Inside the broken demonstration dome, the bloodstains washed away easily, but deeper scars remained. While a crew of new slaves cleared the rubble, Tio Holtzman crossed a temporary and none-too-sturdy walkway. He looked sadly at the ruins of his laboratory.

From where he worked, Bel Moulay, the bearded leader of the Zenshiite slaves, glowered at the callous inventor. He hated the Poritrin man’s pale skin, square-cut hair, and arrogantly colorful clothes. The scientist’s frivolous badges of honor meant nothing to Bel Moulay, and all the captive Zenshiites were offended that such a useless, deluded man could flaunt his wealth while stepping on the faithful.

In a deep voice the bearded leader gave instructions and consolation to his fellows. Moulay had always been more than just the strongest among them; he was also a religious leader, trained on IV Anbus in the strictest laws of the Zenshiite interpretation of Buddislam. He had learned the true scriptures and sutras, had analyzed every passage; the other slaves looked to Bel Moulay to interpret for them.

Despite his faith, he was as helpless as his companions, forced to serve at the whim of nonbelievers. The infidels refused to let Zenshiites live according to their strictures, but insisted on dragging them into their hopeless war against the unholy machine demons. It was a terrible punishment, a set of karmic tribulations visited upon them by Buddallah.

But they would see it through, and eventually emerge stronger. . . .

Under Bel Moulay’s guidance, the slaves moved rubble, uncovering the crushed bodies of companions who had worked alongside them, fellow Zenshiites captured when Tlulaxa slavers raided the canyon cities on IV Anbus.

Buddallah would eventually show them the way to freedom. At story fires, the bearded leader had promised that the oppressors would be punished— if not in this generation, then in the next, or the next. But it would happen. A mere man like Bel Moulay had no business trying to hurry the wishes of God.

With excited shouts, two slaves shifted a fallen section of wall to uncover a man who still clung to life, though his legs had been crushed and his torso slashed by shards of windowplaz. Preoccupied, Holtzman came over and scrutinized the injured man. “I am no medical practitioner, but there seems to be little hope.”

Bel Moulay glowered at him with dark, penetrating eyes. “Nevertheless, we must do what we can,” he said in Galach. Three Zenshiite workers scooped away the debris and carried the injured man across the rickety walkway. Inside the slave quarters, healers would work on the injuries.

After the accident, Holtzman had provided basic medical supplies, though a similar effort had done little to keep a fever from sweeping through the slave population. The scientist supervised the workers in the rubble, but he was intent on his own priorities.

With a frown, the Savant gestured impatiently at the slaves picking up chunks of the collapsed ceiling to uncover victims. “You and you, leave off digging out bodies for now and excavate what’s left of my device.”

The sullen captives looked at Moulay for guidance. He simply shook his head. “There is no value in resistance now,” he muttered in their private language. “But I promise you the time will come.”

Later, during their meager sleep time, they would remove their dead and provide proper Zenshiite blessings and passage preparations for the souls. Burning the bodies of the faithful was not something their religion accepted easily, but it was the way of Poritrin. Bel Moulay was certain Buddallah could not fault them for not following traditional rules, when they had no choice in the matter.

His deity could be an angry one, though. Moulay hoped to live long enough to see vengeance strike these oppressors, even if it must be in the form of thinking machines.

As the demonstration dome was cleared, Holtzman began chattering to himself, planning new experiments and tests. He considered acquiring more slaves to make up for recent losses.

In all, twelve slaves were recovered from the demonstration dome, while those who had fallen to their deaths from the walkway had already been gathered from the river and disposed of by public cremation teams. Bel Moulay knew every one of their names, and he would make sure the Zenshiites chanted continual prayers for them. He would never forget what had happened here.

Or who was responsible:Tio Holtzman.