Scro, old blusterer that he is, is struck speechless by the Somner. Good. His voice sounds strange without his vocoder.

  It is possible that Zek is his spawn. Her caste is responsible for tracking and recording the Mos bloodlines, among others. If any would know the truth of such things, it would be her. City of origin hardly matters; the records would be transferred upon conquest.

  All of us in this dreamscape, Mos or their spawn? It is possible. By the decree of the Duv, many castes have been cast down into obscurity. I can barely recall the tales of my elders, speaking in awe of the Ein. According to the stories, an Ein's strength would shame my Bruen or young Gol's mighty size.

  If I remember correctly, their intellect had been lacking and their aggressive instincts as strong as the rest of them. Different cities often include different castes as well. There may perhaps be even stranger breeds I might never meet.

  Those speculations will have to wait. More concerning is the other matter. I have a strong suspicion that I already know the thaumatists' plan. If I'm correct, they might be making a terrible error.

  "Denn, tell us of your weaknesses," orders Jurer Noll, confirming my fears.

  "I never learned to dance, and I cannot endure the taste of byumberries," I hedge, hoping she will reconsider.

  Noll, only slightly discouraged, stands straighter and tries again. "Not those weaknesses. Speak of that which binds you."

  I see that I cannot dissuade her with subtlety. Perhaps if I try the direct approach.

  "No. I don't belong to you."

  "You can't command a Mos," shouts Scro. "Not even a dead one."

  Gol raises her tendrils in an odd manner. I realize that the movement would look natural if she were holding a spear, thrusting it into the air. It is oddly comforting to know that I have both of their support.

  "You refer to the confinement of his will," states Bruen. "It is a poor shackle, if that is what you will rely upon to hold the Duv. Denn thwarts the commands of the aliens often and flagrantly."

  "Nonsense," spits Somner Ekes. "Noll and I have both witnessed his subservience to the aliens."

  Gol and Scro both betray their uncertainty with careless twitches of their tendrils. It might be best if I try to clear the mud from the water.

  "I do as Eva asks because she and I are friends. She treats me with the same respect as any of her people, so I am happy to work with her. Were she to command me to do things of which I do not approve, I would fulfill her orders. Just not in ways that would please her." I lift my upper tendrils in a rough mimicry of a shrug. If only Yosip could see me.

  "It is possible that the Duv are too far gone to be so ingenious," protests Noll, unwilling to abandon her plans. "Most surely are."

  "But not all," argues Gol. "We continue to receive direction. The competent continue to lead."

  "They were smart enough to make us," reasons Zek, "they might still be capable of finding ways to do what they want."

  "We'll just make the bindings stronger," objects Jurer Noll. "With your help in noting the flaws in Nuhst's design, surely we can-"

  "If you wish to make the Duv into mindless slaves," I argue, "would it not be easier and safer to simply kill them instead? If there must be a charade of medical intervention, then neglect to transfer their awareness during your operation."

  "I've done things I regret," adds Scro, "but I was never more cruel than I had to be. Killing is part of my job, but it is not something I do for fun."

  "Still collecting body parts?"

  "Like you're any better," counters Scro, loudly. "Young Bruen told me you kept my tendrils."

  "Will you two stop," begs Gol, pedipalps working furiously. "This is serious."

  "Let them argue," says Noll in resignation. She slumps in defeat. "We're wasting time anyway."

  "Nonsense," I object. "You should proceed, regardless of the ineffectiveness of the constraints. There's one more thing you've overlooked."

  "And what," asks Zek, tilting forward, "might that be?"

  The other three thaumatists lean closer as well. Scro, failing but unable to accept it, tries to act uninterested while Gol doesn't bother to hide her curiosity. Bruen still seems dazed, though I believe he's paying attention.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  I let the moment stretch, enjoying their eager postures. It's simple, really.

  "While any transformed Duv will find ways to evade the bindings if they wish, there is nothing forcing any of you to obey a Duv in such a state."

  The lot of them stand in silence. I let them process the bizarre idea of not obeying a Duv. Eventually, one of them says the one word I expect.

  "Why?"

  I won't make it that easy for them. The young must grow on their own, after all. There is no helping Scro, either. He would neither appreciate nor understand an explanation. It is Zek that states the answer. Not surprising. She is a healer.

  "Pheromones. We can't resist them. Can't even conceive of trying when they're in our system. But crystal doesn't produce pheromones."

  "Of course! They built that control mechanism into our bodies," exclaims Ekes. "And sterilized any strains that lost the weakness."

  "The hold out cities," whispers Gol. She shares my dawning realization of our complacency and active cooperation in enabling these purges.

  "Why torment us with these truths?" Scro draws himself up to his full height, swelling his thorax and extending his tendrils in a cloud around himself. "We can no more resist the Duv than a tribal their chief. Do you enjoy inflicting this suffering?"

