In most spaceports, especially those with a smuggling presence, underground fights were a mainstay. They went hand in hand with the more accepted and legal gambling dens and bordellos. Jump jockeys lined up to spend their credits in places like that, anxious for anything to relieve the monotony of one long jump after another. Mercy could never understand why the Commonwealth lawmakers thought a bunch of bored and isolated men and women could indulge in alcohol, drugs, and sex, but stop short at violence. Losing their pay to dice or cards was just not as viscerally satisfying as betting against one human being’s ability to beat the shit out of another.

Mercy figured the government saw it as wasteful. Spaceships didn’t fly without pilots and navigators. People broken and stuck in a med ward weren’t doing their jobs. No matter how often a spaceport authority found out where a match was taking place and shut it down, another would spring up, almost before the writ of arrest had finished being issued. And people with credits or hard currency to spend could always find them.

Just after Atrea’s sixteenth birthday, the old Wolf had taken them to a match. Atrea’s birthday was a mere nine days after Mercy’s, so both of them had been feeling full of themselves. Old enough to drink in most systems, old enough to take and pass the exams to complete their primary education certificate. Adult.

Wolfgang offering to take them to a fight had seemed like an official acknowledgement of this truth. Looking back, Mercy should have known it was nothing of the sort, but at the time she felt a secret thrill and no small sense of pride, one she knew Atrea shared.

That feeling had only lasted to the end of the first fight. The combatants looked like a good match, both of them being about the same size, with the kind of muscled build that said they probably did more than just flying cargo. Any smuggling crew worth its salt had a few beaters in the ranks. Captain Hades didn’t, but he stuck to soft goods. No drugs, no weapons, no slaves, no illegal tech. He smuggled agriculture past checkpoints to desperate colonists. People left him alone because he didn’t offer competition, and most smugglers had colony ties. Wolfgang Hades helped feed their families.

Plus, Mercy suspected he was a bit of a beater himself. Not that he ever talked about it, but she knew he’d been in the military at some point. He moved like someone who had implants.

So did one of the fighters. The other did not. When the first punch landed, Mercy knew it would be over quickly. But that wasn’t how it played out. Later, Wolfgang explained that the losing fighter had probably owed a lot of money to someone, and the fight had been a set up. The question of whether or not he could win was answered very quickly. The beating went on, and on. Until there was nothing recognizable left.

As a message, it was effective. The crowd knew what happened to people who didn’t pay their debts. So did Mercy and Atrea. It was the last fight either of them ever attended.

Even given that limited experience, however, Mercy knew what the arena was the moment she and Reaper stepped inside the room. Hard to say what the space was originally intended for. A cargo hold, maybe. But the pirates had long ago converted it to something else. One of the things that made nano-graph such a valuable ship material was its fluid nature, without sacrificing strength. It was built to self-repair, but this was only the beginning of what it was capable of. Reprogram the nanobots built into the graphene, and they would restructure the material into a different form or shape. Evidence of this already existed in the way her room had been arranged, or the size of the lifts.

Here, it could be seen in a much more spectacular fashion. The arena was exactly what it sounded like. An eight-meter-square space was marked off in the center of the room, with seating sprawled around it. The seats were structured in rows of benches around the outside edges of the room, and were already half-filled with people when Reaper and Mercy arrived. Two men stood in the center square and faced off against one another, stripped to the waist, skin gleaming beneath the lights. Both were young men, in their twenties, one darker, the other the unnatural pale pallor of someone who spent much more time on ships than walking the dirt of any world. Both were lean with well-defined muscle, holding themselves with a confidence that said each expected to win. A third man, this one fully clothed, stood between them, speaking in a low voice.

Mercy stopped just inside the room, remembering that long ago lesson with Wolfgang. She tried to ignore the way people were turning to stare.

“What is it this is supposed to prove to me, exactly?” she asked Reaper stiffly. She didn’t care to watch two men beat the crap out of each other for fun, especially not while on display to a crowd of people she didn’t know. Then she thought about Max and Kator. “Wait, is this what you’re going to have those boys do?”

Reaper touched a hand to her shoulder briefly, and she knew it was meant to reassure her.

Be patient, and you will see, he said. Hopefully, you will understand.

