The horror! The horror!
(Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness).
New Xanadu, coordinates 000.000/000.000/000.000
June 29th, 666 GE
At 17:56, the Aranui received permission to land and entered the descent corridor. At that hour, the Rhodon IV spaceport was exceptionally crowded. Nevertheless, Kyle had immediately ruled out using a peripheral access point. Docking at one of the—more or less legal—facilities scattered throughout the Underworld would’ve been easier and safer. But the Rhodon IV, sprawling over thousands of square kilometers, was relatively close to Aral’s home.
Besides, Kyle trusted his forged documents. They had never betrayed him. Or almost never.
They pierced the upper layers of the atmosphere, which the system’s supergiant primary lit up in a deep blood-red glow. Further below, a greenish mist clung to the planet’s surface—a by-product of outdated recycling plants, now incapable of controlling the pollution. In the postwar economic collapse, New Xanadu had drawn desperate masses searching for work. Its massive population had surged past five hundred billion in just over a decade.
Kyle flew over the spaceport toward the dock he’d been assigned.
As he rotated the Aranui to align the ramp with the exit platform, the ship’s antigrav field kicked in like a parachute, quickly decelerating until the vessel hovered, nearly motionless, a few meters above the ground.
A faint tremor signaled that the landing struts had made contact.
“Finally!” he muttered, unbuckling his harness. “I can’t wait to take a decent shower—I smell like an oolghar’s armpit.”
He glanced over at Shirl, who was leaving the co-pilot’s seat.
“How’d you like that landing?” he asked, proud.
“Um… yeah. Not bad. Definitely better than that takeoff…”
“Why the hell did I take you on board?” Kyle grumbled. Then, addressing the ship: “Did you manage to find Aral?”
“NO, CAPTAIN. HE’S NO LONGER IN HIS OFFICE. I COULDN’T TRACK HIM ON THE DATAPAD OR AT HOME EITHER. HOWEVER, THERE’S A TEXT MESSAGE FOR YOU IN CYBERSPACE. IT WAS SENT LAST NIGHT AT 22:44, LOCAL TIME.”
“Oh? And what does it say?”
“HE INVITES YOU TO HIS PLACE TONIGHT AT 20:30. SHALL I REPLY?”
“Yes. Thank him and tell him I’ll be there. Oh… and let him know I’m bringing a guest.”
“YES, SIR.”
Kyle checked the time: 18:32. He’d have to hustle if he wanted to be punctual.
Shirl was staring at him, visibly uneasy.
“Ahem… I should do a bit of shopping, remember? Actually, I’d need a couple of credits…”
“Oh, right. Here.” He pulled a chip from his pocket. “The dock number is CPN092, and we’re registered as Golden Bells.”
“Thanks. Is there anything I can—?”
“Yes. Cat food. And while you’re at it, get yourself a decent dress.”
She blinked.
“A dress… for me?”
“That’s right. I had a grand idea: you’re coming with me to Aral’s. Who knows? Maybe the Mohs need a babysitter…”
“Oh, that’s why.”
Shirl looked clearly disappointed.
“The deal was ‘only as far as New Xanadu,’ remember?”
“As far as New Xanadu,” she echoed softly.
“Come on, then. We haven’t got much time.”
New Xanadu, coordinates 000.000/000.000/000.000
June 29th, 666 GE
Standing on a stool, Princess Virginia let out an exaggerated huff.
“One more minute, Highness,” said the court tailor droid. “Just one minute and we’ll be done for today.” He placed a pin in the white gown — meant for Coronation Day — then stepped back to admire his work.
“Fantastic!” he declared, clapping his hands with a metallic clang. “Highness, it fits you won-der-ful-ly! You’re a dream! A vision! Actually, I’d say…” The droid paused, tilting his head to one side. “I’d say a slight adjustment at the waist would make it even more perfect. And on the front, I’d suggest embroidery in the shape of the galactic disk. What better symbol of imperial power? We could use chrysoprase from Acamar. What do you think, Highness?”
