Traskk’s next string of hisses were translated into holographic letters as, Where are these aliens?

  Lancelot shrugged. “Everywhere and nowhere.” When the reptile protested with a low growl, she shook her head. “They don’t have a concept of this place or that place. Vere told me one time that whenever she asks Mortimous where he goes to visit them his response is ‘where there is no time or space.’ Whatever that means.” She shrugged again and gave him a slight smile to let him know it made as little sense to her as it did him.

  Looking down at her sleeve of armor, her mouth curled with annoyance and she made another note on the pad beside her.

  “You’re sure you have a friend who can get me new armor?” she asked, looking at the mounting inventory of pieces she needed.

  Of course.

  “You said this wasn’t the type of place to trust people.”

  An abnormally long string of hisses were turned into floating letters in front of her.

  I’ll tell him you’re a friend of Vere’s. That goes a long way with people who knew her.

  She nodded in the direction of J’s head. “How about the android’s memory? Know anyone who can get past its security and let me see where it’s been?”

  The reptile brought a claw up to the side of his chin and scratched. The tip of his tail tapped the floor of the Griffin Fire while he considered the possibilities.

  Not that I can think of.

  After running her fingers along another shattered and crumbling piece of armor, Lancelot made yet another note on the pad beside her. Finally, she pushed the piece of paper over to Traskk.

  “Do you mind having your friend make these pieces for me?”

  The reptile hissed a confirmation and took the list.

  He was half way to the Griffin Fire’s ramp when she added, “Traskk, I don’t have any money.”

  His tongue darted out as he gave a purring Basilisk laugh.

  You’re friends with Vere. No money needed.

  Lancelot shook her head. She could get used to this.

  After Traskk was gone, however, a wave of doubt came over her. Vere had accomplished what she had set out to do. The various empires, kingdoms, and territories that had managed to engage in never-ending battles with one another had become a united organization without boundaries. It sounded like an impossible feat and yet Vere had done it. Lancelot had a seemingly simpler task in front of her and yet she struggled to figure out how she could accomplish it. One wrong step in trying to unlock J’s processor and it would erase itself. Without it, she would never find Arc-Mi-Die and bring him to justice. She had a difficult time understanding why Mortimous and now Vere would spend time and energy on such a simple mission. After all, it wasn’t uniting the galaxy, it was just killing a warlord.

  This thought brought her back to the memory of Julian waking in her cavern, a look of panic on his face after hearing Mortimous’ words. He too had dreamt of the old man. She couldn’t help but guess that wherever Julian was now he was also in the middle of his own mission. What peaked her curiosity was wondering how far along was he with it.

  66

  Julian made his way through the quiet stone pathway bordering the cemetery and park. The trek was becoming one of his favorite times of day because it allowed him time to be alone and gather his thoughts.

  Much of his day was spent thinking of Talbot and Margaret. Although his son never questioned him, Julian saw the way Talbot watched everything he said and did as if silently judging him. Meanwhile, Margaret supported him in all of his endeavors but she also was becoming increasingly worried that he might be taking on too much responsibility.

  Each time the topic of the people’s marches came up, she said some variation of, “I just don’t know if any one person can fix the mess that the Round Table has created,” or “If anyone could fix it, it would be you, but how can the entire galaxy rely on one person?”

  He almost wished she would question his intentions the way Hector did rather than his ability. In all his years commanding missions amongst the stars, she had never once questioned if he was up to the task. For good reason: it was terrible luck to say such a thing to an officer going out on a vessel. There was no better way to jinx them and ensure some terrible fate befell the vessel and its crew than to express some form of doubt.

  As he made his way through the quiet and narrow path, a lone figure leaned against the wall, his back to Julian. The individual was covered in black robes, a hood covering his head, which made it impossible for Julian to see any part of him. Other than that, the path was empty.

  He knew the man wasn’t going to be some random citizen of CamaLon. The robed figure was going to be the same man who had visited him in his dreams and who had appeared twice since his return from the Orleans asteroid field.

  “Beware the tide of the march,” the old man who called himself Mortimous said, his voice raspy and aged.

  “I heard you the first two times,” Julian said. “Do you want to tell me what that means?”

  For a moment, the robed figure didn’t speak or move, and Julian thought it was either a figment of his imagination or the man had fallen asleep. There was an audible sigh when Mortimous turned to face him. Julian, still unable to see any part of the man’s face, squinted into the shadows for signs that the man was flesh and blood.

  “I’m trying to help guide you,” Mortimous said. “You are not making it easy.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Mortimous’ shoulders rose as he took in a deep breath. “Apparently not.”

  Both of Julian’s hands rested on his hips. “Well, are you going to explain or keep wasting my time?”

  “I can’t interfere too much,” the old man said, not explaining what that meant either. “That is the agreement I have with them.”

  Julian shook his head the way he would any time a young officer said or did something that should have been trained out of him in the academy.

  “So I’m supposed to beware the tide of the march?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you can’t explain what that means?”

