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“Look at me,” I say. “No one betrayed you. This is simply what I do.”

The shame is apparent on his face, but he holds my gaze. “Sefi said she would kill Electra and Pax if we didn’t get her the ore ships.”

“You believe her?”

“Ragnar was my brother. But Sefi is…ice. If you interfere…”

“I don’t intend to.” He cocks his head. “Could we stop them getting the mines? Yes. But not without dire cost to the Ecliptic Guard and the Martian Legions. We will need all we have when Gold comes. Obsidian lost too many at Mercury—a planet they can’t even live on. They are done with the offensive war, but if they have a stake on Mars, if they have a homeland…they’ll defend it against the slavers.

“War has stretched us thin. We haven’t had the money to rebuild Cimmeria. They will, from the helium they sell us. Helium we already buy from Quicksilver. We haven’t the resources to divert to eliminating the Red Hand. Sefi will, with greater prejudice and focus than I could. Quicksilver has convinced the Zenith Ring they own the Republic. He’s in need of a valuable lesson. And what does it cost us? Land and pride. Two things we can spare.

“The public will cry foul, but it will happen after the vote. Soon Atalantia will come. The Silvers will fall in line. Sefi will understand I allowed it when I withdraw all Republic forces as soon as they begin their assault. The first ambassadors she receives will be Darrow’s brother, Kieran, and Kavax’s wife, Niobe. They will have weight with her. They will offer a defensive military alliance with the Republic and secure a helium contract. Then we turn our eyes on Atalantia.”

“Victra said…we thought you would never let it happen.”

“Victra can be an idiot, and so can you. When can you say the same for me?” I wait. “I am sick and tired of everyone swimming around like drunk piranha because they assume I am toothless. Whether or not we save Darrow, atomic war is coming to the Republic. The time for disunity is over.” Finally, I stand up and step toward him. “You are in a demokracy, Barca. The people chose me as Sovereign. They chose me to lead. Until my term or life comes to an end, I am in command. If you want to abandon the Republic we built to play with your kids, fine. Slag off and wait for mushroom clouds. But if you want to be a part of it, get your head out of your ass, stop making my life difficult, and report for duty.”

Clown falls from the ceiling to land beside his wife. Min-Min comes next. One by one, the Howlers separate from the shadows to join them on the floor until twenty-five of the hardest killers in a demokracy of eight billion stand looking at Sevro. Their demands are clear. Sevro picks his teeth with Tickler, tucks the blade away, and snaps to attention. The Howlers stomp their heels together.

“Imperator Barca and Howler First Cohort reporting for duty, ma’am.”

“Good to have you back, Imperator,” I say. “Your first order.” I motion him forward and wipe salt under his nose, then place my datapad controller to the Duke’s psychoSpike in his hands. “There is a terrorist in that interrogation cube. When I tell you, activate this program. Afterward, if he knows what color his eyes are without looking in a mirror, shoot him in the head. Can you perform this task, Imperator?”

Sevro raises an eyebrow at me. He knows I know he wants to torture the Duke for the Queen’s location. He wants to

express his doubts. But if I don’t have his trust after what just went down, I’ll never have it. I need to know now.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He walks into the cube. I watch with the Howlers from outside. Theodora turns on the sound. The Duke is snorting in thin derision at Sevro.

“—think I’m afraid of you, mongrel? I’ve seen my Queen make eunuchs with her kuon hounds. I’ve seen her kill a room full of Endymion heavies with nothing but a hatchet. I’ve seen her melt babies in acid. I’ll never tell you where she is.”

Sevro squints at the neurolink and activates the program.

The image of a masked woman in a crown fills the room. It ripples past, replaced by Gorgo, the Queen’s right hand. A derelict tank-manufacturing plant blooms. More images of Syndicate facilities whiz past. Sevro goes very still when the face of an old friend appears in the images. Dancer. At first he must think it some mistake. Then more holograms of the man appear in the Duke’s memory. Sevro looks at me through the glass with a dead look in his eyes.

“Boyo, I think you already did tell us,” Sevro whispers.

The Duke stares in horror at his memories given holographic form. He begins to scream at what he’s done, not understanding, not knowing how we have secrets he would have died to protect. Then the program moves to its second phase. The psychoSpike on the back of his skull glows. The Duke goes rigid. His eyes blank. The veins of his neck stand out. In five seconds it is all over. He slumps in the chair, breathing heavily. When he looks up, he is not the same man. Gone is the agony. Gone are the inflections of sexuality. He is purged of himself. Sevro is even taken aback. Theodora smiles over at me.

“What color are your eyes?” Sevro asks. The man who was the Duke of Hands stares at Sevro in confused terror. “What color are your eyes, asshole?” The Duke touches his eyes. For a moment, I think I miscalculated and I’ve wiped his verbal functions. Then he stammers an answer.

“I…I don’t know.” He looks at Sevro’s eyes and gives the logical answer. “Red?”

Sevro looks wide-eyed back at us through the cube. “Whoa.” He turns back to the man who was the Duke. “Do you know who I am? What’s my name?”

The man shakes his head, terrified of the armored beast in front of him. Who wouldn’t be?

“What did you do?” Pebble asks me.

“Octavia was a paranoid autarch. Fearing deception, she employed teams of Violet Carvers and Orange Master Makers to create biological esoterica and machines to divine truth.

“There is one that piqued my interest upon accessing her vault. It was the apogee of her devices, one called the Pandemonium Chair. A battering ram into the mind, so to speak. A crude one which I’ve been refining as a way of decompressing before bed.” I gesture to my white box to show her the three thin spikes no longer than a Red’s pinky. “I call them psychoSpikes. Far more elegant than the chair. Far more useful. Whatever was the Duke of Hands—memories, predilections, personality—is now erased. He is tabula rasa.”

I hold up a small datachip. “That which was flesh is now silicon.”

“By Jove…” Pebble whispers. “Is it permanent?”