Aldur Bokrenglasnekonterbeid set aside the plasma torch after detaching the fourth leg from the antique rockwood desk that he had, with great effort and much complaint from his aging spine, managed to overturn in the middle of the study.
He sat for a few moments, staring at the ancient scuff marks that streaked the otherwise smooth surface of the squared-off chunk of wood. How many boot toes had he worn out, thumping against it as he managed the ledgers for the arctic territories of Hav Glasne in Hekayt Prime's desolate northern reaches? More than he could remember, to be sure.
Aldur shivered in the flame-licked darkness. No time for reminiscing, he scolded himself. Straightening, Aldur limped across the study to the windowed alcove where he'd built a warming fire in a makeshift pit of stones hauled up months ago as a final kindness from the last of the departing house servants. He tossed the final desk leg into the crackling flames with the rest. The old bookshelves and ancient leatherbound paper tomes passed down for generations went first. He had wept over the loss of so much knowledge, but took some solace in the fact that the books had first been stored on data crystals for posterity. The plushly cushioned furniture, luxuries prized by his wife before she was catalogued, that went next. He'd been saving the desk for as long as possible. In its day, during his prime, that desk had been as much a part of him as his hand or his heart. Now, it must fuel a dwindling fire that was crucial to his survival.
Winter had come, as it always inevitably did in Hav Glasne, and Aldur Bokren, father of an unspeakable son, had exhausted the last of his funds to underwrite one final attempt to right the wrong of that son's birth. He could no longer afford the energy supply for the family manor. He couldn't pay the servants. He couldn't keep the larder full. He'd cooked the last of his old croi hound's pups three days ago. He'd soon be resorting to vermin if he couldn't restore his family name.
Through the open alcove windows, beneath the pale glow of two crescent moons, Aldur watched the approach of a whirring hovercar, its forward orbs illuminating the path through the rusting iron gates to the main house. News at last. He adjusted the thick fur cap covering his spiked skull. It felt womanly, so much hair clustered on his head, but Aldur did what he must to keep the deathly chills at bay. He shuddered under the layers of shirts and the heavy woolen coat, rubbed his gloved hands together, and then walked to the stairs leading down to the mansion foyer. He moved through moonlit shadows to open the front doors. This time last year, Olat would have done that for him. The loss of such luxuries might prove worthwhile, though. He was down the porch steps in time to meet the stretch four-door hovercar as it hummed to a stop. The back passenger-side door hissed open, upward like a bird's wing. Aldur slid inside, settling into the back seat while the door closed beside him. He found himself next to one of his only remaining friends: Gridan Revidumorkmyrkonterbeid, the Oysikt of Hav Morkmyr. They had worked together for many years as colleagues of equal rank.
"You look hideous," Gridan said, frowning at Aldur. "Here, drink something." He leaned forward to open a gleaming silver thermos on the bar shelf that spanned the width of the car. He poured steaming brownish-green liquid into two white ceramic cups. "You have no business staying in this place, Aldur. In this weather, with no heat, you'll be dead in days." He slid one of the cups toward Aldur.
Aldur considered the cup before him. It was tempting, desperately tempting, to clutch the cup with both hands and pour that tangy-smelling goraf down his gullet. But not yet. Not until he knew. He shifted his gaze back toward Gridan. "Is it done?"
Gridan took a sip of his own goraf. "Ah, too hot." He set it down. "It will keep." Then he looked at Aldur and said, "They failed."
"Curse all the houses!" Aldur shouted, pounding a gloved fist on the door. "Vard lives? We sent two to kill him this time! We had Yurok backing them up! It should have worked!"
"Yes," Gridan said. "The Lyiri and the Gankri are dead. So is Yurok. I'm sorry, Aldur."
The grizzled old Bokren shook his head, grunting. "You have no concept of the sorrow that I've known because of that child. He ruined me. I have nothing left, Gridan. Nothing! The house is no better than a tenement now!" He raised a hand. "No matter. That monster has won. It is over. Our great fathers set our paths as they will. For now, it seems, they favor that wretched spawn. So be it. I shall return to the house and await the dark call." He placed a hand on the door latch.
"Oh, spare me the melodrama," his friend growled. Gridan thumbed a locking mechanism. "Drink your goraf. You're staying with me. I won't hear otherwise."
