Flett was unable to sleep that night. He lay in his bunk bed a hundred strides above the ground, staring up at the underside of the bed above, surrounded by hundreds of snoring soldiers. The image of the two gnokgoblins was burned into his mind, and their howls refused to fade from his ears.

How could it be justified? Was the Edge really as good as it could be?

He had never believed that it was, but never before had it been for the reason it was now. He had grown up hearing about the sinister dissidents, the revolutionaries bent on returning the Edge to its former state of darkness. He had believed that their eradication was the only thing standing in the way of global perfection.

But how had the killing of those two slaves been necessary? Had they even done anything wrong, aside from challenging their own position? Was that really enough to justify murder?

Perhaps it had been a fluke, thought Flett desperately. Maybe it was a violation of what the Empire stood for. The slaughterer and his three accomplices would pay for their overzealous actions, surely!

But after hours of sleepless shifting in his bunk, when morning finally came and he joined the assembly of soldiers, it was to find that those soldiers had been promoted. He found the four of them standing there smugly, sporting shiny new glisterguns at their belts. Some of his shock and horror turned to anger. He took a position as far away from the slaughterer as he could.

Officer Groke appeared through a side door. "Today you will patrol Northern Outer City. Let's move!"

Another district I've never seen before, thought Flett. He wondered what he would see this time.

The answer, it turned out, was gut-wrenching poverty. The glistership docked in front of a sprawling slum of ironwood shacks and burned-out groves of dead trees. Citizens of every tribe sat in varying states of dirtiness and hunger, plying their individual trades with little success.

"What in the name of Earth and Sky are we doing here?" he asked his neighbor, and saw with a lurch that he had ended up right beside the slaughterer again.

"Easiest patrol in the world," he replied with a smirk. "We're just required to march through and not do anything. It's all about maintaining an intimidating presence. These people have nothing. If we didn't keep reminding 'em of our power, they might very well decide that they ain't happy where they are."

"What if they're loyal to the Empire?" cried Flett. "What if they deserve more?"

"They live here," said the slaughterer. "That means they blew their chance. Simple as that."

Flett gazed around in rage. It was not as simple as that. There were young'uns here. Babes in arms. Every one of them skeletal and half-starved. What about them? They never had a chance in the first place. And they would never get one.

"Wait a minute…" said the slaughterer, his eyes narrowed with contempt. "You sympathize with this scum, don't you?"

Flett didn't answer. The slaughterer shoved him, and he fell into the mud with a squelching splat. Flett stared up in shock, to see a glistergun pointed into his face.

"There's no room in the Great Glade Military for weakness," spat the slaughterer. "I'll be watching you. My fellows and I wouldn't think twice about ripping your jacket and belt off and leaving you out here to stay with the unwashed masses."

Flett stood up again, dripping with mud and burning with defiance. "You son of a mangy gutter vulpoon," he snarled. "You barely outrank me. How dare you."

The slaughterer lowered his glistergun, grinning unpleasantly. "Save that kind of rage for the traitors and slime," he said, "and you'll go far."

He turned on his heel and left, leaving Flett standing there, rooted to the spot, feeling wretched. Only when Officer Groke cast a suspicious look in his direction did Flett jump to attention and charge after the rest of the troops.

Though none of the soldiers stopped to bully any of the citizens this time, Flett saw the residents cringe and cower as they caught sight of the party of troops. They shrank back into their rotting hovels and ducked beneath the counters of their crude stalls, to the raucous laughter of many soldiers.

Flett closed his eyes, trying to shut out all the misery, but he still heard every derisive laugh, every fearful gasp and hunger-wracked groan. The end of the day's patrol seemed to take a hundred years to arrive.

