Please read the Prologue here.
Read here Chapter 1, Part 1.
Bageechaa, coordinates 99.001/-55.447/1803.240
June 23rd, 666 GE
“You know, ssomethhing ssthrange happened thoday,” Uful’lan mumbled, chewing his second chocolate bar. “One of my thrapss didn’th work.”
Twiglet wasn’t paying attention.
“Really? What?” she responded absently.
“Thhe sthassiss field wass minimal,” Uful’lan continued. “Jussth enough for a dwarf thh’yag or a yanaathhije, if you’re lucky… Buth the game cannoth free ithsself.”
“I wonder what happened to my inocybe,” Twiglet muttered distractedly. “They should be over there.”
“The thrap wass off,” Uful’lan persisted, growing more puzzled. “I ssure don’th underssthand.”
A sudden unease gripped Twiglet. “What did you just say?”
“Uh? I ssaid I don’th underssthand.”
“No, before that!” Twiglet urged sharply, finally focusing on his words.
Uful’lan blinked, surprised by her sudden interest in his ramblings. “Jussth thalking abouth my thrapss. One of thhem had been swithhched off.”
“Oh no!” the mahjit groaned. “I knew something was wrong!”
She rushed from the living room despite her short, sturdy legs, quickly bounding up the winding stairs to the upper floor.
“Thwigleth! Whath’ss going on?” Uful’lan called, struggling to follow her through the narrow passage. “Whath’ss thhe matther? Whath are you looking for?” he panted when he finally caught up.
Twiglet ignored him, furiously rummaging beneath her bed. Emerging with a dusty case, she hauled it into view.
“Whath’ss in thhere?”
“Stop asking questions,” Twiglet snapped. She blew away the dust and lifted the lid, reaching into the protective padding and carefully pulling out a dark blue sphere with a flat base.
“Whath a fussss abouth a computher!” Uful’lan exclaimed skeptically.
“This isn’t just a computer,” Twiglet grumbled. “This is OCC—my beloved hyperneural probe. It will tell us exactly what’s going on.”
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.880/+05.453/120.750
June 23rd, 666 GE
Kyle had a sinking feeling. The bastard intended to ruin him—had planned it all along. How else could the police have found him so quickly? Just out of hyperspace, and a patrol ship had instantly fired upon the Aranui. It felt as though they’d been waiting for him.
“Forget it,” Kyle hissed. “You’ll never get my ship. I’d rather blow it up myself.”
“Come on, Kyle! Don’t get angry!” Nagatomo’s eyes sparkled with smug triumph. “It was only a friendly proposal—not that your pile of junk is worth it, anyway. It’s a miracle you can even still get it off the ground. One of these days, you’ll find yourself stranded, unemployed… unless, of course, you decide to become Rosie’s gigolo.”
He erupted into obscene laughter, which his cronies quickly echoed.
Kyle had heard enough. Turning sharply toward the exit, he reclaimed his blaster from the pockmarked thug, who offered it back with a sneer. The man’s teeth resembled a row of rotten stumps, and Kyle resisted the urge to knock them out.
“Cheer up, Kyle!” Nagatomo taunted as Kyle moved away. “You can always try your luck betting a few credits on a cyberfight match!”
An idea sprang unbidden into Kyle’s mind. He wasn’t sure if it was true or not, but he refused to leave without at least exacting some minor revenge. Without hesitating further, he took a gamble.
“By the way, Felix, I wonder if Rosie knows your cut of the cyberfight profits is significantly higher than hers.”
The grin instantly disappeared from Nagatomo’s face.
“Aha,” Kyle thought with satisfaction.
“What do you know about that?” Nagatomo demanded sharply.
“Me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. See you around, Felix. I think I’ll go have a little chat with an old friend.”
“Kyle, wait!” Nagatomo’s tone had suddenly lost all its arrogance. “We can still reach some… agreement.”
Bageechaa, coordinates 99.001/-55.447/1803.240
June 23rd, 666 GE
Twiglet’s study was a cramped room at the base of a winding staircase, cluttered with books of every imaginable sort: outdated leather-bound volumes, prehistoric DVDs, and microchips stacked precariously on diamond-shaped racks.