  The way the sun reflected off Mortimous’ dark robes made Julian think the cloaked figure might disappear right in front of his eyes.

  The voice that came back sounded dry and low. “The people cheer you. They want you to save them.”

  “Well, I’m trying.”

  “It is not your job to save them.”

  Julian gave a dismissive huff and began to move past Mortimous. “That’s ridiculous.”

  As he watched, the black robes faded into nothing. He looked up and down the stone pathway to see if anyone else had witnessed the same thing. The corridor was empty and silent.

  Even after he was gone, Mortimous’ voice called out, “You can try to help them, but you are not their savior. Don’t trick yourself into believing you are. That is not your destiny.”

  Julian looked all around him, hoping the apparition would reappear.

  “What would you have me do?” he called. If anyone was nearby they would surely think him crazy. “If the people want me to lead them, I can’t say no.” When Mortimous still didn’t reappear, didn’t say anything, Julian said again, “I can’t say no.”

  Mortimous said nothing else.

  67

  Hector hovered back and forth across his lawn as he thought about everything Cash and Cimber had said. He also replayed the things Julian had told him when Hector had visited him at his home. Each of them were his friends and yet the two sides were not only opposed to each other, they were both suggesting things Hector could never be a part of. He couldn’t imagine doing anything to Julian, as Cash was insinuating. But as someone who had rejected personal glory for the greater good, he also couldn’t imagine allowing anyone, not even a longtime friend, to wear a crown.

  Hector was stuck in between them. The problem was, there was no middle ground for him to position himself on. Cash and Cimber were set on their course. Julian seemed to be set on his.

  Portia tried to comfort him but her general comments that ‘everything would work out’ or ‘have faith in your friends’ had only given him encouragement a few times before he realized she was saying those things because she didn’t have any other advice.

  “You beckoned?”

  Hector swiveled on his energy disk. Pistol approached in the darkness.

  “I did. I’d like you to do me a favor.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d like you to keep an eye on Julian. Tell me who he’s meeting with. When possible, tell me what he’s saying. Don’t let yourself be noticed, though.”

  The android’s eyes lit up as he processed the task. “Anything else?”

  “Not at this time.”

  Pistol nodded and turned back toward the house, leaving Hector alone again. As he hovered in small circles under the largest tree in his yard, he tried to think of what Vere would do if she were in his situation. He found no answers, though, only doubts. What Cash and Cimber were suggesting was wrong. And yet anyone claiming a crown to rule the Round Table would be a threat to the entire galaxy. It was possible that Vere had also been wrong all along. Maybe the Round Table couldn’t function in its current form. Maybe it did need someone to lead it. Vere had been absolutely sure, though, that she was doing the right thing.

  No matter how many times Hector hovered around the trunk of the giant tree in his yard, there were no answers to be found.

  68

  Billions of miles away, Arc-Mi-Die also paced back and forth. J hadn’t shown up from its last errand and it was unlike the android to be delayed. J also hadn’t sent a communication to explain what the hold-up was. There had been times in the past when a preferred mercenary wasn’t available and J had needed to find a replacement. But as soon as the android knew its return would be postponed, it was programmed to send an alert.

  The last message the android had sent back had bounced off of four different portals before being directed to Arc-Mi-Die’s lair. It was one of the many precautions the warlord took to ensure he wasn’t found. If anyone happened to intercept the message they wouldn’t know where it had originally come from, who had sent it, or the identity of the intended recipient. That message had said that a vessel was following J’s Type B Strain transport on its way to Sceptor-Major. J was going to land and try to eliminate the threat before proceeding with Arc-Mi-Die’s orders. A day had passed since that communication and the android still hadn’t made contact.

  Arc-Mi-Die wasn’t overly worried. J had been programmed to self-destruct if its capture was imminent. It also had a memory-erase protocol in its head that would wipe all data the android had stored in its memory banks.

  Another android could be programmed to do the same work. Still, though, the loss, the uncertainty, left the warlord uneasy. When he felt that way his first impulse was always to destroy something. Sometimes it was only a nearby, unlucky android. Other times it was a rival warlord. With more Excalibur Armada vessels at his disposal, it would inevitably lead to another legendary ship being sent across the galaxy to slaughter millions of unsuspecting people.

  “You,” he called to his Woghort guards.

  They snorted and turned to face him. Neither moved toward their boss because of the automated defense turrets that would be triggered if they stepped too close.

  “One of you go to the control room and have the master bot activate another android. Make sure it’s been programmed with all the same safety measures that J had.”

  The two Woghorts nodded, then snorted at each other over and over in a series of grunts that became increasingly agitated. One of the Woghorts flinched and pushed the other against the steel door they guarded. That guard came back with a closed fist and punched his associate in the stomach. The two guards stared at each other for a moment, low grunts going back and forth between them. Then, the test of will lost, the guard that had the wind knocked out of him watched his associate leave and resumed standing at attention while the other got a rare chance to leave the seclusion of the private lair.

