Flen hated his job.

For him, the worst part wasn’t the blood-soaked gore. He rather enjoyed monster-slaying—when he got to slay them. That was almost never.

He missed the days before everyone had to wear airtight armor into battle zones. He had been good at identifying Torth who acted a little too confident, or a little too ruthless. It had been fun to sneak up behind a busy Torth, and then use his telekinetic powers to hurl spears ultra fast, impaling the monster.

Now?

Flen waited in a square formation with other exhausted war heroes who were near depletion, like himself. A few of his companions joked and chatted, but their chitchat sounded stale. What was there to talk about? Every day was the same routine. They used their powers to drag corpses and torn limbs into garbage chutes. They scrubbed blood off floors.

They were garbage haulers.

Healers were the only Yeresunsa who did anything useful, anymore. There were more injuries than ever as Torth raiders grew bolder. But Flen and his fellow warriors were no longer risked in battle. Nor were they permitted to retire, or to do as they pleased. No. Premier Jinishta wanted them to work like common laborers.

“You all right, Flen?” A stout warrior cheerfully patted Flen’s armored back.

“Sure.” Flen tried to inflate that word with empty-headed agreeableness.

He hated work that had nothing to do with combat. He hated propaganda and lies. He hated clouds and weather.

The armored figure of Ariock appeared in the overcast sky with a crack of thunder, and the warriors stopped jostling and went still.

Flen braced himself. He especially hated the magic of teleportation, which he had no control over. It made him feel so helpless.

Buh-buh-buh-BOOM.

His ears popped. The scent of ozone filled the air. His sense of gravity and balance shifted, and thunder rolled, spreading away from the teleportation flats.

The sky and the scents were different. The air was more humid. If Flen hadn’t been ready for this twice-daily procedure, he would have fallen to his knees.

“I love how easily the messiah teleports us every day.” The stout warrior beamed. “We are so blessed to be part of his army.”

Right.

Flen regained his balance, although he kept his face downturned. The last thing he needed was for a messiah-worshipper to glimpse his seething resentment.

He found it incredible that anyone could still believe in the messiah. Really. Whose fault was the apocalypse in the first place?

The alleged messiah had caused it.

That same messiah had ruthlessly picked Flen up and slammed him against a pillar, causing him to lose control of his bladder in front of everyone. Why? For the sake of that despicable little rekveh. Flen had refused to deliver a case full of dubious medicine to the rekveh, and apparently, that was enough for the supposed messiah to lose his temper and act like a brute.

The square formation broke apart, and Flen followed his fellow garbage-hauler-warriors towards the various gates of Freedomland.

Ariock was already gone. The alleged messiah hardly ever spoke to the lowly war heroes who did most of his clean-up work. No doubt he was running yet another errand for the mastermind rekveh who was really in charge.

Anyone who believed in freedom was a fool.

Wide streets funneled through the upper city, lined with merchant’s displays that were meant to catch the attention of soldiers on their way home to loved ones. Flen paused at a kiosk of decorative pottery.

He recognized Cherise’s stylistic templates painted on bowls and plates. Vines. Flowers. Winged animals, which she called birds. And, when she was in the right mood, mushrooms and other forms of fungi.

She was amazing.

Other artists tried to imitate her style, but they never got it quite right. Flen received compliments meant for her all the time. Warriors received a decent income of war credits, but Cherise’s commissions actually earned a lot more than Flen’s income. He didn’t understand why she gave so much to charities. She could have bought a palace.

At least she really seemed to value Flen’s courtship gifts.

Might she appreciate that little decanter, painted with human runes? Maybe it spelled a word in her native language?

As Flen considered the gift, he wondered why he was bothering. His shoulders slumped. Cherise had a lot of wonderful qualities, but she was also frustratingly inscrutable. And she resisted making good choices.

Why wasn’t she eager to become a mother?

Why did she want to put off their marriage ceremony?

Could she be persuaded to care about raising children with Alashani values, in an Alashani way?

Flen had made his peace with the concept of fathering children who looked like humans. If their skin was the color of hearth-warmed sandstones? That was okay. They would thrive in daylight better than he could. They would look ethereal, like Cherise. That was good. But…

Would other free people mistake them for rekvehs, and treat them like penitent slaves?

Would they be at the mercy of anyone who wished to hurt them?

Flen kicked at a pebble.

For all he knew, Cherise was unfit to be a mother anyway. She seemed far too obsessed with teaching pointless things to aliens.

For all he knew, Torth might invade Freedomland again and slaughter everyone.