A shrill, tiny voice abruptly chimed in:
“THE INTEGRAL CATASTROPHIC PROBABILITY AT GALACTIC SCALE HAS RISEN TO 95%. WE ARE NEARING CRITICAL LEVEL.”
“This is absurd!” Twiglet thought, hunched over her computer. “At this rate, we should already be facing a civil war—or worse—but the Galaxy has never been more peaceful.”
She took a deep breath and tried again. “Exclude the ghost ship reports from the Beta Crateris subsector. They’re probably overdosing on hallucinogens out there.”
“DONE.”
“Now factor in recent cases of political corruption on Hamal III and the environmental disaster on Ukuku.”
“DONE.”
“Reduce the statistical weight of cold cases from Arkab XI to 15%… no, wait, make that 14%. It’s probably another serial killer anyway.”
“DONE.”
“Good. Recalculate the synchronic tensor and give the local probability density.”
The OCC paused briefly before replying.
“THE LOCAL PROBABILITY DENSITY IS 91% AND CLIMBING.”
“That’s impossible!” Twiglet exclaimed, exasperated. “Did you include the 10% bias for all events after the Emperor’s death?”
“YES, MA’AM.”
“Display the probability density map on a galactic scale.”
The probe projected a high-definition holographic map of the Galaxy, color-coded to reflect uniform density regions. Twiglet’s frustration deepened as she noted the complete absence of any significant attractors.
“Detect and identify all density peaks. Highlight any correspondence with known planetary bodies.”
“UNABLE TO COMPLY. NO DENSITY PEAKS ABOVE THREE SIGMA RELATIVE TO BACKGROUND NOISE.”
Twiglet sighed deeply, resting her elbows on the cluttered desk. According to her calculations, the Galaxy teetered at the brink of catastrophe. Unfortunately, the limited data from Bageechaa’s galactic subsector prevented her from pinpointing anything specific. It felt as though a dangerous storm was simultaneously gathering everywhere—and nowhere at all.
Twiglet realized she had no idea what was happening.
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.880/+05.453/120.750
June 23rd, 666 GE
Stepping out of room 114, Kyle flipped the credit chip into the air and caught it neatly in his palm.
Five thousand credits!
A stroke of genius. With a bit of luck, he might even manage to lift off before dawn—assuming they let him live that long.
Murder was routine at the Onkalo. Patrons regularly resolved arguments with blaster fire, and Rosie Gallows would dispatch servodroids to clean up the bodies afterward.
Kyle paused, reconsidering his next move. Predictability was dangerous; it was better to leave another way. Then he remembered the bridges—tubular walkways that spanned the distance between buildings at various heights. They’d once served as passageways, but the war had left them in ruins, and corrosive fungus had further weakened their metallic structures.
At the fire escape, Kyle chose to climb upward rather than descending. The adjacent building was abandoned; from there, slipping away unnoticed would be easy.
He raced up to the third floor, taking the stairs two at a time. Twice, he paused to listen, heart pounding, wary of pursuers. All he heard was the distant hum of the bar below. Anxiety gnawed at him as he stepped into a corridor cluttered with refuse, the air thick and foul as an oolghar’s armpit. At the end was a plastiglass door.
He would make it—assuming, of course, the controls still worked.
Just a few meters from the exit, Kyle edged past an inactive antigrav well. In the near-total darkness, its shadowy outline resembled a gaping skull. As he reached the door’s control panel, a faint noise came from behind. He spun around instantly, weapon drawn, but saw only darkness. His pulse raced.
Kyle was activating the door controls when a chilling, grating laugh echoed through the corridor—like a blade scraping against stone.
“Hello, Tokalau! Where do you think you’re going?”
A long, sinewy tentacle flashed from the darkness and tightened around his throat.
Bageechaa, coordinates 99.001/-55.447/1803.240
June 23rd, 666 GE
Lying on the moss-covered floor, Uful’lan Siirt was bored to death.
He had already raided the pantry to pass the time, but as usual, sitting idly wasn’t his strong suit. Restless, he began pacing around quietly, wings tucked carefully behind his back.
He wondered what Twiglet was up to.
