Weptolyso wasn’t sure why he was still alive.

He had been on his way to Tempest Arena, leading a flotilla of hovercarts laden with crucifixion victims, when the apocalypse began. Everyone heard Jinishta beg the messiah to stop. Even over the radio, her voice had resounded with power. She’d been desperate to make herself heard.

Everyone heard the warriors scream with defiance.

And, in groups, they had gone silent.

Weptolyso had intended to ready the beleaguered city for victims in need of aid. If he had carried out that duty, he would have been vaporized. But when the warriors ceased responding and the very earth rolled like water, he had recalled Thomas’s warnings.

“Evacuate Tempest Arena,” Weptolyso had commanded.

The inhabitants of Tempest Arena refused to leave. They had faith in the Bringer of Hope. Demigods, they said, should be trusted to know what they were doing. The Son of Storms never made mistakes.

“The Son of Storms can make mistakes.” Weptolyso had contradicted local leaders. “I have seen it. Anyhow, he may be fighting a new enemy or weapon. Why is he reacting in this way? The Torth here on Nuss were supposedly too weak to attack him.”

Weptolyso had prepared to be humiliated for wrongly criticizing the Son of Storms. The risk was worth it. If he was right—if Thomas was right—then he might survive and be able to help others. So he had commandeered a cargo transport and fled towards the wetlands. Only a few people joined his flight away from the desert hurricane.

Those were the ones who remained alive.

Together, they skated away from the initial destruction by the width of a shoulder spike. Tempest Arena was now a glassy, smoldering ruin.

Next, Weptolyso should have died when violent earthquakes tore apart the base levels of CloudShadow MetroHub. Who knew how many penitent Torth had died in those upheavals? Millions, Weptolyso felt sure. The slave tunnels had been crammed full of penitents who were forced to serve as slaves.

Weptolyso had docked at a bay that was soon wrecked. There were survivors in the upper city, and he’d managed to join them.

The whole planet seemed to be in danger of being torn apart. Anyone who had survived the annihilation of the Torth Homeworld recognized the insane winds and unceasing earthquakes of an apocalypse.

But the storm had subsided.

Weptolyso had no idea if it would resume, or if it was over for good. He wasn’t sure if it mattered anymore.

Because now the Torth were attacking in force.

Torth shuttles descended through the roiling skies as soon as the earthquakes ceased. Their multi-pronged invasion was swift, smart, and overwhelmingly coordinated. They bombed the major pedestrian causeways that fed into the spaceports of every freehold city. That gave Torth shuttles enough opportunity to land without much interference.

Other shuttles airdropped weapons, such as fissile materials, gaseous inhibitor emitters, and ionic-bladed knives, into penitent barracks. The weapons gave a critical number of penitents the means to free themselves.

Now there were former penitents running through various cities, restored to status as Torth citizens, armed, and full of spite. Some had gone on murder sprees. Others committed acts of sabotage. Some engaged military leaders in battle, while others used those battles as distractions, so they could tear down communications relays or blow up knowledge depots.

They sowed mayhem.

Weptolyso had tried, repeatedly, to contact Jinishta and other Yeresunsa on Nuss.

They weren’t responding. The calls were not connecting.

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

Weptolyso had a dark suspicion that there would be a lot of funeral processions in upcoming days. Or worse. Would there even be any Alashani left to mourn the dead war heroes?

But Weptolyso had his own people to mourn. He heard, through radio newscasts, that the free cities on Nuss were not the only cities under attack. The planet Umdalkdul had been invaded. Nussian captains—friends whom Weptolyso had spoken with only this morning—were dead.

Even the populated moons, Morja and Jerja, were under threat.

And Freedomland itself?

That so-called “reject planet” was not easily reachable through space travel, so the reports of invasion there were hard to believe. But Weptolyso knew the Torth Empire had one very high value target: Thomas. They would go to any lengths to destroy their Conqueror. If they had sent hundreds of teleporting high ranks into the Freedomland Academy? That would not surprise him.

So he had no idea whether Thomas was safe.

Or Yuey.

