Chapter Seven – I Howl and I Whine; I'm After You
Ze'ev's pack wouldn't be the only one to suffer tragedy, now would it?
Ze'ev had long since learnt how to tell when a group of traitors was being prepped for execution. There was always a grating noise as whatever vehicle was used to transport them came through the lava tubes. Once he knew to be alert, Ze'ev was usually able to smell strangers. The accused smelled differently from guards or thaumaturges on official business — the accused smelled like fear.
The operatives would prick their ears, and wait for any kind of signal which pack it was to kill. Some hoped it was their pack, others prayed that it wasn't.
Master Jael's pack had a total of three executions since Ze'ev had joined. It hadn't gotten easier.
"Any chance that this group is ours?" Beta José Lobo asked, stretching. The pack had just finished a training session on the gun range, and Jael had walked off somewhere. Ze'ev thought he liked weapon training more than studying how to literally fight tooth and nail, but that might have just been because guns were so rare it broke monotony.
"They're taken by Thaumaturge Patil's pack," Beta Wane Becke said, brushing the gunpowder off his fingers. "She's already led them to the arena."
Ze'ev felt his chest loosen slightly. Logically, the people would be just as dead, but at least he wouldn't have to taste their blood.
"So how come Master Jael is going to watch?" Beta Tristan Wynn asked.
The rest of the pack looked around curiously. Jael was too far away for them to see clearly, but they could smell where he was and their eyes were redesigned to track movement. He was heading into the stands above the arena, the other thaumaturges following him.
The executions had never had an audience before.
Ze'ev glanced at the other twelve packs who were training in the same room that day. They were whispering to each other; Ze'ev could hear the same questions repeated throughout the room.
Then someone darted across the field towards the wall around the arena. Ze'ev thought his name was Alpha Xu. Xu clambered up a pile of mutilated punching bags that resting against the wall and peered into the arena. The rest of his pack was close behind him.
Lupine operatives hated to be shown up, even by another pack. Soon everyone was copying Alpha Xu's example, climbing on whatever they could find in order to get a spot.
Ze'ev found himself clinging to the edge of the wall, his arms draped over the side to keep himself up. It wasn't the most comfortable of positions, but it was less obvious to the thaumaturges and he had more than enough muscle to hold himself there — he could support himself for the full day if he'd wanted. He was some distance away, having been relegated to one of the worse spots available, but if he tried he could see fine.
"And today you shall pay penance for each of your crimes," Thaumaturge Patil said dramatically to the accused, raising her hands. "Every betrayal was a metaphorical knife against the crown, but knives may be melted down and repurposed into something that can be used for a better purpose."
The scene in the arena was familiar, but he'd never seen it from the outside. Thaumaturge Patil stood in the middle of the ground, addressing two dozen traitors huddled against a wall. On the opposite side, her pack of eleven operatives standing behind her, straight backed and at attention.
Or at least, ten of them were straight backed. One of the betas was fidgeting. Ze'ev had seen him around without knowing his name, and thought that he was about halfway up his hierarchy.
The beta's fingers were clenching and unclenching, and his foot was rapidly tapping. Even from this distance Ze'ev could tell that he was chewing on his lip, which was a serious sign of discomfort for someone with fangs. The pack member next to him nudged him with his elbow, but the beta only brushed it off and continued shifting nervously.
Patil would be furious at one of her charges being so blatantly improper. It was one thing to be reluctant, but Ze'ev was stunned that any operative could be that unprofessional in formation, especially with every thaumaturge watching in the stands.
The thaumaturges had noticed him. All eyes were on the beta, and there were expectant smiles across the court members.
"It is a great privilege for you to help serve Luna in this way," Thaumaturge Patil continued. She glanced behind her. The beta managed to stop moving under her gaze, but went back to his fidgeting the moment she looked away.
"Privileges are only for the ruling class," someone called out. "Why don't you try this 'privilege' instead?"
So far Ze'ev had never seen any execution without at least one person who yelled out a last defiance. Every time made Beta Orbit Troya smile in admiration, but Ze'ev didn't look to see her expression.
"Freddie, don't," a man hushed him.
The fidgeting beta flinched as if the words had physically hit him. Unbelievably, he broke formation and took a step forward.
"Dad!"
Silence dropped over the arena, thicker than the blankets in the barracks.
Ze'ev's stomach lurched. His eyes darted to the side, to see horror on the face of every single operative watching, even the ones in the arena. The thaumaturges looked positively gleeful.
The man stared at the pack. Slowly, he began to approach.
"Darcy?" he asked quietly. His voice nearly boomed in the absolute silence. "Darcy, is that you?"
The beta nodded once. He licked his lips, and then moved to walk forwards again.
