The room was large, with an air of old-world luxury. Comfortable, if mismatched furniture of indisputable quality littered the space. Heavy, embroidered draperies – a few decades out-of-fashion – obscured the high windows on either side of the room, casting the place in shadows despite the relatively early hour.

The man thought absently that it was unlike Aeriels to prefer darkness. But then, nothing about his present companion had ever been conventional anyway.

“It has to be done soon, if it is to be done at all,” Tauheen said, her voice soft and intimate. She shifted slightly on the large sofa to curl closer to her mortal companion, one hand snaking out to wrap loosely around his torso. She held him down with deceptive strength. “We need to have it before it’s too late.”

“I am not a magician, Tauheen,” the man replied irritably. One of his hands moved instinctively to touch the Aeriel’s flawless, almost translucent skin, stroking along her arms in slow, caressing motions. He closed his eyes. “It’s dangerous now. Ruban is a capable Hunter, as I’m sure you know very well.” He spared her a sidelong glance. Her expression told him she hadn’t forgotten the man he spoke of, or the Parliament attack, during which Ruban had almost casually slashed the throats of two of her best soldiers and closest associates. “He will leave no stone unturned to stop us, to stop you.

“And there will be nothing I can do to help, if it came to that. He will have all the resources of the state at his disposal. Even you cannot hope to win against those odds. As long as nobody knew or suspected, we had the element of surprise. Now the whole country – from the chief justice to every goddamn shoe-polish boy in the capital – is buzzing with talk of Aeriel plots and conspiracies. It’s too dangerous to make a move in such an environment.”

Tauheen’s wings flared with evident indignation, flooding the surrounding gloom momentarily with a surreal, silver light. Then, just as quickly as it had happened, it was gone, and the chamber was plunged back into darkness. The Aeriel smiled, tightening her hold over him ever so slightly. “We’ll do it when he’s there, then,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. The intimate promise of her tone sent a thrill down his spine. Tauheen was excited, he could tell. And when she was, she had ways of expressing it that he thoroughly approved of.

Getting a hold of his racing heart, the man forced himself to say in as stern a voice as he could muster. “Do what?”

“Why, steal the formula, of course,” Tauheen said, looking into his eyes for the first time that evening.

Her eyes shone with anticipation. They weren’t like any he had seen on an Aeriel before. She had dark eyes. Not as dark as a human’s; nobody would ever mistake them for mortal irises. They were sprinkled with flecks of silver that shone with an almost cutting light against the sun. Dark and alert, full of life, they weren’t anything like an Aeriel’s pearly orbs either. He couldn’t bring himself to look away. “We’ll do it when Ruban Kinoh is in the building. That way, he will lose the confidence of the department and you can replace him with somebody…less troublesome. And even if he’s not replaced, he’ll lose credibility and access to much of your precious resources. Even a man such as himself cannot hope to do much damage without state support. Then, after it’s all done, we can take care of him at our own leisure.”

“And what makes you think he’ll let you steal the formula from under his nose, anyway?” the man asked, frowning.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, my love.” Tauheen ran a gentle hand over her companion’s chest, a rare smile of true pleasure appearing on her beautiful face. “I’ll take care of all that.”

***

The seminar hall echoed with claps as Professor Dawad finished his speech on the matriarchal structure of the pre-Rebellion Aeriel monarchy. Ruban sat near the back, clapping softly as the other guests began to move out of the hall. The professor’s speech had been the last one in the seminar line-up and the guests were now headed to the dining hall for tea and snacks.

It wasn’t often that Ruban got the chance to visit Bracken Academy these days. But with Simani temporarily out of commission and the report on the Ghorib case yet to be fully processed by the higher-ups, he had found himself with some free time on his hands.

He always tried to keep up with Dawad’s work whenever possible. Ruban had never considered himself particularly inclined towards academics, but Dawad’s classes had always fascinated him while he was still a student at Bracken. The man certainly knew his subject. And unlike his classmates, Ruban had not subscribed to the view that the Aeriel History and Culture classes were a waste of time with no practical application. His father had always said that you cannot fight what you do not understand. And while Ruban doubted that Abhas had meant the advice quite in this context, he believed it to be true nonetheless. You couldn’t fight an enemy you didn’t understand. And so, while at college, Ruban had scrupulously attended all of Professor Dawad’s classes, trying to glean any information he could about possible weaknesses and vulnerabilities in the Aeriel psyche or social structure, that he could exploit in a fight.

