Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
The flyer banked hard over the ridge, and Becsul studied the scenery below.
The Ciresian wilderness stretched in every direction—an endless expanse of dark forest and jagged stone that had challenged warriors for most of their recorded history.
The old training grounds had been built here for exactly that reason.
If you could survive the wilderness, you could survive anything.
Except the Red Death.
His jaw tightened at the thought, and he forced his attention back to the controls, guiding the flyer towards the coordinates Councilor Naran had provided.
The other male had been characteristically vague about what awaited him—only that it was important, that it was secret, and that he had specifically chosen Becsul.
That last part troubled him more than he wanted to admit.
He had worked in the main reproductive labs for most of his adult life, but as a warrior, not a scientist. His job was to maintain order and discipline, and he was good at his job, even in the face of increasing despair.
But there were dozens of officers with more experience, more connections, more political savvy. Why had Councilor Naran chosen him?
The flyer’s sensors chirped, indicating the landing zone ahead.
The facility had originally been carved into the mountainside so it was half hidden by the surrounding forest, but it was even more hidden now, invisible to overhead satellites.
Someone had gone to considerable trouble to keep this place secret, and a sudden chill ran down his spine.
Easy, he told himself. I don’t even know what this is about yet.
But he had suspicions. Dark ones.
The flight from the capital had taken him over the eastern provinces—or what remained of them.
Ghost cities stood silent beneath the grey sky, their towers empty and their streets overgrown with the creeping vines that always reclaimed abandoned places.
Once, millions of Cire had lived in those cities. Now they were tombs.
The Red Death had swept across Ciresia like wildfire, killing three-quarters of the population in less than a generation. The females had died first and within a decade, there were none left. Not one. An entire half of their species, simply… gone, and with them, all hope for their future.
He had been young when it happened, barely into his teens, but he remembered the loss, the despair.
Remembered his mother fading and his father following.
His older sister and her family had taken him in, but then they were gone too.
He’d joined the other orphaned males and thrown himself into warrior training, burying his sorrow in work and discipline and determination.
The flyer touched down on a landing pad that looked newer than the surrounding structures—recently installed, like the sensor arrays and security barriers he spotted hidden in the trees that ringed the perimeter. Not just secret, but guarded.
The main building was ancient. Cut from the dark stone that was ubiquitous in this region, it was all sharp edges and defensive angles, designed more for function than aesthetics.
He recognized the style from his own training days at a similar facility on the southern coast. The entrance was flanked by carved pillars depicting scenes of battle, their surfaces worn smooth by centuries of weather.
But grafted onto this ancient foundation were hints of something distinctly modern.
A heavy metal door behind the stone pillars.
A satellite link and atmospheric processors concealed amongst the vegetation covering the roof.
A stack of white crates marked as medical supplies next to a small transporter.
The contrast was jarring, like seeing a surgeon’s tools laid out on an altar.
What are you doing here, Naran?
He unstrapped himself and climbed out of the flyer, taking a deep breath and letting it fill his lungs. The air smelled different here—cleaner than the capital, tinged with the sharp scent of the evergreens that covered the slopes below.
A small figure emerged from the main building, walking briskly towards him, and he was shocked to realize that the other male was Tandoran rather than Cire.
The Tandorans were known for their technical expertise and their willingness to work for whoever paid best, but the Cire Council had never been particularly welcoming to other species, especially on Ciresia.
The fact that Naran was utilizing offworld help made him even more uneasy about the reason for his visit. The Tandoran had mottled grey skin the color of the ancient stone and four spindly arms that folded across his chest as he bowed politely.
“Captain Becsul nak’Larentar?”
“Yes.”
“The Councilor is expecting you. This way, please.”
The Tandoran turned without waiting for a response, clearly expecting Becsul to follow.
He did, though not without a careful sweep of the landing area.
Aside from the transporter, two other flyers were parked nearby, all of them unmarked civilian models.
No visible guards, but he wasn’t foolish enough to think the place was undefended.
Beyond the ancient stone archway, the contrast between old and new was even more pronounced.
Portions of the original stone walls had been replaced with sleek metal panels and transparent partitions that revealed laboratories, equipment bays, and living quarters carved out of the old stone structure.
The carved stone floor had been covered with a smooth synthetic surface, and harsh white lights had replaced the traditional oil lamps.
It felt wrong. Like wearing someone else’s skin.
None of the workers who bustled around were Cire either. Several more Tandorans surrounded a Manigan in a white coat who disappeared through a side door. What looked like a Kethrani maintenance worker was adjusting something down one of the corridors
Where are my people?
“The Councilor’s office is through here.” The Tandoran gestured towards a door at the end of the corridor. “He asked not to be disturbed once you’ve arrived.”
“Understood.”
He knocked firmly on the door the Tandoran had indicated, waiting for an answer before hitting the door control. The door slid open.
Naran vel’Rendar stood with his back to the entrance, gazing out a window that overlooked the forested valley below.
He was tall even for a Cire, with a deceptively slender, elegant build.
His markings were a darker green than most—almost black in certain lights—and his uniform bore the subtle insignia of the Council’s inner circle.
“Becsul.” He didn’t turn around. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
Did I have a choice? The Council was the supreme authority on Ciresia, and the invitation had been a thinly veiled order.
“Councilor Naran.”
“Close the door. This discussion will remain between us.”
He obeyed, hearing the lock engage behind him with a soft click.
The office contained nothing except a desk, two chairs, and a shelf containing data crystals and a small stack of ancient texts.
Naran’s office in the city was far more luxurious and he wondered once again what the councilor was doing in this remote location.
“You’re wondering why I asked for you specifically.” Naran finally turned, his black eyes unreadable. “Why not a general, or another councilor, or one of the dozen officers with more seniority.”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“Sit.”
It wasn’t a request. He settled into one of the chairs, keeping his posture straight and his face calm.
Naran remained standing, his tail moving in slow, measured sweeps behind him. “How long have you been working at the main reproductive facility?”
He was quite sure that Naran already knew, but he answered him anyway.
“Almost twenty years. I started as a guard and worked my way up to Captain.”
“And what do you think of the program? Honestly.”
He opened his mouth to spout the usual line about their efforts slowly but steadily succeeding, then changed his mind.
“We’re failing.”
“Failing.” Naran’s mouth twisted. “That’s a generous word for it. Do you know how many viable children we’ve produced in the last decade?”
“No.”
“Ninety-eight. All of them male.” The word echoed in the quiet room. “More than twenty years of research. Billions of credits. And we have nothing to show for it but a collection of increasingly desperate theories and a population that shrinks every year.”
He said nothing. He’d suspected as much, but hearing it confirmed by a Council member was different.
“The Council has been debating our options for years,” Naran continued.
“Some advocate for acceptance. A dignified end to our species, with resources redirected towards preserving our culture and history for whoever comes after us.” His lip curled.
“Others are determined to keep going with our current efforts.”
“And you, Councilor? What do you advocate?”
Naran’s eyes met his, and for a moment Becsul saw something unexpected there. Not the cold calculation he’d always associated with the Council’s inner circle, but something rawer. Rage.
“I advocate for survival,” Naran said. “By whatever means necessary.”
He moved to his desk and activated a holographic display. An image appeared in the air between them—a Manigan male with white scaled skin and an unusual shock of orange hair wearing a lab coat.
“This is Dr. Veyalor. I brought him here. He is the reason this facility exists.” Naran looked down at his hand, thoughtfully examining his fingertips. “Veyalor had a relative who conducted reproductive research. Dr. Pagalan’s methods were… questionable at best, but his results were unprecedented.”
“What kind of results?”