She was still chatting with that silly machine. Curious, he approached a shelf stacked with ancient paper books. He’d never seen so many in one place, so he leaned in closer to examine their titles: Darker than You Think, Werewolves: A History of Lycanthropy, Cat People… Strange reading choices for a mahjit from Shing-Na. Intrigued, he reached out to grab one of the volumes when—
“Ouch!” A sharp crackle shot through his fingers, causing him to jerk back in pain.
“What are you doing, Uful’lan?” Twiglet asked sharply.
The k’rell sucked his stinging fingertips. “You’ve goth an energy field!”
“What did you expect?” Twiglet retorted. “I can’t have my treasures collecting dust. If you want to browse, there’s a switch under the shelf.”
She turned back to the blinking robotic eye. “That’ll be all for tonight, OCC.”
“FINE, DOCTOR. DO YOU MIND IF I TURN MYSELF OFF?”
“No, go ahead.”
“THANK YOU, DOCTOR. SEE YOU LATER!”
Twiglet stood up stiffly, rubbing her sore back. “How about dinner?”
“Eh… well… Thwigleth, thhere’ss ssomethhing I mussth thell you…”
“You already raided the fridge, I know,” the mahjit sighed. “I just hope you left something for me.”
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.880/+05.453/120.750
June 23rd, 666 GE
Kyle recognized that laugh instantly.
“Just hand over that credit chip, and maybe I’ll kill you quickly.”
It was Nagatomo’s insectoid henchman.
Kyle struggled desperately, trying to break free. His only chance was the blaster still gripped tightly in his hand. If he could manage to aim… but he’d have only one chance. A second try was impossible.
He needed to buy some time.
“The ch…ip…” Kyle gasped, slowly extending the small device toward the insectoid.
Something foul brushed against his left hand. That was his chance! He swiftly raised his other hand, struggling to level his weapon, but—
Too late.
Another tentacle snapped around Kyle’s wrist, tightening painfully until he felt his bones creak. He screamed as the blaster fell from his numbed fingers.
“Forget it, you moron. I’m too smart for you,” hissed the insectoid triumphantly. “You can’t imagine how pleased Nagatomo will be. I’ll earn quite the reward for this.”
It was over. Kyle fought to stay conscious, but his thoughts were fading rapidly into darkness.
Suddenly, a brilliant flash of blue light burst forth from the shadows.
The stale air filled briefly with the sharp scent of ozone and an oddly appetizing aroma of grilled meat. The tentacles around Kyle’s neck and wrist loosened abruptly, then released him entirely as the charred remains of the insectoid dropped lifelessly to the floor with a heavy thud.
Kyle spun around, stunned, and faced his unexpected savior: a boy stood trembling, gripping the blaster tightly in both hands.
Bageechaa, coordinates 99.001/-55.447/1803.240
June 23rd, 666 GE
After a supper of nyctalis—the half-plant, half-insect parasites thriving on most Bageechan homes—Twiglet and Uful’lan moved into the living room. For a long moment, they sat quietly, each lost in their own thoughts.
Twiglet placed a tray of still-warm inocybe mushrooms on a small table and poured generous measures of fine Tongaat brandy into their glasses.
She silently toasted her guest before lapsing again into a sullen silence. Uful’lan frowned, uncertain. He was accustomed to Twiglet’s mood swings, but something was definitely different tonight.
“Whath’ss thhe matther withh you, Thwigleth?” he finally asked.
Twiglet unrolled her long, forked tongue in irritation.
“The matter? Humph! That’s just it—I don’t know. And that’s precisely why I’m worried.”
“It’ss ssomethhing thhe probe thold you, issn’th ith? And whath abouth my thrapss?”
Twiglet’s fiery eyes narrowed suspiciously. After a brief pause, she sighed.
“Well… I suppose I can trust you,” she said reluctantly. “After all, you’re the closest thing to a friend I have left. But it’s a long, complicated story, and I hardly know where to begin.”
“Well,” Uful’lan suggested gently, “when I wass a kid on Kyyaal, my grandma ussed tho ssay: ‘Begin from thhe beginning and go on thill the end; thhen ssthop.’”
Twiglet laughed softly, shaking her head.
“I seriously doubt your grandma ever told you that, Uful’lan. Unless I’m mistaken, that’s a quote from Lewis Carroll, a pre-Expansion earthling writer.”
