During another burst of short-lived rain, Sigil found cover beneath a sand colored awning. At her back, the air was warm and smelled of freshly baked bread. But it was not the rain, or hunger, that drove her there. It was a mind almost as vacant of emotion as Que’s—serene—amidst a flock buzzing in a tune she could not ignore. There she found a woman who appeared somewhere between young and old, almost ageless despite the light creases proving time marched on.

Leaning against the wall, arms casually crossed over the brown, stolen raiment of the lowest caste, Sigil watched the woman hum and knead dough.

She felt unharried, oddly comfortable.

After walking much of the city, merging with the pilgrims who moved from holy site to holy site, her bones were tired, her dread disconnected, and a moment’s quiet the most precious commodity she might steal.

The city was beyond her. A place like Irdesi should not exist, let alone serve as the seat of Imperial power. Hours searching, and Sigil had found no ships, no cruisers, no modern transportation in the capital. Converts moved by ancient means—walking until one’s legs ached, carrying burdens on their backs through the city’s avenues. Stranger still were the hover-carts pulled by four-legged animals that stank and shit in the street.

Life was lived as if all collected were primitives. Even the woman was making bread when machines could produce food in seconds.

“You may come inside.” The baker’s voice matched the mind, calm and even.

Sigil’s attention left the crowd to make cruel eyes at the baker. “I have no currency.”

Freckled cheeks fattened into a smile, left the woman beautiful. “There is a bench there. Sit.”

The bench in question was worn smooth from use, carved of wood, and most certainly from off-world. A swish of dirty robes, and Sigil sat, adjusting the hood concealing bright hair and the unnatural vibrancy of her eyes. “Am I to thank you?”

“You’re new to pilgrimage, I see.”

Lying seemed best. “I am.”

The woman’s eyes went back to dough braided between precise fingers. “The sensation, assimilation discomfort, will pass.”

Humans were no more assimilated than a swarm of mosquitos. “And what makes you so wise? You must have been born here?”

Unworried, a temperate answer was offered. “No. I was purified on Gvtiin IV.”

Shoulder blades pressed against the bakery walls, Sigil gripped her cloak tight around her. “And your family?”

“My family lacked the strength to surmount Conversion.” No trace of sadness echoed from the woman with flour embedded under her fingernails. She even had the audacity to gently smile.

“I lost my family too.” Her mother, her friend... Taking her eyes from the cracked tile floor to once again view the woman making bread, Sigil muttered, “but not to Conversion.”

A dark hand lifted a fresh bun from the pile at the baker’s elbow. “Here.”

Gifts were never freely given, of that Sigil was certain. “What do you want for it?”

“Your opinion.” The smile in her words lightened the air. “This is a new recipe I was hoping to take in offering to the palace. Do you like it?”

It smelled good, sat warm in Sigil’s grip when she snatched at the treat. One taste was better than all the confections piled high by the Brotherhood up in their bastion. But when Sigil swallowed, the dough sat thick in her throat. Her eyes watered. “I like it.”

Sagely, the baker filled an earthenware cup with water and left it on the counter where her guest might reach. “Where are you from?”

Sigil was unsure what an honest answer to that question might be. Condor? The lonely planet where she hunted humans for food? Que’s ship? Pax? “I was born on a moon hovering over an enemy world very different from this place. I never liked it there.”

“I can’t blame you for that. Sounds like the stage for a great deal of discord.”

Smarter words no human had ever spoken. Looking to the cup, Sigil took it. The water had a mineral taste, another bite of bread a hint at honey, both softening Sigil’s next words. “I have never seen a living being create bread.”

“Simplicity is the key to bliss.” Thin shoulders shrugged, the woman winking as if her words had been a gentle jest. “It’s an art form, I think, to work with one’s hands.”

Maybe that was why the people in the strange human city seemed to prefer an antiquated lifestyle. “I used to dance,” Sigil found it hard to say aloud, “before Sovereign came. I think I understand what you mean. Now I have nothing... to do.”

But there were always things the Brotherhood wanted her to do, not one moment of their schedule interesting in any way.

“We all have our place.” The baker reached for another lump of dough. “That is the beauty of our society. If you cannot find yours, the Adherents will assign you a role that suits the needs of the collective. Enriching the whole will enrich you.”

The idea was not appealing. “Did they order you to make bread?”

“No. I was originally tasked to supply and clean a warship’s galley. In my work, I discovered a talent for enhancing soldier’s provisions with things collected from various stations and planets we passed. When my service contract was up for review, Admiral Gethman approved my request for access to Irdesi Prime. Transfer was granted. Now I make bread, I have a shop.”

Mention of a Brother chipped her calm, Sigil confounded that even something as insignificant as a woman making bread had been hand selected. “You were placed here as if part of the scenery. A puzzle piece. The Emperor wants the city this way...”

