See Author's Notes at the end.

xXx

The morning was dismally bright, and it gave Rathde a killer headache. He stirred, making to tuck his deformed foot in underneath his other foot as he slept. A club of flesh, it sometimes felt tingly if left in place too long, and his shattered bones scratched against one another painfully. He moved it gently, knowing the predictable stab of agony that was coming, had come every morning since it had been broken.

And it never came. At first he relaxed, wondering if the day off his feet might have done him the world of good. And then it came back to him. The new owner, Hir'cyn. The trip through the alleys. The medic. He moved his foot again, and then bent his ankle. He had an ankle.

Rathde sat bolt upright in bed, flinging back the sheets. The sutures were still clearly visible, the dappled spot pattern below his knee clearly not his own. He reached out and touched it, feeling the skin, and then he slid his hand down to the foot which had been merely a mass of broken bone and callus the day before. He had toes and claws and the bones and tendons were whole. He was bent over double at the waist when his clawed fingers drew lines on the bottom of his foot and he cried out at the sensation, so sudden and different. It was no pain, but barely pleasure.

"Glad to see that you're awake."

"Awake? Am I?" Rathde continued to smooth his palm over the strange perfection that suddenly appeared on his body. The skin- now his skin, he realized – tingled as his fingers swept over it, leaving nerves sizzling weakly in their wake.

"Yes." Hir'cyn's eyes flicked down to the sutured leg.

"Did you do this?" Rathde's voice was incredulous. The leg was new, the flesh of another yautja and a cardinal sin against the teachings of Paya. The thought of someone else's bones in his body disgusted him on an elemental level; it was the reclamation of a formerly useless limb, but at what cost? Was his soul in danger? His confusion was tempered with a sense of fear and awe. What sort of creature was this new master?

"We'll begin your education today," Hir'cyn said, waving the question aside like a persistent insect.

"Did you do this?" Rathde's voice was shrill.

"Of course, you'll have to learn your letters, but that shouldn't be too hard for someone like you-"

"Answer me!"

Hir'cyn lifted one eyebrow at Rathde and moved to sit in a chair opposite Rathde's berth. "Of course I did. I own you. I can do whatever I like with you."

Rathde was brought up short. He was still a slave, still secured in bondage, but he was no longer hobbled. He swung his feet- he had two!- out of the bed and stood up on them uneasily. His back ached as he stood up tall for the first time in nearly fifty years. His muscles, atrophied on one side, wanted to pull him back down into his slump, but he strained, pulling them as far as he dared, and forced himself to stand up straight.

"And, of course, some sort of physical rehabilitation will be required," murmured Hir'cyn.

"Fuck you and your rehabilitation."

Hir'cyn's eyes lit with fire. "Don't forget your place. I still own you."
"No one owns me," sneered Rathde.

Hir'cyn moved across the room with surprising speed, his grey locks swinging as he got within inches of Rathde's face. "I'm afraid you're wrong. You see, that leg of yours represents a significant investment, one I intend to collect on."

Hir'cyn's hand clamped down on his shoulder, forcing the weakened Rathde down into the berth. "Now, Rathde, we can discuss the terms of this arrangement, since you seem so eager to test its limits."

Rathde was stunned silent, unable to absorb much more, but he nodded dumbly, listening to Hir'cyn as he explained what had happened in the operating room.

"So I do have someone else's leg?"

"That's correct."

"But Paya's teachings say-"

"I have Paya's blessing. Paya herself released you to my care."

Rathde frowned in disbelief; he had never seen the Matriarch or even heard of her comings and goings. Slaves were kept as stupid as possible, and it was no surprise that such a slave did not know of Paya, puppetmaster of the Council. A perfunctory explanation was in order, and after Hir'cyn had delivered it, Rathde was left feeling even more tiny and worthless.

"Why? Why take an interest in me?"

"Perhaps you do not remember the first time I met you." Hir'cyn looked away from the slave, focusing on a tapestry that hung in his quarters and bore the figure of Cetanu. "You prayed daily for death, and while that is an admirable wish," he acknowledged with a tilt of his head, "it was never your place to wish for it so soon."

He lifted a finger and pointed to the foreign foot on Rathde's body. "That leg was never meant to be broken or deformed. I don't know what you did that angered the Council, but you are out of their hands, and I will not tolerate a slave of mine being infirm."