“Oh, grandma had a real tassthe for earthhlingss!” Uful’lan replied earnestly. “During thhe war, she athe a couple of thhem who—” He broke off suddenly, noticing Twiglet’s sharp glare. “Ah, but I guessss you don’th wanth tho hear abouth thhat. Sso, were you abouth tho ssay ssomethhing important?”
She snorted.
“Maybe, if you’d just keep your mouth shut!”
“Ssorry, Thwigleth!”
“Oh, never mind. Let’s get to the point. Do you know what the Holroyd Society is?”
“Holroyd… Hmm.” Uful’lan paused, frowning in concentration. “Ith playss in ssecond league, doessn’th ith?”
“No, I’m not talking about a football team,” Twiglet interrupted impatiently. “The Holroyd Society is—or rather, was—a synchronic research institute. Before the war, I worked for them.”
“Aha,” Uful’lan said uncertainly. “Ssyc… ssyinc… ssrrynchr…?”
“My colleagues and I,” Twiglet continued, ignoring his struggles, “gathered information from the Hyperweb—everything we could find.”
Uful’lan looked puzzled and helped himself to another handful of inocybe.
“We focused on improbable yet verified events: strange disappearances, unexplained disasters, bizarre crimes that defied explanation—little-known facts nobody seemed willing to acknowledge openly. These phenomena are called ‘synchronicities,’ or ‘excessive coincidences.’” Twiglet paused briefly, sipping her brandy. “We used this data to calibrate the free parameters in the Holroyd equations.”
“Hey, hey! Waith…” Uful’lan mumbled through a full mouth.
“You’re right, sorry. Let me explain.” Twiglet took a deep breath. “This information allowed us to predict large-scale future events with exceptional accuracy. The Holroyd Society got its name from its founder, the human who first introduced synchro-complex analysis.”
“Oh! Doess thhath mean you could predicth thingss like… thhe day of your deathh, or… which foothball theam wass going tho win thhe inthergalacthic championsship?”
Twiglet smiled. “No, nothing so specific. Holroyd equations only apply on a large scale. They predict significant social disruptions—economic recessions, planetary conflicts, mass migrations, events of that nature. However, they do allow us to identify areas where crises are likely to emerge. For several centuries after its founding, the Society regularly collaborated with the imperial government on social and economic policy planning.”
“Ssoundss… mmfgh… greath!” Uful’lan said, noisily crunching on a mouthful of nyctalis.
Twiglet wrinkled her nose in disgust, her tongue unrolling involuntarily.
“Then, three centuries ago, the Holroyd Society was forced underground.”
“Ssecreth? Why?”
“To protect itself from a ruthless adversary—a force so malevolent it wouldn’t hesitate to wipe us out entirely. We discovered their existence almost by accident,” Twiglet explained, pouring herself more brandy. “Through synchro-complex analysis, we uncovered the conspiracies of an ancient and dangerous clan. Its followers call themselves Apostles, and they’re responsible for many of the Galaxy’s worst catastrophes and bloodiest atrocities.” She hesitated. “We even suspect the K’rell War itself had an occult origin.”
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.880/+05.453/120.750
June 23rd, 666 GE
“Who… who the hell… are you?” Kyle stammered, astonished.
The newcomer—a slender, nervous-looking boy—appeared even more confused than Kyle himself. He backed away cautiously, casting anxious glances over his shoulder.
Footsteps echoed from the far end of the hallway.
“The chip!” Kyle suddenly remembered, panic rising in his chest. The insectoid must still have it. He quickly dropped to his knees, desperately searching the creature’s charred body, but darkness and grime made it impossible.
“Where is it? I can’t—oh, damn it!” Kyle cursed. “That was my generator money!”
“Someone’s coming!” the boy urged. “We need to get out of here!”
He was right. Forgetting about the credits, Kyle turned to survival.
“Give me the blaster!” Snatching the weapon, Kyle shot the door controls and tried to pry it open. The approaching footsteps grew louder. He fired two quick blasts down the hallway, hearing scuffling followed by a sharp voice.
“Hand over the money, Tokalau! We won’t hurt you!”
Nagatomo’s blonde lieutenant. She wasn’t alone.
