Exile War: The First Boxed Set

By Bowen Greenwood

Mutants. Genetically engineered telepaths. Star-crossed lovers. Interstellar war.

When pig-human hybrids and mind-controlling telepaths come roaring back from exile, war erupts in the Union of Human Space, where peaceful colony worlds have forgotten armed conflict altogether. Langston Wheeler, one of the Union's order of genetically engineered peacekeepers, plunges hip deep into the conflict while on a mission to the wealthy world known as Felicitas. Tia Dynn, Executive of the planet, fights on the front lines to save her people from mind-controlled slavery. Raysen Pilak, pilot and smuggler, rises to lead the free people of Human Space in their battle against the Exiles. And Cleo Sable, Langston's one-time love, faces a choice that can change the course of the war and of history.

The Exile War is a tale of heroism and sacrifice, violence and love. Epic high fantasy set in space, martial artistry and deep back story make this a space opera of interplanetary proportions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bowen Greenwood
• Release date: Apr 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005890766

Bowen Greenwood

Bowen Greenwood is an Amazon charts bestselling author of thrillers and science fiction. His experience as a police beat reporter and as a court clerk inform his thrillers. His lifelong love of science fiction and fantasy led to the Exile War series.

Book preview

Exile War

EXILE WAR

THE FIRST BOXED SET

EXILE WAR

BOWEN GREENWOOD

CONTENTS

Also By Bowen Greenwood

Onslaught

Distant Thunder

Legion of Traitors

Liberation

Hope for Mercy

ALSO BY BOWEN GREENWOOD

Exile War Series

Distant Thunder

Onslaught

Legion of Traitors

Liberation

Mercy Rising

Sherman Iron Mysteries

Irons in the Fire

Iron Law

Forging Iron

While the Iron is Hot

Iron Curtain

Secrets Series

Death of Secrets

Life of Secrets

Born with Secrets

Deeper Secrets

Sons of Thunder Series

Sons of Thunder

Fire and Thunder

Standalone Novel

The Prophet Conspiracy

Copyright © Bowen Greenwood, 2021

All rights reserved.

All names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this novel are fictitious or are used fictitiously. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and/or products is intended or should be inferred.

Edited by: Sherrie Dolby ([e-mail]) at Sanhedralite Editing and Publishing.

Cover Design: Fiona Jade Media.

Vellum flower icon Created with Vellum

Onslaught

PROLOGUE

Your life will be at risk.

Two men stood at a viewport. Before them endless space, star-flecked darkness, the infinite black. Around them, the bustle of a deep space refinery, cargo crews loading shuttles, and the constant low-grade roar of an antimatter collider that no amount of soundproofing could ever entirely squelch.

The speaker was old, gray haired, with a craggy face and a garrulous voice, but straight posture and a physical fitness that defied his years. He wore eyeglasses and a tan uniform of baggy fatigues and a smooth, high-collared jacket.

The man to whom he spoke wore the same uniform but with pitch black hair and none of the crows’ feet and laugh lines of the first.

I understand Elder Blocher. ‘Even to dying,’ the younger man replied. Those last three words came out smooth, practiced, rehearsed. They had the ring of a catechism.

Arvid Blocher, Elder of the Gentle Hand, passed over the recited slogan. And to be honest, Wheeler, your life may be the least valuable thing at risk. Political power is shifting. Human Space is changing. Tau Ceti and Felicitas have both reached the stage where they might no longer need the Union.

The Pax Aeterna had lasted so long, it was almost impossible to conceive of systems choosing not to participate in the Union.

Hard to believe, Elder.

Hard to believe or not, it is true, Langston. I cannot emphasize this enough. If you put a foot wrong on Felicitas, they may stop paying for their Union policy. And in a world where no one pays the Union anymore, who pays for the Gentle Hand?

I will not fail, Elder.

It’s more than just success or failure, Wheeler. Bring the rogue in, yes. But be a diplomat as well. Keep Felicitas Corporation happy. Do not give them an excuse to stop paying.

Understood, Elder.

Langston, I’m going to be blunt with you.

The younger man simply waited. He had a strong sense that he knew what was coming.

Not everyone agrees about sending you alone. You have a history, Wheeler of the Union. This situation calls for a Hand in Full who lives and dies by the rules of our order. I know you don’t need to be reminded that more than half the Elders consider you the opposite.

I know, Elder.

Ven Tremmer believed in you. He never stopped believing in you. And I believe in you too. Together, those two things swung the Elders, but I still need reassurance that I’m doing the right thing.

Langston Wheeler didn’t answer right away. Frankly, he wasn’t sure either.

Blocher went on. The quantum entanglements that lead to the future are always nebulous, but I can tell something is coming. If you fail on Felicitas, you won’t be ready for whatever it is. Just remember: Ven’s outsize influence won’t carry your career forever. It can’t, anymore.

I still can’t believe he’s gone, Elder. And to such a stupid mistake.

And that’s the final warning I wanted to give you before you go to Felicitas, young man. There may be more to Tremmer’s death than meets the eye.

Langston Wheeler looked askance at the Elder. How so?

Tremmer was leaving Tau Ceti to go to Felicitas. Tau Ceti is wealthy enough to get by without the Union. So is Felicitas. Possibly the two could be rivals. Possibly the two could be allies. We just don’t know.

Surely you can’t be suggesting that one or the other assassinated him?

The Elder of the Gentle Hand replied, "I suggest nothing, Wheeler. I only warn. We are sending you into danger. On the surface, you’re there to bring in a rogue telepath, itself the deadliest task we have to offer. But these waters run very deep. Do not let your guard down. Danger lurks in every shadow. If it strikes, it will be from the corner you least expect.

Above all, Wheeler, remember the Last Reach. Bring in the rogue. Beware of interstellar intrigue. Do not anger the Felicitan government. And never forget, Wheeler. ‘Serve. Even to dying.’

CHAPTER

ONE

A century after humans first landed on this gleaming blue and white jewel, Felicitas now played host to more humans than Avenstar, more humans than the Second Heart of Human Space Tau Ceti, more humans even than Earth. The planet hovered on the edge of center stage, ready to lead, ready to be a new beacon in the pitch-black sea that belonged exclusively to humankind.