  "If it were not done by you, another would have followed the orders of the Duv," Nov says, attempting to assuage our guilt. "The Duv speak, and all castes must listen."

  While that is true, Nov omits a very important fact. We had felt justified in our actions, proud of being loyal. That is not something we can just dismiss so easily.

  Sensing the true cause of our concern, Zek offers us a possible redemption. "There will be much chaos, when the Duv are no longer in command. When that time comes, there must be those who will be ready to lead. Experienced leaders such as yourselves could keep our people from drifting apart like so much sand thrown into the waves."

  "Sba City," Bruen whispers. "Those Duv retaining their sense must be using the colony as an experiment. They test to see if we will remain loyal to the Empire and how much we will rely upon Homeworld."

  "A test we are failing, from one perspective," confirms Zek. "The presence of two strong trading partners capable of staving off tribal incursions does much for the stability of Sba City."

  The constant threat of Southern Tribal invasions keeps our people united against a common foe. Even during attacks against rival cities, the tribal threat comes first. Our very way of life is focused around fighting the implacable foe.

  "We must trade more with the capital," declares Bruen. "Prove we do not seek independence."

  "That would be wise, clutchmate," agrees Noll.

  Yes, she is of an age with the other thaumatists present. The only one of them I do not recall meeting is Jurer Nov, though it is possible that one had been present during our confrontation on Homeworld. The muffling robes their caste wear serve to hide identity as thoroughly as it cloaks their malformities.

  The others shift around, deep in contemplation. Our species faces a kind of freedom. Horrible, frightening freedom as well as more responsibility than it is possible to quickly absorb.

  "I volunteer," announces Scro into the silence. He answers the questioning motions of those around him peevishly. "You need a practice body. If the process doesn't work, they'll find some other way to live forever. Test the process on me."

  Noll considers, her previous confidence melting away. "I cannot remove the restrictions. Their structure is intrinsic to the overall design."

  Scro glides over to her. He holds himself above her threateningly and stops well within touching distance. Noll shrinks back reflexively but immediately assumes a more dignified stance. Scro's mouthparts twitch and he extends his tendrils.

  His tendrils lightly brush hers as he peers down at her. They retract with startling speed after only a brief contact. He shifts his body, viewing her closely from every angle. Noll obliges by throwing back her hood and assuming an almost regal stance. Scro, reaching some decision, lowers himself to a more neutral position and withdraws to a less threatening proximity.

  "Chiva and Lo," he says with gruff finality.

  Jurer Noll's confusion is shared by those around her. Even I have no idea to what he refers.

  Scro provides the answer with his usual churlishness. "Your parents. You're not one of mine."

  Understanding bursts over her. I do not know of Mos Chiva, but I recall tales of Mos Lo's exploits after this reminder. Lo's mastery of twin spear fighting remains uncontested to this day. But spears will not save one from explosive traps.

  Ekes and Nov beg for and receive similar treatment. After close scrutiny, Mos Scro pronounces the names of those most likely to have spawned the thaumatists. The names he gives them possess great renown, tacticians and duelists all. He takes a quiet joy in their reactions despite the harsh rebuffs he gives in return for their eager gratitude. The recognition obviously means more to them than the information itself; they could easily access the stored blood and learn through comparative analysis.

  He then approaches Bruen.

  "Thank you," states Bruen, backing away. "But I already know who my father is."

  Scro halts his advance, facing the younger male. "'Course you do," he nearly shouts. "Wouldn't have told you different, anyhow. Black smoke no, I wish to ask a favor of you." His tirade loses most of its force by the end of his admission.

  Gol guffaws, as unused to this side of Scro as myself. In all the time we've known him, fought against and beside him, Scro had always proved himself to be fiercely independent. Many times I can recall him sneaking across the kill zones and into my camp to assassinate my underlings when he could have sent another in his place. And once when he defeated half a tribal assault by himself, fighting across it to reach us before we were overrun. It was after that battle that his vocoder had been installed.

  "State your request, elder."

  Scro snorts in irritation. "I have but one living offspring, aside from the one I cannot claim." He makes a gesture indicating Zek. "And we may never meet again."

  A ripple of his tendrils indicates Bruen's understanding. "I know of her. She teaches at the academy."

  Clearly embarrassed, the dream Scro fusses with straightening his uniform before bursting out, "You can guess what I want, then."

  "I'll speak well of you to her, should we meet," agrees Bruen. A slight movement of his tendrils indicates that he leaves the rest unsaid. His gesture is in the direction of Somner Zek.

  Accepting the unspoken promise, Scro turns, posture once more aggressive, to face the four thaumatists responsible for our presence here.

  "Why are we wasting time? Did you drag us here to make plans or not?"