Byiyi was especially good at the job of toweling.

Other slaves in the Grand Spa claimed that she had an easy job. They said she was lucky, and they said it with envious authority. Byiyi answered those remarks with an apologetic, good-natured smile, but deep inside, she was not so sure they were right.

Every time a dripping, naked god stepped out of a marble pool, Byiyi was obliged to rush across wet tiles with a clean towel.

Every time she gently blotted a god dry, she remembered the sisters and brothers she used to bathe and take care of, whom she would never see again.

The gods—the Torth, everyone called them—had ripped her away from her family. They had punished her for screaming and crying about it. Byiyi had suffered so many pain seizures during her first moon in this city, blood had poured from her ears.

A Torth had punished her for that, too, for making a mess.

Byiyi had learned to bury the screams inside her heart. She supposed other slaves buried their screams, also. One did not make a sound in front of the gods. Slaves only spoke in slave zones, where they pretended that life was bearable. Everyone learned to keep silent in this cloud-shrouded floating city, and never complain, or else they did not survive beyond their first three lunar cycles.

A well-muscled Torth stepped out of one of the mineral pools. Byiyi dared not keep him waiting.

When she enfolded the muscled god in her fresh white towel, she imagined that she was caring for a strong child. A healthy son.

As an exotic sapient, Byiyi was unlikely to encounter another one of her kind, anyway. There were no other spindly, long-faced Athpinari on this world.

And if she did meet another Athpinari?

Well, she would never dream of disobeying the law. City slaves were not permitted to have children. Sexual activity meant execution by torture. She could never be a mother. She could never care for her own children the way she used to dress and play with her siblings, whom she still missed and mourned for.

Only when she toweled a Torth did she allow herself to imagine the family she yearned for.

That was what made her so good at it. She wanted to stay immersed in her daydream.

But the god was dried off. Another slave began to dress him in a white spa robe.

Byiyi fiercely missed the pretend-adolescent in her arms whom she had loved. She had felt so proud of him, so whole, with that child who.…

Well, who did not exist.

She trudged to the towel rack and picked up another folded towel, ready to do it again.

Every day felt anemic and feeble. Byiyi knew that her love-filled daydreams were not enough to sustain her forever, although this was the best life she was capable of having. She was unsure if she would survive for another six lunar cycles.

If only she could believe in silly legends, like some of her bunk-mates.

They kept each other up late with tales of heroic runaways. Lately, all they talked about was Kessa the Wise, an ummin elder who supposedly rode on storm clouds and conversed with the gods in their silent tongue.

What nonsense.

Byiyi found it much easier to imagine her nonexistent children than to imagine a nonexistent hero. A child could, theoretically, be real. But a runaway slave? That was nothing but an impossible, wistful, foolish fantasy.

Something crashed in the distance.

Crystalline orb-lamps glowed due to a sudden absence of sunlight. The Torth in the spa suddenly looked alert. They all sat up in unison, some with soapy hair, their blank white eyes more open than usual.

A thunderhead towered beyond the huge windows and sky domes.

Lightning arced over the floating city.

Byiyi had never seen a storm roll in so fast, and this was the sunny season. Strange. But a storm was none of her—

Action exploded around Byiyi.

Torth leaped out of pools, splashing water. They ignored proffered towels and robes, and lunged towards their clothes, reaching for blaster gloves. Many slipped or skidded on the wet floor. Torth in a hurry were ungraceful.

Thunder cracked. The concussive sound was so close and loud, Byiyi jumped.

A titanic god fell out of nowhere, seemingly from the air itself.

He wore black armor that bristled with immense, jagged spikes. Lightning snapped across his massive chest plate and shoulder caps and thorny gauntlets. He landed on his feet with a terrific thud. The air smelled freshly seared.

The titan straightened to his full height, which was overwhelmingly tall. He was massive enough to blot out some of the storm-dark sky.

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If he had a face, it was hidden. The faceplate of his helmet was as black as night.

A loose collection of electricity gathered in his armored hands. The electric glow grew denser, brighter, evolving into a weapon.

A spiked mace.

The Torth were panicking. What sort of colossal being could cause gods to act like frightened slaves?

Byiyi hurled herself beneath a towel rack and tugged towels around herself. She folded her spindly arms and legs, ratcheting her many joints closer and closer, trying to keep them out of harm’s way. Other slaves claimed that she looked like a bug, but that was an insult. She was as sapient as any slave. She just happened to have more joints than the common species.

Nude Torth sprinted for the exits. One slipped on the soapy floor and slammed down.

An unseen force yanked that Torth off his feet.

Byiyi hardly paid attention to the violence, because she noticed a small person—a slave?!—aim a blaster glove at one of the fleeing Torth. She stared. Slaves were not allowed to touch weapons.

Yet this one wore a weaponized glove, like a god. He even wore armor.

The slave thumbed the trigger.

His target reacted as if struck by a metaphysical blow, and fell to his knees in a defeated pose.

The slave triggered the glove again and again. More Torth gave up and dropped. A few of the fallen Torth tried to crawl away, but mostly, they sat in puddles and looked hopeless.

Byiyi stared at the slave with the blaster glove, which looked custom-tailored for his three-fingered alien hand. Instead of wearing rags, or a gray spa uniform, this ummin was padded with embossed armor. A half-helm with leatherwork flaps framed his beaked face.

