“No, no and no!”

Althea had waited silently with growing aggravation for Traejan to finish Goshram’s short, offensive list of demands. It was no surprise, not from the glimpses she had gotten from their negotiations, the look in the Makani’s leer. The last thing she was going to do on this planet was submit to that overbuilt thug. Althea glared at the blonde man, gripped the edge of the table hard, and dug her nails in.

It was enough that she had allowed Traejan to negotiate her offer, leave her memsuit and tunic behind on the Lifter, accede to wear the scraps of clothing left by Kaelin and Felda, so she wouldn’t look out of place.

Gratify that freak of nature– No! Never!

Traejan wouldn’t hold her glare, hid his head in the bowl of steaming lumps, muttered his response back to her between gulpfuls. At least he seemed embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” he apologized. “You said you wanted me to tell you. It’s what Goshram wants. His friends too,” he finished. That would explain the laughter she’d heard; but there had been a slight edge to it, maybe something she could exploit. The question was – were they really the man’s friends – or his sycophants? She lowered her eyes, released her grip, stared at her fingers. The color looked bad on her; she remembered her face in the mirror, transformation complete – looking unhealthy, sick even – weak.

On this kind of world, she was aware – size, strength, ability to physically intimidate – meant a lot. Goshram would exemplify that measure of status. If he was shown to be weak, beaten, humiliated… Could she be strong enough, fast enough, in her current condition?

“There are other greggas,” Traejan was saying, sounding distant, barely above the din of the crowd. “I can try a few which aren’t part of his group.”

Saplings, eking their lives out in the shadow of the big tree; only so happy to watch it fall – grow on their own. She made a fist; felt the strength – flex – in her muscles.

Althea turned back to the other table, narrowed her eyes, watching, scrutinizing Goshram’s body, its massive musculature, prominent bone structure; whispered her assessment secretly to Dorian, through her jury-rigged conductive commlink. She’d made sure it looked less like tech than industrial jewelry, and the men had accepted her lie.

You do not know yet much about these people, nor do you have control over your NANs. Do you need results so soon?

“I do,” she told him, “I almost destroyed you. I can’t let that happen again. We can’t take the slow way this time.”

Calmly, intellectually – eights after her uncontrolled, horrific act – Althea had worked out what had provoked it. Empathizing with Traejan’s loss, his tragedy – had almost cost her everything.

Her injuries, her losses, had made her unimaginatively vulnerable.

She had to get off Makan as soon as possible, needed to be properly healed. She couldn’t put off confronting this world’s Macro. Its beautiful, gratifying trinary being had to be her destination, the totality of her path. She had to focus her need on the Macro’s codestream, and its alone! Not Dorian’s – never Dorian’s.

Never ever. Never ever!

He’d been right. A micronic solution would take too long, likely cost too many lives. She had to choose her sacrifices; had to consider all the possible consequences.

You will have to be very observant, careful and completely committed to your actions, he advised.

“What else is new,” but taking down the big man could impress the crowd, get things moving.

Althea turned back to Traejan.

“Goshram’s a lot larger than his friends,” she noted. He nodded frowning.

“They say He’s geneered,” Traejan told her, “like his father, grandfather, all the way back. He’s the only gregga that doesn’t care the Ginga runs this town. Oneness, if the Ginga didn’t run things, Goshram probably would. Most of the others can intimidated or bought, not him. I’ve even heard his skin’s tough enough to stop bullets.”

An exaggeration, a cultivated myth, had to be.

Violence could be a dirty but quick solution. Not what she ever wanted – but how long did she dare wait? How much longer before she was overcome with burning hunger, again compelled to break into Dorian’s raw codestream?

“I look for the biggest, meanest one in the room,” a once very drunk Shirae had confided. “You can’t help take in the satisfaction radiating out of each and everyone when they see that kind of humiliation. It’s envy, and it’s in all of us. Even you.”

Althea couldn’t crush a man’s will with Valerian telepathy, but her NANs and her imprints could still offer her a significant advantage. She looked over at Goshram.

Big, powerful, tough – possibly geneered – but how fast?

He likely relied on his size, strength, and reputation. She had only a fraction of her fighting tools available to her. Who had the real advantage? Althea started to feel tense with anticipation. She glanced over at the bowl of stew that Traejan was inhaling, torn. Her NANs could use more resources, but… He pulled the spoon out of his mouth, held it out while he chewed.

“Did you want me to get you some more?”

She shook her head, still revolted. She’d had enough of the Makani swill to last a lifetime.

“Time to act,” she muttered, turned from Traejan to Kyso, raising her voice: “Do you think men like Goshram or the Ginga should get whatever they want?”

The old man offered a helpless shrug.

“Oneness, Kyso,” she began, feeling the anger and disgust building inside her. “I hope one day to find a world out here where society hasn’t fallen back to the same damned pattern.”

She turned back to Traejan.

“You did tell him I had trilium, didn’t you Trae?”