Free The Thrones of Kronos by Sherwood Smith, Dave Trowbridge

tapped the
acknowledge key. “Morrighon. At once.”
    Lar laid his tools down, and as another Bori moved to take
his place, the others gave him that look, comprised of pity and distrust, that
such a summons always inspired.
    He trotted down the neat rows, past stasis clamps, cool
breeze-blowing tianqi vents, and compute equipment—all the well-regulated
technical biznai that imposed a semblance of order on the weirdness of the
station.
    Outside the door, the unmoving Tarkan guards radiated
menace.
    “Summons from Morrighon,” Lar said in careful Dol’jharian.
    The Tarkans looked away, which was all the permission Lar
would get, and he trotted past them and down the hall. It’s gotten rounder , he thought, sending an apprehensive glance
upward. Ever since the day the last tempath had died in his attempt to start
the station, things really did seem to have gotten stranger—even his dreams.
    He jogged down the very center of the corridor, pausing only
to give way to Catennach Bori, or high-level Dol’jharian servants, or other
Bori techs who carried loads or who flashed the urgent hand sign. Only the menials gave way for him; once, a squad
of Tarkans in servo-armor clattered around a corner, and he hastily backed
against a wall, eyes lowered, until they passed.
    When they were gone, he made a rude sign at the Tarkans’
backs. He knew it might get him into trouble, but he had to do something to
maintain his identity. He was by upbringing and choice a Rifter, not one of the
Bori trained to service of the Dol’jharian overlords. He spoke only the most
rudimentary Dol’jharian—a handicap that Morrighon had said he had better repair
as soon as possible, if he expected to live long.
    With almost as much resentment as he had donned the
requisition gray overalls of Bori technicians he had begun studying Dol’jharian
tapes with his cousin Tat, who knew nothing at all of the language. His
brother, having been demoted to menial status, was exempt, which was lucky, as
Dem wasn’t capable of learning anything anymore. He seemed content to spend his
shifts cleaning, his mind lost in some world far from this one. Lar envied him
more each day.
    He reached the obscene pucker that was Morrighon’s office
door, noting the wounds where Ur-fruit had recently been harvested. At least
the station had stopped sprouting body parts; Lar shuddered at the memory of
the ghastly tangle of hands and fingers he’d seen growing out of a wall near
the computer chamber.
    He tabbed the annunciator and when the door scronched open, hastened in lest it
close on him and suck him into a wall. Supposedly only the walls in the heavily
guarded recycling chamber absorbed things, including corpses—that was the
official line. But one thing Lar had learned by the end of his very first day
in Dol’jharian service: the overlords only told their servants what they wanted
them to know, not necessarily the truth. The fact that even one wall on the
station had proved capable of absorbing humans meant only an idiot would linger
in one of those weird dilating doors or too near a wall.
    Farniol, Morrighon’s secretary, glanced toward the inner
office. Her fingers, busy with a stack of data chips, sketched the signal for
spy-eyes.
    Narks, Lar
thought, fiercely rejecting his mind’s accommodation to service-Bori language.
But he knew better than to let his resentment show; Tat had said on their
arrival, “These service Bori might resent us for our freedom as Rifters as much
as we despise them for serving the stone-bones. Let’s be extra polite, as if
we’re on Rifthaven caught between the Draco and the Kug.” Lar tapped his
forefinger once against his leg in the sign for thanks.
    Tat’s . . . relationship (not friendship,
because the Catennach had no friends) with Morrighon had saved all three of
them. Her skills as a noderunner had assured her survival, but Lar and Dem
could have been left aboard the Samedi to
be killed. Lar’s nightmares frequently