“Everyone’s ready,” Sarah says, and her voice quavers.

She’s nervous and it shows. Moving from behind my desk, I approach, taking her hands in mine, trying to stare into her eyes. Her fear is a palpable thing between us. She can’t meet my eyes.

Doubts assail my certainty. Am I doing the right thing?

Her lip trembles, but then she clamps it between her teeth, tightens her grip on my hands.

“Can you do this?” I ask softly.

She hesitates, thinking it over. That alone tells how scared she is.

“Yes,” she says, nodding slowly. “I can.”

She exhales heavily, bows her head, and then, looking up, she straightens her shoulders and nods again, but with certainty and strength this time. I pull her into an embrace, holding her tight. She stiffens in my arms, surprised, I’m sure, at this display of affection but then she returns it.

“Good,” I say. “Remember, be careful.”

“I will,” she says. “You should go. I’ll follow after. We can’t be seen together.”

I nod my agreement and go to the door where I pause, hand on the cool handle.

“Sarah,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“You can say no,” I offer, not looking back.

“I know,” she says, no hesitation.

The moment grows long, heavy, but she doesn’t speak again. I walk out. The decision is made.

Making my way down the broken stairwell, I focus my thoughts in this moment. Decisions made are done, ones to come will come when they do. Focus, here, now. Acutely aware of each step, I’m walking into a turning point. The biggest change in our lives since the ship crashed on Tajss, and possibly the most important. What happens today will set the course for our future.

“Hi,” Visidion says, as I turn on a broken landing before I jump the gap in the stairwell.

He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, waiting.

“Hi,” I say, heart rate soaring.

He’s incredibly sexy with his nonchalant air and pose. Biceps bulging against his muscular chest where his arms are crossed, his eyes sparkle with delight. My core tightens, feeling like a warm spring ready to explode. Desire rushes through my body, making my cheeks and limbs warm. The way he looks at me, his eyes lit up with desire and more, makes me aware of every nerve in my body. I feel as alive as if I’m walking on air.

“You okay?” he asks, grinning.

It hits me that I’m lost in his gaze once again, like some star-struck schoolgirl with a crush. Pulling my composure back into place, I shake my head.

“Yes,” I say, leaping across the gap to land next to him.

He catches me before I can land, strong hands closing on my waist and pulling me in. Our lips meet, and molten fire burns through me at every place he touches. The tension in my shoulders and lower back melts before it, and I meld against him. At last he sets me on my feet.

“Thought I’d walk with you,” he says.

“I’d like that,” I say.

He takes my hand in his and we resume navigating our way to the ground floor.

“Padraig could probably build something to fix these stairs,” he says, watching me cross the beam that covers another break in the stairs.

“That would be good,” I say. “Removing the rest of the debris is on my to-do list, once we have things settled.”

When we reach the ground floor, I stop before the door leading into the lobby. Once I step through, there’s no turning back. I have to do what I set out to do. Gershom must face justice.

“Are you sure?” Visidion asks, no need to clarify the question.

It’s the same question he and I have debated over and over. What do I do with Gershom? He wants it done with finality, but I don’t know if I can do that. There are too many things to consider. Gershom has followers, people who really believe in him. If I execute him, he becomes a martyr, and the rift between us becomes deeper.

We don’t have the resources to jail him, and if we did, how do I make sure he doesn’t escape?

There are so few survivors, and I don’t have the research available I did on the ship. I can’t run computerized prediction models with the DNA of the survivors to find out the minimum viable population. I don’t know whose DNA is best suited for the future survival, or if we even stand a chance as it is. We need more bodies, more people to fall in love and have babies and create the next generation. Every single person matters, human or Zmaj. The future I see isn’t for two races, it’s for one new race. The babies are our future, crossing between the humans and the Zmaj, adapted to their environment but free of the baggage of both races’ pasts.

Gershom and his followers are the barrier to that future. Yet they’re a vital part of it. Execute him and it will give validity to his ideas. At least some of his followers will become more entrenched in their xenophobic ideas, undermining and destroying that future at every turn. Leave him alive, and he can continue to spread his vitriol and hate.

There is no easy solution to this problem.

Taking a deep breath I put my hand on the door. Visidion puts the palm of his hand on my back, his cool touch offering his wordless support. I open the door and step into the lobby.

