The escort came in the dusk.

It was a quiet ship, but one that demanded a more dramatic response than the simple guild vessel of Pagan Chorus. A Shrikeling, it was called in layman's terms, a High Federation multi-purpose exploration ship, one specifically designed to fly through the myriad atmospheres and environments of the multiverse. Orbular in appearance, with twin crescent wings that pointed diagonally towards the land below, the Shrikeling floated over Scuttleway, a dominant god that dwarfed the airships around it, easily twice as large as the largest of trade galleons that flew over the Great Orange Crab. On its hull, written in High Speech, was the ship's name: Intrepid Revelation.

Becenti looked up at the Shrikeling from one of Castle Belenus's balconies. He was back in his usual suit-and-tie affair, his graying hair tied back in a ponytail, revealing his worn, aged face. Joseph leaned against the balcony's stone rail next to him, his arms crossed. Below, the citizens of Scuttleway pointed and awed, for it was not every day that the High Federation much such an obvious, flagrant display of power. The everyday folk talked in quiet hushes, the Scuttleway Militia watched with not a bit of trepidation.

Far away, in Sunala’s keep, Rosemary watched the noblewoman gaze out the window at the ship, her eyes narrowing at the sight.

Joseph, for his part, just watched, gauging Becenti's reaction.

“You sure you're up for this?” he said.

“It was a personal request from the Prime Voice himself,” Becenti said, “One simply does not ignore his summons.”

“I thought he was like a president, not a king.”

Becenti gave him a dry smirk in response.

“Once, the Prime Voice was very much like a president,” Becenti said, “But that was before my time.”

Something unlatched from the Intrepid Revelation. A small ship, an escort that willowed its way down to the balcony. Its bay doors opened, bright light enveloping the darkness. The silhouette of a Federation soldier eclipsed the glow.

“Designation: Shimmer,” the soldier said.

“Just 'Becenti,' is fine.”

“You will accompany me, metahuman,” the soldier said.

The soldier was wearing a helmet and was in full combat gear, a plasma rifle held in one hand. His jaw was set, and Joseph realized, through the visor, that he wasn't taking his gaze off of Becenti as the older man stepped onto the railing.

“Sure you don't want me to come?” Joseph said.

“Of course not, Mr. Zheng,” Becenti said, “This is a business between he and I. Besides, you've got latrine duties.”

“...It's eight at night.”

“And I expect every toilet and urinal to be sparkling when I return,” Becenti said, “I will be inspecting yours and Ms. Rosemary's work very carefully.”

He saw the younger man's jaw set, and simply smiled in reply. Without another word, Becenti stopped onto the escort, which sealed itself off and began moving back towards the Shrikeling. The soldier pointed at one of the seats.

“You will sit here,” he ordered.

Becenti complied, sitting down. Compared to the humid night of Scuttleway, the ship's interior was cold and dry. The soldier sat across from him, a wary frown lining his face. Becenti could only give a cool smile in response.

Without another word, the escort lurched onto the Shrikeling, opening up to a pristine, if relatively small, hangar. More Federation soldiers were waiting for Becenti as he stepped out, all of them fully decked out in the most advanced combat armor the Federation could field, all of them pointing weapons at him as he stepped out. Becenti could only keep his cool smile, his eyes set forward as they escorted him to his quarters. The room was bare and gray, with the only furniture being a circular bed. Becenti sat down on it.

One of the soldiers stayed in the room with him, back towards the door.

The Intrepid Revelation shuddered as she took off. Hers was a darker purr, one more guttural than the usual Fedtek ships Becenti had been on. Even the Titania Amber (bless the old girl's heart) sounded fine on her good days, clean and cheerful. But this ship's engines were almost beast-like in their utterances.

It was no surprise, of course. The Shrikelings had often been used during the war, the entire vessel designed as an intimidation tactic. The shimmering, orb-like design of the ship's hull was a farce. In a moment, the entire ship could open like an egg, revealing heavy weaponry designed to scourge the face of a plane, plasma embankments and turrets and even, in some cases, a heavily modified glassmaker. Shrikelings were there to show the multiverse just how much more advanced, how much more superior, the Silver Eye was to the rest of reality.

The fact that the Prime Voice had called for one to escort Becenti was a message, one that he read clearly. The soldier all but glared at him as they made the journey off-plane.

