You can get further with a kind word and a gun than you can with just a kind word.
(Robert De Niro – Al Capone, The Untouchables, 1987)
Although Shirl was a product of the werewolves’ twisted science, when Twiglet spotted her beyond the thick plastiglass window separating the main laboratory from a smaller soundproof chamber, she couldn’t help but feel pity.
The synth floated within a force field. Her naked body was threaded with half a dozen multicolored wires, like a doll returned from a brutal encounter with a ctoxx. Neural probes had been inserted into each cranial socket, and more cables branched from her spinal column.
She appeared unconscious—her eyes tightly shut—but with synths, appearances could be deceiving.
Fern Lescovar pressed the communication button.
“How’s it going, Marko?” he asked.
“Still nothing, Doctor Lescovar,” one of the computer engineers replied.
Both were young humans, surrounded by a constellation of holo-screens. For some time, they had been debating among themselves—and with the machine—without producing anything but a litany of cryptic code dumps.
Two hours later, the small crowd of synchro-analysts and students had grown visibly restless. Leaning on his wolf-headed cane, even Hwan Bernala had joined them. So far, he hadn’t uttered a single word. His expression remained unreadable.
“Well, hurry up,” Fern snapped. “I want this over with.”
Twiglet unrolled her tongue, catching the true meaning behind his impatience. She glanced at the Master, hoping for intervention.
“Sorry, Doctor Lescovar,” one of the engineers continued, “but this isn’t a 9000 series. Her operating system is… difficult to describe. Unusual, to say the least. I’ve never encountered anything like it. It’s far more complex than what we consider state-of-the-art. All we know is that her memory prior to June 8 has been wiped.”
“Wiped?” Lescovar demanded. “What do you mean, wiped?”
“It’s been erased. Normally, these advanced models perform an incremental backup every twenty-four hours…”
“Then what are you waiting for?”
“The backup file is encrypted. We haven’t managed to break it yet.”
Twiglet barely followed the technical jargon. She found herself torn between loyalty to the Holroyd Society and the uncomfortable realization that what they were doing to the girl made them dangerously similar to the werewolves.
In the mainstream view, synths were little more than sophisticated appliances—slightly above the average domestic machine. Granted, they were sentient. But so were most starships, taxis, and even dishwashers. That logic, however, did little to quiet her conscience.
“Why not use her own brain for the decryption?” asked a feathered chort. Twiglet recognized him from the lecture.
“Doctor Folpeth…” the second engineer began. Twiglet noticed the strain in his voice. “It’s not that simple. We would need to shut the brain down first, then reboot it with administrative privileges. Of course… that would effectively mean… terminating the synth.”
“Stop dragging this out, Barrt,” Lescovar cut in. ”Those data are critical. And if you’re worried about the synth’s fate, remember she’s scheduled for termination anyway.”
The engineer nodded, though reluctantly.
“Very well, Doctor,” he said quietly. “We’ll proceed.”
Twiglet stared at Shirl’s face, deathly pale beneath the harsh laboratory lights.
At that exact moment, the synth’s eyes opened.
They were calm. Serene. As if whatever was happening in the room did not concern her in the slightest.
Then, just as quietly, her eyes closed again.
Oh no… she’s conscious!
The mahjit bristled. That was too much. She couldn’t allow such ruthlessness.
“Master!” she cried. “Please, don’t let them—”
She never finished the sentence.
At the back of the lab, a door swung open, letting in a burst of excited voices. There was a flurry of muffled noises and scuffling… and a moment later, she was confronted with a sight that, under different circumstances, might have seemed absurd.
Kyle slipped in first, followed by a panting, disheveled Theresa, who tried—unsuccessfully—to restrain him. Uful’lan came right behind them, black and imposing, his glasses reflecting the gleam of his fangs. In each arm, he carried what appeared to be a bundle of rags.
On closer inspection, the “rags” were two unconscious security officers.
“Sorry, Doctor Lescovar,” Theresa said breathlessly. “I told them not to come, but…”
Kyle pushed through the cluster of Holroyd operatives. For a few seconds, he stared through the plastiglass window at the scene inside. The engineers had stopped working and were now staring back at him, startled.
Shirl remained motionless, apparently unaware that anything had changed.
“What the hell is going on here?” Kyle demanded. His fists were clenched, his eyes narrowed to slits. Twiglet couldn’t remember ever seeing him so furious.
“You are hardly in a position to ask questions, Captain Tokalau,” Fern Lescovar replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I first became suspicious this morning, when I received your request for plasma fuel. You had been our honored guest for barely twelve hours, and already you were preparing to leave. Curious… Was our company so dull?”