  69

  Neither Mortimous nor Vere visited Lancelot while she sat by herself in the Griffin Fire. Instead, she was left to gather her thoughts and reflect on what she should do next.

  She remained in her armor—the pieces that were still left of it. Her helmet was on but without a tinted visor, anyone would be able to see her blue eyes and blond hair. Her gauntlets and shoulder reinforcements were on but not the sections that covered her forearms or elbows. The main chest plate was missing, revealing the lining underneath the armor. When Traskk came back with the new machined replacements, she would have to take much of the armor off again in order to connect the new pieces, but in the meantime she still preferred to have the rest of it on.

  Her primary reason for wearing it wasn’t the source of comfort it provided but the need to be ready in case trouble presented itself. If there was one thing her search across the galaxy for Arc-Mi-Die had taught her it was that there were wretched and immoral scoundrels waiting at every corner of every colony, all waiting to prey on anyone who seemed weaker than them. If Traskk attracted the wrong kind of attention while on his errand or a gang followed him back to the Griffin Fire, Lancelot wanted to be ready.

  Even while Traskk was gone and Lancelot sat by herself, local criminals attempted to steal the Griffin Fire. However, the security Traskk had installed around the vessel made it virtually impossible for anyone to get aboard. A trio of automated blasters was positioned around the hangar. Each one was tied to a motion sensor and scanner that either confirmed Traskk’s identity and let him approach the ship or else gave a warning blast followed by a lethal follow-up.

  She watched in fascination from the cockpit of Vere’s old ship as a group of three thieves huddled at the far edge of the spaceport, trying to come up with a plan for how to get past the automated turrets and steal the Griffin Fire. One of the three was a Basilisk like Traskk, only with bright yellow skin. The other two were lizards with snouts as long as their arms and scales all over their skin, which was the color of murky green swamp water. The Basilisk walked toward the Griffin Fire, a hood pulled over his head. The two lizards aimed blasters at the defense system arranged around the room. There was no way of knowing how the sensors knew this Basilisk wasn’t Traskk. A single laser blast landed at his feet. Immediately, the pair of lizards shot at the automated cannons. They only hit one of the countermeasures before two others targeted them and struck both squarely in the chest. Each fell to the ground and didn’t move. The Basilisk, unsure if he would be targeted if he began to retreat but also sure he would be shot if he continued toward the Griffin Fire, stood perfectly still. He only moved when a second blast struck the ground in front of his clawed toes at the same exact spot as the first warning blast. After that, he darted away, leaving his two companions where they lay.

  A couple minutes later, Traskk strode into the hangar, looked at the pair of dead aliens, and stepped over one of them on his way to the Griffin Fire’s ramp. The automated turrets didn’t even swivel toward him, let alone fire. A backpack was slung over both of Traskk’s shoulders and even from the cockpit Lancelot could see the pieces of the engineered blast-proof armor she had requested.

  Once aboard, he joined her in the cockpit, gladly taking the co-pilot’s seat without protest even though it was his ship and she was only a guest.

  He nodded to the hangar floor and hissed a series of noises that the ship translated in the air as, Every night when I come back to the ship, there are bodies of thieves who didn’t learn their lesson.

  “You would think they would get the idea after a while.”

  Traskk shrugged. Some other crooks will come by soon enough to take anything of value off those two dead liz-woks. A couple hours later, another group of thieves will try to steal the ship. It never ends.

  She rolled her eyes. “Folliet-Bright seems like a really wonderful place.”

  Traskk opened one of the backpacks so she could see the pieces he had brought back. They stood and walked to the main cabin. Lancelot reached down and withdrew a piece of the machined armor. Instead of being bronze and brown like the rest of her suit, the new pieces were dull grey.

  Traskk pointed to them and hissed. The guy I found didn’t have dye.

  “It’s no problem,” she said, holding a piece of the matte plating against her arm. “It’s perfect.”

  Piece by piece, she took off the areas of armor that needed to be repaired and then used Traskk’s tools to weld the new segments of grey plating to the existing bronze Carthagen suit. As she worked, she only took off the particular pieces that needed to be fixed. Over time, more of her armor varied in color from the traditional Carthagen colors and were replaced by something new, a combination of gold, brown, bronze, and dull grey. Part of Lancelot was sad to see the change. The most consistent thing in her life had been the armor she wore every day for twenty years. Now, it was changing before her eyes. Something Mortimous had said recently reminded her of the opposing thought—parts of her life could be altered and she would still keep moving forward. Nothing was going to stop her from doing what she wanted.

  “I need to get the contents of that android’s memory,” she said, her eyes flicking over to J’s head, still stuffed on a shelf above Traskk.

  I’m not sure who we can go to, Traskk hissed.

  “That’s a problem for me. What do you suggest?”

  Even as she waited for a response, she knew no one on Folliet-Bright would be suited for the job. They would either claim they could do more than they were capable of and accidently trigger the security measure that would erase every bit of information in the metal skull or else they would betray her by finding someone who was upset about the riot in the streets and sell her whereabouts to them.