“I see we’re back to speaking telepathically,” she muttered.

Reaper arched an eyebrow.

One of us is. The other could use some practice.

The best response to that, Mercy decided, was to ignore it. Not that he was wrong. She just didn’t like having it pointed out. It didn’t escape her that he hadn’t answered her question, either.

Patience, Reaper said. Mercy’s teeth ground together. She was going to get really tired of hearing that.

Looking around at the crowd, she suddenly became aware of a familiar presence hovering just outside her shields. She was starting to be able to differentiate between individual minds, although it would have been difficult with this many people, had this person not made a point of being noticed. Mercy hesitated, and Reaper gave her a look. He didn’t need to say anything for her to interpret it. He clearly thought she was being a poor student if she continued to avoid actually using her gifts. Remembering her vow to learn as much as she could, Mercy sighed and squared her shoulders. She reached out with her mind, feeling horribly vulnerable in this crowded place.

Vashti?

Yes, dear. Please do come and sit with me. Over here.

Mercy felt a tug at her attention, and turned her head to see the older woman lifting a hand and waving in their direction from across the room. She was sitting right in front of the arena, her bench center to the action. Mercy hoped none of the surprise she felt leaked through her shields. From the little she knew, she never would have pictured Vashti as a fight fan.

She and Reaper made their way around the room. Mercy steadfastly kept her gaze pointed straight ahead, ignoring the countless curious eyes on her, and the whispers, both vocal and telepathic, that followed in her wake. It was with a wave of relief that she finally reached Vashti and took the empty seat next to the old woman. Reaper sat on her other side, so that Mercy was between them. That helped, too. She’d been afraid she would end up with a stranger next to her, and right now she was already feeling overwhelmed.

When Reaper sat down, the people on the other side of him got up and moved, giving up their good seats for worse ones, much further away. Mercy quirked a brow at Reaper, but he just smiled. It was the kind of smile that was more sharp than amused. He wasn’t the least bit bothered by the discomfort others experienced around him. In fact, Mercy suspected he rather enjoyed it.

Beside her, Vashti let out a low laugh. Two men were seated on the other side of her, one in his mid-thirties, the other clearly younger. The older of the two gave Vashti a brief, unreadable look, while the younger looked uncomfortable. Both had the same familial stamp to their features that Vashti, Mercy and Cannon shared, with skin a burnished bronze shade, angular cheekbones and jawlines, and the dark hair and green eyes that seemed universal. Mercy found herself going tense.

“Ever the popular one, eh, Nikolos?” Vashti asked easily, seeming to ignore the byplay around her. Reaper shrugged in response, and Mercy wondered if Vashti usually used his given name, or whether she did so now to provoke him. That made her wonder a bit more about Vashti. Intentionally provoking someone like Reaper seemed like a bad idea.

Mercy had to force herself to relax, concentrating on her muscles and keeping her breathing even. She reminded herself that, with Lilith dead, her family no longer wanted to kill her. Or so they said.

Vashti gave her a warm smile. “Griffin and Cage are my nephews. Lilith had four daughters. Pallas, Macha, Nemain and Athena. Your mother, you obviously know. Nemain was Cannon’s mother. Athena was Griffin and Cage’s. They are my great-nephews, and like me, mean you no harm. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

“I’m sure I’ll start to believe that eventually,” Mercy said with a stiff smile. She leaned forward slightly, and gave them a nod of greeting, while making sure her shields were still in place, bolstered by Reaper. The older of the two nodded back.

Griffin, Reaper told her, so softly she barely heard it. His younger brother is Cage. Neither will try anything while I am here. They fear me.

Good, she sent back. Maybe it was wrong of her to feel pleased that Reaper inspired such fear in others, but if it helped make her feel safe, she didn’t care.

“Such a pleasure to have everyone together,” Vashti said aloud. “The family, and Nikolos, of course.” She gave Reaper a chastising shake of her head. “I keep telling you to visit me more, boy.”

And how many people, Mercy asked him in amazement, call you “boy”?

He gave her a flat look. Only Vashti.

