Above them, where he always belonged.

  This is gonna be fun.

  PART THREE

  THE SCORPION’S FIRE

  “What happens when the stars don’t align to meet your expectations? That’s called a clusterfuck.”

  Art Flink, humorist

  25

  Bessios

  R OYAL IMAGINED A SPOT inside the dark Fortress and called upon syneth to reduce his essence. Whispering in Quesh-n’o, he transported from the stasis tube and rebuilt his essence from silver rain to the man who had been trapped for eighteen centuries. He gazed behind at a pair of empty tubes and felt his partner beside him. They talked through D’ru-shaya and agreed how much they enjoyed breathing without oxygen. Moon created lighting.

  The chamber brightened to the orange of sunrise. A good choice, Royal thought. Damn symbolic.

  The new gods held each other’s hands.

  Touch.

  Royal never realized how much he missed it until now. The simulation inside the Cartalingus tried its best, but it never duplicated the tactile sensation of skin on skin. Even the most intimate moments carried a synthetic unreality.

  They wore the eyes of the Creators who chose them, green and catlike. Otherwise, they held form as the tattooed snake and the wolf who slaughtered their enemy in the corral.

  “Worth the wait?” Royal asked.

  “Better.” Moon’s eyes twinkled with a relish Royal last saw amid a slew of their headless victims. “We have no limits, Royal.”

  “Not even the damn sky.”

  “We’re going to kill thirty million Creators, and that’s just the beginning for us.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, partner. Those thirty million ain’t going down without a hell of a fight. And they got numbers.”

  Moon basked in the excitement. He grabbed Royal around the neck and yanked him close.

  “That’s why it’s going to be so much fun.”

  Those emerald irises did not hide his madness. If anything, Royal thought Moon’s psychotic embrace of the coming genocide doubled down on the wild-eyed joy he showed in the corral. Royal knew his partner would be the deadlier god, for Theo warned him centuries earlier.

  “If he were unleashed on Creation, he’d cause far more chaos,” Theo said of Moon in the early years. Now, their training and evolution complete, Royal expected Moon to delight in the blood of his enemies, perceived or otherwise. Yet a god must know when to exercise mercy, they were taught in the latter centuries. The first test of such character stood a few feet away.

  Royal led Moon to the stasis tubes where the J’Hai had been imprisoned for most of a million years. These tall, gangly, malformed creatures created artificial intelligence long before the genetic seeds of the human race were planted. They were the First Citizens of Bessios and the last of their people.

  In the moments after Royal and Moon prevailed in the corral, the J’Hai appeared in holo. Yet their image and voices played into the final deception of a long con planted lifetimes earlier. The Overseer known as Gingerbread, helped by his agent Corvaan Das, tapped into the J’Hai and claimed their form.

  “Gingerbread told us their minds are alive,” Royal said. “Do you believe him?”

  Moon caressed the tube. “If they are, it’s worse than death.”

  “Why, partner? They can dream and pretend.”

  “Nothing’s real. They have no future.”

  “Same for Bessios and the Origin. Whatcha think we oughta do?”

  Moon’s lips quivered as he spoke Quesh-n’o. He ran his hand along the side of the tube where the glass intersected with the machine.

  Flames engulfed both J’Hai. The brilliant furnace turned them to ash in seconds, then the flames disappeared.

  “Mercy?” Royal asked.

  “No, partner. I just wanted to see them burn.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Moon was as predicted, but Royal liked what he saw. It brought back memories of the halcyon days, when Ryllen learned to kill without remorse and looked forward to the next opportunity. Having a partner invested in death might expedite Final Verdict. Perhaps they’d truncate the predicted century-long war against the Creators.

  They entered the gallery where long ago they learned about the history of the J’Hai and discovered Gingerbread’s treachery. Like then, the room glowed in a soothing blue-gray tone, and glass frames projected from the walls. The images inside the frames had come to life upon touch, taking the visitor on a visual tour of the past. Eighteen hundred years ago, Royal and Moon journeyed to the J’Hai’s home world, witnessed its beauty, and saw its demise.

