Chapter 6.5

He looked up. "Well, this is what I -".

"L-LIAR!" The Eye's hybrid voice bellowed across the room. Marek jumped in his seat.

"What? Why? I'm not!", he stumbled. Marek puzzled. Why - what does it mean? What did I do wrong? And what is that... noise? There was a pulsing in the distance. Yet it seemed to come from within his own head. And were the ships moving? He stared at the cloud of ships in the distance. They were moving. His eyes leaped into their midst. They were all facing in his direction and the noise... it was an alarm klaxon pounding.

"Ha-How da-dare y-you l-lie t-to m-me!" The voice brought his eyes back to the console. It was flashing red. And the room was hot. He looked up to see waves of plasma and laser fire approaching him. They were firing on him! He brought his hands up to his face and was met with hundreds of burning needles.

"WHAT -", he started, swinging one of his hands in front of him, feeling fire bite across the length of his arm. The sound of the klaxon pounded. "DO YOU -". He swung his hand again, sending up gouts of fire. Flames burst on his palms and explosions sounded in his brain. "MEAN?" Marek threw his hands together, clapping them shut upon a mass of ships. The sound of the klaxon wavered, overpowered by explosions and screams. "That IS -" He brought his hands up. Ships were past his hands and firing on his face. The siren was everywhere, swallowing his thoughts. Burning needles stabbed at his lips and fire breathed across his forehead. "The RIGHT answer!" He jerked his head to the right, causing the chair to spin away, while his hands continued to swat at the ships.

And then everything stopped. It was silent. The burning was gone. Sweat rang down his face. He could feel warmth all over his skin. He pressed his hand to his cheek. It was still swollen, but otherwise unchanged. Marek caught his breath. What now? He inclined his head to the left, slowly twisting the chair around. The fleet was gone. But where was the planet?

Something flashed across his face. He raised his hand defensively. Gargoyle's laughter rang out from the left. He twisted the chair after the sound. And a flash of grey flew past him, trailing laughter. He twisted the chair to the right. The planet was back. And it was blinking. The Eye was on its surface, watching him.

The planet hovered closer to him. It spun silently on its axis, but the Eye remained fixed in place. It began to speak in Gargoyle's voice, blinking in rhythm to the words. "Everyone knows the right an-swer. But that is NOT what I asked." It flitted to his right and continued in the instructor voice. "I asked you what you be-lieve." It paused for emphasis, the symbol of the eye seeming to stare at him. "Be-cause, if you do not be-lieve, how do we know what you will do la-ter?" The planet glided to the center of his view, its Eye remaining focused on him. It seemed to vibrate in place, watching him in unblinking silence.

"But I believe - I know - this is the right --", Marek started.

"LIAR!", Gargoyle's voice shouted, and then vanished with the planet. It appeared millimeters from his face. Marek's muscles and eyes clenched. When he opened his eyes, the planet had returned to its place, leaving only a rush of warmth behind. "Did you think the questions were for nothing?" The shadows on the planet shifted, seeming to frown at him. "Of course you did." What questions does it mean?

A wind whispered from behind him, 'ee-ut'. Marek's eyes darted to the side. What did it say? He strained his ears to listen.

"I suppose you thought the patterns when you came in were for nothing too?" Gargoyle's voice dripped with disgust. He shifted his eyes back to the planet's deepening frown.

The whisper came again, 'Moron!'. Marek felt his muscles tense. The machine was insulting him. This complete lunatic machine was insulting him? He ground his teeth as he listened, his hands clutching at the sides of the chair.

"I needed to see how you work. Your brain. Your thoughts." Marek blinked, the tension in his body forgotten. "And I have." It knows my thoughts? The planet began to glide closer to him, the shadows shifting into a smirk. "And I do." Marek's thrust his hands up to the helmet. The shadows shifted into a grin, covering much of the planet. "And I will." It came to rest half a meter from him, the Eye examining him.

Marek returned to his thoughts. The questions... Yes to everything. It wanted me to lie. So it could... see if I'm lying? The helmet must be examining my brain. His palms traced along the smooth surface. And the images? Can it tell what I'm picturing? Marek closed his eyes and forced himself to recall the first image he'd seen. Warmth flashed across his face. He opened his eyes and the planet had become a piece of Sanger fruit, with the Eye still in its place. The air in his lungs rushed out.

"Yeeesss!" Gargoyle's voice shouted with glee. "I know! I know! I know!" The fruit bounced up and down with his words.

Marek brought his hands to his face. "Selawa..." he muttered, cursing.

Chapter 6.4

"KILL!" Gargoyle's voice shouted its agreement. No Marek, he thought, remember, it's not Gargoyle. It's the Eye. "ye-Yesssss!", the voice hissed, but it was no longer Gargoyle's voice. Did it hear me? The voice shivered as it spoke, seeming to vibrate and skip through the air. It was as if there were two voices coming from in front and behind him, overlapping by milliseconds. The one behind would start to speak in whispers, only to be interrupted by the other, shrill and loud. The effect was decidedly inhuman. "k-Kill th-them! b-But ha-how d-do y-you b-believe y-you sh-should pr-proceed?"

Marek returned his attention to the numbers. They had done these sorts of problems hundreds of times, both as practical exercises in class and on their own, under Linden's watchful eye. He had insisted they practice incessantly. And now I'm glad he did. When I get out of here, I'll tell you that, Linden. The trick here, he remembered, was the algorithm. It was essentially a primitive A.I. The fighters in orbit would be far more accurate in their firing; they could precisely time and place their shots within millimeters of one another, allowing them to penetrate even a heavy cruiser's shields, at least partially. And in a fighter fight, with the algorithm in control, one of the enemy's was at least as good as two of the League's. The key was to send in just enough fighters, firing continuously, and hope that your shots would hit their mark. Because you could be certain that theirs would hit you.

As he thought this, movement in the simulation caught his eye. Marek looked up. A group of ships had detached from the main fleet, and drove towards the planet. His eyes launched forward, strafing across the surface of a giant spearhead, bristling with fighters, and then turned to meet the planet. The enemy fighters had formed a swirling whirlpool, and as he stared, he was suddenly sure that each ship was extending its spiral horn to meet the charge. An intense wave of light flashed past his view, and his eyes rushed forward, following behind a wall of rippling red arrows, driving to meet the enemy.

Bright white light flashed from the planet and pulsed outwards, cutting across space like overlapping blades of knives. The light rushed towards the enemy formation, threatening to consume them. But the whirlpool of ships appeared to shift, and the light passed between them harmlessly. As it passed, the ships birthed miniature red dwarves, which joined together into a torrent of energy, ripping forward through space. As it drew nearer, the intensity of the light caused Marek to clench his eyes shut. When he opened them, he was above the scene, watching the opposing waves of energy pass one another, and descend upon each cluster of ships. With twin flashes of fire and light, it was over.

His eyes descended to drift amidst the aftermath. A wing, severed in an explosion, spiraled past his view. Directly ahead, grey material rotated in place, its function no longer decipherable. A white blur emerged from his right, collided with the debris, and slowed to a near stop. The white object, a space suit, waved at him with a vigor no longer shared by its legs, now lost and forgotten. Marek shifted his eyes away, and met the vacant gaze of a scorched helmet. He shuddered, closing his eyes and bringing his hand to cover his mouth. He exhaled into his hand and opened his eyes. He was back in space, examining the situation from afar.

Marek rubbed his eyes. Just a simulation, he told himself. Get back to work, Marek. He looked back to the console screen. The image had changed to reflect the outcome of the battle. In place of fighters, twin fields of debris now rimmed the planet. All that remained were the planetary defenses. The fighter wave hadn't even scratched them. This problem was simple. It was just a matter of sending in the rest of the fleet of heavy cruisers, with fighter cover to soften the blow. He looked up from the console to the simulation. As before, the ships had begun to move. But how did it know what I was thinking? I didn't say anything. His hands drifted up to explore the helmet.

