Gretchen hastily covered the exposed fangs with raised fingers, glaring at the Hesht. Maggie's eyes narrowed and then she closed her mouth with a petulant flick of her ears. The Hesht were still not common in human society, though their interstellar migration had been creeping across the Empire for nearly twenty years. Magdalena was very well acculturated, as least in comparison to other knockabout youngsters exiled from the enormous sub-light Arks carrying the bulk of her people on their endless voyage. But most citizens quailed at the sight of so many needlelike teeth exposed at once.

"Next, please." The ticket agent waved them away, beckoning for the line to advance.

"Do we get duress pay at least?" Parker relit his tabac as they moved aside. "A bonus? Working-on-vacation time?"

Magdalena's long ears pricked up. "Fresh-killed meat, still hot, dripping with juice?"

Anderssen studied the fine print on the work authorization. "Yes…works out to triple-time, plus the usual bonuses if there's really something to find." She bit her lip, thinking. "A fair bit of change." New clothing for all the kids, new turbine core for mom's lifter, maybe even a new field comp for me… "Paying by the day, too, not the usual flat rate."

"Really?" Parker brightened. "Including transit time? Can I see that?"

Gretchen handed over the chit, feeling disoriented, and raised her head to search the massive v-pane filling one entire wall of the cavernous hall. Thousands of ships passed through Tadmor every week. One of them would carry her team to Bharat. Hope it's a real liner, she grumbled to herself, not a tramp with berths over the reactor.

Then she thought about how long it would be until she saw her children and her mother, walked in the realspruce forest behind the steading breathing cool, fresh air, and had to fight down tears. Fucking Company. I am so tired of this. She rubbed her eyes.

"Hey," Parker said, watching her face with alarm. "Hey now boss, it's just a couple weeks. Look – they're estimating a week to Bharat, two weeks there and then another week back to New Aberdeen. You can route through Toroson instead of Coromandel Station and it'll be faster. With triple-time, it's like working three months in one! You could spend nine weeks on vacation instead of three and still be ahead, quill for quill."

"Rrrr…" Magdalena's ears flicked back, showing what she thought of that. The Hesht never mentioned her own pack, or expressed the slightest interest in returning to the Ark of her birth, but she considered Anderssen her 'hunt-sister,' and Gretchen's cubs, therefore, were her cubs as well. Her opinion of Parker varied, but most of the time she treated him like a younger brother, which meant cuffing him, claws retracted, at least once a day. "Another month until she sees her cubs? How many feathers is that worth?"

"They're called quills," Parker replied, handing the Hesht the chit. "Not feathers, fur-brain."

Magdalena bared her incisors at the human male. "You need feathers to make a quill, stinky."

"I have to go," Gretchen said, interrupting them before her two companions really started to bicker. "But you don't. I could log a call saying you'd already boarded your own ships…"

Magdalena sniffed, ears back, and held up the travel chit. "Where hunt-sister goes, I go. Not for feathers" – her plushy black nose wrinkled up – "but to make sure you see your cubs and den again." The Hesht caught sight of Parker's grimace. "No one knows this world – any untasted meat is dangerous!"

"But…but…" Parker glared at b oth of them. "My mum is expecting me for dinner in two weeks! What am I going to tell her?"

"Buy her some nice fresh meat," Magdalena sniffed, "with all those extra quills you'll earn."

Jagan

Fourth Planet of the Bharat System

A brisk chime disturbed the meditations of a tiny old woman sitting cross-legged on a rumpled, unmade bed. The room was dark, lit solely by the glow from dozens of v-pane screens. Bundles of cable snaked everywhere, disappearing through holes cut into the floorboards. She was breathing steadily, first through one nostril, then through the other.

The chiming became insistent – drowning out the muted sound of pedicab horns and passing trolleys – and beetle-black eyes flickered open.

The old woman turned her attention to the flashing glyph on the panel, a wizened thumb mashing the winking shape of a running man. A v-pane unfolded, revealing the shaved head of a Flower War Priest, forehead marked by broad stripes of soot and ash.

"My lady Itzpalicue." The man inclined his head nervously. In the near-perfect fidelity of the display, she could see sweat beading beneath the paint anointing his brow. "There is news of Battle group Eighty-Eight Tecaltan. They are inbound now from the forward Fleet base at Toroson."

"When will they arrive?" Her voice was creaky and dry, dead branches rubbing against stone, but the sharp expression on her face betrayed a keen intelligence. Her high, classically Mйxica cheekbones were marked with lines of red-stained pinprick scars. "Who commands the Flingers-of-Stone?"

"Villeneuve, my lady." The Flower Priest's expression changed subtly, shading from barely hidden fear to nearly-open delight. Itzpalicue suppressed a surge of irritation with the openness of the man's thought processes. An agent of the Empire, she thought, should show some self-control. "We have already forwarded the officer rosters and ship manifests to your network."

"So…Duke Alexis has his frontier command at last." The old woman's wrinkled lips twitched up slightly, black eyes glittering with delight. "I am pleased the Admiralty saw fit to grant your request. I am sure he is delighted as well."

"How could the Frenchman fail to be pleased?" The Flower Priest made an expansive gesture, mostly lost in the narrow focus of the v-pane pickup. "Four Mitla-class fast dreadnaughts, a dozen Kasei-class heavy cruisers and a veritable armada of smaller ships. Two Marine regiments, thousands of support personnel…everything an ambitious junior admiral could want."

"Everything he needs to fight a minor war on some forgotten planet on the edge of the Empire. A pity his reputation will be stained by the inevitable result…" Itzpalicue turned a portion of her attention to the officer rosters flipping past in her secondary data-feed. The documents opened, paged and closed with blurring speed. An unexpected sense of relief glowed for a moment as she digested the information. "Have your analysts examined the commanders' list for the battle group?"

"Yes, my lady. They are entirely acceptable for our purposes. Almost all are barbarians…or at least not citizens born of the Four Hundred Houses. No one important is liable to be killed or injured."

"Well, your enterprise should go well, then." Itzpalicue inclined her head. "Did you expect the presence of the prince Tezozуmoc?"

"Yes!" The priest's face swelled fat with self-congratulation. "A lucky stroke! The Light of Heaven recently spoke with our master about his youngest son's poor reputation. Of course we were happy to oblige his desires…as they run alongside our own. The boy will be thrust into the forge fire…"

Itzpalicue snorted delicately, a dry whispery sound. "Forge fire? In this flowery war you're arranging? More like the flame of a candle, I think."

"Not so!" The priest had forgotten his earlier trepidation and now soot-blackened eyebrows converged over a sharp nose. "The Xochiyaoyotl is not play-acting, my lady! The divine fluid will be spilled in full measure, pleasing both the Holy Mother and her Son. The boy may die gloriously, as befits a Mйxica prince on the field of battle, or he may triumph as Imperial arms will surely prove victorious over the barbarians. Either outcome will suit our purpose – and please the Light of Heaven! – well enough. Prince Tezozуmoc's reputation will be given new luster, whether he lives or dies, you may be assured of that."