***

Becenti realized something was wrong when he looked down at his watch and realized several hours had passed. His brow furrowed as he looked up at the soldier.

“Is everything alright?” he said.

The soldier was quiet. Becenti could see the frown deepen, and the man's grip on his rifle tightened. A small amount of fear fluttered in his belly, but Becenti had felt that before. Defied it, even, as he continued.

“We would have planeshifted to the Silver Eye by now,” Becenti said, “Are we not going to Valm's office on Everlasting Truth?”

“You will refer to him as the Prime Voice, metahuman,” the soldier gruffed.

Becenti rolled his eyes.

“Very well,” he said, “Am I to meet the Prime Voice on Everlasting Truth?”

“That knowledge is classified,” the soldier said, “As such, I am not willing nor able to provide that information.”

“Come now,” Becenti said, “You don't have to tell me the exact coordinates. But it's odd, isn't it?”

The soldier sneered.

“The place we are going is not on Everlasting Truth, metahuman,” he said, “It is far from there. Another few days, at least.”

“Oh dear,” Becenti said, “That places it somewhere in the Apple, doesn't it?”

“You are free to guess where it is, metahuman, but it will do you no good,” the soldier said, “Now, I suggest you take to bed. It is a long journey.”

Becenti looked around the room. Doubtless, they were going to keep him here for the entire journey's duration. The soldier's sneer returned back to his suspicious frown. He continued to stare forward as Becenti lay down on the bed.

“Well,” Becenti said, “Perhaps I should have brought a book.”

***

The Intrepid Revelation, at last, began to shake and shudder, the tell-tale signs that it was entering the atmosphere of a planet. Becenti, who had on the very first day tossed aside his overcoat, looked up from where he was on the bed. Two days of interstellar travel, the only indication of any movement aboard the ship being the changing of the guard and the bringing of meals. He felt very much like a prisoner, something he hadn't experienced for a very long time.

Darker memories threatened to surface, but Becenti pushed them down. This is what Valm wanted to do. To torture him in a near-civilized way, to make him feel small. To break him down, just a bit, so he would lower his guard. Though for what purpose, Becenti wasn't sure.

But it was not the first time Valm had done this. It would not be the last, either, as the doors opened and another line of soldiers came to escort him. They took him through the dark, half-lit corridors of the ship, down a few ramps, and back out towards the hangar bay.

They had landed on a planet, a beautiful one, with green trees and a blue sky. Becenti could hear, far in the distance, the call of some sort of bird, its cry long and sorrow-filled. He stepped off of the ship and onto freshly cut grass, squinting as he looked up. The sun high above was a ruby red, and the planet had a ring system cutting across the azure expanse, orange-cream in coloration. A road snaked by Becenti's left, a well-worn dirt trail that curved alongside a lake, ending at a gleaming white mansion.

One of Valm's estates.

The soldiers began taking him down the road, moving in time with him, practically on a forced march. They followed him, crowded around him, nearly jostled him, right until he came up to the estate's steps.

Of course, more soldiers were inside, flanking either side of the double-doors. They were in more ornate armor, ceremonial wear of shining, sun-burnished gold, smooth and polished and far too gaudy for actual combat. Even their rifles were decorated, coated in gold, the muzzles possessing two ceremonial horns that represented Garish Anack, the Hero of the Third War of Invigoration. A being who had personally slain four hundred metahumans by his own hand, and millions more with his voice. A being who had led the High Federation into the 40th Age of Reconquest.

Another message. One Becenti read clearly, as the two soldiers took point. One was Jugdran, which did not surprise him. The other was human – disturbingly so. Whatever his world's equivalent was to Native American. Practically a boy from the Rez, the soldier's face was hardened and scowled.

“You will bathe, metahuman,” he said, “You will abandon the clothes you wear, and don something more presentable to our Prime Voice.”

Becenti gave a curt, short nod in response. He allowed them to escort him to the showers, where, at last, he was left alone. It was the first time they had let him out of their sight. But as he stripped down, tossing his sweat-stained suit, he could not help but glance to the ceiling.