  This time, they stood shoulder to shoulder and stared into the largest glass, but it behaved like a mirror. Royal touched it, but the glass was cold and lifeless.

  “We’re not good enough,” Moon said. “I think we need something extra to sell us as gods.”

  “Yeah, no. First time we transform, they’ll get it. Except for the eyes, this is how they remember us.”

  “What about a foot taller? More pectorals; maybe fifty percent.”

  A third figure appeared in the reflection, standing several feet behind the new gods.

  “I never believed it would work,” Gingerbread said. “Some of the Overseers were skeptical. They said the Riders would not allow themselves to be trapped without a plan to survive.”

  “Thought you might show.”

  Royal cracked his knuckles as he and Moon swung around.

  Gingerbread smiled with awe. “The Fortress is a vacuum, yet you breathe. You have become like us.”

  Moon stepped forward. “Better.”

  “How did they do it?”

  Royal saw the opportunity that long escaped him.

  “Too much information.”

  He admired Gingerbread’s composure. The Overseer must have recognized his disadvantage.

  “The Riders showed you the path to godhood. In the unlikely event this moment arrived, the Overseer prepared an offer to avert war.”

  “We’re not interested in your offer,” Moon spit. “We’ll kill you assholes, take the Origin for ourselves, and go anywhere in the Continuum we damn well please.”

  Gingerbread cupped his hands into a steeple.

  “You believe you have the power to destroy the universes or save them.”

  “We know we do.”

  If Royal left the negotiations to Moon, they’d end faster. Yet someone needed to add nuance.

  “We worked hard for this,” he told Gingerbread. “We were good students. We were patient. Can you blame us for being proud of what we earned?”

  “No. I misjudged you. I assumed after your triumph in the corral, you would become brash and arrogant. I told the other Overseers not to worry. Two humans capable of waiting many lifetimes to evolve? Impossible, so I believed.”

  Moon pointed at Gingerbread and grew a footlong dagger, which he cupped in his right hand.

  “No terms, Gingerbread. Your time is up.”

  “Actually,” Royal interjected, “I’d like to hear the offer, just for giggles. Whatcha got, G?”

  “Thank you, Royal, for your kindness. Our offer is more than fair. If you do not wage war against us, we will hand over eternal control of the Origin. You will lead the Overseer as you see fit. You will decide the fate of Bessios. You may use it as a playground to satisfy your need to kill, or we will gladly destroy it for you.”

  “What about the Continuum?”

  “You will see it and hear it, but you must never leave.”

  “Yeah, no. That last bit is kind of a dealbreaker, G.”

  Moon added a dagger to his other hand.

  “We’re going to save the universe. You’ll watch it end.”

  “The Riders are misinformed. We are thirty million. You will die before your war begins. Choose a peaceful coexistence, a gift from my people.”

  Moon spoke to Royal through D’ru-shaya.

  “Let’s show him who we are. He’ll beg before we kill him.”

  Deep inside them, Theo and Pia watched and listened but did not interfere, as they vowed before handing over the escape sequence. Would they change their tune when they saw their inheritors slay a Creator? Royal decided to test the proposition.

  He replied in Quesh-n’o:

  “At’tava e-r Mor’va en Soj-ar.”

  Moon smiled before his one-word response, “Sio.”

  “You’re wrong,” Royal told the Overseer. “Here’s what we think about peace, asshole.”

  With a thought, they spun changeling nets into creation and leaped upon Gingerbread like a hard wind. The Overseer tried, too late, to adjust his form and wriggle free. The nets paralyzed syneth’s fluidity. Gingerbread was half a man, buried to his waist in a puddle of silver rain.

  “You had your fun,” Royal said. “It’s our time now. An-far’qo nis-nar au l’mor-t.”

  Gingerbread’s eyes spoke for him, showered in tears when he heard Royal’s last, impossible phrase. l’mor-t. Final death.

