyes were anguished. “Cherise, I know that Thomas is not the evil rekveh my people believe him to be. None of us would be here without his aid.”

That was definitely an unpopular sentiment among Alashani. Cherise stared at Jinishta, wondering why she was confessing such a heretical opinion.

Jinishta lowered her voice. “We lose warriors in battles. There are fewer than eleven hundred of us left. And we are not replaceable.”

Cherise knew how overworked the warriors were. Flen barely had enough time to get intimate, between battles and fleeting hours of sleep. Although they had won every battle so far, anyone who understood the scope of the galaxy knew that this was only the beginning of a major war. There would be many bloody battles ahead.

“We are being carved away to nothingness,” Jinishta said. “I fear that we have lost our future as well as our world.”

Although she spoke with the poise of a warrior, fear underlay her words. Fear was in her eyes.

And Cherise understood. There were no Alashani in other cities. Most of the surviving Alashani lived here, in Freedomland. The albinos were a stark minority in contrast to ummins, nussians, govki, and even some of the more exotic sapients.

They had not been a large population to begin with. Extinction was on their minds.

“I am afraid that the zombified prisoners give us our only chance for survival,” Jinishta said, her shoulders bowed in shame. “We need them. We need even more of them.”

Cherise felt sick, thinking of shambling armies of brain-damaged victims.

“I don’t like what they are,” Jinishta admitted. “I am ashamed to use them. But we are learning to take better care of them. We can make them last longer. And if Thomas can speed up the production of them? Then the Alashani have a chance of survival.”

And warriors such as Flen would not have to die in battle.

This was a matter of survival, for the Alashani.

Cherise knew that she would feel the same despair if the survival of humankind was at stake. If it came down to a choice between the future of her species, versus the well-being of Torth strangers … well. She could not fault Jinishta or Flen for their preference.

“Thomas refuses to zombify more than ten prisoners per day,” Jinishta said. “He keeps making excuses.” Her tone became bitter. “My people are not his top priority.”

Cherise supposed that was true for Ariock as well as Thomas. Ariock’s great-great-grandmother had been Alashani, but he had closer ties to Earth, with a fully human mother.

“Would you please ask Thomas to zombify more prisoners for us?” Jinishta asked.

Cherise began to refuse.

“Or ask Vy to ask him?” Jinishta said. “Please?”

Cherise wondered if suffering was the only way to right the wrongs of the universe.

She almost wished she dared open up a conversation with Thomas, just to find out if he was disturbed by the zombified victims. Might he be searching for a reason to stop?

“You can help us.” Begging was not in Jinishta’s nature. She gently squeezed Cherise’s arm, and walked away.