There. In the corner. A security camera. There would be no privacy here. He pulled a face as he showered, before pulling on the silken robes laid out for him. Once more, he tied his hair back into a ponytail, the band replaced with a ivory-white string, a unique cloth from Keteria III, where the High Federation had, long ago, enslaved the metahumans of Emular to harvest the silkworms growing in its many-hued trees.

A third message.

The soldiers took Becenti once more, bringing him to a long table. It was laid out in a meal, plates of fine glass carrying various gourmet dishes from across the galaxy. Vinian berries piled high in a bowl, the boiled and salted legs of a Geshfrog lay in two lines on a plate, even a rare Progastian Geode was there, presented on a stand in the table's center, already cracked like an egg, the edible blue crystals glittering within.

Becenti took a seat. The soldiers stood on either side of him.

And the three of them waited.

***

He was Olendris Valm. The Prime Voice of the High Federation, a position he had held for some one hundred and fifty years. A lifetime to the average being. But then, Valm was no average being. He was a Voskian, long-necked and gray-skinned, his head a skull-like orb, with wrinkles that stretched across his face, signs of advanced age. And with age, came wisdom, which seemed to pool into his bright blue eyes that stared at Becenti, through Becenti, into Becenti's very soul. Twin fins, manta ray-like, billowed out of his back, folding neatly around him like a great cloak. He was wearing pure white robes, the four interlocking hands of the Federation clutching around his stomach, the robe's hems undulating like the fins of a cuttlefish. Slowly, with the grace of an angel, Valm drifted to the other side of the table. With a single, long-fingered hand, he waved the soldiers away. Becenti's escorts saluted, before making their way out of the room, leaving the two of them alone.

Without a word, Valm brought a dish forward, the Geshfrog legs, picking up a small, metal spear and jabbing it through. He brought up one of the legs to his mouth, letting it sit there a moment, before taking a bite. He chewed slowly, quietly.

And his eyes, those azure blue eyes that pierced through all, never left Becenti, as though expecting him to be the first to speak.

“Well,” Becenti said, “You've certainly beefed up security around here, haven't you?”

Valm swallowed, and Becenti could see the food go down his throat, bulging against the Prime Voice's neck as it made its journey to his stomach.

“Soldiers in armor, at all times. Practically treating me as though I were a danger to them.”

“Ah,” Valm's voice was deep, horn-like, like the harshest winds of a gas giant, “I would not be so naive. They treat you truthfully. They treat you as you are.”

He spoke in a casual manner, but the venom was there, just beneath the surface. A viper's remark. Becenti took it with grace, hiding his disdain by looking over the various beverages. All of them were alcoholic in some way, mulled wines and light ales.

“Have you any... water?” Becenti asked.

Valm shook his head.

“Unfortunate,” Becenti said. He didn't touch any of the stuff, despite momentary temptations. Instead, he set his gaze forward, at Valm, who watched the metahuman's internal struggle with that same impassive look.

“Regardless of how you arrived here,” the Prime Voice said, “You are here now. I welcome you to my house, Shimmer.”

“....And where might 'this' be?” Becenti said.

“My guards – your escort – would rather you not know the exact coordinates of this place. No metahuman has walked on this soil-”

Inwardly, Becenti rolled his eyes.

“But there is a time for firsts. This is Stellarune, a paradise world that has been in my family for several generations.”

“It's pretty,” Becenti said.

Valm gave a smile, and Becenti despised how genuine it looked.

“Your report, Shimmer,” Valm said, “Tell me, what were your people doing? How did they fare?”

“Usually, I would give this to you via datarod,” Becenti said, “Is that not sufficient?”

“There was a concentrated population of metahumans on Prime,” Valm said, “A potentially dangerous situation, considering your peoples' history. I make it a point to ensure that the multiverse is safe when such convergences occur.”

Becenti's eyes narrowed. He considered his words carefully as he relayed the events of the convergence, what metahumans were there, as well as what they did.

He made special mention of the Earthmute. Of Visionary. Their common enemy, the news of which Valm took with his usual stoic aplomb. The Prime Voice did not interrupt Becenti, not even for questions, his long fingers pressed together, his mouth creased into a frown.

Eyes always, always unblinking.

“And there you have it,” Becenti said.

“So she got away,” Valm said.

“She did,” Becenti said.