And while Dawad had not always approved of his student’s single-minded focus on the military aspects of his subject, even he could not have denied Ruban’s obvious natural skill, or his eagerness to learn. Ruban smiled as he remembered the many evenings he and his small group of friends had spent at the library with the little Kanbarian academic, steaming coffee in hand as they talked into the wee hours about the First Advent, the Rebellion, and the last Aeriel Queen, Dawad tutting occasionally to bring the conversation back on track when his students got too carried away with imaginary battle strategies and creative plans to dissect non-existent Aeriels in increasingly unrealistic ways.

Once the hall was almost empty, Ruban walked up to his old professor, inclining his head respectfully when he caught the old man’s eye. Dawad’s bright green eyes lit up the moment they saw Ruban, and his dark, wrinkled face split open in a toothy smile – ebony skin rippling to accommodate his pleasure. His curly white hair seemed to fluff up around his lean face, enthused by his joy at seeing his old student. The man was the world’s foremost expert in his field, but singularly eccentric in almost every other aspect of life. Ruban felt a sudden surge of affection for the strange old man who had helped him through so much during those first few months after his arrival at Ragah to join Bracken. He had lost the only home he had ever known. Nobody could have made Ruban forget, but Dawad had helped him to manage and channelize his anger and hatred towards something less corrosive and more productive. He would be eternally grateful to the man for that.

“Hello professor,” he said with a grin, hopping up onto the dais to take the old Kanbarian’s outstretched hand into both of his own. “How are you?”

“Ah,” said Dawad with a small smile. “It has been a while, young man. I’m fantastic, as always. I trust you’re doing well yourself?”

Ruban nodded as Dawad led him down the corridor until they reached the professor’s office, a few doors down from the seminar hall. “How is Simani, my child?” asked the old man, settling himself with some difficulty into his large, cushioned chair which made him look even smaller than he really was. At a gesture from Dawad, Ruban took the seat across from him as his host rang the bell for tea. “I saw on the news that she’d been injured in Ghorib. I believe you were there too? I trust she is not in any danger?” he shook his head. “That girl was always too reckless for her own good.”

Ruban couldn’t help it. He laughed. Dawad’s reproving tone brought with it such a strong reminder of their undergraduate days at Bracken that Ruban almost had to remind himself that he wasn’t actually in trouble for any of the outrageous hijinks Simani and her friends regularly lured him into during their time at the institute.

“She’s fine prof,” he assured the old man. “Still recovering, but she’ll be fine. Or so the doctors tell us anyway. Actually, that’s kind of what I am here for. Ghorib, I mean. You’ve read about it in the papers, I’m sure. Aeriels were attacking the sif mines in Ghorib. That’s why we were sent there to look into it,” he leaned back, frowning. “It wasn’t a destructive attack, though. They didn’t even try to get at any of the workers or anything. It was more like they wanted something…from the mines. That’s what I can’t figure out. What could Aeriels possibly want in a sif mine? Why were they in Ghorib in the first place?”

“I did read about it in the papers. And about your role in it too. Yours and Simani’s, that is. You were very courageous, Ruban,” Dawad nodded approvingly, his eyes warm. “Both you and your partner. I feel very proud to have had you as my students.”

Ruban coughed uncomfortably, not sure how to respond to his teacher’s praise, particularly because it was more than he deserved. Ashwin’s role in the incident had been kept out of the papers. The powers that be were apparently still unsure about what to make of the strange foreigner and didn’t want to bring him back into the public eye so soon after the mess he had caused with Casia Washi.

In truth, Ruban couldn’t even say that he blamed them. He himself wasn’t sure he quite knew what he was dealing with when it came to Ashwin yet. The young man had been following him around almost everywhere he went ever since their return from Ghorib, smiling and blabbering and generally making an overall ass of himself. Nothing about him had really changed since that first day Ruban had laid eyes on him on the IAW grounds. Gods, was that only a week ago? It felt like months. But Ruban couldn’t bring himself to forget what he had seen of the young Zainian in Ghorib, and he wasn’t entirely sure he believed Ashwin’s tale about an old grandmother who had taught him some secret technique of ancient Zainian martial arts as a child. There was more to it than he was letting on, but for now Ruban had no choice but to go along with the charade and accept the undeserved compliment with whatever grace he could muster.

Dawad seemed to sense his awkwardness though, and did not press the subject any further. Instead, he launched into a different topic altogether. “I also read in the papers about the rumours regarding this new formula they’re apparently developing at SifCo,” he began, his aged eyes twinkling with curiosity. “Casia Washi’s show was full of it just about a week ago. And then, radio silence. Ever since Emancipation Day, if I remember correctly.”

“It’s nothing, prof.” His lips pressed into a thin line, Ruban tried to avoid Dawad’s searching eyes without being too obvious about it. He did not like lying to the other man, but this was not a subject he was authorised to speak about. “Just a lot of baseless speculation.”

