“Stay low!” he orders.

The rest of us comply. It takes sixteen seconds to disable the simple analog lock; and then I follow the others through the compound toward the building. Using the machines as cover, though that’s probably unnecessary, I climb the stairs behind Vel. Zeeka is behind me, weapon in hand, and Loras brings up the rear. Bannie has point, and I crouch as she kicks the door open, then drops. The first half of the team strides in.

Xirol nails the guy sitting before the comm before he has time to raise his hand. His head splatters. I drop to one knee to steady my aim and take out the man I gauge to be the commander. Chest shot, no fancy shooting for me. The burn forms immediately, the stink of charred meat in the air, and the surviving centurions dive for their weapons, but they’re middle-aged and slow, plus they don’t even keep their sidearms nearby. It’s been that long since they had to fight.

The attack, if you could even call it that, doesn’t take long. It’s more like an execution. Afterward, Timmon and Rikir haul the bodies outside, so we have room to work. Zeeka’s vocalizer has the mimic function, so he finds the comm, plays the log, then makes a call to central that will prevent them from sending a team.

“This is Montrose. We’re having some trouble with the emitter array. I’m going to take it down while we make repairs.”

It’s a little eerie to hear a dead man’s voice coming from Zeeka’s helmet. The comm crackles. They’ve restored planetary communications since the bombing, but because Leviter’s gambit has come to fruition, their messages won’t be bounced off world via satellite. La’heng is now in lockdown, coded red. Nobody’s coming to help them. The Imperials just don’t realize how dire the situation is, yet.

“Acknowledged, Montrose, keep us posted. Central out.” The centurion on the other end sounds bored.

And why wouldn’t he be? There’s no reason to fear that the La’hengrin may rise up. They’re helpless and subservient, bound to follow orders.

Vel gets up on the roof to disconnect the array to keep the story consistent, which buys us some time. We’ll plug it back in later to make regular bogus reports from Montrose. Old comm logs should give us a better idea what they expect from this station.

Afterward, I help the rest of the squad haul the other bodies beyond the gated perimeter. Mountain beasts should drag them off. If not, the elements will claim them. It’s not like anybody is coming to look for them so long as Zeeka plays his part.

Then it’s a forced march back to the shuttle. So far, so good. I swing into the back with the others while Loras runs up front with Vel. Xirol and Timmon are jokers, cracking wise about how soft the centurions are. Rikir is quiet, along with Farah. Bannie’s talking to Zeeka about his implant.

I lean over, watching the ground rush toward us as Vel maneuvers the craft for a landing just outside the village. From our preliminary intel, there’s reason to believe they’ll welcome us here. As I leap out of the shuttle—I’m the fifth to disembark—the La’hengrin come out of their houses to greet us. Despite the darkness, lit only by flickering torches, I’m not afraid.

Loras steps forward, pulling off his helmet so they can see his face. “Do any of you recognize me?”

One of the miners, still filthy from his shift, steps forward and lifts his hand in affirmation. “Your broadcast came on when I was in the rec room up at the mine. I told everyone…I’m not sure they believed me.”

“What’s your name?” Loras asks.

“I’m Deven.”

“Loras.” His clear gaze skims the crowd. “On the mountain above, your captors lie dead. Liberation starts here. If I must, I will go quietly, town by town, offering the cure. I won’t lie to you. There’s a chance you won’t survive it. But for me, it was better to risk death than to continue living as a slave.”

A chill ripples over me. In ten villages around the world, just like this one, cell leaders are speaking these exact same words. Maybe they don’t all have Loras’s charisma, but they do share his conviction. The crowd murmurs, then a woman whispers in Deven’s ear.

“Tell us about this cure.”

Loras glances over. “Vel?”

He’s the most qualified, scientifically, to lay it out thoroughly yet in layman’s terms. So in simple language, he explains how Dr. Carvati perfected the cure, using data found in the Maker records; they’re ones who build the technology we use to navigate grimspace—and without our trip to the other ’verse, liberation wouldn’t be possible now. Vel elaborates on how the treatment works, step by step, how long it takes, and, finally, the risks.

He concludes, “Currently, the failure rate is 5 percent. For every hundred who take the treatments, five will perish.”

We’re not trying to trick them. The audience rumbles more, confused, uncertain. In some ways, it must sound too good to be true but also terrifying. Because who wants to gamble with his life that way?

A woman raises her hand. “How will it affect our children? Will our babies be born free?” Clearly, this is a mother’s concern in taking the risk.

Fortunately, Vel has the answer. “Yes, due to La’hengrin adaptive physiology.”

That makes sense. Just as RC-12 caused their children to be enslaved, Carvati’s Cure will undo the damage. If I had kids, I’d want this for them. Nobody should be forced to live as the La’hengrin do, devoid of agency and free will.