“Another failure of the Silver Knights, I suppose,” Valm said, “I am surprised, Shimmer. I would have expected you to be more proactive. You should not have let one such as Oliphant lead the charge.”

“Oh?”

Valm poured himself a glass of wine, the red liquid deluging down into a crystal glass.

“He is nothing more than a pale echo of a greater man,” Valm said, “Silver Arthur was a paragon, in every sense of the word. A being that only comes into existence once in an age. He was one of the few humans I came to respect.”

He let that statement sink in.

“To emulate him,” he continued, “To ape his demeanor and leadership, is to sully his legacy.”

“The greatest form of flattery is imitation,” Becenti said.

“A theoretical,” Valm said, “If one must imitate, and succeed in imitating, one must do so well. Oliphant is a poor substitute, and we are all the worse for it.”

He drank deep, draining his glass, after which he put his drink down and to the side.

“Now,” he said, “As much as I wish to talk about the flailing tribulations of a broken man, I would much rather get to the heart of the matter.”

“Of course,” Becenti said, “You're a busy man.”

“A schedule to keep,” Valm intoned, “The first is that I want your assurance that this was just a singular event. I would not wish for a repeat of Death Valley.”

Becenti frowned.

“Earthmute can planeshift anywhere,” he said, “The multiverse is a big place. I can't assure you of anything with him.”

“Ah,” Valm said, “But usually, when Earthmute rises somewhere, it is a quiet affair. We keep it in our records, attempt to, once more, find rhyme or reason to his travelings, and move on. But this was a different case, what happened on Prime. I want to ensure it will not happen again.”

“Prime is home to many metahumans,” Becenti said, “And the planes around it have short forecast seasons. I would presume so many metahumans went to Prime because it was close by.”

“Ah, and once again, Prime proves a problem,” Valm said.

Becenti's brow furrowed. He could hear the unspoken threat in Valm's voice.

“I have contacts,” Becenti said, “If Earthmute arises again, they will let me know.”

“And you will let me know,” Valm said, “I think it was a mistake to have an indigenous voice to act on my behalf. I used a scalpel when I should have used the iron rod. As my forebears did.”

They both pretended to ignore Becenti's hands clench into fists.

“The second matter I wish to speak to you about,” Valm said, “Is your visits. To the prisons. You aren't trying to… turn coat on us, are you, Shimmer?”

“Of course not,” Becenti's voice held but the barest hint of his restrained anger, “The Manticore was a monster. He savaged Prime. I would not align with him.”

“But he gave your people hope, did he not?” Valm said, “Gave them a nation again, a dream worth striving for.”

“I would not call what he stood for a 'dream',” Becenti said.

“Then what are your reasons for visiting these prisons?” Valm prodded.

“...Call it a gut feeling,” Becenti said.

“A gut feeling,” Valm drawled, “An illogical premonition, then. Investigation without sufficient cause.”

“I've heard rumors. I've tuned into the news. You've already lost one prisoner, haven't you?”

“We did not lose anyone,” Valm's said, and for once he dropped the pretension of civility, his voice dangerously edged, “Dakos is a creature of habit. He left his prison, but we know his general whereabouts and travelings. He is still beholden to the authority of the High Federation.”

“You can assure that?” Becenti challenged.

“Yes,” Valm said, “He will be re-captured. Brought back to his prison. We can do so at any moment.”

“And you won't do so now?”

The Prime Voice did not answer at first. He, instead, turned his attention to his food, taking another bite, chewing slowly and with not a bit of restrained frustration. But he was controlled, his voice like winter, as he looked back up at Becenti.

“Other, more important matters have demanded my attention,” he said, “We will capture Dakos when our other priorities have been seen to. I care very little for a pagan god from a lesser culture.”

“Of course,” Becenti said amicably, “As is your prerogative.”

The words hung in the air, a gap of silence between the metahuman and the Voskian. Valm took the opportunity to pour himself another glass of wine, sipping now, instead of draining.

“I presume, of course, that you wish to visit the rest of the prisons,” Valm said.

“Yes. Stellar Queen's was next on my list,” Becenti said, “And in that, I come to you with a bargain.”

“Ah, ever the sneaky one,” Valm said, “Go on, then.”

“In lieu of payment for services rendered for the Prime job, I wish to charter a ship to take me to the Nordanian Nebula, in hopes that we might observe Stellar Queen's prison.”