Interesting. So, if Vashti was provoking Reaper, it was something she did regularly. On purpose. Mercy studied her great-aunt, making no attempt to hide the fact. A sparkle lit the old woman’s green eyes, and she seemed anything but worried or intimidated. Her hair was braided back, and some of the dark strands still untouched by time framed her face and wound through the braid like a black ribbon against the white.

“You aren’t afraid of him.” It wasn’t a question. Mercy recognized fear pretty easily, and Vashti displayed none. She sat easily, relaxed, with no tightness around her eyes, or stiffness to her lean frame.

“When you reach my age,” Vashti said with a shrug, “you realize you have nothing left to fear from death.”

It wasn’t quite a lie, but somehow Mercy knew it wasn’t the whole truth, either.

She smiled at Vashti, eyeing her carefully. The old woman smiled back, for all the world looking like someone’s harmless, innocent grandmother. Sure. Mercy reached out to Reaper mentally.

She’s never been afraid of you.

No, he said. She hasn’t.

Why? Mercy had a feeling there was more to Vashti. If she wasn’t afraid of someone like Reaper, there would be a reason. A good one.

Reaper glanced at her.

When I was a child, Vashti was one of my teachers.

In…telepathy? Telekinesis?

No. Most Killers train together. They grow up apart from the rest of the pirates, in their own colony, and they don’t mix with the rest of our population much. Accidents happen, otherwise. He paused, letting her absorb that. They get very specialized training in using their Talents. My childhood was different. My mother wasn’t a Killer. She was a telepath and telekinetic. I was raised by her on Ardon, our primary colony world. My father wasn’t always around, but when he was, he provided the specialized training in using my Talent, and in physical and mental combat. Vashti provided the rest.

The rest?

Interpreting what my Talent showed me. Understanding someone’s vulnerabilities, how to exploit them, and which method is best for which situation.

Mercy wrestled with that for a moment.

She taught you the intellectual part of assassination?

Yes.

Mercy looked back at her great-aunt. The easy smile hadn’t changed, but now it felt a lot more dangerous. An old children’s story surfaced in her memory, something about a wolf pretending to be a harmless old woman. What large teeth you have, grandmother. Mercy no longer wondered why Vashti would be here, watching the fights. Her aunt leaned over and patted her hand.

“Now you understand us a little bit better,” she said softly. “We might not all be Killers, like Nikolos. But we are all dangerous, Mercy. Best that you learn that now.”

In the center of the room, the fight started. It was nothing like the shows broadcast across the Commonwealth for entertainment. It wasn’t even much like that long ago fight she and Atrea had witnessed. This was short, fast, and brutal. The two men circled one another briefly, then the distance between them closed, a flurry of blows leaving the pale one on the floor, curled protectively around his ribcage. The snap of bone had happened so quickly, he was down almost before Mercy registered the sound.

No one stepped between the two men to stop the fight. The watching crowd didn’t cheer, but Mercy saw hard currency exchanged between more than a few hands, a low murmur sweeping the benches. A moment passed while the dark skinned man contemplated the one on the ground. The hair rose on the back of Mercy’s neck. He was considering killing the other man. She didn’t know how she was so certain of the thought, but she was. She held her breath, hoping she wasn’t about to watch one man murder another. After an endless moment, he suddenly nodded to himself and stepped back. This time, the whispers that swept the crowd had the feel of surprise. No. It was shock, and people began talking all over the room, low, intense voices and thoughts layering and overlapping.

“Interesting,” said Vashti beside her. She glanced at Mercy. “They were here to settle a grievance. Fights for position or rivalry don’t necessarily end in death, but those where a disagreement has escalated to the arena always do.”

“Always?” Mercy was stunned. “Aren’t you trying to rebuild your population?”

Vashti shrugged. “We don’t believe in leaving an enemy at our backs when it can be avoided. Fights to the death were a practice Lilith encouraged and rewarded. The old Queen’s ways are extremely difficult to throw aside.” She gave Mercy a long, penetrating stare. “You don’t approve?”

“I…not like this, no.”

“Hmm,” said Vashti. “This will be an interesting day.” She turned back to watch as two men finally came out and picked up the fallen fighter, carrying him from the room.

Two more men were already walking out to the center ring. Mercy was startled to realize that she knew one of them.