Finally, Deven says, “We’ll hold a meeting in the morning and decide what’s to be done. There’s a cottage where you can stay tonight.”

La’heng Liberation Army signal-jack ad: Profile Two

LORAS

[A man with navy eyes gazes at the camera with complete confidence.]

When I was seventeen, a stranger took me from my home. He sent me to school. He wasn’t unkind. Eventually, he took me off Nicuan, and he lost me in a game of Charm to another stranger. This man, too, was kind enough, though he treated me like a tool to be used. He rarely asked me how I felt or thought about anything. I never received pay for my work, so anything I wanted, I had to ask for like a child.

Now most of you might think, this doesn’t sound so bad. At least you weren’t beaten or molested. But what person ought to hold that up as a measuring stick of what’s acceptable? Eventually, the second old man died…and he left me to his great-nephew, again like property.

Do you sense a theme? But it gets worse.

My new owner didn’t want me. He was embarrassed to take charge of me; he feared others would judge him—and rightly so. Consequently, he treated me even less like a person. It was…soul-crushing. That’s a dramatic word, but it fits. In time, I ceased to consider myself a sentient being. I had no opinions. I merely did as I was told. My bond switched as it does, rarely, when my owner failed to protect me. The one who saved my life took possession. She was better than the others…and worse. She reminded me that I had desires of my own. She tried to treat me like a person. Eventually, I started to think I mattered to her, and I resented my life before. The injustice made me angry.

Then she left me to die, and an infamous pirate became responsible for my care. In his hands, I suffered the abuse others experience from the beginning. It was monstrous, and it did not end until I took the cure. Because I realized I would rather die a free man than live in chains.

Voice-over: And that’s what you’re fighting for. Contact the comm code at the bottom of your screen to find workers with the cure.

CHAPTER 18

The cottage is small and primitive. Fortunately, our field kits provide for bivouacking in less-than-ideal locales. I strip down to my thin uniform and wrap up. All around me, my squad-mates do the same. A night on the floor in a bedroll leaves me none the worse, and in the morning, I suck down a packet of paste; it doesn’t taste any better than it ever did.

“This brings back memories,” I say when I catch Vel looking at me.

He makes a noise my chip recognizes as laughter, no need to engage his vocalizer. I understand him just fine. “I was thinking the same thing.”

For a moment, I drift in the incredible adventures we shared in the gate world, which I think is where the Makers originated. Other people will explore that possibility, however. It’s enough that I’ve set the pendulum in motion. Someone else can follow each tick of the weighted ball.

Loras recalls me to the mission when he barks, “On your feet, people. Assemble in the square in five minutes.”

After gearing up, I jog in lockstep with everyone else. Loras is a natural commander, a fact that surprises me. But when I knew him before, he existed in forced submission. There was no chance for him to let his true personality shine then.

By daylight, the village seems even more humble, the poverty more shocking against the way the Imperials live in the capital. This planet has lush resources, and they’re controlled by less than 2 percent of the population. La’hengrin aren’t permitted to own property…ostensibly because they can’t protect it. All the laws here are writ in this bullshit altruism, and it makes my stomach hurt.

The leader from last night, Deven, meets us with the rest of the population at his back. “We discussed what you told us last night.”

“What did you decide?” Loras asks.

“A number of people want to volunteer. The rest of us would like to see how it works. You won’t…force the cure on anyone?” He seems a little frightened today.

Sometimes too much change, too fast, can be overwhelming. It makes you want to put things back the way they were, even if the old situation sucked. I reckon we need to be careful how we handle these folks.

“Of course not.” Xirol’s ready smile soothes them.

“The centurions have been murdered,” someone calls from the back.

“Not murdered,” Loras replies coldly. “It is called rebellion.”

“Are we supposed to go to the mines?” a La’hengrin woman asks timidly.

I can tell from her pallor that she must work there, along with at least half the village. None of them have a healthy glow to their skin. They all look a bit sick, anemic. If Doc were here, I’d ask him to run some panels and make sure they’re strong enough for Carvati’s Cure.

But he’s gone, and nobody can take his place. Of us all, Farah has the most medical experience. She assisted an Imperial physician in the capital before she ran into Loras. But she’s not a doctor. At best, she knows how to use medical equipment better than the rest of us. It’s not enough for her to take blood and analyze the results with the equipment we have available. Our handhelds don’t function as portable labs, and the village doesn’t even have basic facilities.

“No,” Loras says. “Even if you wish to remain neutral, I ask you not to produce any resources that will benefit the enemy.”

“But where will our food come from?” a man demands.

So that’s how it is. The centurions keep the village dependent on them for provisions and they pay them in subsistence coin. The climate might support some agriculture. Certainly, the soil here at the foot of the mountain seems rich enough. Yet the Imperials keep the La’hengrin on a leash.