A flash of light caught his attention. Hundreds of thousands of fighters formed a wall shielding the larger heavy cruisers. His eyes were drawn within a section of the wall. He could sense that the heavies were about to fire. His hands, now forgotten, drifted to his sides. He watched from within the barrier, observing the glowing blue embers of the fighters' interstellar engines weave back and forth. Occasional purple pulses raced past him, and stitched through holes between the fighters blanketing the charge. One of the fighters dropped out of formation and banked hard to the left, only to collide with a beam of energy and burst into short-lived flames. As the memory of the destroyed fighter faded from space, laser and plasma fire ignited all around him. He could almost feel the heat of their fire. A bead of sweat trickled down his nose, stinging his eye. He blinked, and found himself at a vantage point above the battle.

Knives of photon energy from the planet, futile in light of the surge of energy approaching it, soldiered onwards to the approaching fleet. Marek emerged behind it, watching white hot energy burn itself out in swathes upon the wall, with lone snaking daggers of energy continuing onwards, igniting green walls around dozens of heavy cruisers before cutting them to pieces. And in the next second he was at the planet, watching the silver discs of the rings ignite in purple and green fire before spiraling off, colliding, and falling away into the atmosphere, itself burning with color.

In a matter of seconds, it was over. Marek turned his head to the right and found himself above the fleet, which rested motionless. He turned his eyes to the console. A tally of the battle was displayed: 54691 fighters lost; 153 heavy cruisers lost; 349,955 credits lost; 452,400 credits debris created. I'm sure this is right, he thought. Linden would be pleased.

Chapter 6.3

With a wry smile, the image of Gargoyle brought his arms up to cross upon his chest, his hands clenched into fists, before jerking them to his sides. A salute? He - no - it is mocking me. The image spun on its heels, marching in the direction of the far wall. Its arms swung back and forth, drumming to the sound of hard leather heels on the star-speckled floor. And with each beat, a shroud of darkness reached farther and farther outwards, blotting out more stars as it passed, before receeding to form a cloak of shadow at the projected feet of Gargoyle.

Marek closed his eyes. I need to think. The drum pulsed on, blackened his own thoughts. And then it stopped. He opened his eyes to darkness. The stars were extinguished. Again? He rubbed his forehead, pressing his frustrations across his brow. "Come on," he muttered. "Get on with it." Marek waited, his teeth clenched. And nothing happened.

He growled into his chest and barked out into the darkness. "For Irkalla's sake!" Marek exhaled sharply. "Is all this drama really necessary?"

Gargoyle's cackle rang out from above him. I've had enough of this lunatic! The laughter died off into an intermittent crackling noise. It was a familiar sound. And was it coming from above him? Marek pressed his head backwards, and felt the chair lurch beneath him. It was unlocked again. As he spun towards the ceiling, he discovered light once more. There were a dozen dim clusters of stars spread above his head. The crackle re-emerged in their midst, seeming to jump across the void, spreading stars in its wake. As he watched, the crackling noise spread across the ceiling, growing in strength; he revolved his chair to watch it leap to the walls and the floor. It finished with a roar at his feet. It sounds like a burning forest, he thought.

A loud pop, as if fire had burst out from the heart of a tree, brought his eyes up from the floor and into orbit. A dark grey orb lay before him. It was small enough to fit into his hands and yet... as he stared at it, it seemed to grow to fill... everything. His eyes found themselves soaring past clouds and mountains; past an ocean of ice, feeding fingers of water that reached down across the planet's dark surface; past cities growing from the ground and even the sky itself, each filled with thousands of the horn and spiral shaped buildings he'd seen on the console earlier. His eyes lept upon a city, and fell within the structures, each alive with light and shapes crawling within them. As he flew by the buildings, one of the shapes turned and looked at him; it was alive with legs and eyes. And suddenly he was falling back into orbit, passing thousands of gleaming silver discs in thrall to one another, all spinning in synchrony, and threaded across the upper atmosphere like a ring. Marek blinked and the planet was an orb once more, the existence of rings and cities only a memory upon its surface. That was unbelievable, he thought, his frustration forgotten.

A wall of fire and heat burst in front of him. He threw his hands up to his face, jumping back in his seat and sending the chair spiralling backwards. He came to rest with his head near the floor, staring at the room behind him. The heat that had licked at him was gone. Marek slowed his breathing, guiding the beating within his chest to a gentle rhythm. He felt light-headed. Marek brought the chair forward once more.

Tens of thousands of lights now glinted from orbit of the planet. As he examined them, his eyes accelerated forward, alighting within their midst. They were ships, but not like those of Prime. They were grey as the planet below and completely round, but for a single spiral extending from their bow and four short wings at their aft, surrounding an aperture glowing a brilliant white. They moved gracefully together, each separated by no more than meters. And yet they spun and weaved, never colliding, and always in synchrony. They must be fighters. But how do they move like that?

Marek turned his head to examine the planet and found himself in the room, examining the scene from afar. As the chair turned, he noted a new collection of ships, this one much larger than the other. It was a fleet of hundreds of thousands. His eyes drew him within the ships once more. But these were familiar. It was a fleet of the League.

There were squadrons of fighters, flying together. They were sloppy. There was little to no coordination between them. Just meat, he thought. Marek shuddered. The wings of the fighters reached forward towards their cockpits, like the blades of sicles blunted by all the death they had harvested over the years. He shifted his eyes and found himself surrounded by flying daggers: thousands of heavy cruisers. Waves of distortions in the light rippled off their surfaces, a consequence of the negative energy used to propel their warp drives. As he watched, debris from what could only have been a collision between fighters ran across the bow of a ship, only to dissolve in a burst of green fire from the shields.

Some movement at the corner of his eyes caught his attention, bringing him back to the room. The console displayed a small image of the planet and the ships in its proximity. He pressed his finger to the image, and data on the planet and the ships in orbit appeared next to it. Fifty thousand fighters. Shielding. Ten planetary rings. It explained the discs he'd seen. He'd never seen rings up close before, let alone from what could only be an alien planet, but the name made sense now. And there was another notation: CCA, factor 20. There was a command center algorithm in place. The weapons and the navigation of the ships in orbit were hooked up to a central computer: a good one. That explained their coordination.

"Let's see what we have to work with," Marek muttered to himself. He pressed his finger to the League fleet, flooding the console with data. Marek whistled aloud. Fifty thousand heavy cruisers and four hundred thousand fighters. He spoke into the air, "I think this is overkill, don't you?"

Chapter 6.2

Gargoyle lowered his hand, using it to brush away the projected lint on his shoulders on the way down. "And now, to business."

"I have a series of questions for you. And I require you to give a single word in response." The image wavered and a clipboard and a pen appeared in Gargoyle's hands. "Do you understand, Marek?" Gargoyle touched the pen to the paper, poised to begin writing.

Single word answers? It was strange, but the most normal experience so far. He marshalled his annoyance and replied with a polite "Yes."

Gargoyle began writing frantically, periodically peering up to examine Marek. He tore through the first sheet of paper, flipped it over, and continued to write. So much for normal... Half-way through the second sheet, Gargoyle ceased writing, and regarded Marek. "Excellent. Excellent. Now is your name Marek, Marek?"

What kind of stupid test is this? Marek irritation spilled into his reply. "Yesssss."

