It had been weeks now since Miran and Kerrigen's chat, a blip that stretched on forever in her head. The enemy had still yet to show themselves. Preparations had been made, simulations had been run, and for all intents and purposes, Miran assured Kerrigen they would be as ready as they could be.

  The end was coming, and Miran could feel it in her fingers. She had finally found her way back to Soren's bedside, this time on the other side of noise dampening glass.

  She had been in to see him, hold his cold hands, even talk to him on his few lucid occasions. Only to have him lapse into babbling and fits of struggle. The doctors had tied him down to stop him from tearing at himself.

  Advanced plastics and a dozen or so skin grafts pockmarked his flesh, some on his remaining leg and arms, and one large one across his cheek just under his eye. His right leg up to his knee, his right forearm and his left arm up to the shoulder had been amputated. His prosthetics had been sized, shaped and fit only to have them lay on the desk across the room. Anything that he could use to scratch or tear and himself had been removed.

  A section of his abdomen was removed next. Sallow and bruised, his flesh had begun to moult as a snake would. Days later, the night terrors started, pushing through any drugs or attempts at putting Soren into a medically induced coma. He just continued wailing, thrashing, and oscillating between periods of stability and what seemed like ageless agony.

  All Miran could see now when she left Soren's room every night and closed her eyes was his pain, his sorrow, and the look in his begging eyes. Soren was fading with no remnant remaining of the proud, joyous man that was. She had all but written him off in her mind. He was gone now, and she knew it. That made what came next all that much easier.

  The only remedy left, the doctors assured her, was to allow Soren what dignity he still had. The source of what plagued him still eluded them, and as the pain grew to new heights, she knew what he would have wanted. Miran, afforded her last order as matriarch, gave Soren his final mission.

  Early in the morning, nearly twenty weeks to the day when his shuttle went down, Soren passed away in silent sleep.

  The following day, under the light of new morning, Miran sat in her bed staring out the skylight until well past noon. She poured over images from her past, faculty pictures of her and Soren, each of them appropriately regimented and regal. They were captains of their stations, standing side by side—leaders among the proudest flock in the fleet.

  Patriarch Umar Hari interrupted her reflection, his icon buzzing on her terminal. A bulletin opened, and a smiling man looked back at her.

  “Good to see you, Miran-Yi,” Patriarch Hari said. It was plain to Miran that the man was hiding something pale behind his eyes.

  “What’s wrong, Umar?” she said unceremoniously.

  “I have news, some bad, some worse, I’m afraid,” he said bluntly.

  “I’ve no mood for this.”

  “I am sorry, really. Of a child lost, no matter if they were yours by birth. my heart weeps for your loss, Miran-Yi.”

  Miran didn’t need any more pity, forcing herself out from under her covers.

  “Spit it out, Umar.”

  “They’re back,” he said after significant hesitation. “The black ones you spoke of.”

  “Where?”

  “Drifting on the periphery of the system. In the same place, we tracked them some weeks ago.”

  “They had concealed themselves completely all this time,” Miran said, “why show themselves now?”

  “Matriarch Kerriegen would very much like that question solved. As would I,” he said.

  “You’re working with Kerrigen again, and you’re not still mad at her?”

  “I am, and should we make it out of this, the Federation will be let known of her transgressions. For now, though, there are other matters at hand.”

  “Where are your goons then? Who’s taking me in?” Miran asked sardonically.

  “Outside,” he said, “Take some time; they will wait. But, do be brief.”

  Miran dressed and met her chaperones outside her door. With a noticeable lack of pomp, they ushered her into a shuttle. It became clear to Miran that wherever they were taking her, it was not where she was expecting. She was expecting the Hisshou State Building or some mall or monument nearby. No, wherever she was being whisked was far outside the inner city.

  The shuttle cleared the high rooftops of the larger district buildings and began moving into more quaint outer regions. Behind her, Eidao was a fading scar on the hillside. The mountain slope had all but faded before the shuttle began to slow. Touching down on a landing pad on the roof of some four-story housing complex, Miran was surprised to see Kerrigen there at the end of the shuttle ramp.

  “You look like you were just leaving,” Miran said to an absent Matriarch Kerrigen.