A standard corporation governed the world. Every shareholder got a vote in proportion to the value of their investment. They elected a board of directors. The Directors elected a Chief Executive Officer of Felicitas, Inc.

And Tia Dynn, a smile and a handshake wrapped around a mystery, was the youngest person in the history of Felicitas to hold that office.

Born and raised on Felicitas from parents born and raised on Felicitas, she might have been called 30.78 years old, in terms of how Felicitas orbited its star. In fact, there were political factions who preferred it. However, until they achieved their wish, Earth’s time and calendar were standard throughout Human Space. Tia Dynn was, by that measurement, celebrating her birthday.

She was 30 years old.

Inoffensive little bots orbited around her as she glided through the party like a luxury sailing yacht through crystal tropical waters. All over Felicitas and its satellites and moon, shareholders in Felicitas Corp would be immersed in the VR stream of the night’s festivities. Farther out from her accepted-but-not-loved constellation of cams, sycophants and rivals orbited Ms. Dynn as well, each jostling, positioning, competing for a moment of her attention. If one got it, he then politely withdrew to give others a chance. If there was anyone rude enough not to, aides from the Executive’s staff would ease them out of the way.

But by and large, Felicitas was a polite society, and few of the partygoers committed any such breach of the unspoken rules.

Dynn’s blonde hair glowed in the dim party light, like a main sequence yellow star of her own. The blue of her eyes and the red of her lips played with the light as well. Tall, slender, made of sweeping curves and subtle swells, Executive Dynn made the VR streamers fortunes. People would watch almost anything with her in it. She knew it, the stream producers knew it, and her political opponents knew it with the grumpy acceptance of a poor man looking at a rich man's fortune.

She shunned the skintight one-piece outfits dominating the fashion scene in human space those days. Dynn, instead, wore a red dress, sparkling, flowing down to the floor in an elegant cascade. Such garments had not been in style for years, but her aides had plenty of data to show that her approval among the shareholders did not really move much up or down depending on what she wore, so she wore what she liked.

You are so kind to offer, Canton, she said, her smile speaking as loudly as her voice. Why, that makes my night. Let me talk to my scheduler and find out. I’ll let you know.

She had already used up That’s the best birthday present and You make 30 years wonderful. Her proficiency with finding ways to gently wave off suitors was almost as popular on the streams as was her beauty. Felicitan gambling dens offered interesting odds on which man from the upper strata of society might next win her nod for an evening out. Tia kept herself unaware of the state of betting, though she was well aware it went on.

Before another member of her human cloud could finally ascend to his long-awaited position at the head of the line for her attention, an aide tapped the Executive’s bare arm. She turned and smiled as the man thumbed his comm to jam the bots from hearing their conversation.

"The Gentle Hand is here, Executive. He is definitely not Ven Tremmer."

The whisper in her ear obviously wasn’t what Dynn expected. She swiveled her head to face her aide. Waxon Kline’s longer tunics hid his girth slightly. Most of the hair had abandoned his head, and his jowls hung slack.

Not Ven Tremmer? What do you mean? Who is it? How can it not be Ven Tremmer?

"His name is Langston Wheeler, Executive. A much younger man. Much. As to how we got this young fellow instead of Tremmer, I have no idea yet."

Dynn pointed directly at one of the bots and made a brushing aside gesture with her hand. At once, all the hovering little streamers whisked away. Stream producers saved a lot of money by simply programming their bots to obey her when she asked for some space. They could have stayed; however, guards from the Department of Protective Services would have simply destroyed the bots, and the streamers would have had to buy new ones. If they just backed off when she asked, streamers preserved their equipment, and Dynn would let them back in as soon as she could. Popularity was her most powerful political weapon; she was not about to let them leave her alone for long.

Kline, we told everyone the great hero of the Union was coming! Ven Tremmer. The greatest living Gentle Hand. That’s half the reason this party is so big.

I know, Executive. To be fair, the Union never sent him here for your party. He’s here for something called a ‘rogue telepath.’ I never knew what one was until they mentioned it in their stream. Tremmer was coming for that, not for cocktails. Perhaps the replacement is better at hunting these rogue telepaths?

If it were possible, Dynn would have stared at her aide even harder. None of that is going to save me from the gossip, Waxon. Rogue telepath my foot. What even is a rogue telepath? Telepaths are all Gentle Hands. Who cares? Everyone with more than 10 shares is going to be sniggering about how ‘Dynn promised us the Union’s greatest hero at her party and only delivered some no name.’ Never mind the shareholders; the word’s going to get to TC.

Changing tactics, she asked, Has anyone else talked to the new one?

No one, Executive. He literally just walked in. I only got his name from the sublight's manifest. He seems a bit standoffish.

Well, that, at least, sounds like a Gentle Hand. We’ve still got time. I have to be the first to speak to him. Point him out to me.

Over there by the door, Executive.

Tia Dynn looked where her Chief of Staff pointed, and a low rumble that rose in pitch, like a purring lioness catching sight of prey, emanated from her throat. You said he was young, Waxon, she said. You failed to note that he was... That purr again.

The aide chuckled. Forgive me, Executive. I am not as well versed in the attractiveness of males as yourself.

Those blue eyes, so inviting and twinkling for the various men earlier, narrowed in feigned offense. Mostly feigned. Did I just hear a remark upon my virtue?

Waxon Kline offered a grin and a shrug by way of atonement. You’re the one who’s been feeding this ‘Tia’s Quest for a Worthy Man’ garbage to all the streamers. You can hardly blame me if I watch your headlines. It’s my job.

She sniffed delicately. My ratings trend upward every time I go out on a date. It’s working. But never mind all that. What this does is offer me a way to solve the gossip problem about failing to get Ven Tremmer here.

Oh?

"You go and find Thalif. Try to slow him down. I have to get to this ‘Langston Wheeler’ before he does."

Her dress was like gravity, his eyes a falling star. It was red. Deep, dark red, like wine. And just like wine to the inside of a glass, it clung to her every curve. She combined the slender figure of youth with the elegant presence of a full-grown woman at the height of her power.

