Don Wikna walks in front of Bruen, head turned to look over her shoulder. Bruen momentarily feels jealous of her mobility but decides that the ability to turn one's head is ultimately useless, considering he can see in nearly every direction, excepting below himself.

  "Shouldn't you be happy?"

  Bruen's tentacles come to a halt. "Why?" After a moment of contemplation he adds, "Would you be?"

  Feathers fluff in mostly mock outrage. She then laughs, irritating the general. "It's fun, isn't it?"

  His tendrils droop. But he remembers his upbringing and goes on the offensive. "And who raises the offspring if you were to have a tryst?"

  Wikna plucks at her feathers with one prong of her forked tongue, picking at dust or spilled food. "I'd be pampered till I laid the eggs, then I'd go back to working. The father would raise the chicks, naturally. Who raised you?"

  Wikna resumes walking but Bruen motions her to halt. She stops to listen.

  "We aren't raised so much as trained. The juvenile phase of our life ends when we crawl free from the breeding pools and molt for the first time. Until then we lack reason, existing instinctually. Instinct continues to guide us after. Is it the same for your," he pauses, almost stumbling over the word, "chicks?"

  He waves at one of the colonist families. They're moving their furniture into their homes. The rocks reflect ruddy light that makes the aviaformes' feathers blaze.

  She makes a wobbling motion with the two side branches of her tongue. "To a certain point. Usually before their feathers grow in, they hop around saying silly things. It's a gradual process, growing up. Lots of little steps, you know?"

  "Is that your experience?"

  The Don laughs before speaking, amusement coloring her voice. "That's what I've been told," she answers turning to watch the family move in. She nods in their direction before continuing down the false ravine.

  The father attempts valiantly to contain five little puffballs while getting the furniture inside. While they might gain his lustrous ruby plumage upon further growth, for now soft brown down covers the tiny bodies. Casteless workers carry the actual furniture under the aviaforme's direction. His voice rings mellowly, deep for their kind. The young, hopping about, chirp out short phrases in high pitches.

  "They don't even wonder why they're here, do they?"

  Wikna stops and blinks rapidly several times. "Should they? Our people have been stuck in the same walled settlements for generations. They're just happy to be given room to raise those chicks the way they want to. The danger seems like a fair trade, for room to grow."

  "And you?" Bruen leans closer to her, speaking quietly. "You know more than the rest, I think. You talked to a Duv. What did they tell you?"

  She trills out her species' musical laughter. It doesn't hide the shiver that shakes her body at the mention of the ruling caste. She looks around to make sure none are close enough to overhear. "The biggies? This colony is an experiment. Let's go somewhere quiet if you want to talk about this."

  "Lead the way."

  With a restrained manic energy, she hurries off. Bruen follows, tentacles rasping against the stone. They return to the main passage. Built along a long arc, the huge tunnel connects to the massive airlock on one end and the portal to Homeworld on the other.

  She opens a door and goes into a side tunnel. Inside Bruen finds an empty shop. It contains shelves and counters to display merchandise, but no products can be seen.

  "This storefront will be mine," Wikna says with some pride as she turns on the lights. Panels set into the walls let off a warm yellow glow. "Still deciding what to sell. Maybe I'll sell the shop." She laughs nervously.

  Bruen fixes his primary eyes upon her fidgeting form. She wilts under his gaze. Ignoring the way she seems to glow to his prosthetic, he stares at her silently.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "You want to know about the colony? I thought that you would know more than me, you know? No?" She laughs again. "Thirsty?"

  "Yes." The dry atmosphere the aviaformes favor tends to dry his skin horribly. "Do you have sea water?"

  "Sorry, only fresh. I've got plenty, if you want."

  "Yes, please."

  "Right." She goes into a side room and calls out, "In here."

  Bruen crosses the empty shop and enters the little room. A table in the center with shallow pits with removable tall chairs set around it takes up the center. Counters along two walls contain a water basin with spout. She opens a cabinet set into the wall to get two cups.

  While she fills the cups, Bruen sinks into one of the empty pits to relax. Wikna carries the clay cups over and sets one in front of the general.

  "Thanks."

  When he drains it in a single long gulp she offers him the second clay container.

  "Thanks again," answers the grateful Bruen. He drinks the second only a little slower.

  After refilling the empty cups, Wikna sits down upon one of the chairs. She sips her water slowly, only risking the occasional four eyed glance at Bruen.