  “Hmm?” she stirred, “Yes, well, I was. I’ve been here for some time, seen what I’d needed to see. That’s why I called you. I’m afraid this is outside my understanding at the moment. And since you were the taskforce’s founder, I’d imagine you would have better luck than I at sorting this one out.”

  “Figuring what out?”

  “You’ll see. And, rather proactively, I’m sorry for any more pain this might cause. The universe knows you’ve seen enough in recent weeks.”

  Haggard and somewhat dismissive, Kerrigen boarded the shuttle, leaving Miran on the dusty rooftop.

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  “That was strange,” Miran said to herself. She looked around at the squat city beneath her. The streets were bustling with centuries-old automobiles, with minimal upgrav tech in sight. The structures, although new, were built under noticeably lacking standards. In styles predominant just a few years ago, some had begun to rapidly decay as their siding crumbled and joined the dust and sand that lay just outside the city’s bounds. Far off toward the fading sun, the rusting desert stretched forever. One beacon in the distance shone, and Miran recalled it as being the lights of another mountain city.

  “Hey, Matria– I mean, Miran!” echoed a familiar voice from the street below. Lawson Ha was headed towards her. Behind him followed a slovenly Rissa. Odd, Miran thought, Lawson was chipper, and Rissa was morose.

  They met up halfway down the fire escape, Lawson surging up to meet her. To her surprise, Lawson wrapped himself around her with a tight grip. Miran, stunned for a moment, squeezed back. She welcomed his warmth, his eagerness to see her again. It was clear to her that Lawson approved.

  Over Lawson’s shoulder, however, Rissa’s gaze drifted as she avoided eye contact.

  “What is it, Rissa?” Miran asked, Lawson still refusing to let go.

  “I came in earlier. With Matriarch Kerrigen, that is,” she said. “Lawson’s only just arrived.”

  “And they made me take the train over here!” he said, “they sent a shuttle for you. It seems the perks of a matriarch linger on.”

  “I’m thinking Kerrigen needed me to take something off her plate,” said Miran, “And by that look, Rissa, it isn’t anything good.”

  Rissa fought it for a moment, then in a fluster, said, “It’s Chief Ogunye, he’s–”

  Miran’s blood lept into her throat.

  “Take me to him,” Miran said, already having jumped to the ultimate conclusion. Down the fire escape, Miran followed Rissa. Lawson, his mood suddenly shifted to concern, followed behind.

  “Tell me,” Miran asked the backside of Rissa’s head as they cut through several alleyways, “how bad is it?”

  “It’s bad,” Rissa admitted, not wanting to turn around. Miran caught the catch in Rissa’s throat as she said it. She was holding back.

  “We’re here,” Rissa said, rounding the corner. Naval barricades and officers blocked the road ahead as a crowd was corralled offside. Rissa stopped and pointed in the direction of the barriers.

  “Up there,” she said.

  “You’re not coming?” Lawson asked.

  “I need a minute,” said Rissa, her head hung low.

  “You’re scaring me,” Lawson admitted before trotting off behind Miran, who was now moving toward the site of her waiting surprise with a sort of grim determination.

  Past the barricades, the officers parted to let them through. An officer, whose name Miran faked hearing, directed her to a stoop and a short run of stairs several metres away. Miran stepped ahead, knowing what she could see curled on the upper steps.

  His body was limp, contorted, and twisted as several bones had broken in his limbs. Chief Podollan Ogunye’s face had been scraped near clean off, though recognizable to her by his hairstyle and the way he tied his shoes. Lawson froze beside her as he stepped close.

  “No,” he said, “No no no no no.”

  Miran knew what he meant as the metal taste returned. She spat at the pavement, turning away lest she lose herself and her poorly mended composure. It was only a few days ago that she had lost a friend, now another?

  “Fuck,” she said.

  Lawson did not answer, instead muttering the same smattering of no’s. Rissa, who had materialised behind them, grabbed Lawson by the hand. She smiled half-heartedly at Miran before leading Lawson away and seating him on a shuttle’s hood.