“Ah, we both know Washi isn’t the type to deal in speculation, my child,” the old man said, gazing at Ruban with sharp green eyes as if he could look into the younger man’s soul. “If nothing else, she has a reputation to maintain. But no matter. You do not have to tell me anything you don’t want to. What I was getting at, Ruban, is this. You say the Aeriels seemed to be looking for something in the Ghorib mines. And every news anchor in the country is screaming about Aeriel conspiracies surrounding SifCo, the single biggest research facility in the capital that deals exclusively with sif and its by-products. And as I’m sure you’re aware, the Ghorib mines are some of the largest and most productive in the country right now. Besides which, Ghorib is the only major mining town that is reasonably close to Ragah. Most of the others are all in the south. Does it not strike you as too much of a coincidence, then, that Aeriels should suddenly show such interest in all the places that work with sif?” He sat back, letting his words sink in.

Ruban frowned, frustration rising like bile in his throat. “But what can Aeriels possibly want with sif? The only thing it’s good for is gutting the bastards.” He bit his lip the moment the expletive had left his mouth, looking up guiltily at his old professor.

Dawad smiled beatifically. “You really haven’t changed, have you young man? I tried to teach you this while you were under my tutelage, but I suppose I wasn’t entirely successful. The world is rarely as neatly segmented, as black and white as we would like it to be. There is as much variety amongst Aeriels as there is among men. And they are no more all ‘bastards’, as you say, than Zainians are all dandies or Kanbarians all greedy capitalists; though I will say that there is some truth to almost every stereotype,” he chuckled. “My point is, there might be much about Aeriels that you don’t yet know, or understand fully. It is a folly to be tricked by one’s own prejudices. I cannot tell you what it is the Aeriels were doing in Ghorib, Ruban, especially because I don’t seem to have all the pieces of the puzzle yet. But it can’t hurt to keep our minds open to the possibility that the universe is not quite as unidimensional or monochrome as we sometimes perceive it to be.”

***

“We’ll be paying a visit to SifCo today,” Ruban said, buttoning his uniform shirt as he walked out of the shower. It was around eight in the morning but it had been raining on and off for a few hours now, clouds obscuring the sun and plunging the world into semi-darkness, illuminated only by the occasional burst of lightning. “Get ready quickly. We have an appointment in a couple of hours, and we don’t want to be late.”

Shwaan tossed the last few pieces of toast onto a plate containing scrambled eggs and passed them to his host, wiping his hands on the dishtowel. He had been staying at Ruban’s flat for the past week, occupying his couch for lack of a proper guest-room, as the man refused to let him out of his sight after office hours. So he figured he might as well make himself useful, and a few carefully watched episodes of ‘Secret Recipe’ and ‘Gourmet Central’ had solved the mysteries of modern kitchen appliances, although he still found the juicer mildly confounding. He took up his own plate and walked over to the table to join Ruban. He didn’t need to eat, of course. But he supposed the Hunter would eventually notice if his houseguest skipped all his meals.

Besides, food could be rather fun when one experimented with the recipes, and Shwaan was a firm believer in experimentation in all its forms, much to his host’s frequent annoyance. He made a mental note to make Safaa try the cheese balls sautéed in red pepper sauce, once this current mess was over. He would have done it before, but he didn’t want to risk his sister changing her mind and going over to their mother’s side at such a critical juncture, deciding that humanity needed to be annihilated after all.

“Simani won’t be coming with us?” he asked, swallowing a mouthful of eggs.

Ruban shook his head, biting into a piece of toast before following it with a spoonful of eggs. “Doc’s advised her complete bed-rest for two weeks at least. Besides, this is just recon, so there shouldn’t be any trouble. I’ve told Hema to be on hand just in case we need backup, but it won’t be necessary.”

Shwaan nodded, looking dolefully out of the window. “It’s been raining cats and dogs for two days in a row now,” he sighed. “I hate this weather. It’s like night-time twenty-four hours a day.”

Ruban grinned, following Shwaan’s gaze to the cloudy sky outside. “Oh I love it. It’s the best time of the year.”

“It is?” Shwaan raised an eyebrow.

“Oh yeah. Keeps those bastards nice and weak.” Then, noticing his companion’s uncomprehending stare, he continued: “Aeriels. They feed off of sunlight, didn’t you know? Monsoon is the time of the year they’re at their weakest. There’s practically no sun to be had, is there? There’s a reason the Rebellion happened during the monsoon.”