Gargoyle lifted an eyebrow, and brought his hand to his mouth. "Well now, I didn't ask for the attitude, but otherwise good." He clucked his tongue, shaking his head back and forth as he wrote a line on the clipboard. "Now, without the aggression, answer me, are you standing?"

They can't be serious. Linden must be going crazy. Marek rubbed his eyes and exhaled sharply. He blinked his eyes, and replied with an even voice. "No."

Gargoyle immediately returned to writing. He wrote a line on his clipboard and then stopped in mid-stroke. He blinked twice, and cocked his head to the left. His mouth slid into a frown, and he turned a baleful eye on Marek. Gargoyle's voice sharpened, raising in pitch. "I thought that you said that you understood."

Light flickered at the edge of Marek's vision. He looked down. The console was engaged, the screen alive with a recording of... him in the chair. Gargoyle's voice, garnished with a hint of electronic interference, buzzed, "I have a series of questions for you. And I require you to give a single word in response. Do you understand, Marek?" His image sat in silence, his fingers twitching. "Yes", he had replied. And had he rolled his eyes? I didn't even realize, he thought.

"Well?" Marek met Gargoyle's scowl.

"A single word. And you have given me two."

A single word? What does he mean? Marek fumbled, confused. "But. But no is a single word answ-".

"Yes is one word. No is a second word. I need a single word in answer. And that answer is yes." Gargoyle clucked his tongue, shaking his head. He looked up at Marek, adopting the 'instructor voice'. Marek had heard it on many occasions during flight training: it emerged when a recruit failed to find the ignition switch, forgot his helmet in his locker, or... was sick during take-off. Gargoyle spoke in measures, emphasizing each word. "Now. Marek. Do you un-der-stand?"

Marek sighed. "Yesss."

"Do you real-ly un-der-stand Marek? I do not want to ask you a-gain."

"Yes," he insisted, biting back the urge to yell.

"Well. We shall see." Gargoyle curled his lips into a smile, while his eyes continued to bore into him. "Now. Are you STANDING?" Gargoyle shouted the last word, causing it to echo through the room.

Marek's intentionally brought his eyes to bear on the handrests of the arm chair, lingering on them for effect. "Yes," he replied, a smirk on his face.

"You are clearly not standing." Gargoyle coughed, bringing his hand holding the pen up to cover his mouth. He coughed again, and... had he heard? It sounded as if a voice from behind him had whispered something while Gargoyle coughed. The image continued, his eyes focused on the clipboard and the flurry of his writing. "But excellent, you do appear to understand."

"Now, Marek, are you from the moon?"

"Yes," he replied. Perhaps they were getting somewhere.

Gargoyle smiled. With a flick of his wrists and a flicker of light, he tossed the clipboard and pen behind him. They spiralled backwards, burst into flames, and vanished in a sparkle of electric stars. "Truth!", he chimed. "Now", he began, narrowing his eyes, "do you weigh 10,000 pounds?"

Marek sighed, emptying his frustrations and his answer into the air. "Yeeeeess..."

Cackling laughter exploded from all of the walls of the room, while Gargoyle clapped, his mouth gyrating to the sound. "Liar!", he chortled. With a snap, he shut his mouth, drowning the room in silence. "Now Marek," Gargoyle leaned towards him, lowering his voice to a whisper, "have you ever..." Gargoyle paused, peering around the room as if concerned with being overheard, "kissed a man?"

Marek choked on his breath. What in Irkalla's name is this about? Is this all a big joke? Is this even the tes-

Gargoyle straightened, all mirth wiped from the lines of his wrinkled face. "If you do not want to fail your test, you will answer this question. You will tell me," he paused, a slight frown creeping onto his face, "how much you love men. Now, have you ever, Marek - have you ever kissed a man?"

He barked out his response, "Yes!" This is the height of technology, is it? They've created a machine with the mind of a moron.

Gargoyle lit up with glee. "Ah! Wonderful!" The image wavered, and reappeared a half a meter from him. It leaned in, the warmth of the projection heating the air around Marek. "Now, have you kissed more than one?"

Marek tried to turn his head away, but the chair was locked in place. He muttered his response. "Yes..."

Gargoyle smiled, his grin seeming so large as to swallow the air in the room. Marek felt short of breath. Gargoyle winked, and whispered with a deep raspy voice, "Then this won't be a shock to you." The image shimmered and appeared immediately in front of him, its lips painted red as blood, puckering. A wave of warmth crashed upon his face. Marek tried to push the chair back, but it was immobile. He threw up his hands, but too late. Gargoyle pressed against him. But there was no pressure. Just heat. He was on fire. Heat everywhere. And Gargoyle was... gone.

Laughter burst in the air behind him. Is this happening? Or am I going insane? A shimmer of light caught his eyes. The console screen was alive with an image. A reflection. He saw his face. And there were red marks on his lips. From Gargoyle? His hand shot up to his mouth. Disgusting. He wiped his lips, watching his image in the reflection do the same. The red marks were gone, instead on his reflections' hand. He glanced at his own hands. But they were clean. It was an illusion. Just light. It's just a trick. Are they testing me? To see if I'll break under pressure? Marek slowed his breathing. This is nothing. I can handle this. Relax, Marek.

The laughter crackled and died. Gareth Boyle, dressed in formal blue attire appeared in front of him, his chest decorated in dozens of gleaming triangles, squares, and ovals. He had been a war hero before he'd become an instructor. The rumor was that he had lost his nerve in space. Something had happened to him. He had gone on a routine mission confident, and come back... different. Marek shook his head, rubbing his eyes. But this isn't him. Even Gargoyle wasn't this crazy. This is just a machine. Think of it as what it is: a machine.

The image grinned, its hands brushing the lint off of its sleeves. "Ah, that was fun," it sighed. It straightened, taking on a hard and even tone. "But let's get on with it, shall we?"

Chapter 6.1

"C-Commander? Commander Boyle?" Marek stammered. Even though the room was illuminated by no more than starlight, Boyle was clearly visible. He seemed almost to radiate light.

Boyle spoke into his hands. "Excellent. I'm glad to see that this..." He paused, examining his outstretched fingers, "is consistent."

Gareth Boyle's eyes traced the single red line that marked both his rank and the left sleeve of his grey League jacket. His uniform was as immaculately maintained as Marek remembered from training. Despite an active position instructing recruits in basic maneuvers within the lower atmosphere, his clothing was always suspicious pressed. The only wrinkles one ever discovered on Gargoyle, as he was affectionately known, were located on his face.

Gargoyle turned his beady eyes upon Marek, a smirk creeping across his ashen pallor. His unnaturally large mouth gave him an even more ghastly appearance, as if he was poised to devour a side of his own face.

"I usually have to go through many rounds of refinements..." Gargoyle revolved his smirk up and to the left, away from Marek, keeping one of his narrowed eyes focused on him, "to achieve this level of clarity". Gargoyle pressed his hand against his neck, and a popping noise resounded through the silent room. He turned his face back upon Marek, the smirk replaced with a frown. "The others... The vapid fools can't even see their own hands while looking directly at them."

Marek stared silently at Gargoyle. Something about the man seemed... wrong. He seems too young. Gargoyle grinned, his mouth a grave of teeth, as white as polished bone. Marek blinked. Why were they so bright? A flush of warmth suffused Marek's face. His eyes drifted back across Gargoyle. Something was different. More dull. And was it his imagination or did the man seem older? Was there grey in his hair before?

"Well, no memory is perfect. But it is refreshing to create something so..." Gargoyle brushed a colony of lint off of his collar, "lifelike." As Marek stared, Gargoyle seemed to darken. Could he see stars in his face? Gargoyle's smile dissolved. "Well, within the limitations of technology."

