Once he escaped from Corrin, it took him almost two months in transit to get to the vulnerable heart of the League of Nobles.

During that time, Thurr managed to steal a different vessel at one of the plague-ravaged planets on the fringe of League space. Since he was immune to the Scourge, it warmed his heart to see how devastated the population was and how many cities and towns had collapsed during the great death. His mind seemed to sing with razor-sharp clarity.

On planet after planet, human civilization had been reduced to subsistence level. After two decades with minimal outside commerce, the handful of survivors were like carrion crows fighting over the remaining supplies, homes, and tools. In some systems afflicted by cascading disasters, fully eighty percent of the population had died from the epidemic or its secondary consequences. It would be generations before mankind recovered from the disaster.

And it was all my original idea.

He stopped at two other worlds along the way, gathering news, stealing money, modifying his story and his disguise. He was hungry to learn how everything had changed since his faked death and exile among the thinking machines.

Foremost among the changes, religious fanaticism had grown much stronger, with the Cult of Serena foolishly smashing useful devices and equipment. Thurr could not help but smile as he watched their zealous, wasteful destruction. This was an outcome he had not anticipated, but he did not object to it. The humans were only damaging themselves.

When he reached Zimia, he hoped to discover that another of his fiendish ideas— the hungry little mechanical mites— had also wrought incredible horrors upon the population. Contrary to what Erasmus believed, Thurr did not revel in death for its own sake. He simply liked to accomplish things….

By the time he finally arrived at Salusa Secundus, Thurr had fully immersed himself in his new identity as a refugee from Balut, one of the Scourge-decimated worlds. Salusa had become a central world for distributing refugees and repopulating planets and strengthening racial lines using seed stock gathered by the Sorceresses of Rossak years ago. Thurr smiled. In a sense, he had helped to improve the human race.

He marveled at the sheer momentum and persistence the League expended on trying to return things to the way they had “always been,” instead of accepting changes and moving on. As soon as he restored himself to his rightful position of power, Thurr would do something to assist in that regard. Seeing how weakened and confused the League was, he didn’t expect to take long to achieve his goal. Without the Jihad to focus them, the human survivors were drifting aimlessly. They needed him.

Thurr studied historical databases, scanning propaganda-laced histories of the Jihad, and was annoyed to discover that he barely warranted a mention! After everything he had accomplished— the immense work he had done during his time of service! He had formed the Jihad Police, helped Grand Patriarch Ginjo turn his office into a position of utmost importance. Thurr should have become the Grand Patriarch himself, but his greatest mistake had been to trust that scheming Camie Boro-Ginjo. Now, after his absence, it seemed that the League had spurned him, brushed him aside.

Once he received biological clearance by proving himself free of all plagues and sicknesses, Thurr set foot in Zimia again for the first time in decades. The city had changed greatly. Banners of Serena, Manion the Innocent, and Iblis Ginjo hung on every tall building. Shrines filled with orange marigolds adorned every corner and cul-de-sac.

Much to his surprise and irritation, Thurr learned that Jipol had been disbanded. Since the war had ended almost two decades ago, League security had grown laughably lax. After studying his surroundings and developing a method, Thurr easily bypassed various checkpoints to enter the core of the city.

Xander Boro-Ginjo was now the Grand Patriarch, as nephew and successor to Tambir. He had not even been born until a year after Thurr’s faked death. By all accounts, Xander was a dithering figurehead, a plump and soft puppet who needed to be manipulated by a better master.

Thurr felt fire inside his chest. Now more than ever, he deserved to be the Grand Patriarch. Thurr could be very persuasive, and he hoped to make this transition cleanly. At the right moment he would declare his true identity and miraculous return, telling a brave and fictitious story of captivity and torture under Omnius. Then he would claim his due. The people would recognize their need and understand the wisdom of what he offered.

Surreptitiously, he studied the Grand Patriarch’s administrative mansion, his routine and his movements. He learned the layout of research centers, office buildings, and the headquarters of the Army of Humanity, and determined the responsibilities of political bureaus. The obvious growth of bureaucracy showed that the League was already stagnating, wandering down a wrong path that would prevent them from accomplishing anything great.

Thurr had gotten here just in time, and he knew he could straighten things out.