***

Unlike the IAW building, which despite numerous renovations still retained its air of old-world magnificence, the SifCo facility was – in every way – a true temple of modernity. The compound was divided into two broad sections, with smaller buildings and establishments sprinkled throughout the premises. The east wing was huge and imposing, a sprawling seven-floor structure of polished metal and glass that reflected the sun with an almost dazzling light on clear days. On a day like this one, it looked dark and forbidding, the stormy sky casting its tumultuous shadow on the reflective surface.

Standing opposite it, separated by a small courtyard, the west wing was a more modest sight: a simple, three-storey, whitewashed building with large windows. Young men and women – barely out of college, Ruban thought – in white coats with files and tablets in their hands walked in and out of the west wing unhindered.

The east wing, by contrast, was guarded by two heavy-set men in dark blue uniforms. Ruban could see their shoulder holsters and the sheathed sifblades at their hips. They weren’t Hunters, that he could tell, but sometimes the government issued sifblades to ordinary security personnel deployed to places considered at risk of Aeriel attacks. Not that sif in itself would do much good without the proper training. One of the most important parts of being a Hunter was knowing how to get the sif into the Aeriel, something no amount of raw firepower could replace.

Flashing his badge at the main gate, Ruban drove into the SifCo compound, taking his time to get a feel for the area before parking in a lot close to the west wing that appeared to be reserved for visitors. Getting out of the car, he shot off a message to Subhas’s contact at the facility while walking briskly across the courtyard towards the east wing, trying to avoid the rain as much as possible.

As he approached, Ashwin in tow, he noted one of the guards reaching for his walkie-talkie while the other rested a hand somewhat conspicuously on his holster, though he made no move to withdraw the weapon, yet. Ruban supposed it was natural for security to be a little jumpy after all the hue and cry in the media about an impending Aeriel attack at SifCo. He trotted up the front steps, holding up his badge for the guards to see. But before he could say anything, the heavy metal doors swung open and a long-faced, dark haired woman – her hair done up neatly in a coiffure behind her head – stood at the doorway. She gestured at the guards to stand down and stood back to allow the two men entry into the building.

“Hello, I’m Natasha,” she said with a little nod, holding out her hand to Ruban. “You must be Mr. Ruban Kinoh of the South Ragah Division.”

“I am,” he said, taking her hand for a brief shake. “It’s nice to finally meet you. And this is my…partner. Lord Ashwin Kwan. He’s our liaison with the Zainian secret service.”

The woman smiled formally. “Pleasure,” she said, turning to Ashwin. Then she started walking further into the building, gesturing for them to follow her. “Come, let me introduce you to some of my colleagues.”

***

“No, no. The amplifier just enhances the immediate intensity of the shot but it’s the booster at the back that really adds to the overall velocity,” the bright-eyed young researcher explained enthusiastically as Ashwin nodded along with a look of attentive fascination on his face, stopping his companion here and there to ask another question about the strange semi-circular gadget they were cooing over.

“Ah yes,” murmured the Zainian after a particularly convoluted piece of techno-babble from the researcher. “My sister had been working on something like this a few years ago. She told me the motherboard would require a platinum base before she could expand the storage capacity–”

One of the other researchers, a slightly older woman in her early thirties, tapped Ashwin’s shoulder to draw his attention to another contraption that looked vaguely like the first one, but with some sort of antennae attached to one end. “This is a more advanced version of the drive. But what it gains in speed, it loses in storage capacity, particularly when working with older interfaces. Of course that wouldn’t matter much in an emergency situation but when we consider long-term commercial use…”

Ruban tuned them out. It all sounded like gibberish to him anyway. Hiya would enjoy being here. It was not that he was particularly bad with technology. He managed the basic stuff he needed for his job without much trouble, but he had never felt a fascination for technology for its own sake. Apparently, Ashwin felt differently – his eyes were wide and his mouth hung slightly open as he listened with rapt attention to the pair of researchers explaining the relative pros and cons of the two gadgets in what seemed to Ruban like excruciating detail. Well, he supposed that even a nincompoop of Ashwin’s calibre had to have something he was interested in. Besides, it couldn’t hurt to make friends with the staff at SifCo, since they would inevitably need their cooperation at some point during the investigation.

Turning away, he surveyed the interiors of the facility. The place felt oddly sterile to him, almost like a hospital, but with machines for patients. The walls were all painted white and the furniture was modern and uncomfortable. Tall, metal cabinets lined the walls and bizarre-looking contraptions in various stages of dismantlement littered almost every available surface.

He was just about to turn around and join Ashwin in his enthusiastic explorations of the wonders of science, to try and see if he could get any information out of the junior researchers, when a metal door to the back of the room, marked ‘RESTRICTED’, flew open. A slender, harried-looking man in his early sixties, wearing thick glasses and a long white lab coat, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, stood at the doorway. His eyes darted around the room for a few seconds before landing finally on Ruban.