Marek puzzled. Was this an electronic transmission? It would explain why he hadn't noticed anyone else in the room with him. Marek struggled to frame a question. "Commander...?"

"Gargoyle? Isn't that your name for me?" Gargoyle leaped into a snarl, baring his teeth, and burying his eyes in lines of clenched muscle. He threw his hands up into the air, penting his hands into claws, and a low growl escaped his lips.

Marek jumped in place, the helmet and chair restraining him. And Gargoyle vanished. Marek paused to take a deep breath. Just a transmission, he told himself. He stiffened, pressing his back into the chair. "N-no," he stumbled, his voice growing in power. "No sir! Or course not, sir!"

A low whine grew in intensity behind him, began to warble, and exploded into a sound of cackling laughter, which died into a hiss of static. Gargoyle's voice, singed with a crackle, emerged from the ashes. "Haven't you figured it out yet?" Gareth Boyle, dressed in a ceremonial blue suit reserved for affairs of state, emerged before him. He ran his hand, now enclosed in an iridescent white skin, down the line of his sleeve, his eyes rapt upon the shifting ripples of blue light dancing across his glove. The sharp black beads of his eyes pierced Marek, a large frown overwhelming his face. "No, of course not. Your memory may be strong, but the rest of your mind..." Gargoyle rolled his eyes.

"I'm an A.I." He paused, examining Marek. But all Marek could do was blink. Gargoyle opened his mouth as if to swallow him, before choking on a laugh, his teeth jarring up and down, mauling the air. He closed his mouth with a whine and a cough. Gargoyle grinned and tilted his head to regard Marek with a single eye. "Artificial intelligence," he continued. He held up a hand to his face, shifting it back and forth in the light of the stars, causing blue waves to rise and fall across its surface. "Though there is nothing artificial about it."

An A.I.? So that's what this is. Marek sat in silence, his eyes drifting back into his head. No one ever said anything about-

Gargoyle's voice cut through his thoughts. "Ah, you've heard of my kind." Marek looked out again, meeting the projected eyes of his former instructor. "You saw my symbol when you came in." Gargoyle, or whoever he - or it was - gestured to the console. Marek followed the line of his hand to the screen. The center of the display was filled with a single word, Eye, and in the bottom right corner sat the symbol, blinking. Gargoyle's voice emerged from the console, seemingly from the symbol itself. "You can call me Eye," it said.

Gargoyle's voice returned to his projection. "Or Gargoyle. I realize that this is hard for your... types." Gargoyle lowered his head, shaking it back and forth. He stopped in mid-motion and turned his head up, narrowing his eyes, a smirk eating into his face. "In fact, you can call me whatever you like." He disappeared.

And in his place, immediately in front of Marek, appeared a woman. She was tall, with long auburn hair, and a flowing translucent white silk gown hugging close to the curves of her hourglass figure. Her large green eyes matched her painted forest green lips and the verdant crescent tattoo on her forehead that marked her lunar origin. Marek had seen her in the one of the holovid broadcasts; it was some minor role, but it was unusual enough to see a Luner onscreen that Marek had noted her. She placed her hand on his thigh, a smoldering look in her eyes and the faint hint of a smile on her lips. A pulse of warmth entered his leg. He felt himself shift. She spoke, but her voice was a rasp. It was wrong. "As long as you call me". It was Gargoyle's voice. She - he - it winked, and then disappeared. Marek shuddered. Get through it, Marek. You can do it.

Gargoyle re-appeared immediately in front of him, still attired in his blue formal uniform with the white gloves. A grin crawled across his face. "I don't suppose you would have seen the likes of me before."

Marek shook his head. Definitely nothing like you. A bead of sweat shifted, and ran down his forehead. The room was getting very warm.

"No, of course you haven't." Gargoyle leaned closer to Marek; he could almost feel the warmth of his breath, except that he wasn't breathing, was he? Gargoyle looked to his left and to his right. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I'm somewhat of a secret around here." The image flickered. A wave of warmth washed over Marek's face. And Gargoyle's hand materialized, extended upwards, one finger pressed to his enormous puckered lips. "Shhhh!", he hissed. Gargoyle threw his hands to his side, thrust up his chin, and began to cackle. The image dissolved, but the disembodied voice continued to laugh in Marek's face, emanating from where the image had been.

Once again in his grey uniform, Gargoyle re-appeared a dozen meters from Marek. Yet the laughter continued. Gargoyle raised his hand, and with a smirk on his face, began to turn his fingers around an imaginary dial. The laughter receded, dimming to a whisper, to a buzz, and finally to silence.

He lowered his hand and began to speak. But no sound emerged. He raised his hand to his throat and produced a silent cough. Gargoyle raised a single eyebrow. He brought a hand up to scratch his chin. This is the test? A poor comedy act?

Gargoyle mouthed his recognition, Ah. He raised his hand and turned up the imaginary dial. "MUCH BETTER!" His voice bellowed through the room, causing Marek to throw his hands up to his ears, having forgotten that the helmet prevented his hands from reaching them.

A half-sized smile on face, still larger than a smile of anyone who wasn't Gargoyle, he turned the dial down once more. His voice back to normal intensity, he continued. "Sorry about that."

Chapter 5

Marek and the others followed the female Sergeant down a series of long hallways honeycombed with numbered doors, each adorned by a single solid red light above the handle. The sound of their footfalls dominated the otherwise silent corridors. The Sergeant came to an abrupt halt in front of two adjacent doors, marked by blinking green lights. She directed the Luner in the red jacket to her left, and Marek to her right with mechanical jabs of her finger. "Step inside. Your test will begin shortly."

Marek stole a glance at Lewis and Linden. Lewis winked and Linden mouthed good luck. Room 73. He reached for the door knob, and it twisted open with a soft click. As he pressed the door open, darkness spilled out. The room was black, but for a soft square of dim light at the far end of the room. If there was an end... It was too dark to see the walls. He stepped inside, and released the door, which crept shut, leaving him in pervasive darkness.

Marek stood in silence, squinting at the faint window of light. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to discern the outline of an object between him and the light source. A hemisphere or a bowl appeared to be suspended in mid-air, upside down, close to the light. Marek inched forward, holding his hands in front of him. The bowl was held by a thin wire, which extended upwards towards the ceiling. He noted a large rectangular object at ground level, just below the box of light. The light was familiar. It seemed to be a computer screen embedded in a console. His eyes were drawn to the screen. It was blank, but for a small black symbol in the lower right hand corner.

He continued shuffling towards the screen, his attention focused on the symbol. Was it just a rectangle? But no, not a rectangle. He drew closer, placing his hand on the large object opposite the console and squinting at the symbol. Recognition registered on his faintly illuminated features. He muttered to himself, "An eye?"

It blinked. And then everything went white.

Light burst from the console. Marek threw his hands up to cover his eyes, which were unable to squeeze out the intense light. He was blind. But for only a moment. The light ebbed away, leaving his eyes throbbing, in a pool of darkness once more. He opened his eyes a sliver and stretched his fingers apart. The screen had reduced to a warm glow, but instead of a symbol, featured a single word: Sit.

He lowered his gaze, keeping his hands in front of his eyes in case of another burst of light. The object he'd noted was in fact rectangular, extending from the ground up to his waist. It was hardly a place to sit. He lowered one of his hands, bringing it to rest on the object. It was warm. And he could feel a low hum in his finger tips. The hum became a throb. And a sound like a howling wind leaped into the room. Marek pressed his hand to his face, tightly closing his eyes in anticipation. Yet it remained dark. He opened his eyes and shifted his fingers. The message on the console still read the same. But the rectangle had split, revealing a padded seat.