Zion, Reaper said in in her mind. One of my dogs.

Yes. Mercy remembered. He was classically handsome, with blue eyes a darker shade than Reaper’s. He moved now with an easy confidence, stepping casually into the arena, and waiting calmly as his opponent, looking far more nervous, stood on the opposite side.

“Do they—” She caught herself a second before Reaper’s disapproving look. Do they have a disagreement?

No. Shane is applying to become a dog. Candidates have to prove themselves against a current dog. They can challenge any they choose, since Dem trains them all. The fights are a test, not to the death.

Dem? Mercy didn’t recognize the name.

Reaper took a long time to answer. My brother, he said reluctantly. Also, the Chief of Security aboard the Nemesis, and a member of the Core.

Mercy’s mind spun, thrown by the sudden flood of information. She focused on the most personal, first. You have a brother?

I have two. Technically, we are half-brothers, but the separation of blood is of little consequence. Regardless of the number of parents we have in common, we are siblings. Dem is the most like me. His father, though different from my own, was also a Killer. Treon is…Reaper hesitated. Treon is different. Unique.

Intrigued, Mercy filed the names away for further investigation, later. Reaper’s tone wasn’t exactly closed, but she could tell he wasn’t eager to answer more questions about his family right now.

And the Core? What is that?

It’s supposed to be the balance to our monarch. A council, of sorts. The goal is to keep in mind what is best for our people as a whole, and vote on laws and practices to best support and aid them. Theoretically, we can also overrule the monarch if we disagree with something unanimously. In practice, though, that has not always proven possible. His tone was dark, making Mercy think of everything she’d heard regarding her grandmother’s reign.

I’m guessing that’s another reference to what an understanding and fair Queen Lilith was?

That is correct.

And Cannon? Has the Core tried to overrule him?

No. So far, there hasn’t been a need. But Cannon sits in on Core meetings, and generally he and the majority tend to agree.

You said “we” before. Are you a part of this Core?

I am.

Mercy was silent for a moment, thinking. She watched as the fight started, this one taking more time than the previous bout. She was no beater, but from what she could see, Zion was deliberately testing the other man, giving him openings and analyzing his defenses.

So, she said finally, you guys left the Commonwealth, but you created a system of government that mirrors the Council of Sovereign Planets, and the monarchy. She wondered if the irony came through with her telepathic words.

We are the product of our experiences. Reaper shrugged.

How do you decide who becomes a member of the Core? Voting?

Reaper laughed in her mind. He looked at her, clearly amused.

“Please,” he said aloud. “We are pirates, Mercy. Core members are decided by power and position. Who can take it, and who can keep it.”

In the center ring, the tone of the fight abruptly changed. Zion, having taken a few hits up until now, became untouchable. His opponent, a passable fighter who probably could have gained employment as a beater on many a smuggling ship, could no longer land any punches. In the space of a few moments he took jabs to the kidneys, ribs, and solar plexus, before finally being thrown roughly to the floor. He lay gasping, pained grunts escaping as he struggled for air, holding his hands close to his head in a futile attempt at protecting himself. Zion dropped his hands and left the ring. Beside Mercy, Reaper shook his head, his mouth turned down.

“He lost.” Mercy glanced at him. “Does that mean he won’t become a dog?”

Reaper moved one shoulder in a shrug.

“He was expected to lose. It’s a matter of how he lost, and how he responds to it, that will ultimately decide whether Dem accepts him.”

Two men came, helped Shane stand and moved him out of the ring.

“Dogs are often a stepping stone to greater things,” Reaper added. “Most Core members once served someone in that capacity. I don’t believe Shane is capable of taking power. Even with training, he may never become more than he is now.” He tilted his head. “Zion? That is another story entirely.”

Hmm, Mercy thought, a little darkly. The charming one. She didn’t realize she’d broadcast it until Reaper switched back to telepathy.

You don’t like Zion because he is charming? She could hear the underlying ripple of Reaper’s amusement. Not the usual response people have to him.

No. I don’t like Zion because he isn’t what he appears. He pretends to be whatever will get him what he wants.

Most people do that.

Mercy hesitated, struggling to put her feelings into words.

