"Pilot of a space ship that got me here. The Scorpion. Bunch of soldiers-of-fortune, flying a heavily modified Morning Star–class ship. Berthed yesterday, early evening local time. At least, I assume it was yesterday."
The Sec officer nodded to one of the soldiers. "Verify that." Then looked back at him. "So you claim to actually be Kyle Juenger."
"Yes. I was hunting a Glyrinny double-agent called Kshar. You said it—I'm an ex-Hunter, sir. The Sector Commander put an overlay on my ID for the mission. If you check back with Central, you'll get confirmation. At least if you have the right level of clearance."
The man's eyes flashed with annoyance. "Have you ever collected the bounty on a Glyrinny?"
"No, I specialized in deserters in my time. Then I became a fighter pilot. The Sector Commissar recruited me because Kshar had compromised her network of security forces. I'm not the obvious choice, but the best she had on short notice, I assume, with all due respect, sir." That had to match up with his file in the man's mind. A Glyrinny might not know the whole story, might not have had the chance for a complete impersonation. Surely it took more time to perfect an identity; surely they didn't catch every nuance of a victim's history. He hoped.
"You are positive for Glyrinny DNA."
"I told you, I had sex with a guy called Grimm. I guess that, uh, did it."
"That wouldn't rewrite your own DNA."
"I'm human, sir. Tamenean. Do you think I'd have been fitted with a bridge module if my spine would regenerate? I was hit with some Glyrinny weapon in the back. Ever since then, I've been a cripple. I have many reasons to hate the fucking morphs."
"Then why did you sleep with one?"
"I was planning to capture him. Had to lure him away from the others. But he was faster and stronger. Knocked me out. There's probably somebody else running around with my face right now." Kyle blew out a frustrated breath. "Which, frankly, sir, freaks me out."
"Since you still have your brain, he can't have done a good job of it," the man said, probably not to calm him. "He'll be lacking your personality traits or memories."
"Well, that's a relief," Kyle muttered, glad his theory worked.
The Sec officer reached out and took a few of his hairs between his fingers, gripped them hard and yanked them out. Kyle hissed but kept his mouth shut. He was playing cooperative, pliant prisoner. "We'll use several more samples. I assume hair and tissue will ascertain your genetic profile. If these are not enough, we will need to take semen."
Yeah, and with him impotent, that would either mean puncturing his testes with needles or sticking a shock-prod up his ass and triggering it to get him to discharge. Nice prospects. Asshole. "I hope that won't be necessary."
A bloodless smile. The officer stepped behind him and came back with a needle, or maybe it was a tissue sampler. At least he put it somewhere Kyle could see it—he slid it into his left pectoral muscle and pressed a small trigger. Yep, blood and tissue. Kyle exhaled when the needle withdrew.
The Sec officer looked him up and down. "This may take a few hours."
"Be my guest," Kyle said so softly that the man couldn't have heard him; being a smartass never went down well with that type. The soldiers stayed, though, regarding him without noticeable emotion. At least they weren't the type to have some fun with a prisoner to break the monotony. Probably an elite unit.
Well, thanks for the contamination, Kshar. That was what you'd been planning all along, right? Take my face and walk out, unmolested, handing the authorities "one of their own" to keep busy with while you get light years away. Nice trick.
Trust me. I'll make it right.
And why did he want to believe Kshar? The man—creature—had gotten out scot-free, was close enough to his home planet to make a run for it, had a new identity and face (which he'd probably already changed). He'd succeeded. And was likely gone forever.
Kyle waited, fighting against the lingering sting from the chemical shower and his pounding headache, though when his eyelids got heavy, he didn't fight it. Thank gods for the soldier's skill of falling asleep in any position.
A leg cramp woke him, and his calf muscle twitched. He leaned forward to try to straighten his foot, and maybe he managed, because the tearing sensation of the cramp eventually faded. He was just a lucky bastard that the phantom pain was back.
Wait.
He blinked and stared at his leg. Nothing. Dead meat. That cramp and the sensation had come from the murky realm of half-sleep, half-dream. Nothing to it.
