Peter’s breath came in steady, heavy bursts as he searched the line of travelers. His eyes scanned over the surrounding brush searching for his enemy. His muscles twitched as he jogged, ready to respond, to move, to evade.

  He crested the last rise and spotted the lead rider in the column. Nebetka. The emissary cocked an amused brow from the back of his mount; a ghoul like a winged lion but with a beard and disconcertingly human facial expressions followed Peter's every movement with its eyes.

  Sweat poured down Peter's bare chest, and he ignored the emissary, eyes passing the six sentinel ghouls flanking the line. Next in the column were Colonel Van Den Hoek and Doctor Aarts, who whispered to each other from the back of their horses. No threat there.

  This was Peter’s tenth lap, jogging ahead of the party before doubling back—Kulafu’s idea of staying sharp on the road. Speaking of Kulafu—Peter’s eyes found his enemy. Kulafu sat on the back of his horse, slouched, head bowed low, wide-brimmed hat covering most of his face.

  Peter relaxed only slightly. It was on the laps when that saddle was empty that he needed to be worried. Sometimes, the Dinnian would slip away from the group, only to ambush Peter from the brush.

  Peter’s eyes searched his trainer’s body, looking for the red-painted wooden training dagger. Their training druk, a stand-in for a living, court killing dagger. Out of Peter’s ten ladders, jogging ahead and running back, Kulafu had tagged him with it four times. He didn’t always attack; that wasn’t the point of the exercise. The objective was to train vigilance and attention to detail. Half the time, Kulafu let him complete his lap untouched, though twice he’d simply thrown the training druk from his horse, beaming Peter in the head.

  Peter’s task was clear: remain alert, even under exertion.

  Behind Kulafu was Julian, riding in his high steward uniform. The Athanium sword, a broad-bladed House artifact Oordeels, hung from his saddle.

  Bringing up the rear of the column was the wagon, containing the two team members Peter hadn’t expected: Fin the gunsmith, and Gertrude Bauer, who was both an Elder maid and master exprite healer.

  Peter’s blood went cold, and he slowed. Gertrude sat alone. Where was Fin? His gaze snapped to Kulafu—only, it wasn’t Kulafu. Tufts of dark green hair jutted from his hat. Fin had taken Kulafu’s place on his horse, wearing his uniform jacket.

  The woosh of something streaking through the air whistled behind him.

  He spun, cracking his knuckles on the spinning training druk and slamming it out of its path.

  The wood dagger clattered to the ground, and Kulafu rose from his hiding place behind a twisted tree.

  “Got you!” Peter barked, grinning victoriously. This was the first attempt he had successfully foiled.

  Kulafu cocked an eyebrow, raised a finger, then dropped it. Peter registered the signal too late.

  Thwack!

  Something hard cracked against his skull, fire flashing on the back of his head. Peter cursed, spinning and rubbing his dome.

  A second red wooden dagger dropped at his feet. Fin grinned, flexing his hand.

  “Two?” Peter demanded, whirling on his trainer. “I didn’t know you had another one!”

  “Be sure to go over the rules with the enemy before they try to kill you,” Kulafu said dryly as he jogged back to the line. He scooped the first red dagger, and he wordlessly motioned for the other one.

  Peter scooped it and tossed it underhand, panting as he moved.

  Kulafu snatched it from the air and tucked both red sticks away. “Take a break. And eat. You’ve burned a lot of calories.”

  “You’re going to make him paranoid,” Julian called from the back of his horse.

  Fin reined the horse to a stop and slid off, returning Kulafu’s hat.

  “Vigilance is only the first lesson,” Kulafu said, accepting his blouse from the gunsmith. “The more important part is remaining calm under pressure.”

  “Now you’ve got me flinching at sneezes,” Peter grumbled, eyes drawn to the red trainers on Kulafu’s belt. He couldn’t complain; he had asked for this, but even the sound of Kulafu’s voice set his nerves on edge. His trainer’s idea of preparation wasn’t structured lessons, but mock assassinations in the middle of the night.

  Peter yawned. Good thing he didn’t care much for rest these days.

  He collected a meal of field biscuits, jam, and powdered milk. He ate as he walked, eyeing the Sus-stag ghoul that marched ahead and behind them. The mummified warriors scanned the area, ever watchful for enemies.