This could only be Tia Dynn, the Executive of Felicitas.

The briefing material identified her as being exactly thirty. She was the youngest person ever elected by the Board of Directors to helm the corporation that governed this planet. According to the background stream on her from the Tower of Diplomacy, she had first been elected to the Board in her mid-twenties and served one term before being elected Chief by the other Directors.

Her perfect posture and measured stride reflected that resume. Every person at the reception reached for her attention; to each, she gave it for one gleaming moment, as if there were no one else anywhere on this colony world. She flowed from one conversation to the next with perfect aplomb, as if the timing had been agreed upon beforehand. Had this been Tau Ceti, or one of the other systems governed by a monarchy, every eye that fell upon her would have pegged her as royalty. In a system governed by a corporation, no one could possibly be surprised that this was the CEO.

But usually, one didn’t expect a corporate executive to show that much skin. The nanosilk clung to her legs and led the eye upward like a rocket to a deep neckline and bare shoulders.

She caught him staring.

Langston Wheeler should have blushed and looked away. He had been trained from a young age in the discipline of controlling how he looked at a woman. He was wrong to ogle her. Called out, he should have been embarrassed.

He’d had that lesson broken over his head like a chair in a barroom brawl.

Lost in the moment though, intoxicated by his first sight of her, he forgot all that. When her eyes met his with an angle to her head that said she knew exactly where he’d been looking, Langston let one corner of his mouth twitch upward just enough for her to see in the dimly lit room and threw her a wink.

That smile crossed his lips above the stubble of his granite chin. In reply, she winked right back. When she did, her eyes pierced him far too deep to remain lost in the moment.

Those eyes: blue like a tropical sea, rimmed by long lashes. Her eyes ruined everything.

They were like a vortex in time, pulling him backward. Without his consent, without any warning, her eyes and golden hair sucked Langston to a different place, a different age, a different woman.

Reality pulled a bait and switch on him. Suddenly, he wasn’t looking at the Executive of Felicitas anymore.

He gazed, instead, at Cleo Sable, Hand of the Union.

Blonde hair. Blue eyes. The posture of one who owned the world. Elegant and regal, comfortable with power, any room she set foot in belonged at once to Cleo Sable.

...belonged at once to Tia Dynn.

Langston dragged himself back to the present, back to Felicitas, and back to the eyes of the real-world woman across the room. The resemblance was uncanny. As if someone had unearthed the forbidden art of cloning, the Executive of Felicitas was a carbon copy of the woman Langston could never forget.

The crowd at the packed reception ebbed and flowed. A tide of humanity rose between them. Suddenly, he couldn’t see her anymore.

Langston heaved out a sigh, like a sailor tossing cargo to lighten the boat in a storm. Saved by the whims of a packed ballroom.

The partygoers wore multicolored clothing festooned with jewels and ribbons. From the cutting-edge fashion of skintight one-piece suits to the more archaic seductiveness of dresses like the Executive’s, the garments communicated wealth and power, each in a subtly different way.

The bluntest boast of power, though, came from the plainest of clothes: Langston Wheeler’s tan uniform.

So high it brushed up against the stubble of his jaw, the collar of his jacket gave way to a smooth, flat, expanse of khaki that stretched over his neck, across his broad, muscular chest, down his flat stomach, and so far past his hips the hem of his jacket might actually have been lower than the hem of some of the dresses in the room.

Below the featureless uniform top, the pants were the same color but the opposite aesthetic. Instead of smooth and flat, they bulged with pockets, from the belt all the way down to the ankles, where they disappeared into black and tan boots.

It was the uniform of a Gentle Hand. Or—more formally since this was a formal occasion—of a Gentle Hand of the Union of Human Space.

Once, the first telepaths called themselves Archons, set about using their abilities to rule, and the gene for telepathy had almost destroyed humanity. The Gentle Hand evolved to oppose the Archons and control that gene. Through an ironclad principle of service drilled into them from childhood, through a lifetime of studying ethics and morality, and through a strict system of arranged marriages and controlled childbearing, the Gentle Hand ensured that the question of a master race was closed forever, answered in the negative. Telepaths were servants, never masters. Not ever.

Langston Wheeler went where the Union sent him. He applied the gifts he was born with to the good of humanity—the good of the Union. That rule infused every aspect of his life.

Langston would never choose his own wife. So gazing at the Executive of Felicitas with longing in his eyes could serve no purpose at all.

No more than gazing at Cleo had.

As if putting flesh on his fantasies, the Executive materialized beside him. The stunning blonde politician held two fat, round snifters of the famous Felicitan brandy. She pushed one into his hand.

The brush of her fingers tingled, sent little rivers of sensation racing up his arm.

Welcome, she offered, then held her snifter up, halfway to her mouth, watching the amber liquid climb the glass, waiting patiently for him to touch his to hers.

Felicitan brandy enjoyed a reputation throughout Human Space. Easy on the tongue, more than a hundred proof, with a hint of sweetness in the aftertaste, people on every colony world paid many Currency Units for each bottle. Made from Earth grapes transplanted here and grown near the equator, connoisseurs were said to be able to tell at exactly what latitude a bottle had been grown by taste alone.

Langston was more of a beer guy.

And alcohol was the least helpful thing he could add to his life at that moment. He was here to apprehend a rogue telepath.

Rogue telepaths were the hardest work a Gentle Hand could do in the field. By virtue of being telepaths themselves, rogues were nearly the only opponents who could match a Gentle Hand in battle. It was rare for a Hand to die in the line of duty, but when one did, there was often a rogue telepath involved. Usually, the elders of the Hand sent the absolute best to deal with rogue telepaths. Langston was supposed to have been here just to learn from Ven Tremmer, as he had been for most of his life.

Now he was here alone.

And if he would have to fight alone, he didn’t need his senses dulled.

The Executive’s eyes smoldered behind half-closed lids, and that old longing reared up from the closet in his psyche where he thought he’d locked it. It had been so long since he had enjoyed a moment of private conversation with a woman…

Not since…not since...