It was worse the third day, when Officer Groke led them through the streets of East Glade. Flett choked on the suffocating smog, heard the cries and moans of thousands of slaves toiling within the weapon factories from over the roar of the machinery and the steady noise of traffic on the streets, and witnessed the savage torture of a half-dozen runaways. Some of them were killed then and there, but others were taken away by glistercraft-piloting Freeglade Lancers. The Lancers were present on every corner, their black robes and spiky red F insignias drawing Flett's eye wherever he looked. Every so often he would catch a glimpse of a leaguesman factory-owner, striding past and looking very pleased with himself. From time to time, he also witnessed the slaughterer looking at him, as though daring him to object to what he was seeing.

Flett attempted to resign himself to the prospect of his career. He was bound to serve for thirty years as a thug, a lackey, one of the Empire's expendable bullies. But he simply couldn't bear the thought. As the days stretched into weeks, he began to revile everything about the life he had taken on.

And then, one night, when he was once again crammed into his tiny bunk in the Free Glades headquarters, he heard voices whispering to each other on the far wall.

"You heard it too?"

"Yeah, Kittix. I did."

The slaughterer and two other soldiers were whispering to each other.

"Escaped slaves?" said the slaughterer.

"Definitely," grunted a young gray trog. "And I'll tell you something else, Ligament…they don't seem to have any idea that they've walked straight into the lion's den!"

"They must think they're going to hijack a troopship," said the greasy fourthling who had supplied Flett with his uniform, his grin visible even in the darkness of the sleeping quarters.

"And what do they think they'd do with it?" snorted the gray trog. "Sail it to Omniphrax?"

"Who cares?" said the slaughterer gleefully. "All we gotta do is catch 'em and kill 'em. We'll be rolling in new weapons!"

The three of them began to climb down, clambering from bunk to bunk, heading for the floor. Flett's mind was racing. Escaped slaves inside a Free Glades government building? They wouldn't stand a chance. It wasn't right. He couldn't bear it anymore. He knew that he must try to rescue them, in the name of all that was decent.

Taking great care to stay in the shadows so that the three gleeful soldiers wouldn't spot him, Flett began to step down across the bunks, just as they were. It was no easy task. He had to perch himself on just the right spot whenever he reached a new platform. Too close to the edge, and he would lose his balance and fall. Too far, and he would trod on the toes of a sleeping soldier. Fortunately, he managed it, though a couple of times he gave ungainly wobbles, or caused a soldier to shift around in agitation.

His feet touched down on the tiled floor, and he looked around to see the dark feet of the slaughterer just visible between the frame of the bunk he hid behind.

"Locked," grumbled the gray trog.

"No worries," said the slaughterer, and he reached into his belt, turning it inside out to reveal a tiny hidden pouch clipped to it. He pulled from its depths a small object that glinted in the moonglow from a skylight far above.

"A master key!" gasped the fourthling. "But how…"

"Swiped it from old Groke's quarters," said the slaughterer proudly. His arm moved forwards, and the door swung open with a metallic clang.

"Wait!" hissed the fourthling as the slaughterer made to leave. "You can't keep that key with you!"

"You little oakpansy," growled the slaughterer, stowing the key once more. "Course I can!"

"If we get promoted for killing them slaves," the fourthling muttered, "Groke's gonna remove our belts to add the new clips. You think he won't notice your little hidden pouch?"

Even in the faint moonlight, Flett could see the slaughterer's face flush purple with sudden fear. He tore the pouch from his belt and flung it to the floor.

"That won't solve the problem," said the gray trog nervously. "Even if we don't have the key on us, Groke's gonna be curious how we got out in the first place."

They stood in silence for a moment. Then, the fourthling said "We can say that the slaves opened the door. Yeah, they opened the door thinking there might be an exit here, and they woke us up, so we chased them. And that key down on the floor…that was the slaves who stole it. But they dropped it on the way out."

"Brilliant, Kittix!" cackled the slaughterer. "Now let's get 'em!"