  Royal and Moon long pondered how precisely to kill a Creator, a secret never taught by their mentors but understood as the natural extension of all other training. Freezing syneth was the key to a slow, tortuous execution. However, it wasn’t practical given the size of the enemy. No, slaughter needed to be quick, like taking a man’s head. They conceived a weapon to serve the purpose and intended to test it in battle among the protostars.

  For this moment, they saved a special end for Gingerbread based on a lesson they learned from the Fortress itself. They tightened the nets until all the Overseer’s tangible form disappeared beneath his chin. Syneth, being a powerful but lightweight compound, lifted with ease. Royal did the honors, carrying Gingerbread toward the entrance to Bessios.

  “Qual-no y-nol til Bessios,” Royal said, explaining what they learned. He told Gingerbread how they long ago deduced why Creators never entered the city proper. It had nothing to do with rules to allow Bessians their independence. The atmosphere inside the city walls was toxic to Creators. That’s why they needed to plant agents like Corvaan Das inside to do their dirty work. That’s why Gingerbread never stepped across a glowing yellow line in the ground at the First Gate. It’s why he could exist inside the Fortress, whose tower extended beyond the atmospheric bubble.

  Standing inside the door, Royal lifted the stunned Creator and looked him straight in the eyes.

  “We’re like you now, but not completely. We’re a new species. And the best part is, we spent sixty-three years building an immunity to whatever’s outside. I’m going to enjoy this. Moon?”

  “I’ll watch you die, Gingerbread, then I’ll celebrate with my first cigar in eighteen lifetimes.”

  Royal shrugged off the notion of loosening the nets to hear the creature plead for his life. Moon shapeshifted his right arm into a giant drill and bore a hole through the impenetrable door. The drill morphed into a claw which clamped into the opening. Moon pulled the door partially open, and they stepped into the daylight.

  Royal’s lungs discovered oxygen and began working. His heart restarted. The light brought warmth, but the smell was acrid. Stale smoke hung in the air. He saw a black plume rise a kilometer away. A circus-style tent planted close by ruffled in a light breeze, the only structure within fifty meters of the Fortress. The city had changed, which gave him pause. What did he expect after so many centuries?

  Royal set Gingerbread on the ground. The new gods stood back and retracted their nets partway, enough for the Overseer to regain some of his form and movement.

  “Please,” he said in a plaintive wail. “You are gods. Show mercy.”

  “Not today, G. l’mor-t.”

  Black sinews formed on Gingerbread’s face. This creature, who likely had lived longer than some stars in the heavens, wriggled and squirmed. Steam burst forth from the sinews. The syneth at his base melted away like ice cubes under a fiery sun.

  “You will never …” The Overseer faded but managed one more word. “Win.”

  The steam turned to fire. The god dissolved into oblivion.

  Moon slapped Royal on the shoulder.

  “I’ll never get enough of that.” He searched his coat pockets and found a cigar. Moon sniffed it. “Oh, yeah. That’s the good stuff.”

  He turned a finger into a flame, lit the cigar, and held the first puff in his lungs. Moon closed his eyes to savor the moment and exhaled a thin stream of white smoke.

  “I still have the taste for it.”

  “Those are new lungs. New tongue. New everything. Surprised?”

  “It was the one thing that worried me, partner. Wasn’t sure I’d appreciate cigars the same way.”

  “Now that you know, we ought to …”

  He didn’t need to finish with “seek out Bessians.” They were already present.

  A dozen gawkers emerged from the tent dressed in purple trench coats. They wore deep eyeliner and various tattoos on shaved scalps.

  One man stepped forward. “They have returned!”

  At once, the twelve fell to their knees in supplication.

  “We knew you’d return,” a woman said. “We kept the faith when the others walked away. Will you take us into battle and free us from the Origin?”

  At one time, Royal might have known their names, but eighteen centuries, shaved heads, and purple trench coats tended to complicate matters. Moon shrugged.

  “Look, sorry we’ve been away a while. Not our fault.”

  “Are you still Royal and Moon? Have you become Creators?”

  He nudged Moon and whispered in Quesh-n’o that they really hadn’t practiced how to handle homecoming.