“This is holy ground, care must be taken in who is allowed to cultivate it.”

The conversation could not have been more foreign to Sigil. “I saw many holy sites today—tombs, statues from other worlds, monuments to battles, even the water that runs down the mountain you call holy.”

Brown eyes sparkling, the baker asked, “Did you see the Adherent’s Cathedral?”

“No.” And Sigil had no plan on approaching anywhere near it.

“The emperor’s lady has awoken. We live at a time in our empire when the miraculous has begun. Celebrations like Irdesi has never seen clog the square before it. I’ll sell my bread there later, and if I am lucky, tonight she’ll show herself to us.”

The joy in the stranger’s voice lessened the baker in Sigil’s eyes. “I understand she is reluctant to bear that title.”

Humming as if she too had heard such a rumor, the baker said, “Humility is her greatest attribute. The Consort’s example shames those who try to reach too far.”

Here was Sigil’s chance to see what effect a taboo word might have. “Like the Soshiia?”

Spitting on the floor, the baker lost the internal peace which had attracted Sigil in the first place. “Unsalvageable are a taint she has already begun to flush out. The Imperial Consort will cleanse the ranks of those who refuse all which our lady’s suffering has given us.”

Face emotionless, Sigil stared. “...and you will make bread.”

“And one day my offering may sit on her table.”

The amount of food left ignored each day on that long, black table—how much of it had been made by the hands of people who revered a monster? “It was kind of you to give me something you intended for her.”

The baker’s smile returned, as did her tranquility. “She would not want one of her people to go hungry.”

All her life, Sigil had walked through suffering masses and had little interest in those around her. She was nothing like what this woman described. “And the emperor,” the one Sigil had left hardly breathing, “What of him?”

“Incorruptible.”

A bit of water caught in Sigil’s throat, a cough—almost a laugh. “Next you’ll profess that Tessans don’t strangle their yellow hatchlings at birth, pretending golden scales denote a child that will be mentally unstable and dangerous to itself and others.” Lips curved, white teeth on display. “Have you ever seen a yellow scaled Tessan?”

“...no.”

“I have.” Dirty hood hiding the majority of her expression, Sigil cooed, “Their genocide is not due to mental instability. The Tessan Authority has them secretly murdered because yellow scaled males possess the same prowess as their superlative female counterparts.”

“I know nothing of these things.” Another smile, apple cheeked and glowing was offered. “My concerns hardly extend beyond the making of bread.”

Too much time Sigil had spent in one place. Standing, she sighed, “And that, lamb, is why you are happy and I am in misery.”

Sigil left the kind baker alive, a decision regretted almost immediately when Imperial soldiers grew abundant on the terrace mileage she was confined to.

Enough time had passed. Sovereign had healed, his anger roused. When they found her, he would punish her...

He would lock her away in a jail even darker than the city under its clouds and rain.

And this place—this kingdom—was where Converts aspired to be? So they might be some part of a commune specially selected to what? Impress her? Where their dwellings lacked the gaudy opulence in her palace prison? A beacon in the human universe...

What of the sumptuousness on the top of the mountain? What of the Great Houses lurking at court and married to her Brothers?

Irdesi Prime was nothing more than one big stage.

But above palace and city loomed Condor. That was the moon the shifting, angry sky concealed —once the seat of Alliance military innovation. That was reality hanging fat and ugly on the other side of a dim atmosphere.

Sovereign had been born there.

Sigil had been born there.

They may have even shared the same womb.

Maybe that was why her eyes darted up hungry for a sight of it.  Maybe that was why she wanted to reach past the clouds and crush that unseen spherical mass—so lies that led to happy, simple bakers might keep.

If this place was how life churned on in the Empire, it was nothing like any life she’d known. The humans, every soul around her, had been something else before the Imperium smashed down on their existence. And now they were happy? The Unsalvageable made more sense, seemed more honorable. At least they fought back.

And what would Unsalvageable cities look like?

Probably like Pax.

The thought made her homesick even as it turned her stomach. Overthinking, paying little attention, Sigil bumped into the man walking before her. He stopped, and it wasn’t only him. All around her humans paused in their strides, standing still, and looking up at the sky.

Ready to bolt, assuming she’d been found, Sigil felt it before the sound registered. Rich, melodious, noise crawled up the soles of her feet, through bone, over skin, saturating every cell until she vibrated in time with that note.

Sigil’s world became quiet, like the mind of the abandoned baker.

There was no pain.

She felt no sorrow.

And that harmony, it came from all the humans pressed about her, beyond her, filling the city to stare up, just as the sky fractured into a beauty of prismatic light. Jaw agape, she too stared into the cracked canopy, into the flashes breaking up the dark. As if frayed pieces sought out their broken ends, for the briefest moment, Sigil felt whole.

She belonged, felt connected to everything around her.

