“Father, can you hear me?” The General sighed. “Is this what you wanted from me?” He’d been cut free of his shirt and pants, and a lay with only a small cloth to keep his dignity. In the privacy of his bedroom, no one could see how weak the pain made him, despite the drugs that had inspired the delirium that had hold of him now.

His clothes and gun-belt were cut free during the surgery and discarded in one corner of his modest bedroom. The Singer shuffled nervously near the pile of shredded garments, unable to leave as Sheh’teh loomed in the doorway. When the doctor – a hunched over creature with dexterous hands called a Shett – had left, he had delivered the General’s request for the Singer’s presence.

“What is he saying?” Sheh’teh asked.

“I think he’s praying,” the Singer said absentmindedly. She couldn’t draw her attention away from the fact that he was speaking English.

When she’d first met him, she’d accused him of many things. He’d never denied those things, but he had responded in Latin and let her believe that he didn’t speak English. He’d also alluded that his attitude towards God was that of atheist, and yet here he prayed. She felt the realization of the lies crush the trust she’d had in the man, as little as there had been. And yet, staring at him now – If he were the man she initially thought he was, he would not have stepped into the line of fire for her.

It wasn’t enough to shake her from the path she’d chosen, but it threw into question what she’d begun to hope for: that he was a good man, forced to do bad things. But perhaps it was that he wasn’t a good man, as he had admitted to before, and it was only his practical nature that made him seem right.

Sheh’teh responded to Singer’s claim with a muttered prayer of her own in a musical, whimpering language. The sound of her voice somehow stirred a moment of clarity in the General, and he turned unfocused eyes toward the doorway.

“Sheh’teh, bring me Singer,” he said weakly, his hand outstretched.

The Singer stepped forward and took his hand in hers – his skin was clammy, and a cold sweat covered him. “I’m here,” she told him.

His deeply veined hand closed around hers, it shook as he tried to squeeze. “I need you to interrogate Charlele and her lizard friends,” he spat. His eyes struggled to focus on her, but the wrinkle of his brow showed the effort it took for him to concentrate.

The Singer blinked and might have pulled away if not for the General’s grip. “Me?” she finally stuttered. “Why not Sheh’teh?” She realized why he couldn’t go. But Sheh’teh was, if nothing else, the more trusted between them.

He shook his head and winced at the motion. “Needs a Human intuition,” he hissed. “We must find the trapper.” The words brought back an echo of that addictive presence that had captured so many in his wake, and it inspired in her what he had already realized:

Charlele’s actions spoke of desperation. The Singer knew of their relationship, and how the General had thoroughly established his dominance over the Vyrăis woman. She wouldn’t have risked crossing him again without great reason, and it was very likely that someone had spurred Charlele into action. Whoever had advised her to leave could also have information that would be valuable to the war.

“I understand,” she told him, her hesitation evaporated. “Tell me where to go.”

“Turin’eh will have left them underneath a Hydroponics Farm nearby. We bribe the caretakers to ensure our privacy,” Sheh’teh explained as the General lost his grip and relaxed into his cot.

“Take me there,” the Singer commanded.

~,~’~{~{@ ((●(●_(●_●(#_#)●_●)_●)●)) @}~}~’~,~

The Hydroponics Farms were very different from the rest of the station. Walking space was somehow even rarer than on the city level and for a good reason. Most of the greenhouses in Hydroponics Farms are Carbon Dioxide rich environments to promote growth, not that anyone would want to walk inside as most of the station’s sewage was also processed through them.

Instead, robotic arms traveled along tracks above the crops where they could prune, harvest, and plant freely. Below, a nutrient solution flowed through a substrate of rock wool – easily collected from slag byproducts in nearby refineries. Large rotating fans circulated the air inside and turned the low buzz of the overhead lights into a hypnotizing strobe.

Below the greenhouses, there was a surprising amount of space among the pipes and valves that circulated nutrient solutions to the plants. These spaces were so isolated that they were perfect for wetwork. All it took was a bit of bribery to ensure their privacy.

The way Sheh’teh explained it, subtly removing the evidence of murder was more difficult than it would first appear. For one, the station heavily monitored access to the outside. These monitors prevented dumping waste into the space around the station, and unauthorized access to machinery mounted in a vacuum. Even if the General wanted to dispose of his enemies that way, their bodies would just end up in an orbit of the station – which was less than subtle.

Instead, he’d taken to something more traditional. Below the farms, he mulched those that needed removal and sent them through the nutrient mixers. Sheh’teh thought that it was an elegant method, a sort of reprisal of the burial ceremony where there was no ground to return a body to. The Singer did her best not to think about if her last meal had come from one of the General’s farms.

As Sheh’the led her deeper into the maze of pipes and gantries, the Singer began to hear voices over the constant hum of the pipes and greenhouses above.

The Singer recognized Caius’s voice first, “I’m not going to subject myself to torture for you, Charlele.”

“We could have taken them if you hadn’t run off!” Charlele replied.

The Singer’s brow furrowed as Sheh’teh rushed forward to silence the prisoners. She’d initially planned to use game theory to force the information from them – but without separation, that would be almost impossible. Good cop bad cop might still work, however. The Singer would just have to hope that she could keep pretending to be the good cop.

