Thomas moved with the herd of traffic.

It was exhilarating to go unnoticed. He wore a brimmed hat, Alashani style, to shield his face from sunlight, and it also shielded him from being recognized. Most albinos wore mesh gloves. So did Thomas. They hid their sensitive skin from daylight, and Thomas, clad in undistinguished linens, fit right in.

The only incongruity was his hoverchair.

But the Alashani had their share of disabled people; veterans of battles or calamities. True, most disabled shani would rather be dragged in a rickshaw instead of seated in an evil hoverchair, but every population had its misfits.

Thomas felt safe.

He was so safe, in fact, he told his bodyguards and his assistants to stay home whenever he made his daily outing. He didn’t need help. He was self-reliant.

This was Freedomland. There were no enemies here.

He floated up the crowded street. Hovercarts zipped past, going this way or that. He had just finished zombifying his daily quota of victims, and he was familiar with the spiritual indigestion that gave him. It was no wonder his mind was churning with taboo urges and unwanted ideas.

He saw Cherise everywhere.

Not with his eyes, but she was in a lot of people’s minds. He passed a gamut of students as he neared the Academy complex, and he kept gaining accidental glimpses of her latest hairstyle, or how she looked in a new dress.

And her voice.

Her gentle way of leading students to explore fresh ideas.

Her beautiful hands.

Thomas was extra careful to avoid routes where he might encounter penitents. He didn’t want to see them, even from a distance. They looked too much like humans. Like Vy.

Or like Cherise, enslaved.

The resemblance made Thomas want to rescue them. Or … well … get to know them. Especially the women. Some of them were truly beautiful, with long legs and lush lips. Some had superficial similarities to people he knew. Like Cherise. They had alluring eyes, faces full of mystery, and minds that might reveal all kinds of secrets with the right coaxing…

Ugh.

No.

Absolutely not.

Thomas tightened his mouth with annoyance at his own thoughts. The last thing he needed was hormones, on top of everything else. He had enough to deal with. After a bout of zombifying, his thoughts were seventy-eight percent more likely to take an unintended turn.

He doused his problematic thoughts with mathematical theorems.

Empirical research was a haven; a safe outlet for him to escape the messiness of unwanted emotions. If it was a form of emotional suppression … well, so what? This suppression was for the good of everyone.

Nobody wanted a lustful, cretinous super-genius around. Thomas was well aware of that.

He had multiple ongoing projects. Garrett wanted him to announce that he was whipping up immunity to the inhibitor, but Thomas cautioned that it would take time. The Torth scientific understanding of how powers worked, on a physiological level, was full of holes.

None of the warriors would allow Thomas to run experiments on them. Only Garrett was cooperative, aware that it was a crucial project. The Twins or the Death Architect must also be researching immunity, along with whatever other nefarious projects they were working on. They probably got experimental test subjects whenever they asked for them. Whichever side of the war gained immunity first would hold a winning edge, at least for a while.

Thomas turned a corner, entering the hectic Recruitment Plaza. The vast plaza was busy at all hours of the day. Here, craftspeople and artisans and technicians found apprentices. Newcomers to Freedomland figured out whether they wanted to learn practical skills, such as agricultural techniques or weaving. Or they could learn how to hack Torth data tablets and reverse-engineer Torth gadgets.

There were popular classes in folk medicine, mathematics, Alashani law, Alashani philosophy, and Alashani history. Also, mycological recipes.

Illiterate former slaves were learning to decipher Torth glyphs, and—if they took Cherise’s classes—they were learning to read and write a standardized pidgin version of the slave tongue using the anglicized Roman alphabet.

Thomas floated past kiosks staffed by loud recruiters. He wove around knots of people, and he passed courtyards with fountains. He wished he’d had time to be more creative with his urban planning. He and Ariock had focused on basics: water purification, indoor plumbing, and a sewage system. But now that they had time to breathe—perhaps they should redesign some of the main plazas to be more impressive?

An Alashani maiden sat on a low stone wall, sipping a smoothie and apparently just taking in the sights. She wore a black ribbon on her floppy hat, matching her gloves and boots. So cute.

Thomas studied her from beneath the brim of his hat. She looked lonely. Usually, Alashani hung out in groups of two or more, friendly and silly with each other.

Friendly silliness would be a welcome change from the conversations Thomas tended to have.