Rathde didn't know whether to thank him or curse him. Self-loathing was a feeling that the yautja had gotten rather used to in the years since his punishment, but he somehow maintained a healthy sense of pride that had withstood the beatings and torture. Standing up straight hurt; it hurt bad, but it was a pain that Rathde welcomed. In the end, though feelings of disgust and hatred warred within him, it was a grudging thankfulness that won out over them both, and Rathde bowed his head. "Thank you."

"Hmph," Hir'cyn grunted. "Don't thank me yet."

xXx

Escthta lifted his head up from where it rested against the wall. Paya only knew how he'd managed to snatch a few moments of sleep, but it had happened, and he was thankful for them, in spite of his sore neck.

H'chak-di stirred some minutes later. She yawned and huddled herself further into the bedding, seeming smaller than usual. Her eyes opened and closed lazily and then she gave a sleepy smile. "Good morning," she said.

"Good morning."

"How did you sleep?" But she immediately regretted the question. Escthta had a sour look on his face, brought on, no doubt, by his lack of sleep the night before.

She slid out of bed, scuffling her feet on the floor as she walked to the bathroom. Escthta heard her bare feet slapping on the stone, so much like that of a child. He unfolded his legs and stretched them before easing off the bed himself.

He keyed in a morning meal on the sumcom's pad, and then sat down heavily at the table. His neck was beginning to hurt more, and the more he moved it, the more he regretted sitting up; he might have preferred the entrails of the lizard-thing to this crick in his neck.

"So, what are we going to do about last night?" Her voice was uncertain, and she wrapped her arms around her bent knees as she sat.

"What about it?" Escthta lifted an eyebrow.

"I don't know. I feel like we should… talk. Or something."

"We don't have much to talk about. The visions spoke for themselves."

"But what happened, actually? Why did we see each other's minds? Why don't I know which memories of mine, or how many of them you saw? And who was the voice that talked to me?"
"Voice?" Escthta frowned.

"Yeah. It wasn't your voice, but I had a conversation with it while watching you hunt."

Escthta was pensive, his brow creased with heavy lines. A chime notified them the meal had arrived, and after retrieving it, he sat down again. "What kind of conversation?"

"It said something about being able to choose not to Hunt."

Escthta chuckled darkly. "That's a ridiculous idea. We can't ignore the Hunt."

"Why? Why can't you?"

Escthta pushed his still half-full bowl away and folded his arms across his chest. At this distance, his icy discontent seemed less nuisance and more threat. "Why should I?"

"Because it's just senseless killing?"

Escthta's shoulders rolled forward, and he shook his head. "I can't expect you to understand, but the Hunt is not about slaughter."

Unable to give his feelings adequate focus, he made to pick up his breakfast again, but set it down again. "We were given the gift of the Hunt by Paya herself, and to squander that gift, to turn your back on Paya, is a grave mistake that even the stupidest of younglings does not make."

He struggled with the concepts, his words too weak to fully enfold the feelings involved. "The Hunt is both sports competition and spiritual exercise," he said, still unsatisfied with the words he finally put together. "It's about requiring the best of yourself, but on an elemental level. Many of us have very deep spiritual connections to Paya and Cetanu, and putting our lives on the line tests and strengthens those bonds. It is not unusual for yautja to fast while Hunting, to deepen their understanding of the universe."

He paused, taking a small sip of water, and then rested his elbows on the table, threading his fingers together. "I won't pretend that all of us or even half of us believe that. Mostly we learn the killing, the blood, and the exhilaration." He stared off into space, his eyes unfocusing as he saw past events, heard past voices. "They learn to thank Paya, but few learn why. They learn to insult and belittle their prey and each other." He smiled and then looked at H'chak-di, shaking his head.

"It's funny how ooman becomes an insult, and yet a human skull brings great honor."

"Ooman?"

"Yes. A derisive name for your kind. I am sorry to have said it." Escthta sighed, looking down at his half-eaten bowl of breakfast.

Anise was quiet, and she thought of Earth, of the many countries and races, so hateful towards each other that they wouldn't dare be buried in the same acre, and all of them grouped neatly into one alien epithet. "Don't be sorry," she said quietly. "We call each other much worse than that."

xXx

The spires loomed tall on the horizon, and Anise picked them out easily as the car whirred silently through the streets. The last 36 hours seemed to have taken forever; it was an eon ago when she had stepped off a small ship into the fog and into a future that she hadn't asked for. A soft rain fell on the city, and beads of water clung to the car's shell, dancing and making trails along the sides before sliding out into the car's wake.

