As dawn arrived, cleanup operations began in the capital city; fires were put out, “revelers” arrested, and field hospitals set up where Suk doctors triaged the injured. Numerous bodies — Butlerians, Zimia police, Imperial troops, innocent bystanders, and even children — were discovered in the rubble around the central plaza. Many of the victims had simply come out to see the parade and were swept up in the mayhem. The bodies were brought to a central holding area to be processed and identified.

Roderick felt so weary and wrung out that he indulged in a cup of bitter spice coffee, and the stimulant gave him a needed boost. At last he received the welcome news that Haditha and his children had been taken to a place of safety, but right now he had no chance to go home to them.

By midmorning, Roderick felt that the worst had been brought under control, and he began to feel a hint of calm. Then a haggard-looking Haditha burst into his office in the Hall of Parliament, pulling ahead of a distraught-looking guard. Roderick rushed to greet her with an embrace, knowing how frightened and exhausted she must be.

But when he held her, she pulled back with a terrible expression on her face, her entire body shaking so hard she could not speak. A wan-looking guard who had accompanied her stood awkwardly nearby.

“Nantha!” Haditha finally cried, and the name sounded raw, as if torn from her throat. She could form no other words.

Roderick took her by the shoulders and stared at her grief-stricken expression. Beside her, the guard mumbled, “We received word that the bodies of your youngest daughter and her nanny were found among the wreckage. Apparently they were trampled.…”

Roderick couldn’t believe what he had heard. “But I received a report that my family was safe!”

The guard looked away. “Apparently, they didn’t account for all your children, Prince. There was much confusion.”

“Nantha wanted to see the parade!” Haditha sobbed. “She begged her nanny, and they went out together. I didn’t think anything of it. And all night, I hoped — I hoped.…”

Of course Nantha would have gone out to the parade, Roderick realized with a sick despair. The seven-year-old girl had always liked the colors and pageantry. He could imagine Nantha tugging the nanny’s arm, pleading, laughing, and the nanny would have relented. And why not? They had seen many parades together.

Haditha’s moans cut through to his heart. Roderick could not focus his eyes, so he closed them. His head pounded, his eyes burned. He spoke to the guard. “And our other children?”

“Safe, my Lord.”

He recalled how Manford had rushed away, as if fleeing. What if the Butlerian leader had learned the terrible news, and departed before he could be arrested? Roderick clenched his fists. Manford Torondo could not flee swiftly enough, or go far enough away to avoid retribution. He had caused this, provoking the rampage, igniting the fires of violence. Why? To flex his muscles in front of Salvador? The Butlerians had always been dangerous, fanatical, uncontrollable, and Salvador had been too weak to stand up to them … conceding, pretending, backing down one small step at a time.

Manford Torondo had caused the riots to prove a point. And Nantha had died. Many people had died. Collateral damage.

“I will find a way to stop that man. His followers have caused too much damage, too much pain. Manford Torondo cannot create and unleash a mob, then turn his back on the consequences. The blood is on his hands.”

Haditha looked up at her husband with the saddest face he could imagine. “That won’t bring our baby back.”

He held her, rocking her, and found that he was weeping as well. “No, it won’t.” Roderick thought of what a sweet girl Nantha had been, how she always wanted to know where her father was, how she liked to play in his office and pretend to sign important documents with him. Not long ago, when he was holding her hand and standing with Salvador and Tabrina, Nantha had whispered to him, “Can I be Empress someday?”

He’d smiled and said, “Every person can dream.”

Now, all of Nantha Corrino’s dreams had been erased forever.

Flanked by three elite guards, Emperor Salvador strode into his brother’s office, looking disheveled and harried, but more confident. He did not seem to know about Nantha’s death. He grinned and said, “Roderick, there you are! Come with me — we must show the people that this painful crisis is over. Everything will be all right now.”

Though Denali’s atmosphere was poisonous, Ptolemy felt safe here. It was the Butlerians who made him nervous. They were more dangerous than any planet.

He made his way across the bleak, deadly landscape, riding inside the cab of his specially adapted walker, his arms and legs connected to modified thoughtrodes that let him control the complex machine systems. But working the systems manually was a chore, and Ptolemy envied the nimble new cymeks.

Installed in their preservation tanks and connected to a network of thoughtrodes, the proto-Navigator brains easily adapted to the powerful walker forms he had given them. Ptolemy was particularly impressed by the agility and intensity of two former mercenary officers who had left their service to volunteer for Navigator conversion, Hok Evander and Adem Garl. Now they were among the most aggressive of the walker-brains.

Eight of the installed brains used old walkers salvaged from the ruins of the previous cymek base here, but other Navigator brains rode in new mechanical bodies built by Denali engineers. The enhanced walkers would be more than sufficient against any weapons the barbarians were likely to use.

Today, Ptolemy accompanied the new walkers. They were breathtaking! With improved thoughtrode sensors, his shiny cymeks danced across the rugged landscape like mechanical spiders. In contrast, the older salvaged walkers had a ponderous gait, as if the brains had to work harder to move their unwieldy systems. Walker bodies were interchangeable, and brain canisters could be transferred from a walker machine into a flyer or a manipulator body as needed. Ptolemy wanted his new Navigator Titans to learn how to use every possible form.

He preferred the burly, intimidating walkers, though. There was something satisfying about imagining them approaching their targets in an inexorable phalanx that made the victims feel the terror of what was going to happen to them. Yes, he wanted Manford Torondo to know what was coming for him.

Away from the protected lab domes, Ptolemy rode inside a pressurized life-support cab installed in one of the old walkers. This allowed him to walk alongside his new creations in the poisonous atmosphere, looking for ways to improve them. If he ever became a cymek himself, Ptolemy would not need to worry about life-support systems anymore. He would go wherever he wished, in any environment, and he would fear nothing.

Directeur Venport had already seen Ptolemy’s reports. Perhaps the Directeur would want to become a cymek, and then he could guide the new Titans. Ptolemy did not see himself as a leader and had no wish to become like the despot Agamemnon. He had not, in fact, wanted any part of the role he now had — but the barbarians had forced him into it by destroying his life, his lab, his friend.

Now, Ptolemy tried to keep up with the exuberant Navigator cymeks as they strutted across the terrain. Their multiple legs moved with remarkable ease, and they practiced ripping huge boulders from the ground and hurling them as far as possible. Due to the caustic mists, Ptolemy could not even see where they landed.