He shot Theresa a pointed glance. She blushed.
“No, the reason had to be something else. That’s when I remembered the synth. And from there, it was child’s play. The princess copy… hidden in plain sight. You nearly fooled me, I’ll grant you that. But tell me—what were you planning to do with her? Sell her to the werewolves? Or perhaps… are you one of them yourself?”
Kyle answered with a look of pure contempt.
“Cut the crap, you moron.”
Fern flinched, but maintained his rigid posture.
“Barrt. Marko.”
“Yes, Doctor Lescovar?” Marko replied nervously.
“Proceed.”
“Kyle, they’re going to kill her!” Twiglet warned.
Kyle lunged forward, grabbing Fern by the jacket and jerking him close.
“Listen carefully, you idiot. The synth is mine. Private property. Off-limits. I paid ten thousand credits for her on Dabih Major. If you damage her, you’ll reimburse me—with interest.”
“The clone of the crown princess cannot belong to a private citizen!” Fern shot back, wrenching himself free. “In the name of the Holroyd Society, I have the authority to seize the synth and use her for the preservation of Galactic peace!”
On the other side of the window, the two engineers stood frozen, uncertain.
“What are you waiting for?” Lescovar barked. “Go on—do as I—”
The rest of his sentence died in his throat.
Kyle had drawn his blaster from its shoulder holster.
“You have exactly one second to release the synth,” he said coldly, pressing the barrel against Fern’s temple.
Someone in the room screamed.
Twiglet unrolled her tongue.
The silence that followed stretched on, unbearable.
Then, at last, Hwan Bernala spoke.
“Enough!” the Master commanded.
Kyle glanced sideways at him.
“You talking to me, old man?”
“Release the synth,” Bernala repeated calmly. “I have attended Court several times over the past years. I know Princess Virginia well. The resemblance between Her Highness and that poor synthetic creature is, at best, superficial.”
To Twiglet’s immense relief, no one dared contradict Hwan Bernala.
While the engineers disconnected Shirl from the equipment, Fern excused himself—first with the mahjit, then, rather reluctantly, with Kyle.
Later, Twiglet and the others gathered around a table in the cafeteria.
“I still don’t understand how Fern could make such an enormous mistake,” she said, pushing aside her empty plate. “Hopefully, this will teach him not to throw around unfounded accusations.” She allowed herself a small, self-satisfied smile. “Ah! I’ll never forget his face when the Master exposed him as the ridiculous fraud he is… If fourteen years of exile was the price to see him cut down to size, it was worth it.”
She caught Uful’lan’s knowing smile.
Kyle, meanwhile, pretended to be absorbed in a news broadcast on a nearby holo-screen. But Twiglet could tell he was watching her from the corner of his eye. Shirl sat across from her, unusually quiet, almost shy.
“What’s the matter?” Twiglet asked. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Oh, hell!” Kyle burst out. “We lost!”
“Sso, thhe Achernar Dragonss are outh in thhe quarterfinalss, huh?” Uful’lan grinned.
“Laugh all you want, Big Guy! Khyyaal’s team didn’t even make it to the Intergalactic Championship!”
Twiglet stared at them in disbelief. Unbelievable. With the Galaxy teetering on the brink of catastrophe—and the werewolves preparing for the rise of the Antichrist—these two idiots were worried about soccer.
She was about to scold them when she noticed something off.
“Come on, guys. I’m not stupid. What are you hiding?”
“Who? Us?” Kyle replied, feigning innocence. “Why would we hide anything from you?”
“Because I know you,” Twiglet said calmly. “Especially you, Uful’lan. When you’re talking nonsense, your tail curls.”
“Really?” The k’rell twisted awkwardly, trying to check.
“And Kyle blinks his left eye.”
“Oh, no,” Kyle groaned. “Don’t tell me that’s why you always beat me at Kryple.”
“Everyone has their tells,” Twiglet replied dryly. “I may not cheat as skillfully as you do… but let’s stay on topic. I want to know what’s going on.”
“What?” Kyle asked again.
“You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you?” Twiglet snapped, her patience thinning.
Several nearby diners turned to stare.
“Shh… please,” Kyle muttered. “All right, we’ll explain… ahem… I can tell her, can’t I?” he asked Shirl.
“What?” The synth looked flustered. “Yes… sure.”
Kyle took a breath.
“Well, Twiglet… that idiot Lescovar wasn’t entirely wrong. Shirl is the clone of Princess Virginia.”