"To what end?" Aldur asked. As commanded, he took a sip of his goraf. He savored it, like blood running fresh through his veins.
"I have discussed the situation with others in the Konterbeid," Gridan said. "The matter has gained traction among the Ledelkrig and Toveil at the Highmoot. The shame that you cling so tightly to is shared by all of Hekayt Prime. With each act of terrorism, with each vicious murder, Vard Bokren soaks us all with the blood he spills. A case was made."
"Will the Highmoot act?" Aldur thought it unlikely. The body gathered mostly to socialize, gossip, and plan the next Highmoot assembly. They hadn't acted with significant conviction since the Hiver War had reached B'hira decades ago.
"They already have," his friend said. "We have one last great mission of our lives, Aldur. Together, you and I, with the help of the Ledelkrig fleet and the wisdom of the Toveil, we will trap and destroy Vard. We will purge him from the stars and you will be restored, as befits a hero of your stature." He rapped his knuckles against the pane of glass separating the rear compartment from the driver. Responding to the signal, the driver accelerated away from the mansion and toward the main road. "First, we will take you into the city, get you cleaned up, and find suitable clothes for you to wear to address the Highmoot."
Aldur blinked, surprised. "The Highmoot would have me speak?" He had been deprived of his rightful place among the luminaries in that organization soon after Vard rose to prominence among the Medlidikke. He had never dreamed it possible that he might stand before them again with a chance to practice his beloved oratory skills. He took another sip of goraf and patted Gridan's arm. "You are a wonderful friend. I apologize for growing so morose. It was unseemly. I should have trusted that you would have an alternative already in the works."
Gridan smiled. "We all make mistakes, don't we? It happens. Think nothing more of it, Aldur. Focus your mind on the task at hand. Take heart in the knowledge that you also have friends in the Highmoot who want nothing more than to see you back where you belong." Falling into silence, he turned to look through the tinted window at the muted landscape - the rolling hills of Hav Glasne, with leafless trees hunched under the stars as fresh snowflakes fell toward the blue-white carpet covering the ground.
Relaxed by the spices in the goraf, the warmth of the hovercar, and the good news from his old friend, Aldur settled back in the seat and allowed himself a smile, however small it might be. The smile then faded as he turned a critical scowl on Gridan. "Of course, you could have told me about this backup plan before I burned all my books and furniture. I had some of the original Konterbeid procedural texts, first caste generation!"
A gruff laugh from Gridan, who turned from his musings to grin again at Aldur. "Don't give me too much credit, old man. The path of my thoughts didn't take this turn until the gathering earlier this week. I'm sure you were well beyond books and deep into the furniture by then."
The hovercar wove its way south and east through the snow-blanketed peaks of the Udruk Mountains, following the Fathers Highway to the Glasne Chasm Bridge, which spanned a gorge that was thousands of feet deep, cradling a now-frozen river. The glow of Glasne's city lights gained prominence to the east. Lulled by the thrum of the vehicle's generators, Aldur slipped into a deep, restful sleep - another luxury that he had surrendered in the name of hunting down and killing Vard Bokren. He awoke only after Gridan gave his arm a nudge, once the car had stopped. He blinked his eyes clear, looking around. The hovercar sat in the middle level of a parking garage, somewhere in the center of downtown Glasne.
"Time to go," Gridan told him. "We'll get you changed. In the morning, we'll take you to the Highmoot." He thumbed the locking mechanism. The back doors unlocked and hissed upward, opening.
Aldur nodded. He tugged the furry hat off his head, clutching it in his gloved hands as he edged his way out of the car. He moved from under the arc of the door so that he could stare out over the glimmering lights of his native city. Dawn's first kiss of pink-orange traced the far horizon. He was about to comment on how beautiful it was when he heard the hiss and thunk of the hovercar's doors shutting and locking. His mouth fell open in dismay as he turned to watch the car whir back from the parking space. "Gridan!" he shouted. Despite his long-injured left leg, Aldur easily closed the distance to the car, banging on the rear passenger-side window. "Where are you going? Is something wrong?"