“Ah, you must be Mr. Kinoh,” he said, rushing forward to grab Ruban’s hand and give it a hearty shake. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Got caught up with something; so stupid of me. I was told you would be coming today. But you know how time flies…and when you’re so close to the end. Hard to keep track, you know.” He continued to babble, turning to walk back towards the room he had just come out of. He was still holding on to Ruban’s hand, never having let go of it after the rather extensive handshake they had shared, and the Hunter found himself being pulled along behind the newcomer to the chamber with the ‘Restricted’ sign. His head snapped back to look at Ashwin, but the Zainian seemed to have caught on to what was happening and made to follow Ruban into the room, bidding a perfunctory goodbye to his new friends before breaking out into a semi jog to catch up with the other two.

***

As it turned out, Ruban’s impromptu kidnapper was apparently the Head Researcher in charge of the reinforced sifblade project. The room he led them into was full of more metal cabinets and a couple of wooden chests full of drawers. At the centre of the room stood a small wooden table with an ancient-looking desktop computer and a telephone. Taking the seat behind this table with a relieved sigh, the man gestured for his guests to take the chairs opposite him. “Please, do sit down,” he said, uncapping a plastic bottle and taking a long drink of water before setting it back down on the table and finally focusing on his visitors. “You must be Hunters. Of course you are. Subhas told me the Zainians were involved,” he said, sparing a cursory glance at Ashwin. “Really, all this ruckus over a silly news programme. Reporters are a bloody menace, not that bureaucrats are any better.” He shook his head. “To think they let it get this far. Nip it in the bud, is what they should’ve done. Now I have fucking reporters and Hunters and the goddamned police all over my office asking all sorts of silly questions and distracting the scientists when really, we should be working on completing the damn thing they’re all so excited about in the first place.”

“You mean the reinforced sifblade formula?” asked Ruban.

“Yes the reinforced sifblade formula.” The man nodded emphatically. “Not that the actual thing seems to matter to anyone anymore. All they want are the sound-bites and the screen time and the ridiculous fucking rumours the press likes to call news these days.”

“Umm,” began Ashwin, hesitantly. “If we could just have your name, sir?”

The man turned abruptly to look at Ashwin through narrowed eyes, regarding him as if he had completely lost his mind. And while Ruban was wont to agree with this assessment of the Zainian most of the time, even he couldn’t find anything particularly objectionable about Ashwin’s current line of inquiry. He himself was getting rather tired of referring to their new acquaintance as ‘the man’ in his head. It made him sound far more mysterious and interesting than he actually was.

“Kalhar,” the man said dismissively, as if he did not appreciate being bothered about such insignificant details. “Kalhar Visht. And you are?”

“Ashwin Kwan,” Ashwin inclined his head with a pleasant smile. Then, before Ruban could get a word in edgewise, he continued: “If you wouldn’t mind telling us, Dr. Visht, what exactly is the reinforced sifblade formula? And how will it affect our fight against Aeriels, practically speaking? I mean we all know the basics, of course, that they’re more effective than regular sifblades. But really, what does that mean in terms of practical combat? How will this formula help a Hunter, say, during a one-on-one face-off with an Aeriel?”

Ruban glanced sideways at Ashwin, taken aback. The Zainian never failed to surprise him, somehow, and for some reason he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something he was missing when it came to the other man; something important.

Ashwin’s questions seemed to have taken the scientist’s mind off the shortcomings of the various professions, at least. Instead, his face lit up as if somebody had breathed new life into his overtaxed lungs. “More effective?” he exclaimed, looking at Ashwin incredulously. “This formula will not just make sifblades more effective, dear sir; it will change the application of sif as we know it permanently. It will herald a new era in humanity’s war against Aeriels.”

“I’m sure,” said Ashwin patiently. “But how?”

Visht took a deep breath, leaning back into his chair. “You understand how sifblades work, right? The basic principles of how sif operates. Its properties?” He squinted doubtfully at Ashwin.

As Ruban watched, Ashwin’s eyes went wide, his face overcome by a look of innocent confusion. By now, Ruban knew that helplessly bewildered expression for the fishing tactic it really was, but he kept his mouth shut anyway. It was always a good idea to keep your sources talking. The more they spoke, the more likely they were to say something useful without realising it.