“I knew something was off!” Twiglet covered her face with her hands. An awkward silence followed. “But the Honorable Bernala says…”
“He’s an old fool,” Kyle cut in. “Or a liar.”
“How long have you had her?”
“About a month. I didn’t buy her—I found her. Actually, she found me.”
“Did you know who she was?”
“No! I sold her for ten miserable thousand credits—can you believe it? I wonder how much the werewolves would pay… Or the real princess.”
Shirl shot him a look.
“That’s why you tried to leave,” Twiglet said.
“Hey, wait a minute! You don’t know how it happened. Last night, this pain in the neck shows up in my room, ruining my… ahem… well-earned beauty sleep, ranting about people trying to kill her. What was I supposed to do? I’m a gentleman. And when there’s a damsel in distress—”
“Of course you are,” Twiglet teased.
“So,” Kyle went on defensively, “once I’d done my duty, I figured I might as well move on…”
“And maybe earn a little extra by selling Shirl to the highest bidder.”
Kyle rolled his eyes.
“Fine. I admit the thought crossed my mind. Briefly.”
“I see.” Twiglet closed her eyes, thinking it through. He looked sincere. “Are you still planning to leave tomorrow?”
“I’d prefer to collect my salary first,” Kyle replied. “But yes.”
“Listen, Captain… how about another job?”
“What? And who’s paying this time?”
“The Holroyd Society will compensate you.”
“Probably as generously as you did,” Kyle muttered.
“This time will be different. I promise.”
She didn’t add that she wasn’t entirely certain the Master—or especially Fern Lescovar—would approve her plan: crossing the Galaxy in search of a mysterious weapon mentioned in an ancient human novel.
“Well?” Kyle prompted. “What’s the gig?”
“You take me to Tr’lang—the werewolves’ homeworld. Not alone. I’ll need three volunteers.”
“What a coincidence.”
“I’m thhe firssth, Thwigleth!” Uful’lan declared immediately.
“Thank you, my friend.” She patted his shoulder. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
Kyle cracked open a can of Janxx-Coke.
“Tr’lang… I’ve heard that name before. Oh, hell—the seminar!” He grimaced. “The primary’s a dM2 red dwarf. I hate those systems.”
“We’re not going there for a holiday.”
“They’re miserable places,” Kyle continued. “Cold and dark most of the time, the star so close it makes you nauseous and…” He fixed her with a sharp look. “Hypothetically speaking, what exactly would we be doing there?”
“An archaeological dig.”
“A… dig?” He blinked. “You mean sifting through dirt for ancient bones? Like museum exhibits?”
“Something like that.”
“No shootouts? No fires? No ravenous beasts?”
“Not if we keep a low profile.”
Kyle considered that. Then he turned to Shirl and winked.
“And you? Feel like visiting a hellish planet to dig around in an old graveyard?”
She stared at him, startled. Few people ever asked her opinion.
“Yes or no?”
“With you,” she said quietly, “I’d walk straight into the Chancellor’s lair.”
“Now that’s an idea,” Kyle grinned. “Maybe we’ll get the chance.”
He mock-saluted Twiglet.
“There you go, ma’am. Three volunteers at your service.”
“Thank you, all of you.” Twiglet felt a flicker of genuine warmth. Convincing them had been easier than expected. “I still have arrangements to make—including your salary, Kyle—so we won’t be ready to leave for at least two days. In the meantime, this mission is strictly confidential. We speak of it to no one.”
She fixed Kyle with a pointed stare.
“No one. That includes charming young students. The werewolves have infiltrated the Society. We cannot afford another mistake.”
New Xanadu, coordinates 000.000/000.000/000.000
July 24th, 666 GE
In the Chancellor’s lair—or rather, his palace—a reception in honor of the Twelfth Galactic Sub-Governor was drawing to a close.
The grand hall—one hundred and twenty feet long, paneled in wood from the sentient forests of Zubelnagubi, with floor-to-ceiling windows of precious Acamar crystal—was rapidly emptying. Officials of the Imperial government, Space Force officers, celebrities, and media personalities lingered on the vast balcony overlooking the glittering night. They exchanged final pleasantries as they queued for a fleet of waiting robotaxis.
Only Lord Chang’s inner circle remained: Interior Minister Holunder Bai; Galactic Security Advisor Bran Condla and his wife, Renny; and Secretary of the Treasury Haider Karens.
