Marchion Ro pulled off his mask, reaching up and running a hand through his long, dark hair, untangling it. The energy in the room changed, even though the Tempest Runners had seen Marchion unmasked many times. His appearance tended to have a particular effect on those around him—slate-gray skin, wholly black eyes, a certain angular leanness to his physique…for many of the galaxy’s species, the features of Marchion’s people meant predator, on some deep instinctive level.

“Is it a good party, Kassav?” Marchion said. “All I saw was a big party. Numbers. Lots of new faces out there. From all three of your Tempests.”

“We always need new blood,” Pan Eyta said. His voice was so low, some of his syllables dropped into subsonic ranges, giving him a wavery, resonant tone. “Strikes find other people to join, and when they get enough of a group under them, they move up to become a Cloud. If they make their name, they get to be a Storm. That’s the way it works, since always. You know this. Been like that since back when your father was the Eye.”

Marchion Ro was more than a little certain that one of the three people standing before him had murdered his father—Asgar Ro. Custodian of the Paths and Eye of the Nihil until Marchion inherited the position and all that went with it on Asgar’s death. But he didn’t know which of the Tempest Runners had done the killing, and he was just the Eye. They were the bosses and had a thousand soldiers each. He only had one real ally, and she wouldn’t be much good in a fight.

“I know the way it works, Pan,” Marchion said. “But the Paths aren’t a limitless resource. Too many people means we can get spread too thin. We need to slow things down.”

“No one’s gonna like that,” Lourna Dee said. “We don’t slow down. We’re the Nihil.”

Marchion placed his index finger on his helmet.

“The Paths come from me. So now I’m saying we need to be a little careful about the next stage. That’s all.”

“Is this about the Republic again?” Pan Eyta said. “We’ve been over that. We know they’re opening that station, that Starlight Beacon thing, but that doesn’t mean they’ll be coming after us. They think we’re small time. They’ve never bothered us before, and they don’t even have a military. How would they get us, anyway? We’ve got your Paths, right?”

The Dowutin adjusted his suit again—that polished turquoise leather. Pan was particular in his tastes. Everything was well chosen, from his clothes to the food he ate to the music he listened to. The Nihil in his Tempest tended to be the same way. From the beginning, Pan had chosen his first Strikes, and they had chosen theirs, and like called to like.