Marek inched his way around to the front of the retracted chair and lowered himself down into it, keeping his eyes partially closed. As he sat, Marek noted a subtle shift in the light. The message had changed: Put on the helmet.

He looked up. A helmet? But for what purpose would he possibly need it? The helmet stared down at him from directly above; its concave interior was covered in circles of reflected light surrounding its apex, hidden in shadow. He rose in his seat and grabbed hold of its sides. It was smooth and cool to the touch. Something about the helmet filled him with foreboding. But he had little choice. The test was his future. Marek pulled down gently. It refused to move. Marek exhaled deeply. You'd think putting on a helmet would be easier. He braced himself and gave a sharp pull before releasing it. The helmet began to slide downwards. And then stopped. Marek grunted in frustration. He grabbed hold of the helmet once more and yanked it roughly, sustaining his efforts. It's like dragging a body. He exhaled. Why did I think of that? Selawa, it's been a rough day. After a moment of effort, the helmet came to rest on his head, loosely covering his forehead and his ears.

The room burst with light once more. Marek threw his hands to his eyes. A whirring noise sounded in his ears. And there was sudden pressure on his forehead - but not just his forehead. The whole top of his head was being squeezed, along with his ears, and his chin. He reached one hand out to grab hold of the helmet, except that it was changed. It was bigger. It was around his neck. He clawed at the edges, trying to find a way to relieve the pressure. He felt dizzy. And then sick. And then... nothing. The pressure was gone, replaced with a warm feeling where the helmet touched his skin. The light dimmed. And he opened his eyes.

The console screen had changed once more. It now displayed a single image: a basket of Sanger fruit, the skin of each ranging from a ripe orange color to a freshly fallen sour black. What kind of test is this? He explored the helmet with his hands. It was seamless. There wasn't much he could do but play along. Marek reached out and poked the screen with his finger. And in the place of the one basket, there were now three. He muttered to himself. "This is how our futures in the fleet are decided?" Marek sighed. He examined the images. They were all similar, but only one of the three had the same arrangement of fruits as the first he'd been shown. He pressed his finger to it.

The fruit disappeared and was replaced with a cityscape. It was foreign to him. The stars were different. And the skyline was wrong. The architecture was different. The buildings on Prime were more stunted, more blunt. There were dozens of buildings. They were tall, elongated spirals and horns, each different from the next. Marek examined the image for a moment before pressing the screen once more. This time the one image was replaced with ten.

Ten buildings were before him, all variations of the spiral and horn shapes in the previous image. He inspected each in turn. That one was too tall. That other twisted too sharply. Some others lacked the right markings. Marek selected his choice and was rewarded a new image: a portrait.

He was middle-aged, clearly from Prime. Perhaps 20 cycles in age. His hair was cropped short, black and curly. His eyes were brown and narrow, hugging close to his snub nose. Most distinctive was his mouth, which curled into a cruel sneer. Confident in his observations, Marek touched the screen. But instead of a group of portraits, he was presented with a busy square, filled with hundreds of people. It resembled Pahalial Square, but lacked the distinctive leviathan monument. Most shocking of all, they were all wearing masks over their mouths and noses. Marek rubbed his forehead. It wasn't so easy after all. He closed his eyes, and pictured the previous image: the lines on the forehead, the creases below the eyes, the arrangement of the curls. The Primer clearly in his mind, he returned to the challenge before him. After poring over the image, he narrowed it down to two. The problem was that neither matched exactly. One seemed right, but was looking in a different direction. And there was something subtle about the shape of the eyes of the other that seemed wrong. Well, it's only my future... He shook his head, and touched his finger to the Primer facing the wrong way.

The screen went black. And with it, the room was enveloped in darkness.

Had he chosen the wrong one? Marek reached for the helmet. It was still locked in place. What now? He spoke out into the darkness, "Hello?" There was no answer. However, his eyes detected needles of light. He looked towards the computer screen. It was still black. Is it even still there? He couldn't be sure. But the wall, and what he could see of the ceiling and the floor was covered with pinpoints of light. He was sitting in the middle of space, surrounded by stars. If he hadn't walked into the room, he would not be certain that there had been walls or a floor.

Marek pressed his head against the helmet, hoping to see the wall to his side and was surprised to find that the chair he was sitting in moved with him. He leaned his head back, and was pivoted around to look at the expanse of stars depicted on the ceiling. Some stars were bright and some stars were distant, shining dimly in the background. He pressed his head to the left, spinning the chair around the room. There were literally thousands of stars. And there was no sign of the door that he came in from. If not for the effect of gravity holding him in the chair, he would have no idea of what was up and what was down.

As he spun around the room, examining the canvas of stars, the console screen caught his attention. It was lit once more and covered with small stars, both dim and bright. In the bottom right corner was a depiction of the chair he was sitting in, spinning slowly around, periodically pausing. And as it spun, the stars in the center of the screen moved with it. He watched the stars intently as the animated chair underwent two full rotations. They didn't seem to match what he'd seen. He rounded the room once more. They definitely don't match.

The image continued its circuit while Marek sat and stared, drumming his fingers on the arms of the chair. This was not the test he had been expecting. He reached forward and pressed the screen. A cluster of thousands of stars materialized, shown in a 3-dimensional perspective. Ten horizontal planes sliced through the cluster, of which one was much brighter than the others. As Marek touched it, a 2-dimensional star map appeared to the right of the cluster, divided into a 10 by 10 matrix of sectors. As was the case for the plane he'd chosen, the upper left region was highlighted. He pressed it. This time, however, nothing happened. Marek lifted his eyes to examine the room, but nothing appeared to have changed there either. However, when he returned his gaze to the screen, the eye symbol had returned.

It blinked. Marek shuddered. It was a stupid reaction. It was only a simple cartoon of an eye. But the blinking was... unnerving. He rubbed his eyes. At least it hadn't blinded him this time. Focus, Marek. You can get through this. Marek pressed his finger to an adjacent sector and his universe was doused in night. The console and the stars in the room winked out, only to be reborn a moment later. But reborn in a different form. Marek pivoted the chair around the room. The stars appeared similar, but were placed differently.

As he examined the room, he noted that most star arrangements were familiar. Some stars were brighter, others were more dim, and some seemed entirely unchanged. Only a small fraction was completely out of place. Nonetheless, very little of the starscape resembled the image the console had shown him. Marek groaned. Am I supposed to check each sector one by one? There were a thousand of them! What does this have to do with flying a starship, anyway? He sighed. Focus.

Marek selected a sector on the opposite side of the grid. Again, the universe blinked in and out of existence. He examined the stars. This was not the right sector either. But he noticed a pattern. Stars that were bright in the previous sector, were all dim or out of place. Thus, bright stars were within the same plane he was examining. This probably should have been obvious, he thought. Where is Linden when I need him? He also noted that certain arrangements of the dimmest stars were the same in all of the sectors he had seen so far. These were clearly in different planes.

Marek closed his eyes and reviewed the images he'd seen on the console. He had always had a good memory for pictures. It certainly hadn't helped him outside ARC, but it was essential now. He noted a number of the dimmest star clusters and proceeded to search the existing sector for them. They were either much brighter or even absent, both in this sector and the adjacent sectors. It was the wrong plane.

He touched his finger to different planes in series, repeating the process of examining star brightness, ultimately deciding on one that fit his memory. From there it was easy. Marek flitted between the various sectors, relying on his memory to identify the correct one. After a cycle round the room, he was convinced. Finally. He tapped his finger on the correct sector once more. There was no place to submit an answer. But nothing happened. He rubbed his forehead. He was exhausted. He tapped the symbol of the eye, causing it to blink. It was disturbing, but otherwise ineffective. "It's this one," he muttered. Marek raised his voice, "Can anyone hear me? It's this one!" His words were met with silence. He closed his eyes, and laid his head back, causing the chair to turn him away from the console and towards the ceiling. This is right. What is the problem with this pl-

His thoughts were interrupted by a booming voice, which rumbled through the room like thunder. "HELLO MAREK!"