Escthta was still rather sour about his lack of sleep; his eyes seemed particularly dark in the light that filtered through the overcast sky. He wasn't pleased by the idea of seeing Thtarok either. Without knowing who had left the assassin creature in their room, he wasn't inclined to trust anyone, especially those who had intimate access to H'chak-di.

Da-kvar'di was waiting for them behind the sliding glass doors. "This way," she said curtly, and the two wet arrivals fell into step behind her. "Today, we will begin your testing," Da-kvar'di said. "Thtarok has prepared a solution he believes will illicit a response, formulated from your baseline information. We will administer it and then test your fluids every half hour." H'chak-di nodded as Escthta translated, and he placed her between himself and Da-kvar'di as they changed hallways. He realized this was a different route, to a different lab.

They ended up in another lab, this one cozier, with a human-sized table. Escthta looked at the steel tray set up with a syringe and a battery of test tubes, wincing inwardly. He counted at least twelve, which meant they would be here for some time.

xXx

The crack of wood split the air, followed by an unseemly yelp.

"Not nain, nan." Hir'cyn said calmly, ignoring the murderous glare Rathde shot at him. This was the fifth time he'd rapped Rathde's knuckles this morning. "Thin-de gin, desinth'ja hma'nan-ku,", he recited. A moment to learn, a lifetime to perfect; the proverb resonated with Hir'cyn, who had used the proverb as a mantra during his days as a young Blooded, when respect was hard to come by, and understanding harder still.

In this moment, Rathde could learn, or he could not learn, and it all rested on the stroke of a pen. If he practiced his letters and learned to read and write, doors would be opened for him, understanding gained, and at much less the heavy price Hir'cyn had paid. Only with repetition could a slave hope to reach literacy levels approaching the Elder's own. Hir'cyn realized, as he watched the younger slave rubbing his knuckles, that he was grooming a successor as much as he was freeing a slave.

Manumission, the freeing of slaves by a master's order, had never been expressly outlawed. For what could a slave do but work? Was it not far better that they remain cared for, fed, clothed and lodged in exchange for their work? What would freedom gain them but misery? Even now, Hir'cyn felt that some might simply stay where they were if given the chance to leave- why leave a sure thing for a future filled with uncertainty?

And yet, it was wrong, wrong to take away their right to choose their own lives. Hir'cyn had once given up control, bound in bracers and lead away to that rarest of dungeons, a yautja prison. Considered a worse fate than death, the prison was rarely used, so much so that the building had been locked when he arrived. The cell had been dusty, and he was left without industry, only his thoughts to accompany him. Yautja prisons needed no guards; occupants kept themselves prisoner in their own shame.

The three months in prison shaped him into a model citizen of any culture but the one he inhabited. He learned his letters in that clean, dusty cell, kept company by the lone other occupant of the prison, a prickly Blooded only a decade or so older than he, who was newly blinded in his right eye. Upon his release, he developed a keen interest in the deserted Library of Pthor'da.

"I've got it now," Rathde protested, and his hand, though shaky, wrote the proverb, making each letter with slow precision.

"Hmmph," Hir'cyn grunted. "Great deeds require great risks," he quoted, and Rathde wrote it out, his stylus making sloppy marks, but his letters were correct. Hir'cyn raised an eyebrow and then quoted again, "Thta'thei-de 'uan h'dlak." The short maxim on fear emerged from Rathde's fingers stiffly, but surely.

Hir'cyn picked up the holofilm, letting it bend over his hands. He looked at Rathde again, surprised to find a mixture of sullen hatred and a desire for approval. "Very good."

Rathde's face changed, a flicker of surprise running across it, and then he resumed sulking. Hir'cyn clicked his mandibles together amusedly. "So good, in fact, we can-"

And he stopped as movement caught his eye; the light above the sumcom was blinking. A message? For him?

Immediately wary, he picked up his tablet and keyed in the access code. It found and displayed two messages. The first, he saw, was from Escthta, but the second…

Rathde watched his master read the message on his holofilm. The characters were visible through the tablet, although he was not yet practiced enough to read backwards. Even with what little experience he had, he recognized the face of someone receiving solemn news. At first, Hir'cyn's mandibles relaxed, slowly, and then they twitched back into place, tightly shut. So, thought Rathde, you'd rather not talk about it. Indeed, Hir'cyn was quiet for several seconds, and after sitting down, for several minutes after that.

