“Y o u r r r t i i i i m e i s e n n n d i n n n g.”

Cherise paused on a stone overpass above a culvert. She was heading home, satchel tucked under her arm, but the whispery voices chilled her.

Torth.

Other pedestrians stopped to peer over the parapet. Thanks to the news about mass crucifixions, and maybe due to the rainstorm which had ended as suddenly as it began, people were on edge. No one wanted to hear whispery Torth voices while Ariock was likely away on another planet, saving people.

“Y y y y o u r l e a d e r s s s s a a a r e d o o o o o m e d.”

People walked on, disgusted rather than afraid, but Cherise wanted to be sure this wasn’t an attack. Since when did penitents talk?

She peered down into the culvert.

There was a typical work crew down there, ten miserable-looking penitents, collared and shackled. They raked mud and crap out of the canal. Clearly, these were the unredeemed kind of penitents, not the certified friendly ones who were allowed to work in kinder conditions.

One of them twisted his mud-splattered face to peer up at Cherise.

The rest mimicked the motion, all in unison. Their iridescent eyes gleamed against filth. Judging by the way they all stared at Cherise and none of the other curious onlookers, they must recognize her.

“C h h h e r i i i i s e.”

She hurried onward. It was sickening, how Torth still had the power to rattle her nerves even when they were shackled and enslaved. They could compete with Ma for giving her nightmares.

Maybe Flen was right about Torth. They did have an evil aspect.

Except Thomas and Kessa seemed to believe that most of them were worth salvaging.

Who was right? Thomas and Kessa had managed to persuade Ariock and at least half the free population, and Cherise wanted to believe him, as well. But perhaps she only wanted the penitents to be human because they looked so much like herself?

She found Flen preaching to a crowd of several dozen Alashani outside the war fortress.

“Who invented crucifixion?” Flen paced along a raised walkway that lined a row of Alashani-owned shops. “From whence did that sadistic torture originate?”

He was decked out in civilian finery, off duty. His Yeresunsa mantle swung from his shoulders like a short purple cape.

Cherise stood in the back of the crowd. She was taller than the average shani, but with her bonnet, she blended in. Every albino wore a bonnet or a hat when outdoors during daylight hours. Sometimes Cherise felt bold enough to wear an outfit from Earth, but today she wore an embroidered outer wrap to fend off the rain, and big gold-plated earrings. She might as well be Alashani at a casual glance.

“Our neighbors and family members are dying in an alien wasteland.” Flen sounded more passionate than Cherise had ever seen him in public. “Not only are they tormented by chains and dislocated shoulders, but they are staked out beneath a blazing sun, without any sun hats or sunblock to ease their suffering.”

Cherise had noticed that every species had a species-specific weakness. Ummins had a problem with intense humidity. Humans depended on hydration and needed to drink a lot. For the shani, it was intense sunlight.

“So let’s be aware,” Flen said, pacing the other way, “who invented that torment.”

The crowd seemed eager to participate. “The Torth?” someone ventured to guess.

Flen stopped to glare at the speaker. “The Torth are unimaginative,” he said, fists clenched. “They cannot imagine ideas on their own. Who gave them the idea?”

Cherise hoped Flen was not going where she thought he was going.

Flen resumed pacing. Static sparks crackled along his lithe body. “It was the rekveh Thomas.” He shot a look towards the crowd, his luminous eyes hinting that he knew things, or had seen things, which the rest of them had not. “The same rekveh who puppeteers our war.”

Cherise nearly shouted a defense of Thomas.

She stopped herself, because she had no desire to reenact a private argument in public. She wasn’t going to make herself vulnerable in front of a crowd of war hero admirers.

How many times had she begged Flen to be more respectful of the war’s leadership? It never mattered what she said. Flen was far too invested in his angry bitterness.

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Not that Cherise could judge him too harshly for that. She felt the same angry bitterness towards her Ma. She used to feel it towards Thomas.

If anyone could understand what broken trust and betrayal felt like, it was Cherise. She was an expert. Flen had lost everyone he loved, and there was a reason for that, and who was Cherise to tell him to forgive and forget? She knew, firsthand, that forgiveness was not always easy. Or possible.

If Flen wanted to blame Ariock and Thomas for destroying his world … well, he was not wrong, exactly. And Cherise wanted him to work through his losses in whatever way got him through his pain.

But she hadn’t expected him to hold an angry rally.

“The first time the Torth ever crucified someone,” Flen said, “it was because the rekveh Thomas whispered in their minds and told them it would be a good idea.”

He stomped to a standstill and faced the crowd, allowing them to see his fierce outrage. His dramatic flair was reminiscent of Garrett.

“What sort of a sick mind comes up with hanging living people from crossbeams?” Flen demanded to know.

Albinos on either side of Cherise gave sharp, angry nods of agreement.