"Beta Morrison," Thaumaturge Patil said calmly, without looking at him. "Stay in formation."
Instantly, the beta straightened and stepped back into the line.
His father started to close the gap between them, leaving the relative safety in the herd of traitors. "Darcy, you're—"
The other ten pack members growled in unison. Judging by Thaumaturge Patil's smile, Ze'ev thought she touched their bioelectricity to get that reaction.
The father stopped walking, but he didn't retreat.
"As I was saying, you have been accused of treason," Thaumaturge Patil said. "Your sentence will be swift and final."
"I'm so glad you're alive," the father said, almost too quietly for Ze'ev's enhanced hearing to pick up. "We had no idea what happened to you."
Beta Morrison gulped audibly. He was still in formation, but had gone back to nervously fidgeting and wringing his hands.
"We tried to leave because of what happened to you," the father said, taking another step forwards. "We didn't want to stay on Luna."
"We?" Beta Darcy Morrison repeated, and then flinched as soon as the word came out of his mouth.
His father nodded. "Your mother and I."
"Where is—" Beta Morrison clamped his mouth shut halfway through the sentence.
"I think she made it to Earth," his father said. "I hope so."
Thaumaturge Patil tutted. "Beta Morrison, that man is a convicted criminal to be executed."
Beta Morrison's head snapped towards her, as if somehow he'd forgotten.
Thaumaturge Patil folded her arms. "Kill him."
The father stood still, and looked at his son with wide eyes. Beta Morrison had grown very rigid.
Then, quietly, he whispered, "No."
The single word fell on the assembled operatives like a bomb. No-one dared breathe.
"Excuse me?" Thaumaturge Patil said. "Are you disobeying a direct order?"
"Yes," Beta Morrison said quietly, eyes on the ground. "I am."
The rest of Beta Morrison's pack stared in horror.
In the stands, the other thaumaturges looked delighted. Ze'ev thought he heard Jael's chuckle.
Thaumaturge Patil slowly tilted her head to the side, staring at Beta Morrison. Beta Morrison didn't meet her gaze.
"I do not give suggestions. I give orders. My authority will not be questioned."
Beta Morrison swallowed, but stayed quiet.
"I am your mistress, and I demand respect." Thaumaturge Patil seemed to enjoy the theatrics. She was trying to keep a furious expression, but her lips twitched. "You will kill him."
"Please-" Beta Morrison began, then hesitated.
"Silence," Thaumaturge Patil said, although he'd already closed his mouth. "You will not question me."
The father growled. It was odd to hear unaltered vocal cords growl. "Don't talk to my son that way."
Despite her best efforts, Thaumaturge Patil smiled. And then she schooled her face into a scowl that was actually less terrifying.
Mr Morrison sunk to his knees and clutched at his head. He moaned in the sickeningly familiar way of a traitor being assaulted with the Lunar gift. Behind him, the other prisoners whimpered.
"I do not enjoy disobedience," Thaumaturge Patil claimed, her face lit up in cruel pleasure.
"No, mistress," Beta Morrison said quietly. He tried not to look at his father. Even from a distance, Ze'ev could see that his attempt failed.
After a moment Thaumaturge Patil released her grip on Mr Morrison's mind. The man scrambled to his feet, panting heavily.
"Not only have you betrayed our queen and our country by attempting to flee," Patil said calmly, "but you have also openly defied a third-level thaumaturge, adding to your treason."
"So what?" Mr Morrison spat.
Thaumaturge Patil tapped her perfectly manicured fingernails against her arm. "It would be far too much trouble to change your sentence to further reflect on this. After all, we have an audience." She smiled at the thaumaturges who watched from the stands. Ze'ev was certain she knew about the operatives watching from behind the wall, but she didn't acknowledge them. "It's merely proper protocol to state the new charges before your execution."
Thaumaturge Patil paused to let her words sink in, and then clicked her fingers. The gesture was pure theatrics, as manipulating bioelectricity was a mental exercise.
Slowly, Beta Morrison's lip began to curl. He growled.
Behind him, the rest of his pack stayed statuesque, fists to the chest.
Beta Morrison took a step forwards, an animal snarl rumbling out of his throat.
His father stood his ground. "Darcy," he said simply. "Don't."
Beta Morrison hesitated for a moment. He looked confused and shook his head roughly. Then he resumed his approach.
Mr Morrison took a half-step backwards, and then grit his teeth. "I'm not afraid of you," he said. His voice shook. "You're my son. Whatever they did to you, they will never take that away."
Beta Morrison had stepped into arm's reach. His fingers flexed, clenching and unclenching rapidly.
"Darcy," Mr Morrison said, reaching out a hand. He gently touched his son's cheek.