“Come and get it, honey!” Kyle shouted defiantly, finally wrenching open the damaged door. He squeezed through the narrow gap, stepping onto one of the suspension bridges. The boy scrambled after him.
Immediately, they were lashed by a fierce storm of wind and rain. Kyle instinctively ducked, pulling the boy down as well. Laser blasts scorched a large hole into the wall above their heads. They quickly rose and attempted to run, but Kyle stopped short, eyes widening in despair.
He had walked straight into a trap.
A few meters ahead, the bridge abruptly ended. Beyond lay nothing but a gaping abyss. Only a handful of rusted metal beams hung uselessly in midair, bridging a gap at least six meters wide—impossible to leap.
Behind them, Nagatomo’s thugs wrestled with the jammed door, but they’d be through any moment. Kyle peered downward. The drop was easily fifteen meters—certain suicide under normal circumstances. But he noticed the alley below was piled deep with garbage, a wet, filthy cushion that might break their fall.
With no other choice, he grabbed the boy’s arm.
“Jump!” he yelled urgently.
They plunged downward together.
Kyle sank waist-deep into the sludge. Frantically, he struggled to free himself, but the heavy rain had turned the garbage into quicksand. Each attempt only sucked him deeper. The boy wasn’t faring any better, struggling nearby to keep his head above the foul muck.
Laser fire flashed through the darkness, wild shots piercing the rain. Even with low visibility, Kyle knew their pursuers wouldn’t give up. Soon enough, one of Nagatomo’s henchmen would risk the jump to continue the chase.
Determined, Kyle thrust himself upwards, finally feeling something solid beneath his foot. He lunged toward it, and after what felt like an eternity, hauled himself onto a large, solid piece of wreckage. To his relief, he saw the main street wasn’t far—just a little further and they’d reach safety.
Suddenly, panic gripped him again.
“The boy!”
Kyle spun around, desperately scanning the gloom. Nothing. Then, amid the shadows, he spotted movement. The boy was struggling helplessly, trying to tear some slimy, tentacle-like creature off his face. Reacting swiftly, Kyle stripped off his jacket, tying one sleeve securely around a protruding metal beam. Wading into the filth, he reached the boy and pulled him free.
They had barely climbed to safety when they heard a heavy thud—one of Nagatomo’s henchmen had finally jumped down after them.
Kyle quickly set the blaster to low intensity and fired at the shapeless parasite. The creature writhed and squealed as Kyle, fighting back nausea, grasped it between two fingers and hurled it toward their pursuer. The thug shrieked as the slimy creature struck him squarely in the face, sending him sprawling helplessly into the mud.
Bageechaa, coordinates 99.001/-55.447/1803.240
June 23rd, 666 GE
“Are you joking?” Uful’lan had lost his appetite again.
“Of course not. The K’rell War began after your people’s space cruisers vaporized Tyndall IX, the Empire’s main strategic base.”
“Hey, waith a minuthe… we had tho fighth for ourselvess! Thhath crazy Rhodon IV and hiss human governmenth wanthed tho wipe uss outh!”
Agitated, Uful’lan spread his wings wide, accidentally knocking over a nearby object.
“Come on, Uful’lan, be careful!” Twiglet scolded. “Why do you always pick on my poor house? Anyway, let me finish. The conflict began because the K’rell attacked Tyndall IX, believing the Empire was preparing to invade their territory. But ask yourself: who provided your intelligence services with such misleading information?”
It was the most incredible story Uful’lan had ever heard, yet he didn’t feel like contradicting the mahjit.
“Are you ssaying thhese Aposthless ssparked off thhe war… on purposse?”
Twiglet didn’t reply immediately; she just nodded slowly.
“Buth… buth… are thhey humanss? Earthhlingss?”
“In a sense, yes. At first glance, they’re indistinguishable from ordinary humans. It takes a DNA test to confirm their identity. They’re unlike any enemy we’ve faced—more treacherous, harder to detect. Anyone could be one of them, even humans we trust and call friends.”
“I don’th have any human friendss,” Uful’lan remarked dryly.
