Your offspring is the fuel that propels Solon forward.

  Make sure that resource never runs dry.

  Arbiter Titor Candas

  With more malice than should have been necessary, Duxon Ultim wrenched the thin covers from his muscular body and threw them with all his might against the wall at the opposite end of his sleeping quarters. “Damn contrivances!”

  Thoroughly exhausted from hours of playing aide de camp to the Head Arbiter, the Forge Commander had sought to retire to his room for the briefest of respites. However, for the past hour, he had found very little peace. Instead, his mind brimmed with restless thoughts of a monotonous and pointless excursion to the surface.

  One which would inevitably culminate in the execution of a young Sentee.

  “Wasteful to be sure,” Duxon lamented the exercise’s forgone conclusion as he pushed his body into a sitting position against the cubicle’s cold metal wall. “But there’s nothing to be done. No matter how much Liel wants to whine about it. The Arbiter’s laws hold sway above all else in the universe.”

  Not that a restful night of slumber was an expected or wanted outcome. After all, sleep was the unbeaten thief in his people’s short and tempered life. One which truly robbed them of living it. Why would that be? Well, sleep stole time away from work. Time away from procreation. Time away from any endeavor that might leave a lasting mark.

  However, rested or not, the alternative to living this harsh life was worse. Far worse. Yet, even knowing that, he couldn’t stop the previous cycle’s events from flittering around inside his skull like a pair of unburnable moths tempting their fate.

  “Time…?” He grumbled hoarsely into the darkened room. “There’s never enough.”

  Near his bed stood a small five-legged table made from an exotic mix of metal and burnished wood. Standing about two feet high, the oddly shaped piece of furniture responded to his question by making a series of clicking sounds before it began to vibrate softly like a worn-out alarm clock well past its prime.

  Slowly, the outside edges of the finely crafted bedside unit began to glow a soft shade of purple. This unnatural light illuminated the commander’s slight quarters in a haze of long, eerie shadows. The kind that unnerved as much as they comforted.

  “The time is a quarter past the mid cycle commander.” A tiny, well-hidden speaker crackled to life from inside the table and projected the disembodied voice of a hapless Fentee docker snapping to attention somewhere on the Forge’s command deck. “Do you require a report?”

  Duxon let the question hang in the air for what felt like an uncomfortable amount of time. Not for him, mind you. But for the poor soul who happened to be on night duty.

  “Is there anything wrong, sir?” The voice asked once again in a calm and well-trained manner. Commendable, Duxon thought, given the underlying nervousness that could be heard clearly in the young Solon’s voice. “Do you require assistance with anything?”

  He processed the attentive words and tried to give credence to the sentiments behind them. But as Forge Commander, he’d heard this same boot licking tone echo in his ears almost a hundred times a day. Satisfying words to be sure, but they rarely conveyed any kind of respect to him, only the title. And lately he’d found that wearisome. Sadly, the day was too far gone for him to even pretend to care right now.

  “No,” Duxon said coldly. “The time was all I required. Carry on.”

  With that, the connection to the Forge’s control room was disconnected. And once again, the commander was alone in his modest, transitory room. “Might as well get something done if I’m not going to sleep.”

  Mind made up, Duxon stood up and made his way across the cold floor to the room’s only closet. There, he found a selection of modest garments, pressed work uniforms and the dress tunic he would eventually have to don for the upcoming trial. The whole sight made his head hurt even more.

  “I don’t feel all that formal right now.” He said, running his taloned hands across the collection of perfunctory clothes. “I feel ordinary.”

  Instantly, his hand stopped and hovered over a grey set of heavy-duty farming robes. Made from the thickest hides Solon had to offer, these robes protected harvesters from accidental scythe mishaps and the occasional animal attack. Not that harvesting grain was inherently dangerous. In fact, Duxon thought the fabric to create them was a bit of an overkill.

  Or in the parlance of the Forge, over engineered.

  But if you line up thousands of farmers, side by side, for hours or even days on end, eventually someone is going to make a mistake. And a mistake with a reaping scythe would cost you more than a paper cut. It could cost you an arm or a leg. And as for animal attacks. Well, let’s just say that grain wasps were no joke.

  With stingers over 6 inches long, those menaces could end the life of an unprepared farmer without a second thought. And that’s not even considering the neurotoxin found within the stingers themselves. While not lethal, the poison they can inject into a victim caused a temporary paralysis that could last for over a day. And that’s a day longer than the many scavengers on the plains would need to pick a Solon’s bones.