  Bruen breaks the uncomfortable silence first. "What I know is that this is some kind of test. They want to know how I'll react to being left to manage our side of this settlement. I intend, by the way, to let you decide your own affairs."

  She looks over at him, thoughts swirling through her head. Bruen waits quietly, knowing that she'll speak in her own time.

  Regaining some measure of her usual bravado, she finally says, "Well. That's a relief, I guess. You've been asking a lot of questions about children, today. Does that mean you know what I'm supposed to tell you, after yours crawl out of the pool?"

  Remaining silent is very hard. Bruen wishes to speak, to ask for more information, but knows that showing too much interest would give her leverage over him. He knows that the Empire needs officers, and his duty is to provide them. He assumes that he'll have minimal contact with them, besides being allowed to witness their emergence or being called to provide lectures at the academy.

  "Of course you know. That's why you want advice for raising young. Are you going to pick a male like yourself to raise?"

  "I have no preference at this time," hedges Bruen, trying to hide his shock.

  "Yeah, I guess you want to wait until then to pick. What if there isn't a male, right?"

  "It would be bad to get attached to a favorite, only for it to be eaten before emerging," concedes Bruen, only just now contemplating the possibility. Is it because he turned out so well? Do the Duv wish to try replicating Mos Denn's feat?

  Wikna shudders, feathers scattering the light in all directions. "Do you think the big dart tongues are going to be good allies?"

  "I do. Gelly and Yosip both are fine warriors. Their ships and long-range weaponry complement our own portals and direct melee approach excellently. Though, it is yet unknown if their civilization will last any great length of time."

  Wikna nods her understanding.

  "Thank you again for the water. It was refreshing. Forgive me, but I must go."

  "You're welcome," Wikna answers, standing in a hurry. "Did I offend you somehow? I don't know what I said."

  Bruen raises all his tendrils in her direction, stopping her rushed apology. "Not at all. I merely have much to think about. We can speak again tomorrow, if you aren't busy."

  "Good. Sounds good," she gushes, whistling her words hastily. "I can come find you after lunch. I would enjoy another chat."

  "And I as well," returns Bruen before sliding through the shop and back out into the main tunnel.

  He wishes to rush back to his own quarters, where he can think in solitude, but he restrains himself. Moving that fast would cause panic among the easily startled colonists. Even entering the Imperial district allows him no additional speed. Duty requires him to maintain proper composure around his soldiers.

  Almost at his quarters, a large Tserri stops him. This individual is heavily modified. His left eye is missing. In its place is a glass lens similar to Yosip's. His lower claws are both mechanical, with the right arm completely metallic. The left stops at the elbow where a heavy cutting torch now resides. Wires and tubes crawl across the arm and burrow into his torso, underneath his armor somewhere.

  The Tserri's remaining fur is light orange except for the broad white stripe across his eyes and nose and where it grows back silver from scars. Leather armor with bolted on composite alloy plates covers his torso and legs. A sheath hangs at his hip holding a monstrous knife almost long enough to call a sword. Pressure pads on the hilt indicate enhanced functions. His entire outfit is painted in mismatched patches of different greens, though many gouges in the armor show the bare metal or leather beneath.

  "The Squiver runnin' this place, you?"

  "I am. To which great warrior do I speak?"

  The Tserri smiles. "Noftun the Wild, in his bones, me. You're Most Broon, you?" One of the warrior's upper claws settles upon the hilt of the massive knife.

  Bruen tries not to take offense, keeping his lower tendrils still and holding them low, striving not to project the menace that he senses from the other. He misses the comforting weight of a spear in his tendrils, but it rests inside his room. Patrolling unarmed is supposed to be a reassuring gesture to the aviaformes. It inconveniences Bruen, but he believes he would still win against this miner.

  "Mos Bruen," corrects the general. He relaxes his posture in preparation, ready to move as needed. "Is there a problem?"

  The warrior Noftun hisses his reply. "Yes! I came here to try my skills only to find the Supply-Master's off on some visit to Kalibern. Not leavin' unsatisfied, me."

  Noftun draws his blade and squeezes his claw hard around the hilt. With a loud electronic chuff followed by a whir the edge of the blade comes to life. Tiny thorns sprout and move across the cutting edge in an endless flow. Noftun waves it through the air, grinning madly.

  "Fight me, you."