Ignoring the comment, Twiglet continued. “Thousands of years ago, at the dawn of human civilization, beings of unknown origin invaded Earth. Strangely enough, these invaders and humans were genetically compatible, eventually producing hybrids. Over time, pure-blooded humans disappeared entirely, along with almost all evidence of the original invasion. Only faint echoes survived, transformed into legends about ‘werewolves’—humans who could transform into beasts.”
“That explainss a lot,” thought Uful’lan privately. “Twigleth hass clearly read too many of thosse sstupid earthhling bookss…”
His hunger suddenly returned, but Twiglet pressed on relentlessly.
“Nowadays,” she explained, “most humans have only traces of lycanthropic genes. Still, the heritage of those invaders lives on in their basest instincts, and occasionally, recessive traits reappear. Each generation sees some human children born with significant lycanthropic ancestry—though most remain unaware of it. These individuals usually exhibit psychic abilities above average, sometimes using them unconsciously. For them, good and evil are dangerously intertwined.”
“Buth if thhey’re noth aware—”
“I was coming to that. Those with less than twenty-five percent human blood—almost pure werewolves—are fully aware of their identity. In ancient times, humans hunted and killed them, but now they live freely, blending seamlessly into galactic civilization.”
Uful’lan opened his mouth wide in astonishment. “Buth… whath abouth your sscienthisth friendss? Couldn’th thhey do ssomethhing abouth ith?”
“And do what? Broadcast it on holo-vid? Launch a purge against Earthlings? Trigger another civil war? I’ve had enough of wars, Uful’lan. Besides, not every human is a monster. Those who truly are malicious know how to hide their nature. The Holroyd Society repeatedly tried alerting the imperial government about the Apostles’ secret agenda.”
“And?”
Twiglet sighed deeply. “The only leader who took any meaningful action was Emperor Rhodon IV—who, despite what most believe, was a wiser statesman than history acknowledges. He even passed secret regulations limiting lycanthropic genetic presence among public office applicants to five percent. Yet, we know an unknown number bypass these controls through bribery and corruption.”
Twiglet finished her brandy and stood up.
“You know what, Uful’lan? I’m exhausted.”
“Thhere’ss one thhing you didn’th thell me,” Uful’lan persisted, staring at her closely.
She gave him a weary glance. “What?”
“Why are you sscared?”
Twiglet unrolled her tongue nervously. “Today, when I went to the emporium, Jiali Salgado mentioned two humans asking suspicious questions. At first, I didn’t think much of it. But then you arrived, talking about your disarmed traps…” She sighed heavily. “We still don’t fully understand the full extent of lycanthropic powers, but one thing we do know: they can interfere with devices powered by Zero Point Energy.”
“Jussth like my thrapss!”
Twiglet nodded gravely. “Exactly. If those two visitors were werewolves, they might have scrambled your traps simply by passing nearby.” She shook her head, dispelling troubling thoughts. “But there’s no point worrying about it now. Tomorrow I’ll speak with old Peg. She knows much more about these matters than I do.”
Twiglet started up the winding staircase.
“Ah, Thwigleth, would you mind if—”
“Yes, Uful’lan, you can sleep in my living room,” Twiglet said, resigned. “It can’t possibly get any worse.”
Dabih Major, coordinates 46.880/+05.453/120.750
June 23rd, 666 GE
To Kyle’s great relief, the street behind the Onkalo was deserted.
Maybe Nagatomo had forgotten to post guards on this side—but they’d be wise not to count on it. Kyle wasn’t in the mood for another nasty surprise.
The kid looked alright, though he could barely stay on his feet. Kyle gave him a nod, and together they slipped away into the rain-soaked night.
Several blocks later, they ducked into a narrow alcove to catch their breath.
“Damn, that was close,” Kyle gasped, trying to shield himself from the worst of the storm. “All that trouble—for nothing!” He turned to the boy. “How are you holding up? Still breathing?”
“I… think so.”
The boy’s voice was strange—thin, almost metallic. Kyle, intrigued, waited for the next flash of lightning to get a better look.
“Have we met before?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. The boy was slighter than he’d first thought—barely reaching his shoulder—with slanted blue eyes and a shaved head, just like…
“A synth! That’s what you are—one of Nagatomo’s!”
In a flash, Kyle grabbed him by the neck and shoved him against the wall.