The VR streams all say that Gentle Hands won’t get drunk, but I’ve never heard you won’t even touch it, not even the very best in Human Space.

The smile that accompanied the prompt stretched wide and showed perfect gleaming teeth. Langston grinned back at her, touched her snifter with his, and let the chime of delicate crystal caress his ears. Then he sipped.

Warm. Electric. Subtle, but potent.

He wasn’t sure if he was describing the alcohol or the sight of her full, red lips kissing the rim of the glass, leaving lipstick behind, all while never breaking eye contact with him. His heart beat a little faster, and he felt a bead of sweat on his forehead. It definitely wasn’t just the alcohol.

She said, Welcome to my world.

He let his grin grow broader. Somehow, I think wherever you are, it is entirely your world.

The woman possessed the skill of making half her face smile, and she employed it then.

I only say ‘mine’ because I live here, came back. I am but a servant, not an owner. Tia Dynn, Executive of Felicitas.

He’d guessed her name long before. The images in the briefing streams were unmistakable. The scintillating golden hair, the broad smile, the graceful figure…these could not have occurred twice.

Except they had. They had occurred twice. The same features had once occurred on his great love.

Langston Wheeler, Hand of the Union, he replied, executing his most formal bow. And if Felicitas Corp owns the planet, and you are the CEO of the corporation, I think it actually is fair to call you the owner.

"You’re a Hand of the Union. You know better than anyone that we don’t own the world; we simply own the only policy on travel here. But why split hairs? It’s a great moment for Felicitas. You’re the first Gentle Hand to visit our world. We have waited a long time for this.

Tell me, Langston, to what do I owe the pleasure?

It could have meant the pleasure of having a Hand visit her world, if only she had spoken it instead of whispered it. If only she hadn’t batted her eyelashes. If only she had called him Wheeler of the Union, instead of Langston; that, too, tugged at the strings of his memory.

He gave her a thorough looking over, meant to be noticed. This was wrong! He knew it. He berated himself for it. Despite all that, he said, It’s your company that’s the real pleasure.

This time a blush snuck into her cheeks, and she looked away and to the side. I’d also heard Gentle Hands aren’t interested in women who aren’t telepaths.

True. So bitterly, painfully true. But it felt good to deny reality, if only for a little while.

So far, we’re not doing very well with what you’ve always heard about the Hand, he parried, easing in closer to her in a way that wasn’t a full step. The scent of her perfume tickled his nose—floral, heady, strong, indescribable. It had to be something unique to Felicitas and unknown on Earth.

She turned her head up to look at him, and still those lips wore the most inviting of expressions. Well, I’ve also been warned that they can do magic. Her voice came alarmingly close to a purr. Putting a spell on me?

It’s not mag—

And then the moment broke. Instead of a man alone with a beautiful woman, he was Wheeler of the Union, ordered specifically not to let his past upset the applecart here on Felicitas.

"Excuse me for interrupting, but you are a Gentle Hand, are you not? Yet, you look nothing at all like the famous Ven Tremmer who we were promised.

I’m Ardo Thalif.

CHAPTER

TWO

The timing could not have been better. Dynn had come over with the express purpose of injecting her own rumor into the whisper mill to replace the critical one she’d feared. And here was her chief political rival, just in time to spread the gossip.

Thalif’s portly figure hid behind flowing, loose tunic and trousers. His thinning hair was brown and gray in equal measure. His face said he was not sorry at all about interrupting.

Dynn favored her rival with a sultry glance behind lidded eyes and an upward twist of her ruby red lips.

Ardo, darling, you can hardly blame a woman for preferring someone more… her eyes flicked to Langston, in his prime.

Then she prayed for a little of that mind-reading for which the Gentle Hands were famous and put her arm through Langston’s, acting like it was his idea. She led him away from Thalif, trying to push forward on Langston enough with just her arm to inspire him to lead instead.

Whether telepathy or her little push made the difference, the tall, dark-haired visitor from off-world took the lead and guided her away.

Her breath went away as well. Tia was not prepared for the strength of that arm—the sheer, visceral physical power in his movements. Under that uniform sleeve lurked the thick, solid muscles of an athlete. Everything in the streams about Gentle Hands was about telepathy, magic, and training. No one warned her he would be so…

Without meaning to, she let another purr slip out of her.

For over a year, Tia Dynn had been dating—very visibly, very publicly, in all the VR streams. The project was inspired by the surprising discovery that her favorability numbers shot to the sky after one regrettable, embarrassing sincere-but-brief love affair.

Talking about it with Kline afterward, they had decided if it worked once …

Now streamers spent weeks at a time hyping their audience for the next contestant on the Is he good enough for Tia show. She was the most popular Chief in corporate history, and her livestreamed dinners with a healthy collection of eligible bachelors, cloud of bots in tow, had made a sizable contribution to the numbers.

Sometimes guilt tugged on her sleeve about using the poor fellows just to boost her poll numbers, but she wasn’t truly being dishonest. She did sometimes ponder whether her tiny few private moments might be more rewarding if spent with a man. However, for a woman at the apex of power and influence, with her eye on polls and on the verdict of history, choosing the right man was indispensable.

She would never speak these words aloud, but they were true nonetheless: Tia Dynn was one of the three most powerful people in Human Space.

She had attained that position by understanding how her people wanted their government to make them feel and delivering it. The people believed their leader told them who they were; they chose a leader based on who they wanted to be: wealthy, successful, independent, unflappable, and beautiful.

She could not afford to say yes to a man who spoiled that, and she could not afford the gossipy streams about failure to deliver the most famous Gentle Hand in Human Space.

The solution to both problems presented itself in the form of a tall, muscular, dark-haired man who just so happened to also be unattainable.

Perfect VR material.

And also, of course…well…the point of dating was to eventually find a...

That’s when the ballroom shattered.

The main doors blew off their hinges explosively, scything down partygoers like projectile weapons, and flying right at her.

For the first fractions of a second, Tia didn’t even scream. The experience was so far outside her reality, she couldn’t even process it. She simply stared at the disaster with saucer eyes.

