“Flen!”

Flen turned at the unexpected salutation. Jinishta entered the alley. She was the one who had called Flen’s name—and in a friendly tone, no less.

The two undergrounders with whom he had been chatting made quick excuses to leave. Aishel returned to his merchandise stall. Heffen adjusted her Yeresunsa mantle and whispered, “Good luck” to Flen before she hurried away, with a deferential nod to the Premier of premiers.

“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything important,” Jinishta said, walking up to Flen. “I tried to reach you this way.” She tapped her wrist, indicating her supercom. “But it seems you’re unavailable?”

Flen never used supercoms when he was off-duty, but he knew how futile it would be to lecture Jinishta on the evils of rekveh technology. She used to understand. Now? Jinishta seemed to embrace everything alien as a good thing.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Jinishta said. “It’s been too long, I know.” She seemed ashamed of her busy schedule and the distance that had grown between her and some of her oldest friends. “But I believe I have something to discuss with you.”

“Certainly.”

Flen had been expecting a conversation with Jinishta. Two premiers had died in battles recently, and rumors abounded about who would be promoted to replace them. Flen was a favorite among certain councilors and warriors.

He let Jinishta choose a nearby cafe, and he did not complain when the person who served them mushroom ale turned out to be a non-Alashani govki.

Jinishta looked as overworked as he felt. There was something unexpected in her countenance. She had a steely determination that overrode any softness.

“The war isn’t going so well,” Flen dared to observe. “Is it?”

He wondered if Jinishta would admit it. Jinishta never said anything demoralizing. She probably wasn’t allowed to.

“I am sure Thomas will invent a way for us to become immune to inhibitor gas,” Jinishta said, idly watching pedestrian traffic beyond their outdoor table. “Eventually. And then we can get back to killing Torth.”

Although her statements sounded confident, Flen wondered if she hid secret doubts about the messiah and his rekveh-driven mission to liberate countless slaves. It was such a ludicrous goal. It was too big for reality. Surely Jinishta felt that?

She might have heard something about the undergrounder movement.

Had she figured out that Flen was a gateway to joining? Was it possible that she wasn’t here just to offer him a promotion, but to make surreptitious inquiries about something that truly mattered?

Flen considered ways to suss out her interests. How much did Jinishta care about Alashani purity? Would she forgive Flen if he chose to stand up and speak in public about the dangerous erosion of Alashani morals and values?

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He opened his mouth to ask.

“Flen.” Jinishta pushed her brew aside, and faced him with an intense look. “I asked to talk with you for an important reason.”

Ah. This might be it.

Flen tried to look welcoming. If she asked to join the undergrounder movement, he would not be entirely surprised.

“I’m sure you know, as well as I do,” Jinishta said, “that the war’s leadership is under intense pressure. Ariock is just barely defending the lands we have conquered. The cities on Nuss are forced to defend themselves, without our help.”

That was common knowledge. Flen nodded.

“I have heard a troubling rumor.” Jinishta met his gaze. “I am unsure whether to believe it. But…” She hesitated. “Do you remember Densaava? The warrior who attempted to kill Thomas?”

Flen forced himself to look ignorant. Poor Densaava was not allowed to return to Freedomland. He was stranded in some backwater urban ghetto on one of Umdalkdul’s moons, severed from contact with his friends and family. He wasn’t even allowed to govern the people there. He had to serve them, and if he resisted, he might be transferred to an even worse outpost.

“Densaava probably did not act alone.” Jinishta rotated her mug of ale, reluctant. “My informants say there is a secret organization amongst Alashani purists. They call themselves the undergrounders.”

Flen tried to look surprised.

“They want to return to life underground,” Jinishta went on. “And they foolishly believe that only way to do that is to abandon this war and kill Thomas.”

She spoke that unholy name with such casual kindness. Did she truly consider that rekveh a friend? Was she brainwashed?

“I came to you because you love Cherise.” Jinishta gave Flen a warm look. “So you will want to protect her human family. I mean, her siblings. Thomas is her foster brother.”

Flen choked on the brew he was sipping. He knew that Cherise had a rekveh in her family—not a blood relation, thank the gods—but it was extremely offensive to blurt it out. If Flen married Cherise, they absolutely must hide that family shame.

He coughed away his disgust and regained his expression of polite interest.

“And I know you love the messiah.” Jinishta sounded certain. “You were right there with us when he built the space ark which saved our people.”

“Right.” Flen had to work hard in order to say that without sarcasm. That spaceship had saved a lot of Alashani, but it had not saved his mother or father or sister.

“You understand what is at stake,” Jinishta said.

Flen nodded, although he had no idea what she was getting at.

“We cannot afford to deal with threats to Thomas, on top of everything else,” Jinishta elaborated. “Thomas is the only reason our species has survived at all. And he continues to protect us. Without him, we would have no supercoms, no space armor, and no warnings of when and where Torth will attack. This entire war will fail without him.”

Flen felt sickened by the worship in her voice. Jinishta must be a puppet of the rekveh Thomas, just as much as the messiah was.

“And then the Torth will overrun everyone, and re-enslave them,” Jinishta said. “And us.”

Not if we find a cave and go underground, Flen thought. As we should. But he pretended to nod in agreement.

“So.” Jinishta clasped his arm. “I’m aware that you have friends among Alashani purists. I would really appreciate it if you could dig deep, and identify anyone who might be an undergrounder. I need names.”

Flen’s sick feeling worsened.

“It would be a huge help to Ariock,” Jinishta said. “And to me. If we are going to survive this war, we cannot put up with fake warriors who undermine everything that we do.”

“What are you planning to do with the culprits?” Flen asked.

But he knew, even before Jinishta answered.

“Exile,” she said. “I suppose we can try a reformation program for some of those on the periphery of the organization. But obviously, we cannot let threats to Thomas stick around.”

“Obviously.” Flen pretended to be just another mindless messiah-worshiper. “Right. I completely agree.”

Jinishta’s face transformed with one of her rare smiles. “Thank you, Flen. I knew I could count on you.”

His return smile felt so fake, it was a wonder she didn’t notice.