Everyone who sought him out had something serious to discuss. It was usually about biohybrid synapses, or exocytosis, or dendrites. And it was usually Varktezo.

The cute maiden must be one of the unusually curious shani who actually wanted to learn from aliens. Maybe she was trying to decide whether or not to take classes?

She might want advice. Or friendship.

Or more.

Thomas blew out his breath, disgusted at himself. She was Alashani. If she so much as glimpsed his face, she would see that he was none other than the dreaded rekveh, and then she would run, screaming. Her reaction would likely spark a mass panic and interrupt the recruitment processes.

What sort of hormonal idiocy was wending through his subconscious, giving him cataclysmically stupid ideas?

It was a good thing Garrett couldn’t easily probe his mind. Thomas wondered if he should quit researching the inhibitor and instead figure out how to block puberty hormones.

He needed to cement reality inside his mind. He needed to internalize the truth. No girl was ever going to willingly seek him out for fun times together.

Why should they? He was a monster.

Also, he was a disaster. Cherise was an apt reminder of that, even without being on speaking terms with him. Thomas was optimized for logic, not for emotional roller-coaster rides.

The cute albino maiden kicked her feet.

She seemed to be in a good mood all of a sudden. She tilted her head to admire one of the tall buildings, studying its windows, as if with artistic composition in mind.

A very subtle warning pinged at the bottom of Thomas’s perceptions.

He was not sure what made him halt, alert for an attack. There was no overt sign of danger. He felt safe in this city. It was his home base. He had felt safe for months.

Yet he contained the battle reflexes of more than a thousand Servants of All and Rosies, as well as the Dovanacks. He knew battle. Despite his lack of firsthand experience, he had a sensation of being in danger.

He spread his Yeresunsa awareness.

Maybe he had imagined the micro-expression of anxiety on the maiden’s face? And the way her gaze had flitted to that window three times, as if she was trying not to look? She was not swinging her legs in a forced, fake way, was she?

He could be misreading her body language. She seemed flirtatious, so his hormone-infused brain had picked her out as being worthy of attention, which, to a super-genius, implied that she was unusual. So he was finding patterns to fit that assessment. And since his primary basis for reference was battle and Torth cruelty, he was conflating her behavior with…

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

A spear hurtled out of the window which the maiden had been studying.

Then another, and a third. The short spears flew as fast as bullets, propelled by Yeresunsa powers, almost too fast to register their existence.

Thomas saw the projectiles a second before the first one could impale his torso.

He spun his hoverchair and ducked.

The spear slammed into the solid backrest and bounced off. The second and third spears whizzed past him, missing his head by inches.

People screamed. One of the spears nearly hit the foot of a nussian. Instead, it stuck in the grass, quivering from its momentum. The nussian and her mate roared in surprise and stared around wildly, looking for enemies.

Thomas straightened, aware that he had nearly gotten assassinated. Some crazy person—not a Torth!—was trying to murder him.

His hat had blown off. Now that he was upright again, people saw his face. No Yeresunsa mantle. And he had very Torth-like facial features.

Nearby bystanders reeled in shock.

“Torth!” someone screamed.

A panic began. Nussians, govki, and ummins stampeded for the relative cover of alleys and doorways. They ducked under tables or behind fountains. Every one of them had been rescued from a Torth-ruled city. They understood that survival during battle hinged upon fleeing and hiding. Many probably didn’t even know why they were running, but they knew that it was best to avoid mysterious Yeresunsa phenomena.

Taking wind conditions into account, it was easy for Thomas to backtrace the projectiles to their source; one of several open-air windows on the third floor. He saw movement inside. That must be the culprit.

Thomas mentally scanned his surroundings, collating and filing away irrelevant data. The accomplice—that maiden—had already vanished into the fleeing crowd. He absorbed glimpses of white hair. That might be her, with her distinctive hat tucked away, or it might be some other random Alashani.

He decided not to plunge into the panicked crowd like a monster chasing an innocent girl.

Instead, he would confront the shooter. That was the main threat. Warriors usually carried thirteen spears in their quivers, which meant the shooter likely had ten shots left.

Unless there was a second assassin waiting as a backup measure?

Thomas analyzed nearby facial expressions. He was unable to extrapolate any signs of guilt or murderous intentions. Even so, he kept his awareness puffed out.