At the end of his soirées, the Chancellor customarily summoned them to his private quarters, where the night continued for at least a couple more hours. If he was in good spirits, he proposed additional toasts. If not, he sank into an armchair upholstered in k’rell hide and ranted about the futility of monarchy or the Empire’s moral decay—brought about, of course, by granting civil rights to hordes of non-human citizens. On darker nights, he forced them to stay up binge-watching his favorite films: An Antarian Werewolf on New Xanadu and The Revenge of the Were-Clones.
Escorted by Lady Katrina, the guests rose in the antigrav well and emerged into a vast lounge five floors above the banquet hall. Volker Chang was already there, seated with his back to the plastiglass wall. For a time, he did not acknowledge their arrival.
The Apostles spread out quietly among the sofas. The lights were off; the room glowed with the diffused shimmer of the city beyond. Above the horizon, the Galaxy arched in luminous splendor.
Seated beside her husband, Lady Condla struggled to suppress a rising unease. She had no concrete reason to feel threatened—only a vague, corrosive intuition. Her lycanthropic heritage amounted to only 25%. Not enough to trigger the Change, though sufficient to grant her mild psionic abilities.
But something else troubled her.
Katrina Sirtis’s demeanor, for instance. Normally, mocking that presumptuous upstart was effortless. She fancied herself a grande dame merely because she was the Chancellor’s lover. Hardly. Renny’s own lineage traced back to the Lionheart House.
And yet tonight, Katrina had worn an outrageously outdated dress—worse, one she had already worn before. Renny had pointed it out immediately. Instead of snapping back, Katrina had simply stared at her… and smiled.
“Dear friends!” the Chancellor suddenly proclaimed. “I’m delighted you’ve stayed for this very special occasion.”
Backlit by the city lights, his armchair silhouetted against the night, only his eyes were visible—burning like embers.
“For months, I feared our Grand Plan might fail. Today, however, I received confirmation that all will proceed as intended. Some time ago, I made the unfortunate mistake of trusting a man who did not deserve it. A vulgar traitor to his Chancellor and his kind. But before I intervened to render him harmless…”
He paused, savoring the silence.
“… he caused us considerable damage. The issue is now resolved, so I shall spare you the details. Yet one question remains. If a traitor like Dr. Flamsteed came so close to the heart of our project… how can we be certain he was the only one?”
A ripple of tension passed through the room.
“Put yourselves in my position. After such betrayal, how am I to trust anyone? Spies may lurk even among my closest companions. Anyone could be a spy. Even Lady Katrina. Who knows? Maybe my dear partner grows weary of me and contemplates treason…”
Nervous laughter flickered and died.
“And you, Holunder Bai—are you a traitor?”
“I am your most loyal servant, Your Excellency!”
“Yes, yes… so everyone claims. Or perhaps you, Haider Karens?”
“I would sooner kill myself, Excellency!”
“Careful, Secretary,” Chang replied mildly. “You may someday be called upon to do exactly that.”
Renny’s unease sharpened into dread. Why this theatrical game? If he suspected someone, why not name them?
She glanced at her husband. At the others.
And froze.
In the near darkness, their eyes gleamed red.
The Change.
Impossible. The transformation was intimate—sacred even. Only in the rarest cases did it occur in public. That’s why nobody, but her husband, knew she wasn’t werewolf enough to perform a Change.
A ripping sound shattered the silence. Fabric strained and tore as bodies expanded, reshaped.
“Thank you, dear friends,” the Chancellor growled, his voice no longer entirely human. “I am deeply moved. Such a display of loyalty… With a few obvious exceptions, of course. Isn’t that right, Lady Condla?”
“I… I don’t…” Renny faltered. “Your Excellency, I’m unwell tonight. I shouldn’t have come…”
Shrill laughter drowned her out.
It was over.
She should have listened to Dr. Lescovar and fled New Xanadu while she could. Yet she felt no regret. A true lady does not lose her composure—not in the face of danger. Not in the face of death.
She looked at Bran one last time. Their marriage had not been unhappy.
He had completed the Change. His fangs dripped with phosphorescent saliva.
“Sssorry, darling…” he hissed.
Then he tore out her throat.
The severed jugular granted her a swift death. The others joined in at once. Flesh was ripped, mauled, devoured. Howls echoed through the chamber until nothing recognizable remained.
Later, as the mutation subsided, the werewolves collapsed onto the sofas. The older ones wheezed, gasping for breath. Within minutes, they resumed their human forms. Lady Katrina dispatched the droid Bathinn to fetch robes.
When the lights came on, only a dark stain marred the carpet.
“Clean the rug, Bathinn,” the Chancellor said, now wrapped in an opulent dressing gown. “And bring us some Meshém wine… It is time for a toast.”
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