Flen loosened his blood-spattered armor, trying to look less like a thuggish warrior and more like a pleasant man. It wasn’t easy to do that, these days.

Maybe that was why Cherise wanted to spend all day teaching rather than put her arms around him?

She seemed to believe her frivolous lessons were just as important as killing Torth. Her students were even more mystifying. Liberated slaves could mate or party without repercussions … and instead, they wanted to sit around and practice reading and writing?

It was so boring!

Well, they were aliens. At least shani showed more common sense.

“Hey, war hero!” a flirty maiden called to Flen from a balcony. “This decanter is too fizzy for us to finish alone.”

Her companion giggled. “Want to join us?”

The first one shrieked and gave her a slap on her bared shoulder.

Flen paused, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand. He ought to go home and have his reedy old chambermaid bathe him, and dress him in clean clothes. Tall buildings kept the streets in shadow, but even so, Flen disliked the huge, bright sky. Skies like this could burn one’s skin.

“I’m heading home,” Flen called back.

Even so, he hesitated. Not that he would betray Cherise—he had pledged himself to her, with a candlelight ceremony that he wished his parents and sister could have attended—but he had plans to go to the Mushy Grove Tavern after sundown.

Perhaps one casual drink beforehand would not hurt?

The “maidens” on the balcony wore big, fashionable hats to ward off the sunlight. They were as pale and as plump as mushrooms.

Sometimes Flen wondered if he had made a mistake in promising himself to an exotic angel from Earth, instead of an upper class Alashani maiden. Sometimes he had second thoughts about Cherise.

The ladies upstairs were likely insipid and dull. Most people seemed that way, to Flen. But at least they would be fully comprehensible to him. They would speak his language. They might even agree with his particular views about the war, and about what should be done with rekvehs. Cherise only got quiet and refused to talk about such matters.

He decided to check out the bar on the ground floor, just to see if he recognized anyone.

“Welcome to the Extra Notch.” The bouncer, a nussian, snorted and lowered his head in a sign of deference. “We do not charge war heroes at this fine establishment.”

Flen stopped cold in his tracks. Why had this tavern hired someone who wasn’t even a proper Alashani type of nussian?

The alien’s accent made it plain that he came from one of the newly liberated cities of Umdalkdul. He likely knew nothing about Alashani cultural values, despite working deep in a neighborhood full of albinos.

If this establishment was willing to hire non-Alashani, then they probably served “fusion” cuisine. Ugh. Flen was simply not in the mood for alien flavors. He had to consume fruit salads and stringy white meat for his meals, between battles. When he came home—or to this proxy of what home used to be—he wanted comfort food. He wanted fungus and cave fish. Why else would he stay within the borders of the main Alashani district?

“I just remembered something important I forgot to do,” Flen said politely. “Perhaps I will visit later. Thank you.”

He left.

The Mushy Grove, at least, adhered to unspoken rules in favor of Alashani purity. There were no aliens—former slaves or otherwise—in the tavern which Flen favored. If anyone entered who did not belong, a whisper network brought out the bouncers, and they would politely usher out the intruder.

Flen went home, first. He took care of personal hygiene with help from the old woman who used to be among his family’s household staff. He did not use his powers. After a battle in which he had killed two Torth and helped to collar more than five hundred of them, he wanted to be careful about depletion. His powers needed a chance to recover, so he could be fresh for yet another battle tomorrow.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

With his hair trimmed and his skin clean, he left the war fortress complex. He slouched through narrow streets, ignoring the creepily silent vehicles known as hovercarts. His frock coat was dark purple, matching the hue of his Yeresunsa mantle. People offered respectful greetings. Flen responded with rote politeness.

At least the people of this neighborhood understood what he was. Newly liberated slaves sometimes mistook him for a Torth, or some kind of strange Torth-like alien. They were never aware of how insulting that was.

The Mushy Grove Tavern evoked underground neighborhoods which no longer existed. Salt-rock columns divided the counters into sections. Hammered gold plates and trickling waterfalls reflected a wide array of flickering lamps and chandeliers that dripped with silver and gold. The multiple bar counters and shelves were illuminated by lamps carved to approximate the gills of mushrooms.

Flen took his usual place on a barstool along the counter at the far back wall.

“Your usual, Flen?” The bartender, a plump lady, slid a mug his way.

“Thanks.” Flen lifted the mushroom-cap lid to let the foam puff outward. He appreciated a tall drink of mead, even if it was brewed from the substandard mushrooms farmed on Reject-20.

He tried not to think about rekvehs harvesting the fungus he liked, touching it with their evil stinking hands.

Jobs like that still needed to get done. If only the overseers would get brave enough to simply shoot all the penitents, and replace them with a more wholesome labor force of former slaves and low class albinos.