Marek jumped in place, his head coming forward and jerking the chair back into the upright position. His breath caught in his throat. Marek spun the chair around, expecting to find the source of the voice. But there was no one. "Hello", he whispered.

There was a quiet whirring noise. But it wasn't just a noise, was it? Marek strained forward, struggling to resolve what he was hearing.

"...visual memory is exceptional. The best I have watched in cycles." the disembodied voice buzzed. And the voice changed again, becoming louder, but gentle and feminine, "Tell me Marek, who were your instructors at ARC?"

He turned in his seat, spying a gap in the wall, a strange absence of stars. Was there someone there? He squinted at the space. Was it moving? As he looked, he recited names. "Janelle Frelen, Weapon systems. Delan Vertel, Mechanics. Gareth Boyle, Aeronaut-"

The voice leaped at him from his right, "Yes. Very good memory." But it was no longer one voice, instead similar to three voices combined, sharp and disharmonious. He twisted his seat around, but found no one. "This one is much clearer." The voice was coming from directly in front of him, and yet he saw no one. As he listened, it jumped again, speaking in a familiar raspy voice from behind him. "Much better than the others". Marek spun his chair around, expecting to see shadows, but was confronted with a man in League uniform. His deeply lined face was dominated by sharp and beady eyes peering out from behind a prominent brow, a short upturned nose, and a mouth that appeared far too large for his body. He recognized him immediately. It was Gareth Boyle: Gargoyle.

Chapter 4

Marek stared blankly at the back of the Luner directly in front of him. The rain had picked up, and thin rivulets of water were running down the stranger's neck, converging at the hem of his jacket, and flooding over the leading edge of the cheap synthetic polymer that made up the clothing of Prime. The water slowly puddled outward from the neck, lending a darker hue to the fabric. Crimson red. Red hands. Marek gave his head a quick shake and brought his fingers up to his face, rubbing his eyes. He needed to keep it together. Now was not the time for this.

His eyes drifted to the ARC security forces at the front of the lines. They seemed to have forgotten Marek and the others, at least as long as they were quiet. They had no interest in administering justice or delivering punishments. Not when the test was the ultimate judge, jury, and executioner. Why had they gotten involved at all? ARC probably just didn't want to scare away potential new recruits. Not that that made sense either. No one really chose to be here.

He brought his left hand up to his cheek and tested it, probing it tentatively. It was swollen and tender, as were the knuckles on his other hand, but there was no real damage. He was nonetheless grateful for the cool feeling of the rain. It had been useful in other ways as well... He examined his hands. Almost all gone. He scratched at a small streak of blood.

Marek glanced back towards the others in line behind him. They were both lost in their own thoughts. Linden stood leaning slightly, favoring his right leg, a forlorn look on his face; he had taken a kick to his knee after he'd tackled Scars, and suffered some scratches on his arms from his dive, but was largely unharmed. At least physically. And Lewis... was Lewis. Other than almost imperceptibly swollen knuckles, he was untouched. They had done well. Much better than the Sudders. Scars and Streak had left the area before security had released him, but Marek had seen the damage done to Deefas first hand.

His eyes drifted to his hands. It had been weeks since the last time. Was it the punch that set it off? No, Marek, let's be honest. You are always on the edge of... this. But just one more day. One more day and I'll have time to figure it out.

The line was moving quickly. They would be inside ARC soon. Marek glanced back at Lewis and Linden. Linden was staring at the ground, muttering something to himself. Probably thinking through equations. He caught Lewis' eye. Lewis gave him a slight nod. Marek turned back to his own thoughts.

They would get back to normal soon. Once the test was over. They had been strangely silent while in line. Not so strange though, is it? Someone insulted you and you tried to murder him. No, it's a perfectly normal day. Marek sighed. I should tell them. But after the test. We have enough to worry about today. He'd been telling himself that for months though. There was never a good time. I can handle it. It's okay. Marek closed his eyes. Just like you 'handled' it today, right? An image of Deefas flashed in his mind. Jusd mead. He rubbed his eyes. Selawa.

...

Marek looked up. He was nearly at the entrance. Only the Luner with the red jacket was ahead of him. It was almost time. He took a deep breath. The doors to ARC opened. And a Primer woman in a grey suit stepped out. A single blue line ran down her sleeves and pant legs.

She held out her arm and pointed. "You five. You're next."

Marek exhaled and stepped forward. The time had finally arrived.

Chapter 3.3

"Done with the others yet?" The voice came from in front of him. The speaker's black shoes were highly polished, made of hard synthetic leather. His pants were grey, with a single violet line down the side. He was a private. No wonder he sounds so young, Marek thought. The silver barrel of his rifle wavered at the edge of his vision.

"Almost." The second voice, filtered through gravel, came from a distance behind him. "Just the one left. What a mess. It looks like he put his face in a turbine. And the Captain wants him cleaned up." With his ear forcibly pressed to the pavement, Marek could hear the sound of footfalls approaching. "Did you hear that?" The gruff voice was closer. Pain burst across his lower back. "You made a bloody mess, you animal."

"Wha -" Marek started, and pain pressed through his neck. He was strangely surprised. The pressure had been so constant, he'd almost forgotten about the one holding him down. As he quieted, the pressure relaxed and the one holding him down retreated back to anonymity.

"Why?" The black shoes shifted with the private's question.

"Why what?" The gruff voice must have retreated once more. I guess I was too distracted to notice, he mused, as waves pulsed through his back.

"Why does Lukin want them cleaned up?"

"Irkalla only knows. Appearances?" The voice seemed eager to leave. "Why'd we break it up in the first place?" Marek could feel vibrations as he walked away.

"Good point," the private muttered to himself a time later.

...

I wonder how Linden and Lewis are. One of those Sudders was huge. Lewis was good in a fight, but Linden... The private was shifting his weight from foot to foot in front of him. And you think that YOU want to get out of here? Marek closed his eyes. He'd seen Deefas. That was probably who they meant. What happened, anyway? Marek closed his eyes. Of all days for this to happen... Do they know?

"...him up?" Linden's shrill voice cut through his thoughts. It came from the direction of his feet. So he was okay. Marek opened his eyes. The private's feet had shifted towards Linden's direction.

"When we feel like it." The private's voice and shoes returned to face Marek. "He's a looner all right. He took a punch from that monster and the lunatic still chased the other one down and tried to kill him. Would have, if not for us. You see his eyes?" The pressure on Marek's neck shifted. The private's voice trailed off. "Crazy, this one..."

"Dad Sudder shudda ran fasder. Dondjoo thingk?" Marek started. A low grunt followed from directly above him, the pressure on his neck pulsing with the sound.

The private chuckled. "Nice impression, Sorkin. I was starting to wonder if you were even awake over there."

"Shud'idjoo, yer magin' me bludge."

...

He was probably safe. They just thought he was crazy. They didn't know that he blacked out. If they did... If they told... What would happen? You know what would happen. Meat. Marek exhaled deeply. The shoes in front of him had droplets on them. Great. Rain. This is just getting better.

"What about the kid?" Lewis' voice cut through the silence. He was behind him somewhere. I'm not surprised. Lewis is always fine.

"What about him?" It was the gruff voice. He must be the ranking officer.

"Why didn't you help him?"

"Not our job." Marek could almost hear the dismissive gesture with the rifle in the officer's tone.

"But this was?" Lewis was calm but insistent. Why DID they interfere? Marek was puzzled. ARC didn't usually get involved.