“Yeah, whatever… as long as you get me off this perch!” snapped the princess. “I’m sick of this. I’ve been standing for hours. My feet hurt!”
“Calm down, Ginny,” urged the Duchess of Rigel — Virginia’s best friend and lady-in-waiting.
Gladys Van der Meer was human, though she hardly looked it. A couple of months earlier, in keeping with one of the more bizarre aristocratic trends, she’d undergone DNA grafting with genes from an Alcor I arachnoid. Only her head remained humanoid. The rest of her body was entirely that of a large spider.
“I suspect this won’t be such a big deal,” muttered the princess. “Nothing but obligations, duties, responsibilities… The Senate is relying on my decisions, the people are expecting guidance, and that damned Chancellor. I hate him. He sits there grinning, waiting to catch me off-guard.”
The Duchess stopped sipping her tea and crossed two of her six long legs.
“After the coronation, you can fire him. It’s your privilege.”
“Yeah, one of the few I still have left. Soon I’ll need the Senate’s permission to get myself a boyfriend… OUCH! Can’t you be more careful?”
“Please forgive me, Your Highness,” the droid apologized with a bow.
“Oh, come on!” Gladys laughed. “You can’t honestly believe that old bigot wants to bring back the Gartogg rule. That hasn’t been enforced in at least… two hundred years!”
“That bastard’s always trying to spite me. First, he talked the Senate out of raising my allowance. Now this nonsense about me having to choose a consort within one year of the coronation… ‘To reassure the subjects of dynastic continuity,’ he says. Well, he can forget it. I’m way too young—besides, I have an artistic career to consider.” She folded her arms, chin high.
The Duchess nodded and took a chocolate from a tray.
“Maybe it’s not just to annoy you,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe when Chang talks about a consort, he already has someone in mind…”
“And who? Himself? Oh, please — don’t make me laugh! I’d rather lock myself in the convent of the Fasting Virgins of Shandaloon!”
Gladys was about to reply when a high-pitched chime interrupted the conversation.
“Yes? What is it?” the princess called out.
A hologram shimmered into existence, revealing a strikingly handsome blond young man.
“Your Highness,” he said, bowing, “Lady Condla requests an audience. I reminded her that private hearings require booking, but she insists…”
Renny Condla!
Virginia could barely believe it. That stupid hen — married to a ridiculous little man who’d somehow become Security Adviser to the Chancellor. As far as she knew, both husband and wife were part of Chang’s inner circle.
For a moment, she considered turning her down… but something about the unexpected visit intrigued her.
“That’s fine, Milo. In five minutes.”
She turned to the tailor droid. “Get this stuff off me.”
Then to Gladys: “Leave us, please. I’ll tell you everything later.”
New Xanadu, coordinates 000.000/000.000/000.000
June 29th, 666 GE
The New Xanadu Interstellar Spaceport had changed a lot since the last time Twiglet had seen it —fourteen years earlier.
Now, decay and shabbiness were everywhere. The terminal’s ceiling soared so high that mist clung beneath the vault, creating a light, persistent drizzle. The gravity was slightly stronger than Bageechaa’s, though Twiglet barely noticed. As a rule, liners gradually adjusted their environmental parameters to match their destinations.
Uful’lan was as giddy as a child among travelers from thousands of worlds. He wore a gaudy shirt that read: MY CLONE WENT TO NEW XANADU AND I ONLY GOT THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT.
He’d fallen in love with the ridiculous thing in the ship’s gift shop. In a galaxy where k’rells were second-class citizens, finding a T-shirt that fit — complete with wing holes — was a rare and unique opportunity. So Twiglet had let him buy it. Besides, she was in a surprisingly good mood after the card game.
Clearly, Uful’lan wasn’t taking their mission too seriously.
In the spacious hall near the exit, Twiglet searched for the robocab stop. She passed a row of upscale travel agencies until, with the help of a forest of directional signs and a booming holoscreen broadcast, she found a notice: ROBOCABS FOR ALL DESTINATIONS.
“Uful’lan! Hey, Uful’lan! This way!”
