“Most of my colleagues were just trying to survive.” Urien seemed well aware this wasn’t an excuse, and spoke without emotion. “I’d hazard that most know next to nothing of the horrors their lords have perpetrated. Anyone who makes direct contact undergoes rigorous training and evaluation, sworn to secrecy. We’re told that to accelerate the development of a pre-interstellar civilization is to irreparably harm it, and all we do is for your own good.” He pressed his lips together. “You think us foolish for believing that, and you’re not wrong. But we are also afraid. The archdemons punish dissent . . . harshly.”
Jacen was familiar enough with that. It had become a matter of survival to try to look at his own people as abstract concepts, even as atrocities played out before his eyes. Who was he to judge Urien?
“I befriended Ogden when he was among us. Another victim of your Harvest. When I learned what would be done to him—” Urien broke off as Ogden coughed. “I could no longer ignore reality. I arranged our escape on a cargo shuttle. It remains my greatest shame that it took me so long to act, and my greatest honor that I finally did.”
Ogden laid a metal hand over Urien’s armored one. “It’s been my honor to know you, too.”
There was more to this story, and Jacen itched to know it. But it felt rather monstrously uncalled for, to ask Ogden how he’d lost all his limbs. This was a story to which he, a Priest of the Black Sun, had no right.
“Why are we so interesting to them?” Nines asked. “You said you don’t know everything. But you’ve guessed.”
It wasn’t a question. Urien sighed. “You produce telepaths at higher-than-average rates. That’s of interest to the archdemons. But I have speculated that C5-001 is the principal reason for their . . . considerable investment.” He clarified, “C5-001 is our name for the demon of the canyon.”
Seth’s rowing faltered again. “Neri’s demon?”
“On all the worlds we’ve conquered,” said Urien, “the Firstborn have never encountered demons more powerful than the ones who rule us. C5-001 is the exception.”
“They view it as a threat,” said Ogden. “Or something that could be, in the right hands.”
“Neri’s hands.” Seth exhaled, not quite a laugh. “Is his demon anything like the gods? Will itsubsume his personality?”
“No.” Ogden said it with confidence, but what Jacen detected was not certainty. “The extreme longevity of the Firstborn hosts is key here.” He looked to Jacen. “The exorcist might explain it better.”
“Most demons contain only echoes of previous hosts,” Jacen said quietly. “A possessed telepath can, in theory, commune with them but won’t be consumed. If there have been too many other hosts, I can imagine it might be . . . chaotic. But a trained telepath should be able to maintain distinct boundaries?—”
Jacen stopped. He’d been thinking aloud—a mistake.
“How many hosts has Neri’s demon had?” Seth asked with dawning horror.
Urien considered before answering. “The Zal documented over a thousand.”
“And Neri isn’t a trained telepath.” Seth laughed again, and this time, it sounded like choking. “Can he handle that?”
Ogden said nothing.
“They may not mean to use him,” said Urien. “They might use your species’ genetics, most notably your radiation resistance, to enhance their own and eventually harness C5-001 themselves.”
To his credit, at least, he seemed to realize it wasn’t a reassuring statement.
“Hold on,” said Seth. “You’re not saying they canbreedwith us, are you?”
Urien and Ogden exchanged a glance. An uncomfortable silence dragged on.
“We’re similar, biologically speaking,” said Urien. “All worlds touched by the Source have commonalities.”
Ogden coughed and said to Urien, “He’s going to find out. We might as well tell him now.”
They both looked at Jacen. His insides contorted. “Tell me what?” “After you broke into my home,” said Urien, “I felt compelled to do my research.”
Jacen had already begun to guess what Urien was about to tell him. He stared at the water, wishing he could take the question back, holding his theories by a tight rein before they could spiral.
“I tested your genetic material after you bled all over my floor.” Urien’s tone was gentle and far too delicate.
“Out with it,” Jacen blurted. “The Cathedral archives say I’m Zal and I don’t have an original surname. I was given false memories. It’s because I’m—because I’m?—”
He stared at Ogden, challenging him to deny it, until the old man said, “Yes.”
Too much made sense now. Jacen’s shoulders sagged. He wanted to keep sinking until he dissolved into the churning black river.
