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Owen looked at Saint Bea. “What could be so dangerous, so frightening, that a whole sentient species would turn themselves into mindless killing machines?”
    “Can’t be the Hadenmen or Shub,” said Saint Bea, rooting around in the Grendel’s innards with both hands. “The Vaults predated their appearance by centuries. And the insect aliens wouldn’t have lasted five seconds against the Grendels. So who does that leave?”
    “The Recreated?” said Owen.
    “Whoever or whatever they are.” Saint Bea straightened up, withdrawing her dripping hands with a loud sucking noise. She wiped her hands on a cloth, and then dropped that into the bucket with the innards. “I always thought the Grendels were too bad to be true. This ... makes a mockery of God’s creation. They destroyed their own moral sense, their ability to choose between good and evil, purely in the name of survival.”
    “Maybe they had no choice,” said Owen. “Maybe they did it to protect whatever species came after them; sacrificing themselves for the greater good. Don’t judge them too harshly, Mother Beatrice. We don’t know what kind or depth of evil they had to face. Hard times make for hard choices.”
    Saint Bea snorted. “Things have come to a pretty pass, if you’re lecturing me on tolerance.”
    Owen smiled despite himself. “Well, thanks for inviting me to your little show and tell, Mother Beatrice. It has been truly revolting. Let’s not do this again sometime.”
    Saint Bea shrugged. “Brought you out of yourself a bit, didn’t it?”
    “Very nearly literally. I think on the whole I’d rather be miserable.”
    The door behind them crashed open, and a leper lurched in, concealed as always inside the gray cloak and pulled-forward hood. But this figure was barely five feet tall, and moved like some inner gyroscope had been jarred irretrievably from its proper mount. A hand with only three fingers left and slate gray skin emerged from inside the gray cloak and saluted Owen, before quickly disappearing back inside again. The leper hawked and spat, and something juicy hurtled out of the hood and splashed on the infirmary floor. When the figure began speaking, its voice was a curious mixture of accents and timbres.
    “Lord Owen the Great, there is message for you at comm center. Most urgent and imperative, and critical too. Word is, I is to bring you to center immediately, for details and shouting at. You come now, or I is turning you into small hoppity thing. Why you still standing there?”
    Owen blinked a few times, and then looked at Saint Bea, who nodded calmly at the small belligerent figure. “Thank you, Vaughn. Straight to the point, as always. Go with him or her, Owen. I think you’re going to want to hear this message.”
    The figure inside the cloak sneezed moistly, and made gurgling noises, swaying impatiently all the while.
    “Him or her?” said Owen.
    “Vaughn has never volunteered that information,” said Saint Bea. “And so far, no one has ever felt sufficiently motivated to investigate further. Now, off you go to the comm center, both of you. Hop like bunnies!”
    “I does not hop!” said Vaughn haughtily. “I has my dignity to consider, not to mention missing toes. Move it, Deathstalker, or I show you where I got warts.”
    “Lead on,” said Owen. “I’ll be right behind you. Well, maybe not right behind you, but I’ll be able to see you from where I am.”
    “Lot of people say that,” said Vaughn.
    When they finally reached the comm center, there was a message waiting for Owen from the captain of the approaching courier ship. Apparently he had a most urgent communication for the Deathstalker, from Parliament. The ship would be landing in a few hours, and Owen was instructed to be there on the landing pad, waiting for him. Perhaps wisely, the captain had refused all further communication. Owen seethed at the imperious nature of the command, but made himself concentrate on the possibility of finally