  What strange days these were. These undead infantrymen had been the face of the enemy; the shock troopers of the adversary. Now they were his bodyguards.

  “Hey, bunny,” Gertrude called from the wagon, her voice strangely forceful from her tiny body. “You can sit in the back. The bed should be long enough that you can catch a ride without murdering us.”

  Peter swallowed his biscuit, licking his fingers before cocking an eyebrow. “Bunny?”

  “Lil’ reap? Shadow pup?” she tried, pushing her glasses up her ancient nose. “I’m going for something that reminds me you’re just a kid, and not just a death god.”

  “I mean, you can just call me Peter,” he said.

  “Not a chance, bunny,” she said, resting her arms on her knees, an oddly youthful gesture from such an old woman. Peter checked her hand. Had she been leeched? One couldn’t trust appearances these days. She had all of her fingers.

  “You should rest. Maybe even get some sleep.” She glanced ahead at Doctor Aarts. “I’m one of the team's leading medical personnel. That means you have to do what I say.”

  “I might take a rest,” Peter said, speed-walking to keep up with the wagon. But his legs were warm. How stiff would he get if he took a break? Nothing a quick reset couldn’t fix. He shook his head, banishing the intrusive solution.

  While Peter was glad to have a healer on the team, it was more for the other members. “I don’t know if I need medical personnel. I’m something of an anomaly.”

  Gertrude laughed at that. “Bunny, you’re the reason I’m here.”

  Peter cocked his head. “But—I can’t die. I can’t even stay hurt.”

  “Healing is an elementary boon,” she said, cracking knuckles so old that the practice had to be doing some severe damage. “Flush a person with Waarheid, and their body pretty much always knows how to fix itself. I’m not here as a healer. Julian asked me to come as one of Boslic’s leading authorities on gene resequencing.”

  Peter furrowed his brow. “I thought we couldn’t reprogram our anima sequences. That’s an Ataggonite practice. Something about our weaknesses being an important part of who we are, isn’t it Erasing imperfections was what led to Ataggon’s fall, right?”

  She pulled her glasses back to the brim of her nose and glanced at him over the rims. “I don’t rewrite people, or change what they are. That’s strictly forbidden. However, just as physical ailments might exist, so do spiritual ones. In carefully documented cases and with approval, I can operate on a patient. See me as a soul surgeon.”

  Peter’s brow shot up. “You read Alko?”

  She laughed. “Bunny, Aklo isn’t just a thing you read. It’s a sophisticated code that needs to be deciphered.”

  Peter tipped back a canteen and drank, wiping his mouth with his wrist.“I don’t understand how removing a spiritual sickness is any different from erasing weaknesses.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Sometimes the line can be blurred. But in other cases, there are dramatic differences between fundamentally rewriting your personality or re-coding a perfect body, and repairing a damaged sequence. Some disorders and traumas are thrust upon unfortunates and victims without choice. I’m here to help those innocents.”

  She produced a glass pen and rolled it between her fingers. Glinting at its core was a hair of athanium.

  “That being said, resequencing ought not replace the consequences of actions. I can erase addiction, and most disorders, but if they came about as a result of your poor choices, you’re going to have to address them the old-fashioned way.”

  Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “I’ve been apprised of some of your self-destructive tendencies.”

  Peter fidgeted, shivering now that his body had started to cool down. “Self-destructive?” he instantly banished the memory of his impulse only minutes earlier for a reset. “No, I’m Bedorven hacking—leveraging the rules of a court for the greatest gain. My court abilities don’t work properly, so I need every edge.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “Definitely not a cope, with the disgusting amount of trauma you’ve been subjected to over the last year. I’ve already recommended you rest, but here you are trying to consume every morsel of information that will help you in the war. You think this self-neglect is natural. You believe it’s healthy.”

  Peter inhaled sharply, hugging himself. He’d need to wipe the sweat away and put on his shirt. “Listen, I have a responsibility to prepare to face our enemies, our adversaries, who have no problems accessing the power of their Bedorvens. Excuse me if I don’t care to take a nap.”

  “Go ahead, Bunny. Ignore my warning. No way this old crone knows a damaged soul when she sees one. It’s not like she understands the defective syntax of impaired metagenes.”

  “Wow, you are—” Peter grasped for words. “Far too sarcastic for a woman your age.”