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the crowd has already gathered. A makeshift riser has been built in front of the fountain and the crowd is all around it. When we step outside into the pounding heat of the double suns, it seems as if the entire crowd turns to look at me. Silence falls like a blanket over them. They part around me as I walk to the riser and climb the few steps. Three desks are set up on it, simulating a courtroom layout.

Crossing the riser, acutely aware of their eyes burning into me, I take my place behind the largest desk, facing out to the crowd. Before me are the two desks for the defense and prosecutor. On my left are nine seats filled with a split mix of those who were in Gershom’s camp and those who were not, including Ormarr and Falkosh, representing the Tribe, and Sverre, the Zmaj of the City. Bert acts as the lead juror, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. He didn’t want to take the position, but I was able to convince him. He’s the most neutrally acceptable to all sides and ideal for it.

Gazing across the crowd, I pause on the Gladiators, grouped together around Cenar who stands out in any crowd, being an eight-foot-tall humanoid rock. There is a space around them that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the gathering. No one, human or Zmaj, seems sure what to make of them yet. Catching my eye, Mesto smiles and waves.

“Ha! People are many,” he exclaims, eliciting laughter from the crowd around him.

The laughter fades away and my shoulders knot with tension.

“Let us begin,” I say, rising to my feet. “Gershom, you are accused of betraying your fellow man, endangering the lives of all survivors, and of initiating a coup against the existing government. How do you plead?”

Gershom sits at the defense table, smiling from ear to ear as if he knows a secret. Anger flashes white hot, and I ball my hands into fists. Every fiber of my being wants to walk over and knock that stupid smile off his face. I close my eyes, taking a moment to regain control so I can continue. When I open my eyes he’s still smiling, but I’m not going to let him get to me again. He rises to his feet, turns towards the crowd and holds his hands out wide.

“My fellow survivors,” he says, voice echoing off the nearby buildings. “This is a preposterous mockery of justice. I did nothing wrong. Is it wrong I want to protect our race? Am I wrong to stand up to a dictator, not for myself, but for you?”

The crowd murmurs and there are a few scattered cheers.

“No, I say I’m not. No matter what happens here today, know this. I did what I did for you. No matter what they accuse me of, no matter what fabricated evidence they might present, I did what I did only for the good of you. My friends, my fellow survivors, my fellow humans.”

Random pockets of cheering greet him. He turns to face me, still with that maddening grin on his face.

“To that end and for those reasons, I plead not guilty. I demand that his farce be ended and that fair elections be held for the good of all people.”

“All human people!” someone in the crowd yells.

“Your plea is noted,” I say, ignoring his grandstanding.

I take my seat and the proceedings begin. The prosecutor rises and makes his opening statements. The suns rise to midday, and I break the proceedings for lunch. Resuming once we’ve fed everyone, the defense makes its arguments. All of this is a formality and the crowd knows it, but it’s an important formality.

Gershom’s guilt is clear, and even his defense lawyer seems apathetic, as if he knows he has no chance of winning. As the suns drop to the horizon and the shadows of evening creep across the crowd, the attorneys rest.

“You have heard both sides of the argument,” I say to the jury. “It rests on you to decide one question. Is he guilty of the crimes presented? Did he knowingly betray his fellow survivors and work to undermine the existing ruling body in an illegal and subversive manner?”

The jury looks at each other, silent. They stand, file off the riser, and go into the building where a room awaits them.

Food is laid out on tables again, and everyone sets to eating. A plate is brought to me on the riser, and Visidion joins me for dinner. We eat in silence, listening to the murmurs of the crowd as they discuss the case. The gathering looks calm, but tension is zinging in the air like static electricity. I hope that we can resolve this peacefully.

“This is foolish,” Visidion says, pitching his voice low for me only.

“No, it’s necessary,” I reply.

“What if they come back and say he is not guilty?” he asks.

“They won’t,” I say.

“How can you know that? Half of those debating are his followers,” he counters.

“Because I have to believe that,” I say.

He shakes his head, chewing on a piece of guster meat.

“I don’t understand,” he says, swallowing his food.

“We have to put our faith in each other,” I answer. “I have to believe that they will make the right choice, given the chance. That they will see the truth and will then make the right choice. If we, as a people, can’t do that, then what good is our future?”

“You could take that choice from them,” he says. “You know they would follow your word.”

“Yes, but then what kind of society would we have? If there is no individual responsibility, what happens when I’m gone?”

“The new leader would take care of them,” he says.