No answer, save the sight of his old friend's car speeding away toward the ramp that would descend toward the garage exit. Aldur ran, struggling to make headway let alone keep up, but he was limping and gasping for breath before Gridan's car disappeared down the ramp. Then, in the crisp, cold morning air, he heard the heavy hoofsteps on concrete. He turned with his back to the outer railing. At this moment, given his friend's sudden departure, he was unsurprised to see two Hekayti males in long dark blue coats closing on him. They moved with military bearing. Each carried a ceremonial Ledelkrig sword - rune-engraved blades with leather-wrapped bronze hilts.
"Don't run, Aldur," said the one on the left. His partner on the right nodded. "We'll just make it last longer if we must chase you."
If he were twenty years younger, Aldur might have welcomed the amusement of a pitched battle against a pair of well-trained Ledelkrig sword carriers. More than thirty years ago, in his wilder days, Aldur Bokren had drunkenly challenged six hot-headed recruits to unarmed combat in a Kjernkor tavern - the Shackled Blade, he recalled. He'd awoken the next day in a pile of trash in the gutter, battered and bruised, but smug about how much more his opponents must be suffering. The smugness wore off about the time his mentor arrived with the bill for the damages to the tavern. Now, though, Aldur was an old bureaucrat with a bad leg, failing eyes, and aches in every limb. He didn't think he could hold his own against one of these young Hekayti even if they dropped their swords - and he knew better than to imagine they might do that just to be sporting. No, Gridan had left him here to die and these Hekayti had orders to kill him. No margin of error. No mistakes. It didn't make any sense to Aldur at the moment. After all, hadn't he wanted to go back into the mansion to freeze to death? Gridan had dismissed the sentiment as melodrama. So what was Aldur to make of this? Why save him from a quiet, lonely death in the freezing cold of his own home just to drag him into Glasne for a public slaughter?
The killers drew their swords back as they closed on Aldur, readying to strike. The old Hekayti glanced over his shoulder, looking about twenty feet down to the street over the waist-high railing. He saw Gridan's hovercar emerge from the stone-lined exit of the garage. The car turned left, whirring toward the Highmoot Tower overlooking Glasne Park. Across the street, a Hekayti woman with her blue-gray hair bound in decorative spirals activated the glowing green sign that indicated her pastry shop was open for business. Don't have to make it too far, Aldur thought. He turned to stare at the warriors, his brow furrowing, and said, "Think I want a last meal." They lunged, swords swinging, as he pushed off with his hooves and tumbled backward over the railing. Sparks shimmered in the dim light of dawn as the blades rang off the metal railing. He completed the backflip so that his hooves aimed at the pavement and did his best to make sure the good leg took the brunt of the landing. It felt like a lightning bolt racing up his leg as he struck the pavement. That pain, he found, was preferable to what he might have felt had he remained in the parking garage. He looked up to see the befuddled warriors regrouping after his unexpected leap. They sheathed their swords, preparing to jump after him. No time to waste! He limped across the street. He was halfway to the pastry shop when he heard two sets of hooves landing solidly behind him. He didn't look back. Didn't have to. He heard the song of steel as both warriors unsheathed their swords again. And then they were coming after him.
The pastry shop door slid open when he was about six paces from it. The proprietor stood in the doorway, plasma rifle cradled in her arms. "Inside," she commanded, turning to grant him entrance. She didn't give him time to ask any questions. Once he was in, she stepped through the arch and let the door slide shut behind her. Aldur moved so that he could watch through the shop window as she raised the rifle with expert technique, leveling it at the sword carriers. His stomach rumbled as he caught the scents of fresh baked bread and sweet spiced pastries. It'd been a while since he had enjoyed such a confection. He plucked an iced biscuit off one of the trays angled in the display window and bit into it, chewing hungrily.
"Our quarrel's not with you, baker," said the warrior on the left.
The woman chuckled, lightly squeezing the trigger on the rifle. Full press and she just might blow the Ledelkrig sword carrier out of his dapper coat. "Seems like it is now. What I see is two healthy young warriors with swords chasing a weak, unarmed old fellow through the streets of Glasne. How sporting is that? Besides, it's terrible for my business if civilians are chopped up, don't you think?"
"It's not your concern ," remarked the warrior on the right. He inclined his spiked skull toward the cafe tables arranged outside the shop. "We can wait as long as it takes. You can't keep him in there forever."