  Miran stepped close to Podallan’s corpse, not sure what to make of it. There was no blood, no sign of struggle. Podallan’s skin was bruised in the same beaten way as Soren’s had been, his skin moulting and changing, although with far more violence. Whatever had found Podallan in this district had been related to Soren, to the events on Bordeaux, to–

  “Those bodies in cold storage,” she said, bottling the rage and forcing composure, “that gore– Their fates resemble Podallan’s in some regard.”

  “He died in agony,” Rissa said, returning. “I can see it in his face.”

  “What’s left of it,” said Miran.

  “Do you think he died here?”

  “No. He must’ve climbed these steps looking for help,” said Miran, “The people that own this residence, who are they?”

  “Nobody in particular. A man and a woman; she works manufacturing in Eidao, he is a city planner in inner Hisshou.”

  “Are they home?”

  “They were. Kerrigen sent them off to her private residence on loan from Patriarch Hari. Miran, do you know what did this?”

  “I do not,” she admitted, “though, I’m hoping I know someone who does. Remember that girl, Tolly?”

  Rissa nodded.

  “I sent her away with a sample gathered from Soren.”

  Miran thought of Tolly and her apprenticeship abroad. She wondered if, given her time with Soren’s samples, she had learned anything that might help get to the bottom of things. She sent a brief bulletin Tolly’s way.

  “Miran?” Rissa interrupted.

  “Yes, Rissa?”

  “What do we do in the meantime?”

  Miran considered that for a moment.

  “Do we have any cameras on this?”

  “None,” Rissa said, “asked around myself.”

  She looked around, and nothing led away from the body. No blood, no trail of any kind. It’s almost as if he was dropped here by some sorcery. Although–

  “His boots,” Miran pointed. “Get a scan of those and pass them around to these officers and get some drones in the air too.

  “Right,” said Rissa. “Oh, and he also had this on him, though it’s a little smashed.”

  Rissa handed Miran Podallan’s damaged terminal; its screen smashed beyond repair.

  “Seems the power source is damaged too. I can’t seem to turn it on,” said Miran as she fumbled with the power switch. She thought of Wellei and Dominado; their skills would surely be useful now to crack this. She knew she felt something more in their absence. She felt, though however slight a feeling, that they had survived the torment of Bordeaux and they would one day be reunited. A foolish thought and she knew she was reaching, but losing Podallan sent her careening in a paradoxically new direction. She would find his killer. She had to.

  Three and a half hours later, they had a hit. A drone registered his boot print in a patch of sand leading away from an open door a dozen blocks from where his body wound up. The door led to a disused set of excavation tunnels left behind from the first stages of colonisation centuries ago. With Kerrigen’s approval, Miran organised a team to meet at the tunnel’s entrance.

  “Rissa, where’s Lawson?” Miran asked as she buckled up a utility pouch around her waist.

  “He’s not coming,” Rissa said.

  “He’s navy now,” Miran said, “Tell him it’s an order.”

  “That’s not going to work. He resigned and left the task force behind. He’s left me– us.”

  Miran wasn’t expecting that. She was angry, distraught even after the loss of Podallan, but she found with it new determination. To try to escape the situation just when you’re needed most?

  “He told me he couldn’t take any more of it,” Rissa said, tears welling in her eyes. “He’s leaving on The Dream first chance he gets.”

  “The Dream of Earth is shipping out? That’s news to me,” Miran said, confused.

  Rissa shrugged.

  “Well,” Miran said, shifting her mind away from things she no longer had the authority to change, “I guess you’re the task force now.”

  Miran smiled sardonically and grasped Rissa on each shoulder. Staring into the woman’s eyes, Miran could see just how wilted the woman was inside. Miran remembered the hug Kerrigen had given her when it was she who was falling apart. Wrapping her arms around Rissa, she let the woman squeeze her back.

  After a long moment, Miran let the woman go only to notice the group of waiting officers she had assembled and ordered to gear up milling about.

  “What’s everyone standing around for?” she said.

  The officers stood to attention.

  “Matriarch!” they beckoned in unison.

  She didn’t correct them. She knew she didn’t have the office anymore, nor technically the title. But by the gods, she knew how to lead—stepping ahead of them all, she made for the tunnel entrance. A stream of eight loyal bodies followed her, pacing their way in the dark by torchlight.