How could he protect a wife, or a family, when he was restricted from combat? Not even the alleged messiah could defend the territory which they had liberated. No one dared enter zones where inhibitor gas might be lurking. It had been weeks since their last victory over a Torth-ruled city.

“Flen, my man!”

He turned at the familiar voice. He could hardly believe it. “Haz?”

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“Indeed!” Haz hurried over, outfitted in the same black armor as Flen. “They finally gave me a reprieve from garrison duty in Tempest Arena. It’s too unsafe for warriors on Nuss these days.”

Haz looked as depleted as Flen felt.

“I’m sorry about Koresh,” Haz said. “I heard that he died during the pink blitz.”

Koresh had been among their cadre from Hufti, a peer with whom they had grown up sparring. He had entered a pink gas zone, lost his powers, and then a Rosy Torth had used her powers from afar to slam him against a wall.

Just like that, Koresh no longer existed. He would never have children. His future was gone.

“I saw it happen,” Flen said.

Haz winced. “Sorry. Were you able to attend his funeral procession?”

“I would have,” Flen said stiffly. “But I was on garbage duty in AllLogic MetroHub at the time.”

“Ah.” Haz looked embarrassed, perhaps on behalf of Jinishta. He must remember the way she used to be. She had once been a fearless leader, instead of a pushover who obeyed commands from the war council.

“Well,” Haz said, “I lit extra candles in his memory. I know you would have done so.”

Flen wondered how many close friends and family members Haz had lost. Didn’t he still have his parents?

As for Jinishta, her parents and siblings were all alive and well. Was it any wonder she acted invincible? Some people had all the luck.

“Well, hey.” Haz gave Flen a playful punch, making their armor thunk. “I heard you’re in line for a promotion, my good friend. A whole bunch of councilors are urging Jinishta to make you a junior premier on the war council.”

Flen would have felt proud and honored, if this were the lamplit underground.

But this was the sunny aboveground. Flen was unsure who to trust, or who wanted him elected. They might be his compatriots. Then again… if Flen had to attend council sessions, he would need to take pains to avoid both of the rekvehs, Thomas and Garrett. This might be a machination by Thomas. He might want Flen under close surveillance.

“I am honored,” Flen lied.

“Let me buy you a meal.” Haz pointed to a rooftop restaurant. “It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other. Who knows what the future will be?”

Warriors died far too often.

Flen was gratified to see that the restaurant featured a sign framed by stalactites and stalagmites. That implied an Alashani business.

“That sounds nice,” Flen said.

They took the stairs, and a beaming albino woman gave them a private balcony where they could take in the breeze, with a view of the street below. She served them slow-cooked meats thickened with mushroom milk. All Alashani knew what purple mantles on black armor meant, and the waitress seemed overawed, giggling shyly at Haz and Flen in turn.

Neither of them spoke until the flustered waitress had disappeared inside, leaving them in peace.

“So.” Haz asked as they enjoyed their meals. “Were you shopping for Cherise?”

“Guilty,” Flen admitted.

“I am a little envious.” Haz sounded lighthearted, as always, but then he reconsidered his words and said, “No. I am a lot envious.”

Flen laughed, grateful for his friend’s good natured honesty. “You’ll find someone,” he assured Haz. “I am sure.”

“Oh, I already have.” Haz sounded surprised. “I wasn’t talking about romance. Romance is easy.” He scooped up the last of his stew. “I am talking about who you have. Of course.”

Flen raised an eyebrow, inviting more commentary.

“I mean,” Haz said, “she gives you a head start on everyone else.”

Haz’s mind seemed to be wandering through a mysterious place where Flen could not follow. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Haz gazed outward, at the street, but his bitter look seemed directed inward. “We’re changing, Flen. And it will get worse. Our people are going to become humans.”

Haz seemed to expect an understanding, but Flen shook his head, mystified.

Was Haz hinting that he disapproved of the war? Perhaps he had finally gained the same perspective as Flen. Perhaps he, too, did not like seeing Alashani culture watered down and devalued.

“Every warrior is soon going to want a human wife or husband.” Haz raised his mug, as if to give Flen a bitter toast. “They’ll all want what you have. Including me.”

All Flen could do was stare, perplexed. Haz seemed to be referencing a conversation which Flen had missed out on.

“Oh. No.” Haz saw his confusion. “You don’t know about hybrid strength?”

Flen wondered if he had misheard.

“I would have thought Cherise would know, at least.” Haz looked embarrassed. “Sorry. I assumed everyone knew.”

Flen’s bafflement became annoyance. “What are you talking about?”

Cherise probably did know, whatever it was. She had a data tablet that she kept hidden from Flen. Sometimes she played music from Earth, and she tried to hide that from him, as well.