Glyrinny weapons are meant to punish—not permanently damage. If somebody hit me with it, my body would regenerate, but in the meantime, I'd get ample opportunity to think about how the violence could have been avoided.
The door opened again and the Sec officer came in. Something was very wrong, and Kyle jerked in his restraints. Very, badly, wrong.
"That was a nice story, whoever you are. I almost believed it."
Extremely, badly, wrong.
"And whatever you are, you aren't human."
Kyle shook his head. "Listen—"
"And you're not Glyrinny, either."
"Listen, I—" The man glared at him, and Kyle's voice faltered. Hatred, fear, loathing. The disgust was so strong he could taste it like brass on his tongue, and it shocked him silent.
"Sergeant, transfer the prisoner to Central. Take the first flight out. Eliminate with extreme prejudice if it gives you any kind of trouble or if you spot any attempt to influence or manipulate you or any of your men. Expect Glyrinny tricks, but more than that. We are unsure of its capabilities."
Wow. One fuck with an alien, and they treated him like the scum of the planet.
Back to Central. It was a small hope, but it was hope. The Commissar could clear him.
The soldier gave a curt nod, stepped closer and fastened something high on Kyle's arm, some kind of bracelet or restraint. It vibrated, an unpleasant, insistent buzz that Kyle hated the moment it touched his skin. Then the soldier pulled out a hood made of heavy black cloth and yanked it down over his face.
End of the interrogation. He'd moved from suspect to convict without so much as his own input. It had to be a mistake, but the Sector Commander could still unravel the tangle that his life had become.
They unchained him from the chair, put him in handcuffs, and dragged him away—again, legs like dead meat sliding behind him. He began to hate it all from the bottom of his heart, the arrogance, the Sector Commissar's demands, the whole idea that the end justified the means. What exactly was that noble end, anyway? All-out war with the morphs before the Doctrine overran them in a few years? They might be the good guys, but he still loathed them for the casual brutality. Was it a wonder that Kshar wanted to go if this was how he'd been treated?
The Sector Commander. She knew about him; she knew everything. Quite possibly the Sec officer hadn't had the clearance to remove all of the overlay, and resented him because of that. That guy might just be the type who'd smash the riddle if it couldn't be solved.
They tossed him into a cell and let him wait there. No food, and worse, no water. By now, his kidneys hurt and his lips were so dry they would split if he smiled.
The door opened again, and he distinguished two pairs of heavy boots. Was somebody kicking his legs? "Funny how the fucking morphs always turn out to be guys when you catch them. A pretty girl would be a nice change." Leering. Great. This was getting worse. Last thing he needed was more genetic contamination.
"Heard that story of a guy trying to rape a morph. Seems they can grow teeth everywhere when they want," a second voice said, and the first soldier sounded like he was choking. "Get him dressed."
Rough hands slid him into a coverall and closed it. Immediately, he felt too hot, sweat now trapped in cheap, rough cloth. "Water. Please."
"You can't drink anyway, freak," the second soldier said gruffly. "We're not allowed to take your restraints or hood off."
"I can't flee. I'm paralyzed. I can hardly escape by crawling out."
A hand pat
ted his shoulder. "You heard him. No tricks, morph."
Or: extreme prejudice.
They grabbed him by the shoulders, and Kyle was surprised when his legs didn't just dangle. He managed to stand, his knees and joints and muscles holding him, if only for a heartbeat, because they pushed him and he lost his balance again. But he was sure—for one sweet, impossible, hot-cold split-second, that he'd stood on his own two feet with no help at all.
Maybe Kshar hadn't lied, after all. Maybe something was happening here.
And if that was the case, the last person in the universe he wanted to see was the Sector Commander.
Same bitch who wanted to splice my DNA to create human-hybrid super-soldiers.
They marched him upstairs into an elevator. One of the soldiers complained about how heavy and unwieldy he was, and the other one told him to shut up. Kyle leaned against a wall, his knees buckling, but he managed to stand upright. He could taste their nervousness.
What do you expect I'll do? Grow a few dozen tentacles and rip you all apart? I wish.