It was too much. Cherise knew that she ought to remain quiet. She remembered how dangerous attention could be. Yet she had also taught classes at the Academy. Was this so different? These albinos needed to learn a few facts.

Cherise peeled back her bonnet, so everyone could see that she was human. She raised her voice. “Thomas didn’t invent crucifixion.”

Everyone glared at her.

That was how it felt, anyway. Cherise swallowed. Her throat felt constricted, and she wished that she had stayed silent, except…

No. This was not her Ma’s trailer.

Hundreds of students liked to hear what Cherise had to say. Sometimes she had trouble reaching a student or two, but that was never a reason to give up. If they seemed uninterested, or if they argued, all she had to do was rephrase the concept and say it in another way.

“Humans invented crucifixion,” Cherise said, loud and unapologetic. “Not Torth. It is an awful way to die, but it is also famous in certain human cultures.”

Flen stared at her in disbelief.

“The Torth got it from humans,” Cherise said in a tone of finality.

A moment later, Cherise regretted her defense of Thomas’s reputation. She had just admitted that paradise—her homeworld—might be full of substandard Torth cousins instead of angelic sweethearts.

Cherise felt her cheeks grow hot. She wished she could shrink out of sight. Wasn’t she an actual Earth representative on the war council? She ought to be fired.

Anyway, did Thomas deserve a defense? He had literally sentenced Ariock to death by crucifixion. Maybe he had popularized this method of cruelty for the Torth Empire.

She cleared her throat. “Excuse me.” She pushed through the crowd. It was time to leave.

Flen’s smile towards her looked forced. “We will discuss this later, my love.”

Uncertain laughter from the crowd.

“I am eager to learn why crucifixions happened in paradise,” Flen said. “Perhaps I should have taken a few of your lessons.”

He should have.

Except…

Cherise neglected to teach about the more gruesome aspects of human cultures. She never wanted to think about people like her Ma. There were so many wonderful things to cherish, and to talk about, and to teach.

Now she realized that she had painted a merrily false picture.

To her students, Earth must seem as wondrous and whimsical as her paintings of flowers and imaginative critters. Of course they wanted humans to join the war. They did not see humans as flawed. Cherise and Vy were angels.

Most Alashani did despise hearing about human art, music, and joys, but that was only because they envied a sister culture that had lived well for a long time. As far as Flen and most shani were concerned, humans and shani were in the same bucket. They were both in the “good” category, contrasted against evil.

But they sort of had the wrong idea about Earth.

Maybe Flen and other people needed to hear about the brutal aspects of humankind? Maybe they needed to learn that the Torth did not have a monopoly on evil, just like the Alashani did not have a monopoly on good.

Maybe Torth were just a variation of humans. Maybe humans were just a variation of Torth.

Flen continued to spew his suspicions about Thomas. He strutted across the walkway—a war hero steeped in righteous indignation. He spoke of warriors who had died. He listed funeral processions he had attended, or wished he could have attended. He related his grief.

This wasn’t an aimless rant, Cherise saw. Flen was pouring forth his soul.

And everything he said resonated with the growing crowd of listeners, whose faces knotted with empathy. This war was hard on everyone, but it was especially hard on the Alashani, who were losing lives without the counterbalance of gaining freedom.

And wasn’t that Thomas’s fault?

Thomas had turned himself into a zombification factory. What if he needed to take a day off? What if he got injured or sick? Then, it seemed to Cherise, the Torth Empire would swoop in and retake a lot of the ground they had lost. Did Thomas have to rely so heavily on zombies and Alashani warriors? Was that a sustainable strategy?

Flen was making too much sense.

Cherise slipped away, unable to endure his rant any longer. Maybe she would sneak a letter to Thomas. She had to do something. If she remained quiet and meek … well, Flen was making himself a target. He was an outspoken enemy of their military state.

For a wild moment, Cherise considered actually confronting Thomas herself. In person.

A video call wouldn’t be personable enough. But Thomas was rather unapproachable, surrounded by admirers and bodyguards and probably zombies, and that huge sky croc. Even if Cherise got waved through to enter his tower, people would whisper and talk. There was no way to stop gossip. That talk would trickle through the city and make its way to Flen.

She had no desire to add lighter fluid to that fire.

Besides, she could imagine how Thomas might react to her judgment of him. If he brushed off her concerns after she took a risk to see him? She might scream. It was probably best to avoid calling him or associating with him.

She hoped she was making the right choice.

After wandering the streets for a while, Cherise found a patio where she could sit at a table and order drinks. She flipped open her sketchbook. For the first time since she had escaped her Ma, she did not draw natural wonders or pleasing patterns. Her drawings were dark and disturbing.

She drew angels made of mud, shackled and chained.

And she began to draft a letter to Thomas.