The sensation was alien, exotic, outlandish—like a memory of her mother singing in her thoughts.

That sound, that balm, ended too soon, leaving her gasping for air as if some invisible hand had squeezed her throat.

The sheep around her began to move, each Convert continuing their path as if no interruption had taken place. The stranger at her side said nothing about how she’d gripped his hand and unconsciously threaded their fingers together. He just let her go, so he too might move on.

Frightened, backing away, Sigil sought refuge from the crowd in the first open door she found—a tavern, empty but for a few Converts wandering back to their seats after the song outside. Sigil sat, ordered a drink, and swallowed the first cup so greedily the knot in her throat was forced to relax.

And then he sat, taking the bench across from her, grinning meanly.

As she had failed to find an escape, it was inevitable one would find her. He’d probably tracked her all day, laughing from shadows when she didn’t notice how close he really was.

Lowering the cup from her lips, Sigil wiped the back of her hand over her mouth and admitted recognition. “I’ve wondered why I hadn’t been forced to look at your ugly face yet.”

Settling his armored mass, smirking as if everything he saw before him could not be more droll, Lord Commander Tiburon asked, “And just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Exploring.” The fizzy drink went back to her lips, the clay cup hiding her answer. “This is the capital after all—the seat of the empire.”

The Lord Commander sat quietly, watching her, that unshakable smirk delighted. When her gaze slipped over the metal filled scar running across his face, he audibly purred. Waiting for her attention to slip back to his eyes, waiting for Sigil to see the brilliant green so she might remember it was his eye she’d swallowed first, Tiburon took the waiting pitcher and filled a cup for himself. “You look exactly as I expected you would. Pathetic.”

“You look the same.”

His finger traced the tip of the scar. “More or less.”

Sigil breathed, “You were ugly before I tore open your face.”

“Brat.” A dry laugh stressed that the room had grown utterly silent, every human having left on some unseen order. “You really are impossible to please. It’s fucking entertaining watching them try though.”

The thought had crossed her mind once or twice. Bracing for calamity, Sigil asked, “How long until Sovereign shows up to drag me back?”

“That implant wired through your brain,” Tiburon cocked his chin, eyeing her forehead. “I was the one who demanded the Brotherhood mesh a tracker into the circuitry. Sovereign refused, claiming the risk was too great should your enemies harness technology that could trace you... And you do have enemies, Sigil.” He took a long drink, a drip spilling down a strong chin. “My point is this. Sovereign doesn’t know you’re here. Subsequently, he doesn’t know I’m with you. Take advantage of that.”

Sigil leaned nearer. “And why, of all your bastard Brothers, do you think I would believe a word that comes from your mouth? I’ve read Arden’s histories... they are full of your lies.”

“That’s not to say Sovereign won’t descend eventually.” Tiburon rolled several slender vials across the table, their contents a familiar murky white, Sigil found almost as disgusting as she found them valuable. The Lord Commander smiled, two teeth chipped, marring his beauty even as the metal scar enhanced it. “I offer you time. If you’re wise, you will take it.”

Sigil snatched at the semen filled vials to stuff into her cloak. “Why?”

A parcel was tossed to plop before her. “And there you have currency. You can run free, brat. Walk the surface of the planet, take in the sights.”

Pulling the coarse sack to her breast, Sigil eyes went wide, her psionics snapping as she waited for the trap to spring and crush the spark of hope in her ribs. “You think I’ll tell him the truth? Is that why you do this?”

Amusement bent the scar, twisted Tiburon’s lips. He refilled her glass. “Tell Sovereign what you will. Tell him how we stood face to face on Condor, and how I told you the path to escape the compound. Tell him I have hunted you, found you, and how you ripped my face apart when I last had you pinned to the floor. Tell him how you let me live after gorging on my eye and tongue. Tell him that afterward you rubbed yourself against me until you orgasmed.”

Unsure, Sigil ran her finger over the rim of her cup. “You were already in the room where they kept my mother. The human doctor I’m remembered for murdering, you killed.”

“The human? You would call that human? Dr. Saniel was your architect, Sigil—my creator, your creator. Every piece of you was chosen to glorify her. You even vaguely bear a resemblance. And there you stood all those years ago, crying over a limbless, alien lump you called mommy while the nearest genetic relation you ever truly had screamed for you to save her from me.”  

A scream Sigil had ignored. “You slaughtered that human.”

“I did.”

“And told the Brotherhood I was the one responsible for the death of the scientist who designed and implemented Project Cataclysm.”

“True.”

Watching that face, the clean cut of his jaw, the shaved smoothness of Tiburon’s skull, Sigil demanded. “Why?”

“Every last one of us subsists on lies; the Brotherhood glorifies fables. You heard your own today, magnanimous saint of the people. So I offer you this. I will always tell you the truth. They won’t. Sovereign lies to you. Karhl lies. Arden lies. They lie to each other.”