Reluctantly, he turned away from a restaurant window and followed her to the exit.
Twiglet was about to scold him, but thought better of it. Something unexpected was happening: people were stepping aside as they passed, parting like a tide before Uful’lan’s massive frame.
Maybe bringing him along wasn’t such a bad idea, after all. Few beings matched his size, and nobody — aside from Twiglet — knew how much less ferocious he truly was than he looked.
Fortunately, the memory of the K’rell War was still quite vivid. Unfortunately, it made anonymity impossible.
At the exterior cab stand, Uful’lan pressed a button, and moments later, a robocab descended and landed smoothly in front of them.
“Yonsiipi Plaza. Thirty-eighth sector, fifty-first level,” Twiglet instructed.
“I hope ith’ss a ressthauranth…” Uful’lan muttered.
“Please. First things first.”
“Oh. Whath’ss thhath addressss thhen?”
“A human lives there,” she replied. “Someone who’ll give us the second coordinate.”
“Human, ugh…” the k’rell grunted.
New Xanadu, coordinates 000.000/000.000/000.000
June 29th, 666 GE
Seen from above, New Xanadu was both terrible and magnificent.
At the dawn of the Galactic Era, an asteroid belt had been dismantled to construct a megastructure — a shell only a few hundred meters thick — completely enclosing an eight-solar-mass black hole. For centuries, that gravitational beast had served as both a power source and a cosmic dumping ground. Now, the entire outer surface of the shell was covered in architecture: hundreds of stacked layers of buildings, many brutally utilitarian, others clearly influenced by bizarre non-human minds.
High-speed transit corridors sliced through the city like steel-walled canyons. The tallest skyscrapers shimmered with the lights of landing platforms. Respectable citizens — those with lucrative jobs — lived on the upper levels. None ever descended below the 200th floor unless they sought thrills… or death. The 500th floor marked the unofficial beginning of the slums: a realm of permanent twilight, choked in chemical mist and cloaked in silence. Even the cops stayed out.
A robocab touched down in Yonsiipi Plaza, beside the statue of Kaunis Yonsiipi, the human scientist who had designed the first hyperstring generator nearly 700 years ago. Sleek office towers surrounded them. Restaurants and nightclubs glowed with multicolored lights. Aircraft streamed overhead like fireflies.
Kyle and the synth stepped out; the cab lifted away.
“This place is great!” Shirl said, wide-eyed. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”
Kyle smirked. Her frame of reference was surely limited by a memory only a few weeks old. Still, he gave her a sidelong glance. The tight, dark-blue jumpsuit she wore hugged her form perfectly. With a touch of makeup, she looked nothing like a little girl now. Gorgeous, in fact. He imagined Aral’s reaction… and better yet, Weema’s.
Too bad about the neck jacks. Otherwise, he might’ve passed her off as his girlfriend.
“Yeah, it’s not bad,” he muttered. “But you’ll get tired of it. Everything costs money, and everyone’s so damn self-important.”
“Even your friend?”
“Ex-friend,” Kyle corrected. Then, without ceremony, he shoved a bouquet of bright daffodils into her arms. “Here — hold the damn flowers.”
“Aghf… but I thought you wanted to —”
“Well, you thought wrong.”
They entered a tall building. A security droid scanned their retinas. Moments later, the antigrav lift carried them to the 542nd floor. A hallway of spotless mirrors and fragrant Hukassay flowers led them to apartment AT542MY.
Kyle pressed the doorbell.
Several seconds passed.
“Come on, Aral… where the hell are you?”
He straightened his jacket for the umpteenth time, taking a deep breath. So stupid — getting nervous about old friends. But he couldn’t help it. Nightmares had haunted him since Dabih Major.
“Are you sure they’re home?” Shirl asked.
“Well, the message said 20:30, and we’re only ten minutes late…”
He rang again. Still no answer.
“There should be at least a droid…” he muttered.
He was about to try a third time when he noticed the door was ajar. Carefully, he pushed it open.
A narrow blade of light spilled from deeper inside.
“What do we do?” Shirl whispered.