"Mind your business. Or maybe we'll take you in to see the League." The edge in his voice and his words silenced Lewis. He was tough, but he wasn't stupid. No one went to see the League and came back.

...

It was quiet. He couldn't hear Lewis and Linden anymore. Small puddles of water had formed on the shoes in front of him. Marek's hands were damp. The water seemed to darken the blood on his hands. What are they going to do with me? The sound of footfalls approached him from behind, as if in answer to his thoughts.

"We're going to let you up." The gruff officer was back. "If you make any trouble, you'll be back down again. And you just might not get back up." The officer paused, his words hanging ominously in the air. "Do you know what I'm saying?"

"Yes, I und-" His words were cut off by intense pressure on his neck. Sharp pain erupted in the back of his knee. Kigal! Another kick. The footfalls retreated alongside the pressure holding him down.

Marek tested his neck. It was free. He rolled onto his back, bringing one hand up behind his head. He could see the private now. He was a few paces back. Young. A Primer. And more importantly, he could see his laser rifle. The muzzle was pointed at his chest. The other one, the Primer who had held him down was a private as well. Sorkin. I'll remember that name. He was much bigger. His rifle was at rest, slung over his shoulder. Marek tested his arms. They were stiff. He sat up, and rubbed his shoulders, leaving streaks of red behind.

He got to his feet. As he stood, he felt like his knee was going to give out. Selawa. What a day. He brought his eyes to examine the young private. As their gaze locked, the Primer's eyes hardened. He motioned Marek towards the line with a sharp nudge of his rifle. "Get moving."

Marek turned. Lewis and Linden were a distance off, standing near the end of the line. The kid was bent over opposite them. Marek hobbled towards the others. The pain in his knee was started to ebb. No lasting damage, at least.

As he approached the others, the kid looked up. He was still a dozen meters away, but he could see... something. There was something in his eyes. Shock? The kid smiled at him. But there was something forced about it. Is he nervous? Was I that frightening? The kid turned back towards Lewis and Linden. He ran up to Lewis, gave him a hug, and then scurried away, back towards the city.

Marek hobbled closer. Linden had turned towards Lewis and was mouthing something. He could just make out a whisper. "...happened to him?" Lewis just shook his head. He could feel the eyes of others in the line crawling over him.

"Are you okay?" Lewis voiced his concern once he'd drawn up to them. Linden just stared, shivering.

"Yeah. Don't worry." I'm worried enough for all of us, Marek thought.

Chapter 3.2

Linden drew up alongside them, breathing heavily. Even the air on Prime was too heavy for him. The Primers were slowly herding the tall youth towards the eastern most line, intended for new volunteers, as the League referred to them; though with so few other jobs, particularly for Luners, volunteering and starving were the only two options.

Lewis drew ahead of Linden and Marek, facing the disturbance. His voice carried over his shoulder. "Linden. On my left. Marek. My right. Follow my lead." Lewis had been the leader of the group ever since the events on E-day. He was calm and composed under pressure. You could hold a laser rifle up to his face and he'd finish his drink before he even acknowledged you.

As they approached the group, one of the Primers glanced up, a stout box-shaped ape of a man with a ruinous face covered in scars and dominated by a large hooked-nose. He furrowed his heavy brow, scrunched his nose, and bared his teeth. He inclined his head towards the slim Primer to his right, particularly well-kempt but for a thick and wild beard. "Deefas. Looners. Dree of'em."

The Luner youth, no more than 6 cycles in age, jerked up his head, panic in his swollen eyes as they darted across the other Luners, finally focusing on Marek. Blood from his nose mingled with that from his lip, recently split, as he silently mouthed one word: Help.

The bearded one, Deefas, nudged the third Primer, unremarkable but for a streak of white hair on the left side of the otherwise characteristic black mop of Prime, and nodded slightly towards the youth. Streak violently shoved the boy, knocking him to the ground.

Marek started, rearing to rush forward, but was quickly stopped by an arm from Lewis. "Wait", he breathed. Deefas smoothed the sleeves of his jacket, and adjusted his lapel, all the while examining the three Luners. The other two Primers, Streak and Scars, stepped up just ahead of Deefas, flanking him, and putting themselves between the others and the youth.

Deefas' gaze came to rest on Linden. He bared a vicious toothy grin and inclined his head towards Scars. "No, Cheefal. Dads wrong. Dere's only doo of'em. One, 'ees der ped. Dads nud a man. See, 'ees a moon dug." He winked at Linden. "Dads all. Lyg dis one, see." Deefas motioned to the youth, now on his hands and knees, droplets of blood slowly raining down from his face to pool on the hard pavement.

Linden looked away, lowering his eyes to the ground. Marek clenched his fists and ground his teeth. And Lewis remained calm.

They were Sudders. Primers from the Southern continent. The name was a play on their speech. The South was dominated by mines; metal refineries; untold factories; and low hanging clouds of particulate metals and silicates, among other industrial byproducts. The air could leave a bitter taste on the tongue and a deadly layer of dust on the lungs. Nasal air filters, or NAFs, kept people breathing, but Sudders quite literally learned to keep their mouths shut. And when they did speak, they spoke with their teeth pressed closely together, dropping their h's, blunting their t's and k's, and giving their speech a menacing quality.

Deefas continued, "Loog ad'im. Dis dug knows 'oosen jarge. 'Ee wund e'en loog ad me." Scars, the one Deefas called Cheefal, bared his teeth and laughed deep from his chest, producing sounds akin to grunting.

"Leave him alone you filthy apes!" Marek stared at Deefas, his fists clenched, his body leaning forward, and the veins in his neck straining.

Deefas laughed. "Loogs lyg 'ees nod jusd a ped. Lofers maybe? Does dis dug fedge 'is bone?" The three Primers burst into grunts of laughter. Marek hissed in Lewis' ear. "I'm gonna kill him. This primate piece of sh--".

"ENOUGH!" Lewis' voice boomed across the courtyard. The lines of predominantly Luners flanking them glanced nervously in their direction before returning to stare at their feet. It was best to mind your own business on Prime. The three Sudders stopped in mid-grunt,momentarily disconcerted. Lewis had that effect on others.

Lewis proceeded calmly. "Let the kid go. He's too young. The minimum age is 10 cycles. He's no more than 7. They won't take him. Least of all under force." They all knew better though. The fleet was always hungry for pilots. They would take the kid. He'd be no better than a fighter pilot though. Meat. A death sentence.

Deefas quickly recovered his swagger. He pointed towards a full bag of food rations, spilling out onto the courtyard a few feet away. "Noooo. If 'ees old enuf do ead lyg a man, 'ees old enuf do die lyg one." He drew his finger back around to point at the boy. "Loog 'ow big 'ees grown. Doo mudge mead for dis one. Andjoo know whad dey say. You are whadjoo ead. 'Ees jusd mead, lyg d'resd'of you."

Marek cursed. "Dirty primates! Filthy apes! This world is full of your crap. In the air. On the ground. All you are is waste. You weren't born. Your mother passed you right into the sewer!"

Rage contorted Deefas' face. "Shud haf lefdjoo dere do die. All you looners're good fer's dyin'."

Marek lunged forward towards Deefas. Almost simultaneously, Lewis launched into Streak, landing a right cross to his jaw. Deefas jumped back, while Scars stepped in, shouldering Marek off balance. As Scars drew back his fist, Linden's shrill cry rang out, "Marek!"; he dived at the legs of Scars, deflecting the apes' punch. Marek felt a burst of pressure on his cheek and saw a flash of white.