  Moon, enjoying his cigar too much, replied in Engleshe:

  “I like where this worship thing is headed.”

  “One problem, partner. Good soldiers don’t fight on their knees. OK, listen here. You folks need to stand.”

  “Are you Creators?” The woman asked again.

  “Sort of. Better. We can beat them. We can end the Origin. And I reckon the whole tattoo thing is a nice tribute. Stand. OK?”

  They complied, their glee bursting into tears.

  “Nice. Now, I got the feeling this ain’t the Bessios we left behind. Somebody wanna wipe your tears and fill us in?”

  The woman received nods of approval from the others.

  “I am Chief Guide Ludmilla. These are my fellows who have kept the faith.” She pointed to the tent. “This is our home. The Church of the Liberators.”

  “Hell yes,” Moon said in Quesh-n’o. “We have a church.”

  Ludmilla gasped. “Does he speak the language of the Creators?”

  “He does. Trust me, you don’t want to learn it. Takes forever. So, what’s the point of this church?”

  “We formed it in the first lifetime after you and Moon disappeared inside the Fortress. Our faith held that you would return someday imbued with evolved powers and ready to liberate us from Bessios.”

  “Good news on that score. Where’s everybody else?”

  Ludmilla crossed her hands over her chest and bowed.

  “The Church once thrived. Tens of thousands joined our faith.”

  “What happened?”

  “Bessios changed. A disease swept the city. It affected the mind and the heart. Many blamed you, but we knew the truth.”

  “Disease? I thought that wasn’t possible here.”

  “You misunderstand, Royal. The disease was moral corruption. Many died at others’ hands. The taking of heads became accepted, first as sport and then for all manner of retribution. The city lost distinction between Destroyers and Observants. Camps formed between those who held the faith and those who reviled you. Three civil wars bloodied our streets. Our membership declined.”

  Well, shit.

  Theo and Pia never hinted at trouble in Bessios. Did they also lack access? Or did they want the new gods to sort through the muck?

  “There were ninety thousand Bessians when we left,” he said. “How many still live?”

  “Eight thousand, Royal.”

  He chuckled. “And only twelve who are glad we’re back.”

  Ludmilla put on a brave smile.

  “You need not worry. When they see you in the flesh, most will change their minds. They will fight rather than remain in Bessios.”

  “Are they still divided into camps?”

  “Yes. Three thousand live in Old Town. They have formed their own society and government. They are ruled by Mother Felina.”

  Moon stopped enjoying his cigar and rattled off unbridled curses through D’ru-shaya. Royal fired right back.

  “Felina?” He asked the Chief Guide. “Do you mean Felina who used to be the Gatekeeper?”

  “Many lifetimes ago.”

  “She disappeared before we left Bessios. No one knew what happened to her.”

  “Yes, we heard these stories. Felina re-emerged seven lifetimes ago, after our third civil war. They say she had been living in solitude. She preached a life of peaceful reflection. The empty rooms of Old Town soon filled.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “She never leaves Old Town.”

  A four-wheel tumbler whirred into view between the tent and Fortress. Its occupants jumped out, each aiming massive rifles. Royal recognized the tall blond woman who took point. Unlike the last he saw her, Georgina wore a beige military uniform with many pockets and holstered pistols. A veteran of civil wars, no doubt.

  “We didn’t believe it was true after all this time,” she spouted. “Prepare to die. Both of you.”

  Georgina and her four compatriots moved between the new gods and their last twelve devotees. Royal thought the weapons were interesting, at least as big as the Force Drums he wielded against the Swarm. He muttered through D’ru-shaya for Moon to keep his cool. Much to his surprise, Moon seemed amused. He pulled on his cigar with a casual stance.

  Royal thought a delicate response might be best. If Felina controlled three thousand, Georgina – or someone close to her – controlled five thousand. He needed an army.

  “It’s been a while, Georgina. Sweet uniform. Like the color. I’ll take a guess: You planted a motion sensor on the Fortress.”

  “We wouldn’t allow you to sneak into the city, Royal.”