"Hmm," she said. "That's a good point. So, you chased the old goat from the garage. Then you decided to attack me because I wouldn't let him go. I didn't have any choice."
That got a puzzled look from both warriors, right before she squeezed the trigger, jerked the barrel left, and gave another pull. Blades clattered on concrete as the sword carriers arced through the air, scorched chests smoldering, and landed on their backs. The baker stepped forward, nudged the fallen Hekayti with her shoe, and then walked toward the shop. The sensor detected her approach, so the door slid open to grant entrance. She stepped inside to find the old Hekayti wiping his sticky fingers on his ragged dirty coat.
"You owe me for that," she said.
Aldur looked through the window at the dead assassins. He nodded. "I do, yes." He turned his gaze back toward her. "Many thanks."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Not for that. For the biscuit. I'm not running a charity here." She hefted the rifle in her arms. "Still got a few charges in here, you know."
"I have nothing," the old Hekayti said. "I've impoverished myself. Now, it's not even safe for me to go home. They want me dead."
"They?"
"The Highmoot, I think."
She tilted her head, peering at Aldur with bright green eyes. "The Highmoot. Actively trying to kill someone? Really? Isn't that a wonder, when I can't get them to fix the potholes on Majesty Row." She frowned. "I saw the warriors for myself, though. Also saw you take that tumble from the garage. Who are you? Why would they want you dead?"
"Aldur Bokren," he answered.
Her mouth fell open. "The old Oysikt of Glasne?"
"Yes, that is correct."
She smirked, eyes narrowing, and leveled the barrel of the plasma rifle at Aldur's chest. "I'm Dira Urtigor. You signed the documents that allowed the Highmoot to foreclose on my parent's estate when I was just a little girl. It was bittersweet, watching you fall from grace without having a hand in it myself. And here you are now. Right here in front of me. I saved you from those soldiers. I KILLED them for you."
"Yes," Aldur repeated. "You did."
Dira took a step closer. She pulled just a hair on the trigger. "I should kill YOU," she whispered.
"Yes. Probably."
In the street outside, the light of day grew brighter as a hovercar whooshed to a halt in front of the pastry shop. The driver, a Hekayti male in richly appointed garments, emerged from the vehicle and rushed around the front to crouch beside the dead warriors on the sidewalk. He spoke into a commpip affixed to the top of his right hand. Moments later, alarm horns shrilled in the distance. The Ledelkrig would send investigators. If the Highmoot truly orchestrated this attempted assassination, it wouldn't go well for Dira, she knew. The door slid open, allowing the motorist to enter. He gawked as he saw Dira holding the old Hekayti at gunpoint.
"Closed," she snapped. "Come back later."
The motorist didn't turn his back on Dira. He raised his hands, edging carefully back toward the door until it slid open to let him out. Once he was clear, he ran to his car, jumped in, slammed the door, and whirred away with all haste.
"We're both dead if we're here when they arrive," Aldur said.
"Curse all the houses," Dira growled. She sighted down the barrel, hoisting the rifle to her shoulder. "If I kill you, maybe they'll give me whatever prize they had in mind for those two nice soldiers I shot."
Aldur shook his head. "You gave those sword carriers what would have come to them eventually. Think, Dira. We don't have much time. I know you're angry about your parents. I can't recall their specific case, we saw so many during the commerce drought, but it must have been justified. We didn't foreclose without good reason."
"Maybe the Highmoot wants you dead for a good reason?" She chuckled. "Come to think of it, what's to stop me from killing you and making a run for it? One shot, you're dead on the floor and I'm out the back. Maybe they'll just leave me alone."
His eyes narrowed, but he did nothing to threaten the woman. The horns grew louder. Just a few blocks away, he thought. Aldur raised his hands, palms out, plaintively. "Nothing prevents you from doing just that. If you truly think that it would undo your anguish and restore some sense of dignity, then, by all means, pull the trigger."
Dira kept the rifle trained on Aldur, but found her vision blurred by tears that welled in her eyes. "I should've let them kill you," she said.
"Perhaps," Aldur replied. "However, if you spare my life and if you help me, then I vow to do whatever I can to make amends for any wrong - perceived or real - that I may have committed against your family." Hovercars with mottled black and green hulls - Ledelkrig response squad cars - turned onto the avenue in front of the pastry shop.