Her people screamed, though. The missile-doors cut through innocent revelers mercilessly, and the wounded and dying cried out in pain. Tia saw human bodies brutalized in ways for which governing a peaceful merchant world had ill-prepared her.

That’s when she finally screamed.

And as she did, a couple things happened at once.

A powerful arm wrapped around her and pulled her tight to the side of a rock-solid frame.

Langston Wheeler threw his other arm out like a traffic cop ordering vehicles to stop. The blown-off doors froze in place, held there like stop-motion in a VR stream.

They clattered to the ground once the nearby people had finished running to the sides in terror. The entire party insta-converted into living, breathing chaos as blood and body parts covered the space nearest the front door of the ballroom. Wails and weeping dominated the entire audible range.

A man clad head to toe in black, wearing a hood and a bandana over his lower face, walked through the hole in the wall and into the tumult.

He and Langston locked eyes at once. The man in tan and the man in black faced each other, and the Gentle Hand released Tia from his grasp with the single word, Run.

Tia stood there staring, and then the man in black put his hands in front of him on outstretched arms, with the palm-heels butted together, so the fingers formed a kind of spider shape.

A river of fire flowed out of his hands straight at Langston.

The young replacement for Ven Tremmer still had his left palm thrown out and up. As the blazing stream hit the space a few centimeters in front of that hand, it broke like a river on a dam and dissipated in a kind of orange and red abstract art, splattering like paint thrown on a wall of air.

Run! Langston repeated, and this time she took his advice.

Or close. Tia didn’t actually run, but she backed up as fast as she could in her party dress, suddenly all wrong for the moment, kicking off her high-heeled red shoes as she went. She kept her eyes locked on the two contrasting paragons facing each other in the middle of what had once been her birthday party.

The crowd flooded out through side doors or raced behind the man in black, desperate to get out the front doors without catching his attention. Tia didn’t leave, but she drew away as far as she could.

Langston calmly lowered his outstretched palm and turned to face the attacker, putting his hands down to his sides, palms open and facing front in a gesture of empty-handed non-violence.

Please allow me to introduce myself, friend. I’m Langston Wheeler. I’ve been sent here to help and serve you. There’s a much better path to getting what you want, and it’s peaceful; no one else needs to get hurt. Let me show you; let me help you.

Tia stared. She doubted she had ever heard more incongruent words in her life.

The man in black seemed to share her opinion because he charged Langston with a battle cry. The Gentle Hand seemed to understand that his words had little to do with reality because he met the charge with no surprise at all, stepping to the side and blocking the punch that came at his face.

With that, the two men dissolved into a black and tan whirlwind in the middle of the ballroom, fists and feet thrown at each other like weapons, blocking and striking with perfect precision. Langston threw a high kick at the attacker’s head. The attacker ducked and tried to sweep the leg Lang stood on. The Gentle Hand leapt into the air, spinning until that second leg just barely missed the attacker before he landed, and the man in black rushed him with a flurry of punches.

When they weren’t physically touching each other, balls of fire flew back and forth between the two men. Sometimes, a bolt of lightning strobed from the ceiling to the floor, barely missing the man in black. Lightning. Indoors. On a cloudless night.

Every time that happened, sections of the ceiling caved in. Every stream of fire set walls ablaze, until the Halving Entertainment Complex began to lose structural integrity. Walls creaked. Sections of them collapsed.

The VR stream producers, who made so much money turning her own life into entertainment for the masses, loved Gentle Hands. They were always making up tales about the semi-monastic order of telepaths. However, all those streams fell woefully short of the actual experience of watching their magic unleashed.

Even the purely natural parts of the fight looked like magic. The man in black and Wheeler kicked and punched so fast Tia couldn’t keep track. They leapt, whirled through the air, bent at impossible angles, and dodged faster than rabbits in a field.

She had watched VR streams of professional exhibition fighters before. Once, she had even gone to a live match. This was on a completely new level. The two combatants before her clashed with a speed and violence like nothing else in her experience.

Given everything she had heard about Gentle Hands, she expected Langston to win the fight handily, but he wasn’t. He actually appeared a bit overmatched; it was always the man in black who made Wheeler step back and refocus. It was hard to tell who hit who most of the time, but she definitely heard her new acquaintance’s voice grunting in pain.

Something happened.

Tia was at a loss to describe it because neither of them seemed to hit the other. Yet, somehow, both men flew backwards and apart. Each landed on his back several feet away from the other.

At that moment, she heard, Chief! Come on!

Waxon Kline stood at the back door of the ballroom. Cracks shot through the wall to either side, and great hunks of nanocrete broke loose and clattered to the floor. Behind him, she could see a quad warmed up and ready to fly.

Tia looked back at the handsome, black-haired stranger fighting for his life. She had only just met him. She was the Chief Executive Officer of a planetary corporation; she had obligations to her people. There was no shame in leaving him behind.

A massive section of the ceiling, loosened by the earlier lightning, broke loose and hit the floor with a crash that covered her with dust.

Tia should leave the Hand behind. This fight was, apparently, why he was here. Yet, she also remembered the strength in his arms, and the way he looked at her.

Langston! The building’s about to collapse! Come with me! Let’s get out of here!

The two men were both still semi-dazed from whatever had blown them backwards. As if to emphasize Tia’s point, an entire portion of wall, scorched with fire, collapsed. Wheeler looked at it, looked at her, at Kline, out the door, and she could see the understanding in his eyes. In a flash, he was back on his feet while the man in black still struggled to get up.

Another portion of the ceiling fell in, so close to Tia she teetered on her feet, arms flailing for balance.

Langston ran at her, bent low, and half-tackled her in a way that resulted in him carrying her. She felt like she had no weight at all, like picking her up hadn’t even been an effort to him. Once again, she saw a river of fire from the man in black and screamed as it flowed directly at her and Langston.

Once again, it dissipated like mist in sunlight when it hit a barrier she couldn’t see.

Lang rushed to the exit faster than she could have run herself, threw her into the open door of the quadrotor, and then climbed in behind her. Kline came in last, settling into the driver’s chair.