Maybe. Not like Zion. I don’t know how to explain it. I just feel like underneath he is someone entirely different. His charm is a lie. His pretty smile is a lie. I don’t like liars.

“Oh!” Vashti suddenly grasped Mercy’s arm, fingers tugging at her for attention, seemingly oblivious that she was interrupting. “Here he is. My boy.” There was no mistaking the pride in her voice. On the other side of her, Griffin and Cage both sat straighter, their attention intensely focused on the center ring. It was enough to intrigue Mercy, until she saw the youth walking out to the arena.

Max.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she said aloud. She looked at Reaper. You told me to be patient. I have been, and now I have to watch these two boys beat the shit out of each other?

He lifted an eyebrow. Hopefully not.

What the hell does that mean?

Reaper didn’t answer, and Vashti’s fingers tightening on her arm pulled Mercy’s attention back to the ring.

Max had that awkward, gangly gate inherent to teenage boys who gained height quickly, too fast for their muscle control and physical command to keep up with. Although his skin tone was the burnished bronze of family, he looked starkly pale under the lights. His dark hair was messy, and hung in his eyes. He made his way to the center and stood, looking uncomfortable and, Mercy thought, scared.

“Griffin and Cage’s brother,” Vashti said, smiling. “My youngest nephew, Max.”

For a moment, Mercy was startled out of her observation of the boy enough to look at Vashti.

“Griffin, Cage, and…Max?”

Vashti shrugged. “You’ll get used to the odd naming conventions we have. Most of us shorten Max’s name. Maximum can get a bit caught in the mouth. Too many M’s, you know.”

Mercy blinked at her, then looked back at Max. By this time, his opponent had come to stand with him, and Mercy felt herself go cold. Under the harsh lighting, the difference between the two boys was highlighted even more starkly than before. Kator looked impossibly large. He was clearly older by a couple of years and a hulking figure, with wide shoulders, huge, meaty hands, and a breadth of muscle that didn’t seem to fit with his apparent youth.

“He must outweigh him by nearly double,” she said.

“Almost,” muttered Griffin, but Mercy heard it.

“That’s not a fair fight,” she said, looking from Vashti to Reaper, and back again.

Vashti frowned at her. “It is. Talent makes the smallest boys strong. This is how disputes are settled.” The old woman gave a sharp nod. “Here, there are rules. A one-on-one combat gives Max an opportunity.”

“At what, getting beaten or killed in front of everyone?”

Cage leaned forward to glare at Mercy. “At earning his place,” he said. “Stay out of it.”

This is insane, Mercy told Reaper. That boy doesn’t stand a chance, and you know it.

Reaper gave her a look empty of emotion. If he wants it badly enough, if he’s prepared, he can win. There are ways to beat a physically stronger opponent, and Max knows some of them. He demonstrated that this morning.

In a confrontation Kator clearly engineered. He didn’t even fight back, because he was waiting to do it here! If that bully wasn’t absolutely sure he could win, he never would have made this happen.

True. Reaper’s implacable calm grated on Mercy’s nerves.

Then you can’t let this happen.

It’s our way. They have a dispute. Let’s call it a long, ongoing conflict. This will end it.

This is what you and Cannon call dealing with the situation?

Reaper didn’t answer, and she found herself wanted to smack that impassive look right off his face. His eyes paled, and a deep, instinctive caution kept her still. Mother take you, she fumed, feeling more impotent than she had since the space station. She thought about Max’s shy smile this morning, and hated everyone.

Mercy stared at the two boys as they took positions opposite one another. Now that she was watching for it, she could see that Max wasn’t just awkward from his height and gangly limbs. He was favoring his right side. She couldn’t remember if he’d already been doing that this morning, or if this was something new.

“This boy has been beating on Max for awhile?” she asked Vashti, keeping her voice even.

“Since they were small,” Vashti said. “Children often establish a hierarchy in such ways. Max comes from a powerful family, but hates conflict. His Talent developed late as well. It made him a target.” She nodded to the arena. “This is his opportunity to turn things around and put Kator in his place.”

Mercy sat stunned for a moment. That even Vashti, who clearly loved the boy, condoned this was unfathomable. I thought children were precious to you. I thought you would protect them above all else.

