[Art Attribution: Stephan Martinière]

The nameless lurker had traveled in slow space for seven sleep-wake cycles. His late model luxury streamship vacuumed space dust and random particles out of the way so he could cross parsecs of emptiness at reckless speeds.

He approached the enemy's home base in stealth mode.

Everyone knew that the Giant had been scanning this reject solar system on a regular basis, but as a Servant of All, the nameless lurker understood the logistics of such a scan. The Giant must search vast tracts of space. He would miss large areas. Besides, the Giant had likely been instructed to welcome any lone singleton vessel, in hopes that the boy Twin or some other rogue ally might show up.

The nameless lurker would have destroyed the boy Twin's scientific vessel, had he seen it. 

He docked in orbit around the gas giant planet and hoped the Giant would fail to notice him. There he waited.  

And waited.

At last, his opportunity arrived. The Giant was hit with insanity gas and went missing in action. This was a window of time in which the monster was unable to scan or protect any of his territories.

WE ARE WINNING!

  Smash the runaways!

   Take back Our cities!

      Yay!

The dancing, singing, viciously victorious news feed was mere background noise to the nameless lurker. The Torth Majority was as meaningless as the stars which dotted the cold black sky.

He tuned out their blather and piloted his personal streamship towards the dark side of Reject-20.

He knew better than to land at the crude-yet-busy spaceport of Freedomland. Slaves were constantly training there. Instead, he aimed for deep wilderness.

The lack of launchpads meant he had no choice but to crash land, but he was prepared. He was an expert pilot. He controlled his crash, and plowed through a bog, coming to rest at the base of a hillock.

From there, he hiked for two days and two nights through uninhabited jungle terrain.

Only his intensive survivalist training as a Servant of All enabled him to thrive in the alien wilderness. He sipped recycled water from his backpack gear. He ate protein bars. He was grateful for his musculoskeletal enhancements, as well as the exercise regimen which he had forced himself to keep up with.

He used distraction drones and tranquilizer darts to ward off predators. Those methods only failed once. When a massive mega-lizard tried to surprise him, he used his power to twist the beast's mind.

When his digital map showed that he was approaching the outskirts of Freedomland, he ditched his backpack and other gear. He stripped out of his camouflaged action jumpsuit, and donned rags.

And a slave collar. Its shockers and pincers were disabled, but that was normal. Penitents only suffered partial slavery. It seemed their overlords were foolishly merciful.

The nameless lurker tossed away his map, his water, his weapons; everything. Most Torth, even Servants of All, would feel vulnerable without belongings. But deprivation fit in with the lurker's regular habits.

He crept into the penitent slums while the Megacosm frothed with victory celebrations.

Local penitents were too busy eying each other askance, and worrying about their future, to pay much attention to a penitent who seemed rather unfamiliar. No one looked at him twice.

Oh my. The Torth are winning.

  Will they (recapture Us) set Us free?

    Are We going to be Torth (superior and godlike) again?

      Is it even possible to return to that life?

The nameless lurker sauntered past work crews and errand-runners who were lost in their own thoughts. He was fortunate to appear average in a multitude of ways. He had a gracile body type, which was the second-most-common type amongst able-bodied Torth. He was well within the average height range for an adult male raised on one of the major hub planets. He was of average age; not too wrinkled, not too baby-cheeked. He had already doctored his ocular lenses, so he did not have the ominous blank gaze which would mark him as a Servant of All. Instead, he blinked sweet iridescent yellow irises. Yellow was the most common color. It complimented his sandy blonde hair and rugged, slightly sunburnt face.

? A penitent woman eyed him, wondering which barracks he slept in. 

Then she lost interest. Her mind was full of concerns about her chores. The lurker sensed that if she failed to help her work crew cut enough construction planks, they would lose mealtime privileges, and they would blame her for it.

The nameless lurker knew, from years of experience, that he could make his mind appear bland. It was a talent and a technique. Voters had given him a proper name-title, of course, but he was not that person right now.

He was no one. Just another penitent.

Can I help? He approached a crew of concrete workers, their naked backs glistening with sweat. This crew only had nine laborers, not the usual ten count. They must have lost a member recently.

Please.

  Yes. Please.

The laborers made room. They mentally showed him how to mix concrete, and how to pour it into casting caulk. The nameless lurker matched their work flow, letting them guide his movements.