Kyle didn’t reply. There was a strange smell… a mix of scorched plastic and something else.
A cold knot twisted in his gut.
He pushed the door wide and stepped into a dim hallway. Light glowed from the right — an open door leading to the lounge.
“Aral?” he called.
No reply.
A faint shuffling came from one of the rooms, like heavy furniture being dragged. Kyle cursed himself for leaving his blaster on the Aranui.
He stood still, listening. Silence.
Summoning his courage, he crossed into the lounge… and froze.
The place was wrecked. Sofas were gutted, cushions torn open, and furniture smashed to splinters. In the kitchen, a deactivated service droid lay steaming, which explained the burnt smell.
“Kyle!”
It was Shirl, calling from a bedroom.
He rushed in. The daffodils lay scattered across the floor. The synth stood with both hands over her mouth.
Just beyond the doorway lay Aral’s mutilated body.
Blood pooled beneath him, already clotted. His throat had been slit, and one arm was missing. His frozen expression was one of stunned horror.
No sign of Weema.
Kyle forced himself to step further in. The bedroom was soaked in blood, spattered across shredded curtains and smashed furnishings. For a moment, a desperate hope flickered.
Then he saw her.
On the far side of the bed, Weema lay in a white silk nightgown, blonde hair fanned around her face like a halo. They hadn’t desecrated her body. But her neck was twisted at an impossible angle.
And that… was when horror finally caught up with Kyle.
He leaned against the wall, paralyzed. At some point, he thought he heard Shirl’s voice, distant and hollow. Then, trembling, he stumbled out of the room and vomited.
And that’s when he saw them.
Two strange figures in the corridor.
One was short, vaguely reptilian, and watched him with a steely gaze. Not a belehk, but oddly reminiscent of Amaranta Sweetlips. The other was massive — a k’rell. A race Kyle hadn’t seen in years, not since the war. Covered in dark fur, this one wore a ridiculous tourist T-shirt… and glasses?
A k’rell… with glasses?
Were they the killers?
Then the green-skinned creature spoke.
“Hello. My name is Twiglet Skunks. I’m a mahjit — a lady mahjit, to be precise. This is Uful’lan Siirt,” she said softly, her voice carrying a faint drawl. “Unfortunately, we arrived too late. They’ve been dead for at least twelve hours.”
“The… children…” Kyle murmured. “They had children…”
Twiglet averted her eyes. “We’ve already searched the rest of the apartment. It’s not a pretty sight.”
Kyle slid to the floor, stricken.
“Who could’ve done this…?”
“They…” Twiglet flicked out her long, forked tongue. “…they’re long gone. And maybe that’s for the best. They’re far more dangerous than—”
“You… you know who did this?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “Unfortunately. But there’s not much we can do.”
Kyle grabbed her by the arms and shook her.
“Who?! Tell me!”
“Hey! Keep your filthy hands off Thwigleth, you basssthard human!”
Huge, webbed hands seized Kyle and hurled him against the wall. He hit hard, the air knocked from his lungs.
Then everything went black.
When Kyle came to, he found himself sprawled on one of the gutted lounge sofas.
“Thank God, he’s waking up,” said Shirl’s voice nearby.
Something cold and damp was being pressed against the back of his neck.
“Sorry about that,” Twiglet said. “Uful’lan sometimes goes too far. Especially with humans.”
Groaning, Kyle pushed himself upright and winced as he rubbed his throbbing head. Across from him, the k’rell was perched on another ruined couch, glaring at him.
“You seem to know a lot about this whole situation,” Kyle muttered to the mahjit. “Maybe we should call the police.”
“Hm… yeah, great idea,” Twiglet said dryly. “You do that. Uful’lan and I are very busy…”
“Got something to hide, huh?” he shot back, attempting a grin — but it came out more like a grimace.
Twiglet stared at him in silence, unreadable.
“Well, honestly, I don’t get along with the cops either,” Kyle admitted after a beat. “You know what?” He stood up, still a little unsteady. “I think we should get the hell out of here.”
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