"I'll handle infiltration. You handle the assault." Curze laid out his battle plan, simple, efficient.
Leon nodded. They'd done this dozens of times already, and it had become second nature. Curze would kill the gang leaders, open the gates to their strongholds, and the rest would only be headless mobs with no command structure.
This time, however, things were different. Nearly every gang in the underhive had united, their combined strength far greater than that of the Midnight Phantoms.
But Curze would succeed. The Midnight Phantoms would triumph, because they stood for justice.
Before departure, Curze went to inspect his territory, rooting out instability.
Scavengers who tried to take advantage of chaos were executed. Children with dangerous thoughts were pressed into the vanguard, given one last chance to redeem themselves before committing greater crimes.
From the heights, Curze watched. The older children stood guard in the shadows, vigilant against unseen threats.
A few houses dared the luxury of phos-light, where Dorothy and her students held lessons.
There, children learned the meaning of law, of morality, of loyalty.
Curze saw his foundation growing stronger, but before they could become towering walls, they still needed the Midnight Phantoms' protection.
He also saw them destroyed in a single night, fledgling flames drowned by a storm from above.
Philly dead. Dorothy dead. Leon dead. Ben dead. Nothing left but small, broken bodies.
A handful escaped into the depths of shadow, but the fire in their hearts went out. The world lost its last chance.
"I won't let that happen."
Curze was seeing more and more visions now, unable to control his gift.
At times, he couldn't even hear people clearly, their faces eroded by years they hadn't yet lived.
Every moment he bore witness to futures, futures that hadn't yet happened, futures that might never come to pass.
He looked at Caelan, who stood silently by his side, the anchor Curze used to hold himself in the present, amidst the flood of overlapping tomorrows.
"Do you know Shakespeare?" Caelan asked.
"An old Terran poet. I am not well-versed in his works."
Curze was used to Caelan's erratic leaps of thought. He always said things that seemed disconnected from reality, and Curze suspected it came from Caelan also glimpsing the future.
What kind of future Caelan saw, he did not know. But since Caelan rarely spoke of it, Curze assumed it was not a pleasant one.
Caelan said, "What's past is prologue. From Shakespeare's play The Tempest."
Curze murmured: "These youthful years, the future yet to come. What has not arrived will be glorious."
"That's Shakespeare, too?"
"No. But I think it's philosophical enough."
....
"…I believe all the gangs of the underhive should unite and overthrow the Midnight Phantoms!"
Gang boss Artur's fiery speech fell flat, met with sparse response.
Hundreds of gang leaders had arrived, each bringing their lieutenants and guards. Risky, yes, but safer than leaving their second-in-command alone back home.
Few gangs were dynasties. Most leaders had risen by killing the old boss, and lived wary of their own lieutenants.
If it had been only lieutenants here, they'd have supported Artur eagerly, they wanted rebellion.
But with the bosses present, none would bow to another. Unity was nearly impossible.
"I know what you're all thinking. But the Midnight Phantoms have already destroyed half the gangs in the underhive. If we don't unite now, will you wait until they pick us off one by one?"
Still, few spoke up. They understood his point, when the lips are gone, the teeth grow cold, but the lips weren't gone yet.
"I support uniting. But who leads? Who commands?"
"Of course, Boss Artur!"
"Why him? The Artur Gang isn't bigger than the Jawa Gang. Why should we follow you?"
"Exactly! If anyone's to lead, it should be Boss Tex!"
"Tex? He's nothing! He's not fit to command us!"
Before the bosses could even speak, their lieutenants were already shouting, eager to prove loyalty.
Artur narrowed his eyes, memorizing the faces of those who had dared question him.
When everyone had spoken, he said slowly: "I know you don't accept me. But have you thought, why was it me who called this meeting?"
The crowd fell silent, waiting for his next words.
"Because I told him to."
The room parted as a young man walked in. The crowd shrank back in awe, leaving a path.
He was richly dressed, handsome, noble in bearing. A faint perfume clung to him, so out of place in the stench around him.
He was a true aristocrat.
Nostramo was a world of gangs.
In other hive worlds, the underhive was ruled by gangs only because the nobles above didn't care.
But on Nostramo, from the highest spires to the deepest alleys, every inch of ground belonged to someone, a domain, a kingdom, a hunting ground.
The underhive was ruled by gangs, but so too were the mid-hive and even the spires. Gangs upon gangs, all swearing fealty upward, until they reached the noble houses at the peak.
The aristocrats ruled every aspect of the hive. They did not ignore the underhive like nobles elsewhere.
On the contrary, they sent their young heirs into gangs below. Only those who survived the bloodshed could inherit.
If they died, the nobles claimed not to care, but those who killed a noble, or the gang that sheltered them, always disappeared soon after.
This was not vengeance. It was nobles refusing to let their authority be challenged.
Foolish scavengers might kill a noble for food. Gangsters might lust after their beauty and drag them into an alley.
But the powerful bosses never dared harm a noble, they knew too well how terrifying nobles could be.
"Artur has no right to lead you."
Artur forced a weak laugh, not daring to argue.
The bosses had long known there was a noble among them. They just hadn't known who.
"The one to lead you is me," the young man declared. "Ignorant mortals dare defy the order of Quintus. They dare rebel. But you underhivers, you don't have that kind of courage."
The bosses lowered their heads like quails, submitting.
"There is someone leading them," the young noble continued, "just as I lead you."
"Who?" someone asked from the shadows.
A cruel smile touched the young man's handsome face.
"Dorothy."