Most striking of all: He was not afraid.

Several Torth took aim at the ummin slave.

The armored colossus slammed his mace into the threats, knocking them away. He struck so swiftly, one of the gods ended up embedded in a marble wall. The impact made the room shake.

That Torth was dead. Actually dead! He was smashed and barely recognizable as a formerly living being.

Other Torth scrambled away. One of the naked gods held out a hand, and a blaster glove hurtled into her grasp, as if magnetized.

Byiyi supposed that she should not be surprised that Torth hid mystical powers. As gods, they possessed untold secrets of the universe … yet even so. She had never seen Torth cause water to rise and twist, freezing, into icicles as sharp as blades.

Torth should not be able to raise their hands and cause ice to fly at an enemy.

Torth should not be able to somersault through lightning, unharmed. Or make fire out of the air, causing puddles to mist into sizzling vapor.

Although their attacks were impressive feats of magic, none of them were able to harm the armored titan. He dodged or whirled as if he could predict everything. He threw ropes of lightning. He used invisible powers to seize each Torth and hold them in the air, one by one, while they kicked helplessly. The armored slave neutralized them.

Some of the ice-daggers did hit the titan. But nothing pierced his armor.

He must be a more powerful god than any Torth in this city.

The spa shook. Walls cracked. Pools flooded across marble floors, or steamed away. Torth got dropped, injured and defeated, or dead.

Slaves hid or scurried away, and Byiyi cowered. She stayed hidden until, finally, the explosions and the roaring flames quieted.

Even in the relative silence, she trembled. If the armored colossus decided to collect trophies to celebrate his victory … well, she was an exotic slave. Torth seemed to believe that her many-jointed limbs and her bioluminescent facial colors were pleasant to gaze upon. Or perhaps they valued her because she was so good at toweling? Byiyi did not know. She could only guess at why the gods treated her with more care than the common species of slaves.

She tried to be extra still, behind piles of fallen towels.

“The slaves of this city are now free.”

The speaker must be exceptionally large, because her gentle tone reverberated around distant corners.

“I am Kessa the Wise.” That was what the distant speaker said. “Your city, known to us as Equatorial Quartz Sprawl, is under my protection. The Torth who used to rule you are now prisoners. They will serve you as slaves.”

That was impossible to believe.

Byiyi listened carefully. The distant speaker went on, saying incredible things. If she truly was the legendary Kessa, she must be extraordinarily powerful as well as wise. How else could she get away with speaking out loud? Any slave, especially a runaway, would be punished for making a speech.

Kessa the Wise explained more things about the conquest, which Byiyi did not quite understand. There were other liberated cities? Powerful allies? Enslaved Torth?

The announcement paused and then began again. It replayed with the exact same words, tones, and cadences.

Byiyi began to suspect that it was as false as holographic window displays. It was an auditory illusion.

Was this a trap, designed to weed out the stupidest of slaves?

Such a fanciful message would lure slaves out of hiding. But anyone with a sliver of sense knew that hope and self-confidence meant death. Byiyi remained still.

The colossus used his powers to drag defeated Torth together, in a relatively intact square bathing platform. Byiyi could not guess what his purpose was. She would wait until he finished, and then, once he was gone, she would dare to sneak out of the ruined spa. She would hide in slave zones until this madness was over.

She jumped when someone touched her leg.

“Please do not be afraid.” It was the ummin in armor.

He crouched to peer at Byiyi. Despite his outlandish garb, he had kind eyes. His face looked a bit like one of her bunk-mates.

“My name is Choonhulm,” the ummin said, introducing himself.

Byiyi hesitated. She wanted to respond to his friendliness, because every slave knew how rare and valuable friendship was. One should make an effort to talk whenever one was in a slave zone.

But this was not a slave zone.

“Freedom is real.” Choonhulm waved his gloved hand, and Byiyi gasped when her slave collar snapped open and slid off her neck.

The collar should have been aglow, to show that she was on a work shift. Instead, it was broken and dead.

Byiyi began to believe.

“Is Kessa the Wise a real person?” she asked.

“I know her,” Choonhulm said. “She came to my slave farm, and set many of us free.”

Byiyi boggled at that.

“I must go.” Choonhulm straightened. “The Torth of your city are rendered powerless, but we still have much to do. I will remove other slave collars. Please be assured that you are safe. If you want answers to your questions, please seek one of Kessa’s clerks. They wear black head covers with white circlets.” He gestured. “And Kessa herself will give a speech later today.”

Byiyi unfolded herself as the ummin walked away. She scanned the niches of broken stonework, fearing that a Torth would pop out and try to re-enslave her.

“Choonhulm,” she called.

He glanced back.

Byiyi attempted to sort out the big questions crowding her mind. She could wander the city in search of those clerks, but first she had to know…

“What does freedom mean?” she asked.

Choonhulm smiled with more confidence than a slave should have. “It means you are your own master,” he said. “You can lounge like a Torth. Or you can learn how to free other people.” He held up his blaster glove. “You can fly transports. Or command prisoners. Or start a family. Whatever you want.”

Byiyi let him walk away. She was stunned.

Then, filled with wonderment and beauty and love and delight, she walked out of the wreckage.