His life-mate had answered her supercom and assured him that she was hiding in a bomb shelter. Yuey had been raised as a shani nussian, but she was no fool. She would avoid any deadly battles where she could not win. Even so…

Reports from Freedomland were hectic and filled with impossible claims. A sky croc was supposedly devouring marauding penitents. The newscasters also claimed that up was down, and right was left, and anyone who faced one of the Servants of All or Rosies in battle was sure to lose their hold on reality. One reporter kept babbling about weird, magical arrow-like symbols that glowed in the sky and guided people to safety.

Weptolyso tried hard not to think about what dangers Yuey might be facing. His questions and worries would have to wait. He was not on Reject-20.

He was in an underground bunker beneath the Lava Industrial Complex.

“Weptolyso,” one of the senior captains nearby said. “We suspect the Torth Empire is tapped into our communications network, listening in.”

It made for an ironic mental image: Torth, who hated vocal speech, forcing themselves to listen to former slaves chatting away. But Weptolyso supposed they would, if they wanted to win. There was a lot of information zooming back and forth. Survivor groups kept trying to locate each other, or help each other with weapons and fortifications.

“We need to stop communicating through the com system,” Weptolyso said.

The captain looked shocked. His spikes drooped. “Can’t we just develop code words?” he suggested. “I’m sure the Torth will be too lazy to figure out our verbal system of code phrases, if we put some effort into it.”

Weptolyso flared his nostrils in a regretful way. “We can try that. But I believe the coms will stop functioning soon. We need to prepare to lose that advantage.”

For uncounted generations, slaves had communicated in person, while Torth relied on a long distance network of knowledge. Now that liberated slaves had begun to get used to a long distance network? They liked it. Of course they did not want to give it up.

It seemed the liberated refugees would need to rely on old ways again. Non-Torth ways.

The captain looked crestfallen.

“I agree that we must hold together,” Weptolyso said. “We will need smugglers and runners; people who are willing to take risks.”

“But…” The captain stared at Weptolyso as if he had lost his grip on reality. “If the Torth destroy our supercom system, can we not repair it?”

“Our supercoms rely on satellites in orbit,” Weptolyso said. “We don’t have access to the spaceports anymore.” He could imagine Torth aiming missiles at each satellite. They would wreck the network soon.

“Well, can the Son of Storms not repair our satellites?” the captain asked.

Apparently, this captain needed to check his own grip on reality. Was he one of the fools who believed that victory was preordained?

Weptolyso met his stare with a level look. “I fear we may be on our own for a while.”

The captain looked horrified.

Several other captains listened in, and they exchanged doubtful glances. Former slaves ought to accept bad news as normal, but these captains were clearly unwilling to believe such a dire proclamation.

Perhaps their lives had turned into too much of a fantasy tale?

Every slave grew up hearing legends about heroic runaways. Weptolyso collected such tales. He knew all about Mirk the Bold and Lanselmyuthrul of the Mountain Tribe. But to him, only one heroic tale was more than mere mythology. Weptolyso knew Kessa the Wise personally. He had traveled with her.

And he had learned that legends made everything sound simple and easy, when in fact, nothing worth doing was that way. Too few stories clarified that truth.

“Let me tell you about the time I carried the Son of Storms over my shoulder,” Weptolyso said, “when he was gravely injured, and we were in a toxic wasteland full of sludge serpents and telepathic cannibals.”

The other captains gathered around. They seemed stunned and amazed that even a hero as mighty as Ariock Dovanack could have weak moments.

“I knocked a Servant of All off a tower top. Like this.” As Weptolyso demonstrated how he had fought to protect himself and his friends, the captains seemed to recognize inner nobility within themselves. They straightened.

Slaves did not have to be helpless victims.

If anyone knew the value of freedom, it was them. And anyone could make a difference. A child. An arthritic, elderly ummin. A hall guard who had taken a stupid risk instead of carrying out his duty.

Anyone.

“We may be on our own,” one of the captains rumbled. “But we remain free.”

The others were in fervent agreement, Weptolyso included. Perhaps, he thought, freedom meant being unaided and on one’s own.