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I have stayed with the Cabal, even as the Light in me dims - I have been too far from the Traveler for too long. If I am not destined to find my own Guardian, at least I can inform the City of what I've learned.

I thought Mars would be the place to find a Guardian. The sand preserves everything well, and Clovis Bray had been famous for attracting talent. The brave, the brilliant, the footloose, those restless on Earth and itching for fame. I stowed away aboard a Mars scout ship, hoping.

No luck. The sand ate everything. Clothes from skin, skin from bone. It was as if there were never any people here at all. I have been through every broken window in every building. Nothing. That is, no Guardian material. And no ride back to Earth. The scout was long gone.

What I did find, however, was a way into the Cabal Warbase. Their runty piggish eyes are too dull to see me, as long as I stay out of their defense systems. The Psions are a different matter: Too quick, too clever, throwing their minds around like hammers. I creep around walls, or dig into a heap of canisters and watch from there.

There is a vast Empire behind these creatures, many star systems away. Some pledge allegiance to that far Empire, obeying their ancient marching orders. Some do not. They disagree among themselves about the answers. I wish arguing Cabal on no one. They slam their plated bodies into each other with horrendous roars. Intelligence gathering has never been so painful.

A hologram of a spinning golden planet, in stasis, turning gently. You can see the storms moving over its face. But when the Commanders congregate below it, when they activate whatever controls are below, it changes. Fissures appear on its face. Is that their home? When the room empties I play with the controls, but it's older, native technology that I don't recognize at all.

I don't know what it means. It's not difficult to hide in these caverns when you're as small as I am, although the Psions tend to look around them when they pass me. There are infinitely many cracks and crannies. They are not a race that fears infiltration or espionage.

There is meaning to the structure and layout of their buildings. This is a warrior people, and they lay out their fortifications along ancient principles and time-tested strategies. I can't figure out the sense that lies behind it. I would need ten times the computing power for inference calculations. But I know it's there. I can intuit it. It's like an open hand, ready to squeeze into a fist. A threat. A gesture of power.

For all their might and strength, for all that they have dug into Mars and flung up battle walls with the bureaucratic grimness of conquerors, I suspect they are fleeing from something. That within their hard shells and thousand-folded shields is a sharp seed of terror. But of what? Does something follow them? Should we fear it too?

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