She shook her head, rolling her eyes as she lowered the rifle barrel. Dira pointed to the swinging door that gave access to the kitchen. "Go. I’m parked out there." She walked after the limping Hekayti, gracefully backing her way toward the kitchen so that she could keep an eye on the arriving Ledelkrig vehicles. Soldiers started spilling out of them. "How do they fit so many inside?" she mused before smacking the wall switch to open the door for them. No sense encouraging them to sneak around back, she thought.
“Halt!” a soldier shouted as he stepped into the shop and raised his rifle to aim at Dira. “Surrender and you’ll be unharmed.”
She glanced over her shoulder, saw that Aldur had limped about halfway to the back door. She dropped the plasma rifle on the floor and then lifted her arms as she turned to look at the soldier. Calling the Ledelkrig’s bluff might buy the old Konterbeid a little more time. “Fancy a muffin?” she asked the soldier as his companions started pouring in behind him. He squeezed off a shot. The blast shattered a holographic display of the Glasne Journal’s report on Dira’s Fresh-Bakery. She could smell the ozone where the beam scorched air molecules. He hadn’t meant to miss. She dropped her arms and fled into the kitchen, toppling a spice cabinet and a rolling dish cart next to the oven to create more obstacles for the Ledelkrig. She burst through the back door of the shop to find Aldur staring in bemusement at the hoverbike with sidecar.
“I’m driving,” Dira said.
“You think I’m going to sit in that ridiculous sidecar?” the old Hekayti balked.
“How do you like your chances of survival on foot?” She sighed, shook her head, and climbed onto the seat of the bike. “Let’s go, Bokren. They’re coming through that door any second.”
Aldur growled, but didn’t protest further. More bickering would just serve to tragically end the hard-won opportunity that the Fathers had deemed him worthy to receive. He had been tested this day. His own will crumbling, his faith shaken, he had come close to succumbing to despair in the ruins of his mansion. Betrayed by his closest friend, Aldur had faced the challenge of surviving an assault by two younger and stronger warriors. Now, he had been forced to make allegiance with a Hekayti woman who wanted nothing more than to kill him herself – and she had been the vessel of his salvation. It troubled him, of course, that a weak female had thwarted those soldiers and then got the upper hand against him. It humiliated him that he had no choice but to comply with her emasculating demands. But the path set before him by the Fathers could not be denied. He hunched down in the sidecar, his knees angled up past his cheeks, and barely had time to clutch the panic grips along the inner hull before Dira punched the accelerator. The shop’s back door swung open. Soldiers sprang out, rifles blazing rather randomly after the fleeing bike.
Dira watched in the rear-view mirror, zigging and zagging in the narrow alley to dodge the blast from the energy weapons. She almost didn’t see the handful of Ledelkrig warriors stepping into the gap at the juncture of the alley and Havrahd Avenue until it was too late. As they scrambled into position and raised their rifles, she killed the right side thrust and gunned the left, sending the hoverbike into a slide that caught all the soldiers at about chest level. A couple of them had time to react, flinging their guns aside and leaping to safety. The other three were standing firm, weapons ready, when the vehicle hammered into them at full force. Energy bolts spanged off metal trim and brick walls as those soldiers fell to the ground with shattered ribs. She could hear the clopping of hooves in the alley – the Ledelkrig from the shop, closing fast. Dira fired both thrusters, blasting past the stopped hovercar, the dead soldiers on the sidewalk, and the shop she would probably never see again. As if in answer to that thought, once they were safely past, the storefront exploded in a blast of bricks, glass, and ruined pastry.
“Everything I lost, Aldur,” she shouted at him. “Everything!”
He just nodded without a word while Dira drove on through the back streets of Glasne, taking a path that turned around on itself at several points. Eventually, she pulled off into another alley, this one in the city’s cathedral district – not far from the icy harbor. “Why are we stopping?” Aldur asked.
“Where are we going?" she countered. "Do you even have a plan?”
Aldur opened his mouth, astonished that this woman would have the steel to question how prepared he was for the challenge at hand. Then he closed his mouth, because he realized: No, in fact, he had absolutely no plan. He had gone from wanting nothing more than to die to wanting nothing more than to live long enough to destroy his son and avenge himself against the Highmoot of Glasne. Beyond that, he really hadn’t worked out any details. That might prove problematic in the greater scheme the Fathers planned for their son Aldur.