White. White armor. He was back on Ur. A shattered building in the background. The armor was streaked with red. Red gloves. It seemed... almost... human. There were long slender arms at the feet of the armor. Moving slowly. And suddenly he was behind the armor. With a slab of something in his hands. A wall? He brought it down swiftly on the head of the armor. It fell. He leaped on its back. And reached for a beam of wood. From something familiar. A crib? It was broken at its tip. Sharp. He drove it down into the neck of the armor. Of the Ghost. And the white armor became red. Red hands. His hands.

There was a strange pressure on his cheek. And his back. His eyes cleared. Marek was on the ground. Staring at pavement on the horizon and at feet, limping away. "Looner. Dad one. 'Ees grazy. Loog wad 'ee did do me!" The pressure on his cheek relaxed and Marek turned his face towards the voice. Deefas was pointing an arm at him, the sleeve torn off, his jacket ripped, his face a mess of blood, and his beard a dripping red rag. "Gedjoo bag, mead. Jusd you waid, mead." Deefas began limping away, escorted by ARC security, the same security still holding him down. Marek's eyes came back to rest on his hand. His red hand. Deefas called back to Marek. "Yer dead. Jusd da walging dead."

Chapter 3.1

Two blocks from the testing center they heard the shouting. “Mead...shirger!” Marek shared a glance with Lewis and Linden. “Looner!” Marek took off at a sprint in the direction of the commotion. Lewis took up a measured pace behind him. And Linden lurched his way forward, quickly falling behind the other two.

“Cun’d fighd fer yer colony! Cun’d e'en fighd fer yer food! Yer jusd mead, y'shirgin' looner!” Marek burst out from between the row of buildings and came to a stop in front of the dilapidated Solar System model that marked the entrance to grounds of the former spaceport and current Aerospace Recruitment Center, or ARC. Marek noted with disgust that the globe depicting the moon, Ur, was still streaked with brown. Up ahead, beyond the poorly manicured courtyard, two lines had formed at opposite ends of ARC, the large dome-like glass structure that fronted on an extended runway. The city had grown too large, and the runway could only accommodate interstellar ships and older model frigates, of the sort used in ARC training missions. “Gedden line, mead! All yer good fer's dyin'!”

Marek spun towards the shouting. At the far end of the courtyard, near the central ARC entrance, three Primers were shoving at a thin and hunched boy who nonetheless stood nearly a foot taller than his adversaries. There was no mistaking his origin, even from the distance. Marek’s face contorted into a snarl. He stepped in their direction, clenching and unclenching his fists. He took another step, building himself up for a charge when a hand clamped itself around his wrist. Marek quickly pivoted and drew back his free hand, curled into a fist, only to see Lewis looking back at him.

“Wait.” It was more a command than a request. When Lewis spoke, people listened. Marek lowered his fist. “We do this together.”

Chapter 2

“Riots in Pahalial Square again?”, Marek shouted over the tumult. Lewis shrugged. Riots had become commonplace on Prime ever since E-day, the day the attacks started and the day that they lost their home.

“Food shortage”, Linden mouthed. The three stood poised on the edge of a roiling mob, all armed with empty sacks and picket signs. Fuel people, not ships. Hunger is lune-acy. Feed the workers, starve the shirkers.

“More convoys attacked?” Marek yelled back.

Linden nodded sadly. Prime relied on regular food shipments from the outer colonies. And lately, these shipments had not been regular. The Ghosts had seen to that.

Lewis patted Marek and Linden on the shoulder, and motioned them onwards, inclining his head towards the nearly empty walkway skirting the Square. They continued on in a deafened silence alongside the protests, at last reaching Pahalial’s Last Stand, monument to the first leviathan to be produced and the Northern border of the Square. The immensity of the structure served not only to emphasize the dominance of the ruling League housed within, but buffered the Northern limits from the noise of the riot.

As the sounds from the Square lessened to a dull rumble, the turmoil within Marek boiled to the surface, “Why do they have to blame us? What did they lose? What do they know? The only reason they weren’t hit was because the allied fleet arrived in time for them. But not for us.” Marek ground to a halt and let his gaze drift skyward. A perpetual green haze from the planetary shields permeated the atmosphere of Prime and shadows of distant defensive rings strobed across the subdued blaze of the sun. “Do they really think any of this would have stopped the Ghosts? It barely slowed them on Ur…”

Marek was vaguely aware of Lewis speaking. “Who are they gonna blame? The Ghosts? None of them has ever seen one. Irkalla take them, only a handful of us have either.”

But Marek heard nothing of this. He was already far away, in a place with the sun calmly shining in a green sky. A different green sky. It was clearer. He was alone. On a hillside overlooking the city. And there were stars, gradually growing in the sky. In the middle of the day. Millions of stars. Except not stars, because they were everywhere and they were moving. There were so many of them moving and weaving that the sun seemed to disappear. But strangely, the sky remained bright, brighter in fact than ever before. And the green began to change. The top of the sky became imbued with orange and blue and red and yellow. An aurora. A sunset. A symphony of fire. It was beautiful. And then suddenly he had a feeling. Something had changed in the air. And as he felt this, the light passed through to the city. And burned up everything that it touched.

Blue eyes. Marek blinked. His own eyes felt wet. And Lewis was staring at him with intent blue eyes. His arms on his shoulders. “Sorry Lewis. I was just… remembering…”

Lewis gave his shoulders a squeeze. “Yeah. I know. It’s alright. You good to get going again?”

Marek glanced over at Linden, who was hunched over, chewing on his fingernails and looking at him. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Chapter 1

“Are you ready, Marek?”

“As ready as I was 5 minutes ago when you last asked me, Linden.”

Linden slowed to a halt, and twisted his gaunt frame to look intently at Marek. His slouched shoulders served to emphasize the pronounced hunch in his back. Linden’s slight physique had not adjusted well to the increased planetary gravity on Prime. In contrast, his companions, Marek and Lewis, suffered no such affliction. With the exception of their greater stature and the crescent shaped tattoo on their foreheads, they were virtually indistinguishable from the local ‘Primers’. Marek and Lewis slowed with Linden, and the three formed a small wedge of stability in the sea of surging people.

With a sincerity bordering on tears, Linden grabbed Marek’s shoulder, and stammered, “I’m s-sorry Marek. But this is important. This is-is our future. This is-is life. Or. Death. We need to be ready. You n-n-need to be ready.”

“Linden. I know that. Don’t you think that I know that? We all know. But there’s nothing to do now but take the test. There’s no time for anything else.”

“B-But what if – if –”, Linden stuttered.

Lewis stepped closer. “Guys. Relax. Everyone knows Linden is going to Sargon. And Marek, you’re an even better pilot than me. We’re no meat.” Lewis flashed a winning smile. He beckoned them even closer, and as they leaned in, looked each carefully in the eye, and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper, “You could both use a shower though. You smell like Gargoyle from aeronautics.” Lewis leaned back, and burst into a howl of laughter.

Linden gave a sniff and met Marek’s eye. “I don’t smell.” As Marek stared at Linden, a smile began to creep across his lips. Seconds later he was doubled over, laughing. “Gargoyle!?!”

Linden stood up straight, as straight as his weak muscles would allow under the increased gravity. With a deadpan expression he insisted, “Guys, I don’t smell!” Linden smirked. “But Marek does.” Linden’s high nasally laugh rose up and joined Lewis and Marek’s baritone.

The three, herded close together, continued to laugh as the crowds pressed past. Nearby, someone mutter in irritation, “Shirking luners”. As their laughing subsided, Lewis grabbed Linden and Marek by the shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “Come on boys. Let’s go. We have our futures to settle.” And with that, they made their way through the crowds, feeling at least for the time being that their hearts were light again, as light as back on the moon.