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indication of how thick the entrance was and how much it weighed.
    Zhoh’s respect for the general dropped even further. A true warrior wouldn’t hide away in a hole in the ground.
    As if guessing his thoughts, the lieutenant said, “General Rangha isn’t all that is protected within this vault.”
    Zhoh chose not to answer.
    With a hiss that revealed the airlock within, the huge door recessed a meter, then swung to the side, revealing the massive room on the other side. Where Zhoh had only expected the general’s living quarters, the vault had to be at least a klick square and half that deep, lit now by bright lights. Several war machines, ranging from heavy powersuits to tracked assault vehicles ten meters tall to aerial manned and unmanned vehicles, gleamed in the brilliant incandescence. Machine oil stink overlay everything.
    An assault force lay ready and waiting before Zhoh. All thoughts of his anger drifted away from him as he gazed on the collection of armament.
    â€œI can smell your surprise from up here, Captain Zhoh,” a mocking voice stated.
    Using his rear eyes, Zhoh glanced up the wall behind him and spotted General Rangha leaning on a balcony overlooking the floor and the immense room. The general supported himself on his primary hands. The great claws fastened on the waist-­high railing.
    Rangha’s age showed in the dulling luster of his chitin. His days of lannig , the moulting process that promoted growth all Phrenorians went through till their final years, were behind him. He had seen his final rebirth. There was no stronger body awaiting him these days.
    Although his hair didn’t turn gray as a Terran’s did, the thin black braids festooned with awards his ancestors had won in ser­vice to the Empire were dull and flat. His exoskeleton wasn’t as broad and as formidable as Zhoh had expected, and he knew the old general hadn’t been challenged physically in a long time. There were no scars on his chitin. Pain and struggle made a warrior larger and stronger. Rangha had not experienced much of either. Like his guards, he too wore ceremonial armor.
    â€œGreetings, General.” Zhoh turned and performed a small bow. “May your next lannig be ruthless and painful and grow you ever stronger so that you may serve the Empire.”
    The traditional greeting was proper, but Zhoh hoped it shamed the general all the same, drawing attention to the fact that such a thing would never again happen for him.
    â€œAnd may yours test you,” Rangha called down, “to the limits of your endurance.”
    That was a thinly veiled curse, or perhaps a threat. Zhoh was not certain which it was. Of course, it was also a traditional response among Phrenorians. Lannig was a painful process.
    Zhoh bowed again and snapped a primary hand at the guards in their ceremonial armor. “Had I known the occasion merited formal dress, I would have come properly attired.”
    â€œStronghold RuSasara, as this place is known, stands on tradition, Captain. You were not so informed because your manner of dress is not a reflection of this place.”
    You are not—­and will not be—­any part of this place. The general’s words couldn’t have been any clearer. Zhoh kept calm through willpower, barely able to withstand the continued rebuke around him.
    â€œYou must have many questions, Captain.”
    Stubbornly, Zhoh refrained from stating the obvious. He might have questions, but the general would tell him only what he wished him to know.
    Rangha snapped one of his primary hands and the loud, flat clap of chitin striking chitin echoed across the cavernous space. “Come up, Captain, and let us talk.”

 
    THREE
    Outside Fort York
    Loki 19 (Makaum—­colloquial)
    0349 Hours Zulu Time
    I n shadowy darkness, Noojin waited irritably and anxiously atop a narrow two-­story house across the street from the Terran fort, wishing that Jahup