“Oh, so it’s my fault now?” Caius replied mockingly. “Remind me who just couldn’t stand to leave her little toy-“

“Cease!” Sheh’teh roared. Her voice was more than enough to turn their bickering into a cowed silence.

The space between the farms was a room in only the vaguest sense. The floor was a grooved metal plate, folded and creased to provide grip, and direct leaked solution into recapture drains. The only thing that defined the room’s bounds were support pillars and bundles of pipes delivering solution up and down from the farms.

Charlele curled on the floor with plastic ties around her ankles and wrists and a black bag tied over her head. Someone had reseated her shoulder, but the scales around the joint were discolored and had scabs around their edges. The hand that the General had shot still wept blood past partially scabbed lacerations, the amount of dried blood around the Vyrais was more than the Singer might have expected from such a wound.

Caius and the third Vyrăis who’d waited in their car were both similarly bound and blinded.

Sheh’teh flowed across the room. She stood behind the Vyrăis and quickly moved each of them into a kneeling position with some effort. Sheh’teh was larger than the Vyrăis, but the Singer found that she only just met eye level even when they were kneeling. Sheh’teh whipped the bags off all three of them at once, and they blinked against the strobing light from the farms.

Caius attempted to spin around to glare at Sheh’teh, but a sharp slap to the back of the head with her dinner-plate-sized hand quickly discouraged him.

“Careful not to antagonize my friend,” the Singer opened. “She’s not fond of your kind, and I wouldn’t be able to stop her in time to prevent injury to you – any more injury,” she corrected with a pointed glance at Charlele.

“Singer,” she hissed. “You and the Thief-Taker have stepped too far this time! When the council hears you’ve kidnapped us-“

“They won’t hear that,” the Singer interrupted, careful to maintain her calm exterior. “The only people who know you were at Star’s apartment have no reason to go to the council. Her neighbors all work for the Thief-Taker, and the Thief-Taker would rather you disappear before you cause any more trouble for him,” she explained. “If it weren’t for me, my friend behind you would have already fed you into a sewage mulcher.”

Sheh’teh punctuated the Singer’s claim with a heavy hand on the shoulder of all three of the Vyrăis. The third, the one who had stayed in the car, jumped. He tried to twist around, his eyes wide with fear, but Sheh’teh used her free hand to discourage him, and he returned to his kneeling position.

“I don’t like killing people, even your kind,” the Singer continued, unable to stop the disgust in her voice. “So, here’s my deal: You tell me who told you to leave the station, and I’ll make sure you get on a ship that leaves – safe and sound. I’ll even get someone to look at your hand for you, Charlele,” she explained.

“What is ‘your kind’ supposed to mean?” Caius scoffed. His expression morphed from a scowl into a sneer. The Singer felt suddenly hot, so hot the room felt icy cold around her. He seemed to sense her anger, or perhaps her expression had slipped, but his sneer became much less confident.

“Your kind,” the Singer growled, “tried to kidnap me from my world. Your kind beat me to within an inch of my life when I didn’t speak this foul language. Your kind laughed while they did it,” she explained. She only realized her hands had clenched when Sheh’teh made a sharp gasp. The Singer looked down and realized her fingernails had cut into the palms of her hands. It took a concerted effort to relax her grip. “Your kind has made war with mine,” she explained.

“We can’t trust your word. Even if we tell you, you could kill us anyway,” Charlele hissed.

The Singer sighed in frustration. Charlele had the right of it, even though the Singer did intend to ensure they lived through this, they couldn’t know that. She could make all the promises in the world, but words didn’t amount to much.

“You can trust that if the Thief-Taker or I wanted you dead, you would be,” the Singer said. “That’s the deal, Charlele. Information for protection. What are a few words worth when compared to your life?” she goaded.

“You can’t protect us from an Inquisitor, Human,” Charlele said. Defeat finally took hold, and she sagged. “Three days and the portal will open just enough for their ship to cross through. Nowhere will be safe after that, even the light riders,” she said.

“Three days is much sooner than we thought,” the Singer said idly, Sheh’teh growled a curse in agreement. “Who told you?” the Singer asked again.

“One of my cousins in the communications district. She doesn’t have anything to do with this: she just knew that I was involved with the Thief-Taker and that the Inquisitor was coming looking for Humans,” Charlele explained. “She just wanted me to get out of the firing line, that’s all.”

The Singer sighed, this time in relief. She’d begun to worry that there was no good in the Vyrăis, but she could start to see now: Family, it seemed, was desperately important to them.

“Tell me her name, and I promise not to harm her,” she said.

“Don’t tell her, Charlele!” Caius hissed. A sharp slap from Sheh’teh once more cut the Vyrăis off from saying anything else, and the same hand clamped over his mouth to prevent further interruptions.

“Don’t mistake me,” the Singer said, all emotion removed from her voice. “My promise is not necessary; I offer it as a gift. But my generosity, as well as my patience, are limited. I can ensure her safety, too, if you tell me. If you don’t, then I may have no choice but to interrogate everyone who might know you, and I won’t be as gentle then.”

Charlele told her.

The bags quickly returned to their previous positions, and Sheh’teh laid the bound Vyrăis back on the ground. There was much the Singer would need to discuss with the General, and more to do. And now there was barely any time to do it.