  So, he reluctantly admitted to himself, maybe all the over-engineering wasn’t such a bad idea. He just wished they didn’t look so much like combat attire. Because there was no room for fighting on Solon, he bitterly thought.

  Because fighting brings the Arbiters. And the Arbiters bring nothing but trouble.

  “I bet that Tralon General would love to have a pair of these things.” He said to himself as he finished pulling the garment on. “Too bad he’s not a farmer.”

  Robes fitted and in place, the commander exited his modest accommodations and began the quick trip to his office. There he would spend more of his precious time reviewing the latest batch of ship requisition forms. Maybe even find time to decline one or two on the grounds of ugliness or just plain being boring.

  It was these thoughts that bolstered Duxon as he made his way toward the highest point on the Forge. Known as the Central Command Center, this amalgamation of hexagon buildings contained a collection of offices and design cubicles that served as the brain of the well-known construction complex.

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  From that lofty height, his orders were relayed to every construction node throughout the Forge within a matter of seconds. Duxon Ultim could also watch with his own eyes as those orders were carried out by those under his command without fail. That feeling of absolute power was overwhelming. And if he was being honest with himself, addictive.

  Five minutes later, Duxon stood at the base of the Central Command Center. Pausing next to a four-foot-high safety railing, the Forge Commander leaned over the side to get a good look at the ever beautiful, Remembrance Gardens. Placed there by the Forge’s original designers, the Remembrance Gardens were meant to symbolize the never-ending cycle of death and rebirth.

  Both in the people of Solon and the ships they built.

  Most Solons who visited the gardens found strength in the idea that death, even their own, could lead to something both beautiful and meaningful. On the other hand, Duxon found the whole place meaningless. After all, how can anyone measure the meaning of life in well maintained shrubbery. And by extension, a few pretty spaceships.

  Still, there was nothing he or anyone else could do about their lot in the universe. The best he could hope for was a productive life and a meaningful death.

  “It’s too late to be so sentimental, Duxon.” He admonished himself in the dark. “Better to leave those thoughts for a well-stocked tavern.”

  The forge commander was about to resume his trek to the upper levels of Central Command when a lone creature began waving at him from the Garden’s innermost courtyard. Intrigued, he focused on the out of place figure long enough to see exactly who was taking a midnight stroll along the raised terraces.

  “Fiore,” the words practically hissed out of his open maw. “Why are you waving at me in the middle of the night?”

  For a moment, Duxon thought about simply ignoring the Sentee and continuing to his intended destination. He imagined reaching his office, making a quick call to the night shift security forces and having the troublesome woman placed in a holding cell for the rest of the night. Maybe that would quell her fanatical desire for revolution.

  But that plan seemed too civilized to the sleep deprived big cat. Not when a personal visit, one with a fair amount of threats and growling, would get the job done in a more satisfying manner.

  “Slight detour,” he said to himself with a smile as he practically bounded down the connecting staircase. Within a minute, he was on the lower terrace. Within two minutes, the Forge Commander stood over the diminutive Sentee like a predator ready to pounce on his willing prey.

  “Fiore,” Duxon asked in a relatively calm manner. “You do know there’s a lockdown right now? Don’t you?”

  “Commander,” Fiore bowed slightly in the old ways before continuing. “I am aware of the Arbiter’s visit. And I am aware of the lockdown you have imposed.”

  “Yet you skulk around these gardens like neither concern you.” His voice started to have a menace to it. “Should I take that as a sign of stupidity? Or a sign of challenge?”

  “Neither, Commander Ultim.” Fiore bowed even lower at the waist. After a full minute, she rose high enough to meet his watchful eyes. “I simply wanted to introduce you to someone. Someone who has a proposition for you.”

  “A proposition?” Duxon wasn’t quite sure what the troublesome Sentee meant or what this other someone wanted. Knowing Fiore, this proposition probably wouldn’t be something he would be interested in this late at night. But he could spare a few moments if the leader of the not-so secret Sentee revolution wanted to tip her hand. “What kind of proposition?”

  “The kind that might get all of us killed,” came a voice from out of nowhere.

  “What!” Duxon shouted as his instincts kicked in. Without a warning, he swiped down with an open paw at the still bowing Fiore. Not expecting such an aggressive move, the Sentee could not dodge quickly enough to escape his strike. Whimpering, she spun in midair for a moment before crashing into a low hedge row a few feet away.

  One target down, the commander spun around in the direction of the unknown voice. “Killing may be off the table as a rule, but that doesn’t mean I won’t cripple the both of you for the rest of your lives!”