“That’s what I thought,” Dira said, clambering off the hoverbike. “No one can touch us in a house of the Toveil. We can think there. Make a plan. Right?”
Aldur frowned, scratching the back of his bald head. The Toveil would provide sanctuary, but not without a cost. Specifically: Those of the Konterbeid seeking safe haven in the cathedral must provide a full catalogue update. He hadn’t set hoof or horn in a Toveil house in more than fifteen years, since before his service aboard the Father’s Hand during the war against the Hivers. Once catalogued, his experiences – up to and including Gridan’s betrayal and their narrow escape from the Ledelkrig – would effectively be a matter of public record. Unfortunately, Aldur knew, only the most recent events would tend to portray him in a sympathetic light.
“Is there no better way?” he asked, untangling himself from the sidecar and standing next to the hoverbike. “A starship offworld, perhaps? I have contacts on Comorro Station who might serve.”
Dira barked a bitter laugh. “I’m not leaving my home, old krat. Neither are you. Not until you’ve made good on your debt to me. I’m going to the cathedral. You can come with me or you can take your chances on the streets with the Ledelkrig. But you’re useless to me dead.”
He growled, but followed the female out of the alley and across the sun-dappled street to Glasnetoveil House – a pyramid-shaped cathedral of glass and steel topped by a hovering holographic orb that contained a swirling spiral galaxy, the sigil of the technopriest caste. Dira led him up about twenty marble steps to the waiting automatic doors, which whooshed open to grant access to the cathedral antechamber. A seneschal bot – a tiny metal pyramid affixed with sensors and transmitters – emerged from an alcove and whirred toward the newcomers.
The bot addressed Aldur first, as was customary in the patriarchal society of the Hekayti: “WELCOME, SON OF HEKAYT, TO GLASNETOVEIL HOUSE. PLEASE IDENTIFY FOR CONFIRMATION.”
Aldur grimaced. He mumbled something that came out sounding like “Aldur bokglakontbuh” in the slim hope that the seneschal bot would let it pass. Dira gave him a rather annoyed look, brows twitching.
“PLEASE REPEAT WITH PROPER ENUNCIATION.”
“Aldur Bokrenglasnekonterbeid.”
“CONFIRMED. OUR RECORDS INDICATE THAT 400 RUMINATIONS OF THE FATHERS HAVE PASSED SINCE YOUR LAST CATALOGUE UPDATE.”
Aldur nodded.
“STAND BY.” The seneschal bot then rotated to face Dira. “WELCOME, DAUGHTER OF HEKAYT, TO GLASNETOVEIL HOUSE. PLEASE IDENTIFY FOR CONFIRMATION.”
“Dira Urtigo.”
“CONFIRMED. YOU ARE FEMALE AND WITHOUT CASTE. NO CATALOGUE UPDATE IS REQUIRED. HOWEVER, IF YOU ARE SPONSORED BY A KONTERBEID OR TOVEIL CASTE MEMBER, YOUR UPDATE WILL BE ACCEPTED FOR POSTERITY.”
“I’ve got a sponsor,” Dira said. She nodded toward Aldur, whose mouth fell open – but didn’t say anything to contradict her claim.
“ALDUR BOKRENGLASNEKONTERBEID, PLEASE VERIFY SPONSORSHIP OF DIRA URTIGO.”
He shook his head, got a kick in the shin of his bad leg, and then nodded. “Yes. I sponsor Dira Urtigo.”
“REPORT TO THE CATALOGUING CUBICLES,” the seneschal bot ordered. “ONCE THE UPDATES ARE COMPLETE, YOU MAY PROCEED INTO THE SANCTUM.”
Two automatic doors on either side of the main sanctum passage slid open. Dira started toward the door on the left. Aldur hissed after her: “That hurt!” Then he made his way toward the door on the right. Once they were inside, the doors slid shut.
The seneschal bot turned its sensors to focus on the street outside as a dozen mottled black-and-green Ledelkrig military vehicles whirred to a halt. “INAPPROPRIATE AGGRESSIVE CONGREGATION,” the bot mused before descending at an angle down the stairway.