Darcy stopped walking. Mr Morrison's hand moved up his head to ruffle his hair, and Darcy leaned into the touch like any operative starved for familial affection.
"You're my son," Mr Morrison repeated.
There was a long, long moment of absolute stillness. Ze'ev stared at the two Morrisons and wondered what that would be like.
He glanced at Thaumaturge Patil. Her frown grew more pronounced as the seconds ticked on.
Then suddenly movement.
One of the other members of the pack – Ze'ev knew him vaguely as Alpha Drake – broke formation. He darted across the regolith floor and slammed shoulder-first into Beta Morrison.
Beta Morrison collapsed without resistance. Before Mr Morrison could react, Alpha Drake grabbed him by the neck and twisted his hands.
Crack.
Alpha Drake released the corpse, which flopped onto the ground. Wearily, he flexed his fingers.
Beta Morrison stared at him from his position on the dust.
Dismissively, Alpha Drake walked towards him. He dragged the beta off the ground, forcibly making him stand up. Once Beta Morrison had his feet firmly planted, Alpha Drake punched him twice – once in the stomach and once in the nose.
Beta Morrison doubled up, clutching at his stomach.
Any other operative, no matter how cowardly or how weak, would respond to that with a fight. Beta Morrison simply stood up, wiped at his bloody nose, and walked back into formation. The other operatives didn't respond to him at all.
"Thank you, Alpha Drake," Thaumaturge Patil said calmly.
Alpha Drake spun around immediately, putting his fist to his heart. He nodded respectfully.
"You may rejoin your pack."
Alpha Drake obeyed. His fist was covered in Beta Morrison's blood. It was a gross breach of etiquette to wipe his hand on his shirt when he was supposed to be standing at attention, but Thaumaturge Patil ignored it.
"Now," Patil said after allowing the silence to reclaim the arena. "The rest of them."
She stepped out of the way between the operatives and the traitors. Howls arose in her wake.
Ze'ev was tempted to drop down from the wall but everyone else was still watching, and operatives hated to let themselves be shown up. He stayed.
Like every other execution in the arena, the condemned didn't stand a chance.
The dining hall was never exactly quiet. Roughly five hundred living weapons packed together meant there were always shouts, brags, screams, insults, and occasionally howls. Still, the noise level seemed to be lower than normal at dinner.
Ze'ev took a seat at his pack's table and wondered if he imagined the more subdued atmosphere. He glanced around sharply when Ran sat down next to him.
Ran ignored his look, and almost half-heartedly grabbed at the steak Ze'ev had clearly claimed. Ze'ev easily knocked his arm back, which Ran took with better grace than normal.
Neither brother said anything, but Ze'ev had to fight to hide his smile.
"What's going to happen to Beta Morrison?" Beta Eclipse Garson asked. He was sitting halfway down the table, picking at a small sliver of meat. When Beta Huang Liu snatched it, Eclipse didn't even respond.
"Nothing good," Beta Vanya Volkov said grimly.
"They're not here," Alpha Brock said. He dug his nails into a particularly juicy piece of meat, pulling off smaller pieces as if he didn't feel like biting. "Their table is empty."
As one, the whole pack looked around to see what their alpha had pointed out.
The table that was normally headed by Alpha Drake was completely empty. Not even the trays of meat had been taken out.
It was surreal to see an area of absolute peace in the middle of the dining hall. No-one went close; even the packs with nearby tables had shuffled as far as they could move from it.
"Beta Morrison disobeyed orders," Beta Rille Baines said quietly.
"The rest of the pack didn't," Beta Tristan Wynn said.
"Packs are teams," Rille said. "One mistake is all it needs."
That was a sobering thought. The idea that no matter how hard Ze'ev tried, someone else could ruin his chances unsettled him.
He tried not to think about what Darcy Morrison had been thinking when he tried to disobey orders.
"Reckon they're dead or in surgery?" Beta Orbit Troya asked. She tried to sound blasé, but her voice cracked a little.
"What's the difference?" Ze'ev asked her.
Orbit didn't reply. Seemingly without realising she traced a small scar against her lip. It was one of those perfectly straight, almost healed scars that were reminders of their own surgeries.
There seemed to be more to say, but no-one ever discussed the surgeries. No-one wanted to discuss the price of treason either.
More to change the subject than any other reason, Beta Troya snatched Beta Wynn's steak, making sure to catch him in the chest with her elbow. Beta Wynn took up the fight without hesitation.
The rest of the conversation petered out fairly soon as fights began to break out across the table.
The rest of the dinner finished like normal. Ze'ev ended up giving a relatively mild bruise to Ran's shoulder. He may have exaggerated the amount of pain Ran's retaliation punch had caused, but he would have denied it to anyone who asked.
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