“And you lie to them.” Just like his Brothers, he had not answered her question, simply shifted conversation to enhance his agenda. She asked again, “Why did you tell them I murdered Dr. Saniel?”

Lord Commander Tiburon shrugged. “Because I wanted to. Your madness on Condor gave me a perfect opportunity to further my interests. Her death I found very interesting.”

“Did you know her?” Sigil’s only interaction with the doctor had been purely clinical—tests, torture, the resetting of limbs.

When his smile disappeared, Tiburon seemed far more dangerous than even Sovereign. “I knew her.”

The door was fifty paces to her right, a window twenty paces to the left. All those measurements taken without Sigil moving her gaze from those moss green eyes. “There are things you want to tell me—Brotherhood lies, you claimed—what are they?”

Head cocking, Tiburon frowned. He watched her; he calculated. “It doesn’t work that way, brat. I can’t read your mind and we don’t have all night. You must ask specific questions. Or do you anticipate I will throw the right answers at your feet, as I have tossed you money and my ejaculate?”

Frustrated with a man that was obviously playing with her, Sigil hissed, “Who are the Soshiia?”

By the way Tiburon leaned back into his chair, Sigil had obviously asked the right question. “Karhl is the oldest of us—a century older than me. The fact he still lives is testament to his unprecedented design. He’s all that’s left of the original batch. And there have been others who failed, who lacked perfection, who died in service—each of us ultimately replaceable... until I disemboweled our creator,” his face, his beauty grew ruined with a hateful snarl, “and crushed her brilliant brain to mush. The expertise in grafting whatever it is we are was lost that day. We cannot be recreated.”

The Brotherhood would have cloned her had they been able to... that is what his words implied. She would have been free, worthless. His actions made her life necessary to the group. “The Soshiia are... more of you... outside your Brotherhood? Soldiers who absconded before the Alliance fell?”

At once Tiburon’s nasty mask snapped back. “They could be. Considering that the Soshiia are capable of overcoming the biological alterations of Conversion by replacing it with something else, considering their training and resistance to interrogation. Who taught them? Who meddled with their chemistry? Maybe they are pawns of faulty Brothers who seek to slither in and steal what is not theirs. Maybe they are something else.”

It could not be possible. “Was there another Sovereign? One that led before this one?”

One eyebrow cocked. “Once, I was Sovereign.”

And Karhl was the oldest...

“How many?”

“Seven.” As if disappointed by her indifferent reaction, Tiburon changed the subject. “Why have you not asked me how many children were bred from your sleeping body?”

It caught in her throat, that first eruption of beer fizzed vomit she choked down. The possibility Sovereign had committed such a horrible act was one she’d not allowed herself to consider. Hearing such an atrocity spoken aloud sent her instantly past caution. Had her psionics been unhindered by whatever mess those bastards had jammed into her brain, the entirety of that lounge would have been blasted apart. Instead, all the furnishings rose and trembled, her cup shattering in her grip.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t suspect?” False pity shown on Tiburon’s face; he pouted his lips. “Almost fifty years you slept, suffering brain damage that required more surgeries than I can count, and you woke in a state of psychosis. Did you really expect Sovereign could respect your... womb? An entire species depends on your genetics.”

In a fury, she launched herself across the table. Raking her nails over Tiburon’s throat, biting him until she tasted blood—all she did only roused laughter. The Brother that had come close to catching her so many times, she knew his face, his scent, the workings of his mind, and shattered his nose... and still he laughed.

In her rage, Sigil did not see Tiburon’s strike, but she felt her cheek break, the flesh of her lip split.

They stilled, Sigil mounted over the smiling snake.

In a shaky breath she demanded, “How many daughters have the Brotherhood stolen from me?”

Under her, the bloodied man offered another truth. “None. While you slept, your body refused to ovulate, and the circuitry of your reproductive organs is too alien to be manipulated safely. If we were to inadvertently damage you...”

Snarling, she gripped Tiburon’s throat. “But it was attempted.”

“No.” Shoving away the nonplused woman, Tiburon scowled and stood. “You should know your Jerla woke this morning. He asks for you.” Sigil made no move to rise, crouched at the feet of a madman who knew just how to mindfuck her. The Lord Commander sighed. “There is no exit from this planet—no ships, brat. The best you can do is hide. Maybe pass your hours baking bread.” His eyes went to a vial of semen dropped amidst their skirmish, his toe kicked it towards her. “I have given you the means to be left alone. Use the opportunity to reason like an adult. Your tantrums bore me. Gratitude for my effort would be appropriate.”

Gratitude? Face red, jaw swollen, she glared at the armored warrior. “And the price for this miraculous help?”

That cruel smile snapped back to pretty lips. He reached out to ghost a touch over her ruined cheek. “Consider it foreplay.”

She bit off two of his fingers.