Dr. Visht sighed resignedly. “Aeriels are energy beings. That’s why regular weapons don’t work against them. While they share quite a few external physical characteristics with humans, biologically speaking, they operate on entirely different principles.” Ruban felt as though he was back in his first year at Bracken, sitting impatiently through the introductory lectures, waiting desperately for the real combat training to begin. Ashwin looked interested, though, and he supposed there wasn’t any harm in letting the doctor warm up to the meat of the matter. He didn’t want to rush him, lest he leave anything important out. “Unlike humans, Aeriels do not need food or water for sustenance. While it is not impossible for them to eat, they sustain themselves primarily on energy derived directly from the sun. In that sense, I suppose you could say they’re more akin to plants than to humans.

“Anyway, because the energy they consume is more direct in nature, it grants them greater physical prowess and accelerated powers of healing. Practically, this means that flesh wounds do not affect them as they would a human, thus rendering conventional weapons useless.

“Sif, as you know, is the world’s greatest and fastest conductor of energy. It’s the only substance on earth that can sap an Aeriel’s energy faster than its body can replenish it. Sifblades kill Aeriels not by means of any physical wounds, but simply by drawing the energy – their life-source – out of their bodies faster than they can recharge their batteries.

“But of course, in order to accomplish this, you need a significant amount of sif to first enter the Aeriel’s system; enough to overcome its natural processes and sap its energy to the extent that its body shuts down entirely. This is why sif cannot be used in bullets. A bullet couldn’t carry enough sif to stop an Aeriel from absorbing energy at a rate fast enough to replenish lost power.

“Well, it couldn’t yet,” Visht said, a triumphant glint in his eye. “Reinforced sifblades are made from enhanced sif ores that have passed through extensive induced pressure to make them better conductors of energy than regular sif, several times over. A tiny amount of the reinforced sif can do far more damage than twenty ordinary sifblades taken together. Even glancing contact with a reinforced sifblade would fell most normal Aeriels. A single stab wound would kill an X-class in a matter of seconds. Once this formula has been perfected, the tides in this age-old war will turn so quickly, it would be as if centuries have passed in the blink of an eye. If everything goes according to plan, there would be no Aeriels left on earth by the turn of the century.”

Ruban knew all this already, of course. Subhas had explained the practical implications of the formula to him and Simani during their meeting on Emancipation Day, if not all the technical details. But as the doctor spoke, he couldn’t help but feel his heart hammering in his chest, his blood buzzing with anticipation in his veins at the thought of having such a weapon in his hands. Of holding it between his fingers as he drove it through the heart of an attacking Aeriel, watching the creature crumple at his feet like a discarded rag doll.

Glancing sideways at Ashwin, he saw that the younger man had gone a little green around the gills. Well, he supposed even seasoned fighters could sometimes be made uncomfortable by cold-blooded descriptions of graphic violence, and the Zainian was barely more than a kid, for all his secret Aeriel-killing techniques. Turning his attention back towards the doctor, Ruban frowned. “Everything isn’t going according to plan, is it though, Dr. Visht? The Supreme Court itself has ordered the IAW to look into the rumours of an impending Aeriel attack on SifCo. It can’t all be nothing,” he said, deliberately goading.

Visht snorted. “Oh please. People who say these kinds of things are half-witted idiots that don’t know what they’re talking about.” He stood up and walked over to one of the wooden chests, withdrawing a jingling bunch of keys from one of its drawers. Walking back to his table, he chose one of the keys and used it to open the bottom right drawer of the desk. When he straightened once more, Ruban saw that the doctor had a small black disk in his hand, a little under the size of his palm. This he put on the table before his visitors, leaning back into his chair with an air of satisfaction.

“This is the disk containing the formula. And if it were to be stolen or destroyed – which is very unlikely, considering our security measures – I daresay we would face some minor problems, a little delay in the inevitable, perhaps. The formula will still be there. It is stored, in fragments, in various locations and systems across the country. It would take some time to reassemble all of that and start work once again from where we left off, as this is currently the only full copy of the entire formula in existence.

“But the thing is, even if somebody did manage to steal it, this disk would be less than useless to the thief. The formula in it is buried under layers upon layers of encryptions and codes, created by different programmers working for various organisations across the world, most of whom had no idea about the existence of any of the others. Only about five or six people at the topmost echelons of the government and of SifCo itself have the key to decrypt even part of the code. And the thief would need at least two of them to cooperate with him in order to recover anything of value from this disk. Now, short of a hostile Aeriel takeover of our government within the next few months, I don’t see how that could happen. Do you? So, you tell me, Mr. Kinoh, why would anyone go through that much trouble to get their hands on what will essentially be a useless scrap of metal outside this building?”