Go! Langston shouted, but he needn’t have. Her Chief of Staff was already letting the vehicle carry them aloft and away from the ballroom.

What was that?! Tia demanded as the urban skyline of Prosper City passed below them.

That was the rogue telepath I came here to collect, Langston replied. Only…he wasn’t like any rogue of which I’ve ever heard.

The Gentle Hand drew a deep breath, wiped the sweat off his brow, and said, Not like it at all.

What exactly do you mean by rogue telepath?

I thought the Tower of Diplomacy told you why I was coming.

Oh, they did. We heard Ven Tremmer was coming to collect a rogue telepath. But those two words don’t really add up to what just happened. People died, Langston. People I know were…were… Her voice quavered on the edge of breaking. Killed. Or maimed for life, probably. We have what, Kline? A murder a year here?

If that, her aid replied.

Tia returned her attention to the Gentle Hand, waving backwards at the reception hall where the party had been. That … that … whatever that was is the single greatest loss of life in Felicitan history in my memory. Maybe since colonization. So, Langston … what is a rogue telepath? It’s obviously nothing like what we thought it was.

I’m surprised Diplomacy didn’t tell you more. They usually do. Every now and then, a telepath is born outside of the Gentle Hand.

Isn’t that supposed to be impossible?

"Yes. In theory. Or, the theory is aimed at minimizing it, anyway. Since the Gene War, the Archons are gone. Gentle Hands are all that remain of the gene for telepathy, and we only marry and have children with other Gentle Hands to keep all telepathy in the fold.

But right at the end of the Gene War, the trait had not been as strictly controlled. Archons had been out doing whatever they wanted for years. The Gentle Hand was only just beginning to corral it; inevitably, it wasn’t a perfect process. A few telepathic people slipped out into the general population or else were never really corralled.

Langston paused, and the look on his face became distant. Besides which, Gentle Hands… Gentle Hands aren’t always … perfect … about the rules about marriage.

He shook his head, as if throwing off a cloud of fog.

Between the two, the result is, very occasionally, some random person somewhere in Human Space will have a telepathic baby. Sometime in his mid-teen years, the kid will start to manifest telepathy and telekinesis. Sometimes, people around him get hurt. Always, people around him panic. The elders send a team of our most experienced Field Hands out to bring the rogue in, bring him home to the Yard, and teach him that his abilities are for helping other people. We make him into a Gentle Hand; until Human Space can trust that, with all his immense gifts, he will never do anything but live by our rules, serve, and obey.

Tia looked at the man sitting next to her. She had just seen him fight. She’d seen magic like all the VR fiction about Gentle Hands said they did. But … most experienced? Not with that pure black hair.

He saw the look. I get it. I don’t look like ‘most experienced Field Hands.’ I was supposed to be accompanying Ven Tremmer, though, and he truly is the best. Or—

Yes, Kline replied from the driver’s seat in front of them. The change caused us a certain amount of consternation. What happened?

Wheeler looked out the window of the quadrotor before answering.

She waited as patiently as she could, but soon Tia asked, Langston?

The young Gentle Hand swallowed, passed a hand over his eyes, and said, Sorry. It’s just … he was a mentor of mine. Ven Tremmer is dead.

Dead? But he was … I mean, I know it’s just VRtainment, but he was ‘The Greatest Living Gentle Hand,’ and all that. The rest of us out in Human Space kind of live in an understanding where all Gentle Hands are unkillable, let alone the greatest of them. What happened?

Langston sighed, and again his eyes travelled far away without ever moving. "He was. He was the greatest living Gentle Hand. Or at least one of the two.

"Ven was coming home from TC on the Brayenbach. It’s a full FTL ship with its own wormhole drive, not like the sublight I came here on. They got attacked on their way out of the system. Reports were incomplete; it sounds like it was exotic matter thieves or some such. The skipper of the Brayenbach was off-duty and asleep, and the Officer of the Deck was fresh out of school, and … and …"

He sighed. The kid panicked. He fired the singularity drive while they were still inside the star’s gravity well. The wormhole collapsed. The whole ship is gone. My mentor. My Warden. One of the greatest living Field Hands. Dead from simple random chance.

She only cared because of politics, that was all. The rumors could strengthen her position on the Board. It was only that the polls spiked when she went out with a new man. Just business. Just entertainment for the shareholders.

She put a hand over his forearm, rubbed it back and forth softly, made eye contact, held it. She completely lost track of the fact that there were no streambots nearby.

I’m so sorry. Tell me about him.

"Ven was my combat professor in the Yard, but he was so much more than that. I’ve always loved fighting, all my life, every memory I have. As an art, I mean; it’s not like I was some bully terrorizing the other kids in the Tower of Children. But from my very first combat class, I loved it.

Ven picked up on that. He took me under his wing; he started sneaking me some private lessons when he had spare time. He even...

The catch in Langston’s voice could not be missed. Tia was about to tell him he didn’t need to tell them anything he wasn’t comfortable sharing, but the Hand beat her to it by fractions of a second.

He came out of retirement to take me out on Errantry when no one else would. Then some idiot, half-trained circledriver flew him into an unstable wormhole. I’m sorry. It’s still pretty raw.

CHAPTER

THREE

He picked himself up off the floor and dusted himself off. He smiled. Glorious! What a fight. Everything was going exactly according to plan.

He flicked a hand to the side, and the four Department of Protective Services officers who had been running toward him flew backward until they hit the wall hard enough to crush bone. They slid messily down to the ground.

A lifetime of holding himself in check. Now, for the first time, he just let himself do everything he could do. What you want, and are strong enough to take, take.

It felt godlike.

He looked around, surveying his handiwork. Devastation. Scorched walls of intelligent nanocrete were trying to grow back, but he had damaged them too badly. A main wall was about to give out, and that would bring the roof down. Time to leave.

He let his awareness sink into the web of quantum entanglements around him. He teased out particular threads. He pulled on some; others, he merely stroked.

The man in black faded from sight, becoming completely invisible.

He cast his mind out telepathically, looking for the Gentle Hand. Ah. Of course. The Executive would want to go to the seat of her government and command the response. It was the natural action of a good politician.