Flett waited until they left before darting forward and snatching up the discarded master key. He then began to creep along after them, following the footsteps down the dark halls and up and down flights of stairs. As he continued on, however, the realization dropped into his stomach like a load of leadwood. He had no plan. Was his goal to find the slaves and lead them to safety? Was it to somehow stop the three soldiers ahead of him?

He came to a choice of paths. The footsteps had grown distant now, and he couldn't tell which way the three of them might have gone. But then, he heard scuffling sounds off to the right, and tore off in that direction.

He found himself in the entrance hall, which was dark and nearly deserted. The night patrol had left and the clerks had retired to their sleeping quarters. But he did see three figures heading in the direction of the elevators. They were nothing more than three black shapes outlined against the twinkling lights of the Free Glades skyline shining in through the upper windows.

They reached the fifth line of doors. One of them opened the panel and began to press buttons frantically. But that didn't make sense. The three soldiers had left their key behind…it now dangled from Flett's own hand. So how were they opening the elevator?

In that instant, though, his puzzlement was eclipsed by an idea. If he could just get to the elevator panel before the cab started moving, he would be able to stop it. It wouldn't make a tremendous amount of difference if the soldiers were able to control the elevator anyway, but if the slaves were indeed up on one of those lightwood platforms, trying to commandeer a glistership, every second would count. He might just manage to buy them some time.

As the doors slid shut, he tore across the room to the panel, and quickly scanned the line of buttons. His eyes alighted upon a button that said "QUICK LOCKDOWN", and without a moment's hesitation, he slammed his fist down upon it.

The elevator cab, which had been a second away from moving upwards, remained where it was. But at that same instant, a screaming klaxon pierced the silence of the entrance hall. Red lights blazed into life in the ceiling. This was much more of a diversion than he had bargained for.

He was just about to turn away and run when he suddenly heard muffled thumping coming from the elevator cab, punctuated by desperate yells…yells which didn't sound anything like those of the three bloodthirsty soldiers. In a flash of blinding realization and gut-wrenching horror, Flett realized what he had done.

He dashed back over to the panel and pressed another button. The closest of the ten doors slid back open. Dashing towards the opening, he yelled "Come on! Get out!"

The three terrified woodtrolls inside did not obey…and Flett could hardly blame them. It didn't look to the escaped slaves as though Flett was their savior. Instead he looked like a Great Glade soldier who had just burst onto the scene and sounded the alarm.

Unfortunately, before Flett had any time to try to help the woodtrolls, the door slid shut behind him. He was trapped right along with them.

Mercifully, the alarm was muffled in here, allowing him to speak in a normal voice. "It's all right," he said gently, taking a step nearer to the trembling escapees. "I'm here to help you escape."

The woodtroll in the center—a large, stocky individual who was clutching a second stolen master key—stared at Flett as though he had just announced that he was going to sprout wings and fly. "Wh-what did you say?"

"I've been with the Great Glade Military for only a short time," said Flett. "And I've had enough of it. This city is a nightmare, and my fellow soldiers are sadistic. I can't take it anymore."

The woodtrolls sat in silence. Only the alarm outside the cab could be heard.

"Tell me one thing, though," said Flett. "What would you do if you did manage to get free?"

"We'd get out of here," said another, who looked as though she could be the first's wife. "Out of the Empire. We'd seek a new life in Omniphrax."

"Omniphrax?" said Flett in surprise. "You…you'd go there willingly?"

More silence. Then, the first woodtroll said, "You really believe Vartolius Xax's propaganda, don't you?"

"I'm getting less certain of it every day," said Flett.

"Omniphrax is nothing like the backwards, sociopathic no-man's-land that they tell us about," said the woodtroll. "Far from it. People are free there. Free to voice their own opinion, to choose their own way of life. They reject the idea of a "Glorious Leader" telling people what they must do. They encourage free thinking and the free exchange of knowledge."