No one was that brave.

Flen gulped down half the mead, pondering his own paradoxical courage as a war hero, against his utter lack of courage when it came to speaking up to Jinishta, or any of the battle leaders.

“I’m glad you are still finding your way here, Flen.” That mellifluous voice belonged to Councilor Yarl.

Like everyone, Yarl had lost his wealth in the destruction of the Alashani homeworld. Unlike many of them, Yarl had regained some of his former wealth by forging deals with friends of Kessa and various mayors and merchants. He had a knack for figuring out who needed what, and how best to provide it.

Yarl was easy to underestimate, since he lacked Yeresunsa powers. But Flen thought Yarl could read the currents that underlay society.

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“Word is,” Yarl said, “our forces liberated TriSolstice City today.” He studied Flen. “Another easy victory?”

Flen sipped mead. “Easy,” he said darkly.

Nothing in battle was as easy as it sounded in summary. One careless moment, and a warrior might get stung with an inhibitor micro-dart. Flen had to keep his awareness expanded constantly while in enemy territory. One could never be careful enough, even around liberated slaves.

That much wariness was draining. Only here, in his home district, could Flen finally relax and feel almost as normal as he used to feel.

“Well.” Yarl waited for the plump bartender to refill his drink. He took a surreptitious look around, surveying who might be within earshot.

Flen did the same. Unlike Yarl, he did not have to move his head or his eyes. He simply flared out his awareness.

Every Yeresunsa on the planet could detect the baseline power level which meant that Ariock or someone in his league was on this world. Ultra-powerful Yeresunsa distorted and disrupted the ordinary detection of life sparks. Even so, Flen could tell that he was the only Yeresunsa in the Mushy Grove bar. He was intimately familiar with his own personal sphere of influence. He would sense if anyone extraordinary moved into range.

He gave Yarl a nod. They were safe from eavesdroppers.

The tall councilor relaxed slightly. “Have you heard Henshta’s proposal?”

“I have,” Flen said. The loudness of the tavern masked their conversation, so he spoke his opinion with only a little caution. “Henshta is not thinking clearly. It is a relatively simple matter to find a cave system on this planet, in which we might make a new home. But finding caves is really not the obstacle we face.” He adjusted his Yeresunsa mantle, trying to convey what the obstacle truly was.

“The messiah.” Yarl nodded with a grave expression. “You are saying that he will not simply let you and other warriors go. That is what I think, too.”

Flen laughed bitterly. The scope of the problem seemed much larger than Ariock. “It is not just him. It is everyone in power. Jinishta. Kessa.” He sniffed, tasting dissatisfaction that was more sour than his mead. “And those rekvehs who pull their strings and make them dance.”

Yarl peered into his drink, as if searching for a solution.

Flen drank more mead. How could someone as intelligent as Yarl—a councilor, no less—believe that escaping this war would be easy?

There would be no reclamation of “lost cities,” as the ancient prophecy predicted. There could be no new home. Jinishta and Ariock and others had broken the Warrior’s Pact. They had failed to guard the sacred relics. They had failed to kill a rekveh in their midst.

Because of their failures, the Alashani were doomed. They were being whittled down, mere pawns in the scheme of a particularly dangerous and vicious rekveh.

“Well,” Yarl said. “What if the rekveh pulling the strings was…” He lowered his voice. “Gone?”

A lot of Alashani must secretly think that assassinating Thomas was an excellent idea. Yarl was not the first person to suggest it within Flen’s earshot.

Flen sipped his mead. “How?”

Yarl looked taken aback by the logistical question. People would ask the councilor about matters of politics, or shipping and manufacturing, not questions about killing. “Uh…” He thought about it. “How about an inhibitor micro-dart?”

“The rekveh is surrounded by friends and protectors,” Flen explained. “He has even zombified an animal, so I hear. One of those sky serpents. It obeys his every command.”

Yarl shuddered.

“He cannot be spied upon,” Flen went on. “He is preternaturally perceptive. No one dares to make a threatening move against him in public. He is inaccessible in private. No one with nefarious intentions can get close to him.”

“What about poison?” Yarl asked. “In his food?”

“He is an expert on chemical compounds,” Flen said. “He will be aware of any out-of-place odor or taste. And he eats the same food as everyone in that annex building. It is prepared all at once. He is also very likely to notice a suspicious person in the building.”

Yarl considered the problem. “I suppose it will have to be a spear-thrower, then? From a distance? Perhaps when the rekveh is distracted?”

Flen remembered stalking lone Torth through ancient ruins that dripped with toxic grime. Back then, his greatest ambition had been to collect a mind reader’s head as a trophy. He would have been proud to kill the rekveh known as Thomas.

Only now, Jinishta would condemn him for it.