Valm nodded, considering the offer.

“The deal I was giving your little guild was rather sizable, considering its relatively minor influence.”

“It was certainly generous,” Becenti said, “But what I am doing is more important than mere money.”

“That,” Valm said, “And I hear you have been taking jobs for the elves.”

Becenti flickered a smile.

“It has certainly helped our bank account,” he said.

The Prime Voice took a moment to consider Becenti's words, turning them over in his head. For the first time in their entire conversation, his eyes moved away from the metahuman, instead looking up as he became lost in thought, running numbers and calculations, benefits and drawbacks. Such a simple offer, but one considered as though it were the most important deal in the galaxy.

“Very well,” he said, “I will let you take Kristandi's vessel once more. The date and time, however, are up to me. He is currently on a personal assignment.”

“Thank you,” Becenti said.

“Mmm,” Valm said. He paused for a moment, before saying, “You don't seem to be hungry today, do you?”

“I ate before I got here, unfortunately,” Becenti said, “I certainly hope the gruel your servants gave me onboard the Shrikeling isn't their usual rations.”

“Of course not,” Valm said, “Perhaps it was an oversight. And you don't even want any wine?”

“I don't drink.”

“Ah, yes,” Valm said, “I had forgotten.”

A lie, one they both knew.

“Are we done here?” Becenti asked, “I have an InterGuild to prepare for.”

“Yes, we are finished,” Valm said, “I will let you know when you can go to Stellar Queen's prison. Expect a message from me at InterGuild.”

“You are going?”

“Pagan Chorus is,” Valm said, “They, as usual, will represent my interests in the guild world. You will meet Oliander again. He will provide you with everything you need.”

Becenti nodded, trying his best to hide the stab of anxiety his old once-friend's name produced. He rose from his seat.

“Thank you for the meal,” Becenti said.

“Of course, Shimmer,” Valm said, “Know that you always have my ear. And I always have your eyes.”

Becenti nodded.

“Keep your people in line, Shimmer,” Valm said, “And I will let you visit the vanquished.”

The Prime Voice gestured, and the doors opened. The two soldiers walked in, their eyes set forward, the human's flickering to Becenti's face for just a microsecond.

“Our guest will be leaving now,” Valm said, “Deliver him to Londoa. Give him heartier food this time, he has no stomach for mere nutrition.”

The soldiers saluted. They followed Becenti as he walked out of the room, out of the estate, and back into the sunshine of Stellarune.

***

The return journey to Londoa was scarcely more comfortable than before. Becenti was still put into a room, a soldier watching him at all times. He was given no privacy as he slept, as he waited, as he was given his meals – the same sort of soupy gray as before, only this time dusted with the barest hints of cinnamon.

Becenti hardly spoke as the Intrepid Revelation returned to Scuttleway. Instead, he took the time to think over his conversation, picking it apart in his head as the ship rumbled on. Valm had been his usual false self, a being that Becenti was used to dealing with. He could take the casual hatreds, the prejudices, the veiled metaphors that the Prime Voice presented. He had endured far worse and far more obvious.

There had been idle threats to Prime, but they both knew that they were hollow. The High Federation was far too busy with its various other matters, and it would take the greasing of several palms for Valm to mobilize the military for an engagement with a major planar nexus. Prime would find allies in the multiverse, and a small war would be had. Something that Valm would not approve of at this time.

There was also the conversation about Dakos, and Valm's disregard for the Martian god's escape. He was underestimating the Manticore's followers. He was humoring Becenti, allowing him to go to the prisons, but that was the extent of his actions.

If the Sons of Darwin returned...

No, when the Sons of Darwin returned, and made good on their original goals, Becenti was not sure how soon the High Federation would be able to respond.

These thoughts, and more, went through Becenti's head as the Intrepid Revelation planeshifted. The ship rumbled on, finally landing outside of Scuttleway. The soldiers, without a word, retrieved Becenti from his temporary quarters, taking him outside. The city loomed in the distance, still cloudy from the endless storms.

The soldiers left him, the Shrikeling taking to the air once more, its beast-like growl thundering as it flew away, back towards the Traveling Point on Beritale Landmass. The hum slowly disappeared as it became a blip against the sea of gray.

Becenti began walking back.