It didn’t take him long to formulate a plan to slip into the offices of the Grand Patriarch. Discarding his drab disguise as a Balut refugee, he obtained the acceptable clothing of a League clerk, disposed of the man’s body, and worked his way through the halls and offices of the administrative mansion.

As soon as he revealed his identity to Xander Boro-Ginjo, Thurr imagined he would be welcomed as a lost hero. There would be parades through the streets, people would applaud his life’s epic story and welcome him back into the League. Thurr’s dark eyes glittered with anticipation.

Without much caution, he made his way to a room that had the proper access, climbed out a window, and gracefully crossed a tiny ledge to a window at the rear of the target office. He waited until Xander was alone in his private office, and then climbed inside.

Thurr swelled his chest and smiled, waiting to be welcomed. From behind the desk, the distracted Grand Patriarch looked up at him with confusion instead of fear or outrage. The ornate chain of his office hung heavily on his thick neck. “Who are you and why are you here?” He consulted a heavy book on his desk. “Do you have an appointment?”

Thurr’s thin lips formed a smile. “I am Yorek Thurr, former commander of the Jihad police. I was your grandfather’s right-hand man and special advisor.”

His life-extension treatment had kept his appearance like that of a man in late middle age, though in the last five years he had begun to experience strange tics and tremors that made him wonder if Omnius had tricked him somehow. This chubby oaf of a leader would never believe Thurr’s real age.

“I’m sure that’s very interesting, but I do have an important meeting in only a few minutes.”

“Then you must redefine what is important, Xander Boro-Ginjo.” Thurr stepped menacingly closer. “I was supposed to become the successor to Iblis Ginjo, but your grandmother seized the chain of office instead, and then your uncle Tambir became Grand Patriarch. Again and again I was denied what was rightfully mine. I have put aside my rights for many years now, but the time has come for me to lead the League in the direction it must go. I demand that you resign your position and give it to me.”

Xander appeared perplexed. His face was jowly and soft from fine living, his eyes dulled either by drugs, drink, or plain lack of intelligence. “Why should I do that? And what is your name again? How did you get in— “

An aide opened the door. “Sir, your meeting is— ” He blinked in surprise at Thurr, who whirled to glare at him. Thurr wished he had brought his dagger. “Oh, excuse me! I didn’t know you had a visitor. Who is this, sir?”

Xander rose in a huff. “I don’t know, and you shouldn’t have let him in. Tell the guards to remove him.”

Thurr glowered. “You are making a grave mistake, Xander Boro-Ginjo.”

The aide shouted for guards, who rushed in and surrounded Thurr. With disgust, he saw that he was outnumbered and could not easily press his point. “I expected a better reception than this, considering all I have done for the League.” His head thrummed, and for a moment he had difficulty understanding where he was. Why couldn’t these people see?

The Grand Patriarch shook his head. “This man is suffering from delusions and I fear he may be violent.” He looked back at Thurr. “No one knows who you are, sir.”

That alone nearly drove Thurr into a murderous rage, and he struggled mightily to restrain himself, not wanting to sacrifice his life in such a pointless fashion. As the guards escorted him away roughly, Boro-Ginjo and his aide busied themselves studying the agenda for the upcoming meeting. Thurr pretended to cooperate as the guards marched him out of the administrative mansion.

Frustrated with his own foolishness, he realized that he had lived under the thinking machines for too long. He had been the ruler of Wallach IX, with the absolute power to make demands. He had forgotten how stupid and intractable the hrethgir could be. He chided himself for his mistake, and vowed not to make a similar one again. A plan… he needed a better plan.

The guards were incompetent soldiers, unaccustomed to sophisticated, trained killers like Yorek Thurr. He chose not to murder these men, though, for that would have drawn more attention than he wished. He had plans to formulate and could not be bothered to elude a manhunt at the same time.

As soon as a moment of distraction presented itself, Thurr slipped away from the inept guards and dashed into the streets of Zimia. They shouted and pursued him, but he avoided them easily. Though the men called in reinforcements and persisted in their efforts for several hours, the former Jipol commandant quickly found a bolthole and concentrated on developing a more effective approach.

It was merely a matter of time and careful planning, and then Thurr would get everything he deserved.