  “Commander,” the voice spoke again. “Please stay your attack. We are not here to trap you or hurt you in any way. I just wish to talk.”

  Still on edge and itching for a fight, Duxon crouched lower with his arms extended to his sides. Flexing his ample muscles, he proclaimed, “I prefer to converse face to face with my enemies.”

  “We are not your enemies, Commander.” Sotera said as she emerged from her hiding place in the branches of a large pickle fruit tree. “But we are also not you allies.”

  “Honesty,” Duxon relaxed the smallest bit. “Unexpected from your kind. Are there any more of your sisterhood lying in wait.”

  “Not on the Forge, Commander.” Sotera eased over to a small bench meant for tired visitors and slowly sat down. “We find it best to compartmentalize our rebellion. At least for the time being.”

  “Humor, something else unexpected.” Duxon stood up and folded his massive arms across his chest. “Say what you were going to say, then retrieve your friend. I fear she might need a trip to the medical center.”

  “Fiore’s stronger than she looks.”

  Upon hearing that claim, Duxon looked over his shoulder to confirm her current state of unconsciousness. However, to his surprise, the young Sentee had crawled out of the hedges and found her footing on the soft grass. Miraculously, she was back in the partial bowing position like he had never struck her.

  “It would seem.” He returned his gaze to Sotera’s placidly smiling face. “But Fiore’s ability to take a hit sheds very little illumination on the reason why we’re standing here in the beauty of Phobos’ light.”

  “My apologies, Commander.” The Sentee mirrored her companion’s action and bowed. “As for the reason we have approached you in this matter, that is simple. We wish for you to not interfere with the upcoming trial.”

  “Pardon me.” Duxon was confused by the request because the Sisterhood of Choice was publicly backing the accused. Quite loudly in some sections of the planet. But to hear them suddenly suggest restraint now was perplexing. “I’m not sure I completely understand your request.”

  “Truly?” Sotera sincerely asked. “I would have thought such a meager request would be simple to understand. But, if you need further explanation, I will happily oblige.”

  “Fiore,” Duxon said flatly. “Is this Sentee close to you?”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “Do you care for her?”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  “Excellent,” Duxon uncrossed his arms. “Then please make her aware of my predilection for violence.”

  “Killing us would not ingratiate yourself with the head Arbiter.” Sotera responded before Fiore could follow Duxon’s orders. “Would it, Commander?”

  “First, nothing I could do would ingratiate myself with the Head Arbiter. Conversely, nothing I would hypothetically do to you would make him my enemy. For you see, the head Arbiter is here to put certain things back to their original place. And for those too simple to understand the threat, that means he’s here to eradicate your little rebellion.”

  “Eradicate?” For the first time since this encounter began, Fiore sounded worried. “What do you mean the Head Arbiter is here to eradicate our rebellion?”

  “It’s quite simple. The Head Arbiter is tired of making trips to Solon every two cycles to deal with your messes.” Duxon paused for effect. “It means that the Arbiters have grown tired of your kind going against the old ways.”

  “Sotera,” Fiore blurted out before she could stop herself.

  “Oh,” the commander said in a sarcastically satisfied voice. “Sotera’s your name. I’ll have to remember that.”

  Fiore began to say something to cover up the fact she just put a name to the head of the Sisterhood of Choice, but Sotera raised a hand to forestall her attempt. “Worry not, sister.” She said through gritted teeth. “The end is near anyway.”

  “On that we agree, Sotera. The end is near.” Duxon completely relaxed his posture. “So, knowing that, I’ll honor your request and do nothing to interfere with the trial. Not that I planned on doing anything of the kind in the first place. And I wouldn’t call it a trial.”

  “What would you call it then?

  “A forgone conclusion.”

  “Then, Commander Duxon, staying your hand should be a trivial matter.”

  “Cutting ties from one so vulnerable is not what I would have expected from the leader of the Sisterhood of Choice.” Duxon cocked his considerable head to the side. And for the first time tonight, the Forge Commander studied the unassuming Sentee. What was her game? “You sound almost heartless.”

  “Is that how I sound?” Sotera’s lips turned up into a resigned smile. One that belied a decision made long ago. “Truly?”

  “You do.” Duxon responded coldly.

  “Interesting.” Sotera stood up from her kneeling position and locked eyes with the Forge Commander. “On the other hand, I would describe my words as both measured and practical. However, if you are set on using the word ‘heartless’, I would not protest. After all, heartless decisions are usually the correct ones.”