Onlookers gathered at the edges of the plaza, studying Thomas with curiosity or fear. They must judge themselves to be at a safe distance. There had not been any fireballs, lightning, or thunder cracks. No blasts, either. People were unsure if this was a battle or not.

Thomas wanted to spend a few more seconds scanning for threats, but the assassin was likely already trying to escape and blend in with the crowds.

Unacceptable.

He narrowed his Yeresunsa focus to the interior of the building. The narrow focus left him open to attack from the sides, but he was willing to take that risk.

He could not sense life sparks. The presence of more powerful Yeresunsa on the planet—such as Ariock, Evenjos, and Garrett—washed out Thomas’s weaker sensitivity. He could, however, dimly sense thermal differences. It was a stretch, but he thought he could tell where the fleeing assassin was.

The would-be assassin was likely alone. They would not want to invite random bystanders to witness the act, since they would try to escape without notice, to avoid Ariock’s wrath.

Thomas ignited a horseshoe shape of wildfire around the would-be assassin, blocking their escape.

He heard a faint yell from inside the building.

Thomas shifted his wildfire, herding the would-be assassin towards the open window. He wanted to see a face.

Sure enough, a wild-eyed albino showed up, backlit by flames.

Thomas knew each and every one of the Alashani warriors. He had never met most of them, yet he strategized daily battle plans which placed warriors in various conquered cities, or in battles. If he were playing a cosmic game of chess, then the warriors were bishops and knights and rooks. He moved them on a daily basis.

Besides, people idolized the warriors as heroes. Thomas knew almost everybody in Freedomland, as well as in the liberated cities. His brain was crammed with useless trivia.

“Densaava,” Thomas said, recognizing the would-be assassin as a warrior from Ellonch; one whom he had never met. “You dare attack me?”

Densaava climbed onto the window ledge, possibly in desperation to escape the wildfire. Did he think Thomas was going to roast him alive?

Half the bystanders seemed to expect that. They watched, transfixed with morbid curiosity. There were whispers that the zombie-maker was going to kill the war hero. Nobody was within Thomas’s range, but he could guess what they expected to see. Battle. Mayhem. And death, meted out by Thomas, “the Wisdom” of prophecies, and the notorious rekveh with a million rumors about him.

“I’m not a threat.” Thomas floated closer to the building, craning his head up. “I never did anything to you.”

Densaava looked unconvinced.

He leaped.

A fall from that height was dangerous for anyone except a trained Yeresunsa. Densaava imbued his body with power and landed with catlike ease, whereupon he immediately drew three more spears from the quiver on his back.

He fixed on Thomas, as righteous as a priest determined to defeat the devil. There was murder in his eyes.

Thomas knew that he was in mild danger.

A thermal shield was no guarantee against telekinetic attacks. Alashani warriors were trained to win against wildfire and ice powers. On top of that, Densaava was clearly in better shape than Thomas. He was physically quicker and stronger. He would have reflexes which Thomas could not counter.

Thomas let go of his wildfire, letting the flames die. He devoted more mental resources to the scenarios which played out in his mind.

He could defeat Densaava by inviting him into his telepathy range, of course. He could taunt the man, or bait him, or even fly at him unexpectedly. A mental twist would zombify the would-be assassin.

But Thomas had no desire to zombify a supposed ally.

If he caused massive brain damage to a war hero, in front of witnesses, in a public square, he would never escape rumors that he was evil. Even Jinishta would have trouble trusting him. It wouldn’t matter who had started the fight. It only mattered who ended it.

“I am not your enemy,” Thomas said.

He could not afford to lose public trust. That was probably why Densaava had chosen to attack him in a busy public area. Smart.

This attack had clearly been premeditated.

Densaava whipped his spears at Thomas in quick, furious succession.

The would-be assassin had nothing left to lose. Now that everyone had seen him, he would face punishment, whether or not he killed his target. Jinishta would probably condemn him to eternal guard duty in the smelliest depths of the Mirror Prison. Or perhaps she would send him to some remote outpost of civilization. She had a lot of pride. She would feel that a berserk warrior reflected badly on her leadership.

Perhaps the warrior’s own feelings of helplessness were part of his fury?

Thomas calculated the exact trajectory of the spears. He rotated his hoverchair to avoid the first two projectiles.

But Densaava was an expert marksman, and he anticipated Thomas’s move.