Cherise would have a problem, too.

“I fear that anyone who takes up that mission,” Flen said, “will almost certainly fail. And they will be condemned for trying. That rekveh knows everything about everyone. And he controls Ariock.”

Yarl thinned his lips, clearly perturbed.

“I think there are warriors who would be willing to take the risk,” Flen admitted. “Koresh of Hufti, and Densaava of Ellonch.”

“Thank you.” Yarl smiled at the bartender, and waited for her to pass beyond earshot. “Your points are well taken.” He gave Flen a look of pity. “Are you afraid, in battles? Considering who you are betrothed to … are you afraid the rekveh is angling to get you killed, in particular?”

Flen snorted. “You give rekvehs too much credit. They do not have souls. They have no feelings.”

Yarl made a gesture of concession.

“But I think it is clear,” Flen said, “that he is angling to get us all killed.”

Yarl gave him a troubled, attentive look.

“What do you hear, on the war council?” Flen asked. “Is it all good news? We are winning? We keep winning and winning?”

“I suppose so,” Yarl said. “There are logistical matters that we discuss, such as what must be included in the next import or export on the schedule. And we discuss city magistrates and military mayors. But yes. Every battle is a win.” His tone became skeptical. “Ariock says that we owe all our victories to his mind reader friend. The young rekveh is a military mastermind.”

“Of course.” Flen thought of his brutal schedule. He hardly had time to visit taverns. Meanwhile, what did that rekveh do all day?

“Are you saying we are not winning?” Yarl studied Flen. “Have we lost any cities?”

“No, not yet.” Flen took a sip that was mostly foam and dregs. “But I have seen a galactic map, Yarl. Have you?”

“No,” Yarl admitted.

Cherise had shown Flen a glowing disk on her data tablet. She had zoomed into various points, showing him different worlds. Every world had cities. They seemed as numerous as water droplets in the ocean.

“We have only conquered the barest fraction of a fraction of Torth lands,” Flen said. “And every warrior is working double shifts.” He gestured around, indicating the whole district. “We cannot defeat the Torth Empire. Not with so few warriors. Our numbers are diminishing. Not rising.”

Yarl frowned. “If that is so … that sounds like a very poor plan.”

“Impossible,” Flen said with mocking sarcasm. “This war got planned by a telepathic super-genius.”

They drank in silence for a while. Both ordered another round of drinks, and for a while, they shared a bitterness that needed no words.

Anyone with sense could see that the rekveh known as Thomas was leading everyone off a cliff. He was supposedly a human hybrid, yet he hoarded power, safe in his stone fortress, surrounded by slavish ummins and other people who worshiped him. He was setting up his own miniature empire right here, on Reject-20, with himself at the top of society. He ruled Ariock. And Ariock ruled everyone else.

“Something needs to be done,” Yarl said.

Flen silently agreed.

He and Yarl were undergrounders; members of a secret society dedicated to resurrecting the Alashani sense of dignity and destiny. It was a comfort to not be alone in fearing extinction.

Many Alashani seemed to be rejecting their old way of life. They adopted alien myths and culinary tastes. They discarded Alashani prayers and traditional clothing, in favor of floppy sun hats and slave songs.

But the undergrounders knew that mixing with alien cultures was poison.

There was a reason the Alashani had survived beneath Torth notice for countless generations. It was wrong to toss away ancient rites and values, as if tossing out the chaff from mushroom meal. Their long legacy of freedom was unique in the galaxy—not something to be casually thrown away.

They were not a slave species. They were not victims. They were, and always had been, better than slaves.

“You’re a good man, Yarl.” Flen clasped the councilor’s arm in a gesture of friendship, after they finished their drinks.

“You too, Flen.” Yarl returned the friendly arm clasp.

They said their farewells, and parted, knowing they were likely to meet again in the Mushy Grove. Undergrounders favored this tavern. This was where unsavory ideas got discussed, away from anyone who might be an undercover informant for Kessa, and away from other unwelcome ears.

As Flen slouched out of the tavern, hands in his pockets, he felt somewhat ashamed and cowardly about giving up so easily on the matter of killing Thomas.

There was something about being a warrior which people like Yarl failed to understand. Life-threatening risks could drag on a person, until life itself began to feel dull and pointless, and the end of life began to seem like the very point of it all. It became difficult to care about anything.

Flen remembered a different way of existing. He remembered his lovable, laughing sister, and the warm embrace of his mother, and his affable father, who collected jade and turquoise knick-knacks.

He remembered lamplit balls and sneaking into palace grottos. He used to spar with his Yeresunsa friends, without a single worry about Torth or blaster gloves or the inhibitor serum or extinction.

Flen wanted that life back.

He would do anything to regain a semblance of that life.