Soon he stripped off his ragged shirt. He was just as sweaty as they were.

While the crew built troughs and bollards, they engaged in silent conversation. They introduced themselves. They explained that their missing crew-mate had broken her ankle, and had thus been transferred to an easier labor crew. She was now packaging food items in an assembly line alongside other physically disabled penitents.

So, where did you come from?

  Yes, tell Us about yourself.

    Who are you?

They didn't really care. They were not truly curious about the newcomer. The nameless lurker understood that they were merely hanging onto a phantom shred of civilized discourse, being polite.

Their lack of interest enabled him to offer shallow replies that aligned with their expectations. He admitted that it was strange, the way he had wandered into the concrete mixing zone and volunteered to work. He implied that he'd had a problem with a bullying crew-mate. That was enough of an explanation as to why he had requested a transfer to another work crew.

Ah.

  Your previous labor crew must regret losing you, with your strong back.

    Yes. You seem to have quite some energy for manual labor.

He pretended to enjoy their compliments.

It wasn't wholly pretense, of course. Mind readers could not lie to each other. The nameless lurker partitioned his mind. He let his simple enjoyment of physicality fill the forefront of his mind, eclipsing everything else. Let that represent who he was.

I can't wait until the Torth Empire sets Us free, one of the laborers thought.

Yes, another agreed. In the meantime, at least We are mostly ignored here. We haven't been forced to undergo a mind probe by the Conqueror (yet).

Yet, another echoed darkly.

Aw, I want that mind probe! another thought. Then I'd get promoted to live in a household. This sunburn is killing My skin.

Their silent chatter went on, and the nameless lurker listened.

I want to get promoted so I can live under stairs and perform a bestial act (of sex) with a super-genius.

  !?

    Yeah, didn't you hear that rumor?

Day turned to night.

The nameless lurker accompanied his newfound coworkers to supper in a mess hall, where overseers made sure the hundreds of mind readers kept social distance between each other. Later, he followed them to their barracks. He stood while an ummin clerk notated his existence in a log file. He slept.

The next day, he breakfasted with his coworkers. He went to work again.

He learned.

If he was going to succeed in his covert mission, then he could not afford to make even the slightest mistake. This city might seem foolish, dominated by slaves as it was, but it was ruled by Thomas the Conqueror. One did not challenge a renegade super-genius without a lot of preparatory work. And caution. An overabundance of caution. 

So the lurker learned everything he could learn about the enemies and their rebel nation.

For seven days and seven nights, he performed manual labor, and he passively soaked up information.

Much about life in the penitent slums could already be found in the Megacosm. Some penitents secretly leaked their perceptions to inner audiences, so the Torth Empire had a basic concept of how Freedomland functioned and how the city was laid out. The names and faces of Kessa's lieutenants were known.

But there were extra tidbits which the nameless lurker picked up from locals. For instance, he learned potential shortcuts between major boulevards; through shops and over fences. He learned which sewers led where, and which back porches or outdoor stairwells could be used as temporary hiding spots.

He identified fifteen penitents who were ardent, if secret, Torth loyalists. He might seek their help in a crisis.

And he learned of several hundred who were fully devoted to Kessa the Wise. He remained cordial to those penitents, but he would avoid relying on anyone who worshiped the Conqueror.

He was unable to learn exactly where the rebel leaders slept. Penitents were not privy to war councils or military meetings. But he did learn whose minds might be scanned in order to find out more. And he learned that the Conqueror typically worked inside or near the so-called Dragon Tower of the Academy. The Giant and the Imposter slept inside that war palace up against the cliff, and the Imposter might use zombification victims as door sentries.  

By the end of the seventh day, the nameless lurker solidified a plan.

"Is there any way I can transfer to a hauling crew?" He kept his head bowed, his face meek, as he begged an overseer for a job transfer. He made his voice sound human. "I just want a change in what I see every day. I would love to glimpse the grand buildings raised by Ariock."

The clerk made a notation on his file. "We'll see. Next!"

The nameless lurker went back to work, making room for the next penitent in line who had a request.

He was in no hurry. Sooner or later, he knew, he would be allowed into the posh uptown area of the city.

Sooner or later, he would encounter a clerk or a chambermaid who had regular interactions with the enemy leadership.

He didn't need much. Just a small opportunity.

It would come.