"Can you walk on that leg?" The question was unexpected, a soft invasion of silence.

Rathde blinked, and then stood, pulling his shoulder back into the painfully correct posture. His leg felt normal, except for a constant feeling of fuzziness. Funny how quickly he had thought of it as normal again. For decades he had only a deformed foot, callused on its edge and side from his limp, and now, only a day or so after the surgery, he'd begun to think of it as normal. He curled his toes, his nails scraping the floor, and then looked up.

"I can."

Hir'cyn grunted and then got to his feet. "Put away your writing. We're going out."

xXx

"She still has a fever." Da-kvar'di seemed irritated by the fever, not concerned with it.

"Of course she does. You've poisoned her."

"It was not poison," Da-kvar'di sniffed. "She is simply even more weak than I had anticipated."

"Even so, you have to bring her temperature down." Thtarok pulled the thermometer from underneath H'chak-di's arm, avoiding the eyes of her Protector.

"Mmmm, still too high," he mused out loud. "Pack her in ice and continue to sample her blood." The thin doctor took the rack of filled test tubes with him, the glass clinking softly as he moved. The door slid shut noiselessly behind him.

Escthta was nearly beside himself with worry. Newly invested with H'chak-di's presence, he was more aware than ever of her state of mind. His body even manifested their tenuous link with a rise in body temperature, a sympathetic response to her fever. He felt her fear hovering in the background, but also felt her focus, her eyes tightly closed and her attention directed inward as she shut out all thoughts but her breathing. It was rhythmic, a measured breath in and out, and it was only the rhythm, the predictability that she made on her own, that kept her from coming apart at the seams.

A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead into her hair, and Escthta closed his eyes briefly before opening them and fixing them on Da-kvar'di. "Where is the ice?"

"Hmm? Ice?" Da-kvar'di was puzzled. "What for?"

"To chill her down, keep her temperature normal."

Da-kvar'di's response was an offhanded point at a bin in the corner. Escthta shot her a sour look, and then strode over to it, finding it filled with small ice packs. He carried them over in an armload, and then began packing them around her neck and thighs. Here, the large arteries ran near the surface, and here, the ice might do the most to cool her boiling blood.

After his third trip, he was satisfied that she was sufficiently cooled. Da-kvar'di watched for a moment and then moved to a console, entering data and looking at H'chak-di's blood under a microscope, directing probes at the slide which contained it. Escthta frowned and then pulled a damp string of hair away from H'chak-di's cheek. Her breathing was still focused, but slower, and she smiled faintly, opening her eyes. "A'san-tbi," she said.

The word was not hers; it was yautja. He nodded his head slowly, accepting the thanks she offered, but inwardly dumbstruck by her sudden use of his own language. Where had she learned that? Did he still dare underestimate her intelligence? No, he knew she might pick up their speech through his translations, but still; would she continue to surprise him with bits of his own culture? Was this related to the events of the night before? Had he taken in parts of human nature and incorporated them into himself? He tried to think of anything new, anything changed since last evening, but could come up with no new knowledge he had somehow obtained, no unexplained and sudden familiarity. He shook his head ever so slightly. Exactly how much had their minds shared?

xXx

Rathde walked upright, nearly as tall as Hir'cyn. He wore the long habit of a learned man to hide the scars on his new leg, though they were already beginning to heal. Now, more than ever, he was both grateful and impressed. The surgeon had taken pains enough to make sure that he would be sure-footed, with an even gait. He made an odd match with Hir'cyn, who was clothed in full Elder regalia, his cape, gathered and draped over his arm, a healthy scattering of rank rings in his hair, and his ornamental armor, the engraved and sculpted shoulder pieces and bracers that were worn only by those members of the Elder caste. Even the ki'cti-pa had designs etched into its dual blades.

The City was beautiful in the afternoon, the spires and ziggurats mirrored by tall evergreens pruned into severe points and small bushes thick with foliage. Hir'cyn had been quiet during the ride in the car, and his somber mood persisted as they walked through the South Quarter.

Although the South Quarter had several spires, only the tallest was referred to as the South Quarter Spire. A massive work of metal and stone, it seemed to claw at the clouds with its bifurcated tips. Much of it was dedicated to housing the several thousand lower-caste yautja who kept up the city, and a significant remaining portion housed computer systems for the Quarter. Near the top and bottom, however, were small businesses; weapon-makers and artisans, as well as the druggist who would provide the rejection drugs Rathde needed.