  Gertrude laughed hard at that. Her voice rang over the entire caravan. She dabbed at her eyes, snickering to herself, then finally regained composure. “Of course, I’m happy to help with any healing during our mission, but the real reason I’m here is to find out why your court powers don’t work. That’ll be spall difficult, because I know nothing about how the anima sequence interacts with Voor. Additionally, I can’t get close enough to you to examine your sequence.”

  Peter’s gaze snapped open expectantly. “You can fix me?”

  She slipped her glass pen back into her pocket. “We’ll see. Once we overcome these hurdles, we’ll determine if these defects are natural, or your fault.”

  Peter swallowed.

  “I don’t know enough to diagnose, but if I had to guess, the trauma you subject your body to affects your soul and sequence. I’d start by taking care of yourself. Who knows, your obsession with growing in power could be the very thing blocking you.”

  Peter scoffed, but the theory stung like the ice from a defective premernox shell. Was he being too obsessive? Self-sabotaging in the effort to prepare to fight the courts? Until they had better data indicating that to be the case, he couldn’t stop. Not yet.

  “What about you, Fin? Why are you with us?”

  Fin had retaken his place at the wagon, reins tight in his hands. He shrugged. “Wanted to.”

  They waited for more. Nothing came.

  Gertrude snorted, rolling her eyes. “Don’t you ever shut up?”

  He cracked a smile.

  “Why did you want to?” Peter tried again. If it had been Cas, he would have spilled everything.

  Fin thought for a long moment, Peter almost thought the gunsmith had ignored him and was about to turn away when he answered.

  “You soldiers might pull the trigger, but we weaponsmiths, we’re the ones who kill the enemy.” He glanced sidelong at Peter, who shuffled parallel to them. “Aliens bring so many new possibilities. Once I incorporate Court magic or tech into my weapons, it’ll make me the greatest death dealer on Boslic.”

  Peter blinked at the unexpected macabre overtones in the quiet man’s voice.

  “Ataggin’s ash!” Gertrude swore. “Aint you just a bucket of sunshine?”

  Fin shrugged. “Ever wonder why there are so many people named Smith? Because when a land is conquered, the weapons makers are kept alive. They’re too useful to put down. They’re also too valuable to put on the front lines. I’m a smith in this new age of courts.” He shrugged again. “Hopefully, it’ll improve my odds of survivability.”

  “Cas didn’t want to come?” Peter asked. “I sort of figured you were in this together. You always seemed to be inseparable.”

  Fin shrugged. A gesture he was apparently very comfortable with. “He was enthralled by the shotgun you gave us. He’s trying to reverse-engineer the propellant. It seems to be some nitrated cellulose analog, but with stabilizers and binders, we haven’t been able to find out. He thinks it’ll revolutionize gas-arms. Actually make them obsolete.”

  “And what do you think?”

  Fin chewed his tongue for a long moment. “Tijd. Weaponised time is the answer. I guess we’ll see who was right.”

  With that, he was done talking. Peter prompted for more answers, but got only one-word replies.

  He sighed before marching ahead of the wagon. A nap really wasn’t a bad idea. Overtraining only paid off when he died frequently enough not to worry about overtraining. Still, he was a scholar pretending to be a warrior, and his mind craved sustenance—knowledge, from any source that he could use in this war.

  He passed two ghoul sentinels as he trudged ahead, passing just close enough to nick them with his leech field. It was petty, but he smirked as they let him syphon off a sliver of time.

  Where was all of that Tijd stored? Usually, when one was leached, that Tijd went somewhere. Into tiles, or directly into the leacher, making them younger as their victim aged. Did the Bedorvan hold it? Was Peter slowly building a massive battery in the band? And if so, how did he use it?

  He finally caught up with Nebetka, the emissary glancing down from his mount.

  “Good afternoon, Van Seur,” he said, flawless profile smiling down. “I observed your game. It looked fun, though Chief Warrant Officer Mendoza was quite cunning.”

  Peter hesitated, not sure how he felt about the enemy watching his training. It was probably better that he thought it was a game. “Chief Warrant Officer Mendoza prefers to go by Kulafu,” Peter said. “And yes,” he glared down the line at his trainer. “He is.”