Well, then, on to phase two.

When he was long gone from the Halving Entertainment Complex, he turned down a dark alley between tall skyscrapers. After he had walked down the path for a couple minutes, he shifted out of his invisible state, although the difference was minimal. Clad entirely in black in a lightless corner was almost the same as being invisible.

Another man did the same thing.

Both of them wore the same clothing: unbroken black from their boots to their faces, where hoods and bandanas covered every feature but their eyes. The new one was much shorter than the man who had attacked the party. Height was the main way to tell them apart. The second man also wore the smoother face of youth. Beyond the eyes, though, there was little of his face to see. Under the mask, one might have seen a misshapen nose that had been broken in the past, but the mask almost completely hid it.

The shorter, younger man remained silent, waiting for the older. His eyes said he did not like being made to wait.

Finally, the taller man said, You may speak, August.

What little was visible of the shorter man’s face displayed a noticeable struggle to accept being spoken to like that. Only when he had overcome it did he ask, What of the first act?

As expected. He carried the Executive away to safety.

You should have let me do it. I’ve waited for it for years.

This is how it is, among us, and in all of existence. What you want, and are strong enough to take, take. You may have the lead if you can take it.

I want to. All these years and still you have no idea how bad I want to kill you.

The taller man just glared. He stared at his companion with intensity like a predator.

Nothing could be seen. No one but the two telepaths were aware, but the older knew that his young companion’s skin grew hotter and hotter, as if he were in a furnace. He could feel it, feel the other’s pain through the quantum entanglements.

For a telepath with the right training, to hurt or kill was delicious. Like a kind of psychic Newton’s third law, for every sensation there was an equal and opposite one. As the shorter, younger man suffered, the older man smiled.

August grimaced. The taller man felt the entanglements around them tremble a bit as his colleague struggled. The younger man’s skin began to turn red, like a sunburn. Still, he fought, trying to change the power dynamic. No one could see it behind the mask, but the older man grinned, enjoying the contest. Enjoying the savor of winning.

Finally, the junior gave a noise that fell halfway between a grunt and a whimper. You rule, came out between gritted teeth.

I rule, the older man said. So, we stick with my plan. One day, you may have your shot at him. But not until he wears black.

The older one showed a bit of mercy, allowed his junior to salvage a sliver of pride. It will not look good for Dynn to have fled for her own safety. Your role was important, too, August. Good work with the journalists.

The glare from the younger man said the charity burned as bad as the pyrokinesis earlier.

Kline guided the quad to the terminal at Prosper Tower, and the three of them hurried inside and took the express elevator up to the executive floor. Tia’s corner office looked over the gleaming city skyline, and she walked right up to the windows to stare out at it the moment the elevator dropped them off. Following her gaze, Langston could make out the burning wreckage of the ballroom in the distance.

The Executive instructed her aide. As she did, Langston chewed on the experience of telling them about Ven. What he told them was the truth. Except that Elder Blocher warned him it might not be the truth. Might Ven have been killed in some kind of realpolitik between Felicitas and Tau Ceti? Was there any chance one of these two people had killed him? Or at least ordered him killed? He could sift them both, of course—trespass in their mental gardens and pluck out the information he wanted.

But that was not the Gentle Path. Besides which, every fiber of his being wanted to trust Tia Dynn.

Kline, go watch a few streams for me please. I want to hear how this is being reported. Get the Board together for about half an Earth hour from now. Let Michaels come or go as he wants, obviously, but I want the rest of them in the boardroom.

Once her aide was gone, Tia turned away from the windows and from Langston. A huge desk, made from what looked like imported Cetian wood,—actually, a tree-analog, native to Tau Ceti, and impossibly expensive—spread like an empty field over half the room. Tia ignored it, went to a wardrobe in the corner, and flung the huge doors open.

Standing between those expansive doors, she was entirely out of Langston’s sight, but when he saw the red dress draped over the top of one, he whipped away just to be sure.

Except that left him facing the window.

The darkness outside and the dim light inside made the nanoglass like a mirror. It reflected his gaze backward. And she was—

Langston froze for the briefest moment. Her beauty had captivated him from the first moment he saw her in person. Now, in the middle of changing clothes … the gently rounded lines of her body drew his eye like a magnet. She might have been a classical marble sculpture of a feminine deity. Her underclothes were not nearly enough to save him.

Heaven, but she does look exactly like Cleo...

He finally scraped together enough willpower to turn his head aside again and redirected his stare at a blank expanse of wood paneling. He should never have let himself look at her. He bitterly reminded himself of the lessons from courtship classes in the Yard: The instinct to look is not your fault. The choice to give in is. That choice has consequences.

Why must he still be a moth going back to the same flame? Every other Hand mastered this. Why not him?

From behind him, he heard, OK, so sometimes a telepath is born outside the Gentle Hand, but that doesn’t explain how he could fight like that. Her muffled voice made it sound like a shirt was being pulled over her head.

I agree, Langston replied. That’s what I meant when I said he was like nothing I’d ever heard about a rogue before. Usually, they can do garden-variety TK, maybe throw a bit of fire. I used to be … pretty close … to another Hand who fought a rogue once. She said she ran into a lot of throwing stuff at her with TK and a bit of mind control. Not … that. I haven’t had to fight like that in years.

Tia came out of her wardrobe wearing rough casual pants, athletic shoes, and a light cotton short-sleeved shirt.

All of which proved it wasn’t her dress that had made her beautiful. That golden hair still caught the dim light and, where once her eyes sparkled with pleasure, now a fierce determination made them just as beautiful but more serious.

The change in clothing did nothing to free him from that one little glimpse of her between outfits. Langston couldn’t stop remembering.

If the Hand usually sends a team of their most experienced for rogues, why one man alone? Why not a team? When Tremmer died, shouldn’t they have given you someone else to work with?

Wheeler toyed with how much he should tell her. There was no need to give away classified information. On the other hand, he’d been ordered to make the Felicitan government happy. Arguments played back and forth in his head.