“You were in that hallway. Were you following me?”
“Don’t… hurt me,” the synth stammered. “I saved… you… remember?”
Kyle stared, then slowly released his grip.
“You didn’t answer,” he pressed. “Were you sent after me?”
“You’re right. I belong to Nagatomo. But I wasn’t following you.”
“Oh, really? Forgive me if I’m not reassured.”
The synth pulled her soaked rags tighter around her shoulders.
“I was running,” she said quietly, after a pause.
“Running? From what?”
“From Nagatomo and his crew. If they catch me, they’ll kill me. I… disobeyed his orders. He wanted me to let the lycoperdon win, but I didn’t. I wanted to live. So… I won.”
She glanced at Kyle anxiously. “Did I say something wrong? Why are you staring?”
Kyle couldn’t help himself. Even with his wrist throbbing and exhaustion dragging him down, he laughed.
“Well, well—surprise, surprise. You’re a girl, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said, wary. “Why?”
“I remember tonight’s fight. The lycoperdon was huge. No offense, but I wouldn’t have bet half a credit on you.”
“Gender has nothing to do with mental performance,” she snapped. “Nagatomo made more money off me than from—”
“Okay, okay,” Kyle said, holding up a hand. “Didn’t mean to insult your neural circuits. I’m sure you’ve got a top-tier brain. What generation are you, anyway?”
“I wish I knew,” she said. “Nagatomo bought me off the black market and wiped my memory.”
That caught Kyle’s attention. An idea was beginning to form.
“So… right now, you’re out of options. And I just lost five thousand credits. But maybe—just maybe—we can help each other.”
“I don’t understand,” the synth said, frowning.
“Never mind. We’ll get to that. What’s your name?”
“I didn’t say. It’s Shirl.”
“Well, Shirl,” Kyle said, straightening with a grin, “I’m Kyle Tokalau—captain, owner, and sole crew member—aside from a one-eyed cat—of the starship Aranui. Let’s find somewhere dry to clean up, and I’ll tell you all about my brilliant idea.”
Bageechaa, coordinates 99.001/-55.447/1803.240
June 23rd, 666 GE
Twiglet washed before going to bed.
In her bedroom, she knelt to chant a prayer in her mother tongue, while the house gently filled the air with soft, enchanting music. Normally, that melody had a soothing, almost hypnotic effect. But not tonight.
She undressed and slipped under the blankets, curling up tight. Outside, the shrieks of nocturnal creatures echoed—hunting, fighting, mating, or who knew what else. Most settlers on Bageechaa had learned not to dwell on what happened in the forest after dark.
One would have to be insane to wander the forest at this hour, she thought.
Or a werewolf.
She shut her eyes, trying to will herself to sleep.
She hadn’t told Uful’lan the real reason she’d left the Holroyd Society. Even after fourteen years, the memory still ached.
She reached out and touched the wall. The music stopped, replaced by the subtle whispering of the house’s living structure, its slow pulse like the breathing of some great, gentle beast.
Months before the war, Twiglet had modified the Holroyd equations by adding a constant—one that accounted for a disturbing trend she had begun to notice. There seemed to be an increasing pattern in the distribution of malevolent events across the Galaxy. Too many recent catastrophes couldn’t be explained away by chance, destiny, or misfortune.
There was a hidden logic behind them. A will.
The constant she introduced was meant to reflect this influence—a presence, invisible but tangible.
The results of the synchro-complex analysis had been chilling: on September 11th, 652 G.E., the integrated catastrophic probability was projected to reach 99.8%, with localized spikes of 99.9% and 100% near Khyyaal—the K’rell homeworld—and Tyndall IX, respectively.
Twiglet had foreseen the war. Months before it erupted.
Naturally, she had brought her findings to an emergency meeting of the Society Council and urged them to alert the Emperor.
But they hadn’t listened.
Instead, they branded her a fraud, accused her of incompetence and dishonesty. Within a week, she was dismissed, forced to gather her things and leave Holroyd Headquarters in disgrace.
Even now, Twiglet couldn’t help wondering: Why had they been so eager to get rid of her?
The Apostles.
Had they infiltrated the very guardians of galactic civilization?
Despite the warmth of her blanket, Twiglet shivered.