Before Ruban could answer, however, a searing flash of lightning cut across the stormy sky outside, followed by an ear-splitting crack of thunder. As the trio looked out of the window, momentarily distracted, a fireball from the heavens seemed to crash into the smaller west wing of the facility, escalating into a deafening explosion followed by the horrified screams of those in the vicinity.

Before he could even properly register what was happening, Ruban was on his feet, running towards the exit, his sifblade in his hand. As Ashwin rose to follow him out, Dr. Visht called after them, his voice fearful: “Is it Aeriels?”

“Yes,” Ashwin replied.

***

“It was a distraction,” Ruban breathed as Ashwin came up behind him, skidding to a stop a few yards away from the west wing. He looked up at the devastation wrought on the topmost floor of the structure. It was immediately obvious to both of them, however, that the attack had been random and unplanned, with no specific target. A section of the uppermost balcony had been shattered and bits of concrete littered the landing below, while others hung precariously off the jagged edges of what remained of the veranda. But the attack had been too shallow, the devastation it had wrought limited largely to the outer edges of the building. If it had been meant to target the people working within the walls of the structure, it had been singularly inadequate an attempt.

That had never been the point of the blast, though, and Ruban knew it even as he whipped around and started running in the opposite direction almost instinctively. It wasn’t here that the actual target lay.

***

Bursting through the doors to the ‘Restricted’ room they had just left, the first thing Ruban noticed was the light. The second was Dr. Visht’s prone form lying unconscious in a corner of the room.

Letting the same instinct that had been driving him for the past few minutes take control of his body, Ruban lifted his hand and threw his sifblade almost blindly just a few inches in front of the streak of light that he had first noticed upon entering the chamber. It was an Aeriel with its wings outstretched, heading towards the only window in the room – the one overlooking the courtyard with a direct view of the wrecked west wing.

The blade reached the window just as the Aeriel made to fly out into the open, shattering the iron window-sills as if they were made of cheap plastic. The weapon connected, however, pinning the creature by its wing to the wooden frame surrounding the glass window-panes. The Aeriel let out a strangled cry, trying weakly to break free even as light poured out of the injured appendage. Ruban leapt forward, pulling the blade out of the creature’s wing and with one swift motion slashing its throat before it could take advantage of its freedom to fight back.

As the Aeriel’s body crumpled at his feet, Ruban caught the all-too-familiar glint of a building energy-shell through the window, shining ominously against the thunderous sky. Adrenaline coursing through his veins, he jumped back into the room just in time to avoid the blast that ripped through the outer wall of the building, almost annihilating not only a good portion of the wall itself but also many of the metal cabinets that had stood against it.

When the air had finally cleared of the concrete-and-metal particles that were all that was left of the beautiful glass exterior of the east wing, Ruban could make out the vague silhouette of an Aeriel floating mid-air in the gap now created by the destroyed wall. His vision was still too fuzzy to clearly make out the features of this new monster, but he could see the only thing that mattered: three tiny red marks emblazoned against the silvery whiteness of the creature’s wings, the tips almost glowing crimson.

Tauheen, the last Aeriel Queen – Ruban thought deliriously. That mythical creature that they had all read about in textbooks, but that had never actually been seen in living memory. His mind felt dazed, and for a brief second he thought he could feel himself shaking.

Then the moment passed, and he straightened, leaning slightly forward into the combative stance he would adopt before launching into any fight. At least this time he had his sifblade in his hand. He could feel Ashwin tensing behind him. Just this once, he almost sympathised with the foreigner. Ruban could hardly imagine a situation tenser than this one.

As they watched, Tauheen moved. And though Ruban knew it was physically impossible for her to have done so, it seemed to him almost as though she had teleported from her position near the destroyed wall to within an inch of his face.

With movements so swift he could barely follow them with his eyes, the Aeriel reached out and wrapping pale fingers around his throat, lifted him into the air as if he weighed no more than a child’s toy.

Ruban gripped his sifblade and swung it at his attacker, but Tauheen dodged easily. Leaning back slightly to avoid the blade by mere inches, she threw the Hunter against the nearest wall with enough force to knock the wind out of his lungs. Ruban tried to keep his feet but his knees buckled, unable to hold up his weight. The sifblade fell out of his hand, clattering to the floor with a sound that rung like a death-knell in his ears.

Tauheen fell to her knees beside him, reaching out to touch the side of his face almost gently. “You really are something, aren’t you my boy?” she whispered sweetly in his ear, leaning forward so that her breath brushed his skin. For a moment, his heart stopped at the sight of her eyes – dark with flecks of iridescent silver. He had never seen anything like them.

If Ruban hadn’t been fighting to stay conscious – his head throbbing painfully from where it had hit the wall – he might have laughed at how surreal the situation was.

