Nytalyan uses an electronic eyepiece to record the ceremony. Even with her built-in universal translator, she’s unable to comprehend the language. It’s forbidden to translate the Mokarran spiritual language, and no computerized translating program’s capable of breaking it down.
Through her appointment in the war room, she’s uncovered disturbing Mokarran practices. First, the reassignment of key positions away from non-Mokarran to only Mokarran officers appears to be species nepotism and would not be considered unremarkable on many planets. But those transferred from command are not demoted to some backward planet and forgotten—they have disappeared. Prompting her to learn the Mokarran agenda in order to comprehend what threat truly looms over Federation citizens. She must understand the Mokarran religious language. Her security position allows her access to all Mokarran texts, allowing her to acquire what she figures was a beginning reader book to learn the language as a youth. If she captures one of the prolific stories being told from the Mokarran religious texts to match word order, she’ll have a basic understanding of the language.
The lotus-positioned Mokarran chant to the ranting of Shan-goroe. He completes his proclamation. The chanting discontinues with an abrupt severing of a syllable, startling Nytalyan. She clicks her recorder off, and Shan-goroe dissolves into waves of light energy. Shan-goroe was merely a holographic image, but more advanced than she has ever used in the command and control center. This one could touch. He uses technology to speak to millions of his followers all at once.
Nytalyan hurries from her hidden location before any of the worshiping Mokarran exit. Being caught spying on such a sacred ritual would cost her her life. If they found out she recorded it, death would not be swift. They would assume her spying was an act of espionage and torture her until she confessed which government she was working for. Since she merely wants to understand her masters and what they are doing to those humanoids they are replacing, her suffering would be long and agonizing. The cruelty of the Mokarran could last for weeks. They will keep her alive.
She has no access to purchase luxuries for her person, but any translation of the secret Mokarran religious language would be priceless on the open market. There are bounties on such knowledge made even more profitable by stories such as the time the Mokarran discovered one of their scriptures was unearthed by the Fwn’jure. They mounted a full-scale invasion of the planet, quelled only by the return of the book and anyone who laid eyes upon it. If anyone alive did glance at the text, it has never been disclosed. She also fears for the rest of the Fwn’jure people if the Mokarran are eliminating species they deem unusable.
Nytalyan returns to her spartan quarters. The Mokarran don’t offer much in comfort or space. She pulls the side wall off her desk to remove a mess of circuit boards hidden behind the drawers. She opens the cobbled-together makeshift computer; it contains no wireless technology or any network connections to give away its existence. She built in three antiquated language translators containing the records of several dead languages and subcolloquial Mokarran speak. With the video and the learner Mokarran script, she hopes to decipher a few words. She connects the camera to the computer, touches the download button.
If she were to smash all this right now, the Mokarran would never know. She could remain safe. Safe until they replace her. Replacement might not be bad, but even without knowing where those humanoids are deported, she concludes, the alternative means total demise of everyone not born a Mokarran.
AMYE’S LUNGS EXPEL air as if they were balloons at a child’s party. The practice mat covering the floor provides no cushion against the impact of her physique. She bounces only once and fails to move.
“Get up or he’ll finish you.” Kymberlynn’s voice echoes into her ringing ears.
Amye knows she’s correct, but pain shoots through her body from the landing.
“You’ve got enough of your own padding. The fall shouldn’t hurt,” Kymberlynn berates her.
Amye rolls onto her stomach. “Remind me I’m fat, Sis. Helps motivate me to move.” She crawls on her elbows, dragging her lower body behind her.
A vice grip secures her ankle before dragging her back to the center of the mat. Her fingers claw at the fabric, but her chewed nails find no hold on the smooth surface. Upon the release of her ankle, Amye scissors her legs in order to spin to her back, allowing her to kick-flip to her feet. Her frame flops back to the mat in her failed attempt. She needs more practice to maneuver in such a smooth motion. Pushing up onto all fours leaves her vulnerable to a kick to the abdomen. She tightens her stomach in anticipation of the impact, but the blow never comes.
Her opponent shuffles his feet like a boxer keeping his body moving while waiting for the referee to count down his challenger. The shirtless man towers over seven feet, drawing his four arms into an attack stance.
“It’s not impossible to defeat a Calthos warrior,” Kymberlynn shouts in support.
“Easy to say if you’re not in the ring with one.” Amye huffs, raising her arms to defend herself.
Pounce.
He snags her wrist, but this time she won’t let Joenerbrawl send her to the floor. She twists away from his pull, forcing him to glide underneath her form and allowing
