The final portal gate was a rounded arch of pale blue metal. In random places, the smooth metal shell had broken away, exposing the complex tangle of electronics underneath. A small symbol had been etched into the center of the arch at the highest point of the curve—a stylized explosion.

“Of course,” Sean said.

It was a Tuhl portal. Because why not?

“What are the chances of us exploding, do you think?” I asked him.

“Zero if we don’t enter.”

Not entering wasn’t an option. Wilmos was somewhere on the other side.

For some reason, I’d thought that the Dominion’s capital would have a direct portal to Karron. It didn’t. It had taken three portals and an hour-long flight via small military shuttle to reach this point atop a remote mountain range on Shurb, the Dominion’s least populated planet. The Dominion provided the craft, the instructions, and the coordinates, but no pilot. Fortunately, we had our own.

Sean had landed the shuttle on a wide platform cut into the side of the mountain, on the ancient stones worn by weather and time to near glass smoothness. The gate sat in the center of it. At the southern end, a huge door led inside the mountain.

We stared at the gate some more. It seemed completely inert. No mechanism to activate it. Approaching it didn’t do anything either.

“Is someone supposed to meet us?” I wondered.

“That was the plan. Miralitt’s brief said, ‘wait for the operator.’”

We waited. Despite the dorky name, Shurb was a pretty planet. It was fall, and the woods below the platform were awash with golds and reds. The air smelled fresh and crisp.

The giant door swung open with a loud clang and a throng of creatures emerged, followed by something very large and covered with an enormous tarp. The keepers of the gate stood about four feet tall on slender legs that ended in hooves. They wore quilted tunics over their slim humanoid bodies. Their heads were slightly goat-like with long narrow muzzles and very dark elongated eyes. Their ears were long and pointed and they poked through their manes of coarse hair.

“Oh no.” Our luck couldn’t possibly have gotten worse.

“What are they?” Sean asked.

“Barsas. Our translator implants won’t work, and I’m very rusty.”

“Wow, a language you’re not fluent in.” He cracked a smile.

“Nobody knows every language in the galaxy, and they almost never come to Earth.”

“There is no need to get defensive.”

The Barsas stopped in front of us. Their leader, an old white-haired male, stepped forward and raised his arms.

Here we go.

“Barsa! Barsa, barsa, barsa. Barsa.” Each word was accompanied by arm-waving and finger-pointing.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Sean said. “Is that all they say?”

“Yep. Hush, I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Barsa. Barsa, barsa.”

The leader nodded sagely.