“You’ve certainly given me more trouble than your life is worth, these last few years. But no hard feelings,” she smiled, wrapping her fingers around his throat, this time hard enough to make him arch up into the air, trying to breathe. She just pressed harder, the serene smile never leaving her lips, relentlessly squeezing the air out of his lungs.

He almost wished she would get it over with already. He had no doubt that she could kill him with a single flick of her wrist. But she seemed to enjoy drawing it out; almost as though she were making a point.

“I intend to repay all my debts in kind.”

In Ruban’s (admittedly limited) experience, eloquent victory speeches should always be reserved for after your enemy is safely dead. Because while long-winded pre-murder tirades might sound cool on principle, they were never quite worth the sheer awkwardness of having your victim escape at the end of it, thus rendering the whole exercise pointless.

Not that he wasn’t glad Tauheen hadn’t gotten the memo on that one, as Dr. Visht’s large mahogany desk came flying out of nowhere to slam against the Aeriel’s side.

For less than a moment, his assailant lost her balance, her hold on Ruban slipping as she tried to steady herself on her knees. That was all the time Ruban needed. He leapt out from under her, seizing his blade as he rose to his feet and jumping back as far as he could manage without falling out of the gaping hole in the wall. He cursed under his breath, trying not to trip over any of the toppled furniture. To say that he did not like having to fight the bloody Aeriel Queen in a space as confined as this one would be to make the understatement of the century.

Tauheen, for her part, had forgotten all about Ruban for the time being. Instead, she had turned around and was now staring at Ashwin, whom she seemed to have noticed for the first time. Ruban realised then that it must have been the young Zainian who had swung the table at Tauheen while he was busy getting strangled. He spared a moment to admire the sheer audacity of the act before readying himself to jump to the boy’s defence when the Aeriel finally attacked him.

Instead of trying to kill Ashwin, however, Tauheen let out a surprised laugh, never taking her eyes off the Zainian. The air vibrated with her mirth, and Ruban could feel his own confusion – and fear – growing with every passing second. The adrenaline rush that had kept him going for so long was now starting to fade and Ruban had to fight to keep his vision from swimming. His head felt like someone was hammering at it with a million mallets and he knew that if he didn’t end it soon, he would have no hope of winning.

Not that he had much of that anyway.

The Aeriel was talking again, seeming to have gotten over her giggling fit. “By Zeifaa, it really is you,” she was saying, looking into Ashwin’s eyes. She chuckled. “I always had high hopes for you, my love. You’re wasted back at home. Earth is where you should be, where we should be, not hiding like cowards out of mortal reach. Safaa doesn’t have what it takes to sit on the throne, she never did.”

Before Ashwin could make a reply – though Ruban couldn’t think what on earth Tauheen had expected him to say – he threw his sifblade at the Aeriel’s back. Tauheen sensed it coming and flew up into the air to avoid the attack, just as he had expected. What he hadn’t been so sure about was the second part of the plan, since he had had no time to discuss it with the Zainian beforehand.

Ashwin didn’t disappoint. As the blade flew past the spot where Tauheen had been a moment ago, its target having disappeared, the young man reached out and seized the weapon mid-air, flipping it in his hand and leaping up onto one of the chairs they had occupied earlier during their meeting with Visht. Now almost level with the floating Aeriel, he struck with a speed that could rival Tauheen’s, almost plunging the blade into the Aeriel’s heart. At the last moment, Tauheen moved sideways, causing the weapon to strike her shoulder instead, but the damage was severe nonetheless and Ruban heard the sound of bone cracking under the vicious assault.

Light flooded the room as Tauheen stumbled back a few inches, wearing an expression of shock.

Seizing the opportunity, Ruban rushed forward and kicked the Aeriel behind the knees just as she was about to land, knocking her off her feet. Then, catching the blade that Ashwin threw back at him, he raised his hands to finish the creature off once and for all.

With Ruban standing over her and the sifblade barely an inch from her throat, Tauheen’s wings flared. And with the preternatural speed – even by Aeriel standards – that Ruban had seen glimpses of before, she all but disappeared from under him in a rush of wind and silvery feathers.

She reappeared near the destroyed wall and leaned over the dead Aeriel’s corpse. For a second, her hands moved searchingly through its feather-cloak. Then she leapt off the edge of the landing into the cloudy sky beyond.

As she rose higher into the air, her humongous wings forming a halo around her receding form, she turned to look one final time at Ruban. Her unnatural eyes burned with something he couldn’t define.

Then she was gone, and all that remained were the damaged buildings and the faint screams filling the air around them, almost drowning out the distant sound of emergency sirens.

***