Intermingled with all of them was a beautiful woman, so like Cleo, and the memory of Tia failing to hide behind her wardrobe doors.

Honestly, I’m a bit surprised myself. Too much truth, Langston, don’t do this … On its own, a rogue is usually grounds for multiple veteran Hands. Sometimes five or six. It’s the most dangerous work we do.

"If it’s so dangerous, why did you walk up to him with your hands down at your sides like you were expecting him to offer to shake?

People are not broken into criminals and law abiding. They are only humans. A Gentle Hand is a servant to them all. Even to dying. We always offer peace first because we value their lives. If he had managed to kill me because my guard was down, that’s the life I was born to.

Seems crazy to me. If you’re going to have to fight, hit hard and hit first.

Langston shrugged. I’ve got a lot to prove to my people by how I do this job, Tia. There was a lot of other stuff Elder Blocher told me before I came.

What other stuff?

It was her eyes.

It was her golden hair.

The Union worries about you, Executive.

What do you mean?

He tried. He looked away from her. But …

The Elders of the Hand are worried that Felicitas might stop paying for its Union policy.

Her face flashed through surprise, alarm, defensiveness, and guardedness. And then she very deliberately let her eyelids hover a bit too low and let her lips ease upward, parted just a little to show perfect teeth.

Why Wheeler of the Union. I feel like you and I are sharing more than we should.

Idiot! Schoolboy! Every other Hand in Human Space can control himself around women!

Somehow, she was closer to him—too close. Once more, that ineffable scent she wore led him down forbidden paths. She was tall, but so was he, and this close she tilted her head back to look up into his eyes.

Like warm butter, her voice hovered just above a whisper. I don’t entirely mind it.

And like dandelion seeds, every memory he had of why he was supposed to ignore women until his arranged marriage went flying to the wind. All he would have to do was move his hands to touch her. She wanted him to. She made that clear.

I’ll trade you, Tia said, and now she was whispering. While I am Chief Executive, Felicitas will never abandon the Union.

Since he didn’t take the bait, she placed her hand on him, putting her fingers on his upper arm, her thumb ever so slightly brushing. Only then did she add, There, now we’ve both been more honest than we should.

Langston had more idea than he should what she meant by touching him but had none at all what she meant by telling him about her plans for the Union. Still, he could neither pull away nor speak. To do either would require a decision between what he should do and what he wanted to do, and he could not force himself to choose.

Without taking her hand off him, Tia whispered, I think you might have more to worry about with the Cetians. They aren’t as …

She’d been gazing up at him but at that moment, she let her eyes drop down to his chest, then brought them back up to beam her most inviting smile right at him.

... ‘pro-Union’ as I am.

At that moment, the door opened. Langston’s head swiveled to see Tia’s aide, Kline, walk in. He made the coughing, choking sound of a man who’d been about to speak and stopped in mid word. He backed out the door and shut it again.

Wheeler backed away from her so hard it was almost a leap. The noise Tia made could only be described as a giggle. Between that and her casual clothes, he had a hard time connecting her with the ambitious young head of state who was driving her world to prominence on the interstellar stage.

She walked over to the door to her office, opened it, and piped, Yes, Kline?

Langston could only stare. She did not seem embarrassed at all.

From outside the door, he heard, Chief, the Directors are ready for you.

As they walked from her office down the hall to the corporate Board’s meeting room, Dynn asked, About those streams?

It’s as bad as we could fear, Chief. ‘Slaughter at Tia’s Party’ is the worst. A couple others were ‘Fifteen Dead as Dynn Flees’ and ‘Gentle Hand helpless’ among other things.

Langston didn’t respond at all as he walked behind the two politicians, but Tia spoke up in his defense.

Helpless? He fought the guy to a standstill!

Not before fifteen people were dead. And then he ran away.

He was protecting me!

I don’t write the streams, Chief. You just asked me to tell you what was in them.

She walked silently for a moment, then murmured, Maybe it was the wrong decision to run. It does look bad. But … I’d never seen someone shoot fire before. You can’t prepare for that kind of thing out of nothing.

We’ll put a few of our usual allies in some streams to say that. You can’t say it yourself of course.

Can we stop any of those streams before they get out to TC?

Wheeler recognized the common vernacular for Tau Ceti.

Not stop, but we can at least put a major crimp in their distribution. Give me a tick; I’ll comm the refinery and tell them to stop letting it through. The streams in question are already on their way there, of course, so ours will arrive an hour behind. However, an hour isn’t much time for them to wormhole. If anything gets through, it won’t be much.

Tia said some profane words about the Cetians.

Langston asked, Why stop the streams from getting to Tau Ceti but not the rest of Human Space?

She shrugged. I’d rather no system got to watch VR of me being called a chicken and fleeing from a battle, but TC is the one that will really take advantage of it. Again, she called them an obscene name.

We both sell luxury goods. King Wiles Bloody Magnusson will be beaming that garbage out to every last one of our customers asking them if they wouldn’t rather buy TC beer from a stable, calm immovable leader like him, rather than brandy from a ‘hysterical female’ who runs at the first sign of danger.

I wasn’t kidding earlier, Lang.

She touched her hand to his as she said his name.

Those arrogant pompous SOBs are the ones you really have to watch out for. They’re the ones trying to build a standing army. I honestly would not be surprised if Magnusson had something to do with this so-called rogue telepath. Wouldn’t shock me at all to learn he’s a TC spy.

Wheeler had met Magnusson once. It seemed better not to mention that now.

What he said instead was, Tau Ceti being somehow involved would actually be easier for me. The alternative is much worse.

What do you mean?

That man … it has to be just book knowledge. That’s the only possible explanation. He has to have read about it in history books. His fighting skill makes it obvious he’s making an effort to be more than the typical rogue, so I guess he studied up.

What are you trying to say, Langston?

"His clothing—his uniform …"

Yeah, it was pretty dramatic. All black, hiding his whole face except his eyes… Our friend is obviously at least as much of a showman as he is a fighter.

I hope he’s just a showman, Langston said. Because otherwise, that clothing is the uniform of an Archon.

CHAPTER

FOUR

The