Hir'cyn was garnering stares from some of the nearby yautja; his height and impressive physical, as well as social stature would be immediately obvious to anyone, and anyone who asked would have no problem figuring out an Elder had been here. It was no matter; Hir'cyn had brought along a set of broken wristblades in a pouch as an explanation should anyone dare question him.

They started into the spire. The lifts were straight ahead through the entrance, cylindrical sets of coppery doors with lights glowing softly above them. Hir'cyn walked quickly towards one, catching it as it landed and moving aside for its occupant to evacuate. The lower-caste yautja saw the Elder's cape and ranking ring and quickly ducked his head, moving away across the foyer. Rathde shuffled toward the lift, avoiding the questioning eyes of the other yautja and joining Hir'cyn in the lift.

"Why are we here?" Rathde asked when the doors were closed.

"Your leg does not come without price," Hir'cyn said shortly. "Because it is not yet your own flesh, your body stands a chance of rejecting it."

"Rejecting-"

"It will poison your blood and rot off," Hir'cyn growled. It wasn't wholly true, but it stopped the questioning; Rathde paled.

"That is why we are here," Hir'cyn said. "There is a druggist here who will provide us with drugs to stop rejection."

"How…. How long must I take them?"

"Until your body has replaced all the foreign muscle and bone in your new leg with cells of its own making." Hir'cyn paused. "Seven years."

"Seven years." Rathde huffed a small laugh. "Is that all?"

"That's all." The lift whined as it approached its stopping point. Hir'cyn straightened his shoulders as the door opened, stepping out and colliding heavily with another yautja. Hir'cyn's mandibles opened in a display of aggression, but he closed them quickly.

"Ren'da!"

The Councilman narrowed his eyes at Hir'cyn. "You use my name carelessly, Elder."

"My apologies, Liege. I did not expect to meet you here." Hir'cyn was stunned. What was a Council member doing here? What other services were provided on this level? A quick scan of the directory confirmed the druggist and several storerooms. Perhaps he had something in storage.

Ren'da lifted a hand, waving it away. Though he was not garbed as befitted his rank, he still wore the rings over his knuckles that an Arbiter wore. Ren'da had been an Arbiter before becoming a Councilman, and his influence with the law-keepers had proven legendary.

"I am making sure that everything is up to date in this quarter." He chuckled. "Boring, to be sure, but one of the things we do between Councils to keep the City running in perfect order." Ren'da at last noticed the figure accompanying Hir'cyn.

"What's this, Hir'cyn? A new slave?" There was a note of disapproval in his voice.

"Yes, I acquired him for a very good price. He's a hard worker." The silence grew increasingly uncomfortable- Hir'cyn hoped that Rathde would know his place and stay quiet.

Ren'da squinted at Rathde, tilting his head and clicking his mandibles together with curiosity. "I feel sure I have seen him somewhere before," he said quietly. Hir'cyn noticed his eyes directed at Rathde's feet, clearly visible, since the hem of his borrowed habit dusted his ankles. The skin tones were not quite matched, but the transplant was in shadow, so it might be overlooked.

"Perhaps so; I acquired him after this most recent Council," Hir'cyn lied smoothly. "Perhaps his previous owner kept him as an attendant."

"Perhaps," Ren'da said slowly, and then he inclined his head. "I must go."

Hir'cyn bowed his head. "Liege," he said, by way of dismissal, and the Councilman moved into the elevator they had just left.

Hir'cyn chattered with relief before turning to Rathde.

"I think we are safe. The slave he remembers had a useless foot. Doubtless he believes he is seeing things." Rathde nodded slowly, as if he did not quite believe him, but quickly shrugged off his discomfiture as the visit with the druggist went smoothly and found him in possession of drugs that would save his leg.

"This is not our only stop today," Hir'cyn said as they left.

"Oh?"

"Yes. We have one more place to visit."

The robot car that bore them out of the South Quarter turned to the northeast, toward that most deserted part of the City. Here, in the North Quarter, a small district remained deserted. Here the females dwelt during the Council, and they tolerated no interlopers. They transferred to a different robot car at the gates, the severe mother-statues baring teeth and brandishing claw. Rathde could still faintly smell the breeding musk of a thousand different females, and his body responded in spite of itself.

