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“We will see.”

The Howlers scoot closer to the cube. I tell Holiday to prepare to depart. “Theodora, your new recruit is ready. I advise a restart with the spike before uninstallation. No one should have to look at Sevro the moment they’re born.”

“I think the Duke of Hands will make a fine Splinter,” she says with a smile. “With some tender love and care, he might even become as patriotic as you, my Sovereign.”

“I am counting on it.”

Inside the cube, the man who was the Duke is shaking like a leaf. Sevro has his helmet up now to terrify him. Sevro circles and sees the small metal spike embedded at the base of the man’s skull. He comes back around and crouches in front of the overwhelmed Pink, cackling with laughter.

“Boyo, sorry to be the one to tell you this. But I think you just got skullfucked.”

He leaves the Duke there and stomps out of the interrogation tube. “How long have you known about Dancer?” he asks me.

“Less than an hour.”

“And what does my Sovereign propose to do with the traitor?” he asks.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I reply. “Communicate.”

THE SKUGGI AND I SQUANDER our first days together on basic language skills, which I off-load to Yellow linguists and datadrops. I rely on a translation insert for my ear so I can understand the coldbloods. They’re not babies. Most, like Freihild, served a tour or two in the Free Legions. They know more than they let on. But hundreds of years of Golds culling the clever ones has taught them to hoard information behind masks of stupidity.

They play dumb or angry when they don’t trust you.

And they don’t trust me a lick.

Thought my deeds would get me some street cred. False hope. As Freihild is only too keen to impart: I violated the sanctity of one of their sacred heroes by filching the Reaper’s brood. Pax is literally a godchild to them, Electra not far behind. No amount of Ozgard’s support will gain their respect.

While the social element of my improvised training regimen flounders, the Obsidians are natural physical learners. Like Volga, they learn the tricks of my trade as fast as children picking up a new sport. By week’s end, they’re destabilizing laser grids, dissecting thermal sensors, and picking locks. Some already knew laser grids from the legions, but their methods are outdated and grunt-slop. Still, you only have to show them something once. Telling them something, on the other hand, is like trying to push a whole handful of sand through an ear canal. You lose right about ninety percent of it.

Over the next weeks, my primal terror of being crushed underfoot diminishes and I settle into a comfortable routine. On occasion, Pax stops in from his own lessons to watch. He shakes his head one day when the thirtieth Obsidian in a row is unable to tell a lie to one of Sun Industries’ first-generation lie detectors.

“Compared with modern Bloodhounds, this thing’s as gullible as a nineteen-year-old farm boy with a concussion,” I shout. “Most operatives rely on being inconspicuous. You will never be inconspicuous. You are very conspicuous. So you must be good liars. Next!”

As the next skuggi ambles up to try their hand, I slump over to Pax.

“Go on, I know you want to correct me, halfbreed,” I say, plopping down beside him on a low wall. His chin sports a fresh bruise from Valdir’s martial lessons. No wonder he’s not warming to them.

“Actually I was coming to say thank you,” he says.

“For what?”

“Sefi’s started letting me use the garage at night. There’s an old two-seater gravBike they found in one of the old depots. Looters didn’t think it worth stealing. Used to belong to Karnus au Bellona. She’s letting me take a crack at fixing it up. Spent all last night taking off the kill-spikes. Thought I had you to thank for it.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I certainly do. After his brutal protest against Sefi’s attempts at instruction and her command that I bring him close, I thought it best to do a little recon to see what thorn was under the little lord’s saddle. Seems Sefi’s personal Oranges have noted spanners and hyper-crooks missing from their stores. Considering the security in the household complex, there were few possible culprits.

A single night’s stakeout provided the answer I suspected. Who was it skulking in the garage in the dead of night? Why, the Reaper’s own—he’d slipped away from meditating in the tranquility gardens with Ozgard. When I visited the garden, Ozgard was deep in a trance trying to decipher the message in the veins of a leaf, and Pax was there beside him, a small bulge under his armpit, pretending to decipher the falling snow. I sneezed “bullshit” and went on my merry way. I think I saw him crack a smile. He likes me. Guess I’m a nice and cozy reminder of Hyperion amongst all the deranged giants.

“Sefi says you told her I needed a workplace.”

“Can’t you see I’m working?”

“Are you?”

“Shut up. Not my fault they’re stubborn.” I gesture to his chin. “Drop your guard?”

“Valdir might be a great warrior, but he is a bad teacher,” he says. “He thinks that being louder makes him clearer. Ozgard, on the other hand, makes his lessons into games.”