  “I would prefer it if you stayed with the caravan. Running ahead is a dangerous risk. That Leng bountyhunter is still out there, not to mention the blood wraith.”

  Peter nodded, not in agreement but acknowledgment. “With Julian and Kulafu, they’d be foolish to try.” He cocked his eye at Nebetka’s arm, rejoined with a dark purple scar marking the former amputation. “You put your arm back on?”

  Nebetka started, then glanced at the scar. “Yes; took a little work, but my regenerative protocols aren’t half bad.”

  Peter swore, watching the micro twitches in the man’s face. “You’re really a ghoul? Not a person? Not a Voor modified weight?”

  “I’m not a person,” Nebetka assured him, amusement so authentic twinkling in his eye.

  “It’s uncanny,” Peter said. “You look like you’re alive.”

  “Yes, for the sake of diplomacy, I have been created to put you at ease. I have sophisticated social systems and programs.”

  Peter nodded, swinging his arms to force blood to his fingertips. There was a subtle tell to the ghouls' verbal cadence. Ever so slightly too clipped, too stilted. “I think you’d be a Sus-cog ghoul,” Peter said. “Sustained because you’re not rotting, and cognitive because you can think.”

  “I’ve heard about your classification system,” Nebetka said. “According to it, I think I’d be closer to En-cog. Enforced cognitive. I have a few modifications and enhancements that would make me stronger than expected. For example, my defensive hexes and ability to repair myself. That being said, I might only be Sus-cog as I’m not geared for combat.”

  “You did fine when the bounty hunters attacked,” Peter said.

  “With a warrior like Rahashel at the helm, even an inferior tool can become deadly.”

  Peter studied the ghoul from the side, his mind struggling to grasp what he was. The corpse the voor code puppeted had an anima sequence; everything did, but that one was closer to a rock than something animate, like an animal would have. Nebetka wasn’t a person; it was closer to a machine, milled of post-mortem biological parts.

  “So, you run on Tijd,” Peter said, trying to reinforce what he already knew. “Every second you breathe was a moment stolen from someone living?”

  “That’s correct, Van Suer,” Nebetka said brightly, lean bronze face smiling sweetly. “Though it’s not a one-to-one ratio. I have complex, expensive code and physiology. One second of my existence costs approximately five mortal seconds. When my defense initiatives went active, that tripled. Between the attack on the camp and repairing my arm, I burned about three years.”

  Peter swallowed. Three years was a lot to be stolen from someone's life, and this—thing spoke of it as casually as kindling for the night fire.

  “And the Sus-stags?” Peter jerked his thumb over to the mummified spearmen. “What’s their fuel ratio?”

  Nebetka looked back, glancing at one. Such a human tick, the undead machine had no reason to do that. Pure mimicry of mortal expression. “The sentinels, while in observation mode, burn efficiently and one eighth the mortal Tijd cost. Once activated, that jumps a lot closer to twice the mortal burn rate.”

  Peter’s skin crawled as he studied the emissary. Uncanny. Was this synthetic intelligence the future of a world ruled by courts?

  “What about fear?” Peter asked. “Can you be frightened?”

  “I’m designed to mimic fear,” Nebetka said, “But given a directive, I’d self-terminate without hesitation.” He shot Peter a sidelong glance from his saddle. “I think I understand what you’re attempting to do, Van Suer. You want to see how similar we are, but I assure you it’s all a veneer to put you at ease.”

  “I’m not sure it’s working,” Peter said, shying away from the ambassador. It came so close to human, with only a hair's breadth of difference in its posture and rhythm. Some primal part of Peter’s mind flagged it as manufactured, and Nebetka’s sculpted beauty triggered a panic response in his mind.

  “I apologize, I’ll seek a behavioural tune-up when we return. Which—” Nebetka stood in his stirrups peering over the back of the sphinx, “—is just about now.”

  Peter saw it moments later, cresting a ridge to see the metropolis of Stalpia built into a tiered ridge for sprawling miles.

  His breath caught at the sight of his home. This was it, he was back; only this time, under diplomatic protection.

  Something was different. Stretching across the bottom of the ridge, construction scaffolding spanned the miles in front of the city. Figures swarmed, in synch like ants. Towers stretched up from the wall that was being built—fortifications to resist the impending invasion.

  Peter swallowed. Looked like he wouldn’t get that nap after all.