"Be careful with that," Hir'cyn admonished, although he struggled with and barely contained his own biological response to the scent-molecule propositions decoded by the olfactory organ in his mouth.

They pulled up at a small but ornate building. At this, the farthest point from City Center and the Council Hall, the Matriarch slept in the shadow of the hills that abutted the City. Small trees and groomed foliage lined the path up to the small steps. There was no door; its occupant received visitors at all hours. Hir'cyn approached slowly, and then stopped on the threshold. With one hand, he moved aside the curtains that provided shielding from the sun. Rathde stepped inside, and Hir'cyn motioned for him to sit on the cushions next to the doorway as he stepped over to a reclining figure on the couch.

The Matriarch rested easily, though her eyes had been on them since before they parted the curtains. Hir'cyn walked across the small plush room slowly and knelt at her side. "I did not think I would hear from you so soon," he said, his voice oddly strained. She held out a hand to him, and he took it, lifting his eyes to look at her.

"I have held off taking a consort because I foresaw your request," she replied simply. "Now that you are ready, I do not wish to prolong this any further."

"The Council? Do they know?"

"They will." She waved a hand absently. "They are of no concern to me anyway."

"And Paya?"

She nodded, but the answer was as unfathomable as the question had been, leaving Rathde puzzled. Hir'cyn pressed his forehead to the top of the Matriarch's hand. His offering of loyalty, the acceptance of the oath, pleased her; she chattered comfortably and then sat up.

"I see you have brought Rathde with you."

Rathde stiffened at the mention of his name. The Matriarch, the representation of Paya in this world, knew his name. He bowed his head deeply.

"You have already replaced his leg." She turned to Hir'cyn, looking at him with clear brown eyes. "Did you have much trouble?"

"Strangely, no. Should I have?"

"Kvar'ye has been known to kill such medics, based on Paya's teachings."

"Your teachings."

"Like many fanatics, he misinterprets them as he wishes." She smiled, curving her belled tusks. "He and his supporters will soon find themselves in an awkward position."

Hir'cyn chuckled softly. "Your clairvoyance disturbs me, Lady."
"Why?" Her voice was playful, even young.

"I have always enjoyed not knowing what tomorrow might bring." He gently squeezed her hand and then asked, "Does being able to see the future ease your mind?"

The Matriarch's smile faded. "No, Hir'cyn, it does not." Her shoulders sagged with an invisible weight, and she sat down again. Hir'cyn seated himself on the couch, and the Matriarch put her head in his lap. The bond between the Matriarch and her Consort was strong already; his quick assumption of the oath and pledge of loyalty soothed any fears of misplaced trust. It was above scrutiny. Hir'cyn stroked her temple thoughtfully.

"I always thought that kind of certainty to be enviable," he murmured.

"It is more often a curse," she said quietly. "I know best of all the kind of chaos that will consume our world when I leave it, and that only greater chaos will follow when the Psionic fully awakens."

"Why not kill him?" Hir'cyn suggested softly. The Psionic's identity was unimportant; the Matriarch took precedence over anyone.

"The right thing to do is also the hard thing to do," she replied.

xXx

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hir'cyn's proverbs include a bastardized quote by Herodotus, a Chinese proverb, and a translation of a mantra from a famous sci-fi novel. (Can you figure out which one?)

With this chapter, I can conclusively say that Quality of Resonance has reached its halfway point, not including the Cthinde story that will be written. I also got a 3.3 this past semester, so a small personal victory over college has been achieved. With any luck, I'll be on track to begin Cthinde's story by at least the end of the summer.

To the Reader, on the Nature of the Hunters: I have always considered the yautja to be a kind of therapsid animal, not quite mammal, but no longer reptile. They do not have scales for skin, as can clearly be observed in the ultimate canon, the first Predator movie. They have some mammalian characteristics, such as lactation and homeothermy, but are still largely reptilian in appearance. Perhaps the strongest evidence for mammalian homeothermy is the size of their brain case; reptiles simply don't have large brains for their body size. Hunters, however, have a huge brain case, and brains take constant temperature and power to run.

On Psionics: The humans have no psionic representatives in this story. It might be assumed that Escthta would have at least partially become Psionic even without Oggohlb's interference. The Bathyrian simply accelerated the process.

EDIT, June 27, 2006: This chapter was edited to remove an embarassing editorial error pointed out by an astute reader.