“We’re here to take Aldur Bokren and Dira Urtigo into custody,” declared the commanding officer of the Ledelkrig squad. He was a hulking, barrel-chested Hekayti of middle age, about eight and a half feet tall.
“WELCOME, SON OF HEKAYT, TO GLASNETOVEIL HOUSE. PLEASE IDENTIFY FOR CONFIRMATION.”
“Rojt Omaraglasneledelkrig,” the commander replied.
“CONFIRMED. IT IS AGAINST INTERCASTE RELATION REGULATIONS TO IMPOSE ON THE SANCTITY OF A TOVEIL HOUSE FOR ANY REASON WHATSOEVER. ALDUR BOKRENGLASNEKONTERBEID AND DIRA URTIGO ARE PROTECTED BY THE SANCTUARY REGULATIONS.”
“The Highmoot has issued an edict overruling those regulations,” Rojt replied, offering a datapad with a holographic document signed by the members of the Glasne Highmoot.
“GLASNE HIGHMOOT DOES NOT TAKE PRECEDENCE IN HEKAYT CASTE LAW,” the seneschal bot said. “ONLY THE KJERNKOR GRANDMOOT IN EXTRAORDINARY SESSION, WITH THREE-QUARTERS POPULAR RATIFICATION, MAY TAKE PRECEDENCE IN SUCH EXEMPTIONS.”
“The Highmoot wants them,” Rojt said. “They’re murderers. You’re harboring bloodthirsty killers.”
“THEY ARE IN CATALOGUING NOW. IF THEY ARE MURDERERS, THE SANCTUM MASTER WILL COUNSEL THEM TO TURN THEMSELVES IN TO PROPER AUTHORITIES.”
The Hekayti commander furrowed his brow. He looked around at the gathering warriors. Gridan and the Highmoot leadership had made it clear that it would be disastrous for the female and Aldur Bokren to catalogue their experiences. A violent attack on a Toveil House would have planetwide repercussions, Rojt knew. But he had sworn to his own caste first. He would pay whatever price the Grandmoot required, so long as he protected the Highmoot from lasting harm. Aldur Bokren and Dira Urtigo must die. He couldn’t waste anymore time arguing with a machine.
“For our fathers!” Rojt shouted, pumping his fist in the air. The soldiers opened fire on the seneschal bot.
Milliseconds before the lancing energy beams could strike the hovering bot, protective shield generators kicked in. The beams dissipated harmlessly off the seneschal, which stated: “YOU HAVE ATTACKED PROPERTY OF A TOVEIL HOUSE IN TRANSGRESSION OF THE INTERCASTE DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS REGULATIONS.”
“Forget the bot,” Rojt snarled. “Get into the sanctum and kill the fugitives!”
As the soldiers started swarming up the steps, the bot stated: “INTERCASTE DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS REGULATIONS ALLOW LETHAL FORCE IN RESPONSE TO INVASION.” The punctuation for this statement came in the form of five plasma cannons emerging from the faces of the metal pyramid bot. It began to spin and whirl, seeming to fire at random but, in fact, making very calculated targeting formulas. Not one of the Ledelkrig soldiers made it to the top step, let alone into the antechamber to kill Aldur and Dira. The warriors lay dead or wounded on the steps.
The bot trained a cannon on Rojt and said: “WITHDRAW OR BE PERMANENTLY NEUTRALIZED. YOUR TRANSGRESSION HAS BEEN LOGGED FOR REPORT TO THE GRANDMOOT.”
“Very well,” the commander growled. The bot watched as Rojt returned to his hovercar. He opened the driver’s side door and leaned in, as if preparing to climb inside. Instead, he opened a compartment in the dashboard to reveal a sensor-locked red button. He thumbed the sensor, which unlocked the button on his authority. Then he pressed the button, setting off an electromagnetic pulse that ruined the electronics of all the vehicles parked nearby. It also had the effect of frying the electronic brain of the seneschal bot, which fell silent and dropped with a THUNK! It rolled down the steps and bumped against the hull of the commander’s car.
Rojt smirked, drawing a serrated dagger from a sheath at his hip. He would take great pleasure in personally handling this matter for the Highmoot. Knife glinting in the morning sun, he stepped carefully over the bodies of the fallen and made his way toward the waiting sanctuary.