And now she sat on the war council, supposedly to represent her entire homeworld. She had been reluctant to tell Flen about that.

What other secrets was she hiding? Didn’t she realize how disrespectful her constant secrecy was?

She had trust issues. It seemed to be a human flaw.

“Please, explain what you are talking about.” Flen tried to make his expression inviting. “Cherise has not told me, but I haven’t had much chance to catch up with her, lately. She’s always teaching or drawing. And I’m always … well.” He didn’t need to explain how often he depleted his powers in service to the alleged messiah. Haz also had to clean up bodies after the zombies took their toll.

“All right.” Haz held his steaming mug. He hesitated, but he saw what the anticipation was doing to Flen, and he relented. “Humans augment powers.”

Flen tried to process that. He wasn’t sure it made any sense.

“Orla figured it out,” Haz went on. “It’s about lineage and families, as you would expect. I’m surprised no one figured it out sooner. It’s obvious. Ariock has so much raw power because he has a lot of human lineage, mixed in with ours.”

Flen had supposed that Ariock was a freak of nature, just a random fluke.

“And Garrett,” Haz went on. “He’s another with mixed Yeresunsa and human heritage.” Haz moved his mug, as if to demonstrate something. “A Yeresunsa.” He moved a linen napkin next to the mug. “Plus a human.” He opened his palms. “Equals a super powerful Yeresunsa baby.”

Flen stared at the implications.

“Humans are augmenters,” Haz said. “Orla isn’t sure about it, but she says it makes sense, if one accepts the premise that all humanoid species are cousins to each other. Alashani and Torth have Yeresunsa among their populations. So humans must have something, as well.”

Flen narrowed his eyes. He had doubts about Alashani and Torth deriving from the same common ancestor. It sounded like propaganda. The war’s leadership wanted Alashani to be kind to penitents, so they spouted whatever lies would accomplish that.

“And I think Earth will enter this war, sooner or later,” Haz went on. “Imagine how humans will change the Alashani population. There are a lot more of them than us.”

“Wait.” Flen felt as if his mind was running to catch up with the conclusion. “Are you saying that if I have children with Cherise…?”

Haz nodded. “They will not be like you or me.” His tone emphasized the conclusion. “They will be powerful.”

Powerful.

Like Ariock.

“At least, that’s Orla’s theory.” Haz sipped his brew, perhaps hiding his own doubts.

“Hmm.” Flen sipped his brew as well.

Could this be an elaborate piece of propaganda? Something meant to trick Alashani and humans into interbreeding?

After all, the rekveh Thomas required power boosts in order to zombify more than a hundred Torth in a row. His alleged human lineage had not made him super powerful. He was super smart, yes, and probably super evil, but he relied on minions to do the heavy lifting and the fighting for him.

But Thomas did not have the benefits of superior shani genetics. That was an indisputable fact.

And perhaps he was lying about being half human?

Flen turned the idea of hybrid strength over in his mind some more. What if Orla’s theory was true? What if Cherise could bear Flen a child that was as powerful as the alleged messiah? In fact…

What if Flen’s future child was the actual, real messiah?

Not a fraud, but the genuine savior?

Flen mentally reviewed the messianic prophecy, which he and all Alashani children were taught to memorize. “He will leave with an army at his heels…. You will know him by his great height and the wound on his shoulder…. Mind readers shall grovel for his mercy…”

As a whole, the prophecy seemed to be undeniably about Ariock.

But wasn’t there room for doubt?

Most humans would seem to have “great height” compared to Alashani. And penitent Torth groveled for mercy from anyone, not just from Ariock.

“Only he can lead you into light and restore you to your former glory…”

Some idiots figured that Freedomland was all about light and glory. They said it represented a return to the soaring freedom of their ancestral lost cities. Flen figured they were making a colossal mistake.

“Follow him or perish.”

The Alashani seemed to be perishing quite a lot, despite having obeyed the prophecy.

“Well,” Haz said. “I wish you and Cherise much happiness.” He bounced his eyebrows. “And may you be fruitful with children.”

After they parted ways, Flen wandered the streets for a long time. His head churned with musings, misgivings, worries, and—for the first time since before the death of his family—hope.

The rekveh Thomas should not be in charge of the destiny of the Alashani civilization. That should be obvious to anyone.

A true messiah needed to be born.

An Alashani messiah.

Flen bought a golden hair net for Cherise. Maybe he would buy her extra gifts, and offer to massage her shoulders every night.

She would look beautiful in bridal ornaments, reflecting the warm glow of wedding lanterns.