Thomas sucked heat out of the air below the third spear. That caused it to wobble off course, enabling him to dodge it by less than an inch. Its wind ruffled his hair.

Didn’t this mad warrior understand who he was picking a fight with? What was wrong with him? Too many mind-altering mushrooms, perhaps? Really, Thomas didn’t want to hurt anyone.

“Go. Run away.” Thomas made a shooing gesture.

Densaava was clearly beyond caring. His purple eyes were defiant, and lightning rippled up his arms from excess fury.

Well, a spoken warning had been worth a try.

Densaava drew his remaining spears. He simultaneously used telekinesis to aim the previously thrown spears.

Meanwhile, Thomas imbued the air between himself and his attacker with an ultra-realistic holographic projection.

Thomas remained seated in his hoverchair. But Densaava saw him push against the armrests … and stand up.

The illusion of Thomas was as tall as the Alashani warrior. Since Thomas could subitize a hundred details at once, and bend light, he could imagine scenes that were indistinguishable from reality.

His simulacrum took one majestic step.

Then another.

Thomas felt a thrill simply envisioning himself walking. As for Densaava … he stepped back, uncertain. Everyone knew that the rekveh could not walk.

The simulacrum of Thomas ran straight at Densaava with a look of smug and deadly determination.

Densaava shrieked. His spears clattered to the ground. Everyone knew that Thomas could twist minds if he got within telepathy range.

Thomas chuckled in grim satisfaction as the warrior panicked. It seemed his illusion was realistic enough, and terrifying enough, to override any small hints of reality that might seep through. Densaava did not even pause to collect his spears, as professional warriors were trained to do. He simply fled.

Thomas let his holograph-illusion dissipate. He boosted his hyper-awareness of other people’s facial expressions, tracking Densaava through the crowd, making sure the warrior would not circle back and make another attempt.

Onlookers gawked at Thomas. Quite a few had had no idea that he had Yeresunsa powers, until now.

They associated Yeresunsa with war heroes. As far as the Alashani were concerned, anyone blessed with powers had a moral obligation to fight Torth. Free aliens had picked up that attitude.

“You ought to wear a mantle!” an ummin yelled at him.

Thomas liked his unadorned clothing. A Yeresunsa mantle would mark him at a glance, since he was the only one Yeresunsa who floated around in a hoverchair. If he had worn a mantle today, he’d be dead. Densaava wouldn’t have needed an accomplice in the plaza. He would have hurled his spears before Thomas even became aware of a threat.

Thomas made a mental note to track down that accomplice.

And another mental note to have zombification victims brought to his tower, instead of him going to the prison every day. He didn’t like the laziness of that idea. It seemed too casual, setting the wrong tone for something so severe as removing people’s free will. But … well.

Going out in public was hazardous to his health.

All the cruel memories which Thomas had absorbed from prisoners earlier that day oozed inside his depths. He was angry. He was in a dark mood. He was sick of people, and if he didn’t get back to his tower soon, he might say something offensive to the next jerk who yelled a criticism his way.

Disgusted, he floated towards home. He would need a new hat.

Azhdarchidae would be a welcome presence, but he was probably hunting right now, out of sight in the nearby mountains. Thomas would absorb his memories when he returned to his nest. There was something satisfying about watching the sky croc overtake smaller pterosaurs and savage them.

“Do you need your hat?” a govki called.

Thomas paused. He had assumed the brindle-furred govki had snatched up the fallen hat only for use as a souvenir, or perhaps to sell it. Why else risk getting near the dreaded rekveh?

Yet the govki approached with a look of respect.

Thomas dipped into the alien’s thoughts, expecting to find simmering hatred beneath the compassionate face. This might be yet another low key assassin. A govki could conceal a blaster glove in one of those multiple hands, or beneath the hat which she was so kindly offering.

Instead…

He learned that this govki lived with her beloved mate, and two siblings, solely because Thomas had told one of them where the others lived. She felt that she owed her happiness to the night when Thomas had freely given favors for anyone who asked.

“Thank you.” Thomas took his hat.

“Some of us admire you.” The govki bobbed a gesture of respect. “If you ever need anything, ask me, or those of my household. We know who you are. And I think you know us.”

Thomas did know them. He knew their names, their origin stories, their medical histories, their family histories.

And now he knew something else, which made all those little facts actually matter.

Gratitude felt awkward in his throat. It stuck there. All he could do was nod.