"But…but…" said Flett. This last revelation was more shocking than anything else he had discovered…more than the poverty and brutality, more than the fact that Vartolius Xax kept certain knowledge under wraps, more than the idea that a cold-hearted disregard for life was what it took to rise through the ranks of the Great Glade Military. The idea that Omniphrax was actually a place of liberty was more unbelievable than the rest put together. And it didn't entirely add up.

"But what about those 'Pirates Academic'?" he said. "The ones who abduct citizens of the Empire?"

"They don't 'abduct' them," said the second woodtroll. "They save them. Most of the people who are rescued by the Pirates Academic have their villages slated for destruction at the hands of the military. They would be killed. And believe me, there's nothing forced or involuntary about the way they are taken."

"And besides that," said the third woodtroll, a young individual of about Flett's age, "they rescue barkscrolls that would otherwise be seized and burned. Vartolius Xax seeks to wipe out the knowledge of earlier ages…he wants total control over the information that travels through the Deepwoods."

"And the Blight?" said Flett. "Vartolius Xax claims that Omniphrax caused it."

"Total rubbish," said the first woodtroll. "No one really knows what caused the infection, but blaming Omniphrax was simply another tactic to turn his subjects against the one place in the Edge that could offer them a better life."

Flett's mind was spinning. It was all so impossible. So outlandish. And yet…it wasn't. The more he thought about the woodtrolls' version of things, the more it made sense.

At that moment, all ten elevator doors slid open to reveal a crowd of soldiers. They gathered around the spot, forming a semicircle. Flett could see the three soldiers he had been pursuing, the slaughterer looking resentful, as though a treat had been snatched away from him. And in the very center stood two figures whose appearance made all the blood drain out of Flett's face.

One of them was a short, barrel-chested tufted goblin wearing a red uniform covered in gold trim…Commander Hargreeve Spifbart, the highest-ranking official in the Great Glade Military. And beside him stood a very different figure. Tall, pale, gangly, and brutal-faced, a thin black goatee emphasizing his long nose and pointed chin. It was none other than the Imperial Governor of Great Glade himself, Xelius Pulnix.

Yet the two of them did not seem shocked or outraged by Flett's duplicity. In fact, they didn't even seem to be aware of it. The pair of them stared at the woodtrolls in triumph.

"Of all the things to witness during my surprise inspection," drawled Xelius Pulnix in a nasally voice. "I never expected to be greeted with a first-hand look at how the Great Glade Military responds to intruders in its headquarters. Well done, Commander Spifbart. Well done indeed."

Commander Spifbart bowed respectfully.

Xelius Pulnix strode towards the elevator doors and gazed down upon the quaking woodtrolls. He nodded nastily to Flett. "Such a quick-thinking young soldier," he said. "All that's left is to finish them."

Flett stared at the Governor, and then shakily withdrew his glistergun, though he did not fire it. He remained frozen in place for several seconds, his shaking hands pointing the glistergun at the woodtrolls.

"That's it," grinned Xelius Pulnix. "This is the easy part. All you have to do is tighten your finger…"

Flett suddenly swung the glistergun around in his hand and fired into the crowd of soldiers, who yelled in shock and scattered as the pulse of energy chipped the marble floor. He tore out of the cab and shoved two stunned-looking soldiers aside. The woodtrolls, he saw, had leapt into action, waddling along in his wake.

"Seize them!" screamed Xelius Pulnix from somewhere far behind.

The crowd leapt into action…but it was too late. Flett and the woodtrolls had burst through the door, and were tearing down the stone steps. Several glistercraft were parked in front of the building.

"In! Get in!" shouted Flett, diving into the nearest one and flipping several switches, just as the woodtrolls leapt into the back seat. The vessel whined to life, the glisterjets throbbing with their bloodred glow and the propulsion ducts screaming, and they shot away into the night sky, just as dozens of soldiers came swarming down the steps after them.

They had escaped. And now that Flett's eyes had been opened, he wanted to reach Omniphrax just as desperately as the woodtrolls. They would achieve freedom or die trying.