The elevator stopped. The mood changed. The soldiers were alert, worried. Boot soles banged against concrete in a disciplined march. Kyle recognized the pattern and stride length of Double-Sec soldiers—only the two holding him were out of rhythm.
Sorry, guys, for you having to drag me by my shoulders. I do mess up your nice formation, don't I?
The buzz of a crowd. Spices, burnt air, the acrid smell of fuel.
The spaceport? They were taking the earliest ship out, just as ordered.
The little unit stopped, and Kyle felt the soldiers who were half-dragging, half-carrying him breathe a sigh of relief. At least they didn't drop him on the ground, but the guy to his left was constantly changing grips.
Because his hand is cramping up.
Really? Was it?
Kyle shook his head. The vibration was still on his arm, and he could feel it down into his guts. To his balls. To his teeth. He grimaced and tried to stand again, and just about managed.
"We're taking the prisoner from here, sergeant," said a female voice.
"I wasn't told about the liaison . . ." the sergeant protested. "Err, major."
"Damn right," she said. She was cold inside, not one troubled thought, calm and vast as Tamene's southern ocean. Kyle knew she was pulling a weapon. She lifted it and shot the sergeant between the eyes.
The soldiers carrying him dropped him to the ground. Ouch.
"Anybody else willing to die for a fucking morph?" she snarled. "Down. Hands against your necks. I'll grab him."
And she did. A powerful hand gathered him up by the scruff of his neck, then ripped the hood off. They were in a quiet part of the spaceport. He managed to stand, and a redheaded woman was slinging his arm across her shoulders. "Come with us or end up in a specimen jar."
"No . . . competition," he groaned and staggered alongside her.
"You gotta run, Kyle. It's not far."
"Could be up to fucking Tamene with these damned legs."
She huffed laughter, while the others—soldiers all—closed formation, weapons drawn. She frowned and briefly touched his armband while half-dragging him along toward the landing berths. "What's that for?"
"It gives me a headache."
"No wonder."
"Who are you?"
They turned the corner, and there was the Scorpion. He'd always recognize that perversely powerful set of thrusters. "Something tells me that this launch will be worse than the last."
"You can take poison on that."
"What?"
"Just a local saying." She pushed him onto the landing platform, everybody took positions, and the platform lifted them into the ship. The thrusters were already firing.
"Okay, who the fuck are you?" he asked, but did hurry up toward the cabin.
"No time," she said, pushed him onto the bed and strapped him in. The other soldiers were hastily getting ready, too. "It's going to be a running start."
"Figured."
She settled on her bed, closed the main straps and tapped her comm. "Ready for take-off."
Never ready for this kind of take-off, though. The thrusters sprang alive, fired a burst, then the ship swerved wildly, like on an obstacle course. That could only mean they had no clearance. Only the suicidal would attempt a wild launch on a densely populated world like Ganesh, with its very busy spaceport. Kyle did nothing but attempt to stay conscious as the acceleration tried to grind him into a pulp. Breathing against that pressure hurt, and giving up would have been so easy. No. He expected the blood to burst from his veins, but miraculously, he was surviving, one second at a time. A minute passed, or maybe two, but definitely agony.
Then the acceleration leveled off and he could breathe. He immediately reached over and tore at the bracelet, then managed to fiddle it open. He found a switch on it and tossed the inert thing into the far corner.
The others were beginning to stir, too. They felt familiar. He knew these people.
The woman stood, and then her hair vanished in front of his eyes, as quickly as if eaten by an invisible flame. Her skin turned dark green. Winter. Er, Spring. Shit. Kyle blinked, panic racing up and down his spine. Two other soldiers took Petros's and Jay's forms.
"Mother of Light."
Winter considered him. "Sorry about that."
"It's . . . all right. Holy—"
"Sometimes, no wall is safe," Winter said to him and winked. "Follow me."
Kyle followed her to the bridge, where another Kyle was just sitting back from the consoles. He turned and looked at him, then smiled and stood. "Kyle."
Kyle pointed at him.
"What? Oh. How rude of me." Kshar returned to Grimm's shape. "Is this better?"