Reaper regarded her thoughtfully. We would never permit an adult to abuse a child. However, ours is a hard and difficult life. They must be permitted to settle their own issues amongst peers.

You are letting children fight, she said to Reaper.

He looked at her, and his lack of response just stirred her own emotions more.

You are letting them beat each other for position. Coldness settled in her gut as she remembered Vashti’s earlier words. Does this count as a disagreement? Or is this just a fight to say who is who in the pecking order?

Why?

I want to know if this fight will stop when someone goes down.

Reaper took his time answering, seeming to weigh her question.

Kator and his friends have spent the past several years bullying Max. They attempted to kill him at least once that I am aware of. I doubt it will stop when one of them goes down.

Mercy stared at him. She looked at Vashti again, still hoping she would see some of her own incredulity reflected there. Instead, she saw pride, worry, and hope. She looked beyond her to Griffin and Cage, but they sat with identical, grimly stoic expressions.

“He’s your brother.” Mercy said, her chest tight. “You’re just going to let this happen?”

Griffin glanced at her, a flash of anger in his green eyes. “If we try to intervene, it will make things worse.”

“How?”

“No matter the outcome, it will look like we’re protecting him. It will make him look weaker, more of a target. Even if we killed Kator for him, it would still make others believe Max to be weak. It’s as good as a death sentence.”

In the ring, a man stepped between the boys, clearly explaining whatever the rules were. If they even had any. Max nodded stiffly, his face grim and determined. Kator just nodded sharply. He was anticipating winning already. It made Mercy’s stomach turn.

“This is insane,” Mercy said aloud. “You are all insane.”

She glared at Reaper.

Is this what you brought me here for? To watch boys kill each other?

No.

Then, why?

In the ring, the boys started moving. Kator lunged in, hands going for a grab, and Max danced out of the way.

You needed to see this. We are a people fighting for survival. Every day is a battle to that end.

Then why kill each other? She gestured to the arena, wincing as Max didn’t move quite fast enough, and one of Kator’s fists caught a glancing blow to his shoulder, staggering him.

Because Lilith wanted it. Because she spent her reign making things like this happen. It entertained her.

Kator took Max down with an arm wrapped around the other boy’s waist. Max got in a punch, but the bigger boy just grunted and held on. In a minute, he’d have Max in a choke.

“Lilith is fucking dead,” Mercy said aloud, fists clenched at her sides. “You don’t have to do what she wanted anymore.”

“A Queen’s influence is not so easy to throw off,” said Vashti quietly. Her hands gripped tightly together in her lap as her eyes never left the arena. Kator gave a sudden yelp and Max regained his feet, breathing hard. The bigger boy was back up in the same instant, removing any chance for Max to hurt him while he was down. Blood ran freely down Kator’s face, his nose swollen, but Max was bleeding, too, red rivulets running down the side of his neck from long, deep scratches.

“Cannon is your King now, right? He can stop this.” Mercy looked around, trying to spot him in the stands.

In the arena, Max and Kator were grappling again, each boy trying to gain purchase against the other. Max was slippery and wiry, but he wasn’t strong enough to gain and keep a hold on Kator. Their movements were odd, stilted and halting, not fluid like most fights. Each boy kept gasping like a fish, pulling in a great gulp of air at irregular intervals. She realized it had to be Talent. The boys were using telekinesis to try and kill each other.

Vashti gave a small, sad smile.

“No. He can’t. Cannon is not a queen. He can work around the deepest pieces of our culture ingrained by Lilith, but he cannot overrule them.”

“That makes no sense.” Mercy couldn’t see how that was possible.

Vashti met her eyes.

“We have had many years to test it, and have come to this conclusion: only a true Queen can undo what another Queen has wrought.”

Mercy stared back at her, her stomach twisting into painful knots. Realization crashed over her in a wave.

This is why you brought me here, she said to Reaper. You want me to stop it.

We have been killing each other for decades. Our population continues to dwindle each year, each day that goes by. We are violent by nature, and Lilith took that trait and made it worse.

Vashti reached over and took Mercy’s hands between her own. Her green eyes were hopeful, and pleading.

“Save my nephew,” she said. “Please, Your Majesty.”