“What if the new leader is like Gershom? Interested only in their own power? What if I decide to go that way?”

“You wouldn’t,” he answers, firmly covering my hand on the table with his own. “You are good.”

“Thank you,” I say. “That doesn’t take care of our future, though. It doesn’t create the society I hope to inspire.”

Chewing another piece of meat, he leans back on his stool. He turns his hand palm up, closes it over mine, and uses his thumb to make slow circles. Finally, he nods.

“I see,” he says.

The murmur of the crowd changes, rises in pitch. The jurors are emerging from the building. The make their way to the dais and take their seats.

“Have you come to a decision?” I ask.

Sweat pours down Bert’s face. He looks over at the other jurors who stare at him, impassive. Rising to his feet, he wavers as if faint before composing himself.

“Yes,” he says, voice cracking. He clears his throat, stares at the ground, shakes his head then meets my gaze. “Yes.”

“Good, what is your verdict?” I ask, my heart pounding in my chest.

Everything hinges on this moment. My faith in humanity either pays off or we lose it all. The silence lies heavy. The handful of strategically placed guards shift their weapons, and the sound of the metal clicking is deafening. With my eyes boring into Bert, I will him to give me the answer I expect. Please, don’t let me down. Eyes drifting across the jury, I try to meet each of their eyes, hoping to see the verdict in their eyes.

“Guilty,” Bert says at last.

The crowd explodes. Cheers echoed by cries of despair. Gershom looks surprised and rises to his feet, but a guard steps forward and puts a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into his chair. I stand and give the crowd their moment, waiting for the initial shock to wear off.

“People!” I yell to be heard over their noise but to no avail.

If anything, they grow louder. A short distance away from the riser, a fistfight breaks out, and the crowd shifts as some try to get away and others try to join in.

“Stop!” I yell.

I’m losing control. Visidion leaps onto the riser, making his way towards me. The mated Zmaj are grabbing their mates and moving them away.

A low, thrumming vibration starts. It’s a low bass, so low and deep it throbs in my bones, growing louder until it feels like I’m being shaken apart from the inside. It’s affecting everyone. The crowd stops, crossing their arms over themselves, looking around in confusion.

Searching for a source I spot Cenar. He’s crouched low, one hand touching the ground. He’s the source of the sound. It continues until the entire crowd has stopped, too busy trying to hold their insides together to be interested in fighting each other any longer. Cenar rises and smiles at me. Arching an eyebrow, I return his smile.

“This isn’t fair,” Gershom says, sweating for the first time.

Noticing him sweat, I realize something. He’s been taking epis. None of his followers can be in this heat without sweating bullets. He’s been on epis, probably the entire time. So much for his human-first, reject-the-Zmaj rhetoric.

“Gershom, please rise,” I say.

He shakes his head, face pale, hands gripping the desk in front of him. Two guards step forward and pull him to his feet.

“You have been found guilty,” I say, letting the words hang in the air.

Tears run down his face.

“No, this isn’t right,” he says.

Everyone waits, with a quiet so deep I can hear the crowd breathing as if in sync with each other. Judgment has come for Gershom. On one side of the crowd, Sarah catches my eye. She’s standing straight and stiff, surrounded by Gershom’s supporters. She’s chewing on her bottom lip as a tear slides down her face. My heart aches looking at her, but we’re doing what we have to do.

“Your punishment must fit your crimes,” I say. “And to that end, you will be exiled.”

He looks up, shock on his face. Blinking rapidly he looks right and left then back to me.

“Exiled?” he exhales.

“Yes,” I say. “Exiled. Those who wish to follow you may. You will be given supplies for a week and sent on your way. You are no longer welcome in the City or at the Tribe.”

He shakes his head once more, then looks up and the slow smile spreads across his face.

“Fine,” he says.

“Help him out of the dome,” I order, then look out at the crowd. “We are at a turning point. Those of you who will not accept that our future lies in our friendship with the Zmaj may follow Gershom. No one will stop you. But if you so choose, you are no longer welcome here. No longer will the City be a place of intolerance and hate. That is the past. We are closing the door on it. Our future is dependent on each of us. Only in working together can we rise above the challenges to our survival and become what we are truly capable of. Only in working together can we create a better future for our children.”

The crowd murmurs, turning their attention to each other and discussing their options. I slam my gavel down on the desk, closing the proceedings.

Visidion falls in next to me as I make my way into the building and back up to my apartments.