"Much. I'm just overwhelmed."
"No wonder." Kshar quickly glanced at the controls and pressed two buttons. "You're surrounded by Glyrinny."
"It's clever. I didn't expect this. Any of it."
"That's one reason we're doing it." Kshar smiled fondly. "Winter and the others were my extraction team to get me home. We could tell pretty quickly why you were on board, but we figured if we didn't take you, we might run into other troubles. And the codes did help us speed up the journey."
"Yeah." Kyle reached over to one of the seats and sat down heavily. "And I can almost walk."
"Soon you will."
"Why's that? What have you done?"
"You're a hybrid now, Kyle. Your fever attacks? The heat? Was my immune system wrestling yours into submission. My DNA is already re-engineering yours. In a few days, maybe weeks, your neurological damage will be fixed. And you can walk, run, fight again."
"Why? Why are you doing this?"
"I wanted to help you." Kshar glanced at Winter. She nodded, squeezed Kyle's shoulder and left them alone.
"I'm sorry I had to leave you behind. I had to get the others, find out where we could free you. It took planning and some impersonating."
"They know I'm a hybrid. They were about to ship me back to the Sector Commissar."
"Yeah. Imagine soldiers that can regenerate any kind of damage. It would put the cybernetics companies out of business. Or, at the very least, cycle soldiers back to the front faster. With the Doctrine making noises like it has, having our technology and abilities might mean the difference for the Commonwealth between freedom for a little longer and a quick, full death-embrace by the Doctrine. I understand your Sector Commissar. I dare say I'd act the same way if my people were under threat. But I might ask for help rather than trying to seize it by force. You humans with all your talk of gratitude and gifts and mutual obligation sure don't trust altruism and kindness."
Maybe normal people, but not politicians. But maybe that wasn't a concept Kshar liked or accepted. Still, there were many pieces of the puzzle missing. Such as what had triggered the change. "Was it the sex?"
"Hmm? No. I injected my own stem cells into your spinal fluid. They're reversing your cells' programming. You'll heal completely."
/> "And what am I then? A morph? A human? Your reverse-engineered clone? What am I?"
Kshar shrugged, then grimaced. He was sorry; Kyle could taste it. "I believe that you will turn into a Glyrinny."
Shapechanger. Mother of Light. Father of Darkness. Whatever the Sec guys had said, he wasn't Glyrinny; he didn't actually know what that meant. How was it, being a Glyrinny? Changing shape, seeing people as colors and patterns and vibrations, being aware of them as taste? It freaked him out, made his heart race as if it could get away from the change on the molecular level, of tissues already transforming around it.
The change would fix him, but it would also destroy him. He was dying. The old Kyle was dying from this, the Glyrinny DNA like a tumor gripping his body and turning it into something he didn't control. Didn't recognize, despite the so-far-familiar shape. He was not a morph, gods damn it all.
He breathed, tried to keep himself from panicking. He wanted his brain to get it, he really did, but the panic nearly drowned out Kshar's presence, his calm conviction. "I . . . I can't. I'm—"
"You are yourself. But who you will be is a wide-open field. You can be whoever you want to be. You can even stay yourself, but in that case, I'd strongly suggest going far away from the central worlds. They don't like our kind there very much, and I assume your identity is now truly that of a criminal."
Fucking smartass. Kyle ran his fingers along the rim of the pilot seat. Our kind. He wasn't. He had no idea how to be a Glyrinny. "I'm losing everything."
"I wouldn't have done it if you had been a fully integrated part of your species with a place in society."
My tribe would have taken me back, after some serious censure for leaving in the first place. It's my tribe or the stars, and I don't think I chose wrong last time. Gods only knew how they would respond to his new self, though. But Kshar was right. No family, no job, no role or duty. No real home, four walls, a patch of land on a colony planet. He'd been human flotsam, barely kept afloat by social security. And even fixed, he wouldn't dream of re-joining the Space Navy. "So, you're picking up stray humans to do what?"
"Not just any stray human." Kshar smiled again at him. "You're more to me than that."